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“ I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.”
-William Wordsworth, “I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud”
The smell of the fresh morning dew flutters across his senses like a butterfly dancing amongst the spring flowers, the sweet aroma of the damp earth permeating through the dense, coastal fog and spreading through the air just enough to add honey to the salty seaside wind. He sits against the chilled, grainy sand every morning, eyes enchanted by the colorless lights that flutter on the horizon’s line before the sun rises with grace to meet the morning sky. His hands loosely clenching the damp sand beneath his cool palms, he sighs in reverence as the beams of monochrome magnificence begin to creep ever so gently skywards.
Held deep in his heart is a clandestine wish, a reticent yearning that Grimmjow only acknowledges in silent solitude under the gentle light of the moon, just faintly allowing his desires to be insinuated by the midnight moonlight and carried away by the surreptitious sea breeze.
He longs to see the colors of the rising and setting sun, the mosaic of shimmering stardust that speckles the sky during the moment of its birth and at the time of its death. Just once, merely a tincture of the tint of the boundless beauty that was encapsulated in the day’s dusk and dawn; that is what he wished. Endless images of imagined opalescence pinwheel behind his eyes, the monochrome mundane taking residence behind his hungry retinas instead of the iridescence of true and blinding color.
He could sit all day and imagine the fantastical image, letting the high afternoon sun drape his skin in all of its unending warmth. Like a blanket of otherworldly and weightless fibers settling gently against ivory limbs, his unmoving form sat comfortably against the soft sand as he sketched for hours on end.
Breathing in the cool, damp air of the early morning, he trains his eyes on the rippling waves of the sea. From where he is sat, the water almost touches his sockless feet, the salty foam of the creeping tides leaving patterns in the sand as the gently rocking waters edge toward him and then slowly retreat. The scenery from this desolate stretch of beach is beautiful, the undulation of the unbothered sea swaying slowly in time with the leaves on the trees that bordered the secluded stretch of sand. The moderate movement of the clouds in the sky makes the whole scene feel as if Grimmjow was merely experiencing a lapse of time, a fragment of reality moving unhurried, leisurely, in slow motion, just so he could experience it at his own pace.
Tearing his eyes away from the rising sun, he looks down at his untouched bag. Unclasping the magnetic clamp with a quiet snap , he reaches within to pull forth a tattered and water-damaged sketch pad, his graphite pencil jammed unceremoniously into the worn and tearing fabric binding of the thick, black book. Pinching the end of the utensil with practiced ease, he opens the pad to an empty page and lets his eyes scan the area with almost professional precision, searching the scenery for an aspect of his secret hide-away that he has not yet captured the likeness of within the confines of his special black book.
It is then that his vision is set upon the only stranger he’s ever watched wander to this secret oasis, eyes widening minutely with fascination as the mysterious figure walks along the shoreline, bare feet becoming swallowed by the trembling waves as he continues, almost entranced by the same sights that enrapture Grimmjow at the dawn of every new day.
Tangled hair falls messily out of the loosely wrapped bun that sits atop the male’s head, long tresses draping unevenly down over his shoulders, the shorter strands curling around his jawline and framing what Grimmjow could see of his face. He’s overdressed to be wandering aimlessly across the beach, his trousers rolled up to his knees as he swings scuffed tennis shoes lightly against the calm breeze.
Their eyes meet briefly, long lashes gently dusting cheeks speckled with constellations of dull freckles as he raises his eyebrows in mute surprise, and Grimmjow immediately averts his eyes before the stranger can tell his heart is hammering inside his usually barren chest. The fluttering that overtakes his body is foreign, a light yet anxious feeling that he’s never known. Is he embarrassed that a stranger has caught him sketching on the beach? Could it be the way the mysterious male’s eyes seem to melt his icy exterior like the sunlight that now shimmers halfway above the greedy horizon? For once, he can’t really tell.
He expects the other male to approach him, tangled tresses framing his face like a painted maiden straight out of the European renaissance, all cinnamon smiles and baffling beauty that leaves Grimmjow sputtering a measly hello. Instead, the other takes a seat a few paces down the shoreline, feet purposely letting the waves wash against skin that almost seems sunkissed, the monochrome menagerie of colorless hues seeming to exaggerate the glow of the morning light against the dampened calves that rest gently against soaked sand.
The scene is so serene, so awe-inspiring to the agitated artist, that he feels almost possessed when graphite meets crinkled paper, the silhouette of the somber stranger appearing much too easily as messily sketched lines become a work of art.
It seems like an eternity passes as he watches the other lounge in the early morning sunlight, a leaden lookalike of the peaceful portrait drawn in darkened graphite lines atop Grimmjow’s listless lap. Tearing stiff paper slowly and gently from the book’s woven binding, languid movement catches the artist’s attention from his periphery, his muse rising from his spot on the beach and slipping already socked feet into his worn tennis shoes.
