"Make this quick, Grimmjow," Ichigo instructed as he readied the boxer in the locker room. A silent Grimmjow merely stared forward, focused, intent on defeating his opponent. "I don't want any foul-ups. We're to get in here, and get out. Got it?" He inquired, obscuring Grimmjow's field of vision by stepping in front of him. Grimmjow opened and closed his hands, testing the athletic wrap. "Yeah, yeah, whatever." He straightened just slightly, his stance secure. Ichigo helped him don his gloves, black in color, to match the waistband of his white shorts.
His orange-haired trainer also helped him into his robe—sleek, black, with white lining and his name emblazoned across the back—careful to keep communication short. Very seldom did Grimmjow have to be told the same thing twice before he grew annoyed, but, as Ichigo was used to, it wasn't clear the boxer got the message, or was only focusing on the fact that someone was bossing him around. "Ready?" Ichigo chanced, all-too familiar with the hostile air Grimmjow let off. Grimmjow merely grunted in response as Ichigo, as well as the seconds, followed him out.
The crowd was sizable, but being the greedy man he was, he knew Grimmjow would complain about the turnout. The guy's never satisfied...Ichigo thought, his frown deepening as he trailed Grimmjow, who eased his way through excited fans, reaching out to pat the boxer's shoulders, to cheer him on, to psych him up. Grimmjow's cold, blue-eyed gaze stayed trained upon the ring, toward which his opponent had yet to make his way. He climbed up, pulling on the ropes of the ring, until he and his staff were on. Ichigo craned his neck, eyes jumping from person to person. Grimmjow was good, but was he good enough to come out clean?
"What's your problem?" Grimmjow asked bluntly, staring at his coach. It took a moment, but Ichigo, flustered, responded. "Nothing! Just take care of this guy." He instructed, returning Grimmjow's stern gaze. The other man merely scoffed, keeping to his corner.
Cheers began to intensify, signaling to the pair that Grimmjow's opponent had arrived. His robe was a fiery red, with gold lining to match the red and gold of his shorts and gloves. A hood obscured his face, but what Grimmjow could make out from where he was, coupled with the bright spotlight that had been on him, he wore an intensely focused visage. A smirk played across Grimmjow's lips, his eyes narrowing at the sight of his prey.
"You're getting cocky, Grimmjow," Ichigo began, frowning at Grimmjow's expression. As though chiding him for becoming excited enough to envision a simple victory. Grimmjow was none the wiser of Ichigo's words. Or he'd simply chosen to ignore them. Whichever the case, Ichigo no longer held the little control he did over Grimmjow's actions: a situation he'd hoped to avoid.
His opponent stepped into the ring, followed closely by his team. Near instantly, Ichigo could tell something was...off. Sato Iori, no doubt the man's name, was emblazoned across his back, seen only as he turned a moment to mumble something inaudible to his coach, who nodded, as if something absolute had been decided between the two. Ichigo took an almost routine, deep breath and exhale—the same as the start of every match. Being back here again, fight after fight, yet met with the chance that anything could happen. Perhaps Grimmjow would be given a run for his money—and an upset Grimmjow wasn't the first thing the redhead wanted to deal with after a bout.
What happened next seemed to go in sequence. Short bursts, as though being looked at through the lens of a camera set on shutter. Ichigo's heart drummed fiercely against his chest. He sweat, beads falling to his jawline as he subconsciously paced outside the ring, getting all possible angles. He kept his eyes on the fighters, every single movement, knowing not to look away for fear of missing something infinitely important should he chance it.
Iori's glove connected to Grimmjow's jaw, sending the blue-haired man a half-step back. The recoil barely lasted a second before Grimmjow's icy stare was back onto his opponent. Iori was stone-faced, and though Grimmjow had landed a few blows of his own upon him, he refused to let his expression, one of pure focus, of pure concentration, falter. It was for this reason that Grimmjow hated the man even more. He hadn't the face of a boxer, more like that of a chess player—a man that otherwise wouldn't have involved himself with the sport.
So why was he allowed the upper hand, even for a moment?
An infuriated Grimmjow charged forward, the moment he weaved through Iori's barrage of jabs. The only thing the cocky man would admit was that Iori was fast. Any more observations would feel like compliments. Regardless, he swung as fast and as hard as he could, craving to land a blow to Iori's face: he wanted nothing more than to violently disrupt, and utterly destroy the concentrated, stoic visage that faced him.
Iori stumbled, and the mistake was that Grimmjow had seen. With a widening, almost bloodthirsty grin, Grimmjow brawled him into a corner, punches flying one after another. Iori gritted his teeth, and, remembering his training, clenched his stomach to absorb lower blows the best he could.
Ichigo let free a cautious sigh of relief, but never lowered his guard. Anything could happen, and likely anything would, seeing as it was Grimmjow. But for now, he could breathe easy, knowing Grimmjow maintained the upper hand.
Iori pushed back soon after, and with great effort: it wasn't easy to move someone that was molded into pure, defiant muscle. The referee split them up, pushing Grimmjow back further as Iori retreated to a neutral corner. Barely giving the ref any time to check him, Grimmjow barreled past him, and continued. Iori was ready, however, and withstood the last ten seconds of the match, when the bell rang, and they were called back to their respective corners.
Grimmjow reluctantly sat down, and though he was not tired, his chest heaved, up and down, with adrenaline. Nothing else existed but him and Iori, thoroughly muting Ichigo's words.
