Title: Point of Interruption

Characters: Kurosaki Ichigo/Abarai Renji
Wordcount: 10,000
Comments: vague spoilers for Arrancar arc
Warnings: Rated M for sex and frank discussion of sexuality

Summary: Foul or fair, neither party comes away entirely unscathed.

______________________________________________

They lie where they'd fallen, sprawled in the dirt, panting and soaked with sweat, smelling
powerfully of ozone and electricity. Renji's hair has come halfway undone and his bandanna's
gone askew, and he doesn't seem to care that his track-pants--blue with white stripe and side
zip--have slipped down just a little, baring one dirt-smudged hip clear to the top of his bright red
underpants. Stained and rumpled and breathing harshly into the still September warmth, Renji
lies; his flat stomach rising and falling like breakers, quick and choppy.

Ichigo yanks his eyes away, gathers himself, knees up, back on skinned elbows. "Rukia can't
know about this, okay?" He says.

Renji sighs, rolls his head around in the dirt, smooths sticky hands over his hair, and frowns:
black knives of his brow creasing together uneasily, clashing. "What about the game?"

"Forget about the game," Ichigo wheezes. "The game is--it's just not important."

"All right, all right," Renji says, then sniffs, wipes his nose on the back of his wrist, then his wrist
on his stained trackies. "Still, who would you say won that one?" And he coughs, sputters, bites
his lip. He's laughing, knocking his head back into the ground and laughing, hands on his face.
Long lean body stretched and stiff, like he's not quite sure what to do with himself.

"I did," mutters Ichigo, head swimming, plucking purposelessly at his sweat-drenched clothes, at
the crotch of his pants. "You committed about fifty very personal fouls and--and--just, she can't
know about this. Please!"

Renji shakes his head and scratches himself through his pants, lifts that hand to his nose, sniffs at
his fingers.

"Ugh," says Ichigo. "That's foul." Still, he's not turning away in disgust, but watching. Watching
Renji react like this is all kind of new, kind of strange.

And Renji laughs again and says "easy to call a foul when you're making the rules, eh, Kurosaki?"
He waves his hand at Ichigo, beckons with dirty fingers. "Look at yourself," he says with quiet awe.
"You're a mess."

It's no wonder, is it, thinks Ichigo.

*

"Okay, stop there!"

"Now what," Renji complains, skidding to a gritty halt, ball hugged to his chest.

Ichigo swipes at the back of his neck, flicks the sweat from his fingertips. "That's a foul," he
pants. "Give it here, my ball."

Renji makes a grimace but dutifully shoves the ball away, makes it a point to volley as hard as he
can, makes Ichigo have to dive for it. "Foul?" he sniffs. "I don't see what was so foul about
that."

"Not foul, A Foul. That was A Foul, as in you broke the rules and hafta be penalized," explains
Ichigo, though clearly, Renji isn't getting it. "You elbowed me, that's a foul."

"Says who?"

They've been at this since noon, stirring up rooster tails of dust in Urahara's yard, violating every
precept of the game–baseball, basketball, whatever the hell Ichigo calls it again–just to get at one
another. The ball there only incidentally, and just as quickly forgotten when Renji attempts the
latest in a series of particularly vicious fouls--going all the way back to when he'd first lobbed the
ball at Ichigo's chest, cockwalking his long-legged self across the yard, saying he owed him 'one on one'.

"I'm not just pulling this stuff out of my ass," says Ichigo, insisting that "you can bump someone
with your hip, you can guard them from getting the ball, but you can't shove, push, grab, or
elbow."

Renji's rolling his eyes. "Again, says who?"

"The NBA."

"Oh?" Renji frowns. "And this 'NBA' you speak of...are they here now? 'Cause I'm looking
around, and funny enough, I don't see any."

"Argue all you want, still my ball."

"That's fine," says Renji. "Since, clearly I'm the one winning anyhow."

"Clearly?" Ichigo snorts. He pivots to signal resumption of play, and Renji's already there, right
under his guard with that damn long reach. "Under what set of rules, ah?"

"The set under which I'm beating you," Renji says solemnly, slamming his chest into Ichigo's
back, trying to force him to play dirty. "The set under which it's all right for you to trip me," and
his ankle is there, shoving Ichigo's feet apart. "The set under which you are now traveling!"

"This isn't traveling!" Ichigo squawks. This is Renji jamming a thigh between his legs,
hip-checking, trying to knock him over. "You can't push like that. That's a very personal area!"

"Come, come," says Renji, laughing, trying to get at the ball underhand, then overhand. "Just
take your shot."

Ichigo twists, whips around and breaks free, starts dribbling. His lay-up's never been all that
great, sure, but this is his game, he's not about to let some smack-talking greenhorn (Shinigami or
not) show him up here. Not on this court, with chalk-lines so painstakingly drawn and a net hung
with loving attention by two (snot-nosed and very odd) kids. This is more than a mere matter of
survival, it's a matter of pride. He takes the shot leaping, and catches onto the rim Michael
Jordan style, only to remain hanging, with Renji's arm latched round his waist.

"Foul," Ichigo grumbles, trying not to flail too obviously as Renji spins him around; is already
launching his counterattack the moment he's deposited (and none too gently) on his feet.
"There's no grabbing, I told you!"

"That wasn't for points," Renji says calmly, all business as he catches the ball with a toe and
launches it upwards through the basket. "I just felt like it."

Ichigo dives for him, tries to catch him full-on, shove him back into the wall. He just misses, but
it's still the spirit of the thing, the principal. "Fine," he snarls. "If that's how you wanna play.
Let's just do whatever we _feel_ like."

"That's more like it," Renji says, grinning. "You feel like pummeling me now, don't you?"

Ichigo nods, adjusts himself, and makes a feint.

Renji laughs again, loudly. "Forgive me if I don't _feel_ like making it easy on you," and he
starts dancing merry hell, pelting towards Ichigo with the ball in a fierce death-grip. "Listen
here," he says.

Dribbling it savagely, punishing it, Renji insists that a) it's not out of bounds if it's still in
your hands; b) it's not a foul until your back touches the ground, and only then if there are enough
witnesses to corroborate it; c)if you possibly _can_ nail the forward with your zori at twenty
paces, there's no reason why you shouldn't, since it's a neat trick and the bastard's probably asking
for it; also, there is no overtime, there are no penalty throws, there is only sudden death.

"Unless Rukia's concerned," Ichigo has to remind him, words punctuated by the sharp
_paku-paku_ of the ball, the searing slap of rubber against palm as Renji wings it off of the
pavement at him. Daring him to take it, daring him to become 'it' in their little game of tag. So
he does, palms stinging, soles of his feet burning, knees protesting.

