Thought I'd drop another chapter here on FFNET, in case anyone is still reading. But the remainder will be over on AO3. There are only a few chapters left now (for real this time! lol)
I've put up most if not all of the artwork on AO3 for FMM, done by various wonderful artists. There are quite a few, and they're dotted throughout the story. Easiest way to find them (I think) is to view the "entire work" and scroll like hell.
Snow Patrol : Lightening SOAC
He braced himself under the hot spray, one arm anchored by a broad flat palm against the cool slick of ceramic tiles, neck arched back and eyes shut tight. He turned around and let the water run long and hard on pulse, the pelting jets punishing and relentless against muscles stiff from yesterday's game, almost hard enough to hurt as he rinsed himself awake. He waited in the deluge until he felt human. Or human enough.
Then, skin bruised-red with warmth, he stepped out onto a soft mat and toweled off slowly.
There was a ring of vomit in the toilet.
Leftovers from the early morning hours. Just what anyone wanted to wake up to.
It still needed to be cleaned. But he couldn't bring himself to do it just yet. It was not a job for an empty stomach.
Grimmjow didn't drink a whole lot very often. At least not as often as some of his teammates did. And he hadn't fallen prey, yet, like many an enforcer before him, to the pull of drugs and heavy alcohol abuse and all its false promises. Last night, though, had been one of his rare over-indulgences, their post-game dinner antics being a needed distraction. A good one too. But once he'd been dropped off by the cab, stumbling into the dead quiet of his apartment, he'd remembered why he'd drunk so much in the first place, the background noise of his mind suddenly stark and intense against the silence.
A rush of familiar thoughts that prided themselves on being invasive and obtrusive.
And once they started up, they kept on coming. They always did.
So, he'd kept the party going.
A few more quickly pounded-back shots of rye from the small selection he kept in his kitchen cupboard. What he got in the glass, down his throat in a burning rush. A few more nails in the coffin so he'd go down hard enough to chase away his consciousness. Stop the noise.
Forget personal growth. His role was enforcer again. Nothing more than that. Two dimensional tough guy. Hired goon.
Everything his father didn't like about his hockey career. About who he was. And what he did. And now that's exactly what he had to be.
And now, with just a few games left, there was a good chance they would make the playoffs. He'd made it there before, with the Hollows. As it was, they'd been eliminated early on.
But this team had something. Something special. And it could be his first real shot at the cup.
He felt it. He believed in it. He believed in them.
But as much as he wanted to fight for the win, the race for the cup didn't hold the same allure it once had. Things weren't clear anymore. Sometimes he craved the win, years of training keeping him focused and hungry during game time. Off the ice though, things had gone gray. Muddy and tainted. He hated feeling so mixed up. The cup was everything to a hockey family. Except...
Except... his father... his pa... wasn't going to be there to see it. Wasn't going to ride along with him on the coveted road to The Cup like they'd always talked about. Like they'd planned. It was the pinnacle of everything they'd been striving for together since he was a dumb-ass kid tripping over his own god damn skates.
And he wouldn't be there to see it.
And just who's fault was that. Who's fucking fault.
That question was easily answered with another eight ounce glass of high octane fuel.
And he wasn't even the one truly suffering because of his fuck up.
Grimmjow balled up his fists and ground his forehead down against them.
It was her sweet face...
For over a year now, his ma had been watching his games from home without the man she loved beside her. What did a Stanley Cup even mean to her now? She supported him as much as ever, but why? It didn't matter if he brought her a hundred fucking cups. It would never undo the past. Wouldn't alter their lives or bring anyone back. But it was all they had left of him, of his dreams for his family. And Grimmjow had to see it through.
For her. And how much time did they have left together now? He couldn't even entertain the idea of her not being there. He knew just how suddenly someone could exit your life. In the sharpest moment when you were least prepared. This could be his only chance to shine for her.
He couldn't disappoint her again.
He sat hunched on the couch, fists cupped against his mouth now, empty eyes staring through the coffee table at nothing.
In one dumb move, in one fit of temper, he'd turned his back on his father, said hurtful words and crushed him so hard that he'd...
