A/N: Originally posted on Tumblr, but I thought it deserved its own spot on here. Dedicated to Mika, without her this wouldn't exist. And as always, thanks to my beta reader, who always manages to iron out the wrinkles.
It was hot. It was way too god damn hot in that tiny room. Why the hell it was so hot with the sun down was beyond Ichigo as he lay there in nothing but his boxers, staring up at the dark ceiling. He had been hoping for a breeze, but no such luck. Yet more hot air spilled through the wide open window. Despite this, he didn't have the energy to shut it. Groaning, he rolled over, sticky and uncomfortable—unable to tell if it was from sweat or the ridiculous humidity.
Ichigo hated the month of June. It reminded him of his mom, of how he couldn't save her that rainy day—and now he couldn't save anyone. The heat had been only recently been added to the list. Even rain would be preferable to this hell if it meant some cool air coming his way.
He rubbed his face and sat up, letting out another unintelligible sound of annoyance. If he could just sleep, then maybe it wouldn't be so bad, but his head was filling with unpleasant thoughts. Reminders that his mom was dead, that he'd gotten a C on his last test, that everyone just seemed to pretend he'd never been able to see ghosts when they were so curious before, and the impending future looming over him like a dark cloud. But mostly: the fact that Rukia still hadn't come back after half a year.
He slumped, elbows on his knees. It was so god damn frustrating. Half a year, not even a postcard, no form of contact at all. Did she just expect him to go on with a normal life? Ichigo didn't even know how to have a normal life, he'd never had one before.
Sweating there in the dark, he found himself angry. Not only at the heat, but at Rukia herself, for walking out of his life yet again.
For the first two months, he'd been eager to see her again—he expected another gallant entrance; there was no way she'd leave it at that—but never showed it to anyone. Not that it mattered. They knew. They all knew how desperately he wanted to see her, even when he'd adamantly claim otherwise. Maybe he was just a bad liar.
After the second month, he'd lost hope. Two months, that was how long it had been the last two times. It felt the same though. Too long. Again, it was that strange feeling, like time wasn't really going by. Fossilized in amber, but still thinking he was alive. Time moved wrong without her. It seemed stretched out, elongated. Two months? It felt like two years.
He scoffed bitterly. Now look where he was at: six months and counting.
Why couldn't he shake the thought of her? She was always in his head. That scene, over and over, like a rerun on television, projected on the inside of his eyelids every time he blinked. The way she wouldn't look at him until she felt him slipping away, the hitch in her breath when she finally met his eyes, the unsaid words she obviously wanted to tell him left in her mouth. He wished she'd said something. Hell, he wished he'd said something. If he knew it would be this permanent, would he still have kept his mouth shut?
Yeah, Ichigo missed her. He missed the fuck out of her. She'd been gone before, but not like this. At this point, he'd expected to forget a little, her image in his mind to be blurred somehow, but it was quite the opposite. She became sharper, more acutely defined in his memories. He kept remembering stuff about her: small things he hadn't even known he noticed when she was around. The smell of her. Her preference of loose-fitting clothes. How she'd sometimes slip into that cute, old way of speaking.
Wait…"cute"? Ichigo took his head from his hands, furrowing his brow in concentration. Begrudgingly, he supposed she was pretty cute, and not just her way of speaking. Taking into account all of her entire being he came to the conclusion that yes, Kuchiki Rukia was indeedvery cute. She had a good complexion, skin as smooth as cream. Shiny, silky hair. And her eyes—at once the sky and the sea, iridescently flowing into a blue-violet color scheme that Ichigo could never keep track of. In each memory, her eyes shifted in hue. As for the rest of her…although petite, he had to admit, she had a great body too.
Ichigo would be lying (and he had, straight to her face, the first time she'd asked) if he said he hadn't glimpsed her naked, glistening wet. She truly had an hourglass figure, thin waist, curving hips. Not just skinny, but toned from training. Her breasts may have been small, but they were still nice. Very nice…
He blushed crimson at the memory.
It was just a glance though! And it had been an accident, of course! It wasn't like he meant to betray her honor or anything like that; he'd handed her a towel and his gaze just sort of…slipped. This was, obviously, back when he was forced to stand guard at the bathroom, while she was kept a secret from his family, living in his closet.
Ugh. That closet. Those sliding doors weren't exactly thick. He could hear nearly every shift of weight, every little move she made. Every morning when she changed into her uniform was almost unbearable, though he never let on. Being affected by that sort of perverted stuff was for guys like Kon or Keigo.
