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The first time Grimmjow had broken in through his window one rainy night, saturated and demanding a battle with no care for the hour or the state of his bedsheets, Ichigo had straight-up refused.
It wasn’t because he didn’t like fighting Grimmjow—he loved it, probably a lot more than was strictly acceptable—rather because waking up from warm and pleasant dreams to find a warm and pleasant weight on top of him hadn’t exactly elicited a threat response in the split second it took for Grimmjow to make his fucking demand. Because of course he’d just want to fight. Ichigo had woken up every night for the entire week following the visit expecting to feel raindrops hitting his face and neck: cold water that had slid from the dishevelled blue hair hanging above him. It never happened.
Grimmjow did keep coming back, though. Always at night, always through the window, and always way too close with his blue eyes barely glinting in the moonlight that filtered through. Caging him in like it was the only way to hold him down long enough to make his demands.
Sometimes Ichigo told him to fuck off. Sometimes they fought about that instead; Grimmjow would tell him what a rude asshole he was for promising one thing and then never following through, and Ichigo telling him right back that interrupting his sleep twice a week was going to kill him faster than Grimmjow ever could.
But sometimes Ichigo waited for the order, half-dozing under warm blankets with the cool gust of the air conditioning blowing luxuriously overhead. Waited until the window slid open for the umpteenth time, the mattress dimpling under the hard press of a knee, followed by another just beside his hip. Ichigo would wait right up until Grimmjow was leaning over his face before opening his eyes, staring up into a shadowed gaze that threw back moonlight in the form of feral golden disks. Ichigo wasn’t even sure Grimmjow knew his eyes did that. Nights like those, Ichigo already had his substitute badge in hand under the sheets, the carved wooden sigil familiar under the rub of his thumb.
Then there were the nights when Ichigo couldn’t decide if he wanted to fight or just stare up at Grimmjow’s stupid excited face until the urge to grab him by the jawbone mask became too much. Nights when it took Grimmjow an extra couple of seconds to make his usual demand, sharp canines glinting white through his parted lips, fingers pulling the sheets down slightly as his hands clenched in the bedcovers. Nights when his eyes slid across the rail of Ichigo’s collarbones and up the side of his neck, like he wanted to bite something and couldn’t. Nights when Ichigo wondered what Grimmjow would do if he told him he could.
And sometimes nothing happened at all and Ichigo would lie awake for hours in anticipation of a visit, breath held and heart thumping at every sound, only to be left with nothing but the soft rush of air overhead and the quiet disappointment of his own thoughts. Those times were probably the worst.
It was one of those nights, when 3am had come and gone and Ichigo’s eyes were finally sliding closed in true sleep that the slide of his window purred along its oiled track. The scent of recent rain and hot blacktop blew into his bedroom as Grimmjow rolled through the billowing curtains, warm and heavy across his thighs. Palms slapped the mattress on either side of Ichigo’s neck as a panting mouth blew quiet laughter across his throat. The electric warmth of proximity rushed along Ichigo’s exposed skin, raising tiny invisible hairs like iron filings finding their magnet.
“Cut-off is midnight, asshole,” Ichigo said before Grimmjow could even speak, rolling over between his spread thighs like there was no weight there at all. God, he was actually tired. Glad, but tired. He pulled the pillow further down under his cheek and blinked at the wall. “I have to get up in four hours. Why are you late?”
Man, he shouldn’t have asked. Did he sound curious or annoyed to be left waiting?
“Got caught up in Las Noches. Harribel wants me as her lieutenant.” Grimmjow’s face descended like one of those plastic drinking birds, their noses at right angles and pressed together. “Lotta hours in that work, Kurosaki. Less time for visits.”
“Visits? Is that what you call it when you bust in here like a rapist and start yanking off my sheets?”
“That’s offensive. I never even said I wanted to fuck you.”
The tsk that clicked Ichigo’s tongue could have meant anything. Pushing his cheek into the pillow, he ignored the curiously shifting weight pinning him down by the blankets.
“Uh-huh. Well it’s too late for fighting and you know it, so you might as well just go back to Harribel. Maybe she’ll give you a workout.”
“Sound kinda jealous about it.” Grimmjow leaned down even further, forehead to Ichigo’s exposed temple. Through Ichigo’s slitted gaze, the outline of a forearm down to a clenching hand was only inches from his face. “Gonna miss me for a bit, huh? I’d miss me too.”
“Miss you like some kind of recurring rash I finally got rid of, sure. Stop nuzzling my fucking head. Let me sleep.”
