Archive of Our Own ^beta

Dappled light slanting through pale green leaves and pink blossoms should have made for a peaceful scene, but Gintoki’s heart was pounding. His boots crushed tender grass and snapped twigs, the scent of spring heady and innocent as he gasped for breath enough to keep his tired legs going up the hill. It had to be here — after so many dead ends in the day’s frantic search for Zura, this had to be it. Earlier the Yorozuya and Zura’s men had looked together, but they had been forced to split up when contradicting leads made it impossible to cover enough ground. And now Gintoki was almost there. He hoped.

The instant he crested the forested hill the low-hanging sun blinded him. He threw up a hand to shield his eyes and paused for a second. The sound of raised voices came from below. Squinting, Gintoki could make out a small crowd amidst temple roofs, the glint of bared steel confirming that this must be the place. The angle of the sun robbed the scene of any details he might have been able to make out at this distance, but he felt certain he had found the enemy. He just hoped he had found Zura, as well.

Before he knew for sure there was no sense in rushing down the hill. There would be plenty of time to make the armed men below pay for ruining his day. They had somehow managed to disappear Zura, which sent Elizabeth to the Yorozuya in a panic, and together with the rest of Zura’s men they had spent the day chasing vague leads all the way out here in the sticks. Gintoki didn’t know who they were, and he didn’t care. But he added Zura himself to the list of people to get back at — damn the stubborn fool for keeping whatever trouble had been brewing to himself.

Gintoki took the winding path down to the temple at a brisk pace, catching his breath and gaining the barest patchwork of impressions between scattered tree trunks and the plain wood of the countryside temple walls. There were men around with drawn swords, and an assortment of frightened people of various ages Gintoki took for locals. Villagers and monks, it looked like. It also looked like hostages — the armed men were definitely watching the crowd rather guarding against external threats, which meant his approach was going unnoticed. Not that he’d need the element of surprise on these small fries, but the presence of so many defenseless villagers sat badly with him.

The trail switched back as the hill dropped steeply, and finally a view of the central temple courtyard opened up. Gintoki took a few steps off the well-trodden path, the hanging branches of a weeping cherry tree heavy with blossoms forming a convenient screen from cursory glances. It would be easy enough to clear the rest of the distance to the nearest temple roof, and from there he would be able to drop down in the middle of the courtyard. But there was a commotion happening, and his view from up here was better than it would be if he hurried down to join the crowd. Gintoki stayed, hoping for better luck than what he got.

Zura. He’d found Zura at last, but there was very little relief in the discovery. Not when the discovery also included a whole bunch of angry armed men. “Zura, what did you do this time?”, Gintoki muttered as he watched them herd Zura out from the main hall. Hands tied behind his back, missing a sword at his waist and a haori over his kimono and generally looking slightly rumpled, Zura still moved with the refined calm of a dignitary on a state visit. It was so perfectly Zura that Gintoki felt a tug of nostalgia and amusement — how many times had he seen that same solemn countenance and regal bearing even as unimaginable chaos came crashing down on them? This should be a cakewalk compared to some of those times — Zura himself clearly wasn’t very bothered. And yet Gintoki had a deep sense of foreboding.

Gintoki tried to shake growing sense of dread, but he didn’t like the pale faces and frightened eyes of the unarmed crowd, or the set jaws and steady blades of the scattered guards. And he had taken an immediate dislike to the big fellow shoving Zura up the stairs to some kind of platform. It sat on the edge of the central courtyard, and at first he’d thought it a ruin or construction project. But now he saw that it was a belltower, missing its bronze bell and ornate roof both, leaving a simple stone base with heavy timber poles in each corner, beams between them forming a high railing broken on one side for the stairs. It had been built to hold a few monks ceremoniously ringing a big bell. It was easily wide enough to admit Zura, the guy doing the shoving, and two armed guards. Its platform was also raised high enough that Gintoki had a perfect view inside.

It must have been built where it was to carry the sound of the bell throughout the temple grounds, because when the man behind Zura murmured, “Remember — you try anything…” Gintoki heard it almost as clearly as if he’d been standing right there.

Either it was a fortuitous combination of temple walls and hillside combining to amplify the words, or the temple had some broadcasting technology switched on, because there was no mistaking the edge of anger in Zura’s quiet reply, despite the distance. “Your men have orders to start killing, yes.” That confirmation filled Gintoki with a deep urge to do something permanent to the piece of shit in charge. No wonder they’d gotten Zura then, with that sort of threat. It was already getting Gintoki to consider his options more carefully.

“We are ready to do what must be done, Katsura-san. Unlike you.” The last was a sharp rebuke, which Zura answered with a level glare.

“What you are doing is nothing but cowardice, Kizu.”

Gintoki winced, and sure enough, the angry guy answered that particular observation with a backhanded blow Zura didn’t even try to dodge. Well, shit. It was all falling into place now — the simmering anger in Kizu and the others seemed personal, and Katsura had addressed him by name with easy familiarity, so they definitely had history. Violent history of the worst kind — one that started out with shared ideals, and then curdled into enmity. This was all very familiar, though Kizu seemed more like a garden-variety psychopath than someone who channelled his issues into attempting to destroy the world for kicks.

Kizu was breathing deeply, as if that one unparried blow had been a fight, or as if he was struggling with some overwhelming emotion. His hand was still raised, ready for another blow.

“Is that your only retort, Kizu? If so you make a most ineloquent argument,” Zura commented coolly, completely ignoring the trickle of blood from his split lip.

The words couldn’t have snapped Kizu out of whatever absurd daze he was in any faster if it had been a bucket of ice water. His eyes locked on Zura for a few more panting breaths, then he growled and spun around to face the frightened crowd, staring at them in strange, rabid silence. Gintoki took the opportunity to study the people assembled at swordpoint as best he could when his view was mostly of the back of their heads.

There were only a few dozen of them, most of them adults in the plain but sturdy clothes of those who lived rural lives much the same as their parents and grandparents had before them, albeit with the addition of televisions and power tools. There were also a few children, too, which made Gintoki realize he could actually get even more angry than he already was. Then there was a handful of monks standing off to one side under particularly heavy guard, easy to make out in their shaven heads and outfits very much like… Gintoki blinked, and took another look. Then he compared what he was looking at with a few choice flashbacks.

Not very much like at all. Rather — those outfits were completely identical to the garb Zura donned when he was actually making an effort to blend in and passed himself off as a monk. The realization made Gintoki’s heart sink another little bit. Not random, then — there was some kind of connection to this place, too, though one he had been unaware of. “Seriously, Zura, what the hell is all this,” he muttered as he tried to see a way out of the situation. But to a man, woman and child the gathered villagers and monks were all so vulnerable like this. Obviously the whole point was that there was no way a single person could protect them all, and that knowledge sat as heavy on him as cold chains. Just as it must do on Zura.

Kizu had started speaking, in a voice as deep and husky as his frame was tall and sturdy. He was addressing the crowd, leading in with some kind of spiel about how he — Kizu — was true to the spirit of the Pure Land, and would keep them safe and lead them to their destiny. The fact that he had a captive audience only because they were literally at swordspoint did not in any way cause fatal cognitive dissonance, and unfortunately Kizu didn’t follow up any promises of freedom and dignity by quietly slitting his own belly. That would have taken care of the biggest threat to this particular group of ‘brave citizens’, but no.

It was a flavor of Joui fanaticism that was chilling because it was so familiar. Rid the country of polluting alien influences, take back control, good old days and all that. A bit passé, but Kizu clearly didn’t think so. His eyes were shining with the blank passion of a true zealot, and the way his men stared at him in awe meant they clearly shared this particular brand of crazy. Fantastic, Gintoki thought with as much sarcasm as he could muster against the unpleasant certainty that Kizu hadn’t brought Zura out to hand him his Terrorist of the Year Award.

As if that thought had flipped a cosmic switch, Kizu reached some kind of ecstatic crescendo and abruptly turned to Zura. “But here,” he proclaimed loudly, looming over Zura, “Is someone who has betrayed all of those ideals!”

Zura looked mildly offended. “Nonsense,” he said, but the only one who seemed to hear was Gintoki.

“Katsura Kotarou used to be known as the Dawn of the Pure Land, but it was a false dawn! A false promise of hope, and in betraying the Joui Revolution he has betrayed every single one of you.” Kizu gestured at the crowd, and almost as one they flinched back from him.

“I’m pretty sure only one of the two of us is on the Most Wanted list of this rotten government,” Zura pointed out with more than a little annoyance. “And it isn’t you.”

“Irrelevant!” Kizu shouted at him, and Zura neatly dodged a bit of spittle. “Men died — good men, our men — and you said — you decided—” Whatever Zura had decided apparently made Kizu speechless with apoplectic rage. Gintoki grimaced. Oh yeah. Zealot with a grudge. Excellent. And all of this because Zura had decided to be less reckless with his bombs, and more willing to take a peaceful approach to the Joui ideology? Kizu really needed to sort out his priorities.

Zura waited for a polite moment, and then took the opportunity to retort while Kizu was still too red-faced and gaping to form coherent sentences. “Taking the lives of the people of this country — our people — into account rather than rushing blindly for revenge is hardly a betrayal of our ideals. On the contrary.”

“No!” Kizu gathered himself. “Our ideals — they were to protect our friends and purify the nation. Fire — fire cleanses. No righteous man or woman or child of this nation should have any complaint, laying their lives down for that! For a noble cause!”

“That’s not how it works, Kizu,” Zura said, strangely gently.

“It is!” Kizu screamed, and drew his short dagger with a whisper of steel that set Gintoki’s pulse racing. Oh shit, he wasn’t going to — but no, the stance wasn’t that of someone about to go in for the kill. Instead, the man used it to gesture with as he continued speaking, because that was a completely rational and not at all villainous thing to do. “And it was when it suited you. But you gave up — turned away — betrayed everything we fought for.”

Somehow Zura managed to give the impression of crossing his arms and looking down his nose at Kizu, though he was half a head shorter and had his hands tied behind his back. “I am sorry for you, if that is the limit of your understanding.”

“It’s your limits that make us all sorry,” Kizu said, semi-coherently. “All of us, who used to follow you, and all of these proud people.” He swept his dagger at the crowd, and the crowd reacted as before. “Even the pious men who took you in as one of their own—” this time he gestured at the monks. “You say they shouldn’t be harmed, but you would sacrifice any of them in your own stead. Admit it.”

