I. First Time

            “I’ll take my leave now,” Ulquiorra droned, hand poised on the doorknob.

            “Wait,” she called meekly, reaching a hand out and wrapping her fingers around his wrist. “I have a favor to ask you.”

            “I do not do favors,” he told her shortly, shaking her hand off him. Despite his words, he turned and looked at her expectantly.

            “It’s late,” she told him, glancing uncomfortably out the window. A pink flush crept onto her cheeks and she couldn’t meet his eyes. Instead she opted to gaze intently at her feet, watching her toes furl nervously. “Could you stay?”

            “Why would I do that?” he asked flatly. “I’ve more important matters to see to than your entertainment.”

            He reached again for the door handle, but she quickly moved in front of him and barred the exit with her body. Her arms spread on either side of her, back pressed against the doorframe, she looked at him with a mix of impatience, insistence and desperation. “Please stay.”

            “Why?” he asked, feeling only the slightest tinge of interest in her motives. He could toss her to the side as if she were a feather, but instead he put his hands in his pockets and awaited a response.

            “I want you,” she began, her voice tremulous with the weight of her words, “I-I want you to sleep with me.”

            Ulquiorra blinked, taken a little off guard – not something he was accustomed to. “Pardon?”

            She looked up at him pleadingly. “I-I’ve never done it before, and I don’t really want to but… I’m afraid that if I wait, someone else will take it…”

            He loathed the way she spoke of her virginity, like some precious treasure, but kept listening.

            “That one Arrancar,” she continued, and he was almost impressed at her will to keep eye contact, “Noitora, I think his name is. He… he gives me these looks. And yesterday, while I was taking a walk, he stopped me in the hall and… he touched me. He didn’t hurt me, I guess, but he ran his hands all over and I…” She stopped and took a deep breath, eyes filled with resolve. “I got away, but if I’m not so lucky next time… I don’t want him to have it.”

            Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Ulquiorra asked, “And you want me to, is that it?”

            She nodded, clearly trying to keep her shame at bay. “I trust you.”

            That knocked Ulquiorra into completely astonishment, but he kept his face placid. He took a moment to “consider it”, really just spending the time watching her face gradually cross the spectrum of determination to desperation. “All right,” he said finally, not for her sake but out of complete disgust of knowing what Noitora would do.

            Orihime smiled, though it was fabricated and more fake than even she realized. Ulquiorra reached for the door again, but this time his fingers traveled above the knob to the lock. The click of the door barring itself resounded in the white room, its resonation signifying the depth of Orihime’s decision.

            Without any further exchange of words, Ulquiorra took her by the wrist, switched off the light, and led her to the bed. Orihime sat down, sweat forming on her brow, hands and underneath her arms, but she ignored her fears. Then, the room bathed in the light of the half-moon, the white walls complimenting Ulquiorra’s bare, ivory skin, Orihime lost her virginity, but kept her innocence.

II. Similarity

            “You and I,” he told her logically, “are very different.”

            “That’s not true,” she said, pouting. “I think we’re very alike.”

            “How so?” he asked, not expecting her to come up with anything remotely intelligent.

            “Well, our skin may be different colors, and our eyes and hair, and maybe you’re an Arrancar and I’m a human, but that doesn’t mean we’re different.” When he looked at her searchingly, she huffed. “My grandmother once told me that even though people seem different, there’s always one way to tell if they really are or not.”

            “I’m sure it’s very scientific,” he drawled.

            Rolling her eyes, she extended a hand and wove her fingers through his. “She said that no matter who those two people are, if their hands can fit together, it means they have something in common.” She smiled, lifting up their clasped hands, her palm fitting into his like a missing puzzle piece. “See? We’re exactly the same.”

III. Difference

            Leaning up in bed, Orihime observed Ulquiorra by the luminescence of the moon. She knew Hollows didn’t sleep, and wondered if Arrancar were different because they were more human. Either that, she thought, or he was only pretending to sleep in order to provide her with a sense of familiarity. The second seemed a little farfetched, so she went with the first.

            Trailing a finger over the tear-streak marks on his cheeks, she took the moment to notice the similarity between the hue of the linen sheets and the pallor of Ulquiorrra’s skin. Both were a ghostly white, especially when basked in moonlight. She watched as her hand, wrapped in the unfamiliar color of her own skin, contrasted with Ulquiorra’s. She noticed, too, as her hair fell over her shoulders and onto his chest, that even that was drastically different from his coal black locks.

            Glancing up at his peaceful face, she wondered if the Arrancar dreamed. Noticing the slight twitch of his eye and then the rare, wan smile that spread across his lips for only a fraction of a second, she decided that they either did, or that he wasn’t sleeping at all. Nestling her head back into the nape of his neck, she breathed in his barely-there scent and smiled. Despite the differences in their appearances, or even in their personalities, she could take solace in the one similarity they shared: they would still love each other in the morning.

