This is unedited - forgive any mistakes. I've decided not to have a beta reader/editor, I just want to get the chapters out as soon as I write them because god knows getting them out takes long enough as it is! lmfao.

I do not own Bleach.


The moment he stepped out of the plane doors and into the warm, sterilized air, he knew he had made the right decision. The knowledge that within a few hours he would be home again - home, a word he had not used in years - immediately calmed his restless soul. Even the sidelong glances at his hair, the muttered comments about his height and his ethnicity seemed to matter less. So what if other people doubted who or what he was? Ichigo knew who he was.

Even after running, abandoning his home and his family, he knew who he was. The memories he nursed, cradled in his broken heart, ensured that.

As soon as he heard the rhythm of his native Japanese being spoken around him, the chaos of the last few weeks stilled and he shivered in anticipation of seeing his sisters again. His father. His hometown, his childhood friends. It had taken the painful separation of leaving his home for Ichigo to see through the fog of grief and anger, to reach into the depths of his strength and resilience. Of course it might have been easier if he'd stayed, but Ichigo had never chosen the easier path. He knew he liked to make things harder on himself, for no other reason than a perverse part of him enjoyed seeing himself suffer.

"You're a masochist, clearly," Rukia had said.

The conversation with her had been eye-opening. Ichigo had not actively avoided contact with his oldest friends, but he had never had more than a ten-minute phone conversation with anyone since he had left. Though they were not exactly face-to-face, Rukia on the screen had looked just like Rukia in person. Her steely eyes were still just as sharp and searching. He'd felt as though she was dissecting him.

"Stop staring at me like that."

"I can't help it! You've changed so much. Maybe if we had video-called more I wouldn't have to."

Guilt shot through the irritation. "Sorry."

Rukia huffed. "Enough of that! You know I don't mean anything by it. I just wanted to talk more."

"I know," he said. "That's why I'm sorry. I didn't."

Her gaze softened. "Well...that, I can understand. It's just been so long since I saw your face. Everyone misses you."

At that, he tried to smile.

"So what did you want to talk about?"

"I'm coming back."

"Good," she said, not missing a beat. "You need to stop running away."

It had hurt, but only because it was true. Rukia had never lied to him, and he knew she wouldn't start lying to him now.

Ichigo thought telling her everything that happened during the last few months would have been more difficult, but he had forgotten how easy it was to get along with Rukia. Though they hadn't spoken properly in years, the words came as freely as though they saw each other every day.

"Home will be good for you. We need to catch up. You obviously need to talk about...whatever is bothering you." She had obviously not missed his downcast gaze and forced attempts to smile.

The thought of talking about all that had happened dampened his good mood somewhat. A large stone of nerves and anxiety sat heavily in his stomach. He barely noticed passing through border control or the wait between picking up his luggage and the train journey home. His blank gaze sat upon the window while beyond the concrete jungle of Tokyo transformed into wider suburban houses, further and further apart until all of a sudden they were passing rice paddies and slipping through mountains. He sat up, eyes clearing. Sudden homesickness made his chest clench tight.

London had had its similarities to Tokyo; they were both cities, after all. But he had never seen such countryside in England. It was spring, and he had arrived just in time to see the cherry blossoms flower, adoring the fields in snowy puffs of delicate color. Petals were already fluttering in the breeze. There had been some trees here and there in the city, but here they lay twisting in one long ribbon alongside the train track. People were murmuring and taking pictures with their phones; the low chatter, the hum of the train, the sight of fragile white-pink flowers that since childhood had symbolized a fresh start, eventually smoothed away the tremors of anticipation that made his fingers twitch.

He would see Yuzu and Karin again. His father. He would walk those streets after so long - how would it feel? His excitement was reviving. He already knew what he wanted to eat first, watch first - but no, he needed to take a bath before he did anything else. Baths were different in the west, long and shallow and uncomfortable to lie in, and he hated them. He wondered whether to ask Yuzu to cut his hair or not.

Ichigo had never known how much he had missed his family. He had thrown himself into his new life in London, his new job, learning a language that irritated and enticed him in equal measure even as its intricacies escaped his grasp. It was an easy language to learn but difficult to master, and no amount of schoolwork and self study had prepared him for the incomprehensible accents, the speed with which people talked, the countless slang words - he had been so overwhelmed, but devoted himself to studying, spending sleepless nights in the office where he worked as an assistant until Rose had gently reminded him that he was no longer in Japan.

"It isn't for work", Ichigo had said, "this is for me."

He knew he had determination in spades. He had been determined not to miss his family. He knew that he was going back, at some point; they all knew that. So what point would there be missing them?

But he knew the truth. If he started thinking about his family, his thoughts inevitably turned towards someone else.

