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Byakuya is young.
Byakuya is old enough to understand the things that the noblemen who come and go whisper to his grandfather in the shadows of the Kuchiki mansion, but Byakuya is young enough that noblemen always dismiss him as an innocent, inoffensive, innocuous presence. They do not recognize just how much Byakuya hears, and they speak freely in front of him. To say that Byakuya is glad to be looked at as childish and insignificant would be a gross exaggeration - he is of noble birth, after all, and no matter how young he is, Byakuya believes that he is worthy of at least some small modicum of respect, under all circumstances - but, privately, Byakuya always finds himself quietly thrilled when secrets that are not meant for him reach his ears.
But sometimes, these secrets remind Byakuya of how much he has yet to learn.
Byakuya did not know, for example, that his favorite teacher - a Captain, like his grandfather, but a man who admonishes only gently, and who speaks kindly to Byakuya, and who smiles, unlike his grandfather - is not, in fact, a strong person. Byakuya has marveled at the grace and elegance with which his teacher wields his zanpakutō, and Byakuya has found himself spellbound by his teacher’s extraordinary facility with intricate kidō. Byakuya has spent long hours sipping tea with his teacher, and talking about history, and mythology, and what makes a good leader, and how to define things like happiness and sadness and friendship and love. Byakuya was led to believe, throughout his entire childhood and into his early adolescence, where he awkwardly lingers now, that his teacher was the pinnacle of strength.
How very, very wrong he was.
“Captain Ukitake has taken ill,” a seated officer from the Thirteenth Division tells Byakuya’s grandfather.
“Again,” Byakuya’s grandfather growls under his breath, clearly displeased. Byakuya frowns from where he stands at the side of the reception hall. His grandfather does not seem concerned, and that hits a sour chord with Byakuya. It’s as if Byakuya’s grandfather takes Captain Ukitake’s illness for granted, as if he expected that Captain Ukitake should fall ill - and that can’t be right, can it? Why, Byakuya wonders, is his grandfather not showing greater concern?
“I’ve come with a formal entreaty,” the seated officer continues, “from the Captain himself. He wants to know whether it might be possible for the Sixth Division to take over a small portion of the Thirteenth’s reconnaissance duties, for approximately the next two weeks. But,” the officer adds, dropping his voice and glancing about himself, “between you and me, sir, I’d suggest making more extensive preparations. The Captain mentioned two weeks, but we both know how optimistic he is.”
Byakuya’s grandfather, already frowning, makes a small sound of annoyance. “Oh?”
The officer shakes his head. “The Captain is not well, sir,” is all he says.
Byakuya’s grandfather straightens his back, and he draws a high, tight breath, and he nods, crisply, just once. “Very well,” he tells the seated officer. “I will make the necessary arrangements.” He dismisses the officer with a curt wave of his hand, and he turns on his heel, making for his office. “Byakuya?” he calls. “Come. This will be a good lesson in logistics. I will show you - ”
Byakuya’s grandfather’s frown deepens. His grandson, who he could have sworn was present for his interaction with the seated officer, is nowhere to be seen. Mildly irritated, but not enough to give it a second thought, he harumphs under his breath, and sets off again, with bold strides and a head full of complaints, for his office.
—
Byakuya’s fists are balled up at his sides. He’d used his very best flash-step to make it here, just outside the small, wooden structure in the middle of the Thirteenth Division’s territory that serves as his teacher’s private quarters. Byakuya has been here many times, but never without invitation - and never, Byakuya thinks, under such grave circumstances. Byakuya is not certain whether he will be welcome here, at a time like this. His teacher has always been a generous host, but Byakuya wonders vaguely about other members of his teacher’s division. A sickroom is not a place for a child, Byakuya learned long ago. His grandfather taught him that, and though Byakuya’s father had been of a different opinion, his grandfather’s wishes had always won out. Not, of course, that it much matters anymore; Byakuya’s father is gone, now. Perhaps there was some wretched connection between his father’s untimely death, and the amount of time that Byakuya, fearful and foolish and ignorant, had spent at his bedside. It’s unlikely, Byakuya knows, but he can’t help but wonder.
Tentatively, Byakuya presses his palm to wood of the door. He applies pressure, and the door slides open, just as it always does. “…hello?” Byakuya dares to ask. “Ukitake-san? Are you here?”
