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It was rare that Grimmjow got a chance to fight Kurosaki in the sparse Hueco Mundo desert under a full moon, but when he did he absolutely relished every second of it.
Something about the whisper of sand sliding under his feet, the dry air whipping sweat from his skin as he clawed and snarled for an advantage, his predator’s vision able to pick Kurosaki out in contrasting light—unless there was an enormous glowing crescent of getsuga tenshou heading directly at any opening he could find. Urahara Kisuke’s underground bunker was big and bright and well-equipped, but it just wasn’t home.
Kurosaki didn’t seem to hate it either, judging by the bastard smile he couldn’t seem to lose no matter how hard Grimmjow hit him. He moved like there was quicksand beneath his feet, almost feather-light and never staying still for long, Zangetsu’s blade catching the moonlight in tiny lethal flashes that promised blood.
Killing blows had been off the table for a while, to Grimmjow’s unending displeasure, but he couldn’t deny there was a challenge in restraint as much as there was actively trying to murder each other. The right amount of force, holding down the snarling instinct to punch his fist through Kurosaki’s chest, tear his throat with his teeth, tumble his guts out from a rending slice that opened him from hip to hip—none of it he could allow himself. In some ways, holding back was a lot fuckin’ harder, because it went against everything in him.
The old drumbeat instinct to disable, kill, eat had turned into disable, win, gloat, and having chance after chance to do it wasn’t actually that bad. Kurosaki made some excellent faces whenever he lost.
“We should do this more often,” Kurosaki panted as he landed hard on his ass in the sand, pleased with his win. Laying his sword beside him, slinging sweat from his face with one trembling hand, he smiled with too much effort to successfully hide his exhaustion. “It’s nostalgic. I’ll ask Urahara to give me more of his weird delivery errands. What was it this time? Shampoo? Soap?”
“Fuck you,” Grimmjow heaved out, flat on his back in the sand. His side was bleeding and one of his leg blades was broken clean off, but it was his stamina that had taken the biggest hit. Kurosaki’s ability to keep fighting when anyone else would have vomited from strain and passed out was a bigger challenge than his bankai sometimes. “I’m plenty clean.”
“I’ve always wondered if you lick yourself like a cat when you’re dressed like that,” Kurosaki said bizarrely. From Grimmjow’s angle he could see the asshole lean back on his palms and admire the night sky.
Dressed like that, Grimmjow repeated silently in disbelief. Did Kurosaki even hear himself sometimes? Resurreccion wasn’t a fucking costume. Besides—
“Stop thinking about my tongue. Fuckin’ pervert.”
“It was an educational curiosity!” Kurosaki sounded like he’d turned red. “Dick. I’m gonna tell Urahara you do the leg over the shoulder thing when I get home.”
Grimmjow glared up at the moon, instantly visualising what he meant. “You know, I’ve got just enough energy left to rip your dick off if you’re not careful.”
“Then you should’ve used it in that fight,” Kurosaki said gamely. “You might have won.”
“Fucker—”
“Save it for next time!” Waving his arms in truce, Kurosaki’s bare hands and startled face said he was all talk, as usual. Grimmjow settled angrily back down from his raised elbows. He heard more than saw the sigh of exasperated relief. “Jeez, the way you get a second wind when someone insults you needs to be studied.”
“Don’t die, Kurosaki-kun!” Grimmjow cried in falsetto, clawed hands cupped to his mouth.
Kurosaki’s protest was half a self-conscious laugh, but he tried.
“Shut up, man. My head just wasn’t in the game til then.”
Snorting loudly to let him know what he thought of that, but also conscious that he’d lost that fucking fight, Grimmjow didn’t argue the point. Instead, he used that last spark of annoyed energy to push himself back properly upright, checking his side to see if the bleeding had stopped. One good push between his ribs that was going to be sore for a few hours, but nothing his accelerated healing wouldn’t take care of. Kurosaki, on the other hand, healed a lot slower than he did. Was that why he’d won the last couple of battles? More risk caused him to fight harder? Somehow Grimmjow didn’t really think so. It was galling, but he really did just have that kind of strength and skill.
“You outta here?” Kurosaki asked pointlessly as Grimmjow pushed himself to his feet, scowling at the way he stared at his transformed limbs. “I guess our next fight might have to be at Urahara’s, unless you want to wait a few more weeks. I don’t think you guys need more tampons or whatever before then. Are you sure you won’t tell me what’s in the cargo boxes?”
“No, and if Harribel catches you opening them you’ll lose your border pass, so don’t try it.”
“As if! I’m curious, not a snoop.”
“Not sure there’s a difference with you.” Feeling the burn of more muscles than Grimmjow thought he possessed, he turned for the cracked white dome of Las Noches and mentally swore at the distance. Kurosaki, on the other hand, didn’t even get up.
