It shouldn't have taken him this long to put the pieces together—that everything he'd done so far wasn't as easy as he'd have others believe. In the moments Ichigo had been critiquing Grimmjow, expressing disdain before he'd even gotten started more often than not, it was nothing to Grimmjow to send back a curt, "fuck off; there's nothing wrong with how I fight" or "stop telling me this over and over again" out of stubbornness. Defiance. Even after all this time, no matter how much progress the two forcibly made every day, Ichigo would still have to fight his way through a wall of avoidance to criticism, as though Grimmjow had forgotten that they'd already done this same thing once before. And before that. And before that. But as they closed out their eighth week of training, their usual exchange of commands and insults held more weight, and were rooted less in routine banter and more in anxiousness. Bitterness. Anger.
No, see, you're doing it again. Despite being alone, holed up at home and with nothing further to drill, Grimmjow could hear Ichigo correcting, groaning, repeating himself, yelling at him, pointing out his mistakes, pointing out what needed to be fixed…whether it was a slight defensive misstep brought about by the fighter's reflexes, or an ingrained habit that Ichigo had only just recognized, that absolutely needed to be undone: the closer they got to the fight, the smaller and smaller the margin for error became. Ichigo's patience had gone beyond the point of worn thin, and anything less than perfection warranted an endless, exasperated rant about Grimmjow not wanting it bad enough. You're wasting my fucking time. You think because I'm not up there that this shit doesn't run me into the ground? Get up and do it again. Do it again. Again. Again. Again. Again.
Grimmjow let his trainer say what he wanted, he let him get the frustration out—they were both focused on different aspects of this fight, but it seemed as though once they stepped within mere feet of each other, the friction got worse. Every day that was supposed to be better, supposed to make the two of them better, got worse: Ichigo ordered him around, made Grimmjow sit through past broadcasts of his and others' fights both at the gym and at home, as though it were fuckin' homework—he understood perfectly well how necessary it was—and held back on praise. Whether this was some sort of psychological angle Ichigo was trying, Grimmjow couldn't say. He didn't object and merely did what he was told. What energy could be spent telling Ichigo off needed to be saved for something more important.
I'm not here so you can rest. Get up. What did I say on the phone? Why the hell don't you listen? Get up. "Get up, get up," Grimmjow muttered to himself, pausing one of several videos he'd overanalyzed of his past fights. He was seated at the kitchen table, clad in a black t-shirt and boxers—once he'd finished training with Ichigo, he did what he always did: went straight home, changed, and picked apart his mistakes alongside his opponent's until his vision blurred and eyes stung, or until he unexpectedly fell asleep. He now pushed away his laptop and simply sat. Then, leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands on his head. A long, tired exhale. He bounced his leg impatiently. Faster. Faster.
If he really listened, he could hear that same, isolated, high-pitched ringing. He could taste the blood pooling in the back of his mouth.
This didn't make any sense—sure, maybe he'd underestimated how much pressure he'd feel days from the fight as opposed to months, but this shouldn't have been any different. Temporary changes in his and Ichigo's dynamic, he could take. But what was this? He'd be going against Ken once more, he understood the stakes. He understood what would happen should he lose. He'd fought hard to get here, to get this second chance that he was surprised to have gotten to begin with, and done what many fighters couldn't. His body had been on autopilot since he and Bao had returned, maybe even once his training resumed, and it felt as though he'd only now regained control.
Heavy. That was all it was.
3:00 PM, and he remained at home. Grimmjow wasn't even the slightest bit hungry, and he'd eaten anyway. Drank anyway.
He rose from the table, leaving a barely touched, leftover meal behind and walked into the living room, then turned on one of his consoles—the endless, repetitive sound of bullets would likely help ease whatever this was, right?
No. He sat motionless on the couch, listened to the soft tones of the menu for a few seconds before shutting it off and filling his living room with silence once more. He carelessly tossed his controller aside, with little reaction as it slid off the vacant cushion and landed with a clatter onto the floor. He reached for his car keys, set on the end table next to the couch, but let them go a moment later. A drive wouldn't help either—he knew this.
He returned to the kitchen and picked up his phone—set on silent; no texts, no missed calls—and looked over Bao's name in 'recents' shortly before tapping it, staring blankly at the gray background, waiting through the ringing.
"Please leave your message—" He hung up, and called once more.
"Please leave—" He cut the request short and called a third time. "Say something," he found himself mutter, bitterly, now pacing in the kitchen with his free hand placed between his neck and shoulder. "Say something to me, doll."
"Please—" Grimmjow immediately hung up and placed his phone back down, next to his laptop. He didn't see the need to leave a voicemail—she'd likely know what he wanted. The man was impatient, he needed this, whatever this was, dealt with. He wasn't too angry with her, but she wasn't answering. Drinking was out of the question. He'd gotten in his fill of exercise for the day. Driving would likely only serve to make things worse—he couldn't name how, but he knew it wouldn't make him better. He wasn't sick, but a knotted feeling sat in his stomach, and a weight of sorts began to bear worse upon him, as it had once he'd returned home.
Might as well beat my dick and go to sleep. He thought, inwardly shaking his head and with a soft chuckle that he knew was false.
In any other situation, Grimmjow would've taken his time and went through either specific videos, things Bao had sent him, or simply opted for his own thoughts, but this was rushed. He had wanted it over with, so he could sleep the rest of the day away. Everything stopped mattering in the middle of an orgasm, but being that he had finished and barely felt any different, all he had gotten from it was that he'd need to be fucking for an hour or two at the very least to combat what was going on.
He had already cleaned the white remnants from his hand with a washcloth, and tossed it—he had missed—toward the clothes basket in the corner. Now, all that was left to do was lay there, and wait. Ten minutes. Fifteen, though it felt like a half hour. He laid in bed, motionless.
