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The river roars in his ears, its icy torrents digging claws into the folds of his clothes and trying to drag them to the darkness of the fall beyond. His entire body strains against the force of the rapids crashing around him: muscles tense and aching, legs flopping uselessly with the current, chest seizing up with a cold and fear that has nothing to do with the freezing temperature of the water.
Ikumatsu is dead weight in his arm, unresponsive no matter roughly they’re jostled, or how loudly he shouts her name. He can’t tell if she’s breathing, not daring to let go of the post he’s clinging to, the only thing keeping them from being swept away.
They’ll both drown if he can't hold on.
He can't feel his hands.
“—ra!”
The river keeps screaming.
“Zura!”
The taste of metal is in his mouth, metal stabbing in swirls along his skin, metal flicking into his eyes and smearing his vision into a watery blur of grey and black.
He’s so cold.
“Dammit, Zura, hold on!”
He blinks once and shakes his head hard, the wet strands of his fringe plastering to his forehead. Only then does he notice how his eyes sting, and he scrunches them again. When he lifts his head this time, the blur washes away and his vision refocuses, catching on a splash of colour running across the stone and concrete of the riverbank.
In the seconds it takes for Katsura’s brain to register the sight, Gintoki reaches the edge of the water, the red of his scarf a bright beacon against all the grey surrounding him.
“Gintoki, don’t! You can’t swim!”
He doesn’t know if he’s too weak or if the river is too strong, but his voice doesn’t seem to reach Gintoki at all. The river seeps under his skin, cold flooding into his veins as Gintoki shucks off his cardboard box and makes ready to dive into the river. A shout retches itself out from Katsura’s throat, shrill in his desperation, but it hardly leaves his mouth when the river rushes into him again, once more choking his sight and vision. Ikumatsu slides down his chest, nose touching water, almost slipping out of his grip before he catches her once again.
His fingers scrunch into the gritty fabric of her shirt and he pulls even as he chokes for breath, heaving her higher up onto his shoulder. Seconds later, the water recedes, levelling out just long enough for Katsura to shift his hold to under her arms. He locks her to him, keeping her head above water, but even with Ikumatsu secure again in his grip, his heart thrashes wildly, threatening to leap out of his chest and dive straight into the river. He’s hardly aware of the way his lungs burn, gasping like a dying man as his body sucks in mouthful after mouthful of precious air, searching frantically through the water, panic rising when he can’t see a single glimpse of silver hair bobbing his way. A squabble of voices on the bank draws his attention, and he almost chokes again on the relief that seizes his chest when he finally spies Gintoki still there, wrestling and shouting with a Hasegawa who clutches at the samurai’s waist and drags him away from the water.
Gratitude for their homeless friend swells in his chest, turning to hope when he sees Hasegawa gesturing urgently to the line of posts leading to the one Katsura clutches as a lifeline. There’s another back and forth Katsura can’t make heads or tails out of over the water deafening his ears, and then they’re both rushing down, pulling at their clothes.
The posts obscure his vision, but he can see just enough for his heart to hammer wildly in his chest as Hasegawa jumps into the river, Gintoki standing rigid at the edge of the bank.
If only Katsura could work his tongue past the rattle of his teeth, he’d tell him, don’t look so terrified, it’s okay, you’re here, you made it in time, Ikumatsu is safe.
I’m still holding on.
Their eyes meet and Katsura holds the gaze even while his eyes sting and his vision begins to blur again at the edges. There’s a pounding in his head crashing in time with the blasts of the river, but under that, he feels strangely peaceful knowing Gintoki and Hasegawa are here, mind all hushed and fuzzy as if he’s right on the precipice of sleep.
He’s so tired.
“Zuracchi!”
Hasegawa is bobbing bare-chested in front of him, clinging to his own post two metres away, one arm outstretched. Behind him, his makeshift robe and Gintoki’s kimono sway wildly in the water, tied end-to-end between the two posts leading back to the bankside where Gintoki waits, tense and anxious.
“Zuracchi, grab my hand!”
Hasegawa’s cry startles the wave of white noise out of Katsura’s brain; he gives himself a mental jerk, biting down on his tongue and letting the low flare of pain draw him back to his body, to rhythm of the water around him, to Ikumatsu lolling against him.
“T-Take her first.”
