Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Tōshirō woke, the first sense that worked was smell, and that reeked of booze. Slowly physical sensations were returning, unfortunately including the function of his inner ear, which even as he lay on the floor insisted he was being spun in some kind of giant heinous blender. The darkness refused to blink from his eyes, leaving only a dull yellow streak under the shōji, and straining his ears yielded only pained noises from his companions, who also seemed to be coming to. Just how many of them had gone out? It was so fucking hot in here. "Somebody please hit the A/C," he moaned.

"Where's Harada?"

"Whaat," said Yamazaki. "That baldy never shows."

"Right here." After a moment, "Not bald."

"Sure, asshole," said Sougo.

"Okitaaa," Tōshirō groaned. "Crank up the cold."

Dry chuckling came from somewhere, and it made his head hurt. "If I could stand, I might consider trying."

"I'm Okita," said Sougo. "And do it yourself, fukuchou."

"Eh?" someone answered. "What's wrong with your voice? Your balls finally drop or something?"

"I'm fukuchou," said Tōshirō, "and fuck yourself, Sougo. And—who invited Sakamoto?"

"Sakamoto's dead," said . . . someone.

"That laughing idiot?"

"Didn't we talk about this? How I supposedly killed him? Anyway, just how drunk are you, who the hell is Sougo?"

The room fell silent.

Then suddenly every man was standing, hands probably on whatever hilts they'd thought to bring with them drinking. "Nobody fucking move," said the voice that thought he was fukuchou. Tōshirō didn't necessarily want to move, but that fucking inner ear was just slaying his balance.

There was more silence, so he figured everyone must have been complying.

". . . can anyone see anything?"

"Fuck no."

Tōshirō reached out for the nearest shoulder to support himself (and to surreptitiously wipe the sweat from his palm) as he whipped out his lighter. In a flick there appeared a circle of countless dim faces, swaying uncertainly like reeds in a river of sake. Well—there weren't really that many of them, but it was pretty hard to count at such a gratuitous level of plastered. But he was sure there were more faces than there should have been, and there were definitely several he didn't recognize.

For one—he glanced down his arm at the owner of the shoulder he had grasped. "Who are you?"

The man seemed to shrink. "Kondō?"

Tōshirō eyed him through narrowed lids. The outline of the hair was kind of right, and he was sheepish enough, and boorish-looking besides. But something was wrong. Maybe too sheepish? Where was the gravel in his tone?

A crazy thought had him peering at the other faces in the room. He squinted at another figure that looked even more like Kondō in the drunk darkness. "Somebody help me out here," he said, pointing. "That's Kondō, right?"

A timid chorus of equal parts yes and no erupted among his audience, before awkwardly falling silent once more.

"Alright," Tōshirō grumbled. "Here's what we're gonna do." He patted the sheepish man's shoulder, which was still serving as quite a solid crutch. "Those who agree that this is Kondō here, come congregate."

Nobody moved.

"And those who agree that that is Kondō there—go congregate." Nobody moved, but Tōshirō started shuffling away, toward what he was pretty positive was the right Kondō, only to feel (and then ignore) the point of the fake fukuchou's sword under his ear. "Oi. Pipe down, will ya?"

"Don't move," he growled.

"I'm just trying to get this sorted out. Savvy?"

"Don't. Move."

He clicked his tongue. "Who put you up to this? Was it Sougo?"

"I must echo Harada's sentiments and ask who the fuck Sougo is."

"I'm Sougo," said Sougo.

"Shut up."

"Asked and answered, danna."

"Not helping," Tōshirō bit. "And why is he danna?"

"He's clearly more capable. We may disagree on who Kondō is, but I can agree that he's fukuchou."

He does mantain a pretty impressive bearing, thought Tōshirō, even as the guy's sword poked into his neck, drawing a trickle of blood. "Shit, buy me dinner before you start waving that thing in my face."

"Very funny."

"Do you honestly have no idea who you're threatening? Damn it, this sucks—here," Tōshirō said, holding out his lighter to the man, who, much to his surprise, immediately backed down. "What? Can you at least give me a break from holding this thing?"

"I'll take it."

"Thanks, Yamazaki." Idiot had crossed the room between Tōshirō and fukuchou-beta, who was staring at the flame with hesitant fascination. It was pitch-black again for an instant as Tōshirō handed off the lighter, which flicked back to life near Yamazaki's face. "Don't burn your hair, genius."

"Sorry."

He was a disaster waiting to happen, but he was Tōshirō's disaster, and at least he was now standing together with him and Kondō-san. That left only Sougo, which, fuck that guy; he was flanking fukuchou-beta in a show of dissention.

"Would somebody get the light switch already," said Kondō, "this is making me nervous."

"Half of what you all say makes no sense," said fukuchou-beta, irritation obvious in his sibilance.

"What, light switch? Are you guys stupid?" No answer. "As in, the switch to make the lights come on?" Silence. "As in light bulbs?" He pointed vaguely at the lighter in Yamazaki's hand. "Like that, but not filled with mayonnaise?"

"I'm getting real tired of this," the other Okita sighed, "can we cut 'em open or what?"

"Stand down, Souji."

"Souji?" said Sougo. "What a dumb name."

"Sougo's worse."

"You would think that, Jii-san."

"Goddamn it, Sougo," said Tōshirō, "I swear on your life I'll cut you myself."

Souji stepped closer to their group, making everyone instantly tense up. "What if I. . . ." His sword hissed from its sheath and aimed for Kondō, and in the same instant Tōshirō and Sougo had Souji surrounded with their own. "Eh?" he said, grinning. "Threaten this guy and they sure act like Okita and Hijikata."

"That's it," Tōshirō breathed as he replaced his sword, "I'm arresting you fools. I've let this go on too long, you've already assaulted two officers, with live blades under the sword ban, no less—"

"Hey, Hijikata-san," he heard from behind, "should I cuff them?"

There was a single click—"Wait, Sougo—" and a zip—"ffffffffuh." Jerk lifted the cuffs, dragging one of fukuchou-beta's wrists with it.

"Did you just call h—wait, did you just shackle me?"

"That's pretty quaint terminology," said Sougo. "But yeah, I guess I did. Consider yourself arrested."

"On what authority."

He pointed innocently at Tōshirō. Like, actually innocent, in a confused sort of way.

This was doing nothing to quell the captive's temper. "Unhand me. Now."

But Sougo didn't seem to notice. "Ah, well, I'm afraid it's too late, danna. See?" He dangled the man's limp wrist in his face, which seemed a hell of a lot like teasing a dragon.

He wrenched his arm back, which did not free him but at least stopped the puppeteering. "And yet you leave me untethered, with weapon in hand."

Sougo let out a noncommittal grunt.

"You could've at least cuffed his sword arm," Yamazaki mumbled, glancing at Kondō. He didn't like the gorilla being endangered either.

"Ahn." Sougo slapped the other cuff around Tōshirō's right wrist. "Like that?"

"Sougo." He exhaled slowly, fighting back an eruption of rage. "That's my sword arm."

"Look, now he's tethered, but still mobile."

The two advanced on Sougo, unintelligible strings of threats issuing from their throats, but Harada hefted the length of a spear against their shoulders. "Cool it, fukuchou. Stand back and think."

"You bring that thing with you to bars?" asked Tōshirō.

The guy looked down at his spear, frowning. "Not typically. . . ."

Tōshirō grumbled and with his left hand picked a cigarette out of the pack in his sleeve, rather forcefully nodding Yamazaki toward him for a light; Sougo used the distraction to quietly unlock Tōshirō. The cuff remained closed around his wrist, but he was now free to slip out at the most opportune moment.

His partner-in-cuffs seemed none the wiser and faced Harada. "You seem frighteningly lax about all this."

The spear stood upright again. "I don't know, they're kind of . . . funny. Don't you think? Ugh." He shook his head, poked at his temples. "Fuck, this hangover's gonna be harsh, huh?"

"So you're saying that criminals with a sense of humor may be left to their devices?"

"No, I'm not saying that. Who said that?"

"We aren't criminals," Tōshirō insisted, "we're the guys catching them."

"I'm sure. While your drive to assist is admirable, we don't take kindly to those attempting to impersonate officers."

He gave an impatient growl. "What is it going to take for you to understand, I'm motherfucking Hijikata of the goddamn Shinsengumi!"

But a shout came right back at him: "I'm Hijikata of the Shinsengumi."

"Oh? If you were so set on impersonating an officer," he said, left hand grabbing at the man's ponytail, "maybe you should have consulted a more recent photo of me, eh?"

Faces only inches apart, they glared daggers, fury on their breaths. Kondō tugged at Tōshirō's sleeve, and reluctantly he stepped back.

"Alright. Fine." He glanced carefully at this three companions; they each nodded. "In that case . . . cheese it!"

Flinging the cuff from his wrist, the four of them crashed through the shōji in what was surely a midair somersault, if the vomit suddenly crawling up his throat was any indication. He wasn't totally sure what was supposed to come next, but for the time being they were just going to hit the street—the rest surely would fall into place, or . . . something.

It'd be fine.

Right?

He clamped a hand over his mouth and ran.

Chapter Text

Toshizō would have liked to say they had been apprehended without incident, but it proved less difficult keeping furies quiet than these four men. They had apparently been so drunk that they did not recognize the streets they walked in on, so chasing them into the path of the night patrol had taken all of twenty seconds. But they just wouldn't shut up about it. Souji insisted they were nuisances that ought just be offed; Kondō-san was, of course, against the idea.

Besides, Sanosuke was right . . . there was just something about them that was intriguing. The way they interacted with each other was fascinating in itself, and though they spoke in the same grammar, much of their vocabulary was wildly unfamiliar. And while very little of what they said mapped to reality, they had thus far easily corroborated one another's stories—every single crazy one of them. Either they had rehearsed their fiction with immeasurable intensity and depth, or they had all been conditioned over a long period of time to believe what they were saying.

A third option niggled at Toshizō's brain as he watched his final interviewee, the man who called himself Hijikata Tōshirō; his arms were crossed, eyes closed, a pensive expression on his brows. "I think we're from another universe."

They may be telling the truth.

In their own interrogations, the man's companions had stopped just short of hypotheses, but here was Tōshirō with the touchstone theory, behind which everything they had said fell neatly in line. It was absolutely ludicrous . . . and yet it was difficult not to believe in him. He had been the most vocal of the four and appeared to be the acting ringleader, though it could hardly be said that his comrades showed him respect, Sougo in particular. Still, there seemed to be a bond between them all—something that transcended authority—and Toshizō felt a twinge of resentment at the sight. Men who didn't necessarily like Tōshirō still chose to stand with him, and that was its own kind of evidence.

He rubbed around his mouth, working out the imprint a gag had left behind. They did so enjoy running their mouths, and as they seemed to speak in code it was most unwise to allow them to talk to one another at all. Yet the situation was so unique that Toshizō didn't want to involve anyone who wasn't already privy to their existence. So he and his skeleton crew of three witnesses were working overtime in staggered shifts to guard their prisoners, bound in a single remote room and gagged so as not to confirm further false stories with each other.

Now separated from his comrades, Tōshirō looked every inch serious and spoke with unbearable lucidity, considering what he suggested. "That's the only explanation I have, at least."

Toshizō sighed heavily. Where to begin. "Where indeed."

"Nn?"

"If that's your only explanation, then please." He held out an open palm. "Do explain."

Tōshirō made a defensive noise and frowned. "Don't get me wrong. It's just the only answer that makes any sense. It's not like I know the mechanics—although Kondō-san did find a pretty gnarly-looking banana. . . ."

Toshizō stared, half-lidded and fully unwilling to engage. Oddly enough, their Kondō had also mentioned a spoiled banana. What bearing this had on their situation, if any, was unclear. But Toshizō had resigned himself to hearing him out. The guy was at least attempting to draw conclusions; until he could say anything substantial, he was just going to let him think out loud.

"I mean, I sure as hell believe you," said Tōshirō.

He raised a sardonic brow. "That's . . . generous."

"I get it. I don't exactly have the advantage here. I have three people siding with me, where you have a whole houseload of them."

"And several cities to vouch for us."

"Sure. Whatever. Which is why I think we were the ones dropped into your world. Besides this place being so. . . ." He faltered with words for several seconds before shrugging it off.

Determined to force every relevant reason, comment, or opinion: "What?"

Tōshirō narrowed his eyes. "Rustic?" He shrugged again. "Rustic. It's definitely not our city."

That was unexpected. Sougo too had previously used the word "quaint", but it didn't soften the impact. "You do realize that this is among the most cosmopolitan cities in the country."

"Yeah yeah. But where's the giant terminal tower—ugh." He sat back, indignant. "Never mind. Just—the world as we know it is much different."

Toshizō was very curious in spite of himself, but refrained from biting. It was too early to be indulging in the fantasies of a man under questioning. "How, then, have you come to this inferior place?"

"I never said it was inferior. We have all this stuff too. We just also have . . . additional stuff." He patted absently at his yukata, presumably for the device in his sleeve which had provided a small flame with seemingly no effort. Admittedly, Toshizō did find such technology difficult to explain.

"That didn't answer my question."

"Huh?"

"How you came to be here. Assuming, of course, you aren't lying off your ass."

"I don't know."

"You don't know."

"Nope."

Toshizō exhaled. "A normal person would say, by boat. Walked here. Got kidnapped and thrown into a cart of produce. You can't even manage an excuse?"

"Well . . . we are kind of abnormal."

This was starting to piss him off. He was so fucking cooperative, why wasn't this getting anywhere?

"Look, man. I wish I could tell you what was going on. All I know is, I'm me, and you're you, and we're probably not supposed to have met."

"And why is that."

"Come on. You don't talk to your doppelgänger, right?"

"Is that what you are?"

"It's what you are, far as I'm concerned. You don't talk to your doppelgänger, and you don't talk to yourself when you travel time or to alternate universes."

Toshizō's lids lay closed but he could feel his eyes crossing. "If you could limit the commentary."

"Sorry. It's not like you guys have a handle on what happened last night either."

"Pardon?"

"You forget? Your boy couldn't explain why he had a goddamn spear in a teahouse. And how about it, can you explain how we all ended up passed out in the same room?" Toshizō said nothing. "Yeah. So I don't think you should talk quite so big."

He chose to ignore this perfectly reasonable observation. "You'll be paying for property damages, by the way."

"I can give you 300 yen."

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?"

"Guess not. But it's all I have. Without the money to pay for it, I got no problem repairing walls and shōji personally."

"I'm sure you know I can't allow you out of our custody."

"What then, gonna send the troops out to do it? Or are you footing the bill after all?"

Shut up, he managed not to say aloud. I'm thinking.

"Um. . . ." Tōshirō was looking nervously at the sliding door facing the courtyard, glowing with daylight.

"Don't even think about running."

"What year is it?"

Toshizō blinked. "Excuse me."

"The year. Because—ah, nope. No—no, I've seen this one, and I'm not about to take your place because we sorta look alike and you want to bounce. But if this is like an AU history there's no way I'd have the right textbook, how could I—oh. Wait, no, I didn't finish that anime. Shit." Finding the light of patience slowly fading from Toshizō's eyes, he added, "Come on, is it really that strange a question? Coming from me."

Fine. "The third year of Keiō. Nearly the fourth."

This information only seemed to trouble Tōshirō further, as if it had opened a whole other set of questions rather than making sense of something. "And what is it . . . that you do?"

"Me?"

"Your group. The Shinsengumi."

"Why are you asking me? Hijikata should know."

"Just answer the question."

He bristled at being ordered around (much like he himself might order others around, he was loathe to admit), but decided to humor him. "We are a militarized police force dedicated to protecting to shōgun."

Toshizō actually felt uncomfortably scrutinized under Tōshirō's gaze. "Didn't I hear some chatter about a shōgun relinquishing power?" he asked gently.

If he really weren't from around here, he didn't miss much. "Indeed, we are in the throes of a . . . an identity crisis, at the moment."

Tōshirō nodded once and dug into his sleeve. "Seems like you guys have it rough. I think for us, most of the wars are behind us by now. We've sort of resigned ourselves to alien influence."

"How so?"

As his first example he held up a cigarette between two fingers. "We trade. We learn. We take advantage of the technology. Even the joui can be questionably friendly with aliens. Or, well—what we assume are aliens. It might just be a guy in a fursuit." He lit the thing with a tiny burst of flame as if to punctuate some sort of universal mystery. "Thanks for letting me keep these, by the way."

Toshizō rested his cheek against a fist; he was really starting to feel worn out. "Sometimes it amazes me how you can be both coherent and incomprehensible at the same time."

"Ah. Well." He took a long drag, and exhaled away from Toshizō's face. "Your aliens probably don't come from outer space, huh."

Chapter Text

Toshizō had decided to let that slide for the time being, so as to not (further) complicate things unnecessarily. He'd thought that a chat with the ringleader would make obvious some sinister plot, but the truth was that it had done nothing to clarify his standpoint. He never felt that Tōshirō was on either the defensive or offensive, as if he too were an unbiased bystander conducting his own investigation. Toshizō couldn't fully believe his theory, but he was starting to believe that Tōshirō's men were just as much in the dark as his own.

The combined forces of their two small groups were waiting when Toshizō returned to their makeshift jail, an empty twelve-mat room at a far corner of the compound. "Well?" asked Kondō-san.

Toshizō rubbed the back of his head with some diffidence; as if on cue Tōshirō appeared in the doorway behind him, puffing at his cigarette. In a tight-lipped murmur he greeted his comrades: "Hey, bitches."

Kondō-san's eyes widened for a moment before he nodded. "Well." Then he chuckled quietly, hands at his hips. "I suppose we can untie them, at the very least." Sanosuke dutifully went to work, leaving Souji with mouth agape.

Their Yamazaki was first to win freedom. "Does this mean you believe us?" he asked urgently, watching as Toshizō and Tōshirō sat down among them.

Next freed was Kondō-san's double. "Don't bank on it," said Sanosuke smilingly. "All it means is he doesn't see you as an immediate threat. I doubt he'll let you go so easily."

He reached for Sougo's ropes, but Tōshirō stayed him. "Not that one."

Sougo's eyes lifted to him with a violent calm, but Sanosuke laughed and worked the knots out of his binds. "Sorry, I don't have the space in my heart to take orders from more than one Hijikata."

"Fine, s'my funeral."

"Damn right it is," said Sougo, palms massaging around his mouth. "By the way. Jii-san, there's something wrong with your face."

Souji had been suspiciously quiet, but chose not to address it. "You're still calling me that?"

"We're both Okita. We need some way to distinguish between us, Jii-san."

"He has a point," said Toshizō. "Regardless of the truth, they go by the same names we do. We have got to make some agreements on what to call whom if we intend to have any meaningful discussion."

Tōshirō grunted. "We wouldn't even be having this conversation if this thing were written as a screenplay."

"Souji and Sougo have different given names," said Sanosuke. "What about the rest of you?"

That's right; the others had been either resting or on guard duty, so only Toshizō had heard all their names. "Hijikata Toshizō," he began.

"Hijikata Tōshirō."

"Kondō Isami," said Kondō-san.

"I'm Isao," said the other.

They all frowned and stared at their laps. Hearing them side-by-side was quite striking. Slowly, Toshizō's doubt was being chipped away. Tōshirō and Sougo were sharp men; if they were really going to impersonate the most infamous officers of the Shinsengumi, they wouldn't have been so ill-informed as to adopt glaringly inaccurate names. The other two—they just seemed too soft to attempt such a ploy, and yet too integritous to be bullied into it. However . . . the kanji for Isami could also be pronounced Isao.

"How is Isao written?" Toshizō asked, tilting his head.

"The character for merit. Why?"

He frowned; Kondō-san's was courage. "What about Tōshirō?"

"Ten—four—son."

Nothing in common with his own. Still. . . . "Mine's got three in it. . . ."

Tōshirō frowned now. "I don't think math is going to help you here."

They found that Souji and Sougo shared their first kanji and diverged on the second, so there was no consistency in the differences. Could it truly be coincidence—however striking or suspicous—or were their names the result of intended wordplay?

No, no matter the differences in their given names, there was no reason for all their family names to match. It was certainly no mere coincidence, and that left few alternate explanations, none of which were desirable.

Toshizō looked up when he realized the room had been quiet for some time; it was probably the severe angles of his own face that silenced them. As if to confirm, Tōshirō tilted his chin at him. "Something going on in there?"

"Just . . . considering."

Kondō-san looked at each of them; sensing too much tension, he turned to his kindness to settle the room. "Well, if they aren't strictly prisoners, that makes them guests, and guests require tea. Sanosuke, would you mind?"

"Are you sure?" he stuttered, glancing reflexively at Souji, who seemed instantly offended but kept his mouth shut, gods be praised. Toshizō pierced them with a warning glare, but already Tōshirō's eyes were narrowing. This guy was far too insightful for his own good.

For his part, Kondō-san continued casually, only smiling at this exchange without a hint of alarm. "Agh, don't worry. The three of us can handle the situation here." Sanosuke shrugged and Tōshirō relaxed at the calm tenor of his words; whether Kondō was consciously keeping calm under pressure, or whether it was just his dumb innocence, it didn't seem to matter.

While Sanosuke made his graceless exit, Kondō-san steered the conversation onward, gently elbowing the unfamiliar Yamazaki. "What about you, son? What's your given name?"

His mouth fell into a small pucker. "You have a Yamazaki too?"

"Indeed. His name is Susumu."

"I'm Sagaru! Is he a spy too?"

"Yamazaki!" Tōshirō spat. "You can't just ask them something like that!"

"Sorry. . . ."

Kondō-san laughed in that warm way of his. "It's alright, Tōshirō-kun."

"Besides," he continued, "you're barely a spy. How many episodes have you been seen in doing actual work?"

"That's kinda mean, fukuchou. I'm a great spy," he informed Kondō-san. "See this face? Easy to forget."

"Well yeah, in a world of Only Six Faces."

"Fukuchou! I'm being serious." He sat back, pouting. "Being ordinary is my only skill compared to you guys."

Even Souji seemed to pity the guy. "Don't worry, our Yamazaki is plain too."

He glanced up, mumbling. "Really?"

"He ought to be back soon, right?"

"If all goes well," said Kondō-san, before giving a great sigh. "What do we think, then? First-name basis?"

"Still might not hack it," said Tōshirō. "The rōmaji for our given names still look pretty similar, from an audience standpoint."

"Would you cut that out?" Toshizō said bitterly. "If you desire continued freedom, make an effort to say things we find comprehesible."

"How can I possibly know what you'll understand and what you won't, unless I test the waters a little? I have to find the boundaries somehow."

"I'll give you bounds."

"Okay, Mom, but I still think it'll be more productive to let me—"

"Or binds, if you prefer," he said, through his teeth this time.

"Mom." Souji sniggered quietly to himself. "I'm totally calling him that."

"I'm still going with danna," said Sougo.

Tōshirō made an exasperated noise. "How is this helpful if we all choose different nicknames for each other?"

"You're just mad because I w—"

"I'm lucky enough that you tack san on after my name. I know my limits."

"Nevertheless," said Toshizō, "we really must settle on something consistent."

"Hang on," said Sougo. "If he's Jii-san, and you're Kaa-san—"

A sudden rapping on the sliding door kicked Toshizō's anger level up yet another notch. "That had better not be Yukimura."

Kondō-san laughed nervously. "Of course not, it was Sano's task, he wouldn't. . . ."

Sougo's eyes were trained between the two of them. "Nnn? Who's Yukimura?" he asked casually, though the sharpness in his eyes had an edge of malice.

"That's hardly your business," said Toshizō. He glanced at Tōshirō, who had seemed eager to control Sougo at every turn—but he was sitting with arms crossed below relaxed shoulders, peering at Toshizō with one brow raised, that fucking cigarette silently smoldering.

There it is again. These men seemed distant on the surface, even hateful of one another, but were bound as if by a hidden string. Prod any one of them, pull one in any direction away from the others, and the string was suddenly visible, snapping up taut and strong between them. It was eerie, in a way, and dangerous—insinuating themselves as they were into their good graces with personable banter and self-deprecation. Toshizō felt uncomfortably . . . surrounded.

Kondō-san was visibly relieved as the door slid open and Sanosuke let himself inside, carrying a large tray of tea-preparing essentials. "That's why you came back so soon."

"There was already water boiling. Thought it might be best to return quickly and make it here."

"And why did you knock first?" Toshizō asked slowly.

He shrugged. "Guess I just wanted to make sure I wasn't interrupting an orgy or something." Upon receiving seven hard stares, Sanosuke laughed. "What? You all—well, my guys at least are pretty full of themselves. What I've seen, you're awfully similar. So . . . joke." He tsked nervously and approached Toshizō's perch at the head of the room. "I'll just set this here, huh."

"You really think that of us?" Kondō-san asked, looking more than a little hurt.

"Yes absolutely."

"You want to treat them like guests," said Souji, "don't let Hijikata-san near that tea."

He pulled the tray closer. "Shut up."

While he set to mixing the infernal green powder, Kondō-san nudged Isao. "You've been quiet. What do you think?"

He gave a hesitant grunt and cleared his throat. "My men might have trouble calling me anything but Kondō. Same with yours, probably."

Kondō-san grinned to himself, seeming impressed. "True."

"I give no hoot," said Sanosuke, "I'll call him Isami. It's a good samurai name, anyway, makes sense walking around under that banner."

Isao made a strained face, as if thinking wasn't something he did very often. "What if we had team names? Or we could make up our own honorifics."

"What do you suggest?" asked Kondō.

"Oh I don't know. Toushi's better with this stuff." Both Hijikatas glanced up. "Long o," he clarified.

"Two Kondō-sans," Toshizō sighed, head spinning at this terrifying thought. "How will we know which one is meant?"

"Depends on who's doing the talking," said Isao. "You people don't think of me as Kondō, so if you say it, I'll know you mean Isami."

"And you'll just use first names with each other?"

They hashed out a few more rules, tea was distributed, and Tōshirō grimaced at the cup in his hand. "What's with this stuff? It's mostly water."

His three companions took tentative sips and subsequently frowned. They looked up at Toshizō expectantly.

He clicked his tongue in irritation. Was this really so important? "We have . . . trouble with bitter tea. We've resigned to using less in our attempts to avoid undesirable outcomes."

"What you're saying is, you suck at matcha."

Toshizō's back stiffened. "Perhaps you've had more free time to perfect the Way of Tea?"

"If it makes you feel better, danna."

"Why does he get to be danna?!"

"That settles it then," Sougo continued, unhindered. "We'll call your team haku. Because of the weak-ass tea you guys drink."

Souji was skeptical. "Wouldn't that be more like usui? For weak tea."

"No," said Sougo, "I think haku sounds cooler."

"Yet it implies that we are weak."

"But it's actually referring to the tea. Clever, right?"

"As long as we may call your group tama," said Toshizō coolly.

Tōshirō sputtered an unsmiling laugh. "So he does have a sense of humor."

He shook his head, perhaps too emphatically. "For these light bulbs you wer—"

"It's because we're annoying as balls," sighed Tōshirō, "and yeah, we're fine with that."

"We've been called worse," Isao added. "Gah, it's like he can almost see the fourth wall."

"I know it, he's so close." He stared down into his cup. "It's still kinda bitter, though."

Toshizō bared his teeth but was prevented from tearing him a new one by another quiet rapping on the door. "Goddamn it. What."

The voice on the other side was low. "It's Yamazaki. At your convenience I can rep—"

"Get in here."

"Sir."

He slipped inside silently as he unknotted his head guard—must have returned quite recently—and his brows knit when he saw Souji. "Okita-san—you really shouldn't be up." Souji's eyes positively grilled him, but faced with an unfamiliar audience, Yamazaki didn't seem to notice. (Tōshirō, however, did.) "What is all this, fukuchou? Who are these men?"

"It's a long story. You're better off not knowing."

"Then why did you allow me inside?"

"I can't have people hanging about in the hallway here. How did you know where to fi—nn, don't answer that."

Yamazaki frowned, shifting uncomfortably. "Why is he looking at me like that?" Toshizō followed his gaze to Sagaru, whose unblinking expression was frozen in several conflicting emotions.

"Because you're ninja as fuck?" Tōshirō offered.

"I'm not a ninja," Yamazaki said quietly, face flushing with anger.

"Oh, please," said Sagaru, laughing mirthlessly. "Plain, my foot. Look at him! He's so . . . cool." His bottom lip quivered; apparently disappointment had bubbled up above all the other emotions. "I hate this, I want out."

Tōshirō clicked his tongue. "If we could just go, I'd have—"

"No, screw that, I want out of here. I want to go home, now."

"We all do, Yamazaki, we just haven't figured out—"

"If any of you were half as smart as you are mean, we'd—"

Toshizō summoned his fukuchou voice to halt them: "That's enough."

"Yamazaki?" mumbled Yamazaki.

"Yes," Toshizō breathed, "it's a common name, isn't it? Now scurry along before you hear anything else you really don't want to hear."

"Sir."

"And don't be seen," Toshizō added desperately, though the guy was already out the door. He exhaled heavily. "You people are a menace on my health."

"Come on," said Tōshirō, "you let him in here in full shinobi regalia, what did you expect?"

Not that, certainly. Their bickering hadn't sounded rehearsed, and a few of the phrases that had slipped suggested that they really didn't understand how they'd be getting home. Toshizō glanced over at poor Sagaru, rocking slowly forward and back with narrowed eyes, contemplating his situation in life. There was reason enough to trust in him, at least.

Suddenly Souji sat up. "I know exactly how we can settle all this."

"Don't wanna hear it," said Toshizō.

Kondō-san ignored him. "What is it, Souji?"

He plastered on one of those fake, impish smiles. "A duel."

Chapter Text

"Do you not think we have better fucking things to do?"

The other Okita—Souji, who was discreetly babied by several of his comrades—shrugged at his fukuchou dismissively. "If their guy really is like our Kondō-san, then they should have equivalent sword skills, right?"

Tōshirō gave him a hard look. What he really meant was, they ought both share the same ryū. They looked different, and they spoke differently—who was to say they wouldn't fight differently as well? It would be a rather quick way to prove a point, but the risk hardly seemed worth it. Tōshirō had no doubts that Kondō-san could handle this Isami, but if they didn't have the same fighting style. . . .

Toshizō didn't like the idea either. "You're always the one berating me for putting Kondō-san in harm's way, Souji. I can't say I'm pleased that you, of all people, would suggest this."

"I have faith in my kyokuchou," he said simply, before heaving himself off the floor. "Come on. I'll round up the others."

"Others," said Tōshirō, "what others?"

"The other captains. We'll be having a little show in the training room shortly."

Several protests mounted, but Souji had already fled on his mission. While Toshizō fumed silently, Isami stood and held out his hand. "I don't mind, if you'll consent, Isao-san."

Tentatively, he took it and pulled himself up. "Do I have a choice?"

"Certainly, you have a choice. You always have a choice here."

Kondō-san shook his head, and something in his expression made Tōshirō sad. "I don't like my guys being looked down on," he said softly. "As long as we're here, I want us to be recognized for the men we are. On our own merit. If this is the only way to get your people to believe in us, I'll do it."

Damn. Sometimes he could choose some heavy fucking words. One look at Sougo and Yamazaki suggested they were thinking the same thing.

"Don't pressure yourself like that," Isami said, frowning. "We won't send you to your deaths if you can't keep up. Just do your best."

"Okay, but—" he poked at Isami's chest—"don't cry if I beat you."

Harada laughed offhandedly and gripped their shoulders. "Just have a little fun, guys. I think we could all use it." As things stood, they were obviously not believed. Which, for the time being, was fine, and safe, and had gotten them untied. It was probably wicked unwise to show off their sword skills when they had just been evaluated as constituting little threat. But fuck, Souji had sort of backed Hijikata—both of them—into a corner on that one.

"Well, I guess this is my fucking day now." Sighing, Toshizō added under his breath, "Goddamn it."

As they filed out of their "jail", Isami at the head of the line and Toshizō at the end, Tōshirō slowed his pace to distance them from the others. "Toshizō-kun."

"Mn."

Hah, he let me get away with that. "What'll you tell those other captains if our Kondō does win?"

"I think you know that's not what this is about."

Touché. "Still. How would you explain that to an audience without context? I mean . . . what if you do end up convinced that we're right?"

"We'll burn that bridge once we get there."

Tōshirō paused. "Don't you mean, we'll cross that bridge once we get there?"

"Keep moving."

They traveled the halls in stiff silence, to the exclusion of Isami, who hummed cheerfully to himself. It's just like home, thought Tōshirō, nitwitted boss-man and all. Maybe this "alternate universe" thing wasn't too far off. He'd really rather pulled it out of his ass—even he thought it was straight-up crazy—but what the hell else could explain this situation? Neither group was lying. Problem was, Tōshirō's group was the only one with the right perspective to be certain of that, and in this world of limited technology, they had few ways of proving that they weren't lying. Hopefully Kondō-san really could convince them of . . . something.

Isami was greeted warmly by his men in the training room. "Morning," said an older fellow, eyes crinkling in a smile.

"Yes, it is morning, isn't it," said Toshizō flatly.

