#backwardswrites

Ichigo could say with certainty, he definitely would not, but that was on a need-to-know basis, and his sisters, who he loved dearly and with all of his current Grinch-sized heart, didn’t. He would mope tonight, feelings awash and weird for no discernible reason—or at least, not one he cared to put a name (or face) to—and be back to mostly normal tomorrow.

Kon screeched something about going in his place, sweeping out the door, slamming it shut behind, and that was that. Footsteps walked—or stomped, in Karin’s case—away. Good enough for now, though he’d feel bad for making them mad later. He had to get over getting mad at himself first.

Sure, Urahara’s would be lively and probably fun, but, knowing him, it would also be a big schmoozing event, and Ichigo wasn’t in the mood for that. And the war. If Ichigo had to hear one more thing about the war that they’d won, he’d lose his goddamned mind.

The past two years had been brutal, and he was still…recovering. That’s what he called it, anyway. Giving distance to some places—Kiskue Urahara’s on the very top of the ‘places to avoid’ list, circled, starred, and highlighted. Some wounds still too fresh in his mind.

Sure, Urahara was a certified genius, but Ichigo got tried of being the pawn in everyone’s game. Was it so bad to want something low-stakes for once? Maybe a fight could just be a fight. Just like he wanted.

But whatever.

Besides, it wasn’t like he’d be there anyway. He and a certain blue-haired arrancar hadn’t spoken often after the end of the war—Ichigo made sure to go by the shop twice a week while he was unconscious, body healing from the poison that Quincy had given him.

And then one day Grimmjow just…wasn’t there.

Urahara said he’d woke up, opened a garganta, and fucked right off to Hueco Mundo. Well, not those exact words. But that’s what the ache in his chest told him.

Bastard.

Now Ichigo was lucky he saw him once or twice a month.

Nel was around far more than Grimmjow ever was, and while Ichigo viewed her more and more as a little sister, he couldn’t say that when the sounding boom of a garganta opening happened, he was always a little disappointed it was just Nel.

She’d for sure be at whatever party Urahara threw. And as much as he loved her, she could be a lot.

Same with his friends, both human and soul reapers.

If Renji decided to knock on his door and drag him to the shit show of a party it would turn out to be, he’d fake…Ichigo wasn’t sure…explosive diarrhea or something and run to the bathroom. Between him knowing how to do surprisingly realistic armpit fart noises, and Renji’s relative cluelessness regarding…many things, as far as the human world went, Ichigo could get him to leave.

Rukia would be another story.

He’d probably actually need to shit and do something he’d regret almost immediately to get her to leave, and honestly, that was still iffy.

Grabbing his laptop, he plopped back down on his bed and searched for a movie. He guessed a Christmas one would do, he shouldn’t be a total trash bag about things. So he typed in the world “Grinch”, searching through the options, and settled on the original, since it was about as short as his patience at the moment.

Hitting the play button, soft music started in the background as Ichigo tried to get himself comfortable, wrapping his duvet around him like he was a cold snowman in need of a nice spring thaw. Sighing as the opening was narrated, Ichigo closed his eyes, lids heavy.

 ............

When he opened them again, his laptop was dark—I must’ve fallen asleep—and there was a warmth spread across his chest.

And legs.

Everywhere, really. And it was heavy.

And vaguely body shaped, Ichigo thought, blood turning to ice. Did someone break into his house? Did he have an intruder cuddling him? What in the absolute fuck? Was this one of his friends sick ways of harassing him because he missed the party?

Glancing around the room trying to stay as calm as possible, Ichigo attempted to get a feel for their spiritual pressure. It took him all of five seconds to give up. It felt familiar, but without any kind of menacing or fighting aura surround them, he was honestly at a loss. The only reason he knew it wasn’t Captain Zaraki is because he wasn’t suffocated into the bed. That, and his two-person boy band wasn’t criticizing him from unseen corners of his room.

