Archive of Our Own

Hijikata Toushirou usually dealt with his problems by sending them to the grave; or forgoing sleep to rewrite Yamazaki's reports and have him perform seppuku as penance for his incompetence; or avoiding death on a daily basis by dodging the missiles launched out of a familiar bazooka at him; or dragging a fully-exposed and often critically-injured Kondou away from his most-frequented dojo, the one in Shinsengumi headquarters notwithstanding. 

His current problem, however, was peculiar in that there was no tactical strategy he could utilize for it, no action plan he could follow up on, because Hijikata wasn't sure how to define it in the first place. 

As typically was the case, the problem had to do with Yorozuya. But it wasn't related to any particular trouble he stirred up with his grimey, booger-laced fingers, nor was it solely about Yorozuya himself. It was an internal matter—one that lingered after their customary bickering, stayed when their touching backs parted to re-engage their enemies in battle, and latched itself onto glances they shared over sake and their respective (though arguably repulsive) dishes. 

Yet, the most baffling part to Hijikata was that it grew worse even without the man's presence there to bother him, like an accumulation of baggage that wasn't entirely unmanageable but wasn't completely welcomed either. 

In its initial stages, Hijikata could push it aside and pretend it was a mere slip-up in his character that went about unaired. A minor inconvenience he dismissed by devoting himself to ignorance. 

When it dawned on him years later that this situation wasn't actually short-term and never had been, whatever composure Hijikata had left crumbled under its weight. He found himself incapable of pretending it hadn't already cemented itself into his psyche, the rational side of his brain deteriorated to the extent that he roamed towards the red-light district after his shift and stood, against all better judgement, at the front of Yorozuya Gin-Chan to deal with his problem head-on once and for all. 

Except the bastard wasn't home. 

Hijikata figured he must be off wasting his latest earnings at a pachinko parlour or getting shit-faced with his homeless pal. He sighed, itching for nicotine to soothe the prickling at his insides but opted for a more salutary distraction and leaned against the railing on the balcony to watch the waning sun. A clearance in ship traffic made the horizon seem wider, the sky less encumbered by the clog of daily life.

This sliver of peace that nature kindly extended to Hijikata was immediately ruined upon him noticing a robust cloud resembling a rather outdated hairstyle which landed Hijikata back to square one. 

"Damn that perm," Hijikata grumbled and retreated down the stairs to return to the barracks, annoyed at how pathetic he had let himself become. 

Directly below was a humble snack bar that Hijikata had passed by (purely for plot-driven purposes that had him at Yorozuya's place and definitely not because he wanted to). He paused in front of the entrance, restless for some sort of relief, and debated going in for a drink to numb the weird sensations he was desperate to control. As a rule, he stayed clear of alcohol on a work night, knowing that supervising a rowdy horde of men while suppressing the contents within his stomach the next day was too demanding of a task when hungover. It would be in his best interest to ignore the craving and sleep it off but as his feet began to move again, a heavily-accented voice called out to him from the entrance of the bar. 

"Hey, handsome." Turning to the source, Hijikata cringed. The woman's attempt at winking only magnified how uninviting her features were. "Why don't you come in for a round of drinks and later, leave with me, hot stuff?" 

For lack of any other response to give, Hijikata said, "Oh." He had seen her before, though the grey hair and additional creases on her face were new. "It's you... uhh... Cat Lady." 

"It's Catherine!" Any seductive charm Cat Lady was selling dropped along with her smile. 

"Right," Hijikata replied, not really retaining the information since his attention was still partially distracted by her visage. "What do you want?" 

Cat Lady rested against the doorway, gesturing upstairs and posed her own question. "You looking for Gintoki? He's not here. Avoiding his rent dues." 

"I'm not." He glowered, a tad too hasty on the defensive which did nothing to help his lie. "I was just in the area." 

"Uh-huh." Cat Lady drawled, unconvinced, and took it as a chance to reel in a customer. "You sure were taking your time up there for someone who's just in the area. Unless, of course, you're just here to get drunk."

