Chapter Text
SNOW was blowing, the whole world was white. Furious flurries of frozen flakes whirled, blinding all skies, obscuring all lands.
He ploughed through icy, loose banks of white powder, lifting each knee high to take each step, sinking each leg to the shin with each pace forward. His feet and calves were warm, snugly encased in his tall, white mukluks, while his torso was cosily tented within the long, lush cape of his white, fur cloak. His face to his chest were comfortably shielded against the biting gales for he had the front of the cloak laced over his chest, its heavy, plush hood drawn low over his head, and its thick, white muffler fastened over his nose.
But his hands were painfully numbed. He had left them bare, without gloves, to better grip his heavy basket of fresh fish against his belly.
And to ease his arduous trek, he had left the lower front of his cloak opened. Freezing currents were blowing past the parted fur panels and biting into the layers of his quilted kimono, seeping cold into his yukata and nagajuban, leeching heat and feeling from his abdomen to his knees despite his steady, laborious march.
But he paid the discomfort no heed.
His destination was nearing, after all.
He could hear them now.
The calls.
Hoarse cries, discordant choruses, echoing through the buffeting snow, rising to a cacophony resounding noisily above the howling winds, crescendoing…
~ ~ ~
…and melding into a single, forlorn moan keening into the dark, then keening and lowing from the dark into deep, indigo gloom… and as indigo gloom segued into greys the lowing note fragmenting, diverging into murmuring tones, the murmurings tones resolving into voices… into words…
~ ~ ~
[…go, time to go, time to go, time to go, time to…]
[…time to go, time to go, time to go, time to go, time…]
He opened his eyes.
To flurrying, white flecks, dissipating into hushed, indigo gloom. Hoarse, echoing braying, receding into silent distance. And a vague, lingering gauziness, a fading dream—
No, not quite a dream.
More like a portent.
He blinked.
In the bluish, dim darkness, weak light was seeping in from…
His eyes roved… and rested on the wide panels of shōji set several steps away.
The farthest panel stood fully drawn aside, presenting a wide opening to bluish-black skies without. Pallid, watery light was steeping into the gloom of the bedchamber.
Beyond, a pair of warbling trills were rising in song, floating into the dim stillness. Followed by another pair.
And another pair.
And yet another pair.
Pair after pair, until a mass of exuberant whistling was resounding and wavering into the gloom through the opened shōji.
Songbirds were awakening, after the departure of the cranes.
Cool, damp air began stirring, wafting indoors, feathering over his left cheek, over the round of his left shoulder, where he was exposed.
Chilling him.
Though the rest of him remained warm.
Safely, snugly warm.
A sheltering heat — blanketing his entire back, engulfing him from behind. Deep within the heat, pulsed a faint beat. Slowly. Gently. Softly thudding right between his shoulder blades upon his spine, each in time with a slow, deep breath fanning and heating the skin of his nape.
He came fully awake.
Soft, slow breaths were blowing over his nape, warming and moistening his skin. Every exhale brought the faint scent of sake — and the soft, metallic tang of sword oil. Drifting beneath, was the fresh, familiar scent of mountain pines, and alpine frost.
He breathed them in — and felt a warm, heavy weight around his throat, and over his chest.
Of course.
Swallowing, his throat gently pushed against warm, hard muscles.
Broad, heavy muscles.
An arm. Encircling his neck like a thick, heavy collar of warm hardness, keeping his chin tilted up. Its hand lay cupped over his left jaw, upon his pulse, and its wide, firmly yielding biceps lay pressed beneath his right cheek, pillowing his head.
Then he felt it — the hard, yielding muscles of another arm draping down over his sternum, pinning his left arm to his left side. The familiar shape of its large hand lay resting over his chest, its long fingers and wide palm curving protectively over his left pectoral, cradling his heartbeat.
Neither could he move his lower body.
The familiar warmth and weight of a broad, muscular thigh lay over his left hip, draping down over both his thighs, while a warm, hard ankle hung over the outside of his right shin, locking both his legs together.
So he was lying on his right side, gently, warmly bound by a warm chokehold about his throat, possessively locked by an arm about his waist and a leg around both his own against the large, heated body nestled skin to skin against his back. With his left breast lovingly captured in a large, warm hand.
Only his right arm was free.
In the deep, indigo darkness, the outline of his right arm lay splayed straight out over the dark sheets before him.
He could feel his knuckles resting nearly over the edge of the futon.
Curling the fingers of his right hand, he raised his right forearm, bending at his right elbow as he reached for the arm about his throat.
His fingertips met a hard, hirsute forearm.
Gently — very, very gently — he stroked its sinewy muscle, gliding his fingertips over soft, fine hairs carpeting smooth, veined skin, re-memorising every short, downy strand, every ridged sinew.
Even though they were already utterly familiar to him.
Then, lifting his left hand from where it rested on his left hip, folding his arm up at his pinned left elbow, he reached up beneath the sheet, feeling smooth, warm silk slide over his skin. And lightly — very, very lightly — he laid his hand over the back of the larger one spread over his left breast.
He felt the hard, yielding veins ridging the back of that hand. The softer, finer, dusting of hairs. The calluses on the edges of the large, strong palm. On the tip of each blunt fingertip.
And he re-memorised them all as well, even though he already knew this hand much better than his own.
Even though his memory, and his senses, had long been indelibly engraved with the sensation of how that hand lay so protectively holding the flat swell of his left breast. So tenderly cradling his heart.
For this was how he awakened every dawn, following each night that he fell asleep in these arms.
If he was not tethered to breathing machines, or held half-upright to ease his breathing, the following dawn he would awaken like this — lying on his right side, his right cheek pillowed upon these biceps beneath him, his body held imprisoned against the warm, implacable strength behind him.
It was an unconscious thing, this. He long understood that. An unconscious, deeply seated, instinctual response of the one holding him so.
And he would not have it any other way.
Nor would he speak of it, or even hint at it in the slightest. There was no need to.
There was never any need to explicitly acknowledge this.
And he had always responded by simply allowing it, letting himself be held, permitting himself to cherish every breath of every moment he spent being held like this.
A moment more, he decided. He would steal a moment more.
Surely no one would begrudge him this.
Surely no one would begrudge them this—
[Nay! Nay!] cut in a sharp protest, ringing fiercely. [‘Tis time to go! No time to waste!]
[Aye! Aye! Time to go, ‘tis time to go! No time to waste!] joined in another, shrill and strident.
Reluctance twinged. [I wish only for a moment more… can you both not indulge me just this once?]
As soon as he asked it, he knew he had made a mistake.
[Ai! How can you say that?!] was the outraged wail. [How can you!? We always indulge you! Always!]
[Aye! Aye! We always give you what you want! Always!] followed an upset cry. [We always give you anything you want! Anything! How can you say that!?]
Not quite true. Since it was he, not they, who had been doing the indulging for most of the last two thousand years.
But of course, his two Zanpakutō spirits would see things in the completely opposite light.
He apologised anyway, as he learnt a long time ago that it was always easier to give in to the pair than try to persuade them. [Ai, I am sorry, I was not thinking.]
[Hmph! You should be!] huffed one, sounding somewhat mollified.
[Aye! You should be!] sniffed the other, also a little placated.
Only for the first one to become angry again, accusing, [You have forgotten ‘tis been three hundred years, have you not?!]
[Aye! ‘Tis been three hundred years since Old Fogey let you go out!] joined in the other, just as furious.
