Hi again!

Wow, I never thought I'd get so many reviews after just one chapter! It means a lot to me when you take the time to review (Not just because I'm egotistical *shifty eyes*) so I get really happy when people do review ^^ I also like replying to all my reviews, so that's something to look forward to ;D (Yup, I'm really not self-centred).

The song at the start is 'Over and Over' by 'Three Days Grace'. I'll ultimately end up using that song for a lot of fictions but I don't care. I love the song.
P.S: I went with first person for this story, I hope nobody minds.

P.S.S: I've reached the part in the anime where Gin dies (*angsting in the corner*) so I decided to give him a nice role in this fic in his honour~


I feel it everyday; it's all the same
It brings me down but I'm the one to blame
I've tried everything to get away
So here I go again
Chasing you down again
Why do I do this?

Chapter 1

To be quite honest I wasn't a fan of the heat. Whilst all of the other students in the lecture room were quite contentedly bathing in the sweet light rays that peeked through the blinds, I desperately tried to dodge them. It didn't work, of course, seeing as the windows were pretty big and the blinds were pretty small – but I could damn well try. I rubbed my forearm over my forehead then wafted the area with my hand. Even if it worked for the moments that I fanned myself, the physical exertion ended up leaving me warmer than I had been to start with; so I quickly gave up. I'm not sure where I'd gained this aversion to heat from. As far as I knew, I'd loved the heat when I was younger; constantly complaining even during the early summer months. I'd spend the day at the beach whenever I was given the chance and I was one of the only children not to enjoy playing in the snow. I don't know why – snow is a beautiful thing. It's white and pure and it cleanses things. Whenever it snows a kind of… calm washes over you. It's like happy rain.

I smirked at that. Happy rain – that was an oxymoron if I ever heard one. Rain was probably sad snow; that worked better.

I should have probably been listening to the drawling of my rather trite professor but that fact was unimportant to me. I was too engrossed in what I was thinking to really care about the tedious lives of dead cubists. The other scholars who were happy with the temperature seemed to be doing a better job than me at keeping their concentration on the particularly dull subject, but that hardly surprised me. To say my attention span was short would be an understatement, and the fact that the heat had given me an ear-splitting headache and all I could hear was a benumbing vibration only added to the problems. I rolled my index fingers around a spot between my temple and forehead to ease the headache.

Yeah, life was getting pretty dull. This whole routine was beginning to feel so mundane, even so early in the year. I'd eat, work, study, eat, sleep – maybe go to the bathroom at some point during all that… but there was nothing I could do to change that. Everything I did seemed to run on clockwork, but somehow it was easier that way. If I just went about my business as usual, it left no room for rumination. I didn't have to over think things, didn't have to contemplate all the absolute shit in my life. I'd left all of my friends behind at High School when I decided to study at University. I'd decided to sign up for a relatively close place so that I could stay behind with everyone. Not that they'd had the same ideas…

The only person who lived relatively close was my girlfriend… but even that didn't seem to be working out now. It was Renji who'd made me ask her out. He'd said that it was obvious we should be together. I wasn't so sure, but Rukia seemed up for it so we gave it a go. Don't get me wrong, she was a brilliant friend. She was the kind of person who would be there when I needed her; a shoulder to cry on, someone to cheer me on – someone to give me a well deserved (and literal) kick up the backside when it was so required. Hell, I don't know how many people were jealous of me. I'll admit, Rukia was pretty and strong and everything you could possibly want for a girlfriend, but she wasn't what I needed. Even if she was great, I wasn't the kind of person who could stay in a relationship like that. It was too… safe. Some part of me knew that I needed something dangerous, something with drama.

It seemed pretty juvenile of me to go on whining about how pathetic my life was. You could just say that I was just a hormonal teenager going through mood swings and wishing everything was more interesting and easier. But to be frank, I ceased to care.

The shrill sound of the bell dragged me out of my thoughts and my head snapped towards the front of the classroom. The lecture had gone pretty quickly. I glanced down at my notepad, stared at the mindless doodles and sighed. That meant more catching up to do. My eyes scanned the room to try and find someone I knew. I mentally rolled my eyes at the thought – I'd never bothered making any friends here. Instead, I searched for someone whose name I knew. It still didn't widen the search by much. My gaze eventually landed on a quiet, blond teen who was silently scooping his books into an oversized messenger bag. Trying to look as consoling as I could, I walked up to him slowly.

