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It was a largely clear and sunny day inside the sideways cityscape of Ichigo’s mind, but there was a high crest of stormy grey on the horizon, occasionally crawling with arcs of pure electricity. It was almost too far away to see, but Zangetsu kept turning to look at it with a narrowed gaze.
Ichigo scratched the back of his neck. “So, yeah. I thought you should know. About that.”
Zangetsu jumped down from his perch on the concrete lip of a glass-walled high rise, slamming down onto the windows with enough force to make Ichigo clench his teeth. His irises stood out like rings of pure gold, animal-bright and focussed.
“I don’t believe it,” Zangetsu said, his two-tone voice rich with scorn. “You’re coming out to me? What do you want, a fucking party? I knew it before you did.”
“Bullshit?” Why did that come out like a question? Fuck!
Zangetsu scoffed. “Two years ago, your twentieth birthday. Keigo hired a stripper and screwed the order up, so a greased-up guy in a mankini shot out of the fake gift box and grabbed your—”
“That was sexual assault, not hormones!” Ichigo interrupted loudly, his cheeks burning. Zangetsu grinned, his bone-white face lighting up with rude amusement. Ghoulish bastard.
“You went the same colour that time, too. Face it: I know you better than you know yourself.” Folding down into a meditative cross-legged pose, Zangetsu planted his cheek on his fist and smiled like a smug asshole. “Bet I could even pick your type before you do.”
An annoyed heat beneath Ichigo’s ribs was to blame for the words he said next, even though he knew, he knew it was a stupid idea.
“Yeah? Fine.” Ichigo lifted his chin, pushed his chest out, and said it. “Pick me my type and I’ll hit on him, no questions asked. Since you know me so well and all, you window-fogging psychopath. And when it all goes to shit and he turns out to be a disgusting freak, or boring, or someone who presses the pedestrian crossing button and then jaywalks, I get to rub it in your albino face while the old man watches.”
If anything, Zangetsu’s shit-eating grin widened until sharp canines glinted in the pretty sunlight of their shared mindscape. Ichigo was pretty sure he didn’t normally even have those.
“You’re on, King. And when I win—”
“Not gonna happen, gotta go, bye!” Ichigo declared and withdrew from the sanctuary of his mind before he could continue, surging up from the deep ocean of his thoughts and opening his eyes to blink at the record cabinet against the far wall of his bedroom. His ass was sore from sitting on the floorboards, but at least Zangetsu was as silent as the grave. Weirdly, Ichigo’s heart rate was up. But there was no way Zangetsu would ever actually be able to pick his type. At worst, it would mean some mild embarrassment and raucous laughter from the gleeful fucker. At worst.
“So, how did it go?” Kon asked idly from the bed, propped on his side in Ichigo’s body and eating the biggest banana Ichigo had ever seen in his life. “Did evil twin take the big gay news like a champ?”
“I don’t know,” Ichigo muttered, trying to grab the banana Kon was theatrically trying to deep-throat and missing. “He says he already knew. Now he wants to pick my type to prove it.” Pulling his hand back, Ichigo frowned at the textured banana residue under his nails. “Gross. I don’t even like bananas.”
“They have potassium,” Kon pointed out, taking a huge bite. “You know what else does? Come. Want to know how many dicks you’d have to suck to equal one banana’s worth of potassium? I’ve been googling things, I can tell you—”
For the second time in two minutes Ichigo got up and left a conversation mid-sentence.
At least the whole coming out thing was mostly annoying and not horribly isolating and painful, so it could be a lot worse, Ichigo thought as he jumped down the stairs, feeling the cool billow of his hakama for an instant before he landed. He rarely got to move around his house in his shinigami form, but when he did it was almost always because Kon was doing something weird in his body. He walked around the corner and down the hall to the living room door. Lately Yuzu was closing all the doors to try to keep the heating isolated. December was a chilly month, and it looked like snow was afoot.
“What’s the good gay news, my brother?” Karin asked when she spotted him, her upside-down face reflecting mild interest. She was lying on the floor with her legs pressed up against the wall, doing some kind of stretch. Ichigo frowned down at her tiny little athlete shorts and sports bra.
“Aren’t you cold?”
