Work Text:
It had been almost two years, but Uruha had finally grown used to his new routine. A day full of hot springs and relaxing might seem like heaven, but the steam and scented oils did nothing to ease Uruha’s heartache. He had been in an eternal loop, his body pruned and soft, it was impossible for the baths to soothe him.
But now, he’d partially escaped his shell. Kunishige’s death still haunted his every waking moment, memories of the seitei war paralyzed him, but now he could perceive the day passing into night. The hot springs lulled him into a stupor, but they saved him from unbearable pain.
His guards were polite but distant. They had a duty to protect him, not become his friend. Uruha was comfortable with the distance and made no actions to get closer. It would protect him if the Hishaku attacked and they risked their lives for him. Uruha had seen too many friends killed, he would never suffer through it again.
“How about that weather today, huh?”
Uruha sighed and slipped further into the hot spring until the water was up to his nose.
His ears were partially submerged, but he heard splashes as the other man stepped into the water.
Despite his efforts, one of the guards brazenly ignored Uruha’s invisible boundary. No matter how rude, how standoffish he was, Fushimi continuously approached him.
“The sun is so bright, isn’t it?”
At first Uruha had used silence as his strategy, but Fushimi had no problems spending hours sitting next to a brick wall, occasionally throwing conversation at it. He moved up until his mouth was above the water.
“Yeah.”
“I think there’s wind, but we can’t tell from the barrier.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What snacks do you want to eat later?”
“Yup.”
“That isn’t an answer, guess we can eat mochi.”
Uruha finally moved his gaze towards the other. He couldn’t stop the instinctual scowl.
“What?” Fushimi innocently frowned. His burnt blonde hair hung beneath the dark bandana. There were three white stripes along the right side, it was a miracle they weren’t brown and discolored. Even in the hot spring, shirtless and soaking in water, the cloth was wrapped around the bodyguard's head.
Uruha’s scowl deepened and he fully sat up, no longer hanging along the surface of the bath.
“Why do you never take that thing off?!”
“What thing?”
“The bandana!” Uruha almost growled. If you superimposed Fushimi’s appearance from the past two years, it would be a clear photo. No matter the day, time, or weather, without fail, Fushimi always wore that god-damn bandana.
Fushimi’s eyes slightly widened, but Uruha couldn’t stop. The dam had burst.
“Even when you’re underwater you leave it on. I’ve never seen you take it off, you don’t even wash it!! I’m surprised it doesn’t smell, must be using some powerful sorcery to contain the stench!!”
Fushimi opened his mouth and gave some mumbled defenses, but Uruha crashed through them. He had two years of questions trapped in him, there was no going back.
“Do you even wash your hair? Brush it? It must be a mess underneath.” Uruha pressed. Fushimi continued to back away, but there was no escape. “Do you ever take it off? You’re giving yourself brain damage.”
“It’s a long story….” Fushimi was defeated, he looked down at his reflection in the water.
“Long story?” Uruha mocked. There was probably an indent in Fushimi’s head, a layer of crust welding the bandana to his hair. He didn’t think there was any explanation that’d warrant a decade of never removing the bandana.
He was about to launch another string of attacks, but Fushimi was already out of the bath with a towel around his waist. Uruha watched him mumble a reply and leave a trail of wet footprints behind him.
At least he was finally alone. He didn’t know Fushimi was that defensive about the bandana. If he had, he would’ve used this strategy years ago. For the first time in Kokugoku he enjoyed the peace of true solitude. Uruha closed his eyes and sank into the warm water.
But even after an hour of soaking, he couldn’t relax. For some reason, there was a weight on his mind that forced his eyes open and made his mind race. The sounds of water mocked him, the scalding heat boiled his skin. He couldn’t stand it anymore and left the bath in rage.
He stormed back to his room drying his hair, trying to figure out what was wrong. When he began putting his robe on, it clicked. There was only one thing that could annoy him enough it would ruin his peace,
that goddamn bandana.