Trying to focus on the shape sprawled across him, Ichigo could tell they were taller than him, though probably not by much. Trying to move his arms was met with resistance—hands gripped each bicep like a lifeline, gently clawing and relaxing long fingertips into the meat of each arm.

The head shifted, and Ichigo felt something hard and smooth scrape across the exposed skin of his neck. It felt like a—

“What the fuck,” Ichigo hissed out, eyes going wide in realization, debating whether or not he was going to leave the guy be, or push him off him (and his bed) and smother him with Ichigo’s favorite pillow.

“Took ya long enough,” rang out a familiar, gruff voice, though laced with drowsiness. Ichigo felt his heartbeat stutter. His voice sounded almost soft. No. Nonononono don’t gay panic now. “S’warm in here. Quiet too.”

“What are you talking about?” Okay, panic a little. “What are you—”

“Be quiet,” the arrancar whined, rubbing his stupid face into Ichigo’s softest shirt, hands flexing and relaxing on Ichigo’s arms again, unsheathed claws prickling against his human skin. Quiet? Warm? Was Grimmjow drunk? What in the hell and a half was going on? Was he drunk? Ichigo didn’t remember getting into Isshin’s good whiskey, but hey, he’d slept-walk before.

Once.

When he was five.

“Sorry,” Ichigo said in a frantic whisper, nerves buzzing like angry hornets. The nasty stinging kind that only wanted to kill people. “I just wasn’t expecting you to be in my room on Christmas Eve nuzzling into my chest like it was a normal thing that happened.”

“Fuckin’ shut up already, Kurosaki,” Grimmjow growled, shifting around a little bit, head propping up, is damn pointy chin digging into Ichigo’s chest not unlike the dullest dagger in the world, blue eyes narrowed at him. Ichigo felt his hands twitch.

“Urahara’s was fucking loud. Smelly too. Damn booze-hound,” he muttered, laying his head back down.

“You shut up, you bastard,” Ichigo whisper yelled. “You’ve barely been here! You don’t get to just…do this!”

“I’m here now, ain’t I,” Grimmjow yelled in a hush right back, as if there were other people in the house to be concerned about. Wait, were there? What time even was it? He didn’t remember actually looking at the clock. It was only like…seven when he put the little animated movie on—and it was only like forty five minutes long at most. Damn, he was turning into an old man. He’d be eighty in two days.

Sucking in a breath, Ichigo marched on, ready to get this shit show delt with so he could go back to sleep and wake up mad about it tomorrow.

“Yeah, but why?”

Grimmjow growled for real this time, a low reverberation resonating in his chest before the man sat up, and Ichigo saw his glare glow through the darkness.

“The fuck, you don’t want me here now? Shitty Kiskue said you’d been moping around ‘cuz of it, and now you decided to change yer mind?”

Trying not to snort at the completely accurate nickname for the damn shopkeeper, Ichigo propped himself up on his elbows, since Grimmjow was still sitting on half of him like a damn house-cat, and glared right back.

“I don’t mope,” he said, voice now at a normal volume, growling right back, though not quite as animalistic.

Ichigo ran a now free hand across his sweaty face. Grimmjow ran a hell of a lot warmer than he’d anticipated. Of course, it could always be the stress of the situation at hand.

“You fuckin’ do.” Grimmjow leaned in closer, laying more of himself over Ichigo again, arms now caging both of his sides, gaze predatory. What in the hell was going on? Sure, Ichigo wasn’t opposed to the action whatsoever, but it was weird coming from Grimmjow of all people.

“If you don’t want me here then just say so.” Hot breath fanned Ichigo’s face, and if the light were on, Grimmjow could probably see him blush.

Eyebrow ticking, patience thinning regardless of how attractive the bastard on top of him was, Ichigo spat out his next sentence.

“Of course, I want you here, you complete asshat! What the fuck took you—”

Lips—well, teeth, more like—cut off Ichigo’s lecture. Warm and moist and so fucking soft, Ichigo felt his head drop back onto his pillow, arms wrapping around the torso pressing into him. Whatever Grimmjow was wearing, it was scratchy as hell. Yoruichi had been into some kind of string craft thing—knitting or crocheting, he didn’t remember—so it was probably that. She’d all but forced Ichigo to accept a handmade sweater with holes in the armpits. She insisted it was to let his stank out, whatever the fuck that meant.

