Set 14 months before the beginning of The Number Six. This is how Hisagi came to have Ulquiorra.
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He was vaguely aware that he shouldn't have still been working when all of his colleagues had gone, and the only people left in the building with him were the janitorial staff. That'd never bothered him before, and it still didn't. The only thing which he was acutely aware of was the comforting scritch-scritch of his light penciling on the paper as he drew another outline for his clothes line. His thin, long fingered artist's hands were smudged with both graphite and ink from his finishing pen, and his starter pencil. Carefully turning the paper so that his desk light focused on his lines more, he tilted his head to the side and frowned when he needed to rub his heavy, wet ash colored eyes with the back of his wrists – avoiding using his hands out of habit – before reaching for his lukewarm coffee.
Maybe I should think about calling it a night soon, he thought, placing his mug back into its exact watermark ring with a grimace at the stale taste in his mouth.
A glance at the clock caused him to wince sharply.
11:40 p.m. The company really only worked until 9:30-10:00, depending on whether or not they were working with deadlines or not.
Ah, I did it again.
Holding off the urge to run his hands back through his black hair, he stood to wash his hands. The small things he remembered to do for himself paid off at times, such as when he breathed in the smell of his honey and lemon scented hand soap, letting his tensed body relax the slightest bit as he massaged the soap into his aching hands. Taking careful precautions with a slightly ripped cuticle, he let loose a deep, long sigh as the hot water heated his chilled hands beautifully.
Once he was finished, he turned and began to gather his things, putting all of his art equipment just where it belonged in each case, and shifting his pencils so that the ends all lined up. He cleaned his coffee mug, dried it, and put it away for the next day and washed off the sink and counter, as well as his work table, before he felt that his workroom was in proper condition. Throwing on his well-worn jacket and tucking his art folder securely into his shoulder back, as well as his art utensils case, he shut off the light and left.
It was chilly out, and the thin overworked designer shivered, stuffing his moneymaking, careful hands into his soft, warm pockets.
As a shiver rolled over his thin, lean frame, he noted a dark lump on the snow powdered sidewalk, the lights from the street shops putting it into sharp relief. Pausing with an odd apprehension blooming in his chest, the man smoothly walked over to the out of place shape only to halt his stride in shock.
It was a child.
He couldn't have been more than eight or nine years old, curled in on himself, green eyes dull and half lidded from exhaustion, cheeks sallow and sunken. Trailing down those shadowed features were two scars with an odd green hue to them, directly beneath his eyes to his jaw. The small, frighteningly skinny form was shivering almost spastically, his entire frame speaking of resignation to his sad, tiny, cold fate. Matted black hair looked stiff in the iridescent light of the shops, and the man couldn't help but feel a desperate kinship to the frail creature. Dressed in dirty, torn clothes that couldn't pass for rags, his visible limbs were knobby and sharp, skin pale and sickly.
How could someone just walk by a sight such as this?
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It burned, the heat coming off of the store window, and if he'd had the ability to cry, he'd have done so. The burning hurt, but not as much as he thought death would; that was something to fear, although logically, he didn't understand the concept of it. Would he cease to exist? Or would he just transfer his energy to a different place?
His small frame didn't really feel the cold anymore, and he didn't comprehend his shivering in the least.
Will it end soon? He wondered idly, chattering teeth causing a dull ache to form in his lethargic system. Will I be free from them now?
Without understanding why, he looked up and found awareness in deep grey eyes as a lean, tired looking man knelt in front of him, studying him. In turn, he took in the fact that he didn't know this face with some relief.
Three vertical scars covered the right side of his face, starting beneath his spiky black hair and going over his weary, kind eyes to end at his jaw line. From his outer cheekbone, end hidden by the ends of his hair, 'til over the bridge of his nose was a white-ish grey strip, highlighting the gothic 69 tattooed just under it on his cheek. There were tired lines around his warm eyes, and around his narrowed lips as well, the bruises from sleep deprivation were quite visible the more that the hollow feeling boy stared into the depths.
His frame was just on the verge of being too thin, and his smooth, creamy skin enhanced the play of his lean musculature as he shifted onto his knees from his kneeling position.
