I appreciate everyone who is reviewing. 400 people read this fic in one day. One day. That's insane. I couldn't sit still. -TPP


Perfect Silence

Chapter 2.


"Odd one you're never alone

I'm here and I will reflect you

Both of us basically unattached to anyone or anything

unless we're pretending."

-Sick Puppies 'Odd One'


After school, I head straight to the music store. The weather is shitty, rain soaking my clothes in a matter of minutes, but I don't have money for the bus.

I'm not scheduled to work today, but I don't know what else to do. I can't go home.

I won't go home.

I'll have to go home eventually, at least by tomorrow afternoon. If my mom doesn't get her pills, I might as well smother her with a pillow.

You might think I'm sick, less than human, but I won't lie. I've thought about it before.

Ending her. Ending her pain. Ending my pain. Getting out, finding my lungs, erasing that slimy bastard from my life.

She's the only thing tying me to that place, that hell. She's the anchor, a rusty, heavy anchor.

And Aizen is a shark. A selfish, sick, manipulative bastard who spun shiny, exotic webs to cover my mother's eyes and entangle me.

Not only that, Aizen could move those webs at will, his silky words just like those gossamer strands. More like a spider then a shark, really.

People trusted him. People looked at him and saw an honorable man, a man supporting a dying wife and managing a delinquent teenage stepson. There was even more pity when he lost his job, a father and husband's worst nightmare.

But the drinking had started long before that, long before mom got sick. When I was twelve, I watched him hit her, once. He barely ever shouted, barely ever got angry. He'd never hit her before, never laid a hand on her that wasn't out of affection. She'd been absolutely shocked.

I don't know what was wrong with me back then. You wanna know the sickest part? When he hit her, and I heard her crying in the kitchen, I thought to myself that's nothing. I wish he'd only hit me. Why are you crying?

He'd already started touching me by then. My twelfth summer, the summer I started growing hair and changing.

Puberty. That's what he'd been waiting for.

My voice had been scratchy, strange. I probably hadn't weighed more than sixty pounds soaking wet. I was a runt. My height wouldn't change until the next summer, and the next.

"You're not a baby anymore. You're becoming a man, Grimm."

When I was little, he would always touch my hair. My mother touched my hair a lot too, so although it bothered me a little, I was never truly afraid of him. I didn't trust him, I didn't like him, but I was still naïve enough to think that in a couple years, when I was older and understood relationships better, Aizen would be that father figure I didn't remember, the one that left my mom before I was born.

But I'd been wrong. The touching increased.

In small ways, you know? Aizen is a very, very careful monster. His webs are clean, intricate, hard to see, just like real spider's webs. Throughout elementary he would help me with homework, sit too close, lean, run his hands over mine, claiming to be correcting my penmanship.

That was it. That was all, but it was there.

Then puberty and kaboom, Aizen's webs were so thick my mom would never see, society would never see.

Only I would.


I was twelve, almost thirteen, and terrified. I was still learning about my body, about what it could do, and Aizen asked a lot of questions. He told me I could come to him for anything for any reason, but I hadn't known what that meant, not until I started getting aroused in the shower and when I woke up in the morning.

This was my body, this was important. Aizen would know these things.

I remember lying in bed one night. I was wearing my blue pajama pants with the stars all over them. My crotch ached, so I started fondling myself. The pressure kept building, and it scared me. I'd never jerked off before and was afraid I wasn't normal, and I'd only gotten more scared when my bedroom door opened and Aizen was standing in the doorway.

He hadn't been drinking that night. I remember. I never smelled it on him, and his eyes had been…there aren't words.

I immediately stopped what I was doing. I was still under the covers. In my mind, at that age, that meant I was still safe, still secret.

"You alright there, Grimm?" he'd asked, coming into the bedroom, closing the door behind him with gentle, quiet care, "Everything okay?"

The voice of a concerned parent with the eyes of a monster.

"I'm fine."

"Oh. Are you…" he approached the bed, sighed, and sat on the edge, close enough to touch me.

But he doesn't. Not yet.

"…I see. You're…relieving yourself. It's perfectly natural, Grimm. All men do it. It's part of growing up."

Practical advice for a father to give to his son: stepson or otherwise.

I'd been so stupid.

I'd still been too embarrassed to say anything, but something wasn't right.

I knew something wasn't right.

The door was closed.

The light was out.

I'd been so stupid.

Moonlight filtered in through the window, creating a glare across his glasses.

Then he was moving closer, his hands sliding along my stomach. I couldn't breathe, couldn't move. I don't know what I was thinking. I was just too stupid to know what to do, to know what to expect.

