Pairing: Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez x Ichigo Kurosaki

Music: Everlasting Friend, by Blue October

Word count: ~ 2400

Rating: M

Prompt 28: Needle

Ichigo had once heard someone refer to a seven-year itch, concerning the urge to move or travel. If such a thing really existed, and a variation could be applied to relationships—specifically Grimmjow's relationships—then the blue-haired bastard had a three-month itch. None of his flings had lasted even a day longer, though a few were shorter. Before, Ichigo had viewed it with a sense of selfish satisfaction, that no one could keep Grimmjow's attention.

Now, though, he watched the changing date with horrified fascination, dreading the approach of that three-month mark and what it would mean for their relationship.

Before, he hadn't been the one with his heart on the line.

"You know what they call you, right?" he asked uncomfortably, wondering why he was even bringing this up in the first place.

Grimmjow cast him a flat look, raising an eyebrow. He shrugged. "You mean how they say I'm a slut? A player? Yeah, I know." A self-deprecating smile tried to hide behind his usual balls-first bravado, but failed to conceal itself completely. "They're not exactly wrong, are they?"

Ichigo flinched slightly at that, though he hid it well. It was kind of true. Grimmjow liked sex, liked dating, and had never tried to hide that. With his looks, it was also easy for him to blaze a trail through every interested male or female in the school. Ichigo had asked him why, once, but hadn't come away with any satisfactory answers.

That had hurt. After all, Ichigo had been in love with him for going on four years now.

Of course, Ichigo had never dared to say anything. He didn't want a quick pity fuck, and he didn't think he could stand to have Grimmjow laugh at him. They'd been friends for a long time already—since pre-kindergarten, at the very least, and Ichigo wasn't willing to ruin that for nothing. It wasn't worth it. Even watching Grimmjow sleep his way through the entire student body was bearable in comparison.

"No," he admitted after a moment. "I guess not."

Grimmjow cast him a sharp, cat-like grin, then stretched. His tight shirt rode up, and Ichigo had to tear his eyes away from the glimpse of tanned, muscled skin that showed.

"Right," he repeated, trying to keep the emotions that dug into his chest like needles from showing in his voice as he turned away. "See you later, Grimm."

Ichigo left the locker room, the door swinging shut behind him. In the hallway, he paused and dropped his head against the cool wall, cursing himself as a dozen kinds of fool.

They didn't go to the same college, after high school. Ichigo didn't know whether to be disappointed or not. He missed Grimmjow, to be sure, but being away from him was a chance not to drown in his attraction to the blue-haired playboy. Still, Grimmjow's absence was a physical ache in his chest, those same needles come back to bury themselves deep under his skin, where he had no hope of removing them without help.

He made new friends, where he had enrolled. Joined a band, because playing music was as good as therapy, most of the time. The Vizards welcomed him eagerly, having been looking for a bassist who could sing backup for the lead, Shinji. Shinji was wonderful, too, kind without seeming to be, gruff and tough without being a complete bastard—and amusingly pussy-whipped by his girlfriend, Hiyori. The other Vizards were a strange group that was just about as diverse and eclectic as was humanly possible, but they accepted him without fuss or questions, and that was all Ichigo needed. They were also popular enough on the local scene to stay busy, both with playing in clubs and sending out demos to anyone they could find.

Gradually, eventually, Ichigo settled into his life without Grimmjow, and if it seemed just a little bit emptier than it had before, well—that was a small price to pay for keeping his heart mostly intact.

It was mostly by chance that they met again. Grimmjow was a distance runner on the track team that was visiting Ichigo's university, and Ichigo was watching in the stands because Kensei, the Vizards' drummer, had a crush on one of the team's sprinters, Shuuhei Hisagi. Ichigo, bracing himself for another blow to his weary, battered heart, was shocked when no loser boyfriend or clingy girlfriend appeared after the race to drape themselves over Grimmjow. Nor did Grimmjow attach himself to some adoring limpet. Instead, he climbed into the stands, settled himself easily next to Ichigo, and they picked up their conversation as though they had never been separated.

