When Ulquiorra receives a mysterious letter inside of a book that he frequently borrows from the eccentric local bookshop, he can't help feeling like his privacy has been invaded by this "O". The note offers a song which starts a barrage of letters and a playlist that serves to bring two people together while tearing another two apart. Then there's a shadow lurking in the distance from Ulquiorra's past.
Orihime can't believe the gall "U. C." has to insult her, but the person she's exchanging words with provides a distraction from the train wreck her life has become.
Is it possible to fall in love with someone through letters and songs?
A/N: This is the first collaborative story between u/9915520/EspadaFour and u/8377967/JK-Robertson which was originally posted on Ao3. In these stories, generally, the characters who are canonically Espada, Sternritter, Aizen and his minions are written by EspadaFour and the shinigami and humans are written by JK-Robertson. It is not always the case. But always EspadaFour writes Ulquiorra and JKRobertson writes Orihime.
THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. We do not own Bleach nor the characters used. They belong to their respective owners. Please feel free to send a PM or leave a review. We reply! Thank you for reading!
CHAPTER 1: The Bat Has Left the Belfry
He didn't mean to fall in love.
They were words on the page.
A trivial idea.
But it happened.
With the pussycat's heart the bat flew away.
There was an old run down bookshop on one of the side streets that nobody ever really traveled anymore. It was dingy and the windows needed cleaned. It was one of the best places to find great reads and classics. Antiques, first editions, last runs, best-sellers, and out of print books were stacked everywhere from the floor to ceiling on shelves that were dusted lovingly every week.
The eccentric shop owner said nothing as he watched the patrons browse the collections. Sometimes, there would be someone who would bring a volume up to the counter and quietly exchange words with the man in the striped hat. Most days there weren't any customers, so Ulquiorra had to wonder how the man made money when he didn't sell the books he housed in the shop.
The shop owner had a borrowing system in addition to sales; those who made purchases were mostly collectors or rich people trying for bragging rights about how they managed to get a hold of a mysterious but coveted item. All Ulquiorra wanted was to read one of his favorite books. He wanted to be at home curled up in his favorite chair covered in a cozy blanket. It was autumn; the trees were becoming bare. The temperature would drop, and scarves would be in fashion; bundling up would be a necessity.
As the dark-haired, green-eyed man browsed the shelves inside the shop, he sighed. The book wasn't there. No one ever checked out the anthology of Edgar Allan Poe's poetry, so why was it not on the shelves?
Irritation flashed through his brain as he walked up to the counter. "Did someone check out The Poe Anthology?"
"Ah Cifer, good to see you. I'm afraid that someone did borrow that today. My apologies, you've not set eyes on it for weeks. I thought it'd be safe. However..." the blond man said, trailing off. A fan flicked into view and hid the man's face. "I do have something that might tide you over."
Tide him over? A straight eyebrow raised as he processed this information. What poet from that time could satisfy his want for the more macabre literary pursuits. "I may be interested," Ulquiorra stated quietly.
The shopkeeper lowered the fan and smiled. He reached under the counter and retrieved a well-worn book. It might have even been well loved, but Ulquiorra studied the tired spine with a touch of distaste. "Who do you lend this out to? Elementary children? There's paper sticking out of it."
"The client who requests this book is fond of it," Urahara said. "She asked me to keep her bookmark in place. I think you'd enjoy it."
The tome was placed on the smooth wood countertop which had seen many years of customers that Kisuke Urahara came to know personally. "You can borrow this or wait until she returns the Poe. I do have some Emily Dickinson. Her poetry is quite-"
"Her poetry is hormonal trash and makes me want to throw myself in front of a car or off a bridge," Ulquiorra commented while still eyeing the book. "Edward Lear. I do not know much about him."
"I've never heard someone describe Dickinson that way, but I can't say you're wrong. What can one say about Mr. Lear? You're in for a treat, or you can have patience."
While Ulquiorra was patient, he wanted to be at home where he would be warm and cozy. He did not feel like participating with the public any longer than necessary. "Fine, I'll take the book. Could you please hold the Poe volume when it gets back?"
With a nod, Urahara handed Ulquiorra a form which he filled out with neat print and signed with little flair. "See you in two weeks, Cifer."
