Title: That Forward Kind Of Motion (Bookmark)
Author: Lys
Characters/Pairing: Kurosaki Ichigo/Ishida Uryuu, some Chad, Keigo, Orihime
Rating/Warnings: R, kissing and sexual themes, language.
Status: Bookmark 11/20, 2,303 words.


a/n: meant to have this chapter done, oh, 24 hours from now or so? But I couldn't sleep and so I worked on it, and it just came out. Ichigo is having a really bad day. Hope the Intermezzo I posted a bit ago helped to change the flow of the story to ichigo/ishida, but rest assured that I have not forgotten and will not forget poor Kon. Won't somebody think of the Kons?




After class ended, Ichigo marched over to Ishida as the boy stood, unsteady, from his desk. He eyed Ishida with a straight face and serious brown eyes, lips drawn. Ishida surveyed Ichigo back, blue eyes meeting Ichigo’s brown ones without a trace of guilt, suspicion or apology.

That’s right, they said to Ichigo. This is the situation we are in. It is reality and you are going to have to deal with it one way or another, because I will not give up anything else that I’ve worked for.

Keigo stared at the two nervously in the distance, face shy. Ichigo waved him away to the roof, their usual meeting place. Keigo left with a shrug and a ‘why ishida, though?’ on his lips, disappearing around the corner. Shinji was the last to go, eventually realizing that Ichigo was not going to continue while he was present. Fucking right, thought Ichigo.

Ichigo finally spoke, voice low and comforting and as unchallenging as he could possibly imagine himself making it. “You look like hell warmed over, Ishida. I know it seems kind of like a dick move to show some remorse now, but I didn’t break anything serious, did I? You should be in the hospital if I did, so don’t be stubborn about it if you are.”

Ishida chuckled, voice a little higher than normal. He answered Ichigo’s question regardless. “I’m fine. Apparently Kon’s speed isn’t the only thing that’s been minorly updated from the original model. Even if you had broken a rib, I wouldn’t know it by now.” Ishida lifted his button-up slightly, revealing the yellow and green of the nearly-healed wound; a hairless chest, smooth abdomen, undefined but flat. Ichigo tried not to look away and bring attention to the way his eyes lingered for a few seconds longer then necessary on the pale expanse of flesh. Ishida dropped his shirt and busily tucked it back into his tiny, belted waist, turning to dig around in his briefcase. Ishida moved his tie over his shoulder and out of the way as he bent over, irritated by the piece of silk.

Wait just a goddamn minute.

“Ishida,” Ichigo questioned, voice full of curiosity and dread. “What does Kon being a mod-soul have to do with the wound I put on your chest?”

“Ah,” Ishida smirked coyly, holding the fruits of his food-hunt—a bottle of water, a bag with a sandwich in it and a small cross-stitching project. “The billion-yen question.”

“You didn’t,” Ichigo muttered, angrily and just a little suspicious.

“I did,” Ishida’s smile widened, eyes staring up at Ichigo teasingly. “I had to put him somewhere. He’s not just a toy, Kurosaki.”

He fucking hated Ishida Uryuu sometimes. Not all the time, but definitely sometimes. Ichigo shook his head, expression still irritated but obligingly guilty about Ishida’s last small jibe. Ichigo snatched a juice box and his own lunch, the bento Yuzu packed him that morning.

“Something serious could have happened.”

“But it didn’t,” Ishida’s smirk fell finally. Ichigo stared over at him.

“Eat lunch with me today.”

“I want to finish this,” Ishida challenged, shaking the cross-stitching.

“I don’t care.” Ichigo was halfway to the stairwell.

“Fine.” Ishida said, following Ichigo and trying to look like he wasn’t jogging to catch up with the orange-haired boy.

The heels of their black shoes tapped rhythmically as they moved. When the two arrived on the rooftop, silent, the other three boys were already eating. Keigo muttered to himself while Mizuiro tuned out the world, large headphones over his ears. Chad gave Ichigo an encouraging nod, clearly of the opinion that friends ought to stick together after they’d gone through near-death experiences in different planes of existence.

Chad was a good dude.

“Ichigo, Chad said, face suddenly falling—at least, insofar as anyone who didn’t have x-ray vision could see Sado Yasutora’s face fall beneath his thick brown hair. “Your face.”

His face? Ichigo reached up to his face, feeling the areas on his cheeks that were still slightly warm; tell-tale red welts from last night’s admittedly deserved Ichigo-abuse. Still, now was the last time he needed a reminder of the Thing With Ishida.

