Beta'd by Never Freedom. A million thanks! (tip of hat)

THE DOORKNOB

Renji shuffled his feet and looked intently down at the floor as if there were something meaningful in the shoddy carpet. It was a nervous gesture, like the twiddling of thumbs or the excessive adjustment of clothing. Maybe he figured that each minute he stalled made the inevitable seem like an easier task. But, as much as he wanted to believe that, he knew it wasn't true.

Sighing, or rather deflating from holding his breath, he reached for the doorknob. It was not dissimilar to reaching through the depths of space in zero gravity, light-years of distance between him and the godforsaken piece of metal. After a good century, Renji fingered the brass gingerly, recoiling slightly at how cold it was. Fucking frigid, really, but that could be accounted for by his anxiety-induced, ridiculously heightened senses.

He stood there, stupidly, held unawares of his immobile state and his insecurities raged wildly in every nerve in his body. He hadn't even reached for the key in his pocket. He knew exactly what it meant to use that doorknob—commitment. A commitment for the rest of goddamned time, at that. It was a promise so different from what he was used to; it had nothing to do with upholding honor on the battlefield, saving lives, risking his own life… The doorknob was the embodiment of this strange promise, and it was one of the very few times Renji felt unsure of himself. 



'Intimidating, son-of-a-bitch device," he mumbled, as if to admonish the inanimate object. Yes, blame it on the doorknob. He then gave up, slumped against the door, and rationalized that he would only stall a few more minutes.

--

Inside his own apartment, Ichigo had been zealously watching for his visitor through his small vantage point of the door's peephole. True, they had agreed to meet at around three in the afternoon, but it was no reason not to glance out every five minutes since two. Because "around" was a very fluid concept, right?

"Oh, hell. Who am I kidding? Look who I'm talking about. If 'around three' means anything to Renji, it's 'four.' He'll think you're stupid and compulsive," he chastised himself. But only halfheartedly, because he couldn't stop looking if he tried. Anxious energy had him so dreadfully addicted, which was surprising, having never been the nervous type (the understatement that trumps all).

What was more surprising, however, was when Renji came promptly at three.

Through the small, convex glass, the strawberry caught a glimpse of the startlingly red hair, and his mind was sent into overdrive, reeling with doubt, insecurities, and reservations about this meeting. A thrilling electricity surged through Ichigo's blood, making him feel both alive and on the verge of destruction. He could hardly think coherently, his trains of thought were destined for multiple train wrecks.

But in the midst of his cerebral transportation crisis, one thought was pronounced and clear: "I WILL NOT OPEN THE DOOR FOR HIM AS IF I WERE WAITING." However inhospitable, such a blow to his pride wouldn't do. "I mean, I gave him a key. Keys open doors. Renji will open the door." He felt quite pleased with his train-wreck-of-thought reasoning.



Ichigo watched as the other man reached for the handle slowly, almost comically, and withdrew his hand as if the doorknob were alive, carnivorous, and dieting only on human fingers. Then Renji sat down, back against the door, face in his hands.

"...the hell are you doing, Renji?"

Ichigo was frustrated, because, sure as the sunrise, he did not want to be the one to open the door. He was not going to bear the brunt of the emotion, knowing he sealed the deal first. So, obdurately, the orange-top sat down on the other side of the door to wait.



Waiting for what exactly? Waiting for Renji to "commit" first, like it wasn't his idea, too? On some level, Ichigo knew it was childish. Actually, he knew all of it was childish—his worries about his reputation, what his friends would think, how Soul Society would react, fear of losing masculinity. It irritated him to no end that the Kurosaki Ichigo that killed Aizen over his pride won't touch a frigging doorknob over his pride. 



If he didn't know better that it was a fire door, Ichigo could've sworn that he felt warmth emanating from Renji's back through the barrier as he sat on the floor. A harsh, tantalizing reminder of what he could have if he would only let go of his reservations. (Or perhaps a reminder of mental insanity.)

"Fucking doorknob with its stupidly ironic symbolism. 'New beginnings' and shit." Yes, blame it on the doorknob. 



Growling inwardly, Ichigo finally resolved to get off his ass and open the door.



--



Apparently, the two's renowned synchronization followed them off the scene of the fight, because it was Renji's choice moment to get over himself and put on a battle face, Version: Ready to Commit to a Homosexual Relationship™. He unsheathed Ichigo's apartment key from his pocket, annihilated that doorknob that had been taunting him so, right as Ichigo decided to slam open the door in impatience, effectively hitting a leaning Renji squarely in the face. Our ornate redhead stumbled a few steps back and mumbled something to the effect of "It-t-tai. Ya lil' shit—nngh" through the hands that cupped his face protectively. 



Then a curious noiselessness lingered in his wake. Time, commotion, and sound stopped dead in their tracks, watching them. Maybe it was in the way Renji looked up in that moment to dive headlong into Ichigo's concerned eyes, not even sparing a glance for the habitual scowl and furrowed eyebrows that framed them, like he knew every clandestine joy and dirty secret Ichigo possessed beneath the surface. Because in a blur, Ichigo had pulled Renji into his apartment by a fistful of his shirt and drove him into the quickly shut door, ochre eyes inundated with infatuation and primal need. Renji could not find even a vestige of insecurity in those eyes, and felt himself become fearless. 



It all began within an infinitesimal fraction of a second: Abrasive, chapped lips searched each other; teeth grazed tender flesh, leaving red marks to indicate their routes of exploration; tongues fought wildly for dominance in an inner grappling match; strong hands perused the sinuous ribbons of muscle beneath clothing. But it was hardly enough.

Groaning and gasping, they pressed into each other like animals, frotting through their disheveled apparel. Said apparel slowly unfastened and failed in their desperate attempt to stay donned, sticking to the two men's sweating, shuddering thighs as they fell without grace to the carpet. Instinctively, Ichigo and Renji took this "opening" to pump the other's member roughly and artlessly. They reveled in the new sensations, passion overriding the unfamiliarity and the experimental awkwardness. Renji arched his back against the door and a panting Ichigo gripped his shoulders as they continued to grind their hips in a raw, inelegant demeanor. The friction and tension skyrocketed to impalpable levels and they both came in hot, sticky exclamation, sullying their clothes and the vestibule. They collapsed against each other in a half-embrace, pleasured smiles stretched across their tired faces.

And there they sat, their worlds consisting only of each other and the cramped entryway. It was as if their bodies knew how it would end all along, mocking their now blissfully silent consciences. Ichigo traced lazy circles on Renji's back until Renji's face pulled into a wince. 



"Ah, son of a bitch that hurts! I think I got a bruise from the doorknob," Renji hissed.


"Oh really? Lemme see…" Ichigo did a short reconnaissance and sure enough, there was a perfectly oblong handle-shaped purple mark on Renji's lower back.


They paused for a second, looked at each other, and grinned.



Yes, blame it on the doorknob. 



FIN