gintoki

The air in Kabukicho always smelled of something burning—be it cheap tobacco, overcooked ramen, or the simmering tension of a city that never quite knew how to be at peace. For Hijikata Toushirou, the scent was a homecoming.

It had been three weeks since he’d been sidelined, three weeks of staring at the ceiling of the Shinsengumi infirmary while Yamazaki brought him bland porridge and Kondo-san offered tearful, suffocating hugs. A jagged laceration to the thigh and a concussion had been enough for Dr. Matsumoto to strip him of his sword, a punishment worse than any seppuku order.

But today, the bandages were off. The limp was a ghost of a memory, and the weight of the Kanesada at his hip felt like a missing limb finally reattached.

He had been tracking a cell of rogue Joui extremists for hours, weaving through the back alleys near the manufacturing district. They were sloppy, leaving a trail of broken crates and nervous informants. When he finally cornered them in a dead-end courtyard flanked by rusted shipping containers, Hijikata didn’t call for backup. He didn’t need it. He needed to prove to his own sluggish blood that he was still the Demon Vice-Commander.

"Shinsengumi! Drop your weapons and surrender!" he barked, though he already had his hand on his hilt. He didn't actually want them to surrender. He wanted to move.

The five men turned, their faces obscured by cheap scarves. They didn't speak; they simply drew their blades and lunged.

Hijikata met the first attacker with a strike so fluid it felt like breathing. He parried a downward swing, the ring of steel against steel vibrating up his arm, and countered with a sharp kick to the man’s sternum. He spun, his black coat fluttering like the wings of a predatory bird, and brought the blunt side of his sheath down on the second man’s neck.

He was fast, but there was a flicker of hesitation in his lungs—a residual tightness from his time in bed. He gritted his teeth, pushing through it. He couldn't be weak. Not now.

***

Gintoki Sakata was having a perfectly mediocre afternoon. He had successfully avoided a confrontation with Otose regarding the rent, he had secured a fresh Shonen Jump, and he was currently contemplating whether he could justify buying a strawberry parfait with the last of his coins.

He was strolling down a narrow street near the industrial sector when the familiar, rhythmic *clack-shink* of combat reached his ears.

"Ugh, give it a rest," Gintoki muttered to himself, picking his ear with a pinky. "It’s too hot for a gang war. Can’t people just settle their differences over a game of Jan-ken-pon?"

He turned the corner, intending to take a detour, when he saw the flash of a black uniform.

Gintoki stopped dead. His heart, usually a lazy organ content to beat at its own leisure, gave a violent thud against his ribs.

It was Hijikata. The man who had been bedridden and pale just ten days ago when Gintoki had "accidentally" walked past the Shinsengumi headquarters to drop off some high-quality mayo (which he’d claimed was a peace offering from Kagura). Seeing him there, surrounded by four—no, five—men, sent a cold spike of ice down Gintoki’s spine.

"That idiot," Gintoki hissed, his grip tightening on his wooden sword, Lake Toya. "He’s supposed to be on light duty. If he tears those stitches, I’m going to kill him myself."

He stayed back for a moment, his eyes narrowed. Hijikata looked sharp, his movements precise, but Gintoki could see the slight strain in his shoulders, the way he favored his left leg just a fraction of a second too long. Every time a blade swung near Hijikata’s torso, Gintoki felt his own breath hitch. It was a suffocating, irrational fear. The memory of Hijikata covered in blood weeks prior was still too vivid, a dark stain on the back of Gintoki’s eyelids.

Hijikata took down the third man with a brutal elbow to the face, turning his back to a pile of crates where one of the earlier combatants lay groaning.

Gintoki’s gaze flickered to the fallen man. The thug wasn't unconscious. His hand was shaking, reaching into the folds of his vest. He didn't pull out a knife. He pulled out a sleek, black snub-nosed revolver.

The world slowed down. The sounds of the city—the distant crows, the hum of the nearby factory—faded into a dull roar in Gintoki’s ears.

Hijikata was busy parrying the fourth man, his focus entirely forward. He didn't see the barrel of the gun rising behind him. He didn't see the man’s finger tightening on the trigger.

"Hijikata! Look out!" Gintoki screamed, but the wind seemed to swallow his voice.