His words come out in a stutter, voice dry and raspy. Gritting his teeth, he forces strength back into his fingers and grips tight at the back of Ikumatsu’s shirt, pushes her out to Hasegawa with a mighty wrench. His arm screams as his muscles strain to hold steady against the force of the water. Ikumatsu lists in the sway of the water, legs floating up with the human body’s natural buoyancy. Hasegawa catches her by a foot and she rocks between them, her hair coming undone and rippling over her shoulders.
“I got her! I got her, Zuracchi!”
The triumphant shout punches into his battered brain where the river could not and finally knocks it sideways: without thinking, Katsura lets go.
Twin screams of horror fill the air as Ikumatsu makes a wide sweeping arc through the river, pushed by the pummelling water. Her body sways violently, but Hasegawa’s grip is stronger than expected, and he keeps her tethered to him even as panic fills his face and makes him jerk, spluttering. He grunts, loud enough to be heard over the river, dragging her to him until she’s close enough for his other hand to latch onto the leg of her pants, arm holding them both secure to the post.
The next minutes pass by like a lifetime, Katsura watching with dazed detachment as Hasegawa pulls Ikumatsu upright against his chest and begins the slow, terrifying crossing back to the river bank. Half paddling, half pulling himself and Ikumatsu along the makeshift rope, Hasegawa clears each post in an awkward, wobbling crawl, until finally Gintoki can reach down and drag Ikumatsu back onto safe land.
What relief and happiness Katsura could have at sight is washed away by the distant horror of his body’s betrayal niggling at him, his hand still throbbing with the phantom weight of Ikumatsu, muscle frozen with cold and unabated tension. Hasegawa appearing once more in front of him, hand extended and fear shadowing his face, comes as an entire surprise.
“Come on, Zuracchi!” he yells through clattering teeth.
There’s no room in his mind left for thought; Katsura simply obeys the instruction. Over Hasegawa’s shoulder, Gintoki is staring at them, eyes sharp. Ikumatsu lays on her side by his knees, body racking with tremors strong enough that even Katsura can see them from the distance. He focuses on them, on the image of reaching them, both of them reaching out to him…
He kicks out from the post, forces himself out through the water, reaching, reaching—
For a single dizzying, terrifying second, he is weightless, floating, about to be swept away forever.
Then a hand catches him, steadies him, anchors him.
“I’ve got you!”
Katsura does his best to help move them, kicking feebly and allowing Hasegawa to adjust him however. His vision is all dark and blurred again; it’s not until he hears a voice as familiar as his own shouting his name that he realises his eyes have been drifting shut, an aching heaviness pulling down at his lids. The first thing he sees when he opens them again is Gintoki’s face, hair still dank and darkened to grey, pale lips moving angrily below pink frosted nose and cheeks.
“Dammit Zura, work with me here!”
His muscles protest the effort, but he does, reaching up to grip Gintoki’s bare arms and unresisting as he’s hauled out of the river. The ground is firm and solid and beautiful beneath him, and he lets himself collapse, petting at the concrete in gratitude.
They’re safe.
He held on.
***
Katsura is freezing to the touch, dripping wet and trembling from head to toe. His teeth won’t stop chattering, a frantic clackclackclackclack that makes Gintoki feel like his brain is jackhammering against his skull. Lips tinging blue and eyes struggling to focus even as he presses two fingers to Ikumatsu’s neck, Katsura looks like death warmed over. By the time Gintoki fishes Hasegawa out of the water, Katsura is slumped over on his side and curled stiffly around Ikumatsu’s head as if trying to protect her from the night’s chill.
Gintoki waves away the sodden lump of kimono Hasegawa tries to hand him—if he’s learnt anything from his life experience, it’s that wet clothing only exacerbates the cold. Which means that he needs to get both Zura and Ikumatsu somewhere warm and dry as fast as possible, before the cold takes a turn for the worst. Gently as he can, he slips an arm around Zura’s back, just about to pull him onto his feet when Katsura shakes his head, pushing away with a weak groan.
“Ikumatsu,” he says, the sounds slurred with exhaustion.
Gintoki bites his tongue from protesting. He gets it, he does: Zura’s survived worse than this, better to aid those weaker, who haven’t had a lifetime fighting against death and its minions. But that nagging voice inside him that always rebels against leaving his friendcomradebrotherfellowdisciple behind—that voice whines, urges him to keep his hand on Zura’s arm, make sure he’s breathing, warm, alive.
