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Two people should not have to spend so much time in one another’s presence, Katsura thought. Least of all men. There was a certain level of decorum to uphold—even if one of them owned a collection of old pachinko vouchers and monthly comic magazines.
Nothing had ever felt so bizarre as to realize this: out of everybody he’d met in his life, Gintoki was the one he’d spent the most time with. Let it be known that it wasn’t by choice. It was in fact rather mystifying, considering the unpredictable nature of the rebel status. Being on the run was a full-time job, and Katsura was dedicated. Yet somehow, he always found his way back to Gintoki, as if some unforeseen force was drawing them apart, then pressing them together again like a child playing with magnets.
But Katsura was no fool. He knew this unforeseen, capricious, maddening little pest of a phenomenon had a name. Although you’d have to dangle him upside down from the top of the terminal before getting the word out of him. And it’d take a hundred years for him to fold.
In the meantime, he’d resigned himself to whatever status quo they’d managed to reach after Takasugi’s death. Losing their comrade had dealt them a hit so deep they didn’t dare to bring it up. Even when they were alone at night, sitting in the deserted old bar under Gintoki’s flat, surrounded by lingering pipe smoke and beer stains. And when Katsura looked into his friend’s eyes, he’d see the ghosts of people that they’d known (Shouyou? Utsuro? Shinsuke?).
Most nights, they were content with each other’s presence. Kagura and Shinpachi, sometimes Elizabeth, would come to liven things up from time to time. They’d argue loudly or laugh and generally wreak havoc in Otose’s bar. Then, they ran up to their flat to watch cartoons or to make dinner, leaving Gintoki and Katsura alone.
Hushed words, feather-light touches, the feeling of a hand around his waist, or curly hair under his fingers… They’d never gone much further. In a sense, they’d gone all the way, although pervert Gintoki would have begged to differ. In Katsura’s eyes, they already knew each other intimately, viscerally, all the way. He could feel Gintoki jolt under his fingers, ever so slightly, when he brushed his scars. Their bodies recognized each other. The fact was unspoken but absolutely irrefutable.
Indecent and unacceptable!
Katsura was outraged that the tides seemed to push them slowly but surely into something he didn’t want to name. Curse fate, and curse Otose for pouring them a little too much wine every time. He knew the old hag was having a field day messing with them.
The morning of the new year, they saw each other again. Gintoki needed someone to help carry his grocery bags, which seemed to happen more and more often as of late. The fearsome white yaksha, who could break a man’s neck with one hand (or so the rumor went) struggled to carry the groceries. Who would have guessed? All it took was a few ramen packets and a mildly heavy jug of strawberry milk to defeat the beast. Rather suspicious, if you asked Katsura.
They proceeded side by side along the sidewalk, carefully making their way through the crowd. People had gathered by the hundreds to celebrate New Year’s Eve in Kabukicho and, as it turned out, the party didn’t stop once the midnight fireworks went off. At the brink of dawn on the icy cold first morning of the year, families flooded the streets to get to the nearest temple.
Meanwhile, groups of drunkards emerged somewhat clamorously from the many bars and brothels of the district. A less pleasant sight.
“Noisy and vulgar,” Katsura complained, readjusting his grip on the grocery bag in a gesture reminiscent of a lady clutching her pearls. “I really wish the roads were calmer.”
“It’s the new year, lighten up, Zura,” Gintoki said. He’d insisted on carrying the three remaining bags, which he held with a single arm. He busied his free hand with bringing a chuubert to his lips for him to sip on every now and again. In truth, Katsura’s presence along this grocery store trip was wholly meaningless.
The rebel leader concealed a smile. He knew that under normal circumstances, Gintoki would have been one of these rowdy bar hoppers who squinted angrily at the sun as they shuffled back to their house after New Year’s Eve. “Disappointed you couldn’t party with them last night?” He teased.
“Not in a million years,” Gintoki lied. “I’m done with that stuff.”
“Your lifestyle has improved greatly, how refreshing! In a year or two, you’ll make the perfect warrior for our righteous cause.”
