[ bleach ] the heart of the matter.
the heart of the matter
inoue orihime, ulquiorra schiffer. ulquihime.
& we almost had it all.
-x-
the first time he is allowed outside, he does not see any reason for leaving. he stays within monochrome walls and lives the quiet life of a prisoner, occasionally brightened by bursts of smiles and red hair. he looks outside for the thousandth time through the only window in his room on earth, and he supposes that he would have called it beautiful (whatever that means), once upon a time. but now, its underestimated beauty is filled with weeds of smoke and gas and hatred.
ulquiorra does not particularly care for things of beauty. the word means next to nothing to him. and even when he is released, he has nowhere to go.
the woman enters his room. her eyes tilt down at the side and he recognises the emotion as sadness - or pity, perhaps? - but it is hard to identify it. "are you ready to go?" she asks. she's still in her high school uniform and he thinks that it looks so, so wrong on her. her former uniform, he thinks, looked much better. he frowns, unsettled.
"go where?"
she blinks. then, "home," she says.
he leans back in his chair, gazing at her coolly. her hands are shaking, he notes, and remembers what she said about not being afraid of him. liar, he thinks, with a bitterness that surprises him. "i do not have a home, woman," he tells her flatly. something enters his tone of voice and it's strange, because he is not human, he does not have emotions, but he feels irritated all the same.
orihime stares at him for a long moment, mouth curved into a small frown, tiny creases appearing between her eyebrows. "well," she says a little hotly, and the stubborn woman he knows so well appears, "now you do."
-x-
she watches him tug uncomfortable at the pair of sweatpants he has on. it's amusing, really, to see her once captor dressed in such a way. his eyes cool noticeably and she can tell by this that he is clearly angry, and it would have frightened her once, but not now.
"and what," he begins irritably, "am i supposed to do with this?"
"you wear it," she says, and when he glares at her, she smiles flimsily. "we're going jogging!"
"jogging?" he asks, and his eyes narrow, voice spitting out the word as if it were acid. she nods, unperturbed, and takes his hand. he flinches at her touch, but lets her lead him outside.
"can't let all that training go to waste! don't you work out over at - at hueco mundo?" it's short, but she hesitates before saying the name of what was her experience in hell, voice cracking upon mentioning it. her hands tremble again, and he thinks that she isn't fooling anyone with that happy-go-lucky facade.
"can't let you get flabby!" she suddenly chirps, and pats his stomach for good measure. he makes an annoyed sound, deep in his throat, and grips her wrist tight enough to bruise. he glares at her for a long, long time. sharp jolts of pain shoot up her wrist to the point where it just really hurts and she did not expect him to hurt her in any way but - "ulquiorra," she whispers, "you're hurting me."
and just like that, he lets go.
-x-
"you are not afraid of me."
she smiles. "no, i'm not."
she's still smiling when he nears her with a stance that can be seen as threatening; when his eyes grow cold and distant and apathetic; when his hands grip her shoulders to the point where his fingers will leave bruises; when he finally relaxes and leans his forehead against hers in an intimate action he thinks nothing of.
"i can kill you, woman."
"yes, you can," she agrees. "but you won't."
-x-
he does not say anything, but she can see his eyes flash down to her wrist and arms, where his long, tapered fingers bruised her. he can't stop looking at it. with interest or guilt, she does not know, but she likes to believe in the latter even though it probably is not true.
then, he begins to have nightmares. flashes of a life that was maybe his.
she sees the beginnings of human emotions sprout, inexplicably, in him.
"it's so loud," he says crossly, rubbing at his chest. orihime moves towards him and peers at his hands, at his face, trying to figure out what he's talking about.
"what is?"
"this," he almost spits, and his hand snatches hers and presses it to the left side of his chest, right over his heart. her face reddens and she tries to pull away, but he is much stronger than her. "it's always there. it's irritating," he informs her. "fix it."
"i -" orihime flounders, "i - i can't, i mean, not unless you die or something, but - it's your heart that's annoying you so much."
he blinks, momentarily distracted. "my heart?"
she smiles at his blank expression and presses his hand to his chest again. "yes," she says, softly, "your heart."