He ignores the voice, settling Zura down again on his side and obediently picking up Ikumatsu in a bridal hold instead. Water from her clothes squeezes out and chills his skin, but he can feel the heat of her body underneath. Not quite feverish yet, he thinks, but close.
The nagging voice finally quietens down when Hasegawa finishes retying his makeshift robe and helps Katsura to his feet, swaying and unsteady even as he leans on Hasegawa’s frame, but at least upright. They struggle up the short grassy slope to the roadside footpath, looking like a pair of drunks as Katsura’s unbalanced steps send them swerving in a crooked zigzag.
“Oi, oi, stay in your lane!” Gintoki snaps when Zura almost staggers directly in front of him. He’s not entirely sure he managed to mask the worry in his voice.
“I’m trying!” Hasegawa wails, pulling Katsura back and out of the way as if to demonstrate just how hard he’s trying.
A second later, Zura huffs a weak, “Don’t be ridiculous Gintoki, we’re not on the road.”
Another bit of tension Gintoki had been unaware of softens. If Zura can make a ridiculous comment like that, then he must be feeling better than he looks.
True to the thought, they make it to the footpath without any further almost-accidents. Gintoki leads the way back over the bridge, then down the street leading towards Hokuto Shinken. There’s few people out in the area at this time, chased indoors by dark skies and the threat of rain. Boring, respectful residents of a boring, respectful neighbourhood, always playing it safe like that, but at least it means fewer disapproving looks thrown their way and fewer potential obstacles to crash into as they shamble along. It also gives them a clear view of Shinpachi and Kagura running down the street towards them four blocks later, the blue and red of their clothing bright against the dull brown and grey around them.
“Gin-san! Ikumatsu-san!” Shinpachi’s eyes grow wide behind his glasses, rapidly glancing between Gintoki and Ikumatsu. “What happened?”
“These three decided to take a swim in the river,” Gintoki says, nodding down at the woman in his arms and then jerking his head to Hasegawa and Katsura behind him.
Immediately Shinpachi turns his worried gaze to the other two, rushing over to offer support to Katsura’s other side. It leaves Gintoki looking down at Kagura, an unreadable expression on her face as she stares at Ikumatsu.
“Gin-chan,” she says, voice betraying nothing, “did you find Ikumatsu’s papa?”
Ah. Damn.
“Yeah, we did,” he says, because that’s at least true.
“Where is he?”
This, Gintoki doesn’t know. This, he’s not sure how to answer.
“We’ll find him again,” he finally says.
Kagura nods, and there’s no way to mistake the determination that now crosses her face.
They move again, now with Kagura leading. It’s a small relief not to have to deal with directions, Gintoki merely concentrating on keeping his hold on Ikumatsu and putting one foot in front of the other as he follows the bright beacon of Kagura’s hair. The journey passes by in a blur, and before he fully registers where they are, Kagura is speaking into the intercom of a large corporate building, saying something about the young mistress of Nishikiya and could they please have all the hot tea and snacks ready immediately.
Not bothering to question it, Gintoki calls for Shinpachi and, after the young samurai carefully extracts himself from Katsura and walks over, all but dumps Ikumatsu onto him.
“Ah, Gin-san! What!?”
“Take care of her,” Gintoki says, shaking out his arms and moving past Shinpachi to the two men behind him.
Zura’s looking better; still damp, but there’s more colour in his cheeks, and his teeth aren’t chattering anymore. Feeling the scrutiny, Zura straightens, almost succeeding in standing on his own before his body gives out and falls back onto Hasegawa’s side. Before Gintoki can say anything, the chime and whirr of an electronic door opening sounds, and an elegantly-dressed elderly lady rushes out, the wraps of her traditional kimono almost concealed under a thick maroon cloak.
“Oh! Young mistress!” Her hands flap in distress before she clasps them together in front of her and bows deeply. “Thank you so much for helping the young mistress! Please, all of you, come inside and out of the cold! We have staff showers in the back, and I’m sure we have towels laying around somewhere, and of course a change of clothing!”
“That’s very kind of you, ma’am,” Katsura says. His voice is stronger, and anyone who hadn’t known him for his entire life might have thought that it back to its normal soft-spoken timbre. “But I’m afraid I must be going. Please, if you’ll take care of my friend here”—Katsura takes a step to the side, pushing Hasegawa forward. On instinct, Gintoki moves too, doing a sharp half-turn-step up to Zura’s side and steadying him before he has the chance to fall—“were it not for him, neither the young mistress nor I would be here right now.”
