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Gintoki sits across from Takasugi, looking at him, at how his eyes could be so beautiful when they are rotting, at how the brown fluid seeping out from the sunken sockets seems to him like gold. The scent makes his eyes burn but Gintoki could not look away.
The exudation collects on the indents of his face and soaks through the silky fabric he's wearing. The violet looks moldy, like spoiled meat. His abdomen starts to distent inside the loose fit kimono. The bulge is subtle, but gintoki can see it.
Little white bodies squirm around on and under his skin. Gintoki touches one. It's soft, and–
easy to squish.
The slimy fuzz feels wet on his fingers. It could have grown into a butterfly, maybe; with large, elegant wings; with patterns that look like war and death.
Gintoki isn't sure if there was a time before Takasugi got his wings; when he was just a caterpillar, tiny and pathetic and weak. He remembers their first encounter. Concealed away on the tree, Gintoki looked down at the boy on the ground. Even from up there, Takasugi looked like he was flying, disregarding gravity like he could order it around.
But butterflies can't see their own wings, and Takasugi got his crushed before he had a chance to look into a mirror.
The afternoon sunlight creeping into his field of view reminds Gintoki to stand up and head for an old beige box he calls a fridge. The thing barely works anymore but Gintoki doesn't really need it to. Cold air makes the reek a lot more subdued than what comes out of Takasugi on the table. Pieces of meat cut and stored carefully in reused plastic boxes look brown through the yellowing material. Gintoki takes one out and walks into the kitchen.
Steak and rice sounds nice for today.
Gintoki doesn't think he is bad at cooking; it's what you get after having to feed yourself your whole life. But he's an easy eater too, so maybe the food heis willing to put in his mouth can't really count for much.
The meat has already been marinated in soy sauce and garlic. The gunky solution looks coppery and it makes Gintoki wonder — but he doesn't want to think too much about that. He rubs some salt and pepper on the pale red flesh, puts it in the only pan he has, and waits.
Takasugi is half slanted on the chair when he gets back.
Gintoki places the plate on his side of the table and walks over to him. Grabs his rear and scoops him up. The body is much lighter without any legs attached to it. With one hand, he folds the excess kimono so that it acts almost like a cushion. Maggots crawl up Gintoki's arms and fall down to the ground with a light shake.
Gintoki goes and sits in front of his late lunch, looking at the other man.
Maybe Takasugi was a flower — elegant, enigmatic, esteemed — fated to be picked up from his cradle and placed down as a centerpiece; to be ravished with sight and then rot away.
But it's okay. Gintoki eats the rot.
He lets himself taste the stench and the foul. He drinks up the flesh, and pretends it's a glass of sweet alcohol he could get drunk off.
Maybe he could. The meat feels tender in his mouth. Gamey, like the food he hunted down all those years ago. Takasugi doesn't have too much fat. The muscles tear and split apart at the contact of his fangs; Gintoki lets his tongue taste the juice that gushes out every time he bites down.
And he finds himself incarcerated in the incinerated pits of memories.
Gintoki can feel the cuts from when each blade gashed through Takasugi's body. Can feel the contraction of his muscles as they contort onto themselves to lessen the injury. Can feel the smothered cries and the suffocated screams.
Gintoki can feel Takasugi inside of him.
Yes. He says, silently, to Takasugi who won't ever be able to hear. This is all right.