Title: The Cage

Warnings: blood, violence, sexual themes.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Authorial Notice:

I posted this months ago over on tumblr with the intent of coming back and polishing it up, but since it's been this long, I doubt I ever will. So here it is anyway, a little choppy with an abrupt ending, but I'm at least 94% happy with it.

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"Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides."

― André Malraux, Man's Fate

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There's a chain-link fence that surrounds the cage. Ichigo leans against it with one arm, breath scraping in and out of his lungs.

This isn't how it usually goes. Normally, he'd be sticking close to his opponent, tiring him out. He has some decent muscle and there's power behind his strikes, but his real strength is in his speed. Weaving and dodging. Waiting for an opportunity, but he's distracted and it shows.

There's a cut on his cheek that was almost a broken nose. Bruises splashed across his ribs. And he knows they'll be targets. Marks to show his opponent where to strike, where to press to inflict the most pain. Anything for an advantage.

Thin, pink scars crisscross his wrists, left over from the guy that tried to tear his way out of a chokehold with his nails. But the fighting here doesn't stop because someone draws blood. If you didn't come to see people get hurt, go home.

He's bare from the waist up with only dark, lightweight fabric hanging from his hips. He keeps his orange hair cropped short, slightly longer in front than the back, barely enough for a good grip, but he doesn't envy anyone stupid enough to try. Broken wrists hurt. Broken arms aren't any better.

Around him, the crowd shouts— a clamoring roar of thunder coming from far away. A thousand faceless voices. The cries reverberate back into themselves and return as a single wave, the noise echoing under his skin, every electric pulse forced through his veins mirroring pounding fists and stomping feet.

The crowd doesn't care who wins. The crowd wants blood.

There's no shoes in the ring. No gloves. Some fighters would choose to hide weapons — steel toes, brass knuckles and tacks.

The rules are simple. Two people go into the cage, one person walks out. You either win or yield or else you'll be unconscious or dead, or wishing you were. Other than that, no one knows what'll happen.

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This is Grimmjow's fault.

He's the one that messed Ichigo up this way, forced him to see a part of himself he never wanted. And now, he can't unsee it or push it back to where it came. It won't be put away again. The price Grimmjow paid to find this out was a dislocated jaw. The price Ichigo pays is different. He pays it every day. He pays it when he faces his reflection or talks to his sisters on the phone.

He pays it in the minutes he spends with his friends, realizing there's less and less left of himself to give, and less and less in them he relates to.

Grimmjow is bigger. Stronger. Quick on his feet. A hundred sleek lines of muscle driving under smooth skin. Grimmjow is a powerhouse and he knows it. There's always a hint of a smirk that plays at his mouth when he fights and Ichigo fantasizes about wiping it off his face with a fist.

Across the ring, Grimmjow stretches his neck, looking bored.

"You plan to fight tonight or just stand there posin' like a model, schoolboy?"

Ichigo narrows his eyes and pushes off the fence.

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He likes fighting. He never admits that to anyone, but when he's in the cage, something changes inside him. There's an intensity to his movements. A simmering rage. An indifference to pain. Like becoming someone else. Someone fearless. Alive. His blood burns with the thrill of measuring himself against some of the city's most elite, underground prizefighters and coming out on top.

At first, Ichigo pretends not to notice. He's only doing it when he needs the cash anyways, so it's easy to ignore. To shower off the sweat and blood, and go back to being any other average college student.

Until he meets Grimmjow.

Their first fight leaves him with a mild concussion, a separated collarbone, broken ribs and bleeding pride.

His heart doesn't slow for the rest of the night.

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They stalk the edges of the cage like animals. Like predators.

The crowd is deafening, impatient, reeling on cheap beer and bloodlust, and maybe the chance at some easy money.

Grimmjow swipes at his shoulder to test his defenses and he jerks away, lashes out with a kick to his gut that's solid, but it barely slows him down. He ducks Grimmjow's next punch to circle around, hearing the hiss of metallic links as it strikes the fence. He's been hammered by one of those before and the phantom pain trails dull fingers across his temple.

