Chapter Text
The current population of Edo is approximately 3 million people and growing every day. So, how is it Hijikata Toushirou makes such a habit of running into the one person he least wants to see? Whether he’s on patrol; trying to relax with a drink after a long, thankless shift; or catching a movie on a rare day off, like a shadow the bastard is there. Always. He’s there, bumping into him on the street. Stealing his spot at the bar and mooching off drinks. Ruining a good movie with his obnoxious laughter and crinkling candy wrappers. Everywhere Toushirou turns, it seems, he is followed by an unruly mop of silver curls that wants nothing better than to send him to an early grave. Even his doctor warned him to stay away from the fool because of the effect it has on his blood pressure—if only he could stay away! But how can he when it seems like all the gods above, devils in Hell, and laws of physics keep smashing them unwillingly together?
Toushirou grits his teeth when the aforementioned silver perm waltzes through the sauna door and plants his ass right next to his. The most aggravating part of it is that Toushirou is the only one here—or was the only one. There are a plethora of other seats available to him. Choices abound. Entire benches empty and ripe for the taking. But where does the Yorozuya sit? Right. Next. To. Him.
He wants to scream to the heavens in anguish. He just wants one lousy, perm-free day to himself! Is that so much to ask?
So far, despite parking himself offensively close, Gintoki has yet to say or do anything that would even acknowledge his presence. No, he just sits there, shoving his finger in his ear like a caveman. Toushirou just knows the asshole is mocking him on the inside, scouring that empty head of his to find the perfect thing to annoy him. It takes everything in him not to throttle the bastard on the spot. His fingers twitch with agitation on the bench, desperate for a smoke.
He closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath from his diaphragm, exhaling slowly through his mouth. One. Another breath, in and out. Two. He can feel his blood pressure spiking, pulsing frantically through his veins. Another breath. Three. Just like his doctor instructed. Pretend like the Yorozuya isn't even there. Four. Just focus on breathing. He can do this. Five. His heart pumps faster and angrier. Goddamn it. Six. It’s no use. He can’t smother the indignation boiling inside him. Seven. Foolishly, he grants the Yorozuya a sidelong glance and finds him staring off into space with that smug, vacant look on his face. Eight. He can’t help but feel that he’s being deliberately ignored. His fists tighten. Nine. Why bother sitting next to him then?! Prick. Ten.
Despite Toushirou’s best efforts, his eyes bulge from their sockets. His teeth grind. His jaw is getting sore with how tightly he’s clenching it. No amount of counting breaths can stop this. Whole minutes pass as they sit side-by-side, quietly sweating in the steam bath that’s not doing a godforsaken thing to relax him. Every so often the Yorozuya shifts in his seat, brushing up against him with an intrusive leg and shoulder because, apparently, the fucker has never heard of personal space. Bit by bit, he’s losing it. And just when he thinks he can’t take another second of it, the idiot speaks:
“Oi…,” the Yorozuya pauses for no reason except to draw out more of Toushirou’s ire, “could you add more steam?”
Toushirou takes a deep breath and responds through gritted teeth, “What did you just say?”
Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable.
Gintoki turns his permed head to face Toushirou and has the gall to look confused when he repeats himself, “Is your hearing okay? I asked if you could add more steam.”
Oh, Toushirou’s ears are working just fine—he wasn’t the one plundering ear wax for the last several minutes! The nerve of this guy.
“And why would I do that? Do it yourself, you leech,” he spits.
The Yorozuya’s features scrunch up slightly from the insult as he pouts, “Oi, that’s not a very nice thing to call someone, Hijikata-kun. They teach manners in tax thief school? Besides, you’re closer to the thing.” By ‘the thing’ he means the rock-filled sauna heater, which he gestures toward, getting even more in Toushirou’s space.
Toushirou slaps the trespassing hand out of his face. “Like hell, asswipe. We’re practically the same distance away! How lazy can you be?!”
Instead of using his words, Gintoki pushes him like the petulant brat he is. Not hard, but enough to piss him off. Just as Toushirou expected, the encounter goes downhill fast. Not to be outdone, he lashes back physically and verbally, “What the hell was that for?!” He snarls and gives the jerk a rough shove in return.
