AN: Hey guys, so before you jump into this, I wanted to clarify a few things. First off, as the summary says, this is an AU. Secondly, this story focuses on two parings, Ichigo X Byakuya and Ikkaku X Yumichika. I will try to make this a fair 50/50, though, to be quite honest, Ichibya is my total OTP so it may be hard to not be bias at times. If for whatever reason, you only want to read about one pairing and not the other, the stories really have little to do with each other, so you can, but it may become complicated to read when their all in same scenes together.
Since music is such a big aspect of this story, I do reference quite a few musicians, however, rather you know them or not shouldn't effect understanding the story or the context their being used in.
This story is comical, or at least it's suppose to be, but it's also going to have really dramatic aspects. Because this is an AU and a comedy or sorts, please don't be to harsh with characterization. I feel as if I keep the crux of these characters the same, however it's not perfect. I'll let you know now that I always characterize Byakuya and Ichigo as total sarcastic smart asses.
Disclaimer: This story will get pretty heavy later on, it will contain sexual abuse, drug abuse, and sex. Please, mature readers only.
Good Vibes
xXx
I think I might have inhaled you.
I can feel you behind my eyes.
You've gotten into my bloodstream,
I can feel you flowing in me.- Stateless-"Bloodstream"
Punch Drunk Love
When the gawky, disheveled, and very late Ichigo pushed through the door of English 253, his British Literature II class, he was met by the susurrus of giggles given by his fellow peers and the intense death stare of his professor, Byakuya Kuchiki. Trying to avoid eye contact with everything but the open chair he was roving towards, he could feel the disparaging orbs of his professor stuck on him.
'Those fucking annoying eyes and them stupid heavy eyelids, stop molesting me with them! I can't take it,' he pleaded inwardly, now taking a seat in his chair.
After deliberately waiting for Ichigo to find his seat, as if to give him a passing moment of fraudulent felicity, he reprimanded, "Kurosaki, you're late," a slight sigh, "again. Perhaps in your whopping sixteen years of education you were unaware, but people who don't come to class don't pass said class." At the sound of his authoritative voice castigating him, Ichigo recoiled in his seat slightly, addled by how the voice of such an asshole could cause him a mixture of nervousness and agitation.
Scrunching his brow slightly at the caustic comment, he put on a forced voice of amicability, returning the snark ten folds. "Really? I didn't know that getting A's on all of your papers was a sign of failing." Smirking slightly, he rebutted, "I really have been unaware all this time."
'Yeah, chew on that. I'm busy, not fucking dumb.' As Ichigo noticed an extra button undone on the professor's pristinely pressed cotton ensemble and licked his lip slightly at the flash of dulcet Byakuya-flesh peeking through. He recanted inwardly, 'Nope, I'm dumb as shit. Dumber than Renji and Ikkaku when they spent all their money on getting plastered and were serenading street dwellers for a free meal. Do I really fucking know how many buttons he usually leaves unbuttoned? When did I become so creepy? AHHHHH.'
The group of oversized children giggled at the always sardonic Ichigo Kurosaki, the biggest of those children laughing the hardest: his best friend and bandmate, Renji. Still Ichigo's narrowed eyes were pinpointed on Byakuya's, whose still face didn't vacillate once. Like some sociopathic glacial hybrid, the man's face never emoted, and despite how hard he would be pushed, he merely gave an unmovable glare that could spook a blind person.
Before returning to his lecture, the debonair man merely dignified the comment with, "See me after class."
Ichigo mumbled out a barely audible, "Great."
'This fucking guy, I don't know if I want to slap him or kiss him… Both, yea', definitely both.' As Ichigo's inner monologue continued, he chided himself, "God, what's wrong with me? What kind of masochist do I have to be to have feelings for this walking personality disorder?'
As Byakuya spoke about the symbolism used in the poem 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock' as zealously as a man of his temperament could muster, Ichigo pulled out a notebook and scribbled frantically, trying to avoid any more thoughts that would have him questioning his sanity… again.
On many… many ccasions, Ichigo's puerile love drunk brain would dream up steamy over-the-top scenarios of after-class talks with the professor. Like some cheaply made porno, Byakuya would punish him with his whole girth, pounding him into the desk that he'd just been reprimanding him from. However, on the jillions of moments Ichigo found himself alone with his professor, all he received were severe orbs drowning him with disappointment and a long hard talking to, leaving him riddled with questions, wondering what about this man held his attention so dexterously.
'I'd like something else that was hard and long,' he moaned inwardly, only to let a visible blush fill his cheeks at the dirty thought, increasing his frantic and indiscernible scribbles. 'Not only am I a big ol' pervert, but I'm unoriginal about it. Come on, Ichigo. Hard and long? You're a writer, step it up with your grade school sexual innuendos.'
Who was he? He wasn't some high school student anymore. Shit, he hadn't even had a crush on anyone in high school, or really ever, especially not on a teacher. They made tasteless B-rated movies and wrote annoying 80's songs about this kind of thing. Ichigo felt like the personification of cheesiness, an unalloyed stereotype, a walking 'senpai, notice me' meme.
Perhaps it was how debonair yet distant Byakuya seemed, how intelligent and cunning, sarcastic, yet enigmatic. And no, it wasn't lost on him how lame that sounded. 'I like my instructor because he's mysterious.' Fucking Christ. Mostly, he thought, this affliction was caused by his aversion to being bored, which most things did, but not Professor Kuchiki.
Admittedly, that's why Ichigo avoided serious relationships like gas station sushi. Nobody really caught his attention. It wasn't something he boasted about. In fact, he thought that maybe he was broken or defective, perhaps a cyborg. He considered the finite amount of reasons that his attention could never be given to someone like that, and he'd come up with nadda.
He'd found out he was gay about the same time he'd found out he wanted to be a musician. At six years old, the orange-haired vivacious tyke stormed around the house while perfecting his air guitar rendition of "Hello Operator" by the White Stripes. He declared he was going to marry Jack White and become a rock star. Yes, his first and only love, along with his greatest muse, belonged to the punky vacant-eyed rock star donned in red skinnies. This was the result of letting an impressionable kid watch a copious amount of music television, back when MTV had really played music. His single father had just laughed and said, 'do you, kid,' with all the unconditional patriarchal love a son could need. Yes, even at that age, he'd been nothing but ambitious.
