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The Captain's office was lined with tall bookshelves, all filled with history and myth alike. Renji knew they were already sorted in all fashions; by date, by letter, by subject. But still he ran his fingers over the spines, taking an inventory in his head to fill the time. She would be stopping by soon, he knew it, had a feeling, had overheard it, maybe, he wasn't sure. But she would be there to see her brother, to talk to him now that his injuries had healed.
He had waited until enough time had passed. Sure, when she was saved from her execution he had held her in his arms and ran, promised never to let her go, and she let him hang on her tightly. She held onto him as well, and since that day he felt her imprint upon his chest, like she was still there. She weighed nothing to him, in his wide, long arms, but her presence felt so heavy against his skin.
He knew she wouldn't want to talk about it right away. That was the old Rukia: so blunt, wasting no time avoiding a subject. But something in her had changed. He couldn't possibly know when; for years and years he did not see her, did not hear her voice, could not have witnessed as she grew and changed. They were so young when she left. They were so young when he let her leave. Still he felt like a child, in trouble, running again from someone bigger. The day after it all happened he had tried to approach her, to talk to her, but her eyes turned dark and she made up some excuse.
He felt he had waited long enough. He felt he had dreamed enough of this conversation, felt that he had gone over it enough times in his head.
He arrived early so that Byakuya would not already be there. Rukia was always on time.
“R-Renji?” he heard from the doorway. Turning, he saw a sight he had never really seen before. She was wearing proudly her black haori, looser now than it must have been before, dwarfing her small figure beneath its fabric. So much time spent in idleness, so much time spent not handling a sword.
“Rukia,” he began, suddenly forgetting all that he had planned to say. “I knew you would be coming by, I-”
She sighed and closed her eyes to him.
“What's wrong?” he asked. It was a stupid question, he knew, after all that she had been through.
“It's good to see you,” she admitted, seeming reluctant, clenching her fists. “I was training before I came here.”
“That's good!” he said, trying to hold back his enthusiasm.
“I've grown so weak,” she lamented, looking at one of her tightened fists as she held it before her body. “I feel so...”
“Powerless,” Renji muttered, as if by instinct. “Like you've lost so much time that you can't get back.”
She stayed silent for a moment, digesting his words, lowering her eyelids and studying his face. He felt all of a sudden self-conscious, adjusted his white headband to better cover his unusual eyebrows.
“Yes,” she agreed finally, “Yes, exactly.”
He strode toward her, grabbing her slender shoulders in his hands, too roughly, like always. His big hands on her small, soft body, crushing her beneath him. He steeled himself, moved his gaze from her lithe frame, so soft, to her eyes.
“I'll...I'll help you get strong again!” he told her, trying to brighten the shadow cast over her face. “...Rukia.”
She looked up at him at the sound of her name. She placed one hand over his, her fingers thin and small, though less calloused as they had been before. He gulped, waiting for her to lift his heavy hand from her shoulder again, to bid him to leave her. The moment never came. Instead she pressed it, squeezed it, accepted his offer.
With a sigh her dropped to his knees, suddenly heavy with his sorrow.
“Renji?!”she exclaimed, her voice shrill as he wrapped his big arms around her waist, his head nesting beneath her modest chest.
“I'm just,” he said, “I'm just so happy you're alive.”
“What a change of heart,” she proclaimed flatly, her voice no longer nervous. Sturdy, deep, but sweet as always.
“Rukia-”
“You would have let me die, Renji.”
“Rukia, please-”
“You would have watched.”
“No-”
He felt a few wet drops on his head, as well as the soft tips of her fingers tunneling into his red hair. He heard her soft whimpering, her resolve broken. Even when they were young, death and poverty all around them, she had so seldom cried.
“Then why?” she begged, digging her fingers into his scalp, pulling at his roots. “Why did you arrest me? Why did you hurt me?”
“Rukia,” he groaned, stiffening his grasp on her, “Please, I'm sorry, I was-”
“Don't say anything,” she commanded, pulling at his hair, forcing his head away from her body until he had to look at her face. “Don't. Nothing you can say... will...”