The two just stared at each other a moment, before the man with the kind, tired eyes removed his satchel. Placing it carefully in front of him, between the boy and himself, he pulled off his jacket, keeping his eyes on those dull green hues as he slowly settled it onto the near-broken boy's shoulders. Heat encircled the abused frame and the green-eyed boy found himself gasping lightly at the sensation of melting apart and burning at the same time.
His skin ached.
In the process of trying to decide whether or not the feeling of dying and being brought to life at the same time was a pleasant one, he didn't notice that he was lifted into the man's thin, strong arms. His bones felt like they were expanding inside of him as the sudden change in temperature, and he heard himself gasping softly into the soft, warm material. There was a burning sensation behind his nose and eyes, one that didn't feel like it was going to kill him, and a tightening in his throat that squeezed a low whine from within him.
There was a steady rhythm beneath his cheek, and the cheek that absorbed the vibration was getting warmer and warmer. He didn't think he'd ever heard music that felt so nice and so warm. It was as if the soft drumming was encouraging him to endure the hot pain and the piercing cold that threatened to tear his pale skin from his prominent frame. The swaying motion that was accompanying the comforting notes and beat caused his tensed body to relax, his shivering to lessen to the occasional tremble.
Jingling met his dulled hearing and he suddenly realized that his eyes were closed, that his lids felt so heavy that he couldn't have opened them to save his life. Maybe it's better that I don't open them, he thought muggily, burrowing closer to that wonderful rhythm that warmed his face and blood. Maybe this is what dying is. If it is, it's not so bad. I almost like it.
Before he was ready, he felt that soft heat that encased him being removed, that steady rhythm drifting away and he felt himself moue in protest.
"Nnnn…" he managed when what he meant to say was No, don't go.
"Hush," a soft, deep voice murmured comfortingly and he was drawn into that comforting song again.
Sighing, he again burrowed farther into the recess of heat that surrounded him, wondering idly as to when he'd been surrounded by an even larger cocoon of heat. He'd never complain about it, and he was quietly appreciative of the tightened feel of the warmth that encircled him, of the slightly faster pace of the song, just before it slowed.
It was nice.
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When he woke, it was to find that the little boy that he'd taken home with him the night before had dug himself even tighter against him, and was almost completely curled up under one of his favorite comforters. He could barely spot the top of his dark, dirty head, and he felt his heart clench at the sight of crusted blood in the black strands. Hopefully, it wasn't anything serious, as the boy didn't have any freely bleeding wounds.
After he cleaned him up, he'd know for certain the extent of the boy's condition.
Glancing at his alarm clock, he noted that it was 5:00 a.m. without surprise; he woke up at the same time just about every day.
However, as he made to move, the boy in his arms made the most pitiful whining noise and he conceded with a soft sigh to lie beside the child for a while longer, before he'd really have to get up. So as he lay there, absently running his artist's hand over the boy's thin back – able to feel every single rib – he went over what all he'd have to do that day.
Obviously, he'd have to call in to work, and he was sure that there would be a few murmurs about his not showing up, but he'd work on his designs some more when he'd cleaned up the child, called in a favor to a doctor he knew, and figured out exactly what he was going to do with the boy, depending on his situation. It was blaringly clear that the boy couldn't return to wherever it was that he'd come from, but he wasn't sure as to how the child would react to multiple changes at a time.
He'd just have to wait and see.
Looking over at the clock through a muzzy haze, he was surprised to find that almost two hours had passed; he really should call in to work. Then he remembered that he was the only one who was ever there this early and sighed. It looked like he wouldn't need to call in after all, or at least, not for a long while. The rest of the crew wouldn't be in until at least 9:00. Sometimes he even worried himself with how much he relied on his work to hold off the impending storm of emotions that would threaten him should he let himself think of something lightly.
With one last gentle stroke to the frail form before him, he slid his still fully clothed body from the sheets, internally thinking that he'd have to wash them before they were due because of this little event.
The tiny body shivered for a moment before curling tighter beneath the comforter and the designer gently tucked it firmly beneath the boy. No need for him to get cold whilst he was away, and hopefully he wouldn't wake before he got back; he really didn't want to have to deal with the child going into a full-blown panic.
Treading silently and carefully through his room, he grabbed one of his plain T-shirts, a pair of comfortable old jogging sweats, and some boxers. Since he hadn't been able to take his shower the night before, he'd just have to make do with his interrupted schedule and wing it until he could get back on track. He passed pictures and sculptures done by colleagues and old friends on the way, some eccentric, others uniform. All of which he had always paid little mind, only hanging them because it'd felt rude to do otherwise and just lock them up in one of his extra rooms. It would never do to insult someone unduly.
