Chapter 16 – Closer: II

Dinner was a perverse affair, if Ulquiorra were allowed to give his inner soliloquy a proper run out on the pitch. What he wished to do in the least he couldn't; what he disliked most came in abundance. His refrigerator was chockablock with food, and he had no intention of putting them to their desired use. His cat was ingratiating herself with that blasted carrot top, purring away on his lap, blithely, lazily. His mother couldn't stop cooing about their non-existential relationship, and shot Ichigo winks that spoke of secrecy when he questioned their chat held in his absence.

Ulquiorra's eyes could only harden in frustration as inquisition was forfeited in exchange for a peace of the mind on a beautiful Friday evening.

"Quiqui, don't be such a worrywart! You'll grow crow's feet and wrinkles sooner than you think. All you have to know is that we didn't speak of you," Mrs Schiffer heaped a huge scoop of stew into Ulquiorra's bowl, then into Ichigo's. It was accompanied by another telling wink. "Even if we did, we said only good things."

"If that was possible," said Ichigo, aiming a sly dig at his co-star. He was immediately confronted with disgruntlement, for Ulquiorra decided to wean himself off this reckless hubbub. Suddenly the object of his non affections became chummy with the person he cared about most.

"What did you do to my mother?"

"What did I do to Mrs Schiffer?"

"Mew mew," said Sakana as Ichigo fed her bits of dory fish.

"Nobody did anything to me!"

"Most certainly, he—" Ulquiorra was vehement in his prosecution of the obtrusive Kurosaki Ichigo. "Did something to you, Mother, while I was away at the supermarket picking out cabbages, shrimp, fish, and numerous other frozen products which will subsequently become trash."

"Either that or as useful trash sailing down your sewage pipes!" the alleged one set his bowl down on the table—a clang!, making the ginger kitty scamper away in shock. "And by the way, I didn't brainwash your mom or anything. Are you jealous that we're getting on extremely well? Are you bothered by that?" Ichigo mouthed into Ulquiorra's ear, displaying a keen understanding that he had Ulquiorra's mother aboard his ship, hence the audacity.

To the unsuspecting, namely a certain Japanese lady who was instantaneously combustible, it seemed as though both men were sharing an intimate moment. That was until Ulquiorra pulled away, irritated by the demolition of his defensive wall.

"Mrs Schiffer, your son...sometimes I—I just don't know what to say or think about him," Ichigo shook his head in mock despondence.

Quit it, you fool, Ulquiorra fumed, only a tool would fall for your useless act.

Mrs Schiffer stayed motionless, but her eyes shifted in resonance.

Mother, don't. Don't—

"Ichi-kun, I pray with all the goodness in my heart that Schiffer Junior here didn't do you any wrong," Mrs Schiffer turned to her son and put a stern hand on his shoulder. "Quiqui, you must be responsible for your actions! Don't assume just because Ichi-kun is a man, you can cast aside your principles and morals as a Schiffer. Have you forgotten what your daddy taught you as a child? Have you misplaced your heart, Quiqui?"

What actions? What heart?

"Love not freely but dutifully!"

That effectively put an end to the Ulquiorra's allegations of Ichigo leading his mother astray.

…

Nothing pleased Kurosaki Ichigo more than the giddy picture of Ulquiorra squirming in his seat, trying to block out audio waves and taunting frequencies channeling into his ear canals. To ensure the thorough failure of his attempt, Ichigo made it a point—a rather abominable one, to laugh and talk louder than normal. He was convinced Ulquiorra would eventually unearth some underhanded means to get back at him come Monday, so in early compensation he had to live it up, and soak in as many precious moments as he could possibly milk.

"Ichi-kun," Mrs Schiffer began in exuberance, her hands flailing about. "Do you know that Quiqui swims as fast as a drowned puppy? Until he was ten, he couldn't stand the sight of chlorinated water! Right, Quiqui?" she peered askance at Ulquiorra, who feigned monumental interest in his stew. Again he had no wish to be implicated in distant childhood memories. If there was a need he would not hesitate to purge the truth.

