Kurosaki Ichigo and Abarai Renji, unresolved tension in 2,336 words.

Disclaimer: Kubo Taito's, not mine

Rated: PG-15 for strong sexual suggestion, slashy

Spoilers: takes place rather ambiguously after SS arc

Summary: A very big fight in a very small room: it's all fun and games 'til somebody gets hurt.

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Getting Scared.

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"If you're bored," Ichigo says with a scowl. "Go study."

From the floor, Renji makes an unidentifiable guttural sound and rolls onto his back, arms

outspread. He might be dead if not for the slow, leery way his eyes track across the ceiling and

down to where Ichigo sits. Beyond that, he lies motionless, socked feet at a perfect forty-five

degree rest atop his closed chemistry book.

And staring. Staring at Ichigo for what has to be ten unblinking minutes.

So what? He wants to stare, let him stare. Let him stare all damn day if he wants. He came of

his own accord: not Ichigo's responsibility to entertain him. Can't see why he doesn't just go and

watch some television. He's made it amply clear he has no compunctions about inserting himself

between whichever two people happen to occupy the couch at any given time, and waylaying the

remote like it's his sole propriety. Oh no. It's not like, at any time he so chooses, Renji can't go

off skulking all up and down Karakura cho without Ichigo or Rukia's supervision.

Not like...not like he can't...

Ichigo flips a page forward then back, realizing he's just reread the same paragraph three times

and not a word of it has stuck.

It's getting close to five p.m., almost dinner hour, still hasn't made a dent in his homework, and

here's Renji being of absolute little help. So Ichigo throws something at him, just a little balled

up paper. Does it in such a manner as not to betray his intent, and aimed just high enough to

possibly miss. But not by much.

The thing whizzes past Renji's nose by a hair, and without so much as a blink. So Ichigo winds

up and throws a larger one. When that fails to provoke a reaction, he cranks his arm back and

flat out catapults the floor-cushion at Renji's head.

It nails him square in the face with a satisfying whap, and remains there for one long, terrible

second before Renji lifts a hand–one elaborately careful hand–to remove it. After all that, the

best he can manage is a look of confused betrayal. "Why would you do that?"

Ichigo folds his arms over his chest. "Just because."

Renji drops the cushion and half-heartedly bats it in more or less Ichigo's direction. "I thought

we were studying," he sniffs, not even feigning interest. He lets his arms flop back to the floor,

and it's like he couldn't care less if the edge of a tattoo or several should happen to peek out here

and there. "I thought maybe Rukia--"

"This is pathetic, you're pathetic," says Ichigo. "Can't you find something better to do? You

come here, you eat our food, use up our toilet paper, bother me while I'm tryin' to study--"

Renji shrugs a shoulder up from the floor, and reaches around to fish something from under his

back: his school notebook, which he thrusts casually at Ichigo. "Copy my notes," he says. "Go

on."

His script is neat, slanting, and very small. There's at least a weeks worth of chemistry crammed

into that one page–with covalents and little diagrams color-coded in cheerful gel-pen.

He's so rubbing Ichigo's nose in it.

"I assure you," says Renji, voice extra cool and formal, "it's all correct."

Ichigo sighs and dutifully shrugs himself up from the floor, picks a foot carefully over Renji, and

reaches down to accept the notebook. He stands there paging through, ankles bracketing Renji's

waist; logic being that it's _his_ floor, and he's every right to stand in whichever spot he wants,

whether or not Renji just happens to occupy said spot. The late-day sun casts a long shadow

behind Ichigo, and this is where Renji looks, up and up, mouth slightly down at the corners.

"Yeah, yeah," Ichigo mutters, "these are great 'n all–"

"Then what's the problem? I'm doin' you a favor, Kurosaki," he grumbles, all wounded pride and

bright eyes. "I mean, don't go falling all over yourself or nothin'."

"No, no, this is great," Ichigo says, hastily, paging through quicker. The work is to-a-"T" perfect.

No way Renji could've done all this in the little time he's been here. "You must've read through

the entire text book...jeez."

"Like hell I did," says Renji, grinning. His teeth are big, bright white like his eyes. "The crap

that passes for education these days, I hadda bring over my own materials."