It is a moment of panic that causes Grimmjow to scramble to his feet, his art materials becoming one with the now warm early morning sand, discarded amongst empty seashells as their owner jogs jovially a few paces up the beach.
“Oi,” he calls casually, his voice gruff and strained with disuse as he catches the other man’s attention. Up close he is much more radiant, the glow of the risen sun shining graciously upon him as long lashes meet a masked face shrouded in mystery. He raises his hand, turning his palm over and offering the other the messily sketched portrait. “This is, uh, for you. I saw you were alone and thought you might be lonely or sad or some shit. Thought it might cheer you up or something,”
He doesn’t expect much from the other, his belief in his own art skills mediocre at best, but the other male’s face lights up like fireworks in the late night sky, shimmering with a pure happiness and gratitude that Grimmjow isn’t sure he’s ever seen. His heart is hammering loudly in his chest when the other reaches out to grab his gift, and it is when their fingers brush gently together, warm gentle palms against calloused cool fingertips, that everything suddenly makes sense.
It hits Grimmjow all at once, deliriously delighting his vision with bright and dazzling colors, the whole of the world seeming to come into focus all at once. He is dizzy, nauseous, barely holding his torpid torso upright on leaden and lethargic legs when he looks up at the stranger that now grasps his hand tightly. It is in that moment his breath is stolen from deep inside of him, all respiration ripped from his lungs as he stares at the other with eyes that feel like they're seeing everything for the very first time.
Right in front of him the stranger stands haloed by the morning light, the effervescent shimmer of sunlight draping his features in a heavenly glow. The colors that cover the expanse of the other’s body match the palette of the rising sun almost perfectly as they both stand there staring at each other, nearly agape with wonder.
It is then that dark spots speckle across his sight, lightheaded and looming as the disorientation of nausea and nearing sleep causes his knees to finally buckle. Burdensome body hitting the sand in an undignified heap, the last image he catches sight of before heavy eyelids slide shut is the rushing waves of the ravenous sea claiming the portrait of the other male, graphite lines smearing under the rippling currents as his art is swallowed whole by the unforgiving and ever-oscillating ocean.
“there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movement of
the hands of a clock.
people so tired
mutilated
either by love or no love.
people just are not good to each other
one on one.”
-Charles Bukowski, “Love Is A Dog From Hell”
Throbbing and thumping, edges of sight blurred with the migraine of what he assumes are yesterday's dastardly mistakes, Grimmjow awakens in a bed that is not his. The room is sparsely decorated, only a few pictures hanging above his head amongst empty walls. Some depict a glowing woman, her smile encompassing her aura like liquid compassion as she waits for the shutter of the lens, others show children hugging and some show a man that looks completely infatuated with where he’s found himself in life. Whereas the last couple look to be of the stranger from the beach crowded by faces and smiles that Grimmjow has never known.
Next to the warm bed he lays upon is a desk, the contents of some half-finished school assignment lying scattered across the top while flyers and reminders hang barely affixed to the bulletin board adhered to the adjacent wall.
He figures this must be the stranger’s home, though how he got here remains shrouded in mystery. Grimmjow is twenty-eight and stands at roughly six foot two inches tall, and while he doesn’t want to judge the other based on his looks, he can hardly believe the shorter, and possibly younger, male could carry all one hundred seventy-six pounds of his weight.
Muffled voices carry from the hall outside the bedroom’s wooden door and Grimmjow finds himself sitting pin-straight against the headboard in self-conscious silence. He rehearses the right words to say in his head, how he should rationalize this situation, but his cognating consciousness comes up short before the doorknob is slowly turning.
Warm eyes meet his, a caramel smile of plush and shimmering lips sweetening the tense air. “I’m glad you’re awake,” the other male laughs quietly, a sound that is barely there yet so prominent in the small space that Grimmjow has to replay it over in his head. “I hope you don’t mind, but I gathered all your stuff from the beach and left it on the couch downstairs. I’m Ichigo Kurosaki, and you?”
Unaccommodating eyes flicker towards the open window to his right, thin curtains ruffling gently in the breeze as Grimmjow opens his mouth to speak. “Grimmjow,” he mutters once at first, repeating the sentiment with a firmer tone, “Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez. How did I get here?”
The stranger, Ichigo , chuckles gently again, rubbing his hand embarrassingly against the back of his neck. “I had my friend Chad carry you here. After, well, that happened, I felt way too sick to carry you here on my own, and you were completely knocked out cold, so I kind of just did what felt right in the moment. Sorry, should I have not brought you here?”
