Hey! Sorry I haven't updated in a while! School started again. XD

-actually finishing this in french class haaaaaaa-

oh well. Enjoy y'all!

Grimmjow picks up another pebble, balancing it on the pad of his thumb and using his fingernail to flick it away from him. It plops satisfyingly into the scummy river before him. He doesn't know why he's so angry, really. It didn't make sense to be angry. Everything had gone exactly according to plan, honestly. Seventh Division's grounds bordered the Academy's, where there was a runoff stream that flowed out of the Seireitei entirely. Grimmjow had never noticed it before until he joined Seventh Division. It wasn't a special place or anything, but it was certainly a private one if you picked the right time of day.

Somewhere in the center of the Seireitei, in a great big meeting room, all of the captains and their lieutenants were there to watch the handing over of power from Tetsuzaemon Iba to Kurosaki Ichigo.

Well, almost all. Grimmjow was here, and had been here since before the sun even came up. He'd felt Ichigo arrive, would know the scent of that reiatsu anywhere. His senses feel dull, now that he knows the difference. He can't see as well as he used to, or smell or taste or anything. He had a hunter's senses. Now… Now, he doesn't know what he has. It makes it all the more pathetic that he has been bested by Ichigo not once but several times.

Remembering everything was not a blessing. It was not the great eye-opening he thought it would be. If he could choose, he would have left all of his memories behind, in the past, where they fucking belong.

Remembering everything was remembering the death of his fracción. Remembering was remembering loneliness. In the endless wastes, there had only been him, for so long. His first memory is waking up on sand, his paws sinking into it at first before he learned how to walk lightly, like a hunter. And then it was survival, every day.

Weakness was inexcusable. Weakness, vulnerability, injury, it all amounted to the same thing: death. In all that time, Grimmjow had never been injured. Naturally, from the first moment, it seemed that every other being was duller than he was. Slower, weaker, deserving of being devoured. With every hunt, every meal, he could feel himself getting stronger. Rising above.

He remembers the cold nights, walking endlessly, sleeping on his paws because stopping was death. Every Hollow was different, some could fly and some could dig, and if you stopped you could find death coming for you from either above or below. If you kept moving, you couldn't be surprised. He remembers the hot days, the sun punishing and relentless. But he'd never felt thirst except for that of another's blood. He remembers the hunger, constant and persistent.

He remembers meeting Shawlong, and the rest. The memory of taking a bite out of Di Roy provokes a laugh from somewhere deep inside Grimmjow, but it sounds bitter and harsh to his own ears. Shawlong had convinced him to be calm, to work together with the other Adjuchas. Shawlong, Edrad, Yylfordt, Nakeem, Di Roy… Rag tag didn't even begin to describe them.

Grimmjow was never sure of Shawlong's motivations. At the beginning, it was clear that Grimmjow was stronger than all of them. Had he hoped for a protector? Someone to chase away those they could not defend themselves against? Shawlong had always been so down-to-earth. He told Grimmjow they all hoped to reach Vasto Lorde, but from the first moment that had been an impossibility for Di Roy, at least.

Did you know then that it was impossible for you, too?

Guessing does no good.

Grimmjow remembers meeting Aizen, remembers trying to hunt him. That had been a mistake—Aizen was stronger than all of them put together. Freshly arrived in Hueco Mundo, Aizen had had a plan even then.

And it was Shawlong who made the sacrifice. Shawlong, who despite his ever-calm demeanour was just as hungry as the rest of them. After Grimmjow had taken a bite of each of them, added their power to his own—

You felt your growth stop, too, don't lie. I know when you lie.

Shawlong must have seen it as his only chance. So he was willing to take the risk. Grimmjow remembers the last look back before Shawlong tore off his own mask. The scream that came after. He remembers how eager he was—Shawlong was the first, taking the number 11, and he had been so eager to be next. Shawlong had survived and that had been good enough for Grimmjow, had been all the proof he needed.

Tearing off the mask had been hard. He remembers the struggle—should he use his teeth? How would he even do that? He had used his hind legs in the end, rolling onto his back so his belly was to the sky (he remembers the fear, then, at that,) and bracing himself with his tail he'd kicked at his own face with his sharp hind claws. The pain had been too much for Shawlong, who had stopped when he still had a good three-quarters of his face left. Grimmjow had been determined to do better.

He'd torn away his own face until only his jaw was left before the pain was overwhelming.

He remembers lying in the sand, gasping, blood coating his face and making it feel cold and wet, the pain so all-consuming that it even eclipsed the hunger for just a moment.