And it was her. She'd been the one to find him. Already gone.
It was no way to say goodbye.
He rocked back and forth, unaware of it, head bowing sharply, eyes squeezing back with a vengeance against the burning threat of tears.
She could never know. Not because Grimmjow was a coward. Not because he wasn't. But because he couldn't deny her the last thing she thought she had. The close family they'd been and the decent son she thought they'd raised.
He knew this line of thought never lead to anywhere good, and it pissed him off to realize how little control he sometimes had over his own emotions. Over this. Whenever this thing reared, more and more, it seemed to have a life of its own. Like it was growing him over. But he'd crush it down and squeeze it back every fucking time. He had to.
The downward spiral of thoughts followed him deep into the late night hours. He didn't deny them at all. He just let them come. It felt good to get angry, good to be abused and pinned under the onslaught of every terrible truth, and every rotten thing that he was. And the anger that always lay within such easy reach; serpentine and coiled, it whipped itself up into a happy frenzy, full of teeth and vengeance. Waiting for him. A familiar and devoted friend.
It felt good. It felt deserved.
She loved him. And he took him away from her. Away from them.
He had it under control. There were no tears. There never were.
Just a wet glass smashed against a far wall. The smallest release. And the bitter silence that followed.
And in that silence, without the stimulation of people around him to keep him connected and level... he sunk.
X X X
They'd all recovered. Young, fun, and able to rebound physically and financially from late, expensive nights of celebration. And after a day off to relax and catch up with their personal lives, they were back to the icy grind.
The team's star rookie lifted his head just in time to see their own feared enforcer appear in the locker room doorway. Feared by most. Ichigo couldn't help the knowing smirk that grew when he saw him. Shinji had left him a small novel's worth of texts some time in the pre-dawn hours of the previous morning. Dotted...okay, loaded... with x-rated information about his date with Yoruichi that Ichigo absolutely did not need to know.
But Shinji had openly relayed one detail about his date with "his goddess" that Ichigo did find interesting. The Reaper's own cold hearted, part time enforcer / full time playboy had done a solid for someone. Not Ichigo's words at all. The team had come up with that. Because Shinji had texted just about everyone on it. And so now they knew that Grimmjow-J had a soft heart after all, or at least the desire to see a guy who struggled actually get the woman he wanted. And that in itself was huge.
Grimmjow set up a woman he'd actually slept with with Shinji of all people. That's what everybody knew. But there was one other thing no one else realized, and Ichigo still couldn't quite believe could be true. He remembered their conversations at the table that night... and it seemed that Grimmjow had done it, at least partly, as an olive branch... for him.
X X X
Grimmjow wasn't the first to arrive to morning practice. In fact, he might well have been the last. The locker room was already alive with players as he dragged his own sorry carcass through the entrance way.
He only fist-bumped the first few people who happened to be by the door on lazy reflex, answering their call with little enthusiasm. It had been hard to get his mind right again, re-aligned with the day to day world, after dealing with the complicated mix of hangovers and his coach's reaming the other day. But he had no choice but to keep working hard, try to play the way he was told to, and see how things played out from there.
Despite his mindset, he read the room naturally as he moved through the players gating the doorway, and it only took a moment for the room to say that something was up. He supposed he should feign interest in whatever it was. He took a breath and tried to pull on his game face, a fragile mask to wear until the lingering apathy passed. But before he could move further into the room, subdued blue eyes landed on bare skin and a long line of lean muscle, sparking as they lingered there for just a moment.
"Morning." It was a casual, quiet greeting. Grimmjow's own was low and rough.
"Yo." Grimmjow's gaze jumped up to meet Ichigo's, and he nodded a good morning back to the oranget, not really finding it in himself to tease him this time. Ichigo was shirtless and pant-less, and several strides out of reach from where he was tucked into his corner locker near the door. More importantly, though, he noticed the particularly decisiveway Ichigo was looking at him, like Ichigo might have something he wanted to say.
Grimmjow slowed and did a double take, something about Ichigo's expression igniting a rush of needy curiosity. Was that a smirk? Why was Ichigo fucking Kurosaki smirking at him? He couldn't begin to guess. Grimmjow quirked a brow as he stopped to say something more semi-conversational than "Yo", that playful looking face being the one and only good thing about the day so far that could make him really want to try to shrug off his sour mood.