At this, Ichigo lowers the notebook and lets off a snort. "Look who's got something to prove all

the sudden," he says, lifting a foot and poking at Renji's stomach. "If I didn't know any better,

I'd say you were trying to make me look bad." He pokes Renji's stomach again, eliciting a soft

grunt.

Isn't sure why he's surprised to feel...warmth there through his sock, to feel a give. Not for a

moment has he forgotten that this is a fake body, that the being inside is nothing more than spirit

and ectoplasm, and that he, Renji, has not been alive in the conventional sense for a very long

time.

Still, Renji scowls and reddens like anything living would. "Is that what you think people

think?"

"What, huh?"

"Is that the sort of reputation you think I have?" Renji growls, low and warning. "I'm warning

you, poke me again, but don't you dare patronize me."

"What, no! I'd never! Ass. But I can't copy these." Ichigo bends and sets the notebook on

Renji's chest, then stands half-way, bent over and looking at him. "I gotta show my own work, or

it won't count. Thanks anyway." He doesn't need to explain why this school thing is still so

important to him, to Sado, and to Orihime. He's sure Renji understands the need for some small

measure of normalcy in their lives.

"Suit yourself," Renji sighs, and he shrugs half-upright again and tucks the notebook neatly

beneath his untouched biology text. He's glancing sneakily at the clock as he does this.

"You're not even gonna ask," says Ichigo, again poking him in the stomach with one socked foot.

Renji flops obligingly backwards, arms outspread, body now ever so slightly curved. "Ask

what?"

"If you can stay for dinner. You're just gonna wait until someone invites you," says Ichigo,

frowning over Renji's impossibly warm and giveable belly. "You don't think that's kind of rude?"

"Nope."

His hand is also warm when it closes gently around Ichigo's ankle; warm and impossibly large.

Ichigo wiggles his toes, and Renji curls around them, stomach shivering. But he hasn't said to

stop. So Ichigo pokes him in the ribs, right along his spine, watches him shivercurl in the other

direction and laugh uneasily deep in his throat.

He tries to roll onto his back, as he'd been before being so rudely interrupted, and Ichigo plants a

foot in his stomach. Not hard or anything, but pressing, testing the give. Poke me again, he says.

Well, all right.

Ichigo pokes him in the chest, gets on him about being rude again, because he's not fighting back;

he hasn't yet roared and tried to snap off Ichigo's head. He's just lying there looking at turns

sheepish and...and weird.

"You like this, don't you," says Ichigo, in a voice that can't be his. "You're some kinda big

weirdo that likes this, huh?"

He can see he's pushing it now, seriously toeing the line. Renji's face has gone from sheepish to

blazing; unreadable, but all the more dangerous for that. A grin is not always a smile, but

sometimes it's just bared teeth, a primitive apelike reflex–or so says Ichigo's sociology book.

Come to think of it, Renji is sort of apelike, in the way that Sado is sort of tree-like.

Ichigo slides the foot down, Renji's skin shiver shivering, and prods him again, finds the sharp

hump of a hipbone which fits neatly into the arch of his foot. He rubs, feels fabric over skin, skin

over tissue, tissue over bone, shifting perfectly in every way; never too little and never too much.

Fake but real enough to avoid detection, right to the very core. He's got a navel, fingernails,

eyelashes, and absolutely something between his legs.

Ichigo's ready for the kick, Renji's hips twisting up off the floor, legs wind-milling, aiming for a

quick takedown. He steps into it, and he's thinking the words parabola and trajectory, and if

he's too close, he can disrupt the arc: grab onto Renji's calf and use his own leverage to send him

over backwards.

Ichigo's ready for the answering grab. Renji's flexible with a long reach, easily folds over and

back in on himself, again using those long legs to vault upright and launch himself. But he's

slower than Ichigo, and not used to the weight of his own earthly flesh. Ichigo's shoulder-throw

sends him caroming into the bed and off of it, the mattress takes most of his impact, but a little

of the frame catches him somewhere, a loud ugly crack, and he's rolling on the floor: silently

furious and clutching his knee.

