whoooo. I need to stop procrastinating!
OH YEAH I FORGOT THE DISCLAIMERS!
ch. 1+2
Disclaimer: Gintama and its characters belong to the almighty Sorachi Hideaki, aka Gorilla-sensei. I'm only in charge of Zenshi, ohohoho~
Eyes of Wolves
- 2 -
.: Monday, TWO WEEKS AGO :.
He kept time with each ragged breath, each carefully placed step. The seconds ticked off in his head, dipping into negatives because he knew he was out of time. They were coming closer, and closer, and closer…
.: APRIL, PRESENT :.
"This?" Tsukuyo pointed to her scar, blowing a thin stream of smoke from her lips. "This is old."
He rested his chin on his propped up hand.
"Of course," she continued. "You probably already knew that."
.: OCTOBER, SIX MONTHS AGO :.
"Okay then, Mr. Politics, riddle me this," sang Kamui, slamming a peculiarly old checkerboard down in front of Zenshi like a declaration of war. "Say I'm an old Harusame admiral and I want to claim a new line of trade from…Planet Liuuk. What do I do first?"
The first thing Zenshi noticed was that Kamui had girlishly long eyelashes — long, auburn, and surprisingly unarming. But the eyes that sparkled beneath those lashes were purely Yato, genuinely filled to the brim with blood and violence and a desire to plunge into battle.
"That is beyond a politician's handle," Zenshi answered squarely.
"Oho," chirped the other boy, folding his hands on the table. "Then tell me: which export is more valuable? Paradise, or…"
He paused, leaning in.
"People?"
Zenshi abruptly paused in his endeavors, ceasing the slow, absent way he aligned the game pieces on the checkerboard. He said, "Neither."
"And why is that?"
"Danchou," called Abuto from across the room, where he sipped a glass of imported wine. "Zen's not a talker. Don't make him talk."
Abuto's sorry attempt to relinquish Zenshi was not unnoticed; that is, except by Kamui.
"Because only lowlifes deal in people," Zenshi informed his so-called captain, "and only idiots deal in drugs."
Kamui smiled, and Zenshi brushed off the urge to wipe off that smug smirk with a bloody rag. It was, as usual, a typical feeling. He wasn't quite comfortable with it, but it would have to do.
"Zenshi."
The older man turned, throwing Kamui a rather desolate glance.
"If you won't play checkers, then how about chess?" Kamui waited a few seconds before flipping the board, scattering the pieces across the floor. A few of the officers next to him grimaced, and the one to his right flinched reflexively. "I'll be the first player, and you can be the pawn."
His voice was light, nonthreatening.
Zenshi walked calmly to the door, wordlessly as only he could do so.
"Don't miss your pawns when they're gone, Kamui."
And he disappeared.
.: APRIL, PRESENT :.
He knew her name, at least. He knew her voice and the smell of tobacco smoke, lingering around her presence. She asked simple questions, spoke in a simple accent, and wasn't intruding, as far as he was concerned. He mostly changed the gauze himself now; the deeper wounds that ran across his abdomen had healed in superb time. Zenshi was thankful for his Yato bloodline in this aspect.
"Did ya break your wrist?" Tsukuyo asked, unrolling the gauze despite his quiet insistence that he do it himself. The blonde was duly convinced that he was still too torn up to really do much by himself, but relented anyway. She pointed to the Yato's left wrist, where a strong muscular forearm met his palm at a slightly misshapen joint.
Zenshi nodded, retracting his arm to himself. She didn't push further.
"Looks like an old break," she commented, before lapsing into lenient silence.
"Like old scars," he answered, sliding a long blade of grass between his teeth. He chewed on its end, contemplative.
"They never really finish healin', do they?"
"No, they don't."
.: EIGHTEEN YEARS AGO :.
His mother combs his hair from his face and tells him to be brave. Zenshi doesn't need to be told, however. His aunt is deftly injecting whatever anesthetic available into his skin, and he can't really feel anything for a while. He can feel the pressure of stitches winding in and out, in and out, the tug of flesh and string and needle.
His father is not present.
"There," declares his aunt, stepping back to survey her work — and the damage. "It won't be pretty, but you have an eye. It's a miracle he can even see."
His mother is still pushing his long, black hair from his face, lips pursed in concern.
