Chapter Text
5. From the heart of a dying man
There was something about Hijikata’s murmur that got to Souji, that unique pattern of hitching, trailing, ghosting… It left Souji reeling. Perhaps it was the only thing to penetrate his nonplussed haze at hearing this sort of news. News. News they wouldn’t tell him. News that Kondou...
“And whatever you do, don’t tell him about Kondou-san.”
Because rage has a way of doing that to a person, doesn’t it? Of clearing the mind and sharpening senses into daggers of murderous intent? He should know, after all. He’d felt that rage before, that rapacious aim to kill when Kondou had been targeted, and the release that came with pulling his blade, slick with blood, from the heart of a dying man…
He’s shaking now as he hobbles toward his room, but he’s still moving, each slow, unsteady step one further from his helplessness. Each step toward that crimson vial of salvation, damnation be damned.
He leans against the doorframe, and his body is heaving, sputtering, gasping. And yes, every breath is agony, but that’s all to change very soon. The blood spattered on his palm is so red, Souji thinks as he trembles in the night wind. He’s leaning against the wall for support. His lungs are searing, and his eyes are watering-- they’re only watering, damn it! --and Souji stares still as the sweat beading his brow begin to rivet toward his chin. So. Immutably. Red.
He appreciates this fact in a way he never has before.
There’s something about death that’s always been fascinating, Souji thinks, when it isn’t coming for you and yours. And maybe he wouldn’t care if it was only him, he thinks, if not for Kondou, that beautiful man who stood by him when no one else cared and loved him like a father if his own foggy memories of having one are to be believed…
He shakes his head, clenches the bloody fist, and grunts, eyes squeezed tight and leaking. He’s sliding the screen from before the door, sinking onto his knees. He’s crawling toward the futon. He’s reaching for his sword…
But he knows, damn it all, that he can’t wield a weapon in his state, and his hands move with different purpose.
There, waiting for him is the vial, positioned on the futon as though someone else had placed it. As though they had heard his cry. As though it had been waiting.
And Souji, in his helplessness, is too far gone to care. I… I can still fight. He holds everything in his hands as he unstops the leaded glass, throwing back courage like poor quality sake.