Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. BLEACH and other brands mentioned here belong to their respective owners.

…

Chapter 19 – Perfect Situation

For an hour or so, Kurosaki Ichigo was keen to let his hand do the talking. He squatted in a corner of the living room, facing the veranda, and used a hair dryer on his damp clothes. Shivering from the cold after he climbed out of the tub, the clothes sticking like famished leeches to his skin, he was permitted to plunder Ulquiorra's wardrobe for a change of garb. He chose a loose fit gray tee and a pair of olive slacks to change into. It wasn't the first time he had worn his co-star's clothes, and what crept into his mind was effortless to deny but he didn't. Those clothes made him feel like a part of his co-star lingered on his skin.

His mouth may remain sealed, but his brain cranked up its associative abilities. When he thought of skin, the gutter track that was his cerebral processor published visuals on a slide show. Those damned visuals of an equally damned man and his damned bathtub which could house two people, albeit packed like sardines in a tin. Then there was that...that expanse of hoary, supple skin cruising beneath his fingertips, cool as autumn and velvety as pure silk. His eyes followed a trickle of water meandering from the pale neck to the chest, yes, that very chest which heaved up and down so quietly like the flutter of a butterfly's wings when resting. The trickle continued to zigzag downward, making a temporary stop at his navel, swimming about the periphery before traveling further south to...

Crap. What's going on? I must be mad! Ichigo shook his head vehemently. I must purge these evil thoughts from my mind. Purge them! He wedged the hair dryer between bent knees and rubbed his temples. I must. Purge them! I certainly must! His rubs transformed into light smacks on both sides of his head. Through a mental scroll of incantations he willed his tardy imagination away. Purge! Purge! Purge! Pur—

"You," Ulquiorra began. His low, crystalline baritone penetrated the internal racket regurgitating itself inside Kurosaki Ichigo. "Did the chill go to your head? Or did it catch a cold because it was empty inside all along?"

"Jeez!" Ichigo nearly dropped the hair dryer on his left foot. "When the hell did you appear?"

"Since you began to slap at your head like a percussionist with a set of drums."

"It's none of your business!"

"If you say so." The beryl eyed man moved closer, and continued to cast his gaze downward at Ichigo. "In this case, I'd like to have my clothes back."

Kurosaki Ichigo wrapped one free arm around himself. "I need them! I mean, my clothes are wet, all thanks to you, a retard who snoozes in his bathtub with the tap running. Now your perverse demand is going to cause me great distress! No way am I stripping before you. Not a chance in hell." He scratched his head, suddenly remembering their intimate scenes with each other in the movie, then said, "Not least till Hiyori shouts 'Action!' and snap the goddamn clapper."

"But you have this," said Ulquiorra. A blue cable knit cardigan was in his grip. If one were to place him under a microscope and scrutinize him from head to toe, one definitely could see his fingers twitching in discomfort and uneasiness.

"Whose top is this?" Ichigo asked.

"Seems to me you already are suffering from dementia. 40 years too early perhaps?"

Ichigo frowned at the proffered article, the gears in his dysfunctional brain clicking together in belated recognition. "It's...mine."

"I washed it," said Ulquiorra, on the back of an awkward pause.

"Yeah, looks washed," Ichigo parroted. "Looks clean. Erm..." he inspected the condition of his clothes spread on the floor, then swung his gaze back to the blue cardigan. "And...dry."

"Do you want your cardigan back or not?"

"Don't be stupid. Of course I want my stuff back."

"Then take it." Ulquiorra nudged the article towards his co-star, who never stopped gaping at the cardigan. They were like a prince and his hapless servant in a royal court. Ulquiorra the ineffably superior man, never lowering himself to his subordinate's level, handling an item with a pinch, as if he couldn't wait to be rid of it. Ichigo was the poor servant boy caught in a fix, not knowing if he should accept the item, and the repercussions of his action, whichever it was. "What happened to your ape-like reflexes? Lost them when you slapped away what little abilities you actually do possess?" he added.

"Back off, pasty faced jerk! Can't you see I'm doing exactly that?" Ichigo chuffed as he reached for the cardigan. He envisaged sinking his fingers into soft wool, but all he felt was the cool touch of Ulquiorra's hand.

At once both men shared an unspoken communication through telepathy, the point of contact being their fingertips. Electricity sizzled and sparked through their veins, flicking on many switches along the way. The voltage increased until their bodies could no longer take it. They had to pull away before it was too late. Now! With a start they withdrew their hands. The cardigan fell to the ground. When they reached for the clothing, misfortune again had to crop up.

Their heads clattered together, not of a heavy thud but just enough to have them lurch backward then forward, their faces inevitably within a fraction of a breath from each other. They were millimeters away from smooching each other and they knew that. Eyes stretched and widened to the limits, they snapped away like rubber bands on the rebound.

"Why are your peepers so damn large?" Ichigo half-yelled as he rose from his squatting position. "They already are freaking enormous for starters, so don't widen them any more, for the love of whoever is up there ruling the silent Universe!"

Ulquiorra could feel flames being fanned mercilessly under his feet. "I was born with them."

