Echo

**VERY IMPORTANT** There is a rhythm to this and if it isn’t followed, the feeling can pass you by. There is a half second pause between each paragraph and after every comma. Even though it isn’t correct grammar, the commas are all placed carefully and I hope they will help me to achieve the correct effect.

Warnings have been covered in the summary, though there is nothing overly serious. There is no fluff here, almost straight angst with a slightly erotic feel. I hope you will enjoy it and leave me feedback. (It’s set after the Soul Society arc but before the Bount/Hueco Mundo, depending on which series you follow.)


Echo


It’s kind of like this big open secret.

Just like before and it makes my skin crawl when he looks at me and my stomach roll when I catch one of the Fourth Division lackeys staring from the corner of their eye. Everyone knows. He can’t hide the bruises or bandages on his arms. The stiffness in his gait or the flinch when someone brushes against him.

But still, no one steps forward to help him. It makes me hate it here, this haven of a home I’ve discovered. A place with lots of food and good sake, a warm bed to sleep on and strong opponents everywhere. Somewhere we don’t have to kill just to walk down the street. Yet, in this perfect, shining place, everyone looks away, as if he is unimportant, not worth noticing, and it makes me want to leave.

I’m told, by those wiser than myself, that it will never change. It is a normal thing, perhaps even natural, to avoid causing trouble. No one wants to get involved in another’s business, even after all that’s happened. I don’t understand that.

I can’t.

I’m also told that I’m a busybody who likes to interfere.

My eyes remain glued to him, watching his shuddering breaths, the way fading light plays over his light hair. His skin is smooth, from sword callused hands to the softness of his belly button. It fascinates me, that pale expanse that reacts to the gentlest touch, a quiet breath, a look. A mere thought leaves him panting, a flick of the wrist draws blood to tint his wondrous skin. Bile rises in my throat each and every time I do it.

Before I came here, before I saw him standing pale and quiet, I didn’t hate anything. Except cowards, but everyone hates them. Not foods, not people, not even annoying habits. I certainly never hated something as mundane, as common to me, as inconsequential as a color.

Red, crimson, fire, rose, cherry, vermillion, scarlet, garnet, ruby, every word I’ve ever heard to describe it. They are all burned into my mind and translate to my hands. Dipped in the rivulets gliding over his flesh, my fingers paint harmless, meaningless designs as he sobs.

I hate it; his screams, the color of his eyes, deepened with pain, the desperation that makes him reach for me. The love that aches in my chest and blinds me to everything but his adoration.

He does adore me, love me more as I rip him to shreds. His cries are tortured, his body weakened and he begs still more of me. A selfish, demanding lover, he watches me from under nearly invisible lashes.

Hard as I try to hide it, the struggle between what is needed and instinct is vicious. It shows in my trembling hands and pale face. As much as he loves me, he craves the pain more, the purging of his sins and guilt.

He is not the innocent he appears.

Because I know he loves it, the way I struggle with myself, the love I show by giving in to his needs, the pain he causes me that no one else could stand. This is the pain he craves even more than his own, a new drug to wipe himself clean.

His words are beautiful, his eyes sincere as he turns just enough to look back. “Thank you. I love you.” There is nothing to say and I clean him up and tuck him in.

When I settle beside him, stiff and careful, he curls into me, a delicate hand sliding across my stomach. “I love you, Ikkaku.”

“Yeah, ‘Zuru, love you too.” A quiet sigh and he slips away, coasting on a dreamless sleep. Because he is innocent, and sick, and none of it was his fault. He can’t help what he has become, any more than I can.

A monster who can not turn away from his pleading prey. The feel of slender fingers trailing my nape, the whispered charms. ‘Hurt me, Ikkaku. Please, please, make it stop.’ Sighed thanks and murmured apologies are brushed away gently by callused fingers and slightly chapped lips against his forehead.

My chest hurts and I feel myself die a little more as I lay beside my broken love.











*It's from Ikkaku's POV, my beta got on my case about not writing that down* So, it sucked. Yes, I know it did. However, I wanted to see what a reluctant abuser would feel like, some of the pressure that is placed on his shoulders to meet the requirements of a needy lover. Whether or not I got anywhere, who knows, but it was interesting and I thought I would share just cause. Leave me a note and tell me what you think, please.