The Black Guitar

"Let me sing you the white song…"


Huge snowflakes floated in the air as he was walking down the street. The air was cold and the wind was blowing gently making the snowflakes float a little more in the frozen air.

The man was wearing a black jacket, black skinny jeans and black boots. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his jacket. And despite the not-so-pleasant weather, the man had no hat to cover his bright orange hair that stuck around in all direction, at the wind's will and power.

He was walking casually down the street as if nothing could bother him, not even the snow that was stubbornly trying to get in his eyes, not even the cold air that made his skin feel uncomfortable. There's was nothing that could make him feel something...anything.

On the corner of the street there was an old style building, with two floors and, somehow, it managed to catch his attention through the stillness of his surroundings. At the ground floor there was what looked like old bar, called "Le Chat Noir". Black wood was the first thing he'd noticed, probably ebony, he supposed. It had its name written with golden stylish letters.

Black and gold. The man thought that those two colours were perfect together; he believed that one couldn't really exist without the other. Black was highlighting gold and gold was a royal colour. The colour of wealth and then, there was black. Black, the hidden desire, the sign that warned you about danger, the mysterious mist. It could be anything. And he found that fascinating.

He entered the bar and looked around searching for a free table; in the end, he couldn't stay away. Through thick smoke and dim lit atmosphere, his eyes squinted to get a better grip of his surroundings. It wasn't much- a bunch of lively mildly inebriated men here, another one there, three inexpressive women in the other corner of the room. But the man didn't care, all he wanted at that moment was a hot cup of something, most likely coffee and a place to rest his feet.

In the end, he spotted an unoccupied table and he nonchalantly sit down not bothering to shove off the snow he had on his coat, not bothering with the some insistent stares he felt on the back of his neck. They could stare at him all they wanted.

The table was as black as the building and he started absent-mindly drawing abstract patterns on the wooden table as he waited for the waiter or waitress to make their appearance. His lips slightly curled upwards in a ghost-like smile as he felt the soft, yet rough wood under his touch.

And his mind started to wonder in the past again…

No matter how much time passed the man couldn't forget his first love- they crept under his skin, in his brain, in his heart and deep in his soul capturing everything that could be captured. He tried countless unsuccessful times to wash away those baby blue eyes out of his mind, those baby blue eyes that could pierce right through him at the strangest of times, those two maddening oceans that held so much love in them. Nor could he forget that spiky blue hair that simply defied the laws of gravity, just like the owner refused to obey in front of the odds.

And it wasn't even his fault.

They were the last things he saw in the night and the first in the morning.

He couldn't simply toss away years of holding hands, jokingly teasing, late night confessions, of simple random discussion, of meals shared at the most ungodly and at normal hours of the night or day, of tears, of laughter, pranks and angst. There was no 'delete' button or 'backspace'. He couldn't pretend it was nothing. He refused to do that. His heart, just like his ex-lover, refused to listen to anyone. There was no 'brain bleach' that could stain out the bitterness that infected his soul after losing him. Him, the only one he was keen on keeping by his side for as long as he lived. Him, Grimmjow Jeagerjaques, the famous painter of this seemingly God forsaken town.

"Um, mister, if you don't mind…", with a gentle voice, the waitress pulled him out of his thoughts, making him shift his gaze to meet her big round grey eyes.

"I would like a cup of coffee…", he said in the end, no real emotion to display. She blushed and nodded.

"Anything else…?" she asked, her hand trembling slightly as she wrote down his order, which made him wonder if she was new or she was just easily intimidated- although he didn't see why, because in all honesty he thought of himself as a bit dull.

The man shook his head and the girl , either he was way too scary or the girl had a crush on him…he didn't know. He shrugged not carrying which was the truth. He didn't hate girls, only that they were not his cup of tea.

Left alone he could just go back to what he was doing before, which was fine even if he originally planned to go out and sketch something. He should have known better- his muse was just as gone as his lover.

