Chapter Text
It’s the little things that shift and fall into place as time goes by, for all that Cifer’s been with Ichigo for almost half a year now. They’d been—not exactly distant, not when they spent so much time around each other, but they hadn’t exactly engaged in small talk either. Just the thought of discussing a topic as mundane as the weather with Cifer seemed…
“Are you quite alright,” Cifer hisses, but Ichigo’s too busy snickering to register his irritation.
He does register the sudden lack of noise from the other room though—and even as Cifer pins him with a completely unimpressed look, Ichigo sighs noiselessly and tightens his grip on his sword.
Perhaps it should bother him, that he’s thinking about chatting with Cifer when they’re in the middle of flushing out a Gunners stronghold, but it’s not like Ichigo’s thoughts have ever messed with his judgement. Even as he sweeps low to slice through a Gunner’s kneecaps, ducking away from the spray of blood and rolling smoothly out of the way so Cifer can shoot the other man bearing down on Ichigo, it’s not exactly a stimulating fight.
In point of fact, it takes roughly five minutes to sweep through the compound—and for all that people usually scoff at Ichigo’s weapon of choice, unable to fathom how a sword could compete with a gun, a fair few corpses bear stab wounds. It’s not as unbalanced as it was, not with Cifer’s aim improving from all the practice he’s gotten by assisting Ichigo, but there’s still a few Gunners Ichigo has to put out of their misery.
Because, as much as he wants to let them bleed out, Ichigo’s not a big fan of blood puddles. Cifer’s certainly not, but there’s something about the way he steps delicately around the gore that makes Ichigo think—
Well. They’re certainly not the sort of thoughts he should be having, considering the location and their mostly self-imposed mission, and Ichigo huffs sharply to himself before he returns to the task at hand.
There’s not much in the way of loot, not that Ichigo or Cifer require it. They have bottle caps aplenty, not to mention the interesting trinkets and excess meat they harvested from the odd beast, but Cifer hums all the same when he digs something out of a corpse’s pocket.
“I found hand sanitizer,” Cifer explains, when Ichigo glances over from his corpse with a light frown. “To think a Gunner had something like this…”
Had Ichigo not become accustomed to the slight inflections in Cifer’s tone, he might’ve mistaken his comment as an indifferent one—but it’s not his tone that gives away Cifer’s pleasure. It’s the smile on his lips and the crinkles at the corner of his eyes, faint but visible all the same, that make Ichigo stare for longer than he usually would.
It’s not the first time Cifer’s smiled in his presence. It’s not even the largest smile Ichigo’s ever seen on Cifer’s face—that distinction had been for the rudimentary shower system Renji had managed to rig up for most of Karakura.
But it’s still a smile on the face of someone who still rarely indulges in emotions—and after all the muddled thoughts going through his head?
“Is there something on my face, Kurosaki?” Cifer coolly asks, but Ichigo only swallows before jerking his head away.
If this had been an unusual occurrence, Cifer might’ve frowned and pushed for answers—but because they’re both a little prone to heavy thoughts, all he does is stare the back of Ichigo’s head. It’s probably disinterested, as Cifer’s gaze usually is, but Ichigo feels the weight of it for the handful of moments it lasts. He might’ve never cared about it before, but now…
The fragile mood dissolves when Cifer looks down to pocket the hand sanitizer, but the frown on Ichigo’s face is a little more pronounced than it should be as he returns to looting the Gunners’ pockets and stronghold.
And when they leave, bags weighed down with more products to sell than keep, Ichigo’s careful to maintain a small but visible distance between himself and Cifer.
For all that Ichigo had been conscripted for longer than the mandatory period, he had always seen himself as more brainy than brawny. He has to be smart, when he’s following in the silly old goat’s footsteps without explicitly doing so, and he was halfway through his postgraduate medical degree when the goddamn government had drawn his name.
Congratulations, Kurosaki Ichigo, the officer that’d knocked at his door may have well said, you’ve won the nation’s lottery. It wasn’t mandatory beyond two or three years, not in the way other nations were keeping their recruits for as long as they proved useful, but as soon as they’d realized how steady his hands and mind were…
He’s good in a fight—he wouldn’t be alive if he wasn’t—but Ichigo’s always thought he was better when his focus was turned inwards. Staying cool in the moment, strategizing before charging in… and now, settled into his threadbare couch as disjointed humming mixes with the sound of running water, Ichigo glances down at his palms and turns them over.
