He refused to admit he was sick.

Even when his footsteps were heavier than usual. Even when his voice sounded like gravel under water. Even when the heat coming off him could’ve warmed Hueco Mundo’s frozen winds.

Grimmjow had been pacing the room all morning, coughing into his sleeve like it was just dust in the air. His nose was red. His eyes had dark shadows under them. The usual fire in his movements had dulled into something clumsy and frustrated — like a lion swiping at flies.

“Stop lookin’ at me like that,” he snapped hoarsely when he caught your gaze. “I’m fine.”

You hadn’t said anything.

He sniffed, rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, then made a low, furious noise when he had to cough again — harder this time, bending slightly with the force of it.

You crossed the room, wordlessly handing him a warm cup. Ginger, lemon, something you’d mixed together. He stared at it like it was poison.

“What the hell is this?”

You didn’t answer.

He took it anyway, grumbling under his breath as he slumped down onto the couch with the grace of a collapsing wall. He sniffed again and cursed when his nose wouldn't stop running. You caught him swiping at it with the sleeve of his jacket like a stubborn kid.

“You enjoy this, don’t you?” he muttered thickly, voice ruined by congestion. “Seeing me like this.”

You didn’t.

He was miserable. And too proud to let you help the way he needed.

But there was something a little ridiculous about the Sixth Espada — former terror of the sands — snarling with a blanket over his shoulders and a cup of tea cradled in one hand. His hair was a mess. His voice cracked every time he talked. He’d gone through three tissues and denied needing a fourth.

You sat beside him without a word.

Grimmjow grunted. “Tch. Can’t even breathe through my nose. This is bullshit.”

You handed him another tissue.

He took it with a sharp side-eye. “I said I’m—” He coughed. Loud, violent, wet. You winced. He groaned and dropped back into the cushions like gravity had finally won. “…I hate this.”

Silence.

You rested your hand lightly on his arm.

He didn’t pull away.

“…Don’t go thinkin’ this makes me weak,” he said after a long pause, head tilted back, eyes half-closed and watery. “I’ve survived worse than a damn cold.”

You didn’t doubt it. But right now? Right now he looked more like a grumpy cat who’d gotten dunked in water than a warrior of death.

“…I can feel you starin’ at me again.”

You smiled faintly.

He didn’t open his eyes, but the tension in his body eased — just a little. You reached out, slowly, carefully, and brushed your fingers back through his hair. Surprisingly soft. Tangled, but soft. He made a vague noise — not quite a protest.

Then, under his breath, voice low and drowsy:

“…If you tell anyone I let you do this, I swear I’ll gut you.”