"Quiqui shrieked louder than a banshee when his daddy and I held him and made him paddle around the baby pool! It was alright when he was a toddler, in fact it was utterly an adorable sight to have a little child with huge eyes sobbing away. But it ain't quite as alright when he was five and still screaming his lungs out! Frankly speaking it was a wee embarrassing for us parents," Mrs Schiffer caught Ichigo's eye, and both sniggered before she cleared her throat to continue.

"Not to steal the spotlight from Quiqui," she said, and Ulquiorra wished she did the opposite—but she wouldn't be his mother if she were to zip it then and there. "Poor Quiqui! He cried himself hoarse—and I suppose that's how he ended up with catching the flu bug easily. Don't know how it goes about, but it must have damaged his immune system right away. Having said that," she beamed brightly, "he always stayed afloat! Partly because of the adorable Batman arm floats we got him, and partly due to his flabby Michelin arms!" A humiliating admission was accompanied by a motherly sigh. "Makes you wonder where all that baby fat went to. Ichi-kun, don't you think he's way too gaunt now?"

"Practically all skin and bones, yes," Ichigo agreed, and tossed his co-star an evil side-eye. Said man promptly returned the polite exchange with a death glare. For a fleeting second Ichigo thought he saw the doors of Hell open.

"Each time we asked Quiqui why was he so fearful of the swimming pool, he would burst into a fountain of tears! He became a crying machine—that was how abysmal it got. We stopped asking thereafter, and one day, sometime after his tenth birthday, we took him to a water-based theme park, and he managed to waddle through the baby pool without behaving as if he had been burnt! It was the most wondrous thing we had seen, so his dad snapped a photo of the accomplishment. Mind you Schiffer Senior was a dire photographer," Mrs Schiffer grinned, then reached down to stroke Sakana, who sought refuge under her feet.

"There was no such thing," Ulquiorra mumbled to his utensil.

"Oh, Quiqui, where are the photo albums? Have you shown them to Ichi-kun? How can you not divulge anything to him? How can you maintain a relationship with these many secrets? It's unhealthy!"

Ulquiorra refused to answer, and spooned overflowing scoops of stew into his mouth.

"Do you still keep them hidden in your closet, under the boxers?" Mrs Schiffer inquired aloud. "How could you—oh Ichi-kun, I'm sorry how offensive our conversation has gone. But our Quiqui used to do that! He refused to let people see how chunky he was as a toddler, and how often he bawled his eyes out. So he thought it was very clever of him to stuff them under his underpants. But Mommy knows best! Quiqui, you sneaky child."

"Perhaps I should do some ransacking later," Ichigo winked whilst Ulquiorra bristled.

"You'd better! Oh, oh! Did you know?" Mrs Schiffer's rapturous tone hit her son like a bolt of lightning. "He used to tear up when he read a book. I remember Bambi made him cry too. Isn't that so, Quiqui? The part when Bambi's mother died? So did Lion King! Quiqui has a soft spot for animals, eh?" she nudged Ulquiorra in the ribs. It merited all of him to bear no reaction—both from spluttering the stew out and jerking at the rude tingle assailing his nerves.

"Of course he wouldn't admit it now! It was just the dust particles in the air that made your nose red and your tear ducts run, right, Quiqui?"

Ichigo watched in rapid interest as swirling clouds of pink took up residence on the pale man's cheeks, then spread to far reaching corners of his face. What was alabaster became a bed of baby blooms.

"Are you ignoring Mommy just because I've let known the mysterious side to your ahem, personality? I just thought it was unfair of you, to whisk Ichi-kun into your room and he has yet to be in the thick of things. Don't just focus on the physical aspect, and ignore the rest, Quiqui! It's not very nice of you, even though Ichi-kun's being an absolute gentleman about this. You should share more of your background with him!" she wagged a finger. "Not building a solid foundation can lead to serious problems in the infrastructure. You wouldn't want any cracks that might lead to a collapse, right?"

Baby blooms blossomed into fields of burgundy.

"Look how shy Quiqui is!" the bubbly woman chirped, and her son remained plastered in the background, lovely as a blushing wallflower. "Now, now. Won't you forgive him, Ichi-kun?"

"Well," Ichigo was taking the moral high ground and he enjoyed the ride. The view from the top was one he cherished greatly. "That depends on how he's gonna make up for it."

