gintoki’s hidden injury

The morning air in Edo was thick with the scent of cheap tobacco and the lingering humidity of a departing storm. Gintoki sat on the edge of his bed, his breath hitching as he gingerly wrapped a fresh layer of bandages around his midsection. The white gauze was already stained with a small, stubborn bloom of red. The gunshot wound, a parting gift from a low-level ronin group a few days prior, was a jagged, angry thing that throbbed in time with his heartbeat.

He gritted his teeth, pulling the fabric tight enough to support the muscle but not so tight that it would restrict his shallow breathing. He threw a loose yukata over his frame, followed by his signature white kimono, letting the fabric drape over his left side to hide the slight bulge of the dressing.

A loud, rhythmic pounding at the door rattled the Yorozuya office.

"Oi, Yorozuya! Open up! I know you’re in there sleeping off a sugar crash," a familiar, gruff voice barked.

Gintoki closed his eyes for a second, centering himself. He forced his features into a mask of bored indifference. He stood up slowly, his core protesting with a sharp, lightning-bolt of pain that made his vision swim for a fraction of a second. He waited for the world to stop spinning before shuffling toward the door.

He slid the door open to find Hijikata Toshiro standing there, arms crossed, looking particularly agitated. The Shinsengumi Vice-Commander looked like he hadn't slept in forty-eight hours, his dark hair disheveled and a half-burnt cigarette dangling from his lips.

"Geez, Hijikata-kun. Do you have a radar for when I’m about to have a peaceful morning, or is it just a hobby of yours to ruin my life?" Gintoki leaned against the doorframe, putting all his weight on his right leg to avoid straining his left side.

Hijikata scoffed, blowing a cloud of smoke into the hallway. "Cut the crap. I’m not here for a social visit. We’ve got a situation in the manufacturing district. A group of Joui extremists have holed themselves up in an old warehouse. They’ve got experimental explosives, and Kondo-san wants this handled quietly. My men are spread thin covering the perimeter. I need an extra pair of hands that can actually swing a sword without tripping over their own feet."

"And you came to me? I’m touched. Truly," Gintoki said, his voice laced with its usual honeyed sarcasm. "But my rates for 'not tripping over my feet' are very high. Plus, it’s a Tuesday. I usually reserve Tuesdays for doing absolutely nothing."

"I’ll pay you double your usual rate, and I’ll throw in a case of high-quality strawberry milk," Hijikata countered, his eyes narrowing. "Just get your wooden stick and let’s move. We’re losing time."

Gintoki felt a cold sweat prickle at his hairline. Every instinct told him to stay in bed, but he looked at the tension in Hijikata’s shoulders. The man was stressed, more than he let on. If the Shinsengumi were truly spread thin, Hijikata would likely try to storm the place alone if he didn't have backup.

"Fine, fine. Just let me grab my boots," Gintoki groaned, turning back into the room. He moved with a practiced, lazy slouch, hiding the stiffness in his gait.

"Hurry up," Hijikata muttered, though he stepped inside the entryway to wait, his eyes scanning the cluttered office.

As they walked toward the industrial district, Gintoki found that maintaining his usual pace was a Herculean task. Every step sent a jolt of dull pain through his abdomen. He kept his hands tucked into his sleeves, his fingers curled into fists to distract himself.

"You're quiet today," Hijikata remarked, glancing sideways at him. "Usually you’re complaining about your blood sugar or the price of Jump by now."

Gintoki let out a short, forced laugh. "I’m just savoring the silence before you start shouting orders like a drill sergeant. It’s a rare delicacy, Toshi-kun."

Hijikata grunted, seemingly satisfied with the answer. "The warehouse is at the end of the pier. We go in through the skylight. I’ll take the front, you provide cover from the rafters. Don't engage unless they see you. We need those explosives intact."

"Got it. Ninja Gintoki, reporting for duty," Gintoki said, giving a mock salute that made his side scream in protest. He suppressed a wince, masking it with a yawn.

By the time they reached the warehouse, Gintoki could feel the heat beginning to radiate from his wound. A low-grade fever was starting to settle into his bones, making his limbs feel heavy and disconnected. He followed Hijikata up the rusted fire escape, each rung of the ladder feeling like a mile.

They perched on the roof, looking down through the glass panes of the skylight. Below, about a dozen men were frantically loading crates onto a cart.

"On my signal," Hijikata whispered, his hand going to the hilt of his katana.

Gintoki nodded, his breathing coming a bit faster now. He needed to finish this quickly. He didn't know how much longer he could keep his balance.

Hijikata shattered the glass and dropped down, a whirlwind of black and gold. Gintoki followed, landing on a wooden crossbeam above the floor. The impact of the landing felt like a hot iron being pressed into his stomach. His vision blurred for a terrifying second, and he slumped against a support pillar, gasping for air that wouldn't come.

"Yorozuya! Watch the left!" Hijikata shouted from below, parrying a blow from two attackers.

Gintoki shook his head, clearing the fog. He saw a man leveling a rifle at Hijikata’s back. Without thinking, Gintoki leaped from the beam. He swung Lake Toya with a desperate strength, shattering the rifle and knocking the man unconscious.

He landed hard, his knees buckling. He managed to stay upright, but the world was beginning to tilt. The smell of copper—his own blood—was becoming unmistakable.

"Nice timing," Hijikata said, stepping back to back with him. "You okay? You’re breathing like a pack mule."

"Just... getting old, Toshi," Gintoki wheezed, forcing a grin. "Maybe I should... start doing yoga."

"Focus!" Hijikata barked, though there was a flicker of concern in his eyes as he noticed the way Gintoki was leaning heavily on his wooden sword.