"Ah, come on, Toshi. It's cold outside, but that doesn't mean you have to be, right?"

Another guy, this one wearing absolutely ridiculous accoutrements and barely any shirt, grinned easily at them. "Oi oi, what's all this, Hijikata-san? New recruits? Pages? Are any of them secretly girls? Maybe blondie here—"

Sougo whipped the man's arm aside when he reached out to ruffle his hair. "Touch me again," he said in his deadest tone, "and if I'm feeling generous you lose only the hand."

"Oho! She's a feisty one!"

Tōshirō instantly liked him.

"Nagakura Shinpachi," he said energetically. "Who the hell are you guys?"

"Shinpachi," scolded Toshizō. "This is hardly an appropriate way to speak before knowing who you're speaking to. What if they were hatamoto or—"

"Like I'd care. You know me, everybody's equal."

"Attaboy," Harada muttered. Tōshirō couldn't tell if it was honest praise or sarcastic.

"Shinpachi?" asked Yamazaki.

"Yeah, what?"

"You're Shinpachi?"

"Yeah, you deaf or something?"

Yamazaki gave a sigh of relief. "Susumu is ten times cooler than me, but this guy is infinitely cooler than Shinpachi-kun." He nodded affirmatively. "I'm back in it, fukuchou. Don't worry about me."

Nagakura grinned quizzically. "So they're new guys, then? Seem awfully friendly with ya already."

"I wouldn't say that," Toshizō hedged.

"We're plenty friendly," said Tōshirō, voice low and all but friendly.

"It's almost lunch, where you guys been all day? Hey, I'm hurt you didn't invite me out, by the way," said Nagakura, sounding partway serious. "Must've been pretty wild, judging from the racket you all made coming in last night."

An unassuming man wearing swords on his right hip pricked up his ears. He stared straight through Tōshirō as if mentally reviewing security footage, seeming to connect the dots between "new guys" and "racket". (How'd he already pinpoint Tōshirō as the de facto head?) But he said nothing, having little else to connect, and rather than ask questions he gingerly tucked his chin behind the scarf at his neck.

Nagakura paid no mind. "You especially, Hijikata-san. Shimabara finally seduce you?" He pounced like a teasing uncle, both index fingers poking at Toshizō's ribs.

He wriggled away and composed himself, crossing his arms. "I was possessed of all my faculties, thank you."

"Don't tell me you were just drinking water all night again," said Harada, brows drawing together with an uncertain smile.

Tōshirō huffed in the judgiest manner he could muster. Toshizō glared lasers.

The little audience was settling into two opposing lines when Souji returned, seating himself smugly beside Toshizō. The silent guy nestled in behind them, prim on his knees. He leaned forward delicately and whispered something to Toshizō, who only shook his head. The man sat back, eyes closed in contemplation. He sure is different.

Souji nodded at Isami, who beamed like a child as he picked up a pair of wooden swords and handed one to Kondō-san. Tōshirō felt a shift in the tone of the room; what had been buzzing with slight unease was now softening. He realized why when he glanced at Kondō, a far-eyed look on his face as he absently twisted his palms around the bokutō as if committing a new sensation to memory.

Goddamn it, you idiot. "Gori-san," said Tōshirō. "Try holding the right end."

The audience's sneers fell just short of snickers as Kondō-san sorted himself out, but Isami, bless him, did nothing to acknowledge the faux pas. They approached each other and performed their ceremonial bows before readying their weapons.

As they dropped into position, they did look remarkably similar.

Kondō's bokutō leapt forward like a snake striking, putting Isami at an immediate disadvantage. The crowd's collective eyes widened, shocked that Kondō did in fact know what he was doing with a sword. Isami quickly regained his balance, but Kondō was already launching another attack; it was met with powerful resistance and a slight twitch of the mouth.

Several tense minutes yielded much back and forth; Isami was really, really good, but the momentum Kondō had stolen at the start of the bout meant he was always ahead by a fraction of a second. As Kondō dodged an artful thrust with an unconcerned yelp, it became obvious that the two of them were . . . playing.

Isami regained his footing after a dodge of his own and raised his sword above his head; when Kondō ducked into a sideways defensive pose, sword aiming low, Isami paused and cocked his head. Kondō waited, one eye narrowed in challenge. Both men were doggedly suppressing all facial expressions, ignoring their audience of tension and held breaths.

It all happened in the same instant. Isami swung his bokutō down, Kondō's swung up with such force that his opponent's weapon flew from his grip, and as Isami fell back on his ass Kondō swung back down, the blade-edge of his wooden sword pressed into Isami's shoulder.

And they broke into the cheesiest Kondō-style grins that Tōshirō had ever seen. Their hands made a hollow clap as Kondō-san, panting and dripping with sweat, offered his palm to help Isami off the floor. They promptly bowed to each other, proclaiming in unison, "Arigatō gozaimashita," before laughingly sharing a sticky bear hug. It wasn't exactly a loss; Isami had clearly set up a test, but Kondō had passed it. He had done right simply by executing his own—and Isami's—favorite move.

Well mother fuck.

A heavy shadow appeared in Tōshirō's periphery, and without so much as a glance he sensed that it was Souji flipping. his. shit.

Then a bokutō was hurtling toward Sougo, but without moving his body or even his eyes he grabbed it midair, just inches from his face. Souji had obviously intended it to shoot straight through his skull. "Get up, runt," was all he could manage to say, molars glued together in his rage.

Sougo looked at Tōshirō for approval, but received only a shake of the head, so he set the weapon gently on the floor in front of him. This only further pissed Souji off, who grabbed the cloth at Sougo's chest and dragged him to standing. The kid's blank face continued to enrage him (admittedly, Tōshirō could relate), so Souji snatched the bokutō off the floor and stuffed it in his hands. Once again Sougo chose to set it down—though much more reluctantly this time.

Souji saw him cracking and took the opening with a bold move: he handed Sougo his own sheathed sword, in a flash drawing Toshizō's weapon for himself.

Nobody said a fucking word.

This wasn't too surprising; short of using physical force, Tōshirō assumed it was impossible to stop Souji when got like this. He also figured Toshizō was interested in how the tama folks would react to his . . . difficult charge.

Sougo held the sheath in his left hand, the right curved around the hilt, but still he hesitated to draw. For him there was a hair's breadth between staying still and exploding. Again he looked to Tōshirō, those huge round eyes as close to pleading as his vacant face allowed. And again, Tōshirō just shook his head.

"Don't."

He said it because he was fukuchou and he had to say it, but relaxed and unblinking, he willed Sougo to understand that he was now free to act independently. Fight back.

Sougo must have understood. Letting out a single quiet, impish laugh, he slid the sword free, the scabbard dropping to his feet. With a near-bloodthirsty grin he held the blade one-handed and balanced above his forearm, forcing a visible chill through the crowd. With live blades now in the mix, there was no room for endurance, or overwhelming power, or a sportsmanlike exchange of moves. It was obvious that Souji was far too emotional to be an effective opponent. And yet knowing that it would be a one-strike fight, Souji also believed he had a trump card.

Idiot.

Absent of the patience for ceremony, Souji lunged, but Sougo knew what was coming. He was able not only to parry Souji's signature move, but the edge of his blade rested firmly below Souji's eye. Sougo sneered and licked his lips, placing the palm of his right hand beneath the blade; Tōshirō saw his left thumb shift around the grip. "Sougo," he barked. "That's enough."

The whole room exhaled with relief when the two of them stood down, blood dribbling from the cut on Souji's cheek. He thrust the hilt of Toshizō's sword in his face, barely waiting long enough for him to take hold before storming off. It was silently sheathed, silently set down. Sougo too sheathed his borrowed blade, and in the absense of its owner, placed it before Toshizō and bowed. "Arigatō gozaimashita." The man nodded his acknowledgement.

Then he stood, facing Tōshirō with a sigh and a click of his tongue. "Well. I guess it's our turn then."

"No." Tōshirō sat, cross-legged and cross-armed, and refused to budge.

"It's only fair, after both pairs went all-out. Wouldn't you say?"

"Isami said we had a choice. My choice is no."

"Why not?"

"Because you won't fight fair."

Toshizō narrowed his eyes, intrigued. "What makes you think that?"

Because I wouldn't either. "I just watched you not try to stop that man, knowing what he could do. You fully expected your dog to kill Sougo."

Toshizō bristled, and for a moment Tōshirō wondered if he'd finally stepped too far out of line. "He's not my dog," said Toshizō, carefully, "or I'd find it worth my breath to attempt controlling him."

"Eh?" He let out a bitter laugh. "Lucky for us, then, that kid's not my dog either."

Toshizō relented, nodding.

So then he knew my protest was just for show. Somehow, Tōshirō refrained from grinning.

I can't fucking wait to fight him.

Chapter Text

Nagakura was one dropped jaw among many. "So . . . what just happened?"

In his best dad voice, however with a nervous laugh, Isami said, "I'm sure that's quite enough excitement for now. You all are dismissed."

"But Kondō-san—"

"It's lunchtime. Go eat, Shinpachi-kun."

"Just gonna keep leaving us out of the loop, okay."

"Shinpachi," warned Harada.

"What the hell, Sano." He frowned pointedly before stalking off, leaving Harada to sigh unhappily. Tōshirō made a mental note that something was going on there.

"Where's everyone else?" asked Kondō-san.

Isami looked up. "Hmmm?" He was standing with his hands at his hips, mouth pressed closed as though he had clearly heard and understood the question and wished to strike it from reality.

"There weren't enough captains here," Tōshirō pressed, sensing shenanigans. "There should be ten and some officials, right?"

"Otherwise occupied," Harada shrugged. "The night patrol's been brutal lately. Even Souji wouldn't be so cruel as to wake them."

Sougo made a nasal sound of comprehension, seeming satisfied. "So he's an S, too."

"A what?"

"Nothing for you to be concerned with, danna."

"It's everything for you to be concerned with," Tōshirō insisted. He wasn't really finished with the matter of the other captains' whereabouts—Harada's answer was good but Isami's reaction was just too suspicious—but he let it go for the time being. "Souji shouldn't know that word yet. Just keep them apart and you might be safe."

"Whether you know the word or not, you can have sadism in your heart."

"You know what, Sougo, you're right. It'd be better to eliminate all men named Okita outright."

"Fukuchou." Toshizō started; the quiet man had simply appeared behind his shoulder—so quiet that his vowels were barely audible, the word coming out more like a whisper of voiceless consonants than a real utterance. "I urge you to make time to confer with—"

"Oh, you'll get your conference, just—fuck, just be patient, okay?"

"Sir."

"Wait for me in the common room."

"Sir."

Tōshirō watched as he gracefully turned on his heel, despite Toshizō's harsh tone. "He's not related to shinobi-noby boy, is he?" he asked, mouth bunched conspiratorially to one side.

"No. Will I regret asking why?"

"They seem alike somehow. That guy a ninja too?"

"Neither of them are ninja."

"Whatever. Maybe just a plain old spy, then."

Must have hit the mark on that one, if Toshizō's clenching fists were any indication. "Gods you piss me off."

"I share the sentiment."

"Harada," the man growled. The remaining few captains promptly evacuated, and Tōshirō had to hold back a snort. Pretty familiar sight, from his perspective.

"Hijikata-san?"

"Take a break."

"From what, exactly?"

"From—this. Souji's—hell knows where, so you might as well have some time too."

"And leave only you and Kondō-san alone with this barrel of laughs? I don't think so."

"Take Sagaru with you."

Harada grimaced. "I'm not really taking a break, am I?"

"I just need somebody out of my face, and you're the best option I can afford."

"Why me?" Yamazaki asked carefully.

"He trusts you the most," said Tōshirō; he shrugged upon receipt of a how the fuck do you figure look from Toshizō. "It's okay, Yamazaki, I trust Harada too. You guys'll be fine."

He still seemed unsure. "Chin up," said Harada. "Let's get some dango, eh?"

With an unvoiced protest on his lips, Kondō-san watched Harada drag Yamazaki off by the arm, muttering appeasements about stress and sour moods and fukuchou's time of the month; Tōshirō could claim trust in Harada until the end of time, but it wouldn't erase the chief's concern for his subordinate. Admittedly Tōshirō didn't like being separated either, but here, Toshizō's command was law. That was just like home, too.

"Hijikata-san."

Sougo's voice was low beneath the cover of Nagakura's belligerent arguing (he'd returned to chew someone out air some complaints after seeing Harada and Yamazaki in the halls together), so soft that he might not have heard it, had he not been hearing that voice for years. Tōshirō hummed discreetly; I'm listening.

"Something's wrong."

His eyelids tensed just enough to say, No shit.

"I shouldn't have won."

A held breath: What?

Sougo shook his head. "Let's talk."

Toshizō rarely felt the urge to drink, but the urge today was raging.

After more half-empty promises to Saitō, he left the three remaining captives with him and Shimada. Toshizō's crew was stretched thin as it was, but luckily the two available for guard duty were the most likely to keep their mouths shut. Shimada's brute size and Saitō's unsettling placidity were likely to intimidate the captives—or at least intrigue them—away from taking action while Toshizō snatched a much-needed opportunity for discussion with his peers. He dragged Kondō-san to Souji's room, where he was currently being fussed at by Yamazaki.

Toshizō tossed Souji's sword at his feet, bouncing a time or two across the tatami.

"Thank goodness you're here, Hijikata-san," he said flatly. "Oh my. Didn't think I'd ever have a use for that sentence."

"How many times do I have to tell you, Okita-san—"

"Thank you, Yamazaki-kun," said Toshizō, "but I feel you're just wasting your breath."

"Damn straight."

Souji was simultaneously fighting off Yamazaki's attempts at first aid and changing into a fresh hakamashita. He was looking so thin these days. It was possible to recover from this illness, but you had to fucking try to take care of yourself. Was it really alright to let him continue living here? Was solidarity, so-called honor, more important than his health?

These weren't new concerns for Toshizō; normally they rolled around in his head so incessantly, he was sure that if he took them out they'd shine like polished stones. (Oi . . . that's pretty good. I'll have to write that one down.) But thanks to the tama debacle, Toshizō had been able for a time to push away his worries for Souji. Now, the sight of his pale, slim body brought them all flooding back at once.

"Toshi—we still haven't heard about the interviews."

He blinked back into present concerns. "Yes. We were . . . distracted."

"Well excuse me, Hijikata-san. I thought it would be cleanest to attack our problems head-on, you see?"

"Clean? You made a goddamn mess of things, Souji." In the corner of his eye, a small shadow was quietly slipping toward the exit. "Oi."

Yamazaki paused midstep, an animal of prey remaining still to avoid being spotted.

"Yes, you. Just where do you think you're going?"

"I'm quite certain I don't wish to be involved, sir."

"Tough shit. Sit down."

He sighed dejectedly before taking his seat among them. "Hit me."

"We ran into our four 'guests' last night in town. They believe that they are officers of the Shinsengumi, and claim to have the same family names as the four of us sitting here."

"Not their given names?"

"That's a long story, but no, those are slightly different."

"And you spent the morning interviewing them. With what results?"

"Ah . . . inconclusive results."

"Ehh?" Souji pinched his chin. "This is interesting. No inclinations either way?"

"I'm inclined to . . . not . . . disbelieve them."

"What the hell's that mean?"

"It doesn't mean I believe their story."

"And what is their story, if not that we're the fakes."

"Well—one of them gave me the stink eye for forty-five minutes, and another alternately wept, plead innocence, and begged clemency for his men in exchange for his own life."

"Sounds about right."

"For something more constructive—uh. As Tōshirō puts it, they. . . ." He rolled his eyes and sighed. I can't believe he's making me repeat this dumb shit. "They may have come from another 'universe'."

"Again, what the hell does that mean."

"Fuck should I know? But I've seen liars, and either he's a really good one, or he's telling the truth to the best of his ability."

"Do they seem infirm?" asked Yamazaki.

Kondō-san shook his head. "On the contrary, they're quite sharp."

"So they're actively liars and cheats and we should have ended them immediately, like I said in the first place."

"Okita-san. . . ."

"What? You weren't there, Yamazaki, they do have the sword skills of Shinsengumi captains."

"And yet we haven't heard of such men previously?"

"Correct," said Toshizō. "Nor do we recognize their faces."

"So they're good swordsmen who aren't from around here and can tell a pretty story. Big deal."

"Souji, please try to take this seriously."

"I am. They're a threat, they piss me off, and I want them gone. That's all there is to it. I also think it was reckless of you to send that guy off with Sano-san, we don't know enough about their abilities yet. Just because he says he's Yamazaki doesn't mean he doesn't have Okita-level skill with a katana."

"I, for once, agree with Okita-san."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, there, friend."

Yamazaki was sitting with his arms crossed, face drawn in intense thought. "What are their names?"

"Tōshirō, Sougo. Isao, and Sagaru."

He frowned warily, screwing up one brow. "It sounds like a prank."

Toshizō snorted. "If only it were."

"You don't think it is?"

"Rather elaborate for a prank. Souji challenged Sougo and lost, does that sound like a fucking joke to you?"

Yamazaki's eyes went wide. "Is that what happened to your face, Okita-san?" Souji turned up his nose; the loss was still too fresh for discussion.

"There's the more pressing matter of where to board them," said Kondō-san uneasily.

Toshizō shook his head. "I don't really care who goes where, I just don't want them all together."

"I want Sougo," said Souji.

"Alright, so I definitely care who goes where. I also don't want to involve any more people than necessary."

"Yet so eager to drag me into things."

"Hush, Yamazaki."

Kondō rubbed his chin. "So putting them all in one room with one guard is off the table?"

"If so, none of us get a break," said Souji.

"Only at night. There are more eyes to spare during the day, so we'll get some peace from them during the waking hours. If Yamazaki is unwilling t—"

"Nope."

"Okay, that unfortunately leaves only three of us to babysit four men."

"Hijikata-san," Souji whispered loudly. "You're forgetting someone."

"You'll not be involved."

"Come again? You're going to complain about manpower with one side of your mouth—"

"We don't need you causing any more friction with them, nor do we need one of them in your private quarters."

"I agree," said Yamazaki, "you need as much isolation and rest as can be managed."

"But Hijik—"

"Denied, Souji. I think Isao and Sagaru are our best bet for doubling up," he said, stanching further rebuttal. "Tōshirō is too smart and Sougo is too unpredictable, it's dangerous to give either of them the advantage of a partner."

"That's reasonable," said Kondō. "But most troublesome is Sougo. Where do you want him, Toshi?"

"With me, honestly, but put him with Sanosuke. I don't trust Tōshirō with anyone but myself. I find him more troublesome."

"Wait, wait," Souji said, "this makes no sense. Sano-san's the weakest swordsman of us all, you want to put him in charge of the one that stopped our strongest?"

"It makes fine sense, they've already admitted to trusting him. They'll have little reason to rebel against him."

"Or all the reason, if they figure out he's shite with a sword and want to take a chance to escape."

"And go where?"

"Back to whatever hole-in-the-wall dōjō they came from."

"That teaches Tennen Rishin?"

"Isao-san would've had to be a long-term student, as thoroughly as he knows the style," Kondō-san countered. "Meaning I would've had to teach him, or at least meet him, at some point. And I didn't."

"I don't believe this." Souji shook his head several times. "You two actually believe them, don't you?" Kondō stared at the floor.

"The more we talk about it," said Toshizō, "the more it seems to check out."

"With all due respect, fukuchou, you're a fucking idiot."

"It seems to check out. I'm not letting my guard down. That's why we're having these discussions at all."

"Nah, I'm done here." With that he disappeared from the room, leaving Yamazaki to grouse about medical duties and Toshizō squeezing his temples.

"I'll have Shimada pursue the ryū angle. It's always possible that students of former Shiei masters established pockets of Tennen Rishin that we don't know about."

"Allow me," said Yamazaki. "Shimada knows less about the situation, and it's only fair for the inspector to be fully disclosed."

"He's already in the room guarding them, who knows what poison they're pouring in his ears. It might even be abusive to leave him in the dark after exposing him to those fools. Besides, you're far too busy here."

Kondō-san frowned uncertainly. "If you think it's worth it to put a man on that job, I can't argue."

"You disagree?"

"Not exactly. I just have a feeling it won't yield any results."

"It will yield results. Either we confirm that they came from some other dōjō, or we don't. That's all we're looking for."

"What if those remaining at this supposed other dōjō know not to say anything?" Yamazaki asked.

"With the Shinsengumi lurking about? All the more reason to talk."

"Or all the more reason to keep their mouths shut, especially with equally-skilled swordsmen on their side."

"Would you people quit arguing with me? I know it's not perfect, I'm not banking on this thing. I just want to know what's out there."

"But what will this even tell us in the end?" asked Kondō.

Ah, that's the real kicker. "We'll see, when the end comes."

Chapter Text

Yamazaki drew his borrowed haori tighter. It was snowing lightly, but the weather had recently been worse—the ground was muddied with slush that had re-frozen several times. Despite the conditions, the streets were busy. This wasn't his Edo, yet the storefronts they passed felt homely and familiar; it was less like visiting a distant world than a neighboring town.

A pretty hickish town, without electric kotatsu or Internet, but still.

Life before the Amanto had been all but forgotten, but what was Japanese and what was alien had always been pretty easy to distinguish. And everything in this world was Japanese. There wasn't even a suit to be seen in town. Yamazaki had gleaned little from the snippets of dialogue their captors had let slip while they took turns being interrogated. But he did understand that in place of Amanto, there were foreign nations prying open Japan's shell. The concerns were different colors, but were more or less shaped the same. If the tama faction hadn't arrived here in their casual clothes—if they had been dressed as the enemy—trouble could have run much deeper.

As they strolled, Yamazaki noticed they had passed by a second dango shop. "Where are we going, Harada-san?"

"There's a little place near here with a really cute serving girl. I wanna say hello. See if she's keeping warm." Instinctively Yamazaki's face formed into clear disapproval, and Harada smirked. "Ya—Susumu would say the same thing. Just a quick detour, I promise."

A violent grumble erupted in Yamazaki's belly, and his shoulders shrank in a futile attempt to corral the noise. "Eh?" said Harada, head tilting. "Maybe real food's a better idea anyway."

"I can't right now. This whole thing has me so nervous, I couldn't eat a proper meal."

"Nervous, huh." He followed Harada's eyes to a group of men as they slipped into a kimono shop to escape the cold, maybe even to try on the wares, though they clearly weren't buying. "I suppose that's acceptable. Whether or not you all are telling untruths. Ah—here," he said cheerfully, lifting aside the curtain at their apparent destination. Guy doesn't let much get to him.

The second they stepped inside, the chatter in the place quieted to a dull hum; those who weren't glaring their way were looking around for the source of the sudden lull. The host greeted them stiffly, giving a shallow bow, but made no move to seat them.

"I don't think they want us here," Yamazaki whispered.

"I'm not in uniform, how'd they even recognize me. . . ."

"Ah!" Yamazaki turned to see a young woman scuttling toward the host; she was indeed cute, even in a plain, food-stained kimono. "Please allow me the honor of serving these guests, Nishida-tenchou," she said brightly, bowing deeply to her boss.

"This man is Shinsengumi." Cripes, they aren't shy about it!

"Oh, but this is Harada-dono! He's the nicest of the bunch, you know."

"Maybe to you," Yamazaki muttered. Harada elbowed him.

The manager couldn't resist his rogue server leading an openly armed man—"Oh right, the sword," Harada mused—what a maroon!—to a table near the edge of the room, farthest from the entrance and any inclement weather.

"The yukadanbō is best here," she said, winking as she pointed to the heated floor beneath her feet.

"How thoughtful of you, Yukari-chan."

Yamazaki tauntingly mouthed it again behind her back, and Harada all but flicked him off. "Well, since we imposed such trouble on you," said Yamazaki matter-of-factly, "it's only fair that you stay warm by serving us here." Harada glared.

"Oh, indeed! Your friend is quite sweet, Harada-dono, who is he?"

"Ketsuno," he bit. "Ketsuno Sagaru."

Her nose wrinkled in curiosity. "That's an odd name," she said diplomatically.

"Isn't it."

"Well, let me bring you two some tea, alright? Since Ketsuno-dono hasn't been here before—"

"Oh, Sagaru, please," Yamazaki insisted in his most gratuitous innocent tone.

"Well, Sagaru-kun. Have Harada-dono choose something tasty for you, he knows our menu quite well."

"I'm sure he does, with such a kind lady here to smile at him."

"Ah! W-well—" she waved a shy hand in front of her face to distract from the deep flush penetrating her cheeks—"l-let me give you some time to decide."

"S'alright," said Harada. He was starting to look pretty peeved. "The usual for me. And dango for the kid."

"Certainly, Harada-dono. I'll be right back. Oh," she leaned in and whispered to them both, "and I don't think Nishida-tenchou is very happy with me, so try not to have too good a time, alright, men?"

"Yes ma'am," said Yamazaki, smiling warmly. Harada looked gutted as the girl patted them both on a shoulder and Yamazaki settled into his cushion like a pleased puppy.

"You little snake," Harada said once Yukari had vacated.

Yamazaki sat up and stole cautious glances at the other diners, who appeared to be finishing their food with record-breaking haste. "Are they always like that?"

"Pretty much. Not a lot of fans here. The whole town's on edge though, and it's got nothing to do with us, per se." He leaned forward on the table, lowering his voice. "What about you guys? If we accept the, uh, premise. That you're Shinsengumi. Don't you get the cold shoulder too?"

"Well . . . I'm a lot lower-profile than the rest of the guys. . . ."

"Uh-huh."

"They do seem to get into fights more often than necessary. In my opinion. So maybe the treatment is similar. I honestly wouldn't know."

They sat in awkward silence for a time, Harada uncomfortable with the situation in general, Yamazaki unwilling to ruffle the man further. They both loosened up when presented with munchies.

Yamazaki stared at his dish, and observed as Harada immediately dug into his ochazuke. "Is Souji-san alright?"

"Hm?"

"He seemed pretty mad."

Harada sipped at his tea. He seemed quite relaxed now; maybe Yamazaki had been reading his earlier mood incorrectly, and he'd been more playful than seriously offended. That, or Harada had the emotional memory of a goldfish. "He's like that sometimes. It hurt him to see Kondō—uh, Isami—get bested like that."

"But he wasn't bested. They tied."

"That's enough for Souji to take it personally. Sougo's the same way, right? Or he wouldn't have fought Souji."

"He and Hijikata-san both. They'd do anything for Kondō-san. I think he's the only thing holding those two together."

"Now that, I don't believe."

"How come?"

"Just a feeling. They look like they hate each other—"

"Oh, they do."

"Maybe so. But they also seem like they're stuck, like they'll always follow through on their duty to each other."

"Yeah. . . ." Mitsuba-dono suddenly came to mind. "No, you're right, Harada-san."

"Sano's fine. Besides, they remind me of . . . mine. Hijikata-san cares about Souji, in his own way. But Souji's still a bitter kid when it comes to that man. It seems the same with your guys."

"But . . . is Souji-san alright?"

He was overtly hesitant to speak this time. "What do you mean?"

"I mean . . . you guys . . . seem really worried about him."

Harada sighed. "You noticed that, huh?"

"You're just bad at secrets, Harada-san."

"You noticed me doing it?"

"Only because Ninja-san did the same thing five minutes later."

"They don't give you enough credit, do they?"

Yamazaki shrugged. "I'm a great spy."

"Maybe they shouldn't leave you with me, after all."

"You know a lot of secrets?"

"My fair share. . . . Man, you're disarming."

"People get cozy because I'm not physically threatening. I'm pretty smart though."

"You should ditch those fools and start some shrewd business."

"I don't know. I don't have what it takes to use my skills for evil. Besides, I love those dumb guys too much. So." He popped in a dango. "What's wrong with Souji-san?"

Harada clicked his tongue and leaned back. "Only if you promise to answer a question for me." When the response was big eyes and exuberant nodding, Harada only seemed disappointed. "You're too gullible. What if I ask something you can't answer?"

"You're free to kill me if I don't answer."

"I mean, if you give me information you shouldn't give me."

"Then they'll kill me. As long as we're here, my fate's not exactly up to me."

"You're pretty brave too, aren't you?"

"No, we just have nothing to hide, so there's no wager to make."

"Shit." Harada laughed ironically. "Why does it feel like you've had the upper hand all along?"

Yamazaki just looked at him, puppy eyes begging for his answer.

"Fine. Just—stop making that face at me. Souji . . . fights harder than any of us, and he's never been one to sleep or eat enough. Lately—it's been more obvious he's not feeling well. He's had his orders to take it easy, but of course nothing changes. We're worried he's fighting his way to his grave."

Yamazaki eyed him. Harada was long-limbed, sinewy, and carried only one sword where the rest of his buddies carried two. If that longsword served as his backup, his primary weapon was probably too big to carry on his hip. He did have a long-hafted weapon the night previous, but it had been hard to see what exactly it was by the light of a single flame. Naginata? Spear? Bō staff? Not that it particularly mattered, Harada could surely kill the shit out of him with whatever weapon. "Is that really all there is to it?"

"Nnn. It's my turn, Sagaru-kun."

He munched contentedly. "What's your question, then?"

"Well . . . I need to think about it," he admitted. "I didn't have anything particular in mind. I'm not good with that stuff, Hijikata-san was the interrogator for a reason."

"Yeah, and yours is just as scary as ours. Well—scarier. Since I don't know him."

"He might be equally scary if you did."

"Are you afraid of him too?"

"Me? Nah. He's just a man. I could take him. Souji, though . . . I'll admit, I'm amazed that Sougo defeated him."

"That wasn't all fair either."

"You may think that, but normally even when he's emotional like that it wouldn't affect his swordsmanship."

"No?"

Harada's eyes slid suspiciously back to him. "You're a dangerous guy, Sagaru."

Tōshirō made sure to sit directly across from the quiet guy, who was like a cat warming in a spot of sun, eyes closed but clearly awake. His ears may even have flicked anytime Tōshirō shifted.

"What's your story?"

Kondō-san patted his shoulder. "Don't provoke them." He glanced nervously at the hulking monster standing by the door.

"Come on, him? That guy's a teddy bear."

"Hijikata-san," said Sougo. The quiet man lifted his eyes.

"You know," Tōshirō said, "this would be way easier for everyone if I knew your name. I can't keep referring to you as 'that quiet one' forever."

Now the big guy glanced over too. It was hard to get a read on either of them. How closely were they listening? Were they curious? Was he making them nervous? Had they been resentful of the task before even entering this room?

"Leave them alone, Hijikata-san."

"Oh please. You're itching to get me into trouble with them."

"I don't have the slightest idea what you might be referring to."

"Shut up, Sougo. Stop saying Hijikata-san."

"What would I call you, if not your name?"

"See, that's exactly what I'm talking about. These poor souls probably haven't been told anything beyond 'guard these guys', and here you are getting them involved."

"Sorry, Hijikata-san."

"You might as well fucking tell me what you wanted to talk about."

"Here?" he said, lips pursed.

"Yeah, we're not exactly going to get any privacy, are we?"

"I guess this would be more private than with danna listening in, huh."

"Just, try not to make it sound like you're speaking in code."

The quiet guy's left hand slunk to the hilt of his katana.

"Seriously, man, what can I call you?"

"Keep silent."

"Again, that's more or less what I've been calling you."

"He means you, Hijikata-san."

"Both of you."

The big one turned back toward the door, crossing his arms with determination. "Wait now," said Tōshirō nervously, "you look sorta like you don't want to witness something."

"That I don't."

The quiet one tilted his head, eyes closed, a hint of a smile in his lips, and Tōshirō winced. "He's kind of scaring me, this guy."

Sougo picked at his nails. "The teddy bear, you mean? Or that quiet one?"

"Whatever. You said Souji should've beaten you. Other than for my own eternal peace of mind, what makes you say that?"

"These guys are all objectively stronger than us." Kondō-san pouted. "Sorry, kyokuchou, but it's true." The quiet one's eyes opened.

"I don't see it," said Tōshirō. "They haven't even truly fought us, maybe with the exception of their Okita. And I've seen you do some pretty vicious things yourself, Sougo, it would surprise me if there were someone out there worse than you." He felt something cold against the small wound on his neck; he looked down to find himself yet again at swordpoint. "I could've sworn that shit was sheathed." A southpaw armed with iaidō, could any one person be more dangerous?

"Let him go," said Kondō, voice full of gruff authority. "If danna wanted to keep us from talking, he would've had us gagged."

Tōshirō felt his spine tingle. "Et tu, kyokuchou?"

He stood, head high. "Lower your blade and let them speak." Either by his force or the reason in his argument, the quiet man complied, replacing his blade with silence.

"Why me, anyway," complained Tōshirō. "Sougo's the dangerous one."

"Please, Toushi, don't make this more difficult—"

"I got it, I got it. Shit."

"Hijikata-san."

"What did I just say about using that name?"

". . . about Souji."

There was a halting silence; when Tōshirō glanced up, Sougo and the quiet man were locked in some kind of mental staring contest. Sougo seemed to be not only looking for a reaction (there was none to be found, Tōshirō had tried), but also contemplating some kind of . . . courtesy?

