IN BLUE

Souji in blue is a vastly different thing from Souji in white. The difference is glaring. Souji in blue is the sharp edge of the sword, a weapon cleverly wielded to cut the legs out from under their enemies, to stab them in the back, to twist out their hearts with just the right thrust and force. Souji is that force; he is the perfectly crafted blade, the weapon brandished to threaten and defeat.

In white Souji touches him, and Souji smiles at him as his fingers stroke Hijikata's skin, the perfect knowing caress that always makes him shudder, and Souji is still almost smiling as they press together, smiling even as Hijikata groans into his hair, smile fading now into short, sharp breaths as friction pulls them both away from reality in a long, pale fade.

Souji in blue is an animal that does not know its master. He recognizes only blood. Souji in blue calls him "sir" with a clipped and detached tone that says quite clearly that Hijikata is not his master. He tolerates orders only because they reflect his own purpose, to hunt, to rip, to tear and kill. Souji has no master.

In white he sits on the edge of the porch, just to the left of the opened crack in the shoji, just out of Hijikata's line of sight, and he coughs quietly into the pale sleeve of his kimono, clearing his throat patiently each time. He doodles on a sheet of paper with one of Hijikata's old calligraphy brushes, little pictures of butterflies and scenery and Saizou, all things soft and familiar. Hijikata struggles to ignore him, but cannot banish that harsh and muffled cough. Later, he knows, he will open his books and find the small drawings tucked carefully between the pages, slipped there at some unknown point during the night.

Souji in blue is kneeling before him, apologizing briskly for allowing an Ishin Shishi spy to escape, his eyes cold and blank. He pauses, coughs once and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, the movement indelicate and impatient, and Hijikata hears himself reply, "That's fine," as though he's speaking to a stranger. Souji's figure is a dark stain against the pale silk screen behind him, his narrowed eyes are fixed on Hijikata with a strange defiance, and Hijikata must pause and find his breath again before he says, "You're dismissed, Souji."

Souji returns to him under cover of night, in white again, and in the moonlight he seems transparent and breakable. He curls against Hijikata silently, exhausted, winding his hands into the material of Hijikata's yukata like a child, and Hijikata is struck by the impression that Souji is vanishing, slowly, like mist melting away beneath a rising sun. Souji in white is gradually ceasing to exist.

"Tomorrow," Hijikata rumbles at last, and Souji shifts against him, a bared thigh brushing his leg. "There's new medicine for you." Souji makes a quiet humming sound at this, but otherwise gives him no response.

Hijikata would forbid Souji to wear blue, but Souji in blue is the weapon, the sharpest sword they have, and Souji is the heart and soul of the movement. Souji in blue cuts anything and everything he can reach, without even trying, without even being aware. He cuts Hijikata as well, deeply, but Hijikata bears his wounds with a samurai's silent pride. He cannot bleed for Souji, because Souji in blue can smell blood, and if Hijikata bleeds, Souji in white will never come back.

Souji in blue is a vastly different thing from Souji in white. It is not something Hijikata can ignore. Souji is dying no matter what color he wears, and he cannot ignore that, either. He listens to Souji breathing in the darkness, not yet asleep but nearly, he hears the slight, rasping catch of his inhale, and he closes his eyes and turns his face away.

There is nothing about Souji that can be ignored, nothing about Souji that can be changed, and Hijikata is more aware of this than anyone else. Hijikata accepts this, even as he resents it, even as he hates it, and it is a very long time before he sleeps.