July fifteenth. Not a particularly spectacular day exactly, at least not to people who weren't born on that day. Unlike a certain orange-haired, former Visored-turned-stripper. A week of being Mr. Pink's pampered pet and he was going out of his mind. He didn't much care about the inhalers, and pills, and blood tests, and having to spend a good portion of his day cooped up in the flamboyant businessman's penthouse apartment, it helped him get ahead in his lessons after all, but he wasn't allowed to dance at the club. If he went there, he had to have one of the guy's creepy bodyguards with him at all times so he couldn't even think of dancing, not even for fun! Since Mr. Candy Man had essentially sold him to what he was beginning to assume was a mafia DON, Ichigo had danced a total of once. On the day he'd arrived. That was it. Sex was entirely off the table, not just from his end, but Mr. Pink had insisted on it. He'd had to sign a contract that was legally binding that stated if he had sexual relations with any of the people under Mr. Pink's employ or Mr. Pink himself, all of the funding was forfeit and he could face fines for defacing property and possibly even jailtime. It had blown his mind, but there really wasn't much he could do about any of it except go along with the eccentric freak of nature. But not tonight! Tonight was special and he really didn't give a shit that the gigantic blond insisted he stay home and take it easy.

Ha!

He always danced on his birthday! He'd been dancing on his birthday since before he was allowed to be paid for doing it! It hadn't always been at Candy Land, but as long as Goat Face had been letting him leave the house after dark he'd been sneaking into clubs and dancing most of the night away, at first for drinks and then later for money. All of it was under the table until last year when he'd been hired at Candy Land. Since he'd been hired on the spot, he took this ritual of being out dancing on his birthday as a serious tradition. And no towering busybody was going to interfere with it, mafia don or not!

So, after the thugs who escorted him back to his father's house that afternoon had left, he slipped around through the kitchen, up to his room and out the window in a new outfit; distressed jeans, worn threadbare and white across the tops of his thighs and the front of his knees in an uneven pattern, a relaxed three-quarter sleeve tee with DJ Snowcone's logo in different styles across the front and down the shoulders, and topped off with a pseudo-formal vest that was made specifically to pretend to be for a suit but was never really intended to match one. Across the back, though it wasn't visible under normal light, was Candy Land's logo and slogan, but seeing as how that was where he was headed, he didn't much mind that both it and the shirt were promotional wear for the dancers. He checked the calendar on his phone because if he was right in his counting DJ Snowcone would be the one on the turntables, and the short, angry, black man was Ichigo's favorite; he always chose exactly the right song to match the emotions of the performer, and it was something of a saying about the club, 'if Snowcone's on the tables, he'll make it rain cold, hard, cash'.

Mr. Pink had found out several things about Strawberry in that one, short, week. Number one. He HATED being told what to do. Number two. He was an adorable little shit but true to his word. Number three. When he really wanted to do something, nothing and nobody could stop him, physically or otherwise. Number five. He was dancing on his birthday and the businessman couldn't do a damn thing about it.

That was what led to where he was now: straddling a sleek black bike he'd borrowed from a subordinate because his own bright pink one would have stood out far too much, and waiting outside Strawberry's family home. He knew the boy was going to sneak out; it was simply a matter of following him and making sure that when he danced he didn't go down for it, or collapse.

Number four, however, was something the big man had found out about himself that he had forgotten in recent years; having everything come easily: he really... really liked a chase and coaxing around a stubborn son of a bitch. So he cruised at a distance, to keep from being obvious. He was fairly certain the young dancer wasn't going to his usual place of employment, but he didn't know him well enough yet to predict where he would go. Hence, following him, or that was what the businessman told himself to keep from being too entertained by the physical act of stalking the boy.

The ex-shinigami-daiko had no idea he was being followed, but he didn't move all that quickly either. He knew his new limitations to some extent, and if he wanted to dance, he had to pace himself. Oh, how he missed sonido. He'd have settled for ordinary flash step at that point, but there was no use mourning it. He had to be content with the trip taking nearly two hours. Again.

When Ichigo made it to the intersection before his work, he honestly debated going somewhere else, someplace where they didn't know about his health issues, and he could get on stage without too much fuss. But then he thought again about the part regarding his health issues, and rubbed his chest absently. He didn't really understand why his body was betraying him like this, and according to Mr. Pink all of his blood tests and scans had come back without trouble. Or at least, he hadn't been told anything was wrong. There obviously was something the matter with him, but he refused to think about how angry the secrets made him tonight. He hated not being told what was going on, especially when it concerned him, but this was his birthday, he didn't want to be stressed out by anything. Unfortunately though, that made up his mind for him, and he jogged lightly down the street towards the brightly flashing confectionary themed strip club.