Semi-coherent or not, that wasn’t the sort of accusation Zura would tolerate. “Absolutely not.”

“Admit it!” Kizu thrust the dagger at Zura, and Gintoki’s heart stuttered for a beat. He’d almost hurled out of hiding before he could stop himself, just as the glinting point of sharp metal stopped short of Zura’s face.

“There is no truth to any of what you are saying, Kizu,” Zura said, speaking like a teacher lecturing a particularly slow student. (And oh, another heartbeat skipped, because of which teacher he so clearly resembled in this moment.) “But if you want to talk — or fight — there is no need for all this. I am willing to—”

Kizu’s response was to rest the tip of the blade against Zura’s bare throat. Zura stilled, and Gintoki hoped Kizu’s agitation didn’t make his hands tremble too much, or things might end very badly very quickly. “No. It’s too late. We asked you — I pleaded with you — but you refused. You lost the fire. You’re nothing but a coward now, Katsura-san. And I can prove it.”

Gintoki exhaled with premature relief as Kizu pulled the dagger back, because in the next moment the big man had yanked Zura around and the blade flashed in the afternoon sun as it descended. For an awful moment Gintoki didn't know what had happened, couldn’t tell where the killing edge had struck — then Zura turned and neatly wiped the blood off his face, and seeing the angry red marks on his wrists made the pieces click in Gintoki’s brain. The ropes — Kizu had just cut the ropes. Which would have been a good sign if Kizu hadn’t been a fanatical nutcase with a grudge against Zura the size of Sadaharu’s dumps. Gintoki couldn’t relax, though Zura seemed perfectly at ease down on the stage.

“I already told you,” Zura said, crossing his arms. “Anytime you wish, you can have your fight. We can settle this between us —” Only Kizu would hear none of it, of course, no matter how much Zura tried to coax him into giving up his hostages.

“We’ll show them,” Kizu nodded at the crowd. “What you really are. That you would throw them all away to save yourself — that your prized ‘ideals’ are nothing but the meaningless mewling of a spineless coward.”

Zura had been called worse, but his eyes flashed dangerously. “You understand nothing of my ideals,” he retorted. “I thought you did, and that is my mistake. If you did, the shame of what you are doing to these people would be enough to strike you down.”

Kizu shook his head and sheathed his dagger. He was calmer now, which had the opposite effect on Gintoki, who was wishing he had Kagura and Shinpachi or even Elizabeth along — anything to be able to act, now, before things got worse. But he didn’t, and worse was almost here.

“The shame is yours, Katsura-san.” Kizu nodded at one of the men with him on the platform, who handed something over. “And you will be struck down, and these people who once trusted you as we did will know you have turned your back on them.” As he spoke, Gintoki got a clear view of what Kizu was holding now. For a moment he couldn't make sense of it because the context was all wrong. Here they were, warriors and terrorists in a village temple, and Kizu had brought a cattle driver's tool.

The whip was so incongruous that Zura simply looked puzzled, as if he was wondering if anyone would be bringing cows along. But then Gintoki got it, a sickening realization tightening his stomach into knots.

“A simple test then, of how far you will go for your ideals. So simple you won’t have to do anything at all.” Kizu motioned to a spot on the front and center of the platform floor, the whip in his hand coiled like a snake around its long handle. “Just stand there.” His eyes were taking on that feverish sheen again, though his voice remained level.

Zura met the zealot’s stare with his own impassive gaze, but moved over where Kizu had directed him. “I don’t see what this proves,” he said, and Gintoki wasn’t sure if Zura was being dense or simply projecting complete calm despite his circumstances. Gintoki himself was feeling horrified and tense and already half out of his mind with the full-body urge to get himself down there and take Kizu out.

“What it will prove,” Kizu said with a dramatic sweep of his arm, “is how quick you are to abandon your new principles and throw away others’ lives when your own skin is on the line.” Then he let his gaze wander over the assembled villagers and temple monks. “Your lives would be safe if you could trust in this man’s words. If he actually believed that the only sacrifice for the cause should be our own, and not those of the people who will form the heart and soul of our new nation. But unfortunately… he will let you down.”

Kizu turned to look at Zura with a kind of twisted hunger, as if he there was something in him that only Katsura of the Joui could fulfil. “Their lives are in your hands,” he said. “Hold steady, and they live. Move…” Kizu grinned — a terrible, mocking grimace of a smile. “Move, and you will save yourself.” He let the whip out with a crack: someone has been practicing, Gintoki thought fuzzily through his rage. “But then of course, innocent lives will be lost.”

Zura didn’t repeat any of his previous protests — didn’t even look at Kizu, who quite clearly took the lack of response as a deep personal insult. In other words, Zura had chosen the perfect comeback as he lifted his chin to address the crowd. “Please accept my deepest apologies for this inconvenience,” he said, all polite consideration, and there was a stir as some of them called his name and others shushed their neighbors as the armed men sought new targets to level their most immediate threats at. “I won’t allow any harm to come to you,” he said, and raised his head to look Gintoki straight in the eye.

A lightning strike out of the clear spring sky could not have shocked Gintoki any deeper. He stumbled half a step back, catching himself on the rough trunk of the cherry tree as he stared through its trailing branches. Zura only held their gaze for a fleeting second, but there could be no mistake. Zura had seen him, had sought him out, and had passed on his will as clearly as if he had shouted it out loud. Don’t interfere. Despite being unspoken, those words echoed in Gintoki’s skull like hammer blows, ringing with the certainty that Zura would never forgive him if he did.

Don’t interfere as Kizu’s two guards yanked the kimono off Zura’s shoulders, leaving him stripped to the waist in front of the crowd, skin glowing in the sinking sun. Don’t interfere as Kizu’s muscular shoulders bunched, his arm pulling pack. Don’t interfere as Zura tensed imperceptibly to anyone who didn’t know him as well as Gintoki did, who didn’t know how easy it would have been for him to snuff Kizu out of existence at that very moment. Nails digging into his palms as the whip fell, the sound of it landing on Zura’s flesh shockingly loud in the quiet of so many breaths all held at once. Don’t interfere freezing Gintoki in place, as firmly as Zura himself was standing absolutely still, arms at his side, the only motion about him his long hair stirring in the breeze.

Kizu raised the whip again, and brought it down with unhinged brutality that Zura absorbed without any change of expression. The third time the whip cracked a child started sobbing quietly and someone tried to hush the cries. Zura hadn’t twitched a muscle. The fourth and fifth lashes came in quick succession, and a few drops of blood splattered the weather-worn belltower planks. Kizu grunted slightly with the effort of trying to make the next few blows harder yet. By the tenth, Zura’s body jerked stiffly at the impact, and Gintoki was quivering with rage only barely kept in check by the sheer force of that look Zura had given him.

From this angle, Gintoki couldn’t tell how bad the damage was, but there was more blood on the floor, and the entire length of the whip seemed to glisten as it rose in the air and cracked and rose again. How many was that now? Gintoki shook his head, which felt strangely light. Had he lost count?

Zura’s jaw clenched hard as Kizu struck him again, and Gintoki tried to exhale some of his own tension. It didn’t work — he had no oxygen to exhale. He’d lost count and also forgotten to breathe and he wanted to throw up he wanted to move, to go out there and make it stop and make those who were hurting Zura pay.

The next blow made Zura stagger slightly, though he planted his feet firmly and didn’t move. It was more of a reaction than Kizu had gotten thus far, however, and it must have whetted his appetite. He picked up the pace and rained blows on Zura until it seemed they must bring his slender body to its knees. The ferocity of them was such as they fanned long black hair aside before each stroke landed, and yet Zura didn’t buckle. Gintoki blinked stinging sweat out of his eyes, and in the silence between the cracking fall and sickening impact of the lash he could hear Zura’s pained panting. Not quite whines, but each breath came out ragged and harsh as if torn from the depths of his chest, anything louder still trapped between his stubbornly clenched teeth.

Kizu was getting more and more worked up, clearly frustrated by his failure to quickly demonstrate his superior moral high ground or whatever by getting an excuse to murder some innocent bystanders. He cracked the whip loudly in the air, and sneered when the noise alone made Zura flinch. Gintoki had been attempting to find some calm, some center to ground him in stoic silence the way Zura was holding on, but that petty cruelty brought such a wave of rage that the only thing he could find in his center was the urge to kill.

“What is the matter, Katsura-san?”, Kizu taunted. “If you’re tired of this all you have to do is leave. We’re not holding you here.”

The crowd stirred, murmurs and quiet exclamations exchanged in this moment of respite from the transfixing spectacle of violence. It drowned out the sound of Zura’s breathing, but Gintoki saw his chest heave, and could read the achingly familiar exhaustion tampered by a near endless reserve of endurance in his friend’s stance. This was Zura. He could last as long as he needed to, or until the damage he was taking killed him. Gintoki’s stomach did a slow, sick roll at that unwelcome thought. He caught sight of a dark trickle from where the tip of the whip had broken the delicate skin of Zura’s neck, and followed the trail of blood as it mixed with sweat — it would hardly have been worth of note except that as it dripped down, it landed not on bare planks, but in a puddle of blood gathering around Zura’s sandals.

Kizu repeated a few insults, though by now none who watched them could have any doubt in their hearts about who the real coward was. Zura didn’t move, didn’t talk back. He just breathed, too focused on what he had set out to accomplish to let Kizu distract him. Don’t interfere.

Gintoki would rather have done anything else than stay there and watch. It would have been easier to trade places than to stand here with cherry petals flurrying around him on the wind as the day cooled, noticing how Zura’s silky hair was growing matted with blood and sweat. It might have done more damage, but it would have hurt less to absorb the blows with his own body than it did to watch Zura’s face drain of color and contort in silent agony when Kizu cursed him and struck what must be open wounds by now. Gintoki’s fists were clenched so hard they were going numb, but it did nothing to alleviate the rising urge to get Zura out of there no matter what it might cost. The only thing holding him back was the memory of that look, and of Zura’s words to the crowd. I won’t allow any harm to come to you. That was a promise Gintoki couldn’t break on Zura’s behalf, not without destroying him more thoroughly than Kizu could ever manage.

Finally a blow fell that sent Zura staggering — but he caught himself on the skeletal bell house’s crossbeam, and didn’t move. He just braced himself on the beam, arms trembling slightly with what it cost him to hold steady, and bent his neck to offer his back to the whip. Gintoki caught a flash of triumph followed by disappointment across Kizu’s features, as the fanatic realized that not even his own men counted Zura’s action as a forfeit. Not when Zura was right back to the same spot Kizu had pointed him to, standing in that spreading puddle of red that was beginning to soak through his white tabi.