Grimmjow hadn't quite lined up his words when his attention was hauled off the oranget by a whole lot of noise and laughter. An apparent huddle of bodies across the room told him there seemed to be some sort of event taking place by his locker. He shrugged at Ichigo, who lifted a shoulder in return as if he knew nothing about nothing, in what had to be the sweetest little white lie Grimmjow had ever seen.
With a somewhat territorial agenda, he padded over to see what was so damn interesting, and to find out why the guys were standing in a rowdy herd around his locker.
"If you losers are standing around my locker circle jerkin' about being forever alone," he rumbled snidely as he strode towards them, "you can count me out."
They turned with smiles on their faces so grotesquely hungry for more of whatever gossip they'd found, that it made Grimmjow squick a little inside, his smooth approach faltering.
"Yo, Sexta! Looks like you have a secret admirer," Renji grinned lewdly, looking like he'd hit the revenge jackpot.
Oh, yeah, Grimmjow thought blandly. Renji'd be wanting to ruffle him back for that bathroom thing. He grunted back at him as he walked past.
"Quit lookin' at me with yer rape face."
While Renji made random sputtering noises about Grimmjow's heritage, all of which he could shoot out his blowhole, Grimmjow approached the bench with a wary sense of curiosity.
When they all stepped aside, Grimmjow stopped. And dropped his bag on the floor.
There was a pile of beer cases stacked in front of his locker. A large pile. He started counting from the bottom on the floor, to the bench, and beyond, tilting his head back as he counted up... six, seven...thirteen... eighteen.
Eighteen fucking cases of beer. All different kinds too.
"What the fuck," he muttered mostly to himself. He looked at the stack then addressed anyone with a brain and some knowledge. "The hell is all this?" he barked at the guys around him, who, surprise, suddenly didn't even seem to know their own damn names.
"Oh look. There's a note," said Shiro happily, hopping up onto the bench and reaching to pluck a small card from atop the stack. He flicked it once over in his fingers and handed it down to the enforcer. Grimmjow pulled the card from it's envelope and read the message to himself. His eyes darted back and forth a few times before his eyebrows shot to his hairline then fell flat like a deflated balloon.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered.
Grimmjow's curse was answered.
"Oh good, they delivered it on time!"
And everyone looked to find the source of the cheerful voice. Grimmjow too.
"Oh, for fuck's sake." He swung around. "Shinji, what the fuck?"
"Is it not enough?" Shinji clasped his hands over his mouth and looked worried. "It's not enough is it? I knew I shoulda got more."
Grimmjow balked. Fuck him, Hirako wasn't funning him. He was being completely serious.
"Hirako." Grimmjow sucked in a deep calming breath through his nose while he pinched the bridge firmly between his thumb and forefinger. When that was done, blue eyes snapped open. "What the actual fuck?"
"What was I supposed to do?" Shinji complained. "I can't even begin to... You..." They all turned to look at Grimmjow. Shinji was gesturing at him expansively, as if he were royalty.
Grimmjow watched him with a narrowed look, curiosity taking a backseat to suspicion. He found himself actually leaning away from the raving hoard of one.
"You sir, are a miracle."
It clicked then, why Shinji was acting like he was on something. Grimmjow reached around and scratched at the back of his head, shoulders falling as he sighed. Fuck, there was nearly seven hundred dollars worth of beer here. Yoruichi must have screwed Shinji's brains clean out.
Grimmjow's eyes widened when Shinji grabbed his arms at the biceps through his jacket. Reverently.
"She showed me things..." he whispered at him, "things I didn't know were possible..."
Grimmjow shuddered and grimaced..
"With crayons?" he ground out.
"And uh..." Shinji ignored him, just squinted hard to the side before his eyes slid back wide and amazed onto Grimmjow's. "I think maybe even illegal..."
Grimmjow shuddered inside one more time for emphasis and wrinkled his mouth into a ball, and for good measure, his nose too.
