Brown Leafed Vertigo #5-1
Story Title: Brown Leafed Vertigo
Chapter Title: A Leper Messiah (Squinter Rules)
Author: foxflare
Disclaimer: I own no part of Cl2(aq) + H2O(l) ↔ 2H+(aq) + Cl-(aq) + ClO-(aq). Kubo Tite-sama whitens & brightens all.
Chapter Summary: Izuru navigates the halls of Seireitei Academy, its unique student body & even more eccentric instructors. Gin. . .helps.
V. A Leper Messiah (Squinter Rules) 1/2
The morning routine at Pure Souls Foster Home for Exceptional Children had been refined over time to almost military precision, with the rotating usage of sinks and shower stalls, and a lot of getting out of the way should one of the younger boys find his place in the lineup usurped by an elder who had overslept or lost time sniffing through dirty laundry for a clean enough undershirt. Breakfast, unlike dinner, was already portioned out in the dining room, eleven bowls of rice and miso soup served together like cereal and milk, each awaiting a differently-timed consumption as a student went about his or her getting ready. In the genkan, Aizen conducted inspection as shoes were tugged on, laced, Velcro'd or otherwise buckled, ascertaining that all required homework and textbooks were accounted for in each student's bookbag, and that uniforms were worn in the designated fashion.
"Renji, headband," he reminded, redoing one of Momo's pigtails that had been tugged loose by a teasing Rikichi.
"It's in my pocket," the redhead grumbled.
"Renji, headband."
Sigh. "Fine."
Izuru rubbed at a scuff on the toe of his sneaker and used the opportunity to cast a furtive glance at Gin through his still shower-damp forelock. The silver-haired boy didn't seem to function well in the mornings. He had yet to speak or smile even once, and his closed eyes were now focused on the task of cramming in a last couple of minutes' sleep, his long body stretched out on the hardwood floor of the hallway and shod feet hanging over the edge of the depressed genkan. In the dark blue blazer of his winter uniform, with his arms folded over his stomach, Izuru thought he resembled a corpse without a coffin.
Rangiku kicked at the sole of her best friend's shoe to nudge him awake when Aizen began herding the group out the door. Gin cracked open one eyelid, too quickly for Izuru to catch the color, then bolted upright with a speed that belied his sleepy demeanor. He yawned and stretched and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet -- only to topple immediately forward, so that his arms were wrapped around Rangiku's waist and his face happily pillowed against her breasts with a mumbled, "Five more minutes, Okan. . ."
Izuru tensed expectantly for the bodily harm that would no doubt imminently befall the lanky boy, but was surprised when Rangiku only sighed and twisted around in his grasp.
"Come on, Sleeping Beauty," she ordered, walking out the door. Not releasing his hold, Gin shuffled awkwardly but obediently behind her.
Izuru exchanged glances with Renji, who rolled his eyes and followed. Izuru made to do the same, but was stopped by Aizen's hand on his shoulder.
"Kira-kun, I almost forgot--" He fished what looked to be a white credit card out of his pocket and handed it to the blond. "That's your lunch card. Simply swipe it when you get to the register in the cafeteria. Gin will show you."
Izuru wondered what was so complicated about swiping a card that Gin would have to show him, but figured Aizen was just padding whatever first-day jitters he might have had with extra indirect reassurance. He thanked the man and managed something like a smile -- it felt a little like a grimace -- at his cheerfully canned decree that Izuru was to have good luck and make some new friends.
He left the house just in time to see Gin slide into the backseat of a stripped-to-primer old Toyota helmed by a head of spiky black hair, with Rangiku riding shotgun.
"Right. Gin'll show me. Once his ADD flips back to my channel. . ."
"Oi, Kira!" Renji waved at him from the side of an azure Audi SUV parked just beyond the gates, into which Iba was currently climbing. Izuru jogged over and hopped in behind Renji. He was greeted by, of all things, a cloud of red balloons, and the mingling scents of wisteria and leather interior.
"A third?" a smooth, august voice intoned from the driver's seat. "Need I remind you, Abarai-kun, that I am not a chauffeur service?"
"Oh what, like it's out of your way? Relax, Yumi. It's his first day. Make the kid feel welcome."
"Well, perhaps I would if someone were polite enough to introduce him before speaking about him as if he weren't actually present."
"Eh? --Right." Renji snagged the handful of balloons nearest the front of the vehicle by their strings and yanked them down, revealing the owner of the voice's equally smooth and august face, framed by an impeccably styled aubergine bob. "Ayasegawa Yumichika, Kira Izuru, latest Lost Soul."
"Pleasure." Yumichika held out his hand, and for a moment Izuru wasn't certain if he was meant to kiss it or shake it. He opted for the latter, and found the androgynous boy's grip surprisingly firm.
"Likewise. Um. . .I'm sorry if I'm imposing--"
"Oh, not at all," Yumi smiled and brushed the apology aside with a blasé wave of his hand. "You'll be a welcome change in the rearview mirror -- which I will actually be able to see out of, if you three would be kind enough to keep those balloons below seat-level, thank you."
"What are they for, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Ooh, did you hear that, Abarai-kun?" Yumichika said over his shoulder. "Those are called manners. We who do not wish to sound as though we were brought up in a Hueco Mundo whorehouse try to make frequent use of them."
"Well then keep trying, Yumi, and one day you might succeed," Renji retaliated with a lazy grin.
"What was that? Abarai-kun no longer requires rides to school? How very convenient for me--"
"All right, all right, you don't sound like a whore."
"Thank you."
". . .you just look like one."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I said, you're no fun before your morning coffee."
Renji, Izuru mused, seemed to skate by socially nigh entirely through his ability to rhyme.
Behind his sunglasses, Iba glowered out the window. "Wish I had been brought up in a whorehouse. . ."
"Mm. Anyway, to answer your question, Kira-kun" -- Violet eyes flashed merrily at Izuru in the rearview mirror -- "the balloons are for the birthday boy, who we are on our way to retrieve."
"Yumi here likes to show his affection by humiliating those he holds most dear," Renji explained.
"That's not true," objected Yumichika. "That's just what Renji tells himself, because he's never been on the receiving end of my affection."
"I thought you were usually the receiving end?"
The androgyne lifted one perfectly groomed eyebrow, but shrugged, allowing that one. "Touché."
The ride continued thus for the next few minutes, with Izuru getting the impression that the back-and-forth banter was and had always been a single argument that only occasionally broke for sleep, class, or food -- and the last only because Yumichika didn't seem the type to talk with his mouth open.
The blond settled back in his seat and watched out the window as the scenery gradually blurred from the high walls, gates, and the rich green lawns beyond them of upscale properties, to the modest but neat yards of a more middle-class neighborhood, and then finally into steady rows of substantially smaller, older, close-together houses that fell just this side of respectable-looking. Yumi eased the SUV to a stop in front of one squat, brown minka with a thatched roof, and honked the horn.
Minutes passed.
"Oh come on, Ikkaku. . ." he muttered, honking again.
Success, in the form of an irate-looking teenaged skinhead with red-rimmed eyes, bounded out the front door of the house, got his bookbag caught on one of the small stone dragons standing guard on either side of it, swore, struggled free, and continued on to leap into the passenger's seat of the truck. A piece of toast dangled from between his teeth, and his jacket hung from one arm, only halfway on.
"Goddamn it, Yumi, when're your folks gonna get the fuck out so I can come back home?" he demanded through a spray of crumbs.
"Don't worry, they're leaving for Paris on Monday." Yumichika frowned thoughtfully. "Or was it New York. . .?"
"Tch. The way they come and go, you'd think they live there."
"Indeed. You can vacuum that seat tomorrow, by the way. I say tomorrow, becaaause to-day is your birth-day!" he sing-songed happily. "Happy seventeenth, Ikka-kun!"
As one, Renji, Iba and Izuru released the balloons. They floated up to bump unspectacularly against the roof of the truck.
Ikkaku's voice resonated firmly from beyond the red rubber curtain.
"No."
"Yes."
"No! Damn it, Yumichika, I am not walking around carrying that pussy shit all day! Not this year!
". . .don't gimme that look. I mean it. It's my birthday, and it's my fucking decision. No.
"Yumi.
"Yumichika, stop.
"Don't you. . .Yumichi--gakghahkuhgaa!"
In the student parking lot of Seireitei Academy, Ikkaku glared. In fact, Izuru was convinced that, if he looked closely, the day was cool enough that one could actually watch the heated fury rise from the bald boy's gleaming pate in rippling waves.
