Chapter XIV: This Old House
I haven't, for the love of god, been able to doze a fucking wink for the last three nights. The reason, I think, can be traced back from what occurred exactly four days ago. It was around this time of the late afternoon when Ulqui—
Damn that name. Damn his face when he said that which is as abominable as a weapon of mass destruction, and damn everything he said. Damn him. The problem is, all this is giving me more distress than a damn calamity would. The problem is, all about him is an acute incongruity against every damn principle my world is enshrined in. The fucking problem is, the bastard is in love with me.
I should've seen it coming from the start, should've given myself enough warning to cleanse myself of this.
So what happened exactly four days ago was this:
I was walking on this featureless street late on a weekday when the sun had taken complete descent. The environment was as serene as a background that was lending itself to allusions of European scenes with all its greenery and its coldness. It was such a peaceful stroll divested of all ugliness; except for the TRUTH. The fucking truth was, Ulquiorra Scheiffer was taking mute strides beside me and was kind enough to engage me into something for which I'd kill to have it eradicated from my memory. So, he was telling this shitty story about thirst and its effects on a vampire, which, by the way, is what he is. And then out of nowhere he went like,
"The only thing that's keeping me from devouring you is love."
He was composed as hell when he said it, man, which, out of respect, pledged me to practice the same behavior. After all, it wouldn't kill to stay fucking civil for a few minutes. However, it's just fool's errand to give any form of assertion to that, and even more of a foolery is to hand out affirmation. What I did was, I let my jaw hang for several seconds and made an idiot out of myself by staring blankly at him. So it took me about five minutes to restore full consciousness that by the time I had gathered enough nerves to say a shit my mouth was already throbbing for staying open for far too long.
"Gimme a damn break. In any case, let's change the subject. Can we do that?"
I was grinning so lamely that I could have been easily taken for a retard. But I could forget about being mistaken for a retard because no sooner than I finished talking did he reach out for my shoulders with both his pale hands. I was cocksure terror was striking me to the point of turning blue but I didn't have time to muse about being horrified, did I? That's because I didn't have time for anything else, too. It's pretty much hard to remember how the preceding and succeeding events took place; I'm only sure of one thing. It's that he had me in a tight embrace against my will.
"Promise me you won't put yourself in danger again."
In retrospect, I was in pretty much the same amount of danger at that time as I would be if I had wedged myself between a T-rex and Yeti. I was in danger of losing my dearly beloved sanity. Luckily, sarcasm aside, my dearly beloved sanity chose the most perfect time to exercise its loyalty to me. I found myself prying my strength-deprived body from him.
"I'm fine. I'm in danger of nothing. But I'll be dead before I find myself in your arms again!"
There was a very profound appalled look in his face, as if he had just heard the most repulsive words ever to escape human lips, as if only a monster could've considered my statement as something to be acted upon.
"Kurosaki, I—I apologize." His sentence sounded as though it was without a sequel. He stuffed his fists back into his pockets before letting his eyes wander at his side listlessly. There was no heavy discomposure in his actions, yet it had everything which demanded it. He was trembling inside, or so it seemed. I couldn't get myself to utter another phrase so, perhaps reading me, he decided to save me the trouble, "I—I love you. It's true. Goodbye. Forgive me."
That blew everything out of proportion. Before, he had not dropped any hint of the contrary, which would've given me the prerequisites for hearing the exact words, but this night proved to be as difficult as hearing the confession had it come without a prelude. But, then again, truth is something which contradicts itself most of the time.
But more importantly, he had fled. He had taken his flight without giving me the chance to spend what remained of my distaste for what had been said, leaving me alone in the dark.
...
If he had been less direct in handling it he could've spared me one sleepless night out of three. We have been exchanging very little glances over the next three days. But in those days, every time I would go home from school with Rukia by my side, I was almost always certain that an extra set of feet with extra-light steps were trailing ours. Maybe he's living up to his claim of not being capable of staying away from me.
Grimmjow resumed attending his classes two days ago, the same day Ulquiorra ceased to attend his.
"You're very quiet today, Kurosaki-kun." Inoue tells me. We're in this after-school sort of a date (for lack of better things to do) which merely comprises a box of pizza, a liter of Coke, and sitting on the lawn the football field provides.
"You think so? Do you always notice things up to the minutest detail? I'm fine, I assure you." I tell her. The sky is seared with orange streaks of cloud, reminding me of the beauty a certain scenery possesses. I smile at her which makes her slightly taken aback.
"I wish you're okay." She mutters.