Because he’s noticed it for a while now, this strange feeling welling up within him whenever his thoughts turned to Cifer. The more Ichigo tried not to think about him, the more his mind shoved him in that direction—and things only seemed to go downhill from there.
Objectively speaking, there’s nothing wrong with thinking about Cifer. Given that they’ve spent the better part of a year together, now, Ichigo would naturally think about his wellbeing. He couldn’t have some deadweight dragging him down when he’s spent so long navigating and—most importantly of all—surviving this wasteland, so it’s… beneficial. Necessary, even, to consider Cifer’s needs and wants when he’s stocking up for the next expedition out of Karakura.
But for all that he tries to rationalize it in his mind…
“Is there something wrong?” a mechanical voice asks right behind him, and Ichigo has to take a few moments to calm his racing heart before he can turn to face Zangetsu. The eccentric robot only floats in place while Ichigo scowls at it—but before he can turn back and dismiss it entirely, it (he?) adds, “You’ve been quite inactive for at least five minutes, Master Ichigo.”
“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Ichigo,” he hisses right back at it—but Zangetsu is just as unaffected as always, the damnable hunk of metal.
And of course, the next words out of it are, “Master Ichigo, your heart rate is quite unusual for all that you have been inactive. Have you contracted a disease, by some chance?”
Ichigo’s about to open his mouth and snap that he’s not, thanks, because everything’s just fine and he’s just—waiting for his turn in the shower, of course he is. He’s just about to say as much when he hears a splutter mid-hum and then a self-conscious snort that could almost be laughter, and—well.
“Master Ichigo, your face is going red,” Zangetsu helpfully supplies.
“Say it a little louder, maybe Cifer didn’t hear you,” Ichigo mutters under his breath, and spends the next minute wrestling with the damn bot when it tries to take his words literally.
But when the minor scuffle’s over and done with, new gouges torn into the already-shabby couch and Zangetsu looking a little more battered too, Ichigo kneads at his furrowed brow and mumbles, “Maybe I have contracted a damn disease—who knows at this point.”
It’s illogical, that much is obvious. Whatever’s fucking with his mind when it comes to Cifer is definitely abnormal, because—when did Kurosaki ‘One Protector’ Ichigo keep a companion around? Not to mention one that kept bitching about cleanliness, still couldn’t aim right half the time and had a resting bitch face to put all other resting bitch faces to shame…
“Master Ichigo,” Zangetsu says, and Ichigo shakes his head roughly so he can refocus on the bot.
“What are your thoughts on Cifer?” Ichigo asks, only realizing his mistake when the words had already been said—
Honestly, though, Ichigo had thought Zangetsu would either refuse to respond or ask for clarification. It’s not unusual behaviour, not when the mad old bot had been on its own for decades and struggled to understand the simplest of statements at times—except it only pauses for a moment before its mechanical voice comes to life.
“Cifer—a sole name, likely a pseudonym,” Zangetsu intones, arms still instead of waving around gently. “Appears to be younger than Master Ichigo, with mixed Asiatic-European features—”
“Those are facts, Zangetsu,” Ichigo cuts Zangetsu off impatiently, “but what are your thoughts on him?”
“He has no bearing on my purpose, Master Ichigo,” Zangetsu immediately responds, “beyond the extra cleaning I must attend to.”
I’m only a robot, Zangetsu doesn’t say, but Ichigo sighs heavily through his nose and stares up at the ceiling all the same.
And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Zangetsu’s had been one of the newer Mister Handy models when he and Orihime had purchased him, enamoured—on Orihime’s part—by its range of services and its flexible self-improvement module, but there’s only Ichigo left. Forced to wander on its own for the better part of two centuries, patiently waiting for its family to return…
What purpose did it have in passing judgements on others when there was nobody else to pass judgement on? Ichigo sighs through his nose again, brings a hand up to card roughly through his hair, and mutters, “Forget about it, you wouldn’t understand anyway.”
“Have I offended you, Master Ichigo?” Zangetsu says a few moments later, instead of floating away like it usually does. “Perhaps,” it adds in an oddly… hesitant manner, “you are referring to Cifer’s status as a—”
“Person offended by gossips discussing him behind his back?” an incredibly cold voice interjects.