“I’m immortal. Fuelled by a double-shot espresso and honestly? Kind of sweating it out right now. Keep the downstairs toilet free for me. I’m doing squats next and it’s kinda fifty-fifty on how that’ll go.” Without further elaboration, she pulled one knee down and hugged it to her chest. Having a fitness freak for a sister was an exercise of its own.
“I’m gonna go see Urahara or something,” Ichigo said, tilting his head all the way to figure out what kind of pretzel shape she was trying to make next. “If you get stuck with your head up your ass or something, Kon’s upstairs.”
“Good to know,” Karin replied, sounding muffled from underneath her own calf. “Hey, is it weird if I get his help waxing my bikini line later?”
“It’s winter,” Ichigo said in horror. “And you’re a teenager! Who the hell is going to—I mean, yeah, it’s weird. What if my eyeballs record it somehow and I get back into my body and see everything?”
Karin’s wide eyes appeared over her knee. “Good point. Say no more, Ichi-nii. I’ll wait for Yuzu. I think her and Dad went to spread festive cheer this evening at the Ishida Capitalist Dystopia.”
“You mean their house?”
“Duh. Bye. Get me some raspberry sherbert while you’re at the shop.”
Ichigo grunted. Always with the candy orders. “Good luck becoming Gumby.”
“Thanks.”
Yeah, coming out to the family was probably one of the least weird things to happen in recent history. Weird was practically their daily bread and butter. So far, mostly dumb jokes and some fidgeting from Yuzu. Isshin was the worst: the pamphlets on the do’s and don’t’s of lubricant, how to douche (with pictures!) and finally, what to do in the event of unexpected anal prolapse. Ichigo had cussed him out pretty heavily over the helpfully traumatising onslaught of information, including the assumption that he was going to run out into the street and try to fuck the first guy that blinked at him. He’d still kept the factsheets though. For just in case.
Besides, both his father and Zangetsu were getting it all wrong. Yeah, he was gay. Epiphany complete, family informed. But that was totally different from being gay and looking to get into some kind of relationship. And if Ichigo didn’t even know exactly what type he had, there was no way some cackling bastard in the back of his head was going to know, either.
Everyone could just back way off. Ichigo was enjoying life.
“What a gay and merry Christmas this is!” Tessai said the moment Ichigo opened the door to the shop, grabbing him up in giant muscular arms and cuddling him to his rippling bosom. “Kurosaki Ichigo, welcome to the Urahara Shop. We have gingerbread.” A lush black moustache touched Ichigo’s ear. “And eggnog-flavoured lubricant. It’s in the lab.”
Definitely not him, Zangetsu whispered behind Ichigo’s ear, sending him right up on his tiptoes in surprise. It had been a while since he’d interacted openly like that. Usually he at least gave Ichigo the illusion of privacy. What was next? Full manifestation right there in the room with him?
“Thanks for the offer, but I might pass on the lube this time,” Ichigo replied awkwardly to Tessai, ignoring Zangetsu’s assessment. It seemed kind of mean to agree. Besides, Tessai was a big, powerful, ripped, kindly older dude who enjoyed house cleaning and being subservient. There had to be a market for that somewhere. He was someone’s type, just not Ichigo’s. “I’ll take that gingerbread though.”
Seemingly pleased with that much, Tessai fished both gingerbread and a rainbow-coloured candy cane from his apron pocket and gave it to Ichigo. The cane didn’t look or smell like it was peppermint, so Ichigo stored it in his shihakushou for later and ate the gingerbread man in three quick bites. Knowing Urahara’s concoctions, it might’ve been laced with LSD or something, and Zangetsu was sensitive to things that melted their collective consciousness. That time with the morphine had been a mindscape cuddle pile that the three of them—including Kon on the outside for four—had all sworn never to mention again.
“They’re in the bunker,” Tessai said helpfully, watching Ichigo fidget with his footwear on the genkan. “Carry your waraji through with you.”
“Thanks,” Ichigo said, doing just that. See, Tessai was a good guy, even if his taste in lubricant was a little questionable. Zangetsu was just a picky asshole. “Merry Christmas, Tessai-san.” He received a pleased wave for his respectful speech.
The interior of the house held few secrets for Ichigo. It was as worn and neat as it had been all those years ago when he first woke up inside, injured and terrified that he had a demonic force nesting in his soul. These days it was better the demon he knew, at least. Just like the house occupants—the drugs that Urahara sprang on him were always wild, but the long-term harm was usually minimal.
