I.
She sits up in the dark room, clutching the blankets to her chest. The chill of the air conditioning sends goosebumps blossoming across her bare skin, but that does not compare to the pounding of her head and the blind panic that she is drowning in. Everything that happened last night is a blank, and Orihime Inoue is terrified.
Where is she? There is a strange scent in the air and on her skin, a soreness in her limbs whenever she moves. A glance at the bedside table reveals her phone and purse, carefully arranged just so the edges lie parallel with the table. The clock radio says it is 3:00 PM.
Her hair is slightly damp. It might be from sweat, or it might be from a shower. The lack of memory is feeding the fear. "Think, Orihime," she whispers aloud, comforted by the sound of her own voice. This, at least is familiar. When one is an orphan, the most common conversations are with yourself. She swings her knees over the side of the bed, glad to see that her underwear is still on.
There is a bathroom. She stumbles towards it, wincing as the bright light blinds her temporarily. When her vision returns, all she can do is stare. The bathroom is luxurious, yes, but the most striking feature is the stark whiteness of it. Even the taps are clear. There is no colour here, save for her own. She catches her reflection in the spotless mirror, and is surprised to see a neat braid going down her shoulder, her blue hairpins keeping her bangs up.
A flash of memory- long, slender, black-tipped fingers holding her haphazardly knotted hair, sending the pins skittering across the floor as she bends over the porcelain throne to empty her stomach.
Orihime finds a toothbrush behind the mirror (white, of course, and still in it's packaging) and scrubs at her teeth until the foam is pink and the sour taste is gone. She inspects herself in the mirror slowly, because her head is still spinning. All her makeup has been scrubbed off, so thoroughly she could have done it herself. Maybe she did. She pulls off the hairpins, placing them on the counter. A sense of urgency makes her step into the shower until her fingers wrinkle. She finds a bump on the top of her head, a little bit sore but not too large. The mystery deepens.
By the time she is done, the panic has been swallowed up by a cool, blessed numbness. She flicks on the light in the bedroom to find that it is also the same, unbroken white: white beddings, white furniture, white walls. Even the drapes that block out the light are white. She checks her phone again. The battery is dead. Wonderful. Is she in some serial killer's house? Yesterday's clothes are folded neatly at the foot of the bed. Her green dress, a thrift-shop purchase, and her gold sandals, borrowed from her roommate Tatsuki. She quickly dresses, afraid that whoever owns this house might burst in here.
There had been a party, she remembered now, at one of the fraternity houses off-campus, to celebrate the end of the semester. She had gone with Tatsuki and Ichigo and Uryuu, but had gotten separated from them in the madness. And then… blankness. This was exactly what the media warned girls about, especially college girls. Greek letters are faintly stamped on her wrist. She brings it up to her face, surprised it survived the scrubbing. Alpha… Rho… Chi.
Yes, that was the fraternity who had thrown the party. She really should have said no, being an art major. That was so far from her scene, but Tatsuki and Ichigo, who were both pre-law, said they needed to investigate something. Even the med student Uryuu had come along, since the Alpha Rho Chi parties were legendary.
She looks around the room a bit more, trying to find any traces of the occupant. The closet is full of identical white shirts, and black jeans. There are no photos, only books about war, and strategy, and logic. The book jackets are white, as if they had been selected for colour instead of topic.
Orihime makes the bed, more out of habit, than anything else. "Silly Orihime, you might have been kidnapped, but you are making the bed," she laughs aloud, needing to hear a voice, even her own, to fight off the panic. She does not dare think the r-word, does not even want to consider what might have happened that is hiding in the back of her memory hole.
Packing her phone into the purse, she takes a deep breath, steeling herself, and then opens the door. The room she is in opens to a long hallway, also white. Is she in some sort of hospital? But there is no sign of anyone else. Maybe she is in an alien ship, she thinks hysterically. All this white is offending her artist sensibilities, making her fingers itch for her crayons, her oils, anything to cover this blinding blankness.
She tiptoes to the hallway, bag raised at the ready to bash any henchmen that might jump out. That's what heroines do , she thinks, boosting her confidence.
Everything in this house is white, white, white. She makes it to what looks like a living room, with a three-story picture window that flows into a skylight and a view of the forest that makes her breath hitch. It is the first colour she has seen since she awakened, and there is something comforting about seeing the trees up close. Still, it worries her. She has no idea where she is.
A movement behind her catches her attention, and she whirls around. Then she stares. A boy - no, a young man, really, lies curled up in a ball on the couch, sleeping under a snowy blanket. His dark hair is a wild mess that movie stars only wish they had, and the sunlight falls across his arm, thrown carelessly over his head. She can hear his deep, even breaths, and for some reason, her stomach is full of butterflies.
