It's the upperclassmen who mention it to him first, after his first few months on Enma's football team. To be fair, it's not like the Nagas know all that much about texting ettiquette; they're used to terse, one-word reminders and nothing but talk about football. At most, Unsui would send out a team-wide "katsu" on exam mornings or before big games, but he has to find out from Mizumachi and Kotaro of all people that everyone thinks he's trying to act all aloof because he isn't /cute/ in his texts.
As with all of his other shortcomings, Unsui immediately works to overcome this particular blind spot. He studies up on emojis, but can't bring himself to use any of them, so he sticks with symbols; ☽ for night games, ☂ for rain, ★ for congratulations, a cute picture of a cupcake that Suzuna had taken with his phone for birthdays.
In his second year, everyone's just learned to accept the fact that he's about as verbose over SMS as in person and he'll never really progress beyond that. One week, he cuts out the emojis altogether and the team avoids him out of practice until Sena asks him in a very politely-worded text if he's okay.
Luffy never finds out where Ace is buried, and they never had managed to recover Sabo's body twelve years ago. He'd stopped feeling tortured about it-- about having no place to visit in memory of his brothers-- because he's never had the opportunity to dwell on the past and he never wants to start. In some ways, he prefers it. If he doesn't know where they are exactly, there's no reason they can't be with him, every moment. If their souls have no place to rest, the Sunny can be their refuge.
He feels it sometimes, when he has the night watch, sprawled on his back in the crow's nest (really more like a tower), feet propped up on a set of Zoro's weights, arms folded behind his head.
When he's seven again, quiet breathing interspersed with breathless giggles, breaking the monotonous tone of cicadas and crickets, the occasional, distant roar of wild animals. Sabo on his left, pointing out constellations and Ace on Sabo's left, quizzing him for more details, for things he and Luffy never had the opportunity to learn, growing up with bandits.
After Sabo died, they stayed up late more than ever. Maybe because sleep would mean being separated, and they'd both had enough of that, so they repeated the constellations like a mantra until Luffy dropped off and Ace followed, not long after. The World Tree, the Wave, the Compass.
Luffy hasn't learned the constellations of the Grand Line (which is a good thing, because he'd probably fall asleep trying to name them all), but he when he shuts his eyes, he can almost imagine that the sound of waves crashing against the Sunny's hull is instead whispers in a treehouse.
Hiruma doesn't actually know when he started to realize that in the mix of things about him that scare other kids shitless, his teeth rank in the top. Maybe it was his first day of class, when after frowning at a boy who wouldn't leave him alone, he'd grinned instead, flashing a mouthful of wicked points and gleaming white. Elementary school kids, with their overactive imaginations, immediately pinned him for a vampire or a demon.
It didn't bother him in the least.
None of them were interesting to him, none of them difficult, or a source of information he didn't already know. None of them worth his time, because if they can't help him sharpen his intellect, then what use are they? Hiruma kept to himself, explored the hidden corners of the school and deflected bullies by throwing up his wall of bluffs and challenges. Everyone learned quickly that nothing fazed him and Hiruma Yoichi feared nothing and no one.
It's a good place to be, at the top of the food chain, but even at that age Hiruma knew being the scariest elementary schooler was equivalent to being the biggest tadpole in a puddle; sooner or later it'll dry up and the only way to survive is to grow legs and get out of there before it happens. Preferably morphing into a shark on the way. Apex predators are the only things worth becoming.
He starts taking the long way home, detouring off the usual path to stroll along the river. There isn't much he can do to broaden his horizons as a ten-year-old, but he can watch the city move, watch it shift and breathe, calculate it. Hiruma knows more about what's happening near and around his neighborhood than just about anyone else.
The day he breaks into the American base, he learns that while children can only be afraid of the things that are in front of them, things like sharp teeth and pointed ears, adults are afraid of the things they /can't/ see. Hiruma decides that that's much more interesting.
The soldiers take him under their wing, show him how to load, disarm, shoot; how to dissasemble a gun, clean it and reassemble it in under ten minutes. They teach him even more cardgames, the strategies of war, of football, of how to pick up women (which Hiruma's fairly certain he'll never need to use), and feed his hunger for gambling, sharpening his mind on numbers and probability and statistics. (And currency conversion.)
He has powerful weapons at his disposal, but it isn't until he meets Kurita that Hiruma decides to turn them to a practical application. He'd been mesmerized just watching the soldiers /play/ football; against soldiers a team their age and size have no chance but in middle school?
Luffy drags his feet, shuffling so the hot sand gets between his toes and gets between his skin and the bands of his sandals, not that it'd make much of a difference in the amount of sand that's already in his clothes. Under his hat, down his shirt, he can definitely feel some of it scratching around in his shorts, and he heaves a long, unhappy sigh.
Only Zoro hears it (or responds to it), and he looks over his shoulder, raising one thin eyebrow in his direction. Luffy turns his best set of sad-eyes in his direction, stumbles forward and lets his head drop between Zoro's shoulderblades, then rubs his face against the back of his cloak to get the sweat off.
Zoro bears it the same way he does everything else lately, with stoic determination and a fair dash of resignation. Or maybe it's just so hot and he's dehydrated enough that he doesn't even have the energy to fight Luffy off. That's probably it. The swordsman moves away when it starts getting uncomfortably hotter than it already is (cloaks billow for a /reason/, as it turns out) and Luffy turns his attention to Nami instead, who glares at him, levels her climatact in his direction and very slowly says, "Whetever you're planning, it's not going to help."
He backs away wisely, falls into step with Usopp and they exchange another long sigh, eyes out for another rock or some sort of outcropping they can take shelter under.