So he heard wrong.
He tried to appease, [I have been going out—]
[Oh, you mean out of Seireitei?]
[Or just to the Rukongai?]
Stung, he tried to explain — only to be cut off again.
[Those little day trips do not count as going out! You know this! You know it!]
[Aye! Why are you acting obtuse? The fact is Old Fogey has not let you out of Soul Society for three centuries!]
[The Gense is under your charge, ne? That means you have to keep an eye on it, ne?]
[So how does he expect you to keep watch on a place he does not even allow you to go to?]
Reining in his hurt, he pointed out, [We have seven hundred shinigami in the Thirteenth Division alone. And thousands more from all the other divisions to rotate on tours of duty—]
[But none of them are you!]
[Precisely!]
The sharp protests were now shrill enough to make his teeth ache.
Grimacing inwardly, he tried once more, [Our High Seats are quite capable—]
[And Old Fogey wonders how whelps like Aizen and his ilk could fool him for so long?! Foolish Old Fogey! Foolish indeed!]
[Aye! Foolish indeed! A fool indeed! Old Fogey is a fool indeed!]
The scathing accusations made his insides churn. Unsettle.
Every time the pair ground into this particular axe, the old conflict would seize and tear at him with fresh vigour.
[Stop, please,] he asked tiredly. [He is still my father.]
[Aye, aye, your father, Old Fogey is your father, your father who uses you like a weapon!]
[Aye! Old Fogey uses you like a weapon, he is no father but a fool!]
[A fool indeed! A fool indeed! Old Fogey is a fool indeed!]
On the twins went, jeering in matching singsong.
He might as well have been persuading a rock. For every time the pair lit into this, nothing and no one could sway them.
Not even he, their master.
Like always, he bit it down, to tamp it back into where he kept it buried, deep, and obstinately sealed.
But his emotions refused to settle this time.
Not after all that had happened during the last few months, he supposed.
Giving up, he offered a plea bargain.
Of a sort.
[Please, settle down! Settle down! Let us agree to disagree, ne? I will rise anon, just… Please.]
[Agree to disagree, he says!] was the swift, scoffing response. [What is there to disagree about when ‘tis a fact?]
Sighing inwardly, he fell back on an age-old trick. [All right, all right, we do not have to agree. But how about you allow me one last question? You cease this, and I shall get on with our mission. I promise.]
Like two insatiably curious young children, the pair immediately stopped their haranguing and gave him their full attention.
[What question?]
[Aye, what question?]
Bribery and distraction. Worked every time.
Satisfied, he asked, [Can either of you remember our dream?]
At once, another clamour of protests rose.
[Our dream? ‘Twas no dream of ours, but yours!]
[Aye! Your dream, not ours!]
[You were gone like you were always gone when you dream! Gone!]
[Aye! Gone! You were gone and we could not reach you! We could not reach you!]
[You scared us! Scared us!]
[Aye! You scared us so bad!]
So the twins still could not access his dreams, then. Much less help him remember them.
Which meant his latest experiment was yet another failure. One more, to add to his long list of failures over the last three decades of attempts to restore his Zanpakutō to his subconsciousness.
But this time, deviating from all the previous times when he failed, he felt no frustration. For rightly or wrongly, the past week had given him a clue to the problem at last, an explanation he had never considered before, and they were beginning to present him with an inkling of a likely remedy.
Pursuing the idea, however, would have to wait for until after his return.
For now, all he could do was comfort the pair.
[Fear not, fear not, I was never gone,] he assured with as much confidence as he could. [You are my Zanpakutō, ne? This means you are both part of my soul. Thus wherever I am, I am still with you, even if you cannot seem to reach me. The absence you feel when I dream are merely tricks on your reikaku.]
[But ‘tis really scary when you vanish like that! ‘Tis been decades! Decades!]
[Aye! These horrible shadows have been blocking us for decades! They are all around you! All around us! We cannot reach you when you dream!]
[Have you found a way to banish them? You are spending more and more time in jinzen but every time you do it, we could only watch!]
[Aye! We called you every time, but you did not hear us! Did you hear us?]
[I heard you clearly every time, even if you could not hear me call you in return,] he reassured.
[You heard us? You could?]
[You could hear us even then?]
[Aye, I could, and I will continue to hear you,] he affirmed.
It would serve nothing now to mention that he had been slowly losing bits of his subconscious.
His dreams… No, the dreams — since he now suspected they were never his to begin with — had begun pulling him in much deeper, drawing him closer to that oblivion of nothing no soul ever returned from.
[So what do we do now?]
[Do we keep calling you every time you are in jinzen?]
[Aye, please keep doing that!] he confirmed at once.
That should help stagnate the baffling erosion of their connection. And give him time to develop the cure.
Time, and the space.
The longer the twins remained disconnected from him, the more needy they became, as clingy as they already were by nature. In recent years, they had been increasingly overcompensating in every way.
Like how they were doing so right now.
[How loudly do you want us to call you?]
[Do we shout? Do we scream?]
[Maybe we can get other Zanpakutō to help? If many of us shout your name together, then maybe these shadows blocking us will dissolve!]
[How about Katen and Kyōkotsu? They will help! Minazuki and Ryūjin Jakka and Gonryōmaru will all definitely help!]
[Nay, more of you will not work, ‘tis not a game of numbers,] he intervened quickly, before the idea could escalate further. [The bond between a shinigami and his Zanpakutō is exclusive, thus no other can hope to lend aid.]
[Oh?] contested one hotly. [How do you know? You have not tried!]
[Aye! How do you know if you never tried? Why, every other day we talk to Katen—]
[Shhhhhh!]
He suppressed a tickle of mirth at their inadvertent slip.
If he wanted to, he could eavesdrop with negligible ease on all Zanpakutō in Soul Society.
Indeed, more often than not the intrusion was the other way around — snippets of their endless chattering would barge into his consciousness without invitation or warning. And often at the most inconvenient moments.
But all he said was, [Just keep calling me when you next see me in jinzen. It will help, as long as you keep it up.]
[It will?]
[Truly?]
[Aye, truly,] he reaffirmed.
Hopefully, that would distract the pair enough to buy him the time and peace he needed.
A fervent flurry of agreement followed.
[Aye then, we will!]
[We will! We will!]
[You can count on us!]
[We shall not let you down!]
He believed them. Whatever else the twins might be, they had never let him down.
[We answered your question like you asked! Now can we go?]
[Aye! Can we go now?]
And just like that, the mercurial pair had moved on.
But a deal was a deal.
At the thought of what awaited him, a frisson of heat sped through his veins.
Three centuries.
He had not been in the field for three centuries. Though a relatively short interval in his two millennia of existence — costing hardly more than a mere eighth of his life — and though those dark, isolated centuries now felt distant as a long ago dream, the twins were still absolutely right about this, for all that they judged his father harshly.
Three hundred years were still three hundred years too many for any Shinigami to be absent from the front lines.
Even he felt his own absence keenly.
He had been away from the field for far too long, no amount of arguments could change that fact. No matter what manner of strong words against it Kaien would have—
Old pain flared. His pulse rabbited.
Then his breath hitched as the arm around his throat convulsively tightened, and the leg over both of his reflexively clamped down, so hard that his shin bones ached, even as the hand over his heart clenched hard enough to hurt, fingertips digging into the slight swell of his left breast.
