Chapter 12 – A Tale Of Two Novels: Final
Ulquiorra Schiffer was too overwhelmed by the amount of retakes and physical torment to see where he was going. He was punished by an act so heinous it threatened his reputation.
And my limb too, he patted the sore spot on his left arm, no thanks to that sorry excuse of an actor.
He could only count himself fortunate when he made a beeline for the dressing room without bumping into anyone, or coming into contact with abhorrent beings such as Kurosaki Ichigo and more. It wasn't much to begin with, but coming off a strenuous stretch of bad luck it was simply magnificent to behold.
Groggy, starved, exasperated, and worried sick for his lonely pet kitten at home, he kicked away a hapless Pepsi can at the door, stumbling into the dressing room—his frosty composure removed, and hunting for the forgotten novel. Not a day went by without him reading it alongside the script. It supplemented what he needed to know, and a different angle to flesh out his character. He couldn't imagine a day without it – even with Grimmjow's signature comments splattered all over.
"Where did I leave my book?" he murmured as he strode past rows of dressing tables with chairs neatly pushed in. He had no memory of where he last left his book, and when the familiar white jacket caught his eye, he hastened his speed a little, approached the dressing table, looked at the novel fondly, and carefully placed it inside his humongous black tote.
"And now," a discreet smile tugged at his chapped lips, "food and drinks for Sakana and I."
…
It was only natural for one to stagger from side to side, like an inebriated crustacean strolling along the coastline, when all working senses go to sleep. All Kurosaki Ichigo did for some 15 odd hours was to lie down, get up, receive censure for his stiff acting, shiver in the cold, lie back down and get up, receive more censure, be paranoid and sensitive about his near nudity, partake in a few squabbles with Ulquiorra—only to lose, grumble, daydream a bit, sneak some sips of water when Soi Fon became squinty, see his vision tunneling on his co-star and invaded by more incomprehensible pink plumes, and receive even more censure. To date he was apprehended for a rough gauge of 200 minutes, and his ears were so sore they screamed. It left a dull ring in the canals. He always knew acting was no easy business, but this, was practically Spartan hell.
Minutes before the final take of the day ended, his co-star—the ever steadfast Ulquiorra made everyone's jaws hit the floor when he couldn't stop talking. He didn't let his co-star sputter a single word, because everything that could be said in the scene he blabbered them out like incurable diarrhea. It became everyone's main source of amusement, and none pressed pause. So they allowed Ulquiorra to finish the dialogues—an edited and self-directed soliloquy, in one fantastically long, mind-numbing breath of two A4-sized pages.
Shinji sniggered throughout, and said, "I'll include this on the DVD! Reel bloopers!"
"Time wasting tactic," Soi Fon snarled.
"Guaranteed chart topper!" Gin cheered from the sidelines.
Somehow—some unthinkable how, Ulquiorra hadn't realized his folly until Ichigo smacked him hard on the arm. It nudged him out of his afflicted drama stupor; it empowered Ichigo suddenly. It made him instantly get up and leave the set with wide green eyes, looking worse for wear.
On the contrary, it made Ichigo feel better, and he wished he could say the same of himself now. But he wasn't, and he couldn't. He was experiencing a myriad of emotions far from what he felt in brief then. He reached the dresser he was at in the cold hours of the morning, and discovered the disappearance of his precious novel. It was an uncomfortable finding, one that made him shake his head—trying to dispel it as a thieving act, and he never believed in paranormal activities. He didn't trust astrology either.
"Where did that stupid thing go?" the carrot top yelped at the room. "Such perfect timing too!"
He looked under the table, searching everywhere for his novel. He was certain he had sat at it, left the book on the dresser, and ogled the heck out of a certain green eyed co-star. The thought, tucked away at the back of his head since filming began, now played with recurrence, and with every play the vividness of Ulquiorra's relaxed mien grew. That straight, pert nose. That small mouth set in an indifferent line. The deep hollows of his eyes. The thick, charcoal lashes framing the end of the lids. The sharp contour of his jaws, sloping down to a pointy chin. The paleness of his complexion, and how it made his features spark to life. Too bad he wasn't as engaging in real life. Also, the—
Where's my brain going? Sheesh. Another useless thing! Book, book, book! That's what I'm here for. Not picturing that corpse face!