Grimmjow pulled away first, but stayed close. His mask shone in the dim moonlight filtering through the window, teeth sharp. Stupidly, Ichigo wondered if he ever flossed them.

“Poison took a long time to wear off, had to go back to Hueco Mundo to heal some of it.”

Ichigo knitted his brows, confused. What did Hueco Mundo have that the world of the living—namely Urahara—didn’t?  

“What?”

Grimmjow scraped his mask over the bareness of Ichigo’s exposed neck, and butterflies fluttered all the way into his throat and back down. Fingers clutched at the hem of the poor-quality yarn sweater, waiting for Grimmjow to explain.

“Something about the reishi compounds,” Grimmjow started with an irritated sigh, the tip of his tongue flicking at Ichigo’s clavicle. “How an arrancar body breaks them down differently and shit. Kiskue explained it, but I wasn’t listening.”

“Figures,” Ichigo said, smiles beginning to spread across his face. “How’d you even get in my house?” Ichigo ran a hand through messy blue locks, and scratched his scalp lightly, earning a pleased grunt. And maybe a purr, if his ears weren’t deceiving him.

“Yer old man. Told me he left the door unlocked an’ that you were bein’ a brat.”

Ichigo’s face went red at Grimmjow calling him such things, but decided not to think of that—or how his father just left the house open for anyone to rob, thanks a lot. What if there was a hollow and a robber nearby? Did the old fart ever think of that?

Probably not, because he’s a moron.

Then another question wormed its way out of Ichigo’s mouth, even with Grimmjow’s greedy mouth currently nipping at whatever exposed skin he could find.  

“Why didn’t Urahara say anything to me? About you needing to go back, I mean.”

Grimmjow stopped marking Ichigo for a second, dragging an arm over Ichigo’s chest and laying his head on it. He was frowning, but didn’t look all that surprised by Ichigo’s line of questioning.  

“Because he’s a piece of shit,” he said matter-of-factly. Ichigo couldn’t help but nod in agreement, irritated sigh pushing past his lips.

“Good to know. How about we try and kill’em tomorrow?”

Ichigo heard and felt Grimmjow chuckle, shifting his arm again, lower this time, playing with the hem of his sweats. Swallowing, Ichigo’s breath hitched.  

Grimmjow growled like the feral best he was, and ground down into Ichigo’s weight, causing a groan to escape him.

“Works for me. Merry Crisis, Kurosaki. Lemme open my present.”

‘Definitely a trick,’ Ichigo thought, seven jumbo marshmallows in his craw and trying not to look like he wasn’t gasping for breath. This was the worst mistake he’d made, aside from letting Rukia stab him with her zanpakuto. And because of that he was now dying at the kitchen counter, Karin taking pictures of his plight so she could upload them on TikTok or whatever kids these days did.

“Three more to go,” she said, voice sounding suspiciously like Urahara’s. She’d been spending too much time with that damned shopkeeper, but he wasn’t really one to say. As she wrestled another jumbo marshmallow between his sputtering lips, Ichigo barely registered the door opening, and two presences making themselves known, one more aggressive than the other. 

“What the fuck are you doing, Kurosaki?”

‘I take it back, this is so much worse than letting Rukia stab me.’

Grimmjow stood, just slightly behind Evil Sister 1, boney hands on his stupid hips, his stupid attractive face scrunched up, left eyebrow raised. He looked...unimpressed was a nice word for it. And what in the absolute hell was he doing with Yuzu?! Was he just following around any Kurosaki these days? He thought what they had was special, and now the big idiot was watching Ichigo make a complete and utter ass out of himself for his sisters--both of whom were laughing, thank you very fucking much--sake.

