The Forbidden Fruit

by BloodyPencils

About three things I was absolutely positive: First, Renji wasn't human. Second, there was this crazy part of him - and I don't even know why that part existed - that wanted to wring the life out of me. And third, I was - for the love of all that's holy - fucking in love with him. A twisted Twilight AU. Yaoi.

1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach or Twilight. I never wished I did, either—I wouldn't be able to stand the pressure and the fame and the flames. Haha!

Warnings (for the whole fic): 1) AU – like I said in the summary, this is a twisted Twilight AU. Don't worry about vampires, though. There are none in this fic. 2) OOCness of some characters to varying degrees – I think that's only to be expected, although nothing too brutal. 3) Slight modifications – I'm talking about the concept of being a shinigami here. Because I'm writing this Twilight-style, I might have to tweak a few this-and-thats. It won't get too ridiculous though, promise. 4) Yaoi – now this isn't really a warning anymore, is it? It's more like a promise. *evil grin*

Warnings (for this chapter): Nothing, really. It's still mostly laying down the foundation and everything. Just watch out for a certain megane trying to get his hands on the strawberry. :))

o – o – o – o – o – o

THE FORBIDDEN FRUIT

Chapter One

Seeing Red

o – o – o – o – o – o

Headset.

Jacket.

A thick wad of cash.

That was pretty much everything I had on me as I sat glumly through a flight that would inevitably take me to a small, insignificant town stuck between mountains right in the middle of nowhere, a place I have specifically chosen for my self-appointed exile. Too bad I couldn't really stave off the boredom—nor the irritation—with them. No matter how much I tried to lose myself in the music, my efforts were for nothing. No amount of crazy riffs or angry drumming or demented screaming could distract me now. I just wasn't about to forget yet the fact that I was slowly but steadily approaching a new, unwanted life that I knew nothing about.

So here I was, sulking.

To say that Karakura was in the middle of nowhere was, of course, highly exaggerated. I knew that, as much as I hated to admit it. After all, the tiny, almost unheard-of town I was headed to was supposed to be my hometown in the first place. And it wasn't as if it was some tribal community lodged up in the creepy forests that surrounded the rolling mountains for who knew since when.

Karakura was, in fact, a thriving town situated in one of the most beautiful and scenic spots in Hokkaido. It was a wealthy place, a highly educated community, an attractive tourist spot. The town was hardly what anyone would call lacking—it all just came down to personal preference, I supposed.

Most unfortunately, I wasn't particularly excited about the place.

If anything, I dreaded the prospect of spending any period of time there that exceeded a week—a simple vacation was my limit. I was a city boy through and through, and I was damn proud to be one, no matter how spoiled and arrogant that would probably sound. I was eternally grateful for the lucky set of circumstances—extremely lucky, to be honest, bordering on divine intervention—that granted me the opportunity to grow up in Tokyo instead.

The other parts of my current situation were, unfortunately, very true.

I only had a few prized personal belongings with me—my only baggage was clothes stuffed into a large, half-empty backpack. I have sold my beloved motorcycle and electric guitar in a brief but—obviously—extreme fit of insanity. Needless to say, it was in the same moment of madness that I decided it was high time I went back to my father's hometown. My own birth land…

Karakura Town.

A soundless sigh parted my lips as I half-listened to Matsushita Yuuya singing his heart out in my ears, easily drowning the annoying sounds of inane chatter around me. Hearing damage resulting from extended hours of listening to an ungodly volume of music was nothing compared to the mental damage I would no doubt incur if I were to listen any longer to the ear-splitting laughter and chortles and giggles of the girls sitting behind me.

I gritted my teeth at the mere thought of it—such inane banter about make-up and boyfriends and diet pills and plastic surgery. In my mind I fumed and shouted and snarled Just shut the hell up! again and again until my mental voice got hoarse.

I took deep breaths, reminding myself to relax. It would do me no good to let my temper get away from me—I was still going to get my sorry ass dumped in Karakura by the time this plane landed, and no amount of hysterics or tantrums was going to change that. It would probably be in my best interests if I wasn't hauled off to get thrown behind bars then. My life was pathetic enough.

I resisted the urge to bang my head against the window and threw it against the uncomfortable headrest instead. The resulting pain managed to distract me, even if for just a bit. That was good.

This new personality development was, apparently, just one of the many side-effects of my self-exile—even the tiniest things manage to annoy me to death these past few days. As a result, I could barely pay attention to anything now, I frequently found myself gnashing my teeth at the slightest irritations, conversations exceeding two minutes with any person almost always ended up in shouting matches—in some cases, fist fights—and my mood steadily suffered from an all-time low.

Like I needed more things to agonize over. I had enough attitude problems without the added irritability and restlessness.

I stared outside the plane without really seeing anything—I was still busy contemplating what will become of me now that I've finally done it and managed to do something so unbelievably reckless that I was actually regretting with no small amount of fervor.

Hell, I still didn't even know why I decided to move now after all those years of independence. I didn't need to do this at all—I was practically self-sufficient. All the money my dad wired me for my expenses have just accumulated throughout the years in a fat bank account that I sometimes even forgot existed. Aside from the time when I bought my bike and my guitar—which I've alreadyreduced back into hard cash just days ago anyway—I wasn't much of a spender.

In other words, my mom's death when I was just nine years old had made me strong. Strong and self-reliant. I could almost believe I was invincible.

Part-time jobs at ramen shops. Tutoring little brats. Helping as an assistant at a nearby dojo. Even delivering newspapers—although I only did that bit for about two weeks. You name it, I've done it. I was strong. I've been alone for almost eight years now, and I did just fine. Better than fine, in fact.

That being said though, a part of my personality must have gotten twisted somewhere along the way. I just knew it. My greatest proof was that the prospect of living with my father—my only family—scared me like crazy now, and I couldn't put into words why.

Something has got to be wrong with me, right?

If I thought it would do me any good—maybe help ease the dread I felt or whatever—I would have gladly tried convincing myself that this was all just a dream, or that it wasn't actually too late and I could still just tell my dad that I'm going back to Tokyo on the first flight out because this was all just a misunderstanding, a terrible mistake on my part.

But even that happy illusion, that temporary escape, was denied to me—as much as I was reckless and idiotic at times, apparently, so was I incredibly cynical and realistic to a fault. And thanks to those spiteful traits, no amount of delusional rationalization would convince me now that my decision to finally come home was right or even sane.

All I could think about was that this one-way trip to hell is called exile for a reason.

I groaned as a nasal female voice cheerfully announced that we would land in about fifteen minutes—it was no small surprise that the overhead announcement managed to cut through the noise I have deliberately plugged my ears with. In the first place, what was with the time estimate? Was that even standard procedure? It's almost as if everything and everyone was conspiring to make the most out of my discomfort.

That tiny crack in my efforts to ignore what I was doing made me realize that I wasn't feeling quite well at the moment—I was feeling colder than usual, my hands were clammy, and my head was spinning in slow, slow circles. I seriously felt like I've swallowed a cube of ice whole.

My entire body was tense. Nervous. Restless.

I was just starting to think that this wasn't normal anymore when I suddenly felt like throwing up—I had half a mind to wonder if this was what one called a panic attack. I seriously hoped not, because the last thing I needed was for my father to welcome me home in the emergency room.

Soon enough, the plane came to a stop on an ominously vacant airstrip. I tried not to think about how the whole of Karakura seemed to be waiting for my arrival—like I was destined to go back for good one way or another—but of course I failed.

When have I ever succeeded?

I took a few deep breaths to calm myself—never mind that the action served no real purpose. This nightmare was way beyond the reach of any coping mechanism that I knew of, breathing technique or otherwise.

And so, it was with weak knees and a dry mouth that I realized I have finally arrived in my personal purgatory. Reality was finally starting to sink in.

I need to move, some part of my mind repeated again and again like a broken tape as I paused dazedly just past the gate. The thought of going through with it—never mind that it wasn't like I could just waltz away—made me cringe, but I hardly had a choice. I couldn't just stand there like an idiot forever—sooner or later, I would need to face my demons.

I brought this upon myself, after all. No one forced me to make the decision, buy the ticket, and get on the goddamned plane. And that, perhaps, was the most painful thing about this exile of mine—I actually volunteered for it.

Before I could even calm the monster butterflies battering against my abdomen, I was already going through the motions of claiming my measly baggage and passing through various checkpoints in the airport.

My movements were stiff. My mind was blank. My breaths were shallow. But that was just fine—at the moment, at the very least.

In fact, I was thankful for the involuntary detachment with which my body moved. Every action was surprisingly mechanical, despite the fact that this was the first time I have been on a plane on my own. I figured perhaps some part of my brain was trying to protect me from whatever emotional or mental trauma I was going to suffer through later on when the rest of me had caught up with my actions. Thank Kami for small mercies.

Stepping outside the airport at last, I flipped my phone open and debated whether or not I should tell my dad I have already arrived. Scenarios of what would happen played out in my head like some kind of a dramatic montage as I considered my two options. I appreciated the sudden bout of creativity, but I can't say I liked what I was seeing.

In the end, there was nothing else to it. I snapped my phone shut without doing anything, then hailed a cab—I would enjoy the last of my independent moments to the fullest.

As I got into the battered-looking vehicle with a saturnine expression, I ran through what I know about Hokkaido. Basically, it's a collection of mountains and volcanoes. Not good. Said mountains were heavily forested, and the island is practically the butter-and-cheese capital of the country, responsible for producing almost eighty percent of Japan's dairy products. Not good at all. And it's goddamned cold here all the time.

"Great," I snarled under my breath as the cab ran over a sizeable dip in the road that can cause any car to keel over in less fortunate circumstances.

Everything was just so lame I wanted to cry. If it weren't for the little pride I had left, I wouldn't be sitting here so quietly like a good kid. I'd definitely be bawling my lungs out. I'd be clawing my way back to Tokyo, to the big city with the bright lights and lollipops and unicorns.

