.*Chapter 2*.
It had been that day, after the rain…
After the demons vanished without a trace and the adrenaline wore off…
After the earth embraced Gen-san, and the long journey made each step heavier than the last… After the brisk wind howled and battered and took with it his vibrancy, after he was left the color of plaster while sparkling ribbons of livelihood—of purple and blue and black—trailed him…
After there was too much time to think about the future and the past, about the repercussions and the long-lasting consequences…
That was when Osaka Castle had at last come into view, with its staggering walls jutting toward a sky bereft of starlight, ever since a blanket of gray rolled in. And how fitting it was: the heights of this formidable, poignant construct pointing to nothing and its armored defenses protecting nothing—of importance, anyway. The shogun and Matsudaira had made it clear with their unannounced retreat that whatever, whomever, had been left in the west was considered expendable.
A more stable man might have recognized it as poetic irony in its finest form. A more fortunate man might have penned such a tragedy across the stanzas…if only it weren't actually happening to him now.
Snowflakes drifted wayward and light through a chill that put a quiver to the bones, and Hijikata's lips trembled. But whether that was entirely from the cold or amplified by finding a lone figure cemented at the front gate, like an architectural fixture, was unclear.
Of course, it was Kondo who awaited him, them. No weather was severe enough to deter his loyalty, no winter too harsh, and no future too hopeless, apparently.
His injured arm was cradled by a sling of bandages and his mouth pulled into a taut line. White dusted his hair and shoulders and his breaths fell conspicuous, but still he maintained the resolute vigil until his eyes could meet Hijikata's. They were openly rife with concern and foreboding, like Kondo had pierced straight through to his soul and already knew it all without a single word spilled.
And it occurred to Hijikata then, as he approached on feet which had gone excruciatingly numb hours ago, that Kondo could read him so well by now that perhaps he already did.
There was more to them than the allegiance of rank, more than the product of the Shinsengumi and the consequent fruits of such labor. They were commander and vice commander, yes, but the threads which bound their souls reached distant into the fathoms—stretched outward to the stars and interlaced with the very fabric of destiny. For as Kondo held Hijikata's heart, Hijikata held his in return.
There was a difference, however.
Kondo had carefully guarded his since the beginning. And as for Hijikata…for the first time in his life, he couldn't hold his commander's gaze.
-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-
Falling, falling, falling—splash. His lips parted and the air left his lungs.
Hijikata stared as his breath floated toward the sun-kissed surface in a cascade of bubbles, while his body drifted further and further under. A hand floated up and out, reaching for the fleeting image of the sky; it was a futile attempt at doing nothing useful, while he sunk through this ocean too deep, too vast, too crimson—
Crimson. He squinted. Crimson? Blood?! Hijikata's eyes shot wide. Blood! His mouth clamped tight when the panic sent lightning surging through his veins, and he attempted, with both desperation and no avail, to lunge himself in the opposite direction of the submersing pull which ensnared him.
"Why do you fight it?" a voice echoed, familiar and calm, over idle thrashing. "You either drink or drown. It is that simple."
Mannequins clothed in dandara haori rose up from the depths and past him—faceless, lifeless representations of the men who had succumbed to the ochimizu and now served as cautionary implications of what Hijikata's future held if he refused the call.
But he…he was not like them. He would not become like them…chained to walls, mindless and wailing and bound by the lust for blood. He would never—
"Drink…"
His lungs had begun to burn from starvation, with delirium pulling over his consciousness like a veil. The fever was rising, the appetite mounting, the demands setting his impulses alight to give in and drink, drink, drink, to breathe in life from the wound of another—or suffocate in this crushing void and be consumed.
Hijikata threw his head from side-to-side and just when his body threatened to succumb…
"Toshi."
The cover went sailing up and toward his feet as Hijikata launched himself into a sitting position on the futon. Rasping in desperation, his hands flew to his throat and he held it, if only to confirm nothing constricted his neck or hampered his ability to breathe.
It was moments of this…of his shoulders undulating violently as he heaved and repeated to himself, over and over, that what he'd just experienced was not reality but a nightmare. Yet, those urges he felt in it…they remained and that meant…
Sweat beaded Hijikata's brow as the tremors began to wrack his frame, and he released his neck before his fingers left something much worse than bruises. Convulsions…gasping. He needed…something to hold, something, before—
Red. The world was going red. His hair…changing, his clarity receding, his humanity withdrawing and bowing to the dominance of feral rasetsu blood. And everything, everything was moving so fast, so out of control, he—
His hands dropped aimlessly, grabbed to whatever was in his lap and squeezed—squeezed and squeezed, clawed, until he could no longer hold back the anguished cry that begged to leave his lips. He muffled it with the blanket.
But the blanket smelled like Kondo. And when Hijikata's eyes snapped open at that awareness, he realized it had been the haori which stifled his voice.
