Life is severely kicking my ass right now, so no apologies. -TPP
Warnings: language, violence, beautiful nerdy things, fluff.
Thistle and Weeds
Chapter 2. "You'll never be what is in your heart."
"Since when do you like pie?" Gin asks, his smirk eating his face.
We're sitting in the diner. It's almost three o'clock in the morning. I can smell the chemicals on him from across the booth, the burning chemical smell you get from shooting guns.
Unlike him, I hadn't needed a gun tonight. Just a shakedown downtown. That ass hole had been hard to hunt down, I'd give him that much. And for some reason, his ass hadn't ended up in a hospital. Gin, on the other hand, had been at the docks for the past few nights doing interrogation for the Old Man.
Smelled like the interrogation was finally over.
"I'm tired," I say, taking another bite of the super sweet and creamy pumpkin pie.
"Yer gonna get fat," Gin singsongs, chuckling when I glare at him.
"I got muscle, you stupid cock slut."
He winks and swipes a bite of my pie before chugging the last of his espresso, "Well, honey, if 'ya want a divorce, why don't'cha jus' say so?"
"Where's Grimm? Shouldn't you two be fucking in a dark corner somewhere?"
"Speakin'a which, when's the last time you fucked?"
"Yesterday."
It was true. Kind of. A cute blonde at one of Kaien's favorite clubs had sucked me off.
Blonde hair long enough to tug, but the boy had been too high to communicate with, which bothered me. I tolerated drugs but they always made me think of the life I left behind.
"A blowjob doesn't count," Gin says, his serious face on for once.
Gin knows me too well.
"I don't need 'ta fuck twenty times a day like you."
"That's not how my ass remembers it," he answers with a smirk, "but whatever, baby. With that kamikaze dick, you'll never have trouble getting a cutie."
I watch him get out of the booth, throw down a twenty to cover us.
He kisses me on the cheek, "Do something nice for yerself, idiot. All work and no play makes for a borin' bad ass."
He leaves. I finish my pie.
Then I tell the waitress to bring me a short stack with a side of bacon.
I've got one slice of bacon left on my plate when I hear the door chime with a new customer.
The kid looks a right mess.
He's wearing black pajama pants covered in pink and red kissy lips and a blue Care Bear t-shirt with a white jacket that has a panda head for the hoodie. His feet are in black booties with fake grey fur trim. His green messenger bag says 'EINSTEIN MAKES ME WET' in big black block print and his hair is held back by a purple headband, exposing his ears which have two holes punched into them.
I never understood that gauging shit. What if he got in a fight with somebody and they pulled on his ears and ripped them clean open? It makes my stomach turn over to think about it, and I've killed before.
One of the old waitresses calls him 'sweetie' and he heads for a back booth, sliding ear buds into his ears as he starts drumming his fingers against the linoleum tabletop. His head bopping, he goes into his messenger bag to retrieve a thick book and a composition notebook.
I'm still staring as he starts scribbling madly into the notebook before dog-earing the page and flipping open the thick black tome he took out, jumping page to page and underlining things here and there before doodling in the margins. What the fuck is he doing?
I watch the old waitress with the grandma vibe bring him a coffee in a big yellow mug and a bowl of sugar cubes. He smiles at her and plays with his ipod a second before closing his eyes and moving his hands like he was directing an orchestra.
And I'm just sitting here, watching him…like…
No the fuck I was nawt waiting for him to show up all these weeks. No fucking way.
It's been at least a month since that pie incident. And what the fuck was he doing here at…what, quarter to four in the morning? This place was a graveyard except for the one or two trucker-type guys grabbing a bite before hitting the road long distance.
The first few times I'd come this early in the morning I'd gotten fearful eyes from the staff: like I'd ever hold up a shit hole like this for a couple of bucks. Insulting.
Just 'cuz I look the part. Fuck them.
I leave a tip and dip out while he's absorbed in his stupid book.
Then I stand outside like an idiot for probably fifteen minutes. I smoke a cigarette then convince myself I don't need anymore. It's cold, but only with the wind. I'm glad I was smart enough to grab a jacket.
"Fuck it," I say, taking out another cigarette and lighting it. I lean against a streetlight and indulge my crappy lungs.