And then he had stood on weak and shaky legs, legs he was unfamiliar with. He had been taller, too, and hands… Hands had been interesting to figure out. He remembers Aizen's smile, and his lips as they formed the word twelve, gifting Grimmjow with his first number.

Edrad next, eager to prove his strength. He had done more than Grimmjow had, but that was perhaps because he just grabbed his own fucking face with both hands and ripped in one movement. Grimmjow snorts—Edrad had been sobbing on the sand after that, wailing like a baby. It hadn't been a laughing matter then, with Grimmjow trying to hide his own ineptness at simply walking.

Nakeem, number fourteen. Nakeem, who imitated Shawlong in everything that he did, a simple Gillian when they were all together. He'd never even advanced to Adjuchas. He'd had to have Shawlong tear his mask off for him, bracing one hand underneath it and the other hand on top, cracking it neatly in half. Everything Shawlong had done was neat.

Yylfordt, nervous but brave. Bitter, joking about how I'll show Szayel who's better as he braced his horns against a boulder. Delighted to find that he had a pretty face under his mask and disappointed when Szayelapporo managed to rip off more than he did, but always proud that he was older. How Grimmjow had pittied his pettiness.

And Di Roy. Grimmjow sighs. Di Roy. Arrogant, cocky. Embarrassed. He'd never managed to get as much off as the rest of them, and worn the bandages covering the scar Grimmjow gave him for the rest of his life.

They had all taught him something, in the aftermath. As they learned how to fight with swords instead of their bodies, as they learned how to inhabit different bodies. Shawlong had taught him the value of analysis, taught him to have a sharp eye for the subtleties of an opponent in battle. Edrad, honor. Nakeem, a cool head. Yylfordt, vanity. Di Roy, how to enjoy a kill.

Grimmjow remembers long afternoons with Shawlong, who showed him how to fight with a sword, saying it wasn't too different than what he was used to with his fingers from being an Adjuchas. The lectures he would have to endure during it all. He remembers just sitting while Shawlong explained how Grimmjow's fingers worked and why they wouldn't move the way he wanted them to unless he broke his fucking hand to do it. It had been Shawlong who taught him how to walk, holding his elbow, catching him around the waist when he stumbled.

Shawlong was the only one who dared touch him. The only one who obeyed his orders without question, the only one who could get away with talking back without fear of injury and used the advantage sparsely and with respect.

Shawlong had always been the voice of calm reason. Had always given flawless advice. Had always seen the king in Grimmjow, the ability to rise to the top.

He remembers feeling each of their reiatsus being snuffed out, one by one by one, merciless and irreversible.

Grimmjow swallows and finds his throat is tighter than he expected it to be.

He wishes Shawlong were here now. He'd never appreciated his advice before. What would he say now, seeing his king preparing to bow to another? When Grimmjow had never bowed to Aizen, to anyone. Had he ever even been a king? Five subjects hardly made him royalty. He'd always demanded obedience and enforced it with violence when he could, but did that a king make? Grimmjow didn't know anymore.

You are weak.

"I didn't ask you." He kicks Pantera, which previously had been leaning against the tree Grimmjow was sitting under. It falls, hitting the ground with a sort of satisfying thud.

At least it goes silent, too.

Grimmjow is hiding his reiatsu, and it's evening before he scoops up Pantera and heads to his rooms. He doesn't like being out at night, where the sky is black and it makes the ground look blacker and then he's in some kind of void. At least Hueco Mundo had some contrast.

The sun has lit up his quarters orange, and Shoga greets him at the door, tails waving and expectant. Grimmjow ignores him, going and sitting at his desk instead. He didn't see anyone in the halls of the Seventh Division's barracks—they're probably all out trying to get the attention of their new and legendary Captain.

He wishes it were acceptable to kill them when he was irked.

Shoga jumps up onto the desk, purring and rubbing Grimmjow's shoulder.

"Shoga…" Grimmjow starts, halfheartedly trying to shove him away.

Shoga doesn't go, of course, instead butting his forehead up against Grimmjow's chin. Something in Grimmjow's chest hurts, and his head feels too heavy to be real. Maybe he'll just nap here at his desk, and pretend like he didn't skip breakfast and lunch and dinner.

There's a soft knock at his door, and Grimmjow's head shoots up. The view outside his window is that of deep nighttime, and there's an oil lamp burning near his bed to illuminate his room. Shoga meows from somewhere around the bed as Grimmjow turns, trying to get his bearings. How long has he been out? Who's knocking at this goddamn time of night?