I put my earphones back on after the driver attempted to make small talk by asking me if I was new here, and by saying that I should visit the Hueco-something-or-another Park some time. Did I look like I wanted to talk or something? Sheesh.

The drive to my dad's house—our house now—took about an hour long. I used the time to further flush unpleasant things out of my head by drowning my brain cells in angsty music. Thankfully, the strategy was proving to be a success this time.

In the slow ebbing of bitter thoughts, a memory suddenly came to me—something fairly recent and…slightly touching.

Maybe.

o – o – o – o – o – o

"Good riddance," Hiyori said to me when I finally got around to telling people at my old school that I was transferring out abruptly. She crossed her arms over her flat chest and rolled her large, round eyes at the window. She was still muttering obscenities under her breath. "…dunno what you're thinking, you stupid strawberry bastard…"

I reached over and mussed her hair, fully expecting a hard kick on the shins—this time though, I had no intention of dodging it. I needed a good hit before I left, perhaps to remind me that what I have just decided to do was the epitome of idiocy.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" she snarled at me, glaring at the couple of first-years who were unfortunate enough to pass by—they looked like they were traumatized for good with just one look from this little blonde brat. "If you're going, then scat already. I don't want to see your face ever again, you miserable freak."

I sighed quietly, shaking my head at her with a genuine wistful expression. "Aren't you gonna kick me, Hiyori?" Come on brat, give it to me.

Her eyes widened for a moment, then her fist came flying into my face. Before I could even blink, she was gone.

"Oww," I muttered, wincing as I tasted blood on the corners of my mouth. "That was a good one." I was surprised she even managed to aim that high—her height never really changed from Day One, something I made sure to remind her in a very loud manner every single day.

"Tsk tsk, Kurosaki-kun," another voice said from behind me. "You're being mean."

I didn't need to turn around to know who it was. "Shinji."

He walked over to the window and leaned on it carelessly, like he couldn't care less that it might break under his weight and send his matchstick figure flying down the building. "Why transfer out this late in the year?"

I stuffed my hands into my pockets and stared at the floor, pretending I wasn't surprised he was acting so civilized. "What do you care? You don't even like me."

"That's true," he shrugged nonchalantly. "But you didn't answer the question, dumbass."

He actually sounded like he was waiting for an answer—a decent one.

I laughed humorlessly, realizing the absurdity of it all. Hirako Shinji and Sarugaki Hiyori, the two people who gave me hell for almost two years for having bright orange hair, were actually the ones I was having a hard time saying goodbye to. What kind of shitty world was this?

"She's going to miss you, you know," Shinji said eventually, picking through his nails absently like talking to me was the last thing on earth that he wanted to be doing at the moment.

"She still has you for a punching bag anyway," I said, sounding annoyingly arrogant as usual. It just wouldn't do to expose a weak part to this deceptively harmless-looking prick. "It's about time you two go annoy the hell out of someone else, anyway. I've had enough."

Yeah, I sound so cool, I congratulated myself mentally as his thin eyebrow arched. One point for me! Though not really…

I think we both knew that the casualness of it all was nothing more than a façade. After all, as much as these two tormented me, they also were the only ones who hovered around me for so long. Long enough for us to actually be able to read through each other's thoughts and moods like we were disgusting lovers or something. It was stupid.

In the two years we've known each other, we've almost become friends—I refuse to remove the word almost.

"Fucking bastard," he grumbled.

I have just shrugged when he suddenly straightened up and marched over to me in just two long strides. I almost raised my arms in defense, expecting his usual nasty right hook. It never came, though.

"…your number," he half-snarled at me, shoving his black phone into my face. His pinky finger, which was sticking out like the Barbie he was, nearly entered my mouth.

"What the…" I protested instinctively, pushing him away at once. "What?!"

He flicked his long blond hair over his shoulder with long, slender fingers and glared at me with eyes not unlike Hiyori's earlier. He looked…upset. Surprisingly so. "Give me your fucking number, Ichigo."

And because I was truly, absolutely shocked by what Barbie had just said, I punched in my number directly into his phone without a single witty retort. And the instant I entered the last digit, he snatched his phone away from me and walked off with a tortured-looking expression.

o – o – o – o – o – o

"We're here, lad," the cabbie said gruffly, jerking me back to reality unceremoniously. I haven't even realized the music was gone, lost as I was inside my own head.

I looked outside the window briefly, just for something to do—I wasn't going to admit that I was trying not to let the wetness in my eyes brim over. That would be unmanly, and not to mention just plain stupid. I wasn't crying. Come on. Not a snowflake's chance in a bonfire.

I was so busy trying to act all cool that it took me a while to realize that I could hardly see anything past the misty glass peppered with beads of moisture. This was my personal hell on earth, apparently—cold and icy. I could already feel my ass freezing off in this dismal weather. And all that goddamned snow—

I flinched as I remembered my pact with myself to never dwell long on thoughts of snow or anything related anymore. I was sad enough as it is without remembering that day years and years ago… And I couldn't afford to break into pieces right before I saw my dad for the first time in a long while.

Because I was expecting to suddenly feel the onslaught of dizziness like it always did before, I realized belatedly that I wasn't feeling sick anymore, like I had on the plane. That was…good, I guessed. You can do this, Ichigo.

"Kid?" the cabby asked worriedly, turning in his seat to look at me more closely.

"You're right," I mumbled almost inaudibly, his words sinking in at last. I kept a smirk to myself when the man's eyebrows twitched suspiciously at me. I wondered briefly how I looked like at the moment—going by the looks he was giving me, I probably looked like a junkie with suicidal tendencies. Clearly not my best, but it would have to do.

He continued to eye me weirdly as I handed him a few bills—which was way more than my fare, the ungrateful bastard—then drove off noisily.

"Home sweet fucking home," I said to myself, looking up at the windows on the second floor facing the street. In the three times in the past that I have agreed to visit my dad for a few days here in Hokkaido, I was always assigned this room. It was almost safe to say that it was mine. At any rate, it was the largest one in the house—which was, frankly, saying something—and spoiled little me was actually appeased a tiny bit.

A meaty hand, attached to an equally heavy arm, landed over my shoulders so hard I could have sworn I felt the bones in my legs creak. For a moment there, I seriously thought I was going to hit the ground face first.

"Welcome home, Ichigo!" my father boomed loudly right into my ears.

I cringed instinctively—he might be a doctor, but I doubted he understood what the fuck hearing damage was. I didn't mind if it was self-inflicted, but I wasn't taking crap from other people—even if it was my day, especially if it was my dad.

"Yeah, I'm home," I mumbled, trying to keep the sarcasm from showing—although I might have failed there. Spectacularly so. Oh well.

When he showed signs of saying some more sappy things to further express his joy that I've finally arrived, I shook him off me and marched into the house, leaving him behind to fuss over my nonexistent travel bags.

As if there was a desperate need for me to familiarize myself quickly with my new house before my noisy father caught up with me, I threw my inconspicuous backpack on the sofa and gave the first floor a quick once-over. I was glad that things didn't seem to change much—if truth be told, it seemed to me as if nothing changed from the last time I was here. And that was almost six years ago now.

Large paintings done in different styles still covered the walls. Many of them were done in black-and-white and sepia tones, but a few of the smaller ones were in striking colors. I lingered on the paintings some more, until I saw the one piece that reminded me why I never really studied them in the first place. It was the most beautiful one—a full-sized portrait of my mother in her wedding gown. All that flowing hair and fabric and sakura petals…

Heavy footsteps on the foyer told me my father had finally given up on looking for stuff that he was unlikely to find, so I grabbed a milk carton from the fridge and threw myself down on the blue sofa on the corner of the living room, bracing myself for the long line of questions I was sure to get any moment now. I could dwell on the other stuff later.

"You don't seem to have much baggage with you," he started, scratching his head as he padded into the living room that he decorated himself—according to him, anyway. "I thought you'd be bringing Shiro with you."

I made a face as he mentioned the name—I had no idea he still knew the nickname I gave my white dirt bike. I've mentioned it just once, and only in passing.

Shirosaki.

I sold the trusty machine to one of my usual opponents in illegal drag races—I knew Kensei was going to take good care of the thing. I could have brought it with me, but I decided against it in the end. Less baggage—physical or otherwise—was the most ideal option. Less hassle, less stress.

"Ichigo?" My father waved a hand over my face. He sat down near the counter when I tilted my head distractedly. "Baggage?"

I took a huge gulp from the milk carton—I almost choked on the sudden flood of cold liquid—and ran a hand through my messy hair. "I don't have the bike anymore." I decided on the spot that it would probably be in my best interests to keep to myself the fact that I actually sold it. "I have most of my clothes with me, but that's about it."

It was true. The clothes I figured should be good enough for the arctic climate of Hokkaido were all in my backpack—the rest were distributed in my friends' houses, mostly because I forgot to pick them up after spending nights there. My guitar—which went by the name Kon—also got converted into a thick roll of cash at some point. I could always just buy a new one, anyway.

"You hungry?" he asked me genially after taking in my answer.

I blinked once. "Sorry?"

My dad laughed gruffly, much to my surprise. "I said, are you hungry? You look like you could use a good, steaming meal."

I continued to look at him with unbelieving eyes, suspicious of his dismissive tone. What was this? Is he really not going to ask me questions? Wasn't he wondering why I have suddenly decided to move here with no small degree of permanence when I haven't made my distaste of Karakura a secret? Was he really telling me that he didn't even suspect me of having committed a felony or something, forcing me to flee from the law?

He met my questioning eyes with a cool gaze for a while, then he guffawed.

"Come on, kid. What did you think? That I was going to put you through the Inquisition or something? Hah!" My eyebrows nearly reached the ceiling in shocked amazement…until he added, "So what do you think, Ichigo? Am I a cool dad now?"

Ah. So that was it. I rolled my eyes.

"You had me fooled for a while there," I said, tossing the empty milk carton into the trash before snatching my bag up. If he really wanted to know, I guess he would ask me at some point. "I'm going to shower."

