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A frozen wind had begun to blow from the Okuchichibu Mountains into the streets of Edo, through its dusty alleys and its sharp, busy corners. Despite its reputation, Kabukicho was exceptionally lifeless and had been so for days. Its stores were remarkably empty and its bars, all but deserted. A depressing sight. The cold had effectively numbed Edo’s most restless district.
Every once in a while, a passerby or two scurried along the roads as they huddled under layers upon layers of coats. Kotatsu sales had gone up dramatically. What with the cold and all, was losing your toes and fingers worth it? Might as well stick to the trusty old heater (curtesy of amanto tech). Ketsuno Ana herself reported the forecast from the comfort of a studio. In other words, winter had turned this glorious city into couch potato heaven: any outside business could wait, right?
But despite the frost and the wind, there was not a meager fleck of snow to be seen. You’d think the weather Gods would have gone all the way, but they’d decided to torture the good people of Edo instead. Biting, dry cold, and no snow. A total loss.
Gintoki sat cross-legged, back aching and legs twitchy. Convenience store floors didn’t make very good seats. The samurai was mere seconds from snapping at Hasegawa, who’d convinced him to leave the warmth of his flat.
Was the store owner too broke to afford a single chair?
‘This job’s going to make you rich,’ Hasegawa had said. The shithead. ‘You’ll pay off your rent debt by springtime!’
A tempting offer, and Gintoki, like a pussy, had given in.
Hasegawa paced around the place, rambling about what customers were the touchiest, what buttons to slam on the register because they were stuck (he’d spilled cream soda on it a week prior), how to strategically place the porn mags in order to draw in as many people as possible…
“Hasegawa,” Gintoki yawned. “I stopped listening like an hour ago because I was distracted by that gross stain on your collar.” He rose to his feet and stretched, then made for the door. He’d never get back the two hours that he’d wasted away from his kotatsu.
“Wait, wait!” Madao cried, running to stop him in his tracks. “Help a pal, I’m begging! This is a two-man job!”
“M’gonna catch hemorrhoids if I sit here any longer. Plus, I don’t work with guys who’ve got stains on their shirts. It’s unprofessional.”
Gintoki stepped aside to bypass Hasegawa, but the latter caught him by the sleeve. “You’re not going anywhere in that cold,” he tried. A brave attempt.
The samurai yanked his arm free. “I’ll burn my clothes to stay warm.”
A voice erupted from somewhere in the aisles: “Public nudity’s gonna get you arrested.”
“Fucking—” Gintoki snapped.
The demon Vice-Chief Hijikata Toshiro emerged from somewhere between the energy drinks and the Jump racks, toying with an unlit cigarette.
Technically, he was the first customer Gintoki had seen so far. The surprise was unpleasant. “Katsura’s supposed to be hiding in these parts,” Hijikata sighed. “We’re looking for him.”
Same old routine.
“You’re looking stupid, that’s what I think,” Gintoki said. “Fuck out of my sight and go freeze outside.”
Hijikata tsked and pulled a lighter out, flicking it on and off. “I’m not talking to you, Yorozuya.”
Hasegawa said something about the smoking laws concerning stores, but Gintoki had already tuned out. Seeing the demon Vice-Chief had magically sapped his energy. All he wanted was Sunday night TV and warm sake.
He wasn’t taking the job offer anyway. Forcing someone to work in that cold had to be some kind of human rights violation.
There were two choices: he either stayed to piss Hijikata off and pick a fight, which was tempting, or he made a break for it and tried to avoid getting tackled by Hasegawa.
Exceptionally, his need for Sunday night TV overpowered his will to piss Hijikata off. He’d have to mark the date.
“Are we paying Otose today?” Shinpachi asked tonelessly. There was no reason to ask, the answer never changed.
Gintoki dug blindly into his chips bag, eyes glued to the TV. “I’m paying the hag with my glorious presence.”
“I won’t bother responding to that,” the boy responded. He’d been running around the flat doing God knows what, gathering stuff into a backpack.
What was it with people, today? Gintoki felt like the only guy in town with absolutely zero strength to even move a finger. “You movin’ out, or what?” he finally asked, growing irritated by the constant motion around the couch.
