Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

Getting Grimmjow into the house and explaining him to Isshin was only a little bit hard. Mainly in the sense that there was some minor humiliation to endure, an emotion Grimmjow was impervious to.

“Well, well. Look what the garlic bread dragged in,” Isshin said, clasping his whiskery chin. “A wayward murderer.” He would have looked wise and thoughtful if he wasn’t dressed in patterned pale green from head to knee, sitting on the couch between two teenage girls looking like a disgusting three course meal.

“I don’t want judgement from a mouldy avocado.” Ichigo shifted from foot to socked foot as a hand fisted slightly in the back of his hoodie. “It’s snowing outside again, and we haven’t even started watching The Conjuring.”

“Which is a crime,” Karin said from beside Isshin, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “That movie is so old now it’s got grandkids. Let him stay, but he has to wear the dick print one. He can’t have my taco.”

“Karin!” Yuzu hushed, buried in her cherry print like a little hypocrite.

“Eggplant, whatever. Dad, you’re blocking the TV.”

The hand bunched in Ichigo’s hoodie tugged him back a little.

“The fuck’s a taco?” The words were breathed too close to the top of Ichigo’s ear. “What are you conjuring? If this is some shinigami shit—”

“—you’ll skin me like a banana, yeah, I got it.” Ichigo looked to his family. “Grimmjow’s going to stay for hoodie night. It’s too cold for anything sensible to be out there anyway. Yuzu, grab the purple spare. Grimmjow, lose your jacket and belts. Karin, get out of my spot.”

Karin, in true younger sister style, wiggled her ass deeper into the cushion. “Make me, garlic breath. You forfeited it when you got up.” His annoyed middle finger was met by her jerking her taco-printed hood up so high it covered her entire upper face when it came back down. Irritated, Ichigo turned back to Grimmjow, who was still clutching him like a lost kid in a supermarket.

“Here, I’ll do it.” Under Isshin’s bemused gaze and Grimmjow’s even more dubious one, Ichigo grabbed the first belt and unbuckled cold steel from white leather, whipping it off and stashing it inside his oversized pouch. Going for the next one, feeling the back of his fingers brush against the warm muscle just beneath Grimmjow’s stomach, he had it half undone when Grimmjow caught Pantera’s scabbard before it fell from its loosened perch. Cheeks hot, Ichigo didn’t properly look up right away. “Can you get the rest?”

“Yeah, yeah. Didn’t think there was a whole process to this shit.”

“Trust me, you’ll thank me when you’re more comfortable.”

“Whatever.”

With no warning, Grimmjow shoved his hand into Ichigo’s hoodie pouch and grabbed his other belt back. Because the damn thing hung so low, it meant fishing around almost directly against his crotch. Ichigo very heroically didn’t make a sound or even flinch. After Grimmjow had left to put his things back at the entrance, Ichigo brushed himself down and tried to affect an air of merciful generosity before he turned back around.

Karin, Isshin and Yuzu were all beaming at him. Some looked meaner than others.

“Shut up,” Ichigo said expansively, throwing his arms wide. “Just because I told you all I’m—” he craned his neck quickly toward the entrance door and back again, “—bi, doesn’t mean that—”

“That you bringing good-looking hollow dudes to family hoodie night means anything?” Karin said smugly. “Ichi-nii, you look like an ugly yellow ewok right now. Everyone knows how vain you are and you actively brought him in. You’re completely gone.”

“I’m not gone,” Ichigo whisper-screamed, and then he had to shut right up because Grimmjow was coming back looking…looking…

“What?” Grimmjow grunted, looking down at himself. “I put all my shit in the corner.”

He sure had, Ichigo thought distantly, because Grimmjow was standing there in nothing but his black jumpsuit, or catsuit or whatever it was called when it turned out one of those things had no sleeves on it at all. Smooth sculpted muscle from shoulder to corded wrist met the Kurosaki family’s eyes. Even his feet were bare.

