Notes:
This is just the first chapter - still working on later chapters, but I've been sitting on this one basically finished for months. Wish me luck! This is my first multi-chapter fic, and it's a big challenge for me. I'm unsure what my upload schedule will be, so bear with me.
Trying to start up a series of class 3-z AU stories, which will include other characters. Check the "Yearbook Pictures" series for more.
Also, title from the Lo Moon song, "For Me, It's You."
Finally: I know that the main character of the Tale of Genji is not actually named Genji - but this is was the easiest way to reference it. Forgive me.
To Catch the Moon | There's a new teacher at Ginpachi sensei's school, and she looks familiar. — Gintsu, Class 3-z AU; part of the Yearbook Pictures collection
/
The students buzz about the new teacher for days before Ginpachi sensei registers it. It's a low hum between classes, mainly among the boys, grubby-fingered and blushing: "hottie," "those jugs," and "wish she were my teacher." He rolls his eyes, stuffs another lollipop into his mouth, and opens a magazine.
Then Kagura, who usually sleeps in the back corner of his class, comes in one day laughing about something "Tsukki" had said.
Ginpachi blinks, turns the page of his magazine.
Tae Shimura drops off her younger brother at Ginpachi's door, taps him on the head, and wags a finger. "Stay away from that new teacher," she says playfully. "We all know a sexy young teacher is not a good thing."
Shinpachi blushes and stutters something in return.
Still Ginpachi sensei's face doesn't change.
/
One Saturday afternoon, the teachers are required to come to the school to conference with their students' parents. It's already halfway through the semester, and the leaves are beginning to turn. The heat has suddenly rolled back, and the students march in with a flush on their cheeks from the bite of cold air. The school windows are cracked open now, letting in the sweetest, lushest breeze they'll have all year.
At half-past ten in the morning, Ginpachi wrestles Umibouzu out of his classroom door, shouting, "Baldy, Kagura is doing fine, her grades are fine, now get out!" He huffs as the old man starts down the hallway, dragging his daughter.
Next door, the new teacher opens her door to a parent as well. Suddenly they are shoulder to shoulder, and instinctively Ginpachi flicks his eyes over.
Tall, slim, with delicate brows and a serious mouth that he remembers very, very well. Her hair is shorter now, a cropped bob that kisses the nape of her neck and folds neatly behind her ear. But everything else is the same, those light eyes, framed by long, dark lashes; a ramrod straight back; even the cigarette poking between her lips. And there, before his eyes, a memory:
A summer day with the top buttons of her school uniform undone, a popsicle making a round o in her mouth. She plucked it from her lips with a pop!, and Ginpachi leaned forward, imperceptibly. Her eyes, serious and methodical even then, slid toward him, and she murmured, What are you looking at?
Now, in the hallway, a parent looks warily between them.
She says, "Ginpachi—"
He is already turning back to his desk.
"Tsukuyo," he tosses over his shoulder.
/
He stumbles into his classroom Monday morning, his hair wavier than usual. His tie is not done properly. The glasses keep slipping off his nose. His stomach churns, and even strawberry milk doesn't help, so he picks up a pack of cigarettes at lunchtime instead. His students blink at him because they've never seen Ginpachi sensei like this before. The chalk slips from his hand for no reason. He calls people by the wrong names, three times in a row.
"Sensei is in love," someone whispers.
Kagura fires back, frowning deeply. "Eh, eh, that idiot has never been in love in his life," she scoffs.
Sougo, to her right, murmurs, "Maybe he's a masochist."
Behind him, Sacchan grimaces. "No, absolutely not!" she cries. "I'm the only masochist in our relationship."
To which Kagura again scoffs. "Sacchan, you idiot," she says, "even if sensei were in a relationship, it definitely wouldn't be with you."
"Oh yeah?" she huffs, drawing her arms across her chest. "If not me, then who?"
Everyone is quiet.
"Who even wants that permed idiot anyway?" Toshi grumbles, and pulls a jar of mayo out of his desk. Someone else — probably Sougo — slaps it out of his hand, where it shatters in the middle of the floor. In an instant, everyone is screaming and yelling, papers are flying, desks get knocked over.
Amidst the din, Kondo Isao asks no one in particular, "Do we really think that sensei has no love in his life?"
