A/N: So, it's been a while since I wrote a GrimmIchi. Please bear with me as I try and gain my sea legs again. Haha. I don't really have much to say other than I hope you enjoy the story. Feedback is appreciated, not required.

Prologue

Nothing in life can prepare someone for that moment where they are to stand over a hospital bed and watch machines pump air into their loved one's lungs, keeping death at bay. To be there in the room with them, powerless to do anything to help, is more painful than they could have ever imagined. All they want to do is something, anything, to give them comfort, to ease the ache, if only just for one moment. They can't. There's nothing they can do but watch their chest rise and fall, shallowly, manually, not by its own fruition. The sight is nothing but terrifying, chilling them to the core as they pick through the denim on their jeans, searching for words to produce, per the Doctors advice that a coma patient is still aware, in some way, of people's voices in the room.

What is there to say, though? What can you say to someone that you believe is the least deserving of this fate? Sure, you could declare that you'd rather it be you. Where does that get you? Nowhere. You're stuck in between a rock and a hard place, reaching out for a hand to grab on to that never presents itself. It's just you, and you are alone.

You're all alone because they're not conscious to tell you that you're not.

Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez is the man in this situation, unable to do anything to help one of the only people that he actually gives a shit about in this rotten world. At this current moment, Grimmjow struggles to tear his eyes away from the heart monitor, scared to miss any signs that he might need to call for help because fuck if he knows what to do in a situation like that. The nurses said that they would be right outside if he needed them, which he's half surprised he took in, considering the only viable thought at the time that has been on a consistent loop since the start of all this has been please be okay.

In his entire existence, he's never been lost for words quite like this. He wants to force his tongue to cooperative with him and string together anything, but the tightness in his throat is preventing him from getting out something other than a sound similar to The Grudge.

At this point, if a genie made an entrance, Grimmjow's not sure he'd even be capable of wishing for the event that caused this never happened in the first place. He'd internalise it a thousand times over–getting it out in the open would be a triumph for the History books.

When the absence of air in his lungs reminds him to take a breath, Grimmjow finds himself lowering down onto a conveniently placed chair facing the direction of his unconscious lover. Those molten brown eyes that should never be permitted to deny the world their beauty remain sealed off, not even twitching beneath sun-kissed eyelids, as they would so often do when their owner experienced troubling dreams, or for those times that he just needed a minute before chewing Grimmjow out.

Grimmjow can't help but smile at those times now, recalling how he had to remain on his best behaviour, as to not stir the pot any more than he already had at that point. Truthfully, he didn't always fully understand why his lover was furious at him. However, he knew that if he wanted to move past it quickly, he would have to pretend that he was sorry for whatever it was he may have or may not have done, which worked most of the time, when his focus had been keen, and not thinking of other things that they could have been doing at that moment in time.

Pushing out a breath, he stills himself in his seat, flexing his fingers before reaching his hand out for the one resting to the side of his lover's unconscious form. A part of him hopes that even in this state, the man can still feel his touch, and know that he is here with him in this moment and that he's not going anywhere, come rain or shine.

The skin beneath his touch is warm, a contrast to the coldness he feels internally. The optimist inside buried deep under the weight of silent agony pierces through the veil to remind him that that could be a good sign–that he should hold on to that feeling. Grimmjow wants to believe it, more than he needs legs to stand on. Seeing is the real truth, though. That truth sits heavily on his chest, and even more so on his lover's.

Or in, he should say.

Throughout the proceedings, Grimmjow hasn't been able to get up the guts to even glance at the bullet-sized hole marring his lover's chest. The Doctor proclaimed that the bullet pierced just shy of the heart. He went on to disclose that the shrapnel from the said bullet lodged itself into several parts of the vital organ as it passed the chest plate. To finish, the Doctor also included that Grimmjow's lover is lucky to still be alive.

"He's a stubborn one. This isn't enough to take him down, so don't look so shocked, Doc."

Those words were said with such an air of conviction that Grimmjow almost believed them himself. Still, he's not stupid. He's seen this sort of wound before. He's watched friends die from wounds like this before. Who's to say that this time is going to be any different, just because his orange haired lover has a stubborn streak a thousand miles long?

Grimmjow squeezes the unresponsive hand in his possession, clenching his free hand at his side to stave off the desire to punch something solid. It's such a simple action, to have someone respond to his touch, yet he feels as though his soul left his body at just not feeling it returned from the one person he longs to have it from. His head lowers of its own accord until the styled blue tendrils of his hair splay over the skin of his lover's exposed arm. If he were awake to feel it, Grimmjow knows that it would tickle him, and he would make that adorable face that never fails to make his damn heart skip a beat. He would really appreciate that right about now. Even those scowls that he gets when he knows that he's up a creek without a paddle.

"Ichi. . . Please don't die on me, okay? I'll kill you if you do, got it?" Grimmjow declares, struggling to get the words out.

A/N: And so it begins. . .