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These bastards probably spent as much time deliberating over whether to be here or not as they did pronouncing the word “shot”. What am I talking about? I’m presently inside what used to be Aizen’s meeting hall, here in Las Noches, with Quinto, the recently resurrected Primera and Cuatro, Tesla, Neliel, Urahara, Yoruichi, Inoue, and…Kurosaki Ichigo. Days ago, we went on to battle the Quincy. You can guess how that panned out, what with this orange-head show-off stealing the entire show. And because the Quincy bastards have been defeated, Urahara decides to invent tips on how to enrich people’s lives; he pulls out a huge-ass bottle of something that looks so familiar it summons certain flashbacks that are making me wanna projectile vomit. Since the memories of last week’s events are starting to poke at me, I just have to ask,
“ Kisuke, what the fuck is your problem? ”
“Problem? Last time was for drinking our problems away. But now that our problems are gone, we’re doing a toast.” He explains, unstacking a bunch of shot glasses which the others start to pass around.
So. We’re celebrating the victory. This is the exact shit logic that’s gonna doom us all. See, I never had any friends but, if I had some, we wouldn’t be this dumb when we had been fetuses. Sure enough, Kurosaki is now pouring himself the accursed beverage as its nauseating scent overwhelms the room. After which he starts pouring a drink for Starrk, who is sitting beside him. Am I missing something? Who asked these two to play friends? At that, my annoyance shoots through the roof,
“In short, you’re trying to get us all killed. ”
“Don’t know about that. You were the one who spewed all the death threats. And, oh, you haven’t said ‘hi’ to Kurosaki-kun.” The quack answers, pouting toward Kurosaki’s direction.
If my math is doing its thing, the brat has so far downed a couple of shots. Chastising irresponsible drinkers doesn’t fall within my moral practices but, at the rate these hoodlums are consuming liquor, something has to be done. As for me, I’m not getting within a foot of alcohol because god knows why. All around the table, however, mouths start to chatter and lips are curling. Eyes are, in fact, darting toward me and Kurosaki. Whatever. I’ve come prepared. If any of these assholes should attempt to gang up on me as hard as they did last time, they are going to get it. That’s right; I did a little digging on everyone, which means that the crap they pulled on me several days ago is the first and last bit of persecution they’d ever make me a victim of.
But then upon downing his 3rd shot of whiskey, Kurosaki glances straight at me to ask,
“So is it true, Grimmjow?”
“What?”
Frankly, I know jackshit about what he’s asking me. What I have a clear idea of, however, is how tipsy he is already. And what’s even clearer is the fact that Urahara’s whiskey is so potent it can convert even an inanimate object into a nosy son of a gun. Before Kurosaki can answer, however, Nnoitora barrels,
“Quit playing dumb, Sexta.”
“Dafuq are you yapping about?”
“Did I stutter? We told Kurosaki all about your antics last week.”
Shit.
While violence can send a message clearer than spoken words can, and anyone insisting otherwise is a loser, I simply am in no mint condition to wring Nnoitora’s neck and get away with it unscathed. I have to think of something—
“My question, Grimmjow.” Kurosaki presses for an answer when I would much rather have a whale stuck in my windpipe as an excuse to dodge the fucking question.
“It’s all true. I heard the whole thing as he said it.” Starrk verifies matter-of-factly. Not only is Urahara’s whiskey utterly slamming Primera but it has also turned him into a lying imbecile.
“Are you senile or something, Starrk? You were literally dead the whole time, damn it.”
“I was only half dead. That doesn’t change the fact that you screamed out your wild fantasies about Kurosaki though.” Starrk rebuts.
As expected, the first thing this jackass decided upon his resurrection is to enlist himself in the roster of people who like to fuck me over. And because I’m getting the feeling that this cockiness has to do with showing off to the Shinigami kid, I retort,
“Half dead from what? From being perpetually lonely and emo shit? Kinda lame for a number 1, if you ask me.”
