Where are you, cherry red?

. . .

Ichigo stared incredulously at the guy who'd wandered in to class five minutes before the designated starting time – it was the first day of the semester, and Ichigo apparently wasn't the only person to notice the guy's entrance, considering his rather… unconventional appearance. Some might even call it unforgettable.

His expression immediately soured at the sight of him. Ah god damnit. Not this guy. What the fuck was he doing in this class?

Ichigo had actually arrived there much earlier and had only decided to get up a few minutes ago to go buy a water from the vending machine at the end of the hall – he'd then had the misfortune of walking back into class to the horrible surprise of seeing him standing there like an idiot, staring around.

Giving a discreet glance around the small auditorium, he didn't see any open seats left. Maybe – hopefully – Rooster-head had come to the wrong room. One hand behind his back, Ichigo crossed his fingers and watched as the redhead scanned the room with a blatant 'aw-shit' expression starting to cross his face when he didn't see any empty chairs.

'Please, please, please,' Ichigo chanted inwardly, cringing when big-dumb-and-ugly finally looked up to the corner where Ichigo had been sitting before, and… stopped. Peeking an eye up, his stomach dropped as he saw the guy perk up, spiky ponytail jumping around as he headed up the steps. Ichigo, dismayed, noticed that there were still two empty seats next to his own.

Fighting the urge to slap his hand to his forehead, Ichigo trudged up the steps after him and glared at everything. Why is it always him, huh? Why had he had to pick a spot way up in the back in the corner like a hermit?! Now he was stuck here, near this- this jerk. Ugh. You know what, he's not even surprised. Of course this would happen.

Ichigo watched as the guy sat down in the corner seat with a relieved groan and slung his backpack under the table, and again Ichigo pondered why the fuck he was in this class.

Although he was notoriously bad with names, he remembered this guy all right. Abarai Renji.

He'd been nothing but a source of endless frustration ever since Ichigo had first met him. It could have something to do with the little insignificant fact that oh, he was a huge asshole.

Ichigo had first seen him early last year with a bunch of dudes from the frat, and had decided it was pretty clear that he was just another douche in remedial classes who was there to party on his parent's money.

He could remember a brief conversation they'd had last year. Well, saying it that way made it seem like the memory was fuzzy, and it really wasn't. Seeing that guy's stupid face and tacky clothes and loud hair brought it all back. It had been during the start-of-semester floor welcoming party in one of the dorm buildings. Keigo had been dragging Ichigo around with him to meet people and have fun, and that's when it had happened.

Who knows – maybe Renji had been shoved, maybe he'd already been acting rowdy in the first place, or had just been really baked – it didn't matter which. The fact was he'd knocked into Ichigo and made him spill his drink all over his legs.

Then of course, Ichigo'd had a few choice words: "God damnit, what is your problem!" – and then, ever the hot-head, he'd spun around and kicked Renji in the back, because it had been bad enough that he'd been hauled to this stupid party to 'make friends' and now he had wet feet on top of it! So yeah, he'd kicked him in the back, and he still didn't feel bad about it because Renji hadn't even bothered turning around to apologize. He'd still been laughing with his buddies, doing whatever, not even paying attention – the asshole.

Well, a kick to the spine had obviously gotten his attention real fast, and at that point he'd turned towards him, his jovial expression having gone aggressive, and Ichigo had been left to suddenly realize how much taller he was up close, and also how... big and muscled he was – and admittedly, shit, he was kind of hot.

"Son of a bitch, man," he'd snapped, "Watch what you're doing, I almost broke this!" This had been a very expensive Huawei with gold aluminum plating, solidifying Ichigo's opinion of him as an utter douche. So, because he was a little shit and still really mad and not fucking scared of people who were bigger than him, he'd slapped it out of his hand.

Long story short, they'd had to be dragged apart, the phone had been miraculously unharmed, Keigo had been hysterical, and Ichigo, unsurprisingly, hadn't made any friends.

