Chapter Text
. . .
It was a night like any other night.
Drink, forget, repent. Repeat. Well-known tracks, well-known streets. Gintoki sauntered through Kabukichō, arms crossed over his head, eyes absently tracing the city lights above, thinking that there really wasn’t any reason for things to be more complicated than that. He was a simple man of simple needs, and the Edo nightlife supported that, providing for his fundamental appetites in life. Drink & games, sugar & women. Perfectly legit reasons for him to prowl the city at night, spending his meager savings at whatever establishment would accept him, looking for a bit of fun and distraction.
Always distraction.
On this very ordinary night, Gintoki entered one of his usual joints, a cabaret club with the one but compelling upside of it not being Snack Smile. It just so happened, when he was in the mood to indulge himself, Tae’s judgemental face was the last thing he wanted to see.
This was his break from playing the hero, after all. No one ever talked about the downsides of being a JUMP protagonist, like how exhausting it was to be devilishly handsome and breathtakingly knightly all day round. Having put up appearances for more than 20 volumes and counting, Gintoki felt he’d earned his fair piece of decadence; a good distance from the limelight.
He simply wasn’t like the other brats. Straw Hat, Whiskers, Strawberry-kun and the likes. They were never seen staggering in the vague direction of home at 4a.m., puking their guts out on all fours in some back alley upon unceremoniously passing out among the trash cans, sure. They also hadn’t reached the refined stage of adulthood where such antics were a natural part of a successful night out. As far as Gintoki was concerned, they were far too fixated on energy-draining concepts such as dreams & ambitions to be considered healthy teenage boys.
Now, Gintoki wasn’t by any means a boy anymore. He looked around the club, hands stuffed into the sleeves of his yukata, stifling a yawn. Hah. His reputation preceded him here. Even with being stone-cold sober and unusually well cleaned up, he received mostly wary looks, then some downright suspicious glares from girls he’d been involved with, at another unspecific point in time. Off the script, naturally, but it still happened.
About that. Contrary to popular belief, Gintoki wasn’t exactly disliked among the ladies. Quite the opposite, actually. It was just that, after the fun had been had and the girl in question discovered that the few hundred yen in his pockets weren’t only change for the vending machine but all he was good for-- well. The youth of today was all about the bling lifestyle; diamond rings and champagne and fancy rides. Things Gintoki couldn’t in a million years afford and where was the heart in all of that, huh?
Gintoki was thinking he should maybe try his luck elsewhere when he was approached by a petite hostess with blonde hair; one he hadn’t seen before and who apparently was stupid or brave enough not to listen to the others.
“You’re new,” Gintoki observed, smiling, and the new hostess giggled.
“In opposition to you, I’m told.”
Brave. He liked her. Liked her way of being a little bold behind feigned shyness, liked the way her hips swayed when she led him to a vacant booth, liked the delicate way she lifted the bottle of sake to pour him a cup. Liked the way she didn’t ask about his means of paying right off the bat, liked the way her full, red lips moved--
“…it’s Sakata-san, right?” She laughed, this tinkling, clear sound. Gintoki realised he hadn’t been paying attention to a word of what she’d been saying, but he sure perked up hearing his name spoken in that sweet voice. “It’s not that I haven't been warned you see,” the hostess conceded, looking a mix between conspiratorial and bashful. She leaned in close. “It just so happens, I like bad guys.”
Jackpot. Gintoki grinned. If being bad equaled not being able to pay his bill here, he was certainly up for it. And whatever else she was suggesting. “You don’t say.”
The night was looking unbelievably bright. A couple of cups of sake later he was feeling the buzz, too, all pleasant and cozy and warm in his seat. The blonde, who was happily chattering away at his side, got more appealing by the minute. In fact, so appealing that Gintoki figured he should get a move on before he got slurry and incoherent. He drew upon experience and hard-earned wisdom when he leaned in; all sensual smiles and wiggly eyebrows.
“Hey, what do you say we get out of here? Just you and Gin-san. There’s this place just down Sentarou Rodo that’s not too shabby if you don’t take into account the cockroaches, I s’pose, I could totally afford it. Given that this,” he nodded pointedly in the direction of the too fancy bottle of sake he was already halfway through. “-- is on the house. How’s that sound, hostess-chan?”
“It’s Miya, I told you, I--” she started, a slight wrinkle had appeared between her eyebrows, but she trailed off before Gintoki could tell if that was a problem or not. Her gaze locked on something behind him, eyes going suspiciously starry.
“Oi, oi, oi,” Gintoki huffed. “My eyes are up here, Miya-chan.”
But he couldn’t refrain from following her gaze, turning to look toward the entrance, where a new guest drew the undivided attention of the room.
Gintoki’s face went slack, then all-- twitchy.
Okay, so. There was one person he probably wanted to see even less than Tae in this kind of situation. Truly, really, anyone, would’ve been better than this absolute killjoy, the bloody king of party poopers. Also known as the Vice-Chief of the Shinsengumi: in the flesh.
Gintoki couldn’t help but stare.
Surely, this guy had walked into the wrong place. It made no sense that he’d pick this club for a night out, or a cabaret club at all, for that matter. It was either a mistake or something to do with the Shogun, yeah, some stupid cop-thing or the other, probably.