"Um… Kira, was it?" I tried, leaning on his table casually. He stared up at me for a moment, mouth creased into a confused line.

"Mmh," he mumbled. He then looked back down at his bag and resumed organizing the books into some unfathomable order.

I tapped one finger on the table impatiently. What was taking him so- oh yeah, I forgot to ask him. "Do you mind if I borrow your notes? I forgot to… um… write any."

He lifted his head up again and stared again. I blinked back at him. I don't think he realised he was being rude.

"Oh, sure." He dug in his bag for a second then held up a dark red notepad. Whatever order he organised those books in he must have done it well, seeing as he hadn't looked at the bag at all. "Can you do them quickly; I want to look at them when I get home."

I took the book from him and flipped to the pages of notes that were from the lecture. My brow creased when I saw five pages crammed full of barely legible scribbles. I could have done it quickly if Kira had written it neatly – it would take me an hour to even decipher it!

"Um… do you mind if I bring it tomorrow? I'm a slow writer." I scratched the back of my flushed neck and began to try and comprehend what the boy had written.

"Oh… could you bring it by my house once you're done then, rather than tomorrow? I need them tonight."

I glanced at him. "Oh yeah, sure, that's fine. Where do you live?"

He folded the flap of his bag down and slung it over his shoulder. The thing had to be twice the size of its owner. "Next to you, Kurosaki."

"Oh."


When I first arrived at the University, I'd made a point of finding the most secluded, shaded area on campus so that I could sit there when I stayed behind. Thankfully, it hadn't taken much exploring to find a quiet area between two buildings that was conveniently shaded by a tree. It was quite a vacant part of the University, away from the road, so people rarely walked past the alleyway, let alone down it. I slid down the wall and sat cross-legged, pulling out my own notebook and placing it next to Kira's. I leaned on my elbow for a few seconds.

"Damn, I have no idea what that kid wrote…" I groused to myself. It wasn't that the letters were inconsistent; they were just so flat and appeared to be written in some failed attempt at italics – an 'n' could be a 'c' for all I knew. With an exasperated sigh, I pulled out my phone and held my thumb over the number-pad nervously. This was hardly what I needed right now, but it was only fair. After mustering the courage to press down on the speed-dial button I needed, I held the phone to my ear. Please be Yuzu, please be Yuzu….

"ICHI-GOOOOO!" An overly excited voice screamed down the phone, part deafening me so I had to hold the mobile away from my ear to prevent any more permanent damage. Karin I could have dealt with… but honestly..?

"Dad, just shut the hell up a moment," I growled down the receiver.

"But Ichi-gooo," he cooed. I could only begin to imagine what carnage was taking place in the Kurosaki household. I heard clanging pans and Yuzu fruitlessly trying to convince her father to hand over the phone. Karin's voice rang out as well, possibly stringing some colourful threats Dad's way. He, of course, managed to ignore the coercion. "It's been so long since you've spoken to meee! How was Uni? Did you get any homework? When are you coming home?"

"Dad! Shut up! For God's sake!"

"Are you ringing me to tell me that you have proposed to Rukia? Did you get her pregnant and you're ringing me to tell me the good news-"

"The hell? Dad, what are you- Oh never mind… put Yuzu on the phone…" I nervously looked around. It wasn't out of the question that any passers-by could hear anything Dad said over the phone, considering how loudly he insisted on speaking.

"Aww, Ichigo don't you want to talk to your old ma- UWAH!" I cringed at the several thumps, bangs and agonized yelps that I got from the other end of the phone. There was a small moment of silence and then I could hear the phone being passed around.

"Sorry, Nii-san!" Yuzu's sweet voice made a nice change to the harsh sound of Dad's. "Karin's got Dad. What do you want?"

I smiled. "Hey, Yuzu. Do you mind if I come home a bit later, today?"