It had been easy at first, to run, to hide, to delve into his fresh new world. Hundreds of languages and cultures wove into one another to create the rich tapestry that was London, and he had reveled in it. He had always been considered different, an outsider in his native country but here, being an outsider was the norm. It was celebrated, it was called being an individual. He could be himself. There were no stares at his hair, comments about his height and his face, whispered arguments from even children about whether or not he was a gangster. Ichigo had never felt such freedom, and he drowned himself in it, so deeply he had almost forgotten where he had come from and what he was running away from.

Almost, but not quite.

So many of his friends from London had tattoos. It was seen as art in the West, not shunned or made taboo, and he had been obsessed. He had attended sessions with friends getting tattooed and spent the entire time flicking through portfolios and magazines. Over time the idea persisted; he had told Rukia, and she had warned him that he couldn't go to onsen anymore if he did it. He did it anyway.

The skin on his chest prickled. His fingers pressed against the lines of ink hidden by his clothes. Ichigo could see those blue eyes everywhere, the color haunting him. It was in the sky, reflected in the water.

Stupid of him, really. If he had really wanted to forget Grimmjow, he wouldn't have gotten the tattoo. The pain had subsided into a low, dull ache that he cradled in his shaking hands. He felt it in his chest, tremors shaking the fault lines of ink that remained deep and brilliant as though they had been laid down the day before. He could have forgotten Grimmjow as easily as he could forget his mother.

The sky was darkening; light reflected off the windows and turned them into mirrors. Ichigo saw himself gazing into the middle distance, hand pressed to his chest, and he quickly put it on his lap. He had zoned out but noted with relief that they hadn't gotten to his stop yet. When they did, he took what little luggage he had and stepped onto the platform.

Warm, balmy evening air met him with the sound of the cicada. Nostalgia almost knocked the breath out his lungs. The train slid away behind him. He didn't notice. Nothing had changed - the benches, the flower beds, even the vending machines were still were they always had been. He could see bikes parked in long rows; he heard the distant susurrus of cars. The mountains looked the same. Even the air tasted as it always had.

He was home.

"Ichigooooo!"

Before he had time to turn around a pair of arms wrapped around him from behind; he dropped and rolled back, getting into stance and barely blocking a kick to the head before taking a hold of the offending leg and twisting, a little more viciously than needed.

His father squealed, a crumpled heap on the ground. "A devastating defence and counterattack! My precious son, I was just checking you hadn't gotten rusty, obviously you are sharp as ever! Daddy admits defeat! You can let go of him now!"

"Goatface, I thought we agreed - not in public!" Out of nowhere Karin was suddenly beside him and yelling at their father, shocking Ichigo out of doing almost exactly the same thing.

"I can't believe this," she said. "You still haven't grown up? How old are you now, fifty-something?"

Isshin's eyes were tearful. "Beautiful raven-haired Karin-chan, ask your strong brave brother to let go of daddy's legs, this is most unnecessary..."

"You should, Ichi-nii," Yuzu said, also appearing out of nowhere. "People are staring."

Ichigo left his father sobbing on the ground to embrace his sisters. He didn't know why people were staring. Surely the entire town by now knew that his father was a madman.

He noted with surprise how tall Yuzu and Karin had gotten. Their arms were tight around him. He let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, and his shoulders relaxed. For the first time in what seemed like a while, a smile came naturally.

Ichigo insisted on driving them home, intent on showing off his driving skills. Luckily the English drove on the same road as the Japanese, but he ended up getting lost halfway through the twisting, nameless streets in his native Karakura. Frazzled by Karin's shouted directions, Isshin's attempts to grab the wheel out of Ichigo's hands and his own short temper, a shouting match ensued between him, his father and Karin until Yuzu had been forced to take the wheel.

The day couldn't get any worse, he thought. Not only had most of his luggage failed to follow him from London to Tokyo, he had almost ran an elderly couple over and now, searching through his pockets, he found that his keys had disappeared, before remembering that they had been in his other suitcase – the one he didn't have. He sighed irritably.

"Guys, you have keys to the house right? Please don't tell me all three of you forgot. Again."

A pause.

"Of course we do! Well...someone does." Isshin looked at his two daughters hopefully.

Karin scowled. "I'm insulted by the fact that you would even think I'd forget, Ichi-nii. It's a good thing none of take after dad much."

"You take after him enough to forget to bring essential items when you go out though. Worringly often."

"I used to," Karin countered, "but when you went away we didn't have anyone sad enough who just stayed home and studied all the time to let us in, so obviously I learned to bring my keys with me."

"You are such a salty little asshole today," Ichigo muttered, but he couldn't help the grin spreading on his face. He had missed this.