IV. The Present

            “It’s December 24^th,” she told him, her voice a melancholy drone as she sat on her bed, looking wistfully out her window.

            “What does that signify?” Ulquiorra asked, not really interested but remembering Aizen’s order to keep Orihime sane.

            “It’s Christmas Eve in the Living World,” she said. “Do you know what that is?”

            Despite himself, he replied, “No.”

            Orihime seemed to perk up at this, and went on to tell him all the Christmas traditions such as gift-giving, and tree decorating, and making cookies and pies. She spent an egregious amount of time describing all the different types of food one would eat at Christmas, usually with family and friends. When the part of “love thy neighbor” came about, he knew a deep longing was tugging at her heartstrings, but found it difficult to care.

            “It sounds pointless,” he said once she had finished, not meeting her gaze.

            She pouted indignantly. “It is not! It’s a great holiday with lots of colors and decorations. People go out in the street to make snow angels, or sing on doorsteps, or they stay in and sit in front of a fire. You can exchange gifts with your friends, and there’s nothing like seeing their face light up when you’ve given them what they really want!” Despite the conviction of her words, her tone was watery and her eyes stared aimlessly at her hands as they kneaded the fabric of her hakama. “There’s nothing like it…”

            Sighing, Ulquiorra wiped away her tears with his thumb, tipping her chin up with his fingers. Surprised by his delicateness, she had little time to react when he placed the lightest, most innocent of kisses on her lips. When he withdrew, he brushed a few absent strands of hair from her eyes and tried to muster something resembling compassion into his gaze.

            “That will be your Christmas present,” he told her adamantly, though the words conveyed what his voice could not.

            Orihime’s cheeks pinkened as her lips widened into a smile, and he hadn’t a moment to move before she launched herself onto him, wrapping her arms around his neck and muttering, “You shouldn’t have.”

V. Dreams/Nightmares

            Orihime had often thought how pessimistic the English language was to have no word that opposed “nightmare”. When she said that, people would argue, “The opposite of a nightmare is a dream!” but she found that to be untrue. Dreams were merely the standard: an odd, all-encompassing word that housed its own subdivisions. Nightmares were dreams, after all. Bad dreams, but dreams nonetheless. So if Hell was a nightmare, then dreams would be limbo. But where was Heaven?

            During her stay in Las Noches, Orihime had become familiar with many different levels of Hell. Each was governed by a different man, but each was as equally torturous as the next. One was governed by Grimmjow Jaggerjack, who tried to break her with his fists; another was governed by Ichimaru Gin, who tried to coax her spirit out of her with his toxin-coated tongue; another was governed by Noitora, who was less interested in her spirit and more interested in her body; and the last was governed by Aizen himself, who tried to pry apart her soul with his bare hands.

            She considered them all to be Hell. They were all nightmares. But every so often, she would get a glimpse of something more. It wasn’t Heaven, but rather a midway point that was neither righteous nor evil. That last sanctuary was Ulquiorra, and he was her dream among nightmares.

VI. Food/Drink

            Ulquiorra assumed Orihime did as she was told. So it came as an especial surprise when he walked in one morning to customarily “check up on her” to see her lying unconscious on the floor. Rolling her over, he noted the dark streaks beneath her eyes, as well as her sunken cheeks and peeling lips. Instinctively his gaze traveled to her waist and he noticed that her clothes, once snug and formfitting, hung loose around her body.

            After having taken her to the medical wing to be fed via a tube, he returned to her quarters out of morbid curiosity. After a few minutes of poking around, he located the drag marks that led from the table legs to the window. Using his innate powers of levitation, he looked up and down the bars of the windowpane. There he saw traces of food: bits of noodle wrapped around the iron rods, shriveled leaves of lettuce resting precariously on the edge, and dried sauces pooling over the plaster. He was certain that if he looked out, he’d see a pile of rotting food surrounded by flies just outside her window.

            Following that day, Ulquiorra obliged himself to stay with her and watch her eat, as well as occasionally after to make sure the meals stayed in her. Despite her sad attempt at suicide being foiled, Orihime was pleased that her efforts at least resulted in some more company.

VII. Memory

            “Do you remember anything from your human life?” Orihime asked him, staving off madness and depression with idle banter.

            He gave her an apathetic stare, slightly irate with having to keep her company. “Of course not.”

            “Do you think I will?” Orihime asked, and Ulquiorra was pleased that she was finally acknowledging her fate.

            “Of course not,” he told her flatly. “You’ll remember nothing but your devotion to Aizen-sama.”

