Ichigo hitched up his dress with a snarl quite unbecoming for a lady in the middle of a busy morning market. Several men stared at his rather hairy legs with wide eyed fascination and slight surprise. Despite being a member of the Kurosaki household, Ichigo wasn't treated like one of the nobles. A young man his age – barely past eighteen, really; three months and fourteen days into nineteen years – made to wear rags and dresses passed down from his stepsisters all in the name of kindness, as his stepmother put it.
Not that he really minded; skirts and dresses were breezy and he never had to worry about clipping his pubes in cords and strings. But it would be nice to be able to dress like the rest of the village boys, like maybe once in a blue moon.
His father, Isshin, had remarried after his wife, Masaki, had passed on during childbirth with two beautiful little girls – Ichigo's biological twin sisters. They too, passed on due to illness in their lungs when they were mere infants. Ichigo grew up as an only child. Thinking his only son needed another mother, Isshin made the biggest mistake of his life; remarrying the prissiest, cruellest, most calculative bitch on the planet. Of course, she hadn't shown her true colours until after Isshin had died in an accident while on a hunt in the mountains during winter. And now Ichigo was truly the only heir to the Kurosaki valuables – the large house, where he was only allowed to occupy the kitchens and the cellar, the stables, which he was forced to muck out and groom the five remaining horses, and the land surrounding the Kurosaki home, which extended as far as forty acres – close to two million square feet of wide, fertile land. Oh, and about fifty million gold coins in ten large, heavy chests, hidden away in a storage room adjacent to the cellar.
Not that he was allowed to touch his inheritance money, which was kept under lock and key.
His stepmother and stepsisters – the beastly witches – watched him like hawks each and every day of his miserable existence in the once-happy Kurosaki home. They started him on chores and menial tasks, treating him like one of the servants from an early age. His stepmother restricted his education, took all his toys and gave them to his stepsisters, and ragged him day and night for being the sole cause of his father's death.
If only he hadn't asked his father to bring him back a wood carving from the mountains before he'd went on the hunt.
But he'd been a little kid back then. How could a seven year old predict the future?
Back to the present.
Ichigo yanked his dress up around his knees and tied the ragged ends into a knot so he could move easier. His hair was unwashed, greasy with oil, and hung around his face in a feeble attempt at an orange halo. The thing he hated being teased about the most was the colour of his hair. His stepmother would seethe every time she caught him staring at the portrait of his deceased mother; the one and only photo of her that was left in the house. It was the only photo she would ever allow him to keep.
Masaki, too, had flaming orange hair like his.
She was nothing like his stepmother. His stepmother was nothing like her.
It hurt.
Living like this, being tormented mentally, verbally, and physically. Each and every time his stepmother would get a little too drunk on her bottles of wine, she would stab at him with her cigarette. With each passing day, as his inheritance money dwindled in the hands on his stepmother and stepsisters, their moods grew fouler and Ichigo gained more cigarette burns.
It was hell.
But this was the only home he knew.
This was the only way he could live.
It was a harsher life out there, Ichigo knew. Things could be worse. He could be working the streets as a prostitute – no education, no skills in swordsmanship, and no clothes to fit his gender – as his stepmother always proclaimed. A fine young man would be that of the likes of the prince, whose parents were filthy rich and lived in a large castle uphill of their large, bustling village. The prince was a young man about Ichigo's age, give or take maybe a couple years older. Every young lady in the kingdom aspired to be the prince's bride, but so far none had been chosen despite the numerous balls that had been thrown in the hopes that the young prince would somehow meet some random beauty and fall in love with her on the spot, just like in fairy tales.
Ichigo scoffed.
In his opinion, the young prince was smart. No point getting hitched to someone who would depend on you for bread and butter for the rest of their life. Why marry someone whose sole idea on the purpose of marriage was so she could live off your wealth – which she didn't help earn in the first place? No doubt the prince's money and valuables were all inherited from the King and Queen, but Ichigo was sure he could fend for himself when it boiled right down to finance and business and investments.
Unlike him.
Ichigo wasn't even allowed near a book in the house. Not that his step-family were all that brainy, either. What was left of the educational books stayed hidden in the vast library, which was locked and the key probably thrown into the well nearby, rusting and stinking up the water.
Life sucked. Big time. But Ichigo wasn't a quitter.
He heaved the gunny sack full of rice and another smaller sack filled with flour over both his shoulders, and prepared himself to walk back to the Kurosaki home from the market area. It wasn't that far, but it wasn't exactly near, either. Still, he had gotten used to it after years of continuous slogging to and from the marketplace, carting food he would have to clean and cook for his horrid stepmother and ungrateful stepsisters. His father would be proud of him, he knew. Even if he hadn't really accomplished anything in life.
Like killing off his stepmother, for instance. Yeah, that would be a dream come true.
People – neighbours, friends of the family and the like – called out to him in a friendly manner as he walked through the busy market. Ichigo smiled and engaged himself in friendly banter for politeness' sake. He wished he could stop someone – anyone – and tell them his whole life story, but that would mean explaining everything, especially the reason why he was in a dress instead of a regular shirt and trousers and boots. And that would be embarrassing.