Gintoki tsked and smacked the back of Katsura’s head. He was so wonderfully easy to taunt. After a pause, Katsura mused: “Should we visit the temple at some point? Or make firecrackers go off?”
After all, their celebration had consisted of the usual dinner with Kagura and Shinpachi, reading the letters they’d received from a whole cast of side characters (some of whom Katsura had never heard of).
“Zura, you know I can’t be bothered with that type of stuff. I’ve got a business to run! What if clients showed up while we were away?”
“They won’t.”
“But what if they did?”
“Leader and Shinpachi will take care of them. Come Gintoki, we must uphold the traditions befitting this season.”
Katsura nudged the samurai’s shoulder lightly, batting his eyelashes in hopes of eliciting some sort of reaction. Gintoki’s eyes were fixed forward, but one could almost see his legendary iron will folding under the pressure.
Katsura was delighted to observe that he’d perfected his persuasion skills. Certainly, a win for the rebel cause.
Gintoki drew a last sip from his chuupert and threw away the package (a homeless man wearing sunglasses and a pair of geta jumped forward to catch it like a starved man). He sighed deeply and massaged the bridge of his nose. “Can’t escape it, I guess. I’ll tell the kids not to burn the flat down while we’re out.”
Katsura nodded and hummed. “A wise decision. It’ll do you some good to reconnect with your roots. Who knows, maybe you’ll draw a nice fortune!”
“With my luck, I’ll draw a fortune that says, ‘jump out the window while you still can.’”
“There are no such fortunes.”
Katsura carefully transferred the bag from one arm to another.
Seizing the opportunity, Gintoki slipped his now free hand in Katsura’s.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m cold.”
Snow had fallen all week, and the sidewalks were covered in a light sheen of ice which glistened under the blinding sun.
The sky had cleared for the first time in days, gloriously blue and bright. A group of kids fought for a bag of candied sweet potatoes under the watchful eye of a street merchant. Droplets of crystal-clear water dripped from the icicles which hung along the bar facades.
Gintoki avoided eye contact, like he often did. Stubborn child. He was the type to blush delightfully easily, but they’d already gotten past that point. He no longer would blush, but his walls had remained tough to breach.
Katsura’s fingers tightened reflexively, a testament to his wordless consent.
“Your hands are even colder,” Gintoki huffed. “Wouldn’t survive a day without me, would you?”
Kastura playfully pressed against his shoulder, looking no better than a teenage girl charming her crush. He hated himself for what he’d become, but there was no helping it: it was much too fun to tease. Plus, he really was a little cold. And the feeling of a solid, broad-shouldered body against his had a shameful effect on his body temperature.
While they were pressed to each other’s side, Gintoki’s nose came to lightly nuzzle Katsura’s neck. The touch lasted but an instant, yet Katsura couldn’t help but jump. The proverbial butterflies had left the building, replaced by a horde of Amanto ships waging war inside his gut.
He let out a scandalized gasp and pushed the man’s head away with a flick of his finger. Gintoki grinned like an idiot and picked up the pace. Their hands had already drawn away, and Katsura missed the warmth. Choosing to preserve his dignity, he slipped his arms inside his sleeves. His mind reeled and he scanned the street for witnesses. Thankfully, none seemed idle enough to notice the unruly affairs of two samurai carrying grocery bags.
Finally, they reached Gintoki’s flat and dropped off their cargo. Gintoki imperiously shot some orders to the rest of the Odd Jobs crew, signaling that he’d be gone for the day and that they would have to unpack the groceries. ‘No TV ‘til you guys are done making dinner!’ He added. ’I want to see some kamameshi on the table when I get back, and you’d better save me some crab legs or I’m moving away!’
“You treat those kids like free labor,” Kastura scolded.
“‘Cause they are.” Gintoki attempted to throw a kick behind his knee, but Katsura evaded it calmly.
They were waiting in line before the temple entrance, two samurai standing out like a sore thumb in a crowd of enamored couples and wholesome families.
