Gintama: Echo
Jan. 28th, 2011 10:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
what_we_dreamTitle: Echo
Series: Gintama
Pairing: Gin/Zura
Rating: PG
Notes: I don't think this is particularly good, but it's not getting any better for my sitting on it.
Summary: Shinpachi gets a look at life in the Jyoui war. It's not pleasant.
And Echo there, whatever is ask`d her, answers "Death."
Tennyson: Maud
Shinpachi has never been afraid of Gin-san. He’s seen the samurai cut down dozens of opponents, seen him slice through steel and destroy monsters an RPG couldn’t have dented. And yet, even after the worst battles when he was nearly tearing his hair out from worry and Gin-san was wounded and bloody and half out of his mind with pain and adrenaline, Shinpachi was never once afraid of the samurai.
But when the silver-haired man looks up at him with cold eyes and demands, “Who the hell are you?” with the sharp voice of a soldier, Shinpachi feels a cold shiver of fear run down his spine and settle deep in his gut.
Gin-san’s skin is flushed, hair is plastered to his temples with sweat, but while his eyes are fever-bright they’re unusually clear. They stare straight through Shinpachi, evaluating him in an instant and carrying away all his secrets. “The hell’re you doing here? Where’s Zura? Sakamoto? Takasugi?”
Shinpachi glances over Gin-san’s shoulder, and sees Kagura’s mouth opening to ask what is sure to be a stupid question. He steps away from the delirious man and grabs her arm, drags her out of sight into the entranceway.
“Go find Katsura-san,” he hisses, pushing her towards the door. “Take Sadaharu with you. Send him here, then get a doctor.”
Kagura makes a face. “But I want to watch Gin-chan reveal all his deepest, darkest secrets!”
Shinpachi, turning back, pauses as if he had trodden in a puddle of glue. “What?”
“Delirious people always reveal their hearts, Shinpachi! He’ll declare his unrequited love, and I’ll miss it!”
“Only if you’re lucky,” replies Shinpachi darkly, and shoves her out the door into the dark grey afternoon. Takes a deep breath, and hurries back to the sick man.
In the minute he’s been gone, Gin-san’s gotten to his feet and hauled himself across the room to behind his desk, where Shinpachi’s father’s katana is sitting on its stand. He picks the sword up with a shaking hand, the metal rattling against the sheath in his unsteady grip.
“Uh, Gin-san, you should lie down. You’re not well.” He swallows as the Yorozuya turns, red eyes flashing. He pulls the bokutou from his belt and tosses it aside, slips the sword into its place with a practiced movement. Shinpachi’s seen him wield a sword with innate familiarity, but he’s never seen him carry one like this – like a close and constant companion rather than a necessary choice.
“Who are you?” Gin-san’s voice is low and dangerous, a predator’s growl. His hand doesn’t leave the sword’s worn grip.
“Sh-Shinpachi. Shimura Shinpachi.” Shinpachi takes a hesitant step forward. “You’re sick, Gin-san. Some Amanto –”
“You’ve just joined up?” Gin-san’s eyes rake over him, narrow and critical. “Your clothes are too heavy – if you’re going to stay, see the quartermaster for something lighter; they’ll just drag you down. And get yourself a sword.” He takes a long, unsteady step forward, catches himself on the desk and sits down heavily on the corner of the nearer couch. His shoulders are rising and falling fast as a sprinter’s, hair sticking close to his skull.
“I – I’m just here to…”
“Not sure? You should get the hell out of here while you can.” Gin-san doesn’t look up, leans against the sword and speaks dully to the floor between them. “Cut through east towards Esan, the roads there are still clear. Not west – too many troops – too many gunships, guns, firing –” he ends in a panting gasp, shoulders drawing inward as he shivers. Pushes a hand through his sweat-damped hair and then stares at the moisture on it. “And the rains are coming…” He rubs it away with a shuddering motion, eyes hard and narrow. “Not yet. Not yet.”
“Gin-san, you need to lie down. You’re ill. Poisoned. Come on, I’ll get you some blankets and you can lie down here.” Shinpachi steps closer and Gin-san straightens abruptly, rearing up like a startled horse. His face is pale as milk and covered in sweat, pupils contracted to pinpoints.
“No blankets here, boy,” he gaps out. “No beds. Go home to your mother… sleep there. No beds for months… years. Mud, dirt… cold floors. Beds...” Gin-san gives a short coughing laugh, looks up at him as if he were a naïve dreamer rather than the only member of the household who understands the concept of financial planning.
“R-right, sure, so why don’t you just lie down here? I’ll – I’ll be right back.” Shinpachi hurries into the kitchen, switches on the kettle and pulls out the tea container while it warms up. He glances back into the main room every few seconds while waiting for the water to boil, watches Gin-san fighting for breath on the couch and feels his stomach twist a little tighter. Finally the damn kettle switches off and he pours the water haphazardly into the cup, hustles back with it. “Here, drink this, it’s warm.”
