Slowly working my way through this
Title: Moths and Their Flames
Rating: PG
Pairing: Takasugi+Katsura
Warning: Hints of shounen-ai. Also a bit of wtf-ness? >_>
Prompt: Decapitation
Requester: shinigamikender
Author's Notes: Takes place in the past during the war; Also, this was written at like 5 a.m. so yeah ...>_>;;;
They sit in a small inn on pants damp from the heavy rain. The room is dark except for a tiny candle that illuminates Takasugi’s face, highlighting the small scars on his cheek and the small cut on his lip, already crusted over with dried blood. Katsura remains silent, pulling the lone sheet around himself. He feels the weight of his hair on his back, moisture seeping through his already soaked clothes, causing more goose bumps to rise along his skin.
A part of him wants to shift closer to the body next to his, seek some sort of warmth if only to stop his teeth from chattering. Six months into the war, and he feels the strands of failure start to wrap around him, still has empty dreams of a home far away where he’s in class listening to the inspirational words of Shoyou-sensei. Some days when he sleeps in a bed not his own, when the rain has cleaned off the blood and has left him shivering, he wishes he’d never joined the war, wishes he’d never been inspired to take up the sword.
The thought is laughable, though, and he knows someone like Takasugi would tell him to cut his head off right there for thinking that way. They’d both entered the war to fight for their country -for the world Shoyou-sensei wanted to create.
He tries to squeeze his fingers around his ideals, hold on even as he shakes and shifts, hating that the candle light and the blanket do nothing to stop his shivering. His jaw tightens, and he closes his eyes, pretending he isn’t affected, trying to ignore the fact that Takasugi doesn’t seem bothered at all.
“At least take your wet clothes off,” Takasugi remarks, shattering the silence with his raspy, exhausted voice.
Katsura looks over at him, watches as Takasugi struggles to stay awake himself, eyelids fluttering half-way shut. “You too,” he replies, “If you sleep like that, you’ll get sick.”
Takasugi laughs, short and rough. “You’re the one with the blanket. There weren’t enough for all of us.”
It occurs to Katsura that he should offer to share. The winds get stronger at night, blowing in cool air left by the rain, and it reassures him that even if he’s never liked Takasugi, they are comrades in war. They’ve fought side by side countless times already, and they share the same goals. The Joui need all the men they could get if they ever hope to see a peaceful Edo.
“We can use mine,” Katsura murmurs, his voice sounding awkward and loud in the dead silence of the room. Even the cicadas seem quiet tonight.
For a second, he expects Takasugi to reject, say he’s fine and doesn’t need the extra warmth. Instead, Takasugi doesn’t respond, head already lolled backwards with his eyes shut. It’s tempting to wake him, shove him in the side and tell him he should undress.
Katsura doesn’t -only shifts closer, crosses the few inches before they’re side by side and pulls the blankets around both their wet bodies. Comrades in arm share suffering. It’s only honorable. No, the honorable thing would be to surrender his blanket entirely, but even he’s allowed a bit of selfishness, justified by his own desire to live and fight the next day. He can’t do that if he’s ill.
Think of the greater good! Sakamoto says it often, and Katsura wonders if he’s starting to get sick or delirious if he’s being nice to Takasugi and if he’s actually following Sakamoto’s personal philosophies.
After a moment of sitting side by side, Takasugi’s head rolls, and Katsura thinks it might have detached, imagines strangely that Takasugi has removed it himself in a fit of seppuku. Maybe a fever really is setting in because he feels the weight of a loose head touching his shoulder, wet hair brushing against his cheek, and in the candle light, Takasugi’s hair looks like a bruise.
Warm breath whispers against his jaw line, and fire licks up his arm, touching, making him feel hotter than usual, burning him inside of his wet clothes. Katsura tries to close his eyes, tries to find rest while sitting up on hard wood floors. He thinks of morning, of Gintoki teasing him about his hair and calling him by his stupid nickname, of Sakamoto laughing boisterously and swinging casual arms around their shoulders like he doesn’t know they’re in a war -he probably doesn’t. Lastly, he thinks of Takasugi who trails behind them and says very little but occasionally laughs at Sakamoto’s nonsense. It feels …complete somehow, the four of them. Maybe they’ll live to see the end of the war, a brotherhood of warriors. He dreams of that day, too, dreams and dreams and doesn’t even know when he falls asleep.
Only- in the morning, Takasugi’s still draped on his side, breathing into his neck, one fist tightly curled in Katsura’s shirt which hasn’t dried completely. He’s heavy enough to make Katsura’s shoulder ache, and Katsura still feels warm everywhere -warm and wet.
