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“Hey.” Toshiro turns his head towards the voice, spotting Sakata, his dark silhouette in the doorway at stark contrast against the warm yellow spilling out from behind him, noise and laughter bursting past him in snatches.
He’d grown weary from the festivities taking place inside, the commotion becoming more troublesome than entertaining as the night stumbled on. He needed a moment to recuperate outside, letting the late December chill sting his skin and seep into his bones. He’d wanted to do that, alone.
Sakata shuts the door behind him, his boots crunching against the frozen ground as he comes to stand beside him. He’s probably here to bum a cigarette off him, penniless prick.
Toshiro blows his smoke upwards, disrupting the first tentative snowflakes that are just starting to drift down.
Sakata’s got on a blue scarf, half his face tucked into it to protect it from the cold, though his fair skin has already tinged pink from the subzero temperatures. Toshiro feels a little chilly himself, choosing to focus on the burning drag of the cigarette, warming him from the inside. He ignores the self conscious voice that implores him to draw into his coat, make himself smaller, the scant distance between them almost alive with a thrumming kind of tension. Distantly, he thinks it might be his heartbeat he’s feeling.
Sakata wordlessly extends his hand toward him.
Toshiro takes a breath and silently passes his cigarette over.
He lets the smoke diffuse into his lungs, holding it, feeling the nicotine wash over him, wiping his stress away.
He exhales.
There’s been… something building between the two of them the last few days, and it’s not just holiday cheer. The Yorozuya has been lingering like a bad smell, turning up where you definitely don’t want him to and when you least expect it. The other day Toshiro had failed to notice the dull sheen of black ice on the road while on patrol, too busy keeping a wary eye out for the Yorozuya, determined not to get caught off guard. He hadn’t worn his snow boots since the weather had been clear, so once his foot made blissful, friction-less contact with the ice patch, his whole world careened out of its usual vertical axis. He found himself facing the sky, but not on his back, he was still on his feet somehow. Slowly, he’d tilted his head down to find the Yorozuya leering from above him, holding him upright around his middle.
“Upsy daisy, Vice Captain, so clumsy aren’t you? Gin-chan to the rescue once again.”
Once he was righted onto his feet, he’d kicked the Yorozuya squarely in the shin, stomping away from the yelping idiot hopping on one foot, angrily muttering to himself.
“Ungrateful!” The Yorozuya had shouted after, “I hope Jack Frost freezes your Gintama solid!”
Now, it’s slightly unnerving to be standing so close without him running his mouth about something stupid. He feels out of his depth, the familiar buzz underneath his skin making it bearable.
He sneaks a glance at the white haired man, whose head is tipped up, entranced at the sky emptying itself, tiny white flakes fluttering around him in a gentle whirl. There’s something ethereal, something otherworldly about him, how the glow from a streetlight casts a halo around his hair in bright silver, how his sharp pale profile is illuminated with strokes of white, how his eyes become onyx dark in the low lighting, only the cherry of the cigarette casting a dim glow in them. He looks like something formed from the frost and ice; gleaming edges and hair like powdered snow. His captivating presence magnetises even when he’s not trying, pulling everyone and everything into his orbit. Toshiro feels something like vertigo, the whole world lurching, but the wall’s still pressed to his back as far as he can tell. He lets out a long sigh and a shiver as Sakata smiles up serenely at the snow.
He doesn’t think Sakata can stop him from falling this time.
Sakata turns to him then, tilting his head to one side. “Cold?” He asks, passing the cigarette back.
The cigarette filter is still warm from his lips.
Toshiro takes another inhale, exhaling slowly before answering. “I’ll be fine.” He’s feeling a little hot now actually.
Sakata takes a step closer and Hijikata freezes with his cigarette halfway to his lips.
“I didn’t ask if you’d be alright. I asked if you were cold.” His voice is low, the words crystallising between them.
Toshiro is helpless to do anything but stare, feeling stunned at his proximity. Sakata’s hand comes up to cup his, warm and encompassing. He hadn’t noticed his hand was bright red until Sakata had grasped it.
“See, your fingers are frozen stiff.”
Toshiro just stares dumbly at Sakata’s hand on his. Sakata dislodges the cigarette from between his frigid fingers, sticking it back in his own mouth for safe keeping, before taking Toshiro’s hand between his own and rubbing warmth back into it. He repeats the same motion for Toshiro’s other hand.
