Chapter Text
Grimmjow crouches outside the staff exit of Gin no Tama and tries to breathe evenly enough to make the dirty alleyway stop spinning. The sky is spitting in the pre-dawn hours, and he can feel it starting to seep through his light jacket and his thin gloves. It's a mild winter in Karakura this year, but the cold is still no joke, and it bites at his fingers and his face as he gasps in the damp smell of alley trash.
He doesn't understand what's wrong at this point. He'd eaten three meals on his break, caught bullshit from his boss for skiving off when he'd snuck away for a snack two hours later, and he still feels like his insides are cavernous. He's no stranger to hunger pains, but the dizzy spells that are starting to accompany them only prove he's not losing his mind. Something is wrong with him.
But the two overnight clinics he'd seen last week had both shrugged him out the door, shitty insurance be damned, and he wouldn't get paid until Wednesday to be able to drag his ass to the hospital proper.
That's assuming he doesn't blow half his pay on food again, just to be able to function.
Grimmjow takes another deep breath and gives himself a shake. Home. He needs to get home.
Except there's no food at home, either, he thinks. He'd dragged the last of it to work in an attempt to strongman his way through his last shift of the week. Fuck.
Gloves dragging against brick, Grimmjow unfolds himself slowly and forces himself to walk, cursing the unholy hour the whole while. There's nothing open this early. He'll have to suffer a few hours of hunger more before trudging back into the early morning storm.
Every step is a biting agony that has him chewing his lip. He knows his fingers are cold, but compared to the stabbing in his gut and the spinning in his head, he honestly can't feel them. Desperate, he bypasses his usual route, cutting through a couple alleys while pulling up the collar of his jacket to ward off the wind.
He pops out of an alley a few streets away from his apartment and stops dumb in a splay of warm yellow light.
He's never gone down this street before- and apparently there is something open this early. He's standing in the buttery warm light of a brick coffee shop. Festive holly is painted on the corners of the storefront window and cheery blinking lights ring the whole of it. There's an enormous wreath on the door, with a giant red bow and pinecones sticking out of it. The door even has a bell above it that's been decorated in glittery silver ribbon. But most importantly, Grimmjow can see two young women inside manning the counter, placing muffins in a case and preparing coffee.
He's got shit for money left after his food spree, but if he doesn't eat right now he's not sure he'll make it home for it to matter.
Grimmjow shoulders open the door. The bell apparently isn't just decorative, because it chimes brightly and loudly, and the two women at the counter immediately stand to attention.
"Good morning!" the blonde one greets merrily. She waves and gestures him over to the register. "What can I get you this morning?"
Grimmjow honestly doesn't have the brain cells to rub together at the moment. He's already got his wallet in hand, but his eyes glaze right over the contents of the case. He just wants a muffin. It won't be enough, but it might get him home.
"That," he points erratically at one of the shelves. He knows he's not being clear, but at this point he doesn't give a fuck what she hands him. He pulls a fistful of yen out of his wallet and leans on the counter.
To her credit, the lady doesn't falter. "One cranberry muffin!" She busies herself warming and plating it for him without asking, and gracefully takes his money and gives him change without a word. She must see a lot of people without caffeine, he thinks.
She plonks the muffin down in front of him, and he drags himself to the nearest table to devour it. It reeks of orange and cranberry and sugar, and his stomach gives the loudest, angriest rumble he's heard from it in days. It's actually torturous to look at the muffin any longer, so he rips the top off it, not even removing his gloves first, and shoves it in his mouth.
It hits his tongue like a hallelujah. It's probably the best thing he's ever tasted, and he's honestly not sure if that's because it's sweet and tart and moist all at once, or because he's starved like the damned. He doesn't care. He rips into the remainder, finishing it in five bites. He's folding the muffin wrapper into squares when he realizes he's shivering in his seat. He can feel his cold fingers again, and his toes, and the icy expanse of his back. Shit.
He's taking off his gloves to blow on his fingers when a mug clacks against the tabletop. He looks up to see the blonde girl smiling down at him. "On the house."
Grimmjow's mouth flaps a bit. He'd noticed before that she was wearing a silver apron, but now she's got on a great, silver witch's hat. The mug on his table is suspiciously cauldron shaped, black and heavy and pitted, with a handle on the side and a silver spoon resting in the brown liquid.
"Don't need charity. The fuck's with the hat?"
The girl laughs, lacing her fingers together and pointing up at the hat in question. "We're a witch café!" she says, like that makes any goddamned sense. Grimmjow squints at her, and then around her where the other girl, dark-haired and serious, is wearing the same ensemble but in gold. The fuck?