I am thinking about him again. he thought, a dulling ache stabbing him in the heart, as he pulled his sketch pad out of the black messenger bag he carried after him all the time, even if he knew he might never find his muse.

He was Kurosaki Ichigo, age 23, a famous artist or so he were…The man lost his muse after a certain person left him. And that happened a year before. In all that time, Ichigo hadn't been able to draw anything worth looking at, not even the simplest things he used to draw in school. But he still carried his sketch pad after him, he still walked down the streets hoping he would find his muse again. But in vain… The bluenette stole both his heart and will to create.

In the present, Kurosaki Ichigo was working at a small library in District 7, also called The Old District. The library wasn't too famous, but people still borrowed books from there. And though a lot of people visited the small library called "Mary Rose", no one recognized him. They had no idea the librarian was the famous artist Kurosaki Ichigo, even though they all knew his name. Society had completely forgotten him and, somehow, so did he.

The orangette didn't even see when the girl brought him his coffee, but he absently grabbed the cup and sipped slowly while staring the sketch pad. No matter where he looked he couldn't see anything worth capturing on paper. The colours were dull, the people where just people surrounding him. He felt invisible, transparent and everything around him was the same.

Sighing, he put down the cup and hid his face behind his big sun-kissed hands, his long fingers covering his beautiful, but remorseful face. He felt so lost he couldn't even cry. He closed his mocha eyes and he was flooded by memories of him yet again. But he didn't open them.

Even if they hurt him, it was all he had anymore.

He remembered his rough yet soft voice calling him in the morning. And his powerful arms holding him tightly, as if he was never letting the orangette go. Ironic enough, that's what they did. And those times they used to draw together and how the man corrupted him into drawing, him the literature student became and Art and Design student after Grimmjow entered his life. And those soft, yet selfish lips that threatened to swallow him whole, his entire being were most likely pressed against someone's else and Ichigo wasn't sure he could handle that. Or…NO MORE!

He couldn't stand it anymore.

Hot tears started to run down his cheeks soaking his palms. So pathetic, he thought,a grown man crying in public! Lucky him the bar was poorly lightened and that he was covering his face with his palms...

A soft guitar song was played somewhere near him…that's what drew his attention in the first place. He thought he imagined it, but he listened carefully and his ears weren't fooling him, not this time. Wiping his tears he looked around. At the table next to his , a man was playing a black classic guitar.

The song was sad and Ichigo assumed it was a sad love song, because honestly, it was all he could think of. Curious, he shifted his gaze to the man who was playing the guitar. He blinked a few times trying to see through the thick smoke and the few tears that stubbornly stayed in his eyes, blurring his vision, as if trying to warn him not to catch sight of the guitarist.

Too late. Just like his heart, he refused to obey.

The guitarist was wearing black. His sleeves were rolled up his alabaster arms. Black jeans and black shirt hugged his lithe form and the two unbuttoned buttons exposed a parcel of the long beautiful neck the man had. His eyes were closed and the man looked like a marble statue, like a golden treasure glowing in the darkest temple on the Earth.

Ichigo couldn't move his gaze away from him. That man had something strange about him. No, maybe not strange, but different. He was, without a doubt, beautiful, Ichigo would give him that. But his beauty wasn't a wild one, like Grimmjow's. He was more delicate, more mysterious, cold and otherworldly. Yes, otherworldly.

The pale male stared at the orangette at the other table. His face was serious, almost as if he was trying to pierce through the orange haired man mind, although Ichigo was highly doubting the stranger was evenlooking at him.

While the orangette was trying to convince himself it was only his imagination, the mysterious man started to play the guitar again.

For Ichigo's despair it was another sad song. But this time the carrot top didn't cover his face to cry. This time he was looking at the man with interest occasionally sipping his not-so-hot-anymore coffee.

Without paying much attention to it, he grabbed his pencil and began to sketch…