Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Huh?"

"Drop it."

"Drop what?" says Katsura, feigning ignorance. He tips his straw hat low over his face; talking attracts attention, and he wishes Gintoki had just called him over rather than cornering him on a bustling street. 

Gintoki’s lips are an ugly curl, and there is a glint in his eyes that is not to be argued with. The long years have failed to erode Shiroyasha’s wrath; that ghost has merely been restrained by chains of idleness and domesticity. "Don't play dumb with me. I know everything about you, Zura."

And so he does – everything important, anyway. It’s something Katsura has learned to accept, first grudgingly, and later with (mostly) appreciation. Gintoki has always paid attention Katsura – whether out of habit or a desire to gather information for later humiliation, Katsura is unsure. Either way, there is little left for Gintoki to know save the ins and outs of his daily routine (the old routines, the ones before the end of the war, Gintoki knows them, too).

Katsura wants to say, Mind your own business, but settles for a serene, “It’s not Zura, it’s Katsura.” It takes everything he has.

And for a moment Gintoki is enraged, jaw tight, fingers twitching over his bokuto. A vein ticks in his temple. Katsura counts the seconds: one, two, three…and there it is, the deflation, the draining of anger like pus from a wound. Gintoki has never been able to lash out at Katsura, any more than Katsura has ever been able to ignore Takasugi.

“I can’t convince you of anything,” Gintoki says wearily, leaning against a wall and passing a hand over his eyes. For a moment he seems like an old man, with a bent back and weak legs.

“It’s not true.”

“Dare I ask what the hell’s going on with you two?”

Katsura hates doing this to Gintoki. He hates pushing him to the point of facing his – their – memories. For all the favours Katsura asks of Gintoki, Gintoki only ever asks for one thing: to forget. Katsura has no right to feel betrayed, but this silent request smarts more than any demand.

“Zura.”

Katsura resists the urge to shift around the coins in his beggar bowl. “We talk.”

“You talk.” Gintoki sounds exhausted.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

Gintoki’s eyes are slits.

“I want to go,” says Katsura.

“Does this bother you?”

“It does.”

“Then I’ll leave.”

***

This thing with Takasugi – never stated, ever present – slipped into adolescence and slithered into adulthood, despite Katsura’s best efforts to curb it.

“It’s amusing how you never turn me away.”

Takasugi is still the stray Katsura picked up twenty years ago. Disowned by his family, missing an eye, wandering like a leaf in the wind. Katsura still wants to feed him, to place Takasugi’s head in his lap and trace patterns on his arm till he falls asleep. “Tea?” is what he says.

“Sake sounds better.” Takasugi drops in whenever he feels like it. It could be twice a week, it could be once a month. There’s no pattern to it. Katsura never invites him.

“It’s expensive. And bad for you. It dulls the reflexes.”

Takasugi’s face melts into view when he turns from the window. His gaunt cheeks seem especially strange on him – they were always naturally rounded, even as a soldier with an austere (and sometimes meagre) diet. Gintoki used to stretch them, grinning his irritating, blade-sharp grin, till they resembled play dough. “You drank it during the war.”

“It helped then.”

“And not now?”

“I’ve no use for it.” He puts the kettle on and drops a sachet of green tea into a cup. As the water begins to boil he hears shuffling, and a pair of hands rest on his upper arms. Takasugi’s breath tickles his neck. Katsura can smell the tobacco on it. A part of him wants to ask, What are you doing? but it would break the frail moment, and he knows there isn't an answer, anyway.

Takasugi sidles closer, locks his arms round Katsura’s waist. (Contrary to his almost malnourished appearance, he is shockingly powerful). His fingers play with the collar of Katsura’s kimono.

Despite himself, Katsura feels heat spread beneath his skin, sluggish and heavy like syrup.

Takasugi's voice is soft. "Hey, Zura, you should stop this game of cat and mouse with the government. My Kiheitai will achieve far more than your faction. You’d be better off with us."

"Your Kiheitai will reduce Edo to its bare bones," Katsura says, knowing better than to think Takasugi is concerned for him (it’s such a soft, brittle word, and Takasugi may be brittle but he is anything but soft), “and then crush those, too. And don’t call me Zura.”

“Why?” returns Takasugi with a sneer. “Because Gintoki calls you that?”

