[fic] Limit {Part I: Escapism and Denial}
Title: Limit
Author: alstair
Pairing: Ichigo x Ishida Uryuu; slight Ishida Uryuu x Inoue Orihime
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Angst, swearing, boysex, gore, non-con
Status: Incomplete
Summary: Ichigo and Ishida grapple with issues
Disclaimer: Kubo Tite owns Bleach and the characters of Bleach
[edit 05/31/08] Post-posting beta by
fishingforboots
So I decided to make another multi-chaptered fic. If you've read Torment (my first and other multi-chaptered fic) you'll probably notice some thematic similarities (and similarity in time frame). This fic however is darker than "Torment"--lots more angst among other things. Also, while I did borrow some aspects from cannon, "Limit" operates under modified world assumptions (which I leave you to discover while reading the fic).
Enjoy!
PS. If you see any errors please feel free to inform me. :D Cheers.
Part I: Escapism and Denial
No man was ever so much deceived by another, as by himself.
- Greville
Escape 0.01 - Ichigo
When had he first become aware of Its presence?
He was no longer certain. Maybe It had always been there.
Sometimes when he closed his eyes he saw a sun red as blood sinking in the west while the sky wept, each drop that fell an icy needle on paper-white skin. Sometimes it had been a length of white cloth flapping in a nonexistent breeze. Was it then, when those dreams began?
Or was it when he'd begun to feel an inexplicable desire to cut, to plunge his zanpakuto into his vanquished enemies until the red of their blood ran down and tainted the ground, the sky, his robes? When a part of him deep down began to delight in the slaughter and destruction--to enjoy the sensation of tearing flesh and to revel in the sound of clashing swords?
Rend. Break body, bones, and soul. Rob those who are weak their dignity, their hope. Let them wallow in their misery. Laugh at their plight. Bask in their agony. Let the taste of their blood sate your appetite, fill your senses, and spur you on to destroy all--past, present, and future.
Enjoy.
The voice that had whispered in his ears was hoarse, distorted as it urged him on to kill. Kill. Kill. Kill.
~
Monday, 7:00 am
"You know, you look terrible Ichigo," Mizuiro said.
"Yeah yeah, what's with those eye bags of yours?" Keigo leaned forward to get a closer look at the dark circles that hung below Ichigo's eyes. Then, as though the sight had spurred a brain that was unaccustomed to complex thought patterns, his face split into a wide grin as he said with all confidence, "Aha! I know now. You stayed up late to play the newest game release didn't you?"
Mizuiro looked askance at Keigo. "Not everyone is like you, Asano-san."
"Wa wa wa. It's Keigo. Keigo! What's with the polite speech?"
"Nothing, Asano-san."
Mizuiro picked up his book and continued to read, pointedly ignoring Keigo's ongoing tirade. Finding no audience in Mizuiro, Keigo turned to Ichigo. But the sight of the Shinigami, with his head propped by a hand staring disconsolately out the window, stopped whatever words Keigo had planned on saying. He'd seen the face Ichigo wore before in his own sister that day they wore mourning black to the funeral of their parents. It was as if some part of the orange-head had died and he hadn't yet recovered from the loss. A shiver ran down Keigo's spine.
A softly whispered Can you leave me alone for a while was enough. Turning back only once, Keigo and Mizuiro made their way to their own seats leaving Ichigo to continue staring at some unidentifiable point in the horizon outside.
It wasn't as though Ichigo purposely wanted to worry his friends, but he knew that explaining the truth would make little sense to them. It would likely just provoke remarks from Keigo to the effect that he'd been watching too much anime or playing too much at the arcades--so much so that he'd begun having weird dreams. Dreams. Little would Keigo know that in the event of such a remark he'd actually get half the truth. The dreams that had begun to plague him in his sleep, and occasionally even in his waking hours, since they'd returned from Soul Society were frighteningly disturbing. Anything was better than those dreams. Dreams where he'd licked the blood off his zanpakuto with crazed eyes, spat on his enemies’ frightened faces, and ground his heels into their gaping wounds until their screams became the very air he breathed. Anything was better than that madness. Anything.
He knew it was only a matter of time before the madness took over. That was why he refused to sleep, instead spending his nights in Shinigami form hunting hollow despite the fact that another Shinigami had been sent by Soul Society to take charge of any further hollow purification. That was why he refused to even so much as close his eyes, even for a minute, lest the twisted and distorted voice that constantly whispered in his ear dragged him back into the abyss of Its making.
But there is a limit to everything, even the endurance of a Shinigami--and a human one at that.
The clacking sound of the classroom door signaled the start of lessons. With half an ear he listened to Ms. Ochi and the roll call. The usual reminders, the usual dead silence at her announcement that the three constant absentees were probably alright as they were a "bunch of punks." The normality of everything was both relief and pain.
The weights that seemed now to be constantly attached to his eyelids threatened to destroy his control of self, threatened to throw him back into the hell hole of his inner mind. With a sharp pinch into the inner flesh of his arm, Ichigo desperately tried to keep awake. He had no plans of losing whatever control he still had.
If the Quincy who sat no more than two feet away from him had any idea what measures Ichigo was resorting to in order to maintain his consciousness, the dark-haired boy would likely only sneer in disdain. What a stupid thing to do Kurosaki. Well, I suppose a Shinigami like you can only resort to such brutish tactics to keep bodily discipline. Maybe you should do something similar to rein your spirit force in. Maybe that way we won't have to be plagued by your reiatsu flooding the place like a leaky faucet.