Grimmjow is strong.

If they start grappling instead of throwing strikes, Ichigo's screwed. Once that pressing weight is on him, he knows he's done.

Usually between him and Grimmjow, it's even odds who will come out on top, but he's trailing. He's fighting like shit and that sucks, because his rent is due.

He pushes the distraction away a fraction too late. Grimmjow's already on him again, and here, if you can't keep your head in the game, the manager hands you back your teeth in a styrofoam cup at the end of the night.

But this time Ichigo holds his ground, dodging or moving with a punch to lessen the damage, getting in a few of his own hits. A blow to the ribs, a sidekick to the knee, an elbow strike that barely misses Grimmjow's face. Punching Grimmjow is like hitting a brick wall. He can feel the dull thrum in his fists and traveling up his forearms.

There's a jab he can't avoid in time. He throws up his arms to block and jerks away with a grunt as something pops. He staggers back, dodges a kick and tries to put enough space between them to hold Grimmjow off until he can force the pain out of the front of his mind. He's losing ground though and doesn't like it.

He spins around back toward center, kneeing Grimmjow in the kidney as he passes. He's surprised at how fast he recovers from that, coming at him almost immediately. Ichigo steps into the advance. This is where his speed is best. He throws a hard right and Grimmjow kisses his fist.

It's a good hit, but he doesn't give Ichigo the chance to move away again.

He snares Ichigo around the back of the neck, yanking him closer and sweeping his feet. There's no time to recover. He goes down hard, head smacking concrete.

The air breaks from his lungs in a sharp burst of pain.

He rolls out of the way with his mind still fumbling, barely missing the heel aimed at his ribs. It's a struggle to make the smooth transition onto his feet. The floor tilts under him and he wobbles.

Grimmjow's already there. He slams a fist into his temple and Ichigo goes down again.

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They don't get along.

Not inside the ring. Not out of it.

It's stupid and he knows it— he's an adult now for fuck's sake—but Grimmjow always manages to shove him over the edge of good sense. A smartass comment, a jab back and they're throwing strikes outside the cage. It takes six trained men to pull them apart, and the manager's screaming about lawsuits and jail time.

But the workings of Grimmjow's mind are inexplicable. It takes Ichigo months and a handful of vicious conflicts to figure out that just because he's openly hostile doesn't mean he's gunning for you. But at the same time, Grimmjow is gunning for everyone. Everyone is a threat. A possible enemy. Very few people get inside his guard.

When Ichigo does, it surprises him. He thought they hated each other, and decides to say so.

Grimmjow laughs at that. He laughs until Ichigo turns red.

Ichigo punches him in the face and walks away.

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The next time he opens his eyes, he's lost a few seconds. His vision is blurry, but if he doesn't stay unconscious, it doesn't count. He's still in the fight.

Grimmjow is standing over him, a foot pressing on his chest. "Give."

He tastes blood. Must've bit himself on the way down, but he scoffs.

"Fuck you."

Grimmjow puts more weight into it. "Anyway ya want, princess."

Ichigo swears he can hear the ribs around his breastbone crack.

For an instant, there's a flash of fear. A helpless backsliding. Gravity evaporates under him and his stomach flips. He hates this fear. This helplessness. He hates it. Hates it…

And he's so goddamn angry.

Since when does Grimmjow pull his punches? For anyone? And he's standing there telling Ichigo to quit?

Bullshit.

If this is pity, Ichigo will teach him better. With pain if he has to.

He's flexible. Remembers Grimmjow's sly comment on that very fact. He'd been too naïve to get it at the time. Now, it just pisses him off. Makes his kicks a little harder. His fists a little tighter.

Ichigo latches onto Grimmjow's calf, using the leverage to swing his legs up, curling at the waist until the only part of his body on the floor is the bit of chest under Grimmjow's foot. He kicks him under the ribs, a hard shove is all it amounts to, but it's right into the diaphragm. Not the best hit, but it knocks Grimmjow back enough for Ichigo to slam a palm strike into his anklebone and roll free.

