[Fanfiction] - Bleach - Blind
I thought I'd already posted this, but apparently not. I am cheating a little, because this isn't new - I wrote it a while back and found it again today in my fic folder of doom. However, I thought a few people might be interested in it.
Title: Blind
Fandom: Bleach
Rating: R
Characters/Pairing: Shuuhei Hisagi, implied Kira/Shuuhei
Wordcount: 650
Warnings: Angst, disturbing imagery, implied violent sex
Disclaimer: Oh, if they were only mine...
Notes: I never seem to be able to write Kira as anything but incredibly disturbed.
Summary: Shuuhei sees too much. And too little.
He’s always seen too much. Seen too much with his strange grey eyes, perpetually underlined with the shadows of restless slumber. Seen too much and said too little. He wishes he could stop, stop seeing the flecks and impurities in his friends and comrades. He wishes he could read without seeing the spelling mistakes and the misplaced apostrophes. Wishes he could enjoy the evening without seeing the cracks in the sky. He’s always seen too much. But not enough, in the end. Because he was blind. Blind to Tousen. Blind to the lies.
He sees too much now. From his fortress of paper, stacked up and jumbled. He perches on the top. Waits for it to fall apart beneath him, for the pieces to slide and scatter and float in every direction. He reads them all. Every requisition form. He’s read them a thousand times but he reads them again and again. As if he’ll find an explanation in the fine print. As if his attention to detail here will somehow absolve him of past indiscretions. Meaningless, monotonous punishment.
Maybe he’s gone mad.
He wishes he was blind. He always fought best with a cloth over his eyes. Tousen taught him that. He wonders, sometimes, if there are other lessons written into his soul now. Are Tousen’s words hidden about his body, nestled in his heart? Can he trust himself? He knows he can’t, not now. He looks in the mirror and the tattoo burns.
He’d gouge it out with his nails but then they’d all ask questions.
He sees too much. Sees that Kira is never going to be alright. He knows he might repair himself, if he stops up the bleeding holes in his being with words and paper and ink, but Kira doesn’t have holes, he has become one. A gash in the sky oozing blackness. He has imploded. Shuuhei dreams of him, dreams of folding him up, piece after piece, smaller and smaller until he fades away.
Kira was always a little cruel.
Gin should be proud. When they kiss, Kira tastes of rotting persimmons. Shuuhei knows he shouldn’t let Kira hurt him, but it doesn’t seem to matter all that much. As long as Renji and Matsumoto don’t see the marks it doesn’t hurt them. It doesn’t hurt him either. Not even when Kira’s teeth tear his skin and he knows his blood is hot and metallic in Kira’s mouth. He should fear Kira’s fingers on his throat, fear the slow feeling of suffocation. He should kill Kira. He’d kill Kira if he was a merciful man. Kill Kira rather than leave it for Renji, or Matsumoto, or somebody else. Kira’s going to have to die.
Momo as well. But they don’t want to admit that.
He asks himself, when Kira fucks him, a long list of questions. They take his mind off the pain. Who are you? What are you? What are you doing? The answers stay the same. He’s not sure. He did it for Kensei, and then he did it for Tousen, and now he’s only got himself and he’s not sure if the voice in his head is himself or someone else. He just settles for what he’s not.
He’s not Kira, because Kira is weak. He’s not Momo, because Momo is kind. He’s not Matsumoto, because Matsumoto is indomitable. He’s not Renji, because Renji is passion. He’s not Byakuya, because Byakuya is untouchable. He’s not Ukitake or Hitsugaya or…
Can he make himself out of negatives?
He’s a signature. A signature on a thousand forms.
He laughs at himself, because it’s all self-indulgence, really. Nobody cares who he is. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters in the end. He walks barefoot through his rooms at night instead of sleeping, pacing out the distance between the door and his futon. If it doesn’t matter, why do you fight?
Because it matters to me.
Thoughts?
Title: Blind
Fandom: Bleach
Rating: R
Characters/Pairing: Shuuhei Hisagi, implied Kira/Shuuhei
Wordcount: 650
Warnings: Angst, disturbing imagery, implied violent sex
Disclaimer: Oh, if they were only mine...
Notes: I never seem to be able to write Kira as anything but incredibly disturbed.
Summary: Shuuhei sees too much. And too little.
He’s always seen too much. Seen too much with his strange grey eyes, perpetually underlined with the shadows of restless slumber. Seen too much and said too little. He wishes he could stop, stop seeing the flecks and impurities in his friends and comrades. He wishes he could read without seeing the spelling mistakes and the misplaced apostrophes. Wishes he could enjoy the evening without seeing the cracks in the sky. He’s always seen too much. But not enough, in the end. Because he was blind. Blind to Tousen. Blind to the lies.
He sees too much now. From his fortress of paper, stacked up and jumbled. He perches on the top. Waits for it to fall apart beneath him, for the pieces to slide and scatter and float in every direction. He reads them all. Every requisition form. He’s read them a thousand times but he reads them again and again. As if he’ll find an explanation in the fine print. As if his attention to detail here will somehow absolve him of past indiscretions. Meaningless, monotonous punishment.
Maybe he’s gone mad.
He wishes he was blind. He always fought best with a cloth over his eyes. Tousen taught him that. He wonders, sometimes, if there are other lessons written into his soul now. Are Tousen’s words hidden about his body, nestled in his heart? Can he trust himself? He knows he can’t, not now. He looks in the mirror and the tattoo burns.
He’d gouge it out with his nails but then they’d all ask questions.
He sees too much. Sees that Kira is never going to be alright. He knows he might repair himself, if he stops up the bleeding holes in his being with words and paper and ink, but Kira doesn’t have holes, he has become one. A gash in the sky oozing blackness. He has imploded. Shuuhei dreams of him, dreams of folding him up, piece after piece, smaller and smaller until he fades away.
Kira was always a little cruel.
Gin should be proud. When they kiss, Kira tastes of rotting persimmons. Shuuhei knows he shouldn’t let Kira hurt him, but it doesn’t seem to matter all that much. As long as Renji and Matsumoto don’t see the marks it doesn’t hurt them. It doesn’t hurt him either. Not even when Kira’s teeth tear his skin and he knows his blood is hot and metallic in Kira’s mouth. He should fear Kira’s fingers on his throat, fear the slow feeling of suffocation. He should kill Kira. He’d kill Kira if he was a merciful man. Kill Kira rather than leave it for Renji, or Matsumoto, or somebody else. Kira’s going to have to die.
Momo as well. But they don’t want to admit that.
He asks himself, when Kira fucks him, a long list of questions. They take his mind off the pain. Who are you? What are you? What are you doing? The answers stay the same. He’s not sure. He did it for Kensei, and then he did it for Tousen, and now he’s only got himself and he’s not sure if the voice in his head is himself or someone else. He just settles for what he’s not.
He’s not Kira, because Kira is weak. He’s not Momo, because Momo is kind. He’s not Matsumoto, because Matsumoto is indomitable. He’s not Renji, because Renji is passion. He’s not Byakuya, because Byakuya is untouchable. He’s not Ukitake or Hitsugaya or…
Can he make himself out of negatives?
He’s a signature. A signature on a thousand forms.
He laughs at himself, because it’s all self-indulgence, really. Nobody cares who he is. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters in the end. He walks barefoot through his rooms at night instead of sleeping, pacing out the distance between the door and his futon. If it doesn’t matter, why do you fight?
Because it matters to me.
Thoughts?