Getting dinner afterward seemed logical. By the time they finished, the last trains had stopped running, so it seemed logical for Ichigo to invite Grimmjow back to his apartment for the night. They'd been friends so long it was only logical for them to share a bed instead of one being relegated to the criminally lumpy couch. Ichigo wasn't lying to himself—he savored the feel of Grimmjow's firm, muscled body against his, even the barest hints of skin-on-skin that his tank top and sweatpants allowed. Even so, Ichigo was determined to keep his hands to himself.

Grimmjow shattered that within the first few minutes.

Ichigo didn't resist. The first kiss banished any hesitation, and he gave in to the building heat, the burn of sliding skin and hard thrusts, soft grunts and loud moans, Grimmjow's skin under his hands and Grimmjow's hands on his skin, tawny eyes and sapphire, giving and taking.

They never defined what they had, never gave it a name or its establishment a date on the calendar, but when Ichigo wandered out of the bedroom wearing only Grimmjow's long shirt and found Grimmjow himself making breakfast in the little kitchenette, he found that he didn't care at all.

That had been two months and thirty days ago.

Grimmjow watched Ichigo wander around the apartment—their apartment, really, for all intents and purposes—like a restless cat, wondering if he should say something. But an uncharacteristic trepidation froze the words in this throat. Ichigo had known, when they got together, that Grimmjow's relationships never lasted. Was that the reason? Had he only wanted a brief fling? He could be angry that Grimmjow had stayed so long—and Grimmjow winced at that, because it would be just like Ichigo not to say anything, for fear of causing harm to someone else. For all that he was a blunt, plainspoken bastard, Ichigo was also incredibly careful with his friends' emotional and mental wellbeing.

With a muffled sigh, Grimmjow got up from the horrendously uncomfortable couch and headed for their—for the bedroom, deciding to put away laundry, since he wasn't doing anything else. Seeming to give up on his alphabetizing of the CD collection, Ichigo followed and leaned against the doorframe. Guarded eyes watched as he folded clothes—roughly, as he had never claimed to be completely domesticated—and dropped them into the drawer.

"Are you going to start packing?" he asked quietly.

Grimmjow felt his heart stutter to a lurching stop, and his hands froze on one of Ichigo's ancient more-holes-than-cloth band shirts. Silence stretched between them, as thick and stick as melted taffy, and then he sat deliberately on the bed, raising his eyes to meet Ichigo's wary gaze. Clearing his throat, he asked gruffly, "Do you want me to?"

Surprise flickered in tawny eyes, and Ichigo lost his firm posture, arms falling loosely, almost vulnerably, to his sides. "No. But…it's been three months. You always…all those other times…"

His heart restarted, leaping into his throat, and Grimmjow looked back down, suddenly finding the fraying shoulder seam of the shirt fascinating. "Yeah," he said hoarsely. "Yeah, but they…weren't you, Ichigo."

Ichigo's eyes widened further, and he took a step forward, towards the bed. "Not…me?"

With a snort, Grimmjow looked up once more and met his gaze, and this time didn't drop it. Those eyes were the thing that he had first fallen in love with, the brown that should have been plain and shallow instead looking like fire seen through amber glass, so bright and burning that Grimmjow couldn't have looked away if he had wanted to. "Yeah, bastard, I didn't love any of them. You're the idiot I fell for."

There was another long silence, and then Ichigo chuckled softly, sinking down onto the mattress next to Grimmjow. "Idiot? Then what does that make you, the one who fell for me?"

A crooked smile quirked Grimmjow's mouth, holding a shadow of his usual fierce grin, and he chucked a pillow at his boyfriend—and what a relief it was, to finally use that word. "Me? I the poor, duped bastard you've ensnared with your womanly wiles."

Tawny eyes narrowed sharply, and Ichigo growled, launching himself at Grimmjow. It worked surprisingly well, actually, knocking him clear off the bed and onto the floor, where they wrestled like a pair of teenagers until Grimmjow finally pinned Ichigo beneath him, both of the breathless and laughing.

"You okay?" Ichigo asked after a moment, recovering himself and remembering that he had elbowed the other man rather hard in the gut while they were flailing around.