"People aren't sport," Renji barks, darting in, shoving with a hip. No longer any rules to keep this
from getting personal. "The rules are different. Aren't they, Ichigo? Never break your
promises," and he spins, throws another elbow, throws an arm. "Always protect those important
to you," and he's grabbed Ichigo by the back of his shirt. "Don't call a foul if it's not a foul."

"THAT WAS _SO_ A FOUL!"

"No, it wasn't," Renji insists again, dipping down and scooping Ichigo neatly into the air. "This
is." He spins around three times, and gently--all things considered--slings Ichigo onto the
ground.

Ichigo lands rolling and kicking, windmilling his legs, knowing that Renji's not nearly stupid
enough to take a hit; remembering that they've danced this dance before, positions reversed, and
isn't surprised when Renji steps in and knocks his leg back down.

"I'd call substitution," Renji laughs, crouching to casually pluck the ball from Ichigo's arms and
gloat over him. "But it appears you're it!"

Foul or fair it's all the same in the end. So Ichigo sees nothing wrong with socking the ball
underhand, right out of Renji's grasp and off of his chin; using his brief moment of surprise and
loss of balance to grab him round the waist, tackle him down just because he _feels_ like it. A
smack and tumble, Renji grunting as the air is forced out of his lungs, and Ichigo grimly prepared
to accept the fateful consequences of his actions. But not before he's able to get in a few more
shots.

"I don't care what's foul anymore," Ichigo snarls, grinning and winded and not sure why he has to
be on top of Renji, trying to grab his wrists, his arms. But he just has to. Even if all he's doing is
wearing himself out. "But you can't just throw a person like that...and expect there not to be
consequences!"

He's jabbing Renji in the ribs and armpits with his fingertips, twisting his nipples (which he's so
foolishly left exposed for the twisting), and basically climbing all over him like nothing more
than a snarling, struggling, squishy bit of playground equipment.

And Renji's struggling just enough to make things difficult for Ichigo. But never actually pushing
him off. Never actually completing a swing--which would be simply devastating should it
connect--because he knows there's a line. He'd drawn it the moment he'd decided not to raise his
sword again, though he'll still claim his arms were too weak, that he couldn't have.

Ichigo's surely asking for it, too, courting danger with every little liberty taken, teasing the
monkey in its cage.

"I should've mentioned that pinning isn't in the guidelines," Renji grunts, fending hands from his
face, slapping Ichigo away from snatching off his bandana. He's starting to look vaguely
panicked, but as a matter of pride, he still won't say 'stop'. There are no safe-words in basketball,
or in dueling. That's still what this is, all other indications aside. "What is it you're trying to do,
ah?"

"I felt like playing 'grab-the-flag-'," Ichigo laughs, sitting back triumphantly and just breathing,
the cloth of Renji's bandana soft and damp between his fingers. The backs of his thighs are all
warm and sweaty, and Renji's wheezing underneath him, his bare stomach fluttering there in the
dark denim vee of his trouser legs. "I mean, since it's clear you don't know shit about sports--"

"Hell I don't know about sports," Renji huffs. "I know sports, and this isn't it."

"No, what this is is sad," pants Ichigo, reaching out and scrabbling for the ball so he can whang it
off of Renji's head again. Misses entirely, though. Almost goes down face-first when he slips on
the sweat slick skin of Renji's chest; and damn it, why does Renji have to breathe so hard? "You
realize, you haven't made a single shot this whole game?"

"I have," Renji insists. "Both were excellent shots, most worthy of--"

"It has to be with your hands, not your foot," says Ichigo. "Not your face, either. That's soccer.
This is basketball."

"Give it to me, then."

"Nuh-uh!"

"Give it! Relinquish the ball!"

"Nuh-uhh, no way!"

"I'll take it, then."

Ichigo does, by some feat, manage to secure the ball in both hands and twist himself up into a
sitting (make that straddling) position. And he knows Renji knows who's got the longer reach,
he knows all Renji has to do is raise his shoulders and make a grab. Which is why Ichigo has
taken the precaution of scooting himself up and kneeling on the man's arms.

He'd have stayed there, too, had Renji not decided to play dirty buggers and slam his bony
horse hips up into Ichigo's unprotected ass, bucking him off and rolling heavily on top of him.
Renji sitting right up in his guard and hammer-cocking his arm, cold-fisting the ball so hard it
ricochets and rockets past him, missing his fingertips by a vicious country mile.

The last they see of it, that point, is the hole it leaves in Urahara's privet hedge.

"Fuck," Ichigo spits, not even thinking, just reacting. He twists at the hips, rams his thigh into
Renji's side--just a distraction, because it's not making much impact at this angle--and makes
ready to reverse on him, clamping him tight around the waist with both legs. "You weren't
supposed to do that!"

He twists again, curls his lower half up, and goes for an arm-bar, but Renji's prepared for it:
rearing forward, pinning Ichigo's wrists up over his head with one hand, making it so that even if
his legs were free, he'd have no room or leverage to employ them. Because he's pinned there,
too, by Renji's hips, and he's not getting an ounce of give. This is crazy, he's sure there are at
least five solid counter-moves he can try, using his body as a fulcrum, rolling, wriggling, he can
break this. But Renji's mashing him down, grinding him flat like a roll of dough, and all he can
do is lie there like a snared rabbit, winded and staring at Renji's very red face. His bared teeth.

Something stiff of his, his leg or something, prodding Ichigo's very personal area; and there's no
way, delicate or otherwise, of glossing this over.

"oi...Renji..."

Renji eases back a bit, blinking, sucking air noisily, and just hangs there for one terrible elastic
moment, before bolting and scrabbling to his feet with something akin to fresh panic, shouting.
"First one to touch it wins the game."

"I'll touch you," Ichigo roars, stumbling up and tearing off after Renji; pumping his arms, really
gunning, really trying to ignore the funny little twitch as his pants rub just the wrong way. Ignore
that he's more than half-hard, because it's the last thing he needs right now. This is no longer
about sports, but about pride and payback.

"You can't threaten me," Renji laughs, skidding past one of the porch beams and hooking it to
stop himself.

He's turned to guard his front from Ichigo's reach, and it's round two: that day in his bedroom all
over again. But Renji can't cover much or hide much from this angle, and there's quite a
substantial tent at the front of his trackies.

