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Uryû Ishida ran his hands over book spines, glossy and cracked juxtaposed, fastidiously attempting to make sure they ran absolutely even across the shelf. Some of the spines were beaten concave enough to make this a borderline futile effort, but he would not rest until the shelf of spy thrillers looked absolutely pristine. Or, as pristine as a shelf full of mostly battered used books could look.
The bell on the door rang, distracting him from his thoughts. Uryû was excellent at keeping the books in line, but he shied away at the notion of having to confront anyone that came into the store. He’d tried, a few times, contrary to his natural tendency to keep to himself. After getting thoroughly ignored by a host of children who didn’t seem to value his opinion on beloved childhood classics and a small pocket of tourists who, it turned out, didn’t speak the same language as him, Uryû had given up. It was easier to just lose himself in an aggressively thorough alphabetization of so-called ‘literary fiction’ that seemed more full of itself than a male grackle in mating season.
To be perfectly fair, it wasn’t as if Uryû wasn’t busy. As a matter of fact, he should knee-deep in tubs of books that he needed to sort.
Begrudgingly abandoning the somewhat straightened shelf, Uryû retired to a small chair nestled into a corner between bookshelves, climbing over the plastic tubs on his way there. It was cramped, for sure; but he’d dealt with worse.
Uryû settled himself into a routine, sorting books by genre, inspecting their condition, marking a price on the inside cover page with his neat and tidy hand, being cautious to not smear graphite down the side of his left hand like he so often did. He could hear the shop’s owner conversing with someone (likely the person that had just walked in), and despite his better judgment couldn’t resist listening in during the mindless work of dusting copy-and-paste romance novels. They were arguably the worst part of his summer job at the bookstore; a bunch of meaningless fluff bound together in a trite spine. Regular romance had no interest for Uryû. He could do without the kissing, and the bed-sharing, and…if he had the courage to admit it, the women. He wasn’t entirely sure if he wanted to kiss anyone at all, much less a stranger, even less a woman stranger.
“My sisters decided it was time to clear out a bunch of their old kids’ books,” said the unfamiliar voice that Uryû presumed belonged to the customer. “And my dad—well, I think you can see for yourself.”
More books to sort through. Uryû loved helping at the store, but there wasn’t much room left on the shelves for more new books. He was too busy thinking of places where he could stuff the new arrivals that weren’t the floor that he missed what the owner responded.
“Well, in that case, I might as well browse around while I’m waiting. Do you have any…I don’t know…Shakespeare? Maybe some Tolkien?”
The stranger’s voice had a nice rich tone to it, Uryû thought briefly. He shook himself. I’m here working, not to people watch. He never took much notice of strangers, anyway.
As said stranger walked out from behind a bookcase laden to the brim with history books, Uryû found himself staring.
He carried himself with a casual ease, thick ginger hair sleek and shiny dipping down the nape of his neck and framing his angular face with sharp, straight strands. Uryû tried to ignore his heart quickening, pounding against the confines of his ribcage. Dozens of lines from the gay fanfiction he refused to admit he read raced through his mind, each one cheesier than the last. Were they cheesy? He had no idea. He’d never even tried to flirt with anyone. He’d certainly never met someone who so instantly set him on fire.
The stranger cast his eyes across the sea of books that Uryû was stranded in the middle of. Despite himself, Uryû couldn’t help noticing just how beautiful his eyes were, a warm brown that reminded him of autumn and warmth. And love, he thought before he could stop himself.
The stranger bent down to pick up a slightly battered copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Uryû found himself caught between the urge to ask him something in a clumsy attempt at being romantic and the urge to snap at him for picking up an undusted book he hadn’t priced yet.
Ever the introvert, he went for the second option.
“That’s not been priced yet.” It came out as a bit of a growl, much to his embarassment. Embarassment? Social interactions usually held that in spades, but Uryû never cared what strangers thought of him.
But then the stranger’s eyes met Uryû’s dark ones, and his heart did several things he did not think it was scientifically possible for a heart to do.