No. That couldn't be right.

Finally Sougo let out a short breath through his nose. "I'm sorry, Hijikata-san, but I'd rather have it all together than talk it out in front of these guys."

"Uh-huh. If you think you're going to investigate without their interference, you're dumber than I realized."

"No . . . I just have some thought experiments to perform first."

Well, my conclusion stands. "And here I thought you had something worthwhile to add."

"Shame on you. Did you want to talk to me so badly, Hijikata-san?"

"Forget it. This scene was filler anyway."

It was too warm under the covers but he refused to move, preferring to sweat through his anger. Hell if he couldn't make a challenge out of being bedridden. Especially since it was by force rather than necessity.

The night was moonless, flameless. It was different from the darkness in his eyelids, or behind a blindfold, or of sleep. Having his eyes open to a pitch-dark room always made his breaths come shallower, like the darkness was a physical thing pushing in on his chest. It was harder to breathe, harder to hear, harder to feel the air move. . . .

"Jii-san."

He'd been expecting this.

"I need to talk to you."

He wasn't sure why, though.

Sock feet padded for a few steps before slowing, soles skimming across tatami until they pressed into the edge of the futon. There was a creak of knees, a gentle pop, as Sougo sat down. "I know what's wrong with you."

"There's nothing wrong with me."

When Sougo failed to contradict him vocally, Souji sat up. He couldn't know. But something about the silence was smug. Sad.

"We both have our advantages. Yours is obvious."

"And that is."

Again, Sougo said nothing.

Souji's arm followed the familar path to the candle beside his bed, fingers picking one match. When he struck it, Sougo's serene face illuminated, dark hollows where his eyes lay closed. He shook his head, barely. "But you have one distinct disadvantage. Greater than any of ours."

His teeth squeezed together reflexively as he pressed flame to the wick, but he relaxed his jaw before speaking, because there was no way he could know. "Leave."

And so, slowly, Sougo rose to his feet, palm flat against his chest. As he made his way for the exit, Souji lay back, sheets cool with sweat in winter air, and extinguished the candle with a wave.

A hum swam along the breathless black between them.

"It's not the sword that's killing you."

The clack of shōji closing, reverent.

Souji rolled over, eyes drying out under the weight of darkness and words.

He would not sleep that night.

Chapter Text

Souji had been gathering the resolve to storm up to Hijikata and announce his findings (thereby blowing his mind halfway across the universe), but just as day broke he finally fell prey to unconsciousness. When he snapped awake again, the angle of the sunlight was all wrong; he rolled out of bed and into his clothes, hoping they'd postponed the morning meeting at least long enough for Souji to catch the tail end of it before they rejoined those nuts. There was still one more thing to confirm. He skittered around corners, ignoring the puzzled stares of several zombified squad members—"If you have time to lean," he shouted through the halls, "you have time for three hundred strikes in the training room right this instant," and he took great pleasure in how they scattered like startled cockroaches—

"Easy, tiger."

"Sano-san." Must've missed the meeting already, if Sano was out and about and ripe for collisions.

"Well, I'm glad to see you're feeling . . . vigorous," he said gently as he rubbed his forearm, which had taken the brunt of the impact. "Sounds like you guys had an interesting discussion while I was away yesterday. Perhaps we could catch each other up, eh?"

Passive-aggressive tripe. "Another time, maybe?"

"That was a joke. You know. Since you walked out on them?"

Or maybe not. "Shut up."

"Well yes sir, Hijikata-san."

At this he definitely tasted bile, but for the benefit of all involved decided to ignore it. "I need to talk to you."

"Me? What's got you so worked up this early? Well, I mean, for the rest of us the day is well under way—"

Souji grabbed his arm—right where he expected a bruise was already blossoming—and dragged him into the nearest empty room to the tune of vigorous protests. "Let go of me, you savage—"

"Did you tell Sougo anything about me?"

"No." He shook his arm free, raked a hand through his hair. "We barely spoke once all night."

"I find it hard to believe you kept from talking."

"I swear it, we didn't talk."

"What about Sagaru?"

Sano's dumb face immediately blanched. "Why? Did he say something?"

"What exactly did you tell him? Exactly."

"Just that we worry because you fight so hard. That we try to make you rest, but you never do."

"That's it?"

"Yeah."

"You swear that's it."

"Yeah, what's. . . ."

"Did Sagaru ever talk to Sougo?"

"No, I don't think so."

"It's fucking important, Sano, did they talk or not?"

"No," Hijikata said sharply, looming in the doorway with his arms folded. This asshole. He must've come snooping at the sound of discord. Guy could smell it like blood in the water. "When the two of them returned, Sagaru was immediately placed into Kondō-san's custody. Isao was the only one of his faction he saw the rest of the day."

"What about Sougo?"

"Sanosuke went to pick him up straightaway. He had strict orders not to let him out of his sight, or to meet anyone else."

Well good fucking work. He'd obviously slipped out of Sano's room, but there was no way he could've snuck into Kondō-san's room, let alone carry on a conversation with his two friends, without Kondō noticing.

There's no way.

"Hijikata-san, those guys. . . ."

"What? We've been over this, I'm not just going to execute them—"

"They're telling the truth."

"—much as I'd like to, at ti—" That's it. Listen for once. While Hijikata struggled to register what that meant, Souji braced himself for the man's bone-melting gaze. Though his best reply was a single moronic, "What?"

"I said we can believe them."

Mind. Blown.

Hijikata pressed a knuckle to his lips thoughtfully, cleared his throat. "What the fuck happened."

"They know."

"They know what?"

"Things that, by all rights, they shouldn't know," he said, fingers tracing the lines of his collar bones. "Things they couldn't know."

Hijikata's eyes widened. "You mean. . . ."

He nodded. "Sougo already knew."

Souji expected overwhelming stupefaction, but Hijikata just chewed the inside of his lip. "Did he say the words specifically."

"No, but—"

"He's gaming you. You goaded him and he's getting you back."

"It's not like that."

"How do you know?" Souji didn't feel like justifying that with an answer that he didn't really have, so he said nothing. Hijikata dropped his arms and sighed warily. "Souji—"

"Don't sigh at me like you're my father. I've made up my mind, isn't that enough to convince you?"

"Why are you trying to convince me of anything?"

Because I deserve to be included? Because I deserve to be heard, and believed? Because I'm right?

"Just trying to clean up my messes." And as he brushed past Hijikata: "For once."

Yukimura had been instructed not to go near any of them, but it was only a matter of time before the tendrils of her influence informed her of the situation. Toshizō said a silent prayer of thanks to whatever entity had made Kōdō's kid as discreet as she was forthright. Still, the longer they could hold off, the better. Maybe they could even get rid of them before she could manage to get herself involved, as she undoubtedly would.

The night had been long and tense. The new moon meant there was no light to see by, so Toshizō had lain in bed half-awake all night, listening for every tiny rustle of his new roommate. The fact that the guy hadn't so much as rolled over pissed him off more than any escape attempt would have. He had effectively wasted a night of sleep for no reason, just as several consecutive sleepless nights were beginning to catch up with him.

In the morning he had groggily dropped Tōshirō off at daycare (otherwise known as Saitō, since Shimada was preparing for his trip through Tama) along with the others, allowing Toshizō and crew to convene in the common room for a short planning session. Souji had, of course, been late, but the rest reported no problems with any of the tama. In fact, Kondō-san seemed downright pleased with his interactions with Isao and Sagaru. Which was disconcerting. Sanosuke said that Sougo had behaved himself, but had the day previous warned that Sagaru was much sharper than he let on. It was probably not a good idea for him to stay the night with any of his friends, either. Toshizō would probably have to rope poor Saitō into boarding one of them soon.

And Souji—he was his own problem. Then again, that was hardly news. It was as if he had truly expected a claim like that to be accepted without evidence. Guts were not evidence. They could guide one to evidence, certainly, but Souji wasn't one to follow evidence and reason anyway. Toshizō had considered stopping him as he stole away in his tantrum, but figured he'd just rip Souji's fucking arm off, so he let him go. Harada too had backed out of the room uneasily, giving an equally uneasy smile before zipping off.

What a pack of idiots I lead.

Toshizō, finding himself again at the door to the "jail", leaned against the cool wall, flattening his shoulders back, stretching his neck. He listened awhile, absently; the voices within were hesitant and biting, but bright. If he applied himself he could pick out a phrase here and there from his own men. The strangers were more difficult to parse. When he felt his brain slipping he took a deep breath and pushed off from the wall to join them.

But there was Saitō.

This was not going to be easy. "Morning." When the hell had he snuck up? Toshizō angled to pass him, but Saitō sidestepped to block access to the door.

Toshizō shifted on his feet, waiting for him say something. But, of course, nothing. Just looked at him with that damn face. "Shut up."

He continued saying nothing.

"Later. Okay?"

His gentle stare bored deeper, even more painful for its gentleness.

"Tch. Fine, I yield." And not without a tingle running through his spine. It was a marvelous thing, when Saitō bothered to appear menacing. "I'm sure you've heard some . . . things."

"Indeed, sir."

"Just the thought of explaining this again is exhausting, so why don't you observe for now and ask whatever you can't pick up."

"I desire nothing more."

"Shit, Saitō," he muttered. "You've really got to work on that." Saitō offered one final glare before disappearing inside.

(TOSHIZŌ enters U.L. after SAITŌ. A twelve-mat room barely large enough to contain their growing numbers, now at nine, including also TŌSHIRŌ, SOUJI, SOUGO, ISAMI, ISAO, ZAKI, and HARADA. They are friendlier, some even mingling among the other faction, but most keep to their own. The shouji at U.R. open to a small courtyard; it is cracked, and there is snow without but it is not actively snowing. TOSHIZŌ's hands linger on the closed sliding doors U.L.; visibly perturbed, he stands facing them for a time as the chatter in the room slowly subsides. One by one the others turn to look at him.)

TŌSHIRŌ. (Gaze on SAITŌ as he sits down.) This again.
ISAMI. What are you doing over there, Toshi? Come on in.
TOSHIZŌ. (Turns; with measured suspicion.) What's going on in here?
SOUJI. What, did you expect it to be so easy leaving me out a second time?
TOSHIZŌ. No, it's not . . . it's not that. . . .
ISAMI. What's the matter?
TOSHIZŌ. (Rounding on TŌSHIRŌ.) It's you, isn't it? You've done something. I know it.
TŌSHIRŌ. What? What'd I do, what the hell are you talking about?
TOSHIZŌ. Something's wrong in here, I can feel it. What did you do?
TŌSHIRŌ. Oh, this? Just an experiment. Not exactly turning out like I'd hoped, but . . . actually if more of us start talking, it might be better. We do have such similar looking names. . . .
SOUGO. Like this?
TŌSHIRŌ. Yes, thank you.
ZAKI. How can he even tell anything's changed? I thought we were the only ones with that kind of perspective.
TŌSHIRŌ. That is the whole reason they don't trust us.
SOUJI. Actually, I think Hijikata-san has something to say about that.
TŌSHIRŌ. (Crossing his arms.) Does he, now?
ISAMI. What does he mean, Toshi?
TOSHIZŌ. Souji, do not put words in my mouth. Not today. Although—to be clear, not ever, never put words in my mouth.
ISAO. (Ignoring them, starts his own conversation.) I'm not convinced that's totally true, Zaki.
TŌSHIRŌ. You know, I guess I have had my suspicions about that guy.
TOSHIZŌ. You—stop discussing me so casually. And fix this.
TŌSHIRŌ. No thank you, I find this is kind of working out. Say something, Kondō-san.
ISAO. What? Why?
TŌSHIRŌ. See? Isn't that ni—wait a m—do you not know what's happening?
ISAO. Not totally, but I'm not interested either. You two are like the blades in a blender, I'm not about to be involved when things start spinning.
HARADA. Thing is, Souji suddenly believes you folks are telling the truth. (All are taken aback.)
TŌSHIRŌ. What did you just say?
HARADA. I don't know all the details—
TOSHIZŌ. The hell you don't. (Beat.) Actually, I don't either. Care to elaborate, Souji?
SOUJI. I figured I'd leave it to Sougo. (SOUJI looks to him smugly, but SOUGO remains calm and passive.) Go on. Tell them.
SOUGO. (With uncharacteristic gravity.) If you don't mind, I'd rather tell only Isami-san. I don't want Hijikata finding out if he doesn't have to.
TOSHIZŌ. You should know, then, that what you tell him, you effectively tell me.
SOUGO. I meant mine. (TŌSHIRŌ is confused, but shrugs it off. SOUGO approaches ISAMI, ignoring how SAITŌ and TOSHIZŌ tense, hands on their hilts. SOUGO leans in and cups his mouth, whispers into ISAMI's ear, and the man's eyes widen with parallel seriousness. SOUGO nods once respectfully and sits back down between TŌSHIRŌ and ISAO.)
SOUJI. Well?
ISAMI. (Beat.) I'd have to say that settles it. (TOSHIZŌ looks skeptical and motions to him, inviting him to share; ISAMI likewise whispers.)
TOSHIZŌ. Damn. (Slaps his palms down on his knees, leans over his lap; muffled.) Fuck me.
ISAMI. (Patting TOSHIZŌ's back.) Not bad, right?
TOSHIZŌ. (Surfacing.) So we get to keep them around now. Great.
TŌSHIRŌ. Wait, that's it? We're good?
TOSHIZŌ. If you can behave, and promise to work on getting the hell out of here.
ISAO. Of course. That's all we want.
ISAMI. They won't need to join the general population, of course, but we can't hide away with them at all hours either. They're going to be seen. How shall we explain their presence to the lower ranks?
TOSHIZŌ. Bring them on board, that's the easy answer.
SOUJI. And risk them saying something utterly insane?
TOSHIZŌ. That's why the easy answer is impossible. I'm also not quite ready to give them back their weapons.
HARADA. (Shrugging.) Anybody asks, they're rowdy relatives of the Maekawa come to visit. The old-timers met the Yagi, but nobody knows a Maekawa—
TOSHIZŌ. Okay, wait. No. Seriously, I can't, this has to stop.
TŌSHIRŌ. I don't see what the big deal is, you're the only one that's bothered.
TOSHIZŌ. Know what, I don't give a shit, change it back.
TŌSHIRŌ. Fine. You ass. (Stands, dusts off his yukata, straightens his obi.)

"There, is that better? Twerp?"

Toshizō sighed twerpishly, relaxing like a man sinking into a hot bath and completely unaware that he was no longer the perspective character. "Yes, I think so."

His satisfaction with what, to Souji, was just a neatening of clothes, earned him quite the high-arched brow. "I think Sano-san might've been right, about one thing at least."

He, in turn, received the requisite death glare; foreseeing a fight, Tōshirō dumped the contents of his yukata sleeve on the tatami before him, preferring to witness it while sucking down sweet, sweet nicotine. Sougo's flat stare unnerved him, as it was wont to do. "What is it now?"

"No way am I going to be related to this dirtbag."

He gritted his teeth and popped a cigarette between his lips. "You wanna live? Deal with it, punk."

"What happens when you run out of those, Hijikata-san?"

"Ahn?" The thing bobbed as he mumbled obscenities and reached for his lighter.

"Don't tell me you haven't given it any thought. Last time you were deprived of smokes you ended up reenacting whole sh—"

"Whose fault was that? Kindly shut it, Sougo." He swatted at Souji's hand, curiously crinkling the pack's plastic in his fingers. All haku eyes were on him as flame appeared and set to the end of the cigarette. He eyed them back. "You people don't have lighters, I take it."

Their heads shook.

"But matches, I hope. . . ."

They nodded.

"Good. Because this thing's surely about spent."

And stared.

"Oh, for hell's sake." He rolled his eyes and handed the lighter to Souji for inspection. "Don't blame me if you burn yourself."

"I'm not stupid, I can see how it works." It took only three clicks for a successful little flame to sprout in his hands. He suppressed a smile. "What is it, kerosene in there?"

"Something like that."

"This is all very educational," said Toshizō, "but if you fools don't mind I'd like to move on to actual impactful business."

"Eat me, Haku-san, I'm talking."

Souji had clapped his hands over his mouth with wild amusement, just as everyone else nearly expelled their eyes from their skulls. "Excuse me?" Toshizō drawled.

"I said I'm sharing my love of smoking, and that I'll let you know when I'm through."

"Oh no you don't—"

"Think about yourself for a second. Would you lie down and take orders from me if the situation were reversed? No. You'd nose in every chance you got to assert your own dominance. I know that because you're like me, and that's my fucking instinct, so if you could just back off for like a minute and let me do my thing. Hijikata."

"I'm afraid he's right, Toshi." Isami had a monstrous grip on one of Toshizō's wrists, though it seemed probationary, since Toshizō wasn't actually lunging. He was too busy being butthurt by such brazen backtalk. "We can't be surprised anymore that their personalities are similar to our own."

"Do I have to like it?"

Souji harrumphed. "Imagine how the rest of us feel, Hijikata-san."

And Toshizō probably could have slapped him halfway across the universe.

Though the ensuing and beautifully predicted argument was highly entertaining (Is it just as satisfying to others when I get trolled? he wondered guiltily), Tōshirō leaned into Sougo. "Surprisingly—good work. Looks like you've managed to gain us some real points here."

"Surprisingly thanks."

"What'd you tell them?"

It was remarkable, the solemnity in his bearing as he shook his head—stiff, uncertain, so un-Sougo. "Don't." It was nothing like Tōshirō's command the day before, a political performance with an ulterior message. This one was real. Tōshirō was too confused to press him, brows crumpling as Sougo plucked something from his sleeve and peered at it. "Let's just focus on getting home as soon as possible, Hijikata-san. Now—" he grunted as he stood and walked right over to Souji, nudging him quiet, a black hair pinched in his fingertips. "You wouldn't happen to have a spare wara ningyō, by chance."

Chapter Text

"I think it was the new microwave."

"All due respect, sir—no shit, Shirogane."

"Like you knew."

"Unlike some of us, I'm watching the news instead of stupid soaps when I get time for television. I told you not to go near that microwave with your cell phones!"

"Doesn't matter how far away you are, so long as it's running."

"Why on earth did you not have it thrown out?!"

"It was expensive! Besides, who would believe that crap!?"

"People who don't get transported to alternate realities, obviously!"

"Spoiler alert, you watching the news on TV was part of the problem too, dipshit."

"I always thought microwave popcorn was inferior to stovetop popcorn, anyway."

"Sougo? Officially banned from the microwave."

"Oh whatever for."

"Please, you're more likely than not to throw a spoon in there and come whining to me, It's making weird noises, Hijikata-san, I don't know, can you check it out, don't I look all innocent—"

"That's not a bad idea."

"Except for the part where it is, because half of HQ is liable to blow up with me."

"You've got to break some eggs, Hijikata-san."

It was a shame Saitō had been dismissed—someone had to fetch Shimada before he got too far on the road—since observing the tama interact freely was rather educational. But he'd catch up easily enough, now that he'd been given carte blanche to research the situation. He probably wouldn't rejoin them upon his return, but would no doubt root himself somewhere nearby, sucking everything up like the little sponge he was.

"Oi Tosshi," said Sougo, "ever notice danna's got the same Nezumi haircut you had?"

"Don't call me Tosshi. Way the hell back in chapter one, by the way."

Toshizō prickled. "What's this about a rat haircut?"

"Not rat," Tōshirō explained desperately, "Nezumi. I think it's a character. Wait—Sougo, you saw that?"

"I did grow up with girls. Nice try with this I think business, though."

He reddened slightly but pressed his fists to his hips to simulate self-assurance. "Tosshi can appreciate fine storytelling. He is not above BL."

"I'm still not following," said Toshizō through gritted teeth.

"Oi, Tosshiiii, you're pissing him off."

"I said don't call me that! I cut it all off after we left Kondō's dōjō," he said to Toshizō.

"So you have worn your hair this same way."

"Down to the stupid fringe on the sides. Doesn't that piss you off?"

"Hasn't bothered me yet." The acute angles of his brows went unnoticed.

"Maybe it's because I started smoking," Tōshirō mused. "Hair really retains that smell."

"Seems bad for you."

"Is it ever. But sometimes you just feel like destroying yourself, you know?"

"Sometimes others feel like destroying you," Toshizō growled. The Okitas nodded gravely.

"You started it, Sougo."

"I can finish it," said Toshizō. Sougo's mouth twitched in what could have been a smile.

"What the hell," Tōshirō pouted, "even I hate me in other universes."

Sougo hummed, and Toshizō looked up to find the kid peering at him, chin in hand. "And I like you in other universes." All of which Toshizō found wildly upsetting.

"No, I still sorta hate him," said Souji.

"I meant me—Sougo—personally. I think Hijikata Toshizō isn't too bad. If you still hate him, though, I'd be willing to make a trade."

Toshizō crossed his arms, slipping his hands into his sleeves and sighing angrily, as Souji appeared to give the idea some serious thought. "Hijikata Tōshirō seems to have a knack for stress relief, unlike this uptight princess. I wouldn't be opposed."

The Kondōs were patting the air, trying to temper the ever-intensifying mood sparking between Hijikatas. "Let's not be hasty."

Sougo looked at his own counterpart. "And your mage is stupid."

Souji pointed at Kondō, who puffed up and grinned famously. Toshizō pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Nah," said Sougo. "The black and gold getup is too fetching, the mage only seals it. Okita Souji's hair, however, is still stupid."

"Fine," said Souji, "what's your stress relief?"

He shrugged. "I like pointing bazookas at Hijikata-san's face."

"What's that?"

"Oh. It's like a huge gun that shoots rockets instead of bullets."

Souji's eyes widened with horrifying excitement. "So you just openly make attempts on his life?"

"He's the great oni no fukuchou, he's sharp enough to dodge them. And if he doesn't, well, that's his own fault."

Souji lifted a brow. "That's certainly true. . . ."

"Sougo-kun. Stop giving him ideas."

Tōshirō snorted. "Seems like about the right time to be saying I told you so."

"You shut up. And you two, do refrain from discussing murdering us."

"You can't stop the signal. Doesn't matter how innocent it sounds, it's code for something that'll kill you."

Hyperbolic though it seemed, it was hard not to take Sougo on his word, especially with Tōshirō failing to deny the claims. Toshizō even felt a twinge of pity for him. "How do you get anything done?"

He frowned dismissively. "I refuse to believe you have no vices. You don't drink?"

Harada lifted a finger in a rather know-it-all fashion. "More accurately, he can't drink."

"Shut up."

"Ah? You don't smoke either. Women?"

"Hardly," said Souji. "He passes out love letters like candy."

"Hey—!"

"He writes love letters?" asked Tōshirō.

"No, I mean the letters he gets."

"You cold bastard, you give away girls' love letters?"

"No, that's not—"

"I mean, it could be pretty funny, depending on who receives it. Like charity panties."

"Now you see why I did it," Sougo muttered.

"I do not give away girls' love letters."

"Explain how our guys end up with them, then."

"You, Souji, you steal them!"

"Ah, you need proof for that kind of accusation."

"I've seen you doing it."

"You've seen me rifle through your things in search of something else, but have you seen me actually take anyth—ah! That's it, that's his vice!"

"What?"

"Writing this shitty p—"

"Seppuku," Toshizō blurted.

"What? What for?"

Sougo leaned into Souji, mouth covered by a hand but making no amendments to the usual tenor and volume of his voice. "They're more alike than you know."

"Preemptive," said Toshizō, icy. The ease with which Sougo pissed him off—it cemented the claim that he was Okita. Because few people could so reliably piss him off. "To prevent me from fighting you, breaking one of the regulations myself." He also did not approve of this budding alliance.

"I don't give a shit which of your own damn rules you break, make me."

"I swear to all that is good I will kill you." Fuck if he was going to let that little secret slip so soon.

"That's more like it, fukuchou. But you've been saying that for over a decade already. I fight back a lot harder now than when I was nine, you know, you should have followed through before I mastered the sword. Though I suppose that was a rather short window of time. . . ."

"Toshizō-kun," said Tōshirō thoughtfully. "How do you manage without any vices?"

"I manage. Maybe you are slightly more stressed than I am," he added, glancing pointedly at Sougo. "How do you allocate tasks to your assistants?"

"Assistants," Tōshirō snorted, before his face blanked. "You have assistants? Plural?"

"In a sense. There is Yamazaki-kun, of course. One of the captains is particularly suited to diplomacy, and there is a young . . . outsider who—well—"

"Don't you guys have a Saitō?" asked Souji, rescuing him from having to explain the concept of Yukimura. Most constructive thing he'd done all goddamn week.

"Not ringing a bell," said Tōshirō.

"No Saitō? Kinda shy, but could dice you up before you get the chance to blink?"

"Uh. . . ." Tōshirō scratched at his neck. "I believe we've met, yes."

"It seems to have been quite the traumatic experience," said Toshizō, "so I'd say you were indeed properly introduced to ours."

"You're a bastard for that, by the way."

Isao tilted his head. "Wasn't Saitō the one with the spidery bangs in Rur—"

He suddenly cupped his hands over his mouth, as Tōshirō had slapped him upside the head—"They don't have TV!"—the effect being a sorely bitten tongue. Harada laughed heartily, and even Kondō-san grinned.

"I don't think Saitō shows until much later in the manga," said Sougo.

"You mean in Rurouni Kenshin?"

"No."

"So you have no assistants at all?" Toshizō asked.

"Well, technically I do, but he's not—he's. . . ." After some time struggling to find the right adjective for his assistant, Tōshirō sighed. "No. I don't have assistants."

The weather was calm, the city was quiet; nothing urgent interrupted the afternoon, allowing it to pass with conversation that gradually warmed. With the exception of the Kondōs—who were huddled together on the edge of the room yapping away like lifelong BFFs—most of them weren't yet comfortable enough to say much about their personal lives. But the politics of their worlds proved a positive place to start. It was little surprise, to Tōshirō at least, that the same ruffians plagued the haku as plagued his own world. But it was something of a shock to realize that people dropped like flies here. Takasugi had died some months ago, Sakamoto mere days ago. These were huge names—it was nigh unbelievable that they'd both fallen so recently. It was as if Tōshirō had arrived at a flashpoint. Or else very near one.

"What about Katsura?" he asked.

"Still on the loose," said Toshizō. "What about you?"

"As ever."

"Too bad. I was hoping for some pointers."

"Well . . . something tells me my Katsura's a little different than yours."

"How so?"

"He's hardly a problem," said Tōshirō. "He's got ideals and he can give you the slip, but he's too crazy to be any real threat. Now Takasugi—"

"Still alive?"

"He's crazy in a whole other way. A very dangerous way."

"Smooth voice, though," said Harada. "Real deep and careless, know what I mean?"

Tōshirō plucked a cigarette from the pack with his lips. "Sounds like someone we know."

"Watch it," Sougo said to Harada, "she hasn't played that one yet."

"Wha—who? What?"

Across the room, Kondō-san's voice suddenly rose several decibels. "Isami-san, you're married?! What's her name, you have to tell me her name!"

Tōshirō jumped up and thrust an arm in front of Isami. "Don't. It'll either encourage or destroy him, and it has no business doing either."

"What do you mean?"

"He's been after this lady—"

"She's playing hard to get," Kondō said, perhaps less confidently than he intended.

Tōshirō was starting to feel strange, but couldn't put his finger on how or why, so he decided to ignore it. "She flattens you every time you show your face," he said, tapping ashes into an empty sake cup. "That's impossible to get." He really would have to stop, preferably with a few cigarettes remaining for dire emergencies. Soon he'd give his pack to Yamazaki for safekeeping. Just—not yet.

"I don't know," said Isami, "it doesn't sound all bad. If she despised you, would she spend such time and attention, ah, flattening you?"

"You know, Isami-san," he said, nodding however at his own men, "you have a great point."

Tōshirō rolled his eyes. "Why did we follow these dumbasses." Toshizō all but facepalmed in agreement.

"They both have girl names," said Sougo. "Think that means anything?"

"Actually—do you mind if I step out?" Tōshirō nodded toward the door to the courtyard. His skin was crawling all over, desperately needed some air. Something was—something was hurting.

"I'd prefer if you did," said Toshizō. "Don't want the smell to permeate the tatami." Asshole. At least it would be cold outside, and quiet. Maybe it could shake him up, reset him.

Once the shōji snapped shut behind him, Tōshirō took a long, long drag that burned through maybe a third of what remained and held it in, letting it burrow into his brain. He was nearing nirvana when Kondō-san spooked the shit out of him by grabbing his elbow and whispering, "Is it weird if I think he's great?"

Tōshirō shook him off just as he spotted some random sandals on a little stair and stepped into them. "You just like what he said about Otae-san." They were surprisingly cool, rather than cold. Another third of the paper burned though; the clouds of his breath had tripled in size out in the frosty air of an overcast day.

"Might be a little egocentric of you, kyokuchou," he heard. Sougo too, of course Sougo had followed. "But Isami is pretty great, so I can hardly fault you."

"And he's got a kid! A little girl! And he's stuck here with all these men, isn't it tragic?"

"Yes, he seems quite distraught," Tōshirō said, hopping down onto the flagstones below. In his periphery he finally noticed the quiet guy—Saitō, was it?—sitting against the wall outside the room, faithful little guard that he was. "Aren't you cold? And usually sitting seiza?" The guy shifted uncomfortably, embarrassed to be seen looking so improper. He pulled the scarf up over his nose and gave a little shake of the head.

Kondō frowned. "You're not being fair, Toushi. Isami-san's got a lot on his mind right now."

And probably hella mistresses too, he thought as Kondō waved away a mass of smoke. "Oi, give that back." This one was going down so fast that after years of tolerance, Tōshirō was actually getting a buzz.

"You know, some people hide their pain with a smile, rather than a veil of cigarette smoke."

"Cut the poetry, Kondō-san, you're creeping me out."

"Can you imagine? Having a family you can't even be with most of the time?"

"At least he gets to try," Tōshirō said, chucking his spent cigarette at the ground and giving it a good stomp. So that's why I feel like shit. He couldn't tell if the geta teeth actually smashed it out, but slamming his foot down felt fucking great.

"Oh, Toushi, I'm—"

"It's fine, Kondō-san."

"No, that was—I was being insensitive—"

"Just drop it, okay?" He snatched the butt off the ground and stuffed it in his sleeve. "It's my own goddamn fault, we all know that, don't we? He's trying, you're trying—" He stepped out of the sandals again and went right up to Saitō. "Can you take me somewhere? I need—" he glanced guiltily at Kondō and Sougo—"I need some space." Saitō looked only a little suprised, promptly nodding him back inside.

"Fukuchou, may I escort this man to the kitchen?" Technically he had asked, but his stride as he breezed easily through the room said that he was telling rather than asking.

And all Tōshirō caught as he gave a quick bow was, "Uh—sure, Saitō, but what—" before chasing after his new savior.

Saitō dropped a tub of dry rice before Tōshirō, along with a bucket of water and a strainer. With a hilariously stern focus, he salted his hands and began pressing prepared rice into hefty shapes. The tasuki tied around his sleeves, instead of giving him a sweet domesticated look, made Tōshirō pretty certain he was in the room with a goddamn butcher. When Saitō felt himself being stared at, he redirected Tōshirō's attention to his own task with a curt nod.

"Is washing rice one of your regular jobs, Saitō-san?"

"No."

Frowning, Tōshirō scooped some into the strainer, dipped it slowly in the water, and watched starch swim out in white waves. He poked at the grains that floated on top, making sure to wet every one of them so they all sank.

"You seemed to need it."

"What?"

He nodded again at Tōshirō's hands; the feeling was so familiar and soothing that without realizing it, he'd been squeezing the rice in his fist just for the hell of it. "Huh."

Before long he had a bucketful of pearly, opaque water. "Pain in the ass, how do you do this without proper plumbing . . . ?"

"Pardon?"

"Nothing."

"You can dump it out over there."

Tōshirō refilled his bucket with clear water from the pump and dunked the strainer a few more times. "You're sort of like the power behind the throne around here, aren't you?"

"You give me far too much credit." He held out a perfectly triangular onigiri, which Tōshirō gratefully accepted.

"I don't know. You're my favorite so far."

"I'm not sure if that should flatter me."

Tōshirō picked up his buckets, plopping them down next to Saitō and resuming his work. "How much do you know, anyway? About us." Saitō said nothing, but the look on his face suggested he wasn't sure what the hell he knew. "But you're in the inner circle?"

"It appears that way, yes."

"Is there anything you want to ask?"

Saitō gave him a sidelong glance. "Why volunteer an audience with me?"

"I don't know. You seem smart, responsible with your information."

"The others aren't?"

"I don't see them as spending a lot of time or energy synthesizing data."

"I suppose that is more my forte."

"Figured. So, shoot. Unless—I mean, you probably don't trust me. Just ask Toshizō I guess—"

"Who are you people?"

Tōshirō sucked in a breath through his teeth. "Your interrogative iai is baller."

"While we're on the subject—allow me to apologize for my behavior yesterday."

He shrugged. "We gave you plenty reason to feel anxious."

