Fic: Life Lessons - Chapter 6: In Which Ichigo Realizes He Is Screwed
Title: Life Lessons -- Chapter 6: In Which Ichigo Realizes He Is Screwed
Author: nehalenia
Pairing: Ichigo/Ishida (eventually)
Rating: hard R/NC-17; NC-17 overall.
Warnings: language, nudity, blood, slight non-consensual touching, sexual imagery, masturbation
COMMUNITY DISCLAIMER: All characters depicted in sexual situations in this post/fanfiction/fanart (including material in the comments) are fictional and are intended to be and considered to be by the author of said material of the legal age of consent in the United States state of California, regardless of what age these characters may be in the material they are derived from.
Disclaimer: Bleach and all its characters belong to Kubo Tite. (All the original characters are mine.) This is posted for entertainment purposes only. No profit is being made or sought.
Summary: Ichigo and Ishida are college roommates. They study, they fight Hollows, they have sex; but not with each other. Because Ishida likes guys, and Ichigo likes girls. Right?
Notes: Long chapter is long. Enjoy it, because we're finally in the homeward stretch. :D
X-posted to all appropriate places, so sorry for the spamming.
Chapter 1 is here: http://community.livejournal.com/ishi_ichi/300274.html
Chapter 2 is here: http://community.livejournal.com/ishi_ichi/300856.html#cutid1
Chapter 3 is here: http://community.livejournal.com/ishi_ichi/302528.html#cutid1
Chapter 4 is here: http://community.livejournal.com/ishi_ichi/307474.html#cutid1
Chapter 5 is here: http://community.livejournal.com/ishi_ichi/309030.html#cutid1
Ishida Uryuu bleeding. It was something Ichigo still had nightmares about. Infrequent as they were, nothing could tear Ichigo from his sleep and leave him panting and wakeful like the image of a too-pale Ishida, blood spreading over the center of his tunic, accusing Ichigo with his eyes and the bleeding stump of his arm.
It hadn’t happened that way, of course. Ishida had never accused Ichigo of hurting him. He understood from the first that Ichigo hadn’t been in control of the horned Hollow-beast that drove Zangetsu through him. He’d certainly never blamed Ichigo for the loss of his hand, which had happened during his fight with Ulquiorra while Ichigo lay there-well, for all practical purposes - dead.
Ichigo had begged Ishida to forgive him. Ishida had looked at him plainly and told him there was nothing to forgive, but when Ichigo had insisted - had, in fact, been as close to tears as he had ever imagined he’d be in front of Ishida - he had relented and given a blanket pardon. For anything you think you’ve done, Kurosaki, was what he’d said. The expression on Ishida’s face had told Ichigo that the incident - both the forgiveness and the reason for it - was never to be spoken of again. And neither of them had.
Ichigo’s subconscious, however, was under no such gag order, and it reminded him of this periodically. He was almost used to seeing it in his dreams; enough that he was able to tell himself, even while asleep, that this hadn’t happened, that it was only a dream. Ichigo had a feeling, though, that the bleeding Ishida Uryuu now before him would soon be joining his other nightmares, and wouldn’t be banished so easily.
Ishida was leaning on the sink in their small apartment bathroom, supporting himself on his elbows with his hands wrapped around the edges. They were nearly as pale as the porcelain, and Ichigo could see small scars all over them; more scars that Ishida had gotten because of him. Of course, they were nothing compared to the ones Ishida was going to have on his back.
What remained of Ishida’s torn and bloodied shirt was balled in the corner by the tub, and Ichigo chewed on his lower lip as he surveyed the damage to Ishida’s body: three bloody claw marks angled across the slim back, cutting over ribs, a sharp shoulder blade, the knobby vertebrae standing out under his skin, even to the point of a hip. The worst of the bleeding had stopped, but the wounds were still raw and dripping. Ichigo mentally assessed how many stitches Ishida would have been looking at had they taken him to an emergency clinic, and swallowed at the number he came up with.
“Are you just going to stand there, Kurosaki?” Ishida grumbled, turning his head so he wasn’t speaking directly into the sink. His usually smooth voice was hoarse and a little breathless, and Ichigo knew it had to be from the pain. Ishida had sounded the same way in Hueco Mundo when the pain-killers he’d taken had worn off.
“Yeah,” Ichigo stammered. “I mean, no! Just-hang on a second.” Ichigo tore his eyes away from the slight figure sagging against the sink and rummaged through the medical kit that sat open on the toilet lid. Ichigo hadn’t even known about the kit, probably because it had been stuck behind the towels in the bathroom cabinet. Ishida was the only one who bothered to fold and put away towels. Ichigo kept his hung up on his door or thrown over his desk chair, like a normal person.
Inside the kit were rolled up bandages and an assortment of bottles and jars. He picked up a medium-sized brown bottle that looked like something disinfectant would come in. The label read ‘Reiatsu Neutralizing Wound Cleaner - for All Hollow Attacks’ and had a cartoon of Urahara’s wide-smiling face on the label ‘approving’ the stuff. It did nothing to ease Ichigo’s suspicions - who knew what that nutty shopkeeper had put in there? - but since it was the only thing they had…
“Kurosaki,” Ishida said, sounding a bit worse than before. “You are trying my patience. Give me the damn bottle. I can-do it myself.”
“Yeah, right, what are you going to do?” Ichigo snorted, uncapping the bottle and sniffing at it. “Slosh it all over your back?” The stuff in the bottle smelled slightly astringent, with maybe a hint of lemon. Surely the stuff wasn’t really disinfectant, right?
“Kuro-saki,” Ishida muttered through gritted teeth.
“Hold still, will you?” Ichigo snapped, then took a breath before tilting the open bottle over Ishida’s back. “This is probably going to sting.”
Ichigo poured a thin stream of the clear liquid onto the uppermost wound and watched it run down the shallow, red furrow. It didn’t fizz like hydrogen peroxide, but it surely had some effect because he heard Ishida’s catch his breath and saw his shoulders tense up. When he glanced in the mirror, Ishida’s eyes were squeezed shut and his nostrils were flaring, but he didn’t make a sound.
“Just a bit more,” Ichigo told him, if only to fill the silence as he poured the wound cleaner into the middle cut, the one that went from under Ishida’s right arm to just below his waist. Ishida hadn’t taken a breath since Ichigo started, so he hurried to treat the lowest cut angling from Ishida’s ribs across his back to the point of his hip. The liquid ran along the track of this wound until it hit the small of Ishida’s back, where it dripped down that slight valley to the waistband of his once-white jeans - the ones Ishida had refused to take off. Ishida flinched when Ichigo hooked a finger into a beltloop and tugged them down to expose the end of the cut, and his head sank even lower toward the sink as Ichigo doused the rest of the wound.
“There,” Ichigo said. “It’s done. You can breathe now.” At that, Ishida let out a long, low breath and opened his eyes. He was still staring down into the sink, so he didn’t see Ichigo watching his reflection, noting how pale his lips were and how the blue eyes didn’t seem as sharp as usual. He wondered how much blood Ishida had actually lost. He peered at the bottle to see how much was left, then glanced at Ishida’s legs. “You want me to take care of those cuts on your legs now?”
“That’s unnecessary,” Ishida said. “They aren’t that bad.”
“All the blood on those white jeans of yours says otherwise,” Ichigo frowned. “C’mon, Ishida. What’s your problem? Take off your stupid pants and let me have a look at those cuts.”
“Just. Fix. My. Back.” Ishida almost growled, his eyes flashing briefly. “I can handle the rest myself.”
“Idiot,” Ichigo muttered as he closed the bottle and hunted in the kit for something that would either heal or seal the slashes across Ishida’s back. He didn’t know why Ishida was being such a prick about taking off his jeans. It wasn’t like they hadn’t used to change in gym together, or seen each other wearing nothing but a towel. “What the hell, Ishida, don’t you trust me or something?”
“Kurosaki,” Ishida huffed, “would you just shut up?”
Ishida sounded close to the end of his rope, but for some reason, that just made Ichigo angrier. What the hell was the guy thinking? His jeans were practically falling off him as it was. And Ishida sure didn’t have any problems taking his jeans off for Toru-kun, did he?
“I’m trying to help you, you know,” Ichigo snorted, examining a likely looking jar. “I don’t know what you’re so worried about. Your buddy Toru is the one hot for your ass, not me.”
It was out of his mouth before Ichigo even realized he’d said it. Immediately he felt his face heat up in embarrassment, and when he dared to glance up, Ishida had the strangest look on his face: part angry, part insulted, and part something else - hurt, maybe? Ichigo couldn’t tell. Ishida’s own face flushed, though, as anger quickly won out over any other emotions. Anger? Hell, the Quincy looked totally enraged. Nostrils flaring, Ishida narrowed his eyes and shoved himself up until he was standing nearly upright, only his fingers still touching the sink.
“You-,” he snarled, but the instant he said it, the blood drained from his face, his eyes rolled back, and his legs buckled. His fingers slipped and he crashed to his knees, striking his chin against the sink on the way down. His glasses flew off, clattering against the tile.
“Fuck! Ishida!” Ichigo dropped the jar he was holding and grabbed his shoulders, hauling him upright. Ishida’s blinked vaguely at him, seemed to focus for a moment, but then his head lolled forward.
“Shit!” Ichigo growled, his fingers digging into Ishida’s arms, his heart pounding in pure terror. “Damn it, Ishida! Look at me! What’s wrong? Tell me!” He could feel his hands trembling, and he wasn’t sure whether it was from panic or from restraining the desire to shake Ishida hard, to try and rattle him back to consciousness. What the hell was going on?
