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"You love him.“
With all of my heart.
The way he grins over his shoulder, his eyes, his messy blue hair, his scent. The way he looks at me when he wakes up in the middle of the night to get something to drink and thinks I’m asleep, how he walks, his cocky attitude, the way he twists out of the way of my blade during a spar.
Yeah, I love him with everything I got.
It’s not a hostile statement. Not at all.
I look up in Urahara’s eyes and see nothing but understanding. There is also a hint of something else but it’s gone too fast for me to identify.
He’s not joking around, not hiding behind his fan or shadowing his eyes with his funny hat.
It’s weird to see him like this, all serious and acting like an adult.
Instead of answering I turn my head towards the door and look at the painting on the other side of the hall. His smell still lingers and I try to breathe it in without looking too suspicious.
Yes I love him.
I keep staring at the painting just so I don’t have to answer because I fear he might hear me.
The bastard that makes my damn head spin and my anger rise and my heart skip a beat every time I see him. It’s surprising that I haven’t died of a heart attack or a stroke until now.
“What if I do?”
Gosh, am I a five year old caught stealing cookies?!
I hear a chuckle and turn back towards Urahara.
Aaand back to his old self. Well, almost.
Surprisingly there’s no blush creeping up my cheeks. And I thankfully also don’t start fidgeting around. I sit and wait. Sit and wait. Sit and wait.
What for? For Urahara to tell me I should stop chasing a dangerous dream? That Soul Society would try to sentence me to death for loving a soul- devouring monster? That a person with such a violent temper can’t possibly feel something for someone else? That Shinigami and Hollows are natural enemies and it would never work out?
He says none of that. Instead he tries to murder me with his words.
“Then you should tell him.”
I am more than tempted to give him the finger and start laughing hysterically at the same time.
You can’t just walk up to Grimmjow Jaegerjaques and tell him “I love you.”
He would lop your head off. With his pinky finger. While gutting you and strangling you with your own intestines.
I tell the crazed shopkeeper as much.
And he just whips his damn fan out, snaps it open and hides his lower face. There’s a dangerous but also playful glint in his eyes and I shortly wonder if the adult phase was a trick of my brain or a hallucination.
He doesn’t say anything and so I just sit there, basically just having openly confessed that I harbor feelings for the most violent, sadistic being in the world with the shortest fuse in the history of mankind.
I sit and wait. Always. And again. Over and over.
I continue to stare at the painting across the hall to my left. As if it could give me some kind of answer.
And so I don’t hear the heavy footsteps. Not until I suddenly stare directly into his eyes.
His pupils are small dots in his irises and his expression is oddly relaxed. His bright blue hair is wet and sticks to his head (save for a few unruly strands) and a towel is draped over his right shoulder. He stares right back and we hold eye contact for what feels like an eternity.
In reality he stomps by the open tatami door in less than a second.
The thing that gets my attention back into the here and now is the snap of Urahara’s fan.
I turn my head back and expect a grin splitting his features but all I can see are grey eyes staring back at me with a curious and understanding glint in them. Again.
One sunny day this guy will be the death of me. With his darn… rollercoaster- like behavior.
He continues studying me in silence and I do my very best to relay my message via glare: ‘I won’t tell him. I cherish my life and I’m sure, so do you.’
After a few moments he breaks eye contact and sighs while pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger.
He’s a melodramatic queen. An overly ambitious actor with no compare.
“Well… I am quite sure that I’m not going to be able to change your mind, Kurosaki-san. But let me say this:…” he raises his head from his hand and looks at me again. But it seems like he doesn’t see me. “… you’ll regret not telling him. Trust me, I have lived long enough to know that problems as well as strong feelings cannot be ignored and will only continue to cause stress that otherwise could be avoided.”
He makes a pause and suddenly there’s no clown, no unimaginably intelligent tactician or brilliant scientist anymore. I hope it’s one of his carefully crafted masks; perfected over decades and centuries. Because a vulnerable Urahara is easily one of the scariest things I can possibly think of.
He takes a deep breath and gestures vaguely in my direction.” In front of me, I can see a young man who’s hopelessly fallen in love. You are so young and this world offers so many things. Yet, the first impressions you could collect as a young adult, were the cruel ones of war. And I won’t shy away from the fact that this is my fault.
