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✷
Fushimi stares at his reflection once again.
Ok, this time I will be the captain. I'm in charge. I can do this.
He turns on his back to leave, but changes opinion almost immediately. His furrowed lips denote he's feeling like something is missing.
By the edge of the drawer, a bandana peeks.
What about...?
Fushimi stares at his reflection one last time; hair in place, black bandana, tighten belt. He leaves.
I'm in charge.
✷
Clothes
The first night after he told him was hellish. Fushimi recalled like it was yesterday. How he regretted having sake bottles in the inventory, even though he was not in charge of the kitchen supplies list. Every night he found him almost passing out, precariously holding by his doorknob, laying on the hallway, sleeping by the onsen.
He was aware of much he changed ever since the summer he told him the news. He used to be stealth and quiet, but turned gloomy and mind barely present. He didn't even want to spar. He was aback, isolated in sheer will, and Fushimi couldn't do anything about it.
He was nothing like when he first arrived at Kokugoku.
Fushimi wondered if he would ever be back.
It was the change of the seasons which helped in a way. New wardrobes were supposed to arrive a week before the autumn officially started. The government wouldn't pay much attention to it, but Fushimi asked for comfortable garments for his protegee, instead of the tight official uniforms he and the boys would wear.
At first, Uruha asked for his package to be sent to his room. No one would deny his request, but the team glanced at Fushimi, expecting confirmation.
He nodded slowly but made sure personally that Uruha would try on the pieces he ordered, no matter how silent they were in the amplitude of his room.
“Pfft,” Fushimi opened his eyes wide as he saw Uruha picking up the knitted cloak with both hands. He was measuring it with his eyes, turning it around back and forth, and finally letting it rest against his body, as if emulating the feeling.
“How did you get this,” his whisper was plain, no intonation inquired. Fushimi got all nervous from the sudden reaction.
“I thought... you might feel comfortable in something native from your village.”
Uruha looked into his eyes for the first time in a while. Soft gaze, long lashes fluttering slowly. Head tilted to the side, as if wanting to unravel the thoughts in Fushimi's head.
“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
✷
Food
Uruha wouldn't eat anything the Chief Chef put on his plate.
Too spicy. Too raw. Too cold for pickles. Too hot for soups. Fushimi was at the edge, watching as the plates were taken away, untouched and ignored. Why was he like this. Why.
“Is there anything you specifically crave?”
Fushimi voiced, staring at him from above, feeling the rage boiling up in his blood. He was putting so much effort, and yet, he couldn't get Uruha to behave, nor even opened up a little. He still refused to spar and talk to anyone. Fushimi wanted to change that. But how could he. His hair would turn to grey anytime now, just because of him.
Uruha met his eyes from below, with a boring expression.
“The last time I ate with him... onigiri tuna.” Fushimi caught a glimpse of hope at that.
That was easy, he could make a dozen if that meant that Uruha would finally eat properly. He turned his back on him and stepped away.
“Where are you...?” Uruha sounded confused, but let him go.
Thirty minutes later, he sneaked behind the kitchen door, sniffing the air.
“Come in, I know it's you.” Fushimi had his hands busy with the latest onigiri, but a full tray was resting on the kitchen counter already.
“Help yourself.”
Uruha ate slowly, munching delicately, like he was digesting memories and not rice with tuna and mayo. His eyes got filled with tears after the first onigiri, they got lost beyond the window and beyond the lands of Kokugoku. He said:
“Thank you, again.” And Fushimi's heart bounced in content. Maybe he could do more to heal his mind, to ease his pain. He was far too young to remember his own grief, focused as he was on surviving through the war attacks. Maybe, since he was in charge, he could make a change.
“Whenever you like,” he reassured.
✷
Bath
The boys didn't want to bother Uruha when he was taking a bath.
It was nice, when they all bonded at the onsen, talking nonsense and laughing until their stomachs hurt, but since Rokuhira's death no one dared to get near the onsen if Uruha was in it.
He would sink as if he was waiting for the water to consume him alive. Barely effort to float, eyes full of melancholy, dull limbs. The scars on his body seemed to shine even under the grey clouds, or maybe it was just the sight of them which served Fushimi as a reminder of everything Uruha has lost.
Maybe Uruha didn't think of them as war trophies.
“Can I?” he stepped over the stones border, sitting on the edge as his feet were introduced in the water.