“I expected—better of someone like you, Kurosaki,” Cifer continues, voice muffled slightly by the towel he’s vigorously scrubbing over his hair, but Ichigo blinks at the slight pause in his voice. If it’s meant to mean anything significant, though, Cifer certainly doesn’t show it when he adds, “I see that I’m still not trusted.”
It’s hard to read anything beneath the frigidness of his tone—but for a single moment, Ichigo’s almost convinced Cifer’s… hurt by what he heard. He hadn’t even noticed the water switching off or the clatter of the bathroom door, too occupied with sorting through his thoughts and Zangetsu’s less than helpful responses, but now…
“Look, I can explain,” Ichigo begins, sitting up and turning to face Cifer. “It’s—”
“Did I ask for an explanation?”
There’s only the soft whirring of Zangetsu’s power source as Ichigo stares at Cifer, mouth strangely dry—
But then Cifer’s turning away with a sharp shake of his head, whispering something too softly for Ichigo to hear.
Ichigo doesn’t move as Cifer makes his way to his room, doesn’t so much as twitch when the door slams—but when Zangetsu floats towards him, he shakes his own head before he stands.
Maybe he’s feeling jittery, Ichigo eventually rationalizes—after all, they’ve rarely stayed for more than a week in one place, even if it is Ichigo’s home—and mutters a distracted good night to Zangetsu before he heads to his room.
“Oi, Ichigo!” is the first thing Ichigo hears the next morning, loud and obnoxious and far too close for his liking. “Wake the hell up, we have turrets to fix!”
“Didn’t you say Cifer was helping you with that?” Ichigo grumbles, shoving his threadbare pillow over his head. “What the hell, Renji, it’s barely even dawn.”
“Cifer?”
“You know,” Ichigo says around a yawn, peeking blearily out from beneath his pillow, “the guy who’s been with me for almost a year? Black hair, green eyes, weird green face markings—”
“I know who he is,” Renji snaps, but it’s the hint of something in his tone that makes Ichigo blink and abandon his pillow.
“Then why’re you bothering me?” Ichigo asks in a less sleep-roughened voice, brows furrowing when he notices the frown on Renji’s face. “What, he’s slacking off or something?” he adds, when Renji doesn’t answer him—
But he shakes his head the next second, turning away with a sharp sigh and a careless, “So it turns out you didn’t chase him away, even after all your bitching.”
In the moments it takes for Ichigo to parse the meaning of Renji’s words, he’s already pressing a hand against the crumbling doorframe. “Isn’t it better this way, though?” he asks, tilting his head to glance back at Ichigo. “I thought you liked wandering on your own.”
Perhaps he would’ve agreed with that sentiment before he’d met a strange man by Orihime’s stasis pod, eyes cold in their melancholy as he’d stared at his dead wife’s face. Perhaps he might’ve agreed even a handful of months ago, before Cifer had brushed a thumb against his cheek and something had softened in his gaze.
Perhaps, perhaps… but what was the use of hypotheticals now?
“Did you see him leave,” Ichigo snaps, too terse to be a question as he flings the covers back, but Renji only shrugs a shoulder.
“Try that bot of yours,” he says in lieu of ridicule—
Because it’d be well within his rights to, when Ichigo had grumbled and muttered about Cifer almost every instance before. He’d always leapt on every opportunity to smear Ichigo’s face in the dirt, but now…
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Renji offers with a lazy wave, but he’s gone before Ichigo can insult him back.
Do anything stupid, huh? Ichigo finds himself thinking, in between tugging his pants on and yelling Zangetsu’s name. It’s sound advice, if a little hypocritical coming from someone as trigger-happy as Renji, but—
In this particular instance, with no sign of Cifer in the house or anywhere in Karakura?
“It’s too late for this old dog to learn new tricks,” Ichigo mutters to himself, and races out of Karakura behind Zangetsu’s enthusiastic lead.
Ichigo had expected a vault or a bunker, some underground location familiar to Cifer that would allow him to lay low for a while—but the building that Zangetsu leads him to is as unmistakeable as it is very, very visible. “Are you sure he’s here, Zangetsu?” he finds himself asking, gaze sweeping over the metal monolith looming over them—
But there’s movement by the front door, a shadow that resolves itself into a pale face broken by two green lines—and Ichigo’s walking towards Cifer before he’s aware of it. Of all the places he expected Cifer to be, he would’ve never thought of Med-Tek Research… but here he is.