Shinpachi kneels down beside the samurai, makes to take his shoulder. Gin-san, who has given him piggy-backs and carried him slung over his shoulder like a sack of rice and taken him riding double on the scooter more times than Shinpachi can remember, twists away and tumbles right off the side of the couch. He’s up again in an instant, the bottom of the sheath skidding across the hard wood floor with a sound like nails down a chalkboard, backing into the desk. Pain flits across his face like the shadow of a butterfly, dark and brief.
“Gods,” chokes out Shinpachi, horrified. “Gin-san, sorry, don’t – it’s just me –”
Gin-san gives him a long look, eyes wild, and then slowly drops back down onto the couch. He doesn’t take his eyes off Shinpachi, watches him with both hands resting on the sword sheath.
“I brought you tea, Gin-san,” he says slowly, offering the cup forward nestled in the palms of his hands.
“Why do you call me that?” Gin-san doesn’t look up from the tea. He’s breathing hard as Sadaharu on hot summer days, shoulders rising and falling alarmingly. “No one here calls me that – why do you?”
He doesn’t, Shinpachi notes, challenge it. “Because I’m your friend, Gin-san. The Jyoui war is over – it ended ten years ago. You live in Edo in the Yorozuya, and I work for you.”
Gin-san gives a short, hyena laugh. “You’ve been spending too much time with Sakamoto, kid. Look to the future for comfort all you want, but don’t drag me along into it. The present’s all I know, and hell if I can change now. Besides, I’d make a crappy jack-of-all-trades.” He gives another, thicker laugh, and then coughs. “Better get to your station. They’ll be coming up from the bay at dawn. At dawn, remember. All the roads are blocked… only east…if the rains hold off…” Gin-san lies back abruptly, legs hanging over the side of the couch. He’s shivering in earnest now, and Shinpachi hurries to find a blanket.
He’s just pulled a heavy comforter from Gin-san’s closet when the doorbell rings. Shinpachi runs out into the hall, slipping on the wooden floor in his speed and tossing the bedding onto the empty couch.
Katsura is standing in the doorway, expression flat as always against the dark sky. “Leader told me Gintoki wants to confess his deepest secrets,” he says blandly. “But if that’s all, I have plans to make. Elizabeth has suggested manufacturing Justaways in the shape of –”
Shinpachi doesn’t wait to hear what new stupidity the Jyoui rebels are planning. Simply grabs Katsura’s sleeve and hauls him bodily into the house. Katsura trips on the raised floor and face plants into the wood.
“Shinpachi-kun, this is taking natural inquisitiveness too far. I can assure you, Gintoki’s deepest secrets will simply tarnish the bright sheen of your soul,” he declares superciliously as he pulls himself up and slips his hands into his sleeves. “I really do not –”
“Gin-san is delirious,” Shinpachi cuts in flatly, moving to stand in the rebel’s way. “He was poisoned by an Amanto dart. He was sick on the way home, and by the time we got here he could hardly walk. He thinks he’s back in the Jyoui war now, and he won’t go to bed or drink anything. And he’s getting worse.” He keeps his arms stiff at his sides, ready to – do what? Grab Katsura if he tries to leave? Force him to help? He balls his hands into fists, and tries to stare down the older man. And realises that, in fact, Katsura isn’t paying any attention to him at all.
The Jyoui rebel is standing still as grave marker against the sky, dark and sharp and somehow out of place in the homely entranceway. And then, without a word, he is walking past Shinpachi in long strides, eyes icy and distant. Shinpachi turns to follow, and has to run to keep up. For some reason the room feels suddenly cold.
Katsura rounds the small coffee table to stand between it and the couch, and stares down at Gin-san. Abruptly, he over-turns the table with one smooth kick and kneels in the now-wider space between it and the couch. Place his palm against the samurai’s forehead, and without looking catches Gin-san’s hand at the wrist with his other before the katana Shinpachi never saw him draw is more than half-way to Katsura’s head. Shinpachi sinks down onto the other couch beside the abandoned blanket, knees shaking.
“It’s just me,” says Katsura stiffly. And then, “The lines are quiet.”
Gin-san stares at him with wide eyes for several heartbeats before lowering his hand and closing his eyes. Katsura takes the sword from him and sheaths it at his hip again; doesn’t remove it. Shinpachi opens his mouth to complain – GIVING A SWORD TO A DELIRIOUS MAN, WHAT ARE YOU THINKING? – and then shuts it again. Gin-san gave it up to him without a thought, and didn’t ask for it back.
On the couch, Gin-san opens his eyes again. They’re bright and dull, staring through Katsura rather than at him.