"OK, flimsy excuse accepted. Then why is your face so red?" Ichigo further accused. "Did you sneak a sip of the sweet nectar when I wasn't looking? How could you? Aren't we supposed to be all professional and preparing for our roles? In less than 10 days' time the cameras would be up and rolling again! I'm not going to be replaced by anyone, you hear me? We have to work really hard. I repeat: really, really hard."

"Your countenance couldn't have been a better reflection of your outspoken mannerisms."

Out of guilt the carrot top's hands instantly shot up to his face. "Where? What? Stop talking out of your ass!"

"Obviously you weren't the one who was appropriately attired for bathing in a tub," Ulquiorra shot back. He was too caught up in the heat beneath his feet to notice how his pitch and volume had altered midway. No longer the placid tones of old, they were now terse and incensed, like a box of dynamites ready to detonate anytime.

"So what if I saw you in your birthday suit? Let's face it. You were in the bathtub. I just happened to be there. We're both guys. What you have, I have. The anatomy is what it is, physical deformities aside. A man has what a man rightfully has. The variations though, say, the size, the length, that sort of thing I bet you wouldn't want me to go into details, will without a doubt, exist. Surely! No two men are built the same, likewise no two men can be any different. I've said my piece. Now, what's your problem?" Ichigo argued. He was right off the bat, but given a speckle of hindsight, those were words he could have avoided uttering.

"I do not dispute what you've just said. But..." the pale actor trailed off.

"But what? I didn't do anything else! OK fine. I touched your chest, so what? Sooner or later I'd have to touch you here and there, but that's for another day."

"That is not the issue here."

"What is?"

Ulquiorra shook his head curtly. "Never mind."

"Whatever, man!" Ichigo threw his hands up in exasperation. Mysterious waves of heat surged within his insides and he didn't like the sensation. Not one bit! He had to suppress it or else it could get out of hand. "Simply put, are you upset that I squashed the rubber duckie floating around in your bathtub? Grow up, seriously."

"Rubber duckie..." Ulquiorra Schiffer repeated, as if he couldn't believe his ears. "Rubber duckie...?"

"If I damaged your bathing toy, I'm sorry, alright? How much does one cost? I will..." Ichigo was chockablock with scarlet embarrassment. He knew he was babbling nonsense, but he couldn't stop. If he did those heatwaves could very well throw him under. "I will pay!"

Ulquiorra's pitch scaled yet another peak. "Pay?"

"Yeah, how much does your idiotic duckie cost? 100 yen? Or more because everything here is just so frigging expensive?"

Again Ulquiorra didn't know whether to laugh or cry at his co-star's idiocy. How anyone could be so daft and obtuse was beyond him. Such seasoned idiocy was admirable in its own right too; no way was it obtainable in a day's work. "Do you really think what your knee pressed against was a rubber duckie? That it is something purchasable by money?"

Ichigo nodded with as much conviction as he could muster. "Definitely. It has all the attributes of a goddamn yellow skinned, beady eyed, red mouthed rubber duckie."

"Your kind is so rare that it is classified as an endangered species. Perhaps it'd be for the good of mankind if we were to leave things be and allow evolution to govern its course. Perhaps extinction would be a lovely result," said Ulquiorra. He took time to compose himself considerably, before enunciating his words with the final shred of his dignity. "For your information, Kurosaki Ichigo. There was no so-called 'rubber duckie' in the bathtub. The rest is up to your imagination. You know there only can be two options, and now one is out. What's left is anyone's guess."

With a flourish he swept upstairs and into his room, leaving the carrot top to mouth "I...touched him...there?" again and again like a broken loop, wide eyed as an owl and stranded in a circle of dancing flames. They were high as a hedge and hot enough to make him burn all over.

…

"Tch. What a bunch of pussies," Grimmjow Jeagerjacques sneered at the TV screen. Friday nights had him drunk in debauchery, and this night was no exception. As usual he was at his favorite pub, cussing at footballers from the comfort of his round top seat and cool metal counter. It was some local league match currently airing, but both sides were equally profligate before goal. "Can't get this in, can't get that in. Why the fuck do you shitheads earn so much for? Bet you lot can't even score at a brothel if you paid a king's ransom. Know what?" he questioned the bartender before him. "A fucking travesty, that's what!"

The bartender bobbed his head of neatly parted hair, careful not to make any unnecessary comments. He wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of this intimidating customer who hurled vulgarities needlessly every other word. He had a job—he needed the cash, but he had a life to live too. He just turned 25 this fall, and he wished to visit Germany next month.

Grimmjow gulped down his beer at a frightening rate, then slammed the empty mug on the counter and demanded for a refill. "More of the same, OK?" he growled. The bartender nodded again and mutely pushed two mugs of Erdinger towards the well-built blue haired man.

A tall, tattooed redhead slid up next to him and eased onto the round red seat. "Two pints this early?" He noted four empty glasses on the counter. "Whoa. That's a grand total of six. It ain't even midnight yet. We have the entire dusk ahead of us, pal."

"What the fuck took you this long?" Grimmjow pivoted around to glower at his newly arrived companion. A vessel popped on his forehead. "This crap on TV is making me shit bricks anytime, y'know?"