Here Cifer is, eyes cold and unblinking as Ichigo stops right in front of him, and only the whirr of Zangetsu’s power source disturbs the silence between them.
There isn’t any surprise in Cifer’s eyes—only an aching, bone-deep weariness, and something else that Ichigo can’t readily identify. He’s not even sure he wants to know, when Cifer’s gaze sweeps over him in the moments before he turns silently away, but he follows anyway. Zangetsu’s more than content to patrol the premises, as quietly curious as a Mister Handy can ever be in the face of a Pre-War relic, so Ichigo leaves it be.
It’s not until they’ve gone through a few dilapidated rooms that Cifer speaks, though, and even then it’s a strangely heated, “You shouldn’t have come.”
“What, and just let you run off into the sunset?” Ichigo shoots back before he can stop himself.
“Wouldn’t it be easier that way?”
It’s a question that makes no sense, much like their journey or their destination, but Cifer pauses by a cage and says, “I am not deaf, Kurosaki, and neither am I stupid. Even though your wife is long dead—”
“For fuck’s sake, Cifer, we’ve talked about this—”
“—you still cling stubbornly to her memory!” Cifer says over him, green eyes ablaze with emotion.
“How many times must I tell you? She is gone, departed to a place where none of the living can touch her, and it’s time you remember that.” It’s delivered in Cifer’s usual brand of blandness, cold and direct in a way Ichigo’s never seen anyone else achieve, but what he sees all too clearly in his eyes now is…
“Bitterness.”
“Pardon me?”
“You’re—why do you care?” Ichigo scrubs a hand over his face, all too aware of Cifer’s carefully neutral expression, and snaps, “For someone who used to talk about my wife so damn much, you sure want me to forget about her easily!
“It’s almost like you’re jealous I still care,” Ichigo huffs, irritable and all the sharper for it—
But that’s just it, isn’t it? Even as Cifer twitches visibly at his words, Ichigo takes in the rusted bars cages bracketing them and sees, for the first time, the bones slipped into equally rusted shackles. They’re too large to be a monkey, too distinct not to be anything but human, and…
“You know why all these skeletons are here.” When Cifer only arches a brow at him, Ichigo scowls and adds, “You met my wife in Med-Tek, didn’t you?”
“As I said, we were prisoners of war,” Cifer murmurs, “and she was unfailingly kind.
“But it was because of people like me that your country had your wonder drugs—and she never told you, did she? That the part she played might be worse than yours.” Cifer steps into an open, empty cage and brushes his fingers against red marks—
And it doesn’t take long at all for Ichigo to realize it’s blood, streaked in a crude tally near long-rusted manacles.
“No matter how she tried to help us,” Cifer whispers, hair falling forward to hide his expression, “no matter how much she apologized—it doesn’t change who we were and what purpose we served for your nation, Kurosaki Ichigo.”
In that dingy corridor, surrounded by the bones of Cifer’s fallen comrades and the remains of those unlucky enough to ghoulify before they’d died, Ichigo learns Cifer’s longest tale yet. For all that he talks more than he’s ever done before, there’s still gaps here and there in his story—but it’s not hard to fill in what he doesn’t say.
Constant experimentation. Conditions worse than pigs led to the slaughter. Being forced to live in the overwhelming face of death, misery beyond a few dim sparks—and then, the bomb.
“I had been so certain that I’d die—so sure that it was over.” There’s only the slightest quaver to his voice, but Ichigo still sees a droplet splash onto the scuffed ground. “Do you know what it’s like,” Cifer hisses out, whipping around to pin Ichigo with faintly red-rimmed eyes, “to feel your heart beat on no matter how much you tell it to stop?”
A single tear leaks from the corner of one eye—and this time, it’s Ichigo’s turn to smooth a thumb against the arch of Cifer’s cheekbone. He almost expects Cifer to shove him away, cold and aloof for all that he’d just told the equivalent of a sob story… but he freezes beneath Ichigo’s hand instead.
“Maybe I don’t know,” Ichigo says after a few breathless moments, fingers still pressed against Cifer’s cheek, “but I’ve never…”
Never let someone get so close after Orihime left me, Ichigo can’t force past the block in his throat. Never thought I would feel anything like what I felt for my wife again.