“They’ve cut off the roads to Hokuto, Zura. We can’t get the wounded out, can’t get them away –”
“Not Zura; Katsura,” says Katsura automatically, but it seems to Shinpachi he’s saying it to buy time as much as anything. While Shinpachi can’t see his face, his shoulders are stiff as wire. Then he relaxes, the sharp line of his spine softening. “The road east is still clear, Gintoki. They will go to Esan. There is still time. Come, you need to lie down.” Katsura speaks with calm rationality as he slips an arm around Gin-san to help him off the couch he’s only half-on. Gin-san ignores him. His eyes are wide and staring, face full of fear. It makes Shinpachi’s stomach knot, the hairs at the back of his neck standing on end.
“Can’t you hear it? Can’t you hear the rain? They’ll be washed out, flooded, the bridges and roads gone… No way for the carts, stretchers. Why did the goddamn rain have to come now?”
There’s a pause, and then Shinpachi’s eyes widen slowly as he looks skyward. Rain is beginning to patter down on the tile roof, the afternoon’s heavy grey sky finally giving way to rain. But Katsura is already speaking in a light, careless tone.
“No, no, it hasn’t come. Don’t be silly, that’s just the river – what are you, deaf, you damn perm-head? The rains will be another week at least. Come on.”
Gin-san looks at him sceptically, but allows himself to be helped up off the couch. Shinpachi hurries forward to take his other arm. “And this rookie keeps hanging around,” mutters Gin-san, as they navigate around the other couch on their way to the bedroom. He makes a few stumbling attempts at walking, but his legs finally give out under him and they drag him most of the way.
“Aa, Takasugi sent him as a runner,” pants Katsura, staring ahead in determination, Gin-san’s left wrist held tight in his grip.
“Don’t trust him,” says Gin-san, as if he weren’t right there beside him. “The hell’d he get glasses from? Could be an Amanto spy.”
“Don’t be stupid – with a face like that? His father fought with us as well; before the war he taught kendo in Edo. Shinpachi-kun just arrived.” They make it to the centre of the room and set the invalid down carefully. Shinpachi hurries to the closet to fetch the futon; Katsura sits beside Gin-san on the tatami, Gin-san leaning against him. While Katsura doesn’t hold him there, he tilts his hips and shoulders to present a broader surface.
“Then send him back. They’re bringing in the gunships tomorrow, you heard Tanibuki.”
“Yes, and I heard him when he claimed we would be crushed the first week we joined. How many years has it been since them? The man’s only pleasure is in prophesying our doom. Well, that and Yoshiwara.”
“Such a prude, Zura,” mutters Gin-san, as Shinpachi carries the bedding over and unfolds it.
Gin-san makes a low noise in his throat when they lift him in, and Shinpachi can see as his head falls back that even his neck is drenched with sweat now.
“Get cold water and a cloth, and bring the TV close to the door. Turn up the volumn; something with meaningless chatter,” says Katsura, untying the obi and thin belt and pulling away the yukata. He’s starting on undoing Gin-san’s shirt as Shinpachi runs out.
He pushes the TV to sit on the other side of the shoji door with considerable effort, and turns it on to the children’s channel. Then he fetches the bowl and cloth and runs in, water slopping over the side to speckle the tatami. By this time, Gin-san is naked except for his underwear and Katsura is turning over his limbs in sharp movements, eyes hawk-keen. Gin-san’s chest is rising and falling quick as a sprinter’s now, the tendons in his neck standing out.
“How was he poisoned?” Katsura doesn’t look at Shinpachi as he drops to his knees and begins to wipe Gin-san’s feverish skin with the cool cloth. The noise of the TV in the other room is almost enough to drown out the rain pattering on the roof.
“It was some kind of Amanto … creature. It looked kind of like a cactus, but when Gin-san hit it it sprayed needles everywhere. At least one of them hit him, but I’m not sure where.” His hands fist over the damp cloth, and little beads of water run down Gin-san’s temples to pool under his head.
Katsura lifts Gin-san’s right arm and makes a sound that Shinpachi can only classify as a growl, surprising him so much that he turns to look at the man. Katsura is staring with narrowed eyes at a bright red rash on the underside of Gin-san’s upper arm. The skin is swollen in a miniature mound nearly the size of a halved baseball, and darkens almost to black around a tiny puncture in the very centre.
Katsura puts the arm down, then grabs Gin-san’s discarded obi and wraps a fold of it around the arm above the wound and pulls it tight. “Get a knife, some alcohol, and a pair of tweezers,” he tells Shinpachi, tying the cloth with a soft sound.
“We have a knife and sake, but I don’t think there are any tweezers,” Shinpachi stutters, looking around the room as if they might appear.
“Then go downstairs and get some from your landlady. Buy a pair if you have to. Just bring them!” Katsura’s tone is like a whip, and Shinpachi flies to his feet. He fetches the knife and sake from the kitchen and brings them into the bedroom, then runs downstairs without bothering to put on his zouri. Katsura has never shouted at him before. But then, Gin-san has never accused him of being a spy before, or nearly drawn on him before, either. Shinpachi may be in present-day Edo, but obviously neither of the other two are.
