A/N: Just a little something I wrote up at 2AM out of no where. Feeling nostalgic on tumblr, I suppose. And gosh, do I miss this pairing.
Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach, nor do I own the characters. All I own is this silly piece of writing, unfortunately.
—X—
The steady stream of noises barely registers within the substitute's ears. Not the shallow swish of cars as they speed — most likely far beyond the limit for Karakura's visually rustic streets —and not the quiet tapping of rain against the edge of his window sill. Hell, not even the creaking sound of shifting floorboards as his old man maneuvers himself downstairs could distract him in this moment. No… because all his attention has been sought after, captured and surrounded like a vice by the very person laying next to him, completely unaware of his allure. Honestly. It was almost as if he'd reverted back to his prepubescent roots, unable to remove his gaze from any object of his affections.
But if we're being honest here — he couldn't really complain.
Watching the steady rise and fall of the other's chest, mahogany depths linger over the white expansion of a pale throat. Following an upwards trail, from the pointed chin and equally pallid features — he finds his gaze softening as he takes in the archer's sleeping appearance. It's almost odd, if he admits it. Seeing Ishida in this sort of state: normally well kept hair spanned across an expansion of pillows, faint lines creasing brows and faded moreso, indents of scars left by habitually worn frames along the bridge of his nose. Usually, it's muss and fuss. Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle creasing fabric. And yet here he is, completely defenceless and laid out before him.
It almost feels invasive. As if this is something private that he shouldn't be prying into — Ishida's state of slumber. Yet at the same time, he can't help but feel honoured. To trust someone to the extent of discarding barriers — of letting your walls crumble and trusting someone completely — ok, sure, he might be reading too much into this, but he has to be right to some extent, doesn't he?
It almost feels like yesterday, rather than a few years ago — going against Ishida and butting heads, and eventually fighting back to back. Who'd have thought they'd make it this far — that time would change them and redirect their footing; allow them to continuously cross along the same paths. He trusts Ishida, just as much as he's sure that Ishida trusts him — without a shred of doubt. In fact, should their current positions be reversed, he couldn't be any more at ease knowing that Ishida would be watching over him, like he is now.
Letting his body shift, it's in turning his body towards the Quincy that he'd finally be at ease. Allowing his gaze to travel at first, only to be then followed by his hand, smooth fingertips trail across the curve of the teenager's jaw. Watching as if transfixed, it's only when Uryu shifts — brows creasing and lips pursing, only to relax just as quickly — that he pauses. Finding the softest, smallest of smiles gracing his features, brown orbs peer into a bleary set of blue as the pair stares back at him, almost confused.
"Go back to sleep." His response comes instinctively, his thumb now grazing a soft lower lip. Watching as those eyes stare back at him — calculative even in drowsiness — he can't help but let his smile widen as he bears witness to the veiling of navy orbs. Seeing the other listen, watching as Uryu shifts closer — curling his smaller frame into his open arms — his previous thoughts on trust and all surrounding topics are merely confirmed with this one simple action.
Wrapping his arms around the dozing form, he finally forces his own eyes to close. Feeling the warmth of the body resting against his as a contended swell washes over him —he cant help but feel at ease all at once.
Maybe this is why he was lying wake at night — restless, yet somehow relaxed. Of all his talk of trust and being completely at ease, reassurance was craved —though not necessarily needed — in this very form. Of arms wrapping around his waist and holding him in return as soft, breathless exhale lingers against the collar of his neck, he finds himself falling slowly into a deep pit of slumber. The last thing that registers —that makes its way into his subconscious just before he falls — the soft press of palms into his lower back, grounding him, even in sleep.