Claimed

Claimed [Bleach/Yaoi]

Claimed

·         Final Draft: CHAPTER ONE

                        o   Author’s Note: Completely Americanized, I’m sorry. My not being from Japan and all I probably messed up a few things. Plus –san, -kun, and–chan are all unknown territory for me, so excuse the usage of them (or perhaps help me). I have watched the English dubbed version of Bleach and once, a long time ago, read the manga. Soul Reapers are shinigami, too, apparently. Uryu is also spelled with two u’s at the end somewhere.  My characters might be tad OOC, and for that, I am incredibly sorry. This is my first Bleach FF and I really, really love my idea for it, so I beg of you not to judge too harshly. This story has been haunting my brain for some time and I have finally had the guts to write it down.  Note that this is also a boyxboy (or soft yaoi), if you are not a person who enjoys this, please don't read it a post a rude comment, thanks.

            It was autumn in Karakura, Japan, perfectly so. Ishida Uryu stared dully out of the classroom window, already wishing for the ending bell to sound. He would do near anything to have that retched binging to blast through the school. He would even kiss Rukia if his Quincy pride didn’t get in the way.

            As a matter of fact, the first day of school always brought the worst in students, but specifically one band of friends. Ichigo Kurosaki would endlessly groan, Orihime Inoue would attempt to look at the Brightside, Chad would stay silent and nod, Rukia would act as if the world were rainbows and pocky sticks, while Uryu would indifferently watch the leaves blow by. He and his friends had spent a long summer training with Urahara in his underground room. If anything, school beginning was a break from that monstrosity of a hole.

            Everyone was buzzing about the three new students, one of which was in their grade and a transfer student at that. It was rare for KarakuraHigh School to receive transfer students, especially ones from America.

            “Aren’t you excited, Ishida-kun?” Orihime blurted out, laughing as she always did. As usual, her blue flower pins sparkled in the sunlight, though she was shaded in her end of the row. Her arms were raised in such a fashion that her shirt rode up, along with her not-too-innocent cup size. It all bothered Uryu immensely.  

            “For?” Uryu asked casually, knowing full well what she was referring to.

            Orihime pouted, dropping her hands to her lap. Before she could respond, though, their teacher clapped her hands loudly, calling for her students to quiet down.

            “Welcome back, my lovely students! I hope your summers were eventful and fun filled, but onward with the educational year.” Misato Ochi then turned to her left, flourishing her arms as she does.  Next to her stood two people, a teen and a worrisome looking mother. It looked as if the two were quarrelling about whether the woman should stay or not. When the boy seemed to have finally convinced the overfed woman to leave, she kissed him on the cheek. His tanned and freckled features seemed to jumble into a ‘that woman disgusts me’ face. Uryu could relate.

            Ichigo’s laugh could be heard through the whole school.

            The boy stared at him, green eyes blazing, and said, “Fuck off.”

            Was that English? The whole class tilted its head in unison.

            “Um, anyhow, this is our transfer student, Zayn Greenmon! Woo!” Misato-sensei exclaimed.

            “Woo…” muttered the boy, dually named Zayn now.

            “Zayn, you may take a seat in the back, beside Ishida-kun. Ishida, will you raise your hand?”

            The said raven-haired boy raised his hand lowly. Just what he needed, some loud-mouth American to disturb him. It would be troublesome to say the least. His days of mindless thoughts were now over. His moments of silent sewing would now be interrupted by snarky judgments and quick insults.

            “Oo~ lucky, Uryu gets to sit next to the transfer.” Orihime grumbled quietly as she could.

            The blonde haired freak strutted down the aisle, his barely-there spirit energy disrupting the balance Ichigo and his gang had skillfully made. They adjusted to the newest amount, releasing as little as they could as to not attract Hollows. He plunked himself down, setting his book-bag on the desk in front of him. With its worn straps and duct-taped sides, it could hardly be called a book-bag anymore.

            “Hey, my name’s Zayn.” He spoke in formal Japanese, an accent lacing his words. They sounded foreign and broken in his mouth. His incompetence to learn the correct dialect annoyed Uryu. One tanned hand was outstretched, a greeting that didn’t conform to the raven’s norm. Looking sharply up at the idiotic blonde, Uryu absent-mindedly noted the lip piercing and confused look. Everything about this teen bothered him.

            “Ishida Uryu,” was all he said before directed his gaze back outside. The offered handshake was left untouched. Thinking the conversation was done, he let his mind wander onto what he would train later on in the day. Perhaps he could just do the basics and work more on mastering what he already knew. One never could judge when the extra pract—

            “Pst! Psst!” came from beside him.

            If it weren’t for his Quincy pride, he’d have snapped the idiot’s head of his shoulders. Slowly, oh so slowly, the black haired boy turned in his seat. Those dark blue eyes glared unamusedly at the teen next to him.

            “Yes?”

            “Would you mind sharing your textbook with me?” Zayn’s question was quiet but it seemed as if the whole world had heard it. The class went dead silent for a moment, before the teacher continued on with the lesson. Uryu could hear his friends murmuring from the sidelines. They were doubtful of Uryu, but when Ichigo muttered that he would share his textbook, it was decided. If a Soul Reaper would share, then God forbid, so would a Quincy.

            The grumble of his desk striking across the floor sounded. When the two desks were side-by-side finally, Uryu slapped his textbook on the crease between the edges. Realizing he left his leather bag on the floor where his desk was originally, he reached over for it.

            His and Zayn’s shoulders just barely touched. Only gliding by each other’s for a millisecond as the Japan native repositioned himself in his chair. But in the millisecond of brush by, Zayn Greenmon’s whole world flipped.

            Inside him, something stirred. Something protective. Something possessive. Something telling him to take what is rightfully his.

            Something that is telling him to Claim.