Then, Hijikata seemed to have come alone, and he wasn’t dressed for work. Trademark frown applied and a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth as though it was fucking glued to his lips; those things were normal. But the uniform was missing, as well as that neatly folded white scarf that Gintoki had come to loathe because he always wanted to tug it off so badly. There was no mistaking the dark yukata and sandals Hijikata wore tonight. That was his day-off outfit.
Why the hell would he come here on his day off? To drink and relax in the company of pretty girls, like everyone else, one would presume, but this was Hijikata Toushirou. The Shinsengumi’s own pet demon; a man who thought rising at dawn was perfectly normal, an absolute prude who flinched at the sight of a parfait -- did he even know how to have fun? Then again, why else would he be here, at this time of night, looking like he wanted a hand on his thigh, or something.
Gintoki coughed, averting his gaze. There was an unsettled feeling in his gut, a decidedly sour taste in his mouth-- and of course, it was his fault.
So, there was this unidentifiable thing about the Vice Chief. Something that rubbed Gintoki all the wrong ways, perhaps since someone had let it slip that Hijikata Toushirou was originally meant to be the protagonist of Gintama, perhaps since always. A constant itch, a thorn in his side, a nuisance. Like why would he suddenly be thinking about the mayora freak’s thighs when he had this gorgeous girl sitting just next to him, all glittery and willing--
Except she wasn’t, anymore. She’d slinked out of the booth, and was presently doing the same as more or less every other hostess in the club -- staring avidly at the dark-haired man entering the club, who was in turn glancing around the place with the air of… what? Resignation? Regret? Utter and total detachment?
For reasons obscure even to himself, Gintoki ducked his head, hiding as Hijikata stalked past with a trail of smoke and hostesses in his wake.
Seriously?
When he deemed it safe to do so, Gintoki peered over the edge of his seat. Hijikata had chosen a table not far from his, stretching his legs out while a beaming hostess offered him the drinks menu. The rest of the hostesses milled about, looking excited but unsure, like they didn’t quite know how to approach him. Understandable. Even out of uniform, Hijikata came off standoffish and gruff, and even though the cop was, Gintoki supposed, an objectively handsome man, he lacked all of Gintoki’s natural luster and easy charm; the reason for which Hijikata was not the main character, in the end. There.
Still, Gintoki thought, there was nothing scary about the cop. And if there was, it would be his appalling obsession with mayonnaise, or the way he kept showing up wherever Gintoki went. Really. It wasn’t exactly the first time they’d run into each other at an unlikely place, but this time Gintoki felt more perturbed than usual because why, this was his turf, right? The bathhouse, the cinema, his favourite diner-- all those places were fine (in a way, he could understand why Hijikata would choose to visit these places), but this was his sanctuary, all cabarets clubs were; he had thought, absolutely Hijikata-free zones where he could indulge in 100% Hijikata-free activities.
And yet, here he was. Looking stoic and unapproachable and hopelessly out of place, and Gintoki found it laughable really, since he certainly wasn’t in the habit of searching the cop out--
Wait a minute.
What if it was actually the other way around? What if the bastard was actively following him? Just to piss him off, or to keep a watchful eye on him, even. Wasn’t that what policemen generally did to keep themselves busy?
Hah. Gintoki sat back in his seat, nursing his wounded ego (Miya-chan had simply left to join the growing number of girls at the Vice-Commander’s booth) by thinking ugly, spiteful thoughts about the man in question, the stalker. It helped. If he still felt sort of antsy and slighted by the attention the cop was receiving from the hostesses, it was expertly beaten down to a manageable level, labeled general annoyance. He habitually ignored every other emotion connected to that spark of irritation.
The matter of fact was that Hijikata hadn’t yet shot a single glance in his direction. If Gintoki wanted to slink out unseen, now was probably -- obviously -- a good time.
He should.
Like hell he would.
He couldn’t let Hijikata just get away with ruining his night like this. He couldn’t let him be, and that was a common notion when it came to the shitty cop, if one that Gintoki seldom acknowledged. This was too much for him on so many levels. The mayora freak surrounded by simpering females in lieu of the usual bunch of rowdy policemen, the hostesses sickenly sweet voices as they offered the Vice-Chief this and that, Hijikata’s oblivious responses to their suggestions, his blatant inability of dealing with anyone with a pair of boobs attached to their chest, all of it -- it simply called for Gintoki’s involvement.
“Would you like some dom peri, Vice-Chief?”
“Thanks. Top it off with some mayonnaise.”
Okay, that’s it. Gintoki slammed his fist down the table, feeling like he was going to retch, honestly. Someone needed saving. It was just so typical, though -- that he had to be the knight in shining armor, even on this night when he was supposed to be off protagonist duty.
It was all Hijikata’s fault.
🖤
It was a night unlike any other night.
Drink, forget, repent -- Hijikata preferred doing such a thing alone, and had never seen the appeal of cabaret clubs. This godawful experience was just proving his point further. Hijikata took a long drag on his cigarette, looking around the hostesses in what should have been irritation, but which probably only oozed exasperation. The word ‘why’ could just as well have been printed onto his forehead, because, why.
Normally, alcohol had a nice dulling effect on his stiff body and weary mind, strained as usual with work. Work, which had lately dished out an unusual amount of unpleasantries in terms of whining bakufu officials, soul-crushingly boring stake-out missions, mountains of paperwork; as well as one major cover-up action after a gorilla, looking suspiciously like the Shinsengumi Commander, had been seen humping a lamp-post, in broad daylight.