"I took my assumptions too far and treated you like prisoners. It has become clear that at least that is not the case."

"Yeah. Well. I don't think any of us are sure what we are. We did come here as prisoners."

"So I have gathered."

"What else?"

"That you refer to fukuchou by his given name."

"S'at bug you?"

"Yes, a bit."

"Jeez, aren't you precious. Well—I guess you could say we're like long-lost relatives. In a way."

"So your name suggests. Though I suspect things are not strictly as they seem."

"No they are not."

"Where did you all come from?"

"In relation to you guys? That—we're not sure."

Saitō narrowed his eyes.

How to explain this to someone outside the core four? It was tough enough convincing them once, but shit could go sideways if he went about it the wrong way now. Saitō's opinions seemed to carry some real weight, and if he was of the opinion that Tōshirō was off his goddamn rocker, Toshizō might be of a mind to listen, whispers be damned. "Okay. Do you ever think about space?"

"I must confess that I do not."

"There's a lot of weird stuff out there."

"You mean to say you speak from experience."

"I do, actually."

"Then you'll forgive me if I cannot believe you."

"I don't expect you to, but entertain the concept for a minute. If a man had access to the technology to reach space, do you think it's at least possible he might discover other things?"

"Of course."

"That he might fall victim to as-yet unknown forces?"

"Should they exist, it's possible."

"That if he could travel space, that maybe he could transcend realities as well?"

Saitō's head angled ever so slightly to one side.

"That too much of a leap?"

"I have no way of knowing, so I cannot answer."

"That's fair. See—you're a healthy skeptic."

"You're implying this is what happened to you and your men."

"We think so. Maybe."

"That you are from another reality where space travel, at least, is possible."

"Not only possible, but pedestrian. What we do know is, that's the state of things where we came from, and it's sure as hell not the case for you guys."

"How can that be possible?"

"The technology was brought to us."

"From yet another reality."

"No—ah, who knows, maybe somewhere down the line. But we got it from other beings with the capability."

"Space men."

"Well, you make it sound crazy—"

"It is."

"Yes, I understand that. But look at me. I'm a class-A addict that's only ever known the sword. My guys are basically the same—stupid, flawed barbarians. Every one of us. And none of us clever enough to have made this up. It's just our reality—ask anything you can come up with about it, and we'll all give you the same answer."

"What did your friend tell Kondō-san?"

"That's not really . . . come on, man."

Saitō gave a little nod with the barest grin, which seemed to mean he'd been knowingly trolling. Some regular jokesters here. "Your space men," he said. "What are they called?"

"Amanto, on the whole. But there are many different kinds. Some look like us. Some look just like oni. Some look like humanoid dogs, or frogs, or gorillas. We're still not convinced Kondō-san isn't a gorilla."

Saitō just looked at him.

"That was a joke."

Silence.

"Tough crowd."

"Amanto."

"Yes."

"The kanji for which, I presume, amount to 'space men'."

"You little . . . you are just—"

"Why tell me all of this?"

Tōshirō had to give it to him; timing was everything in iai and karuta and comedy, and Saitō had it down. "You're the power behind the throne, aren't you? Toshizō is apparently running a zoo here, so your job is to save him some time by eliminating the chaff. Right?"

"Please at least use an honorific."

"You won't like what I pick."

"Am I to understand that you and he are the same person?"

"That's the going theory, anyway. I can't speak to our pasts, but I, uh . . . I do see some startling similarities in the present."

Saitō was quiet for a time, brow furrowed in thought. It would be difficult for him to accept any of this, but as a curious person it would be impossible to walk away from this puzzle. Already Tōshirō could see him picking out all the edge pieces, working to fit them into the border the rest of the story would slowly fill. "What exactly happened the night you arrived?"

"Oh. Now that's a better question than 'how did you get here'. We haven't really gotten to discuss that yet. And there was a lot of drinking, so. . . ."

"Do your best."

"Sure. Uh—it was definitely a night in. That's the first remarkable thing. I think I was fighting with Sougo, worse than usual. But Kondō-san was having none of it, so he got a bunch of us together. That's the other thing, that I remember way more people being together at HQ than ended up here. I think. Or did we go out . . . ? Nn. We definitely drank at home, and once the pre-gaming warmed us up we decided we'd hit the town. I'm not sure we actually made it out, though. . . . Hell, I don't know. I remember being on the streets, but that's sort of how we got apprehended."

"How were you dressed?"

"Like this. Yukata, casual hakama."

"Not warmly, then."

"Oh. No, I guess not. But it's late spring where we came from."

"So whether or not you left your base, you would have been dressed like that."

"You're talking like you're on board with all this."

"I am entertaining the concept."

Pretty open-minded, for a butcher. "So you think we were on the streets at home, or else we'd have noticed the weather here."

"Perhaps."

"But when you're that plastered. . . ."

Saitō hummed. "True."

"Wait—no, I did notice, later on. Because it was so hot in the room where we first met your guys. Suffocating in there. When we ran and got caught I remember thinking at least I won't bake to death out here. And I watched Sougo slip on some ice, it was glorious, like slow-motion—"

"You're certain you cannot recall what happened between your headquarters and meeting the Shinsengumi here?"

"Yeah, but in all honesty I'm more curious about your half of the equation. Drunk is really the best explanation, but Toshizō doesn't drink, right?"

"Nor does Kondō-san. Why?"

"Wow. Even better. So far they haven't been able to explain how we all woke up in that tearoom together."

"You what?"

"Yeah."

"They said they were on patrol that night."

"That may be what's called an exaggeration, my friend. Might wanna ask again, now that you're in the loop." Saitō hesitated. If Toshizō really had overtly lied to him. . . . "I didn't just shake your foundations, did I?"

He said nothing.

So now I'm a class-A prick. "Look, don't take it so hard, man. It's not that Toshizō doesn't trust you, it's obvious that he does. The problem was how to explain me. Because I'm nonsense."

"Perhaps you're right," he said carefully. The fact that Toshizō did end up including him seemed to be of little consolation.

"Hey," Tōshirō said, hoping to distract him. "Can you tell me a little bit about your guys now?"

Saitō peeked up through his bangs. "Possibly."

"Who's the giant?"

"Shimada."

"What's he do? He's not a captain, is he?"

Saitō said nothing.

Guess not. "But Toshizō trusts him enough to guard us, too. Is he like Susumu?"

"I cannot reveal the positions of those you do not already—"

"Yeah, yeah, fine. How about Harada and Nagakura, what's up with them?"

"You already know that they are captains."

"I mean, what's their deal? Do they not get along at all? Lover's quarrel? Or what?"

Saitō didn't blink. "You're on thin ice, Tōshirō-san."

He stared down into his bucket, stark white spots blooming on the soaking rice grains. "I'll shut up."

"Indeed."

Chapter Text

Sougo knew. Toshizō could probably count on Sagaru figuring it out too, if he didn't already know. Isao he was less sure about.

But what plagued him was why Sougo wished to keep this information from his fukuchou. Was he in the early stages of the illness, wishing not to cast suspicion on himself? If his personality were at all like Souji's—which it was—he'd certainly be trying to keep his condition under wraps until it became glaringly obvious. But if that were the case, it didn't make sense that he had mentioned Tōshirō specifically, and not both of his superiors. What you tell one, you effectively tell the other—was it as simple as that? Or would the illness be more significant to Tōshirō somehow?

Having been abruptly dragged back to Toshizō's quarters, Tōshirō was a little moody, but fuck him. Toshizō was determined to get more than three hours of rest, for once, so while it wasn't time yet for lights out, it'd been dark for hours already and fuck everyone else also, he was going to sleep, damn it. Without thinking he asked, "What is your relationship to Sougo?" And how is this my business, anyway?

"What the hell do you mean?"

"I can't decide if you're close, or if you hate each other."

Tōshirō shrugged. "Both, I guess."

Gods I'm so sleep-deprived. "That's a load of bullshit."

"What? We work closely, which means we know a lot about each other, which means we hate each other."

"Point taken." He shouldn't have let it bother him—Toshizō had plenty secrets of his own, at this point he should've been willing to allow the tama a few. At least, logically. "Don't you wonder what Sougo-kun said?" he asked, before he could bite his tongue.

"Not really," said Tōshirō, a hint of exasperation in his tone. "I try not to concern myself with anything Sougo says."

Given Sougo's pastimes, that was only minimally surprising. "But it convinced us you weren't complete liars."

"Okay, well, I don't think it was necessary to throw shade there. But he's good at what he does, and sometimes I even trust his judgement. If I'm not involved, I've learned to not get myself involved. Honestly that guy's more dangerous to his allies than to strangers or enemies."

"What do you mean?"

"He has a way with emotional trauma. Ask Yamazaki, Sougo nearly ruined his life in one of those new episodes."

"Have you had any problems with him?"

"Oh, incessant."

"I mean, where his work is concerned. Has he been unable to perform at times?" Stop it, Toshizō.

"Unable, no. Unwilling—he's one of the laziest jerks I know."

"Are you sure the two aren't linked?" Not your business, Toshizō.

"What, like he's lying? No way, he's an absolute monster—"

A tentative rapping on the door cut him off. "Hijikata-san?"

Yukimura. Toshizō sighed. "Come on in."

Tōshirō hummed as the door slid open. "Eh? Who's this?"

"A page," Toshizō said quickly. "A very trustworthy one."

"The, uh—young outsider assistant?"

"The same. He's too young to join but quite committed to the cause. Now—" he turned to Yukimura, moving carefully to her knees. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Pardon the intrusion, Hijikata-san. Okita-san said you had a guest, that I should bring you some tea."

There were indeed two teacups beside the little pot on her tray. Damn it, Souji. "Just how poor is your memory?"

"I'm sorry?" she said, grasping the teapot uncertainly.

"I clearly recall giving you strict orders regarding these very guests."

She flushed deeply, but to her credit didn't waver as she poured both cups of tea. "I didn't realize these were the same guests."

He growled a sigh. "You should be more careful about what Souji tells you to do. You know how he likes to play with people, me especially."

With an embarrassed frown, Yukimura pressed her hands to the floor and bowed deeply over her lap. "I apologize, Hijikata-san."

"Tch—sit up already, would you."

As she did, Tōshirō held his chin in one hand, peering suspiciously at the girl's knees. "Eh. . . ."

Oh shit, thought Toshizō, shit—her seiza! It had been hard enough for him to break her of bowing with her hands in her lap like a lady, but it'd completely escaped him to require her to sit like a man. The Shinsengumi weren't a group to entertain guests with any frequency, and Yukimura rarely even engaged with most members below the level of captain, so the way she sat hadn't been an issue before. Now. . . .

"Well," Toshizō sighed. "I guess that cat's out of the bag."

"I guess it is."

Yukimura looked between the two of them for a few perplexed seconds. "Did I do something else wrong?"

"Not a thing, kiddo," said Tōshirō, giving her a light slap on the back. "Though I'd add not to let this clown order you around, either."

"Tōshirō. If you wouldn't mind."

"Oh but I would."

"Dismissed, Yukimura-kun."

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, come on, Toshizō, what's the harm—"

"Do shut up."

"You know I'm going to grill you the second you send her away, right, Toshizō-kun?"

Yukimura's hands flew to cover her mouth, but before she could apologize for no reason at all, Toshizō said, "We should be used to this by now, you can't fool them all."

"Saitō-san said the same thing when we met Osen-chan," she said from behind her hands.

"I'm sure you're busy, Yukimura, so run along."

"Yes sir."

While she fled with her tray, Tōshirō claimed a teacup. "I wondered if there was precedent for Nagakura calling Sougo a girl. Which, he can continue doing that, by the way."

"I'll be sure to let him know."

"Uh-huh. So—why. The fuck. Is there a girl here."

"What happens among my Shinsengumi is none of your business." You're a bleeding hypocrite, Toshizō!

"I don't know, man, once you start keeping young ladies among a bunch of dudes in the middle of a war. . . ."

"We have our reasons. She's been with us for years already, and has had opportunities to leave but has chosen of her own volition to remain here."

"You don't say. . . ."

"Now what does that mean."

"That you're a complete and utter moron, Toshizō-kun."

"You don't know enough about the situation—"

"Doesn't make you any less of a complete and utter moron."

"You think I don't know how this looks? I just said we have reasons."

"That's what a complete and utter moron would say."

"Shall I conclude your day with a beating."

"No thank you, your majesty," he muttered, taking a tiny sip. "Now this—this is tea."

"This isn't matcha."

"I doubt very much that it matters."

"I hate you so much."

War was cresting. The haku had moved their base of operations to some politician's office in order to keep watch, and tensions were running high. But the real wake-up call for Tōshirō occurred the night Isami was brought back with a bullet in his shoulder.

He had grown to love the sylvan cleanliness of this world, its pristine simplicity. Few guns, even fewer cannons, no phasers. No lasers, no squad cars, no smog. No cities, no skyscrapers.

No hospitals.

What should have been a straightforward procedure turned into days, weeks of uncertainty. Infections that could be easily quelled with the right chemical wash, wild fevers just as easily broken with the right pill. But it was all painfully nonexistent. If he'd been any smarter, Tōshirō could've taken the whole country by force of genius with only a small chem lab, an arsenal of beakers and pipettes—morphine bullets, antibiotic bombs.

But as it was, he could only linger outside rooms and pin down arms when called upon. In a way, he appreciated this; without it he would have little else to do. The trust they'd gained was still only superficial, so they were not given missions or even sent on patrols. They hadn't discussed it, but Tōshirō knew his men would have preferred work to busy their hands. When he wasn't sick with worry for Isami's condition, Kondō-san made his own work, occupying himself with teaching some of the fresher recruits. The resident instructors, among them Saitō and Nagakura, were more than happy to oblige him in taking over their more burdensome duties.

And Kondō was a charm. The students loved him, which wasn't a surprise; even without a dedicated dōjō, they were so eager to work with him that they braved the biting cold for extensive outdoor practice sessions. They found it exciting that he never insisted on using shinai, instead preferring the stiff, blunt-force weight of bokutō. ("Like the good old days!") Sougo too haunted the training grounds, but the recruits were smart enough not to go near him, like rabbits sniffing out a fox. And for whatever reason Harada had taken a liking to Yamazaki. The sight of them sparring with dull spears became commonplace—Yamazaki making timid and not-altogether-uncoerced attempts at striking Harada, who was more likely than not to be laughing his goddamn head off about it.

Yamazaki, however, preferred shadowing Susumu. It took some needling and much breaking of ice, and was only possible whenever his work kept him on the premises. Tōshirō assumed it was dull stuff—there was probably not much ninja shit going on around the base—but Yamazaki claimed it was fascinating. "Susumu's the oil that keeps this machine running," he said proudly. "You'll be amazed at how much smoother things go when we get back home."

How that was going to happen, he had no fucking clue. But as long as Yamazaki was optimistic about it, Tōshirō decided he'd follow suit. "I'm looking forward to that."

Sougo had been able to stalk the halls more or less at his discretion, likely thanks to the other three: Hijikata-san slowly subjugating Toshizō, Zaki getting friendly with several of the haku, Kondō-san being himself. He didn't discover much beyond Currently Disclosable Information, but felt at ease, knowing his movements were uninhibited. Not that he was intentionally allowed freedom of movement, but he wasn't so closely watched that it was impossible. He didn't feel threatened.

It was now quite dark; the stalking hour. He knew all the rooms. He knew who belonged to which rooms. He even knew some of the night patrol—not personally or by name, but by face, glimpsed in secret from quiet places. Sometimes he got caught spying them, but he'd had plenty of practice playing innocent in the midst of dubious activities, so they always turned away, convinced he was just a new recruit in search of a cure for insomnia.

Sometimes they saw him, but sometimes he swore they could smell him first.

There was less activity in the halls tonight. With Isami out of commission, he expected most of the men were either out hunting or sitting anxious in their rooms. It never felt good to see a felled superior—even less so on the brink of battle. It perforated morale, stretched thin the remainder of the leading forces.

Sougo found it odd that there were voices in Souji's quarters.

Odder still—one of the voices was Souji.

He let himself inside.

"Sougo?" Souji was sitting against the wall, swords upright in the crook of one arm, and two fairly small people sat across from him. Not kids, just—especially small. "Nice of you to, ah, join us. I guess."

"What's your problem?"

All three of them fixed him with stares. "I'm sorry?" said Souji.

"I said, what's your problem? What are you doing here?"

"I was having a nice discussion with my friends."

"You do know what they did to Isami-san."

Souji paled, and one guest nudged him. "Who is this guy?"

"Just some jerk who doesn't know what he's talking about."

"He's your Kondō," said Sougo. He was just so angry. "You know what they did to him, yet here you are sitting on your thumbs. You're a disgrace to the Okita name."

Half-pint no. 1 snapped to his feet, knuckles white around his hilts. "Easy, Heisuke," Souji said, not a hint of urgency in his tone.

"But Souji—"

"Even without a sword he's dangerous."

"You can't let him talk to you like that, he doesn't—"

"He's right though."

Sougo blinked.

"It shouldn't matter how I feel physically," said Souji. "I should be on the trail of those guys, even if just trying kills me."

Silent until now, half-pint no. 2 stood. "Let's go, Heisuke-kun."

"What are you talking about, this random guy just comes in here and starts insulting a captain—"

"Okita-san can take care of it. He doesn't need you to stick up for him." No. 2 looked pointedly between the others, and the implications were not lost on Souji, who could only frown his thanks. "Come on. Let's leave."

Heisuke grudgingly followed, snarling as he left. "I'd spit at you if it weren't Souji's floor."

Sougo's bored gaze flicked to him. "Go on," he said, working as much condescension into his voice as possible, "out with you."

The door closed behind them, and the sound of footsteps died out. Strangely alone now, they were quiet, the moonlight filling up Souji's sunken form.

Souji scratched at his scalp. "I'd still like to kill you."

"Try it, then."

He half-blinked, swaying as he stood, and held out the katana from his daishō.

Sougo shook his head. He nodded to the shortsword also in Souji's grasp.

Souji hesitated, then quietly accepted the handicap. This time he observed the proper formalities, which felt silly in a bedroom, but Sougo nonetheless returned Souji's bow, mirrored his movements to gently cross swords, pulling back and sinking slightly like cats preparing to pounce.

First to attack was Sougo, and the sight of Souji struggling to defend himself was unexpectedly painful—he thought of Mitsuba's weakness, and his own resolve stuttered. But Sougo easily batted away Souji's very first offensive move, feeling just as sorry as he felt betrayed. A deep gash appeared in the tatami as the katana fell.

Souji came to rest on his knees, head hung low, hair falling all around his face.

He just seems so young.

Sougo sheathed the swords, set them back up against the wall. He took a few awkward steps back, a safe distance away. "I'll take care of it, Jii-san."

The head did not lift, but there was a slight twitch in the shoulders that ached to move; he hadn't given up. He was just too tired.

Though it would go unseen, Sougo shook his head. "We'll take care of him, Jii-san."

Toshizō was a toddler so Tōshirō was occasionally forced into his own bedtime at a disgustingly early hour. Since he usually wasn't tired when the candles went out, he'd basically lie awake in the dark for hours, and come sunup he'd wonder if he'd fallen unconscious at all. This, of course, royally pissed him off. He couldn't maintain the focus to make his time useful, to think about anything, make some kind of plan. At times he would even find himself wishing Sougo were around to cause trouble, just to give him something to fix, something to do.

Tonight, after a few hours of sleepless misery, the floor outside creaked quietly. "Hijikata-san?" said a timid voice, intentionally muffled through the shōji.

The sounds of Toshizō rolling over in the dark. "What."

"Ah . . . did I wake you?"

"What is it, Yukimura."

The rasp of the door sliding open. "Um . . . I'm sorry to bother you, but can I s-sleep . . . with you tonight?"

Whoa now.

WHOA NOW.

He must not have responded quickly enough, as she backtracked immediately. "I know I shouldn't—"

"Yukimura—"

"It's just been so cold, I'm shivering in my blankets. I can hardly go—"

"What about that old brazier Shinpachi found?"

"He gave it to Okita-san."

Toshizō snorted. "As if he'd really use it."

"I tend to agree, but either way, it's not available. I can't really go to the public spaces, and you're . . . I—trust you the most."

"I thought you were quite close with Heisuke."

"Oh? Well . . . given his position on the, uh, night patrol. . . ."

A click of the tongue, "Of course."

"Besides, I think that such a—situation would only rob him of sleep entirely."

"That's . . . considerate of you," he said, his tone surprisingly lacking in sarcasm.

"I'm sorry—"

"You know that Tōshirō's here, right?"

"I don't mind," she said, teeth clenched to keep from chattering. "I . . . I'd almost feel better with someone else here. I mean, not that I think you'd—"

"Hurry up," Toshizō grumbled, shifting his blankets and leaving Tōshirō stunned.

Now he had something to think about.

Yukimura was gone by the time Toshizō got up to dress for the day. She was smart enough to make her exit before the rest of the men started waking, so there was that, at least. There was always the chance that she'd be seen, but it was lessened with precautions like that. She had spent the night on her side facing away from him, he on his belly with an arm draped across her waist, to avoid any misunderstanding between them. It wasn't the smartest thing Toshizō had ever agreed to, but the reasoning was sound enough—lately he had noticed the men quartered in the common room huddling closer than usual as they slept—and there was no ill intent from either party, so he wouldn't be easily convinced it was the dumbest thing. No doubt Tōshirō was going to try—

"Toshizō-kun."

Toshizō sighed through his nose as he tied up the front half of his hakama.

Then he found himself slammed up against the wall, a fistful of collar balled up under his chin. "Don't be an asshole," Tōshirō growled.

Toshizō shoved him away and rolled a shoulder. "You're up early."

He didn't expect Tōshirō to strike a second time, pushing hard against that shoulder and pinning him again. "I'm not kidding around here. Don't."

In one fluid motion he grabbed Tōshirō's wrists, spun him, and thrust him against the wall, an arm across the back of his neck. "So you want to be restrained today."

This time, he didn't budge. "Get off of me, Toshizō."

He's using his words now, he thought, so he let off and resumed his work getting dressed. "What in the hell has gotten into you?"

"You're a goddamn asshole, you know exactly what you're doing."

"What. . . ." The second set of ties on his clothes hung forgotten in his hands. What I'm doing?

Tōshirō gaped back at him, appalled and almost sad. "You actually are a moron."

"Enough with the names—"

"You obviously haven't noticed," he said, pointing furiously toward the door, "but she's not a child. That's an adult woman you're dealing with, and you really just let that happen."

"What are you on about, there was nothing—"

"You are killing that girl, Toshizō."

If the tingling through his spine was any indication, he was starting to understand—but he couldn't say anything, couldn't admit to something that never was. Wasn't it? Had Tōshirō, of all people, really hit upon the one thing Toshizō had failed to consider?

"You're killing her." Tōshirō was quiet now too, madly rubbing his face like he wanted to shout him down but had no words for it. Finally he dropped his arms. "I'm out of here," he said, moving for the door.

"Hey, wait—"

"Keep your panties on, I'm just hitting breakfast."

"Tōshirō—"

"Listen—don't talk to me, okay? Just for now." It wasn't short or angry, but he meant every bit of it, which was disappointing because Toshizō was going to respect that even though all he wanted to do now was talk with him, beg for his perspective—and as Toshizō powerlessly watched him leave, he could have sworn he heard him mutter, "Don't be like me."

He snatched onigiri from the kitchen—obviously Saitō's work again, perfectly as they were molded—and stomped to the main room where most of the captains were exchanging pleasantries over breakfast. They stared as he plopped himself down in the corner between Kondō and Sougo (Yamazaki and Harada were both absent, so they were probably hanging out) and stuffed half the rice in his face.

So maybe he could've handled that better.

Tōshirō was probably lucky not to have a knife in his craw, but that didn't make him wrong. Something about the fear in that girl's voice, the quickness with which her answers came, the finely-reasoned story she wove, almost as if justifying it to herself. . . .

She loves him.

"I saw something this morning," said Sougo, as if Tōshirō would care, "which led me to an interesting conclusion. You wanna hear it?" Only half-listening, Tōshirō rolled his eyes, but the hint was not taken. "Danna seems to be into shūd—"

"Stop."

"And you didn't tattle. So like, what's going on in that room at night, are you just some kind of voyeur, or—"

"If you say another goddamn word."

Apparently having reached his sadism quota for the hour, Sougo sat back and kept quiet. Toshizō still hadn't shown, which was a relief, it meant that Tōshirō didn't have to make nice in front of the others. They were talking strategy now and Tōshirō should have been paying attention but he found it hard to focus. Something had him anxious, and it wasn't strictly Toshizō-related, or stupid-Sougo-related, or even nicotine-related, as was usually the case. Yamazaki, Keeper of the Pack, was lucky to have made a haku friend that could whisk him away to safety or else even now, now, very now he might find himself tackled and part of his arm gnawed through.

. . .

So maybe it was the nicotine.

He assumed this was the problem when it felt like the world started exploding, but everyone in the room shot to their feet. Tōshirō leaned into Kondō-san. "So that wasn't just me, I take it."

He shook his head with rare seriousness. "Cannons."

Saitō leaned out the door and plucked one of the lower-ranked guys running past, launching immediately into a well-organized set of orders. Tōshirō was about to open his mouth when Toshizō appeared, dropping an armful of weapons before him. "What . . . what are you doing?"

"This is only temporary."

"You're entrusting us with blades?"

"I could lie and say it's because I can't spare babysitters—which I can't—or because I can't leave you defenseless, which is also true. But honestly I need all the men I can get. So are you in or not? And please don't make me beg—"

Tōshirō shut him up with a reassuring slap on the shoulder. "Where do you want us?"

They were to guard the office, allowing more of the haku to march uphill and try to sabotage the cannons, maybe even steal them. That was Tōshirō's second indication of just how behind the Shinsengumi was here.

It was stupid.

He'd been wrong in assuming that they were strong just by virtue of their tenacity, their ferocity. Fighting spirit meant nothing in the face of ballistic offenses. All this time, all the stories the haku had heard of the joui losing to the Westerners, all the lessons they should have learned from others' mistakes. . . .

Maybe Tōshirō was being harsh. After all, his own men still carried blades, and the Amanto had far crazier weapons than cannons. But the tama were intended to keep the peace—the haku had been meant for battle all along. They should have known their enemy. The oversight was unsettling.

Zaki and Harada kept watch at the front entrance day and night, with the remainder of the tama slaughtering any intruders with relentless fury, because somehow it felt personal. Even the girl was working triple-time as a medic, fearlessly venturing outside beyond Harada's worried gaze to collect the injured, who arrived in waves that ebbed and flowed with the din of artillery.

Things went on like this for days, progressing and regressing little by little by little. There was word here and there—division two was mostly wiped out, it was impossible to reach the cannons, nighttime guerrilla attacks and melees neither lost nor gained ground. At one point the office was just on fire. Finally Toshizō relented, and they retreated.

A few of them embarked on a short journey to regroup with reinforcements at some castle, but they returned alone, even fewer in number and in far lower spirits, with Nagakura carrying a small body on his shoulders, clad all in black. Tōshirō didn't ask.

The tama were once again disarmed and marched to a meeting room, where Tōshirō felt a little guilty about his excitement to see Toshizō's group in its entirety. Things were looking very, very grave, so he expected the whole of the administrative tier to be present.

There were a indeed a few faces he didn't recognize—ostensibly the infamous night patrol—and yet some he expected to see were absent. Like the older one with the kind smile. Judging from the drawn faces of the haku. . . .

He regretted never learning the man's name.

Toshizō opened the floor to discussion only after Shimada had joined them. "Wait," said Yamazaki, lip trembling. "Wait. . . . Where's Susumu?"

Silence pounded in their ears.

"But . . . that's not . . . that's not fair, you guys, shouldn't we wait for him?" Toshizō wouldn't meet his gaze, and it struck Yamazaki like a train, which he refused to believe existed even as it flattened him. "But that's crazy, we can't just leave him out after all this."

"I'm afraid we have lost many exceptional men these past few days."

"Oh." Yamazaki sighed, pressing a shaking hand to his forehead. "He must just be busy with the injured, right?"

"Zaki," said Kondō-san, voice soft.

"No," he said, nodding affirmatively, "we should get him. They can manage without him for a few minutes, I'm sure of it."

He was heartened for one miserable moment as Harada stood slowly, until he knelt beside him and put a hand on Yamazaki's back. He choked back more protests, stanching his compulsion to reject this bloody reality like cotton against a wound.

Tōshirō admired him for that.

Chapter Text

Tōshirō came out on deck and breathed in the fresh stink of fish and seawater. It was funny how some things remained completely unchanged between worlds—but there was some culture shock in realizing that it now (again) took days or weeks just to travel the country. Thanks to the Amanto, that same amount of time could get you to whole other planets.

He didn't grasp all the whys of their move, nor did he he care to; it was doubtful that relocation would affect his own situation. Until they could piece together the fragments of their arrival, there was no reason to remain lashed to one locale. The move to Edo might even help, since technically that's where he and his men had come from. Might as well explore the world.

But so much was strange about this move—for example, the fact that from his perspective, Souji had long since vanished. Tōshirō hadn't seen him since their first days here. He was aware that Sougo asked after him on occasion, and whatever answers he got seemed to satisfy him. But Tōshirō himself never did find out where Souji had been. He asked Toshizō once, when he was hard at work doing—whatever he did at that writing desk. But the mindless, exasperated response was, "Not your business, Toshizō," which Tōshirō took to mean his brain was beyond fried and it was probably not worth it to press him for semi-important information.

A flash of white in his periphery caught his attention—he was being waved over by Harada, currently on Sougo duty. (Not that Sougo was much of a threat between spates of vomiting his guts out over the edge of the ship.) Tōshirō settled in nearby. "Hey."

"Hey," Harada answered.

"Need something?"

"A bath maybe, but."

"Yeah, sorry. He's always a handful, but I didn't realize it would be like this."

"I don't think he did either."

"Don't talk about me," Sougo said thinly, half his face squished against the planks.

"Shut it, chum bucket." Sougo just groaned and rolled over. "Wow. He's never actually shut up before."

Harada half-smiled to himself. "It's kinda nice that this is our biggest concern right now." He didn't seem to notice Sougo's double middle fingers. "I think the other guys feel a little paralyzed, since there's nothing much we can do while we travel. But I think it's a much-needed reprieve. I wish they'd just accept the downtime and relax."

"How are you all holding up?"

Harada shook his head, lips pursed as he tried to keep himself composed. "Been better."

Good, bad, in-between; Takasugi, and Sakamoto, now even the foundations of the Shinsengumi. . . . "I'm sorry, man."

He shrugged sadly. "It happens." Sougo bolted up and tossed his head over the railing, and Harada absently reached up to rub his back.

"If he felt any better," said Tōshirō, "he'd bite your hand off for that."

"Shinpachi mentioned something along those lines. Though honestly I'd like to see him try," Harada said gently, frowning as he watched Sougo cough. "You okay, kid?" Sougo's answer was to push feebly at his hands and sit back down, face blank and ghostly white and maybe drooling a little.

"You and Nagakura good friends?" asked Tōshirō, though it felt a little underhanded to inquire while Harada was distracted by mourning.

"Sure. We were always closer to each other than to the real Shieikan guys."

That answers that, finally. "'Us-versus-them'?"

"Nah, nothing like that. We just came to the party a little late, that's all. We're a bit younger than Isami and Hijikata-san, and a bit older than some of the other captains, too. Souji, and Saitō, and . . . hell. I mean, usually it's easier with guys your own age, but sometimes. . . ." Harada's voice trailed off with his thoughts, and his expression turned even more melancholy. How many friends has he lost already?

"Is Sagaru around?" asked Harada after a stiff silence.

"He's down below with Kondō-san, watching over Isami. Need him for something?"

"No—not really. Just wanted to know how he was doing. Seems like they got kinda close at the end there."

"I guess so. He really admired Susumu."

"That's good. I don't think he gets enough recognition." He nudged Tōshirō. "Both of them, really."

"You're probably right. Sorry."

"I—talked to him about some stuff."

"My Yamazaki?" asked Tōshirō.

"Yeah."

"I noticed. You hang out with him more than Susumu did."

"I mean, I asked him some things that were probably inappropriate."

"He answered?"

"Yeah, but—it was a deal, he may have felt obligated. He asked me something, so I got to ask in return."

"And he answered."

"Yeah."

"Then it's fine. I mean, I assume you're feeling guilty about it, or it wouldn't have come up."

"A little, I guess. Felt wrong not to mention it to you."

"Admit it, you were also sorta curious if he'd get in trouble."

"That goes without saying."

Tōshirō shrugged. "Yamazaki can do or say whatever he wants. He knows how to play his cards."

"Yes he does," Harada said, chuckling quietly. "You folks really trust each other, don't you?"

". . . Do your guys not?"

Harada sat forward, chin resting in his palm. "We trust each other fine. We have our differences, of course. But you guys . . . I can't put my finger on it. I think it's . . . we don't really have a common cause anymore. We're all so different politically that it's . . . hard to unify us. You guys . . . I don't know what it is, but something binds you. In a way that we're not, I think. It's kind of intimidating."