Frustrated, he got down on his knees, slapping his head twice to be rid of his co-star's face, and peeked into every nook and cranny. He was very desperate to return home, soak in the tub, and chomp down Yuzu's homecooked dishes. And then he couldn't.
"What brilliant timing, Mr. Book. Fecking brilliant," Ichigo jibed, and threw his bag down in disdain, "now I'm really gonna die here a broken and famished ghost!"
Muttering an assortment of curses about runaway books and idiotic pasty faced people, he fumbled along carpeted, elongated aisles, and stopped before a dresser some steps away from where he sat at previously. On it lay Autumn Chrysalis, ever slightly manhandled and used.
"When did it grow legs? Itchy hands, those stylists," Ichigo grumbled, "irritating people."
He then picked up the book, scowled at it, dusted an unseen layer of dust off the cover, and dumped it into his bag.
…
The time was 11 pm, and exactly an hour before Ulquiorra Schiffer's daily stipulated bedtime. Piping hot from the shower and clad in his pale green pajamas, he luxuriated on the designer couch, legs fully stretched out, and his beloved pet kitty – pertly named Sakana, was resting at his feet, its soft fur tickling his soles every other minute. It was now well fed and satisfied. Yawning, he picked up his copy of Autumn Chrysalis from the coffee table, sipped some hot chocolate, and gave Sakana a little rub with his heel. The ginger cat purred its delight, settled into a small ball, making its owner feel cozy too.
"Time to do some reading," Ulquiorra muttered as he reclined into the couch. Thumbing through several pages, he noted with disdain his favorite bookmark was out of sight. It was a brown maple leaf, pressed and laminated. It was his submission for an art project back in junior school. In hindsight he reckoned the month of August was one where his enemies or those whom he had dissed, got together and cast a hex on him.
"What's this...." his finger trailed in puzzlement along neatly written notes. Those were in tiny print, and struck no resonance with him. The notes were written between vast spaces of lines, almost in synchronization with the actual print, and he had to squint doubly hard to discern between fiction and note-taking.
"Never give up? Will show PFP what I'm made of? Never ever lose to the likes of PFP? One day I'll be on PFP's level?"
"PFP...?" he mused. "What exactly does PFP stand for? Sounds like a nickname. Suppose that dimwit cousin of mine wrote that. But—no, there's no crass language involved."
Then he continued to pore over hundreds of pages, flipping them in quick succession, immersed in the abundance of notes scrawled legibly on the vast spaces the novel had to offer. On some pages there were even post-it notes stuck on them, highlighting certain areas. They were followed by in depth analysis and remarkable observations between script and novel. Some of them even hit home. It was a major case of deja-vu, and Ulquiorra felt he had repeated those remarks on one occasion more than often. Still, it was invigorating to read them. The quality of those notes was more than sufficient to have him go through every pointer, and sometimes he felt brain waves torched up and ready to set sail. He went from prologue to epilogue, taking in not the printed words but the handmade notes.
"Whoever wrote this is definitely one of literary awareness and no fool, right, Sakana. Don't you wonder who this person is too?" Ulquiorra poked his bare toes at the ginger cat. It mewed in return, stirred a little, and pawed at his ankles, before scampering onto his lap and fell asleep there.
Reassured he was in the safety of his home, he emitted a soft smile that barely touched his lips. His pet kitty was truly adorable, and especially so when it snuggled into a furry ball. He decided to re-read the written parts, even taking upon himself to add in more insights. Then he looked up at the wall clock, only to realize it approached 4am, and came to the monumental conclusion that, after all he had read and then grew happily lost in his own world, lavish in his praise for the owner of such sound mental state, Grimmjow couldn't have possibly wrote those. Neither did he—it was locked and loaded in his head. Then—
"This isn't mine."