"Your mother's sleeping," he said quietly, one large, heavy hand descending under the sheets, caressing over my belly button before sinking lower, "You shouldn't wake her when you do things like this. She's a woman: she doesn't understand that this is natural. Sometimes, Grimm, men need help."

I remember feeling like my eyes were going to pop out of my head, my toes curling, my heart pounding, but I couldn't move. I wanted to say something, anything, whether to scream or ask him more questions I don't remember.

I just remember those fingers wrapping around my developing cock, squeezing and twisting, making my hips move up and up and up…

I finally got enough strength into my fingers to tug at my sheets, bowing my head back, gasping and gasping and gasping because it felt so different, so foreign, so agonizingly good.

But it was wrong. I shouldn't have wanted it, I still don't want it, but I'd needed it.

After I came, I started crying, freaked out with myself, my body, what another man's hands could do to it.

Aizen's lips had moved to my ear, his fingers still sticky, forcing two of them into my mouth as he whispered, "Now help daddy."

I nearly choked on his fingers, disgusted by the smell and feel, the taste. He was completely on top of me now, which made me panic. I started flailing, fidgeting, anything to get those fingers out of my mouth, his heat off of my body.

He slapped me, shushing me, warning that if my mom woke up and saw me like this, she would hate me forever.

"You're disgusting," he breathed, my pants by my ankles. He took his fingers away from my mouth, moving my legs.

I didn't know what he was doing. I couldn't see through my fear, my panic, my anger. My chest hurt.

All I wanted to do was scream.

Instead, I whined, my body tensing and shuddering as his dirty fingers probed at my ass.

One finger slipped in. Just one.

Then another.

Then something bigger.

And I lost it.

I don't know why I didn't scream; it was like I couldn't. It was like I was watching this happen, helpless to do anything.

He was bigger, stronger, smarter, faster.

I was just a kid, a stupid, idiot kid.

And I'll never forget the pain. You can't describe that kind of pain.

My bed shook, moved, as he panted against my neck.

All I could make was choked noises. That was it. That was all.

My body was on fire. He was tearing me, ripping me, destroying me.

Tears ran down my face and I cried and I cried.

I must have gotten too loud, because soon his hand was over my mouth again and he was hushing me.

"Good boy, Grimm."


Nobody would ever believe me. Nobody would ever imagine what the man is really capable of.

Only I know the truth, the secrets that will never be said.

"You're disgusting."

A car honks, the driver flipping me off. I have wandered into the road.

I do that sometimes.

I cross to the other side of the street and duck through another alleyway that will connect me to the main avenue. I can see the music shop now, red neon lighting up the display case window.

BENEHIME MUSIC

I'm safe here, safer than anywhere.

It's probably my favorite place in the entire city.

I duck into the shop, my old, skanky black Converse making squishing noises as I head deeper into the shop. It's an odd-shaped shop, extremely narrow-looking from the street, but once you're inside, it's long, so the shop's much bigger than you think.

Flyleaf's 'Breathe Today' is playing throughout the shop on mounted speakers. It's a simple shop: not fancy, but it's comfy, warm and, of course, stocked with thousands of CDs and a handful of guitars, keyboards, a drum set, amps, music books. Mostly people come here for the wide selection of CDs and concert DVDs anyway, so Urahara doesn't concern himself with the instruments too much.

The walls are an intense turquoise with band posters creating a unique upper border around all the walls of the shop, most of them signed. There's even a coffee machine and some funky, plush orange-and-green chairs in the back where people can chill for the hell of it and a bulletin board where local bands can post future events and shows. Urahara's obsession with music makes him want to stay involved in every spectrum and makes sure his employees know everything about what's up and coming.

Speaking of employees, my eyes immediately land on Starrk, who's currently handing a black-and-white plastic bag to a blushing female customer, his signature lazy smile on his face as he encourages them to come back again soon for the release of a new Zanpakuto album.

I know why the girl is blushing. It would be hard not to.

Starrk's that crazy-good-looking guy that everybody gets along with. He's laidback, honest, sincere, and laughs when he's supposed to. His grey-blue eyes look lazy, but he sees more than he lets on. His wavy brown hair is pulled back and up in a halfsie ponytail, and it looks like he shaved today. Physically we're about the same: tall, thin, although his skin is darker. He's wearing the store-issued BENEHIME MUSIC black t-shirt with white script, what I'll be wearing tomorrow when I actually have a shift.

The girl leaves, passing me with a weary eye. I've been working here for almost a year, but customers still get a little spooked by me. I mostly run stock in the back room and take inventory, so I don't have to worry about much customer interaction. I'll speak if I absolutely have to, but it's mostly head nods and grunts. The only reason Urahara even gave me a chance is because Starrk convinced him I'd be worth it.