Ichigo smiled grimly. The fact that he'd actually considered going up to Ishida just to get dished by the Quincy, just so he could retain his sanity, was the surest sign that he was losing it. He'd long since given up on coffee when it stopped giving any further visible effects and only left him jittery. Having to resort to adrenaline, whether from pain, from fighting, or from any verbal scrimmage, only made his current situation more desperate than it already was.
He could still recall the last dream he'd had before he began the entire sleep deprivation plan. He'd been standing near a cliff with a very long vertical drop. It had been frightfully cold in that place. Although no snow fell, it had felt as if the sky itself was frozen solid. Behind him had been a forest. But it was no forest of trees, even barren leafless ones such as those that dotted the terrain when winter's bite came.
All that had been there, as far as he had seen, were hands thrusting out from the ground like wayward saplings, charred and mutilated with fingers half severed and dangling down from dead sinew and tendons. The scent of blood had filled the air like a palpable weight pressing against his lungs. He had been afraid to breathe. He had been afraid that some madness might overcome him and turn his disgust into bloodlust.
Shaking himself from his reverie, Ichigo tried to focus on the lesson. Math. How boring. The teacher was explaining some geometric theorem and proof. One glance told him that as usual only Ishida and probably Inoue understood anything that their sensei was talking about, the former making copious notes. The guy was a total obsessive compulsive. Nut case, if you had to ask him. But the second half of that last dream he'd had made him wonder if the real nut case was not Ishida but Ichigo himself.
Who would want to have sex with a stuck up, infuriating smart ass?
The answer was simple. Me.
And the fact that he'd done it to Ishida's dead body without the Quincy's approval had only made the act--and the dream worse.
He had made his way into the forest of hands and pulled at one. It had been vaguely familiar, with a cross-shaped pendant on a silver bracelet wound twice around its wrist. It had been hard to pull up, as though being buried in the ground was a relief from the carnage that was the world above. When the earth finally gave way and he'd uncovered the body whose hand it was, he had first felt shock, then panic, at seeing the lifeless blue eyes of the dead Quincy staring back into his own brown ones. One look at the slashes on the dark-haired boy's chest told him the wounds were from a zanpakuto, and not just any zanpakuto.
Me. It was I who did this to him. No matter how irritating a guy he was, he did not deserve this. And certainly not by my hands.
He had cradled the Quincy in his arms and despite knowing that the soul that had been housed in that physical shell had long been gone, he called softly and loudly in turn the dark-haired boy's name. Ishida. Ishida! He had shaken the thin shoulders with whatever strength he had left. He had tried punching the dark-haired boy, remembering that dream-inflicted pain sometimes made people wake up. But there had been no relief from such an act. In the end, in desperation, he'd violated the Quincy's dead and mutilated body in the hopes that by doing that one deplorable act, an act Ishida would never forgive, the Quincy might snap his eyes open and retaliate.
A cracked voice whispered by his ear. But you liked it didn't you. Fucking the Quincy boy.
Shut up! he mentally commanded the Other being that resided in him.
There's no use telling me to shut up Ichigo. It smirked. The same way there's no use telling me to go away. I am you, and pretty soon you'll be mine.
No. I won't let you, you bastard.
That Other laughed, the distorted voice drowning out all real and imagined sounds.
A sharp prod on his shoulders brought him crashing back into reality. The teacher standing beside his desk scowled. "Enough daydreaming, Kurosaki. Read page 110. Quickly. We haven't all day."
Still shaking from the verbal parrying with his inner hollow he stood up, picked up the book that lay open on his desk, and flipped the pages until he found the one that was required.
All he saw was black.
Keigo would later swear that when Ichigo blacked out, and the Shinigami had fallen face first into the cold hard floor, the first person to stand up was Ishida. With calm measured movements the dark-haired boy had loosened the orange-haired boy's tie and with an equally calm voice asked their teacher permission to bring the still unconscious Ichigo to the infirmary.
~
"I told you before that there's no escaping, didn't I?" The paper white skin of the Other Ichigo pressed against him as he hissed into the Shinigami's ear. It licked the side of Ichigo's face, its tongue ice against Ichigo's hot skin. "I told you there is no escaping from me. Now you'll pay the price. Enjoy the show."
The space that had been blank earlier now sported a long wall. The battered concrete had three windows amidst graffiti of "WAR is the ONE constant" and "FUCK you all." But unlike normal windows these didn't look out into a common outside--or even any outside scene. It was like watching three vaudeville routines all at the same time, but unlike the famous shows these involved the same dark blue-haired boy wearing glasses. All of them likewise involved that boy in various compromising sexual positions.
The leftmost window--or screen as it should more properly be called--showed an Ishida pressed against a cold hard floor, glasses askew on a face filled with dread and pain, so unlike the stiff and proper one he wore to school. Here all his raw emotions were bared for the world to see. A hand pulled the Quincy by his hair, partially lifting the lithe body to reveal various bruises on the pale skin. Some had the blue-purplish black tinge of older abuse while others had the fresh red of just inflicted pain. Some welts ran diagonally across the boy's chest like whiplashes. The limp body was pulled up and up until the boy's weight was supported solely by the hand that held up his hair and his own broken ankles.