Hasegawa flails, almost tripping with the sudden lack of Katsura’s weight. “But Zuracchi, you saved Ikumatsu-san too!”
“Yeah, Katsura-san! You need to come in and warm up too!”
More protests fill the air, but Zura merely shakes his head. Gintoki can feel minute shivers running through his body.
“Ahhh,” he sighs, dragging out the sound like a loud yawn and catching all their attention, “okay, everyone stop arguing with the sick man, his mind’s clearly been addled even more than usual. You guys go in and take care of Ikumatsu. It’ll be too crowded with all of us there, and anyway, a poor widow shouldn’t be forced with three virile, half-naked young men. At least with the madao, Kagura and Shinpachi will be able to take him down if he tries anything.”
“Hey!” comes the offended voice of Hasegawa.
“I’ll take Zura home and get him cleaned up,” Gintoki continues blithely, “save you guys the risk of contracting his stupid.”
Shinpachi frowns. The water from Ikumatsu’s hair and clothes have seeped into his hakama, beginning to drip onto the road.
“Are you sure Gin-san?”
“Yeah, yeah, hurry up and get in there. Go, shoo. And keep a watch out on that old pervert over there.”
He waves them off with his free hand, once more ignoring Hasegawa’s indignant, “Hey!” Although they all still seem unconvinced, Shinpachi, Kagura and Hasegawa eventually follow the Nishikiya matron inside, who had pulled off her cloak and tucked it around Ikumatsu, wrapping Shinpachi in the process. Gintoki waits until the door shuts and the street becomes silent again before poking Zura in the side.
“Well?” he says. “What was all that about?”
Katsura shakes his head in lieu of an answer. He pulls away from Gintoki, staggers two steps and crashes into the building, sagging on weak knees. His eyes close, breath coming out in long languorous pants before his shoulders twitch. He tries to pick himself up again only to stumble back down.
“Oi, oi! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Gintoki rushes over, catching his friend by the arm to keep him from hurting himself. “Come on, that’s enough. We’re heading back now.”
“No,” Katsura says, argumentative even in his exhaustion, “there’s no time. We need to get to the end of the river before it joins with any of the main ones. It was heading southeast down the city, right? Probably runs through the parks in Shibuya. If we’re fast enough, we’ll be able to catch him there.”
If Zura weren’t looking so pathetic, Gintoki would hit him.
“Don’t be stupid,” he says instead, unashamedly taking advantage of Zura’s weakened state to manhandle him up and down the street to Kabukicho. “You don't know if it does, and even if it did, you can’t beat the river like this. We’re going home.”
Zura doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t resist, slumping into Gintoki’s hold in quiet resignation. The journey back to the Yorozuya apartment is silent, neither saying a word until they pass the threshold and Gintoki steers them into the bathroom, flicking on the light. It’s only then, stepping into the tepid air held by four solid walls and a roof, that Gintoki realises just how cold his own skin is. He sets Zura down on the little stool next to the bathtub before he can feel him start to shiver, leaning over to turn on the bathtub taps.
“Come on, get out of those already,” he says, as he waits for the water to heat and starts fiddling with the temperature. “You stink.”
“You stink too.”
Gintoki waves a hand, keeping his attention on the bathtub. When the water is nicely steaming, Gintoki leaves it to fill, turning back to see Zura half bare, coat and shirt shrugged off into a wet puddle behind him and fumbling with the top button of his pants. He’s shivering again, skin broken out with visible goosebumps. Without saying a word, Gintoki gets up, goes to the kitchen and turns on the kettle, then to his room, and comes back with a set of towels and some spare clothes. He dumps the stack on the side of the sink, then wraps the one around Katsura’s shoulders, pulling his hair out of the way. The warmth seems to drain the last of whatever adrenaline and madness keeping Zura going; his whole body loosens, and he allows Gintoki to manoeuvre him this way and that to get his pants off. A second towel goes over Zura’s lap as a makeshift blanket; Gintoki leaves him to soak up the warmth while he prepares a cup of tea.
Sencha, seeped in warm water for less than a minute. The way he knows Zura prefers it.
Zura doesn’t say thanks when Gintoki hands him the cup. He knows he doesn’t need to. Just sips at the tea slowly, holding it with both hands. Gintoki turns off the taps for the bathtub then takes off the last remaining pieces of his own trash-procured clothes. He lets out a groan of relief as he kicks the pants away.