"Don't be too hard on him! Would be an utter waste if you two were to go your own ways. Ichi-kun, you could very well be Quiqui's lucky star, no, no, no! What am I saying?" Mrs Schiffer gulped in alarm. "Quiqui, remember the fortune teller in China?"

Cue a curt response. "Not at all."

"The orange—well never mind. Since you insist you can't remember a thing, my amnesiac son! Let me retell the entire tale—"

"It is not necessary, Mother," Ulquiorra stiffened.

"Alright," Mrs Schiffer appeared down before a bulb in her ignited. "Now that I observe carefully," she began to scrutinize both men, "Quiqui does seem more animated in your presence, Ichi-kun. He comes alive! Did you not notice the difference too? He becomes talkative yet slightly miffed that I made him sound all uncool before you! He really does want to look good in your eyes, huh, Ichi-kun? Having said that, the brightness in you complements Quiqui's colorlessness. Look at him, oh, won't you just look at Quiqui! Your cheeriness lends a light to Quiqui's soul! Can't you see it shining from those windows of his?"

She was correct.

Rays of light poured forth from Ulquiorra's eyes in abundance. A brilliant green they were, borne out of not happiness but gross perplexity.

"Mother, I have a spare room upstairs—"

"One more thing, boys," Mrs Schiffer left no room for her son's invitation to stay the night over. "I'm leaving for Kyoto after dinner. I promised your aunt and uncle I'll be there in the fastest time possible. They're lonely folks because their only child went to London for god knows what, when all he should be doing is to serve tea and be a filial boy at home! Speaking of which I haven't seen that blue haired punk for some time. How is he doing?"

"Too well for my liking, and Mother, you can leave on the bullet train tomorrow," Ulquiorra urged, hoping to extend her stay. It wasn't everyday that she would pop by for a visit and make dinner. He missed her cooking, and her presence. If anything he felt settled with her around. "I'll go give Uncle Jeagerjacques a call now."

She gripped his arm before he could push his chair back. "Quiqui, you're neglecting someone."

"Who?"

"Who?" Mrs Schiffer echoed loudly. "Why, you rude child!" she bopped her son on the head. "Didn't we have this conversation barely seconds ago? You're as dense as your daddy, if not denser."

Ulquiorra made no attempt to shift away from his mother. "But I don't understand. Sakana already had her fill, so—oh." He peered at Ichigo, comprehension filling in those jade orbs. "That doesn't count."

"That?" the carrot top plonked his spoon down. "I'm a 'He' by all means of the word!" And typically, they proceeded to stare each other down: Ulquiorra with his wintry, brittle glare, Ichigo with fire sprouting from scorched brandy.

"I'm terribly sorry for Quiqui's poor behavior," Mrs Schiffer bowed, and pushed Ulquiorra's head downward. "Sometimes he finds it difficult to get his true intentions across. Don't mind him, would you, Ichi-kun. I'm sure you understand this silly son of mine more than anyone else!"

Then, to the poorly camouflaged horror of both men, Mrs Schiffer placed Ichigo's hand atop Ulquiorra's, and squeezed them together with a wide smile carved upon her face.

"You two can make nice later when I'm not around, alright?"

…

After Ulquiorra sent his mother downstairs and flagged a cab for her, he returned home to see Ichigo lurking in the dining room, wiping the table with a piece of flannel cloth and sweeping bits of leftover food into an open palm. The scene alone peeved him to no ends; the last thing he needed was some impetuous man in his home, using his water, persecuting his being, and leaving footprints on the flawless white marble. Ulquiorra had already suffered more than his fair share of mortification, and now he wanted to take a proper bath, and lounge about without being seen. That was the least he deserved.

"You can go now," said Ulquiorra, positioned against a pillar, hands tucked in pockets. "It is already nine. You overstayed your welcome by three hours."

"Oh yeah?" Ichigo entered the kitchen, careful not to drop any food particles along the way. "If not for the hardworking me, your dining room would be swamped with cockroaches and flies and rats. So much for your hygiene fetish."

"Are you implying I should applaud you for this?"

"Nah, wouldn't dream of it. Knowing you," Ichigo scoffed as he dusted the particles off his palm, then washed them clean. "The chances are slimmer than me nabbing Best Actor from you come next year."

"At least someone has the decency to admit that," Ulquiorra approached the kitchen sink, and reached for a porcelain plate. "I do hate to say this, but your worth is being reevaluated now."

