[Fic; Ongoing] The Misadventures of an Early Morning
Title: The Misadventures of an Early Morning [Ongoing]
Series: Gintama
Summary: Patience is a virtue, albeit one which the majority of even occasionally sane human beings sorely lack at three o'clock in the morning. Gintoki, Katsura, and their partners in crime navigate a few such dysfunctional ante meridian hours.
Warnings: rated T for a bit of swearing and a boatload of in-universe Gintama references. Just chaos as usual!
Disclaimer: Gintama and its excellence (c) Hideaki Sorachi
Comments and/or concrit is loved. ♥ Fanfic/writing archive at hikuitsubame
- - - - -
Lesson 1: What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stronger
- - - - -
Gintoki huddled in a corner, his back pressed to the wall, a glass containing a half-melted, soupy parfait seized in one hand's white-knuckled grip and his bokuto clutched defensively in the other. The menacing shadows of beings with an insatiable appetite to rival Kagura's and an equally absurd amount of facial hair played starkly over the shōji in cinematic contrast, the color-sapped images accompanied by a chorus of moans and groans and the thump, thump, thump of shuffling footsteps on the veranda. A nervous laugh cracked high in the octaves of Gintoki's vocal cords, and he compensated by cranking up the decibel level and shouting loud enough to drown the pubescent tremor in his own voice.
"W-w-what is this, some campy B-movie rehash of Night of the Living Zombrows? Come and g-get me, you bastards! If you wanna get your grubby paws on the w-world's last parfait," Gintoki bit back a genuine sob at that, "then you'll have to go through me first!" he concluded, his yells now verging on hysterical.
Bang, bang, bang answered the thunderous pounding of fists on the shōji, the sounds more impatient and ever closer with each passing moment. Thump, thump, thump.
Craaap, now they know where I am!, Gintoki panicked, squeezing himself further and further into the corner as if he could spontaneously meld into the boards. Of all the half-baked, big-mouthed ideas-
The nearest shōji screen ominously rattled open on its tracking to reveal a horde of Zombrows, their forms eclipsed in shadow beneath the light of a stereotypical full moon.
"Gintoki!" a voice murmured, close enough that the speaker's breath tickled in Gintoki's ear.
Gintoki's eyes flashed wide in terror.
Health me! Wait, that's not right. . .help me! Help, it knows my name! How on earth does it know my name?! It's-it's game over!
But even steeped in such grim prospects and without a Heart Container[1] in sight, Gintoki resolved to defend the lone parfait to his very last. He wound his sword arm tight as a pitcher's on the mound before heaving backwards and mightily hurling his bokuto at the nearest Zombrow assailant.
"Aaaaah-!"
"Ginto-mmmph!"
Gintoki awoke suddenly to find himself not encircled by ravenous, blood- thirsty and parfait-hungry Zombrows but perched ramrod straight on the edge of his own futon, panting, as beads of cold sweat trickled down his forehead. The blankets had long been flung aside in his nightmare-induced frenzy, but Gintoki's groggily reorienting brain alerted him that his alarm clock was pinched viciously in his left hand's death grip where a parfait had been mere moments before. Gintoki then traced the imaginary trajectory of his would-have-been bokuto, only to find that he had actually transformed his pillow into a makeshift weapon. While still sound asleep, he had apparently managed to nail the invading foe clean in the face with said pillow-which you have to admit is pretty impressive. As evidence of this minor victory, a single, oddly lumpy and irregularly outlined silhouette was framed in the doorway, the pillow resting at its feet.
Well, I can deal with one straggler, at least, Gintoki assuaged his wounded pride, warily securing his hold on the alarm clock in a vestige of self-defense.
But instead of, "Nnnnrgh, give mee paaarfaaait," the Zombrow simply looked at him and said, "I did knock."
Gintoki frowned, taken aback for the briefest of moments at what most certainly had to be a very bad joke, before two and two converged to make four and somebody flicked the light on upstairs. Oh.