"Hirako..." he said meaningfully, "I can't tell you... how much I don't ever want to talk about your sex life."
Shinji took a deep, steadying breath, and looked up into Grimmjow's hard-set cerulean eyes, ones that had been narrowed, but were now growing wider and wider with trapped alarm.
"I'm going to hug you," Shinji said seriously. Grimmjow's face fell.
"You're not, though..." he grumbled.
Shinji lifted his arms, and Grimmjow actually froze. He didn't want to be an asshole in front of everyone. For once. Not when Shinji was being so damn sincere.
He groaned in revolted defeat, lip lifted in a look the was part disbelief and part surged forward and pulled into him. And Grimmjow Jeagerjaquez reached for the sky and just about tried to crawl through the ceiling, forearms flying up and out, like Shinji was an alien life form attaching itself to his waist.
Everybody in the room had been watching in awe. And suddenly as you please, Grimmjow was being hugged, fiercely and not mercifully quick enough. The enforcer's eyes were white and round with discomfort, jaw clenched and teeth showing as he absolutely cringed his way through Shinji's affection.
To Ichigo, he looked like a cat with its hair standing on end.
"Hirako," he warned. Calmly as he could because Shinji was thanking him. And Ichigo was watching. "I appreciate your newfound happiness. But if you don't let go, we are gonna have a problem."
X X X
It had been a strange day. Shinji was officially seeing Yoruichi Shihouin, or at least getting laid by her. And it was all because of Grimmjow. And when Ichigo's head had popped through the neck of his workout shirt and he'd looked over to see Shinji Hirako actually hugging an honestly frightened and oddly helpless looking enforcer... Well, he wanted to say it was just another day in the locker room.
In some ways it was, but it wasn't as weird or as worrying as the next few weeks.
Grimmjow's game plan had been changed. The team knew that. And it seemed fairly minor on the outside, a few new practice runs that didn't involve Grimmjow pushing himself to the net to score as often. But the effect of that seemingly small change on the enforcer's overall game and temperament was as subtle as a sledgehammer.
It seemed that if Grimmjow was going to be told to focus on enforcing and fighting, then he was going to put his all into it. And that was quite a lot. Their very next game was just a taste of what the enforcer had in store for the league.
Grimmjow was in what his teammates would affectionately call... a mood.
The word belligerent comes from the Latin word bellum, for "war."
Well, Grimmjow didn't know that, of course. But that didn't matter.
He was playing as hard and as rough as Ichigo had ever seen him, picking fights with other players with a determined belligerence that no one wanted to confront. On ice, the enforcer was a bag of angry cats. In one game alone, Grimmjow had monster trucked five players in the first period alone.
And Grimmjow's mood had only deteriorated from there. Everyone felt his presence. It hung like a dark, ugly thing over their next few weeks of games.
Ichigo, and anyone with a clue, would agree without hesitation that he was a being a massive dick to everything and every one on the ice. In fact, it was an actual toss up regarding which was more brutal on the other players, his physical game or his mental one.
Every game, of course, was a national event, enjoyed by millions. And all recorded for posterity. The team always watched their games after the fact to get a different vantage point and spot weaknesses. And of course, to check out the delightful highlights; the action and whatever the one-ice mics picked up.
Game 1:
"Aren't you supposed to be up in the nose bleeds?" number six jeered an opposing rookie player. "Who even let you on the ice, huh? What? You gonna cry now? Fuckin' numpty. Go back home to your mother."
Game 2:
"You don't wanna get hit, move your ass, you fucking slug," he snapped, gliding away from the complaining player he'd just smeared against the boards.
Game 3:
"Get off the ice, ya faggot," he snarled loudly at another from across the ice.
Game 4:
"You thinkin' of takin' some time off? Huh?" He skated idly by the rival team's bench, egging and goading and being a royal pain in everyone's ass. "You should. You look tired."
Game 1 again:
"Yeah. Underestimate me," he nodded at the opposition after some back and forth chirping, grin genuine and mean. "That'll be fun." The fight that ensued was over quick and painfully.
None of Grimmjow's colorful dialogue was anywhere near out of the ordinary for game-time trash talking. But it was admittedly becoming... a bit much.