Karin was grinning too. The journey passed in companionable silence, until they reached the house and Isshin erupted in glee, dancing with delight at the fact that Masaki (or rather, the giant poster of her on the kitchen wall) would finally see her son again and the family would be together. Ichigo had rather wanted to pull out his keys and open the front door for himself, but instead he waited impatiently as both Karin and Yuzu rooted around in their purses or pockets, until Isshin remembered they kept a spare spare key under a flowerpot in the garden. At that, Ichigo insisted on being the one to open the door.

When he slid the key into the lock, twisted and pushed it was almost shocking how familiar the motions were. As if he had never left this town, as if he had opened this door just the day after coming back from school. He stepped in and slipped off his shoes. The house smelled exactly the same. The shadows cast on the floor were the same. He breathed in deeply.

A hand weighed upon his shoulder, and Ichigo turned to see his father smiling at him.

"Welcome home, son," said Isshin.


Several weeks before

He twirled the bottle between his fingers restlessly. He could feel curious stares and heard muttered comments. They were all wondering why he had come here, he the loner, the outcast. How very familiar it seemed! Only a few short years ago he had lived this reality in high school, and it seemed he was doomed to repeat it.

In the dim light the set of his shoulders appeared threatening as he hunched over the bartop. All around him he could hear gossip and complaints about work, their supervisors, the customers, overtime, holidays, kids, boringness boringness boringness. He stifled the urge to smash the glass bottle on the ground, just because.

What a horrible place. Why had he chosen to come there?

A sudden flash of orange, and his heart convulsed.

Ah. That's why.

The beer was warm and tasteless and made him scowl. Grimmjow had never been a big drinker, mostly thanks to endless summers during childhood being forced to taste the latest wine or craft beer his father had attempted to make. That obsession had lasted quite a while.

A sudden movement and Grimmjow forgot the beer. They were moving. Leaving.

He dumped a handful of cash on the bartop and tried to discreetly follow them out. He pulled a hat over his hair, wrapped a scarf around his chin and neck and pulled up the collar of his long winter coat, thanking the bitterly cold weather. Outside, the air glittered with frost. Even through the scarf his breath gusted out in a cloud. Side-stepping and sneaking, he followed them.

Not that it was difficult. He had expected nothing from Ichigo, knowing how oblivious he was in general, but he had expected different of Nel and especially Abarai. He knew for a fact Nel was sharp as a tack, and Abarai being the high-flying celebrity he was now should have known better than to just wear a hideous scarf and sunglasses (acceptable nowhere in winter except the ski slope, in Grimmjow's opinion) and expect to pass incognito in the city.

The three of them weren't too far ahead. Snatches of Japanese conversation drifted back to Grimmjow, peppered with German and English words or phrases. They seemed comfortable with each other, laughing and joking, and seeing Ichigo's mouth quirk in a sardonic smile caused a twinge of something bittersweet in him. He remembered the feel of that mouth against him, those lips against his.

When he first saw Ichigo, Grimmjow had almost had a heart attack. He had power-walked to the nearest toilet cubicle and sat, chewing at his fingernails as he ran over what he had just seen over and over in his head: the office cafeteria, where he worked as a part time chef, full of people he saw every day – with the addition of one person he didn't, who, for some reason, stuck out like a sore thumb. They were tall, with their back to him and a hood covering their hair but the lines of that body had screamed at him, alarm bells in his head deafening him as that stranger had turned to greet another, who pulled down his hood playfully before embracing him with a loud squeal.

"Ichy-goooo!"

Grimmjow's mouth went dry at the memory. Blood was rushing in his ears. He couldn't see, or hear, anything else but that one person. Same brown eyes, same orange hair, but things had changed. The hair was long and shaggy, and Ichigo had filled out a little more since high school, although even then he had been pretty ripped for a teenager. But the lankiness, the discomfort in his body, the self-consciousness had gone. Grimmjow's memories had been of a boy; here, now, he was seeing a man.

Those eyes though. What is it about his eyes? They had always haunted him, even since they'd been children. Now, they looked sadder, even as he smiled and hugged Nel after what appeared to be a long separation. It begged further questions: of all the places, why there? Why then? Why?

He picked the skin around his fingers, a habit he had picked up in lieu of smoking, desperately wishing for a cigarette. The cafeteria wasn't busy; they could spare him for five minutes. His body was on high alert as he walked to the staff entrance, next to which was the smoking area. Every muscle and nerve was thrumming with tension and he caught himself staring at every person who passed, hoping yet fearing. It wasn't until Grimmjow arrived outside that he realised he didn't even have any cigarettes.

Familiar voices murmured, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. His heart was equal parts terrified and overjoyed. He turned, and the first thing he saw was Ichigo standing next to Nel, exhaling smoke with a cigarette in his hand.

Flooded with outrage, Grimmjow froze. He couldn't believe his eyes.

"Oi!"

They both turned to look at him and the moment they met his gaze square on an icicle of pure fear stabbed his heart. Idiot, idiot!