We remain silent for minutes, several of it in fact. I wonder if it's wrong to be here, if it's appropriate for this sort of relaxation to be carried on when there's so much I owe to two people. I suppose musing over it wouldn't deliver me closer to answers,
"Inoue-san, tell me, if you had occasioned someone pain, even in knowing you stood by what you thought was correct and had been thoroughly honest with yourself, would you still be obligated to apologize insofar as morality—no, make that propriety— is concerned?"
"That's a difficult one. I—I think that if you meant to have no holds barred it would be okay to say what you really meant. But if it amounted to hurting someone's feelings, there would be no reason in the world to give you the license to put your apology on hold."
"I should apologize?" The thought itself bewilders me.
"By all means, yes."
I should've kept my trap shut. For one thing, Inoue is probably the most good-natured person I've met, and there's no disguising the fact that we differ in countless terms; in opinions, particularly. I must be out of my mind.
...
Three fucking knocks should do it. If not, then, I'll try my luck some other time. I'm, by the way, probing deep breaths from the depths of my lungs like a moron trying out for Jeopardy. To carry on, I'm as good as walking into a dragon's mouth–not much subtlety remains to entitle me with 'dragon's lair'. Like, in the past, people had called me insane and, half of the time, I deserved being named as such. But the reasons for which were never anything as blatant as knocking on the front door of a family of vampires. That, be informed, is exactly what I'm doing now.
Tap, tap, tap
No answer. Hesitation compounds. I knock harder. Still no answer. I check out my watch. The sun is about all ready to pack at this hour. I'll give it another shot and will have to admit that three knocks aren't gonna wrap things up.
Tap—
I hear an engine roar behind me. I spin around just in time to see a black suburban pull over the front lawn. Through the windshield, Dr. Aizen is performing the last procedures of securing his vehicle on the driveway. Mrs. Aizen, Halibel-san, alights from the passenger seat with a warm smile channeling towards me. Out of her knowledge, her graceful manners are sending me signals of the elaborate futility of my situation.
"Good evening, Kurosaki-kun. How nice of you to drop by." She tells me, her voice deep and suffused with wonder. Dr. Aizen pulls away from the driver's seat, nods amicably at me, and goes to fetch something from the backseat.
"Er, good evening, ma'am. I was just wondering if I—"
Dr. Aizen has pried the backseat door open to reveal Grimmjow. Seeming insensible to what I was previously saying, my mouth fails me. Grimmjow is looking paler than usual, and, as he clasps his father's arm to help himself to his feet, our gazes meet.
"What's he doing here?" He asks, his eyes never leaving mine.
Mrs. Aizen swivels her head to his son with a firmness that could've sent me cowering behind a chair had her reproach been directed to me.
I harness time to recollect myself before I explain, "I came to see you, Grimmjow. But if this isn't a very convenient time for you I'll save it for later."
Dr. Aizen walks ahead to join Halibel. Together they proceed to the entry porch, looking as though they're obliged to award me and his son privacy, which I don't think I'll be needing any more than I want it. The couple pulls to a halt upon reaching me,
"You may come in. Scheiffer is sleeping but Neliel is inside; she'll be glad to accommodate you. Please excuse Grimmjow's conduct here; he's in medication. The treatment doesn't quite agree with his taste. That should explain the boorish conduct." Dr. Aizen explains with as much graveness in his voice as a merry news would have.
I shift my gaze to their son. It's only now, when it has been made clear, that it occurs to me that he's been lacking quite an amount of his usual energy for the last two days at school.
"Oh. I'm good to go. Good evening to you, Dr. Aizen, Mrs. Aizen. And you too, Grimmjow."
"Good evening." Both say, and they enter their house.
Grimmjow remains rooted to where he is. I give him a cordial salute before brushing past him wordlessly. With a clear intent to make my exit hasty so as not to give the moment a chance to harden and eventually turn into something else, I split. Unfortunately, no matter how quick my wits are and how sharp my instincts are, I can't outdo a vampire, at least in terms of speed. I've only scurried over a few yards from their block, and already he's sallying forth towards me.
"Are you sure it's me for whom you've come?" He asks with neither derision nor glee in his countenance.
"I think so." I answer, my legs ceasing its movements.
"That's strange. Last time I checked you'd rather bury yourself in a shit-pile of math problems than spend time with me."
"Strange indeed."
His eyebrows travel higher up his forehead, giving his skeptic glare a more solid completion.
"You really have some nerves, Kurosaki." He says warningly, with detestation.
"I'm very well aware of that."
"It will cost you blood if you insist on behaving like this. At any rate, my offer is still up for grabs. You wanna come see my room or not?" He says it as though he's making an offer more to satisfy a request than to please himself, for, as he steps into the light that falls on the ground, not a trace of malice or any indecent longing can be glimpsed in him.