…
Kurosaki Ichigo made sure to lock his bedroom door after he spent a good hour in the bathtub, soaking in the foam and lemon grass essence. It revitalized him, and he stepped out of the tub a shiny trophy. Then he headed downstairs for supper. It was supposed to be his dinner, but the time ain't exactly early.
Things did start to look rosy with slurps ploughed into his ravenous mouth, in fact they tend to do so after a scrumptious, simmering bowl of tonkatsu ramen. Now, all he needed was some peace to work on his character analysis, practise before a mirror, and call it a night.
Clutching Autumn Chrysalis before his chest, he pulled the covers up to his waist, and propped a pillow against the headboard. He felt comfortable, and he was ready to begin. He opened the book, expecting to see the warm nostalgia of his writings filling him. But expectations did him in. Instead of song lyrics there was a poorly drawn skull, with the polite warning 'Touch this and die, you nasty fuckers!' inscribed below.
Feeling odd, he fingered the penciled skull, attempting to recall when was this drawn. But he couldn't—because it wasn't him. And as obvious as things right under one's nose go, he failed to draw the link between two obvious points. Furthermore the line was dotted. But his brain was fractured. It was not in working order. Hence he flipped to the first chapter, and there, many more incomprehensible writings sought his splintered attention. With glee he read them aloud:
"Give me your heart and your fucking soul!"
"We are victorious!"
"I like things rough and pointed! Yeah-hey!"
Ichigo's curiosity was piqued, and he thumbed through the pages like a fan, astonished at how packed the invasion of foreign matter was. There were words on every page, every available space. Certainly the culprit behind this was no waster of resources. So he continued to read, speedily, sometimes even going back to laugh twice at the same comment written. He lost track of time, and of his own senses. His logic went on vacation too.
Ridiculous, Ichigo shook his head, when did I write this anyway? When I was nodding off? But seriously, did I really write this?
But still, he decided to read on and on and on, ignoring his fatigue, ignoring the hinting chirps of crickets—that dawn was soon to come.
"What the hell are these about? Oh," Ichigo laughed, and he couldn't resist turning a page. "Fuck green eyed smart asses and down with schools? I love acting so much I'd swap my shorts for yours?" his laughter grew louder, "I'm so terrific that money is me? I'm a stupid fuck?"
Caught up in mirthful delirium, he attacked the pages for more.
"I hope my next shit is a p-p-porcupine?!" Ichigo chortled wildly, kicking off his covers in the process. He now cared for neither pillow nor a comforter to snuggle into. "Geez, whoever wrote this has a top sense of crass taste! Did he or she by any chance read one of those racy gossip blogs? What do we have next? Aha—here: Woe is me! Hence the stupid lines on my fuckin' face? Hmm...facial lines...?"
"I cry mascara and eyeliner, fools?" he clapped a hand over his mouth. Sounds suspiciously like Ulquiorra Schiffer. Don't tell me he wrote this?! What a terrible sense of humor! Just like him, and everything about him shouts 'I'm a terrible person!'. Heh, evidence! He stifled a yawn, and flipped another page.
"I'm a walking and talking Maybelline ad?" Snigger. "Sure he is, that corpse face. With all that makeup and ugh—black nail polish. What is he on anyway? Inspired by visual kei? Ha! He must have been a failed visual kei member, probably got his smug ass kicked to the curb and thinks he can still make it. That must be it," muttered Ichigo, delighted by his impromptu conclusion.
Then he imagined Ulquiorra sitting by the table in a library, preferably a dark corner because he was such an anti-social dweeb, incensed by others' perceptions of him, and hence he took it out on the novel. They came in the form of racy rants, tasteless remarks—anything that was deemed as uncharacteristic of him in the public's eye.
Said scenario made Kurosaki Ichigo laugh, and laugh, and laugh. He would punch a kitty just to see that for himself, and he must had laughed for an interminable length of time, because he found his throat running dry and navel in acute pain. At the end of cracking guffaws and abdomen hitting, he realized an all too important thing he should have at the beginning:
"Shit, this isn't mine!"
