A/N: It has been almost 3 years since i published the first story. I came to the Title page, and i didn't have a title for this story. I made it up. And i wrote this fic out of frustration. I'm very emotional right now. All characters belong to Sorachi Hideaki. I only added Zenzou because he had a single scene. I'm terrible at incorporating characters.
He remembers the first time they met. A torrential rain of glinting kunais zipping in the air that night. A tall, slender, buxomed girl with hair the colour of sunshine in late February. She was surrounded by masked, female fighters clothed in the colourful kimonos of Yoshiwara. They would have looked fanciful if they weren't so uniformed. He remembers that her obi, contrary to the other girls', had been refashioned to hold a pair of sheathed daggers at the back; around 10-inches long, each one stitched horizontally on the top and bottom edge.
He remembers how her voice rang into the quiet night. Who are you? She had asked. It was a little deep, and a little husky for a woman, but rich and sweet. Back then, it reminded him of elegant ginjo, with a tinge of brusqueness.
Who are you?
He remembers the next thing she said. You avoided every single one of my kunais.
….The fuck I didn't. But might as well pretend I did.
You certainly are a skilled warrior.
….So you do know my strength. Hahaha.
He remembers how the dismal pick-up line dropped out of his mouth before he could retrieve it. He remembers summing her up in his mind, trying to figure her out. This Ginza girl, could have been a Kabukichou girl, with a Yoshiwara base kind-of-girl. Why is she playing along with me?
He remembers deciding that she was too pleasant to be the enemy. He remembers, with all his innate male chauvinism in swing that night — that had she been an actual villain, she might even be stupid.
He remembers, not two hours after that meeting, he was holding her kiseru tightly in his hand, desperately hoping that she wouldn't die.
She remembers the first time they met. A mass of bushy, dull silvery hair, the sweeping white kimono with curled motifs in cyan. A wooden sword, and a trail of blood from his temple — superficial injury sustained from her dispatched kunai. He gave her a stupid, faint smile, followed by a dirty joke. These things are way too dangerous, lady. That was probably the first thing he said to her.
She remembers how he held his cheeky smile, and how he rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger lecherously. How about I stab you with my something-something, which is even better?
...Disgust.
The hell? Who is this man? What is this man? Is he truly the one Hinowa requested her to assist?
She remembers relenting and playing along with his lame attempts at salvaging the image of a hero. After all, she could not go against Hinowa's orders. You deflected all my attacks perfectly, she offered. She remembers wondering if that comment was too generous.
She remembers there was a split moment of silence. He had dodged almost none of her attacks. The trail of blood was proof of that. She praised his swordmanship. He responded by erupting in a stream of pitiful, loud sobs. You are too kind to me, please stop it!
A mercurial temperament, she remembers thinking. As expected, men are all alike.
She remembers that he saved her twice that night, shoving her out of harm's way, just out of Housen's attacks by the breadth of a fingernail. She remembers that even though he was soaked in blood, his hair couldn't have been a more beautiful shade of silverish white.
That day, he remembers the rain had started with a soft drizzle, and then turned into a rapid, blurred shower. He lay, stomach down, in a pool of his own blood, struggling to maintain his vision — right hand clenching his broken wooden sword. Needles and pins ran up and down his arm.
Tsukuyo…
Her name had jumped out of his mouth in a choked whisper. The howling wind took his voice and swallowed her name whole. Someone had hoisted him up from the sea and onto the pier. His mouth was bleeding profusely. He remembers the taste of iron in his blood, the pain exploding through his wounds and in his bones, the cold made colder from wet clothes clinging onto his beaten-up body.
He remembers hearing footsteps running away from his direction, and then towards him again, but he had no strength to look up. He remembers waiting, listening to the sound of footwear splashing into puddles and mud approaching him. He half-wished it was her, that she would have lost their attackers, that she would be okay.
Within moments a pair of strong, manly arms had enveloped his shoulders. Calloused hands fussed about his head. I was just reading Jump, damn it. You owe me, bastard.
I didnt get hit in the head, he croaked with a smile, before drifting out of consciousness. He would not remember who his saviour was until three days later.
She remembers the first time he held her close to his chest. The faint smell of yesterday's bath soap on his skin, the growing scent of today's sweat. The warmth his strong arms gave her. The instinctive nuzzling into her hair. The security she hadn't felt in a long time. You can cry, he told her. You can lean on me, rely on me. Blow your snot at me. I will cry with you. And when you laugh, I will laugh with you.
Gintoki. His name had taken root in her heart ever since that day, like a wieldy weed. Invasive. Persistent. And shaped like the leaves of a common dokudami. Ridiculous, she scolded herself. Tsukuyo, you are so ridiculous.