Yumichika threw confetti. Some of it stuck to skin made dewy with rage.
". . .I hate you."
"Don't be silly," the androgyne sniffed. "You look perfectly festive. Doesn't he look festive, Shuu-chan?" he called over to a body -- male, going by the blue bottom half of its uniform -- bent double inspecting the engine of a very familiar-looking primer-gray Toyota. "Shuu-chan" jerked in response to Yumichika's voice, a loud clang echoing from inside the open hood of the car. He staggered back, clutching a head of spiky black hair.
"Aho son of a-- what, Ayasegawa?" the boy scowled.
Yumi smiled, unfazed. "I said, doesn't Ikkaku look appropriately festive today?"
Black eyes scanned the newly-minted seventeen-year-old, taking in the five balloons apiece tied to each wrist, lingering on the additional seven suspended above Ikkaku's head, tethered there by a collar of red ribbons around his neck.
". . .I am so sorry. Happy birthday, by the way."
"Che. Thanks."
Yumichika rolled his eyes and released an exasperated sigh. "Boys. . .oh! Shuu-chan! You haven't met Kira-kun!"
Izuru found himself suddenly thrust into being the center of attention -- quite literally, as one of Iba's hands came between his shoulder blades to shove him, stumbling, forward.
"Uh. Hi. Kira Izuru." He held out his hand.
"Hisagi Shuuhei." The black-eyed boy shook it.
Somewhere nearby, an insomniac among crickets chirped.
". . .well, I gotta split," said Shuuhei, lowering the hood of his car and dusting his hands off on his pants. "I gotta walk Sajin and get Tousen-sensei's lecture outline written up on the board before first period."
"Nothin' quite like the smell of marker fumes and dog shit first thing in the morning ta start the day off right," Ikkaku smirked. "Man, wish I'd got picked ta be a blind man's T.A."
"Ne, Ikkaku, don't be jealous of Shuu-chan's superior desirability, even amongst men who can't see."
Shuuhei flushed scarlet. "I'll, uh, I'll see you guys later. . ."
"Oi, wait a sec, Hisagi-san!"
"Huh, Renji?"
"Take Kira with you. He's got Tousen for homeroom, too."
"Does he?" Shuuhei regarded the blond boy for a moment, then nodded. "All right, then. Come on."
"Aa, thanks."
"We'll see you later, Kira-kun," Yumichika said pleasantly, giving them a little wave. "Bye, Shuu-chan!"
Shuuhei grunted a goodbye and stalked off, Izuru in tow.
Iba snickered. "Man, Yumi, when ya gonna stop tormenting that guy?"
"When he stops tormenting himself by denying his attraction to me."
"Denying his. . .he's straight, Yumi. S-t-r-a-i-g-h-t."
Yumichika only looked serene as he watched the object of his infatuation disappear inside. "Every horizon has a curve, my friend. Wouldn't you agree, Abarai-kun?"
"Mmffmehwhatever." Renji jammed his hands into his pockets and shuffled determinedly, head down, towards the school.
Yumi beeped on the alarm in his SUV and glanced at his two remaining passengers. "Shall we?"
"Wait." Iba punched one of Ikkaku's balloons. It rebounded comically off the bald boy's head. He smirked. "Okay, now I'm ready."
Ikkaku punched one of Iba's kidneys. Iba rebounded comically off the pavement. Ikkaku grinned. "Me too! Let's go."
According to Renji, owing to Seireitei's highly individualized approach to each student's curriculum, class schedules were designed Western-style, with the students changing classrooms instead of the teachers. This in itself had not sounded too daunting. Now, however, as he stared at the four identical white buildings fencing him in on all sides like enormous sentries, a splinter of apprehension began to work its way under Izuru's skin.
The place was a study in geometrical precision and symmetry. The white walls were lined with row upon row of white lockers, stacked two high and at least fifty long. Between them stretched an expansive courtyard, with broad swaths of bright green grass freckled by evenly-spaced fruit trees and veined with pale stone pathways of varying widths, the widest of which converged around a pumping heart in the form of a large, kappa-themed fountain located in the center of the square. A place for everything, and everything in its place -- or rather, one thing in every place: one hive mind, all slanting vectors converging to create a bleached honeycomb of classrooms. It was as if the school had been designed around an abstract notion of omnicognizance, an architecture of absolute knowledge that would allow no negative to pass through its bracketing buildings.
Izuru found the repetition alone overwhelming to the point of disorientation, and he held back the urge to grip the strap of Shuuhei's bookbag as the black-eyed boy plunged into the swarm of students chatting on cell phones, exchanging homework assignments, applying last minute touch-ups to makeup, and more or less cramming in any activity the means for which would soon be declared confiscatable.
He got precisely two steps into the throng when something grabbed hold of his bookbag strap instead. A cold hand clamped over Izuru's mouth, stifling his startled shout as he was yanked backwards out of the crowd, whirled around and rammed bodily up against the wall of the main entrance.
"Gotcha," hissed a low voice, lilting with amused triumph, next to his ear. In the next moment, Izuru was spun around again and released, coming face to grinning face with his errant tour guide. "Mornin', Kira-kouhai."
Caught somewhere between horror, anger, and relief, Izuru shoved the older boy away. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
Gin frowned and rubbed at the back of his neck, appearing to give the question serious thought. "Early-onset bipolar disorder? But don' worry -- I'm on an upswing at the moment." He smiled winningly and gave Izuru a thumbs-up.
The blond opened his mouth to question the veracity of the claim, but closed it quickly, doubting he would be able to trust however Gin might answer. He reminded himself of what he had inwardly pledged the previous evening -- that he would match Gin move for figurative move.
"So now that you've decided I exist again, are you actually going to show me where I'm supposed to be?" he asked, purposely flattening his tone.
There was a subtle shift in Gin's expression, not so much a dimming of his smile as a change in its character, a more specific focus to its amusement.
"That's what I'm here for," he said, nodding, then turned abruptly on his heel and started for one of the immense white buildings. "Come wit' me, Kouhai-chan."
Izuru grit his teeth at the condescension of the title. He searched a moment through the crowd for Shuuhei, but he was nowhere to be seen -- he must not have noticed Izuru's sudden disappearance and gone on ahead without him.
He returned his gaze to Gin. The older boy stood a few meters away, waiting patiently, silver head cocked expectantly.
Sighing, Izuru followed and fell into step behind him.
It was not to Tousen-sensei's classroom that they first went, but to the library, where Izuru's situation was explained to a severe-looking young woman who could not have suited her surroundings more perfectly. Violet-blue eyes narrowed skeptically at the two boys from behind a pair of rounded spectacles. A blouse buttoned full to the neck prevented any pleasing glimpses down its front -- not that Izuru would have glimpsed in the first place -- when she bent over a computer terminal to affirm that his story checked out with the school's records.
All this for the student handbook Izuru presently held (as if it contained secrets far beyond those of a locker assignment, behavioral guidelines and the lyrics to the Seireitei Academy school song), to say nothing of the militant brusqueness with which he was ushered behind the counter and in front of a plain white screen to have his ID photo taken.
"C'mon, Kira-kouhai, smile like ya mean it," goaded Gin from the other side of the counter. "Say cheese!"
"Baka."
"Excuse me, what was that?" the librarian -- how had Gin addressed her? Ise-sensei, right -- frostily enquired.
"I said, butter." And Izuru thought perhaps he liked Abarai-kun well enough after all.
Ise-sensei's lips pursed. She forewent warning him of the flash. Spots of acid-bright burnout swam in front of his eyes as they waited for the picture to be printed out and adhered securely to the first page of his handbook.
"Lemme see, lemme see," Gin badgered, snapping up the booklet before Izuru could tuck it safely out of sight. He peered at it closely, turned it upside-down, then right-side-up again. "Aww. Ya look so sleepy."
Izuru snatched it back from him, glanced once at the photo and blushed, embarrassed, before relegating the handbook to the deepest recesses of his bookbag. "What is it with you taking my things without asking?" he groused.
Gin only looked at him, narrow-eyed and impassive. A bell rang, a shrill and obnoxious reprieve.
"Ah! We're late!" Gin said cheerfully, taking Izuru by the wrist and hustling him towards the library doors. "Ookini, Ise-sensei!"
