Bleach Fan Fiction ❯ Seireitei Monogatari ❯ Anywhere but Here ( Chapter 120 )

Title: Anywhere but Here

Pairings: Ichigo/Grimmjow

Rating: M

Warnings: boysmut, massive spoilers, foul language

Words: 3619

Description: He doesn't really know what they're doing, what he's doing, but Grimmjow's gonna do it all the same.

 

 

“Where is the space I could move; where could I rest my head? There's nothing left for me here. It's hard to leave behind, the one thing that made me feel alive. So I slide from paranoid to paralyzed.”

 

Anywhere but Here by Sick Puppies.

 

 

He awakes to a mouth as dry as paper, as though he's been sucking on sand for the last few weeks. His eyes feel gummed shut, and it takes several tries to open them. Only to immediately wish he hadn't. It is too damn bright here, wherever here is. It is nothing like the darkness of Hueco Mundo with its constant black night and pale moon. Grimmjow groans, slapping a weak hand over his eyes to block out the blinding brightness.

 

“You're awake.”

 

He starts at the unexpected voice, bolting into a sitting position as his every sense goes on alert. Again, he regrets the action when several injuries start protesting the motion by sending out flares of heated agony. Grimmjow groans and slumps as his entire body is overcome with the feeling of being stabbed all over again.

 

A hand reaches out and smacks against his forehead, pushing him onto his back with very little effort. “Idiot,” the voice chastises. “You're goin' to ruin all of Tessai's work.”

 

He hits the blanket beneath him and decides it's in his best interest not to get back up. “Who the fuck is Tessai?” Grimmjow demands, dropping his hand from covering his face and looking into brown eyes.

 

Uncomfortably, angrily, furiously familiar brown eyes. That damn Kurosaki. He should have known the brat is a stupid bleeding heart.

 

“The guy who saved your life,” the kid answers and shoves him down with another palm. “So lie still while I make sure you didn't fuck up his work.”

 

Grimmjow wants to argue, but Ichigo is prodding at one of his wounds. It hurts like hell. So he just grits his teeth and lets the brat look his fill.

 

“Can't keep yer hands off me, eh, Kurosaki?”

 

Ichigo sticks a finger in one of his injuries in answer, and Grimmjow hisses, reaching up to strike out at the annoying brat. He easily dodges the half-hearted blow, smirking at him.

 

“Got pretty tore up, didn't you?” Ichigo mocks as he peels back the layers and reveals the slices in all their freshly healed glory.

 

“Shut up,” Grimmjow growls, hating himself for lying here and taking this. But really, hating Ichigo more for dragging him out of Hueco Mundo to wherever here is.

 

Ichigo just smirks and pokes around at his bandages some more. Then, he's slapping something cool and tingling over the injuries, slathering it all over and managing to chase away some of the pain. Grimmjow realizes as the brat starts to wind new wrappings around the wounds, that Ichigo must have been there the whole time. Watching over him.

 

It makes him uneasy.

 

“What the hell didja do that for?” Grimmjow demands, forcing himself to sit up despite Ichigo's glare. He'll be damned if he catches himself actually listening to the fucker's wishes.

 

Tightening the last knot, Ichigo frowns, smirk shifting back into his usual scowl. “Do what, asshole? Try bein' clear for once.”

 

“You know what I mean. Don't play stupid.” Grimmjow's own eyes narrow as he gingerly tests his limbs, which don't feel as weak and shaky as they had in Hueco Mundo. He wonders how long he was unconscious and how he'd gotten here.

 

“No, that's more your specialty,” Ichigo returns without an ounce of pause, snorting derisively. He idly tosses a few things over his shoulder, including the soiled bandages, towards a pack that is half-open and somewhat spilling out its contents.

 

They are somewhere empty, Grimmjow can tell that much. Surrounded by rock and the brightness of a sky that gives him the same feeling as Aizen's fake blue one. He just doesn't know where the hell Ichigo has taken him.

 

“Shut up,” Grimmjow snarls, recognizing an insult when he hears one. He feels like he's being pitied, and Grimmjow really hates that. “Ain't saving me against some Shinigami code?”