The fight intensified. Gintoki moved on pure adrenaline, his movements jerky and less fluid than usual. He focused on parrying and redirecting, avoiding any large, sweeping motions that would tear his stitches further. He could feel the wetness spreading across his side, soaking through his layers of clothing.

As the last of the extremists was pinned to the ground by Hijikata, Gintoki leaned against a stack of crates, his head drooping. The fever was roaring now, a fire in his blood that made his skin feel too tight.

"That's the last of them," Hijikata said, wiping his blade and sheathing it. He turned to Gintoki, his expression shifting from triumph to suspicion. "Alright, Yorozuya. The job’s done. Let’s get out of here before the reinforcements arrive to—"

Hijikata stopped mid-sentence. In the dim light of the warehouse, he saw it. A dark, spreading stain on the left side of Gintoki’s white kimono. It wasn't just a small spot anymore; it was a gruesome, jagged map of red.

"Gintoki?" Hijikata stepped forward, his voice losing its edge.

"I'm fine," Gintoki mumbled, his voice sounding far away even to his own ears. "Just... need a nap. Wake me up when the strawberry milk arrives."

Gintoki’s knees finally gave out. He slid down the side of the crates, his hand clutching his side. Hijikata moved faster than Gintoki had ever seen him move, catching the silver-haired man before his head hit the concrete.

"Hey! Hey, look at me!" Hijikata yelled, his hands hovering over the wound, terrified to touch it. He could feel the heat radiating off Gintoki’s body. "You idiot! You’re burning up! When did this happen?"

Gintoki’s eyes were half-closed, his pupils blown wide. "A few days ago... some guys... had a gun. It’s just a scratch, Toshi. Don't be such a... drama queen."

"A scratch? You’re bleeding through three layers of clothes and you’ve got a fever high enough to cook an egg!" Hijikata’s voice was shaking with a mixture of rage and genuine fear. He carefully pulled back the edge of Gintoki’s kimono, his breath hitching at the sight of the mangled, inflamed wound. "Why didn't you say anything? I asked you to help me with a raid, and you came out here with a hole in your gut?"

Gintoki reached out, his hand trembling as he grabbed the lapel of Hijikata’s uniform. "You... you looked like you needed help. And you’re... you’re annoying when you’re stressed."

Hijikata stared at him, his mouth falling open. He felt a sudden, sharp pang in his chest that had nothing to do with the fight. He looked at Gintoki—this lazy, infuriating, selfless man who was currently dying in his arms because he didn't want to say 'no' to a request.

"You’re the biggest moron in Edo," Hijikata whispered, his voice thick. He shifted Gintoki, lifting him into a bridal carry. He winced as Gintoki let out a low, pained groan, but he didn't stop. "Keep your eyes open, Gin. That’s an order. If you die on me, I’ll haul your soul back from hell just to kill you again."

"So violent..." Gintoki murmured, his head lulling against Hijikata’s shoulder. "But your heart is... beating really fast, Toshi. Are you... worried about me?"

"Shut up! It’s the adrenaline!" Hijikata snapped, though he adjusted his grip to hold Gintoki closer. He began to run toward the exit, shouting for his men.

The journey to the Shinsengumi infirmary was a blur of shouting and sirens. Hijikata refused to let anyone else carry him. He stayed in the room while the doctor worked, pacing the small space like a caged animal, his hands stained with Gintoki’s blood.

Hours later, the sun began to set, casting long, orange shadows across the infirmary bed. Gintoki was pale, his midsection heavily bandaged and a drip connected to his arm, but his breathing was steady. The fever had broken.

Hijikata sat in a chair by the bed, his head resting in his hands. The silence of the room was heavy.

"You know," a weak, raspy voice broke the quiet. "You look terrible, Hijikata-kun. You should really get some sleep."

Hijikata bolted upright. Gintoki was looking at him, his red eyes tired but clear.

"You’re awake," Hijikata said, his voice flat, trying to regain his composure. "Good. Because I haven't paid you yet, and I’m not giving that money to your bratty subordinates."

Gintoki chuckled, then winced, clutching his side. "Ouch. Don't make me laugh. It feels like a Gorilla stepped on me."

Hijikata stood up and walked to the side of the bed. He looked down at Gintoki, his expression unreadable for a moment before he reached out and flicked Gintoki’s forehead.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"For being a self-sacrificing bastard," Hijikata said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. "Don't ever do that again. If you’re hurt, you tell me. I don't care if the Shogun himself is asking for a favor. You stay home and eat your damn parfaits."

Gintoki looked up at him, surprised by the raw honesty in the other man’s tone. He saw the dark circles under Hijikata’s eyes and the way his hands were still slightly shaking.

"Okay, okay," Gintoki said softly, his usual snark fading. "I get it. Next time I get shot, I’ll send you a Hallmark card."

Hijikata sighed, leaning his hip against the edge of the bed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled carton of strawberry milk he had picked up from a vending machine down the hall. He set it on the bedside table.

"Drink it and go back to sleep," Hijikata muttered, turning to leave.

"Toshi?"

Hijikata stopped at the door, his back to the room. "What?"

"Thanks for the lift," Gintoki said, his voice barely a whisper. "And for not letting me fall."

Hijikata stood still for a long beat. He didn't turn around, but Gintoki could see the way his ears turned a faint shade of pink.

"Whatever, Yorozuya. Just don't expect me to carry you every time you get a paper cut."

The door slid shut with a soft click. Gintoki smiled to himself, reaching for the strawberry milk. It was lukewarm and slightly crushed, but as he took a sip, he decided it was the best thing he’d tasted in years.