Heaven Knows Everyone Is Miserable Now
Chapter 22: The Outcome of Hope
There were no changes to Jirocho's condition. He continued to lie immobile in his cot without speaking or turning, exhibiting little difference in his breathing whether he was asleep or simply resting his eyes, stuck in that sickly pane of existence between real slumber and the inescapable languor familiar to anyone confined to a bed.
Hijikata recognized it well enough, even if staring too long at the old man filled him with dread. The heap of guilt sitting on top of his conscience grew at the very sight of him. Hijikata couldn't help but think Jirocho's demise was all his fault. Every minute the old man did not get better was another minute Hijikata could do without. Despite trying to put on a brave front to reassure Pirako and keep Kitaoji on side, Hijikata was too self-conscious not to perceive his own glaring discomfort.
After disturbing Jirocho's repose to give the old man his medication, Hijikata forced himself back into the rhythm of the house and the little life he had once been part of. He finished the chores Pirako had failed to carry out in her zest for her father's health, such as mending the backyard fence, washing dirty clothes, preparing batches of pickled vegetables and weeding out the garden. And he did it all whilst showing Kitaoji around in a subtle effort to demonstrate how father and daughter had fared so long into the end of the world.
Kitaoji's eyes were clear behind the lenses of his glasses as he listened to Hijikata's instructions. He looked genuinely impressed as he sat down on the porch after helping Hijikata tend to a row of neglected parsnips.
"Everything must sound very boring to you, but surviving is made of these little things as well," Hijikata said, rummaging his pockets for the half-smoked cigarette he had stashed earlier that day.
"Not at all," Kitaoji replied, "We are actually very interested in farming at the moment."
Hijikata did not miss Kitaoji's use of the word 'we'—meaning Kitaoji's settlement, camp, estate, whatever place it was where everyone Hijikata cared about was currently carrying on without him.
"Are you?" Hijikata wondered, "I thought a big place like yours would have the basics covered," he added with a smirk,"Is it because of those farms you mentioned before?"
"Yes, we don't have enough manpower to manage them all at once, so we're looking for ways to make up for that," Kitaoji said, adjusting his glasses, "Which explains my job."
"Recruiting survivors." Hijikata deduced.
Kitaoji nodded.
"I can see how a sick old man and a teenage girl might not fit your plans of expansion."
"There's a difference between adding to the workforce and admitting just two more mouths to feed." Kitaoji said.
"Toeing a fine line, aren't you?" Hijikata sighed. He gave up looking for his cigarette and looked up at the twilight sky instead. The silver shine of the few stars already blinking in the darkening expanse reminded him of previous times, different moments by that porch. A different company.
"You said the old man was suspicious," Kitaoji said, "And you asked for my help. But how do you plan to convince him to leave? He and his daughter seem to have a nice place here. Easy enough to maintain even if the inevitable happens."
Hijikata froze, faced with the bitter truth. A truth he'd carried with him from the moment his eyes had laid on Jirocho's wound all those weeks ago, before he and Gintoki had set out. A truth which had become much clearer once Hijikata had returned and seen the feeble man lying in his cot.
Jirocho's death hung like a specter over the house. Hijikata was painfully aware of it. He had lived under the specter of a dying man before. He had been the recipient of said man's plea to shorten the inevitable: to die. Hijikata could not allow Jirocho to come to that same end. He had returned to save him. To repay his debt. To spare Pirako from Sarutobi's fate and his own. The loss of the one person who had once been their entire world.
"I don't know," Hijikata admitted, sitting down, "But there must be a way to compromise..."
He took from the inside pocket of his jacket the folded photo Jirocho had given him of the original owners of the house, and he studied the faces of the seemingly happy couple. Jirocho had meant for the couple to take care of Pirako if he should not survive. He had entrusted Hijikata with finding them in a last ditch-hope to save Pirako from a world without him, and Hijikata had given him his word.
"Doromizu-san doesn't plan for his daughter to stay here all alone if the worst happens," Hijikata whispered, the words tumbling out of his mouth, "So why should he?"
His spoken thoughts were interrupted by Pirako's arrival.
"What are you two chattering on about?"
Her voice had a forced cheerfulness to it.