Guilt twists undeniable and ugly within Grimmjow’s stomach. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate the gesture of the other, it wasn’t that at all , he just shouldn’t be here, couldn’t be here. He didn’t believe in soulmates, in the old wives tale that one day everyone would touch skin with a stranger and suddenly see all the colors blind to them before. It was always bullshit to him, from the moment he could think for himself to the moment Ichigo brushed his warm palm against unknowingly secluded skin and turned his world upside down.
This wasn’t meant for him; he didn’t come from a background of love, of talk of the beauty of the world and all it beheld. Yet, somehow, he found himself sitting silently, staring at the small townscape outside of a foreign window, heart twisting in treacherous temerity as he questioned if he really could be the bad guy to the glimmering sunrise that stared so warmly down at his snowy selfishness.
“I… don’t know.” He decides on mimicking the other’s actions and smoothing down the hairs that prickled like thorns against the burning nape of his neck. “I’m not used to this shit. I don’t believe in it,” he makes a gesturing motion between them, insinuating their situation without having to vocalize the terrifying tidings, “ this .”
Ichigo seems to understand the silent suggestion. Taking the few steps necessary to close the gap between them, he sits gently on the edge of his bed, looking into Grimmjow’s guilty eyes with all the compassion in the world. “I get it,” he starts quietly, “to be honest, I was kind of scared too. Even though I’ve spent my whole life dreaming about what it’s like to finally fall in love, I never thought it would end up like this.”
Grimmjow turns to Ichigo now, offering an offended squint as his spine bristles straight once more.
The other laughs, setting a reassuring hand on his trembling thigh. “That’s not what I meant.” Another blinding smile seems to brighten the room. “I meant that I didn’t expect it to be so… life changing? If that makes sense? I kind of just expected the generic fairy tale ending and had forgotten that even fated love takes time and patience.”
Grimmjow nods his head slowly in understanding, timidity and tension draining gradually from his still tired bones. Staring at the hand that seems to burn its brand into his skin through cotton sheets, he sighs in defeat. “If it makes you feel any better kid, I didn’t dream of any of this shit at all . My childhood was hell, and what little of my parents I stuck around to see wasn’t really something that sold the idea of romance to me.”
Breaking the connection shared through a rumpled duvet, Grimmjow pulls his knees to his chest, resting his elbows over them in defeat. “To put it lightly, I don’t do love, never have, and up until this morning, I was sure I never would .”
It’s Ichigo’s turn to nod his head in understanding. Though his actions seem to belie that he understands their plight, he instead makes Grimmjow bristle again with an unexpected question. “Do you find my company unbearable?”
Grimmjow shakes his head instantaneously, a little too much enthusiasm showing its face on his strung-up features. Far from it , he wants to say, but Ichigo continues before he can embarrass himself.
“Then can I ask a favor of you? Since I know you’re familiar with at least the basics of how this works, that means you know we have a week to seal our fate, right?”
Grimmjow nods slowly, tenuously, wondering what direction the other is taking this thought. He’s right in his imputation: he does know the raw basics of what the old wives tales say. ‘ From the first touch of your fated mate's fingertips, you have but a week's time to seal the contract with the gentle touch of each other’s lips ’.
“Give me that week then,” he continues. “Just seven days to get to know me. If you still choose that you don’t do love at the end of all of that, you never have to see me again.”
It’s a frightening favor, Grimmjow knows this, there is so much to lose and theoretically so little to gain on his end of this bargain. The monochrome mixtures of hollow hues that blend together in the late afternoon sky outside a pane of smudged and speckled glass tantalize him, calling his eyes to be unblinded once more and behold the world painted in a kaleidoscope of technicolor beauty.
It’s selfish, it’s gnawing, and it sets his stomach stirring. If he did this, would he be doing it for the sunrise eyes that stare into his soul with a fiery yearning for the love of childhood dreams, or would he be doing it to sate his lust for the world bathed in blinding beauty and light? Being unable to answer these questions sickened his stomach, his still-throbbing head filled with too many questions and not enough answers.
“Is it a deal?” Ichigo practically whispers, pulling the artist from his self-deprecating reverie. He has moments to think, seconds to spare on his first of many answers he was sure he was going to have to give. The spotlight of compassionate eyes burned his skin, setting his cheeks aflame and his body to tremble.
With a final look into the enrapturing glimmering orbs that somehow seemed to melt through every wall of ice Grimmjow hid behind, he knew that there was no going back. Not now, and potentially not ever. With an unsure nod of his head, he spoke clearly, rewarding the other with a detached and affirming, “Sure, why not,” before smiling to himself in unconscious affection as the other beamed blindingly at him in unbridled joy.
“Learning to love differently is hard,
love with the hands wide open, love
with the doors banging on their hinges,
the cupboard unlocked, the wind
roaring and whimpering in the rooms
rustling the sheets and snapping the blinds
that thwack like rubber bands
in an open palm.
