[ Under other circumstances, he would have been severely annoyed by Ichigo's overbearing attitude - can't believe I'm still telling you this, what, like he's slow - but as it is, when he swallows, he can still taste the remnants of him on his lips and feel the echoes of skin against skin. It softens everything within him, annoyance as well as surprise and apprehension, particularly once Ichigo tells him neither are you, running his fingers lightly over his nightshirt, smoothing the fabric over his skin. Then, as has always been true for this man, he shifts from gentle to harsh, his touch transforming into a grip and it makes sense, of course, from what Byakuya has heard. That Ichigo is many things all at once, some of them more human than others.
But it also makes sense for how he knows him and that feels much more important now.
Looking at him for a long moment, searching his face for any signs of insincerity, of impatience or impulsiveness or anything else that wouldn't do, not for this, not when the stakes are so high, he finally makes a decision. He thinks about tomorrow, briefly, about whether or not Ichigo's words truly are good enough and they aren't, not really. Getting your body used to nothing, to empty rooms and empty beds, is a painful process, worsened only by exceptions to the rules.
Then again, he can handle much. Surely, no matter what comes next, it's something that can be lived. It must be. ]
It's enough.
[ He folds his hand against the back of Ichigo's head and runs his other hand up his side, pulling his t-shirt up to press his palm against his side. He's burning hot, impossibly so. Alive. Breathing. Slowly, almost stiffly, he sinks back against the bed, pulling Ichigo down on top of him and entwining their legs, breath catching in his throat at the feel of it. Not on my own, Ichigo's words echo in his mind and somehow, as they tend to do, they take root there, undeniable. ]
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But it also makes sense for how he knows him and that feels much more important now.
Looking at him for a long moment, searching his face for any signs of insincerity, of impatience or impulsiveness or anything else that wouldn't do, not for this, not when the stakes are so high, he finally makes a decision. He thinks about tomorrow, briefly, about whether or not Ichigo's words truly are good enough and they aren't, not really. Getting your body used to nothing, to empty rooms and empty beds, is a painful process, worsened only by exceptions to the rules.
Then again, he can handle much. Surely, no matter what comes next, it's something that can be lived. It must be. ]
It's enough.
[ He folds his hand against the back of Ichigo's head and runs his other hand up his side, pulling his t-shirt up to press his palm against his side. He's burning hot, impossibly so. Alive. Breathing. Slowly, almost stiffly, he sinks back against the bed, pulling Ichigo down on top of him and entwining their legs, breath catching in his throat at the feel of it. Not on my own, Ichigo's words echo in his mind and somehow, as they tend to do, they take root there, undeniable. ]