There.
A voice.
:
Can you be my sanctuary?
Can you wipe the sadness in my eye?
Can you heal my broken wing?
Can you…
:
Tired brown eyes opened.
…hear me?
"Damn it."
With a tired glare, he stared up to the familiar ceiling. Another curse rolled off his tongue, and he closed his eyes, rubbing the closed lids tiredly. With a shaky sigh, he wiped the sweat off his forehead and distractedly wondered why the fuck his sweat felt so goddamned cold.
He breathed deeply to calm his violently pounding heart, the scowl on his face deepening as he remembered his dream.
"Fucking dream." And fucking voice and fucking song.
Can't they leave him alone? With both palms, he rubbed his face. "I need a fucking sleep, damn it." He felt tired, and pathetic, and angry and… really, really tired. When was the last time he slept? He could not remember. Suddenly, he missed his high school days. Despite Kiego's annoying presence and occasional fist fights he had had and won, he was able to sleep. He was able to sleep for real. With no dreams, no voices, no songs ringing in his ears. He can sleep when he was younger.
But not anymore.
Because he kept hearing it. That voice, that song. He kept seeing that face, those eyes. He… Oh fuck. Just stop the fucking dreams and let me fucking sleep! He exhaled and stopped rubbing his face. Last time he checked, it was five in the morning.
With a grunt, he rolled to his side.
A hand touched the back of his head.
:
He stiffened, and a cold shudder convulsed his spine.
Fingers played with his spiky locks.
Another batch of ice-cold beads of sweat dotted his forehead and temples. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood up as the hand lowered ever so gently to touch his nape.
The hand was cold as ice.
Can you be my sanctuary?
His eyes bulged. His heart vibrated, contracting. He could not breathe.
Was he still dreaming? He gulped audibly, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly. He sweated harder, his skin cold. The hand was now touching his bare shoulder blade, the palm kneading the muscle above his scapula.
And then, a finger traced his spine.
He shivered.
Can you wipe the sadness in my eye?
The hand moved up to palm the rounded curve of his shoulder. He was tempted to steal a glance but he lacked essential amount of guts to do so. The fingers were now tracing his clavicle.
Can you hear me?
All of a sudden, as though time ground to a halt, the hand stopped. The following silence was oppressive, a crushing silence. A cold puff of breath touched the back of his sensitive ear.
:
"…Kurosaki-kun."
:
Brown eyes snapped open.
His cell phone was ringing.
He was lying on his back and he was panting raggedly as though he were running a marathon. His chest went up and down in fast pace. Still breathless, he glanced over the nearest window; it was morning. Sunlight filtered through the gaps of the curtains, creating a shadow of thin fans of yellow light across the bare, cream-colored walls.
"Shit," he growled harshly, breathless and lifted a trembling hand to wipe the sweat off his face. He forced his body to relax which required gargantuan effort. When his heart stopped beating against his ears and trembling against his ribs, he swiped the blanket off. The air conditioner was off but he felt chilly. He was naked and soaked in cold sweat. Tiredly, he rolled to his side and sat up, snatching the loud device from the bedside table. With heavy-lidded eyes, he checked the caller ID.
His publisher.
With a grunt, he answered the call, "Yeah?" he growled, rubbing his face as he placed his elbows on his thighs. He listened half-heartedly, running his hand over his thick, sweat-damp hair. His hair was longer now; the back covered his nape, the front reaching the tip of his nose. Suddenly, he froze, remembering his dream, and quickly withdrew his hand from his hair, grabbing his knee as his knuckles flexed and turned white.
"Are you listening, Kurosaki-san?"
He grunted as a reply, and that seemed to satisfy the caller for he cut off the connection. He tossed the flip-phone over the table, leaned forward and grabbed his ankles to stretch his back. Still grabbing his ankles, he stood up, counted one to fifteen and straightened up. Half-lidded eyes lifted to the plain, round wall clock.
Seven-fifteen.
He snorted, too early for a fucking call. And he didn't have any idea what the call was about. He'd have to ask his publisher again.
He crossed the room towards the bathroom but he paused and looked at his desk. With a grim scowl, he slowly approached the table. Like the rest of the room, the table was bare and it lacked life. There were three items on the desk: an old, weathered typewriter, empty mug and a black leather-bound book with gold trimmings and gold Gothic lettering in front.
At the sight of the black book, his jaw clenched, and his heart, it painfully tightened. The loud ticking sounds of the clock filled the stagnant silence, making a dull echo. There was distant roar of a train passing. When the silence returned, the room was empty and the bathroom door shut without a sound.