As time had gone on, his devotion to music had kept him from the qualms of most high school angst. He'd tried not to instigate, but still, being the abjectly dangerous cocktail of horny, dumb, and young - the holy trifecta - he, of course, had dated occasionally, though nothing had ever lasted more than a month or so, as he'd soon grown bored and uninterested. In fact, he'd only actually ever allowed coitus to occur with one guy, and something about the fetid void he'd felt at his lack of feelings towards such a serious thing, he'd been left feeling gross; worse than the time a belligerent Renji had thrown up on him gross. Without words, he'd decided to not have sex without feelings again. Of course, he'd occasionally indulged in hanky-panky or a blowjob with one of the guys he was dating. He'd never claimed to be a nun.
During his high school days, his underdeveloped frontal lobe was the cause of more of these relationships than he'd like to admit. As he'd entered college, his want to understand the sensation that could make a man want to give away his last piece of cheesecake had curbed. Now his relationships seemed to come around as sparingly as "The National's" would release a CD. Every once in a while, he'd see a cute gay couple with their stupid adorable gaby, spreading their mushy pheromones like it was some fucking disease. It was almost enough for Ichigo to think maybe the moronic churches of the world had been right about catching gayness all along, because he would catch a butt load of the 'maybe I can have the big gay family' angst, making him wonder if he was capable of feeling that. Eventually, he'd fall into a relationship that he'd just fall straight out off. Once his mind had calmed down from the domestic hypnosis, he realized that he'd much rather eat his own damn cheesecake, and that every beau he'd had was just a mistress for his one true love: music.
His volatile brain had recently sent him into this same cycle, making visions of matching guitar cases and a Johnny and June Cash-esque romance effervescent in his lovesick mind, only to realize that just because he wanted to feel love doesn't mean he had someone he felt it towards. Still, he gave it the good ol' Kurosaki try, but this last failed relationship was now the cause of a much more pressing matter. You see, these bouts of romantic capriciousness were about as dangerous as they were long, but sometimes, they were plain ol' stupid. Because he had never dated a musician before, Ichigo had thought that perhaps he could relate better to one, and as a consequence, fell in love. So when Jeremy, the guy the band had just recruited to be their new bass player, asked him out, Ichigo had said yes.
No sooner than hearing this conversation take place, Uryu had jumped on Craigslist and put out an ad for another bass player; they all knew how this was going down. Uryu, Renji, and Ikkaku could have killed him, just slaughtered him where he'd stood, because they all knew this cycle. Ichigo would be happily single for a year and a half or more before he started to wonder why his music-filled heart couldn't feel the sting of love, and he'd start having nightmares of him being seventy, alone. The highlight of his day would be singing in-between bingo tournaments at a nursing home he resided at. Then, the 'lucky' guy who happened to proposition him in the midst of this internal conflict, if Ichigo liked him well enough, would get the ever elusive 'sure, why not,' as a response, a response that most of the homosexual population of their university yearned for, yet dismissed as an urban legend, a verbal personification of a unicorn.
It wasn't as if Ichigo didn't have any other choices. On the contrary, his life was like walking through a blizzard of unsolicited propositions, being beleaguered by thirsted genitals. Perhaps it was the lead singer's hotness mixed with his nonchalant blitheness and casual indifference, but for whatever reason, every gay bass player within the university was vying for a spot. Still, to make a long story short, the relationship with Jeremy ended, leaving them without a bass player. This one had lasted a whopping two months, his longest tryst yet. However, he wasn't quite sure if the prolonged break-up was on a count for him liking Jeremy more than his prior boyfriends or because he was a really good bass player. The want to not be completely heartless caused him to really hope it wasn't the latter.
Still, now they were without a bass player, and it was all Ichigo's fault. Not only that, but from the myriad of players who had come, Jeremy was the only one who was really impressive and flexible enough to work with the band. Not to mention, he was one of the very few that could deal with the particular charm of the rough and rowdy ambience he and his band mate gave off. Until he found a new bass player, he'd become victim to widely flying lit cigarette butts, drum sticks, and smart ass comments.
'It's not like I made Jeremy leave the band. He was just too fucking emotional about it, dammit,' Ichigo reasoned, though he sighed slightly. His more moralistic side made him feel bad. 'It's not like I wanted to hurt the guy. I guess I really should've know better.'
Admittedly, he wasn't sure why he was like this. It was like no one could ever hold his attention; romantic ADHD, if you will. He just never had time for it. When he'd been really young, after his mom had passed, he, his dad, and his two sisters had moved to America where his dad had opened a clinic. Despite what movies may have you believe, doctors are not all rich, especially when they have three financial leeches bound to their soul and wallet by DNA. So, if Ichigo was to ever aspire to do anything other than sit on his dad's couch and wistfully hope his band made it, he'd need a scholarship to pay for college. That was easy enough because he was a pretty naturally smart kid. Plus, he was pushed by an instinctual want to make his father and mother proud, to prove he could get into a good school and pay for it all on his own. He didn't want help, and bore all of his obstacles on his own shoulders. He'd always been like that, prideful and headstrong, a one man show, filled with hormones, ambitions, and audaciousness. Ichigo always had been a force to be reckoned with.
It was when his dad had died from lung cancer that things became more complicated. The three had cried at their expiring father's bedside. Ichigo cursed through sobs at his still somehow jaunty father, 'A doctor who smokes cigarettes. Dying from lung cancer, how fucking ironic, eh? You're so stupid.' When his father smirked slightly and replied, 'I love you, too.' Ichigo knew those were his last words and the beginning to a whole new life. As a junior in high school, he took care of his sisters while working a full time job. The money from his dad's life insurance went straight into a college fund; he didn't want the girls having to worry so much about paying for college like he did. Now as a junior in college, he still worked full time, took care of his sisters, all while also maintaining a three point zero G.P.A and being the lead guitarist and singer of a band. He had time for relationships like he had time to deal with his loquacious costumers, who held up the lines by asking for a detailed explanation on the difference between soy and skim milk.