Uruha gave him a look of indifference, but his words were haughty and sharp.
“So you're not afraid,” he said. “I thought you guys were avoiding me like I was contagious.”
Fushimi's spirit didn't falter at that. He took the shot and spoke from the heart.
“You do look like you were carrying something contagious,” he conceded. “Grief is unique, nobody can understand your feelings like you do. But you leave a ghostly trace everywhere you walk, and none of us want to lose you, too.”
“Because it's your job?” Uruha snorted. And yet, he didn't take his eyes off Fushimi. Fushimi sensed that he was replying on impulse, but was attentive to his words nonetheless.
“Because you're our friend,” counterattacked Fushimi, willing to speak his mind.
“That's what I am to you?”
Fushimi swallowed, thinking about all the times he wanted to do something for him because he was the captain. He was in charge. But Uruha was not a token, nor a relique of the Kamunabi. He felt things intensely and absorbed experiences like a human sponge, learning through his eyes and heart, acting towards an objective.
Uruha smiled at the silence and looked away.
“I would love to be anything you want from me. But please, let me in.”
Then he added:
“Let us in.”
That was his cue to avert his eyes. The water tingled in his calves, warm and misty. He took off the towel and sank until he was close enough to Uruha, feeling the heat his body emanated.
His cheeks were hotter than the water itself.
✷
Routine
After that, it became easy for the squad to start sharing spaces again with Uruha; to coexist again.
He still didn't feel like talking much, but he was more approachable and didn't intend to kill them with his eyes. Pretty emerald eyes, that sometimes lock with Fushimi's while they all had lunch or when they passed by each other on the stairs.
There was a faint smile on each other's lips every time this happened. It was like an invitation to sit side by side at dinner, or share the same row of lockers when they sparred. Uruha still preferred to do that on his own, but that didn't matter.
When others joined around; it was inevitable that their schedules overlapped. After all, they were supposed to train together in case of any incident.
Fushimi never forgot what the nature of his mission was, why they were there, living all together, at the Kokugoku Fortress.
✷
Training
Things started to look more promising by the end of spring.
Everyone looked at him when he appeared in sandals one day, sandals and loose hair, arms stretching as he reached the breakfast table to pick up one piece of ebi katsu.
He was sleepy, he looked tired, but not in the way he used to look in the last few months. Fushimi even thought that maybe he was tired because the prior night, there were no annotations about him wandering around the dark halls. It was something strange, but it was something still.
“Can I join you guys today? In the sparring field?” he asked out of nowhere, picking up a rice ball this time.
Fushimi lowered his soup bowl, suppressing a sigh. He wanted to smile so much, he did his best to act normal, naive and polite.
“Sure you can. We're leaving after breakfast.”
“And the itinerary... for today... Has it changed?”
Fushimi could feel everyone's eyes on him. Incredulous, but with a tiny hope. Their bodies didn't even bother to hide it. They had stopped eating and drinking and maybe even breathing.
He was in charge, he was the captain. He was responsible for everyone at Kokugoku, so:
“I haven't changed a thing. But you're welcome to suggest something if you want. It's been almost a year now, Uruha.”
Uruha sighed and narrowed his eyes. They were fixated on Fushimi, perhaps analyzing his words, his expression, the way he slid his hand on the table to point out a seat. Uruha sat down, resting his body over a folded leg, leaning towards the table, awkwardly comfortable.
“I'm good with whatever you propose. I wanna follow you. It's… It's been a while.”
He was the captain, but he thought of Uruha as some more than a protected wielder. No army title was gonna change that.
Fushimi thought that maybe Uruha was rusty, that he was gonna let him win the first time. He was wrong. Uruha had been training on his own. Not with a schedule, more like when he felt like it, probably, even at nights when he couldn't sleep and the group on guard heard him through the darkest hours.
He was not rusty and flexed every move and trick when training with Fushimi. The sun was high early, which didn't help Fushimi's eyes. Uruha was attacking him with all he got, and all with a bamboo stick. Fushimi was the captain of the losers.
His butt landed on the grass, hands grasping as much as he could.
“Who's next,” Uruha breathed out. The guys were watching and giggling at Fushimi, but shut up when Uruha called out.
“Come on boys, you've been training everyday, there must be something you wanna show me, right?”
