Gintama: The Sea
Mar. 15th, 2011 06:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
what_we_dreamTitle: The Sea
Series: Gintama
Pairing: Gin/Zura
Rating: PG
Beta:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
frauleinfrog
Summary: In the immediate wake of Benizakura Katsura returns to Earth, for perhaps the first time in a decade.
And as we float, I'll wash away that part of me
That lures the devil in the deep blue sea
Carbon Leaf, The Sea
From the sky Edo looks much cleaner than it does on the ground, all shining roofs and clean streets, sharp lines and clear-cut boundaries. Katsura stares out over it as they flutter down, and thinks that maybe if the Amanto spent less time looking down from above and more time walking the streets of the cities they invaded, they would better understand why they are hated.
The wind this high up is chilly even in the summer; it whips his newly-shorn hair into his face in a distinctly unpleasant manner. His legs are beginning to ache from Gintoki’s clinging weight. His back, taking much of the pull from the ‘chute, is split nearly down the centre by the burning slash Takasugi’s worthless assassin’s monstrous blade left behind. All in all, it has not been one of his better weeks.
“Oi, Zura,” says Gintoki, face pressed against his hip, staring down at the blue ocean below. “If you don’t start steering, we’re going to end up in the water.”
“There are no steering cords in this model of parachute,” replies Katsura, voice contracted by the pain, also looking down at the lapping waves. “I couldn’t afford them.”
“Who the hell buys a parachute they can’t steer?” demands Gintoki, and then in one of his foolish tones: “Aa, we’re doomed. I knew I never should have gotten involved in this mess. Shinpachi, Kagura, pray for my soul.”
“We aren’t far from the docks. You can swim.” Both these things are technically true. Katsura estimates they will land less than a hundred yards from the docks, perhaps significantly less if they can catch any low-lying updrafts. He also knows that Gintoki, like most animals, can swim when required. During the war most of the bridges were burnt at least once, and yet often the only way to retreat was across one of the wide rivers of Edo, resulting in hundreds of untrained men paddling through the water operating on sheer desperation. Katsura’s swimming is of the same style, and he is not looking forward to the wet landing. As they drift lower, Katsura realises that he won’t be able to swim that far encumbered by his sword, and equally that the water will completely destroy the exercise book tucked inside his kimono.
“Gintoki. Give me your yukata,” he says, trying to estimate the distance to the docks.
“You can’t make swimming balloons out of cloth,” retorts the silver-haired man, without moving. “Besides, it’s too late now. You should have thought of that before you jumped overboard.”
“Not for that. Hurry up.” The sea is growing closer, perhaps only forty or fifty feet below them now, and he can hear the tinge of desperation in his own voice. Complaining all the while, Gintoki awkwardly pulls off his signature white robe one-handed and passes it up.
Katsura is ready, and it only takes him seconds to make a quick bundle with his book in the centre along and his sword to act as a weight. The docks aren’t getting much closer now. Katsura sighs, winds up his arm, and pitches the bundle by the katana within like a spear. Watches it flutter, white over the blue sea, until it just barely scrapes onto the surface of the edge of the nearest dock to land in safety.
Gintoki doesn’t say anything, which is just as well because it’s hard to kick him while he’s holding onto Katsura’s legs. They drift lower still, curious gulls sweeping closer to give them orange-eyed stares as if assessing their worth as a meal.
“You should let go soon,” he says. They are only some fifteen feet above the water now, close enough for him to smell the salt so strongly he can almost taste it on his tongue.
“Not before I have to,” answers Gintoki in a low, honest tone. Nevertheless, a moment later he takes in a deep breath and releases his grip, dropping like a stone into the water below with a splash. Katsura waits to see him kick himself back up to the surface before he releases the parachute’s catches and falls himself.
The water is much colder than he had imagined. Even in the late spring it’s nearly frigid, much worse than he remembers the rivers in Edo being. He can feel the cold trying to put his system into shock and fights, strikes up towards the surface. And finds that the water has soaked into his kimono like lead, filling the sleeves like balloons and catching in the crossing above his obi like a hook to reel him down towards the bottom.
Katsura only barely makes it to the surface in time to suck in a breath, and then the ocean’s currents are dragging at his heavy clothes again, waves beating him down. Icy fear and desperation shoot through his system in tandem; he yanks desperately at his obi and finally feels it give, feels it begin to drift away from him. He kicks out of his kimono, twisting free from the waterlogged fabric with burning lungs, and surfaces again, marginally more successfully this time.