He makes his feet this time, but the ground still tilts like the surface of a boat.

"Get a fucking hold of yourself, Kurosaki."

Kurosaki. Not strawberry, not kid, not the thousand other grating names Grimmjow comes up with just to piss him off. Kurosaki. It's almost contemptuous.

"What?"

And the answer is there in those infuriating blue eyes. Grimmjow thinks he's being pathetic. He's right. Ichigo is usually better than this. That is what Grimmjow has to say to him?

His snarl is almost animal. "You didn't have any right."

He lashes out, kicking with sudden fury. His toes clip Grimmjow across the face. This discussion is over as far as he's concerned.

Grimmjow turns back, slower than he normally would. He visibly reins himself in, but he's pissed. Not because he got hit, but because Ichigo is making this personal.

Good.

He's pissed too.

His kick was the equivalent of a bitchslap. Grimmjow's is like a sledgehammer.

Ichigo is back on the ground. He feels like he's fought the entire match from the ground. He feels like his life since he met Grimmjow has been fought from the ground.

And now, Grimmjow has him pinned.

A hand squeezes his hip and he jerks. The adrenaline in his body changes direction for a split second— heat flaring under his skin, bolting straight to his groin and then gone again. It trails flashes of memory behind it. The scrape of teeth. The press of bodies.

"Fucking bastard," he gasps.

He isn't afraid of pain and he doesn't have the sense left for strategy. All Ichigo has is the burning pit of anger and indignation twisting in his gut.

He slams the edge of his wrist into Grimmjow's throat and has the satisfaction of hearing him choke. While he's stunned, Ichigo flips them. Grimmjow's goddamn heavy, it takes all his strength, but when he comes out on top, he swings as hard as he can, again and again.

It doesn't last long. Grimmjow spits a curse and flips them back over as a primal snarl works out of Ichigo's throat. His weight alone is enough to make Ichigo see double, but Ichigo is relentless. Even pinned down, he tries to buck the larger male off.

Grimmjow could probably take him out for the night with a single punch, but a hand wraps around Ichigo's throat instead, cutting off air.

He freezes, wide eyes staring straight up into Grimmjow's. But a choke-out isn't against the rules, and the crowd is screaming for Grimmjow to finish what he started. They don't just want blood anymore. The air is thick with the promise of a kill.

Grimmjow could. He could finish with Ichigo and walk away without repercussion. Finish with this whole mess between them. It'd be as easy as keeping his hand closed around Ichigo's airway.

And Ichigo thinks, maybe he'll do it.

He isn't sure what happens after that. It comes back to him in bits and pieces. He's like a spitting cat. Cornered. Enraged. Desperate. He manages to knock Grimmjow lose with his struggling. He's up, but it doesn't do him any good. He's taken too many solid hits, although the damage isn't anywhere near what it should be. Grimmjow's taking it easy on him. If he'd been anyone else, there's no doubt for him that he'd be dead now.

Ichigo is here for the money. Grimmjow is here for the fight, and he's killed before.

His balance cuts out and he hits the fence, liquid heat running down the right side of his face from a gash in his scalp, but he doesn't have the energy to spare to swipe it away. Grimmjow is up and in front of him. The crowd is still screaming somewhere in the back of his mind. Grimmjow's getting closer and closer. Burning eyes fill his vision while Ichigo tries to convince his body it still knows how to get up.

He makes it halfway to his feet and Grimmjow kicks him in the gut.

The smack of concrete again.

The pain is blinding. It sears through him, lighting every nerve on fire. It drowns out everything else.

The next thing he sees is Grimmjow's foot coming at his face, and that's the last thing he sees for a while.

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They meet outside the ring. It's a bar. It isn't intentional. It isn't special. They've seen each other around.

Ichigo rarely indulges, but he's had a shitty month. He just wants to get lost for a while. Grimmjow just wants to be the irritating jerk he is. At least, that's what it seems like when he stalks up to Ichigo's stool, leaning an elbow on the bar beside him.