Hijikata slipped the photo back in his pocket and changed subject.
"You don't happen to have found some of your old man's smokes lying around? It's not like he is gonna have them now."
Pirako crossed her arms and tutted, eyeing Hijikata with a disapproving smile.
"Hijikata-san, you rascal, taking advantage of pops being poorly."
"I think I've done my fair share to earn them."
"Alright, alright. I'll fetch them for ya'," Pirako said with a roll of her eyes, "But you owe me. I want to know everything that happened with Gin-san. You can tell me at dinner. Oh, by the way, I've boiled too much water from the well, so there's some left for a bath. I think you both need it," she said, pinching her nose with her fingers as she looked back and forth at Hijikata and Kitaoji.
The two of them proceeded to sniff themselves and their clothes. Their sense of smell had been ruined by too many hours of sweaty hard work and grimy kills for them to be able to perceive their own stench.
Pirako returned shortly with two wash bowels tucked under her arm and a crumpled pack of cigarettes that she threw onto Hijikata's lap.
"Newbies first," she said, handing Kitaoji a bowl, "Don't hog all the hot water. Bet you can't believe it, can ya'?"
"You'd be surprised, miss." Kitaoji said deadpan. He picked the bowel and left.
Pirako scrunched her nose.
"He's awfully polite. Bit of a stuck-up nerd, ain't he?"
Hijikata chuckled as he lit one of the crumpled cigarettes. The flicking noise of the lighter filled him with glee even before he'd taken his first puff.
"Do you trust him like Gin-san?"
"No." Hijikata's answer was immediate. It rumbled out of him before he could ponder cause and effect. Comparing Gintoki to anyone else was inconceivable, regardless of the issue at hand. Hijikata took a long drag on his cigarette, refusing to dwell on the hard line his subconscious did not relish crossing.
"Why is he here?"
Pirako's question, simple and direct as it was, stumped Hijikata. It would be easier to say Kitaoji's presence there had been a whim, an accidental happening. It would certainly be less complicated, less heartbreaking than the truth. How many words would it take Hijikata to explain to Pirako that Gintoki had chosen his kids over her? Chosen another life? How many more would it take him to explain his own part in forcing Gintoki's choice?
Hijikata exhaled a long puff of smoke. Kitaoji had been right. Hijikata had come back to repay a favor. He was to bring the meds and save Jirocho's life, nothing more. Yet, convincing Pirako and Jirocho to leave this place, their home, had become an addendum of Hijikata's own making. He'd cornered himself into it.
Don't take long. Gintoki's voice whispered in his ear. If the old man doesn't want to leave, let him. Don't stay around to play the hero.
"We were ambushed," Hijikata said, dousing truth with lie, "Kitaoji's group found us. Gintoki was wounded, so they took him. I mentioned your father, how he needed medical help, so Kitaoji volunteered to come back with me."
"And what does he want in return?" Pirako asked. Sharp, like her father. Survival drilled into her.
"Nothing," Hijikata said, "Once your father is back on his feet, me and four-eyes are leaving."
"Gin-san's not coming back? And you…"
"We were never going to stay long." Hijikata said, taking a long drag on his cigarette so he wouldn't have to look Pirako in the eye.
He heard the hurt pride in her voice as she tried to mask her complete devastation.
"I know, I'm not stupid." she sniffed.
Hijikata looked behind him and met Pirako's back, already marching away to forget their conversation.
"Pirako…"
"Onions need cuttin'."
The roots of Kitaoji's hair were damp when he returned from the bathroom. There was still enough light in the evening sky for Hijikata to wash himself without any extra lights, but he still took a candle with him in case he needed to take a closer look at any unforeseen blisters or cuts.
As he locked the door of the bathroom behind him, the murmur of Pirako and Kitaoji's voices talking back and forth in the kitchen disappeared. Hijikata undressed and chucked his clothes on a pile in the corner of the room, smiling at the neatly folded spares Pirako had left him on top of the toilet tank.
Hijikata checked his skin under the fading daylight and sighed with relief at the absence of marks. The few blemishes he found were spots of dirt and dry rotter blood from the few encounters he and Kitaoji had been unable to avoid on the road. Both would wash away easily. Hijikata dipped his bowl in the washing basin Pirako had filled with the excess hot water and stepped into the bathing area.
