CHAPTER 25

Grimmjow didn't remember much about the movie they'd watched. He couldn't really.

Oh, it was chalked plenty full of action and witty Hollywood banter alright, and he'd watched the damn thing. But compared to the man next to him, it was largely uninteresting.

What did get his attention was that Ichigo had managed to get him to help decimate a large bag of overly buttered popcorn. Because Grimmjow didn't eat that shit as a rule. Just like he didn't eat poutine as a rule.

He never would have thought that Kurosaki Ichigo could be a bad influence on him. The other way around, sure. But on him? No way. But it seemed Ichigo had a way of breaking his rules, a way of pawning his bad habits off on Grimmjow.

At first, he had deemed it a bad thing, another strike on Grimmjow's mental list against the orangette, a habit he hadn't actually relinquished yet, from a time that felt like forever ago, even though it had only been a week and a half since they'd made their agreement back in that hospital room.

But as he'd fingered and munched his way deeper through the layers of savory kernels perched on the armrest between them, down towards the bottom of the bag they were sharing, he'd discovered one benefit to sharing the greasy snack. They had inadvertently touched hands once.

And then several times.

The touching part was nothing to write home about... well maybe a line or two. It caught his attention... pleasantly... in the way that touching skin does when it was someone you didn't mind that kind of contact with. But that first small collision, new and unfamiliar, but so soft, warm, and welcome, and the chance little skip of feelings that went with it... well they were muted as quickly as they'd flared, because when he glanced up and saw the absolute discomfort on Ichigo's face, it had been like a blazing beacon him, and sheer entertainment. And that was just the start.

He'd wanted to come here to forget about earlier, to block out that dark unexpected rush of very personal emotions that had sideswiped him, and the awkward aftermath. But he hadn't anticipated enjoying himself this much.

At first, he'd settled back into his chair, just trying to get comfortable. It was snug. These theatre chairs always were for a guy like him. But at least they'd chosen the centre-isle row about halfway up. He had to give Ichigo bonus points there, for agreeing on the best spot in the house. It gave Grimmjow leg room, and it wasn't a bad spot if you really were here to watch a movie. You got the movie experience; the screen was nice and big, but not so much that you had to crane or turn your neck. And you never had to stand up for those annoying latecomers.

Now, if Grimmjow had wanted to screw around a little, he might have dragged him (or a chick, he meant) up towards the back.

The movie itself was an easy pick. Ichigo hadn't had to use much persuasion for that. It was their kind of thing. Lots of action, a few car chases, and some sex scenes that bordered on porn.

At least, the last part was fine with Grimmjow. It seemed Ichigo hadn't been prepared at all for all that wet and slippery nekkedness, the two protagonists having steamy sex against a chain link fence in the middle of a downpour on a hot summer's night. And even under the cover of darkness, Grimmjow had seen the orangette sinking down into his seat. Practically, grinding into it.

Fuck, he'd bet his car the kid (was turned on). He swore he could smell his (discomfort). Hell, it was almost turning him on.

So, he'd reached out and covered Ichigo's eyes with the curve of his palm.

What? He was helping.

"I'll tell you when it's over," he'd purred.

"Stop that!" The younger man had hissed beneath his breath, pulling the enforcer's hand down hard by his wrist, and letting it go like hot coals when he'd realized just how far down he'd pulled the enforcer's hand.

Grimmjow's knuckles had grazed down the front of the stiff crumple in Ichigo's jeans, right where it mattered. He had noticed. Oh yeah. And then he had pondered really setting off the fireworks by giving Ichigo's thigh a squeeze. But he'd decided that would be going too far. There were lines that even he wouldn't cross, sort of.

Besides, he already had what he wanted. The glow of the movie screen highlighted the creases in the orangette's features. He looked so damned peeved... tensed... almost... as pained as the actors moving through their throes, against the fence, in the rain.

And it only made Grimmjow want to do it again and again.

He knew he was using it as a distraction, though, ruffling his puritanical teammate. But he didn't care. He needed one. His mind kept trying to draw him back to that dark, gnawing place, the one that had ignited his temper. There was only one other thing that could really get his mind out of that little slice of hell, that could really capture his full attention and set his mind free. But he was in the middle of a theatre with Kurosaki Ichigo, so his options were limited.

