A/N: Hello, readers! It has been... so very long since I have published a GrimmUlqui. Four years ago as of August, in fact. Is this pairing even relevant anymore? (I think the answer is no, but I'm hoping you'll want to read this anyway.)
Much has changed about me and, more importantly, about my writing, since then. I hope that it will be regarded as a pleasant change.
I feel very confident in sharing this first chapter with you, because I have worked long and hard on it to make it detailed and excellent. Get ready for, by my estimate (certainly subject to change) 15 chapters of Grimmjow and Ulquiorra... and music.
I am excited to begin this journey with you!
As one last note (finally, am I right), I am greatly inspired by music, as will be evident in this story. In writing this chapter, I have been heavily inspired by not only the songs mentioned in the text, but also by the song "Pressure" by Until The Ribbon Breaks. All of their other songs are excellent as well if you like a kind of dark, indie sound. Definitely worth checking out, in my opinion!
Enjoy!
Sonata, Vivace
Prologue: Light and Dark
Light gives life.
Yeah, you've got that photo-whatever, where plants grow because of the sun and shit. Not that.
Stage lights.
On stage, they're all I can see. The spotlight is so blinding and it just consumes me. I don't feel alive unless I'm on stage, under those lights.
I guess it's not just the physical lights. It's the spirit of the performance. Clutching the microphone like my life depends on it, pouring my heart out. I sing for me.
I need that light.
~/~
Darkness gives life.
Certainly it can take away life with ease. I am not referring to a physical lack of light.
The darkness inside me.
When my hands touch the ivory keys, my woes come alive. There is no escape from that darkness, there is only my expression of it.
I am alive when I play. Crisp, pure tones filter from the confines of the piano just as all negativity trickles from my being. I become the music.
I need that darkness.
Chapter 1: Beneficial
3:56...
Could the clock move any fucking slower?
Could this what's-his-damn-name English teacher shut up?
Actually, could it just be fucking Friday already? That would be perfect.
Grimmjow Jaegerjacquez just wanted to take off in his '04 grey Jeep and burn some rubber on the way out of the school parking lot. A nap also sounded fantastic.
Just as he decided time had surely stopped, the bell rang, and Grimmjow was out of the classroom before the teacher could remind him to read the next chapter in the textbook he rarely opens.
Absently raking a hand through sky-blue hair, Grimmjow rushed to his Jeep in an attempt to beat the crowd who also desired to leave the school immediately. Today was not the day to test his limited patience by forcing him to confront excessive traffic.
After he drove onto the city's main highway, he turned on the radio and set the output to CD, where the smooth voice of Billie Holiday crooned from the speakers. Grimmjow felt himself relax to the tune of "Lover Man."
He knows the song by heart, along with the rest of the songs on his mid-1900s jazz compilation disc. Singing along to the music allowed him to forget about his daily frustrations.
"Got a moon above me, but no one to love me... Lover man, oh, where can you be?..."
His velvety voice lilted along with every note. It was something he would never dare to do anywhere other than within the confines of his Jeep.
All the pressures of his life melt away as soon as the music plays. The energy he felt in that moment was like none other; a feeling of excitement and unbridled happiness with each note he sang. His emotions trapped him inside himself, and the singing gave him a way out; a journey to some uncharted land away from any kind of reality. Every time Grimmjow sings, his soul and the soul of the artist become one, and he feels their pain and their joy in that fleeting moment. It is as if he can feel the heat of stage lights and he is the star of his own imaginary performance.
He wished he could just stay suspended such an atmosphere forever. Driving and singing; pouring his heart out.
What a glorious escape that only he could reap the benefits of.
~/~
Grimmjow pulled into his driveway just as Frank Sinatra's "Young At Heart" ended. He shifted the vehicle into park and shuts off the engine. Sighing deeply, he lingered there for a moment, soaking up the peaceful silence and trying to keep the sensation alive in his mind.
He soon relented and trudged inside. As usual, his parents were not home, and he knew they would not be until later that night. They both avoid each other at all costs and would rather stay out of the house "working" than spending time in the general vicinity of their own home.
Grimmjow outwardly shows no aversion to this, and makes it seem as if he has no presence in the home outside of his bedroom. He cooks his own meals, cleans all the dishes, and clears away any trash on his own. The only time his parents can acknowledge him is in the morning, before they both leave for work and him for school. Even then, they have limited interaction, as Grimmjow mostly keeps his mouth shut around them.
Sure, the lack of parental affection took a toll on him. He suspects it is the reason for his impulsive and caustic disposition. What else would induce the sudden urge to permanently dye his hair blue before his senior year of high school?
Whatever, he thought bitterly. He would just continue to keep to himself and focus on not doing his schoolwork, maintaining a clean living space, working at the corner store on the weekend afternoons, and having random hookups at the occasional house party. After this school year and his eighteenth birthday in July, he could get out of this tense, stifled atmosphere and make something decent of himself.
He sighed again. Too much temper for one day.
Time to shower; to ease into a dull routine. Wash, rinse, and fucking repeat.
...Interesting.
Perhaps his thoughts should focus on the teacher's lecture about F. Scott Fitzgerald's use of figurative language in The Great Gatsby, but Ulquiorra Schiffer's attention drifted from the topic momentarily.