“Ku-saki,” Ishida mumbled, eyes fluttering as he tried to lift his head.
“Damn it, Ishida, don’t do this to me!” Ichigo demanded as he saw Ishida’s expression zoning out again. “Don’t you dare fucking die on me! Wake up, damn it! What’s wrong? What’s-.” He froze because Ishida had managed to lift one hand up and weakly grasp Ichigo’s wrist.
“Not-dying-idiot,” Ishida panted. “Need to-lie down.”
Ichigo wasn’t sure how it happened - whether Ishida fell against him, or he pulled his friend toward him - but the next moment, Ishida’s head was against Ichigo’s shoulder, his breath tickling Ichigo’s throat, and Ichigo’s hand was cradling the back of Ishida’s head. Their chests were touching, and in that instant, Ichigo could feel Ishida’s heart beating against his own, and his anger and panic dissolved into a different feeling entirely; one that wanted him to keep holding Ishida just like that.
“Down,” Ishida gasped softly against his neck. “K’saki-put me down.”
The words stung like rejection. Was it really that bad to be held like that? Did Ishida dislike it that much? Ichigo could feel the muscles in his neck and shoulders tightening until Ishida groaned.
“Gonna-faint,” he huffed, just before his body went slack, and Ichigo realized what had happened.
“Fuck!” he grunted, pushing himself to his feet and half carrying, half dragging Ishida out of the bathroom. “Stupid,” he grumbled as he kicked the door to his bedroom open, only he wasn’t talking to Ishida this time. He was the stupid one, forgetting that Ishida had low blood pressure - something he’d known for years. He’d been terrified that Ishida had gone into shock when he’d passed out, that he was about to go into seizures or worse, but Ishida had only lost consciousness after pushing himself upright.
“Positional hypotension,” Ichigo muttered, remembering the term from the first aid books his dad had made him read. People with low blood pressure could faint if they stood or sat up too fast, and the best thing to do was to get them horizontal as soon as possible.
Which was just what Ishida had been asking him to do.
Ichigo laid Ishida on his side and then swung his legs up onto the bed. He knew it would be best to position him face up and elevate his legs, but with the wounds on Ishida’s back still open, that was impossible. He shifted Ishida onto his stomach and turned his face to the side, but when Ishida didn’t immediately come to, Ichigo started to panic again.
“Shit shit shit shit shit!” Ichigo cursed as he rushed back to the bathroom, grabbing the medical kit in one hand and fishing out his phone with the other. He dropped the kit onto the bed at Ishida’s feet as he thumbed down his contact list and hit the button for Urahara Shouten. “C’mon, c’mon, answer, damn it!” he muttered as he opened the kit and rooted through the bottles and bandages for something, anything that might help Ishida. He found a bottle marked ‘Blood Tonic’ just as Urahara’s voice came on the line.
“Hello hello! Urahara Shouten! How may we help you, valued customer?” the shopkeeper whinnied.
“Urahara! Thank god,” Ichigo started, but the voice cut him off.
“Urahara Shouten is closed at this time. Please call back when we are open, and let us know how we can serve you better.”
“You can serve me better by being there when I fucking call you, you bastard!” Ichigo bellowed into his phone at the sound of the beep. “Ishida’s hurt and this is a fucking emergency, you asshole, so stop messing around and pick up your damn phone!”
Another beep ended Ichigo’s tirade and he threw the phone on the floor in a fit of frustration.
“Do you have to be so loud, Kurosaki?” The voice was weary but clear, and when Ichigo looked around, Ishida had lifted his head a little and was squinting back at him.
“Ishida!” Ichigo quickly moved to kneel beside his bed. “You’re awake! Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not okay,” Ishida frowned, closing his eyes and carefully lowering his head. “But I’m not dying, like you seem to think I am.”
Ichigo exhaled in relief, then realized he was still holding the bottle he’d picked up. He squinted at the label.
“Here,” he said, pulling off the cap. “Can you lift up enough to take some of this?”
“What is it?” Ishida asked, opening one eye.
“It’s-well, it’s something that’ll help.” Ichigo didn’t know exactly what the stuff was, but he doubted even crazy Urahara would put poison in a first aid kit, and the label did say to drink it. He figured with all the bleeding Ishida had done, anything called ‘Blood Tonic’ couldn’t hurt.
Ishida peered at the bottle. For a moment he looked like he was going to refuse, but then he sighed in resignation and reached out to take it. Ichigo could see his hand was trembling, and when he wrapped his own hand over Ishida’s to keep the bottle steady, Ishida didn’t try to shake him off.
“How much do I take?” he asked, raising his head to bring the tonic to his mouth.
“Uhm, two swigs,” Ichigo guessed, trying to sound far more confident than he actually was. Ishida quirked an eyebrow at him, but took a sip, considered, then took another, longer drink.
“That’s-not bad, actually,” Ishida allowed, taking one more sip before pushing the stuff away and letting his head fall back down.
“Yeah?” Ichigo sniffed the bottle before stoppering it. Whatever was inside had an aroma so rich it was dizzying. Was there-alcohol in that tonic?
“Kurosaki?” Ishida’s eyes were barely open, and though he wasn’t slurring his words like before, he sounded sleepier. Ichigo looked more closely at him, and thought he saw some color returning to Ishida’s lips. “Where m’glasses?”
“Huh? Oh,” Ichigo said. “On the bathroom floor. They came off when you fainted. Do you need ‘em?”
“No,” he sighed, a small grimace passing over his face. “Need-my back fixed.” Ishida paused to moisten his lower lip, then in a weaker voice, added, “Please.”
“Shit, I’m sorry, Ishida,” Ichigo groaned, reaching over to paw through the open kit again, looking for the jar he’d seen earlier. The shame of ignoring those wounds wrenched his gut a quarter turn - almost as much as Ishida saying ‘please’. Telling himself that there’d been too much going on what with Ishida fainting, and him calling to yell at Urahara, and giving Ishida the blood tonic didn’t make him feel any better though. The jumble in the medical kit finally yielded up the jar he’d seen earlier. It looked like something that petroleum jelly would come in, but the label - again with the shopkeeper’s happy cartoon face - proclaimed it ‘Urahara Shouten Number One Blood Stopper & Wound Closer’. Ichigo snorted because the stuff inside looked just like the ointment that Ikkaku carried around with him, which Ichigo knew came from the Fourth Division. Still, as long as it worked, he wasn’t going to quibble about where it came from.
“Hang on,” he told Ishida as he dug two fingers into the goo and started to dab it on the topmost wound. “Tell me if I hurt you.”
Ichigo could feel his heart nearly in his throat as his fingers slid over Ishida’s skin, following the cut over his shoulder blade and down to his spine. He told himself it was because the cuts were so deep, because he was afraid he was hurting Ishida, but even he didn’t quite believe it. Ishida made a small sound of discomfort when he took his fingers away to scoop out more salve, and he glanced down to see that Ishida’s half-open eyes were oddly glazed, his lips parted, and his fingers wound in his bedcovers.
“Ishida? Hey, you okay? I’m not hurting you, right?”
At the sound of Ichigo’s voice, Ishida blinked like he was coming out of a daydream. He angled his eyes toward Ichigo, then closed them and shook his head slightly.
“No,” he answered in a low voice that did strange things to Ichigo’s insides. “You’re not hurting me.” He paused to lick his lips, and to Ichigo, the tip of his pink tongue seemed to travel along the edge of his lower lip very slowly. “It feels-good.” He sounded almost amused at that word, as if it was the last thing he’d expected. “Don’t-.” Whatever Ishida said was muffled when he turned his face into Ichigo’s mattress, and Ichigo had the strange feeling he’d done it out of embarrassment.
“Don’t what?” he asked, curious. When Ishida turned his head again, Ichigo saw that his cheeks were pink and his eyes looked strangely moist.
“Don’t stop,” he whispered, so softly that Ichigo had to lean down to make sure he heard him. “Please-keep going.”
Ishida’s words - and the way he said them - hit Ichigo in a way he was sure hadn’t been intended. His mouth went dry, his insides tightened up like a twisted rubber band, and for a moment, he felt so dizzy he could have fallen over.
“Right,” he replied weakly, reaching down to finish applying salve to the first wound. Even though his heart was still drumming just under his throat, he made himself breathe slowly as he finished coating each claw mark with the ointment. Ichigo tried to keep his hand steady, but it trembled in spite of his efforts, and he kept glancing at Ishida’s face to see if he noticed. Ishida’s eyes remained half-closed and dreamy, and the only acknowledgements he gave were small hums of approval. When Ichigo finished, Ishida let out a long sigh and relaxed so much that his left arm flopped over the edge of the bed.
“Thank you, Kurosaki,” he mumbled, letting his eyes fall closed. “That’s-so much better.”
Ichigo stared at the prone Quincy. Had Ishida just thanked him?
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Ichigo asked warily.
“Don’t be such a worrywart,” Ishida said, half his mouth quirking in a smile. He opened one eye and considered Ichigo, then giggled. “Though you do look pretty funny when you’re perturbed.” He enunciated the last word carefully, the same way a drunk might speak to a police officer.
Ichigo stared at Ishida in consternation. The ‘thank you’ had been bad enough, but the giggling? That was downright scary.
“Let me see this,” he snorted, grabbing the tonic bottle off the bedside table and squinting at the fine print on the label. It read Normal use may cause drowsiness and uncharacteristic behavior. Do not operate machinery, practice kidou or propose marriage while under the influence.
