[Bleach] As His Own Flesh (53, darkfic)
Mar. 22nd, 2007 06:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
valmoraTitle: As His Own Flesh
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Bleach
Pairing: Aizen Sousuke/Ichimaru Gin
Disclaimer: characters not mine.
Warnings: Darkfic, deathfic, rampant abuse of synaesthesia.
Notes: Co-inspired by Gali and this image at this site.
Summary: He wraps himself around his own bones, and calls out the name that he cannot remember, an impossible longing in his soul.
There are bones beneath his skin, red and white and all the colors, blue like a bruise and white for death, for loyalty and faith and silver for himself and for his sword and blue, blue, all the colors together. He does not watch the shadows shift because they hurt, come to prick him with impossible dreams of what-and-now and touch his wrist that hurts, blood on his skin the way he remembers, flaking off slowly, smears on the metal. Hard to find metal that will cut a shinigami here, put under quarantine and hidden away he should know he did it once, his hands burning when he finished. Skin flaking off like an old old blister, the way it did when he was new to his zanpakutou and his soul cries out the name the impossible name he cannot remember now but he can remember the woman who did it, her smile like eternity gap-toothed and old, grandmotherly.
He wraps himself around his own bones, feeling the heat of them against his skin, wet and smooth and ridged, outside and inside, and calls out the name of his fox-kit sword that he cannot remember, an impossible longing in his soul. Away away he remembers another sword if it could be called he could be free but his own bones lay a hand on his elbow and say No point no point and he laughs, a dull sword for a man about to die. My own sword, say the bones, not yours to call never never Gin and he remembers that voice in marrow and flesh, body called to it but the link on his wrist says Silence and the bones his own body his own blood goes quiet.
He lies there, shaking, not even daring to breathe as the chain links quiver and their jaws open wide wide wide with teeth so bright as his smile never was, no shadows at all but darkness and the bones are silent.
"You can't have him," Gin says, and pulls the bones to him, his wrist cold against the stone away from his own soul his own body. "I won't let you have him."
We had him so close you hid him so well says the chain link and the shadows creep closer. Once he would have loved this darkness, clung to it and welcomed a lover - any one, all so dark and so bright, cold and heat and hunger and love - to his flesh but the moment he touches this darkness lets the silver inside him go quiet and still he will lose his own body to the prickle-point darkness that threatens. It won't hurt.
He can't give in anyway. Lay down in his own blood for him, tasting salt and warmth as they took away the name of himself forever to the old woman Time, a goddess of nothing much at all, and could not reach, glass in his palms, revenge from the links with the obscene red tongues sticking out in grim mocking of something he saw once a logo perhaps on a paper somewhere. Screams in his ears, high whining of them cannibalizing themselves and never quite here, the iron-cold chain in the room fighting them, winning, his palms against the floor against bone cold so cold and smooth.
A pounding of his heart of the heart of himself in his ears drowning out all the others and a voice not his own not his in the air, wind against his clothes.
"Ichimaru-taichou," it says, ripples in the sound of it like the sea or a great wind. "I brought you something to eat. Please come eat."
He remembers the redness of a boy's cheek for cheekiness, a woman's wrath, his own smile his own laugh and cannot think for this wind that obscures all the speech.
"The wind," he says, and his voice sounds ragged, nothing like it was, not a drawl like it should be, nothing to make them angry, to make them shake him by his shoulders and push him against the wall and make him tremble for the anger for the hunger for the hurt of his own hands glass and light a reflection in a mirror showing him what could have been like a dream, and he was then what he may soon be but unmade.
"The wind?" the voice asks, and the wind goes still when it is done. A woman's voice. "Is it better?"
"Yes," he says. "But now my bones are not warm. I was using them to keep warm." He pulls away a little, now that the chain is not talking, not threatening to take his own body away. That he would not have let go of for anything, not for all the heat or the return of the world. They told him they'd return it and all he has are his own bones for warmth.
"I can get you a blanket," she says, "if you're cold."
"Yes," he manages.
"And," she adds, "you promise not to do anything dangerous."
"I don't think I could," he says, laughing, smiling a little, squinting at her in the half-darkness. "The chain would eat me alive. Eat my own corpse." He reaches over, touches the collarbone, runs fingers along each of the ribs, feeling the sad brittleness to them. "I couldn't give that up."
"You're still alive, Ichimaru-taichou," she says. "And the chain won't kill you."
"Not me," he says, and shows her the bones, flicker-white and smooth except in the rough places, and she says, "Ichimaru-taichou," with all the sound in her voice of the ocean. He wonders if her skin would taste of salt or if when she bleeds it is like a flood come to destroy the unwary the unconscious. A woman bled on him once and she was terrible luck, worst luck of all, not fertile-luck but death-luck, a life for a life or a non-life for another, his and his own. Tomorrow morning he'll lose his own soul, at sunrise when all things should wake he will lose his own self to sleep.
"Ichimaru-taichou," she says again, and then, "Do you mean Aizen-taichou? Because he's not -"
His own soul wakes at the name, at the memory of his own name and wakes and wakes and Time that stole himself cannot hold it back with grasping old old slick sea-serpent fingers and teeth and he calls himself forth calls his name calls it and the soft flaking metal breaks and burns and will leave blisters on his skin like old callus and he calls that name once more and stands as he should have been silver and steel the bones awake and inside him and hot as a forge against the cold cold sun.
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Bleach
Pairing: Aizen Sousuke/Ichimaru Gin
Disclaimer: characters not mine.