The man who stood before the Quincy was not alone. Someone, he did not know who, viciously backhanded the dark-haired boy. A thin trail of blood ran down the side of the Quincy's mouth. Gripping the chin of the Quincy in one hand, the man forced Ishida's jaw open and roughly shoved his own twitching cock into the boy as first he, then the other men with him, gangbanged the once proud Quincy.
The middle screen showed an Ishida held in what looked like an isolation cell at night. The padded walls muffled all sounds. Ichigo knew these were also meant to prevent the patient from injuring himself if he were to have any fits. The shadows that played across the cell's walls were that of a man approaching the sleeping figure of the Quincy. A pair of handcuffs ensured the dark-haired boy would not escape. Carefully, almost as if the man who'd snuck into the cell were opening a very delicate package, the man snipped at Ishida's clothes with a pair of scissors until, like peeling a banana, the Quincy was naked where he lay. A slap brought the boy into awareness and a sharp blade pressed against the Quincy's throat ensured Ishida's cooperation as the unknown intruder had his way with him.
The last screen showed an Ishida leaning against a wall; his legs splayed apart, his head pressed against what looked to be a blackboard as he masturbated. The look of ecstasy on his young face as he pushed first one then two fingers into his ass while the other hand worked his cock was captured by a film camera being run by a person or persons unknown off to the side. Copper wires wound around the Quincy's throat, exposed to the perspiration beading the boy's pale skin. The other end of the wires attached to what looked like a voltage regulator, and a thick masculine hand hovering above a switch on the box made it clear to Ichigo that, should Ishida stop, he would feel more than a little pain at the current that would surge through his body.
Not that the Quincy could stop anyhow. The mouth that panted hard seemed to mouth words Ichigo could not hear. There was no sound in this world. Even Ichigo’s own heartbeat seemed muted.
Then, as if someone had switched on a radio or a television set somewhere in the background he seemed to hear his name. Kurosaki. Patiently at first, then increasingly persistent. Kurosaki! Kurosaki!
His eyes flew open. He was not in the classroom anymore. The white curtains, the harsh medical smell of disinfectants, and what felt like a soft bed underneath his tired and aching body told Ichigo he was in the infirmary. The pair of glasses and the icy blue eyes that turned to him as his vision focused quivered with the same irritation and anger that laced the dark-haired boy's voice.
"The next time you decide to go to school, do us all a favor and do not pass out because you haven't slept!"
Ichigo turned to his side, unwilling to look at the boy glaring at him.
"Shut up, Ishida. Leave me alone. No one asked you to babysit." Ichigo's voice lacked the usual sharpness, the usual bite, as he addressed the Quincy. He didn't even have the strength to be angry or irritable anymore.
"Hmph." He felt, rather than saw, the Quincy fold his arms over his chest. "Fine then. But next time you are about to die don't expect me to come to your rescue."
The swish of a curtain being rapidly opened and the clacking sound of the infirmary door told Ichigo Ishida had left. Carefully, he resumed his earlier prone position. Thankful as he was that Ishida had actually troubled himself to check up on the Shinigami, he did not think he would have been able to hide what would have been glaringly obvious had the Quincy pulled back the sheets that covered him up to his chin. He did not think any medical text the Quincy had read would help him to explain why Ichigo had a hard-on after having lost consciousness--and not the normal early morning sort that he'd often enough dealt with in the bathroom at home.
Ichigo curled up in bed, and, cursing under his breath, surreptitiously stretched his hand down.
Escape 0.02 - Ishida
When had he first become increasingly aware of his presence?
He was no longer certain.
Sometimes he found himself unconsciously searching for the now all-too-familiar reiatsu; searching for its all-too-familiar pressing weight and tingle on his bare skin. He found himself listening for the baritone voice that often enough turned towards him in irritation--encounters which, despite the bickering that often ensued, he nonetheless cherished.
But what had first been mere interest in an existence that, for all his intents and purposes, was diametrically opposed to him had rapidly turned into something more, something which he denied as an illusory passing fancy on his part. But however much he denied it, he could not silence the small voice in his chest that whispered to him in the dark recesses of his room at night.
Love him or hate him but you cannot escape him. Ever since that day you decided to snap the hollow bait before his eyes your paths have been irrevocably crossed. Accept it. You want him. Here in the cold loneliness of your apartment you seek his warmth, seek his touch. He is the sun burning fiercely in the sky. You are the moth, knowing the dangers but unable to resist, attracted to the flame you know could well burn you, kill who you are now.
He had vainly tried to ignore the stirrings of his desire.
~
Monday, 5:00pm
"Is Kurosaki-kun alright?" The voice that spoke to him was soft, full of concern.
Ishida nodded. He wanted to smooth away all the worries and the pain Inoue felt, but he did not know how. Inoue, whose anxieties he was supposed to allay, was much better at comforting than he ever was or probably would be. All he could offer the girl was his understanding silence.
"I wonder what's been bothering Kurosaki-kun," she continued. "Lately...before this...he...It's almost as if...as if he was a zombie--or someone completely different. I tried to ask him once but he wouldn't say anything. Do you think you could ask for me, Ishida-kun?"
Ishida nodded, although he already knew what the orange-haired Shinigami would say--especially to him. Fuck off Ishida. Mind your own business. He would have answered the same way had Ichigo inquired about him for a similar reason. He chose to say nothing to Inoue, knowing that she had meant well when she'd asked him.
