It's been 84 years... what can I say? My edgy young self knew what she was doing, but present me has put her sunglasses on, sips her frappucino and pretends she doesn't know her. Honestly, I have no idea where I was going with this, yet I found this rotting in my drafts since Noah's time and decided to share it (after I changed some things on the writing style) before going on hiatus for the next...n# years. I'm not in the mindset to write fucked up things anymore.

Enjoy~

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He kept his gaze fixed on the closed door of the hospital room, legs shifting restlessly as his eyes darted from side to side, examining the surroundings. It was a habit, a habit stuck to him ever since he could remember himself, a mantra he repeated in his noisy head every second hour — to always be hyperaware, always know what was where, what was real. He could sense danger, he could sense fights and blood and pain, but reality? It was a different thing.

Ichigo knew he was there, he could feel him in the bones that rattled under his skin. He didn't even need a nurse to guide me to the room — not that she would anyway; four in the morning was way past visiting hours, but Ichigo was never the punctual one, or the lawful one. Windows were there for a reason.

He glanced at his forearms and a dry chuckle escaped his lips. There they were. The scars were there. The goosebumps were there, everywhere across his arms and under the fabric of his clothes. The goosebumps he always got whenever he was near him.

The smell of antiseptics made his stomach churn enough to be thankful he hadn't had anything to eat anything since the day before. It would have been decorating the floor. Hospitals weren't his happy place. They made him sick; the nurses, the drugs, the needles, the doctors and their lack of compassion... he hated doctors.

I am the psychopath according to them, he thought, and yet I had preserved more emotions.

A sigh escaped his lips and he pushed his fingers through his hair. It wasn't the right time.

He went to that shithole people called hospital on a mission. He wouldn't step a foot in it otherwise. A few hours ago, he shot someone, a demon, an ironic amount of six times, but for some odd reason, he had this urge to make sure he was okay. Of course Grimmjow had survived, Ichigo purposely didn't hit vital points, but if he wanted to be honest with himself, there was something that reminded him of guilt nudging his stomach. It was the scariest part of the whole story because it had been years since anything remotely close to an emotion coursed through this empty shell of a body he owned.

A second voice popped in his mind; no, he didn't feel bad about the things he did to him. Grimmjow had acted out of his place, he had acted as if that bat shit insanse mind of his knew anything about him or the situation he was in, so he had it coming. He dragged Ichigo into a mess without thinking of the concequences and in Ichigo's book, he had to pay.

The shocking part of it was that Ichigo didn't want to kill Grimmjow, not even after going out of his way to challenge the Hollows. He gave no shits about Luppi and his bitches, but he wanted none of them keeping him awake the nights he never slept. After years of endeavors to break free of their binds, Grimmjow gave them a reason to hunt him down again.

And yet, Ichigo didn't want to kill him.

But he had to leave. He had to leave until the Hollows lost all trails of him, not because he feared for his life, but his pride. When Hollows captured the ones they hunted down, they usually tortured them before blessing them with sweet death. Ichigo had been one who practiced these tortures on other human beings and he knew firsthand how these bastards stripped every ounce of dignity before death arrived. He wouldn't be subjected to that by mere runts. Sexta was the name they gave him. Sexta was the name they would hear and cower in fear. Ichigo didn't get the title to have it taken by a couple of revengeful second-in-command weaklings. If Aizen wanted him dead, Ichigo would rather die by his hand than anyone else's. But Aizen wasn't going to kill him. Aizen liked him too much, he considered him too valuable to let him end up as dog food. Aizen wanted him, he always wanted Ichigo to rejoin the Hollows.

Yet what Aizen wanted wasn't what Ichigo wanted so, as Ichigo usually said, he and his puppets could eat my shit for all I cared.