"Didn't I mention I'd be late?"

"No?"

"Check your cellphone, duh."

"Whatever the fuck," Grimmjow waved him away. "Now that you're here, who cares."

Abarai Renji knocked twice on the counter and ordered three bottles of Kilkenny. The weather of late had been strange, he thought. Sometimes blood-chillingly cold to the extent where he could almost feel the frost in his bones. Sometimes, like today, it was inexplicably hot. Maybe the doomsday prophets were correct—that the end was nigh. Not that he cared. It could even come tomorrow. All he needed was to down his gut with some iced beer, sit back and relax, watch some football, let out some steam by cursing a bit, and play catch up with his latest buddy.

"So," he watched as the bartender cranked open bottle after bottle of Kilkenny, then continued, "Who's playing who now? The score? Anyone banging in goals?"

"Pussies versus bigger pussies who can't even lay a whore," Grimmjow snapped, sapphire eyes languishing in boredom. "Fucking waste of time."

"Really? Then what else can you be possibly doing at this hour?"

"Dunno. Probably go bother that fanny boy and his kitty at home."

Renji took a swig from his beer bottle, and licked his lips in appreciation. The beer was dry and reeked of a metallic aftertaste that not many liked. A few of his drinking buddies claimed it tasted of paint, but everyone had their own preferences. If everyone in the world were to go for an identical product, then there would be no benefits of differentiation. So, Renji concluded, there was no shame if he enjoyed his draught beer.

"Fanny boy?" he asked.

"Cousin dearest, that's who."

"Ulquiorra Schiffer, eh?" The redhead gave a sheepish smile. "In what way is he a fanny boy?"

"Tch. His appearance, fuck it. Can you find anyone in the entire Japanese entertainment industry who looks more like a girl than he does? He can never be cast in those macho men shows. Y'know, those action movies, the Schwarzenegger and The Rock shit. Maybe I ought to go audition for them sometime. Better than sitting around doing fuck all. Those half-assed modeling gigs and management fees ain't doing me right by those whatever you call them, huh, whatever financial jargon those nannies in tailored Armani suits spin out. Fuck me if I were them."

"Right. Accounting books, you mean?" Abarai Renji suggested. "Come on, about the fees issue. You definitely earn much more than me, you greedy knob. Popular as Ichigo is, he hasn't the ability to fetch Ulquiorra's price tag currently."

"Ask that pansy dude to man up and learn how to spar if he wants to match up to that boring bastard. Fucking brainless, that. That fanny boy who slaps on make up sure looks like a girl, but goddamn it, he fights like a warrior. Who the fuck could have known? Eyeliner and fists don't exactly correlate! Right?" Grimmjow stared straight at the bartender, the sudden rise in pitch demanding a response of any sort.

The bartender nodded. "Right."

"Good one, bro. You see my point," the blue haired man grinned triumphantly. "Talk about a shit version of the Bermuda Triangle mystery. Your boy with the tutti fruity name gotta wake up and smell the coffee. Totally simple shit, though. Get him to grow some fucking balls. Beating that fanny boy should come naturally. Need no twitch of the ass. It's one plus one, basically. Right?"

The bartender found himself nodding again. "Right."

Renji shot the bartender a sympathetic glance, but it didn't last for long. "Back to Ulquiorra. He does have a very pretty face with those penetrating emerald eyes, on top of his aloof personality. It gives him soul yet tells of an emptiness within. The perfect example of the modern hollow man as perpetuated in the movies he stars in. That mysterious allure which can never be detrimental to a movie star. The more silent charisma you exude the greater your fan base. The more you hide yourself, the more people want to learn about you. Because we are all curious beings. Whatever piques their interest and if they can't unearth it immediately, they will chase after it. Before long they end up obsessed with the chase. Their failure to attain the object of their desire leads them to place whatever it is on a pedestal. Simply because they can't have it, or whichever values their desire embodies."

"...the fuck. You did philosophy or whatever the artsy-fartsy shit back in school?"

"Nope. It was Kilkenny talking."

Both men turned their gazes to the TV screen and watched the ongoing match in rapid interest, occasionally leaking out vulgarities and wishing bodily harm upon anyone on the football pitch incapable of playing the game. For an extended period the scoreline remained at 0-0, until a player decided to strap on his shooting boots and lashed a curling shot into the top right hand corner of the goal. Cheers and jeers and mugs clattering against each other rang throughout the pub. Nobody could discern which of the three was loudest.

Abarai Renji rose his bottle to his pal, who seemed too far away to notice his gesture. "At last a goal!" he grinned wolfishly. "Scrappy, but I'll take that. What do you say?"

"Are you interested in him?" Grimmjow suddenly asked.

Renji reached for another handful of peanuts. "Who?"

"You carrying a torch for fanny boy?"

"Are you nuts?" the redhead sputtered. "I'm an admirer of his talent and nothing more." He shook the contents of his bottle and looked into the opening, brandy orbs glazed over as if he was deep in thought. "Even if I was, there definitely is someone who yaks about him more than I do. In fact, now that I think of it, even more than any self-professed 'batboy' would! Practically to the brink of obsession, I must confess."

