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One… two… three… four… five shots later, and reality finally starts to blur at the edges. Fuzzier and fuzzier, the strobe lights turn as they cut across blackened space, glowing in feverish haste.
Maybe drinking on an empty stomach isn’t the greatest of your ideas, but no one’s coined you as a genius thus far, and you certainly never claimed to be one. Plus, you have a valid reason for knocking back a row of tequila: men. Or, more specifically, one man who goes by the name Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez—the bane of your existence and one of your closest friends. However, friends is a term you use very loosely after the earlier fight.
The mere thought of him incites another scowl from you… and a sixth shot that slides down your throat like oil in a car—smooth and familiar.
You feel a tap on your shoulder and turn to face the person on your left—a head of ginger pops into view, only to be pushed aside by a tiny girl with an irritated yet concerned expression pasted onto her delicate features. Inoue only smiles as Rukia takes her spot next to you and inspects the row of shot glasses on the booth table in front of you.
“You need to stop,” Rukia demands.
You barely register her words over the thumping bass of the speakers. The club is a swarm of warm bodies, alcohol, pulsing lights, and wall-shaking music. Through the haze and humidity, you make out the DJ standing at the south end of the venue, directly opposite your booth.
“You worry too much.” You wave your hand, dismissing Rukia.
She tries prying the drink you just ordered from your hands but fails miserably.
“For good reason! We’re going to have to carry you home at this rate.”
Orihime pats Rukia on the shoulder in a calming manner. It doesn’t quite work, but she tries anyway. Ever the pacifist.
“I think Rukia’s trying to say that we’re worried about you. What exactly happened?”
Ichigo appears from the crowd and slides in next to his fiancé, beer in hand. “Yeah, what’s going on? You called us out without explanation and started drinking like you were on a personal mission to destroy your liver.”
“I can handle my liquor.” You roll your eyes at your friends’ questioning looks.
“Y/N,” Orihime presses.
You groan. “Fine! Fine.”
They all wait expectantly as you down another drink. Every shot turns the world one degree mistier.
“Grimmjow and I got into a fight,” you grit out. The words taste like gravel on your tongue.
The three of them exchange a look.
You frown. “What?”
“It’s just… isn’t that pretty common?” Ichigo asks.
“No. We argue, sure, but today he… went too far. He was being an asshole—more so than usual. You’d think he’d be nicer to the person who acclimated him to human society. Stupid overgrown cat,” you huff.
“What did he say?” Ichigo takes a swig of his beer.
You pause. The whole argument that led to this moment was dumb. So dumb that you can’t even remember what instigated it. All you recall is the hurt washing over you at the end—a vile, sickening sensation that festered like rot in your chest because of the words Grimmjow bit out right before you walked out the door: You’re nothing special.
In hindsight, what he said wasn’t even that awful. Yet it shredded you the moment it left his lips. Perhaps you took it so hard because you thought you were special to him—in the same way he is to you. The irritating reality is Grimmjow has grown to become one of your closest confidantes. Your best friend. To be cast aside like that… to mean nothing of importance to him… is a harsh and gutting revelation—one that sets fire to your throat and incinerates whatever affection you had left for him to absolute ash.
“Nothing of importance,” you mutter.
The others don’t pry any further, sensing you no longer want to talk about it. They’d be right; you don’t want to talk about it… you don’t even want to think about it, especially since the earlier alcohol-induced buzz has now morphed into full-on drunk goggles.
“I’m gonna go dance.” You’re already halfway across the dance floor before Rukia scrambles to catch up with you.
Orihime slides her attention over to her fiancé. “Uh. Kurosaki?”
Ichigo dials a number into his phone and brings it to his ear. “Already on it.”
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
It is 1:58 am, and Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez has never been more miserable in his entire life. Not when he was a mindless hollow, not even when he lost to Ichigo—that orange-haired freak of nature.
No. The almighty former Espada has been reduced to a mopey mess by a mere human. And an annoying one at that.
It’s been almost five hours since Grimmjow last heard from you. Four of them he’s spent trying to convince himself you’d come back soon like you always do—with that gentle smile on your face that he’s grown disgustingly accustomed to.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Grimmjow clenches the phone in his hand and jerks his arm—almost chucking the device at the insufferable clock ticking in the corner. It is a constant reminder that you haven’t returned to him. He only stops himself from throwing the phone once he remembers how much the hunk of metal had cost him.
Stupid human inventions.
