Chapter Text
The city had always been rampant with grays and rain, much like what he could see now, the city was jaded still. . . only livened by the pedestrian suits walking and the soot rising in the brisk morning air. It stains his vision like the glass he gazes though, wearied with color from the smoke of the cigarettes lit here. . .
He sits in the smoking car, a desperate attempt to be able to exist in peaceful solitude after so many years of crowded memories. The real reason he was there was because the scent calmed him. . . So, he sat and breathed in second-hand smoke from the cigarettes of others, to dissolve his nerves.
The humble rumblings of traffic and reconstruction, a small whisper from the outside. He knew he was about to face a lonely city, one he never expected he’d come back to. The slow whistle of the train resounded, pulling him back to earth as it halted on the tracks with a pithy sigh. As the train pulled into the station, his hands wandered to his duffel, and instinctively to his chest, his nails scraped over the medals, a half-dozen of them at least, but it had always been all the same to him, he was only living to die after all. Through the clouds of smoke and rain, somehow a stripe of warm light hits his face. . . the light clouds his vision, and he’s unable to see anything but a face. . . a memory he held close. While others around him held onto pictures of their girls or idols, Gintoki lived and breathed on the memory of their time together. He probably wouldn’t be here if that single hopeful thought didn’t exist. . . that he might see him again. . .
It was hard for him to believe his hands, which had only known dirt and blood for years, had ever dragged his fingers on the soft and warm skin of a deity.
When he stopped at the steps, looking out into the crowds, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t hoping for one face to stand out from the rest, one person who would have come to see him back, but he wasn’t there. He almost couldn’t believe he was walking on familiar soil, not after playing with fate like he did. As he moved through the crowd, he witnessed countless reunions, illusions of what they could have been: men coming back to their honey-marooned wives, sons to their fathers, brothers to their siblings, friends reunited after five long years. Gintoki himself was thirty now, and would most likely look much older to his companions, as they would look to him too. He would see them once they returned from the country, where they moved during the attacks and aerial bombings. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a proposal. . . he kept walking. . .
Gintoki pulled the door of his car in and it shut, trapping him- they were trapped, blocked off from reaching the surface after the explosion. They let night overtake them without making a sound, and the following morning, a few were digging their way out, while Gintoki sat in a dark corner that was slowly brightening up with the cracks of sunlight reaching the back of the cave.
The many moments he thought he would die, he just thought he had been lucky enough to have met such a beauty, whose beautiful blue eyes never spared him a glance nor faded from thought.
A few left after making sure they were the only ones out for miles, despite Gintoki’s warning. Then the others left when they decided they wouldn’t last a night longer with the few rations left. Gintoki spent a month underground. . . and when he couldn’t live off of the nutrients in the soil, he climbed out and he ran, he ran like a red-eyed demon. He ran past the decaying bodies of his fallen comrades, the idiots who left too early, his friends and enemies. He took two other soldiers with him, two who followed him out of their own hiding places and later claimed he had saved them. . . as if he was anything close to heroic.
He spent the next few weeks building his weight back up and asking to be deployed to the front lines again, which he was.
. . .And the next four years were a worse hell. . .
He can remember pushing past women in front of him to get the chance to talk to him again. He must have stolen him away from at least three others before they agreed to meet regularly and use each other. He was cold, stubborn, and kind, that much he could tell from sleeping with him . He was undeniably attractive, it’s why he approached him in the first place. But, after the first time, Gintoki couldn’t help but find his gaze if they were in the same room.
. . .He also remembers when he started appearing in dreams, as a vision he couldn’t touch or reach. . . So. . . it was the same even after everything.
He’d spent three months and fourteen days in a cell with five other prisoners of war, all starved, tortured for fun, and sick with a viral illness. He carried at least a dozen bodies of soldiers he got to know during the time he spent there, and collected twice the amount of dog tags. . . either given to him by the dying, or the ones who knew them. Gintoki didn’t get sick, he persevered, and eventually, he managed to escape. . . during an air raid.
Weak, beaten, and bleeding-out, somehow he managed to kill everyone in his way, taking every chance he could to get closer to the gates, fifteen followed him out, seven of them made it. With a poorly patched-up arm, heavily bruised torso, and severely cut-up back, he walked two days straight, carrying another injured soldier back over enemy lines. He and the seven others were thankfully seen and picked up by a rescue team to be taken to the nearest camp. Gintoki, again, staged to be the hero, he had saved a high-ranking officer, all because of the picture of a girl quivering in his palm when his leg gave out: dark hair, sharp eyes, and a familiar-impassive expression. Gintoki couldn’t unsee it, he couldn’t forget, it was like he kept moving-kept surviving because of him , it was an unshakable-immovable thought. Every hour he spent bedridden, he thought of him . Every week that passed him by, he wanted to go back out. He begged at times to the nurses when he was so heavily dosed that he couldn’t feel anything but their warm hands on his.
