Chapter 10 – A Tale of Two Novels: Part Two

Halfway during the performance, a belligerent Grimmjow Jeagerjacques dragged his increasingly sick cousin to the washroom, ignoring thousands of curious glances, and pushed him up against the tiled wall. He was furious with the meek show Ulquiorra had put up earlier, absolutely fuming and further incensed when he overheard some media birds twittering about how the usually sardonic Ulquiorra Schiffer had 'gone soft'. And then in a regular fit of madness he hurled his red fedora hat away like a wacky Frisbee.

"Oi you! And you over there! And you too!" Grimmjow growled warningly at the three men pretending to mind their own business and whistle away carelessly, as the blue haired menace stormed in with his famous actor cousin strewn about haplessly. "Get the fuck outta here," he thumbed over his shoulder, "before I bust your heads open like fucking walnuts." He cracked his knuckles and arched his spine – the discs rippling like tsunami waves, ever ready to draw blood. That was Grimmjow's core personality – a typical hyper aggressive brawler, and he certainly had no qualms displaying it fully before everyone. Frightened stiff, the furtive trio hastily zipped up their pants and fled without flushing nor washing their hands. Hygiene is nothing compared to mortality.

"What do you want?" Ulquiorra asked tiredly, now that they were alone.

The irascible man whipped off his shades. "What do I want? You dare ask me that, you flying fucker? Tell you what, since you're too damned dense in the head to understand the situation at hand. We can't have you act the nice guy! It's okay to be boring, you crazy bastard, but it's not okay to be perceived as NICE! It's never o-fucking-kay! You've just committed the cardinal sin in your namesake, stupid Schiffer kid! Don't ever attempt to be someone you're not, because I know you aren't. You're as fucking venomous as a cobra and maybe I might give a fucking hoot because you were emotionally unstable and messed up just now-"

His gratifying lap of expletives was silenced by a earsplitting clap of noise.

There was an impact too – colossal in magnitude, and it blatantly detonated in his face. For the most immeasurable of seconds Grimmjow thought he saw the urinals shake and the tiled walls caving in. Then looking into the mirror, he spotted bits of mucus sprayed across his face, dotting him silly. Already he was pissed with his cousin's bewildering behavior and inability at translating stardom into cash, and now, mucus on his handsome mug.

'Just exactly the fuck I need now. Mufuckingcus!'

He was more than enraged – ready to combust anytime, and wrapped a quaking hand around his plastic comb with a sharpened point. He needed something to destroy – now! Apparently it ran in the family: the unshakable desire to off anyone and everyone from time to time. 'In need of anger management classes' might be his associative motto, but gracious was his middle name, and he decided to let go, and punched the innocent wall instead.

A row of tiles cracked. A thousand veins burst.

'I'll murder the fuck out of you when you're done for, fucking bastard!!!'

"Tissue..." Ulquiorra mumbled incoherently when he realized he was the culprit. "Tissue..." he frowned at his cousin, infuriated with the latter's lack of comprehension, and released a sudden, relieved smile when he discovered a packet of tissue blissfully clenched in his hand. It was from Ichigo, and was a fresh pack. In a second of vulnerability Ulquiorra felt he owed his talentless co-star a great deal.

"When you're all sissy and fart, where am I gonna get my money from? I'm fucking set on securing my first Lamborghini for Christmas! Knowing myself, Santa fucking Claus won't even look my way come December, damn it! Anyfuckingway, the press thrives on your fucking evilness, Ulquiorra bastard! Think about it hard!" He shook Ulquiorra to and fro, treating him like a useless rag doll. "If you're civil and considerate and polite in the first place, would you have developed such a cult following? If you ain't such a fucking weird ass, would you have garnered as much media attention? If you are all buddy-buddy with that Kurosaki kid and a placating fucker now, then what's the purpose of your being? Eh"- he forcefully grabbed his cousin's slender shoulders - "answer me you pale fuckwit!"

They slumped staggeringly, and Grimmjow was more than ticked. He shook them harder, and harder, until Ulquiorra's abused shoulder joints creaked and whined and bordered on dislocation.

"Oi!" he yelled. "Don't pretend to fall asleep! Ulquiorra bastard! Don't you fucking try to fall asleep on me!"