He didn't think. There was no room for the Shiroyasha to calculate the trajectory or for the lazy handyman to weigh the risks. There was only the terrifying reality that the man in the black uniform was about to be broken again, and Gintoki’s body moved before his brain could register the command.

He lunged forward, his boots skidding on the gravel. He wasn't going to be fast enough to strike the man. He was only fast enough to be an obstacle.

*Bang.*

The sound was deafening in the narrow alley.

Hijikata spun around, his eyes wide as he heard the report of the firearm. He expected to feel the searing heat of lead, the sudden collapse of his own strength. Instead, he saw a shock of silver hair and a familiar, ragged yukata billowing in front of him.

Gintoki lurched forward, the momentum of his sprint dying instantly. He collided with Hijikata, his weight heavy and uncoordinated.

"Gin...?" Hijikata gasped, his hands instinctively coming up to catch the other man by the shoulders. "What the hell are you doing?"

Gintoki didn't answer. His face was contorted, his teeth clenched so hard his jaw looked like it might snap. He slumped against Hijikata’s chest, his head resting heavily on the officer's shoulder.

Hijikata’s eyes darted down. On the white fabric of Gintoki’s yukata, just above the waist on his right side, a bloom of crimson was spreading with terrifying speed.

"No," Hijikata whispered, the word catching in a throat suddenly tight with bile.

The man with the gun was scrambling to get another shot off, his face a mask of panicked desperation. Hijikata didn't even look. With one hand still holding Gintoki upright, he drew his sidearm with the other and fired a single, non-lethal shot into the man’s shoulder. The gun clattered to the ground, and the remaining attackers, seeing their advantage evaporate into the wrath of a demon, fled into the shadows.

Hijikata didn't chase them. He didn't care.

"Gintoki! Hey, look at me!" Hijikata lowered them both to the ground, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

Gintoki groaned, a wet, ragged sound that made Hijikata’s stomach turn. He slid down against the rusted metal of a shipping container, his hand clutching at his abdomen. Blood was already leaking through his fingers, dark and hot.

"You... you complete moron," Hijikata hissed, his voice trembling. He ripped off his own cravat, then began frantically unbuttoning his uniform jacket to get more fabric. "Why did you do that? I had it! I could have moved!"

"Shut up," Gintoki wheezed, his eyes fluttering. "You were... moving like a grandma. You would have... gotten a new hole in your head."

"So you decided to take one in the gut instead? Do you have any idea how much paperwork this is?" Hijikata pressed the folded fabric of his cravat against the wound.

Gintoki let out a sharp, hissing gasp, his head thumping back against the metal. His skin was already losing its color, turning the shade of spoiled milk. "Don't... don't worry about the paperwork. Just tell the old lady... I paid the rent... in spirit."

"Don't you dare start talking like you're dying!" Hijikata shouted. He looked around wildly, his composure shattering. "Help! Someone! Call an ambulance!"

The alley remained silent. The peripheral chaos of Kabukicho felt miles away. Hijikata looked back at Gintoki, who was watching him with a strange, dazed expression.

"You're okay," Gintoki murmured, his voice growing faint. "You didn't... get hurt."

"I'm fine, you idiot! I was fine before you jumped in!" Hijikata’s hands were covered in Gintoki’s blood. It was sticky and smelled of iron, staining the sleeves of his pristine uniform. "Why do you always do this? Why can’t you just stay in your own lane for once?"

Gintoki’s eyes started to roll back. "Because... your lane... is always full of idiots... trying to kill you."

"Gintoki! Stay with me! Open your eyes!" Hijikata grabbed Gintoki’s face, his thumb smearing blood across a pale cheek. "Sakata Gintoki! That’s an order!"

Gintoki let out a weak, rattling laugh. "Since when... do I take orders... from the tax thieves?"

"Since now! If you die, I’ll haul your soul back from the afterlife just to arrest you for interfering with official business!" Hijikata was leaning in close, his forehead almost touching Gintoki’s. He could feel the shallow, heat-starved breath of the other man on his lips.

The terror Hijikata felt was unlike anything he’d experienced on the battlefield. When he was injured, it was a nuisance, a tactical setback. But seeing Gintoki like this—quiet, fading, and broken because of *him*—it felt like the world was tilting off its axis.

"Stay awake," Hijikata pleaded, his voice dropping to a broken whisper. "Please. The strawberry milk is on me for a year. Just keep your eyes open."