“Great,” Ichigo grunted, rolling his eyes. Now he not only had to deal with an injured Ishida, but a smiling, giggling Ishida who said weird things. Weird things in a weird voice that made Ichigo’s innards feel-weird.
He set the bottle back on the table and half sat, half collapsed on the floor beside the bed. For the past twenty-four hours, Ichigo had been steam-rollered by circumstances and emotions that he would never have chosen to experience, and this last one - seeing Ishida hurt once again for his sake - least of all. He wanted to close his eyes and just have it all go away, if only for a few minutes, but when he did, his own brain wouldn’t leave him alone, tossing around images of Toru and Ishida, of Misa, of Chad, of dancing people and Hollows until he grabbed his hair and let out an inarticulate snarl of frustration.
The feel of fingers brushing against his arm stopped him cold, and he opened his eyes to see that Ishida’s hand -the one that had been dangling off the bed - was sliding slowly down his arm. The backs of Ishida’s fingers grazing his forearm made Ichigo’s skin prickle with an uncomfortable pleasure, and when they went over his wrist and found his hand, they unfolded to cover it.
“You’re a strange guy, Kurosaki,” Ishida sighed, giving his hand a brief squeeze. “But a good friend.”
Ichigo didn’t know what possessed him to do it - he had thought he was too stunned by this uncharacteristic action of Ishida’s to do anything - but he saw his own hand turning over on his knee so that he was palm to palm with Ishida. Their fingers interlaced as easily as two streams of water flowing together, and Ichigo stared at their clasped hands, not comprehending how Ishida’s cool palm could fill him with such heat.
“Ishida-,” he started, then stopped. He had no idea what he’d meant to say, and besides, the slim fingers were already loosening in his grasp. He opened his hand, and Ishida’s slid away to hang limply over the bed as it had before. Ishida’s eyes were closed and the deep, even breaths coming through his parted lips told Ichigo that he had fallen asleep. Ichigo wondered whether Ishida would even remember what he’d done or said when he woke up. He wondered whether he wanted him to or not.
Ichigo let his head fall back against the mattress with a defeated groan. Now that Ishida was totally out of it, there was a chance he could get his stupid jeans off and treat his leg wounds without any of the Quincy’s protests or back-talk. He tried to make himself get up and do it, but his body seemed reluctant to obey. He decided to close his eyes, only for a second, and then make himself get up and finish tending to Ishida.
The problem was, the moment Ichigo closed his eyes, he could feel Ishida’s hand in his once more, and that same strange heat was warming his body the way hot tea does on a winter day. Not only could he feel the thin fingers closing over his knuckles, but the sensation of Ishida’s heart beating against his chest, like when he’d fallen against him, and the flutter of Ishida’s breath against his neck. When he inhaled, he could smell the eucalyptus soap on Ishida’s skin, and the hint of sweat and coconut in his hair, and his hand was pressing the back of Ishida’s head, fingers ruffling the short, silky hair.
This Ishida wasn’t half-conscious and fainting, though. This Ishida pressed his lips to Ichigo’s ear and whispered things like don’t stop, and keep going, and that feels good, and even please in a way that made Ichigo breathe faster and deeper, that made him squirm against that imagined body as heat poured through him and pooled in his stomach and further down. He felt like a pot of water just on the verge of boiling, and he wanted to drag those lips away from his ear and seal them with his own mouth, wanted to push this Ishida down and get on top of him and-.
“Ichigo. Oi, Ichigo!”
The voice was familiar but misplaced. He tried to ignore it, tried to hang on to the fading sensations that had been so urgent a moment before, until something hard connected with his head and rocked it back.
“Oww!” he cried as he jerked awake and lurched to his knees, immediately on the defensive. Before him, a pair of long, black-clad legs were planted, and as his eyes traveled up they took in the orange jacket, the arms crossed over imposing breasts, and an even more imposing golden gaze. “Yo-Yoruichi!” he blinked.
“Ah, you’re awake,” she said. “I thought I’d have to kick you again.” She looked disappointed at that, and Ichigo pushed himself to his feet before she could get any ideas.
“What are you doing here?” Ichigo asked, still partly stunned from the rough awakening. “How did you-.”
“Kisuke asked me to come here,” she interrupted. “He told me he got some call full of yelling and cursing and figured it had to be you. Is this your emergency?” She nodded over his shoulder, and he turned to see Ishida still asleep on his bed. Yoruichi’s entrance - through the window, Ichigo guessed, considering that it was open and the curtains were shifting in the night breeze - hadn’t disturbed Ishida. He lay just as he had been, face to the side, one arm hanging over the edge of the bed, breathing slow and deep. The salve that Ichigo had plastered over the gashes in his back must have helped because the bleeding had stopped and the skin didn’t appear to be inflamed.
“Yeah,” Ichigo sighed, settling on a corner of his night stand. “We were fighting a bunch of Hollows and one of ‘em snagged him. It took three of us to kill it, so maybe it was almost an Arrancar.”
“Hmm.” Yoruichi leaned over Ishida, surveying the damage with a look of concern. “He must have lost some blood, with wounds like these,” she said, running a fingertip along the edge of the topmost gash.
“No kidding,” Ichigo snorted. “Why do you think I called Urahara like that? Ishida passed out, for fuck’s sake, and I didn’t know what to do. I gave him some of this,” he added, picking up the tonic bottle and waving it at Yoruichi. “Since he’s not dead, I suppose it helped.”
“Ah, good thinking, Ichigo!” she approved when she saw the bottle. “That blood replenisher is just what he needed. How much did he drink?”
“I dunno,” Ichigo shrugged. “Three sips or so, I guess.”
“Good enough,” Yoruichi directed, lifting one of Ishida’s eyelids. “That should repair his blood loss, though he might be weak for a day or so. Were you the one who treated these cuts?” she asked, pointing at Ishida’s back.
“You see anyone else in here?” Ichigo snorted.
“Then why,” she went on, moving her finger to indicate the wounds apparent through the torn fabric of Ishida’s blood-stained pants, “didn’t you treat those?”
“Because Ishida wouldn’t let me!” Ichigo protested, coming to his feet. “He refused to take his stupid pants off even to let me look at the wounds.”
“Oh?" Yoruichi smirked. "Then what's stopping you now?” She tipped her head and peered at Ishida’s face. His mouth was slightly open, and there was a small, damp spot beneath his face where he’d drooled on Ichigo’s bedspread. “If he took three doses of Kisuke’s blood tonic, he’ll sleep like that for hours. You could do whatever you like to him, and he wouldn’t be any wiser,” she said, grinning in a way that made Ichigo very uncomfortable. “Treating these leg wounds now will be easy. See?”
Before Ichigo could say anything, Yoruichi had pulled a small blade from one of her leg guards, and in two swift motions, sliced open Ishida’s tattered jeans. When she leaned down to peel them away, she began to chuckle.
“What?” Ichigo demanded warily. “What’s wrong?”
“Maybe this is why he wouldn’t take his pants off for you, hmm?” Yoruichi laughed, tugging off what was left of Ishida’s jeans and tossing them to the floor. “Who’d have thought ‘Ishida Uryuu, Quincy’ would be going commando? Not me!”
Ichigo felt the blood drain from his face as Yoruichi stepped aside to reveal a now completely naked Ishida sprawled on his bed. Ichigo’s conscience told him not to look, but his eyes were already locked on Ishida’s long, pale legs, and it was impossible not to follow them up to their point of origin.
“Who knew such a skinny guy could have an ass like this, eh, Ichigo?” Yoruichi grinned, reaching down to give one smooth cheek an affectionate pat. “Mmh, nice and firm, too,” she went on, adding a pinch.
“Stop that!” Ichigo squawked, feeling the blood rush back to his face, and other places as well. “You can’t just touch people like that without their consent!”
“Why not?” she challenged. “We just took his pants off without his consent, didn’t we? You said he didn’t want these wounds treated, but we’re going to do that, too. How is this,” she asked, playfully cupping the curve of one cheek, “any different than that?”
“It just is!” Ichigo yelled, clenching his fists. “If you’re going to treat his wounds, then just do it, and stop-playing with him like that!”
“You’re as boring as ever,” she sighed, rolling her eyes. “Fine, go get a towel or something so we can clean him up then.”
“Don’t do anything perverted to him while I’m gone,” Ichigo growled, heading back to the bathroom.
“Did you have anything specific in mind?” Yoruichi teased. “Or did you just want me to wait until you get back?”
Ichigo gritted his teeth and restrained himself both from responding the way he’d have liked to and from slamming the door. He rinsed and wrung out two hand towels in the bathroom sink and started back, then saw Ishida’s glasses lying on the floor and stooped to retrieve them. He might not be awake now, but Ichigo imagined that when Ishida did come to, they would be the first things he’d look for.
When he got back to his room, Yoruichi was examining the gashes on the backs of Ishida’s thighs.
“These aren’t as serious as the ones on his back,” she said, reaching up to grab a towel from Ichigo. “Good thing, too. If his tendons had been cut, he’d be in for some serious healing. Tessai could do it, but Ishida would have to be in Karakura for a few days.” Yoruichi poured some of Urahara’s wound cleaner on the towel and ran it over the cuts. “As it is, he’ll just have a hard time sitting down for a day or two. Here,” she said, tossing Ichigo the jar of healing salve as she moved on to the middle of the three gashes. “You put the salve on. Treat them just like you did the ones on his back.”