Tsukuyo. She remembers his soft baritone voice. Soothing, unyielding. Don't look down on yourself. Walk tall. You are beautiful. You have a spotless soul.
He remembers the little whorls of sakura petals spinning like mini cyclones on the ground, teased by the gusts of spring. She had a faint smile on her face; her eyes were closed. What are you doing? He asked. Did we come here without a single flask of alcohol?! Not that you should have any, taiyuu. But at least I should have something to drink while we are doing this? What is this, taiyuu?
It was spring in Oedo. Their first spring together. He had wondered if she noticed. They stood, on the wooden bridge in the middle of its arch, where sakura trees grew on the sides of the river and flashy, high-end restaurants lined up neatly along the street. He eyeballed to the left and right, and started to get nervous. Taiyuu! I don't have money for this lavish outing! When I said alcohol, I mean — hahaha — a cheap picnic where we can view sakura trees!
Can you hear it? She responded, completely ignoring his outbursts.
What.
Her eyes still closed, she smiled broadly. Listen.
What is it? He perked his ears and flashed his eyeballs around them. He could not find any distinct sound other than street chatter from bypassers.
You have to cup your palms to your ears, Gintoki.
He lamely did as he was told. He remembers staring at her, his hands still around his ears. Like this? I don't hear anything, oi.
She turned around to face him, her face emotionless. It's an idiot talking with his hands around his ears.
He remembers his ears growing hot, and they were probably red. He remembers the sound of her laughter, her hand pressing against her stomach as she laughed, him shouting at her indignantly, the silky flakes of sakura petals falling around them like confetti.
He remembers the first time he was ready to kiss her. It was the stupidest thing he had ever attempted to perform seriously. But that seemed to happen to every other romantic thing he attempted to perform seriously.
A windless, hot summer's night at one of the many annual summer festivals. The packed crowds at these events had always been stifling, the air oppressive if you stopped walking — but he didn't particularly hate it. It's better than feeling lonely. It's bad when someone farts in these crowds though, he told her. You can't even escape. You have to inhale it all.
He remembers catching sight of her eyelids falling into flat, squinting parallel lines upon the reception of his comment. Her facial expression unmoving.
What? It's true.
Who says that out loud? Who? She was agitated.
It has to be during the fireworks, he decided in his mind. Over twenty five thousand fireworks would provide the best situation for smooch-smooch.
He remembers it was eight thirty when she grabbed the sleeve of his yukata as they made their way to higher grounds in the park to watch the fireworks. He remembers casually offering to pull her up onto the monkey rails to sit on, but remembers that neither of them needed any help. He remembers leaning in when the first fireworks went fwoop! fwoop! into the sky, and a hairy sensation crept over his neck. He swatted at it, only to see the shape of garden spider cartwheeling into the air as it was flung away. He shrieked. It was a pitch that shot two octaves higher than his usual tone.
She remembers when she first gave herself to him, it was in the deep of November. Through shouji panels that were slightly ajar, the moon's lucent beam entered the room. The cold night air occasionally rushed in, but both of them were too tangled up in heat and passion to notice. Kimonos fell off their bodies like rustling sheets. Limbs snaking around one another.
She remembers how his hands were deft and proficient, cupping, teasing and fondling her in places she wanted it the most. His breaths urgent, his mouth hungry for her. Her responses were soft, and equally needy. She carressed his face, returning his kisses tenderly on the lips, kissing his earlobes, his eyelids. Her hand started to edge down. Catching his breath, he slowed down and gazed at her. This can't be right. You are too good at this. Where are you touching, Miss Virgin? Although, that title will change shortly.
She gave a curt, half-suppressed laugh. Where are you touching? You need to catch up.
Stop talking. He dove into her neck with his face, and she yelped. Goosebumps formed on her skin. She remembers the tears welling up in her eyes as her heart pounded against her chest, bursting full of love for him.
I need to catch up, huh? Beware, Gin-san is coming through. He shifted himself above her, and as she opened herself up for him, she remembers turning away from the shouji paneled wall where their silhouettes joined and melted into each other. Like ballet dancers on a stage.
She remembers standing on the balcony outside the main banquet room, throwing her head up to look at the sky. Like a dramatic Ghibli movie opening, the landscape opened before her. Inflorescence in a field. That breezy animation. Orchestra-esque soundtrack. And through the opened plafonds of the city, beyond the grey kawara rooftops, the sky was a luminous, clear blue. Cottony, cumulus clouds roamed in flocks. Mild breeze sweeping at her skin had brought the first chill of late autumn.
Below, crowds of people have gathered around the central bulletin board. The commotion was punctuated by several loud shouts of anxiety. Is there really a war out there?