…
Then came the following fortnight of intensive filming and endless bereavement for the actors' souls. Nothing went the way they should, absolutely, and wrong did the clownish parade march towards. With every canceled take and frustrated yell of 'Cut!', the level of dissension amongst various crew members grew. It grew like an unstoppable avalanche, and finally override its limits. The three studio executives who made it a point to stop by everyday, provided unnecessary pressure for the actors, who already were jumpy with every mistake made.
Soi Fon grew so mad she couldn't speak.
Ichimaru Gin grew so infuriated he stopped smiling altogether.
Kuchiki Byakuya, well, he was being himself, albeit sporting a sterner mien than usual.
Maybe it was a blessing in disguise, a silver lining in the horizons, or some sunshine transiently peeking through rainclouds, that Japan suffered an epidemic outbreak, and many were quarantined until further notice. Various productions around the nation were halted—especially Tokyo, and the movie industry proved no exception.
"There can't be a more timely respite than this," said Kuchiki Byakuya, "that the following three weeks are rendered a complete wastage."
"Get yourselves ready, lazy bums!" Soi Fon found her voice.
"If this type of poor performance resumes after the break, some of you, and especially you," Byakuya looked directly over at Ichigo, "may very well be axed from the production. You may be in now, but there's no guarantee of keeping your place should you slacken. We need people of the finest caliber, we need people to be on top of their game. And those who fail to keep pace won't be required to stay on. This ship carries no subpar passengers. We have many, eagerly waiting in the wings to take your places. Hence I hope," he continued, his serious gaze on Ichigo never wearing off, "this will serve as a good wake up call."
…
Never had Ichigo feel as crestfallen and expendable as he did now. Thrown scornful glares by Ulquiorra—been there, done that. Messing up his lines—likewise. Facial expressions—he couldn't help it if he frowned every scene. Perhaps the need of Botox was nearing. Intimate scenes—both were at fault. Reprimanded by Soi Fon and Kuchiki Byakuya repeatedly—used to it.
Although lately, the rampant criticisms were bordering on a new low, and this time he wasn't as invincible. Already he developed doubts about his ability to take on such a role, one of indefatigable character, one who dared to carve his destiny, one who dared to love. He wasn't as sure as before, and wondered with rising frequency if he had taken too big a leap this time. He didn't give up, that was certain, but felt he was at the maximum. He overdid it, overestimated his worth, and he didn't want to admit Ulquiorra was right about him being a duck. Sturdy on the surface, but waddling frantically beneath. Not to gun for first prize, but to stay afloat.
So Ichigo was clattered by bombs. Verbal bombs, physical bombs—paper fans, scripts, rolled up scrolls. They fell from nowhere, from the middle of August to the start of September, and dropped everywhere. He felt burnt, and under appreciated – that his hard work hadn't meant a thing where it truly mattered, that nothing he did within his might was sufficient to let him get past unscathed, much less receiving commendation.
In a space of days, his confidence eroded, and Ulquiorra's haunting words of past congealed like an obstinate blood clot. It threatened to cut off all streams of oxygen, and sometimes he couldn't think. He was literally at his wits' end.
And if his week couldn't get any worse, his novel, decorated with important notes and reminders, had been mistaken for another. It was officially missing. Now all he had was this vulgar piece of work – not to discredit it, it made him laugh the night away, and dissolve his worries, if not temporarily.
"Chill, man!" Renji said with assurance. "There's no need to hit the panic button this early!"
"I'm pressing it with all my might," Ichigo lamented, slouching against the wall in Renji's apartment. "That Byakuya kept staring at me when he said all of those, and he emphasized heavily on me. I knew he did. That corpse face's going to hold a private party later – he's been counting down to my departure since that day we met!"
"C'mon now, don't throw in the towel just yet," said Renji, seated on his rowdy fuchsia couch and adjusting his newly bought lime green bandana, "where's the bullish Kurosaki Ichigo we all know and love to punch?"
Ichigo's gaze hardened at the brightness that was his friend. "Disappeared down the sewage pipes, and flushed into the sea. Would take decades before it comes a full cycle."