Catherine is cleaning the bar when he bursts in, panting. She looks up with her usual flat expression, then down again. “Your rent is due tomorrow. You can’t have a loan.”
“I need some tweezers!”
“This is a snack shop, not a beauty parlour. And where are your shoes? You look like a homeless old geezer.”
Shinpachi has crossed the room without noticing; now, he hauls her up over the counter by the collar of her kimono. “Tweezers,” he says, staring her straight in the eye. “You have some.”
Catherine squirms, pulling at his hands; he doesn’t release her. “Fine, fine. In the bathroom.”
He drops her and she hurries off, muttering to herself. She comes back with a small soft-sided case and tosses it at him. He unzips it and finds a mess of cosmetics, small scissors, nail-files and, at the bottom, a pair of tweezers. “Thanks!”
Shinpachi’s out the door before he hears her sarcastic reply, dashing over the wet street and then pounding up the wooden stairs. He slams into the house and through to the bedroom without stopping. In the dark room, Katsura is bent low over Gin-san speaking to him in a soft voice, his hand splayed over Gin-san’s heart. He draws back when Shinpachi enters, pulling his long hair back over his shoulders with his other hand.
“The roads?” murmurs Gin-san, eyelids flickering past him to Shinpachi. Katsura shakes his head decisively.
“No, no. They are fine. We’re evacuating now. Stop moving.” Katsura holds out his hand for the tweezers; Shinpachi digs them out and hands them over. The rebel opens the sake and dips in the knife, then the tweezers. He holds the tweezers between the fingers of his left hand like a cigarette, and twists Gin-san’s arm so that the swollen wound is facing upwards.
“Katsura-san, do you know what you’re doing?” asks Shinpachi, staring as the knife tip approaches the reddened skin. Katsura, lips pursed and eyes sharp with concentration, doesn’t answer. Shinpachi isn’t sure he even heard the question.
The knife lances the wound, letting thickened, blackening blood. Katsura drops the knife and picks the tweezers up. Digs them immediately into the wound like a man fishing for the meat in sukiyaki with a pair of chopsticks. What he pulls forth, though, looks nothing like anything to be found in a bowl of sukiyaki. It’s long and thin, and glints darkly with blood. Katsura frowns grimly at it and drops it in the water bowl, along with the tweezers. He then takes the sake and pours out a stream of the clear liquid over the bleeding wound; Gin-san gasps and shudders, spine stretching taut. Katsura holds him down with steady hands and an expressionless face. The blood trickles slowly out in a dark river, staining the futon below.
“Go bring a new bowl of water,” says Katsura. “Leave the other here; don’t touch it.”
“R-right.” He does as he’s told, tearing his eyes away from the sluggishly-flowing blood and hurrying out again.
When he returns Gin-san is lying still, breathing slower now. Katsura uses the water to wash out the wound more thoroughly, water turning a soft pink. He cleans it several times before handing the bowl back and drying his hands on the now-dirty futon. He leans over and rests his palm against Gin-san’s forehead at an odd angle, so that his long fingers rest gently over the samurai’s closed eyes, and nods. For the first time since he entered, Shinpachi sees something of Katsura’s normal self. Just a tiny melting of humanity through the icy mask he’s been wearing. “He should be alright now, the idiot.”
“Shouldn’t we bandage the wound?”
“Let it bleed for a while. He has plenty of blood, and the flow is slow. Better to let it wash away the taint. You can bandage it in a few minutes. Make sure the new blood from the cut smells clean.”
Shinpachi startles. “I can?” He blinks. “Wait – you’re not staying?”
But Katsura is already standing, kimono falling in long folds around him. “The fever will be gone soon. My presence will only remind him of the past, now.” He slips his hands into his sleeves and steps over towards the door. Shinpachi follows him out, past the TV showing happy Edo children dancing with smiling Amanto young of some kind, and into the hall.
“The roads – what happened?” he asks, the naked fear on Gin-san’s face still etched vividly in his memory.
Katsura moves out into entranceway, turns to step into his shoes. On the lower level, his eyes are even with Shinpachi’s. “The rains came, and the roads washed out. The Amanto brought the gunboats in to the beaches of Hakodate and slaughtered most of the troops as well as the injured we were unable to evacuate. It was the end of the Jyoui war, and most of our comrades.” His voice is cold and flat, and utterly empty. Shinpachi shivers.
“But –”
“Good afternoon, Shinpachi-kun.”
Before he can protest further, Katsura steps out into the grey afternoon wearing his frozen mask again, and closes the door behind him. Shinpachi stares at the wood for several heartbeats. Then he turns, and goes back to Gin-san.