The problem was, they were winning their games. Grimmjow was defending everyone and everything, and penalty time or not, the team was staying healthy and looking good. And thanks to Ichigo and the others' scoring, and Grimmjow's hurt skills, they were in the playoffs.
X X X
Grimmjow collapsed into bed and closed his eyes, exhausted, bruised, and just glad to be off the road for a few days.
Despite the challenges of adjusting to his narrowed role on the team, Grimmjow was still trying to apply some of the advice he'd gotten from Urahara. If he wanted to become a high scorer, somebody worthwhile, then he had to keep focused, and that included pushing the dark thoughts out of his mind long enough to focus entirely on his game. No thoughts about him. Not during a game.
It was his shit to deal with, and on his own time.
He'd been pushing that pain out of his mind for over a year now, so he should have been a fucking expert by now.
He was trying. Fuck, he was trying. Back at the Soul Slayer's Arena, it had felt possible in the moment. But back in the real world, under the pressure of game time...
His home arena was hardest. Everywhere he turned, he saw an empty seat, a vacant chair, the place where his father would come and smile and cheer him on as often as he could at his home games.
To support him in everything he'd ever done.
Come to watch the prodigal son tear some heads.
But no. He had never come for that. Because he hated what Grimmjow did. Hated who Grimmjow was. Hated what he'd become.
That night... the night Grimmjow's world came spinning down off its axis, the rest of the world didn't stop. And the spinning had kept on going, guilt and anger woven like oily tar into the threads of his daily routine. He thought with time it might settle down, but it had never righted itself.
The world didn't understand. It had tried to in its well meaning way. But it never could.
He was a grown ass man now, and yet he felt orphaned. Deadened at the core. He'd lost the deepest of connections, that friend and guiding hand, that one special person he was supposed to brag to about his life. Each of his achievements, from boyhood, to hockey hood, to man hood. Not that he ever needed to. His pa did enough bragging to their friends about him for the both of them.
He could handle losing a hockey would always be another one. But not the man who raised him. Never his pa.
Despite being surrounded by so many people through hockey and his family's close friends, Grimmjow hadn't found a single comfortable place to turn in his darkest hour. His ma was smiling but distraught. And he did his best for her. Hugged her. Helped her always. Kept his shit together for her.
There were so many friends, so many people... with their well wishes and their sad faces.
He hadn't even tried to handle the strain. He knew he couldn't. So he'd shut down. Shut the tap off so hard that something broke.
He still hadn't cried. He'd screamed and broken some things. Many times. But afterwards, it was always the same. All he felt was an empty anger.
So many of his father's relatives and friends had flocked to them. But there wasn't a single one he wanted to share his grief with. It came with a damming truth that he didn't want to share. Because then everyone would know.
So, he buried it. Covered it over with enough angry layers of guilt to bury the pain right out of sight. But like shedding, gray corpsed hands it always clawed its way back towards the surface.
So, more dirt then. Always more dirt. And nobody's business but his.
Except for Kensei. The only person outside of his ma he'd ever muttered more than two words to about his loss. And even they didn't really talk that much about it, not in enough detail to really lay his shit bare. But Kensei had understood his loss.
He'd understood. And had always tried to fill the void. To be that shoulder of support.
Grimmjow appreciated it. For what it was worth.
A pebble in an ocean.
X X X
Their first playoff game had Grimmjow out on the ice for the first shift. And for an unconscious moment, he'd looked up into the stands, eyes and thoughts searching for the shape of a familiar figure. One that he could pick out, even in a sea of bodies. He looked away the instant he realized what he'd been doing.
He missed the times he was tough on him. Loving, because he wanted to be. Hard. Because he had to be.
It felt like a lifetime since Grimmjow had become the man of the house. Thrown into the role of leader and protector, taking care of the woman his father had loved so much. For so long.
Replacing the man he'd taken away from them both.
Replacing tempered steel with porous stone.
X X X
The buzzer to the end of the third period had been sharp and jolting.
Number six snapped into the present, then rose and filed into the tunnel with the others, wondering where the hell his head had gotten to in the dying moments of a playoff game.
