EDIT: For those of you that read the chapter while it was up for maybe half a day before I took it down, it was because I didn't like the way it turned out, and for you to fully understand chapter four, you will need to reread chapter three because I changed it quite a bit toward the end.

Before the chapter starts, I'd like to give a special thanks to amber3392 and lilcherrydrop. They both gave me back my confidence, and taught me how to handle my little flamers. Thanks. I love you guys. Really. You're, like, my new best friends now. ^~^ And I know some of you are wondering why the hell Ulquiorra lets Szayel molest him the way he does. Worry not; the answer shall be given in this chapter. Just so you know, you're going to fucking hate Aizen in this chapter—and probably me too. V_V I've marked that spot with a warning though, so those of you that don't want to read it, you don't have to.

Warnings for this chapter: yaoi (as always xD), smutty rape-ish (oral), cursing, physical abuse, attempted suicide, and blood (sorry, this is gonna be a rather dark chapter, folks, and I apologize for what happens to some of the characters; torturing the characters is what I do best)

Disclaimer: I do NOT own Bleach, for if I did, Grimm, Nnoi, and Ulqui would be alive. But I shall eventually steal them from Tite Kubo -_- . You just wait.

Chapter Three

"You have got to be kidding me."

Tatsuki shook her head, a slightly triumphant look on her face. "Nope, saw it with my own eyes."

Nnoitora glanced up with a grin. It kind of reminded Tatsuki of how a dog's ears would perk up when the heard something that caught their interest. However, the grin, that she was more than a bit wary about. "What did ya see with yer own eyes?" he waggled his brows suggestively, causing the spiky-haired girl to blush and sputter.

"I didn't—they weren't—God, you freaking pervert!" She stomped away to the bathroom, where she hid until she was positive her face returned to its normal color.

Everyone watched her go before turning their curious gazes to Orihime, who had suddenly become interested in the frayed hem of her skirt, her cheeks pink with embarrassment, since the conversation had begun. She could feel everyone's eyes on her, searching for an explanation that she wasn't ready to give. After all, it was none of her business what went on in someone else's home.

Rangiku puffed out an overdramatic sigh. "Why is it—" she began, earning a unanimous groan from her friends. "Oh shut up—why is it that every time I go after a boy that's five times as hot as the usual, he either turns out to be gay or taken—or both?" She glanced pointedly at Ichigo and Grimmjow, who both coughed self-consciously and looked away. A long time ago, back in their very first year of high school, Rangiku had made her play at both of them. Both of them had turned out to be taken, and it wasn't until she caught them holding hands at the nearby movie theater that she'd realized they were gay. She'd complained about it for months.

"So little Ulqui Bitch bats for our team," Grimmjow grumbled. "Wonderful—ow, what was that for?" He rubbed the sore spot where he had been punched by his rather irritated boyfriend.

"Don't call him that," Ichigo scolded. "And what's so wrong about him being gay—besides Rangiku not being able to seduce yet another guy?" He dodged the pillow that was thrown at his head.

Instead of answering, Grimmjow cursed under his breath and wriggled his way to the floor, laying his head in his lover's lap. He sighed in contentment when Ichigo began to pull his long, thin fingers through his hair. Rangiku scowled as the exchange brought back rather unpleasant memories and stomped off to the kitchen, grumbling something about preparing the snacks.

Orihime curled up on the couch, wrapping her arms around her legs. She didn't know why, but for some reason, she didn't believe that Ulquiorra was gay.

Ulquiorra stomped back up the stairs to his room, tossing his backpack onto his desk and flopping down on his bed. He nearly growled in annoyance when his father poked his head into his room to tell him that dinner was ready and that he shouldn't make so much noise. As if he really cared how much noise he was making; he was pissed, and he'd make as much noise as he wanted, damn it. He softened a bit when his mother came and did the same thing her husband had, sans the part about making too much noise. "Coming," he grumbled.

Dinner, for the most part, was a silent event. The only form of talking had been when his mother had asked him where Szayel went, to which he'd curtly answered, "Home" before violently shoving a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth. His father had raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment on his son's rather hostile behavior.

After they'd eaten their fill, Ulquiorra jumped up an set to work clearing the table and putting away the food, loading the dishwasher with all of the dishes that would fit. He needed to get done quickly so that he could shower and get at least two hours of sleep before his parents inevitably started fighting again.

"Oh, Ulquiorra, sweetie, I was going to do the dishes," his mother piped up from the table, cutting across whatever her husband had been about to say.

The pale teen didn't turn away from the pot he was scrubbing. "You cooked; you shouldn't have to clean the kitchen too," he mumbled.

"Your father can handle it."

Even if he hadn't glanced up and seen the reflection in the window, Ulquiorra could picture the irritated frown on his father's face at being volunteered for something he hadn't asked for. To be honest, he'd be pretty pissed, too, if that had happened to him. He turned and watched his father for a signal of confirmation or refusal, receiving the first.