"Doesn't surprise me. There's a shitload of motherfuckers who wanna get into his pants at any chance. It's kinda my duty to fend them off. Not that I give a flying shit." Grimmjow grabbed a fistful of crackers and stuffed them into his mouth. The crackers crunched under his canines noisily. He washed the remnants down with beer and spoke again.

"This job gives me some fucking legit excuse to get some sorry ass as a punching bag. On some good nights," he flashed a devilish grin, "they come in truckloads. You see those nosy fuckers on their feet now, seconds later, no, a split second later, they are groaning and bawling their hearts and eyes out by the sidewalk! Their shit ass babies—those digital SLR cameras, crushed to fucking shards beside them. Me against them." He smacked his lips and cracked his knuckles, relishing the fist fights, street style wise. "I love it. Fucking love it."

"Were you ever arrested?"

Grimmjow flashed his friend a victorious smirk. "I move with the agility of a fucking panther, mate. Those bastards never knew what hit them."

Renji chortled and gobbled down a handful of peanuts with gusto. "No wonder the paparazzi leaves him alone," he said inbetween munches. "Ulquiorra is hardly photographed outside, isn't he?"

"Told you he's a boring bastard. The only places he goes to are the movie set and his goddamn palace of a house. It's too good for someone like him. Too fucking big."

"Even when he ain't filming, like these few weeks?"

"How the fuck would I know? I haven't the mood to see his shit face lately. The trip to London was such a wicked smash that I honestly thought of living there for good. The number of shit faces there is staggering, and there are a couple more I'd fucking love to sink my fist into. And regarding that sickening twat, my guess is that he's comatose at home right now."

"You look like you're lying," said Renji, earnestly.

Grimmjow narrowed his eyes at him. "What about that useless boy who can't even throw a half-arsed punch out of a paper bag?"

"No idea too."

"You shitting me?"

Abarai Renji took a moment from chugging down his beer to paste a solemn expression on his lightly tanned mien. "I swear upon my tattoos that I absolutely am clueless about the whereabouts of Kurosaki Ichigo for the past two weeks."

"Same goes for cousin dearest," Grimmjow sniped. "Fuck dictates where he is, home or not."

"Wouldn't you like to know what he has been up to?"

"Fuck off," the blue haired man snapped. "Like I honestly give two shits about that boring loser when I'm busy chillin' with my best mates Johnnie Walker and Jim Beam."

"Quit hiding behind that tough guy demeanor. You care, don't you?" Renji grinned widely as his friend's glower notched up several levels. "Though, I have to say, it's kinda suspicious now that we put one and one together."

As much as he hated to admit it, Grimmjow Jeagerjacques shared the exact same thoughts. "You saying...?"

"Ichigo's been missing for a while. Not literally 'missing' missing, but the 'no news' kind of missing. Haven't heard from him since filming ceased temporarily. I suggested he approach Ulquiorra for some help once. Could he be...? Could he really be? Hmm. Nah, can't be that," the redhead shook his head. "Not possible. No."

"Two idiots 'disappearing' for two weeks is quite some serious shit. Did karma strike them down or something? That would be a fucking laugh, albeit as funny as being hit in the balls."

"Coincidence. Just a good old coincidence," Renji quickly affirmed. "The other possibility is way too absurd. Can you imagine that? Ichigo and Ulquiorra alone in some...place? What can they do?" He recalled the last time he saw them together. "Ah shit, no. Just erase whatever I've said. All of them. Kilkenny's making me cranky and speculative. Ichigo's probably vacationing in some remote part of Asia now, and Ulquiorra, maybe he entered some retreat in the mountains to hope and pray for the best. It's beyond belief that they can hold out this long in a shared space. An hour alone has already proved to pose some real shitty damage to my imagination, what more two weeks!"

For once Grimmjow was agreeable. "The thought of it drives fucking anvils into my head."

…

Back in Ulquiorra Schiffer's abode, the tension between the two men remained palpable, though nowhere near the scorched intensity of the afternoon. What they did to occupy themselves with was pretty much a no-brainer. Went through the script, addressed the areas needed for improvement, held some irrelevant debate—given a choice of vegetable to take along with you to some deserted island, which would you choose and why?—and defended their responses with laughable dedication. Discussed about the types of cats in existence and strays being put to sleep when caught stalking the streets. Shared their favorite type of movies. Gave their opinions on recent releases and what should be binned altogether. Regarding that, Ulquiorra had plenty of comments to dish out.

"The theaters should be showing nothing now," he stated monotonously.

From midday to dusk, there were only words, and nothing else but words. No actions involved. All that followed was some much needed peace in the house, a lingering stretch of time where they could calm themselves down, and allowed for the queasiness dwelling in the pits of their stomachs to dissolve in a pool of amino acids.

A little after nine, Ichigo took it upon himself to cook up a miniature storm in his co-star's kitchen. Rolling up the sleeves of his now dry flannel shirt, he grabbed some packets of frozen seafood, a sprig of paisley and lettuce from the fridge. He set the water to boil, put on a purple apron (Mrs Schiffer left it there), whistled along to Queen's Somebody To Love while pouring macaroni into a sieve and washed them thoroughly. Next was the seafood, which he left to thaw in a microwave for five minutes. Once that was done, he put these ingredients in the saucepan, added a cube of soup base and stirred the mixture for a while.