He never bitched or moaned, or asked for help. He refused to be some 'Annie: the musical; come to life, singing his woes about how it was hard to be an orphan. No, almost as if to prove that he could, to do right by his family, he juggled a copious amount of struggles like they were flame-festooned chainsaws.
The mellifluous baritone of Professor Kuchiki made Ichigo's glazed-over orbs blink slightly at the words in front of him, the first and only love song he had ever written. A living monument to his delusional lameness, a living and breathing testimony to his pubescent infatuation. This was some Area fifty-one shit to Ichigo, never to be seen by any eyes other than his own. His bandmates would use this as prime shit-talking material for months. Not that they didn't already know and extort the fact that Ichigo was pathetically head over heels for his professor. Though he denied it, whether it was good or bad, the Kuchiki name was never foreign to Ichigo's vernacular. He vied for him in class, he vied for him at work, he vied for him during practice, he vied for him when he way buying a bagel, he vied for him all over the fucking place. Him, who found the concept of astrophysics more coherent than romance, who only wrote songs about his values or real tragedies, had a raging crush on his literature Professor, his first crush ever. He was one overheard conversation away from finding out Byakuya was married or had a gaby or something and spiraling into a void of malaise, only to drown his sorrows by playing 'Ryan Adams' on a loop and consuming his weight in Ben and Jerry's.
Ichigo had been working furtively on this song for three months, ever since the Professor had walked into the class room last semester, garbed in his brand name ensemble and glacier sharp face, and announced that he would be replacing the old British Literature I teacher. When a student had made some stupid comment and Byakuya had replied with casual sarcasm, 'The more I interact with students, the more I have faith in the American educational system. Well, luckily for you, I'll do my best to undo all the ignorance you've been fed. Though, by the look's of it, this will be a challenge,' Ichigo was pretty sure he'd fallen in love with the man right then and there, which only intensified when he realized Kuchiki would be his Professor the next semester also.
He remembered his thoughts on that first meeting exactly. 'Yes, the devil really does wear Prada.'
As Professor Kuchiki dismissed the class, Ichigo thought, 'It's not that crazy, right? I just turned twenty-one and I've heard rumors he's only twenty-eight… Yeah, but age difference really isn't the crazy part, is it?'
Renji left the room, but not before wiggling his eyebrows suggestively and mouthing 'have fun.' Ichigo made sure to swing a foot right at his ass, but alas, missed his target.
After Renji left, Ichigo slowly yet apprehensively looked at the cynosure of what Ichigo thought was the lamest crush in the vast universe. Of course, the professor wasn't even looking at him, just looking through a grade book and waiting for Ichigo to walk to his desk. He could've stood and implicated simple kinetic energy, just walked to the professor's desk, but inertia grasped him. This was a game of chicken that he had become accustomed to over the span of their relationship, one Ichigo always lost. He wasn't sure why, but he always wanted Byakuya to address him first, but the man never would. When Byakuya finally glanced up, his face as still as his precisely ironed button-up, he gave Ichigo the look he always did; one that signified he wouldn't address him in such an informal manner.
With a grunt and roll of the eyes, Ichigo pushed himself from his graffiti-riddled desk and dragged his feet a whopping two yards to the professor, readying himself for his usual atonement. "Look Teach, I'm sorry, the bu-" he mustered halfheartedly.
"Kurosaki," his sultry voice interrupted, "Let's be straightforward with each other, shall we?"
Situated in his fitted Modest-Mouse tee, his thrift store swindled army jacket, and his slightly torn light denim jeans, Ichigo felt horribly underdressed in front of the debonair man. Still he tried to veil that with a slight scowl as he groaned, "Ugh, I know we're both Japanese and all, but do ya' gotta call me by my last name? None of the other professors do that."
Giving the orange-haired man a pointed glare, Kuchiki corrected, "My affinity for surnames has less to do with my heritage and more to do with professionalism."
Giving a nervous chuckle, Ichigo joked, "Well you're at the wrong school. Half the teachers here have zen gardens in their class rooms and insist on being called by their spirit animal names."
With a mocking scoff, Byakuya countered, "And half of them also mix their morning coffee with a shot of Jim Beam." Crossing his arms, he reasoned, "Half of your peers don't share your mastery of the language, nor care for this class. Does that mean you should be likewise?"
"Pffh-" Ichigo scoffed, mixing sarcasm and arrogance, "Come on, Professor, you know I would never stoop to such puerile behavior." He couldn't help but to think back to last week when he and Renji had a contest to see who could fit more marshmallows in their mouths. Ichigo won for obvious reasons. He bit back a laugh.
After his biting comments, Ichigo's desperately pathetic brain dreamt up that his Professor actually smirked. That or it was the most ephemeral smirk to have ever been smirked. "Look, Kurosaki, let me be frank with you." His gray eyes narrowed into Ichigo's clamorous soul as he continued, "You're obviously aware that your vernacular and your understanding of the language are bounds above the other students. Your ability to convey words and ideas in not only a coherent manner, but in such an interesting and poetic way, is beyond even some of my most talented peers." With a deep sigh, he signified his concessions.
Crudely, Ichigo thought, 'Oh, I can show you how talented I am… Did I really just think that? Really, who says that? Fuck, put me down like a horse with a broken leg. Please, some deity up above, if you have any mercy, you'll put me out of my abject misery.'
"You have plenty of potential, and if you don't stay focused on your education, you'll lose a myriad of opportunities. You should be taking your talents and helping them thrive." Running his eyes up and down the younger man, eyeing the man like a dirty dishrag, he insulted, "Perhaps if you finished your education and obtained a career, you could afford to buy a decent pair of pants."
Ichigo's face vacillated from offended to almost amused. Though he wanted to get all pissy and defend his thrift store jeans, he truly ate up Kuchiki's perfectly crafted cocktail of snark and bluntness, like his words were soft shells on one dollar taco night: he devoured them ungracefully. Not missing a beat, Ichigo returned the sarcasm. "Ah, but that's what the holes are for. Ya' show a little bit of skin and you have every one buying your shit for you."