She wept. She had not even wept when she stared death in the face on the hilltop, but now, her old friend kneeling before her, prostrating himself, she cried.
“Rukia,” he cooed, rising to his feet after shaking himself from her grasp. He lifted his hands to thread his fingers through her hair hair. “What do I have to do? What can I do to...”
“I don't know,” she broke. “I don't...” her voice became overtaken with tears.
“Rukia,” he repeated, liking her name in his mouth, for it meant she was there, real, back by his side though he feared she would soon slip away again. “Whatever it is. I'll do it, please, I swear-”
She shook her head, bid him to stop speaking.
“Renji,” she began, “thank you for helping Ichigo save me.”
He clenched his fists as she had done, fingers still looped within her soft hair, at the thought of that boy. He seemed so well-intentioned, that he could not very well deny. But Ichigo had some sort of hold on her, some connection to her very being that Renji knew he could never have. That boy had been the architect of her survival. Renji knew he was but an accessory, a tool.
“But,” she continued, “I just don't know if-”
“Renji,” he heard a low voice say from behind his crying paramour. Tearing himself away from Rukia's weeping eyes, he saw his Captain illuminated by the light of the adjacent hallway. Immediately he dropped his hands from Rukia's hair, folded them behind his back, hoped desperately that her touch had not aroused anything in him.
“Captain,” he said, bowing his head. “I was just...” he said, gauging Rukia's countenance, “I was just leaving, excuse me.”
He left without a word to either of them, ignoring any formality he normally would have been expected to adhere to.
****
Once she heard Renji's footsteps evaporate, far away down the hall, she sighed and turned to look at her brother. She knew he would not do what she needed him to do, would not welcome her into his arms and allow her to sob into his chest. That was simply not his way.
She knew herself bereft of any such affection, though never had she actively sought it.
“Rukia,” Byakuya said eventually, “is there something you wish to talk about?”
“I'm having a hard time,” she gulped, knowing that her brother's wrath could be unending and unforgiving, “I'm having a hard time forgiving everyone.”
He said nothing, pressed his fingers to his chin as he took a seat at his desk.
“It was unfortunate,” he said flatly, “that I acted the way I did. For that I apologize.”
She tried to stop her eyes from rolling back. Where was his sorrow? Where were his tears and broad promises of repentance? She took in a deep breath and looked directly at his face.
“Brother,” she said, stepping toward his desk and placing her hands on the finely crafted wood. “I need time.”
Time. Why couldn't she have told Renji that? He had begged her for a solution, and she had so cruelly denied him one. She scoffed audibly at herself, causing her brother to furrow his brow at her. She knew it foolish to think herself cruel amidst all this. Always she must blame herself, and he had told her that as he held her, ran from the hill.
From Renji she wanted more that just time. He had killed her already, long ago. He would have stood by as she died again, for real this time. Never would she have been able to tell him...
She gazed sadly at her older brother, knowing him to be the cause of much of Renji's strife. Had he not sought her out, had she not been adopted into the Kuchiki clan, her first encounter with her own death may have been avoided. For that much, she could forgive Byakuya, for he knew not what he was doing. He was keeping a promise, and that was all.
“I have to go,” she said, her voice beginning to quake again. She hated that, her weakness. It was not just her body now, but her heart that struggled to maintain its most basic functions, its strength.
He let her leave his office without a word.
What did she want from Renji? She asked herself over and over as she walked the narrow streets of the Seireitei. He would have laid down his life, that much she knew. But that wouldn't solve things; he would simply be dead and he would never know what it was that she truly needed from him. Whatever that was.
She let out a groan, more audible than she would have liked. She felt still his head pressed against her breast, his arms wrapped so tight around her slim waist. She could have loved him then, she knew. In her brother's office, in the dark. Had Byakuya come just a moment later, she may have let him lay her down on the hardwood floor and give up his body to her in apology.
Her chest ached, remembering how they used to be with each other. She could not help but sit down then, on the bench below the high wall of the narrow street. The lanterns were few and far between, leaving her cast in shadow.
