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Hijikata places a hand against the shōji tentatively, cigarette hanging loosely from between his lips. The dry smoke drifts around him, invading his nostrils and easing his mind into a numb stupor. He needs a drink. Needs something to trick himself into thinking it's okay. Something that will convince him that this is just a figment of his imagination... just a dream. I'll wake up and she'll still be here, alive. She's probably— probably just inside with Sougo.
His other hand pinches his cheek and he welcomes the pain that shoots through his veins to his nicotine-addled brain. He blinks rapidly, the bamboo door before him swimming in and out of focus. He poises the cigarette between his pointer and middle finger and exhales slowly, absently watching the smoke dance away in the gentle breeze sweeping the Shinsengumi halls.
He slides the door across and takes a step inside, “Mitsu—” the name dies on his tongue as the heavy despair of the room assaults him. A suffocating blanket of melancholy envelopes the room and chokes him, ribs squeezing and crushing his smoke-filled lungs. A futon lays on the tatami, the blankets scrunched up into a large lump. Mitsuba is nowhere to be seen. Of course she isn't.
“Get out,” Sougo growls, but his voice is hoarse and weak and it dawns on Hijikata that the Shinsengumi’s sadist prince has been crying. He's still a kid, Toshi, Kondo had said. Hijikata had scoffed in reply, A screwed up kid, definitely. Just leave him alone. I'm sure he’ll get over her death soon enough. The look of disappointment in the chief’s eyes had been so sharp and so harsh that Hijikata felt like his stomach had been slit.
Deep down Hijikata regretted what he'd said. He knew that even someone like Sougo would mourn a loved one’s death. Hell, even Hijikata himself would. He would, that is, if there were anyone to mourn. The only blood family he had was gone, but in their place he had found a new family: the collection of idiots that is the Shinsengumi.
Mitsuba’s laugh flutters inside his head and he remembers her quiet smile, her warm eyes, the way she would tuck a lock of hair behind her ear and smooth the folds of her yukata. The way the morning sunlight bathed her in vibrant gold, highlighting the curve of her lips and the flaws that flecked her cheeks... Well, maybe... Just maybe he had considered Mitsuba his family too.
“Oi, Hijikata-san!” Sougo’s croaky voice breaks him from his reverie. “If you're not gonna get out then at least get rid of that smoke stick, would you?” Humour lightly laces his voice and Hijikata wonders if the kid has gone delirious from sorrow. Either way he shrugs and crushes the cigarette before carefully pushing it into a pocket. A week ago he'd dropped one and damaged the tatami. He wasn’t going to repeat that mistake again after the verbal beating he’d received from Kondo.
Hijikata gazes at the lump of blankets that is Sougo and worries his lip. Kondo had pushed him, the demonic vice-chief, outside Sougo’s room and ordered him to comfort the kid and left. Me? Comfort a teenage boy who just lost his only family? The hell is he thinking? Hijikata could fight an army or lead troops into battle but he couldn't offer kind words to a mourning kid. He hates me! He absolutely loathes me! As if any words of mine could comfort him.
With a quiet sigh he walks over to crouch beside the futon. “Sougo?” He ventures, brushing his hands against his yukata in an attempt to dry them of the thin layer of sweat clinging to them. He wouldn't admit it but his body had recognised that he was nervous. And rightfully so, this was Sougo — the guy who'd happily cut his vice-chief’s throat without batting an eye.
When Sougo doesn't reply Hijikata steels himself and nods firmly. He discards his katana and places it carefully beside the futon, next to Sougo’s own blade. Kneeling, he slowly pulls back the covers and folds them neatly at Sougo’s chest. The boy blinks, reddish eyes gazing up at Hijikata in confusion and thinly veiled wariness. His eyes flicker to the two katanas and then back to Hijikata. Idiot. Did he really think I would come here just to kill him? He sighs and brushes back Sougo’s dusty fringe. His palm lingers on the younger’s forehead. His waxy skin had a subtle sheen of sweat and felt warm under Hijikata’s calloused hand.
“Have you been drinking?”
“I'm eighteen, Hijikata-san,” Sougo drawls, his voice slightly flatter and drearier than usual. He reaches up to correct his mangled fringe with an unbecoming pout.
“That's not what I meant,” Hijikata sighs, closing his eyes for a moment only to find that it made him slightly dizzy. “I'll get you some water. Stay here.”
“Hmm? The demon vice-chief is looking after me?” The bags beneath Sougo’s eyes are dark and pronounced and his lashes are clumpy with dried tears. His round cheeks are thin and bony and Hijikata just huffs.
“Since you're not doing it yourself, someone has to.” He gets to his feet and exits the room feeling extremely conscious of the lack of weight at his hip. But he doesn't go back. He just slides the shōji shut behind him, walking purposefully to the mess hall. That guy better not be dead when I get back... “His sister would kill me.”