Starrk notices me and throws up a peace sign, his nails painted black today, "Sup, Grimmjow? Nice of you to drop in, or was it the rain that dragged you here?"

I shrug my shoulders as I come closer to the counter. Starrk's four years older than me, a sophomore at the local college, but we've known each other our entire lives. We grew up together, in a sense. Lived right down the street from each other. We'd nearly broken our necks on Starrk's first skateboard. We had countless dirt clod wars in the skanky alleyways. He introduced me to weed. I introduced him to good bands, good music, despite my age. We'd walk to school and home together. Even when we got separated in middle school and high school due to our class difference, he'd be waiting at the gates for me every day to catch up with me, and I him, at least until he started college.

He was, and is, my only real friend.

We know each other's bullshit. Although he doesn't know exactly everything Aizen's done to me, Starrk knows enough. He would invite me over to spend the night at his house all the time; I practically lived with him during the summers, at least until my mom started getting sick.

I was there for him when his mom passed away when he was fourteen: complications in childbirth. Even though he was easy going and got along with just about everybody, he didn't have many close friends, and his dad was about as talkative as I am.

His mom and baby sister didn't make it. Starrk had been devastated. Talking to him, looking at him, you'd think this guy couldn't have secrets, darkness, but he does, and I think that's why I can't push him away.

I can't tell him everything, no, I've never done that, but he's all I've got.

"You're gonna catch a cold," Starrk says, breaking me out of my internal reverie even as another customer approaches the counter, sidestepping me, "Why don't you go in back and grab a shirt? Shuhei should be back any minute from break and we can go grab some food."

I nod and do as I'm told. I've never stopped talking to Starrk, I just don't talk as much as I used to, and I don't like talking around strangers or customers.

Starrk accepts all these things about me.

I'd never wanted a brother, but if I could have one, I'd want to pick Starrk.

The storeroom is unnecessarily messy, which is good news for me.

The messier it is, the longer it will take to clean up, reorganize, not to mention there are several boxes of new inventory that needs to get scanned and labeled. If I'm lucky, I'll be here late for the next three days that I'm scheduled.

I pull off my soaked hoodie and wet shirt, throwing them on the shelf used for the staff's personal belongings and slip into a black BENEHIME MUSIC t-shirt. It's tight across my chest, but there's only mediums. I run my fingers through my hair that's still drenched, which makes it even longer. It reaches the middle of my back these days.

I don't know why I've never cut it. My mom cut it one summer a long time ago, claiming it was too hot to be running around with long hair. Kids in elementary had teased me and called me a girl, but by middle school it didn't matter anymore.

I bend over, grasping my knees, fighting for air.

"So rare, just beautiful."

I'm sick. I want to throw up, but don't. I stand back up and decide to busy my hands. I grab the nearest box of cds that have already been scanned and catalogued and head back into the main part of the store, which is actually starting to get busy. Either the after school crowd or people that were driven in due to the rain, but Starrk's already got a line five people long.

I set about organizing the CDs into their different genres, working fast. It's calming, really. Moving the slick plastic cases back and forth, back and forth, like the waves of the ocean.

You'd think the repetition would make me sick of this job in a month, but it doesn't. I love it.

Tracks change, filling the store with the sounds of a promising up-and-coming American band. I sing along internally, deliriously empty of thought.

I'm almost done with the box, trapped between the J-Pop and Punk section when somebody taps me on the shoulder, "Uh, do you–"

My fingers nearly crush one of the cd cases before I turn towards whoever touched me.

My body feels stiff and swollen at the same time. It's something I can't describe.

This is the thing about me.

Nobody touches me. Only my mom, and that's sporadic, depending on the state of her mind, and I always know when it's going to happen.

So nobody touches me. Not teachers, not Gin, not strangers. Nobody, not even Starrk.

Not even Aizen.

He hasn't touched me. He hasn't touched me in months, almost a year...

I thought it was over.

I come back to myself, breathe in through my nose, stare at the orange-haired boy that's familiar to my mind's eye.

I've never been this close to him before.

He's looking at me with these big, tawny brown eyes that are filled with what is some kind of mixture of confusion over how I reacted and his recognition of a fellow classmate, albeit we've never spoken a word to each other. We might have had a class together our freshman year, but I don't really remember.

"Hey," he says. The tone isn't friendly, but it isn't dismissive either.

This kid's not fake. I don't know how I know that, but I know.

It's in my guts, squirming around.

I nod at him, suddenly very uncomfortable. It isn't uncommon for Karakura High students to show up in the shop, but I've never been forced to interact.

Until now.

"Well, this is awkward," he says, rubbing at his left arm, the long sleeves reaching to his wrists. The shirt is white, the rain having soaked through most of it.

I can see his nipples.