A red-headed figure shot out of the kitchen and skidded up to him, cheeks stuffed full of cake. “Big sis’ invited us to stay over for the week!” Kagura managed through the mouthful.
“She says the heating’s paid for at the dojo, at least,” Shinpachi remarked with a grin. Snarky bastard.
“Hey, Yorozuya’s heated too!” objected Gintoki. “We heat it with the passion in our hearts and the fire in our veins.”
Kagura grabbed her umbrella and followed in Shinpachi’s tracks. They were making their way to the door when the silver-haired man scrambled to his feet.
“Wait!” He cried. “You’re leaving without me?” The sudden burst of energy was all but miraculous.
“You’re welcome to come,” Shinpachi said. “But somebody has to stay and guard the fort, right? In case a customer comes.”
Gintoki weighed the pros and the cons. A week alone at the flat would probably be lonely… And yet, he’d get to make nabe without having to fight it out with Kagura for the best bits.
Then, his self-preservation instinct kicked in: between the nabe and Otae’s cooking, the choice was clear.
He sank back down into the couch and crossed his legs with a grin. “Yeah, you’re right, I’ll guard the fort or whatever. Sacrifice myself. Go and get poisoned on your own if you want. I promise I’ll go to sneak some kombu bags and nasty sticks under the floorboards so you can survive.”
“Very funny,” Shinpachi said. “I won’t tell big Sis you said that. You owe me one.”
Gintoki hummed and turned the TV volume up. The kids walked out the door and into the biting winter wind.
Hours ticked by, and soon, the samurai’s stomach began to growl. With the thick, grey clouds obscuring the sky, there was no way to tell the time. The sun had set for sure.
Gintoki rose with a groan and shuffled to the fridge.
“Hello Gintoki.”
Turns out the fridge was empty, save for a long-haired rebel leader screwed inside it.
The fridge shelves had been strategically moved around or taken out to accommodate the fugitive. Black strands stuck to his forehead. He’d hidden from the Shinsengumi in a hurry. Maybe they’d come to search the flat.
Who the hell cared?
Gintoki closed the refrigerator and made his way back to the couch.
There was a loud series of thuds and clatters, signaling that Katsura had stepped onto the kitchen floor and caused some provisions to tumble to the ground in the process.
He called Gintoki’s name from across the flat, to no avail. He was thoroughly ignored. “Anybody home?”
“I’m ignoring you,” Gintoki flatly replied.
But Zura didn’t budge, mightily pulling out pans and chopsticks from the cupboards. “Now, now, you’re being impolite. I raised you better than this.” No answer came from the living room. “I’m guessing you’re hungry! Let’s make some nabe, shall we?” Fucking telepath.
Gintoki wasn’t going to say no to nabe, especially considering he wouldn’t have to make it himself, but he was still irked by the uninvited visitor. “The hell were you doing hiding in my fridge?”
The question remained unanswered and Gintoki got a taste of his own medicine. Zura was too busy to reply, humming the Doraemon theme as he chopped up some cabbage. A minute passed. “I bought some stuff for us to eat, you won’t have to go grocery shopping for a while,” he finally announced.
Gintoki came to lean on the doorframe, watching the rebel shuffle around preparing the nabe. “They’re looking for you, out there. I’d kick you out if I wanted to.”
“But?”
“But I won’t, because you’re making nabe. You’re out as soon as dinner’s over.”
Katsura tsked and shot him a look. Steam rose from a large pot that bubbled on the stove, and the smell of dashi stock and oyster sauce filled the kitchen. “I’ll pay you rent if that’s what you want. You’re overdue, by the way.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Gintoki huffed, crossing his arms. In spite of himself, he welcomed the heat that radiated from the stove. Katsura cooking was a rare occurrence, it happened once in a blue moon. His signature dish was cold soba, but that shit would make them both freeze to death. “I’m gonna work at some convenience store soon, I guess. Hasegawa has a place for me, right now.”
“But you won’t say no if I pay rent for a week, right?”
Katsura knew him all too well. When there was money involved, his mind reeled with the perspective of betting at pachinko parlors or horse races. Paying rent to Otose didn’t give him that sort of adrenaline. Except, of course, when she chased him around trying to yank the cash out of his pockets.