OH. So he WAS going to... well, alright. Mr. Pink followed him, still at a distance, because he didn't dare actually pass the volatile young man. His intimidating figure, even hunched low over the bike to reduce wind resistance, was impossible to mistake. So he meandered along until Strawberry actually got into the doors, then parked and followed after.

The floor show was in full gear when the orangette slipped through the back door into the DJ booth. He cheered internally for a moment because he'd been right, then he came up and put a hand on the back of the DJ's chair. Snowcone whipped around, glaring, the lights from below dying the white 'frost' highlights in his hair multi-colors.

"The fuck are you doing here, K-Strawberry?"

For the first time since January, Ichigo's smile came easily as he spread his hands unashamed. "It's my birthday."

"Alright. Fine." The frosty DJ turned back to his mixer, "We expected you to show up anyway. You're up after Mocha. Just go get dressed. I've got you covered."

"Yes!"

He was out of the booth and down the stairs to the dressing room faster than he probably should have, but he was pumped up! This was why Candy Land was his favorite club, even on his nights off. He dressed quickly out of his street clothes into LED Tripps, net shirt, and black light reflective make-up on his lips, eyes and scattered as invisible glitter across his cheeks, shoulders and torso. He was already feeling the beat of the music, stretching himself out to the song before his own, such that by the time he was waiting in the wings, he was bouncing on his toes in the Glow Boots he had under the baggy pantlegs.

Mr. Pink had installed himself at the very back of the audience, and was enjoying the show and waiting patiently for Strawberry to come on. Even without the contract, he loved to watch that boy dance. It was bad how much he wanted to ASK him to perform, he knew; he'd promised to keep it to once or twice a week, but damn it, he wanted three dances a day and sex in between! Curse the sickness the boy had and the stress it put on him!

Mocha finished his performance with a shake of tanned asscheeks and a flirty wink over his shoulder as he bent down to pick up his shirt, then exited the stage with a strut that had the audience cheering. Then the lights cut out, and a heavy dub-step rippled through the speakers at full volume. It cut through the cheering and left dead silence in its wake. The microphone crackled and a voice broke the anticipation like a sledgehammer through glass.

"DJ SNOWCONE! IN DA HOUSE! Givin' it up! Bad Boy Berry! We gotta birthday ta celebrate, asswipes! C'mon! Lemme hear ya SCREAM IT!"

A roar followed, chanting the orangette's codename. "Straw-ber-ry! Straw-ber-ry! Straw-ber-ry!"

The music started hard, a rushing bass guitar and cymbal drumming, the first time the full set crashed, Ichigo flipped out onto the stage, and lit up from toes to his hands, spinning large glowsticks in rhythm with the synthesized choral voices. The long drawn out notes were where he bent backwards impossibly far, the lights along the edge of the catwalk glowing and bouncing off the reflective make-up he wore. His hips gyrated and he played hulahoop with the light of his spinning sticks. At another hesitation, he flipped down the long stage over his light without using his hands on the wood surface, landing on his feet twice, before falling into a full split that popped the sides of his pants to reveal the LEDs outlining the contours of his legs. Keeping the glowsticks spinning, he bent forward and rolled over to stick one boot up into the air, the zipper flying up as though he was using his mind to pull it off. In reality it was the string from his right hand glowstick, but the blacklights and shadows hid that.

He folded in half, spinning the lights out and around behind his back as his hips lifted off the stage floor. His toes touched over his head and he back-rolled up onto his feet again, the left boot mysteriously missing as the two halves of his pants flipped about his legs showing peeks of glitter-dusted asscheek and a glow-in-the-dark thong. He spun and kicked and drew the line of light down his front, casting deep shadows on his hip bones. Then turned again and wrapped the strings of the glowsticks around the pole along with his hand. He hauled himself up on it, hooking a knee around it, and spun slowly, letting the fabric flare out and then with the crossing of his other leg, he tore the long parts away, leaving only his crotch still covered in the dark fabric.

Letting gravity aid him in hanging upside down, he began to work the net shirt over his abs and pectorals, the music fast-paced and driving the speed of his strip. He slipped it down and down until it wrapped around one arm, then he flung it aside and rolled his spine from his shoulders to his hips, grinding his groin against the pole. He grasped the metal over his head, which was closer to the stage and 'walked' in midair down and around until he was upright again. A final back bend popped the button-snap fly of the left-over shorts and a juicy wiggle of his hips sent them cascading down his legs in time with the final guitar riff in the song.