"......just get lost," muttered Ulquiorra, gripping Ichigo's packet of tissue in one hand. He had a gormless gaze to his eyes as the other resumed his incessant harangue. The words hit home with as much impact as would a revved up motorbike cruising down a distant highway. Then he stared fondly at the tissue, and gingerly plucked one out, and blew his nose in it, making his ears pop. It was oddly satisfying for the green eyed actor, and he decided to give it another go. This time he blew harder into the tissue, and the pop resounded in his bummed out head like a fired cannon, replete with reverberating echoes.

"Over my fucking corpse," Grimmjow snarled. "You're gonna get out there and give that Kurosaki wimp the fucking middle finger and wave it about in front of those cameras! And you're gonna do as I say and I won't let it rest until I get what I want, you sad, boring bastard! Without my powerful tutelage would your asking price be as fucking high? Why it keeps escalating like fucking Apollo 13 is credited to my work behind the fucking scenes! I pull the goddamn strings for you, and I absolutely deserve every fucking single cent of it."

It was useless to counter Grimmjow's pushy, incentive based determination with simple, kindergarten level logic, thought Ulquiorra, who remained quiet. The sole reason behind the remarkable ascension of his stardom was his prodigious talent and relentless diligence. His cousin was only there to handle the troublesome stuffs, and to be honest Ulquiorra needed no manager. He tolerated the proposition because and only because his mother had suggested it, inciting ridiculous excuses such as:

"Family ought to help one another out!"

"For all you know, Grimmjow could be a closet organizational freak."

"Grimmjow could help you fend off your potential stalkers!"

"What would I not know? I've watched him grow up and bathed him and changed his diapers!"

"Grimmjow would really love to help you! He's terribly talented in taking care of people, right?"

And then there's the most classic, indisputable rhetorical question of all time:

"Don't you trust your own mother?"

Cue a weepy glance and a white, lacy handkerchief fluttering in the wind, and Ulquiorra was sold. His mother could dangle a cheap piece of jade before him and ask for a million yen in return, and Ulquiorra Schiffer would still willingly give it to her, no questions asked. He was that shockingly filial, however unbelievable it was. It undermined his normalcy as a human being, and his private life was always tightly kept under wraps, thus leading to tons of unfounded, depressing myths expounding how he grew up as an orphan and was once abducted by aliens, hence his 'pitifully melancholic outlook in life' and 'overall lack of cohesion with society'.

Minutes ago he was pleased with the childish joys of ear popping, now he felt miserable and rightly so, what with being hoisted from his comfortable seat just before he was drifting off to sleep on his co-star's shoulder. Many times he pulled himself back to consciousness, but Ichigo's shoulder pad proved too tempting, and a few occasions did Ulquiorra test out his theory, and indeed being of designer quality, it was many kinds of spectacular. That shoulder pad was frankly the most comfortable cushion since the fluffy pillow he had at home, which he could bury his face in and not feel iffy about it.

"Oi! What the fuck, am I talking to the fucking wall?" Grimmjow barked, and flicked at those infamous teal lines lividly. Thank god for smudge proof eyeliners! He never knew when Ulquiorra was going to retaliate, given his profound aversion to people touching his face unnecessarily. Despite his annoyance and capacity for unreasonable violence, it was better to err on the side of caution.

"You dirtied my face, Grimmjow," said Ulquiorra, emerald irises ripping his cousin's heart from the chest. His abrupt change in moods rivaled that of a woman's. He was practically a roller-coaster of emotions. Flu often does funny things to its sufferers, and Ulquiorra was a stellar example of that. He moved in and out of character so quickly, he might as well be intoxicated.

Grimmjow inched toward his cousin, and snorted dismissively. "You deserve more, fuckface!"

'And you deserve death.'

With a tiresome wrench and shuddering gasp, the green eyed man butted his cousin in the head, blindsiding him, and garnering the last of his resources, he exited the toilet in dizzy steps, clutching his head, and left behind a seemingly knocked out Grimmjow Jeagerjacques, sprawled across the marble floor; a lifeless sack.

…

Once Ulquiorra was safely out of sight and earshot, Grimmjow snapped open his eyes and with a painful groan – his head was almost cracked open like a damn walnut, fished out his mobile phone and pushed some numbers.

"Oi you, go check out the party later. There's gonna be some funky shit going on. Trust me, and pay me the fucking money."

