Warnings for this chapter: light groping, implied sexual themes, slight alcohol use

Chapter One

He was tired—exhausted to be exact. His parents refused to stop fighting, and it was already two in the morning. Did they not care that their room was right next to his? Did they not care that he had school in six hours? Apparently not.

The pale boy rolled over for what felt like the thousandth time, pulling his pillow over his head to try to block the sound of his mother's shrieking and what must have been yet another vase being broken as it was thrown at the wall. He'd lost track of how many times they'd stopped, as if to catch their breath and find more fuel for their argument, before starting back up again at full volume. They had to be keeping up their neighbors, or at least he hoped they were so he wouldn't be the only one.

With a barely audible sigh, he rolled out of bed and slipped on a shirt and socks, not bothering to change out of his old, ratty sweatpants. He slid his door open just enough to ascertain that his parents' door was indeed shut before quietly made his way down the stairs, remembering to jump over the loose one that creaked because his father had refused to call a carpenter to fix it. At the front door, he hurriedly laced his shoes, but didn't open the door. Instead, he pushed the window open and swiftly crawled out.

If he wasn't going to get any sleep that night anyway, there was no need to spend that time listening to two grown adults squabble like kids over something that was most likely as little as leaving the toilet seat up.

His parents were going to get divorced—that, of course, was obvious—the only question was when they were going to finally see that it was the right solution. This had been going on for far too long, long enough for him to form an unhealthy addiction to coffee and bars.

At the bar he frequented, the manager had told its employees to stop bothering with trying to kick him out because he was underage; he knew that he was going to come in there anyway, and it wasn't like he was drinking—well, he was, but only a shot every blue moon when his parents decided to bring him into one of their quarrels and try to get him to take sides. He could handle listening, but being in the middle of it was too much.

He ran a long, white finger around the rim of his mug, wrinkling his nose at the smell of root beer. He hated root beer; why had he even order this?

"Why the long face, kid?"

He glanced up to see the bartender, a man with long, bright red hair that was always in a ponytail and tribal tattoos covering what was probably every inch of his body, staring down at him with a curiously raised eyebrow as he dried a steaming mug clean with a ruddy dishtowel. He didn't answer, didn't really see the need to answer, and returned to staring blankly at the disgusting drink he'd ordered. He wished the man would just go away. He didn't really feel like faking a friendly conversation with anyone tonight—or technically, this morning.

"Aw, c'mon," the bartender pressed, "I promise I won't tell anyone. I may not look like it, but I'm really good at keeping secrets—HEY! WE HAVE ROOMS FOR THAT! DON'T DO IT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DANCEFLOOR!" He rolled his eyes and muttered, "Damned exhibitionists" under his breath before turning his attention back to the expressionless boy in front of him. "So, still not gonna talk, eh? Man, you'd make a terrible bartender." He grinned to show that he was kidding, but it faltered a bit when the boy's wide green eyes burned into him with Go Away practically written all over his face.

"Renji! Are you harassing one of our regulars? That's not very good for business."

The bartender, who must have been Renji, scratched the back of his head and glanced away, a slightly embarrassed blush dusting his cheeks. "I was just tryin' to get the kid to talk. He comes in here almost every night and never says anything to anyone other than to order his drinks."

A blonde man with a striped green and white hat, a fan—which the boy noticed that he never went anywhere without—and wooden clogs that made noise with every step he made strolled over, his face half-hidden by the fan. "Ulquiorra," he said, turning to the teen that was still eying Renji with cold annoyance, "it's pretty late; don't you think you should be getting home? After all, you do need your rest for school."

Ulquiorra's eyes flickered to the man addressing him, holding his gaze for a short moment before throwing some bills on the counter and rising from his seat with quiet thank you.

Always remember your manners and don't let your emotions take over, his mother had told him, no matter how crappy you feel inside. It was probably the only good advice either parent had ever given him.