When Byakuya hears no answer, he opens the door a little bit farther. It is darker inside his teacher’s quarters than it is outside, and Byakuya blinks, hoping that his eyes will adjust quickly -
And then Byakuya’s hand flies to his mouth. He stuffs the backs of two fingers inside and bites down, almost succeeding - but not quite - in suppressing a gasp.
Because the man lying before him is not his teacher, not as Byakuya knows him.
Still, Byakuya cannot deny that there uncanny similarities between his teacher and this barely breathing body, stripped to the waist and plied with cool cloths and poultices and splayed weakly out upon a sweat-soaked futon that must once have been dry and clean. They have the same white hair, and the same kindly features. They have the same thin limbs, and the same massive reiatsu. They even have the same bright, green eyes - though, Byakuya has seen enough of sickness to know that fever can make a person’s eyes shine just as readily as joy or cleverness.
Byakuya feels afraid. He feels afraid, because it seems to him that he has, for perhaps the first time in his life, stumbled upon something that he is very definitely not supposed to see. He feels that he has intruded upon something horribly private, and that he has somehow violated his teacher by coming here, and by seeing him like this. Byakuya squeezes his eyes shut, and he turns his head to the side. He will leave, he decides. He will leave, and he will run away, and he will forget that he ever saw his teacher’s body laid so low.
“…who’s there?”
The voice that rises from the darkness is not his teacher’s voice, either, not as Byakuya knows it. Byakuya’s teacher has a rich, clear voice that rolls like gentle waves, and this voice wafts, weak and wavering, floating slow and directionless through the air like fog on a grey and hazy summer morning.
Byakuya’s mouth is dry, and when he speaks, his voice cracks. “It’s Byakuya,” he says.
A quiet smile alights upon his teacher’s face. “Bya-kun,” he says. His words are soft, and they slur gently - it’s subtle, but it’s enough that Byakuya notices. “Do come in. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Byakuya steps quietly through the door and inches closer, still staring at his teacher. Has no one, Byakuya wonders vaguely, thought to attend to his teacher in a more proper fashion than this? Should his teacher not be transferred to the Fourth Division for closer supervision and better treatment? Why has his teacher been left to suffer what is clearly a grave sickness in solitude, and in darkness? Byakuya’s nose wrinkles against the smell of strong herbs, and his lip curls as the vague beginnings of anger start to coil inside his belly. This isn’t right. Something about this isn’t right, and none of it sits well inside Byakuya’s young heart.
He wants to help. He must help, somehow. His teacher is sick - his teacher could be dying, for all Byakuya knows - and no one seems to be doing anything about it.
“I heard you were sick,” Byakuya says, kneeling tensely at his teacher’s side. “I was worried. I… wanted to see you…”
—
Tears stream down Byakuya’s face as he wanders his weary way home. Byakuya is young, but Byakuya is not so young that he does not know what death looks like when it first begins to grip the living. Byakuya didn’t know what he’d been thinking. Why, he wonders, had he supposed that visiting his teacher would make anything better?
Byakuya’s teacher is dying.
Byakuya’s teacher is dying, and Byakuya knows it. The fever is too high, and his teacher’s body is too weak, and though Byakuya is no expert on the subject, he does not believe that anyone who brings up that much blood when they cough is on track to survive for more than a few days.
Byakuya had sat with his teacher, and they had talked for a time, but soon, Ukitake had waved a weak and trembling hand, and had thanked Byakuya for his company, and had told Byakuya that he did not need to stay any longer, if he did not wish to.
Byakuya had nodded wordlessly, and he had risen and departed. It was for the best, he supposed; his throat had grown tight, and he had not wished to weep in front of his dying teacher.
Byakuya walks mindlessly, not quite knowing where he wants to go, and not quite caring. Sunset bathes the Seireitei in golden light, and Byakuya scowls at the splendor laid out before him. He finds it cruel, that the world should keep on turning like this - and so beautifully, too - when one of the greatest lives that it has ever seen is about to end.
“Byakuya-bō! Yo - is that you?”
Byakuya groans aloud. This voice is one of the very, very last he wants to hear right now. He is not in the mood for ridicule, and he is not in the mood for games. He is in the mood for solitude and sadness. He is in the mood to be alone with his grief.