Abarai Renji absolutely hated it when his best buddy sulked his life away. He didn't enjoy the sight of helplessness overriding that cocky smirk, and the taste of being unable to pick his spirits up worsened everything:
One, it whinged on his nerves of ice-cold chill. It prevented him from having a beer at night with his latest drinking mate, who happened to be a certain blue haired man of arguably, his build.
Two, a petulant Ichigo meant more frowning and henceforth an increased probability of him undergoing Botox before the age of 30.
Three, his friend could just sit around and sulk all day, and become the most unproductive person ever to walk this planet. He would start mulling over Greek tragedies and contemplating the meaning of life and its many unsolved mysteries. No sooner would he pull out a Shakespearean quote or two. Undeniably that young man was intelligent, but his outstanding hair color made people lose sight of it.
Hair colors had been a topic of interest between Renji and his new pubcrawling friend.
Fourth, they were the best of pals since junior school. He'd risk a limb for him, and he was affirmative the other would do likewise. And which was exactly why he was as troubled a soul as Ichigo now.
"Hey, listen!" Renji's brain hit a spark. "I've got a brilliant idea!"
"Hmm...?" Ichigo placed his head between his knees. "Don't tell me to hit the bar, or I'll seriously do your new accessory some damage."
"You little shit. You've got a helpline after all."
"Right. You? Wake me up when production ceases."
"Yeah, what can I possibly do? There's someone right under your nose though," Renji chuckled.
"Sure, sure. And who the heck is that marvelous?"
"Ulquiorra Schiffer, that's who."
"And you're nuts! Absolutely off your rocker," countered Ichigo. "It's his greatest wish to have me disappear off Japan and god knows else where."
"You'll never know until you try, stupid punk!"
"Why try when the end result is crystal? They all want me out, and maybe it's better if I go now. He's right—what a genius. What a seer."
The chuckles immediately halted. "Do you hear yourself?"
"Nice and loud."
"Oi! Get a grip, won't you?" Renji walked over and planted his large hands on Ichigo's shoulders. "Nobody's dropping out or anything! Not you! You're one of the pillars in the movie! They can't shift you out. The entire structure is bound to collapse!"
"Nah, I'm expendable."
"Actors are a cornerstone of filming! Without you guys what's the audience gonna watch? Trees and stones and mountains and rivers and animals? Fuck, that's a documentary! And even a documentary has a goddamn host inside! Either that or just voice over narrations! The human element is required! People need familiar faces – their kind, to find some sort of association so they could engage themselves in the situation and empathize with the characters, or whoever the humans are."
Ichigo glared at his friend. "No wonder the debate team refused you entry year after year."
"Shut the hell up about that! That was years ago," Renji was aflame with reminders of his past failings. "Have you forgotten why you got into acting?"
"I didn't know what else to do after high school."
"The medical school accepted you, Ichi, but you rejected them. Ah fuck, what's that depressed look for?"
"I should have joined them."
"Too late for regrets, friend! Focus on what you should be doing, and do it so fucking well that nobody can say, or even think otherwise of you. Heck, I just repeated your mantra."
"I'm nowhere as good as he is. And when we're placed side by side," Ichigo kicked his own feet in despondence, "it comes out even stronger. It's a sobering contrast."
"It's just one comment by that Kuchiki fella, ain't it? Tell him he can shove his mouth up his arse! Tell him I said it!"
"It rang a bell," said Ichigo, glumly. "Maybe I'm just an one trick pony."
"You? One trick pony? You're virtually a clown. A clown with a hideous, orange wig. You can juggle apples, peddle backwards, do somersaults in the air, balance on the tightrope, swim in a tank like a bloody merman, and swing on the trapeze like a frigging chimpanzee! What one trick pony are we going on about here? That effing Kuchiki said that?! I'm gonna go have a word with him!" Renji hollered, slammed a boot against the table and turned to the door, ready to march off.
And his sports jacket was grabbed by the carrot top.
"Don't be a brash jerk," said Ichigo, loosening his grip. "You think he'd give a damn about you?"
Renji shifted uneasily in his boots. "Well...neither do we about him, right?"