***
There was no going back. Uruha could now focus on one thing: taking off that goddamn bandana.
The bandana was practically stitched to Fushimi’s head; it would take strategy, subterfuge, and stealth to remove the cursed object. But Uruha’s years of training would serve him well, if necessary he’d fight with all his strength to remove it.
But thankfully that was a hypothetical. Uruha had a plan that didn’t rely on violence. Uruha had already taken all the necessary preparations, he even had backup.
At first they were shocked when Uruha tried speaking to them. In fact, their first thought was that there was an emergency; Some of the guards had immediately jumped into an attack-ready stance when he approached them. But Uruha had calmly explained his plan, and they had all agreed.
Through the guards, he’d learned some important intel. Fushimi had started wearing it his first year in the kamunabi, and since then had never been seen without it. Whether in battle, the shower, or sleeping, it was on his head. Some of the guards had asked him about it, and he had evaded every question. Even people he had known and worked beside for years got zero information. A few guards had tried to forcefully pull it off his head, but Fushimi had received a sudden burst in sorcery and smoke axed them into unconsciousness.
So each guard had eagerly agreed to help him. It was honestly not much of a plan, he only needed the schedule and a key. But Uruha would berate himself about waiting this long to take action later. For now, he had to guarantee the target was secured.
Uruha struck in the late hours of the night. He left his room and walked to Fushimi’s room. One of the body guards was stationed in the hallway. He met Uruha’s eyes and shortly nodded. Uruha weakly waved then hastily walked past.
Key in hand, he slowly unlocked the door. He was graceful, other than the click of the lock there was no sound. Using his swordsman training, Uruha delicately entered the room.
Fushimi was sleeping, blanked tucked up to his head. Even in his personal space, he had the bandana on his head. Uruha had expected it, but the sight of the bandana made him pause. Why wear it, even at night alone in his room? Did he even wear the bandana in his dreams???
Uruah calmed himself down and stepped forward. If he waited any longer, Fushimi might sense his presence.
Using the speed of white purity styel, Uruha slipped his fingers beneath the bandana and pulled it away. The instant the fabric was taken, Fushimi’s eyes shot open and he jumped out of bed, but Uruha had already retreated across the room.
Fushimi panted. Uruha stared at his smooth head. Was he seeing things, or was Fushimi really…
He took a step closer to Uruha. Like a discoball, the moonlight danced off the bald head and scattered around the room. Even in the darkness, it had a subtle glow; It was captivating, like finding a shimmering pearl on the sand under a pitch black night sky.
Fushimi’s eyes were wide, looking at the bandana in Uruha’s hand.
Uruha tried to speak, but there was no defense.
The cloth in his hands wasn’t a plain bandana, it also had the strands of false hair. Now that Uruha knew they were fake, it was obvious. They were stiff and dry like hay. Uruha held it delicately in his hand, fearing the brittle strands would snap in half if he carelessly threw it around.
“Did they help you?”
“No.” Uruha immediately answered. He was grateful he closed the door.
His enjoyment at de-bandanaing Fushimi had evaporated. He didn't know how to process the hairless, smooth scalp. Uruha didn’t see a single follicle.
“How long have you been bald?”
“It’s a long story…”
Uruha waited, listening, but Fushimi didn’t explain.
He sighed. “I don’t care about your-”
Uruha stopped. Fushimi had already left the room.
“It’s your room,” he mumbled to himself. Uruha glanced around Fushimi’s bland, undecorated room, but stopped out of guilt. He sighed and left, softly closing the door behind him. He tried not to dwell on Fushimi’s terrified expression and the deep shame clouding his eyes. He’d hopefully forget in the morning and pretend nothing happened.
Later that night, Fushimi returned to his room. After hours of stillness, staring at the ceiling, he managed to drift off to sleep.
For the first time in years, he was plagued with dreams of his darkest day.
***
The seitei war threw the nation into chaos. Desperate for survival, sorcerers revealed themselves to the common people. But once their enemy was defeated, nothing could reverse that decision. Mass-memory manipulation wasn’t an option, they had to accept sorcerers were common knowledge.