It was either rattling Kurosaki to the point of aneurism, or hooking up with some chick for a good, long, hard lay.

Sex was always a top shelf activity. And any other day, he'd be (all up in it and about it). But right now, he'd have to make do with putting Ichigo on the defensive and picking him apart over fucking some chick.

And it had been a damn long time since he'd done that. Two weeks? No. Three? Clearly longer. Had it really been a month?

Fuck him. He was officially dating his hand. He was due.

Grimmjow had slid a glance at the smouldering man beside him, a sideways grin taking shape in the dark.

"What?" he'd whispered, leaning across the seat until the side of their heads brushed together, motioning to the screen. "You looked uncomfortable. Thought I'd help you out." Ichigo tried at once to shrug him off, but Grimmjow could be like frosty metal on the tongue when he wanted to be.

"Ya. Well, piss off. I can handle myself just fine, thank you."

"Hn." He'd smirked, sinking against Ichigo that little bit more, aware now of the scent from his clothes, his hair, his skin, and almost feeling too comfortable there, like he was getting a little contact high from it. "And with all the dates ya get, I bet you do." Grimmjow simpered, not feeling much like moving unless he was told to.

In fact, his head was practically on Ichigo's shoulder.

To his credit, Ichigo leaned away, but he didn't really put any effort into fighting it. There wasn't much point now was there? But Grimmjow did feel him stiffen.

"Ju- You don't know anything about my private life. Just... shut up and watch the movie." Grimmjow had chuckled and dug into the bottom of the bag, still leaning against Ichigo, who's only recourse had been a round of impotent grumbling. "And get some help, you perverted asshole."

"Aww baby," he crooned back, nearly whispering into Ichigo's ear. "Just tell me when our session starts, and I'll be there."

It was the shushing hush from a row behind them that finally settled the enforcer down and put their argument to rest for the time being.

Grimmjow straightened back into his own seat, but he wore a self satisfied grin for a long while until the movie finally took some of his attention away.

He'd had no idea that Ichigo had been (so uncomfortable) for the rest of the flick.

X X X

Ichigo shut the door to his apartment, hot, bothered, and relieved to be home. He had just under an hour before he needed to head over to his dad's for a late family dinner.

He rid himself of his shirt as he crossed the living room, heading straight for the shower. He could feel his orange hair reorganize itself into staticky spikes from the quick disrobe in the dry air, an irritating feeling that seemed perfectly within its rights to be there at the moment.

He pulled down the zipper of his faded jeans and shucked them off in the hallway, too frustrated to care where he'd dropped them.

It had been a long, strange day.

Ichigo reached past the curtain and twisted the tap to full, stepping into the spray even before it had fully warmed.

And he did not feel one bit sorry for Grimmjow for whatever turmoil he might be in. Not one bit. Not after what he'd done to him in the movie theatre. The asshole had taken his teasing just one step short of a tidy little harassment suit.

He grabbed his loofah pad and the remnants of a bar of soap off the ledge. But instead of rubbing them together, he looked past them, down to where his frustration was still making a nuisance of itself.

The bluenet didn't really know what he did to Ichigo. He might have thought he did but...

And if Grimmjow ever found out...

Ichigo muttered a curse as the soap squeezed through his fingers and hit the tub with a lifeless thump. He bent to grab it before it slid into the drain.

That was a scary thought. Grimmjow would probably beat the shit out of him on principal. And everything they'd worked for would fall apart.

He ground the bar across the loofah until it was frothing, then rolled the pad in circles around his abs, then up under his arms, and once down each thigh as the water finished heating up.

He had to be more careful. Not just because of Grimmjow, but because of what prying eyes might suspect. It was already becoming a thing in the newspapers, as proven by the unsavoury reporter they'd met. Even if it was jut a few passing comments which no one seemed to take seriously, the seed had been planted in the public's consciousness.

No way was Ichigo planning on being some unmasked symbol and news fodder for the hockey league. He cared about people, but seriously. Someone else could get the sword out of that particular stone.