As the hot water pounded into his aching muscles, he hung his head, relaxing with a deep sigh as he planned out what he would make for the child and himself to eat for breakfast. As he soaped up a washcloth with Spice and Herb soap – one of the woman at work had made it for him, and he hadn't thought to say no to it, and he even liked it – he heard the bathroom door open and he glanced around the opaque shower stall glass and noted the child standing just inside the doorway, wrapped in the comforter. Those dull emerald eyes held a smidgen of confusion as to why he was there in the man's abode, his frame small was hunched beneath the feather filled comforter, brows slightly scrunched and mouth down turned.
"Ah," he blinked at the child in bemusement. "You're awake."
Focusing his gaze on the man in the shower, whose head was the only thing he could see clearly, he saw the kind eyed man with the tattoos and scars from the night before.
The warm man who'd played him that comforting, pretty song.
"Hai," the voice was soft and monotone.
Uncomfortable silence, the only sound the water as it sprayed over half of the man's body, and onto the tiles of the shower wall.
"Would you like me to make you some breakfast?" the man finally asked politely, wishing fervently for more experience with any form of young.
The hunched figure regarded him for a moment, nodding his head ever-so slightly in acknowledgement; it would have been comical, the small, messy head of dark hair shifting amidst the white of the puffy comforter in which he'd cocooned himself, if the boy hadn't looked so broken and resigned to a fate that the man had no understanding of.
"Well, then," he continued, feeling his brows draw together in helplessness. "You can wait out in another room until I'm done if you like, then wash up yourself while I make us something to eat."
Again, the boy gave him that small nod before slowly backing to just outside the bathroom doorway and closing the door almost all the way, but the man could see the boy curled up in the comforter settling down next to the door. It appeared that he didn't want to venture too far from him.
With a sigh, the tired designer shook his head lightly before continuing to wash, quickly soaping up and scrubbing his body, then his short, thick dark hair. He rinsed thoroughly, if quickly, before reaching out for his towel on the bar on the other side of the shower stall door and wrapping it around his waist. When he stepped out, he blinked on noting that the boy was sitting just inside the door now, curled up and completely covered by the comforter, looking like a tiny ball of mushed white. Oh dear, he mused, frowning lightly with worry. What has the boy so nervous?
Deciding against making a comment on the boy's new positioning, he proceeded in drying off and getting dressed. After rubbing at his hair enough to conclude that the dampness would no longer drip onto his skin or shirt, he swiped his hand over his jaw, finding it smooth enough and clear enough in the mirror that he didn't feel the necessity of shaving that morning. Carefully opening the door to its fullest once again, he took in the fact that the little lump of white was shivering just the slightest bit. The kind eyed man couldn't help but wonder if it were due to fear or cold. Was the child so frightened of him? Or was it that his little body just couldn't retain its heat anymore?
Brows drawing together in worry, he knelt before the child, considering him a moment, before tapping ever so gently to ask for an audience with the scarred boy. He saw the comforter puff up as the thin body within it tensed for a moment, just before the emerald eyed child lifted his head, the comforter wrapped around his head like a hood, framing his pale, dirt smudged features in a way that accentuated the pallor of his skin and the emptiness of his expression and eyes.
"I'm finished in here now," he made sure to keep his voice low, soft and as unthreatening as possible but he was unable to get rid of the discomfort that shone through. He was glad that the boy relaxed despite this and studied the designer's features. "So you can bathe if you like."
That small nod and those half lidded eyes looked down for a moment, his small mouth opening slightly as if to speak, before closing solidly in denial of the act.
Bemusement crossed the tattooed man's face as he stood again, watching the boy's eyes stair at his shins from his position on the floor.
"My name is Hisagi Shuuhei, just call if you should need anything," he hesitated a moment, leaning out of the bathroom towards the linen closet beside the door to grab the boy a towel and placing it on the counter. "I'll just be in the other room then."
His foot had just made it across the threshold when he was stopped by a small hand just barely tugging on his sweat pants. Stopping, he looked down, seeing that a single shaky hand was pinching the material with just the tips of his fingers, and it would be quite simple just to ignore the child's grip and continue out the door. This thought, however, didn't even come to the dark haired man's mind as he backtracked and quietly knelt before the green eyed child anew.