"What you're doing wrong is you're letting him get to you," Ichigo scolded, also looking at Iori, whose coach reflected only silent wariness. "Oh, shut up," Grimmjow snapped, mouth opening as a subordinate in his corner used a nozzle-topped bottle to squeeze water into the boxer's mouth. He turned to the side, rinsed, and spat—almost onto the floor of the ring, had another subordinate not been there with a bucket. "I know what I'm doing."
Ichigo thought to interject, to suggest some sort of solution to Grimmjow's being rash, but before he could get a word in edgewise, the bell rang. Ichigo let him go once more, back into the waiting fists of his opponent.
Grimmjow lived a comfortable distance from the heart of the city. He liked to stay close, but only enough that he could quickly get there should he need to, or so he could enjoy the view. Modern contemporary in style, and with a simple black, white, and silver color scheme, he found he didn't have time to manage every little detail of the house and left most of the design to Ichigo. Grimmjow didn't care, so long as he had it all to himself. His garage housed a black Dodge Charger, and though he only needed the one car, he'd admit to have given more a thought, if only for a couple seconds.
Grimmjow's finances were largely managed by Ichigo, and occasionally he'd see to them himself, but the boxer found he didn't want anything until he saw it, rather than burn through his money the second he got it. An impulse buy here or there, but nothing that was cause for alarm. The only thing he had primarily in mind was fighting, and a close second, wealth. Either way, he was and had been living within his means—if only partially because of Ichigo's watchful eye—and there wouldn't be a problem until Ichigo told him there was a problem.
However, the style of the home didn't quite reflect his habits. Dishes, some with dried food clinging to them, lay piled upon each other in the kitchen sink. The fridge was stocked, but all he ever did was drink, and if he was hungry, he'd have food brought to him. Multiple baskets filled with dirty clothes in his bedroom, consoles, controllers, and cases strewn about on the living room floor in front of his TV. This wasn't to say that he always kept it in this state purposefully, as when it got too dirty, he tasked himself with cleaning it, but the man was lazy.
Having just returned home and making a beeline for the kitchen, he caught a glimpse of himself in a mildly dirtied, full-length mirror hanging on a nearby wall, his face contorting with annoyance at the fresh cut on the right side of his upper lip. He had won the bout, but by the skin of his teeth. Sure, Ichigo took a win as a win, but what bothered, grated at Grimmjow the most was how close it had been. If it wasn't for Iori's slip-up, he would've gone home with a loss, and thus, less money.
Lazily stepping toward the fridge, he opened it to routinely grab another beer before heading to the living room, letting his weight collapse on a comfortable sofa. The moment he did, however, a knock sounded. He exhaled irritably and, pretending not to hear it, turned on the TV.
"Grimmjow! Hey, open up!" Ichigo called, returning his hand to his pocket. He'd spent a lot of time with Grimmjow, years, in fact, and learned that patience was the best way of getting to someone like him. Granted, the two butted heads near daily, but they were a match, more or less. Any other person, in Ichigo's opinion, would have given up early, dismissing Grimmjow as a lost cause, an arrogant moron that was a waste of time, in every sense of the word. To put things simply, Ichigo preferred to work with someone who was at least some degree of difficult.
But for now, Ichigo thought, eyebrow twitching with impatience. I don't really have the time for it. He gripped the doorknob and turned it, not at all surprised that Grimmjow hadn't locked the door. In fact, he hadn't even closed it all the way!
"Go home," Grimmjow said after a short sigh, though with as much routine as possible, more so to the TV than to Ichigo.
"What, I can't stop in for five minutes?"
"No; it's my house, Kurosaki." He paused to muffle a low burp into the bend of his arm. Ichigo made a face, but decided he had put up with Grimmjow long enough to get a beer himself. Not like he'd complain. Ichigo meandered toward a recliner, letting a few seconds' silence settle before he spoke.
"I think I'm going to increase your training load. We need you ready for anything, Grimmjow. God knows you don't listen to a word I say otherwise," Ichigo started, catching a classic look of defiance from the other man. Thankfully, however, it wasn't followed by a sarcastic remark. "I've called in a friend, she should be able to help you out with whatever you need. Give me your phone." Ichigo held his palm out, waiting. "What for?" He inquired, bottle held to his lips.
"I can't always be on call! If I didn't think she could handle you, I wouldn't have asked. Now, come on." He moved his fingers, suggesting Grimmjow hurry up. He groaned, and dug into his pocket, tossing the phone to his coach. Ichigo had just barely caught it, but made sure he did.
"Tomorrow morning at 6:00, come down. I know it's early," Ichigo held a hand up, right as Grimmjow opened his mouth to complain. "but those hours you spend sleeping off a drunken stupor, you could use for training. And I mean be there at 6:00, don't leave at 6:00."
"Go home," Grimmjow growled, catching his phone as Ichigo tossed it back to him and stood, making his way to the door. "Yeah, yeah. Get all that rebellion out of you." Ichigo teased, chuckling to himself as he closed the front door on his way out, Grimmjow's curses unheard.
Settling back down into the couch, Grimmjow exhaled. Ichigo was the only coach he'd had that he could stand. Or rather, that could stand him. The others looked down upon him, or cowered too much to train him. Naturally, Ichigo got on his nerves on occasion. But as long as they continued to fight like they did, Grimmjow was happy—even if he had noticed his coach's needless worry and lack of confidence in his skills.
He shuddered, disgusted that he allowed himself to think such things. He was, for lack of a better word, happy about it. And now, with an empty bottle of beer, he turned off the TV and got ready for bed. But not before checking this new entry.
Bao.