Then I hear a weird tapping noise.
It's persistent, kind of annoying.
I turn around.
And there he is, the Kisuke kid, pressed up against the glass of the diner window where his booth is at, his hand tap-tapping against the glass as he smiles at me.
He waves his head like he wants me to come inside.
Jesus fucking Christ. What the fuck is wrong with me?
I flick my cigarette into the street and go back inside the diner like an idiot.
"Hey you," he says cheerfully, taking one ear bud out of his ear as I stand by his booth. He waves to the empty side, "Take a seat, my dark mysterious friend. Lurking takes a lot of energy."
"I wasn't lurkin'," I say with a glare as I sit down, my hands in my jacket pockets as I hunch back against the booth bench.
"I like your pouty face," he says, picking up a red pen and scribbling something into the margin of the big book with tiny block text, "you could be cute if you wanted to."
"Want me to cut you?"
"Pie," he answers, sticking the pen behind his ear and taking out the other ear bud. I can hear violins, "I need pie now."
He waves at the grandma waitress and she comes over with a smile. She smiles at him and than me. She's the only one on staff that doesn't seem to be intimidated by me. Besides, she's such a sweet, stereotypical grandma figure I could never bother her. And she always refills my coffee without asking.
"A slice of pumpkin spice pie, please. And a slice of raspberry, please. And another coffee, please and thank you," Kisuke says.
"With extra extra whipped cream, sweetie?" the waitress chuckles.
"Oh Lucy, if you weren't happily married with three gorgeous grandchildren-"
"And I was fifty years younger," she laughed, shaking her head as she left, "Mind your manners, Kisuke."
"Yes ma'am!" he called after her. He smiled at me, "That's Lucy. She's my favorite. Don't make her cry, okay? She lets me call her Granny."
"I wouldn't. She's cool," I answer, the words slipping before I can pull them back.
His smile makes me want to punch myself in the face.
"I get worried when she works shifts like this. She should be working the safe 9 to 5s. Then again, she only works to get out of the house once in a while. She's an amazing ceramic painter. She gave me a flower vase for Christmas last year. And she can knit pretty much anything. She knit my cat a sweater too," he says, chewing on one of his pens while scanning another page before closing the book and staring at me, "So how are you?"
This guy…just…
"You're fucking weird, you know that?"
Fuck his smiles. FUCK THEM. My stomach knots up when he does that shit.
"Well, I don't see what that has to do with how you're doing. You look tired. Do you work late nights?"
"You could say that."
Kisuke tilts his head slightly, his face going strangely blank, "Not just any night job. A gangbanger…no, more specifically somebody a little higher up the totem pole in the Soul Reapers. You started out low, like they all do, but you're above that now. You were a two pack a day man but are struggling to quit: the fact that you just talked yourself out of a third cigarette suggests a psychological anxiety but it's not bad enough for you to go back to the terrible habit. All these years with the Soul Reapers and you still have a sense of morality about you. No, not just that, a sense of justice. The scars on your face and hands are stretched: I'd say over ten years old, which means you come from an abusive home. You're ambidextrous and favor your left leg because of some kind of accident two, no, three years ago. Some kind of knee injury: I'm assuming a bodyguard duty gone wrong. To be a bodyguard takes not only focus but skill and loyalty, and since you're sitting here alive, you must be all three of those things. You're not a drug pusher, so you must be a high-end chaser or an assassin. I think you've killed before. No, I know you've killed before, but it's good money and they're bottom-feeding scumbags that nobody will miss. The way your tone of voice changed when I was talking about Lucy suggests you're a good man, a man who wouldn't involve innocent pedestrians in your gang business. I think I can trust you. You prefer knives to guns but, of course, as we all know, you're probably packing a .22 in case you cross territories: out of necessity, not ego. You never leave your apartment without being strapped."
The pie arrives. Kisuke dips a finger into the extra whipped cream and makes a pleased purring sound that goes straight to my dick.
"You some kind of detective?" I say, my voice gravel. The kid was fucking good, and good meant dangerous. It would suck to have to kill this kid later.
He smirks and takes a bite of pie, "No, I just pay attention. I like details."
"So what? You make all this shit up to stir up trouble?"