“Thank god, this has been itching like a bitch. I wouldn't be surprised if I had lice all over me after that.” He scratches his head vaguely. “You done with that yet? Well, hurry up, I'll wash your hair.”
Despite his brusque and dismissive tone, Gintoki’s hands are gentle as they take the empty cup from Katsura’s hands, setting it to the side before gathering the shampoo, conditioner, and detachable shower head. He combs methodically through the length of Katsura’s long black strands, working in the shampoo and rinsing it out, then repeating the process with the conditioner. The bathroom is steaming now, enough to rival any well-respected sauna. Gintoki wipes away the soapsuds trickling down to Zura’s brows, then takes a second to rest his hand on Zura’s forehead.
Warm. Good. Hopefully that will be the worst of it.
Satisfied that Zura’s out of the danger zone, Gintoki urges him into the tub. There’s the splat of wet towel hitting tiled floor, then the tinkling burble of water splashing against porcelain. Trusting Zura not to do anything stupid like accidentally drown himself, Gintoki quickly washes, eager to sink into the warmth of the bath himself. The tub is a little on the small side for the both of them, but he makes it work, poking and prodding until he gets Katsura to sit in the crooked vee of his legs. Katsura lets out a low chuckle.
“Ah, this brings back memories.”
Gintoki snorts.
“You were such a prude back then,” he says, feeling the nostalgia rise to his fingers. He fights it for a second, then gives up, letting his hands work Zura’s damp hair into a loose braid with ease despite the long-lost practice.
“Ah, was I?” comes the non-committal reply.
“Unless it was for widows.” Gintoki finishes off the braid and sets it over Zura’s shoulder.
“Not widows,” Zura corrects, playing with the tail of his hair. “Unfaithful wives.”
“Yeah, well, the only difference between those are time and a bit of effort, eh?”
“Don’t be crass, Gintoki.”
Ah, if that didn’t bring him back to their boyhood days, Zura telling off him and the pipsqueak for their lack of manners. Gintoki’s an adult now; as such, he makes the very adult decision not to dunk Zura’s head underwater. (Never mind that he’s not sure if he even could, with how tiny the bathtub is.)
Still, he lets himself simmer in the memory: three boys huddled together in an outhouse bathroom, always together because having to go outside at night to sit in a tub of water to get clean while the wind howled ghostly noises outside the window and dull lantern light flickered eerie shadows over creaking, damp wood and you were naked and vulnerable to all sorts of creepy crawlies and monsters was not fun.
“Gintoki? You’re shivering. Are you cold?”
It takes everything for Gintoki not to jump.
“No!” he says indignantly, and most definitely does not squeak. “I’m fine!”
If his knees knock anxiously into Zura’s, neither say anything.
As his heartrate drops back to normal, Gintoki realises that it’s the first time in ten years since he’s shared a bath with someone like this (cheap onsens don’t count cause of how stinky the old men who frequent them are).
It’s nice.
(Like having a family again.)
“There really isn’t that much of a difference,” he says, thoughts wandering from past to present, turning over their last topic of conversation. “You could leave it behind you know. It can't be so bad, can it? Being the third man. We're all leftovers anyway.”
“Gintoki—”
Even without the strain in his voice, Gintoki can tell how tense Zura is, the slight movement of his muscles tightening in agitation sending the water rippling gently around them. He pulls an arm up and wraps it around brittle shoulders, hushing the protest he knows is waiting on Katsura’s tongue.
“We're all each other have left.” Gintoki can’t hide the weariness in his voice this time, the whisper of a plea barely given breath in its softness.
When Katsura says nothing in return, Gintoki begins to ramble.
“Think about it. Even your shitty tastes won't ruin Ikumatsu’s business. You could settle. Hell, get hitched, have kids, I'll be the crazy uncle. We'll have shitty dinners once a month plus New Years, Christmas, birthdays, Valentine's day, and special occasions. You can never have too much ramen, it's like a national treasure, eat it every season.”
It's Katsura’s turn to snort.
“You just want free food don't you?”
Despite the snark, he relaxes, settling back against Gintoki’s chest. Gintoki flicks water into his face with his free hand before flopping it down with a splash onto Zura’s stomach.
“Hey, you're the one who said you love her ramen.”