Cornered by her sleazy sales tactic to coerce money from him, Hijikata knew that leaving without giving her his business would imply the truth he wanted to hide and as a man, he had to protect his dignity from being sullied further by Yorozuya; the insinuation alone could undermine his reputation. 

"Fine." He conceded, shoving himself inside and tried not to look so defeated at Cat Lady's victorious sneer. "One drink." 

———

"Fuck," Hijikata muttered, sinking his head onto the tips of his fingers, attempting to rub away his thoughts to no avail. He gazed down through the blurred silhouette of his hand at the glass of whiskey he had drained, and nodded to the owner of the bar whose name was skirting past his memory. More familiar to him were the several streaks of crow's feet that had rooted themselves deeply into the harsh black border around her eyes. 

"It's called eyeliner," the owner cut in, mildly irritated at her age being the focus of his tangent but was accustomed enough to benign inebriated ramblings to let it slide. "And everyone gets wrinkles at some point. You've got a few self-induced ones right now." 

"Fuck," Hijikata repeated, not quite feeling in control of his words or consciousness, and furrowed his brows further which only substantiated her claim. "Did I say that out loud? Sorry. That was rude of me." 

The terse apology settled unacknowledged in the relative quiet of the bar, absent of its usual loud patrons. A few customers were scattered near the back, unimposing. "You seem troubled." She went to pour him another glass to fill her end of the job that was inviting a conversation with the people she served, even taciturn men who tended to hold monologues in their heads. 

Hijikata scoffed. "I wouldn't be drinking if I wasn't." Reaching instinctively for the cigarettes in his yukata, he announced another cuss as his hand patted air instead. The lag in his brain finally caught up to remind him that he had emptied the pack earlier during work, the need to occupy his mouth while keeping unnecessary emotions at bay being the main reason why they depleted so quickly. 

"Fair enough." The owner set the bottle down on the counter. "I won't force it out of you." Noticing his displeasure at the empty carton, she presented him with a cigarette from her own reserve, a slimmer kind than the brand he was loyal to. The stench of tobacco tarrying around her should've been an indicator that she, too, was a heavy smoker. He took it with a curt thanks as she lit it for him, their eyes meeting briefly before Hijikata went back to his drink, a tepid guilt circling the glass rim. Although the owner hadn't pressed for an answer, the offer to lend an ear, coupled with the charitable act just then, nudged at the solitude eating away at him. Maybe the alcohol had sunk in too fast and he opened his mouth again before his delayed senses could clamp it shut. 

"Keep thinking about this bastard," Hijikata began, trying to give his feelings some vague tangible form as if reaching into a well and cupping his hands around an elusive shape of water. "And I don't know how to make of that." 

The owner hummed, breathing life into a cigarette she had plucked out for herself while he was speaking, considering his quandary. Perhaps she was flipping through a mental archive of sage advice that she had amassed in her countless decades of experiences to impart on him. 

"You're making me sound too old, brat." She shot him a glare that could've been harsher if she wanted to and Hijikata realized he was muttering his observations aloud again. Fortunately, she left it be and huffed out a veil of smoke. "Good thoughts or bad thoughts?" 

Scowling, Hijikata turned to the whiskey and brought it to his lips. "Like I said, I don't know. It's messing up my logic." He took a generous gulp with a wince and wondered how big of a blow it would be to his pride if he rescinded everything he had said, slammed down the money, and—in an unwaveringly cool manner—sprinted out the bar. 

"Sounds like someone's in love," Cat Lady teased, sliding into the seat next to him and propping an elbow against the table with a grin that was as irksome as her tone. She must have sauntered her way over from the other patrons the second she sensed an opportunity to harass. "Is it me? I can show you a good time if you show me your wallet, Pretty Boy." 

"Leave him be, Catherine." The owner batted at her bristly ears, eliciting an instant rebuttal from the feline fiend whom Hijikata was contemplating rubbing the burning end of his cigarette on. "The man's in denial." 

"I'm not in denial, damn it! I'm just"—he stalled as two pairs of skeptical eyes stared at him—"considering that these things I feel are dogshit." In a murmur that he hoped neither women would hear, he tacked on, "Doesn’t change anything, does it?" 