It hurts to love wide open
stretching the muscles that feel
as if they are made of wet plaster,
then of blunt knives, then
of sharp knives.”
-Marge Piercy, “To Have Without Holding”
It’s early evening before Grimmjow is descending a set of worn wooden stairs, the imprint of happy family life practically ground into the grooves in the rustic design. Seeing Ichigo up close, albeit from behind, he starts to notice an influx of physical characteristics he’d overlooked before. For one, whatever length the shorter male’s hair was, it was well past long enough to be settled into a messy bun, the same amalgamation of knotted tresses from this morning gathered loosely and fraying around the edges of a hair tie that barely held everything together. Wavy locks of layered lengths swayed with his movements and sat gently against a freckled neck, Ichigo not seeming to notice the disarrayed state of appearance he seemed to be in from the shoulders upwards.
Hazarding a look lower, he noticed the way his shirt hung loosely against his torso, while the trousers he’d been wearing that morning seemed to hug his hips and calves in all the right places, showing off the definition of some muscle yet the feminine sleekness of thin and almost delicate legs. The movement of his arms as he jogged leisurely down the second story stairs pushed his oversized top against his skin just enough to hint at a small waist, the size of which not sinched enough to be concerning yet not wide enough to be traditionally petite. Grimmjow wondered to himself if that was just a flaw in his genetic code or if it was simply written in his bloodline, the stark yet muted feminine characteristics of the other’s body leading him to theorize that he took well after his mother.
Snapping him from his observational daze, Grimmjow found himself surrounded by strangers at the foot of the final step, curious faces of all types staring at him in wonder as if he was an exhibition at a carnival’s famous freak show.
The sporty one spoke first, the devilish smirk on her face befitting her teasing remarks. “Huh, I wouldn’t have pegged Ichigo to be the type to be matched with you .” Laughing mischievously to herself, she catches an elbow from the softer looking one.
“Now Karin , that’s not very nice! I’m sure he’s a really great guy under his looks!” Meaning well yet ending her own remarks underhanded, both girls catch large knuckles to the tops of their heads, the taller, raven-haired male rubbing his fists against their small heads in affectionate admonishment. “Ow! Dad, cut it out!”
He laughs a full-bodied and hearty sound, bellowing his brightness around the perimeter of the small space. “Now girls, you know how impolite it is to say such things about a guest!” Removing his knuckles from the softer girl’s hair, he holds out a hand in welcome, Grimmjow automatically grabbing it to shake. “My name is Isshin Kurosaki, and these little devils are my daughters Karin and Yuzu! Forgive them for their horrible manners, they’re still barely housetrained—”
The burly man can barely finish his sentence before both daughters are kicking his shins in protest. “ Dad !” they both groan in unison. Grimmjow racks his brain for a way to respond to the, well, animated members of Ichigo’s family, but instead a gentle hand grips onto the fabric of his shirt’s hemline, pulling him discreetly into a kitchen area while the taxing trio bicker enthusiastically at the foot of the now empty stairwell.
The air in Ichigo’s house was warm and foreign, cinnamon and spice without a hint of any lingering vice. The smell of cigarettes was nowhere to be found, empty sake bottles missing from his sight as he stared at the striking normality of a single rice cooker that sat nestled comfortably between the wall and the stove. By all accounts, Ichigo’s house was a happy home. Surrounded by a father that was jovially irritating and irksome and siblings that poked fun relentlessly at their elder brother for sport; Grimmjow could only imagine the harmony his mother brought into the mix.
Catching the corner of his eye with its sheer size, Grimmjow was drawn to a large mural on the opposing wall of the room. A woman beamed brightly down at him, a vaguely familiar face that he’d sworn he’d seen on the walls of Ichigo’s sparsely decorated bedroom. Hair curling into gentle waves, spilling down behind delicate and thin shoulders, the photograph, no matter how gaudy the sheer size of it was, emanated a feeling of peace that seem to radiate outwards, filling the house with the gravitational pull of warm and wistful commiseration. Above the face of the Kurosaki home’s very own patron saint, printed neatly, boldened kanji read ‘ Masaki ’.
Tilting his chin upwards at the unmistakable maiden, Grimmjow hazards a question. “Who’s she?”
Eyes full of monochrome magnificence dim discernibly, a sad, saccharine smile forming itself on silent and sickened lips. “She’s my mother.” A quiet answer, an admittance to an audience of none as minuscule yet mighty words follow a somber sigh into the austere and anxious air, “Well, she was my mother.”
Though the sickeningly soft and sentimental upturn of plush lips heave on a heavy and hardened heart, Grimmjow cannot find the right words to speak to such a melancholy expression. His own mother was hardly a woman worthy of such a face, the only pang of emotion he felt in his chest at the memory of menacing nights wrapped so tightly in a tatami mat he could barely so much as breathe, was nothing short of a maddening malady of anger and abiding loathing. The best he can do is reach gently for tremoring fingertips, hot skin melting his cool exterior and bringing the world into blinding and beautiful color in an exciting and nauseating daze.