Was it too early to retire at the age of 27? Hijikata ran a tired hand over his face. He pretty much was his job, so even thinking about retirement was stupid -- he was obviously the kind to die in the line of duty. In the end, one of the few things granting him real satisfaction in life was the bloody scraps and hunt-downs occasionally provided by police work. This week, there hadn't even been that. No well-deserved red for his blade to taste, nothing to temporarily sate his hunger, and perhaps that was why he left the barracks in the first place.
Restlessness.
A sense of unfulfillment.
It was strange for him not to go drink at one of his usual joints, comfortably accompanied by the kind of quiet bar owners and unobtrusive street vendors he preferred with his alcohol. It was downright odd for him to be at this club, in this part of town, even-- but it was also just the coincidental byproduct of an aimless nighttime stroll. Sometimes, when he didn’t pay attention, his feet would steer him in the direction of Kabuki District.
Then, he almost always regretted coming here. Tonight didn’t prove to be different. The hostesses were too many and too intrusive, no one understood the vital importance of mayonnaise, and if he’d been expecting some sort of enjoyment to be derived from the presence of a bunch of perfume-smelling, chirping girls, well. It was made conspicuous by its absence. Hijikata was just thinking that he should just go to Yatai Guchiri-Ya instead, when the very definition of the word worse made an entrance.
No. No, no, no. Not you. Hijikata cursed all things existing between heaven and hell, then-- himself. Should he have seen this one coming from a hundred miles? Yes. He should have. As though being hopelessly out of his comfort zone wasn’t enough, of bloody course he’d run into this one idiot unfamiliar with the sheer concept of boundaries. That was how things had always been when it came to him; unwanted, always on the verge of something disastrous. Why do you have to turn up wherever I go?! Please, please turn around and leave! Be gone!
Mental mantras didn’t work on Sakata Gintoki. The moron was looking his usual bored-out-of-his-mind self, gaze half-dead and hair in its state of perpetual -- unforgivable -- disorder, as he sauntered up to Hijikata’s table with the air of someone who’d actually been called over.
No one did! Hijikata’s eyebrow twitched in annoyance as Yorozuya adopted a stance of lazy self-importance, looking around the confused hostesses with a solemn expression.
“Sorry to inform you, girls, but this guy isn’t capable of joking. He’s the kind to put that shit into his drink and he doesn’t give a monkey’s if he’s grossing everyone out.” Deal with it, hung unsaid in the air and wasn’t making anyone less uncomfortable.
Hijikata barked: “No one’s grossed out!”
“Evening, Hijikata-kun,” Yorozuya’s impassive stare traveled over to him like he’d just seen him. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Nothing fancy about it,” Hijikata ground out automatically. Denying everything coming out of this shithead’s mouth was second nature to him-- for a reason. Hijikata knew, all too well, that his best course of action here would be to just up and leave, but he was in no mood to give Yorozuya the satisfaction, either.
“Okay. That’s alright, I suppose,” Yorozuya shrugged, looking for all the world like the subject did not interest him in the slightest, yet went on. “I’m just surprised, is all, to find the Shinsengumi Vice-Chief in this kind of establishment. I mean, the yakuza might start to get suspicious if you frequent clubs like--”
“I don’t,” Hijikata interjected through gritted teeth. ”I’m rarely in this fucking district at all.”
“No?” Yorozuya tapped a finger against his chin, eyebrows raised in mock surprise. “Well, I must say, for someone who’s not, you look pretty comfortable. Hogging all the ladies like that, you sure you’re not a regular?”
Hijikata snorted. “I don’t wanna hear that from someone who looks like he was born in this pigsty.”
The insult had a disturbing counter-effect on Yorozuya, who was breaking into a shit-eating grin.
“Really? Why, thank you~”
“That’s not meant as a compliment, idiot.”
“Ouf, Hijikata-kun, don’t play coy with me now,” Yorozuya winked, and using Hijikata’s temporary shock, he slipped inside the booth and shamelessly snatched Hijikata’s glass of dom peri. The hostesses looked flabbergasted as the silver-haired samurai made a show out of downing the entire glass in one go, making a needlessly pleased face afterward, upon sitting back next to Hijikata like it was his damned right. “Why don’t you just come out and say it?”
“Say what?” Hijikata hissed. It took all he had to not punch the sugar addict square in the face. He smelled like strawberries and white musk and trouble. “You’re too close, you--”
“That you’re holding hands with the Gorilla now.”
Hijikata paused, frowning. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You’d do well taking a lesson or two from him, you know.” Yorozuya went on, his dull gaze sweeping over the hostesses, who had started to whisper among themselves, then back to Hijikata. “Your boss might look like a big ape but he’s actually well-versed in the great art of pursuing the unwilling.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hijikata huffed, stubbing out his cigarette with a bit too much fervor. What are you even doing here? “Who’s unwilling!?”
It was the wrong question. Yorozuya took his sweet time mulling it over, folding his arm into his -- ridiculous, half-dressed -- blue and white yukata.
“Me.” Red eyes bore into Hijikata. “Why else would you be here?”