He's erect and embarrassed, and this is why Ichigo stops short of tackling him; leaves him to
hang there, collect himself with his back turned, blush spreading up his neck. Just common
courtesy, and he's surprised Renji doesn't ask–hell, demand–that he leave; allow him one last
parting shot as he goes. ("You'll go blind!" He's sure that'd fly.)

"All right, okay," says Ichigo, spreading his hands. He's not going to laugh, no sir. He's going to
take that hot, prickly feeling spreading across his face, and squash it down, trample the urge.
"Time-out. Agreed?"

Renji nods tightly, back still turned, grip white-knuckled on the porch beam. And if this were
happening to anybody else, say Ishida or Keigo, he'd probably break down sobbing, rather than
do what he does do and point out the obvious. "Oi, Kurosaki, you've got half a stalk, you little
bastard."

Ichigo tries not to squirm too visibly. "I do not!"

"What's wrong, do I make you hard?"

"Shut up," Ichigo hisses, then he looks up quickly, looks away. Anywhere but at Renji's
trembling backside, outlined in sweat-dark blue. And right up there over Renji's bowed head,
way up there, is the ball.

It had somehow managed to wedge itself between a beam and a joist, right up in the roof eaves.
Much too high for either of them, even Renji, to reach alone. Ichigo takes a step forward.

"Don't come near me," says Renji, voice quiet, scarily serious. Then: "I don't want you to put my
eye out with that thing." And he's shaking with silent, furious laughter, still refusing to turn
around.

"The ball's up there," Ichigo points out.

"Yeah, yeah," says Renji, another tight little nod. "I know it is."

"Give me a boost," Ichigo suggests, sidling carefully up to Renji's back, clapping a hand to his
shoulder. "I'll go up and--"

Renji whips about, eyes big and hard, hands desperate, slapping at Ichigo's chest, his arms. "I
said don't come near me!" Grabbing him by the shoulders and pivoting with him, shoving him
down onto the porch. He's still hard, stomach rising and falling in quick panicked bursts above
the waist of his trackies, fresh sweat beading there. "Ichigo," he growls.

And this isn't funny anymore, but it is. "Who's gonna put whose eye out, now?"

"Ichigo," Renji whimpers, blinking furiously, licking his lips. "Just–just get up."

Ichigo flicks the sweat from his nose, and climbs dumbly to his feet, only to have Renji take
another swing at him. But he's expecting it this time; ducks up under it, catches Renji's arm as it
sails over his shoulder, walks right into him and pushes him back towards the porch. Steps in
and keeps stepping in, expecting Renji to backpedal, expecting him to want an escape. What
Ichigo gets instead is his arm in a twist, trapped between his body and Renji's, and Renji
breathing hard and fast up against him. "Hey, hey," Ichigo murmurs, pushing in to ease the
pressure. "Renji, it's okay. Come on. Let go my arm."

Renji lets go, but doesn't move away. He's whimpering, moving his face, his lips against
Ichigo's ear, the high point of his cheek, and then he's shoving, slapping him away again, pulling
his arm back to take another swing. And hesitating.

"Go ahead," Ichigo threatens, shoving at Renji's shoulders, slapping at him. "If it makes you feel
better, just go ahead. Be a big man."

Renji relaxes his fist, straightens his fingers, and delivers the lightest, most token of all possible
taps to Ichigo's cheek. "Just kidding," he says, and blinks, takes a deep breath. "So you wanna
go inside and fuck? Is that it?"

He couldn't have gotten a better reaction had he socked Ichigo in the gut. "Not funny," Ichigo
mutters, and pushes lamely at Renji's chest.

Renji teeters a bit, and his smile has slipped just a fraction. He lifts his other hand, moving as if
by remote, and pushes Ichigo right back. Then grabs a fistful of his shirt and tweaks his nipples,
hard.

"Ow!" Ichigo bellows, and he returns volley, shoving Renji's shoulders with both palms, arms out
straight.

Renji rocks back on his heels, stumbling, slapping at Ichigo's hands. His face is straight,
unsmiling, like this is all some sort of test, some grim right of passage he's been unwittingly
roped into. Trial by fire, and no mistaking: this is serious.
 
Too serious for Ichigo's liking, so he tries to yank Renji's pants down, earning a yell and his shirt
pulled up over his head. Undeterred, Ichigo launches himself, drives a shoulder into Renji's chest
and backs him clean away from the porch, shoves him and shoves him until he goes over
backwards, reaching as he does to take Ichigo with him, laughing and terrified into the dirt.
Another smack and tumble, just like before, a tangle of arms and legs, and everything stops there.
With loud breathing and settling dust.

Renji's hands are hot, sweaty,(they're all over Ichigo, all over his sides and his back) and he reeks
something powerful. Like ozone, like something sharp, metallic almost, like earth and dirt, like
oil and spice, like Renji. And Ichigo doesn't mind one bit. He'll be fine just lying here, he thinks,
as long as the world keeps spinning the way it's doing. Dizzy. He just needs to rest his head, lie
still, and be. As long as Renji's touching him.
 
(Flashback to two nights ago, bloody and weighted with exhaustion, pride would not, should not
have allowed this to happen. Renji was heavy like nothing else he'd ever felt. He'd only leaned
on Ichigo for a moment, as long as it had taken them to reach Rukia, but it had been with all of
his weight. All of his trust. It was not something he'd ever thought to take for granted.)

"Are you okay?" Renji murmurs.

And Ichigo nods. More than okay.

With Renji's nose buried in his hair, lips pressed to his forehead, the soft inside of his wrist on
the back of Ichigo's neck. His other wrist brushing up under the hem of Ichigo's sodden shirt, and
laying itself across the small of his back. His cock nudging Ichigo's hip, big, stiff, faintly
pulsing.

"You sure?" asks Renji, and he's sliding his hands up Ichigo's arms, over his shoulders, his neck,
his face. "Look at me," he says, and raises him up.

(It's that simple, Kenpachi had told him, you fight because you can. Because it's fun. A sword is
for slicing, so why not use it?) Ichigo nods again, swallows nervously, and it's anything but
simple. Lying there in the shadow of Urahara's shop, Renji breathing under him in waves,
waves lapping up at his belly, his chest, and the thread of his pulse, the cock between his legs, the
feel of him getting stiffer, this is anything but easy. Renji smiles hopefully and parts his lips,
Ichigo angles his head, and they bump noses, bump chins, and suddenly they're kissing.