The look on Starrk’s face indicates he accepts shutting up for the rest of the evening, even though what I have said has been dramatically reduced in expletives. Bwahahaha. Take that, Primera bitch. I probably won’t be kicking his ass anytime soon but at least he now knows not to try screwing me over.
But Kurosaki is studying me with bloodshot eyes. Emptying his 4th shot glass , he once again probes me,
“What were you thinking when you said all that?”
Some talking blue fish with severe memory lapse would ask less questions than this fucker. No one is more sure of their dumbass audacity than a nemesis you just met for the first time in quite a while, I fucking swear. Just what the fuck are these random garbage questions?
“What was I thinking? Probably rainbows and fucking glitters. I was tripping balls like what you’re doing now, dammit. Some nutjob quack thought it was funny to pass around booze that’s fortified enough to knock the living daylights out of a Vaste Lord. So, are we done here?”
“We’re only starting. Why are you being a joy-killing bore?” Urahara intervenes.
“I’m being a dick because it was all your doing that I ended up wanting to jump off a fucking bridge, remember?”
“I admit the booze was my doing. But no one asked you to confess your heart out, Grimmjow.”
“With psychotic logic like yours, no wonder Seireitei yeeted you out. Better yet, no wonder you’re still single .”
A handful of people snort on their drinks. Meanwhile, it appears Urahara isn’t down to verbally retaliate anytime soon. It does feel good to argue from a position of power, but the internal victory dance I’m currently doing screeches to a halt as soon as Kurosaki stands up to walk unsteadily away from where he has just been sitting with Primera. For some reason, this gives me satisfaction. But now he is walking toward me. Shot glass in hand, he skirts the oversized table to clumsily sit beside me, reeking of alcohol. Something tells me I would do myself a better service if I just bolt the fuck out of here. In fact, practicing Cero on my own ass might be a better use of my time and energy.
But after draining his 5th serving of whiskey, Kurosaki inquires,
“Were you so pummeled that you became entirely honest?”
I would suck the dick of whoever can issue a gag order on this prat, no shit. Why is it that whenever I’m not in the mood, people who otherwise would never have asked me personal questions would insist on discussing the color of my underwear within earshot of the whole fucking galaxy? Seriously though, 5 downed drinks and he’s already teetering over full intoxication. However, it is Tesla who volunteers,
“That happens to me a lot. I’m the most honest when I’ve had a nightcap or two, which, of course, means the same should apply to Grimmjow.”
“It means you’re a raging alcoholic, Tesla, and you need intervention. Simple as that.”
“It means I’m a man of culture.”
I nearly puke. I’m reminded of all the nasty crap that shot out of this jerk’s mouth at that time and I can’t quite name a claim more far off the truth. The thing is, these bastards ganged up on me so one-sidedly that my defense mechanism decided I’d have to do some research on each and everyone of them. And boy did I find some juicy stuff which I am going to employ now;
“Rather, you like to drink yourself shitless because you can’t get ex-Tercera Espada over there to bat a freaking eye on you. Flash news: you’re not her type.”
LOL, how’s that, ya little shit? I shot Neliel a deliberate glance to see how she’d react, to find in her gaze nothing but disinterest. On the other hand, Tesla tries to conceal his mortification by grabbing one of the larger glasses, perhaps to commence drinking himself to death.
But now Kurosaki leans in to bring our faces closer. Not before gulping down his 6th shot , he resumes his lousy interrogation,
“But, seriously, did you think I’d shoot you a chance?”
No two people in this world would ever agree on what the fuck this question means, much less want to answer it. Moreover, wholesome reunions between former enemies exist only within the creative peak of some nutjob’s imagination. And that’s why I’m about to tell Kurosaki to fuck off,
“Still asking shitty questions?”
“Still not answering?” Kurosaki asks back, his cheeks flushing with color.