If it weren’t for the need to constantly message and call you about, well… anything really, Grimmjow would never have spent a cent on the damned thing.
The phone clatters onto the coffee table as Grimmjow resumes his prior (pitiful) position on the couch: flat on his stomach, face down, and legs draped over the edge.
Grimmjow frowns—pouts—into the cushions. Twenty minutes pass. Then thirty. Finally, a vibration cuts through the air.
Someone’s calling him.
Grimmjow jerks up and unceremoniously falls off the couch in haste to check the notification. His high hopes are immediately dashed when a familiar contact name comes into view: Prick. His shoulders slump, and he lets it ring a couple of times before lazily thumbing the screen to answer the call.
“The hell do you want?”
“Are you busy?” Ichigo’s voice is barely perceptible amidst the deafening music blaring through the phone’s speakers.
Grimmjow grimaces, pulling his ear away from the phone, then glances at the coffee table in front of him. A half-melted tub of chocolate ice cream stares back, a mocking reminder of his dramatics grief. Just above the sugary mess sits a large-screen TV—one currently playing a series of films that fit perfectly under the “romantic comedy” genre.
Grimmjow turns around and faces away from the scene. Out of sight, out of mind.
“Who do you think I am? Of course, I’m fucking busy.”
“Right… guess I’ll get Y/N home by mys—“
With keys in hand, Grimmjow is already headed out the door when he gruffly cuts Ichigo off. “Address. Now.”
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
Tall, dark, and handsome wraps an arm around your waist as you sway to the suggestive beat.
Rukia’s long gone. You lost sight of her when the crowd drew you further into the dance floor. You don’t particularly care where the shinigami went—probably back to the booth—as the alcoholic haze clouding your mind bars you from focusing on anything but the gorgeous man next to you. He leans in, clearly interested in something other than dancing, but still asks: “Would you like to dance?”
You study his features. Short black hair sweeps over honey-brown eyes that are shadowed by long lashes. He smirks, showing off a dimple on his left cheek. He’s a looker, for sure.
Not bad at all, but nowhere near Grimmjow.
The thought jolts you. Grimmjow has nothing to do with the person beside you. So why is it that every passing second serves as a reminder of him?
You shake those useless thoughts away and plaster a lazy smile on your face. You pull the stranger towards you and wrap your arms around his neck as you move to the beat. He presses up against you, forehead on yours. His lips are millimetres from yours, and his lidded gaze glitters with desire. You welcome it.
For once, you’re lost to the dizzying heat and drunken thrills of the night, and you’re ready to get lost in the arms of a stranger—someone who, hopefully, will distract you from the man plaguing every dark corner of your mind.
A tilt of the chin brings you closer to him. He leans in, and you close your eyes, ready for a welcome distraction. But before your lips can meet, the man across from you is harshly yanked back, and a flurry of familiar voices bombards you from all directions.
You blink twice, trying to take in the scene before you.
Firstly, Grimmjow is here. He’s clutching so tightly onto your poor dance partner’s shoulder that it’s a miracle his collarbone hasn’t shattered. The guy looks terrified… and for a good reason.
Grimmjow is pissed. Hell, even that would be an understatement. An air of anger so heavy you almost mistake it for spiritual pressure ripples off him in waves. His normally cavalier expression is distorted. Gone are his usual smirks or annoyed scowls. In their place sits a mask of absolute crazed, seething fury. If looks could kill, this whole club would be home to a mountain of corpses by now.
Secondly, the shouts you hear originate from Ichigo and the two girls; all three are trying to push through the crowd to make it to you and the blue-haired psychopath before you. Thanks to the dark atmosphere, overbearing music, and the fact you’re all in an isolated corner of the club, no one else seems to notice the complete disaster unfolding before your eyes.
Ichigo breaks through the sea of people and immediately hooks his arms under Grimmjow’s. It takes almost all his strength to drag the Arrancar back a metre or two.
Ichigo struggles to keep Grimmjow at bay. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I’ll kill you after I get my hands on him. Fucking let go!” Grimmjow pulls free from Ichigo’s grasp and steps toward the other man.
That split second snaps you to attention, and you run to block him. In less than a second, you’re in front of the other guy and facing a murderous Grimmjow; arms spread out in a protective stance. You wobble a bit and curse yourself for getting this inebriated.
Grimmjow freezes. The look in his eyes—a strange mixture of annoyance, hurt, and unfathomable anger—makes you uneasy.
