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There are fear, and anger, and desperation.
And then there’s this.
This all encompassing, primal, animalistic terror that is shaking his bones.
And there are blood soaked sandals. Torn clothes and torn flesh under them. Sweat stinging the eyes. A burning in the lungs. Flashes of steel. Screams in the ears.
Ironically, Ichigo has to be grateful for still being able to feel all of it, because around him, and behind him and under his feet, there are people who can’t feel anything anymore.
It’s just another battle, like many previous ones, and yet so completely different.
Ichigo feels his humanity becoming almost numb, on the verge of succumbing once and for all to his Hollow.
He holds on the threads of it with tooth and nail, a battle within the battle.
In the midst of the absolute destruction around him, he lifts his eyes from the body of his latest opponent, searching, hoping beyond hope, for grounding, for an anchor.
For a split second his gaze locks with Grimmjow’s, standing on the other side of the battlefield.
It’s a blink and miss moment, but Grimmjow grins, fangs tinged with red and undiluted excitement in his electric eyes.
He mouths a single word, before twirling around looking for the next prey.
A drop of blood falls from one of his horns down on Ichigo’s cheek like a tear, the tepid wetness of it bringing him out of his stupor and back in his body, just in time to par the blade of yet another enemy.
Mine.
A promise and a threat and a plea, there, exchanged in a silence louder than the clang of war, under a crimson rain.
When the curtain falls, it will be by Grimmjow’s hands and his alone.
Even if his shoulders ache, even if his every cell is screaming no more please no more, Ichigo lifts his sword again.
————-
The end of the battle, when it finally, finally, comes, doesn’t feel like a win.
It’s a cacophony of hundreds of voices, screaming in agony, cheering in victory, wailing in grief.
Ichigo closes his eyes, sword abandoned at his feet, vertigo making him feel lost and disoriented.
Then Grimmjow grabs him by the horns, forcefully pushing his head back so that he can descend on him and claim his lips.
He tastes like iron and Ichigo tries to turn his face away, but Grimmjow has him in a merciless hold.
The Arrancar licks the trails of blood on his face, feeding it to him with his tongue.
“Savour this, Kurosaki. As disgusting as it is, it’s life…We’re alive.”
Ichigo gazes back into Grimmjow’s bright eyes.
There’s a cut on his forehead and his hair is matted to his skull.
He looks young like this. Too young to be dead, to be hollowed out, to stand here.
Almost as young as him.
Equal in every way that counts.
And he says we are alive.
Because, despite it all, they are lucky.
Because being alive wouldn’t have been enough on its own.
Because both of them being here is what matters most.
Because they promised.
“Give me more of it, then…”
Ichigo murmurs, leaning in and tasting the curve of Grimmjow’s arrogant smile.