"That was my intention of coming here, I believe."
...
His room is devoid of character. It has everything one might expect from someone who has long ago resigned from engaging into an earthly living. It's not entirely lacking in taste, but, certainly, this can't be his taste. The bed, for starters, whose existence is devoted to expressing a normal domestic space, is in the middle of the otherwise empty room.
"What do you do for entertainment? Don't you watch the television or something?" I inquire, my eyes still wandering around the chamber, searching for something that perhaps doesn't exist.
He approaches his bed, cocks one of his feet against the foot of it, and kicks the whole thing from him. The bed barrels away from him to meet the end of its journey as it hits the western wall of his room. Brute strength is what I might have called it.
"We keep a television in the family hall. There's a Playstation 3 in there too. Wanna play?" He asks.
"Maybe later. Are human activities too bland for you?"
"On the contrary, these technological inventions are like your primary source of merit."
"I should agree with you on that one."
He allows his weight to fall on his bed and props his hands against the mattress, as if to observe me through and through.
"Come here." he gestures at me.
My limbs, as if worked by a single string, slowly peg their way to where he is. I pause two feet away from him and stuff my fists in my pockets.
"Do you sleep here?" I ask.
"No."
"Why?"
"It's too damn sunny."
"Where do you sleep?"
"Upstairs in the attic, where everyone sleeps."
"Oh. Room-sharing?"
"We sleep in coffins."
"Yeah…"
"You don't believe me?"
"It sounds too comical."
He scowls. "Tell me, why did you come here?"
"I might have offended you—last time we talked. I guess you're entitled to my apology." It may not have sounded so much as condescension but it has to serve as a remedy. Come on, man, he can't expect me to go down on my knees and clinch my palms together with puppy eyes and puckered lips!
He scratches the back of his head, perhaps to show how disinclined he is to accept my unceremonious apology. Maybe he should reconsider a few things here; that I actually knocked on his fucking front door.
"Fine. Is that all?"
"That just about sums it up. You can kick me out anytime now."
The truth is, my mind is teeming with questions that could have filled an entire notepad. I want to know what sort of medication he's undertaking, if he has tidied things up with Stark and Szayel, and—
"You really are an indifferent fuck, aren't you?"
A sudden blaze of anger smites his face ferocious and unsparing. I'm not just about to let it slip, though, especially when calling me an indifferent fuck is involved.
"That's right. Go on and call me names. That would just unburden me of more guilt than I'm currently harboring. Goodnight, Grimmjow, and kindly stuff yourself in your fucking coffin."
I turn to my heels, my feet producing the heaviest treads I've pulled, what with my anger shooting through the damn ceiling. I shouldn't have come here. Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever grow wise enough to recognize shit before I break my fucking shins into it. But before I conclude this thought, I realize that my current suffering will not come to an end by simply storming the hell out of here. Being the unfortunate prick that I am, he dashes in front of me in such a speed I once witnessed from watching Moto GP. He is blocking my exit.
He grabs my shoulders with both his hands with so merciless a firmness I'm afraid my shoulder blades are being crushed. Before I manage to yell my lungs out and spit in his face, I land on something soft, his bed—with him on all fours on top of me. Our faces are like four inches apart, man, which I wouldn't have minded half as much if he WERE smiling evilly. Instead, he is stiff with rage, with teeth so tightly clenched and mouth so widely open I can see his fangs. Real fangs.
"Why, you gonna kill me, Grimmjow? Go on, blood-sucking fucktard, it's not like I can fucking help it. I'm fucking yours." I hiss as my insides make their mad plunges against fate. I'm heaving heavy pants which are accompanied by the incessant escape of beads of sweat from my temples. And these involuntary anatomic activities are all borne out of anger rather than fear.
He doesn't speak, instead he lifts a hand to graze on my neck as if to seize it and crush it.
But no violent strangling ensues. No struggle issues from me. No blood reaches his lips. No pain ensnares my flesh. No other curse leaves my mouth. I feel his lips brush against my chest, the moisture of his mouth latching onto my skin. His hands are groping hungrily for my thighs, and his uncouth movements are ridding me of further reaction. Truly, he's not called a beast for nothing.
"Kurosaki." He whispers crudely through gritted teeth, as if holding a great deal back.
Maybe I'm overcome with his strength, or maybe too petrified or too infuriated to make a move. Whichever the case is, I'm finding his lips against mine extremely hard to resist.
TBC
A/N: Thanks for reading and pardon me for the errors