Hijikata allowed one beat of silence and then knocked back the rest of his drink. 

"Slow down," the owner warned. "I don't know how well you can handle your liquor but that's your second tonight." 

"Make it my third. I can handle it fine," Hijikata said, ignoring the extra slur to his words and the temperature of his face rising by a few degrees. Instead of heeding her well-placed concern, he waved his glass at her with a snort. "Don't worry, I can pay the tab. Unlike some free-loading bastards." 

Frowning, the owner uncapped the whiskey and obliged, though not without a trade-off. "I find it hard to believe some free-loading bastard could render a man with such an intimidating title as yours into this state." 

Her comment was deliberately sharp against his dulled senses and Hijikata could only fend off a reply by busying his mouth on his shortened stick of tobacco. 

"Would I happen to know this individual?" 

"Who doesn't? The bastard's existence makes it impossible not to know him." Hijikata finally relented, his impatience getting the better of him, and unburdened his cigarette against the ashtray to add to the existing heap of grey. When the pile moved, he jutted a thumb at it. "You should probably empty this." 

"That's my head, you fucking moron!" Cat Lady shot up, scattering the dusty embers as she did, ears perked in outrage. 

"In that case, it's already empty." The owner slid a proper ashtray closer to Hijikata's limited range of awareness, dismissing the insults Cat Lady was hurling at them both while she stormed off, and pressed on. "Tell me about him." 

The whiskey swirled in the replenished glass as Hijikata swallowed. It burned his throat and the unshed words caught inside threatened to ignite if he didn't release them. His field of view bounced around, subdued and fuzzy, and he felt the edges of his inhibitions melt into the room, the truth along with it. 

"He's the fucking worst. A slacker who doesn't act his age and has shit taste in food. Terrible with money and any sort of responsibility as an adult. And no matter how ridiculous or life-threatening the situation is, he always manages to get in the damn way." Hijikata paused to steady his breath. He should stop now. Cap it off at the animosity that was covering up a reality much softer and raw. Yet, there was no strength in him to repress it anymore so he continued. "Then you realize he only steps in the way to protect people. Not as a martyr or some shit like that. It's just his weird brand of kindness and it's fucking confusing because he's the most selfish and selfless jerk I've ever met." He groaned, smacking a palm against his temples. 

"Shit. Have I gotten brain damage? Was it because my mayonnaise intake was below average this week? That must be it." 

At the notion that he had disgraced the ultimate condiment, Hijikata whipped out an emergency mayonnaise bottle he had stashed in his yukata. But before he could squeeze a generous helping onto the whiskey, the owner halted him with a hand on his wrist and stare so cold it could render even ruthless men into a shivering husk. 

"Not in my establishment." 

Without protest, the mayonnaise bottle was returned promptly inside his sleeve. Despite the menacing aura she displayed, the owner waited for Hijikata to recollect himself. 

"I can't let it go on like this." Hijikata sighed. "I have to confront the bastard and say it to his smug face. Then punch it." 

If he came clean to Yorozuya, Hijikata knew the rejection would set everything back to normal. And in that liberation, he could acknowledge how wrong he was and finally put the matter to rest. The hurt, he would shake off eventually, because he could deal with facts. It was the meagre possibility of it being reciprocated that smothered him. 

The owner gave him an understanding look. Behind her eyes was a glint of an intimate memory Hijikata wasn't privy to. "A long time ago, when my husband and I met—" 

"Sorry, granny." Hijikata interrupted her with a sway of his hand that his whole body followed in tandem as he polished off the remaining whiskey. "I'm not interested in hearing about your marriage." 

"Don't cut me off! You might learn a thing or two." 

"I've learned enough to know that nothing good comes from romance. But you're right about cutting people off." He staggered to his feet, finding purchase on the hilt of his sword. "I should cut a few parts off the bastard... starting with that fucking perm." 

"It'll just grow back, you know." A voice emerged among the vestiges of Hijikata's perception, familiar in how passively provoking it was and with the annoying and perfect timing of a titular Shounen protagonist. "I mean, that's kinda how hair works. Well, except if you're bald." 