Money flew onto the stage as the berry picked himself back up and the lights came on. Snowcone cut through the din of cheering with a squeal of the microphone again, "LEMME HEAR YA MAKE SOME NOISE!"

Mr. Pink was left sitting there quite stunned, as he hadn't attended the birthday show last year, and very, very uncomfortable with a wet stain inside the boxers he was glad he'd worn for a change. The sheer power of the performance had brought him to trembling awe, completely forgetting the reason he'd followed Strawberry in the first place: to keep an eye on him and be on hand in case he overexerted himself.

To his left, a certain blue-haired Visored leaned in and said, "Yeah. I know." Just loud enough that he could be heard over the din of screaming fans that Snowcone kept encouraging.

Startled just about out of his skin, the blond nearly spilled his drink. "Sh- JESUS christ Blue, don't surprise me like that," he practically hissed, bristled up. "He does this kind of performance regularly? Fuck, no wonder he's so physically exhausted."

Grimmjow shrugged and flopped into the seat next to the bigger man, sipping on his drink-an electric blue something that matched his hair. "He's always been like that though. Go big or go the fuck home. First time I met him he was so fuckin' out classed he didn't stand a chance, but he wouldn't back down an' he hasn't ever since."

"So I've learned that over the past week," Came the dry reply as the bigger man sat back a bit in his chair and watching the crowd. "Couldn't keep him from coming out here tonight."

"Ya actually tried?!" The feline laughed loudly, enough that several people nearby turned and looked at him.

The din was dying down, now that Ichigo had left the stage and a trio of pretty girls were up on the poles. 'Half time' by the regulars' standard, the point in the night where most of the headliners had gone once already, and everybody was on break for food, smokes, and hydration. In about an hour or so the ones who were dancing double or triple would start coming back out again, but for now, DJ Snowcone had some simple beats going and the extended catwalk was retracted so that those who were adventurous enough could get up and dance for themselves. There was always a small crowd of teenyboppers and ravers that insisted that they could make the uncoordinated bouncing the whole lot of them did into something worth watching, but really all it did was give everyone else in the club a chance to cool down.

"I have to keep up appearances," the other defended, pouting. "I can't let the boy know he can walk all over me, he's only been in my company a week!" Movement up on the stage made him look up, and his face crinkled in disgust. "Oh for the love of- ick. I dance better than that, fuck's sake. Will Strawberry dance again or can I wait outside for him to leave?"

"Nah, on his birthday they'll take him out back, give him a shot or two, celebrate his dance. Mocha baked him a cake last y-"

A scratch over the record cut through Grimmjow's words, and one of the Flavors screamed over the din of the club, "PLEASE TELL ME ONE OF YOU IS A DOCTOR!?"

The big man swore, flipping out his cell phone and thankful he'd called in a favor tonight. "You're in the club?"

"Already moving. Call the rescue squad, Pop; I've got my bag to make him stable but if it's as bad an attack as I think it is, I'll need hospital equipment."

"Shit. Alright, go." Mr. Pink snapped the phone shut and opened it again to dial nine-one-one. "Go to him, Blue- my son is already on it. Go with him."

From among the crowd, a man in a peculiar hat had gotten up, a heavy duffel back on his shoulder. "I'm a doctor- let me through! Take me to the patient!"

The blunette was already moving, and ducked through two people to flash step through the door at the back. Mocha was holding Ichigo to his chest, Vanilla and Chai fanning him with a couple notebooks. Licorice had the door Grimmjow and the doctor came through, closing it behind them both quickly so that none of the club patrons could see what was going on. Mr. Candy Man's voice was muffled through the stage curtains, apologizing for the ruckus and offering coupons to make up for the delay in performances. Coconut stood in the background, holding Tutti Fruitti, and DJ Snowcone was hanging off the ladder that was the secondary entrance to his booth.

The orangette, in the middle of everything, was unconscious.

The doctor started working right away, checking pulse, vitals, grabbing things out of his bag and working to get the man his father had agreed to look after stable enough for a ride to the hospital. He put on gloves and got to work, having him moved to the couch and laid flat just in case he needed chest compressions. Everything checked out as normal. Pulse was steady, blood pressure was good, he was a tad dehydrated, but otherwise, there seemed to be nothing wrong. Except he had a fever and was sweating. The paramedics, when they arrived, hooked him up with saline IV, and went over what had happened with the dark haired young doctor who'd been on scene. In the end, he was diagnosed with acute exhaustion, and discharged.

