Chapter Text
The match had been brutal. A full fifteen rounds with no room to breathe. Each time Ichigo’s glove connected to deliver a blow, Grimmjow had appeared to barely register the offense, bouncing lightly on his toes before diving back into the center of the ring. It was a big match – their rivalry enough of a draw to fill the stadium– but Ichigo saw only Grimmjow. The cheering and jostling lost its edge, became white noise as he grew attentive to the shifts in Grimmjow’s posture, every twitch of his bicep or tensing of his shoulders.
In the end, the deciding blow had been maddeningly arbitrary. Ichigo – barely on his feet – had landed an uppercut just as Grimmjow’s elbow pulled back for a jab. Had Grimmjow been a half second faster, Ichigo knew he would have been the one on the ground, ears ringing as the ref counted him out. It was always like this with them. Two fighters pushing themselves to exhaustion, growing increasingly reckless and sloppy until one of them caught a lucky break. Victory was never satisfying against Grimmjow. Defeat was never definitive.
Kisuke led him back to the lockers, pushing past the fans and press. After years as Ichigo’s trainer, Kisuke knew that his head would be too disorganized to pose for pictures and sign autographs. Later, they would watch back footage of the fight, Kisuke tapping the screen with his walking stick as he analyzed their moves (“You could’ve slipped passed him there” - “you left yourself wide open idiot!”). But for tonight, Kisuke was mostly quiet. He pulled the gloves off Ichigo’s stiff hands, unwrapped the bandages around his wrist and knuckles and examined the damage.
“1 to 10?” Kisuke asked. It was their ritual after a fight. Anything over a 7 meant suspected concussions, broken ribs, blindness in one or both eyes. High numbers meant trips to the hospital. Ichigo had once asked him what a 10 meant. Without looking up, Kisuke had responded “Dead.”
Ichigo considered the question. Adrenaline was still coursing through him, placing a wall between him and the pain. He tried to catalogue the sensations in his body like an impartial observer. There was the familiar, fully-body ache of exertion. The sharp sting of broken skin above his right eye and on his lower lip. A deep, throbbing pain in his left wrist. Maybe broken, not an emergency.
“6.” He decided.
Kisuke frowned, “Not great, is it your jaw? I could practically hear it shatter when he clipped you towards the end of the tenth.”
Ichigo shook his head, already getting up, “Left wrist. I’ll have it dealt with tomorrow, I’m fucking exhausted.” He waved away Kisuke’s concerns as he headed to the showers, “Thanks for everything, I’ll give you you’re cut at the gym yeah?”
As he let the hot water wash over him, Ichigo focused on consciously releasing the tension from his muscles. It was difficult, somehow, to communicate to his body that the fight was over.
Sometimes Ichigo would catch himself balling his hands into fists, bracing himself to be hit, hours or even days after a match. The unconscious effort of this leaving him tired and sore.
When Ichigo returned to the locker room, hair dripping and wearing worn gray sweats, he was surprised to see that Kisuke was still there.
“Really, it’s fine.” Ichigo frowned. “I’ll get the wrist looked at tomorrow.”
Kisuke nodded, leaning against the lockers “Actually, I wanted to talk to you.”
His frown deepened. Kisuke had been his trainer for six years. Longer if Ichigo counted the years of cutting class to sneak into Kisuke’s boxing gym, mimicking the guys in the ring until he was finally allowed his own gloves. It wasn’t friendship that they shared, exactly, but a kind of utilitarian closeness. Hours and hours of strain and effort, bone deep exhaustion and brief flashes of victory.
“Look kid,” Kisuke said finally, “I know you’ve got a big exhibition match in two months. And I don’t want to step on your toes here but …”
Ichigo worried, suddenly, that he’d done something to offend the other man. He’d never been good at reading people. Maybe Kisuke was unhappy with him?
“What?” He said and winced. Ichigo’s tone was sharper than he’d intended, conveying more annoyance than concern. But Kisuke seemed unbothered.
“I’m renovating the old place. It’ll be closed for atleast six months.”
“Renovating.” Ichigo repeated. “That’s … that’s great?”
Kisuke smiled wryly. “Don’t sound so excited. Anyways it’s your own fault. If you weren’t making me so much goddamn money I never would have bothered.”
Ichigo shook his head. “No, it is great. I mean it. You’ve been talking about updating the gym since I was a kid.”
“Don’t make me sound so old kid. But I need to ask, you willing to train somewhere new? Switch up the routine?”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll go wherever you want.”
And he almost believed himself. It shouldn’t matter where he trained. But there was a coil of ridiculous dread already forming deep in his stomach. Nothing good ever came from a change of scenery.