He dropped the pot back into the water, splattering himself with soap and dishwater, and quickly fled to the bathroom; he needed some time to himself. Once inside the safety of the room—he wrinkled his nose at the strong smell of bleach; his mother had just cleaned the bathroom—he pressed his back against the wall and sank to the floor, reaching up and locking the door as an afterthought. He did not, however, turn on the light. He wanted the darkness, needed it, actually. What was about to happen was not going to be pretty.

….

Ulquiorra curled up into a ball on the side of the river, glaring at his reflection in the clear depths of the water, scowling when his unwanted companion plopped down next to him. He had no idea why Szayel had followed him, but it was beginning to piss him off; didn't the pink-haired annoyance have anything else to do? Apparently not. "Why are you here, Szayel?" he demanded. "I believe I told you before to leave me the hell alone."

Szayel just laughed loudly, otherwise disregarding the rude words. "You should really be nicer to me, Ulquiorra," he whispered, a slight leer to his expression.

Ulquiorra turned to him, the "and if I don't?" etched into every plane of his expressionless, snowy-white face. He stared briefly before standing and walking a few feet away only to sit down again when he felt he was a safe enough distance away. The sound of Szayel's laughter starting up again made him want to punch something—preferably the bespeckled teen to his right.

He didn't know why, but ever since that first day they'd met seven years ago, Szayel had been stuck to his side like glue, no matter how many times he'd tried to shake off and dislodge him. He had no clue how he endured it everyday, coming home to see the pest lounging comfortably across his bed or scoffing at the "horrid channels" on his television in his living room. He was bewildered to how he'd refrained from punching the source of so many of his problems in the face.

Suddenly, lips were at his ear, cool breath tickling the sensitive skin. "You want so badly to hit me right now, don't you?" Szayel asked mockingly.

"What makes you think I won't?" Ulquiorra inquired coolly.

A low chuckle rumbled in his ear, more breaths, even colder now, blowing across his skin. "That wouldn't turn out so well for you."

Ulquiorra stiffened and green locked with gold as the two studied each other. After a moment, Szayel raised a brow.

"I don't think you understand what I'm saying," he said. "I don't mean that as a challenge; you would most definitely win in a fight with me. What I mean is, my father values my opinion and my well-being very highly, and if I were to tell him that the son of the man that owns a business that depends on my family greatly had hit me…how do you think that would turn out for you, especially given your father's tendency to violence?"

Ulquiorra was silent. Szayel was right in every form. His physical being, and maybe even his life, were on the line in a situation like this. Szayel had his hands tied, and there was nothing he could do about it.

….

He let out a deep breath before his memory assaulted him again.

….

[WARNING: Physical abuse up ahead; read with caution and continue at the end of the italics]

His father was angry, that much was clear. He didn't exactly remember what he'd done, but he knew he was in trouble. He sat on the floor, twiddling his thumbs as his father contemplated him from his favorite chair in his study. His father was sitting with his hand on his cheek, his chesnut hair slicked back and face devoid of his glasses. Ulquiorra called it the look of death. He couldn't bring himself to meet the brown eyes he could feel burning a hole in his head.

"Ulquiorra," the deep voice rang out in the empty room. Ulquiorra merely whimpered in acknowlegement. "I believe you are aware of how upset I am with you." The raven nodded, still staring at the bleached white carpet.

Ulquiorra knew this had something to do with school; it was the only place that he was allowed any (though not very much) room for mishaps. All he needed to figure out now was what about school that he'd messed up on. He got his answer when he heard a rustling of paper and glanced up to see a heavy, yellow sheet of paper in his father's hand, and his heart sank. His report card.

His father's eyes narrowed. "Now, come here and tell me what this letter is here," he said, pointing to a specific spot on the paper.

The pale boy that was no more than twelve stood, gulping, before shuffling over to his calm-looking father. He glanced timidly at his report card. "B," he mumbled.

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that."

"It's a B," he said a bit louder.

"Exactly," the older male hissed. "And do I, Sousuke Aizen, allow B's in my house?"

"No, sir."

"Then would you kindly explain why it is there?"

There was a long pause. Ulquiorra wasn't sure whether or not it would be safer to answer that question, but he didn't get the chance to find out as a large, heavy hand collided with his face, knocking him off his feet with the force of it. Tears sprang to his eyes and his cheek stung. Before he could recover, he was being kicked in the gut, and heard as well as felt his ribs crack. He coughed, blood spattering on the once-spotless carpet. And then he was lifted off the ground and thrown into the wall; the mirror hanging from it fell and shattered, the broken glass cutting across his scalp and wherever else it touched his skin. He coughed again, more blood spewing from his lips.

His vision was getting blurry from the blood loss, but he tried to stand anyway. However, before he could accomplish his goal, he felt something slam down on his leg. He heard the sickening snap before he felt the pain, and when he did feel it, he screamed, a scream so high-pitched it caused him to go hoarse.