The reason being – his stepmother had told everyone in the village that Ichigo was a girl.
Just so she didn't have to outfit him in boy clothing as he kept getting older. One selfish little idea from a certain selfish someone, and another someone's entire life would be destroyed, inside out. It was an obvious lie, because most of the villagers could definitely tell Ichigo's height, deep voice and broad shoulders were nothing short of masculine.
Ichigo's chuckle at the thought of his stepmother falling off a cliff turned into a hiss as the sack of rice dug into his shoulder, successfully pressing down on his aching, tired muscles. When he got home, he vowed to clean up and complete the chores fast so he could lie down on his lumpy bed and give himself a shoulder massage.
Which never got around to happening.
His stepmother was having a guest over, and that meant Ichigo had to clean the fireplace in the parlour – which was only ever used for hoity-toity company. Ichigo sighed as his stepmother screeched at him for arriving home late; the morning's laundry was still hanging out on the line, and the floor of the dining room hadn't been scrubbed enough for her satisfaction.
Ichigo swallowed all his spite and anger and misery, and got down on his knees to set about scrubbing the bricks of the fireplace. His hands were soon black with leftover ashes and soot, which successfully blackened his face in the cleaning process. Satisfied that her stepson was doing all the work, his stepmother flounced out of the parlour to order one of the servants around.
Trotting into the parlour to witness Ichigo's abject misery, his stepsisters sniggered at him from behind their lacy red and white handheld fans. He bared his teeth at one of them as she swatted at his hair with one gloved hand.
"You've got no presence!" She cackled, flicking at his forehead, where a straggly lock of orange hair hung limply. "You look worse than a serving girl, Black-face."
"Black-face! Ooh!" His other sister crowed. "Good one, sister."
Ichigo rolled his eyes. "Don't you have stable boys to flirt with?"
"We'd rather pick on you."
"You know," one of the stepsisters said gleefully. "We should stop calling you Ichigo."
"Fine idea, that." The other giggled. "We should call you Cinderblock."
"No way, that's too long a nickname."
"Cinder, then."
"Perfect. Much more imaginative than Black-face, though a lot less demeaning."
The stepsisters cackled like it was the funniest thing in the world.
Ichigo ignored them as best he could.
He'd barely settled in to clean up the mess his sisters had made on the floor – how anyone could be so clumsy while eating scones was the question – when his stepmother shooed him out of the parlour.
"Get to the front door, and be quick about it. There's a Ministry official outside from the King's Castle!"
The way she said it made it sound so grand and extravagant, but when Ichigo reached the front door and pulled it open all he saw was a regular elderly man in a page's outfit, looking pompous and like he'd just swallowed a lemon. Or two, judging by the look on his face when he noticed Ichigo in drag.
"Um, hi. Welcome to the Kurosaki household."
The old page gave him a stiff bow, but refrained from saying a word.
So this was the guest of honour for the day. He looked like someone's displeased grandfather. Nevertheless, Ichigo invited him in politely and ushered the royal page into the parlour room, where the old man promptly sat down on a red velvet cushioned armchair – Ichigo's real mother's favourite place to rest on – and flicked the scroll in his hand open.
His troll-like stepmother and stepsisters gathered round and listened in rapt attention as the royal page read out the announcement in a creaky voice.
"His Majesty the King and Her Royal Highness the Queen, are throwing a Ball for the Royal Prince Grimmjow, heir to the throne of the Kingdom of Karakura three days from now, on the eve of the Royal Prince Grimmjow's twenty-first birthday. Dancing commences at eight till one in the morning. Light refreshments and drinks will be served. The dress code is as follows; long gowns, hems made to flow past the ankles . . ."
The old guy prattled on about the rules and regulations and venue. Ichigo drummed his fingers on the wall as he stood in a corner, bored to tears but wearing his ready-at-your-service stance. Another ball for the Royal Prince, who was also an only child. Ichigo felt a little sorry for him, and also a little jealous. Poor guy probably doesn't get a say in whatever his parents plan for him. Seriously, this has got to be the nine hundredth ball thrown in the Royal Castle since he's turned eighteen.
Then he shrugged to himself, deciding that it was none of his business anyway. The Prince had his own problems, and Ichigo had his. They were on totally different levels, status wise and future wise.
Life went on.
x
"Hurry up!" One of his stepsisters shouted excitedly as she rushed past him, three pins in her regal-looking bun. "We're going to be late!"
"My dress is too long!" Cried the other, one hand on her breasts and the other fumbling with the folds of her fabric wrapped hideously around her plump, lumpy body. "Don't make me run; I'll fall!"
They stopped in their tracks long enough to sneer at Ichigo.
"Look who hasn't been invited to the ball." The older stepsister smirked.
"No surprise; he's not good enough." The other snickered.
Ichigo winced as one of them pinched his arm, digging her nails in cruelly. "Go and get me my mask, lazybones!"
"Cinder!" Ichigo's stepmother hollered. "Get in here and help me with my corset, you useless layabout!"
"Okay. Coming!"
His trolls of stepsisters laughed at his misery and forced him to hold a small mirror up for them so they could preen.
