Chapter Text
1.
You can dance every dance with the guy
Who gives you the eye, let him hold you tight
You can smile every smile for the man
Who held your hand 'neath the pale moonlight
(Save the Last Dance for Me, The Drifters)
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A strange man with golden hair and sharp, blue eyes appeared near the shore. He was tied to a beam, set adrift on a small raft. There was a deep scar that ran across his face. The man spoke a foreign language, wore foreign clothing and brandished a foreign weapon. It was the same kind of weapon Sakamoto Ryōma carried. He was very tall, his skin was tanned. He was very attractive. At least Souji thought so. This man was a westerner, a Yankee.
The Yankee shot a metal ball into Souji’s shoulder with that western weapon, then abruptly left, diving into the ocean. Was he planning on swimming back to his home country? Souji wished the man had stayed. He wanted to understand the man’s language. And learn where he came from. And why he was here. Was he a spy? Did he work for Sakamoto? The jōi? But most of all, he wanted to stare at those blue, blue eyes for a bit longer.
A week had passed. It was dawn in the land of the rising sun. The typically warm air of summer was a bit cooler than usual, and a thin layer of dew lay over the grass and the leaves on the trees. Small birds, cicadas and other insects chirped away. There was a calm in the air that was rare nowadays. Usually, there was a thick tension in the air from the constant fear of impending war.
Okita Souji awoke in his room at the Shinsengumi headquarters. He rubbed his eyes, then looked around, scratching at his stubble. He was alone. There was no one else in the room. It must have been a dream. Again.
***
There Souji was, walking down an alleyway, when he spotted that man. He was dirtier than before, mud on his shoes and along the hem of his trousers. The sleeves of his shirt appeared more tattered, and it seemed like more of his chest was visible. He smelled of alcohol, sweat and women’s perfume. He was pissing on a wall. He zipped his trousers, turning to Souji, a hint of a smile on the corner of his mouth. This wasn’t usually how his dreams about the Yankee started, but somehow, Souji thought, he was still as striking as when he envisioned him in any other dream.
He challenged the Yankee to a duel. Despite the language difference, the Yankee somehow understood Souji’s request. It was probably just dream-logic, Souji guessed.
But instead of dueling, the dream shifted suddenly. Sakamoto Ryōma and Killer Okada Izō appeared, and both he and the Yankee fought them off. When the fight was over, Souji took the Yankee’s hand in his. He wanted to draw him in and kiss him, but instead decided to be cheeky. He drew his katana and took a swipe at the Yankee. He missed, only slicing his shirt so more of his chest was exposed. His chest was covered in a thick layer of hair as golden as the hair on his head. What would it feel like to lay on top of it? Distracted by his daydream-within-a-dream, Souji wasn’t quick enough to move before the Yankee had his weapon at Souji’s throat, threatening to shoot. Souji smirked, sticking the point of his katana against the Yankee’s throat. Souji looked into the Yankee’s eyes. They were fierce. And they were staring right at him.
Instead of going in the direction Souji’s dreams usually go at this point, Souji found himself laughing. At what exactly, he couldn’t say. Maybe he was a bit drunk from all the sake he had after his patrol ended earlier. Okay, maybe very drunk.
To Souji’s surprise, the Yankee started laughing wildly along with him. Souji started laughing louder, but the Yankee got even louder. They matched each other’s volume, though the Yankee’s voice was stronger, deeper.
When they both calmed down, Souji realized they were still holding hands. The tips of his ears turned red. The Yankee’s hand was larger than Souji’s. His skin was much darker than Souji’s. He thought hakujin were supposed to have white skin. The Yankee’s hand was firm, his fingers and palm calloused. Despite having just been in a fight, there was no sweat on his palm. But there was a layer of dried dirt. Souji didn’t want to let go of his hand. So he didn’t.
Souji led the Yankee back to the Shinsegumi headquarters, where they lay down, side by side. Souji stared into the Yankee’s piercing, blue eyes, the Yankee stared deeply into his, as though trying to form a mental link. You are so beautiful, Souji repeated in his mind. Soon, though, their tired eyelids couldn’t remain open any longer, and sleep overtook them.
Most of Souji’s other dreams about the Yankee played out similarly to that, but this one had been the most vivid.
***
Souji quickly got dressed for the morning and opened the sliding door in his room that led to the courtyard, letting in the cool summer air and morning light. He took a deep breath before preparing for the day. Cool days like this were much better for his lungs. On days that were too hot, he felt like he was coughing constantly, and he couldn’t breathe at all. This air was very calm and quiet. No one else was awake yet.
Souji rolled up his sleeping mat. When he started rolling up the one next to his, something hit him. He looked over to his mat which was rolled up and ready to be stored, then looked down at the other mat he was currently rolling up. It had a vague smell of alcohol, sweat and women’s perfume. He looked back to his mat, then down at the one in front of him again. And again.
Oh.
That wasn’t a dream.