 

Ichigo rolls his shoulders dismissively. “Probably.”

 

He doesn't offer up any other sort of explanation, and for some reason, it makes Grimmjow see red. He feels fury bubbling up inside of him, most likely fueled by all the other emotions that have become his existence in the past fortnight. Lingering sensations of loneliness, of self-pity. Annoyance and hatred, regret, all of it hanging over him and whispering in his ear while surrounded by the emptiness of Las Noches.

 

He remembers trudging relentlessly through the white sands of Hueco Mundo, fighting Hollows when they crossed his path and trying to keep his blood in his body rather than out as it seemed to prefer. Grimmjow can recall the last two weeks with stark clarity, though bits and pieces still try to haze past his reason. He remembers that the last thing on his mind had been Kurosaki Ichigo, and the look in his brown eyes.

 

For some reason, it all pisses him the fuck off. And he wants to respond to that anger in the only way he knows how. Violently. Rudely. Recklessly. It doesn't even make sense, but he thinks that if he doesn't let it out, he might just fall apart even more than he already has. It's Ichigo's damn fault anyway. He had to go and play the hero again.

 

“You're some sort of martyr, aren't ya?” Grimmjow growls, hands curling into angered fists, even if he doesn't really understand why. “It's your kind that really pisses me off.”

 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Ichigo looks at him, straight at him, and there's confusion on his face, though a hefty dose of irritation is starting to creep in.

 

“I didn't ask for yer fucking help, Shinigami.” Grimmjow sneers, only seeing himself, seeing his pathetic position. Pitied by the Shinigami.

 

How low could he get? Saved by the Shinigami? Even lower?

 

Ulquiorra would have been amused by this, if he were still alive. But like everyone else, Ulquiorra's dead. And Grimmjow should be, too. Were it not for Ichigo and his kami-bedamned pity.

 

“Well, too bad, because you got it,” Ichigo retorts sharply, face flushing with a hefty dose of rising anger. “You're the dumbass who got knocked out by a level one kidoh!”

 

Hissing angrily and paying no mind to his own injuries, Grimmjow doesn't think. He reacts. A fist tunnels through the air as he takes a wild swing, which is easily dodged considering his rather sorry state. His pride is a wounded, snarling beast, and Ichigo is an easy target. Grimmjow doesn't do gratitude.

 

“I hate you,” he snaps, ignoring his precarious balance in favor of another wild throw of his fist.

 

Ichigo grabs his arm, pushing it away from him. Brown eyes are smoldering, flashing with fury.

 

“The feeling's mutual, bastard!” Ichigo snarls.

 

And then, Grimmjow isn't sure what happens next. He doesn't know who started it - he or Ichigo - he just knows that they're kissing. Or perhaps that isn't the right word for it.

 

They are fighting with their lips, rough nips with their teeth against soft flesh. A fierce pressure of mouth on mouth, and Ichigo's tongue trying to push against his as Grimmjow's tongue fights back. He can taste whatever it was that Ichigo ate last, something both sweet and sour, and the sharp tang of blood flavors the kiss. He thinks he might have bitten his own lip.

 

Grimmjow's hands clench tightly on Ichigo's shoulders, and he tries to push the teen to the ground, but Ichigo's not willing to go down easily. One hand grabs Grimmjow's hip, and a knee tries to knock aside his legs. Grimmjow fights the motion, and they end up losing their balance, toppling over with little grace. Their heads knock together. Grimmjow mutters a low curse, a stirring in his blood unlike anything he's felt before.

 

He's tumbled a woman or two; there were some pretty Arrancar in Aizen's army. Useful for a night or three, something to end the boredom or relieve tension. And he always felt satisfied in the end. But it was nothing like this. Frantic. Furious. Hot and heavy. Hands grabbing and twisting, the two of them rolling over and over on the ground, no longer even on the blanket. Their lips part at some point, and Grimmjow briefly misses the tangle of their tongues. The feel of the hot air from their mouths colliding and mingling.