“Ichigo,” Jinta nodded as he entered, sitting on the floor wearing some kind of white and red yukata and writing on old-looking scrolls. Some kind of homework? “Be careful when you go down there. Ururu and Yoruichi were training together, and I think Kisuke’s been drinking. I don’t remember who else is down there, but there’s big boobs and green hair. Mel?”
“Uh. That’s Nel.” Ichigo was acutely aware he was standing there with his sandals swinging off his fingers like a drunk girl getting home after a big night out. “Thanks for the warning. Yuzu is at Ishida’s today if you want to fake a flat bike tyre out front. Dad’s there too though.”
Jinta actually snorted. “Your old man loves me. He’s just playing hard to get because I don’t have a job yet. Thanks for the intel. I’ll go sprain my ankle or whatever. You think that quincy dad will patch me up?”
“He’s more likely to amputate.”
Jinta looked considering. “Think Yuzu would plead a case for my foot?”
Ichigo grimaced. “Don’t bet on her moods when it comes to that. She squirted teriyaki sauce all over the newly-washed dishes last night because I told her Ishida was straight.”
Jinta all-too-casually rolled up his scrolls. “Why’d that make her angry?”
Definitely not him, Zangetsu muttered. No brains, too short.
“Too young,” Ichigo said with emphasis. Jinta’s expression cracked into devastation.
“She’s into old guys?!” He looked ready to cry, shooting to his feet and almost stepping on the hem of his yukata. Gelled red hair was flipped over his brow and hanging in his eyes. “What’s her type? Twenty-five? Thirty? I can get a different ageing gigai, I can!” Not waiting for Ichigo to correct him, Jinta ran out of the living room and straight into the shop where Tessai was puttering about. The shoji door slid shut behind him with a crack.
“Ageing gigai?” Ichigo said to thin air, a little concerned. “Zangetsu, you fuck.”
That one’s on you, King. C’mon, let’s go down. I like that place.
“I know you do. Don’t grow me any horns or lizard tails while I’m there, thanks.”
How about some balls?
“Fuck off,” Ichigo groaned, pivoting and heading down the hallway to the back room that held the hatch. Jinta would probably be fine. “I have plenty of balls.”
The path to the bunker was well-worn in Ichigo’s mind, even if the tatami was freshly replaced and no longer bore the fraying of foot traffic that he was used to seeing. Inside the small back room, the concealed hatch was thicker and reinforced with something that tingled and stung against his palms when he hauled it up. Zangetsu hissed in the back of his mind like a vampire exposed to a sudden shaft of sunlight. Hollow repellant?
“Think they could get that in an aerosol?” Ichigo wondered aloud as he sat on the rim of the void and pulled his sandals back on, shoving his ass off the edge of the opening before Zangetsu could turn his snarling into words. Anything he said after that was dulled by the whistle of wind against Ichigo’s ears, feeling the brief, cool cradle of air under his back before the ground rushed up to meet him. Executing a quick flip, Ichigo landed an inch above the dirt and avoided a shower of filth from the unsealed landing pad.
Looking around the bunker for any new changes, Ichigo patted his uniform down on instinct. Nope, still pristine and black from neck to ankle. The bunker, on the other hand, had some kind of remodelling done to the tune of massive canyon-like walls of red rock forming channels and paths spreading out from the open landing space. It looked like a kind of labyrinth instead of the open desert he was used to seeing. Above, a starry night was crawling over the fake sky, pushing the sunlight further away.
“I should pay more attention when I’m jumping down here,” Ichigo said, glancing all around. A cold flake of snow landed on his nose. It tingled with the artificial energy of something like kidou. “Hey, Urahara, is this some kind of Christmas theme?”
“Urahara is off gloating about the architecture,” a very familiar voice said, sounding moody and wasted. Renji was sitting on a low, folding blue beach chair, legs sprawled out and a large mug of something in his hand. There was a raised firepit in front of him that looked inviting, even if his mood didn’t. “Kanpai, Ichigo. Christmas is shit and Santa-san can kiss my ass.” He tossed back his drink with a loud gulp.