Once she had brushed his long hair, as they were sweating beneath the hot sun. If it makes you so hot, why don't you cut it? She would ask him, wishing she hadn't made the suggestion. They were younger then, and she was so fascinated by his form, by his hair, she new that if he cut it all off he would lose a part of himself. That day, when finally she stretched it and tied it up into one long ponytail, he rolled over and turned to face her, his head hovering above her legs where she sat. Thank you, was all he said, as he patted his head, checking her work.
That was gone now. Now he fixed his own hair. She shuddered to think that perhaps someone else had taken up the task for him, someone with hands more deft than her own, someone whom he would never hurt or scorn.
“Selfish,” she scolded herself, as always. Not days before she had been resigned to die before a crowd of her peers, humiliated, shamed for her misdeeds. But now she felt selfish, as though the right to her own life should have been enough to satisfy her forever.
And now she was so weak, and all the friends she had made were back in the World of the Living. They had not even protested when she told them she would not return there.
As she stood up from the bench, accepting that sleeping in her quarters was the only way to escape from her thoughts, she heard a loud crashing sound. Her instincts kicked in, that flighty response to danger, and her neck cracked as she turned her head to the source. Her hand made its way to her hip, that old reflex, but she remembered she had not her zanpakuto with her. Cursing under her breath, she began to run toward the noise.
It was so late at night, it could only be trouble that caused the disturbance. So many of the shinigami slept well at night, and those on watch duty were silent out of respect for the restingand for the calm of the night.
Her small feet made soft tapping noises on the ground as she ran, trying not to pant. Her lungs hadn't the capacity anymore, she had spent so long in idleness. She heard more noises, smaller than the first, but still that tumbling, wood-on-stone sound. And a grunting or a groaning.
“Renji,” she whispered, recognizing his voice. She increased her pace.
Her cheeks flushed as she ran, though not from the sweat she made with her running. He had been hurt, she was sure, by something, some danger of the night, some agent of the dissenting Captains left behind when they made their escape.
She rounded the sharp corners of the street, keeping her mind fixed on the source of the sound. She blinked back frightened tears as she tried not to imagine what she would see when she got there. Renji, she repeated in her head, missing his name so much, how she used to think it all the time. How she had told him there was nothing he could do to make up for what he had done. She had lied though she knew not how he could repay her. She had lied because she thought she had to, that it would be foolish to forgive him, that to tell him the truth would only bring her sorrow.
She came upon the scene rather breathless. He was lying there, beneath a pile of rubble cast in shadow.
“Renji!” she shouted, her breath and her voice barely functioning. She tripped as she jogged, her eyes fixing on his red hair spread across the ground.
“Hnngh-” he groaned. She knelt beside him, picking bits of wood from off his back.
“Renji-” she panted, placing her hand on his face. Her mouth hung open, taking in the sight, inventorying the pile that held him. “What-”
He was laying before an equipment shed, its contents all spilled out on top of him, all wooden practice swords and soft body armor.
“Heh-” he grunted, craning his neck to look up at her. “I wanted to get everything ready to help you get stronger.”
“You-” she stammered, aghast at herself. He still wanted to repair her, fix her, even after she had sent him away in defeat. “You dummy!”
She yelled at him, protecting herself. His face turned red, that shade that was once so familiar to her. She helped him to his feet, kicking aside the equipment that was pinning him down. His hands were clammy and strong against her cold fingers, shaking from exerting so much energy. He leaned into her, still hurt from his fall, weaker then than she had ever seen him.
“I guess we should clean this up,” he said meekly, their hands still laced together. “It was a stupid idea, you probably don't want me to-”
“No,” she stopped him. After a few long seconds of their palms stuck together, her eyes darting back and forth between his bashful face and the pile of supplies as their feet, she gulped. Having finally caught her breath, she pulled her hands away from his. “We should start.”
“Now?”
“I'm not tired,” she insisted. “And this area is virtually empty.”
He stayed quiet for a moment, his palms still open, like her hands had never left. His look of shock changed into his old smile, like a mischievous child, she thought, though into what trouble has he gotten us this time?