“Mm, I do. Very much so. It's made with love and care, and warms even the coldest nights.” Katsura leans his head back on Gintoki’s shoulder and stares up at the ceiling of the Yorozuya bathroom. “It's the most delicious ramen I've ever had.”
Gintoki pokes him in the ribs, just hard enough to hurt.
“Don't you want to have it everyday then?”
Katsura takes a long time to answer; Gintoki almost regrets not being able to read his friend’s face.
“No.”
Gintoki is quiet for a moment. “Well that’s probably the most stupid answer I’ve ever heard,” he finally says. “Why not?”
Zura sighs. “Too much ramen is bad for the body,” he says, “it’s rich and comforting and will make you grow fat with contentment. Soba is good for me. I’m happy enough with leftover ramen soup.”
“Tch, all you need is a good diet then.” Gintoki’s head tilts down, chin resting on the side of Katsura’s head just above his ear. “Stubborn moron.” If his tone is a bit more affectionate than usual, well, no one can blame him.
Zura hums softly in agreement, then nudges him with a little tilt of his head. “I’m not the only one. And anyway, what you said before. It’s not true. You have Shinpachi and Kagura now. They’re great kids.”
“They’re parasites who’ll eat me out of home and house,” Gintoki grumbles, but he knows he can’t protest the other point Zura made. Not now. In any case, that’s not what he wants to talk about. “Idiot. Didn’t you hear what I said? You could have kids too. Can’t be that hard—well, it should be hard, cause that’s the way you gotta do it when you do it, if you know what I mean, and I’m pretty sure you do.” Since he can’t leer at Zura in his position, he infuses as much sleaziness into his voice as he can, perfectly timed with another poke in the ribs.
“Gintoki!”
Gintoki would never admit it, but Katsura’s energetic and scandalised outcry settles the last of the worry and fear twisting in his stomach from the moment he pulled himself out of the sewers and saw Zura caught in the river’s torrents. So he laughs quietly instead, pokes Zura for a third time just because he can, and gets a light slap for his troubles. He soaks a little in the warmth of the moment, both literally and figuratively, but it’s not enough to quell the ache that’s slipped in and curled up heavy in his chest.
“Hey, Zura.”
“Mm?”
“Do you—?” He doesn’t know how to finish the question, which seems just as well since Zura seems to be drifting off, his breaths growing deep and steady. Gintoki shakes his head, nudging Zura at the same time. “Never mind. Come on. Let’s get out before you fall asleep and drown yourself.”
“Wouldn’t,” Zura mumbles in argument, ever the contrarian, “wouldn’t drown. Held on.”
The ache swells, but there’s something soft where normally its edge would be, spreading out until his chest feels full to the point of breaking. “Yeah,” he says, “you did.”
The water’s starting to cool against their skin; Gintoki glances down briefly, satisfied when he sees that Zura’s skin no longer looks deathly pale but rosy with what looks to be a healthy, even flush. Getting out and dressed is a slow affair: Zura refuses Gintoki’s help to dry off, and Gintoki’s too tired to do more than give himself a perfunctory wipe-down, shrug into his clothes, and wait. As he watches Zura fuss with his hair, absentmindedly cataloguing every scar he can see, the bathtub drains slowly, gurgling as the water flows and carries the day’s pains away into the sea.
“Eh, deal with it in the morning,” he says when Zura holds up his damp towel questioningly. It’s a testament to how tired he must be now that Zura simply nods and lets the towel drop to the floor.
Gintoki’s room prickles with a light chill, so he wastes as little time as possible pulling out the two futons from his closet, setting them up side by side and heaping all the pillows and blankets he owns on top of them, the way they used to set up their beds when nights were cold and there hadn’t been quite enough warmth to go around. There’s little grace to the way they fumble into and under the covers, too many heavy limbs and lagging exhaustion. Gintoki’s right on the edge of sleep when the phone rings, sharp and shrill. Katsura jerks up, starts to rise, and is promptly pushed back to bed.
“Urgh,” Gintoki groans, “no, sleep. I got it.” How he manages to get to the phone before it stops ringing considering the mountain of a blanket he has to push off himself and the way he bashes his foot into the side of his desk as he stumbles into the main room is a mystery and a half. “Hello?”
“Hello, Gin-san?”
Well, that sure woke him up quickly. “That you, Shinpachi? Everything alright?”