'Kat-chan!' A sob broke free and his digits clamped with so much force that his knuckles went white hot. Like this, his mind abandoned the frenzy of resisting the transformation and hyperfocused, reiterated that one name as if it were a religious incantation.
Panting, panting…His eyes screwed shut again. 'Kat-chan, Kat-chan, Kat-chan...'
The passage of time had become meaningless in this state, but there was a slow approach back to rationality. Little by little, the tremors died and the pain lessened. Bit by bit, the room and his hair faded back into shades of normalcy, and the flames that fueled the incessant yearning dampened once more to ash.
Hijikata remained with his face buried in the garment, daring not move until he was certain he was through it—and once he was, he gradually lowered the haori, until it was firmly pressed to his chest instead.
In a cold sweat, he stared at nothing on the tatami past his feet, then allowed his lashes to fall and swallowed hard. The space felt stuffy and stale despite the cold, and he looked hesitantly, helplessly, toward the outer shoji.
Keeping Kondo's haori tightly clutched, Hijikata rose to his knees and then his feet. He stumbled away from the futon and staggered toward the doors that promised fresh air to feed his lungs. Fingertips pressed to the wooden frame and he slid one panel aside…just in time, to hear the pattering of footsteps and the muted choke of a sob…to see a flash of dark pink before it disappeared around the corner.
Chizuru.
So consumed by the intensity of his own perils, Hijikata hadn't put two and two together as for why Chizuru was running about in the middle of the night…until he heard Heisuke softly hissing her name from the next room over. Immediately, he withdrew into the privacy of his own space and quickly closed the door.
Heisuke's shadow ran across it shortly after, and all Hijikata could do was let his eyes fall shut with an exasperated breath. One hand pressed to his forehead and brushed back through his hair, continuing to travel all the way until he cupped his neck.
He hadn't needed a reminder that he wasn't the only one suffering. They all were, with each unfolding personal drama bound by the skeins of one life-changing occurrence: the astringent taste of ochimizu washing over the palate.
Still…there could be even marginal improvement all around if it was possible to just get some rest. However, what little sleep Hijikata (and everyone else, it seemed) could manage in recent times was shallow, and it went without saying that the nightmares and increasing severity of attacks added nothing favorable to an already ominous situation.
Surely, this sentiment was one that Heisuke shared, and perhaps that was what prompted the brief scene Hijikata had witnessed out there.
His head hung. It wasn't his business, but it had served as supporting evidence to something he'd been reluctant to admit. And maybe it was the exhaustion talking, because he was just so, so tired…
But what really awaited him when he closed his eyes? …And on the opposite side of the coin, what awaited him when they didn't? Either route meant pain, so what was the path of lesser resistance?
As Hijikata's lashes parted again, he was met with the sight of Kondo's haori and it gave focus to his wandering mind. Somewhere, his commander was laid up in a lonely foreign bed, recovering just enough so he could come back home—back to…whatever the hell this was.
He licked his lips at the bitter reflection. How could it be that he'd come to use Kondo as the focal point that would drag him back from the brink of madness? He was where Hijikata's thoughts always went when it all got too unbearable, and the guilt this caused him was simply indescribable.
He knew damn well that he'd forfeited the right to such a luxury when he went back on the most important promise he'd ever made—knew that the consumption of what was trapped in that vial would change his entire life. But he hadn't known the extent, or the degree to which everything would skew.
And if he had to do it all over, well…Hijikata scoffed into the darkness at the alternative and deflected.
There was work to be done. There was always work to be done. If he wasn't doing something, he was useless.
So, he draped the haori over his shoulders, lit the candle, and dropped to seiza before his desk. A deep inhale pushed his chest out and he took up the brush—but before he dipped it into ink, he paused for a moment of consideration, of reminder.
The purpose for his existence now was twofold. First, the future of the Shinsengumi rested entirely on his shoulders and he would have this organization in the best shape possible by the time Kondo returned. And second, when that time came…
Hijikata gazed downward and through his lashes. It was up to him to find a way of navigating these attacks without burdening the person he revered most of all. Because if he'd learned anything from years spent with Kondo, it was that the best way to love someone was to protect them.
The image of Heisuke running frantically after Chizuru filled his thoughts.
And sometimes…
His shoulders fell.
…protecting the person one loved…meant letting them go.
An odd desire to reach for his poetry book twanged within Hijikata; perhaps it was all this musing on affection and tragedy. His eyes slid to the drawer which housed it and he stared in that direction for several moments, before straightening his back and placing a blank sheet of paper on the desktop.
It would be a letter. An appeal for a meeting. …A request that would go ignored.
…But at least it would look pretty.
The brush danced and the wick burned, until sunlight stole its purpose; then, it was extinguished—as all useless things were fated to be.
But as for Hijikata…there was work to be done, no matter how much Katsu Kaishu or the Bakufu ignored them.
At least, that's what he kept assuring himself.