When they finally find it, Luffy ducks under first, claims the space in the shade where the rock is (relatively) cool, sprawls out on his back, kicks off his sandals and wiggles his toes in the sand.
Musashi runs into Kurita outside his favorite bakery in the last few minutes before it closes. He's got three cups of coffee nestled in one of those cardboard trays balanced precariously on top of two boxes of cream puffs, and nearly drops all of it to wave at Musashi as he approaches, expression of abject despair in anticipation of a coffee spill already on his face. The store's already closed.
Despite his preternaturally terrible skill at catching, Kurita snags the cream puffs before they can fall (priorities), and Musashi manages to save the coffee with only a few drops spilled, so they both breathe a sigh of relief and start walking.
It's dark, and cold enough that Musashi's flipped up the collar of his jacket by the time they reach Deimon's clubhouse. The lights are on, and someone's already there when they step inside, feet on the table, laptop balanced over his knees. Musashi sets the coffee tray down, takes a cup and hands the other to Hiruma, who sniffs to make sure it's black and then takes a long sip. Kurita rips open a few packets of sugar and dumps it into the one cup that contains coffee with milk.
"You're late, fucking old man," Hiruma says, but his voice is calm, warm and content with a cup of coffee in one hand and technology under the other. He's in his element, and they're in the last few days of their third year.
They can't participate in games, but the three of them still spend inordinate amounts of time in the clubhouse, and Hiruma drills plays and strategy into Sena's mind until Musashi almost feels sorry for the kid-- but he has a good mind for shaping the field, so Deimon plays fine even without their ace quarterback.
Hiruma's editing the clips of their old games and film of other schools, meticulously adding captions and notes where relevant, for when he cuts ties with Deimon (even though Musashi knows he won't, really). When he wraps up the last game of the Kantou Tournament against the Nagas (the Devilbats lost, but just barely after winning against the Dinosaurs), Hiruma slams the notebook shut and reaches across the table for a cream puff.
Musashi's settled on the table, ankle crossed over his knee, finishing off the last of his coffee before standing up, a key in hand. Kurita flips up the corner of a poster to reveal a keyhole, and once it's unlocked they push the section of wall back to reveal a rack of weapons. A lovingly-maintained M16, an HK416, a vintage 2B-A-40 from 1956 in the assault rifle section, a Benelli Supernova, Remington 1100 and a Smith & Wesson 3000 mounted in the shotgun section, a few pistols, and two M1 bazookas.
(Number of guns registered to Hiruma Yoichi in Japan: zero.)
Hiruma takes them down one at a time, packs them into the boxes Musashi drags over and Kurita carries them out to the truck Musashi has waiting outside. Hiruma hands the kicker a sheet of paper with an address on it, once they've locked up the room and stepped outside. "That's that, fucking old man."
Musashi runs a hand through his hair, scratches the back of his neck and flashes Hiruma a slow, crooked smile. "We had a good run."
"The next time we all stand on the same field," Kurita chimes in, stepping into the circle of light cast by the street lamp, hands dropping onto their shoulders, "will be the Rice Bowl, definitely!"
Musashi moves out of the way first, just in time to dodge the machine gun Hiruma whips out of nowhere as he yells, "You fucking idiot!"
Unsui's packing for Enma when he finds it, an old photo album sitting in a box under his bed, alongside a mostly-deflated soccer ball and several volumes of 'Whistle!'. It's been a while since he'd even thought about that particular book, a birthday present from over a decade ago, small and leather-bound. Very adult-like, which is why he'd asked for it in the first place. Unsui never liked the cartoonish albums kids that age tended to receive, colorful, loud anime designs on them.
(His interests switch nearly as quickly as Agon's; he didn't think then that he'd ever stop reading Ippo, but if he did, then he'd have to find another album, and that would be a pain.)
It's probably the only one in the house not filled with pictures of Agon standing on podiums with a trophy in hand, or Agon streaking past other elementary- and middle schoolers for track team exhibitions, or Agon doing wheelies on his bike (which Unsui figured out after a while, but it's still difficult for him), though every picture in it does have Agon front and center. Kind of.
The first photo is a stroller (double, of course), with a beautiful but frail-looking woman kneeling behind it, two statues in her hands, smiling brightly at the camera. Two babies- they couldn't be more than ten months- one red-faced and screaming, the other clutching his blanket, occupy most of the frame. Neither of them are particularly interested in the statues, but then again both of them were too young to realize how much it would eventually dominate their lives.
Agyo and Ungyo. One isn't whole without the other, and that's coincidentally where the similarities end because Agyo and Ungyo are fundamentally equal and that was a nice thought for Unsui, for the time it lasted.
(Still, it didn't stop Unsui from going through every single photo album in their house to dig these pictures up, going off half-remembered glimpses and hazy memories. Agon helped, because this was before Unsui became aware of how much the adults praised his brother over him, and before he started to realize how different they really were.)
The next picture, they're a little older and they've both been placed on those stone guardian lions outside the local Chinese restaurant. Agon's leaning over his lion's head, practically standing on its back, mouth open in a snarl and little hand raised, fingers curved into claws to match. Unsui's got both arms folded on his lion's head, flashing a pleased, close-mouthed smile.
The ones after that look like elementary school.
In front of a temple, posing for real this time. Unsui's trying to be serious but his lips are curved up at the corners, arms down at his sides, a stick clutched in his hand. Agon has one hand raised, fist clenched, baring his teeth at the camera.
One in Nara, where there aren't many statue pictures but there are two deer, both male, trying to intimidate the two of them into handing over the pieces of bread in their pockets. They're back-to-back, Unsui's eyes wide and locked on the points of one stag's antler, one hand clutching the hem of his twin's shirt from the back and the other palm-out, as if to push the deer's snout away; Agon has one arm up, pulled back and ready to swing. (Coincidentally, this was when Unsui figured out that their father prescribes to tough love, though he probably would have stepped in if the deer tried to gore them.)
