Receiving And Bearing

Kurosaki Ichigo could feel it coming before it even came; he could feel it coming in precisely the same way that one could feel a strong storm front on its way across the horizon, closing in on the skies, barometric pressure building up slowly around you and in your head as the chemical ozone-smell of the strong new weather bit at your nostrils. Ichigo pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. The black blurriness in his thoughts and vision was creeping again at the edges of his mind, clouding his eyes. It moved restlessly, rolling out of some kind of quiet consciousness, like sleep, ebbing and flowing like a tide as it began to sense (like Ichigo had, but then it was also Ichigo, wasn’t it?) the pull of Grimmjow’s inhuman reiatsu being released in the desert.



Ichigo knew he shouldn’t have left them alone; the part of him that had a heart did.



All of that turmoil in Ichigo’s senses grew unnaturally quiet, a sudden end of furor. The cut off was sudden enough to make Ichigo worry deeply for a second, worry for reasons he didn’t quite understand (they were both Hollows, killers). He worried until the little voice that usually accompanied the swirling darkness of his mind woke up further, opening its mouth inside of his head to say in its cheery voice, why are you worrying about that scum? So what if he hurts, so what if he’s dying if he really is getting what he probably deserves?



What? You like him or something and you don’t want to be responsible for this? Are you really that pathetic?



Ichigo told the tin voice to shut the hell up, attempting to force it back into dormancy. It snickered at Ichigo’s efforts, the floating mental voice echoing in his skull. A knock came at his door as Ichigo held his head in silence, knuckles scratching demandingly against thick, dark wood; it was an emotionally expensive, sad sort of noise when accompanied by the the nudge of Grimmjow’s spiritual presence.



Ichigo hesitated on the plush surface of the bed he’d been borrowing for years, shaking his head, checking for that nasty voice before walking over to the door. Ichigo was wavering as he walked, face sweating and limbs shaking from the strange spiritual poisoning one got from large releases of reiatsu, violent releases like the one he’d felt wafting in from the dunes as he hid pathetically in his room. Ichigo leaned against the doorframe, rubbing with his left hand at his left eye, which still swirled like some lava lamp despite the resumption quiet in his head.



He worked slowly up the nerve to open the damn door, rolling the cold knob in his palm and yanking it inward with a quick tug. Grimmjow Jaegerjaques stood on the other side, but only barely.



Grimmjow’s body swayed and fell limply, weighty against Ichigo's chest and shoulders, slightly larger body even heavier than usual, dead and breathing shallowly upon Ichigo’s neck and cheek. Somehow, Grimmjow’s breath smelled off; everything about the Arrancar was off. Ichigo caught his own breath, fighting the urge to pull back and shove the soiled body away from him out of potent disgust and confusion, his instincts screaming that wounded and bleeding bodies were not desirable thing to be around in less than hospitable territory; they would attract unsavory things. Ichigo was putting himself in danger—the Hollow rolled again at the back of his consciousness, making note of it’s agreement.



Grimmjow caught his balance finally, shifting next to Ichigo’s head and pressing away slightly to stand on his own feet before Ichigo could act on instinct and forcibly remove the sweaty, dirty form from his own. Shaking, spidery hands clung to the white fabric of Ichigo’s uniform vest, Grimmjow using the pull of his biceps, the forward motion to yank his head back up heavily, giving Ichigo a very clear look at the black, cracked trails of dried blood. Some of the trails had grown powdery, others diluted with the Arrancar’s sweat which was still dripping from the tip of his chin; it looked like violence.



It smelled cloying, like minerals and pain and effort. Ichigo gagged and forced himself to not look away.



“Let me in, red. You gotta let me.”



Grimmjow’s shoulders shook with silent coughing as he pressed in against Ichigo’s hands with intent, trapping the hands between Ichigo’s own chest and Grimmjow’s naked chest, greasy and damaged and beginning to scab in some places where there were less bruises and more sticky dried cuts. Ichigo backpedaled, finally moving away from Grimmjow (something that he’d been wanting to do since he’d opened the door). He was horrified, long legs stepping back until the edge of the mattress on his tall western bed pressed against the backs of his knees and bent them until he wobbled. Ichigo collapsed softly to a sitting position, staring over at the beaten man in his doorway, never moving his head, unable to look away even now that he’d escaped the heavy touches.



“Grimmjow. What the fuck happened to you?”