This brat is presently hammered beyond repair, which means he has no business holding any type of conversation. Also, I was told that he’s some sort of a main character who likes to rescue worlds from helpless situations. Now, if he really wanted to help the world, he would stitch his goddamn mouth so he wouldn’t end up tempting me to torch this fucking room to the ground. But then someone else can’t seem to stitch her mouth shut for the life of her,
“If it’s about chances, I’d say it’s close to zero as it appears Grimmjow’s feelings for Kurosaki-kun are not reciprocated.” The Inoue chick pipes up. Her notion that I stand a snowball’s chance in hell is, for some reason, offending the shit out of me. And because her remark isn’t something I’m inclined to ignore, I ask her, pointing my index finger at Ulquiorra,
“And you? What are your chances of succeeding in provoking feelings out of that indifferent fuck over there?”
How do you like that, little miss perfect? Any moron can tell that this girl has a thing for Cuatro, of all fucking pricks. If you have enough wrong with you that you'd want Ulquiorra Cifer for a boyfriend, I’m sure it’s an issue deeper than having terrible taste in men. It could mean you’re completely unhinged. And lo and behold, she’s about to sob. At long last, all the dirt-digging I carried out these past few days is paying off.
“No need to be hostile. Calm down.” Kurosaki tries to pacify me, sounding as though his drunk ass is in any position to attempt making sense.
“I am calm.”
You know what will calm me down? A fucking change of subject. But this dude is now wasted as a fucking sailor on his way home from the final voyage of his life. Therefore, no changing of subjects is gonna happen. So on to his 7th shot , Kurosaki continues,
“Say, Grimmjow, are you really that horny over me?”
Great. Just the question I need.
I’m not in the habit of smothering defenseless underage drunks but I guess habits need to start somewhere; like now. As things are, everyone drops the conversation they’ve been having to crane their necks toward me and this cretin. Gossiping over booze might thrill people, but so will any near-death experience. In my case, Kurosaki’s question is skipping over the thrilling part and is straight-up giving me a near-death experience kind of vibe. Really, I need to get the fuck out of here.
“He is. How many times do we have to repeat it?” Neliel is the one who answers.
“Shut it, Nel—”
“—Hey, Grimmy , I asked you a question.” Kurosaki butts in.
Did he just call me…Grimmy? Who the fuck gave this inebriated twat the permission to address me as if we’re on chummy terms? I must be hallucinating because everyone is gawking at me like I owe them an explanation, as if I’m the one who has just used a fucking pet name! The silence prolongs itself until,
“When people give each other nicknames, it means there’s a level of affection involved, am I right?” Ulquiorra asks Inoue, as if he’d only been born five minutes ago to be this ignorant. On the other hand, Inoue is nodding so fervently she might have been trying to behead herself.
“Doesn’t mean they’re screwing though. Not that anyone would wanna sleep with Grimmy .” Nnoitora quips, imitating Kurosaki’s pronunciation.
“What was that, fucking mantis?”
“What, you ask? You’re all talk and no action. The best you can do is to drool over Kurosaki.”
“Like how you drool over Harribel?”
Nyahahaha eat that, you fucker. The ensuing tension looms almost palpable, which I wish lasted long enough because, within seconds, Kurosaki’s head begins to loll on his side. This time, there’s no denying he can’t be allowed to get smashed worse than this, unless he has a death wish. And then his head falls on my shoulder.
He mumbles unintelligibly, half awake and slurring his words, when amid drinking his 8th shot he says,
“I’ve been told ya wanna marry me.”
You can't seriously expect me to try to articulate a single word after hearing that. As such, the sniggering I hear next becomes a tool to measure my pain threshold by how long I can listen to it without wanting to scream like a motherfucker caught on fire. On top of that, with the side of Kurosaki’s head resting on my shoulder, the proximity is unnerving me shitless. Finally,—you guessed it right—I am done with this shit.
“Alright, that’s enough. Kisuke, wrap this booze fest up.”