At least now Ichigo knew why Shinji was smirking up a storm at him all day.

“Ah.” Ichigo announced. “It’s nothing, Chad.” He looked at Chad, brown eyes pleading.

Chad got the picture.

At the tail-end of the familiarly tense meal, after Keigo and Mizuiro had escaped to God Knows Where and the only ones that were left were Chad, Ishida, and Ichigo himself, Ishida cleared his throat.

“I apologize for blowing you off, Sado-kun,” Ishida said in a measured tone. “It was nothing personal. I’m just having family issues, in a manner of speaking.”

Chad nodded his confirmation. Apparently understanding that Ishida and Ichigo needed some time to themselves, Chad patted them each on the shoulder with a huge, warm palm before also vacating the premises.

Ichigo sighed long-sufferingly.

“Alone at last,” snorted Ishida, hands working deftly at the cross-stitch at a speed Ichigo found just mildly terrifying, occasionally bring the stitching needle to his lips, holding it there like a cigarette while doing something-or-other to the ring of fabric he held.

“Ishida. I’m not going to ask the details of why, but I don’t like that you used your own body for the soul candy. You’re not--. It’s not like when I do it. It was a stupid damn risk and you know it.”

Ishida swatted Ichigo across the face for the third time in so many days, not moving from his seated position or dropping the needle from between his lips. Ichigo swore.

“I do. Can’t change the past, Kurosaki. No use in nattering at me about it now.”

“Well, fine. Whatever. Even if that doesn’t matter anymore, I think we still need to have a serious talk about where we stand with one another after all this bullshit. I like you, Ishida. I do. And it pissed me off royally when you went and disappeared off of the face of my social radar for a fucking month after we got out of Soul Society.”

“I’m not at liberty to get into this too deeply without Kon also being an active part of the conversation, because little green pill or no, he is an active participant in the issues at hand. We can invite him if you want, though. I’ve got him right here in my pants.”

Ichigo frowned, face a mixture of expressions. “Oh,” said Ishida, realizing his own double entendre with a straight face.

“I—damnit. Why’d you have to go and slap me again? You’re not my fucking girlfriend or something, Ishida. I’m gonna go to the bathroom. My eyes won’t stop watering everywhere.” Ichigo stood, wiping his eyes with the back of one hand. Ishida stood also, moving beside Ichigo.

“I’ll come with. I could use to visit the restroom before class starts again.”

“Fine,” Ichigo sighed, falling into step behind Ishida, trying not to enjoy the way the other boy sashayed in front of him as he went down the stairs with quick, nimble, girlish steps on the tips of his toes. Ichigo sniffled, tears flowing down the back of his sinuses and clogging his throat.

Could his life possibly get any more messed up.

They walked into the bathroom, Ichigo at once both worried and relieved by the emptiness. He reached into one of the stalls and pulled out a decently-sized wad of toilet paper, preferring the soft white sheets to the recycled paper that was in the dispensers by the sink. He wet a few squares of it, holding it against is eyes. The cool water felt nice; the toilet paper blocked out the light, keeping it from irritating Ichigo’s sensitized eyes further.

“I feel greasy,” muttered Ishida’s soft voice from behind the toilet-paper mask Ichigo was currently wearing.

“It’s because you didn’t get enough sleep last night. It’s written all over you, Ishida.”

“Yes,” Ishida said, “Because we all know that you are the authority on sleepless nights, Kurosaki.” The sentiment was threatening, but the tone compassionate. Ichigo shook his head as he heard the tap of Ishida’s glasses on the small metal shelf above the sinks. The water turned on and Ichigo could hear splashing, Ishida’s breath coming in short, harsh gasps as he washed his face off attentively, from the sounds of it.

Ichigo yanked the wet paper off of his face, tossing it into the wastebasket and wiping his face dry with the remaining paper. He tossed that in to join it. Ichigo stared over at Ishida, waiting to see when the Quincy was ready to go back to class.

He decidedly wasn’t.

Ichigo’s breath hitched, eyes trying desperately to look away from Ishida. The seed had been planted innocently by Kon against Ichigo’s will, fertilized by Ishida’s presence and now the fruit was fully-formed and waiting to be picked. Ichigo could feel his throat growing dry, brain trying to ignore the visual input in a frenzy. Ishida ran the back of his arm over his lips roughly, reddening them and spreading the sink water along the sleeve of his shirt, which lay stuck to Ishida’s thin, flat chest; plastered against the smooth skin, translucent and wet under the bathroom’s harsh lighting.