Now that he was home and taking stock of their day, Ichigo was realizing how he'd acted with the enforcer at his car might have looked to an observer. Two guys playing around? Something more intimate? Or maybe he was just being paranoid because he knew the truth about his physical feelings for the other man. And that was another thing. Were you gay if it was mostly physical? Mostly?

He placed the loofah back on the shelf, letting the water rinse away the soap that slicked his body, scowling while he rubbed the bar between his hands.

Who was he kidding. He'd been flirting. Flirting!

Eyes falling shut, Ichigo wanted to bang his head into the porcelain tiles of the shower wall.

And still his hand found its way.

(DELETED PARAGRAPH)

Everybody thought Kurosaki Ichigo was oblivious to sex. But of course he wasn't. And he'd always known in general what happened between men. Until late the other night.

After running and pool and family dinners... When all of that was out of the way and the world was quiet and supposed to be in bed, Kurosaki Ichigo was not. The other night, he'd browsed the web, wanting to know that little bit more. He felt a bit like someone was watching him over his shoulder, like this kind of exploration wasn't allowed in his world. But he refused to let that stop him from being whoever it was he thought he might be. And except for stupid things like pool, he was a quick study. And this was no exception.

(DELETED PARAGRAPH)

A little bit of reading had turned into a little bit of watching, until he'd been faced with a scene of perfection. Two men, one smaller, one larger and more muscled, a couple in love, and making it. Wide pinprick eyes had narrowed to bloated and black as he'd (sat alone) at his desk in his bedroom. When he was done and able to focus again, he'd watched a short tutorial on the basics. He hadn't tried it then.

But he needed it now.

(DELETED PARAGRAPH)

He stood outside of time. Nothing mattered. The past. The future. The sun. The night. Schedules. Bills. Phone calls. Plans. None of it.

Just them. Just him. Just that.

A minute passed. Then another. And that was it.

He was euphoric, (imagining) Grimmjow telling him he was his. His body shivered. The world was beautiful. He felt desired, complete, and whole. Like everything he'd ever done had been about this moment.

And then...

...he was just wet again.

A guy alone in the shower, caught inside the spray, watching his (pointless hopes and desires turn their) way down the drain.

X X X

Grimmjow exhaled hard underneath the water. He had to fight for it, but as he breached the surface, he took another quick breath and plunged back down, body turning in a tight somersault before he pushed off like a mule against the concrete wall and propelled himself back the way he'd come.

It was his last lap and he was feeling it now, his butterfly strokes not as strong and orderly as they had been a half an hour ago.

In his defence, he'd done a full workout already, going through some of his usual hockey routines, working the muscles he'd need to rely on the most while on the ice.

This was just an extra bit of punishment. But his reward was the sauna. Cold and heat. Polar opposites, but a great way to relax.

And he needed to.

He was feeling an indescribable flux of emotions this morning, nervous and tense, yet excited and hungry to get at the day, as if his body were driving him to get up for something extremely important.

Well, of course it was. He was almost back to the game from a serious injury. Any day now.

If only it were that simple.

Nobody needed to know, but he felt like a fucking train wreck. So many thoughts were running rampant through his head, the little threads of his life flapping around like loose, shredded ribbons in a windstorm.

Black. Blue. Gold. Orange. His return. His family. The game. Ichigo. Sex.

If he could just grab onto one of them, any one, make sense of it, maybe then everything else would fall into place. Everything would calm.

Right now, though, everything about yesterday seemed to take precedence over his return to the game. He had let himself open up yesterday, because, at that moment it had felt good. But even as he'd mentioned him, his pa, pain had flared, and Grimmjow had instantly regretted the gesture.

He'd had to find a way to squelch that feeling, keep it from exposing him for what he was. So, he'd taken to tormenting Kurosaki again.

It had helped. And it was nice to be back to their usual roles, lose himself in a place where, once again, Grimmjow could enjoy a little bit of that situational control that usually came so easy to him. But it left him wondering about his companion.

Other guys he knew weren't this squeamish. Why did Ichigo have such trouble with physical contact? Was that just a thing of his? Or was it Grimmjow specifically? And why did he flush so badly when teased about sex? It was just sex, for Christ's sake.