"So you finally fuckin' show yourself. You haven't been fighting."

Ichigo shrugs, downing the rest of his drink. It's not a practiced move. "If it takes everything I win to pay the doctor, what's the point? Who's your friend?"

He flicks a look toward a girl in a clingy dress, and Grimmjow grins.

"Step out back after one of my fights and even a pathetic shit like you could get laid."

Ichigo's pretty sure he couldn't. Most fighters only got a hardcore following after they'd killed a few people. He thought it was creepy.

And Ichigo might be naturally sarcastic, but he's well into the talking nonsense stage by this point, so he doesn't even think about it before saying, "Some of us have better things to do than earn pity fucks from obsessed fan girls."

His back is compacting into the bar before he realizes Grimmjow has moved him. Ichigo hates when the bastard overreacts like this, but he's not focused on that. The pain is dull and far away. Grimmjow isn't. Ichigo knew he had blue eyes, but this close, the heat, the chaotic intensity takes his breath.

They're not just blue, they're blue like a glacier. Like deep water trapped under a mile of ice. Like the kind of cold so bitter it burns. Or maybe the blue of a gas flame. It's hard to say.

And he has plenty of time to examine them, because Grimmjow hasn't hit him yet. He's hesitating. Ichigo's never seen him do that.

"Hey!" The barkeep's voice is sharp. He has a bat in one hand and a phone in the other and no one has to ask to figure out who's on the other end. The guy knows who they are. The place isn't far from the ring. "Take it off the property if ya wanna do somethin' stupid. Otherwise, ya can sleep the night off in jail."

Grimmjow bares his teeth back in a feral grin that holds no amusement, hands lifting off Ichigo's shirt. Ichigo is too busy being distracted by the vacant, corner booth to care either way.

"Your date ran off."

That seems to catch Grimmjow's attention, but instead of checking, he's frowning down at Ichigo. Ichigo pushes him back enough to think straight. He's probably too drunk to fight anyway. Especially considering Grimmjow is still sober. At least, he thinks he is. It's hard to tell with Grimmjow.

Ichigo slides off his stool, bumping into him. He's tempted to order something fruity, just so he can watch Grimmjow's eye twitch in annoyance that Ichigo isn't more of a man, but judging by the hand still braced on Grimmjow's taut stomach and the look he's getting, he's had enough.

He pulls it back and forces a yawn.

"Take me home. I don't feel like walking."

It's not like Grimmjow has anything better planned now anyway, and he figures it's about time the asshole did something nice for someone else. And that sleek, shiny car of his deserves better than just chauffeuring around Grimmjow's equally asshole fan club.

Grimmjow watches him a long minute then follows him out.

It's two days later before Ichigo remembers that Grimmjow doesn't do nice things for other people.

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Everything is pain.

Ichigo cracks his eyes open, blinking to dispel the glassy haze. He's on a futon in the back where fighters sleep it off if they're not dying or if they sign the paper that says they don't want to go to the hospital. Ichigo signed the paper. He doesn't think he's dying.

It's quiet. Only the drip from the showers and a rustling that's probably the air conditioner disturb the silence.

He must've been out a while. An hour or so judging by the silence. Maybe more. The crowd is gone. The cleaners are gone.

He still tastes blood in his mouth and two of his teeth move a little when he pushes them with his tongue. They aren't falling out though, and if he's careful for a few days, they'll be fine again. All of it is routine anymore.

In his apartment, on the other side of the city, his bed is waiting, soft and inviting. He wants to crawl into it and never move again, but first he has to get there.

He shifts and his muscles scream.

It's tempting to lay back down and let the dark take him where it wants to, but they'll probably just dump him in a taxi and since he lost, he can't afford it. And he can't afford his apartment either for that matter. Stupid. This is his own fault. He threw a tantrum in the ring. If he'd kept his head, he might've won.

Maybe.

