The night outside is calm yet cold. Not a single soul dares to wander, the only sound around the coast being the cheerful cries from a drunken celebration. Soft light radiating from the walls of and improvised shelter, soldiers tired from life and war drink and sing, thanking the chance to have a sip of sake for just another night. The clash of old recipients with liquid inside, an out-of-tune cheer and a warm building– the only things far away from the impact of steel and the taste of iron.
It is a common occurrence that the four most outstanding generals of the campaign drink by separate. Two years before, they had been three. Nonetheless, if anyone would think Sakamoto Tatsuma doesn't deserve his spot among them that person would be mistaken: Sakamoto is giving them tools, such as weapons, money and food. In a fundamental way, the man has gone from being a spoiled merchant from a rich family to a respected warrior who is one of the pillars for their war.
And not just a pillar of war, but of celebrations as well.
"Hahahaha! What's wrong, Takasugi? Drink more, more!" The Dragon of Katsurahama encourages one of his partners with an everlasting optimist voice.
"Tatsuma, how the fuck do you have this much resistance to alcohol?" Takasugi Shinsuke places a hand on his forehead, feeling a weight on his stomach not likely to be lifted until the next morning. Perhaps he will die before it happens, perhaps not. He decides to leave it at chance. The weight becomes more difficult to bear when a certain man with unruly hair laughs, making fun of his poor performance.
"Stop whining, Takasugi. Tatsuma is not the only one who can bear more sake than you do. Hell, even a baby could drink more than this." Says Gintoki, more drunk than rational, his body falling a little to the side before regaining extra strength.
"Oi, what are you implying? If I recall well, you have drunk less than me. Isn't that right?"
Gintoki and Takasugi stare at each other fiercely, faces centimeter apart from each other.
"Oi, what are you implying? I'm just saving my strength for the rest of the evening. Look well! I will drink the last drop of this bottle right here!" Gintoki announces, taking a bottle with his hand.
"Interesting," Takasugi smiles, taking another bottle, "let's see who will be the winner of this duel between us. 150 wins, 149 loses."
They stare at each other a little more, and take their respective bottles to their mouths.
Takasugi doesn't even flinch. He drinks another half of a bottle, to his comrades' surprise. He doesn't hear Katsura's warnings, or Sakamoto's louder laughter. Not too much later, the man is on the floor, unable to move. It turns out Gintoki is laughing at the same frequency Sakamoto is because he didn't drink a single gulp. Katsura kicks his side, delicate, just to know if the man is still alive. He sighs.
"Hey, stop laughing!" Katsura scolds his friends. All right. I think it is time to rest for us as well. Sakamoto, Gintoki, let's go," commands the most composed of the four as he takes a fainted Takasugi by the arm and starts walking to a quieter space.
There is a moment of silence, and the two men remaining look at each other. Both of them are blushing, one more than the other thanks to the amount of alcohol in his system. It is not the only reason.
"Hey, Tatsuma. I don't feel like going to sleep yet, and you?"
"Hehehehe, me neither. Takasugi passing out like that cheered me up. Having a good drink with comrades certainly makes you forget about the pain of the day."
Gintoki brushes his hair with energy, lowering his gaze. An awkward silence appears between both men, which he uses to realize how tired his legs and arms are. Thanks to their drinks, his shoulders and head couldn't be any more relaxed, but he knows it is noting more than a passing sensation. The dread and instinct to survive will come back haunting them as soon as the Sun comes out and paints the land with warm colors, which mixed well with the crimson staining their clothes. The sunlight is an excellent flag for their campaign, but he wishes he could relate said picture with a more optimistic reality.
They lost at least fifteen members of their group to opposite forces during the day. The are already used to it and it is a miracle. It is a miracle that they managed to find a good shelter, when in other times they must resist in the strict winter, it is a miracle that the other guys remain cheerful and still believing in what Zura and Takasugi would call "the cause", while Gintoki had lost that part of himself several months ago. He's not sure anymore. The prospective future of them finding their master and getting out of the war without losing their lives –or even, their souls – in the process first seems far in his eyes.
And yet there it is; the smiles and the laughter besides him. Blue eyes still shining, which he finds himself wanting to protect with unexpected resolve. How Sakamoto seems untouched by all the mess surrounding them is a mystery. Not as able with the sword as Takasugi, Zura or him, the man's main ability is with his words and convincing power. There is something about the way he speaks and the general confidence he portrays that he finds attracting, like a web he doesn't realize he is trapped in until after it is too late to escape. Sakamoto's success is a surprise for him, a hero of the recent legends.
They serve each other one last drink for the night. Sakamoto is contemplative.
"This winter is without doubt rough, a snail was faster than me today! Let's not even talk about my outer sword – I can't even feel my inner sword out there! Hahaha!"
"Tatsuma, your inner sword cannot be frozen even if we cut it and place it in the freezer. When was the last time you went to a red district, you bastard? Two days ago?"
