Ichigo pressed himself into the wall, letting his head fall back on the unyielding brick. It was almost 2am and Nnoitra hadn't showed. This had been happening more frequently. In the last few months Aizen would send someone to meet him and Ichigo would spend hours in an alleyway warily scanning the darkness. Sometimes they never arrived.

At first it had felt like a hazing, a way for Aizen to express disapproval of some slight he felt Ichigo had committed. Now it was becoming clear that Aizen was simply losing control of his organization. Things were beginning to slip through the cracks.

This was an unsettling possibility. Ichigo had kept a tenuous grasp on his life for the last two years. Keeping Aizen happy, keeping his sisters safe, never missing too many days of school in a row. It all worked mostly, but any instability could throw the whole thing off.

Aizen had found him when he was sixteen, an angry kid with no mom, a father who liked to gamble, and two very vulnerable younger sisters. Aizen had come to their house, personally, to threaten his father. Knowing Aizen, Ichigo could only imagine how much money was owed to justify this house call. Instead of breaking any legs, Aizen's eyes had settled on Ichigo. Already tall, with the hard sharp angles that would soon become tightly roped muscles. But there was something else, a detachment in his eyes that hinted at what he was capable of.

He began working for Aizen two days later. Five hundred dollars and an extension on his father's debts was secured in one night. He didn't even need to hit anyone. Not the first time anyways.

Ichigo checked his phone. Two new messages.

Nnoitra:

Someone fucked up. Go home and I'll call you tomorrow to sort it out.

And also,

Orihime:

I'm bringing you lunch tomorrow! No, I am not asking. I couldn't sleep and made way too much spam fried rice.

These messages triggered a sequence of emotions. Annoyance, anxiety, delight, and then a guilt that lingered after everything else had passed. Things were going to get bad soon. Aizen would be crowded out by someone else. Or worse, he would become more brutal in an effort to maintain his territory. Ichigo would be forced to play a role in one of those scenarios, and the fallout would somehow need to be contained.

This was not a good time to be with Orihime.

Ichigo began the dark walk home. The streetlights in this part of town gave off weak, half-hearted circles of light every few feet. He did not feel afraid. There was not much here, or anywhere, that could pose a threat to him.

Ever since he began working for Aizen, Ichigo understood his body first and foremost as a vehicle for delivering harm. A belief that was reinforced by his sheer facility at the task. When throwing a punch, his shoulders did not tense. His long slender fingers made a perfect compact fist without any instruction from his conscious mind. In fact, his mind could go serenely, mercifully blank until the perfect, targeted impact of his knuckles on a jaw or stomach. The pain that radiated dully in his hands afterwards was a welcome distraction from the sudden influx of disgust.

The last time he saw Orihime, the ring finger of Ichigo's left hand had been throbbing with this pain. Not broken, exactly, but a close call. Some low-level gangster had rolled away from him at the last second, and Ichigo's fist had connected with the concrete floor behind him. This did not – could not – stop him from gripping her hips. So hard that he worried, in hindsight, that he had left bruises on her perfect skin. The image was unfortunately appealing. His fingers marked in light purple on the creamy flesh above the waistband of her underwear.

She never told him to stop. He was vigilant – hypervigilant – for any signs of distress, any level of resistance. He tried not to push his luck, even as her small hands drifted under his clothes and her breath became ragged. His desire for her was almost aching, feeling like a physical presence when they were in a room together. In public, he looked at her with eyes so hungry it was indecent. He wondered how nobody noticed.

Being together in her house posed a different problem. Her living room was small and warm, tidy but scattered with an assortment of items only Orihime would own. Stuffed plushies from obscure old cartoons, novelty kitchen gadgets, sketchbooks filled with improbable sci-fi landscapes. Her scent was everywhere. Orihime seemed to relax fully in this space, but Ichigo needed to constantly reign himself in. His brain screamed at him to claim her definitively. When he succeeded at ignoring these thoughts, he could kiss the top of her small nose, sweetly, and hear her giggle. When his control slipped, he could find himself grabbing a fistful of her shirt and sinking his teeth into any expanse of skin he could find.

Ichigo slipped the key into the lock, opening the door to his house slowly so as not to wake his sisters. His father had not lived here for months now, leaving town to escape either the law or, more likely, the outlaws that always seemed to hound him. Sometimes Ichigo was tempted to change the lock.

It was a big house, bigger than the three of them really needed. Yuzu kept the place clean, left meals in the fridge for him when she could. Karin took care of Yuzu, making sure she ate and slept and didn't worry too much over Ichigo. It was a more functional household than it had been with their father there. Ichigo kept the kitchen full of food, the lights on, and bought his sisters things when he couldn't spend time with them. Art supplies for Karin and baking stuff for Yuzu. It occurred to him that his sisters would love Orihime. They would be in awe of her almost as much as he was.

Ichigo tried to shake off the thought. He could never bring Orihime here. She would have questions. Even if he could bring himself to lie to her, she was too smart not make the obvious connections. She was too smart to not already be making certain connections. In his bedroom, Ichigo pulled on a loose pair of sweatpants and collapsed onto his bed. He didn't wear a shirt to sleep, and the air felt good on his bare skin. These days he was curiously aware of his body. The worn cotton of his shirt against his back, the feeling of water dripping from his hair down to his shoulder blades after a shower. He liked to take note of these sensations and compare them against the feeling of Orihime's hands and mouth. They never measured up. Ichigo stretched his shoulders over his head, feeling the tightness of sore muscles. He wondered when it would all end with her.

Already, it felt like a miracle when she touched him. For years he had never even thought to look at her. He could not bear to be another lecherous pair of eyes taking in her long red hair, full lips, and small supple body. It had been impulsive to meet with her, impulsive to kiss her. Ichigo could not shake the feeling that she would look up at him any day now, perplexed, and bolt away from him in horror.

Yuzu. Karin. Aizen. School. Bills.

Orihime.

Ichigo let his eyes close. He could make this work. He would make this work.