It was far, far too easy to spy on him, too.
When he had a few spare moments - travelling on the subway, before sleep, after supper - he would catch himself falling into a daze, motivated by the thought of taking away all the barriers and just taking Ichigo completely for himself. In his mind, it didn't matter how he did it, there were no awkward moments of hesitance or accusations of perversion. He was aware he was a perversion, he didn't need Ichigo to tell him that. He just wanted to kiss him (feelhisbigruggedhands,heavymuscles,smoothstrawberryhair,ohfuckohgodkeep)-
And then he would blink back to real life, forcing the heat down from his cheeks and the memory from his waking thoughts.
If his father knew, there was no indication given. These were his problems, and his father knew how to pick his battles, if nothing else. And there was plenty else, though he hated to admit it.
Adjusting himself on the roof, adjusting his glasses, his binoculars, he reached for his lunch, looked up, and Ichigo was looking up at him. He could feel the heat rise up in his face, before he turned his back ubruptly to the window.
He wasn't sure whether he was happy to be caught or not. He would relish the confrontation after so many months of indecicion and separation. His fights with Ichigo had always been the highlight of their interaction, after all.
It was surprising when it did not come. When he turned to gather up his things and leave, forsaking the place, Ichigo was there, in front of him. He had moved so silently that he hadn't even heard him come, hadn't felt the pulse of reiastu it took to execute a fundimental flash-step like that. Clearly, something had changed.
His eye caught all the changes: saw the healing cuts, the bruises, the unusual seriousness most of all. Whenever Ichigo looked like that at someone, it had never been a good sign.
But most of all, Ishida noticed how Ichigo's chest curved under the thin tank top, saw how the muscles bunched and flexed when Ichigo clenched his fist, and cursed himself and his dick to hell when he nearly got a fist in the face for his oogling. But it didn't hit him. He could dodge things that moved at nearly the speed of sound in his sleep, these days.
But he had forgotten how fast Ichigo was - always, always, faster than him. And with ban kai... A hand caught around his throat and held him there. It didn't lift, it didn't squeeze, but it was there, and down the long line of Ichigo's well-muscled arm, was his head. The glare did not waver.
"What the fuck are you doing, Ishida?"
Each syllable pronounced with a harsh anger backing it, like grinding stones.
What to say? "well, I was lusting after you, so I decided to spend my free hours stalking you?"
Hah. If ever there was a quick route to suicide, that was it.
"I don't know, I-Kurosaki."
He cought on his name, and cursed himself for it. He has never called him Ichigo to his face, it's too personal, too close, too intimate...
Kurosaki looks furious, now.
"Stop being fucking smart with me," he snaps, fingers tightening a little reflexively. He lifted his chin as if inviting the other boy to fit his thumb in there and block his artery. He could see him from under the lenses of his glasses, but he's a little blurry. Maybe he would like him that way. "If your father put you up to this, you can damn well tell him-"
But he has to interrupt him, because it wasn't his father at all, and whatever else he may be, he's family.
"No, it wasn't my father, Kurosaki. I decided this on my own."
Ichigo looks confused for a moment, bewildered, even. He smiled without any real reason to, and the other relaxed a little.
Ichigo wouldn't believe him, even if he told him. Perhaps that thought is just his last, final blockade before everything floods out. Who knows if it's true? He definitely didn't.
Lowering his eyes, he reached up and started pulling away the unresistant fingers around your neck.
"Just let me gather my things and I won't come back."
Somehow, he had expected more. Perhaps it was all those stupid dreams of his that just wouldn't stay squashed down. Maybe he needed to start taking some sleeping pills at night.
He put his self-made bento in the backpack, the notebook where he had been working on physics homework, the bottle of water, the binoculars. Ichigo didn't move, but he could feel his eyes on his back.
Unlike a nicely cut suit, which he could appreciate on anyone, Ichigo looks good in everything. He found it hard to stop looking at the oldest Kurosaki child when he started, and yet felt that pain in his heart every time he did.