He sighs and licks his lips after another bite of pie, "You're wearing a jacket now, but I remember the first time I met you: very distinct tags, so not much guess work there, although I was surprised to see your rank, which means you're not just anybody. Your scars, the way you walk, the way you move, even the way you blink: they tell a story. I just read the story and go from there."
"And me being ambidextrous? My knives? My apartment? You fucking following me?"
Kisuke sighs, stirring his coffee, "No no no, no I would never. I'm assuming you're ambidextrous based on the last time you ate your fork was on the right and the knife was on your left: this time they were switched. As for the knives, your hands are scarred, but your thumbs and pointer fingers don't look callous so I don't think you use guns often. As for living in an apartment, I'm assuming that you keep to yourself in your profession, you're young, and you roam, so I don't think you would tie yourself down with a responsibility like a house, so I stand by apartment: it's smart, practical, low maintenance. I just…please don't be offended by anything I may have implied: you just seem so interesting, the farthest thing from boring I think I've encountered in a long time. I hate being bored. I can't stand it, so here you are, wondering if I'm a threat to your gang family, trying to figure out my end game, but I'm going to tell you that I don't have one other than having some coffee and pie with a new friend that I find absolutely fascinating."
It's then that I realize I want this kid.
I want him. Fuck.
"You want some? There's more than enough to share," he says, holding up a second fork Granny left us.
I'm stuffed from all the food I just ate, so I shake my head no.
He shrugs, "Too bad. The pie really is the best in the city."
I watch him load about ten sugar cubes into his new coffee, take a sip, grimace, then add about five more before stirring it with a spoon. Then he globs a big piece of the raspberry pie smothered in whipped cream right into the coffee, stirs again, and sips, totally content.
"Do you eat pie everyday?" I ask, pretty fucking fascinated with this cute fast-talking super computer.
"Not everyday. It's a special treat. Helps me get through my papers."
"So you're a student."
He smiles, "Definitely."
I stare at the cover of the book I had thought was a Bible: The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. I don't even know who Shakespeare is.
"Oh, sorry. I'm giving a lecture on Othello tomorrow and I'm not really prepared. Do you like Shakespeare?" he says, petting the top of the book like it's a cat.
"I don't know. Never read 'im."
"Most people don't, or they've seen a play performed or a remake in a movie. His plays are fantastic, though. I love his work. You should come to my lecture tomorrow and learn more about him: I'll be showing clips from the play," he says, and he sounds so excited my face almost cracks. Almost.
"That's a lot of work for a student."
"Oh, well, I'm a professor too."
"You're too fuckin' young to be a teacher."
He laughs, "Why does everybody say that?"
"Cuz it's true. You're what? Twenty-four? Twenty five?"
"Just turned twenty-three," he smiles and takes another bite of pie, "I teach Philosophy of Literature and Organic Chemistry. I'm more of a student-teacher: it's one of the requirements to keep my scholarship. Does that bother you?"
"No. Why would it?"
Kisuke shrugs, "I was worried you might not like younger men."
Now I'm uncomfortable. Really uncomfortable. Why am I still sitting here with this freak?
"Unless I'm wrong. Unless I'm really wrong and I'm offending you right now, but your pupils are slightly dilated and you've had your head cocked slightly for a few minutes now: in a recent scientific study I was reading it said that angling one's head implies sexual attraction. I believe the attempt to label sexuality is absolutely ludicrous, but I hope I'm not offending you. I think you're really interesting and I don't really have a lot of friends."
I watch him take another bite of pie and another sip of coffee.
"And you don't look at me like I'm crazy. I like that too."
Wait. I don't? But…he is a little weird. I've even told him so, which makes me feel like an ass hole as he sits here staring at me trying to be my friend.
"The name's Zaraki. Zaraki Kenpachi."
He smiles.
"I gotta go," I lie, getting up from the booth.
He grabs my jacket sleeve. I freeze.
"Are you sure you can't drop by tomorrow? We could grab pie here afterwards."
"I'm busy," I say, taking my hand back, my heart in my throat.
"Sure. Okay. Well, I'll…see you here, maybe. Sometime."
This is so fucking melodramatic.
