A/N: Hello! This short piece came to me at the most inconvenient time possible - midnight last night, when I had to be up at some ungodly hour this morning and was practically delirious from man-flu. I just had to get out of bed and get it down, and after forcing my babygurl beta to read over it straight away, I've decided to post it now.

This is part of the Recovery universe, based before the fic begins. If you haven't read Recovery, I'm not sure if it will make sense (so you should go read it, yeah ;) haha) But in any case, the usual warnings apply - angsty angst and nothing happy whatsoever.

The final chapter of Recovery is on its way, I'm just reworking it over and over until I'm happy with it f^^ anyway, enough of my ramblings. Hope you enjoy this little 'un, and please do tell me your thoughts!

Thought I Knew

Sorry if I caused you harm,

Sorry I'm no good luck charm.

Sorry that you didn't end up in my arms.

I thought I knew you better then,

I thought I knew your intentions.

Thought I knew,

But I didn't have a clue.

Not a single damn thing was true.

- Thought I Knew, Weezer

I dread going to sleep at night. Intoxicated or sober, it never makes any difference. I'm still here, I'm still wide awake, I'm still stuck in the fucking nightmare that has been the last two weeks. Every time I blink I wish for it to dissipate, to come undone. I wish for time to go back, to find my previous self and tell him to never give up. But no matter how hard I squeeze my eyes shut, when I open them again, I know nothing will have changed.

I've stopped crying, now. Or at least that's what I tell everyone. I make sure I don't see them anymore, so they can't see my puffy eyes, the way I can barely keep them open - the light burns me, the blunt I pull on burns my throat - just like the securely shut curtains of my bedroom. I can't let any light in, because he was it. He was the spark, the flame, the destruction that burnt my life down. The only one.

Every night I approach my bed with caution. It's not the one we lay in, but I know that as soon as I succumb to my weary limbs' desires, it will be. I'll be pulled into the darkness, into the nightmarish fantasies I can't hold back from, and he won't be there to guide me back to reality. If anything, he only pulls me in further.

Tonight will be no different. If anything, it will be worse.

He's haunting me. It's the only word I can think of to describe this feeling. I don't have to see someone on the street that looks like him, or hear someone talk about something in a voice like his, for my memories to be triggered, for me to be reminded - because he is so intricately woven into my soul. I can't rid myself of him - I can still feel him everywhere - in my blood, my bones, my very essence. He's like a tumour, lodged somewhere inoperable, slowly killing me. That's fine, I think, let him eat me up, let him consume me completely until there's nothing left. I was nothing before he came along, anyway.

My fingers brush the fabric of the duvet from where I sit, cross-legged on the floor. I know it must be nearly seven a.m. - I can tell by the way my body is starting to shut down on me, force me to rest, recover. What a selfish body. Doesn't it know that that's the last thing I want?

I stub my smoke out lazily in my too-full ashtray, stand up as I glug down water, my mouth dry and stale and disgusting like me. I can't deny it, not when I know what I'm about to do.

I pull my tee-shirt over my head, slip off my jogging bottoms, throw them into the shallow sea of clothes that is now my bedroom floor. I swallow heavily as I close my eyes, tell myself that it's not my bedroom, not right now. I slip under my covers, and imagine them colder, imagine the open window above the headboard.

It's ours.

My dirtiest secret lies under my pillow, and as I pull the fabric towards me, I wrap my arms around it. His scent hits me instantly, and the tears begin to steadily flow once more, dampening the shirt that I stole before I left. I didn't know why I'd done it at the time, but now I do. It's because I knew I could never let go.

He's here, right next to me. I can see him so perfectly, his chest rising and falling, the moonlight highlighting the muscled planes of his stomach. His eyes are closed, but I know he's not sleeping, because deep down, behind the mist of my own self-delusion, I know. This is my fantasy, and in these moments, he will do as I wish.

I can still feel his hands as though he had branded me with them, can feel his lips soft against my skin, a ghost of what could never be again. I detachedly feel my chest shake jarringly as I run my fingers across my hipbones, feel my half-dry, sticky face dampen again with fresh tears as I wrap a hand around myself, as I feel the memory of his teeth against my neck.

I cry out as I begin to stroke myself. I can't tell if it's from the pleasure or this torture I'm putting myself through - all I know is that it hurts.

How did I get to this point? It had started as sobbing and screaming into my pillow, one hand gripped around his shirt, my emotions raw, my voice roaring. Then it quieted into silent salty streams that I could barely feel, running down my cheeks as I replayed each and every encounter I could use against myself, use to make me feel something. Now, I'm encroaching on a taboo. I shouldn't be doing this, I know that - but that doesn't mean I can stop.

I can feel his heat as he moves over me, as I imagine him replacing my hand with his own. Of course he's rougher, more demanding, and my chest constricts as his feral grin flashes before my eyes, genuine and filled with glee. We were happy once, weren't we? I feel like I'm drowning at the thought, and I'm not breathing, and I think I've forgotten how and so I panic, my chest bucking as I choke out a sob, and then I'm taking a deep breath, trying to rid myself of the sensation, trying not to drop dead for a reason I don't quite understand.

I lie there for a while, my chest moving heavily as I gulp in air, my hand still wrapped around my cock, still hard. I must really be a sick fuck, to still want this. But he's here again, and he's pushing my eyelids closed with his fingertips, and his lips are against mine and I can still remember the way he tastes, the way he smells, the way his voice would growl in my ear in the heat of the moment, and that's all I need as I start to move again, my hand becoming more steady, firmer, faster as the need to just get off becomes overwhelming, as he tugs at me harder and harder and he bites at my lips and kisses away the tears because this is all his fault and he knows that I'm hurting.

As I take my freefall over the edge, one thought strikes me, pierces through my chest.

He'll be back.

I open my eyes slowly. Stare dully at my sticky hand. I have to correct myself as quickly as possible - I know I need damage control, before this breaks me all over again, but I just want to believe it. Just in this moment. I want to pretend everything is okay, that he's still by my side, no matter what. Pretend that he fought for me.

He won't. He won't be back, and I know it more than anyone.

I sigh as I lean over the side, fish a dirty pair of boxers from my floor, wipe my hand clean. Throw it back. I'll deal with it tomorrow. That's right, I can just deal with this all when I wake up. There's no need to dwell on the fact that I have just jacked off over my ex-boyfriend. I'll just have to make sure it never happens again.

But as I turn on my side, I know that's just not possible. Because even now, after everything, I can feel his hot chest against my back, pulling me to him. I can feel his hands on my hip and my heart. I can feel his breath against my neck as he whispers my name as though I'm the only one he has ever wanted, has ever needed.

"Ichigo."

I vaguely hear myself mutter as my mind finally begins to shut itself off, comforted in its confusion by the ghost of the warmth of the man I love.

"Grimmjow..."