Ichigo struggles until he's sitting. He's back in his street clothes, which means someone bothered dressing him. He frowns at that. None of his friends that still talk to him come to his matches anymore, and the thought of the manager's hands on his unconscious body make his skin feel like it wants to slink under the cot.

When Ichigo leans back against the wall, he realizes he's not alone.

Grimmjow is watching him, silent, face without expression. It's the look that always makes Ichigo feel like a contender for most uninteresting thing on the planet.

His anger flares back to life. Only Ichigo can't tell if it's even Grimmjow he's mad at anymore. Maybe he never was.

"Why are you here?"

His voice scratches. Probably from being choked.

He'd like to snap and yell, but he's tired and sounds like it. Only this tired is more than skin and muscle and spilt blood. This weariness is something that creeps out of his bones, flowing thick and heavy, weighing down his limbs like lead under his skin.

He lost more than one fight tonight.

Grimmjow's changed. There's a cut on his jaw, but the bruises Ichigo left on his body have been covered by expensive, designer clothes. He looks like he walked out of a catalog. Unlike Ichigo, Grimmjow wins his fights.

The edge of a perfect collarbone is visible above the neck of his shirt and Ichigo looks away.

"Was wondering if you planned on waking up."

"I'm awake." He looks back to meet Grimmjow's stare head on with ice. "I don't need you here."

Scoffing, Grimmjow pushes to his feet and nods at Ichigo's legs. "Then stand."

Ichigo glares. The attempt will be pathetic and they both know it.

Grimmjow doesn't help him. Of course not. He just sneers, because Ichigo hasn't remembered how to make his body work right yet.

It isn't enough to kick Ichigo around the ring. Now, he has to be a dick on top of it. Well, fuck him.

Dammit... They fought the same fight. But Grimmjow moves like he could start doing ballet around the room and not miss a step. Ichigo's been brawling in the dojo and on the street since he was old enough to swing a fist. He realizes he doesn't have a clue how long Grimmjow's been fighting. Or anything else about him.

Grimmjow stops in front of him. "You ever wonder why you're so damn angry all the time?"

Ichigo's hands clench. He doesn't want this.

It bothers him that Grimmjow always seems to know what's wrong with him when he doesn't know himself.

He didn't expect this. Any of it. He had a girlfriend a few months ago. He had friends and a life.

And from anyone else, the question might be mistaken for concern. It's not. This is Grimmjow prying off another layer just so he can find out what's underneath it. He's found a weak spot, and like always, he'll press it until Ichigo stops flinching.

Grimmjow and his maladjusted sense of companionship.

He doesn't answer the question, but it doesn't matter. Grimmjow has something to say and he's saying it. No matter how unwanted. No matter how inappropriate. No matter how damaging. Fuck the consequences.

"Cause that's what happens when you live your entire life denying who you are. The kind of places you like. The kind of fighting you like. The kind of sex you like. Then you wonder why you're miserable."

Somehow, Ichigo is on his feet after that, pain, exhaustion, gravity forgotten.

Grimmjow has no idea what he's talking about. As if it were so goddamn easy.

"No, I'm mad because you fucked me, you jackass."

"Don't give me that shit." Grimmjow's close, as mad as Ichigo's seen him with hand curling back around his throat to push him into a rusted file cabinet. And now it's Grimmjow scoffing. Sneering.

"Say I forced you and I'll finish what I started in the ring. You tore my fuckin' clothes off, so don't try to pull that 'I didn't want it' shit. You wanted it. You still want it, you're just pissed and afraid of wanting it, so don't fucking tell me I made you do it when it was the other way around."

Ichigo's fists are tight, shaking at his sides, his eyes burning. There's nothing he can say against that, and as much as he'd like to throw it all back in Grimmjow's face, he can't.

After a long minute, he forces his throat to open enough to snarl some sort of a response.

"I never said you forced me."

"Then stop acting like some virginal bitch."

He doesn't realize until knuckles find the skin of Grimmjow's jaw how close to snapping he is. But he is. Once unleashed, it seems absurd that he couldn't have known. The rage is like an animal, twisting and clawing, and he's struggling just to breathe around it.

