Chapter Text
“You take the trash out. No, you take the trash out,” Ichigo bitched to himself as he hauled the red bag of burnable trash to the kerb, running his elbows down his sides to keep his sleeves hitched up properly.
It was the middle of winter, family blanket hoodie night, and like every other week when Isshin, Karin and Yuzu collectively ‘forgot’ to take out the trash for collection, Ichigo was doing it in the damn dark like an idiot, wearing what was essentially a massive plush blanket sewn into the shape of an oversized hoodie that came down to his knees.
Family bonding outfits, Yuzu and Isshin had called them. Food themed, because nobody could say no to Yuzu when she thought something was adorable. Just then, lugging a bag full of reeking vegetable peels and rancid food juice, Ichigo kind of wished someone had pushed her down the stairs.
Fuck it was cold. Snow was sifting down into his eyes; still light but in his current foul mood everything was shit and that included the weather. Eight pm in the freezing dark. Screw it. He unlatched the front gate and used unnecessary force to haul the bag around the side of the fence where it could be collected in the morning.
Ichigo had turned on his heel in unlaced sneakers, glowering back at the house when his right foot slid forward on a patch of ice and his head tipped all the way back.
Oh, fucking brilliant way to die—
He fell back into a firm wall at the same time two pillars of steel flew up beneath his armpits, holding him upright with insultingly casual ease. Shit.
Heart hammering, feet still skidding on the ice, Ichigo tipped his head back and looked up into his rescuer’s face.
Grimmjow was staring down at him in savagely handsome confusion, his hair falling over his brow in tiny little perfect blue tendrils. His chest was as warm as a slow-burning furnace where his heat soaked through the back of Ichigo’s head and upper back. Forearms jiggled him slightly under his armpits, checking for signs of life. Meanwhile, Ichigo was still basically doing the fucking limbo like a moron in a blanket hoodie that could fit four more people inside it. A hoodie with a—
“Just kill me,” Ichigo groaned as Grimmjow’s surprise faded into a deep, blue-eyed concern for his appearance. “I hate you. I hate you so much. Forget you saw me like this.” Writhing like a snake to get himself upright, Ichigo slapped his hands away and thrust his chest out, ready to go. If Grimmjow said a damn thing, he’d regret it. “What will it take for you to go away and never speak of this again? Why are you even here?”
“Kisuke makes me open the garganta in different parts of Karakura when I arrive,” Grimmjow said, like that was a thing anyone should know. “Doesn’t like patterns of reiatsu or something. Why do you feel like that?”
“How I look is none of your damn business,” Ichigo started at the same time his brain caught up and stumbled. “What do you mean, feel? I feel fine. It’s just cold.” Brushing his giant yellow hoodie down into place, oversized sleeves threatening to swallow his hands, Ichigo tried his hardest to look like an intimidating presence in the face of rock-hard arrancar perfection with nice hair and a cool black jumpsuit. Oh, god.
“No—” Hands grabbed Ichigo’s upper arms and squeezed them carefully. The fleece of his hoodie whispered as palms stroked up and down the pillowy fabric. The things were embarrassing as hell but they were sinfully comfortable, and apparently from his expression Grimmjow hadn’t seen one before in his entire life. “This. You’re soft. Real soft. And warm.”
“It’s a…family thing,” Ichigo tried to explain, but getting any further was hard when Grimmjow’s hands slid up and found the hood with its white fleece lining, tugging the oversized fabric over his cold ears and covering his hair. “Please don’t tell Nel or Harribel. Or Urahara. Or anyone. I didn’t choose to be garlic bread.”
Instead of replying, Grimmjow started feeling Ichigo with with growing interest, his hands roving with actual curiosity across his shoulders and chest, flexing around the fabric and finding the enormous pouch sewn into the front of the thing, like anyone’s arms could reach that easily anyway. Eventually, the pat-down stopped and blue eyes pinned him in place under the falling snow.
“Don’t you fucking tell anyone or I’ll kill you,” Grimmjow swore with a stormy gaze and violence in his eyes—and wrapped both arms around Ichigo’s entire body, tugging him home with sure strength and honestly welcome warm comfort after being in the bitterly cold outdoors wearing thin sweats and old sneakers. Ichigo’s whole hooded face fell to a nice shoulder and the partly exposed crook of Grimmjow’s neck, feeling a delicious squeeze of muscular arms drive bubbles of embarrassing euphoria all the way up his spine. Oh shit, that was nice.
“What’s a garlic bread,” Grimmjow asked after a few seconds, kind of rubbing all up and down Ichigo’s back. “You’re really soft. Fuck you.”
“Fuck you,” Ichigo replied, offended. He linked his hands behind Grimmjow’s back. “Karin chose the pattern because she said I smell and I'm full of carbs.” After letting his words be absorbed for a few seconds, a thought appeared. “You like soft stuff?”
Grimmjow grunted. “Never touched anything as soft as you before. S’nice.” Again, hands with the pressure of some kind of godly masseur rubbed down his spine and back up.
Ichigo thought fast.
“We’ve got a spare, you know. It’s purple, with eggplants on it. And we’re watching horror movies tonight. You want to—”
“Whatever,” Grimmjow said too quickly, burrowing his face into Ichigo’s shoulder. “Just don’t tell anyone I like whatever this shit is or I’ll peel your face like a giant fucking grape.”
Ichigo nodded. “Straight to the grave.”
“Good.”
Take out the trash, bring in a stray, Ichigo thought weakly as they struggled back towards the house, avoiding the icy concrete path. Weird how his whole mood had improved with a little skin contact and admiring Grimmjow’s…well, Grimmjow.
Yeah.
Extremely weird.
“You know, I’m really warm under this thing,” Ichigo said, extremely casually. “If your hands are cold you should put them—”
His own startled yelp split the silence, but in his books no victory came without some kind of sacrifice.
Maybe winter was good for something after all.