The world was supposed to spin around them, the consummating kiss epic. They were to be a tangle of limbs and lips, caught up in a typhoon of passion. Her eyes would burn and his would pierce; he would shroud her in his flaming hair.
Close, but no cigar.
He didn't know when it was in the night that he climbed onto the futon, nestled his head into the curve of her neck and shoulders, and let sleep take him. He wasn't even sure if his hands had snaked their way beneath her head and over her stomach before or after he nodded off. All he knew was that he awoke, stiff, with a hungover and extraordinarily pissy Hakumei pinned under him. Her voice was even, but in the past this only meant she was out of patience. "Get. . .off," she gritted, and seeing as her knee was perilously close to rendering him impotent permanently, he hastily rolled off the futon and onto the cold stone floor. Hakumei sat up, then fell back with a groan.
This was it. The situation was crappy, sure, but he could work this out. Abarai Renji was famous for his ability to get out of a scrape. He was acutely aware of the cold floor beneath his folded legs, intense in contrast with the warmth bubbling under the skin of his wrist. "Hakumei," he said softly, "I'm sorry."
She grimaced, then scowled, rubbing her temple with her wrist. "What the hell are you apologizing for?"
"If you're thinking I did anything. . . improper. . ."
"Oh please. You'd never and we both know it. You don't need to feel guilty. You didn't do anything wrong. I'm sorry to have put you in a bad situation, and I appreciate you taking care of me, okay?" She was still squinting and the headache she had was so powerful he was having sympathy pains.
Renji blinked as his heart began to bounce around in his chest. She wasn't mad at him. This was a definite plus. "There's been something I wanted to say to you, though," he said. "I kinda don't know where to start, you might not like this—"
"Wait, wait. Is this really important? I have to get back and check in or Yumichika'll skin me," Hakumei said, finally gazing up at him blearily.
"It's really important." He edged close. "I've thought about this a lot."
The irritation slowly melted from her expression, giving way to a clear curiosity. "And you need to tell me about it?"
His face was grim because he needed it to be. Smiling would only have freaked her out, and that was the last thing he needed. "It's about you."
"Oh." Now she was confused, but still curious. She crouched, almost, arms wrapped around her wiry legs and her chin resting on her knees. "Go ahead."
He scooted even closer, so the corner of the futon wedged just under his knees. He was conscious of the light graze of her toes. "Hakumei—Arisawa. . . we've known each other for a long time."
"Yeah," she agreed, tilting her head.
"What if I told you I know you a lot better than you know me?"
She took a breath, smiled a little. "I knew that already. Shinigami watch over the dead and the living, right?"
He gulped, staring at his wrist. Maybe that wasn't the best way to start. "Yeah, but no, that's not what I mean. A lot of the time when I was in Karakura, I watched over you." The tattoo was burning now. He looked her in the eye.
She was no longer smiling.
"It's not what you think," he said.
"Then what was it?"
"I loved you."
"That sounds a hell of a lot like what I'm thinking."
"I wasn't stalking you or anything. I was just checking up on you."
"Checking up on me." Her eyes were narrowing.
"Yeah!" His arms began flailing a little. Even his exhausted body had picked up on the fact that he was drowning. "Lots of unsafe things out there for a human girl with a little power but no ability to fight, you know?"
"No ability to fight."
"Yes! No! I mean, you could fight, but not hollows."
"Renji, outside of the war you all talk about, I don't remember being attacked by a hollow since the one Inoue killed." She shook her head. "And you loved me? Where was I during all this?"
"You were right there, the whole time. I didn't want you to remember."
"Remember? Remember what? Something other than watching my friends get stronger and wander away from me? And you? You were damn near a mess because you didn't get what it was you wanted—" She blinked, the near-anger melting away as if some epiphany had materialized in her head. She covered her mouth with her hand.
The words were in his head before he fully understood what was happening. Something Inoue had said to him ages ago about the woman who faced him now. He didn't get a chance to say her name, to stop her before she not only jumped to a conclusion but pretty much did a jig on it.
"I'm so sorry, Abarai. I never made the connection before. It was Rukia, wasn't it. The one who broke your heart." And it flowed like a crystal mountain stream, if such things could be polluted with voluntary delusion. Even if bits of it were true. "You had to be in Karakura with her, and it hurt. So you tried to focus on something else, right?" When did she put her hands on his wrist, so close to the one thing that would stop her? It didn't matter to him. Her hands on him were precious. All he could do was nod at her.