Orihime padded through her small apartment, making sure the coast was clear. She was in luck; her boyfriend, Ginjo, had left for the day to go drinking with his buddies down at the nearest dive bar. She grinned in anticipation as she found her favorite spot on the plush yellow sofa: the seat in the corner next to the table lamp. She pulled the soft gray crocheted afghan blanket off of the back of the sofa and cuddled up into it before taking the volume out of her tote bag: Poe Anthology. She ran a delicate hand over the well-worn, embossed cover, and opened it close enough to her nose to be able to appreciate its antiquated smell.
It had been a bit of an impulse when she asked the shopkeeper for a recommendation for a spooky story. Autumn had recently made its presence known, and all around town were depictions of ghosts and black cats, witches, and vampires. She had been inspired to get into the spirit of the season after watching a Halloween special on television the night before, and could not resist the black-bound title with silver lettering when the mysterious man in the striped hat offered it to her.
She opened the book and let the pages fall as they liked, noticing that one particular section of the books' pages had been handled more frequently than the others; their corners rounded and soft with the wear of many turns. She interpreted this as a recommendation and thumbed her way to the beginning of the well-loved section. Upon arrival she was greeted with a scratchy black and white illustration of a manor in a desolate landscape, with a horse and rider in the foreground, looking rather cold and miserable. It was a good start, she thought, to help her get into the mood. She read the title under the illustration, The Fall of the House of Usher. It held no significance to her. She shrugged her shoulders and began to read. Out loud. Well, loud was a bit of an overstatement as she mainly whispered and mouthed the words using an ominous foreign accent. She didn't do it as a joke; she did it to help her slip out of her world and into the world of Poe. However, once she had gotten past the first several sentences, she stopped the verbal narration and read in rapt silence.
She paused as she read the passage, "The writer spoke of acute bodily illness -of a mental disorder which oppressed him -and of an earnest desire to see me, as his best, and indeed his only personal friend, with a view of attempting, by the cheerfulness of my society, some alleviation of his malady. It was the manner in which all this, and much more, was said -it the apparent heart that went with his request -which allowed me no room for hesitation; and I accordingly obeyed forthwith what I still considered a very singular summons."
Below this passage was a pale green post-it note, upon which was scribbled in sharp, aggressive script, "What is the heart?" This question was circled several times, as though this question significantly vexed its writer. To Orihime, however, the answer was plain. She disregarded the note, carefully peeling it back so she could read the subsequent paragraph.
She continued to read; she continued to find little post-its here and there throughout the story; sticking points and plot holes, and critiques of the narrator's disdain for the succinct, mostly. She stopped to consider each note until she reached the story's ghastly conclusion, and closed the book, now thoroughly spooked. However, as she continued with the rest of her evening, the discomforted feeling brought about by the story subsided, and she found herself increasingly disturbed by the note-taker's first question: "What is the heart?"
She couldn't understand how he or she, although probably he, based on the handwriting, could have missed it? How could the previous reader of these pages - such as they were; bearing evidence of multiple readings - have overlooked what was possibly the only part of the story that made sense to her? The narrator's friend was reaching out, desperate to connect and fortify the bond they had once held in happier times.
The next day and the day after left her feeling more and more agitated. As she read through other stories in the book, she found that she couldn't focus, wondering more about the previous reader than the book itself. She decided, on the third day, that there was nothing to do except reach out to the poor, misguided soul who had been leaving these notes. To that end, she took out a small piece of stationary, adorned with images of cute pastel dinosaur royalty, and wrote:
Dear reader,
I hope this finds you well. I have enjoyed your comments and critiques as I read this book, but one of them keeps bothering me. You asked, "What is the heart?" In this story, Mr. Usher felt alone. He wished to connect his heart to someone else's; to the narrator's. He wanted to know what his friend was feeling and have those feelings reflected back to him. I know it's impossible to feel exactly the same as someone else... but when you both care for each other, your hearts are able to draw a little closer together. I think that's what it means to make your hearts as one.
I have a song I like to listen to when I feel isolated. It's one of my favorites. It's called "Answer", and it's by Sarah McLachlan. The lyrics talk about how when people connect their hearts to one another, their bonds can hold them together through times of darkness. Do you have a song like that? I hope so.
I hope this helps,
-O
The next day, Orihime returned to the bookshop and deposited the book on the counter, asking the clerk to please hold it for its previous reader. She was sure he would come again for it.