“Yes, it’s me, and yes, everything’s alright here. We think Ikumatsu-san might have a slight fever though, and she hasn’t woken up yet, but she’s breathing normally and it doesn’t look like her temperature’s in the danger zone. We offered to stay the night to help Osono-san—the lady who met us at Nishikiya, if you remember?—watch over her, so I’m just calling to let you know.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s fine. Don’t forget to call your sister and let her know too.”
“I’ll call her right after.” A pause, rustling down the line. “How’s Katsura-san?”
“Zura’s fine. Sleeping.”
A relieved sigh. “That’s good to hear. Alright then, Gin-san, take care. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“You too, Patsuan.”
He hangs up and tiptoes his way back to bed, eyes now adjusted to the dark, slipping in next to Zura as quietly and discreetly as he can. Not that he needed to have been so careful—Zura’s dead to the world, just another squishy lump that makes up his bedding for the night. The quiet that descends as Gintoki waits for sleep to claim him again is a pensive one, undisturbed but for the rhythmic lull of Katsura’s breaths. Floating in that hazy space between wakefulness and sleep, the question that Gintoki hadn’t known how to ask comes to him in full clarity.
Zura. When everything is lost or won again, and the rivers run clear once more… Do you have anywhere to go home to?
***
He wakes up with the lurching sensation of something missing, flailing for several seconds before the smart think-y part of his brain catches up and he figures out exactly what is missing. He is alone, having rolled onto Zura’s futon sometime during the night, the man in question nowhere to be seen. The room is awash with the misty light of pre-dawn filtered through the aged paper of his window, illuminating the shadows with a bluish glow like a perfect winter dream. A low buzz sounds from somewhere nearby, flitting in and out of his ears.
Gintoki keeps the blanket wrapped snug about his shoulders as he gets up, slides out the door to the main room and steps out. The first thing he sees is Zura’s sitting at his desk, backlit by that hazy bluish light seeping in from the window behind him. He has a blanket draped loosely over his shoulders, a pencil in hand. In front of him lays a map of Edo, along with several sheets of paper marked with scribbled notes and a cup of what Gintoki assumes is tea. The Yorozuya’s radio, previously only ever tuned to Edo’s top 40 hits and the Edo Lifestyle Channel’s morning radio exercise program, now reports last night and this morning’s news in a clear, professional tone.
“Have you eaten yet?” Gintoki asks by way of a morning greeting. The question comes out quieter than intended, some part of him unwilling to disturb the scene.
It’s a moment before Zura responds. “Not yet.”
Gintoki nods and moves to the kitchen, starts pulling out everything he can find and turn into food. Cooking is a little more awkward than usual since he refuses to leave the warmth of the blanket, but he manages. It’s therapeutic in a way, having something to put his mind to and keep his hands busy, a practical goal he can succeed at. Rice, omelette, pickled cabbage. Miso soup from the packet and the last two fillets of salmon. Spinach, tomatoes, mushrooms, and onions he pulls from the vegetable drawer in the fridge and tosses in a pan. Pancakes because why not, he knows Zura will eat them plain or with a little bit of butter (though he still grabs the sugar syrup for himself). An orange he slices into six pieces. More tea.
By the time he gets it all out onto the main table, true sunlight is shining through the windows. With the smell of freshly cooked breakfast in the air, the whole room brightens to life, even pulling Zura out of his strategizing reverie. They sit together on the couch and pick up their bowls of rice.
“Thanks for the food,” Zura says, soft as the morning.
Gintoki hums and drops an omelette slice onto Zura’s bowl. Their chopsticks and spoons clink like raindrops as they eat.
“Shinpachi called last night,” Gintoki says, when they’re well into their meal, “Ikumatsu’s gonna be fine. Him and Kagura stayed the night to help keep watch, they’ll be back later.”
Katsura pauses with a piece of mushroom halfway to his mouth. “That’s good.” He breathes out heavily, shoulders relaxing enough that his blanket slips a little down his arm. “That’s really good. Thank you, Gintoki.”
“Mm.” Gintoki pops a tomato into his mouth, then talks as he chews, tone deliberately casual around the burst of sweetness coating his tongue. “You know, that thing we talked about yesterday. Is it really so hard to imagine?”
