Chapter Text
1863, December
He’s still awake when Genzaburo calls him from the hallway. Hijikata has returned from dispatch with Souji and Saito, Gen-san says, and he’s summoning Harada for guard duty. Sano shoots the last of his liquor, sets the cup aside, and stands. Gen-san elaborates as they hustle through the compound, and--even as he comprehends what Hijikata means to do--Sano’s joining Hesiuke in a darkened room, eyes on this unfortunate kid who’s seen the failed ones.
The boy is small--surely not older than fourteen-years-old, and gagged. His wrists are tied. Souji’s a bastard, but he’s good with knots. The kid, unconscious to boot, isn’t going anywhere. Heisuke’s nervous, Sano can tell. His eyes are a little too wide even as he sits agura beside him. Whoever summoned Heisuke must have spoken with him, too, because he doesn’t ask any questions. Harada offers nothing in return.
There’s an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. He knows this kid has seen their most abhorrent secret. Whether or not he’s understood what he’s seen is another matter. Even so, it’s not Sano’s place to intervene before decisions are handed down. He’ll act as commanded--act as necessary--but he hopes the boy’s ill-fated encounter hasn’t landed him a death sentence.
Dark eyelashes brush against pale skin. The witness is dressed like a man, but his features appear feminine--hence Sano’s presumption of his youth. There’s nothing masculine about him, and in fact he’s almost lovely. Heisuke swallows hard.
Sano chances a glance at his younger friend. Heisuke’s hands are steady, but they’re fisted, and he’s looking at the other boy with something like the regret that Sano feels. Still, Sano thinks there’s more there. He takes a breath.
Their nerves are still raw from failed experiments and personnel trials of the past two weeks. For a moment, he wonders what he would have done if it had been him, not Souji, to catch up with Ryunosuke that night.
Despondency is a luxury they can’t afford; later, in the privacy of his room, he’ll pour another in memory of the assumed dead. Now, he stares into the eye of the storm swirling around a boy--though with every glance he grows warier of that conviction--who’s seen too much. He waits.