Rating: If I've ever written K-rated shenanigans, then this would be the time. Still, Teen for a few naked people.
Summary: This is one of the good mornings. Renji wakes up. (800 words)
A/N: Experiment in expressionism by prose. Established relationship somewhere in a brighter future. No spoilers.
x
Renji drifts awake like rising from a great depth, dregs of old exhaustion slipping away little by little. It is still dark, but the amber-red flicker of a lit candle brushes his eyelids, the smooth hemp of the bedding a cocoon of warmth though the room beyond is cool. Hushed words drift up, two voices, each as well known to him. Small, cold feet are tucked against his calf, the narrow slope of a familiar back pressed into his side, before she shuffles up and the covers settle back over him.
He thinks he catches the waft of snow, the bite of winter chill even through the scents of sleep and sweat and the soap in her hair. It must be freezing out, but here, he is warm, in the lingering, shared heat though he's the only one huddled under the covers now.
The futon rustles, chafes, soft drowsy movements like the other two were only just stirring, as well. The scant slap of a hand against flesh, a muttered protest from Ichigo. Rukia snaps back, all but subaural, and he calls her something rude and cherished. A foot scuffs on the bedding, before the muffled, wet sound of a kiss that silences both of them for a spell.
Eyes shut lightly, he rolls onto his side, one arm flung forward, on the pillows that still bear the imprints of heads nestled together in sleep. It is always like this, after a time apart: all elbows in ribs and legs tangled together, as if breathing the same air throughout their waking hours wasn't enough.
And he knows why. He has learned to laugh when he pushes Ichigo off him on his way out of the futon. He doesn't complain when Rukia's knees poke into his legs.
None of that this morning, though. The candle burns golden against the dark backdrop. In that light everything is dim and glowing, everything immaterial but the slide of hands on skin and the soft patter of Rukia's mouth on Ichigo's skin now; he knows it is her by the hoarse hums of Ichigo gasping.
They think he is still asleep. He was the last to get back, too exhausted for anything but a hasty bath and falling into bed next to them both; that a rare thing in itself, to sink into sleep and know their nearness, their hands twined over his side.
The futon whispers as someone falls back onto it, so close the pillow dips under his fingertips, shadows passing over the candle's steady shimmer. A sudden tug at the covers over him, a smothered moan, and Rukia's frothy, satisfied chuckle. He can almost smell the building tension there, coiling warm and pleasant and slow in the air; they strive for silence even as skin slips against skin.
Her chortle of victory breaks, hitches, as Ichigo shifts to get even. He would be holding her firm, hands roaming the curve of her hip, no hurry now, the stroke of his palms sure and deep, to make her bite back those breathy noises just like that.
They tumble and roll over. She hisses an alarmed "Quiet!" and Ichigo answers with something tart and amused. He'd be with his hair sleep-mussed, but eyes shining and dark with mischief and desire, with that strange, keen focus that does not blur until he skims the far edge, that keeps Renji watching him until he comes undone.
And Rukia, bent over him, hair sheened sable and copper by the candle flame, clinging to her face and neck with sweat. Her hand might dart to brush it back even as she busies herself with charting Ichigo's skin. Her fingers, deft along the inline of his hip, they have to be, for him to be mumbling in that low, insistent note. Then, the soft whisk of a hand through hair, and another kiss, deeper and wetter, as she leans down with the gentle press of his grip.
Renji lies still, listening, feeling, the coarse brush of Ichigo's hair sweeping over his open palm as Rukia pins him down with the next kiss. He sees them both so clearly with closed eyes, holds back a grin as they hush each other with more or less success. The candle turns the tousled bed into soft drifts of shadow within a dazzle of light, still hours to a late winter sunrise, a day stretching ahead with nowhere to be but here.
When he opens his eyes, they turn to him startled and smiling, Rukia slight and glimmering, Ichigo with a familiar quirk to the side. They both reach for him, fingers twisting through his, to draw him close. He focuses slowly on each and lets the grin crook his mouth: as he sees them, in dreaming and waking, here they are, once again.