            Thinking back on all her hellish encounters with the other Arrancar, as well as with Ichimaru Gin and even Aizen himself, she closed her eyes, smiled, and muttered, “Thank goodness.”

VIII. Health

            Ulquiorra could see that after five weeks in Las Noches, Orihime’s health was dwindling quickly. Not only was she physically sick with grief, but the mental torture she underwent each day (due to afternoon visits from Gin) was wearing her sanity thin.

            “Do you want to be saved?” Gin asked her during their most recent session. “Do you want to die?”

            “Yes,” she said in response to the first. “No,” she said in response to the second.

            “Ah, ah, ah,” he told her, wagging a finger and grinning. “You can’t have one without the other, Hime-chan.”

            “They will come for me,” she replied with conviction, though her knuckles were white on the seat of the chair.

            “Do you want them to save you?” Gin asked in the same tone. “Do you want them to die?”

            Orihime felt like she was going in circles. “Yes,” she said in response to the first. “No,” she said in response to the second.

            Gin leaned down, face inches away from her own, and poked her nose playfully. “Ah, ah, ah, caught you again! Remember, you can’t have one without the other, Hime-chan.”

            “They won’t die,” she told him, her nails digging into the mahogany. “Kurosaki-kun won’t die.”

            “He won’t,” trailed Gin airily, “if you will.” He paced around her lightly, like a cunning vulture circling its prey. “And if you won’t, then he will. It’s very simple, no?”

            “That isn’t true,” she said, her voice like steel but her glistening eyes betraying her. “It’s not that black and white.”

            Placing thin hands on her shoulders, he massaged the nape of her neck without permission. “Look around you, Hime-chan.” His fingers suddenly grasped her chin gently yet firmly, directing her gaze around the room. “What here isn’t black and white?”

            She wanted to respond with something cutting, something so sure that it left him breathless. She opened her mouth, but not even a meek sputtering was heard.

            “Do you want to be saved?” Gin whispered a final time, his lips lightly brushing her ear. “Do you want to die?”

            “Yes,” she said in response to the first, feeling her body shake involuntarily. “Yes,” she said in response to the second as tears cascaded down her cheeks.

IX. The Future

            Something… hurts. She can’t tell what it is, but it’s a sharp pain. Colors flash before her eyes: whites, reds, and then solid black. Another jab somewhere… she supposes her stomach. White hot pangs run up her spine, and then the cold embrace of marble coats her body.

            Once all the confusion is gone, she’s left in a vat of black nothingness. She can’t even see her own body. Then the real pain begins. Her bones crack and scream as they twist almost poetically, aside from the sickening sound of marrow breaking and merging again. Her muscles contort over and under, braiding and unraveling, hugging her bones until they snap. She can feel her veins swell and burst, painting her insides scarlet, while others shrivel and wither and turn to dust within her. She opens her mouth to scream as her eyes turn white and roll back into her head, and she’s just glad she can’t see her own brain.

            Then, as soon as it begins, it stops. A cool breeze washes over her, and her bones and muscles are lush and healthy again.

            “Open your eyes,” a paternal voice beckons, and she obeys it.

            She’s on the floor, kneeling in front of a man dressed all in white.

            “God,” she mumbles, and tears run down her cheeks.

            The man smiles, reaching a hand down to her. She clasps it with all her strength and he effortlessly hauls her to her feet, making no qualms when she collapses against him. His arms wrap around her, enveloping her in safety, and she can feel the soft cotton of his robe encircle and cover her naked body.

            “Would you like to see?” he asks, a vague statement that she deciphers without thinking. She nods mutely and he cradles her in his arms, carrying her to a shining plate of glass – a mirror.

            Making an effort, she turns her head and looks at her reflection. She looks past herself and her God, at all the others watching behind them. There is the azure-haired one, looking on with distaste. There is the tall, thin one, waiting for a sliver of her skin to slip from underneath the robe. There is another one, shorter with sad eyes that watch her with interest and melancholy.

            “Not at them,” says the man, setting her down but still bearing her weight. “Look at yourself.”

            She does as she is told, as if submission is second nature, and beholds herself. She looks normal, she thinks, with orange hair cascading past her shoulders and fair skin. There are only the slightest of differences in her appearance: a small hole where her heart used to be and fragments of skull framing her face like a tiara.

            The man leans down, wrapping comforting arms around her. “You are,” he whispers into her ear as happy ears stream down her face, “beautiful.”

X. Something/Someone Missing

            After Orihime had seen her reflection in the mirror, she raised shaking fingers to trace the hole just above her left breast. She looked around the room, her surroundings unfamiliar and alien. Everyone she saw was completely new, and they all looked so drastically different from one another. A man off to the side with dark skin kept his hand poised over his sword, his eyes shielded by sunglasses. Another man watched not far, who had silver hair and a wide set grin.

