Hijikata steps up to the bench just outside the dango shop—their usual meeting place—but a woman is already seated there. He might normally be miffed that he has to hang around standing to wait for that mop-head, who will almost certainly roll up twenty minutes late. But the woman is packing fine tobacco into a kiseru, and in this world of shifting propaganda Hijikata will take all the camaraderie he can get.
He stands just to the side and places a cigarette between his lips. "I'm waiting for someone," he says, scooping the lighter out of his yukata sleeve. "Mind if I sit?"
When her eyes raise they're illuminated like flaked amethyst held up against the sun, and he is so dumbstruck that he doesn't hear the answer and has to prompt her to repeat.
"I said I don't mind." Her voice is soft and deep.
He sits beside her, a fair amount of space between them, and lights up. "Sorry."
"I'm waiting too." She looks dignified, dangerous. He can't resist surreptitiously staring at the vicious scars on her face. It helps that she's gorgeous. "He's already late."
"Who are you waiting for?"
"Just . . . I don't know. A friend. I guess."
He didn't expect it to be a difficult question. Undefined sex relationship, maybe? "Sounds familiar."
"Hm."
Hijikata hopes that the guy shows—because what an asshole, to stand up a woman like this—while simultaneously hoping that they both get stood up.
They sit in silence and watch business suits with cell phones, plain kimono with sacks of groceries walk by. He burns through two cigarettes, and in that time observes her refill the kiseru four times. "You don't seem to get much out of one bowl."
"Maybe five good puffs."
"That's not annoying?" By now it's obvious that neither of them are meeting who they came for, that they are now just hanging out.
"It's more a hobby than a habit. The ritual is more calming than the smoking itself."
"Is that so."
"You should try it. Cigarettes are bad for you."
"Come on, lady, you're smoking too."
"You don't actually inhale pipe smoke. And there are no toxic additives in loose—"
"Alright, alright." He's finished the cigarette, so he pinches out the last of the tobacco and stuffs the butt into a portable ashtray. Yamazaki fusses when he empties it in the trash at the compound, so Hijikata is scanning the area for a public bin. "Getting late now." Sunset won't be for a few more hours but already the daylight is starting to turn a little more yellow-orange.
"I'm going to wait a bit longer."
Hijikata hesitates before asking, "Why?" It's got some harsh implications, but he thinks she's better than to waste an entire evening waiting around for some man.
"If he doesn't come, he's probably gotten into trouble."
Come to think of it, Gintoki is the same way. Late is one thing—being a no-show is another. Anyone else might just be lying half-beaten in some dark corner of the district. With Gintoki, real trouble is far more severe than being stripped of what paltry change he has left. If the shit is already under way, there's nothing to be done but wait for it to blow over, and to watch him limp home.
"I'll wait with you."
She looks up quizzically.
"Just pack me a bowl, will ya?" he says as he hands her a cigarette.
Because there's nothing he can do, and he's worried nonetheless.
/ / / / /
When Tsukuyo blinks awake she is slumped to one side, her cheek resting against the stranger's arm. She rubs her eyes. "Your friend never came?"
He's holding a lit cigarette. She wonders how many he's even got left by now. "Neither did yours. At least—no one came to kick my ass, letting you fall asleep on me."
"I'm sorry."
"'S fine."
"How long was I out?"
"Twenty, maybe."
She grumbles and touches her forehead, wishing she could push through and massage her eyeballs. That should've been the perfect power nap. Tsukuyo hasn't been sleeping well, and the weeks are catching up with her. These evenings with Gintoki are among the few she can truly relax, so his absence had turned up the dial on her anxiety and that was just draining her. As she had fought to keep her eyes open she decided it was a public enough place to nod off next to an unfamiliar man. She'd thought it would relieve some of the exhaustion, but now she just feels like lead, and there's a heavy swimming feeling in her sinuses like motion sickness without movement.
"You alright?" The stranger is peering at her, eyes narrowed with concern.
"Just feeling a bit ill."
"Let me walk you home."
"It's not really within walking distance."
"My plans kinda got cancelled anyway."
"It's really not necessary. I don't—"
"I'm a cop. Consider it part of the job." That explains the sword at his hip. He speaks in commands but his relaxed posture makes it feel passive somehow, like he recognizes her right to refuse. So when he offers his hand she takes it, and he gives a little tug to help her stand. She's woozy and reflexively hooks her hand into his elbow—partly to keep from losing balance, partly because she's thinking of Gintoki and muscle memory dictates that her hand goes there.
In fact, the two might actually be the same height. Where Gintoki is beefier, compact, this man's black hair and slender frame make for an illusion of height greater than the reality. His features are small and serious, but if his habits are any indication he's not good at compartmentalizing. So he's probably also more neurotic than he looks. Vaguely she wonders what he looks like annoyed. She has tried not to stare but his eyes are such a unique hue that she feels the need to keep confirming it.
Blue eyes are never that dark.