“Right,” Ichigo said weakly, because the topmost wound across Ishida’s legs started on the lower curve of his left buttock. He scooped up a large amount of the ointment and closed his eyes as he applied the stuff, but it didn’t help. Not staring at Ishida’s ass didn’t mean not imagining it, and as his fingers slid over firm muscle and smooth skin, tracing the path of the cut, Ichigo found he couldn’t think of anything but Ishida’s ass.
“Careful,” Yoruichi warned. “Better open your eyes or those greasy fingers of yours will end up where they aren’t supposed to be.”
Ichigo did open his eyes, but only to glare at Yoruichi. “Not everyone’s the same kind of pervert you are,” he huffed.
“You really are a boring man,” she laughed, shaking her purple ponytail off her shoulder as she finished cleaning Ishida’s leg wounds and put away the bottle. “How is it a person with no sense of humor has any friends, I wonder?”
“Not everyone shares your sense of humor, either, thank god," Ichigo snapped back, studiously dabbing the salve on Ishida’s legs and looking absolutely nowhere else. He was pretty sure Ishida wouldn’t have found Yoruichi’s antics amusing, either.
“Too bad,” Yoruichi grinned, standing up and reaching into her jacket. “Here,” she said, pulling out a small bottle of pills. There was a skull and crossbones on the label. “When Ishida wakes up, make him take these till they’re gone.”
“You want me to give him something with a label like that?” Ichigo said, eyeing the bottle. “What makes you think he’ll take them? Ishida isn’t stupid, you know.”
“You took them when Kisuke told you to,” she grinned, “so I guess that makes you stupid. These are the same pills he gave you after Byakuya nearly killed you that time, fool,” she advised, bonking him on the head with the bottle. “There are twelve pills in here. One per hour from the time he wakes up. He should be fine after that.”
“Yeah, I remember,” Ichigo grumbled, wiping his hands on a towel before taking the bottle from her and setting it beside Ishida’s folded glasses. Ishida had barely moved during the entire time they had worked on him. In fact, he had started to snore very slightly, and this gave Ichigo a small sense of relief. He knew Ishida would probably have a fit when he woke up and found his jeans gone and his wounds treated, but the less he knew about how it had happened - especially about Yoruichi’s part in it - the better.
“So much for your emergency,” Yoruichi sighed. “I came because I thought it might be exciting, but it turns out you are all very dull people. Next time,” she warned him, “don’t scream ‘emergency’ until someone is spouting blood from an artery or missing a limb.”
Ichigo winced involuntarily at that last bit, and his eyes darted to Ishida. His left hand was there at the end of his arm, his curled fingers almost grazing the floor, but it took a moment before Ichigo could banish the image of Ishida lying half-dead in Hueco Mundo with a blood-stained, empty sleeve.
“You should lie down, Ichigo,” Yoruichi said, eyeing him critically as she strode to the window to take her leave. “You look nearly as bad as Ishida. Some sleep might improve your sense of humor, you know?” She paused as she stepped onto the windowsill and looked back at Ishida, then at Ichigo. “That bed looks big enough for two,” she winked, and then she was gone.
“Asshole,” he muttered to the curtains fluttering in her wake, but he couldn’t deny her words. He was tired. And the bed was big enough for two. His crazy father had insisted that no one could get a ‘proper’ university education with only a single bed. Ichigo had told him his old bed was fine, but when this one had been sent over the day Ichigo and Ishida moved into their apartment, he’d given up and accepted delivery. Not that it had done him much good. He remembered Ishida raising his eyebrows at the unwieldy mattress as he’d struggled to get it into his room. “Expecting lots of company, Kurosaki?” he’d asked in an arch tone. Ichigo wondered if Ishida would remember that when he woke up.
Ichigo watched Ishida lying there on that same mattress, the red of his wounds now covered in healing salve, his lashes like tiny black feathers on his cheek, his bare legs slightly spread, his ass-.
Ichigo took a breath and turned away. The mere thought of lying down next to this naked, sleeping Ishida was as terrifying as the prospect of waking up beside him; assuming, of course, that he did wake up. Ichigo strongly suspected that Ishida would open his eyes, figure out what had happened, and fire an arrow right into his snoring mouth.
And he would probably deserve it, too. Ichigo scraped the back of his hand across his face and looked down at himself. He was still in his spirit form wearing Shinigami robes. He wondered what had happened to Chad and to his body. Glancing back at Ishida, he went to his closet, pulled out an extra sheet and used it to cover him from the waist down. Ichigo thought it might make it easier to watch Ishida as he slept, but as the light cotton settled slowly over his body and into the valley between his legs, Ichigo felt his mouth go dry and knew it was a lost cause. He flicked off the light as he left his bedroom and closed the door without looking back.
In the living room, he discovered Chad stretched out full length on the couch with his feet hanging over the edge, dead to the world. Ichigo figured his friend must have arrived sometime between when he’d fallen asleep against the bed and when Yoruichi had come in through the window. He thought about waking Chad, if only to get him into a more comfortable position or send him into Ishida’s room, but even fast asleep the guy looked totally exhausted so Ichigo left him alone.
Ichigo found both his wallet and his body in the kitchen, the wallet placed in the middle of the table, his body seated in a chair and slumped over the edge. Normally he didn’t hesitate about getting back into his body, but this time he frowned at his limp, angular form.
“You’re an idiot,” he told himself. “You know that, right?” Predictably, his body didn’t answer, and for the briefest of moments, Ichigo actually found himself missing Kon. If Kon had been inside his body, he would certainly have said or done something annoying and Ichigo could have had the satisfaction of smashing his own stupid face in, and then feeling it later. Pummeling an empty body - even if it was his own - just wasn’t satisfying. “Idiot,” he muttered again before sitting down into himself.
Even if his body had gotten more of a rest than he had, Ichigo still felt incredibly tired. Chad was taking up the whole sofa, and Ishida was in his bed. The chair he was sitting in was uncomfortable, and the floor didn’t look particularly inviting. That left only one option. He rose and went to Ishida’s room.
Except for two or three shirts and a white belt discarded on the foot of the bed, the room was neat and clean. It looked like the room of a model university student. It certainly didn’t look like it could have hosted the scene of wild abandon from the night before.
Ichigo ordered himself to stop thinking about it. He should have been too worn out to think about it, and he pushed it from his mind as he pulled off his jacket, flicked off the light, and stretched himself carefully onto Ishida’s bed. He closed his eyes, shifted his head on Ishida’s pillow and tried to get comfortable. It wasn’t easy. Ishida’s pillow was softer than he liked, the coverlet was a satiny cotton instead of his more familiar worn blanket, and the mattress was much firmer than he was used to. Ichigo supposed it would have to be to support the kind of activity it had been subjected to last night.
“Stop it!” he growled at himself, banging a fist against his forehead. “Stop. Thinking. About it.” With a dissatisfied grunt, Ichigo turned over onto his stomach, buried his face in the pillow, and begged for sleep to come.
It didn't. The moment he turned his face into the pillow, he was enveloped in Ishida’s scent; not just the coconut smell of his shampoo, but everything: the skin that smelled like he’d just stepped out of the ocean, the warmth of that place where his hair met his neck, the mint toothpaste he used, the green tea he drank, even the murky tang of his blood, and threading it all together was the scent of cooling sweat and the faint musk of sex.
“No,” Ichigo moaned, unable to stop the rush of images spilling into his brain - Ishida rocking under Buff/Toru with his mouth gasping and his hair swaying, Ishida dancing at the club, Ishida watching Love & Death with his boyfriend’s brown hand on his bare, white stomach, Ishida glaring at him in the park, Ishida panting with bloody stripes across his back, Ishida collapsed against him on the cold tile of the bathroom floor, Ishida thrown onto his back and moaning Oh! Oh! Ohh! as Buff/Toru fucked him and worked his cock with his big, tanned fist.
Ichigo whimpered because his blood was pounding in his head and his chest, and pounding even harder between his legs. He didn’t want to be hard, but oh god, he was and he couldn’t stop himself from lifting his hips to shove his hand down his jeans and into his briefs.
“Oh fuck!” he gasped, because his dick felt like a piece of iron right out of a furnace, and he wondered why the moisture dripping from his slit hadn’t turned to steam. He made a fist around the head and pushed into it with a groan, pulled back, and started pumping his hips with a hard, hot urgency.
For once, he didn’t try to stop the images, didn’t try to deny them as he panted into Ishida’s pillow, breathing in his scent, imagining Ishida with his head thrown back and his white throat stretched out like an offering. Only this time, it wasn’t Buff/Toru making him thrash and moan, it was him, Ichigo. Ichigo sweating and panting over Ishida’s sleek back as he thrust against that perfect ass, Ichigo spreading those long, lean legs and sheathing himself between them, and Ichigo’s hand wrapped around his cock, stroking hard and fast until Ishida’s stomach muscles clenched, bending him nearly double as he cried out Ah! Ah, Kurosaki! and shot stream after stream of milky come to splatter his quivering belly and drip from Ichigo’s fist.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Ichigo screamed into the pillow as his own cock erupted, pouring sticky warmth into his fist as his orgasm shuddered through him, leaving him gasping. He lay like that, face down and breathing hard, until the echoes of his release slowly faded and his hips stopped trembling.
His dick was relaxing and his come was cooling on his hand when he shifted just enough to flop onto his back and stare at the spinning darkness below the ceiling. He had just climaxed while fantasizing about Ishida, and he couldn’t remember ever coming harder in his life.