However, Kizu had jolted Zura out of the trance-like state he had reached to withstand the torture inflicted on him, and the very next strike of the lash drew an audible moan of pain. The sound pierced Gintoki’s heart and burned along his nerves with enough force that he found himself holding his drawn bokutou before he knew it, such was the urge to make it stop.

Somehow, through the daze of pain and blood, Zura managed to raise his head and catch Gintoki’s eye. There was no confusion there, no terror. Zura’s gaze held for a second through the ragged curtain of his hair, blazing with a determination Gintoki could not mistake. Stiffly, his entire body protesting what the motion cost him, he slid his bokutou back through his belt. Zura slumped in relief and then jerked under the impact of Kizu’s next blow.

As the sinking sun set the world around them on fire Kizu tried to get some reaction by goading Zura. The bastard tried telling him how easy it would be to make it all stop, and didn’t he want to save himself — as if he somehow didn’t see the way Zura was only half-conscious and still somehow managed to hold himself upright with a white-knuckle grip on the railing rather than give Kizu any reason to follow through on his threat. Body wound tight with rage, Gintoki watched helplessly as Zura proved Kizu to be a liar and a coward with such wordless eloquence that not even his own men stopped the crowd from shouting out their encouragement and support.

The crowd siding against him shouldn’t have been a surprise to Kizu, but it seemed it fueled his frustration. He yanked the whip back where it had caught in a gory tangle of hair, spoiling his next blow. With an angry curse at Zura he shoved the whip at one of his two guards, and pulled his dagger to a gasp from the crowd. Gintoki drew a strangled breath, cold fear and hot rage twisting tightly around his heart. He had promised to look after Zura, and as Kizu advanced with his blade drawn Gintoki tried to remember why he wasn’t already standing in the bastard’s path, putting an end to all this. Zura’s eyes flashed in his mind, bringing the memory of putting his bokutou back to where it still hung at his side, and it held him back long enough to realize he wasn’t looking at a man about to strike a lethal blow.

Instead, Kizu grabbed a fistful of Zura’s hair and hacked at it in an angry motion. Zura stirred at this, blinking away dazed confusion to cock his head at Kizu. His voice came out so hoarse it wouldn’t have been audible if the unwilling audience hadn’t gone completely silent to hear it. “Kizu,” he rasped, and had the man’s rapt attention, hungry for some plea, some admission of defeat. “You make a terrible barber,” Zura said.

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then another one of whispers — “Did he say that? What did he say? Did he really…?” — and Kizu spit out a curse and yanked Zura’s head back by most of his remaining hair.

“You always were far too vain,” Kizu growled into his ear. “But say the word and you can be on your way to your hair salon, Katsura-san.”

Zura drew a hitching breath, or maybe that was a laugh. The fact that Gintoki couldn’t tell deepened the ache in his chest. “And everyone else?”

Kizu tugged Zura’s head a little further back yet. “The terms haven’t changed,” he said, causing a stir of unease as the crowd of hostages were reminded of their precarious situation.

“You could change them,” Zura said, his voice strangled but steady enough to carry.

“And be as fickle and faithless as you?”, Kizu laughed, as if Zura hadn’t offered him a final chance at salvation. “I don’t think so.” With a forceful gesture he swept the edge of his blade over Zura’s scalp and severed the handful of hair he was holding on to.

The long strands fell to the stage or were taken by the wind which scattered them among the villagers and guards. A growing murmur swept the crowd, Zura’s name repeated over and over again as they reacted to what they were witnessing. Some people were crying. Some were speaking more loudly than they had before, even calling protests. And, Gintoki noted with detached interest, some of the guards were looking uncomfortable as Kizu went on, giving no indication that any of it was registering with him.

Zura didn’t speak again, but stared straight ahead with a clear gaze as Kizu left his head shorn and ragged, blood trickling down his face from where the dagger had cut more than just hair.

Meanwhile Gintoki flinched at each pass of that blade, bile rising in his throat. More than any of the wounds inflicted already, this cruelty was an unforgivable violation. It left Zura looking wrong — naked, almost, and vulnerable, and nothing at all like himself. Gintoki felt that hot and cold sensation of feelings too intense to process with anything but violence rising and rising. But it did nothing to lessen Zura’s own resolve. He was still standing, bracing himself with a white-knuckled grip on the railing as Kizu dropped the last lock of long hair into the blood staining the stage.

“There,” he said, as if pleased with a job well done — because somehow he still couldn’t tell the reaction he was getting was one of horrified disgust, his already hostile audience somehow even more united against him than they had been before.

Kizu sheated his dagger looked around for the whip, getting frustrated when the guard holding it was slow to hand it over. “Don’t you think—” the man tried, but Kizu gave him such a look that he swallowed and thrust the whip at his commander, who cracked it with some satisfaction.

The horrifying interlude couldn’t have done anything to restore Zura — on the contrary. Gintoki was only too familiar with how the wounds would begin to ache more fiercely without the distraction of an ongoing assault, stripping the body of the immediate defense of adrenaline and bringing attention to all the ways in which the cuts and welts were hurting. When the whip struck next, Gintoki flinched, his own body shuddering in sympathetic horror. Zura was still and quiet, but the strain of it showed in the way his eyes screwed shut and his jaw clenched. Kizu was putting just as much force into the blows as he had before, and Zura exhaled in harsh breaths, visibly trembling with the effort of holding himself upright, even with the support of the railing.

Kizu must have seen that, and taken it as encouragement, but though the next few lashes of his whip wrung choked groans from Zura, they didn’t bring him to his knees. And they didn’t make him move, either. Gintoki didn’t know if Kizu still thought that he had any chance of bending Zura to his will, or if he was simply taking as much pleasure as he could while he had his former leader helpless in front of him. It didn’t matter: whatever his reasons, his actions made him despicable. Gintoki was aching with the urge to tear his throat out, but as long as Zura held firm, there was nothing he could do except follow his friend’s lead. Breathe through the choking rage, leave his bokutou at his side, and clench his fists as if they were closing around Kizu’s neck. If Zura should fall — Gintoki bit back a growl, hating the thought; forcing himself to acknowledge that not even Zura could go on like this forever.

Not that you could tell, looking at him. Shorn and bleeding, his chest heaving, his shoulders streaked with welts and lacerations, he stood as if rooted to the spot. Held upright by willpower and a body honed from a lifetime of training, it seemed as if Kizu would have more luck striking down a mountain pine with his whip than he did Zura. It shouldn’t be possible, but it seemed a bit of tension had drained out of Zura — Gintoki looked, thought he saw Zura’s lips move. Too low to hear, the syllables he formed couldn’t have been recognizable a words by anyone except Gintoki, who had them etched into his own soul. Nothing is steadfast but the will, nothing endures but one's achievements. It wasn’t a prayer, but Zura was repeating the words like a mantra, over and over, and Gintoki had to grab at the cherry tree’s trunk again, steadying himself against a stagger as time twisted and bent and he heard them delivered by a warm voice in a sunny classroom; saw the ink of the words run into a single illegible blotch on a broth-stained page.

Kizu couldn’t know what Zura was drawing strength from, couldn’t even see his lips move, but his total failure to break Zura’s spirit was clearly galling him. He paused between strikes, eyes narrowed in concentration, as if he was thinking things over and the effort was costing him. Then he frowned and his whip arm dropped. He stalked slowly over to Zura, who didn’t react to his approach. The crowd did, though, muttering in consternation, and Gintoki’s pulse quickened as Kizu loomed over Zura. He held the whip in a fist tacky with blood, and shoved the handle of it under Zura’s chin. “Stand,” he commanded, and Zura blinked at him with heartbreaking confusion, as if wrenched from a dream.

Someone in the crowd called Kizu a coward, someone else noted angrily that Zura was very much standing. Zura’s body was locked tight, muscles quivering with exhaustion, but he was still on his feet. It wasn’t enough for Kizu, though — or it was too much, too much defiance, too much proof of Kizu’s own inadequacies. Zura, forced to endure Kizu’s stare, said nothing, and yet Kizu recoiled. His anger and frustration were mounting, though the emotions he expressed paled in comparison to what Gintoki was feeling. But unlike Gintoki, Kizu was free to act on his feelings, and act on them he did.

“Get him standing again,” Kizu snapped at the guards behind him, who glanced at each other in consternation.

“Kizu-san,” one of them ventured, “he is?”

“Not on his own!” Kizu shouted angrily, and when the neither of the two knew what to do about that he pointed at one of his men in the crowd. “You.”

The man snapped to unquestioning attention, and ran up to the platform to see what Kizu wanted. They exchanged words that were muffled by the protests of the crowd, and Gintoki found it hard to look away from Zura long enough to try and figure out what they were doing, as if keeping his attention on his friend could somehow offer him the support Gintoki was aching to give. So he missed what they said but was looking straight at the scene when Kizu stepped back with a triumphant smirk and his guard raised his sword.

Gintoki’s heart seemed to stop again — oh, the sword was in its scabbard but the lines of the man’s body told him everything he needed to know and he couldn’t hold back a desperate cry of “No!” as the first blow landed across Zura’s white-knuckled grip.

Another followed, as loud as that first crack of the whip, and Zura’s eyes widened in surprise, as if he was observing events happening to someone else. Gintoki’s hand spasmed, gripping the hilt of his sword, a white light of rage crowding the edges of his vision.

The lacquered wood of the sheath came down a third time and Zura slipped back into the moment. His stoic expression crumpled into pain, and his body jerked as the instinct to avoid taking more damage collided with stubborn determination to remain standing. It was only too easy for Gintoki to pick up on the internal struggle. The muscles in Zura’s arms were bunching, and his center of gravity shifted. He was being forced to choose between the support keeping him upright and avoiding more damage to his hands and sheer force of will was holding him in place to suffer whatever injuries Kizu was looking to inflict on him.

A woman standing near the front of the crowd scolded the thug who had been doing the hitting, and didn’t flinch back when he shouted at her to shut up. “We heard what your lout of a leader said — Katsura-san hasn’t moved! He is keeping his word. You sorry lot have no honor!”

Another woman, similar enough to the first speaker that they might be sisters, chimed in. “It’s sick, what you’re doing. This whole thing is sick, but you’ve lost. Just let him go!”