Renji's lips and his lips moving together, and all of his focus is narrowed there, his wet mouth,
his hot breath, the fine grainy texture of his tongue, the grit and stubble, the prick of his
sideburns; and Renji's thumbs are kneading his cheeks, Renji's mouth open wide to take him in.
Renji's trying to inhale him, breathing deep, sighing into his mouth, and he's not quite squirming
under Ichigo, but rolling his body, side to side, rocking himself like a boat. Wincing when the
pressure of Ichigo's hips bends him at an uncomfortable angle. But that's not going to stop him,
he's splaying his thighs apart, hissing against Ichigo's mouth, raising his knees, rubbing the
outsides of Ichigo's legs with his sneakered feet.

And Ichigo's still trying to scrape together enough brain cells, enough wherewithal to thrust, do
something with his hips, because his arms are doing all of the work, and they're not appreciating
it.

Renji is, though, he's more than appreciating it. His fingers dive for Ichigo's ass, as naturally they
would, and Ichigo's slapping them away, as naturally he would. But he still hasn't stopped
rocking, side to side, and now his hips tilting, coming up to meet Ichigo, coming up with
frustration when, again he tries to slip a hand down there, just down the back seam of Ichigo's
jeans, and Ichigo shoves down at him hard, bats his hand away.

Ichigo, hoarse and panting and saying "don't, Renji," and the sound of Renji's name from his own
throat, floating there in the space between their mouths, just about undoes him.
 
"Okay, okay," Renji whispers, pretending at calm and collected, though from his movements he's
anything but. "Easy, easy," sawing his legs, kneading at Ichigo's back, his hips, fingers diving for
the front of his trousers (now three sizes too tight) as they naturally would. He's working his
hips, thrusting up in quick little bursts, shivering, rubbing along the inside of Ichigo's leg,
rubbing a thumb along the creaking, protesting denim of his fly.

And Ichigo is not about to slap him away this time. Even if they're outside, odds are that hardly
anyone will use this porch, or that door today, and this is all perfectly acceptable. Renji's trying
to unfasten him, fingers tripping over the unfamiliar architecture of his modern clothing, the stiff
fabric,
(tongue-tip peaking from between his lips, face muddled with concentration), and Ichigo's
amazed it doesn't end right here. The shock of each metallic little tooth and groove, the actual
unzipping when Renji finally does get it. He's amazed the top of his head doesn't blow off.

Amazed at the look on Renji's face, the shiver that runs up his entire body, the way he feels it in
his balls, his ass. The one place he's not about to let Renji go, and he's there anyway. Ichigo
gasps, and suddenly he can't get enough air, like he's drowning, moving helplessly, pushing into
Renji's hand. Grinding into him, remembering what his hips are for, and that his arms are there
to hold him up.

"I really wanna suck it, Kurosaki," Renji whines. He's tugging at the flap of Ichigo's
boxer-briefs, dipping two fingers in before Ichigo's able to push him away.

"ah--ah--" and he wants to say yeah, hell yes, oh shit, yes. But no. Very much no to that. His
mouth is working, he's making sounds, but he can't seem to form the words, or make his body
make up its mind. Thrust in or shove forward, he'd just have to get up and straddle Renji's chest,
that'd work for sure. But no. The idea of using him like that, his face, it's just. One thing to
picture and another to actually do.

"No?" Renji asks, and his hand is still gripping the front of Ichigo's briefs, gripping his cock and
just barely stroking.

Ichigo bites his own lip, hard, thrusts down into Renji's hand, shakes his head no. "Let me do it,"
he insists, rubbing and rubbing into that wonderful grip, pressing down and down and his own
hand is on Renji's belly. Warm, slick, and he does it, reaches down between them and grabs at
Renji's cock, palms it.

Just over the top of his trackies, just the shaft of it, not stroking but rubbing, and Renji's
mewling, gripping with his thighs. Whining when Ichigo does that little thing with his thumb
and forefinger, the thing he does that always works on himself; and Renji's looking up with
half-lidded eyes, like a man drunk (or in pain, maybe), sucking his own lips, biting them.

Ichigo stops. "Is this–"

"It's fine," Renji whispers, placing his hand overtop Ichigo's, flattening and softening his grip,
riding slowly for a beat. Then another, then fingering the spaces between Ichigo's fingers,
making that same helpless mewling sound, eyes screwed shut. And there's a slowly spreading
damp spot on the front of his trackies, over the head of his cock which is nestled snugly into the
cup of Ichigo's palm. "Ahh--" he gasps, and his grip on Ichigo tightens.

Ichigo wonders if he should be moaning more, making more noise himself, to let Renji know
he's--yes, enjoying this, that's the word--but all that's coming is his breath, hinky and shivery and
strange sounding. His brain's shut down, he's reduced to nothing more than pure autonomic
instinct, it's guiding his hand, his body. He moves when Renji moves, when Renji runs both
hands up his thighs, rubs his stomach, thumbs the ridges of his pelvis, rocks up against him. And
when Renji tries again to thumb aside the flap of his briefs--tease him all the way up his midline
with hard fingertips and tug him out--Ichigo rears back and tries to push his hand away.

"Too--too soon," he manages to get out, Renji's there already, grip tight and dry and gritty around
his cock. Just three fingers, three efficient strokes, and oh god, Renji's had practice at this. It's
too soon, way too soon, but too good to want him to stop.

(He never knows quite how to describe it. It's like having to sneeze and yawn and take a piss all
at once, only, that's not it. It's better. It's a pressure, a pulse, a tight little knot down there which
wants desperately to shoot out. "It's like that stuff they give you at the dentist," says Mizuiro.
"You just go all funny inside. Well, outside too.")

Ichigo comes with his hips shoved forward, hands clutching Renji's thighs, and this is more than
just going all funny inside. This is more than just a sneeze. He's making sounds now, harsh
animal noises, panting, teeth bared, and fuck gentle. He's done but he's not done, because it
hasn't stopped feeling good, yet. His cock squirming in Renji's fingers, not quite gone soft yet,
feels almost too good. Almost painful.

Renji's pushing at his legs, trying to squeeze them together, thrust up into the gap. Ichigo grabs
at him again, grips him through the damp fabric of his pants and strokes him up on end. Base to
tip, jerking him off inside his pants.

Renji hisses, shudders. "Wait–just wait–" he says and his hand's moving up Ichigo's wrist,
making him soften his grip, back off. "Wait," and he's taking deep breaths, blowing through his
teeth, shoving back with his shoulders. And then he's trying to sit up, his other hand letting go
Ichigo's penis, and latching onto the pocket of his jeans.

