It is the first thing he sees, when he comes into her room.
For a moment, he feels his every limb tense and he freezes there, eyes trained dispassionately on the razor.
Dispassionate on the outside, but for the first time in complete turmoil on the inside.
He bends down to pick it up, holds it between his fingers, notices analytically and distantly that it's not bloodied.
He takes slow steps into her main chamber, sets down the tray, and finally turns around, expecting to meet a corpse. A bloody mess, maybe a little pool, arms sticky and brown. He has been saving it for last. He wants to believe she is alive, that he has not failed Aizen-sama or driven her to... or that the girl has commited suicide.
She is sitting there calmly, heart, certainly, still beating.
He frowns. She blinks.
He notices.
"Who gave you the razor?"
"Grimjow-san. He offered me anything. I asked for that. In return for giving him back his…" she looks disturbed at the memory, "his rank. His six. "
"I will take it." She looks ashamed, and he stares at the razor between his thumb and forefinger a moment more before pocketing it. "He should know better."
"Grimjow-san believes in a fair exchange." She looks unhappily thoughtful. "Well, sort of."
"True. And he is a fool for thinking such."
He stares at her some more. She averts her eyes, stares instead at the floor.
Despite himself, he is curious.
"Why did you so sorely feel the need to cut your hair ? He offered you anything you wanted. You could have used the razor to kill yourself –"
"My friends are still coming for me," she says quietly, like it is her only hope and a dying flame she must shelter.
He doesn't bother this time, because it will only drive her to irrational, sentimental anger.
"- Or you could have asked for something you missed from your life. Something you forgot behind, perhaps. Or something you loved and cannot have here. You could have asked for some time out of your room. Some freedom."
"This is freedom."
He frowns again.
"Your hair is shorter." He bends down stiffly and picks up a long strand of hair, lopped off, and holds it limply in his palm as if for effect. "You are still a prisoner. You are still weak and helpless. You are trapped in this room all day and all night. Cutting your hair does not help your situation at all."
"I guess it wouldn't make sense to you," she whispers. "It's a… symbolic thing. I promised Tatsuki that I would keep my hair long for her." Her voice goes ultra-soft, and he can barely hear. "Because she would always protect me."
"That's illogical. She is not even here now to save you."
He is actually caught off-guard by what she says next.
"I know."
"You're actually aware of that?"
She fingers one of the messily chopped bits. They're just at her shoulder, but not consistent. They are jagged, frayed at the edges. He thinks that her hair before might have been considered beautiful, but now would be considered unacceptable.
"I made a promise to Tatsuki," she whispers, "I promised her that I would never cut my hair. Because we were best friends and she had promised to always protect me."
"You cut it because she didn't fulfill her promise?'
She shakes her head.
"Not really. I just realized that…"
She never finishes her sentence, and he wouldn't wonder that she doesn't quite know what she's realized.
Maybe that she cannot be dependent on others forever.
Maybe that Inoue Orihime is the only person who can save Inoue Orihime.
"It suits you," he says tonelessly.
"Thank you," she whispers as he walks out.
He stands outside her room, once again, but this time does not hear her crying. He stares long and hard at the piece of hair with empty eyes. Dead to emotion.
After a moment, his hands, moving of their own accord, bring the lock closer to his nose, and for one moment he breathes in- he can smell her, her reiatsu and the bizarre, flowery shampoo Aizen provided- before he realizes what he's doing.
He stares at it hard some more, eyes still blank, because he can't afford to let any further feeling slip out.
He wants to just drop it, but instead slips it into his pocket with the razor. He walks away, his robes silently billowing behind him, hands in his pockets, eyes still dead.
Inoue Orihime had just become a threat to Hueco Mundo.
She had become even more fascinating at the same time.
a/n: A ficlet for one of my (new) favorite couples. They need more love.