“The marshmallow challenge,” Ichigo tried to say, but, unfortunately, it came out more like, “lha wathwaaaawow kaaagwaaae”, which roughly translated to “I hope we both die.” A small speck of marshmallow spittle flew from his mouth and landed somewhere in the great beyond of the counter space.

Ichigo felt his face heating up; he was never going to live this down from the bastard. Grimmjow was absolutely going to make fun of it until he either died, or kill him, and right now, he’d rather that happen sooner rather than later.

But then Grimmjow did something completely unexpected.

He laughed.

Jovial, full-belly, actual fucking laughter, hands on his face trying to muffle the sound, and Ichigo’s jaw went slack  just enough for a nasty wad of half chewed marshmallow to fall out of his mouth and land with a slick ‘plop’ on the counter, much to everyone's (minus Grimmjows), dismay. Yuzu shot him a dirty look, corner of her mouth down-turning slightly. 

Ichigo, now with enough room in his mouth to actually breathe and move his jaw, worked double time to chew and swallow the rest of the mess in his mouth.

“I never want one of those again,” he said, shooting a glare Karin’s way, picking up the bag and tossing it at her. It missed, and landed close to Grimmjow’s still hunched over form, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. 

“Aw c’mon. They’re sweet!”

Ichigo watched Grimmjow finally straighten himself up before rolling his eyes, staring as Karin popping one of the worst things in the world into her mouth like he didn’t almost die and go to the soul society for real.

“They don’t taste like anything!”

He did actually manage to dodge the first marshmallow Karin threw at him. The second and third one hit him square in the mouth and left ear respectively.

“You’ve got the powder on your lip, Ichi-nii,” Yuzu said, offering a napkin to him, but saying nothing to her evil twin pelting him with the soft bullets.

He grabbed it, dodging another three until he was on the same side of the counter as the arrancar who’d been strangely silent after his bout of laughter, but before he could clean up his face, Grimmjow grabbed him by the collar, yanked him forward, and crashed their lips together with a violent clack.

Not a second later, he felt a rough tongue swipe at his bottom lip, licking up the residue left behind by the damn pillow-y things. Ichigo tightened his grip on the man’s shirt, pulling and twisting, trying to get him away, or closer, or something.

Pulling away, Ichigo just stared at the man in front of him, trying to rub his two brain cells together to try and spark a single, intelligent thought, but came up emptier than Isshin’s stomach in a fast.

Grimmjow looked like he was considering something, his finger scratching the side of his face, before licking his own lips, a wicked grin splitting across his face before leaning closer to Ichigo again. 

He frowned and rubbed the skin harder, the speck on her skin still there. This human was very good at being clean, so to find a small speck on her was kind of surprising, if he was being honest.

The girl—Yuzu—just laughed and patted at his hand to stop him.

“It’s a freckle Grimmjow; it’s not coming off!”

Grimmjow frowned.

“Th’ hell’s a freckle?”

Yuzu rolled her eyes and stepped around him to get back into the kitchen, putting the evil wooden torture tool on the counter and opening the cold box full of cold food. Sometimes the Kurosaki’s kept different kinds of cooked, cold meat in there and this Kurosaki in particular would let him have some. It was always delicious.  

“It’s like little dots on a person’s skin. Ichigo has a lot of them, but they’re really faint, so you have to be close to see them.”

Impossible, Grimmjow’s eyesight was excellent and he’d never seen any little dots on his face. Then again, how often had he stared at his face from a close distance for an indeterminate amount of time? Less that he’d like, if he was being honest, but now wasn’t really the time to think about that nonsense.

Yuzu must’ve been reading his mind.

“Maybe the next time you two fight you should look for them!”

Grimmjow only frowned, but agreed with her internally. Next time, he would for sure look for these ‘freckles’.

……………………………..

Holy shit.

Holy

Fucking

Shit

Grimmjow had managed to pin the other man—they were in their human bodies this time, at the behest of shitty Kiskue—and Kurosaki had slipped on the sand. Gave some bullshit remark about the traction on his shoes as he was going down, and Grimmjow pounced.