Ichigo complied with gritted teeth, then had to stifle a laugh as he stepped into his stepmother's large bedroom and caught sight of her struggling with her straining corset. He helped her tie her corset strings and stuff them into the insides of her dress, which stretched tightly over her flabby body.
"We're going." His stepmother announced rather needlessly as she hobbled her way to the front door in heels two point five sizes too small for her. "Be a good boy and clean the kitchens, Cinder."
With a cackle, she was out the door and clambering eagerly into the carriage, followed by her two daughters, both pushing and squealing and arguing like a couple of nightmares. Decked out in all their bejewelled accessories and grandeur, it was evident they would be home late, possibly in the wee hours of the morning.
"Yes." Ichigo pumped a fist as he watched the carriage trundle away into the sunset. "A whole night all to myself. It's like a dream come true."
And it was.
Ichigo slid into a bathtub in what used to be his mother's bathroom – now his stepmother's – and soaked himself in the deliciously warm soapy water that gave off a divine fragrance. He squeezed some shampoo out from a bottle and massaged it through his hair.
It felt so good to be able to have time off to himself like this.
He could even wank in peace without having to worry about privacy issues, like someone walking in on him, or his stepmother hollering for him to haul ass out of the bathroom and into the kitchen to cook something that would suit her delicate taste.
No sooner had his right hand crept down beneath the soapy mass of bubbles and water, sliding down his toned stomach and closing in on his half-erect cock did the young man hear a loud popping sound coming from somewhere in his stepmother's bed chambers.
There were footsteps, and someone entered the bathroom, successfully blocking the doorway with a huge, ominous frame.
It was a man.
Ichigo's eyes widened in a mixture of shock and fright. "Hey! What're you –!"
"Shut up!" The man waved a long sword with a bright gold star stuck to the tip as he growled. "Now that yer clean, let's make ya presentable fer the ball!"
Ichigo noticed the guy had a sort of speech impediment. And a deep, manly voice that definitely screamed masculine, despite the strange black spikes on his head. There were bells attached to the ends, which jingled and jangled every which way he moved.
How the hell did a guy this weird get into his house? He was sure everything had been locked; the guards situated at the front gates would definitely let him know before allowing entry to anyone.
"Don't make me haul yer ass outta there, punk."
Nervous and afraid, Ichigo stayed in the tub, frozen to the spot.
"Get movin'!"
He dashed out in a flurry of soapy water and suds, flailing for balance as a towel was thrown his way. Somehow, a weird burglar had found his way in and was now about to a) kidnap him and sell him off, b) kidnap him and make him his servant or c) get impatient with his refusal to cooperate and stab him on the spot.
Ichigo cast around the bathroom for a weapon. He highly doubted the rows of shampoo bottles or soap bars would make a dent in this huge stranger's bare torso, which had heavily defined pectorals and a six-pack.
The man was already walking out, heading toward his stepmother's comfy, fluffy bed, which had already been made. There was a dress lying on it.
"Yer one heck of a runt, boy." The man grunted. "Ain't no dress in the kingdom gonna fit yer bony frame."
"I work out." Ichigo said defiantly, wrapping the towel round his waist. "I lift sacks of rice, do push-ups and all that. On a regular basis, too."
"Fuck that shit. Yer underfed. Way too small fer this dress." The man was making twitchy moves with his sword. "What's yer size, boy?"
"I'm not wearing another dress."
"Don't matter even if ya do, ya already lost yer man card."
"Fuck you."
"Yer a goddamn runt, I don't want ya. Now tell me yer size."
"I'm a medium." Ichigo muttered, feeling silly and wondering if this was all a figment of his imagination.
The star on the tip glowed a brilliant white before it dimmed and died out. The dress on the bed had turned into a white shirt, black trousers and a pair of black suede boots. There was even a little navy blue jacket to match. A plain black mask with three diamonds inset at both ends of the eye openings sat beside the clothing on the bed.
Ichigo growled. "And where do you think I'm going with that?"
"To the ball." The man growled back.
"Why should I?"
"Ya wanna be stuck here ya whole life? Bendin' to rules ya don't even like?" The man looked disgusted.
Ichigo sighed and ran a hand through his wet hair. He smelled like roses. "I don't know. I wasn't even invited."
"Well get over it, yer bein' invited now."
"With you as my date?" Ichigo made a face. "No offense, but . . . who are you, anyway?"
"Kenpachi." The man strode over and held out a large hand. "Yer newly appointed fairy godfather. Good to finally meet ya."
Ichigo grasped his hand and shook it. "I'm Ichigo. This feels like a total dream."
"Yer gonna meet a total dream." Kenpachi growled out as he chuckled. "But that's only gonna happen if ya get enough guts up to go to the ball."
And before Ichigo could protest, Kenpachi waved his sword again. Ichigo found himself all dry, dressed in the prepared outfit, and completely handsome. He still smelled like roses. Kenpachi herded him out the front door, where a large pumpkin awaited, with six little white mice squeaking in position beside the orange vegetable.
"So, is this my date?" Ichigo asked nervously.
Kenpachi gave him a look that clearly questioned his intelligence. "This is yer ride, runt."
With a nonchalant wave of his sword, the pumpkin and mice turned into a lavish black carriage and six whinnying black stallions.