"Eeh!" I could almost hear the pout in her despondent tone. "But you come home late enough as it is! Why do you have to stay behind? You aren't in trouble, are you?"

"No, Yuzu…"

"Oh, no! Nii-san, you got expelled, didn't you? Dad! Nii-san got expelled! What are we going to do?" Several muffled whines of protest were clear, and Dad began rambling on to Masaki (Our late mother) regarding how his son didn't care for his education.

"Yuzu! Calm down, I didn't get expelled!" Maybe talking to Karin would have been better in the end. "I just have some work to catch up on."

"Are you sure?"

I chuckled nervously. "Yes, Yuzu; I think they would tell me if I'd been expelled." I instinctively glanced around me again. I could swear it had gotten significantly colder since my time in the sweltering classroom, although I was sure it had only been half an hour. I suppressed a shudder. Yeah, it was much too cold. It was probably the fact that this part of the campus never got any sunlight. "I was just ringing to say you don't need to make me any dinner. I'll get something on the way home."

Yuzu remained silent for a few seconds. "Couldn't you do the work at home?"

I blinked. "Huh? Well, it's easier to concentrate at Uni…"

"But Nii-san!" Yuzu threw me a bemoaning gripe. "You barely see us as it is! You're always in your room doing work and you don't eat and sometimes we just want to talk to you…"

"Yuzu," I sighed softly after she trailed off. "That's just what happens at University."

My attempts at reassuring her appeared to be in vain as a silent protest hung in the air for a good half a minute.

"What time will you be home..?" she eventually conceded.

I had to smile at the inevitable acquiescence. Yuzu didn't have the strongest of wills, so no matter how much she wanted me to come home at a reasonable time she would certainly comply with whatever it was I required. That was another thing that differed about us all – Karin and I could argue our way into oblivion whilst Yuzu and Dad would forfeit within minutes. But I had to come up with a reply, so I glanced at the time on my phone to try and think of a suitable time.

"I should be done by about six, but I'll go buy something to eat afterwards so I'll be home by seven at the latest."

"Okay, I'll see you then."

"Bye, Yuzu."

And then I flipped the phone shut.


I'd managed to finish the notes a lot quicker than I had anticipated; an hour quicker to be precise. Once I'd figured out what each initial scribble represented, the rest of the pages seemed to make sense. With Uni ending at four and me finishing the work at five, I realised I had a good two hours to kill. I could have just gone home at that point, but something inside me didn't feel like dealing with the raucous Kurosaki household. So instead of moving, I opted for sun bathing – although it was probably shade bathing seeing as I point-blank refused to move into the open sunlight. I pressed my cheek against the cool stone of the wall and opened one languid eye to look at some small tornados with leaves in them. I think they were tornados – something to do with the proximity of the buildings redirecting the wind and making it move in circles, or at least that's what I thought. I never really paid much attention in geography. The dead leaves danced in rings, picking up whatever debris had been left on the tarmac. Eventually, the loop had become a gaudy array of crisp packets, bottle tops and other litter which had been left on the floor. No doubt the caretaker rarely dared to venture into this area of campus – he would have been cleaning for hours. But still, it was a homely place and if I cleared a small area of rubbish where I could sit it made for a nice hideout.

Another strong gust of wind coerced its way down the passage and completely blew away (no pun intended) my little circle of litter. I scowled at it. Not only had it taken away what I was mesmerized by, but it also brought a breeze that was much too cold for my liking. It would have been a nice breeze had I been wearing a jacket, but alas – I was clad in a simple shirt and jeans and the gust sent goose-bumps down my spine. Instead of dwelling on that fact, I decided that I was getting hungry and figured that I could always eat early. I didn't want to pressure Yuzu into making any dinner when I'd only just told her that I wouldn't need any, so a takeaway seemed appropriate. I packed the two notebooks away into my rucksack and slung it over my shoulder. I tried to stand up, but the damned bag weighed me down and I landed, quite ungracefully, on my rear end. With another annoyed grimace, I ditched the bag, clambered to my feet and then donned the rucksack once more. It was beyond me why I needed so many books for a degree in art – I hadn't anticipated that we would have to study techniques and artists; I'd just assumed we would spend most of the time drawing or painting. When I'd gone in on the first day, armed with a pencil and a sketch pad, I'd returned with some five textbooks and a monster folder which hadn't fit in my bag. It was hardly what I predicted. Sure, if I wanted to draw it might have been better if I'd read the course content rather than apply for the first course that said 'Art' in the name, but where was the spontaneity in that?