Grimmjow knew that at times Kurosaki had all the charms of a jittery reclusive virginal jellyfish around women, while other times he acted completely clueless and unaware that he was even being hit on. That much was common knowledge thanks to Shinji's loud obnoxious jibber jabber about every pseudo sexual encounter he and his little posse from the club had managed to fabricate since the season began.

But that was the part that Grimmjow really wondered about. Was it an act?

Ichigo was a fucking looker, from head to toe, the total package. Fuck, he even smelled good too. And, no, Grimmjow wasn't afraid to say it... quietly and to himself.

But did Ichigo really not notice how often women checked him out? Grimmjow had seen it in nearly every interaction they'd had together with the general public, which admittedly wasn't a lot. But all he'd had to do was look around them to see that if chicks (there was even a guy one time) weren't busy eye raping Grimmjow from a distance, then they were appreciating Kurosaki's ass.

Heh. They didn't know the half of it. If they knew what Grimmjow got to see in the locker room and in the showers on a regular basis, they'd probably kill to be in his position...

The water exploded in a white frothy rush as the enforcer surfaced and came to rest against the edge of the pool, drawing in a hard lung full of air as he did. He clung to the side for an extended moment, scowling at the direction his thoughts had taken when he was supposed to be focusing on his swim. He ran a hand down his face like an angry squeegee before he finally flat-palmed the wet tiles and hauled himself out on strong arms. He pondered the water that poured off of him, watched the droplets as they slid down his long bare torso and plashed onto the floor around him...

... just like they always fell from that familiar body, so much like his own, but so different.

Fuck. He shook his head hard enough to spin out his hair. He had to find something better to think about than some other guy's ass.

He came to life and tramped into the change room. He peeled off his black square cut briefs, stopping long enough to rinse himself clean under the hard spray of the shower. Then, still dripping, he grabbed a dry towel and padded back out the door, past the pool, and into the heat of the communal sauna. There wasn't anyone else in the private pool at the top of his building at the moment, so he didn't bother to cover up.

He threw the towel across one of the sauna's wooden benches, and sat down, naked, spread eagle, and boneless. The wall against his back was almost searing hot, and the same heat from the bench beneath him was quickly penetrating the section of towel he was sitting on and creeping into his glutes. He kept the other end of the towel free in case someone else did walk in. It had happened before, like with his neighbours, who he knew without a doubt would cheerfully enjoy another extensive eyeful of Grimmjow.

Eyes drooping in amusement, Grimmjow's hand played with the loose end of the towel, and he grinned at the memory of their awkward first meeting just after he'd first moved in.

That was one way to meet your neighbours.

They'd been chummy with him ever since. Grimmjow's smiled broadened. And they definitely didn't want him for his money.

He made a mental note. He needed to pick up snacks. He'd invited the two men over again for tonight's away game. He didn't mind their company and conversation, even if it was a bit hard to watch how much in love they were. And expressive about it. Especially on his couch.

Fuck. He should invite Kurosaki over sometime and let him sit there awhile before telling him just what kind of kink went on under his cute little ass. He could just imagine how flustered the guy would get under Grimmjow's knowing gaze with that little tidbit bared and out in the open.

Grimmjow's (body chose that moment to agree.)

Blue eyes narrowed, grin evaporating. He folded his arms behind his head and closed his eyes, a dark scowl saturating him as much as the humid heat that slowly worked its way layer by layer down into his muscles.

Hn. The relaxation part was going to take some time.

He knew what that was about. He was just wound. Because he hadn't gone out and gotten laid last night like he'd planned.

He'd gone over to his ma's, helped her with the chores she'd called him about at the theatre, then sat for dinner. Then he'd dropped by Kensei's, but his friend was out. So, instead Grimmjow had ended up chatting with his wife, Sarah, who was seeking relief in a small glass of wine while their baby was, for once, asleep. And adult conversation. Grimmjow's specialty.

But Sarah had been the one to do most of the talking. And Grimmjow was forced to sit back, arms folded, and just lend an ear. He could do that well enough to.

