UM. Procrastinating is bad, bad, bad, folks!
Guh have this. It's half background half awkward Gin.
Disclaimer: DONDAKEEEE! as you were before, yes? (Sorachi owns Gintama, Zen is my Yato brainchild)
Eyes of Wolves
- 5 -
.: MARCH, ONE MONTH AGO :.
There was nothing but a pure thirst for blood in those blue eyes. Even as he sat there and consumed incredible amounts of food, Kamui was a threat. Abuto knew it, Zenshi knew it, and most of all, Hosen knew it.
"Tomorrow, we'll head down there and see him in person," Kamui said through a mouthful of rice. "Zen, wanna come with us?"
"I'd prefer not to," Zenshi replied flatly. There was hardly any room for argument, but to his surprise, Kamui shrugged.
"Suit yourself." One of those devious smiles again.
"It's warm in Edo, isn't it?" mused Abuto aloud, rubbing his wrists absently. "I think it's nice. What about you, Danchou?"
"The food is good," came the typical reply.
Zenshi stood then, reaching for his umbrella. He nodded at Abuto, who dismissed him quietly with a casual wave.
The sun was, at the moment, unbearably pleasant.
.: SEVEN YEARS AGO :.
"Well?" says Kamui, his eyes glinting. "It's yes or no, there's no in-between."
The alley is dark and the offer is tempting.
No. It is not tempting — it is chokingly forceful.
"What," says Zenshi flatly, "is an eleven-year-old boy expecting out of this?"
Kamui has a maniacal glimmer to his blue eyes; they glow in the shadows and reflect nothing, yet absolutely everything. He asks Zenshi, rather plainly, what the older Yato thinks.
"You're leaving behind your mother and sister," Zenshi reasons, ignoring the question.
"What, are you going to say that I'm the same as my father?" Kamui smiles, and immediately, Zenshi knows that he's treading on thin ice. If there is anything they have in common, it is a dysfunctional disconnect from their fathers. The wedge that both drive between themselves and their paternal branches is pronounced.
Silence won't serve him well, not now.
"No," Zenshi amends quickly. His voice doesn't waver, but he knows that Kamui has caught wind of his nervousness. "But don't you love them?"
At this, Kamui pretends as if he's listening to a foreigner babble.
"Love them? Zen, I'm asking you to join me, not to lecture me."
The redheaded Yato squares off with the older one. Zenshi, well aware of the fact that his stoic, prolonged silences will not sit well with the younger boy, grimaces inwardly.
"The Harusame,though?"
"Yes."
There is such dead seriousness in Kamui's eyes that it physically hurts Zenshi to glance back at where the boy lives.
"Your mother is sick," he attempts one last time.
"And you think I don't know that?"
And there it is.
It's probably the last time he'll ever see it, but Zenshi remembers it well.
Though, even now, he hesitates, but he'll still call it love.
.: APRIL, PRESENT :.
The room was a comfortable abode, with an old mahogany desk and little decorative embellishments that spelled the occupant's very essence. The enormous white dog nuzzled Zenshi's elbow; he cast the creature a plain glance and petted its wide forehead.
"Sadaharu likes you, yes?" commented Kagura, from the couch.
"Watch out, that thing will bite your head off," snapped Gin, standing beside his desk with his arms crossed.
"So, Zenshi, right?" Shinpachi said, offering their Yato guest a cup of tea. Zenshi politely declined with a mild shake of his head. "How do you know Kagura-chan?"
"I told you, we're neighbors, yes?" insisted Kagura, rubbing the dog's nose when he padded over with a hopeful whine.
"Neighbors?" said Gin, sinking into his chair and propping his legs up on the table. "Back on your home planet with Mr. Baldy?"
"Back then, Papi wasn't bald." Kagura thought for a moment. "He was becoming bald."
"And how long ago was that?" asked Gin.
"Seven," Zenshi said, suddenly. "Seven years ago."
.: SEVEN YEARS AGO :.
The cold emptiness and desolation that he sees reflected in his mother's eyes is something he realizes he'll regret for a lifetime. The night is still, and he follows his path by the incandescence of the moon through the windows. He has few belongings: a few pairs of clothes, his typical umbrella, a pair of hunter's boots, and an old golden locket and chain his mother gave to him when he was young.
But even so, she has an uncanny sixth sense that informs her of her son's movements.
"I've heard the rumors," she says, softly. She has a voice like a bird, a soft, songlike lilt and accent that he could never derive. It was comforting, familiar, yet always different. "I never thought you'd be part of the group."
He had lived here for twenty years. He spent the past few years studying whatever it was that his father wished for him to go into; he had even apprenticed the galaxy's most impressive lawyers and politicians. He'd shaken hands with the President of so-and-so, the ruler of a this planet and that planet.
But never once had he acted on his own.
He thinks he is a puppet.
"You don't talk to me anymore," she adds. It's only an attempt to guilt him into staying, one last grab at her son. It's understandable; she's sad, she's desperate, she regrets nearly as much as he does.
"I have always talked to you, Ma," he replies.
She holds back a choked sob, because he hasn't called her "Ma" in many, many years. With his scars had come a sense of maturity, and for her the title of "Mother" instead of his beloved Ma. She treasures her little boy, even though he now towers over her and wields an athletic grace that she and her husband would never amount to. He is sleek and aloof and fox-like, blue-black like the sky with pale skin like the moon. She no longer knows who he looks like; she only knows his name.
"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed," she says. She meets his gaze with a forlorn one, wanting him to know that she is truly saddened. But the gentle clasp of her hands accompanied by her gentle tone lets him know that she still loves him. She has the blood of a Yato, dimmed by her motherly instincts, lulled into daily housework and undying devotion to her family. She is, in fact, someone he wishes the entire population could reflect — and sadly, it cannot.