"Eh, two days ago? Kintoki, you must be losing your memories! There is no way we went just two days ago. I would have remembered that." Sakamoto raises an eyebrow in genuine concern, the blue of the ocean piercing through silver essence.
"Eh?! Are you calling me an old man? Is it because of the color of my hair?" Gintoki shouts exasperated, pointing at the soldier sitting next to him. His voice may be loud, but it gets lost amongst the voices of their surrounding crowd, "The one forgetting everything is you, Tatsuma. When are you going to remember my name, ah? It is not Kintoki; it is Gintoki, damn it! Say it well!"
Sakamoto laughs, more energetic than ever that night, and Gintoki loses all his will to reprehend him. It may be a consequence of alcohol, or the weird and fluttering sensation emerging from his chest, but the man known as the White Demon cannot be mad at his friend for a long time.
The two men spend the hours talking and joking about themselves and about their friends. They do not dare talk about dreams or the future, for it is too soon to dream about that. Soldiers need to think about the present. They must be optimistic, of course; though the best way to be effective in the middle of the warzone is to focus in what is in front of their own eyes, and in the possibility of sharing a cup of sake with their comrades just for another night. Taking the war one day at a time, they can secure a future.
Before they realize how late it is, there is no one surrounding them anymore. The conversation traps them in such a way that their voices become quieter and yet still remain the strongest in the room; their bodies are closer than how they were two hours ago. Maybe it is a good idea to be obedient and go to sleep, even if it is not exactly like how Zura ordered them to. Gintoki makes an effort to stand up and not fall.
"Oi, Tatsuma, give me a hand, will you?" He extends his arm towards his friend. Sakamoto catches him and the flutter in Gintoki's chest becomes stronger. They walk together, slowly, careful to not make a lot of noise to wake up their comrades. The silence as both advance, the scent of alcohol and the lazy steps do not help as there is an invisible tension surrounding them. Most spaces are almost full and their muscles can't help but feel tired, so they decide to sit together in a somewhat separated corner. Their counted heat sources do not reach them well, but perhaps with their own clothes they will do just fine. They have been through worse.
They cover themselves well with their haori, arm glued to the other arm. Gintoki can barely think as he is inebriated by sleep, alcohol, and something else.
"This party was a lot of fun, Kintoki. But next time, I want everyone to celebrate with us. We can't afford to keep losing our friends." The man says softly, his voice filled with regret.
Gintoki is about to reply, when he is interrupted by his friend.
"Hahaha, but the best moment was to see Takasugi fainting. I can't believe how competitive he can get with you sometimes," Sakamoto sighs, "at least Zura made sure he was okay."
"Those guys will be okay, Tatsuma. They have an incredible strength. No matter how delicate Zura looks or how stubborn and stupid Takasugi can get sometimes. I trust them the most."
There's a pause, and Sakamoto interrupts the silence with a frail whisper. "I would not be able to bear it if anything happened to you, or any other one of our comrades."
Sakamoto's eyes are painted with a strange shadow and Gintoki's heart tightens. Perhaps the sad picture is why his mouth moves faster than his brain.
"I will protect your will. You belong to us – to me. As long as you are next to me, you will be alright. Our comrades, too." Gintoki hurries and Sakamoto just stares directly at him, mouth shut and eyes filled with surprise.
It is then when Gintoki realizes the weirdness in his words, his cheeks redder than before. He didn't notice the weight of his words, or the intensity of the emotions in his eyes, or his hand holding Tatsuma's wrist. He can't breathe, lost in the brightness of his partner's gaze; his skin against the other, burning.
He must be really drunk, unable to find the limits where 'Gintoki' ends and where 'Tatsuma' starts.
Gintoki opens his mouth to say anything, but Sakamoto places his hand on Gintoki's cheek and, in a moment, Sakamoto's mouth is in Gintoki's ear, asking quietly: "Are you serious, Gintoki?"
The utterance of his name, said correctly, freezes his body. Dubious fingers only manage to touch the warm texture of the taller man's clothes. "Listen, I…"
He doesn't say more, as his mouth is claimed by Sakamoto's lips. The kiss is tender, despite the scent of alcohol. Gintoki answers to the movements with his own hunger, both men giving their all in a touch certainly longed for.
Gasping for air, Tatsuma places himself on top of his partner and starts taking off his upper clothes. "My body should be warmer than these attires."
"Hey… If you think this is like your casual visits to the red districts, I'll kill you." Gintoki means it, pulling backwards and letting loose of some of his clothes. Gintoki's chest is toned, skin soft to Tatsuma's touch in certain areas. The others are defined by different types of scars. Tatsuma stares at the topography, fascinated.
Sakamoto laughs tenderly. He embraces Gintoki and his face feels his comrade's neck, before their shadows become one for the rest of the night.