Harribel’s lieutenant. Maybe Grimmjow was just coming in to say goodbye. Should he actually wake up properly for that? Seated roles like that were important, and Las Noches was still a damn mess. Maybe this was the last time Grimmjow could come back. The thought opened Ichigo’s eyes the rest of the way, making him swallow at the realisation he was being kind of a dick. It wasn’t like he didn’t enjoy their fights, after all.
Fishing his hand out of the blankets, Ichigo reached up and pushed the softness of Grimmjow’s exposed cheek away. When his finger caught in the curl of his lips he didn’t flinch, just pushed until his fingertip slid free again as Grimmjow obeyed the push. Shouldering each palm further apart on the mattress so he could move, Ichigo sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes clear.
“All right, fine, I’m up. Still not fighting you tonight, but I’m here to listen to your complaints.”
“Nothing to complain about,” Grimmjow replied, sitting his entire bony ass down on Ichigo’s knees. “Thought I’d stop in after I told her no, see if you’d give a shit.” The shift of his mouth in the pale light of the window was pleased. “Got you sitting up for once. That’s practically tears and flowers, comin’ from you. You’re full of shit when you pretend you don’t want to fight, you know that?”
“Well, yeah,” Ichigo said, something small and warm buzzing its way all around his chest cavity. “Of course I know. But if I told you, you’d be in here every night. Would it kill you to come during the day sometimes?”
“I like the night. Gets my blood going.” Leaning in, Grimmjow’s smile was pure wicked amusement. “Gets my teeth aching when I come in here seein’ you asleep with all your skin out.” The eyes that raked down Ichigo’s bare chest were some sort of something. Ichigo barely restrained the urge to look down at himself to see what Grimmjow saw.
“It’s summer, dipshit. You’re lucky I have a sheet on.” When Grimmjow snorted, Ichigo squinted over at him. “Why would you say no to Harribel? You look down on people like it’s your part-time job. Why not do it officially?”
“Trying to get rid of me?”
“Curious, more like. You’ve used to want power over everyone. Isn’t she giving you Hueco Mundo on a platter?”
“I don’t want Hueco Mundo.”
“Bullshit,” Ichigo scoffed. “Why would you give up that kind of title? Or is it because she’s the queen and you’re not the king?”
Grimmjow just scratched his hairline, sweeping back some strands of hair in the darkness. There was enough streetlight coming through the split curtains that Ichigo could see a little, but not enough to get a full look at his expression. It was frustrating to have only the warm weight across his knees and thighs and the cant of his head to go on. Finally, Grimmjow just adjusted the sword at his waist and leaned in again, his eyes nothing but a faint shine of inhuman gold in the back of his pupils.
“You promised me a fight whenever I wanted it.” The words didn’t make sense as an answer, but Ichigo found himself nodding anyway. Breath was warm across his mouth. “A fight in exchange for the crown of Hueco Mundo. Remember that?”
“Well I didn’t…mean it exactly like that, but yeah, that’s what I said.”
Impossibly, Grimmjow seemed to shift even closer. Ichigo wasn’t sure where the conversation was going, but his stomach was tense with anticipation.
“How long I been coming here for, Kurosaki? A year now?”
“Ten months, give or take a few days.” Not that Ichigo was counting.
“Then that’s ten months since I decided I wanted to fight you more than I wanted to rule. Get it?”
Things were simple in Hueco Mundo, but Grimmjow was anything but a simple arrancar. Ichigo had known that from their first meeting and the way he’d seen straight through his attacks, his strategies, his motivations. Still, some things really were just that clear and easy with Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez, and he’d taken Ichigo’s promise literally—and in doing so had spent ten months with him off and on, having thrown away his ideology of power while Ichigo had been completely oblivious to what it all meant.
Twice a week, every week. Ten months.
There’s no point being a king if there’s nobody to rule over.
I’ll fight you whenever you want.
“Huh,” Ichigo said quietly, baffled. “So you really were listening. I thought you just liked pissing me off.”
“That too.”
“Naturally.” Ichigo flopped back down onto his pillow, fingers scrubbing over his face to hide his smile. “Still not fighting you tonight, but if you shut the damn window you can look at my chest while I sleep.”
“Not actually a pervert, Kurosaki.” The sound of the window snapping shut said otherwise. “Move over.”
Ichigo moved over, and didn’t swear too loudly when Grimmjow bit him on the shoulder for no reason at all.
Maybe it wasn’t everything he’d kind of, sort of hoped for, but it was one hell of a start.
A crown for a sword, whenever he wanted it.
Yeah, that was one hell of a start.