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It’s a regular day for the Shinsengumi. Death threats, stiflingly boring jobs, and the persistent Odd Jobs trio sticking their noses where they don’t belong. It pisses Hijikata off to no end, but thankfully for Sougo, he really doesn’t give a shit. When he’d turned up to this swanky hotel to meet some politically important heiress Matsudaira wanted to give a security detail, the sight of three morons standing in her hotel room barely made him blink. Apparently she doesn’t trust the police to protect her, she wanted outside help, blah blah blah. Sure, Sougo is accepting it. What he’s skeptical of is the plan that Odd Jobs proposes.
“There’s no way anyone’d ever buy it,” Sougo states flatly.
“Hah? Why not?” Odd Jobs is fixing him with a stink-eye that could dissolve metal as he holds the glittering evening gown up to himself. “Kagura and Shinpachi’d never fit in the thing, quit looking at me like that.” Sougo heaves a sigh and continues to stare at Odd Jobs with the air of detached doubt and ridicule that’s driven a million Hijikatas up a million walls.
“Fine, whatever.” He shrugs. “Do what you want.” Sougo takes a seat in one of the uncomfortable hotel chairs, watching Odd Jobs sit at the heiress’s vanity. He’s hunched over like he’s at pachinko, elbows on the table and legs sprawled gracelessly. With nothing more interesting to do, Sougo pulls out his eye mask and slouches back for a nap.
-ten minutes later
“Gin-chan, hold still!” The sound of the brat shrieking pulls Sougo from his nap. The sight he’s greeted with is… something. Sticking her tongue out in a way that’s probably supposed to be cute, Kagura painstakingly traces out a wobbly black line over Gintoki’s eyelid. It’s sort of embarrassing to look at. Predictably, Odd Jobs starts complaining once he opens his eyes and takes a look in the mirror. Sougo leans back in his chair, tucking his hands behind his head and slouching further. He watches Odd Jobs reapply the eyeliner with a surprisingly steady hand out of one lazily lidded eye.
The dress is on now, and it fits surprisingly well. Just like Odd Jobs had claimed it would. They’re just lucky that the heiress is a tall, statuesque woman whose build is near enough to Gintoki’s.
“Damn brat, practice on yourself before ruining other people’s makeup! Hold on, I’ll do it.” Yorozuya grouches in a steady stream as he deftly applies makeup.
“Woah, danna. Never would have taken you for the cosmetic type,” Sougo drawls. It’s not as fun to dig his fingers into Sakata Gintoki’s sore spots, not as personally satisfying. But there’s always entertainment in it. To his mild surprise, Odd Jobs just smirks at him with that dumb, smug grin.
“Hmm? Ol’ Gin-san’s been around for a while, Okita-kun. You pick things up here and there.”
Sougo watches him turn back to the mirror, watches him paint his lips a deep red. His sister was never one for cosmetics, no money nor any occasion. Once, when he was small, she had shown him some lip tint that she’d been gifted by a friend. Smiling, laughing gently, she showed him how to apply the warm peach tint. Adorable, she says warmly in the back of his head. Is my little brother secretly my little sister? Hmm, Sou-chan?
Once the black wig goes on, silver curls tamed for a time, he has to admit that he would be hard pressed to tell the difference between the Shinsengumi’s charge for the night and Odd Jobs. So the guy can actually be a proper body double when he feels like it. Odd Jobs gives him that same dopey grin, teeth bared white against red lips now. Sougo flips his eye mask down over his eyes and affects a yawn. “Go get them, danna. I’ll be here if you need anything.”
—a week later
Another day, another pain in the ass. Tonight it’s a tip that Katsura was spotted around Saigou Tokumori’s club. The tip is delivered to Sougo with some snickering on his subordinate’s part, which quickly ends when Sougo gives him a long, unimpressed stare. He grabs his sword and leaves to check it out himself, telling himself that he doesn’t need any idiots fumbling around the place and pissing Miss Saigou off. He’s not sure if he hopes for her sake or the Shinsengumi’s sake that she’s not messing around with Joui terrorists now.
It’s a nice night, but the crowds of drunk idiots are a pain. The girl at the door looks like she isn’t going to let him in until he flashes his badge at her, and that pisses him off more. At this point, he’s hoping that he does catch Katsura. Then he can work out some anger trading blows with him. At least he’s been sat in one of the quieter booths, farther from the clamor of sad old men deluding themselves that anyone would look at them twice without being paid for it. He half-heartedly scans the room, looking around for Joui or weird ducks.
At the sound of someone approaching, Sougo sighs and looks up. He wanted to see Saigou, but apparently she’s wrapped up with something. So he’d just asked that they send over any free girl. He’ll ask her some questions, she’ll tell him she’s never seen Katsura in her life, and then he’ll go home.
