I didn't think a simple hundred bucks stolen from my dad would get this little booze, but I couldn't care less. The backs of my eyes sizzled as if they were bubbling and melting. Probably the effects of meth settling in. I could feel the crank powder lining my lungs, crusting the insides every time I took a breath. It felt nice, like maybe it would do the favor of constricting my air from me and ending my pathetic life. Maybe then I could see my mom again.
Nah, she was too sweet to go to hell.
The clinking of the bar door stripped into my ears when I shoved it open to leave, and I held back a yelp. I knew, if I just waited a few minutes, everything wouldn't be so loud. Whiskey disguised as a beer bottle sloshed tauntingly in my hand and I brought it to my chapped lips. I took a small sip at first, then threw back my head to take a swig. It burned slowly down to my stomach, cutting through the chill of the winter air around me. Taking a shaky step, I swerved dangerously out onto the street, the honk of a horn dimmed in my mind. Finally, nothing was hurting my ears. The peaceful quiet...I felt the violent whoosh of a car push me aside and I tripped my way back up onto the sidewalk. Aside from the car that was now disappearing over the crest of the road, I was alone on the Avenue. I nearly tripped over a sludge pile, the melted ice crusting over my unlaced Chucks and trapping my feet in a cold cage. I felt bile angrily burn its way up my throat and I wiped a hand swiftly over my mouth in an attempt to avoid puking. The lights of the street lamps left colorful stripes over my vision. I knew I was stoned, the slosh of whiskey in my throat evidence, but I hadn't a care in the world for the fact. My mouth tasted strangely of alcohol and smoke, plus the faded taste of another drunk mouth on mine. I couldn't remember from when though, so I just brought the beer glass filled with whiskey to my lips again. A drop of it ran out of the bottle and crossed my Adams Apple, leaving a trail of fire along my skin. I stood stupidly, gazing up at the sparse stars until I couldn't hold back the nausea and doubled over. The bottle I was holding dropped from my hand, shattering against concrete. What an awful way to die, the poor demon, I thought sadly, before realizing it was the last one I had bought with my dads money. I retched all over the sidewalk, alcohol searing the insides of my neck and cheeks. I reached out for support and found a stray advertisement stand to lean against, where I rode out most of my puking. The roar in my ears drowned out the steps of the man approaching and I jerked on reflex when a strong hand clasped my hunched shoulder and pulled me into the darkness of an ally. At first I had a flash of terror, my conscience kicking in, until it swam back into the liquor still left in my stomach. I watched from a distance as the man took a handful of my shirt and tossed me farther into the two buildings sidewalks. I laughed hysterically when the man threw me against the gritty brick wall of the building behind us. A large shard of glass from an empty window above reflected my drunken figure and I took my time to stare into it, although I had no desire to see myself. My unreal orange hair, a splash of color against the gray of my own little world, framed the sharpness of my gradually sinking cheeks and brown eyes. The usually bright dirty irises had faded along with my conscience, and now they were almost gray with the amount of hard liquor and crank I had indulged. I turned my attention from the glass in time to feel the faded effect of a gut-twisting punch catch me in the jaw. My head hit the brick with a crack, and what little focus I had left swiveled obnoxiously. "What the hell?" I slurred heavily, bracing a hand against the wall as a stream of blood salted my tongue. I had enough sense to plug my nostrils and felt a stab of pain in the bridge of my nose, bringing a portion of my world into focus sharply. I winced, struggling to push through more of my drunken state to prove the slashes of color on my attacker was real. "Wake up, man." His deep voice startled me a bit more, and I had focused enough to figure out his hair color was indeed not a figment of my imagination. The rest of his face was still in shadow, but his fist was clear as it came smacking back into my face. His knuckles split my lip swiftly and I almost immediately felt a bruise flower over my right eye. I moaned, sliding down the wall to a slump on the ground. The stream of red turned into a river, dripping steadily onto my smudged tee. His eyes suddenly became clear through the tears that pooled in mine. They matched his hair. "What the hell do you want?" I hissed angrily, my voice no longer slurred. "You fucking probably broke my nose."
"Deserving."
"Why?"
The blue haired man didn't answer for a while, just gazed in wonder at my condition, slumped against the wall, my face barely visible with the dim midnight lights of the streets, though the blood glittered. His cerulean eyes fit nicely under heavy lidded eyes as if he were always tired, and they brought out the shadows around his strong, sharp jaw and cheekbones. "You awake now?" He caught my look and raised his hands innocently. "If I hadn't punched you, man, you would've been falling off a cliff with how wired you were."
Problem was I hadn't wanted to wake up.
"You can't just expect to wander out in New York in the dead of night without any trouble." I nodded slightly, taking in his black cotton jacket that buttoned down six times in the front. He had a pair of red gloved hands in the pockets of his dark-washed jeans, which matched the scarf tied around his neck. He took a hand out of his pocket and held it out to me. "I'm Grimmjow." His breath puffed out in a plume of steam into the cold winter air. I hadn't noticed the cold biting into the fingers and the edge of my broken nose. He hoisted me up off the ground, but the effects of the whiskey couldn't be drowned out completely and he caught me when I swayed. "And you are?"
"I-Ichigo." I stumbled over the words as I almost lost my footing again. Grimmjow didn't respond, and I got the impression he didn't speak much. "You need help getting home, Ichigo?" He asked politely, and I barely nodded. The pain of my face had taken the rough edge of my drunkedness away, but it was gradually returning. "Sooner rather than later, I'm hoping." I choked out. Grimmjow nodded and smiled, flashing a pair of sharp fangs among many bleach white teeth, and, after practically draping me over his broad shoulders, followed my instructions home.