“What’s got you in a mood?” Ichigo asked, veering towards the small alcove Renji was sulking in. “Where’s Rukia? Is Urahara throwing some kind of party that he didn’t invite me to?” It was entirely weird that Renji was down from Soul Society without any fanfare or even a text to say he was in the area. Was he being ghosted by ghosts?
Renji burped long and loud, setting his mug down with a thud. He rubbed his hands across the front of his uniform like they were wet or something. The motion spread the folds of his shihakushou even further apart than usual, exposing the black edges of his chest tattoos.
Hard maybe, Zangetsu said, but the tone he used leaned toward a hard no. If he wasn’t hung up on his authority kink.
“His—” Ichigo barely stopped himself in time. Luckily, Renji didn’t seem to notice.
“Rukia is on duty tonight, just like me,” Renji said, stacking his hands behind his head. “Except Captain Kuchiki pulled strings so that she’s ‘on duty’ at the Gotei 13 captain’s Christmas party, so it doesn’t even count. Urahara’s got some arrancar guests up from Hueco Mundo, so I’m assigned here to witness any and all bullshit while they’re here and report back.” He kicked out at an empty folding chair next to him. “Get us both a drink from over there and take a seat. Gonna be a long, boring night.”
‘Over there’ was behind a large boulder concealing a giant barrel with an actual tap in the side, and a small pyramid of wooden mugs that looked like they belonged in a viking brewery somewhere. Ichigo approached it obediently, mostly on autopilot as his mind raced. Arrancar guests? So Nel was up with who? Harribel? Those three loud women whose names he always forgot? Or maybe…oh. That could be bad.
“Did you see a blue-haired guy with Urahara?” Ichigo asked with forced calm, filling two mugs with a milky-looking concoction that smelled less like eggnog and more like a lot of alcohol with a dash of nutmeg and cream. “He wears black and white. Has a jaw mask on his face.” Bringing the mugs back, he handed one to Renji and eased down into the empty chair beside him. The woven red fabric caught him just as he lost his balance, but he didn’t spill his new drink.
“Yeah, I saw him. He’s here with Nel.” Renji didn’t look too impressed. “Urahara took Yoruichi and them off to get lost in his new rock puzzle, or something. Give ‘em half an hour.” Leaning over Renji clanked his mug, or tankard or whatever, against Ichigo’s. “What’s new with you, anyway?”
There was only one topic in the forefront of Ichigo’s mind: Grimmjow was nearby, and he was one of the dormant reiatsu signatures he could sense in the bunker. Shit. The last time he’d seen him, Grimmjow had been glaring up at him from the sand, blood all over his mouth and his sword flung from his hand. Defeated, for the moment. He probably hadn’t taken it too well, and it had been almost a year since then.
Renji’s expression pinched at the stretching silence. “Oi. You even listening?”
“I came out,” Ichigo blurted, mostly to respond with something. Renji blinked.
“Came out where? Here?”
“No, the—the closet. You know? Tell me you know the phrase.”
You deserve everything you get, Zangetsu said flatly when Renji’s whole face screwed up in thought.
“Rukia talks about your closet a lot, but I didn’t think it was that interesting.”
I’m going home.
“Shut it, Zangetsu,” Ichigo hissed. To Renji, he said with great patience, “Renji, it means I told my family and friends that I’m attracted to other guys. I’m gay.”
Tattooed black brows lifted. “Gay?”
“Gay?” Urahara repeated, from about three inches behind Ichigo’s right ear.
“Gay,” Yoruichi said firmly, only slightly further away.
Ichigo’s blood curdled at the proximity. Turning slowly, he saw Urahara’s sandy hair and curious smile just over his own shoulder. Beyond him was Yoruichi, wearing a skimpy orange Mrs Claus costume trimmed in black fur. And past her—
Ichigo drank his entire mug’s worth of milky alcohol in a huge chugging series of gulps and prayed it would kill him, because behind Yoruichi, trailing over slowly from the mouth of the twisting maze of rock, were two arrancar wearing vastly different expressions. When the hell had they returned? Half an hour, bullshit. Like iron filings pulled toward a strong magnet, Ichigo’s eyes found Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez’s silhouette, lean and slouching in a way that stooped his height by a couple of inches.
