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Decidedly OOC for a reason. You'll see why at the end.

Song is Life Is Like A Boat, by Rei. This is the first ending song to Bleach. It used to grate my nerves, but then I kept listening to it, and it grew on me. Like some sort of weird fungus that you don't want to like, but taste nervously when no one's looking. And then you like it. And you write fanfictions with it in it. And becomes a huge part of your life, and you marry it. Okay, no. I went a little far. Forgive me.

Faerie Tales

Chapter One

Once upon a time, a boy liked a girl. They didn't live in a kingdom far, far away. In fact, for some of you, they may be right on your doorstep.

No, not literally. Don't go outside and check.

Anyway, he lived in an age when there was little subtlety when it came to attraction. The handsome princes and noble stable lads no longer courted a woman for months before showering them with kisses. Love in this day and age smelt raw and drained—like a tired, aged lion that realized it has caught it's last meal—the word itself as overused as ever, but in the hearts of the people, it no longer meant as much. In fact, the boy's friend regularly made a fool of himself by revealing his appeal to a pretty girl in a painfully obvious manner. So why did said boy hide behind metaphorical curtains?

He knew how to react to girls. Having lived with two girls his whole life had given him plenty of experience with women, and most of the time he refused to bother with girls because of this. But he knew how to act around them

And he knew how to act around the girl. He just wasn't sure how to explain the concept of dating and—in turn—sex to the girl. He had a nagging suspicion she would need an in-depth explanation for such things. The fact that his father had handed him a graphic porn manga on his thirteenth birthday by way of explaining sex to him wasn't helpful, either. It was times like that when he desperately needed his mother as much as he wanted her back.

Even still, he wasn't a deprived boy, not counting the untimely death of his mother, nor was he especially greedy or stupid. Some would have called him bitter and cynical, but in truth all he really felt was sad.

The girl was too unlike him to have anyone suspect his feelings for her. He could find her annoying, loud, hot-tempered and manipulating. The only thing he could find in common with her at those times was her irascibleness. Unfortunately, he more frequently he found her to be endearing, adorable, intense, strangely wise and amusing. But he still wasn't planning on telling her—or anyone else, for that matter—that any time soon.

This boy and this girl had a faerie godmother—as the children might say—who he seemed to dislike, but in his heart of hearts, he really did not. He would never have said so out loud, but the faerie godmother was not a faerie for nothing.

This boy was tired, and not just physically tired either. He was tired of the fighting, and of his life in general. How was he expected to balance this: his work, his emotions, his classes, and everything else? What was all this for, anyway? He wanted to stop fighting—bleeding, pain running—to be able to have a good night's sleep without impeding doom continuously hanging over his head, to have his life back.

But with the fighting gone, the comforting company of that small, black-haired girl would disappear as well. What had been so great about his life to begin with, anyway? School and friends in a monotonous merry-go-round of hidden weaknesses. At least now he had a point, a reason for being.

And he had her. Kind of.

He would miss the peaks he took at her face in the last nights—when only the empty moon would have gossiped his secret away, if she had known how—and the spontaneous event of their skin meeting, and speaking in primal languages neither understood. All he'd be left with would be dreams that left him hot and unsatisfied, memories that would leave his heart aching, and an emptiness he wanted so desperately to fill with her.

He was also tired of himself. Once again, he felt weak—like when he had failed his mother who was left dead, with the worms and dirt and dying flowers six feet up. He could destroy monsters twice, three times his size but he could not open his mouth and tell the girl that he wanted her closer, that he wanted to have her know him.

He was tired of trying to read her actions, of trying to interpret them, and getting his hopes up only to have his own cynical personality shoot them down. His hopes always ended up in the middle of the street, with the cars running over them, time and time again. He was tiring of that as well.

He hated the silence he kept, like he hated the way she teased him unknowingly, in the mornings awaking him half-dressed and shameless, and his own nature that kept him locked in a cage of deceit while he watched her secretly. But this was his life, and would take these feelings of uncertainty and self-hatred of having her gone and having his closet empty.