So, when the former Visored woke again, he was in his own bed, in his own room, in his own house, and extremely confused. He frowned, looking about the place, trying to piece together what had happened and why he felt like he had an elephant laying on his chest. A flash of blue caught his attention; curled up against his side, Grimmjow was sleeping, his lower half seated in Ichigo's desk chair, and his upper half pillowed partly on his arms, partly on the orangette's chest, his ear pressed up against his ex-lover's heart as though he had to hear it beating in order to sleep soundly.

For a while he resisted, but the stress lines carved between sky blue eyebrows and habit brought his fingers up to comb through the matching bangs. The gesture was bittersweet. He knew without a doubt when the man awoke things would go back to the current status quo. Since his performance in Candyman Grimmjow had kept his distance. As though after months of relentless chasing the feline Visored had finally gotten the message that he and Ichigo were over; something the orangette wasn't sure he actually wanted anymore. Especially since it now meant that he didn't have the blunette showing up at random moments right when he needed him. He looked down at his former lover and found himself sighing.

The motion of his chest disturbed the sleeping cat, and after a couple blinks, Grimmjow bolted upright, embarrassed, "Uhh… you… we… it wasn't…"

He sounded nervous and Ichigo immediately decided that wasn't a good look for the former Espada. So he waved him off and tried to pull the larger man back down again only to find all the strength his arms could muster wasn't even enough to get the other to flinch.

"It's fine, c'mere."

Silence stretched between them when another tug was no more effective than the first. Grimmjow did his best to avoid looking directly at his ex-lover, even as Ichigo found himself trying o catch the blunette's eyes. It created a tension that grew heavier with every passing moment.

Eventually the redhead gave up. He flopped back onto his pillows with an exasperated breath and flung his arm over his eyes. As such, he didn't see Grimmjow's attention snapping to him with a thousand words trapped behind his stubborn pride.

Another minute passed before they both began to speak at the same time.

"I—"

"Did—"

Burning amber over weary shadows met electric blue under heavy brows. Something that Ichigo would have attributed to his inner Hollow two years ago passed between them. An electric sensation that had them both breathless.

Grimm, more used to the reactions his instincts forced on his body, recovered faster, "I should go."

He didn't even wait for the former shinigami to respond, he was already moving out of the room, his leather jacket from the back of the chair in his hands. His claws tore at the collar, and he hunched his shoulders, dejected, defeated, like life had battered away at his spirit in a way that Hueco Mundo never had. The blunette barely looked like himself and it tore at Ichigo's insides. This was not the man he'd fought and loved! This man, who had worked under the most despicable soul the four realms had ever seen; who'd been taught from the beginning that all he had to do was keep fighting; who had survived the worst that Hollows and Shinigami alike could throw at him; who had earned the respect of the self-proclaimed Last Quincy; and in the end, who had secured himself a permanent place in Ichigo's heart… He had no business looking like that.

"You're hiding something."

The blunette turned, a frown creasing his brow. Ichigo was sitting up, the blanket that had been covering him pooled in his lap, leaving him bare from the waist up save for the classic number 6 hanging around his neck. The sun caught it and Grimmjow tracked the glint like his tiny domesticated cousins.

"Dunno what yer talkin' about." He shrugged, affecting nonchalance.

"No." The orangette glared, pushing himself to the edge of the bed, "Don't play games with me. I can tell when you're lying."

"It's not worth talking about."

The feline Visored forcibly tore his gaze from his ex, focusing instead on the tiny model globe on the desk beside him. He tapped it with a finger, making it spin, his pupils dilating as he followed the movement with the same attention he would give when stalking prey.

Ichigo pouted angrily, "Of course not. Why would I want to talk to you about anything? It's not like I haven't been human all my life. Or the possibility that whatever it is might involve me. Because you make all the decisions here, never once considering your boyfriend's opinion on the matter!"

"Yer not."

Amber eyes flashed with gold as they blew wide, "What?!"

Grimmjow turned to him, the weariness from before was back, "I said yer not. Ya ain't m'boyfriend."

The former Espada frowned as the younger man wilted, a bubbling anger rising through his exhaustion to burn hotly on his face.

"Ya kicked me out. Told me ta get lost. Said ya couldn't handle datin' somebody who acted like a tomcat 'roun a buncha queens in heat. So, no, it ain't worth talkin' 'bout."

"Now wait just a minute Grimm—"

"Why?!" Grimmjow cut him off, taking a stance similar to his days as the Sexta, "So ya can lecture me 'bout how humans work? I'm good thanks. Group a lazy, self-centered, greedy, animals. Ya think ya've got that market cornered? That cuz I ain't got a heart I can't learn? Fuck ya, Shinigami! I didn't spend m'whole afterlife survivin' just ta be beaten by some filthy herdbeasts with a superiority complex!"