"He has no need for being pretty, only smart and safe." She continues this somewhat obsessive stroking of his hair until he assures her that he is fine. "Pretty is for princesses, right?"
He tips his head to the side, leaning his cheek into his mother's pale, soft hand.
"Ma, why don't I look like you?"
She's frozen, suddenly. It's true — she has mousy, brown hair that curls around her chin and falls just past her shoulders, and wide, brown eyes the color of melted dark chocolate. With her full lashes and round, heart-shaped face, she has probably only given her only son his long, straight nose and thin lips. The rest — high cheekbones, dark blue eyes, severe angles — are his father's.
"Do you want to look like Ma?" she inquires, looking forlorn. She knows the real question, the one that peeks out from his withdrawn expression. Why do I look like my father?
"Not if she doesn't want me to."
He touches his eye, briefly, still numb.
"You are fine as you are, honey."
You are fine as you are.
.: APRIL, PRESENT :.
"Can I introduce Zenshi-san to my friends in Yoshiwara?" asked Seita, looking eager. A few days passed, and the foreigner had managed to convince the strict leader of the Hyakka to let him wander the streets. Again.
He propped his umbrella up on his shoulder, shielding him from the sun.
"If ya end up in another ditch, I won't save ya this time 'round, got it?" Tsukuyo warned, folding her arms. Indeed, he was indebted. But he wasn't an idiot; he wouldn't commit the same errors twice.
"Can we go to Kabukichou?" chimed the boy.
"Yoshiwara, only," Tsukuyo cautioned firmly. "And don't kill'im. The man almost died."
"Almost," Seita echoed sardonically.
"Yes, almost," replied Tsukuyo, rolling her eyes.
.: Monday, TWO WEEKS AGO :.
Blood seeped from his shoulder, soaking his shirt. The bullet had only grazed him, but close calls were not in his agenda. In fact, his agenda consisted of finding shelter from this horrid, pounding rain, and safety from his pursuers.
The Yato were fierce trackers. They wouldn't relent his trail so quickly, and he knew very well the lengths to which they'd follow. Luckily, the rain he should have been so accustomed to — but ultimately hated — would play the role of his ally. It shielded and washed away his scent every passing moment, every tick of his internal clock.
He knew not where he was. Zenshi counted the cobblestones beneath his feet, and when they gave way to gravel, and then to muddy dirt, he continued to synchronize his breathing with his footsteps.
Shots.
There was a searing pain in his leg, but he evaded quickly enough to avoid the second and third. He had left his umbrella somewhere; no idea where, though.
Hopefully, the sun would just rise from behind those clouds and zap all of them to pieces. Or so he dreamed. He continued running, zigzagging down dark streets and crossing dank alleyways.
"Young man," called a tired voice.
Zenshi froze.
"Young man, if you seek shelter, you can just come in already. You've been standing there for ages."
He had? Zenshi whirled around, unsure of how far he'd run and for how long.
"Weary travelers should by wary of people that offer sudden stays," he said in haste.
"Yes, but you seem in no condition to turn me down." An old woman, standing at the door of her shop, folded her arms. "I have given shelter to more than one stray cat. Trust me."
Seconds, seconds, seconds. Zenshi weighed the risks and the benefits, and threw them all aside when his internal clock sounded its urgent alarm. He needed to go, and soon.
He accepted, gratefully ducking past the woman into the shop.
Zenshi found himself engulfed in a strange sort of warmth. It smelled of sake and fried rice, but he supposed that didn't matter. The maid at the bar wiped at the counter mechanically, and the second employee, a mannish cat-woman with a squared jaw, offered him a drink.
"They've been chasing down the strays lately," mused the old woman, closing the door. She gestured for him to sit at the bar. "They won't notice if I suddenly have another housecat, though."
"It would be wise," said the barmaid suddenly, her voice uncomfortably robotic, "to carry an umbrella in such downcast weather."
Zenshi looked away. His hand, clasped around the glass that had been handed to him, withdrew hesitantly.
"That's true," he agreed. "But I lost mine on the way here."
"How sad," said the maid.
"Yes, it is."
And the clouds continued to weep.
be glad these chapters aren't as long as Emeralds ones, lolol.
that one's on hiatus...for a longgggg time. *nervously laughs here*