He liked hanging out in the kitchen like this, free to do whatever he wanted and luxuriate in pockets of space and time, whipping up dishes at his own leisure. Be it conjuring a meal fit for the royals or plain peasantry fare, he was up for it. He proved to be relatively adept at Japanese and certain Western cuisines, improvising when it was required. Since young, Ichigo had found comfort in this lesser known hobby of his. It made him feel closer to his mother, whom he used to watch bustling about the kitchen and creating a flurry of scrumptious dishes. If he could recreate the taste of her food, he could replicate those nostalgic feelings when savoring them.

"We're having seafood macaroni tonight," he announced cheerily. "Whether you like it or not the food's already cooked."

"Why are you still here?" the green eyed actor asked, a finger resting on his temple.

"I deserve to have my fill before leaving! Thank whichever god you're worshiping because I happened to cook your share as well," Ichigo declared, chopsticks ever ready to attack the meal with fervor. "Enough of explaining to you—I'm famished enough as it is. That's it. I'm tucking in!"

Ulquiorra gave the contents in his porcelain bowl a quick once over. Satisfied with what he saw, he pulled a chair out, picked up a pair of chopsticks, and dug in like a happy connoisseur.

…

Abarai Renji finally found a fellow hell raiser in the form of Grimmjow Jeagerjacques.

When it came to liquor he definitely could hold his own, even triumphing over his regular drinking mates. It was always them; a ragtag group of friends passing out from the same high school and coming together to toast their glasses as and when they liked. It was their mutual motto to be on the ball at all times. No matter the make, no matter the hours they drank at, no matter the location, those were mere pebbles on their gravel path to life. He often boasted he could just as easily win a drinking competition if there ever was one. To his dismay, he found none in the district.

When he reached the pub he had no intention to drink up a hefty bill. His credit cards were getting maxed out and he didn't know why. He was pretty certain he kept his spending within limits, but he was sometimes prone to the occasional shopaholic binge. Or an unwarranted subscription of tattoo and sunglasses magazines. It could also be the brand new Oliver Peoples shades with silver frames and blood red lenses, perched atop his head.

Reflected in the lenses was the hunk of a man who could out drink him under the table any given time. Renji almost felt proud he had uncovered such a person. They were acquainted on an accidental basis, and first impressions determined the start of their friendship. After six pints and several bottles of beer each, their livers hardened, they stood upright on their feet, proud conquerors of the pub, and strode out into the darkening night. Their minds were clear and their adrenaline were set pumping by alcohol. They felt the innate need to dance up a frenzy and gulp down gallons more to repatriate their beliefs in the God of Hedonism.

"Where shall we hit next?" Renji asked. "Bar 21 or Velvet Cave?"

"Bar 21's full of young punks and puny skull heads. A fucking disgrace if we were to be seen in the company of these whoevers."

"Velvet Cave, then? Voted one of the best watering holes of 2009. Cool crowd, thumping music, awesome strobe lights. Hear DJ Ikky's spinning tonight. Drinks ain't too bad too. Their Bombay Sapphire lined with Hoegaarden white beer is kinda unique, but absolutely top, top stuff." Abarai Renji checked his watch. "30 minutes to ten, so the Happy Hour promotion's still on. Plus it's Friday. That Friday of 'Thank God It's Friday'!"

"Aka the obligatory Friday 'Retro Petrol' nights? Fuck please." The azure eyed man retched at the thought of grooving along to pop hits from yesteryear.

"Nothing short of fun, unless you're being picky. If so, please come up with some sensible suggestions of your own."

Grimmjow frowned hard at his redhead companion. "If you weren't my pal I'd have smashed your head against the sidewalk."

"Smashed like a broken beer bottle against a slab of granite?" Renji grinned a grin so wide that his canines were exposed. "You know you don't scare me at all."

"Go to hell," the blue haired man fumed. "The night's on you, if you reckon yourself having gotten the better of me."

Renji shrugged. "Anything."

In pursuit of debauchery the well-being of his finances was the last thing on his mind.

…

At 9.58 they ignored the stares and winding queue outside Velvet Cave, and casually strolled into the hip club. A remixed version of Status Quo's We Built This City greeted them. Like self-styled kings of the streets they swaggered through a parting sea of avid party-goers on the dance floor, picked an empty corner and made it their own.

Flashing strobe lights of white and blue and neon shades zipped hectically across the club. On the decks was a DJ clad in typical hip-hop garb. Oversized shades, baggy LA Lakers jersey and a matching white Adidas tracksuit. Progressive electronic mash-ups with hit tunes from the 70s and 80s were spun. The songs picked were crowd pleasers and the revelers made known their delight by cheering and applauding the DJ whenever the refrains of a hit came on. Surrounding the decks were four elevated platforms. Three were occupied by regulars of the club. They knew each and every move and never once did a misstep. Their Para Para styled actions were faithfully mimicked by the mob below them.