Crinkling his pointed nose, Kuchiki pursed his lips as if to hold back a smirk. "Sounds like a failsafe business plan, but you forget one thing, Kurosaki: looks fade, but your snarky well-educated mouth will not." Placating himself slightly, he added, "If there are issues keeping you from class, I'm willing to sit down an-"
"Uh, no thank you," Ichigo interjected, "Whatever circumstances are keeping me from class, I'll situate it." Ichigo? The boy wonder? Taking help from anybody? He'd sooner sit through the agony of a boy band concert, swallowing down the fetid mixture of puberty and crackling falsettos, before he'd let his pride sink so low, especially in front of such a supercilious man as Byakuya Kuchiki. He'd just have to tell his boss he'd need to get off thirty minutes early on class days. It would suck losing the money, even such a scanty amount; that was gas money.
For a transitory moment, the still-life of a face actually looked as if it wanted to emote anger, but quickly huffed and averted back to its lesson plan. "Well," he said in a casually indifferent tone, "Do what you will, just make sure it gets you to class on time."
The singer let out a loaded huff filled with all of his wanton horniness and finite frustration. The huff was suppressing an aneurism effervescent with bad choices. His capricious body decided between turning back around and staying in college or attacking his teacher's face with kisses and getting expelled for assaulting a professor. Decisions, decisions.
Like always, his survival instincts overrode his sexual instincts, and he turned on his heels. He sauntered through the hall at torpid rates, whining to the only person he'd allow to listen: himself.
'Okay, so sexual harassment is out. What about a date?'
'Wait, how do I ask a guy on a date? I've never done it… I mean, I've been asked on tons, but somehow I don't think the example of some college dropout wearing a Naruto -shirt working at the bowling alley will be enough to woo the professor.'
'What does he do for fun, even? Sit in dusty libraries? Practice not moving his face? Iron his shirts?… I don't know, but by how fucking fancy he looks all the god damn time, it's probably nothing I can afford.'
'I wonder if he'd be into the old school horror movie festival they're having at the end of the month… He looks like he likes old things… I wonder what his laugh sounds like… I want to hear it… I-"
BAM!
The gauche Ichigo tumbled down, hitting his tailbone in the gawkiest fashion as his papers intermingled with the person he'd knocked down. What a vertiginous tumble it was, so much so that Ichigo had to take a moment to compose himself before moving on his knees to take a good look at the person he bumped into. In front of him, situated back on her heels, was a girl donned in a slightly oversized 'Full Metal Alchemist' sweatshirt, that was tucked into a dark crimson, waist high, A-cut skirt that fell just above her knees. Under her skirt were sheer black stockings and well maintained converse sneakers. Along with her short black hair scattered with vibrant red highlights and her piercing purple eyes poking through dark rimmed glasses, Ichigo couldn't help but to think she was the personification of the alternative college girl. By the looks of her, she probably spent her days in obscure coffee shops no one had ever heard of, and only had independent movies in her Netflix queue.
With a slight scowl, the girl wrestled through the scattered papers. "Watch where you're going, you damn space cadet," she chided.
Also working through the mounds of mismatched math homework and reading assignment, Ichigo returned the scowl halfheartedly. "Well you're so short I didn't see ya' coming, geez," he teased.
"So short!" she boomed indignantly, "That hair is so bright, it blinded me. You should have insurance on that thing."
Unsure if she was returning his snark or truly trying to insult him, Ichigo grunted, "Hey-" only to be cut off by the girl's half smirk and hefty chuckle. Seeing the girl wasn't just a poster child for the uptight coffee shop chick, Ichigo returned the grin. While they both stood, he countered casually, "I guess it's just the hazards of our existence, eh? I'll try to be less reckless with this thing," he teased, pointing towards his hair.
Looking down into his hands, he saw a piece of unidentified sheet music. Addled, he held it out for the girl. "Is this yours?" he inquired.
Taking a moment to look at the paper, a flash of relief crossed her orbs while she grabbed for it. "Yeah. Thanks. That would've been a pain in the ass to replace."
Ichigo was so unlucky that at times, he felt as if an invisible ladder floated above his head. Despite believing luck to be all malarkey and hocus-pocus, he would never say that the universe was working in his favor. If anything, it only worked in his favor because he pushed it that way. Still, the scintilla of hope that filled his usually realistic brain caused him to ask, "What kind of music do you play?"
"I dabble in a couple of things, but my main focus is the electric bass. My brother taught me," she replied.
"Are you serious?" he gaped. "On a scale to one through Professor Kuchiki, how serious are you?"
At the name, the girl's features flinched a bit before she let out a slight huff, "No one is Professor Kuchiki serious, trust me."
Ichigo half expected some clamorous alarm to sound, signifying him the luckiest bastard in the world. 'This must be what people who win the Price Is Right feel like," he mused. Only, before Bob Barker could come out and congratulate him on his new bassist, he had to ask her first.
Looking up to the sky, he praised, "I don't know if I believe in heaven or anything like that, but if you're up there, David Bowie, fucking bless you."
With slightly gaped eyes and a bewildered face, she asked, "Uhh.. do you usually talk to your self, or is this like a condition?… "
Bypassing her question, Ichigo rambled, "Okay, so I know I don't really know you, but I'm in a band, and we've recently lost our bass player. Well, you play the bass, and we just happened to bump into each other." With a slight smirk, he added, "Why fight destiny, really?"
Rolling her eyes, the girl countered, "By the sound of my stomach, my destiny is at the taco truck right outside," before turning on her heels.
Ichigo was way too stubborn to let this chance encounter slip thought his fingers. Screw luck, he was creating his own luck. Running up beside her, he followed along with her hoping he didn't come off as a stalker. "I think I could use a burrito too." A charismatic smile stretched his mirthful face. "I think we got off on the wrong foot, me knocking you on your ass and all." Maneuvering in front of her, he stuck out a hand. "I'm Ichigo Kurosaki. I'm in a band who's in desperate need of a bass player. If you're available, I'd really like to hear you play."