He hadn't learned the guy's name until later. Apparently Rukia had heard about the incident, and informed him of Renji's identity and that he had no recollection of the argument or an opinion of him past 'kid's alright.'

Not that Ichigo had cared whether Renji thought he was alright or not.

So yeah, he knew who Renji was. He'd gotten a bad first impression, and now that he had it, it'd have to be pried from his cold dead hands. He didn't care how cool everyone thought Renji was; the guy was an asshole and an idiot. Ichigo was endlessly astounded that they even attended the same college and that the guy had even graduated high school – let alone that he somehow kept from dropping out currently.

Well, actually, Ichigo had already had to confront his maybe unfairly harsh opinion of Renji, because as it happened, the next semester following that little incident at the floor party, Ichigo had been on the top floor of one of the science buildings where he'd been taking an advanced science, and he'd seen Renji coming out of one of the math lecture halls – which, holy shit.

They also apparently shared this humanities class – all of which meant Renji was not an idiot. Still an asshole, but not an idiot. Damnit. Being wrong sucked.

Having accepted his fate, Ichigo finished his walk to the gallows and sat one seat down from Renji where his things were still waiting. Renji didn't so much as blink at him as he passed, which made Ichigo frown.

It wasn't like he was looking to start a fight or that he wanted Renji to be a jerk some more, but that had been kind of… disappointing. He'd been half-expecting some sort of reaction. Did Renji not recognize him?

When he sat, Renji did look up at him, but Ichigo just stared forward and exhaled heavily through his nose, trying for all the world to project 'fuck-off' vibes. All too effective, he could see out of his periphery that Renji didn't give him more than a cursory glance. From that non-response, Ichigo assumed that Renji probably didn't even remember him, which meant hey, problem solved.

About a minute and a half before class time, a girl came up and sat in the empty spot between them, and, more unhappy about this than he'd care to admit, Ichigo viciously sharpened a pencil and tried not to crush his weak recycled-plastic water bottle in his hand.

Luckily, the professor then came in and began the usual syllabus-rundown, and Ichigo was able to stop brooding for the time being. Still, he couldn't keep from occasionally hearing Renji shift in his chair or the sound of him writing something down, and it would set his teeth on edge all over again.

Okay, so problem not solved.

Over the next couple weeks, as if in some exercise in stubbornness and maybe a bit of masochism, Ichigo continued to sit in that same spot, even though he always arrived early enough that he had other options. The thing was, as if by sheer bullheaded spite, Renji sat in the same corner chair too, and this was war now. Ichigo wasn't fucking changing seats, because his mama didn't raise a quitter. It'd been like four classes now, and not once had Renji even acknowledged him or shown signs of cracking. In fact, sometimes he even had the nerve to flirt with the girl who sat between them before classes and during break, who, to Ichigo's great dismay, he now noticed was kind of pretty, and also very receptive to Renji's teasing – he wasn't jealous, he just felt bad for her!

Alright, so it might bother him a little, but what about Renji didn't bother him? He figured he'd just have to suck it up for the rest of the semester. Ichigo did his best to ignore everyone, Renji especially, which was kind of impossible during group exercises or class discussions. The fucker always eagerly participated, which made ignoring him really hard, and in those cases, Ichigo instead just watched him suspiciously. It drove him a little insane that he'd been wrong about Renji being dumb, because he wasn't dumb at all, fuck, he wasn't. Ichigo was maybe, admittedly, sort of a little impressed actually – so every time he asked a good question or said something deep about the piece of literature they'd been assigned, Ichigo fucking glared at him, scrutinized him, watched him, because it pissed him off.

If he were honest, he might watch Renji more than was strictly normal. He'd look over at him occasionally during lecture to see him chewing on his tongue and squinting at the board, and of course, sometimes – only sometimes, mind you, not every time – he glanced over there when Renji stretched his arms above his head, leaned back in his chair, and showed off his stomach.

Which he was currently doing, again… Ugh .

Ichigo fought the urge to put his head on the desk. He needed help.

