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He’s been hovering on the brink of consciousness for some time now - though, just how long, he cannot say. His ribs feel oddly stiff and restricted, and his skin tickles where rough bandages keep his body carefully pieced and patched together. His head pounds; his thoughts and dreams roar; and regret grinds, grinds, grinds away inside his skull -
Grinds too hard, it turns out, for sleep.
And so, Kuchiki Byakuya cracks his eyes open.
Instantly, he feels sick - and his feeling of sickness has nothing, he knows, to do with the wound in his side or the sweat upon his brow.
Byakuya clenches his fists, resolved - squeezes his eyes shut - and forces himself to return to that pounding, roaring, grinding sleep.
When next Byakuya wakes, it is evening. The light is cooler now. Less abrasive. Less incriminating. Byakuya is well aware that he is no less guilty now than he was hours ago, but his regret grinds more subtly in these gentle twilight hours. Tentatively, he licks his dry lips - what I wouldn’t give, he thinks, simpleminded in his grogginess, for a cup of tea.
It’s as if the gods, deaf to Byakuya’s wishes until now, have heard his tiny prayer.
Byakuya hears the door to his bedchamber slide open. A servant, he suspects, or perhaps a low-ranking seated officer from the Fourth Division. Byakuya does not turn to look; his neck aches, and he can’t be bothered. Furthermore, if Byakuya’s staff have deemed this person worthy of entering Byakuya’s private quarters without either invitation or announcement, then surely this person is also capable of carrying out whatever menial task with which they’ve been charged without Byakuya’s explicit approval. Byakuya decides that he will call quietly for his tea as this person creeps back out of his bedchamber. He is lord and master here, and he need do no more than that.
One minute passes in stillness.
Then, two.
Byakuya grows restless. Why, he wonders, has this mystery visitor not entered? Why, he wonders, have they not slid the door closed and retreated, if they didn’t intend to enter in the first place? Who, he wonders, could possibly have the nerve -
“...Byakuya-kun?”
Byakuya freezes.
This voice, of all the voices in the myriad worlds, is not the one he expected to hear.
And to hear it tinged with kindness, of all things -
No.
No .
Byakuya most certainly did not expect that.
Still, his neck aches - but Byakuya would scarcely be able to live with his shame if he didn’t turn to look now. He cringes as he shifts position slightly - sweat breaks out upon his brow again, half exertion and, he realizes sharply, half sheer terror and guilt - and - “...senpai,” he manages, his voice no more than a whisper.
“You are awake, then - good! Your steward said you’d been sleeping all day.”
“...yes, senpai.” His voice grows no louder; it cracks faintly as he speaks. Byakuya pretends not to notice.
And Ukitake Jūshirō, kind man that he is, pretends not to notice, too. He smiles softly from his place in the doorway, and makes no move to enter further. “It’s a funny time of day,” he says, “isn’t it, Byakuya-kun? Dusk…” His soft smile grows as he glances about Byakuya’s bedchamber, glimmers of the golden sunset glinting in his green eyes. “Do you know,” he asks, leaning gently against the doorframe, “that I often find myself awakening at dusk after I’ve been unconscious all day? Who’s to say why? Perhaps… something to do with this change in the light…”
Byakuya cringes internally. Regret begins to grind inside his skull again. Don’t stress yourself, senpai, he’d said, mockery and cruelty dripping, the last time he’d spoken to the caring, good-hearted man. Don’t push yourself too hard. Please be responsible. Don’t act recklessly. And he’d left his senpai alone, desperate for mercy and fighting for breath, telling himself that steely resolve was more than enough to counter his feelings of fear and conflictedness, of inadequacy and disgrace.
He’d heard the thud of his senpai’s heavy, awkward, barely-still-standing steps and the uneven rhythm of his senpai’s labored gasps behind him.
He’d seen the shadow of the White Tower looming high above the Seireitei rooftops before him.
Dutifully, Kuchiki Byakuya had ignored them both as he’d walked away.
Ukitake is moving forward now, white hair and white haori sweeping behind him with a calm, ancient grace. Byakuya searches desperately for anger in his senpai’s face - Why have you come here, senpai, if not to demand an apology? If not to reprimand me? If not to tell me you never wish to speak with me again? - but, much to his frustration and disbelief, he finds none. He finds concern, finds sympathy, even, in his senpai’s eyes - his senpai’s lips are still turned upward in that small, earnest smile -
But that only makes it worse.