Wisteria-hued orbs eyed the hand like they had personal history, like the hand had somehow done wrong by her. She let that pleasant glare glide back and forth between Ichigo's face and out stretched hand. "If you want me to be in your band, impeding me from getting to my food is not the way," she warned, almost as if to say she'd eat that hand if he didn't get out of her way and let her quench her voracity.
Still donning his dopy grin, undeterred by the threat, he reached into his pocket. Opening his newly retrieved wallet, he cringed at the nearly barren state of it. After paying the bills and providing food for the girls, this pitiful display of three crumbled up fives was all he had till (Extra space)pay day. "I'll do you one better." He practically had to force the words to form on his tongue, "I'll buy your lunch." Ichigo had never bought a girl who wasn't his sister anything, especially not food, so he knew he had reached a whole new stratum of desperation. 'Well, there goes dollar taco night.' He cringed. Still, cheap, unadulterated, bliss was the price he'd pay to not have Uryu great him daily with, 'Hey, Yoko Ono, ruin any bands today?'
Seemingly pacified, the girl interlocked their arms and said, "Now we're getting somewhere."
Doing a slight inward victory dance, Ichigo kept with his momentum. "So," he pried, "What do you think about the band?" As they walked, her face looked thoughtful and somewhat torn while she contemplated a response. Noticing the glare, Ichigo cajoled, "I know I can be a little pushy, but if you're too busy or just don't want to, I get it."
On the contrary, the girl had been looking for something like this to come her way, and in the form of blinding orange hair, it knocked right into her. It got lonely playing by herself, especially because the bass was an instrument that sounded the best when paired with others. Working by herself was only impeding her progress and her social skills. More so, this guy seemed nice enough, awkward and a little weird, but in a charming way. Plus, she didn't get the 'I need to hide my drink from you,' vibes from him, like she did with so many other guys. Still her brother and herself had come to an agreement that she could play music as long as it didn't get in the way of her being the perfect debutante their father had molded her into. Well, he must've had Parkinson's, because she was about as refined as a trailer park. Despite this, she revered her brother wholeheartedly, understanding that his concerns stemmed from a good place. That's why he allowed it as long as her marks stayed up, but with stipulations. one of those stipulations being that she couldn't spend too much time on it, and because of that, being in a band seemed out of the question.
'What Brother doesn't know won't kill him, right?' she reasoned, 'I mean, as long as my grades stay up, what harm could it really do? I really want this.' Shaking her head, she reassured, "No, actually I'd love too. It's just… shouldn't you listen to me before you go around offering me a spot in your band?"
The audacious Ichigo ruffled his hair awkwardly before giving a manly chuckle. "Yeah," he agreed, "I can get really ahead of myself. I'm pretty much that brazen all of the time." Now finding themselves in line at the taco truck, he said, "How about we back it all the way up, and just start with your name."
With her hands quaking from low blood sugar, the girl dubiously bit her lip before she answered resolutely. "Rukia, just Rukia."
Cocking an eyebrow at the ambiguity of the girl's answer, Ichigo decided he liked this girl, if only for how unboring she was. Smiling brilliantly, he greeted, "Okay, just Rukia, it's nice to meet ya'."
xXx
Located in a crepuscular cornerstone, situated between a Seven-Eleven and the not-so-friendly neighborhood trap house, in a part of town where you didn't go alone unless you had a gun, mace, or some mad martial arts skills, was a building where magic happened. Amongst the deafening cacophony of steel guitars and alto saxophones, and the commingled pungency of beer, cigarette smoke, and regurgitated Mexican food, was the integration of all paths of life. From Death-Core Metal junkies, to middle-aged men soothing their midlife crisis with their dead-head cover bands, and to rockabilly swingers, any with the soul for music and a hundred bucks could fester amongst the debauchery. Age, gender, race, or sexual orientation, it didn't matter, because they were all the same on a base level; all having a little zealot rock star, a sea urchin to society, and an angsty artist locked up inside, ready to release their pent up woes through the banging of guitar strings. It was a place where social norms went to die and the little anarchist inside could run free without the fear of ruining lives. It didn't matter what it was, whether it was 'my wife just doesn't understand me' or 'my parents just don't understand me, or even, 'my parole officer just doesn't understand me', this ran down shanty was the domicile to a finite amount of emotion.
Surely, when predecessors like Ray Charles and Bob Dylan were working so hard to desegregate music, it was likely they weren't imagining a group of ruffians sharing a joint under the flicker of some florescent light, surrounded by electric blue walls varnished with crude sayings and misspelt song lyrics, right before they went to play their rendition of 'A Friend of the Devil.' Alas, the dream was alive and semi-well.
They called this pit of depravity, simply, 'The Box.' Calling it a building was probably an insult to architectures of all kinds, for the framework was shot, and nails would fall from the ceiling at the reverberation of amps. This antisocial club housed fifteen different rooms that acted as studios, each to be rented out to a different band. Over all, the business seemed pretty legit, but the hands-off anything-goes rule caused it to seem less like a studio and more like a half-way house for the ostracized and musically inclined. On any given day, you could go to The Box and find members, even without their bands, loitering, swindling cigarettes, having in-depth conversations about their favorite anime, or avoiding their homes and just doing homework, as if the clamor of half-baked punk cover songs lulled them into a state of tranquility. Yes, among the hole-covered walls and empty vending machines were the safe zones of many.
On this particular night, in the room closest to the back, the pulsations and vociferousness of pounding drums could be felt throughout the walls. After playing his newly worked on drum solo, Ikkaku ceased the rhythmic swaying of his dome, which was now glistening with beads of his manly juices. Before chugging his water down quickly, as if he was trying to give a physical demonstration on osmosis, he asked, "How was it?"
Trying not to trip over the carelessly interweaving of aux. cords and strewn beer cans, Renji made his way to the piss yellow Goodwill steal of a couch, the cigarette burns and unidentifiable stains giving it character. Plopping his feet down on a broken down amp that their hoarder of a lead singer had refused to throw away, Renji put on a smirk and quipped, "Well, you're no Jon Bonham, but you're pretty good." Ladies and gentlemen, music lovers alike, none could ever be the late Jon Bonham, similar to how there will truly only be one Beyoncé. Though, in the guide to bro-hood that Renji lived by, all compliments came with an ample amount of shit talk attached to it. This rule was right beside 'A bro should never start a sentence with "Hashtag."' Truly, it was their peculiar way of saying, 'I love you, bro.'