You know what the fuck happened to Grimmjow, you nasty little liar. the Hollow’s voice said, a laugh dribbling through Ichigo’s reeling mind. He rubbed at his eye again, impotent to do anything about the voice and the wounds covering Grimmjow’s completely naked form. Grimmjow’s body shook from Ichigo’s shove against his chest, taking Ichigo’s strong shock and the lack of an outright refusal to allow the Arrancar to enter the room as an invitation to move completely into Ichigo’s overly warm quarters, coming up to the bed and falling onto it. Grimmjow leaned over, moving toward Ichigo’s face, who sideways slipped across the smooth bedspread. Ichigo stood up and shuffled across the room in his bare feet, hurrying to the door and shutting it with a hollow slam.



“What do you think you’re doing in here? Didn’t you just…”



“I got it in a bad way. You must have saw Ulquiorra coming. Don’t make me explain it to you, Ichigo. Don’t you dare fucking make me ’splain this to you.”



Grimmjow pressed his elbow into the thick surface of the bed as he tried to force his frame into a seated position, biting his tongue as the round-shaped, dark bruise on his lower ribcage brushed the quilt and sheets as he bounced on the sensitive box-springs. Ichigo could only stare at Grimmjow’s rigid expression, obviously holding in sharp noises that would give away the pain Ichigo could plainly see he was in. Ichigo felt a little badly for Grimmjow, a little sorry as the blackness in his left eye seeped back into the recesses of his brain—hiding from the scene, not wanting to get too far on Ichigo’s bad side.



It wasn’t the time for a mental battle, not with a bloody man laying on Ichigo’s bedsheets. He was, all said and done, the son of a doctor.



Ichigo didn’t feel sorry for the pain the Arrancar was in, even if he had been the root cause of it, if you traced the reasons back far enough. If any creature in existence deserved that kind of pain, it was a creature like Grimmjow Jaegerjaques, who had put his fist through Kuchiki Rukia’s gut in front of Ichigo’s eyes and at the time had smiled about it. Ichigo felt sorry that anything—anything—had to survive in an environment so extremely inhospitable as Hueco Mundo. He felt sorry the Arrancar couldn’t even look to one another for companionship. He felt sorry that Grimmjow had to live with Ulquiorra Schiffer, knowing the type of relationship the two had, the issues between them.



Ichigo simply felt sorry that creatures had to cling to some ridiculous and cruel dog-eat-dog life in a place where one couldn’t even let his self acknowledge in words the fact that something caused them to feel hurt.



(Why, Ichigo wondered not for the first time; why would Aizen and Ichimaru and Tousen choose a life like this one?)



“Go back to your own room, Grimmjow. Go back to your own bed.”



“But your bed’s nicer’n mine, kid. Share.”



“You know I don’t fucking want to share. You’re a mess and you smell like hell on a hot day. Leave me alone and smell your own bed up, Grimmjow, because I’m not buying into this. I don’t know what you think you’re trying to do here.”



“Hurts just to walk.”



Ichigo frowned, watching the Arrancar’s broad back rising and falling just slightly against each gasp for air—he knew that Grimmjow was being truthful, and yet he was still trying to send him away. None of the other beings in Las Noches would do anything about the wounds—they would probably find it the perfect opportunity to remove Grimmjow permanently, in some atavistic fit of self-promotion. Grimmjow really wasn’t well and he really should not be walking the halls for even a second longer.



Ichigo was suddenly struck with the realization that Grimmjow Jaegerjaques was coming to him to make it better, make it go away.



It weighed on Ichigo now, the fact that he was almost certain the entire situation, Grimmjow naked on the dark expanse of his expensive bed, was his fault in a way. Ulquiorra had no doubt (as Noitora had suggested to Ichigo with a disgusting sort of leer, oozing the information out with far too much satisfaction) told Grimmjow plainly that he was to leave Ichigo alone for the most part; not to upset Ichigo, not to cause him any stress. Grimmjow was bloodied and beaten because Ichigo couldn’t put his foot down, say ‘no means no.’



Ichigo looked back at the heavy wooden door, waiting nervously for Ulquiorra to barge in; devil’s name having been spoken in his thoughts. No rap at the door, no sense of cold reiatsu or sight of a china doll’s face. The devil never came. Ichigo lifted his shaking palm to his hand, chewing at the calloused skin to stop himself from hyperventilating, forcibly slowing his breath and forcing himself to calm down. Everything was—everything was not the completely worst case scenario, even if it was far from okay. He looked back to Grimmjow’s half-conscious form, telling himself, don’t lose your grip Kurosaki.



All the while trying not to stare at the way the muscles rippled under Grimmjow’s pale skin speckled with angry bruises, near-white from loss of blood and illness in contrast to Ichigo’s black Egyptian cotton sheets.