****
They left the mess he had made, promised themselves they would clean it up by sunrise. The stood about ten paces apart, each of them gripping their own wooden practice sword. They were old and splintering, yes, but still strong and heavy. Renji watched as Rukia's elbows shook with the weight of it, as her brow furrowed to deny how weak she felt.
He knew she would not accept his sympathy, and that he mustn't feel sorry for her, however much it pained him to see his once-strong friend struggle so.
“Are you ready?” he asked her, his voice bellowing in the empty night.
“Y-yes,” she stammered, adjusting her grip.
She began to run at him, her form still neat, her stance good. He prepared to block her attack, and when her wooden sword crashed into his he flinched only a little.
“See? You're still okay,” he reassured her.
“Don't patronize me,” she demanded harshly, their weapons still pressed together. “Come at me for real.”
She was still fast, and far from sloppy, he noticed as they sparred. What was missing was her confidence. She knew everything she must do, how her body and weapon must move, but she was all too hesitant. After a few rounds, after their arms began to bruise from the trauma of the heavy wood from successful strikes, she told him she needed a break.
“Okay,” he said, panting and sweating. She did not sit down, did not even drop her weapon. She stood there, in the courtyard, beneath the bright moon with the sweat shining on her head. Black tendrils framed her face, saturated with sweat, contrasting her pale cheeks.
“What's the matter?” Renji asked, approaching her, trying to cast his shadow over her. That way maybe the moon would leave her alone, leave him alone, stop shining on her, highlighting every little detail of her face and body. She had always looked the most beautiful in the dark, he thought; it suited her. Somber little Rukia, who never cried but didn't smile all that often either. “What is it?”
“I can't do it,” she lamented, shrugging her shoulders. “I've lost it.”
“No you haven't,” he insisted, dropping his wooden sword to the ground beside them. Again he gripped her shoulders, softly this time, gently as he knew her arms wold ache from the fight. “You just have to go for it.”
“Go for it?” she asked, turning up her chin to look at him.
“You know what you have to do,” he said. He placed one large hand on the side of her face. “You know everything. You know. You can't have forgotten...”
“I've not forgotten,” she said, and Renji was suddenly unsure of what they were talking about.
“Then do it,” he told her, reaching down to touch the wooden sword that lay in her limp hand. He lifted it to her chest, pushed it gently toward her, bid her to take it in hand and fight once again.
“Renji...”
“What?” he asked, his hand still wrapped around the sword nestled into her chest. His face felt a little numb, as if all the blood had left him. No, it had all gone to his ears. They burned despite the cold night. His chest, too, and he had that same warm feeling between his thighs, the one he had felt as a kid but didn't yet understand. When she had brushed his hair back then, oh he felt so warm everywhere, though her little hands were cold.
She sighed and gripped more tightly the wooden sword.
“Okay,” she agreed, nodding her head. “Let's go again.”
She smiled as if she had not been so recently sentenced to death. As if she had forgotten that, forgiven him, and he hoped that she had.
They paced away from one another yet again, readying themselves. He ran at her this time, and she held up her weapon to block his every blow. Her feet moved more quickly than before, her eyes locked with his, reading his every pattern.
“Yeah,” he encouraged, nearly frightened as she forced him into a defensive retreat. She made no reply, her eyes dark under the night sky, the moon now hidden behind the clouds. It looked like rain, he thought. Rain upon their sweating skin and all over her loose clothes, in her black hair.
She hit him hard in the stomach with the end of her weapon, while he was still distracted by his thoughts of the rain. It took him a moment to even realize that he had been knocked down; still he was looking at the dark clouds.
“Ha,” she shouted triumphantly.
“Y-you did it,” he said, turning his gaze to her as she stood above him, arms folded, weapon thrown to the ground. She nodded and folded her legs to sit beside him.
“Thank you, Renji,” she said somberly, looking at the ground. He sat up.
“We're not done,” he said. “I'll keep helping you until you can kick my ass for real.”