"Ichimaru. . ." Ise-sensei muttered under her breath as they left, shaking her head before resuming her seat in front of the computer monitor, where Izuru's picture was still displayed in the main window. She wondered what Aizen had been thinking, appointing such a flagrant slacker to be the poor boy's host.
Curious, she opened the slight blond's schedule file. Well, she figured, if nothing else it would prepare him for his fourth period class. Still, it seemed a pity. . .
She closed the schedule window, and the new boy's face returned to the screen. The Pure Souls students never turned out quite right in their ID photos. There was always too much of something reflected in their gazes -- even Ichimaru's, smiling so hard his tear ducts were likely welded shut, as if because the premature lines in his young face were from grins instead of grimaces it made them any less there.
Kira Izuru looked simply. . .cracked, from the dryness of his downturned mouth to the creases of fatigue surrounding his eyes, to his eyes themselves, the whites shot through with more sleepless red than should have been there at his age.
A message window popped up, accompanied by the sound bite she'd assigned to the username from which it was sent. #It's yet another in a long series of diversions in an attempt to avoid responsibility.#
She groaned.
KyourakuShunsui: & how is my lovely nanao-chan this fine autumn morn?? :D xoxo
He did it deliberately to irritate her, she was certain -- defied all known laws of proper grammar and punctuation despite the subject he taught, seemingly allergic to any usage of the Shift key not pertaining to those ridiculous emoticons he abused with buoyant abandon.
She adjusted her glasses so that they sat higher on the bridge of her nose and, against her better judgment, typed a reply.
IseNanao: Kyouraku-sensei, need I remind you again that the instant messenger system is to be used only in relation to official Seireitei Academy business?
KyourakuShunsui: but nanao-chan, i am officially looking for relations in seireitei academy
IseNanao status changed to Away
KyourakuShunsui: ;o; nanaaao-chaaan
IseNanao is away from keyboard
KyourakuShunsui: gomenasai, nanao-chan u.u
IseNanao is away from keyboard
IseNanao has returned from Away
KyourakuShunsui: :D:D:D!! my nanao-chan has returned to me!!1
IseNanao: Only to let you know that Aizen-san's newest is here today. And I am not your Nanao-chan.
KyourakuShunsui: he's starting already? that was fast
KyourakuShunsui: have u met him?
IseNanao: He left the library a few minutes ago, with Ichimaru Gin.
KyourakuShunsui: ichimaru-kun, eh? yare yare, what will sousuke think of next?
IseNanao: I had wondered that same thing.
KyourakuShunsui: ahhh, see how my nanao-chan & i are mentally linked? :3 i keep telling u, we are fated
IseNanao: I see how one of us is fatally mental.
KyourakuShunsui: u wound me, nanao-chan :'(
IseNanao: Don't you have a class to conduct? As in, right now?
KyourakuShunsui: the ability to think independent of leadership is a valuable lesson, nanao-chan
IseNanao: As the tuition here can undoubtedly attest. Goodbye, Kyouraku-sensei.
KyourakuShunsui: wait!!
KyourakuShunsui: have lunch w/me today??
KyourakuShunsui: nanao-chan?
KyourakuShunsui: r u there?
IseNanao has signed off
There was a knock at the door, rapid and unrelenting. Hisagi Shuuhei paused in his copying to the whiteboard at the front of the classroom from the few pages of printouts (translated electronically from Braille to romaji, then in his head from romaji to kanji) that he held in his hand to glance at the narrow window above the knob.
Another knob, this one grinning, was visible above it, its nose pressed flat against the glass. The locked door handle rattled pointedly.
Behind his desk, Shuuhei's dark-skinned teacher sighed. "Let him in."
Shuuhei did.
Ichimaru Gin swaggered inside, trailed by a pale, tense-looking blond.
"Ohayou, Tousen-sensei!" he greeted. "Sorry we're late -- had ta get my lil' kouhai here all set up with his handbook in the library."
"Kouhai?" the civics instructor monotonously enquired.
"Kira Izuru, sir," Shuuhei supplied.
With the absence of ocular communication, recognition seemed to ripple over the blind man's body like a shroud. "Ah, yes, Aizen-sama's newest charge. As such, I will overlook your tardiness today. Welcome to Seireitei Academy; I believe there is an empty desk at the back of the fifth row."
Tousen spoke without moving, nor even inclining his head in the direction he must have assumed Izuru to be. It was a uniquely eerie experience, and one that left Izuru feeling awkward, unknowing as to whether it would be expected, unnecessary, or just plain rude to bow as etiquette would normally dictate. He compromised with a perfunctory nod and a formal "Arigatou gozaimasu," and quickly found his seat.
There was a low growl of response from under Tousen's desk, where, incidentally, Gin had crouched down on his hands and knees.
"Ichimaru."
"Sensei?"
"Tell me, do I make a habit of petting your eyes without asking?"
"No," Gin admitted. "Not without askin'."
A few titters of laughter rose up from the class. Tousen's face remained deadpan.
"Then kindly extend to me that same courtesy and take your seat."
"Yosh! Where d'ya want me ta take it?"
Shuuhei rolled his eyes. "Just sit down, Ichimaru."
"Hai, hai, Hisagi-kun. . ." Gin shuffled with exaggerated obedience to an unoccupied desk in the middle of the third row. He twisted around in his seat to catch Izuru's eye and waved. The younger boy sank further down in his chair and averted his gaze. Shuuhei shot him a sympathetic smirk.
A loud crackling broke through over the loudspeaker mounted next to the clock on the front wall of the room, followed by an ear-splitting shriek of feedback that caused even Tousen to wince, and then distant sounds of an argument held not far enough away from a microphone.
#It's my turn to introduce the announcements!#
#It is not! You did them yesterday!#
#But I was absent the day before that, so you got to do them twice in a row!#
#So? It's not my fault you were sick!#
#Just give me the mic--#
#No! It's my turn--#
Sounds of a scuffle ensued, until a muffled thump and a high-pitched yelp of pain declared a victor. A throat was noisily cleared.
#Ohayou gozaimasu, Seireitei Academy! This is Kotetsu Kiyone and Kotsubaki Sentarou# -- There was a whimper in the background -- #bringing you the morning announcements for today, Friday, the ninth of November.
#Yamada Hanatarou reports that the Table Tennis Club's first match of the year against Hueco Mundo High School will be held next Tuesday, the thirteenth, at our home gymnasium, so come on out and show them your support! And by support, Yamada-kun has asked politely for it to be clarified that fans are not required to throw athletic undergarments, washed or otherwise, at the tables mid-match; the team still has plenty left over from last year.
#Also, kendo practice has been canceled for this afternoon, owing to the unauthorized replacement of all the dos with woks. If you have any information about the location of the missing equipment or the perpetrators of this prank, please see team captain Madarame Ikkaku and make his birthday a happier one than it's been so far.
#In other news, Tsukabishi-sensei is offering a reward for the safe return of ten missing wo. . .oh. Oi, does this mean I get the reward?#
Izuru ears gradually closed of their own accord to his housemate's cheery voice as his attention slipped elsewhere. He peered around the classroom, mildly surprised that, despite their teacher's inability to visibly witness any misconduct, the students were remarkably well-behaved. A handful read books, although they took care to turn the pages as silently as possible. Some dozed, with heavy heads resting on palms or pillowed on folded arms, but none slept so carelessly as to actually snore.
Tousen himself sat straight-backed, his fingers laced together atop his desk, with the serene dignity of a monk having long achieved zen. Unlike most sightless people Izuru had seen, the black man did not disguise his condition with shaded glasses, but rather stared openly into his own darkness through disconcerting, milky eyes. It was that, Izuru figured, which probably kept any insubordination from his pupils -- with perhaps one exception -- at bay. That, and the man likely possessed hearing acute enough to rival the auditory range of the canid companion presently hidden from view beneath his desk. No wonder loud, crude Renji had difficulty in his class, and, in a somewhat similar manner, was so often called out by farsighted Aizen.
Among the blind, the squinter rules, Kira Kagekiyo's voice invaded his son's thoughts without warning, and Izuru went rigid in his seat by trained response.
He couldn't relax for some minutes, until it became apparent to his muscle memory that there would be no concomitant guiding hand to his shoulder that still twinged with both its bruise and years of gentle pressure instilling -- formality, steering, monition and, yes, warmth. Pride.
Love.
Never again.