"I bought you a skateboard," he said, totally out of nowhere. I turned around to look at him, surprised…and maybe a tad confused.

"You bought me what?"

He scratched his chin and gestured sheepishly towards a dark corner of the living room with his head. Sure enough, a brilliant blue skateboard with a cool and gothic-style number six outlined on it was leaning on the wall—there was even a festive red ribbon wrapped around it clumsily. I looked back at my child of a father.

"I bought that from Jaegerjacques," he said quickly, almost defensively—I haven't even said anything yet. "He's kind of an expert on the matter or something… You know him—he's the kid you used to play with years ago. Anyway, I heard skateboards are all the rage here, so I figured you might want one."

I glanced back at the secondhand skateboard, and realized with a start that the fact it once belonged to someone I have no clue about didn't bother me in the slightest—in fact, I thought the thing looked great. Like it was dearly loved by the previous owner or something. I may not know anything about skateboarding, but I knew cool when I saw it.

Maybe I could actually try it out some time too, since I no longer have my bike to blow off steam with. I definitely needed something new to do in my free time.

"Do you…er, like it?"

I nearly cracked a smile at that—thankfully, I managed to make it look like a sour grin instead. "Is this your idea of a homecoming present, old man?"

He grimaced at me, totally uncomfortable—well, this was his idea. "More or less."

I ran a hand through my hair slowly, disguising whatever emotion I was sure was transparent on my face at the moment. I can feel the tips of my ears burning. "It's not bad…"

His voice softened fractionally, as if catching wind of my unruly teenage moods. "Ichigo—"

"Shower!" I half-yelled just in time. "I'm going to take a shower!"

I was just halfway up the stairs when he called out to me again, this time sounding serious and father-like. "You know you can talk to me, right?"

I fought the urge to either roll my eyes or swallow through the lump in my throat that I could no longer pretend I didn't have. Stupid hormones. I nodded once. "Yeah."

At the last moment though, I totally lost my cool and felt the dams give. I dashed to my room with no small amount of haste and slammed the heavy door behind me like the emo I knew I've finally become.

o – o – o – o – o – o

An entire playlist later, I finally found the will to get up from my lifeless posture on the bed. It wasn't even the hunger, or the desire to shower, or the need to unpack and get settled that did it for me. It was the sight of tiny shard-like pieces drifting down from the sky like sakura from a giant tree—except, of course, that I knew quite well it wasn't sakura at all.

"Snow," I whispered under my breath as I threw the sliding glass windows open without consciously deciding to do so. It fell lightly and gently, like dusting. If I tried hard enough, I could even convince myself that it was just fine confetti, in all shades of silver and white and grey.

When a cold bit landed on my nose, brought in by the equally cold breeze, I almost slammed the window shut. I caught myself just in time—my dad was pretty much laidback, but I didn't think he'd appreciate broken glass on my first day.

When the light thuds against my chest have finally subsided, I looked around my room carefully.

If my memories were any good, then I would have to say that nothing really changed. My bed was still in its place beside the window. My dresser—which looked like it was practically immovable, at any rate—was still leaning against the wall beside the door to my own bathroom. My desk was against the wall on the opposite side of the window. I frowned at that—seeing as how I was most likely going to graduate from high school here in this unfamiliar land, then it was almost certain that I was going to be using that desk. And I did not appreciate its location in the slightest. I would have to see what I can do about it later.

The walls were, thank heavens, bare. At least I could have my fun putting up posters and stuff—not that I brought any with me, but that can easily be remedied.

After searching through the drawers—and finding nothing of interest—I plopped back down on my new bed and paid attention to the bed sheet for the first time. It was certainly unsuitable for a male teenager like me, but something about the black butterflies with sharp fuchsia linings on their wings and the way they were set on an otherwise plain white background that was…captivating, to say the least. It almost felt like…

…like I've already seen them before. I just couldn't tell where, or when.

I thought about it some more, then I realized what I was doing. I shook my head, chasing away thoughts of butterflies and bed sheets—this wasn't me, for fuck's sake. Emo and girly were on two different levels—and though I admit finally having descended into the first, I sure as hell wasn't going to go into the second, ever.

With another dejected sigh—certainly not the first of what I anticipated to be many—I pawed through my bag and pulled out a pair of jeans. It was the thickest pair I owned, but no matter how I looked at it, it just didn't look like it could keep up with the cold. There was nothing I could do about it at the moment anyway, so I fished out my favorite red v-neck shirt and headed to the bathroom, thoughts focused on nothing but a scalding, hot shower.

o – o – o – o – o – o

Dinner was a quiet—awkward—affair that night.

For some reason I would probably never understand no matter how long I lived, my blundering idiot of a dad decided that today was a good day to take an unexpected day-off from the hospital he was working at and spend the rest of the day with me, his sullen teenage son. He even insisted on having a rather bulky dinner, something that my battered stomach did not look forward to.

"Dad, really. I'm not hungry," I said through gritted teeth as he dumped another heap of grilled squids into my plate, paying no attention whatsoever to my protests.

"Nonsense! You're a growing kid! You need lots of food in you!" he announced cheerfully, proceeding to shove more rice into my already overflowing bowl.

I rolled my eyes and privately decided that I wasn't going to force myself to everything, or even try to dissuade him from his somewhat misguided fatherly notions about raising a child—I simply had to wait for him to retire to the living room to watch his favorite talk show, then I would be free to dispose of my leftovers as I pleased. My dad, on the other hand, took my silence as assent to his ridiculous statement and contented himself with one last serving of fried eggs before shuffling off to the sofa with a satisfied expression.

When I have finished washing the dishes, I sensed him creeping up behind me, trying to be subtle about it.

"What?" I asked tonelessly, not even bothering to turn around. I focused instead on drying my fingers with a towel.

He dropped the sneaky attitude at once and started laughing airily. "You're good, Ichigo! Excellent senses, just like your father!"

I rolled my eyes as dramatically as I could—he couldn't see the gesture anyway. "What do you want?"

He leaned against the wall and shook his head at me—I wondered what image he was trying to portray this time. "It's not so much as what I want, Ichigo. The point is…" he trailed off gruffly, waiting until I looked around at him before he continued, paying no attention to the glare I was giving him. "…today's Sunday."

I stared at him pointedly for a few more seconds, but it was pretty much evident that I wasn't going to get an explanation for this revelation until I actually asked for one.

For a moment there, I was tempted to just ignore him—I definitely did not want to make this some kind of permanent occurrence every day, like a family tradition or whatever else he might think of it as. Patience wasn't one of my stronger suits. However, I decided that I could allow him at least a day to act like the child he still was—I could deal with all his antics properly tomorrow. I owed him at least that much for suddenly calling him and announcing that I'm moving in with him in just a week's time.

I took a deep breath once, then looked at him straight in the eye with carefully controlled expressions. "And Sunday's so important because…?" I trailed off expectantly.

He gave me a huge grin. "Because tomorrow's Monday."

A sudden burst of temper—something I had no idea from whom I inherited, given that neither of my parents was prone to having sudden flashes like I did—washed over me, making me see red for a second. Then I remembered that I was going to allow him a day.

Patience, Ichigo. Patience…

I pinched the bridge of my nose and counted to five slowly in my head. When I was sure beyond any sliver of a doubt that I wasn't going to end up shouting once I opened my mouth, I looked back at him with a crooked, half-pained smile which was the best I could manage at the moment.

"Yes, tomorrow's Monday," I agreed slowly, trying not to feel like a goddamned idiot. "What about it?"

He shook his head this time, looking at me as if I was failing to notice something incredibly important. "School, Ichigo."

My annoyed expressions froze into place at once, allowing me a few moments to think quickly. I have definitely forgotten—it completely, undeniably slipped my mind. All that internal drama about spoiled brat Hiyori and Barbie Shinji being absurdly emotional over me, followed by the nostalgia hitting me at the worst possible timing, then the goddamned snow distracting me… I fucking forgot I have classes tomorrow.

"You don't have to hide it, you know," he said lightheartedly, rumpling my hair with his large hand. "It's pretty obvious you forgot."

I winced as I realized I have failed to come up with a witty remark within the appropriate time limit. I sighed in defeat. "So it seems."

His warm hand left my hair alone and patted my shoulder twice. "Don't worry. All you have to do is show up and be yourself. I've already taken care of all the necessary paperwork."

High school… What the hell was I doing…? Why did I do this again…?

I looked away at once, determined not to let my face betray any more of my thoughts. I was most especially against him finding that I was practically drowning in unwanted, unexpected relief at the moment—relief that he was acting like an anchor to me, relief that he could make me feel secure when I barely even understood the concept, relief that I did not have to face all these alone. That last bit was the worst, I was certain.

"Like I said," he smiled at me suddenly, throwing an arm around me and pulling me in effortlessly. "You're obvious, Ichigo."

One moment, my face was being crushed into my dad's muscled chest. The next, I was running up the stairs with my face practically burning with emotions I refused to name—not now, not ever.

I slammed my door shut with as much noise as I could make—anyone with a brain larger than that of a chicken's would probably be able to figure out that this is teen-speak for Leave me the fuck alone. But paranoid as I was, I stayed right there with my ear glued to the door for a solid five minutes before I determined that my dad probably got the message just fine and decided to give me space and time.

Feeling like I've made a total fool of myself, I threw myself down on the bed and stared blankly at the ceiling. Lifeless—I could do lifeless and numb. It has already proven to be an effective strategy before.

But I couldn't. I can't focus enough. My head was a mess—random but persistent thoughts floated around in my mind like drunken bees. It was almost as if the blunder downstairs had actually fried a significant amount of my brain cells to ash. I was just starting to consider whether I should say goodbye to them—my poor, poor neurons—when a haunting voice suddenly echoed from the bathroom.

"…ippen shinde miru?"

I almost jumped out of my skin when I heard the eerie phrase.

"Damn that spoiled brat," I growled, cursing viciously under my breath as I trudged towards the bathroom with my heart thundering in my chest.