"Fuck, I forgot about the driver." Kenpachi muttered, and went stomping about in the hedges to locate another small animal.
He found a white rabbit; one of Ichigo's stepsister's pets, and promptly turned it into a handsome coach man.
"Is he my date?" Ichigo asked.
"Stop worryin' about yer date." Kenpachi waved his sword dangerously close to Ichigo's eyes. "Yer gonna be dead if ya keep that up."
Ichigo decided to keep his mouth shut after that.
"Oh, by the way." Grinning, Kenpachi clapped a heavy hand onto his shoulder. "Be back in the carriage before the clock strikes twelve, or yer gonna have to find yer own way home. My magic only lasts so long. That clear, runt?"
"Crystal."
Ichigo felt his heart thump in excitement. He couldn't believe this was happening. He was going to the ball in man clothes, against his stepmother's orders! This was going to be the best night of his entire existence.
x
"Grimmjow, darling."
The Queen fluttered toward her son, who was sitting morosely on his throne; a regal gold and white armchair with comfy red and white cushions. She reached out and patted him on the arm.
"Haven't you found someone to dance with?"
Grimmjow ignored his mother's question and fixed his cerulean eyed gaze on the dance floor, where men and women alike were flitting about to the music being played by the Castle's own orchestra. He was bored, a little sleepy, and more than a little hungry. The large tables laden with sumptuous food cooked by the palace chefs were across the dance floor - which was packed with people. he wasn't about to set foot on the dance floor for fear of being attacked by one of those hungry-looking girls in search of a dance partner. The village women could be quite bold. The past few balls that had been thrown in his honour had cost him quite a few of his jacket buttons, and once, even his jacket and cufflinks. He didn't want any more unnecessary attention, but keeping a low profile was tough because he was the only prince in the kingdom. Too bad his parents didn't feel like making him any more siblings. Maybe then they could spend their time doting on his baby brother or sister, and give him some space.
"Don't just sit here like a lump. Why do you think we're hosting this magnificent event? Take some responsibility, won't you? You're the Royal Prince, for heaven's sake. Don't you think it's time you acted like one?"
"Mmm."
Grimmjow signalled one of his loyal servants to pass him a glass of white wine. He took a huge swig and revelled in the feeling of cool wine sloshing down his empty insides. Probably wasn't a good idea to get inebriated before eating something, but this was his party. He was entitled to have fun, even if it didn't mean dancing with a girl who would bat her eyelashes at him and maybe drag him into a dimly lit corner for a snog.
"We threw a ball for you, Grimmjow. The least you could do is get out there and dance with someone. Anyone, really." His mother was saying.
As he let her quack on endlessly, too tired to argue, Grimmjow let his eyes rove the dance floor and settled on three girls bickering over some poor guy in a waistcoat. No doubt some lord's son; the young man was cute, with porcelain skin and curly golden hair that was tied back into a short ponytail. He watched them for a bit in fascinated disgust and looked elsewhere. The double doors at the foyer were opening again, allowing entry to a lord and his lady, who were both decked in matching powder blue fabrics. He stared at them, looking at the way they mingled with the other guests as soon as they strode in, all important like.
This was his everyday life, watching, observing and learning the ways of the dukes and duchesses, to see how they interacted, how they played politics. He would one day have to emulate them when he took over the throne, anyway. Grimmjow detested it. He envied the village boys, who were all so very lucky despite being of low status. They had lives. Simple lives, without having to worry if they were making a good impression on someone, or having to practice walking and waving and dancing in a royal manner. No doubt they envied him, for all his riches and opportunities, but Grimmjow would give anything to live like them for a day.
And then his breath caught in his throat as he noticed a young man enter the ballroom from the side window. He was fairly sure the man had been aided by someone else, but couldn't quite see who as the heavy curtains hid them both from view. It didn't help that the lamp hanging directly above the window was shut off - either on purpose or by accident. If it was the latter, how convenient.
There was someone sneaking into his ball, evidently.
His desire to investigate overcame the desire to stay plonked on his chair like a mass of dead weight.
"Mother." He stood up, brushing imaginary lint off his spotless blazer. "I'm going to mingle."
His mother looked relieved and proud, and proceeded to tell him what a dear he was being. Grimmjow discovered he could care less.
He made his way down to the dance floor, fended off several saucy girls and slid outside into the balcony he'd seen the young man in navy blue come from. It was empty. Grimmjow's shoulders half-sagged in defeat. Now he'd have to hunt all over the floor.
Still, anything to ease his boredom before it killed him. And curiosity, while he was at that.
He found the young man with flaming orange hair at the drinks table, where he was nursing a glass of red wine, looking uncomfortable, yet wonderfully curious.
"I don't remember seeing you on the guest list." Grimmjow sidled up behind him, plastering on a small superior smile.
"Yeah, well, neither do I." The other young man said, giving him a genuine smile. "I was kinda . . . dragged here, you know?"
Grimmjow nodded. "As was I. Far too tired to be dragged to countless social events like these."
He studied the boy, who looked back at him with hooded eyes; damn the black mask over his face. "I'm Grimmjow Jeagerjacques."