 

Grimmjow feels a rock digging into his side, and one of his injuries breaks open under the roughhousing. But the pain is nothing. He can't even feel it. He's too busy trying to rip off Ichigo's clothes and pin the brat beneath him all in the same breath. The damn obi is too complicated, the knot drawing tighter despite his best efforts, and he gives up, shoving his hands through the slit in Ichigo's hakama and pawing about relentlessly.

 

Ichigo reciprocates by shoving a palm over Grimmjow's groin, muttering something under his breath. Grimmjow's blood is rushing through his veins, and there is a sound crashing in his ears, he can't hear anything. He tastes blood and grit and sweat and sees flesh near his mouth. A bared shoulder, collarbone visible just so, and he can't help himself. He licks a hot line across the tanned flesh, tasting more sweat.

 

Ichigo makes a sound. Grimmjow doesn't know what it is except that it's pretty damn sexy, especially when his searching fingers finally find hard flesh within the brat's hakama. He doesn't hesitate, dampness streaking across his palm before he manages to wrap fingers around Ichigo. The teen groans long and hard, and Grimmjow smirks.

 

They're on their sides, limbs entangled, having given up on dominance over one another. Grimmjow doesn't care anymore. He's got a rod in his pants that needs relief, and the more Ichigo rubs down on him, the worse it gets. Grimmjow pants, hearing his own breathing, rapid and harsh. Desperate.

 

Ichigo doesn't sound any better.

 

His hips jerk of their own accord as Ichigo strokes him through his clothing, somehow erotic. Enough that Grimmjow can imagine what it would be like to feel Ichigo's bare skin on him. He thinks about it, imagination fueled by the sounds Ichigo is making as he strokes his fingers faster and faster over the brat's own shaft. Those little noises are more frequent, and Ichigo curses under his breath. So does Grimmjow, but he hardly notices.

 

All he knows is that he wants with a desperation he doesn't understand. There's something pent up inside of him, begging to be released. He clamps down on the bare skin near his mouth, probably harder than he should. Ichigo hisses, squeezing reflexively, and Grimmjow shudders, releasing into the confines of his own pants. It's hot and messy and sticky, spilling everywhere. But damn if he doesn't care. Pleasure is streaking through his entire body as he pants and practically writhes beneath the teen's fingers.

 

His own hand is no less busy. Grimmjow laps wetly over the bite mark, one impression oozing just a little. The sharp, coppery taste of blood dances on the tip of his tongue, coloring the encounter. Ichigo's free hand grabs his arm. Squeezing tightly, almost bruisingly. A finger digs into one of Grimmjow's wounds, and he snarls, but Ichigo doesn't notice.

 

The kid draws in breath through his teeth, tightly clenched. And throwing his head back, he arches his hips and climaxes, covering Grimmjow's hand in his sticky release. He wonders why he doesn't seem to care as the last of Ichigo's tremors leave him, and Grimmjow wisely retracts his hand.

 

They fall apart from each other, panting against the dry and dusty ground. Grimmjow can feel the blood seeping from one of his reopened wounds, and his hand is sticky, dirtied by Ichigo's release. He lifts a hand, curiously sniffing the substance. He doesn't quite have the balls to lick it though and just rubs it off on his pants. They can't get any dirtier anyway. He can feel his own cum squishing about in his likely borrowed hakama. It's uncomfortable, though he can hardly tell thanks to the pleasure still thrumming through his body.

 

It's a strange moment, this aftermath. And though the inexplicable rage has bled out of Grimmjow, he's still left with confusion. He's never tumbled a male before, never really thought about liking one and especially not the brat. But the proof lies sticky against his groin and the fact that he's not utterly disgusted.

 

“Now what, bastard?” he asks and considers it somewhat polite as he's managed not to grind it out or make a demand.

 

A wind stirs out of nowhere, brushing against his half-dressed and sweat-sticky skin. He probably stinks like shit, all things considered. Good thing his nose isn't working too well at the moment.

 

Ichigo snorts and barely twitches. “Don't ask me. You started it.”

 

“You kissed me first.”

 

“And you attacked me.”