He didn’t look happy. Or really, like he’d been listening at all. But it wasn’t really his expression that grabbed Ichigo’s attention. It was his clothes.
Gone was the black jumpsuit and cropped white jacket. In its place were tight white jeans and a loose tank tucked and belted by…black leather chaps? Chaps? But damn, he wore the hell out of them. They ran down his upper thighs like a scandalous garter belt before flaring into clinging full length protection over his legs, encasing obvious muscle all the way down to his booted feet. Thrown over the sagging neckline of his tank was a sectioned jacket, mostly black but white from the chest and elbows up. It had silver buckles at the ends, only one of which was done up correctly. It did nothing to hide his scarred chest and the ragged crescent that hooked over his left shoulder to join it. It was actually growing paler as time rolled on: almost pearlescent pink under the bunker’s strangely luminous night sky. Ichigo’s mouth went dry as the full force of Grimmjow’s new look hit him like a big rainbow bus.
Narrowed blue eyes fixed on him with impossible weight—and then they were gone, flickering calculatingly between everyone present. Slowly, his slightly plush lower lip thinned with pressure, joining its partner to form a disapproving line. God, even his hair was a little longer; light blue falling over his forehead in spare, almost spiky tendrils. They could almost touch his masked cheek. They looked soft.
Not him, Zangetsu said with pure brutality. It’s Urahara. He’s your type.
“Are you sure?” Ichigo almost moaned, licking his lips and tasting alcoholic spices. “That sounds like such a lie right now.”
Relegated to reality, Urahara assumed the reply was to his own words and shrugged.
“Well, yes. You just said it yourself, didn’t you? Nel-san, Grimmjow-sa—”
“Just Grimmjow,” was the instantly snarled interruption, a rumble of menace perfectly primed to escalate into a roar. “Cut the bullshit pleasantries. We all fuckin’ know each other.”
“I barely know any of you,” Renji said, sipping his drink with bad temper. He hesitated on Nel. “How’s the Ichigo fixation going?”
“Terribly,” Nel said, devastated. Her wide hazel eyes were fixed on Ichigo with condemnation. “Why did you never tell me? Me?! Your best friend in the entire world!”
“Clinger,” Renji coughed into his own fist. His cheeks were pink with the flush of alcohol, but his eyes weren’t unkind. He looked overworked, to Ichigo’s opinion. “Nel, Ichigo doesn’t even have these conversations with himself until the eleventh hour. Five minutes to midnight, even. Don’t take it personally.”
I like him more now.
“Shut up,” Ichigo said, covering his face with both hands for an instant. Bracing himself on the wooden frame of his shitty chair, he pushed himself to his feet. “Okay, everyone, it’s true. I’m gay. I like guys. Strong, handsome guys, and apparently I have a thing for older men.”
“Older?” Yoruichi and Nel said in unison, but Ichigo only had eyes for one person. One whole older ex-captain with shaggy pale hair the colour of sand and eyes lightening with the burgeoning delight of someone who was very, very smart. To hell with Zangetsu and his stupid trust exercises, honestly. They should be past stuff like that already.
Urahara beamed like a bride on their wedding day and took five whole steps backwards, his hands up to ward off Ichigo’s advances.
“Kurosaki-san, I’m flattered and interested! Festively so! What did Yoruichi-san put in the eggnog?”
“The lube version or the drink one?” Yoruichi asked, sounding like she didn’t care either way. She brushed purple strands of hair out of her laughing golden eyes. “Just accept his feelings, Kisuke. Dinner is in twenty and Tessai won’t begin the barbecue without your blessing, so make it snappy.” The look she gave Ichigo said she included him in that statement too. Ever the pragmatist when food was on the line.
Urahara was lowering his hands by small, mystified degrees, looking between Renji and Nel for some kind of objection. None came because they were both staring at Ichigo like they’d never seen him before. Two feet from Urahara’s side, Grimmjow had turned stock-still, his expression frozen in a rictus of half-realised anger. He didn’t seem to know whether to snarl a little more or less.
In the back of Ichigo’s head, safe within the confines of his skull, Zangetsu was laughing himself sick.
Go on, King. I’ve made my assessment. You’re up.
“But—”
What’s your word worth?