Really? Is he starting to think better of me? Ichigo thought, and for the briefest of seconds he was genuinely hopeful. Then what will it be? Someone awesome? My insurmountable range of acting capabilities? He finally removes those rose-tinted glasses of his and sees my undeniable talent? Well, well, well. Let's not get ahead of myself. And why should I bother? But it'll be decent. Ho ho—

"Your worth as a housekeeper."

–the hell?!

"Oi, crybaby. Shut up! Why don't you just get outta here, go to the living room and watch some TV, and leave me alone? I already am doing your dirty dishes, I don't need your constant rubbing in!"

"I can wash my own plates, insolent creature. Furthermore, though however insubstantial my exertion may be, but to reinstate my honor, allow me to repeat: I am not a crybaby, or whatever that term might mean as you deemed to be coming from my mother," Ulquiorra stubbornly grabbed a plate from Ichigo's grasp. "And you can make yourself scarce now."

"No!" Ichigo clutched his plate tightly with hands slippery from cleaning liquid. "I'll set out to finish what I've started!" Indeed—that was his ethos.

"I thank you for your generous assistance, and I wish you out the door now," Ulquiorra countered, and pounced on the plate with icy fervor.

"As I've said, you pale, torrid beast!"

Snatch!

"Hand the plate back to me, imbecilic sponger."

Grab!

"Sponger? Sponger?" Ichigo's volume accelerated with every iteration and reiteration. "I'm in the midst of washing your bloody plates, can't you see?! Or has your vision been blurred by endless pools of tears? Boo hoo—mommy I'm scared of water! Help! It's the sea monster!"

Slip!

"I am very much capable of cleansing my personal cutlery with dollops of washing liquid and a kitchen scrub and water."

Grip!

"Sounds to me you can't!"

They tussled back and forth for the plate, energetic glowers locked in a sea of flames, searing heat culminating in a single moment of explosion, their hands increasingly soapy, and it was only a matter of time before the poor piece of porcelain was set to clatter and break. It did, and what an astounding cacophony it was!

Cracked against the steel counter like a glassy jingle—Wham! Slam! Crash! Crushed to ivory fragments dotting the floor like a heavy blizzard, each more perilous than the next, and a thick daub of crimson emerged amid the shards.

It was blood—Ulquiorra's blood.

"Holy shit!" came Ichigo's offhand response. "Son of a gun!" was the next.

"Oh..." the green eyed man mumbled in a daze, almost unaffected. "Plasma."

"Plasma? Ah crap!"

If it were any other situation Ichigo would have laughed outright; such was the baffling nature of Ulquiorra's reply. Most would opt for blood, but Ulquiorra belonged to another group altogether. One of such minority that he was practically his own man.

"Are you delirious? Oi! Hey now, don't die on me!" Ichigo was aghast by the slit across the green eyed man's palm. A deep incision it was, and blood continued to seep out and formed meandering rivulets down his wrist. The wound wasn't coagulating, and tragically, he played a part in this careless infliction. Immediately he did what he was trained to do: make sure the casualty remained awake at all costs.

"Ulquiorra!" he shook his co-star as if he were a rag doll. "Can you hear me? Oi! Don't fall asleep! I repeat, don't curl up and die on me!"

"I wouldn't want my funeral anywhere near you."

"Damn—where's your first-aid kit?"

"Left of the cabinet, above the sink in the washroom on the second floor," said Ulquiorra, clenching his palm gingerly to make the blood clot, and watched as Ichigo dashed up the staircase and disappeared into the bathroom upstairs, only to appear in a millisecond and zoomed back down to him, first-aid kit in hand. Speedily he opened the box, retrieved some pieces of antiseptic swipe, a pair of tweezers and a kidney dish.

"Take a seat and show me your palm," Ichigo demanded, haste pervasive in his tone. "I'm gonna cleanse the wound then bandage it for you."

"I'd rather you not lift a finger," said Ulquiorra, dismissively. He wheeled a short kitchen stool over and sat on it. "Leave it be and the hemorrhaging will cease. Place it in your hands and I shudder to think what might happen."