One day, a spring day, when the air was full of the aroma of pies and flowers and rebirth of those things sleeping, he asked the faerie godmother for help.

I can't tell her how I feel until I know her own feelings towards me, he said.

She had an easy answer for this easy problem, and for once he wanted this help, he accepted this help, but only because he was so tired, and this season—this day—of rebirth and dust that tastes like honey, was not helping him like it seemed to help other's. He watched the couple join in a primordial dance of lips under the cherry blossom tree, and wondered why he wasn't in such a situation himself.

So he accepted her help, her solution, before she even offered it.

Birds understand each other more simply than nearly any other animal I know. I will use that language, that melody, and she will speak to you like that, she said.

The boy didn't like thinking of the girl as a bird. Birds were feathery and disreputably known for being prone to biting people. And though she had kicked him countless numbers of times, she had never bitten him. He found himself blushing at the thought of her teeth nibbling on the skin of his neck, and smothered the thought immediately.

So he lay on his bed, waiting for her. Would she come in form of a bird, he wondered, and checked out of his window at nearby trees every so often, just to make sure. Perhaps that faerie godmother decided to not even grant his wish and got lazy. His cynical attitude began deteriorating the boy's hope once again, and he could feel himself slumping more at everything disappointing thought he came up with.

When at last to burst into his room—although burst might be incorrect since she landed silently on floor from his windowsill—he was relieved to see she looked exactly the same. But when she opened her mouth to say something, something that would no doubt make his heart twist no matter what the words . . .

Nobody knows who I really am. I've never felt this empty before, she sang.

Then she quickly covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes wide with shock. Birds . . . sang. That's what the faerie had meant with her subtle and cleverly chosen words. She was worse than he was. She couldn't say things outright, either, it seemed.

Excuse me? he asked.

She shrugged and seemed to open her mouth to express the same feeling with her words, but instead more bird language seeps out.

And if I ever need someone to come along, who's gonna comfort me and keep me strong? she sang.

He voice was husky, low, and completely the type of singing voice he expected from her. It wasn't perfect, it wasn't an amazing voice, but it was hers and this was enough to make him want her. He wanted that voice whispering his name, softly, so softly that not even someone a foot away would hear. A word just for him, a secret passed from her lips for his ears only.

Before the boy could ask her what she was talking about—he knew to begin with, but he would never admit having spoken to the faerie, because that would end with him speaking of what their conversation had been about—she fled, leaving the way she came. He jumped off his bed, and leaned out the window, watching her run off, her thin, strong legs bringing her farther and farther away. He cursed and flew out of his room, determined to catch up to her before she became little more than a speck of dust in the distance.

Had her words been real, torn reluctantly from her soul? If so, he felt guilty. He had no right to listen to her private thoughts like that. He owed her that much. He would apologize; convince her to not try to speak until he had found something that could help her. And that would be the end of it. He wanted to hear the words, almost more than anything, but he wasn't callous.

But still, he wondered. Did she feel empty, like he did? Did she want someone to hold her, fill in the fill-in-the-blank nailed onto her heart, and keep her strong? He would gratefully accept such a position, just to be close to her. He wanted, more than anything, to know her, to be the one she could say knew her better than anyone.

It took more than half a day to find her. The boy would have never have thought that it would be so hard to miss the small girl with hair the color of a raven's feathers and eyes as dark as the shadow under the wings of a hawk.

He finally did find her, and the irony slipped right past him. She was sitting under a cherry blossom tree, surrounded by the light pink petals. They fell on her lightly, but she didn't seem to notice, because she sat rigidly still. He sat down next to her, and the two of them were silent, the space between them speaking volumes in their stead.

Don't say a word. I'll ask the faerie if she can help you. Until then, you don't have to say a thing, he said.

She turned to face him, her facade as rigid as her body, all except for her eyes. They looked frightened, and his arms itched to hold her to him, to wipe her eyes of that fear, to protect her. But he held back, he kept his face stony.

Nobody knows who I really am. Maybe they just don't give a damn. Be if I ever need someone to come along, I know you would follow me, and keep me strong, she sang.