"Yes?" he queried softly, watching carefully for any sign as to why he'd been stopped. "Is something the matter?"
The child's mouth opened again before he forced it shut, biting off and concealing any form of sound he'd been about to make. Green eyes glanced at the shower, then back at Hisagi in askance.
Ah.
"Of course I'll assist you," he murmured, keeping his face neutral; the boy was already skittish enough, he didn't need to see the designer's small smile of understanding and take it wrong. "But only with the things you wish assistance for."
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Hisagi Shuuhei. It sounded… nice.
The name was also familiar, but he couldn't quite name as to why. Perhaps Aizen-sama or Ichimaru-sama had mentioned him before? That thought didn't sit well with him, but he didn't get any bad feelings being around this man, so he doubted that they'd spoken of the man in that way. His hands, which held the soft washcloth gently to his skin, were careful and never did he feel the other's skin touch his own, as if the man were trying to make this as impersonal as possible; for this the scarred boy was thankful. He hadn't a clue as to how he'd react if he were touched skin on skin at this point.
A few moments into the bathe the child had become aware that though the man seemed to take simple enjoyments from life, he was a stickler about cleanliness, which the hollow eyed child found himself appreciating in a way he hadn't appreciated anything before. If he were here, with this man, he had a feeling that he'd never be dirtier than a day's worth of grime, and if he got the urge, he would even wager that Hisagi would let him shower twice a day. The thought of it was rebellious in itself, as he'd not had a proper bath in he didn't know how long, and then Aizen-sama only saw fit to have him and the others washed when there was a customer that was asking for one of them, or when he had a job for them to do.
If he could be clean all the time, he didn't think he'd need much else.
He let himself sigh as he felt those gentle hands remove the cloth from his sensitive skin and handed the cloth over so that he could clean his front himself.
"Would you like me to wash your hair?" the boy thought about the soft query for a moment before giving his small, sharp, succinct nod. "Bear with me then, your hair is so knotted that this may hurt."
Small frame tensing suddenly and relaxing just as quickly, he let himself enjoy the slow lather and massage of the coconut scented shampoo into his sensitive scalp, the careful slide of fingers working at the larger, thicker nests in his black locks. Enjoying the subtle working of Hisagi's fingers through his hair, the green eyed boy began to doze slightly in the steamy, soapy bathwater in which he sat. He let the kindness in the designer's deep gray eyes lull him willingly into complacency, knowing that he'd probably regret this act of faith, but feeling that this man could be different, that the man was just as uncertain about the boy as the boy was about the man.
There were slight tugs every now and again, but none of them were so painful he couldn't continue to doze lightly in the warmth that surrounded and filled him in a most unfamiliar way. He'd never known such warmth before, and as he sat there he thought he could hear just the slightest sound of the man behind him humming under his breath while he carefully handled the tangled locks. The sound of the man's voice was pleasant and he found his tried body relaxing even further than it had before, his breath puffing coolly against his drawn up knees, arms wrapped around them to hold his body steady and upright as the man worked.
This proved that Hisagi was relaxing in the motions himself, he wasn't as tense as he'd been before, focused on the task before him in a way that the boy could appreciate and understand.
Most of all though, the scarred boy thought that the man's voice was nice, just like the song he'd produced the night before, and his name.
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Taking down the showerhead he gently rinsed the child's hair, careful of the knots he had yet to be able to untangle. With a moment's thought, he reached for the small container of conditioner that he rarely used, and only when he had an art show to go to and felt he had to look extremely primped. Hopefully, this would assist in his ability to untangle the surprisingly strong strands of the boy's potentially silky black hair.
During his cleaning of the boy's hair, he'd ignored the crusted blood as it wet and liquefied to drift pinkish-red over his hands to the best of his ability whilst surreptitiously searched for the wound it might have come from only to find the last vestiges of a scab and the soft pink of scar tissue a couple inches behind the thin boy's ear. His sigh of relief had interrupted the humming that he hadn't even noticed until that moment but continued as it didn't seem to bother the near asleep child before him.
His bathroom was set up in such a way that there was a shower as well as a Jacuzzi tub in the room, next to each other in such accord that he barely had to move to get something from one or the other, his toilette tucked into the corner by the shelves which he had unthinkingly filled with candles and sculptures but hadn't really found it necessary to change the way it was set up; he liked the near clutter of the area, the one spot of chaos in his flat.