“Not tonight,” she insisted, stifling a yawn and wiping the cool sweat from her brow.
“Okay,” he replied, almost disappointed. The wind was picking up. “Looks like rain.”
“I still don't know what you have to do,” she said grimly.
“Huh?” he asked, surprised by the sudden change of topic.
“To make it up to me,” she continued. “It's not even like you owe me anything, I just...”
“Rukia-”
The thunder clapped above them, but neither of them looked to the sky.
“Really I just wish it never happened,” she admitted, her voice beginning to shake in that unfamiliar way again.
“Wish what never happened?” he asked, shifting his position to face her more directly. Still she avoided his gaze.
“If you hadn't left me then,” she cooed sadly, “you probably wouldn't have helped them arrest me.”
“Left you?”
“You were supposed to not be happy for me.”
“What are you talking about!?”
She sighed and looked at him, her eyes dark and angry.
“You were supposed to say 'no, don't become a noble,' or 'don't leave me behind,'” she told him.
He understood. He had always regretted the way he had acted that day.
“But I was happy for you,” he shouted.
“I know,” she yelled back, her shouting weakened by weeping. “I know...” she said more softly.
“I always thought you had left me,” he told her, his hand finding a path to hers as it lay against the ground. “Besides, it's not like...we weren't...you know-”
“Were we not?” she asked him quietly.
The thunder clapped again, and the lightning flashed above them, illuminating every aspect of that empty courtyard. He could see everything. Each tear on her face and each strand of her hair blowing in the stormy wind. The rain came down on them, suddenly, harshly, stinging their heads and limbs.
“What?” he asked, his voice suddenly a higher pitch, shouting over the rain.
“I thought you loved me then,” she yelled back, her throat raspy.
“I did.”
All the sound was the storm. They were both on their knees, kneeling to argue, getting quickly soaked in the dark. Her face softened.
“Well,” she said, still shouting, “do you still?”
“Yeah,” he heard himself say, “Yeah. I do.”
Her lips hung open , their soft pink getting stained with the thick, wet rain. Their shouting stopped again, the storm taking over.
Calmly he slipped one arm under her shoulders, and another under her knees. She was still, did not tell him she could get up on her own, that she didn't need his help. He stood and lifted her to his chest, holding her again like when he saved her, like a bride. Slowly he walked toward the equipment shed, letting the rain beat against his own head and neck as he shielded her from the harsh drops. She laid her head on his chest, and he knew the beating from it sounded louder than the storm.
Once inside he kicked the door closed behind them. It was largely empty, its contents mostly spilled outside, save for some spare robes and some stretching mats. It was lit only by one weak lantern, the light spread in a circle around the old wooden structure.
He put her down, lowering her feet slowly to the floor. He felt so much taller than he had before, taller and wider, dwarfing her more than he realized he could.
They stood in the shed a moment, dripping wet and shivering, until he placed his hand on the back of her neck. Her skin was so cold.
“You're all wet,” he said, feeling the collar of her haori. Without so much as a nod, she stepped back out of his grasp, began to slide the fabric from her shoulders. His instinct told him to avert his eyes, to cover his face with his hands, but he stopped himself. She was looking at him, undressing with intent. For him. The heavy wet clothes slid easily off of her slender frame, though she did it slowly, carefully, revealing to him each part of her body one by one, from top to bottom. His eyes followed her movements, gazed at her as her pale skin emerged little by little. His body shuddered, no longer from the cold rain, when her haori dropped below her chest. Long he had dreamed of those breasts, small and pale, of what they might look like, how they may feel and taste. And now, faced with them finally, he found he could not move. He only bit down on his tongue, hard enough to bleed, too in awe to reach out to her.
Finally the wet fabric fell to the ground at her feet with a heavy noise. She stepped toward him, smiling, clearly entertained by his disbelief.
“R-Rukia...” he stuttered, his eyes narrowing upon her as she approached him.
“Touch me,” she said, “It's okay.”
He had been waiting for her permission, he realized then. Eager and nervous, he began to rest his hands on her back, relished in the soft noise she made when he touched her. Her skin was still soaked from the rain.