Ulquiorra hated English class. It wasn't so much the class he hated, but rather the idiotic girl behind him that thought it was okay to play with his hair when the teacher wasn't looking. The first time she'd done this, he'd asked her politely to stop his eyes never deviating from the whiteboard. The second time, he'd turned to stare icily at her, to which she only winked and used her arms to jiggle her ridiculously large breasts. The third time he'd reached back and caught her hand, tightening his grip in warning before letting go. She'd stopped for maybe a day or two before it started up again. When he'd raised his hand to request a new seat because of it, the teacher only grinned and said that she was only flirting with him, that girls liked young men with long dark hair and mysterious silence. Ulquiorra had never wanted to kill anyone as much as he'd wanted to kill Professor Ichimaru that day.

"Psst," the annoying girl said. "Heeyy, Ulqui. I wanna ask you something."

Ulquiorra considered ignoring her—honestly, nothing would make him happier—but he knew that if he did, she'd just keep bugging him and bugging him. So he turned his head slightly toward her. "What?" he said flatly, not bothering to keep his voice down.

"I wanna know if you wanna sit with me and my friends at lunch." Even without looking at her, Ulquiorra could hear that smile that had broken so many other men's hearts in her voice. "It'll be fuuun," she sang quietly. Ulquiorra pictured her wiggling in her seat so that her boobs moved (the idiotic brunette sitting next to him stared with a goofy grin, earning a book to the face from her).

Ulquiorra turned back around to the front with a resolute "No". And then he thought of something. "And my name is Ulquiorra. I would rather you not shorten it or call me anything other than my name."

There was a huff from behind him, and he knew she was pouting. It was always how she got what she wanted, and it would have definitely worked on any man that was not him.

"Mista Shiffar, since ya seem ta have sa much ta talk about, why don'tcha share yer conversation wit' tha resta the class?"

Ulquiorra was itching to kill both his teacher and that irksome girl whose name he could never seem to remember.

Most students enjoyed their lunch time. They got to take a small break from classes (the ones that weren't using this period to do their homework from last night, at least), and they had time to catch up with friends they didn't get to see during the rest of the day. It was especially good for people that loved the outdoors—and food. But Ulquiorra was not most students. He detested his lunch period almost as much as he hated the hallways in between classes. Almost. He loathed the loud, obnoxious jocks that seemed to think they ran the school, and their so-called "perfect" cheerleader girlfriends. He wanted to kick the nerds that were easily frazzled by getting an A- on an assignment. He hated them all. He even hated his lunch, as it was always packed haphazardly by his mother that could never seem to remember that he didn't like buying his lunch—or bologna.

But the one thing he hated the most was the people that had the audacity to come up and try to talk to him. As if he'd ever bother with trash like them. It never failed to piss him off, and today was no different.

As he was shuffling across the courtyard to the tree that every subconsciously knew to be marked as his, he felt a light tap on his shoulder. He stiffened stopped walking, making the girl run into him with a small "Oof," her breasts somewhat cushioning the impact (he may not look like it, but Ulquiorra was rather hard and muscled). He didn't turn to look at her, and from the way she immediately started babbling, he figured that she knew he wasn't going to.

As she talked, she fussed over his shirt, smoothing out wrinkles and picking off stray hair, until he caught her wrist to stop her. Not letting that discourage her, she continued to chatter merely, not seeming to care that he was obviously not listening. Or maybe she was just stupid enough to not notice—Ulquiorra had to admit, by the way she was acting, it was a pretty big possibility.

"Hey, did you even hear what I just said?" Possibility: proven. Ulquiorra leaned away, as she had decided to capture his attention by getting right in his face, not leaving him any other options for his eyes to wander.

He noticed that he had never seen her before; she was nearly his height with long, flowing orange hair (it reminded him of a carrot), and big, gentle, sincere gray eyes with thick black lashes. Ulquiorra saw her as the overly-enthusiastic type that was almost impossible to discourage; to an extent, he admired her (usually these type of people had a strong will that so many others sadly lacked). That is, until he looked down and saw her chest. Before he could stop himself, he scowled. She reminded him too much of that girl…what was her name again?

"No, I'm afraid I did not hear you." He did not, however, invite her to repeat it. But, which really didn't surprise him, she did anyway.