Katsura’s fingers twitched inside his sleeves. They waited in the cold for their turn to ring the hatsumode bell.
The rebel leader was startled out of his contemplation by a hand sneaking its way around his waist. He shot Gintoki an outraged look.
The silver haired man hummed and looked away casually, his hold tightening. “Just thought I’d warm you up. You still look like you’re freezing, and all.”
Little devil.
“I’m perfectly fine.”
Gintoki could be awfully jealous, and somewhat possessive at times. Another irritant in their budding affections, but one which made Katsura feel rather flattered. He always strived to keep a level head when it came to sentimental matters, but his childhood friend was not the same. The white yaksha had his pride. Around them, near the temple entrance, bubbly maidens clung to their lover’s arm and married couples kept their kids in check.
Whatever they were—whatever he and Gintoki had going on, they would never quite fit into such a mold. But this fact seemed to elude the silver-haired samurai completely.
“Gintoki,” Katsura said in a low voice, managing to suppress the smile that threatened to appear. “They don’t need to know.”
“Know what?”
How infuriating. Gintoki feigned innocence, his free hand resting on the wooden sword that hung at his hip. The other arm was still slipped around Katsura’s waist.
In spite of himself, the rebel leader felt his face heat up. Up until now, they’d never really gotten physically close. And Katsura was embarrassed to admit he’d never gotten around to physical affection with a potential suitor. At all.
His heart hammered like it did during battles. Mortified, he wiggled free and stepped forward, as their turn had come to ring the bell.
Alright, if you’re going to act innocent, I shall not play along.
Gintoki ended up drawing a lucky fortune.
A couple of hours later, they sat side by side at the counter of some run-down bar, observing the sun as it shed its last rays onto the skyline. Warm golden light flooded the streets, and the smell of cooking food wafted from the kitchen. The bar was full and rowdy, its counters lined with samurai who drank like bottomless pits and spoke over each other, seemingly unable to speak at a proper volume.
But Katsura was used to the din. There was a drunkard sitting right next to him, silver hair all tousled and cheeks flushed.
“Zura, Zura… Let me hold your hand,” Gintoki slurred with a fake and frankly vexing pout.
A grown man who could not hold his beer.
The samurai tutted. “It’s not Zura, it’s ‘Katsura’. I’m flattered, but think: if one of my men were to see the leader of the glorious jouishi letting himself become sentimental and soft, what sort of image would I make?”
Gintoki’s sad puppy dog eyes came into view. He’d laid his head down on his arm and stared up at Katsura miserably. All this coaxing for plain hand-holding.
“I won’t yield under emotional manipulation.”
Gintoki sighed. He heavily straightened back up, taking another swig of the bottle they “shared”. “It’s the new year.”
“So?”
“So we should’ve kissed when midnight hit, stupid wig.”
Katsura nearly choked. He coughed a few times, earning himself a few pats on the back from his companion. “Of all the preposterous—!”
The words caught in his throat as he desperately scoured for a good enough scolding.
To share a kiss with Gintoki. The idea had been planted inside his mind like a seed, and now, it grew to uncontrollable proportions. At the same time as an alcohol-induced flush crept onto his cheeks, he felt himself lose control of the situation.
To complicate matters, it seemed Gintoki had sobered up with suspicious speed. He grinned wickedly, eyes gleaming as he toyed with a strand of the joui leader’s hair.
Katsura shot up from his seat. “Too much television has muddled your mind. Let’s quickly get you back to your apartment to rest.”
The other rose leisurely, taking the time to stretch and to pat around his kimono, looking for his wallet. After a time, he froze. “Forgot my cash.”
Katsura’s eyes rolled.
When they made their way back home, the sun had set, and the streets had emptied, finally settling back into their usual level of activity. Katsura reveled in the fact. Kabukicho was finally quiet. As quiet as Kabukicho could get, anyways.
They held hands once again. Katsura had given in, but his restless brain reeled. His pace was unusually slow, but Gintoki followed dutifully.