Across from Ichigo, Urahara’s brows were lifting as the silence stretched. Horrifyingly, his cheeks were turning a little red. Oh no, was he embarrassing him? Did it look like he was having second thoughts? He was, but—
“Want to go for a drink sometime?” Ichigo asked his crafty once-mentor who had definitely been alive for like a million years, fists clenched at his sides and valiantly ignoring the amazed stares trying to punch through his skull. “I mean, we drink all the time, but we could go…out, you know? A bar maybe. The two of us. If you wanted.”
“The two of us,” Urahara repeated, like he wasn’t sure exactly what was happening. He ran blunt fingernails through his messy hair and straightened his shoulders. “Kurosaki-san, I don’t know what to say.” He hesitated. “Well, actually, I do know what to say, but I’m told a lot of my first instincts are inherently world-ending, and whilst my power and intellect are great, I don’t have Kurosaki Isshin’s brute strength or propensity for summoning skin-melting amounts of fire. I will most assuredly die if I deflower you.”
It would have all been fine if he hadn’t said deflower like that, Ichigo thought with numb horror. Renji and Yoruichi spun around in tandem in silent hysterics, putting their backs to them both with some semblance of good manners in action. Nel’s jaw was practically on the floor, her pointed lower canines on full display. Ichigo felt himself shrivel up and die. Nothing, absolutely nothing about the entire exchange was speaking to him with sexy hormones. Urahara couldn’t be his type, he was old and polite and strong, yeah, but most of the time he let people kick his—
A fist like a stone hammer slammed into Urahara’s surprise-softened jaw so hard his head almost turned right around the other way. It pushed him onto the ball of his heels and back a few steps, grey eyes wide with surprise. Ichigo almost caught himself reaching out to help, honour-bound to help the sucker punched and startled in every universe. The only thing that stopped him was the fact that it wasn’t his apparently furiously blanket-overprotective father, but Grimmjow unleashing the violence.
“You?! What was the whole fucking point then?” Grimmjow was seething, fingertips bleeding into black claws as Urahara rubbed his cheek and straightened up. “These clothes, this stupid fucking visit, stuck spending time with Nelliel, and for what? Did you already know? You always fucking know!” He reached for Urahara again, this time with fingers like knives, only to be met with an unsheathed Zabimaru in shikai.
Renji grimaced, changing his grip on his zanpakutou. “Kind of on orders here. Can you get it out of your system some other way? Take Ichigo: he’s durable and apparently likes the company of guys.” Narrowed eyes judged him from head to toe. “Not that he ever told me officially before tonight. Fake friend asshole.”
Ichigo’s spine straightened. “I’ve done nothing wrong—”
“You’re all wrong!” Grimmjow snarled, punching Zabimaru away like a dry branch and snagging Ichigo by the front his shihakushou. In one surge Ichigo was pulled almost flush against a scarred chest. Burning blue eyes marked at the corners with teal drilled right down into his soul. “What’s wrong with me, huh? You hate arrancar?”
Ichigo’s brain was barely firing. Grimmjow smelled like soap. “No?!”
“Blue hair?” The fist in his uniform tightened.
“No!”
“Blue eyes?”
Ichigo blinked hard. “I—no? They’re cool! They stand out.”
A snarling mouth relaxed ever so slightly, but the teeth half-bared still looked damn sharp. Ichigo tried to think about exactly what the hell was happening. Was he in a fight? Was he about to have to fight Grimmjow in his cool new threads?
But Grimmjow’s shoulders were slumping by very slow degrees, and Ichigo knew what perceived defeat looked like on his face and hated it all over again at once—hated it so badly he forgot about Zangetsu and their agreement, forgot about Urahara and their entire judgy audience. Maybe the concept of types was just bullshit, anyway.
“I like your clothes,” Ichigo said openly. “I mean, I always liked what you wear but this is different. It’s cool. Do you like buckles now?”
“I had buckles before,” Grimmjow replied slowly, looking down at his own hips. “Two of ‘em.”
“And the long zipper,” Ichigo said, remembering. “It went almost to your dick.”
“It went straight to my dick,” Grimmjow said emphatically, life returning to him in a great rush. “The belts kept getting in the way.”
“Oh, yeah. I had that black and white wrapping around my waist then too,” Ichigo snorted. “You should have seen me trying to take a leak quietly in Seireitei. I almost needed one of those camper girl funnel things.”