It was stifling. The anger, the embarrassment; Hijikata could feel it clogging his throat, fraying his nerves into nothingness, blossoming up his neck and cheeks. “What are you talking about, dumbass?” He demanded, with all the calm he could possibly muster. “I didn’t know you were-- why would I even. Fuck.” He took a deep centering breath and forced himself to meet Yorozuya’s maddeningly calm stare. “Does it look like I came here to see you?”
“It looks like,” Yorozuya said slowly, intently. “…you’re caught with your hands in the cookie jar.”
“I’m not!” Hijikata bristled, fists smashing down on the table hard enough for the wood to creak and the hostesses to collectively jump in their seats. “And even if I was, I wouldn’t give a damn if you watched me eat the entire jar!”
A sparkle of something flashed by Yorozuya’s face, but then, he went on like he hadn’t heard Hijikata at all: “You do have this tendency of showing up wherever I go, Hijikata-kun. I’m sure I’m not the only one who’d start making assumptions in this kind of situation.”
“I have a tendency of showing up wherever you go?” Hijikata spat the words out; well past the point of calming down. “Isn’t it exactly the other way around?! Even if I were paid I wouldn’t voluntarily go near you!”
Yorozuya took on a wounded look, pouting as he looked around the hostesses for support.
“What do you say, ladies? Isn’t this guy a little too transparent in his need to deny this? If he hadn’t been following--”
“Don’t you say it,” Hijikata hissed, and if something mad had sneaked into his expression he didn’t care. “You lump me together with that pervert ninja stalker of yours, and I swear, I’ll kill you.”
“I was lumping you together with the gorilla, though,” Yorozuya had the audacity to correct him, shrugging. “I figure it doesn’t make much of a difference. Though I wonder what people would say if word got out that the top brass of the Shinsengumi is a bunch of disgraceful stalkers.”
“Like I said. I’ll kill you.”
“Don’t be rash, Vice-Chief. I’m merely a civilian going about his business, no need to threaten me like that~”
Some very shady business, I’m sure. Hijikata felt like choking on all the things he wanted to scream at the idiot sitting next to him; looking like the cat that ate the canary. All grins, and the slightly unusual addition of a flush across his cheeks -- one that Hijikata kind of hated himself for noticing. So what if the bastard was drunk. It was none of his concern.
None.
He was equally intolerable when he was sober.
This wasn't going anywhere good. Hijikata enjoyed a little moment of mature reasoning. He knew one thing for sure: Yorozuya was like the stickiest sort or glue -- the sort that was damn near impossible to get off if you happened to get it on your hands. The more one scrubbed, the stickier it got, and the only way to get rid of the stupid asshole would be to stop scrubbing. Ignore him. That way, Yorozuya would be bored with the lack of reaction on his part, and leave.
Presumably.
In any case, Hijikata certainly wasn’t leaving. While lighting up another cigarette, he remained silent and unmoving in his seat, pointedly directing his gaze away from the other man. The hostesses, who had all withdrawn a little during the exchange of words between them, scrambled back around him, all eager to pour him a drink. Hijikata sighed inwardly. Part of him really wanted to order them all to commit seppuku on the spot, Yorozuya included.
Well, especially Yorozuya.
“Oi, Hijikata-kun.”
A vein popped at Hijikata’s temple at the sound of that lazy-ass voice ringing out again.
I’m ignoring you, get the hint already, dumbass!
“...”
“Hijikata-kuuun~”
“WHAT?!”
“I was just wondering, is it really okay for you to smoke your disgusting cigarettes here? Ever heard of this thing called secondhand smoke?”
“This is a goddamn cabaret club!”
“Yeah, about that -- it must be an environmental problem in this line of work, right girls?” Gintoki asked loftily, looking Hijikata straight in the eye. “Is this good sir disturbing you? Because if that’s the case there’s someone right here more than willing to remove him from the premises. So to speak~”
“Your sole existence is disturbing people, dammit!” Hijikata snapped, biting off his cigarette in the process. “Stupid perm head!”
Gintoki’s face twisted, finally, the smugness washed away by the sort of all-encompassing annoyance which in the end, always, united them in some way.
“How dare you insult Gin-san’s hair in front of the ladies? You’re pissing me off!”
“Oh, I’m sorry, was that your hair? I thought for sure it was a wig.”
They were at each other’s throats in a split second. Yorozuya grabbed him by the collar, and Hijikata wasted no time replying in kind, clutching the front of the silver-haired man’s yukata tightly as they came eye to eye. He glared into vehement red with the intention of crushing something, fists shaking and teeth set in a furious snarl. He was immensely provoked by how angry Yorozuya looked, as though he had the fucking right when it was him being an absolute prick.
“Apologise to the hair!”
“No! What for?! The hair-- the wig hasn’t got feelings! You’re the one who should apologise!”
“Are you kidding me? You’re ruining my night!”
“That’s my fucking line! Get the hell out of here!”
“I should get out?! I was here first! You get out, dammit!”
“Shut the fuck up! I was here first!”
“I was here the first of the firsts!”
“I was here before you even thought about being the first of the firsts!”
“Well, I was born here! Didn’t you say so?! Shitty Mayora!”’
This was getting old.
Yet Hijikata would not, could not, back down. Something about Yorozuya aggravated him to the core of his being, caused him to see red and revert right back to the unruly ronin he had once been. And, to be honest, while it was a royal pain, it also held an ounce of… relief.