Ichigo meets him half-way with a kiss, but Renji's pushing him, coaxing him backwards, and the
world is suddenly turned on a tilt. Before Ichigo can say stop, before he knows what's coming
next, the ground's at his back and Renji's on top of him, scissor mounting him and rocking his
hips forward, urgently skinning his pants down with one hand, and grabbing at Ichigo's wrist
with his other. He tugs at Ichigo's hand, kneads at his palm with a gritty thumb-pad, and begins
rubbing in time with his own strokes, wearing at Ichigo like a worry stone.

"Now do it," he hisses, squeezing his eyes shut tight, shaking like he's been electrified, dribbling
white over his knuckles, onto Ichigo's belly. Grinding down on him, then thrusting into his
trapped hand, rubbing on it. "Move, just move!"
 
Ichigo nods up at him dumbly, urgently, inverting his hand and taking hold of the stiff muscle,
working his wrist, his thumb, tugging and rocking up against Renji with his hips and his whole
body; not caring how any of this must look, not caring how stupid he'd felt only seconds ago
when he'd almost said 'stop', not caring that Renji very well _might_ want to fuck him apart, split
him like a piece of ripe fruit, or that he's going to come dry and it's starting to hurt.

And Renji's just gone, face screwed up, twitching, grunting, shaking, shivers running up his legs,
through his hips, up his cock, "I--chi--go--"

He jerks once, twice, three times--and he's either coming or pitching a fit--then stiffens,
shuddering, grinding, while the product of all this drips warm and slippery down Ichigo's arm.
Through all of it, his eyes are slitted, not quite closed, and he's watching Ichigo's face as he hangs
there breathing loudly, rasping. He hardly ever stops moving, even just twitching, until he flops
over, limp as seaweed in Ichigo's hands and arms; and his heart is simply pounding, drubbing
Ichigo's chest like a perfect bass-beat, perfect countermeasure to his own.

All else is quiet, or as close to quiet as Karakura-cho ever is. White noise, wind, and chirping
birds, and even Renji's breathing is softer than that.

They make brief overtures of kissing, chins and noses bumping together like strangers in a dark
room, but give it up for lost. Too awkward. They roll apart and lie there prone, not even looking
at one another, for a long time afterwards, for what seems like days with the wind ruffling their
hair, before Renji lets out another sigh, a small exhalation of relief, and rolls back onto his side,
cock still half out of his pants and softening, drawing back into its hood like some mysterious
flower which only blooms at night. There's a long ribbon of semen smeared across his belly and
hip, which he ignores, and more dirt on him, probably, than there is on the ground.

He just looks at Ichigo, and sort of blinks, sort of frowns like.

Questioning, now what?

"Ren--"

Which is right about when the ball decides to come unstuck, and drops down from the eaves,
skittering and bouncing from the porch to meander its way between them.

"Hey, the ball," says Renji, lazily tucking himself away and reaching over with his sticky hand.
Punch-drunk, he probably has no idea what he's doing anymore.

Watching Renji watch him, watching him bat at the ball, watching him leave his sticky
fingerprints there--other hand curled slightly beneath him, still cupping himself through his
pants--Ichigo's not sure what he's doing anymore himself. He's not sure how he even feels yet,
other than shaken. Shaken deep down to his core, almost knocked clean off his own axis. That,
and chafed. Sore. He wonders if Renji's sore, too? He wonders if Renji's ass feels as bruised as
his does, if his skin feels as raw, if he'd been too rough, if he'd assumed too much. He wonders if
this wasn't a mistake.
  
Ichigo has to say something else, bring things closer to normal again. Anything other than
"Rukia can't know about this, okay?" His hot, guilty voice immature and harsh to his own ears,
and now, now he's blushing. He's red-faced and trying to tuck himself all away, because they're
outside for god's sake, and who knows who could come walking round that corner?

Renji sighs, and he seems to be doing a lot of that all the sudden, smooths his hands back through
his disheveled hair and carefully unpicks the tie. He's rocking side to side again, a little, re-
situating his hips, like he's settling more comfortably into his own skin, and it makes Ichigo want
to run, jump, escape. Because he can't stop. He can't stop _noticing_. The neatly trimmed
thatch of dark hair still poking up above the waist of Renji's trousers, the very very faint ginger
hairs on his forearms, the sparse wiry hairs around his nipples, which through all of this hadn't
even occurred to Ichigo, but Renji does have them, and they are erect. And Ichigo can't stop
noticing.
 
Renji sighs, rolls his head around in the dirt, smooths sticky hands over his hair, and stretches.
He's frowning still, or frowning again--like his face is confused--brow creasing dark and uneasy.
"What about the game?"

"Forget about the game," Ichigo wheezes, and lord, he's trying not to smell himself, but it's there
every time he moves. A reminder: he'd done something, left plenty of evidence. "The game
is--it's just not important."

"All right, all right," Renji says, then sniffs, wipes his nose on the back of his wrist, then his wrist
on his stained trackies. "Still, who would you say won that one?" And he coughs, sputters, bites
his lip. He's laughing, knocking his head back into the ground and laughing, grimy hands on his
face. He's forgotten the ball, besides, knocking it away with his knee, just before he goes still,
stiff. His long body poised like a question mark, with arms curled over his head.

"I did," mutters Ichigo, head swimming, plucking purposelessly at his sweat-drenched clothes, at
the crotch of his pants. "You committed about fifty very personal fouls and--and--just, she can't
know about this. Please!"

Renji shakes his head and scratches himself through his pants, lifts that hand to his nose, sniffs at
his fingers.

"Ugh," says Ichigo. "That's foul."

To which Renji laughs, again, and says "easy to call a foul when you're making the rules, eh,
Kurosaki?" He waves his hand at Ichigo, beckons with dirty fingers. "Look at yourself," he says
with quiet awe. "You're a mess."

"Yeah," Ichigo sniffs, biting, sarcastic, and he honestly doesn't mean it. But he also does. "Yeah,
I know. Thanks, Renji." It's soaked part-way into his shirt, onto the waist of his trousers.
Frankly, it's all over him. There's even some on his chin. "FUCK."

It's in between his fingers, snotty and sticky and slick, and it won't come off in the dirt or on his
trouser legs. He can't tell if it's all Renji's or some of his. He doesn't care. The fun is over, he
wants this to wash off. "Tss."

Renji hands him a second handkerchief, damp and rumpled, tells him "it's on me, too, yours is,"
then lies back with his arms crossed behind his head, expression still muddled. "Was this your
first?"

"It's fine," Ichigo grunts, jamming the first soiled handkerchief into his pants. "We just fooled
around, right? No big deal?" No big deal, but a huge one. He's never seen Renji look so
spooked before.