Beside Ishida, Inoue struggled to keep up. Ishida slowed his steps. It usually took two of Inoue's steps to match one of his own. He normally tried to control the length of his strides when he walked her to her apartment, but whenever any mention of the Shinigami was made they unconsciously quickened. Just as they did now.
No, he mentally corrected himself. My walking speed has nothing to do with Kurosaki.
No, nor was the sudden superfluous spate of fevered studying of topics that they would not tackle in months if not years, making him oblivious to all else except the page before him.
The rest of the way home passed in silence. He had never been good at conversations and somehow Inoue understood. She understood more than most of the guys in the class thought. They looked at her solely as an easy pass, once they could get her away from Tatsuki who protected her like a lioness did her newborn cub. They failed to see what was plain to Ishida--that, behind the ditzy and clumsy actions she sometimes did, Inoue was one of the most caring and most kindhearted individuals he had ever known. He had not been surprised when she'd sheltered a cat abandoned in the rain and patiently nursed it back to health. Neither had he been surprised when she had not complained when the cat, after it had rested and fed, fled into the night. It was good being with Inoue. It would be good to stay with Inoue. It would be...
But somewhere in his heart he knew he was deluding himself.
And apparently she too sensed that he was.
Rather than simply parting when they'd reached her apartment she instead invited Ishida in. He had first tried to protest saying it wasn't right and proper that a single man enter the house of a single woman but the serious look on her normally cheerful face silenced any further protests on his part. She wanted to talk. It would be impolite and ignoble of him to ignore her and walk away when it was clear that whatever she had to discuss with him was of great enough import that she would willingly risk a slur on her character.
Once seated, she served Ishida tea and plunged into the heart of the issue.
"Are you happy Ishida-kun?"
"I don't understand, Inoue. What do you mean?" Caught aback by the directness of the question and all that it implied Ishida opted to seek clarification even though, somehow, he already knew what she had meant by her remark.
"I mean, are you happy with being with me, Ishida-kun? You don’t want to spend your time with…someone else?" Her face gazed into his with earnestness.
"Of course I am." He replied quickly...perhaps too quickly.
Pause. She busied herself pouring more tea for the both of them. When she next looked into Ishida's face he knew his words had only served to somehow strengthen her conviction that his true feelings lay elsewhere. She laid a soft hand on his arm.
"You can stop pretending to yourself, Ishida-kun. You'll just hurt yourself even more."
He smiled grimly to himself. She was right. Each time he'd denied the feelings that made him catch his breath whenever the Shinigami had passed close by him, he had felt a cold hand clutch his heart, freezing him from the inside out. He knew all the forms his lie had taken. He knew that each time he repeated to himself that he was fine with the way things currently were some part of him died, never to be resurrected.
"Since when did you know?" was all he could say.
"I've guessed for some time. But today I became sure."
Ishida bowed his head and closed his eyes. He could still clearly see the body of Kurosaki as it had lain on the cold hard classroom floor. It reminded him of a broken doll but one which, despite its brokenness, was nonetheless beautiful, noble. He could still hear the dull thud of the fall and how his heart had seemed to stop beating for the second it took for the Shinigami to crumple. He could still feel the warmth of the Shinigami's skin on his own as he had checked the other boy's pulse. He could still feel the perspiration that had beaded his back, the cold dread that filled the pit of his stomach, and the unconscious body's heavy weight as he'd carried Kurosaki to the infirmary.
Then he recalled the way the normally brash, brave face had contorted in its fitful sleep. He had reached out to touch the tan arm of the orange-haired boy, desiring to somehow relieve the pain the other suffered.
But he had not. He had not wanted Kurosaki to know how he felt. He had not wanted himself to recognize what it was that he felt. So he had opted to call out to the Shinigami instead.
Ishida lifted his face to look at Inoue's own quietly sad eyes. And he knew that just as he wanted Kurosaki so did Inoue, and perhaps always would. But, owing to who she was and always would be, she would never once complain, never once begrudge another his or her happiness--even if it meant she herself would never have the happiness of having the man she loved love her back.
"I'm sorry Inoue," Ishida said, quietly.
She squeezed his arm one last time before letting go. "You've done nothing you should be forgiven for."
~
Monday, 10:30pm
The room felt far emptier than it normally did. The black sofa in the living area felt too large, as though it had been meant for more than two. The kitchen table felt too wide as though it had been meant to hold more than a single solitary bachelor's plate. The fridge was too empty, the cabinets too meagerly filled. He had always lived as frugally as he could but just then he wished his apartment was not as sparsely furnished. He wished for the clutter of any other boy's room, even if it meant only scattered clothes or crumpled sheets of paper--anything was better than all the empty spaces that seemed to mock the empty spaces in his own heart.
He tried to curl up in the middle of the single bed that felt too cold, at once too small and too large. He tried to sleep but sleep forsook him. The silence bothered him. Any small noise annoyed him. You can stop pretending to yourself, Ishida-kun. He had. His sleeplessness and the unsettling loneliness that assailed him was proof he'd accepted the fact that he looked at Kurosaki Ichigo as more than friend, ally, or rival.
And while it meant abandoning his practice of rationalizing his feelings, it did not mean he had to admit what he felt to any other living soul.