“How are you, Byakuya-kun?” Ukitake says as he seats himself next to Byakuya’s bedside. He tilts his head slightly, showing genuine interest, genuine care.
Regret grinds harder still as Byakuya stares at his senpai’s face. It hurts to breathe, Byakuya wants to say - but few things, he recognizes dazedly, could be more tactless. “I’m recovering,” is what he says in the end. His voice neither cracks nor shakes this time, and he manages to keep his tone cool and disinterested. Byakuya is proud of himself for this - because few things can disarm him the way Ukitake-senpai’s clever, compassionate eyes can.
“I can see that,” Ukitake says simply.
Byakuya only nods, once.
“And the pain?” Ukitake asks. “Is it manageable?”
Again, Byakuya only nods.
“If it isn’t, you really must say something. There’s no point in soldiering on through pain when your only job is to get better.”
Another nod.
“That is your only job right now, you know - getting better.” Ukitake pauses, pursing his lips in thought. “Healing,” he amends after a moment. “That’s your only job right now - healing. You... you do know that, Byakuya-kun?”
“...I know, senpai,” Byakuya says.
“Good.” And Ukitake smiles again. “The only thing you need to think about is healing, Byakuya-kun. Nothing else.”
Nothing else.
An immensely strange conjecture, even from Ukitake-senpai. Nothing else? “With respect, senpai,” Byakuya hears himself saying, “I cannot agree.” His voice is still steady - but only just.
“Oh?” Ukitake’s black eyebrows furrow - but Byakuya sees amusement glinting in that kindly face. He’s up to something, Byakuya thinks, over the regret which is beginning to grind a little more loudly in the front of his aching head. “And why is that?”
Byakuya pauses. He draws a cautious breath - he wants to make sure that he says exactly what he means, no more, and no less. “There are two reasons,” he begins carefully. “The first is my duties. Wounded or not, I am still a Captain. I am still the head of my clan. Being bedridden is not an excuse to neglect one’s duties - is that not so, senpai?” That strikes a vague chord with Ukitake, Byakuya sees - Good. The old man would make himself a hypocrite if he disagreed with me on that point. “And the second,” Byakuya continues, “is…”
And then Byakuya stops.
I can’t say it.
A lump of emotion has risen in his throat, and his words have gotten stuck on their way out. Damn me, he thinks, furious. Damn my stupidity - damn my pride - and damn Ukitake-senpai for denying me the punishment I deserve -
“...yes?” Ukitake’s features have softened even more, and his voice has gone low and warm, and it’s shot through with goodwill and encouragement. “What is it, Bya-kun?”
Byakuya’s breath catches - and pain lances up his side. His eyes squeeze instantly shut, and by reflex, he claps a hand to his wound. He grits his teeth and focuses on steadying his breathing, his heartbeat, his reiatsu - there’s a hand, he notices dully, brushing black, sweat-damp hair away from his fevered forehead. Ukitake-senpai... he thinks, through the pain, through the grinding regret. No... no, no, NO... do not be kind, senpai, do NOT be kind... do not show me this kindness, not when I should be made to feel shame... to feel guilt... to feel remorse, and regret… do NOT be kind…
But gradually, despite himself, Byakuya begins to relax and to relish the touch of those cool, kind fingertips sweeping across his forehead. The tension in his body fades; exhaustion replaces it. Do not be kind, senpai, run his thoughts, do not be kind... but when he opens his eyes again, and sees the tenderness in Ukitake-senpai’s face, his thoughts scatter like so many tiny, razor-sharp flower petals, and he is left simply staring, blank and bereft and empty.
“That’s quite a wound,” Ukitake says quietly.
Once again, Byakuya only nods - but this time, not out of a desire to be cold and reticent.This time, he is too weak for words. His eyes fall closed again. Keeping them open would require too much effort. Byakuya is tired. Byakuya is spent. Byakuya is weary and worn.
But Ukitake-senpai is still speaking - and so, Byakuya, indulging his weakness for one of the few times in his long life, allows himself to drift, and to listen.
“It’s quite a wound indeed,” Ukitake murmurs, still brushing back Byakuya’s dark hair with his pale hand. “It… will take time to heal. But such is the nature of wounds that run deep. Is that not so, Bya-kun?” It’s the same question that Byakuya asked his senpai not two minutes ago, turned on its head. He does so like to do that, Byakuya thinks. How he enjoys his philosophizing, and his little word games. Something in Ukitake-senpai’s voice tells Byakuya that this question does not require an answer - but Byakuya manages a meek nod of his taxed head all the same.