And damn, Yuzu wasn’t kidding.

Mapped across the whole of Kurosaki’s pretty face were the faintest of dots, irregular in shape, and splattered across the expanse of skin he could see. Flicking his gaze down to his neck and arm—one was pushing on his shoulder—and they were there as well. He had so many more than Yuzu did. Briefly, they reminded Grimmjow of how the stars hung in the sky when he sonidoed out to the mountains, away from the bright city lights. Looking up into the darkness to see millions of little lights in the sky was…grounding, for some reason.

Made him remember he wasn’t in Hueco Mundo too—there weren’t any stars there, just a moon, working in reverse from the world of the living’s moon.

As he kept observing the map of constellations on Kurosaki’s face, he noticed it getting redder, hiding some of the dots, and making some darker.

“G-Grim-wha—what are you doing?” Kurosaki’s voice was pitched a little higher, embarrassed probably, which was a stupid human emotion he thankfully didn’t feel. One of his hands was on Grimmjow’s chest, the other on his shoulder, both pushing him away, or trying.

“You have a lot of freckles on your face,” was the only thing Grimmjow could say.

“That’s what this is—what—why—”

“Yuzu said you had’em, but I’d never seen’em before.” Both of Grimmjow’s hands were on Kurosaki’s shoulders, pushing him into the sand, but he lifted one up and brought it closer to the man’s face. Kurosaki glared at the hand, but didn’t flinch—because he was an idiot with no self-preservation—and Grimmjow rubbed his first two fingers across the expanse of Kurosaki’s forehead, close to his hairline. He was only a little sweaty, so he didn’t mind that too much.

Ichigo on the other hand…

Hand. Hand on his face. Hand clawing on his face and one finger almost hooked in his nose and—

“What the fuck Kurosaki!”

Grimmjow fell back as Ichigo kept assaulting his face with his hand, ass hitting the sand, getting dirt and grim and grit all over his favorite pair of jeans—Grimmjow was being nice about it damnit!

“I don’t know what Yuzu told you, but—”

“I just said, you fuckin’ moron. Said you had a lot of freckles!”

“Why were you talking about my freckles!? And to my little sister no less!” Ichigo looked like he was on the verge of an absolute breakdown—face red, hands trying desperately to cover his face or running them through his messy orange hair, eyes darting around like an animal cornered.  

“What the hell has your panties in a knot,” Grimmjow asked, getting up and brushing the dirt off, but it just got on his hand instead. Looking at it, he frowned and wished he’d just left the dirt on his pants instead. “Yuzu had one. Thought it was dirt and tried to get it off. She told me about yours. End of story.”

This was…not the reaction he was expecting, as he continued to watch Ichigo froth and sputter around like a wild animal. He expected a little bit of resistance, but this? Weird. Kurosaki had some weird-ass hang ups.

“Don’t know what you’re so freaked out about. Look like stars,” Grimmjow said, rolling his eyes around. Kiskue was probably wandering around in the training ground somewhere because he was a pervert.

“S-Stars?” Ichigo’s voice sounded choked, like Grimmjow was actually strangling him right now.

Wait.

Grimmjow stopped.

Oh fucking shit.

He said that last part out loud, didn’t he? About the freckles dancing across his skin looking like fucking stars. What was he, some kind of loser hopeless romantic he read about in some of those old ‘plays’—whatever those were—that Kurosaki liked to study? Not that he’d ever admit it, not that it even mattered since he just admitted to thinking Ichigo’s freckles looking like something pretty and ethereal and oh goD DAMNIT.

Chancing a look at his once nemesis turned ally, he noticed Ichigo’s red face had only gotten redder. Red as Jinta’s hair.

Red as Grimmjow’s face probably was.

“You think my freckles look like—”

“I wonder what they’re arguing about this time,” Yoruichi said absent-mindedly, swirling the carbonated drink around in the bottle.  It had been a slow day in the shop, no Shinigami and only a handful of regular humans stopping by to get their fill of sugary sweetness—one of which being Yuzu, who brought along a very angry Ichigo.