“Byakuya-bō? C’mon! Turn around and face me, kid! I’m your elder, y’know - gotta respect me, right?”
Byakuya, limbs heavy with sorrow, musters the energy to make a slow about-face. He stares, dead-eyed, and he takes in Yoruichi-san’s big, bright smile, and he lets her read what she will in his expression and demeanor. He is too tired for her antics, and he silently prays that, perhaps, she will look into his eyes and understand this.
For a second, Yoruichi-san is silent. Her smile, which was broad and wide and cheery at first, starts to crumple in on itself like a wilting flower. She blinks, and lets out a soft, “Shit,” and she drops to her knees, so that her face is level with Byakuya’s now. Byakuya winces when she lays a hand on his shoulder, but she stays him with gentle words. “Hey,” she says, “easy. Easy, kid. What happened to you?”
Byakuya shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says. “Nothing happened to me. I’m fine.”
“Yeah. Sure. That’s why you’re crying, right?”
“I’m fine.”
“Nah, you’re not. Nice try, Byakuya-bō.”
“Stop it, Yoruichi-san. Please. I’m fine. I promise.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“I am. But…” Byakuya looks away. “…Captain Ukitake isn’t,” he says softly.
Comprehension slowly dawns in Yoruichi-san’s face. “Oh,” she whispers. “Byakuya-bō - ”
“He’s dying,” Byakuya says, unable to keep himself from cutting Yoruichi-san off, because he’s quite sure that she doesn’t understand. “That’s not what he says - he says he’ll be all right soon, but - but he won’t. I know he won’t. I’ve just been to see him, and… a-and…” Byakuya hangs his head, and he finds himself leaning hard against Yoruichi-san, seeking comfort from her in a way that he never, never imagined he would. “He’s so sick, Yoruichi-san,” Byakuya says in a hoarse, broken whisper. “He can’t even breathe right, not really… and no one’s taking care of him, I don’t think… and he’s dying, Yoruichi-san, he’s gonna die, I know it - ”
“…hey.” Yoruichi-san pulls Byakuya to her, and Byakuya, against every part of his better judgement, shakes and cries and breaks apart in her arms. He feels Yoruichi-san’s hands on his back, and he’s sure that his tears are staining the pristine white of her haori, but she doesn’t seem to care, and so, right now, neither does Byakuya. “Hey, Byakuya-bō. It’s cool. I’ve gotcha. Let it out, Byakuya-bō… let it out…”
After a time, Byakuya’s sobbing subsides. He finds himself trembling in Yoruichi-san’s arms, only half-listening to her words of comfort. He’s suddenly exhausted, and he wants to lay down on the ground, right here and right now, and curl up into a tiny ball, and never speak to anyone, ever again, unless they have come to tell him truly that his teacher is alive and well, and will always be.
“You good now?” Yoruichi-san asks gently.
“No,” Byakuya answers.
“Right. Yeah, I guess - that’s not what I meant. I meant - if I were to tell you something about Captain Ukitake right now, do you think you’d have it in you to listen to me?”
That piques Byakuya’s interest. Hope flares in his chest - but Byakuya is wary, and he does not let his hope glow too brightly. Still, he pulls slightly away from Yoruichi-san, and he says, “Yes.”
“Cool.” Yoruichi releases Byakuya from her embrace, and she lays both hands flat on Byakuya’s shoulders, and she looks him squarely in the face. “Listen to me, kid - you might not believe it, but I promise you - Captain Ukitake isn’t dying. Okay?”
Byakuya blinks. “What?”
“You heard me, right? He’s not gonna die, all right? Not any time soon. Simple as that.”
“But - but I saw him - ”
“And?”
“And - and he’s sick, Yoruichi-san, he’s - he’s so sick - ”
“Easy, Byakuya-bō. Hear me out, okay?” Yoruichi-san’s eyes soften, and so do her hands on Byakuya’s shoulders. “I dunno how much of this I should be telling you,” she says, “but Captain Ukitake has... an unusual body, I guess? Is the best way to put it?" She squeezes Byakuya's shoulders gently, probably hoping it the gesture will provide comfort. It does not. "He’s used to getting sick like this, Byakuya-bō. It happens all the time.”
Byakuya frowns. “I’ve never seen him get sick before,” he points out.