There's a rash of pictures from an early middle school trip to Kyoto, the pair of them posing in front of everything from actual Nioh to komainu statues. Everything from serious pictures to silly ones; Unsui remembers how some of the teachers had cooed when they'd insisted on joining the same group, despite being in different classes. Even (especially) then, Agon's sweet, wide-eyed smile was deadly.
The last picture in the lineup is from the last year of middle school, before they'd left for Shinryuuji. Dad had insisted on one last batch of pictures before his boys are off to high school for the majority of the next three years. Unsui looks the way he always does in front of the shrine by their house, luckily not the same as he did the night before, mouth pressed in a thin line. Agon's sneering, one hand pushing his shades up his forehead.
Unsui had stopped gathering pictures by then, stopped insisting that Agon take one with him whenever they ran into something particularly interesting. It was probably around then that he'd moved from vaguely resenting his twin for his ability to hating the similarities between them.
Unsui's thinking back on this last year: Agon at the gym, Agon playing from the start of their games (insisting they use the Dragonfly from the beginning for every single one though only really getting his way half the time), Agon at practice, Agon driving the team so hard the freshmen were begging Unsui to ask him to slow down. Which he didn't, but he did shift their schedules around a bit so only the second and third-years would be subject to his younger twin.
(He wishes he'd had the nerve to ask Agon to take a picture at the gate, before their graduation ceremony and before they'd packed up and brought all their things back home on an hour-long train ride.)
Unsui remembers something, abruptly, and whips out his phone for it, scanning the top line of his inbox. There's a new mail Ikkyu had sent a few hours back, a picture taken nearly four months ago that he hasn't had a chance to get printed (but seriously, who stores things on paper anymore?).
It's him and Agon in their football uniforms, stepping off the stairs in front of the school and walking through the gateway. Ikkyu had backed up enough so the statues at the entrance are visible (how did he know?), and he'd caught Agon mid-sentence, one hand gesticulating wildly and the other on Unsui's shoulder, using it as an armrest. Unsui'd been listening quietly, mostly. Neither of them are smiling, but Unsui doesn't smile much anyway and because the girls Agon had brought by had left earlier, he doesn't have to act sweet around Unsui.
It's such a painfully normal picture. It feels the way he and Agon used to be, when they were twins, when they were equal (Unsui thinks back and he really can't remember a time he was ever Agon's equal but it was middle school when he'd really started to feel that way).
He prints it out at the convenience store, leaving the album open on his bed at home. When he gets back, picture clutched in one hand as he bursts into his room, Unsui stops in his tracks when he sees Agon already there, book open on his lap and smirking down at the open page. He looks up when the door creaks to a stop, expression shifting from amusement to curiosity when he sees the photo in Unsui's hand.
"Give it."
Unsui hesitates for a second before approaching and pressing the photo into Agon's palm. He sits on the foot of the bed, pulls his feet under his knees and lets his hands rest on his ankles. "Ikkyu took that a few months ago."
Agon's already flipped to the end where there's a slot for one more picture and he deftly slides it into place, then slams the book shut, handing it back as he walks out. He'd only come back for a second to switch his Juliets for a pair of his new vintage Romeos (the full-jacket ones, not the new half-jacket ones, which according to Agon look like absolute shit) before the album distracted him. "You need a bigger fucking book, Unko."
The book goes into his suitcase, so they'll have it at their new place (where it'll probably end up back under his bed because Unsui actually expects to have teammates over, if the amount of time the Nagas spent on his side of his and Agon's room at Shinryuuji is any indication).
He's clearing his messages when he finally sees the text Ikkyu had included. It's short, but Unsui decides not to delete it after all.
In defiance of his shinigami side, Ichigo ages like a human.
It wouldn't bother Ikkaku, because he's seen plenty of humans age and die, except that this is Ichigo and he's never made friends with a human before. Strong ones in particular seem to waste away more dramatically, their years piling on like weights in brittle bones and painful joints.
Which isn't to say that Ichigo wasted away, because he's always been too strong for that. He ages from a freakishly strong teenager into a freakishly stronger man and from there into a still-freakishly-strong old geezer, bright-eyed and sprightly. But even that kind of spirit is no match for time, and by the time he's frail and sick, Rukia's stopped visiting (it's too painful, for her) and Renji's there less frequently (for him, too) though Ikkaku's never learned to leave well enough alone.
For a while, he'd seen the kid as his nephew- or maybe a bratty friend. When Ichigo reached his peak of strength in his thirties, they'd been 'brothers-in-arms', 'comrades', or maybe just plain 'brothers', as much as any of the men in his division. And then Ichigo had continued to age and Ikkaku had stayed the same.
(It probably says something about them, that they'd thrown around the idea of Ikkaku offing Ichigo early just so he could skip the aging and head straight for Soul Society but by then he'd had a wife, kids, so it never progressed beyond teasing. Ikkaku's the only person he ever made those jokes to, half wishful thinking, half nostalgia for the days he didn't have obligations like a job or a family, though he'd looked happier and more content then than any other time in his life. Probably because Ikkaku's the only person he knew who'd do it without hesitation if asked, even though he never did.)
Ichigo asks him, with the shadow of death hanging over his head and Ikkaku almost giddy with anticipation (his division had called first dibs on Ichigo decades ago), how he had died.
As a rule, the two of them don't talk about personal things, or serious things. Ikkaku's comments telling him to hurry up and die already would make anyone else intensely uneasy, but it had become a comfort, to Ichigo. People are waiting for me. I still have things to look forward to. I'll see my friends again. I'll be young again, healthy again, whole again.