And she smiled at him, a smile he'd seen before he loved her. The smile that set him in that direction. It was never pity, not from her. She understood him better than anyone else, even though she didn't know him anymore. "I'm sorry. That was an asshole move, wasn't it. All that time, and I didn't even know. You've always looked out for me. I know it's crappy and probably too late—but thanks."
The baby bird reflex had struck again.
It was still pretty early when they came out of the training ground. Renji walked her back to the eleventh, where Yumichika stood at the gate looking fresher and lovelier than ever. But as they came closer, he crossed his arms and made the scariest face Renji'd ever seen on him. Ikkaku was going to get an earful when he finally got up. But Renji didn't care. Arisawa—Hakumei wasn't mad. She didn't eye him like he was about to molest her. They were friends again. And the tattoo barely felt like it was there anymore. It was really over, his years of longing. His heart collapsed in on itself like a house of cards.
He was so happy he wanted a drink.
Long before she willingly stepped into Orihime's boob-tastic shadow, Tatsuki was aware she would never be "that girl." The one whose presence diverted and attracted male attention. The one who would find confessions—signed, unsigned, sometimes badly spelled—in her locker after school. Once she understood and accepted her fate, it was easier to live it out. She would be herself, without pretense or artifice, she would not devote a drop of her time to impressing or securing a member of the opposite sex for her very own.
Not that she never attracted any or secured one for her very own, eventually.
But memories of Mokoto were fading. Her life—her un-life—was trundling along at a speed she hardly anticipated. She had been blooded, so to speak, after another outing with the denizens of the eleventh. She was careful not to drink again, and one good hit made it known that she was not something to be trifled with. Madarame was so proud he drank for her. She moved onto and through her other rotations in what seemed like weeks, and before she knew it she was firmly ensconced in the eleventh as a fourteenth seat. It wasn't her first choice. But the ninth was out of the question for the obvious reasons. She was quite comfortable with the seventh; she admired Komamura-taichou's calm but fierce demeanor. But it seemed that the eleventh squad had fungal qualities. They grew on you. Komamura-taichou was disappointed, but he understood. Iba had come from the same place. Perhaps she might reconsider in a few years, he told her even as he congratulated her on her graduation and assignment.
Now, however, she had different problems than before. Ichigo sought her company to complete his retinue as often as he could. She had done her best to evade him by citing their disparate ranks. But after months of put-offs bad excuses, Ichigo was fed up and dead set on having his way. He guffawed, clapped her back and gently but forcefully pulled her along. She gave up then, letting herself settle into what was apparently her predestined place as part of his posse. Nevermind the fact that he was now a captain, married, and widely respected. It was just like being back in high school, in a way (oh, the horror!).
But in ways it was not the same. Shortly after she began joining them on their weekly bar brawls, Hisagi-sempai (taichou) began making appearances as well. Part of her was relieved, though she never admitted it. He was calm and most often the only sober one. When she began to let herself fade into the wallpaper, he would pull her out with warm conversation and warmer welcome. He seldom smiled, but when he did it clawed at her head. He was achingly beautiful, was Hisagi Shuuhei, and of all people, he seemed to single her out. Of course she was flattered. And worried. And a little unnerved when Abarai-fukutaichou began to question her about it. He was the only one who seemed to notice, and even though it was rare that he ever pushed hard, he was always probing, like a surgeon looking for a tumor. What killed her about it was that it was just as sweet as it was irritating.
One night, he plopped himself beside her where she sat at the bar with the others. The Matsumoto toast was only half-over (they were on shot seven out of fifteen) and Abarai had clearly gotten a head start. He scratched at his right wrist absently. "Is he here tonight?"
Tatsuki blinked at him. "Who?"
"Hisagi." Abarai's eyes narrowed. "There have been rumors, you know, Hakumei."
Tatsuki's eyes narrowed in return. "Rumors."
"Have you been screwing him?"
The glass was empty, so she could not throw her drink at him. She settled for smacking him, an action which caused him to yelp and a half-dozen pairs of eyes to focus on the commotion. For a blood-curling moment, all was silent. And then Ikkaku raised his drink. "Hey fuckers, Hakumei has been possessed by the Matsumoto!" The room exploded into laughter and cheers that faded gradually until the rest went back to their drinks. Abarai rubbed his red cheek, smiling a little. Creep.
"I'm not going to answer that, Abarai-fukutaichou." She did not feel the need to add that it was none of his business, and. . . not yet.