He knows he shouldn’t look at the other, knows he is stepping headfirst into a grave already hung with obituaries in his name, but he can’t help that his eyes search for that sliver of sunrise, the glimmering of pure pulchritude in its rawest form. Wet from tears, Ichigo’s eyes sparkle madly like the dewdrops that speckle the grass in the early morning, the shimmering sun’s warming rays dancing beautifully in the mirrored reflection of each individual drop.
He’s like nothing Grimmjow has ever seen before. Entire galaxies of freckles bloom across gentle cheekbones and disappear under ringlets of ragged and ravishing tresses of tangled hair, long eyelashes dusting soft and supple-seeming skin as he gawks equally at Grimmjow.
He wonders what he looks like to the other. Are his thoughts written plainly across his face as well— the reverence of an artist regarding a muse of matchless majesty? Could he explain away this feeling to the other— the inexplicable draw of a negative charge to positive— or would he simply have to throw caution to the wind and bend to the hand of fate, grovel at the other’s knees and beg to be taken into arms that would undo the fallacies of a frightening and foul life?
He felt entranced, utterly bewitched by such a mysterious male, the only event enrapturing enough to tear his attention away from such a fascinating face was the pull on fingertips against his own, Ichigo silently thanking him for the kindness of icy fingers that thawed against his very own beams of secured sunlight. Grimmjow couldn’t explain what had come over him, the overtaking of raw and underprocessed emotion winning out against the careful thought of a practical and paranoid man, but he knew one thing for sure. One blinding fact that beamed through the bleary lines of almost unprecedented longing: Grimmjow was absolutely drunk on the warmth of the sunrise’s silent siren’s song.
I wanted to be sure this was our island
so we could walk between the long stars by the sea
though your hips are slight and caught in the air
like a moth at the end of a river around my arms
I am unable to understand the sun your dizzy spells
when you form a hand around me on the sand
I offer you my terrible sanity
the eternal voice that keeps me from reaching you
-Frank Lima, “Summer (a love poem)”
A hand in his has never felt so confusingly correct. Warm fingers closed in around cautious cold, Ichigo’s palm hazarding to venture into unfamiliar territory as he pulled Grimmjow’s deliciously dazed form forward, deeper into the house, sneaking past the gaggle of ogling onlookers as socked feet ascended the staircase once more, hushed conversations pushing gently against the pair’s back in a cacophony of whimsical whispers. Skin nestled closely, fingers soft and interlocking, Grimmjow felt as though he was experiencing Ichigo’s house for the first time once again, muted hues of unknown variety and distinction lit up the walls of the creaking staircase, blending the paint that separated the main living area from the hallways of private domesticity. The wooden frame of a simple structure turned from mere pieces of construction into a well loved and lived-in home.
Guiding him to the rumpled sheets of a bed he now knew the lingering comforts of, Grimmjow takes his spot next to Ichigo’s contented form, their palms never leaving one another’s grip.
“Can I show you something?” It is the mere tincture of a whisper spoken into the hue of lively air, a remark so soft that Grimmjow must stare into sunset eyes to assure himself they were truly spoken at all.
“I don’t mean to sound weird or anything,” Ichigo chuckles like the shimmer of the sunrise glimmering over the hungry horizon. “It’s just, you mentioned my mother and, well, all of my life I’ve dreamed of seeing the world that she saw— the world that she told me stories about when I was a child— and if you’re comfortable with it, I want you to look at her notes, the ones she left about the colors I see you in.”
Grimmjow arcs his eyebrow in inaudible inquisition, letting his warmed fingertips rub gentle circles into supple and serene sun-painted flesh. “And what would that mean, if you don’t mind me asking? It ain’t gonna hurt, is it?” For the first time he cracks a playful and jovial smile at the soft-spoken, shimmering, and freckled face that regards him like a precious stone in a glass case, cracking the porcelain lines of timidity and torpid torment that threaten to turn day into night.
Ichigo shakes his head enthusiastically, his own face a superimposed copy of the soft and saccharine smile he is sure is smeared generously across his face.
“It’s a book,” he announces, more loudly this time. “When I was a kid, my mother used to have this book on the theories of color, and how poetically and naturally humanity perceives it.”
Ichigo is rising from his spot now, bursting the bubble of unending safety and color that their pinioned palms had created, letting the miasma of monochrome meld back into the once vivid and wonderful waking world as those warm and gentle hands search a dim desk drawer for the hints of such a special work of loved literature. “I know it’s not really the thing a mother would normally be reading to her child, especially when books like ringo kamoshirenai exist.”