Grimmjow though didn't know that. He couldn't have known that. Ichigo never told him. But if there was one thing Ichigo would do before he vanished off the face of Earth was to give Grimmjow some advice; on what to do and what not stay below they radar for as long as he was gone. He needed him to exist. He held so much hatred in him, so much anger it was addicting and Ichigo wanted him to take all that out on him. And, a second voice would always pop in, uninvited — Ichigo had also grown quite fond of his presence. They learnt to live with each other, to coexist with each other's fierceness and in the end, a form of companionship was born. Like two lone, hurt wolves licking each other's wounds.

He pushed his hand in his pocket. Metal and a piece of paper tickled the tips of his fingers. Then he took a deep breath. The scent of hospital made his skin prickle, and he kicked the heel of his foot on the floor anxiously before he pushed the door of his room. The light was dim but it was enough to see him laying on the bed, with needles stuck to his skin, tubes full of liquid... Bile rose to his throat and Ichigo swallowed it but then he saw it; he saw a pair of golden eyes staring at him in confusion and suspicion. There was another man sitting next to Grimmjow's bed. A blond man. Shoulder-length hair. Skinny. Breakable.

What was a guy like him doing around Grimmjow?

"Who the hell are you?"

Blondie quirked an eyebrow, but he made no move. "Coulda asked you the same thing," he said, voice drenched in hostility and sarcasm. His eyes raked Ichigo up and down. "Clearly yer not a nurse."

"Observative," Ichigo quipped, "Now tell me who the hell are you before I lose my patience."

He chuckled. "Or else what? You gon' shoot me?"

"If I have to," Ichigo deadpanned, chin motioning towards Grimmjow, "I shot him six times."

Golden eyes widened, wide, wide, wide, ike saucers. Ichigo saw it then — rage. There was so much rage in them. Ichigo felt his mouth twitch.

"You—"

"Boo-hoo, I shot yer boyfriend, big fucking deal," Ichigo cut him off. Hand slipping in the pocket of his jacket, he pulled out what he knew would shut anyone up. He pointed the hollow muzzle at the blond man who froze at the sight of it. "Now answer the goddamned question," he hissed, "Who the hell are you?"

He eyed the gun, then Ichigo. His throat bobbed up and down before he answered. "I'm Shinji. Grimmjow's friend."

Friend? "I wasn't aware he had friends."

"Maybe he had a reason not to tell you," Shinji quipped viciously.

Ichigo shrugged. "Ah, he tells me shit anyway. Well, I'm Ichigo, nice to make your acquaintance. I'm his..." He paused, tapping his chin with the tip of his gun. "I fuck him and we do some other shit together. What does this make us?"

"What other shit?"

The tense silence that followed, the stunned and confused look in his eyes told Ichigo he was crossing a line he probably wasn't supposed to. "He hasn't told you," he sighed, lowering his gun, "Well then, I can't tell you either. It's his story to tell."

He chuckled, but it was devoid of humor. His fingers clutched the arms of the chair he was rooted on. "Tell me what? I don't understand! Who are you to him?"

"A...friend."

"Friend?" He was laughing now, full of sarcasm. "And you do this to him?"

Golden eyes darted at Grimmjow's sleeping form, at the bandages and the wounds. Ichigo swallowed. "It was...a bad moment." He scratched the back of his head. "Anyway, I'm here to somehow make it up to him."

"Oh really, how? Because he was endless fucking hours in a surgery room, trying to get your bullets out."

Ichigo held on to his silence, his eyes taking in Grimmjow's form. The blue of his hair didn't shine as much as he remembered, the pure lapis lazuli of his eyes Ichigo could fall in love with had he not expectorated his emotions years ago, nowhere to be seen. It made him feel emptier than usual and he suddenly realized he hated it. "Either way," he said instead, "Since you're here, I'd like you to do something for me."

"If you want me to kick your ass, I'll gladly oblige."

Ichigo chuckled even though it wasn't meant to be a joke, tucking the gun in its place again. His fingers unclenched from around the metal grip and wrapped around the small piece of paper he had been playing with earlier. Wordlessly, he handed it over to the blond man. "Give this to him when he wakes up."

"And if I don't?"

Humans. Always curious.

"He will suffer."