Renji blinks, looks uncertain a moment. No, scratch that: he looks terrified. "Look, don't just
say things you think I wanna hear." He rolls his head in the dirt, scrunches his face up like he's
about to sneeze, or cry, reaches up to rub at the bridge of his nose, then relaxes, shoves his hands
back through his hair. Then he smiles at Ichigo with glassy eyes. "This changes things, do you
understand?"

"I do," says Ichigo, looking down at his hands in his lap. (Funny, he's got sword calluses even
though he's only ever held one in spirit form.) "I--that was--," and he flops over onto his back,
hard, as if he expects the impact to jar some sense back into his over-full head.

Renji's still looking at him, chin tucked, hands on his forehead. "You wanna talk about it?"

Ichigo coughs, tries to clear the gravel from his throat. "No," He groans, wallowing aimlessly for
a bit, with his back near melted to the pavement; all he wants to do is lie here quietly and listen to
Renji breathe beside him. He wants time to let this soak in and settle, but Renji isn't about to
give him that.

No pretenses and no indulgence, that's the thing with Renji.

"Why not," Renji flops up onto his elbows, frowning. "What is it you think you're hiding from
me, Ichigo?" He's trying hard to keep his voice level, but the anger, panic, and giddiness is still
there, simmering just below the surface. "I'm--I'm hardly a virtuous person. I've done things."
Frowning, he drags himself the rest of the way up and fixes Ichigo with this dire look. "I've
sucked some dick in my time, all right. But that doesn't mean--this is still a fairly big deal!"

With some effort, Ichigo is able to peel himself up off of the pavement; curled half-upright over
his knees, he fans his sodden shirt away from his chest, skins it up off of his back, and here's
something new to process. The image of Renji on his knees, the look of intense concentration on
his face, the strong chords of his neck thrumming, working. "I'm not hiding," he blurts out, hotly.
"Come on, you're so perceptive about people and you haven't figured it out? Renji!"

Renji's face goes slack, then his eyebrows lift. "Is this about your hollow side? The thing Rukia
told me ab--"

"No, no, it's not," Ichigo clenches his fingers, hard, crumpling the hem of his shirt in a knot
below his breastbone, underneath which, his heart is pounding, booming right through him to the
point where he's vibrating. "This--this goes way back."

He doesn't want to talk about this. It's supposed to stay tucked away, folded and stored and
innocuous, like underwear. It's not like it's some dirty horrible secret, the simple fact that it's
there--underneath, like underwear--but all the same, it's not something you go around advertising;
not at home, and not at school, and not in the midst of several very scary people toting
Zanpakuto. He is young and confused and it's really that simple.

As much as he owes it to Renji, as much as Renji deserves an explanation or some frame of
reference, Ichigo doesn't want to have to tell him some cliche sob-story about getting his ass
beaten daily, or about his hair being just the icing on this whole confusing cake that is his life.
But he does owe him: every bloody nose and scraped cheek, every punch thrown in return, and
every furtive little glance, every peek, every snatch of dark skin, thick ash-colored lashes, green
eyes flecked with blue and brown and amber, large hands, strong arms, the way his legs looked in
a pair of dark denim jeans. Tall, overgrown, awkward, stolid Chad who admits to being
semi-decent on guitar--but is, in Ichigo's true opinion, the best--and doesn't mind Ichigo lying
across his stomach, and who doesn't know that it means way more to Ichigo than he's about to let
on.

Ichigo clears his throat again, and he could really use a glass of water--a can of cola, something
cool and comforting like that. "If my friends ever found out, if they had any inkling it was like
this--"

"If they're truly your friends, something like that shouldn't matter." And there's no way Renji's
this naive. "Whether you like chocolate, curry, or dick--you're still the same Ichigo."

There's no way this is the same Renji who berated Ichigo for being such a damn girl about Rukia,
of all people. (Quit being such a damn girl, he'd said, go talk to her.) The same Renji who'd
hemmed and hawed exhaustively over the exact way he was going to approach his Captain
without coming off as groveling or pathetic, and no, he was _not_ writing down any sort of
speech which looked suspiciously like a love-poem. The very self-same Renji who made a point,
he'd told Ichigo, to schedule his salon appointment (with full manicure, pedicure, facial and deep
tissue massage) apart from that of Ikkaku, or otherwise things would look suspect, which was
why Ichigo was not to breathe a single word about Renji treating him.

If a thing like that got around, it could be disastrous to no fewer than a dozen people's images.

So Bull Shit it doesn't matter.

Ichigo can't help it, he bristles, bolts up on his knees and snarls right in Renji's wounded, naked
face. "No! Wrong! That's not all there is to it. It's not just about--liking dick, Renji, which I'm
sure you're _all_ about. It's part of who you are, like being a Shinigami. It's--it's part of who I
am, like my hair color!"

Renji has the good grace to look taken aback, and is, in fact, downright defensive when he
mutters "Those two things are entirely different." Eyes averted, nostrils flaring, admitting to
everything and nothing with a simple set of his jaw. Which is comfortingly just like him.

"You've never told anyone, have you, you big hypocrite?"

"I'm comfortable with what I like, but I don't feel the need to advertise."

"Renji, you're a thousand years old."

"Just over a hundred," Renji corrects, sullenly. "But age is immaterial."

"You're a homo," says Ichigo.

"A what?"

"How long have you known Rukia? A hundred years? More? In all that time, are you going to
tell me you two never once--"

Renji frowns deeply. "Time moves differently for us," he insists, still sullen and still butting right
through everything Ichigo says. "It's not about cramming every waking moment full of
experience. I mean, you know how tiresome that would get? The fact is, you might know a
person for fifty years or a hundred, and you still have no idea that their favorite color is red, or
that they don't actually like green tea but they drink it anyway 'cause that's what they've been
doing, and it just never occurs to you to ask about it or break the routine in any way--"

"I don't think you heard me," Ichigo deadpans. "You. Are. Gay."

"That word has no meaning to me," and now he's just being obstinate.

Because Renji's been here exactly a week already, he's watched television and read plenty of
magazines. (Though he's not all that interesting in 'absorbing the culture' as he puts it.) He's seen
the city proper, and been shopping there with Matsumoto-san, and he is hardly as unimpressed by
it all as he makes himself out to be...but that's besides the point.

"You're a homosexual."

"I am not."

"You are! You suck dick, Renji, you admit it. And. This isn't basketball, okay." Ichigo chops
the air with his hands, and he's not sure what else he has to say before Renji gets it. "No one's
telling you what you can or can't do. That's stupid. But the fact remains--" How else he has to
couch this in terms deemed acceptable by someone who hasn't been alive for over a hundred
years. "You have had a hard-on for me from day one, I'm not stupid. I know what it's about. So
just admit it."