With that he hung up, ignored the sore spot on his forehead in favor of wonderful images of him parading down the streets in his sleek new Lamborghini, honking the heck out of everyone in the vicinity, and grinned to himself. He felt indescribably pumped up – began to hum a rock song in true tuneless mode, got to his feet, checked himself out, fluffed his shocking crown of blue hair, played a short air guitar riff with knees bent, pushed his shades in place and swaggered his way out.

He was going to rough things up.

…

After the charity ball performance ended with a list of important names singing along on stage and having glittery confetti stuck in their sprayed hair, everyone was ushered to the complimentary after party – held upstairs in the very exclusive and ostentatious VIP lounge. That included the sick Ulquiorra Schiffer, who fell asleep at the back of the room. His only regret was not returning to his designated seat, and he missed the plump softness that was Ichigo's expensive shoulder pad. He would like to squish it.

…

At the VIP lounge, Grimmjow Jeagerjacques tried to single Ichigo out by his flashy orange hair, and noted with increasing resentment his prey hadn't appeared yet. Unknown to him, the latter was harassed by adoring starlets left and right, and it was most evident that having Orihime as a decoy girlfriend did little to dent his status as Japan's rebellious heartthrob. Normal idols steer free from relationships, fearing the fall in popularity should they be exposed. On Kurosaki Ichigo, they worked counterclockwise.

Before news of him being attached leaked out, he was simply lurking around the elusive circumference of insane stardom. After they got out all fast and furious, his name hung on the lips of everyone. Not that he wanted it, but there was a clause in his contract, stating that he was compelled to engage in all promotional activities required of him. The agency's president – Kaname Tousen, an ex-attorney, was such a man of impeccable mannerisms and gentlemanly speech that Ichigo surrendered his gungho will to defy within five sentences.

"...yeah, thanks," Ichigo muttered to a pedicured hand latched onto his own. It wasn't Orihime's. She was whisked away by some haughty billionaire's son to the dance floor. "...right, sure," he turned to address another hand clamped on his shoulder.

"Don't you fucking right me, wimpy loser!" a rough voice growled. Who else but the compulsive brawler named Grimmjow.

"Who are you calling a wimpy loser?! You nutcase," Ichigo shoved the offending hand away, but was secretly delighted when the starstruck masses around him dispersed. Grimmjow was excellent in crowd control, but that didn't take away the fact he was a top class troublemaker too. Remembering the blue haired man's indirect involvement in the duel months ago, Ichigo became guarded. "What the hell do you want with me?"

"It's no big deal, dude," Grimmjow was entirely comfortable with his unctuousness. "Just feeling a tad sorry for the little fucker which you are. Most times, the trouble lies in our hair color, ain't it."

Ichigo shrugged it off. "Who needs your sympathy?"

"I wouldn't expect you to think much of me, Kurosaki kid, and clearly my opinion of you doesn't matter yeah?" Grimmjow struggled against natural instincts to pepper his words with verbal explosives, but he needed to push this kid's buttons. "You seem to care an godforbiddingly awful lot about what that flying fucker over there" - he thumbed at Ulquiorra, who stood by himself in a corner, and blew his nose consecutively - "says though, huh. He may not be correct most of the time, and fuck that, he sucks. Period. And when a sucker like him says something nasty about you, you know you're dealt a suckerpunch, eh? I wonder how many has he gifted you, and made you appear like a wimpy loser..."

It worked like a charm; Ichigo immediately clicked to life. "I don't! I'm immune to him already! What suckerpunches are you yakking about? He's as glorious as plain wallpaper, that pasty faced idiot. The fantastic walking and talking corpse."

"Then that's perfect," Grimmjow took a sip of his champagne. "Because you ain't gonna like what follows after."

…

By now, Ulquiorra Schiffer had consumed the entire packet of tissue, and fallen asleep on his feet thrice. He skimmed the lounge for an available couch, and there were none. They were either taken up by tired old people, or horny young celebrities canoodling with each other. He reckoned it an unforgivable travesty, and hated each and everyone of them. He also saw Grimmjow and Ichigo involved in some chat of sorts, with his cousin alternating between refilling wine glasses and tossing snide glances his way. Ulquiorra couldn't be half bothered, lest he stooped to their level. Let them say what they want, those implacable fools. So he resumed standing in a corner, and by the power of his jade eyeballs he sucked the souls of many, and wound up asleep again.