Suddenly, I’m sounding precisely like someone whose strict parental instincts are kicking in. In fact, I am holding Kurosaki’s head to prevent him from toppling face-first onto the table. If anyone would ask for an explanation behind my somewhat protective gesture, he might as well ask me to decipher a fucking Diophantine equation. To my credit, not understanding what I’m doing, or anything at all, is perhaps the reason why I’m behaving like I’m auditioning to be this dude’s caretaker.
“What are you, his mom? I was under the impression you wanted to be his husband , not his parent.” Urahara observes.
“Fuck you, quack.”
“Why so salty? If you don’t make a move on Ichigo now, then when? Good job holding his head, by the way.” Yoruichi says, smirking like a devil.
“Know what, cat lady? How about you make a move on this demented scientist before your ovaries expire?”
Urahara swallows the visible lump in his throat, while Yoruichi grins, unabashed. A closer look, however, reveals how determined she is to miss her pseudo-partner’s gaze.
But then, Kurosaki stirs awake and reaches out for the nearest shot glass on the table. As this happens, none of his so-called friends are bothering to prevent him from serious alcohol poisoning. And, of course, Nnoitora prods the shot glass closer to Kurosaki before I can snatch it away. Not knowing what has come over me, I let go of his head in a mad attempt to wrestle the liquor from him when…too late. He’s taken a swig. Not 5 seconds later does his head drop on my lap . As things are, everyone either gasps or giggles, and I’m probably looking alarmed like a defenseless gerbil surrounded by a pack of wolves. Arrested by what feels like a legit electric shock, I nervously look down on Kurosaki’s drunk-ass face. But then he starts shifting about, trying to find a comfy position. Are you reading this? His face is on my fucking lap!
More importantly, am I on the verge of getting a boner?
Since I am so distracted by our current disposition, I fail to notice that he’s slightly lifting himself up to reach out over the table; for another shot! Toppling the glass and spilling the content all over his clothing, he whines, drunk as a bastard and barely conscious,
“But waiiiiit. I’m not ready to start a family yet.”
Kill me.
At this point, I might as well take a fucking swig since nothing is going right anyway. It’s like I’m hunting down a certain someone, have walked into a room full of lunatics, and end up beating the crap out of everyone that is not the someone I’m hunting. That’s how wrong everything is at the moment. I even had the audacity to swear I’d quit booze but then it’s looking like I won’t even last a freaking week!
"That does it. This drunken spree is over. Kurosaki, put that fucking drink down.” I warn, seizing the shot glass from the kid, as if he currently has the constitution to absorb information. As this behavior of mine is fundamentally backward from anything characteristic of me, Urahara teases,
“Is that genuine concern coming from you? Didn't expect you to be the nurturing type, Grimmjow. Just look at him chilling on your lap.”
I’m about to tell Urahara to get lost when Kurosaki’s childish voice is heard from below me,
“Grimmyyyyyy! You’re not answering me.”
And what would you know? He’s now drooling over my pants. Worse, one wrong move and his face would be on my crotch. This means I urgently have to do something about my impending hard-on. This is when I realize that there are so many deranged bullcrap happening all at once that not even the best psychologist would have been able to explain why I have yet to incinerate someone. And then more bullcrap is underway as Urahara makes a gorgeous request,
“Grimmjow, please let Kurosaki stay the night in your bedroom. It makes sense since he’s been clinging to you all night.”
At that, I have just about had it, for real. If this ain’t some experiment on rendering someone irrevocably crazy then why am I being tormented like this?! So I relieve my lap of Kurosaki, who’s out cold like a fucking koala at daytime, and bolt upright to argue the shit out of this fucking quack who, by the way, is the root cause of my present ordeal. I snarl angrily,
“Hold the fuck up. Whose fucking fault is it that he’s plastered??”
“Yours. Obviously, Kurosaki-kun’s been drinking in order to muster the courage to confront you.”
“Kisuke, you cocky—”
“—What I’m trying to tell you is, the guest rooms are fully occupied.”