At lunchtime in an on-campus cafe, Ichigo mentioned him to Rukia, a good friend, in annoyance and half in hopes of learning more about him. He knew that she knew Renji; she'd been the one to tell him the guy's name, after all.

What with the way she held her tuna-wrap with a napkin protecting her hand, one might suspect that she ate really delicately, like a bird, but nope. Ichigo still was surprised by her chipmunk cheeks every single time they came to the campus cafe, not to mention how well she could articulate with her mouth that full.

After he raised the subject, she told him that yeah, Renji had been a friend of hers since childhood.

"What?" Ichigo's hot pretzel sat untouched on its wax paper. Rukia's eyes seemed to shutter, her usual cheerfulness having fled her face, and the reason was clear when her next statement came out more quietly.

"We grew apart."

"What did he do? I mean, what caused it?" Ichigo prompted, maybe insensitively, seeing as she obviously didn't want to talk about it, but it was just… he really wanted to know.

"Well," she sighed, "My brother adopted me when we were fifteen, and after that we just…" She shook her head and went quiet for a long time. "I don't know."

Suddenly feeling like kind of a shitty person, Ichigo wondered if they'd been living in the same kid's home, meaning that Renji was an orphan like Rukia too, which by extension meant, no, he wasn't a rich asshole – in fact, he'd probably worked really hard to go to school here.

The thought that Renji might have never found a family struck him with a sudden jolt. Blinking, a bit aghast, Ichigo inferred, "He didn't get adopted?..."

"No," Rukia replied rather shortly, then smiled, her eyes going far away, and Ichigo felt even worse for bringing it up. "He's a very hard worker. He's diligent and very smart," she said, "brave, loving – everything someone would want in a son." Her smile went wry then, directed down at her tray. "But he has a temper – he especially did at that age. And there's his hair," she mused, and Ichigo swallowed, thinking of himself at fifteen.

"No one gave him a chance. It's so hard for troubled kids to get adopted, especially the older ones – and not many people want to take in a teenager with anything that looks like a rebellious streak."

Ichigo understood that well enough. In fact, he understood that better than most. "Nah, I get it," he muttered knowingly, that sick feeling in his gut not easing in the slightest. It had been hard enough for him, feeling angry, misunderstood, and bullied; at least he'd still had his dad and sisters. Renji had no family. He'd probably grown up feeling all alone. "Where there's smoke, there's fire, huh?"

She pointed at him with a half-nod. "Exactly."

"…" Ichigo was quiet for a while in order to let the topic die naturally, since it was clear Rukia didn't like talking about it and there was only so long he could make her do so. If he thought about it, she'd always been reluctant to talk about the times before her purportedly-wonderful brother had adopted her. Apparently she'd had a hard life and didn't like remembering it, and maybe Renji was why. Although Ichigo was almost unbearably curious, instead of prying any further he shut his mouth and pulled his pretzel apart. It was cold now. He didn't want to eat it.

Finally, after Ichigo had sat staring at his food miserably for a few quiet minutes, Rukia sighed through her nose and went on, almost apologetically. "I've painted him in a bad light." Ichigo peeked one eye up. "He's actually very kind."

Renji, kind? That jerk, kind? Ichigo stuffed his mouth full of soft pretzel and then disagreed flatly, "I don't see it."

"You see his muscles, that's for sure," Rukia mumbled under her breath with her eyes averted, sipping her juice calmly and making a slurping noise.

"W-what?!" He jolted back in his seat. Staring at Rukia incredulously, he sputtered, "Just what are you implying?!"

"I wonder."

Ichigo folded his arms and scowled petulantly.

Whatever, she didn't know anything.

The next week, the pretty girl who usually sat between them didn't show up. She'd usually arrive right before Renji did, but today she wasn't there, and Ichigo found himself gripping the table nervously as Renji came up the stairs and then stopped there for a moment to glance at the empty chairs – although Ichigo couldn't be positive, since he was fiercely staring forward. Was Renji going to-…? No, he didn't care if he did, he could do what he wanted, it's not like it mattered to Ichigo.