From the rubble, the Kamunabi rose and restored order. Despite the backing of major clans and powerful figures, their control over the nation was tenuous. Gangs sprung up like weeds, small cities were seized by corrupt forces. The enchanted blades might have provided safe haven, but Kunishige Rokuhira hastily reclaimed ownership when the war concluded.
Fushimi had been a child, but he remembered the horrors of the war. He hadn’t seen direct conflict, but he’d been close enough to see the night sky light up, to hear the roar of battle as his mother tried to coo him to sleep.
When he discovered he had an aptitude for sorcery, his first action was to enlist in the Kamunabi. Now at 18, he was one of the youngest sorcerers they employed. He was stationed in a small city outside Tokyo and a hundred miles away from his home town, but he carried his mother’s blessing with pride. He served the nation to make the streets safer for her and other innocents.
After the war, the scum and filth had revealed themselves. Fushimi was one of the few Kamunabi sorcerers stationed in this city, and he was overwhelmed with crime. He didn’t have authority to apprehend non-sorceror’s, but his presence was enough to thwart most petty crimes. It was rogue sorcerers that were a serious problem. The city was controlled by the yakuza, and despite his investigations he’d only arrested a few low level thugs.
His supervisors didn’t have high expectations for him. They saw Fushimi’s presence as a stop-gap measure, something to make the yakuza aware they were being watched, but do nothing to stop them. However, Fushimi wanted to prove himself. He’d meet the nonexistent expectations and surpass them exponentially.
The city’s downtown was a bustling street, with shops and restaurants flowing with people. Fushimi walked through, hands in his pockets and eyes alert. It was around noon, an opportune time for crime. He had his freshly polished Kamunabi badge pinned to his shirt, it glittered in the sunlight like a beacon. The average shoppers likely didn’t notice, but any wrong-doers would.
Fushimi held in a yawn, reminding himself his work was important. It was good there wasn’t crime, it was good he had nothing to do. He stopped in front of one of the shops, looking inside at the rows of fruits and vegetables. He shifted his focus and glanced at his reflection. The window had a thin layer of dirt, but Fushimi could still see his long glorious hair. He ran his hands through the beautiful, flowing locks. Unlike his father’s balding, fraying hair, Fushimi had won the genetic lottery. His hair came from his mother. Growing up, she had taught him how to take care of it. Far from home, he did the same routine religiously. Shampoo, conditioner, hair oil, carefully massaging the ends. It was a ritual that made Fushimi feel connected to his mother when he was missing home.
He was narrowing his eyes at a potential split-end when he heard a loud crash. Fushimi spun around, scanning the street for the disturbance. When he saw nothing, he realized the sound wasn’t from behind him, but in front of him.
He turned, two hooded figures ran out of the door next to him. Fushimi clenched his fists and tailed them.
“Halt! Kamunabi!”
One of the figures turned around, their hand bared, and a blast of fire hurled towards him. Fushimi dodged, the heat nearly singed his clothing. His heart pounded, but not from fear. They were sorcerers. He could fight them.
He eyed their bag of stolen goods. He followed them into an alleyway, they ran towards a fence and began to climb over it. Since they were far from civilians, he didn’t hesitate.
“Smoke Axe!” Fushimi slashed through the criminals, making them crash towards the ground. However they were sorcerers. They didn’t stay on the ground for long, they jumped up and faced him. Now, they realized they couldn’t run.
Fushimi prepared to launch his next attack. He crouched into position, the spiritual energy built up in his body. Then he caught movement in the corner of his eye and barely managed to cut off his sorcery. In the alleyway, there was a person in the back he hadn’t noticed.
She was a tall, beautiful woman. Even in the dim dreary alley, her red hair shimmered. It flowed down her waist, shifting elegantly as if there was a light breeze. Fushimi was spell-bound, it was like sitting in front of a comforting fire. His mother would have fainted seeing the beautiful hair, each strand was healthy, there wasn’t a single split-end on her head.
