Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach. I make no money from this.
Set at any point in the story-line where they are in Karakura, after Ichigo and Ishida become friends. The teacher is a very, very minor OC. There is a reason.
New readers: I wrote this for a contest, and chapter six was published first. Now the chapters are complicated. I'm going to try to sort it out, but there's no guarantee. Look at the chapter titles to see which chapter you are actually reading! Consider yourself warned.
Thank-you to FlyingTackle, who has agreed to beta this fic for me!
Ishida's POV
We have a new homeroom teacher. My classmates appear to be very enamored of her but I, for one, am not. I could look past the outlandish clothes. I could forgive her unreserved nature and strange ideas. I could even accept her unusual 'interactive learning' methods. But I can't forgive the desks.
The linear arrangement of desks in a classroom is a time-honored and proven custom. It works. It's efficient, so why change it? The words of the much-adored Mikota-sensei are far too many and too inconsistent to repeat; suffice to say that she wants us to work in groups.
This shouldn't be so terrible. Apart from having to look over my right shoulder to see the board and the front of the classroom, there is little to complain about. The grouping I find myself in is not disagreeable. Finding Orihime-san seated facing me was an unexpected pleasure, especially as she doesn't see the need to fight for foot-space. I'm counting small blessings, at this point.
It also allows me further opportunity to watch her undetected. I shudder to think of the teasing I would have to endure if anyone discovered my… obsession. I watch her; I think about her constantly, she haunts my dreams. Every time our feet brush under the desks, a tingle shoots up my spine. I am nearly rendered speechless to answer her earnest apologies. Tatsuki-san, on her right, is a diligent student.
I would have resigned myself to being seated at the right hand side of Kurosaki but for one fact: I am left-handed, he is not.
For those who have never had the misfortune of being seated on the wrong side of one who writes with the opposite hand to them, let me explain. You can't write anything neatly. You are jarred constantly, our elbows collide, and your forearms fight for dominance over the limited space. And for some reason that escapes me entirely, Kurosaki refuses to swap!
So it is that I am forced to endure not only his constant presence, but constant contact also. Is it any wonder that I am cranky?
Kurosaki is currently fighting a battle on two fronts, one on the desk and one on the floor. He and Tatsuki-san have been playing footsy for the past half hour. Aren't you supposed to grow out of this kind of behavior before high school? Then again, they were in middle school together, maybe it represents some twisted kind of bonding. From the way they are glaring, I'd say it's likely.
A violent lurch sends my pen skittering across my page, again. I suppress an irrational desire to drive it through Kurosaki's hand. I don't want to upset Orihime-san, so, getting my bloodthirsty urges under control, I merely sigh and address the problem directly.
"Kurosaki. That is the third time today," I say sharply, indicating my page, "and it's only ten am."
He looks over at my work and opens his mouth to speak, and then, oddly, he frowns and closes it again. "Sorry, Ishida."
I nod briefly, putting the unusual behavior out of my mind, and get back to my English assignment. I'm going to have to complete it at home; even without constant interruptions, creative writing is not my strong suit. My writing arm remains undisturbed, largely due to the fact that Kurosaki has abandoned his assignment in favor of glaring out the window. The foot battle resumes, after a while. It is less intense than before though. Small blessings.
By the time the bell rings for lunch, I have made little progress. I put my books away and retrieve my lunch, looking forward to the peace of an empty classroom, but it seems I won't even be granted that; I notice Kurosaki standing over me, watching me eat.
"Do you need something?"
"Are you gonna come eat with us?"
"And endure Keigo-san's constant whining? I'll stay here."
"Okay."
I expect him to leave but instead he drops into Tatsuki-san's seat and opens his lunch box.
"What are you doing?"
"Eating lunch. You got a problem with that?"
"No."
We sit in silence for the rest of the lunch break. Every now and then Kurosaki seems like he's going to say something, but he keeps quiet and lets me regain some sense of calm before the afternoon classes and the desk-territory battles begin anew.