I grab one of his pens off the tabletop and his notebook. I scribble my cell number onto one of the page corners and throw it back on the table, "Don't look at me with those eyes."
His smile is seriously going to make me sick.
"Bye, Kenpachi."
I leave.
I go home.
I crawl into bed. It's almost five in the morning. I haven't slept in two days.
But I can't sleep now. Not for anything.
When I wake up, my phone has vibrated off the bedside table.
I jack off in the shower thinking about pie and grey eyes.
I get dressed, pick up my phone, scroll the missed contacts.
Gin answers on the second ring.
"Christ on a bike, Kenpachi: you gonna sleep the day away? Kaien's got an errand for ya."
"You know it was a late night, ass hole."
"What? You get cozy at the diner and stay up all night? Or did'ya bring somebody home from the diner?" Gin says with a cooing voice, "Mah, I didn't see anybody in there worth fuckin', at least not male."
"Shut the fuck up, ass hole," I say, because if Gin had stuck around to see Kisuke, I'd be swimming in all kinds of shit with the silver-haired man.
"Mah, ya really need 'ta get laid."
"I am. Tonight," I say, goading him, "A sweet blonde ripe for the picking."
What the fuck am I saying?
"Ooo, really? Do I know this sweet blonde?"
"No, and we're keepin' it that way."
"Do I smell a virgin?" Gin continued, "Be good 'ta him, Kenpachi. You know they squeal the first few times."
"I dunno if he's a virgin."
"Well you'll find out tonight, huh?"
I hang up. Fuck Kaien and his errand. Fuck Gin.
I call Gin back. I need the errand. I need to get myself together.
I'm not gonna let some crazy CSI kid obsessed with pie turn my life upside down.
"So what's up your ass?" Grimmjow said, lighting a cigarette as we walked down the street towards our new assignment's apartment, "You've been way too fuckin' grumpy the past week."
"Fuck off," I barked.
"Yo, I'm jus' saying," he said, handing me a cigarette in our form of a peace treaty, "You just look tired as hell all the sudden. Gin says your bangin' a new blonde, so what's up?"
"None of yer damn business," I answer, finishing the cigarette in record timing, "Can we just do our job so I can get somethin' 'ta eat?"
"Sure, ass hole," he says with a smile, "We nab this fucker, pizza's on me."
I don't tell him I'm in the mood for a burger and fries followed by a slice of cherry pie.
We attach our silencers to our pieces in the shitty grinding elevator.
My phone vibrates. I take a peak.
A text message from Kisuke. Just a backwards smiley face.
Took him long enough.
I don't reply.
The elevator jerks. Ninth floor. Peeling paint on the hallway walls. Creaky floor. Cheap place, but I've seen worse.
We find the number Kaien gave us. Grimmjow tries the lock. It's unlocked.
What a fucking moron.
We rush the place, guns drawn.
"Get the fuck down," Grimmjow growls at the scruffy man who'd previously been sleeping on a nasty-looking couch.
"Ah, fuck -!" the man trips to the ground as Grimmjow tugs him to the ground by the hair.
"W-wait, what the fuck-"
"Good morning, Kariya," Grimmjow says, kicking him in the gut.
"We ain't gettin' paid to play with him," I growl, annoyed. Grimmjow's a Hollow, he isn't even supposed to associate with me, but Kaien said freelance work didn't matter, and Grimmjow never turned down a shakedown, but it got annoying when he got dramatic.
"You owed yesterday. You thought we wouldn't come find you? Cut off your dick?" Grimmjow growled at the man on the floor, his gun pushed into the back of the man's skull.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Wait, guys! Wait! I uh, I got a bit of cash stored in the bedroom-"
"Is it ten grand? It better be ten grand."
"I-I don't got all that, but I got enough to-"
"You think this is a joke? You think we're gonna let you live when you're worth more dead than alive?" I say, knowing we don't have a choice this time.
"This is crazy! This is insane! You can't – you can't off me over ten grand!"
"You owe fifty plus interest. You've barely paid one stack. Kaien ain't waitin' any more."
"Wait!"
Grimmjow laughed, "Too bad you don't got a girl or kids. Ya could'a sold 'em."
"No no no no no, wait, plea-"
Grimmjow didn't wait. Two taps. Blood all over the floor.