Gintoki’s hand, limp and cold, twitched against Hijikata’s knee. "A year...? Make it... a lifetime... and we have... a deal."

"Fine. A lifetime. Whatever you want," Hijikata said, his eyes stinging. He pressed harder on the wound, ignoring the way Gintoki flinched.

In the distance, the faint wail of a siren finally cut through the air. Hijikata let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, a shuddering sob of relief that he tried to disguise as a cough.

"Hear that? They’re coming. You’re going to be fine."

Gintoki didn't respond this time. His eyes were closed, his breathing heavy and labored, but his heart was still beating—a slow, stubborn rhythm against Hijikata’s palm.

Hijikata sat there in the dirt, cradling the unconscious freelancer against his chest. He didn't care about the rogue Joui, or his pride, or the fact that his uniform was ruined. He just watched the rise and fall of Gintoki’s chest, counting every breath as if it were a miracle.

"You're a damn fool, Sakata Gintoki," he whispered into the silver hair.

He didn't let go until the paramedics arrived, and even then, he chased the ambulance all the way to the hospital, his hand never straying far from the hilt of his sword, as if he could fight off death itself if it dared to come back for a second try.

***

Two days later, the hospital room smelled of antiseptic and cheap flowers brought by the Yorozuya kids.

Gintoki was propped up on pillows, his midsection wrapped in enough gauze to mummify a pharaoh. He looked bored, flipping through a magazine with his one free hand while the other was hooked to an IV.

The door slid open, and Hijikata walked in. He wasn't wearing his uniform; he was in a simple yukata, his hair slightly messy. He was carrying a plastic bag that clinked.

"Oh, look who it is," Gintoki said, his voice still a bit raspy. "Come to serve me my eviction notice in person?"

Hijikata didn't snark back. He pulled a chair up to the side of the bed and sat down. He reached into the bag and pulled out a large, chilled carton of premium strawberry milk, setting it on the bedside table.

Gintoki’s eyes lit up. "Oh ho? Is the Demon Vice-Commander actually following through on his bribes?"

Hijikata looked at him, his expression uncharacteristically soft, though his brow was still furrowed. "I told you I would."

He looked at the bandages peeking out from Gintoki’s gown. The guilt was still there, a heavy stone in his gut, but seeing the idiot alive and complaining made it easier to bear.

"Don't do that again," Hijikata said quietly.

Gintoki stopped reaching for the milk, his gaze meeting Hijikata’s. "Do what? Get shot? Trust me, it wasn't on my bucket list for the weekend."

"You know what I mean. Don't throw yourself in front of me," Hijikata said, his voice firming up. "I’m a soldier. It’s my job to take the hits. You’re just... you."

Gintoki leaned back, a lazy, lopsided smirk spreading across his face. He reached out and tapped Hijikata’s chest, right over his heart.

"That’s where you’re wrong, Hijikata-kun. You’re the one who was just in the hospital. If you’d taken that bullet, you’d be a goner. Me? I’ve got enough sugar in my blood to crystallize the lead before it hits anything important."

"That’s not how science works," Hijikata sighed, but he didn't pull away.

"Maybe not. But it’s how I work." Gintoki’s expression turned serious for a fleeting second. "I don't like seeing you bleed, Toushirou. It’s bad for my digestion."

Hijikata felt a heat crawl up his neck at the use of his first name. He looked away, clearing his throat loudly. "Whatever. Just hurry up and get out of here. The city is too quiet without you causing trouble."

"Is that so? You missed me?"

"I missed the peace and quiet of you being unconscious, actually."

Gintoki laughed, then immediately winced, clutching his side. "Ow, ow... don't make me laugh, you sadist. My stitches..."

Hijikata stood up, his hand hovering near Gintoki’s shoulder before he pulled it back. "Rest. I’ll bring more milk tomorrow."

"Make it the expensive stuff from the department store!" Gintoki called out as Hijikata walked toward the door.

Hijikata paused at the threshold, looking back over his shoulder. The sunlight from the window caught the silver of Gintoki’s hair, making him look less like a lazy bum and more like the legend he was.

"Only if you stay in that bed," Hijikata replied.

He stepped out into the hallway, the weight on his chest finally lifting. He still had a city to police and rebels to catch, but for the first time in weeks, the air didn't smell like something burning. It just smelled like the beginning of something new.