Title: Like a True Kuroda Samurai
Author: unwinding fantasy (formerly Aqua Phoenix1)
Disclaimer: Don't own Rurouni Kenshin.
Rating:K+ (Shounen-ai? Friendship? Read as you will.)
Author's Note: Beware, for this fic contains historical inaccuracies, a well-worn plot, deadly grannies, bodily fluids, severe syntax abuse, severe Sanosuke abuse, Saitō being abusive, alliteration, run-on sentences and other equally ridiculous things.
"Blurghh!"
Splat!
Trying his best to look detached despite the fact that yes, he had just been vomited on for the third time in as many hours, Saitō eyed the street scum kneeling at his feet. A pathetic tangle of sweaty arms and legs seemingly looped together in messy sailors' knots, it emitted a beast-like groan, tumbling onto its back to stare, glaze-eyed, up at the policeman. Judging by the sour sake and other equally rotten aromas drifting from the drunk, he'd probably keeled over and died. Saitō hoped that wasn't the case. Anyone that infringed on his personal space (plucked cigarettes from his mouth, poked fun at his "nutty eyes", made mockery of his life motto via his attire) deserved some serious pain. The kind that did humanity a favour by ensuring such a moron would never reproduce.
"Ahou ga…" he grated, uncomfortably aware of the fact that unless a spasm in the eye was normal he'd just developed a tic.
The aforementioned ahou moaned miserably again, eyes sliding shut in consternation. Even in his intoxicated haze he'd clearly realised his misfortune. After all, few people, no matter if their brain cell count hadn't even hit double digits, would dare spew on the infamous Wolf of Mibu save if they enjoyed the sensation of katana in the gut.
One bleary brown orb cracked open. "Get lost, Saitō…" he said, stumbling on the other's name, squinting against the sudden invasion of natural light. Or maybe he was flinching in advance from the beating he believed was in order.
'Hn. As if it would be worth it.'
Given Sanosuke's I-am-actually-trying-to-hit-comatose-before-I-do-something-stupid status, the officer highly doubted he would have the capacity to recall such a walloping anyway.
Saitō wished he had the luxury of scrubbing events from memory. Last night in particular had been a series of horrendous episode after horrendous episode, starting with walking into a tavern where a little granny -- the kind who probably dished out sugary treats to all the street urchins on a regular basis -- was working the bar.
Really, who lets such a sweet old lady deal out liquor.
Unguarded.
On New Year's Eve.
It had been a recipe for disaster, one that Saitō's keen nose could sniff out in a heartbeat and once on the trail, he couldn't help but see it through. It was sad, really. He only had his incorrigible sense of justice to blame for the ensuing episode…
"Hey, grandma! Fix ush anusher drink, will ya?" a man said, knocking over a glass as he half-slouched off his stool. It met the floor with a crash! that was swallowed by rowdy laughter, shattering beyond repair into a myriad of jagged pieces.
Eyes the size of cartwheels fixated on the twinkling shards, the elderly lady began stuttering, "I-I'm sorry, sir, but--"
The man smashed his fist onto the counter. "No 'but'shh about it! Gimme sake, now!" Hot redness was beginning to suffuse his cheeks, creeping up from his neck into his face. Around him, his buddies guffawed loudly.
Saitō propped a cigarette between his teeth. Not removing his eyes from the scene, he scratched a match alive, lit his tobacco stick and flicked the burnt-out match in the guy's direction. He watched, partially amused, as the guy degenerated into a tirade involving the words "bashtard", "asshole" and "shhon-of-a-bitch".
Saitō didn't bother pointing out that logically he couldn't be all three. Besides, he was relatively certain women didn't give birth to anuses.
"Lookie here, everyone! A real tough law-enforsher, come to make sure we don't shpill the sake."
Slurring his words to the point of being incomprehensible, the drunk in question wobbled to a stand and swaggered over to Saitō, a grin that was more dopey than menacing plastered on his face. Puffing contentedly on his cigarette, Saitō maintained the aura of cool aloofness he was accustomed to, electing to permit this laughable escapade to run its course. After multiple near-collisions with wayward furniture and other patrons who were all at varying stages along the path to intoxication, the drunk shuffled to a stop in front of the officer.
Saitō stared. He stared for a very long time.