"I said I should probably apologize for my cousin. She can get a bit out of control when she flirts with guys she…Anyway"—she chose that moment to change the subject—"I wanted to know if you wanted to sit with us today, since she apparently didn't do a good job of persuading you." And then, she smiled at him. A real smile, not one of those, come-hither-because-I-want-to-get-in-your-pants smiles, but a genuine, warm, friendly smile.

He didn't respond, just stared into her pleading eyes unblinkingly.

She only seemed slightly disappointed, that little twinkle that had been in her eyes when she first approached going out like a light and her bottom lip poking out infinitesimally. "Well…maybe next time!" She skipped off with an "Enjoy the rest of your lunch!"

Ulquiorra uncharacteristically found himself watching her go, noticing how her hair seemed to bounce after her and the way her skirt swayed around her thighs. And then his eyes roamed over what was her rather large group of friends. She immediately ran to a girl with spiky black hair, nearly tackling her with an overjoyed hug. Next to the raven haired girl was that irritating girl from his English class. When she noticed him looking, she winked and waved. His eyes quickly shifted to pouting boy with snow white hair next to her that barely came up to her waist, and then to the pair of next to him, one bald and irritable, the other dark-haired and obviously pompous. The four-man scene next to him was so odd that Ulquiorra was surprised he didn't notice it sooner: at what was most likely the heart of scene was a scowling boy with bright orange hair that he recognized as Ichigo Kurosaki, who was trying in vain to fight off the two boys on his arms that were obviously arguing over him: Grimmjow Jeagerjaques—an obnoxious boy with a feral grin, vibrant blue hair and more muscle than brain—and a skinny blonde with shoulder length hair that he didn't know. Tugging insistently on the blonde with a wide grin of his own was Nnoitora Jiruga—a tall, lanky boy with long black hair and an eye patch covering his left eye; Ulquiorra remembered wondering why he was wearing it when they'd first met. As he watched, two more boys, the brunette that had received a book to the face in his English class and another with black hair whose eyes were glued to his cell phone screen, strolled up, getting their respective grins and hellos from everyone in the group. The members of the group were so different from each other that Ulquiorra found himself wondering what their story was, how they'd met and what bonded them so closely together. It seemed like a couple of them were related—the two orange-haired girls with the giant boobs apparently—and that maybe some were even dating, but he could have just been making something out of nothing; maybe they were just that close and had grown up together or something.

Ulquiorra blinked. What was he doing trying to figure them out? What did he care about them? Absolutely nothing. He made an about face and swiftly made his way to his tree, not at all liking the strange glances he was receiving from his peers.

After a visit by the grocery store that took much long that he would have liked, Ulquiorra walked down his street, noticing that the sun was beginning to set. His father wouldn't be happy; he liked him home right after school, and Ulquiorra had reason to believe that his mother hadn't informed him about his errand. After a fight, it was usually a while before they talked to each other again. He sighed. No matter how much he tried to remain neutral, he somehow always managed to get pulled into their messes anyway. And all he'd wanted to do was go home, do his homework and fall asleep before the fighting started back up—he was still tired from trying to stay awake all day at school; he would eat dinner later.

"Ulquiorra!"

He sighed again. Oh this night was just getting worse and worse.

….

Ulquiorra sat cross-legged on his floor, rolling his toy firetruck around with the ghost of a happy smile on his eight-year-old face. It was the day after his birthday, and he was ecstatic that his parents had dropped all their plans—even called in from work—just to spend the day with him. It had made him feel special, wanted. They'd even bought him everything he'd asked for: a new television, a gaming system, a few new toy trucks, and that movie he'd been asking for for over a month.

He had begun to laugh joyously, lying leisurely on his back, when there was a knock on his door and his mother stepped into his room. She smiled down at him, and for a moment, he smiled back. That was when he noticed the small, pink-haired boy in front of her.

Ulquiorra could immediately sense that something was off with this boy, and he didn't know if it was the almost cold, calculating look in his golden eyes or the wide, creepy grin that was plastered on his face, or the way he had his arms behind his back as if he had something to hide, but either way, it made him squirm uncomfortably.