The sentiment was taken up and repeated, more of the crowd clamoring, and moving with some sort of intent that Gintoki couldn’t make out at first — but then he saw it, and it lit the first spark of hope he had felt since Zura’s silent entreaty bound him here a helpless witness. It wasn’t much, yet, might not be anything at all, except Gintoki refused to accept that as an option.

Kizu was pacing the stage, twitching the whip, looking wild-eyed at the rebellion from his captive audience. But the crowd were strangers, unimportant and meaningless — after all, it was quite clear that only one man mattered to Kizu, and that man was not giving him what he wanted. Zura was still refusing to break, was still proving Kizu wrong with every moment he suffered in silent dignity. And that absolutely infuriated Kizu. If it hadn’t meant Zura was in more danger than ever, Gintoki would have been able to take some satisfaction at the zealot’s utter failure to do anything but reveal how pathetic he really was. But the look in Kizu’s eyes was not that of someone about to realize the error of their ways, and Gintoki swallowed hard as Kizu pointed to his footsoldier below. “Again,” he ordered sharply.

This time Zura knew what was coming, and though his mask of calm — looking so wrong without being framed by long black hair — didn’t slip and he didn’t cower, there was a glint of desperation in his eyes that hurt Gintoki more than he thought he could bear. If he could have stopped it — but Zura had already made that decision for him, and so Gintoki was left to watch as Zura endured another maiming blow. The outrage of the crowd swallowed up whatever noise Zura made, but even from where he stood Gintoki could see the blood flowing and overflowing from his split, swollen knuckles, dripping to the ground below like an offering. Gintoki’s heart hurt, his chest ached, and sheer fury was washing over him in waves so intense they nearly made his knees buckle. And that was before he realized that Kizu had gotten the whip out again.

Gintoki’s focus had narrowed to Zura’s face, Zura’s hands, and the harsh noise of the lash landing on torn flesh startled him badly. Zura swayed with the impact, his face strangely blank. Gintoki’s gaze jumped to Kizu, and saw that his arm was already pulled back, and despite the cries of protest from the crowd he landed another blow. The force of it staggered Zura. It seemed he would simply brace himself against it, despite the damage inflicted on his hands. Zura held on, but the railing was slick with blood, and his grip slipped. Only for a heartbeat, and he was already scrabbling for purchase, but the sudden shift in balance cut his legs out from under him and he dropped hard to one knee.

The very last rays of the sun spilled a red glow across everything from the smooth wood of the stage to the cherry blossoms dangling by Gintoki. The whisper of an evening wind was the only sound. The scene outlined by the dying light transfixed everyone from the reluctant audience to Kizu himself, who stood frozen with the whip hanging limp, as if not even he could comprehend that he finally had Zura on his knees. The only one who didn’t freeze was Zura, who was unsteadily trying to fight his way back to standing. But his legs wouldn’t hold his unsupported weight, and he crumpled back onto the bloody stage.

That motion drew Kizu’s attention, like a predator catching sight of wounded prey, and he cackled with glee. “There!” he shouted. “See! See, told you!”

“No,” Zura croaked, and the crowd protested, but Kizu stalked up to him with his whip raised, his attention divided between his victim and the people below shouting at him. His gleeful smile widened hungrily. Gintoki had seen enough of the man to read his gloating intentions — Kizu understood now that to cause Zura true pain, all he had to do was use this as an excuse to make good on his threat to begin executing hostages. Oh, he would use the whip again, but the lashes would mean nothing next to the deaths Zura was still trying to give his life to prevent.

Zura, who had managed to stagger into a slump, leaning his shoulder against the railing he had been gripping so desperately. Kizu reached him, and cracked the whip at his face. Fresh blood bloomed across Zura’s cheek, and Kizu followed that up with a kick that sent Zura back to his knees.

No. Gintoki’s pulse spiked, white static crowding his vision.

Kizu looked down at Zura and sneered.

No. No more. Don’t interfere, Zura had asked of him, but Gintoki had never promised him to oblige. Not when he had another, far dearer promise he couldn’t break without shattering his own soul. Take care of the others.

Kizu lifted his whip again, and the tidal wave of rage crested and Gintoki broke free.

The scattered cloud of cherry blossom petals he had burst through was still drifting in the air when he landed lightly on the stage in a battle-ready crouch. For a moment the stink of blood and the sight of Zura’s injuries up close made his fury burn so cold he froze. It gave Zura time to turn blindly towards Gintoki. Blood obscured his vision, but even now his instincts were unfailing. “Gintoki, no,” he called hoarsely. But Gintoki had slipped that leash, and the sight of Zura’s ruined hands — the hands that gripped a katana with the same comfortable skill as they formed onigiri for his friends — raised in supplication made him lose any measure of control he might have had.

Without a word, without introduction, without even bothering to hold Kizu accountable for his crimes and cruelties Gintoki turned and struck. Kizu’s katana was drawn, but he never had a chance to move into a parry. He was dead before his body hit the ground.

Gintoki heard Zura’s protests, and put them aside for now. Unlike what Zura seemed to think, he was still excruciatingly aware that Zura’s life was not the only one that had been hanging in the balance. But unlike Zura, Gintoki knew that they had made their choice, those monks and villagers. He had seen them shift the children to the center of the crowd, had seen the squared shoulders and clenched fists of men and women who would rather die fighting than be sacrificed at a madman’s whim. And now before Kizu could order his men to begin the slaughter he had bought them precious seconds of chaos and confusion. More than enough time.

More than enough time for Gintoki to finish what he had started with their leader. He moved with lethal precision, honing in on any swordsman that directed killing intent into the crowd, ending them before they could do anything to follow through. There was nothing any of them could do to stop him, of course, not when the white static of pure fury still fuzzed the edges of his vision. Not while they tried to raise their swords against unarmed men and women.

Only some of them did. Others had chosen to abandon their comrades and run, or stood, gaping in disbelief at events unfolding too quickly for them to comprehend. And Gintoki saw them all. He had marked who had spoken in Zura’s defense and who had done Kizu’s bidding without hesitation, and he had most certainly marked the one who left Zura’s hands broken and bleeding. Thus there was a method to the fierce madness, to who lived and who died as Gintoki moved among them, red stains growing and spreading on his white yukata as he whirled and stalked and struck.

Then, abruptly, Kizu’s men were gone. Scattered on the ground, injured survivors and silent corpses was all that remained. That, and the echoes of terror lingering behind those who had been allowed to flee into the fading light. Some of the villagers had gone too — as he stopped, breathing deep, Gintoki was pathetically grateful that there were no children there to recoil from him as the adults did. They had questions, protests, exclamations and concerns that he completely ignored, for he had no attention to spare for them in his urgency to get back to Zura.

There were already other people heading for the bell tower steps, but none of them had made it up to the stage yet. Gintoki beat them all to it, leaping up and hauling himself over the railing. Kizu’s body was sprawled across the other end of the platform, but Gintoki ignored it like the garbage it was, hurrying straight to Zura.

This time Gintoki didn't freeze at the sight of the blood, the injuries, the cruelly shorn scalp. He focused instead on the fact that Zura still conscious, and about to climb back to his feet. It was almost time for a quip to lighten the tension before seeing to the rather urgent task of getting Zura patched up, and he reached out to offer Zura a supporting hand.

“No!” The protest was hardly more than a groan, but it locked Gintoki’s throat tight around the joke he had been about to make.

“Zura?” Gintoki crouched, trying to catch his friend's eye.

“I’ll stand,” Zura said, the word a knifepoint to Gintoki’s heart. If Zura was so upset at Gintoki's interference he wouldn’t even look at him—

Without even appearing to notice Gintoki’s presence, Zura tried to shove himself up — only of course his hands wouldn’t hold his weight, and he collapsed back down, teeth clenched, a noise of frustration and despair in his throat forced into words. “I’m — I’ll stand.”

For an uncomprehending moment Gintoki chalked it up to Zura’s stubbornness in general and a poorly timed attempt to show his displeasure at Gintoki in particular, and then Zura said, “Don’t hurt them,” and realization punched the breath out of Gintoki.

Oh, Gintoki had been such a selfish ass — Zura wasn't talking to him at all; wasn't even aware he was there. The reason Zura trying to heave his injured body back up against the railing even when he was hurting himself worse through the effort, even when he ended up slipping in his own blood, was that bastard Kizu and his threat.

“I won’t move,” Zura continued hoarsely, his tone frantic. Trying to get back up again to appease Kizu; trying to follow the cruel and arbitrary orders to protect everyone else. Oh, Zura.

Briefly, Gintoki wished he could kill Kizu all over again, but even he realized that would do nothing for Zura. After all, even the one death he’d had to give the man hadn’t been enough to break his hold on Zura’s mind. Gintoki had to swallow hard before he could speak, and even then his voice wasn't entirely steady. “Zura. It’s Gintoki.”

“No,” Zura said, voice sharp with fear, his back gone ramrod straight. “You can’t!”

Gintoki didn't know if Zura was recalling his presence earlier, and the message he had tried to pass on, or if whatever was happening in his friend’s mind was worse yet. Gintoki tried again, more insistently. “Zura, it’s over. You did it. Everyone’s safe.”

“I—” Zura blinked, and relaxed for a moment before the tension came flooding back in his body. “I won't let you hurt them,” he said with as much conviction as if he hadn't been entirely unable to stand, or hold a sword, or do anything but collapse and bleed aggressively on people. Oh, Zura.

“Kizu’s dead,” Gintoki said thickly. “Please, Zura. Everyone’s fine. You can rest now.”

The words seemed to have no effect. Zura was still struggling, stretching for the railing and failing to reach it. Gintoki wished he hadn’t been alone with Zura and this crowd of strangers, wished there had been someone around who knew just what to say, just what to do to get through to Zura. But there wasn’t. “Oi, Zura.”

Gintoki waved a hand in front of Zura’s face, which got a flinch and a confused look, but at least Zura was beginning to focus on him now. Gintoki made a lazy gesture indicating the crowd of concerned faces now crowding in on them. “Look, you’re being a nuisance to all of these nice people.”

“Oh,” Zura said, going still. He looked at Gintoki. Twitched his head in a gesture of surprise that should have set his bangs swaying. “Gintoki?”

Gintoki pulled his lips into a grin. “Yeah. And most of the village, and the monks.” He caught the confused concern in Zura’s expression. “They’re all fine, Zura. Everyone’s fine.”

“Oh,” Zura repeated, and slowly, ever so slowly he sank to his knees and started pitching forward.