It occurs to Ikkaku then that despite his bravado, Ichigo isn't so above his fear of death after all, his humanity and its will to live, to survive still strong even at this age. He sits on the table, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, as arrogant, reckless and brimming with strength as the day they'd met. "Drowned," he says simply, and deflects Ichigo's next question, because of course he's a strong swimmer, he's always been, "there was a storm, the mast fell over and I got tangled in the ropes. Lent my knife to someone else, couldn't get through it with my teeth before I blacked out."
Ichigo can imagine it, can see in his mind's eye a younger Ikkaku falling into the water, thick ropes tangled around his limbs and him reaching for the blade he'd always kept at his hip, eyes widening in panic as he realizes that it isn't there. It's no wonder he rarely takes his hand off Hoozukimaru. It's a strange fear to have, because Ichigo's never seen him hesitant to dive into choppy waves, but the moment he loses his grasp on his sword, he's immediately uneasy.
"Sorry," he says, but Ikkaku dismisses him with a wave and a grin.
"Didn't have much to live for anyway." A brief silence and then, "Not like you, right?"
"Says the dumbass who's always telling me to die."
"Right, right. You've had a long, full life, old man."
"It doesn't feel like enough, compared to you guys."
Ikkaku snorts, pokes Ichigo lightly on the chest and says with a fair amount of pride, "No shit. Everything you've done, you had to squeeze into one lifetime. Me, I've had four, maybe five. Now stop talkin' like an old man and die already."
Ichigo chuckles, lets his head drop back against the pillow and closes his eyes. The time is 2:11 in the morning when he goes to sleep and it's 3:47 (Ikkaku had been staring at the digital clock on the wall- what? it's not like there's anything else to do) when he decidedly won't wake up again.
He's taking his sweet time, though, so Ikkaku approaches, hand passing through Ichigo's until it catches on something solid and warm, pulsing with energy and he grabs it, pulling his spirit out of his body by the wrist.
Ichigo's smiling at the sudden weightlessness, but his face falls when he looks at his hand, at the wrinkles and liver spots still on it. Ikkaku doesn't say anything, only draws Hoozukimaru and cleanly severs his chain, grinning at the wonder in Ichigo's eyes as his back unbows, his skin tightens and he's back to the way he was at seventeen. He's weaker now than he was then, but there's a predatory glint in Ikkaku's eye that says he'll have plenty of time to get back to his prime.
Before Ichigo can protest, Ikkaku's bumping the bottom of Hoozukimaru's hilt on his forehead, much harder than strictly necessary because it's been a long time since he could be rough with Ichigo without fear of hurting him.
Agon sees it coming when Unsui stops touching him.
They've never been very tactile but Unsui's never been hesitant before, to punch Agon lightly on the shoulder, to jump him from behind and wrap an arm over his shoulders, to ruffle his hair, to pull him along by a hand or a wrist when he's wandering too far from their parents.
Mom dies and everything changes.
They finally get their own rooms, Agon's side of their pushed-together twin beds moving to their mother's old bedroom, along with his desk and chair and clothes and toys. Agon takes after their father-- neither of them are sentimental-- but he notices when Unsui stops spending time in his room, starts spending more time at school and takes the long way home, quietly ducking around the corner to head upstairs when he gets back instead of announcing his presence like he used to.
It's a gradual slip. It's like Unsui leeched warmth from their mother and then radiated it to everyone else but now that she's gone, he's running on reserves and there isn't much left. He stops ruffling Agon's hair-- dad does it all the time, still, and Unsui stops hugging Agon so much, and leaning on him and they hardly play with each other anymore.
--
They're in their last year of middle school when Unsui stops looking to spend time with him entirely. It's a cold, resigned sort of distance and it drives Agon nuts because it's as if he's losing his brother, who had until then been essential and constant, like his limbs, like food and water and air.
It goes on for a month before Agon realizes that Unsui isn't doing this consciously-- though he's probably aware of it-- and he decides to make up for lost time through high school, when they'll actually have to live together. Unsui doesn't have any hair to ruffle so Agon starts rubbing his head instead, and using his shoulder as an armrest, and he didn't shove his brother all that much before but he starts now.
Unsui takes it but doesn't push back, keeps his hands to himself, tells Agon to stop but never takes any action, as if every time he tries to counter is another reminder of his own shortcomings whenever it doesn't work. He puts up a passive sort of resistance instead, unflappable in the face of the single most irritating little brother on the face of the planet.
--
After the match against Deimon, after the field's cleared and they're back in their dorm and Agon's sulking on his futon, Unsui sits down next to him and hands him the team's training schedule. In the school gym, he's the one who usually spots Agon on the bench, though they don't do much talking.
They win the Kantou Tournament the following year and Unsui squeezes his upper arm through his jersey, after their final touchdown, then goes to join the rest of the team.
Unsui keeps initiating contact but never directly, always with a cold water bottle pressed to Agon's arm or a light nudge through his shoulder pads and towels dropped unceremoniously into his lap or over his shoulders. It's a slow thaw, but steady and unrelenting, and Agon doesn't make it any more difficult than it absolutely has to be because he isn't nice-- but for his twin, he can hold off on being outright cruel.
--
It's summer when they finally find an apartment worth staying in for the rest of their college years, and they spend the entire break week making the place livable.
"That's it," Unsui says absently as he dusts off his hands, turning back to the living room of their new college apartment, taking in the lines of furniture, all arranged for maximum comfort and ease of use rather than aesthetics, regarding the doors to their rooms (arranged identically; for all the ways they differ, they had shared a bedroom for years and both of them know this setup best) with a mixture of apprehension and appreciation.