Katsura shakes his head, lowering his chopsticks back to his bowl. “Ikumatsu-dono’s already been through enough trouble because of me. She deserves a better life than what a government rebel can give her. And besides”—he huffs a small laugh—“anything I could give would be nothing compared to what she had before.” He shakes his head. “No, what she has still, what I’m going to bring back to her, so she can share the taste of the soba I love with a smile on her face.”
“So the third man makes his move,” Gintoki teases, because how can he argue seriously with that, when Zura’s brow is furrowed with determination and his eyes are bright with acceptance and something tender plays at the corners of his mouth.
Zura shakes his head again. “No. He’s doing his best to give back something he probably can’t ever repay.”
“Well he sounds like an idiot.” Gintoki taps his chopsticks against the plate with the grilled salmon, waiting until Zura gets the message and breaks off a piece for himself, putting it into his bowl next to the mushroom. “So, where’s the idiot starting?”
Zura hums around a mouthful of mushroom, salmon, and rice. “I’ve been trying to decide,” he says, after he swallows. “The old man fell into one of the local canals that’s unmarked on the map. There are a few major waterways in the area that the canal could join up with. If we’re lucky, it’ll be the one that runs through Yoyogi Park. The bends are gentle, but enough that the water should slow and give the old man a chance to swim out or wash up on land before reaching Shibuya River. That, or the water channel that runs along the north of the Shinjuku Imperial Botanical Garden and joins up with the Kanda River.
“Either way, I’m worried that he might have been swept all the way out to Edo Bay while we were sleeping, and I don’t know if it would be best to start searching from where we were last night, or if we should start further out, even though there’s the chance we might pick the wrong river or miss him completely. It’s been seven hours already…”
Zura slumps where he sits, staring intently at his bowl as if it contained the answer to his question. Although Gintoki hates wasting brilliantly cooked food, this small sacrifice is worth it: he flicks some rice at Zura’s face, keeps his own expression neutral when Zura startles as the rice hits him on the nose.
“Breakfast, first,” Gintoki tells him, and wow, isn’t this a familiar role, reminding Zura to eat before he falls over from lack of sustenance. “You can figure it out after. Fifteen more minutes won’t hurt.”
“We both know that’s not true,” Zura sighs dejectedly, but he relents, and that’s all that matters. He even cuts himself a piece of pancake and drops a dollop of syrup on it, to Gintoki’s clashing feelings of satisfaction and disappointment that he now has a drop less sugar for himself. To make up for it, he claims the last pancake by slathering it in syrup, leaving Katsura to finish off the last of the savoury items.
The radio’s still rattling on in the background, something about morning traffic congestion on the Ikebukuro Route on the Shuto Expressway thanks to a freak accident around 11p.m. last night between two trucks that left the expressway strewn with apples and wooden crates and flooded with leaking fuel, causing major delays as cars were re-routed while the clean-up continued.
“Oh,” Zura says, with a mouth full of orange. “That’s it.” He swallows, turns to look at Gintoki, who raises an eyebrow. “We’ll start at Yoyogi. Have Shinpachi and Kagura follow the river canal from the bridge; with luck, we’ll find the old man and meet them in the middle.”
Gintoki nods, stuffs the last pancake in his mouth. “Then we best get going.”
It’s all business after that, performed with the brisk efficiency of a soldier long accustomed to the rush of constant movement. Bowls and cutlery dumped in the sink, clothing changed, essential out-of-house items gathered and stuffed into pockets and sleeves. Katsura leaves a note for Shinpachi and Kagura, drawing out directions directly onto the map with sharp arrows. Then they’re heading out the door, boots and sandals on and purpose resounding in their strides. Just before Katsura steps down the stairs, Gintoki catches him by the shoulder.
“Oi, Zura.”
Zura looks at him with a questioning frown, finally giving Gintoki the chance to directly scrutinise his face and note slightly droopy eyes and the remaining pallor of a bone-deep cold not quite gone. If he thought it would work, he would tell Zura to go back in and rest, leave the searching up to Gintoki for now, however much of a hypocrite that would make him.
Since he does know better, all he says is, “Don’t go throwing yourself into anymore rivers if you can help it. I’m not always going to be around to fish you out.”
Zura just smiles and clasps the hand on his shoulder.
“Then I’ll just have to hold on long enough for you to get there and pull me out,” he says, and slips away and down the stairs before Gintoki can reply, but not before he catches the twinkle in Zura’s eyes.
“Idiot wig,” he huffs to himself, and rushes to follow the idiot down.
fin