#freudhood

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.