And yet, when he glanced out the window, Gintoki felt his guts stir. He couldn’t possibly ask this friend for money at a time like this. The streets were empty and dead cold. There was an old friend right next to him in his shitty old flat. As much as it pained him to say, Zura was a friend. The flat felt warmer with him around.
But Gintoki knew the cold was just an excuse.
The words bubbled in his throat like an apology which refused to come out. The silver haired samurai was faced, out of the blue, with a bunch of feelings he didn’t know how to deal with.
“If you give me a single yen…” A pause. “I’ll beat you up.”
Well played. Very diplomatic.
Katsura stared at him momentarily, before focusing back on his work.
The nabe was coming up nicely. After all, making it had been a piece of cake: he’d just thrown whatever remained of the last Yorozuya grocery store trip into it and hoped for the best. The smell of cooking veggies made Gintoki feel like he’d been thrust back into the Shoka Sonju temple school. No matter what Zura prepared, he’d always managed to perfectly replicate their teacher’s cooking style and recipes. It was akin to black magic, Gintoki thought. Or maybe he was just thrown off by the associations of his rebel comrades, his time at the temple school, and the only comrade that remained at his side today.
Katsura’s voice pulled him back to earth. “It’s snowing.”
The sky had finally given into the weight of the clouds that had darkened it for days. Snow fell thickly outside, the wind carrying it nearly sideways.
“We’re getting one hell of a storm,” Gintoki noticed. He couldn’t see the end of the street. Reassured at the thought that Kagura and Shinpachi were safely at Otose’s place, he let out a chuckle.
At the sound, Katsura looked up from his work. “Why Gintoki, I didn’t take you for a man who was appreciative of winter’s wonders! I see I’ve misjudged you.”
The silver haired man clicked his tongue. “Reading my thoughts, now? I never said anything like that. Fuck this weather.”
Katsura hummed and finally covered the pot. “Dinner will be ready by eight.”
He’d tied his hair into a ponytail, another rare occurrence. Gintoki couldn’t help but think back to the man’s stay inside the Kokujo island prison, detained along with Isao Kondo. This was the last time Gintoki has seen him this put together, and also the last time Katsura had been gravely injured. So much so that they’d feared for his life during a cursed, agonizing second.
“Hey,” Gintoki dropped out of the blue. He forced himself to focus on the snow outside. “You know what we haven’t done in a while?”
The other had grabbed a pair of chopsticks and stirred the nabe absentmindedly. “I’m listening.”
“Let’s have a drink together.”
With a hum, Katsura looked up in amusement. A glint in his eye told Gintoki all that he wanted to know.
They’d gotten drunk countless times in the past, but never alone together. Granted, when the war had ended, Gintoki had made a point of avoiding Katsura and kicking him out of his hard-earned home whenever possible. The stupid wig consistently found ways to sneak back in—figuratively and literally. And surprisingly, having Katsura around on this particular night somehow felt different. Like he was seeing him under a new light. Maybe the melancholic winter skies had finally gotten to him.
He was growing sentimental in his old age.
Before he knew it, the both of them were drunk in the living room, a handful of bottles lying scattered around the floor. The faced each other, having each taken one of the couches.
Zura had neatly tucked his legs under himself, as was his habit. He’d untied his hair, leaving it to flow down somewhat carelessly.
A blizzard raged outside the window, and in his state of alcohol-induced daze, Gintoki let himself be captivated by the sight.
“…Which brings us to our current impediment, simply put, a stain on our nation’s pride…”
Even when tipsy, Katsura rambled on and on, his train of thought endless. That he was able to string sentences together considering the number of bottles they’d opened was nothing short of miraculous.
His lashes fluttered as he struggled to remember the name of a comrade’s cousin’s aunt, whose wedding he’d been invited to.
How he’d switched topics so fast, Gintoki had no clue. He giggled in spite of himself.
Katsura’s musings came to a stop. “What’s going on?”
Gintoki could tell from his stance that, for once, he’d completely let down the guard that he kept up at all times. The signs were subtle, but he knew the man by heart.
“You’re a little bit of a mess, Zura.”
“I’m sorry?” The rebel flushed, brows drawing together in confusion.
“You’re a mess right now. Letting your hair get all tousled, leaving your sword on my kitchen counter… You’d call that ‘unbecoming’.”
Katsura’s breath caught in his throat. “My sword!”
