Happy Birthday Takasugi!
I don't think I could properly call myself a Takasugi fan if I didn't do something for today, hehe.
Title: Dichotomy of Realisation (yes, a better title is on its way)
Rating: PG-13 for sexual tension and frustration
Pairing: Takasugi/Katsura
Characters: Takasugi, Katsura,mentions of Gintoki, Sakamoto so brief that they don't really count
Word Count: 1,238
Summary: "I hated you then and I hate you now"
Author's Note/Disclaimer: Own no part of Gintama. If I did Takasugi would be the main character. Or else it would all be set during the Joui war. Apologise for any fail. Also - anyone willing to beta? Am currently in search of beta.
There wasn't anyone else to take Takasugi back. Katsura had looked, trying to see if there was someone else, anyone else. He didn't want to as he felt uncomfortable in Takasugi's presence even when Takasugi was conscious and wasn't quite sure how he would do when Takasugi was unconscious or semi-conscious and delirious. Neither Gintoki nor Sakamoto were in any state to assist others; Gintoki in the midst of battle fever and Sakamoto in the midst of a melee. He glanced at the figure at his side, clothes torn, katana lost, eye - Katsura thought he felt a strange numbness in himself. He picked up Takasugi's arm - limp, unresponsive - draped it over his shoulder, and started to walk. The heavy press of Takasugi's body against his side. Shinsuke.
Takasugi remained silent throughout the limping, straggling retreat to their headquarters. Katsura didn't say anything either. They weren't alone in their progress, but the indrawn isolation that came with defeat approximated to the same effect. He hadn't said anything either when they had carried their teacher back on the same track that they were walking now. He hadn't known what to say as he had watched the assured, mocking face that he had become accustomed to fall into silence, and then from silence into something further. He looked at Takasugi again and at the piece of cloth he had torn to make a bandage over his left eye. Perhaps it was just an effect of a mind battered by battle, but he felt irritated, extremely irritated that he would have to get used to a new face of Takasugi's again. And he also suspected that Takasugi could probably partially support himself but refrained from doing so in order to make Katsura's task more difficult. Petty thoughts, and not worthy of a samurai. Fallen countrymen.
They continued walking and it was when they entered their headquarters proper that Katsura heard the first sound from Takasugi. It was a laugh, one that started as low and deep and became increasingly high-pitched. Yet he thought there was something of rationality about it that prevented it from being classed as a reaction to shock or as hysteria. Katsura felt like Takasugi was laughing at their comrades, laughing at their foolishness for continuing to fight, at their suicidal honour.
"Zura, Zura, look at them all. Isn't it..." Takasugi continued to laugh, stopping when he seemed to choke.
"It's not Zura, it's Katsura." Katsura was tempted to drop him and tell him to crawl the rest of the way. Already he had become wearied from Takasugi's weight, the imprint of wet strands of hair against his neck, and would have welcomed the relief. But he had determined to finish what he had undertaken - and it would be difficult to explain to any of their comrades that were watching. Instead he had to satisfy himself with a low mutter that had compressed into it the sensation of pushing Takasugi away from him and onto the ground.
"Mind your speech. We are all comrades here, there is no they." Takasugi turned his head slowly to look at Katsura, one eye meeting two.
"Do you believe that, Zura?" And somehow, it did not seem like Katsura was supporting Takasugi any longer. He felt encircled by Takasugi's arm, restricted. Takasugi's voice was a drawl, as slow as his turning of his head. "I don't believe that you do. Not of me, at least. Never have I regarded them as my comrades and I have even less reason to now."
With no other answer to give, Katsura replied with a terse "shut up."
In the large room that served as their sleeping-living quarters, Takasugi seemed to be in another mood. He simply sat with his back leaning against the wall, one eye closed so that the sight from one matched the other. A criss-cross of small scratches on his arms and collarbone and larger wounds on his chest. Some had been dressed and tended, while others showed signs of wanting attention. Blood, red, green, yellow, and dye from Takasugi's clothes mingled to paint a canvas of war on his skin. Katsura was reminded of how small Takasugi was. He drew in a breath and let it out.
"Let me clean that for you." His voice was calm. He had had his moment of shock - vomiting and shaking and sweating at the back of a tent - a few days ago. What was this then. This strange reverence on seeing that mingling of colours. This strange...There was no response from Takasugi, which Katsura took as assent. He started from the bandage around Takasugi's eye. Already it was soaked through, the familiar cloth now unfamiliar with Takasugi's blood. He wished that he hadn't tried to find someone else to take Takasugi back. Perhaps then it would be less red. He looked once again at Takasugi, but there was no shift in his expression. It was a new sensation: the appreciation of hard bone beneath skin, touching the place where skin met hair. Perhaps it was because he had never changed head bandages before.