He tenses, leaning his weight back and waiting for retaliation, watching the muscles work in Grimmjow's jaw as he releases Ichigo's throat with a trembling hand. And why the hell isn't he hitting him back?

Just fucking do it already.

"You're goin' the hospital, get your shit."

"I can't."

The last thing he needs is someone telling on him to his dad. More questions. But worse than that, more answers.

Grimmjow's fist curls into his collar and Ichigo knows he wants to drag him out by force. "I said to knock it off, Kurosaki. You know how long you were out? You that eager to die?"

"And what do you care? If I did, what's it to you?"

A hesitation. A foothold for Ichigo to cling to. It shouldn't be so satisfying, but it is.

Ichigo shoves him back. He's somehow managed to pull the upper hand out of this and he's not letting it go. "Maybe it's easy to be judged when you don't give a fuck about anyone other than yourself, but some of us actually have friends and a family."

It's a cheap shot and he's making it in the dark. He's heard a thousand times that Grimmjow doesn't care about anything or give two shits for anyone. But Ichigo thinks that can't be true. No one who doesn't care could be so fucking angry.

Maybe that's how Grimmjow seems to know so well what's going on with him. But Ichigo is passed caring how or why.

He wants Grimmjow to hurt.

It's not a nice feeling, but it's a good one, and he thinks he managed it.

It only takes a second to snatch his keys from and empty wallet from his locker. Grimmjow doesn't stop him even though Ichigo can feel the impending explosion. The alley door slams behind him as he leaves and then there's only him and the cool night air and the complaining of his limbs as he remembers he just had the living shit stomped out of him.

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Ichigo's small apartment is dingy and cramped. It was up for new carpeting at least a decade earlier and the light flickers as he shuts the door and sets locks into their bolts.

He peels the shirt from his back and drops it beside his bed, pushing open the bathroom to flick on a fluorescent light. It coats his skin in a sickly, greenish pallor. In the mirror, he looks dead.

The side of his face is a mesh work of newly forming scabs, his jaw swollen and in need of an ice pack. There are new bruises to cover old ones pattering down his ribcage. Red, blue, green yellow, painted in a sickly watercolor of blood under skin.

It's amazing really. From nothing more than bruises and wounds, it's apparent how good Grimmjow is at what he does. Ichigo's vital areas tell of each hit. He probably should've listened and gone to the hospital.

Turning away, he pulls open the catch to his jeans, slides them down, and lets them fall.

He'd rather collapse on his bed, but bloodstains ruin sheets and he doesn't want to waste money on laundry. So he rinses, washes away dry blood and sweat and does his best to keep his mind blank and numb.

There's no time for self-pity. He has classes in the morning and work after that, then study group and a paper due, getting an extension from his landlord and hopefully finding something to eat then there's sleep and doing it all again the next day.

The house of lies he's built to protect his friends—his family— is delicate and stacked tall. It would only take one misstep to bring the whole thing down and he refuses to give anything up. To give in, because he can do this.

Even if Grimmjow was right, it's not worth it. He hates losing. He hates losing people more. And he's been dishonest for so long. For all his talk about being true to one's self, he should've taken his own advice. Who the hell would forgive him?

Would he even deserve it if they did?

He slams off the water, climbs out, and falls into bed without bothering to dry. He sleeps the night without moving.

.

.

It's a week before he's ready to eat his words.

Grimmjow circles his head during the day and it's impossible to drown him out. Night is worse. The memories keep him company like guests that won't leave and he can't sleep. He looks like hell. He's missing classes. Everything is wrong and out of place as if he suddenly doesn't fit into his own life anymore.

Homework doesn't help. Exhaustion doesn't help. His friends only remind him of every lie he's told that's filling up the uncrossable gap between them.

Something has to give and he knows it's him. But unmitigated truth after so much omission is like walking a tightrope while balancing every relationship he has and he's a wreck just thinking about it.

