a/n: this is literally my (second) comfort fic, it's so nice just being able to slip back into it and letting my mind run loose, especially these last couple days, i very much needed the distraction.

what i'm trying to say is thank you guys for putting up with the crap i write lol you're awesome

. . .

(but i don't like a gold rush (in silver tones))

Toshiro bites down on a leaden sigh, the blameless cigarette hanging thinly between his teeth getting crushed from the sheer force behind his jawline.

He's supposed to be on patrol duty today alongside Sougo; keyword, supposed. Of course the kid is nowhere to be found, most probably wasting time napping somewhere with that horrendous sleeping mask of his. But, for once, it might be better this way, given that left on his own he can at least attempt to tackle his discombobulated thoughts.

If Toshiro is being honest with himself—which he's not, because that's too stiff a price to pay and he isn't willing to bet on himself—he's been somewhat...on edge, as of late.

Especially after what had transpired with the Yorozuya the previous day. He just—he can't seem to brush that off. Part of him knows that such matters shouldn't matter enough to even be taken into consideration, but another more pressing part of himself can't just as simply dismiss them.

The idiot actually cooperated with them, with him, without getting anything in return to show for it (except for an unhealthy snack and one of Isao's killer handshakes, which don't exactly count as "rewards"). And Gintoki isn't known to grant favors free of charge, at least not by Toshiro's standards.

But still, the samurai had managed the feat of surprising him ( shocking him even), since he's used to thinking of the man being the sort who instigates trouble purely out of his own amusement and self-satisfaction.

Instead, he...

(Toshiro recalls Gintoki's exhausted gaze flickering up to his own, fingers rendered clumsy with threadbare nerves raking up his downy hair, arrogant quips lowering to honest whispers, smug grin dripping down to a softer simper, the emphasis he put on the offer to meet up for drinks—)

Toshiro cups the bridge of his nose, faintly feeling on the verge of a stomachache, on top of a looming headache pounding away on the horizon.

He totally ignores the fact that he's sporting an annoyed scowl, and emanating a wrathful aura to boot, which gets people scrambling out of his way to keep at least a five feet radius of distance.

Except for a child walking nearby, who's holding onto the distracted hand of his mother whilst she's apparently diving deep in a gossiping session over the phone.

The kid tilts his head up, wearing that morbidly curious sort of look only children seem to possess, moon-eyed and gaping and missing his target as he ends up smearing ice cream over half his chubby face.

Toshiro, unconsciously, trains the irritated scowl on him.

Aaand...the child bursts out crying.

Well, that's just great.

He speed-walks the other way without looking back, thumbs fitting over his closed eyelids for just a second as he breathes out the bubbling exasperation.

Let the record state: This most assuredly counts as the Yorozuya's fault.

As if he'll let him keep running interference. Tch. The idiotic moron's got a big storm coming his way if he thinks otherwise. So he vows to keep up his (non)vigilant patrol.

(He doesn't want to admit to himself that he doesn't want to think about it in the first place because that would mean that the matter is significant enough to bother him. And he can't have that because—)

In the midst of the truncated thinking lines he fails to notice his feet have guided him among the familiar streets of an overfamiliar district, till it's too late.

Tearing away his stare from the ground, lest he burns a hole right through the asphalt, he gets enough of a hold on himself to stop. And he swears he feels his heart faltering inside his ribcage, missing a couple beats.

When fifteen feet away stands none other than the main character of this particular ambivalence, which has been plaguing him ever since their last chance encounter.

Gintoki is idly walking ahead, nonchalant as always, and Toshiro is only granted the sunlit rear view of his upper body, his messy hair enhanced by golden beams of brilliant sun which give his silvery curls an altogether softer appearance.

Toshiro is unaware he's suddenly holding onto his breath; the tips of his fingers burning with it.

Unaware he resumes his walk, feet trudging forward out of their own volition.

Toward him.