"Can't you install a little faith in me?" the younger man chided as he forcibly pried open Ulquiorra's fist. It was met with potent resilience. "I don't want unwanted blood on my hands, not at this age anyway. Despite the kindness in my heart that runs away with me, if you continue to piss me off with your wretched conduct, who knows one day I might actually send a gunman after you. That is if I become as prosperous as your pompous ass, and figure you could be worth the penny paid for me to hunt you down. For vengeance and that sort of dramatic going on in sniper movies. So I suggest you'd better get packing after filming wraps up!"

Despite those sardonic words, Ichigo's intent was only superfluous at best. From pert antagonism portrayed so often in that leer of his, the brazenness had vanished, and was duly replaced by one of genuine anxiety and fret, colliding together in an intensive whirlpool of brown. Months of contempt served only to underlie the severity of a moment undone in time.

Captivated by the singular trice on an emotional whim, Ulquiorra wondered what had he done to deserve the concern catapulting in his face, and whatever that may be, it certainly paid off.

"Oi!" Ichigo crudely snapped his fingers, causing Ulquiorra to snap out of his daydream. "Show me your palm, pretty please? It's not my problem if a Class I hemorrhage evolves into a Class IV. By then it'd be beyond salvation."

"It isn't that serious, and your theatrics is of no pertinence here. While you are at it, drop the urgency in your voice."

"Not serious?" Ichigo huffed. "Then what is? A gunshot wound through your heart? A burnt rope around your neck? Or until you're lying on a stretcher, rushing into A&E? Is that when you'd call a wound 'serious'? No apologies, but that's called fatalistic! Sheesh. You need to re-prioritize your life, Quiqui! Here I am doing my utmost to keep you from dying a premature death and here you go all 'It's alright, my skin is made of the most robust metal, so it's alright!'. Sure it's understandable. Were you dropped on the head as a kid?"

Ulquiorra's brows knitted in annoyance. "Was your head dipped in orange dye when you were young, apricot dolt?"

"Jesus, not the hair issue again! Maybe one night when you're asleep I should sneak out of your closet and bleach your hair a zillion shades of orange and golden and platinum. That will teach you something, conceited tosser, and I said, don't move your hand!" Ichigo steadied his co-star's upturned palm on a knee, and exercised great caution in handling the injury. First he checked for glass fragments stuck in the slit, then painstakingly removed them with the tweezers, and dumped the bits in a kidney dish. When that was done, he reached for a second pair of tweezers, then with clean, practised movements, he dabbed antiseptic swipes on the wound, disinfecting it.

Ulquiorra looked on with widened eyes at Ichigo's meticulous strokes across the incision, inside out. Although it was merely basic first aid, he couldn't help but be taken aback. What was rough handling became tender and hushed at once. Then he parried his mildly wondrous gaze upward, and settled on the younger man's visage. Caged in utmost concentration Ichigo was, he failed to acknowledge the alteration in his co-star's lingering stare.

"You've done this before?" Ulquiorra inquired, never averting his glance.

"Heh, once again I've stunned you, haven't I? It's time to revalue my worth," Ichigo smirked with the smugness he was renowned for. "It helps when your dad's a doctor. You learn all the little things such as simple first aid, diagnosis, basic treatment, and other medical rattle prattle. Kinda useful I'd say, especially when it comes to resuscitating already dead men like you," he peered closely at Ulquiorra, orbs awash with worry. "Wait a minute. Did you just become paler?"

"It is only natural that the outflow of blood would be succeeded by a barely discernible discoloration, which you've accurately detected," Ulquiorra looked away. "That or otherwise, your guilt at causing the injury made you visualize apparitions."

Ichigo snorted. "It is only natural that you'd analyze your bloody predicament with the pin-point accuracy and spine-chilling calm a coroner possesses. Speaking of which, as heard from your mom, those are definitive attributes a neurosurgeon has. Much ado for someone like you, overtly focused on the brain department, and not so much in the heart, innit? Too much heart kills you too, or so says some old, dramatic geezer punching his chest silly at home."

A thoughtful stretch of silence draped above them before Ulquiorra punctured it with an awkward cough.

"Why didn't you follow in your father's footsteps? You might have done better—judging by your situation at hand, it isn't a stretch to postulate such a hypothesis."

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Ichigo reached for a cotton gauze with the tweezers and positioned it above the slashed wound, then secured its place by wrapping the front of a bandage around it.