…

"He said all of the above?! He dared call me 'son of a bitch'?" Ichigo was incredulous. He had heard some before, pouring straight out from his co-star's caustic mouth, but listening to those ego-damaging criticisms on a loop made him see stars and mistakenly downed glass after glass of whiskey. He was too bothered to check what was pushed into his hands; he was preoccupied with shooting infuriated replies and sending murderous stares Ulquiorra's way. Alcohol rendered him forgetful and louder than usual. He hadn't a habit of drinking too, coupled with a low tolerance, and it certainly made for a lethal combination.

"Damn that drugged out, piss poor, stupid, n-" a beer bottle smashed against his lips, and he took a huge swig. "He can call me anything he fancies, that bastard. Once he brings my family into this – how dare he call my mother names?! I'm gonna hit back. I'm gonna get right back at that asshole!"

'Go, go, go! What an easy target! Too fucking easy for my liking, mwa ha ha ha,' thought Grimmjow. He was literally purring into his drink, pretending to swallow the alcohol, and watched with feline connivance as Ichigo downed yet another swig.

"I'll show him what I'm hic capable of! I'll show him, hic, I'll prove him dead hic wrong, ha!"

"That's right, Kurosaki! That's fucking flying right! Take it out on the damn bottle! Bottoms up!" Grimmjow instigated. "And you can't fucking believe what he said next!"

Ichigo emptied the contents down his throat, and hungrily groped Grimmjow's jacket. "What else hic did that scumbag say about me hic, or my fa-hic-mily? I'm gonna walk hic over and punch the living daylights hic out of him, ha hic ha! Watch me. Hic! I'm gonna run hic him down with a hic truck, ha ha! Watch my hic back, will you?!"

"Yah, the fuck I will," Grimmjow sneered. "I can go all fucking day and night, Kurosaki, but here's to bottles and fucking gullible twats like you!" he raised a glass to his lips, curved into a manipulative smirk, but that was the furthest he went. Thankfully the kid was too drunk now to notice what was a slip of his tongue. Quickly he motioned for the reporter, disguised as a waitress, to snap some photographs and record those precious soundbites launching from Ichigo's loose set of lips like misfiring missiles.

"I don't need you to remind me," said the reporter, snootily. "I've done my homework tonight, as a professional would, and I believe I deserve some reward for dressing up in this demeaning, chauvinistic outfit from the 1800s." She pointed to hordes of white lace patterning the beige shift dress, a disapproving frown caressing her amorphous features.

"Like screwing the kid and writing a fucking autobiography later?" Grimmjow scoffed. "How fucking creative."

"What does a high school dropout like you know?"

"Woman," Grimmjow grinned his maniacal grin, making the light in his azure orbs bounce off and directly into the reporter's vision. There was a glimmer of lunacy in them – he resembled a mad man on the loose, and no one – sane that was, would attempt to mess with him. Ulquiorra Schiffer didn't count. "When I say you're done, you're literally done. Meaning you get the fuck outta here. When I say nothing, you shut the fuck up and resume what you're good at. Spinning stories, and duh, paying my dues. Underfuckingstand?"

The reporter shrank back, terrorized by her towering informant. "Y-Yes..."

…

"Schiffer-san, are you okay?" a quiet, gentle voice roused Ulquiorra from his sleep. "We have proper rooms and beds where you can rest on."

"I'm fine," said Ulquiorra, curtly. He was embarrassed – to have been found dozing off while leaning against a wall. "Hey-wait a minute," he called out before the bubbly waitress could head off. "Do you have tissue?"

She smiled prettily, her neat white teeth set firmly between chastely pink lips, and reached into her dress pocket. "Here you go!" she handed a half-used packet of tissue to Ulquiorra, who took caution to not make physical contact as he accepted the item gratefully. He nodded his thanks, and the waitress skipped away happily. When she ascertained no one was looking at her, she recalled Ulquiorra's sleeping face and that low baritone rough from forty winks. Then she hid behind a thick set of curtains, and burst into frenetic giggles.

She showed her true self.

…

Diagonal from Ulquiorra's corner was an inebriated Kurosaki Ichigo, rationality lacking and gall appalling. Grimmjow was at his side, egging him on with every adjective and innovative slandering of his cousin's credibility:

"Oi, ten minutes ago you said you're going right over to that prissy bastard there and smash him with your 'awesomeness', and now, geezer, you're still fucking here!"

