7must be the weather
by: whisperedsilvers
prompt: "what kind of spell is this?"
summary: He's fine. Everything is fine. —Ichigo/Rukia
There is a reason, that Ichigo has decided to take a nine am class, even with the two-hour commute to west Tokyo. The fact of the matter is, that this is the only class available to fulfills his science elective. Organic chemistry, he shivers at the thought, formulas are the bane of his existence. That, and he wants to graduate on time and avoid traveling as much as possible.
It's too much, he thinks.
The traveling and the dealing of people; it's entirely too much.
He sniffs at the cold air, his foot twitches on the train platform, and with his hands buried in his coat pockets, he waits.
His nose is cold, the burning type of cold that sits underneath your fingers and travels up to your ears. Ichigo fights the urge to sniffle that pathetic type of sniffle and then yawns. Tears prick his eyes and then sighs to hide a shiver.
The train whistles, a yellow light, pinprick, tapered at the ends and it spills over the tracks as it pulls a stop. The wind is harsh underneath the moss of his beanie and tightens his posture to that of a needle as the train comes to a stop.
There is always that moment, a short-stroke of anxiety, as the train comes closer, the tilt of the world and the light at the edge. It's painful as it is worrying, but then when it screeches the nerves, disappears. It squeaks, the door, and slides open. Ichigo takes a seat the closest to the window, the seat cold but the air more than warm.
It's almost seven, but Ichigo watches the sunrise from the shadows of the trees and the marigold of the beams.
The disconnect, between reality and fantasy, is the distortion between time. The haze, smog thick as a blanket settles into the recess of his mind. Ichigo takes comfort in that, he relishes in the lazy push and pull of sleep, he's lucid, but not rigid. It's not as pleasant as the deep pulls of sleep, but it's comfortable.
He settles, deep in the cushion of the booth and his head is hot against the cold of the window.
Ichigo blinks away the sudden remains of fog when he feels the sudden jerk of the train, the sun glints gold and stings his retinas for a brief moment. He blinks abruptly, furiously, wanting his pupils to adjust to the sudden color and that forces his brain to kickstart his morning. For a moment, his brain is static and then it hums, vibrating down the knobs of his spine and settles. He is made aware of the sudden weight that falls on his right shoulder.
Ichigo stares at the seat in front of him for a long moment before he finds the courage to turn his head.
She has black hair, a shade of night, with hydrangeas and indigo, highlighted the edges, the tips that feather out at the nape of her neck. Her beanie is white, knitted – is that a bunny on the top of the button? – it covers her ears and her cheeks tinted pink, delicate and pearly. She's fashionable, he thinks, her outfit is expensive – those jeans he got Yuzu for her birthday, same brand, different color – and God, he doesn't want to sound like a creep, but she smells amazing.
Ichigo doesn't have the heart to move her.
He just hopes she wakes up soon because he doesn't know how to do it himself.
.
It's a painful forty-five minutes.
Ichigo is so aware of the girl resting on his shoulder that he cannot help but think of her. Her scent wafts, it silk ribbons and then—
—she snuggles deep into his shoulder.
He wonders what God he's pissed off to deserve this torture.
.
She wakes up to the sound of the train conductor announcing their final destination. Ichigo watches her like he would watch the sunset, in awe and in wonder. Her lashes a dark, but the flutter slowly and she shifts back into a sitting position—shoulders thrusts backward and she yawns.
Violet, he thinks.
Violet orbs, dark as night, with starlight and lavender.
"Did—" her voice is rough, warm and a little incredulous, "Did I fall asleep on your shoulder."
"Uh," Ichigo rakes his brain, his social skills aren't that bad, he says slowly, "Yeah." He scratches the back of his head, "I didn't want to wake you up, you look…tired."
"Oh," she flushes a little embarrassed, and Ichigo is bewitched by the rose against soft skin, "I see, thanks. I think."
His lips twitched into a small smile, he wants to crush the urge, but he can't because he doesn't know how.
"Do you take this train, often?" she asks suddenly, it's a poor disguise to hide her discomfiture, and finishes, "I think I'd notice someone with such brightly-colored hair."
Ichigo blinks a little surprised at her reply, "No, I only take it. Monday and Wednesdays. It's the only days I have class."
She nods and the train disappears into the tunnel, "I just transferred to Karakura. I heard the international department is better there."
"It's supposed to be the best," he concedes, "We don't have a lot of programs, most are designed for law enforcement."
She blinks at the sudden intake information, "You go there too?"
"The southern campus," he confesses.
"I'm in the north," she smiles slightly and he likes the way her lips tinted with blush every time she quirks them upwards.
The train comes to a halt.
Ichigo glances at the window and bites the inside of his cheek when he realizes that he's inside the station now.
Rukia looks upwards, passengers are hasty as they get up and walk towards the exit and she waits, "I think I'll end up getting crushed if I stand up now."
"Sounds reasonable," a grin that resembles daybreak spills over his mouth.
But then she stands up and calls out, "Same time, Wednesday?"
Ichigo stares at her and then follows, "Yes, I always sit in the same spot."
"I'll see you then," she pauses for a moment when they step outside onto the platform, the world moves, but they don't, "Rukia. My name is Rukia."
"Ichigo," he blurts out and then straightens his shoulders. This is when he realizes how small she is and the short wave of adoration that curls into him is almost overwhelming, "My name is Ichigo."
Rukia chuckles, his face pinkens, and she tells him just as she's about to leave, "It suits you."
Ichigo is left with the sun on his face and the smell of jasmine on his jacket.