It takes several seconds for the burning in his lungs to stop overshadowing all other thought. When it does, he can see Gintoki’s white head bobbing above the waves like some sort of badly-preened seagull, much closer to the docks. The man has his back to the city, face turned in Katsura’s direction. A moment later he is turning, wheeling around and striking out for the safety of the docks. Spitting out salty water, Katsura begins swimming after him.
***
With multiple ships on fire or crashing above the harbour, the docks are nearly deserted. Every available hand is operating rescue boats or rushing frantically to douse the flames raining down on the harbour.
Gintoki’s already there by the time Katsura crawls up out of the water, squatting low to the ground in the sun with his arms wrapped around himself. Katsura, now wearing only his underwear, drops to the warm concrete and lies there pressing as much skin against it as possible, frozen and exhausted.
“You’re going to b-be arrested for p-public indecency, Zura,” stutters Gintoki after a few minutes.
“’S not Zura, ’s K-k-katsura,” returns Zura without moving, finally tumbling the word off his heavy tongue. His skin is beginning to warm just enough for him to feel the chill of the dockside breeze on it. He shivers and crawls to his hands and knees; nearly the only thing he can feel is the long cut on his back, burning.
“Or m-maybe f’r being a frankly crap t-terrorist.” Gintoki slides bonelessly down to lie on his back in a dark puddle while water drains slowly away into the cracked concrete. Katsura, moving in counterbalance like the unweighted end of a scale, staggers to his feet. He wraps his arms tight over his naked chest and stumbles down the docks like a drunkard while cold drops slip from his hair onto his shoulders. The pile of his sword and Gintoki’s yukata lie a warehouse away, and he almost falls twice before finally making it to them.
Katsura snatches the cloth bundle up from the ground without kneeling, fully aware that if he once lets his muscles rest he won’t be able to stand again. He unknots the yukata with clumsy fingers and wraps it around himself, the thin cloth incredibly warm against his frozen skin. It takes several tries to get his arms through the wide sleeves, but once he has he is able to pull it firmly about him. The cloth is reassuring, not just to his prudish sense of decency, but for the feel of its worn threads under his fingers and the familiar scent it carries. Mud, blood, sweat and a fainter trace of tatami and yarrow: Gintoki’s scent. If he allows his eyes to blur, he might almost be wrapped in Gintoki’s old haori. But there were no concrete docks or tin warehouses in Edo ten years ago.
Katsura tucks his sword into the crook of his arm and his exercise book into the opposite sleeve, and heads back to Gintoki, still lying on his back like a child watching the clouds. Except, Katsura discovers as he nears, that his eyes are closed.
“Oi. There’s no way I’m carrying you home.” He gives the prostrate samurai a dig with his foot. Gintoki doesn’t open his eyes, but he does speak.
“You owe it to me, Zura. This mess is all your fault. Don’t try to weasel out of it – it’s your duty as a weak-ass moron who needed to be rescued.” He isn’t shivering anymore, but that’s not necessarily a good thing. Katsura gives him another kick in the side.
“It’s not Zura; it’s Katsura. I required no rescue, which is just as well because I am the one who ended up rescuing you. Be a man, Gintoki, and accept your duty.”
Gintoki opens his eyes now, just wide enough to show a sliver of dark burgundy in the bright afternoon sun. He stares for a second before blinking, and Katsura knows well enough the memories the sight of him wrapped in white will call up. Old memories of a war that is past for one of them and present for the other, of frozen battlefields and tiny camp tents and hot mouths on cold skin. Katsura shivers.
Finally, Gintoki sighs and looks back to the sky. “You look like an idiot.” He takes a deep breath and begins to rise, slow and stiff as an old man. He’s forced to roll onto his side and then his stomach and push himself up, and from the sounds just that effort costs him Katsura knows he won’t get far.
Letting out a hiss himself as the fire in his back sears deeper, he bends to catch Gintoki’s elbow and helps him up. Struggles under the soaked arm and takes some of the other man’s weight, bearing up with his jaw locked tightly closed.
Gintoki rests his head on Katsura’s shoulder. Staring down at their staggering feet, he coughs wetly. “Always so opposite, Zura,” he mutters, nearly incomprehensibly.
Katsura glances down at their clothes, usually black and white, now white and black. He has no idea what level of comparison Gintoki is operating on.
“Maybe I just don’t want to end up a lazy unemployed leech.” A statement which has the value of being true on nearly all levels. He steers them around a corner, eyes narrowed in concentration as he tries to keep them from running into a water butt. “Besides, I don’t think you could stand the competition.”
