flatmate || closed for quincyspride
Ichigo raises a hand to press the elevator button only to hesitate again with a curse, bringing it instead to shove through already disordered strands of orange hair. It shouldn’t be this hard. He’s fought wars. He’s crossed worlds. He kills monsters for a living. Yet, every time he somehow talks himself into pressing the number that will take him to Ishida’s floor, the image of rejection and the subsequent humiliation he’s likely to face has it lowering again. Dammit.
This is ridiculous. He can’t stand here all night.
Chad is who he would rather crash over with, except he’s gone again to who-even-knows-where-- probably working another offbeat job just to make end’s meat, and so Ichigo finds himself sinking to new lows to find a place to rest for a few hours. There’s no way he’ll try Urahara’s. He’d even, for a very brief instant, considered texting Inoue before scratching that idea out altogether. Even if it was innocent, something of that nature could ruin her reputation permanently if word got out.
So he glares at the glowing circle, lifting a finger to hover over the surface again as the elevator doors slide open and his choice is made for him. He blinks at Ishida, mouth opening to explain his presence, only for nothing to actually come out.
