[ Ichigo sits up abruptly, an unknown sound clearly stuck in his throat and his skin clammy from sweat. Byakuya watches him warily through the darkness as he gasps for breath, holding onto the sheets like they might somehow anchor him to reality. Even in the dark, he can see the wet shine in his eyes, though it stays there, stubbornly.
Unshed tears are the most painful, he finds.
But of course, sometimes it's a matter of exchanging one pain for another.
He's about to nod and lie down, to mind his own business, but then he takes another look at Ichigo - at the way he's hunched over on the bed, clinging to it, to nothing of substance, and he thinks about all the ways they've clung to him throughout the years, his chest aching. Should he leave him like this, then, to fight monsters in the dark on his own, like he left him to handle his enemies after affording him nothing but the worst, most pitiful impressions of himself?
How? ]
I don't mind.
[ There's a long moment of silence during which he just sits next to him, his hand still folded over his shoulder, listening to his own breathing, to Ichigo's, which is faster and more uneven than his. His free hand clenches and unclenches by his side a couple of times as he glances sideways, taking in Ichigo's profile one more time before he shifts. Without thinking about it, about the possible consequences or the implications, Byakuya folds his arm around Ichigo's shoulders and urges him closer.
He knows why, of course. He has much experience, if old, if ancient, of stubborn people who won't share their burdens with the world, no matter how much strength you offer, no matter how badly you'd like to be burdened. He knows.
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Unshed tears are the most painful, he finds.
But of course, sometimes it's a matter of exchanging one pain for another.
He's about to nod and lie down, to mind his own business, but then he takes another look at Ichigo - at the way he's hunched over on the bed, clinging to it, to nothing of substance, and he thinks about all the ways they've clung to him throughout the years, his chest aching. Should he leave him like this, then, to fight monsters in the dark on his own, like he left him to handle his enemies after affording him nothing but the worst, most pitiful impressions of himself?
How? ]
I don't mind.
[ There's a long moment of silence during which he just sits next to him, his hand still folded over his shoulder, listening to his own breathing, to Ichigo's, which is faster and more uneven than his. His free hand clenches and unclenches by his side a couple of times as he glances sideways, taking in Ichigo's profile one more time before he shifts. Without thinking about it, about the possible consequences or the implications, Byakuya folds his arm around Ichigo's shoulders and urges him closer.
He knows why, of course. He has much experience, if old, if ancient, of stubborn people who won't share their burdens with the world, no matter how much strength you offer, no matter how badly you'd like to be burdened. He knows.
And now, he reacts accordingly. ]