"Kuro – I'm Cinder." The boy seemed to stop himself with a nervous smile. "Just Cinder. I'm honoured to make your acquaintance, your Highness."
If Grimmjow was curious about his name, he didn't show it.
He held out a hand, every bit as regal as a prince should be, and gestured toward the dance floor.
"The pleasure is all mine, Cinder. May I have this dance?"
x
Ichigo wheezed, a light sheen of sweat dampening his forehead as he leaned against the stonework of the balcony. Running a hand through his hair, he shot a grin at the Prince's smirk. This was the most fun he'd had, ever.
"I'm not used to this." He gasped out, gratefully accepting the glass of water the Prince handed him. "Thank you."
Grimmjow raised an eyebrow smoothly. "This?"
"Dancing." Ichigo waved a hand at the ongoing dance inside the vast hall. "This."
"Are you a lord's son?" Grimmjow pressed, keeping his distance as he watched the beautiful boy watch the people dancing and mingling.
A lord's son would be used to this sort of thing. Isshin had been a lord. Ichigo should have been accustomed to this wealth and grandeur and finery, but he was quite the opposite, which made him horribly ashamed.
"Something of the sort." Ichigo said quietly, avoiding eye contact, focusing on the dance and not the conversation.
"Then you should be used to this, unless ...?" The Prince pressed gently, cerulean eyes searching honey brown ones curiously.
Ichigo fought not to blurt out his secret to the Prince. What could he really say, anyway? That he was a lord's son cum manservant to his stepmother? The Prince would surely be horrified, not to mention disgusted.
"Everyone has secrets they would like to keep."
Grimmjow nodded slowly. "I understand. So do I, despite the fact that my life is practically open to the public."
"How do you mean?" Ichigo furrowed his brow, confused.
"Well, I'm the kingdom's only prince. My parents have been planning for this time since I turned fifteen. I'm twenty now. Five years of grooming, education, and two years filled with balls like these in the hopes I'd find someone fit to marry." The Prince's eyes were downcast. "I would give anything to be a villager's son."
Ichigo felt his heart go out to the other boy – no, man; two years older than he was. If only he knew what Ichigo did.
"You can always live like one. It's not too late." Ichigo smiled. "Your parents may have some misgivings about it, but the one who decides where the path of your life is set is you."
Grimmjow shared a smile with him. "Thanks for that."
"You know, not everyone's life is easy." Ichigo said with a wistful smile. "A lot of people are delusional about how lucky you are, being the Royal Prince and all, but I know that everyone has problems, rich or poor."
"Quite the philosopher, aren't you?"
Ichigo chuckled, giving Grimmjow a playful punch. "Hardly. To me, Prince or King or Pauper, you've still got to find your own way in this world."
Blue eyes twinkled as Grimmjow laughed. "You're the first to have ever told me that to my face."
That earned him another dazzling smile.
"So who are you, really?" Grimmjow couldn't resist. "You don't have to hide from me. It'll be our little secret."
"Persuasive, but it's not going to work." Ichigo tilted his head to the side as he laughed. "I'll keep my secret, and you'll keep your own."
"It's hardly fair." Blue eyes pleaded as the prince protested. "I've told you mine. I want to run away someday and live life on my own how I please."
Ichigo shook his head. "Don't. You'll make your parents worry. And they love you very much. Don't let them down."
The prince sighed. "I thought you understood me, Cinder."
"I do." Ichigo smiled sadly. "If my parents were alive, I would probably go through the same thing you are."
"Oh. Well then. You're lucky." Grimmjow replied tactlessly. "Getting to live how you like and all."
Ichigo scoffed. "I wish."
Blue eyes searched his apprehensively, but the damage was done. Ichigo's mood had turned dark, and Cinder was no longer willing to open up about himself anymore. Grimmjow knew when to drop the subject and when to keep pressing when it came to girls, but with this strange boy who suddenly entered his ball out of the blue, intent on keeping his mysteriousness a secret, he wasn't quite sure what his next move should be.
So he switched the topic to something general that they both found easy to jump into. And while they did that, they danced some more.
They danced all night.
Ichigo found himself attracted to the prince, whom he was sure wouldn't have an idea of who he was come tomorrow. He'd be forgotten, and life would resume its pace once more. He decided to enjoy the short time he had rubbing shoulders with royalty before time ran out – in about three more minutes, according to the gigantic clock set directly above the front of the vast hall and all its prolific decorations.
"Will you take off your mask?"
Startled at the prince's simple request, Ichigo bit his lower lip hesitantly. Everyone at the ball was decked in masks and the like, but there were a few who wished to remain without. Still, he didn't want to take his mask off lest the prince recognize who he was. Not that Grimmjow would even find him familiar; Ichigo hadn't even met him before. Still, Kenpachi had instigated the importance of keeping his identity a secret during the ride over, and Ichigo wasn't about to break any rules set by his fairy godfather.
"I'd rather not, if that's alright." He said softly, stepping in as they turned slowly on the floor in time to the music.
"What's your real name?" Grimmjow pressed him close to his chest, nuzzling Ichigo's hair as he breathed in the lovely scent of roses. "Please don't say Cinder. I know you're not being honest."