He still had his pride.
Author: alstair
Pairing: Ichigo x Ishida Uryuu; slight Ishida Uryuu x Inoue Orihime
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Angst, swearing, boysex, gore, non-con
Status: Incomplete
Summary: Ichigo and Ishida grapple with issues
Disclaimer: Kubo Tite owns Bleach and the characters of Bleach
[edit 05/31/08] Post-posting beta by
fishingforboots
So I decided to make another multi-chaptered fic. If you've read Torment (my first and other multi-chaptered fic) you'll probably notice some thematic similarities (and similarity in time frame). This fic however is darker than "Torment"--lots more angst among other things. Also, while I did borrow some aspects from cannon, "Limit" operates under modified world assumptions (which I leave you to discover while reading the fic).
Enjoy!
PS. If you see any errors please feel free to inform me. :D Cheers.
Part I: Escapism and Denial
No man was ever so much deceived by another, as by himself.
- Greville
Escape 0.01 - Ichigo
When had he first become aware of Its presence?
He was no longer certain. Maybe It had always been there.
Sometimes when he closed his eyes he saw a sun red as blood sinking in the west while the sky wept, each drop that fell an icy needle on paper-white skin. Sometimes it had been a length of white cloth flapping in a nonexistent breeze. Was it then, when those dreams began?
Or was it when he'd begun to feel an inexplicable desire to cut, to plunge his zanpakuto into his vanquished enemies until the red of their blood ran down and tainted the ground, the sky, his robes? When a part of him deep down began to delight in the slaughter and destruction--to enjoy the sensation of tearing flesh and to revel in the sound of clashing swords?
Rend. Break body, bones, and soul. Rob those who are weak their dignity, their hope. Let them wallow in their misery. Laugh at their plight. Bask in their agony. Let the taste of their blood sate your appetite, fill your senses, and spur you on to destroy all--past, present, and future.
Enjoy.
The voice that had whispered in his ears was hoarse, distorted as it urged him on to kill. Kill. Kill. Kill.
~
Monday, 7:00 am
"You know, you look terrible Ichigo," Mizuiro said.
"Yeah yeah, what's with those eye bags of yours?" Keigo leaned forward to get a closer look at the dark circles that hung below Ichigo's eyes. Then, as though the sight had spurred a brain that was unaccustomed to complex thought patterns, his face split into a wide grin as he said with all confidence, "Aha! I know now. You stayed up late to play the newest game release didn't you?"
Mizuiro looked askance at Keigo. "Not everyone is like you, Asano-san."
"Wa wa wa. It's Keigo. Keigo! What's with the polite speech?"
"Nothing, Asano-san."
Mizuiro picked up his book and continued to read, pointedly ignoring Keigo's ongoing tirade. Finding no audience in Mizuiro, Keigo turned to Ichigo. But the sight of the Shinigami, with his head propped by a hand staring disconsolately out the window, stopped whatever words Keigo had planned on saying. He'd seen the face Ichigo wore before in his own sister that day they wore mourning black to the funeral of their parents. It was as if some part of the orange-head had died and he hadn't yet recovered from the loss. A shiver ran down Keigo's spine.
A softly whispered Can you leave me alone for a while was enough. Turning back only once, Keigo and Mizuiro made their way to their own seats leaving Ichigo to continue staring at some unidentifiable point in the horizon outside.
It wasn't as though Ichigo purposely wanted to worry his friends, but he knew that explaining the truth would make little sense to them. It would likely just provoke remarks from Keigo to the effect that he'd been watching too much anime or playing too much at the arcades--so much so that he'd begun having weird dreams. Dreams. Little would Keigo know that in the event of such a remark he'd actually get half the truth. The dreams that had begun to plague him in his sleep, and occasionally even in his waking hours, since they'd returned from Soul Society were frighteningly disturbing. Anything was better than those dreams. Dreams where he'd licked the blood off his zanpakuto with crazed eyes, spat on his enemies’ frightened faces, and ground his heels into their gaping wounds until their screams became the very air he breathed. Anything was better than that madness. Anything.
He knew it was only a matter of time before the madness took over. That was why he refused to sleep, instead spending his nights in Shinigami form hunting hollow despite the fact that another Shinigami had been sent by Soul Society to take charge of any further hollow purification. That was why he refused to even so much as close his eyes, even for a minute, lest the twisted and distorted voice that constantly whispered in his ear dragged him back into the abyss of Its making.
But there is a limit to everything, even the endurance of a Shinigami--and a human one at that.
The clacking sound of the classroom door signaled the start of lessons. With half an ear he listened to Ms. Ochi and the roll call. The usual reminders, the usual dead silence at her announcement that the three constant absentees were probably alright as they were a "bunch of punks." The normality of everything was both relief and pain.
The weights that seemed now to be constantly attached to his eyelids threatened to destroy his control of self, threatened to throw him back into the hell hole of his inner mind. With a sharp pinch into the inner flesh of his arm, Ichigo desperately tried to keep awake. He had no plans of losing whatever control he still had.
If the Quincy who sat no more than two feet away from him had any idea what measures Ichigo was resorting to in order to maintain his consciousness, the dark-haired boy would likely only sneer in disdain. What a stupid thing to do Kurosaki. Well, I suppose a Shinigami like you can only resort to such brutish tactics to keep bodily discipline. Maybe you should do something similar to rein your spirit force in. Maybe that way we won't have to be plagued by your reiatsu flooding the place like a leaky faucet.
