My apologies for the short first couple of chapters, all. I'm going to do my best to make them longer starting now.
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.
-;-
It happened again.
It didn't take a genius when it came to him waking up in an alley somewhere, hands gripping the two switchblades that he always found when he came to.
Shuhei said nothing as he realized there was another figure laying farther down the alley. He didn't need to check to make sure; the man was dead.
Slowly, he assessed his newest collection of bruises that he was sure to have somewhere on his form, wincing as he took note of a shallow gash on his ribcage. Other than the narrow slice, he appeared to be fine, which was a welcome relief. Usually, there were more injuries for him to play doctor with, more to cover up and pretend they had never happened.
Shuhei ignored the blood that stained the cement around him, choosing to stand instead and beginning to stumble towards the entrance of the alley. He knew this alley well. It had history; a long reign of terror and pain- a dark past. The dark male bit out a dark bark of laughter, humorless. There were so many things that were fucked up about this, but there wasn't anything that he could do about it. He was vulnerable now, open, his walls retracted for the moment as he tried to regain his mental balance.
As he tried to recollect what had happened this time.
-;-
"Fuck." Grimmjow muttered, narrowing his gaze at the email sitting innocently in his inbox. It was from his younger self-proclaimed 'sister', Neliel. She was sending her yearly 'check on Grimmjow' email, and already, he could tell that his day was going to be a bad one.
She'd read his novel, of course, and had written a several paragraph review on it for him, which wasn't actually all that bad, considering she was a critic. No, it was the fact that she was recommending a therapist that she thought he should meet with.
So not happening. He did just fine on his own, thank you very much. Sure, there was the occasional slip in habit, but that was to be expected, considering what he'd been through.
And the worst part about the letters typed neatly across his screen was that he couldn't reply. He never did. He knew the busty green haired woman would be on the next flight to Japan, despite the fact that she lived on the other side of the world. Technically speaking, anyway.
Frowning, the blue haired male minimized the tab, instead choosing to go back to scrolling through his newest chapter, powered out in the early hours of the morning when his insomnia had kicked back into high gear with a vengeance. It was written with his usual blunt, powerful wording, in some spaces vicious and on the offensive, others simply remaining at gruff.
It was a good chapter, he had to admit. There was simply the usual distanced and wary author hovering in the background, a puppeteer in the grand scheme of things. It was what he strived for.
No one would ever realize how close to the truth that his puppets were. Because all of the dancing puppets were connected to the puppet master in some way, and it was from him that all of the truth flowed.
Without even thinking about it, his cerulean gaze flickered to the scars that littered his forearms. None of them had been self-inflicted, despite what people might think about him. It didn't bother him anymore. Not since he'd become the street predator under the leadership of the Primera all those years ago. The Sexta had become the predator then, the shivering and terrified hare that he had once been becoming the lynx, the panther, and he had brought back everything that he had been put through ten times more down on the man that he'd had the misfortune to call father.
There was only so far that you could push someone before they snapped.
"I'm thinking too hard again." Grimmjow murmured to himself, pulling out a cigarette and lighter, flicking the flame into being and lighting the temporary peace that it would bring him. Sending his glance skyward, he blew a steady stream of smoke into the empty air. Shinji could suck it up if he decided to drop by. Besides, it wasn't even his home; the guy was just insanely obsessive about everything being just the way he wanted it to be. Automatically, since he and Starrk were together, that included Grimmjow in the equation, though how was still a bit of a mystery. Sure, he and Starrk were practically brothers at this point, but the crazy boyfriend in the picture was something that had yet to sink in fully.
"Goddamn." He snarled, putting out the cigarette on the worn table and standing. He was doing too much thinking. Thinking rarely brought him any welcome thoughts. He needed to get out, clear his mind, and then sit back down and type out his frustrations into several more chapters.
Knock Knock.
"You've gotta be fucking kidding me." He groaned in frustration, resisting the sudden urge to rip out a fistful or several of his hair. Was he not allowed any peace today?