Unsui's rolled the sleeves of his t-shirt over his shoulders, cuffs of his fitted jeans folded halfway up his calves and he flexes his bare toes against the smooth wood floor.
Agon rakes his fingers through his hair, short braids in preparation for dreading flopping back down into his face as he exhales, long and loud, and then he sprawls out on the couch. He'd been forced to help clean-- which is usually Unsui's deal, but the older twin had made it abundantly clear that Agon will be doing his share of it or else living will become an endless hell of nagging, so now he's dirty from scrubbing out the stove and he's sweaty, clothes rumpled. Agon closes his eyes and lets his arms droop over the side and armrest.
There's a pressure on his cheek, where Unsui's thumbing away a smear of grease or dirt or something, and then a pair of hands on his knees, pushing them lightly to make room to sit.
(Agon doesn't move his feet at all, though, so Unsui plops his ass down directly on his legs. They both have an absolute blast in the ensuing scuffle.)
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
unsui, 122. habit
As with all of his other shortcomings, Unsui immediately works to overcome this particular blind spot. He studies up on emojis, but can't bring himself to use any of them, so he sticks with symbols; ☽ for night games, ☂ for rain, ★ for congratulations, a cute picture of a cupcake that Suzuna had taken with his phone for birthdays.
In his second year, everyone's just learned to accept the fact that he's about as verbose over SMS as in person and he'll never really progress beyond that. One week, he cuts out the emojis altogether and the team avoids him out of practice until Sena asks him in a very politely-worded text if he's okay.
[sprained my wrist last week practice.]
d. brothers, 103. graves
He feels it sometimes, when he has the night watch, sprawled on his back in the crow's nest (really more like a tower), feet propped up on a set of Zoro's weights, arms folded behind his head.
When he's seven again, quiet breathing interspersed with breathless giggles, breaking the monotonous tone of cicadas and crickets, the occasional, distant roar of wild animals. Sabo on his left, pointing out constellations and Ace on Sabo's left, quizzing him for more details, for things he and Luffy never had the opportunity to learn, growing up with bandits.
After Sabo died, they stayed up late more than ever. Maybe because sleep would mean being separated, and they'd both had enough of that, so they repeated the constellations like a mantra until Luffy dropped off and Ace followed, not long after. The World Tree, the Wave, the Compass.
Luffy hasn't learned the constellations of the Grand Line (which is a good thing, because he'd probably fall asleep trying to name them all), but he when he shuts his eyes, he can almost imagine that the sound of waves crashing against the Sunny's hull is instead whispers in a treehouse.
hiruma, 9. teeth
It didn't bother him in the least.
None of them were interesting to him, none of them difficult, or a source of information he didn't already know. None of them worth his time, because if they can't help him sharpen his intellect, then what use are they? Hiruma kept to himself, explored the hidden corners of the school and deflected bullies by throwing up his wall of bluffs and challenges. Everyone learned quickly that nothing fazed him and Hiruma Yoichi feared nothing and no one.
It's a good place to be, at the top of the food chain, but even at that age Hiruma knew being the scariest elementary schooler was equivalent to being the biggest tadpole in a puddle; sooner or later it'll dry up and the only way to survive is to grow legs and get out of there before it happens. Preferably morphing into a shark on the way. Apex predators are the only things worth becoming.
He starts taking the long way home, detouring off the usual path to stroll along the river. There isn't much he can do to broaden his horizons as a ten-year-old, but he can watch the city move, watch it shift and breathe, calculate it. Hiruma knows more about what's happening near and around his neighborhood than just about anyone else.
The day he breaks into the American base, he learns that while children can only be afraid of the things that are in front of them, things like sharp teeth and pointed ears, adults are afraid of the things they /can't/ see. Hiruma decides that that's much more interesting.
The soldiers take him under their wing, show him how to load, disarm, shoot; how to dissasemble a gun, clean it and reassemble it in under ten minutes. They teach him even more cardgames, the strategies of war, of football, of how to pick up women (which Hiruma's fairly certain he'll never need to use), and feed his hunger for gambling, sharpening his mind on numbers and probability and statistics. (And currency conversion.)
He has powerful weapons at his disposal, but it isn't until he meets Kurita that Hiruma decides to turn them to a practical application. He'd been mesmerized just watching the soldiers /play/ football; against soldiers a team their age and size have no chance but in middle school?
Yeah. The chances aren't zero.
luffy, 79. shoes
Only Zoro hears it (or responds to it), and he looks over his shoulder, raising one thin eyebrow in his direction. Luffy turns his best set of sad-eyes in his direction, stumbles forward and lets his head drop between Zoro's shoulderblades, then rubs his face against the back of his cloak to get the sweat off.
Zoro bears it the same way he does everything else lately, with stoic determination and a fair dash of resignation. Or maybe it's just so hot and he's dehydrated enough that he doesn't even have the energy to fight Luffy off. That's probably it. The swordsman moves away when it starts getting uncomfortably hotter than it already is (cloaks billow for a /reason/, as it turns out) and Luffy turns his attention to Nami instead, who glares at him, levels her climatact in his direction and very slowly says, "Whetever you're planning, it's not going to help."
He backs away wisely, falls into step with Usopp and they exchange another long sigh, eyes out for another rock or some sort of outcropping they can take shelter under.
When they finally find it, Luffy ducks under first, claims the space in the shade where the rock is (relatively) cool, sprawls out on his back, kicks off his sandals and wiggles his toes in the sand.
maoh trio, 118. night
Despite his preternaturally terrible skill at catching, Kurita snags the cream puffs before they can fall (priorities), and Musashi manages to save the coffee with only a few drops spilled, so they both breathe a sigh of relief and start walking.
