Pairing: Ichigo/Orihime
Disclaimer: Bleach is the property of Tite Kubo. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Note: Post-Aizen storyline that will no doubt be considered AU by the time Tite Kubo wraps that arc up. All chapters will be varying lengths between 1000 and 2000 words. Written for Stages of Love on LJ, so to honor their posting schedule, this will post once a week, on Tuesday or Wednesday. Since I will be out of the country throughout July, the last two chapters will post in the last week of June (Sunday and Friday).
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Nobody is Normal – Chapter I: Orihime
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Once Aizen was defeated, Orihime expected everything would return to normal—except that it hadn't. Rukia returned to Soul Society as the Lieutenant of Division Thirteen, leaving a hole in everyone's heart. Not even Tatsuki could fill that hole.
Ichigo seemed to miss Rukia as well. At least, Orihime had no other explanation for why he showed up at her door one afternoon, carrying a grocery bag. He looked strange in his school uniform now, but when he smiled, her face heated, as always.
"I'm making you dinner," Ichigo announced and pushed his way inside. "Tatsuki said you would eat red beans and fish head soup if someone didn't come over."
"But I like red beans and fish head soup." Orihime closed the door and stared at Ichigo. He walked straight to her kitchen and unpacked the groceries. He brightened the white room with his orange hair and warm eyes—eyes that were thankfully brown. Orihime had accepted the hollow inside of Ichigo, but she would never like it.
"I hope you like Italian," he said, setting a pot of water to boil. "I've been in the mood for it."
"I like Italian. You know how to cook?"
"Of course. Until Yuzu got old enough, I used to do all the cooking at our house. I'm pretty good at it."
Orihime smiled at the idea of Ichigo, one of the most powerful warriors alive or dead, cooking dinner for his family. "Really? What's your secret?"
Ichigo proudly held out a jar of marinara sauce. "Knowing which brand tastes best and then adding to it." He opened the jar and plopped the contents into a saucepan. "Building your own sauce is too much trouble."
Orihime giggled. "So, you're a lazy cook."
"But a good lazy cook." Ichigo added some oil and seasoning, then stirred the sauce. He gave her a meatball seasoning package with express orders to not deviate the directions. Orihime snuck in some red bean powder when he wasn't looking, but otherwise did as he asked. The meat felt cold and gunky as she mashed it and rolled it into balls.
"Does your hearing in one of your ears ever suddenly go out, and all you hear is this high-pitched hum?" she asked after a long silence.
Ichigo stared at her with his mouth slightly open.
Orihime took this as an affirmation. "See, I think that's because aliens are downloading thoughts into our head. At least half of our thoughts were programmed into us by tall red men."
Ichigo blinked. "I thought they were little green men?"
"No, those are the ones who steal socks for their scientific experiments."
Ichigo laughed long and loud. "See, this is why I love you, Inoue. You don't think like anyone else."
"But all my thoughts are programmed by the aliens!" Orihime flapped her hands to make her point. Bits of the ground meat mixture splattered onto the counter. "I don't actually think anything on my own."
As Ichigo stared at her, he stirred the sauce too fast, and some of it splashed up onto his white shirt, staining it red. It looked enough like blood that Orihime had to look away. "Do you really believe that?" he asked.
"Sometimes." Orihime smiled and wiped the counter clean. A stray lock of orange hair hung in front of Ichigo's eyes—his hair had grown long over the winter. "They can't program our feelings, though. Those are all ours."
"Good."
Orihime put the meatballs to bake and then scrubbed her hands clean. As the water poured over her skin, she realized that Ichigo had said he loved her, even if he hadn't meant it. She watched him cover the saucepan and lower the heat to a simmer.
Ichigo belonged there, she thought, in her kitchen, standing beside her. He smelled like marinara sauce and garlic, like sunshine and graveyards, like strawberries and blood. He smelled like the home that Orihime had not had since her brother died.
"You miss Rukia, don't you?" she whispered. "That's why you're here."
Ichigo froze. "Of course I miss Rukia. But that's not why I'm here."
Orihime hung her head. "I'm sorry. It's none of my business." She balled her fists up. The words would not stop. They poured out of her, as if she were a faucet turned on after years of neglect. "I didn't mean to, but I—I hate that she's gone. Sometimes I hate Soul Society for taking her away—and sometimes I'm grateful she's gone, because you're here."
Ichigo only stared at her. Shame made Orihime's face feel hot. She had revealed what a terrible person she was. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't think these things." She twisted her shirt. "I love Rukia as much as I love Tatsuki. I really do. Please don't think that I don't."
Orihime's eyes stung with tears, but it was Ichigo's fingers that brushed her cheeks dry. Did Ichigo understand what it was like to love someone to the core of his heart, yet envy them at the same time?
Ichigo smiled down at her. "Don't be sorry for being human. Don't ever be sorry for that. Because that's what we are, you and me. I'm a substitute Shinigami, and you're, well, you, but we were born human, and we'll die human. I don't think badly of you, Orihime. I'm just happy to know that you're not perfect—just like me. And that's a feeling, so no alien programmed me to think that way."
Everything inside Orihime swelled to the point of nearly bursting through her eyes, her fingertips, her toes. She opened her mouth to let it out, then closed it. There were so many things she wanted to tell Ichigo, but she didn't have the words. Not yet. Instead, she stared at the stove. "The water's boiling."
Ichigo spun around. "I better start the noodles!"
Orihime smiled as Ichigo finished dinner. She set the table and wondered if she would ever be brave enough to confess her feelings.
To be continued…