Ukitake Jūshirō [ @hope-is-the-best-medicine ] x Senjumaru Shutara [ @guardeddreamweaver​ ]

Ukitake Jūshirō [ @hope-is-the-best-medicine ] x Senjumaru Shutara [ @guardeddreamweaver​​ ]

Ship Moodboard: One Year Later

One year ago today, Ukitake Jūshirō was recovering from wounds of both body and heart in the Royal Realm, having been tended to by Kirinji Tenjirō following the Thousand Year Blood War. He spied Senjumaru Shutara, who was sitting all alone, and who was herself recovering from her wounds. Thinking that she might want a friend to remedy her solitude, he approached, and spoke a simple “Hello.”

And the rest, as they say, is history.

@guardeddreamweaver

If Shutara has taught him anything at all, it is that autumn is an appropriate time for dark velvet. 

Jūshirō supposes that he has learned more than this, too, but he knows that, without Shutara’s help, he would never have found himself standing here looking quite like this - tailored Western trousers made of a surprisingly comfortable wool blend of some kind, a form-fitting button-up shirt with patterned detail on the collar and cuffs, a slender necktie and matching fabric square tucked into the lined pocket of his navy blue, velvet blazer, and silver, textured braces beneath, keeping the trousers up and offering a hint of surprise beneath the otherwise modest outfit. His shoes are black suede, and they click pleasantly when he walks. His long hair is bound loosely with a dark blue ribbon, artfully tied by  Jūshirō’s own hands into a neat, crisp bow. 

He put the outfit together all by himself, without Shutara’s immediate help - and actually, he’s quite proud of himself. He’s sure that it isn’t perfect, but he hopes that he can show her that he is learning.

He stands at attention in Shutara’s sitting room, four lovingly wrapped packages stacked one on top of the other and clutched in his steady hands. A tidy envelope perches atop the whole stack, folded and crafted of a thick, hearty parchment that Jūshirō has always favored. A bottle of champagne sits lopsided in a gilded ice bucket on one of the side tables, and a bottle of chilled plum wine (neither too sweet nor too dry, Jūshirō has made sure) perches atop another.  Jūshirō didn’t know whether Shutara would be in the mood for champagne or wine - or indeed, for either - so he took his precautions, and prepared both.

Idly, Jūshirō glances to the windows. The late afternoon sunlight floods inside and shoots its long, golden beams across the floor. It will be sunset soon, and if the tender, gauzy clouds streaking across the sky are anything to go by, this sunset will be spectacular indeed - hues of burnt orange and deep red, Jūshirō thinks, smiling gently to himself.