"…and the truth is, I don't really know what would happen if people found out he wasn't here. We have some family on my mom's side that would probably take care of them. But they'd fucking hate that. Being sent to the countryside somewhere. Maybe being split up. When Yuzu was little, she would cry all night if Karin or I were gone."
Ichigo heard himself speaking. Speaking with ease words that would have felt impossible mere hours ago. But things were different now. Orihime loved him. She loved him. She loved him. She loved him.
They were on his bed. Ichigo laying on his back, staring at the ceiling as he spoke. She had climbed in beside him after her examination of his injuries, letting the soft skin of her cheek rest against his bare chest. The words had followed. It was like he had been waiting his whole life to have her here listening to him. He felt the flutter of her lashes against his skin as she allowed her eyes to close.
"Say more." Her voice was gentle, more a question than a command. Regardless, he was powerless to disobey.
"My dad… He spiraled pretty hard after mom died. Stopped working. Started gambling. I think when he left he actually convinced himself that he was doing us a favor. That he was a liability, and we would be better off." Ichigo took a breath. He could not allow himself to look at Orihime, nestled impossibly close against him. Instead, he focused on the feeling of her sweater – soft and slightly fuzzy with wear – against the exposed skin of his torso. He focused on the smell of fresh bread that clung to her hair. The clean sharpness of antiseptic solution that lingered in the room.
"The sick thing is. He was right. I mean, we are better off without him. He was a fucking mess. He scared the girls. He was always coming home drunk at night, bringing his casino friends over here. And I was so pissed at him all the time Hime. Angrier than I'd ever been. Angrier than I would ever want to be." He became aware of the venom that had entered his voice and felt a twist of dread that he had horrified her. But she remained against him, her breath warm and steady.
"You're a good big brother." She said, and he couldn't help but smile a little. She said it so definitively. So authoritatively.
"No," Ichigo trailed his hand down her back, the rigid edge of his finger splint dragging across her sweater, "no they're just good kids."
An unwelcome image of yesterday's fight flashed in Ichigo's mind. The fistful he had taken of Grimmjow's wet, thick hair before slamming his face into rain-soaked concrete. The satisfying and sickening sound of his kick connecting with a tensed stomach. Blood. It's metallic tang in the back of his throat.
Orihime made a quiet, thoughtful sound beside him, and he was brought back to her. He swept a few locks of hair off her forehead with the slightest touch of his fingertips. As if to remind himself that he was capable of softness, that his hands could competently execute such gentle movements. He worried for a moment that he had been silent too long, but she simply said; "I used to have a good big brother."
Ichigo's fingers stopped for a moment, "I remember him, a little. He was a cop, right?"
He didn't know much about Orihime's brother – Sora had died when Ichigo was still a child. But in those early memories he recalled them as a unit. Orihime and a kind-faced young man, walking always together to school each morning. She had – of course – been a beautiful child. Like a doll with her large eyes and flaming hair. Radiant smiles and easy laughter.
"mhmm" Orihime hummed in assent, her breath warm against his chest. "A cop. Just for a little while. Just for the last two years. They tell me he was good at it, but I don't know. That may just be the kind of thing people say when tragedy strikes." Her tone was calm, contemplative. Ichigo wondered how long ago she had run out of tears for Sora's death.
He had not been of any use to her when Sora's death was fresh. Ichigo had been a shy child – almost fearful. Too nervous to talk much to anybody, especially to the bright girl always in the background of his school life. That shyness had turned to sullenness after the death of his mother, a pointed disengagement from anyone besides his sisters. They had both lost far too much, but Orihime had carried her tragedy much more admirably. She had somehow maintained her radiance, her sweetness.
"I think they're telling you the truth." He said, and he remembered how a young Orihime would always hold her brother's hand – seemingly not caring if others would find it embarrassing. The adoration with which Sora would hold an umbrella over her small form or bend down to tie her shoes. "And he loved you." Ichigo added, "He seemed so proud of you."
As he said this, it occurred to Ichigo that Orihime's brother would not have been impressed with him. Would not think him a suitable companion for his precious younger sister. If Sora were alive, he would have ensured that men like Ichigo never so much as spoke to Orihime. The thought disturbed him more than he would have liked.
But Orihime was sighing lightly, absently tracing a raised burn mark on his side, "I don't know Ichi." She murmured, her fingers excruciatingly gentle, "I could have been better. Appreciated him more."
It was a ridiculous sentiment, and he would have laughed if Orihime's voice had not betrayed genuine worry. Instead, he nudged her gently off his chest and rolled onto his side so that they were facing each other. From this position he was aware of how small she was, how vulnerable. He could tuck her into his body with ease if he so chose. Wrap his arms around her and physically shield her from the rest of the world.
"Orihime." He said, and his tone was serious. "If you need me to speak as a representative for older brothers I will. You were the best little sister he could have ever asked for. He was lucky to have you…anyone in the world would be lucky to have you." As he spoke, he sensed that Orihime was scanning his face for any sign of insincerity, and he tried to imbue the statement with all the earnestness it deserved. The small, hesitant smile he received felt like a reward for these efforts.
"I hope you're right Ichi." She said. Then she paused a moment, looking at him with an odd kind of focus. "Can I tell you something?"
Ichigo nodded and waited. She moved herself closer to him, tucking herself into his chest instead of meeting his gaze. Ichigo was again struck with the urge to wrap her up, keep her safe. Instead, he contented himself with laying a hand on the back of her head and letting his thumb stroke her hair. It took her several more moments to speak.
"Sora…the night he died. I – I saw the man that did it. Just for a second. I heard a gunshot coming home, and then someone was running down the stairs. I saw him."