There was no two ways about it -- fighting Sakata Gintoki held a charm of its own. As it happened, they were an unparalleled match when it came to screaming and fighting. The insults grew fiercer, and, like so many times before, what had started as a meaningless argument soon transcended into a proper fistfight. Bottles, glasses and furniture became collateral damage in their quest of beating each other into pulps but no one really cared. Except maybe the onlookers. One hostess screamed as she ran for the bar, presumably to get the owner, another hid behind a toppled over table, her hands covering her mouth.
Hijikata wasn’t aware.
All he could see was silver. All he could feel was the blood pumping through his veins as they fought it out; a punch to his face, something going numb and then the wondrous surge of power as his fist connected with Yorozuya’s chin. All he could smell was the remnants of smoke, strawberries and the expensive booze on the other man’s breath as he got up close and personal, offensively so, whispering some bullshit about Hijikata being lucky he got the chance to spend quality time with the guy he’d been stalking since forever and his hair. Hijikata would have denied it, would have round kicked him into the bloody wall-- hadn’t the rush of hot air against the shell of his ear sent such a violent jolt up his spine. What, the--
Next thing he knew, they were both grabbed by the scruffs of their necks, just like one would carry a pair of kittens, and tossed out of the club through the backdoor, into the dark alleyway.
“And don’t you dare show your pathetic mugs here again!” roared someone Hijikata distantly realised must be the giant Mama-san of the club; a woman of monstrous strength indeed.
With that, the door was slammed shut.
A moment of dumbstruck silence followed as the two samurais sprawled where they had landed next to each other on the hard ground among trash cans and waste. The night air was chill, but refreshing as it filled Hijikata’s lungs. Did this happen before?
Probably.
Sometimes, he had the feeling he was going in circles with Yorozuya. At least Yorozuya was sort of right about that part; they tended to gravitate toward each other on their days off (like such a concept could even be applied to that bum’s lifestyle), through some bad joke by the universe’s making, even though things more or less always went to the dogs when they met. It was, in lack of a better word, tiring. Greatly so, Hijikata was aching all over, lower lip pulsating dully in pain from where it had split, and quite frankly, he felt exasperated with himself and the amazingly stupid decision to go to Kabukichō. This silver-flecked, sugar-infested part of town where he had absolutely no business. None.
It was time to go.
Hijikata moved to sit up, but had only managed to get up on one elbow when he felt a hand closing around his wrist, not ungently.
Almost, tender.
Slowly, he sank back down. With a sense of dread niggling in his chest, he looked over at Yorozuya. Silver hair was in even mightier disarray than usual, and an ugly purplish bruise was blooming up the side of his face, blood trickling down a busted eyebrow to gather in pearly red lumps in his lashes, and still.
Still.
The dumbass was grinning.
”That was fun, right, Hijikata-kun?”
That’s one way of putting it. “Are you an idiot?” Hijikata deadpanned, but he didn’t move, and Yorozuya let the insult pass by with a small shrug, turning his gaze back skyward. The trickle of red took a new course, settling in tiny drops along his temple. Hijikata tore his gaze away. Yorozuya was still holding on to his wrist.
Let me go. Lying beside him in the strange stillness, Hijikata discovered the patch of night sky visible between the narrow brick walls to be treacherously starry, and those fingers felt too warm on his skin.
Nope. He retracted his hand. Hijikata, too aware of Yorozuya’s appraising eyes, tried his best not to look like he was in a hurry getting to his feet; though he was. He needed-- his hand routinely reached inside his yukata for his pack of cigarettes. Gone. He must have dropped it during the fight. Like this night could actually get any worse. To top it off, his yukata was more or less ruined, the front ripped open; it kept slipping down one shoulder. Fucking great.
“What.” He grumbled, noticing Yorozuya’s still-lingering stares and feeling extremely annoyed by them. “This is all your fault, I’m sure you’re aware.”
Yorozuya got up, too. He brushed off his clothes and wiped the blood out of his eye with the back of his hand, upon offering Hijikata a long, skeptical look. “Are you serious?”
“Yes.” And, I’m leaving. Before you spout some useless shit I don’t wanna hear. I need cigarettes.
As though Yorozuya sensed his intentions, he positioned himself in front of Hijikata, closing the view of the multi coloured street lights behind his back like he was actually capable of stopping Hijikata from going anywhere, the obnoxious fool. “I can’t believe I need to spell this out for you, Hijikata-kun,” he drawled, doubtlessly trying to sound unaffected, though there was an edge of something else, irritation maybe, or frustration; to his voice. “…but what happened tonight was, in every way you, ruining my fun.”
“Haaaah?”
“Sullying Gin-san’s reputation like that,” Yorozuya clicked his tongue, looking genuinely annoyed now. ”You truly have no shame.”
Am I hearing this right? Hijikata felt the anger flaring in the pit of his stomach once again. “Please,” he said, fists clenching. “We both know that your reputation can’t possibly get any more sullied than it already is. Isn't it dirty enough to pixelate some part of your body most of the time?”
“Who’s pixelated?!” Yorozuya barked, and for a moment, Hijikata thought they might be falling back into another pointless am not/are too argument, but: “You damn well should be! There’s only so much Gin-san can take, you know!”