After a round of drinks both men were ready to hit the dance floor. They moved and shook in imperfect synchronization with the crowd, jumping ecstatically and admired girls popping their booties in heels and short dresses and tight skirts. The guys pumped their fists and some added nifty footwork to the cult-like dancing. Sass was the order of the night. David Bowie's Let's Dance received the most rapturous reception so far. The atmosphere sizzled as the night went by and more people got into the collective act of tossing their arms up in the air and swaying their hips as though their lives depended on it. Each ebb and flow of the beats pulsated through their bodies and tonight they paid pilgrimage to the music. The club enjoyed full attendance every Friday night. Every inch of the floor was covered and sweaty bodies mingled together in a mixture of booze, elation and desperation to let loose cooped up emotions.

"Holy shit! My god! It's The Weather Girls! My favorite tune!" Renji shouted above the noise. "I gotta get out there and bust some moves! I don't give a damn if I break a hip! Don't stop me now!"

"Don't know what the fuck you're yapping about!" Grimmjow yelled back. "Can't hear you!"

"It's 'It's Raining Men'!" the redhead exclaimed as he lightly elbowed his way through to the sole empty platform. "I'm leaving those umbrellas at home! Hell yeah!" With an athletic leap he got onto the squarish, white stage and joined in the dance without delay. It looked fun, and the blissful expression written all over his face spelt out everything.

Shit! Grimmjow thought. I want in too!

…

After dinner Ichigo again insisted he should be the one doing the dishes and downplayed his co-star's importance in domestic control of his house. Ulquiorra didn't argue back this time. He remembered what happened the last time they fought over dominance of washing dishes, and the slash across his palm was healing fast. He needed to have a complete recovery before filming commenced. Flipping the calendar hanging by the kitchen window, he realized that day was nearing. Nine more days. It came much faster than he had thought, and whoever guessed that having the carrot top as company could make the concept of time irrelevant.

…

After two hours of non-stop dancing Renji and Grimmjow jumped off the platform and toasted to life. A round at the start didn't do right by their principles, so they ordered six more. Bottles after bottles of Erdinger, some of Grimmjow's self-confessed best mates—Johnnie Walker and Jim Beam, and a few shots of tequila were all they chugged down their gullets. Initially their conversations centered on proper topics such as football, the latest styles to adopt, Sex Pistols, the evolution of punk, and the definition of a hot chick. Slowly they delved into conspiracy theories, exchanged paranormal encounters which none of them had actually chanced upon, and the link between shoe sizes and alien abductions.

"Oi," Grimmjow slurred, his eyes glinting in intoxicated mirth. "Know what I do when I get all motherfuckin' high?"

Abarai Renji slouched on the couch and grinned stupidly at the ceiling. "Hit on some chicks?"

"Nah," Grimmjow wagged a finger. "Too fucking cheap."

"Hit on some dudes?"

The azure eyed man threw a drunken glance at him. "Like the f-u-c-k you know."

"Punch them in the guts?"

"Right..." the blue haired man continued to slur. "Maybe..."

"Maybe? What? Then what?" Renji's voice rang in annoyance. "Quit turning me 'round and 'round in circles. 'Cause I'm effing dizzy now. Hold on." He noticed the ceiling freely rotating on an invisible fulcrum. "Is it me or is the room spinning like a bloody top? When did it start to? My god! Are we in an UFO?"

"Why are you twirling around in an idiotic man tutu?" Grimmjow pointed at the redhead and laughed noisily, then took a huge swig of his butterscotch whiskey. "Another fucking loser on the house, y'all!" he laughed again.

"Like the f-u-c-k you know," Renji parroted his friend's words from earlier.

"I really do fucking know. My brain has the capacity of a fucking galaxy!" Grimmjow yelled into his mug. "My loser of a mate, you may not know this—"

"Move away!" the redhead called out suddenly. He raised both arms in the air and swung back and forth. "We are spinning around, and we can't stop it! The aliens are alive!"

"—but I do." Grimmjow ignored him and let his yell drop to a conspiratorial whisper. "Here's my piss take on our current predicament. I know we are in a teacup rotating on a fucking axis of the universe and behind this shoddy teacup lies a wall of complete darkness. The one million bucks question is: which fucking idiot brought us here?"

"Monsters under your bed!" said Renji, and he burst into a fit of hiccups and giggles. As if on cue, Spagna's Call Me blared from high quality speakers located in every nook and cranny of the club. "X-Files! Ring up Mulder and Scully, will ya?"

"Nah," Grimmjow crawled into the couch and rested against his friend. "Those fucking Martians caused the show to end. Way before I managed to get their numbers! The fuck with the world. The talk of it riles me up like an accelerator with no brakes, you filthy trash bags!"

"Call for help! You think Jack Bauer can reach us under 24 hours?"

"Don't be a fuckwit. I may deal you a spade to the face but I won't leave you to die here," said Grimmjow. He snuck an arm around the redhead's waist and snuggled up to him.