“You’re the one who started it, asshole! I just asked a question!”
That’s rich coming from the one who pushed him first! Toushirou’s thoughts are interrupted when the Yorozuya grabs one of his hands by the wrist. Toushirou tries to wrench it away, but the hold is firm. Instead of freeing himself, he tries pulling Gintoki into a chokehold, locking his other arm around the bastard’s neck. However, off balance and sweaty as they are, the move sends them crashing to the wooden floor in a tangle of limbs.
Toushirou’s back hits the floor with a thud and, to his dismay, the Yorozuya collides on top of him still gripping tightly at his wrist. He needs to be careful because if he’s not, Toushirou runs the risk of the Yorozuya overpowering him which is completely, utterly unacceptable.
Of course the jerk takes the opportunity to gloat. “What’s wrong, Hijikata- kun? Having some trouble?” Yorozuya titters from where he’s sprawled on top of Toushirou.
“Tch, you fucking wish.”
Rather than try to fend off the cretin with his other arm again, he uses the floor to his advantage. He roots his back, pulls his knees up and pushes hard against the Yorozuya’s abdomen, using the momentum to twist around and reverse their position. Easy. The day this walking piece of human waste keeps him down is the day he slits his own stomach.
He can’t help but smirk at the sorry excuse for a samurai below him. Not only has Toushirou turned the tables, but he was lucky enough to slip his hand from Gintoki’s sweaty clutches in the process. Now with both hands available to him, he can restrain the bastard Yorozuya. He has to fight to do it, but through sheer force of will, he manages to use one hand to pin Gintoki’s arms against the floor and, with all of his body weight behind it, uses his other forearm to press down firmly on the man’s sternum. At the same time, he winds his legs tightly around the other’s thigh to secure him in place. His muscles burn and tremble from the seemingly herculean effort it takes to subdue the Yorozuya.
They grapple and struggle against each other—Toushirou fighting to maintain his tenuous hold and the Yorozuya trying his damnedest to squirm out of it. To Toushirous’ chagrin, the jerk eventually wiggles free enough to jam the palm of one hand blindly into Toushirou’s face. In the confusion, the Yorozuya lifts himself slightly from where he’s held and uses his free leg to wrap around Toushirou’s lower body, pulling him in close. It’s weird… And distracting. Getting closer is the opposite of what Gintoki should be doing right now, isn’t it? Toushirou can’t comprehend what’s happening or why; not that he can do much comprehending at all before Gintoki uses every bit of leverage he’s gained to reach up and bite him softly on the shoulder, bringing Toushirou’s mind to a screeching, grinding halt. And then the Yorozuya laughs! And it’s not even the sadistic laugh Toushirou expects. If anything, it sounds oddly… playful?
All the same, Gintoki uses Toushirou’s shock to maneuver more of himself out of submission, allowing them to fight it out on more or less equal footing. They tumble around on the damp floor, hands pushing and pulling, legs twisting and kicking, bodies pressing and rolling, until they’re both drenched and out of breath, sucking in the humid air—each man vying to topple the other. Getting lost in the struggle feels amazing, more than Toushirou would ever willingly admit. It’s embarrassing enough that this isn’t even the first time they’ve fought in a sauna like this. Still, his entire body is hot and aches from exertion in the best way. His brain feels like it’s underwater and he’s completely absorbed in the raw energy of the moment, his earlier rage forgotten entirely. Free of care, free of responsibility. It’s a feeling that’s nearly impossible to find anywhere else besides these contests with Gintoki.
Possessed by impulse, Toushirou decides to use Gintoki’s own dirty trick against him and goes in for a bite. Except he can’t seem to get a good angle and he’s just a little too far away to make it work, so without thinking, acting totally on instinct, he reaches out with his tongue. Pulling in as close as he’s able, his tongue dips into a pool of sweat in the curve of Gintoki’s clavicle and licks up towards the crook of his neck, ending near his jaw.
And then Gintoki does something Toushirou never, ever, EVER expects:
He moans.
Right there in the sauna.