“Seeya, Grimmjow.”
“We’re going in the same direction, dumbass. That kumon Urahara built isn’t going to come to you.”
“I know, I just,” Kurosaki shrugged one shoulder loosely, “thought I might take in the scenery a bit longer. I don’t get to come here much.”
There was nothing in his expression to indicate something was going on, but Grimmjow had a sixth sense for all things Kurosaki, and just then it was blaring a trumpet of wrong in the back of his mind. Eyes narrowing, Grimmjow studied him from orange head to sandalled toe. Sword was beside him. Bankai, gone with the end of the fight. He didn’t look sly or treacherous—not that Grimmjow was even sure he could—but there was still something off.
“Kurosaki.”
“Yeah?”
“Stand up.”
Kurosaki’s brown eyes darted instantly to the dunes. “I want to sit for a while.” His hand was casually fisting a giant handful of crystalline white sand. His cheeks were flushing slowly. Grimmjow stared up at the sky for an instant.
“You rolled your right ankle in the dunes making that last surge.”
“I…might have twinged something small.”
Grimmjow bent at the waist, leaning in so far he could smell the sweat in Kurosaki’s damp hair. “You can’t stand.”
“I can’t stand,” he admitted, and sullenly threw the sand onto Grimmjow’s clawed black feet. “I’ll be fine in a few hours.”
The wicked urge to torment Kurosaki with his crippled state was instinctive and strong, as strong as the need to lord over him that he could still stand and walk, so who’d really won the match? Grimmjow felt his mood lift substantially at the thought.
“Call it a draw and I’ll get you back to Las Noches before the fodder hiding under the sand come up to nibble on your ass.”
Sour didn’t cover the face Kurosaki made at that. “Uh, no thanks. I won, you lost. Just because I can’t strut home right away doesn’t mean you somehow get a piece of my victory. I’ll wait here to have my ass eaten, thanks.” He blinked at his own choice of words, but nothing followed.
“Then I’ll just have to take my consolation prize,” Grimmjow shrugged. He grabbed Kurosaki under his arms and threw him just high enough in the air that he folded at the waist over his white-plated shoulder on the way down. “Because I’m such a nice arrancar, I’ll take you back for free.” Past every single occupant of the citadel like a war trophy, but Kurosaki didn’t need to know that yet.
“Can I play with your tail?” Kurosaki asked, so compliant that Grimmjow almost threw him on the ground to look for the trap. “Or is it your spine? If I pull it too hard do you become a paraplegic? That seems like a design flaw.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Grimmjow ground out, a little worried he didn’t know the answer to that question. “Don’t touch it.”
“Okay, fine.” Silence for one sweet, blessed moment. “Thanks for giving me a lift.”
“Stop patting my ass.”
“I think I could get a good beat out of these, though. They’re like bongos.”
So the asshole was going to make him pay for the privilege of parading him like a fresh kill. Well, fine. The joke was on him—Grimmjow couldn’t feel shit through his resurreccion armour. Just a dull impact with a decently catchy rhythm as they made their way through the sand.
“What have you two been doing?” Nelliel asked warily almost an hour later, standing watch at the wall with her hip cocked and arms crossed. Grinding his teeth, Grimmjow turned and continued walking backwards, where Kurosaki was furiously inventing some kind of new song.
“Hey, Nel,” Kurosaki said agreeably. “Want to join my band? You can be chest percussion.”
“I feel like I wouldn’t survive that encounter as well as you, Ichigo,” Nelliel replied cautiously. “Did Grimmjow break you somehow? Maybe a head injury?”
“Head’s fine. Foot’s broken,” Grimmjow grunted, spinning back around as he passed her. “You want him?”
“No! No,” Kurosaki yelled, quieting himself as they both tensed in surprise. “I’m good here. I mean, he smells like blood and my ribs are bruised from his shoulder, but I want to be able to brag to Urahara that I rode him all the way from the eastern dunes to Las Noches. For free.”
“Uh huh,” Grimmjow said, refusing to be goaded. “And how long’s it going to take for the rumour that you’re really, really into my ass to spread all the way back to Soul Society? Can almost hear those palms throbbing from here.”
“Oh, that’s not a rumour.”
Grimmjow’s blue eyes slitted. He stopped dead, the claws of his bracing hand sinking into Kurosaki’s own asscheek where it was almost pressed against the side of his face.
“Your foot had better be fucking broken.”
Kurosaki, deciding that silence was in fact not only golden but also the key to his continued survival, suffered four long gouges he’d carry with him forever in exchange for his speedy escape.
On two perfectly functional fucking feet.