[fic] Guilt Complex

[kiyala.livejournal.com]

Title: Guilt Complex
Author: kiyala
Word Count: 866
Fandom: Bleach
Pairing: Kurosaki Ichigo / Ishida Uryuu
Rating: R
Warnings: angst? And allusions to sex, I guess.
Disclaimer: Kubo Tite owns Bleach
Notes: This is for Kink Bingo going on at dreamwidth. Kink is "scars/scarification"

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I know his body like I know mine. Better, maybe. From the soft hair that ends just above his shoulders, down the dip of his neck, over his chest and stomach, all the way down his legs to his toes.

I know the way his skin feels in different places, soft on his cheeks, softer behind his ears, and rough and calloused on his fingers.

I know every single scar on his body and I know they’re all my fault.

For starters, there’s a whole lot of them on his arms. Thin scars – thin like bowstrings – just a shade paler than the rest of his skin. They’re old and faded and they could only ever be seen if you know what to look for.

I’ve always known. Just the two of us know about them. Maybe Urahara and Rukia saw him get those scars saving my life, but I’m the only one who’s held his skinny little wrist and looked at them, looked at every single one of those scars and kissed them one by one, wishing it’s make them go away.

The rest are worse.

There’s one right in the middle of his chest; the one shaped like a star. Instead of being lighter, it’s darker than the skin around it. All I know about it is that he got it from his dad, who shot him in the middle of the chest so he’d regain his Quincy powers. He’d lost them because of me. Because he just had to follow me to Soul Society to save Rukia, and I let him. I’d let him fight until he lost his powers. I couldn’t help him out because I’d gotten myself – gotten all of us – in over our heads.

I know it’s worth it, now. That Rukia’s alive and well. But it doesn’t make the scars go away.

I skim over the scars that have almost disappeared over time from small battles that found him because of me. My gaze follows my fingers to the one scar that I hate. The one I can’t stand being on this beautiful body beneath me. His hand’s already there, covering it. I look up at him for a moment and see that he’s frowning at me.

“Are you blaming yourself for my stupidity again?” he asks quietly. He pauses, not long enough to give him the answer he already knows, and speaks again. “You are either the most self-centred person I have ever known, or you have the most out-of-control guilt complex in existence. It’s been years. I’ve still not worked out which it is.”

The frown’s gone, replaced by a soft look that I wouldn’t even have thought he’d be capable of, a few years ago. I lower my lips onto his and he sighs quietly, both hands coming up to hold the sides of my head. Our lips are wet and glistening as we pull apart. Before he can stop me, I move down his body and place a kiss over my least favourite scar. The diagonal mark, tilted a little to the right, reminding me just how thick Zangetsu is. It’s eerily clean, nothing like the scars I have on my body from being stabbed. The edges aren’t rough. Just one, quick, easy, sword thrust. I can imagine how it feels: the familiar feeling of metal pushing flesh apart. I shudder hard and he strokes my hair soothingly.

“Don’t think about it,” he murmurs. “Stop it. Please.”

He sounds genuinely troubled, so I stop. He pulls me back up into a kiss and wraps his arms around me. He rolls us over, sitting on me and letting his gaze wander down my body.

“These,” he murmurs, fingers trailing over the one in the middle of my chest – his favourite – and lower, “These are worth looking at. Marks of how brave you were. And stupid. But the important fact is that you’re alive. Because of these scars. You were hurt. You survived. You healed.”

I place one of my hands on his back. The other touches the scar on his stomach. “…You survived too.”

“Of course I did.” He gives me a cocky smirk. “It’s one of the things I’m good at, so please. Give me a little credit. I’m tired of seeing you beat yourself up over what could never have been your fault.”

My eyes go to the hand I have on his stomach. “This—”

“Was well-deserved,” he interrupts and gives me a warning look before I can protest. He continues, “Who in their right mind says ‘no more killing’ to a Hollow holding a sword?”

It makes me grin when he puts it that way. He gives me a fond look and adds, “And if I didn’t have this, I wouldn’t have you. I think it’s a fair trade.”

His tone makes it clear that we’re done discussing scars. His wandering hands tell me what else he has on mind. I grin at him and pull him down, kissing him until he’s breathless.

I know the guilt will return later. It always does. But right now, I’m happy enough to appreciate the fact that we’re both still alive.


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