Chapter 2: The Mushrooms

There is a two-week time lapse in my memories. I only remember vague shadows of things during those two weeks that occurred after my previous memories. There were only faint, blurry things, feeling, and images—a few faces, a few worksheets, a few tests, even—but nothing more. I would like to believe that the reason for that is because it is unimportant and would like to hold onto that firm belief. Therefore, I will not bother to try to speak through those two weeks. Instead, I will go straight to what I remember very clearly.

It was a good two weeks prior to the first day Ulquiorra showed up on campus grounds and drove me insane. After that, we hardly spoke save for the few times in class and rare encounters in the hallways. I felt, strangely, empty during those times. No, it wasn't because of the lack of his presence. I knew that much. No, it was because I could not focus on my studies. The lack of grades had created the emptiness. However, the reason that I could not focus was because my mind was still enraptured by what I had seen two weeks prior. Of course, it was all rather silly that I should remember such things but, I did. So, there was no going against it.

Perhaps, it would be much easier to ignore my useless ramblings such as that which is in the paragraph above. Rather, we go straight to the one thing that brought Ulquiorra back into my, then, uneventful days of wandering the campus.

It was for our art class—one of the few classes he and I shared. Of course, by "he", I mean Ulquiorra. We had been taken outside of the school grounds and into the neighbouring forest on a nature hike of sorts in search of inspiration. The unit had been watercolour, landscape paintings, if I remember correctly. Of course, we were being supervised but, I, being myself, seemingly wandered a bit off of the group and found myself behind them. I wasn't too far behind. But, I was far enough behind to miss the fact that the group had crossed over the second log and, instead, crossed the first log mistakenly by myself. As the rotten log cracked and gave away beneath my feet, there was only one hand to reach for me and that was Ulquiorra Schiffer's. I was too fearful of injury at the time to notice who it had been. But, by the time I had been pulled up and out of the ditch, I realized who had helped me. I didn't spit at him or make snide comments towards him. No, I silently thanked him and he, willingly, smiled back and told me it was alright. It was the second time I saw that smile and I felt something inside me being driven to help him out in some way or another in return. He was just that sort of person. Besides, he smiled then. He was only human, after all. Then again, as was I. I think that that was, really and truly, the first time I had smiled so sincerely. This addition doesn't quite end here yet, though.

The place that we had finally stopped at was a clearing that was surrounded by forest on all sides. There were small, purple flowers peaking out from around rocks, ferns, and other shrubbery. There were a select few mushrooms of various bright and vibrant colours. It was, altogether, a rather charming scene, if I had to admit to it.

I chose to seat myself farther from the group on a rock that was close to a tall tree that you could barely see the top of. My back rested on said tree. I glanced around the clearing, trying to find something inspirational to draw. After all, this counted for marks. What I saw, though, wasn't quite fitting of the "nature" theme but, nevertheless, it was what I ended up drawing.

Ulquiorra was huddled over a small patch of mushrooms—purple, yellow, gold, beige, red, orange, and all sorts of other colours—on the opposite side of the clearing. His features were glowing with a happiness that I had not previously seen. A small, taut smile tugged firmly at his lips and it reached even to his eyes. The sadness that had been there prior to our arrival had long since disappeared—flushed away in his solemn solitude. It was heart-warming and brought, even, a smile to my own face. I couldn't help it.

Silently, without a word, I pulled out my own sketchbook and began to sketch the picturesque scene played out before me into a blank page. I wish I had that picture right now. But, unfortunately, I no longer do. Either way, I remember completing the sketch and holding it away from my face to view it proudly.

It seemed that he had completed his very own sketch not long after I had as well. Well, it was that or time passed far too quickly as I continued to marvel at the sight. It didn't matter, anyway. What I did notice was that, upon completing his drawing, he turned around and I could see his large green eyes—they were the first things that caught my attention among all the other features of his face—and noticed that they were glazed over in a strange haze of a...lack of wariness. Strangely enough, it looked vaguely familiar. I was confused and slightly interested. However, as quickly as the vision had come, it passed. Ulquiorra, however, did not miss a beat (how very like him) and saw me watching him. He had stood up and was, now, walking towards me, giving me the most interesting look.

"Have you seen something that interests you?" he asked me, surprisingly, gently and with a genuinely inquisitive tone. I was startled and found myself nodding dumbly. He pressed on, "What might that be?" I believe it to be his innocent curiosity that got to me. Even then, he had seemed like such a twisted, wretched soul incapable of such naivety that I was shell-shocked by this.