A change of voice. Of course it was another voice actor's recording. Of course! Don't you know anything?
Another panicked voice. This time female. The battle has already started! What will happen to Earth now?
She clenched at her kiseru, struggling with her emotions and thoughts, and remembers taking one of the a longest drags from her pipe. Feathery smoke drifted from her lips.
She knew she had to make a decision. Blah blah blah. She reprimanded herself internally, balking at her indecisiveness. How much do I love you?
Is dying enough?
He remembers that the minute he saw the single flying kunai, he knew it was her. That she had come to his aid. He remembers how he didn't expect her to come. In retrospect, he wasn't sure why he thought that. Of course she would come.
Her countless kunais have saved his life many times. He remembers the rubber suction ones she cast to defraud her own para-military squad, sending them away on a fake errand. He remembers the one that saved him from Housen, on the first night they met. The one that prevented Jiraia from going after him. The one that killed Jiraia. The ones that crippled the Tendoshuu, preventing them from fatally attacking him. This one saved him from the extraterratial beast named Ougai.
He wouldn't thank her. Why are you here?
For a second, he thought he saw a flash of hurt and disappointment in her eyes. Me and my shit mouth.
He remembers that she had shrugged off that shameless idiocy of his, that brazen uncouth, that comment that passed through his mouth without going through any channels in his brain. It was just like her to do that, like she always did with all his other lines. It was just like her to maintain dignified, unlike him. With the exception of one comment she made as she arrived. He remembers it struck a nerve of insecurity concerning his stamina in bed. I don't like men who are either too fast or too slow. It was an odd declaration. It was far out. It was inappropriate, coming from her.
What does that mean? Why are you spitting such a hurtful remark out here? He started protesting in a huff. It was an exchange that had been cut out from the original script.
He remembers wishing he could take his first words back. At the back of the mind, he replayed everything. She's here for me. For me. It was all because of me.
She remembers wondering if it was a trap. Their evening had started with Hinowa warning her not to take any alcohol as she ordered for a tray to be brought in. But he was drinking heavily now. The first cup wasn't terrible. He had finished it slowly, all the while joking and bantering with her. It was just how they were, before the war.
The second cup went faster, and third cup was emptied in a flash. He downed subsequent cups in rapid succession, as he gestured for her every now and then to pour from the tokkuri, to which she complied without objection. She remembers the flowing sound of clear, fragrant, fruity liquid being tipped into his held-out, mini ceramic ochoko cup.
Minutes passed. Silence hung around the room. She remembers the awkwardness that grew between them. Why are we like this now? She had stopped pouring him drinks, and was mulling over the strange situation, staring at the tatami-matted floor.
Haha, he said lightly. A gigantic iceberg shifted. She turned to look at him. He ran a hand over his forehead, and into his hair.
She remembers trying to avoid talking anything deep. It had been a little over forty eight months, it was then a little over midnight. She remembers panicking. Does he know?
Hey —
She remembers quickly moving her hand over his mouth. Stop, she screamed internally, the words unable to escape. I don't want to know. Are you already married? Do you have a child? I don't want to know. Don't tell me. I'm okay with us like this. Allow me the dignity to be strong.
He grabbed her wrist. It has always been just you.
He remembers the night they were together again. In the room they have been in so many years ago. Incandescent lighting. High moon in the sky. Shouji door panels tightly shut. He had gestured for her to pour him drinks again and again. One could even say he forced her to do so, under the guise of two old lovers whose conversations could only touch on light and superficial topics.
He remembers that she had gradually gathered enough courage to stop pouring him drinks. She said that he was drinking too much.
Do you remember? The night you became a terminator. You violated me.
Do you remember? The night you violated me.
He remembers. Of course he would remember. A deep ache spread across his chest, hitting straight through his sternum. Have you been well, are you happy? Please tell me. Is there someone new? He had wanted to ask, but decided to observe her behaviour instead.
She started to lean forward a little, her mouth opened slightly, ready to speak.
Please don't tell me it is Hijikata. The words leaped out of his mouth before he could stop himself.
He remembers her look of incredulity. He remembers that the walls between them came crumbling down in an instant. Did he still have it? The cheap sense of humour? He remembers how she exploded into broken streams of laughter. Her voice — that sweet tinge of classy ginjo from the first night they met.
A Yoshiwara girl. Could have been a Kabukichou kind-of-girl. An Omotesando Hills girl, could have also been a Tsukiji kind-of-girl. But definitely a Yoshiwara girl.
His remark about Hijikata was so funny to her, that he couldn't figure out if he had hit it right on the nail, or he was so ridiculous that she had dismissed him altogether.
Don't you remember? She finally said. I am stubborn.
….Even if the world disappears?
It doesn't matter what the world becomes.
END