He answers anyway. In the Seventh Division, he's gained a reputation as probably being way more suited to the title of Kenpachi than Vice Captain, but he abides by the rules enough that if someone is being hazed inappropriately or a fight is going too far, someone comes running to nervously knock at his door to get it to stop. It's happened a few times before, so Grimmjow has absolutely no defenses up beyond exasperation when he opens the door.

Any words he was planning to say fly out of his head the moment he takes in who's standing there.

Ichigo looks just like he did sixty years ago, just like that same punk seventeen-year-old who'd rolled Grimmjow onto his belly in the grass and taken him with something like warmth and something like kindness and Grimmjow has never known what to do with the feeling that gives him.

"Hey." Ichigo says softly, his eyes crinkling up. He looks good in the Captain's robe, which he hasn't changed at all.

"You said that already." Grimmjow points out, feeling dumb and unprepared. His anger has melted away and he wishes it hadn't, wishes he had it now.

"Can I come in?"

Grimmjow steps aside, holding the door open. Ichigo's eyes alight on Shoga, and he lights up.

"I didn't know you had a cat."

"Yeah. I've been calling him Shoga." Grimmjow shuts the door, facing it rather than Ichigo because he doesn't know what he'll do if he has the option of staring at Ichigo all he wants.

"Shoga?"

"For his fur."

"Obviously. You could have called me that—Ginger sounds way better than Strawberry. It's not that much of an improvement, but still… So, Shoga, huh? Nice to meet you."

"I wouldn't bother. He hasn't spoken a word—"

"Nice to finally meet you, too, Kurosaki Ichigo." Shoga said pleasantly, voice deep and rumbling as he sat grooming a paw.

Grimmjow only hesitates a moment.

"You asshole—get the fuck out of here!" He turns and launches himself across the room, swiping for Shoga, who deftly avoids him.

Laughing lowly, the Nekomata disappears out of Grimmjow's open window. Grimmjow follows him, angrily pulling it closed behind the furry asshole.

"Dick." He mutters.

"Have you eaten yet?" Ichigo pipes up from behind him, sounding like he's smiling and Grimmjow is helpless—

"No, not yet." He admits, turning.

Ichigo is smiling at him, opening a bag Grimmjow didn't notice he had and pulling out all kinds of food.

"Eat with me." Ichigo invites, and Grimmjow is sitting on the bed beside him before he even realizes he's moved.

They eat in silence. It feels tense and awkward, even though Ichigo is calm as ever and spends the time just taking in Grimmjow's room.

Finally they're done, and the debris of their meal is cleaned up, and then they're just… Standing, facing each other in the middle of Grimmjow's too-empty room, impersonal because Grimmjow has never really owned anything in his life and he wouldn't know the first thing about decorating a room anyway—

"Let me look at you." Ichigo murmurs, his eyes traveling over Grimmjow's body, and Grimmjow feels open and vulnerable. He has to close his eyes against Ichigo's scrutiny.

He's always worn his Shinigami uniform the same way, once he graduated. Any changes to the Academy student uniform was grounds for a demerit, and Grimmjow had refused to give them any reason at all no matter how small to kick him out, so he'd worn it like everyone else had even though the blue parts clashed with his hair and it wasn't like he could change his hair color. But there was no punishment for wearing his Shinigami uniform a different way, not when he was a Lieutenant.

So he cut the sleeves so they'd fit his arms better instead of being so baggy and sewed them back up, the way Nakeem had taught him as an exercise in practicing how fingers and hands worked. (Shawlong had assigned them both to do it, as they were the only ones who had never had hands, and Grimmjow had resisted as long as he could until he fumbled his sword and nearly chopped off his own fucking leg.) He rolled the newly tailored sleeves up to his elbows, and cut the shitagi and kosode so they were short, coming to just under his shoulder blades. He left them open, exposing his torso. He put a collar on the shitagi, folding it over the shoulders of the kosode and he was left with something very similar if not identical to what he was used to wearing.

In Hueco Mundo, it had had a purpose—the desert was hot, after all—but here it was just because everything else made him uncomfortable. He'd used bandages to bind his stomach, hiding the fact that his Hollow hole no longer existed there, and then wore the rest of the uniform normally.

"I'm never going to get used to seeing you without the mask. And your scars—"

There are fingertips on him, and Grimmjow inhales sharply. He backs up, but Ichigo follows him, until he's pressed up against a wall and there are hands all over him, exploring, curious, learning again.

"No scars." Ichigo notes.

"No." Grimmjow agrees, with a small amount of regret. He wished he could have kept the ones Ichigo gave him.