"Ulquiorra, dear," his mother spoke to him in that voice that she always used when she was trying to pacify him—confirming that she, too, knew that something was strange about the child whose shoulders her hands were resting on, "this is—"

"Szayel Apporo Granz," the boy said, speaking over Ulquiorra's mother as he shrugged out from under her touch to saunter over to where Ulquiorra was still lying down. He held out a hand, his grin widening.

Ulquiorra cautiously sat up straight and shook it, his large green eyes never leaving Szayel's cool golden ones. The hand shake was short, and Ulquiorra let go as soon as he thought it was polite. They simply stared at each other for a while until Ulquiorra's mother cleared her throat and continued.

"Szayel and his family just moved into the house across the street. His parents and your father and I thought that it would be a good idea for you two to play together, since he's new and your friend moved to England last summer. You two are both loners that could use a friend." She turned and began to close the door behind her. "Have fun!"

When the door shut, Ulquiorra went back to playing with his firetruck, paying no attention to his guest, who was glancing around his room and grimacing in distaste. When he was finished with his observations, he returned to gazing intently at the side of Ulquiorra's head. Ulquiorra, of course, felt Szayel's eyes burning a hole in his temple, but he didn't feel inclined to meet them. Suddenly, he felt the odd boy come closer, and there was a short, sharp pain in his head.

His hand flew up to the site of the crime. "What are you doing?"

"My apologies, but there was a hair on your head that was shorter than all the others. It was bothering me."

Ulquiorra only blinked at the smiling boy before returning to what he had been doing. But then, in a flash of pink hair and white, Szayel was in his face, studying him with a mask of concentration. Thankfully, he wasn't grinning. When Ulquiorra thought that the staring contest had gone on long enough, he turned away in favor of rolling his ball at the wall, making sure it always came back to him.

There was an indignant huff, and then a finger was poking him in the side of his head.

"Don't you know that it's rather rude to ignore your guests?" Szayel questioned snootily.

"I don't really care," Ulquiorra replied emotionlessly.

He was once again surprised when a thin pair of arms wrapped around his neck, and suddenly the unwanted boy was sitting in his lap.

"I like you," Szayel whispered in his ear. "You're my new best friend."

"I don't want to be your new best friend."

A lilting laugh sounded in Ulquiorra's ear. "I don't really care," the boy said, throwing Ulquiorra's words back at him.

Ulquiorra scowled. One thing was for sure: he did not like Szayel Apporo Granz.

….

Ulquiorra simply ignored the sing-songy voice calling out to him, shifting all of the bags to one hand so he could dig around in his pocket to find his house key.

He wasn't really surprised when he felt an arm snake around his shoulders and cool whisper was at his ear. "You know that I don't take very kindly to being ignored, Ulqui. Why do you like hurting my feelings?"

Ulquiorra's only answer was to knock the arm away and continue to fish out his key. Once it was found, he unlocked his door.

"Well, aren't you going to invite me inside?" the jovial voice asked.

"No."

The other boy pouted. "That's not very nice. Besides, your parents love me…and I love you." A hand wormed its way into the back Ulquiorra's pants, making him jump and blush.

"Don't touch me," Ulquiorra snapped.

To his annoyance, Ulquiorra's mother chose that moment to come down the stairs, her gardening outfit on, her apron already spattered with dirt and mud. "Oh, Ulquiorra, dear, you got the groceries for me. Thank you so much." He eyes shifted to his shoulder, were the head of their neighbor was resting with a bright grin on his face. "Oh, Szayel!" her face brightened considerably at the sight of her son's favorite "friend". "Long time no see! You've gotten so handsome as you grew up. Look at you; you're glowing!"

Ulquiorra scoffed quietly. He was sure that Szayel's glow had less to do with "growth and handsomeness" than it did with the hand that was groping his backside through his boxers.

"Why thank you, Mrs. Shiffar. Might I say that you're looking rather beautiful yourself? Have you done something different with your hair?"

To Ulquiorra's disgust, his mother blushed and patted her head self-consciously. "Well, I decided to dye it back to my original color, yes."