Willing his heartbeat to calm, he swallowed against the biceps constricting his windpipe and, gently, began stroking the suddenly rigid muscles collaring his neck, the stiffened veins of the hand clutching his breast, keeping his touches tender and his motions slow in an even, lulling rhythm
For one breath.
Then two.
And three.
And a few more.
And then, minutely, the limbs tightly binding him began to relax. And loosen. And, in gradual increments, slacken back into sleep.
Even though their master slept on, stirring not even a breath through the episode.
He truly had been away from the field far too long, if his emotions could get the better of him like this.
A curse of his eidetic memory, this.
Every moment of Kaien remained as fresh as if his late fukutaichō was still alive. Keeping him bleeding inside, for thirty years.
But he had run out of time.
A lapse like this in the field was always dangerous for any Shinigami. Fatal for even the most powerful among them, if it caught them in the wrong instant.
He could not heal it. So he would need to bury it. And quickly.
Before the sun rose, to be exact.
Forgive me, Kaien.
Kaien did not respond, of course.
Neither did the twins make a sound, for when it came to his late fukutaichō, even the rambunctious pair were more reverent than their wont.
Giving one last stroke to the knob of the hard, hirsute wrist wedged up beneath his left jaw, he gently closed his left hand around the joint and softly — very, very softly — peeled and lifted the heavy forearm away from his throat. He kept his grip light enough to leave the owner of the limb undisturbed, yet firm enough to convey his continuing presence.
The heavy arm remained pliant in his hold as its master slumbered on, assured by his touch even in the depths of sleep.
Gingerly, he unfurled the arm and gently laid it down upon the silk sheets before him, laying the limb straight out with its large hand now lying palm up, facing the dim gloom.
Then he lay still and waited, watching the silhouette of their entwined fingers now resting almost at the edge of their futon.
The body behind him slept on soundly. And the arm still around his sternum and chest remained loose and relaxed.
Reassured, he lightly extracted his fingers from the loose grip of the sleep-slackened hand, drew his arm back, and joined his right hand to his left, over the back of the larger, stronger hand covering his heart.
For a moment, he cradled the hard, sinewy hand with both of his, relishing the feel of the large, warm palm cradling his every heartbeat — and the feel of the blunted, callused fingertips resting upon the faint, hairline ridge of the scar dividing his chest, running down between his pectorals.
He was already missing this.
Though he would not be gone for long — three days, five, at the most, he would be done in the Gense and be home once more — yet he was already missing this, of being held like this, his breast tenderly captured in this gentle, possessive grip, owning him entirely, body and soul.
[We have to go.]
[Aye, we have to go now.]
The twins were still politely subdued, but getting impatient.
Soon, he told himself.
He would be back in these arms soon. Back in these arms with his heart held like this, in this strong, gentle hand.
And with that thought, he lightly — very, very lightly — gathered up that hand, gently peeling each long finger from his breast. Then softly — very, very softly — he began lifting the hand away from his pectoral.
The fingers twitched the instant they lost contact with his skin.
He paused.
The hand relaxed into stillness.
Gingerly — very, very gingerly holding the arm by its hard, sinewy wrist — he raised the heavy limb away from his sternum.
Then away from his pinioned left elbow, freeing his left arm.
He kept his movements very, very slight.
But the sleep-slackened fingers gave another twitch, long, blunt-tipped digits reflexively curling inwards.
He paused again.
And the hand relaxed again.
Inhaling shallowly, he slowly — very, very slowly, keeping his motion as smooth as possible — unwound the long, muscular arm from around him, straightening out the heavy, muscular limb breath by breath.
This time, neither the hand he was holding nor the body behind him reacted, but remained slackened in sleep.
Encouraged, he gently held the hard, sinewy wrist in his left hand as he stretched out his right hand, turning his palm downwards to brace against the cushion of the futon.
Then, with the same painful slowness and smoothness, he began sliding his torso forward, bit by gradual bit, leaning his back away from the warm, solid heat nestled behind him.
He felt his hair slide down his shoulder blades as his back finally, finally, separated from the broad chest plastered to his spine.
Stopping, he waited.
All continued in stillness behind him. The deep, slumbering breathing went on, evenly, and slowly.
Another tiny success.
Discreetly, he tensed the muscles of his left thigh and, with his left leg supporting the heavier weight of the broader thigh draped over both of his, began to slide his right knee out from under his left knee.
Warm, silk sheets slid past under his skin as he raised his right knee, breath by breath. And it was easier this time, as his left thigh held up the larger, heavier one over it, mimicking stillness while his right leg escaped from beneath.
When his right knee was at last drawn up, lying bent at an angle on the futon before him, he slowly — very, very slowly — began lowering his left thigh, keeping his muscles tensed as he exerted very, very fine muscle control to allow his left leg to creep downwards towards the futon.
And, as his left knee descended, breath by breath, the longer, heavier leg draped over both his thighs began to also straighten out in tandem with each painfully slow movement, breath by breath. The thigh over his left hip began to slide backwards, as the ankle over his left shin began to slide downwards — and when his left knee was finally resting upon the futon, his left leg was all but free, with the longer, heavier leg resting lightly upon the outside of his limb
Now, for the trickiest part of the manoeuvre.
Slowing his motion to crawl of a hair’s breadth, he began to draw up his left knee.
Hair’s breadth by hair’s breadth, he shifted his left leg out from under the hard-muscled, dead weight of the larger, longer leg.
And then, just like that, he was completely free.
He paused for a breath, still lying on his left side, still holding the heavy wrist in his left hand.
Inhaling once, he held his breath, and then swiftly and smoothly, in one seamless motion he lowered the heavy arm behind him as he rolled forward and up — onto his right knee, then onto his left — his right palm depressing the futon as he levered himself up, folding his legs under him as he did so.
And then he was sitting up, feeling the smooth weight of his hair slide and slip around his shoulders as he settled into seiza on the cool, left side of the futon, completely nude save for the drape of his own unbound hair.
He began to wait.
Chilly air stirred in the dim, indigo gloom, the cold breaths prickling the bare skin of his back as they feathered into their darkened bedchamber through the opened shōji. But that was the only physical discomfort he felt.
For there was no trace of stickiness anywhere on his body, no uncomfortable dried fluids.
He must had been thoroughly cleansed last night, after he had fallen asleep postcoital.
Warm fondness welled as he watched the familiar silhouette of the tall, husky form slumber on in the darkness.
Shunsui.
Like always, he swallowed the name before it could escape his lips, to let his soul brother slumber on.
Especially now. The restful sleep they shared over the last two nights could barely recompense the stress of the past three months — stress he caused his soul brother. With his worries, his decisions, his actions, and then the demands of his body when his illness relapsed. His soul brother held him together through them all, and helped him do what he needed to do.
Because that was simply what Shunsui did. No matter what.
No matter the cost to himself.
Like those dark, under-eye smudges, those stress lines, stark even in the oblivion of sleep. They had been visibly wearing on his soul brother on account of him. And now stood out clearly to him, even in this darkness which hid all but the aristocratic lines of those lean, sculpted features.
But he never needed any light anyway to see the visage he knew better than his own.
Every languid, rakish quirk of expression, each one a mask for that rapier-sharp perception and lightning-quick mind, none of them ever fooled him. Not for an instant. He could always read each shift and facet of expression instinctively. Unerringly. Each playful wiggle of that aquiline nose, each lazy, slanting gaze or insouciant, glinting wink, each slow, faint curving of those wide, chiselled lips at a humour no one else saw or understood — he understood each and every one like they were his own.