Hiyori, during the one time she managed to filch my phone off me when I wasn't paying attention, changed my incoming message tone into this hair-raising phrase from one of the animes she was probably addicted to.

It scared me to death when I first heard it, but much to my dismay, I couldn't find the resolve to change it—something about sick sentimentality. And so it remained to be my message tone from then on. I just made sure my phone was on silent whenever she was around.

It took me some time to locate my phone when I finally decided to pick up my lazy ass and search for the thing—I never realized that it could still be in the back pocket of my pants that I already threw into the hamper.

I quickly opened my inbox, and was promptly surprised to see messages from the two people I least expected any from.

I read through what I assumed to be Hiyori's first—it was probably sent sometime during dinner. Hey strawberry, you know what happens when you get mixed with snow? You get a fucking SNOW CONE! Bwahaha!

I didn't know what to think at the moment, so I turned to read Shinji's. Did the airplane fucking crash? –Shinji

I walked back to my bed without paying attention to where I was walking—I wondered how best to answer the two. I have to admit that there wasn't much to reply to anyway. It wasn't like they sent me novel-length messages. And exhausted, depressed and sullen as I was, I could barely think up suitable responses when all I've read was a collection of insults and expletives from the people who taught me how to swear in the first place. Besides, I wasn't about to give them updates about my life like a moron when they haven't even asked for it—not that I was going to tell them if they have asked for it. I have my reasons when I decided that Facebook and Twitter were of no significant use to me.

Somewhere along my musings, I realized that I was turning into some kind of sappy teenager and promptly reminded myself that these two nutjobs made my entire high school life—or what I had of it, at least—something of a circus, but I figured in the end that I could probably include them in my one-day adjustment allowance.

To be honest though, it was all just a front… I must be a fucking retard.

I was seriously happy. I was so fucking happy that they messaged me, even if only to insult me with no vague and ambiguous terms. I was happy because I knew that deep inside, they were probably the best friends I could ever ask for.

I fought back unmanly tears and swallowed my pride—or the lump in my throat. Whatever.

I flipped my phone open again and sent a short message to both of them, then smiled contentedly, feeling like I could face tomorrow easily like the cool, Tokyo teenager that I was.

Before I could snap out of my new thoughts for fear of sounding like a girl again, the haunting tone echoed again. Twice.

I can feel the love, bastard, Shinji said.

As if you can, snow cone, Hiyori replied.

I smothered my grin into my pillow and tossed my phone off to the side without bothering to reply. They respond well when I tell them Fuck you! and that, I thought proudly, was the best trait I could ever hope for from friends of mine.

o – o – o – o – o – o

The next day, I woke up to a couple of cup noodles stacked over each other in the middle of the dining table, and a note from Dad that said, Call me when you need anything. Your allowance is on your desk, along with a map to the school.

I couldn't help but smirk when I realized that he couldn't keep up yesterday's elaborate antics for any longer than a day. It seemed to me like my one-day adjustment allowance was the right move—I didn't even have to deal with things afterwards. I should have known that my worries were baseless. Dad would be Dad—clumsy in the kitchen, socially awkward, clueless with money. It's why I liked him so much in the first place.

After taking a quick shower and toweling my hair dry, I took my new uniform out and studied them. Not bad, I thought privately. The neutral gray of the coat and slacks did not clash with my hair color—which was probably the most important thing—and the design wasn't bad at all. And when I have finally put the whole thing on, I found that it fit me perfectly. I wondered briefly what my old man had to do to get this done mightily fast.

On second thought, maybe I didn't want to know…

I walked over to my desk and grabbed my allowance, thinking about maybe looking at a new guitar or something. It was only when I was already stuffing the bills into my wallet that I realized I was holding enough money to keep me afloat for two months. I paused momentarily, biting back a grin. Such an airhead, my dad was.

I threw on my favorite jacket—a black one with the words Vizards Rule printed in broken silver letters—after a quick glance outside my bedroom window. I guess I wasn't really surprised anymore to see that it was snowing this early in the morning. At least it was just light—I would save my complaints for when hail started to fall.

It was surprisingly easy to follow the map my dad left for me—although to call it a map had to be some kind of flattery. Written in an ugly, almost unintelligible scrawl were simplistic directions on how to get to the school, which was about ten blocks away from the house. Go right and walk straight for three blocks, then turn left and walk until you see the bookshop… It took a great amount of faith on my part to believe that he, at least, knew how to count.

Eventually, I found it. Or rather, I found where the school should be.

Since Hokkaido's terrain is basically mountainous, it was only to be expected that a lot of places in the region would be following the same rolling terrain. And not surprisingly, the local high school was located in one of the more elevated blocks in town.

The winding roads to the school where it branches off from the main road were enclosed on either side by very steeply inclined walls that form the sides of the higher grounds where trees grew thickly together. The secluded feel that the accessways emanated gave a heightened impression of effective learning. Everything practically screamed institution.

I looked up again as I started working my way to the school, studying the view some more. I certainly appreciated the cool appearance and natural beauty of the place, but I couldn't say as easily that I looked forward to walking this much every single morning—I should probably consider buying myself a bike.

Eventually, I got to the top.

I was frankly surprised to see that the local high school seemed to be larger than my old school at Tokyo—the U-shaped main building, which was in plain view from outside the wide gate, was every bit imposing. The mild-looking beige color did nothing to soften the impression at all. And stepping inside to see the grounds further only added to the initial shock. It really was larger, something I would have never even dreamed of.

I glanced at my watch—my laborious walk ate up so much of my time that even if I left the house an hour before class started, I only had ten minutes and change left. And the thought of walking in late—as if I needed any more attention-grabbing element to my character—nearly sent me running to the administration office.

I managed to keep myself to a jogging pace—mostly in an effort not to attract more unnecessary attention to myself—but I still felt my lungs throb with the familiar slow burn of exertion. I needed to exercise soon.

A couple of greetings and half-formal bows and various school personnel later, I was finally on my way to my classroom, walking about two steps behind my homeroom teacher. She's a slender woman who looked like she could be older than me by just a couple of years, with long black hair arranged into a single neat pigtail on her back and sharp-looking glasses without frames. From the moment I saw her to the time we stopped outside a room on the end of the east wing on the third floor, she had said only two words to me. Two words. And that was her name.

Yadomaru Lisa.

She glanced back at me briefly as her hand paused on the door—and broke her two-word record with a terse instruction.

"Wait for me here."

I barely had time to blink—much less respond—before she threw the door open with a casual flick of her slim wrist and silenced the noisy room with her mere presence. Needless to say, she shut the door just as fast, and I could have sworn I can still hear the loud, gunshot-like clicks of her stiletto heels against the floor even after the door had closed.

I sneaked another glance at my watch, resisting the urge to tap my foot impatiently—I could hardly believe that I still had one minute before class. All those formalities earlier seemed to have dragged on forever. And that was only the first part, a small taste of what I would be going through in the next few days. I wanted nothing more now than to get the class introduction over with and retreat to my seat—hopefully somewhere at the back of the room—and think up of strategies on how not to stand out too much. I haven't missed the curious glances I have been attracting non-stop ever since I set foot inside the building.

Because I was waiting on tenterhooks for the moment Yadomaru-sensei would call my name and bid me entrance to a room of unknowns, my senses were a tad sharper than usual. Okay, so maybe a lot sharper than usual was the more appropriate description. At any rate, it was why I suddenly turned to look at the other end of the hall when something flickered from the edges of my vision.

I squinted at the slim figure standing stock-still in the middle of the empty corridor.

I could make out a gray skirt and a white top—which I deduced to be the females' uniform minus the coat, based on what little I've seen from when I rushed about inside the building earlier. After giving her a quick once-over, I had to admit that she wasn't doing anything particularly showy. The girl was just standing there in fact, making me wonder why I was suddenly so interested.

For lack of anything better to do at the moment, I just looked at her some more.

She had an olive-toned complexion, and her limbs were all slender and graceful-looking. Her long, flowing violet hair—gathered into a thick, high knot at the back of her head using a band-like fabric and secured into place with a red hair tie—was highly intriguing, and definitely flashier than mine in many ways. But what really caught my attention, I realized belatedly, was the fact that she was looking right at me.

Her lips curved up into a predatory smile…

The bell suddenly echoed throughout the entire school, signaling the start of class. It was also at that moment that the door of my room burst open without any warning whatsoever.

"You may enter now, Kurosaki-kun," Yadomaru-sensei said crisply, unaware that she nearly gave me a heart attack. I threw one last glance at the end of the hall before entering.

The violet-haired girl was no longer there. All that was left for me to see was the billowing curtain and a faint trail of lightly falling snow brought in by the breeze coming from a window left wide open.

o – o – o – o – o – o

I walked into the room with my eyes down on the floor and my head hung low—so much for my cool, Tokyo-teen image, but I just couldn't shake that girl's smile out of my head. I wished I could say it bugged me to no end, but that just wasn't it. There was something about it…

I paused at the middle and quickly picked up a piece of chalk, thankful for the opportunity to turn my face away from the sea of curious faces for a while. Dragging it out for as long as I could, I carefully wrote my full name on the board.

Kurosaki Ichigo.

I tensed instinctively when the class in general started murmuring amongst themselves—most probably about the pansiness of my name—but I was relieved to find that none of it sounded hostile or even the slightest bit contemptuous. They were just incredulous, for the most part. And amused, of course. But that was fine—I could deal with that.

I turned around to face the class and quickly bobbed a small bow. "My name is Kurosaki Ichigo. I transferred from Tokyo. I look forward to a good year with you. Please take care of me."

I straightened up to a slightly louder chatter—many faces were directed towards me, looking very interested. This, too, was within my expectations. It couldn't be every day that they see transfers, so I was sure that they were bound to be excited. I quickly suppressed a sigh.

A bespectacled girl, who honestly resembled Yadomaru-sensei, rose her hand confidently. Beside me, the teacher nodded briefly.