He pauses to laugh at his own attempt at a joke, his eyes finding Grimmjow’s in the dim and colorless nightscape. “But in a world like ours, wouldn’t you say both are equally important? While we can question if the apple we perceive is simply and truly an apple all of our lives, shouldn’t we also be prepared for when we can experience the totality of an apple and why it's been taught to us to be synonymous with the color called ‘red’?”
While Grimmjow wants to bark out a bubbling burst of laughter at such a high-brow yet childish train of thought, he simply sits soundlessly, staring in spellbound supposition at the mess of freckles that dusk a summery skinscape and a wildly bound bunch of silky strands that threaten to spill from their place tangled in a loose bun, spilling over thin shoulders like a vision of Venus herself. Clearing his throat in an undignified grunt, he breaks the hold the other has on his wavering head and heart and glances instead at the palms he wrings nervously in his lap.
“Guess I’ve never thought of it that way.” A loose shrug of tightened shoulders. “I’ve never been the intellectual type really— only ever found happiness in the lines I can create on paper.”
Chuckling gently, Ichigo sits beside him once more, jostling Grimmjow gently as he puts his weight on the plush mattress and deposits a worn and fraying book atop the cotton duvet. He holds his hand out in invitation and Grimmjow takes it without thought, letting the other scoot closer to him, calming breaths intermingling with near rapid respiration. “That’s right, you’re an artist, aren’t you? That piece you drew of me on the beach was stunning, you know? You could do that sort of work for a real living.”
Raising an eyebrow in skepticism, Grimmjow finds himself fighting a secret smile. “Bullshit,” he scoffs, half incredulity and half a veiled chuckle. “You don’t need to flatter me. That piece was mediocre at best— I don’t usually draw portraits.”
“What do you draw?” The question comes forth almost immediately, Grimmjow left stunned momentarily that someone is taking actual interest in his hidden hobby and not gawking at the reality of someone with such a rough exterior finding joy in such a gentle and delicate working of literal art. “If you don’t mind telling me, that is,” Ichigo adds, reading the room almost perfectly in the singing silence.
“I don’t mind.” It’s almost a whisper when it comes out, but Grimmjow continues. “It’s mainly landscapes, buildings, some fauna and flora, shit like that.”
A warm hand finds his and squeezes calloused fingers between supple and summery flesh, the exuberant and washed out hues of the darkened evening room blurring into focus under the warm and focused illumination of a medium desk lamp, the room’s sole light source. “What I really like to draw though is the way the sea meets the sky. Since you seem like a real smart fuck, I can assume you know a bit of art history— you ever heard of Ivan Aivazovsky?” An energetic nod of absolute enchantment.
“Well even if I hate even thinking about the dumb broad, my mom really liked him. She hung paintings all over our shitty apartments every time we moved house. They always looked out of place amongst all the filth and dysfunction, but I guess gravitating towards his art was my way of finding beauty in the chaos.” He can’t bear to search for the look of judgment he is sure twists the other’s features into either pity or disgust, his heart much too invested in the other’s calming calidity radiating against his body to let his expectations of understanding be shattered by the cruel reality of his misfortunate life.
“Anyway, Amelie , because I refuse to call her mom when she was never a mother, got me a shitty notebook from some art drive for kids when we lived in Grigny, France, and from there I kind of never looked back. I started out drawing the paintings on our walls, and then when we moved to Clichy-sous-Bois I spent most of my time hopping taxis to Paris and sketching the Seine until I had to go back to that shithole whorehouse she called home.”
Dumping traumatic memories of bitterness, resentment, and the small escapes that kept him sane, Grimmjow expects the lapse of oversharing to be the final straw Ichigo would need to dump this entire heap of soulmate nonsense down the nearest drain, letting it rot and fester in the sewage pipes where all the garbage of romance and fairy tale was meant to belong. Instead, he is met with a warm embrace, the scent of cinnamon and sandalwood almost intoxicating as wild and tangled tresses tickle his nose, warm breaths dusting his collarbone through the thin fabric of a worn t-shirt.
“I can’t undo your pain,” Ichigo gently whimpers against fraying fabric. “But I can promise you that you won’t have to suffer anymore.” Long strands of wavy hair tangle with his own as a burning forehead meets the contrasting clammy skin of his own, the bare skin of their noses touching as hot breaths intermingle in the sliver of shared space, sure eyes never wavering.
“Even if it’s not with me— even if at the end of it all you choose that love and soulmates and all the old wives tales are all a sham, I want you to know you’re free. I don’t know the difference between Japan and France, and I sure as hell can’t imagine the journey that brought you here, but what I do know is that even if you decide that I’m not the one you want to love, I will keep you safe. I swear it. Call it fate or coincidence, or hell , I don’t care what you call it, we were meant to meet for a reason, and whatever it ends up that reason is, you’re not alone anymore .”
