Before long they have settled into a pattern. A rhythm, really. All the details are insignificant to them. All that matters is that sometimes he'll look at her, or she'll look at him, and each feels like they'll spontaneously combust if their hands aren't all over each other in the next fifteen seconds.
Which is completely inconvenient when you're sneaking around.
Neither of them have mastered the art of the speedy but inconspicuous exit, and they are rarely alone. It's all too new then for either of them to think logically enough to devise some kind of signal, some kind of sign that would tell the other "come away with me, I want to stick my tongue down your throat" without alerting—and subsequently freaking out—everyone else.
So it has come down to developing a schedule.
After school, on the rooftop, heavy petting.
Sometime after dinner when it is dark, in the park, swinging, and more heavy petting.
And less often, in his dark room, long after midnight and a while before dawn, they'll have hot teenage sex and then lay together, memorizing each other's bodies. She has a mole just under her left breast he likes to kiss. She enjoys tickling the crook behind his knee and the giggle it invariably draws from him. She never pictured him as the giggling type.
When he is inside her and she can feel his muscles straining not to finish before she does, she looks up at him—sometimes down—and admires the smooth white skin and the soft pink lips bared over even white teeth, and the flutter of the eyelashes because it weirds him out to do it with his eyes open. He is utterly old-fashioned that way, another thing that surprises her.
While his eyes are closed he pictures her face in the sunlight, her wide and open mouth—he knows it's open because she is much noisier than he expected her to be—and her hands clutching at some place on his body, she doesn't care where, she's going to hold on for dear life because, well, she wants to. They never finish together, and he always says her name and it clashes with the raw moan that comes either soon before or soon after he says it. Then she'll lean her head into his chest and tell him, in a hoarse whisper, that she loves him. He never says it back to her because he is certain she knows. She always knew.
And the next day, they'll glow, walking wherever with their friends and comrades, feet away from each other but bound, caught up in an endless tongue-twisting affair.
Their friends are varying degrees of sharp. "What's up with them?" one will demand of another when the lovers are out of earshot.
One will shrug. Another will grimace and try to change the subject. The last will chuckle. "Isn't it obvious?"
"No, what?"
"They're doing it."
"They are so not!"
The other shakes her head. "Look at them. Does that remind you of anything?" The tip of her tongue pokes out from the rosebud lips, and he is reminded of the last time—more recently than you think—he tasted that tongue.
He blushes. "Oh jeez. That's just creepy." He gazes in amazement at the chestnut-haired girl with the barrettes and the dark haired boy with the icy blue eyes. They are utterly mismatched, he thinks, but then he looks at the girl who just exposed them, and knows they are too.
"Ichigo, don't be such a prude." She is amused and saddened at the same time. Rukia knows that once you start playing that game, the rules go right out the window. She wonders if they've figured that out yet. But then she catches Ichigo looking at her, and knows if she doesn't have her hands on him in the next five seconds, she's going to spontaneously combust. "Hey, could you come to the broom closet with me? Sensei told me she needed more chalkboard erasers."
He looks at her, and the blush goes much redder. "Okay."
A/N: Those two? I'm shocked, I tell you. Shocked.
Not.