“What, pray tell, are you doing?” You mentally high-five yourself for not slurring your words. It isn’t easy in your current state.
Grimmjow scoffs. “You’re actually protecting this guy?”
Said guy peeps up with: “Look, I’m sorry. Didn’t realize you had a partner.”
You turn to him and scrunch your nose. “I am not his partner.”
Grimmjow makes a snarling sound behind you.
You whip back towards him. “And you. Are you insane?! Why the hell would you do that?”
Grimmjow shifts closer. You have to tilt your head up to glare at him. His breath fans your face as he answers.
“He put his hands on you. You think I’m just gonna let that shit slide?” He’s speaking low. Rough. Dangerous.
You open your mouth to retort, only to find yourself dangling upside down from Grimmjow’s shoulder. He just hauled you up like a sack of flour.
This bastard.
As if on instinct, you immediately start wiggling in his grasp and thumping on his back, yelling at him to put you down. The struggling only drives him to tighten his hold on you as he marches the two of you out the club doors.
“Keep doing that, and I’ll drop you.”
Bastard move.
“Put me down!” You let out a yell in irritation. Grimmjow pretends not to hear you.
From your peripheral vision, you catch sight of Rukia, followed by the other two, scrambling to catch up. Orihime apologizes profusely to the bouncer at the door for the commotion caused by the man carrying you.
“Ichigo, help!”
Ichigo only shakes his head in disappointment as Grimmjow increases his pace.
Traitor.
Maybe it’s the liquid courage. Or perhaps it’s because you’ve finally lost it, but you raise a hand and land a hard smack on Grimmjow’s ass.
He stiffens. “What the f-“
“I’ll do it again if you don’t put me down this instant, you goddamn psychopath,” you warn.
Instead of complying, he shifts you until you’re being carried in his arms bridal-style. He just cut off your accessibility to his ass. Although you can’t ponder that disappointment for too long, the realization of what he’s about to do dawns on you when he takes a slow step backward.
“Grimmjow, don’t you dare-“Your own shriek cuts you off as he rips through the air and propels you toward the sky. You can only tighten your hold on his neck and bury your face in his shoulder as biting winds whip around you at the speed of light. Despite the cool night air, Grimmjow is warm to the touch. In less than five seconds, you’re staring at the front door of his apartment.
The son of a bitch just sonido-ed you across the city.
Grimmjow finally puts you down as he fishes the keys from his pocket. The whole time he hasn’t said a single word to you.
“Why are we here?” You reluctantly follow him into the familiar unit.
He has his back turned to you. Broad shoulders hunch over as he removes his shoes. Three seconds later, he flops onto the couch while running a hand down his face, quietly letting out a sigh of exhaustion and a hint of something else.
You sit in the spot next to him and pull your legs up. You shift until you’re facing him and only inches away.
You poke him in the stomach. It’s a habit you have that Grimmjow complains about constantly, but he never actually takes any action to stop it.
“Hey. Answers. Now,” you interrogate.
He lazily peeks at you; head still lolled back on the back of the couch. Grimmjow moves and his shifting weight causes you to dip forward. Typically, you’d be able to straighten yourself up. However, drunk you has precisely zero sense of balance, so you topple right into Grimmjow’s lap.
Grimmjow almost jumps out of his skin at the unexpected contact. You feel your cheeks flame up in embarrassment as you try to push yourself back up, only to lose your balance again and fall back against him. Your face presses up against his stomach, and the heat clouds all your senses. You feel even drunker than before.
“For fucks sake.” Tired of your struggling, Grimmjow pulls you up until you’re sat in his lap and face-to-face with him. You try to ignore the fact that you’re basically straddling him. You really try to ignore his hands resting on the side of your thighs. The contact causes something within you to flare up—an unsettling feeling you push away to the furthest corner of your mind.
“Well, this is nice. We’ve reached a new level of friendship now,” you snort. Thankfully, your stable tone doesn’t betray your wavering nerves.
Grimmjow’s jaw tenses. “Right. Friendship.”
You almost reel back. He spits that last part out like it is laced with poison. A sting of disappointment shoots through you, and you move to get off him. Right now, you want to be as far away from him as possible in fear of Grimmjow seeing the tears that have begun to prick the back of your eyes.
If he hates being your friend that badly, then there’s no way he’d ever reciprocate…
“Hey. You crying?”