Izuru groped for a distraction. He struggled to recall the source of the quote. It had been one of his father's favorites, often spouted while the man perused stacks of stock reports in his study after dinner, keen green eyes discriminating nuggets of breadth from an assembly of advance-decline lines, sieving sapphire blue chips from a sediment of sentiments. He knew how to read between the lines of a graph as well as or better than Izuru himself could locate symbolism and subtext in a favorite story.
Damn it, who was its author?
A small, crumpled piece of paper landed on his desk with all the effect on his nerves of a hand grenade, and he nearly leapt out of his seat in surprise. It took a second look for him to notice that the paper was not actually crumpled at all, but intricately folded into a small origami cat with disproportionately large ears and tail. Open me, its torso read. Izuru followed the instruction. Inside was scrawled a question in sharp but clean-looking strokes, You okay?
He searched the room, and found only one face focused on his own. It squinted at him in a concerned sort of way, and he realized that the note hadn't been shaped into a cat at all.
Shuuhei approached him when the bell rang to signal the changeover from homeroom to first period classes.
"Hey," said the black-eyed boy. "Sorry I lost you this morning."
"That's all right," Izuru assured him, "it wasn't your fault. You didn't actually lose me so much as I was kidnapped."
"Aa. I didn't even notice you were gone until I'd been talking to myself for at least a full minute, and then the weird looks I kept getting from other people kinda tipped me off. Thought you might've gotten trampled in the quad."
Izuru smiled wryly. "No such luck."
"Saa, Hisagi-kun," Gin tsked, sidling up behind his charge, "tryin' ta steal my kouhai again? Getcher own; I ain't sharin'." He wrapped his arms around said kouhai, pinning the blond's arms to his sides, and gave the boy a possessive squeeze. Izuru felt the angry burn of a blush creep quickly up his throat and reach all the way to his hairline.
"Please let go of me," he ordered, straining to keep the panicky edge out of his voice. "Now."
"Hai, hai," Gin complied, his voice containing not so much as a trace of shame. "Whatever you say, Kouhai-chan."
"And stop calling me that. It's. . .degrading."
Gin took a step back, looking genuinely puzzled. He seemed to literally diminish as the joy faded from his expression, growing smaller as his shoulders slumped, thinner as his cheeks narrowed strikingly in the absence of his ever-present smile.
"Gomen na," he apologized. "Didn't mean no harm. Your next class is on the ground floor. Just hang a right at the bottom of the stairs an' it'll be the third door on your left, second from the main doors." And with a small, bobbing bow that put Izuru in the mind of an excusatory bird, he exited the the classroom, pausing only once to forlornly request that Hisagi-kun be a better host than he was, and to take good care of Kira-han.
"Damn fool," Shuuhei muttered with a shake of his head, then turned to his unanticipated charge. "Let me see your schedule."
Kira-han, feeling suddenly burdensome, dug the paper out of his bookbag and handed it over. "Um, it's okay if you don't want to do this. I'm sure I'll be able to find everything on my own."
"Don't worry about it. He's the dumbass for shirking his duties like that. Come on, let's walk while we do this or we'll be late. Sensei, will you need me here for anything at lunch?"
Tousen's fingers stilled over the embossed pages of a book he had open on his desk, and he replied without raising his head, "No thank you, Hisagi. Until fifth period."
"Hai."
"Is he always so easily triggered?" Izuru asked as they trotted down the stairs. "Ichimaru-san, I mean."
"Eh, I guess. Sometimes. Not really, though." Shuuhei shrugged ambiguously. "He probably wasn't serious. He usually isn't. He just likes to press buttons, yank chains, pull legs. . .in fact if I were you I wouldn't be surprised if he showed up to meet you at the end of class and acted like nothing happened."
"Do you know him well, then?"
"Well enough. As well as I care to know him."
"Oh. I. . .I thought you two might be friends. You gave him a ride this morning, didn't you?"
Shuuhei arched a pierced eyebrow. "Observant, aren't you? Technically, I gave Rangiku a ride, and she bartered for his passage."
"Bartered?"
"Yeah. She said please and I caved like the spineless sucker I am -- or that she makes me, anyway. But, you know. You've seen her."
Izuru's mind flashed back to his and Renji's argument the previous evening.
"I have," he responded vaguely, not wanting to repeat it.
"Here we are." They stopped in front of the door Gin had described, second to the right of the main exit. "English, Sasakibe-sensei, room 102."
"Thanks."
Shuuhei nodded. "He'll like you -- Sasakibe-sensei. He's obsessed with all things Western and, well." He smirked and gestured at Izuru's pale yellow hair. "I've got Physics next. The math and science classes are all in the building across the quad, so I'll meet you at the fountain if Ichimaru's still pouting."
"Right. See you." Izuru ducked inside the classroom as Shuuhei jogged off toward the main doors.
The black-eyed boy hadn't been lying -- the room was practically a shrine to Europe, a small mock-museum of reproductions. The walls were papered with framed prints of famous paintings, most of which Izuru recalled having glimpsed in a book of his mother's on the Louvre. Heavy, tapestry-like curtains framed the windows, and classical music played softly from a small sound system occupying the southwest corner of the room -- Mahler's Symphony No. 3 in D, Izuru's memory provided, that knowledge also obtained from Kira Shizuka. He could remember, as a child, falling asleep more than once to the languid comodo of the piece's third movement, and even now felt the notes drift like dandelion puffs through the air to hook weightily onto his eyelashes.
Thus dazed, he nearly fell over at the solid punch unexpectedly received by the upper part of his left arm.
"Wakey wakey, eggs an' steaky," quipped a sardonically grinning Iba as he passed, followed by a disgruntled-looking Madarame Ikkaku, to whose birthday decorations had been added a paper crown and a number of small stuffed animals and packages of snacks and candy, all safety-pinned to his uniform.
"Yo," he grumbled, and proffered a shoulder, "Pretz?"
"Er. No thanks."
"Eh. Suit yourself."
"I prefer the peach-jasmine gummies myself," Yumichika smiled from behind his bald friend. "They're very restorative. Come sit with us, Kira-kun."
They clustered together at the back of the room, near as they could get to the windows and the possibility of distraction, although Izuru hardly required the assistance. He barely even registered when Sasakibe-sensei -- or Mr. Sasakibe, as he specified he was to be addressed -- took roll, complimented Izuru on his hair, and delegated the responsibility of finding him a textbook to Mr. Iba, who would do well to remove his sunglasses while in class if he did not want to end up writing a report on a British monarch of Mr. Sasakibe's choosing.
Izuru couldn't stop thinking about Gin.
Shuuhei was right, of course -- Gin shouldn't have abandoned his responsibilities as he had, and especially not so early in the day; but somehow, Izuru was left with the feeling that he had been the one doing the abandoning. The silver-haired boy had looked and sounded so awfully hurt, which was ridiculous, as Izuru hadn't been intentionally unkind in his rebukes, or even particularly rude. He hadn't even thrown a punch -- although at the time he had sorely wanted to.
Izuru knew, rationally, that he had been well within his rights to be upset by the older boy's actions. They were invasive and uncalled for, and had been since the night Izuru first met Ichimaru Gin.
So then why had their most recent exchange tied a knot of something akin to remorse in his stomach?
In all likelihood, Gin's overreaction had been just another joke, a masking of sarcasm with sadness in order to manipulate Izuru between precisely the emotional rock-and-a-hard-place where he was currently wedged. He should have been feeling pissed off, not like a piece of shit. If Gin was only toying with him, then Izuru was playing right into the fox-faced boy's hands. Unacceptable.
But then, there was also the matter of the fox itself -- the little origami inquiry that, no matter which angle Izuru studied it from, seemed to lack any agenda beyond its simple, straightforward contents.
It was safe -- or at least accurate -- to say that at this point in time, Gin knew him better than anyone at Pure Souls or Seireitei Academy. It had been those same grasping hands, after all, that had pulled Izuru away from the rooftop's edge; those same hands that had stopped his teeth from grinding, and stolen his wallet, and alternately pushed him against walls and tugged him in the directions he was supposed to go, and even the lethal crush of a snake around its prey could be called a hug. . .
Open me.
You okay?
Izuru wondered. . .
Open me.
He wanted to.
He would. The preoccupation was cemented now, with doubt like a dog pawing at the back of his brain. When first period was over, if Gin wasn't waiting for him as Shuuhei predicted, he decided he would give the silver-haired boy the benefit and take it as a sign that the ball was in his possession, and not poised to be thrown at his head. Then, at least, even if he turned out to be wrong, he would be prepared to dodge it.