"The thing is, Renji, they are correct. I should have just stuck around and ask for a sequel to the second sequel we did last year, and rename it as 'The Undead Vampire Stories'. One every year, and each poster to better the predecessor. Easy money too. The public is still hung up over it—gotta milk it before the fat cow dies. Yeah, I'll do just that, and all of that, and let that contemptuous ghastly brat look down on me and—argh! He wouldn't even know I existed if I weren't his co-star. That blind bat!"
Renji thought Ichigo sounded increasingly like a whiny girlfriend who was jilted by her boyfriend via text messaging on Valentine's Day, and in this case, the heartless cad was Ulquiorra Schiffer. "Why do you have to compare yourself with Ulquiorra? I mean, you two couldn't have started more differently. An idol and a character actor. And now you're bridging the gap, and you're only 23! I don't know what you're grouching about – call me a knucklehead but that's all I know. I'm telling you, most guys out there would kill to be in your place right now."
Ichigo said nothing, but buried his face in open palms. The darkness made him more focused, and less prone to self-pity. Did he really have to swallow his pride, just so he could remain on the set and improve on his wrongdoings? Now, that was a long march. An excessively lengthy march down ego's path.
It was of biblical proportions.
…
And so, after an insufferable 3 hours, Kurosaki Ichigo made up his mind. He was to swing by Ulquiorra's trailer that evening, and in his most cordial, polite demeanor, ask for a private coaching session. He would not beg, he would not plead. He would take it as a man should. Nonetheless it shook his nerves – the idea of being in an enclosed space with the green eyed man, not knowing what could result from their private interaction, not knowing if his head might wind up being lopped from the rest of the body with a gigantic pair of scissors.
He'll probably downright reject me, that evil troll. Add in a few insults or two while he's at it, and watch with joy when I get my ass kicked out. I just know he would, that vindictive corpse face who thinks the world of himself. Why do I even bother? On top of that it's that damned Renji's idea. Dude thinks he's all clever. Damn!
Ichigo heard his weighty sighs echoed down the corridor. They were skulking after him in a serpentine path. He wasn't without gumption, and loved to thrive against the odds. But...Ulquiorra Schiffer wasn't any random muscly brute down the street.
But what if! What if he agrees? And I need my book back anyway. To hell with him. Honestly I don't give an eff. Yep, I don't. I don't. I don't. I don't. I don't. Na na naa na na.
But his legs did, and they were very industrious. Soon he arrived at the door, and wondered if his co-star would even be there. It could be a futile trip, and the antecedent musings would prove to be just a waste of brain space.
Ichigo figured he had came this far anyway, and a knock on the door won't hurt. With a whiff of apprehension he rapped his knuckles against the cold steel door, then winced at the hollowness created. As if to dissipate the escalating tension creeping up on him, he tapped his feet against the base of the door, and counted to three. Should there be no reply by then, it could mean his fate as a credible actor was sealed. Sealed to the coffin, the cover nailed in place, and buried six feet under.
"Who is it?"
Oh my go- he's in! What do I do now? Shit--
"Who is it?"
A short cough. "Ichigo." Cough. "Hello."
And a strange sort of silence followed after.
"...the door's unlocked."
…
Ulquiorra knew the trailer was his territory and he wasn't the least afraid of showing it. He swiveled around on his chair the moment the door opened, looking very much like the king of his world. In the white light stood one Kurosaki Ichigo—a mask of fearlessness on his famous mug. He had a book in his hand. It was Autumn Chrysalis.
So he has my copy after all, thought Ulquiorra, how queer.
"H-Hey," Ichigo tried not to lose his wavering stance. "I believe this is yours. Replete with vulgarities and laugh a moment lines."
Ulquiorra glared at him, disturbed that he knew of the rubbishy additional content in his copy. Then he turned his attention to the book Ichigo just set down on the table. The green eyed actor subsequently retrieved Autumn Chrysalis from his tote, and held it gingerly with both forefinger and thumb. He wanted to pay Ichigo back for that non-existent malicious glint flashing in his eyes. Truth was, Ichigo was such a nondescript bundle of nerves he didn't hear what he was saying, let alone hatch a plot to blackmail his co-star.