:
Urahara Kisuke was not surprised when his most favorite employee arrived two hours late. So, when the door of his office opened and a bright head appeared, with a scowling face, followed by a long, lean body, he grinned indulgently and waved a hand.
"Ah~ Kurosaki-saaaan~ my most favorite writer in the whole wide world!"
The man snorted. "Do not patronize me."
Urahara faked a sad pout. "That hurt me on the inside."
Kurosaki Ichigo snorted. "Good. If that's true, then I'm glad."
Urahara laughed good-naturedly.
"What do you want?" asked Ichigo, a heavy scowl on his face. Everyone in Urahara Publishing, Inc stayed away from this scowling, tall man. The only person who can look in his face without so much of a quiver was Urahara himself, the publisher and founder of the publishing company.
"Hmm…"
The orange-haired man crossed his arms and glared; the glare's intensity did not diminish despite the presence of deep black circles around his tired, obviously sleep deprived eyes. The younger man's face looked strong, hard and drained. His eyes were dark, almost black instead of brown. Those eyes made Ichigo looked older than his age. He was only twenty five years old but his eyes belonged to a seventy year old heartbroken, tormented man.
"What is it?" prodded Kurosaki with impatience.
"Obviously," sang Urahara, "I was talking to air when I called you~"
"You fucking woke me up." Ichigo grumbled.
Urahara looked genuinely surprised. "Oh? So, you can sleep now?"
Instantly, Ichigo's face hardened. "That is none of your concern."
Urahara pouted. "So scary!" He flicked his fan open and spoke behind the accessory. "I'm just worried, you know! You're my money-maker!"
"Stop talking shit," snorted Ichigo. "What is it that you want to talk about?"
"Celia."
Kurosaki flinched, his eyes looking more haunted and emptier than before. "What about it?" he asked coldly. Urahara hid a smile; it was a forbidden topic inside the office to talk about although everyone outside the building had been raving about Celia. It was more like no one had dared to talk about it to Ichigo.
"And don't fucking dare to beat around the bush. Go straight to the damn point."
"Uh-huh. Straight to the point. Straight as an arrow!"
"Urahara-san," growled Ichigo between gritted teeth.
"Well… I decided to give you a vacation!" Urahara chirped cheerfully.
The man was caught of guard. "A vacation?" What had Celia got to do with a vacation?
"Yup! You need a vacation, Kurosaki-san."
The surprise was replaced by indifference. "Hell no. I don't. You know I don't take vacations."
"I know. Yet, I'm giving you one."
"Well, I don't need one," Ichigo hissed.
"You do."
"Damn it!"
Urahara sighed; it seemed he had to use a different approach. "Kurosaki-san, you are a talented writer. But please, pray tell me, have you looked at yourself in the mirror? There are corpses in the local hospital with rosier cheeks than yours." As a reply, the younger man scowled, eyes narrowing as though he was trying to pierce him with a stare. Urahara continued cheerfully. "You need rest, a couple of days off. The world is not going to end if you decide to slow down and relax. You are exhausted. You've been overworking your brain. As a friend, I am worried." At this, Ichigo snorted. "Trust me~ I care about your brain. It seems you have used it far more frequently than your tool of mass reproduction."
A large chunk of muscle moved and twitched in Ichigo's jaw.
Prudently, Urahara hurried to continue, "It seems that after Celia, you are unable to write and come up with more literary works, Kurosaki-san."
Ichigo looked away with a grunt, scowling heavily. Urahara, behind his messy desk, reached down to the bottom drawer, pulled it open and extracted his own copy of Celia.
"It was a very good book, Kurosaki-san. For someone who looks and acts like you, it seems that under that abnormal hair of yours, you think. You can think. Top selling book for months, several awards, critically acclaimed, Celia catapulted you to stardom." Urahara smiled slyly. "But sadly, it didn't help you get girls."
Ichigo gave him a withering look, deadly enough to shrivel a living flower.
"It was a top selling novel but…" Urahara glanced down to the plain, black book. "Celia is also your curse, isn't it?" The book's cover design was plain black with gold Gothic lettering of Celia. However, it caught many people's interest; strangely, for something so plain, people were drawn to this stunningly simple book design and even stranger, the story entranced many readers.
"No, it's not Celia." Ichigo's face tensed, Urahara noticed. His eyes took an odd dreamy gleam. "It's her, isn't it?"
Ichigo lost his temper in an instant.
"What the fuck is your problem!" yelled the orange-haired man. "What I'm going through right now is simple writer's block. That's fucking all. I'm not haunted by my own fucking creation. I'm not tormented by some fictional character and fictional story! I'm not – why are you looking at me like that?"