Gintoki caught him gently, folding Zura’s exhausted body so his forehead rested against Gintoki’s shoulder. The damaged hands Zura cradled against his chest, and his back — Gintoki swallowed. Even through all the gore it was clear that it was bad. Really, really bad.

“Everyone?” Zura mumbled.

Gintoki nodded, and felt the stubble of Zura’s scalp brush his cheek. “Everyone’s safe, thanks to you. Kizu’s dead.”

Zura shuddered minutely, the reaction slight enough that Gintoki wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t supporting most of Zura’s weight. “I’ll tell you all about it, but like I said — you’re kind of collapsing in public here, so we should go get you taken care of.”

“No hospital,” Zura breathed, and Gintoki sighed. Yes, wanted terrorist and all that. No hospital. He craned his neck, looked at the nearest members of the concerned crowd he had been ignoring.

“Do you have a doctor?”

The villagers exchanged glances, shook their heads. “So sorry,” a woman — Gintoki thought maybe one of the ones who had been shouting the loudest at Kizu — said. “But my sister is a midwife.”

“Zura’s not pregnant,” Gintoki pointed out.

“She has medical supplies,” the woman snapped, making a face that was clearly meant as a comment on the stupidity of men. “For bleeding, and sterilization.”

“Ah. Uh. Yeah, of course, I knew that,” Gintoki said, though obviously he hadn’t really thought that far. “So. Maybe I could take Zura there?”

The woman nodded vigorously, and the others around her chimed in. “Of course! Anything you need. Please — Gintoki-san, was it?”

Gintoki nodded, feeling Zura grow heavier in his arms. “Yeah.” Polite introductions could wait. Zura couldn’t. “Show me.”

There was no way to move Zura that wouldn’t hurt, so Gintoki chose the simplest solution. “Come on,” he said. “Piggy-back.”

Zura mumbled something into his shoulder, groggy and possibly vaguely offended.

“It’ll be just like old times,” Gintoki assured him.

It wasn’t, of course. There was no long hair tickling Gintoki’s neck. There were no arms half-strangling him in enthusiasm, as Zura was hunched protectively around his damaged hands. And yet Zura’s frame settled against Gintoki’s with easy familiarity — they had always been roughly of size growing up, and that was still true. Gintoki braced his arms to take all of Zura’s weight, and the gesture came so easily it was as if no time had passed at all.

Escorted by anxious villagers eager to be of help to Zura they made it along a path grown shady with dusk, hands reaching up to steady Zura if it looked like he was even slightly askance. It wasn’t far, and the village was a small one — the midwife’s house was in the old style, where the family could gather around an open central hearth if they weren’t all huddled around the television.

She greeted them at the door, no-nonsense. “I’m Takano.” She had already lit a fire and brought out a futon. She helped Gintoki ease Zura onto his stomach, and gave a quick tour of the essentials.

“The bandages are the latest auto-antiseptic ones,” she said, nodding at a veritable tower of packages stacked within easy reach. A big basin filled nearly to the brim with water stood next to a pile of towels and fresh yukatas. “Don’t worry if the water gets dirty — it’s Amanto, has built-in purification. There’s more hot water in the kitchen.”

Gintoki nodded dumbly, still taking in the supplies. Takano out here in the sticks had stuff he’d never even seen during the war. But that was progress, wasn’t it? Bandages these days could save lives and limbs they would certainly have lost despite the best efforts of their healers back then. He shook himself out of the distracting sidetrack. “And painkillers?”

Takano pressed an old-fashioned paper packet containing some sort of powder into his hand. “Mix this in with some water. Not too much, mind you, see how he does first. It can make them a bit loopy sometimes,” she warned. “But you’ll want to give him some before you start cleaning the wounds.” Her hands closed around his, gave them a squeeze.

Gintoki looked at her in confusion. “Thank you,” she said, and despite having come across so sturdy and practical there were tears glimmering in her eyes.

“I didn’t —” Gintoki started protesting, but Takano would have none of it.

“I was there. I saw what they did to Katsura-san. And what he did for us. And I know what would have happened if you hadn’t come when you did. But please — please would you thank Katsura-san for me?"

The guilt in her eyes was so familiar. Gintoki sighed. “Yeah,” he said. “I will.”

Takano nodded, and dropped his hands with a certain schoolgirlish embarrassment. “And please call for me if you need anyone to do sutures,” Takano added briskly. “Though I suspect Katsura-san will want some privacy, so the place is yours for as long as you need it.”

It was remarkably considerate, and Takano was right. There was no way Zura would want any strangers around for what came next. “Thank you,” Gintoki said, and as Takano took her leave he prepared a glass of painkiller and went back to Zura’s side, tense with unhappy anticipation at the task at hand.

“Here,” Gintoki helped Zura into a half-reclining position, and held the glass to his lips. “Drink this.”

“A samurai—” Zura protested muzzily, and Gintoki’s grip tightened on the glass.

“Drink. This,” he repeated. There was absolutely no way he was going to let Zura go without painkillers for the sake of some fool notion about what samurai should or shouldn’t do.

Zura made a face, but as soon as the first drops touched his lips he drank greedily, if a bit awkwardly. It probably wasn’t going to kick in immediately, but the hydration was doing Zura some good, because he looked up at Gintoki with a clear, direct gaze loaded with accusation.

“Gintoki,” he said, in the same berating tones Gintoki had heard innumerable times in such sentences as Gintoki, those were for everybody to share! and Gintoki, you can’t skip latrine digging duty, it’s demoralizing for the men that the effect was one of automatic resentment, mingled with relief at Zura being so absolutely himself. “What were you thinking, interfering like that?”

“Interfering?” Gintoki asked, baffled. Not that he didn’t get what Zura was getting at — and Zura was wrong about that — but now really didn’t seem the time. There were fairly hideous injuries that needed attention, and Zura was putting that off to squabble?

“You shouldn’t have attacked Kizu,” Zura said, a stern crease between his eyebrows.

“I’m pretty sure he had it coming,” Gintoki retorted heatedly, despite the fact that he had only meant to distract Zura into focusing on someone not Gintoki.

Zura’s lips pursed. “Which was my responsibility.”

“Excuse me? What? That’s definitely not what I remember. What?”

Zura ignored Gintoki’s spluttering. “And in taking matters into your own hands instead, you put everyone at terrible risk.”

“No, see — Kizu was the one putting them at risk. I fixed that.”

Tempered anger blazed in Zura’s eyes, despite his undignified and deeply painful position propped up on the tatami. “You had no right to get involved like you did! I was—”

“You were being killed, Zura.”

“It’s not Zura, it’s Katsura.”

“It was about to be Deadzura, Zura.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Oh, I am pretty sure I know that,” Gintoki said. “You know why? Because I was right there, I was standing right there there watching him take you apart while you—”. Gintoki’s mouth snapped shut. While you waited to die, he didn’t say, because even if he was angry about having this argument he couldn’t diminish Zura’s sacrifice quite so easily. Not even if it was true. “While you let him.”

“Exactly,” Zura said, as if that made sense. “I had made my choice. And I thought I made that clear to you.”

Gintoki remembered those looks, remembered what it had been like to read their intent and go on to hold back on every instinct he possessed and watch Zura bleed. So of course he said, “You had? I’m sorry, my ESP is on the fritz.”

“What?”

“You didn’t say anything, now did you?” Gintoki had to pause for a slow exhalation or he would have let his own anger add that Zura not saying anything was how they had all ended up here running across the local countryside looking for him all day. And if they hadn’t done that, the last any of them would have known was that Zura left without a word and never came back.

Zura blinked at Gintoki’s words — and possibly at the pain and drugs and everything else that must be distracting his senses at the moment. “I thought I made my intentions clear, one samurai to another.”

Gintoki exaggerated picking his ear with his little finger, really getting a rummage around in there. Then he pulled the finger out and stared at it. “Oh? No, see, I think my samurai channel is blocked? Wax, probably.”

“Gintoki!” Zura said, and in his agitation tried to — well, it was really unclear what he had been intending to do, because when he moved a spasm gripped his entire body and he ended up face-down on the futon, drawing shallow, shuddering breaths.

“Shit,” Gintoki said, and dropped down by Zura’s side, watching as Zura struggled to prop himself back up.

Gintoki placed a hand on Zura’s nape — strangely bare, but at least Zura still had some skin there. “Okay, it’s okay — you don’t have to do anything, just.” Zura turned his head and aimed a quickly dissolving glare at him, but sank down onto crossed arms.

“Yeah. Just stay there. Try not to move.” Gintoki looked around, grabbed a few of the clean towels Takano had provided and put them still folded where they would support each of Zura’s hands. They were in bad enough shape as it was. A bit of cushioning if Zura went about trying to do pushups or whatever seemed like a good — if terribly inadequate — gesture.

“And this is why you save your scolding until you get all bandaged up,” Gintoki muttered as he got back on his feet, but not loudly. His chest had gone all tight again, seeing Zura this injured, this helpless. Where could he even start? The tightness got worse. Those hands, the back, the scalp — and the blood, all the blood making it impossible to judge just how bad all of the damage really was. Bandages Gintoki could do, but — this ought to be taken care of in a hospital, or by real doctors. Maybe he could ask the midwife, Takano, to come back — but no. This was Gintoki’s task, and he couldn’t foist Zura off on a stranger. Not even a competent, well-meaning stranger.

Gintoki went to wash up quickly, took one look at himself in the bathroom mirror, and was even more impressed by Takano in hindsight, not running away screaming when he showed up. He shed his splattered yukata, and scrubbed off as much blood as seemed relevant to bother with. His urgency to get back to Zura rose with each wasted moment, and when he hurried back he still had streaks of drying blood in his hair.

Coming into the big family room with its blazing hearth would have felt cozy if it weren’t for Zura on the futon looking like the leavings of a battlefield. Gathering the water bowl and towels, Gintoki settled cross-legged by Zura’s side, facing the fire. “Zura?”

A terse “Katsura,” told him Zura was still hanging in there, and still cranky at not getting to die stupidly to prove a point. Well, too bad — Gintoki didn’t plan on letting Zura die any time soon, so there would be plenty of time to argue about that later. For now, well. There was nothing Gintoki could really say to make the next step any easier, so he went with the truth. “This is going to hurt,” he warned.

Zura gave a low wheeze of a chuckle. “Go ahead.”