Ichigo was stunned into silence and he was sure when the shock wore off his was going to be furious, but for now all he could do was gape at the blue-haired menace.

Who was talking again, "Ya've been fuckin' special since the first fuckin' I laid eyes on ya. I gave ya shit I ain't never given anybody else. And all I asked fer in return was freedom. Away from meddlin' Shinigami wantin' ta poke their noses inta m'life. The rest of it was just icin'. But ya can't practice what ya preach, ya say I c'n do what I want but then turn 'round and say I can't. And when I do it anyway, cuz ya fuckin' knew I was gonna, with er without ya agreein', when I do it anyway, ya flip out at me like ya actually expected me ta follow the rules. I ain't a housepet, Shinigami, and ya shouldn't expect me ta act like one."

When it seemed like he'd drawn to a close, Ichigo gathered his thoughts. The blunette was lashing out. Why, other than their run around game, the former Visored couldn't understand, but he was certain, more so than he had ever been before, that all of this was bluster for something. A cover for some pain too deep for the retired Arrancar to accurately articulate. Surprisingly, this knowledge drained his anger, letting a flood of something akin to pity wash over him like a soothing shower. He pushed himself up to stand, a hand resting lightly on the larger man's chest. They both stared at it like they weren't sure why it was there, then Ichigo looked up.

"What's this really about, Grimm?"

The big man's mouth sagged and his shoulders dropped as his hand came up to cover Ichigo's and press it closer to the heart he did indeed have, no matter how he tried to deny it. "...I can't fight sickness, Ichi. A disease ain't a hollow I can tear t'shreds or a shinigami I c'n eat alive. Yer hurtin' an' I can't do anythin', an' ya don' wan' me around. I dunno what t'do with m'self." He huffed, a sharp, unhappy noise more of disgust than anything else. "What good's it bein' free when everythin' I really want ain't there fer me t'have?"

"What if... would..."

The former Visored bit his lip, stepping closer with a hesitant shake in his movements. He searched his ex's face, worry, concern, and no small amount of want evident in the spaces between the valleys carved out by sickness.

His voice cracked when he spoke again, "And if you could have it?"

The feline managed a tiny, lopsided, almost-smile. "Then I don't think I'd mind settlin' down. I mean, I've gotten a taste o' what it's like...an' I found what I really desire. An' I don' settle for less than th'best, eh? Even when it's more'n I deserve." His eyes were soft; hurt.

"No more drugs. No more sleeping around. If you want other partners you talk to me first. We'll work it out. Okay?"

Ichigo found himself surprisingly nervous-what if Grimm had already found something else, what if he wouldn't accept those terms, what if he did and he broke them again-a thousand questions rattled around in his head, and internally he cursed as he felt exhaustion draining his muscles again. The hand against the blunette's shirt gripped the fabric tightly, the tension clear that he was holding himself up only through sheer willpower.

"I think that sounds...good. Th'drugs...ehh, I don't like 'em all that much anyway. Makes me nervous when m'senses ain't peak. An' I don' really need anyone else. Talkin' ta you first seems like somethin' I could do," he agreed; a bit too easily. Then again, knowing what he knew, he... didn't really want to sleep around anymore anyway.

Grimmjow's arms came around his waist in the steady, firm, strong hold Ichigo knew so well. If he was suspicious, the orangette didn't have the endurance to think on it, as he gladly took strength from his-well, his boyfriend. It brought a smile to his lips and he closed his eyes, almost against his will, leaning heavily into the embrace.

He hummed, listening to the blunette's heartbeat, "S'good...missed you."

The Arrancar nuzzled into orange hair, then picked him up and took him back to bed, sliding in with him to share heat, inhaling his scent like it was the last breath he'd ever take. "Missed you too, Kitten."

"This sucks."

Ichigo's words were garbled, the frustration of the situation clear through the fact that he rolled up so that he was laying on top of his tomcat, his nose buried in the center of Grimmjow's chest and his body curled up as tightly inside the larger man's arms as he could get. Had he more thought to put into the process he'd have realized that he was reacting to instincts he usually tamped down behind his mental image of 'humanity', but he was tired, worn thin by the constant ups and downs over course of the past year, and more than the physical wasting away, he didn't have the attention he needed to maintain such fallacies.

He mumbled, "Dun like bein' sick."

Grimmjow flinched. "...Me either, Ichi."