To your surprise, Grimmjow grabs you by the hips and pulls you back, caging his huge arms around you to prevent you from escaping. His eyebrows furrow as he leans in to examine your face. You muster up every ounce of willpower to suck the tears back into the confines of your eyelids.
“You look like a bug,” Grimmjow murmurs.
You pinch his cheek with a scowl, mind briefly wiped off your previous grievances.
“Bastard.”
He doesn’t even flinch. “You stopped crying.”
“I never started,” you retort.
He makes a noncommittal noise.
“What?”
He grunts, eyes still fixated on your own. “Trying to figure out why you ran away.”
You gape at him. He has to be kidding. Right?
“Okay, first of all, I did not run away; I left because you pissed me off. Second of all, are you serious?
Your exasperation only fuels his confusion. Grimmjow’s face scrunches, and he tilts his head only slightly, but enough to emphasize how baffled he is by this whole situation.
You falter. This whole night you have agonized over his words, never once considering that he may not find fault in what he said. Maybe he never intended to hurt you and only meant to state a fact: that you simply don’t mean anything special to him.
Do you occupy such a minuscule part of his heart? Given that he takes up all the space you have to offer in yours, it is an unnecessarily cruel twist of fate.
You steel yourself. Grimmjow is your friend. Nothing less… and certainly nothing more. He has drawn that line very clearly—in bright, irreversible red.
“Forget it. It’s nothing,” you murmur.
He shoots you a look; he doesn’t believe you. “Oi. Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying,” you insist.
His eyes narrow, and he slowly drawls your name. Irritation coats the word like honey as he presses you for a different answer.
With a shake of your head, you cement your refusal to budge. Nothing good could come from that conversation, and you would rather suffer in silence than lose Grimmjow as a friend—which is the only outcome you can fathom.
“I… it doesn’t matter. Not like you’d care.” The last part is practically inaudible to the human ear. Unfortunately for you, Grimmjow’s senses are anything but human.
He stiffens, looking like he’d just been slapped hard. “What the fuck are you on about? Who told you that? I’ll kill ‘em.”
“No one told me Grimmjow… no one other than you, at least. It’s obvious you don’t care to be friends anymore,” you scoff and look away, too anxious to meet his eyes.
Every single muscle of Grimmjow’s goes rigid. You sneak a glance at him and pause at the storm brewing in his gaze. Tides of emotions threaten to overwhelm one another, but at the forefront of the tumultuous battle flashes an intensity you are very familiar with: desperation.
Grimmjow tips his chin down, lessening the gap between your faces… and lips. What comes out of his mouth next scarcely breaks above a whisper, but the words themselves bear a threatening weight.
“Obvious to who? Because last time I checked, you’re the only human I ever speak to willingly, the only person whose touch I don’t find repulsive, and the only one who can mouth off to me in my own damn house and not die for it. So tell me, Y/N, who is that obvious to? Because it sure as hell ain’t me,” he snarls.
You blink. That sobered you up. Any and all words dying in your throat as you take in everything. You only manage to find your voice again after a minute of deliberation.
“Then why did you say that I wasn’t special? You’re giving me mixed signals here,” you whisper.
Realization dawns on him like an iron curtain as your response dwindles in the hushed air. He shifts again. This time, switching his grip on your thigh to the curve of your waist. His hands settle firmly, yet gently, on your side, and the warmth resonates through your bloodstream, making it increasingly difficult to focus on the present situation. You try anyway.
“Is that why you ran away?”
You roll your eyes. “I didn't run.”
He shrugs. “My bad. Is that why you abandoned me?”
For a split second, Grimmjow’s sulking reminds you of a kicked puppy. A crass, six-foot-one puppy with blue fur and murderous tendencies. Your fingers twitch with an almost overwhelming desire to run them through his hair. You settle for flicking him in the forehead instead.
“Don’t be so dramatic. You’re acting like I fled the country rather than go to a club ten minutes away.” You absently brush a stray strand of his hair aside, not thinking much of it. Grimmjow, however, sucks in a sharp breath and you pause as a glint of something flits across his gaze… something intimate.
A trick of the light, surely.
“You–” Speech morphs to muffled protests as you press a hand to Grimmjow’s mouth, effectively cutting off whatever he was going to say.
“You still owe me some answers,” you remark.
