Bleach Fan Fiction ❯ The Complements ❯ The Conversationalist ( Chapter 3 )

 

The Conversationalist

 

Surprisingly, the door had not immediately slammed in his face. Ichigo took this as a sign that the evening was moving in his favor. But that moment of optimism quickly passed. Ishida did not acknowledge his presence. He also had not welcomed Ichigo into his home, but rather regarded his intrusion with cool animosity. Perhaps, Ichigo reflected, approaching the issue at eleven on a school night had not been the brightest of ideas.

 

“I'm eager to hear your explanation.” Ishida turned towards him at last, pushing those glasses up his nose. His expression clearly stated the matter wasn't worth his full attention. He was thinking, Ichigo thought. Thinking thoughts, most likely about tomorrows test or his crappy crafts club, and purposefully ignoring Ichigo while he attempted to hold a serious, meaningful conversation. He bit back a defensive response, as well as the next two responses that came to mind; after all, he was the one intruding. He should be gracious. He should be asserting his argument in a clear, logical fashion. Now was not the time to be defending his grades; Ishida wouldn't care that he was more than prepared for tomorrow's test. Rukia had analyzed the poetry and worried the information into his head ten times over with those awkwardly specific questions of hers.

 

“I want more.” Ichigo began his clear, logical argument. Repetition, fantastic! He was clearly a shoe-in for the debate club with this degree of persuasive ability. He grumbled, shifted uncomfortably and ended up facing away from his target, arms casually braced behind his head. Baring his soul was much easier when he didn't have to look at the one he was baring it to. When he felt his brain was in order, he tried again. “I think we should look into new ways to move our relationship forward in a positive manner.” There, that was clear and logical. Not to mention totally lame. Ichigo considered digging a hole to crawl into. He doubted Ishida would appreciate the damage it would do to the carpet though. At the very least he should be headed home to string Rukia up by her toes. Those were definitely her words. She'd probably even accompanied them with one of her crappy illustrations.

 

He did neither. Exasperated, he let his arms flop to his sides and turned to look Ishida in the eye. “I don't know what I want,” he admitted bravely. “I know that I'm not happy and for some reason I think you can do something to change that. Now, are you going to help me out here, or am I just wasting our time?” He'd moved up from repetition, and he'd managed just a bit better than whiny, but he couldn't help but sound slightly desperate at the end; Ishida had held his eyes for only a second.

 

“I'm not sure exactly what you're looking for.” The Quincy said at last, carefully folding the pants he'd finished and arranging them on a nearby pile. “But I assume you're speaking of sex.” The disgruntled noise Ichigo emitted clearly said otherwise, and Ishida regarded him with a frown. “While I am willing to participate in certain activities to relieve the excessive build up of hormones, Kurosaki, I see no reason to entertain superfluous emotions.” He was too damn calm, arranging those pants to be perfectly square on the top of that equally perfect pile of mending. “To be blunt, as I think this is what you have been trying to say in your unique way, no, Kurosaki, I will not date you.” Failure. Ichigo felt it stamped heavily on his forehead. Displays no talent for communication. Unconsciously, Ichigo rubbed at his forehead; there was no way all that could fit. “And to answer your final question, Kurosaki,” Ichigo sheepishly stopped rubbing, feeling slightly foolish. It had been a mistake to come here; he really should have planned ahead. “I have yet to see you do anything but waste my time.”