The lulling feeling Shuuhei caused in the pit of her stomach was familiar and welcome. She could relax around him and he seemed to enjoy her company. He was a professional where propriety dictated, but lately it seemed that he would forget his rank when he was alone with her; every time they met outside of work and the academy, it seemed he wanted to touch her in one way or another. The one time he had come too close, he watched her unleash her kidou and yet again fail to hold her stance. He was behind her in an instant to break her fall. She had gasped a little, embarrassed and slightly aroused by his sudden proximity. She hazarded to gaze up at him, to thank him as was proper. He gazed down at her, eyes cloudy but calm. His head bent lower, slightly, his temptation so palpable she could taste it. But then he blinked, as if he suddenly remembered who he was—and who she was. He smile, almost sheepishly, and set her on her feet, telling her to try again. Which she did, and succeeded. His congratulations was heartfelt and calm. She thought him damn near perfect. It was never hunger that radiated from Shuuhei. It was a mix of kindness and shy affection. All she could do was drink it up. No one—even the man she had married—ever put her at ease the way he did. And if she were right—and she prayed she was—he would continue to do so and then some. But none of this was Abarai's business. Period. Even as he sat here nodding, concerned in the way a sempai and a higher ranking officer would be, but utterly tactless about it. It was maddening how endearing he could be, and how she wondered what he was really like under all that gorgeous hair.
Tatsuki shook herself here. As much as she liked Shuuhei, her mind always seemed to wander back to Renji. Like a goddamn boomerang. His confession had endeared him to her—more than she cared to admit. All she could do was hope Abarai never noticed.
As of yet, he seemed clueless. But hard liquor would do that to anyone. She wondered how he managed to function on the days after his binges, even though she had been told by Madarame that they were a lot more tame than they used to be. She also wondered why exactly she cared. She shook her head. She disliked thinking in circles. "Abarai-fukutaichou, haven't you had enough?"
"It used to be more than that," he said, rubbing his forehead. "I've been here a couple of hours. Used to be I'd've puked and passed out by now."
She didn't know whether to be horrified or impressed. But as it was, he was getting up. "I like that you're worried, Hakumei. Makes me feel good." Before she could really gape at him, he hit the floor. The noise ground to a halt. From the back of the bar where he was talking to Keigo, Ichigo shot her a look. "Tatsuki, will you get that moron up and take him home?"
Tatsuki scowled. "Can't someone get Richiki to do that?"
Ikkaku guffawed from the other end of the bar. "Richiki's a good kid, but Abarai's a touchy drunk. No guy here will do it, and you're the only girl who'll fight him off. Just don't hurt him too bad when he tries to feel you up." Then he and Ichigo nodded at each other, grinning like monkeys.
Tatsuki groaned. Lying sacks of shit. The bar was crawling with females and most of them outranked her. The more experience the female officers had, the more immune they seemed to be to the sad legend of the Renji Wrecker. But saying no would probably not work here. No one else was ready to leave, and to just let Abarai lay on his face struck her as cruel. Sighing, she knelt and pulled his arm over her shoulder. "Wake up and walk with me, Abarai, or I swear I'll kick your ass, wasted or not." Abarai was just awake enough to comply, head lolling against her shoulder as they made their slow way back to the sixth. She was actually kind of grateful. He was going to pass out as soon as she got him home, and then she could head back to her own quarters early. Extra sleep was always good. . .
"Stop," Abarai said suddenly.
"What?"
"We're close enough. I'll make it back okay."
"All due respect, fukutaichou, but you're full of shit. You look out for me, I look out for you, remember?" She tugged at his gloved hand. "C'mon."
For once, he was obstinate. "No, really. I'm cool."
She tugged, and the glove came off. She sighed, tried to hand it back to him. He pushed her hand away. "Nevermind it."
Tatsuki shook her head and pulled at his wrist. "Don't be a baby. I didn't mean to—" She stopped.
"Go on and look." His eyes were tired. "I tried to tell you." He turned his wrist up, held it out.
She looked at the fading sepia scrawl. Looked at him.
"When?" Her thumb just grazed the surface, almost tracing the lines of her name.
"The day I left you behind." Their eyes met. It was the most unromantic thing ever. And why the hell was she thinking it should be romantic? "You remember, don't you?"
The world was supposed to spin around them, the consummating kiss epic. They were to be a tangle of limbs and lips, caught up in a typhoon of passion. Her eyes would burn and his would pierce; he would shroud her in his flaming hair.
Instead, she punched him and walked away.
A/N: Finally! Pardon me while my head explodes.