What? Toushirou’s body halts entirely. If his face was pink before—and it was—then it’s positively vermillion now. There was no other way about it, no other way to interpret the filthy, breathy sound that just expelled from the Yorozuya’s lips. He wishes he could explain it differently, he does! Toushirou gulps hard, his throat suddenly parched, as he becomes excessively aware of his body, the skin contact, that way his limbs entangle with the man panting below him. He tries not to think about how close their lower bodies are. Doesn’t concern himself with what might be hidden underneath anyone’s towel. Pretends not to notice the ruddy cheeks and half-lidded stare that’s just a tiny bit different from the usual dead-fish look.
His heart beats madly as he extracts himself from the other man’s limbs, gathers himself, and carries himself stiffly toward the exit. The Yorozuya is still sitting there on the floor, confused, when Toushirou reaches for the door to leave, piping up just when his fingers touch the cool steel of the doorknob.
“...Can we meet later?”
The question comes out hopeful, yet sad, like he already knows there is no way Toushirou will say yes, but wants to take the risk anyway.
“I, uh… can’t. I’m busy. With work.”
He can almost hear the frown forming on the Yorozuya’s lips, “...What about next week?”
A chill runs down Toushirou’s spine as he walks through the door, leaving without another word.
Toushirou sprints back to the barracks like he’s out to steal one of Ben Johnson’s gold medals, fully resolved never to think about whatever may or may not have taken place in that sauna ever again. As far as he is concerned, he never went there today. He’s never been in one in his life–he doesn’t even know what a sauna is. He would delete from his memory every single association he had with saunas if that’s what it took to forget what happened today. Screw it, he’s redacting it. █████ has officially been barred from Toushirou’s vocabulary.
When Toushirou arrives at the Shinsengumi headquarters, he makes a beeline for his office, slamming open the shoji screen with enough force to send the door flying off its track. All he wants to do is work. Work is simple. Predictable. Not like whatever just happened in the █████. What he needs to focus on now is keeping his mind occupied from the fresh, horrifyingly Yorozuya-shaped pit in his stomach. His eyes scan the room and lock on to the months-long backlog of paperwork piled on the shelves of his office. Fuck, he’s never been so glad to see one of Yamazaki’s compositions.
He uses his frantic energy to lift one of the towering stacks of casefiles, drops it onto the floor by his desk, and pulls a folder from the top. It’s a field report on Joui activity in one of Edo’s commercial areas involving a suspected smuggling ring; not that it matters. He wets his calligraphy brush, prepares his hanko, and swears when the spark wheel on his mayo lighter refuses to catch—which has everything to do with the damn thing being defective and not at all with his jittery, uncoordinated thumb. All he wants is to work his brain like a machine until the gears wear out and he's unable to think.
If only his head would cooperate; it seems as if he’s constantly having to wrangle his treacherous cognitions into submission. Like Sisyphus, Toushirou rolls the boulder of his thoughts up the hill of his mind, only to watch it descend heedlessly back to the black pit of Yorozuya. Somewhere in the middle of his second stack, as his bloodshot eyes skim over the same line of scribbled text for what’s probably the third or fourth time, what feels like phantom hands run along his shoulder and down his arms, sending a flutter of excitement down to his—
“TO-SHIII!” Kondou ambles into his office through the busted doorway, “There you are! The men kept telling me they heard ominous noises coming from your office, so I thought I might find you here.”
Oh, goddamn it! He’s never been more upset to see Kondou in his life.
“K-Kondou-san!” he shoots up from his desk, spilling documents onto the floor. Toushirou feels like he’s been caught with his pants down. “Did you, um, need anything, Sir?”
Sir? Wait, does he usually call Kondou sir? He can’t remember. His head is so scrambled right now he’s lucky he can tell up from down.
Kondou blinks a few times in response. “No, nothing in particular,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “I just wanted to check in and make sure you were having a good day off. I didn’t expect you to be working. I know it’s important to you, but the Shinsengumi will be okay without you for a day.”
Toushirou catches a hint of suspicion in Kondou’s tone and doesn’t miss the way his superior’s gaze flicks around the room.
“Are you okay, Toshi? You’re looking a little red.”
“WHAT?!” the word bursts from his mouth, “I’m not—It’s just, uh…I’m…drunk?”