He has been behaving a bit unusually lately. He hasn't been paying attention in class. Every so often he'll start to say something then stop, like he did earlier. There must be something bothering him. He acts normally around the others, but I can tell. I'm sure he'll sort it out though. He's not the sort to sit idle.
During history, while Tatsuki-san and Orihime-san sit tracing the spread of Minamoto Yoritomo's rule and influence on a map, I sense Kurosaki's concentration drift away from our map. I am somewhat annoyed as we are getting marked as a pair, so I glance over at him, ready to berate him for not applying himself, but the words die in my throat.
He is watching me; watching me in a way that stills my voice and makes me feel somewhat awkward. He looks away quickly when I meet his eyes, and applies himself to the lesson. I am left wondering if the slight guilty start and flush on his cheeks when I caught him are real, or a product of my imagination.
~ ~ * ~ ~
I have long since put it out of my mind in favor of my creative writing homework when my doorbell rings. I go downstairs to answer it, hoping it is not Ryuken come to check up on me again. It's not. It's Kurosaki. This is also a new development; he's never sought me out before. I think back to lunch time and change my mind; he's never sought me out at home before.
"Yo, Ishida."
"Hello, Kurosaki."
I wait for him to say something and give a reason for his unprecedented visit but he just stands there, scowling and looking somewhat defiant. I suppose I'd better let him in; it would be rude to make him stand on the doorstep, and he isn't showing any signs of leaving anytime soon.
"Would you like to come in?"
"Yeah, okay."
I stand back and let him through the door. He stands, hands in pockets, scowling at nothing in particular while I lock the door again, and then follows me upstairs.
I'm still puzzled as to why he's here, but I can't very well leave him standing in the hall and demand an explanation. He's a guest in my home, my first guest since I moved here, actually. So I do my hostly duties and offer him something to drink and show him to the lounge.
"Nice place."
"Thank-you." I take a seat on the couch opposite him and we stare at each other in silence for a few moments. If this is what the rest of his visit will be like, I sincerely hope he comes to the point quickly.
"Why's it so dark in here?"
"I've been busy with my homework since I got home; I didn't notice it had gotten so late." The conversation dwindles again into awkward silence, and I rack my brain for anything to fill the silence. As if prompted, my stomach answers with an uncomfortable gurgle, reminding me that I have not eaten since lunch. I seize upon the opportunity, knowing it is unlikely that Kurosaki is as hung up on manners as Ryuken.
"I'm going to make some dinner. Have you eaten?"
"No, the food wasn't ready when I left home."
"I'll bring you a bowl then. Wait here," I turn to leave, adding, "and try not to break anything." I hit the light switch on my way out.
In the kitchen, I open the cupboard above the microwave and try to decide what flavor to make tonight. Fifteen minutes later, I return to the lounge with two bowls of chicken flavored noodles.
"Ramen?" Kurosaki looks surprised.
"You don't like ramen?"
"No, I do, it's just…" I wait, blank-faced, for the rest of the sentence. "…unexpected, that's all."
We slurp noodles (well, Kurosaki slurps, at any rate) contentedly. It's amazing how food can make everything better. When we're done, I take our bowls to the kitchen and leave them in the sink to soak. I'm in the middle of staring into my noodle cupboard, contemplating how the extra bowl is going to throw out my shopping schedule, when I realize that Kurosaki has followed me.
He's leaning against the doorframe, a knowing smirk on his lips. "You can't cook."
"Of course I can," I lie irritably, "I just don't take the time to."
"Really? Why don't I believe you?"
I can see this rapidly devolving into a sniping match. My irritation must show on my face because, to my surprise, he drops it, "I guess I don't have to cook very often, but I guess I'd also go for ramen if it was just me." He really has been acting differently lately.