I didn't dare say "you", though; I will not lie and say that that wasn't what I was thinking. Instead, I supplemented quickly, "I was interested in seeing what you were drawing."

He accepted my answer. Though, I could tell that he didn't believe me. Still, he complied quietly and brought his sketchbook to my attention. I took it from his open hands and quickly flipped through it, turning to the most recent sketch—the one of the mushrooms.

I found myself asking him an incoherent question. "Why did you draw mushrooms?" I hardly had enough time to grasp the words I had just spoken before more spilled free from the restraints of my mind, "Most people drew flowers, rocks, and whatnot. Why did you choose these?"

"I like them." he answered simply.

Again, more questions were brought forth from the depths of my mind without my realizing. "Why is that?" I, once again, was asking him.

He smiled but it wasn't at me. He was looking down at his sketch, glancing back at the original mushrooms, the same soft, slightly eerie smile resting placidly on his lips. "Well," he spoke so softly that I had to strain my ears to pick up the sounds, "that would be because they interest me." Before I could ask him to elaborate, he continued on to say, "They grow only in dark, humid areas. They are capable of reproducing with spores—not seeds—that are so small that they cannot be seen. They come in many different colours. And, their unusual shape is intriguing. On top of that, they are capable of growing in the strangest of places—for example, on trees. However, even the slightest disturbance could deter further growth for them."

A brief thought crossed my mind. It went something along the lines of Is he attempting to humour me? I was sorely tempted to believe that before he turned back to me and snatched the sketchbook away. The serene moment had been broken rather quickly, I could see. Though, I realized, he must not have liked my viewing of the sketch and, like me, must have allowed the words to slip past the guard of his tongue.

Nonetheless, even after his explanation, I found myself countering, "Is it not also true that flowers come in many more colours and varieties than mushrooms? On top of that, they are capable of growing in the most difficult of conditions. Also, aren't there many more types of rocks—minerals—too? What about trees? Are they not as equally strong and intriguing—especially the oak tree?" To this, he merely shrugged and gave me no reply or retort.

That was where the conversation ended. It was an awkward silence that seemed, strangely, companionable. I didn't quite like it but I could agree with it, oddly enough.


Of the next chain of events that occurred—all of which I remember in tedious detail—I choose only to tell you a few of them. Of course, this is simply by my choice. Therefore, it should hold nothing against the actual number of events that occurred. However, they were selected by my own standards of importance. Of course, these were the ones I deemed the most important—well, to me, anyway.

It was the first time Ulquoirra and I really talked—back in the forest. I remembered his voice clearly when he had given me his reason for liking mushrooms. As silly as it sounded, there was something strangely chilling yet warm about the way he had spoken then—no, the way he always spoke. It rang within the darkest caverns of my mind and sent ever-so-slightly uncomfortable and unfamiliar chills down my spine. What was this sensation? I had never felt it before, I knew as much.

At the moment, I was back in my dormitory room. The school day had finished and I found myself quite bored. I was, wonder of all wonders, studying at my desk. Though, I had been at it for several mind-numbing hours and was, quickly, growing even more bored due to the studying and numbers that were preoccupying my mind. Instead, I decided to head over to the lounge that was only a few rooms down the hallway. That was, at night, a disadvantage. I'm sure I needn't explain about the noise that usually wormed its way from the lounge into the hallway and into my ears. After all, it is all quite self-explanatory. Anyway, I was simply heading there to find, perhaps, Leroy and do something that...friends did, I suppose. Instead, though, I found the lounge, strangely, empty. It was then that I noticed Ulquiorra standing near the back of the lounge—well, not quite standing. No, he was squatting in the back corner of the room with an old, leather-bound book in his hands. He was reading the book, no doubt. In fact, he seemed intensely caught up in whatever the story happened to be about. Whatever it was, it must have been interesting because he hardly noticed me as I walked over to his side.

He was fairly startled when I began to speak to him and he hadn't noticed my entering the room. It was quite amusing, actually. "What are you doing?" I had asked him.

Ulquoirra looked to me like I was somebody who was on the very brink of insanity. I was not, I can insure you. Though, if I am now, I cannot be sure. Of course, my standards of insanity have long since lowered considerably, too. After all, we're all some type of insane, here in Las Noches, right?

Anyway, what he showed me appeared to be obvious indifference. Well, it was either obvious indifference or simply apathy—both of which bothered me.

"Well?" I pressed on, thoroughly curious.

"I am reading." he stated in plain English. He was speaking to me as though he was speaking towards someone who barely understood basic English. To say the least, it ticked me off.