"You don't think very highly of me too, do you."

The younger man mustered a feeble smirk. "Switch our positions around and that's exactly what you would say of me. Besides," his tone took on gradual solemness as he basked in nostalgia. "We aren't that different anyway. If I were to despise you, I'd be despising myself somewhat. Am I right to say that?"

"The difference between us couldn't be any more palpable."

"Maybe," Ichigo tugged at one end of the bandage, the other end he rolled around the injured palm in a series of eights. "One thing for sure, our dads both practise medicine, and we as their sons, almost did. For one reason or another, the surefire path didn't look as steady."

"Then why didn't you?" Ulquiorra asked again. He couldn't keep his trap shut; he felt the confounding need to know, and that warranted a second bout of questioning.

This time the carrot top decided to speak up.

"You're going to put me down for this, I know. Thinking how frivolous and childish and atrocious my motivation is. Go ahead, I'm prepared for it. My shield is positioned," he grinned to a vacant mien. "You heard of the movie 'Roman Holiday'?'

Ulquiorra nodded. It was a no-brainer. Anybody with a remote history of films would encounter it at least once in their life. "The 1953 movie starring Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck. It was nominated for 11 Oscars and won 5."

"Yeah, my mom was an ardent fan of it, in fact she loved everything cute and sweet and dramatic, and Roman Holiday had them all. She watched and re-watched the movie like nobody's business, to the extent where she blurted lines to me, as though it was a bedtime story, and frequently pictured herself to be Princess Ann roaming around in Rome with her Joe Bradley on a Vespa. She didn't mention that to me or my sisters, but evidence of their hipper days are aplenty! Photographs, slightly frayed around the edges, and a whole ton of them. Kinda too avid an interest in pop culture, but well, that's my folks in a nutshell.

"My dad specially bought a Vespa in my mom's favorite color—cornflower blue, just so they could zip around the suburbs and countrysides before I was born. Until today he grumbled about the choice of vehicle and its color, extorting it made him less of a man than he really is! Which is totally unjustified if you ask me."

As Ichigo rambled on about his parents, their enthusiasm for movies and bringing up a family, Ulquiorra noticed he was holding onto his slashed palm, chocolate gape lost in the haze of yesteryear. If the raven haired actor longed to, he could have made a contemptuous remark or two. But he chose to stay silent, for he hadn't anything to complain about. His co-star's touch wasn't rancid, wasn't horrific, wasn't apocalyptic. It was none of them. To him, the velvety feel reeked of a faint comfort, like that of sunshine peeking through throes of rainclouds. It soothed him. It was tender like tissue.

"But yeah, that was how much my mom adored the film. Said the onscreen chemistry was fantastic, said actors are actually quite some inspirational figures," said Ichigo. "In any way, it made her contented."

"You wished to delight your mother by becoming an actor?"

Stranger events had taken place, once in the afternoon with the charming Mrs Schiffer, but this—him engaged in a civil chat with Ulquiorra Schiffer was one of sheer oddity. Charm and the green eyed actor weren't to be associated with each other, much like how oil and water could never mix. Two entirely invariant substances, never crossing into each other's boundaries, not even a hint of trespassing. And it was until that night did Ichigo catch a glimpse of the impossibility occurring.

The odds-on clash of two improbable objects was the furthest thing on Ichigo's mind, despite his powers of imagination. Everything began to fizzle as he continued his narration. Pink plumes condensed into speckles of rosy radiance as his sarcastic co-star wasn't interrupting him with cutting comments, the background fading into a blur, and he had to shake his head a few times to exorcise the distortion.

"Nah, she had passed on before I was mature enough to think of the future that beckons," Ichigo straightened his back. It was aching from bending over to nurse Ulquiorra's impromptu injury. "Suffered from breast cancer, and by the time she discovered it, the cancer was at the later stages. There was nothing much we could do about it, and when you cancel out all the other options, the only one left is to make her as happy as possible. She had to undergo chemotherapy nonetheless, even when the chances of recovery were close to zero, but she gritted her teeth and hung on. She said the movies—tons of videos my dad brought for her, made the 'sads' go away, and that they were akin to gusts of wind blowing gray clouds into billowing white ones. That's what I basically remembered, and how could I probably decipher what she meant. I took what she told me literally word for word back then, and it wasn't until I watched those movies for myself in the beginnings of high school that my mom's words dawned on me."