"Is it?"

"Maybe insulting is a better word. Our leadership is crumbling, right from under our feet. While your guys have been thrown into a pretty much impossible situation, and yet your relationships seem no more strained for it. If Hijikata-san is ever exceptionally short with you, I think that's why. I think he's jealous. He's having a crisis of . . . well, all kinds of crises, honestly."

"Fucking tell me about it."

"Oi." They looked up to find Toshizō leaning coolly against a mast—glaring, of course. "You aren't spilling secrets again, are you, Sanosuke?"

"Oh, come on. They're practically family. Aren't half of them taking care of Kondō-san right now? They even fought with us, cut me some slack."

Toshizō frowned. With one brow raised he looked down at Sougo, collapsed on the deck all miserable and disheveled like some kind of violated maiden. "You're looking green."

Sougo lifted his head, eyes watering against the need to upchuck. He was swaying stiffly, counter to the pitch and lilt of the ship, which was probably making it worse.

"This doesn't really help your case," Toshizō said.

"What do you m—" Sougo stopped dead for a dry heave or two. Tōshirō smirked.

"How could you possibly travel space if you can't handle a little boat ride?"

"You don't understand," said Tōshirō. Maybe Harada's mothering was to blame, but for some reason Tōshirō felt the need to invite pity for Sougo, of all people. "There's at least some semblance of gravity control in a spaceship. By comparison, this is brutal."

"I'm sure."

Tōshirō shook his head. "One of these days, man."

"'One of these days' what?"

"You don't fucking believe me, I get it, but of these days. You'll see."

"Uh-huh. How's that going to happen?"

"I don't fucking know, but you'll see."

"Why do I even listen to you anymore."

Settling in Edo was not easy. The fact that Toshizō had to fight for proper accommodations was one of the first signals that things were not going to get any easier just by relocating to a less hostile city. Honestly, shit had only gotten harder. Even before landing they'd made some devastating decisions, suffered losses, fled a properly fortified and perfectly serviceable base (which had been a boon not only in its fortifications, but also in its bolstering of Kondō-san's morale, and therefore that of the rest of the men) in favor of chasing that . . . Hitotsubashi someplace he felt safe. Toshizō tried not to let that get to him but it fucking did, it really did.

The lower-ranked guys rarely looked him in the face, but now they gave him an even wider berth as he patrolled his new headquarters. Recently the men had been avoiding him altogether. Normally that might amuse him, but he didn't want them to follow him on fear alone. It was hard to train men to make the right choices in tough situations that way. If they trusted him, they didn't even need to be trained, they would just naturally make good decisions. Their behavior now was a symptom of lacking trust. Not distrust, but it could easily become so. He was considering how he might remedy this when he glimpsed Tōshirō and Saitō in the kitchen as he passed—

—and felt a tug on his head.

"Tōshirō. . . ."

"Come in here."

"Let go of my fucking hair."

"Dismissed, Saitō," said Tōshirō, "Toshizō-kun will take it from here."

"Let. Go."

"Fukuchou—"

"Saitō, I actually would advise you to vacate, I do not want to unnecessarily involve you in crimes of passion."

"I've been involved in worse."

"Out," he barked. He could have sworn he saw Saitō roll his eyes as he departed—and lucky he was to be Saitō, because anybody else would have been fucking sliced for even the suggestion of an eye roll. Funny how having his hair touched made him instantly insane and why was his hair still being touched. "I'm listening."

"Oh," Tōshirō said, relaxing his grip, apparently having forgotten he had grabbed a dragon by the tail. "Sorry."

"I should have you executed."

"I'm sure your boys would be happy to do it."

"Don't tempt me."

"Saitō should be coming back, you know. . . ."

"What for?"

"My lighter finally gave up, I asked him for matches."

"For fuck's sake. What are you always doing in here with him, anyway?"

"Slavery, disguised as stress relief. He's a real suave manipulator, you know that?"

"I'm vaguely aware." They stared at the floor for a few long seconds, before Toshizō sighed impatiently. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Did you need to talk to me or not?"

"Oh. Mostly it's just that seeing you pissed me off so I wanted to return the favor."

"What did I do to you this time."

"It's nothing personal. You don't have any addictions so you can't really understand."

"You think I don't get unnecessarily irritable?"

"We're not really having this argument, are we?"

"Because that's pretty much my signature."

"Yes yes, you're very grumpy, you win. Are you hiding something from me?"

"Has that got something to do with my mood?"

Tōshirō shrugged.

"Well—why do you ask?"

"Harada mentioned swapping information with Yamazaki. Any ideas?"

"Why don't you just ask your man?"

"It's not his responsibility to tell me your secrets, and I won't order him to spill."

"Nor am I obliged."

"I knew there was a reason your face ticked me off so bad. I'm just clairvoyant."

It was then that Saitō leaned into the room, presented a tiny leather bundle, and nodded a salute to Toshizō as he disappeared again.

Tōshirō peeked inside and clicked his tongue, as discontented as if Saitō had handed him a bag of beetles. "What the hell is this." He disdainfully dumped the contents into his palm. "Fuck."

"Looks like a firesteel and flint."

"Yeah. I thought you said you guys had matches."

"There exist matches, but we don't currently possess any."

"You want me to light cigarettes with this thing. Right near my face."

"You know what, actually, I do."

"Get me a candle."

"Get it yourself."

"A lamp, a stick, kindling. Anything, something I can actually work with."

"Tōshirō, is there some reason you have grabbed my hair again."

"Oh man, my bad. It's just, the withdrawal is really getting to me, you know."

"I'm not telling you again."

"A candle. Now."

Toshizō drew his sword with a quick hiss—

—and cut off his own hair.

Tōshirō blinked sleepily, long locks hanging limp from his fist. "You're kinda on edge, aren't you."

He snatched the nearest goddamn candle and slammed it down on the table. "Might've been more impressive if I could sheathe it again in the same movement like Saitō."

"Trust me, that was impressive enough."

"Been planning to do it anyway."

"Well. Can't say you don't have a flair for drama."

"I deserve to be a bit on edge, don't you think?"

Tōshirō considered him a few long moments, quiet moments, that allowed the harsh events of the past few weeks seep into their thoughts. The losses, the hardships, the crippling inability to pay proper respects. . . .

"Alright, Haku-san." With trembling hands he pulled makeshift rolling papers and a small pouch from his sleeve. He had apparently sworn off his "real" stash but had been so desperate to smoke that he'd been crafting his own cigarettes—filling them with what, no one was sure. He gave a pleased frown when he found one already rolled. "Here's what we're doing."

"Excuse me?" But Tōshirō started slamming the flint above the candle. "You're doing this now, huh."

"I need vinegar, oil, salt, garlic, mustard powder—"

"Gods, again with—"

"—if you've got it, of course. How about, uh . . . bonito?"

"You think you're going to concoct something edible when you can barely handle your precious cigarettes—"

"You just cut off your fucking hair Mulan-style right in front of me, you don't get to lecture me about stress." His eyes widened when he finally succeeded to light the wick. "And eggs," he said, lips taut around the cigarette as he leaned into the flame. "Lots of 'em. We're fucking doing this thing until we get it right."

"What the hell are you making with that shit?"

Tōshirō lifted his chin, smoke on his breath and wildfire in his eyes. "The nectar of the gods, my friend."

For weeks now Tōshirō had heard occasional footsteps in the halls at night. He didn't think it strange; there were scores of people living here, hundreds maybe, and such arrangements always yielded the odd few who forgot to take a piss before bed, or needed a midnight snack, or just couldn't sleep and preferred a moonlit walk to calm the nerves.

But bounding through the hallways, toward the soft, distant sound of what might have been screams—that was irregular.

"Oi. Toshizō-kun."

The walls resonated with silence. He lifted his head from the pillow; across the room, Toshizō's futon was empty.

What could possibly have made that bozo abandon his post in the middle of the night? Must be a bigger problem than we are. It had been generally agreed that the tama were unlikely to attempt running away, since, where the fuck would they even go. And with the haku as their only means of recourse in this fairly unfamiliar world, it would be to their own detriment if they lashed out at any of its members, so they hadn't been restrained either. Though if Harada was to be believed, the reasoning was a little softer than that.

Still, for someone like Toshizō—who was a hell of a lot like Tōshirō—to leave a really fucking suspicious person totally unguarded. . . . It might take an all-out catastophe.

I have got to fucking see this.

Tōshirō slipped out of bed and inched to the door, pushing it open enough to peek through. Why he felt compelled to peek first, he wasn't sure, since it was the middle of the goddamn night and the only people he had heard absolutely hoofing it past Toshizō's room clearly had a destination in mind. He cursed under his breath and crept down the hall. The compound was huge and he wasn't sure where they had gone, but he did know where the training room was so he decided to check there first. Upon rounding the last corner he saw Kondō-san and Yamazaki in walking crouches, quietly approaching Sougo, who was already standing at the training room's door. Kondō spotted Tōshirō first and frantically waved him over.

He strode right up to them, since there was obviously no reason to be crouching, and whispered angrily, "Why didn't you guys come get me?"

All three held a finger to their lips; he grumbled and joined Sougo, who casually elbowed him in the gut as they huddled around the edge of the door. He clapped his hands over his mouth to quiet his response to the offense—though honestly he would have had to quiet himself without Sougo's interference.

Several of the captains—including the ones meant to be watching the four of them—spoke in hushed tones, standing among the bloodied bodies of several fallen samurai.

Tōshirō whipped around and started shoving Yamazaki and Kondō away from the door—Kondō-san especially needed to stay innocent of all dirty secrets—and then very suddenly felt hands around his neck.

He managed to choke out, "Sougo, what the fuck—" before he heard a now-familiar low growl.

Uh-oh.

"I'm away for a moment and you're already sneaking about my grounds."

He twisted his head enough to see, yeah, that really was Toshizō and, shit, he was really really strangling him right now. "Tadaima," he croaked.

"Very funny."

He strained his eyeballs in every direction; Sougo had obviously peaced out immediately, but Kondō-san and Yamazaki were also gone. If they were lucky, Toshizō had grabbed him from his position inside the room and hadn't caught a glimpse of the others. Tōshirō was definitely willing to take the bullet on this one.

"I believe you mentioned Sougo just now," Toshizō purred.

Well. It was okay for that little shit to go down with him, at least.

He wasn't being full-on choked but normal speech was still being interrupted quite handily—he was holding his breath on reflex, and was quickly going lightheaded. "Seriously though." He jabbed a finger in the direction of Toshizō's hands. "This—really sucks."

Tōshirō was let go with a shove, and as he hit the wall in a fit of gasping coughs, he folded himself in half, head between his knees to facilitate the return of circulation to his brain. But hardly five seconds later he was scruffed and tossed at Isami's feet in the training room.

"Watch him," Toshizō commanded, voice stern and quiet. "And get Tōdō the hell out of here. Nagakura," he said, snapping his fingers, "with me."

Isami, supporting his bad arm with the other, gaped at their retreating figures. "Where are you going?"

"On a hunt. We'll return shortly."

So much for these guys not being your dogs. Tōshirō was on his elbows and knees, still recovering from the stealth attack, but the stench of blood was so overpowering he could barely think straight. "Who's Tōdō, is he hurt?" he wondered aloud. Figuring that just existing in this room had ruined his clothes, he rolled onto his back, feeling the squish of bloodied floorboards beneath him. "You guys are gonna need some crime-scene cleanup team." What the fuck happened here . . . ?

He decided it must be safe to look around, if that asshat had been willing to throw him in with his crew. His head lolled to one side, and he saw Harada and Saitō in his blood-reddened scarf, carefully carrying bodies toward the door facing the courtyard.

Tōshirō was far from squeamish. He'd seen blood; he'd killed men; he'd spilled entrails. But this . . . was a whole other level of grotesque. Something was strange about it, he couldn't quite figure out what. The captains themselves had some nicks and cuts, but nothing serious. And the dead—they had only one wound each, a modestly-sized open gash in the center of the chest. How was there so much blood? Everywhere, seeping into everything, suggesting a scene of maniacal abandon—what the hell was here? What had posed such a threat that it warranted a roomful of dead?

And every single one of them. . . .

"Why are they all wearing those haori?"

He snapped his mouth shut a second too late. The three gentlest faces he had met in this universe were now cold and unreadable. That was nothing new for Saitō, but even with the fight over and the danger passed, Isami and Harada had not returned to their usual optimistic selves.

"I, uh . . . only ask, because that's the same design we have on our hankies."

"Fukuchou. . . ."

Now that's a familiar voice, he thought as he rolled to face the door. "Zaki, how much of an idiot—"

But it wasn't just Yamazaki.

Draped across his shoulders was another gravely wounded, but very much alive, Yamazaki.

Tōshirō sat, impatiently waiting in the next room as Isami and his bum arm stood watch in the halls. Toshizō probably didn't wish to sit back and field questions while the available captains were spending their night mopping up carnage. But what the fuck.

"Toshizō-kuuun," Tōshirō sang when the guy appeared in the doorway. "You've got some explaining to doooo."

He sighed heavily. "First this—in my new fucking headquarters, by the way—and now you bastards." He pulled Sougo in behind him, once again bound and gagged. "Sit."

Sougo didn't move, but gave Tōshirō a plaintive look. "What do you want me to do?" This earned him a dead-eyed glare, so he sighed. "Fine. Toshizō-kun—"

"No."

"What, you didn't tie me up."

"No I did not. You didn't run."

"Nah, but the jig is up, so he's harmless again."

"Let's just leave him for awhile, shall we."

"You are so on my wavelength. Sit down, Sougo."

He still didn't sit.

"I know, I know, I'll pay for it later."

He nodded once and sat contentedly.

Toshizō rolled his eyes. "Can we get on with this? It's a busy night, if you didn't notice."

"One, fuck you. Two—why is your super dead ninja friend currently, actively in the process of dying?"

"He was away on assignment."

"Bullshit. You guys have been depressed as fuck."

"We did also lose one of our captains and oldest friends."

"Then why did you bother lying at all, telling us Susumu was dead?" Toshizō avoided his gaze. "Damn fuckin' straight. Who were those guys you killed? Sorry, no, I meant, why did you just murder a gaggle of your own men."

"They were of a special unit. Prone to . . . losing control."

"Of goddamn sanity?"

Apparently unable to contradict, Toshizō frowned.

"And so they draw themselves up a little bloodbath."

"That's flippant, but yes, that is the risk. Those among them with less fortitude—normally their deviant behavior is limited only to the corpses of those we command them to target."

"Do I even want to ask."

"No, no, nothing so perverse, just . . . they d—they drain the bodies of all blood."

"Wait. Like—they drink it?"

Toshizō hesitated, but fudging was apparently no longer possible.

"Okay, wait," said Tōshirō. "Wait wait wait." He stared at the floor, because this was insane. "So you're cool. With vampires. But jumping world lines was too fantastical for you?" There was simply no way to express himself beyond throwing his hands in the air. "Honestly. You fuckin' guys. I'm so done with this."

"Tōshirō—"

"I'm so done." He stormed to the door and stared out across the courtyard, since he needed to vent but actually leaving would only incur additional wrath. "Fuckin' vampires."

"They're called furies."

"Fine, whatever. Explain what that means, then."

"It begins with . . . it's like a medicine. We try only to augment the unit when a man is on the brink of death. This medicine saves their lives, and confers other benefits as well."

"And . . . Susumu is one of them now?"

"Luckily, he appears to be of the more disciplined variety."

"Lucky. Sure. Now he just gets to die a second time."

"Actually, the wounds he has sustained tonight will most certainly heal within a few days."

"Did you say days?"

"These troops were developed for their obvious advantage in battle—"

"Yeah, but that was a pretty bad fuckin' plan, huh?"

"It was our only option. You saw at Fushimi what we're up against. Now . . . well, now, instead of losing every mortally wounded man, we have reserves."

"Wait, was that a link? Why was that a link?"

"However their primary feature—"

"That was definitely a link. Are you even taking this seriously?"

"No one's taking this more fucking seriously than I am."

"Fine. Get on with your primary feature then."

Toshizō pressed on with an even steelier look. "Unfortunately, that feature has become this—bloodlust."

"Sound like fuckin' vampires to me."

"This is a serious issue," he snapped, "don't dismiss it out of hand." Which, admittedly, it may have looked like, thereby further shortening Toshizō's fuse. "If you're so confident—"

"Are they Western?"

"Sorry?"

"Do they come from the West."

He grumbled but decided to humor him. "The ochimizu—the substance that turns them—was developed in the West, yes."

"Then lemme guess. They want to suck your blood, have superhuman strength and/or speed, daylight is a no-go, you can only kill them with a direct hit to the heart, or else decapitation. For the more variable traits, you can fuck 'em up with crosses, or silver, or maybe garlic, if you want to get extra cartoony—and close your mouth, you're going to catch flies in there." Toshizō's expression was a baffling combination of furious, enthralled, frustrated, mystified, murderous, desperate. . . . "I told you, man. Sometimes I do know what I'm talking about."

Sougo snorted.

"No one asked you."

"What are we to do then?" said Toshizō.

"Scuse me?"

"How can we fix this."

"You're asking for my help, please and thank you?"

Toshizō's eyes remained flat in unrelenting impatience.

"Unfortunately my primary feature is not an encyclopedia so I can't really help you. The rules are different in every universe, anyway."

"Are you now saying you've been to yet other universes previously."

"I mean fictional universes. Not that th—ah, whoops, almost demolished something there."

"And you accuse me of not taking things seriously."

"Look, I'm sorry that you're an idiot and let this happen—"

"It was a direct order from the shōgun. He foisted this substance upon us in its early stages, ordered us to do all the initial experimenting ourselves."

"Are you serious? On your own guys?"

"At the time there were a few who were eager to comply, even once its effects had been observed."

"Nn, don't tell me. They're dead as hell."

"While we had our differences, these were our comrades, Tōshirō."

"I'm sorry, but . . . well, no I'm not. I fail to see where you've been smart in this, or taken the high road at all."

Toshizō fell silent. He opened his mouth a few times, but closed it definitively.

No point in making him feel worse about it, then. "Well, knowing how I feel about Kondō-san, I think I can guess what happened. It would be easy to blame Isami for all this. Right?" Toshizō's eyes lifted, face blank. "Right. So I understand you not doing that."

"You'd do the same for Isao, wouldn't you, Tōshirō-kun."

He gave Toshizō a bitter smile. "That's our job, isn't it? As fukuchou."

For a few moments it was silent, until Sougo started making approximate kissy sounds, which was halfway impressive with a bunch of cloth between his teeth.

Tōshirō turned thoughtfully to Toshizō. "Maybe I could help you clean up."

"I think the guys would appreciate that."

And Sougo's muffled noises of protest as they abandoned him in favor of janitorial duties—music to their ears.

Chapter Text

Despite the horrific night they'd had, the morning was little better, peppered with reports of murderous spirits and concerns that their new headquarters was haunted. Poor Shimada was assigned to deal with complaints from the lower ranks so Toshizō could tackle the upper.

Currently he was dragging extra room screens up against the shōji on his eastern wall in an attempt to block out the sun. "Is that alright?"

Heisuke shrugged, clearly exhausted. "It's okay, Hijikata-san, you didn't have to go to the trouble." He was nigh unrecognizable now, like he'd aged ten years in the past few months. And it wasn't all due to the lack of his youthful hairstyle, or the stark hues of his French clothes with only suggestions of color, so unlike him.

"Fine. You can't say I didn't try."

"I would never. You've gotten way less rest than me, anyway, this is only just now my bedtime."

They sat across from one another, tea tray and uncomfortable silence between them. For some reason it was so difficult to talk to Heisuke now. Toshizō shifted from his knees to cross his legs, which . . . presented a host of new problems. "These damn pants—this is fucking awful, whose idea was this?"

"Yours," said Heisuke, flashing a grin.

"Am I an idiot?"

"Maybe we'll just have to start sitting in chairs, at tall tables."

"We didn't have the money for this, I can't afford chairs and new tables."

"We'll have to redo the floors too, we can't let them put chairs on tatami. . . ."

"This is ludicrous. I'm an idiot."

Heisuke laughed, and the both of them visibly relaxed. "I know some of the guys have been slow to adjust, but we'll get used to it. It'll work itself out."

Toshizō sighed away his jitters. Heisuke used to be one of the easiest to talk to, the most eager to follow orders, the most responsive—and he still was. Which was part of the problem. Toshizō had heaped so much responsibility on him simply because circumstances made him convenient, and he had accepted it all without question. Toshizō felt such guilt just looking at him that he knew—at some point, he'd unwittingly crossed a line that superiors were not to cross.

And now. . . . "What happened last night, Heisuke?"

He absently cracked his knuckles, gazing into the darkest corner of the room. His mouth was opening, but nothing came out.

"Who were those men, do you know? Where were you, what were you doing?"

"One at a time, will ya? This is tough enough, talking about this crap with people on the outside."

This glimpse of how he saw himself was painful for Toshizō to realize—and that felt self-indulgent, compared to what Heisuke had been going through, so he stuffed it down. "What did you actually see?"

"I was working with—talking, actually. Talking to Yamazaki. He wasn't . . . he's not—doing so good."

"How do you mean?" Toshizō asked cautiously.

"He hates this work. He's going stir crazy in here."

"Don't tell me. . . ."

"No, no, he didn't start this, not at all. But . . . I mean, he disappeared when you guys got there to help us, I think he was ashamed. Because before that, most of that—was him."

"Fucking hell."

"Yeah . . . those guys were heading out, and Yamazaki blew up at them. Asked where they were going, what they were doing, who gave them orders."

"And?"

"They said they were patrolling. That they'd been patrolling."

"I suspect that you didn't authorize that."

"No, I didn't even know about it. Why would we even need to patrol here?"

"So the orders. . . ."

Heisuke nodded. "Sannan-san."

Fucking hell. "They could've had the decency not to wear the asagi-iro."

"They seemed to take this creepy pride in what they do, and in attaching it to the Shinsengumi. I don't know how they've been able to stay quiet since we've been here."

"What is it they're actually doing?"

"I think we already know the answer to that. I'm sorry, Hijikata-san," he added when Toshizō crossed his arms.

"Don't do that, it's not your fault."

"But if I'd been—"

"Shut up. So Yamazaki stops them, and they have a friendly discussion." Heisuke frowned, displeased that his concerns were so passively minimized. But they were stupid concerns, so Toshizō couldn't be bothered to feel bad about that. "Then what?" he urged.

"Then he forbids them from leaving. They argued that Yamazaki didn't have the same authority as Sannan-san, and that I didn't either. He argued back with appeals to logic, but you know. They're not the kind of people you can reason with. Especially when one superior promises them what they want, and the others deny it. So—then one of them attacked, and Yamazaki got cut, and that set off the others. Yamazaki didn't even draw until he was injured. Then he went rasetsu on them. I've not been stable lately, so I mostly just watched. I wouldn't have been able to get in there anyway, I think it was his first time since taking the ochimizu. Changing, I mean."

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"You just said you haven't been stable."

"Ah . . . it's just, supposed to be harder, if you refuse blood. And." He shrugged.

"Heisuke. . . ."

"Are you going to order me otherwise?"

"I can't do that to you. But you're important, I can't have you locking up or losing yourself, either. That's the order. How to follow it is your choice."

He hesitated a little, touched his vest. "Yukimura-kun gave us a medicine from her father's work, and it helps some. There wasn't all that much to begin with, and I ran out not long ago."

"I'll talk to her. Maybe she can look at the research, make it more potent."

"We'd appreciate that."

This thing is going so much worse than I thought. "Why didn't you talk to me, Heisuke?" He didn't mean for his voice to break, but . . . of all the trust issues he'd seen among his men, he least expected it to come from his captains.

Heisuke wouldn't look at him. "I just . . . I wanted to take care of it." His mouth scrunched over to one side, but Toshizō detected a faint trembling in his lips. "I didn't want you . . . I mean, you're Hijikata, you know? You have better things to worry about."

"I worry more, the more you keep from me."

"Hey, it's not like that—"

"I know, I know. But you have to stop this. You can't do everything by yourself. You just can't. Fuck, I'm perfect, and I still need help with this shit. That's why I assigned you to keep wa—why are you smiling?" Heisuke shook his head, frowning determinedly. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing, sir." He held a fist in front of his mouth, cleared his throat.

Toshizō sat back, pleased that this time he'd been the one to relieve the tension. "What about Yamazaki, is he going to be okay?"

"You mean, like . . . emotionally?"

"Sure."

"He's Yamazaki. He'll work past it. Long-term, though—he's too used to his freedom, he can't stay cooped up here."

"I'll figure something out."

"It's alright, I can—"

"I said I'll handle it."

"Look, unless it's because of my own incompetence—and I'd hope you would say that to my face, rather than be passive-aggressive about it—you have no reason to step in."

Toshizō shook his head in disbelief. "Who are you anymore?"

"Well," he said with a soft smile, "that was still kinda passive-aggressive. But I'll take that to mean I get to keep my guts."

"Shit, Heisuke, of course you do. You're doing more for this division than I thought possible, honestly."

He quirked a brow. "Glad to know my assignments are, uh. Impossible."

"Well, you can feel more accomplished and less guilty now, can't you? Make that your takeaway. This is absolutely not your fault. I didn't intend to place responsibility for the whole of the fury corps on you alone. If you felt that way, then that's my fault for not clarifying my orders."

"I appreciate hearing that."

"But you're some sort of perfectionist now, so you're going to disregard it anyway."

"What can I say, I want to be perfect like my fukuchou."

"Oh come on, don't fucking take that seriously."

"I know, but. . . ." He narrowed one eye thoughtfully. "It's hard not to feel responsible. Sometimes I feel like the only sane man there."

Toshizō grumbled, "Not you too."

"What?"

"Pardon?"

"What did that mean?"

Toshizō shook his head as he secretively pinched the back of his hand. "I . . . don't know. I m—it's nothing. Lack of sleep has me seeing things, that's all."

Heisuke looked a little worried, but he did not miss the opportunity to push the discussion away from himself. "Have you been hearing the scuttlebutt this morning?"

"The ghosts? Yes, it's a fine story, if they want to believe it. Luckily everyone in that room had impossibly white hair, so it'll be easy to pass it off as your spirits coming back to protect the Shinsengumi from its weak, corrupt members."

"Corrupt, good one. But I meant the ghost."

"The ghost?"

"I didn't see it myself, but—anyone who saw the furies, all those stories are a little different. This one is always exactly the same: a moaning spectre with golden hair wandering the halls, bound up and begging for help."

"Ah, that . . . I can fully explain. But hell, if Sougo's mixed in with the ghost story, fine. Blame it all on him, if you like."

"Is he one of your . . . alternates? What did you call them?"

"The tama, yes."

"Is that the one staying with Hajime-kun, that visits Souji?"

"Y—he visits Souji?"

"They don't really seem like friends, but . . . they are. I think."

"How the hell do you know him?"

"I sorta met him when Souji was still here, he came to argue with him. It was weird. They're weird. But he keeps coming, I see him at the house sometimes. I don't get it."

"I'm afraid I wasn't aware Sougo was leaving the premises. Ever."

"Oh." Heisuke scratched his head. "Well—oops."

/ / / / /

"You always get your hairstyles from your superiors, Jii-san?"

Souji stirred, rolled over on his futon, ran a hand through his clipped hair. "It was an order." It wasn't much different, but a little shorter, without the Isami-inspired mage.

"Shenanigans."

"I'm serious. We're breaking down and adopting some Western tactics, so Hijikata ordered us to adopt Western dress as well."

"Tactically-significant haircuts."

"I don't know. Maybe it's a safety thing, working so close to firearms and gunpowder."

"So then you could have managed without. Are you even one of them anymore? Living out here in the sticks—"

"Piss off, if you don't mind. Oh—you can't, can you? You'll be stuck here forever?"

"I'm not worried," said Sougo, settling down on the floor beside Souji. "I've got work lined up. When you croak I'll be stepping right into your shoes."

"Good luck pleasing that crotchety mother hen of a fukuchou."

"Too impotent for him, are you?"

"I wouldn't know. Men aren't my style."

"Neither are women, according to rumors."

"What rumors?"

"I guess it's more like expert opinion, a doctor saying you're clean. If you get me."

"Matsumoto-sensei said that?" Sougo shrugged in response. "Doesn't matter. I can handle you both."

"That's patently untrue."

Sougo then felt a sharp pinch at the base of his throat—a dagger was puncturing the flesh there. He and Souji grinned.

This was the usual extent of their interactions—shrugs, insults, prodding at each other's psychological boundaries. Which were few. Souji seemed to enjoy the morbid honesty of their conversations, and perhaps most importantly, he didn't object to Sougo's presence. He even seemed to expect it, leaving a lantern lit in his room late into the night. Sougo did wonder if that lantern remained lit every night, or on just the nights that he'd been able to spirit himself away from HQ, foreseen with some completely mundane and useless clairvoyance. But he didn't ask.

The lantern was just barely serving its purpose, an orange strobe that was almost painful to look at directly. "If you trimmed that wick, it wouldn't flicker so much. Might even be able to read by it."

"If I cared, I might." Souji lazily tilted his head to face it, squinting against the effect. "Kill it if it's bothering you."

"Spoken like a true Okita."

"That's not what you were saying before."

"Extenuating circumstances have become more obvious," he said, eyes grazing Souji's form lying weak in his bed. "All this free time time you have, you could've been a real genius by now."

"If only I'd been trimming wicks for proper light to read by?"

Sougo shrugged.

"Worthless," said Souji, shaking his head dismissively. "All of it."

"Are you sad?"

"No."

"But you are a liar."

"I'm not. Just angry."

"Ah. You'll get there, then."

"What?"

"Depression usually comes after anger. I don't see you as a bargainer, so."

"Fuck that. Fuck all of that, I'm going to be pissed off until the very end."

"Why?"

"Why? I could've been so much more. I could've murdered emperors, made Kondō a shōgun. Anything. Young as I am, already a master swordsman—"

"Have been, let's say."

"Fuck." Souji shook his head, sighing in frustration—not at Sougo, but at himself. "I'm disappointed. I'm going to be disappointed until the end. I could've been so much more, and no matter what, I can't change that. It's like I can already see what I'll be to history—I'm still alive but the book is already closing on me, it's insulting."

"You're talkative tonight."

He rolled his eyes. "You haven't been by in a while. I've had a lot of time to think."

"Yeah, well. We moved again."

"Why?"

"How should I know? I'm not trying to get involved in your politics."

"So you're farther away now, that's your excuse."

"Several hours by foot. It's harder with Saitō gone too, he'd just—"

"Wait, wait—why is Hajime-kun gone? What do you mean?"

"He's not dead, settle down. He's . . . off doing his dark business, I guess. You guys are friends?"

Souji shrugged.

"I was shifted to his watch for awhile. There was no way that guy wouldn't notice me leaving, so I didn't sneak, just to see how he'd handle it. He never stopped me, though. I never got in trouble so he must not have tattled, either. Did he know I came here?"

He shrugged.

"Why didn't he just come see you himself?"

"He does, sometimes. He's busier than you are, if you can imagine what that's like."

Sougo might have bitten back, but a question that had been plaguing him for months surfaced. He was ashamed to have put it off for so long, rationalizing it with I probably already know the answer. "You have a sister," Sougo said, unrest stirring in his belly.

"Who told you?"

"No one had to tell me."

Souji sat up at least as far as his elbows, cleared the phlegm from his throat. Sougo noticed that had been bothering him more lately. He wondered if it tasted like blood.

This was why he came here. It was selfish, Sougo would freely admit that, but this thing—at least it was a known quantity.

"So," said Souji. "What about it?"

"Is she. . . ."

"What?"

He wasn't sure he wanted to know. But it deserved to be asked.

"Is she okay? Or is she . . . like you."

Souji shook his head. "She's fine."

Sougo was on his feet and didn't know why, so he made for the lantern to blow it out. He couldn't say he liked Souji, but he couldn't exactly say he liked himself either. Sougo always had his own interests in mind, of course, and that maybe had seeped into his feelings about Souji. He wanted his family to be okay. So with this—he felt his body relax. She's fine.

"Why are you asking?"

His eyes hadn't adjusted, but he felt moonlight glowing in the paper panes, so he slid the doors open to let it inside. "My sister—Mitsuba." He said it before Souji could mention his own sister's name. Still trying to assure him that it wasn't all a lie. "She. . . ."

An inhale through the nose, a click of the tongue. "A lunger?"

Sougo nodded and sat down again. He wouldn't have used the word himself, but in Souji's case it made sense. If it'd been Sougo who was ill and not his sister, he could see himself trying to make light of the condition with self-deprecation.

Souji's thoughts were tracking across his just-barely-smiling features. "And you're not?" he asked.

There was no way to say it that wouldn't sound like bragging, so he just said it.

"No."

Pity and relief crowded Souji's face, before melting away again. "Is she. . . ." He was looking at Sougo, eyes darting across his arms, his shoulders.

He shook his head.

"Oh." Souji rubbed his jaw. ". . . I'm sorry."

Sougo shrugged. Anything more would have been too painful.