It’s disloyal to Orihime’s memory, hurts like steel claws digging into his heart—but it’s as freeing as it’s painful, to acknowledge the welter of emotions he’d tried so hard to suppress, and his other hand comes up to cradle Cifer’s other cheek.
He should be apologizing, pulling away and leaving—he should be doing anything but leaning in—
But Cifer’s pupils only flicker once before he closes his eyes… and for all that Ichigo doesn’t tighten his hold, he doesn’t bother pulling away. His lips are thin and a little cool, but it’s not an unpleasant sensation—if anything, it’s comforting.
How Cifer—clean freak extraordinaire, apathetic to the exclusion of most things beyond disgust and a self-confessed synth—manages to do things for Ichigo is just…
“I can hear you thinking,” Cifer murmurs against his lips. “Stop that already.”
And in the face of that, who’s Ichigo to argue?
Forgive me, Orihime, Ichigo thinks—but he angles his face to better slot his lips against Cifer’s, slides a hand to the back of his head, and kisses him until he almost runs out of air.
The trip back from Med-Tek takes less time than the trip there—or, perhaps, it’s Cifer’s presence that makes it seem so. Ichigo doesn’t do anything beyond what they’ve done before, not when they’re on the road and attacks from raiders, feral ghouls and other enemies are still a distinct possibility, but…
When Cifer takes the first watch, as he always does, they’re pressed a little closer together than they ordinarily would. It’s not just limited to that, either—for all that Zangetsu is a constant, hovering presence around them, there’s still moments when Ichigo catches Cifer’s eye and sees the faintest of smiles lingering on his lips.
Then there’s the slightest brush of their hands. Shoulders bumping companionably against each other. Skinship from a person that obsessively washed his hands whenever he so much as looked at filth, but who plucked leaves from Ichigo’s hair and straightened his shirts without a murmur of protest, and—
It’s stupid and childish, a sensation he hadn’t felt even with Orihime, but they’ve barely stepped foot in Karakura when Ichigo vices a hand around Cifer’s wrist. A few impatient tugs, a shared glance that does nothing to hide either of their feelings—and it’s no time at all before they’re slamming the door in Zangetsu’s face.
“Kurosaki—”
“Ichigo,” he snarls in between one kiss and the next, pressing Cifer back against the door and shoving their bodies together. “Don’t—I need you to—”
“Ichigo,” Cifer says, distorted and barely audible between their lips, but Ichigo shoves them back together so violently that he almost splits Cifer’s bottom lip open. “No, Ichigo, listen,” he tries again—
But it’s not until he bodily shoves Ichigo back that Cifer manages to snap, “It is broad daylight, there are no locks on your front door and you plan to fuck me here?
“At least relocate to one of our bedrooms, for goodness’ sake,” Cifer mutters under his breath, stalking off—but it’s not a complete rejection, like Ichigo had initially thought it’d be.
And with that sort of nonverbal encouragement…
It’s the work of a moment to stride forward and drag Cifer after him into the master bedroom—which has both a comfortable bed and a lock on the door. Granted, the lock does nothing when it comes to keeping out Renji or any other enterprising individual with a spare bobby pin, but it’s not as though Cifer needs to know that.
When they’d been dancing around each other for the better part of two days—or a few months, if Ichigo’s starting from the moment his distant interest became something more—semantics like doors with locks and the location just don’t measure up. If it wasn’t for Cifer’s protests, he mightn’t have even bothered with such semantics to begin with.
So it’s probably for the best that Cifer doesn’t shove him away this time, when Ichigo wraps his arms around Cifer’s shoulders and presses up against him. If anything, he relaxes just a smidgen in Ichigo’s arms, feathery black hair half-hiding his delicately flushed cheeks, but it’s not long before they’re fully exposed and Ichigo’s pressing kiss after kiss to them.
“Sentimental fool,” Cifer huffs, but not even the derision in his words masks the fondness in his tone.
Your sentimental fool, if you’ll have me, Ichigo doesn’t dare say, and presses their lips together again.
It’s awkward kissing like this, though, Cifer’s neck stretched uncomfortably as they lean against each other back-to-chest, but the way Cifer turns to rectify the situation is both smooth and utterly erotic. He’s always been economical with his movements—but there’s a sort of grace to them too, and even the way he falls against the bed when Ichigo pushes him onto it is enthralling.