“Mmm… to what?” He’s getting sleepier; the lull in his voice is a clear indication. Warmth blooms across your skin as Grimmjow droops forward and nestles his head into the crook of your shoulder, leaning into you as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“How about why you ruined my perfectly good night out?” You feel his head turn, breath hot like coals against your neck. A chill shoots down your spine at the slight contact, and you ignore the tingling sensation in your stomach that feels an awful lot like butterflies—millions and millions of them.
He scowls. “What, you’re that upset over not seeing lover boy again?” His arms tighten around you, “You could’ve had a better night with me. Here. Like this.”
You draw in a sharp breath as his forehead meets yours. Space is a minuscule concept now as his face hovers mere centimetres from yours. Your mind swims with a torrent of mixed feelings and thoughts.
“Grimmjow…”
“I’m sorry.”
You blink. “Huh?”
“For what I said. I didn’t mean it—any of it. Swear on my life.” His voice is strained, as if not used to the taste of the words rolling off his tongue.
You want to believe him, truly. But the emotional, irrational side of you forsakes that possibility.
You’re nothing special.
The knife in your heart, previously forgotten, now twists again as you recall his words. For a brief second, you wonder if it would be better to feel nothing at all. To bear an empty chest, much like the hollow hole carved into the Arrancars. Perhaps that’s what you need—to lose your heart and live as they do, void of all sensations that make up human nature.
“It’s fine, Grimmjow. You don’t… experience things like I do. It’s not your fault I got upset over such a trivial matter,” you sigh.
He pulls back, something akin to guilt and shock shuttering across his handsome face. “So I did hurt you.”
You swallow, unsure how to face this new vulnerability of his.
“Tell me how to fix this. How to fix us,” he pleads.
“There is no us,” you say. The distance between you and Grimmjow is practically nonexistent, yet you find yourself unable to face him.
“Bullshit,” he spits.
You shake your head, a migraine already forming in its center. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Grimmjow. I can never seem to understand what you want!” Your anger rises with each sentence, but you don’t stop and let the emotion fuel you, “I saw us as friends. Best friends. But then you go and act like I’m nothing to you, only to turn around and get all pissy like a fucking cat marking its territory when I dare spend my night with someone who isn’t you. So for the love of god, what do you want from me?!”
“I want you.”
Your head snaps up. “What?”
“Next to me, in my bed in the morning, in my arms. Wherever I am, whenever it is… I want you with me,” he states plainly. Too casual, acting as if he didn’t just drop the biggest bomb on you, wiping every semblance of your anger away with pure, unbridled shock.
You ignore your racing pulse and focus on the intensity of his gaze instead. “You don’t believe in romance. You told me that.”
“I didn’t believe in many things before I met you.” He presses a searing kiss to the inside of your palm before leaning into it, your touch a familiar comfort.
“Like what?”
Heaven. Home. Love, probably.
He grunts. “Secret.”
“That’s not fair,” you tease. The hope rising within you gives way to giddiness and a whole new sensation: relief. Grimmjow wants you the same way you want him. Perhaps even more so.
“What’s not fair is being iced out for a whole day while waiting for you, only to witness that thing wrapped around you like some fucking parasite.”
“He was not a parasite.”
“Looked like one to me. Ugly. Small. Easy to step on.”
“You called me a bug earlier. Doesn’t that mean we’re meant to be?” You’re torturing him at this point. It's incredibly amusing.
Grimmjow’s eyes darken. Two slits of obsidian that burn with jealousy and something else under the surface. Something even more dangerous.
“Say that again.”
You only laugh. It is a light sound that eases the tension in both the air and Grimmjow’s shoulders. He’s missed your laugh—craves it more than a drowning man would for air.
After a few seconds longer, he inevitably feels his lips pull upwards into a crooked smile—a special kind that appears solely in your presence.
Your giggles falter into a faint smile when you notice Grimmjow smirking at you. He absently draws circles on your hip with his fingers, lazily tracing the curve of your back as you ask: “What exactly are we?”
“Dunno,” he half-mumbles, too preoccupied with snuggling into your neck.
You let out a soft chuckle as his hair tickles your cheek. “Grimmjow.”
He groans, the sound reverberating against the skin of your collarbone—the place his mouth presses against. ”Does it matter? You’re mine. I’m yours. All I care about.”
“This won’t be easy,” you say.
“Yeah, well, I signed up for you, which is anything but easy. So don’t worry,” he pulls back slightly so that you’re both face to face. “I know exactly what I’m getting myself into. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
You barely register Grimmjow’s words before he leans in and roughly kisses you.
And it is the best damn kiss of your life.