Kondou looks at him perplexed and scratches his chin in a way that tells Toushirou that he’s not buying it. God, you're such an idiot, why would Kondou would believe that? Toushirou feels like he’s just about to combust with embarrassment when a spark of understanding lights up Kondou’s face. “Ohhh, I see now. So that’s why you’re wearing that towel,” he points to Toushirou’s crotch and chuckles. “Boy, Toshi, I didn’t peg you for such a party animal.”
He lets the horrifying revelation that he forgot to fucking change wash over him as his eyes meet the subject of Kondou’s pointer finger. Please, won’t someone take pity on him? Where’s Sougo and his bazooka at? Where are Matsudaira’s trigger-happy fingers? It feels like euthanasia is his only way out of this; a peaceful voyage down the Sanzu river the only cure for his suffering.
Kondou is still chatting away, saying something about Toushirou ‘getting out once in a while’ and if he’s going to work on his day off, he’s glad at least Toushirou is ‘having fun with it.’ Not that the words are penetrating the cloud of humiliation hanging over his head. He only snaps back to reality when Kondou claps his hands happily together, signaling the end of his rambling.
“Alright, well, I’ll leave you to it!” It looks as though Kondou is about to make his departure when he stops midway, “OH, and I almost forgot! Let’s do dinner tomorrow. I’m having a meeting with Pops and some of the big shots upstairs in the afternoon, so let’s meet, hm… about six o’clock? Don’t miss it, Toshi!”
Nodding his head is about all Toushirou can do as he watches his boss finally exit the room. With a lead weight in his stomach, he slumps back down to his seat feeling even more foolish and defeated than before. Damn it! He slams his fist on his desk in irritation, sending yet more file folders fluttering off it's edge.
Again on his own, his thoughts creep back to the ill-fated encounter in the █████. With growing agitation, he realizes that no amount of reciting the Kyokuchuu Hatto or the Mayorin Mayonnaise jingle is enough to redirect his mind for more than a few minutes at a time. The more he tries to suppress it, the more persistent the thoughts become, and soon he’s re-experiencing his earlier mortification in vivid detail. In particular, the Yorozuya’s disgusting, shameless moan replays in the back of his head like a tape recording, enticing tingles down the back of his neck.
He’s never wanted a lobotomy so badly as he does at this moment. Unfortunately for him, however, it’s not covered under the Shinsengumi’s health plan and his only choice is to work himself into exhaustion and hope the memories plaguing him vanish in the light of a new day.
Toushirou feels as if he’s looking at life through layers of glass. What should be clear is murky. Fog clouds the edges of his mind.
It takes him a while to adjust to the hazy disjointed environment, but his heart rate soars when he realizes where he is. He feels like he’s drowning in perspiration, with no escape from the hot, humid air. Calloused hands are all over him, their touch tingling on his bare skin—grabbing, pulling, teasing. Beyond his control, his own hands do the same, gliding over the expanse of chest below him, traveling up the man’s frame, finding a home in damp silver curls.
Strong legs wrap around him and press on his lower back to pull him in. A wave of pleasure rolls through him at the friction that comes and goes in maddening intervals. He knows he’s losing himself when he hovers at the other’s throat; he tastes salt and skin at the dipping curve where neck meets shoulder. And then he’s going down. Down. Past the valleys, hills, and plains of firm muscle and soft flesh. He knows he is trespassing on forbidden grounds, even as a pair of devilish red eyes urge him on—down, lower, deeper.
The inside of his head is fuzzy, but everything else is warm and wet. He can feel the insistent heat and ache in his groin expand with lust. Thick thighs part and encapsulate him, heavy around his shoulders. Needy fingers thread and pull through his hair. He knows he’s about to see something he’s never seen before. Something he shouldn’t see, but wants to all the same. And just when he’s about to taste his sinful prize, the entire scene dissolves like steam and heat dissipating into empty white light.
The next morning Toushirou wakes up with what feels like a head full of cotton. Knowing he overslept, he yawns and whips the covers off to start his day, but out of the corner of his vision, he notices something strange. He rubs his weary, sleep-deprived eyes and looks again. But when he finally registers what he’s seeing, he wishes he could claw those same eyes right out of his head. Pixelation. Wet, sticky pixelation forming a small puddle on the front of his shorts.