He has an aversion to both being cold and being wet. Grimmjow doesn’t know where it stems from, but he’s quite happy to listen to his instincts and avoid both. Except, perhaps, for the occasional hot shower which he can suffer through when the situation calls for it.
Rain falling from the sky, however, he wants nothing to do with. And this frozen white stuff Ichigo is calling snow? Hell the fuck no. He’s going to stay right here, in the warm house, plunked in front of a TV and be all the more comfortable for it.
The fact that he refuses to take one step beyond the front door has nothing to do with it. Grimmjow doesn’t like the cold or the wet and snow is both. Hell no.
Ichigo, of course, not only finds this greatly amusing, but thinks it’s a suitable time to mock him about it. “You really are a cat,” he says, poking Grimmjow in the shoulder with one of his bony-ass fingers. “I can see your hackles up and everything.”
Grimmjow carelessly swats the brat aside, but like an annoying Shinigami does, he just bounces back up without a bruise. “Shut up,” Grimmjow growls, with hardly any heat to it, and turns up the volume on the remote.
“I say you’re afraid,” Ichigo says, stepping back and tugging on boots, coat, heavy gloves, scarves – which in Grimmjow’s opinion is all the more reason to stay inside.
“Am not.” He turns the volume up louder.
Ichigo pokes him in the side of the head with a gloved finger. “Prove it.”
“Don’t have to prove anything.”
“True. I guess I’d hate to show everyone my weakness, too.” Ichigo says and strolls away, opening the front door and letting in a whoosh of frigid air. “Later.”
The door shuts; Grimmjow fidgets. He’s not a damn coward.
A minute later, he thrusts himself out of the chair, and tugs on his own coat, muttering curses under his breath the entire time. He opens the door and the first wave of freezing air makes him shudder from head to toe.
Slamming the door shut behind him, Grimmjow shoves his hands in his pockets and steps off the porch. “There. I’m here. Happy now?”
Ichigo’s answer is to slam him in the face with a ball of cold, wet slush.
Grimmjow’s eyes narrow with incandescent rage. “Oh, you’re in for it now!”