Hijikata steeled himself and turned to face the specific bastard he was agonizing over. "Why don't I remove the scalp altogether, then?" He suggested without implying any less violent options, crushing the last of the charity cigarette in his mouth further on every word. "It'll save me the hassle of giving you a trim." 

Yorozuya, unperturbed at the insult that was his own existence wafting around like a fart—a luxury only idiots with hair for brains could afford (as if they could afford anything other than at someone's else's expense), raised both hands in mock surrender and scratched his nose with a finger deliberately chosen to offend Hijikata. "I stroll in here, hoping to have a good time, and this is what I get? I thought we were at the friends stage of frenemies, Oogushi-kun." 

"And yet you're still with the nicknames, asshole! You want to get chummy? Do it with my blade!" 

"Oi!" The owner shouted, having lost whatever patience she graciously lent them during their banter. "If you two are going to fight, take it outside!" 

"Yeah!" Cat Lady jeered, suddenly popping into frame beside her. The commotion must have drawn her attention, as did her aptitude to heckle. "Hurry up and confess your love al—" The owner clasped a hand over Cat Lady's mouth and whispered, "You're forgetting they're both idiots." 

Fortunately, Hijikata was too busy scowling at Yorozuya to notice the near reveal of his secret. Yorozuya, however, did, and raised his routinely halfway eyelids at the two women by one centimetre. 

"Great suggestion." Hijikata brandished his sword at Yorozuya, readying himself to strike while his opponent was temporarily distracted. "There's plenty of space outside to bury that perm!" 

In his current inebriated state, Hijikata's reasoning was reduced to being simply reactionary. All it took was Yorozuya's mundane teasing for Hijikata to mistake the fuzzy feelings it gave him as fuel for bloodlust. Fighting Yorozuya, even on the basis of a few measly taunts, was a course of action Hijikata was always prepared for. 

What Hijikata hadn't anticipated was how three rounds of hard liquor and pent-up emotional torment emboldened by said liquor would hinder his usually fearsome physical prowess and negate years of refined coordination. So, when he began to charge at Yorozuya, pushing off on the weight of his left foot to accelerate, his brain told him it was his right and thus tripped over his sandals to knock himself out cold on the bar stool. 

"Wow." Gintoki whistled, bending down to get a better look at Hijikata's flattened complexion. "That's one hell of a way to shift the narrative point of view." He nodded at Otose. "How much did this asshole drink? And is there any booze left for me?" 

Otose crossed her arms in the folds of her kimono. "That should be the last of your worries. Get him out of my bar." 

Gintoki let out a groan. "First, I have to suffer through the secondhand smoke. Now I have to deal with this secondhand embarrassment? No thanks." 

"You're involved in this whether you like it or not, Gintoki." 

"Like?" Catherine snickered. "The better word would be lo—" This time, Otose's hand was less direct on where it landed and slapped her whole face. "Ouch! Watch it, you old hag!" 

Letting out a second, more vigorous groan to try to dissuade Otose (which never worked in the past and clearly wasn't going to unless there was incentive), Gintoki asked, "Will this cover my rent?" 

Otose lit herself another cigarette and quashed his dreams with one long exhale of smoke. "You wish." 

"Then goodbye." Gintoki spun on his heel with an unfriendly wave but stopped at the door when he heard Otose call out after him. 

"Alright, fine." There was an underlying urgency in her tone that inflated the regular rasp to it. Gintoki had a hunch it wasn't his financial debt she was concerned about. "I'll take it off of the tab you owe me." 

"Great." Gintoki replied, curt, so she couldn't repeal her offer. "Heat up some sake. I'll be back." He slung Hijikata's arm around his shoulder to heave the passed-out drunkard up onto his feet. An unbearable warmth snaked through the thin layers of clothing separating them that he wasn't sure came from the bastard or himself. 