Mitsuba used to own a fancy kimono, passed down from some relative and well cherished. When he was small, Sougo would run his fingers over the embroidery and feel the differences in texture. Once, he slipped it over his shoulders and looked at himself in the mirror. Fine pink fabric spilling over his shoulders and pooling around his feet, cranes glinting gold in the folds between.
Plum blossoms glint along the hem of Odd Jobs’ kimono, the stitching machine-precise and the thread gaudy. It’s scary to see him looking so put together. The same bored eyes watching him are lined with kohl, and the charm of his blushing pink lipstick is offset by the pinkie jammed up his nose. Sougo feels stupid for thinking to himself that the guy looks dignified. “Wow, danna. Didn’t expect to see you around here,” he says blandly. Odd Jobs snorts, finger emerging from his nostril with a prize that he flicks away. Sougo notices that he’s got extensions in or something. His hair is twisted up in some fiddly bun that the curls are trying desperately to escape from.
“I could say the same to you, Okita-kun. Are you even old enough to get into a club like this?” Odd Jobs sighs. “Security? Oh, security? It looks like some sassy lost child has wandered in here~”
Sougo sighs heavily. Maybe this is just another example of Odd Jobs being suspiciously tangled up in Katsura’s business. Why else would he be here? “We got a tip that Katsura was seen in this area.”
Eye roll, irritated ‘tsk’. And then Odd Jobs is plopping himself down on the other end of the couch and picking up the menu. “Ahh. Yeah, that makes sense now. Damn Zura, messing with business like this.”
“You wanna make a statement, danna?” Sougo intones, bored.
“It’s Paako while I’m on shift, actually.”
Sougo blinks. “You work here?” He doesn’t know why it comes out so dumbfounded. Of course he works here, why else would he be sitting across from Sougo in this booth, all made up?
“Gotta pay the rent somehow,” Gintoki shrugs, still flipping through the menu. “Saigou writes a good paycheck, and any idiot who tries to grope the goods gets kicked to the curb.” He pauses, then shuts the menu and puts it back on the table. Something seems to catch his eye from across the club, but when Sougo looks over, there’s nothing but some drunk guy trying to find the bathroom. “I gotta go, Okita-kun. Gotta fleece paying customers, if you aren’t gonna get anything,” Odd Jobs tells him, as if it’s Sougo’s personal fault for being on the clock.
Sougo shrugs. “See you, danna.”
—three months ago
The money situation was worse than Gintoki wanted to admit to anyone. Feeding a growing Yato girl and a dog the size of a shitty shoebox studio apartment is, as it turns out, expensive. And sure, the old lady would never let them go hungry even if she made a fuss about it, but Gintoki’s seen her ledgers for this month.
That’s how he ended up on Saigou’s doorstep, looking for a favor. The look she’d given him was skeptical, to say the least. You could do a lot of other things, Gin-chan. You’re not uncomfortable with this?
He’d scoffed. Come on, old lady. I’m here and I’m willing to work.
He doesn’t know what she sees, but she lets him in. He knows why she asked, though. He knows that Emiko is saving up to go off-planet for some fancy new surgery, and he knows that Toji works extra shifts because his boyfriend can’t work. He knows that Saigou has built something in her club that feels fragile and precious. She’s gotta protect it. He may have a bad mouth, but he doesn’t make any pigheaded comments. He’s not that stupid. And there’s a reason that he asked for a job working the floor, instead of offering to haul their garbage or mop their floors.
The first time Gintoki ever put on makeup, it was Zura’s fault. As it all usually is. They were stuck in an occupied town, hiding out at a brothel that took the risk to shelter them. Zura had taken to the suggestion of them blending in with the girls easily. Almost like a duck to water. Hold still, Gintoki, he had told him sternly, attacking him with powders and paints. When he’d looked in the mirror at himself, bewildered by the transformation, Zura had sighed. It’s a shame to cover it up, but it’s too noticeable. A wig produced from somewhere hid his curls, prompting Gintoki to whistle through his teeth.
No kidding, it looks good. If only this was my natural hair, huh?
Zura had leveled him with a strange look.
Your natural hair looks better, he said simply. Gintoki had stared at himself in the mirror, processing that. When he took the wig off later, makeup smeared with dirt and blood and kimono torn, he looked at the tired boy in the mirror. Maybe Zura was onto something. He didn't look half bad.
Now, with Emiko grasping his chin and ruthlessly applying powder and blush to his face, Gintoki almost feels transported. She’s watching her work with a single-minded focus that reminds him of Zura’s stupid face. “Mama was right,” his impromptu makeup artist comments. “You’ve got a great face, Paako. If you just learn how to gussy yourself up, you’ll knock any man out.”
“Psh. What man am I trying to knock out, huh?” He scoffs. “Paako only gets gussied up for her own entertainment, not to impress any idiot guy.” Emiko laughs, a loud and bright noise. Gintoki can’t help the faint smile he cracks at that.