As he recognised the heart beneath every look of those mild, pewter eyes. Every heavy-lidded wink, every glimmer of humour, every deep-set gaze… to everyone else they were two silvery mirrors, reflecting only what they wished to see, without depth, without a single hint of what lay beneath, as smooth and unreadable as two perfect reflections — but not to him.
To him, when those eyes beheld him, when they watched him... when they flashed white-hot as their owner loved him with fervent, desperate passion, when they glittered and sparked as his soul brother regarded him like he was the most precious, most beautiful thing in all life... to him, those eyes spoke lifetimes' worth.
[Ai, stop tarrying! He will still be here when you are back!]
[Aye! Aye! Get a move on already!]
He had forgotten how short-fused the twins could be when they were set upon a mission.
But there was one more thing he needed to do.
[Just a moment more, and I will,] he said.
They paused, and then in unison, whined, [Ai! You are not doing that!]
He suppressed a rueful chuckle. [I do not wish to wake him. So aye, I have to.]
The twins began groaning.
As if hearing them, right on cue, that furrow began to crease between those dark, patrician brows of his soul brother — and a breath later, those large, long-fingered hands began to grope, and rove over the spot where he had vacated merely moments ago.
Swiftly, he unfurled silently to his feet and took two paces backwards, feeling his bare soles leave warm, silk-cushioned surface and settle on cold, hardwood floor. Then lowering himself onto his haunches, he reached down and began working quickly and quietly in the low light.
They were still using their summer covers, a single, oversized sheet of maroon, embossed silk — thin enough to be cool yet sturdy enough to keep out stray draughts, though the maroon colour now appeared as black in this gloom — and as he worked, his fingers absently registered the feel of the familiar, geometric reliefs of stylised curves, the motifs representing the waves of the sea.
Should the weather turn in his absence, Kiyone would have these sheets replaced with their autumn ones. Or Nanao-san would. Or the two young women would work together to take care of it. Such details were not things Shunsui was wont to notice.
Unless, of course, the man returned to the Eighth in the meantime, and slept in his own quarters the next several nights.
They did have their own divisions to mind, after all. And their own responsibilities. No taichō could be away from their squadrons for too long, and they did put in consistent efforts to keep their lives and living quarters separate. Never mind that most of the Gotei Thirteen thought they did a poor job of it.
A little wryly, he looked at what he was doing — bunching and rolling the copious folds of their summer sheet into a long bundle — and decided to add a little flourish.
Presently, the result of his handiwork came into shape — a long, large roll of silk fabric, with its end at the head of the futon bundled to about as wide as his own shoulders. And a slight dip and a rise in its middle section, to represent his waist and hips.
He thought it a rather clever approximation of his own body height and shape.
Satisfied, he lightly pushed the silk roll into those restlessly searching hands.
In one lightning flash, those hands grabbed the bundle — then the entire frame of their still slumbering master clenched around it, crushed the makeshift bolster to that broad chest even as that dark head bent to bury that aquiline nose into the warm folds of silk. The broad point of that left shoulder rose as that deep chest inhaled, then lowered as the breath slowly released. And then the large body stilled, and relaxed, and finally loosened back into sleep.
The trick still worked.
That it still could even after all this time, a lapse of over three hundred years, it twisted his heart.
The sensation felt as old as it was familiar. And dismally fresh.
Because it was not like this once.
Once, when they were young, idealistic uchi-deshi serving at his father’s side, when their hearts and their souls flamed with the fervent loyalty and faith of youth, they would each rise separately to embark upon their separate missions. Countless dawns and dark hours they had done so, when he could leave their warm nest, wash, dress, and depart, and Shunsui would snore right through completely dead to the world, mission after missions, their routine keeping them enduring through the thousand, gruelling years they were quelling wars and forcing peace onto violent, recalcitrant clans… He remembered them all, as perfectly as if they were still in the present.
Those moments would never be again.
His error had ensured that.
A ripple lapped urgently at his toes.
He looked down.
In the dim gloom, the outline of his sheathed tachi marked a long, gentle, black curve upon the near-black varnish of the akamatsu floorboards. It was lying close along his side of the futon with its cutting edge facing outwards, exactly how he had lain it last night, undisturbed by his recent movements.
Long millennia of navigating in darkness had trained his feet to step unerringly around the sword form of his Zanpakutō.
Sōgyo no Kotowari.
[Ai! Why are you are still blaming yourself?] lamented Sōgyo. [You must stop! What happened ‘twas not your fault! How many times we told you that?]
[Aye! How many times did we tell you?] echoed Kotowari. ['Twas Old Fogey’s mistake, not yours! How many times we told you so?!]
[Many times,] he answered by rote, out of habit. [And every time I told you my father trusted my counsel, and my counsel was wrong.] He gazed ruefully at the slumbering form of his soul brother.
[My counsel led us to this,] he repeated quietly.
One misjudgement. And thereafter for nigh seven hundred years, every time that he had to rise before Shunsui for a mission, his soul brother would stir like this, grasp after him with restless hands even from the depths of deep sleep.
But his Zanpakutō would not have it. Of course.
[You keep forgetting ‘twas Old Fogey who decided!] Kotowari persisted. [Not you! You were hurt because Old Fogey decided wrong!]
[Aye! You were hurt so bad!] Sōgyo joined in. [All because Old Fogey decided so wrong!] And then more reasonably, added, [Even if you judged wrong, you paid the biggest price! You suffered! You were hurt the most!]
['Twas not only I,] was all he cared to return, since he had never been able to convince anyone of his point of view on this matter anyway.
Not even his own Zanpakutō.
Swallowing, he forced down the old twists of guilt, and then forced back the accompanying memories.
This constant state of unconscious anxiety over him was buried so deeply in Shunsui, his soul brother remained unaware of it unto this day.
It was another thing he could never let on, and never would. All he could do was simply continue to deal with it, and do everything in his power to alleviate it.
[As if he will not find out sooner or later!] Sōgyo groaned.
[Aye! He is the other half of you, after all!] Kotowari tried to reason.
['Tis been a thousand years and he has not once suspected,] he declared, unfurling to his feet.
Immediately, goosebumps pimpled all over his skin as he stood nude in the path of the cold air stirring into their bedchamber.
Nevertheless, he went on decisively, [And it accomplishes nothing to tell him of this. All that will achieve is worry him even more.]
Shivering slightly, he strode swiftly towards the narrow door on the opposite wall of their bedchamber, crossing the familiar distance in the dark as he spoke firmly to the twins to ensure his command would be obeyed.
[You must never speak of this to Katen Kyōkotsu or any other Zanpakutō. Not a breath. Not even a hint. Or make any suggestion, however indirect. I will deal with this myself. And the two of you will assist me when I command it.]
[Oooo, when he commands, he says!] mocked Sōgyo.
[We are so fearful now!] sniggered Kotowari.
He let the two pranksters have their fun, for he knew that when it came to Shunsui, they would obey.
Reaching the door, he reached for the hinoki wooden frame of its sliding panel and slid his fingertips into the varnished, grooved grip, his eyes casting to his right from long habit.