/
Ginpachi's teen years were a blur of strawberry milk, reading JUMP behind textbooks, and the back of her head in class. She sat forward, taking notes in neat, tidy script, all in order like a rank-and-file. He wonders if her handwriting still looks like that, on the chalkboard. Would be very easy for her students to copy her notes.
One day, they were the last to leave the classroom: Ginpachi, taking a makeup exam (he'd skipped school for the first one), and in front of him, Tsukuyo writing a homework assignment. He finished before her, stood, and passed by her desk on his way out the door. Glancing down at her page, he noticed that there was very little written down.
Are you having trouble? he asked. It came quickly, almost before he could stop it.
She lifted her face up to him, blinking, hesitating. Yes actually.
Ginpachi set his book bag on the desk next to hers. I thought you were a smart girl, he said, fingering an ear. You always look so serious, working hard, taking notes.
Actually… she started, then paused, looking around. She still seemed to be deciding something. Actually, I don't understand the material at all. Her eyes rolled up to him, and finally he caught a small blush starting on her cheeks. Behind her, the sun was setting, casting the whole classroom in a warm orange glow. He refused to notice.
She spluttered to explain. You see, I copy every single thing so I can remember it and study later on, she said, hands fluttering, but now I have this assignment, and I really don't know what's going on. I'm terrible with literature, I can't get this Genji guy —
The chair next to her scraped the floor as Ginpachi pulled it over. He sat down and placed a finger on her essay prompt. He didn't even sigh.
See, here's what you need to do —
/
She still failed the assignment. Turns out copying Ginpachi's sentiments of, Genji was the man, like Sun Goku or Naruto, did not count as "well-constructed argument." She was given until the end of the semester to revise. The next week, she slammed her red, marked-up paper on his desk, nearly spilling his milk.
You're going to help me rewrite this, she growled through her teeth, or so help me God —
He had never seen her face so twisted with emotion: red cheeks, eyebrows drawn tightly together, her eyes glinting in the light. He hadn't noticed how light they were before; what color is that exactly—?
His lips moved on their own. Okay, but don't expect much.
That's how they ended up staying together after class for the next several weeks. Ginpachi acted as a quotation machine, spotting and compiling lists of helpful quotes from the extremely long novel, while Tsukuyo refined her ideas. They sat, their desks pulled in close, unspeaking for nearly an hour each afternoon. The only sound was the scrape of their pencils, or if Ginpachi quietly unwrapped a piece of candy.
At the end of the semester, the teacher returned her with a passing grade. In the frigid afternoon air, wrapped in a thick woolly scarf, she held out the re-graded paper to him, a big grin breaking upon her normally stoic face. She almost looked like the young girl she was supposed to be.
We did it!
Ginpachi blinked and rubbed the back of his neck. Nah, nah, he said, you did it, I almost ruined it.
You did ruin it, she retorted, cocking an eyebrow. Then shrugged, tucking the paper carefully back into her bag. How can I thank you? She asked, turning again toward him. Tsukuyo paused, and before Ginpachi could get away, she said: I know, I'll take you for ice cream, to show my gratitude.
And the teenaged boy blinked again, this time turning red from chin to eyebrows; a little bit of drool was already appearing in the corner of his mouth. A-are you sure? He actually stammered.
Tsukuyo just kept her smile in place. Let me guess: you like strawberries?
/
In the next semester, he found his eyes seeking her out. In the mornings she walked in with her head bowed, sliding into her desk by the window. She still sat forward and straight as an arrow, listening and taking notes. She almost never smiled, but her mouth was pretty, small, shaped like a bow. The bun on top of her head sometimes blocked his view, as she was almost his height back then; yes, that must have been why he couldn't see past her. No other reason.
I'm not going to buy you another parfait, she said, dead-pan, to his shadow standing behind her locker.
A bit ruffled that she'd noticed him, Ginpachi slouched toward the door. Pfft, I know, he grumbled.
He did not leave. He stood in the doorway, facing the street with his hands in his pockets. He stared at his shoes, chewed his thoughts slowly. There was freezing rain outside: a perfect opportunity for teenage boys to walk under an umbrella with a pretty girl, but Tsukuyo was the only one available. He huffed and turned over his shoulder again: Oy, oy —
But she was already out the door and several steps ahead, paying him no mind.
H-hey— you know I don't have an umbrella, you rude little—
He jogged a bit to catch up with her and ducked himself underneath her umbrella, flushing. Hey, you—!