"Gintoki." Otose said at his retreating figure. Of course the deal would include fine print with a giant, stinking asterisk. The persistent crone wasn't going to let him leave without addressing her real request which was a topic he wanted to avoid altogether. It had been weighing on his shoulders, figuratively—and quite literally at the moment—and he was willing to continue feigning ignorance by pretending he didn't hear her. But, he respected Otose enough to listen, for that much at least. 

"What, granny?" 

"Sort it out between you two." 

Gintoki snorted with a laugh he didn't commit to and slid the door shut. 

———

"Fuck," Gintoki muttered, sinking down onto the bottom of the stairs to Yorozuya Gin-Chan, attempting to rub away the knot in his shoulders from having dragged around his equal in body weight to no avail. He gazed past the blurred silhouette of his hand at the guy he was stuck with beside him, and nodded to the darkened sky. "Are we reusing commentary now? Man, this is some lazy writing." 

For the past hour, he had wandered the neighbourhood with Hijikata in tow, ignoring curious eyes to search for a recently discarded pile of trash where he could dump his load onto and claim his free booze as per his verbal agreement with Otose. Returning Hijikata to the Shinsengumi barracks was too laborious of a trip and really, the image of the feared Demon Vice-Commander sleeping with the rats was much more inciting, though none of the garbage heaps were at the right level of filth to warrant doing so and if he came across ones that did fit the criteria, Gintoki might have looked the other way. 

It took a full loop for Gintoki to end up back where he started, still with the asshole whom he was not having an internal crisis over. He clicked his tongue in frustration. 

"Why are you doing this to me, God? Do I owe you 300 yen or something? Jeez, talk about a cheapskate." 

With a defeated thump, Gintoki sunk further onto the tread, the aged wood sounding the overload of the two men. He kept a semblance of space between them for his own sanity, trying not to get agitated by the thrum drawing him closer to the other. Moving a step or two above to add some distance would be a good idea, but he hated the thought of being provoked to do so by a jerk who lost consciousness to a bar stool. 

If Gintoki concentrated on the unflattering trail of drool pooling out Hijikata's mouth and not on the narrow curvature of his chin, then he could shrug off the imaginary scenario burdening him: his hand fitting there, in that sharp junction, to tilt Hijikata's head up and lock their lips— 

"Shit!" Gintoki yelped, retracting his arm to gawk at the driblets of saliva that had gotten onto the sleeve of his yukata, knowing it could've been prevented if he had just stuck to the initial part of his observation instead of attempting to actualize the second. "Goddamn it!" He jabbed the offended sleeve at Hijikata to rub the saliva onto his cheeks out of spite but that only soaked up the rest of the drool. "Even Sadaharu slobbers less than you! Oi! I'm sending you the dry-cleaning bill! Oi!" 

A low voice rumbled, roused from slumber. Gintoki felt a lethal grip on his wrist and peered down at two dilated pupils before a palm drove into his face. "And I'm sending you to hell!" 

"Fuckin'—" Gintoki cradled his nose. "Should've tossed you in that pile with the used diapers when I had the chance." 

Hijikata blinked, his rekindled rage subdued slightly by the lingering drowsiness of having been woken up abruptly and the remaining alcohol in his system. "The hell are you yapping on about?" 

"The gratitude I deserve, lugging around your drunk ass. I'm not the one who blacked out so don't go wasting Gin-san's kindness." 

"Tsk. As if I would be grateful for you wanting to toss me in the garbage. And we've barely switched settings." 

"Maybe it would've been easier if you didn't pack on the pounds from all that mayonnaise you slurp up every other minute." 

"Stop making excuses! We're the same size, idiot." 

"You're the idiot who can't handle his alcohol!" 

"Oh yeah? I've seen you hurling your guts out by the roadside!" 

"I was sharing my dinner with the ants, duh. See how gracious I am?" 

"Like anyone would believe that!" 

"Anyone who doesn't is the real idiot!" 

Their bickering settled into a stagnant intermission and neither had an inkling of what to expect next. The queue of insults they had readied in their mouths were lukewarm and died off in the suspension of an argument. 