“Now, I may not be able to change the events of the past, but I can do my best to help you avoid a mistake that will continue to haunt you for the next years to come. And just so you know…”
He makes a melodramatic pause. And hell naw that darn mischievous grin is back in place.
“… during your stay in Osaka his mood was at its worst.”
.:..:..:..:.
The impact makes my teeth clatter and my blood sing with the want to repay the bastard for this.
One second I let my guard down and suddenly my back plows through the ground with the force and speed of an out-of-control rocket.
The crater is impressive, really.
I quickly regain my footing and catapult myself out of the way of an oncoming jab for my throat. I let my body fall back a bit and aim a punch at Grimmjow’s now exposed elbow with my free left hand.
I can feel my knuckles connecting, but never hear the characteristic crack and plop.
I realize he let go of Pantera and went with the movement to avoid a broken elbow.
Suddenly my back collides with the ground –again- and I quickly use my momentum to bring up my feet and ram them into the now unprotected Espada’s belly. I roll over my shoulder and send him careening through the air while trying to avoid his blade’s stab for anything it can reach (when did he catch it?!).
Unfortunately, it reaches.
And something rather important, mind me.
Somehow he gets his darn sword right between my legs and for a second I fear he might accidentally castrate me with his swing. But luckily he only grazes my inner right thigh, and before I know what happened we are back on our feet, panting heavily and swords at the ready.
We stare each other down and suddenly his chuckles disrupt the silence. His posture relaxes slightly and he takes a hand off of his sword to point at my lower body.
“Didn’t exactly mean to… y’know…” he trails off. That’s as close to an apology he ever came. Wow.
“Yeah, well I don’t think even you’d want to disgrace your enemy by slicing off their reproduction organs.”
“I ain’t your enemy, carrots.” My ears perk up at this. Not because of the statement.
It’s the nickname.
“I told you to stop calling me that.”
“Make me.” He waits a second and then adds with a grin that’s way too playful: “Carrots.”
That’s it.
Ignoring the sharp pain in my right leg, I shunpo around him and start chasing him over the entire training grounds. He must’ve finally taken the hint since I can’t hear him calling me by any vegetable nicknames. Not that I wonder about this; I’m so furious that I actually almost blast a Getsuga right in his face even though we agreed not to use any destructive techniques. But ‘almost’ is the key word here.
After a short while though, my vision gets slightly hazy and I can hear my own pulse thundering in my ears.
All of a sudden I’m so out of it that I don’t realize Grimmjow stopping in front of me. I barrel right into his chest and suddenly the world tilts precariously to the side as my knees give away.
I feel a strong hand wrapping around my left upper arm and it’s the only thing keeping me from face planting into the ground.
“You okay?” I try to blink away the haze and stare up dumbly at the Espada.
“…think so.” … men and their pride. Help.
“Then walk it off.”
The weird thing is that he doesn’t let go of my arm. So I’m basically just hanging there in his grip, pondering on what’s more embarrassing:
a) Me, eating the dirt at his feet after I told him to let me go and ‘walk it off’,
or
b) Me, admitting that I’m not okay and only moments away from blacking out.
…
I decide to go with the more manly option.
“Okay. You can let me go now.” Surprisingly I don’t crash face first into the ground, but manage to lower myself onto my butt. And I immediately spot the reason for my sudden feeling of faintness.
The hakama covering my right leg is soaked.
In my own blood.
And where I thought Grimmjow’s strike only grazed my skin, is a more than 6 inches long, gaping wound, partially hidden by the cut black fabric. Its edges are neat and rosy-reddish flesh shines through the still oozing blood.
“Dang…” For a second I think the major artery is hit but quickly discard the thought- in that case I would have bled to death within a minute. Shinigami form or not.
I hear a short intake of breath and look up at the blue haired idiot. There’s concern in his eyes. Something I thought he would never direct towards me. But newsflash! Apparently his moods are more colorful when I’m around.
“Jeez, how did you not notice that?!”
Yeah, how did I not notice a giant sword wound?
But because I too am a dumbass, I retaliate in a very clever way: “How did YOU not notice that?”
“What?? It’s your damn leg! Why should I care?”
“Because this is supposed to be a spar and not a frickin’ death match! And I thought your… nose could pick up the smell of blood better than mine. And…” I let the sentence unfinished because I realize the sheer stupidity of my situation.
I’m accusing an Espada for not telling me about a wound he inflicted upon me during a truly brutal spar.