It was the only thing anyone had ever given him. Everything else was taketaketake.

There's a hand on his stomach, right over where his Hollow hole once was. Ichigo had never tried to put his hand all the way through Grimmjow's Hollow hole, it would have been disrespectful on the same level as making fun of someone's dead grandmother, but he was the only person who Grimmjow had allowed anywhere near it in the first place. In this new life, Grimmjow still doesn't feel awesome about anyone putting their hands on him at all, let alone near his stomach, but Ichigo's hands are not afraid. He pushes against the soft flesh there with confidence, and Grimmjow feels his knees turn to water and his hips melt like they've turned to lava, burning in the best way.

So it takes every ounce of strength he has to grab Ichigo's wrist and force him back, opening his eyes at last.

Ichigo doesn't resist, going where Grimmjow leads, but there is confusion in his eyes when he looks up at Grimmjow. Staring at him, Grimmjow doesn't know why he's forcing Ichigo away. They've waited so long, and Grimmjow for one has been through enough shit to finally deserve to get what he wants, and he does want. But there's something in him telling him that this is a bad idea right now, that there's something off about this. Grimmjow's instincts have never been wrong.

"Stay still." He commands, and Ichigo drops his hands to his sides and gives him a relaxed smile.

Grimmjow, frowning, steps closer, well into Ichigo's personal space. He dips his head so his nose is in the crook of Ichigo's neck, inhaling. Ichigo's scent is the same as it always has been—something that reminds Grimmjow of sword oil, that vague scent of cloves; something like cinnamon and more like fire that burns Grimmjow's nose; and…

"Did—where did you get cookies?" Grimmjow asks, pulling back.

"Ah—when everyone was introducing themselves to me, someone gave me cookies and wouldn't stop until I'd eaten one." Ichigo laughed, embarrassed.

"Hm." Was Grimmjow's only comment. He takes a step back, circling Ichigo slowly.

Ichigo's posture is the same, still stands like the only ground that exists is where he's standing, like it'll always be there. Confident, sure of himself. Grimmjow doesn't know that he could say the same for himself.

When he circles back to Ichigo's front, he meets Ichigo's eyes with his mind made up.

"Fight me." He demands.

Ichigo's face is goodnatured confusion. "We don't have time for sparring, Grimmjow." He points out. "We're in leadership positions, with responsibility—"

"If you don't fight me," Grimmjow interrupts. "You'll have to throw me to Central 46." He forces his voice into a low growl.

He's analyzed every law Central 46 has set for the Seireitei. Attacking a Captain unprovoked is tantamount to treason, and the penalty is death. Grimmjow grabs Pantera, never far away, and readies.

"Okay, okay! Not here, though, fuck." Ichigo runs a hand through his hair, thinking for a moment before gesturing for Grimmjow to follow. The profanity is grating on Grimmjow's ears, familiar in the way Ichigo's annoyed glance is familiar, lets him know he's gotten under Ichigo's skin, and the feeling is overwhelmingly satisfying.

Together, they stalk the halls of Seventh Division's barracks, making it outside to a wide-open field. There's no one around, and they aren't stopped. They walk until they're in the middle of the field. There aren't really training rooms for this, nothing big enough for a Captain to fight a Lieutenant without restraint. They face each other, and the wind makes the trees and grass whisper. Grimmjow lowers himself into a stance, slowly, letting his muscles guide him from memory. His sandals dig into the soft earth when he launches himself at Ichigo.

They meet in an exchange of blows, hand-to-hand. Grimmjow doesn't hold back, and neither does Ichigo, and it's gratifying to find out that they are more or less evenly matched, giving just as good as they get and then some. When it's clear that hand to hand is never going to provoke an outright win or loss, Grimmjow reaches for Pantera.

They clash in clangs of metal, sparks lighting up the night with the force of their blows. Grimmjow feels giddy elation pushing at the surface of his mind. This is familiar. This is something that has never given him pain, not in the way that matters. Fighting Ichigo is more like coming home than Grimmjow has ever known. Maybe that's fucked up, maybe their relationship (can it be called that?) should be made up of laughter and soft things, compassion and all that. Maybe it should be like that, but Grimmjow can't bring himself to be the one to change when this feels so good.

This is going nowhere fast, though, and Grimmjow is in over his head with excitement and the thrill of the fight. It is nothing to back off far enough, to curl his left hand into claws and scrape his nails down the flat of Pantera's blade.

"Grind, Pantera." He doesn't yell it like he usually would, he's learned from then.