“Oh probably something that was actually my fault. Again.” Kiskue smirked behind his fan. With a few metaphorical nudges, Grimmjow was quite easy to steer into a direction he could benefit from. Or wreak absolute destruction, which, if he was being honest, was usually the more fun option. But then again, so was Ichigo.

Both were so delightfully easy to tease into action. Especially Ichigo. He may or may not have gotten word Grimmjow attempted to teach Karin some basic hand to hand combat skills earlier in the week. Granted, it was really my idea for Grimmjow to teach her some basics, but still…

Knowing Ichigo, he hadn’t actually gone and talked to his sisters because conversation and interpersonal relationships still weren’t his strongest card in the deck. Not that either of the girls would’ve been completely honest regarding the matter anyway. A few sacks of free candy went a long way to bribe a couple of human girls—that and they were just as tired of two grown ass men beating around the bush as everyone else with eyes.

Crashes and bangs echoed from further in the house, the sound slowly dissipating into silence, following  a heavy bang of a metal door—they must be going down to the bunker to settle their dispute as per usual. Kiskue sighed internally, maybe he should go down there and irritate just a little. Maybe then they’d finally stop playing their annoying little game of repressed-feelings-whack-a-mole.

Ah, but where would the fun in that be, really. Sure, he was on his fifth shoji screen to replace, and Isshin was texting him death threats on the daily now, but at least it kept things interesting. Things had been so lame after the war had ended, and he’d been in a bit of an invention slump as of late.

What better way to get out of it than this?

Yoruichi leaned her head against his shoulder and chuckled. Maybe he should go ahead and close the shop and take her and Tessai to a nice dinner out instead. Give the boys some alone time.

“You know, they’re gonna kick your ass when they figure out what you’re doing.”

Kiskue laughed along side her, snapping his fan shut and twirling the end of her dark, silky hair around his index finger.

“Oh but I think he should stay with you for a while, that would be a good thing I think,” Urahara kept on, a garbled noise in the background, followed by Yoruichi cackling like a madwoman. Jinta screamed. He heard the telltale sound of Urahara turning his head, mainly because his scruffy hair swept across the part of the phone where sound happened. Ichigo swore his hair was actually made out of straw like a scarecrow.

“Urahara, you’re insane.” He wasn’t saying that for any specific statement, it was just a general fact. Ichigo wasn’t sure if the man actually knew it, and thought it best to tell him. He was helping, really.  

“Wow, you said something sensible, for once,” Grimmjow said with a grumble, over the doctor magazine he was flipping through, legs hanging off the couch like he owned it and the rest of the house. Feeling his eyebrow twitch in renewed, invigored frustration, he balled up the one hand not holding the phone so he wouldn’t do something stupid with it. Like try and slap a former espada in his human body.  

“You’re worse,” Ichigo said, turning his attention on the arrancar.  

“Bet.”

Ichigo made a noise that was half squawk, half whine—he’d told Karin to stop teaching Grimmjow slang. Ichigo had just got him off his YOLO kick, which had died about five years ago as far as he was concerned. Why Karin had tried to explain that particular phrase he had no idea. Ichigo figured it was specifically to annoy him.

At least he used this one correctly…I think. He wasn’t even listening to Urahara chatter anymore as he hung up on the demented shopkeeper. He’d punch him later—or try, at least, quick bastard.

Grimmjow turned a page as loudly as he could, dragging the page across the other, making a sound close to the worst one in the world, keeping eye contact with Ichigo the entire time, just to piss him off.

Ichigo swallowed his homicidal urges, which Shiro ate with glee, chanting the homicidal urges in his head which were beginning to sound pretty appealing. Flicking a glance down at the other man’s feet, he frowned.

“At least take your shoes off.”

“Nope.” Grimmjow flipped another page without actually reading the one he’d turned to, making the same godawful sound.

