fic: gintama - grew into a hope

Title: grew into a hope
Fandom: Gintama
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Gintoki/Katsura, briefest inklings of Takasugi/Katsura.
Disclaimer: Not any more mine than the internet I'm stealing is. I am nothing but a thief, ladies and gentlemen.
Feedback: I will also steal all of your feedback, thank you very much.
Notes: Completely inspired by and title taken from "The Call" by Regina Spektor. An in-between moment of the war, where beginnings and ends can't help but nod at each other across the street.

Cross-posted at ginzura & gintama.



The weight on his knee settles lightly, like a leaf onto crystallized snow. Gintoki looks down from the small, furred mammal he’s roasting with cold, clumsy fingers to the slightly larger, furred mammal making its dumb wig comfortable against his thigh.

It’s an imposition, of course, not to mention an insult. Did Zura think so little of him that he was reduced to inanimate object status, and treated like a futon or a pillow? What if he had to get up and fight wild animals away from the stupid coma-wig? This is the first time he’s seen Zura sleep in three days, after all; even a whole pack of howling wolves, shooting flaming arrows from their asses, wouldn’t wake him at this point.

Even more pressing, and even more inconsiderate, what if he had to get up to piss, huh? It would serve the damn presumptive bastard right if he just hauled off and pissed into that ugly hair. He glances down at it, as if to pick out a target area, and then looks quickly back up; the long strands of black have pooled down between his crossed legs, and the sight of it sends an awkward spike of heat through his spine (that has nothing to do with the crackling fire before him).

It’s not awkward at all, actually, it’s totally explainable. He’s just hungry, and these measly rabbits and pheasants aren’t enough, so of course his body would get hungry for something more readily available. He stops that train of thought right there, because if he starts thinking about how available it might be (or just how hungry he might be for it), he’s going to have to explain more to himself than he’d like.

Hormones, he thinks resolutely, and returns his thoughts to skewered rabbit. Hormones and boredom.

As if summoned by their respective vices, a familiar laugh sounds from the brush, followed by a sneering buzz. The sword pressed against the outside of Gintoki’s (other) thigh is left untouched.

“Ahahaha, I think I still have a shot,” Sakamoto is chuckling, although he sounds a bit more desperate than usual (if it’s even possible). “Maybe she finds nervous stomachs cute!”

“Even if she did,” drawls the shorter samurai, “she wouldn’t like them all over her lap.” A snicker. “Which you’re definitely not getting near now.”

“Hahaha, at least I got near a lap at all!”

“Like I care,” huffs Takasugi. “I just wanted to drink. Who has time for giggling idiots like those?” The two emerge into the firelight, conversation continuing. “Then again, giggling idiots of a feather would flock together. I have more important things to concern myself with.”

“You mean sake? I can’t pick between women and sake, ahahaha, that’s just mean!” The lanky samurai squats beside the fire, hedging with disarming, pointed cheerfulness, “Can’t I pick between women and men? Ahahaha, for instance, I want to sleep with pretty girls, but you can go fuck yourself – ”

“Oi,” interrupts Gintoki, not entirely sure why his voice sounds hushed. “Can’t you two talk about your numerous failings a bit quieter? I’m glad you’re becoming more aware of them, but some people are trying to relax, and I don’t know who could relax with those annoying voices in their ears.”

Both men glance over at him, and it’s Takasugi who grins first, glancing down at his lapful. “Looks like you’ve picked between men and women too, naa?”

“I’ve picked rabbit,” deadpans the permed man, unruffled. He pulls his hare from the fire, teeth digging into the hot gristle. “Only because you’d be too stringy to eat, Shortsuke, and who knows how many diseases that idiot’s picked up.”

Takasugi settles back a bit (although there’s still a tension there that Gintoki’s become used to ignoring). “Not many, if tonight’s any judge. But not for lack of trying,” the black-haired samurai returns.

“Hahaha, can we talk about what Kintoki caught instead? I’m hungry, ahahaha.”

“Catch your own damned dinner, you bastard!” Despite his grumbling, however, there is enough to share, and it’s quickly found among the campsite (keen eyes, hunger has granted them all).