“Fuck,” Ichigo whimpered one more time, closing his eyes and turning his face away. “I am so fucked.”
Author: nehalenia
Pairing: Ichigo/Ishida (eventually)
Rating: hard R/NC-17; NC-17 overall.
Warnings: language, nudity, blood, slight non-consensual touching, sexual imagery, masturbation
COMMUNITY DISCLAIMER: All characters depicted in sexual situations in this post/fanfiction/fanart (including material in the comments) are fictional and are intended to be and considered to be by the author of said material of the legal age of consent in the United States state of California, regardless of what age these characters may be in the material they are derived from.
Disclaimer: Bleach and all its characters belong to Kubo Tite. (All the original characters are mine.) This is posted for entertainment purposes only. No profit is being made or sought.
Summary: Ichigo and Ishida are college roommates. They study, they fight Hollows, they have sex; but not with each other. Because Ishida likes guys, and Ichigo likes girls. Right?
Notes: Long chapter is long. Enjoy it, because we're finally in the homeward stretch. :D
X-posted to all appropriate places, so sorry for the spamming.
Chapter 1 is here: http://community.livejournal.com/ishi_ichi/300274.html
Chapter 2 is here: http://community.livejournal.com/ishi_ichi/300856.html#cutid1
Chapter 3 is here: http://community.livejournal.com/ishi_ichi/302528.html#cutid1
Chapter 4 is here: http://community.livejournal.com/ishi_ichi/307474.html#cutid1
Chapter 5 is here: http://community.livejournal.com/ishi_ichi/309030.html#cutid1
Ishida Uryuu bleeding. It was something Ichigo still had nightmares about. Infrequent as they were, nothing could tear Ichigo from his sleep and leave him panting and wakeful like the image of a too-pale Ishida, blood spreading over the center of his tunic, accusing Ichigo with his eyes and the bleeding stump of his arm.
It hadn’t happened that way, of course. Ishida had never accused Ichigo of hurting him. He understood from the first that Ichigo hadn’t been in control of the horned Hollow-beast that drove Zangetsu through him. He’d certainly never blamed Ichigo for the loss of his hand, which had happened during his fight with Ulquiorra while Ichigo lay there-well, for all practical purposes - dead.
Ichigo had begged Ishida to forgive him. Ishida had looked at him plainly and told him there was nothing to forgive, but when Ichigo had insisted - had, in fact, been as close to tears as he had ever imagined he’d be in front of Ishida - he had relented and given a blanket pardon. For anything you think you’ve done, Kurosaki, was what he’d said. The expression on Ishida’s face had told Ichigo that the incident - both the forgiveness and the reason for it - was never to be spoken of again. And neither of them had.
Ichigo’s subconscious, however, was under no such gag order, and it reminded him of this periodically. He was almost used to seeing it in his dreams; enough that he was able to tell himself, even while asleep, that this hadn’t happened, that it was only a dream. Ichigo had a feeling, though, that the bleeding Ishida Uryuu now before him would soon be joining his other nightmares, and wouldn’t be banished so easily.
Ishida was leaning on the sink in their small apartment bathroom, supporting himself on his elbows with his hands wrapped around the edges. They were nearly as pale as the porcelain, and Ichigo could see small scars all over them; more scars that Ishida had gotten because of him. Of course, they were nothing compared to the ones Ishida was going to have on his back.
What remained of Ishida’s torn and bloodied shirt was balled in the corner by the tub, and Ichigo chewed on his lower lip as he surveyed the damage to Ishida’s body: three bloody claw marks angled across the slim back, cutting over ribs, a sharp shoulder blade, the knobby vertebrae standing out under his skin, even to the point of a hip. The worst of the bleeding had stopped, but the wounds were still raw and dripping. Ichigo mentally assessed how many stitches Ishida would have been looking at had they taken him to an emergency clinic, and swallowed at the number he came up with.
“Are you just going to stand there, Kurosaki?” Ishida grumbled, turning his head so he wasn’t speaking directly into the sink. His usually smooth voice was hoarse and a little breathless, and Ichigo knew it had to be from the pain. Ishida had sounded the same way in Hueco Mundo when the pain-killers he’d taken had worn off.
“Yeah,” Ichigo stammered. “I mean, no! Just-hang on a second.” Ichigo tore his eyes away from the slight figure sagging against the sink and rummaged through the medical kit that sat open on the toilet lid. Ichigo hadn’t even known about the kit, probably because it had been stuck behind the towels in the bathroom cabinet. Ishida was the only one who bothered to fold and put away towels. Ichigo kept his hung up on his door or thrown over his desk chair, like a normal person.
Inside the kit were rolled up bandages and an assortment of bottles and jars. He picked up a medium-sized brown bottle that looked like something disinfectant would come in. The label read ‘Reiatsu Neutralizing Wound Cleaner - for All Hollow Attacks’ and had a cartoon of Urahara’s wide-smiling face on the label ‘approving’ the stuff. It did nothing to ease Ichigo’s suspicions - who knew what that nutty shopkeeper had put in there? - but since it was the only thing they had…
“Kurosaki,” Ishida said, sounding a bit worse than before. “You are trying my patience. Give me the damn bottle. I can-do it myself.”
“Yeah, right, what are you going to do?” Ichigo snorted, uncapping the bottle and sniffing at it. “Slosh it all over your back?” The stuff in the bottle smelled slightly astringent, with maybe a hint of lemon. Surely the stuff wasn’t really disinfectant, right?
“Kuro-saki,” Ishida muttered through gritted teeth.
“Hold still, will you?” Ichigo snapped, then took a breath before tilting the open bottle over Ishida’s back. “This is probably going to sting.”
Ichigo poured a thin stream of the clear liquid onto the uppermost wound and watched it run down the shallow, red furrow. It didn’t fizz like hydrogen peroxide, but it surely had some effect because he heard Ishida’s catch his breath and saw his shoulders tense up. When he glanced in the mirror, Ishida’s eyes were squeezed shut and his nostrils were flaring, but he didn’t make a sound.
“Just a bit more,” Ichigo told him, if only to fill the silence as he poured the wound cleaner into the middle cut, the one that went from under Ishida’s right arm to just below his waist. Ishida hadn’t taken a breath since Ichigo started, so he hurried to treat the lowest cut angling from Ishida’s ribs across his back to the point of his hip. The liquid ran along the track of this wound until it hit the small of Ishida’s back, where it dripped down that slight valley to the waistband of his once-white jeans - the ones Ishida had refused to take off. Ishida flinched when Ichigo hooked a finger into a beltloop and tugged them down to expose the end of the cut, and his head sank even lower toward the sink as Ichigo doused the rest of the wound.
“There,” Ichigo said. “It’s done. You can breathe now.” At that, Ishida let out a long, low breath and opened his eyes. He was still staring down into the sink, so he didn’t see Ichigo watching his reflection, noting how pale his lips were and how the blue eyes didn’t seem as sharp as usual. He wondered how much blood Ishida had actually lost. He peered at the bottle to see how much was left, then glanced at Ishida’s legs. “You want me to take care of those cuts on your legs now?”
“That’s unnecessary,” Ishida said. “They aren’t that bad.”
“All the blood on those white jeans of yours says otherwise,” Ichigo frowned. “C’mon, Ishida. What’s your problem? Take off your stupid pants and let me have a look at those cuts.”
“Just. Fix. My. Back.” Ishida almost growled, his eyes flashing briefly. “I can handle the rest myself.”
“Idiot,” Ichigo muttered as he closed the bottle and hunted in the kit for something that would either heal or seal the slashes across Ishida’s back. He didn’t know why Ishida was being such a prick about taking off his jeans. It wasn’t like they hadn’t used to change in gym together, or seen each other wearing nothing but a towel. “What the hell, Ishida, don’t you trust me or something?”
“Kurosaki,” Ishida huffed, “would you just shut up?”
Ishida sounded close to the end of his rope, but for some reason, that just made Ichigo angrier. What the hell was the guy thinking? His jeans were practically falling off him as it was. And Ishida sure didn’t have any problems taking his jeans off for Toru-kun, did he?
“I’m trying to help you, you know,” Ichigo snorted, examining a likely looking jar. “I don’t know what you’re so worried about. Your buddy Toru is the one hot for your ass, not me.”
It was out of his mouth before Ichigo even realized he’d said it. Immediately he felt his face heat up in embarrassment, and when he dared to glance up, Ishida had the strangest look on his face: part angry, part insulted, and part something else - hurt, maybe? Ichigo couldn’t tell. Ishida’s own face flushed, though, as anger quickly won out over any other emotions. Anger? Hell, the Quincy looked totally enraged. Nostrils flaring, Ishida narrowed his eyes and shoved himself up until he was standing nearly upright, only his fingers still touching the sink.
“You-,” he snarled, but the instant he said it, the blood drained from his face, his eyes rolled back, and his legs buckled. His fingers slipped and he crashed to his knees, striking his chin against the sink on the way down. His glasses flew off, clattering against the tile.
“Fuck! Ishida!” Ichigo dropped the jar he was holding and grabbed his shoulders, hauling him upright. Ishida’s blinked vaguely at him, seemed to focus for a moment, but then his head lolled forward.
“Shit!” Ichigo growled, his fingers digging into Ishida’s arms, his heart pounding in pure terror. “Damn it, Ishida! Look at me! What’s wrong? Tell me!” He could feel his hands trembling, and he wasn’t sure whether it was from panic or from restraining the desire to shake Ishida hard, to try and rattle him back to consciousness. What the hell was going on?