Eventually Ichigo managed to gather his emotions into some semblance of calmness again, steeling his features, fingers moving to rip Grimmjow’s shoes off, clumsy grips and tugs, thin socks to follow (the only full articles of clothing the man still had on his form). Ichigo tossed them unceremoniously into a corner, far, far from his mind. He could hear the noise of tiny grains of sand scattering across the white marble flooring. Ichigo went for the stained, shredded remains of Grimmjow’s vest, so little of it left, his brown eyes drifting to travel up and down the back of strong, nearly hairless thighs and calves. A pale, bare bottom that he tore his look away from, worried to be caught staring—like it might only encourage Grimmjow’s destructive stalking streak.



Ichigo’s fingers hesitated as he forced himself to keep looking. Grimmjow stirred beneath his fingers, picking up on the thick indecision and confusion in Ichigo’s body language.



“Don’t. You don’t need to be doing this shit for me.”



Grimmjow’s almost polite refusal of Ichigo’s attentions seemed strange to the Vaizard, seeing as Grimmjow had very recently and for a fairly long stretch of time now, taken every presented and un-presented opportunity to try to get Ichigo to undress him. It was off. It was incredibly off. Ichigo bit his lower lip tightly between his teeth until it hurt. His eyes flickered back to Grimmjow’s ass, getting a closer glance. More blood, so much more blood now that he was looking for it.



Why would there be blood…



“Dear god in heaven.”



Ichigo swore under his breath, pulse quickening as the color drained from his face, because the evidence was undeniable-- Ichigo still believed it, even if he didn’t want to, even if his stomach was doing cartwheels beneath his abdominal muscles. Grimmjow must have caught Ichigo’s expression dropping; he laughed shallowly into the blankets, tones of amusement in his rough and cracking voice harsh and honest and cruel. Cruel at both of their expenses.



Cruel and hollow.



“Fucking asshole,” Grimmjow hissed, curling in one himself as Ichigo stared with a sense of poignant disgust and dread and…perhaps a sliver of dark, resentful approval leaking out from that thing that lived in his head, approval which only barely resonated with Ichigo. He stared a second time at Grimmjow’s torn and violated backside, bruises shaped like fingertips, traces of touches in dark black streaks of blood which reminded Ichigo of veins, or winter tree branches, or fossilized, cracking riverbeds.



“Fucking I told you not to do that and you went and did it anyway, you stupid goddamn cunt.”



“That word is disgusting, Grimmjow.”



Ichigo growled low in his chest, more out of frustration than irritation, pulling his own vest off and tossing it over his red armchair. His breath was shaking in his lungs which were suddenly chilled even in the warmth of his room as his sick-sweat evaporated, chest exposed to the air. He slid in beneath the covers, next to Grimmjow but by no means touching, making sure he wasn’t. Ichigo moved carefully, attempting to shake the other man as little as possible and doing this both because he didn’t want to aggravate the injuries and because he didn’t want it to seem like they were really, truthfully in the same bed.



Together.



“Cunt.”



Grimmjow taunted Ichigo quietly, voice disturbingly soft and lacking any entertainment despite the banter-tones. Grimmjow was trying his hardest, trying just like Ichigo was, to return to some form of normalization in behavior after what Ichigo felt was an irredeemable situation. How could you act normal, after seeing something like that?



Going through it?



Goddamn Ulquiorra.



“You better get the fuck out in the morning, Grimmjow,” Ichigo growled in the older man’s ear before rolling to face the exact opposite wall that Grimmjow was facing, bare back against bare sweaty back. All of this because sleeping facing the same way would be more intimate than either of them could be comfortable with, under any circumstances. Not that this was a comfortable situation to begin with, in any way.



Sleeping beside a raped man in the middle of the evening, getting his inhuman black blood all over you like dust mites as it rubs off on the bedding, how could that be comfortable?



And the voice in Ichigo’s head said in it artificially dulcet tone, and not for the first or last time, he fucking deserved it and you agree with me.



And if I were you, which I sort of am and you know it, I’d wait until that motherfucker falls asleep next to you and I’d press one of my palms against his soft, big mouth while I pinched two fingers over his little nostrils and keep them there. I’d watch his eyeballs roll back into his skull as he asphyxiated under me and I’d like it. He’d die before he completely woke up and he’d never realize it, partner.



Ichigo cupped his face in his hands and tried not to vomit the shame he felt out, all over his inky black sheets.



He waited until he knew Grimmjow was well-asleep, soft snores that were still full of dull pain, before starting to sob softly. No tears, dry eyes, only for five or ten minutes. Only enough to make him tired.



Morning, in hopes, would come to Kurosaki Ichigo as deliverance.