Ichigo was not pleased about the rampant destruction. Hell, this whole mess had started over rampant destruction, and Ichigo was still dealing with the fallout from that. Thus, he kept his thoughts to himself, stubbornly trying to internalize things, because he really, really hated feeling like he was being forced to choose between someone who needed help, and the people he loved.

So he refused to make that choice, he decided.

This is what I am. It's how I'm made, and I don't know how to be anything else. They either accept me, as I am, or they reject me.

And as much as the thought hurt in a deep, visceral corner of his heart, Ichigo still clung grimly to the choice. Or rather, the lack of choice.
That pain, the sense of loss, loneliness, and how much he wanted Shiro to understand likely broke past Ichigo's fraying efforts at keeping his thoughts to himself.

Fuck it. Even being yelled at, or fighting is better than hurting.

Sore, but clean of blood, Ichigo left the bottle under his pillow, and got up. He, too, was in pajama pants, and a simple t-shirt, but he quietly padded out into the store. Found Shiro. Crouched next to him.

And waited. For either a punch, a colder shoulder, or something. Either way, he wasn't shutting the hollow out anymore.