The music hits Ichigo as he steps out of the elevator, low and pulsing, thrumming like a second heartbeat in his chest. The room smells like expensive liquor, cigarette smoke, and something sharper, darker, that clings to the back of his throat. Shiro’s parties are decadent and sprawling. He’s seen his fair share by now. This one is packed with people who have too much money, too little restraint.
It wasn’t hard to get in. He’d leaned into the whole “Shiro’s side dick” act, party boy and all. And he dressed the part to keep it up—slutty, loud, like someone who’d trade a night in bed for a hit. Though it still grated how easily they accepted it.
Ichigo’s eyes scan the penthouse as he moves from room to room, posture loose despite the tension coiling in his gut. He doesn’t need to ask where Shiro is. He knows him too well for that. And sure enough, Ichigo finds him—sprawled at the center of the party, sitting on one of the couches in front of floor to ceiling glass like he owns the entire city. Shiro’s a better actor than he is, golden eyes half-lidded and gleaming under the dim lights. Even Ichigo isn’t sure how much of this is feigned.
A glass of something dark dangles from his fingers, while some socialite or client leans too close, talking into his ear. Shiro isn’t really listening. Ichigo can tell by the way his head tilts slightly to the side, lazy but detached, like none of this really matters to him.
He looks high. Ichigo’s gut twists at the way Shiro’s body is draped so carelessly, his usual sharpness dulled around the edges. His shirt is half unbuttoned, showing off a long sliver of torso. Ichigo knows Shiro’s body almost better than his own, and the sight of it now—on display, in this place, in front of these people—sparks something bitter under his skin.
Ichigo doesn’t approach. He keeps his distance, drifting along the edges of the room. He’s careful not to linger too long in one spot, watching out for Shiro’s cop boyfriend. Though Ichigo isn’t even sure the guy comes to these things or if that’s too much for his ethics to juggle.
Ichigo waits, biding his time, his gaze flicking back to the couch every few minutes as the people around Shiro shift and change. A laugh rings out, too loud, and one of the hangers-on finally peels themselves away, leaving a sliver of space beside Shiro.
It’s all the opening Ichigo needs. He exhales and moves, his steps casual but deliberate as he cuts through the crowd. Every instinct tells him to reach out, to grab Shiro by the wrist and drag him out of here, out of the haze of drugs and false laughter and away from all these people that don’t give two shits about him beyond what they can get. But he doesn’t. Shiro made his choice. Instead, he slides into the empty spot on the couch, his movements slow, measured, like he’s meant to be there. The warmth of Shiro’s body is immediate, close, seeping into his side as he leans back into the cushions. “Busy?”
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