Ichigo was at a loss for words. He couldn't tell the prince his real name; couldn't reveal his identity when he knew he would get in severe trouble for it. Once the prince found out he was nothing but a servant under his silly stepmother's thumb, a lord's son turned household help – the prince would be devastated. As in, I-can't-believe-I-spent-all-my-time-dancing-with-a-servant-boy devastated. And things would only go downhill from there, which was certain. Ichigo would get chastised, rebuked, reproached, yelled at, punished, and made to do even more chores by his stepmother, who had the power over his freedom despite him being a year over the legal age.
He would be a prisoner in his own house forever.
Ichigo didn't want that.
Instead, he leaned in closer to Grimmjow and brought their lips together in a clumsy kiss, gloved hands on the prince's neck and cupping his cheek as the kiss they shared turned from decidedly heated to molten; ballroom guests and the King and Queen forgotten.
Only when the clock struck twelve with a resounding bong, bong did Ichigo break apart from the prince with an alarmed look. A small gasp escaped his kiss-swollen lips as he backed away, thoughts racing.
He'd done the unmentionable.
He'd kissed the prince.
He was late to the carriage, which was waiting outside – at least he hoped it was.
Prince Grimmjow was stepping closer to him, looking concerned and a little flushed. He couldn't let himself be caught!
"I ... I have to go!"
Turning around, Ichigo dived through the surprised crowd of couples and rushed for the balcony, one gloved hand on his mouth and the other reaching out blindly for the rope he'd used to climb up earlier because he hadn't had an invitation scroll.
The second his booted feet touched the gravel, the youth looked around wildly for his black carriage, but it was nowhere to be seen. His boots were coming undone; the strings on them loosening of their own accord. Kenpachi's warnings rushed through the harried teenager's mind. That idiot with the spiky hair never said a word about his clothes vanishing by midnight! He ran past the rows of waiting carriages and whinnying horses, and finally came across the large orange pumpkin, now a useless vegetable on the ground. The mice were nowhere to be seen, but the rabbit was nibbling at the grass nearby. Ichigo snatched it up and sprinted for the woods, feeling the clothes on his back slowly begin to melt away into nothingness.
He was going to be so dead if his stepfamily arrived home before he did and found him as naked as a jaybird, holding nothing but a white rabbit.
x
"Search for a young man about this tall," Grimmjow said as he used one gloved hand to gesture around his chin area. "By the name of Cinder. Orange hair, wearing a black mask, navy blue jacket with gold buttons, black boots."
His guards nodded curtly and broke formation to scatter around the Castle grounds, running on a search under their Prince's orders.
"Darling!" Grimmjow's mother was clutching one hand to her breast as she clattered down the wide marble stairs in her stilettos, hurrying toward her son. "What has gotten into you? You can't just dash out of the great hall like that, not in front of our guests!"
"I'm looking for him." Grimmjow told her simply.
His mother looked him over, worry plastered on her face. "Who, dear?"
"Cinder."
By the confused look on her face, she had about as much idea as he did about the mysterious flame-haired boy.
"Your Highness!" There was a shout, and two guards came running up, their rapiers clanking against the steel of their shin guards. "We've found something that may be of note."
They held up one black boot, identical to the pair Cinder had been wearing while he danced with Grimmjow.
x
"Get up!"
Ichigo mumbled in his sleep and tried to turn over on his lumpy, uncomfortable mattress shoved into a corner of the kitchen floor. His stepmother gave a small shriek of annoyance and clacked away in her noisy shoes. Ichigo had about a minute and a half of comfortable silence before the clacking came back and what felt like a waterfall splashed on his face.
Coughing and spluttering, the teen shot upright into a sitting position, sleep reddened eyes squinting as he blinked water away.
"You're late." His stepmother snarled, one hand on her pudgy hip, the other grasping the rusty handle of a bucket. "Get up and make me some breakfast. I'll not have you lazing around like a useless lout!"
Ichigo rubbed the sleep from his eyes and winced as he rolled off his uncomfortable bed with a small sigh. He'd reached home last night after running like Hell's hounds were after him, wearing naught but a white rabbit covering his loins, and dived straight through the back door of his house – where he promptly slid into a shirt and a clean skirt before conking out.
His stepmother screamed some more at him, insults bouncing off his invisible shield as she followed him round the kitchen while he prepared something for her to eat. She seemed to be in the foulest of moods; the stepsisters were making themselves scarce. Ichigo wished he could do the same.
". . . going to a stupid ball and having to sit in a corner while the Royal Prince danced with a man!" His stepmother shrieked.
"Did he?" Ichigo asked quietly, stirring eight spoons of sugar into her tea. "That's interesting."
His stepmother eyed him sourly. "The man had ugly hair the same shade as yours, if I remember correctly."
Passing her the cup of tea, Ichigo raised both eyebrows at her as he feigned innocence. "Would you prefer a ham sandwich or bacon and eggs?"
"Both!" She snapped at him. "I didn't eat at the ball last night because I thought the Prince would be dancing with everyone in turn, and then he had to go and get himself a man as a dance partner. Honestly!"
Ichigo hid a smile as he turned away toward the pantry, readying the ingredients for a big breakfast.