He lit a cigarette, "Fuckin' idiot. I'll check the bedroom."
The guy was a real baser. Nothing in the apartment would be worth shit, so we took the lonely bottle of whiskey in the kitchen area, the only thing worth any fucking value besides a couple crumpled fifties we found in his sock drawer.
We went back to his place and drank it while listening to some music. Called Kaien.
"Dumb ass had a life insurance policy," Grimmjow cackled after I hung up with Kaien, "What a fucking moron. That's mistake number one: never be worth more dead than alive."
Kaien always gets his money. That was rule number two.
"I'm hungry. We were supposed 'ta get food."
"Fine, ass hole. Let's go get some food," Grimmjow said, taking the last shot and nearly falling off the couch in a fit of hysteria.
"Dumb ass, you're drunk."
"Nah."
"Stay here, moron. Gin'll be home soon. Don't pass out before ya fuck."
Grimmjow cackled with laughter as I left, barely buzzed. I didn't drink much anymore thanks to the nightmares.
It'd been years since I'd had such vivid dreams about the before life. My old man had nearly drunk himself to his grave before my mom put him there permanently.
And it made me miss Momo. Made me wonder what she'd think if she ever saw me drinking.
I hadn't seen her in years.
I didn't want to. She had a new life. I wasn't supposed to be in it. Her new life was clean.
My warm stomach rumbled. I needed grub.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
A text message:
Pie Boy 5:50 PM
HI, K! YOU HUNGRY?
MADE VEGETARIAN LASAGNA IF YOU'RE INTERESTED.
WOULD IT BE WEIRD FOR YOU TO COME TO MY LOFT? HERE'S THE ADDRESS…
We'd texted a few times during the week, even though I had never shown up to his Shakespeare thing. His stupid smiley face was twelve hours late from the last text I'd sent him.
But it was nice to get an invitation out of nowhere.
I'M STARVING. I MIGHT EAT IT ALL.
I MADE LOTS! COME ON OVER, DOOR WILL BE OPEN :)
I don't know what I expected walking into the downtown loft, but it was pretty fucking cool for a weirdo.
From the winding ascent in the stairwell I'd been a little worried, seeing as the neighborhood wasn't one of the best and the tagged graffiti everywhere, no matter how skillful, actually had me a bit worried about what I'd find inside (not to mention Kisuke's safety late at night) but once the metal door was slid open, it was a wide, warm space.
Part of the ceiling was raised glass panels, a sunroof, I think. It was dark out now, but during the day it was probably really cool. Two of the walls were an obnoxious shade of green, the other two a warm brown, which looked like a yoga or meditation part of the loft. There was a giant carved wooden Buddha and a low table with a giant bowl full of floating water lilies. Giant candles were lit all around the Buddha, along with a stick of incense.
Orange and yellow circle cushions were on the floor like a modern take on traditional Japanese-style dined seating, but a large chipped wood table was pushed up against an opposite wall which was covered in black-and-white photographs and albums and papers and knick-knacky shit. A large portrait of Marilyn Monroe guarded the table with a kiss.
I made my way further inside, taking off my shoes and letting my toes get comfortable in the fluffy beige carpet.
A Siamese cat mewed at me from the cushions, stretching it's back before it came over to me, rubbing itself against my leg as I wandered further in. It wasn't a huge space, but Kisuke had managed to break the large room into two separate rooms by using a giant wooden bookcase to separate the zen from the work and an alcove where he must be cooking.
I looked over some of the titles, estimating there were probably over a thousand books shoved into these shelves. At least a thousand. Emily Bronte, Russell Brand, Alex Sanchez, Gertrude Stein, Hemingway, Melissa Marr, Anne Rice, John Kennedy Toole, Jorge Louis Borges, Chuck Palahniuk, Sylvia Plath: authors I'd never fucking heard of. Dictionaries, books on astrology, architecture, even the fucking Kama Sutra. Now that's a book I'd heard a little bit about.
