#del writes things

Shunsui’s voice, too, has changed with age. It has grown deeper, and more resonant. He speaks even more slowly these days than he did when he was a young man, thanks to some combination of weariness and authority, no doubt. It has been a gradual change, like so many of the other changes, and now, this day-to-day slowness is just a part of Shunsui. He sheds it easily in battle, as easily as one might strip pink kimono from one’s shoulders and toss it downward to a trusted friend for safekeeping, but in moments like this, in moments of lazy, easy, early-morning softness, Jūshirō appreciates the pace his friend has settled into. It makes him feel unhurried and safe, and it allows him to imagine that Shunsui might feel unhurried and safe, too, if only for a short, short while.

“Good morning,” Jūshirō answers softly, wrapping his arms and his legs around his friend and resting his head upon Shunsui’s broad chest. Bigger arms and bigger legs answer Jūshirō’s, folding him into a close, tight embrace, one that smells like sleep and clean bedsheets and sake and sweat on skin, and that feels like home.

They lie together, silent, scarcely moving, save for the constant ebb and flow of both breath and spirit. It is simple, and it is mundane, and it is a gift.

“Big day today, Jū-chan,” Shunsui finally says, after a time.

Jūshirō smiles, and he shakes his head against Shunsui’s chest, feeling the ticklish scrape of silver curls of hair against his cheek. “No bigger than all the others,” he says, and he means it. “I’m thankful for every day, my friend. Not just days like this. You know that.”

Shunsui only shrugs, a great, lazy, lumbering movement, and now, it’s his turn to shake his head. His tangled, silver waves rustle against the pillow, and Jūshirō’s small smile only grows, because he knew that Shunsui would contest what Jūshirō says; he does so every year.

Eyes meet now, two green, one grey. Shunsui’s hand reaches upwards, and his calloused fingers brush against Jūshirō’s temple, and then run down his sharp jaw, his pale neck, his thin, scarred chest. He knows what Shunsui is thinking about, and usually, Jūshirō would try to redirect his friend’s thoughts, but on days like this, he is willing to allow Shunsui the indulgence.

“How many?” Shunsui asks.

“You know exactly how many,” Jūshirō answers.

“Yeah. I do. But I want to hear you say it.”

Jūshirō’s expression softens. He nods, and he blinks happily up at his friend, making the skin around his bright eyes crinkle with affection. “Four thousand,” he says, “six hundred and thirty-two.”

“Damn right,” Shunsui says.

Shunsui holds Jūshirō tighter, and Jūshirō can’t help but return the embrace. He is grateful. He never expected anything from his life, not even when he was young. He never dared to dream he might live so long, or so happily. Jūshirō's best friend is the strongest Captain-Commander that the Seireitei has seen yet, and Jūshirō, for his own part, continues to draw breath. He is a teacher, a leader, a shaper of young minds, and even he can’t deny that he played the greatest role in rewriting the Academy curriculum after the dust of the Thousand Year Blood War settled. The Division that was once his has been thriving for two millennia in the capable hands of one of the kindest and most dedicated Shinigami that Jūshirō has ever had the honor of serving with. Soul Society has not seen war since the first Soul King fell. Balance reigns in the World of the Living, and beyond. And what’s more, finally, after long years of attempts, failures, different attempts, different failures, and intense study and concentration, Jūshirō has managed to cultivate a garden of beautiful bonsai trees.

***

“…not the best I’ve ever had,” Shunsui was saying, “but worth a try. Even if a person’s not that into sake. Seriously, Jū-chan, I think you’ll like this one. You’ll appreciate the lightness of it. C’mon – give it a shot!”

Jūshirō eyed the little ceramic mug as skeptically as he could without seeming rude. “You mean it?” he tried, doing his damnedest to forestall the inevitable for as long as possible.

“ ‘Course I do,” Shunsui replied, a broad smile stretching across his flushed cheeks. “What?” he added, dropping his voice low and leaning across the table so that he could look Jūshirō dead in the eye and waggle his eyebrows oh-so-seductively. “You don’t think I’m trying to get you drunk, do you?”

Jūshirō smiled and rolled his eyes. “No,” he admitted. “Those days are long gone, aren’t they?”

“Damn straight.”

“You really think I’ll like it, do you?”

“Told ya once, didn’t I?”

“Very well, then.” Jūshirō reached across the table and took up the tiny cup in his graceful, long-fingered hand. He brought it to his lips, and said, “To friendship,” and downed it in one.

It was too sharp for his liking, but he didn’t say as much to Shunsui.

***

Jūshirō’s naked back was pressed to Shunsui’s naked chest. Behind him, Shunsui snored. Before him, the world was stark and white.

At times like these, Jūshirō sometimes wondered whether he’d chosen well, or very, very poorly indeed.

He swallowed hard, and he clutched Shunsui’s hand even tighter in his own. Shunsui stirred behind him, but he did not wake. What dreams ran rampant in his unconscious mind, Jūshirō did not know – did not want to know, in truth – but whatever they were, they were kind enough to let Shunsui drowse soundly for the time being.

Jūshirō suppressed a shiver.