            One man in particular caught her attention. He had pale skin, almost white, and tear-like marks that ran down his cheeks. His eyes were an empty shade of green, and they bore into her with tones of dulcet apathy. As if in response to his gaze, her fingers dipped inside the hole, and she felt tears brim when they met nothing but air.

            “It’s natural to feel something is missing,” the man in white – her God – told her.

            “No,” she whispered, her voice sorrowful. “I feel someone is missing.”

XI. Eyes

            Whenever Ulquiorra met with Orihime, whether it was to deliver her food or just a random encounter in the hallway, he always recorded it with his eye. At first he only did it when it was required for reports. But as time grew on and Orihime drew ever nearer to her death and consequently her transformation into an Arrancar, he took it upon himself to record every single second they shared, no matter how insignificant.

            After Orihime became an Arrancar, Ulquiorra was made her keeper once again. That first night, as she lay in her bed dreaming happily, he woke her. He took out his eye without a word and showed her every encounter they had had, whether good or bad.

            When he finished, she asked, “What was that?”

            His eyelids drooped shut, and when they drew open again there were two intense green eyes instead of one. “Do you remember?”

            Orihime nodded her head. “I didn’t think you’d want me to.”

            He sighed, wondering if this was a betrayal of Aizen. “I’ve never done something so selfish.”

            “No,” she told him, tears forming and balancing on her eye lashes. “You’ve never done something so selfless.”

XII. Unexpected

            “Unexpectedly, it suits you.”

            Ulquiorra remembered telling her that the first time he saw her in her white Arrancar robes. He had meant it, too, and it was the first bit of honesty he’d bestowed upon her. He suspected they looked so good on her because the white made her into the likeness of an angel. He supposed it matched her personality.

            Why was it, then, that now he could not say the same? Now that she was an Arrancar, just like him. That little hole, only slightly smaller than his, where her heart used to be seemed so… appalling. What made it that way?

            This was a question that a logical thinker like Ulquiorra could pine over for years. It wasn’t until late one night, lying in her bed with her head on his chest, that he realized the answer. The unstained, white robes hadn’t matched her, they’d matched her heart. And now that her heart was gone, so too was her purity.

XIII. The Past

            On their third attempt of breaching the citadel of Las Noches, Ichigo and the others finally succeed. Swarming into the war room with blades drawn, Ichigo, Ishida, Chad, Rukia, and Renji demand obstinately for the return of their friend.

            “How rude,” Aizen says. “You are quickly becoming a bother, Kurosaki Ichigo.”

            “Where is Inoue?” Ichigo asks, already in bankai form. “We won’t leave without her.”

            “She’s late,” mutters Grimmjow, frustrated. “Again.”

            “Indeed,” Ichimaru Gin’s sly voice cuts through the tension. “She’s never been on time, has she?”

            “What do you mean?” demands Ishida, bow drawn and arrow at the ready. He hasn’t aimed it at anyone specific, simply because he can’t decide whom he hates most.

            “I sent out a message to everyone,” Zaera-Polo’s cultured voice chimes, ignoring the intruder’s outrage. “She really is terribly stupid.”

            “That’s enough,” Aizen scolds his creation. “You should not insult your sister.”

            Ignoring Zaera-Polo’s irate expression, Ichigo’s voice booms, “Shut the hell up! Tell us where she is or I’ll kill you all one by one!”

            The others are about to add their own personal threats but are silenced by the sound of fumbling footsteps approaching the door. The entrance quickly bursts open and a flustered Orihime, dressed all in white, stumbles past Ichigo and into the vacant chair beside Aizen.

            “I’m so sorry!” she apologizes, bowing curtly in her seat. “I forgot!”

            “Damn it, woman!” curses Grimmjow. “We’ll never get anything done with you forgetting shit all the time!”

            “What is this?” asks Renji, annoyed out of confusion.

            Orihime looks up, bemused, and then turns to Aizen. “Is that Kurosaki Ichigo?” she asks.

            Aizen nods, not tearing his gaze from the orange-haired shinigami. “There is nothing for you here,” he tells him. “You should leave before something terrible befalls you.”

            Gin laughs, thin lips twisted into a grin. “Perhaps we should get her to kill them. Wouldn’t that be fun?” 

            To everyone’s surprise, Ulquiorra rises from his seat and approaches Ichigo. “Do as he says,” he warns them, “Or she really will kill you.”

            “Why?” Ichigo asks, eyes trained on Orihime.

            “I am not saying this out of concern for you,” Ulquiorra continues, ignoring Ichigo’s question, “but out of concern for her. I have no doubt that the moment her blade pierces your heart, she’ll remember her past. Now get out, and come back only when you are capable of killing Orihime.”

            “In other words,” Grimmjow calls from the table, “never.”