“Ku-saki,” Ishida mumbled, eyes fluttering as he tried to lift his head.
“Damn it, Ishida, don’t do this to me!” Ichigo demanded as he saw Ishida’s expression zoning out again. “Don’t you dare fucking die on me! Wake up, damn it! What’s wrong? What’s-.” He froze because Ishida had managed to lift one hand up and weakly grasp Ichigo’s wrist.
“Not-dying-idiot,” Ishida panted. “Need to-lie down.”
Ichigo wasn’t sure how it happened - whether Ishida fell against him, or he pulled his friend toward him - but the next moment, Ishida’s head was against Ichigo’s shoulder, his breath tickling Ichigo’s throat, and Ichigo’s hand was cradling the back of Ishida’s head. Their chests were touching, and in that instant, Ichigo could feel Ishida’s heart beating against his own, and his anger and panic dissolved into a different feeling entirely; one that wanted him to keep holding Ishida just like that.
“Down,” Ishida gasped softly against his neck. “K’saki-put me down.”
The words stung like rejection. Was it really that bad to be held like that? Did Ishida dislike it that much? Ichigo could feel the muscles in his neck and shoulders tightening until Ishida groaned.
“Gonna-faint,” he huffed, just before his body went slack, and Ichigo realized what had happened.
“Fuck!” he grunted, pushing himself to his feet and half carrying, half dragging Ishida out of the bathroom. “Stupid,” he grumbled as he kicked the door to his bedroom open, only he wasn’t talking to Ishida this time. He was the stupid one, forgetting that Ishida had low blood pressure - something he’d known for years. He’d been terrified that Ishida had gone into shock when he’d passed out, that he was about to go into seizures or worse, but Ishida had only lost consciousness after pushing himself upright.
“Positional hypotension,” Ichigo muttered, remembering the term from the first aid books his dad had made him read. People with low blood pressure could faint if they stood or sat up too fast, and the best thing to do was to get them horizontal as soon as possible.
Which was just what Ishida had been asking him to do.
Ichigo laid Ishida on his side and then swung his legs up onto the bed. He knew it would be best to position him face up and elevate his legs, but with the wounds on Ishida’s back still open, that was impossible. He shifted Ishida onto his stomach and turned his face to the side, but when Ishida didn’t immediately come to, Ichigo started to panic again.
“Shit shit shit shit shit!” Ichigo cursed as he rushed back to the bathroom, grabbing the medical kit in one hand and fishing out his phone with the other. He dropped the kit onto the bed at Ishida’s feet as he thumbed down his contact list and hit the button for Urahara Shouten. “C’mon, c’mon, answer, damn it!” he muttered as he opened the kit and rooted through the bottles and bandages for something, anything that might help Ishida. He found a bottle marked ‘Blood Tonic’ just as Urahara’s voice came on the line.
“Hello hello! Urahara Shouten! How may we help you, valued customer?” the shopkeeper whinnied.
“Urahara! Thank god,” Ichigo started, but the voice cut him off.
“Urahara Shouten is closed at this time. Please call back when we are open, and let us know how we can serve you better.”
“You can serve me better by being there when I fucking call you, you bastard!” Ichigo bellowed into his phone at the sound of the beep. “Ishida’s hurt and this is a fucking emergency, you asshole, so stop messing around and pick up your damn phone!”
Another beep ended Ichigo’s tirade and he threw the phone on the floor in a fit of frustration.
“Do you have to be so loud, Kurosaki?” The voice was weary but clear, and when Ichigo looked around, Ishida had lifted his head a little and was squinting back at him.
“Ishida!” Ichigo quickly moved to kneel beside his bed. “You’re awake! Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not okay,” Ishida frowned, closing his eyes and carefully lowering his head. “But I’m not dying, like you seem to think I am.”
Ichigo exhaled in relief, then realized he was still holding the bottle he’d picked up. He squinted at the label.
“Here,” he said, pulling off the cap. “Can you lift up enough to take some of this?”
“What is it?” Ishida asked, opening one eye.
“It’s-well, it’s something that’ll help.” Ichigo didn’t know exactly what the stuff was, but he doubted even crazy Urahara would put poison in a first aid kit, and the label did say to drink it. He figured with all the bleeding Ishida had done, anything called ‘Blood Tonic’ couldn’t hurt.
Ishida peered at the bottle. For a moment he looked like he was going to refuse, but then he sighed in resignation and reached out to take it. Ichigo could see his hand was trembling, and when he wrapped his own hand over Ishida’s to keep the bottle steady, Ishida didn’t try to shake him off.
“How much do I take?” he asked, raising his head to bring the tonic to his mouth.
“Uhm, two swigs,” Ichigo guessed, trying to sound far more confident than he actually was. Ishida quirked an eyebrow at him, but took a sip, considered, then took another, longer drink.
“That’s-not bad, actually,” Ishida allowed, taking one more sip before pushing the stuff away and letting his head fall back down.
“Yeah?” Ichigo sniffed the bottle before stoppering it. Whatever was inside had an aroma so rich it was dizzying. Was there-alcohol in that tonic?
“Kurosaki?” Ishida’s eyes were barely open, and though he wasn’t slurring his words like before, he sounded sleepier. Ichigo looked more closely at him, and thought he saw some color returning to Ishida’s lips. “Where m’glasses?”
“Huh? Oh,” Ichigo said. “On the bathroom floor. They came off when you fainted. Do you need ‘em?”
“No,” he sighed, a small grimace passing over his face. “Need-my back fixed.” Ishida paused to moisten his lower lip, then in a weaker voice, added, “Please.”
“Shit, I’m sorry, Ishida,” Ichigo groaned, reaching over to paw through the open kit again, looking for the jar he’d seen earlier. The shame of ignoring those wounds wrenched his gut a quarter turn - almost as much as Ishida saying ‘please’. Telling himself that there’d been too much going on what with Ishida fainting, and him calling to yell at Urahara, and giving Ishida the blood tonic didn’t make him feel any better though. The jumble in the medical kit finally yielded up the jar he’d seen earlier. It looked like something that petroleum jelly would come in, but the label - again with the shopkeeper’s happy cartoon face - proclaimed it ‘Urahara Shouten Number One Blood Stopper & Wound Closer’. Ichigo snorted because the stuff inside looked just like the ointment that Ikkaku carried around with him, which Ichigo knew came from the Fourth Division. Still, as long as it worked, he wasn’t going to quibble about where it came from.
“Hang on,” he told Ishida as he dug two fingers into the goo and started to dab it on the topmost wound. “Tell me if I hurt you.”
Ichigo could feel his heart nearly in his throat as his fingers slid over Ishida’s skin, following the cut over his shoulder blade and down to his spine. He told himself it was because the cuts were so deep, because he was afraid he was hurting Ishida, but even he didn’t quite believe it. Ishida made a small sound of discomfort when he took his fingers away to scoop out more salve, and he glanced down to see that Ishida’s half-open eyes were oddly glazed, his lips parted, and his fingers wound in his bedcovers.
“Ishida? Hey, you okay? I’m not hurting you, right?”
At the sound of Ichigo’s voice, Ishida blinked like he was coming out of a daydream. He angled his eyes toward Ichigo, then closed them and shook his head slightly.
“No,” he answered in a low voice that did strange things to Ichigo’s insides. “You’re not hurting me.” He paused to lick his lips, and to Ichigo, the tip of his pink tongue seemed to travel along the edge of his lower lip very slowly. “It feels-good.” He sounded almost amused at that word, as if it was the last thing he’d expected. “Don’t-.” Whatever Ishida said was muffled when he turned his face into Ichigo’s mattress, and Ichigo had the strange feeling he’d done it out of embarrassment.
“Don’t what?” he asked, curious. When Ishida turned his head again, Ichigo saw that his cheeks were pink and his eyes looked strangely moist.
“Don’t stop,” he whispered, so softly that Ichigo had to lean down to make sure he heard him. “Please-keep going.”
Ishida’s words - and the way he said them - hit Ichigo in a way he was sure hadn’t been intended. His mouth went dry, his insides tightened up like a twisted rubber band, and for a moment, he felt so dizzy he could have fallen over.
“Right,” he replied weakly, reaching down to finish applying salve to the first wound. Even though his heart was still drumming just under his throat, he made himself breathe slowly as he finished coating each claw mark with the ointment. Ichigo tried to keep his hand steady, but it trembled in spite of his efforts, and he kept glancing at Ishida’s face to see if he noticed. Ishida’s eyes remained half-closed and dreamy, and the only acknowledgements he gave were small hums of approval. When Ichigo finished, Ishida let out a long sigh and relaxed so much that his left arm flopped over the edge of the bed.
“Thank you, Kurosaki,” he mumbled, letting his eyes fall closed. “That’s-so much better.”
Ichigo stared at the prone Quincy. Had Ishida just thanked him?
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Ichigo asked warily.
“Don’t be such a worrywart,” Ishida said, half his mouth quirking in a smile. He opened one eye and considered Ichigo, then giggled. “Though you do look pretty funny when you’re perturbed.” He enunciated the last word carefully, the same way a drunk might speak to a police officer.
Ichigo stared at Ishida in consternation. The ‘thank you’ had been bad enough, but the giggling? That was downright scary.
“Let me see this,” he snorted, grabbing the tonic bottle off the bedside table and squinting at the fine print on the label. It read Normal use may cause drowsiness and uncharacteristic behavior. Do not operate machinery, practice kidou or propose marriage while under the influence.
