The pitying stares were already part of Grimmjow’s life.
He hadn’t been a homeless guy for too long— a couple or three months at most— but he was already done with all the old ladies worrying stares and judgmental glances from Important Business Man that happened to want a walk around the perfect town, only to have their days ruined thanks to the sight of yet another youth presenting his life to the sweet and yet murderous arms of heroin.
It wasn’t like he was used to the stares, but most of the time the blue-haired was just too fucking high to even acknowledge them or too exhausted to do something about it. The fire that was once a very large part of the stubborn kid’s life was now almost extinguished, the remains only staying on those vibrant sky-blue eyes that somehow managed to stay as blue as always save from the times when he actually lost consciousness and control of his own actions.
As he woke up— it was really cold that morning and even though the sky was covered in boring white-grey clouds the light made him want to stab his own eyes— Grimmjow groaned. He didn’t remember anything about what happened last night. Hell, he didn’t even know where he was. That was the problem of mixing drugs and alcohol.
He was partially naked, that he could notice, and a shoe was missing. Maybe he’d been getting some sweet action with a cute boy and they got caught when things started to get interesting, thus being forced to run separate ways and eventually forget about their passionate moment.
Goddammit, he really wished he’d woken up in a stranger’s bed. At least he’d be warm.
A groan was heard. His head felt like it was about to explode and suddenly every sound in nature became ten times louder, piercing the already tortured soul, making him curl up in that cold, hard bench, hands burying in blue hair as a sudden wave of nausea washed over him. Grimmjow took a fetal position, his marked ribs and naked, bruised chest making him look as pathetic as he was, abandoned in a park, prey of his own inner demons and the drugs, convulsing at the cold air and the hurt and the regret and how bad his stomach hurt and what the fuck am I doing with my life.
Really loud footsteps suddenly broke that train of self-loathing, making Grimmjow open his eyes. There was a kid— an orange-haired kid— standing next to his bench, staring at him with a pair of brown eyes that looked so healthy, so happy and… pitying it gave Grimmjow the energy necessary to form a glare. As soon as he could take in the other’s presence, Grimmjow was immediately jealous. This guy, even if he knew close to nothing about, had everything Grimmjow wanted. Clean clothes, recently washed hair— he even smelled nice. That bag meant he was a student. His body was nice, too. Fit, he probably worked out, but not too much, just enough not to look disgustingly muscled. Those thoughts brought back some painful memories, memories of a handsome, cocky and popular blue-haired teen stealing girl’s hearts and guy’s first times, making teachers lose more than one night of sleep and his parents to shrug his almost mischievous behavior off as some phase normal at his age.
Dammit, how he wished he could go back.
But no, he was still at that bench, still half naked, still disgustingly skinny and still hungry and pretty much hypothermic.
And some random-ass kid was staring at him as if he could do something about his life, as if he could help.
“…—The hell’re ya starin’ at, kid.” His voice came out gruff, low, as if he hadn’t used it in weeks. He tried to sit up, wincing at how his brain complained at the movement and leaning back against the back rest, eyes tightly closed as he tried to recover. That kid must have already gone away, anyway, so he didn’t mind looking weak for the moment.
But as his feet came in rest with the ground, Grimmjow forgot about his missing shoe and the needles that were scattered on the ground— the crystal needles— but well, fate decided to remind him in a very unhelpful way. His bare skin broke the glass and it pierced his plant in response, sudden blood beginning to pool on the dirty ground.
Fucking hell, that hurt. He immediately brought his ankle to his other knee, leaning over to examine the recent wound. A piece of glass was stuck in his foot, and he yanked it off with a grunt. It still hurt, though. And it would probably get infected if he didn’t get it covered up.
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