Back already with the second chapter? Maybe…
Summary: He couldn't believe he was doing this. How was it that he always managed to get into these awkward situations? When Shuhei, a freelance writer damaged by his past is hired to interview an up and coming author, he never in a million years would think that he would have anything in common with the guy. After all, they're complete opposites…right?
Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach.
-;-
Cerulean eyes lazily glanced at the screen of the thin laptop, fingers idly tapping at the table next to the keys as he tried to think of that damn word that was just out of reach of thought at the moment. He fucking hated it when he couldn't think of a word. It wasted the time that he could be using to finish the rough draft of his next novel.
A tan hand, calloused and scarred, reached up to ruffle his long and very similar cerulean hair, debating if it was annoying enough to pull back into a tail or just leave it be. It wasn't like he had anyplace to be today, anyway. Starrk wasn't expecting him back for another couple of days, and he was going to utilize his privacy to the best of his ability.
Tilting his head to one side, Grimmjow was sorely tempted to grab a cigarette, but squashed the urge brutally. Shinji would kill him if he came over and found the place reeking of smoke again. The blond had some serious issues, that was for sure.
Giving himself a momentary break, he glanced up at the small apartment that surrounded him. It wasn't the best of the best, but it was enough for him. It was a three room apartment; the main living space, which included the kitchen and living room, his bedroom, and the bathroom. Shelves lined the wall above his sinfully comfortable leather couch, each and every one filled with countless books that he had collected over the years.
Leaning back, the male mused on what word it was that he was looking for. It had to be something-
A tentative knock at his door immediately brought a scowl to the blunettes handsome features, and he shoved back from the table irritably. Just as he was about to remember what the word had been, too.
"What do ya want?" he growled as he opened the door to reveal a startlingly attractive male on his doorstep.
-;-
Shuhei nervously stared at the taller male framed in the doorway for a moment, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that his hair was blue. And not just blue; sky blue, a startlingly natural looking color for him. The fact that he had a pair of just as striking eyes was basically just the cherry on top for what else greeted him. Not only was Grimmjow- he assumed this was Grimmjow- shirtless, but the tanned flesh exposed to the light was extremely toned, the hints of a tattoo peeking over one of his slender hips.
"Was there something ya wanted other than to gawk at me all fucking day?" the male continued, raising a brow in vague annoyed amusement. "Because to be totally honest, I'm not interested in buying anything."
Shuhei narrowed his eyes at this prick. Jesus; even he didn't get this bad when he was disturbed from writing. He quickly took in the relaxed stance, noting that even though he appeared at ease, there was nothing relaxed about him. He was all tense muscles and wary motion.
"Shuhei Hisagi. I'm a freelance writer. I've been tipped off about your new novel that was recently released, and I'm interested in writing an article about you."
"Not interested." Came the drawled reply as Shuhei found the door suddenly closed in his face.
"Have a nice day to you too, asshole." He growled, shooting a glance at the door of the apartment as he retreated, shifting his book bag on his shoulder.
-;-
"Yeah. Guy's a total prick." Shuhei muttered dryly over the phone as he checked the timer on the oven. "Ran, I don't even know why you'd want an article about him."
"Shu, I don't give two flying fucks about how much of an ass he is; he's a new author to the industry, and I really fucking need someone to feature for May's issue or I'm shit out of luck with Toshiro."
"As much as I'd love to help you out with that, I'm not interested in dealing with this dude. For Christ's sake, Ran, getting a tattoo is less painful than that thirty second encounter with him."
"Was that a challenge, or should I just listen to the bullshit you're spouting at me?" Rangiku retorted, her honey tone sharp. "Shuhei, grow a fucking pair and stop whining. Some of us actually work for companies and risk losing our jobs if we don't make the boss happy."
"He's your fiancée. You deal with him."
"That may be true, but we honest to fucking God need that article, Shu. Please."
"Fine."
If it meant that he could stop having this foolish argument with the bossy woman, then he would take his chances.
"You're fucking amazing, Shu."
"You owe me." He replied before hanging up.
Rangiku Matsumoto. As much as she was a friend and confidant to him, the busty strawberry blond was as much a nuisance and a drunk. She never knew when to stop prodding him, never knew what a boundary was, and never, ever gave up on what she wanted. How Toshiro had managed to put up with her for this long without throttling her was something of a miracle to the dark haired male. If he were in Toshiro's shoes, Matsumoto, as she preferred to be called, would be long dead and buried somewhere. But that was just him. He knew how well the mismatched pair went together, as did pretty much every other person in their circle of friends. Even though she was tall, he was short, she was busty and bright and he was quiet and stoic, they somehow clicked together like pieces of a puzzle.
…And Shuhei was once again overthinking things.
"Damnit." He swore, leaping from the couch as he realized the timer had gone off sometime in the last five minutes and there was now the smell of a well done pizza floating over from the oven.
Hissing as he very nearly burned off the back of his hand, the male ignored the flash of pain in favor of ensuring that he wouldn't burn the entire house down. His injury could wait another several seconds.
Turning off the oven and situating the steaming mass of cheese and dough, Shuhei quickly and efficiently turned on the tap of the sink, placing his stinging hand under the frigid spray and gritting his teeth. It was never pleasant dealing with burns. They were such temperamental things; it was difficult to tell if the pain was actually gone or simply waiting to strike when he least expected it.
Luckily, he had an entire pizza to eat while he doused his hand.