Normally, he'd fight his frustration out, but no matter how much he pesters the manager, the arena isn't admitting him. The bouncers at the door turn him away without explanation. It takes a while to realize Grimmjow must've pulled strings.

So he waits, lingering by the back door until it opens and Grimmjow comes strutting out, callous and radiating hostility. His eyes find Ichigo.

"Thought I told them not to let you back in."

"Do I look like I'm in?"

Grimmjow grunts a vague sound without stopping.

And he still hasn't figured out how Grimmjow managed that. Ichigo brings in good money. Grimmjow must've pressured the manager. It's the only thing that makes sense.

"Talk then."

Ichigo studies the fresh cut above his eye, struggling to swallow his pride and keep it down. "You're... right. I'm angry and I don't know why."

Grimmjow huffs a derisive sound and barely glances back. "I already told you. That's what happens when you spend all your time locking away who you are to make other people happy, dumbass."

Ichigo makes a sound of disgust and moves to catch up. He hates the feeling of tagging along after Grimmjow, but the bastard is the only one that has any real answers. Ichigo sure as hell doesn't.

"Why do you keep saying that?"

Grimmjow angles him a look and stops at his car.

"What do you want, schoolboy? I have somewhere to be."

His feet glue themselves to the pavement without permission and his stomach gives a feeble lurch.

"What? Like a date?"

He wishes he didn't know why the thought makes him scowl harder, but since he's decided to stop lying to himself— to everyone— there's nothing to do but be honest. And suddenly, Grimmjow doesn't seem so much of a mind reader as an observant person.

Grimmjow watches him as Ichigo's hands fist in his pockets.

"So cancel it." He's not sure why he says it, but he means it.

Amusement sparks in Grimmjow's eyes and it's not long before there's a dark grin filled with teeth matching it. He holds out his keys.

Ichigo takes them and unlocks the door, handing them back before sliding inside. He wishes he could say he feels bad about stealing Grimmjow from whoever he was supposed to be meeting, but he's being honest.

.

.

He's decided to be honest, and he knows there's one place he needs to start.

The phone is cold by his ear. He stared at it for a half hour on his small patio before dialing the number. It takes several rings, but when his father answers the phone, rattling off the Kurosaki Clinic's call script, Ichigo's heart clenches in his chest.

It's so painfully normal. The sounds of street traffic below. His dad and his usual antics. Only it all drags to a stop when Ichigo misses his cue to answer and fails to say anything for a long second.

He tries again, but a strange noise crawls out instead.

"Ichigo?" And Isshin must know that it's bad, because there it is, that rare serious tone. The one that both terrifies and comforts.

Ichigo's voice is shaking when he answers, the back of his arm pressed to his forehead. What's wrong with him? This shouldn't be so hard.

"It's me. I just wanted..." He licks his lips and drops his arm to stare at the street below. "Look, do you think you might have some extra time tomorrow?"

A pause.

"No, Ichigo."

His heart stops. His dad knows. He has to— somehow. He knows and he's pissed and all of the sudden there's no more balcony and too much gravity, and Ichigo's stomach twists with the sudden drop.

"I don't have to think about it. You're my son. I'll always have time for you."

Ichigo chokes. It's such a goddamn corny line, but his throat is closing and there's an ache in his chest.

He almost says it then. The words are so close he thinks they might've already happened. I have a boyfriend, Dad, and it scares the hell out of me. And oh yeah, I've been fighting for money. But they didn't. His mouth is still pressed shut and the thick breathing still comes soft through the phone from the other side.

"Alright," he finally gets out, too calm. "I'll stop by tomorrow."

He thinks Isshin is about to say something. There's a soft broken noise, but nothing comes.

All the same. Wait until tomorrow. Then see if you still want to say it.

Boyfriend. Was that what Grimmjow was? He has no idea where that idea came from, and that scares him too.

.

.

This time, he's helping Grimmjow home, listening to him curse Nnoitra under his breath, using some explicit word combinations Ichigo's never heard and some he's certain Grimmjow's making up on the spot just for the occasion, and Ichigo's rolled his eyes so much he's worried there might be permanent damage to his optical nerves.