“Sorry, Paako, sorry,” Emiko titters. “I know, you’re an independent woman!” She pulls away, closing her palette. “Anyways, I’m all done! You’re ready to hit the floor.” Gintoki pushes himself to his feet and gives her a lazy salute.
“I owe you one,” he drawls. “I’ll buy you a drink after work.”
“Use that money to pay your rent first!” She retorts.
—present
Sougo finds Gintoki outside, an over-large shawl around his shoulders as he stands in the alley outside the fire exit. He pretends not to notice the figure all the way at the end of the alley already, long black hair disappearing around a corner.
Gintoki takes a long drag of a cigarette. The crumpled, beat up stub between his fingers is at odds with his elegant appearance.
“Never seen you smoke before, danna,” Sougo comments, leaning against the brick wall.
“Jump protagonists aren’t supposed to smoke,” Gintoki says matter of factly. “It’s a bad influence on the kids. Don’t smoke, Okita-kun.”
“Jump protagonists probably aren’t supposed to work drag clubs either.” Sougo oddly regrets the words as they leave his mouth. They taste sour. The look on Gintoki’s face is also sour, but there’s more irritation there than there is any real hurt or shame. There’s not an ounce of shame, now that Sougo regards his expression properly.
“Do you want something, Okita-kun?” The words come out in a cloud of smoke that reminds Sougo enough of Hijikata to make his reflexes itch.
“To catch Katsura,” he says, as if either of them believe that he gives a shit. As if to prove his point, Gintoki waves a hand dismissively.
“Yeah, right. Zura hoofed it down that way a couple minutes ago, go on and give him a good chase. He needs some excitement like that or he gets depressed.” He slants his gaze at Sougo, expectant. Sougo considers it. He could walk away now and chase Katsura for a while. He could just go home and pretend he didn’t see anything.
“Why?” It leaves his mouth before he can catch it.
“Hah?”
“Why do you work here?” Gintoki stares at him like he’s an idiot.
“I gotta pay my rent,” he explains, exasperated.
“You don’t have to get dressed up in drag to pay your rent. You could work anywhere.” Gintoki is still giving him that look, and it’s starting to piss Sougo off.
“I guess you didn’t know this already, being a country bumpkin, but some guys like to get dressed up and feel like a woman sometimes, Okita-kun,” Gintoki explains, in that faux-lecturing way that feels like a mockery.
“And you’re one of those guys, danna?” Sougo’s mouth tastes sour again at the barbed way those words left him. Gintoki just stares at him, and maybe he’s trying to figure Sougo out as much as Sougo is trying to figure him out. You’d never know past the dead-eyed look.
“Yeah,” Gintoki says simply. They watch each other for a long moment. “You got a problem with that, Okita-kun?”
“No,” Sougo says. “Not really.”
—a week later
The barracks aren’t the best place for privacy. But Sougo’s got his own office space as a squad captain, so that’s something at least. He shuts his door on a slow Friday, certain that no one is going to bother him. The box on his desk is old and weathered, polished veneer worn around the edges. After Mitsuba died, Sougo took a week to take the train back home and sort out her affairs. The house, her belongings, the funeral. He hasn’t touched this box since he brought it back to Edo with him, the thing’s been collecting dust on a shelf.
He passes a rag over the box’s lid, wiping it clean. Once he’s satisfied, he removes the lid. The rosy sunset pink of the kimono is just as bright as he remembers. Maybe it’s touched by age in some places, near the hems perhaps. But Mitsuba always took good care of her things.
Off goes his uniform jacket, then his vest, then the shirt under it. From a shopping bag on the other side of his desk he pulls out the juban he bought the other day, crisp and clean.
As he dresses, carefully slides the kimono over his shoulders and begins to work, he feels clumsy. Mitsuba always made it look so elegant; Winding the sash around, tying the obi with a practiced hand. His knot is haphazard and ugly, but he bites hard on the inside of his cheek until he doesn’t want to rip the obi to shreds anymore. From the shopping bag comes a tube of lipstick, now. Peach, as close to the color of his memories as he can get. He uses the mirror he dragged in as he works, carefully watching himself apply the lipstick. He knows it could be neater, knows there must be some methods or tricks Yorozuya or Mitsuba used. But when Sougo caps the lipstick and puts it aside, he doesn’t think it’s half bad.
It’s not as dramatic a transformation as he might have thought it would be. Sougo doesn’t see a stranger in the mirror, he just sees himself. His lips are tinted, face bare of any other makeup. He’s wearing an old kimono, obi tied like a child might have done it. The cranes glimmer as gold as ever. He sits up straighter, regards himself.
He doesn’t know if he looks beautiful. He doesn’t know if he looks elegant, or poised, or ladylike or whatever. His lips quirk at the corners.
He looks like himself.