Yadomaru-the-second stood up primly, pushed her glasses back to her nose with steady fingers, and bowed briefly to me. "My name is Ise Nanao, class representative. In behalf of the whole class, welcome to Karakura. We hope to get along with you."

She sat back down after her short and curt introduction.

Ise-san, huh? I made a mental note to find out later if there was any sort of connection between Yadomaru-sensei and the class rep.

Many more hands started to raise after that first one, although a bit tentatively compared to Ise's straightforward manner. I correctly guessed that the hesitation was because of the teacher's no-nonsense demeanor—I saw her glance across the class once, then rolled her eyes infinitesimally at the number of hands waving shakily but bravely in the air.

She sighed ever so slightly, then spoke in a clipped tone. "Yes, Inoue-san?"

A well-endowed girl stood up shyly, looking at me with great round eyes. I swallowed when I saw her hair—it was the same blaring, violent color as mine, except perhaps that it was of a deeper shade, a richer hue.

I managed to maintain a politely interested expression on my face, but deep inside I was really doing a wild victory dance. My spiky hair, although slightly longer than was normal for proper high school students, had nothing on her sweeping curtain of tangerine tresses.

The girl—Inoue—was peeking at me through thick eyelashes. "Is…is that your…natural hair color, Kurosaki-kun?" She even squeaked at the end of her question, like she expected me to burst into a tirade at her question.

I nodded shortly. "Yeah. This is natural."

Her mouth rounded into a cute little o, but the sound was drowned out by more chattering. As I looked around and studied faces, Yadomaru-sensei called another name.

"Ishida-kun."

This time, a tall boy with silky-looking black hair and sharp blue eyes stood up. He gave me the impression of being one of those cool, effortlessly intelligent types…

"Have you already decided on a club, Kurosaki-kun?"

I shook my head, entirely truthful. In fact, this might be the first time I have thought of that particular concern—he had a good point.

He leveled a serious gaze at me and said, "I'm Ishida Uryuu, president of the Sewing Club. Would you perhaps be interested in joining our club?"

I groaned internally. Ahh… There goes the good impression. Maybe it would actually do me good to pay heed to the old adage Never judge a book by its cover.

I scratched my head and averted my eyes to the sides. "It's not really…" an option, or even a sane suggestion. "…my cup of tea. Sorry."

I automatically tuned out whatever else he said before sitting back down, certain that I didn't want to hear any more pleasantries or extended invitations. I have no intention of joining the Sewing Club, and my decision was final.

Beside me, Yadomaru-sensei let out a tired sigh and lazily called out another name. "Alright, everyone. Last question. Arisawa-san."

The girl who sat beside Inoue—black-haired, short, fierce-looking, the very image of an angry young boy except that she was a girl—stood up quickly, half-slammed her hands into the desk, and asked me bluntly, "Do you have a girlfriend?"

I blinked once, then my lips parted. Damn, she was blunt. I thought about it for a moment, then I flashed the whole class a bright smile.

"Nope."

"Alright, that's it," Yadomaru-sensei announced, followed by the loud clicking of her shoes—everyone, or at least some of them, groaned in disappointment. She turned to me. "You may take a seat right there, Kurosaki-kun."

She pointed to the empty chair beside the Sewing Club Four-Eyes—but it was also a seat beside the window. Fair trade, I thought.

I walked to my seat and settled down quietly—surprisingly, Ishida made no comment whatsoever. That was good. We would probably get along just fine if he kept it up. After putting my bag down, I glanced outside and saw that the snow had finally stopped. That was another good thing.

I released the breath I didn't realize I've been holding and thought, So far, so good.

o – o – o – o – o – o

To my chagrin, my elective was—of all the things my idiotic father could choose from when he registered my classes—painting.

Painting! Good Lord…

The one in charge of the goddamned elective was a man called Ukitake Juushirou. From what I heard from people who were friendly enough to chat as we walked to the art room on the west wing of our floor, he was practically a genius. His paintings and other works were well sought-after, and multiple galleries are always asking him for new pieces. They even said that his first ever masterpiece, a painting called The Ghost of Ugendo, was currently priced at $22, 500. However, he had refused to sell it numerous times, and it has long been established that he had no intention of selling it ever—although that never really deterred interested parties from seeking him out.

I sat down with a couple of my classmates on a corner of the room, thinking that at least this class was going to be held by a person who knew his stuff. It couldn't be a total disappointment.

"Notice the number of people in here?" a laidback boy from my class called Mizuiro whispered to me. I nodded once, looking around briefly. "Ukitake-sensei's class is the only elective in this school with students from all year levels. I even heard someone say that every section has a student or two in this class. I don't think anyone's bothered checking, but it's probably true. There are even some who aren't officially registered—Ukitake-sensei allows sit-ins, apparently."

"He's that good, huh?" I said, studying the faces of the students in the room. More than half of them didn't strike me as art-loving people, to be honest. Regardless of whether the teacher was a master or not, I just didn't think a class turnout of this size was simply due to respect. Something else has got to be at play here.

"Ah…here he is," Mizuiro said, gesturing towards the door.

"So that's why," I breathed as a wraith-like figure with a sheet of snow white hair entered the room. Even the man's features were deathly pale, but that only served to highlight the strange, almost otherworldly beauty he undeniably possessed. I wanted to say he almost looked like a girl, but I couldn't—the word feminine didn't suit him at all. Not in my opinion, at least.

But he really was beautiful.

Students quickly flocked round the teacher as soon as he sat down. He looked right back at them with a warm smile, and I knew at once that it wasn't the least bit fake. It seemed he was popular among the students for more than just his skills and his looks, too.

Ten minutes later—after Ukitake-sensei had personally introduced himself to me with a gentle voice and an encouraging smile—we were instructed to sketch a person's face. He wasn't asking for anything specific, like a style or angle—he just said to let the creativity flow. Then he excused himself from the room with an apologetic smile, saying he had some last-minute things that he really needed to attend to.

"Many students find him to be a wonderful model," Mizuiro explained with a knowing chuckle when he caught me staring at pictures of Ukitake-sensei clipped on some of the students' sketchbooks. "It's funny how sensei has never done a self-portrait. He once said that he was too embarrassed to attempt one."

"Uh huh," I nodded noncommittally, still looking around. It was almost a given that the teacher would be a subject of many of his students' works, but what I found surprising was that there were a couple of them who actually seemed to have some real talent at drawing.

"He's a really good teacher," Ishida suddenly said beside me, making me jump. I didn't notice him before, and I certainly wasn't aware that he was sitting right beside me. He ignored my reaction and merely adjusted his glasses. "Some of the best in the school started with zero knowledge about sketching or painting, but Ukitake-sensei managed to bring out the gem in them."

"That's…great," I said after a while, getting over my surprise. "I really think this class is great. Definitely interesting. I've never had anything like this in Tokyo."

I involuntarily made a face at the very-much-true thought—I doubted the teacher in charge of painting at my old school even knew how to hold a brush correctly, let alone use it. And besides, aside from the ones that were practically niches in their own right, most of the electives there were taught by teachers who were simply assigned the position. I hardly expected any in-depth, mind-opening knowledge about their respective subject matters from them.

Ishida cracked a small smile before turning back to his sketchbook. "Wait until you see the sensei's works. You'll be amazed."

I realized he was right—I kinda wanted to see some of those famous works now. Who wouldn't be curious after hearing all those praises? I wondered if the school had any on display. He was a teacher here, after all.

"Hey, Ishida-kun. Do you thi…" I started to ask, only to trail off suddenly when I saw his sketch.

The image was only starting to take shape, and there were no real details on the drawing yet—just the shape of the eyes, the outline of a nose, the slim curve of a mouth—but there was no mistaking that face…

I almost grabbed the sketchbook from him. "Who's this?"

Ishida looked pointedly at my hand, refusing to answer until I let go of his sketchbook. When I finally did, he coughed softly and nudged his head towards the other corner of the room.

I was craning my head around to see what he was pointing at when I first saw them.

They were sitting closely together on the corner next to the teacher's table, minding their own business like an invisible wall separated them from the rest of the class. There was even an unnatural looking gap between their group of five and the closest pack of students, like some kind of a no man's land. And something about the aura that surrounded them—a heavy feeling, an almost tangible weight—made the hairs at the back of my neck tingle.

I looked at Ishida's bare sketch, then turned my gaze back to the mysterious-looking group. There was no doubt it was her in the sketch.

Sleeping with her head against the wall was the violet-haired girl from the empty hallway before. She jerked slightly in her sleep when one of the other students accidentally knocked a canvas to the floor, but the loud sound didn't wake her up. The black-haired boy beside her detected the movement, though.

Looking impossibly stern despite the ridiculous length of his hair that looked like it could rival any girl's, the boy put an arm around the violet-haired girl and pulled her to him, resting her head on his shoulder. I averted my eyes quickly when the boy's surprisingly light-colored ones—I couldn't make out the color from this distance—flickered to what I thought was our direction. It wasn't like I thought I was doing anything wrong, but I wasn't too keen on checking if he really was looking at me with those sharp eyes.

When I thought enough time has passed, I casually looked back at that corner of the room and studied the rest of them.

The two boys who were easily in my line of sight even if I slouched on my seat looked as if they were having a soundless fight. The blond one, whose hair covered almost the entire left side of his face, was frowning with a hint of irritation. The guy beside him—who had spiky black hair, a somewhat muscular build, and a bandage over his left cheekbone—had a hard expression, his hand fisted around the brush he was holding. Every now and then their eyes would meet, and I could almost feel the sparks from the intensity of their glares.

I shifted around in my seat as discreetly as I could, trying to distract myself with the last of them before those two caught me looking—I didn't think it would do me any good to be on the receiving end of those angry gazes.

It took me some effort to find a position from where I could see the last guy from the group—an awful lot of canvases and sketchbooks blocked my line of sight—but when I finally saw him, I couldn't believe that I've missed him in the first place. He was easily the most eye-catching person in the group, or in the room for that matter—and perhaps even in the entire school.