He never felt the safety of a warm bed nor the comfort of a nurse’s touch for the next three years of the fight.
They were a world in themselves that couldn’t be broken. . .
Only close for sex, and if there was ever anything else. . . they would never acknowledge it. Except for the times he’d wake up in a cold sweat, trying to detach from a bad dream, and he would be there to calm him, settle him back into bed, and even let him hold him as they fell back into sleep. He would do it so effortlessly Gintoki never thought about why he never asked, not even in the moment-out of surprise. But during his time imprisoned, Gintoki had more than enough time to think on each detail of those nights and the mornings that followed. The first morning after, and after his episode, he woke up to the scent of a waning cigarette between his naked fingers. The thin sheets were slipping off his bare back as his head raised to the open window cutting through the light that pooled over his slim figure like magma.
That morning they shared their first real kiss. . . everything became more intimate whether they admitted it to themselves or not. Suddenly, he was allowing himself to get closer, and he came over more frequently and stayed through the night every time. They would speak and have slow but winding conversations, getting a better sense of each other . . .he couldn’t help but fall for him . . . he held onto every word he’d say longer than he should have when he only spoke sparingly at first. He was the one who drew the line for both of them, and Gintoki acknowledged and honored that, but the more time they spent together, the harder it was not to pry. The longing was built up. . . in the ways he couldn’t touch him , in the ways he couldn’t talk to him , and the things he didn’t know about him . . . and the trust was in each slip of his tongue or touch, he crossed the line more than once, but he kept coming back so Gintoki thought there was some hope for them. In a world where they couldn’t exist past the walls of his poorly-circulated apartment, in their world, they understood each other. They took to spending time outside of doing it and sleeping. . . It was a relationship disguised as a casual hookup.
They still wanted to decorate him with meaningless honors, even after the war was over. . . it wasn’t that he didn’t care, but his gratitude would have fallen on undeserving ears, regardless, the many he saved meant just as much to him as the many he killed. They held a ceremony, which he did attend only by the will of someone else. He just had to stand, shake hands, and pretend their palms weren’t all coated in deep red.
Gintoki knew what it felt like to die. . . countless times did it happen, but he wasn’t completely dead until he left. . . Then he was introduced head-on to his reaper. . . he was out there not because he was trying to die, but trying to be killed. . . and he couldn’t even do that. . .
To be told he was the only one of his team that had survived, after finding he had woken up in a bed after finally giving up completely, after the last gun was fired, the last grenade thrown, and the last man on his knees. . . It was an incomparable feeling, yet, he had experienced it before, so he stood up, bullet wound aching in his lower abdomen, pale from blood loss, and on the verge of collapse from being bedridden for weeks, he weakly pushed past the rushing-protesting nurses, limping towards the doors, faint and lightheaded, he clouded his vision like the spots muddling his line of sight, but he moved towards him and he got through to the other side -where he wasn’t, where he finally fell on his knees and screamed his name. . .“...Toshiro…”. . . in a whisper.
. . .
He was never the type to wear his feelings close to the surface, but around him- he couldn’t help it. . . Gintoki fell vulnerable. Hijikata, his name was Hijikata Toshiro. . . Gintoki never got a meaningful read on him.
He never talked about himself , but mentioned family occasionally, their conversations were limited but he picked up on his habits, his likes, dislikes, sweet spots. . . what he knew before was long-established but he found he was quick-witted, smart, and mildly hot-tempered- . . . Hijikata never slipped, contrary to Gintoki, Hijikata had only ever slipped when he mentioned a girl he loved. And Gintoki figured him out all in an instant. He thought: ‘So he’s one of those. . . the one we are all want to be or are forced to be’
Gintoki knew the type, the type who wanted to play house, marry a woman he’d tire of, raise kids he would lie to, and pray didn’t turn out the same, and die in a loveless marriage. . . Meanwhile, Gintoki was mentioned in a footnote as an impulsive desire of his twenties.
He should have ended it then, but he didn’t, instead he pathetically pat him on the back, got out of bed and faced the window as he slammed the door and left. . . without a word.
After that occasion, he came over less and he would leave at the break of dawn every morning, shortening their conversations. Gintoki tried to talk to him in an effort to meet him halfway, he extended his hand, but Hijikata cut him off.
They continued like that for a while. . .
Until, one day, he came back home just to find him there soaking wet and crouching by his door, small and delicate. The tears streaming down his face could be easily mistaken for rain-water, so they were. . .