Easing his forearms onto his knees, Gintoki exhaled a deep, pent-up sigh. From his angle, Hijikata could see the moonlight catch the grooves of muscle through his shirt and the fine lining of fatigue in his broad back. He should force himself to glance away before the details were seared into his mind, before his eyes met Gintoki's—a swirling red wine—returning the gaze over his shoulders, but he didn't. He stayed. 

"Wish I wasn't so sober right now." Gintoki's scoff lacked its usual bite, softened by the wall of his shirt collar and perhaps a modest truth behind it. 

"Well, I wish I wasn't so drunk," Hijikata countered with the same bite that Gintoki yielded, hoping to leverage the alcohol as an excuse to stir some heat that was familiar between them again, that wasn't whatever this new territory was. He could tell Gintoki wasn't used to it either. 

"Ahh." Gintoki scrubbed his hands on his face. "What the fuck." 

In response, Hijikata dug the back of his head into the banister, anchoring himself to the dull pain, to the doubts he harboured, and decided to steer the conversation away from the inexplicable. "Why are you here, Yorozuya?" 

"I should be asking you. It's my house, genius." 

"Not if you're dodging rent, smartass. You've got to pay to own something. Stealing doesn't count." 

For a moment, Gintoki was silent. The wood beneath creaked as he leaned in. Around them, the air thickened at the proximity. There was no room for Hijikata to retreat in his position, unless he was willing to crush his skull against the banister which would be much preferable than Gintoki encroaching into his space, the contemptible dead fish stare he usually had replaced by a shimmer of something more serious. Two fingers tapped on Hijikata's chest, firm, over his heart. 

"And what if I stole this? Would I own that too?" 

Purely out of self-preservation, Hijikata seized the hem of Gintoki's yukata, angry at the constriction in his chest where the organ in question fluttered shamefully. The thought of having to surrender a confession to a such a pompous statement had him tightening his hold on the fabric, all of his remaining pride clenched in his fist. Hijikata decided the most noble answer for this would be strangulation. That, or his sword could administer a swift seppuku for Gintoki. 

Not really wanting to meet an early demise, Gintoki rolled his eyes at the threat, his pupils hitting the peak of their rotation. "Just listen, alright? The other week, I was leaning on the balcony railing above, as handsome as ever, appreciating how clear the sky was from the usual horde of ships that could be blocking the giant bag of cash I'd been wishing for the past 700-something chapters to magically drop into my hands, when I saw these damn birds flying in a V formation and suddenly, I was thinking about your fucking hair." 

Absent of a coherent reply, Hijikata remembered a near parallel memory from hours prior as Gintoki barrelled on his rant. 

"And the more I tried not to pay attention to it, the shittier it got and I asked myself, 'Hm? Is my blood glucose low? Did Shinpachi buy the strawberry milk with reduced sugar again?' But he didn't. It was the regular kind. Do you get what I'm saying?" 

"I-I..." Hijikata stammered, connecting the arbitrary pieces Gintoki had thrown at him with the very nebulous concept he had been trying to put together himself. He released his grip on Gintoki and let his hands fall to his lap, sheepish. "I... knocked on your door earlier. You weren't there." 

Gintoki rubbed his neck, less to relieve the ache than it was to occupy himself. "Yeah, well. Kagura's at Soyo-hime's place for a sleepover, probably gossiping about boys or best torture tactics or whatever it is girls her age do. Shinpachi went to an Otsu concert and you know with that guy, it's an all-day event. So I figured it must've been fate granting me a good time and hit the parlour. Ended up in the red. And here. With you. Lucky me, I guess." 

Hijikata tried to understand the expression residing on Gintoki's face as he said this. He had seen it before, flashes of it when Gintoki allowed himself to unmask the apathy he typically displayed, though none of the instances were as intense nor as raw as what he saw now. 

"There's something you want to tell me, right?" 

Swallowing, Hijikata looked away. His throat felt too dry. 

"I... I don't even know what it is," he admitted. "I just know I'm tired of running from it." 

Gintoki, swept by the wave of desire he had always stood steadfast against, let himself be engulfed completely by its strength. He brought his hand to Hijikata's chin and sensed the faint shiver, receptive to the action but unrelenting. That was Hijikata's spirit—stubborn and awkward and prone to teasing, a frequency that was always nearby, and at some point, Gintoki stopped minding it. 