"I can't imagine. If it'd been Mitsu. . . ."

Mitsu. Her name is Mitsu, and she's fine.

"Hey, runt," said Souji.

"What."

"Do you think. . . . I mean, is it terrible that I'm glad I'm . . . me?"

"Yeah," Sougo said. Souji folded his hands behind his head and lay back, breaths audibly rattling in his chest. "For lots of reasons, Jii-san. But I get it."

This is the lucky one.

"Do you want to meet her?"

Sougo's eyes snapped up.

"My sister," said Souji, as though he hadn't guessed. "She's coming tomorrow."

/ / / / /

"Shit," Toshizō said softly. "Mitsu-san is coming tomorrow."

He followed Tōshirō's gaze through the open shōji to the moon. The weather had been mild of late, the evening breeze dewy and chill and carrying pink-white petals. "How is she doing?" he asked quietly.

"Last I heard, fine," said Toshizō. "Considering."

"Well enough to travel, at least."

"Huh?"

Tōshirō's eyes finally wandered back indoors, the flame of a single candle fluttering between their futons as they settled in for the night. "She's traveling, she must be feeling alright." Why does he look so anxious?

"I should hope so, she's got her work cut out for her here."

"What?"

"Not that she has very far to go. We did most of the work for her, bringing Souji to Edo." Tōshirō was slowly coming apart at the seams, but Toshizō couldn't reason why, so he continued inanely, thinking he might distract him the way the moon couldn't. "She'll stay with him there, at the house, I suppose until . . . you know. She insists that we continue to visit as often as we can."

"Wait a minute."

"Which is thoughtful of her. She's always been more like a parent to him, and now that she's got older kids of her own—"

"Hold up one goddamn minute, Toshizō."

"What is it with you?"

"She's not—wait, she's got kids?"

"Yeah."

"Like teenage kids?"

"What's your problem?"

"And you're . . . okay . . . with that?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"But . . . how old is she?"

Toshizō didn't see how this was in any way relevant, but he shrugged. "About my age."

"Well then . . . I guess I don't know how old you are."

"About Kondō-san's age."

"You twit."

"I'm thirty-three." Upon seeing Tōshirō's jaw hit the floor, he said, "Okay, how old are you, smartass?"

"Twenties."

"Twenties. You can't get any more specific than that."

"No I cannot."

He babbled, something about blank pages between chapters, and though Toshizō tuned him out, Tōshirō's voice still echoed in his head.

Don't be an asshole . . . you know exactly what you're doing . . . she's not a child . . . you're killing her. . . .

That was the only other time his interest in this world had been so . . . severe. He wasn't threatening Toshizō physically this time, but he felt that something there was connected. Tōshirō wouldn't have been so offended if he hadn't felt personally invested somehow—but why? Why this? He hadn't known about the furies, or Yukimura, so he couldn't have had some kind of falling out with her in his universe. Why was that so important? Why meddle in Toshizō's personal life?

"Get it together, Haku-san." Tōshirō was snapping near Toshizō's face. "I'm trying to set you straight, here."

In an instant, it hit him: he's in love with Sougo's sister, and Sougo doesn't approve.

Toshizō pressed a palm to his cheek, half surprised it wasn't hot from the impact. Does he expect me to be in love with Mitsu? "Is that why Sougo didn't want you to know?"

"What?"

"The reason you're acting so strangely right now. Does all this have something to do with the illness?"

"Is that what he told you, to convince you? That his sister was sick?"

"No—" Toshizō shivered at the clueless expression on Tōshirō's face. "I. . . ."

. . . have just started a huge mess.

"I don't get it," said Tōshirō, scowling violently because on some level he definitely already got it. "What did he tell you, then?"

"Oh my g—he didn't say how he knew—"

"What did he tell you?"

"Even before most of our guys were told, he knew that Souji is dying of consumption."

"That . . . doesn't make sense, though."

Toshizō shook his head. "It makes sense."

"No, but . . . then why. . . ."

He was in love, and she died. "Tōshirō-kun. . . ."

"It's Souji that's sick? His sister is okay?" Toshizō was too mortified to respond, watching as Tōshirō's scowl gradually softened. "And you're not . . . you don't. . . ."

Toshizō could barely stand to look at him, so desperate and full of hope that maybe his life could have been better, that maybe something could have gone right if only the world were a little different. But finally, he just had to say it.

"No, Tōshirō. I don't."

Tōshirō held fistfuls of hair at his temples, and he wasn't blinking. "The universe is cruel," he said, candlelight flickering madly across his still face. "All of them. Every single one of them is cruel." The flame died in a gust of scented breeze, and the room was somehow quieter in the placid white moonlight.

Softly, as if to calm a wild creature, "What happened?"

"I turned her down." His voice was low, heels of his hands pressed into his eyes.

"You . . . what?"

"I was afraid, I can't lie and say that wasn't part of it, I was afraid, of. . . . It's a dangerous job, what we do. Isn't it?"

He wanted confirmation, but Toshizō couldn't give it. It wasn't his life; he couldn't say.

"I couldn't . . . I wouldn't have been able to promise her. I was just going to let her down."

"Is that why you got so mad at me that time?" Tōshirō glanced up. "You said . . . 'Don't be like me.' That's what you said."

"Oh. Yeah. . . . I guess so." He raked his nails across his scalp. "I take it back, though."

"What?"

"Be like me. I made a choice."

"Tōshirō. . . ."

"I'm not telling you that there's a right or wrong choice. But you have to make one. Either you make a move, or you stop leading her on. I . . . made a choice."

"Was it wrong?"

"The world didn't end."

"Was it the wrong choice?"

"I . . . don't think so. No—there's no such thing as a wrong choice. There are choices . . . they're just different. As long as you make a—any choice, take some kind of action—"

"But do you regret it."

He stopped, lips parted, and was silent for a long, long time.

Toshizō hadn't really been of the opinion that Tōshirō and his bunch could be taken seriously. They were a hassle, a thorn in his side, but in all little more than incidental. They appeared out of nowhere, had no measurable effect on their lives, and if all went according to plan, they'd disappear back to into oblivion.

Of course, they had their similarities—which perhaps was why he had failed to realize that Tōshirō was his own person, with his own experiences, his own history, that there were differences that went beyond technology. There was more to tell than the feeling of flying through the void of space, the mechanics of a fluid lighter, the shape of a light bulb. That Toshizō might learn something from him, something of value transferable to his own world.

I'm trying to set you straight.

Finally, Tōshirō took a deep breath. "I can't regret it."

"But do you?"

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because it would kill me." An undeniable fact, said with almost threatening conviction. He lay back and held his palm open to the starry sky, as if waiting for a blossom to land; there was no happiness in his smile. "But I have to keep living. For her."

/ / / / /

One day, on a morning that the complex was exceptionally dour, Yamazaki Sagaru found a note beside his futon.

Sorry I couldn't stick around to see you home. We'll be thinking of you. Best of luck, friend.

Alarmed, he tracked Isami down, who told him that Harada and Nagakura were gone.

/ / / / /

Toshizō knew that things could get worse. Things could always get worse. But that was little consolation on the morning they found the mansion surrounded.

He and Shimada rushed to locate Kondō-san, sitting with the tama in a small, unused common room. "Who is it?" Kondō asked. "Empire? Satchō?"

"Does it matter? They all march under the same damn banner these days. Come on, we have to get you out of here."

"What? No."

"We're outnumbered, and we'd be outnumbered even if we had time to recall Saitō's men from Ichikawa."

"I'm not running away, Toshi."

"We're not fighting them, what's the point of getting obliterated now? I just said we're outnumbered."

"I just said I'm not running away."

"What—are you talking about?"

"You all can still leave. I'll buy you some time to sneak out the back."

"Wait—no. No."

"Go regroup with the rest of the men—"

"No. You are not surrendering yourself to them."

"Yes I am. You join up with Saitō—"

"And what? Move on like nothing's changed? They won't take you as a prisoner of war, not for long. Then what? We're not the Shinsengumi without you, what are we supposed to be then?"

"That will be up to you, Toshi. As long as you live, you can keep fighting."

"What kind of hypocritical bullshit is that? I'm going out there, you lead the men at Ichikawa."

"They won't accept a surrender from anyone but the commander. I'm doing this for all of you."

Isao was on his feet. He moved toward Toshizō, who instinctively shuffled back like a skittish animal. "What. . . ."

"I'll go."

Tōshirō wouldn't stop shaking his head; tears budded in Sougo's eyes. "Kondō-san—"

"It's alright."

"No," Tōshirō was saying quietly. "No. . . ." But his eyes wouldn't meet any of them, staring instead through the floor.

Kondō was in more active denial. "Come now, Isao-san, this isn't—this is my world, I'm responsible for—"

"But I'm part of this world now."

"You're going home, though, you're going back—"

"No one's saying it, but that's a lost cause. We're here for good. I know that. You can share your responsibilities with me now."

"But—you just have to keep trying, keep thinking—"

"Stop. Let me do this. We both know it makes more sense this way."

"This is preposterous, Isao-san," he said with a laugh, unconvincing though it was as a tear rolled down his cheek. "You're being . . . you're being silly. You don't—my responsibilities aren't yours. That's. . . ."

"There is one responsibility I can't share."

Toshizō's head dropped almost below his shoulders, but Kondō-san still didn't understand. "This isn't . . . Isao—"

"Go home, Isami."

"What . . . what do you mean?"

"It's okay. Take this chance. Retire, and go be with your girls. Be a family."

"But, Isao—"

"Do it for me?" His eyes smiled, even as a frown held back his own tears. "Live for what you have. Do it for me, okay? Please." He pressed an arm across his eyes, shoulders rising and falling.

"What about us?" said Tōshirō softly. "What am I supposed to do without you?"

Isao's smile refreshed as he took him up in one of those grand bear hugs. "You'll be fine, and you know it. You'll figure it out because you're smart, and you've got great guys behind you."

"I won't follow him without you," Sougo said desperately.

"Yes you will," he said, parting from Tōshirō and drawing Sougo in. "You've grown enough by now to listen. C'mere, Zaki."

"Stop it, Kondō-san," said Tōshirō, "this isn't funny."

"You all are such good kids."

"This isn't fucking funny."

Suddenly Kondō was shouting, "You will not force me to run away from my responsibilities!"

Isao countered in a low, calm voice. "Leaving things unresolved would be running away. My stepping in is not the same as you running away."

"How?" He bit his lip, offended and sad and even more powerless than he'd been since this awful year began.

"Look—take something from my world. Give your family the same consideration as your job. Hell, give them more. They need you more than the Shinsengumi does. Let the young ones take care of things here."

"Isami and Toshizō are the same age, Kondō-san."

"Whatever," he whispered sweetly. "You can't change my mind now. Big guy, danna—" He nodded to them both. He wants . . . ?

Shimada was already reaching for one of Kondō's arms, and Toshizō quickly snatched the other. "Let go of me," Kondō whimpered. Isao was walking for the door. "Please, Toshi. . . ."

"I can't." He added another hand, tightened his grip. I don't want to. "Souji would never forgive me."

Sougo had a blade against Isao's throat, the wrap on its grip familiar. Toshizō glanced down; his own shortsword was gone.

"Stop," Sougo said.

Isao gave another sad smile, tilted his head. "Sougo. . . ."

"You're not going anywhere!"

His hands came around the blade, gave it a little push. Sougo panicked, and as the blade clattered to the floor, Isao's hands landed on Sougo's shoulders. "It's okay." He kissed the top of his head. "You are loved—you know that, right? Just remember that."

"What? What do you—"

But Isao was gone.

Kondō was on his knees, and Sougo too, and Toshizō followed in Tōshirō's wake, chasing him and his commander toward the front gates of the complex.

"Don't be an idiot," said Tōshirō, grabbing at one of Isao's arms. "If you have to do this, at least give them a little time to get away before you walk out there."

"You are going with them, you know."

"Like hell."

"I know you're mad—"

"Like hell."

"Listen to me. This is an order."

"Don't you dare—"

"You do not follow me. You go back to Isami, and you make sure he gets to safety, or else this is all for nothing. And you do not come back for me. Understood?"

"Kondō-san—"

"I gave you orders. Acknowledge."

"You're still not understanding the part where they need time to get away first."

"I'll handle it. Stay and watch if you like, it'll only take a minute. But you have to leave after that. It would set a bad example for your subordinates, if you didn't."

"I don't give a shit about what they think."

"It's for Isami too. How is he going to feel if you don't go with him?"

"Isami is not my problem—"

"I'm making him your problem. This is important to me, Toushi. Please respect my wishes."

"Oh, fuck."

"This is bigger than you or me—"

"Fuck no, you did not just say that like you're about to die."

Isao sighed, sad that talking wasn't helping. "Danna?"

Toshizō shook his head, Don't involve me.

"You can't do this," Tōshirō said, pleading. He was starting to give up.

"It's already done, Toushi." He gave him a quick hug and nodded once more to Toshizō, who planted a hand on Tōshirō's shoulder as Isao slipped through the door. "See you on the other side."

His massive form strolled right out in the open, arms held up. The opposing force was abuzz with activity, and there was discussion, presumably as they selected a representative. They must have been expecting resistance, rather than a parley.

Finally one of them swaggered forward, loaded rifles covering him. "Who the hell do we have here?"

"My name is Kondō Isami," said Isao, lowering his arms, "commander of the Shinsengumi. If you can guarantee that every single one of my men will be spared—" back straight and voice solid—"I will come quietly."

The other guy mulled the thought for a time. "This is surrender, not a negotiation." His men chuckled quietly.

"Is that the kind of empire you want to be? Do you want the people to think you will treat them mercilessly, just like you treated the militia that once upon a time wished to surrender?" The grin on Isao's face was strange, and yet so chillingly familiar; the riflemen were frozen. "Besides, if I don't get what I want—we may be a bunch of backwater hicks, but sure as hell, we can mess up a man. You can have it easy, or we can tear through half your ranks before you even scratch us."

That bluffing buffoon. The representative was silent. The whole force was silent.

Isao laughed.

Finally: "The terms of your surrender are accepted." He and Isao bowed to each other, before the man signaled for his riflemen; two came forward. As if his subordinate was supposed to be pleased with the outcome, Isao turned back to look at Tōshirō, a triumphant grin lighting across his features even as his hands were being bound.

Tōshirō whispered something and moved, but before he could take a full step, Toshizō hooked his elbows around his arms. He resisted, if weakly, spirit sucked out of him—leaning limp from Toshizō's arms, his head bowed, fists balled.

". . . Tōshirō-kun?"

Glaring back with those wild eyes, red-faced and shaking, he said, "I think it's time we were given our weapons."

Chapter Text

"For all intents and purposes," Toshizō finally said after three weeks of Kondō's moping, "you are retired. You've been more useless than even Souji. You might as well do as you were told."

He just gave an apologetic smile and turned back to The Romance of the Three Kingdoms. There was no doubt his instinct was to get back into the fighting. Luckily the official story was that Kondō Isami had been arrested, so he couldn't well go walking about and risk being recognized. He was stupid right now, but that logic, at least, he could obey.

But if Kondō-san had been depressed before, he now saw only the bleakest angles of things from his position on the tatami in his room. The distraction in his gaze said he was agonizing over Isao's decision. Kondō's compulsion to keep fighting butted up against his friend's advice, his sacrifice, leaving him paralyzed. He worried more for Isao than if he himself had been taken into custody.

"If you're looking for answers, I doubt anything in there will help."

"When was the last time you read this?" Kondō asked, fondling the edge of one page with shaking fingertips.

Assuming I've read it ever. It was so like him to assume that his own habits were universal. "I'm afraid I haven't had the time to read for pleasure since we started this whole Shinsengumi affair."

"You have to make time for these things, Toshi. You've never been good at that." There was a twitch in his lips—not an imminent smile, not sadness. Nothing. There was nothing behind his words, no trace of that familiar spark in his empty eyes.

Kondō was breaking. Without his baseless confidence he was little more than a frightened man—afraid of making decisions, afraid of their consequences, afraid of the weight of his own katana. If he hadn't been weakened by their defeat at Fushimi, and the loss of Gen-san, and Souji getting worse, and Koufu, and Sanosuke and Shinpachi's departure—if not for all of that, he might have been fuelled to act on Isao's behalf. Once, he was a shōgun of a man. Now, he was very nearly broken.

"Make time for something else, Kondō-san," Toshizō said tiredly, setting a hand atop his head. "Make good on your bushidō name. Have heart."

Toshizō's bed had felt especially comfortable for some reason, so he had slept well enough. But a nightmare woke him early. The specifics were fuzzy, but the feeling was that Kondō-san had been killed. Not in battle, and not allowed to commit seppuku, but executed. Toshizō awoke nauseated, and with a splitting headache, and the coziness in his covers only unsettled him further so he stood and stretched. It was nice to awaken alone for a change; he should've loosened the reins on the tama long ago.

The sky was just turning a lighter shade of navy than the tree line; in time the grass would alight with orange. He walked outside along the night-damp engawa, around past Kondō-san's room, just to make sure he was safely within. Even asleep the man's brow was furrowed with concern. Toshizō felt a pang of guilt for his own relief.

He spotted the glow of candlelight, a hint of murmuring in a room across the courtyard, so he veered off to investigate. Kondō was something of a lost cause at present, but the tama had been more soldierly than ever. As Toshizō penned countless petitions for Isao's release, Tōshirō and Sougo had been strict as business, not a hint of bickering or even that latent friendship in their staid conversations, working from scraps of reconnaissance provided by Yamazaki and Sagaru.

Upon entering he found Tōshirō lying awake on the floor, ankle across his knee, hands pillowed beneath his head; Sougo sat at a low writing desk, tapping his lips with the end of a calligraphy brush. "You ought to at least invest in some fountain pens," he said to Toshizō. Even Sagaru was sitting against the wall, drooping head slowly drooping lower.

"Have you three slept at all?"

"I bet smoking is better for you than this," said Tōshirō, lips tensed around a thin bamboo reed.

Sougo blinked drowsily. "I bet it's not."

He bit down, making a show of how the fibers crunched and ground between his molars. "Could wear your teeth down in a minute."

"Stop that, Tōshirō-kun. It's too early for your shit."

He crunched defiantly.

"At least you could get fillings for that," said Sougo. "Smoking weakens the roots."

"That's a lie. That's Big Health or Pharma or whatever trying to pry me away from my harmless addiction."

"Fine. It's your jaw. I'm surprised you haven't cracked a tooth on those things yet, Hijikata-san."

He stopped crunching, uneasily settling for gnawing with his incisors.

"How's it coming?" Toshizō asked.

"Show him the map, Sougo."

Toshizō joined him at the desk as he pushed a sheet of paper across the surface. "I thought all you had were bits and pieces."

"The Yamazakis brought this last night," said Sougo. "Careful. My notes are still drying."

Not only did they have the outline of the grounds where Isao was being held. But there were doors drawn in, and which were open at what times, and which went largely unused. There were paths marked with various dotted lines, each standing for a different patrol, with a guard count for every time of day.

"Look," said Sougo, "Zaki even added vision cones." Indeed, little triangles offered approximate zones of sight for each static post. "And he didn't believe me, that Metal Gear teaches valuable life lessons."

"How did they do this? Surely they'd have to be inside the gates to get this much detail."

"We don't ask for the particulars of their methods," said Tōshirō. "They're getting it done, and they keep coming back with all their limbs. Knowing Susumu, it's probably all to scale, too."

In the corner, a half-asleep Sagaru grinned and nodded.

"You still with us?" Toshizō teased. "Welcome back."

"Thanks."

"But they had some gossip for us," said Tōshirō, staring through the ceiling. "Sounds like they're getting tired of keeping him. Like we probably need to move in the next few days."

"Well," Toshizō said, hoping that his dream wasn't a vision. "There is a wealth of information here. Surely you have drafted quite the plan."

"In part. They're still unclear on where he actually is. But they can reliably get onto the grounds. Bramble grows thick on the eastern side, and it's a hike. Even on the off chance they cut it back—"

A sudden flash of light gave him pause—it was like lightning, but several times brighter, harsher on Toshizō's migraine. "The hell was that?"

Tōshirō stood alert. "You hear that, Sougo?"

Toshizō focused his ears; it was faint, but he heard something of a whooshing, like the rush of wind between buildings. Or maybe the hum of an approaching storm. But lightning that bright would have to be close by, and there had been no accompanying shock of thunder. . . .

"Maybe danna should check it out."

"You want his head to implode?"

"Of course I do."

"Well . . . it might be best if we didn't stick our faces out there first. We don't know what sort of faction we're dealing with here."

"What's going on?" asked Toshizō.

Tōshirō jutted his chin toward the door. "Take a look."

"This is all very disturbing."

"Just you wait."

Suspiciously he approached the shōji and nudged it open just enough to peek through. Even in the early morning darkness it was obvious that there was . . . some sort of . . . craft? But floating.

In the air.

Slowly he slid the doors closed again.

Is that right?

"Looks like we called it, Sougo."

"No," said Toshizō.

"No?"

"No. That's—no."

"Yeah. Well, they didn't come in guns a-blazing, so it's probably fine for us to go investigate."

"Toshi?"

He jumped and whipped around to find Kondō-san approaching from the hallway, dragging his feet as he rubbed his face. "What's all the fuss in here?" All he could do was point past the tama, crowding into the now-open doorway. Kondō leaned toward them and angled his head. "What is going—whoa."

"Yeah," said Toshizō.

"But that's—no."

"I know."

As they spilled out into the courtyard, muffled voices could be heard emanating from the . . . deck? Was there a deck on that thing? "Shut up," it said, "you're too conspicuous. It's bad enough we had to roll in here with this gaudy excuse for a vehicle."

"Ahaha. You're one to lecture about staying under the radar."

Toshizō was . . . . well. If ever they doubted the tama, there was no cause for it now. "It's. . . ."

"A flying ship," said a long-suffering Tōshirō, "I know."

"Son of a bitch," said Kondō.

"It's huge," Toshizō protested. He might've imagined something the size of a raft, at most, but this couldn't be possible.

"Nah, this one's small. Oi," Tōshirō shouted, "you Amanto, or what?"

There was creaking as feet moved about the deck, and another absurd bout of laughter sounded, followed immediately by a loud whisper: "You really need to keep your mouth shut. I implore you."

"Why, what's the big problem?"

"Reasons, Tatsuma. Just quiet, alright?" Illuminated by on-board lights, a man—a very normal-looking man—with long hair and a pale haori peeked over the edge.

After a bit of shock wore off, Tōshirō grumbled. "Well, that's it, boys. We're done! We're fucking doomed, fucking Zura's come to finish us off."

The man let out a smooth laugh and slipped his hands into his sleeves. "Zura jan—"

"You dumb idiot. You could've just left us here to rot, what the hell are you doing?"

He tilted his head, a little dismayed at what was not glorious praise. "Rescuing you, of course."

"That's pretty much what I mean, were you even listening?"

"You underestimate my powers of negotiation. Gintoki will owe me big after this one."

"Did he put you up to this?"

"No. In fact, I don't think he's realized you're missing."

Sagaru's jaw set forward. "Then what makes you think he'll feel indebted to you for this?"

"Yamazaki," Tōshirō spat. "The part that should concern you is the fact that we've been here for half a fucking year. And we haven't been noticed? With the top of the Shinsengumi lopped off, how have whole districts of Edo not devolved into riots?"

"Details, details," said the long-haired man, lazily waving a hand. "Deep down, Gintoki thinks of you as his friends. As such, you ought to understand what that means to him." This seemed to placate Tōshirō, who sneered in reluctant agreement. "And, it's only been two days."

"Ah. Scuse me. I don't think I heard that right."

"Two days since you all can last be accounted for."

"No shit?"

"No shit."

"You mean I'm five months older for no reason?"

"Details, I say."

Tōshirō gave a short sigh and crossed his arms. "You sure you want to do this?"

"I'm already here, aren't I?"

"Doesn't mean we'll stop coming after you."

"I didn't expect that to be the case. Besides, I felt . . . that the world was out of balance, with you gone. Indeed it seemed to nullify my work entirely."

"You're an insane motherfucker."

"I can't argue, but you may want to be careful with the name-calling."

Slowly Toshizō met Kondō's gaze. Was this man a joui radical? Zura, they had said . . . was this Katsura? And how exactly did they get on such familiar terms with him? Maybe the tama were more incapable than even Toshizō realized. And whoever this Gintoki was, he seemed to have a stranglehold on several organizations spanning all sides of the political arena. For Katsura to hold such an act over his head and not the Shinsengumi—Gintoki appeared to be the real puppetmaster of their world. How had he gone without mention thus far?

Whatever they were to each other, it wasn't friendly. Tōshirō's mouth may as well have been sutured shut, as much as he struggled not to bite back. Zura smiled, which made Toshizō unreasonably angry. "Care to introduce us?" he said.

"Well. . . ." Tōshirō was kneading his forehead with the heel of one hand; with a sarcastic sweeping motion of the other he announced, "The great Katsura Kotarō. And the Kaientai, apparently."

A man in an ostentatious red coat and dark spectacles stepped up beside Zura and waved. Sakamoto too? In his head Toshizō assessed the names (ryō, tatsu—that did check out) before something in his memory triggered: That laughing idiot?

As if reading his mind, the idiot laughed.

"Shut up, Tatsuma, I'm warning you. You're cutting it very close here."

"And yes," said Tōshirō, "Kotarō is written small—big—son."

For a moment Toshizō just looked at them. Of all the things that were clearly wrong with this entire exchange, for some reason it was this that dragged a great, painful snort of a laugh from his soft palate. What a stupid fucking name.

"Aaalright, Haku-san," and he felt Tōshirō conducting him back indoors as Zura's eyes narrowed.

"Had I said that aloud?"

"Hush." Zura was jolted as the ship lowered, nearly striking the building. "Hey," Tōshirō warned, "tell your guys to watch it."

"You may come aboard, if you like."

"Nuh-uh."

"Fair enough. Maybe once we settle terms of a temporary truce."

"Is that what we're doing."

"Would you like to return home, or not? Truce is the only logical next step."

"Excuse me for doubting your logic. You've made it here—bravo, et cetera, but you still haven't explained how we're all getting back."

"Elizabeth assured us that the path would remain active—"

"What's that Elizabeth thing know about inter-universe travel?"

"Ah—no, this is someone else. It should remain open long enough for us to collect you and return to our universe. We just fly the ship back through."

"When you put it like that, it sounds like the reapers sent you to drag us back to dark space or funnel us into some kind of abominable science pr—"

"Stop it, fukuchou," Sagaru pleaded, "this is crazy enough without you bringing other fictions into it."

"Speaking of which—you, with the hair," said Zura, indicating Toshizō. "Under no circumstances are you to speak with Tatsuma. Understood?"

"You're not ordering me around."

"Just roll with it," said Tōshirō, "please."

"No no no. No. I played along last time because it was you, I'm not about to let some Chōshū trash—"

"Do you want us out of your gorgeous hair or not? He's got the spaceship—"

"What is this sudden obsession with my hair?"

"Look, man, don't fuck this up for us. This is . . . precariously unprecedented."

"Quite," said Zura, pouting.

"Just do as he says?" Tōshirō sighed before adding, "It looks good short."

"Thank you."

"Not as good as Saitō's."

"Okay, well."

"Or Heisuke. Or Harada, damn—"

"That'll do, Tōshirō." By now the lesser members of the Shinsengumi were beginning to filter out-of-doors, alternately gaping at the apocalyptic hellscape before them, and at their fukuchou in supplication. "What the fuck, by the way, am I to do about—pardon. What are you going to do about this."

"About what now?"

"The whole of the neighborhood witnessing your airship?"

"First of all, it isn't my ship."

"It's a ship. In the middle of my complex. It's about as impossible as finding a seashell in the middle of a desert."

"That's maybe a bad example, dog. Third, airship is wildly inaccurate and/or hilariously archaic."

"What happened to two? Certainly you have some kind of . . . I don't know. Some way to alter memories? Additionally: kiss my ass."

"What is this, Men in Black? We have awesome technology, don't get me wrong—"

"Actually," said Tatsuma, "before I left the 12th division—"

"And now he's experiencing the bleeding effect, jolly good."

"That's it," said Zura, "you're grounded forever." He grabbed Tatsuma by an ear and proceeded dragging him inside the ship as the man inexplicably laughed between curious proclamations of ow.

"They should get the ship in the upper atmosphere," said Sagaru. "No air traffic control, no customs—"

"Oh, excuse me, Hijikata-dono," said Zura, pausing with Tatsuma wriggling under his fingers. "I don't believe I've seen your illustrious leader."

"About that," Tōshirō said, grimacing with a ruffle of his hair. "Exactly, hhhow committed are you to bringing us all back? Exactly."

/ / / / /

Tōshirō and his men knew the patrol patterns and the shift changes, but had almost no information on the individual guards themselves, other than their custom of bringing women in from the red-light districts, rather than going out to meet them.

This, of course, became their ticket in.

The guards never had women visit on two consecutive nights (too much a strain on their stipends, certainly), so the plan was to drop by in disguise the night after a rendez-vous. That way the extraction team wouldn't have to deal with the real women, or with a conflict of information from an outside source.

Staffing the plan also went better than expected. The haku were too busy putting out social fires elsewhere, so the tama could only be afforded Susumu for continued reconnaissance, since he technically didn't exist anyway. Tōshirō, Yamazaki, and Susumu would monitor the situation from hiding and infiltrate the grounds another way, while the other contingent would, ideally, walk right through the front gates. Zura volunteered for prostitute detail, and miraculously, so did Sougo. Apparently his need to bust in and rescue Kondō-san personally trumped his dignity as a male. (Zura seemed quite taken with Saitō's "androgynous grace" and insisted he come along as well, nearly losing a limb in the exchange.)

But this . . . left something to be desired in the female department. Toshizō reluctantly agreed to lend them Yukimura after some top-notch guilt-tripping and the assurance that Sougo and his katana would be flanking her the whole time. Yes, even in a dress he would be openly armed, because Sougo.

As drab and plain as this world was—especially given what a bunch of country samurai had access to—Tōshirō figured the clothing would present the greatest challenge. Even at Sougo's meager height, he was much taller than most women in this world, so it stood to reason that a kimono long enough to fold over correctly at the waist would be difficult to come by. And Zura was taller yet.

But that too turned out to be a non-issue, because he apparently came standard with his own woman's kimono. (Yes, even on a straightforward mission like picking up a few dudes from an alternate universe he packed his lady clothes, because Zura.) Tōshirō considered going tsukkomi on that shit but didn't figure the long-winded—and likely nonsensical—response would be worth his time. And Yukimura called in a favor with some of her contacts to procure a pair of flashy embroidered kimono and assorted accessories for herself and Sougo. (Tōshirō could have sworn he heard the word "princess" used in all honesty in relation one of them, but again—not worth asking.) The more impressive of the two borrowed kimono was reserved for her, since as the only biological female (and normal human, with a functional brain) she would have to lead the charge and do most of the talking.

What had begun as a clandestine hail Mary was now so sophisticated that they even had a makeshift base, a tent set up a few miles from the target. They decided it was safest to leave the ship in orbit; without shuttles, they'd have to travel there the old-fashioned way. A minor inconvenience for a batshit plan that was somehow coming together. For the first time in weeks, Tōshirō felt a twinge of hope.

Preparations went quickly, and it just so happened that the guards had been hosting their lady guests when the Yamazakis came back with their map. So that night (after a couple power naps), Tōshirō and his team found themselves walking to meet Yukimura and Susumu, who had arrived at the base early for setup.

But now with Zura in tow—already in costume, hair bound loosely over one shoulder—it was shaping up to be one of the most awkward hikes of Tōshirō's life.

There was no need to feign interest in small talk, so he jumped straight to the point. "I guess I don't need to ask how you noticed we were missing."

"We knew there was a raid scheduled for last night—on our timeline, that is. Day one of two."

"Yeah, that really pisses me off, by the way."

"Understandable. And when you failed to arrive, we got curious and started investigating. Needed to know if it was rescheduled, you know, really threw a wrench in our plans. This was supposed to be board game night. Arkham Horror. Lots of setup."

"Something tells me you're not kidding."

Zura looked right at him, serious as death. "Why would I joke about that?"

"Sorry," said Tōshirō, holding up his palms. "I'm sorry. So, do you usually know when we're coming, or . . . ?"

"Let's not get carried away, Shinsengumi fukuchou."

"Can't blame me for trying. It's a rare opportunity."

"Isn't it."

Right—we're not the only ones hoping to do a little recon. "And how did you . . . get here? You mentioned a path."

Zura shrugged. "We followed the portal."

"There's a portal?"

"Some girl had torn one open in Kabukichō. With that as your last known location, it was easy to deduce what had happened to you. Had a hell of a time getting a spaceship in there—"

"It wasn't the microwave?"

"Oh. No, that was just a bit of media sensationalism. The affected units were all recalled before even hitting the shelves."

Tōshirō gritted his teeth. "In your face, Yamazaki. Wait—wouldn't it have taken you to Kyoto, like us?"