Beside him, Gintoki doesn’t answer, slumps further in Katsura’s grip. His wet wrist slips against Katsura’s thumb, bony and limp.
“Gintoki?”
There’s no answer; Gintoki’s head lolls on his shoulder like a buoy in a wave. Katsura takes one more awkward step, joints grinding against each other painfully, and then his legs give out under him and they collapse together in a graceless heap.
In some ways, things were easier in the old days. There were others, admittedly far fewer at the end than the beginning, to help. Now they’re the only two left in Edo. Now, at times like this, his shoulders feel so much less broad. Gintoki would disagree, but it’s always Gintoki who leaves him feeling like this. Like an old oak losing more and more brittle limbs in each storm. But that’s the exhaustion talking.
Breathing hard, Katsura crawls out from under the heap with his sword in hand. All the warehouses here are locked, but that’s not a problem.
***
They lie buried in potato sacks – a silk warehouse would have been entirely too much to hope for. Katsura strips Gintoki of his soaked clothes and dries him as best he can with the soft cotton of his own yukata before covering him with rough burlap and crawling in beside him.
This is the fate of those who fight for their country, he thinks. No shelter unless they break into it, no warmth unless they make it themselves, no safety unless they fight for it.
There was a time when he would have been outraged, furious, disgusted. He isn’t now, lying on a hard bed of potatoes and spreading himself over Gintoki like a duvet to try to warm the life back into him. Katsura sees the world in dichotomies, and between the status quo and the Jyouishishi the choice was clear. But now the world is tottering between the status quo and the Kiheitai, and he never wants to see the world burn itself to cinders again. He still has the ashes of ten years ago rubbed under his skin, and it’s all he can do to appease their constant searing.
Beside him, Gintoki gives a heavy sigh and stirs; in his chest, his heart finds a steadier rhythm. Katsura relaxes and lets his head drop to rest beside Gintoki’s, the now-short strands of his hair interwoven with unruly white.
Gintoki had babbled of opposites, but as Katsura drifts into an exhausted sleep he thinks they are all much more like mirrors, funhouse mirrors reflecting back distorted images. Himself and Takasugi: outwardly so similar, and inwardly completely different. Himself and Gintoki: outwardly opposite, but at heart…
Katsura rests his forehead against Gintoki’s shoulder, closes his eyes, and goes to sleep.
END
Series: Gintama
Pairing: Gin/Zura
Rating: PG
Beta:
frauleinfrogSummary: In the immediate wake of Benizakura Katsura returns to Earth, for perhaps the first time in a decade.
And as we float, I'll wash away that part of me
That lures the devil in the deep blue sea
Carbon Leaf, The Sea
From the sky Edo looks much cleaner than it does on the ground, all shining roofs and clean streets, sharp lines and clear-cut boundaries. Katsura stares out over it as they flutter down, and thinks that maybe if the Amanto spent less time looking down from above and more time walking the streets of the cities they invaded, they would better understand why they are hated.
The wind this high up is chilly even in the summer; it whips his newly-shorn hair into his face in a distinctly unpleasant manner. His legs are beginning to ache from Gintoki’s clinging weight. His back, taking much of the pull from the ‘chute, is split nearly down the centre by the burning slash Takasugi’s worthless assassin’s monstrous blade left behind. All in all, it has not been one of his better weeks.
“Oi, Zura,” says Gintoki, face pressed against his hip, staring down at the blue ocean below. “If you don’t start steering, we’re going to end up in the water.”
“There are no steering cords in this model of parachute,” replies Katsura, voice contracted by the pain, also looking down at the lapping waves. “I couldn’t afford them.”
“Who the hell buys a parachute they can’t steer?” demands Gintoki, and then in one of his foolish tones: “Aa, we’re doomed. I knew I never should have gotten involved in this mess. Shinpachi, Kagura, pray for my soul.”
“We aren’t far from the docks. You can swim.” Both these things are technically true. Katsura estimates they will land less than a hundred yards from the docks, perhaps significantly less if they can catch any low-lying updrafts. He also knows that Gintoki, like most animals, can swim when required. During the war most of the bridges were burnt at least once, and yet often the only way to retreat was across one of the wide rivers of Edo, resulting in hundreds of untrained men paddling through the water operating on sheer desperation. Katsura’s swimming is of the same style, and he is not looking forward to the wet landing. As they drift lower, Katsura realises that he won’t be able to swim that far encumbered by his sword, and equally that the water will completely destroy the exercise book tucked inside his kimono.