Not trying to sound narcissistic or anything but I was quite a gifted artist, I pondered as I walked. In my younger days, whenever I was urgently trying to escape the cold weather I would sit in my room and doodle. It was nothing special, just some little scribbles that vaguely resembled objects. I never realised what I was drawing, of course – I just happened to be looking at something as I sketched and when I looked down it almost denoted said entity. I would spend a lot of time in my room, just trying to draw different things. Once I was confident enough, I worked up the courage to show our mother the pictures. She said they were wonderful, clasping her hands and then tousling my hair. She asked if I would be so kind as to draw her, so I agreed. And thus began my obsession with drawing my mother. She was… beautiful – but even that would be insulting. As I continued to draw her, I noticed certain features which made her appealing. She had soft eyes which were, ultimately, impossible to draw and she had a quaint, little nose which was perfectly centred in her face. Her lips were full, but not too big. I don't think I was just saying this because she was my mother, for I knew plenty of people who told me how attractive she was. No, I made it my life's goal to capture this absolute beauty. It was quite funny – every week I would churn out ever more sketches of my mother like a broken photocopier. I never cared to improve, for my ignorant eyes would pass over each mistake I'd make without doubt. It was only when I looked back on sketches from months ago that I would realise what progress I had made. So I continued to draw them. Mum organised them in a little folder, ordered by date so that it made a small timeline of how I improved. But then, when I was thirteen, the folder ceased to grow. It lay, gathering dust, rarely touched by anyone. The one time I had gone to look back at it, I had ended up in a shrieking, sobbing mess that had to be dragged out of the room by my father. I didn't stop drawing - I would never stop drawing. No, the folder never developed because I had lost my model.

I had never captured her beauty. And that fact hurt. Bad.

My drawings had become much darker, much more malevolentfrom that point on. The red colouring pencil became a frequent occupant of my grip and was well acquainted with a black biro. The two worked in harmony to form macabre drawings that generally consisted of eagles, skulls, knives and other objects that denoted some gruesome demise. To say Dad was worried was a grave understatement. He tried to get me into some team sports like Football, hoping that I would become more sociable and visit my friends again. Even with my ignorance I could see that Dad was hurting, so I complied to save his feelings. I would attend some sports club once a week, patently ignore every other child in the stupid guild then go home and tell Dad how well I got on with everybody. My plan was flawed, in that Dad wondered why I wasn't talking to these so-called 'best friends' outside of football, but I skilfully dodged most of these conversations.

Too stuck in my thoughts to be remotely aware of my surroundings, I was probably on the floor for a couple of seconds before I realised I had walked into someone. The inane numbers of textbooks were sprawled on the asphalt next to me, surrounded by a vibrant selection of pens and pencils. The zip on my bag had broken, so only a few pencil-sharpenings remained in the toppled over rucksack.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" I cried, a nuance of distress tipping the words. Damn, that would take a while to clean up.

"No problem," a husky voice muttered. From the rough tone, I expected the man to have left by the time I'd packed up my things, but when I glanced out of the corner of my eye I could still see a pair of chequered converse and faded jeans in the place where I had fallen. I assumed he was waiting to help me up, so once I'd scraped all of the crap back into the bag, I turned to look up at him.

Well this is new, I thought sardonically.

The barrel of a gun is an interesting sight, especially when it is aimed square between your eyes. I'd never played Call of Duty or anything of the sort, but I was pretty certain being shot in the head killed you. Right now, I was on the brink of death. An unstable man behind a gun could pull the trigger at any moment; and I assumed that most people with guns were quite unstable. But there was one problem. I was finding it hard to feel in any type of instant peril. Why?