“Zura shot these,” Takasugi notes as he turns over the skinned and plucked prizes. Competitive from the start, he is only growing more so as they age (some aspects of it maybe more concerning than others, as that eye catches his a bit too sharply again). “You couldn’t have caught anything without traps, and you can’t make traps without Sakamoto’s help...”

“Aaaa? So what? Am I getting graded? Should I return the favor? Your beer gut gets an A plus.”

“Ahahaha, congratulations, Shin-kun! Hey, that expression is really intense, is it your first one?”

A short grunt interrupts both Takasugi’s sharp retort and Gintoki’s affirmation, and all three men quiet for a moment, Sakamoto impaling the pheasant and rabbit. As he passes the fowl to Takasugi, the quiet remains (it has been three days since they saw Zura sleep, too).

It’s only after they’ve all torn into their dinners that anyone speaks up again. “Hahaha, who’s got watch tonight? Is it me? Ahaha, I’m so full, I don’t think I can stand up…”

“That’s because you ate my seconds, you piece of shit,” growls Gintoki, pitching his skewer towards the laughing asshole. It gets briefly stuck in that ridiculous afro, and he feels quite vindicated.

“I’ll take it,” shrugs Takasugi, getting to his feet. Neither Sakamoto nor he speaks up to dissuade him – they’ve found its better to give him something to do (than let his mood turn to anger from the monotony, as it has all too often recently). By the time short, quick steps have receded into the crunch and rustle of fallen leaves, Sakamoto has splayed himself before the fire like a cat before a hearth.

“Haaah, I was thinking you should have come tonight, Kintoki, but this is nice, too, huh?”

“Aa? My name is Gintoki, you stupid idiot. Shut up.” The permed man rolls his shoulders, hands feeling a bit lost without their task. He ignores the hair in his lap (which looks soft and welcoming to the touch, if he moved to find out).

He also ignores the fact that he agrees with Sakamoto, saying instead, “The last time I went drinking with your dumb asses, those supposedly peace-loving monks almost killed me because of it.”

Blue eyes close, and the other man hums, as always, in good humour. “Ahaha, oh, yeah. You still remember that?”

“I still have the scars, yeah!”

“Hahaha, I guess the saying goes, what’s a few more scars at this point?” While it’s a saying Zura or Takasugi might indulge in, it’s not one that Sakamoto usually would. Gintoki glances up briefly from it, but Sakamoto’s eyes are still closed, those weird blue skies closed and indiscernible.

He grunts, “I guess,” returning his eyes to the man in his lap as Sakamoto rolls over.

“You should get some rest too, Kintoki,” the other’s voice comes, impertinent and upbeat. “Nitamura-san told me we might be moving again tomorrow. Hahaha, if it were up to me, we’d just keep moving! Stopping to fight all the time is really hard work.” What the other means is more obvious because he doesn’t laugh, and Gintoki says nothing, again because he agrees. It is hard work – it’s hard work to watch their friends die, to stay alive themselves, but to actually live in the small, quiet, campfire-coloured spaces between battles.

It’s hard work most of all to be changed; to wake up to his duty as a samurai, to fight on in the hours of the day like a demon, and to feel the stirrings of a lover at night (roused by Zura’s exhausted sleep-sighs). He doesn’t allow himself to long for the days when he was sensei’s wild child, when his best friends were only that, and when miso soup spilled over homework presented one of their biggest problems. Change is unavoidable, coming on and on like a crushing wave of a typhoon, or the ever-growing hoard of enemies before them.

Takasugi’s restlessness is growing, too, and Sakamoto’s preoccupations, and Zura’s weariness. They probably won’t have these moments, in the gory and indefinable future, when the four of them can meet so peacefully around a fire. The imposition Zura’s slumbering head presents is nothing compared to the imposition he’d feel if it weren’t there.

With Takasugi looking for nothing but monsters and Sakamoto seeing nothing but dreams, he curls over, presses cool lips to the careless tumble of black hair. It’s a quiet promise, to never say goodbye to this despite the changes he is powerless to stop, a hope and a duty that he'll always hold. It's a promise that he alone is privy to, that won't change or be changed.

Or so he thinks, until Zura turns over, faun-hide eyes opening, and – even warmer than campfire heat – smiles.