Chapter Text
The war was over and nothing quite got his teeth itching and skin crawling like boredom. Hunting prey weaker than him was pathetic; it made him feel like a house cat batting around stuffed toys. There was no thrill, no fight, just the dissatisfaction of knowing he had the rest of eternity to look forward to it.
Except, there was a glimmer of light in his bleak, boring existence. Kurosaki was alive, and he knew where the bitch lived.
Harribel spouted a lot of orders, but not even Aizen had successfully collared him. That shinigami had played his instincts well—sunk his claws in with fear and forced obedience. Harribel didn't command with fear the way he had, and so despite her orders to remain out of the living world and his respect for her, Grimmjow didn’t feel obligated to listen.
That ginger bitch promised him as many fights as he damn well pleased. He didn’t want to kill the hybrid, not anymore, not after facing the hopeless knowledge that Hueco Mundo was no longer enough, and never would be.
Harribel would never indulge him in a real fight, and damn her, she was still stronger. So he had just one recourse. Kurosaki should have seen it coming.
The first garganta brought him to Kurosaki’s shitty little town, and he’d found him obliviously sitting in class. At first, he thought he was being ignored. He wasn’t worth his time? He was infuriated. The nerves on this motherfucker.
But the flare in his reiatsu had Kurosaki’s head jerking towards him, startled. From that wide-eyed look on his stupid face, the hybrid hadn’t had the faintest idea he was there.
The smug bastard had the gall to act familiar, like they were fuckin’ friends.
He mouthed the words. “What are you doing here?”
Phasing straight through the window, he stood in the aisle, and only one other person noticed he was there. Kurosaki shot the other a dissuading look, and his ass stayed in his seat. Smart choice. Ignoring glasses entirely, he demanded, “Ditch the meatsuit. I wanna fight.”
“I can’t ditch class right–”
And Grimmjow’s hand was on his throat, cutting off that fucking excuse before he killed him by accident. “Now.”
That confident, cocky glare was back. Like it wouldn’t take a squeeze of his hand to break his neck, like somehow he was still in control. Infuriating.
Grimmjow was suddenly left holding a limp body. Kurosaki’s spirit form kicked out and he stood on the desk, looking down at him with confidence Grimmjow wanted to tear out with his teeth. He dropped his body, and that got the attention of the rest of the room, but nobody could see them.
The hybrid growled, “Not here.”
His silhouette blurred, gone in a burst of shunpo Grimmjow was loathe to admit he couldn’t follow. The shinigami was miles away, but waiting, leading him away.
That was the first time, and far from the last time, that he drew his sword against Kurosaki, and it was completely his choice. No manipulation, no war, just the two of them.
Days and then weeks would roll by in silence and darkness, licking his wounds until he’d grow restless enough to try again.
Not once did Kurosaki turn him down. He’d complain and bitch, but he always drew his sword. Always.
There was something about knowing what to expect. It was as familiar as the moon that smiled down at him in Hueco Mundo, frozen in pitiless mirth.
In a world lacking purpose, Grimmjow found his. He wanted to see Kurosaki bleed, he wanted the satisfaction of one day bringing the other man to his knees, bloody and broken, to finally acknowledge his strength. He craved it with consuming ferocity. It haunted his dreams and dogged every lonely step on bleached sand.
One day, Kurosaki would look up at him, and it would be earned.
Never in his fantasies did Kurosaki ever react to his loss in fear. He’d seen it on the man’s face before, but it wasn’t a look he enjoyed. The sour rank of it brought no excitement, only disappointment. Fear was a game won.
Fighting Kurosaki didn’t quite become routine, but it became familiar. Enough that he began to learn about the hybrid, without even putting forth an effort. He found his home, knew his school, his friends, his work. He recognized the candle flame of reiatsu from his sisters, the sea of power Kurosaki’s father hid, but none of it was like Kurosaki’s power, monstrous and deep. It made him easy to find.
Living in a world of night, the times he dropped in on Kurosaki were random. More than once, he’d shown up to find Kurosaki asleep, or in the shower, or in the middle of a shift at work.
Sometimes he let the itch ride, not that he would admit to waiting. He waited on no one; that was reserved for weaker men; he just didn’t wanna listen to three hours of complaining.
One night was different.
It only took one glance to see things were amiss. Kurosaki’s sheets were kicked onto the floor, his shirt riding up, skin shining with sweat. Damp bangs stuck to his forehead, brows furrowed.
At first, Grimmjow thought he was sick, or in pain. Hovering near his bedroom window, close enough to bump his nose against the glass, Grimmjow realized that wasn’t the case. Kurosaki was having a nightmare.
It didn’t feel right to watch, but he didn’t want to wake the hybrid either.
This wasn't something he was meant to see, and it wasn’t something he’d ever wanted to stumble onto. Now that he was there, by instinct or curiosity, he was frozen in place, watching.
He could see his lips move, mumbling in his sleep, fingers twitching, jaw clenched tight. The window was closed, he couldn’t smell his fear, but he could imagine it all too well; rancid and sour.
What the fuck did Kurosaki have to be scared of? Should he wake him up? Leave?
His choice was made for him when Kurosaki’s eyes flew open, sucking in a quick, rattling breath. Auburn eyes locked on his in blind panic, pupils reduced to pinpoints in animalistic fear.
Even in his human body, Kurosaki’s near-delirious scramble off the bed for the wall was fast. The second his back hit something solid, wide eyes drank in his surroundings, and the suspension of that momentum came crashing down around them both at the recognition and horror on Kurosaki’s face.
Anger replaced fear, twisting Kurosaki’s features into a raw reflection of ugly pain and fury. It was a look Grimmjow had never seen on the other’s face before.
Kurosaki staggered to his feet, eyes wild, pupils still narrowed to pinpricks. He threw the window open just to be sure his snarl wasn’t falling on deaf ears. “Fuck off.”
For the first time, Grimmjow listened.
Without a word, he opened a garganta and left, thoughts scrambling to understand why he was back in Hueco Mundo, feeling like someone had recovered his missing guts and shoved them into his hollow hole.
It seemed that no matter how bad Kurosaki was at sensing reiatsu, his unconscious brain was much better at it, or he wouldn’t have woken at all. The man had sharp instincts for a human. Even during their first fight, where he’d almost killed him, he’d never looked at him like that. What could give a monster like that nightmares?
His itch to fight was replaced by a different sort of itch.
Curiosity.