Warnings: Darkfic, deathfic, rampant abuse of synaesthesia.
Notes: Co-inspired by Gali and this image at this site.
Summary: He wraps himself around his own bones, and calls out the name that he cannot remember, an impossible longing in his soul.
There are bones beneath his skin, red and white and all the colors, blue like a bruise and white for death, for loyalty and faith and silver for himself and for his sword and blue, blue, all the colors together. He does not watch the shadows shift because they hurt, come to prick him with impossible dreams of what-and-now and touch his wrist that hurts, blood on his skin the way he remembers, flaking off slowly, smears on the metal. Hard to find metal that will cut a shinigami here, put under quarantine and hidden away he should know he did it once, his hands burning when he finished. Skin flaking off like an old old blister, the way it did when he was new to his zanpakutou and his soul cries out the name the impossible name he cannot remember now but he can remember the woman who did it, her smile like eternity gap-toothed and old, grandmotherly.
He wraps himself around his own bones, feeling the heat of them against his skin, wet and smooth and ridged, outside and inside, and calls out the name of his fox-kit sword that he cannot remember, an impossible longing in his soul. Away away he remembers another sword if it could be called he could be free but his own bones lay a hand on his elbow and say No point no point and he laughs, a dull sword for a man about to die. My own sword, say the bones, not yours to call never never Gin and he remembers that voice in marrow and flesh, body called to it but the link on his wrist says Silence and the bones his own body his own blood goes quiet.
He lies there, shaking, not even daring to breathe as the chain links quiver and their jaws open wide wide wide with teeth so bright as his smile never was, no shadows at all but darkness and the bones are silent.
"You can't have him," Gin says, and pulls the bones to him, his wrist cold against the stone away from his own soul his own body. "I won't let you have him."
We had him so close you hid him so well says the chain link and the shadows creep closer. Once he would have loved this darkness, clung to it and welcomed a lover - any one, all so dark and so bright, cold and heat and hunger and love - to his flesh but the moment he touches this darkness lets the silver inside him go quiet and still he will lose his own body to the prickle-point darkness that threatens. It won't hurt.
He can't give in anyway. Lay down in his own blood for him, tasting salt and warmth as they took away the name of himself forever to the old woman Time, a goddess of nothing much at all, and could not reach, glass in his palms, revenge from the links with the obscene red tongues sticking out in grim mocking of something he saw once a logo perhaps on a paper somewhere. Screams in his ears, high whining of them cannibalizing themselves and never quite here, the iron-cold chain in the room fighting them, winning, his palms against the floor against bone cold so cold and smooth.
A pounding of his heart of the heart of himself in his ears drowning out all the others and a voice not his own not his in the air, wind against his clothes.
"Ichimaru-taichou," it says, ripples in the sound of it like the sea or a great wind. "I brought you something to eat. Please come eat."
He remembers the redness of a boy's cheek for cheekiness, a woman's wrath, his own smile his own laugh and cannot think for this wind that obscures all the speech.
"The wind," he says, and his voice sounds ragged, nothing like it was, not a drawl like it should be, nothing to make them angry, to make them shake him by his shoulders and push him against the wall and make him tremble for the anger for the hunger for the hurt of his own hands glass and light a reflection in a mirror showing him what could have been like a dream, and he was then what he may soon be but unmade.
"The wind?" the voice asks, and the wind goes still when it is done. A woman's voice. "Is it better?"
"Yes," he says. "But now my bones are not warm. I was using them to keep warm." He pulls away a little, now that the chain is not talking, not threatening to take his own body away. That he would not have let go of for anything, not for all the heat or the return of the world. They told him they'd return it and all he has are his own bones for warmth.
"I can get you a blanket," she says, "if you're cold."
"Yes," he manages.
"And," she adds, "you promise not to do anything dangerous."
"I don't think I could," he says, laughing, smiling a little, squinting at her in the half-darkness. "The chain would eat me alive. Eat my own corpse." He reaches over, touches the collarbone, runs fingers along each of the ribs, feeling the sad brittleness to them. "I couldn't give that up."
"You're still alive, Ichimaru-taichou," she says. "And the chain won't kill you."
"Not me," he says, and shows her the bones, flicker-white and smooth except in the rough places, and she says, "Ichimaru-taichou," with all the sound in her voice of the ocean. He wonders if her skin would taste of salt or if when she bleeds it is like a flood come to destroy the unwary the unconscious. A woman bled on him once and she was terrible luck, worst luck of all, not fertile-luck but death-luck, a life for a life or a non-life for another, his and his own. Tomorrow morning he'll lose his own soul, at sunrise when all things should wake he will lose his own self to sleep.
"Ichimaru-taichou," she says again, and then, "Do you mean Aizen-taichou? Because he's not -"
His own soul wakes at the name, at the memory of his own name and wakes and wakes and Time that stole himself cannot hold it back with grasping old old slick sea-serpent fingers and teeth and he calls himself forth calls his name calls it and the soft flaking metal breaks and burns and will leave blisters on his skin like old callus and he calls that name once more and stands as he should have been silver and steel the bones awake and inside him and hot as a forge against the cold cold sun.
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no subject
Date: 2007-03-23 07:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-16 12:14 am (UTC)Then I saw it and everything fell into place. Absolutely beautiful!
no subject
Date: 2008-04-20 04:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-20 05:51 am (UTC)If you understand that "his own" and "his" are, respectively, two different things as used in this fic, then it makes more sense.