Even here in Shunsui’s arms, he felt helplessly cold.

***

The next morning saw snow again.

Jūshirō’s pond froze anew, and Jūshirō’s heart froze when he thought of his poor koi fish, trapped beneath the unyielding surface. Jūshirō  couldn’t drop breadcrumbs and small sweets for them, like he usually did at this time of year. Welcome back, those small offerings always said – at least in Jūshirō’s mind. You survived the winter. Well done! And for those that didn’t, we say our prayers, and we celebrate the lives they led.

Shunsui, of course, only ever regarded this practice as sweet, childlike, charming. He didn’t understand the sadness that rent Jūshirō’s heart when familiar faces did not return, and when still more familiar faces returned seeming older, sadder, more jaded somehow. To Shunsui, all life was futile and fleeting. Flower petals were beautiful, but they were dead things. The sun rose and set each day, but it took no interest in the comings and goings of men and souls. Even Jūshirō himself, friend and fixture though he was in Shunsui’s life, was destined for death just like the rest. They didn’t talk about that very often, but when they did, Shunsui always assured Jūshirō that, yes, he’d accepted Jūshirō’s destiny, and that yes, this was surely the way things were meant to be. And so, Jūshirō became a warm body to hold in the evenings, and a smiling face to keep Shunsui moving forward during the daytime.

And warm bodies and smiling faces had no use for mourning.

Especially, Jūshirō remarked sadly as he gazed at his frozen pond, not for the deaths of creatures as small and insignificant as fish.

***

Weeks later, the first blossoms pushed their tentative way through the branches of cold, barren trees.

The air was still cold and crisp, but the snow had long since melted, turning the ground beneath Jūshirō’s shoes to mud. He leaned heavily on Shunsui as he walked – he was still unsteady on his feet after a stubborn bout of sickness that had only relented days ago – but he smiled as he blinked up at the little buds of pink and purple and fresh green.

In the distance, the clash of wood on wood and steel on steel sounded. His men were training, even without their Captain to oversee them. They followed Jūshirō with unflinching loyalty, and they always had, despite Jūshirō’s copious and conspicuous shortcomings. To this day, Jūshirō didn’t truly understand it, never mind how many reassurances he received from his friends and comrades. What good, he always wondered at times like these, was a leader who often found himself too sick to lead?

He let his red-rimmed gaze soften, and he let the sounds of swordplay float sweetly into his ears.

He was a lucky man, and he knew it.

All of a cruel sudden, Jūshirō’s chest tightened. His steps faltered, and his fingers dug sharply into Shunsui’s arm. He squeezed his eyes shut, closing himself off from the budding springtime for the space of several rapid heartbeats. “Easy, Jū-chan,” came Shunsui’s voice beside him. “I’ve gotcha. Don’t worry.”

With an effort, Jūshirō straightened his back and opened his eyes again. “…I’m all right,” he managed, his words coarse and quiet with fatigue.

Shunsui raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

Jūshirō didn’t have the heart to answer Shunsui directly. He could have said yes, but that would have been a lie, and Jūshirō had never been a talented liar. He could have said no, but that would have meant admitting his pain to his friend. Jūshirō never wanted to do that, if he could avoid it. Shunsui shouldered enough of his own pain already. He didn’t need to shoulder Jūshirō’s, too.

And so, Jūshirō did the only thing he could think of – what he nearly always did, when situations like this arose.

He smiled.

Suga’s arms and legs are burning with the aftermath of exertion. His heart is still pounding fast, and his emotions are still running happy and high. He’s not sure he’s ever played a more thrilling game in his life. A silly, heartfelt grin springs to his lips at the thought. He never, never in all his years as a volleyball player, believed he’d think something like that about a practice match against a humble neighborhood volleyball association.

He sighs, feeling extremely content, and decides to make his way towards the equipment room; after all, even in the wake of victory, the net must be taken down and folded, and the balls must be returned to their places, and the floors must be swept. Behind him, he hears Noya-san spouting his fiery congratulations to Asahi, who, Suga is certain, must be shaking his head and cowering and holding up his big hands in protest of Noya’s praise. His grin grows as the sound of the familiar banter follows him faintly as he crosses the gym. It feels, Suga thinks, almost as if the good old days have returned with Asahi.

Almost.

When Suga reaches the doorway of the equipment room, he pauses. A tall figure, nearly silhouetted in the gloomy darkness, stands completely still inside. Its back is to Suga, and its head is cocked to the side, as if in confusion.

“…Kageyama-kun?”

The figure turns. In Kageyama’s hands are two halves of a broken broom, and upon his face is a dark, determined frown.

“This is dangerous,” Kageyama says flatly. “Someone should have gotten rid of it when it broke. Why is it still here?”

Suga chews his lip. It isn’t an easy question to answer, even now that Asahi has returned and Noya has decided to put his feelings of anger and hurt to the side. “It’s old,” Suga says in the end. “There is – I mean, there was – some sentimental value to it.” He takes a few slow steps forward and clasps each half of the broom in one hand. “You’re right, Kageyama-kun. We should get rid of it. It isn’t useful anymore.”