His gray coat was slightly parted at his chest, revealing the edges of a white undergarment and the jagged edges of a pitch-black design inked on his skin. He was sitting lankly on his chair, unseeing eyes fixed on a spot on the wall, looking extremely bored. There was an open sketchbook in front of him, and I could make out a finished-looking image on it, although I couldn't tell if the sketch was any good at all.

I felt another jolt run down my spine as I directed my gaze upwards—it was the same feeling I've had when I saw Inoue's hair, but this time was stronger.

His long mane—the upper half pulled tight into a knot at the back of his head while the rest swung freely down his back—was a brilliant, deep red.

Not orange, not yellow, not violet… Red. A shocking, ruby red.

And as if the hair color wasn't enough of an eye-catcher, he had a wide burgundy headband wrapped around his forehead—I had the nagging suspicion it was actually hiding a tattoo. I could faintly see a black tip peeking out from where the headband was slightly askew.

Even if I was concerned that he might catch me staring at him—which I clearly wasn't, given his lax posture and indifferent yawns—I couldn't have brought myself to look away anytime soon. I was way too taken aback by his wild appearance it was almost as if a few circuits of my brain have shorted themselves.

"This the first time you saw them?" Mizuiro asked quietly through a smile, nudging me lightly. I barely stopped myself from jumping at the sudden intrusion to my musings.

In an effort to try and gather my thoughts, I tore my eyes away from that corner and looked at Mizuiro's sketchbook—there was an amazing line drawing on the page he was working on, but the picture was that of a plate of onigiri. Clearly, he hadn't heard the instructions properly—or he didn't care. I shook my head some more, then looked right at him instead.

"Who are they?" I asked in what I hoped was a neutral-sounding voice. And who was that boy?

Ishida looked up briefly at my question, but made no comment and just went back to adding shadow-like smudges on his own work.

Mizuiro gave me a cool, I'm-a-database kind of look and started playing with his pencil around his fingers. "That's Kira Izuru and Hisagi Shuuhei of Class 3-2, Shihouin Yoruichi of Class 2-1, Kuchiki Byakuya of Class 3-1, and Abarai Renji of Class 2-4. They're kind of like brothers and sisters, and they all live together with Police Chief Kenpachi and his wife."

My mouth parted again. "What?"

Mizuiro just grinned at me, no doubt savoring my shocked expression, but Ishida looked up shortly after and provided an explanation when he was done adjusting his glasses. "They're all adopted, although not technically. It's why they all have different surnames. Their personal histories are undisclosed, but a popular theory was that they were adopted by the Chief in order to give them a chance to have a real life and not just wander the streets, doing bad things."

Mizuiro leaned closer to me and added, "I've even heard some say that Hisagi-kun—he's the one with the bandage on his face—was involved in something big, that the Chief had to pull strings in order to keep him out of bars."

My eyebrows twitched at that, but I said nothing—although the fierce-looking guy did look like he could be involved in some of the shadier stuff, I've figured by now that Mizuiro's stories were definitely something to be wary of. It was slightly alarming how cheerful he looked while casually dishing dirt on other people's names.

As I thought about it some more, I wondered why they didn't know more about the group's history—Karakura can be classified as a small town, after all. Surely, gossip gets around like wildfire, right?

"Since when have they been adopted?" I asked.

Ishida paused for a while, then shrugged. "I'm not really sure. When they were eight or nine years old? But I know that the last of them to get adopted was Yoruichi-san—she's the girl, the slim one. I don't think Chief Kenpachi planned on adopting a girl, but things happened…"

The way he trailed off piqued my interest, and I was almost one hundred percent sure that Mizuiro was going to give me a colorful account of that story. To my surprise though, he just smiled awkwardly and looked away evasively when I turned to look at him.

I looked back at Ishida expectantly. "What is it?"

He just shook his head fractionally, making me tsk quietly. I changed my line of questioning.

"Does this mean they haven't always lived in Karakura?"

Ishida sighed—whether because of my persistence or because his hand slipped on his drawing, I couldn't tell. "No. They moved from somewhere in Kushiro about three years ago."

He sounded so dismissive I decided to just drop the topic for now. It wasn't like I wanted to pry or anything, but I was really curious.

I sat back on my chair heavily and looked around absently, not really seeing anything anymore. I couldn't shake off the strange feeling I had… There was something about that group that bothered me. Or maybe bother wasn't the right word at all, but I couldn't clearly identify what it was either.

"You know, Kurosaki-kun," Ishida spoke again, turning his blue eyes to me. "You still haven't drawn anything."

My expressions froze in place as I realized he was right. Goddamit! I've been distracted.

When I looked down at my sketchbook, I realized that my pencil was missing. Great. Just what I needed. I shifted around to try and look for it—it must have rolled off and fallen somewhere when I was fooling around earlier, trying to poke my nose into other people's lives.

A few moments of searching for it on the ground confirmed that it had indeed fallen—I bent down quickly to pick it up. Everything seemed to be perfectly normal until that point, but when I straightened back up into my seat, it happened.

A strange, electric feeling suddenly coursed through my body. And before I could even totally register the nerve-wracking sensation, it was suddenly replaced by an overwhelming pressure, like an invisible weight was pressing into me from all sides. At the same time, I felt like I was instantly drowning, like water battered at me from every direction…

This all happened in mere seconds.

By the time the pencil slipped from my loose fingers and fell to the floor with a light thunk, the strange feeling was already gone.

I slumped back down on my seat without bothering to pick the pencil up again. My chest was heaving with labored breaths, and I was sure my panic showed on my face. I could feel cold beads of sweat gathering on my forehead, on my upper lip…

"Are you alright, Kurosaki-kun?" Ishida asked in a concerned tone, having witnessed the entire episode but obviously not having felt what I have. "You look pale. What's the matter? Are you feeling sick?"

I wasn't, but I couldn't answer just yet. I was still shaken… What just happened?

Several people—including me—looked up in alarm when the door suddenly slammed against the frame, but the only thing I saw before Mizuiro blocked my view with his worried-looking face was the flutter of deep red hair as its owner whipped past with a hard expression and narrowed red eyes.

o – o – o – o – o – o

I spent lunchtime with a group of my classmates that included Mizuiro, Ishida, Inoue, Arisawa, a huge guy named Yasutora Sado, and a real noisy one called Keigo.

We just ate in the room after Keigo decided all by himself that eating indoors every once in a while was somehow beneficial—no one was really sure how, though. But because I was eager for some kind of distraction, I agreed to push my desk together with theirs easily.

Needless to say, lunch was a messy affair—it appeared that the act of sharing was religiously practiced by these people. At the same time, they also droned on and on about a great range of subjects that covered everything from the local band Soul Society's latest gig down to the rumored stolen underwear from the locker of 3-1's class rep during PE. It was supposed to be for my benefit, but no one seemed to realize that I wasn't even listening.

On second thought, maybe Ishida did—he didn't say anything about it, though.

Soon, lunch was gone and the group broke up. Inoue walked back to her seat with a wide smile at me, providing a nice contrast to the annoyed look Arisawa was giving me. I grinned at her half-heartedly, mostly for politeness' sake, before turning to my desk.

"You look better now," Ishida said lightly, leafing through a math textbook.

I shrugged, not wanting him to make a big deal out of it. "I guess I was just dizzy earlier. Must be the hunger…"

He put the book down and turned to me. "Say, Kurosaki-kun—"

"Who was the guy with the red hair?" I asked abruptly, cutting through whatever he was about to say—it wasn't like I meant to, anyway.

He closed his mouth and adjusted his glasses thoughtfully before answering. "Abarai Renji, 2-4."

I pulled out my phone just for something to do—I wasn't sure why I was avoiding looking at Ishida, but I didn't want to be too obvious. "I wonder why he left all of a sudden during elective…"

The guy never returned, too. And the most confusing thing about it was that none of his companions—his adopted family—looked like they even cared he suddenly took off with that murderous-looking expression. They just looked…bored. And maybe perhaps a tiny bit distracted. Even the girl woke up momentarily, looking around alertly despite the bleary eyes.

I wondered if it had anything to do at all with what I felt earlier…

"It's not an uncommon occurrence, if that's what you're thinking about," Ishida said, jerking me out of my thoughts. "Those five are known for taking off suddenly, even in between classes. Because of that behavior—which most teachers simply brush off—many students are entertaining the theory that they might be involved in police matters and the like. After all, their adoptive father is Karakura's Chief of Police."

I nodded slowly. "Abarai Renji, huh?"

"You seem…interested."

I have just opened my mouth to protest indignantly when my phone vibrated noisily against the wooden desk. I stared at Ishida a few more moments, then decided that the best course of action for now was to ignore his comment and pretend that the suggestion was nothing but absurd.

"You're just imagining things," I said with convincing indifference as I checked my inbox.

My eyebrow twitched in confusion as I read through Hiyori's message for the second time.

Hey snow cone, did you know that the nationals for baseball is going to be held there at Hokkaido? What do you think?

I gave it about two minutes, but in the end, I still didn't get it. What was she talking about? I already knew that the two blondes were sort of baseball freaks—I've had enough experience avoiding their bats when fights get a little too heated—but I saw no point in her telling me about the high school championships.

Dunno what you're talking about. What about it, brat? I typed. Then I hit the send button.

I waited expectantly for a quick response. A minute passed by slowly. When the wait stretched into two minutes, I started to get annoyed. I snapped my phone shut when it turned three.

It took exactly seven minutes before Hiyori replied. Her angry message was in all caps, much to my surprise.

FUCK YOU, STRAWBERRY FREAK! YOU'RE A GODDAMNED ASSHOLE!

I flinched at the energetic cussing—she was practically dripping venom, and I knew that Hiyori only turned into a savage when she was trying to mask hurt feelings. But what exactly did I do?

I was just starting to wonder whether I should call her—something I did not look forward to the slightest bit—when Shinji messaged me.