Seated on the edge of the tub as he was, he had a clear view of the purple-black bruises that were fading on the boys back and limbs, some looking much older with a greenish yellow tinge to them, a brown center that spoke of age and repetitive beatings, and the thin silvery scars that crisscrossed over his ribs and back. Every rib was visible, his spine a spindly branch coated in wounded bark, looking as if ready to stab those who came at him from behind. On the left side of his thin, near concave chest the number four was tattooed in black, a gothic style, contrasting harshly against his bone white skin –it was almost like a brand, the skin raised painfully – as well as a round scar – a perfect circle – just at his collarbone, about the size of Hisagi's fist, a little smaller.
What in the world could that be from? He wondered, but knew that he didn't need an answer; it was just another part of the mysterious, silent child before him.
"Ah," he exclaimed softly, causing the boy to stir slightly, lifting his head and tipping it to muzzily glance at him in inquiry. "I've gotten all the terrible knots out of your hair. Time to rinse yourself, then get out, don't you think?"
Another of those considering nods had Hisagi smiling slightly as he carefully and thoroughly rinsed the conditioner from the frail boy's hair, placing the showerhead in its proper place in the shower stall before rising and grabbing the large, soft towel off the counter for the boy. Unfolding it and holding it out in front of him so that there would be a screen between two of them, giving the boy some semblance of privacy as he shakily stepped out of the Jacuzzi and onto the floor matt that kept Hisagi from falling on his face half the time. Once he was standing, Hisagi wrapped the child in the fluffy-soft towel that was more like a couch blanket for the small child rather than an everyday towel. Hopefully the amount of coverage would help the scarred boy to feel a bit more secure than if he were using a child-sized towel.
As the boy settled into the large towel that almost trailed at the floor, ending just above his feat, Hisagi spoke.
"Would you like me to dry your hair? Or trim it?"
The boy's hair was chunky and untamed and that just didn't fit well with the silent child's aura; he seemed much like Hisagi, enjoying order and distinction.
As the child continued to repeat the controlled motion, Hisagi just decided to think of it as The Nod and be done with it.
"Yes you'd like me to dry your hair or yes you'd like me to trim it?"
The Nod.
"Both?"
The Nod.
He couldn't repress a light chuckle. "Alright then."
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It is extremely symmetrical, the boy thought, staring at himself in the mirror, noting the way his hair shone in a way he wasn't used to, the slight fluttery, soft look of it as it framed his face and just barely skimmed the tops of his shoulders. His thin, angular features looked less haggard, less shadowed by grief and terror with his black locks falling softly, gleaming against features with eyes slightly wider than usual with shocked pleasure. The warmth of the previously used hairdryer had also been a pleasant surprise, the gentle heat of it massaging his thin skin and causing nice tingles throughout his thin, almost sickly form.
He liked it, it was very… clean.
The boy wished that he could thank the man, but couldn't find his voice to do so. When he wanted to it seemed he couldn't find his words to manage even the slightest of intelligible sounds of acknowledgement. Maybe –
"So, do you like it?"
Turning his face to regard the man wit his kind hands and soothing heartbeat he stopped halfway, gazing at his through his newfound locks fluttering ever-so softly with his breathes. Looking out through the dark fall, Hisagi Shuuhei's features were blurred, smudged with sorrow and a deep, lonely resignation. Those dark gray eyes were deep and dulled from behind the present he had just gifted upon the thin, unsure boy who'd lost his voice when there was an actual use for it.
He didn't like that look in those eyes.
Facing the other fully, he let his tensed features relax a smidgen and the ends of his lips curl just the slightest bit to show his appreciation. He was unaware that his harsh, haunted emerald eyes softened as well, his thin cheeks filling gradually with a light flush that brought light to his eyes and crinkled the corners just enough to let the other glimpse what could be a devastating expression if unleashed to its fullest.
This look clearly said Thank you.
"Well, if you're happy with it," Hisagi Shuuhei's voice was uncertain but warm; he'd not the best hand at this, but he felt he'd done a passable job this time. "Then you're welcome."