“Gintoki. Give me your yukata,” he says, trying to estimate the distance to the docks.
“You can’t make swimming balloons out of cloth,” retorts the silver-haired man, without moving. “Besides, it’s too late now. You should have thought of that before you jumped overboard.”
“Not for that. Hurry up.” The sea is growing closer, perhaps only forty or fifty feet below them now, and he can hear the tinge of desperation in his own voice. Complaining all the while, Gintoki awkwardly pulls off his signature white robe one-handed and passes it up.
Katsura is ready, and it only takes him seconds to make a quick bundle with his book in the centre along and his sword to act as a weight. The docks aren’t getting much closer now. Katsura sighs, winds up his arm, and pitches the bundle by the katana within like a spear. Watches it flutter, white over the blue sea, until it just barely scrapes onto the surface of the edge of the nearest dock to land in safety.
Gintoki doesn’t say anything, which is just as well because it’s hard to kick him while he’s holding onto Katsura’s legs. They drift lower still, curious gulls sweeping closer to give them orange-eyed stares as if assessing their worth as a meal.
“You should let go soon,” he says. They are only some fifteen feet above the water now, close enough for him to smell the salt so strongly he can almost taste it on his tongue.
“Not before I have to,” answers Gintoki in a low, honest tone. Nevertheless, a moment later he takes in a deep breath and releases his grip, dropping like a stone into the water below with a splash. Katsura waits to see him kick himself back up to the surface before he releases the parachute’s catches and falls himself.
The water is much colder than he had imagined. Even in the late spring it’s nearly frigid, much worse than he remembers the rivers in Edo being. He can feel the cold trying to put his system into shock and fights, strikes up towards the surface. And finds that the water has soaked into his kimono like lead, filling the sleeves like balloons and catching in the crossing above his obi like a hook to reel him down towards the bottom.
Katsura only barely makes it to the surface in time to suck in a breath, and then the ocean’s currents are dragging at his heavy clothes again, waves beating him down. Icy fear and desperation shoot through his system in tandem; he yanks desperately at his obi and finally feels it give, feels it begin to drift away from him. He kicks out of his kimono, twisting free from the waterlogged fabric with burning lungs, and surfaces again, marginally more successfully this time.
It takes several seconds for the burning in his lungs to stop overshadowing all other thought. When it does, he can see Gintoki’s white head bobbing above the waves like some sort of badly-preened seagull, much closer to the docks. The man has his back to the city, face turned in Katsura’s direction. A moment later he is turning, wheeling around and striking out for the safety of the docks. Spitting out salty water, Katsura begins swimming after him.
With multiple ships on fire or crashing above the harbour, the docks are nearly deserted. Every available hand is operating rescue boats or rushing frantically to douse the flames raining down on the harbour.
Gintoki’s already there by the time Katsura crawls up out of the water, squatting low to the ground in the sun with his arms wrapped around himself. Katsura, now wearing only his underwear, drops to the warm concrete and lies there pressing as much skin against it as possible, frozen and exhausted.
“You’re going to b-be arrested for p-public indecency, Zura,” stutters Gintoki after a few minutes.
“’S not Zura, ’s K-k-katsura,” returns Zura without moving, finally tumbling the word off his heavy tongue. His skin is beginning to warm just enough for him to feel the chill of the dockside breeze on it. He shivers and crawls to his hands and knees; nearly the only thing he can feel is the long cut on his back, burning.
“Or m-maybe f’r being a frankly crap t-terrorist.” Gintoki slides bonelessly down to lie on his back in a dark puddle while water drains slowly away into the cracked concrete. Katsura, moving in counterbalance like the unweighted end of a scale, staggers to his feet. He wraps his arms tight over his naked chest and stumbles down the docks like a drunkard while cold drops slip from his hair onto his shoulders. The pile of his sword and Gintoki’s yukata lie a warehouse away, and he almost falls twice before finally making it to them.
Katsura snatches the cloth bundle up from the ground without kneeling, fully aware that if he once lets his muscles rest he won’t be able to stand again. He unknots the yukata with clumsy fingers and wraps it around himself, the thin cloth incredibly warm against his frozen skin. It takes several tries to get his arms through the wide sleeves, but once he has he is able to pull it firmly about him. The cloth is reassuring, not just to his prudish sense of decency, but for the feel of its worn threads under his fingers and the familiar scent it carries. Mud, blood, sweat and a fainter trace of tatami and yarrow: Gintoki’s scent. If he allows his eyes to blur, he might almost be wrapped in Gintoki’s old haori. But there were no concrete docks or tin warehouses in Edo ten years ago.
