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“Here, take this--”
“Wha-- hey! Don’t push your shit off on me!”
“Just for a second, I just need to--”
“I just don’t see why--”
“Do it for me?”
“... that’s not gonna work for you every time, you know?”
Ichigo laughs softly, placing a gentle kiss on the edge of Grimmjow’s mask. “I’ll believe it when it happens.”
Grimmjow grumbles but obediently takes the basket from Ichigo’s arms. No real food, just some sandwiches and sweets, they’ve got plans for dinner later. But Ichigo insisted that they bring something to the picnic, and Ichigo is also dressed up all pretty, so Grimmjow is on food-carting duty. At least it isn’t very heavy. It’s not even too awkward to carry. Grimmjow is just--
Calloused and warm hands fold over Grimmjow’s arm, and he looks up to see Ichigo’s soft smile. “We don’t have to stay the whole time,” Ichigo promises. “Just long enough to set a lantern and introduce you to my mom, okay?”
Right. Humans and their rituals, their weird-ass beliefs. It’s important to Ichigo, though, so Grimmjow swallows his apprehension and puts on his best smile, reaching up to tug at one of Ichigo’s orange locks. “Yeah, yeah. We don’t want to be late then, right?”
God, Ichigo’s smile is the sun . It’s not just warm, it burns ; not just bright, it’s blinding . Grimmjow shifts the weight of the basket onto one arm and reaches up before he can doubt himself, resting a hand on top of Ichigo’s. Ichigo is so warm, Grimmjow feels like his skin should be blistering when Ichigo weaves their fingers together, but Ichigo wouldn’t hurt him, can’t hurt him in any way Grimmjow doesn’t want to be hurt, so Ichigo rips open a garganta and Grimmjow follows him through.
Pink.
For a second, that’s all Grimmjow can see. A soft kind of pink, a gentle kind of pink. It fills the sky and swirls through the air and settles on the ground and floats on the water and--
“Oh,” Ichigo breathes, joyous and surprised, but not like. Surprised . Like this was something he’d been hoping for but hadn’t actually expected to find. “They’re really early.”
There’s an explanation. Urahara is giving an explanation. Something about their fight in Reiōkyū throwing everything in all the worlds off-kilter. Grimmjow can’t actually focus on his voice long enough to understand the words coming out of Urahara’s mouth. He’s too busy staring at all the pink his mind struggling to process all if it. Hueco Mundo doesn’t have any pink like this, if you don’t include half-diluted blood in the occasional water pool. There’s definitely no pink like this .
Flower petals , Grimmjow realizes. Thousands and thousands of pink flower petals from dozens of pink-flower-leaden trees that line this stretch of the river. The scent is soft, but it’s everywhere , clinging to everything , not overwhelming just. Omnipresent. Grimmjow is half-worried he’s never gonna get it out of his nose.
Ichigo’s sisters are already here, as are his human-- and one Quincy-- friends, along with Tessai and the brats from the Shōten, and Urahara who leads them over. And it’s, it’s fucking quaint , traditional yukata and blanket spread out on the ground and food on little plates, and it looks like something out of one of those fucking period dramas Yuzu likes to watch. Grimmjow feels like he stands out like a sore fucking thumb, all angles and sharp edges while everything else is soft, soft, soft .
There’s a whole-ass flower caught in Ichigo’s hair, and it’s. It’s probably the stupidest, cutest fucking thing Grimmjow’s ever fucking seen. Stupid, because Ichigo isn’t cute , he’s deadly and sharp and dangerous. But also, he laughs as he settles on an empty corner of the blanket, eyes sparkling and smile wide, tugging Grimmjow down even as he keeps himself between Grimmjow and the Quincy and steals all of Orihime’s weird-ass cooking off Grimmjow’s little plate before Grimmjow can even consider putting that shit in his mouth, and he has a fucking flower in his hair , and--
They eat. Urahara breaks out the saké and everyone pretends not to notice when the twins sneak sips. Ururu chases Jinta around like the tiny demon she is. Grimmjow gets used to all the pink, relaxing further and further into the company and Ichigo’s side as the sun starts to set.
And then, the first lantern makes its lazy way down the river.
Ichigo watches it with an expression that’s not sad , not really. Just. Melancholic. Like something he was expecting but not actually hoping to find. Everyone shares the same look, pretty much, as they pull out their own paper lanterns and start the careful process of lighting the wicks. Ichigo lights the lanterns for the girls, and then his own, with a flicker of carefully-controlled kidō , and Grimmjow doesn’t even offer to take it from him as they start to pick their way down to the very edge of the river.
Ichigo kneels. Grimmjow follows.
“Hey, Mom,” Ichigo says. His voice is rough and soft and hurt and happy, and Grimmjow slips an arm around Ichigo’s waist without even really thinking about it. “I, uh. I’m sorry for not visiting last year. Things got a little crazy, and it wasn’t-- it wasn’t safe.
“I brought someone I want you to meet. This is Grimmjow, he’s. You’d love him-- he’s an asshole most of the time, yeah, but he’s also funny and sweet and he’s really good for me, Mom.
“I think-- I think he’s the one, Mom. And I know you probably wanted me to wait a little bit, not to rush into things like you had to, but. Fuck, Mom, he fought a war for me. And he’s really good with the girls, and--”
He’s not crying. He’s not . He’s just. Allergic to all the pollen in the air, that’s the only reason why Grimmjow’s eyes are going all watery.
“We’ll come back to visit you next year. You just rest now, alright, Mom? It’s alright. I’ve got someone watching out for me now.”
Grimmjow reaches out to help Ichigo lower the lantern into the water, and, fuck, Ichigo lets him. They sit together until the lantern is lost in the thousands of others that light up the river like thousands of stars caught in the soft pink current. They sit until Grimmjow’s legs start falling asleep beneath him, but there’s no way in hell Grimmjow’s going to move until Ichigo does. It feels like a promise, the kind you make with your soul, from your whole chest, bigger than words or anything else that can fit out of Grimmjow’s throat.
He turns and presses a kiss to the side of Ichigo’s hair, just beneath where that stupid fucking flower is still caught, and it almost, almost feels like enough.