[ Seemingly, Ichigo calms down like this, nestled in tightly against his front. He would have expected him to move away at some point, perhaps attempt to distance himself in other ways to save face - it would have been completely understandable - but instead... instead... Byakuya's eyes widen slowly. He stares up at the ceiling unseeingly, while he realises that not only is Ichigo not drawing away, he's -
Breath catching in his throat, he glances down at the feel of the other man as his grip in his nightshirt turns into a hold (a touch), hands spread out against his chest and then, oh, his nose, pressing in against his throat - surely, that's not an accident or - what is he even...
He's about to ask, lips parting uselessly around words that make it no farther than to the intent itself because Ichigo intercepts him, always quicker, always faster, and runs his lips along his jaw, to his chin, to his mouth. His brain, for a moment, completely stalls. He lets Ichigo kiss him for a second, two, without responding with anything but a fractured breath, shaken and uneven. He has so many questions whirling in his mind that he can't think for them - and overlaying them all, stark and almost impossibly clear, is the image of Ichigo in front of that bench in Byakuya's garden and his mother's flowers, his stance, the tight line of his shoulders.
Slowly, he runs one hand up Ichigo's back. It settles against his neck, fingertips sliding into his hair gently. Then, he presses back, a slight motion with more than just a tint of heat underneath, before he breaks them apart, twisting his own face away just enough to maintain eye contact. He can see the remnants of wetness on Ichigo's cheeks up close like this. His features look softer. ]
You... [ He swallows heavily. Shifts a little, not to get away but to do something with his body. The surprise feels like floating on air, out of bounds, and he has to fight to control his breathing. ] Why, exactly?
[ Not the most eloquent he's ever been, granted. But he can't - he can't possibly, when he doesn't understand. It's been so many years for him. The loneliness, too, is a serious choice. ]
no subject
Breath catching in his throat, he glances down at the feel of the other man as his grip in his nightshirt turns into a hold (a touch), hands spread out against his chest and then, oh, his nose, pressing in against his throat - surely, that's not an accident or - what is he even...
He's about to ask, lips parting uselessly around words that make it no farther than to the intent itself because Ichigo intercepts him, always quicker, always faster, and runs his lips along his jaw, to his chin, to his mouth. His brain, for a moment, completely stalls. He lets Ichigo kiss him for a second, two, without responding with anything but a fractured breath, shaken and uneven. He has so many questions whirling in his mind that he can't think for them - and overlaying them all, stark and almost impossibly clear, is the image of Ichigo in front of that bench in Byakuya's garden and his mother's flowers, his stance, the tight line of his shoulders.
Slowly, he runs one hand up Ichigo's back. It settles against his neck, fingertips sliding into his hair gently. Then, he presses back, a slight motion with more than just a tint of heat underneath, before he breaks them apart, twisting his own face away just enough to maintain eye contact. He can see the remnants of wetness on Ichigo's cheeks up close like this. His features look softer. ]
You... [ He swallows heavily. Shifts a little, not to get away but to do something with his body. The surprise feels like floating on air, out of bounds, and he has to fight to control his breathing. ] Why, exactly?
[ Not the most eloquent he's ever been, granted. But he can't - he can't possibly, when he doesn't understand. It's been so many years for him. The loneliness, too, is a serious choice. ]