“I’m not trying to make off with a free book, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said, a smirk playing around the corner of his mouth. A smirk! Who did he think he was? Uryû felt like he was about to swoon.
“There are rotten sorts everywhere. How am I to know that you’re not another petty thief?” The bell jingled again, ensuring that Uryû was alone to face the beautiful stranger who thought it was acceptable to smirk and snark off to a complete stranger who was just trying to do his job.
Trying to do his job, while unable to look away from those entrancingly expressive eyes. Uryû hated how little it had taken to turn him to jelly.
“I can wait for you to price it. I don’t have anywhere I need to rush to.”
There was a laissez-faire tone in his voice, something that Uryû didn’t understand. How could this guy be so mouthy to a stranger whose name he didn’t even know?
He held the small book out for Uryû to grab. Missing the cue, Uryû just stared incredulously at him for what was probably five beats too long.
Realizing that he probably looked like an idiot, he snatched the only slightly beat up book from the stranger’s hand—it was so warm, he couldn’t help noticing—and glanced at the back cover, quickly analyzing both the suggested retail price and the shape the book was in, shoving down his overwhelming urge to give it away for free. You don’t give stuff away just because the guy is slightly cute. Plus, he was a bit abrasive. What if he was a straight guy with a mean streak, ready to tear Uryû into strips for a simple kindness? He rarely did kindnesses. A rejection like that would probably flatten him for a decade. What would he do anyway? He was eighteen, had never been on a date, and had no idea where to even start. Flirting? Conversation? He wasn’t particularly good at either of those. The only people he’d ever fallen in love with were from books (who were admittedly mostly redheads like the adorable customer). This was alien territory.
With a start Uryû realized he’d had his pencil poised, floating expectantly above the top right corner of the front page, while he had stared off into space (space being the approximate location of the customer’s navel) while he surrendered to a bout of romantic panic. Romantic panic? Uryû hadn’t thought an actual, not-fictional person would send him into such a tizzy.
Uryû hastily scrawled a price down, shamefully low, and passed it tersely back to the customer, who had spent the duration of his crisis standing there, with that same infuriating smirk on his face.
“Is there anything else you’re looking for?” Uryû practically had to push the words out.
“Well…if you have anything Tolkien, I’d take a peek at that too.” The customer gave a little chuckle, and Uryû felt his heart do a somersault. “I already have more than enough copies of his work, but I can’t say no to a pretty cover. Or a rare edition.”
Perhaps there was something in common between the two of them after all. Uryû had ferreted home a set of the Lord of the Rings trilogy from the sixties before they had even hit the store shelf not two months ago. He felt hope unfurl a tentative bud in his heart.
“I’m afraid if you’re looking for nice editions, we already have a buyer who gets first pick.” Uryû pulled himself up, wondering why he was acting this way.
“Is there? I’d like to meet him.”
“What makes you think the buyer is a him?”
The customer locked those auburn brown eyes onto Uryû and with a look of total seriousness said, “Just a hunch.”
Uryû pushed his glasses back up his nose, hoping that his hand was hiding the blush that rose up his cheeks. He led the customer towards the shelf in question, avoiding the urge to look back and make sure the customer was still following (to see his beautiful face again). Once he reached the end of his very short walk, he gave a weak gesture to the shelf to present them, a sort of half-hearted ‘ta-da.’
The customer’s eyes glittered with excitement as they passed over the shelf, meticulously organized by Uryû’s own hand. “How do you get the shelves this organized? I can’t even keep my own books in line like this.”
Pride blossomed warm in Uryû’s chest, and he couldn’t help himself. “I’m the one who organized them.”
The customer cocked a sleek ginger eyebrow questioningly. “Really? Could I hire you to keep my room in order sometime?”
“Should I be concerned that a complete stranger is trying to hire me out?”
“My name’s Ichigo. Can’t be a stranger if you know my name, right?” A goofy smile came across his face as he said the words, and he folded his arms behind his head to highlight the expression.