Her hair was warm and inviting, but her expression was vacant. Her eyes were cold and grey, they pierced Fushimi like a dull blade.
“Who are you, fool, to harm these children?”
Her velvety voice snared Fushimi and the two criminals. Their knees shook, but Fushimi stood tall to meet the woman’s gaze.
“I’m Kamunabi, and these thieves are criminal sorcerors.”
“Oh, an agent of the law,” the woman sneered. “You view your actions as righteous and just, but this title of authority gives you no right to harm these children.”
“Children?” He looked at the hooded figures. “They’re the same age as me.”
“You have the backing of the nation, they walk alone.” The woman glided towards him, her cloak trailed along the ground. “I recognize your youth, agent of the law, but that does not forgive your cruelty. Have you more to say to me, sir?”
Fushimi’s jaw dropped, he instinctively pulled back from the woman. Under the pressure of her gaze, he almost apologized. But as the words formed on his tongue, his eyes locked onto the bag of stolen items. Fushimi felt the weight of his badge sitting on his chest.
He clenched his jaw shut, his face set. “I ask you to leave, ma’am. Or I’ll arrest you.”
The woman’s eyes flickered. “Ah, very well.”
Fushimi was about to order the woman to move, when she held her hands out towards him.
“Your justice persecutes children that merely want a meal.” Her voice dropped an octave, his chest vibrated with her words. He tried to move, but he was in a trance. Her vacant eyes burned bright with rage. “You shall never cross me again, boy.”
A blast of blue light left her palms, barreling to his head. He couldn't react faster than light; Fushimi winced, his eyes stung as he reeled back. He blinked the pain away, and tried to prepare his counter attack. The woman was walking onto the street, the two children walking beside her. He took a step towards them, called out an order to stop, but he realized something felt wrong.
They disappeared around the corner, and Fushimi puzzled together what had changed. He kicked his feet and walked to the street, ruminating over the strange woman. Would he have to report this to his superiors?
Then Fushimi felt a flash of clarity, he knew what was wrong.
His head felt…. Cold.
The wind blew through the street, he felt it brush against his skin. Fushimi ran in front of a window, desperate to see his reflection.
His heart ran cold, he faced a stranger in the mirror. His luxurious golden locks were gone. There was no hair.
Fushimi could scour the globe for a solution, try endless concoctions and tonics, surgery and procedures, but nothing would make his hair return.
He had met a magic more powerful than time itself. Even if the witch saw mercy, she couldn’t reverse her spell.
Forever more, Fushimi was bald.
***
Things were awkward. Uruha couldn’t deny it. He thought the solitude would be comforting, but instead it was agonizing. Fushimi avoided him and would barely meet his eyes. The rest of the guards had asked questions, but Uruha told them nothing. They had initially pestered him for answers, but that had stopped once Uruha glared at them (and maybe because he threw a shoe at one of them).
He thought things would be normal in a few days, but Fushimi was still a ghost. Uruha had patiently waited a week, thinking that was plenty of time, but Fushimi still avoided him. Uruha was kind, he wanted to give Fushimi his space.
But it had been two weeks. Uruha was done waiting.
After meal times he normally went to bathe, but the hours alone in the steam had boiled his frustration. That night after dinner, he ignored the questioning faces and stormed to Fushimi’s room. He knew the other guards were following behind him, but Uruha didn’t care.
He pounded on Fushimi’s door. After twenty seconds he called out, “Fushimi let me in.”
There was no response.
Uruha stopped knocking. He glanced at the guards behind him then yelled to the door, “Want to talk like this? About the bandana?”
The door flung open, Fushimi’s eyes were wide in fear. The faux hair clung to his sweat. Uruha pushed himself inside, the door shut behind him. Dirty plates were stacked on Fushimi’s table, in the middle was the bowl from tonights dinner. Uruha narrowed his eyes at the grains of rice lining the bowl. Fushimi hadn’t even left this room to have them cleaned.
“So. Long story, right?”