He unwittingly shuffled towards Ulquiorra, seemingly wanting a physical presence to be near to.

"Sure, being a doctor helps saves lives, but my mom died a gratified woman, and then I figured, 'why not become an actor and spread joy to many?' The 'why not' alone opened an entire world of possibilities to me suddenly, so much so that I found myself at a crossroad of sorts. Didn't really know what to do after I graduate from high school, and saving lives one at a time in an operation theater sounds dreary. At least, well, if anything—touch wood, were to fail, I'd be spared the agony of breaking the news to their family members," the younger man cracked a lopsided smile. "Better the laughs than tears, and unlike medicine, acting does allow for retakes."

"A lofty ambition at the onset of inscrutable reasoning," Ulquiorra chipped in.

"I thought so too," Ichigo reluctantly concurred. "It's one of those things whereby you seal your lips about it, and when you suddenly spurt it out, everyone thinks you've gone mad, or they act as if you've made one of those hotheaded decisions in a finger snap. One of those decisions that will definitely go awry, one way or another. In my case I count myself fortunate. I had the support of my family, and this guy...you know Renji, my long-time pal and manager?"

"You, him, and Grimmjow could easily form an alliance for men who wear their personalities on their hair."

"Probably, and it'd be one that will be thwarted by you in no time!" Ichigo rounded off the last portion of the bandage, folded the flap inwards and pinned it with a clip. "That crazy Renji, for all his bullheadedness, encouraged me to send in full-length and profile shots, and even recorded me practising some random scenes in Shakespeare's Hamlet. I initially wanted those to reach the theater club in high school—a considerably large production for us final year students. Somehow, thanks to that red pineapple, he had the tapes mailed to several agencies, and you know what happened afterward."

"You were cast in that nonsensical movie," said Ulquiorra. "From Prince of Denmark to vampire, you certainly have crossed realms and transcended time vortexes with remarkable ease. The only constant factor is the madness that ensues thereafter."

"Oi," Ichigo argued. "Beggars can't be choosers. Everyone needs to start somewhere! If everyone were like you, how boring would the world be? You gotta shake it up a bit, give it some variety, breathe through the division, then sit back and enjoy the fruits of your labor. I didn't expect the whole celebrity part though. It just rockets towards you huh. Guess you can identify with that—your fans are pretty nutty, if not nuttier than mine."

"I don't see them," Ulquiorra was as blind as a bat when it came to his shameless horde of fans, or he pretended to be. "What matters most is your performance. As for the rest, are those which you can hardly control. And when you can't, you don't waste time in trying to manipulate these elements. It is risky. You can't rely on others to carry you through. Take for example, your supporters and their sense of entitlement to you. One minute they can take the high and mighty approach with you, the next they can just as effortlessly dethrone you. They believe they own you—be it a piece or a sum of the parts, and you have an obligation to them.

"Which of course, is a fallacy. Idols, those living, dancing figurines which are of heterogeneous make, succumb to this phenomenon, as their supporters are the sole source of their livelihood. Without them these people are nothing. Beneath their feet lies quicksand. Beside them exists a cesspool. Once they stand still they are buried. Even if they run they don't stand a chance against time. You may argue against this flow of reasoning, but how many made it to the end? How many actually staged a comeback? Talent: true, unabridged talent, is what counts in the long run, with or without these so-called fans."

"Did you just blabber out an essay on the 'Demerits of Fame'?" Ichigo teased. "For someone who's bleeding buckets you are unbelievably talkative. And what an impressive rant! Soundly logical and utterly biased at its core," he flashed Ulquiorra a cocky smile. "Can't say I dislike this chatty and brutally honest side of you. No wonder the press loves your quips."

"I have always been honest with myself," Ulquiorra glanced at the square toaster clock on the kitchen counter. It was from his mother. "It is 9.50pm now."

"OK, OK. Quit chasing me out of your splendid palace, you clumsy twat. I'm done here, but not before..." the younger man pressed the tip of Ulquiorra's finger, and released it. "Bandage's just right, not too tight nor loose. If there's anything you should know what to do, right? I've applied sufficient pressure on the gauze, so the bleeding should stop soon. If it doesn't then it's your fault."