"You really need a vacation, Kurosaki-san," Urahara replied promptly, unaffected by his outburst.
"No."
"Oh, you're going to take it whether you like it or not." The publisher returned his book into its place, rummaged inside another drawer and extracted a thin piece of paper, something that looked suspiciously like a brochure. "Take it or resign."
"You're crazy!" Ichigo was instantly in front of the desk, gripping the edges of the table.
Urahara laughed, "Why, thank you."
"That's so fucking –"
"Please, no cursing when you're shouting in my face, Kurosaki-san."
"You," gritted Ichigo with anger.
"I know I'm amazing." Urahara grinned, his green and white striped bucket hat concealing his eyes. "Please choose carefully."
"Damn you." Urahara shrugged and Ichigo's temper boiled even more. He straightened up and spat with venom, "Fine."
The blond man clapped. "Amazing~ I suggest you go somewhere quiet and relaxing." He gave him the brochure which Ichigo ripped from his hand. He read the brochure, saw where the location was and decided immediately.
"Not here."
"It is one of the most beautiful places in Japan! You'd love it! Plus," Urahara lifted a hand, index finger sticking out, "The place will surely inspire you!"
"No." Ichigo snarled with contempt.
With a sigh, Urahara shook his head. "Too bad. I made a reservation."
The orange-haired man gawked first before, "WHAT! Why the hell did you do that, you bastard!" shouted Ichigo, immediately crumpling the brochure and throwing it aside.
That was his last copy, Urahara thought sadly. "You'll leave tomorrow." He declared without flinching as the orange-haired man kept cursing about meddling and annoying publishers. "Have a safe trip~"
"Damn it!"
"I told you, no cursing when –"
"I KNOW!"
:
Kurosaki Ichigo started to hate sleeping exactly fourteen months and three days ago.
Fourteen months and three days ago, Celia was born.
She was born.
He first came up with the concept of Celia before creating her character. He later realized he did not create her; she simply arrived. She entered the story, her appearance as natural as incoming wind but her arrival had set fire to his life, leaving a permanent damage. As he wrote day and night, he can perfectly see her through his words, a living ghost. The first few chapters were accomplished smoothly. Chapters later, he began seeing her in his dreams. At first, it was just images, the briefest outlines. Then it became moving pictures. It wasn't vivid; it was like watching an old colorless movie with blurred edges. He can only see her back, her hair, the back of her white dress and the snow around her. She never turned around to face him, but he knew what the color of her eyes were, how high her cheekbones were, how she would look if she smiled.
Days later, he began to hear her.
Kurosaki-kun…
He bought an iPod, listened to rock, heavy metal, and punk. He fell asleep while listening to music, but as he fell deeper into his dreams, it became quiet.
The dreams became frequent, became vivid, clear – so painfully clear, it was almost real that he could smell her scent, hear her heartbeat.
He managed to finish Celia, his first novel. He presented it to Urahara, Urahara liked it, Urahara Publishing, Inc published it and money came. Lots and lots of money, fame, compliments, good reviews, banter from his closest friends (who didn't expect him to be a writer) and … and… more dreams of her.
And lesser sleep.
Dreams became daydreams. Then, he can no longer determine which was real, which was not. She was everywhere – standing in the hallway, waiting under the shade of white cherry blossom tree outside the building of his apartment, sitting on a swing, looking up to the bus stop sign, waiting in the train station. He can hear her whisper behind his ears, her hand on his hair, her fingers tracing his spine, her hair tickling his cheeks.
Sleeping became a burden, a torment. Though there was a part of him that wanted to see and feel her, a larger part of him was more frightened than eager to encounter her in his dreams. He did not want to see her face.
Thus, he taught himself not to sleep.
Well, there were five second power naps, maybe fifteen minutes dozing off. The longest sleep he had, an hour of shut eye. His body, however, was slowly crumbling under the stress. He never looked at himself in a mirror, anxious of what or who he'd see. He had a nagging suspicion that it would not be his face he'd see but someone else's. When his sisters voiced their concerns, he waved off their worry. It was not fatal, I'm not going to die, he had told them. Karin commented that he looked like a corpse. He had laughed it off, but Karin had snapped viciously, saying that Yuzu had been crying because of intense worry.