He bent his head down to meet her neck, breathing in the mixture of her scent and the storm's. He must have dreamed of this so many times, he thought, so why was he so afraid?
“Rukia!” he said suddenly, pulling her away from him.
“What is it what's wrong?” she asked, and he was certain he had ruined the moment.
“I...I haven't even kissed you yet!”
Her eyes grew wider and her face struggled into a smirk.
“I'm aware of that,” she told him.
“No I mean,” he panted, highly aware now of her nudity, her proximity to him, how hard he was growing. “Let me kiss you.”
He leaned down to pick up the clean, spare robes from the floor of the shed. Swiftly, he laid the white fabric around her shoulders and pulled her back in, close to him, her drying body pressed against his own. He knew he had to stop stalling, to stop worrying about the moment being perfect. It had to be perfect, he decided. It was her, she was there, and therefore it would be perfect even if he was condemned to die afterward.
“Please,” she begged.
He started on her cheek, pecking gently at her face, remaining coy still, even though his whole body urged him to do just the opposite. She would not have protested, he knew, as he heard the little gasps she let out from just his first few kisses and caresses. But still, he took his time.
When finally he kissed her on the mouth the thunder clapped above them again, and he was unsure what had caused the sudden tightening in his chest. He gripped her then, as if protecting her from the storm, pressing himself against her waist, knowing she would feel what she had done to him. He was steaming, he felt, so hot against the cold water, so hard against her slim body. She gasped again, deeper this time, and moved her hand to grab from him beneath his wet clothes.
She seemed frustrated by the damp, heavy material, so she made to untie his pants, to free him. He, for an excruciating moment, removed his hands from her body to assist her efforts.
He was a muscular man, he had known this, adorned with those thick black tattoos she had always made fun of. But now, standing naked before her, it looked as though she could not stop running her hands over them, over his chest and stomach. They let the fabric drop to the ground, and he stepped out of it, pushing her back, making sure he was still pressed to her. Her hands traveled lower, her fingers so thin and small against his hard cock, and he tried not to let out a whimper as she ran them up and down it, her eyebrows lowering as she looked upon it.
“Do you like it?” he asked, unable to stop himself, spurred on by the fascination in her dark eyes. “Do you want it?”
“Figure it out,” she implored of him, taking his hands in hers and laying them gently over her breasts. She felt stiff beneath the palms of his hands, as if cold, though he knew she was warm, warm and wet and ready. Gently he squeezed them, reveling in the satisfaction. Finally, he thought, it's not just dreams anymore.
“Rukia,” he whispered, wrapping one arm behind her back to lift her chest to his face. She let out one of her happy sighs, and he saw her smile before he lowered his mouth onto one of her breasts. “Mm...”
Her feet were off the floor, and he held her suspended, her back arching limply against his arms. He could crush her, he could break her very well in half if only he wanted to. She must have known this, and yet she whimpered for him to continue, to hold her tighter, to use his teeth, not be so scared.
He put her down, hiding how pleased he felt at her gasp of disappointment. He walked forward, pushing her back into the wall of the shed. The wood was rough and old, but smooth from years of wind traveling through the flimsy walls. With one hand in her hair, he kissed her again, as his other hand traveled down her body. He stopped at the meeting of her legs, hesitated until she dug her fingers in hard to his back.
“I said 'figure it out'” she reminded him playfully. He moved his hand lower, gulping with surprise at how wet she had become.
“Oh, Rukia,” he bellowed, losing his resolve, “Please, please, I want to fuck you so badly-”
“Tell me why,” she demanded, gripping his cock once again in her hand.
“Because I still love you.”
“Do you?” she challenged, and though she looked elated, her voice sounded just a little bit angry.
“Yes,” he assured her, pushing himself even harder against her, hearing the creak of the walls.
“Why else?”
“Because I should have done it a long time ago.”
She slid her back up the wall a little, all the while locking eyes with him, using the strength in his hips to hold herself up. She was positioning herself, he realized, and he rested his hands on her waist to help.