With his free hand he dug around for his cellphone, fumbled with the cover and nearly dropped it several times. It was never painless a task to flip open a phone when in an inebriated stupor. Twice his thumb was caught in the metallic hinge and thrice he yelped in pain. The third was a figment of his imagination. Finally he scrambled the lid open and pressed some digits on the pad. He wasn't too sure what he had entered, the hell with it, but it definitely had to be the same number—his favorite number.

…

Over at the Schiffer residence a picture of meditative calm reigned.

The television was on and a documentary featuring rodents was showing, but neither man expressed interest in the program. Instead they were intrigued by Sakana's display of irateness towards colonies of mice scampering from underground sewers and thronged by the side. The ginger cat snarled and flashed her fangs at the television screen menacingly, her striped tail suspended in the air. Seeing the mice weren't afraid, she went the extra mile by licking the pads of her paws, then revealed tiny but sharp claws.

"Does she always do this?" Ichigo turned to Ulquiorra and rested his gaze on him. The older man sat in an upright position even when watching television. His feet were more relaxed though. They rested against the brass casings which capped off each leg of the intrecciato coffee table.

"Let her be. I'm glad she doesn't attack my laptop though."

"It's only National Geographic," Ichigo laughed. "Poor Sakana-chan. She needs to be less agitated." He picked the ginger kitty up and held her against his chest. She was warm and cuddly, her short fur tickling his neck and made the carrot top so cozy on the Bottega Veneta couch that he cooed into the cat's ear. "Sick creatures should rest early, and especially you. When you recover, you can always come visit me. You already know where I live. Ditch your sad looking owner and seek your own happiness, Sakana-chan! I swear he passes the blues around like a salt-and-pepper shaker at dinner."

"She will not leave me," Ulquiorra protested, briefly turning in their direction. "Get your own pet. Get one that matches the new depths your idiocy ploughs."

"Oh yeah? Sakana-chan obviously is fonder of me nowadays. See how her lips curl into a cute smile when I hold her!"

"Cats do not have lips."

It was then the phone rang. The green eyed actor walked over to the oak side table near the kitchen and answered it. "Yes?" was Ulquiorra's nonchalant greeting, or rather—according to Ichigo—a formal lack of greeting.

A mouthful of indecipherable warbles pounced on his hearing from the other end of the line.

"Speak audibly," he commanded.

"Bats!" the voice, mired in a bewildering mix of hysteria and drunkenness and heavy drums and bass beats, screeched. "Fruits!"

"...I know it's you."

"Fuck yeah, smarty pants! I'm fucking exalted and I called to report the time, Mister!" Grimmjow Jeagerjacques blabbered. "What time is it?"

"It's party time!" a second voice chimed in unabated joy. A different one from the first. Ulquiorra deduced it had to be one of his foolish cousin's trouble making 'friends'. A bunch of 'hell yeahs' and 'alright' filled the background.

"What do you want?" asked the actor, exasperated.

"Save us! We're stranded in a spinning teacup!" the unknown voice cried. "The ground's sinking into a gigantic black hole! A blue haired alien said he has the cognitive abilities of a galaxy!"

"Yeah—ha," Grimmjow continued, "we are blinded and it's so fucking dark now. Those freak shows from another dimension abducted us because we pointed and laughed at their goddamn mindbogglingly large heads! Now we're gonna get tortured like meat on a fucking skewer! Tea fucking cup rides forever and eve—"

Ulquiorra hung up the phone.

"Who's that? Sounds drunk beyond belief," Ichigo questioned.

"An useless tool and his failing sensibility who claimed they were kidnapped by aliens and made to take countless rides in a revolving teacup," Ulquiorra stated dryly. "The entire situation takes place in a land of black holes and galaxies."

"You serious?" the carrot top sniggered at the sheer ridiculousness of it. "It takes some epic imagination to spew crap of that degree."

"Deadly," Ulquiorra nodded. "That said, I believe I've heard worse. In any case I have to step out of the house for a while. Lock the door when you leave."

Kurosaki Ichigo lay a protective hand over the ginger cat. "Where to?"

"A place which I have no business being at time and again."

"I'm coming along."

"It is getting late, and you should get going."

"But I'm coming along!" Ichigo's lips pursed together in an obstinate line.

Ulquiorra knew the younger man was never easy to shake off, but he couldn't help but feel a tinge of...dare he say—a branch, or a possibility of happiness, at his persistence. "Why?" he asked.

"Because I want to!" Ichigo blurted, to both their surprise. "I mean, your car's still in the garage and there aren't too many cabs at this hour. My tank's full so I can afford to waste a few miles. Anyway that's what a car is for, right? To drive people around in the name of convenience. You sound like you're in a hurry too, and my Impreza's got a lot of of pickup. One shift of the gears and you can effortlessly go up to 90 or even 100. The speed isn't a problem, and I daresay I'm a much better driver than most cabbies you will encounter in Tokyo. You should know, since I drove you home once. Adding to that you're heading to a club. You can always use an extra pair of hands in dealing with those drunk cads. They are not the most well-behaving people on Earth when under the influence of alcohol. I have to admit that, because I experienced it before." He flashed an abnormally shy glance at Ulquiorra after his lengthy explanation. "Besides, from what I picked up, I suppose that drunk dolt is at a club where retro songs are spun on Friday nights. Not many places do that, so I roughly know where that is. I have a friend—Renji, who frequents that place. It's a safer bet to ride along with someone who knows where's the fun at, yes?"