Ichigo smiled grimly. The fact that he'd actually considered going up to Ishida just to get dished by the Quincy, just so he could retain his sanity, was the surest sign that he was losing it. He'd long since given up on coffee when it stopped giving any further visible effects and only left him jittery. Having to resort to adrenaline, whether from pain, from fighting, or from any verbal scrimmage, only made his current situation more desperate than it already was.
He could still recall the last dream he'd had before he began the entire sleep deprivation plan. He'd been standing near a cliff with a very long vertical drop. It had been frightfully cold in that place. Although no snow fell, it had felt as if the sky itself was frozen solid. Behind him had been a forest. But it was no forest of trees, even barren leafless ones such as those that dotted the terrain when winter's bite came.
All that had been there, as far as he had seen, were hands thrusting out from the ground like wayward saplings, charred and mutilated with fingers half severed and dangling down from dead sinew and tendons. The scent of blood had filled the air like a palpable weight pressing against his lungs. He had been afraid to breathe. He had been afraid that some madness might overcome him and turn his disgust into bloodlust.
Shaking himself from his reverie, Ichigo tried to focus on the lesson. Math. How boring. The teacher was explaining some geometric theorem and proof. One glance told him that as usual only Ishida and probably Inoue understood anything that their sensei was talking about, the former making copious notes. The guy was a total obsessive compulsive. Nut case, if you had to ask him. But the second half of that last dream he'd had made him wonder if the real nut case was not Ishida but Ichigo himself.
Who would want to have sex with a stuck up, infuriating smart ass?
The answer was simple. Me.
And the fact that he'd done it to Ishida's dead body without the Quincy's approval had only made the act--and the dream worse.
He had made his way into the forest of hands and pulled at one. It had been vaguely familiar, with a cross-shaped pendant on a silver bracelet wound twice around its wrist. It had been hard to pull up, as though being buried in the ground was a relief from the carnage that was the world above. When the earth finally gave way and he'd uncovered the body whose hand it was, he had first felt shock, then panic, at seeing the lifeless blue eyes of the dead Quincy staring back into his own brown ones. One look at the slashes on the dark-haired boy's chest told him the wounds were from a zanpakuto, and not just any zanpakuto.
Me. It was I who did this to him. No matter how irritating a guy he was, he did not deserve this. And certainly not by my hands.
He had cradled the Quincy in his arms and despite knowing that the soul that had been housed in that physical shell had long been gone, he called softly and loudly in turn the dark-haired boy's name. Ishida. Ishida! He had shaken the thin shoulders with whatever strength he had left. He had tried punching the dark-haired boy, remembering that dream-inflicted pain sometimes made people wake up. But there had been no relief from such an act. In the end, in desperation, he'd violated the Quincy's dead and mutilated body in the hopes that by doing that one deplorable act, an act Ishida would never forgive, the Quincy might snap his eyes open and retaliate.
A cracked voice whispered by his ear. But you liked it didn't you. Fucking the Quincy boy.
Shut up! he mentally commanded the Other being that resided in him.
There's no use telling me to shut up Ichigo. It smirked. The same way there's no use telling me to go away. I am you, and pretty soon you'll be mine.
No. I won't let you, you bastard.
That Other laughed, the distorted voice drowning out all real and imagined sounds.
A sharp prod on his shoulders brought him crashing back into reality. The teacher standing beside his desk scowled. "Enough daydreaming, Kurosaki. Read page 110. Quickly. We haven't all day."
Still shaking from the verbal parrying with his inner hollow he stood up, picked up the book that lay open on his desk, and flipped the pages until he found the one that was required.
All he saw was black.
Keigo would later swear that when Ichigo blacked out, and the Shinigami had fallen face first into the cold hard floor, the first person to stand up was Ishida. With calm measured movements the dark-haired boy had loosened the orange-haired boy's tie and with an equally calm voice asked their teacher permission to bring the still unconscious Ichigo to the infirmary.
~
"I told you before that there's no escaping, didn't I?" The paper white skin of the Other Ichigo pressed against him as he hissed into the Shinigami's ear. It licked the side of Ichigo's face, its tongue ice against Ichigo's hot skin. "I told you there is no escaping from me. Now you'll pay the price. Enjoy the show."
The space that had been blank earlier now sported a long wall. The battered concrete had three windows amidst graffiti of "WAR is the ONE constant" and "FUCK you all." But unlike normal windows these didn't look out into a common outside--or even any outside scene. It was like watching three vaudeville routines all at the same time, but unlike the famous shows these involved the same dark blue-haired boy wearing glasses. All of them likewise involved that boy in various compromising sexual positions.
The leftmost window--or screen as it should more properly be called--showed an Ishida pressed against a cold hard floor, glasses askew on a face filled with dread and pain, so unlike the stiff and proper one he wore to school. Here all his raw emotions were bared for the world to see. A hand pulled the Quincy by his hair, partially lifting the lithe body to reveal various bruises on the pale skin. Some had the blue-purplish black tinge of older abuse while others had the fresh red of just inflicted pain. Some welts ran diagonally across the boy's chest like whiplashes. The limp body was pulled up and up until the boy's weight was supported solely by the hand that held up his hair and his own broken ankles.