Flushed and kiss-dazed, with his shirt rucked up to expose porcelain-white skin and his hair fanning out against the pale cream sheets…
“Are you going to just stand there,” Cifer begins testily—
But Ichigo’s already kneeling on the bed by the third word, arms bracketing Cifer’s head by the fifth, and whatever he has to say next is swallowed in another hungry, demanding kiss.
There’s the urge to rip Cifer’s clothing off and fuck all the dry sarcasm out of him—but beneath that is the thrum of satisfaction, and that stays his hand somewhat. The contentment in knowing that his feelings, nebulous as they were even just a few days ago, were returned… the fulfilment in feeling Cifer’s willingness to go along with wherever this goes, for all that he makes disparaging comments here and there… it’s intoxicating, and the need to take and claim sings in his veins.
Ichigo had loved Orihime with all his heart when they were together, so sure that they’d spend the rest of their lives in their new home with two or more children and their Mister Handy…
But for all that the person beneath him isn’t his wife—is probably the furthest he could get from his wife, in fact—Ichigo’s hard and leaking in his pants, and the hand that presses against Cifer’s pants finds him in just about the same condition.
“Well, Cifer?” Ichigo asks a little breathlessly, for all that he was trying to steal the air from Cifer’s lungs just seconds ago. “You gonna just lie there?”
It’s mostly panted in jest, a little bit of teasing to reflect Cifer’s last question, but there’s only a strange but familiar calmness in Cifer’s eyes when he says, “Ulquiorra.”
It takes a few heartbeats to sink in, but then—
“Cat got your tongue?” Cifer—Ulquiorra—murmurs, lips curving ever so slightly upwards in a smirk.
And with that provocation thrown so boldly in his face… well.
“What, you calling yourself a cat now?” Ichigo replies, arching a brow as Ulquiorra’s smirk fades, and promptly shoves his tongue down Ulquiorra’s throat.
There’s not much in the way of teasing or mockery after that, words giving way to sighs and gasps and moans. It’s as much a challenge as it is a joy to coax noises out of Ulquiorra, composure fracturing and then shattering beneath Ichigo’s tongue and teeth and hands.
Neither of them know what they’re doing, something that becomes increasingly evident as they move from kissing and touching to something more—but does it really matter, in the grand scheme of things? When they’re both spent, Ichigo half-collapsed atop Ulquiorra and breaths fanning across each other’s faces…
“I’m glad.” At Ulquiorra’s arched brow, Ichigo huffs bonelessly against his face and mutters, “That you. That you’re still here. Alive.”
It’s not the most eloquent of confessions—and would most likely rank as the least smooth thing Ichigo’s ever said in his life—but Ulquiorra blinks at him for only a moment before his cheeks go entertainingly pink. “Idiot,” he says in his usual waspish tone, but it barely even stings.
And when Ichigo angles his face up in a silent request for a kiss, Ulquiorra only hesitates a single moment before he closes the distance between them.
Things don’t magically resolve themselves from there—Ichigo still knows little about Ulquiorra’s life before he became a synth, and even then he barely knows much about the process, or the blank period between then and their coincidental meeting in that Vault. Road trips are still as arduous and irritating as ever, especially since Ulqiuorra practically demands a shower if they move anything beyond the occasional impassioned kiss—
But Ulquiorra never makes any move to strike out on his own, and Ichigo never bothers discussing their two-man arrangement. Maybe, in some distant future, they’ll quietly inform Renji or any of the few people Ichigo’s on vague speaking terms with, but for now…
Orihime is dead. Kazui is dead. The only remnants of his pre-war life are Zangetsu and his crumbling home—and maybe it’s not ideal, but it’s also not completely hopeless either.
“Are you going to dawdle forever?” a cool voice asks from the door. “I would prefer if we reached Diamond City before nightfall, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” Ichigo fires back, smirking as he looks up and catches Ulquiorra rolling his eyes. “After all, it’s not like there’s a curfew there or anything.”
“Hurry up,” Ulquiorra says anyway, as though Ichigo hadn’t said anything at all—but when Ichigo rises and passes by him, he doesn’t move aside or turn his head away.
Yeah, it’s not exactly ideal, Ichigo thinks to himself, shouldering his backpack and bumping his shoulder against Ulquiorra’s as they exit their house, but it’ll do.
And in the shadow of Karakura’s walls, Ulquiorra offers him a brief smile before they set out.