Uryû wished that it didn’t make him want to melt into a puddle right there, seeping into the old wooden floorboards.
Is Ichigo flirting with me? Uryû didn’t think anyone had ever flirted with him before, and he certainly hadn’t wanted them to. Was he just making it into flirting because he was desperate for it?
“I’m Uryû.” He absentmindedly ran his hand along the spines of the books, smoothly nudging them into alignment.
“That’s a pretty name.” Uryû wondered briefly if Ichigo was staring at the selection of copies of the Return of the King, until he noticed his chestnut eyes fixed on him.
It was then that he felt panic buzzing on the edges of his mind, and clamped his mouth shut before anything unintelligible and humiliating came out. “You think?” In his panic he sounded condescending.
“Yeah, I do. Unless you have a problem with that?”
To be fair, Uryû had never been particularly fond of his name. It sounded too similar to his father’s, Ryûken, and it felt as if it was ready to convert him into a clone of his disliked father. Ichigo was a much more beautiful name, but there was no way he was going to say that.
Instead, he gave an apathetic shrug. He didn’t want Ichigo to leave the shop just yet, but he wasn’t sure how to go about striking up more conversation. Initiating conversations had always been a weakness of Uryû’s, a glaring reminder of how little of a social life he had.
Ichigo picked up a pretty white and gold copy of The Two Towers, holding it as if he was attempting to appraise it. Nodding as if pleased with what he saw, he turned back to Uryû. “I assume you’re a book lover yourself, seeing that you help out here?”
“You could say that.” Uryu found himself twirling a strand of his ink-black hair around his finger, but caught himself. That was not acting cool and collected. That was acting like a lovestruck teenager.
Which was technically what he was.
How embarassing was that?
Trying to hide his growing blush, Uryû frantically cast around for something to ask Ichigo to sustain the conversation without looking like a total creep.
“So…which part’s your favourite?”
Ichigo’s eyebrow raised questioningly. “Excuse me?”
Uryû gestured towards the book in Ichigo’s long, dextrous hand. “Your favourite book in the trilogy.”
“Oh!” Ichigo’s face lit up with a smile that Uryû couldn’t help notice was absolutely gorgeous, brighter than an autumn sunset illuminating a stormy grey sky. “I’ve always liked The Two Towers. You know, something about the journey is more important than the destination.” He seemed to want to say more, but caught himself. Was he looking at Uryû? Was he trying to make eye contact? He slid his eyes to the floor to avoid Ichigo’s intense gaze. “What about you?”
Even though he knew his answer to that question, Uryû was not prepared to have his query so suddenly turned on him. He stammered a stream of sludgy, incomprehensible babble for a short moment while he tried to gain control of his suddenly tangled tongue. After a few harried breaths, he finally managed to get something intelligible out. “Fellowship.”
“Why?”
Damn that Ichigo, making me talk more than I have to. Uryû was trying to ignore the increasingly fizzy melting sensation in his core at his peer’s words.
“I…don’t know. I suppose I enjoy reading how the entire adventure began.”
Ichigo cocked his eyebrow again. “Is this some sort of veiled way of telling me you like Bombadil?”
A horrifying notion. “Of course not!” For a brief moment outrage eclipsed Uryû’s awkwardness. “Tom Bombadil is irrelevant to the rest of the plot and poses more questions than he answers. I skip over that chapter every time I read. How does he even know that Frodo’s still there when he puts the Ring on? It’s absolutely absurd.”
Ichigo…laughed? He opened his mouth and sounds vaguely reminiscent of laughter bubbled forth. “You didn’t have to get so defensive. I was just asking a question.”
Who made this guy so damned cute when he laughed? Uryû felt like he was about to black out at any moment.
“Would you get defensive if I asked you if you liked Bombadil?”
“Probably.” The word rode out on the tattered remnants of a chuckle. “It’s okay; I guess getting all worked up like that only shows how much you care.”
Uryû cared far more about The Lord of the Rings than he was willing to admit. Except…just maybe…to Ichigo. Since he seemed to have a similar passion.