Impossibly, Grimmjow’s whole expression thawed out at once. Were they really bonding over clothes?
“It looked good,” Grimmjow said with flat certainty, so much of it that Ichigo felt his whole face heat up in response. A single shoulder jerked, just once. “We matched in black and white, then. It fit.” Scowling, he glared around at the others standing by the firepit. “Not like now.”
“I still have it,” Ichigo said before he could think twice. “I only stopped wearing it because the Karakura shinigami kept calling me Captain Kurosaki. I guess it looked a bit like the old haori styles. My dad—well, anyway.” Realising everyone was standing there gawping at them in complete silence, Ichigo looked around for a possible escape. Grimmjow was actually talking to him after their last fight. Talking. And it was practically friendly. He had to preserve that. “What’s with this rocky labyrinth thing you were in here before, anyway?”
Urahara stepped forward. “Oh, it’s my latest—” All his breath woofed out as a slim brown fist met his diaphragm. “Mistake.”
Grimmjow fidgeted on the spot, looking kind of cagey all of a sudden. For the first time, Ichigo realised that his sword wasn’t tucked into his belt at all. It wasn’t anywhere, in fact.
“It’s a kidou lock, or something. An open kumon from Las Noches to this world, but we need to know the way out. It’s locked down otherwise.” Grimmjow grimaced. “Kisuke made it for us. It’s permanent.”
Ichigo’s whole spine ignited with the implications. An open, permanent kumon to Las Noches, and all anyone needed was to know the pathway through the maze to it? Insane. Risky. And—was that why the hatch had stung his hands the moment it detected hollow reiatsu?
“Show me?” Ichigo asked, reaching out his hand to Grimmjow without another thought. Blue eyes slitted for a split second, then relaxed.
“I’ll have the home team advantage if you fight me in Las Noches, you know.”
“I know.”
“You won’t beat me twice.”
“Anything’s possible at Christmas.”
A strange energy was gathering across Grimmjow’s shoulders. Glancing once, twice back at the maze they’d emerged from, he bobbed on his heels for a second and lunged at Ichigo’s wrist, grabbing it in a manacle grip. Overhead, the artificial snowflakes began to fall thickly in earnest. Ichigo barely felt them touching his hair and shoulders.
It didn’t feel like Christmas, but somehow he’d received one hell of a gift.
“Come on,” Grimmjow said roughly, tugging him with a clink and jingle of belt buckles, the cant of his head tipped proudly as fingers squeezed the warmth of his wrist. “I’ll show you my favourite spot.”
“Okay,” Ichigo breathed, not quite believing his luck. And all because Zangetsu was the wrongest wrong to ever wrong. Christmas miracles were real, after all.
Kon and I talk while you’re asleep, you know. Dumbfuck. You’ve been gone on this guy for like five years. Zangetsu stretched long and languid inside the stunned landscape of Ichigo’s mind. Bananas are disgusting, by the way. Stick with the arrancar instead.
“Asshole?” Ichigo said, not sure why it came out as a question. Grimmjow blinked back at him, barely fazed. They were halfway to leaving the others behind already.
“What?”
Zangetsu snickered.
Merry whatever, King. Buckle up tight—or don’t.
“Merry Christmas,” Ichigo said in automatic reply, half thinking about Kon and Zangetsu having whole conversations while he was unconscious. The nerve, the plotting, the weird emotional manipulation of making him ask Urahara out—
“Merry Christmas,” Grimmjow replied awkwardly, ruffling his own hair with a clawed hand. “Or whatever. C’mon. It’s really only about six turns if you rely on your nose.”
“My nose?” Ichigo repeated helplessly. The fingers on his wrist squeezed again.
“Or me. Keep up, dipshit.”
“Okay.”
Maybe not the kind of visit he’d imagined, with a lot less sherbert involved, but Ichigo couldn’t complain about Urahara’s weird plot with Kon and Zangetsu—not if it gave him something he hadn’t even realised he wanted. For that, he could forgive the humiliation of Renji and Yoruichi cackling their drunk heads off, as if either of them hadn’t known for years already. Grimmjow hadn’t.
Ichigo was going to make sure he was in no doubt by the end of the holiday season.
Him, his black leather chaps and his silver buckles.