It's dark, and cold enough that Musashi's flipped up the collar of his jacket by the time they reach Deimon's clubhouse. The lights are on, and someone's already there when they step inside, feet on the table, laptop balanced over his knees. Musashi sets the coffee tray down, takes a cup and hands the other to Hiruma, who sniffs to make sure it's black and then takes a long sip. Kurita rips open a few packets of sugar and dumps it into the one cup that contains coffee with milk.
"You're late, fucking old man," Hiruma says, but his voice is calm, warm and content with a cup of coffee in one hand and technology under the other. He's in his element, and they're in the last few days of their third year.
They can't participate in games, but the three of them still spend inordinate amounts of time in the clubhouse, and Hiruma drills plays and strategy into Sena's mind until Musashi almost feels sorry for the kid-- but he has a good mind for shaping the field, so Deimon plays fine even without their ace quarterback.
Hiruma's editing the clips of their old games and film of other schools, meticulously adding captions and notes where relevant, for when he cuts ties with Deimon (even though Musashi knows he won't, really). When he wraps up the last game of the Kantou Tournament against the Nagas (the Devilbats lost, but just barely after winning against the Dinosaurs), Hiruma slams the notebook shut and reaches across the table for a cream puff.
Musashi's settled on the table, ankle crossed over his knee, finishing off the last of his coffee before standing up, a key in hand. Kurita flips up the corner of a poster to reveal a keyhole, and once it's unlocked they push the section of wall back to reveal a rack of weapons. A lovingly-maintained M16, an HK416, a vintage 2B-A-40 from 1956 in the assault rifle section, a Benelli Supernova, Remington 1100 and a Smith & Wesson 3000 mounted in the shotgun section, a few pistols, and two M1 bazookas.
(Number of guns registered to Hiruma Yoichi in Japan: zero.)
Hiruma takes them down one at a time, packs them into the boxes Musashi drags over and Kurita carries them out to the truck Musashi has waiting outside. Hiruma hands the kicker a sheet of paper with an address on it, once they've locked up the room and stepped outside. "That's that, fucking old man."
Musashi runs a hand through his hair, scratches the back of his neck and flashes Hiruma a slow, crooked smile. "We had a good run."
"The next time we all stand on the same field," Kurita chimes in, stepping into the circle of light cast by the street lamp, hands dropping onto their shoulders, "will be the Rice Bowl, definitely!"
Musashi moves out of the way first, just in time to dodge the machine gun Hiruma whips out of nowhere as he yells, "You fucking idiot!"
unsui, 123. picture
(His interests switch nearly as quickly as Agon's; he didn't think then that he'd ever stop reading Ippo, but if he did, then he'd have to find another album, and that would be a pain.)
It's probably the only one in the house not filled with pictures of Agon standing on podiums with a trophy in hand, or Agon streaking past other elementary- and middle schoolers for track team exhibitions, or Agon doing wheelies on his bike (which Unsui figured out after a while, but it's still difficult for him), though every picture in it does have Agon front and center. Kind of.
The first photo is a stroller (double, of course), with a beautiful but frail-looking woman kneeling behind it, two statues in her hands, smiling brightly at the camera. Two babies- they couldn't be more than ten months- one red-faced and screaming, the other clutching his blanket, occupy most of the frame. Neither of them are particularly interested in the statues, but then again both of them were too young to realize how much it would eventually dominate their lives.
Agyo and Ungyo. One isn't whole without the other, and that's coincidentally where the similarities end because Agyo and Ungyo are fundamentally equal and that was a nice thought for Unsui, for the time it lasted.
(Still, it didn't stop Unsui from going through every single photo album in their house to dig these pictures up, going off half-remembered glimpses and hazy memories. Agon helped, because this was before Unsui became aware of how much the adults praised his brother over him, and before he started to realize how different they really were.)
The next picture, they're a little older and they've both been placed on those stone guardian lions outside the local Chinese restaurant. Agon's leaning over his lion's head, practically standing on its back, mouth open in a snarl and little hand raised, fingers curved into claws to match. Unsui's got both arms folded on his lion's head, flashing a pleased, close-mouthed smile.
The ones after that look like elementary school.
In front of a temple, posing for real this time. Unsui's trying to be serious but his lips are curved up at the corners, arms down at his sides, a stick clutched in his hand. Agon has one hand raised, fist clenched, baring his teeth at the camera.
One in Nara, where there aren't many statue pictures but there are two deer, both male, trying to intimidate the two of them into handing over the pieces of bread in their pockets. They're back-to-back, Unsui's eyes wide and locked on the points of one stag's antler, one hand clutching the hem of his twin's shirt from the back and the other palm-out, as if to push the deer's snout away; Agon has one arm up, pulled back and ready to swing. (Coincidentally, this was when Unsui figured out that their father prescribes to tough love, though he probably would have stepped in if the deer tried to gore them.)
There's a rash of pictures from an early middle school trip to Kyoto, the pair of them posing in front of everything from actual Nioh to komainu statues. Everything from serious pictures to silly ones; Unsui remembers how some of the teachers had cooed when they'd insisted on joining the same group, despite being in different classes. Even (especially) then, Agon's sweet, wide-eyed smile was deadly.
The last picture in the lineup is from the last year of middle school, before they'd left for Shinryuuji. Dad had insisted on one last batch of pictures before his boys are off to high school for the majority of the next three years. Unsui looks the way he always does in front of the shrine by their house, luckily not the same as he did the night before, mouth pressed in a thin line. Agon's sneering, one hand pushing his shades up his forehead.