"Tch-" The cock-sure Ikkaku smacked his gums harder than a bratty teenage girl. "Yeah, I'm better," he chortled before moving to grab another bottle of water.
"Yea, and I'm the fucking reincarnation of Jimmy Hendrix," Renji spat caustically before kissing his fingers and placing them towards a poster of the late guitarist situated above his head, as if to pay homage.
Uryu was flipping through a text book that he was pretty sure was heavier than his keyboard. At how dexterously and quickly he burned through the pages, one might assume that he was one of the legion of Adderall-stuffed students surviving on legalized amphetamines and caffeine. However, the straight-laced kid made school seem like a walk in the park. He could run through trigonometry worksheets like they were the Sunday crossword puzzle and could read at the speed of a super computer. A total certified Brainiac. His bandmates and friends would throw their pride at his feet and call him 'Prince Ishida,' if he'd only proofread their papers.
It wasn't until his face was saved by his book from the mercy of a flying drumstick that Uryu realized Ikkaku had been talking to him. His ability to be completely absorbed to the point of aloofness was probably why so many people thought he was arrogant, but truthfully, he was too arrogant to care what people thought.
The ball of wild energy boisterously threw up his stick-wielding hand before asking, "Well, what did you think?"
Between thoughts on what sushi roll he wanted to buy for dinner and remembering he needed to return a library book, Uryu's preoccupied mind somehow absorbed the question. His voice was so detached that he might as well have been talking about badminton or something else he found dreadfully boring. "Oh, you were playing something?"
The pineapple-esque haired guitarist was taking a good laugh at Ikkaku's expense as the man's lustrous head bulged with veiny frustration. Before another air-borne drumstick could assault Uryu's textbook, a reprimanding voice could be heard coming through the door.
"Hey, no flying drumsticks! We respect our instruments. If you want to beat up Uryu, do it with your own hands."
Hearing the lecturing coming from their lead singer and guitarist, almost instinctively, Renji whipped his head to commence his shit talking. "So how did it go wiiit-," almost as if he was experiencing a stroke, his speech slurred and his gaze became fixated on the petite ball of nerdy cuteness situated beside Ichigo.
After a fugacious moment of unyielding and rather creepy staring, Ichigo snapped his fingers. He loved his dopey friend, but the way he became a gawky bumbling idiot around the opposite sex was too embarrassing to watch. "Hey," he snapped, before pausing momentarily to glare back and forth between Renji's paralyzed moments and Rukia awkwardly looking at everything but him. "Well, I was going to say, eyes up here," he pointed to Rukia's face, then gave an impartial glare towards her chest, "but she doesn't really have anything." Yes, just because Ichigo was capable of talking to girls, didn't meant he was very good at.
"Hey!" Rukia scolded, instinctually crossing her lithe arms over her mosquito bite-marred chest. "Is that how you introduce all the girls you bring to this place?" Pfffh- the only girl who had seen their man cave in all its glory was the beautiful Stevie Nicks, her legend forever entombed on an eight by eight poster that was situated on the ceiling. Poor Stevie, her chaste eyes falling victim to all the gross idiosyncrasy that lent itself to the bands testosterone-filled rowdiness.
Ichigo held his arms up placidly and cajoled, "It's okay, I'm gay."
"Not the point," she spat.
Finally, Renji remembered what words were and how to form them. Trying to recover from his creepiness, he tried to say something that wasn't completely awkward. He fell back on his instincts: shit talk. "Yeah," he noted, still avoiding her gaze as if it would turn him into stone. "You probably wouldn't have guessed, since he never dates anyone."
Quickly, the singer quipped back, "Hey, at least I chose to be single." After letting his insult soak in, he added, "Besides, just because I'm not a one may gay pride float doesn't mean anything." It always perplexed the youth why being gay seemed to be synonymous with being flamboyant or feminine. He could contest that taking it up the rear was not for the faint of heart, and when guys were asking him out, it was because of his chiseled manly body, not because he spent time making sure his outfit highlighted his eyes. He could still be the same pugnacious, brazen, smart mouth, sports-loving bro while still having a deep-seated desire to know what the inside of Byakuya Kuchiki's mouth tasted like.
Now sitting back in his chair, idly spinning a drumstick between his fingers, Ikkaku asked rather contemptuously, "So who's the chick?"
Uryu set down his book and shook his head disparagingly at his boorish bandmate. Standing up and walking to the girl, he was the first to address her properly. The girl couldn't help but throw the man a rather dubious glare. He was like looking at a diamond among rocks, very crude and awkward rocks at that. It was like one of those 'what doesn't belong here' books come to life, a personification of the rolling pin in the bathroom. More so, the other three looked like they had challenged each other to the death over the last box of salvageable Goodwill clothes, all wrinkly and disheveled, whereas he looked like a Banana Republic model. Handsome and scholarly, his blue striped button-up was tucked into dark fitted denim and a cream colored blazer to wrap it up. She wasn't sure if he was a part of the band or one of these ruffians' parole officers. "Please excuse Ikkaku, he has a brain tumor that makes him abjectly rude. I'm Uryu Ishida."
Being the sister of Byakuya Kuchiki, sarcasm was a language of its own, but not knowing him, his deadpan voice made her gape her eyes slightly in Ikkaku's direction.
Feeling irate, Ikkaku's face melted into a 'you have to be kidding me' glare. "I don't have a brain tumor," he said flatly, "Uryu just has a very dry and morbid sense of humor, and," he boomed his accusatory words towards the well-dressed man, "THINKS IT'S FUNNY TO JOKE ABOUT PEOPLE HAVING TERMINAL ILLNESSES."
Like the supercomputer his brain was, he almost quipped before Ikkaku could even finish his griping, "Correction, I think it's funny to make jokes about you."
"See how funny it is when I break those damn fingers," Ikkaku muttered.