"I know," he replies, a hint of a sigh in his voice.
"You'll visit," she tells him, more of an order than a request or a question. "And if you get married, you'll come back here first and introduce me to whoever it is, all right?"
At this, he must smile, because it is his mother and she's one of the very few who have the ability to make him burst into unexpected laughter.
"When do you leave?"
"In three hours."
"All right." She beckons him closer, and he strides up to her, leaning down because she has her arms outstretched and he is too tall to embrace standing upright. She strokes his hair, which has been recently cropped short, towards his ears. Even though the strands of black do not stay, as they used to, she continues to softly run her fingers across his temples. "Be careful. Promise?"
"Of course I promise."
"Visit when you can."
"I will."
"Take care of your friends, okay? So that one less parent will worry."
He tries not to stiffen, but she knows, and he knows — they are talking about Kamui.
"Take care of Kagura and her mother," he replies hoarsely, because he finds that even though he hasn't seen the girl down the street in ages, there has not passed a day where he runs an errand for the girl's ailing mother. "Give Auntie my thanks."
"I will."
She kisses him on the forehead and presses a bundle of intergalactic currency into his palms.
"Be safe."
.: MARCH, ONE MONTH AGO :.
The crewman beside him visibly shuddered when their captain and co-captain returned to the ship. The younger had blood all over his clothes, crusted on his hands, embedded beneath his nails. On the other hand, his older partner, leaning on the captain, was missing an arm entirely. Both looked harried, but Kamui looked more amused than fatigued. As if his expression was anything otherwise.
"Sir," a petty officer exclaimed in a strangled voice. "Your arm."
Abuto rolled his eyes. "It's just a limb, old sport. It's not my head."
"We've received word for next assignment," the officer continued, slightly wary of Kamui's unusually sharp gaze. Abuto brushed off the fact that the boy dumped him in a chair and stalked away, picking at his fingernails like some aggravated cat licking its paws far too intensely to be normal.
"What is it?"
"It'll involve raiding a city on planet Sciuttla."
Abuto made a face that spelled disgust in every corner, and then sank his head into his hands. Zenshi simply strode over and set a glass of water down beside the man. He also very emotionlessly ripped the gauze off of Abuto's accidental amputation. The older Yato hissed, his good hand gripping the glass until it nearly broke.
"I understand you're a decent medic, but at least tell me if you're going to operate," Abuto snarled through gritted teeth. Zenshi said nothing; several crewmen guardedly withdrew to their respective corners. Zenshi very quickly reviewed whatever his aunt had told him about amputation, and sat back with a dissatisfied harrumph.
"If you're up to severe pain, I suggest you lie down."
"And?"
"If you're not up to severe pain, I still suggest you lie down."
"Can't you just call the medic?"
"He's dead."
"He's…what?" Abuto frowned, first at Zenshi and then at his arm. The bloody stump, which had been badly bandaged and constantly soaked with pus, had been cut cleanly and carefully. The bone had been shaved smooth and makeshift clamps had secured major blood vessels. "Was that a joke? Is this a joke?"
"Yes, the first was a joke. The second, however…" A third voice, the voice of a bespectacled old Yato with a limp in his step and a skinny umbrella hanging off his arm, entered the room. Their ship doctor. He surveyed the work with a moderately impressed nod. "How in the world did you do that so quickly without him noticing?" He approached Abuto and studied the wound. "Ah, you made a good incision."
Zenshi grabbed his umbrella and stood.
"I'll leave the rest to you. The muscles are difficult to shape, so I supposed a professional would have been better."
"How do you know how to amputate?" Abuto called after him. "I learn something new about you every day, don't I?"
"So it seems." Zenshi propped his umbrella, unopened, onto his shoulder, and brushed past the awed crewmen congregated at the door. He turned, offering Abuto one last reply: "The answer, however, is magic."
Abuto smirked. "And I suppose the magician won't reveal his secrets?"
"Never."
.: SEVEN YEARS AGO :.
He contemplates throwing himself off the spaceship, just to see where he'll go, but he doesn't realize that he's actually falling.
It's only when a strong, calloused hand grabs his arm and hoists him on board that he realizes he has only tripped off of a ramp.
"You're not going to last long if you're that clumsy," chuckles the man who saved him. Zenshi looks up and finds himself looking into a somewhat familiar, somewhat unfamiliar face.
"Thanks," he offers, because it would be impolite to remain silent with people unacquainted and unaccustomed to his silence.
"Any time, bud." The man, obviously Yato, jerks a thumb at his chest. "Abuto, co-captain of this leaky boat."
"Zenshi."
"I know who you are," Abuto says plainly. Zenshi, on the defensive, awaits the comment of how similar he looks to his father.
"You're the boy who stabbed the living daylights out of an assassin. I remember."
Zenshi doesn't know if he should relax or remain tense. "I suppose that's one way to put it."
"How would you put it, then?" Abuto folds his arms, hooking he handle of his umbrella on a large, tooled belt.
"Defending myself."
"Ah." Abuto runs a hand through a nest of shaggy, light brown hair. "Well, bud, those are some mighty fine defense skills you have there." He pats Zenshi on the shoulder, nonchalantly. "Hope you didn't forget them at home."
"I wouldn't imagine it," Zenshi replies, under his breath.
He has made an ally, but he will not know this for a long, long time.
because I tend to confuse people:
Seven years ago:Zenshi joins a young Kamui in the Harusame.
(my headcanon is that Kamui joined when he was young, when Kagura was young, because he was such a skilled fighter)