No matter how hard she tried to fully accept otherwise, this was just one of those things she still didn't fully understand about him -- about them. Orihime knew, from the moment Kurosaki-kun had told them to stay back during their first fight in Soul Society, that there were certain instances, certain rules of engagement that governed the way that people chose how to fight. And now, even as Ishida-kun threw her a wry, resigned sort of smile, she could see it still in his eyes, in the stiff way he extended his hand -- I can do it alone, his mannerisms had said, I'll do it alone.
For the most part, she was ambivalent to it. Orihime knew what that kind of determination felt like, after all; how it could pick up bruised bones and battered flesh and make superheroes out of the broken pieces (like the day she protected Tatsuki-chan; the day she was given a double-edged choice with only one real answer -- to save her friends). At the same time, she couldn't comprehend it, why Kurosaki-kun and Ishida-kun would hold a sword, would hold a bow until their hands cracked and bled from the pressure -- she didn't understand why they'd turn to them on the sidelines, eyes shining as they still said, stay back, like doing it alone was far more important than coming out alive.
She knew this, and didn't know it. Pride was something she felt in tiny bursts like hiccups -- they came, she held her breath and they went away. It was nothing at all like the pride that made the very core of people like Ishida-kun.
And though she might've known it, how important it was for him to go about it alone, she was... still happy at the sight of his lifted hand. Orihime reached back, fingers grazing along the callouses of his palm before wrapping around his wrist. "Yes," she returned, eyes brightening with a small smile, "but I'm glad, because this way's a lot easier." She put her weight into her leg then, propelling herself up into a slight crouch before tending to him -- she lifted his arm by his wrist, ducked her head beneath it and moved, her head and neck by his shoulder.
"Then, I'd like to ask," she continued, as she began to slowly rise, bracing his upper back with her free arm, "... I'd like to ask that Ishida-kun at least give me a clue where he was going, next time. Either way, I would've gone to look for him, so... it would've made things... simpler, maybe."
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For the most part, she was ambivalent to it. Orihime knew what that kind of determination felt like, after all; how it could pick up bruised bones and battered flesh and make superheroes out of the broken pieces (like the day she protected Tatsuki-chan; the day she was given a double-edged choice with only one real answer -- to save her friends). At the same time, she couldn't comprehend it, why Kurosaki-kun and Ishida-kun would hold a sword, would hold a bow until their hands cracked and bled from the pressure -- she didn't understand why they'd turn to them on the sidelines, eyes shining as they still said, stay back, like doing it alone was far more important than coming out alive.
She knew this, and didn't know it. Pride was something she felt in tiny bursts like hiccups -- they came, she held her breath and they went away. It was nothing at all like the pride that made the very core of people like Ishida-kun.
And though she might've known it, how important it was for him to go about it alone, she was... still happy at the sight of his lifted hand. Orihime reached back, fingers grazing along the callouses of his palm before wrapping around his wrist. "Yes," she returned, eyes brightening with a small smile, "but I'm glad, because this way's a lot easier." She put her weight into her leg then, propelling herself up into a slight crouch before tending to him -- she lifted his arm by his wrist, ducked her head beneath it and moved, her head and neck by his shoulder.
"Then, I'd like to ask," she continued, as she began to slowly rise, bracing his upper back with her free arm, "... I'd like to ask that Ishida-kun at least give me a clue where he was going, next time. Either way, I would've gone to look for him, so... it would've made things... simpler, maybe."