“Maybe.” Yoruichi-san pauses, considering. It looks to Byakuya like she’s choosing her words carefully, and that angers him. Byakuya is young, but he is not a child, and he’s worried about his teacher. He wants Yoruichi-san to tell him the whole truth. “Ask Captain Ukitake to explain this himself when he recovers,” is what Yoruichi-san says, in the end. “For now, believe me when I tell you he’s no stranger to sickness, and believe me when I tell you he’ll pull through. He always does.” She cocks her head to the side, and gives Byakuya a tiny, lopsided, half-hearted smile. “Do you feel better now?” she asks.
“I don’t know.” Byakuya shrugs. “Maybe a little.”
“Do you believe me?”
“About Captain Ukitake?”
Yoruichi-san nods.
Byakuya chews his lip. “My grandfather,” he says quietly, “told me my father was going to get better. I don’t know if I can believe anyone, when they say things like that.”
Yoruichi-san nods again. “Makes sense,” she says, and her words are harsh enough that they catch Byakuya by surprise. “I’m not really into lying to kids, though. If that helps.”
Byakuya sets his jaw and crosses his arms. “I’m not a kid,” he tells Yoruichi-san.
She smiles, as if Byakuya has said something amusing. “Right,” she says. “Silly me - of course you’re not.” With that, Yoruichi-san withdraws her hands from Byakuya’s shoulders, and stands back up. She doesn’t tower over him now, not exactly, but Byakuya still finds himself standing begrudgingly in her shadow. He hopes that he will grow to be taller than her, one day. Perhaps he’ll grow to be tall like Captain Ukitake, he thinks. That, Byakuya decides, would be very nice indeed.
“I should go home,” Byakuya says. “My grandfather will be angry if I’m gone much longer.”
“Want me to come with you?” Yoruichi-san asks. “Keep you company for a little while?” Her eyes glint mischievously. “I can give your grandpa a piece of my mind if he gets in your shit when you get home.”
Despite himself, Byakuya feels a smile tugging at his lips. “No,” he says, “that’s all right, Yoruichi-san. Thank you.”
“Any time, Byakuya-bō.” Yoruichi-san tips her head to Byakuya in a casual gesture of farewell. “Any time. You got that?”
Byakuya nods. He understands what she means, and in truth, he is grateful. “Got it,” he says, and with that, he turns around and runs, feeling very fast and very free, down the cobbled streets of the Seireitei, making his way back to the place he calls his home.
—
Two months pass, and summer slowly gives way to autumn. Byakuya spends as much time as he can outside, basking in the last vestiges of seasonal warmth and working industriously at his swordsmanship technique, mastering maneuvers and perfecting his form. He twists lithely from position to position, fancying that he looks elegant and deadly like a real soldier, but knowing that he probably looks clumsy and silly - not like a boy, because Byakuya is surely too big and strong to be called a boy anymore, but like an amateur. Byakuya does not want to be an amateur. He wants to be a master, someone to be envied and mimicked and admired.
It takes practice to become a master, Byakuya knows.
And so, tirelessly, Byakuya practices.
The sun rises and sets every day, and every day, Byakuya finds himself less and less offended by the beauty that comes with these celestial markers of passing time. He stomachs what little of his grief and fear remain, and he applies himself to his work, and he tries his best not to think very much, or feel very deeply.
One evening, as the sun is starting to sink below the horizon and Byakuya, as ever, is wielding his wooden practice sword in the gardens with tireless arms and dauntless sprit. He makes his diligent way through a series of moves that he’s only just recently mastered, and then he drops his hands, and he hangs his head, and he lets his sweat drip down into his face, reveling in the dual stings of exertion in his arms and of sharp, salty liquid in his eyes.
A hand, heavy and gentle, drops onto Byakuya’s shoulder.
Byakuya starts. He whips around, and he is about to admonish this newcomer for daring to be so bold -
And then, Byakuya finds himself horribly glad that his face is drenched in sweat. Perhaps, he thinks dimly, it will hide the tears that begin to spill from his eyes.
Captain Ukitake, face aglow with health and eyes bright with good humor, grins. “Remind me,” he says, “to show you a thing or two about wielding a blade in your non-dominant hand. Your form could use some work, I’m afraid.”