Hijikata opened his mouth. Closed it. Yorozuya’s eyes were uncharacteristically undead, burning with something he couldn’t pinpoint, or rather, didn’t want to pinpoint. This was not entirely new, but unusually straightforward. The rotten bastard was openly hinting at something unspeakable and Hijikata was becoming more sure than ever that he needed to get out of here.
Immediately.
Like, now.
His hand unconsciously strayed to his bare shoulder, trying and failing to cover it up with the useless piece of fabric his yukata had become. “You sick fuck. What are you implying?”
Simultaneously, his brain was screaming at his legs: why don’t you move?! Get the fuck out of here before this gets any worse! To absolutely no avail. Yorozuya’s red gaze was hot on him, like a wave of warm water, flushing his skin and leaving him feeling exposed and unsure and angry all at once but still, unmoving.
“I’m not implying anything,” Yorozuya told him soberly, looking agitated but also somehow eerily calm, like he’d made up his mind. “I’m saying, Vice-Chief. It must be some kind of disorderly conduct, running around Kabukichō, looking like that.”
Looking like what?
If Hijikata was suddenly feeling strangely self-conscious about the way his hair, which normally behaved, fell in his eyes, all ruffled because of their stupid fight -- he had no intention of letting the perm know about it. He forced his voice down to a level of strained control, retorting: “I’m gonna arrest you, you pervert. You do realise this, right?”
“I had a feeling you’d go and say that,” Yorozuya hummed, looking infuriatingly unperturbed by the prospect. “Thing is, if there’s one thing I’m sure about right now, it’s that you’re not on duty tonight, Vice-Chief.”
“It doesn’t matter whether I’m on duty or not!”
“You sure?”
“One step closer and you’re spending the rest of the night behind bars, I fucking swear.”
At this, the wide grin returned to Yorozuya’s face. He threw his hands out while doing exactly the opposite, of course -- stepping closer. “Oh, I’ll take my chances, I think. I heard food in prison ain’t that bad, and Kagura ate all the pudding I bought at a great discount the other day, which reminds me. I am hungry,”
“Don’t,” Hijikata wanted to bellow, but his voice had grown too low, too unreliable. “Don’t come any closer.”
Hijikata agonised. Even he could hear the edge of panic to that demand. His cheeks felt hot, and he hated this. Hated his own inability to move, or follow through on any of the threats he’d dished out, rendering them as useless as himself right now. Hated Yorozuya’s absurd behaviour, that carnal gleam in his red eyes which spoke of something enormously wrong, unthinkable and not in a million years applicable to their relationship.
“Gin-san just wanna say sorry for before, no need to look like that, Hijikata-kun,” Yorozuya tilted his head to the side, the grin turning lopsided. If he was trying to look innocent, he was doing a horrible job of it. “I was joking, about being hungry, you know. I mean, I still am, but I’m pretty sure it’s not in the way you’re imagining.”
Stop. “You’re drunk,” Hijikata croaked out.
“Yeah, well.” Yorozuya’s voice was low, lazy, unapologetic. Like him. Did you hit your head? We don’t do this. That had been established ages ago. Yorozuya was presently trampling all over their oldest, most important, never-spelled-out rule. Never, ever to do this, because. Because. “I still want to, though.”
You’re the worst. Insufferable, horrible, self-indulgent fucker. If Hijikata wanted to punch him in the face, now was the given moment, the perfect opportunity; since he was so close and obnoxious and overstepping in every way, and yet.
He still couldn’t move.
Yorozuya’s eyes were dark, trailing over his skin like flames, and Hijikata knew that he could tell. That his heart was making a slow, almost painful roll, inside his chest. That he felt like puking. That his knees had turned to jelly, and he felt so horribly weak because what was implied here was not what Hijikata wanted. It wasn’t.
How could it be?
It was all Yorozuya’s fault.
🖤
Hijikata looked almost scared.
It was a good look on him, Gintoki decided, ignoring every other vague warning his slightly inebriated mind tried to direct his way. It was hard, anyway, when everything about Hijikata in this moment called for his attention; the tousled hair, the deep frown, the one bare shoulder, the red cheeks. Oh, shit. Gintoki’s heart went haywire at the sight. What’s the matter, Hijikata-kun? Is Gin-san too close? He longed to tease him, but strangely enough, no words found their way out of his mouth.
That wasn’t a regular occurrence.
Why, something about Hijikata standing there, not moving despite all the objections, looking like an endearing mix between the proverbial deer in headlights and his usual stubborn self; it was igniting a certain flame in Gintoki. That in itself wasn’t so unusual. Part of him recognised that flame, even; it was actually annoyingly persistent in the dirty fantasises he sometimes had about the cop. It was just that, over the years, Gintoki had become an expert at stomping it out before it could manifest itself in any way too telling.
Now, it was happily, uncaringly, flickering into life. Gintoki happened to crave it -- with the same indisputable force one craves strawberry milk at 2a.m. in the morning, and who was he to contest that urge? It was too complex, for a simple man like himself to understand, in the end.
Gintoki took a step in.
Hijikata took one step back.
Gintoki took another in.
Hijikata’s back connected with the brick wall. For a moment, the sliver of panic in his expression intensified, then it was replaced with something like self-control, or maybe more accurately; defiance. It sparkled within his blue gaze, and perhaps it was designed to keep Gintoki off, but it only served like fuel to the fire, air precisely magnifying the flame already lightning him up from the inside and out. Fucking hell.