“Here you go,” Yuzu said to Ichigo, dumping a mess of bundled purple softness into his arms. “I had it tucked in the blanket box with a freshness sachet in it, so sorry if it smells girly.” She waved in Grimmjow’s overall direction. “Welcome to our house! Dad, come with me and make more popcorn in the kitchen. Karin, can you get our snacks from upstairs?”

“No,” Karin groaned. “I only just restocked the drawer.”

“You have a snack drawer?” Ichigo asked with interest, still not looking away from Grimmjow’s disgruntled face. The family responded by scattering to the four winds in an exceptionally transparent attempt to give him some alone time with their new guest. “Damn it.” Shaking out the hoodie and flipping it around a few times, Ichigo bunched it all the way up until he was gripping the neckline. “Bend down a second so I can fit this over your head.”

Even standing there prepped and ready to accept thick purple fleece as his new lord and saviour, Grimmjow tilted his head a little and scowled. Ichigo wondered if this was as far outside his comfort zone he’d ever been. Kind of ironic, considering.

“C’mon,” Ichigo said. “I promise it’s even softer when you’re wearing one yourself.”

“Bullshit,” Grimmjow scoffed, his blue eyes scanning Ichigo’s garlic bread chest. But he stooped enough for Ichigo to push his head through the hole and quickly smooth the material over his shoulders, tugging the hood out of the way. Twitching his arms a few times inside the fluffy bulk, Grimmjow’s expression cleared as he found the sleeve holes and pushed his hands through them. Reminding himself that he wasn’t doing anything creepy, Ichigo grabbed his peeping fingertips and tugged his hands out in full.

And just like that, with a final tug at the shoulders, Grimmjow stood tall and proud in a giant, fuzzy, purple blanket hoodie covered in eggplants, looking like he had no idea how he got into the situation to begin with. His hair was rumpled from all the contact, hanging over his forehead slightly.

“What do you think?” Ichigo hazarded, holding his own arms out side at his sides. “They’re all the same size, which is why there’s so much room. Soft, right?”

“I guess,” was the muttered reply. Grimmjow hauled the neck up and inhaled deeply, then leaned directly into Ichigo. Two hands almost engulfed in fleece took his shoulders and rubbed curiously down his arms, then stroked over his own chest. His pinchy little eyebrows, always caught in some kind of frown, pulled even closer together. “You’re still softer.”

“They’re the same.” Don’t say it. “We could hug again to really check, though.” Fuck.

“Again?” Yuzu stage-whispered from the kitchen, sounding excited. Isshin grunted into the refrigerator, where his head was resolutely stuck. Ichigo glanced away as Grimmjow shrugged.

“Fine.” Grabbing the neck of Ichigo’s hoodie, Grimmjow yanked him forward and directly into his arms, engulfing him in soft, warm, vanilla-scented heaven.

Ichigo tried to be a man about it. He really did. For approximately one second he stood there stiff and awkward, trying to process that Grimmjow’s arms were around him again and those were his hands and fingers stroking over his spine like he was some kind of rare flute, and then he sank his cheek down onto the pillow of Grimmjow’s folded down purple hood and grabbed him right on back. The body inside his grasp felt like a sexy, blankety, muscular pillow and he smelled like a fucking powdered doughnut. Ichigo rubbed his cheek further into the rumpled hood and didn’t even care when his nose touched the warm skin of Grimmjow’s neck.

Grimmjow didn’t seem to care much, either. With his cheek resting in Ichigo’s hair he just exhaled roughly and squeezed tighter, one hand tangled in his loose hood and the other rubbing somewhere around the arch of his lower back. It felt stupidly, illegally good and Ichigo was fully prepared to stand there for the next hour if he could get away with it. Fucking Grimmjow with the amazing hugs. It was probably going to be the only chance Ichigo ever got to do it, so he was going to take full advantage.