The day passed on as usual.
X
Two days since he had kissed and been kissed by the mysterious young man with flaming orange hair. Grimmjow could not forget that incident, nor could he wrap his mind around anyone who would want to run away from him after kissing him. Most people would sink into his arms, gladly. Cinder was really something else. Frustrated at the lack of answers his search parties had turned up, the Royal Prince sank back into the large chair in his father's study and pounded his fist on the mahogany table.
Cinder had to be out there somewhere.
"Sir, we have a lead on who your dance partner might be." Grimmjow's right-hand man bowed low before him. "After our men had a talk with the villagers, we've gathered enough information to know his whereabouts. The Kurosaki mansion, on the upper east side of the town."
"So he's the son of Lord Kurosaki?" Grimmjow questioned, eyes narrowed.
His right-hand man shook his head. "We have heard this Cinder is a woman, sir. There is a high possibility you might have been dancing with someone else at the ball."
"It was a man." Grimmjow muttered through gritted teeth. "I would know, I kissed him."
Though he kissed me first, the Royal Prince thought, but refrained from adding that aloud.
"Whoever your dance partner may be, sir, we know where he lives."
Grimmjow nodded eagerly. "Set forth a carriage for me. I want to see him myself."
"Grimmjow, dear, does this boy really mean much to you?" Grimmjow's mother was flustered. "Wouldn't you rather a lovely girl to court, someone who can give you an heir?"
"Mother, I've made up my mind. I don't know if he's a lord's son or a commoner, and I don't care. There's something about him that he's been hiding, and I want to know what." Grimmjow swept out of the hall toward the castle entrance. "You will love him when you meet him, mother."
"Well." Grimmjow's mother looked helplessly at his father, the king, and received a shrug in response. "If you care so much about him, then I suppose I'll do what I can."
To the waiting maidservants, the queen hurriedly issued the command to find out everything about the Kurosaki boy and his family name.
x
Dig, shove, lift and toss.
Rinse and repeat.
Ichigo concentrated on mucking out the horses' stables as he hummed a light tune. The comforting smell of horse and hay filled his nostrils as he took in a deep breath. Of all the parts of his home, he loved the stables the best. He never really had much time to ride the steeds, but he loved being near them, taking care of them. They were gentle beasts who received the brunt of his stepsisters' anger every time they felt inclined to ride. Ichigo would always make sure to give each horse a good rub-down and an apple or some sugar cubes later to make up for the cruel way his stepsisters yanked the horses' bits, or moved around unnecessarily in the saddle, pinching the hairs on the horses' backs.
It had been two days since the ball, and Ichigo was starting to feel like it was something out of a dream. He didn't have anything to keep as a memento save for the wonderful memory of kissing Prince Grimmjow. And the Prince was exactly how the villagers portrayed him. Kind, just, handsome and thoughtful.
The bells at the wide, iron-wrought gates tolled; there were guests at the entrance of the Kurosaki home. Ichigo slid out of the stables and leaned his shovel against a wall. He watched curiously as the guards opened the gates and allowed a large, grand-looking carriage entry into what was rightfully his land. The carriage was black and gold, and bore the crest of the Royal Family. Ichigo's eyes widened. Was this another invitation to yet another ball for the Royal Prince?
He swallowed and took a few steps out of the shadows of the stable to get a closer look at the carriage and its magnificent stallions as they trotted their way up the neat little lane to the front door of his house. The side window of the carriage was open, and Ichigo caught a flash of blue hair under an ornate gold crown.
Oh god.
It was the Prince!
Cerulean eyes drifted from the horses to catch a mop of orange hair and honey brown eyes as wide as saucers staring back at him. Surprise, recognition, and relief spread over the Prince's handsome face as he straightened up inside the carriage. His mixed expression turned to confusion as Ichigo turned around and dived for the shelter of the stable.
Bloody hell!
They'd found him!
But how?
Was it the hair?
Ichigo yanked at his shaggy orange locks and inhaled a deep breath of fear, anticipation and shaky nerves. He had to figure out a way to dye his hair a different shade. Black, maybe. It was the only color his stepmother ever used to dye over her greying roots. He had to do it quick. But how? He couldn't use the front door now; cutting through the garden and the greenhouse would help him make it to the back door unseen. There was some commotion outside, and Ichigo peeked through the windows of the horses' cubicles nervously.
Grimmjow and his parents, along with five royal guards and Ichigo's stepmother and stepsisters, were heading in his direction.
"I'm so dead!" He told the black stallion – Isshin's favourite mount when he was still alive. "What do I do?"
The stallion nuzzled his cheek and lipped his hair, blowing warm minty breath gently at his face. It seemed to be so calm, so unruffled, when Ichigo was freaking inside out.
"There you are." His stepmother clacked her way into the stables, hands on her hips as she glared daggers at his cringing shoulders. "Get out here and greet the Royal Family right this instant. Who knows if they might want anything; I need a servant handy."
But I don't want to! Ichigo screamed mentally, but dragged his feet out of the stables to where his stepmother stood quacking delightedly to the Royal company.