"Hic...I'm on my hic way...twerp...hic!"

Grimmjow may be gracious or so he deemed, but patience was no business of his. "He's right – you are a massive wimp, Kurosaki! Limp and wimp at the same time, fuck it. Heh, don't tell me he really got you good then. He really kneaded you in the fucking nuts that time didn't he?! Turned you into a wuss didn't he?! Grow some effing balls you coward! Grow some fucking guts!"

Ichigo swerved around on his heels, nearly knocking Grimmjow down in the process. "I'm go-hic-ing right hic now!"

…

Ulquiorra was down to the last of his newly attained tissue pack once more, and this time, he held it aloft with two quivering fingers, gazed at it – almost tortuously, and lightly dabbed the 4ply goodness against a leaking nostril. He had to be thrifty, hence he used only the tip of the tissue. Then someone had the courtesy to bump into his elbow, and thus the whole piece swiped across his nose, ruining it. He was left tissue-less, and indeed someone up there was out to torment him that night. He realized he was rooted to the spot.

He was being chained by someone from behind.

"Ulqui-hic-orra Sch-hic-iffer!" Ichigo gurgled loudly. "You hic pallid hic hic monster!"

"Get off me," Ulquiorra sniffled, and wrestled about as dozens of cameras sprouted like magic mushrooms along the ground and clicked away for the umpteenth time. "Get off me this instant."

"Ha hic ha," Ichigo slurred. "You...hic hic hic...how dare you...hic!"

Everybody in the lounge stopped whatever they were doing, and whirled round to play busybodies. Even the bartenders paused their flask juggling, and gaped openly. Of the many gossipy notions surrounding their minds, these were the most common:

Are they going to fight?

They'd better! Great news, great pictures, great vibes!

Didn't they proclaim themselves as civil colleagues earlier on?

Stop your nonsense!

Were they covering up the truth?

Why did they do that?

Are they out to create more hype than usual?

But wait, Ulquiorra Schiffer is involved?

And the teen hotshot is drunk? Where is his girlfriend? Oh there, dancing with the billionaire's son!

Are they truly enemies? Why the bad blood? This is a first for the local movie industry!

Come on just fight already!

Nobody dared breathe nor twitch a single vestige as they watched Ulquiorra squirm free finally, and slapped Ichigo's hands away with the kind of irateness none had ever accredited him with. The orange head refused to move - defying momentum, and his head was hung low. He became silent. He became blue. He became green too. The upper portion of his face was shaded with pensiveness, and suddenly he said:

"Ulquiorra hic Schiffer, I hate you."

"Likewise."

Cameras began to flash frenziedly and from everywhere, anyone who had a piece of electronic on them put it to good use. Mobile phones, PDAs, laptops, digital cameras, even music players with recording functions were simultaneously switched on. They formed a circle around the two leading men, and closed in on them, stifling their stage until all that was left was a round beam of white light.

"I really hate you. For taking away my hic drink. Hic hic hic! For every-hic-thing."

In brevity, Ichigo's intellect ventured beyond everyone's frequency. But no, since he already inadvertently kicked up a scene, he wasn't going to let it cruise to a limp end. He raised an arm, halted in mid-air, made everyone watch with unabated breath as he swung it down, wondering if the short fiasco was becoming a brawl, or to say the least, some petty case of handbags.

But he didn't – he would never do something as predictably violent and dumb to hit his co-star, never mind his intoxicated state. He chose a different course of action: he opened his mouth, and barfed, and barfed, and barfed.

On a horrified Ulquiorra Schiffer no less.

...

A/N: Believe it or not I'm 20% done with Part 3 – the last bit before THE HAPPY TIMES. Hoping to get it up tomorrow or so. Oh the joy~ I'm not sure if anyone's still interested in this but well, we've come so far! Hope you've enjoyed reading and review if you're in the mood. Love reading them and thanks for sending them my way. All things otherwise, do continue with this grand mess.

P.S. I'm intending to do an IchiUlq XMAS fic. AU of course, watdayaexpect, but I need ideas! Damn me and my itchy fingers for creating an XMAS playlist suddenly. So, ideas anyone? -holds out a basin for collection- Please?