“Great,” Ichigo grunted, rolling his eyes. Now he not only had to deal with an injured Ishida, but a smiling, giggling Ishida who said weird things. Weird things in a weird voice that made Ichigo’s innards feel-weird.
He set the bottle back on the table and half sat, half collapsed on the floor beside the bed. For the past twenty-four hours, Ichigo had been steam-rollered by circumstances and emotions that he would never have chosen to experience, and this last one - seeing Ishida hurt once again for his sake - least of all. He wanted to close his eyes and just have it all go away, if only for a few minutes, but when he did, his own brain wouldn’t leave him alone, tossing around images of Toru and Ishida, of Misa, of Chad, of dancing people and Hollows until he grabbed his hair and let out an inarticulate snarl of frustration.
The feel of fingers brushing against his arm stopped him cold, and he opened his eyes to see that Ishida’s hand -the one that had been dangling off the bed - was sliding slowly down his arm. The backs of Ishida’s fingers grazing his forearm made Ichigo’s skin prickle with an uncomfortable pleasure, and when they went over his wrist and found his hand, they unfolded to cover it.
“You’re a strange guy, Kurosaki,” Ishida sighed, giving his hand a brief squeeze. “But a good friend.”
Ichigo didn’t know what possessed him to do it - he had thought he was too stunned by this uncharacteristic action of Ishida’s to do anything - but he saw his own hand turning over on his knee so that he was palm to palm with Ishida. Their fingers interlaced as easily as two streams of water flowing together, and Ichigo stared at their clasped hands, not comprehending how Ishida’s cool palm could fill him with such heat.
“Ishida-,” he started, then stopped. He had no idea what he’d meant to say, and besides, the slim fingers were already loosening in his grasp. He opened his hand, and Ishida’s slid away to hang limply over the bed as it had before. Ishida’s eyes were closed and the deep, even breaths coming through his parted lips told Ichigo that he had fallen asleep. Ichigo wondered whether Ishida would even remember what he’d done or said when he woke up. He wondered whether he wanted him to or not.
Ichigo let his head fall back against the mattress with a defeated groan. Now that Ishida was totally out of it, there was a chance he could get his stupid jeans off and treat his leg wounds without any of the Quincy’s protests or back-talk. He tried to make himself get up and do it, but his body seemed reluctant to obey. He decided to close his eyes, only for a second, and then make himself get up and finish tending to Ishida.
The problem was, the moment Ichigo closed his eyes, he could feel Ishida’s hand in his once more, and that same strange heat was warming his body the way hot tea does on a winter day. Not only could he feel the thin fingers closing over his knuckles, but the sensation of Ishida’s heart beating against his chest, like when he’d fallen against him, and the flutter of Ishida’s breath against his neck. When he inhaled, he could smell the eucalyptus soap on Ishida’s skin, and the hint of sweat and coconut in his hair, and his hand was pressing the back of Ishida’s head, fingers ruffling the short, silky hair.
This Ishida wasn’t half-conscious and fainting, though. This Ishida pressed his lips to Ichigo’s ear and whispered things like don’t stop, and keep going, and that feels good, and even please in a way that made Ichigo breathe faster and deeper, that made him squirm against that imagined body as heat poured through him and pooled in his stomach and further down. He felt like a pot of water just on the verge of boiling, and he wanted to drag those lips away from his ear and seal them with his own mouth, wanted to push this Ishida down and get on top of him and-.
“Ichigo. Oi, Ichigo!”
The voice was familiar but misplaced. He tried to ignore it, tried to hang on to the fading sensations that had been so urgent a moment before, until something hard connected with his head and rocked it back.
“Oww!” he cried as he jerked awake and lurched to his knees, immediately on the defensive. Before him, a pair of long, black-clad legs were planted, and as his eyes traveled up they took in the orange jacket, the arms crossed over imposing breasts, and an even more imposing golden gaze. “Yo-Yoruichi!” he blinked.
“Ah, you’re awake,” she said. “I thought I’d have to kick you again.” She looked disappointed at that, and Ichigo pushed himself to his feet before she could get any ideas.
“What are you doing here?” Ichigo asked, still partly stunned from the rough awakening. “How did you-.”
“Kisuke asked me to come here,” she interrupted. “He told me he got some call full of yelling and cursing and figured it had to be you. Is this your emergency?” She nodded over his shoulder, and he turned to see Ishida still asleep on his bed. Yoruichi’s entrance - through the window, Ichigo guessed, considering that it was open and the curtains were shifting in the night breeze - hadn’t disturbed Ishida. He lay just as he had been, face to the side, one arm hanging over the edge of the bed, breathing slow and deep. The salve that Ichigo had plastered over the gashes in his back must have helped because the bleeding had stopped and the skin didn’t appear to be inflamed.
“Yeah,” Ichigo sighed, settling on a corner of his night stand. “We were fighting a bunch of Hollows and one of ‘em snagged him. It took three of us to kill it, so maybe it was almost an Arrancar.”
“Hmm.” Yoruichi leaned over Ishida, surveying the damage with a look of concern. “He must have lost some blood, with wounds like these,” she said, running a fingertip along the edge of the topmost gash.
“No kidding,” Ichigo snorted. “Why do you think I called Urahara like that? Ishida passed out, for fuck’s sake, and I didn’t know what to do. I gave him some of this,” he added, picking up the tonic bottle and waving it at Yoruichi. “Since he’s not dead, I suppose it helped.”
“Ah, good thinking, Ichigo!” she approved when she saw the bottle. “That blood replenisher is just what he needed. How much did he drink?”
“I dunno,” Ichigo shrugged. “Three sips or so, I guess.”
“Good enough,” Yoruichi directed, lifting one of Ishida’s eyelids. “That should repair his blood loss, though he might be weak for a day or so. Were you the one who treated these cuts?” she asked, pointing at Ishida’s back.
“You see anyone else in here?” Ichigo snorted.
“Then why,” she went on, moving her finger to indicate the wounds apparent through the torn fabric of Ishida’s blood-stained pants, “didn’t you treat those?”
“Because Ishida wouldn’t let me!” Ichigo protested, coming to his feet. “He refused to take his stupid pants off even to let me look at the wounds.”
“Oh?" Yoruichi smirked. "Then what's stopping you now?” She tipped her head and peered at Ishida’s face. His mouth was slightly open, and there was a small, damp spot beneath his face where he’d drooled on Ichigo’s bedspread. “If he took three doses of Kisuke’s blood tonic, he’ll sleep like that for hours. You could do whatever you like to him, and he wouldn’t be any wiser,” she said, grinning in a way that made Ichigo very uncomfortable. “Treating these leg wounds now will be easy. See?”
Before Ichigo could say anything, Yoruichi had pulled a small blade from one of her leg guards, and in two swift motions, sliced open Ishida’s tattered jeans. When she leaned down to peel them away, she began to chuckle.
“What?” Ichigo demanded warily. “What’s wrong?”
“Maybe this is why he wouldn’t take his pants off for you, hmm?” Yoruichi laughed, tugging off what was left of Ishida’s jeans and tossing them to the floor. “Who’d have thought ‘Ishida Uryuu, Quincy’ would be going commando? Not me!”
Ichigo felt the blood drain from his face as Yoruichi stepped aside to reveal a now completely naked Ishida sprawled on his bed. Ichigo’s conscience told him not to look, but his eyes were already locked on Ishida’s long, pale legs, and it was impossible not to follow them up to their point of origin.
“Who knew such a skinny guy could have an ass like this, eh, Ichigo?” Yoruichi grinned, reaching down to give one smooth cheek an affectionate pat. “Mmh, nice and firm, too,” she went on, adding a pinch.
“Stop that!” Ichigo squawked, feeling the blood rush back to his face, and other places as well. “You can’t just touch people like that without their consent!”
“Why not?” she challenged. “We just took his pants off without his consent, didn’t we? You said he didn’t want these wounds treated, but we’re going to do that, too. How is this,” she asked, playfully cupping the curve of one cheek, “any different than that?”
“It just is!” Ichigo yelled, clenching his fists. “If you’re going to treat his wounds, then just do it, and stop-playing with him like that!”
“You’re as boring as ever,” she sighed, rolling her eyes. “Fine, go get a towel or something so we can clean him up then.”
“Don’t do anything perverted to him while I’m gone,” Ichigo growled, heading back to the bathroom.
“Did you have anything specific in mind?” Yoruichi teased. “Or did you just want me to wait until you get back?”
Ichigo gritted his teeth and restrained himself both from responding the way he’d have liked to and from slamming the door. He rinsed and wrung out two hand towels in the bathroom sink and started back, then saw Ishida’s glasses lying on the floor and stooped to retrieve them. He might not be awake now, but Ichigo imagined that when Ishida did come to, they would be the first things he’d look for.
When he got back to his room, Yoruichi was examining the gashes on the backs of Ishida’s thighs.
“These aren’t as serious as the ones on his back,” she said, reaching up to grab a towel from Ichigo. “Good thing, too. If his tendons had been cut, he’d be in for some serious healing. Tessai could do it, but Ishida would have to be in Karakura for a few days.” Yoruichi poured some of Urahara’s wound cleaner on the towel and ran it over the cuts. “As it is, he’ll just have a hard time sitting down for a day or two. Here,” she said, tossing Ichigo the jar of healing salve as she moved on to the middle of the three gashes. “You put the salve on. Treat them just like you did the ones on his back.”