He shrugged again. "Plot convenience. It's not like this is a video game, with spawn points and autosaves and hot dogs and such. The path is free to wander as it wills. Perhaps it's tied to your contact—Haku, I believe you called him—rather than a particular place."

"Well, Hijikata-san," said Sougo, "I guess that explains it. You were drunk and didn't watch where you were walking."

"Me? I seem to detect several other boneheads beside me, you can't pin this all on me."

"Oh, I'm just a loyal follower, Hijikata-san."

"That is the exact opposite of what you said to Kondō-san."

Zura noticed Sougo's expression darken. "May I ask what happened with your chief?"

Tōshirō opened his mouth to answer some sarcastic bullshit, but Sougo cut him off: "He gave himself up in place of his friend."

Zura frowned, nodding respectfully. "Who was that?"

"He's . . . uh . . . also Kondō," said Tōshirō. "Another one."

"Oh. I didn't know he had a brother."

"Not a brother—"

"Or do you mean like a family ghost?"

"No, why would that—"

"This isn't a ghost realm, is it?"

"What are you even saying anymore?"

"Forget this. I don't want to be here, I don't want to do this." He reached into his bosom and whipped out a walkie, shouting, "Mission's off, Tatsuma, we've got—"

Tōshirō snatched it away as Sougo and Yamazaki restrained Zura. "It's fine, Sakamoto, the mission is not off."

"I can't read you, repeat."

"Don't worry about it," Tōshirō shouted, "there are no ghosts, and everything is going fine so far."

"AhahahaHA! Were you expecting ghosts?"

"Nope; not even close."

"There's no need to yell, I can hear you just fine."

Except there was, because every time Tōshirō squeezed the talk button, Zura tried drowning out his voice with this was not informed consent and they didn't tell us it was a supernatural gig and I'm not dealing with this again. "Sorry, Sakamoto."

"You want to hit him yet?"

"Nggh, so badly."

"Don't let him fool you, he's not afraid of ghosts."

"Thanks for the tip. What is it with you people—no need to yell," Tōshirō muttered, pocketing the walkie. "Hypocrite. I'll be taking care of this, thank you."

Zura wriggled free and daintily adjusted his kimono. "Just because I'm not afraid doesn't mean I enjoy dealing with the undead."

"I am right there with you, but Kondō's friend is not a ghost."

"Oh. But you said he didn't have a brother?"

"N—oh my fucking—"

"I'm confused."

"I see that, would you shut up and listen? This is an alternate universe. You get that, right?"

"Of course, I'm not some sort of numbskull."

"P—goddamn it." Tōshirō paused to sigh. Just. Ignore it and move on. "Populated by alternate versions of ourselves."

"Are you saying he made friends with himself?"

"In a sense, yes."

Zura was quiet for several moments, chin in his fingers. "That seems egocentric."

"Doesn't it? Except, Hijikata-san, you actually are afraid of ghosts."

"Die in a fire, Sougo."

"So there's another one of all of you here?" asked Zura.

"Yes," Tōshirō sighed, relieved that they finally seemed to be making progress.

"What about me, I'm famous, is there one of me?"

"For better or worse, yes, there's a Katsura running around somewhere here."

"What about the other joui?"

"Yes, but Takasugi and Sakamoto have already died." This prompted Zura to make a little celebratory fist. "What . . . what is that."

"What's what?"

"Why did that make you so happy just now?"

"I won 300 yen."

"You made a bet on that?"

"Tell him," said Zura excitedly, indicating the walkie hidden in Tōshirō's clothes, "tell him I won."

"I'm not telling him you won that measly bet." Tōshirō took a few more steps before pausing. "Wait, if you bet on that, why did you have so much trouble letting go of the ghost thing?"

"Alternate universes are less thrilling somehow."

"I am so glad we're already enemies."

"You know, though," said Yamazaki, "the guys here are having a vampire problem."

"Vampires, but no ghosts?"

"Don't sound so disappointed," Tōshirō said. "Got any crazy ideas that might help them?"

"Wait until morning, I suppose."

"Sunlight? Actually, from what I hear, they pretty much have that one licked."

"The vampires?"

"Yeah."

"Oh my. What about fire?"

"They're vampires, not the Ghost and the Darkness."

"Don't be a smart aleck, I'm trying to help. Potions?"

"What kind of potion?"

"Made from the remains of other vampires."

"What's that supposed to do?"

"Keeps them from rising at night."

"Why should that work?"

"It's not my spooty theory, I don't know. While we're at it, why should sunlight work?"

"Good point. Who even takes the potion?"

"Family members of—oh. No, that was so the ill wouldn't become vampires when they died."

"I've never heard that one."

"Today you learned, as it were. You should listen to more podcasts."

"Is that a real thing?"

"Well obviously it wouldn't work."

"So naturally you suggest it."

"We're a sci-fi, not a supernatural. If this is the sort of universe with honest-to-goodness vampires, then you can't discount any of our so-called fictional remedies either."

"Well . . . the problem isn't with preventing vampires. They've been knowingly creating them."

"That sounds like a bad plan."

"Something we agree on. But now they find they can't control them."

"So that's the goal?"

"I think at this point they're just looking for a way to destroy them en masse."

"Have they tried cooking for them? Perhaps if they claimed to be some kind of vampire-friendly catering service—"

"Are you talking about garlic right now?"

"—delivered free of charge at the behest of some pro-vampire benefactor. However—"

"Zura."

"—it would be difficult to disguise the smell. But I wonder what it is about garlic, exactly, maybe if they could isolate the relevant compound instead—"

"Katsura, please shut up."

"Unless . . . what did Sally use? Worm's wort?"

"Forget I fucking asked."

"Frog's breath," said Yamazaki.

"Seppuku."

"What the hell for!? Fukuchou—no, get away from me with that sword!"

Chapter Text

After what felt like days of insufferable inanity, they arrived at the base camp, each of them intact and somehow unmurdered. Yukimura, beautifully and appropriately feminine in a rich red-and-gold kimono, greeted them outside a little tent.

"Tōshirō-san," she said, eyes wide, "is this your Katsura?"

"Unfortunately, yes." She remained quiet, and while she wouldn't quite look at him, it was only when Zura caught her checking him out that her gaze averted. "Yukimura," Tōshirō cooed.

"You've done very well, Katsura-san," she said loudly, snatching his wrist and leading him inside.

"I'm judging you right now," said Tōshirō as he ducked inside.

She very pointedly ignored him as she turned Zura this way and that, admiring his obi. "I can't believe you managed this yourself."

"Practice makes perfect."

Yukimura tilted her head. "But I'm afraid this won't do."

"What? Why not?"

"Here." She started tugging at strings, carefully unworking the bundle of cloth at his back. "We have to tie them in front to be convincing as oiran. I'll do it for you."

"Smooth," Tōshirō muttered.

Zura swayed as Yukimura cinched and pulled and squeezed, and a blush surfaced on his cheeks. "You're embarrassing me."

"For crying out loud, Zura."

"Quiet," he snapped, "I'm getting into character."

For several silent minutes Susumu helped Sougo into his getup, while Tōshirō watched Yukimura fix an elaborate bow on Zura's front. "Where did you learn to tie obi like that? Looks like you know what you're doing."

"A very hurried lesson from Kimigiku," she said, pulling taut the final knot. "It's still fresh, I haven't had time to forget it yet."

"Is that your princess friend?"

"No, Kimigiku is her shinobi."

Tōshirō glanced with narrowed eyes at Susumu, who frowned back as he ran a string around Sougo's middle.

"In all honesty, she should be running this operation," Yukimura continued. "But she's quite busy with another mission. I was lucky to at least receive this skill after she dressed me." She slipped the tie from Zura's hair and began combing with her fingers. "Your hair is so lovely, Katsura-san."

"Oh, stop." He clicked his tongue. "Go on."

"I actually am quite jealous," she said, sweeping it up atop his head, "it's so fine and glossy."

"You wouldn't believe what I spend on conditioner." He glared as Yamazaki produced a mini notepad from his sleeve and scribbled something down.

Tōshirō frowned. "Sharp detective work, kid."

"Oh my god, you do know I'm older than you guys, right?"

"Since when."

"Since always! Do you see how narrow my eyes are drawn?"

Yukimura wore a puzzled expression as she secured Zura's hair into a bun with several decorative combs and long pins, the dangly kind with strings of flowers and tiny bells. "Conditioner . . . is that some kind of hair tonic?"

Zura returned the look, and Tōshirō was about to explain the (what he thought was obvious) fact that they didn't have super advanced hair care technology—but Zura surprised him with an equally dense reason. "I forgot, you're a boy."

"Yukimura's a girl, Zura."

"It's not Zura—it's Zurako."

Tōshirō rolled his eyes.

"But this person was dressed like a boy before. Right?"

"Doesn't mean she wants to. She has to, so she can stay here. And who are you to say boys can't be interested in conditioner?"

"Me? Please. I'm no boy—I'm the master of nonbinary gender. And unlocking. Sex and gender are not mutually inclusive, thank you."

"Wow. That's the smartest thing I ever have heard—and probably ever will hear—you say."

"I have my niche areas of expertise."

"Is that why you find Yagyū so threatening?" asked Yamazaki.

"I'm sorry, who are you?"

"Katsura-san!"

He sucked in a breath. "I knew it, I'm supposed to know you. I really am sorry—I feel bad. You just have one of those faces."

"Yeah. . . . It's probably for the best that you don't remember, anyway."

"Ah, yes, so they say. What do they say? Innocent bliss?" He pinched his chin. "Immaculate bliss."

Tōshirō clenched his jaw. "Ignorant, you—"

"Immaculate blindness."

"Katsura. . . ."

"Still, I suppose I've learned something valuable today: always ask about preferred pronouns. Though it's really only an issue in English."

"Yukimura-kun," said Susumu. "Your turn." He pushed Sougo forward, having completed what he could—a bright red juban mostly concealed by the muted pastels of a hollyhock-patterned kimono. It wasn't as rich as Yukimura's gilded affair, but he'd look a bit less conspicuous in comparison.

"I'm not sure what we'll do with your hair," she said.

Sougo motioned to Yamazaki, who was just impossibly well-prepared and provided him with a rubber band. Sougo pinched a small lock of hair at one side of his forehead and tied it off like a little sprig of grass, then looked to Yukimura as if he had settled the matter. She let out an I give up sigh as she unfolded an obi, its pattern shining in silver with wisteria flowers.

"How fetching, Sougo. May's colors really complement your eyes."

"No way am I wearing that."

"You can't have it all, Sougo-kun," Yukimura said, her tone low and patient. "You'll already have your sword. Either you wear an ornate obi, or we find a way to fix ornaments in your hair."

"That's probably not even possible."

"I would figure something out for you, if that's what you choose. If not both, it's one or the other. We need this to work—this is all for your kyokuchou, remember?" He hesitated before tipping his head toward the obi.

Damn. No wonder Toshizō needs her. "Don't worry that your shinobi friend couldn't help out, Yukimura-chan. I'd call you overqualified for this mission."

All that remained was the actual doing. With the exception of Yukimura, everyone involved could manage their own safety, so as they hit the road for the final time, Tōshirō tried not to think about how much of the plan still relied on improvisation. Details, details indeed.

When the distant glow of torchlight bloomed, Yukimura, Sougo, and Zura continued at pace while Tōshirō and the Yamazakis forged a wooded path ahead of them. Tōshirō would have had his faction split up if he had the numbers, but it was unfeasible with an odd man out. So the three of them huddled together at some distance to one side of the gate, where four guards stood watch—two with spears, two with swords. They were a motley bunch for a first line of defense, nothing Sougo couldn't handle. In his sleep.

The guards tensed as the disguised faction rounded a curve in the road, and one of the swordsmen shouted, "Identify yourselves."

Yukimura did not adjust her speed, but calmly approached until they were close enough to speak at a conversational volume. "We are but humble entertainers," she said in that perfect oiran accent, stiff and lilting. Her boldness put them on edge, but her frankness was somewhat comforting so they weren't attacking.

The swordsman stepped in front of his three companions, hand on his hilts. "No palanquins? Or even rickshaws? Did you walk all the way here?"

"Of course not," said Yukimura. "We only walked this last short stretch."

"Why?"

"So as not to further raise your suspicions. Vehicles conceal more than just their riders." Tōshirō's jaw dropped, and Susumu smirked with pride at his friend's wit.

"Sure, but you guys are . . . not really—uh—"

Yukimura smiled graciously, held up a hand. "If you find my companions' appearances strange, it is only because they are not meant for you."

"What is she talking about?" whispered Yamazaki.

Tōshirō shook his head. "I think she's got this."

"We are here to visit Kondō Isami," Yukimura announced, bowing to the bewildered guards. "We have been called upon as a gesture of good will toward the captive in his last days. We were told that he has some unique tastes, so—" she held palms open to the glittering men behind her—"here we are."

She's a damn genius! The implications weren't exactly flattering, but hell, at least it was Isami who would have to deal with the fallout if word got around.

"Who asked you to come?" asked the dumpiest of the guards.

Yukimura flicked open a hand fan, pressed it to her prim smile. "The most generous deeds go unrecognized, isn't that right?"

"That's an order, madam."

"Ah, what poor business that would be! I mustn't reveal the name of a client who wishes to remain anonymous."

One of the spear guys was peering at Sougo's katana. "Are we really supposed to believe you people are oiran, coming here with weapons like that?"

"Some men like pain," Sougo answered, of course without altering his voice at all. "I administer it."

"Why did I even bother worrying about the clothes," Tōshirō muttered. Susumu punched his arm. "Ow."

"Quiet."

"Sorry."

"Please," Yukimura said with a pleasant bow, "feel free to speak with your superiors. Though my client may very well wish not to identify himself, I understand that our presence unsettles you. I beg you also consider my position. It is an honorable thing we have been asked to do. It would be a great shame for us to defy our orders, and to disrespect the wishes of your wise administrators. Oh!—my, my. I hope I haven't said too much. . . ."

She even knows when to relent. Just like that, she had passed control to her allies, letting them know that if the guards made the wrong choice now, she was through with talking.

They didn't act right away, and the conversation became difficult to hear as Yukimura's voice dropped to a more soothing volume. Seemed like the more desperate things became, she dialed it back with equivalent serenity. How many times is that now she's saved this stupid operation?

To his right Tōshirō heard a sword being drawn—Yamazaki's—and instinctively drew his own. When Susumu punched him again he said, "Cool it, please?"

"It's Hijikata-fukuchou."

"Huh?"

Just behind him there was one of those distinctive tongue-click/growl sequences. "Sheathe your weapon, imbecile."

"What the hell are you doing here, I thought you were too busy to lift a finger for me when my kyokuchou laid his life down for yours."

"Now who's throwing shade? I'm here, aren't I?"

"Shut up, you don't know what throwing shade means."

"I determined that I could spare half an evening assisting you. Appreciate it."

"Fukuchou," said Susumu, "you aren't here for their sake, are you, sir."

"That didn't seem to be a question."

"It was not."

"Fine. Whatever, I'm the worst person, can we shut up now? They'll h—wait, is that Katsura?" Tōshirō's only response was a mournful sigh. "He's . . . ample."

"His chest? I didn't ask. His 'female' voice is poor, if we're underexaggerating. But at least he's a looker. Prettiest woman in the whole damn show, to be perfectly honest."

"Tōshirō-kun."

"Yes, Toshizō-kun?"

"Are things like this all the time in your world?"

He shrugged. "You get used to it."

"I assume Yukimura assembled his hair."

Tōshirō gave him a sidelong glance. "Why? Wishing you hadn't cut all yours off?"

"Shut up."

"You're squirming, Toshizō."

"You all are staring at me."

"We could still doll you up."

"While I do so appreciate the offer I will not ever be dressing as a woman."

"Didn't hurt Tamaki's chances. You watch yourself, I think Yukimura has the hots for him."

"I don't even know who Tamaki is."

"You moron, I meant Katsura."

"You cannot be serious."

"I can corroborate," said Susumu. "When they arrived at the camp, she began stripping him almost immediately."

"I don't know whether to believe you anymore." Susumu shrugged. "Oh, now he shuts up? I will not hesitate to cut you."

"Fortunately I can take that chance."

Tōshirō snorted out a laugh. "Remember, this is a monster of your own making, Toshizō-kun."

"I've had enough of both of you. Let's split up."

"Fine, good, do it. Have at 'er. You and Zaki take the secret eastern route in, me and Susumu will tail them from here, put down any suspicion."

"I don't think so. I'm tailing the infiltrators."

"I can't have you Eating the Eye Candy, no fucking way. Don't look at me like that. Steam coming out of your ears. Fuck off."

"Tōshirō-san." Susumu nodded toward the infiltrators as they were guided through the gate.

"We'll take it from here, Toshizō. You bring me the guy, I protect the girl." He didn't look happy about it, but there was a certain logic in being assigned the jobs they were less emotionally invested in. Tōshirō laid a reassuring hand on the guy's shoulder. "Promise."

"If you'd like to smoke," said Susumu, "this may be a good time."

The team had just arrived at a checkpoint, escorted by two of the guards from the gate. (Tōshirō and Susumu had quietly dispatched the other two and pilfered their light armor.) "I appreciate it, but I'm not messing with that flint crap right now." Despite their efforts to play him down Sougo still came off as blatantly dangerous—and yet regardless of her dubious company, Yukimura's presence dulled the danger. She was obviously not a fighter and looked more like a liability than a threat. (Which. Well.) So they had a chance of fooling them yet. "We ought to try to replace those guys leading them—what is all that noise, Susumu?"

When a flame was struck to life at the end of a match, Tōshirō fumbled to isolate one of his hand-rolled cigarettes and leaned into the light. "Ungh, you're a god." He breathed in smoke the way lesser men might breathe fresh mountain air. "But—I thought you guys didn't have matches."

Susumu extinguished the match with a little shake. "I borrowed a few from Okita-san when I visited him last."

"Souji has matches? Where'd he—wait. Doesn't that just mean you stole them? You stole matches from a dying man, are you sure that's okay?"

"He has greater concerns than a few missing splinters."

"Man. We are a bad influence on you."

"Do you steal many matches?"

"I mean this smartassery you've got now."

He shrugged. "It was latent."

"Well, it suits you. But I'm glad I don't have to deal with it much longer, I've got enough to handle as it is." In the distance, Yukimura was making impressive use of her hand fan as she explained the situation again. "She's pretty good." It was worrisome that the guards had stopped to confer with superiors, rather than just leading them to Kondō. It was a miracle they were on the premises at all, Tōshirō had to keep reminding himself of that. He really couldn't have expected anything more, but it was nerve-wracking, being equidistant from both success and failure.

"Tōshirō-san. . . ."

"What's up?"

"Do you think . . . if Okita-san were sent back with your men. . . ."

He felt a single palpitation in his chest, hard and round like a stone.

Susumu shrugged to mask how important this request was to him. "You seemed disappointed in our medical treatments when Kondō-kyokuchou was shot."

"Sure, but some things . . . we're not as all-powerful as you might think. We can't fix everything."

"So his illness . . . it's still incurable where you come from?"

"No, but it has to be caught early. Even when it is. . . ."

"People still die of it."

"Yeah." Tōshirō suppressed a chill. The stone in his chest was heavy and cold. "They do."

Susumu nodded, gaze drawn to the infiltrators as they were guided back to the path. "That is unfortunate."

"Yeah. It is." Tōshirō shifted from his knees to his feet. "Let's go."

But Susumu wasn't budging. "The prison cells are that way."

"Yeah, genius, they're taking them to Kondō-san."

"But he's not being held in the common prison."

"What?"

"That's why we could never pinpoint his location."

White noise popped and hissed as a garbled voice attempted radio communication, and Tōshirō dropped his cigarette as he struggled to find the volume dial. "Could this please get worse right now."

"From the right," Susumu warned, "two of them."

And there they were, a pair of guards with ears pricked, wandering toward the sound with cautious steps. "That was rhetorical, you know."

"Quickly."

"Trying!"

"Just tell him to stop."

"My voice won't go through when he's holding the talk button. Ah, I could switch channels—"

"I won't pretend to understand, but do hurry."

"Give me a break, I lost my placebo—" Tōshirō looked down to where his foot hovered over the cigarette in the smoldering leaf litter. "Hey, Susumu . . . would you characterize this as having been a dry spring?"

"Somewhat."

"And do you have more matches."

The little twitch at the corner of his mouth said that he did.

Tōshirō kept his eyes on the infiltrators as Susumu began setting matches to the brush. The nearby guards were mostly dumb enough to approach by themselves; the two of them had taken out five or six men by the time a fire really caught. Ahead of them, Sougo was smart enough to go to town on the enemies within his reach.

A more heavily armored guard was on the path running toward the checkpoint, and Tōshirō booked after him, hoping they'd lifted enough pieces of armor to pass as allies. "Bodies in the woods, sir," he said, breathless as Susumu jogged up behind him.

"Already? How long ago did this fire break out?"

He shook his head, hands on his knees as he feigned heaving like a marathon runner on mile twenty-five. "Weapon wounds."

"Damn it—there's commotion at the western checkpoint too. And after I told that asshole we needed to clear more land. . . ."

West . . . ? "Is the prisoner still accounted for?" Tōshirō asked, dramatically wiping at his brow with an arm.

"Yes. Some of us are just being told to abandon ship, so the higher-ups must mean to let him burn."

"Is that safe, sir? Couldn't he just escape?"

"I don't ask questions. Neither should you."

Tōshirō shrugged as Susumu buried a kunai in the guy's back. "Oh—oh shit, wait, you said not to ask questions," Tōshirō said as he crouched before the collapsed guard. "Not just keep my mouth shut in general."

"You bastards. . . ."

"Tell us where he is and we end it fast."

"I don't know where—"

"No fucking lies. Spill it."

"Fuck you."

Susumu pinned the man belly-down and slashed through his ankles with a dagger before dropping it before him. "Do it yourself, then. We don't have time for this." He turned on his heel back toward the checkpoint, leaving Tōshirō with mouth agape and running to catch up. "Maybe they have better intel now."

"That was unexpectedly brutal."

"We couldn't have him chasing us. I only followed your lead."

"Yeah, but . . . damn, psycho."

"I'm just getting restless. We need to keep moving so we can get out of here."

Loud and clear. "Then let's fetch the ladies."

Tōshirō figured Sougo would claim his chance to pretend they were well-disguised enough not to recognize him, so when he lunged, Tōshirō was fully prepared to smash his hands with the back of his blade. "Not today, satan."

Sougo massaged his knuckles. "Where's Zaki? You didn't get him killed, did you?"

"He's with your precious danna somewhere."

Yukimura went stiff as a board. "Hijikata-san is here?"

"Don't sweat it, kid, you look great." Since Kondō-san's captors weren't even bothering with him anymore, the structures closest to the fire seemed the best places to start looking for him. But there still remained two unaccounted-for allies. "Man, I really hope they're stupid enough to have gone the wrong way. . . ."

"They could not have made it to the opposite end of the complex already," said Susumu.

"You guys have time estimates and everything, don't you?"

He frowned. "So what's going on at the west side?"

"Not our problem. Their attention is divided, that's good enough for now."

"I've got a bad feeling about it. It may very well—"

"Forget it. We'll deal with it once it's kicking us in the ass, no sooner."

He looked to Yukimura, worrying her bottom lip with the same concern. But Susumu decided to defer to Tōshirō's authority with a curt and somber, "Understood," which somehow made him less confident in his own authority.

They began their search with the largest building between the checkpoint and the fire. "The administrative tier often gathers here for meetings," said Susumu. "There may yet be someone around."

"Just try not to force anyone into seppuku this time."

Susumu rolled his eyes, but as soon as they stepped inside, time stopped.

There was one guard, alone. Standing in front of a door.

Tōshirō's guts felt like jelly. "Beat it," he said, hoarse with adrenaline.

The guard stood up straighter, stuck his chin in the air. "I wasn't ordered to kill him, but I intend to make sure the prisoner doesn't escape before he can die."

So then there was now a single obstacle separating them and Kondō. And Sougo had him at swordpoint. "You have exactly one chance to hand over your weapon," Tōshirō said.

"You damn wolves will never—"

Then that swordpoint was sticking out the back of his neck.

The guard gurgled a few breaths before falling to the floor as Sougo coldly observed. He shook the hair away from his eyes, flicked the blood from his blade, and spat.

"Sougo. What the hell."

He bent down and liberated the guard's sword from his death-grip. "Right trigger to Renegade."

"You don't even have a left trigger, do you?"

"Slug a reporter, electrocute a batarian merc—can't do that with a left trigger."

"Remind me. Never. To piss you off."

"That won't save you, Hijikata-san."

When he heard Susumu exhale slowly, he realized that the guard and Sougo and the walls and everything were splattered with his Berserk Button. "Goddamn it, Sougo—now we have this time bomb to worry about too."

"Felt great, though."

"It's fine," said Susumu, a hand pressed to his chest, "let's just go."

"Breathe through your mouth," Tōshirō said.

"I shall."

Unsure of the resistance they might yet meet on the other side, Tōshirō took a steadying breath, one hand on his hilt as he slid the door open.

Only to find himself face-to-face with a bound and gagged Toshizō.

"Oh fuck me, this is the VIP prisoner?" Further in the room, Yamazaki was wiggling and mumbling frantically through his own mouthful of cloth.

"Isn't this an interesting turn," said Sougo, still double-fisting swords as he crept close behind Toshizō. He leaned in to whisper, "How does it feel?"

"C'mon Sougo, I'm pissed off too, but would you lay off S-mode for at least the next four minutes?" It was a half-truth; the two were safe now, but with the realization that he could have lost them without even knowing it, anger was all that remained in place of a fear that Tōshirō had bypassed entirely.

And if it was the fukuchou they'd meant to let burn, then the kyokuchou could still be anywhere. Their focused search had just been exponentially broadened.

Sougo stepped back and sheathed his sword. "Nice of you to join us anyway."

"Yeah," said Toshizō as Zura kindly loosed the gag for him, while Susumu attended to Yamazaki. "Wouldn't be a very good crossover if my ass didn't show up in the climax."

"What did you just say?" Tōshirō sputtered.

"I could've lived without danna's ass showing up in the same sentence as climax."

"Grass not so green on the other side, Sougo?"

"I do prefer the enemy I know. But if that's his reasoning then he messed up, because honestly this thing is primarily a Gintama vehicle, plenty of readers are doing just fine with zero experience of his franchise—"

"Do you two mind, very much?"

"Yeah, I do," said Tōshirō, irrational fear spilling over again. "Were you guys just going to wait for us to find you?"

"In a sense."

"Fukuchou—"

"You got caught."

"Strategically," said Toshizō.

"You got caught."

"As I understand it, the complex is on fire—"

"Hijikata-san—"

"You're dodging the question."

"I didn't hear a question."

"And what if we hadn't found you? Was that supposed to be the price for saving Kondō-san?"

Toshizō wrinkled his nose, struck by Tōshirō's severity. "Now isn't the time. Let's just keep looking."

"Guys!" Yamazaki's face was Corvette red, practically stamping his foot as he waved them toward the doorway. "I'm trying to tell you I know where to go!"

"What?"

"Damn it, fukuchou, just shut up and follow me!"

"Wait, how did you—"

"What did I just say?!"

Tōshirō shook his head, aghast. "Yes sir, kansatsu-sama."

He led them across the complex—west, Tōshirō couldn't help but notice—toward a cluster of buildings apparently filled with small holding cells. Kondō hadn't been held there previously, but Yamazaki had overheard he was presently being moved there, so they might even catch him in transit. A cursory sweep of the cells revealed nothing, so they tore into a larger building nearby and worked down the halls, checking emptied rooms for signs of activity. It was eerie that there weren't even any guards around, though there was one room piled with them. He spent a wild half minute checking all their faces, but Kondō wasn't among the bodies. Tōshirō tried not to think about how the place would smell once the fire spread, and back in the hall he found Toshizō standing outside a closed door, just looking at it.

"Is he in there or not?"

"Well, there's a . . . kink."

"Of course there is."

"Again with this terminology, danna. . . ."

"Yamazaki," said Toshizō, orders suddenly issuing from full-blown boss mode, "take Yukimura back to headquarters."

"Fukuchou, if anyone is equipped to—"

"Now."

Tōshirō managed to muscle past him and saw Kondō on his knees, tied up but otherwise unconfined, if you weren't counting the lone swordsman keeping watch. "What's with this classy-looking jerk?" He was certainly no guard—armed but unarmored, and looking rather bored as he stood over Kondō with arms crossed. "What the hell is he waiting for?"

As if in slow motion Toshizō's hand was outstretched, but he couldn't catch Sougo as he slunk in without plan or warning.

The rest had no choice but to follow, weapons drawn, while the not-guard seemed no less unimpressed than before. "I expected resistance on this night." He drily nodded beyond the room to where the fire raged on, the distant sound of its heat like a breath, ebbing closer as the scent of green wood burning intensified. "But what a show. It's too bad your first squad captain couldn't join you."

"Stay out of this, Kazama."

"Wait—you know this asshole?"

Obviously vexed, Kazama's tone was now more deliberate, as if he were talking down to children. "I came for the commander of the Shinsengumi. Instead I've found the whole lot of you."

"What do you want with Kondō-san?" asked Toshizō.

"You know what I want. I thought he might fetch a decent price, as far as leverage goes. But imagine my surprise. . . ." His fingers pushed through Kondō's hair.

"Get your hands off of him."

"Oh? You seem quite determined to have him returned to you." He closed his hand and pulled, exposing Kondō's neck. "Considering he's an imposter."

This time Toshizō successfully grabbed Sougo before he could move. Attacking was Tōshirō's instinct as well, but the more they tempered the pace, the less chance Kazama had of dominating them.

So he sighed. "Well, just fucking great." He whipped out a cigarette, and with no means of lighting it, just set it between his lips. "We had to run into the King Crazy of this universe. He's got the same creepy drawl as ours, too." And instead of trying to conceal his movements, he openly drew his weapon and strolled right up to them, sword pointed at Kazama's hand. "This fucking day just keeps getting better."

"Toushi. . . ."

"I know you're disappointed. Save it."

"Your friends aren't too smart, fukuchou," said Kazama, title dripping with condescension. "They're testing my patience."

"Tōshirō, you really don't know what you're up against with this creature. This man is a demon—several times stronger than the furies. Let me handle—"

"Don't compare me to that filth."

"Enough," Tōshirō said, sword rattling in his hands. "I don't give a shit what you are, blondie—my best friend is about to be executed, I've had to put up with the most obnoxious allies of all time, I haven't had a proper smoke in months—contents are kinda under pressure so if you wouldn't mind taking that bolo tie and shoving it up your ass, that would be sincerely appreciated."

In a silent burst of flame the paper in the shōji began to disintegrate, opening the view to the eerily-lit chaos of the night outside. Tōshirō saw only a blur of movement and then Kazama was gone, having crossed the entire length of the room in an instant to attack Toshizō.

But judging from the baffled look on his face, he hadn't expected Sougo, who appeared in his path to press a blade to either side of his neck. "Actually, Hijikata-san—I'd call it more of a mayonnaise voice than a drawl." He made a slow, shallow slice along Kazama's neck—and the wound closed up right before their eyes. And then both of them. Fucking. Grinned. Yamazaki shuddered.

Tōshirō happily took this opportunity to free Kondō from his binds and slip the walkie into his sleeve. "It's off, but just in case." He pressed his cigarette against the smoldering shōji frame, because why not.

"Where'd that thing come from? Is that Katsura?"

"You missed a lot this past day."

"Kondō-san." Sougo tossed him the extra blade, clipping Tōshirō's hair as it flew across the room.

"Why you little—"

"Just get out of here."

Kazama raised his own sword to Sougo's chest. "You may regret giving up that handicap."

"You think you're fast?"

A line of blood blossomed on Sougo's sword arm at the same time Kazama turned to target Yamazaki—but Sougo's blade followed, blocking the path as his good arm clutched the bad one.

"Hijikata-dono." Zura nodded toward the door to the hallway, somehow still untouched by flames, as Kazama cut through the kimono at Sougo's calves.

Yeah. . . . Logically, this situation right here—it was the most ideal way this rescue could have gone. But after all this time, all this risk, was it really going to come down to this choice?

And why does the choice between Kondō and Sougo feel impossible?

A hand plopped heavy onto his shoulder, and his eyes lifted to see Kondō frowning with determination. All of us, or none at all.

But sometimes, Kondō was just plain wrong.

Tōshirō and Sougo locked eyes—and that was all they needed.

"Danna!"

Attention was on Sougo long enough for Toshizō to grab the sword from Kondō's hands and konk him unconscious with its guard. And with Kazama distracted, Tōshirō charged.

He was fully aware that a katana was right in the path of his thigh, but instead of dodging and exposing Sougo, he leaned into it—simultaneously keeping Kazama off his game, trapping his weapon, and FUCKING GODDAMN FUCK THAT HURTS—

"Oi, oi." Sougo was stumbling before the demon, blocking Yamazaki from stepping forward to fight. "Let's keep this fair."

Just keep standing, Tōshirō.