“You’re burning, Zura,” Takasugi says quietly, dragging his voice along the ground while half asleep.
“It’s not Zura. It’s Katsura,” Katsura croaks half-heartedly before tugging the blanket around tighter.
There’s still no sun pouring through the window, indicating another rainy day. Katsura drifts back to sleep and barely notices hands moving over him, pawing at his clothes. He still thinks of twenty years in the future with his wife and son, telling them about his days in the war.
When he opens his eyes again, there’s sun, very faint but still there. He’s stripped down to his underwear and his hair is bound up on top of his head, but he doesn’t care because it feels less hot this way.
Takasugi sits across from him and passes his hand over the flame of a burning candle, over and over, watching his own fingers slice through the ember. He doesn’t notice Katsura is awake or watching him being childish. It reminds Katsura of them when they were younger and throwing dirt into each other’s eyes. They’re still young now, not even men yet, in spite of the countless people they’ve watched die in battle.
Hours pass, drifting in and out, unable to tell where dreams begin and reality starts, knowing they twist together at some point. Takasugi moves about, never really leaves, and eventually informs him that many of the other men are sick, too. It’s good -a repose. They all need it.
Sometimes, he feels warm, -not the warmth of a fever but hands touching his face- and he opens his eyes and sees Takasugi staring at him intently.
It happens too often -probably teenage hormones or some other body-inflicted disease- that Katsura thinks of kissing him just to see how that dried up scab would feel against his own mouth. It’s stupid, and he ignores the thought every time it comes up.
It takes more than a day, but Katsura finally sees the sun light hit the floor, finally feels less delirious, at least enough to move about on his own. It occurs to him then that Takasugi has been with him the entire time, however long it’s been.
“What do you think you will do when the war ends?” Katsura asks because he’s tired and still sick, and he’s entitled to be young and ask stupid personal questions.
Takasugi is silent, looks at him with something akin to surprise before his lips turn upwards and his eyes grow more vivid.
“Live.” He pauses to laugh softly, tip his head back and trace fingers lightly over his own collar bone where a long, horizontal scar can still be seen. “But who knows? I might miss killing.”
Katsura presses his lips tighter together and says nothing, passing it off as Takasugi’s terrible sense of humor.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Takasugi+Katsura
Warning: Hints of shounen-ai. Also a bit of wtf-ness? >_>
Prompt: Decapitation
Requester: shinigamikender
Author's Notes: Takes place in the past during the war; Also, this was written at like 5 a.m. so yeah ...>_>;;;
They sit in a small inn on pants damp from the heavy rain. The room is dark except for a tiny candle that illuminates Takasugi’s face, highlighting the small scars on his cheek and the small cut on his lip, already crusted over with dried blood. Katsura remains silent, pulling the lone sheet around himself. He feels the weight of his hair on his back, moisture seeping through his already soaked clothes, causing more goose bumps to rise along his skin.
A part of him wants to shift closer to the body next to his, seek some sort of warmth if only to stop his teeth from chattering. Six months into the war, and he feels the strands of failure start to wrap around him, still has empty dreams of a home far away where he’s in class listening to the inspirational words of Shoyou-sensei. Some days when he sleeps in a bed not his own, when the rain has cleaned off the blood and has left him shivering, he wishes he’d never joined the war, wishes he’d never been inspired to take up the sword.
The thought is laughable, though, and he knows someone like Takasugi would tell him to cut his head off right there for thinking that way. They’d both entered the war to fight for their country -for the world Shoyou-sensei wanted to create.
He tries to squeeze his fingers around his ideals, hold on even as he shakes and shifts, hating that the candle light and the blanket do nothing to stop his shivering. His jaw tightens, and he closes his eyes, pretending he isn’t affected, trying to ignore the fact that Takasugi doesn’t seem bothered at all.
“At least take your wet clothes off,” Takasugi remarks, shattering the silence with his raspy, exhausted voice.
Katsura looks over at him, watches as Takasugi struggles to stay awake himself, eyelids fluttering half-way shut. “You too,” he replies, “If you sleep like that, you’ll get sick.”
Takasugi laughs, short and rough. “You’re the one with the blanket. There weren’t enough for all of us.”
It occurs to Katsura that he should offer to share. The winds get stronger at night, blowing in cool air left by the rain, and it reassures him that even if he’s never liked Takasugi, they are comrades in war. They’ve fought side by side countless times already, and they share the same goals. The Joui need all the men they could get if they ever hope to see a peaceful Edo.