The awkward silence settled uncomfortably around both of them, with Uryû praying to no one in particular that Ichigo would continue the conversation and not just walk off to buy the books he was holding.
He had not planned for what Ichigo actually said.
“Well, it would always be fun to talk with someone else who likes it as much as I do.” He reddened slightly at that admission. “My sisters don’t really get it. Not enough to have a proper discussion. Would you like my number?” The last sentence felt like it was supposed to be rehearsed but instead fell out of Ichigo’s mouth sideways.
A stranger asking for his number? Uryû thought that sort of thing only happened in fanfiction. Not that he read any of that, of course. As a result, his response was just to stare at Ichigo with his jaw unhinged like a snake.
Ichigo seemed to be hit with a sudden realization of what he’d just done, because his cheeks were shifting to match his hair.
“You don’t have to—that’s kind of weird, you don’t have to—“ He was running his hands through his hair like a safety net. He’d set the white book down on a chair, and Uryû distantly thought that he’d have to put it back later.
“No. I’d be happy to.” Uryû’s sensible half was kicking him for offering his phone number to a stranger.
A near stranger. He knew his name, after all.
Ichigo was visibly shaking when he wrote Uryû’s provided number down (he was trying to hide it, but wasn’t doing a particularly good job; his pencil was shaking and the numbers were only just legible through the wobbles), meaning he had to go over each digit multiple times before moving on. This gave Uryû lots of time to question the wisdom of his decision, start to worry if he had a stalker, and then realize that a genuine creepy stalker probably wouldn’t be trembling over a phone number that much. Maybe they would—Uryû thankfully didn’t know all that much about stalkers. But what if he was about to learn more? The idea froze him.
“Maybe…maybe sometime…now that we have each other’s number, of course, so we can plan…we could maybe…” So much stuttering seemed quite contrary to how Ichigo had held himself earlier. “Maybe we could get lunch sometime? And talk books?”
Uryû’s heart fluttered with hope. “I’d like that.” What was he doing? He just gave a stalker an opportunity to…well…stalk him!
Despite himself, Uryû added, “You’re not a stalker, are you?”
Ichigo looked temporarily flummoxed at this proposal. “You’ve never asked a cool person you met for their number?”
Cool? Did Ichigo just say cool? Uryû had never been called cool before. He had hardly even ever entertained the possibility that he could even remotely be considered cool by anyone. He worked in a bookstore, and he was a teenager who spent his free time making himself clothing (read: fancy costume pieces) and embroidering. There was nothing even remotely cool about any of that.
His baffled pause must have lasted longer than he intended, because Ichigo was giving him a funny look. Even that was, naturally, suffocatingly cute.
“I guess not.” Uryû wasn’t about to say that he only had two people in his contacts, the bookshop owner and his father (with whom his relationship was terse at best, and remained only as an emergency). He had to stop himself from wrapping a sleek black strand of his hair around his finger. Uryû Ishida did not act like a lovestruck preteen girl, thank you very much.
Except maybe he did. Ichigo was so cute he wasn’t thinking straight. Straight. He almost laughed aloud at himself, a habit borne of too much time spent alone. Maybe he did need a friend.
Or something more.
“I was…just startled, that’s all. I’d love to go out and have lunch sometime. Maybe…tomorrow? I don’t have any other plans.” When did he ever have other plans?
A soft, genuine smile played across Ichigo’s lips. “Sounds good. You pick the place?”
“No. I…don’t eat out often. You’d know better than I would.”
The store owner emerged back into Uryû’s line of sight and Ichigo hastily turned to buy the small Shakespeare volume he held in his hand, but not before he flashed a genuine smile in Uryû’s direction that carried with it the promise of warmth, friendship, and maybe—just maybe, if Uryû was lucky—a little bit of love.
“I know a nice place. I’ll text you the address later if you like. See you tomorrow?”
For the first time in a very long time, Uryû smiled at something another person said to him.
“Of course.”