The raven haired actor nodded, then hastily looked away. For the second time of the day, he felt his cheeks on fire and no teeming rain could extinguish the flames.

…

Given their celebrity status, they had to maintain a low profile when stepping out of their houses. Ulquiorra threw on his favored white duckbill cap and pulled it low over his face. He wrapped a green scarf around his neck and pulled it upwards to cover his mouth. Ichigo used a beige ski cap to hide the instant recognition his orange hair brought, and put on a pair of coke colored glasses.

Granted Ulquiorra Schiffer was no happy man when he hopped onto Ichigo's Impreza, but he had no choice. He felt a sense of obligation to his cousin, despite his keenly documented dislike of him. Deep down they were like blood brothers and no one except them understood the intricacies of a mutual love-hate familial relationship. Both had no siblings; they were the only child, and grew up together. They fought and ignored each other, helped each other out while proclaiming they didn't care. There was something about Grimmjow which ticked him off yet amused him simultaneously. Was that how he was beginning to feel about his co-star? A similar emotion brought on by a solitary dwelling? That of brotherly feelings? Or was that something else altogether? Something which he wasn't able to lay claim to?

They drove into the twilight streets and with a smooth switch of gears, the silver Impreza changed lanes, slotting in behind cars and then bypassing them with fluidity. The vehicles on Friday nights were a far cry from their daytime counterparts. Each was raring to go and charge down the red lights with their engines revved up and installed with special kits. After a while they pulled into a driveway and stopped right in front of Velvet Cave. A valet was in the waiting and after handing him the keys, Ichigo instructed him to park at the back door where they would make their exit furtively later on.

Just as discreetly they made their entrance and searched high and low for a wasted Grimmjow Jeagerjacques. An electronica rendition of Baltimora's Tarzan Boy accompanied them on their hunt. When the song drew to a close Ulquiorra's eyes paused at a couch in the corner of the club. There was the all too familiar sight of his towering cousin sprawled across the furniture. An empty beer bottle was in his right hand, his left hand seemed to be buried somewhere, and from a distance he appeared to be lying on another man. A man with flowing auburn locks. Both were as passed out as jungle animals after a major killing.

Curious, he increased his pace and zeroed in on the deserted corner. Ichigo followed after him.

It was when Ulquiorra stood at half a meter's length away from the couch did he see everything in crystalline view. The image scarred him, if not momentarily.

"Why did you stop all of a sudden?" Ichigo called from behind. He was busy scanning the club inside out that he walked straight into his inert co-star. "At least give me a warning, jeez."

"I forgot to knock," Ulquiorra said at last.

"But there isn't any door!" Ichigo exclaimed. "Unless you are intoxicated by the retro beats alone—" he was cut off when he saw what Ulquiorra previously saw. "Oh," his tone couldn't have been anymore underwhelmed. Renji?! "Look who we have here. My baboon of a childhood friend and that bigoted cousin of yours. So..." He surveyed the two unconscious men with stunted interest. "Err...what do we do now?"

"We do what we came here to do."

"Which is...?" Ichigo couldn't get a foothold on reality just yet. The blame was not to lie with him. Anyone who walked in on two strapping men lying on the couch together in a most compromising position would bear the same reaction. Wrong, he corrected himself, it was Grimmjow resting a hand on his buddy's crotch. Both their shirts were unbuttoned and there were some questionable sore spots on the redhead's torso.

"Get them out of here." Ulquiorra stood over his cousin, then bent down and snatched a wallet from his Dsquared jeans. He fished a wad of dollar notes from the bill compartment, motioned for a staff to come over with the bill and stuck them in the leather folder. "He's paying."

"What about Renji?"

Ulquiorra gingerly removed the offending hand from Renji's crotch, then wrapped an arm around his cousin's waist and hauled him to his feet. "He can pay for the other tab when they wake up in the morning."

Ichigo nodded and after throwing a scandalized look at his friend, snuck out of the club together with his green eyed co-star, with the inebriated redhead in tow. They managed to make a successful escape, partly due to Ichigo's earlier bribery of the valet, and partly due to the club's occupants being too spaced out to notice their existence. They placed the two drunk men in the back of the car, strapped them down with the seat belts, and promptly drove off.

All was well until an eagle-eyed paparazzi photographed them leaving together in the silver Impreza.

…

A/N: Again, thank you for reviewing and reading! I wouldn't press for that, but I wouldn't mind having them. Well, as a word of caution, I'm not the most straightforward of writers out there, but some parts are written in with a reason. Onto the romance aspect, all I can say is: a work-in-progress. :D Hope you enjoyed this chapter.

P.S. The Retro Petrol theme is a homage to my favorite clubbing hour—Mambo Night at Zouk. Haha. It's very fun. I haven't been there in a while but the times there are pretty unforgettable. Retro Petrol is the name of a playlist to hold all the retro hits I have in my iTunes. Whooo!