“Because it’s not my name.” Katsura wriggles out of Takasugi’s not-embrace and sits on the tatami, sipping his tea. Autumn is bleeding into an early winter, and the near-scorching heat of the cup is welcome against his fingertips.

Takasugi returns to his perch at the window sill and watches Katsura drink his tea. The light of the setting sun illumes his head; Katsura can’t see his eye.

***

Their eighth month at the terakoya passed by slowly, as if reluctant to creep towards the next. Everything was as normal and uneventful as it should have been.

“I want to go home,” Katsura said, hugging his knees and burying his face in them. He wanted his grandmother more than he wanted to go 'home' (just an empty mansion with loneliness tucked beneath the floorboards), but he couldn't tell that to Takasugi, who would surely scoff at him.  

Takasugi didn’t say anything. He scooted closer and pressed their shoulders together. Sunlight filtered through the trees and puddled at their feet. When Shouyou called them back to the school, Takasugi did not immediately get up. He only said, “We’ll be late for dinner.” And then, almost as an afterthought, “Gintoki will ask where you are.”

Katsura sniffled into his hakama before nodding and standing up on wobbling legs. He fumbled for Takasugi’s hand (sweat-slick and bony, but there), and allowed him to lead them back to the terakoya.

***

They were never quite friends. Katsura knew him. He brought him food. He talked to him. He patched his wounds. Takasugi accepted it all with his familiar nonchalance. There was, perhaps, a vaguely thoughtful sort of gratitude in his eyes - but Katsura didn't care about that. He only needed to know Takasugi was safe. After so long, it felt as normal as eating, breathing.

The bulk of Takasugi's attention always seemed to be pinned on Gintoki. While Katsura helped in the medical tent, Takasugi and Gintoki rolled around in the dirt, both of them snarling, scratching as often as punching each other. Later Gintoki would drop down next to Katsura, nursing a blue cheek, and grumble about well-off midgets. Takasugi, draped in the shadows beneath the trees, would glare at them with an expression Katsura was never able to decode. Any time Gintoki slung an arm around Katsura's shoulders and whispered in his ear, or sat scowling and stubborn by Katsura's makeshift sickbed, it was there.

***

“Has he hurt you?” says Gintoki gruffly, resting his arm in the fold of his kimono. “Or your comrades?” He’s this way only when the kids aren’t around. Conversations like this – all prickly and black, flaying the skin off their flesh – are by unspoken promise reserved for just the two of them, so others cannot be infected by their cankered history.

Katsura keeps his gaze trained on the television. There had been a blast near another embassy and Katsura’s faction was suspected, but Katsura hasn’t used a bomb since the day he ran into Gintoki again. “Not yet.”

“Not yet.”

Katsura puts his chin in his hand and blinks. The brightness of the screen is making his eyes itchy. “You say you don’t care about Takasugi,” he says softly, “so how does this concern you?”

“Because you,” begins Gintoki in a hiss, sitting up. He doesn’t finish his sentence, just glares at Katsura with his fists clenched. Katsura knows Gintoki expects him to understand, anyway. He does. There are many ways that could have ended: because you’re being reckless. Because you could bring trouble for me. Because you could die. But they all mean the same thing.

Katsura rests his hand over Gintoki’s, briefly, and wonders if he should apologise.

***

“Why do you speak with him?” says Takasugi. There is genuine, if mild, curiosity lacing his voice – a rare thing in their boyhood, and even rarer now. Takasugi had always had an air of lofty disinterest, as if the affairs of others were beneath him. “Why do you waste your breath on a traitor who cares for neither this country nor Sensei?” He sits up on his elbow. The lamplight softens the spray of pockmarks running up his waist – relics of a canon blast during the early days of the war.

Katsura’s futon smells of smoke. He picks at a loose thread, avoiding Takasugi’s sharp gaze. “He doesn’t work for me. He’s a friend.”

“Friend.” Takasugi scoffs. “Zura, he abandoned you.”

Suddenly the air outside seems more inviting than the sheets. Katsura says curtly, “And I, him.”

“You still fight for Sensei. You still wish to avenge him.”

“I wish to create a world he would love.” Katsura swallows, turns over so Takasugi can’t see his face. He remembers the rascal who would pick petty fights with Gintoki, smile sharp and bright, and wonders, again, if he should have done something (he draws a blank, as usual). But he hadn’t been thinking then. The only thing on his mind had been Sensei’s head (with its gaping lightless eyes and white lips), resting on a blanket soaked a savage crimson.