Three different ancient-looking versions of the Bible, A Complete History of Witchcraft and Demonology, The Prose Eda, several books on Angelology, even the Baghavad Gita. History of Jazz, Harry Potter, books on dinosaurs, biographies of dead musicians like Beethoven and Chopin. Books on Klimt, Van Gogh, Munch, Da Vinci, Pablo Picasso, their lives and works of art. Comics, manga, countless books of poetry, cook books from around the world, complete mythologies of ancient Egypt and Greece, books on profiling serial killers, books on origami, a book about different breeds of dogs, books in English, Spanish, Japanese, and French…
And nothing in any fucking particular order, nothing following a certain train of thought. How the hell did Kisuke ever find what he was looking for?
"A fucking library," I murmured, for the first time my fingers itching to explore.
I touched a little dog-looking statue on the end of one of the shelves, the smooth stone cold and a pretty white color.
"That's Anubis, the jackal-headed Egyptian god of embalming. Isn't he cool?"
I almost dropped the small statue at the sound of Kisuke's voice. He was standing near the zen area wearing an apron that said 'Kiss The Cutie' on it with a chibi anime character head surrounded by hearts. He had one pink oven mitt on as he smiled at me, "The lasagna's just about done, perfect timing!"
"Yeah."
"Oh good, you met Chaplin! He's usually aggressive towards strangers," Kisuke said, walking over and stooping to pick up the Siamese and cradling it like a baby, "Do you like Charlie Chaplin? I fell in love with the movie The Kid and just couldn't resist when I adopted this little cutie."
"No. Never heard of it."
"It's a classic! If you want, we can watch it after we eat. It's in black and white, but you won't be disappointed."
My face must've looked weird because he set the cat back down on the ground and looked a little flushed.
Shit. Blushing and me didn't get along, but I wanted to lick it right off of this kid's face.
"Or not. I don't have cable, but I have a lot of movies. Or we don't have to, we could just eat and I'll shut up. That's probably a good idea."
"I like listening to you."
Jesus. What the hell? Lame.
He smiled. This kid smiled so much it was getting ridiculous.
"Just tell me to shut up when you get tired of it then. I never know when to quit. Granny says I don't have a filter. It's hard to make my brain shut up."
"I've never seen this many books. You must be a genius or something."
Kisuke's face was red, even his ears, "I'm going to check on the lasagna. Make yourself at home! I didn't know if you wanted to eat on the low table or something more Western, but there's an island bar in the kitchen area-"
"You a Buddhist?" I say, nodding my head towards the impressive shrine area.
"Um, well, kind of, I mean…I agree with a lot of it, and I memorized most of his teachings, and he adds a lot of style to the room, and one of my students was going to throw away a big block of wood that'd been cut wrong for a project, so I decided to do a wood carving for good luck for my new space a few years ago."
"A few years ago? How long you been a teacher?" Not to mention the craftsmanship on the Buddha. Did he go to an art school too?
"Eight years, give or take. Student teaching and – and lectures, sometimes. I'm a student, too."
"Damn. So you are a fucking genius."
Kisuke ran a hand through his hair, shuffling his feet, "The sauce I'm using is new, I've never made it before, but the zucchini isn't crunchy at all-"
"Relax, Urahara," I say, touching his shoulder.
He stiffens and blinks, "Oh. Sorry. I just, I get a little anxious. I don't like talking about my brain. If that's okay."
"Ok. No more school. Promise."
He smiles at me, "I made garlic bread. Do you like wine? I wanted to try it and it's supposed to pair really well with the sauce…"
I listened to him babble off as he made his way back to the kitchen, clanging a pan around and what sounded like the oven being opened and closed and opened and closed.
I went back to perusing his giant shelves, looking at all the books and little statues. A jade elephant carving the size of my fist sat next to a framed photo of a younger Kisuke, kicked back against a giant wall with his eyes closed.
A famous giant wall. The fucking Great Wall of China.
Another photo was a bit of an optical illusion, a smiling Kisuke holding out his hand and the Sphinx in the background, the angle perfect to make it look like Kisuke was petting the head of the Sphinx.
Another photo had a shaggy-haired Kisuke in a monastery in bright orange monk robes surrounded by fellow monks all holding up their hands in the gesture of divine peace.
I bent down to inspect lower shelves, these much more dusty. One of the albums said 'Graduation' so I tugged it out and flipped it open.