Grimmjow waved a hand, dismissing the concern, and stared at him for a moment. Ichigo's breath froze in his throat at that, because Grimmjow was actually looking at him. He had never seen that level of awareness in the man's eyes before, hadn't had all of that intensity turned on him since the short time when they were enemies. And it was beautiful. Grimmjow's sky blue eyes seemed to glow like sapphires over smoldering coals, or a summer sky just covering a lightning storm. Grimmjow was gorgeous, and though Ichigo had been aware of it before, this was somehow different, better, because all of that energy and power and beauty was directed at him.

And then Grimmjow was right in front of him, leaning over with his hands braced on the edge of the mattress, and he was kissing him, kissing Ichigo as though he'd been thinking about this confrontation for months, and Ichigo couldn't do anything but respond, reach up and twist his fingers in the ridiculous blue hair and pull Grimmjow closer, because this was what he had wanted ever since the first time he had looked at Grimmjow and realized just what exactly that mysterious thing called love really was. Their kiss was hot and messy and sharp with teeth-edges and burning desire, and Grimmjow drew back just enough to whisper roughly, "You don't mind?"

At the moment, all Ichigo could think was Mind? I've wanted this—real, not a fling, an actual connection—for nearly as long as I've known you, so how could I possibly mind? What he managed to say, after a breathless moment, was, "Hardly," and he dragged Grimmjow closer, feeling big. firm hands, calloused from his work and pole vaulting, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. Ichigo wriggled, trying to help, trying to get his hands free so he could touch Grimmjow, but Grimmjow had taken control and he couldn't do anything but let the other man strip him and drag him up, pushing him back down against the edge of the mattress. Then Grimmjow was on top of him, hot and hard against his back, and there were fingers sliding down his back to trace over his entrance.

Ichigo hissed as first one finger, then another pushed roughly in and then withdrew. When they returned, they were slick with the lube that Ichigo kept under the pillow, and he hissed again, this time in pleasure, arching back into the touch. "Grimmjow," he whispered breathlessly, as those fingers circled and scissored, brushing over the spot that sent liquid fire racing through his nerves. "Grimmjow, please. I want you. I need you."

Grimmjow's free hand rose, and Ichigo jerked a little in shock as it slid over his mouth, the fingers sliding in like a particularly handsy French kiss. "Me, too," Grimmjow murmured from behind him, the fingers withdrawing from Ichigo's body and sliding up his side to pinch and twist at his nipples. Ichigo jerked, whimpering, as sharp spikes of pleasure shot through him with each touch. And then it was better still, because there was a hot, blunt pressure at his entrance and Grimmjow was sliding forward, filling him and claiming him. Ichigo couldn't stop himself from groaning sharply as the other man's length pushed deep into him, parting muscle to slide smoothly home, and Ichigo swore he'd never felt something go so deep and not be pain, but this was wonderful.

Grimmjow pulled back, then thrust forward again, and Ichigo's back bowed, bucking against the bigger man as every nerve ending lit up. He shuddered, pressing back as Grimmjow set a hard, fast rhythm, each deep stroke pushing him hard against the edge of the bed. He'd doubtless have bruises in the morning, but right now, right here, all he could think about was the weight of Grimmjow at his back, the burning warmth of Grimmjow's free hand sliding down his body to grip his cock in a tight hold and jerk it roughly with each thrust. Ichigo all but sobbed with pleasure, jerking into the touch and back against the friend he loved, the man he loved, who had finally—

The pleasure was too much, and he was coming, but over the roaring in his ears, he quite clearly heard Grimmjow low groan of "Ichigo," as he reached his own peak.

And Ichigo's world cracked like glass, fissures of sun-bright pleasure lancing through him even as he surrendered to the darkness.

When Ichigo wandered out of the bedroom the next day, after a very long and involved night that left him deliciously sore and sated, Grimmjow was sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and the calendar in front of him. As Ichigo came to lean over his shoulder and steal his mug, the blue-haired man marked an emphatic circle of red on one of the days, and Ichigo raised an eyebrow in confusion, taking the seat across from him.

"Something you want to remember?" he asked mildly.

Grimmjow grinned at him, wicked and wonderful, and turned the calendar around.

"Anniversary," he said simply.

Ichigo smiled into his coffee. It wasn't their first time together that was marked, or yesterday, but today.

The three-month mark.

The needles that had been present in his chest for so long were nowhere to be found.