Out through the opened shōji, past their veranda, the lake and gardens beyond their house lay in a heavy calm in weak moonlight, even as birdsongs fluted merrily through the dark skies. The watery moonbeams were at a steep slant, glossing the surface of the lake with a dull, oily gleam, while the moon itself was only a pale, ragged sliver slung low in the west, heavily shrouded behind inky clouds. On the opposite horizon, a greyish lavender was beginning to seep into the sooty heavens, like a stain spreading up from behind the shadowed canopies of the bamboo groves lining the eastern banks.
Dawn was close.
He should make haste.
Gripping the door panel more firmly, his fingers lightly pulled-
And froze.
Something…
He frowned, narrowing his focus and… there, there it was. Extremely faint, and extremely muted, yet clearly a vibration, nevertheless. Even though it was just barely tickling the furthest edges of his senses, so slight that it was nigh absent.
But it was there, or his reikaku would not have caught it.
He skimmed over the sensation — and it quickly became clearer, its vibration diverging into distinct patterns.
Twelve distinct patterns.
From twelve masterfully concealed reiatsu, he realised with a start.
What had at first felt like a single reiatsu, was in fact a tightly entwined thread of twelve perfectly harmonised spiritual pressures. Each was thrumming with its own rhythm, yet keeping in such tight synchronisation with the others, that the twelve presences felt like one soul, each indistinguishable from the others.
Onjutsu technique, he recognised at once, consternation rising. Just one among a myriad of others in the family of secretive, cloaking arts passed within the Onmitsukidō.
This particular one was created millennia ago to conceal multiple presences at the same time. He employed it himself countless times before, when he needed to hide the true numbers of their battalions.
But there had been peace in the last thousand years. And in times of peace, only the stealth and security division continued to practise these arts.
That they were using this technique on him now…
Abruptly, something clicked, and he swivelled his attention accusingly at his two Zanpakutō spirits.
[Did you two know about this?] he asked, unable to help his sharp tone.
[Ai! Nay!] exclaimed the twins in perfect chorus, sounding innocently maligned.
Suspicious, he shot a glance back at Shunsui’s slumbering form. [Did he?]
[Katen did not say!] supplied the twins, again in precise unity, and completely guileless.
Their reactions were too united, and too put upon.
[So you knew,] he concluded, biting down a well of exasperation.
Which meant that Shunsui most likely knew as well, including his soul brother's Zanpakutō.
Which meant that he should probably assume all of his immediate family had not only known, but had most likely also approved of his father’s choice.
[But these are the best bodyguards ever!] reasoned the twins, attempting to lessen his ire. [They arrived two days ago! The moment Old Fogey ordered bodyguards on you, nobody dared to tarry!]
[I was joined to the Daireishin for two days. How is it that it did not inform me?] he demanded next.
[We told Fake Soul not to tell you!]
He was stunned. [The Daireishin is able to converse with you?]
Suddenly, the twins hushed, as if caught.
Incredible, that he had not thought to investigate this. If the Daireishin had indeed matured this much, perhaps it could also—
[Do not be mad? Fake Soul made itself useful for once! Your safety means everything this time. Everything!]
[Every time you join to Fake Soul, we cannot reach you. So we talk to it. But this time, we told it not to tell you what was happening!]
[You two actually believe this is right,] he murmured, still amazed at what the pair had inadvertently revealed.
But not so amazed that he had forgotten his annoyance with them.
The twins never liked anyone who depended on him — at times for good reason — but on this one matter, they had gone a little far.
Enabling his father’s overzealous overprotectiveness never boded well under any circumstances.
With some discontent, he considered his twelve silent sentinels.
They were not the rank and file operatives typically rostered for internal protection details. Clearly, each one of them had been carefully hand-picked from the Keigun and Keiratai squads of the Onmitsukidō. By his father, no doubt.
As if the best of Onmitsukidō security and intelligence High Seats had no graver responsibilities than pull menial guard duty over one Gotei Thirteen taichō. Especially when said taichō was more than perfectly capable of protecting himself.
It was completely unacceptable.
But he had no time right now to do anything about it.
There will be a serious conversation later, he decided. After his mission was done. Two serious conversations, in fact. One with the twins, but before that, one with the esteemed Sōtaichō of the Gotei Thirteen.
Levelling one final once-over at his silent squadron of overqualified bodyguards, he put them out of his mind and, once more, reached for the grooved grip of the door panel. Soundlessly, he slid it aside to open a gap just wide enough for him to slip through, and then stepped forth into the darkness beyond.
As he pulled the panel shut behind him, pitch blackness and silence fell, smothering all sights and sounds.
- • - • - • - • - • - • - • -
He stood still, completely blinded and deafened, becoming more conscious of his breathing.
The air was warmer in here, more moist, laced with old and new scents of peony and chrysanthemum, and the soft, familiar metallic smell wafting from his left. As he drew each breath, he felt the cool, uneven textures of flat stone beneath the soles of his feet.
Sōgyo suddenly spoke. [Old Fogey will not listen to you about this if you mean to change his mind.]
[We will not listen to you too if you intend to make him call off your guards,] Kotowari added.
Both Zanpakutō spirits sounded unusually serious.
Evidently, the pair had debated his decision and found it wanting.
He began, [You know this is not—] .
But Kotowari went right on, emphatically, [You need bodyguards! Old Fogey is badly regretting for sticking you in this mess right now, so 'tis our chance. If he ends this whole nasty trouble without hurting you, then maybe we will think about whether we want to forgive him later.]
[Aye!] Sōgyo agreed resoundingly. [We make him work the hardest he ever worked to make sure no one hurts a hair on your head! Then we can see if we feel like forgiving him later.] A very brief pause, then a very uncharitable, [Much later.]
So the twins were willing to trade their forgiveness for his protection.
He was not, however. For his issue with his father was never about his welfare in the first place.
Narrowing his eyes in the dark, he told his Zanpakutō in no uncertain terms, [You two do realise that what he has done is an utter waste and misuse of our resources, correct? And you both know very well why. I taught you better than this.] Then, unable to hold back his ire, allowed himself to vent, [I cannot believe you did not uphold it!]
That only incited the twins into more protests.
[But we do! Just not this time!]
[Aye! Just not this time! Old Fogey is a fool, but he is doing the right thing this time!]
He rolled his eyes, and blew a bang of his fringe off his nose. [We will discuss this again. After this mission.]
[Ya, ya, ya! He will discuss it, he says!]
[Ooo, we should be sooo scaaared!]
That the pair was now giving him this much cheek, it meant he had driven home his point.
So he ignored them. Instead, he raised his right hand before him and, with pure muscle memory, aimed the tip of his index finger into the black nothingness and flicked a tiny drop of his reiatsu straight ahead, applying just enough force to propel the droplet across a distance long calibrated into his reflexes.
A soft whoosh followed.
Then a small, gentle light winked into being, glowing suspended in black darkness.
For a breath, the little orb of light hung directly opposite him, twenty paces across from where he still stood.
And then it began to grow, steadily brightening as it began swelling, pouring forth warm, creamy light. His eyes adjusted in tandem with the increasing illumination until he was seeing the scrubbed, grey-green slate tiles of the opposite wall, and of the floor.
Their tall, cast iron kidō stand lamp stood before that wall, directly opposite him, and thus the door behind him. Soft, milky light was diffusing through the sandblasted surface of its fluted, glass lampshade. Within it, white kidō flames were dancing, wavering atop the black, cast iron pole.
Ingrained habit sent his gaze sweeping methodically around the enclosed space.