The drunk stared, too, which was amazing considering most people had turned to stone by this point. Feeling that at this rate his eyeballs would quickly shrivel like dried prunes, Saitō deemed the man ultimately unworthy of his time -- he was patrolling for muggers and looters, not chuggers and shooters -- and made to brush past him. Unfortunately, this never-do-well elected the same moment to teeter perilously and lurch himself in Saitō's direction.
Faced with either sidestepping the drunkard, allowing him to crash into the glass-laden bar and demolishing the old lady's livelihood or propping the man upright, ruining his uniform in the process… Well, distasteful as both options were it wasn't a choice really.
Letting a smoky tendril drift from the corner of his mouth, the Wolf pressed a finger against the would-be floor-kisser's chest, effectively salvaging whatever minuscule amount of the man's reputation remained amongst swirls of giddiness.
"Spill as much as you want, so long as it's not on me," Saitō told him, bored. With a forceless push he sent the offender tottering backward. His dizzy state made him veer into another stool before righting himself and directing a furious glare at the policeman.
He glared.
Saitō smoked.
And the drunk suddenly broke into a wide grin.
"Ya hear that, boysh? The copper'sh buying!"
Saitō choked, his accidental inhalation drawing in all the smoke of the Kyoto fires, and dissolved into a fit of coughing. "I never said--" he was cut off upon meeting the granny bartender's narrowed black eyes, which glittered dangerously. Her death-glare seemed to be silently throwing daggers, porcupines and all other manner of pointy objects at the disgruntled officer.
"Fine," Saitō grumbled, tipping out his money onto the counter.
And the terribleness of the prelude to the worst day of the year hadn't ended there. Somehow -- actually, he knew exactly how but he didn't enjoy admitting he'd been bested by a gnarled witch of a woman old enough to be his mother's mother -- they'd also filched his cigarettes, leaving Saitō with no means of soothing his frayed nerves. Perhaps he was just getting--
"Oi, you deaf or somethin', old man?"
He gave Sano a Look. It spoke volumes. More than the Tales of Genji, in fact.
Unfazed, Sano shoved himself into a sitting position, legs folded haphazardly beneath him like malformed chicken wings. He twisted his neck, working out the kinks in a methodical manner that indicated he was accustomed to the aftermath of spending a night sprawled on the streets, a slight grimace appearing on his face at the popping sound his ministrations elicited. Running a hand through stubbornly ruffled hair, Sano fished around in his pocket with the other. From its murky depths, he produced a chewed-on toothpick. Promptly, he shoved the worn thing in his mouth to cover a wide yawn.
Saitō waited patiently for him to start crowing cock-a-doodle-doo!
"Still here, eh?" Folding his arms behind his head in feigned nonchalance -- the firm grip his teeth had on his stick betrayed him -- he lazily slid his eyes closed again and said, "So, is your New Year resolution to keep gettin' on my nerves or what?"
Saitō glowered at him. It wasn't as if he expected the ahou to know, but…
Voice rippling with barely concealed distaste, Sanosuke asked, "Isn't the police force missing their favourite dog?"
"Isn't some village missing its idiot?"
"This is my village!"
Smirk.
"Hey, and I'm not an idiot!" Sano bolted to his feet with dexterity unbecoming of a hung-over washout.
'He really is astoundingly dumb,' Saitō conceded. Worst day of the year it might have been, but his mood was peaking nonetheless. One-upping the Rooster-Head was always entertaining.
"What's got you wandering through town at this hour anyway?" the former fighter-for-hire asked, eying the elder suspiciously. "Most people are asleep this early New Year's Day."
"Some of us," Saitō informed him, "have jobs."
"And some of us are insufferable, willow-headed bastards, but I don't have to go around rubbing it in their bamboo-blind faces!" Sano fumed, fists balling at his sides. Not sure whether to be impressed with the knowledge that this vagabond understood the meaning of "insufferable" or to laugh at his creative albeit ridiculous insults, Saitō simply arched an eyebrow. One more prod and he'd have the perfect excuse to release his pent-up irritation in the form of a flurry of gatotsu's. Well aware that he was submitting to the lull of childish banter, Saitō said, "Funny you'd lose to such a character."
"You…!" Sano propelled himself into the fray of battle, then tripped over a discarded bottle to tumble into a messy heap at his antagonist's feet with an, "Oof!" He observed Saitō's once-immaculate, black-as-a-raven, shiny-shiny shoes for a time. Maybe he was trying to perceive their former glory beneath the dripping, icky brown liquid he'd deposited on them moments ago, much of which had pooled at the officer's feet. Maybe he was entranced by the little white dots floating amidst said pool like tiny snowflakes. Snowflakes that had fallen into a fetid, frog-infested bog and were being consumed by swamp sludge.