Shinji frowned. He glanced at Grimmjow, then back at the piece of paper between his fingers. "Suffer?" he asked, "How?"

Ichigo pinched the bridge of his nose. His patience was running ultra thin, his skin already itching and burning from the diseases circulating the hospital's air. "I am...vital to him," he croaked, "He might lose his shit when he wakes up and realizes I'm gone. This letter basically lets him know that I'll be back."

"Get yer ass off your high horse," Shinji scoffed and threw the paper at Ichigo. "You conceited murderer."

The paper hit against his chest and fell, helpless, on the foot of Grimmjow's bed, and Ichigo stared at it; he stared until the world started to twirl with the paper in the middle of it, until words started echoing in his head, screams filling his ears, fire burning his skin and the mucus membranes in his nose and mouth. His voice wasn't coming out. He started to itch. He scratched himself until he bled.

Where is my razor. I need my razor.

Razor.

Razor.

I must bleed.

In a blink, the world was back to where it was, his hands still shoved deeply in his pockets. "I may be a murderer," he whispered and his voice shook, "But I need him to stay alive. So give him the goddamned letter and let him explain the situation to you. What has fucked him up is not my story to tell."

There was conflict; good and bad fighting in the depths of Shinji's golden eyes, but in the end, he stood and collected the piece of paper from the floor, shoving it quickly in the pocket of his skin-tight jeans. Then he looked at Ichigo, hatred oozing in tidal waves and Ichigo soaked in it and allowed it to define him because that was exactly what he was; a hateful, disgusting creature. With one last glance at Grimmjow, he noticed the bandages across his chest and shoulders, down his arms and fingers. Then, he noticed Grimmjow's wrists. "Why is he restrained?"

Shinji looked at Grimmjow and sighed tiredly. "He...He almost killed a doctor. While he was sedated."

Ichigo quirked an eyebrow. "While sedated?"

"Yeah. Now they gave him triple dose than normal." He sniffled. "Doctor said it would normally kill any other human being but Grimmjow seems fine."

Because he's not human, Ichigo thought but kept it to himself. "Well," he shrugged, "Since he's fine—"

"Does he look fine to you?", Shinji hissed.

"He is alive," Ichigo deadpanned, "He is fine."

"Son of a bitch, you don't even regret this?!"

"Not one bit."

The look on his face was stricken, as if he was looking at a monster. And maybe, if Ichigo thought deeply about it, he was. "What's your damage?!"

Ichigo chuckled, "I cannot begin to explain."

That seemed to silence the blond man for a while. Was it fear or was it anger, Ichigo didn't know but he didn't care either. He walked around Grimmjow's bed, stopping when he was at the head. With a shaking hand, he touched the middle of his chest and let go of a sigh when a pulse thudded against the pads of his fingers. He swallowed the bile rising in his throat. He's alive, he reminded himself, obsessively, like a prayer to the God that never spared a second glance at him. He's alive.

Could have killed him, loser, a voice scolded with acid.

Thank god you didn't kill him, another shouted back.

Ichigo smiled at both of them. It was funny how different these two were.

He slid his fingers from Grimmjow's chest to his face, cupping his jagged, scratched jaw with a tenderness Grimmjow didn't know and Ichigo had forgotten about. Then he leaned over, hovering above Grimmjow's face. He kissed him. Soft. Chaste. The voice in his head screamed at him to get away, but he ignored it. "I'm gonna miss you, beast," he whispered over Grimmjow's lips. "Kill me next time you see me."

A hand wrapped around his wrist. Ichigo looked up with narrowed golden eyes. "I think it's time you go," he hissed. "I'll call security if you don't."

No more people have to die, Ichigo told himself and offered a smile at Grimmjow's friend. "You're right," he said, "There is a hole I have to crawl into and hide."

"I hope what you're trying to run away from, finds you and harms you."

Ichigo laughed as he walked towards the door. "I hope so too."

Without waiting for Shinji to reply, he yanked the door open and closed it behind him, fleeing to the one place he knew someone like him belonged.

The shadows.

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