#shunuki

Kyoraku unlocks a drawer from his desk and pulls out an old photo during his academy days. Next to him was a seemingly timid white-haired boy with the kindest eyes anyone has ever seen. Jūshirō Ukitake.

The photo, taken centuries ago, shows a unique spark in both their eyes. It was the kind of spark only innocence could bring. Kyoraku was not looking at the camera though, he was looking straight at Ukitake, who was smiling from ear to ear, eyes ahead at the camera. There was something about the white-haired shinigami that drew Kyoraku in, not in the common saying like a moth would be to a flame – for Ukitake did not represent danger to Kyoraku.

Kyoraku was drawn to Ukitake the way a child would be drawn to the comfort of a loving home.

Where is home now that the only place he had ever known to be safe is gone?

“Taicho?” Nanao knocks before sliding the shoji. “I have your schedule for the day. This morning you have a quick check-in with the captains, then later this afternoon–”

“I’m visiting a friend later this afternoon,” Kyoraku says, his voice low but with the hint of his usual playfulness. “Sorry to ask this of you, Nanao-chan, but could you cancel my afternoon appointments?”

Nanao looks at Kyoraku, a moment of silence before she blinks and tilts her head. “Cancel? But– but you’re meeting with Kuchiki-san this afternoon!”

Kyoraku stands and fixes his kimono in place. “Kuchiki-san will understand.” ──────────────────

The graveyard was the first to be rehabilitated in Seireitei due to the influx of fallen shinigamis after the war with Ywach. Kyoraku makes his way past the Soul Reapers area and goes directly to the captain’s station. Around him are lush, well-cut grass, and trees planted at precise distances.

He bows to one of the newer headstones – Retsu Unohana, before carrying on further. He feels his feet get heavier as he walks to his actual destination.

Jūshirō Ukitake.

He sits and crosses his legs by Ukitake’s headstone, pulls out a flask from his kimono, and raises it. “Yo,” his voice maintaining that low playful tone, “I took the afternoon off for you again. Kuchiki is probably going to have my head by now because I keep cancelling on him, but I don’t mind.”

Kyoraku takes a generous gulp, the harsh notes of whiskey clinging to his mouth. “If he had my head, then that means we can meet again, right?”

A soft rustle of wind passes through Kyoraku’s face, gently nudging his straw hat. Kyoraku lets out a low chuckle, fading into a longing smile. “I know, I know… it’s not my time yet.”

He pulls out their photograph from the academy from his other pocket. Kyoraku traces Ukitake’s face with his thumb, remembering how his real skin felt under his touch. Does it still feel that way even now that Ukitake is elsewhere?

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A century ago. That is how long it has been since Kyoraku touched Ukitake’s face.

They were but mere boys at the academy. They had been sparring the entire day, the doting eyes of elders and instructors looming over them. When they finally find reprieve in the forests near campus, they sit on the grass.

“You really did a number on me today,” Ukitake says, coughing slightly.

Kyoraku reaches into his pocket and hands over a white handkerchief. “Well, I won’t go easy on you just because you’re sick. You’re still a formidable opponent.”

“High praise coming from you.” Ukitake waves his hand, “Your handkerchief is white. I’ll just get stains all over it.”

Kyoraku shrugs and moves closer. He places the handkerchief on Ukitake’s hand, the touch of his fingertips lingering for a moment longer than normal. “Something to remember you by, then.”

His large hands then brush stray bangs off from Ukitake’s face, revealing more of his porcelain skin to Kyoraku’s gaze. His fingertips begin to brush against the other man’s cheeks, memorizing the feel and texture of it.

They suddenly heard the distant voices of other academy students approaching. Kyoraku retracts his hand immediately and leans back on the grass, the blades curving at the weight of his palm. 

Smooth. Like the surface of freshly baked bread. That was the texture of Ukitake’s skin. That was the texture that haunted Kyoraku every day since then. 

“I never told you, didn’t I?” His smile fades into a straight line. “I couldn’t tell you then. To be honest, I don’t think I could even tell you now.”

Kyoraku closes his eyes and runs his fingertips through the headstone. “I know you’re not here,” he whispers, as if Ukitake was right there listening to him. “I know you’re somewhere in Hell, but for my sake, I will pretend parts of you are in the air I breathe and in the soil I touch.”

He takes another swig of his whiskey and places the now empty container on the ground.

How long has it been since Kyoraku last heard Ukitake’s voice? How long has it been since he’s seen the white-haired captain smile without burden? How long has it been since Kyoraku convinced himself that walking alone with the burden of captainhood was easier than facing the fact that the person he loved died without ever hearing the confession he deserved to hear?

Does it ever truly get better?