Gintoki placed his palms flat against the wall, on either side of the cop’s shoulders. The reaction was immediate, he could smell the flight instinct on Hijikata welling forth like a destructive wave-- Gintoki reacted out of instinct, too.
Naturally.
It felt weirdly normal to lean in and latch on to Hijikata’s neck, pressing a trail of kisses along the gentle curve from his collarbone to his ear-- familiar and new all at once (what was that about, even?) What was truly alarming was the intense heat he felt flaring in his chest at the feel of Hijikata’s intolerably soft skin against his mouth.
It wasn’t quite what he’d expected.
The bastard didn’t smell of flowery perfume, and he certainly didn't taste even a little bit sweet, but rather like a rough combination of soap and musk and cigarettes, a salty tang to his skin -- very manly, very not-like-anything-else. Inhaling that heady smell, which had to be the essence of Hijikata Toushirou, Gintoki’s heart stuttered. He had hoped that this little demonstration would eliminate the peculiar, half-formed wish to be closer to the stupid chainsmoker, but he was sadly, evidently out of luck.
He only wanted more.
Shit.
He should stop this.
This instant.
It wasn’t that easy. Gintoki usually didn’t restrain himself when it came to this kind of thing, and albeit being in a slightly different predicament with Mr Law here, he found that his body had no real intention of listening to anything his mind had to say in the matter. Kissing Hijikata’s neck a little bit more, it was like… pressing the snooze button. Gintoki recognised the action as wrong, but chose to perform it anyway.
In any case, Hijikata would snap out of it and punch him right back to reality.
At any point.
Soon.
Surely.
Shiiiiiit.
Hijikata didn’t -- actually -- resist.
The realisation hit Gintoki like a ton of bricks. His gut grew heavy with it, his heart frantic. He should resist, right? This was the cop’s chance to put his foot down, which, no matter how you looked at it, was his job in life. Gintoki had taken it a hundred steps too far tonight, but that was only because he knew that Hijikata would reel them back into safety whenever they strayed too far into dangerous territory. It was his responsibility to keep Gintoki in line when he got these impulses. That was their rule, surely Hijikata, who was practically made up of rules and codes and routine -- he wouldn’t be the one to break it, now?
Instead, the idiot cop was just standing there, arms hanging limply at his sides, body tense and still, maybe even a little compliant -- his head did tilt more to the side when Gintoki kissed his neck, come to think of it-- For a beat, Gintoki panicked. He pulled back.
Hijikata’s eyes fluttered open. Which meant he had had them closed just a moment before, which in turn meant that he-- he liked it.
Oh.
Oh.
Gintoki stared into Hijikata’s heavy-lidded, unfocused eyes, feeling something giddy take hold of his limbs, a knowing grin splitting his face, unbidden. You bastard. Pink-cheeked and dazed, there was no way to explain away that look on Hijikata’s face, and although Gintoki had intended to chew him out for acting out of character -- he couldn’t.
Before Hijikata had a chance to fix his expression or do something else needlessly rash, Gintoki leant back in. He needed to make sure. Lips against that neck again, he let his teeth grate over the sensitive skin just so and breathing hotly into a reddening ear--
Hijikata shuddered.
Seriously?
It caught Gintoki unawares, how clearly he perceived the other man’s arousal. There was no mistaking the way his breath was turning heavy, how he struggled to choke back a moan, to no avail -- the sound came out muffled and lewd, and damn if it didn’t go straight to Gintoki’s groin. Oh, for fuck’s sake..!
To be fair, Gintoki did try to push the pause button at this point. He heard the very faint, dwindling voice of reason going on about stopping and thinking, but well. It was not as strong as the deep burn at the base of his back, that hotness coiling around his spine at the realisation that he had Hijikata moaning from just a little bit of necking.
In the end, Gintoki was inherently stupid, and hopelessly incapable of resisting the temptation of murmuring into the cop’s ear:
“So what happened, Hijikata-kun? Weren’t you gonna arrest me?”
A heavy pause, and Hijikata went deadly still. Oh, no. Thinking he might’ve ruined it all, or saved them from certain ruin, Gintoki worried all the same. He should’ve kept his big mouth shut, now he’d never know how far Hijikata would’ve allowed him--
“Don’t push it, Yorozuya. I might still change my mind about that.”
Okay.
So.
Hijikata had a pretty damn sexy voice. Had he always, or was it only in this situation when Gintoki was affected by all the sinuous implications he was sure that it entailed? Either way, the sound of it urged him to pull back a little again, to take a peek at the cop’s face.
Under the messy curtain of hair falling down Hijikata’s forehead, Gintoki glimpsed a troubled sort of look on his face, in odd opposition to his sharp eyes; there was the defiant glint within the blue, almost daring.
Gintoki really felt like kissing him.
So, he did.
So, this was what kissing Hijikata was like.
Now he didn’t have to subconsciously wonder about that anymore.
What a relief.
.
.
.
Fuck.
Gintoki realised what a giant idiot he’d been as soon as their mouths smashed together. A surprised kind of yelp escaped Hijikata, and perhaps there was a moment of muffled protests and awkward teeth-knocking-against-teeth, but. It was too short-lived; too brief to be remembered, as the heat came, engulfing them.