The floor was still wet and warm from Kitaoji's turn. Hijikata splashed a bit of cold water over the small bench and, without thinking, glanced at himself in the mirror. He caught a glimpse of a bruise under his ear and then another a couple of inches below it. A chain of memories ignited at once. Hijikata thought of the last time he'd washed himself after a quick romp in the car with Gintoki panting into his ear, his mouth, every nook and cranny of him; then, after they finished, the way Gintoki had stolen cheeky glances while the two of them dressed back up again out of breath and trembling.
Before Hijikata knew it, he was half hard. His skin tingled everywhere, craving to be touched, craving Gintoki. Hijikata scrubbed himself clean. He rubbed the wet towel rough and fast over his arms and legs, but the friction betrayed him. His nipples perked up, mocking him. His knees shook. In a last effort to kill the rising tide of his lust, Hijikata splashed cold water over his face, but all it did was conjure Gintoki's voice as he slid his fingers down Hijikata's back while a storm had raged outside.
You're freezing. Let me warm you up.
The locked door of the bathroom, separating Hijikata from the bleakness beyond it, broke what was left of his will. He slid down the wall of the bathing area until he was lying with his legs spread out, cupping himself, back arching. He gasped at the touch, reliving the moments of tension that usually preceded Gintoki's hands on his cock, Gintoki's mouth, Gintoki's tongue. When Hijikata finally started stroking himself, he was leaking already, hips bucking to meet each stroke, ready for release.
He stroked himself faster until the muscles of his arm cramped from the curled position he was in. He groaned at the coldness of his hand as he switched arms and closed his fist around his erection again.
You taste so good… did she ever tell you…
He licked his sticky fingers, fighting the moans Gintoki was always so eager to wring from him with wet, filthy kisses. He came a few strokes later, biting his lip and picturing Gintoki's naked chest on top of him, sweaty and swollen and splattered with their release, all smug and happy, with that spark in his eye that concealed a hunger for more than what was on offer. A spark that always wanted more and more, and made Hijikata give it to him every time. Anything he wanted.
The bathroom was dark and cold when Hijikata came down from his high. There was a chill in the air, which the tepid water in the washing basin could not keep away.
Hijikata cleaned himself and every trace of his solitary moment before putting on his clothes in a sepulchral silence. He doubted he could sleep his shame away, so it was a good thing Pirako had donated him Jirocho's cigarettes. A couple of smokes would be the surest way to forget what had happened and evoke more solemn thoughts.
The hallway outside the bathroom was dimly lit when Hijikata exited the bathroom. A yellowish glow came from Jirocho's room. Hijikata peeked inside, hoping not to disturb the moment between Pirako and her father, but it was not Pirako whom Hijikata saw sitting by Jirocho's side.
Kitaoji knelt beside Jirocho in prayer, bowing deeply, his forehead almost touching the mat.
"Lord forgive me…"
Hijikata froze. The shape of the gun he had taken from Sougo pressed into the small of his back. Hijikata had carried it with him ever since that day, tucked into the waistband of his pants.
"Please forgive me…"
Urgency built up in an instant. Hijikata glanced sideways down the corridor, looking for Pirako. All the nerve endings of his body yearned to find her, but Kitaoji's murmuring kept him rooted to the spot.
Whispered apologies followed in a trance Hijikata couldn't quite make out. He stepped inside the room with quiet steps. The light from the candle burning beside Jirocho's cot fell over the object lying in front of Kitaoji, separating him from the ailing man. Jirocho's scabbard encased his sword with no sign of blood, yet Kitaoji's palms lay before it almost in worship.
"I'm so sorry. I'm deeply sorry," Kitaoji's words were swallowed by the worn tatami mat, "I hope God will forgive me-"
The gun was in Hijikata's hands before he heard the rest of Kitaoji's sentence.
Kitaoji jerked at the snap of the gun safety lock. He turned around with his hands in the air. Shadows concealed half his face.
Night had fallen.
"What have you done?" Hijikata's voice was calm behind the gun aimed at Kitaoji's head.
"T-this is not what it looks like-"
"Where's the girl? Where's Pirako."
