Distance
Hijikata Toushiro dislikes Time as a rule, because Time allows him to consider what the exact ingredients were in the pig-slop's excuse for a katsudon he had eaten during lunch- a disgraceful lack of mayonnaise, or why he had not yet come up with good enough a reason to impound the Yorozuya bastard and his unholy band of beasts.
Hijikata Toushiro has always disliked Time, because Time gave him room to breathe, let him recollect foolishness, stole reason away and allowed emotion get the better of him.
He reports in for duty the day after Mitsuba dies, and pretends for the first five minutes before Kondo-san spots him that life went forth and Time was its usual cruel self. Then he is promptly frog-marched away from the Shinsengumi compound to his quarters by his indefatigable commander who, in spite of exclaiming tenderly over his injuries, has no qualms whatsoever in raining a series of brotherly blows on his heavily-bandaged back in a twisted display of goodwill. He thinks Kondo-san an idiot, albeit an endearing one, as he watches Kondo-san's sturdy, retreating back silhouetted against the cloudless sky. He ignores the sudden ache his head declares when he remembers the pronounced lack of ash-brown hair he has encountered for the day.
He learns of Sougo's absence only when he returns the next day, wounds tender, conscience bearing down upon him in full force. He observes with sardonic detachment how his men swerve spectacularly to avoid his path, how Yamazaki pales to a scientifically-improbable degree when inquired has Okita-san reported in yet.
Yamazaki stammers; his badminton racket cracks under his grip.
Hijikata sighs and heads for the head office.
He stops midway down the conveniently empty hall when Kondo san meets him with comically strained expression usually reserved for when government official visited, died, or occasions in which Otae-san insults his manhood.
"He's not here, the brat," the commander says heartily. Hijikata does not answer, merely sidesteps when Kondo-san attempts to ruffle his hair.
"He won't be coming," offers Kondo, and Hijikata notices how his smile is curiously bereft of his usual bravado. Neither of them needs further elaboration on the subject of their conversation.
Kondo-san walks by him, places one warm hand on his shoulder for a fleeting instant as he passes, and leaves a ferocious headache in his wake.
Hijikata departs to find Sougo.
Hijikata knows the instant he enters Sougo's quarters that everything is still wrong, wrong, because the Sougo he has known for over half his life did not once stare as blindly at anything as he does now, as if it takes enormous, concentrated effort to recognize that which is in front of him. It is, Hijikata thinks, the stare of a wolf caged and drugged, wildly incongruous with the smooth brow and calmly-set mouth.
They remain unmoving, Hijikata valiantly evading the glazed, two-dimensional smiles from Mitsuba and her would-be husband, and the jagged red flame of a candle freshly lit. After twenty breathless seconds Sougo turns away from him and reaches steadily for the single damp photograph resting on floor. The wood is cold beneath Hijikata's bare feet, and again pain assaults his temples.
He is overcome with the urge to wrench the other to his feet, knock sense into his head, snarl at him, anything, for the fox-like bastard with the taunting smile to return. He knows to fight, to curse, to aim grudging admiration at a Sougo who came at him even when beaten, out of sheer stubbornness. He is at a complete loss with a Sougo who stands, hands curved loosely around air, gaze dull.
Sougo stills, fingers shy of grazing the photograph.
Hijikata wonders why it is now necessary to remind himself to breathe.
Without warning, Sougo draws his katana fluidly from his sheath and sweeps the curved steel in a deadly arc. Hijikata dodges from pure reflex, and something inside loosens slightly that Sougo is at last doing something familiar, in spite of the horrible, lightless eyes dark in his pale, expressionless face.
Sougo's katana appears in sight again, and Hijikata hardly has time to draw his own before silver flashes and Hijikata's right sleeve is sliced neatly from shoulder to wrist.
They continue like this, slash and parry, the air filled only with the hollow shriek of steel and breathing. Sougo slashes, Hijikata parries, and Hijikata is forcibly reminded of the spar Sougo launches not four days ago on him, of how alive Sougo looked then when he had screamed hoarsely to stop taking and taking and give back already, give back Mitsuba's happiness, to close the unbridgeable distance between his heart and his words. He is shaken from his distraction by a side-sweep which grazes his wound and sends nerves screaming up his legs. He slumps against the cool wall, cursing, too late, how Sougo has fought him into a corner. He engages his katana with Sougo's, only to have Sougo wrench the piece of steel from his grasp with a deft twist.
Sougo raises a swordless arm languidly and brings it down, hard, at Hijikata, but allows Hijikata to catch hold of the blow, and take him by his wrist.
"I have blood on my soul" Hijikata tells him, voice cracking inadvertently. "I've killed. We both did. I have Mitsuba's blood on my hands-"
"-don't flatter yourself, you stupid, fucking bastard," Sougo says quietly, teeth bared in a smile sharper than broken glass.
"It doesn't wash off easily," Hijikata finishes, "Okita-san".
Sougo makes no reply, his gaze hinting at rage or another lesser-known human emotion which Hijikata cannot (bear to) name. One pale long-fingered hand grips his blade, and levels it at Hijikata, its edge whispering promises against his throat.
Hijikata leans forward.
The steel bites gently into the hollow base of his neck; a bead of red traverses lazily down the length of the word to mark the distance between Sougo and himself.
Hijikata closes the distance, slowly, placing his lips upon Sougo's. He kisses Sougo carefully, quietly, the way one would tread in a room where another was deep in sleep. It is invitation enough, the chill of the night wind replaced with flaring warmth, when Sougo's lips part and Hijikata tastes the sugary, bitterly intoxicating heat of Sougo's mouth, the aftertaste of his usual assortment of candy and tea still ripe and clinging to Sougo's tongue.
Sougo places a palm between them, where Hijikata's heart is.
Hijikata's eyes open.
Sougo shoves with enough force to throw Hijikata two feet away from him; Hijikata staggers, managing to stay on his feet out of practice and sheer pride. Overbright brown eyes regard him silently.
"Hijikata-san," Sougo says at last, "I am not my sister."
The silence stretches painfully.
"I am aware, Sougo-san," Hijikata murmurs, and it is the ridiculous formality in his address, the unfathomable gaze, the not-quite scowl which gives Sougo sudden, inexplicable relief. "There are two Okitas I care for."
The next day, Kondo finds to his thoroughly-expressed delight a clear-eyed Sougo who returns to work, and Hijikata, who for strange reasons looks discomfited whenever asked what trick he pulled to cheer Sougo up.