As we move back to the lounge, he launches into a detailed monologue on the kind of food he gets to eat at home, pausing only to sprawl across my three-seater couch, eyes closed and feet up. I experience a flash of irritation at his feet on my couch, but I suppress it, not willing to break the tenuous peace.
Eventually, however, my supply of patience runs out. If his family meals are so marvelous, then why the hell is he here instead of eating at home? "As much as I'm enjoying your ode-to-home-cooking," I interrupt sharply, "I doubt that is the reason you came here. What do you want, Kurosaki?"
He falls silent, and then, eyes still shut, he states, "I want you to make me a dress."
"A dress?" I daresay my surprise showed in my voice.
"Yes."
"You want me to make you a dress." I stare at him, bemused, trying to process the unlikely image my mind has just supplied.
"That's what I said, isn't it?" He props himself up on an elbow to glare at me. "Look, if you don't want…" He abruptly falls silent, then his eyes widen and he yells, "It's not for me! Geez. Get your mind out of the gutter." Face scarlet, he flops back on the couch, he continues in a quieter voice, "It's for my sister, Yuzu, for her birthday."
That makes a great deal more sense. He has two sisters, twins if I recall correctly. "I see."
"She's always taking care of us. You know, cooking, laundry, that kind of thing. Ever since mom died. She just sort of stepped into the role."
I'm not entirely sure why he's talking to me like this, opening up. Sure, we're friends, but he never gave any indication that he wanted someone to pour his heart out to. Still, it's somewhat refreshing to not be in some kind of shouting match. I find I like this new side to Kurosaki.
"She doesn't do much for herself, and I just thought I'd try to do something nice for her birthday, but I wasn't sure what, and then I thought of you and that ridiculous dress you put on Kon."
Ridiculous dress? It seems I spoke too soon. I am tempted to refuse, on principle. Insulting someone's work is hardly a constructive way to gain his help. But in truth, the challenge intrigues me; it's not very often I get to design outfits for living people, and I haven't had the opportunity to dress a little girl yet.
"Um, I mean…"
"I know what you mean. What did you have in mind?"
"I don't know, something pretty. She's really girly, so I guess frills and stuff; you know, buttons and ribbons and that kind of thing. I don't know much about it." Clearly.
"There will be no buttons. I can draw a few patterns, but I'd have to see her to judge properly. Can you get me a photo and some measurements?"
"I can do better. You could probably do with a proper meal anyway. Come for dinner on Thursday." Seeing my hesitation, he adds, "We can work on that history assignment afterwards."
"Okay."
"Cool. Hey, you said you'd been doing homework since you got home, right?"
Puzzled as to where this was leading, I answer, "Yes?"
"You really haven't got much done, have you?"
"You read my essay?!" I ask, dismayed and more than a bit annoyed. I don't even like letting the teacher read my creative writing.
"You didn't say I couldn't." Shaky logic if ever I heard it. "It's pretty good. I don't know why you always stress about it so much."
"How do you know about that?"
"I sit next to you in class. Did you forget?"
"I wish. Your juvenile antics ensure I am aware of you at all times." I didn't realize he paid all that much attention.
"Anyway, you should just write whatever comes into your head and don't stress about it. If you don't like it, change it later. Easy."
"If you say so."
"Go on, try it." Kurosaki didn't look like he was ready to go anywhere, so I sit down at the coffee table with my homework while he sprawls on the couch, feet up again.
I decide to give his method a chance. I'll try almost anything to make the process less tedious. I wince slightly at a clumsily phrased sentence, but I press on anyway. It seems to be going fairly well, and certainly a lot faster than before, but I keep getting distracted.
"Kurosaki?"
"Uhuh?"
"Get your feet off my couch."
A/N: This will be a slow-moving story. While I don't have anything against the suddenly-realize-my-best-friend-has-nipples-and-then-have-hot-man-smex-on-the-nearest-surface type of fic, but there isn't enough of the other kind out there, so this is my contribution to this pairing.