He tries to take the broom from Kageyama, but Kageyama maintains a firm, strong grip. Suga’s gaze flickers up to his teammate’s eyes, and much to his surprise, he still sees confusion there. It doesn’t seem to Suga like Kageyama is trying to be difficult – far from it, in fact. Kageyama seems distracted, as if he hasn’t yet realized what Suga is trying to do.

“Kageyama-kun?” Suga tries, hoping that words might break through to Kageyama if actions can’t. “The broom – if I could just – ”

“Sugawara-san.”

Suga hesitates. His grip slackens on the broom. When he looks to Kageyama’s eyes again, he sees that they have cleared. Kageyama looks focused now, sharp and resolute – the way he looks, Suga realizes abruptly, more or less the way he looks when he’s on the volleyball court. “Yes?” he asks. “What is it?”

“The way you tossed to Asahi-san,” Kageyama says. His words come quickly, as if he’s afraid of letting them linger in the air for too long. “It was incredible. I’ve never seen teamwork like that before. And I – I was wondering – ”

And with that, Kageyama drops the broom. Suga only barely manages to keep the broken pieces clutched in his hands, and he gapes, wide-eyed, when Kageyama inclines his whole upper body in the most unexpected bow Suga has ever seen.

“Please,” Kageyama says, voice low and trembling with passion, “teach me how to be a dependable setter like you, Sugawara-senpai! My tosses might be impressive, but they mean nothing if I can’t use them to be a part of a team!”

Suga blinks. For a moment, he can’t find his voice. His gaze slips down to the broken broom in his hands, and then back up to his unbelievably earnest teammate.

And in that moment, there is no doubt, no uncertainty, and no hesitation in Suga’s mind. He knows exactly what he needs to do – for Kageyama, for his team, and for himself.

“Kageyama-kun,” Suga says, the beginnings of another smile starting to play about his lips. “There’s no need for all that. Of course I’ll teach you. Though,” he adds, wondering whether Kageyama will read his next words as sarcasm or brutal honesty, “there really isn’t very much I need to teach an incredible setter like you.”

Kageyama rises. “That isn’t true.” His voice still rings with passion, and his expression is still painfully earnest. “I may be a strong athlete,” he says, “but you are a strong person, Sugawara-senpai. I know you’ll teach me much.” And then, in a gesture that shocks Suga to his core and disarms him completely, Kageyama smiles. “I look forward to it, senpai!”

Suga feels almost dazed as he hears Kagayama’s steady footsteps retreat behind him. He glances down, and sees the sad, splintery broom that he still holds listlessly in his calloused setter’s hands. I really should get rid of it, he thinks. It’s old. It’s broken. We can’t use it the way we used to. We have newer, better brooms that should take its place.

Still, something inside Suga can’t quite stomach the idea of letting go of the past like that. He glances back up, and risks shooting a look over his shoulder, across the gym, to where Kageyama has rejoined the other first-years. Hinata jumps up and down and waves his arms, and Yamaguchi murmurs something meekly to Tsukishima, who promptly slugs Yamaguchi in the arm and mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “Shut up” to Suga’s distant ears. And Kageyama, for his part, is keeping to himself. He says nothing, but he seems to glow with a quiet confidence that Suga has never seen in him before. He looks calm, and eager – and a little bit excited, too, if Suga is reading that strange smile on his face properly.

Suga turns back around, back to the broom, back to the dusky shadows of the equipment room. He squares his shoulders. He draws a deep, deep breath. He sets his jaw, and fixes his gaze forward – forward to the big, bright expanse of the gym, and forward to the future, too. He takes step after bold step out of the equipment room, across the hardwood floor of the gym, to the heavy double doors that lead outside. He circles the building, finds the dumpster that sprawls unceremoniously out back, drops both halves of the broom inside it, and then returns to the gym, feeling lighter and freer than he has in days.

A heavy hand falls on his shoulder. “You got rid of it,” Daichi says softly, a questioning look in his dark eye.

“I did.”

“Why?”

“It felt like the right thing to do.”

Daichi rubs his chin in consideration. “I think,” he says, “you’re right.” His gaze alights affectionately on Asahi and Noya, still engaging in their hopeless game of high praise and steadfast refusal on the other side of the gym. “We don’t need it anymore, do we?”

“No,” Suga agrees. His own gaze travels back to Kageyama, who still shines with that strange, silent confidence on the sidelines, even as his fellow first-years continue to shove and shout and banter. “With the team we have now? With the future we’re going to build together? No, Daichi-san. We don’t need it anymore.”

Thanks for reading, friends! I hope you liked it! I might pop this little fic up on the ol’ archive, if it goes over well enough on tumblr. Thoughts?

Also - I went back and forth quite a bit about what to call Suga in this fic. I initially wrote it using “Kōshi” throughout, as it’s written from Suga’s POV, and I can only imagine that Suga thinks of himself using his given name inside his own head - but then, the anime and the manga don’t really give us any insight into this.I decided to roll with “Suga” for this version because it felt... more familiar? Less weird? Eh, something like that. Anywho, point is - I’d welcome any thoughts/suggestions/opinions about this, too!