Otose’s place came into view slowly but surely.
“If they saw us…” The black-haired man started. He let the thought hover around them like smoke and weigh his shoulders down.
He’d stopped in his tracks right before the door.
Gintoki’s hand was warm. His skin was rough, but his fingers, surprisingly delicate. Strength and vulnerability. Katsura could have written a thousand poems about it. He felt laid bare, despite having known the other for… well, most of his life. This was like getting to know Gintoki all over again.
Katsura looked to him, seeking some kind of reaction. Gintoki has busied himself with digging a booger out of his nose.
“You’re disgusting.”
The booger was flicked away rather skillfully. “Are we going in? What are we waiting for, here?”
The bright Otose’s Snack Bar sign flickered before them, its reflection on the icy ground casting red light on the street.
Katsura had run out of excuses, and frankly, out of patience as well. The thought of Gintoki’s lips, what it would feel like to kiss them, still lingered in his mind.
Increasingly jittery, he forced himself to reflect.
What was there for him to lose? He had everything to gain: the chance to finally know what a lover’s embrace felt like.
The word “lover” felt foreign and indecent. Moreso did the word “love”. He couldn’t bring himself to examine it and figure out just what the fuss was about. Samurai in these days of loss did not know affection or intimacy. Fondness rhymed with weakness, and Katsura’s skin burned when it was touched by Gintoki. To love was to hurt. It’d always been this way. War had taught all of them to never cherish, but Katsura had left the battlefield with his armor on, and he’d never shed it once.
With a start, he realized in that out of the both of them, he, Katsura Koutaro, had been the one with the thicker defenses.
Gintoki loved to rush into feelings, and Katsura loved to chase him back out. But he was exhausted, and he wanted to give in so badly that every fiber of his being ached.
His need to kiss Gintoki was impending. It overpowered every thought that formed inside his mind, every qualm, every deep-rooted uncertainty that Katsura couldn’t bear to bring to light.
One final time, his fingers clenched around Gintoki’s. He turned to face him solemnly.
Their eyes met, and with a glare, Katsura forbade the other to look away as was his habit. He inched closer, shuffling on the slippery, ice-covered street.
Their surroundings seemed empty, which Katsura was grateful for.
Gintoki’s brows knit together. And inside his eyes, Katsura saw something he’d never thought to see in the fearsome white demon: a hint of worry. No amount of alcohol or good fortunes could have prepared him for it. But his mind was set, and there was no turning away from his mission.
So Katsura resolutely wrapped a hand around the other’s neck, fingers diving into curly silver hair. A pause.
Their faces drew nearer and the noise of Kabukicho died down around them.
“So are we getting nasty now, or what?”
Gintoki’s voice erupted, as usual, to ruin the moment.
Nothing was sacred to demons.
No surprises: the worry Kastura had glimpsed at was nowhere to be seen, replaced by the ever-present languid mischief.
Katsura froze, suddenly embarrassed by his own display of sentimentality. “Well,” he managed, “I would have humored you beast, but now I’m feeling disinclined.”
“Aw, don’t be like that.” The space around them suddenly grew warmer.
Katsura realized Gintoki had closed the distance between them, and they now stood mere inches away from each other. The white yaksha’s lips ghosted over his, and Kastura felt his insides stir. He was breathless, enveloped by the commanding presence he’d so often seen forcing enemies into submission on the desolate front of the joui war. He could hear his own heartbeat hammer in his ears, a single sound, like the rest of the world had collapsed into quiet nothingness.
He gripped Gintoki’s neck, neither harsh nor gentle. There was a hand on his back. He arched into the touch, reveling in the goosebumps and the burning warmth that wracked his body.
Control slipped away from him once more.
This was more like them.
“Zura,” Gintoki repeated tirelessly. The name sounded like a prayer on his lips. “Let me kiss you.”
Katsura was out of words, so he nodded silently.
The first night of the new year saw them meet under a clear, ink-black sky.