As they were still in the bathroom, the boy huddled under the blanket of a towel, it was quite simple for the man to clean up after the hair that'd fallen to the tiles once he'd cut it from the boy's now silken head. Emerald eyes watched the man as he worked, child's body sitting on a stool that the other had pulled from under the counter, telling the boy that he used it to change the light bulbs when they died so that he wouldn't have to go to another room and get one, or balance precariously on the counter.
He admitted to a slight fear of heights.
At the time, the child had been sure that the man had just been talking to try and reassure him and keep him calm, but watching the slim, lean back through his dampened Tshirt, a bit stiff as if unused to the company of other, he was sure that it was now because he'd been trying to reassure himself. It appeared that the other didn't have others over often.
Everything that the boy'd seen so far had shown clearly that the man lived alone and had for a very long time.
A very long time.
Once the other had thrown away the hair from the floor and put away the broom and dustpan, he turned to the boy who was studying him with an again stiffened and unyielding visage and quirked a slim brow at him in question. Lifting his hands slightly he hinted that he'd the wish to carry the boy somewhere, but wouldn't just pick him up without his permission.
Pausing to consider the offer, he tilted his head, enjoying and marveling at the smooth sensation of his hair brushing over his clean face as he did so, reminding him of what the other had done for him only moments before.
He'd never felt so… acknowledged before.
So, he gave his small, controlled nod, not noticing that the man repressed a smile and a bit of mirth in those deep gray eyes. He knew nothing of the man's internal naming of his one distinctive action of affirmation, that he found it quite endearing in a most platonic manner.
"Now," the other murmured, carefully scooping up his painfully thin form before leaving the bathroom and moving down the hall to a part of the flat that the child had yet to see. "We're going to find you something to wear."
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It was as clear as day that the child liked the room into which they entered quite a bit, half lidded eyes wide and small, severe mouth opened slightly in wonder at the array of colors that surrounded him in the designer's 'Creation Room'. Without thought – otherwise Hisagi was sure that he wouldn't have done so – the small child moved foreword and stroked a deep forest green swath of cloth, one that shifted both silver and black when the angle and light changed upon it. Ah, he let a smile fall across his smoothly neutral features at the sight. Looks like I'll have to make something in that green for him then. Continuing onward towards the next color, a simple white of bamboo cloth, one of the softest fabrics that the designer had gotten his hands on, and he started a mental list of what he'd make for the boy and with what, depending on the fabric rolls he approached and in what order.
The room was that of a tailor, rolls upon rolls of fine cloth and coarse cloth the colors in spectrum that some would never dream of. Thin plastic sheets covered the unopened fabric rolls, and small boxes filled with the new tools he would need for the cutting and such after his current ones dulled too much for a successful and satisfying cut. The room was the largest of the floor that he owned, encompassing the space of two of his bedrooms easily. Tables were scattered around strategically, unfinished works folded neatly on their prospective work tables, waiting to be completed.
"So," he was saddened that the sound of his voice startled the boy out of his wonder, causing green eyes to hood anew and lips to tighten in self denial. "Just pick what colors you like, then we'll look at some pictures so that you can pick what kind of style you'd like."
Head cocked slightly in puzzled consideration, the scarred boy shifted to rest his hand longingly on the white fabric again, tiny fingers petting it just the slightest bit in an unconscious appreciation for the delicacy of the bolt. It appeared to the designer, that he was being judged for reactions in accordance with whichever piece the boy traveled to, as the child moved around the room, only taking any considerable interest in the shifting green, bamboo white, and a pale shifting gray as well, this swath shifting from dark char gray to light sandy gray. It was an interesting selection, and the man was sure he would enjoy making the materials into something suitably comfortable for his temporary charge.
He hadn't enjoyed making something in a long time, and now he had someone specific to make it for.
"You keep looking," he told the child as a thought occurred to him. "I'll be right back."
After receiving The Nod from the boy, he left the room to the wondering emerald eyed child and made his way to the phone. Dialing in the number of the doctor who owed him a favor – Unohana Retsu – he waited for her to answer.
"Moshi-moshi?" her soft, pleasant voice answered. He could hear the scribbles in the background that told him that she was working on paperwork; he hated to disturb her but…
"Ohaiyo, Unohana-san," he murmured, feeling a bit uncertain about calling in this favor, as he hated the idea that she hadn't really expected it to ever be called upon and therefore wouldn't come to his aide. "It's Hisagi Shuuhei."