Gintoki got the point. There was probably nothing that didn’t hurt Zura right now. It didn’t make the first swipe of the wet towel across the ruin of Zura’s back any easier. Feeling the trembling tension as Zura tried to stay completely still, getting the towel caught in half-dried scabs and bits of torn flesh — it was harrowing for Gintoki, and it had to be impossibly worse for Zura. Whether the painkillers helped or not, Zura was doing his best to breathe evenly, struggling for focus and control. A few more passes of the towel and Gintoki had to rinse it. He stared at the swirl of blood blooming in the clean water, turning it pink, taking a moment to look at something other than the injuries he’d stood by and watched get inflicted on Zura.

Zura himself had no such relief, no way to put aside the constant agony from torn flesh and cracked bones. Even his immense willpower couldn’t keep his breathing calm and constant when nerves flared with alarm as his body’s defenses slowly ebbed. It made it worse to rub him down, no matter how careful Gintoki tried to be. His touch seemed to stir pain receptors out of numb shock, causing Zura to shudder and gasp, until Gintoki found himself hesitating before bringing the cloth down, cringing in sympathy.

They fell into an uneasy, unpleasant rhythm by the fireside — Gintoki methodically cleaning a bit of raw flesh, pausing to rinse the worst of the gore out when Zura’s breathing grew too ragged, then starting again when he thought they could both bear it. He fetched more water, got rid of towels grown more red than white, and slowly, painstakingly, the expanse of Zura’s back was washed clean of crusted, tacky blood. What it revealed as he finished up made Gintoki feel sick to his stomach.

Kizu had crisscrossed the strokes of the whip, hitting hard enough to break the skin almost from the very start. The result was — bad. It was bad. The parts of Zura’s back flayed open seemed larger than the ones still covered in scraps of skin, the furrows so deep Gintoki kept fearing he’d scrape his cloth against bone. Cleaning it all up had taken its toll on Zura, who was looking even paler than before, his brow clammy with sweat and his eyes screwed shut. Gintoki absently passed the damp towel over Zura’s forehead and sighed. It was going to be a long night.

Looking around for the bandages, Gintoki realized that someone had come and gone while he was lost in his reluctant task — there was a lacquered tray just inside the doorway bearing bowls and covered trays. There was a big pitcher of water next to it, and a separate, smaller tray held a clay jug and saké cups. Tempting though it was to go straight for the alcohol, he couldn’t stop now. He went for the bandages instead.

“Oi. Time for some mummy cosplay,” Gintoki told Zura, nudging a bare shoulder. The unmarred skin there was warm from the fire, but Zura shivered and didn’t respond. “Zura. Come on.”

The entreaty earned Gintoki the faintest of mumbles, though it was followed by nothing but more shivering. Gintoki frowned. Though the idea of laying bandages out on the tatami and rolling Zura into them like a reverse butterfly crawling into a cocoon was appealing in theory he doubted it would work out that way right now. He studied the problem — Zura — and noticed chapped lips as well as the faint beading of sweat and the pallor. A moment later he was back at Zura’s side with a glass of water.

“Here,” he said. “Sit up and drink.” Gintoki put the glass aside and slid his hands under Zura’s shoulders.

“No,” Zura protested weakly, and attempted to writhe away — which made him gasp when the pain hit, and Gintoki winced with him. Kizu could not die enough times to make up for what he was forcing Gintoki to put Zura through right now.

“Come on,” Gintoki repeated, and this time Zura groaned and let Gintoki’s hands slowly guide him into kneeling more or less upright. If anyone had earned a bit of slouching it was him. Gintoki raised the glass to Zura’s lips, and tried to hold both him and the glass steady as he drank. There was a bit of spillage, but eventually every last drop was gone. Meanwhile Gintoki noticed that the shoulder that had faced away from the fire was remarkably cool — there was a rapid pulse beating in Zura’s throat that looked more like a sign of fever than anything else, and that discrepancy had him helplessly concerned. It might be nothing, but if it was something, what was Gintoki going to do about it? Bandage Zura more?

“-ké,” Zura said, and Gintoki pushed those thoughts to the side and stared at Zura. His voice was thready and weak but surely he’d just said—

“Saké.”

“Zura, no,” Gintoki said, a half smile tugging at his lips. “No liquor for you until you stop leaking everywhere.”

“But the party,” Zura huffed.

“What?” Gintoki had thought Zura had spotted the jug by the door, but one jug did not a party make.

“For win—” Zura gulped down a breath, continued. “—winning, right?”

Gintoki leaned back slightly, taking a good look at Zura’s face. Pain was still etched between his eyebrows, but his eyes were glossy, and the pallor of his skin was such that it recalled the frozen faces of battlefield corpses. “Zura?”

“Banzai,” Zura answered, and Gintoki groaned. Was this what Takano had meant by ‘a bit loopy’? Or was it — was it something worse? Zura becoming untethered in time before—. A chill crawled down his spine, and Gintoki forcibly suppressed a shudder.

“Yeah,” Gintoki agreed, humoring Zura. “We won and there is saké. But first you gotta dress up in these fancy bandages for the party. Got it?”

Zura nodded and then went “Ow!” as the motion tugged at his injuries. His eyes widened in surprise, and he looked at Gintoki with confusion. Maybe this wasn’t bad, then? Maybe a bit of a break from everything was just what Zura needed right now.

“Right, let’s do this,” Gintoki said, and started on the bandaging. It was pretty easy wind them around someone else than yourself, especially when you had full use of both arms. Well, full use of one arm for bandaging — the other was mostly occupied with holding Zura’s weight, steadying him when he groaned and would have slumped back against the futon. For a few minutes he worked in silence, trying to be quick — Zura was beginning to tremble with the effort of staying kneeling — but also make it tidy enough that there were no slack parts and no strange folds or awkward knots.

“Don’t like it,” Zura complained vaguely as Gintoki had to nudge him back up and reach under a limp arm to get the bandage to reach all the way around.

“Neither do I, but you’re the one who decided to get this way,” Gintoki muttered, getting the last bit of this roll of bandages tucked away and reaching for a fresh one.

Zura might be too addled to know what the comment referred to, but he wasn’t too out of it to make a soft hmph of annoyance at Gintoki’s lack of sympathy. “Want ‘nother nurse.”

“Yeah, well I want another patient,” Gintoki said amicably, glad the painkillers were working well enough for Zura to grouse.

“Others?” Zura said.

“Hm?” Gintoki had ducked under Zura’s arm again, working his way down the small of his back and couldn’t see what expression accompanied the question.

“Hurt?” Zura clarified anxiously.

“Nobody else is hurt, Zura. It’s just you.” Gintoki sighed as he looped another layer of bandage around Zura’s waist. And hurt good, too: despite his best efforts there were dark stains seeping through the bandages here and there.

“Ah. Good.” Then he sighed softly and leaned forward, resting his forehead on Gintoki’s back. “Sorry.”

Gintoki was confused — was this Zura, apologizing for earlier? It didn’t seem likely. He unfolded carefully, guiding Zura’s head rest on his shoulder. He could feel Zura’s body shivering, could feel short, shallow breaths against his skin. Neither was a good sign. Gintoki sighed, sliding a hand to cup the back of Zura’s skull. “Hang in there, okay?”

“Sorry,” Zura repeated, and sagged into Gintoki’s arms, his breath hitching as shudders wracked his body and jostled all of its torn and broken parts.

Gintoki rubbed the tense knots in Zura’s neck, his cheek pressed against the uneven stubble on the crown of Zura’s head. “It’s okay, Zura. Just relax.” He didn’t know if this was a brief fit, or if they had exhausted the last reserves of Zura’s energy. The bandages were almost done, but not quite, and he didn’t dare let Zura settle back down before he’d finished them up. A sloppy job now could have repercussions he’d rather not deal with later. So he sat there, Zura’s head on his shoulder, stroking the neck that should have been curtained in silky hair, carefully avoiding getting Zura’s hands crushed between them, wretched at how little he could do to make anything better. If only he’d interfered earlier — “Sorry,” he muttered into Zura’s scalp.

Zura stirred faintly, but didn’t speak. Gintoki sighed — it looked unlikely that Zura was going to help with this last part. A bit of awkward maneuvering still got him the result he needed, and it was with huge relief that he lowered Zura back down to the futon. The next step was getting rid of the blood-crusted kimono — easy enough with the help of some sharp scissors. Gintoki was tempted to throw it in the fire, but the gross smoke probably wouldn’t be worth it. Now, getting Zura mostly wrapped in the clean, pale blue yukata Takano had left was trickier. It involved lifting more bits of Zura and getting faint groans of protest in response. Gintoki didn’t pull it all the way over Zura’s back — he wanted to keep an eye on those bandages.

That done, Gintoki sank down in a cross-legged slump, resting his head in his hands. He felt like shit. He wanted to lie down, grab a Jump, and shut the world out for the next week or so. He wanted copious amounts of alcohol. He wanted all of Zura’s men to finally find their way here so that someone else could deal with the rest of this mess. He wanted anything except to get back up again and administer more superficial healing to deep wounds, helping by hurting Zura again and again.

Bile rose in the back of his throat as he thought of Zura’s broken hands — he’d have to do something about them. Gintoki gulped for breath, fighting against nausea at the thought of touching them, of having to put Zura through even more pain. And it might not even do any good — Zura would need a real doctor, a surgeon, and even then—. Gintoki clenched his jaw. He could have stopped that first blow before it fell. Should have. That would have been so much easier than trying to do damage control, than dealing with Zura’s injuries and suffering and whatever the hell was wrong with him that he couldn’t breathe right and couldn’t stop shivering.

Anger cleansed. The nausea faded, and Gintoki raised his head. His hands were flecked with rusty stains again — he kept washing Zura’s blood off of them and then kept getting more and more of it on himself and how much blood did Zura intend to lose? He was being incredibly sloppy with it, the bastard. So careful not to let anyone get left behind or hurt on his watch and then he went and did this to himself. “Dammit, Zura.”

No response, of course.

Gintoki wasn’t quite sure how long it was before he managed to get back up. Washed the taste of blood from his mouth with water. Grabbed an onigiri from the covered plate, because he needed the energy. Crammed it down on the way to wash his hands and came back with more clean water for Zura. Then he ransacked a futon closet for more pillows and dumped them next to Zura. Finally he collected everything he needed and sat back down on the tatami after throwing a few more pieces of wood on the fire. He was as ready as he was going to get.

“Zura?” Gintoki touched the top of a bandaged shoulder, knowing there was no injury below. Zura jerked, rousing from his restless stupor with a pained groan.