Because I wasn't looking at the gun; I was staring at its owner. My eyes trailed from the lithe hand that curled around the handle of the revolver, up a sinewy arm and landed on a face - a face that was too gorgeous for its own good. Lips were pursed in a thoughtful manner, and they moved from side to side every few seconds as though he were contemplating something. His eyes were a dark teal and their gaze burned a hole right through me. He wasn't glaring, nor was he staring with benevolence - it was a pure deadpan worthy of a champion poker player. If any emotion managed to force its way to the surface then it would be one of pain, for his thin brows were knitted together in not quite a scowl, but a look of restraint. The most notable thing about his visage was the hair. His current hairstyle appeared to be… well, there wasn't a style for it. The soft, white, gravity-defying tresses were flung out in any direction they could achieve, intertwining with each other into some kind of soufflé type style, except it was too tousled to resemble any type of swirl on a chocolate soufflé so I mentally called it an 'elegant mess' instead. He didn't appear to have much pride in his appearance considering the attire and frankly uncared for hair. In addition to the converse and faded jeans, he wore a simple, white top which was jacketed by a thin, again chequered shirt. Despite the obvious haste in which the outfit had been strung together, I wasn't sure the boy was aware how absolutely stunning he looked. But the one thing that struck me the most was that he looked young – maybe eighteen or nineteen – but seemingly small for his age. Maybe it was this thought that assured me of his mental stability; yet the serenity with which he aimed the revolver made me wonder. He didn't look a novice and he didn't look psychologically unsound. He looked like a young adult who was inordinately skilled with a firearm.

But then I remembered that analyzing his looks was not top priority.

"Do you have a car?" he deadpanned. The voice was so silky, so dulcet that I almost whined at the sound of it. My (somewhat depleting) common sense scolded me. Now was not the time to be pining over the striking man… man in front of me. Yet I knew any attempts to stop it would be in vain.

I grunted a quick reply in agreement. My eyes had to be the size of saucepans when he lowered the gun. I hadn't expected that. He shoved the pistol roughly into his pocket then held out the very same hand that the gun had resided in. He stood, almost patiently, with his arm extended towards me to offer the help that I had initially assumed he would give. I just stared at him blankly for a few seconds.

"Why are you helping me up?" I managed. My voice was barely a squeak, hardly audible. Maybe to do with nerves, maybe because I was looking him in the eye…

"It's rude to borrow someone's car after they fell over and you didn't help them up." He broke the eye contact and stared at some point in the distance. I didn't think he was really looking at much, probably just trying to break the awkward stare. He then glanced around nervously, tensing as though he had heard something. He pushed his hand forward again urgently. "Come on."

There was no flaw in his logic. I grabbed his hand a little too quickly, a little too harshly that we both would have liked, yet his tone seemed to indicate that urgency was of importance. I hauled myself up then pulled the bag back onto my shoulder. As soon as I was capable of standing on my own he turned heel and left, walking down the street where my car was. How the hell he knew where it was posed a significant question, seeing as if he knew he wouldn't have had to ask in the first place. It then occurred to me that he would need the keys to drive the car so I hurried after him. Why I was being so compliant was already well past my comprehension; all I knew was that I felt a primal need to obey, to please this man and my instincts seemed to be following that with an animal resolution. There was a small niggle in the back of my head whilst I walked behind him, yet I didn't know what it was. As much as the fact disconcerted me, I was not at all bothered by the fact that I was willingly following this person who had just aimed a gun at my head a few seconds ago. So with that out of the question, what was my qualm with trailing him?

My long, rushed stride quickly caught up with his and I walked beside him, ducking down every now and again to get a better look at his face. His eyes seemed as determined to find this car as I was to follow him.

"Stop looking at me, you're acting suspicious."

The umbrage was a little too abrupt and impudent for me to take it without offence, but I still tried to shrug off the comment. I had no idea why I shouldn't act suspicious, but I assumed it was something to do with why the boy needed my shabby old truck and was unsuccessfully trying to hide his salient limp. Even as he told me not to look at him directly, I watched intently from my peripheral vision. He was hunched over in a way that didn't suit him, his entire torso creasing to the left. His hand twitched every now and again, darting towards his side. He had some kind of wound – I didn't need to be a doctor to notice that. I felt the pressing urge to stop him and examine it; to see what was making his face screw into such a grimace. Maybe if I was careful then the frown would smooth into a look of indifference. Maybe if I was really careful the poker face would curve into a smile…

I mentally shook myself. What was I thinking? I was referring to the poor boy as if I had known him for more than a minute. I couldn't help myself – he intrigued me.