-x-
it's six a.m. and ulquiorra is nowhere to be seen. orihime runs around her house in a panic, throwing open doors, shouting, panicking. she never thought that he would run; he had not shown any interest in escaping. there is a bitter taste on her tongue when she does not find him, something squeezing her chest.
she begins to call urahara's shop to let them know that he has run off. the word betrayed is too painful to say.
but then she sees it: a man with long, black hair and piercing green eyes running and running and running in grey sweatpants. she drops the phone, gapes for a moment, before smiling brightly.
-x-
orihime watches him jog at six a.m. every day.
in this strange, human form, sweat dribbles down his forehead and his back. it is not as strong as his espada body. she watches the stiffness of his spine; the deep concentration in his eyes; the way his features blur; the way the rising sun shines on his pale, pale skin.
she watches him try to outrun himself.
-x-
"death is simply another passing." his gaze is far, almost contemplative. orihime stares at him and bunches her fingers in her skirt. he is talking about death and emotions and nothingness and she wants him to stop.
"are you," she swallows, "thinking of committing suicide?" just the thought of it hurts. they have come too far for him to just give up. his eyes slide to hers and he frowns, just a little. he's been doing that often, orihime notes. such a human action.
"there is nothing meaningful in life worth living," he says, "i can no longer fight, i can no longer kill, and even then, those were troublesome pastimes." she flinches at his words. he watches her with a hint of curiosity in his expression, probing at her defenses, trying to figure her out. "would that upset you?"
"w-well, yes," she replies, trying to blow it off as nothing. "i mean - we're friends now, aren't we?"
he tilts his head, not answering her. instead, he says, "i will most likely be executed by the shinigami," he informs her. "i heard your acquaintances speaking about it." they both become very quiet; him, in deep thought, her, in shocked silence.
"you're lying," she says. her voice is tiny, and her memory briefly flashes to hueco mundo. you're lying, she'd said desperately, about chad, rukia, ichigo. "why would they let you stay here for so long?"
he ignores her again. "i've noticed something about this gigai," he comments off-handedly. "i've been having a harder time detecting my reiatsu."
orihime stands and rushes towards him. she isn't sure what she was going to do, slap him, push him, anything, but her fingers fist in his shirt and she hits him faintly, letting out her frustration. ulquiorra tenses. "stop that, woman," he commands, but it lacks the sharp edge. he sighs, looking up at the ceiling, waiting for her strange little fit to pass.
"is it too much to ask that i die in a place that i do not despise?"
-x-
"is it true?" orihime demands. rukia stares at her, averts her eyes briefly to the floor. her hand scratches her neck and orihime knows the answer before rukia gives it.
"he's still an arrancar. you can't change how he is. the other option was to lock him up for eternity, and..." rukia shakes her head.
"but he hasn't hurt anyone. he's been living with me for the past few weeks and he hasn't done anything to hurt me!"
rukia's eyes flicker to orihime's shoulder, where the sleeve of her shirt has ridden up and dark bruises peek out from beneath the fabric.
"i'm sorry."
-x-
when she gets home, she curls up in her sofa and cries. she thinks, stockholm syndrome, and she isn't sure how that applies in this situation now, but still. when, exactly, did she start caring about him? him, who would hurt her without a second thought, who never learned how to smile but tried, who thinks nothing of death.
ulquiorra is standing in the hallway, watching her. he does not comfort her, does not hug her. "stop crying, woman," he says. "i will die, and you will forget about me, and you will be..." he pauses, searching for the right word. "happy."
"no," she disagrees, in between gasps and choked sobs, "i won't. how could i, but - but i-i should and - i hate you."
ulquiorra flashes to her side with whatever leftover speed he had remaining. the faintest hint of amusement is on his face. her hand is shaking again. "you are lying again, woman."
-x-
she says, "we could run away. i'd go with you."
he replies, "do not be so foolish."
she persists, grasping for straws. "we can start over. a fresh start, clean slate, you know?"
he tells her that there is no such thing as starting over.