At the empty threats, Renji teased caustically, "You know I always condone violence, but we need those fingers. Our wonderful leader has already cost us one musician."
'You screw up one time…' Ichigo cringed inwardly. Losing his dynamite short fuse, Ichigo boomed, "If you three idiots would shut your gobs for one second, I was getting to that!" At the momentary silence, he took this as nothing short of a miracle. "This is Rukia, she's here to audition." He turned to see the woman mindlessly running her fingers over a rack of CDs and records. While looking at the neglected dust-varnished cases like fossils of the groups' questionable music taste, she only half payed attention to the rant. "Unless these dumb asses have scared you away."
Using the pad of her index finger to pull out a long abandoned CD, she gave an impartial shrug of the shoulders before clarifying, "Nah, ya'll just seem like run of the mill idiots." Now holding up the CD and cocking an eyebrow, she teased, "What's scary is that someone in this room actually listened to 'Nickleback.'"
The girl's blasé humor earned a smirk before Renji bumbled out, smiling like a teenage girl who'd just found out her crush was going to be her lab partner. "Sweet! Some of the best bands have had girl bassist, The Smashing pumpkins, the Pixies, it'll definitely-" Renji was an expert at letting his mouth out talk his brain, as if it was overcompensating for his nerve-caused paralysis. Before his brain caught him talking about something completely off topic, he cut himself off. Clearing his throat, he deepened his voice and shrugged his shoulders casually, "I mean, it'll be cool."
"I'm down," Ikkaku added, "It's too much of a sausage fest in here anyway." Straightening himself up slightly and puffing out his chest, he exclaimed, "But be warned, we'll tell you the way we told everyone else, we're not gonna change. If you're in the band, you're going to have to deal with us being loud and rowdy, drinking our weight in liquor, and random lightsaber battles."
"You gotta' have tough skin," Ichigo chimed in.
"Not to mention a tough nose," added Renji.
"Oh," Uryu advised, "and you'll need to work on your drumstick-dodging skills."
Rukia's heliotrope gaze of passiveness took a once over at the room cloyed with wires, beer bottles, and a staunch scent of what she could only assume was tobacco, old take out, and the pungent bodily releases caused by the poor dietary choices of these three. Still she was rather unimpressed. Who did they think she was? Oh yeah, she hadn't told them her last name. Sister of Byakuya Kuchiki, daughter of the dean of students, she'd been bred for this shit. While her father had hoped that hours of etiquette class, strict schooling, and his regular patriarchal diatribes would lead her into being a well-mannered young lady who was capable of balancing a book on her head while she simultaneously gave birth barefoot, he would be utterly disgusted to see where those skills really came to play. The girl could break diamonds against her opalescent skin, in fact, the only thing tougher than Rukia were the callouses on her fingers. Yes, if her father was to see her now, if it wouldn't ruin his chichi Armani suit, his brain may have very well exploded.
With a roll of the eyes, she walked over to a mini fridge situated in the corner without word or explanation. She grabbed a Pabst out of the fridge before thinking, 'Perhaps I can't change you guys, but maybe I can at least open you up to the world of good beer.' All to prove a point, she discarded her disgust for the wannabe hipster beer while pulling her keys from her pocket. The room was uncomfortably silently while they all gave Rukia their full attention, gauging the girl's odd actions. With her key, she stabbed a sizable hole through the aluminum before plugging it with her thumb. Popping open the top, she held the jagged metal to her lips as she opened her throat, allowing for the watered-down piss-brew to jaundice her strictly I.P.A. consuming lips. Within an instant, she gunned the beer dexterously before letting out a subhuman belch and throwing the can in a rarely used wastebasket.
After giving a finicky look of distaste, she let out a refreshed sigh and said with an air of superiority, "Who said I wanted to change you guys? I know I'm a girl, but come on guys, it's 2016, haven't we gotten past gender roles?"
Tempestuously, Renji's mouth spoke once more before his brain had time to stop the poor bastard. Causing an awe-inspiring bout of awkwardness that would be the linchpin to all Renji shit talk amongst the guys, he asserted, "I think I'm in love."
Rukia just gave a sweet chuckle while Renji tried to push his face so deeply into his palms that he'd disintegrate into nothing. After sharing a laugh at his expense, Ichigo cajoled him with a pat on the back. "Before you go writing any love songs, let's just hear her play."
As Rukia tuned up a bass in the corner, Uryu complimented, "Good going. Kurosaki, looks like you've managed to do something right. I guess I'll have to find something new to berate you about," he smirked playfully, "Knowing you, it shouldn't be difficult."
Ikkaku chimed in while lighting up a cigarette, "Yeah, I guess I'll stop using you for my ashtray."
Scowling halfheartedly, Ichigo replied bitingly, "How did I deserve such great friends? Truly, ya'll are killing me with the sentiments."
Without a hitch, like some bass goddess delivered from the heavens, Rukia performed every bass line the group threw her way with a look of tediousness, as if to say, this is all you got? As she slapped at the stringed instrument, a look of avid absorption glazed her orbs as if she was feeling the notes with every sense she had. Despite the way she'd look at the world in such a bromidic manner, one thing was certain, she had the look, the look of complete captivation, as if the ceiling could be falling down around her - and in this building that's an honest to god possibility - and it wouldn't matter as long as she got out the last note of her melody. She was in.
After they spoke of semantics for a while, grasping the rehearsal schedule and giving her copies of the music, they did a short practice before it was time for Ichigo to head to his next class.
Ichigo yanked up the girl's toy-like hands and ran the pads of his fingertips slowly across her palms and fingertips, looking into them like some sideshow palm reader trying to conjure up some bull shit prophesy. The vibrant man's type of charisma was an acquired taste. Rukia wasn't use to guys randomly touching up on her without some lewd ulterior motive, so she had to contain her instinctual reaction to cock-punch him, mortal combat him right in his manhood. It was obvious Ichigo didn't understand those boundaries because he couldn't understand something he'd never even considered. No, Ichigo wanted to touch her hands in the purest way possible.
