A'N This is a short drabble I wrote after being inspired by a fantastic GrimmIchi fic-one of my favorite of all time- Chrysalis by quixotomy. I highly recommend reading it, but if you're not in the mood to start a multli-chapter fic, here's an extrenely vague summary sentence. Grimmjow and Ichigo are childhood enemies, Grimmjow falls to drug use and struggles to keep up with life, and though they start out as enemies and slowly turn into unwilling friends-eventually more- they become each others' saviors. So here's a short scene that ISN'T by the original author, it's just a... fanfic of a fanfic? Can you do that?
Disclaimer: All rights remain with the creators of the original anime. Nothing is mine! Unfortunately.
I stumbled into my cramped room-it looked like a fucking tornado had gone through, there was so much shit on the floor. Kurosaki's shirt lay crumpled up by the bed. I couldn't look at the thing; Shame crawled up my Bent spine and froze the nervous sweat on my skin.
Fuck. So weak. So fucking weak.
My left leg stung where the needle had tapped through the skin and into the current beneath, but not nearly as much as my eyes right then. Being high was supposed to make me feel better, not worse than before. I may have temporarily pushed Aizen and his threat to the back of my mind, but now there was something even worse in the forefront.
Ichigo Kurosaki. His face. His voice. Those eyes, disappointed.
And I knew there wasn't a chance in hell I could pass this off. I could hide shit if I really wanted to but he'd eventually notice something different and if he asked, I couldn't lie to his face. I needed to come clean before it got worse. Clean, ha. Fucking ironic.
My hands shook as I dialed his number and I don't think it was the dope.
"Yo. What's up, it's like midnight. Shouldn't you be asleep like a good little boy?" Each syllable cut through me, white hot and cruel. I felt so disgusting, worthless, undeserving. He was so much more than this, so much better than this.
Better than me.
But here he was, still here. I just prayed to whatever God hadn't given up on me yet that he'd still be here after this conversation.
"Grimmjow? You there?" he sounded distracted. Probably studying.
"Yeah," fucking Christ, I sounded terrible. He noticed.
"Grimmjow. What's wrong?" his voice was immediately dead serious, I swore I could hear him breathing. Shit.
"I. Um. I'm sorry," I could barely whisper past the lump in my throat, the shame in my stomach, or the heroin in my blood.
Silence. Then, a steadying breath, "for what? What happened?"
As the word left my mouth I cowered closer to the wall, hollow and burning, "Relapsed."
I barely mouthed the word, and my voice was immediately met with a hitched breath and a garbled curse at the other end of the line. I couldn't do it. I was a man, hardened and strong, but I couldn't hold it anymore. The dam broke.
And fuck if it didn't flood everything.
Before Kurosaki could reply, I gasped in a quivering breath and felt my cheeks burn before being cooled by air on the water that suddenly soaked my skin. "I-I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I can't…I couldn't….i t-tried and…and it was too much. Aizen, he—" I cut myself off with a rasping choke. Was that—was I sobbing?
I barely heard Kurosaki say my name over and over the rushing in my ears. I couldn't think, couldn't control my muscles as panic swept through me and I slumped over onto my hands and knees, gasping and crying like a fucking baby. Kami, I was disgusting. He deserved so much better than this.
The phone lay forgotten beside me, and the picture that lit up the screen—his contact image—smiled at me teasingly.
"Fuck," I cursed desperately, and the tinny voice on the phone got louder, more frantic.
"Stay with me, Grimmjow! Jesus, fuck…c'mon…stay with me! Can you hear me?" I couldn't answer him. His voice continued to plead but I rolled onto my side, away from the phone, writhing. I didn't take the time to decipher his words.
It seemed like seconds, but it must have been 20 minutes. Time does funny things when you're high and having a breakdown.
All I knew was that I was laying there forcing myself to take one shallow, wheezing breath after another when the door busted open and a blur of orange rushed towards me.
I was too tired and relieved—secretly relieved—to push him away as he picked me up and pressed me into him. I vaguely registered my dad somewhere in the doorway, but most of my effort was spent on burying my wet face in the warm crook of his neck and sniffling like a little bitch.
And it was just like the first time he found me like this. Holding me to the earth with a hand and those damn brown eyes.