Unsui had stopped gathering pictures by then, stopped insisting that Agon take one with him whenever they ran into something particularly interesting. It was probably around then that he'd moved from vaguely resenting his twin for his ability to hating the similarities between them.
Unsui's thinking back on this last year: Agon at the gym, Agon playing from the start of their games (insisting they use the Dragonfly from the beginning for every single one though only really getting his way half the time), Agon at practice, Agon driving the team so hard the freshmen were begging Unsui to ask him to slow down. Which he didn't, but he did shift their schedules around a bit so only the second and third-years would be subject to his younger twin.
(He wishes he'd had the nerve to ask Agon to take a picture at the gate, before their graduation ceremony and before they'd packed up and brought all their things back home on an hour-long train ride.)
Unsui remembers something, abruptly, and whips out his phone for it, scanning the top line of his inbox. There's a new mail Ikkyu had sent a few hours back, a picture taken nearly four months ago that he hasn't had a chance to get printed (but seriously, who stores things on paper anymore?).
It's him and Agon in their football uniforms, stepping off the stairs in front of the school and walking through the gateway. Ikkyu had backed up enough so the statues at the entrance are visible (how did he know?), and he'd caught Agon mid-sentence, one hand gesticulating wildly and the other on Unsui's shoulder, using it as an armrest. Unsui'd been listening quietly, mostly. Neither of them are smiling, but Unsui doesn't smile much anyway and because the girls Agon had brought by had left earlier, he doesn't have to act sweet around Unsui.
It's such a painfully normal picture. It feels the way he and Agon used to be, when they were twins, when they were equal (Unsui thinks back and he really can't remember a time he was ever Agon's equal but it was middle school when he'd really started to feel that way).
He prints it out at the convenience store, leaving the album open on his bed at home. When he gets back, picture clutched in one hand as he bursts into his room, Unsui stops in his tracks when he sees Agon already there, book open on his lap and smirking down at the open page. He looks up when the door creaks to a stop, expression shifting from amusement to curiosity when he sees the photo in Unsui's hand.
"Give it."
Unsui hesitates for a second before approaching and pressing the photo into Agon's palm. He sits on the foot of the bed, pulls his feet under his knees and lets his hands rest on his ankles. "Ikkyu took that a few months ago."
Agon's already flipped to the end where there's a slot for one more picture and he deftly slides it into place, then slams the book shut, handing it back as he walks out. He'd only come back for a second to switch his Juliets for a pair of his new vintage Romeos (the full-jacket ones, not the new half-jacket ones, which according to Agon look like absolute shit) before the album distracted him. "You need a bigger fucking book, Unko."
The book goes into his suitcase, so they'll have it at their new place (where it'll probably end up back under his bed because Unsui actually expects to have teammates over, if the amount of time the Nagas spent on his side of his and Agon's room at Shinryuuji is any indication).
He's clearing his messages when he finally sees the text Ikkyu had included. It's short, but Unsui decides not to delete it after all.
「仁王。」
ikkaku, 95. clock
It wouldn't bother Ikkaku, because he's seen plenty of humans age and die, except that this is Ichigo and he's never made friends with a human before. Strong ones in particular seem to waste away more dramatically, their years piling on like weights in brittle bones and painful joints.
Which isn't to say that Ichigo wasted away, because he's always been too strong for that. He ages from a freakishly strong teenager into a freakishly stronger man and from there into a still-freakishly-strong old geezer, bright-eyed and sprightly. But even that kind of spirit is no match for time, and by the time he's frail and sick, Rukia's stopped visiting (it's too painful, for her) and Renji's there less frequently (for him, too) though Ikkaku's never learned to leave well enough alone.
For a while, he'd seen the kid as his nephew- or maybe a bratty friend. When Ichigo reached his peak of strength in his thirties, they'd been 'brothers-in-arms', 'comrades', or maybe just plain 'brothers', as much as any of the men in his division. And then Ichigo had continued to age and Ikkaku had stayed the same.
(It probably says something about them, that they'd thrown around the idea of Ikkaku offing Ichigo early just so he could skip the aging and head straight for Soul Society but by then he'd had a wife, kids, so it never progressed beyond teasing. Ikkaku's the only person he ever made those jokes to, half wishful thinking, half nostalgia for the days he didn't have obligations like a job or a family, though he'd looked happier and more content then than any other time in his life. Probably because Ikkaku's the only person he knew who'd do it without hesitation if asked, even though he never did.)
Ichigo asks him, with the shadow of death hanging over his head and Ikkaku almost giddy with anticipation (his division had called first dibs on Ichigo decades ago), how he had died.
As a rule, the two of them don't talk about personal things, or serious things. Ikkaku's comments telling him to hurry up and die already would make anyone else intensely uneasy, but it had become a comfort, to Ichigo. People are waiting for me. I still have things to look forward to. I'll see my friends again. I'll be young again, healthy again, whole again.
It occurs to Ikkaku then that despite his bravado, Ichigo isn't so above his fear of death after all, his humanity and its will to live, to survive still strong even at this age. He sits on the table, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, as arrogant, reckless and brimming with strength as the day they'd met. "Drowned," he says simply, and deflects Ichigo's next question, because of course he's a strong swimmer, he's always been, "there was a storm, the mast fell over and I got tangled in the ropes. Lent my knife to someone else, couldn't get through it with my teeth before I blacked out."
Ichigo can imagine it, can see in his mind's eye a younger Ikkaku falling into the water, thick ropes tangled around his limbs and him reaching for the blade he'd always kept at his hip, eyes widening in panic as he realizes that it isn't there. It's no wonder he rarely takes his hand off Hoozukimaru. It's a strange fear to have, because Ichigo's never seen him hesitant to dive into choppy waves, but the moment he loses his grasp on his sword, he's immediately uneasy.