Chapter V-II
Chapter Title: A Leper Messiah (Squinter Rules)
Author: foxflare
Disclaimer: I own no part of Cl2(aq) + H2O(l) ↔ 2H+(aq) + Cl-(aq) + ClO-(aq). Kubo Tite-sama whitens & brightens all.
Chapter Summary: Izuru navigates the halls of Seireitei Academy, its unique student body & even more eccentric instructors. Gin. . .helps.
V. A Leper Messiah (Squinter Rules) 1/2
The morning routine at Pure Souls Foster Home for Exceptional Children had been refined over time to almost military precision, with the rotating usage of sinks and shower stalls, and a lot of getting out of the way should one of the younger boys find his place in the lineup usurped by an elder who had overslept or lost time sniffing through dirty laundry for a clean enough undershirt. Breakfast, unlike dinner, was already portioned out in the dining room, eleven bowls of rice and miso soup served together like cereal and milk, each awaiting a differently-timed consumption as a student went about his or her getting ready. In the genkan, Aizen conducted inspection as shoes were tugged on, laced, Velcro'd or otherwise buckled, ascertaining that all required homework and textbooks were accounted for in each student's bookbag, and that uniforms were worn in the designated fashion.
"Renji, headband," he reminded, redoing one of Momo's pigtails that had been tugged loose by a teasing Rikichi.
"It's in my pocket," the redhead grumbled.
"Renji, headband."
Sigh. "Fine."
Izuru rubbed at a scuff on the toe of his sneaker and used the opportunity to cast a furtive glance at Gin through his still shower-damp forelock. The silver-haired boy didn't seem to function well in the mornings. He had yet to speak or smile even once, and his closed eyes were now focused on the task of cramming in a last couple of minutes' sleep, his long body stretched out on the hardwood floor of the hallway and shod feet hanging over the edge of the depressed genkan. In the dark blue blazer of his winter uniform, with his arms folded over his stomach, Izuru thought he resembled a corpse without a coffin.
Rangiku kicked at the sole of her best friend's shoe to nudge him awake when Aizen began herding the group out the door. Gin cracked open one eyelid, too quickly for Izuru to catch the color, then bolted upright with a speed that belied his sleepy demeanor. He yawned and stretched and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet -- only to topple immediately forward, so that his arms were wrapped around Rangiku's waist and his face happily pillowed against her breasts with a mumbled, "Five more minutes, Okan. . ."
Izuru tensed expectantly for the bodily harm that would no doubt imminently befall the lanky boy, but was surprised when Rangiku only sighed and twisted around in his grasp.
"Come on, Sleeping Beauty," she ordered, walking out the door. Not releasing his hold, Gin shuffled awkwardly but obediently behind her.
Izuru exchanged glances with Renji, who rolled his eyes and followed. Izuru made to do the same, but was stopped by Aizen's hand on his shoulder.
"Kira-kun, I almost forgot--" He fished what looked to be a white credit card out of his pocket and handed it to the blond. "That's your lunch card. Simply swipe it when you get to the register in the cafeteria. Gin will show you."
Izuru wondered what was so complicated about swiping a card that Gin would have to show him, but figured Aizen was just padding whatever first-day jitters he might have had with extra indirect reassurance. He thanked the man and managed something like a smile -- it felt a little like a grimace -- at his cheerfully canned decree that Izuru was to have good luck and make some new friends.
He left the house just in time to see Gin slide into the backseat of a stripped-to-primer old Toyota helmed by a head of spiky black hair, with Rangiku riding shotgun.
"Right. Gin'll show me. Once his ADD flips back to my channel. . ."
"Oi, Kira!" Renji waved at him from the side of an azure Audi SUV parked just beyond the gates, into which Iba was currently climbing. Izuru jogged over and hopped in behind Renji. He was greeted by, of all things, a cloud of red balloons, and the mingling scents of wisteria and leather interior.
"A third?" a smooth, august voice intoned from the driver's seat. "Need I remind you, Abarai-kun, that I am not a chauffeur service?"
"Oh what, like it's out of your way? Relax, Yumi. It's his first day. Make the kid feel welcome."
"Well, perhaps I would if someone were polite enough to introduce him before speaking about him as if he weren't actually present."
"Eh? --Right." Renji snagged the handful of balloons nearest the front of the vehicle by their strings and yanked them down, revealing the owner of the voice's equally smooth and august face, framed by an impeccably styled aubergine bob. "Ayasegawa Yumichika, Kira Izuru, latest Lost Soul."
"Pleasure." Yumichika held out his hand, and for a moment Izuru wasn't certain if he was meant to kiss it or shake it. He opted for the latter, and found the androgynous boy's grip surprisingly firm.
"Likewise. Um. . .I'm sorry if I'm imposing--"
"Oh, not at all," Yumi smiled and brushed the apology aside with a blasé wave of his hand. "You'll be a welcome change in the rearview mirror -- which I will actually be able to see out of, if you three would be kind enough to keep those balloons below seat-level, thank you."
"What are they for, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Ooh, did you hear that, Abarai-kun?" Yumichika said over his shoulder. "Those are called manners. We who do not wish to sound as though we were brought up in a Hueco Mundo whorehouse try to make frequent use of them."
"Well then keep trying, Yumi, and one day you might succeed," Renji retaliated with a lazy grin.
"What was that? Abarai-kun no longer requires rides to school? How very convenient for me--"
"All right, all right, you don't sound like a whore."
"Thank you."
". . .you just look like one."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I said, you're no fun before your morning coffee."
Renji, Izuru mused, seemed to skate by socially nigh entirely through his ability to rhyme.
Behind his sunglasses, Iba glowered out the window. "Wish I had been brought up in a whorehouse. . ."
"Mm. Anyway, to answer your question, Kira-kun" -- Violet eyes flashed merrily at Izuru in the rearview mirror -- "the balloons are for the birthday boy, who we are on our way to retrieve."
"Yumi here likes to show his affection by humiliating those he holds most dear," Renji explained.
"That's not true," objected Yumichika. "That's just what Renji tells himself, because he's never been on the receiving end of my affection."
"I thought you were usually the receiving end?"
The androgyne lifted one perfectly groomed eyebrow, but shrugged, allowing that one. "Touché."
The ride continued thus for the next few minutes, with Izuru getting the impression that the back-and-forth banter was and had always been a single argument that only occasionally broke for sleep, class, or food -- and the last only because Yumichika didn't seem the type to talk with his mouth open.
The blond settled back in his seat and watched out the window as the scenery gradually blurred from the high walls, gates, and the rich green lawns beyond them of upscale properties, to the modest but neat yards of a more middle-class neighborhood, and then finally into steady rows of substantially smaller, older, close-together houses that fell just this side of respectable-looking. Yumi eased the SUV to a stop in front of one squat, brown minka with a thatched roof, and honked the horn.
Minutes passed.
"Oh come on, Ikkaku. . ." he muttered, honking again.
Success, in the form of an irate-looking teenaged skinhead with red-rimmed eyes, bounded out the front door of the house, got his bookbag caught on one of the small stone dragons standing guard on either side of it, swore, struggled free, and continued on to leap into the passenger's seat of the truck. A piece of toast dangled from between his teeth, and his jacket hung from one arm, only halfway on.
"Goddamn it, Yumi, when're your folks gonna get the fuck out so I can come back home?" he demanded through a spray of crumbs.
"Don't worry, they're leaving for Paris on Monday." Yumichika frowned thoughtfully. "Or was it New York. . .?"
"Tch. The way they come and go, you'd think they live there."
"Indeed. You can vacuum that seat tomorrow, by the way. I say tomorrow, becaaause to-day is your birth-day!" he sing-songed happily. "Happy seventeenth, Ikka-kun!"
As one, Renji, Iba and Izuru released the balloons. They floated up to bump unspectacularly against the roof of the truck.
Ikkaku's voice resonated firmly from beyond the red rubber curtain.
"No."
"Yes."
"No! Damn it, Yumichika, I am not walking around carrying that pussy shit all day! Not this year!
". . .don't gimme that look. I mean it. It's my birthday, and it's my fucking decision. No.
"Yumi.
"Yumichika, stop.
"Don't you. . .Yumichi--gakghahkuhgaa!"
In the student parking lot of Seireitei Academy, Ikkaku glared. In fact, Izuru was convinced that, if he looked closely, the day was cool enough that one could actually watch the heated fury rise from the bald boy's gleaming pate in rippling waves.