"You don't know," snarls Renji. "Matters of love and lust are highly complicated and deeply
individual.
But if you're so keen to label a person based on their actions at any given point in time..." here he
pauses, takes a deep steadying breath, and says acidly: "what does that make you?"

"Undecided," says Ichigo, sighing back onto his arms, skinned elbows suddenly smarting
along with his legs.

Renji grunts, stares at Ichigo wide-eyed for a beat, then reaches over and backhands him
broadside across one shoulder. "Lecture me, then!" He spits, but without much venom. "The
fact remains--and I now have all the evidence at my disposal--that you like dick. You love it.
Can't get enough."

Ichigo slits his eyes, and he tells himself he's only about to say this to shut Renji up. "Of yours."

Renji turns, no, flips over onto his side and looks down at his outstretched hand, seems very
intent on the tips of his fingers. He's gone a near perfect shade of magenta.

Which Ichigo does not fail to point out. "Look at you, you're blushing," he accuses. "For such a
flashy looking guy, you can be surprisingly stuffy, you know that?"

Renji juts his lower lip and snorts, too flustered to serve his rebuttal.

Ichigo lets his head drop back, shuts his eyes for a few minutes and listens to the silence. After a
spell, he hears Renji shifting about, scuffing in the dirt, and cracks an eye.

Renji's lying on his stomach with his head turned, tucked into his arm, like he's trying to fall
asleep. "I thought you were in love with her," he murmurs, "That would've been fine by me, you
know."

"Well, I'm not."

"Is that because you're undecided? Or is there some other reason?"

Ichigo shrugs. "We're just friends, very--close friends."

"Oh?" Renji lifts an eyebrow, sticks out his lip. "I have several very close friends, myself. I
consider you an-- especially close friend."
 
Ichigo drags himself back upright, and he's again reminded of the crust drying on his shirt,
sticking his pubes to his pants. There's no way to compartmentalize this, or divorce himself, or
place it in terms of abstracts. "We're not supposed to, are we? Humans and Shinigami...that's
like fraternization, right?"

"No, but since when are you all that big on 'sposedtos', Kurosaki?" Renji points out, ever helpful.
"Tell me what happens now?"

"You're asking me." Ichigo jerks a shoulder and cracks his neck, like he'd have any idea.

"Yeah, you," says Renji, reaching up to rap Ichigo on the head with blunt knuckles. Up on all
fours, sweaty and smelly and real, dirt on his face and hair stuck to his neck. "Unless you've
been keeping somebody else up there--" and he cuts himself short, winces, pulls back. "Sorry, I
didn't mean it like that."

"It's fine," says Ichigo, though it grates him to think about that bastard staring out of his eyes,
sizing Renji up like a slab of meat.

Renji is not the type to look askance and gnaw his lip, he's not the type to scrabble about for
answers to questions he can't bring himself to ask. (Warriors must never show doubt, he likes to
say.) "So, do we play this casually? By ear? Write it off as a one-time thing?" he burbles.
"What do you want, Ichigo?"

"For--" For things to be the way they were, only more. For there not to be this...this intense
pressure between them. For things not to be so overly complicated, with Rukia and Orihime,
Sado, and fucking Kon whom he knows has been treating his body like an amusement park in his
absence. He wants to be able to untangle everything and reassure himself that it's all meaningless
in the face of Matsumoto-san's breasts, and not just that much more confusing. He wants to
know where to draw the dividing line, love, lust, and where to place himself, where to place
Rukia in that context.

And it's like another sock to the gut, the way it just _hits_ him. Renji's touching him and close to
him, and it just feels nice; it doesn't have to be complicated, it just is what it is.

"You want the bathroom?" Renji sighs. "You look like you're gonna be sick a little."

"No," says Ichigo, rubbing at his stomach, like internalizing it will change anything. "It's just
gas."

"Gas, sure," Renji sighs. "What's a little gas amongst friends, eh?"

"Right," says Ichigo with a light laugh. Light as a breeze, whisking his feelings off into clean air.
"After this is all over," he continues. "After we totally kick Aizen's ass. What's gonna happen
with you guys? You and Rukia are gonna go back to Soul Society, right?"

"That all depends," says Renji.

"You're going back," Ichigo insists. "You have your life there, and I have my life here. My
family, my dumbass dad and my two sisters."

"I'll visit," says Renji. "If that's what you'd like. I'll even drag Rukia along, and it'll be just like
old times, only--old times after I stopped trying to kill you."

"That sounds great," says Ichigo, and he's wondering when Renji's going to stop hanging over
him like that, when he's just going to lean down and kiss him. "That sounds nice. So we're going
to just lie to her, is that it? I mean--"

"Rukia's a lot of things, but she's not dumb." Renji lets out a great rippling snort of a laugh, as if
the idea she might be hurt, the idea that she might have feelings, is just patently ridiculous. "We
have an understanding," he says. "There is absolutely nothing between the two of us but simple
friendship. That's all it was, and all it ever will be."

He makes it sound so final, so definite, but past experience has taught Ichigo better than to take
Renji's words at face-value. Not that he's a liar, or fickle, but because there are layers.
Subtleties. And also his own particular brand of male stupidity and bravado with which Ichigo
himself is passingly familiar. Just because the sky is blue and it's a Sunday, what Renji says is
the truth. But tomorrow it might rain, and friendship might mean something else entirely.
Because what Rukia wants and what Rukia feels is also a factor, and if Renji is layered and
subtle, Rukia is triply so.

(Friends, he'd told Uryuu, just really good friends. Just ask her, she'll tell you the same.)

And Ichigo just can't help himself. "Does she know what an enormous homosexual you are?"
Because it's never not fun seeing Renji squirm. "Do you want me to help you compose your
speech to her?"

"Do you want this to ever happen again?" asks Renji, dropping to a crouch, arm looped easily
around Ichigo's knee. "Do you want this to continue? I'm asking you seriously."

"I don't know," says Ichigo. But he knows it's unfair, if not impossible to rule anything out. As
much as it's unfair, if not impossible, to expect things to happen easily: what with war ever on the
horizon, with fighting on everyone's minds, with everyone's expectations breathing down Ichigo's
neck, leaving him hardly a moments privacy to just...be. There's just so much and so little time,
it feels as if everything and nothing is possible all at once.