He's never seen Grimmjow lose beside the two times he managed it himself.

He's struggling not to laugh. Not because he cares what Grimmjow thinks, but because it'll probably get him thrown out on his ass.

Grimmjow's hand slips down to the sensitive spot on his hip, and Ichigo nearly drops him in the floor. He's not ready for more of that, and Grimmjow had a good enough beating in tonight, Ichigo's surprised he's even thinking about it.

Ichigo readjusts his grip and growls a threatening sound under his breath, hauling the larger male toward his bedroom. "How much pain medication did they give you?"

"None. Don't like the stuff."

"Right. Of course you don't. What kind of fucked up individual gets a hard from pain?"

Ichigo tries to ease him onto the bed, but Grimmjow isn't nearly so gentle with himself. He drops down and hauls Ichigo into his lap.

"Don't tell me you're never itchin' for it after a fight."

"Not when I lose."

And suddenly those irritating arms are gone and he's sprawled out in the floor on his ass.

Ichigo clicks his tongue, glaring up and trying to get to his feet as arms snake back around him. And damn the bastard for being so beaten up, Ichigo would love to deck him for all of this.

Grimmjow smirks at the attempt to free himself, tired, but satisfied for the moment. Or at least, satisfied in some ways. Ichigo shifts backward on his lap, glaring down as if his glowering alone will shrivel Grimmjow's dick.

It doesn't.

"I'm not ready for that. I thought you had obsessed fan girls waiting on you hand and foot."

"Someone keeps making me neglect 'em."

Ichigo can't help the wicked, little smirk that surfaces. Doesn't even pretend not to be pleased about that. Maybe he's getting better at this honesty thing after all.

He tilts his head to consider Grimmjow and the idiot is already leering at him, because of course he knows he's won.

"Fine, but I'm doing it by hand. You need rest, you stupid asshole."

.

.

Ichigo stands at the edge of the cage, wound tight and so ready he's practically bouncing on his toes.

Grimmjow leans over from beside him. He's taken to watching the fight from the side of the ring so that when he yells obscenities at Ichigo for fucking up, Ichigo can actually hear them.

Oddly enough, it works.

"Do you have any idea how fuckable you look right now?"

Ichigo doesn't turn. It's not time to think about screwing each other into the lockers right now, and if he so much as meets Grimmjow's eyes, that's all that'll be on his mind the entire fight, so he doesn't turn.

He does smirk though. Can't really help that.

"Are you sure you're here to coach and not because you can't stand to be out of the spotlight for five seconds?"

Grimmjow chuckles a low sound next to him and Ichigo twitches— definitely not thinking about sex— and turns his attention to the other side of the cage.

Karin catches his eyes and grins, standing in her seat while Yuzu wrings her hands but releases her white-knuckled grip on a seat to wave as Tatsuki leans back to put an arm around her, yelling something encouraging over the crowd, and his lips quirk up at the edge.

At least, until he spots his old man.

"KUROSAKI VICTORY TEAM" is emblazoned across his top and below that sits a winking strawberry over the Japanese flag, bedazzled in sparkling red and green and black, and honestly, he should've known. Telling his father anything about his life is always debatably irresponsible.

Grimmjow hasn't actually met his family for obvious reasons, so Ichigo expects the usual secondhand embarrassment or appalled shock and disgust. But instead, Grimmjow is laughing so hard he's wheezing curses.

And that's exactly what Ichigo needs; a peanut gallery for his family's distinct brand of unconventional lunacy.

In a fit of maturity, Ichigo shoves him over the edge of the cement stage into the crowd, enters the cage, and slams the gate shut behind him.

Now, he's ready.

.

.

.

Fin.

A/N

So yeah, abrupt ending, but let me know if you liked it. I've already been asked about a possible part two for this, and ehhh, I just don't know where I'd go with it if I tried. I'm open to suggestions though. Maybe something from Grimmjow's pov… c':