Chapter Text
1. It burns along Broken lines...
He pretends he doesn’t notice. It’s only fair that a man should weep for what’s been lost, but none should draw attention to a warrior’s moment of weakness.
At least, he thinks, that’s what I’m telling myself. Sannan convalesces at the inn, the doctor only recently departed, and Hijikata’s silent vigil is more a show of support than some prolific nonsense about broken things and Kintsukuro. Maybe it’s simply that he doesn’t know what to say. Maybe he can’t find the words to convince a cracking man that hope—regardless of what some bastard physician spins—is only dead when a person believes it so.
But maybe now he’s lying to himself.
Sannan’s face contorts in memory, and Hijikata represses the urge to place a hand on Sannan’s shoulder, because he knows, Goddamn it. He knows that Sannan isn’t tearing up in pain, even though it burns along the broken lines of limply hanging limbs. But again, that’s what he tells himself, because Sannan doesn’t admit to pain, and Hijikata doesn’t admit to knowing the truth.
Hijikata’s been quite the self-orator lately.
It was almost in slow motion that Hijikata watched as Sannan fell, each moment stretched out until he hit the ground with a thud of muted agony.
For the first memorable time, Sannan’s eyes are clouded. Not dimmed with anything like lust or fear, but with regret. And when Hijikata looks at him—trying not to lose his composure as he lies on the tatami mat, back propped against the wall-he can’t help but get a little misty. He coughs.
He pretends he doesn’t remember that Sannan used to sing—or at least hum—in the dojo hallways, and murmur quietly to himself as he overlooked the students’ training. He pretends he doesn’t realize that, though he’s to all the world unchanged, something shifted dramatically in Sannan when they left Edo. He can’t pin down when it happened, but Sannan stopped his quiet, practiced warbles long ago. And it makes him sadder still.
Finally, Hijikata places a hand on Sannan’s shoulder, a lone gesture of comfort as the lanterns burn down and the night watch takes position somewhere back in Kyoto’s streets.
It’s shaking, but he doesn’t let go.
Maybe words aren’t necessary, but it still feels lacking to Hijikata, who prides himself on being a warrior, yes, but a poet as well.
They sit this way throughout the night, dozing some but wholly occupied by the matter that they face. Sannan doesn’t speak, and Hijikata doesn’t move.
When morning breaks, it casts slotted shadows on the rough-hewn wooden floor. The hostess passes quietly, and Hijikata stirs.
Sannan looks out the window. The birds are chirping. His wounds are burning. He begins humming quietly to himself.
Hijikata, intently watching, is silent.