So much pain...so much blood...he couldn't...everything was fuzzy...

Darkness.

….

Ulquiorra shook his head violently, trying to erase the memory taunting him. He couldn't take this. He just couldn't.

With shaky legs, he stood and reached for the light. He spotted his razor, and suddenly, a brilliant idea wormed its way into his brain. He lunged for it, his breathing becoming erratic as he struggled to get the blade out, cutting his fingers along the way, not that it mattered. He brought the sharp metal to his skin, pausing for a moment.

And then the memories attacked again, and before he could give it anymore thought, he ripped the blade across his wrist, reveling in the release, the pain. He couldn't stop there. He did it again. And again. And again. He switched to the other wrist. Slice. Slice.

His blood dripped onto the immaculate white tile, staining it crimson. He sank to the floor with it, his hand raised feebly to turn out the light as he went.

As he curled up in the puddle of his quickly pooling blood, he could hear the sounds of fighting, of his mother pleading for forgiveness, pleading for it to stop, begging for mercy, trying to escape the pain.

And then he was swallowed by oblivion.

Szayel was lying across his bed with a pout, idly torturing a cockroach with his lighter. That girl was going to cause a problem for him, a problem that only added to the ones he was already having, with him getting Ulquiorra. Of course it pleased him that she seemed to think that he and Ulquiorra were mates, but he wanted it to happen in reality.

He was pulled out of his sulking—as well as the torturing of the poor insect—by the sound of sirens. They were coming closer and closer. He sniffed at the air; he didn't smell smoke. Maybe someone's house had gotten broken into or someone had gotten injured.

It was that thought that propelled him out of bed, but he didn't get a chance to run to the door, as it had already been flung open by his mother.

"It's Ulquiorra," she gasped. "He just tried to commit suicide."

Before he knew it was happening, Szayel was out of his room and making a mad dash for the stairs and then the door and then finally the ambulance blaring its lights and sirens across the street. He watched in horror as they rolled his future lover out of the house on a stretcher, his mother sobbing in the doorway, and her husband behind her with a tense arm around his shoulders. He didn't know why, but for some reason, it seemed more restraining than comforting, as if he was forbidding her to leave.

"Hey, kid, you can't be here," one of the EMTs said nudging him away with a raised arm.

"No," Ulquiorra's mother called out, "let him go with Ulquiorra; they're best friends, and he'll need someone there when he wakes up."

The EMT eyed him for a while, as if testing his worthiness, before nodding and helping him into the cab.

Once inside and seated, Szayel immediately grabbed hold of his hand, noticing how cold and pale it was, which was saying something, considering how pale the raven was normally. He brought it to his lips. "You'd better not die on me, Ulquiorra Shiffar," he whispered. "Don't die."

"Right foot yellow!"

"Aw man! I can't reach that far!"

"Then, it sounds like ya loose, Strawberry."

Ichigo glared at the scrawny raven. "Fuck you, Nnoi."

"I don't think so!" Shinji called over the spinner in his hands. "Grimm, you'd better watch him; he sounds like a frisky one." He smirked and winked, elicting a wide, lecherous grin from Grimmjow, who bent over his boyfriend and grabbed his ass, causing him to yelp in surprise and fall.

"Ha!" Nnoitora shouted. "I win again!"

Ichigo sat up, rubbing his now-sore rear and shoving Grimmjow half-heartedly. "That's because you're so damn long," he grumbled.

"I don't see what my length has to do with playin' Twister."

Ichigo opened his mouth to point out how stupid that comment was, but then he understood what the tall teen had meant and scowled. "Pervert," scoffed under his breath.

Everyone else in the room, who had either already lost or hadn't wanted to play and lose to Nnoitora again laughed at Ichigo's tomato red blush.

It stopped abruptly when there was a strange noise that no one could really place. It began far away, and then, just as the volume peaked, it was gone.

Shinji, who had been leaning out the open window to be nosy and allow the cool air to filter in (Orihime's air conditioner had gone out a few weeks back, and maintenance had yet to come and fix it), turned back to the group. "Ambulance," he said simply.

Then there was a buzzing sound and all heads turned in Ichigo's direction as he fished his phone out of his pocket—with much difficulty, due to his tight skinny jeans—and flipped it open, glancing at the Caller ID. "Hey, Dad, what's up?" He paused for a while, his face hardening into a serious mask that his friends recognized well. "I'll be right there." He snapped his phone shut, and met each of the curious eyes.

"My dad needs me at the hospital for some extra hands, since they're short on staff today." He glanced briefly at Rangiku and Orihime before continuing. "It seems that Ulquiorra is being rushed to the hospital for attempting to commit suicide."

A/N: So yeah, so much plot and angst! (not really, but still) It was easier than I thought it would be to write this chapter. Once again, I apologize for abusing Ulquiorra. *sad face*