Ichigo ran both hands through his hair, not even caring how it looked after he was done. Maybe he should just pull it out—with the way things were going, that’s where he’d end up, bald and no outlet for venting his frustration. And he’d still have a lazy cat on his couch. Would he start clawing the furniture as well? Karin and Yuzu would get a kick out of him cat proofing the house, Isshin would probably just go cry to Urahara or Ryuuken. Maybe both.  

And where were the girls, anyway? They loved harassing the man assaulting a magazine on the good couch. Or Isshin for that matter? He didn’t hear the older man puttering around in his clinic like he normally did. Maybe he was just being quiet, which, after a moment of brief thought, Ichigo figured was extremely unlikely.

 The pseudo-silence lasted for all of ten more seconds, when a door upstairs slammed open.

“Ichigoooooo,” a high-pitched yell sounded throughout the house, and Ichigo felt the rest of his patience dissipate to a gaseous state. Grimmjow shot up off the couch with a start, which surprised him, pressing himself to Ichigo’s side, black velvety fur sprouting from his hands down to his elbows.

Frowning, Ichigo heard the soft, quick thumping of the most annoying stuffed animal on the planet flinging himself down the stairs with all the strength of a wet snail.

He felt Grimmjow tense beside him, as he tried to turn, but the arrancar put himself slightly in front, crouching down just a bit, making him around the same height as Ichigo. Raising an eyebrow, he snorted at the man’s confusing actions. What was this about all of a sudden?

 “It’s just Kon. You can calm down.”

“What’s a Kon?” Grimmjow’s voice was something between a hiss and a growl—almost animalistic. Ichigo flicked a glance down at his arms. Damn, those nails looks hella sharp. If he was going to be on the other side of them, his human body wouldn’t stand a chance.

“I’m not a anything. I’m the Kon! The one and only!” The lion plush rounded the corner and stood, barely in the living room at the base of the stairs, with his stuffed paws on his stuffed hips, striking the worst peter pan pose Ichigo had ever seen. He was also in a pink, frilly dress with a bonnet on, a bow clipped onto his ear.

Ichigo physically saw Grimmjow relax, but only a little bit, the fur receded to just his hands, he stood up straighter, but made no move to leave his side. And why did he jump to Ichigo’s side to begin with? Pushing that thought away, he turned back to Kon.

“What do you want, Kon?”

Kon immediately threw himself on the floor, and wiggled around like he was throwing a tantrum. Oh wait. That’s exactly what he was doing.

“What do you think I want Ichigo? You think I want to be wearing this? Yuzu tied it in a knot and I can’t get it out and all you’re doing there is standing there laughing at meeeeee,” the rest of his words were cut off as he pressed his mouth into the wooden floor, muffling the rest of his whining. The mod-soul’s feet were moving at about a thousand miles an hour, and Ichigo figured it they moved much quicker, he’d just take flight. I’d never hear the end of it then.

With a sigh, Ichigo started over towards Kon, moving around the arrancar’s form, leaving Grimmjow standing stock still in the middle of the living room.

“I’m not laughing at you. Or at all,” he started, crouching down so he could grab at the tantrum-ing lion. “I’ll let Yuzu know she’ll have to make them in a bow instead.”

“No! I don’t want to wear a dress period,” Kon shouted as he stood up abruptly, and launched himself at Ichigo’s face. With a roll of his eyes, he prepared to swat him away, but never got the chance.

With a jolt, Ichigo was yanked to his feet, a strong arm hooked around his, pulling him into a muscular chest, as the arrancar clawed out at the annoying mod-soul, knocking him halfway back up the steps, dress torn to shreds between his claws and where Kon sat, dazed, but seemingly unharmed.

Ichigo turned to look at the lunatic holding onto him, free hand going to grip on his jacketed shoulder, gripping as hard as his human body would allow, and glaring at the man.  

“What the hell are you doing!”

Grimmjow glared back, eyes narrowed, sharp, and definitely irritated.