“Wanna fight tomorrow?” Grimmjow asked very quietly after a long, sleepy, blissful moment in which Ichigo tried really hard to ignore his sister’s whispered running commentary to their father. He nodded wordlessly and pulled his hands down the plane of Grimmjow’s back, not stopping even when his fingers indented on nothingness for a moment before finding muscle again. Grimmjow never even flinched.

“If you stay over we can go early,” Ichigo muttered. “Just sleep on the couch after we’re done tonight.”

“Huh,” was all Grimmjow replied with, but it didn’t seem like a negative kind of sound. “Guess I could do that. If your family doesn’t give a shit about having me here.”

“It’s fine,” Karin said from the stairwell. “Ichi-nii wasn’t hugged enough as a kid so if you don’t mind dishing more of those out until he’s a well-rounded human being, we’ll consider it rent.”

“Go to hell,” Ichigo said without heat. “We’re just comparing whose hoodie is softer.” He loosened his hold with not a small amount of regret, feeling Grimmjow’s arms relax and let him. This time, his frown was oddly subdued.

“Ah, that would be mine,” Isshin said proudly, now out of the fridge and fluffing his avocado print out slightly to best effect. “I put it in the dryer for five minutes so Karin would finally let me hug her to my bosom.”

“For the record I have not done that. Old men may never hug me.”

“I’m your father!” Isshin actually sounded wounded, which he almost certainly wasn’t. He looked around until he locked eyes with Ichigo. “Come here and check. Tell her I’m fluffy.”

Ichigo felt danger. “Nope.”

Grimmjow said, “I’ll do it.” He shoved Ichigo away like so much garbage and walked right over to Isshin, who looked suddenly daunted.

“Oh. Well. I can’t say I’ve ever hugged a man before, but there’s a first time for—” The rest of the sentence was choked off into an enveloping hug of truly fluffy, fleecy, food-themed proportions.

Seething with jealousy, Ichigo watched. They were the same fucking height too, which felt like salt in the wound of a different sort. They hugged like manly guys hugged, all tight squeezes and occasional back-slapping, like that was supposed to be fun or something. Isshin’s face and ears were bright crimson as he stared over Grimmjow’s shoulder and into Ichigo’s furious eyes.

“I saw a porno start like this once,” Karin commented, too-loud for the stunning silence of the moment. “Two shinigami one arrancar.”

Isshin nearly threw Grimmjow across the room. In the ensuing meltdown over what Karin had absolutely pulled out of her ass as a distraction, Ichigo watched Grimmjow straighten himself out and amble back to his side, scowling again.

“You’re still the softest,” he said with high irritation, like he hadn’t just cheated on Ichigo with his own father. “How the fuck’s that work?”

“It’s my angelic nature,” Ichigo snarled, and stomped off to take his seat back on the couch. “Sit down next to me and shut up. Fucking father-hugger. You should go sit out next to the garbage for that.”

“Fuck off. Fucking garlic bread.” Grimmjow threw himself down beside Ichigo so close their hoodies overlapped and shoved his hands inside his pouch pocket. He looked ill-tempered in the corner of Ichigo’s vision, but not particularly angry.

“Hurry up and start this movie,” Ichigo said loudly over the back of the couch. “Though if I wanted to see ghosts I’d just go the hell outside. This isn’t going to scare anyone except Yuzu.”

“It makes me feel alive!”

“You’re damaged. Bring snacks.”

At least he could get an evening in of watching his sister try not to piss her pants in terror. Beside him, Grimmjow looked down at his own lap, then pulled one hand out and looked at his palm. Before Ichigo could even begin to figure out his motive, he reached over a little and put his left hand into Ichigo’s pouch pocket, curling it in a loose fist against his thigh.

Ichigo suffered.

Yeah, family hoodie night was definitely shaping up to be a real one.

Chapter Text

Whatever the movie plot was, Ichigo had no chance of concentrating on it.