The man who stood before the Quincy was not alone. Someone, he did not know who, viciously backhanded the dark-haired boy. A thin trail of blood ran down the side of the Quincy's mouth. Gripping the chin of the Quincy in one hand, the man forced Ishida's jaw open and roughly shoved his own twitching cock into the boy as first he, then the other men with him, gangbanged the once proud Quincy.
The middle screen showed an Ishida held in what looked like an isolation cell at night. The padded walls muffled all sounds. Ichigo knew these were also meant to prevent the patient from injuring himself if he were to have any fits. The shadows that played across the cell's walls were that of a man approaching the sleeping figure of the Quincy. A pair of handcuffs ensured the dark-haired boy would not escape. Carefully, almost as if the man who'd snuck into the cell were opening a very delicate package, the man snipped at Ishida's clothes with a pair of scissors until, like peeling a banana, the Quincy was naked where he lay. A slap brought the boy into awareness and a sharp blade pressed against the Quincy's throat ensured Ishida's cooperation as the unknown intruder had his way with him.
The last screen showed an Ishida leaning against a wall; his legs splayed apart, his head pressed against what looked to be a blackboard as he masturbated. The look of ecstasy on his young face as he pushed first one then two fingers into his ass while the other hand worked his cock was captured by a film camera being run by a person or persons unknown off to the side. Copper wires wound around the Quincy's throat, exposed to the perspiration beading the boy's pale skin. The other end of the wires attached to what looked like a voltage regulator, and a thick masculine hand hovering above a switch on the box made it clear to Ichigo that, should Ishida stop, he would feel more than a little pain at the current that would surge through his body.
Not that the Quincy could stop anyhow. The mouth that panted hard seemed to mouth words Ichigo could not hear. There was no sound in this world. Even Ichigo’s own heartbeat seemed muted.
Then, as if someone had switched on a radio or a television set somewhere in the background he seemed to hear his name. Kurosaki. Patiently at first, then increasingly persistent. Kurosaki! Kurosaki!
His eyes flew open. He was not in the classroom anymore. The white curtains, the harsh medical smell of disinfectants, and what felt like a soft bed underneath his tired and aching body told Ichigo he was in the infirmary. The pair of glasses and the icy blue eyes that turned to him as his vision focused quivered with the same irritation and anger that laced the dark-haired boy's voice.
"The next time you decide to go to school, do us all a favor and do not pass out because you haven't slept!"
Ichigo turned to his side, unwilling to look at the boy glaring at him.
"Shut up, Ishida. Leave me alone. No one asked you to babysit." Ichigo's voice lacked the usual sharpness, the usual bite, as he addressed the Quincy. He didn't even have the strength to be angry or irritable anymore.
"Hmph." He felt, rather than saw, the Quincy fold his arms over his chest. "Fine then. But next time you are about to die don't expect me to come to your rescue."
The swish of a curtain being rapidly opened and the clacking sound of the infirmary door told Ichigo Ishida had left. Carefully, he resumed his earlier prone position. Thankful as he was that Ishida had actually troubled himself to check up on the Shinigami, he did not think he would have been able to hide what would have been glaringly obvious had the Quincy pulled back the sheets that covered him up to his chin. He did not think any medical text the Quincy had read would help him to explain why Ichigo had a hard-on after having lost consciousness--and not the normal early morning sort that he'd often enough dealt with in the bathroom at home.
Ichigo curled up in bed, and, cursing under his breath, surreptitiously stretched his hand down.
Escape 0.02 - Ishida
When had he first become increasingly aware of his presence?
He was no longer certain.
Sometimes he found himself unconsciously searching for the now all-too-familiar reiatsu; searching for its all-too-familiar pressing weight and tingle on his bare skin. He found himself listening for the baritone voice that often enough turned towards him in irritation--encounters which, despite the bickering that often ensued, he nonetheless cherished.
But what had first been mere interest in an existence that, for all his intents and purposes, was diametrically opposed to him had rapidly turned into something more, something which he denied as an illusory passing fancy on his part. But however much he denied it, he could not silence the small voice in his chest that whispered to him in the dark recesses of his room at night.
Love him or hate him but you cannot escape him. Ever since that day you decided to snap the hollow bait before his eyes your paths have been irrevocably crossed. Accept it. You want him. Here in the cold loneliness of your apartment you seek his warmth, seek his touch. He is the sun burning fiercely in the sky. You are the moth, knowing the dangers but unable to resist, attracted to the flame you know could well burn you, kill who you are now.
He had vainly tried to ignore the stirrings of his desire.
~
Monday, 5:00pm
"Is Kurosaki-kun alright?" The voice that spoke to him was soft, full of concern.
Ishida nodded. He wanted to smooth away all the worries and the pain Inoue felt, but he did not know how. Inoue, whose anxieties he was supposed to allay, was much better at comforting than he ever was or probably would be. All he could offer the girl was his understanding silence.
"I wonder what's been bothering Kurosaki-kun," she continued. "Lately...before this...he...It's almost as if...as if he was a zombie--or someone completely different. I tried to ask him once but he wouldn't say anything. Do you think you could ask for me, Ishida-kun?"
Ishida nodded, although he already knew what the orange-haired Shinigami would say--especially to him. Fuck off Ishida. Mind your own business. He would have answered the same way had Ichigo inquired about him for a similar reason. He chose to say nothing to Inoue, knowing that she had meant well when she'd asked him.