You made Hiyori cry, you dumbass. And you probably don't even know why. I really want to sock you in the face right now, Ichigo.

Of course that only made me more confused—Shinji only acted all brotherly over Hiyori when the girl was feeling down. And that only happened five times all throughout the time I knew the two. Seriously—what the hell was going on?

The bell rang before I could make any progress.

"Come on, Kurosaki-kun," Ishida said, standing right beside me with a small bag slung over his shoulder. "We have PE next."

o – o – o – o – o – o

I wasn't expecting a double class—I had no idea what I was expecting, to be exact, but I was sure that sharing our PE class with one of the other sections wasn't . Never mind that we have the whole field on the west side of the main building to ourselves.

"Why are we sharing this class with another?" I asked Ishida under my breath as we shuffled to our line. "This is kinda weird…"

Ishida stretched his elbows over his head. "Teacher's quirk."

I frowned at the simple explanation—Karakura sure was testing me sorely. Every single thing about it threw me off like it had some personal mission to make sure nothing felt even remotely familiar nor comfortable.

"The teacher's name is Iba Tetsuzaemon, and he's a former boxing champion," Ishida added after a while. "His creed is no pain, no gain. It sucks because he's teaching PE, but he's a good teacher."

I gulped at the creed thing—really? No pain, no gain? I wondered if the school board knew about this.

The two sections formed five lines each without having to be told, and were assembled like soldiers—evenly spaced and super stiff-postured. I copied them wordlessly, feeling like an idiot all the time.

As I looked around, wondering where the man even was, I caught a glimpse of red and realized belatedly that the other class was 2-4. That lifted my mood up a bit—I was still pretty much curious about Chief Kenpachi's adopted children, and I thought maybe I could find out something Mizuiro and Ishida hasn't told me yet.

You're just interested in that redhead, Abarai Renji, my mean inner voice piped up out of the blue. Admit it already.

I grimaced at the head in front of me—it's been some time since I last heard from the bitch in my head. Apparently, the shock of my decision to move to Hokkaido knocked him out completely.

"Attention, kiddies!" a deep, gravelly voice bellowed from in front of our assembly. Everyone immediately went stiff in place—well, stiffer than before. "Is anyone absent?"

A slim hand raised in the air fluidly, followed by the stern voice of our class rep, Ise Nanao. "Class 2-3. Complete attendance, sensei."

The short report was immediately followed by another one of the same content—I couldn't see the girl from where I was, but she sounded very cheerful and energetic.

"Good! This is the first time no one is absent from either class," he announced gruffly, walking around the assembly judging from the heavy footsteps I could hear.

He came into my line of sight not a minute later, still walking slowly while rapidly marking a list he had in hand with a pencil. Iba-sensei did look like the part of a former boxer—his build was all muscles despite the slight wiriness. He was wearing a tight-fit white t-shirt and simple black jogging pants, but I had no idea why he was wearing dark sunglasses.

As if he heard my thought, he suddenly looked up and yelled, "You!"

Everyone looked around in surprise, making the first big movement in a few minutes now. Even I looked behind me—the teacher's head was facing my direction, but it was hard to who he was referring to with those glasses.

"I'm talking to you," he clarified, stepping right in front of me. I almost stumbled backwards in surprise—the man was huge! "You're new here, aren't you?"

I immediately opened my mouth to introduce myself but Ise-san beat me to it.

"Sensei, his name is Kurosaki Ichigo. He's the transferee."

Iba-sensei continued to look down at me, his arms crossed over his chest. "I can still smell Tokyo air around you. You had better be good at some sport."

Before I could react in any way, he was already marching back to the front with a new, purposeful pace. "Alright, children! Today's PE is volleyball. Everyone who failed the last test, you're serving as scorers and umpires. The rest, divide into teams. It's Class 2-3 versus Class 2-4! Now move!"

There was a sudden flurry of activity around me. The teacher did not mention my name, so I assumed he expected me to participate as a player.

"Come on, Kurosaki-kun," Ishida said from behind me, grabbing my wrist. "We're forming a team."

He swiftly dragged me to where three others stood waiting. One of them was Inoue, and the other was Arisawa Tatsuki.

Ishida fixed his glasses into place and introduced briefly. "This is Inoue-san, Arisawa-san, and Yamada-kun."

The small guy bowed clumsily to me, which I returned briefly. He looked uncertain of himself, and he kept on fidgeting—I seriously doubted he could play dodgeball, let alone volleyball.

"I already picked a number," Ishida said, holding out a small piece of paper. "We're team three. We're playing over there. Let's go."

"You do know how to play, right?" Arisawa asked me sharply as we walked over to our designated court—the students playing the part of game officials were already there.

"I guess so," I shrugged noncommittally, wondering privately why she was so intense around me.

I have just finished stretching my legs and arms when a really cheerful voice—one that reminded me of a child—laughed gleefully near us. Beside me, Ishida stiffened.

"We're your opponents today!" a pink-haired, four-feet tall girl announced happily, bobbing up and down her feet. Behind her stood four other people—one of them was Renji. "The last team you formed took a beating from us…right, Pencil?"

Ishida pushed his glasses into his nose stiffly. "Not this time, Kusajishi."

The pink-haired child burst into laughter again. I could hardly believe she's a high-schooler. Frankly, she looked like she should be in daycare. "You never beat us, especially when we have Pineapple with us."

I looked up when I heard her words—mostly because I heard a fruit nickname—and saw that Renji was staring at me. When our eyes met though, something akin to nervousness ran through me suddenly, making me look away at once.

His eyes… The unnatural color of his irises were disorienting. It was like I was looking at someone who couldn't possibly be real. It was a strange feeling.

"All teams ready?" Iba-sensei called from the distance, looking around carefully to check if everything was set. "Okay! We're good to go! You may start playing…now!"

"Let's do this," Ishida said, getting into position.

"Alright!" Class 2-4's rep cheered, then skipped over to her place.

o – o – o – o – o – o

It immediately became obvious that the bouncy little class rep didn't know shit about volleyball. And even if she did, given her height, there was nothing she could do anyway. The only time she can get hold of the ball was if someone handed it over to her nicely—not flying around in the air.

It was the rest of her team that was problematic—all four of them played like serious athletes, and they were all male. Our team, on the other hand, had two girls and two girly guys.

"Mine!" Arisawa yelled, charging right in front of me just in time to receive Renji's unbelievable spike. I barely registered how her ass turned up just inches past the tip of my nose—I was no longer even trying to pretend like my head was still in the game. I was dead beat.

She dug it out cleanly, then Ishida tossed it just right for Inoue to hit another brutal spike.

The long-haired girl could strike a hit that would knock an elephant out cleanly, much to my surprise earlier—and it helped that the bouncing movement of her…er, chest distracted the other team's members long enough for them to slip up with their defense. Only Renji looked like he could receive her spikes but, for some reason, he never bothered.

The spinning ball dug a visible chasm into the dirt, then rolled off into the distance.

"Game set! 25-19! Class 2-3 wins!"

Okay, so maybe I underestimated my team a bit. But just a bit. True—Arisawa played like she was ready to kill, and Ishida played better than I thought he could, but still. In the end, I still felt like I played the entire game all by myself… All those goddamned spikes I had to dig out…

Arisawa and Inoue exchanged high-fives happily while Yamada half-collapsed to the ground, shaking like a leaf. I threw him a hard glare that no one saw—there was no reason for him to slump down like that. I was the one who was worn-out and aching all over.

A smugly satisfied Ishida bumped his fist into my shoulder, forcing me to quickly bite back a hiss—the light pressure sent stinging shoots of pain running up my arm like crazy.

"Good job, Kurosaki-kun," he grinned at me, totally oblivious to my predicament. On the other side of the court, Renji stretched his arms over his head, ignoring his teammates' casual banter.

Renji… I gritted my teeth angrily as I thought of him.

For some reason, the bastard seemed to be targeting me during the entire game. Nine out of ten of his hits were directed towards me, forcing me to run over and provide cover even during the times I wanted to just rest and catch my breath for a while. And during those rare times he was hitting a ball that he couldn't direct at me, I couldn't help but feel that he wasn't giving it as much as effort as he could have—as he does when it was me on the receiving end.

Whenever I was the one hitting the ball over to the other court, he would always be waiting to receive it, his tilted head and narrowed eyes issuing a silent but obvious challenge. I was certain of it—I could see the taunt almost blazing in his eyes. And competitive idiot that I was, I couldn't help but rise against his arrogance.

I matched him aggressively—every single spike, every single block, every single receive. I refused to back down, even if we attracted way too much attention than was normal. Not surprisingly, the class soon started watching our game.

When Renji's spikes slapped against my arms, my skin burned angrily in protest, and my wrists felt like they would break from the impact. And this happened every single goddamned time. Each new hit was stronger, harder, and faster.

It became worse when the inexplicable enmity between the two of us became obvious to both teams. We were suddenly pitted against each other, and none of my attempts to regain my cool worked even the slightest bit. If anything, it only seemed to fuel his resolve to beat me with a freaking volleyball, which made me retaliate all the more. Stupid, idiotic redhead.

Unsurprisingly, the game eventually turned into something of a one-on-one slugfest between Renji and me. Our teammates were shunted to the sides like some kind of back-up, not even bothering to try taking control of the game back.

My gut burned with a fierce, almost demented determination I have never felt since the time Shinji dared me to jump down from the third floor of the school building.

We won in the end, but was it even worth it? My arms felt like fucking jelly, my wrists hurt like I broke them a thousand times over, my thighs ached like badly flogged meat, and my lungs burned as if I just ran a full marathon.

What the hell's wrong with him?, I fumed internally, glaring sightlessly at the dirt. I have never felt this infuriated before—I wanted to punch somebody, to kick somebody, to pummel somebody so bad my fists were shaking. Not even when Barbie decided to spray-paint my locker pink and drew strawberries all over it.

"…and like I told you, that kind of—uhhm, Kurosaki-kun?"