Ukitake-senpai hums his amusement when Byakuya nods. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, Bya-kun, it’s so. And this... this is a deep wound. It will leave you with a scar, I suspect - it will never heal completely, no matter how strong you grow after you’re stripped of your bandages and your skin flows back together. Such, too, the nature of wounds that run deep…
“Perhaps it’s a miracle that you survived.” A chuckle, then, from Ukitake. “That’s what I used to think of all unlikely instances of survival - that they are miracles.” His words have taken on a quality of lyricism - and almost, it seems to Byakuya, of nostalgia. “But in my old age,” Ukitake continues softly, “I’ve changed my mind. I believe that each of us is exactly where we’re meant to be. And if we live, it is because we are meant to keep on living. Living - and living well. Because what,” Ukitake asks, another chuckle, slipping between his words, “is the point of a life that isn’t lived well - hmm?”
Byakuya feels Ukitake-senpai’s fingers pull away from his forehead - so kind, Byakuya thinks, so kind, despite everything - and then a warmth folds itself over Byakuya’s hand. Byakuya lifts his heavy eyelids just a shred, and sees, sure enough, that Ukitake-senpai has wrapped Byakuya’s hand in his own.
And again, Ukitake smiles.
“The past,” he says, “is only the past, Byakuya.”
Ukitake-senpai’s eyes pierce into Byakuya’s, still kind - so kind - but clear and determined. “The past is who we were - the past is not who we are . And certainly,” Ukitake says, “our pasts do not determine our futures.” He squeezes Byakuya’s hand tight. “Our futures,” he says, “are full of possibility. Our futures are up to us .”
So kind... so kind… Byakuya thinks again. Too kind…
“We may take grievous wounds...”
TOO kind…
“But if we’re meant to survive, then those wounds will heal.”
Is he… ?
“Perhaps we’ll be changed…”
Is… is he saying… ?
“Perhaps we’ll bear scars…”
He can’t be…
“But if we do, then those scars, too, are meant to be.”
He can’t be saying…
“Those changes... upon our bodies... and in our hearts, too… are meant to be.”
Byakuya says nothing. He’s begun to tremble. If he attempts to speak, his voice will fail him. Byakuya is utterly certain of this.
“Let that scar remind you of your strength, Bya-kun.” Ukitake-senpai says. “Let that scar remind you of your sacrifice. Let that scar remind you of your love...
“Let it remind you of why you allowed Gin’s blade to pierce you in the first place.”
And then, Ukitake-senpai pauses. He bows his white head - and he grips Byakuya’s hand even tighter -
“Make that scar into a keepsake, Byakuya - but do not make it into anything else.”
The sun has sunk low; the room has grown dark. Byakuya, through his thick, throbbing eyes, can just see Ukitake’s slumped silhouette, shoulders rising and falling with each hard-won breath. Byakuya remembers the last time he saw his senpai bent over like that - guilt threatens to rise in his bandaged chest -
...and yet.
Byakuya stops.
No.
No…
He has not done so in so many words, but -
But -
Here, tonight, Ukitake-senpai has offered Byakuya -
He has offered me -
Forgiveness.
Tentatively, Byakuya untangles his fingers from his senpai’s - somewhere deep within himself, he finds the strength to do so - and once again lays his hand over his wound. Ukitake-senpai glances up, his hopeful plea plain to read upon his face -
Byakuya has amends still to make, he knows - with Rukia - with Renji - and with three people whose souls linger only about gravestones, too - but Byakuya recognizes now that he can make those amends. And it’s quite all right, Ukitake-senpai will no doubt say, if making those amends takes time...
Time, Byakuya thinks, Ukitake-senpai’s words echoing in his head. Time… deep wounds take time to heal… such is their nature…
Regret still grinds in Byakuya’s head, but it grinds softly, now. His lips part, and he draws a shaking breath, as if he’s preparing to say thank you…
But, as it’s made a troublesome habit of doing these past few days, Byakuya’s voice fails him, and he has no words.
He gazes at Ukitake-senpai’s pale face - the face of the man who has, against all odds, shown him kindness - shown him forgiveness -
And as Byakuya sinks back into unconsciousness, he decides that he can afford to indulge in weakness twice in one evening, given the circumstances.
Byakuya smiles.