DESPAIR
I
ISHIDA'S SIDE
Kurosaki nearly rolled off of my lap again, and only my hand tightening on his arm stopped him from falling to the floor. He's been like this for almost an hour, since we arrived to my place: ten minutes of complete stillness, then two minutes or so of tossing and turning and murmuring, then quiet again. Almost an hour of me trying not to think about the way his head fits perfectly in my lap, the way his hands tighten on my shirt, the way his lips curl and his voice whines everytime I try to get away and leave him alone in my couch.
My apartment was the nearest place to crash after a particularly nasty fighting night; and I won't apologize for that, nor for the fact that he practically fell asleep on my lap.
It's strange to be this close, to be able to look at him, really look, and not have to worry - not much, at least - about getting caught doing it and having to try to explain before Kurosaki, being the beast he is, beats me to a pulp. And yes, staring at him is something I've been guilty on more than one occasion.
Our last encounter with hollows has been clearly a bit too much for both of us. He's dirty and downright exhausted -just like me-, but the scratches in his skin had stopped bleeding and his breathing is almost normal. He looks his normal self, but somehow... softer. His face is calm, his brow isn't creased, his mouth is relaxed...
He's just plain fascinating to me.
I can't help but focus in his sleeping form across my lap. My partner in fighting. I listen to him breathe and know that at this moment, nothing else in my life matters than to make sure he's well. And here. Shameful, corny and selfish behavior on my part, I know.
The feel of his warm breath through the thin material of my shirt almost drives me insane, but I keep myself in check with the sheer force of discipline and pride. My integrity demands no less.
The last months had been hell on earth. First I start to discover things, like the little fact that apparently I'm gay... or something close to it, I'm still a bit confused on that score. Apparently my libido doesn't care if the object of my affections is male or female, it just cares how the person make me feel. And Kurosaki Ichigo makes me feel like I'm in love.
Yeah, it must be love, what else? I know I'm weird by many standards, but I can recognize this head-over-heels, all-or-nothing feeling... these heights-of-joy and depths-of-despair stuff that make me feel utterly crazy most of the time now. And don't mention the damn hormonal thing.
But I've had enough discipline to control my feelings, or so I thought until the fool whose head is currently resting in my lap started to act funny.
He's been almost uncommunicative and distant with me for the last couple of weeks, and those are words one could never associate with Kurosaki's personality; those are my traits, not his. I don't know if it's a reflection of my own inner turmoil, but the only explanation I can find for his sudden change in attitude is the thought that he has somehow sensed my attraction.
I'd been careful to keep myself impersonal when speaking with him, but it seems undeniable that Kurosaki has finally managed to see beneath my façade, and has been repelled by what he's found inside. He doesn't want me, that's for sure.
But how I want him.
Want him to hug me, and kiss me and comfort me - yeah, fluff and sweet little me, and how ironic is that -, want him to yell at me, to say my name like it was venom or a caress from his lips. Want those hard hands roam all over my body, pinching and squeezing and leaving bruises that will be visible for days. Finger shaped bruises on my arms and hips.
I want Ichigo to make me *feel*, to mark me, claim me, own me, love me. Anything to belong to him, to be needed, wanted. I want to experience him in every way possible, and that makes my being around him sometimes physically painful.
It's frustrating, maddening.
And all because it's wrong; I'm wrong. It's better not to feel, so much better. Lonelier, but better.
I try to get him off me, carefully holding him by the shoulders; his head dangles a bit. I think this would wake him for sure, but he just murmurs and sighs and then his head settles neatly against my neck, his spiky, ridiculous orange hair rubbing sensuously against my skin. I can smell him; if I tilt my head a bit I could taste him, just like I've dreamed of doing.
What will he taste of? Will he taste of blood, of sweat? Will he taste of strawberries?
Gotta get away from him, fast. Now.
I almost drop him like a sack on the couch before running out of the living room and into the tiny bathroom, locking the door behind me, breathing hard as if I've just finished running a marathon. With my eyes closed I glue my back to the door and try to calm myself; it isn't an easy task knowing the object of my desires is out there in my home, laid on my couch.
And the fantasy that tortures me night after night invades my mind with absurd clarity.
Lips touch mine,
too briefly, move to my cheek. I turn my head, searching for
them, but miss, and they found their way to my
collarbone. Tongue slids across the skin of
my throat, moves downward
to a nipple. I gasp, reach, hold, my fingers tangling in
silky hair that feels orange in my skin, that looks
orange behind my eyelids, holding Ichigo's mouth against me.
Yes.
Fingers move down my ribs,
a fingertip dips into my
navel, traces the line of fine hair downward,
into the satiny mesh at the juncture of my thighs. A warm hand slips
into the waist of my trousers, pushes them out of the
way, cups my rapidly
hardening cock.
"Ichigo!" my voice is almost a whisper, a needy whisper.
"Please."
Mouth tugs hard at my nipple, hand tightens and
strokes. I'm afraid to open my eyes, knowing it will all go away if I do; I
need it to stay, I need
the sure, strong touch. Want that hot, hungry
mouth on mine.
I finally moan, feeling a hand covering my mouth as the other one strokes harder, faster, pushing me to the edge. Too fast, so fast, and I don't want it to end, I want it to last forever, forever...
The rush of pleasure overwhelms my body and mind, and I choke out a cry that sounds very much like Ichigo. Breathless and trembling, I try not to fall, though my legs feel like jelly at the mere thought that I just masturbated thinking of Kurosaki when he's just outside the door I'm leaning on. Close, but not close enough.
"Hey, Ishida! What are you doing in there, you freak?"
His annoyed voice reaches
me through the not-so-thick wood of the bathroom door, and I open my
eyes to face reality and loneliness. Again.
Something hot slips from beneath my
lashes, slids down my face. My tongue flicks it away when it reaches
my lips, but it is rapidly followed by more, and I can't keep pace.
I sank down on the floor, face in my dirty hands, and mourn the stillborn possibilities in
a silence broken only by my own harsh breathing.
"Ishida, you alright?" his voice sounds concerned, but I can't answer him right now.
It can't be. It'll never be.
I'm a fool