Disclaimer: I disclaim.
Warnings: mentions of sex, angst.
Pairing: Grimmjow Jeagerjaques x Ichigo Kurosaki
Summary: It's slow, torturous, taking over anything and everything. It multiplies, endless and relentless until you die. And like Cancer, it never does.

Hyperbole

Ichigo climbs out of bed on an early Monday morning. His body is sore and aching as he slips on a pair of pants, stumbling down the stairs to the kitchen. His sister is making breakfast, and for once, his father is reading the paper instead of trying to roundhouse kick him.

"Morning," Ichigo mutters, heading straight to the frig for the carton of orange juice. Isshin grunts at him, offering a half smile. He seems to be immensely interested in some article. Strange.

After sufficiently quenching his thirst and declining Yuzu's bacon, he manages to make it back to his room, collapsing back on his bed.

Ichigo eyes the clock, wincing when it reads ten.

The organ in his chest beats dully, in and out go his lungs, but his mind shuts down.

He thinks about gin and the smell of smoke.

-

It happened two years ago. He was fifteen.

He didn't know who he was or what he could be, didn't understand his lanky body, how to be graceful, how to love someone.

Of course he had to meet an arrogant prick that sent his life into disarray. Of course.

His name was Grimmjow, and the day he set foot into Karakura, was the moment Ichigo realized everything about himself at once.

Grimmjow was the epitome of perfection, right down to his shredded looking shoes. Ichigo remembers staring holes through him as he was introduced to the class, some international exchange student, whatever. All that mattered was his blue eyes, a touch of electric eyeliner underneath like some undiscovered rock star, piercing through Ichigo's body, like a newly sharpened knife.

Cliché meetings and chance encounters happened thereafter, leaving Ichigo with knots in his stomach and a nasty blush. They seemed to be dancing around each other, holding up some grand charade that would never end.

It kind of just boiled over a clear afternoon. Ichigo smiles at the memory, of hands roughly pushing him into the bathroom while he was on his way to physics, of a searing hot mouth coming down on his, of a finely muscled body trying to find its way inside his own.

They were one piece of a soul together, and they could feel it in their very bones.

-

It was never just fucking. As silly as it sounded, they made love more often than not.

Despite his rough exterior, Grimmjow was a passionate lover. His touches set Ichigo on fire, igniting his senses until he couldn't remember his name anymore, his mouth always moaning that exotic name.

Lips against his ear, barely touching, barely needing to- but it's enough- god, to uncoil him, to have him whining and fucking begging –

Christ.

When Ichigo thinks about it, his eyes water, and his palms shake.

Grimmjow's body heat suffocating him after they have sex, his arms wrapped around him like a vice, his chest rising and falling and lulling Ichigo to sleep.

Nothing could ever hurt him in those arms.

You promised.

-

Now, after two years, Ichigo is a different person. He sleeps his days away and goes to college in the late afternoon, nothing special.

It's four hours later when he drags himself out of the house, looking messy and probably as unattractive as possible. Whatever.

Life is just not important anymore.

-

"Ichi," Grimmjow had whispered on a cold, windy day in December. "We gotta talk."

He had been getting sick a lot. It was worrying Ichigo half to death, to the point where he was losing weight, getting fevers and achy bones.

Ichigo knew then, knew something was bad.

He could tell Grimmjow was losing weight, again. Five pounds, maybe six? His once defined, muscled frame was starting to wither into thinness. They, fuck, they had stopped having sex a month ago. He said he just didn't feel like it, but Ichigo knew better, that he was extremely self conscious of his physique. Ichigo didn't care, though; he just wanted him to get better.

When he came back to reality, he almost didn't hear Grimmjow's uncharacteristic whisper, his shoulders quaking.

It was preposterous. He was so healthy; he worked out two times a day and didn't touch candy or soda, or any of that shit. Ichigo started laughing because he just couldn't believe it. He felt like a maniac, sitting there, cracking up while his lover was wallowing in confusion and pain.

Cancer.

Grimmjow had cancer.

-

Ichigo lights up a cigarette, frowning around it. It's late December, and his thin clothes don't keep the cold out. His scarf scratches his neck raw.

He looks up, and sees that at least the sky is a light blue –the color of…

And the clouds are bloated, and one looks like a cat –

And Ichigo ducks behind an alley, lets himself crumble and drown.

-
tbc… maybe, I don't know.

I like it, kinda. Not sure if I portrayed their relationship the way I originally wanted to. Yes, it is sappy. Suck it. Haha. Just kidding.
I found out my uncle has cancer, and it's one of those things that I use writing to deal with.
This will probably be a two or three part fic, so yeahh… tell me if you like it.