He struggled to get up and almost tipped over in the process.
Gintoki rushed forward to steady him, then gently set him back down on the couch and took the spot at his side. “There, Zura. No need for a sword in my house.”
“What if—”
“The Shinsengumi’s not going anywhere in this weather, are they?”
“I suppose not,” Katsura conceded.
Their new proximity turned out to be a problem. Their eyes met, and something passed between them that Gintoki hadn’t felt in… well, years.
He scooted back an inch or two. His eyes traveled along the shape of Katsura’s profile, outlined by the faint light coming from the window.
The room suddenly felt a little too warm.
Gintoki heard his old comrade call his name tentatively.
Katsura had subconsciously combed his hair and smoothed down his clothes.
It was so good to have him back. To see that something had survived the war. This came as a realization and hit the so-called White Yaksha like a punch to the gut. Except a punch had never made his blood pump as fast.
“Woah,” Gintoki giggled again. “You’re so, so…”
A grin tugged at Zura’s lips. His cheeks reddened into a deeper shade, and he drew closer to Gintoki. “What is it?” Understanding dawned on his features and his smile widened. “I see.”
“We’re both a little too drunk right now, huh?” Katsura’s scent, the light in his eye, the heat of his body, close, so close… “Too drunk…”
The blizzard raged outside and Gintoki had completely forgotten about it.
Their lips met, colliding somewhat messily. Their breaths mingled when they drew back. They panted for a second before diving into each other again.
Gintoki found that his hand covered the width of Zura’s back, and the realization almost made him dizzy. He tilted the man’s body back to lie on the couch, but their combined levels of alcohol soon had them rolling to the floor instead.
Katsura’s legs wrapped around his waist so naturally. His body had lost none of the grace and stealth of the battlefield.
What the fuck are we doing, what the fuck are we doing, what the FUCK—
“Gintoki,” Zura panted under him. His collar was askew, having been shoved aside to expose his milky white skin and collarbones. Already, pretty red marks bloomed along his neck. His brow was covered in a sheen of sweat and his lips were gloriously reddened. “What are we doing?”
“Hell if I know,” Gintoki said. His voice was raw and breathless.
They kissed again, a clever way to avoid expressing any sort of sappy feelings. Neither of them quite knew how to carry out that sort of talk. For all his sentimental nonsense and his bleeding-heart speeches, Katsura was no better than him in that regard.
So they kissed, and Gintoki surrendered to the imperative, the bodily need to feel Katsura Koutaro under him. See him come apart, become messy and out of breath, hands clinging to him like a lifeline.
The snow had subsided and they’d both decided to lie on the living room floor, staring at the ceiling. Their energy had left the building after a mere hour. Gintoki knew he could do better, and mentally slapped himself for neglecting cardio training. Or any form of exercise, for that matter.
His mind was still puzzled by what had just transpired. Alcohol aside, no explanation made sense to him in that moment. He turned to glance stealthily at Zura’s face.
No sign of regret. Good. In fact, the wig seemed pretty pleased.
Still got it, Gintoki thought with a touch of pride.
And then Katsura began to hum the Doraemon theme song.
“The heck? Way to ruin the mood, wig.”
Katsura ignored the complaint. “What would our comrades say if they’d known about this?” He mused with a smile.
“I’d prefer not to know,” Gintoki groaned. “Who cares.” For one, he was glad Kagura and Shinpachi were out of the house. This would’ve made an awkward conversation indeed. He broke the silence again: “I’m blaming this on the weather, by the way.”
The other nodded. “Yes, the cold has driven us all to unforeseen ends.”
“Need to huddle for warmth and stuff like that.”
Katsura stifled a chuckle. “Whatever you say.”
They’d both nearly sobered up, by now. The snow had finally stopped and, as if mocking Gintoki’s half-assed excuse, the clouds progressively drew back to expose an ink-black night sky.
The airspace above Edo was generally riddled with Amanto ships but as it turned out, the Amanto hadn’t been spared the recent weather conditions. Even the sky had grown calm, disturbed only by the occasional cargo ship emerging from the terminal.
Gintoki welcomed the newfound quiet. He listened to the whispering wind, the only noise outside the window.
He and Katsura never really needed to speak when they had something to say to the other.
Dawn came and they both dozed off into blissful sleep.