It’s in his frickin’ nature to enjoy the pain he causes others. To enjoy the rush of a fight. The brutality. The screech of metal on metal.
And it’s in the damn nature of a spar to be the cause of injuries.
What’s irritating me is the concern I just saw. It doesn’t fit the picture I have of the Arrancar.
Now that I look at it… almost everything he did or said during the past two weeks doesn’t match my image of the brutal and sadistic fighter from 2 years ago when I first met him.
During all of our spars he didn’t try killing me even once. Sure, a few broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, even a ruptured spleen and a collapsed lung found their cause in our almost daily fights.
But nothing lethal or crippling.
“Sorry. I think I just didn’t feel how badly you got me.” **
He doesn’t answer. He just sheathes Pantera, grabs my left wrist and hauls me unceremoniously to my feet. He then quickly throws my arm over his shoulder and snakes a hand around my waist to support me since I almost passed out from the sudden change in position. I think he must have felt me slumping against him like a sack of potatoes because I hear and feel the responding sneer before he adjusts his grip and begins walking towards the exit.
“You up to a sonido? ‘Cause I think we’re gonna need ages to get up there with you hobbling like that, carrots.” I glare up at him for the hated nickname but give my affirmative.
With a static burst he accelerates and pulls me with him. Not a split second later I find myself in the small room with the low table.
But apparently I wasn’t up to a Sonido because as soon as my feet touch the ground, nausea has my stomach in a vice grip and the last bit of strength leaves my body as I crumble against the man beside me and expect to land in a boneless heap on the floor.
The strong arms around my torso and the smell of lemon-scented shampoo are a big surprise before I pass out.
.:..:..:..:..:.
“What? ‘Muffins’?!”
He turns to look at me with an incredulous look. “Thought you’d be more creative.”
The reason he leaves out the ‘carrots’ is probably to avoid being called the new not-creative-enough nickname.
I shrug and take a sip of my smoothie. “My brain is weird. I couldn’t really come up with something that suits you.“
“And ‘muffins’ does…?”
“Let me finish. So I first thought of ‘blue’ and the first thing that popped up was ‘blueberries’. And then my mind basically did its own thing and I had to think of that guy my dad treated the day before yesterday. A homeless man, he was brought to the clinic after some kids accidentally set his arm on fire in Tsubakidai Park. Don’t ask me how they did that, only thing I know is that it had something to do with a rocket.” I take another sip and continue. “Crazy. Yeah, well. Really nice person, told some funny jokes. But then he suddenly said his burned hand smells like liquorice and the antiseptics like blueberry muffins. So my dad sent him to the hospital. End of story. That’s how I came up with ‘muffins’.”
We’re standing on some random bridge in some park in the middle of Tokyo. After some back and forth I decided (as it turns out, not really against his will) to show him a little more of the world other than Karakura. And I could swear he’s actually enjoying his banana-mango smoothie- just too proud to admit that non-violent human stuff can bring joy too.
He turns around to lean with his back against the metal rail. “Still doesn’t deserve a label that says ‘creative’. Your imagination is shit Kurosaki.”
Oh, and now he tries to take a sip from his smoothie in a totally stealthy way while I’m not looking.
He’s such a moron.
“Yeah well,” I push off of the rail and mimic his pose “it never was one of my strong points. But hey, look at it this way: your future nickname has its roots in a patient with some sort of super power: were normal people smell toilet, he smells rainbow fart.”
“That doesn’t make it any better.”
“That makes it your nickname. It has a story.”
I can see on his lips that there’s already a retort forming. But I never hear it. What I hear instead, is a loud screeching sound and suddenly the support against my back vanishes.
With flailing arms and spilling drinks we both try to catch our balance- but we’re already falling.
The next thing I know is my back hitting something very wet and also very hard. For a moment I struggle to get my face above the water and keep too much of it from finding its way into my nose and down my throat.
Finally my hands find some support on the muddy ground of the small pond we just fell into and I quickly push myself into a sitting position. It’s shallow enough, with my head and shoulders above the now murky water.
Whilst catching my breath I, look around and spot a sputtering Grimmjow a meter to my left. I want to give some remark about his now ruined hair but a gigantic sneeze interrupts any attempts.
“Don’t say a goddamn thing Kurosaki or I swear I’ll rip your guts out.”
And because I’m a moron too, I don’t say anything.
I frickin’ laugh.