They weren't pictures. They were fucking diplomas. Some of them dated back as far as ten years ago.
The last diploma was dated eleven years ago: Karakura Inner City High School.
Fuck. Twelve-year-old high school graduate? I flicked through the first few, not seeing any real order to the chaos: Associate of Arts in Fine Arts, a Bachelor's of English Writing and Rhetoric, two Masters degrees in Philosophy and Natural Sciences. Another Bachelor's in Mathematics.
And a PhD in Physics.
I put it back on the shelf, moving to the next album marked LETTERS.
Some of the pages had fading ink, but they were all typed and most of them fancy. Acceptance letters from prestigious schools across Japan, Europe, a research institute in India, another in Germany. Colleges in America, teaching internships in China, Tibet, Korea, Australia.
Letters of recommendation from a research institute in Osaka, another from a scientist. Letters asking Kisuke to do lectures in Sweden, Russia, and the United States on astrophysics. I don't even know what astrophysics is.
Several more offer him jobs as understudies for curators in museums, offer him internships at research institutes and laboratories.
Most of them are dated three to four years ago.
The most recent ones, however, congratulate him on achieving publication for things like Rhetoric Theory in works of Shakespeare and essays on works by people like Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Mark Twain, and Virginia Woolf. The science stuff was hard to pronounce and looked exhausting, but apparently Kisuke knew his shit when it came to stuff like quantum mechanics and particle engineering.
I put the album away and move on, totally caught up in this kid. He's amazing.
So it's really fucking stupid to get involved with him. Even as a friend.
I don't want anything to happen to him.
When the fuck did I get so possessive?
Dinner is amazing. I'm a huge meat eater, but the sauce is so good and I've always liked noodles. I don't mind the vegetables. The bread is hot and the wine is smooth.
And Kisuke just talks and talks, and I just listen, and it's really nice.
It's soothing, for some reason. Just hearing his voice.
"…and time affects human visual memory on a logarithmic curve; our recollections dim faster than the time passes since our last sighting of a familiar face," Kisuke finishes, nibbling on a piece of garlic bread, his face flushed.
"Kisuke, I dropped out of high school. I have no idea what you just said."
His face is even redder now as his fingers fidget on the edge of the table, drumming, "Well, um, it means that your face is even more attractive now then it was the last time I saw you, 'cuz visual memory-"
I'm smirking, "You hittin' on me, Urahara?"
"Kisuke," he blurts, picking at a noodle with his bare fingers, "I like it when you say Kisuke. Nobody calls me that."
"Nobody?"
He shakes his head, "It's always Professor, or Urahara, or Freak, or The Machine. I think you've figured out by now I'm not good with people. I try, but I'm just not. I'm not, but I really like you, and I think about you a lot, and I know it's illogical and improbable and I've gone over eight different scenarios in my head –"
"Kisuke, relax."
He was getting himself worked up in his head. His eyes look a little glassy, like he's trying not to cry.
So I say, "So what's the probability that you might come over here and kiss me right now?"
He laughs and wipes his hands over his face, "Less than seven percent."
"Kinda low, Kisuke."
"Well I'm a coward and you're not."
I get up from my chair, "Is that some kinda challenge?"
His eyes go wide, "N-no, I'm just…"
"Sounds like a challenge, like you want me to come over there and kiss you."
"It's statistically more sound…"
"You're too smart to play coy," I shoot back, leaning in towards him.
"Kenpachi…"
"You want me ta' kiss you?"
He swallows once, twice, "I'd like that. Very much."
"Uh-huh. You think you deserve it?"
"I like you," he blurts, blinking, "I've never been attracted to someone before."
"Never?"
"No. I-I understand attraction, at least the chemical process. Adrenaline, dopamine, serotonin-"
My lips brush his. I'm already hard. Like I said, just listening to him…maybe I have a fetish.
He sucks in air. He's surprised. I like that.
I suck his bottom lip into my mouth and he whines.
Mm. I like that even more.
I lick the seam of his lips and pull away slightly, watching his face.
"Pupils are dilated," I say huskily, "pulse is up. That's adrenaline, huh?"
I ain't a genius, but the blush probably means something.
His ears are red. He leans in to peck me on the mouth. He almost misses.