Firstly, ghost movies didn’t scare him in the slightest anymore. He’d seen it all, done it all, and even the spookiest old ghost lady in a nightgown didn’t stand a chance against the memory of shit like Aizen turning into the world’s ugliest butterfly. Sitting there with his eyes barely focussed on the screen while Yuzu yipped and squealed over the jump-scare of the moment, Ichigo tried very hard not to focus on certain other things.

Things like Grimmjow’s hand buried inside the pouch of his hoodie, half-circling the muscle of his upper thigh like a warm cuff of insultingly casual contact. Insulting, Ichigo fumed helplessly, because Grimmjow was completely absorbed in the film to the point that he was actually letting Yuzu beside him hug his whole right arm when the next bout of screeching violin music promised a new fright. The intensity of his feral blue gaze was completely reserved for the television screen like it held a siren song of—of—

“Hold his hand,” Karin whispered on Ichigo’s other side, pinching the back of his wrist with spiteful fingers. She was chewing popcorn with the belligerence of one who was far more interested in what was happening on the couch than on the screen. “Put your hand inside the pouch too, stupid. Cover his hand with your hand!”

“That’s gay,” Ichigo whispered back, freaked out. On Yuzu’s other side, Isshin gave them a quick glance, but they were speaking too low to be overheard. Karin pinched him again.

“Yuzu is officially getting more action with him than you are. Make a move, pussy. The movie only lasts another hour.” She leaned back and pulled her giant taco hood up before Ichigo could think of a good enough comeback. By the time he did, his words were swallowed by the sound of a girl being dragged off her bed in the movie. On his thigh, buried in the depths of his fluffy pouch pocket, Grimmjow’s thumb rubbed absently, as if he was scratching an itch.

Making a move under Karin’s surveillance felt too awkward to even contemplate. Besides, Grimmjow wasn’t giving any indication he even realised that he was sitting there in prime date position, stroking his thigh like that. More likely he was just enjoying the texture of the thick fleece inside the pocket, which for some reason he’d decided was softer than his own. Maybe Ichigo should actually move his hand out of there before Isshin zeroed in on it, if he hadn’t already. Five hundred yen said he’d take one look and think Grimmjow was trying to jerk him off or something.

Just as Ichigo was steeling himself to reach into the pocket and do something, the hand on his thigh clenched in time with a sudden screech of music. Ichigo looked at the television to see a hideous spectre in a nightgown leap from the top of a freestanding wardrobe toward two girls. Yuzu screamed like she was dying and shoved her face into Grimmjow’s bicep, almost upsetting the popcorn bowl. Grimmjow, on the other hand, had turned stock-still.

“Hmm, I almost felt that one,” Isshin commented, scratching his stubble at the end of the couch. “Reminds me of a hospital konsou I had to perform once. She wasn’t happy. Ran around the ward in her gown for ten straight minutes.”

“Should’ve kicked her in the vag,” Karin yawned. Isshin frowned.

“Seemed inhumane at the time.”

“Shhh!” Yuzu hissed, already recovered and primed for the next scene. “It’s starting to get good!” Leaning around, Ichigo saw her death grip on Grimmjow’s arm hadn’t relented in the slightest. Not that he seemed to care—it would probably take a hydraulic press to make him flinch.

“You okay?” Ichigo asked him, leaning in conspiratorially. “Didn’t take you for someone who’d get freaked out by something like this.”

“Who’s freaked out?” Grimmjow scoffed quietly. “I’ve coughed up worse souls than this bitch. Just trying not to punch your sister in the head when she grabs me.”

“Uh-huh.” Feeling slightly more daring than a moment ago, Ichigo reached into his pouch pocket and covered Grimmjow’s tense hand with his own. “We can hold hands if you’re worried you’re gonna lash out.”

“Fuck off,” Grimmjow snorted, shaking his hand free. Instead of pulling it out completely, he grabbed Ichigo’s hand back and crushed his knuckles together in a punishing squeeze. “Just say you’re scared.”

