[ Mercifully, Ichigo doesn't comment on his little slip - it's good of him, really, though Byakuya also wouldn't expect him to be mean about it. Overbearing, certainly. But he isn't now. Instead, he tugs Byakuya in the general direction of his bed - none too wide, he realises, though the thought of lying close throughout the night certainly doesn't bother him. Really, he... Blinking, his body feeling too weak from the strain of standing and holding in his reiatsu, he nods at Ichigo's words, just a curt jerk of his chin and begins undressing. He stands with Senbonzakura for a moment, uncertain of something he can't name, fingers digging into the scabbard with enough force to make it tremble just a fraction in his hand. Then, frowning slightly at himself and his weakness, he leans it against the wall beneath the windowsill. His uniform, compared to Ichigo's nightwear, has a lot of layers. Right now, they feel endless, particularly against the backdrop of Ichigo's naked backside and shoulders as he divests himself of his boxers, too. In the dim light from the desk lamp, the shadows look deeper across his skin, the shape of his body more pronounced.
Did he lose weight as well? His lines look sharper somehow. Byakuya watches him, lips pressed together in irritation for a few seconds - not at Ichigo, but at whomever's taught him that living like this is adequate. Then, he gets back to the business of escaping from his hakama, loosening knots and trying to be instinctual about it as he ought to be after several hundred years - but his hands are trembling and his fingers are clumsy so it does take him a minute more than it ought to, getting everything off. Once he manages, he meets Ichigo's gaze across the small distance between them. He's waiting, still, on his lead.
The way of the soldier, as it were. You forget easily that Ichigo isn't actually one at all.
Forcing himself not to waver, Byakuya pulls the kenseikan none-too-gently out of his hair, putting them on the windowsill above his sword. Then, looking Ichigo over as slowly as he can, giving himself what little time he can to take him in again while the light is still on, he goes to the bed, brushing past him on the way. Getting in, he lies on his side with his front facing Ichigo, holds open the blanket and waits, in turn. ]
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Did he lose weight as well? His lines look sharper somehow. Byakuya watches him, lips pressed together in irritation for a few seconds - not at Ichigo, but at whomever's taught him that living like this is adequate. Then, he gets back to the business of escaping from his hakama, loosening knots and trying to be instinctual about it as he ought to be after several hundred years - but his hands are trembling and his fingers are clumsy so it does take him a minute more than it ought to, getting everything off. Once he manages, he meets Ichigo's gaze across the small distance between them. He's waiting, still, on his lead.
The way of the soldier, as it were. You forget easily that Ichigo isn't actually one at all.
Forcing himself not to waver, Byakuya pulls the kenseikan none-too-gently out of his hair, putting them on the windowsill above his sword. Then, looking Ichigo over as slowly as he can, giving himself what little time he can to take him in again while the light is still on, he goes to the bed, brushing past him on the way. Getting in, he lies on his side with his front facing Ichigo, holds open the blanket and waits, in turn. ]