"Then don't say it." 

Hijikata furrowed his brows. "What?" 

"You don't need to. Love is better felt than tacked on with a bunch of words. Is that a quote? It should be. I call rights to it." 

The last of the tension that was set in Hijikata's face abated. He grasped Gintoki's arm and found his other fingers tangling into the fringes of a well-acquainted perm. It was a weird sensation and Hijikata wondered if there would come a time when he would welcome himself to such affection wholly and without hesitation. "Love, huh? Sounds like a fucking cliché." 

"Every Shounen series has clichés. Doesn't mean it can't be good." Gintoki flattened his palm against Hijikata's cheek and Hijikata inclined towards it to give it more weight. 

"Yorozuya," Hijikata mumbled, eyes glazy on a pair locked onto his and tried again. "Gintoki." Then, backtracking because that was too desperate, he went with a more comfortable, "Shithead." 

Gintoki huffed out a laugh and knocked their foreheads together lightly. "Says the biggest shithead around." 

Hijikata hummed in response, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Content seemed more accurate. 

"This'll change things, you know." 

"Yeah." 

"And you're okay with that?" 

"Anixplex already has a DVD cover of us naked. It's not that far of a leap." 

Hijikata leaned away to glare at him, though he was finding it difficult to be mad. "Not happening." 

Gintoki shrugged and pulled him close again. "Baby steps." 

"Easy for you. You're the baby here. Not me." 

"So you'll call me baby from now on?" 

"How about My Lovely Piece of Shit?" 

"We can keep prolonging the flirting, but people are expecting a conclusion," Gintoki murmured with heavy eyelids. "How about we settle on a kiss for Gin-san?" As Gintoki tilted his face to get a better angle, his lips ghosted skin and bumped into the hard ridges of a knuckle. He opened his eyes to the loose fist of a mildly flushed Hijikata. 

"Nope. Also not happening." 

Gintoki gaped. "Haaaah? We've already built the story up to this and now you blue ball me?! We can't both be sadists here. Relationships are all about balance—" 

The fist unravelled to cup Gintoki's mouth shut. A blush enveloped the tips of Hijikata's ears. "Wait for me to finish, bastard. If and when I"—he cleared his throat—"kiss you, I'll be doing it sober and not in the process of metabolizing three glasses of whiskey." The transient tenderness that Hijikata had exhibited contorted into a grimace. He huffed through a hiccup and a nasty churn in his belly. "So. If you'll excuse me. I have to take care of some internal business."

Upon the realization and with countless past experiences of what was to come, Gintoki said, "Oh."

With that, Hijikata stood up, readjusted his sword in his obi with poise, took three steady steps to the side of the building and unloaded the rest of what used to be the whiskey, maintaining the same composure throughout the ordeal. Wiping his mouth, Hijikata smirked loopily at Gintoki, whose hopeless offer to have him stay the night was proudly turned down in light of the display just prior. He left Gintoki babbling cusses after him about how no one likes cliffhangers and that his kiss better be fucking worth the suspense and that he was going to thoroughly enjoy his free sake as Hijikata swayed through the streets of Kabuki back to the barracks with a fuzzy mixture of embarrassment, overflowing exhilaration, and a hindered sense of direction which would explain why he stumbled into a few piles of trash along the way, still grinning and lighter than he had felt before. 

———

When Hijikata woke the next morning ten minutes later than he usually did, sporting a massive headache that he could feel in his stomach, the only thought he had was that he didn't regret last night. 

Fully satisfied with this verdict, he then calmly beelined to the washroom and had a very one-sided conversation with the toilet bowl for the following ten minutes. 

And if, during their morning assembly—which he was not late for despite his washroom detour—anyone asked why Hijikata was smiling like a schoolgirl daydreaming about her crush with the following question being why he staggered back to the barracks in the early hours of dawn giggling about Danna, Hijikata would reply with, "Shut up Sougo. And Yamazaki." 

"...Yes, Vice-Chief?" 

"Commit seppuku."