He stood, shaking out his hair and prowling towards the door, his sweatpants sliding down his hips further than they already had been. His white wife-beater rode high on his stomach, but he paid it no mind. It wasn't like he gave a damn what others thought about him.
Opening the door, he narrowed his eyes. It was the same damn kid from the day before.
"You again." He muttered, slumping against the doorway and crossing his arms.
The guy wasn't half bad looking, considering that today he looked as though he'd barely slept. His black hair was sticking out in all directions, and his dark grey eyes nearly glared at him from behind a pair of reading glasses. He was wearing a black t-shirt and a grey jacket with a pale cream scarf and a pair of loose jeans, and a pair of dark shoes peered out from under the hem of the pants. There was a book bag slung over his shoulder too, now that he looked closer.
"Yeah, uh…"
"I'm not interested, kid." He drawled, tossing his mane back over one shoulder with a quick shake of his head. "Now leave me the fuck alone. Don't come back again or I'll fuck that pretty little face of yours up."
Before the dark haired male could retort, the blunette slammed the door and clicked the four different locks into place.
As Grimmjow stalked back into the kitchen, he went directly to the fridge and grabbed a beer, popping off the top of the bottle with his calloused fingers easily and taking a long drink of the chilled liquid. His mood had officially been ruined, yet again. People seemed to have far too much ease with doing that lately.
Tilting his head lightly to one side, he was relieved to hear the sound of an engine retreating down the older street and back into the busy society.
Sulkily, the male eyed up the cellphone lying on top of the table for several long moments before sighing and reaching for it.
It wasn't too late for him to get a couple hours of work in.
-;-
"Ran, I've got some bad news for you…"
"Shu, I swear to God, I wasn't kidding when I said I would be SOL with Shiro."
"Ran, the guy's a complete nutjob. He told me if I go back that he'll, and I quote, "Fuck up that pretty little face of mine".
"Fuck. What am I gonna tell Toshiro?" his friend moaned over the line. Shuhei sighed, focusing on the road momentarily to avoid an older woman pulling ahead of him in a rather flashy manner.
"I have no idea, Ran." He replied once he was sure that he was in no danger of being run off the road for the moment. "Look, I'll see if I can magically find another article for you for tomorrow, alright? But I'm not making any promises."
The squeal that came over the line nearly made Shuhei swerve into the oncoming lane.
"Thanks Shu! You're the best! Oops, gotta go. Shiro's coming back."
Grey eyes blinked, and then the dark haired male groaned as he realized that he'd just agreed to try and find Rangiku another article for tomorrow. Knowing her, she was already telling Toshiro, and then he'd be SOL because she'd gone and raised everyone's hopes.
"There goes my writing time." He muttered darkly, punching the horn as someone decided to try and rear-end him.
-;-
"You've been smoking again."
Grimmjow rolled his eyes, ignoring Shinji as the blond practically dangled off of him. "And you've only noticed now?" he replied, attempting for the thirteenth time to shrug off the other male.
"Grimm, you didn't do it in the house, did you? You know how much I hate it when you do that!" Shinji whined, straight teeth visible as he frowned. "Staaaarrk! Grimm's been smoking in the house again!"
The male in question poked his head out from the back room, a cigarette angled out the corner of his mouth. His dark brown hair lightly curled into his eyes, and Grimmjow knew that Shinji had just woken up the slate eyed male for the fourth time in the last half hour.
"It's not my problem." He yawned, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth to do so. "Leave off a bit, Shinji. He's trying to work."
"The world's against me." Said blond muttered mutinously, though he did let go of Grimmjow in favor of crossing his arms and pouting. "Every single time I want to have a little fun, you all have to go ganging up on me. It's not fair."
Starrk rolled his eyes, though a smirk tugged at the edges of his lips, and he raised a brow mischievously. "You'd know it if we were to 'gang up on you', love."
"Right. Because I completely forgot that we're a bunch of gay men hanging out in a record shop." Shinji snapped sulkily. "As if I could forget."