Apparently she needed it. The girl was all over the place, venting briefly about the trials of parenting and dealing with Kensei's unique fathering skills, before going into the raunchy details about the parties Grimmjow had missed, then showing him her ideas to renovate their kitchen. Grimmjow had pointed out some ideas of his own that she'd loved, which had earned him a big sweet kiss on the cheek. He'd grinned and returned the gesture, adding a growl that had her playfully smacking him on the arm, but swearing up and down that he was not allowed to miss their next party. He humbly agreed. She was a doll. And Kensei was a lucky guy.

The whole visit had killed an easy two hours, and before he knew it, it was well after ten. Still plenty of time to make a date, or wrangle up a booty call.

But he hadn't.

As he'd sat in his car, idling in Kensei's driveway, he'd scrolled down his list of easy lays, and nothing had seemed appealing.

He'd been smiling as he'd headed out the door, feeling thoroughly caught up, like he'd spent too long a time away from surrogate family. But also somewhat melancholy. And like the chill night air, that feeling had begun to sink in bone deep.

Something came back to him as he'd considered the numbers stored in his phone, something Ichigo had asked him once. And he'd found himself looking at the large but simple house in his rear view mirror as he'd pulled away from it's bright lights, its warmth, and all the memories being made together in that house. A life together.

His phone had ended up on the floor of the car, thrown there.

He really hadn't felt like prowling through bars last night. Picking up some anonymous chick. Or even going through the pointlessness of chatting someone up and attempting to get to know them a single grain beyond the surface before he took them somewhere and tried to make a one night stand seem like something meaningful and full of promise.

So, he'd gone home, and prowled around his apartment instead.

And in the end, he'd plain given in to his basic needs. He'd lain on his bed and (imagined.) Whatever random images he could recall from past encounters. All of it hollow after awhile, his mind skipping through each image like a dusty old compilation.

(DELETED PARAGRAPH)

For a moment he let his anger take over.

And instead of struggling, he let the images come to him.

He was fighting. He was being fought. For a moment he was somewhere new, somewhere... (DELETED PARAGRAPH).

It had left him more shocked than satisfied. He'd never had this problem before. He'd always been a bit of a hound dog, and he'd never had to resort to scrolling through his personal (mental images) or even swinging for the other team. And he was definitely more annoyed than sated as he'd hopped in the shower to rinse off.

(DELETED PARAGRAPH)

Grimmjow shifted and straightened his back against the wall of the bench where he'd slouched for too long.

Despite the smal relief, he'd had another rough night, the emptiness of the room getting to him in a way it hadn't before. And if that wasn't enough, when he finally fell asleep, it was filled with painful dreams full of details that he couldn't quite remember. Or just didn't want to.

Grimmjow's eyes snapped open as the timer to the sauna went off, and he grunted in irritation.

After last night, the morning should have been a blessing. But it wasn't, because he woke up knowing he was missing yet another practice. Another away game.

That's where Ichigo was. Where he should be too.

He stood and wrapped the towel around his waste, shoving one corner down tight into the valley of his groin, then waded out of the oppressive humidity and stepped into air that felt more like the biting cold of a freezer than a pool.

That's what was feeding Grimmjow's anxiety. Being so damn close. Having what he wanted just out of reach.

He left all of last night's weirdness behind him as he reentered the change room.

He was taking care of that. He had another appointment with his doctor tomorrow. He felt good enough to play, even if it wasn't his full ice time, so he'd pushed his appointment forward. It was all much to the reluctance of the doc. But give him a break. Who knew Grimmjow better than Grimmjow?

X X X

The Reaper's locker room was once again filled with the obsessive rumble of hockey talk and the unapologetic sight of men in various states of nudity.

Normally, Ichigo would have felt quite comfortable, at ease with himself, here in this place. There was this unavoidable problem, though.

It had nothing to do with the (untanned bits of skin on display.) He was looking more than he used to, curiosity drawing his eye. But it was a study in anatomy at best. At worst, a comparison.

But no. His real discomfort arose from the fact that the stall at the opposite end was still empty.

The young forward's dark eyes drew back into his own corner, but the indented scowl didn't recede.