Fushimi looked to the floor, ashamed. “I…”
Uruha sighed. “Fushimi, I don’t care that you’re bald.”
He flinched at the word.
“In fact, no one cares. It’s just being bald.”
“But-”
“Actually, always wearing a bandana is much weirder than being bald.” Uruha cut him off. “Being bald is normal. I have bald friends.”
“What friends?”
“Some monks.” Uruha shrugged. “The point is, no one cares. Wearing a bandana for over a decade without taking it off is weird.”
Fushimi held onto the bandana protectively.
“The fact you never explain why is weird,” Uruha clarified. “Even your teammates said you never answered a single question.”
“I do take it off.” Fushimi mumbled to himself, “Sometimes.”
“And you never even admit it!” Uruha was exasperated. “It doesn’t even matter, just tell them.”
“You don’t understand.”
“You’re right, I don’t. Again, no one would care that you’re bald.”
Fushimi slowly shook his head, looking wistfully out the window. “It’s a reminder.”
Uruha waited for elaboration, but Fushimi’s focus didn’t shift. It was over a minute when Uruha interrupted him, “Reminder of what?”
Fushimi jolted back. He met Uruha’s eyes. Even knowing the hair was fake, it looked extremely realistic. It was only when held or touched that inconsistencies appeared.
Fushimi’s eyes were deep, focused. “But I can do it.”
“Do what?”
“Take it off.” They awkwardly stared at each other. Fushimi continued,“The bandana is from my mother, it’s a cumulation of all her sorcery.”
“She used all her spiritual energy to make a wig..?”
Fushimi nodded. He reached up and ran his fingers through the fake, brittle hair. “It’s the only way for me to have hair.”
“But…” he didn’t know how adept Fushimi’s mother was at sorcery, but for sorcery that persisted ten years, it would make the average person sacrifice a great cost. “Why?”
“Because.”
This time, Uruha knew not to expect an explanation.
Fushimi’s hand fell back to his side away from the fake hair. Uruha wasn’t sure how to continue. Despite the years they’ve spent together, Uruha knew almost nothing about the man. Now he knew he was secretly bald. But so what? Uruha felt a tightness in his chest, it had been festering for the past two weeks, and he didn’t know why. Without the hotsprings to clear his mind, the fog in his mind didn’t clear.
“Because you know I’m bald. I thought…”
“Thought what?”
“No.” He reached a finger and trailed across his bandana. “I was still the same child.”
“Huh?”
Fushimi shook his head.
Instead of speaking, demanding an explanation, Uruha looked at him. He saw through the facade, beneath the bandana, and looked at who Fushimi truly was. Uruha had thought he was a pest, a parasite clinging to him for honor or recognition, but in reality Uruha had been the leech. Uruha was the one that needed a good friend; Without Fushimi, there was only water and painful memories.
Uruha groaned and held a hand to his forehead.
“Why are you still wearing that goddamn bandana. Take it off!”
***
The sun was low, the morning birds sat on the edges of the hotspring. The guards clung each other, whispering. None of them knew what was happening. They thought Uruha would finally give them answers, but after learning the truth he’d violently pushed them away. The Kokugoku squad didn’t care much about their captain’s bandana. They saw it as an odd quirk, something that made him stand out. But they couldn’t deny the curiosity, especially when the mere mention of removing it made their captain clam up.
If the Hishaku came tomorrow and killed them all, they would die with no regrets. The bandana was like an inside joke amongst them, not something they’d stake their careers on.
They heard footsteps, their heads snapped to the open door. Their captain walked towards them, and the Kokugoku squad was speechless.
“Why is…”
The light bounced off Fushimi’s head, blinding their eyes. The squad winced.
“What?” Uruha called from the other direction. They managed to open their eyes, their blurred vision catching his smile. “Didn’t you want to see what was under the bandana?”
They glanced at each other and hesitantly nodded.
They looked at the bald captain, his head held high. With no bandana.
He looked different yet the same.
But the blinding light…. They started to understand why he always wore it.