“Right,” Ichigo said weakly, because the topmost wound across Ishida’s legs started on the lower curve of his left buttock. He scooped up a large amount of the ointment and closed his eyes as he applied the stuff, but it didn’t help. Not staring at Ishida’s ass didn’t mean not imagining it, and as his fingers slid over firm muscle and smooth skin, tracing the path of the cut, Ichigo found he couldn’t think of anything but Ishida’s ass.
“Careful,” Yoruichi warned. “Better open your eyes or those greasy fingers of yours will end up where they aren’t supposed to be.”
Ichigo did open his eyes, but only to glare at Yoruichi. “Not everyone’s the same kind of pervert you are,” he huffed.
“You really are a boring man,” she laughed, shaking her purple ponytail off her shoulder as she finished cleaning Ishida’s leg wounds and put away the bottle. “How is it a person with no sense of humor has any friends, I wonder?”
“Not everyone shares your sense of humor, either, thank god," Ichigo snapped back, studiously dabbing the salve on Ishida’s legs and looking absolutely nowhere else. He was pretty sure Ishida wouldn’t have found Yoruichi’s antics amusing, either.
“Too bad,” Yoruichi grinned, standing up and reaching into her jacket. “Here,” she said, pulling out a small bottle of pills. There was a skull and crossbones on the label. “When Ishida wakes up, make him take these till they’re gone.”
“You want me to give him something with a label like that?” Ichigo said, eyeing the bottle. “What makes you think he’ll take them? Ishida isn’t stupid, you know.”
“You took them when Kisuke told you to,” she grinned, “so I guess that makes you stupid. These are the same pills he gave you after Byakuya nearly killed you that time, fool,” she advised, bonking him on the head with the bottle. “There are twelve pills in here. One per hour from the time he wakes up. He should be fine after that.”
“Yeah, I remember,” Ichigo grumbled, wiping his hands on a towel before taking the bottle from her and setting it beside Ishida’s folded glasses. Ishida had barely moved during the entire time they had worked on him. In fact, he had started to snore very slightly, and this gave Ichigo a small sense of relief. He knew Ishida would probably have a fit when he woke up and found his jeans gone and his wounds treated, but the less he knew about how it had happened - especially about Yoruichi’s part in it - the better.
“So much for your emergency,” Yoruichi sighed. “I came because I thought it might be exciting, but it turns out you are all very dull people. Next time,” she warned him, “don’t scream ‘emergency’ until someone is spouting blood from an artery or missing a limb.”
Ichigo winced involuntarily at that last bit, and his eyes darted to Ishida. His left hand was there at the end of his arm, his curled fingers almost grazing the floor, but it took a moment before Ichigo could banish the image of Ishida lying half-dead in Hueco Mundo with a blood-stained, empty sleeve.
“You should lie down, Ichigo,” Yoruichi said, eyeing him critically as she strode to the window to take her leave. “You look nearly as bad as Ishida. Some sleep might improve your sense of humor, you know?” She paused as she stepped onto the windowsill and looked back at Ishida, then at Ichigo. “That bed looks big enough for two,” she winked, and then she was gone.
“Asshole,” he muttered to the curtains fluttering in her wake, but he couldn’t deny her words. He was tired. And the bed was big enough for two. His crazy father had insisted that no one could get a ‘proper’ university education with only a single bed. Ichigo had told him his old bed was fine, but when this one had been sent over the day Ichigo and Ishida moved into their apartment, he’d given up and accepted delivery. Not that it had done him much good. He remembered Ishida raising his eyebrows at the unwieldy mattress as he’d struggled to get it into his room. “Expecting lots of company, Kurosaki?” he’d asked in an arch tone. Ichigo wondered if Ishida would remember that when he woke up.
Ichigo watched Ishida lying there on that same mattress, the red of his wounds now covered in healing salve, his lashes like tiny black feathers on his cheek, his bare legs slightly spread, his ass-.
Ichigo took a breath and turned away. The mere thought of lying down next to this naked, sleeping Ishida was as terrifying as the prospect of waking up beside him; assuming, of course, that he did wake up. Ichigo strongly suspected that Ishida would open his eyes, figure out what had happened, and fire an arrow right into his snoring mouth.
And he would probably deserve it, too. Ichigo scraped the back of his hand across his face and looked down at himself. He was still in his spirit form wearing Shinigami robes. He wondered what had happened to Chad and to his body. Glancing back at Ishida, he went to his closet, pulled out an extra sheet and used it to cover him from the waist down. Ichigo thought it might make it easier to watch Ishida as he slept, but as the light cotton settled slowly over his body and into the valley between his legs, Ichigo felt his mouth go dry and knew it was a lost cause. He flicked off the light as he left his bedroom and closed the door without looking back.
In the living room, he discovered Chad stretched out full length on the couch with his feet hanging over the edge, dead to the world. Ichigo figured his friend must have arrived sometime between when he’d fallen asleep against the bed and when Yoruichi had come in through the window. He thought about waking Chad, if only to get him into a more comfortable position or send him into Ishida’s room, but even fast asleep the guy looked totally exhausted so Ichigo left him alone.
Ichigo found both his wallet and his body in the kitchen, the wallet placed in the middle of the table, his body seated in a chair and slumped over the edge. Normally he didn’t hesitate about getting back into his body, but this time he frowned at his limp, angular form.
“You’re an idiot,” he told himself. “You know that, right?” Predictably, his body didn’t answer, and for the briefest of moments, Ichigo actually found himself missing Kon. If Kon had been inside his body, he would certainly have said or done something annoying and Ichigo could have had the satisfaction of smashing his own stupid face in, and then feeling it later. Pummeling an empty body - even if it was his own - just wasn’t satisfying. “Idiot,” he muttered again before sitting down into himself.
Even if his body had gotten more of a rest than he had, Ichigo still felt incredibly tired. Chad was taking up the whole sofa, and Ishida was in his bed. The chair he was sitting in was uncomfortable, and the floor didn’t look particularly inviting. That left only one option. He rose and went to Ishida’s room.
Except for two or three shirts and a white belt discarded on the foot of the bed, the room was neat and clean. It looked like the room of a model university student. It certainly didn’t look like it could have hosted the scene of wild abandon from the night before.
Ichigo ordered himself to stop thinking about it. He should have been too worn out to think about it, and he pushed it from his mind as he pulled off his jacket, flicked off the light, and stretched himself carefully onto Ishida’s bed. He closed his eyes, shifted his head on Ishida’s pillow and tried to get comfortable. It wasn’t easy. Ishida’s pillow was softer than he liked, the coverlet was a satiny cotton instead of his more familiar worn blanket, and the mattress was much firmer than he was used to. Ichigo supposed it would have to be to support the kind of activity it had been subjected to last night.
“Stop it!” he growled at himself, banging a fist against his forehead. “Stop. Thinking. About it.” With a dissatisfied grunt, Ichigo turned over onto his stomach, buried his face in the pillow, and begged for sleep to come.
It didn't. The moment he turned his face into the pillow, he was enveloped in Ishida’s scent; not just the coconut smell of his shampoo, but everything: the skin that smelled like he’d just stepped out of the ocean, the warmth of that place where his hair met his neck, the mint toothpaste he used, the green tea he drank, even the murky tang of his blood, and threading it all together was the scent of cooling sweat and the faint musk of sex.
“No,” Ichigo moaned, unable to stop the rush of images spilling into his brain - Ishida rocking under Buff/Toru with his mouth gasping and his hair swaying, Ishida dancing at the club, Ishida watching Love & Death with his boyfriend’s brown hand on his bare, white stomach, Ishida glaring at him in the park, Ishida panting with bloody stripes across his back, Ishida collapsed against him on the cold tile of the bathroom floor, Ishida thrown onto his back and moaning Oh! Oh! Ohh! as Buff/Toru fucked him and worked his cock with his big, tanned fist.
Ichigo whimpered because his blood was pounding in his head and his chest, and pounding even harder between his legs. He didn’t want to be hard, but oh god, he was and he couldn’t stop himself from lifting his hips to shove his hand down his jeans and into his briefs.
“Oh fuck!” he gasped, because his dick felt like a piece of iron right out of a furnace, and he wondered why the moisture dripping from his slit hadn’t turned to steam. He made a fist around the head and pushed into it with a groan, pulled back, and started pumping his hips with a hard, hot urgency.
For once, he didn’t try to stop the images, didn’t try to deny them as he panted into Ishida’s pillow, breathing in his scent, imagining Ishida with his head thrown back and his white throat stretched out like an offering. Only this time, it wasn’t Buff/Toru making him thrash and moan, it was him, Ichigo. Ichigo sweating and panting over Ishida’s sleek back as he thrust against that perfect ass, Ichigo spreading those long, lean legs and sheathing himself between them, and Ichigo’s hand wrapped around his cock, stroking hard and fast until Ishida’s stomach muscles clenched, bending him nearly double as he cried out Ah! Ah, Kurosaki! and shot stream after stream of milky come to splatter his quivering belly and drip from Ichigo’s fist.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Ichigo screamed into the pillow as his own cock erupted, pouring sticky warmth into his fist as his orgasm shuddered through him, leaving him gasping. He lay like that, face down and breathing hard, until the echoes of his release slowly faded and his hips stopped trembling.
His dick was relaxing and his come was cooling on his hand when he shifted just enough to flop onto his back and stare at the spinning darkness below the ceiling. He had just climaxed while fantasizing about Ishida, and he couldn’t remember ever coming harder in his life.
“Fuck,” Ichigo whimpered one more time, closing his eyes and turning his face away. “I am so fucked.”