“Bedrooms here are 3,000 square feet each, you dickwad. How the hell do you fill that space up with just two bodies, pray tell?”
Urahara isn’t able to respond because Yoruichi steps in between us. She says,
“Didn’t you suggest I make a move on Kisuke? How am I going to do that with a drunk third wheel in the same room?”
She has a point, but fuck that shit. I didn’t expect my plan to go smoothly, but I also never would have foreseen it would backfire this hard. To make matters worse, Ulquiorra joins the altercation to begin ordering me around,
“Let Kurosaki crash in your room.”
“Who the fuck died and made you boss?”
“Aizen.”
“He ain’t dead yet, you dumbshit.”
“Regardless. I’m in charge.”
“Then why can’t your pompous ass take charge of taking care of Kurosaki?”
“My hands are full; I’m taking care of Inoue Orihime.”
“What are you, her boyfriend?”
“You’re not Kurosaki’s boyfriend either but you’re already taking care of him.”
“You fucker!”
I lunge at Ulquiorra but am immediately restrained by two pairs of hands—Kisuke’s and Neliel’s—seconds before I can strangle the monochromatic fucker, who doesn’t even flinch. Hell, he hasn’t even blinked. Completely disregarding my fury and with a deadpan expression, he resumes,
“Look, Grimmjow, I thought about what you said earlier; that the human girl is incapable of bringing out my feelings. We want to prove you wrong.”
This is more pathetic than talking to a fucking a wall. Really, fuck all this. But more than that, is this another backfire? Due to irritation, I yank myself from Kisuke and Neliel, after which I furiously shove Cuatro out of my face to holler at Tesla,
“Tesla, take this Shinigami brat with you.”
“I can’t. I promised to show Nel-san around.”
“Dafuq? She frickin’ lived here for literally decades, prick. If anyone needs to be shown around, it’s you because you flat-out suck at reading situations.”
“You are right, Grimmjow. I suck at reading situations and what you said earlier was a wake-up call. Nel-san wouldn’t bat an eye on me but that’s because I never tried.”
No. I refuse to believe this shit is happening. As Tesla finishes yapping, he glances bashfully at Neliel who, in return, gives him a reassuring nod. And what does that make of me? An accidental matchmaker? Hence, frustrated beyond description, I turn to Nnoitora,
“Quinto, take the kid. I ain’t bringing him to my room.”
“No can’t do. I’m busy.”
“What the fuck? Do you have a fucking job or something?”
“I don’t, but I have a business .”
“Bullshit.”
“I have a private business with Tercera, happy now? Maybe I should thank you for outing me in front of everyone. No need to sneak around and shit. Ciao.”
Wow. Just wow. This shit is downright backfiring the fuck out of me. What sort of crappy luck is this? If things get any more fucked-up than they already are, then this whole situation has already ripped open huge holes in the space-time fabric with its extreme lack of logic. But as I run out of options to salvage myself, Starrk offers,
“Sexta, I can share my room with Kurosaki Ichigo for the ni—.”
“—not gonna happen.”
Holy shit. Why the fuck did I just refuse Starrk’s offer? Confused as I am, he asks,
“Are you jealous, Grimmjow?”
Surprise; I maybe am going nuts. Like, what with all the effort I’ve been exerting to escape this crisis involving Kurosaki, one might assume I’m about to declare Coyote Starrk as my savior. But now all I can do is to stare at him blankly. I size him up from head to toe and begin to wonder if he’s Kurosaki’s type—I mean, surely I’m way hotter than this dude…yup; I’m a fucking nutcase. Sure enough, I hear myself say,
“Tell ya what, Primera. Perhaps I’ve changed my mind. Let me save you the trouble.”