Szayel's grin widened. "It's lovely."

Mrs. Shiffar flushed again before turning to go into the kitchen throwing a, "Let him in, Ulquiorra, and tell him he can stay for dinner if he wants!"

Ulquiorra scowled again, stiffening when he felt a bold hand slide around to his front to fondle his package. He snatched the hand out of his pants. "Do. Not. Touch. Me."

He then stomped his way into the kitchen to set the groceries on the counter; his mother preferred to put them away herself. Szayel followed him, and amused smile turning up the corners of his mouth. Ulquiorra noticed that he was a bit too close for comfort and turned to stare at him icily.

"I don't want you in my house," he said menacingly, his eyes narrowing into a distasteful glare. "If my mother wasn't so stupidly gaga over you, you would have never made it through the front door. I don't want you within three feet of me, and my bedroom door will stay open for the duration of your visit, so don't try anything, or there will be consequences. Understood?"

Szayel's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but he managed to keep his smile in place as he nodded his agreement. Ulquiorra began to walk up the stairs, and he waited until he was halfway to the top before following him. Of course he didn't plan to obey any such commands, but he could get around those later; right now, he needed to lull his prey into a false sense of security—something he always did, but that the pale, dark-haired beauty always fell for anyway. Sometimes he wondered if Ulquiorra was really as smart as he seemed. He paused when he saw the pale, dark-haired boy freeze before giving a polite bow. Szayel rolled his eyes. That could only mean one thing.

"Good evening, Otōsama," Ulquiorra said, his voice polite on the surface, but Szayel could feel the tension and fear rolling off of the teen in nearly palpable waves; his shoulders were stiff, his back steely rigid, and his voice trembled slightly.

Szayel had never understood why Ulquiorra was so obedient and submissive to his father or why he addressed him so formally. Of course, it was understandable to have respect for the man that had stepped in and cared for him since birth when his biological father had died during his mother's pregnancy, admirable, even, but this—this was just too much. But maybe that was because Szayel had never had much patience with his own parents; maybe if he were to have Ulquiorra's parents things would be rather different. He was actually quite sure that he would rather have them instead of his own.

"And good evening to you as well, Ulquiorra…"—he glanced over his son's shoulder—"…Szayel." Szayel nodded in acknowledgement but didn't respond. Ulquiorra's father's face darkened a bit, but he otherwise ignored Szayel's lack of manners. "Have you seen your mother, Ulquiorra? I need to have a word with her."

"She went out to the—"

"Front yard to do some gardening," Ulquiorra said, standing straight at once and speaking over Szayel, who raised a perfectly sculpted brow but didn't comment on Ulquiorra's outburst.

A small, mocking smile tugged at the brunette man's lips—both teens knew he had seen right through his son's feeble lie—before quietly thanking the raven haired boy and brushing past his son and his friend, leaving the air thick and cool in his wake.

Szayel watched him go and then turned back to Ulquiorra curiously. "Care to tell me what that was about?"

Ulquiorra didn't answer, didn't even acknowledge that he had been spoken to, and walked rather quickly up the stairs to his room, slamming the door behind him.

Szayel stood there for a moment with pursed lips, wondering if he should follow. And then with a grin, he slithered up the stairs and slid into the obviously furious teen's room, closing the door with a quiet click behind him. This was going to be fun.

A/N: First of all, I'd like to say that due to a rather rude review that I recieved that I'm thinking of discontinuing Unwanting Lovers Love the Hardest for a little while. I'm really sorry, but I don't take critiscim very well (I know you're probably thinking, "then why become a writer?" Answer: because I find enjoyment in writing, not in insults), and for that person to completely trash something I cared so strongly about kind of shattered any spirit I had for the story. I'm not saying that I won't ever come back to it, but it will be a long while before I regain the confidence to.

So for now, enjoy this story and my other From the Diary of Izuru Kira, which are the only two I'll be working on.

And another thing: Otōsan means dad, but since Aizen is such an egotistical jerk, I made it Otōsama instead. It is okay to do that, right? Correct me if I'm wrong. :)

-Burns