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Given that Hijikata has explicitly told him many times that the word "lazy" isn't in his vocabulary — except when used to explicitly refer to Gintoki himself — Gintoki’s hopes of lazy mornings spent in bed are dashed early in their relationship.
Hijikata’s 5am phone alarm is the most offensive thing he's heard in months. He expresses as such as he's violently shaken from a nice dream about lots of naked skin and wet noises by the sound of repetitive blares at a frequency that only dogs should be able to hear. He grumbles, automatically rolling over and pulling Hijikata into a hug, plastering his bare chest against the other's exposed back, whispering protests and pleas into soft skin. He's quickly shaken off with a sleepy complaint. Hijikata rolls out of Gintoki's futon and rolls his shoulders with much more of an effort, Gintoki suspects, than usual.
"Rude you gotta work." Gintoki's voice sounds gravelly, still heavily laden with the timbre of sleep.
"You should try it some time," Hijikata retorts, all bark, and no bite.
"Nah." Gintoki yawns. "Someone's gotta breadwin around here, and someone's gotta maintain the house."
"Implying that you do anything of the sort?"
There's a spare uniform of Hijikata's hanging up in Gintoki's closet, which Hijikata unevenly stumbles towards, unsuccessfully stifling a yawn. In the dull pre-dawn he's nothing more than a shapely shadow to Gintoki's unadjusted eyesight, until Hijikata kicks on a floor lamp with his foot and it lights up the room in an offensive yellow hue.
Gintoki hisses at the sudden assault to his retinas and throws a hand up to his eyes reflexively. But the sight of Hijikata lit up all pretty and half-naked, rummaging around in Gintoki’s closet, is too tempting an image, even for the barely awake and light sensitive. Gintoki uncovers his eyes with a groan and watches Hijikata’s lightly scratched back fishing around in the depths of the wardrobe for something.
And smirks to himself, satisfied. Because he put those scratches there.
"Fuck.” Hijikata scratches the side of his face. “Where are my uniform pants?" he mumbles.
Gintoki’s too tired to care where Hijikata’s pants are. Besides, if Hijikata puts on pants, that means he has to put on his shirt and vest and whatever that white frilly thing he wears around his neck is. Which means he has to leave, and Gintoki has to go back to sleep. Alone, in a cold bed.
Not something he wants now, or ever again.
"Go pantless," Gintoki suggests. Hijikata throws him a glare, and if he were more awake, Gintoki thinks he might have got an actual object thrown at him, too. "What's that look for? Your commander does it all the time."
"Shut up, don’t bring Kondo-san’s lack of respect for clothing into this," Hijikata says wearily. "Where the fuck did you put my pants, Gintoki ?"
"They’re in the same place you left them, Toshirou . Gin-san ain’t touch them."
Hijikata searches and, with an exaggerated sigh, finds his pants.
Now, if you ask Gintoki for his humble opinion — which you probably didn't, but he's going to tell you anyway — he would tell you he loves to watch Toshirou undress. There's a sort of graceful elegance to it; a seductive dance to opening each button, dropping a shirt from his shoulders and pulling trousers down long slender legs that he definitely can't wait to have either resting on his shoulders, or wrapped around his head. Hijikata's a vision, whether there's a promise of something more salacious there or not. But perhaps something has wired itself incorrectly in Gintoki's brain this morning — and for that he blames the infernal alarm — because, apparently, the inverse can also have the same effect.
Sleepily, Gintoki blinks, and watches with undivided attention.
There was probably a time in Hijikata's life where he could awaken without such stumbling and would be alert in an instant, though Gintoki's never seen evidence of it throughout their relationship. Hijikata grumbles, slowly putting one foot in each of the holes of his pants, unbalancing a little. He pulls them up with some effort, slowly covering the evidence of their previous night's activities: bites of appreciation turning to yellowing bruises, finger marks darkening where they were pressed in with rapt need. Those strong thighs, which were hours ago shaking with the effort of how fast and hard they were fucking into Gintoki, disappear behind perfectly pressed fabric stretched deliciously tight across their expanse. Gintoki feels a carnal desire to take them off again, to make more marks, to make these thighs shake once again with need.
Gintoki's mouth salivates when Hijikata leaves the front of his slacks open to slowly slide on his dress shirt, grunting in frustration when one arm gets stuck in a sleeve.
"Do I have a belt here?" Gintoki barely registers the question as he sees talented fingers loop a button into a hole.
"What?" Gintoki blinks. Another button, slowly and steadily fed into the hole. "Oh yeah, in the... back?"
Hijikata snorts. "So, you're not sure? Is it in the back, or not."
Gotta be honest, babe, your dick looks like a whole package sticking out of your slacks right now I'm barely processing anything else except getting it into my mouth.
"Uh. Yes." He hopes he manages to sound convincing, even though he barely cares for anything more than the impromptu reverse striptease he’s been graced with.
Hijikata leaves the buttons on his shirt about halfway done and turns back to fish around in Gintoki's closet. Gintoki thinks the sight of Hijikata's ass in his slacks might actually short circuit his brain.
Not that said brain typically does a lot of thinking before the sun is up.
(And if you ask Hijikata’s opinion, he would say — incorrectly, mind you, Gintoki would protest — that he fails to do a lot of thinking at all, at any point during the day).
"Yeah, thanks," Hijikata responds. He feeds the belt into his pants, tucks the bottom of the shirt in, and slowly does the zipper up.
And in watching Hijikata fasten the button on his slacks, secure the belt, and slowly continue to do up the rest of the clasps on his shirt, Gintoki considers that perhaps he's jealous of Hijikata's shirt buttonholes, because Hijikata's fingers are pushing inside them, and not Gintoki himself.
"You're starin'," Hijikata slurs. White fabric covers a particularly nasty bruise on Hijikata's chest that Gintoki doesn't remember leaving.
"I think I'm in love," Gintoki says absently, and maybe there's a little drool coming out his mouth.
Hijikata disguises his laugh unsuccessfully with a huff and an exaggerated eye roll, and slides on his vest and jacket. "Okay." He crouches back down to the bed and lightly taps Gintoki in the middle of the forehead with two fingers, pushing him back to lying down. "You need more sleep."
"I need you to undress and then get dressed again so I can watch it in slow motion later when I jerk off in the shower."
Hijikata scowls, but kisses Gintoki on the forehead anyway. "Absolutely not,” he chuckles, and squeezes Gintoki’s shoulder lightly as a parting greeting.
"God. Please."
"Even a please?"
"I’ll give you 300 yen. I'll even beg, Hijikata-kun. I think you just gave me a new kink."
Hijikata, to Gintoki's chagrin, does not acquiesce, but does give a very self-satisfied grin. "No,” he leers. “I didn’t. Go back to sleep. I'll see you for dinner."
"Will you undress, and then dress, and then undress for me again then?"
Hijikata ties his frilly white thing around his neck — an ascot? Gintoki thinks it might be called — and turns on his heel, smirking over his shoulder as he opens the shoji.
"I'll think about it," he teases, and closes the door with a wicked grin.
“You awful tease!” Gintoki calls at the closed door, throwing his pillow at the aging paper. He’s met only with a hearty laugh. Gintoki groans and buries his head in Hijikata’s pillow.
“Stupid tax thief,” he wails. “Stupid sexy tax thief.”