(no subject)
quincy/orihime
How could he not worry? She was so sweet, so gentle, so easily breakable.
"It's alright, Ishida, I know how to sew," she'd smile, and he'd frown, eyes never leaving her hands, watching the needle weave in and out of the cloth.
You'd think they didn't know each other - in class, only seeing a flurry of paper, movement as he turned to pass worsheets to the back, or collect assignments to hand up, white paper black ink and honey hair, partially obscuring her face, a little confusion - she wasn't very quick but she understood in time, tongue poking out, scribbling in a notebook. He did his work, listened in class, top marks; she was friendly, and well-liked, and they were miles apart.
A space, a gap, a chasm but pulled slowly together, black thread white cloth sewn together pressed against each other - seamless, his tongue in her mouth and her arms around his neck.
And later, sitting on the floor, bruised lips bruised hips, close now but he was across the room when someone came in and she working studiously on a pillowcase, the sewing machine whirring away, the background that was always there, even if you didn't notice it.