"Which is your car?" His brusque voice cut through my thoughts.

I looked up and scanned the street in front of me. There were only a few cars parked on the side of the pavements but my concentration was shattered and I had trouble identifying which belonged to me.

"This one here," I eventually muttered and nodded to a scruffy, faded red truck on the other side of the road. He instantly turned heel and began to cross over without even looking. After glancing to check for traffic, I hurried after him. Even with the slight hobble, his step was sure. If it hadn't had been for me skittering behind him like Bambi on ice he probably would have looked completely inconspicuous. As we approached the car, I fumbled in my pocket for the car keys and pushed the button. The truck made a disconcerting sound that made me jump a few feet in the air, and it took a few seconds to ease the consternation and I realised it was just the noise it made when it unlocked. The boy slipped in quickly and quietly… and on the driver's side, much to my dismay. He hardly looked tall enough to be able to drive the car, but once he fumbled with a couple of the knobs on the side of the chair he could just about see if he craned his head. And when his neck was arched, it formed a beautiful curve which I couldn't help but examine.

I skittered around to the other side and clambered in with a little less grace than the white haired teen, but still managed to retain some kind of subtlety.

"Well done," he pokerfaced; a hint of patronisation in his tone. "You successfully completed the task of walking down the road whilst remaining inconspicuous."

Ignoring the thick sarcasm, I fastened the seatbelt and then held out the keys for him to take, dangling them almost teasingly in front of his face.

He stared at me. Those intense, teal eyes bore another hole right through mine. "Why did you get in?"

"You needed the keys."

"Why did you fasten your seatbelt?"

I grinned inwardly at the only remotely witty comment I could think of in response. "Even if you helped me up, it's rude to steal someone's car. My presence just makes it slightly more reasonable."

His lips pursed thoughtfully once more, but then he took the keys from me and started up the car. "I said I was borrowing it, not stealing."

I had surmised that the majority of the car journey would have been thick with an awkward silence, but I seemed to be wrong about that as well. The young kid seemed to be trying his best to fill any gaps between conversations, although I couldn't quite fathom why. The strain in his voice as he spoke only proved that he was unused to talking for extended periods of time, so why he was exerting himself to try and fill the silence seemed odd to me. The questions he asked were fairly general to begin with.

"What's your name, then?" was the first utterance he had dared to speak.

"Ichigo," I'd answered almost immediately. When he heard that he let out a low chuckle. The laugh bubbled up slowly, building up until he threw his head back and let out a half-strangled noise which I assumed was his attempt to hinder a laugh. His shoulders sagged and he grinned, shaking his head as if what I said was ironic. I didn't quite see how.

"I'm not your best friend, Ichigo. I want your last name." The words that left his mouth were too practised, and his eyes moved from side to side as he spoke in a regular rhythm. I guessed that the irony was that he'd met someone else who had given him his first name and he had responded with those exact words, yet why a repeat of this act would seem so satirical was, once again, beyond me. His humour was beginning to perturb me. He had a sharp tongue and a quick mind, and the tone in which his words formed seemed unreasonably sadistic. When he'd held the gun to me, there was almost no doubt that if I hadn't owned a car or anything else for him he would have shot me. In fact, it was a mystery as to why he hadn't shot me anyway and robbed the keys from my dead carcass.

"Ichigo Kurosaki. Could I ask for yours?"

"You could. Whether or not you would get an answer, however, is debatable." His finger tapped impatiently on the wheel and his soft expression contorted back into the one that screamed that he was in pain. I waited. I felt like I had him figured out, and if I kept the uncomfortable silence going for long enough then he might concede and bless me with his name.

"If you're trying to keep the silence going so that I will feel uncomfortable and tell you my name," he started, taking one hand off the wheel and reaching into his pocket, "then you are very much mistaken."