The fight was days away, and now, he was wondering what the point of it all was, especially if he ended up losing. He'd reiterated the same things to himself for years: this is all you know. You can make it your own, you can make them recognize you. You can get what you want instead of getting it for others. No more punishments. No more restraints.
The ghosts of what he'd lived through stayed with him, frustrating him by coming up now of all times. If anyone were to ask, he'd vehemently deny being nervous, or scared, or even intimidated. He had fought Ken before and this time would be different. But even he had to admit there was pressure…he couldn't make it go away, not on his own.
That's why she needed to fuckin' pick up…He reasoned silently, rolling over, clearly irritated. Can't think about shit when she's over here. True, Grimmjow wanted and had gotten a lot of time to reorient himself after their vacation and get back to business as usual, but now, in the very ends of his fight preparation, he wanted her and wanted her to come to him. She'd left him alone to let him focus, and probably so she could work, and that was fine, but he didn't like how often she'd be unavailable. It was tolerable, given the circumstances, but it left him without a secondary outlet.
He shifted and raised both of his hands slightly, just to look at the scars on his wrists. Aizen would no doubt be watching the fight closely, as he had said. Grimmjow didn't regret telling him to double his bet, but wondered faintly about the consequences once more. Punishments were doled out throughout his time being 'raised' by Aizen, and Grimmjow, despite having only himself to blame for them, carried his resentment daily.
Grimmjow hadn't been too trusting of Aizen upon being found by the latter, but with no allies, no consistent source of food or income, and ever-changing shelter, he was given little choice. Aizen hadn't missed a beat regarding the younger man: Grimmjow was near-instantly trained to smother his emotions, and to bury whatever, though unlikely, innocence he had to prepare him for what was to come. Days turned to weeks, turned to months, turned to years, and years of being subject to someone as falsely welcoming as Aizen had come with its share of consequences. Years of being told that a teenaged Grimmjow could approach Aizen in confidence, that any fears or doubts, so long as they weren't directly drawn from questioning his authority, would be assessed and listened to in earnest, had had him on guard, but Grimmjow slowly—and then quickly, given that Aizen had not protected him and was the direct reason for his wounds—learned that this was his own fault. He was, of course, not eager to treat the brown-haired man as a father, but soon regarded him as a commander. Someone who had taken him from nothing, and provided food, shelter, and income so long as Grimmjow could take direction and show his loyalty. It was always a trick, bait, a lie, and Grimmjow often times hadn't caught on until it was too late, and the damage had been done. He had not been allowed to show fear, doubt, anger, or impatience—snuffing them on his own was his responsibility.
Bao had prodded him and wondered aloud and asked him, but now that Grimmjow thought about it—despite hating doing so—he hadn't cried in years. Years seemed unrealistic, of course, but he had left it all behind in Hueco Mundo. Things had obviously bothered or upset him, such as being out on his own and with nothing all over again after leaving Hueco Mundo, having to bruise and bleed and break for his money, having gone through what he did under Aizen's control, as well as how it had shaped him, with the added pressure of navigating a relationship with Bao, lost fights or his resentment for Aizen spiking on random days, but none of it had made him shed tears.
When Tousen had broken his arm, he'd cried, even as Halibel had tended to him. It had just hurt, so goddamn much, and he couldn't hold it back.
When Aizen had shot a man, point blank, Grimmjow hadn't covered his eyes, or spoke, or looked away from the corpse. He had made the mistake of flinching, and was made to clean the gun, but even hours afterward, even after Ulquiorra had stopped by his room and berated him for having any reaction at all, Grimmjow had told him off, closed the door, put his head in his hands and cried, despite really, really not wanting to. He didn't mourn the man, he didn't mourn for a lost life. He had felt sick at the time and wanted to get it out of his head. He couldn't close his eyes, or even look around the dark corners of his 'home' without seeing that corpse, and couldn't lie down and sleep without hearing the gun firing. He needed to learn to like it. He needed to learn to want what life Aizen was both offering and forcing upon him.
It wasn't embarrassing, exactly, since he hadn't shared this with anyone, but Grimmjow had become different. It all felt like yesterday, and his younger self was never far or far enough behind. All he had learned to want back then was to prove loyalty to Aizen, while establishing his own identity. He wanted to prove that he could handle whatever dirty work he was made to do, or whatever crime he was supposed to engage in or witness. You don't have to test me anymore. You can trust me to carry out the job. Trust me. I'll do it. I'm not scared, he'd think, and live by this. That desire burned right alongside his wariness of Aizen, but made him commit, and made him be whatever tool was necessary. It made the resentment come all that much quicker, and grow with a fury that stayed. If I don't make myself useful, he'll kill me too.
This, now, was just months' worth of stress spreading, like roots, within him. It felt like a culmination of whatever concerns he had smothered about previous fights, his past, and his potential future depending on the outcome of this fight, and the numbness he had worked so hard to build was barely standing against it. Grimmjow believed he would be himself again once a few more days passed, and he stepped into the ring, but for now, he'd have to feel this in its entirety and meet it with whatever he thought would help.
Grimmjow felt his body's heaviness change, if only slightly, and recognized this. Thank fuck, he thought, rolling over and sliding an arm under one of his pillows. He welcomed this heaviness rather than fighting it. His eyes rolled back just a bit as they closed…finally, sleep. There was no doubt in his mind now, that the stress, the pressure, would melt away the moment he was left to face Ken. He would win—he would. He repeated this over and over in his mind, until his body went thoroughly still, with his breaths calming.
In the kitchen, his phone slid gently across the top of the kitchen table, Bao's name across the screen.