“Ghosts don’t scare me. Shinigami, remember?”

“Like you don’t fuckin’ mention it every time I see you.”

“He’s like a vegan,” Karin said, sticking her tongue directly into her popcorn bowl to capture several pieces at once. She chewed a few times and snickered buttery breath in Ichigo’s annoyed face. “Maybe I should become a shinigami. Just run straight at Urahara-san’s cane and see what happens.”

“I bet he’d like that,” Ichigo said dryly at the same time Grimmjow offered, “I could pull your soul out right now.”

“We don’t need to enact our own horror movie here tonight, thank you all,” Isshin said sourly. “Watch the damn movie. Grimmjow, don’t touch my daughter’s soul.”

Their small bout of conversation settled, mainly because the plot of the movie was beginning to include loud music and the high-pitched screaming of what seemed like fifty young girls. Relaxing back into his seat, wiggling his hips down into a slouch, Ichigo propped his shoulder against Grimmjow’s arm and dragged his garlic bread hood up to cover his hair. Inside the pouch, Grimmjow’s long fingers relaxed and burrowed down between his own to find the soft fleece. His thumb, still resting atop Ichigo’s pinky, rubbed almost curiously. Deciding not to ruin the moment, Ichigo didn’t say anything about it.

The movie proved to have a few decent scares in it, if Yuzu’s reactions were anything to go by. Ichigo spent most of what he paid attention to wondering how the hell so many ghosts could cohabitate in one house without talking to each other. Then again, it was written by people who didn’t know ghosts were real, if not as interesting as movies liked to portray them. At least they seemed to have the Hell thing down relatively well. Ichigo had no idea if a dedicated Christian could send a pissed-off satanist to hell or not, and made a mental note to ask Rukia sometime.

Finally, the family shuffled off to rinse bowls and discuss the movie in the kitchen. Grimmjow didn’t move and was still kind of holding Ichigo’s hand, so they stayed in silence for a bit, just a purple and yellow conjoined lump of softness burrowed in the centre of the sagging Kurosaki household couch. There was an interesting frown pinching Grimmjow’s short brows together that Ichigo hadn’t seen before.

“You ever see something that bad?”

Ichigo blinked at the question. “Plus souls don’t really get that bad. They’re usually just lost and confused, kind of like the little boy in the movie. Stuck in the place he knows best.”

Grimmjow’s frown deepened. “Hollows, then.”

Scratching his temple with his free hand, Ichigo pushed his hood back a little. “Once. Once I saw something that bad.”

“Did they go to Hell?”

“Yeah,” Ichigo replied, and couldn’t help the twitch of his fingers under Grimmjow’s. “Because he was a serial killer in life who became a hollow. Got a…really sick kick out of tormenting the son of the last woman he murdered before he died. Pulled his soul out of his body and shoved it into a living bird instead. The hollow offered the kid some fake deal for a game of cat and mouse he couldn’t possibly win. Just messed with him for fun.”

Blue eyes cut to his and lingered. “How’d you fix it?”

“Sublimated the hollow,” Ichigo replied. The television was suggesting new movies to watch, a rolling reel of blood and guts in thumbnails. “Except I didn’t. It was the first time I ever saw Hell’s gate claim a soul. The kid’s chain of fate was shattered, though. His body was dead. So I performed konsou on the bird he was trapped in and sent him to Soul Society in hopes he’d find his mother there.”

For a moment, Grimmjow didn’t say anything. Ichigo dragged his hood back the rest of the way and turned his head to look behind him. Isshin was the only one left in the kitchen, pouring himself a late scotch to take to the upstairs balcony. He gave a silent toast and padded off to the hallway stairs, still swaddled in his avocado hoodie. Peace and quiet at last, and no idea what to say into it.