Grimmjow does not know what the words will do to him now, what calling Pantera will change, but he feels it like putting a glove on, like bandages wrapping down his arms. When the feeling settles, he looks down at himself.

He is wearing gloves. Well, sort of. His hands have turned black up to his elbows, and there are white bone claws tipping his fingers. Grimmjow clenches and unclenches his hands—there is no resistance or restriction of movement. He feels the grin split his face, wide and all-consuming.

He attacks again.

And again.

And again.

He tries to use the abilities he's learned since becoming a Shinigami, and ones that he remembers how to use from being Sexta, but none of them work quite the same way and Grimmjow can feel their power is weak. Ichigo still doesn't hold back, and Grimmjow feels full of—of something, he doesn't know what, something good at having Ichigo's full attention on him.

So when he lands on his back in the dirt, Ichigo's sword at his throat, Pantera returning to normal beside him but too far away to reach, Grimmjow doesn't move. He grins up at Ichigo like an idiot, feeling a sort of rolling in his chest that once would have meant a purr emerging from his throat. In the change from Hollow to Shinigami, something's changed and he can't purr anymore.

Nah.

Instead it's more embarrassing, as if that were even possible.

A soft, high-pitched hum comes out, and Grimmjow can't even cut it off because Ichigo is still there, looking down at him but not looking down on him, and suddenly it hits Grimmjow like an earthquake, like an explosion—Ichigo is here.

Suddenly, he's aware that they've drawn a crowd of Seventh Division members, and he's able to cut off his humming abruptly, though it was so quiet to begin with that probably nobody but Ichigo heard it anyway. Ichigo puts away his Zanpakuto, reaching out a hand to help Grimmjow up. Grimmjow clasps his forearm, pulling himself up before stooping to scoop up Pantera.

People are clapping, they think it was some kind of display or showcase—Grimmjow doesn't know how he feels about witnesses. He follows Ichigo back to the building through the crowd like a shadow, silent and subdued. Most of the attention is for Ichigo, anyway. His heart is fucking pounding.

They make it back to Ichigo's quarters and it looks pretty impersonal, honestly, but all things considered Ichigo just moved in today.

Ichigo's hands on his shoulders, warm and calloused and guiding. Familiar. Grimmjow can't see, he has no idea where he's going but he trusts Ichigo. His knees hit something hard on the bottom and soft on top and Ichigo is gently pushing him to keep going, so he stumbles onto it and turns around. Ichigo is still pushing, so Grimmjow lays down, and his heart won't slow down—

Ichigo lays on the bed beside him, gathering Grimmjow up in his arms. Grimmjow curls his hands into the back of Ichigo's clothes, fisting in Ichigo's Captain's coat. If the front of Ichigo's coat gets wet, well, it's Ichigo's fault anyway.

Grimmjow doesn't let go until he falls asleep from nothing but aching muscles and exhaustion.

Ichigo stays awake for a long time, blue hair in his face and it's kind of annoying, being unable to find a good spot where Grimmjow's hair doesn't poke him in the nose or eye, but Ichigo doesn't move.

He hadn't been expecting Grimmjow to show up for the ceremony, and being right didn't bother him. Everyone else had been affronted simply on principle, but Ichigo had laughed it off. Grimmjow is enigmatic and strange, but Ichigo knows at least a few secrets now. Behind the loud demeanor, Grimmjow is sharply intelligent and quick witted. Somewhere under the bloodlust and the violence, there's a heart of gold. Probably. Ichigo doesn't actually have anything except suspicions on that particular detail.

One thing he knows, though, is that Grimmjow is, for lack of a better word, needy. He holds onto Ichigo like Ichigo is the only thing that's real, the only thing he can count on. Grimmjow's grip hasn't lessened in sleep.

Ichigo threads his fingers into the hair at the back of Grimmjow's head, massaging lightly there. Grimmjow is still catlike in his behavior. All day Ichigo's felt like Grimmjow's been watching him from afar, too afraid to come closer, and lashing out when Ichigo breached that distance. Grimmjow has always been a wild animal, uncontrollable and unpredictable unless you know what you're looking for.

Grimmjow mumbles something under his breath, nestling closer, his nose in the hollow of Ichigo's throat, against his heartbeat. Ichigo holds him tighter, reflecting that as wild as Grimmjow is, Ichigo isn't really any better himself. He's killed before, and he'd kill again if it meant keeping Grimmjow right where he was now, safe and assured that he was cared for.

I'm also just along for the ride but I'm 98% sure there's some pain coming for these boys p soon

I just can't help it, if Grimmjow doesn't suffer then I'm not happy XDDD