She sounded sickly sweet and dangerously polite to the King and Queen, but Ichigo knew she was just turning on the charm. The clawed hand she had on his arm was digging into his skin through the thin fabric of his ragged, mud crusted shirt. Ichigo felt a crimson blush creep up from his neckline to flood his cheeks and the rest of his face.
"Your Highness." His stepmother cooed at Grimmjow – she was the only one really doing all the babbling; his stepsisters were hovering behind them making dreamy eyes at the Prince, too distracted for intelligent speak. "Here's the only orange haired servant we have in this household."
"And what would his name be?" Grimmjow asked, his eyes seeking out Ichigo's, holding his gaze.
"Oh, just Cinder." The stepmother cackled at her daughters' genius nickname for her stepson. "He's just the stable boy, really. Not much worth your time, your Highness. However, this here is my eldest daughter . . ."
Grimmjow shot his mother a look. The stepmother trailed off and quailed as the Royal Queen gave her the coldest, sharpest glare, effectively shutting her babbling up. The King cleared his throat and eyed Ichigo with something akin to disdain. It was evident they didn't find anything of worth from the way Ichigo was dressed.
"Are you sure this is the young man you danced with, Grimmjow?" The King asked, exchanging glance with his wife.
"Absolutely." Grimmjow murmured, reaching out with and outstretched hand. "It's you, isn't it? You're Cinder."
Ichigo felt his cheeks flame. "Y –"
"It can't be!" His stepmother said shrilly. "He's just our servant boy! His father left him in my custody. He was never allowed out of the house grounds! He wasn't even invited to the ball!"
Grimmjow took both Ichigo's hands and pressed his lips to his knuckles, which were bruised and calloused and smelled of horse and mint leaves.
"Your real name isn't Cinder, is it?"
Ichigo shook his head, and blinked as his stepmother shot him a furious look. She wrenched free of her daughters and marched up to him, one finger held out in a threatening stance.
"Don't you dare reveal yourself." She snarled. "I will disown you, boy. You're going to Hell for what you've done, sneaking around without my permission!"
The Royal Prince glared, trying to control his rising temper as he turned from Ichigo to the boy's stepmother. He would have smacked her given the chance, but that would sully his good name.
In one fluid move, Grimmjow's mother spun on her heel and slapped the irritating woman across the cheek, then brought her other hand up to slap her on the other cheek. Her ice blue eyes were wide, glaring, and livid. She seemed to be shaking with barely controlled anger.
"Let the boy speak." She said, inhaling a deep breath of pure patience as she glared daggers at the quailing stepmother and aghast stepsisters. "I have a feeling he isn't really who he says he is."
"Mother." Grimmjow said, his voice tinged with awe.
"I'm Kurosaki Ichigo." Ichigo said quietly, inwardly cheering at the look of pure shock on his stepmother's face. "Welcome to my home."
"Your home?" The Prince eyed Ichigo's torn, patched and worn thin clothing with some surprise, before flicking his blue eyed gaze to the lavish house that sprawled amid lush green grass and perfectly trimmed hedges. "You're the owner of all this land?"
Ichigo bit his lower lip and looked at his stepmother, who was giving him an evil look that promised bad things to come if he opened his mouth.
"It's alright. Just tell me the truth. Please?" Tilting Ichigo's chin up with one finger, Grimmjow locked gazes with the youth. "I trust you."
Boy, the Royal Prince sure knew how to turn on the charm. Ichigo blinked, a light blush dusting his cheeks, and answered Grimmjow's encouraging smile with his own.
"Yes. I am. My father died and left me the house and the inheritance. I am the true heir of this land. Before that, he remarried this woman, my stepmother. I became her servant at the age of ten."
Grimmjow's eyes spoke volumes of sympathy. "And what of your real mother?"
"Dead due to illness. Both my sisters, too. Father had no choice but to remarry. He thought it would be good for me to have another mother. When he died, everything in his written will was meant for me. My stepmother claimed it as hers because I was still a child. I've been under her care ever since."
The King and Queen eyed the way Ichigo was dressed – bruised and bloodied knees, calloused hands, ill-fitting boots, tattered skirt, and muck-crusted shins. Hardly befitting with the rough, cold weather.
"She told everyone in the village that I was a girl because she wanted to save on clothing. These are my stepsisters' hand-me-downs." Ichigo felt compelled to explain.
Grimmjow's mother rounded on his stepmother, a look of pure fury lining her features.
"Did you really think you could hide this from the Royal Bureau?" Her words were sharp enough to cut, like ice shards slicing into skin. "You snivelling, scheming, cruel bitch."
The King gave a little cough, placing a calming hand on his wife's shoulder. "Now, dear..."
Cheeks flushed, Grimmjow bent down on one knee, disregarding the fresh mud on the ground. He held both hands out toward Ichigo in a giving gesture.
"Will you marry me, Ichigo?"
There was a round of shocked gasps from the stepsisters, and Ichigo's stepmother promptly fainted, dropping to the muddy ground in a mass of frills and lace. No one bothered to pick her up. The stepsisters were too busy getting over their jealousy.
Face aflame, Ichigo slipped his cold, rough hands into the Royal Prince's larger, warmer ones.
"I will."
x
Edited 2/12/12. :)