Ichigo pulls for air, tries to catch his breath as he drops down beside Renji. "Oi, you okay? Did

you hit the--"

And Renji's hand is over his mouth. The pain isn't a ploy, but he's used it to his advantage. All

right, thinks Ichigo, if that's the way he wants it. A hand-blade to the elbow, five points of pain

to Renji's humerus, and Ichigo's other hand over his mouth to keep him from howling. His eyes

are huge now, every new insult a momentous surprise, as if no-one had ever told him his

corporeal body could feel pain.

"That hurts?" says Ichigo, hand overtop the elbow, just holding Renji's arm immobile for him.

An eager nod, and much of Renji's stiffly, carefully spiked hair has begun to pull from its knot.

"Lemme know when you can feel your fingers again," says Ichigo, and his hand's away from

Renji's shocked mouth–widely grinning, or grimacing–diving for his unprotected ribs and armpit.

He's betting no-one's ever told Renji his corporeal body could be ticklish, either. The impulse

is brash, immature, and rightfully results in a knee to the chin. For that, Ichigo pins Renji and

cranks an arm behind his back, threatens the sanctity of his ass with one knee.

Dirty tactics. His dad would bust a vein if he could see, and his dojo master would surely crack

him across the shoulders with a practice sword. So he's not sure why he does it. It's like some

beast has uncurled inside his chest, and suddenly snaked its limbs out into his arms and legs,

taking him over. It's the beast that grows horns on young boys who try too hard. It makes him

want to do things, sometimes, and being the son of a doctor, he knows to a scientific exactitude

what those things are.

He knows, unlike his classmates, that you can't get a girl pregnant by looking at her funny. He

knows, much to his floor-gazing embarrassment, what a condom is and how to use one–in

theory, if not in practice. He knows all about the special time in his life, and has spent many a

night in the bathroom learning more.

He knows a lot, a whole lot about that stuff. And he knows why Renji's chest and neck look like

they've been scalded, why he's doing everything he can to protect his groin. He's going to use

that fact to embarrass Renji, before Renji can use it to embarrass _him_.

"Huff...oi...you know it's natural to get excited...at your age..." Ichigo laughs. "Reeenjiiii..."

Renji's growling something about "playing with me," and trying to buck Ichigo off, shaking his

shoulders, rolling and twisting. Trying his damned most desperate, still gasping that panicked

confusing gasp; teeth bared, laughing and angry all at the same time. "This is too cruel, you

bastard. I'm'na kill ya...just you gimme a chance...kill you dead!"

Ichigo believes him, believes that he'll try, at least, if given enough slack and opportunity. So

across the floor they roll, bumping and scraping and bruising, and onto his feet Renji drags

Ichigo, still slung onto his back, dancing and winding up to toss him away. Both laughing and

angry and all at the same time confused, and it isn't until they hit the edge of the desk and knock

over the lamp--which does not shatter, but clatters loud enough to alert the entire household--

--not until then, that they stop.

Renji does not feel so soft anymore. He feels hard, and big, and dangerous. His arms are out and

braced backwards against the edge of the desk, where he has Ichigo near crushed, and the

tension's enough that he could snap--just like over tempered steel, thinks Ichigo, just like when

you're forging a sword. And this is nothing like the other two times they'd fought. It's way more

serious than that.

Renji's wheezing and his back's rising and falling like holy hell, clammy through his thin shirt,

damp against Ichigo's chest. And in the stupidest move to end all stupid moves, Ichigo whispers:

"relax..."

"Relax," he's panting, and his whole face is on Renji's shoulder, that thickly muscled part joining

his neck to his very deadly arm. "It's okay, it's cool."

Relax, Ichigo says, and he can feel the rivets of Renji's jeans pressing into his exposed belly flesh. "Relax," he gasps.

And Renji does: sagging slightly, more of his weight falling back to rest on Ichigo, pressing

him harder into the edge of the desk, forcing him to sit there. His breath comes shaky, but only

for a minute. Then he's calm, quiet, still.

"Oi, Renji..."

"Stupid kid," says Renji, an uncertain edge to his voice. "Like you'd even know where to put it."

Then he laughs and laughs.

But for a few days afterwards, he's very careful to avoid Ichigo without making it seem obvious

to anyone but Rukia.

"Ah, men are idiots," she dismisses with a wave, which seals the matter once and for all.

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Turn your ugly face

I said the tables would be turned around boy