A sense of ocean and old trees
Envelops and allures him;
Tradition, touching all he sees
Beguiles and reassures him;
And all her doubts of what he says
Are dimmed with what she knows of days—
Till even prejudice delays
And fades, and she secures him.
The falling leaf inaugurates
The reign of her confusion;
The pounding wave reverberates
The dirge of her illusion;
And home, where passion lived and died,
Becomes a place where she can hide,
While all the town and harbor side
Vibrate with her seclusion.
-Edwin Arlington Robinson, “Eros Turannos”
Almost as though the comfort and calidity of freckled arms carves a hole from his abdomen and releases all the pain and pity he’s pushed down and hid inside of himself since his atrocious adolescence, the words that Ichigo proclaims softly a mere breath from his own lips finally break him down, the tears of almost two decades of decadence and mistreatment soaking his flaming cheeks. He feels weak and exposed, a polaroid photograph trying all these years to develop from the darkness of anonymity and ambivalence in the solitude of a starving artist’s life wandering the suburban streets of Southwest Karakura Town.
Time passes in increments, like the choppiness of the still frames in a fast forwarded film on an old and decaying television, Grimmjow experiences this release in stages, time passing in a whirlwind as warm arms keep all of his pieces glued tightly together as the rest of him finally falls apart. It is only when the dull chirping of birds outside a loosely curtained window beckons his eyes to the shimmering sunrise he adores so much, that he realizes how long he’s been entangled with the other.
Legs clasped together like the closing of a precious pendant around the neck of a besotted lover, he finds the frigid coating that has protected his heart for so long finally fading as he beholds the glittering halo of warm early morning sunlight bathing Ichigo in its blinding and beautiful rays. He’s ethereal, not even human under the rays that paint his skin like a piece of oil artwork, something so otherworldly and enchanting that Grimmjow finally understands the idea of renaissance romanticism.
“You alright?” The words are spoken as if they’re uttered through a filter, muted as if through a pane of thick glass. Grimmjow grunts in dazed affirmation as his eyes study the other like a precious gem nestled atop a pillow of pure velvet for his viewing pleasure. “You might not understand this, but, I think the color of your eyes are what my mother would’ve called ‘ ocean blue ’. Maybe you’ve stared at the ocean in longing for so long that your eyes have stolen its beauty.”
A new color blooms across stunning and speckled cheekbones, the heat radiating from their close proximity causing a ripple of warmth to blossom across his own face in silent acknowledgement.
“Oh yeah?” he finds himself whispering between them, a cheeky smile curling his lips upwards as he tries to hide his near obvious enchantment. “And how would you know that?”
Enthusiastically rising from his spot laid next to Grimmjow amongst rumpled sheets, Ichigo searches the duvet for a hint of the fraying work of nonfiction he had placed on the mattress the night before, a warm hand gripping the bare skin of a burning wrist so as not to sever their rainbow connection.
“From this!” He beams, holding up the familiar book in vivacious victory. “This is my mom’s copy of Goethe’s Theory of Color , except, with all the annotating my mom has done in the margins, I like to call it Masaki ’s Theory of Color .”
A shy chuckle follows his claim, fingertips brushing the tattered hardcover title page in reverence as he recalls the exact page to flip to from memory. “Right here, he says: ‘Blue gives us an impression of cold, and thus, again, reminds us of shade.’ And my mother wrote next to it: ‘ Blue reminds me of sitting in the shade on the beach, a cool breeze ruffling my hair as the blue of the sky meets the blue of the raging ocean; two of the same colors so distinct as they meet on the horizon. ’”
Goose pimples erupt across the flesh of Grimmjow’s arms, memories of the paintings on his own mother’s wall emboldened in his memory as he remembers his favorite piece- Aivazovsky’s Sea at Night - and the contrast that he too marvelled at, albeit his own fascination existing in a monochrome menagerie of memories where he’d wished to behold the sight in true color.
Ichigo continues, “When I saw you on the beach sitting there and looking at the ocean so reverently, I couldn’t help but think of what my mom had written here.”
He hands the book over to Grimmjow, allowing him to behold its contents himself. Holding it gently with the fragility of a newborn baby, he examines the soft pages and smiles sweetly down at the feminine writing that covers nearly all the empty spaces of old and discoloring pages. The aging book is worn and well loved, imagined images of an adolescent Ichigo sitting up in the middle of the night drenched in insomnia and inspiration to immerse himself in his mother’s musings causes pulchritudinous pangs to rattle his ribcage in understanding. The same way that Amelie’s maritime paintings had left an indelible impact on the way that Grimmjow had seen the world and absorbed its wonders, Masaki had left physical markings within the pages of a college textbook to guide her beloved son towards observing the world and all of it’s opalescent wonders.