For the first time, he wonders what the two of them see in their dreams – and how it is that he never wondered before.
END
Series: Gintama
Pairing: Gin/Zura
Rating: PG
Notes: I don't think this is particularly good, but it's not getting any better for my sitting on it.
Summary: Shinpachi gets a look at life in the Jyoui war. It's not pleasant.
And Echo there, whatever is ask`d her, answers "Death."
Tennyson: Maud
Shinpachi has never been afraid of Gin-san. He’s seen the samurai cut down dozens of opponents, seen him slice through steel and destroy monsters an RPG couldn’t have dented. And yet, even after the worst battles when he was nearly tearing his hair out from worry and Gin-san was wounded and bloody and half out of his mind with pain and adrenaline, Shinpachi was never once afraid of the samurai.
But when the silver-haired man looks up at him with cold eyes and demands, “Who the hell are you?” with the sharp voice of a soldier, Shinpachi feels a cold shiver of fear run down his spine and settle deep in his gut.
Gin-san’s skin is flushed, hair is plastered to his temples with sweat, but while his eyes are fever-bright they’re unusually clear. They stare straight through Shinpachi, evaluating him in an instant and carrying away all his secrets. “The hell’re you doing here? Where’s Zura? Sakamoto? Takasugi?”
Shinpachi glances over Gin-san’s shoulder, and sees Kagura’s mouth opening to ask what is sure to be a stupid question. He steps away from the delirious man and grabs her arm, drags her out of sight into the entranceway.
“Go find Katsura-san,” he hisses, pushing her towards the door. “Take Sadaharu with you. Send him here, then get a doctor.”
Kagura makes a face. “But I want to watch Gin-chan reveal all his deepest, darkest secrets!”
Shinpachi, turning back, pauses as if he had trodden in a puddle of glue. “What?”
“Delirious people always reveal their hearts, Shinpachi! He’ll declare his unrequited love, and I’ll miss it!”
“Only if you’re lucky,” replies Shinpachi darkly, and shoves her out the door into the dark grey afternoon. Takes a deep breath, and hurries back to the sick man.
In the minute he’s been gone, Gin-san’s gotten to his feet and hauled himself across the room to behind his desk, where Shinpachi’s father’s katana is sitting on its stand. He picks the sword up with a shaking hand, the metal rattling against the sheath in his unsteady grip.
“Uh, Gin-san, you should lie down. You’re not well.” He swallows as the Yorozuya turns, red eyes flashing. He pulls the bokutou from his belt and tosses it aside, slips the sword into its place with a practiced movement. Shinpachi’s seen him wield a sword with innate familiarity, but he’s never seen him carry one like this – like a close and constant companion rather than a necessary choice.
“Who are you?” Gin-san’s voice is low and dangerous, a predator’s growl. His hand doesn’t leave the sword’s worn grip.
“Sh-Shinpachi. Shimura Shinpachi.” Shinpachi takes a hesitant step forward. “You’re sick, Gin-san. Some Amanto –”
“You’ve just joined up?” Gin-san’s eyes rake over him, narrow and critical. “Your clothes are too heavy – if you’re going to stay, see the quartermaster for something lighter; they’ll just drag you down. And get yourself a sword.” He takes a long, unsteady step forward, catches himself on the desk and sits down heavily on the corner of the nearer couch. His shoulders are rising and falling fast as a sprinter’s, hair sticking close to his skull.
“I – I’m just here to…”
“Not sure? You should get the hell out of here while you can.” Gin-san doesn’t look up, leans against the sword and speaks dully to the floor between them. “Cut through east towards Esan, the roads there are still clear. Not west – too many troops – too many gunships, guns, firing –” he ends in a panting gasp, shoulders drawing inward as he shivers. Pushes a hand through his sweat-damped hair and then stares at the moisture on it. “And the rains are coming…” He rubs it away with a shuddering motion, eyes hard and narrow. “Not yet. Not yet.”
“Gin-san, you need to lie down. You’re ill. Poisoned. Come on, I’ll get you some blankets and you can lie down here.” Shinpachi steps closer and Gin-san straightens abruptly, rearing up like a startled horse. His face is pale as milk and covered in sweat, pupils contracted to pinpoints.
“No blankets here, boy,” he gaps out. “No beds. Go home to your mother… sleep there. No beds for months… years. Mud, dirt… cold floors. Beds...” Gin-san gives a short coughing laugh, looks up at him as if he were a naïve dreamer rather than the only member of the household who understands the concept of financial planning.
“R-right, sure, so why don’t you just lie down here? I’ll – I’ll be right back.” Shinpachi hurries into the kitchen, switches on the kettle and pulls out the tea container while it warms up. He glances back into the main room every few seconds while waiting for the water to boil, watches Gin-san fighting for breath on the couch and feels his stomach twist a little tighter. Finally the damn kettle switches off and he pours the water haphazardly into the cup, hustles back with it. “Here, drink this, it’s warm.”