I avert my eyes, but there's nowhere to really look, so I go back to his eyes.

There's this tightening in my gut again, like when you meet someone, and you know you know something about them, but you don't know what? That's the only way I can describe it.

What's worse, I don't like the way he's looking back at me, like he's waiting for me to say something, to lighten the awkward tension.

I don't know what to say, really.

We go to the same school. He knows my reputation. I don't really know his, but when I do see him, he has some friends.

He interacts pretty normally, scowls a lot, laughs some. Pretty normal.

So what is it?

"I didn't know you worked here," he says offhandedly, his fingers running over a cd case to keep him busy. His fingers are long and delicate.

"How would you?"

He's nearly as shocked as I am. It's been days since I've said anything, my voice a little rough, scratchy.

I think I'm scowling. I don't know what to do, so I grab the nearly empty box of cds and brush past him, careful not to touch him.

I can't touch him and he can't touch me.

This is my mantra until I make it around the stand and into the next section of music and he's near me again. Too close, too far. I don't know which.

I don't want to talk. I don't want to know him.

"Hey look, I didn't mean anything by it. Uh, I'm just surprised, that's all. A music store, of all places."

Despite my inner mantra, his comment makes me look at him, my jaw tense. What the hell does that mean?

He seems to read my expression. I don't know why his face is turning pink, but his cheeks and nose are now a rosy red, his freckles dark cinnamon.

Stop looking at him. He's not going to touch you.

He sighs, looking at the rack of cds in front of us, "Just wanted to know if you got any foreign EPs in lately. I didn't want to buy it online if I could grab it here."

I realize I'm wearing an employee t-shirt.

I nod. This doesn't seem to be enough for him.

Now I must communicate to get him to leave.

"What band?" I say lowly. I stare at his lips. I don't know why, I just do.

"Mayday Parade," he replies.

This surprises me. Probably my favorite American band.

"Me too."

He's staring right at me, and I'm staring back, and I don't know what I'm feeling. Obviously I said that out loud. It didn't even register. I love music. Besides this job, it's my only escape. The casual drugs with Gin and the common alcohol-induced comas with Starrk don't compare to how I feel when I'm with my music.

I'm slipping. He's seeing me.

"So you've heard the EP? It's only been out a couple days."

I nod.

His nose crinkles when he smiles, "so you've got a copy?"

He looks frustratingly eager.

I nod.

"Sweet."

The front door to the shop opens and in hustles Shuhei, pulling his hoodie down to reveal his ink black spiky hair. He knows he's late, but the line is already down to two people, the other bodies taking up the space simply browsing.

Shuhei slows as he notices me, eyebrows drawn together, "Dude, called in on your day off? That sucks."

I shrug one shoulder, which is enough for Shuhei as he heads over to Starrk, apologizing.

Kurosaki's still looking at me. I don't know what he's thinking.

I turn and nod my head in the direction of the back room. I haven't had a chance to stock the new inventory, but it shouldn't take me more than a couple minutes to find, and Starrk can ring it up.

Kurosaki will leave. I will be fine.

He follows not too far behind, waiting patiently as I start moving boxes, reading labels, moving others. I finally rip open a shipment that was delivered yesterday, pulling the EP entitled Valdosta free and holding it out towards Kurosaki.

"Awesome," he breathes, extending his hand to take the cd from me.

This is the part where his fingers are supposed to accidentally brush mine.

This is the part where I shrink back, uncomfortable from the unwanted touch.

This is the part where he's supposed to be confused and curious about what the fuck is wrong with me.

None of this happens. Instead, it's much worse.

He's tentative, carefully making sure his fingers only touch the farthest edge from me, sliding it out without any contact.

I know he consciously did this because it took too long.

This is worse.

He knows. He sees me.

It's not fair. None of this is fair.

"Thanks, Grimmjow."

He knows my name.

"See you at school," he says.

He knows.

I've known Gin almost a year and never said a word.

I've known Kurosaki all of five minutes.

I almost ask him why.

Why he's here.

Why he knows my name.

Why he even bothers to try and carry a conversation with me.

Why he's got freckles.

Why he is constantly rubbing his forearms.

I just nod and go back to sorting.

It bothers me for the rest of the night.

After Starrk's shift we grab takeout and have a few beers.

He asks me about the strawberry boy who was in the shop today.

He asks me if we're friends.

He saw me talk to him. He thinks it's a good thing.

He's so wrong.

I don't know how to answer Starrk, so I think and think and think, and I realize why I'm reacting to Kurosaki.

If he can see me, I can see him.

This thought only confuses me more.

Starrk passes out on the couch. I take the futon. He's used to me spending the night. I don't need permission.

Before I fall asleep, I have another revelation.

Takes an addict to recognize an addict.