Izuru sat on top of the towels that Gin had lent him to dry his soaked seats, his cheeks tinted crimson. He couldn't even remember why he had rolled his windows down. Thanking Gin for the towels and promising to return them the next time they met, Izuru backed out of the parking lot, watching Gin wave goodbye. He glanced at the clock on his dash, and decided it was best if he just went home and ate dinner. Tomorrow was Monday, and the start of the last week of the term.
He pulled into traffic, mindlessly driving to his house. After his parents had died, they left him their house, but since Izuru had been too young to pay for mortgage, relatives had supported him, and they rented out the top floor to renters to help pay. But now that Izuru was plenty old enough, relatives had stopped periodically checking in and staying with him. Of course he still rented out the top floor, but now it was a partial means of income. Plus, Hisagi Shuuhei, the current renter, had struck a deal with Izuru to pay for half the mortgage, as well as half of the normal rent. Izuru thought it was very nice of him.
He pulled into the driveway, and shut off the ignition. Putting up his hood, he threw open his door, and quickly shutting it behind himself, ran to the canopied bed of his truck to retrieve his school bag. He heaved it open, and reached in for his bag, which had slid almost all the way to the back. He fell into the truck's bed and onto a tool box reaching for it. "Dammit!" He shouted, his ribs throbbing. Grabbing his backpack by the strap and throwing it over his shoulder, he vaulted out of the bed of his truck, forcefully shutting the door on his canopy. He hated that truck.
Unlocking his front door, he dumped his backpack by the door mat. He peeled off his jacket, and his soggy t-shirt, tossing them by his backpack. Toeing off his shoes and socks, he stumbled into his kitchen, wondering if Shuuhei was home. He peered into the coffee pot, and picked it up, sloshing around its cold remains. He poured it into a mug, and put it in the microwave, hoping it was still good.
The microwave beeped, and Izuru pulled the steaming cup out. With one hand on the door of the microwave, he raised the cup to take a sip of the near-boiling day-old coffee. Suddenly his phone rang in his pocket. He jumped, spilling hot coffee down his bare chest. Yelping, he dropped the cup on his toe, the cup shattering on the white linoleum kitchen floor in a puddle of coffee. "Ow!" He yelled, hopping on one foot. A string of expletives followed suit.
He pulled his cell out of his pocket, glancing at the caller ID as he flipped it open.
"Yes, Matsumoto-san?" He growled.
"Izuru-kun!" Matsumoto exclaimed. "You sound angry right now, but I want to come over and share some sake I bought with you!"
Izuru rubbed his forehead, his chest blazing, his ribs and toe throbbing. "Can you give me an hour to shower and eat? I just got home, and your call startled me into spilling coffee down my front."
"Oh my gosh," she gushed. "Sorry! I'll see you in a hour then!"
"Matsumoto-san, I-" The line clicked off. "-just remembered I have class tomorrow." Izuru cursed the world internally, smacking his palm to his forehead.
Matsumoto Rangiku bustled through Izuru's doorway, two bottles of sake in each hand. Izuru fought back the urge to bite his knuckles as she somehow produced another bottle of alcohol from somewhere inside her sweatshirt. Shuuhei lounged intimately on the couch in their "community" living room with a bag of sour cream and onion ruffle potato chips, his eyes glued to his PSP.
"Hey, Matsumoto," he said passively, crunching a chip.
"We're not... actually going to drink all that tonight, are we?" Izuru asked timidly as Matsumoto yanked off her sweatshirt and threw it on an easy chair.
"I don't know," she giggled, pouring herself a cup. Izuru gulped as he was handed his own cup. This is going to be a long night, he thought as he grudgingly took his first drink.
"Ahh, isn't this sake great, Izuu-kun?" Matsumoto's cheeks were flushed candy apple red. She leaned forward over Izuru's kitchen table, her ample bosom spilling forward and almost out of her low-cut shirt as she reached for another bottle of sake. Izuru hiccuped, resting his heated face on the cool tabletop.
"Mmhmm," he barely vocalized. "'M about at my stoppin' poin', though..."
"Nonsssense." Matsumoto stuck her nose up in defiance as she poured Izuru another cup of sake. "Drink up!" She lifted her cup, and tossed back its contents, flicking her strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder. Izuru raised his eyebrows in a puppy dog fashion, and downed yet another cup of alcohol.
"You guys are gonna have horrible hangovers in the morning," Shuuhei called from the living room.
"At leaswe're having fun!" Matsumoto slurred, sloshing her sake around.
Izuru sighed. "Masmo'o-san, I begga differ. I've a poundin' headache azza righ' now."
"Liessss!" Matsumoto shot back, pounding her fist on the table.
"Owww," Izuru groaned, grabbing the sides of his head.
Shuuhei snorted, and there was a crinkle as he cuddled closer to his bag of chips. "You guys are smashed. I'm going to drive Miss Alcohol here home in a little bit."
Matsumoto gasped. "Whaaat? Shuu, you mmmeanie!" She pounded her fist on the table again, and Izuru yelped in surprise, falling backwards in his chair with a crash and knocking over his cup of sake.
Matsumoto stared at him momentarily, then burst into laughter. Izuru soon joined her, laughing at the way she laughed, because in truth, his fall had really hurt.