"You've improved," Saitō remarked conversationally.
Sano invented several new shades of red. Leaping (or more accurately, staggering) to his feet, he hollered, "I could kick your ass any day!" and as if to prove it, belted the sneaky bottle across the road with his foot. It clinked noisily upon connecting with the ground, rolling merrily along the dirt road. And then Saitō experienced the most frightening thing he had seen to date, interrogations and revolutions and that time he'd been forced to go undercover as a geisha be damned.
Sagara Sanosuke's face was suddenly overcome by a very feral grin.
"You're coming with me," the Rooster-Head declared boldly, tugging Saitō's arm and, to Saitō's dismay, his body along with it. The Wolf prayed that whatever demons of anxiety were currently gnawing on his lower intestine would hurry up and kill him already. He had a feeling that the worst day of the year was about to get depressingly worse.
"Yo, a round of your best sake," Sano called, grinning broadly at his own brilliance. While he was drunk enough to believe he couldn't exactly stand toe-to-toe with the Wolf of Mibu, he wasn't drunk enough to believe he'd lose in a drinking contest.
Well, it made sense to him.
"I'm not paying for you, ahou," Saitō bit out. He sounded even more constipated than usual, if that was even possible.
Saitō Hajime, redefining the laws of bowel movements.
"Alright, alright, don't go all Aku Soku Zan on me; I've got my own cash, y'know," he punctuated his words by juggling a recently filled money bag in one hand, listening as the coins jingled happily.
'That's right, my little friends. Soon you'll all be accomplices in the greatest mission ever: Operation Make Superior Bastard Not-So-Superior.'
"What, some fool took pity on you?" the Emperor of Arrogance sneered, an obvious attempt to raise the younger's temper. Too bad he didn't know that when Sano was fixed on a task, Sano refused to be baited.
After much companionable shoving during which Sano realised his rival's heart was just not in bashing the crap out of him today, the duo was seated at a table towards the back corner of the room, a formidable jug of sake between them. The younger inhaled deeply, revelling in the heady fragrance of decent alcohol, his hang-over of mere minutes ago cured by the thankful presence of both an iron constitution and more alcoholic beverages.
"I get violent when I drink," Saitō tried, though there was a decidedly resigned note in his voice. In fact, he'd sounded odd all day. Like a kicked dog that was sulking in some dingy corner, licking its proverbial wounds. Sano shrugged his worrying off, telling himself the guy had probably just had an epiphany: Sanosuke was not going away until one of them was on the floor, so one way or another he'd better get a move on.
"Sure you do," Sano drawled, "You're prob'ly a real pansy. Bet you start bawling like a baby, blubbering 'bout your loss in the Revolution or the fact that you couldn't bring your Battousai back or your too-narrow eyes or how you fucked up your 'death', cos that sure as hell didn't last long…"
Sometime throughout this nonsensical rant, Saitō had reached for his choko and gulped down its contents. He would've looked kinda impressive too if the giant vein pulsating in his temple didn't give him away.
"Now you're talking!" Sanosuke cheered, slamming down his own triumphantly. He felt the familiar burn work its way into his cheeks, wrapping sinuous tendrils around his conscious thought as it blessedly invaded his every pore. Scrabbling excitedly for the jug, he sloshed generous amounts into both their choko.
"One, two, three!" he chanted before eagerly downing the liquor. A stupid grin worked its way onto his face as he noted Saitō was following his lead, if not in a more restrained manner.
Heh, he knew the guy wouldn't be able to resist the challenge!
"One, two, three!" Sanosuke chanted again, although this time his brazen words were echoed as the room's every occupant lent his own voice to the hubbub. An early morning drinking contest had created quite a stir, pulling people from activities that undoubtedly paled in comparison to whatever mischief they'd been up during the previous night's celebrations, luring them towards the two men who were fast gaining the title "spectacle". Swallowing this latest shot drove the crowd into yet another rousing chorus of Kuroda Bushi. With an enthusiasm he'd never reveal while sober, the swaying Saitō muttered along with them ("I will drink and drink this sake. If I drink, I will get the finest spear in the Land of the Rising Sun").