Ulquiorra appeared as though death came knocking early.

"Your expression alone was worth the admission," Ichigo joked. "Your injury, though not irreparable, would be a hassle for the time being, since you can't flex your fingers. You can change the bandage with one hand, I assume? Use your foot otherwise, eh, wait. Is it me or does that sound like an ape's doing? And by the way there's no way I can ever be flexible enough for that, but I bet you'll probably think 'Duh I can do anything ten times better than you do, so who are you to tell me all these?'. Such an incorrigible klutz and a snide brat you are, straight from the beginning and I should sweep up this mess lest you trip on another shard and cut yourself, and..." mindless chatter was hopelessly drowned in the hypnotic stare his co-star had him under. "And..."

"Carry on," Ulquiorra spoke nary above a whisper.

"...with what?" Ichigo stumbled to his senses. " Weren't you just shoving me out the door minutes ago?" he furrowed those arched brows, not realizing he still was cradling Ulquiorra's injured palm in his. "Not shutting me up?"

"Finish what you have to say and leave. It is the least you can do."

"Acquired a conscience in the supermarket, I presume? I never knew they came in bottles," Ichigo cheekily noted. "Alas you didn't buy enough to form a circle of consideration. No price reductions? No discounts for purchasing in bulk?"

"My conscience has always been with me, regardless of your refutable claims."

"Right as you are, you disrupted my daisy chain of thoughts!" Ichigo expounded, mischief trickling into his speech. "I was en route to composing a grand symphony of you and your villainous mannerisms."

"Which segment of the process are you preoccupied with?" the green eyed star's lips twisted into a smirk while Ichigo mooted himself to the spot. "Contemplative?"

"Sheesh," the orange haired man waved him away, then relaxed against the table's leg. "No kidding, but I was just thinking if some things in our lives didn't occur, would we run into each other the same way we did?" he rubbed his chin with a free hand. "You know, like an alternate universe. I can be the small town boy from the suburbs of Tokyo, going to a reputable medical college in the big city. After five years of academic torment I'd graduate into residency and stride down long, white, sterilized corridors with a stethoscope around my neck."

"And I would be the student who graduated with top honors and enjoyed direct enrollment into the residency program, but not before completing my postgraduate research work and garnering accolades simultaneously in a preternatural feat," said Ulquiorra, his gaze a deep forest green, his humor—God forbid, self-deprecating.

"Yeah, that's totally you," Ichigo grinned at him. "Then one day, because I'm so daft and untalented and untrained in the ways of medicine, I'd inadvertently offend your condescending and self-important ass, which hence result in us squabbling like two immature prats whenever the opportunity arises."

"Therefore concluding the relative unimportance of your cognitive process."

"You just know this scenario is bound to happen," said Ichigo, surprised to hear a dip in his usually brash voice. "I hate to say this but, the roundabout way you fashion your insults is one I can definitely take lessons from. A crying pansy to a hard as nails man, you sure have come into your own. Laudable."

"And it has been a revelation," Ulquiorra vocalized softly, a marked departure from his sniping attack of verbal virtuosity. He had something different on his mind, and sadly he hadn't an inkling what he was about to do either. His newly bandaged hand was snugly cushioned in the other man's grasp, and in the midst of the conversation their distance was bridged, and their shoulders touched. Outlines fused together in a mesh of fuzzy borders, and quietly, unhurriedly, a pair of shadows fell into step on the white marble.

Ichigo tried repaying the piercing survey with one of his own, but his eyesight would not have it. Those notoriously pink plumes hovering around Ulquiorra proved too dazzling, they literally sparkled. A clockwork animosity surrounding the raven haired man ticked toward annihilation on a self-timer, and when it erupted, was it a glitzy sight to behold.

"What?"

"This."

With temerity frequently parked in their mutual contact, Ulquiorra leaned in to kiss his co-star.

...

A/N: Once again I thank you guys for everything, and...HAPPY NEW YEAR! Sorry for the obscene delay; had a load of things coming at me! Couldn't dodge even if my life depended on it. Review if you would, 'tis an ultimate pleasure to read them.

P.S. Hope this chapter answers some of your queries, and to satisfy you lot until the next.