Shuuhei rolled his eyes. It's going to be a long, rough night, he thought, returning to his video game and chips.
Izuru cracked open his eyes to the dullish morning light that was filtering through the blinds of his window. He slammed a fist down on his snooze button to silence the obnoxious buzzing of his alarm clock, and rolled over, his eyes sliding shut again. A murky, stagnant headache stirred in the back of his head, a souvenir of last night's ventures. His cheeks were still burning and flushed, and his body hurt all over. And what's more is he had a philosophy class in a couple of hours.
Thankfully, his homework was finished.
He thrashed about as his alarm went off again, and he turned it off, rolling out from between his covers. Threading his fingers through his tangled blond hair and pushing it away from his face, he staggered into his bathroom, and turned the shower on. Stripping down, he stepped into the cold stream of water with a squeal as the powerful water hit him smack dab in the bruise from his toolbox in the back of his truck. He sucked in a hissing breath, bracing himself. At least the cold water had brought him some sobriety.
Izuru turned around to reach for his shampoo, and screeched as the shower made him realize the large bruise spanning across his shoulder blades from where had landed on the back of the chair when he'd toppled backwards. Flailing around and quickly snatching his shampoo, he turned back around, his dripping hair swinging and slapping his cheek. He furiously scrubbed his scalp, hoping to wake up more.
Stepping out of the freezing shower, he wrapped a towel around his lower half, and raked his hair to the side with his fingers. He wandered back to his room to get dressed, his temples pounding. Putting on the first nice clothes he found hanging in his closet (he is a very neat man), he shuffled into the kitchen, his shoulders hunched. Shuuhei was brewing his second pot of coffee, and toast was burning in the toaster that didn't toast, but scorch things. An assortment of jars of jam and jelly were arrayed on the counter, as well as a stick of butter unceremoniously stuck in a coffee cup with its buddy, the butter knife. The toast popped up, and Shuuhei fanned away the smoke with his hand to get it.
"'Morning, Kira," he said, dropping the sizzling toast on a plate. "Toast?" He asked, gesturing to the pieces of charred bread.
"Sure," Izuru shrugged. Shuuhei slathered butter on the blackened toast. "Thanks again for breakfast." Izuru received his buttered toast, which crumbled somewhat between his fingers.
"You say that every morning," Shuuhei complained, rubbing his scarred cheek. "Help yourself to toppings."
Izuru popped open a jar of marmalade, and Shuuhei topped his toast with five different flavors of jam.
Class was a drag.
Izuru took studious notes, of course, but the pounding headache nestled in the back of his brain made his notes nothing more than a garbled mess to him. Oh, how he regretted allowing Matsumoto to talk him into drinking on a Sunday night. He prayed she was going through the same torture, mindlessly doodling on the margins of his paper, his unruly yet stick-straight bangs falling in his eyes. A smiling fox stared back at him from his page, and he blinked.
"Kira," the professor said, irritated. "Kira." He repeated, tapping his foot.
"Huh?" Izuru's head whipped up, and he dropped his pencil. "Sorry, sir. What was the question?"
"Do you have any opinions or thoughts on this, Kira?" The professor indicated the quote on the board.
Izuru read it in a glance. "No, sir." He said, shaking his head.
The professor pursed his lips, looking over the tops of his glasses. "All right then," he said, smacking his lips. "Let's carry on. Kira, pay attention." Izuru's cheeks flushed pink as he picked up his pencil again.
Looking down at the fox on his paper, he realized what it reminded him of. It was a tiny, furry Ichimaru Gin. Laughing quietly to himself, he put pencil to paper and took notes, leveling a stare at the slideshow the professor had queued up. He reminded himself to wash the towels that Gin had lent him later that evening, after he'd studied. Maybe he would visit his parents tomorrow to return the towels to Gin. The slide changed, and a quote caught his eye. He wrote it down, and looped a circle around it for later reference.
Class ended with a quite literal bang. The professor had tripped over some cables from the projector and fallen, and nearly everyone class had laughed, including Izuru. After the professor had gotten up, dusted himself off and readjusted his glasses, class was dismissed, and Izuru gathered up his books, shuffling them into his backpack. He wandered out onto campus, the sky looking dismally gray and heavy with rain. It was a sad sight, in July. The muted aching in the back of his head was slowly disappearing, but his newly acquired bruises were protesting, as well as his stomach. Hisagi's burnt toast wasn't exactly settling right with him. He passed by a couple he saw around campus quite often, and they were arguing, as per usual. The orange-haired guy noogied the short girl with black hair, shouting something about being late, and the girl slammed her fist into his kidney with a harsh retort. Izuru avoided the quarreling pair, then made a sharp turn to avoid a lamp post. He passed another group of people he saw frequently, who were also arguing. The shortest, a pink-haired little girl pulled on the tallest's liberty spikes, perched on his shoulders. An effeminate man with silky, chin-length raven hair was reaching to try and retrieve the bubble gum-headed girl from the shoulder of the intense-looking tallest man, but to no avail. The final part of that odd group was the shiny bald who was standing a little farther off, but was still shouting at and or with them. Izuru hefted his bag higher up onto his shoulder, then ran straight into a trash can.
Maybe his head wasn't as clear as he'd hoped it was.