Katsura had been weak. That was all. For a fortnight (or maybe two) he had been unable to distinguish between his dreams and his conscious hours.

And even now –

“Oi, Zura.”

Even now, at times, he will wake and stare desperately into a mirror, hoping the reflection will be some distortion, some not-him. If he sees himself (he almost always does), he’ll count his fingers. Five, (almost) always five. He calms himself. There are other cues. Sensei is alive. Of course he's alive. The students are practicing their kata outside. He's fifteen. He's twelve.

There’s a hand rubbing circles into his shoulder. “You need a drink.”

Katsura glances at the wall hangings. The kanji are in place, perfectly legible. A film of sweat clings to his brow.

Takasugi helps him sit up. There is a rustling of sheets. He looks down and his hands are shaking. Water. He needs water to wash his face, clean off the confusiondreadpanic.

Something hot is being handed to him. Not sake. Chamomile tea. Shinpachi had given him some after he’d bought too much. “It’ll just go stale if I keep it in our kitchen,” Shinpachi had said. What a good boy, thinks Katsura absently as he lifts the cup to his mouth. The drink scalds his tongue but he is grateful for it – pain is a useful way to know you’re alive.

He looks up and finds Takasugi gazing at him with cool understanding, sitting cross-legged on the futon. He’s thrown his yukata back on, without the obi. “Better?” he asks.

Katsura lifts a hand, cups Takasugi’s cheek. He’s not sure what he’s doing. Takasugi is brash and mocking on most days – on good ones he is impassive. This…this approaches tenderness and it throws Katsura off.

He expects Takasugi to slap his fingers away. Instead, his eye darkens and he turns his head to nuzzle Katsura’s palm. His lips are full and chapped.

Katsura finds he cannot enjoy the moment; he is too afraid of it slipping away.

“You pretend you’re so noble and detached, but you’ve got a beast as dark as mine,” Takasugi says, like he’s describing the weather.

Katsura sets down his tea, and then fists the front of Takasugi’s yukata. He drops onto his back, pulling Takasugi over him. Takasugi’s heavier than he is, but his weight is comforting, grounding. Warm. Katsura wants to wear him like a skin.

“My, my, whatever would Gintoki say?” murmurs Takasugi.

He tastes of ash.

***

Revealing any shade of vulnerability is a faux pas for any member of the Joui, let alone one of its leaders. But even Katsura grows weary of partaking in this unending masquerade. “Do you think I’m a fool?”

“You’ve always been a fool, Zura. More than Tatsuma, more than Gintoki.” There is no malignancy in Takasugi’s voice; it makes the accusation worse.

***

Whatever they were, whatever they had, they never fought. They disagreed, came close to squabbling, and that was all.

Katsura knows, the moment his blade slices beneath Takasugi’s diaphragm, that they are enemies. He knows also, as he and Gintoki glide along the gusty sea wind, that forgiveness will never eat through the scabs that have surrounded his heart.

***

Katsura has always taken pride in his quick thinking and quicker reflexes, but right now there is just a string of Shit fuck shit shit shit replaying in his brain like a broken record. The kimono is loose - Gintoki had always been broader, bulkier than him, despite their almost identical heights - and still damp. Parts of it stick uncomfortably to his arms and legs. It doesn’t help that he had thrown it on after his shower without bothering to immediately fasten it. Suddenly, he regrets his decision to not borrow Gintoki's shirt and trousers as well (his disdain for Western attire runs, perhaps, too deep). 

Hijikata's cigarette has fallen to the ground from his open mouth. He seems frozen in place by the door, his fingers twitching now and again on the knob. Katsura kicks his mind into gear. He could dash for the window - it would be a quite a drop, but he'd escape. The heaviest blow would be to his dignity, which, to be honest, is already in smithereens, so there’s really not much to worry about.

As he is thinking this, Hijikata draws a sharp breath and then, to Katsura’s bewilderment, slams the door shut. Katsura hears his muffled shout of, "I don't care if you swing that way, but tell me if there's a half-naked person in your house, dammit!" and an indignant, “Ah? You’re the one who wanted to search my place, you useless, money-grabbing police officer!” from Gintoki.

