Standard Disclaimer Applies.
this world forever
SUMMARY. The art of letting go gets easier with practice but it's the living afterwards that Hijikata has trouble with.
NOTE. Just a little sumthin' sumthin'. It's kinda short. Sorry, eh?
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It's been so, so long ago since she last swept across his eyes, smiling sweetly at his forever frown.
Still, even now, she is everywhere: sitting beside him on the barstool, her sandalwood and lavender perfume in the air despite his smokes, reflecting mockingly in the sandy hair of her little brother.
Once Upon a Time it was a blessing.
(He was never one to really believe in fairytales, anyways, just a pinch of truth and a load of bullshit is what they were, he doesn't believe in happily-ever-afters.)
No more, it's a pollution seeping and crawling into the thinnest of his cracks. She is the dividing point of his history, his life split into two segments: Mitsuba Alive and Mitsuba Dead. Or, for short, M.A. and M.B.
(He supposes it's his unconscious trying to erase her even there, to compress her and her tears and her scent and her laugh into alien abbreviations that did not look or feel like MitsubaMitsubaMitsuba.)
She is a memory turned into a nightmare because everywhere he turns its–
starch-white gowns, the smell of air so clean it hurts; he's walking to her room, Room 407, take the elevator to the fourth-floor, it's the third room on your right, Hijikata-san, his shoes squeaking and grating against the pristine, polished, sterile, shiny, vinyl floor, god why is the floor so
–and this–
he pauses in front of the door marked 407 engraved in bold and black letters; he's wondering whether he should knock or slip in quietly, the moment seems to last for an eternity, he thinks rapping his knuckles against the wood and entering silently both seem wrong, but a little voice inside points out nothing's right anymore so he knocks oncetwicethreetimes quickly and hurtles through
–and this–
he's too scared to lift up the sheets and face her wasted, spidery legs so he faces the reality of her pale frame, eyes, lips, and bloodless smile as she greets him in a voice like hole-riddled autumn leaves, Hello, and before he could stop himself he asks, How are you, and he curses customary social gestures but she cheerfully replies, I'm feeling fine, and he wants to scream and throw up and scream and throw things and pull out those needles poking into her body and grab her and run forever as if he is stealing from the world
–and also–
the doctor's sympathetic words echo in the cavern of his head: I'm sorry, she won't last the hour and the next thing he's doing is unhooking the machines and unlocking the bed's wheels and rolling her, bed, IV-drip, needles and all towards the door and she's asking what are you doing and he says I don't know he really doesn't but I'm doing something and he's pushing her bed into the hall
–and this too–
past screeching nurses he pushes her, he leaves a trail of yelling doctors, and together they speed through a dizzying maze of patients standing, patients in wheelchairs, patients leaving, patients entering, patients marble-faced, patients crying, patients dancing, patients singing, patients laughing, he glances at her and she is watching the chaos zoom past, calm and unmoving and he thinks shitohshitshitshitsheisgone but – there is a dazzling smile on her face
–and–
he runs faster and faster and faster, to the very first floor, the familiar entrance doors come into view and he has never seen a more beautiful sight of sunlight and freedom; he says Mitsuba, Mitsuba, look, he turns to her and hisheartstops
–and–
her eyes are closed and her lips are moving, shaping words into existence Hiji–kata–san– before it's too late
–and finally–
they are outside, Hijikata has not breathed for a minute, and Mitsuba fades beneath the forgiving sun.
Oh, that's cruel; his lasting memory of her is of wrinkled smiles and a stuttered sentence and a shrieking heart-monitor that flatlines into silence.
He shouldn't be so hard on himself.
He did try.
(Because even if he was never one to really believe in fairytales, even if he doesn't believe in happily-ever-afters, he wills them real and solid and every inch as true as children make them to be.)
He tried.
To rewrite history, if only by a few snatched words: he took her hand and together they leapt
So he hangs and remembers a memory that never happened–
he pushes her bed into the outside and the fresh air hits her lungs like a realization and she jolts upright, throws off the stiff sheets, twirls and spins and squeezes his hand and she runs and he runs and they run past crowded streets, shops and people whizzing by in colored streams, they run past her wine-eyed brother, who gives a languid wave like he knew they would come and they run past the Shinsengumi commander and his lady friend and her brother who wears glasses and the little violent girl perched on the permhead samurai's shoulders and they run past the long-haired freedom fighter and for once he doesn't feel like chasing after him because she runs and he runs and they run to an endless stretch of grass and sky and she smiles with too many teeth flashing at once and she says it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen and he agrees and she says there's nothing more beautiful on this world and he agrees and she says in fact, I think it'll be a shame to continuing living and he agrees and she says since I've seen the most this world has to offer it'll be okay and he agrees and she says I think I'll leave peacefully now and he says okay and she says goodbye and he says I'll be alright and she just closes her eyes with a grin and they stole a moment from the world.
(If all fairytale-endings were like his, he thinks he would believe in them.)