There, beneath the roof, behind a light blonde fringe and a small hand, she was laughing.
/
In the teacher's lounge, he catches her making tea. Oolong, in a small porcelain pot the color of peaches, the cup no bigger than the palm of her hand. There's no one else around. He draws up next to her and reaches into the fridge for his carton of strawberry milk.
He's not sure why he says it. "So you're the new teacher."
Tsukuyo nods, doesn't take her eyes off the tea leaves steeping in her pot.
After a moment, "What do you teach?"
"Science," she answers quietly. "And you?"
"Japanese literature."
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Tsukuo's too-serious mouth lift into a smile. "Are you teaching Genji?"
/
He has strong memories of Tsukuyo in a school uniform: white blouse and navy skirt in summer, wool sweater and knee-high socks in winter. The red ascot tied so neatly. The lift of her skirt in the wind.
(Once, behind the gym at school, she'd pulled his tie out of its loop around his neck, slowly, deliberately, twisting it around her slim white fingers. He remembers the closeness of her body, the feeling of his back against the wall. He swore he felt the heat of a thigh against his own. I dare you to stop me, her eyes said, locked on his face. He never, ever did.)
But still. Still, Ginpachi is not prepared to see her as a teacher.
Everyday when he arrives at school, her classroom light is already on, and she's already at her desk or writing something on the chalkboard. Most days, she wears a button-up blouse and a tight pencil skirt. Once in a while, she sports a long dress in a deep color, like auburn or plum. She looks like an autumn leaf, dancing across the floor of her classroom, skipping from one end of the chalkboard to the other. She looks up, glances through the window as he passes by, and her face both is and isn't the face of that girl who'd backed him into a corner. He drops his books in the hallway outside her door, gets tangled up in his tie.
Most days he makes a fool of himself in the lunchroom. Spots her across the cafeteria, where she is refilling her hot water canister for tea, holding a small bento she brought from home. She sits by the window most days, an open invitation to students to come ask her questions about class. He stands in line amongst his own kids, staring absently with an empty tray. Someone prompts him, "Sensei—" and he moves forward, like cattle.
And he lingers at the end of the day, when before he used to race out of the building like it was on fire. He slowly erases the chalkboard, stacks books carefully on the shelves. His students watch warily, wondering why he is suddenly supervising them. Through the window, he sees her leave everyday about an hour after the bell rings, a stack of books and papers in hand, rifling through her bag for keys. He wonders how she doesn't stumble out of her heels, carrying such a precarious bundle of items, but she never does.
"...Sensei?"
/
She notices. Of course. With her sharp, sharp eyes.
"What do you think you're doing?" Shoulder to shoulder at the counter in the teacher's lounge again, her hands around that small cup of tea.
Ginpachi doesn't answer, doesn't breathe. He's not sure what he thinks he's been doing.
"The students will talk," she cautions. He glances her way, finally. Her lips are turned down, still far too serious.
He feels like he's choking on the whiteness of the walls, the ceiling, the floor. Even he is white, from his hair to his jacket. She is the only colorful thing in the room, with her red blouse, orange teapot, golden hair.
"Students always talk."
/
They meet for a drink. It's actually her idea. She hasn't had a sip since her student days, and for him right now his only drinking companion is the cute news anchor on Channel 4. She sits next to him at the small, quiet bar, pours him a drink first, then her own.
"Am I going to need to go to a hospital tomorrow?" he asks, watching Tsukuyo taking her first shot. It goes down a little too easy for his comfort.
"Are you seeing someone?"
Ginpachi almost chokes on his sake. Some of it is definitely in his nose. He blinks down at her, but Tsukuyo is sipping slowly, her eyes closed. "No," he murmurs.
She sets her cup down and faces him now. "Are you trying to see someone?"
"Also no."
She narrows her eyes. "Are you interested in seeing someone any time soon?"
He grimaces, takes a quick shot. "What's with all the questions? Where are you going with this?"
She puts her cheek in her hand casually, looks almost bored. "Do you want to fuck me?"
He stares, waiting for the punchline that doesn't come. She's wearing a leather jacket and a turtleneck, tight, dark jeans. Very unlike the lady who teaches next to him at school. Still, she is gorgeous and the same but so different. That very serious mouth, those eyes pinned directly to his face. For me, it's you, she'd said, a thousand years and a thousand lifetimes ago.
"Yes," he breathes.