"Sleeping. She was dozing off," Kitaoji said, regaining his composure, "I said I would stay and watch over her father, but then he told her to go-"
Hijikata's eyes darted to Jirocho's immovable body.
"He? Doromizu-san? He spoke to you?"
"N-not at first," Kitaoji said, hands still in the air, "Would you please lower your gun, so I can explain properly? I did not touch him-"
"I'm gun trained, you don't need to worry. I know exactly what I am doing, unlike you." Hijikata said, two hands on the gun now.
He gestured to the sword lying beside Kitaoji, "Slowly slide the old man's sword towards me. Slowly."
Kitaoji nodded and did as he was told. He lowered one of his arms and reached for the sword. He grabbed it where the scabbard met the hilt and slid it over. Hijikata caught the sword with his foot.
"Now speak."
Kitaoji lowered both his arms and Hijikata lowered the gun.
"You took too long washing, so we ate dinner without you. Afterward, the girl went to check on her father. I stopped by his room before going out to do a couple of safety rounds and saw she had her ear against the old man's mouth. He seemed to be talking to her. I couldn't understand what he said. When she noticed me behind her, she brushed me off. Said he was only nagging her to go to sleep. Then, when I came back from my rounds, she was dozing off. I told her to go rest like her father had said and she agreed. She told him goodbye, stood up and left. I stayed behind for a little bit. Checked the old man for fever and when I was about to leave he suddenly grabbed my arm. His grip was too strong for a sick man."
Kitaoji pulled up the sleeve of his shirt and showed the mark of Jirocho's fingers above his wrist.
Hijikata remained rooted to his spot. He gestured for Kitaoji to continue with a brief nod.
"The old man pulled me close enough so I could hear him," Kitaoji said, throwing Jirocho a quick glance above his shoulder, "He could barely speak, but I soon understood the words. First, he asked me if the girl was gone. I told him she had gone to sleep like he'd told her to. Then he tightened his grip on my wrist. That's when it started to really hurt."
Hijikata swallowed dryly. He had long fastened his gaze on the old man, leaving Kitaoji free to spin his tale while Hijikata fought the urge to assemble the pieces too hastily. The gun in his grasp grew heavier and heavier, its weight requiring all the focus in the world.
"I tried to break free, see whether I could reason with the old man, but his eyes were hazy, focused somewhere else. When he spoke next, I heard him clearly. I suspect the girl has heard it too. Many times before. She's just been hiding. Or denying it, rather."
"Denying what?"
"Her father's request. He asked me to pull them out," Kitaoji's gaze lost focus as he revisited his memories, "All of them."
Hijikata's lumbering breath hung in the air as he put forward his question.
"Pull what out?"
"His teeth."
Hijikata's gaze fell on Kitaoji before returning to Jirocho's still body, full of sorrow.
His teeth, of course. Other than death, that would be the only way to prevent Jirocho from harming his daughter if he should turn.
Hijikata gritted his teeth, feeling a surge of anger at the old man's stupid decision. Death and maiming seemed too close to helplessness, a word that Hijikata could not reconcile with Doromizu Jirocho. The old man had always embodied a strength that despair could not touch. Something wasn't right. It couldn't be.
Hijikata looked again at Kitaoji, harking back to his account.
"He asked you that?"
"Yes. He said if we couldn't manage to kill him, we must pull out all his teeth before he turned."
"Are you sure he wasn't feverish?"
"No, his voice was clear. He doesn't believe he's going to make it."
Hijikata's voice was resolute.
"We're not killing him," he said, then, feeling the scabbard below the sole of his foot, "Did Doromizu-san give you his sword too?"
"Practically shoved it into my chest." Kitaoji replied somberly.
"So that was you praying before you carried the request of a sick old fool?!"
Kitaoji's glasses shone opaque in the flickering candlelight.
"I was praying for forgiveness. And for his soul. It's the least I could do for a man who doesn't mind the kind of pain he wishes to be put through in order to keep his child safe. Even in such a weakened state, all he thinks about is how he might hurt his daughter if he turns after death. It could happen at any minute, too. Isn't that why you keep that gun in your hand?"
Hijikata tightened his grip on the gun.
"Shut up."