Renji shifted where he stood, dragging the moment out, and Ichigo grit his teeth hard.

… Something told him he was in trouble. Maybe it was the way his hands wouldn't stop shaking.

In a deep warm voice, Renji casually asked, "Yo, mind if I sit here?" Ichigo glanced up, inwardly alarmed at being directly addressed. God, he sure hoped it didn't show on his face. After a beat of Ichigo's blank-faced silence, Renji nodded his head at the chair directly next to Ichigo, the one the girl usually sat in to divide them.

"Can see the board easier," he added in explanation, taking his yellow one-strap backpack off and plopping it on the table.

"Yeah, go for it," Ichigo replied robotically, and sat stiffly as Renji pulled out the rolling chair next to him and threw himself down in it heavily, sending a whiff of hair product and pine soap his way.

'Fuck,' Ichigo thought. He was definitely in trouble.

They were quiet for a while then, because Renji didn't say anything else, and Ichigo sure as hell wasn't going to initiate conversation. The next few minutes that went by were incredibly tense, at least on Ichigo's end; even breathing was an effort. Class eventually began, but it didn't help. He remained outwardly aloof as always, his everyday scowl set into his face like cement, but inside he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Why had this happened out of the blue like this? Crap, had it been Rukia? Right after he'd told her about Renji, this just happened coincidentally?... Ah god, had Rukia said something to him? She hadn't told him about the muscles thing, had she? Fuck, fuck-fuck, shit . . . Wait, no, no, that couldn't be right, Rukia had said that they didn't really talk anymore – and she wouldn't maliciously embarrass him on purpose like that anyway. Coincidence, it must be just a weird unfortunate coincidence. That was it then, Ichigo just had to get through today, he just had to get through one day of the soap smell and the stretching and the deep voice being within such close proximity.

Ichigo had a hand up next to his face to block his eye on Renji's side, but he frequently peered through his fingers to watch him taking notes. He kept telling himself to knock it off, but he couldn't help it. This was just so fucking weird – Renji was sitting by him. Why did such wacky shit happen to him all the time?

Admittedly – and he hadn't expected to feel like this at all – he felt a little excited. Wow, should he say something? Would Renji say something?

As if to drive him insane, Renji didn't say a goddamn thing or so much as look at him, completely absorbed by the teacher's words, and although Ichigo didn't speak either, by contrast, he was hopelessly distracted for the entire first half of class.

He hoped the girl would show up next class. Before, Ichigo had been annoyed by the way Renji would talk to her and not him, and also, to be honest, by the way she'd pervaded his view, but now he saw that the barrier she created had been his only hope at properly taking notes, because without her there he couldn't stop fucking staring at Renji and the profile of his face and the way his chest popped out of his v-neck.

Really though, the worst part was the stretching, because he did it entirely too much, and now he was right next to Ichigo, right there. God damnit, he was doing it again, and Ichigo could hear the breath seeping out of his chest as he pressed his arms up, he could see his muscles contorting, the fabric of his shirt dipping and wrinkling over the bumps of his hard stomach, he could see the bare patch of skin where his pants hung too low and his top rode up, and yeah, that was his natural hair color, all right.

After the third stretch of the day, Ichigo put his hand to his forehead and stared at his notebook pitifully. Shit. He was in serious trouble.

'Why me?' he thought grumpily.

Finally, when it was time to pack up, Ichigo despondently stacked his supplies and wondered how his life had gone so wrong. Next to him, Renji stood, kicked his chair in, and swung his backpack over his shoulder. "Cool glasses," he noted, and Ichigo's head snapped up just in time to catch a blazing grin before Renji stomped down the steps in his carelessly-laced steel-toed boots.

Ichigo put his hand to the bridge of his nose and swallowed, just staring after him for a minute; he hadn't even realized that he was still wearing his pink reading frames. He took them off and scowled, heart beating wildly as he grabbed his stuff.

… Yeah, okay, Rukia might have been onto something with that muscles thing.

. . .

Cherry red, my cherry red.