"Well, I suppose the image change was good for me," Katsura says later, toying with the ends of his shorn, still wet, hair. He glances up to find Gintoki looking at him. "What?"

Gintoki turns to the TV, makes a show of switching the channel to the one with that weather woman. "It looks stupid on you."

"You’re the one always telling me to get a haircut."

"It looks stupid," Gintoki repeats.

Katsura huffs, affronted. "You and your opinions, Gintoki. You're too indecisive. I'm sure it's because of your unhealthy diet. All those disgusting sweets. They addle the brain - " He stops talking when Gintoki reaches over and brushes at the hair sticking to his nape. 

"You look stupid," says Gintoki softly, and his voice is as raw as his eyes.

There is a silence. Gintoki’s hand slides lightly over Katsura’s neck, moves to cup his jaw. His fingers are callused and tickle Katsura’s skin. It’s over before Katsura can fully register it. Gintoki stands up, dusts his trousers even though they’re spotless, and paces around as if searching for something.

Katsura asks, “Do you want me to go?”

Gintoki doesn’t reply. He shuffles over to his desk, picks up a pen, plays with it. His shoulders are tense as an arched bowstring.

Katsura gets up and, without a word, heads for the door.

***

A month later, when he is sitting on the bridge in his monk’s clothes, someone lifts his hat. Katsura readies himself for a fight – his encounters with Takasugi had been plenty at this spot – but then he realises it is Gintoki. In the moonlight his hair is spectral, paler than usual.

“The hell are you doing at this hour?” Gintoki says.

Katsura swats his hand away. “Work.”

“Ah? Only a moron like you would do that instead of eat. Do you skip lunch and breakfast, too? No wonder you’re so skinny.”

Behind him, Shinpachi sighs and Kagura continues to pick her nose.

“Do you want a fight?” says Katsura. “I’ll cut you to pieces.”

“Ne,” interrupts Kagura, “can’t you two wait till after dinner? A girl needs her beauty meal.”

“What’s a beauty meal?” asks Shinpachi. “There’s beauty sleep, and that’s where it ends.”

“Shinpachi, I wouldn’t expect you to know,” says Kagura. “But if you ate beauty meals, too, maybe Otsuu wouldn’t turn her face away from you.”

“What the hell are you implying – ”

“I suppose it can’t be helped,” says Gintoki with exaggerated weariness, scratching his head. “Kagura, Shinpachi, we hit the jackpot – Zura says we can eat as much as we want. It’s on him.”

Kagura stops yanking Shinpachi’s hair out and whoops in joy. Shinpachi wheezes and adjusts his glasses. Katsura stands up, takes off his hat, and says, “I never agreed to that,” but no one is listening. Kagura is still dancing and hooting, and Shinpachi is telling her to calm down, because people are staring. Gintoki hollers at the kids to be quiet, and they holler back (well, Shinpachi hollers - Kagura hollers and locks Gintoki in a chokehold). Katsura wipes a speck of spit (he doesn't know whose it is) off his cheek and wonders how - when - this became his life.

When he was pushing fourteen, if asked, he would have said that, when he was thirty, he'd still be in Hagi, living with Sensei and Gintoki and Takasugi. When he was sixteen, he would have given the same answer, albeit with a loud person thrown in. Now, he does not assume that things will turn out a certain way.

Kagura ducks for cover from Gintoki's lunge, and ends up wound around Katsura's torso like a vine. He totters under her weight, flailing his arms to maintain balance. "Zuraaa, Gin-chan's bullying me!" she bawls.

"If anything, you were bullying him," mutters Shinpachi.

"Gintoki, stop bullying Leader," wheezes Katsura dutifully, trying to loosen Kagura's arms around his neck. She makes a smug harrumph sound and sticks her tongue out at Gintoki.

By the time she lets go of him, his hair is dishevelled and his collar is ripped. Gintoki punches her head and orders her to go ahead with Shinpachi and save them all seats at the stall. Katsura watches, bemused, as Shinpachi drags Kagura along by the sleeve on the street. The lanterns are mingled with electric bulbs, and outside some stores are signs with 'no humans' painted on.

A hand rests on the small of his back, and is removed. He looks at Gintoki, whose lips are quirked in the semblance of a smile. Something passes between them. A promise, a comfort - it doesn't matter.

Together, they walk beneath the lights.

-finis-