"I already have my copy," said Ulquiorra. Don't tell me...that the book I've been reading is his...?
"Why do you have mine with you?" asked Ichigo, displeased his book was handled as though it was something dirty.
"So, this really belongs to you," Ulquiorra continued to pinch the book, and waved it a little before his co-star, making the latter grasp at pockets of air repeatedly.
"Did you take it on purpo-" Ichigo stopped himself from hurling accusations. He was supposed to make nice with Ulquiorra; he was supposed to ask for guidance. He wasn't there to pick a fight and knowing the eventual loser would be him anyway. For the last time, he decided to be as polite as he first met Ulquiorra. And it was a long time ago, a time where prejudice and bias were unheard of. So, in his most courteous manner, he said,
"I'd like to have my copy back."
"Prove it to me."
"I...well, I wrote tons of things inside."
"Say it."
"Erm," Ichigo was reluctant to let known his initial childish obsession with toppling Ulquiorra over. "On the blank page before the prologue, there's a song lyric from Mr. Children."
That was true. "Which song?"
"World's End."
That was true too.
"Anything else you wish to add?" asked Ulquiorra, who was being his usual friendly self.
"And I stuck some post-its on the pages. They're all...cloud shaped, and white with blue borders."
That was absolutely true, and somewhat embarrassing for the orange haired star. He had ran out of post-it notes, and Yuzu offered him hers. No one could say no to the sweet Yuzu, and Ichigo definitely wasn't going to buck the trend.
"I see you are a frequent user of acronyms. Such as 'PFP' and a few others as forms of written batterings," Ulquiorra observed. He was now convinced by the solid display of evidence, and more so, suspended in subtle disbelief that his co-star was capable of such analytical brilliance. Actually, he was coming to terms with Ichigo's infrequent spurts of talent, but he tended to say otherwise. He reckoned the younger man to have pockets of unearthed acting prowess, and was infuriated the latter hadn't let it show at the most opportune moments.
To Ulquiorra, Ichigo was an unknown entity, always trudging about the transformation from 'potential talent' to 'talented'. Both stages seemed alike, but there stood a whole world of difference. Some people are branded with the 'potential' to succeed, but they haven't, and the day they haven't and when it bypasses the short shelf life of an emerging actor, they are unceremoniously dumped into the 'Could have been so and so' category. It is only the finished products that are celebrated, and remembered in time to come. Not the former.
Hence, the most significant process in life, according to Ulquiorra's deceased father, is to translate potential into actuality. It is incomparably arduous a task, but the most satisfying too. Then the novel cropped up, and suddenly Ulquiorra Schiffer had to redefine his co-star. It came too soon for his liking, but just about time for the movie.
"Pasty faced pig, that's what it stands for," revealed Ichigo, almost proudly. He adhered to the term so often he was now programmed to wake up to it whenever mentioned. Without knowing, Ichigo had fallen under the spell of cognitive stimulation. Throw Ulquiorra Schiffer before him and he'll without doubt turn into a snappish fiend with gears clicking in his head, and pink plumes eclipsing his once clear vision. And then they would bark at each other like wild jackals.
That said, the truth behind 'PFP' would be divulged with complete pride had his privacy not been intruded. And by a foul, loathsome party at that! Now Ulquiorra would have unbridled access to the numerous ingenious methods he had broken ground on, and perhaps even use them for his selfish means. Such as pretending to pioneer new forms of acting – of which the fundamentals were built upon his ideas. That and the many character analysis he had spent countless nights working on. He was faultlessly diligent, and sometimes he blamed the color of his hair. If he had nice, clean, dull black hair like Ulquiorra, he'd be reckoned as a goody-two-shoes, and expectations of his personality would dance in tune with who he really was at heart.
Wait a second, Ichigo pondered, then I'd look like that actor dude called Shiba...Shiba...Shiba...whatshisface.
"I do have a name which I prefer to be called by," said Ulquiorra.
"Can't be helped if I forget it sometimes. Nah scratch that, it's every time," Ichigo grimaced. He failed to snatch his copy from his co-star's hands. It was dangling before him loosely, and he pounced on the opportunity when Ulquiorra shifted his feet.