Slowly but easily, he entered her, amazed at how deep he could drive himself into her small, willing body.
“Oh-” she gasped, wrapping her thin arms around his neck. “Ungh- tell me you'll never hurt me again.”
“I'll never,” he panted, “hurt you again.”
“Make it up to me, Renji,” she demanded into his ear, twining once again her fingers through his hair. He growled, began to thrust harder into her, so strongly he was certain she would be hurt. But he had promised, never again. “Fuck me like you're sorry.”
“I'm sorry,” he groaned. “I'm an idiot, I love you, forgive me” he mumbled such things into her skin as he made his love to her. He ground against her in shock, in disbelief, in elation, as he struggled to not come inside of the one he had loved since the day they met. She was so soft, so wet, melting into him like wax, though he chipped away at her.
“I forgive you,” she wept, her every muscle tightening around him, her body shaking in the waves of love, “I forgive you, I forgive you.”
It was what he wanted; more than her pale naked body undressed before him, more than her dark, soft hair and her round face in his hands, more than her dreamy breasts and her nimble legs against his skin, he wanted her forgiveness. He could not turn back time, could not undo the things that had been done, but he could love her, now and from now on. It was all he had to give her. That and the sweet shaking of her body, the pleased panting that escaped her throat as she came, dousing him again as he continued to slide in and out of her.
He could come now, he decided. She had to go first. A small victory for her, a small gift from him who had hurt her so badly. She had to go first, now and every time after, he thought.
He heard not even the rain as he spilled himself into her body, clumsily, nervously. It was silent save for her breathing, and the little, happy laugh she could not control.
“Renji, I'm sorry,” she said suddenly, as he lowered her to the ground to lay on the nearby stretching mat.
“What are you sorry for?” he begged.
“I forgot to tell you that I love you,” she said, her eyes widening with worry.
“Rukia,” he said flatly. “I didn't tell you either. Until today. I think we're even.” She smiled, emitting that low giggle she always had when they argued playfully. He sighed and went on, “You can always make it up to me.”
“Jerk,” she scolded, smacking his shoulder with the back of her hand.
***Epilogue***
The sun rose just a few hours later, after they had failed to sleep, rendered too awake by the afterglow. They spent the time before the dawn whispering to each other, I love you, no, shut up, that's my line, recounting old stories from their earlier days together. I saw you in your underwear but I never said anything, because I liked it, Renji, I couldn't stop staring.
As the light trickled in through the wood of the shed she brushed his hair with her hands.
They were hungry, tired, a little cold. Their clothes were mostly dry, having laid on the floor beside the lantern, so they decided to dress and break their fast. The squad six barracks were close, Renji noted, and their fourth seat could really fry an egg.
They sat and ate on a stoop outside of the dining hall, sharing tea and toast.
“Rukia,” they heard from above. “Abarai...”
“B-brother!” she exclaimed, folding her arms across her chest as though she were still stark naked in that old shed.
“Captain!” Renji panicked, stuffing the rest of his toast into his mouth as if that would clear him of any misdeeds. The tall, dark-haired man strode past them down the stairs.
“Doesn't my sister have some sort of training she should be doing?”
“After breakfast, brother,” she lied. She and Renji had discussed nothing of the sort.
“Renji,” he went on, like he had not heard her, “Clean out the old equipment shed in the courtyard.”
“Huh?” Renji exclaimed, his voice reaching a very high pitch. “Wh-what's wrong with it?”
“It's not been opened in months. You can use the equipment to help Rukia.”
“Yes, sir,” the subordinate said, swallowing his chewed toast. The Captain stared down at them for a long moment, his eyes squinting just the slightest bit as he watched them hold nervously onto their plates and mugs.
They watched as Byakuya walked away, his scarf flowing behind him along with his neat hair.
“Rukia,” Renji said, “Just how much do you and your brother talk about?”
“Not a lot.”
“Good.”
“Good? Why?”
“Because now would be a really inconvenient time for me to get murdered,” he jested, laying one hand over her shoulder once he was certain no one could see. “We have to make up for a lot of lost time.”