"Ah, Hisagi-kun," the delighted pleasure in her calm voice let the designer release his tension; she wasn't upset. "Is there something I can do for you?"
"Um, yes, actually," taking a deep breath and running his hand slowly back through his dark hair he pushed on despite his nervousness. "I'd like to call in that favor."
The sound of a writing utensil being put down as if she'd been startle, made him grimace; he hoped that she wasn't going to turn him down.
"Are you alright?"
"Nani? Oh, hai, hai, I'm fine," the slightest, immeasurable and unnoticed warmth bloomed in his chest at her concern. "There's someone else…"
"Yes? In what condition are they?" her voice was professional and steady. He could just picture her slightly lowered eyelids and the lowering of her brows.
Down to business.
"He's malnourished, bruised, and he hasn't spoken since I brought him home with me. Unohana-san," he hesitated, hoping that this wouldn't backfire on him for whatever reason. "He's a child, no more than 9 years old, I'd say."
Silence.
"I can't come out myself today, but I can send someone I trust over right away," Hisagi frowned at this, unsure of whether or not he wanted someone he didn't know in his home. "He'll be there within the hour."
"Unohana-san…"
"It's alright, Hisagi-kun," she soothed, sensing his discomfort at the thought of having a stranger in his home. "Szayel has the utmost practicality when it comes to younger patients, and he won't do anything I wouldn't do myself. He was taught by the best."
He took that as it was; she knew how good she was.
"I understand," he sighed. "His name, if you would?"
"Grantz Szayelapporo, although he prefers to be called Szayel and will most likely instruct you to do such," he could hear the frowned, constrained displeasure in her voice as she continued. "This child, describe his condition to me, will you?"
"He's got a lot of scars," he started haltingly, leaning back against the doorjamb that allowed him to look down the hallways to see the shadow of the green eyed boy as he continued to riffle through the swaths of cloth, Hisagi unknowingly ignorant of the fact that this was the most peaceful the other had ever felt before. "He appears to have been lashed," he could hear her speaking softly to someone on the other line, and scribbling something down quickly before the slightest click of a door closing. "With what I'm not sure, but there's a large scar just under his collar bone, about the size of my fist. He's been… tattooed with the number four on his chest, it's raised, swollen. He's got scars and cuts on his scalp, and I noticed some under and around his fingernails as well."
That scribbling continued on the other end of the line as Hisagi saw the boy who was still wrapped up in a towel peek his head out the doorway and down towards Hisagi, his head canting to the side inquiringly. Smiling in spite of himself he shook the phone a little and mouthed that it was important before gesturing in invitation to the boy that he could come over to him if he wished. In spite of the fact he knew instinctively that if the boy learned that the designer was conversing with a doctor on his behalf he'd balk and probably lose what little camaraderie had developed between the two, Hisagi also knew that the boy was uncertain of what was going on and needed the comfort another human body subconsciously provided.
Personal experiences informed him of this as well as a study of human habit.
Slowly, the hesitant, silent boy made his way toward the designer, studying him anew with those hollow emerald eyes before stopping a pace or two away. Close, but not too close.
Well, Hisagi mused slowly straightening and moving into the kitchen to get himself a glass of tea. It looks like he's more comfortable with me than I thought.
It'd taken the man weeks to be able to approach his foster father – Muguruma Kensei – when he'd first been taken in by the other as a youth, and even then, he'd still felt his nerves etching deep when he'd get too close or somehow manage to touch the other in any form. Feeling the child close behind him made him wonder if maybe this boy – this scarred, and much worse off than he'd been child – was stronger than he'd been when he was several years older than the silent, pale shadow. He'd heard that the younger you were the more resilient and adaptive, but he didn't think that that was all it was; there was something about the thin, fragile adolescent that foreshadowed a strong and virile character that Hisagi'd never developed.
"Now," Unohana-san's soft, to-the-point voice almost startled the young man and he blinked as he set the teapot on the glass-plated electric stove. "As I said, Szayel will be there shortly. For now, make sure that the boy eats something, and try to get him to speak to you, alright?"
"Hai, Unohana-san, I understand," he pulled down several jars with tea leaves in them and placed them on the counter, turning them so that the labels were facing the silent boy who'd made himself at home on one of the kitchen stools by the small divider island opposite the stove. "I work on that. Arigato, Unohana-san."