Shinpachi kneels down beside the samurai, makes to take his shoulder. Gin-san, who has given him piggy-backs and carried him slung over his shoulder like a sack of rice and taken him riding double on the scooter more times than Shinpachi can remember, twists away and tumbles right off the side of the couch. He’s up again in an instant, the bottom of the sheath skidding across the hard wood floor with a sound like nails down a chalkboard, backing into the desk. Pain flits across his face like the shadow of a butterfly, dark and brief.
“Gods,” chokes out Shinpachi, horrified. “Gin-san, sorry, don’t – it’s just me –”
Gin-san gives him a long look, eyes wild, and then slowly drops back down onto the couch. He doesn’t take his eyes off Shinpachi, watches him with both hands resting on the sword sheath.
“I brought you tea, Gin-san,” he says slowly, offering the cup forward nestled in the palms of his hands.
“Why do you call me that?” Gin-san doesn’t look up from the tea. He’s breathing hard as Sadaharu on hot summer days, shoulders rising and falling alarmingly. “No one here calls me that – why do you?”
He doesn’t, Shinpachi notes, challenge it. “Because I’m your friend, Gin-san. The Jyoui war is over – it ended ten years ago. You live in Edo in the Yorozuya, and I work for you.”
Gin-san gives a short, hyena laugh. “You’ve been spending too much time with Sakamoto, kid. Look to the future for comfort all you want, but don’t drag me along into it. The present’s all I know, and hell if I can change now. Besides, I’d make a crappy jack-of-all-trades.” He gives another, thicker laugh, and then coughs. “Better get to your station. They’ll be coming up from the bay at dawn. At dawn, remember. All the roads are blocked… only east…if the rains hold off…” Gin-san lies back abruptly, legs hanging over the side of the couch. He’s shivering in earnest now, and Shinpachi hurries to find a blanket.
He’s just pulled a heavy comforter from Gin-san’s closet when the doorbell rings. Shinpachi runs out into the hall, slipping on the wooden floor in his speed and tossing the bedding onto the empty couch.
Katsura is standing in the doorway, expression flat as always against the dark sky. “Leader told me Gintoki wants to confess his deepest secrets,” he says blandly. “But if that’s all, I have plans to make. Elizabeth has suggested manufacturing Justaways in the shape of –”
Shinpachi doesn’t wait to hear what new stupidity the Jyoui rebels are planning. Simply grabs Katsura’s sleeve and hauls him bodily into the house. Katsura trips on the raised floor and face plants into the wood.
“Shinpachi-kun, this is taking natural inquisitiveness too far. I can assure you, Gintoki’s deepest secrets will simply tarnish the bright sheen of your soul,” he declares superciliously as he pulls himself up and slips his hands into his sleeves. “I really do not –”
“Gin-san is delirious,” Shinpachi cuts in flatly, moving to stand in the rebel’s way. “He was poisoned by an Amanto dart. He was sick on the way home, and by the time we got here he could hardly walk. He thinks he’s back in the Jyoui war now, and he won’t go to bed or drink anything. And he’s getting worse.” He keeps his arms stiff at his sides, ready to – do what? Grab Katsura if he tries to leave? Force him to help? He balls his hands into fists, and tries to stare down the older man. And realises that, in fact, Katsura isn’t paying any attention to him at all.
The Jyoui rebel is standing still as grave marker against the sky, dark and sharp and somehow out of place in the homely entranceway. And then, without a word, he is walking past Shinpachi in long strides, eyes icy and distant. Shinpachi turns to follow, and has to run to keep up. For some reason the room feels suddenly cold.
Katsura rounds the small coffee table to stand between it and the couch, and stares down at Gin-san. Abruptly, he over-turns the table with one smooth kick and kneels in the now-wider space between it and the couch. Place his palm against the samurai’s forehead, and without looking catches Gin-san’s hand at the wrist with his other before the katana Shinpachi never saw him draw is more than half-way to Katsura’s head. Shinpachi sinks down onto the other couch beside the abandoned blanket, knees shaking.
“It’s just me,” says Katsura stiffly. And then, “The lines are quiet.”
Gin-san stares at him with wide eyes for several heartbeats before lowering his hand and closing his eyes. Katsura takes the sword from him and sheaths it at his hip again; doesn’t remove it. Shinpachi opens his mouth to complain – GIVING A SWORD TO A DELIRIOUS MAN, WHAT ARE YOU THINKING? – and then shuts it again. Gin-san gave it up to him without a thought, and didn’t ask for it back.
On the couch, Gin-san opens his eyes again. They’re bright and dull, staring through Katsura rather than at him.