"I haven't seen you in months. Your landlady said you moved. What the fuck, Ishida?!"
Ichigo always felt that action was the solution to every problem, so he wasn't surprised when he grabbed him by the shoulder and shaked him just a little, as if hoping to shake his thoughts and get them to align in a better pattern. Ichigo looked angry, and sad.
He went limp in the grip, trying not to let it affect him noticibly to have the touch on him again. His glasses slid down his nose, and one hand went to push them up again, while the other went to rest on his wrist.
This was all a waste of time; he couldn't help but think that he was going to get sucked into Ichigo's gravity again, surely at least 9.5 meters per second squared. He couldn't keep orbit there any longer - not like before. He was too dense, too erratic. If he didn't keep away, he'd crash into him and leave a ugly hole.
The thoughts would hopefully stay in his head, where they belonged, and maybe someday they would stop haunting his every thought. His eyes closed, mind made up. It was easier to say if he was not looking at his incredulous, beaten-puppy face.
"Please let go of me; I'm leaving. I apologize for disturbing you, I won't come back. I'm living with my father now."
Instead, Ichigo's grip tightened on him, and he thought that maybe he'd have to fight his way out of the grip, but then Ichigo proved whatever point he was trying to make by kissing his stalker quite roughly on the lips.
Dazed, he thought that perhaps he should recommend an appropriate lip balm to deal with those chapped lips. And then he realized what had just happened, and turned a bright red.
There was that cat out of that bag. His glasses were smudged from an errant nose, and he could only see a blur where a face was supposed to be. That was the least of his concerns. In fact, he didn't really care at all, because two seconds later he had stepped forward into the buffer zone that Ichigo had put between them and was kissing the daylights out of the orange-haired boy.
He could only pray that it wasn't a dream.
He had even remembered to take off his glasses, and Ichigo wrapped a firm, unyielding arm around his waist, fingers clenching in his starched, pressed and ironed shirt enough to pull it out of his belt. Or maybe that was on purpose, because a rough hand pushed up under his shirt and suddenly it was much, much too hot for a tie.
He didn't realize what he himself was doing until sword-calloused hands pushed his dress shirt up under his arm pits as he swayed into an unyeilding chest and tilted his head back to stare at the sky, leaving his throat open.
"Ichigo...!" he gasped a little dizzily, lips and teeth on his neck, and then he grabbed ahold of himself. "Kurosaki, stop it!"
He pushed against the wall-like chest and tried to step back, even with his lips still attached to the neck. Ichigo had that beaten-puppy look on again, and he couldn't stand it.
"We can't do this," he said seriously in between pants, knowing he probably looked just as ruffled as he felt. It would be impossible to get rid of this hard-on before getting home to a shower. He hadn't felt like crying this angrily in a long time. "You have to stop believing that your fantasies will work out in real life all the time! Now would be a good time to start."
His words were aimed to cut, and he knew that they did because they cut him to say it. Looking away harshly, he started tucking his shirt back in and readjusted his collar. When he turned his back to retrieve his jacket from the side of the roof, he half expected Ichigo to grab him and half wanted him to, but nothing happened.
Was it odd that the best dreams he had of Ichigo and himself were of being raped?
He wouldn't know. He wouldn't ask. Maybe, once he had paid off his debt to his father and regained his powers, he could make it all right. If Ichigo didn't hate him already.
It was better just to stop thinking about it altogether. It wouldn't happen. Happily ever afters didn't exist in real life.
He went home and jerked off in the shower, crying just a little at the near miss before hardening his heart again. He didn't go back to his spy-spot on the roof of the building opposite the Kurosaki residence, and he continued his training with the aid of sleeping pills at night. It kept the dreams of wet mouths and forceful hands at bay.
He wasn't ever sure whether it had been the right thing to do or not.