"It's not a problem," he could hear the gentling warmth of kindness in her voice and felt the slightest smile work over his features; he wasn't sure if it were from witnessing the slight OCD tendency of the boy before him as he turned the jar's just-so and put them so-many centimeters apart, or from the fact that there was such honest care within her for him. "Well then, sayonara."
"De wa, saradaba."
Once he'd hit the end button, he turned to find a small, scarred hand pointing at the smooth Honey-Mint mix that he'd learned how to make from his elder foster brother, Shiba Kaien.
"You can read and write then?" he quiried, almost relieved when he received The Nod, as it showed that the child didn't feel that he had to withhold his knowledge from him so as to have a secret against him; Kami knew that he'd withheld all sorts of things from Kensei-san. "Would you mind writing down your name then?"
Those fathomless, emerald green eyes hooded just the slightest bit more, and by the clenching and slight hunching over of his small frame, the designer knew that there were some bad memories that dealt with others speaking his name. Knowing that feeling, he didn't pressure the other into telling him again as he went about making the tea and passing the cup over to the younger with a warning that the cup was hot and exited the room remembering the need to cloth the child in those fabrics he'd chosen.
This gives me something to do for the next 15 minutes or so, he thought as he cut, measured – guess-timating – and pressed the materials, getting ready to do a quick job of it.
If there was one thing he knew how to work with, it was making things with his hands.
04040404
Unsure of what he should do with the cup once he'd emptied it of its soothing, warm and soft interior, he decided that this Hisagi Shuuhei wouldn't mind his getting himself another cup, as it settled his tight stomach and made his eyes droop sleepily. So far, all he'd sensed from the man was genuine concern, and some hesitant enjoyment of his company. It was painfully obvious that the man was used to being alone, and even awkward with the situation of having company in his large, spacious home. The kitchen in which he sat was sparsely decorated, several interesting – some even amusing – works of art, both sculpted and canvas were scattered half-hazard around the cooking area, as well as the rest of the home. The base colors of his furnishings a silvery gray and a smoky, aged brown-beige. There was little in the way of furniture but for a comfortable looking couch and a small living room table that had several random sketchpads upon it.
To the boy, it looked very unlived in, but that was only because it was missing a key component.
Someone to actually live in it.
Taking a sip of his tea once again, the boy snuggled father into the blanket-sized towel, glad for his smaller stature even as he was beginning to feels the dregs of awkward at being naked amidst the unfamiliar territory. The man had been gone for nearly 20 minutes now, and the scarred child couldn't be sure of when the man would return or if he would be allowed to again crawl back into the man's comfortable bed and beneath those marvelous comforters that gave him such warmth…
"So, what do you think?" startled out of his dreaming, sleepy emerald eyes blinked up at the designer in the doorway as he held up the clothing he'd apparently been making.
A glowing white shirt with silvery buttons, long sleeves, and collar that could be buttoned up over the throat if he so wished was lined with that shimmery green he'd seen before, and soft black slacks with that shifting gray somehow almost infused into them caused his eyes to widen.
He made me clothes, he thought in wonder, feeling his eyes widen and his mouth drop open in wonder, not even noticing that his eyes were watering a bit and he'd set down his cup. He made me clothes.
"Do you not like them?" the uncertainty in that kind, deeper toned voice snapped the scarred boy from his revelry. "I could change them…"
Shaking his head slightly, the boy beckoned the other to him with a slight tilting of his head, glad when the man approached him without hesitation.
Slowly, he began to point to the tea jars, and once he knew that the other was paying close attention to what he was doing, he began again.
U… L… Q… U… I… O… R… R… A.
"Ah," the slight catch in the man's breath drew after he'd finished spelling his name with the letters on the labeled tea jars caused the boy to look up inquiringly. "Well, I guess you like them."
Nodding, he was pleased, but confused by the soft affectionate smile on the other's kind, weary features, and found himself peculiarly relieved when the other leaned back slightly; he'd gotten rather close during the giving of Ulquiorra's name.
"These," Hisagi Shuuhei started, smile still in place as he held out the clothing. "Ulquiorra-kun, are yours."
Mine.
His throat tightened at the thought, an odd feeling growing in his chest.
Mine.
MEMEMEME
I'm thinking about whether or not to make this into a two-shot, so just let me know what ya'll think.