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It would have been different if she hadn’t seen so many pieces of him. If she hadn’t realized there was more to Ulquiorra Cifer than a weapon used by the enemy.
If she hadn’t noticed the slight narrow of his alarmingly green eyes when she mentioned something he didn’t understand. If she hadn’t noticed every single instance in which he hurt her with his words, that narrowing had preceded. If all his harsh words hadn’t been a clear attempt to reason with her, to convince her of what he assumed was the logical conclusion. If he hadn’t lingered by the door to gauge her emotional state when he returned after each ‘fight’.
If he hadn’t made his steps more obvious after the time he scared her by walking in without catching her attention. If he hadn’t humanized himself by sleeping on her couch; his long eyelashes a stark contrast against his deathly pale skin. If she hadn’t realized he breathed because of a habit that he logically shouldn’t have unless he was once human and not because it was necessary for his body to continue functioning.
If he hadn’t changed from Ulquiorra Cifer (her kidnapper, fourth espada, a despicable and evil being) to Ulquiorra-kun (her caretaker, someone who ran purely on logic, a reluctantly curious person who didn’t have enough grasp on emotions to understand anything past loyalty and survival).
If he hadn’t told her she was unnecessary to Aizen, only to then turn around and claim a fight with Kurosaki Ichigo was necessary to protect Los Noches despite the fact the teen wanted to stay in Los Noches even less than anyone ever wanted him there. If he hadn’t made that attempt to explain away what was probably a selfish need to keep her from leaving.
If he hadn’t reached his hand out, his eyes showing some of his curiosity clearly for the first time. If he hadn’t inquired if she found him terrifying, eyes begging her to say no, but showing his assumptions she’d say yes.
If she hadn’t reached back, her heart beating quickly in desperation as her mind screamed that she couldn’t let this happen, couldn’t let him disappear. If his response to her openly desperate emotions wasn’t a small quirk of his lips she was unable to decipher and muttered words about the heart she’d previously tried desperately to help him grasp the meaning of.
But she had. She had gained knowledge she doubted anyone else knew, about a person no one else even seemed to care about.
So what should have been another obstacle down in the fight to keep people safe became the loss of someone she had confusing feelings for, someone she had wanted to escape, and yet, never thought would have live without.
A part of her hadn’t ever thought past this fight, had been drinking in the strange comfort his stoic company had given her, not daring to think of the larger picture. Of time passing and the war ending, of the inescapable reality that they couldn’t just continue on. It never left her mind that they were on opposite sides, but that’d didn’t stop her from ignoring it.
It was strange, how she’d lived through so much hardship this far, and yet; this could do so much damage. She’d lost and gained and lost in a never-ending cycle, and yet, this loss felt as if its weight surpassed the others.
Maybe it was just the accumulation, each thing falling onto her shoulders, varying weights that were hard to tell the difference between when they were all piled together.
This was just the thing that seemed to finally make her falter, to finally strain her back enough to slow her pace dramatically, though she could certainly continue on.
Nearly everyone was emotionally vulnerable afterwards, when everything returned to a state far more normal than it had been in the past year or so. But as time went on, as Orihime felt like she was struggling, everyone had seemed to get better. Even Kurosaki-kun seemed at least somewhat resigned to his fate as an ordinary human and ready to move on in some form.
But Orihime still had a pure white dress in the back of her closet, returned to its un-damaged state with her Shun Shun Rikka out of some strange nostalgia she shouldn’t have.
She still often recalled memories of stark walls and sharp green, banter that wouldn’t have been considered friendly to anyone but her. (“Orihime, you’re daydreaming again!”)
She still had moments where she felt choked, the need to sob coming from seemingly nowhere until suddenly it all flooded back and she was reminded of her reason.
It wasn’t noticeable to many, and she didn’t say a word. It did manifest in small quirks but otherwise, she was able to keep it all to herself.
She avoided wearing white. She felt mildly uncomfortable in hakama. She found dark hair more beautiful than before. She loved the stark contrast you see when someone had pale skin.
She saw emerald green and smiled fondly.
She saw emerald green and her eyes glazed over in a helpless attempt to not allow tears to spill.
There were chances to confess what she was feeling: after Tatsuki found the dress and gave a confused stare before realizing where it came from, when Ishida had mentioned the hopelessness she’d shown above the canopy moments after the fading ash, every month or so when Kuchiki-san checked in with some form of communication. (“How is Ichigo? He can’t mope around forever.”)
It wasn’t until the girls in class all talked about what type of dress they’d like at their wedding, until she described her ideal dress excitedly with them only to realize hours later that dress sat in her closet, that she broke down and talked.
She went to Kuchiki-san.
She knew the Shinigami was busy, that she didn’t have time to come to the human world just to talk to Orihime about her issues, but speaking with anyone else seemed wrong. Kurosaki-kun was disgusted with the outcome of the fight from the moment it ended, and she couldn’t allow him to fall deeper into the pit of self-blame he dug for himself. Ishida-kun’s ideals felt too black and white for him to understand the situation, understand the shades of grey that had been splattered across her emotions. (He’d be compassionate as he could, but his comprehension would be lacking, leaving him in a situation where he lacked even a shred of advice for her.)
It was two days before Kuchiki-san could show up at her door, and that was fine. She’d waited nearly a year to speak on this, she could wait two days more.
Orihime was absent from class the day she was told to expect her visit.
She hadn’t known where to begin, how to explain she’d cared for an enemy on some level and didn’t even realize until he was dead and gone.
She’d stared at her hands, biting her lip to prevent it from quivering and blurted the words without context to give them true meaning.
“I miss him.”
It wasn’t obvious who she was speaking of at first, the phrase vague enough to apply to many in her life. Orihime caught Kuchiki-san’s blue eyes quickly flicker to her brother’s shrine.
“He was a lot kinder than he seemed, in his own way. He took care of me beyond what was needed of a captive. He spent time with me because I mentioned being lonely.”
The realization flashed across the shinigami’s face before her expression became empathetic. She struggled with words and the name, but eventually managed to ask if what Orihime was experiencing was Stockholm syndrome. (It’d been something discussed in class while Kuchiki-san was attending, and apparently it’d stuck with her to some degree.)
It hadn’t occurred to her, and it could be a possibility, but Orihime didn’t deny that Ulquiorra had been horrible. She wasn’t in denial that he was the enemy, that he wasn’t a good person. She just also realized he had no way of having a set of human morals necessary to be a good person.
She had watched him change and adjust because of her. Watched him accidentally discover what upset her, then attempt to avoid it. Watched him slowly gain emotions he didn’t realize were forming and subsequently lash out in childish, dangerous ways that could only be expected from a formerly empty being with unmeasurable strength.
Orihime explained what she could to her, describing scenes she'd tried shoved away since her hands had brushed ash instead of warm skin. She didn’t sugar coat a single word, didn’t change the lens to give a rose colored hue.
By the end, Kuchiki-san was smiling sadly and nodding, grasping Orihime’s hand when a sob finally released.
She said words Orihime never thought were what she needed.
“It’s okay. It’s okay to miss him.”
Rukia didn’t seem to mind when Orihime’s wailing cries soaked her shoulder, her grip on the smaller girl uncomfortably tight.
It didn’t fix it. It didn’t erase a single thing or change what had happened.
But as she nodded and stuttered apologies that her friend denied were necessary, Orihime allowed herself to think of Ulquiorra fondly, to stop the hesitation she felt towards having love of any form for the enemy.
Puffed sleeves weren’t exactly in fashion, and a train that started from the shoulders was hard to find on a dress, but she wore them at her wedding anyway.