Once, in their freshman year of high school, Orihime almost saw Ichigo get in a fight. It had not been his doing. Ichigo had walked in on a group of seniors who were taunting a short, nervous boy in a secondhand uniform. They had taken his backpack and were tossing it to each other, laughing mean-spiritedly when the boy tried to catch it. Ichigo had been skinnier then – sharp and tall and perhaps a bit awkward.
Still, there was something to him that drew her eye. Perhaps it was the sheer difference in the changes they'd both experienced since grade school. During that time Ichigo had undergone a growth spurt that seemed to strain his bones, pull his muscles taut and tense. It gave him an edge of power – perhaps even danger – and Orihime had felt a small rush of envy. All she had to show for her transition into adolescence was a growing softness, a roundness in her hips and breasts and backside that made her feel constantly exposed and vulnerable. Walking down streets by herself, she was conscious of eyes on her. Not malicious – not exactly – but aware of her all the same.
So when Ichigo stepped between the boy and his tormenters – catching the backpack with an ease that verged on boredom – Orihime was jealous. For a moment the group of boys stood frozen, bodies tensed and ready to fight. But something in Ichigo's face – the blazing, eerie calm of it – stopped them short.
Orihime wished she could do that. Communicate with only a look that messing with her would be a bad idea. She was so lost in this – the fantasy of being powerful, slaying dragons – that she almost missed it when Ichigo tossed the backpack to the boy without even looking his way. It was then that she realized that the two did not know each other. That Ichigo intervened out of some sense of inherent responsibility. Some feeling of needing to put himself in front of danger to spare others.
This was the incident on Orihime's mind as she biked to the grocery store. The morning was light, breezy. It was the kind of Sunday that she loved to spend with Ichigo, though she wasn't surprised to find herself alone. Orihime had left his house the evening before certain that she would not be seeing him for the rest of the weekend. He had kissed her goodbye with such an intensely preoccupied expression. An expression that hinted at work to be done, arrangements to be made.
For the first time, Orihime felt confident that she knew precisely the nature of that work. She had, perhaps, known for a long time.
Orihime locked her bike on the rack behind the store, took a grocery list out of the pocket of her skirt. Rice flour, sugar, corn starch, coconut flakes. Today she would make mochi. Wrap the small, plump sweets in parchment paper and secure them in one of her spare bento containers. Ichigo could carry the sweets with him wherever he went. They could tide him over during late nights of hurting people for money.
Orihime plucked these items from the shelves, musing about potentials for different fillings. Red bean paste was traditional, but perhaps a candied plum? Or a slice of fresh strawberry? Ichigo would appreciate anything she made; he always did. And she could feel, in a small way, useful. She could not free him from the confines of his life. Could not make the world gentle for him. But this she could do.
The day before, she had lain in his arms and listened to Ichigo speak about the unsavory world of organized crime. Reassuring her about her brother, comforting her with level-headed insights. Orihime had breathed in the smell of his skin and allowed the truth to wash over her, realizations falling into place as effortlessly as a key slipping into a lock.
She had been resisting the truth – subconsciously perhaps – for months now. But it was evident. It wasn't just the ease with which he spoke about gangs and corruption. She was rarely surprised by how much Ichigo knew; he was worldly in a way that sometimes threw her off kilter. No, it was the undeniable edge of disgust that had crept into his voice. Hearing him assure her of Sora's innocence, Orihime felt the intimate, personal distaste Ichigo had for gang violence, police corruption. Distaste transparently borne from experience.
Orihime brought her groceries to the check-out lane, she had settled on strawberries for the filling which gleamed invitingly from their plastic container. As the items moved down the belt, she tried to locate her own sense of distaste and condemnation. Sora had been killed by a gang member after all. The world Ichigo inhabited had cost her the most important person in her life, forced her to become self-sufficient far too early. It had stolen a childhood that her brother had fought so hard to create for her.
But what she found primarily was a staggering, aching sense of sadness. Alongside the sadness was a familiar, futile desire to take care of Ichigo. Create a place that was cozy and quiet in which she could tuck him away from a world that didn't quite deserve him.
After getting groceries, Orihime biked to the pharmacy. She felt an urgency about restocking her first-aid supplies, having sutures and splints and bandages on hand.
Just in case. A small voice said, and she physically shook her head to dispel the implications of the thought.
At the pharmacy, Orihime paid for her things and tried not to make eye-contact with the customer beside her in line, a tall man with blue hair and an unpleasantly feline expression that made no secret of staring at her chest. Later, in her kitchen, Orihime kneaded pale glutinous dough and tried to think of a plan. She knew that making sweets was merely a salve – something that gave her the illusion action while she felt disempowered to help. What she needed was a way to shift some of the weight from Ichigo's shoulders to her own. She was, in fact, almost desperate with the desire to do this.
But she had nothing to offer him. Nothing but her insufficent care and attention. Sweets and bandages. Temporary solutions.
Orihime powdered her hands with cornstarch and pinched pieces of the mochi dough between her fingers, rolling them into flat disks in her palms. She pressed a slice of strawberry into each one and sealed them into perfect little ovals.
At least she had plenty of time to think about it. As obvious as it seemed to her now, Orihime was certain that Ichigo was not aware that she knew the truth. If Ichigo had one massive blind spot, it was the sense of responsibility he seemed to feel for those around him – the one-sided care he afforded those within his circle of protection. It would not enter his mind that she might develop an independent understanding of his difficulties, might feel her own sense of responsibility to him.
It would have annoyed her – this lack of faith in her own reasoning and empathy. But she thought again of that day in school years ago; watching Ichigo stand up for a kid for no reason other than his own stubborn code of ethics. She understood – a little – that he needed to believe in her innocence. Needed to believe that he could singlehandedly keep her view of the world pristine, unspoiled by cruelty or violence. It was a ridiculous thing to believe. It was hopeless. She loved him for it.
Orihime sprinkled dried coconut over her mochi, the flakes settling atop the smooth powdery surface of the sweets. Outside, clouds gathered to weakly dampen the light of the sun. The air had developed the slightest chill. Grimmjow looked up at her window from the sidewalk, his face mostly obscured by shadow.