Fuck. He looked down at the bulge in his boxers. Apparently it was also for guys like Ichigo.
At this rate, he was never getting any sleep.
Right now, he needed to cool down, he'd deal with…that…later.
As quietly as he could, he crept downstairs to get himself a cold glass of water, leaning into the open refrigerator. The chill was a relief, but didn't seem enough to calm him down.
Well, he reasoned, walking back to his bedroom and sucking on an ice cube, it'll help me sleep at least. Setting the glass on his side-table, he sat on the edge of his bed with a sigh.
It wasn't like he hadn't jerked himself off before. Or that it had been a while.
But he'd just never done it like this before: while thinking of Rukia. While thinking of anyone, really. It was just something to do. Merely a stress-reliever, something that felt good, but was never attached to any sort of specific desire. This time was different. Because it was Rukia's face in his mind, her mouth, her legs, her dress strap slipping off her shoulder, her breath on his skin, her eyes never leaving his.
Ichigo hadn't even been entirely consciously aware that he was touching himself, so wrapped up in his fantasy. But there he was, the hem of his boxers pulled down, his hand slowly pumping. His other hand gripped the ruffled sheets of his bed, fingers twisting. Warmth spread throughout his skin, under it, more excruciating and exhilarating than the exterior heat. It was like he could feel her, around him. Feel himself inside her.
Rukia's image tended to waver though. Her hair was a problem. Would it be longer? Shorter? Maybe it wasn't as he thought: maybe he had indeed forgotten her? Gritting his teeth, he tried to remind himself of little things, things that wouldn't change over time. The curve of her jaw and how it might feel beneath his lips. If he could not decide on the length of her hair, he'd remember its color, how soft it would be between his fingers. The set and shape of her mouth when she smiled. How long her eyelashes looked when she blinked, like he'd be swept away. The jut of her collar bone. Her narrow shoulders. Her long legs, how they'd feel wrapped around him.
I won't forget. His promise (to himself? To Rukia? He didn't know) turned into a mantra: I won't forget. I won't forget. I won't. No matter what. I won't forget you.
"R-Rukia," he gasped out, quickening his stokes. Relinquishing the sheets, he clapped his hand over his mouth—he had to stay quiet. The last thing he wanted was the Old Man (or worse, the twins) to walk in on him. Wishing he had something to bite onto, he grit his teeth, not allowing anything but his shallow breathing out.
He came hard and fast into his hand, his lips parting in an O shape. Breathing heavily through his nostrils, he sat for a moment to catch his breath. As he reached for a tissue to clean himself up, he tried his best to ignore the somewhat annoying voice in his head telling him his fantasy of Rukia had made it the best he'd ever had—and that with her would be even better—to no avail.
He was now even more covered in sweat, but he didn't care, he'd bathe in the morning. Even if it hadn't helped keep the thoughts of her at bay, as yet more memories plagued him every time he shut his eyes, at least now he'd be able to get some proper sleep. He silently thanked whoever was listening that he didn't have work the next day, and that he could afford to indulge himself a little by sleeping in. As long as the Old Man didn't wake him up with his antics. Casting all thoughts of morning aside, Ichigo lay back, closed his eyes, and waited for slumber to take him.
Don't make such a sad face. Even if you can't see me, I'll still be able to see you.
Ichigo sat bolt upright in bed. Oh fuck. No way, no fucking way.
That was what Rukia had said that day. Suddenly very paranoid, Ichigo couldn't help but think that it was entirely plausible that she could be in that very room with him. Everyone else still had their spiritual powers, and no one had said anything about her being around, but maybe she was able to disguise her reiatsu? Hiding? Even if he couldn't feel her reiatsu, Ichigo always had the delusion that he'd still be able to feel her if (no, not if, when) she ever came back—but that didn't mean anything, right? She could have visited and he wouldn't have known any better. What if…?
What if she had come back? What if…what if she were watching right now?
He scanned the room frantically as if he'd be able to see her even if she were indeed there. She could have seen everything. All of…that. He'd even said her name. Oh God, what would she think of him? What would she say? Criticize his technique—or worse, laugh at his stamina? Ichigo cringed at the thought.
What was left of Ichigo's rational reasoning assured him that Rukia was probably just in Soul Society, carrying out her shinigami duties. But…what if she wasn't?
There was no way he was getting any sleep tonight.