Grimmjow had never been particularly good at damage control, He opened his mouth and the words stumbled out, "Can I bum a cigarette off one of you guys?"

It came out in German. Ichigo glanced at him questioningly before turning to Nel, who translated. Ichigo nodded and moved towards him, pulling out a cigarette from a pack and holding it towards him. Grimmjow took it, barely daring to breathe. His hand was shaking. His heart was pounding. Reckless. Idiot. Stupid. So much time and effort and trouble to go through all of this, change his name and identity, strip it all away to leave a shadow of a man, but one look at those brown eyes and he felt his whole body trembling.

He wanted to move closer. He wanted to grab the hand that was offering that cigarette and tuck it underneath his arm, pull Ichigo close and breathe in the scent of his hair. It felt like his body was being peeled away from the inside out, layers of ecstasy and agony, and it hurt.

I can't believe he smokes, he thought, taking the cigarette and holding it between his lips, all that shit he gave me for so many years and now look at him. What a little asshole.

Ichigo stepped closer, raising a lighter and cupping a hand around Grimmjow's mouth. At this distance the butterflies in his stomach became riotous. He thought he was going to throw up. What in the names of all the gods in the sky was he doing? What was he doing?

A small flame flared up, and lit Ichigo's face. There were shadows under his eyes. His face looked drawn. But in his eyes, Grimmjow could see that strange combination of steel and tenderness he had never understood was still there. Those eyes flicked up to look at him, and he immediately turned away.

"Thanks," he grunted, inhaling deeply and stepping back. His throat burned and he could already feel the nicotine buzz. Fighting the urge to huddle against the wall to avoid being seen, he thought again about his new resolution to stop running, to stop hiding. Ichigo had been the one to inspire all of this bravery, and Grimmjow refused to act like a coward in front of him.

He settled on leaning against it casually, ducking his head down to conceal his face. As he took measured inhales of the cigarette his mind raced. What could it mean, that Ichigo was with Nel? Was it mere coincidence that they would all be in the same place here and now? They were talking, but too lowly for him to eavesdrop.

A new thought struck him suddenly: Barragan.

His blood chilled. It was too dangerous for Ichigo to be here. If a former ally of Aizen Sousuke hadn't been safe all the way on the other side of the world, then neither would a Japanese boy with orange hair that could probably be seen from the other side of the world.

During the murmured conversation between Ichigo and Nel a familiar name dropped and his ears perked up.

"...see how Renji's doing, before I go back. It's been a while since we..."

The cigarette was almost done. It went against smoker etiquette to ask for another from the same person, but there was no one else there. He could only stay a few short seconds more, but stalled, dragging his feet to the trash can standing between him and the other two. An insistent urge was propelling him to find out what Ichigo was doing, where he would be going next. If Hirako Shinji didn't know Ichigo was here, then Grimmjow would be the only one who could protect him, and he strained his ears in an attempt to hear more. No more running, he reminded himself, no more running.

"I know a place we could all go," he heard Nel murmur, "People go there after work. They won't know him there. Where did you say you were meeting him?"

Ichigo mumbled the name of an unfamiliar train station. They were meeting there in an hour, he explained, did Nel want to come with him?

"I have work..." she said apologetically, and that was all Grimmjow needed to hear. He quickly threw the crushed cigarette butt into the trash can before nodding a quick thanks to Ichigo and turning on his heel.

"Wait!"

It was spoken in Japanese but he stopped automatically. A second later he felt a hand on his shoulder – the touch was light and delicate, but still firm. He knew whose hand it was. He didn't want to turn around, but he did anyway and when he saw Nel smiling up at him his stomach somersaulted. He didn't dare speak a word, choosing to frown at her quizzically.

She nodded in Ichigo's direction. "He wants to give you his cigarettes. He's trying to give up."

Grimmjow looked to see Ichigo holding out his pack in offering. It was crumpled and looked half empty, but he took it anyway. If only Ichigo knew who he was giving this to – the irony of the situation was almost too much. If only he knew.

"Thanks," he grunted in German, fist closing around the battered pack.

"You're welcome," Ichigo replied in German too, and Grimmjow looked at him with surprise. A small smirk curled Ichigo's mouth. Grimmjow bit down on his lips to stop himself from doing the same and nodded again, stuffing the cigarettes in a pocket before leaving.

An hour, he had an hour. He needed to be at that train station. Perhaps he could finish work early. He needed to contact Hirako, contact Shawlong and update them. Something like this should not have slipped under their radar. Though it had a few years now, he allowed, and maybe they had all gotten complacent before Barragan. Before the other attacks. But now was not the time for complacency, nor was it the time for running – he had just promised himself to become the hunter he should have always been. This time, he wouldn't leave it up to anyone to do what he should have done years ago.