With a tentative look of curiosity, the boy pressed his leathery meticulous fingers into the callous-coated derma, comparing and contrasting, traversing the hands indurated by years of dedication. By just looking at her hands, he could see late nights and lonely days, he could see a person as resilient as their nimble fingers, a lifetime's worth of testimonies hidden behind vigorous patches of rock like skin. "You can tell a lot about a person by just looking at their hands," he chortled with a half grin, allowing their almost matching callouses to meet before he dropped the hands. "Every hand is like the summary to a much bigger story." He paused momentarily before assessing with a smirk, "You really love this, don't you? Despite that glacier glare you like so much, your hands tell all."
The skeptical girl cocked an eyebrow at the man. She wasn't sure if these were Ichigo's opinions or if he was just some wannabe poet, trying desperately to sound enlightened or artistic by spewing nonsensical bullshit. although, something about Ichigo's acquisitive eyes and naturally carefree blitheness made him seem like the most authentic person she'd ever met. Perhaps even the cheesiest of anapestic morsels held truth when they came from Ichigo's straightforward cognizant. From that day forward, she had a feeling they'd be friends. "It's a love-hate relationship, I guess. My brother taught me, so it will always hold a special place, but sometimes even the simplest of things can be complicated."
Recalling the images of her war torn hands, Ichigo noted, "Yeah, I figured. If you look at your hands, you can see that different parts have healed at different rates. so I figured you had to have quit for a few months."
'This fucking guy, he could really tell how long I stopped playing by my hands? Maybe he isn't all talk and bullshit charm.'
"What about your brother, does he still play?"
Biting her lip slightly, she thought of the right words, trying to maneuver her way around giving out to much information that could lead to the reveal of her secret identity and ultimately ruin her chances of being in the band. "No, not anymore. He's the most talented musician I've ever heard. He used to be singed and everything… but you wouldn't know him. Before he got too big, he had to stop… Some stuff came up."
Tilting his head curiously, he asked, "What happened?" At the girl once again biting her lip and averting her eyes, he picked up on her social cues. He was awkward, but not completely inept. "It's cool, you don't have to talk about it if you don't want. I mean, we're still practically strangers." With a brighter smile, he cajoled, "But I do hope that whatever took your brother away from music resolves itself. I bet it will; even when you try to give it up, if you truly love it, it always finds its way back to you no matter how far you run." Flashing his charismatic teeth once more, he concluded, "It's all a matter of time."
Before Rukia could respond, the strong brutish hand of Ikkaku found its way to Ichigo's shoulder. Gruffly, the man inquired, "Yo, you coming with me and Renji tonight? We're going out drinking."
Thinking about his empty wallet, Ichigo thought about guilting Ikkaku with his always handy bro card into buying his drinks. Nothing would get his mind off of his punch drunk love like watching Renji lie on the bathroom floor, belligerently singing into a bottle of sangria while he recanted the entire dialogue from the latest episode of Planet Earth. Despite his aloofness, Renji was quite the intellect and loved to watch documentaries about every subject, only to drunkenly reiterate his newest knowledge on the mating patterns of Golden Lion Tamarins to his equally blitzed friends.
When Ikkaku got wasted, he abandoned his chopsticks and scarfed down his weight in sushi like a starved orphan who'd never known the pleasure of fullness, only to later do his best grade school walrus impressions with the utensils. On the rarest of occasions that Uryu got drunk, Ichigo had to be there, for more than anyone, he was the most out of character. Perhaps he was already wound so tight with inhibitions and logical thought, that when liquor tainted that reasonable brain of his, it just couldn't compute. Uryu would put on old 'Color Me Bad' CD's and rap along, the cultivated timbre of his voice sounded so off with the vulgar hip hop jargon slurring from his mouth.
At the thought of Uryu abandoning his glasses and tumultuously yelling, 'fuck the police,' as he jumped up and down on their broken down couch, Ichigo turned to Ishida, "Are you going?"
Shaking his head back and forth, he said, "Nah, not tonight. I'm meeting Orihime after class for a date." Ichigo took a moment of silence to contemplate what he was doing with his life. The fact that Uryu was the least romantically challenged out of the four of them really spoke volumes on just how clueless the rest of them were.
With an impish grin, Renji sat back on the couch and moaned, "I can't believe you of all people are dating her. Wasn't she the most popular person at our high school? How did you meet her anyway?"
In the premise of every 90's RomCom, the ugly girl could be magically transformed into a beauty by merely scrunching her hair and investing in some contacts. Ishida was that ugly girl, so to speak. During high school, when he, Ichigo, and Renji had all just became friends, girls had never given Uryu the time of day, not that he'd ever seemed to care one way or the other. When he'd entered college, though not an iota of him changed, it seemed the standards set by an invisible panel of judges had changed the rules of what it meant to be cool. Now the distant, mysterious, too-good-for-you Ishida Uryu was a hot number to freshman and senior girls alike. As he continued to not care, they continued to eat it up, so vapid and self-important that they could only find worth in going after what they couldn't have.
Orihime was the exact opposite. The beauty was filled with an earnestness for her fellow man. Unlike most people who were merely for themselves, she was continuously about other people. Their stark differences was what drew him to her like a magnet.
"We took science together last semester. There was a lot of chemistry," he spoke flatly.
Rukia giggled and said, "Ah, I like puns."
With a slight smirk, he corrected, "Quite literally, there was a lot of chemistry." Slinging his bag over his shoulder to leave, he cocked an eyebrow, "Though once we started to talk about positive and negative ions, you could say there was quite an attraction."
His pun earned a bellowing laugh from Renji and a declaration of lameness from Ikkaku.
"I guess I'll just go home tonight. I know the girls don't need my there, with them getting older and all, but still, I haven't really spent much time with them lately," Ichigo concluded.
Deciding she wanted to know more about her new, weird, and charismatic friend, she decided to invite herself over. Interlacing their elbows, "I'm coming with," the saucy girl declared.
The blithe man simply shrugged his shoulders and said, "If you want to be bored, more the merrier."
With a chortle, she speculated, "Somehow I think Ichigo and boring are not synonymous."
As the two left out, only Renji and Ikkaku were left. Turning to his number one drinking companion, Ikkaku said, "Come on, let's go make bad decisions."