"I didn't bring it with me." Takasugi's eye was open. His voice took Katsura away from the reverie of his fingers and with the sound of Takasugi's voice, Katsura remembered the sound of Takasugi's laugh. He brought his hands away from Takasugi's face. Takasugi was looking at the small green book placed by where he usually slept. "Before. I didn't want it to be dirtied. Amanto blood, you know, can be corrosive, especially if it splatters." Although it was the reality, the way Takasugi said it with sharp biting vowels made it seem more coarse, more visceral. Katsura felt that strange mood leave him. Takasugi touched the bandage at his eye. "Thank you, Zura, for your kindness." Yet what Katsura sensed was apprehension. A pause, and then, "Tell me, did you dream of this, Zura?" There was bittterness in that question, and beyond it a silent desperation. Takasugi didn't say what he meant by 'this' and Katsura didn't answer. Whether he meant the sight of him, vulnerable, injured or - the sight of him, the hollow at his neck, the angle of a cheekbone, the line of his shin. "I can see it when you look at me, Kotarou. Even now, when you seem so revulsed. Come closer. Don't you want to come closer?" With unexpected speed, Takasugi's fingers closed around Katsura's wrist and he drew Katsura to him sharply so that Katsura's ear was to his mouth. Softly, like the wing of a swallowtail, he whispered "I'll take you down with me too. I'll destroy every one, everything. Wait for it." Katsura pulled his wrist free and thrust Takasugi away, breathing sharply. He staggered from the room and Takasugi in it as quickly as he could. The sound of the closing door resounded like a gunshot from the battlefield.
He kept running. Only when he was certain of the distance between himself and Takasugi did he pause, rubbing at the red fingermarks on his wrist. Impossible.
------------
Coming out of the corridor, he recognises Takasugi instantly. He would have recognised him anywhere. The bright kimono, the bandage over the eye, how the line of his shin and ankle is slightly concave. Bodies at his feet like in a war in the past. Waiting.
Katsura looks up, says, "I hated you then and I hate you now."
Title: Dichotomy of Realisation (yes, a better title is on its way)
Rating: PG-13 for sexual tension and frustration
Pairing: Takasugi/Katsura
Characters: Takasugi, Katsura,mentions of Gintoki, Sakamoto so brief that they don't really count
Word Count: 1,238
Summary: "I hated you then and I hate you now"
Author's Note/Disclaimer: Own no part of Gintama. If I did Takasugi would be the main character. Or else it would all be set during the Joui war. Apologise for any fail. Also - anyone willing to beta? Am currently in search of beta.
There wasn't anyone else to take Takasugi back. Katsura had looked, trying to see if there was someone else, anyone else. He didn't want to as he felt uncomfortable in Takasugi's presence even when Takasugi was conscious and wasn't quite sure how he would do when Takasugi was unconscious or semi-conscious and delirious. Neither Gintoki nor Sakamoto were in any state to assist others; Gintoki in the midst of battle fever and Sakamoto in the midst of a melee. He glanced at the figure at his side, clothes torn, katana lost, eye - Katsura thought he felt a strange numbness in himself. He picked up Takasugi's arm - limp, unresponsive - draped it over his shoulder, and started to walk. The heavy press of Takasugi's body against his side. Shinsuke.
Takasugi remained silent throughout the limping, straggling retreat to their headquarters. Katsura didn't say anything either. They weren't alone in their progress, but the indrawn isolation that came with defeat approximated to the same effect. He hadn't said anything either when they had carried their teacher back on the same track that they were walking now. He hadn't known what to say as he had watched the assured, mocking face that he had become accustomed to fall into silence, and then from silence into something further. He looked at Takasugi again and at the piece of cloth he had torn to make a bandage over his left eye. Perhaps it was just an effect of a mind battered by battle, but he felt irritated, extremely irritated that he would have to get used to a new face of Takasugi's again. And he also suspected that Takasugi could probably partially support himself but refrained from doing so in order to make Katsura's task more difficult. Petty thoughts, and not worthy of a samurai. Fallen countrymen.
