Disclaimer: I don't, in any way, own Gintama. But I do own this story.
Rating: K+
A/n: This is my first story ever published. Enjoy !
He started to smoke the day he left her.
He needed, after all, a distraction. So that he would forget, not thinking, disremembered. About her, of her, her.
He was insane, he still is. He was, is, insanely in love, not that he would admit, with her and her and her. She was the only one who could make him become a complete mess. She is still the only one who can make him feels like this.
Hijikata Toshiro was a man with few words.
He wouldn't talk unless it's important. That's probably-maybe-sort of- why he said nothing when he left her. He didn't think his feeling, his wants, was important. She was, is, important, but he wasn't.
Or that was what he thought.
He didn't know- or maybe he did, but he ignored it anyway.- that he was important to her. He was as important, if not more, as Sougo was for her.
Too bad he didn't care.
Inhale. Exhale.
White smoke filled the empty room in the Shinshengumi headquarter. There was no one here, save for himself. Everyone was going to Mitsuba's funeral.
He did not go.
Kondo-san had asked him to go, to bid his last goodbye. Kondo-san had practically begged, for him to come. He still didn't come, he told Kondo-san, and everyone else who asked, that he had a hangover, drank too much sake the night before.
Lies.
Yes, he had so many bottles of sake, too many actually, but they were not enough to make him drunk. Or maybe, they did make him drunk. That was the only explanation left for the banging in his chest and the tight knot in his stomach. That was probably the reason why his head was throbbing and his eyes were watery.
Excuses.
Probably, he was just holding back tears that threatened to fall any time soon. It's embarrassing, really, the honorable man of the Shinsengumi , the demonic vice-commander, did not cry. Not when the mayonnaise stock was empty, not when Sougo tried to kill him, not when he was injured. Still, a single drop of salty water fell.
He cried silently.
Truth was, he didn't want to see the funeral. He couldn't bear to see her, of all people, buried deep, deep, deep in the earth. There was so much, too much, regret seeing her beautiful face pale and cold and dead. What ifs crossed his mind all the time. What if he had accepted her, what if she didn't die, what if and what if and what if.
What if he said that he loved her, would it be different?
Too late though.
He stopped smoking the day after. It was of no use anymore since he smoked to distract him from her. She had left, gone forever; she could bother him, enter his mind, fill up his head, no more.
Right?
a/n : epic fail…. Oh God..
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