Gintoki brought him inside and wrapped him in a towel without saying a word, and for that Hijikata kissed him.
Gintoki is the type of man who needs someone to live for. That type is scarce and truly great. . . He thought he didn’t have a reason anymore, but that wasn’t true. . . he told himself he was probably dead, but didn’t believe it for a second. . . Gintoki thought he kept surviving because of a streak of bad luck, but it was actually hope. . . He had held out long enough and now he had to return and face the cruel reality.
The day Gintoki found out he was drafted, somehow, he knew beforehand. He came to his apartment with the excuse of having forgotten something that fell from his pocket, a small black box. . . Gintoki didn’t need to see it to know. . .
That’s when he remembered there wasn’t anything keeping them together. . . nothing real. And their world broke for the world around them to envelop. . .
The argument got ugly, it got loud, by the end Gintoki was yelling, holding him down, and Hijikata was screaming, fighting him off. Everything and nothing happened, they just stopped. . .
He didn’t want to fight, especially after he had come out of his way to come say goodbye.
“Why did he go out of his way to come bid him his ‘farewell’?”
He never asked himself before, but guessed it was something out of manners. . . as if they upheld anything societal when they were together.
. . .
He threw his jacket somewhere and shook his shoes off, dropping his duffel somewhere near the entrance. But, as he walked further inside, a bizarre sense overtook him: he was in someone else’s space, because it felt like the air around him didn’t get time to set and solidify where it was, the floor had been wearied down and sunken in where he stepped, like the environment hadn’t been at rest for the past five years. He stopped in the middle of the short hallway. . . and the dust in the air started to move. The clear picture of his apartment where they existed was altered and colorized from that last look before he left.
Then he saw him . . . and he stood frozen still under the doorway when their sights met. . . Hijikata . . .He didn't breathe, it was brief, uncertain, and it was killing him. . . Their physical bodies close enough to hurt each other, far enough for hesitation to hold. He stood rooted as they took in each other’s presence. Gintoki’s fists clenched as he avoided Hijikata’s eyes. . . the irony, his mind was always with him, and now he wasn’t even in the same room, he was struggling against his fists by the door. . . but his name left his lips as he desperately tried not to let it slip, then he saw those crystal blue eyes watering in vain. . . and Gintoki ran to him. . . however many seconds they were standing away from each other, moments between their spiritual bodies, Gintoki ran and he held him in his arms, his very tangible presence, cradling the back of his head and body like a dream, gripping at his clothes, holding him .
. . .Skin, he needed to feel him , he needed to feel his skin, now.
They’re moving to the bed behind them, Gintoki is stumbling past the clothes on the ground, Hijikata’s feet barely graze the floor before his back hits the mattress. Gintoki’s hands move to rip the shirt from his body before tearing open the shirt on Hijikata’s, his fingers kneading through to skin, his head buried in his collar. Gintoki’s hands move down to his beltline, he’s shaking, but then Hijikata’s brings him back. . . “...Gintoki- slow down, slow-” . . .His enraged and hot gaze meets his teary-eyed look . . .neither of them realized how much they were crying.
. . Gintoki leans up to catch his mouth in the hardest kiss, a kiss he reciprocates instantly, a kiss burdened with pent-up anger, longing, grief, fear, everything wrong with the world made right between them. Gintoki could finally feel him, his chest first and then the rest of his torso. . . Gintoki’s arms slipped under his waist as Hijikata held his head against his chest, trembling. . .
“Gintok-...”
“...Do you know how much sleep I’ve lost?…”
“...How much I’ve cried?...”
“...I thought you were dead…”
“...I believed you were dead so many times…”
“...you bastard...”
“...you fucking heroic bastard...”
“...fucking Gintoki....”
“...you took so long to come back…”
“...I waited so long…”
Hijikata was trying to leave as soon as Gintoki stepped through the door. Their eyes met when Gintoki was standing under the doorway. He doesn’t know why Hijikata is there, but he watched him shuffle a small black box into his coat pocket and all of a sudden he couldn’t form a question that would make sense. Hijikata just stands there, unaffected, piercing blue eyes forever cold and unwavering, Gintoki avoids his gaze. He closes the door behind him.
“I have to talk to you about something…”
Gintoki pauses for a second to discard his shoes by the entrance way, and Hijikata takes advantage of the silence.
“You should get that lock fixed.”
“...What- Why are you here? Just to barrage me with things I’ve already heard?” It was a clear cut comment, from the mouth of someone who couldn’t unsee the small velvet box that was clouding his thoughts. Gintoki looked at Hijikata, he looked deep into his icy stare and only found disappointment.