The fact is, I can be very loose with my interpretation of my own feelings. For example, just because I’ve been making it sound like I want to be rid of Kurosaki Ichigo, that doesn't necessarily mean I mean it—you get my drift? Maybe you don’t. Maybe no one does because these 9 motherfuckers have shaken the screws up my brain completely loose. As such, they are now staring at me like I’m some demented fucker who got his hands on weapons of mass destruction. Stupefying each and everyone of these assholes, I scoop the barely conscious Kurosaki up, scramming the fuck out before anyone can utter another syllable. Anyway, once secured inside my bedroom, I set this brat down my bed, only for him to abruptly rouse like someone deranged. Looking around as if he’s just woken up in another dimension, he asks,
“Where am I?”
“My room.”
“Oh. Am I your new roommate, Grimmy ?”
No, you drunkard, you’re the bane of my existence waiting to happen. As a matter of fact, you’re exactly the reason why I’m about to surrender myself to a fucking mental ward.
“Not a fucking chance. You’re going home as soon as you’re done being stupid drunk.”
“You’re kicking me out? Jeez, I always knew you were heartless. Typical Arrancar.”
He’s grumbling, flushing even redder and on the verge of tears. Obviously, it’s the alcohol that’s talking but, damn, he’s so fucking…cute? Sweat starts to trickle down my temples. There’s a build-up of a lump in my throat. And I don’t know what’s happening anymore except that I am somewhat being driven off my wits.
“Fucking fine. I’m not throwing you out.”
“Yaaasss, we’re moving in together.”
Moving in? As in cohabitation? Someone help me. Administer some sobering potion on this kid. Something. Wait, screw that; someone slap the living shit out of me and wake me up from this fucking nightmare. Just what did I sign up for when I brought him here??
“First, your shirt; they’re drenched and stinky—”
“—wait, you’re undressing me? There’s no foreplay ?”
Fantastic. This goddamned flirt and his deductive reasoning are going to be the death of me. I probably have duct tape lying around somewhere with which I could either clam his mouth shut or cover my ears, but what the hell.
“I ain’t doing that to a defenseless drunk. Get sober first—”
“—doesn’t matter; you want a shot at me.”
“What the hell? Get sober—”
“—obviously, Grimmy likes me.”
If sadistic flirting could kill, I’d have kicked the bucket 8.5 times already. Jesus. What I can do to prevent my sanity from conking out entirely, maybe, is to define for this dude what would make a normal interaction between archrivals, that it’s something that does not involve the level of cockteasing he is pulling on me, for fuck’s sake.
“Only when you’re sober; not shit-faced like this—”
“—I knew it. You wanna go out wimme.”
I’d rather go deaf than hear crap like this. This is precisely the reason why people who have shit alcohol tolerance should be forced to acclimate to liquor by getting their heads dunked in a tub of whiskey for, like, 30 minutes straight.
“FYI, I only date sober people.”
“Iszzat why you’re asking me to sober up? Cos ya wanna date me?”
This question shouldn’t really bother me. I mean, if I’m someone who’s constantly enduring the company of Ulquiorra and Nnoitora, I’m probably not going to cry like a toddler if a drunken dipshit won’t quit his stupid questions. And yet I feel like I’m about to have a toddler-level meltdown.
“No.”
“Liar. You’re all the same. Bunch of liars. You wanna kiss me.”
For starters, this is the dude who kicked Yhwach’s ass. This is also the dude who defeated Aizen. The same dude is sitting on my bed, stoned as fuck, daring me to kiss him as if it’s something I can’t pull. Like, dude, if you hadn’t been boozing like there’s no tomorrow I’d be sticking my dong inside you until you’re begging for your mommy . Like, to be completely honest, I actually wanna fuck you until you pass out . Well, he’s lucky I’m not the type who has the propensity to take advantage of intoxicated shitheads. Whatever the case, this brat is without a fucking doubt begging for a kiss. And I am done horsing around. After all, this dilly-dallying can go fuck itself.
“You know what, Kurosaki? I fucking do. Hell, I don’t give a flying fuck if you’re drunk or sober.”
Whatever. It’s just a kiss—for now.
END