A.N.: Second point of view, Ichigo-centric.
Warning: Slight mature themes.
Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach.
.x.
Downstairs, your old man has decided turning the TV volume as high as possible is exactly the right way to watch this lame ass comedy show, and you can't even hear yourself thinking but this is exactly the thing you need right now. On your desk, your textbook lies open and waiting and you're pretty sure there's gonna be a test tomorrow, but right now, this very moment, that all seems incredibly far away from you.
Everything is blurred out, cast aside, overshadowed by the thought of her.
Earlier today, she smiled at you big and bright and held your name in her chest and let it fall off the tip of her tongue so sweetly it jabbed its way into your chest. And this is all that matters to you right now, in this very moment in time.
You're pretty sure this isn't the proper response to any of that.
The logic here is skewed, and you're clinging to that no matter how stupid it looks. Because there has to be some sort of explanation, even if absurd.
Heat is raking your skin up raw and you're finding it hard to breathe, it's stifling and this pressure is building up inside of you and you already know—before ever setting your pencil down—where this night is going. You don't even think locking your door, pulling the curtains together, flopping onto your bed; you just do, and that's all you know.
So you're swallowing down any shred of pride you've got left in you and you're biting the metaphorical bullet, fumbling with the buckle of your belt and then the button of your pants. And here you're thinking, "This is avoidable, I can stop right now, I can stop right now," but your hand, all clammy and trembling and entirely certain of itself in this very moment, is still sliding down under the waistband of your underwear and you're not actively doing anything to stop that.
Just as you're not actively doing anything to stop your mind from whirling, way off base, with the thought of her.
Earlier today, she turned those big bright eyes to you and she told you something silly and strange and it felt like something inside of you was soaring and you couldn't kill the feeling fast enough. For a second, you thought maybe aliens did exist and if they did they'd make fast friends with her and nobody would have any qualms with that at all. For a second, you thought maybe all the answers to the universe were right there, right in those big bright eyes and that big bright smile and those big bright ideas of hers, and that was all you knew.
That was all that mattered.
So fire is searing its way through you and it's warping her shimmering image right before your eyes, and that's all you know right now, in this very moment.
And here you're thinking, "She's so beautiful—and I'm so fucked right now," and that's probably the one coherent thought you've had all night.
Your breaths are choppy leaving you and your head falls back into your pillow, her name is there caught up in your chest and waiting on the tip of your tongue. You're torn between gritting your teeth as hard as you can, biting your lip until it bleeds red and angry, and opening your mouth to suck and then sigh and then moan into the air, into the white walls of your room. The bed is rocking to your rhythm and you wonder for far too long how it would feel, her weight added onto this equation, how it would make this broken song ring pretty and perfect and sweet.
Trilling, your mind lifts her voice to soft keening whines, your name soaked in honey.
Your shirt has bunched up under your armpits and your face is red; you're not the best sight, you're pretty sure, and if anyone somehow walked in on you now, you think their dinner would end up on your floor.
But here, your mind is hazy now.
Her hair is swirling, fine, and you want to run your fingers through it just once. And her skin is soft, like silk, and you want to kiss the corner of her lips, the pinkness of her cheeks, the tip of her nose. And you want to feel her, right now, in this moment, all around you, wrapping you up so sweet, so kind, so gentle.
You're thrusting at the thought of her, and it's not even about sex anymore.
So, her—legs about your waist, hands on your skin, mouth on your chest and neck, touching, touching, touching—turns to Inoue, Inoue, Ino—Orihime; and suddenly it's all about that, that's all that matters, that's all you can think about.
Suddenly it's about you, and her. You and her. You and her.
It's about her saying, "Yes," when you offer to walk her home. It's about her inviting you into her apartment, but not about you pinning her against the wall and hitching her skirt up. It's about you and her sitting on her couch watching some lame ass comedy show and you smiling because she's got these tears in her eyes from laughing so hard. It's about her pouring chocolate syrup and then sprinkling pickles on the popcorn because that's basically the sort of thing she would do and you wouldn't change that for the world even if you had the chance. It's about her waving goodbye to you after the show's over from her door and her saying, "Let's do this again some time, Kurosaki-kun, I had so much fun!" and you nodding because you wouldn't want anything more than just that. It's about you lying awake for the rest of the night thinking about just that and then stifling these stupid butterflies in your stomach when she greets you again in the morning, the inside jokes leftover from last night swirling fine in her eyes.
It's about you and her, together.
And so your back arches, because you foolishly and fervently want just that. And when your mouth opens this time, you let it fall, "Orihime," wet and pulsing off the tip of your tongue.
The seconds slip away, quick and slow at the same time, and reality comes back to you in gradual lulls. First, how breathless you are, how desperately you grasp for air, and the heat fading from your face. And then your hand, still wrapped around yourself, the stickiness of your sweat and everything else you're suddenly and appropriately too embarrassed to think about.
And then the disgust, with yourself and this moment and what you've just done—sullied her image, you did, and this isn't the first and probably not the last time, if you're completely honest with yourself.
So you waste no time cleaning yourself up, shoving the regret and not regret down and away, and burying yourself under your covers to sleep.
Your schoolwork is left abandoned and forgotten on your desk and, downstairs, one of your baby sisters is shouting at your old man to turn the volume down and you're finally sinking back into yourself. Moonlight has decided to sneak in through your curtains and it gently permeates the darkness of your room, your own thoughts.
Here, you're smiling at the thought of her. And it becomes about that, too.
About her. Her.
Her, wearing these pajamas the color of cotton candy with this pattern of marshmallows on it. Her, tucked away in bed, securely. Her, curled up on her side, just like you. Her, dreaming soundly of befriending aliens or the universe or even, maybe, somehow, miraculously, you.
Her, smiling in her sleep at the thought of you.
And it's suddenly all about that, and you're wondering if it's a good dream. If she, too, feels like she's soaring right now, in this very moment.
.x.
A.N.: Thanks for reading!