"Sorry," he says, but Ikkaku dismisses him with a wave and a grin.
"Didn't have much to live for anyway." A brief silence and then, "Not like you, right?"
"Says the dumbass who's always telling me to die."
"Right, right. You've had a long, full life, old man."
"It doesn't feel like enough, compared to you guys."
Ikkaku snorts, pokes Ichigo lightly on the chest and says with a fair amount of pride, "No shit. Everything you've done, you had to squeeze into one lifetime. Me, I've had four, maybe five. Now stop talkin' like an old man and die already."
Ichigo chuckles, lets his head drop back against the pillow and closes his eyes. The time is 2:11 in the morning when he goes to sleep and it's 3:47 (Ikkaku had been staring at the digital clock on the wall- what? it's not like there's anything else to do) when he decidedly won't wake up again.
He's taking his sweet time, though, so Ikkaku approaches, hand passing through Ichigo's until it catches on something solid and warm, pulsing with energy and he grabs it, pulling his spirit out of his body by the wrist.
Ichigo's smiling at the sudden weightlessness, but his face falls when he looks at his hand, at the wrinkles and liver spots still on it. Ikkaku doesn't say anything, only draws Hoozukimaru and cleanly severs his chain, grinning at the wonder in Ichigo's eyes as his back unbows, his skin tightens and he's back to the way he was at seventeen. He's weaker now than he was then, but there's a predatory glint in Ikkaku's eye that says he'll have plenty of time to get back to his prime.
Before Ichigo can protest, Ikkaku's bumping the bottom of Hoozukimaru's hilt on his forehead, much harder than strictly necessary because it's been a long time since he could be rough with Ichigo without fear of hurting him.
"Hey-"
"I'll see you on the other side, idiot."
agon, 78. autumn
They've never been very tactile but Unsui's never been hesitant before, to punch Agon lightly on the shoulder, to jump him from behind and wrap an arm over his shoulders, to ruffle his hair, to pull him along by a hand or a wrist when he's wandering too far from their parents.
Mom dies and everything changes.
They finally get their own rooms, Agon's side of their pushed-together twin beds moving to their mother's old bedroom, along with his desk and chair and clothes and toys. Agon takes after their father-- neither of them are sentimental-- but he notices when Unsui stops spending time in his room, starts spending more time at school and takes the long way home, quietly ducking around the corner to head upstairs when he gets back instead of announcing his presence like he used to.
It's a gradual slip. It's like Unsui leeched warmth from their mother and then radiated it to everyone else but now that she's gone, he's running on reserves and there isn't much left. He stops ruffling Agon's hair-- dad does it all the time, still, and Unsui stops hugging Agon so much, and leaning on him and they hardly play with each other anymore.
--
They're in their last year of middle school when Unsui stops looking to spend time with him entirely. It's a cold, resigned sort of distance and it drives Agon nuts because it's as if he's losing his brother, who had until then been essential and constant, like his limbs, like food and water and air.
It goes on for a month before Agon realizes that Unsui isn't doing this consciously-- though he's probably aware of it-- and he decides to make up for lost time through high school, when they'll actually have to live together. Unsui doesn't have any hair to ruffle so Agon starts rubbing his head instead, and using his shoulder as an armrest, and he didn't shove his brother all that much before but he starts now.
Unsui takes it but doesn't push back, keeps his hands to himself, tells Agon to stop but never takes any action, as if every time he tries to counter is another reminder of his own shortcomings whenever it doesn't work. He puts up a passive sort of resistance instead, unflappable in the face of the single most irritating little brother on the face of the planet.
--
After the match against Deimon, after the field's cleared and they're back in their dorm and Agon's sulking on his futon, Unsui sits down next to him and hands him the team's training schedule. In the school gym, he's the one who usually spots Agon on the bench, though they don't do much talking.
They win the Kantou Tournament the following year and Unsui squeezes his upper arm through his jersey, after their final touchdown, then goes to join the rest of the team.
Unsui keeps initiating contact but never directly, always with a cold water bottle pressed to Agon's arm or a light nudge through his shoulder pads and towels dropped unceremoniously into his lap or over his shoulders. It's a slow thaw, but steady and unrelenting, and Agon doesn't make it any more difficult than it absolutely has to be because he isn't nice-- but for his twin, he can hold off on being outright cruel.
--
It's summer when they finally find an apartment worth staying in for the rest of their college years, and they spend the entire break week making the place livable.
"That's it," Unsui says absently as he dusts off his hands, turning back to the living room of their new college apartment, taking in the lines of furniture, all arranged for maximum comfort and ease of use rather than aesthetics, regarding the doors to their rooms (arranged identically; for all the ways they differ, they had shared a bedroom for years and both of them know this setup best) with a mixture of apprehension and appreciation.
Unsui's rolled the sleeves of his t-shirt over his shoulders, cuffs of his fitted jeans folded halfway up his calves and he flexes his bare toes against the smooth wood floor.
Agon rakes his fingers through his hair, short braids in preparation for dreading flopping back down into his face as he exhales, long and loud, and then he sprawls out on the couch. He'd been forced to help clean-- which is usually Unsui's deal, but the older twin had made it abundantly clear that Agon will be doing his share of it or else living will become an endless hell of nagging, so now he's dirty from scrubbing out the stove and he's sweaty, clothes rumpled. Agon closes his eyes and lets his arms droop over the side and armrest.
There's a pressure on his cheek, where Unsui's thumbing away a smear of grease or dirt or something, and then a pair of hands on his knees, pushing them lightly to make room to sit.
(Agon doesn't move his feet at all, though, so Unsui plops his ass down directly on his legs. They both have an absolute blast in the ensuing scuffle.)