Their en suite ofuro was as large as their bedchamber. Its right half was given to their vanity, changing, and linen areas. Presiding in the space were their antique, double-doored vanity, and against the adjoining wall, their large clothing rack, and double-doored, linen cupboard.
The left half of the bath chamber, however, was dominated by their deep, oversized tub. Thin steam was wafting gently from it, carrying into the damp air the soft, metallic scent. Covering the floor adjoining the long side of their tub was their wide, washing platform, the slatted, wooden construct resting over the drainage grids built into the slate-tiled floor. And beyond the platform, nestled at the far end of the wall almost flush to the corner, was a small exit, screened by a pair of long, white, noren curtains. The exit stood raised above a single tiled step.
Suddenly conscious of the pressure on his bladder, he headed for the curtained exit, swiftly crossing the chamber and stepping up onto the washing platform.
The broad, kōyamaki slats were now dry beneath his bare soles, the wood having aired out overnight.
[You did not pack any provisions,] Sōgyo abruptly remarked, suddenly worried.
[Ai! Why did you leave that out? You burn food like wild forest fires!] Kotowari put in anxiously.
[There will be adequate repast awaiting at Kisuke-kun’s,] he assured the pair, lightly treading over the wooden slats so that they would not creak.
[Are you certain? Sly Boy has not seen or spoken to you in over a hundred years!]
[What if he has forgotten how much you need to eat?]
[Yoruichi would have prepared him by now,] he assured again, navigating silently around the wooden washing stool and bucket.
Two loud snorts answered him. [That crafty Cat Woman is undependable!]
Stepping off the platform, he crossed the narrow, tiled walkway towards the step below the curtained exit. [If she has forgotten, then I shall simply ask for more if I require. However, I very much doubt I will need to. Tessai-san consumes a great amount of food as well.]
The step below the exit was tiled with irregular pieces of textured granite instead of square, slate tiles. The transition felt stark against his soles, for the granite was very much colder. Raising a hand, he drew one linen panel of the noren aside, took another step up, and stepped through.
Immediately, the air turned cold. The small corridor before him extended straight on for several strides, and then angled left. The walls on either side were of darkly varnished, akamatsu hardboards, and ended a foot above his head, leaving a gap of two feet from the lowest horizontal beams supporting the eaves overhang. Fresh, cold breezes circulated through the spaces above the walls, breathing into the short passageway.
He felt his skin pimple once more.
The light was dimmer here, less intense, though of the same diffused, creamy quality as that cast by the kidō lamp in the main chamber of the ofuro. The illumination came from the small, fluted, glass lamps rising discreetly from the walls, spaced at even intervals.
But there was sound here, instead of silence.
Trilling, warbling symphonies of the resident mejiro populations were now singing in earnest, their songs floating in through the partial open-air.
In an hour or so, likely less, the sun would be up.
Hastening, he made his way through the rest of the corridor, turned left, and reached the privy. Quickly he relieved himself, then wiped and flushed, and strode back the way he had come.
Once he was back in the ofuro chamber, he made directly for the steaming tub.
It was more of an indoor, heated pool, in truth. For the oblong bath was large and deep enough for soaking up to three large adults at once.
It was also much older than even he. So old, that its origin was no more than a family lore of how his founding forebear shaped it overnight from the single trunk of a giant kōyamaki tree. By the time he inherited the tub, long millennia of use had so thoroughly petrified its wood that no trace remained of any joints in its angles. The material, however, had become impervious to all manners of boiling, corrosive liquids. And that was the reason his family had it moved here, for his use.
He inspected the water, observing the endless strings of tiny bubbles spiralling up beneath the gauzy steam. The pool-sized tub was always full and fresh, renewed perpetually by a constant flux of streams flowing and ebbing through a parent-child system of pipes and pumps. The parent system tapped into the cool waters of the Ugenkō surrounding his house, while the child system plunged deep below the surface of the lake to bore through its deepest floor into the gaseous, underground mineral rivers.
The entire design was conceived by his father.
[Fine, so maybe Old Fogey took very good care of you!] huffed Sōgyo, miffed at the direction of his thoughts. [But that was only in the beginning!]
[We are only temporarily agreeing with him for now,] reminded Kotowari archly, before adding, [We are still blaming him for everything else!]
He suppressed a sigh, and shelved his own feelings for the time being.
A white square of fresh wash cloth lay on the wide rim of the tub, ready for his use. Beside it, sat his usual wicker basket of fresh peony blossoms.
Shunsui’s doing.
It must be, since he took his bath before his soul brother last night.
One particular blossom sat atop the rest of the pile. It was fully bloomed, delicately pink, layered, and round.
Gently, he scooped it up with his fingers, marvelling at its natural symmetry.
['Tis his surprise for you,] whispered Sōgyo conspiratorially. [We are not supposed to tell you.]
[But Katen told us,] supplied Kotowari helpfully, equally hushed.
[I know,] was all he said, feeling a smile crease his mouth.
He lavished upon the bloom one more admiring gaze, then turned, and bent to lightly place it on the seat of their washing stool, out of the way of his splashing. Then he reached to his side and picked up their wooden wash bucket, straightened, and turned back to the tub.
There was no time for a full wash and soak. Still, long habit made him want a whole-body mop.
Resting the wash bucket on the rim of the tub, he next lifted the wicker basket and gently scattered the blooms over the lightly steaming water, inhaling deeply as the soothing scent of fresh peony leapt and swirled into the damp air.
The hot water would take a few moments to infuse, though he could already feel his lungs relaxing, his airways opening up more.
In the meantime, he put up his hair. Gathering the long mane to the back of his head, he began twirling the thick, heavy tail clockwise, twisting it into a loose bun that he could knot into itself. Once his hair was out of the way, the water was also ready.
Picking up the wash bucket once more, he dipped it into the tub, this time to fill it. Several pink blooms flowed into the wooden receptacle along with the freshly infused hot water, but he paid them no mind. As soon as the bucket was full, he released a trickle of reiatsu into the muscles of his arms and upper torso, and gently raised the now-heavy pail out of the tub, careful to avoid any splashes. Just as gently, so as not to spill the water, he set the bucket back down on the rim of the tub, and then picked up the wash cloth.
The scented, steaming water felt pleasantly hot and fresh upon his hands as he wet and loosely wrung out the cloth. Then he began to mop himself, starting from his face.
It did not take him long at all before he was wiping his toes.
Shunsui had done a thorough job the night before.
Wetting the wash cloth one last time, he wiped once more behind his ears and around neck, then over his intimate parts for good measure. Finally, he rinsed out the wash cloth the final time and laid it flat out on the rim of the tub to dry.
The bucket of water was still comfortably hot, but it was used water now. So he lifted it off the rim of the tub, and bending to avoid splashing the area, upended it over the slats of the washing platform.
Wet, pink blooms fell out along with the small cascade of water, tumbling onto the drenched, wooden slats. Gently, he set the empty pail down, upside down to let it drip dry, careful to avoid crushing the fallen flowers.
And then he was clean, freshened, and lightly stepped off the wet platform and onto dry slate tiles, making for the other side of the ofuro.
Their vanity gleamed darkly in the gentle light, its dark, resin varnish burnished with a deep, oily sheen that told of countless layers of retouches to keep the keyaki wood frame conditioned and moisture-repellent. It was another heirloom, gifted by his late mother. And transported here for his private use by his father.