Yumichika threw confetti. Some of it stuck to skin made dewy with rage.
". . .I hate you."
"Don't be silly," the androgyne sniffed. "You look perfectly festive. Doesn't he look festive, Shuu-chan?" he called over to a body -- male, going by the blue bottom half of its uniform -- bent double inspecting the engine of a very familiar-looking primer-gray Toyota. "Shuu-chan" jerked in response to Yumichika's voice, a loud clang echoing from inside the open hood of the car. He staggered back, clutching a head of spiky black hair.
"Aho son of a-- what, Ayasegawa?" the boy scowled.
Yumi smiled, unfazed. "I said, doesn't Ikkaku look appropriately festive today?"
Black eyes scanned the newly-minted seventeen-year-old, taking in the five balloons apiece tied to each wrist, lingering on the additional seven suspended above Ikkaku's head, tethered there by a collar of red ribbons around his neck.
". . .I am so sorry. Happy birthday, by the way."
"Che. Thanks."
Yumichika rolled his eyes and released an exasperated sigh. "Boys. . .oh! Shuu-chan! You haven't met Kira-kun!"
Izuru found himself suddenly thrust into being the center of attention -- quite literally, as one of Iba's hands came between his shoulder blades to shove him, stumbling, forward.
"Uh. Hi. Kira Izuru." He held out his hand.
"Hisagi Shuuhei." The black-eyed boy shook it.
Somewhere nearby, an insomniac among crickets chirped.
". . .well, I gotta split," said Shuuhei, lowering the hood of his car and dusting his hands off on his pants. "I gotta walk Sajin and get Tousen-sensei's lecture outline written up on the board before first period."
"Nothin' quite like the smell of marker fumes and dog shit first thing in the morning ta start the day off right," Ikkaku smirked. "Man, wish I'd got picked ta be a blind man's T.A."
"Ne, Ikkaku, don't be jealous of Shuu-chan's superior desirability, even amongst men who can't see."
Shuuhei flushed scarlet. "I'll, uh, I'll see you guys later. . ."
"Oi, wait a sec, Hisagi-san!"
"Huh, Renji?"
"Take Kira with you. He's got Tousen for homeroom, too."
"Does he?" Shuuhei regarded the blond boy for a moment, then nodded. "All right, then. Come on."
"Aa, thanks."
"We'll see you later, Kira-kun," Yumichika said pleasantly, giving them a little wave. "Bye, Shuu-chan!"
Shuuhei grunted a goodbye and stalked off, Izuru in tow.
Iba snickered. "Man, Yumi, when ya gonna stop tormenting that guy?"
"When he stops tormenting himself by denying his attraction to me."
"Denying his. . .he's straight, Yumi. S-t-r-a-i-g-h-t."
Yumichika only looked serene as he watched the object of his infatuation disappear inside. "Every horizon has a curve, my friend. Wouldn't you agree, Abarai-kun?"
"Mmffmehwhatever." Renji jammed his hands into his pockets and shuffled determinedly, head down, towards the school.
Yumi beeped on the alarm in his SUV and glanced at his two remaining passengers. "Shall we?"
"Wait." Iba punched one of Ikkaku's balloons. It rebounded comically off the bald boy's head. He smirked. "Okay, now I'm ready."
Ikkaku punched one of Iba's kidneys. Iba rebounded comically off the pavement. Ikkaku grinned. "Me too! Let's go."
According to Renji, owing to Seireitei's highly individualized approach to each student's curriculum, class schedules were designed Western-style, with the students changing classrooms instead of the teachers. This in itself had not sounded too daunting. Now, however, as he stared at the four identical white buildings fencing him in on all sides like enormous sentries, a splinter of apprehension began to work its way under Izuru's skin.
The place was a study in geometrical precision and symmetry. The white walls were lined with row upon row of white lockers, stacked two high and at least fifty long. Between them stretched an expansive courtyard, with broad swaths of bright green grass freckled by evenly-spaced fruit trees and veined with pale stone pathways of varying widths, the widest of which converged around a pumping heart in the form of a large, kappa-themed fountain located in the center of the square. A place for everything, and everything in its place -- or rather, one thing in every place: one hive mind, all slanting vectors converging to create a bleached honeycomb of classrooms. It was as if the school had been designed around an abstract notion of omnicognizance, an architecture of absolute knowledge that would allow no negative to pass through its bracketing buildings.
Izuru found the repetition alone overwhelming to the point of disorientation, and he held back the urge to grip the strap of Shuuhei's bookbag as the black-eyed boy plunged into the swarm of students chatting on cell phones, exchanging homework assignments, applying last minute touch-ups to makeup, and more or less cramming in any activity the means for which would soon be declared confiscatable.
He got precisely two steps into the throng when something grabbed hold of his bookbag strap instead. A cold hand clamped over Izuru's mouth, stifling his startled shout as he was yanked backwards out of the crowd, whirled around and rammed bodily up against the wall of the main entrance.
"Gotcha," hissed a low voice, lilting with amused triumph, next to his ear. In the next moment, Izuru was spun around again and released, coming face to grinning face with his errant tour guide. "Mornin', Kira-kouhai."
Caught somewhere between horror, anger, and relief, Izuru shoved the older boy away. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
Gin frowned and rubbed at the back of his neck, appearing to give the question serious thought. "Early-onset bipolar disorder? But don' worry -- I'm on an upswing at the moment." He smiled winningly and gave Izuru a thumbs-up.
The blond opened his mouth to question the veracity of the claim, but closed it quickly, doubting he would be able to trust however Gin might answer. He reminded himself of what he had inwardly pledged the previous evening -- that he would match Gin move for figurative move.
"So now that you've decided I exist again, are you actually going to show me where I'm supposed to be?" he asked, purposely flattening his tone.
There was a subtle shift in Gin's expression, not so much a dimming of his smile as a change in its character, a more specific focus to its amusement.
"That's what I'm here for," he said, nodding, then turned abruptly on his heel and started for one of the immense white buildings. "Come wit' me, Kouhai-chan."
Izuru grit his teeth at the condescension of the title. He searched a moment through the crowd for Shuuhei, but he was nowhere to be seen -- he must not have noticed Izuru's sudden disappearance and gone on ahead without him.
He returned his gaze to Gin. The older boy stood a few meters away, waiting patiently, silver head cocked expectantly.
Sighing, Izuru followed and fell into step behind him.
It was not to Tousen-sensei's classroom that they first went, but to the library, where Izuru's situation was explained to a severe-looking young woman who could not have suited her surroundings more perfectly. Violet-blue eyes narrowed skeptically at the two boys from behind a pair of rounded spectacles. A blouse buttoned full to the neck prevented any pleasing glimpses down its front -- not that Izuru would have glimpsed in the first place -- when she bent over a computer terminal to affirm that his story checked out with the school's records.
All this for the student handbook Izuru presently held (as if it contained secrets far beyond those of a locker assignment, behavioral guidelines and the lyrics to the Seireitei Academy school song), to say nothing of the militant brusqueness with which he was ushered behind the counter and in front of a plain white screen to have his ID photo taken.
"C'mon, Kira-kouhai, smile like ya mean it," goaded Gin from the other side of the counter. "Say cheese!"
"Baka."
"Excuse me, what was that?" the librarian -- how had Gin addressed her? Ise-sensei, right -- frostily enquired.
"I said, butter." And Izuru thought perhaps he liked Abarai-kun well enough after all.
Ise-sensei's lips pursed. She forewent warning him of the flash. Spots of acid-bright burnout swam in front of his eyes as they waited for the picture to be printed out and adhered securely to the first page of his handbook.
"Lemme see, lemme see," Gin badgered, snapping up the booklet before Izuru could tuck it safely out of sight. He peered at it closely, turned it upside-down, then right-side-up again. "Aww. Ya look so sleepy."
Izuru snatched it back from him, glanced once at the photo and blushed, embarrassed, before relegating the handbook to the deepest recesses of his bookbag. "What is it with you taking my things without asking?" he groused.
Gin only looked at him, narrow-eyed and impassive. A bell rang, a shrill and obnoxious reprieve.
"Ah! We're late!" Gin said cheerfully, taking Izuru by the wrist and hustling him towards the library doors. "Ookini, Ise-sensei!"
"Ichimaru. . ." Ise-sensei muttered under her breath as they left, shaking her head before resuming her seat in front of the computer monitor, where Izuru's picture was still displayed in the main window. She wondered what Aizen had been thinking, appointing such a flagrant slacker to be the poor boy's host.