I tensed when the hand began to retract from his jeans. That, I noted, was the pocket where the gun was residing. I inadvertently shifted away from him a little, as though it would do anything against his indelible aim. His hand left his pocket at an agonisingly slow pace, and I felt my nerves sigh in relief when instead of holding a gun his fingers were curled around a small pack of cigarettes.

"You smoke?" I asked incredulously. He flicked the top off and took out a cigar. He twirled it between his fingers for a few moments.

"Only when I'm stressed." The reply came slowly, and he pushed the stick of tobacco back into the packet and shoved the box back into his pocket. "I'm trying to quit."

"I don't think that keeping the pack in your pocket really helps," I noted in a matter-of-factly voice. His eyes flicked towards me and his pained visage was replaced with one of irritation. He slowly brought his other hand back onto the wheel and then broke the hypnotic gaze once more. I blinked a few times. His eyes were so fucking intense, that just looking at them left me dazed.

"Tōshirō Hitsugaya," he mumbled. "That's my name."

I chortled a little at that. I stopped looking at him and moved my gaze to the roof of the car. I studied some of the labels that I'd left there but never really bothered to see what they read. It was all quite customary – don't put a baby facing the seat and fasten your seatbelt. The rest of the label had peeled off and was probably dilapidating somewhere at the bottom of the foot-well. Another label was completely in German, so I gave up trying to mentally transcribe it.

"I'm not sure why you were so opposed to telling me your name, Tōshirō. It's not a bad name or anything." I waved my hand as if to pass of the statement.

"You should refer to me as Hitsugaya-san, Kurosaki." The annoyance was there in his tone, but it was quite deep. I don't think he was truly irritated at me, as much as he might have wanted to show it.

"Really? I think we're on a first name basis by now, don't you?" My hands flailed in all sorts of directions to try and prove my argument. There was a lot of mindless pointing and waving going on. "I'm letting you drive my car, aren't I?"

The irritated tapping began again, but I could see his mouth twitch at the corner. "I would have shot you if you didn't."

I stopped my mindless waving and rested my hands on my lap again. "I don't think you would have."

His head lowered and his mouth gave in to the smug grin that was inevitable. "Men behind guns are quite unstable."

At least we agreed on something. I didn't have a reply to that, so I placed my elbow on the handle by the door and rested my chin in the palm of my hand. Karakura Town seemed so small when it was whizzing past you at fifty miles per hour. I saw some backstreets, houses of people I felt vague amiability towards - we passed the town centre where there were hundreds of people going about their daily routines, simply shopping or meeting up with their friends. I even saw a couple of my old high school mates hanging around outside of a shop whose name I didn't catch. They were gone within the second. I had to laugh – that would happen, wouldn't it? It was like my life was flashing before my eyes as we sped out of the town centre and headed towards the outskirts of Karakura. Everything I knew so well was flashing past me, and I was literally in the passenger seat; unable to do a thing to stop it. I had just done the most dim-witted thing I could possibly do – jump right on into a car with a person I had just met – and it was probably the most irreversible thing I had done as well. But with Tōshirō sat next to me, I knew he wasn't just a boy who wanted a car. He had some secret… some grave, grave secret which he had no intentions of telling me. I would just have to buck up and go along with the ride… for now. I wanted to know… oh, I desperately wanted to get to know this boy better. I wanted to know what it was making his face twist like that. I wanted him to be able to reveal that secret to me, even when that visage told me that he had never confided in anyone else before.

No… he was an interesting lad – and I vowed that I would get to know just why. Even if that meant leaving behind family, friends, school…

The realisation hit me like a brick in the face. "Oh shit," I swore quite dramatically.

Tōshirō's head turned towards me and confusion flashed across his features. "What?"

I chuckled, then placed my hand over my face and sighed into it. "I forgot give Kira his notebook back."


Well, I finished that at an unusually quick speed. That took me three days to write. Not bad, if I say so myself.

But yeah, I'm updating SUPER quick because I might not be able to for a while. I'm only able to write at any speed whenever we're off school, and it's just been half term so I managed to write two chapters in just over a week. So yeah…

If you review I might feel more inclined to put off school work ;)

Okay, I have an exam to prepare for :/