"Fair, you say." That must've tipped him off as to who their weakest link was; Yamazaki screamed as the demon grabbed his shoulders, crushing the bones there with nothing but his hands. "I'm afraid I don't know the word—"

He cast his eyes down to his belly, skewered on Sougo's blade as it appeared from behind. "As in, let's keep this between fellow evil blondes, shall we."

Kazama seemed somehow unaffected as he slipped forward off the blade and grasped Sougo's injured arm, catching the weapon as it tumbled from his hand. "You'll excuse me if I prefer my own," he said, stalking toward Tōshirō.

Just keep standing.

Kazama closed one hand around the sword still stuck in Tōshirō's thigh; the other was atop his head, and as he felt it start to squeeze his skull he roared and kneed Kazama square in the chin. The demon fell back and shook his hair, dazed as Tōshirō slid the FUCKING FUCK OW FUCK blade from his leg and hurled it across the floor to Sougo.

But Sougo's own wounds were taking their toll; he could barely keep the sword aloft, and blood-red peeked out from the gash near the hem of his kimono. Kazama apparated into position behind him, gently lowering Sougo's arms and reclaiming his weapon. "All after you were so prepared to let them walk," he said, sauntering around to face Sougo once more. "But I suppose it's in my favor that the Shinsengumi remains so married to principle." Sougo was somehow still standing, clutching Kazama's wrists to steady himself. "A shame that I have to kill you. You men have been interesting."

"Yeah?" Sougo said, panting. "You're almost as tough as a fourteen-year-old girl."

Of all people it was Zura pulling Sougo backwards, lamely kicking and just short of screaming. "Principle," Kazama scoffed as Zura ducked under Tōshirō's arm to keep him upright, dragging Sougo and nodding ferociously at Yamazaki to evacuate. "And to think, you were already so far behind the times in tactical warfare—"

Kazama stopped—and turned ghost-white as he looked at his wrists.

Which were handcuffed together.

And Zura, his ample bosom now half vacant, chucked something round—beeping—at Kazama's feet.

Chapter Text

"Well. . . ." It was a half hour's trek before Yamazaki broke the silence, frowning as he observed Tōshirō's limping gait. "It's not spurting."

As time passed and adrenaline faded, he felt increasingly nauseated, and the mild evening breeze turned cold against his sweat. "What about gushing?" he asked. "Is it gushing?" He knew that was just as bad as spurting, but his shoulders were going stiff and he was too weak to even glance down.

"If it were gushing I think you'd have fainted by now, fukuchou."

Though he was looking a little sluggish himself. "How are you doing, Yamazaki?"

"I'm hanging in there," he said, weak but cheerful. "I think my left collarbone is busted, but the right side seems okay."

Tōshirō grunted in approval. But with Yamazaki in a delicate state, and Sougo in a Sougo state, Zura was the only one in any real condition to help him walk. And without any of the haku to serve as a buffer, the return hike was shaping up to be yet more awkward than the last.

"Do any of us even know the way back?" The muscles at the back of Tōshirō's head were starting to hurt too, tightly as his jaw had been clenching. His wound was slowly sucking away what little energy he had left, and with Kondō out of prison and under Toshizō's watch, Tōshirō was free to focus on exactly how much pain he was in. "Someone please say yes."

Which was a lot.

"I only ever followed Susumu," said Yamazaki, "but I can get us on the right path. Probably."

"Probably."

"Yeah . . . I think."

"You think."

"Please stop repeating me, I'll only question myself."

"Perhaps it would be more wise to request extraction at this point," said Zura.

"No dice. Kondō's got the walkie."

"Why?"

"I wasn't using it anyway. Your stupid friend forced my hand."

"Maybe Kondō's got them looking for us?" said Yamazaki.

"How, floodlights and flyovers? Unless you've got a tracking device in that spare bomb, Zura."

"You're assuming there is only one spare bomb, but no, I maintain no such tracking device."

"Let me rephrase, because maybe you're just being an idiot pedant. Regardless of whether or not it is in a bomb: do you have any tracking device at all."

"If I did I'm sure I wouldn't alert the Shinsengumi to the existence of such a device."

"Because I'd get you a goddamn key to the city if you could get me pumped full of narcotics even one second sooner."

"That would come in handy. . . ."

"Katsura Kotarō I swear to—"

"It's almost too bad I don't have one."

"I'm going to kill you. Someday, I will kill you."

"You're being a baby, Hijikata-san."

"How the hell are you walking, Sougo? You could barely stand earlier."

"Oh." He paused to twist back and check out his dress. "I was hoping it looked like that. He cut the kimono but missed me. See?"

And why was Tōshirō surprised when Sougo kicked the shit out of his thigh, which almost certainly required surgery and a tetanus shot before Sougo's interference and most definitely after. He just managed not to scream, because that would give the little prick far too much satisfaction and screaming might've actually also made him throw up.

"That wasn't very nice, Okita-dono."

"Yeah. That was the point."

"You shouldn't treat your superiors so callously."

"You're wasting your breath," Tōshirō said, "it's just his nature."

Sougo shrugged. "He's not qualified to be my superior anyway."

"You say that, but you could just walk away. Maybe it's your prodding that wears him down and makes him appear weak to you. You would accomplish more if you treated him fairly and worked together. Like tonight. You complain, yet instead of truly usurping him you choose to remain his subordinate."

"It's a little more complicated than that," said Tōshirō.

"It really isn't. His opinion is irrelevant, because regardless of competence, a superior should be respected. How do you think I'm still a top-level joui leader?"

"I change my mind, Zura. I love you."

"It's Katsura."

Toshizō had somehow failed to realize that Isao was a massive man.

If he'd been paying attention he might've overridden the plan for the tama to gang up on Kazama. Toshizō would honestly rather have challenged a demon one-on-one if it meant he wouldn't have had to carry this giant lug way the hell back to HQ. He was considering stealing a horse off a farm when he heard a familiar racket on the path behind him.

Sagaru was first to join him, approaching with a fast walk rather than a jog and clutching one arm close to his waist. "Thank goodness, you guys are okay!"

They paused in the road as the rest of his comrades eased forward. "I'd ask for a little relief," said Toshizō, "but you don't seem up to the task."

"We're okay, really."

Tōshirō's voice, from some distance behind: "SAY THAT AGAIN, YAMAZAKI."

"Have you seen the others?" Sagaru asked, happily ignorant of his fukuchou's threat.

"Yamazaki and Yukimura were waiting for all of us to catch up, but I sent them ahead."

"So no trouble on your end?" asked Tōshirō.

"No, but carrying this man is miserable."

"What'd you expect? He's six feet of nothing but muscle."

"Quick, Hijikata-san. Your imperial measures are showing."

"You're an imperial?"

"No, f—shut up, it's not my fault."

I shouldn't even ask. Toshizō shifted Isao off his back. "Just grab an arm."

"I'm a little occupied here." The whole bunch looked worse for wear, but indeed Tōshirō seemed worst of all, hanging off Katsura's side and favoring one leg.

"I did warn you. Don't be cross with me that you couldn't make it in one piece."

"No, I'm in one piece. Certain parts have just been split a little."

"Yeah," said Toshizō, scooping Isao's arms over his shoulders again. "I don't want to know."

"Oh, now he's going to try to pin yaoi jokes on me, I see how it is."

"Fukuchou, do you have any idea what your biggest ship is here? This is nothing new."

"You know, it wouldn't even bother me except that I'm always the goddamn neko. Why me?"

Katsura grumbled. "Welcome to my world."

"Even canonically, look at episode 92. How is that fair?" What in fuck's name are they talking about.

"Things seemed different in 145, if you ask me," Sougo offered.

"Oh . . . I always forget about that one, it gets overshadowed by the arc around it."

"What about 166?" asked Sagaru.

"Yeah, usually it's the seme that does the blowing, so with his mayo facial—"

"That's quite enough, thank you."

"Then there's 193. I don't think there's any real answer for 193."

"Simple," Toshizō heard beside his head. "Riba."

And he tossed Isao's conscious ass.

They traveled the rest of the way in comfortable silence, contented with their success in spite of the shape they were in. As they filed in through the front gates, Kondō-san staggered out to meet them with glassy red eyes. From a distance it appeared to be lack of sleep, an excess of stress and worry. But he handed a crumpled note to Toshizō. "This . . . came from Matsumoto-sensei."

Sougo snatched it away before he could read it, scanning with huge, bloodshot eyes. But Toshizō was afraid he already knew what it said.

"I can't read this, this is—did we. . . . I mean Jii-san hasn't—"

"Sougo. . . ."

"I—can't." The paper fell from his hand as he dropped hard on his knees, a disgusting bony thud that he didn't seem to register. "I can't, I can't do this again. I can't do this again. Tōshirō—I can't do this. This is—"

"Sougo—"

"I didn't want to be here for this, this is like—it's her, I have to watch her die all over again, I can't—"

"Sougo."

"And I still have to live, I just can't—"

Tōshirō halted him with a gentle hand on the shoulder, squeezing. Softly he said, "Shut up, Sougo."

His mouth wavered, eyes cloudy, but he said nothing more and buried his face in his hands. Tōshirō squeezed harder and stared out beyond the gates, but in his profile Toshizō swore he could see a sheen of pink across his eyes. His words themselves meant nothing, but implied an understanding that was . . . he couldn't even say what. Putting a word to it might disgrace it. Did Toshizō even feel so strongly about Souji?

Whether or not he did—did Souji know it?

He blinked a heated prickliness back from his own eyes and noticed Kondō-san openly shedding tears. "Imagine it, Toshi," he whispered, snaking an arm around his shoulders. "If Souji stood here with us, and it was Mitsu-san who was gone."

Toshizō stared unblinking at the ground and shook his head. It might look just like this. It sure as hell would feel just like this. He sniffled in spite of himself.

Damn it, Souji.

Almost too quietly to hear, Tōshirō said, "So do I."

Sakamoto had encountered some problems with the ship—something about slugs and locked reactor points and how to reallocate power—so they were grounded until he was flight ready. This was apparently why he'd tried to reach them in the middle of the operation, to see if he could recall any of them. Something about mantises having teleporters and 1.5x combat ability.

"So you were boarded—what, before you came through?"

"No data available."

"How did your guys manage?" Tōshirō asked, somehow already sure he shouldn't have.

"One of the mantises fought through a hatch, but he thought he was human so he was more interested in joining the crew than killing us. He's in the back working on the O2 system. Only downside is the halved repair speed. . . ."

"Amateur," Zura muttered. "Always prioritize the door subsystem."

"Ahaha. You get higher evasion on auto when you upgrade piloting."

"What exactly does a merchant vessel need to evade?" asked Tōshirō. "Exactly."

"Ahahahaha. . . ."

In truth, Tōshirō was glad for the delay. He was too exhausted to think about jumping into cramped quarters with an emotional Sougo, and Susumu had applied some kind of foul-smelling poultice to Tōshirō's wound that was thus probably doing its job, and he was kind of getting acclimated to the pain anyway so compared to being admitted to a hospital and dealing with that landslide of drugs and paperwork for several days, falling unconscious sounded fantastic.

He must not have been asleep more than a few hours; it was still dark when he woke again. His leg was stiff, and though he'd been advised not to move, he was pretty sure he was the expert here so he got up for a little exercise, consequences and hallucinations be damned.

When he saw him limping through the house, Zura approached and once again offered his shoulder as support. "We were just about to fetch you. Appears that the airhead has nearly completed all preparations." He patted his haori, shorthand for Sakamoto on the other end of the walkie.

"Well look at you, calling the kettle black."

"I had no responsibilities regarding the ship."

"And yet you still proved my point."

He was helped down the hall to where the rest of his gang were sitting around a pile of Uno cards. "Tch. Working hard, I see."

"Hey, Toushi! Just let us finish this game?"

"He wishes to interrupt my win streak at least once," said Zura.

"Oh my god."

"It's not like we'll have this opportunity again," Kondō whined. "Things'll have to go back to normal after this, you know."

"You'll never be normal, Kondō-san."

"There's still a bit of time," said Zura. "Last I heard they were waiting for Fleischy to make it back to his station."

"Whatever." Hijikata flopped onto a large pile of futons stacked against the wall.

"Nice job working hard, fukuchou."

"Shut your mouth. Ingrate." He draped an arm across his eyes and spent a few minutes listening to the sounds of shuffling, cards being snapped onto the floor, the occasional refrain of draw four. He was dozing off again when the walkie crackled back in. He wasn't of a mind to hear what was said. It all sounded like murmurs from another room, in another language. Then sounds of his men standing to stretch. He couldn't figure out who won, but it didn't really matter. It was . . . nice.

"Oi Katsura. You really don't want anything from us at all?"

"Pardon?"

"Payment," he said as he sat up, head spinning. "You haven't said anything about payment. I know you said it was for blackmail, but I don't really believe it."

Zura tilted his head as he collected his deck of cards. "A small token of appreciation will do."

Kondō glanced at Tōshirō, who nodded his permission. "We'll need some time to recover from this ordeal," Kondō announced in that scratchy, half-confident voice. "May not even be equipped to raid certain headquarters for awhile."

"That is more than acceptable," said Zura. "Shall we?"

"Uh—just like that?"

"What's the matter? We really must see you home. Interplanetary regulations, all that."

Tōshirō snorted. "Since when have you been afraid of Amanto-based regulations?"

"We don't know when the portal might close. Besides," Zura said matter-of-factly, "some laws transcend politics. You don't talk to your doppelgänger, or to yourself when y—"

"We've sort of made some friends here," Tōshirō said as Isami and Toshizō appeared in the doorway. "Just give us a minute."

"What are you guys doing here?" Kondō asked.

"Well, there's a flying ship on my lawn," said Isami. "Figured it was about time for farewells."

"I wish I could've said goodbye to Harada-san, and Nagakura-san," said Yamazaki, a frown puckering his face. "And Souji-san. They all just . . . disappeared."

"You know, Sougo. . . ." Isami crouched before him. "The person who brought that note. . . ."

Sougo's eyes widened.

"She told me this crazy story her brother shared with her. Something about a boy from another universe, I believe?"

"Is that true, Sougo? He really told her?"

He didn't move, just slipped deeper into thought. "I couldn't do it, at the time, I didn't want . . . but I think. . . ."

"Would you like to speak with Mitsu-san now?" Isami asked.

His shoulders slumped.

"Are you sure that's a good idea, Sougo?" He seemed so small, fearfully uncertain. He wouldn't answer. "Come on. She just lost her brother. Don't burden her right now, maybe leave her be."

"Actually," said Isami, "it was her request."

"What?"

"She said that after . . . well, she wanted away from that house. So she came here to be with us. And she wanted to see if she could meet this person that comforted her baby brother when she couldn't be there."

Sougo just frowned.

"Let him do it," Toshizō said, shrugging. "Just let him."

"It's really okay?" asked Tōshirō.

"Mitsu-san is a strong woman. She understands." Isami patted Sougo on the head and guided him away, an arm hooked around his neck.

Alone. He hasn't looked so lonely in a long, long time.

"He can't take too much time," Zura said quietly. "We can't count on the portal to wait for us."

Tōshirō tapped a real cigarette out of the pack that Yamazaki had returned to him. "I didn't realize you could be so cold."

"You'll excuse me if I find it difficult to pity him. He's killed plenty of my men, and come very close to killing me. But I've always recognized him as a person. As such . . . well." His expression hardened as he leaned back, arms crossed, hands hidden in his sleeves. "Everyone loses someone."

"What about you?" Toshizō said, nudging Tōshirō with an elbow. "You could meet her too."

No no no no no. "It's not my place."

"Aren't you curious?"

"He needs the closure. I don't."

"Are you sure it's not the other way around?"

Tōshirō shrugged and dragged himself into roughly a standing position again. "Come on. I wanna smog up the place one more time, and you're coming with me."

He couldn't help but compare her to Mitsuba.

She was older, by a lot maybe, but very pretty. Not as pretty as Mitsuba. Just as tired-looking, but a more natural kind of tired, the kind from living a full life. A lovely kind of tired. This woman was a stranger, her face familiar only because it resembled Souji's—but somehow, he felt loved. In her own way, by the grace and strangeness of the cosmos, she loved him.

My sister.

Thin arms came around his chest, tears against his neck. In his ear, a whisper: "Sou-chan."

"Please come with me." It sprang from his lips as nearly a shout, because if he didn't shout, it would be a sob. Already his tears mingled with hers on his cheeks—it wasn't fair, he knew it wasn't fair to ask, she had only just lost Souji and here he was choosing to feel miserable for his own bygone loss, something he had meant to move on from, to grow up from. . . .

But it felt good. To be understood. To know that as different as they were, even without blood, they shared a family.

Nails fluffed the back of his hair. "I can't, Sou-chan. I have a family."

"I know, I'm sorry, I just—"

"It must've been much harder on you. I've lost a sibling, but . . . but not one who raised me." She stood back and placed a hand on his cheek, the comfort of it eerily familiar. "Were the men very mean to you when you were small?"

He sniffled. "Probably not as mean as I remember it." It was strange, telling her this. Like she should already know, like telling an amnesia patient about her own past.

"Perhaps you're right. If that's how you remember it . . . it doesn't negate how you felt at the time. But be careful," she said, pinching his nose, "not to let the feelings of the past color the present. Sou-chan—" Her head dipped and she breathed deep, gingerly wiping at her eyes. "Souji struggled with that. Nothing Toshi did for him could end the resentment Sou-chan carried with him. I think it accelerated his condition, to be honest. Not that he would have ever recovered, he was far too stubborn. But the cloud of negativity that plagued him . . . you're so young, Sou-chan. You're young and healthy and strong. You can still change who you are."

"Ane-ue. . . ."

"Do you hear me? Souji was just too blind to see Toshi's love. Maybe even Toshi didn't realize it, they were always such stupid, stupid boys, both of them."

Love . . . ?

"Don't make the same mistake," she said sharply. "If you've gained anything from this, make sure it's that. Appreciate what you have, who you have, while you have them. Appreciate them after they're gone, too. Do you understand? It doesn't stop just because they're gone." He just saw her bottom lip quiver before she pressed the top of her head to his chest. "It never stops. As long as you keep fighting to hang onto their memories, it never stops."

"I know," he said, his palms grazing the slick expanse below his eyes. He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed. "I know."

"I can't say I'm displeased to see you go."

The Hijikatas sat side by side on the roof overlooking the complex. Tōshirō exhaled a glorious plume of smoke and lay back; after so long without the good stuff, he was practically seeing stars. "We have that effect on people." Could've been anemia too, but, whatever. He was having trouble even remembering how he got up here.

"But I wouldn't mind you visiting again."

"Is that okay? Sounds like it's possible."

"It might be nice of you to check on us."

"So I should wait, what, half a day and come back?"

Toshizō shrugged. "Things are going to get rough here." He sighed, then crossed his arms, fidgeting in his jacket. He looked dignified enough, but it still needed some tailoring. And yet his discomfort would not have been assuaged with a better cut, because the problem didn't lie with ill-fitting clothes.

"Need some help?"

Toshizō looked down to his kyokuchou, who smiled through tears as he chattered with his counterpart in the dimly-lit courtyard. "I don't know. Is that okay? In the grand scheme of things. If you're not supposed to talk to your doppelgänger, it can't be alright to interfere with his death."

"We done fucked that one up already," he said, nodding again at the Kondōs.

"And I have no earthly way of expressing my gratitude for it. Honestly, I . . . I've never been more grateful in my life. Imagining this world without him. . . ."

"Nah. You guys would've done the same for us."

"I am a little ashamed to admit it, but . . . I'm not so sure."

"Well." Tōshirō shrugged. In this kind of world, he couldn't really blame him for that. "We all have our convictions."

"Oddly astute."

"Shut up."

With both of them safe and Kondō Isao departing, Isami would have to go into hiding. The imperialists would still come after him, and now that Kondō had escaped they were likely to be more bitter. The Shinsengumi could protect itself against them, but if ever they were separated, they might go after Isami's family in an attempt draw him out. Protecting them really would have to become his full-time job.

"At least they won't expect him to have any sons," said Tōshirō.

"Why do you say that?"

"Oh, uh . . . I mean. He doesn't, right?"

"No—why?"

"No reason," he said, flicking ashes into the breeze. "Forget it. Unless you have any other burning questions."

"Who's Gintoki?"

"What?"

"Katsura mentioned him before."

"Fuck, he's nobody. We're at least based on real people, but from top to bottom he's just a legend. Don't worry yourself about his lazy ass."

"I know you well enough to know that's a bald-faced lie."

"Prove it, asshole."

"Everything else you say is insane."

"I don't know which one but you just violated some kind of logical fallacy. You believe it all anyway, what's that make you?"

"I never claimed sanity."

"Touché."

Toshizō's eyes were fixed in the distance; his fingers were absently working the buttons on his waistcoat. "But you probably shouldn't return."

"Probably. But there's not really a rulebook on this stuff. Even the Amanto can't enforce laws on this kind of thing. The universe . . . there's no changing what it is, what it's capable of. What you're capable of. If we want to do something, and we have the ability, we're gonna do it. It's like getting pissed off that a rose has thorns, expecting us not to stick our noses where they don't belong. It's just who we are."

Toshizō let out a huff of a laugh. "You might make a good poet."

"That's rich, coming from you."

"Excuse me?"

Tōshirō felt his eyes go wide. "I mean."

"Did Souji—"

"Nothing."

"Goddamn it. He's lucky I didn't get to him first."

Tōshirō was quiet. "You're going to miss him."

He drew in a long, slow breath through his nose.

"Or maybe you already did."

Toshizō said nothing.

They stared out at the vast, empty night sky purpling into dawn. This is samurai country. The land here looked much as his own before the Amanto—pristine, potential like a white canvas. Yet just a dab of turpentine revealed layers of turmoil beneath the simplicity. A quiet kind of turmoil, free of jet engines and space pirates and host clubs and neon lights. But perhaps a more dangerous kind, a subversive kind, where a man's identity and allegiances were easier to conceal, where sword skill was his only shot at living, and even the smallest of wounds could spell his death.

"Give me one of those," Toshizō said, tipping his chin toward the cigarette. "You saved a few back, right?"

He nearly asked Are you sure? but figured the guy probably knew what he was doing by now.

Toshizō set it to his lips before nodding again, inviting Tōshirō to light it for him. He had to coach him to inhale with the flame, which triggered a coughing fit that Toshizō stubbornly choked back.

Now or never.

He squeezed the last smoldering leaves out of his own cigarette, the motion mirroring the butterflies in his stomach. "If you want to destroy yourself, let me do it."

Toshizō's face was a touch pale as a grey cloud escaped his lips—he was apparently just as good a smoker as he was a drinker—but he looked up with a sad smile. "I thought you'd never ask."

When Sougo found them they were lying on their backs, each in possession of the other's katana, a thin layer of dust coating the blood on their skin. Smoke wafted from their mouths.

"This is bad," Toshizō mumbled, head rolling side to side. "I feel lightheaded."

"That's the nicotine. You're just not used to it."

"I feel like I could."

"I told you, vices aren't all that bad. It's alright to have a crutch or two."

"Teach me how to make mayonnaise."

"How 'bout I bring you the real stuff next time."

"Hijikata-san," said Sougo. "It's time to go."

"Nn?" He sat up slowly, mumbling as he wobbled to his knees. Sougo grabbed his elbow as he tried to stand. "Feels like I slept wrong."

"That's the blood loss," said Sougo. "You're just not used to it."

"Prick." He kicked lightly at Toshizō's knee. "You got me pretty good."

"You went easy on me."

"You have bigger problems than some chump version of you from Alienland. It wouldn't be right for me to waste you for something stupid like this."

"I haven't killed you, have I?"

Hijikata scoffed, but the sound was weak. "I wouldn't die even if you killed me."

Something about this was immensely funny to Toshizō, who clutched at his injured waist with a thin laugh. "Same here."

"I'm not worried about you, Haku-san."

"Get out of here."

"Hey. Don't fuck it up, okay?"

"I hear you. Go home, live long, and prosper."

"Fuck you." He closed his eyes, shook his head. "I fucking knew it, you can see the fourth wall."

Toshizō curtly turned away. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Look me in the eyes and say that."

"Hijikata-san. . . ."

"Yeah, yeah." Toshizō stood and they brushed dirt from the blood on their blades, wiping them down with their own sleeves, before exchanging them again. "Good sword you got there."

"Yours too."

"For crying out loud," said Sougo.

"Shut up, I'm coming."

Hijikata and Toshizō bowed to one another, weakened and stiff, and said together, "Arigatou gozaimashita." Toshizō turned, and as he passed Sougo plopped a hand on his shoulder, gave a little squeeze as he pushed off to limp back indoors. Sougo could only dip his head in acknowledgement.

When he looked up again Hijikata's head had dropped and he was scratching at the back of his hair, slid his palm down to rest behind his neck.

"Fukuchou?"

It was difficult to look at him silhouetted against the red sunrise, burdened and half-broken and so unwilling to face his own uncertain future. He'd never say that. But this feeling was one thing Sougo was certain they shared. If it weren't for Hijikata's odd despair at that very moment, Sougo would've hidden away and lived out the rest of his days in this simple place, one lone bastard slicing fools of his own accord without a care in the world until the day of his own untimely death. It would be a fair life.

But Hijikata turned, and with the sadness that only a smile can convey, he said, "Let's go home."

And for some reason, once again, Sougo chose to follow.

Chapter Text

"Do you think we'll ever see them again?"

"Certainly not Zura, if that's who you mean."

Yukimura smiled back at him, one brow quirked. "I mean all of them. They were good to you."

He hummed affirmatively. Toshizō wasn't really jealous, but his jealousy had become something of a running joke between them, a passive acknowledgement of their attraction and mutual respect for each other's responsibilities and boundaries. Tōshirō might've called it a copout, but it had been working for them.

From his seat at the desk Toshizō could see her gazing into the sky, unblinking against the cool, salted breeze off the ocean. Ezo had been cold but humid, fooling them into thinking it was warmer than it was. "You'll get sick like that," he said quietly.

Tōshirō was right.

She turned again to face him, elbows just lifting off the windowsill, blinking out of a daydream. "Did you say something?"

Not wishing to speak, he shook his head a little, mesmerized by the gentle swish of her hair as she turned back toward the water.

Damn it all.

Unaware of his own movements, Toshizō stood and plucked a haori from his wardrobe (he had refused to fully abandon the roomy comforts of Japanese attire); in his head he might've planned to set it about her shoulders and sit back down to work, but here he was standing behind her, closing the haori around her with his arms and a possessive squeeze.

"I said," he whispered behind her ear, "you're sure to catch your death like this, keeping watch at my open window."

She shivered, though the skin of her neck was burning against his closed lips. Her shoulders tensed under his arms, a breath caught in her chest. He parted his lips, barely, and his eyes followed her hands, rising to draw the curtains, close out the rest of the world. With a trembling exhale she whispered back, "If it's your window, maybe I wouldn't mind."

Mitsu was right. She was probably right.

But Sougo couldn't imagine looking at Hijikata and feeling anything but a dull hate. A dull pain.

It wasn't like he had expected anything to have changed. Since their return Sougo had been avoiding Hijikata more than usual. They'd made it back before the damage to his leg was irreversible, but it was unlikely he'd get back to a hundred percent strength. It only brought Sougo that much closer to supplanting him as fukuchou.

Yet somehow, he couldn't find it in him to feel pleased about it.

"Oi Sougo."

He stopped dead—just before Hijikata's cracked door. "What do you want."

"I want to talk to you."

Obedient little captain, he stepped just inside the threshold.

"Come in here. Shut the door."

"This is fine."

Hijikata shrugged and took a long, long hit off his cigarette. Long enough that Sougo felt his time being wasted, became a hair more irritated as each smoke-filled fractional second ticked by.

Finally Hijikata said: "Why did you try to protect me?"

Sougo's hands squeezed into fists. The whole time they were in Hakuōki he had done nothing more than mess around, and in the end it was Hijikata who had borne the full brunt of an enemy's sword. For Sougo's sake.

"You must be confused," he finally said. "I would never."

Vicious. Dangerous. Jerk. Callous. Ingrate.

It was all true. That was what hurt—the truth in the teasing. Maybe he should've stayed behind after all; he wouldn't last as long in an unfamiliar world without allies, but there was no changing his nature. At least on his own, he'd be free to be himself without hurting those allies.

"No?" Another eternal drag. Asshole was doing it on purpose. "Then—why didn't you want me to find out about Souji and Mitsu?"

Sougo's skin went tingly, like he might start sweating. It was so long ago, among their first days there, but how could he have forgotten about that? "I'm still angry at you," he said, rerouting because they were not about to have that conversation.

"No shit."

"I mean really. Not for fun, or because of some stupid rivalry. I'm really angry at you." He loosened his hands. "Tell me why."

"Tell you why you're mad at me?"

"Angry. I need to know that you know why."

"Come on, Sougo." He squished the cigarette out in his ashtray. "Just revel in your anger. It makes you feel better than talking about it, so just feel it."

"She loved you. Though I'll never understand why."

"I am the first example under Tall, Dark, and Snarky."

"You were nothing but an asshole to her, and she loved you." I despise you for that. He wanted to say it, this would've been just the right time. But it was understood. That was enough. "And you still didn't have the guts—"

"We've been over this."

"She didn't ever marry. That's on you."

"She didn't talk to me about that, Sougo." He spoke softly, refusing to match Sougo's impassioned tenor. The use of his name also illuminated the rift between them: the scolding of an impertinent child, by a man who recognized the complexities of adult relationships. "She didn't do melodrama. She was a grown-up, she was capable of making her own decisions about what to do with her feelings. She and I—we had an understanding. The best thing . . . the only thing I could ever do for her was take care of you." Sougo averted his eyes. "And if she still loved me, knowing all that . . . then that was enough for her."

It was getting harder to suppress the tears. In every aspect of her life—even in her love life—Mitsuba had settled for what was best for her brother. He'd known that, even back then, but. . . . Sougo had always assumed it was this bastard that took everything important from him.

But maybe it was Sougo's selfishness that had prevented his happiness instead. Because couldn't he have thought of Mitsuba for once, and acknowledged her feelings, their validity, and listened to her? Couldn't he have kicked Hijikata in the ass for his sister's sake? (Oh, and wouldn't I have loved that?) Couldn't he have done something for her?

Then there was an arm around his shoulders, squeezing him close. Hijikata's words choked against Sougo's head: "So I'm going to keep doing that."

For a moment he was transfixed, face pressed into Hijikata's clothes, and he inhaled deeply to stifle sobs, breath hitching. It wasn't just that Sougo continued to choose being this man's subordinate. Even after exposing the worst parts of himself, even after all the awful things he'd done to him, the kinds of things that had shut out and turned away almost everyone else in Sougo's life—Hijikata continued to care.

Did she love him because he looked out for Sougo?

It was the overwhelming scent of stale smoke that snapped him back to his senses. "Get off me, you cow." Sougo pushed the man back and was halfway out the door before his name stopped him. He didn't turn around. "What."

Hijikata said nothing, just stood there accepting the silence. Given how the guy had communicated with his own brother (which was to say, didn't really), Sougo understood what he was trying to say.

Mitsu was right.

Now he was trying to shuffle past but Sougo was still blocking the door, and for another moment Sougo lost his head and grabbed him. Arms around his narrow waist, fuck he really hated him but you didn't have to like family, and if Hijikata hated Sougo back the man would still love him because he had loved Mitsuba, and christ if he didn't just reek of cigarettes. "Nope," Sougo mumbled decisively, sniffling as he shoved Hijikata off again and they slipped away in separate directions.

That dull pain—maybe it wasn't exactly hate.

Chapter Text

Sougo was settling into a peaceful afternoon alone with his headphones when Zaki came around, nose wrinkled. "What is that smell?"

"I wouldn't know. Living around Hijikata-san has ruined my olfactories."

"It's like . . . burning?"

Sougo hummed, disinterested as he turned for the door. "Probably nothing."

When they heard a series of loud sounds from the kitchen, Sougo was very rudely pulled back by the collar. "Oh no you don't."

"Let go of me—" but he was being dragged in the very direction he wished most to avoid.

In the kitchen they found several interesting things: a great deal of smoke; white powder settling in the air; and Hijikata, hair and clothes scorched, grasping a metal fork in his fist with a quilted potholder.

"Sougo. . . ."

"I told you stovetop popcorn was better."

He had already ghosted when the fork shot through the doorway.

"It's a strange feeling, isn't it? Being safe."

Toshizō glanced down at her, lying in the grass beside him. The sun had warmed her skin to a cozy pink. "Safety is a lie," he said, sighing. "There will always be work for a man with a sword."

"That's not what I meant. Of course humans will continue fighting. But for us. . . ."

"You mean the demons."

"I don't have to worry anymore that he might steal me away. I spent so many years afraid of what the next day would bring that I almost don't know what to do anymore. It feels so. . . ." Her hand slipped around his and squeezed. "My life feels so big."

"Kazama never saw it coming," Toshizō said, plucking a long blade of grass and popping the end in his mouth. "Who knew garlic would actually work."