They continued walking and it was when they entered their headquarters proper that Katsura heard the first sound from Takasugi. It was a laugh, one that started as low and deep and became increasingly high-pitched. Yet he thought there was something of rationality about it that prevented it from being classed as a reaction to shock or as hysteria. Katsura felt like Takasugi was laughing at their comrades, laughing at their foolishness for continuing to fight, at their suicidal honour.
"Zura, Zura, look at them all. Isn't it..." Takasugi continued to laugh, stopping when he seemed to choke.
"It's not Zura, it's Katsura." Katsura was tempted to drop him and tell him to crawl the rest of the way. Already he had become wearied from Takasugi's weight, the imprint of wet strands of hair against his neck, and would have welcomed the relief. But he had determined to finish what he had undertaken - and it would be difficult to explain to any of their comrades that were watching. Instead he had to satisfy himself with a low mutter that had compressed into it the sensation of pushing Takasugi away from him and onto the ground.
"Mind your speech. We are all comrades here, there is no they." Takasugi turned his head slowly to look at Katsura, one eye meeting two.
"Do you believe that, Zura?" And somehow, it did not seem like Katsura was supporting Takasugi any longer. He felt encircled by Takasugi's arm, restricted. Takasugi's voice was a drawl, as slow as his turning of his head. "I don't believe that you do. Not of me, at least. Never have I regarded them as my comrades and I have even less reason to now."
With no other answer to give, Katsura replied with a terse "shut up."
In the large room that served as their sleeping-living quarters, Takasugi seemed to be in another mood. He simply sat with his back leaning against the wall, one eye closed so that the sight from one matched the other. A criss-cross of small scratches on his arms and collarbone and larger wounds on his chest. Some had been dressed and tended, while others showed signs of wanting attention. Blood, red, green, yellow, and dye from Takasugi's clothes mingled to paint a canvas of war on his skin. Katsura was reminded of how small Takasugi was. He drew in a breath and let it out.
"Let me clean that for you." His voice was calm. He had had his moment of shock - vomiting and shaking and sweating at the back of a tent - a few days ago. What was this then. This strange reverence on seeing that mingling of colours. This strange...There was no response from Takasugi, which Katsura took as assent. He started from the bandage around Takasugi's eye. Already it was soaked through, the familiar cloth now unfamiliar with Takasugi's blood. He wished that he hadn't tried to find someone else to take Takasugi back. Perhaps then it would be less red. He looked once again at Takasugi, but there was no shift in his expression. It was a new sensation: the appreciation of hard bone beneath skin, touching the place where skin met hair. Perhaps it was because he had never changed head bandages before.
"I didn't bring it with me." Takasugi's eye was open. His voice took Katsura away from the reverie of his fingers and with the sound of Takasugi's voice, Katsura remembered the sound of Takasugi's laugh. He brought his hands away from Takasugi's face. Takasugi was looking at the small green book placed by where he usually slept. "Before. I didn't want it to be dirtied. Amanto blood, you know, can be corrosive, especially if it splatters." Although it was the reality, the way Takasugi said it with sharp biting vowels made it seem more coarse, more visceral. Katsura felt that strange mood leave him. Takasugi touched the bandage at his eye. "Thank you, Zura, for your kindness." Yet what Katsura sensed was apprehension. A pause, and then, "Tell me, did you dream of this, Zura?" There was bittterness in that question, and beyond it a silent desperation. Takasugi didn't say what he meant by 'this' and Katsura didn't answer. Whether he meant the sight of him, vulnerable, injured or - the sight of him, the hollow at his neck, the angle of a cheekbone, the line of his shin. "I can see it when you look at me, Kotarou. Even now, when you seem so revulsed. Come closer. Don't you want to come closer?" With unexpected speed, Takasugi's fingers closed around Katsura's wrist and he drew Katsura to him sharply so that Katsura's ear was to his mouth. Softly, like the wing of a swallowtail, he whispered "I'll take you down with me too. I'll destroy every one, everything. Wait for it." Katsura pulled his wrist free and thrust Takasugi away, breathing sharply. He staggered from the room and Takasugi in it as quickly as he could. The sound of the closing door resounded like a gunshot from the battlefield.
He kept running. Only when he was certain of the distance between himself and Takasugi did he pause, rubbing at the red fingermarks on his wrist. Impossible.
------------
Coming out of the corridor, he recognises Takasugi instantly. He would have recognised him anywhere. The bright kimono, the bandage over the eye, how the line of his shin and ankle is slightly concave. Bodies at his feet like in a war in the past. Waiting.
Katsura looks up, says, "I hated you then and I hate you now."