“You’re just gonna stand there like a shithead while it attacks you,” he growled in Ichigo’s face, voice low and gravely, like he’d swallowed gravel from the parking lot outside.

“Ichigo,” Kon started, his voice shaking only a little bit. “My body is fine, but my emotions aren’t, avenge me, okay?” And with that dramatic-ass statement, Kon bolted all the way back up the stairs, slamming Ichigo’s bedroom door soon after.

Grimmjow’s eyes narrowed at the sound, but still held Ichigo firm against him, a deep frown set on his face. Ichigo was…well, he was confused.

“So, you gonna tell me what that was about,” he asked, trying to pull his arm free from the vice grip, cocking an eyebrow at the arrancar, who let go to shove his hands in his jumpsuit pockets.

“You’re in your human body,” was all he said, pointedly avoiding eye contact now, before turning and heading back to the couch, flopping on it, back turned to Ichigo.

He stared at the man’s back in disbelief. Did that mean, Grimmjow had shot off the couch because he thought Ichigo had been under attack? Was he protecting him?

“Yeah, like I’d want to date anyone half as demanding as some of our customers,” Ichigo muttered to himself.

“You talking to yourself, ginger,” a familiar rough voice sounded out behind him. Turning, and trying to put on his best customer service face, he saw it was…him.

And by him Ichigo meant…well, him.

Because Ichigo, couldn’t for the life of him remember the guy’s name. Did he feel a little bit bad about it? Eh, depended on the day and how much of an asshole the guy was being. Honestly, the only thing Ichigo knew about him was that he was roguishly handsome, and a dick and a half.

Rukia saddled up to the counter before Ichigo could, hands on her hips, eyes defiant as always.

“No,” Blue said, cocking an eyebrow at his co-worker. “I don’t want you; I want him.” The man gestured with his head. And just for added measure, Ichigo saw the man’s eyes flick down to his name badge, his lips curving into a smile as he spoke.

“Ichigo Kurosaki.”

And damnit he hated how the guy said his name. Mainly because it really aggravated the butterflies in his stomach. Shouldn’t he be too old for that? Why couldn’t he just have a bunch of pretty moths nesting in his belly instead? Luna or rosy maple ones? Fuck he’d take a hawk-moth at this point. But no, all he got were weird feelings and an annoying guy with blue hair giving them to him.

Ichigo sighed and tossed Rukia the towel he’d been wringing between his fingers.

“What can I get started for you, Sir?”

The man smirked and he leaned down on the counter, head resting on the hand connected to the arm resting on the counter.

Ichigo went with sir because, one, it was polite, and two, it seemed like a good compromise for forgetting/not knowing the man’s name. That and it probably sent the guy on some small power trip anyway, so he’d maybe not notice Ichigo not-so-accidentally-trying to avoid him.

The man cracked a devious smile, settling his sapphire-like eyes on Ichigo in full force; it felt like he was drowning in that heady gaze.

“Shouldn’t you know my name by now,” the man’s low grumble clear and amused. Shit, had he been caught? Could he still salvage this? God this was embarrassing. For a moment, Ichigo thought about quitting, walking out the employee exit only, getting in his car, and driving straight into the closest ditch, only to crawl out through the window, into a culvert, and begin his life as Diogenes 2.0, except less philosophical, and more stupid.

Sure Ichigo had his whole damn drink memorized because irony was an absolute bitch with a grudge, his body began to make it even before the attractive asshole ordered.

Swallowing down the lump of embarrassment in his throat, Ichigo turned his face to him and spoke loudly over the whirring over the machine he was running.

“Just trying to be professional, sir.” But he couldn’t do it. Right after he’d said the words he turned, feigned looking at the drink he knew to make by heart, feeling himself begin to panic. Oh I hate this.

As Ichigo finished the drink, he set down the cup in front of the man, who was still where he was, leaning into his fist, eyes locked on Ichigo’s own. Without warning, one hand shot out and grabbed around the string of his apron, on his left side, and pulled him closer, so close Ichigo could feel hot breath on his neck as the man spoke.