Ishida finally let out a slow, rattling gasp after removing his face from the shallow sink, head tipped back, portions of dark, damp bangs sticking to his high cheekbones as slightly sunken blue eyes stared at the mirror in front of his face.

Ichigo stared helplessly as water gathered in a large lock of Ishida’s hair, slowly working its way down the side of his face. It rounded the Quincy’s sharp jawline, moving along his outstretched neck, pale and and marbled with tiny blue veins. The drop traced the contour of Ishida’s adam’s apple before disappearing beneath the neckline of his school uniform.

“God,” Ishida murmured. “I needed that.” Ichigo blinked, closing his lips and running his tongue over the sore, dry roof of his mouth. Why did he have to notice. Why the fuck did he ever have to notice how good Ishida looked when the other boy didn’t realize what he was doing to everyone. To Ichigo.

“We’re late, Kurosaki,” Ishida said mildly, walking past Ichigo and out of the bathroom, door swinging shut with a bang. Ichigo shook his head. Don’t do it, he told himself. Don’t you dare fucking do it.

But if he did it, he could get it over with once and for all.

Without a second thought, before the door even stopped tapping the wall on its hinges, Ichigo was out the door. His shoes squeaked under him on the freshly waxed floor. Ishida turned around in what seemed to be slow motion, mouth slowly opening to call out Ichigo’s family name in confusion.

Ichigo grabbed Ishida by both shoulders, slamming him roughly against the sterile, white-tiled wall of the deserted school hallway. Ishida’s head bumped off of the hard surface with a hollow sound, glasses askew. He was only a little more than an inch shorter than Ichigo, but right then he seemed so tiny. Sharp eyes tired and confused. Small, boney shoulders turned in, pinned under Ichigo’s muscular weight and long-fingered, disproportionately large masculine hands. The pink lips and outraged expression Ishida was wearing reminded him of Rukia.

Who Ichigo had slept alongside last night, and who Ichigo loved. But Ichigo never thought of slamming Rukia against school walls and having his way with her. Rukia was delicate.

Ishida could fucking take it if Ichigo told him he could.

Before Ishida could protest, Ichigo leaned down and covered the Quincy’s soft, expressive lips with his own. Their teeth clacked together, bruising Ichigo’s gums. He pressed harder anyway, demanding. Ishida obediently opened his mouth, giving Ichigo access to whatever it was that he wanted. Whatever Ichigo wanted to take. Ichigo’s nostrils flared as he growled low and loud against Ishida.

This never should have even been this way, but it made something in Ichigo want more. He never wanted to stop kissing Ishida Uryuu.

Ichigo slid his tongue in, sweeping across the gyration of Ishida’s palate; across the smooth, glass-like molars at the sides of Ishida’s mouth. Only when Ichigo was lightheaded, sure he would faint from lack of oxygen, did he pull away.

Ishida’s lips were livid, spit entirely enveloping his small mouth. His face was bright with anger and desire. He didn’t want Ichigo on top of him, but he liked it.

Ishida’s eyes were far-away, lust evident. Ishida never wanted to share a kiss with Kurosaki Ichigo, but he wanted more. Ichigo stood away, the taste of Ishida’s cinnamon breath-mints and the yakisoba-pan he’d had for lunch lingering.

Ichigo had a momentary coughing fit. A voice from his right squeaked, high and surprised. Ishida whirled, eyes growing wider than Ichigo had ever thought possible for a human. Ichigo turned to see what was so surprising.

Inoue Orihime stood at the end of the hall, small hands covering her mouth, eyes shining and face red. She whirled and ran around the corner, the opposite direction of the two boys.

Ichigo’s libido came crashing down, beat to death in the face of harsh reality. Inoue Orihime had caught him kissing Ishida Uryuu in the hallway. Maybe if he stabbed himself now, he’d never have to deal with the thought of it again. Instead, he called out to her, voice pained and nervous.

“Inoue!”

Ishida pushed himself off the wall, stumbling a minute from dizziness, hand going to where his head had impacted the wall seconds before.

“Idiot!” Ishida hissed at him, disposition immediately all business, despite what just happpened. “Have some discretion once in a blue moon!”

“I didn’t think—“

“Of course you didn’t think!” shouted Ishida. “Don’t move. You go back to class and I will have a talk with Inoue-san. I can afford to miss the day of class.”

“But—“

“Kurosaki, just shut the hell up and go to class! This is a situation which takes a form of emotional finesse you do not possess.”

Shaking his head, Ishida took off down the hallway after Inoue.

Ichigo felt like punching himself in the gut.