Curious, she opened the slight blond's schedule file. Well, she figured, if nothing else it would prepare him for his fourth period class. Still, it seemed a pity. . .
She closed the schedule window, and the new boy's face returned to the screen. The Pure Souls students never turned out quite right in their ID photos. There was always too much of something reflected in their gazes -- even Ichimaru's, smiling so hard his tear ducts were likely welded shut, as if because the premature lines in his young face were from grins instead of grimaces it made them any less there.
Kira Izuru looked simply. . .cracked, from the dryness of his downturned mouth to the creases of fatigue surrounding his eyes, to his eyes themselves, the whites shot through with more sleepless red than should have been there at his age.
A message window popped up, accompanied by the sound bite she'd assigned to the username from which it was sent. #It's yet another in a long series of diversions in an attempt to avoid responsibility.#
She groaned.
KyourakuShunsui: & how is my lovely nanao-chan this fine autumn morn?? :D xoxo
He did it deliberately to irritate her, she was certain -- defied all known laws of proper grammar and punctuation despite the subject he taught, seemingly allergic to any usage of the Shift key not pertaining to those ridiculous emoticons he abused with buoyant abandon.
She adjusted her glasses so that they sat higher on the bridge of her nose and, against her better judgment, typed a reply.
IseNanao: Kyouraku-sensei, need I remind you again that the instant messenger system is to be used only in relation to official Seireitei Academy business?
KyourakuShunsui: but nanao-chan, i am officially looking for relations in seireitei academy
IseNanao status changed to Away
KyourakuShunsui: ;o; nanaaao-chaaan
IseNanao is away from keyboard
KyourakuShunsui: gomenasai, nanao-chan u.u
IseNanao is away from keyboard
IseNanao has returned from Away
KyourakuShunsui: :D:D:D!! my nanao-chan has returned to me!!1
IseNanao: Only to let you know that Aizen-san's newest is here today. And I am not your Nanao-chan.
KyourakuShunsui: he's starting already? that was fast
KyourakuShunsui: have u met him?
IseNanao: He left the library a few minutes ago, with Ichimaru Gin.
KyourakuShunsui: ichimaru-kun, eh? yare yare, what will sousuke think of next?
IseNanao: I had wondered that same thing.
KyourakuShunsui: ahhh, see how my nanao-chan & i are mentally linked? :3 i keep telling u, we are fated
IseNanao: I see how one of us is fatally mental.
KyourakuShunsui: u wound me, nanao-chan :'(
IseNanao: Don't you have a class to conduct? As in, right now?
KyourakuShunsui: the ability to think independent of leadership is a valuable lesson, nanao-chan
IseNanao: As the tuition here can undoubtedly attest. Goodbye, Kyouraku-sensei.
KyourakuShunsui: wait!!
KyourakuShunsui: have lunch w/me today??
KyourakuShunsui: nanao-chan?
KyourakuShunsui: r u there?
IseNanao has signed off
There was a knock at the door, rapid and unrelenting. Hisagi Shuuhei paused in his copying to the whiteboard at the front of the classroom from the few pages of printouts (translated electronically from Braille to romaji, then in his head from romaji to kanji) that he held in his hand to glance at the narrow window above the knob.
Another knob, this one grinning, was visible above it, its nose pressed flat against the glass. The locked door handle rattled pointedly.
Behind his desk, Shuuhei's dark-skinned teacher sighed. "Let him in."
Shuuhei did.
Ichimaru Gin swaggered inside, trailed by a pale, tense-looking blond.
"Ohayou, Tousen-sensei!" he greeted. "Sorry we're late -- had ta get my lil' kouhai here all set up with his handbook in the library."
"Kouhai?" the civics instructor monotonously enquired.
"Kira Izuru, sir," Shuuhei supplied.
With the absence of ocular communication, recognition seemed to ripple over the blind man's body like a shroud. "Ah, yes, Aizen-sama's newest charge. As such, I will overlook your tardiness today. Welcome to Seireitei Academy; I believe there is an empty desk at the back of the fifth row."
Tousen spoke without moving, nor even inclining his head in the direction he must have assumed Izuru to be. It was a uniquely eerie experience, and one that left Izuru feeling awkward, unknowing as to whether it would be expected, unnecessary, or just plain rude to bow as etiquette would normally dictate. He compromised with a perfunctory nod and a formal "Arigatou gozaimasu," and quickly found his seat.
There was a low growl of response from under Tousen's desk, where, incidentally, Gin had crouched down on his hands and knees.
"Ichimaru."
"Sensei?"
"Tell me, do I make a habit of petting your eyes without asking?"
"No," Gin admitted. "Not without askin'."
A few titters of laughter rose up from the class. Tousen's face remained deadpan.
"Then kindly extend to me that same courtesy and take your seat."
"Yosh! Where d'ya want me ta take it?"
Shuuhei rolled his eyes. "Just sit down, Ichimaru."
"Hai, hai, Hisagi-kun. . ." Gin shuffled with exaggerated obedience to an unoccupied desk in the middle of the third row. He twisted around in his seat to catch Izuru's eye and waved. The younger boy sank further down in his chair and averted his gaze. Shuuhei shot him a sympathetic smirk.
A loud crackling broke through over the loudspeaker mounted next to the clock on the front wall of the room, followed by an ear-splitting shriek of feedback that caused even Tousen to wince, and then distant sounds of an argument held not far enough away from a microphone.
#It's my turn to introduce the announcements!#
#It is not! You did them yesterday!#
#But I was absent the day before that, so you got to do them twice in a row!#
#So? It's not my fault you were sick!#
#Just give me the mic--#
#No! It's my turn--#
Sounds of a scuffle ensued, until a muffled thump and a high-pitched yelp of pain declared a victor. A throat was noisily cleared.
#Ohayou gozaimasu, Seireitei Academy! This is Kotetsu Kiyone and Kotsubaki Sentarou# -- There was a whimper in the background -- #bringing you the morning announcements for today, Friday, the ninth of November.
#Yamada Hanatarou reports that the Table Tennis Club's first match of the year against Hueco Mundo High School will be held next Tuesday, the thirteenth, at our home gymnasium, so come on out and show them your support! And by support, Yamada-kun has asked politely for it to be clarified that fans are not required to throw athletic undergarments, washed or otherwise, at the tables mid-match; the team still has plenty left over from last year.
#Also, kendo practice has been canceled for this afternoon, owing to the unauthorized replacement of all the dos with woks. If you have any information about the location of the missing equipment or the perpetrators of this prank, please see team captain Madarame Ikkaku and make his birthday a happier one than it's been so far.
#In other news, Tsukabishi-sensei is offering a reward for the safe return of ten missing wo. . .oh. Oi, does this mean I get the reward?#
Izuru ears gradually closed of their own accord to his housemate's cheery voice as his attention slipped elsewhere. He peered around the classroom, mildly surprised that, despite their teacher's inability to visibly witness any misconduct, the students were remarkably well-behaved. A handful read books, although they took care to turn the pages as silently as possible. Some dozed, with heavy heads resting on palms or pillowed on folded arms, but none slept so carelessly as to actually snore.
Tousen himself sat straight-backed, his fingers laced together atop his desk, with the serene dignity of a monk having long achieved zen. Unlike most sightless people Izuru had seen, the black man did not disguise his condition with shaded glasses, but rather stared openly into his own darkness through disconcerting, milky eyes. It was that, Izuru figured, which probably kept any insubordination from his pupils -- with perhaps one exception -- at bay. That, and the man likely possessed hearing acute enough to rival the auditory range of the canid companion presently hidden from view beneath his desk. No wonder loud, crude Renji had difficulty in his class, and, in a somewhat similar manner, was so often called out by farsighted Aizen.
Among the blind, the squinter rules, Kira Kagekiyo's voice invaded his son's thoughts without warning, and Izuru went rigid in his seat by trained response.
He couldn't relax for some minutes, until it became apparent to his muscle memory that there would be no concomitant guiding hand to his shoulder that still twinged with both its bruise and years of gentle pressure instilling -- formality, steering, monition and, yes, warmth. Pride.
Love.
Never again.