 

“But you went looking for me.”

 

“And you never even thanked me,” Ichigo retorts and rolls his head to the side, darkened eyes gleaming with a mixture of slaked lust and brimming annoyance. “Ungrateful shit.”

 

Funny, Grimmjow still doesn't feel an inch of gratitude. He can't decide whether he would have preferred dying or if that bit of absolute defeat isn't acceptable. “If ya wanted thanks, ya shouldn't bothered looking, brat.”

 

“Ichigo.”

 

“The fuck?”

 

The teen scowls and lazily swats a hand at him, the back of his palm hitting against Grimmjow's barely clothed hip. “My name's Ichigo. Not brat. Or bastard. Or any of your other pet names.”

 

Grimmjow snorts, swirling a finger into his ear. “Stupid name.”

 

“And yours is any better?” Ichigo attempts to elbow him, but he doesn't try very hard and his aim falls far off. Instead, he looks down at himself and grimaces. “You made a mess.”

 

Why isn't this more awkward? Grimmjow wonders this as he glances down at his own soiled state, and the blanket that's more than ten feet away. He and Ichigo are little more than enemies. They hate each other. Shouldn't there be something more like unease?

 

He grunts, shifting a bit and hating the squish in his pants. “So did you.”

 

Rolling his eyes, Ichigo hauls himself to his feet and reaches down, grabbing Grimmjow's arm. With very little effort, he pulls the former Espada to his feet, ignoring Grimmjow's pained curses. He allows the manhandling because he's too tired and dirty to care otherwise.

 

“You're too damn heavy,” he complains, fingers locked tightly around Grimmjow's upper arm. He gives a tug and pulls Grimmjow away from the soiled location.

 

It takes several seconds for Grimmjow to realize where they are going. Steam curls slowly over a depression in the rocky outcrop, some kind of hot springs in the ground. Ichigo's intentions are pretty damn obvious. But Grimmjow's having none of it.

 

He digs his heels into the ground, finally putting up a protest. “Hell, no. I don't do water.”

 

Ichigo smirks at him, all self-righteous. As usual. “Just like a cat,” he remarks, though it seems more like teasing.

 

It doesn't even faze him that Grimmjow's resisting. He gives a sharp tug to the former Espada's arm, and with a sneaky trip, he shoves Grimmjow forward, sending him face first into the warm water. He has all of a second to hate Ichigo's guts before he is instantly soaked and bogged down, especially since he is still wearing his hakama.

 

Grimmjow immediately surfaces, spitting out the water he's accidentally swallowed and pinning the teen with an indignant stare. “Bastard,” he growls as he flounders a bit. He tries to catch his footing and remove the clinging fabric all in the same motion. “You're going to pay for that.” He finally manages to get his hakama off but still hasn't found his feet.

 

“Promises, promises,” Ichigo returns, shoving at him with a foot and pushing him right back into the water.

 

As Grimmjow flounders a bit more, releasing a string of nonsense syllables, Ichigo calmly drops the layers of his own clothing and slips down into the warm and almost tingling waters himself. He really hates that kid, Grimmjow realizes. A growl edging its way out of his throat, he surges forward, fully intending on attacking Ichigo. Payback is absolutely necessary.

 

A washcloth is immediately shoved in his face. “You're filthy,” Ichigo says and leaves him no choice but to take the damn rag.

 

Grimmjow snatches it out of his hand. “What the hell's the matter with you?” he demands, and it's absolutely not sulking.

 

The water must be medicated or something because his nose twitches at the bitter and metallic scent to it. Not to mention it stings over his wounds, and his skin prickles as though it's pulling itself together. A quick peek informs him that all of the smaller scratches are gone, smoothed over as if they never existed. It gives him an overwhelming sense of fatigue, but it feels pretty damn good, too.

 

“I'm dirty, too,” Ichigo comments offhandedly, reaching for his own washcloth and scrubbing it over the streak of dirt on his face.

 

“Idiot, that's not what I'm talkin' about.” Sometimes, Grimmjow really feels like strangling this kid. No, wait, that's all the time. “Why'd ya bring me here?”