He didn't mean it like a threat. He was actually enjoying this. The rest of the group charged at him and all Fushimi could do was stay still, mesmerized by his movements and fluid contortions with a stick.
Uruha kicked their asses. More than once. And when the time came for them to show up for lunch, Uruha teased them again.
“I dare you all to climb the mountain with me before sunset. If you feel capable of it, of course. Or are you afraid you couldn't do it?”
The guys straightened their backs, eyed Fushimi for approval, but he was charmed by the way Uruha was sweeping the table, looking for cowards.
He could not say no.
“I'm in.”
The boys started mumbling things.
“But with one condition,” he added, causing Uruha to raise an eyebrow at him.
+ Feelings
Uruha was banned, to his discontent, from getting near the sake pantry for a month, and Fushimi earned all kinds of looks of hate and disapproval for that. He had to remind himself that he was the captain. He couldn't mess with the sake inventory since they were supposed to be taken as "fun" by all teams on their free days, free within the grounds at Kokugoku. What kind of captain would he be if he took away something so pure and rewarding for his people? Captains could not do that, but what he could do, instead, was checking on Uruha while he suffered from withdrawal.
That was the hardest part of his captaincy.
Uruha was going crazy without liquor. The cook tried a lot of things, emulating other beverages and treating him to snacks to fill the void Uruha was in. Nothing worked, and as the days passed by, he got a rash, headaches, a series of stomachaches, and everything went downhill the second week when he got a fever. Fushimi was by his bedside through his febrile state, taking care of him, focused on the symptoms and the healing. He was called an idiot, a son of his rest-in-peace unknown mother, a good for nothing, the world's worst captain, and only at the latter did he reacted like he was hurt.
Because of course he was.
“I'm doing this ‘cause I need you sober, Uruha. You've been losing yourself in alcohol, ending the reserves and your fucking health. You think I’m ok with this? I know I'm not going to push you through sobriety for ever, we can enjoy a drink once in a while, but—”
“Fuck you,” Uruha cursed through his lips, face reddened and sweat streaming down his neck.
Fushimi giggled at that.
“Yeah? When?”
That alone vanished any attempt of cursing him from Uruha. His eyes widened and his chapped lips gaped. Fushimi stopped patting his forehead with a wet towel, and looked at him from above.
There was always some feeling of dominance in his guts when he ordered Uruha around. Something beyond his duties as the captain in charge, something arousing in a way unknown to him but at the same time, Fushimi knew deep inside that he wanted to control Uruha at a different extent.
“I’m not fucking you with this fever, Fushimi. If you want me you'll have to wait. Or gimme some sake at least. Fuck I hate being sick…”
Fushimi cracked a laugh, holding up his stomach as the laughter took over him. What the fuck. They were really having this conversation.
Uruha sneered at him, also realizing the matter at discuss.
“Can I have a drink? Only one, for fucks sake.”
“Nope,” denied Fushimi.
“Can I have you?” Uruha lowered his voice.
Fushimi stopped laughing. He swallowed hard, and pierced Uruha's dark green eyes.
“You can have me at any time you want. I just want you to be fine. It's not that hard.”
Uruha pouted at him, turning his back to him and pulling the sheet until his face and head stayed completely covered.
“Hey…”
This was childish. Were they childish? Well, none of them were if they're talking about what he thought they're talking about.
Uruha’s face peeked from under the sheet.
“Don't come at me with that bullshit. You don't have to make me go through this hell to fuck me. I've seen the way you look at me.”
Fushimi raised an eyebrow at that.
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Make me.”
Uruha popped on an elbow with a steady motion. That he was sick was not an impediment. He got so close to Fushimi that he froze on his seat, unable to react. He even forgot who the captain was.
“I said zero alcohol for a month.”
“Can I switch that for you? But only for a month.”
Uruha was a tempting sight for him, even in that state. Flushed cheeks, glossy eyes. His chest aching to breathe under the loose t-shirt he wore as underwear. Fushimi knew he had no pants under the blanket, it was better for the fever —or so he thought.
So, as the captain he was, Fushimi took charge and aimed at Uruha, holding him close and taking in his warmth, joining him on the bed. It was amazing to taste him, to feel him, hot and shaking and apparently with an immeasurable wish to have him on top.
“Are you…?”
“Make this fever go away, captain.”
If Uruha wanted, Fushimi could do more than a month.
Now how do I convince him of that.