“They’ve cut off the roads to Hokuto, Zura. We can’t get the wounded out, can’t get them away –”
“Not Zura; Katsura,” says Katsura automatically, but it seems to Shinpachi he’s saying it to buy time as much as anything. While Shinpachi can’t see his face, his shoulders are stiff as wire. Then he relaxes, the sharp line of his spine softening. “The road east is still clear, Gintoki. They will go to Esan. There is still time. Come, you need to lie down.” Katsura speaks with calm rationality as he slips an arm around Gin-san to help him off the couch he’s only half-on. Gin-san ignores him. His eyes are wide and staring, face full of fear. It makes Shinpachi’s stomach knot, the hairs at the back of his neck standing on end.
“Can’t you hear it? Can’t you hear the rain? They’ll be washed out, flooded, the bridges and roads gone… No way for the carts, stretchers. Why did the goddamn rain have to come now?”
There’s a pause, and then Shinpachi’s eyes widen slowly as he looks skyward. Rain is beginning to patter down on the tile roof, the afternoon’s heavy grey sky finally giving way to rain. But Katsura is already speaking in a light, careless tone.
“No, no, it hasn’t come. Don’t be silly, that’s just the river – what are you, deaf, you damn perm-head? The rains will be another week at least. Come on.”
Gin-san looks at him sceptically, but allows himself to be helped up off the couch. Shinpachi hurries forward to take his other arm. “And this rookie keeps hanging around,” mutters Gin-san, as they navigate around the other couch on their way to the bedroom. He makes a few stumbling attempts at walking, but his legs finally give out under him and they drag him most of the way.
“Aa, Takasugi sent him as a runner,” pants Katsura, staring ahead in determination, Gin-san’s left wrist held tight in his grip.
“Don’t trust him,” says Gin-san, as if he weren’t right there beside him. “The hell’d he get glasses from? Could be an Amanto spy.”
“Don’t be stupid – with a face like that? His father fought with us as well; before the war he taught kendo in Edo. Shinpachi-kun just arrived.” They make it to the centre of the room and set the invalid down carefully. Shinpachi hurries to the closet to fetch the futon; Katsura sits beside Gin-san on the tatami, Gin-san leaning against him. While Katsura doesn’t hold him there, he tilts his hips and shoulders to present a broader surface.
“Then send him back. They’re bringing in the gunships tomorrow, you heard Tanibuki.”
“Yes, and I heard him when he claimed we would be crushed the first week we joined. How many years has it been since them? The man’s only pleasure is in prophesying our doom. Well, that and Yoshiwara.”
“Such a prude, Zura,” mutters Gin-san, as Shinpachi carries the bedding over and unfolds it.
Gin-san makes a low noise in his throat when they lift him in, and Shinpachi can see as his head falls back that even his neck is drenched with sweat now.
“Get cold water and a cloth, and bring the TV close to the door. Turn up the volumn; something with meaningless chatter,” says Katsura, untying the obi and thin belt and pulling away the yukata. He’s starting on undoing Gin-san’s shirt as Shinpachi runs out.
He pushes the TV to sit on the other side of the shoji door with considerable effort, and turns it on to the children’s channel. Then he fetches the bowl and cloth and runs in, water slopping over the side to speckle the tatami. By this time, Gin-san is naked except for his underwear and Katsura is turning over his limbs in sharp movements, eyes hawk-keen. Gin-san’s chest is rising and falling quick as a sprinter’s now, the tendons in his neck standing out.
“How was he poisoned?” Katsura doesn’t look at Shinpachi as he drops to his knees and begins to wipe Gin-san’s feverish skin with the cool cloth. The noise of the TV in the other room is almost enough to drown out the rain pattering on the roof.
“It was some kind of Amanto … creature. It looked kind of like a cactus, but when Gin-san hit it it sprayed needles everywhere. At least one of them hit him, but I’m not sure where.” His hands fist over the damp cloth, and little beads of water run down Gin-san’s temples to pool under his head.
Katsura lifts Gin-san’s right arm and makes a sound that Shinpachi can only classify as a growl, surprising him so much that he turns to look at the man. Katsura is staring with narrowed eyes at a bright red rash on the underside of Gin-san’s upper arm. The skin is swollen in a miniature mound nearly the size of a halved baseball, and darkens almost to black around a tiny puncture in the very centre.
Katsura puts the arm down, then grabs Gin-san’s discarded obi and wraps a fold of it around the arm above the wound and pulls it tight. “Get a knife, some alcohol, and a pair of tweezers,” he tells Shinpachi, tying the cloth with a soft sound.
“We have a knife and sake, but I don’t think there are any tweezers,” Shinpachi stutters, looking around the room as if they might appear.
“Then go downstairs and get some from your landlady. Buy a pair if you have to. Just bring them!” Katsura’s tone is like a whip, and Shinpachi flies to his feet. He fetches the knife and sake from the kitchen and brings them into the bedroom, then runs downstairs without bothering to put on his zouri. Katsura has never shouted at him before. But then, Gin-san has never accused him of being a spy before, or nearly drawn on him before, either. Shinpachi may be in present-day Edo, but obviously neither of the other two are.