“We can use mine,” Katsura murmurs, his voice sounding awkward and loud in the dead silence of the room. Even the cicadas seem quiet tonight.
For a second, he expects Takasugi to reject, say he’s fine and doesn’t need the extra warmth. Instead, Takasugi doesn’t respond, head already lolled backwards with his eyes shut. It’s tempting to wake him, shove him in the side and tell him he should undress.
Katsura doesn’t -only shifts closer, crosses the few inches before they’re side by side and pulls the blankets around both their wet bodies. Comrades in arm share suffering. It’s only honorable. No, the honorable thing would be to surrender his blanket entirely, but even he’s allowed a bit of selfishness, justified by his own desire to live and fight the next day. He can’t do that if he’s ill.
Think of the greater good! Sakamoto says it often, and Katsura wonders if he’s starting to get sick or delirious if he’s being nice to Takasugi and if he’s actually following Sakamoto’s personal philosophies.
After a moment of sitting side by side, Takasugi’s head rolls, and Katsura thinks it might have detached, imagines strangely that Takasugi has removed it himself in a fit of seppuku. Maybe a fever really is setting in because he feels the weight of a loose head touching his shoulder, wet hair brushing against his cheek, and in the candle light, Takasugi’s hair looks like a bruise.
Warm breath whispers against his jaw line, and fire licks up his arm, touching, making him feel hotter than usual, burning him inside of his wet clothes. Katsura tries to close his eyes, tries to find rest while sitting up on hard wood floors. He thinks of morning, of Gintoki teasing him about his hair and calling him by his stupid nickname, of Sakamoto laughing boisterously and swinging casual arms around their shoulders like he doesn’t know they’re in a war -he probably doesn’t. Lastly, he thinks of Takasugi who trails behind them and says very little but occasionally laughs at Sakamoto’s nonsense. It feels …complete somehow, the four of them. Maybe they’ll live to see the end of the war, a brotherhood of warriors. He dreams of that day, too, dreams and dreams and doesn’t even know when he falls asleep.
Only- in the morning, Takasugi’s still draped on his side, breathing into his neck, one fist tightly curled in Katsura’s shirt which hasn’t dried completely. He’s heavy enough to make Katsura’s shoulder ache, and Katsura still feels warm everywhere -warm and wet.
“You’re burning, Zura,” Takasugi says quietly, dragging his voice along the ground while half asleep.
“It’s not Zura. It’s Katsura,” Katsura croaks half-heartedly before tugging the blanket around tighter.
There’s still no sun pouring through the window, indicating another rainy day. Katsura drifts back to sleep and barely notices hands moving over him, pawing at his clothes. He still thinks of twenty years in the future with his wife and son, telling them about his days in the war.
When he opens his eyes again, there’s sun, very faint but still there. He’s stripped down to his underwear and his hair is bound up on top of his head, but he doesn’t care because it feels less hot this way.
Takasugi sits across from him and passes his hand over the flame of a burning candle, over and over, watching his own fingers slice through the ember. He doesn’t notice Katsura is awake or watching him being childish. It reminds Katsura of them when they were younger and throwing dirt into each other’s eyes. They’re still young now, not even men yet, in spite of the countless people they’ve watched die in battle.
Hours pass, drifting in and out, unable to tell where dreams begin and reality starts, knowing they twist together at some point. Takasugi moves about, never really leaves, and eventually informs him that many of the other men are sick, too. It’s good -a repose. They all need it.
Sometimes, he feels warm, -not the warmth of a fever but hands touching his face- and he opens his eyes and sees Takasugi staring at him intently.
It happens too often -probably teenage hormones or some other body-inflicted disease- that Katsura thinks of kissing him just to see how that dried up scab would feel against his own mouth. It’s stupid, and he ignores the thought every time it comes up.
It takes more than a day, but Katsura finally sees the sun light hit the floor, finally feels less delirious, at least enough to move about on his own. It occurs to him then that Takasugi has been with him the entire time, however long it’s been.
“What do you think you will do when the war ends?” Katsura asks because he’s tired and still sick, and he’s entitled to be young and ask stupid personal questions.
Takasugi is silent, looks at him with something akin to surprise before his lips turn upwards and his eyes grow more vivid.
“Live.” He pauses to laugh softly, tip his head back and trace fingers lightly over his own collar bone where a long, horizontal scar can still be seen. “But who knows? I might miss killing.”
Katsura presses his lips tighter together and says nothing, passing it off as Takasugi’s terrible sense of humor.