He sought medical help. He underwent physicals, scans, all available diagnostic exams. There was nothing wrong with him except for his zombie-like appearance. He was interviewed, but he refused to say anything about her, about Celia, about the voice. He told his doctor that there was nothing wrong; he had trouble sleeping and that was all. The doctor – a female, forty-something, dark-haired with eyeglasses – gave him prescriptions; they were sleeping pills and Ichigo found it ironic. She gave him sleeping pills to help him sleep while he didn't want to sleep. But he kept quiet, nodded as the doctor explained the indications and contraindications, when to take the meds, what to do and what not to do. He listened, he pretended to listen.
He left.
As he waited under a waiting shed (it was raining, he remembered now), he heard a song.
She was singing her love song.
The love song he wrote.
Damn it.
:
One night, he woke up after a thirty minute shut eye.
Someone was caressing his face tenderly. The hand was cold, the fingers long, but the touch was gentle.
He opened his eyes and turned his face to the side.
:
She was staring right at him.
:
He never slept after that.
That was seven days ago.
:
Asahikawa was a cold, barren place, covered in snow as white as the clouds and this particular side of the city looked like a desert that instead of sand, there was powdered snow. Asahikawa was a well-known tourist destination, and during winter, Asahikawa was usually crawling with tourists. This remote part of Asahikawa, however, looked deserted. Cars, buses or any mode of transport were scarce. If automobiles were scarce, then, inhabitants were scarcer.
After asking three locales for direction, Ichigo found the place where he was supposed to stay. His eyebrow shot upward: it looked like a miniature, less elaborate, but ominous black stone plain version of Windsor Castle. It stood in the backdrop of vast forest and it was very far from what he had envisioned; he had expected a cozy little typical Japanese inn. The building was made of black stone, although, as of the moment, thick snow had completely covered the whole building; it was three storeys high with huge, arched windows which were probably taller than him. At the center of the building were wooden doors.
A square, stone tower protruded from the back of the building. It was approximately five-storey taller than the building itself and its spire was so tall it looked like it was touching and extending beyond the gray, thick clouds above. From what he can see from his position, the stone tower had a single, square window.
His scowl deepened as he gazed at the façade, vaguely confused on why the place felt familiar. He tried to jog his memory but to no avail. However, he was certain that he had seen and been here before but could not remember when. In fact, the odd but striking familiarity of the place made his skin crawl.
:
She paused from her perusal when the right side of the massive doors opened with a loud groan. Few sprinkles of snow floated in. With a heavy sound, the door shut and the silence was fractured by echoes of light footsteps.
From the entryway, a tall man appeared, pausing in the middle to look around the massive atrium and stare up to the high ceiling supported by high arches. He was in black trench coat, faded jeans, sneakers instead of boots, and thick, maroon scarf. Snow clung to his clothes and… orange hair? How odd. Seemingly done with his passive scrutiny, he started towards her. He walked with an air of rough grace, his strides long.
Up close, she realized: this man was a man who hadn't sleep for a long time. A haunted man with eyes far older than his actual age. He stopped and gave her a look, raising a gloved hand to pull down his scarf which was wrapped around his neck, covering his mouth.
"I have a reservation." His voice was deep and strangled. He was taller up close, easily towering over her. He wore his scowl like a second skin. His stare was direct and distant, but polite.
She did not reply.
His scowl looked curious, an eyebrow lifting. "This is Las Anochecer, right?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Yes."
"Are you the hotel's receptionist? I have a reservation here. My name's Kurosaki Ichigo."
Her brow had pinched but she kept her expression neutral as she gave a polite greeting. "Good afternoon," she said with a practiced, tight-lipped smile. "I am Nanao Ise."
He nodded. "Can I have the key to my room?"
There was a pause in her movement before she quietly turned to a cabinet on the wall. Her slim fingers skimmed over the row of gold, long keys before wrapping them around a particular set and raised them off the hook. Nanao placed the set in front of the man.
"How much?" asked the man, reaching for his backpack.
She stared at him, unblinking. The man gave her an expectant look. "Already paid for, sir," she finally replied.
He looked confused at first, eyes narrowed; then, he nodded stiffly and lifted the set from the counter. He stared at the key, shrugged and turned to leave, but he paused in mid-stride, seemingly torn whether to ask for help in navigating his way around the place.
"I shall escort you to your room, sir."
"Good idea."
:
An index finger traced a circle on the wall beside the window. The finger stopped at the sound of door opening and closing. After a few heartbeats, it resumed tracing circles in counterclockwise direction.
"Aren't you cold? You're sitting too fucking close to the damned window."
"I smelt something delicious."
The chair started to rock back and forth. A fold of white cloth fell to the stone floor. The chair continued to tip back and forth, back and forth making a dull, creaking sound.