Catherine is cleaning the bar when he bursts in, panting. She looks up with her usual flat expression, then down again. “Your rent is due tomorrow. You can’t have a loan.”
“I need some tweezers!”
“This is a snack shop, not a beauty parlour. And where are your shoes? You look like a homeless old geezer.”
Shinpachi has crossed the room without noticing; now, he hauls her up over the counter by the collar of her kimono. “Tweezers,” he says, staring her straight in the eye. “You have some.”
Catherine squirms, pulling at his hands; he doesn’t release her. “Fine, fine. In the bathroom.”
He drops her and she hurries off, muttering to herself. She comes back with a small soft-sided case and tosses it at him. He unzips it and finds a mess of cosmetics, small scissors, nail-files and, at the bottom, a pair of tweezers. “Thanks!”
Shinpachi’s out the door before he hears her sarcastic reply, dashing over the wet street and then pounding up the wooden stairs. He slams into the house and through to the bedroom without stopping. In the dark room, Katsura is bent low over Gin-san speaking to him in a soft voice, his hand splayed over Gin-san’s heart. He draws back when Shinpachi enters, pulling his long hair back over his shoulders with his other hand.
“The roads?” murmurs Gin-san, eyelids flickering past him to Shinpachi. Katsura shakes his head decisively.
“No, no. They are fine. We’re evacuating now. Stop moving.” Katsura holds out his hand for the tweezers; Shinpachi digs them out and hands them over. The rebel opens the sake and dips in the knife, then the tweezers. He holds the tweezers between the fingers of his left hand like a cigarette, and twists Gin-san’s arm so that the swollen wound is facing upwards.
“Katsura-san, do you know what you’re doing?” asks Shinpachi, staring as the knife tip approaches the reddened skin. Katsura, lips pursed and eyes sharp with concentration, doesn’t answer. Shinpachi isn’t sure he even heard the question.
The knife lances the wound, letting thickened, blackening blood. Katsura drops the knife and picks the tweezers up. Digs them immediately into the wound like a man fishing for the meat in sukiyaki with a pair of chopsticks. What he pulls forth, though, looks nothing like anything to be found in a bowl of sukiyaki. It’s long and thin, and glints darkly with blood. Katsura frowns grimly at it and drops it in the water bowl, along with the tweezers. He then takes the sake and pours out a stream of the clear liquid over the bleeding wound; Gin-san gasps and shudders, spine stretching taut. Katsura holds him down with steady hands and an expressionless face. The blood trickles slowly out in a dark river, staining the futon below.
“Go bring a new bowl of water,” says Katsura. “Leave the other here; don’t touch it.”
“R-right.” He does as he’s told, tearing his eyes away from the sluggishly-flowing blood and hurrying out again.
When he returns Gin-san is lying still, breathing slower now. Katsura uses the water to wash out the wound more thoroughly, water turning a soft pink. He cleans it several times before handing the bowl back and drying his hands on the now-dirty futon. He leans over and rests his palm against Gin-san’s forehead at an odd angle, so that his long fingers rest gently over the samurai’s closed eyes, and nods. For the first time since he entered, Shinpachi sees something of Katsura’s normal self. Just a tiny melting of humanity through the icy mask he’s been wearing. “He should be alright now, the idiot.”
“Shouldn’t we bandage the wound?”
“Let it bleed for a while. He has plenty of blood, and the flow is slow. Better to let it wash away the taint. You can bandage it in a few minutes. Make sure the new blood from the cut smells clean.”
Shinpachi startles. “I can?” He blinks. “Wait – you’re not staying?”
But Katsura is already standing, kimono falling in long folds around him. “The fever will be gone soon. My presence will only remind him of the past, now.” He slips his hands into his sleeves and steps over towards the door. Shinpachi follows him out, past the TV showing happy Edo children dancing with smiling Amanto young of some kind, and into the hall.
“The roads – what happened?” he asks, the naked fear on Gin-san’s face still etched vividly in his memory.
Katsura moves out into entranceway, turns to step into his shoes. On the lower level, his eyes are even with Shinpachi’s. “The rains came, and the roads washed out. The Amanto brought the gunboats in to the beaches of Hakodate and slaughtered most of the troops as well as the injured we were unable to evacuate. It was the end of the Jyoui war, and most of our comrades.” His voice is cold and flat, and utterly empty. Shinpachi shivers.
“But –”
“Good afternoon, Shinpachi-kun.”
Before he can protest further, Katsura steps out into the grey afternoon wearing his frozen mask again, and closes the door behind him. Shinpachi stares at the wood for several heartbeats. Then he turns, and goes back to Gin-san.
For the first time, he wonders what the two of them see in their dreams – and how it is that he never wondered before.
END