His face feels impossibly hot as the snow starts to fall around them faster, whipping up at their feet, lashing against his face; Sakata turns to the side, shielding Toshiro from the cold draft with his body. He rubs the calluses on his hand gently, removing a hand occasionally to take puffs on the stolen cigarette. His breath occasionally ghosts across Toshiro’s slowly thawing hands. Toshiro closes his eyes, breathing in the second hand smoke, letting a different kind of rush course through him. When he opens them again, he’s pinned by Sakata’s hooded gaze looking up at him through his pale lashes, his red eyes contrasting against them like blood on snow.
Cold air lodges in Toshiro’s throat. It’s like the snow ceases falling around them.
“Your face is all red, Hijikata-kun.” His voice is barely there, like snowflakes on skin.
Was Sakata going to cup his face in his hands to warm him? The image presents itself with startling clarity; his eyes shuttering as he moves forward, the cigarette falling from his lips and—
Sakata moves back from him, and the cold takes his place. Toshiro mourns the heat that radiated off him. Something like disappointment sits heavy in his chest. What had he been hoping for?
Sakata begins unwinding his scarf, stepping close once more, winding it round and round Toshiro’s neck. The scent wafting from under his nose is sweet, like strawberries, like Gintoki. He resists the urge to press his face into the fabric and just breathe.
Sakata pushes the scarf away from where it covers the bottom part of his face, pulling the cigarette out and slotting it between Toshiro’s lips. His fingers brush against his bottom lip, the tips worn rough, lingering just a second too long. He feels a shiver tear through him, hopes Sakata thinks it’s from the cold.
They watch each other, red on blue, the snow flurrying by them, dotting Toshiro’s black coat and hair, becoming imperceptible against Sakata’s. Red eyes flit down towards his mouth and Toshiro only just catches the last of his cigarette falling to the ground in a clump of grey ash.
Gintoki’s eyes don’t leave his lips.
In the time it takes for him to exhale a white puff of breath, Toshiro’s intruding into his space and pressing against his lips, which burn against his own.
A hand fists in his borrowed scarf, tugging him closer and Gintoki’s pressing his other hand to the back of his head, long fingers catching at his hair, holding him as he brands his lips with each kiss. Toshiro’s brain gives out when Gintoki slides his tongue along the seam of his mouth, searing, tinged with the taste of nicotine. On instinct, Toshiro’s mouth opens, craving more. His arms find their way around Gintoki’s shoulders, intent on monopolising all the heat he’s giving off, and a low noise passes in the space between them as they press together.
Gintoki pulls back, catching his breath, and is about to dive back in when his gaze drifts up, and the heat in his eyes gives way to humour.
“What?” Toshiro’s not feeling too happy at being laughed at. More so that he stopped kissing him.
He makes a move to distance himself, embarrassed, but Gintoki’s hand is on his shoulder holding him in place. His other hand comes up, brushing away the light dusting of snow that’s settled atop his head. It’s a severely domestic display, jarring compared to the hot and heavy action that he’d been getting moments prior.
He grins. “It’s like someone heaped a pile of kakigori on your head.” Toshiro can’t help but huff a laugh at that.
He’d expected the stupid comment to break the tension completely, but the low light catches something soft, something molten in Gintoki’s eyes. Toshiro doesn’t have long to figure out what it is before the scarf is flipped over his face, leaving him exclaiming vowels.
When he removes the scarf from obscuring his vision, Sakata’s no longer in front of him and the street is flooded with yellow light, his shadow fallen against the snow.
“You can keep the scarf. As thanks for the cigarette.” He clarifies. Toshiro’s face flushes further. Should he say the kiss was thanks for warming his hands? He hadn’t made out with him because he was grateful— it had just happened.
“Only idiots don’t catch colds, so hurry up and come back inside, yeah?” Sakata jokes.
“So you’ll be fine out here?” He calls out to his receding back, smiling when Sakata throws the middle finger from over his shoulder, the door closing off his view of him.
Toshiro clutches at the scarf, still faced towards the closed door. Despite the cold doing its best to leach all the warmth from his body, Toshiro’s lips still tingle with lingering heat. It would do no good to let it go to waste. Not after all the effort that was put in to warm him up.
He brings the scarf to his face, allowing himself to breathe in Gintoki’s scent.
He doesn’t stand a chance against him.