"And anyway," she carries on, "I don't want a new customer to get cold out in this storm. Enjoy!" She prances away before he can reply, and then the front door opens with a jingle and the sound of feet. The silver witch-barista cheerfully greets the new customers by name as they approach the register, and Grimmjow is left forgotten with his steaming mug.
Frowning, he brings it to his face and sniffs. Chocolate and spice hit his nose and he scowls. It's not something he'd order for himself. But with the way he's been blowing through his monthly meal budget, and the warmth of the mug on his fingers, he finds himself sipping it anyway, taste be damned.
Of course it's delicious, too.
Grimmjow takes a moment to slide off his other glove and his wet jacket before he pulls his phone from his pocket. No missed communications, but he expects that. Instead he brings up the weather and tries to figure out if he can wait out this shitty morning storm.
He's scrolling Twitter and sipping his ridiculous hot chocolate when he looks up and sees the dark-haired witch-girl staring down at him. Only a couple days of near-starvation prevent him from spitting cocoa all over her glittery gold apron.
"The fuck do you want?"
She raises a brow at him and cocks her hip. "So what'd you do to get cursed?"
Grimmjow brings a finger up to his ear and wiggles it around because what the actual fuck.
"What?"
"You're cursed. Didn't you know? It's a pretty big one, too." She holds up her hands in a great big circle, maybe the size of a grapefruit or so, and holds it up against her stomach. "Right here. It looks like it hurts."
Grimmjow feels like all the warmth is sucked out of him- from his face and down out through his toes. A dull anger throbs in behind it, warming his chest, but he only vaguely feels it.
"The fuck are you talking about? Is this some bullshit you do to scam customers? Because you can fuck off with that shit right now." He stands up as he says it, and he knows he's half yelling because the shop goes quiet around him. The girl doesn't give an inch though, just looks him up and down and frowns.
"Sit back down," she huffs, pointing at his seat, "and I'll be right back." She turns without even waiting for a response and vanishes through a doorway. Grimmjow looks around and the rest of the customers are looking away from him, weirdly focused on the pastry case. The blonde witch-barista seems to be talking to them quietly, although he can't quite make out what she's saying.
For some reason, Grimmjow sits.
A few moments later, the black-haired witch-girl comes back to his table and drops her enormous witch's hat on a nearby chair. She's got a deck of long, blue cards in her hands. Grimmjow bristles again.
"I don't want-"
"It's a free service," she steamrolls over him, meeting his eyes and holding his stare. She starts shuffling the cards rapidly before presenting the deck to him.
"Pick three."
Anger simmers low in Grimmjow's gut, a welcome change from the last few days. The whole thing screams bullshit to him. A curse? Pah. He's seen Yakuza scams and back alley cons run better than whatever this is.
But she'd also known exactly where he'd been having problems.
Pissed and backed into a corner, Grimmjow picks three cards as spitefully as possible. One from the top, one from the bottom, and one from somewhere in the middle. He's pretty sure that's not the way to go about this, and he squints as he waits for her to object. Instead, she sets the rest of the deck off to the side and arranges his choices in a line before flipping them over.
The first is a picture of a knight holding a sword, five more raining from the sky behind him and coated in fire.
The second is a man in a stone chair wearing a long, red robe and holding a sword.
The third is a man in long, colorful robes, a gout of fire spraying from his hand.
Witch-girl squints and chews her lip before looking up at him. She taps each card, pushing it toward him as she explains.
"This one is your past. The six of swords in reverse. You're running away from something." Grimmjow snorts. You could say that about anyone in Japan, and they'd probably find it true on some level. He raises an eyebrow at her and waits.
"This one is your present. Justice, in reverse. It commonly means injustice, but it also means corruption." She eyes his abdomen meaningfully. Grimmjow waits. She's still not said anything convincing.
"This last one is the future, and is called The Magician. Normally this means willpower, or desire, or skill. But."
The silence drags out long enough that Grimmjow takes the bait. "But?"
"But this card is also associated with my brother. He's a strong magician, and I think he could help you with your curse." She taps the card again and leans back, giving him a thoughtful look. "If you come back tomorrow, he should be around to have a look at it and see."
And that's enough of that.
Grimmjow's already got problems aplenty. He doesn't need whatever weirdly-on-the-nose scam these people are running on top of it.
And he passed his bullshit limit a while ago.
"Whatever," he snaps, grabbing his things and chugging the last of his hot chocolate. He leaves the mug on the table as he shrugs back into his jacket and disappears back into the cold, the coffee shop bell ringing merrily behind him.