It was a complete 180 to before when he'd sniped, "And you're certain you want me to win this? Because I can already think of a few inventive uses for such an artifact, none of which you'd enjoy." Sano had enjoyed listening as Saito's singing had slowed to the point when he was more than a couple of verses behind the jovial onlookers. When the once-soldier-of-fortune now peered over at his rival, he couldn't help but grin stupidly at the way his face, normally all sharp angles and hard planes, had mellowed into something bordering on amicable. It was, Sano had to admit, a refreshing change from the "I-know-how-to-castrate-you-with-a-cube-of-tofu" expression the policeman preferred.
Unfortunately, despite the fact that the officer had consumed a small lake's worth of liquid he was still sitting there, more or less healthy. Sano fought the urge to smack himself upside the head. He should've known taking on the former Shinsengumi Captain would require more than a measly iron constitution. More like a platinum one.
'Jus' look at him, sittin' there all nutty-eyed and… Saitō-y… …God, I can't even think up a decent insult anymore!'
Sano caught the abnormally heated glare his opponent was sending him and, wondering how much Saitō's brain was exactly processing at this moment, threw it back at him twofold. Both the glossy film that seemed to be forming across the other's eyes and the minuscule rivulets of sweat trickling down his neck were tell-tale signs that he was almost broken, an empty jar ripe for the smashing. Stretching languidly, he tossed out a jibe of his own, "Give up yet, old man?"
Beat.
Saitō blinked.
His almond-eyes welled up with tears.
"I'm not old!" he shrieked in a disturbingly high-pitched voice, making the crowd surrounding them disintegrate into raucous giggles.
Sano's own eyes felt like they wanted to plop out of his head. Saitō Hajime, the Wolf of Mibu, was currently leaking enough water to keep the rice fields flooded for a few good years.
"One more year doesn't mean anything! It doesn't, it doesn't, it doesn't!" Suddenly, violently, Saitō pushed himself to his feet. His hand sprung towards his katana, sliding it from its sheath with an ominous shhhhhing! He then proceeded to partake in a tipsy dance that may or may not have been a highly original version of the Viennese Waltz, depending on how much Sano squinted. It took him a while to realise the guy was, in reality, attempting to ready his gatotsu.
"Stupid day! Stupid sake! Stupider rooster!" was his war-cry before plunging into battle.
Thankfully for both parties the sake choose that moment to assume command of the situation: with a small grunt, Saitō nosedived towards the table in a wonderful display of drunken acrobatics. Never one to be put off regardless of how much grey matter he'd willingly destroyed in the past fifteen minutes, Sano bravely sprang forward in the hopes of saving his opponent's dignity from ending up in the bin beside his self-respect although considering he'd just uttered the word "stupider", Sano was pretty sure it was already there.
He contemplated this, along with the purpose of rabbits' tails and why Kenshin's hair was such a funny colour and he sure hoped that wasn't Saitō 's other sword jabbing into him from half-beneath, half-atop his "damsel in distress" and eventually came to the roundabout conclusion that he had, indeed, collapsed, effectively failing in his rescue mission. He rubbed his aching head -- whether during the fall it had connected with something or vice versa was unclear -- and grinned when he spotted the dozing wolf. Ever the opportunist, he struggled out from beneath the various paraphernalia that had caught him off-guard and beaten him senseless, shifting to crouch over Saitō 's sleeping form. If that so-small-it's-almost-nonexistent smile was any indication, Sano had at least done something right for once.
"Happy Birthday, you ahou," he said fondly. Then, after some consideration, "And, er, sorry for letting my dinner meet your shoes, ne?"
End Notes:
- So according to resources, Saitō 's birthday is January 1st. Man, that bites. I felt sorry for him so had Sano stick a smile on his dial.
- I tried to keep them both as IC as possible for the majority of the fic. That's why Saitō 's so pathetic by the end of it. x.x
- The title was inspired by Kuroda Bushi (which incidentally is the same drinking song Kenshin sings at one point in the anime). The song is about a Kuroda warrior who is sent to deliver a message to General Masanori, only to be lured by the general himself into taking part in a drinking game. I was particularly reminded of Saitō because initially the warrior refuses, citing he can't drink while on duty.
Drink, drink sake!
If you drink, you'll win this, the best spear in all Japan.
If you drink enough to win it, you're a true Kuroda samurai.