Flipping gently through the book, Grimmjow finds a passage jumping from the pages at him, words reading: ‘The red-yellow gives an impression of warmth and gladness, since it represents the hue of the intenser glow of fire, and of the milder radiance of the setting sun. Hence it is agreeable around us, and again, as clothing, in greater or less degrees is cheerful and magnificent.’ Masaki’s margins adding: ‘ This color is called orange, the color of fire and warmth and the heat of the summer sun. This color was given to me by my mother and has been passed on from your mother to you, my little strawberry boy ’.
“Masaki, or uh, your mom rather, was right about this passage right here.” Gently gripping warm and radiant fingers, he uses his skin-to-skin connection with Ichigo to point his fingers at his mother’s aging commentary. “She says that this red-yellow, this orange , is your color. I haven’t seen any of this shit very long, but the way this book says this color is warmth and gladness and radiance like the setting sun, it almost becomes you in a way, the way it’s printed on these pages.”
“I could say the same about you, you know,” Ichigo chuckles, pushing falling strands of tangled, fiery waves behind his ear in abashed beauty. “The book says ‘we love to contemplate blue, not because it advances to us, but because it draws us after it’ and that ‘Rooms which are hung with pure blue, appear in some degree larger, but at the same time empty and cold.’”
A warm palm cups Grimmjow’s burning cheek, face inching ever closer to regard the oceanic hue of his narrowing entranced eyes. “You hold so many emotions and facets of yourself inside of you, but on the outside you try so hard to keep these beautiful eyes so empty and cold. Others may not see it, especially if they’re oblivious of the color inside, but I do, and no matter how much I try, I can’t stop chasing the way these eyes harmonize the horizon of the stillness of the unending sky with the ravenous current of the oscillating ocean.”
Unable to help himself any longer, Grimmjow reaches his own hand forward and finally pulls Ichigo’s hair free, an avalanche of sunny waves cascading down to spill over hunched shoulders and burning cheeks as Grimmjow brushes the pad of his thumb along the lines of a sharp and speckled cheekbone. “Oh yeah?” he rumbles, inching his own face closer to daydream about plush and perfect lips. “How do you feel about Goethe’s assumption that in completeness and harmony ‘Blue demands Red-yellow’?”
“I’d ask you to kiss me.”
Tell me it was for the hunger
& nothing less. For hunger is to give
the body what it knows
it cannot keep. That this amber light
whittled down by another war
is all that pins my hand
to your chest.
-Ocean Vuong, “On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous”
He knows he has seven days to decide if he really wants this, a whole week to contemplate whether or not he’s ready to commit to the same love he’s avoided his entire life in outright revulsion. But the magnetic pull of complete and healing harmony pulls him even closer until he’s sealing humid breaths with his own rapid respirations of almost reluctant readiness. Like the explosion of the cosmic wonder that is the solar system’s big bang, or the crescendo of a classical composition echoing through a concert hall at full volume, their lips move hungrily, searching to feel the entirety of each other in one fluid and final movement.
Fingers tangled in tresses of sunshine and fire , Ichigo tremors in delight, swinging his legs over Grimmjow’s inviting lap and plastering himself to his own oceanic warmth. He isn’t sure how long they’re entangled like this, lips searching for the magic that the tales of old behold to them, but when they disconnect the world stays illuminated in blinding color, the monochrome miasma of what Grimmjow has always known and dreaded, fading away along with the memories of Amelie and the torture of a dysfuntional and chilling childhood.
All that sits before him now is an image of perfection, constellations of freckles speckling burning cheekbones and descending downwards like shooting stars across his collarbones and below his neckline, hair framing his figure like waves of his own fiery milky way, a complete universe held within one glimmering and angelic being.
“I know this is probably terrifying for you,” Ichigo whispers reverently, placing his palm gently against the fabric that covers his abdominals before placing another chaste kiss on willingly wanton lips. “Since the first moment I saw you Grimmjow, without hesitation, I can confidently say I have been completely infatuated with you.” A pause, another kiss. “ I love you. ”
Before a dazed and equally and terrifyingly infatuated Grimmjow can respond to Ichigo’s prompt proclamation, the sound of breaking glass echoes in from the hallway, socked feet scrambling down the hallway exalting hurried hurrahs. “ DAD! KARIN! Ichigo did it! He said it! ”
The pair can’t help but break into a fit of jovial laughter, embarrassing as it may be. Unfamiliar with the lulls of domesticity and a healthy family life, Grimmjow could find himself getting used to this, grabbing Ichigo by his wrist and dragging his body forward to place a warm and welcomed kiss against a quivering adam’s apple, mouthing those four words he could not yet bring himself to say, enunciated silently like a summer’s song and punctuated by the sky’s gentle yet cooling kisses.
I love you too .