She tiptoes closer to get a better look at his face. His shirt is pulled up, exposing a tight torso and the bottom of a tattoo on his pectoral muscle. His arms, unfortunately, obscure his face. "A little more," she pleads, as if his limbs could hear her and move away for her benefit. She can see the corner of a heavy eyebrow, the edge of a scowl, and a jaw that is clenched. Her heart races. Can it be… Ulquiorra Cifer?
But… he hates her. Her mind goes back to the first day of the first semester, when she accidentally bumped into him at the hallway. He wore a mask, the kind that people use when they have colds, but his cold green eyes burned into her; she had painted them into her art projects for the next three months, unable to forget.
Since then, in the two years that passed, every time they'd had a class together, he has been downright mean to her. In fact, he refuses to call her anything but "woman," or "that woman," or "trash." She and Tatsuki speculate that he may have OCD or some sort of illness, since he is always gloved and masked. No, it can't be… That guy does not have a kind bone in his body. Still… She has never really seen the bottom half of his face. His contemptuous eyes have always been more than enough to send her scurrying away.
He shifts restlessly, and her hands fly to cover her mouth. It IS Ulquiorra Cifer. Is this his house, then?
She crouches down next to him, studying his sleeping features. Minus his typical blank hostility, he actually isn't that bad looking. Before she realizes it, she is pulling her pencil and notebook out of her purse, and drawing him. Her pencil moves quickly, capturing the curl of his ridiculously long eyelashes, the cast of his jaw and the fullness of his lips. He is pale, but the sun colours his skin to gold. She has never really looked at him before now; he is breathtaking.
No, no. She shakes her head to clear it. He is a jerk. A jerk who hates her.
But… she leans down, until she can feel his breath on her lips. What would it be like to kiss him? Temptation pulls her closer, closer. His scent is clean and woodsy, and lying on the pillows has caused indentations on his cheek. He looks so innocent. At the last second, she pulls away.
His eyes open and she is drowning in them. "Woman, what are you doing?"
Caught off-guard, she lurches backward, landing hard on her backside. It is difficult to be graceful in a party dress. "Ulquiorra, I… I wasn't sure you were breathing," she improvises, mentally patting herself on the back for the lie.
He sits up, his hair falling perfectly around his face. No bedhead for Ulquiorra Cifer. It isn't fair, she thinks. Her eyes meet his again and she can see his annoyance. "Why would I not be breathing?" he mutters, pulling the hem of his shirt down to cover his pale belly. "Will you please leave my house now? You can catch a bus from the corner." He rises easily to his feet, and automatically folds his blanket. He is barefooted, and it is odd but she is mesmerised by his toes.
"How did I get here?" She asks, bracing herself on the coffee table to get to her feet. It tips over, sending her stumbling again. With a sigh, he drops the blanket and catches her under the arms.
"You would lose your head if it wasn't attached to you," he tells her, releasing her once she is standing. Then, he grabs some hand sanitizer and wipes his hands. She would be offended, if she didn't notice that there was a bottle of disinfectant within reach from every corner of this room. "And don't play dumb, Orihime. You snuck into my car at the party." He points to a coat rack where her trench coat is hanging.
"What?" She blinks at him, confused.
"If you really like me that much, I have to tell you now, I don't like you." His harsh words have her hackles rising. "I have to admit, it isn't every day that a woman sneaks into the car, completely inebriated, and passes out in the back seat. Did you wait until I had to leave the door unlocked to pay the parking ticket? I was tempted to leave you in there overnight, but the temperatures dropped below freezing last night and your death would not be worth going to jail. Please leave now, so I can disinfect the house of your disease-ridden presence."
To her horror, tears of fury and humiliation rise to her eyes. "Excuse me, I have no idea what you're talking about. I don't like you at all, you conceited ass!" With the shreds of her dignity, she hobbles to the doorway, grabbing her coat. If she were cool like Tatsuki, she would have an excellent parting line to hurl at him, to leave him with feelings of guilt or remorse. If she were strong like Ichigo, she could punch him and relieve her frustration.
She stomps out the gate, slamming the door behind her without a backward glance. She does not see him watching her from the front window. On the bus ride home, she realizes she left her blue hairpins in his bathroom. With a groan, she buries her face in her hands. There is no way she will ever get them back, not if she has to deal with him. In fact, he will probably throw the pins away. With a growl of frustration, she mentally kicks herself. He looked so innocent in his sleep. Too bad he is heartless.
A/N: This is a birthday fic for 29thSpirit!
Title by Lilarin
Cover by isharaine
Cover Image by mmp-stock at deviantart