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Even though it was mid-morning, a chill still hung in the air. The sun had yet to melt the delicate layer of frost from the branches of the nearby plum trees. Fragrant pink and white blossoms were just beginning to bloom on the spindly branches. Shunsui quietly ducked into the Squad 13 barracks, the brightly dyed kimono hanging from his shoulders flowing soundlessly behind him. It might be non-traditional to don such a flamboyant garment to a funeral, but Shunsui had never been one to obey the rules. After centuries of friendship and companionship, Ukitake would have to excuse his impropriety this one last time.
At the entryway, Shunsui was formally greeted with a deep bow by the squad’s third seat officers. Though he was all but a fixture in Squad 13’s barracks in the past - coming often to visit his friend - it was a greeting befitting the Head Captain.
Kiyone’s eyes were rimmed with red. Shunsui could tell she was putting on a façade for the benefit of her subordinates. With a squad as tightly knit as theirs, Kiyone knew if she were to lose her composure, her comrades and friends would be only a step behind. Sentaro looked like a ghost, all color drained from his face. He was clearly exhausted but soldiering on. If Kiyone could be strong, so could he. Their Captain deserved that, at least, Sentaro thought.
Their Head Captain offered them sincere condolences. It nearly put an end to Sentaro’s resolve to not burst out in tears in front of guests. They left with few words. Squad 13’s third seats were devoted to Captain Ukitake. But what could they possibly say to the man who had known their beloved Captain for millennia.
Kiyone cast a glance over her shoulder as she left Captain Kyoraku’s presence, wondering what losing a companion of centuries must feel like. She and Sentaro had lost their cherished mentor. She would even go so far as to say she loved her Captain. But their admiration was different. Ukitake may have treated them as equals, but he was still their Captain, not their lifelong companion, late-night confidant, more.
At the opposite end of the room stood the altar. It was piled high with lavish floral arrangements and offerings. Incense burned in a gold censer, smoke drifting and coiling into sweet-scented curls between the rafters. Inside the polished wood casket laid Captain Ukitake, dressed in pure white. He looked serene as ever. His long snowy hair had been neatly arranged, pale delicate hands clasped jade prayer beads – the same color as his eyes, Shunsui thought.
“Oh, Jushiro,” Shunsui sighed, nearly inaudible.
Between the chaos of organizing the rebuilding efforts, finding the shinigami that had gone missing in action, organizing proper burials for the dead, and dealing with a general logistical nightmare, Shunsui hadn’t the time to prepare for this. As Head Captain, it was his duty to always appear strong and steady. The whole of the Soul Society was relying on him.
This moment was inevitable, of course; they both knew that from the moment they donned their captain’s haori for the first time. As shinigami, they faced death everyday of their lives. When they were young, it was easier, living each day as if it was their last, always prepared to surrender their lives for Soul Society or one another. But as the centuries crept on, year after year, they had each evaded death countless times. It seemed like they would be together forever.
Shunsui thought back to the last peaceful night they spent together, only a few short weeks ago. Jushiro looked much as he did now. Temporarily free from worry and illness, he slept peacefully in the moonlight, his white hair wildly splayed across his pillow. They were not as young as they once were so their nights together often consisted of drinking sake (well, for Shunsui it did) or tea and laying in the quiet together. Relishing in each other’s presence was usually enough. They didn't need physical touch when their reiatsu naturally twined together whenever they were near.
Age had hardly touched Jushiro’s face. His features were still soft and smooth. Delicate lines only appeared around his eyes and mouth when he smiled, which he often did. With his fragile health, Jushiro had more than once teetered on the edge of death. But instead of being morose and gloomy, he was quick to laughter and easily found joy in the seemingly mundane. Shunsui always admired that about him. Loving him was easy.
A mournful smile crossed Shunsui’s face as he thought back. He was much rougher around the edges now: scarred, worn, with a good deal more gray hair, even the stubble on his jaw line had traces of silver. It wouldn’t be long before his own subordinates started calling him “old man.” It was great fun to call Yamamoto that, but now that he would be on the receiving end, he needed to reconsider. As a shinigami, to get to the age where one can be called “old” was quite an accomplishment. But knowing Jushiro wouldn’t be there alongside him, after all they’d gone through together, made him feel bitterly alone.
Shunsui reached into the sleeve of his shihakusho and pulled out a small silk pouch. From within, he produced a lock of dark hair bundled neatly together with a white ribbon. He tenderly tucked the curl into Jushiro’s unmoving palm.
“I can’t go with you, Jushiro,” he whispered. “Not yet. So, please, take this little piece of me with you. I promise, one day, when it’s finally my turn, I’ll look for you. Although we may be cursed for forget the ones we love, when I cross the river of death, somewhere in my heart, I will always remember you.”