The twins began groaning at where his thoughts were once again wandering.
[All right, I shall spare you both,] he wryly conceded.
The pair heaved noisy sighs of relief as he drew up before the vanity.
Their white, enamel wash basin awaited on its counter, as always. But instead of being empty, it was filled, the small, round surface of clean water resting still and clear. Beside the basin lay a small, white translucent bag of dried chrysanthemum petals, thoughtfully placed atop a white, folded square of fresh, face towel. And next to the petals and towel, was his long-handled wooden comb, with its faded-blue, carp-shaped handle facing up, ready for his fingers.
Another of Shunsui’s doing.
The sight warmed him, even though the water in the basin had long gone cold.
Smiling to himself, he touched an index finger to the side of the basin, shooting a tiny spark of his reiatsu into it. A moment passed, and then steam began to gently waft.
He proceeded to make quick work of his remaining ablutions.
A small pinch of the dried petals was enough to turn the warm water astringent. He let the petals soak while he reached for his toothbrush.
It stood exactly where he had left it the night before: leaning out of his pale-blue, earthen mug. His mug also sat exactly where he had left it: on the right side of the glass shelf, below the large, round, vanity mirror. And beside his mug was his small, pale-blue tin of toothpaste, where he had left it as well.
He picked both up. Wetting his toothbrush in the basin, he began applying his toothpaste to its bristles, giving a glance at his reflection as he did.
There must not be the slightest gap in your disguise, rang the stern, gravelly order of his father in his ears. I will not risk even a dragonfly’s chance of identifying you.
A ridiculously paranoid demand, though laughably simple to fulfil.
He really only needed to hide his hair.
It was his identifying physical feature. Beyond the few souls in his immediate circles, almost none other had actually seen or heard him. Or sensed his reiatsu. His appearance, his movements, the sound of his voice, his power, all had only ever been portrayed in texts or art, and those were always exaggerated or stylised in some manner.
So hide his hair, and it would be impossible for any soul who never saw or heard him before to even guess who he was.
Pleased at his decision, he stuck his toothbrush into his mouth and began to brush his teeth.
[But the whole Gotei Thirteen saw you yesterday afternoon!] objected the twins.
The sparring match, of course.
[My position was far away, and I interfered only briefly,] he reasoned, then gently pointed out, [And did you not observe how overwhelmed everyone was? There was too much excitement over the duel. None would remember me after a night’s sleep.]
[Only you will think that!] argued the pair. [We do not think so!]
He decided not to debate that particular point, lest he reopened that old jar of worms.
Instead, he picked up his mug and filled it with water from the basin, and began rinsing out his mouth with the scented, astringent water.
[Maybe you can cut your hair!] suggested Kotowari, suddenly excited.
[Aye! That is a good idea! Cut it all off!] Sōgyo joined in enthusiastically.
He froze, glaring at his reflection, right into his own staring, brown eyes.
[You two cannot be serious,] he stated flatly to his mirror image.
[Of course we are, think about it!] Kotowari urged. [Those greedy, ignorant ingrates out there are now telling everyone Old Fogey is getting too old and muddle-headed to lead. And accusing the other three Gotei Pillars of being too blinded by loyalty to stop him.]
[And guess who they will turn their attention to next?] Sōgyo picked up. [Who does Old Fogey favour the most? Who was the only one he chose to adopt as son? You! Who else!]
[So cut off all your hair! Since those ingrates never saw you before, they will definitely not recognise you!] Kotowari continued. [You will be much safer this way since they will not even know they are looking at you when they are looking at you.]
[Besides, your hair used to be really short when you were young! So it will just be like becoming a boy again!] Sōgyo finished with a flourish.
[Shunsui will kill me,] he stated again, aghast.
Not to mention, he liked his hair.
[It will grow back, Katen’s master will not fret for long,] Kotowari coaxed.
[Aye! It will only be temporarily short! But it will be the perfect, temporary disguise!] Sōgyo cajoled.
There was really only one answer he could give.
Emphatically, he shook the water in his mug over his toothbrush, then shook them both out and returned the set to their places on the glass shelf. Then, picking up the unused square of face towel, he laid it very precisely on the left end of the glass shelf, right beside Shunsui’s sakura-painted, ivory, ceramic mug and its matching ivory tin of toothpaste. He gave the square of cloth a slow, measured pat, readying it for his soul brother’s use, then reached up his right hand and shook out his loose bun, while his left picked up his comb.
Wordlessly, he began combing out his long hair, his fingers easily falling into the age-old movements of parting the thick, heavy strands into two equal sections, one over each side of his nape.
[He is not speaking to us,] Sōgyo whispered to Kotowari.
[I think we made him angry,] Kotowari whispered back to Sōgyo.
He began to work on both sections of his hair, his fingers flowing as smoothly and swiftly as they once did. Presently, a white, herringbone-patterned rope began to appear in his hands. Pulling it over his right shoulder, he worked quickly and at last, finished off by winding a piece around the tail and tucking off the ends.
Then he examined himself in the mirror.
A long, heavy, herringbone braid lay hanging down over his right shoulder, gleaming white in the soft light.
His appearance startled him a little, for it was at once familiar, and yet so different.
Familiar, because that was how he used to wear his hair in his youth, before he ascended his thousandth year.
Different, because he suddenly looked terribly, terribly young. And very much thinner, gaunt, in fact, with his jawline and the pale shells of his ears exposed like this. Though his braid was thicker now, and much longer, his bangs were also longer and fuller now, and they framed his cheekbones like overweight curtains, making him look that much more skeletal.
This was probably a bad idea in terms of looks. If he had more time, he would have dyed his hair, and perhaps avoid presenting himself as this young, or this malnourished.
But since he did not have the time, this was his next best alternative.
[Master?]
[Are you really angry with us?]
[Hngh,] was all he allowed them.
The twins fell guiltily silent.
He let them stew.
Pausing for a moment, he considered changing the basin of used water. Usually he would do it when he rose earlier than Shunsui, and would also start the astringent infusion of chrysanthemum for his soul brother to shave with.
But he had tarried a little too long now, and no longer had the time.
Shunsui would understand.
Thus decided, he replaced his comb back on the vanity counter, then headed to where their clothing rack stood against the adjoining wall.
One side of the frame was still draped with their bath sheets. The other side, however, was hung and readied with his set of fresh clothing. Beneath the sheets and clothing, three fat wicker hampers squatted on the floor, one for their used towels and sheets, one for Shunsui’s soiled clothing, and the third for his.
Reaching for his clothes, he dressed swiftly. The fundoshi went on first, of course, and his hands pulled and knotted the strip of black cloth over his waist and groin with practised ease. Next, went on his white shitagi shirt, and over it, his black hakamashita. He shook both arms when he was done, to let the white sleeves of his shitagi fall and nestle down properly within the wider, longer sleeves of his black, outer shirt.
Then he stepped into his white tabi socks, which he had arranged on the floor the night before. Kiyone had long replaced all his tabi with modernised versions, and thus all he needed to do was bend down and pull up both hidden zips behind his ankles.
Last to go on was his black hakama. He pulled the wide, pleated trousers up over his legs, and then up over the ends of both his long shirts, adjusting the stiff backboard as he did so to centralise it on his lower spine. Then he adjusted the pleats on his front, three on his right side, two on his left, and secured them all with the four attached waist strings. Finally, he pulled down his long white obi sash from the rack, and wound the white fabric around his waist three times before tying it off securely over his navel with a butterfly knot.
