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house of butterflies
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Ulquiorra will always be a mystery.
His entire existence is shrouded in the shadows, creeping along the walls with long and spiny fingers, whose one sole purpose is to end.
But his appearance is not what unnerves people.
His intentions are.
More so because he holds the very same china-doll expression, whether it be to deliver you dinner, or to drive a sword through your chest and rip out your heart with his bare hands. With painted skin and no beating chest, he is a walking gravestone.
Ulquiorra is the embodiment of fear.
Fear of death.
Fear of pain.
Fear of solitude.
Fear to all except one Inoue Orihime.
To her, he is like a book. The more she learns with every turning page, the more she is compelled to read. And soon, it is impossible to cease at all.
She loves to read.
Orihime likes to poke and prod and cajole the Arrancar, until he threatens her with venom and insidious intent.
She does not yield.
Slowly, he allows her.
And slowly, she is braver.
She draws shapes and pictures on his outstretched palm, smiling brighter than the starlight seeping through the prison bars.
Warm, steady fingers on icyicy skin, colder and paler than the moon itself.
Sparks shock and nip at her delicate heart, and she would whisper, "Feels like butterflies in my stomach."
And he would stare blankly at her flushed, pink cheeks, before saying, "Are you ill, woman?"
"No," she would reply, bliss by her side. "It's a feeling you get when your heart decides you like someone."
He pauses, so still and silent, like he's dead. (Maybe he is.)
"That is absurd. How can a mere organ possibly obtain such complex emotions?"
She would try and try to explain that the heart is not literal, not physical, and sometimes, perhaps, she would wear it on her sleeve.
He does not understand.
She laughs, a wry laugh, and traces the tear mark on his coldcold cheek with a shaky hand. He catches it, with enough power to almost crush her fragile bones.
Emerald glows through dark, heavy lashes.
"Is this your heart?"
The house of butterflies in her gut says yes.
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Ash.
There is so much ash.
Ulquiorra is disappearing, ink black legs disintegrating at a frightening pace. He is his own hourglass.
But he is beautiful when he is dying, Orihime thinks.
"Are you afraid of me, woman?"
With glassy eyes, she trembles and shakes. Not in fear of him.
In fear of losing him.
"I am..." She swallows thickly, all sorts of fears. (But never the right one.) "Not afraid."
And then, a single hand is outstretched, like a silent plea before the end. His eyes, lonely and dim, speak more clearly than his words ever could.
Something lurches within, and she reaches out, desperately in vain.
Ulquiorra leaves nothing behind but a handful of ashes and a lingering thought, this is what a heart is.
One by one, her butterflies drop dead.
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