“Right. I’m going to scoot you up a bit, okay?”

Zura’s reaction was one of unhappy confusion. “What?”

“Got another bit of bandaging to do,” Gintoki said.

“Who?”

Gintoki paused. “You. You need the bandages, and I’m putting them on.”

Zura held still for a moment’s thought, then shuddered. “Oh.”

“Yeah. You’re hurt. But it’s — it’s okay,” Gintoki lied. “Just sit up a bit.”

It wasn’t as easy as just sitting up, not when Zura was already gripped by shivers and short of breath. And of course movement just made it worse. But with a bit of encouragement and a lot of careful application of pillows, Gintoki got Zura’s torso high enough off the futon that he could lie prone with his hands trailing down. It didn’t exactly look comfortable, but it would have to do. He reached out for Zura’s right hand, his own muscles tensing uncomfortably as he tried to steel himself. The moment his fingers brushed the crusted blood on the swollen injury Zura gasped and twitched it back.

“Hey. It’s okay. You have to let me—” Gintoki tried to take Zura’s hand and this time Zura choked out a protest and used his leverage to curl the arm close to his chest.

Gintoki sat back, torn between using terrible bedside manners and simply giving up and calling it a night — surely there had to be some hospital that could be convinced to take in a man who used his own wanted poster as proof of identity. Because there was absolutely no way that would end with another prison break. Right. With a tired sigh Gintoki said, “Look, Zura. You’ll make it worse like that.”

No reaction, just the same shallow breaths and quick pulse fluttering under the sweaty skin of Zura’s neck. Gintoki gathered his patience and reached out with even more care this time, making sure he didn’t accidentally poke or jostle anything.

“No!” the word exploded out of Zura as Gintoki’s hand slid under his. Dark eyes flashed, feverish and terrified. It wasn’t a look Gintoki would ever have expected from Zura, and he couldn’t even imagine it framed by long flowing hair. But right now — yeah. Zura had struggled to hold himself together for so long he was beginning to fall apart. It hurt to see, and he wished there was something he could do to help, actually help, not just wash and bandage and leave for time (or surgeons) to heal. But he knew only too well that some things nobody could help with. Sometimes the only way to put yourself back together was to fall apart and then pick up the pieces rather than try to plaster over the spreading cracks.

Gently, Gintoki closed his hand on Zura’s swollen, bloody one. “You can do this,” he murmured, seeking assurance as much as giving it in the face of Zura’s frantic stare.

Zura surged up, pulling his hand back with so much force Gintoki released it before Zura could hurt himself worse. Steadying himself on the pillows, Zura manage to turn away slightly, shoulders hunched defensively over his folded arms. Tremors ran down the stiff curve of his spine, and whatever skin the bandages left exposed glistened with sweat in the firelight. Gintoki wasn’t sure how aware Zura was of his surroundings right now — what he been through was the kind of thing that would make anyone come slightly undone, especially as injuries and painkillers both took their toll — or how inclined he would be to listen to reason.

There was a feral energy to Zura’s stillness now, so Gintoki moved back into his field of view with slow deliberation. “Zura,” he said softly, trying to catch that pained gaze. “Give me your hand.”

Gintoki wasn’t sure whether Zura was processing words or tone of voice, but a moment later he shook his shorn head. His features contorted to a mask of agony, and he pressed his arms closer to his chest. “I can’t,” he said, his voice a strained whisper hardly louder than the crackling of the flames.

Right. So words were happening. That was good, right? Gintoki licked his lips. “Sure you can. If you want to lie back down again I can—”

“Gintoki.” Zura met looked up. Gintoki lost whatever he was going to say when he caught the expression on Zura’s face. The air went out of his lungs, to see his friend so entirely drained of hope, so completely vulnerable and hurting. “I can’t,” Zura repeated, louder this time. “I can’t lose my hands, I can’t...”

His voice didn’t break, but he looked away, looked down, sought to hide something of his despair from Gintoki. As if Gintoki couldn’t read it in every line of his body already.

Gintoki could have offered assurances, sympathy. Instead he shrugged. “You could.”

That startled Zura into meeting his eyes again, a faint spark of anger shining amidst the bleakness in them. Gintoki nodded, answering the silent challenge. “If you had to, you’d figure something out,” he said. Zura was taken aback enough to blink in confusion.

“If you had to, you’d get your sword grafted to your arm. Or you’d get robot hands. Or you’d just put your sword in your mouth — honestly, Zura. You should be deciding what look you want to go for, it’s not often you get a character redesign in an established series. Think of the possibilities.”

The words were fanning the little spark of anger in Zura, who sat up straight just so he could get a better angle from which to glare at Gintoki. “Sword in my mouth?” he asked in a harsh breath, clearly wishing he could string a longer sentence together.

Gintoki shrugged again. “Or you’ll be fine,” he allowed. “I don’t know.” He held on tight to his own despair, his own frustration. “I’m not a doctor.”

Zura stared at him, his pose stiff and defensive and then all at once it deflated. He let his hands tumble into his yukata-draped lap — they were a swollen, bloody mess. “Gintoki,” Zura repeated, a quiet plea, his gaze fixed on the injuries. “I— I’m scared.”

Gintoki exhaled a long, slow breath, pitching closer to Zura as his own tension drained out of him. “Yeah,” he said, and reached up to cup the back of Zura’s neck, their heads tilted close together. “I know. Me too.”

The slightest of chuckles as Zura leaned closer. “You?” As if Gintoki hadn’t nearly lost his mind thinking he was about to let Zura die in front of him again and again today. As if he wasn’t terrified of making things worse, of doing the wrong thing or saying the wrong thing or missing something he should have done. But Gintoki could feel the shivers gripping Zura, and when Zura rested his forehead against Gintoki’s it was cold and clammy and so he didn’t mention any of that, just huffed softly.

“It’d be really gross if your hands fell off on me,” Gintoki said.

Zura chuckled again. “I suppose.”

They sat like that for a long moment, each breathing in their own separate rhythm as they took courage from each other. Then Zura broke the silence. “Do it.”

“Okay.” Gintoki gave Zura’s neck a reassuring squeeze, and they shuffled into a more practical position.

Zura sucked in a breath, face set with determination as he stared straight ahead and placed his right hand in Gintoki’s waiting palm. Gintoki lowered it slowly into the bowl of tepid water, and Zura held still and let him soak the crusted blood off, then wipe it off with utmost care. As he did, he took his first good look at the injury. It was nasty — the flesh swollen, the skin of the knuckles split and mottled bruises everywhere — and he couldn’t wait to have an actual doctor do something about it. But as he revealed more and more skin under all that blood, he found no bones jutting out. Some of them were definitely broken, and would have to be splinted, but overall it could have been worse — would have been worse if the injury had been inflicted from a different angle, maybe. Whatever it was, there was a surprising sense of relief. There had been far too little of that today, but he barely dared to trust it. “Well,” Gintoki said, startling Zura after the tense silence. “It didn’t fall off.”

For the first time since he started tending to the hand, Zura looked down. “Oh,” he said, and blinked rapidly. “Oh, that’s—”

“Something a doctor could fix.” Gintoki agreed.

Zura watched Gintoki wind the injured hand in protective bandages in silence, but his breathing sounded like it was coming more easily. That was about all that came more easily. With the abuse he’d just suffered, sitting up and holding still was a heroic feat. The shivering hadn’t gone away, and neither had the too-pale complexion improved much. But at least he was still conscious, and the most coherent he’d been since their earlier argument.

“There.” Gintoki formally replaced the hand in Zura’s lap. “Try not to punch anyone with it for a couple of days. Doctor’s orders.”

“Thought you weren’t a doctor?” Zura said.

“Well, since I already had to be a nurse I promoted myself,” Gintoki said, trying to keep the mood light as he went on. “Now the left.”

The left made Gintoki’s spine want to crawl out of his skin, it was so wrong. Worse than the right one, definitely worse, and he should’ve be numb to the horror by now but he wasn’t. It was all piling on top of each other, the whole wretched day’s horrors, forming a mega-horror that was currently squeezing all the air out of his lungs but felt like it would move on to squeezing the marrow from his bones.

No matter how gingerly he tried to clean the hand, he couldn’t do it without causing Zura spasms of agony. Here were the broken bits, the torn flesh, and Gintoki couldn’t — didn’t even want to try — to realign the malformed digits. Cleaning it in the purified water, he felt Zura’s every harsh intake of breath, every sharp shudder. When he looked up, Zura was staring at him, looking — well, looking much the same as he had all night. Which wasn’t good.

“Zura,” Gintoki asked, picking out another bandage. “Are you wanted in space?”

Zura’s brows twitched, going from furrowed in pain to furrowed in puzzlement. “What?”

“Are you?” Gintoki decided on an approach to the bandages: lots of them. Couldn’t hurt. Might even help a bit, though the instructions said the effect would remain consistent regardless of layers applied.

“Probably. Parts?” Zura gave the impression of shrugging without actually moving his shoulders.

“Yeah, that figures. So get in touch with Sakamoto and tell him where you’re not wanted.” Before Zura could waste time protesting, Gintoki started wrapping the bandage, which immediately consumed most of Zura’s energy. Then he continued, “Remember his injury? It’s fine now. Sure, he uses that stupid gun, but we all know that’s just ‘cause he thinks it makes him look cool.”

Zura made a pained noise, though Gintoki couldn’t tell if it was in response to his suggestion or the tightening bandage. “Right,” Gintoki said vaguely. “So you do that. But maybe later.” When Zura wasn’t about to fall over into a pile of pillows. Fall over, pass out — he looked like he might do worse than just pass out, but Gintoki wasn’t about to allow that. Not after all the work he’d put into patching him up.

Zura swayed, and Gintoki put a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Can you sit up a bit longer?” Wait, no. Of course Zura wouldn’t admit it if he couldn’t. “And don’t say yes if you’ll fall on your face in a minute,” Gintoki hastened to add.

The clarification was met with a pale smile. “Yes,” Zura said. And then, as though the request cost him. “Maybe some water?”

Gintoki got him water, held it for him again, and then helped him take a few bites of rice. Everything was slow and painstaking, but somehow Zura had enough support from the pillows that he stayed upright. It was a far cry from his usual straight spine and knees neatly aligned in seiza, but all the more impressive for how terrible he looked. But it did make things easier — Gintoki had one more task left to accomplish. He wasn’t particularly looking forward to it, but at least it would be easier if Zura wasn’t prone.