Grimmjow snorted, moving away from Shinji to grab a box of newly donated records and move out from behind the counter in order to both put some distance between him and the blond and to put away the records to their new homes. Honestly, it was like he worked in a daycare when Shinji decided to hang around. It wasn't that he had issues with the guy; he was in a pretty heavy relationship with Starrk, after all, and Starrk was both his close friend and boss, so he wasn't exactly going to question it. Besides, he was right beside them when it came to 'gays', though he wasn't one to actually go out and flaunt it like some people he knew.
Sighing, he shook his head to rid himself of the irritating thoughts that refused to leave him be. It seemed like he was always been distracted by his thoughts. Why couldn't they be silent for once in his life?
Instead of lingering on that thought for too long, he instead focused on the jazz tune playing on the phonograph Starrk had ready at all times. He wasn't entirely too sure why the only music played on the damn thing was jazz, but he wasn't going to start questioning everything now. Questions didn't really end up resulting in anything good when it came to him. It had been beaten into him at a young age, after all.
Sighing as he once again found himself thinking, Grimmjow cleared his mind and got to work filing away the new records, ignoring the lovey dovey crap that Shinji was pulling on Starrk.
-;-
His prey darted down the empty strip of alley uselessly, taking in huge gasping breaths of air as he struggled to outrun him.
He felt his lips curl into a savage smile, felt his heart soar in the sheer moment of the chase. This was what he lived for; all of the shadows and the dark and the fear and the kill.
He pushed himself faster, felt the rush of air against his skin, felt the shallow gashes on his forearms where his prey had clawed at him out of sheer desperation. He was going to pay for inflicting these wounds to him, he was. He was going to scream for what he'd done.
Tilting his head to one side as he noted his prey had paused, he slowed to a lope, hand reaching into his pocket to grasp at the slim blade he carried with him whenever he went out hunting. It was a part of him, this blade. It had a history with him; a dark and bloody history that was unlike anything one could read in a history book or see in the newspaper.
He was a Grim Reaper, a Shinigami. A keeper of souls; Death. He'd been called them all over the years, and all of them had been batted aside with disdain. He was what he was; there was no changing that. But his host, the male that had started all of this…now there was a story to be told.
But it wasn't to be told now.
Sneering, he lunged.
-;-
Grimmjow walked along the empty street, his hands shoved into his pockets and a cigarette trapped between his lips. It was a cooler night, considering it was still late March, but it wasn't unpleasantly so. It was more soothing and quiet than anything else.
Sirens echoed somewhere farther off, and he could hear a dog barking nearby; probably in one of the houses a couple streets over.
He didn't mind being out this late at night. It was a different world here than it was during the day. Shops that were usually packed to the brim with people were silent and empty. The streets, usually loud and boisterous with taxis and vehicles of all kinds were deserted. It was like a switch had been flicked off here, and this was all that remained. A man and an empty city.
Snorting, Grimmjow plucked the cigarette from his lips and blew out a smoke ring towards the sky, taking note of the partial cloud that was beginning to blot out the stars. It was probably going to rain tomorrow, if he guessed right.
Turning a corner into a familiar alley that he usually took to get home, he was met with a sight that he wasn't quite sure how to take.
There was a figure lying in the middle of the alley, about a hundred or so metres ahead of him, with another figure several feet away, by the looks of things. What caught his interest, however, was the steadily growing puddle of what he knew to be blood pooling around one of the figures.
"Should I call an ambulance, or is everything alright?" he drawled loudly, getting closer to the scene. He'd been in a gang before; if this was something gang related, it was probably going to be best not to report it. Things would get pretty nasty for him if anyone figured out that he'd been the one to call in. "Because trust me, I'm not interested in getting wrapped up in any gang shit tonight."
"Go away." Came a rasped answer from the male nearer to the alley wall. Grey flicked on like a beacon, staring straight at Grimmjow dangerously.
"Hey, I'm just asking. Should I make a call, or is everything cool here?" the blunette shrugged before actually seeing who the voice belonged to.
Ah, fuck. It's that fucking kid from earlier. he internally groaned as the dark haired male snarled at him from his position on the ground. Fuck my fucking life.