A young boy with a head of blue hair walks along the path that follows the river through Karakura. He takes his time, stepping so as to avoid the cracks in the concrete beneath his feet.
He has headphones plugged in and is unconsciously mumbling the words to a song, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his vivid red jacket.
The weather has been unusually damp considering it's the middle of summer and the ground is still wet from a fresh rain shower.
Grimmjow stops walking, his daydream ending as the song finishes. He pulls out a glossy new ipod from his jeans pocket and flicks through the various artists until he finds the new song he's looking for.
But before he hits play, he looks up, and realises where he is.
After spending most of the weekend trapped inside because of the rain, as soon as the skies cleared, he turned up his music, stepped out of the front door, and let his feet lead him.
And they took him here, to where he first sat all those months ago, alone on the riverbank.
He steps off the path and onto the grass, sitting in what he assumes is roughly the same place as the last time. But instead of curling in on himself and fighting tears like he'd once done, he looks around himself.
The recent rain has left a glossy sheen of water on the surface of the world and it looks different as it catches the sunlight. Everything is polished like marble, tiny beads of dew cling to the grass like tears.
Grimmjow doesn't think he's changed all that much, really. He'd still look after his mother even if he knew then what he knows now. Because every minute of life is time you wont get back.
He's aware that what he did was stupid and a little selfish, but he also knows that she was, is, and always will be - the only mother he will ever have.
And when time is so valuable, every moment matters. He's glad to have spent most of it on her.
But for now she's gone, and it still hurts, still throbs like a wound in his chest that no one can see. Sometimes, when he cant sleep, he imagines he can smell it.
The rotting skin, the gangrene, the metallic scent of his blood - his chest cavity filling with puss.
At least to Grimmjow, that's what it feels like. An agony he can't escape.
Ichigo is the only thing that sooths it, the only person who takes the edge off the burn, and sometimes that frightens him.
Is it healthy to need someone this badly?
But there is more to come.
More time to work out the details, more chances to figure shit out.
Grimmjow stands up and presses 'play'. The music starts up again and he makes his way back to the concrete path.
He's decided he wants more. He wants to keep going.
That's how life is for everyone.
This whole story is for TPP, a babe indeed!
Sequels and other stories are in the works, but updates will be slow as fuck because life is being a boobie.