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Dying. He’s dying. Gotta be, with how agonizing every beat of his heart is. How each breath is like a knife twisting in his chest. How even the thought of moving makes his bones scream. Grimmjow coughs, sputters, wheezes. Curls in on himself like the pitiful creature he is, shivering against the fever. Of course he’s dying, what with all that poison in his veins. Burning. Scorching. Corrosive. Eating him from the inside-out. Leaving him an empty husk.
The toxic atmosphere vanished, but not whatever already leached into his soul. Not the venom already swirling through his veins. Even without the bullshit power-ups that mouthy asshole kept pulling off, that much Quincy reiatsu in its purest, undiluted form was more than his body could ever handle.
A coward’s weapon.
A pathetic death.
He wants to think it's unfair, but he knows better.
Death is never fair.
The war is over. He's aware of that, distantly. Stimuli filtering in like molasses. Everything on a delay. Nel’s gone; taken Urahara and the others somewhere, leaving Grimmjow to suffer his fate alone. She’s not coming back. He doesn’t expect her to. He saw the look in her eye as she hauled Yoruichi and Urahara onto her back: cold resignation. Nothing personal, just a calculated decision. Simple logistics. One almost-dead Hollow versus two Shinigami that actually stood a chance at seeing another sunrise. He could almost respect that decision if he wasn’t the one lying in the dirt.
But he’s not dead yet, and he’s gotta get up. Has to. Primal fear screeching at his weakness, refusing to go down quietly. Get up. Get up before something else comes along and eats you. Get up because no one is coming to help you. You're dying, but not here. You can't die here. Get. Up.
It takes all of his failing strength to push himself off the ground, and the rest of it to climb to his feet. He heaves, sickly black blood spilling from his mouth.
Go. And he doesn’t question where. He knows, feet stumbling forward on their own accord. Drawn forward by a magnet. By gravity. One step. A second. The ground shifts like sand beneath him. Go. To the only place that matters.
It shouldn’t matter.
He shouldn’t matter.
But he does.
And Grimmjow needs to know.
Needs to make sure.
It’s crowded. Not really, there’s only a handful of other people, but anything more than him feels like too much. Hell, him alone almost feels like too much: starburst supernova of a god killer making itself home deep in Grimmjow’s fragile lungs. It burns him too, but in a better way. Familiar.
Grimmjow keeps his distance, leaning heavy against the remnants of a wall, gasping for air as a cold sweat sticks hair to his forehead. He doesn’t want to get too close, just enough to see. And he does. He sees him: blood on his skin, brown eyes weary, a slight tremor in his hands– but he’s standing tall and proud, which is more than Grimmjow can say for himself.
It shouldn’t matter.
It doesn’t matter.
But it loosens something in Grimmjow’s chest all the same.
He did his part. Fulfilled his half of the bargain. Helped ensure he lived through to the end of whatever needed to be done. That’s as good as Grimmjow’s gonna get, though it’s a pretty shitty consolation prize all things considered.
He reaches behind himself, hooking fingers into thin air and feeling the familiar tug as he grips the very fabric reality. Good, that still works. No need to aim for a destination, anywhere alone will do. The void tears open behind him.
Brown eyes snap to him, wide disbelief. He says something, mouths it quietly and too far away for Grimmjow to hear, but he sees him and he knows.
He has to know.
He can read it in his face.
A second passes. An eternity. And Grimmjow says his peace without words.
He pitches backwards, towards the vacant space between worlds, and brown eyes watch him as he falls.
Those eyes watched him fall before, almost another lifetime ago when they fought beneath a fake sky. He’d been dying then too. Back when a hand grabbed his wrist and gently lowered him down to the ground. Back when a mouth asked him, begged him to stay down– stop fighting– don’t die– just so they could fight again.
Broken promises.
A twinge of regret.
It doesn’t matter now.
None of it matters.
He’s done for anyway.
Too much poison blood on his skin. Too little energy in his soul to fight it.
Too little energy to do anything.
He just needs to get back. Just needs to get home, under the eternal night sky.
Then he can rest.
Someone shouts something, too loud and too close. Swallowed by the dead-quiet of the space between worlds.
A rush of wind. Displaced air as he drops. Submits to oblivion.
A hand grabs his arm; holds firm and halts his trajectory. Hauls him back onto solid ground and holds him. Holds him and doesn’t let go.
And suddenly all that matters is brown eyes staring into Grimmjow with concern and calloused hands keeping him upright because he knows he can’t stand on his own.
“I got you.” He says, and he does.
He always does.