With so much importance placed on his studies that he ranked at the top of his class, Ulquiorra was no social butterfly like Jay Gatsby. Something as mundane as a party or even general chit-chat would never stray his focus from his education.
He couldn't help but think that being so widely unknown would set him apart somehow, and not in a way that he would benefit from.
Nonetheless, he would not be getting acquainted with anyone while there were metaphors to observe. Ulquiorra shook his head and tuned back into the rest of the lesson.
To the teacher's dismay and students' relief, the class ended before they could discuss symbolism. At this time, most students rushed out of the classroom after haphazardly shoving their notes into their backpacks. Ulquiorra sighed and took the time to organize his papers neatly in a binder and maintain a clean system. He found it true that disarray is detrimental to success.
After calmly filing away his things, Ulquiorra stood and left the classroom. He was the last one to leave the room, as usual, but that fact did not faze him.
He always looks forward to the end of the day, because he allots himself one hour of practice time at the piano in one of the school's eight practice rooms.
The rooms are small but accommodating; room for one or two students and another observer. Each comes equipped with soundproof walls and a lockable door with shutters on its window, so one could immerse themselves into their music and be completely free of distractions. Ulquiorra intends to do just that, sitting in front of the piano and pulling out a folder containing the sheet music of all of Frederic Chopin's Nocturnes.
He took a moment to take in the instrument's beauty. It classifies as a vertical console piano, he guessed. Its wood is an almond-brown color and it appears to be an older model, but it is kept up nicely, as it shines in the room's bright lights. There is no dust upon the keys, and the piano is overall in pristine condition, considering its location in a practice room where anyone can access it. Ulquiorra tried not to think about how many other hands touched this instrument, and especially avoided the possibility that those hands did not treat it with care.
The second his thin, pale fingers touched the smooth keys, Ulquiorra felt a figurative weight lift off his shoulders. The notes flowed effortlessly from the sheet to his eyes to his brain and all the way through his fingertips as the piano made them come alive. The piano makes the magic, the sound, but he is responsible for interpreting the music. Nothing is more empowering than having that sort of control and the ability to induce a feeling in one's heart that comes from deep within the soul.
Frantic tones of the Nocturne, Opus 9 reverberated off the walls. It was a miracle that cheap foam soundproofing could still deliver such a satisfying tone that Ulquiorra felt throughout his body.
He felt at his most vulnerable now as the music hit a point of crescendo, pouring the deepest secrets of his soul out as the notes sounded. Even the darkest of thoughts would not deter the beautiful sound that envelops his being. He could never replicate this feeling from any other act.
What a flawless form of expression that only he could reap the benefits of.
~/~
An hour later, the distinct trill of a cell phone alarm disrupted the harmony that Ulquiorra grew accustomed to. The alarm was his signal to make his way home in order to have time to focus on his studies. He found it unbearable to tear away from the magnificence that is the piano, and the feeling of weightlessness slowly began to subside. It is within his grasp, yet forever unattainable while he is away from the piano.
Eventually, he relented, packing away the sheet music with the utmost of care and leaving the practice room. The walk to arrive outside of the deserted school building is quick, as the practice rooms and Fine Arts hallway are the closest classes to the front of the building. Something was calming about the lack of students roaming the halls.
The clean autumn air outside is pleasantly warm, with the sun beginning to set on the horizon and rain-heavy clouds littering the sky. He made it a point to up his pace in an attempt to avoid the rain on the way home.
Five minutes later, he arrived at his apartment complex. He lives on the ground floor, much to his liking.
Ulquiorra unlocked the door and walked into a dim, silent living room. Not lingering, he lay the keys on the coffee table and brought his bag to the bedroom, an equally silent space.
A sigh escaped him as he emptied his backpack. He only had two minor assignments to complete, but they were a priority over anything else.
He couldn't help but gaze upon his empty home with a wave of melancholy. Ulquiorra was born into a strict household that expected him to be extraordinary and prodigious, but that also expected him to get a job and provide for himself the day he turned seventeen – last December. He found it quite hypocritical, but nothing could change that. Mostly, he holds no grudge against them for this decree. Every now and then, he calls home and expresses his sentiments for their care-giving in his early life; the usual. But he knew their harsh expectations are what afflicted his personality, making him into this dark soul with no desire to interact with anyone in a way that allowed him to feel something positive.
I am... a recluse.
He sighed again, this one more drawn out with sorrow than the previous one. The homework would not be completed if he continued like this. He gathered his assignments and books and brought them to the desk, turning on the overhead lamp.
One can expect repetitive routines, after all.
A/N: And that's it for chapter one!
I'm only writing this ending author's note to 1) thank you for reading this chapter, which took me MONTHS to finish to the point where I felt like I could publish it and 2) ask for a beta reader! The reason this took me months was because I didn't really have anyone to help me with this, and I'm sure it's still not as good as it could be (then again, a piece of writing is never finished). So, if you're reading this and you would like to help me out, PLEASE mention so in a review or a PM to me. I am pretty desperate at this point, as I've already gotten a good start on chapter 2.
Once again, thank you so much! All my love to you :)