Grimmjow needed to come back. For his own good.

Kensei had been asking about their play dates this morning, and Ichigo hadn't been sure if he should mention the bluenet's strange behaviour. He wanted to, but now that he knew how private the enforcer was, and how much it had taken for Ichigo to be allowed even the tiniest glimpse into his personal life, well... going around Grimmjow about it felt like he would be breaking a trust, not to mention prying.

But now it was on his mind. Stuck there.

Ichigo paused as he rifled through his hockey bag in search of one of his protective shoulder pads, the loud voices and back and forth taunts around the locker room distant and coming through only in vague, offensive bits and pieces.

The more games they had between them, the more Ichigo could see it. It was unnatural for the enforcer to be outside of hockey. He was like a predator pulled from the jungle, pacing its cage waiting for some real action, the kind it would never see in some godforsaken zoo.

Not that Grimmjow wasn't a fully functioning social being.

Ichigo's fist wrapped around a pair of perfectly rolled up socks, and he stared blankly at them for a moment before he raked them aside.

He was capable of being human, capable of being warm, caring. Even... loving. Just as he'd been with Kensei and his mother.

That knowledge made Ichigo ache inside.

But the tension and the small explosions of anger Ichigo had witnessed when he'd been with him, the moments of distance and moodiness...

At first he'd assumed that when you had as much aggression as Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez and no real outlet, you were sure to become unbalanced. But it was clear that something was really bothering him.

His digging paused as he looked up to the barely shadowed, flat wall of his locker. There was no privacy here. Everything out in the open.

Maybe he should have asked.

Right.

Ichigo tasked himself, grumbling a little as he resumed foraging hopelessly through his gear. He had taken to washing his own gear lately. It was a luck thing. Superstitious. Maybe. But harmless, if he could find it. He was never this disorganized. Had he lost the damn thing?

A few moments later, "damn thing" acquired, he hitched up his skates and finished preparing to hit the ice. They didn't take off until after noon, so they were squeezing in a morning practice, nothing taxing, just a few light drills to work on puck handling skills before heading to the airport to catch their flight. Grimmjow, no doubt, would be pacing mad holes in his carpet or chewing his nails off, or both, at the prospect of missing yet another game.

But how much thought had he given to their on ice partnership? Ichigo didn't know. Because they hadn't broached the subject. Not once.

As the orangette slid into his gloves and picked up his stick, his stomach did an unhappy little twist. He was convinced he had to be as nervous as Grimmjow was about working together again, maybe even more.

He trudged down the hall with his teammates.

It was funny. Ichigo's opinion of the Sexta hadn't changed much during his first months with the team. The bluenet was a monster on the ice, violent and brutish. He made no sense to Ichigo. Until their mutual downward spiral, he'd been a relatively high scoring forward one minute and a feral attack dog the next, sometimes head hunting opposing players and taking them out with bone crushing hits, and other times brawling like he was in the middle of a dirty street fight. He was all about excessive force and eliminating the competition. Ichigo wasn't much better sometimes, but at least his hits were clean, and he didn't intentionally send other players to the hospital.

On the ice, the bluenet was a hollow, soulless beast. Off the ice, though... he was so much more.

Ichigo exhaled as his skates hit the ice. His body was back in the game, but without the enforcer there to "liven" things up, his heart was somewhere else.

He watched as the floor of the empty arena around him filled with Reapers, the players swarming onto the ice and a slew of black pucks moving back and forth between them like buzzing flies. He let a puck slide by him, eyes blank.

Hockey. He needed Grimmjow to come back.

But a cold start would be difficult for him. He wouldn't want people to see him weakened. He was too damn proud.

Ichigo began to skate.

And God knew what would happen once they were back on the ice together. Ichigo shuddered to think. It would - he couldn't believe he was using the term, but - it would break his heart to see all their progress crumble to dust in the face of their on ice emotions. They needed a chance to work together with no distractions.

But they also needed a guiding force.

A quiet smile formed as Ichigo swept a puck off the ice and balanced it on the tip of his outstretched stick.

Brown eyes sharpened as he whispered its name.

He knew just the force to do it.