Suddenly, it stopped.
"I'm hungry."
There was a grunt.
Thick lashes lifted to reveal wide hazel-brown eyes. The finger stopped. There was a sound of fabric moving and shifting as the occupant of the chair turned to look up to the tall, breathing statue of man.
"Would you please get me something to eat," the small voice paused, "Grimmjow?"
:
Behind her, Nanao heard her companion screeching to an abrupt halt. The corner of her thin lips lifted. Rearranging her expression into a formal one, she turned around.
"I see." She began professionally. "Entranced, aren't you," her eyelids dropped half-mast, "Kurosaki-san?"
:
A cold grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, revealing a pair of pearl white pointed canines. Ice blue eyes looked down at the slim figure clad in purest white sitting on the wooden chair.
"Is there any specification, Your Highness?"
The finger traced circles again, in clockwise direction.
"I want something that breathes."
:
What the… fuck!
It was the only coherent thought that Ichigo managed to form inside his head as he looked up to the life-size portrait of a woman.
:
The cold blue eyes watched the pale thin finger trace circles over and over again.
The finger stopped.
He lifted his gaze from the finger; he ground his teeth.
Caramel-colored eyes were looking up at him, a hint of a smile in them. Long, long locks of hair framed paper-white face; they fell around and over thin shoulders, down to slender back, and over the backrest and seat of the chair.
"Please, Grimmjow."
Before he could stop himself, he retorted dryly, "I hate it when you smile."
The long locks fell forward as the face turned to the bare, square window. Flecks of snow and frosty breeze floated in but neither shivered from the cruel cold. The view provided a panorama of lonely, barren field of nothing but snow, pine trees and in the distance, an outline of a frozen lake. It was quite lovely.
The finger resumed tracing circle patterns.
"But I'm really hungry." It was quiet and soft. "So, get me some food, please."
"As you wish, Your Highness,"
"…Thank you."
:
It was an impressive realistic portrait of a woman.
She was wearing a white dress. It was simple but long, a very long dress. The sleeves on her shoulders were puffed out and they fell long and loose around her arms and down to her knuckles. The white dress made her eyes unnaturally bright, made her auburn hair brighter. The woman was sitting on a wooden chair by a square, stone window. Her knees were drawn up to her chest, her toes poking out of the skirt. One arm was around her knees and her other hand was on the windowsill, her index finger poking out as though she was tracing imaginary circles. The room she was in suspiciously looked like a room up in a cold, lonely stone tower. There were patterns of stone bricks in the background.
Long, long locks of orange-red hair were loose around her face and shoulders, solid waterfalls of dark blood. A pair of glittering periwinkle hairpins on either side of her head kept her bangs behind her ears, but some short locks escaped and fell artfully between and over her eyebrows.
As Ichigo stared up to her, his heart was beating violently, painfully against his ribs. It was cold, but few beads of sweat rolled down the side of his face.
A raw feeling of trepidation overpowered his senses as he stepped closer to the portrait.
It can't be. It is fucking impossible.
The more he looked at that face, the harder his heart raced, the harder his heart ached.
The chair. The window. The stone walls. …Celia.
No wonder he hated this place almost immediately! This place, the woman… she… that face—
Can you be my sanctuary?
Can you wipe the sadness in my eye?
Those large caramel-colored eyes.
Can you heal my broken wing?
Can you… hear me?
:
"…Orihime?" Ichigo croaked in disbelief.
:
"The fuck? Who the hell do you think you are to fucking mention that name?"
Startled, Ichigo turned his head around towards the voice. Someone tall, someone muscular but not bulky was approaching. The footsteps were heavy and echoed heavily in the wide hallway. The approaching man's features became clear as he drew closer.
Ichigo's scowl deepened, his eyes dark as he surveyed the approaching man.
The man stopped several feet away from him, sniffed and grinned, flashing pearl white long canines. Ichigo's eyes snapped wide, dread filling his veins.
Those… aren't real, are they? He thought skeptically. The stranger's ensemble was all white: white trench coat, white three piece suit, white tie, white gloves and white footwear. His blue eyes stood out, piercing and as cold as ice.
Ichigo didn't like the way the man was looking at him with arrogance and detachment. And eyes were not supposed the glow, weren't they?
"The food arrived, eh?"
Ichigo's eyebrows snapped together in annoyance.
With a cold sneer, the newcomer shoved his fists inside his white trench coat's big pockets. "Good. The Princess is fucking hungry. Come the hell with me." Long canines appeared and flashed as the man snarled like a saber-tooth tiger.
"Human."