Izuru groped for a distraction. He struggled to recall the source of the quote. It had been one of his father's favorites, often spouted while the man perused stacks of stock reports in his study after dinner, keen green eyes discriminating nuggets of breadth from an assembly of advance-decline lines, sieving sapphire blue chips from a sediment of sentiments. He knew how to read between the lines of a graph as well as or better than Izuru himself could locate symbolism and subtext in a favorite story.
Damn it, who was its author?
A small, crumpled piece of paper landed on his desk with all the effect on his nerves of a hand grenade, and he nearly leapt out of his seat in surprise. It took a second look for him to notice that the paper was not actually crumpled at all, but intricately folded into a small origami cat with disproportionately large ears and tail. Open me, its torso read. Izuru followed the instruction. Inside was scrawled a question in sharp but clean-looking strokes, You okay?
He searched the room, and found only one face focused on his own. It squinted at him in a concerned sort of way, and he realized that the note hadn't been shaped into a cat at all.
Shuuhei approached him when the bell rang to signal the changeover from homeroom to first period classes.
"Hey," said the black-eyed boy. "Sorry I lost you this morning."
"That's all right," Izuru assured him, "it wasn't your fault. You didn't actually lose me so much as I was kidnapped."
"Aa. I didn't even notice you were gone until I'd been talking to myself for at least a full minute, and then the weird looks I kept getting from other people kinda tipped me off. Thought you might've gotten trampled in the quad."
Izuru smiled wryly. "No such luck."
"Saa, Hisagi-kun," Gin tsked, sidling up behind his charge, "tryin' ta steal my kouhai again? Getcher own; I ain't sharin'." He wrapped his arms around said kouhai, pinning the blond's arms to his sides, and gave the boy a possessive squeeze. Izuru felt the angry burn of a blush creep quickly up his throat and reach all the way to his hairline.
"Please let go of me," he ordered, straining to keep the panicky edge out of his voice. "Now."
"Hai, hai," Gin complied, his voice containing not so much as a trace of shame. "Whatever you say, Kouhai-chan."
"And stop calling me that. It's. . .degrading."
Gin took a step back, looking genuinely puzzled. He seemed to literally diminish as the joy faded from his expression, growing smaller as his shoulders slumped, thinner as his cheeks narrowed strikingly in the absence of his ever-present smile.
"Gomen na," he apologized. "Didn't mean no harm. Your next class is on the ground floor. Just hang a right at the bottom of the stairs an' it'll be the third door on your left, second from the main doors." And with a small, bobbing bow that put Izuru in the mind of an excusatory bird, he exited the the classroom, pausing only once to forlornly request that Hisagi-kun be a better host than he was, and to take good care of Kira-han.
"Damn fool," Shuuhei muttered with a shake of his head, then turned to his unanticipated charge. "Let me see your schedule."
Kira-han, feeling suddenly burdensome, dug the paper out of his bookbag and handed it over. "Um, it's okay if you don't want to do this. I'm sure I'll be able to find everything on my own."
"Don't worry about it. He's the dumbass for shirking his duties like that. Come on, let's walk while we do this or we'll be late. Sensei, will you need me here for anything at lunch?"
Tousen's fingers stilled over the embossed pages of a book he had open on his desk, and he replied without raising his head, "No thank you, Hisagi. Until fifth period."
"Hai."
"Is he always so easily triggered?" Izuru asked as they trotted down the stairs. "Ichimaru-san, I mean."
"Eh, I guess. Sometimes. Not really, though." Shuuhei shrugged ambiguously. "He probably wasn't serious. He usually isn't. He just likes to press buttons, yank chains, pull legs. . .in fact if I were you I wouldn't be surprised if he showed up to meet you at the end of class and acted like nothing happened."
"Do you know him well, then?"
"Well enough. As well as I care to know him."
"Oh. I. . .I thought you two might be friends. You gave him a ride this morning, didn't you?"
Shuuhei arched a pierced eyebrow. "Observant, aren't you? Technically, I gave Rangiku a ride, and she bartered for his passage."
"Bartered?"
"Yeah. She said please and I caved like the spineless sucker I am -- or that she makes me, anyway. But, you know. You've seen her."
Izuru's mind flashed back to his and Renji's argument the previous evening.
"I have," he responded vaguely, not wanting to repeat it.
"Here we are." They stopped in front of the door Gin had described, second to the right of the main exit. "English, Sasakibe-sensei, room 102."
"Thanks."
Shuuhei nodded. "He'll like you -- Sasakibe-sensei. He's obsessed with all things Western and, well." He smirked and gestured at Izuru's pale yellow hair. "I've got Physics next. The math and science classes are all in the building across the quad, so I'll meet you at the fountain if Ichimaru's still pouting."
"Right. See you." Izuru ducked inside the classroom as Shuuhei jogged off toward the main doors.
The black-eyed boy hadn't been lying -- the room was practically a shrine to Europe, a small mock-museum of reproductions. The walls were papered with framed prints of famous paintings, most of which Izuru recalled having glimpsed in a book of his mother's on the Louvre. Heavy, tapestry-like curtains framed the windows, and classical music played softly from a small sound system occupying the southwest corner of the room -- Mahler's Symphony No. 3 in D, Izuru's memory provided, that knowledge also obtained from Kira Shizuka. He could remember, as a child, falling asleep more than once to the languid comodo of the piece's third movement, and even now felt the notes drift like dandelion puffs through the air to hook weightily onto his eyelashes.
Thus dazed, he nearly fell over at the solid punch unexpectedly received by the upper part of his left arm.
"Wakey wakey, eggs an' steaky," quipped a sardonically grinning Iba as he passed, followed by a disgruntled-looking Madarame Ikkaku, to whose birthday decorations had been added a paper crown and a number of small stuffed animals and packages of snacks and candy, all safety-pinned to his uniform.
"Yo," he grumbled, and proffered a shoulder, "Pretz?"
"Er. No thanks."
"Eh. Suit yourself."
"I prefer the peach-jasmine gummies myself," Yumichika smiled from behind his bald friend. "They're very restorative. Come sit with us, Kira-kun."
They clustered together at the back of the room, near as they could get to the windows and the possibility of distraction, although Izuru hardly required the assistance. He barely even registered when Sasakibe-sensei -- or Mr. Sasakibe, as he specified he was to be addressed -- took roll, complimented Izuru on his hair, and delegated the responsibility of finding him a textbook to Mr. Iba, who would do well to remove his sunglasses while in class if he did not want to end up writing a report on a British monarch of Mr. Sasakibe's choosing.
Izuru couldn't stop thinking about Gin.
Shuuhei was right, of course -- Gin shouldn't have abandoned his responsibilities as he had, and especially not so early in the day; but somehow, Izuru was left with the feeling that he had been the one doing the abandoning. The silver-haired boy had looked and sounded so awfully hurt, which was ridiculous, as Izuru hadn't been intentionally unkind in his rebukes, or even particularly rude. He hadn't even thrown a punch -- although at the time he had sorely wanted to.
Izuru knew, rationally, that he had been well within his rights to be upset by the older boy's actions. They were invasive and uncalled for, and had been since the night Izuru first met Ichimaru Gin.
So then why had their most recent exchange tied a knot of something akin to remorse in his stomach?
In all likelihood, Gin's overreaction had been just another joke, a masking of sarcasm with sadness in order to manipulate Izuru between precisely the emotional rock-and-a-hard-place where he was currently wedged. He should have been feeling pissed off, not like a piece of shit. If Gin was only toying with him, then Izuru was playing right into the fox-faced boy's hands. Unacceptable.
But then, there was also the matter of the fox itself -- the little origami inquiry that, no matter which angle Izuru studied it from, seemed to lack any agenda beyond its simple, straightforward contents.
It was safe -- or at least accurate -- to say that at this point in time, Gin knew him better than anyone at Pure Souls or Seireitei Academy. It had been those same grasping hands, after all, that had pulled Izuru away from the rooftop's edge; those same hands that had stopped his teeth from grinding, and stolen his wallet, and alternately pushed him against walls and tugged him in the directions he was supposed to go, and even the lethal crush of a snake around its prey could be called a hug. . .
Open me.
You okay?
Izuru wondered. . .
Open me.
He wanted to.
He would. The preoccupation was cemented now, with doubt like a dog pawing at the back of his brain. When first period was over, if Gin wasn't waiting for him as Shuuhei predicted, he decided he would give the silver-haired boy the benefit and take it as a sign that the ball was in his possession, and not poised to be thrown at his head. Then, at least, even if he turned out to be wrong, he would be prepared to dodge it.
Chapter V-II