I frowned, poking his forehead in disdain rather than hurting him further. "I can see that, Ulquiorra. Perhaps, you could inform me on what you are reading? Or, maybe even why you are reading? Hm?" I suggested. He brushed it off, of course. I had expected that, though.

Ulquiorra looked at me like I was mentally retarded. "And, if there is nothing in particular to elaborate on, then, what?"

"Is that so?" I questioned, displeased. "I cannot tell whether you are trying to be difficult or you simply do not care."

Ulquiorra sighed, pushing me away with one hand that rested on my chest. "It is the latter. I haven't a thing, as of thus far that interests me, anyway, Grimmjow."

"You remembered my name." I mused, speaking to no one but myself, really.

"I did." he confirmed, his bored tone of voice unwavering, "Does that surprise you?"

I looked at him then to the ground, finding myself unable to make eye contact. "Just a little bit, it does." Perhaps, it was embarrassment or was it pure nervousness?

The amused look on his face didn't go away. And, I highly doubted that it would do so anytime soon. Nevertheless, neither of us spoke for a moment. Strangely, we found ourselves in a relatively companionable silence. Though, I wouldn't go so far as to say that we were comfortable with each other, at that point. That would have been far too much of an exaggeration for that time, specifically.

Of course, he had to be the one to break the silence. "I see." he murmured. I almost expected him to say more, but he didn't. Instead, he averted his gaze to, once again, his book and was, seemingly, re-absorbed in...whatever he was reading. I was a tad bit frustrated. Of course, there wasn't much to abandon in our conversation. Though, I would admit, that it required only basic manners to understand that what he had done was something one did not do. Then again, considering Ulquoirra, expecting him to be polite to anyone (authorative figures aside) would be fairly difficult—no, much closer to impossible. After all, his favourite word still hasn't changed from "trash"—still, mind you, still.

I didn't bother myself in regaining his attention. He seemed so completely and utterly enraptured by the contents of the book that I found myself feeling just a tiny bit jealous. Of course, being raised as I was, I had been taught that jealousy was useless. Of course, growing up like I did, though, meant that I cared not for my parents' teachings. After all, what virtues did they really adhere to? Perhaps, this bit requires some explaining.

For a moment, I will detour from the current events—no, from the recollection with Ulquiorra to an even older memory. Of course, this means my memories prior to meeting Ulquiorra.

I was, as a child, not raised like...normal children were. No, one would not consider me normal. In fact, my childhood was the furthest thing from normal. You see, my parents were...assassins, so to speak. In our day and age, such was not uncommon. Of course, these organizations...or rather, clans and families, were not known by the general public nor government officials. Our only contacts were those that were extremely wealthy and those with personal connections to us. Of course, the latter was far less likely than the former. Anyway, my parents' fancy for their occupations showed in my name and nature. After all, one can hardly consider Grimmjow a name other than some grotesque concoction created by somebody, or, in my case, some people, bent on killing or violence. Of course, my parents were not...exactly like that. I would hardly consider them "good" people, either.

Of course, I must continue. I had my first kill at the age of ten. That would have been about...three or four years ago, assuming my previous speculations were correct. It was something that my family did—once a child would turn an age where there were two digits, they had to accomplish their first kill. I was the child prodigy of the family, one could say. In any case, my parents and grandparents expected great things of me. Of course, I didn't want to. I won't lie—I've always been the rebellious child. I've never liked listening to people. And, I won't hesitate to say that I am not the most agreeable, either. Of course, neither was Ulquiorra.

In the end, the reason I had been sent away to the school that I was in was because of my "disciplinary difficulties"—I had been sent here because I was not obedient. They were originally planning to send me to military school (I doubt that would have helped), but it had been...too full...or rather, the military had caught wind of our trade and were...just a bit fearful of the Jeagerjaques name and laid down a fib that they were full and that my enrollment had been rejected. In the end, I was glad. I wouldn't have liked to miss my chance with Ulquiorra here.

But, the story must continue. I might as well get it all out while I'm still talking, right?

I haven't the slightest idea of how many hours must have passed. It seemed that I had dozed off, though. Strangely enough, it was warm. There was an oddly numb sort of tingling sensation on my right arm. Also, my back felt...fuzzy and...warm?

I slowly cracked one eye open and found it far too bright for my eyes, previously shrouded in a sleepy haze of darkness, to bear. I let out an internal groan that, I could have sworn, nearly exited my mouth had I not decided not to make such a forsaken noise.