Katsura tucks his sword into the crook of his arm and his exercise book into the opposite sleeve, and heads back to Gintoki, still lying on his back like a child watching the clouds. Except, Katsura discovers as he nears, that his eyes are closed.
“Oi. There’s no way I’m carrying you home.” He gives the prostrate samurai a dig with his foot. Gintoki doesn’t open his eyes, but he does speak.
“You owe it to me, Zura. This mess is all your fault. Don’t try to weasel out of it – it’s your duty as a weak-ass moron who needed to be rescued.” He isn’t shivering anymore, but that’s not necessarily a good thing. Katsura gives him another kick in the side.
“It’s not Zura; it’s Katsura. I required no rescue, which is just as well because I am the one who ended up rescuing you. Be a man, Gintoki, and accept your duty.”
Gintoki opens his eyes now, just wide enough to show a sliver of dark burgundy in the bright afternoon sun. He stares for a second before blinking, and Katsura knows well enough the memories the sight of him wrapped in white will call up. Old memories of a war that is past for one of them and present for the other, of frozen battlefields and tiny camp tents and hot mouths on cold skin. Katsura shivers.
Finally, Gintoki sighs and looks back to the sky. “You look like an idiot.” He takes a deep breath and begins to rise, slow and stiff as an old man. He’s forced to roll onto his side and then his stomach and push himself up, and from the sounds just that effort costs him Katsura knows he won’t get far.
Letting out a hiss himself as the fire in his back sears deeper, he bends to catch Gintoki’s elbow and helps him up. Struggles under the soaked arm and takes some of the other man’s weight, bearing up with his jaw locked tightly closed.
Gintoki rests his head on Katsura’s shoulder. Staring down at their staggering feet, he coughs wetly. “Always so opposite, Zura,” he mutters, nearly incomprehensibly.
Katsura glances down at their clothes, usually black and white, now white and black. He has no idea what level of comparison Gintoki is operating on.
“Maybe I just don’t want to end up a lazy unemployed leech.” A statement which has the value of being true on nearly all levels. He steers them around a corner, eyes narrowed in concentration as he tries to keep them from running into a water butt. “Besides, I don’t think you could stand the competition.”
Beside him, Gintoki doesn’t answer, slumps further in Katsura’s grip. His wet wrist slips against Katsura’s thumb, bony and limp.
“Gintoki?”
There’s no answer; Gintoki’s head lolls on his shoulder like a buoy in a wave. Katsura takes one more awkward step, joints grinding against each other painfully, and then his legs give out under him and they collapse together in a graceless heap.
In some ways, things were easier in the old days. There were others, admittedly far fewer at the end than the beginning, to help. Now they’re the only two left in Edo. Now, at times like this, his shoulders feel so much less broad. Gintoki would disagree, but it’s always Gintoki who leaves him feeling like this. Like an old oak losing more and more brittle limbs in each storm. But that’s the exhaustion talking.
Breathing hard, Katsura crawls out from under the heap with his sword in hand. All the warehouses here are locked, but that’s not a problem.
They lie buried in potato sacks – a silk warehouse would have been entirely too much to hope for. Katsura strips Gintoki of his soaked clothes and dries him as best he can with the soft cotton of his own yukata before covering him with rough burlap and crawling in beside him.
This is the fate of those who fight for their country, he thinks. No shelter unless they break into it, no warmth unless they make it themselves, no safety unless they fight for it.
There was a time when he would have been outraged, furious, disgusted. He isn’t now, lying on a hard bed of potatoes and spreading himself over Gintoki like a duvet to try to warm the life back into him. Katsura sees the world in dichotomies, and between the status quo and the Jyouishishi the choice was clear. But now the world is tottering between the status quo and the Kiheitai, and he never wants to see the world burn itself to cinders again. He still has the ashes of ten years ago rubbed under his skin, and it’s all he can do to appease their constant searing.
Beside him, Gintoki gives a heavy sigh and stirs; in his chest, his heart finds a steadier rhythm. Katsura relaxes and lets his head drop to rest beside Gintoki’s, the now-short strands of his hair interwoven with unruly white.
Gintoki had babbled of opposites, but as Katsura drifts into an exhausted sleep he thinks they are all much more like mirrors, funhouse mirrors reflecting back distorted images. Himself and Takasugi: outwardly so similar, and inwardly completely different. Himself and Gintoki: outwardly opposite, but at heart…
Katsura rests his forehead against Gintoki’s shoulder, closes his eyes, and goes to sleep.
END