"The least you could do right now is kick that blade over to me," Kitaoji said, glancing over at the sword stuck beneath Hijikata's foot, "There's no happy reunion for you back at the estate if I die."
"You know what, Pirako is right. You're a fucking stuck-up nerd."
Kitaoji huffed something close to laughter before a pair of strong, shriveled hands grabbed him from behind and Jirocho clamped his teeth over the tender skin of Kitaoji's neck. His fingers dug into the folds of Kitaoji's clothes until only white bony knuckles remained.
The scream Kitaoji let out lasted long enough for the sound of Pirako's loud steps to reach Hijikata, yet by the time she arrived, Hijikata had already discharged his gun twice. The shots resounded in his ears and ate up Pirako's cries as she took in the bloody scene before her.
"Stand back." Hijikata ordered her.
For a moment, Pirako stood in place, mumbling, tears rushing down her face.
"Pops! Pops! What happened! No… no, father…my father…"
Blood ran down the hole Hijikata's bullet had bored through Kitaoji's skull to join the grisly mess below his jawline where Jirocho's teeth had torn flesh from bone and soaked Kitaoji's entire torso with a red outpouring. Soon it pooled across the tatami mat, thick and shiny under the faint yellow light.
Odd, broken growls joined Pirako's mewling. They came from Jirocho's reanimated corpse, temporarily subdued by the bullet which had blown his ear off, a result of Hijikata's poor aim in the dark.
"Hold this," Hijikata handed Pirako his gun, "Don't look away."
"Hi-Hijikata-san-"
Pirako stared at the heavy object in her hands, its handle still warm from Hijikata's clasp.
"I'll never forget what you did for me, Doromizu-san," Hijikata bent over and picked up Jirocho's sword. He unsheathed it and threw aside the scabbard, rousing the attention of the newly turned rotter towards the clattering sound in the opposite side of the room.
"I hope Kitaoji's prayers were a comfort to you," Hijikata continued, "As much as this blade, which will deliver you from your worst fear."
"Hijikata-san!"
The rotter which had once been Jirocho swiveled his head at Pirako's outcry. It lunged with impressive speed towards the girl, dripping fresh blood across the floor as it went. A horrible sound escaped its throat, signaling a thing starved of flesh, as the living man had been starved of a cure which had arrived too late.
Its small, swollen belly fell against the sword in Hijikata's hands. Hijikata stepped in front of Pirako and slashed at the ruthless corpse until the rotter dropped and remained motionless enough for Hijikata to stick the pointy end of Jirocho's sword through the soft opening into its skull.
When he was done, Hijikata took out the sword and cleaned it. He walked over to the place where he had discarded the scabbard and sheathed the sword before handing it back to Pirako.
He held out his hand, and, in return, she gave him back his gun.
"I'm sorry. I don't expect you to forgive me." Hijikata said.
Pirako's eyes filled with tears. She looked down and, as her teardrops found the floor, so did her knees.
"He kept asking me… he never stopped, every day, I knew, I knew… it didn't matter, when you and Gin-san left, I knew, I knew he would die on me," Pirako said, voice strained, holding back her crying, "But you gave me hope, you gave me hope."
Hijikata's mouth was dry, his body cold despite the rush of adrenaline.
"I'm sorry."
The word had no meaning. There was nothing else Hijikata could say to make sense of his feelings or assuage Pirako's. He could only do. Move. Act. Clean the mess. Bury the bodies. Pack up and leave. Anything to keep the pain away, though it doubled abruptly as Pirako's arms closed around his leg, preventing him from taking another step further.
"Please don't leave, Hijikata-san. Please don't leave me, I beg you!"
Hijikata had heard those words before. Many times. Images flashed across his mind. The early shelters, the protests, the crowd control, the raids, the Hijikata who so often had been torn between duty and emotion.
Please don't leave. Stay with us. Everybody is afraid. I'm afraid. Please don't leave me.
Hijikata reached a hand out to caress Pirako's head. Her hair was soft like Mitsuba's. In the candlelight, it even had the same sandy shade. It was only suitable that Hijikata's answer to the grief stricken pleas of both was the same futile rubbish. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.
"Cry for the both of us and leave the rest to me," Hijikata told her, "By dawn we are leaving."