By the time that I had realized that I was not in my room, my eyes were wide open. It took me the entirety of a minute to register that I had fallen asleep in our dormitory's library. It took me even longer to realize that I had fallen asleep at a desk and on top of my arm, of all places. That would explain the numb feeling—my arm had fallen asleep, too. I quickly acknowledged that I was not in a particularly cheerful mood, either. Of course, I wasn't one that enjoyed waking up—not many people do. Then again, there are always the queer people like Ulquoirra (the pun is not intended).

I sat up drowsily, shaking my arm about for good measure. The tingling feeling of blood rushing back into the arm nearly jolted me out of my skin. I had never particularly liked that sensation. With that thought in mind, I doubt anyone ever particularly enjoys that sensation so my dislike of it should only seem natural, no?

My eyes, now fully functioning, began, at a haphazardly slow pace; drink in the sights around me—I could see the familiar tables, chairs, and bookshelves sitting in the particularly large room. I also took notice that there were actually only a few people situated at random locations scattered across the room. None, though, were associating with each other. Then, quite stupidly, I'll admit, I remembered that it was a library.

Even in the library, there was, usually, an occasional chatter or hushed whispers. But, today, there was nothing—I could not hear a single sound. It was almost as thought the silence was...a tangible object. In other words, I could feel the silence seeping in through the door and diffusing at random throughout the room. It was like a slow-spreading, infectious disease or an epidemic of some sort. I didn't like it. I will agree that I have the tendency to behave like a loud and boisterous (sometimes, spoiled) child. However, that is not the reason for my dislike of silence—especially this kind of silence. This silence chilled me to the bone and ate at my ear drums mercilessly, devouring bits and pieces of my mind. It nipped at the skin on your hands and ate away at your sanity. Someone exposed to this silence for too long would go insane. It was irregular and...I didn't like it, not at all.

Something interrupted that silence, though. It wasn't a loud noise or a bang or sudden speech. No, it was something that had been there all along in the silence. There was a dull, humming sort of rhythm that hung inm that silence, refusing to let go. It was soothing to my hot blood and calming to my frenzied nerves. It took a lot to do that to me—I wasn't a naturally calm person. One could say I was cold-blooded. No, not in the sense that I could kill without remorse but, rather, that I blended in with what is around me.

At a painfully slow pace, my mind began to recognize what it was. I could hear the faint, dull, irregular drumming sound echoing and resounding off the glass window panes. Not only that, but it rang in the room. Was that the reason for everyone's silence? Nonetheless, the constant pitter-patter sound was quickly traced to the rain that was falling outside. It glistened faintly as it left invisibly, trailing pathways from itself to the window ledge. They were like the sky's tears.

I looked out the window and saw the rain that I had previously heard. For a moment, I was captivated by the slick patterns each droplet of rain traced on the scratched glass. But, beyond that, my eyes could just barely make out the figure of a person standing in the rain. I quickly recognized it as Ulquiorra's. More than merely slightly alarmed, I dashed out of the building to the place where I had seen him. What I saw upon arriving there both shocked and disarmed me.

By the time I had gotten outside, the rain was no longer gentle but was pouring. There was a coldness in my bones that shook with each droplet. My shirt was completely drenched and transparent as it clung mercilessly to my revealed skin.

The steps I took towards him were slow and very deliberate—it took everything I had to lift my foot and set it down again to move on. Though, with each step, he did not seem to be getting closer. However, the moment I was next to him, I could see him and he could see me.

"What are you doing?" I asked his hunched over form. I could, now, see clearly that he was standing above a small patch of damp grass that was situated near the very back of the building. Though, I had only noticed it out of my peripheral vision so I could not quite see him clearly. As I looked at him, I could see a vague look of melancholy flit past his eyes. It was brief so it gave me little time to consider it but, nonetheless, it was strange and seemed out of place. I was hardly given time to even ponder this, though. For, the moment the look had gone, his eyes were fixed on me. There was something hauntingly distant glazing over those deep green orbs with an unfamiliar sheen that left me gaping and wordless.

He looked up at me, his green eyes blank with a void that could never be filled. "I'm trying to cultivate mushrooms." he murmured. And, that was the only answer I received.

My lips moved on their own accord, deciding to break the seemingly endless rhythm of the falling rain. "You're going to catch a cold." I remarked, not giving so much as a hint of emotion which was much unlike me. But, neither of us acted on that logic—neither of us moved or so much as said a word. For a moment, there was complete and utter serenity. I think, I would have cried had I not long since forgotten how to. It was either that or I was crying and it was lost in the rain—the rain had melded with my tears and the sky was crying with me.