And then he was done, fully dressed in his shihakushō uniform.
[We are sorry,] sheepishly apologised Kotowari.
[Aye, we should not have suggested you cut your hair,] followed Sōgyo, contrite.
He suppressed a grin as he returned to the vanity, collecting his comb.
[But those ungrateful idiots are really trying to create more trouble! Truly!]
[Aye! All Zanpakutō are talking about them! We only wanted to make your disguise foolproof!]
[I know you meant well,] he relented, storing his comb into the concealed pocket in the front of his black shirt as he headed back to the washing platform. [I also hear the whispers. The malcontents are blaming my father for Aizen’s crimes.]
[Aye, they are saying Old Fogey is unfit to rule since he let Aizen get away with such terrible deeds right under his nose!]
[We only wanted to prevent them from attacking you to get at Old Fogey.]
Carefully, he picked up the peony bloom once more from the seat of their washing stool.
The flower was still dry. And still fresh.
[I forgive you both,] he murmured, cradling the bloom in his left hand.
[Truly?]
[Really?]
[Aye,] he affirmed, turning and heading for the exit of the their ofuro.
A chorus of grateful noises rose from the twins as he reached the narrow door.
Snuffing out the light behind him, he reached for the sliding panel of the door, moving blindly but surely in the dark as he slid it aside.
- • - • - • - • - • - • - • -
He stepped into greyish gloom as he re-entered their bedchamber, one hand sliding the door panel shut behind him. A trilling mess of bird songs floated in from beyond the veranda, drawing his eyes to the left, past the opened shōji to the skies outside.
Where the heavens were soot-black before, it was now a dark grey.
He turned back to their bedchamber.
The broad figure of Shunsui was still slumbered on, still curled protectively around the bolster of bundled silk covers.
Quietly, he trod around the foot of their futon, and bent to gently place the peony bloom on the cushioned headrest, close within the grasp of one large, outstretched hand. Then he picked up his tachi from where it rested on the floor, and straightened.
The last part of his preparations lay in the next room, deeper within their home. But he held back, allowing his gaze to commit the face of his soul brother to his memory, noting the play of the dim light over each of those beloved features.
In sleep, the aristocratic lineage of the man was the most evident. Anyone who did not know Shunsui, or about the reputation of Kyōraku Taichō, would at once mistake his soul brother for a high-born, unreachable noble. Either that, or they would hear of his legend, his prowess, his sharpness, and would fear him even before they met him.
But not he, of course.
Part of the solution, he thought. Should his soul brother’s machinations come to fruition, then all of what would follow would be part of the key to regain full control of his subconscious.
It was still too early to say, however. And what was worse, after experiencing the life he had…
He found it difficult to suppress his doubts.
Though he would not speak of it, for now.
I will see you soon, he promised anyway, conveying his wordless vow across the gloom to the sleeping man.
And then he turned on his heel, and left, heading inside.
Steps falling silently on the hardwood floor, he walked past the dividing fusuma panels, which he left ajar last night. The chamber he entered was his spare room, though for the longest time it had been serving as Shunsui’s walk-in wardrobe.
Here, he had left his last items of clothing.
Pausing before an opened closet, he stared at his old, maroon yukata hanging inside.
It was completely threadbare. The inner quilt had long since thinned out, and the long robe was now cool enough to wear even during the hottest summers. He could never bear to discard it, however, and had left it hanging here instead. In his spare closet.
And now, it came in handy.
Nigh two thousand years had it been, since the yukata last belonged to his father. Only four others were still alive who could remember its original owner - and none of them were souls he had to hide from. Anyone who saw the robe now would instantly dismiss it as a disreputable item more suited for incineration than donning.
Quietly, he leaned his Zanpakutō hilt-up against the closed side of the wardrobe, then reached both hands into the opened side and fondly took down the ancient robe. Gently, he pulled it on, and then drew both front panels over his chest.
The panels no longer met.
And the sleeves no longer covered the full length of his arms either, stopping a full three fingers' breadth from the ends of the black sleeves of his hakamashita.
Looking down, he realised the hems were also shorter now, ending below his mid-shins rather than at his ankles.
He smiled at the discoveries. It seemed he had outgrown his favourite robe without knowing.
But he left it on, nonetheless. For it now hung rather fashionably, like a long haori coat instead of a yukata.
Satisfied, he turned and reached into the adjacent closet, where he had hung his last item of attire.
It was the long haori of his rank, but now turned completely inside out with its crimson lining on the outside. In the dim light, the crimson appeared as a dark grey. And the white exterior fabric of the garment was now on the inside, as was the black characters of the number thirteen and its accompanying black, stylised snowdrop insignia embroidered on the back of the robe.
Once he put the haori on, turned inside out like this, the distinctive, white fabric signifying his rank, as well as the characters and snowdrop symbol of his division, would all be completely hidden.
So he put it on.
It had been many hundreds of years since he last wore it this way. More than three hundred, he was certain of it, though he had never counted the exact number.
And then he was done.
Lifting his tachi, he carried it by hand as he soundlessly padded out into the front room, the hard floorboards beneath his footfalls giving way to soft buoyancy as he trod onto tatami floor mats.
It was beginning to lighten outside, for grey dawn was now filtering through the vertical bars of the round window even as the songs of the mejiro were abating, the passerine birds beginning to depart for their morning hunt.
Swiftly, he crossed the room, passing their low, sugi wood table as he headed for the genkan, the entrance foyer of their home. Stepping down onto the slate, stone step, he paused to toe on his waraji straw sandals, keeping perfect balance from long practice as he switched from foot to foot.
A breeze blew through the sudare reed blinds, stirring the folds on one side of Shunsui’s gaudy, pink-flowered kimono hanging on the kimono rack. On the other side of the rack, draping over one wide, flowery sleeve, were heavy folds of a black, velvet fabric, the plush cloth barely swaying in the swirling currents.
Feet securely sandalled, he took the last step down onto the slate stones of the genkan, and took down the black velvet cloth, shaking it out.
It was a cumbersome thing, this cloak. But he had little choice about it.
Swinging it around, he pulled it over himself, buttoning it down the front. The closure covered down to his sternum, but its folds were copious enough to drape and conceal him completely. Snaking out his free hand, he drew the voluminous hood up over his head and pulled it low over his face. There was a muffler attached to one side of the hood, so he affixed its other end to the other side, drawing the soft, plush fabric over the lower half of his face.
When he was done, only his eyes were exposed by the gap between the muffler and the hood.
It felt strange, to be tented like this, with the sounds of the world slightly muffled.
Finally, he patted himself down for one last check. The outline of his Denreishinki protruded from the concealed, right pocket, exactly where he had left his Soul Phone last night.
Then he noticed a small weight on his left side — it was not there when he hung up the cloak the night before.
Lightly, he patted the area again, and heard a soft, metallic clink as his hand met with two circular outlines nestled within the concealed, left pocket.
Mayuri’s bracelets.
He had not put them there, since he had intended to leave them behind.
Which meant Shunsui must have.
His soul brother's idea of an added precaution, he supposed.
He would bring them along, then. Though he highly doubted he would need to use them.
At last, feeling as ready as he would ever be, he inhaled once, gripped his tachi, and then stepped forth, ducking beneath the blinds as he took his first step on his first mission in over three hundred years.