“...No, I just left something here and forgot it.” Gintoki brushed past Hijikata’s side.
“Hm, an engagement ring?” It fell from Gintoki’s mouth like oil, or like irony, so sarcastically, it was a direct criticism of Hijikata, and where his priorities lie. The silence between them was a deafening blow… miles, months, a year of moments between them immediately forgotten when he felt Hijikata clear his throat.
“...When you come back, you’ll find someone too, and we can cut ties this way,”
There was something knowing about his tone, he started the sentence with a slight kick in his voice before dropping, but Gintoki was all too distracted to notice.
He turned to face him, “What?”
And he looked Gintoki dead in the eye, “You got drafted… right?”
“...Yes.”
Hijikata’s uncaring eyes shifted to focus on the shoes Gintoki took off, “Then it’s a good time for us to end this.”
“What are you saying?” There was a slight bite in his voice now, a toxic desire for dominance over the conversation. . . in which he was at a disadvantage.
“...What did you expect?” Hijikata yells, matching Gintoki’s volume.
“...”
What did he expect? Especially from him. He felt like the fool he took him for. . .
“This is the best outcome, for us both.”
“Who are you to say that?”
“An adult who lives in the real world… and who knew nothing good was ever going to come from getting involved.”
What could he have possibly wanted or hoped for from his type?
“So you’ve just been waiting on an easy way out.”
“There is no way out, this transactional relationship was always just a temporary fling.” He turned towards the door.
“So, what? You just kept me around because I was a good fuck?” Hijikata flinched.
“You’re making this more difficult than it has to be.” Hijikata walked.
“Don’t walk away yet! Look me in the eye and say all that shit again.” Gintoki was clouded by rage when he grabbed Hijikata like that and didn’t make any effort to hold back.
“Let me go! It’s not my fault you keep holding onto fake expectations, you’re right, you were a just a good fuck, that’s all you were."
“Do you think you were special?! You were just some hole, I had many others lining up after you left in the morning.”
Hijikata was left agape for a moment before he regained his strength to push Gintoki away, “You sick fuck! Don’t touch me!” Gintoki slammed Hijikata against the wall behind him, knocking the air out of him.
“Say all that shit again, to my face…”
“Let go of me!” Gintoki pushed Hijikata into the wall, the back of his head feeling the brunt of it.
“...don’t act so high and mighty like somehow you’re better than the side of you who likes to be fucked in the ass.”
“You fucking bastard, shut up!”
“Always looking down on me yet you still came by looking for pity.”
“...”
“I do pity you Hijikata, you’re just as ruined and broken as I am, and nothing will change that.”
“Shut your mouth.”
“In this world you’re also alone…”
Hijikata’s struggling ceased, he sobbed instead of forcefully retorting, and Gintoki was knocked out of his haze when he saw his tears rolling softly down his jaw. He wanted to say he was sorry, but he couldn’t. . . Hijikata fell-slump against the wall and sank softly to the floor, and Gintoki collapsed with him, their hands following slowly, sliding above their heads. Gintoki's grip weakened and exposed the bulging red marks on his wrist. He hurt him, something he’d never wanted to happen. Gintoki’s head lowered, pressed against the wall, beside him , he kneeled in silence and let the sound of Hijikata’s suppressed sobs flood the room. His hands fell limp after he released them, but Gintoki’s thumb still brushed one of his palms, like he was barely clinging to a lifeline. . . But . . .but he knows he lost him. Hijikata took a long silence in the apartment before leaving, but when he eventually did, he left Gintoki without so much as a farewell and didn’t look back.
He was caressing Gintoki’s chest, right near his heart at his request. . . the contact was soothing Gintoki and lulling his heartbeat. . . Hijikata shifted and adjusted his leg that was resting on top of Gintoki’s. Hijikata, now bare to his boxers, after he helped Gintoki slip off his pants gently and discard them on the floor with their other laundry, allowed Gintoki to hold him while his eyes traced the contours of his body, his head propped on a fist.
Hijikata plays with his dog tag, looking over it about a million times and occasionally looking up to catch Gintoki’s warm maroon gaze, Hijikata’s face warmed. . . even if it didn’t show. He pressed a kiss to the cold metal surface, and Gintoki thought it was the only piece of metal that had ever mattered.
Gintoki watched as Hijikata’s eyes fell and his eyelashes kissed his face . . .he’s fighting to stay awake, but he just had to make sure before he let him fall asleep.
“Did you end up marrying her?”
He shook his head and his eyes just stayed as they were.
“Are you drifting?”
“I couldn’t sleep at all the past week.”
“Get some rest.”
“I don’t want to fall asleep until you do.”
Gintoki pulled a sheet over them.
“I’m all good now.”