Returning to the fireside with clean hot water in the excellent bowl, Gintoki shuffled as close to Zura as he could. Zura gave him a slow, confused look, as if he’d forgotten what either of them were doing there. “Your head’s a mess,” Gintoki said by way of explanation. “Even more than usual.”

“Funny,” Zura said very dryly. It took a heave of his chest to gather enough force for a full sentence, but he continued, “Coming from you.”

Gintoki grinned, despite the comeback being such a weak, predictable one. Zura had found some kind of equilibrium — not just keeping him upright, but keeping him anchored in the moment without drifting into either despair or delirium right now. “Are you insinuating that anything about these beautiful curls is messy?” he asked.

“The blood.” Zura remarked.

Gintoki’s hand went to his head and — right. Crusted blood. As if he didn’t have enough of that all over himself already. “Okay, enough about me,” he said, giving the words an annoyed ring to amuse Zura.

“Here, just lean forward.” Gintoki had placed the bowl of water by Zura’s lap, and draped a towel over his shoulders. Wouldn’t do to get the bandages wet, not after all the trouble he’d had getting them on in the first place. Then he poured a cupped handful of warm water on the shorn crown of Zura’s head. There was enough hair left that it had snarled around clotted blood in places. In others there were scabs covering cuts that ought to be washed out. It was jarring enough to see Zura without his long hair. There was no way Gintoki could leave him this filthy and disheveled on top of that.

It wasn’t a spa treatment. Zura hissed in discomfort as Gintoki tugged at those knots, working clots of gore out them. But as the water dripping back into the basin started losing its pink tinge and most of the crusts had gotten soaked off, Zura began to lean into Gintoki’s hands. Gintoki avoided the cuts, and gently rubbed at Zura’s scalp, noticing the way the gesture seemed to melt a little bit of tension out of Zura every time he repeated it. More water — tepid now — and fingers carding through too-short hair, and Zura kept relaxing by degrees. His breathing was growing more even. He was still held upright mostly by bandages and pillows and pride, but it was as if the wash had refreshed more than just his hair.

Gintoki exhaled slowly, the improvement (mental if not physical) enough for some of his own tension to drain out of him. He didn’t mind the repetitive task, not if it was something he could do to actually help. Possibly the first thing he’d done to help Zura all day — killing what’s-his-face hadn’t really done much. The villagers might have taken him down if Gintoki hadn’t acted — or the monks. What he’d glimpsed of them while they fought showed it definitely wasn’t their first time. If they had a history with Zura, that was not entirely surprising. But how did they have a history with Zura? Did anyone else here?

“The lady whose house we’re in,” Gintoki said. “Takano. She wanted to thank you.”

A little of the previous tension returned to Zura. “Ah.” Gintoki couldn’t see his expression, of course, but knowing Zura that one syllable was what had come out when he attempted to reject the need for any thanks without insulting the lady who had offered it.

“You know her?”

“No. Can’t recall.”

“But you got friends here?” Gintoki asked, rubbing soft, soothing circles on Zura’s scalp.

“Mm,” he acknowledged. “Temple, mostly.”

“I had no idea — none of us did.” Gintoki couldn’t help thinking back to the morning’s frantic hunt for clues, the reports from someone’s cousin’s sister-in-law and someone else’s aunt’s mistress and trying to use Sadaharu as a bloodhound and finding nothing but Zura’s sword still in its scabbard. It might have helped narrowing the vague and overly enormous rural area down if they’d known Zura had ties to this particular village.

“You wouldn’t.” Zura’s voice was soft, but it sounded like it cost him less to speak now. Only for some reason he paused for two long breaths before speaking again. “It was — it was after.”

Gintoki froze, all the way out to his fingertips, so of course when he shook the moment off Zura was bound to have noticed. “Ah,” he said, because there were no words he could think of to express anything at all about after. Mostly, it was a blank — a black hole. Something that had swallowed all the light that came before it, and Zura and Takasugi with it. And it had taken time to get far away from it that Gintoki had found any light at all, but by then the others were well and truly gone. And was this one of the places Zura had gone to?

“The temple is lovely,” Zura offered. “Small. Quiet.”

Gintoki nodded, though Zura couldn’t see it. His fingers moved in abstract patterns. “I see.” Somewhere well-ordered and peaceful, with quiet companionship and all the time in the world for contemplation — yeah, he could see that, for Zura.

“They hadn’t all been monks for long,” Zura added. So others from the war, with their own wounds and secrets. And fighting experience.

“And Kizu?” Gintoki had to ask, as the name came back to him.

Zura gave a delicate shudder. “Not from here. But — he knew.”

Strange, that someone Gintoki had never met had known more about Zura than he himself had. Or not strange at all, but somehow the past ten years felt like no time at all compared to the endless childhood closeness.

“I had to save them,” Zura murmured, and once again Gintoki’s fingers stilled. The argument from earlier was fresh in his mind — the self-recriminations since even more so. So he didn’t speak, simply let Zura get whatever he needed off his chest.

“And Kizu was…” He sighed, and lifted his head. “I failed him.”

“He failed you,” Gintoki corrected brusquely, and followed up by fluffing Zura’s head dry with a clean towel — it robbed the situation of any dignity it might have had, and let Zura take a moment without meeting Gintoki’s eyes. “I’m pretty sure whatever wild ideals you were nurturing in that guy, they didn’t involve taking villagers and monks hostage.”

“No,” Zura agreed. “That was all him. But—”

“Nothing. But nothing. He chose this. He chose to threaten everyone, and drag you all the way here, and —” Gintoki stopped, letting the towel drop. The list of unforgivable things Kizu had done ended with Zura like this. He didn’t have to repeat them out loud.

Zura looked at him, concern in his knitted brow — as though Gintoki, not Zura was pale and drawn and clammy. “He hurt you,” Zura said, as if voicing a curious discovery.

“I’m sorry, that’s not what I remember,” Gintoki snapped, because he’d killed Kizu before the bastard could do more than gape at him.

“No. He hurt you, so you killed him. That’s…” Zura swayed slightly, and Gintoki’s hand shot out to steady him. “Oh.”

“You’re delirious,” Gintoki told Zura, and started to ease him back down on the futon.

“No,” Zura twitched his head in what would have been a vigorous shake if he hadn’t already learned to avoid that sort of motion. Gintoki put a hand on either shoulder to support his weight, because ‘no’ or not his entire body was quite determined to get horizontal. “That’s why you did it?” he searched Gintoki’s face for some confirmation. Of what, Gintoki didn’t know.

“Why I did what? Was it something I did, or something you think I did because you are delirious?”

“I thought — back there, with Kizu.” Zura was doing better with sentences, but he was also gripped by some emotion that was robbing him of breath. “I thought you wanted to show me how easy it was. Taking him down.”

“What?” Gintoki brought his face closer to Zura’s, incredulous. “Why? Why would you think — you thought I didn’t know you could have taken him? You thought that was why?”

Zura gave a fraction of a nod. “Yes. Or — I didn’t think…”

“Well, that’s pretty clear,” Gintoki chided.

“Didn’t think it was for me,” Zura breathed, and let his head fall to Gintoki’s shoulder.

“You idiot,” Gintoki said softly, and folded Zura into a one-armed embrace even as he kept supporting his weight with the other. “Of course it was. All of us — Kagura, Shinpachi, Elizabeth and all of your men. Going crazy looking for you.”

“And you,” Zura mumbled.

“Obviously.”

“You were there.”

Gintoki couldn’t deny that, for all that he had wished he could have been elsewhere. It was just chance that brought him and not a group of Zura’s men to that temple at sunset. “Yeah, I was.” If he’d been just a bit earlier; if he could have kept Kizu from gathering all those hostages—

“Sorry.” The word held such depths of emotion Gintoki’s heart clenched tight.

This time, Zura knew what he was saying; who he was saying it to. Gintoki swallowed. Zura was the one bloodied and broken, Gintoki was fine. Perfectly fine. He’d just been there — done nothing, seen everything. And being fine had almost never hurt so much before. He didn’t dare tighten his arm around Zura at all, but he gently rested his chin on the top of his head. “Wasn’t you,” he murmured.

Zura made a humming sound of agreement, which was far better than the previous proclamations of guilt. Maybe he wanted to say more, but his last reserves of energy were draining away with each moment he spent clinging to consciousness. Gintoki could feel it in the way his body was listing, hear it in the pattern of his breathing. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t—”

“You came,” Zura said, his voice thick with exhaustion. Despite that, he managed some heat in the next words. “You killed him.”

Gintoki nodded, Zura’s stubble rubbing against his skin. “I did.”

“Good.” Zura exhaled slowly, and this time Gintoki managed to lower him down onto his stomach. A pained hiss escaped Zura at the way the wounds on his back pulled, and his injured hands prevented him from supporting himself, but he soon stilled, giving in to the demands of his body for rest.

“Good,” Gintoki echoed. “Sleep.” And if anyone else wanted to have a go at Zura, Gintoki would kill them too. That Zura himself seemed to find this a novel revelation — well. Gintoki didn’t have a cure for stupid.

Making sure he wouldn’t disturb Zura, Gintoki gathered his discarded bokutou and wiped it clean with great care. Then he finally had a few cups of saké from the jug by the door, and it was so delicious it felt like a waste to gulp it down in a hurry. But he did, because he had yet to go wash the dried blood out of his hair. He didn’t bother trying to do anything about his yukata — that one the villagers could burn or reuse for rags or whatever. Instead he pulled the one Takano had left him over both shoulders like a blanket.

Then he sat cross-legged at the head of the futon, between Zura and the door. He heard people talking softly out there, so there was no need for him to keep watch. Which was good, because he had his own watch to keep in here. His body folded into a relaxed slouch, wooden sword and all. He sat in silence, breathing and listening to the crackling of the fire and feeling its warmth on his skin. Time passed, and then Zura stirred uneasily, lips parting around a small sound of distress. Gintoki reached out and placed a hand on his head. “It’s okay. It’s over.”

And even after Zura stilled, Gintoki left his hand there, fingers absently stroking the silky-soft short hairs as he drifted into a wary rest. It wasn’t over, not for Zura and not for Gintoki, who still craved alcohol and murder whenever his thoughts drifted to the day’s events. But for now, Gintoki was guarding Zura’s sleep and Zura’s life, and he wouldn’t let anyone — living or dead, dream or vengeful ghost — interfere with either.