Then there's Renji. Renji is, for such a big flashy guy, surprisingly stuffy, but also surprisingly
sensitive; that's a plus, but also somewhat a minus. It's taken hardly a week to figure out that the
slightest jab from just the right person can _hurt_ Renji, deeply, and that he's not all that great
hiding things like Ichigo's used to doing, though he tries. He is also highly physical. He has a
way of throwing his body into situations and not bothering his mind with the petty details until
later, much like Ichigo. He's all hands and curiosity, always touching and feeling, and just in
your personal space whether you want him there or not. He is not frenetic or hyper, but he is
present and unavoidable, like a large dog in a small room.

(He was never exactly subtle about it. "Yo, you're not using your hips enough when you fight,"
he'd said. "It's gotta come from down here. See?" Grabbing at Ichigo's waist and trying to shove
him forward, naked, with two hands and a grin. All the while, Yoruichi watching them, howling
laughter like she knew something Ichigo didn't.)

"You're over thinking this," says Renji. "I can see the gears grinding, Kurosaki."

It would be easy enough to catch him like this, and bring him down to the right level for a kiss.
But Ichigo doesn't, and he doesn't know _why_ he doesn't. The way Renji's looking at him
(again, still), it's clear he wants to, and he's just waiting for the right moment. For Ichigo to
lower his guard, which he does, and for permission, which Ichigo's not sure how to give. So he
reaches up and pushes Renji's hair out of his face, lets that hand rest nervous and trembling at the
point of his jaw; and Renji lets it stay there, neither pulling away nor pushing closer.

"Lay off me," says Ichigo, and how hard would it be to close the gap? "This is complicated, like
you said."

"It is," Renji agrees, nodding, trailing his damp hair across Ichigo's wrist. "But the question I
asked you is simple."

Ichigo brushes forward, and misses Renji's lips by that much, goes glancing off his chin as he
pulls back. No, he does want this. "Oi, Renji--"

"Rukia was right about you taking things for granted," Renji sniffs. "It's frankly sickening."

Clearly, a kiss is not going to happen at this point, but neither is Ichigo about to shove Renji
away. Not by physical means. "So is your breath. Just because I don't mind it in my mouth,
doesn't mean I wanna keep smelling it."

"Then don't," says Renji, and he very matter of factly hooks a pair of fingertips into Ichigo's
nostrils, uses that to yank him close. "As you said before, this isn't baseball--"

"Baske'ball," Ichigo honks, lamely. "And tha's foul."

"This isn't a game," says Renji, slipping his fingers clean and wiping them on Ichigo's chest. "If
we simply do whatever we feel like--"

"I don't wanna hurt you!" Ichigo snaps, though he would like to slap Renji, very much. "But you
can't expect me to decide this whole thing right here, right now! I don't _possess_ that kind of
vocabulary, okay? My feelings don't work that way. If you really wanna know what I want.
Really, right now, what I want is a shower. One more fluid on me, Renji, that's just what I
needed." Because there's no point in not being frank about it.

Renji takes a measured breath, then lets it out. Then he laughs, quietly, light as a breeze. "I, too,
feel the same." He smiles, and it's damn near convincing the way his eyes narrow and scrunch
up. Like he's not stinging.

"I feel like five showers," says Ichigo.

"I feel like ten."

"I feel--really good right now," says Ichigo. "Relieved, you know? Do you feel that?"

Renji laughs again, a little less convincing this time. "Like a huge weight has been lifted."

(He'd really tried to play it tough, that time. Fresh blood dripping down his
face, stickily darkening his hair and the front of his shihakusho. He'd said
head wounds always bled freely like that, he was fine, he just needed a
night's sleep. They'd followed him, Ichigo and Rukia, for two blocks until he
finally keeled over, face first into the pavement. He wasn't fine.)

Renji's grinning, still, but Ichigo sees the moment it's about to slip, catches him there off-guard.
"That's a lie," he says, so casually, so perfectly devastating in only the way (Rukia says) Ichigo
can be.

But there are no pretenses with Renji, not for long, anyway. His grin is gone like that, in a flash,
and he's serious again. "Ah, striking at the very heart of the matter, Ichigo," he sighs, gruff but
strangely effete. "The truth is, I'm a wreck. You fucking wrecked me."

Ichigo scrunches his eyes briefly shut, and he won't waste any empty apologies on this; he knows
Renji won't want to hear it. Just acknowledge, that's all he has to do. "I seem to have that effect
on people."

Gratifyingly, Renji laughs; it's genuine this time. "You do," he says. "The only thing left now is
to wash up and go get drunk. Whatta you say? A celebration and drowning of sorrows in one
mighty, pissing blow. It'll be great!"

Ichigo shakes his head. He's not going to force his age in Renji's face, not at a time like this; so
he just leaves it at "I can't. Drink, that is. Man, anyway, you should probably rest up, you know.
In case--"

"There is no 'in-case'," Renji interrupts, smoothly, spreading his hands. Smiling dangerously. "It
is all, all of it, a simple matter of eventuality. When, not if. And unlike you, I'm not about to lie around
bemoaning my fate in the meantime. I'm going to look it dead in the face, Kurosaki," and Renji
sticks out two fingers, points at his eyes. "and I'm going to spit. It might take me yet, but it won't
be without one hell of a fight, eh?"

"Sounds like a ball," says Ichigo. "All the same, I've got stuff I gotta do at home. You have fun
with your whole 'live for today' thing, just--don't call me until you're sober. Deal?"

Renji rolls his eyes. "Of course." He leans in close, but there won't be any peck on the lips, or
on the cheek. For now, there's just his smile, uncomfortable; his smell, powerful but actually not
that unpleasant; and the promise of 'maybe some other time'. "Get going already, I've gotta take a
piss something fierce and I don't want to be rude."

Stretching, laughing, Ichigo totters to his feet. His muscles are stiff, pressure points aching, and
his ass has gone numb two times over, but that's all small stuff. The crust and the funk left on his
clothing, small stuff, and he's already peeling his shirt off, turning it inside out like he's done so
many times, and so many nosebleeds before. He's already formulating his excuses for when he
gets home: an explanation for why he's sneaked in through the upstairs window instead of using
the front door or clinic entrance, and why he's showering so early in the afternoon, why he's
doing his laundry at such an unorthodox hour. Honestly, nothing he isn't already used to doing.

He doesn't want to look back as he walks away, or give the impression that he's hoping for
anything, so he waits until he's about to turn the corner, and just sort of glances by really fast.
 
Renji's on his feet and slapping the dust from his ass, basketball held awkwardly in the crook of
his arm, and when Ichigo catches his eye, he sticks out a hand and waves.

Which is comfortingly just like him, the big dork.