And he shook he his head, wanting desperately to not be hearing the words he had been waiting for long to come from her lips. He wouldn't be able to deal if this were all just something that the faerie's spell was responsible for. He needed to be sure it was her words, and her feelings. But he didn't know how, and these stupid cherry blossoms weren't helping, were only plugging up his nose with their aroma, and falling on him.

I will, he said.

She looked at him questionably, but didn't answer.

I will follow you. I'll keep you strong, he said.

He'd said it. He'd told her what he thought, what he wanted. Well, not really, what he wanted, specifically, but generally his meaning should have been clear. And her eyes didn't seem repulsed, just surprised, just . . . content?

He was tired of hiding his feelings. He was tired of keeping his arms by his side when all he wanted was to hold her to him while he kissed her soundly. So he gave in.

He approached her, quickly, and his arms went around her, holding her face gently to his chest. He wasn't ready to kiss her, not yet. This would do, though, and his heart was pounding, throbbing, exploding in his chest as he did so.

And it stopped when she reached up and wrapped her own arms around his neck, her face buried into his neck, her breath on his skin like a light breeze. It made a chill go up his spine, and he liked the feeling. He wanted more.

And every time I see your face the ocean heaves up to my heart. You make me wanna strain at the oars, and soon I can see the shore. Oh, I can see the shore. When will I see the shore?

And he took her face into his hands, and reveled at the feel of her under his palms, finally, finally. And he wanted to have this moment forever, to drag it on and feel this amazing for the rest of his life, but she was looking at him so calmly, so innocently, that even one glance down at her mouth was enough to drive him over the edge.

When their lips met, it was no slight caress, like the touch of a butterfly's wing on the back of your hand, nor was it the polite contact of the handshake of two rivals. It was the rough and fierce games of two flames, fighting for domination. The two flames met and merged even as they battled, a bit of each blending into the other.

When they broke apart, the heat had taken control and the two of them were left breathless. He'd done it. He'd kissed her and taken her breath away. She was the lovely Snow White and he was her prince—sans the horse—and he knew, from the look in her eyes, that she didn't feel quite so empty anymore.

And they lived happily ever after.

A long pause followed Aika's story. "What the hell was that for!" Ichigo exclaimed angrily, getting up from his bed—where'd been sitting—and rushing over to his desk, where Aika had been loitering to tell her tale. She hovered up into the air just quickly enough to escape his grip.

"It was merely a story, Ichigo. No need to get upset."

"That was about us! And it was a crap story about us! As if I would ever think anything as corny as 'I wanted nothing more than to hold her.' What do you think life is, a fucking romance novel?" The faerie could see that Ichigo was getting rather furious, down there on the ground below her. She didn't answer, and merely fluttered her wings silently.

She had told them the story merely to arouse this curiosity—not other things, surely. She had not told them a smut story, after all. She had sensed something in Ichigo, something suspicious, but she would have to wait until Rukia was not in present company. Those were thing not very appropriate to speak off in front of a lady.

"Language, Ichigo, please."

"What do you mean, Ichigo, that that was a story about us? It was about a boy and girl in love." She sighed—almost dreamily, to Ichigo's apparent revulsion—and falls backwards onto his bed. "It's too bad things like that don't really happen," she said this in a slightly sad tone.

What was it that put that tone into her voice, the faerie asked herself, and one glance at the orange-spiked haired boy proved that he was thinking along the same lines. But neither of them asked, and in the end, the three dispersed, the two Shinigamis off to fight a creature that was of little to no interest to Aika, and the faerie herself flitting off in a new yellow plaid skirt and black blouse outfit to flirt with the flowermaidens that were lingering about the cherry blossom trees this season.

Perhaps she would see a pair of lovers sitting underneath, holding each other, and filling the emptiness in the heart of the other with sweet touches that remind each of the forgotten caress of a faerie mother, Queen Mab, who was the mother of all lovers. They would remind her of her story, and of her little side mission to show those two Shinigami a little about the emptiness neither of them acknowledge, much less wished to fill.

But first, the cute flowermaidens were calling to her, all legs underneath those pink petals.

Hehe, I would get mad, too.