Fuck fuck fuck.
Hijikata was no longer unmoving and reluctant, there was nothing self-contained about the way he reached for Gintoki, about the way his mouth opened against his, the hot slide of his tongue, pushing, retreating, welcoming. Hijikata was kissing him back. His hands, normally only ever coming close to Gintoki’s face for the purpose of punching him, were grabbing his neck, warm and steady -- pulling him closer, and deepening the kiss.
And fuck.
It was more than Gintoki could have ever imagined, and although he wanted to say that something, or someone; Rei, any random ghost, Sadaharu even, was possessing him-- part of him knew that he couldn’t pin his behaviour on someone else. He wanted this. Had wanted it, for a long time, and at this moment, he couldn’t-- shit. Shit. Shit. The truth was that his body responded to Hijikata’s hands and mouth like it had been bloody starved for it. And it wasn’t that Gintoki hadn’t been with someone for a while, it wasn’t that he was drunk, it wasn’t in any way circumstantial. It was all Hijikata. The crudeness of his touch, the unfamiliar feel of his lips, his goddamn stubble brushing his chin; it just set Gintoki’s entire being aflame.
In the sense he felt like melting. To the point that his heart was somersaulting its way around his ribcage, and his cock was twitching to life inside his pants with a close to violent enthusiasm, hard and all to ready to-- Well, shit.
And what about Hijikata? The way he kissed him, the way he let his fingers slip up along Gintoki’s neck and grab fistfuls of hair, the way he allowed for this to happen at all told Gintoki that the shitty cop was enjoying this a great fucking deal more than he should, too. The knowledge spurred Gintoki on, urging him to test the waters; unabashedly pressing one of his legs in between Hijikata’s. He was pretty sure it would piss the cop off enough to hit him senseless, and perhaps he could brush this madness off as some kind of joke still and that way--
Hijikata didn’t hit him.
Hijikata was still kissing him.
Hijikata pressed up against Gintoki’s thigh, like the friction was welcome, an unmistakable hardness manifesting itself, rubbing against Gintoki’s leg like he wanted to ride it-- and as far as Gintoki was concerned, there were just no more fucks to be given. The arousal was like a heavy blanket over his mind, clouding his ability to think anything rational -- only highlighting the fact, that, this was probably the first time he’d ever felt such a deep thrill at the sheer prospect of fucking someone. Never mind that someone happened to be the Vice-Chief of the Shinsengumi, his rival and mortal enemy in pretty much everything (that wasn’t actually important), not in the tiniest bit cute, not even close to being his type -- this was what it was coming down to.
Gintoki wanted him in spite of all of those things.
“Hey, Hijikata-kun,” Gintoki broke the kiss to murmur into Hijikata’s ear. “This is making Gin-san pretty horny. Is there any chance you-- ”
There was a loud bang as the backdoor to the club was flung open once again.
“Why’re you barbarians still here?!” Mama-san was screeching. “I thought I told you to get the hell out already!!”
In a beat of dazed confusion, Gintoki and Hijikata froze.
“And that!” Mama-san pointed a shaking finger at them. “I will have none of it! Not in my club, not outside it! I don’t care whether you’re fighting or screwing each other, you’ll scare my customers off! Take it somewhere else!”
And with another loud bang, she had slammed the door shut again.
It was like the sound startled them out of the moment, throwing them back to the stark reality of where they were and what they were doing, in one jarring heartbeat-- breaking the spell. Hijikata moved first. He shouldered past Gintoki, needlessly rough, leaving the space he had just occupied, warm and willing against Gintoki’s chest, strangely empty.
To be honest, Gintoki didn’t know if it was making him feel relieved or angry. His chest tightened uncomfortably all the same. There was something about the sight of Hijikata’s rigid back, moving towards the streetlights, away from him-- that didn’t sit right with him.
“Hey, Vice-Chief,” Gintoki heard himself call out. “Where are you going?”
“None of your business.”
Hijikata didn’t pause or turn, and Gintoki was seized by the impulse to run after him. He didn’t. He couldn’t stop his voice from turning to oil, though, as he suggested: “I could make it my business, surely.”
“Shut the hell up, Yorozuya. I’m leaving.”
“But we were having such a good time, for once,” Gintoki complained, dully. His skin was still prickly with the lingering heat of that good time.
At this, Hijikata actually paused and turned his head a fraction; just enough for Gintoki to catch a glimpse of his face in profile. His expression was hard, eyes guarded under furrowed eyebrows, jaw set in an unforgiving line; cheeks still burning a bright, lovely red.
Gintoki wanted to slap himself -- why did he have to notice that? -- then hated Hijikata for not saying anything, and hated him some more for resuming his walk as though he hadn’t heard him at all.
You forgot something, asshole. Gintoki was tempted to call after him again but decided against it. Reaching inside his yukata, he pulled out the packet of cigarettes he’d snatched during their fight and shook one out. If the cop was going to be a prick about this, it was his funeral. Gintoki wouldn't let it ruin his night.
A lighter in the shape of a mayo bottle fell out of the packet, landing on the ground. Gintoki stared at it for a while, then reached to pick it up, as if in a trance.
He used it to light one of Hijikata’s cigarettes.
It tasted vaguely like him.
Fuck.
So, Gintoki had some binge drinking to do.
. . .