“Never could figure out why you don’t hate us all.” Grimmjow stabbed a finger at the television. “You watch shit like this, you see souls being ripped apart and eaten, you send hollows to Hell knowing they’re fuckin’ evil—and you’ll sit here with me in stupid clothes holding hands, knowing I’ve killed and will definitely kill again. For someone who talks about being a shinigami, you’re pretty shit at doing your job as one.”

The words were too confused to be the direct hit that Ichigo expected them to be. Grimmjow could hit his weak spots like he was throwing a dart to the bullseye in pitch darkness, but that didn’t seem to be his actual intent for once. The hand resting on Ichigo’s was still warm, the fingers threaded between his sunk down into the plush fleece of the giant hoodie’s pouch.

“Substitute shinigami, technically. I don’t get paid, nobody gives me orders. I just do what I want and that usually happens to be the same thing Soul Society needs, even if they don’t know it at the time. Whether I kill or spare a hollow is up to my gut at the time.” Tipping slightly to the right, Ichigo planted his cheek on the ball of Grimmjow’s soft shoulder. “If I’d let Nnoitra kill you in Las Noches after our battle, we’d never be sitting here on a freezing winter’s night, wearing stupid clothes and holding hands. I’m okay with not doing my job sometimes.”

The breath Grimmjow exhaled was pure frustration. “One day something’s gonna happen again, shinigami, and we’re going to disagree from different sides of the war. I don’t make friends with my enemies. I obliterate them before they can end me. It’s what I’m for.”

“Okay,” Ichigo said, lifting his thumb and capturing the little finger resting beside it.

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“Kurosaki—”

“Grimmjow, I get it. One day we’re going to fight again. We’re not the same. When the time comes, I’ll throw everything I’ve got right at you to keep the things I care about safe.” Nuzzling his cheek slightly into firm muscle, Ichigo felt around with his free hand for the remote and changed to his own streaming profile. “Until then, I think we should watch—” he squinted at the screen, “—whatever Vox Machina is and cuddle on the couch like a couple of pillows until we fall asleep. Then, in the morning Yuzu can make breakfast for her new eggplant friend and we’ll jump in Urahara’s bunker and fight all day.”

The long silence that followed Ichigo’s proposition was testimony to Grimmjow’s doubt, but after a few more painful seconds of narrowed eyes and scowling, a winter miracle took place at the Kurosaki household.

“Fine,” Grimmjow said flatly, and in two jerky motions hauled Ichigo flat on his back on the couch. “If it’s peacetime rules until then, shut the fuck up and let me lay on your stupid soft garlic bread body.” And with the decisiveness that only the determined and muscular possessed, Grimmjow spread himself over Ichigo’s entire body like a giant purple bat, stuffing his face and his styled blue hair into the rumpled space between his neck and shoulder and inhaled like he was trying to pull Ichigo’s soul from the roots of his bones. “Fuck, you’re comfortable.”

There was some dry quip on the tip of Ichigo’s tongue to defuse the excited tension sparkling in his stomach, as he lay there absolutely squashed under eighty kilos of warm muscle and bone. But it didn’t come. Instead, he pushed his hands back inside his long sleeves and wrapped them around Grimmjow’s broad upper back, turning his nose into a mess of hair and the chilly curve of one ear. Just a shinigami and a hollow, natural enemies, snuggling together on a couch because it was cold outside and they were warm inside, sick of debating over the natural order and what the future could bring.

“Just until the next war,” Grimmjow said after a few moments, sounding tired. He burrowed his face past the bunched up hood until his jaw was touching skin. Ichigo’s skin. “Shitty ghost movies and soft blanket clothes until then.”

Well, that was a no-brainer. And it almost sounded like Grimmjow had made plans of his own to come back again. Or maybe, plans to never leave. All that out of one embarrassing scene, a patch of ice and some stupid garlic bread print.

Ichigo found himself smiling at the ceiling a little.

“Sounds pretty great to me.”

“Good.” A silence broken only by warm breaths against vulnerable skin stretched for a long minute. “I got one question, though.”

“Yeah?”

“The fuck does bi mean?”