Damn, Ichigo swore, he's freakishly quick!
In Ulquiorra's vision, Ichigo was a fat, grumpy cat, and the book in his hand was a yarn ball. He would swing it enticingly before the other, let it lie in waiting until the bait encroaches upon it, then hook it back up, leaving the poor cat (Ichigo) hungrily anticipating for more. Of which he would never give. Sympathy had no place in his residence.
"But I come here not only for the book," Ichigo tried to lunge for the book, and once more Ulquiorra made a classy swerve. "There's something else I have..."
"I hope it doesn't mean anything if, I were to say aloud what you're about to ask."
Despite his predicament, Ichigo couldn't help but grin. "Never knew you moonlighted as a mind reader, Ulquiorra Schiffer."
"You wish to seek my help."
"It's comforting to know you're as tactful as ever," Ichigo taunted, though inside his guts were churning like hot stones. "Now that the question has been worded, what's your answer?"
"This could go three ways."
"It's either yes or no!"
Ulquiorra enjoyed having the upper hand in his dealings. Each and every one of them, and the greatest joy had to be brought by pesky pests admitting their shortcomings and bowing before him, seeking refuge and forgiveness. And then he could turn them away like unwanted beggars. Joy to the world, indeed. Or not—if they are deserving. But before that, he could play with them a little. It wouldn't hurt.
"Or I could leave you hanging by the scruff of your neck."
Ichigo was mortified. That sick freak! His prediction was coming true – that Ulquiorra Schiffer really was a wicked bastard of the highest degree, all cruel and devoid of compassion. He wouldn't even flat out refuse him! His co-star simply wished to torture him, and watch with persistent vivacity as his expression twists into varying levels of purgatory. Maybe, Ichigo thought, he would bring out the guns and lasso and whip and a herd of wild horses, and send the room into a classic Mexican stand-off. It would stir up an instant Western spaghetti.
"Are you allergic to cats?"
"N-No."
"Alright then."
Alright then...? ALRIGHT THEN?!! Eh?! That's it? Cats? After setting me back with a vicious option he asks about cats? What is his head made of, seriously...
Ulquiorra reached for his oversized black tote, and dug around for something before tossing said object at Ichigo. It was a set of keys – with no keyring nor embellishing accessory whatsoever. They were plain keys. They were house keys.
"W-W-What's this for?" stuttered Ichigo, and he immediately felt foolish. What was so surprising about a set of house keys? Nothing noteworthy--save for the situation and, its owner.
"My place. Three weeks. You're not allowed to sleep over, and have to obey whatever rules I set out. There are many, which as of now you have no need to be informed on. Once your unworthiness surfaces I'll not hesitate to have you thrown out. Do you follow me?" asked Ulquiorra, as he reached for a paper scrap and pen, and scribbled down his address. He then handed it to the carrot top along with Autumn Chrysalis, and took extra caution not to touch the younger man's fingers.
Kurosaki Ichigo could only gulp and nod and blink at the keys and paper clenched in his palm. His...h...house? He scanned the address written. He had expected someone the likes of Ulquiorra to write in swooping italics, but no, he wrote in print. It was Courier New font. Swamped with disbelief at how agreeable his co-star was, he took a closer look at what he was given.
R-R-Roppongi Hills...?! He lives in goddamn Roppongi Hills?! Just how rich is this guy?
"Let yourself in if the door isn't answered," said Ulquiorra, pointing at the keys. He was stoicism personified. "I'll be expecting you come Monday morning."
…
A/N: I'm well aware that the plot's progress may be slow for a supposedly romance story, but hey, some things are worth building up – Ulquiorra is no Grimmjow! I suppose it'd take some time for him to develop strong feelings towards someone. We all know how apathetic he is. So there, and I thank you for your patience and tolerance towards this. I may be barking up the wrong tree, but we're halfway through now, and soon this walking horror will end. D:
P.S. Thanks for all the lovely reviews, and do keep them coming in! :) I'll try to update ASAP.