 

There's a moment's pause, and then, Ichigo shrugs. “I could have left you to die,” he replies and looks up at Grimmjow with those damn sympathetic eyes. “I didn't feel like it. Besides, weren't you the one that wanted to fight again?”

 

It looks, sounds, and smells a lot like pity. Even feels like it. And if there's one thing Grimmjow hates, it's being pitied. Though he hates the bastard, he and Nnoitra were alike in that regards. There's nothing more demeaning than seeking strength and power, only to be pitied. That fake understanding. That “poor Grimmjow; he can't help it.” Grimmjow can't stand it. He isn't some fucking charity case.

 

With a sneer, Grimmjow chucks the washcloth at Ichigo's face and reaches for the sides, trying to haul himself out of the water. “Fuck you,” he snarls, water splashing noisily around him. “I'm getting' the hell out of here.”

 

“Suit yourself.” Ichigo doesn't even try to stop him. “We'll see how far you get when Soul Society starts looking for you.”

 

Grimmjow pauses, considering. He won't back down, he decides. No matter what Soul Society and the fucking Shinigami think they're going to do to him. He'll die before he puts himself in their hands. No matter what Aizen's defeat is supposed to prove.

 

“Che. I ain't afraid.” With a final heave, he pulls himself out of the pool and instantly feels eyes on his back.

 

They are no doubt tracing scars and finding the number six that is still so prominent against his skin. Grimmjow wants to scrape it off with his own fingers because it means nothing now. But he also wants to keep it because he worked damn hard to get that far, and no one can take that effort away from him.

 

Fucking Aizen lost. How is that even possible? Grimmjow doesn't know because he was unconscious for a good bit of what happened. He'd woken hours after his battle with Ichigo, amid the ruins of Las Noches. He'd found nothing there but increasing evidence that their side had lost.

 

Biting his lip, Grimmjow stands on the edge of the pool, not caring for his nudity. He still has the bandages, though they're unnecessary at this point. He rips them off and lets them slide to the ground in a damp slither. Ichigo makes a whole lot of sense, though he doesn't want to admit it. He really has nowhere else to go.

 

“What the hell do you expect me to do?” Grimmjow demands, but he doesn't look at Ichigo because he doesn't want to see those damned eyes. “You're the one that saved me.” He hates having to admit that. “Take responsibility.”

 

Silence descends, save for the sound of water splashing. Grimmjow should feel cold, considering he's naked and all, and Ichigo is staring at him. And he's reminded that just a few minutes ago, they were rolling around like a couple of dogs in heat, hands on each other's cocks. That should probably feel a bit weird, too, but it doesn't. And he'll be damned if he knows why.

 

“Do whatever you want, Grimmjow,” Ichigo finally answers. “You've got that option now. Though I'd recommend staying under Soul Society's radar.”

 

Grimmjow feels an unhealthy urge to run, and even more unhealthy desire to stay. “What if I want to fight ya every day?”

 

“Sounds boring, but whatever. Time and place.” There is a splash, and he suspects Ichigo is ducking his head under the water before surfacing once more. “You can stay here; no one'll bother you 'cept me or Renji.”

 

What is it that binds them, he wonders. Why can't he just walk away from Ichigo without even a backward look? Why does he, even now, want to pick up his sword and attack the kid? Why does he want to kiss him again?

 

It's all the same to Grimmjow.

 

Where has that prior desire to surrender gone?

 

“Fine,” Grimmjow says, as though he's making some great acquiescence for Ichigo's sake. “I'll stay.” He glances over his shoulder, tossing the teen a fanged smirk. “But only 'cause ya begged me to.”

 

Ichigo rolls his eyes, almost smirking. And Grimmjow thinks to himself that he doesn't have anything better to do. Aizen's gone. Ulquiorra's dead. Everyone's dead, and he's all that's left. He can't just lie down and die. He's definitely not giving himself up to the Shinigami. Best thing for now is to stay here and try to figure out what's going on.

 

Grimmjow isn't defeated just yet.

 

* * *