I jerked back into attention when Ishida called me—the field was almost completely empty now. I turned to look beside me, and saw that he was leveling me a serious gaze.

"Sorry," I mumbled clumsily, realizing that he had been talking to me and I wasn't even aware of it until he stopped. "You were saying…?"

He just sighed, then fixed his glasses once more. "Nothing. Let's go change before the bell rings."

"Alright…" I agreed quietly as he led the way, walking stiffly ahead of me.

o – o – o – o – o – o

As was expected, the long walk to the locker room was quiet. And when we got there, Ishida walked off to the shower room without a single word. I was pretty certain the guy was totally pissed off with me—it wasn't like I was a stranger to the sentiment.

I wondered what he was saying before. Was it something really really important?

I mulled over this all throughout shower—because the alternative was to fume over Renji and his undeniable, totally uncalled-for hostility—but came to no real conclusion in the end. All I got out of the effort was a temporary distraction.

I have just grabbed another towel from one of the benches and was drying my hair with it when Ishida came out, his black hair dripping wet. He shivered once, then walked over to the row of lockers, his mouth set into a frown.

"Cold, isn't it?" he muttered as he grabbed one as well and threw it over his head. "This is why I hate PE."

I didn't particularly feel cold—at least not yet—but I found that we shared the same sentiment at the moment. I echoed quietly, "I think I hate PE, too."

I jumped in surprise when a wet towel landed on the floor with a loud squelch, immediately followed by a half-shouted, "Kurosaki-kun…your arms!"

My eyes immediately darted to my arms, Ishida's almost-shriek scaring the lights out of me. From the way he shouted, anyone would think my arms were torn off from my body or something.

"Oh…" I said tonelessly, staring at the angry red patches on my skin. My mouth pressed into a line—it did sting in the shower, but I haven't realized the splotchy redness would come out this fast. Even the swelling was well underway.

Ishida grabbed my shoulders—personal space and all that nonsense shoved aside for the moment—and demanded, "What do you mean 'oh'? You need to go to the clinic, Kurosaki-kun! You've got to get this checked or something… You could have broken a bone!"

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes as I reached up and took his hands off me. "I didn't break a bone, Ishida-kun." And if anything is broken, Renji would be the one responsible—not me.

His terrifically blue eyes widened like he couldn't believe I was just shrugging it off—I couldn't blame him, though. My arms did look scary. "But it's so red and swollen…"

I just sighed, knowing that repeating myself wouldn't convince this nerd-looking person in the slightest. Then I noticed something quite belatedly…

"You're not wearing your glasses," I blurted out. And I only realized it because I suddenly became aware that I was finally seeing the color of his eyes properly.

Ironically enough, his right hand shot up to push at the bridge of his nose, only to stop midway because he wasn't wearing his glasses. Without saying anything else, he stalked off and grabbed his uniform from one of the lockers. Something about the way he walked told me he was embarrassed, although from what, I couldn't tell.

I took the time to dress as well. By the time I have put my shoes on, he was already standing in front of me, looking as stoic as ever.

"Let's go, Ishida-kun," I said the moment he opened his mouth, shuffling to the door. I had no doubt he would go on and on about having my arms checked—his face said it all. "We still have History."

I shuffled off without waiting for a response.

His eyes flashed at me when I looked behind me to check if he was following—the guy made no noise at all when he walked. I turned my gaze back to where I was walking and sighed.

"Seriously. My arms are fine. My dad's a doctor, remember? I'll have it checked when I get home, if that makes you happy."

That seemed to appease him somehow, although I wasn't sure how I knew that. Perhaps because his footsteps changed subtly, became more relaxed—yeah, that might be it.

We took our seats about five minutes before the bell for the last class of the day rang. We weren't even the last ones to return to the room—not even close. Inoue and Arisawa burst through the door a solid two minutes after the lesson started.

I wondered vaguely who arranged the schedule of the class this way—it was impossible to focus on lessons after PE, especially when the subject is History. The whole thing was just so boring and downright depressing it was no wonder Keigo was snoring on his desk at the back of the room.

"…this is going to be on the test," the meek teacher—Kotetsu-sensei—said quietly, glancing once at the class before continuing to write on the board.

I picked up my pen and flipped my notebook open, deciding to just take notes if I wasn't going to pay attention properly.

"Ow," I hissed under my breath as I realized that I couldn't even write now—not without electric pain running through my very bones. Damn that redhead.

Ishida coughed softly, catching my attention. He was looking at my hand.

"I'll just give you notes tomorrow. Don't push yourself."

The part of me brimming over with manly pride and self-reliance and all that shit started to protest, but Ishida beat me to it.

"You'll have to treat me to lunch tomorrow in return."

I just stared at him for a long moment, then grinned. He sure knew how to deal with me already. "Deal."

His lips twitched up slightly at the corners as he looked back at the board. "It's a date, then."

I wasn't even sure if I heard him right, but he had already turned to the person on his other side by the time I looked up, leaving me there to just stare dumbly at his back.

o – o – o – o – o – o

When I got home, I was surprised to find my father waiting at the dining room with an idiotic smile and a table full of food. I almost ran away then, but I saw that the food was nowhere near that disastrous dinner from yesterday. Everything was looking normal and typical—noodles, fried eggs, sushi, fish, rice. I decided dinner today was tolerable.

"How was your first day, Ichigo?" he asked energetically as I sat down in front of him. "Did you meet new friends?"

"I'm not in grade school, you know," I muttered as I picked up the chopsticks—I tried not to wince as my wrist protested. "Itadakimasu."

For a while, we ate in silence, but I had no illusions about him giving up. My dad was nosy as hell, and he can be as stubborn as me.

He waited until I was done with my first bowl of rice before starting again. "Tell me about school. Did you like the place? Do you have sexy classmates? How about the teachers?"

I rolled my eyes at him. "I found the school—which was a miracle. And it's not so bad. It's bigger than my old one, at the very least. My classmates are fine. And some of the teachers were really interesting." I remembered painting class, but decided to just grill him about his choice of elective later. "Ukitake-sensei is very interesting indeed."

My dad made a weird noise when I mentioned the name, making me look up at him. To my confusion, he was looking over at the living room.

"What's the matter? Are you alright?" I asked him, following his gaze but finding nothing out-of-place.

He shook his head slightly, then smiled at me weirdly—he almost looked…sad.

"Dad?" I asked hesitantly, putting my chopsticks down. I almost never called him dad, but the look on his face was seriously creeping me out.

He sighed, then looked back at his food. "Nothing. It's nothing." It sure as hell wasn't nothing, I thought sarcastically. "One of those paintings on the wall…Ukitake-sensei painted it."

My eyebrows rose involuntarily at that. "Really? Which one?"

I raked my eyes across the wide living room wall, feeling uncharacteristically curious again.

When a minute has passed and my dad still wasn't speaking, I looked back at him and saw that he won't meet my gaze. His expressions were surprisingly flat, too. Unreadable.

"Dad?"

He looked up, smiling lightly. "It's a secret."

My lip curled instinctively in annoyance. Secret my ass. "Fine."

The rest of dinner passed by in relative silence—he would occasionally ask me questions, and I would answer as clinically as I could. Most of them were easy—like whether my uniform fit me, or if I have eaten breakfast, or whether I liked the lunch at school. The last one, which he asked me just as I was finishing off my bowl of thin soup, was the thorniest of the lot.

"Aren't you going to tell me what happened to your arms?"

I flinched as his question reminded me of the stinging pain on my wrist that I have been trying to ignore all dinner. "Volleyball."

His right eyebrow arched high, reminding me wordlessly of all the things I inherited from my dad aside from the uncannily familiar facial expression—my pig-headedness, my secretiveness, my rebellious nature, even my emo tendencies.

"Are you seriously telling me someone out there is strong enough to give you marks like that?" he asked casually, looking dubious.

I gritted my teeth as the image of Renji hitting a ball effortlessly flashed through my mind's eye. "Yeah."

He shook his head at me, making tsking sounds all the while. "You alright?"

"Of course I am," I quipped automatically. Then I imagined going to school tomorrow with bandages all over my arms, and winced. "Actually…do you have anything that could lessen the swelling? I don't wanna…you know… And some painkillers would be nice, too."

Snickering, Dad reached over the table and mussed my hair, then walked to the kitchen with our empty plates, whistling cheerfully all the while.

o – o – o – o – o – o

Now I know this chapter is a bit longer than Chapter One of Twilight, but I couldn't help it. I enjoyed adding the bits about Shinji and Hiyori being Ichigo's enemies-slash-friends from Tokyo. (They have a significant role in this Twilight AU, I promise. Just read on if you want to know what that is, specifically.) Also, you'll have to forgive me for writing Ishida here in a way that surpasses Mike Newton's relationship with Bella. I swear it won't get in the way or anything. It's just a little something for those who ship the IshiIchi pairing. :))

You might have also noticed how I switched the two fathers' occupation. Trust me, things will be more interesting this way, and I can stick to Isshin's being a doctor in canon. It's like hitting two birds with one stone.

I placed Karakura in Hokkaido in this fic, mostly because I wanted to keep Forks' cold-climate feel in this twisted AU rendition. I hope you don't mind it much. (I'm actually doing research about the place since, obviously, I don't live there. Haha.)

In terms of backstories, personalities, actual events, and dialogues, I have my own ideas for these characters. But for the pacing of the events, as you would soon be able to tell if you would open the book, I would be using Twilight's as a rough basis. :)) But of course—fear not—the degree of interaction between the two protagonists would have to be tweaked a bit since this is a yaoi fanfiction. *evil grin* I didn't put this in Fiction M for nothing.

Now that we got those out of the way, I want to express my thanks to you, dear readers. For taking the time to read my work, and for investing in my idea. I really hope to hear from you guys, especially if you liked what you read.

Lovingly Yours,

BloodyPencils

PS. If you want to know more about The Forbidden Fruit, feel free to check my profile. There's a section there at the end that discusses a few things about this pet project of mine, including what you can expect from me regarding this story.