Beside Ishida, Inoue struggled to keep up. Ishida slowed his steps. It usually took two of Inoue's steps to match one of his own. He normally tried to control the length of his strides when he walked her to her apartment, but whenever any mention of the Shinigami was made they unconsciously quickened. Just as they did now.
No, he mentally corrected himself. My walking speed has nothing to do with Kurosaki.
No, nor was the sudden superfluous spate of fevered studying of topics that they would not tackle in months if not years, making him oblivious to all else except the page before him.
The rest of the way home passed in silence. He had never been good at conversations and somehow Inoue understood. She understood more than most of the guys in the class thought. They looked at her solely as an easy pass, once they could get her away from Tatsuki who protected her like a lioness did her newborn cub. They failed to see what was plain to Ishida--that, behind the ditzy and clumsy actions she sometimes did, Inoue was one of the most caring and most kindhearted individuals he had ever known. He had not been surprised when she'd sheltered a cat abandoned in the rain and patiently nursed it back to health. Neither had he been surprised when she had not complained when the cat, after it had rested and fed, fled into the night. It was good being with Inoue. It would be good to stay with Inoue. It would be...
But somewhere in his heart he knew he was deluding himself.
And apparently she too sensed that he was.
Rather than simply parting when they'd reached her apartment she instead invited Ishida in. He had first tried to protest saying it wasn't right and proper that a single man enter the house of a single woman but the serious look on her normally cheerful face silenced any further protests on his part. She wanted to talk. It would be impolite and ignoble of him to ignore her and walk away when it was clear that whatever she had to discuss with him was of great enough import that she would willingly risk a slur on her character.
Once seated, she served Ishida tea and plunged into the heart of the issue.
"Are you happy Ishida-kun?"
"I don't understand, Inoue. What do you mean?" Caught aback by the directness of the question and all that it implied Ishida opted to seek clarification even though, somehow, he already knew what she had meant by her remark.
"I mean, are you happy with being with me, Ishida-kun? You don’t want to spend your time with…someone else?" Her face gazed into his with earnestness.
"Of course I am." He replied quickly...perhaps too quickly.
Pause. She busied herself pouring more tea for the both of them. When she next looked into Ishida's face he knew his words had only served to somehow strengthen her conviction that his true feelings lay elsewhere. She laid a soft hand on his arm.
"You can stop pretending to yourself, Ishida-kun. You'll just hurt yourself even more."
He smiled grimly to himself. She was right. Each time he'd denied the feelings that made him catch his breath whenever the Shinigami had passed close by him, he had felt a cold hand clutch his heart, freezing him from the inside out. He knew all the forms his lie had taken. He knew that each time he repeated to himself that he was fine with the way things currently were some part of him died, never to be resurrected.
"Since when did you know?" was all he could say.
"I've guessed for some time. But today I became sure."
Ishida bowed his head and closed his eyes. He could still clearly see the body of Kurosaki as it had lain on the cold hard classroom floor. It reminded him of a broken doll but one which, despite its brokenness, was nonetheless beautiful, noble. He could still hear the dull thud of the fall and how his heart had seemed to stop beating for the second it took for the Shinigami to crumple. He could still feel the warmth of the Shinigami's skin on his own as he had checked the other boy's pulse. He could still feel the perspiration that had beaded his back, the cold dread that filled the pit of his stomach, and the unconscious body's heavy weight as he'd carried Kurosaki to the infirmary.
Then he recalled the way the normally brash, brave face had contorted in its fitful sleep. He had reached out to touch the tan arm of the orange-haired boy, desiring to somehow relieve the pain the other suffered.
But he had not. He had not wanted Kurosaki to know how he felt. He had not wanted himself to recognize what it was that he felt. So he had opted to call out to the Shinigami instead.
Ishida lifted his face to look at Inoue's own quietly sad eyes. And he knew that just as he wanted Kurosaki so did Inoue, and perhaps always would. But, owing to who she was and always would be, she would never once complain, never once begrudge another his or her happiness--even if it meant she herself would never have the happiness of having the man she loved love her back.
"I'm sorry Inoue," Ishida said, quietly.
She squeezed his arm one last time before letting go. "You've done nothing you should be forgiven for."
~
Monday, 10:30pm
The room felt far emptier than it normally did. The black sofa in the living area felt too large, as though it had been meant for more than two. The kitchen table felt too wide as though it had been meant to hold more than a single solitary bachelor's plate. The fridge was too empty, the cabinets too meagerly filled. He had always lived as frugally as he could but just then he wished his apartment was not as sparsely furnished. He wished for the clutter of any other boy's room, even if it meant only scattered clothes or crumpled sheets of paper--anything was better than all the empty spaces that seemed to mock the empty spaces in his own heart.
He tried to curl up in the middle of the single bed that felt too cold, at once too small and too large. He tried to sleep but sleep forsook him. The silence bothered him. Any small noise annoyed him. You can stop pretending to yourself, Ishida-kun. He had. His sleeplessness and the unsettling loneliness that assailed him was proof he'd accepted the fact that he looked at Kurosaki Ichigo as more than friend, ally, or rival.
And while it meant abandoning his practice of rationalizing his feelings, it did not mean he had to admit what he felt to any other living soul.
He still had his pride.