"He was killed at home?" Ichigo asked, horrified. He had known vaguely that Sora had been shot but had always assumed a patrol gone wrong. The idea that Orihime had been so close to the violence – literally within eyeline of a murderer – sent a chill down his spine. "I'm so sorry sweetheart, you must have been so scared."
Orihime nodded against him. "Yeah. I suppose. It doesn't bother me anymore, not really. But Ichi I think the guy – the man that killed him – he looked like he was in a gang maybe. And I always wondered if Sora…" she let out a frustrated sigh, as if impatient to get the words out. "I worry that he was tied up with mobsters or something. That I didn't really know him at all."
She sighed again and burrowed her face more securely against his chest. Ichigo felt a swell of compassion for her, that she should be so tortured by the thought of her brother not being the man she always hoped. "Hime." he pressed his lips against her hair and breathed her in a moment. "Listen to me. Yes, maybe the killer was some organized crime scumbag. But if that's true your brother was most likely killed for not playing along with them. Those guys don't shoot cops that are on their side, no matter how badly they piss them off. This city was pretty rough back in those years – rougher than it is now – tons of gangs had whole precincts in their pocket. If Sora was killed by one of them it's probably because he was a good man, ok?"
He stopped short, realizing that he was speaking too long and with too much authority about the subject. Orihime was silent for another moment before looking up at him, and he was half convinced he saw a flicker of realization in her eyes. He wanted to backtrack somehow, shrug off the conversation. Before he could, she took his face in her hands and leaned herself into him.
The kiss surprised him – for once his mind had strayed very far from thoughts of touching her. But the soft pressure of her lips brought it all crashing back. His desire for her – he realized – was never really absent. It merely lay dormant at times, awakened by any slight invitation she gave him. With a hand on her waist he pulled her closer into him, luxuriating in the ridiculous decadence of having Orihime here. In his bed. How many men – he couldn't help but wonder – would commit atrocities for this privilege? The thought made his heart hammer, possessiveness rise in his chest like a coiled snake. He wanted so desperately to sink deeper into the kiss, trail his hands beneath the pink sweater she wore to touch her smooth pale skin. Ichigo gripped the pillow behind Orihime's head with white-knuckled effort, trying to keep a hold of his self-control.
Orihime appeared to have no such concerns. She pressed herself into him, allowed a hand to snake into his hair and grip it with an urgency that was unfamiliar. She slid her tongue into his mouth – hesitantly, curious– extracting an involuntary groan from the back of his throat. Orihime's touch was usually so sweet, an innocent exploration of his body that set him aflame almost by accident. Ichigo was not accustomed to her transparent need. He almost whimpered into her mouth when her other hand began to slide down his abdomen, grazing the waistband of his sweatpants. It was unbearable.
Trying to regain some level of control, Ichigo looped an arm around her waist and pulled her over him so that her legs straddled his hips. Orihime squeaked in surprise at the movement, but was soon leaning back into the kiss, her hair fanning over him, blocking out the light with a curtain of fiery red. This time he could not suppress an audible groan when her weight settled onto him. The urge to grab her hips and press himself against her was overwhelming, irresistible. The heat of her mouth wasn't helping. The feeling of her chest pressed against him wasn't helping. Her sweater felt thin, and the memory of touching her bare, pliable flesh was too fresh in his mind. It was too much for his tenuous grasp on control.
Perhaps Orihime sensed his torment. She broke the kiss and nuzzled her face against him, "You're not breathing Ichi." She murmured into his ear, and he laughed. A short, choked sound that released some of the tension in his stomach. He could feel her smile against him, as if giddy with his lack of composure. Mercifully, she rolled off Ichigo, flinging herself onto the pillow beside him. Her face was adorably flushed, and her hair was tousled. Ichigo closed his eyes for several moments, trying to will his heart rate back to normal. When he opened them Orihime was sitting up, looking concerned. "Was that ok Ichigo? I – I just – wanted to kiss you. So much."
Her brow showed the beginnings of a worried furrow, and Ichigo could not help but laugh and tackle her back down into bed. Holding her down he pressed kisses onto her cheek, her forehead, her nose. "Anytime you want Orihime. Jesus, anything you want." He kissed her small warm mouth once, slowly, for emphasis.
They lay together for a few moments, each of them regulating their breathing with deliberate, conscious breaths. Finally she said, "Thank you Ichi. For listening to me talk about Sora. It seems silly now, but I really do want to remember him well. Some of the detectives I spoke to as a kid told me it sounded like gang violence. I couldn't help but wonder the worst you know?"
He wrapped one arm around her, feeling gratified that his extremely narrow region of expertise had helped sooth her fears. "of course." He kissed the silky skin beneath her earlobe and allowed himself to hope that it could always be like this. "You don't ever have to be worried Hime. You can tell me anything." He could hold onto this woman and keep her safe from the unsavory details of his life. Hell – he could even tell her one day. She was so strong, She had been through so much. They could figure it out together.
She giggled at his touch. Kissed the underside of his jaw with a gentle reverence that made his mouth water, suddenly ravenous. He pulled her closer.
"Did they tell you?" he asked absently, "Why they thought a gang was involved?"
She nodded, remembering. "It was mostly me I think – my description of the killer. He was this tall brown-haired guy in a suit. Mostly it was the fact that he had a tattoo on his neck. Some kind of black bird. I guess it's a symbol of one of the local gangs."
Orihime closed her eyes and sighed contentedly while Ichigo felt his blood turn to ice. There was only one man who could fit that description. A tall, well-dressed man with a jet-black raven against the skin of his neck. Aizen.
Ichigo was a member of the gang that had murdered Orihime's brother.