Disclaimer: Peace Maker Kurogane belongs to Nanae Chrno.
Note: Oh, my, I really didn't mean to make it this depressing.
Empires
Outside, it snows. Hijikata impassively watches it collect on the dry dirt, languidly breathing in smoke and brisk air. The door behind him is shut because the chill is not good for Souji, but he can hear the hacking coughs, an irregular staccato rhythm that is both better and worse than the empty silence of the morning. Dead men don't cough, but the sound is raw, painful, and wet with blood.
Yamazaki's footfalls are noiseless. Hijikata doesn't realize that the ninja is beside him until the young man coughs into his fist politely. "Excuse me, Hijikata-san," says the acting medic, lowering his eyes out of respect, or maybe in apology. There is a cup of viscous, brackish liquid on the tray in his hands, so still that the surface doesn't even ripple. "I need to check on Okita-san."
Hijikata nods and steps to the left. Susumu slips into the room so quickly the clatter of the door opening and sliding closed is indistinguishable. The seconds are silent as Souji pours the warm concoction down his throat, out of habit rather than anything else. It is useless and all three of them know it.
"It's a cold winter," says Susumu when he exits, holding an empty cup. "They might cancel the New Year's festival if there is a storm." He stares ahead like his superior, raising a hand to untie the facemask covering his mouth. Even without the muffling cloth, his words are quiet and resigned. He glances at Hijikata and adds, "Hijikata-san, you should not stay so long, or you might also catch something."
"I will be fine," answers the vice-captain, blowing out thin smoke. Yamazaki knows better than to argue, especially when the man's tone is so reserved, hopeless and soft. The ninja has known loss; they all have, but this drawn-out sort is considerably crueler. He bows, disappearing so silently Hijikata is sure that if he were to walk across the flawless snow, he'd leave no footprints.
"Hijikata-san," calls Souji gently, coughing momentarily quelled. Hijikata feels as though it's been a while since he has heard the boy's voice. Even in its current state, weakened and horrible, it is a blessing. "You really might get sick if you stand there too long."
"I am not that feeble," answers Hijikata stubbornly. It is a pathetic excuse. Souji had never been weak either.
The sound of soft chuckling barely makes it past the door. Hijikata inhales, relishing for a moment in the sense of sound alone. It is easy to forget the cold when his fingers are already numb. "Mou, so stubborn," comments Souji, barely an echo of a taunt. "So tell me then, how does it look? This morning. It is light outside. It must be very beautiful." Hijikata opens his eyes, blinking at the sudden blinding white.
Staring at the cloudless sky, he frowns. The barren branches are coated with a thin coat of ice. The ground is sprinkled with flakes, and it feels like the world is holding still, waiting for the snow to plummet and hit the earth. Inside, on the final days of the year, in a dark and shadowy room with only a flickering candle to light it, Souji watches his silhouette on the door and slowly dies. "There is nothing beautiful about it."
Souji doesn't answer immediately. In fact, there's not even a stir from behind him that Hijikata almost wonders if the boy has finally stopped breathing. Finally, much to his relief, a little to his dismay, the boy answers. Hijikata's heart either starts beating, or stops again. "That's not a very poetic description at all, Hijikata-san." He can almost see it, the half-pout, played on dry, cracked lips on a sickly pale face.
"There is nothing poetic about it," responds the vice-captain shakily. It is one thing to give up hope, and another matter to accept that you did. The effort is momentous. It is simpler, for Hijikata, to slide sharp metal through a once-friend-turned-enemy than to acknowledge that he has stopped hoping.
"I'm tired." Souji doesn't bother pressing the point further.
"Then rest," replies Hijikata instinctually, though he knows that the sort of weariness Souji has cannot be dispelled through sleep.
Souji is tired of everything, of the winter, of the burning in his chest, of dying, of living, of Hijikata's occasional vigils at his deathbed door. He is tired of resisting, and it is evident in his ragged breathing, the lack of enthusiasm. At the least, as all Shinsengumi know, it is easier to fight losing battles. Hijikata, with the rebels cowering in secret meeting rooms and his subordinates in equal fear, is almost envious. He knows that, as all empires do, his is crumbling.
"I wish," says Souji, "we could."