The images vividly hearkened back to Gintoki's childhood recollections of a town shrine festival, when after gorging himself on sweets beneath the dreamlike swirl of color eddying in the warm light of a million paper lanterns, he and Shouyou-sensei's other students had trodden barefoot through a cool patch of grass to gaze in awe at the hanabi. Sensei had regaled his wide-eyed students with thrilling tales of the devious kidnapping antics of Aobōzu and Yama-uba[2], demons who would surely snatch the children away if they neglected to practice and do their chores.
Late that night, suffering a temporary case of sugar-induced insomnia and timidly skirting every dark temple corner with a wide berth for fear of vengeful yōkai[3] (Gintoki was self-consciously aware that in his earlier excitement about the festival, he had neglected to clean the fude brushes like Sensei had asked), Gintoki had tiptoed his way to Katsura's futon.
Katsura was lying awake, staring at the ceiling and apparently experiencing similar circadian complications. He stole one look at Gintoki, who was nervously clutching his pillow and sporting the "I'm not scared, stupid" pout, before rolling his eyes and obligingly scooting over. Without further pause, Gintoki had commandeered half of Katsura's futon and two thirds of the blankets with only a smartly kicked shin for his trouble. The ensuing bruise had been a small price to pay for a peaceful night of yōkai-free dreams.
Gintoki squinted through the darkness at the misshapen figure in his present-day doorway.
". . .you're not a Zombrow, are you," Gintoki established flatly, lowering the alarm clock with still-shaking hands and suddenly feeling a tad foolish.
"No, I'm not," the silhouette offered, unfazed as it calmly stooped to retrieve the pillow projectile.
Gintoki cocked his head in bewilderment when the silhouette moved and something squishy subsequently plopped to the floor with a wet-sounding plunk. He caught a simultaneous whiff of an incredibly potent rotten smell that reeked of last week's burnable trash. But before the appropriate question could form on his lips-
"Aha! You're still calling them 'Zombrows'!"
A triumphant index finger was shoved nearly under Gintoki's nose, and the revelation hit his sleep-hazed brain like a ton of bricks.
Zura.
Of the million pithy remarks and burning questions that simply begged to be voiced, "You look like hell," was the first coherent phrase to slip uninhibited from Gintoki's mouth, quickly followed by, "And you smell like garbage."
"Thanks. I hadn't noticed."
- - - - -
Notes:
1. "Heart Containers": Heart Containers are collected in the Legend of Zelda video games to increase and recover the player's health.
2. "Aobōzu and Yama-uba": Aobōzu (a blue monk) and Yama-uba (usually a hideous old woman) are traditional Japanese demons known for preying on children. Ironically, a benevolent Yama-uba is said to have raised the orphan Kintaro, who grew up to become the legendary warrior Sakata no Kintoki (yay, Gintama reference XD).
3. "yōkai": Japanese folk monsters, as above.
- - - - -
Lesson 2: It's the So-Called Little Things That Become the Most Complex
- - - - -
Over the course of the last hour, Katsura had successfully dislodged himself from most of the foul-smelling muck by way of the kitchen sink's garbage disposal, a hot shower, and a generous dollop of shampoo. After discarding his filthy kimono (Katsura couldn't quite recall what had become of his customary haori), he had donned an old set of Gintoki's jinbei[1]. The clothes hung stubbornly baggy on Katsura's slim frame like an oversized nightshirt despite all of Gintoki's multi-knotted efforts to the contrary-you need to eat more sugar, Zura; it's good for you.
Now, the two samurai were confronted with the ultimate gauntlet: the final boss battle posed by the numerable gobs of neon-tinted chewing gum stuck fast in Katsura's hair like a silly crown of rubber confetti.
"I heard you can get it out with peanut butter. It's supposed to be relatively painless," Gintoki commented, eyeing the gum clinically and yanking experimentally on a fuchsia-colored wad.
"That's connected, idiot!" Katsura yelped and batted Gintoki's hands away. "And peanut butter?! You want to rub a salty, sticky condiment in my hair?"
"Did you even see yourself an hour ago? The grunge look is all the rage now. All the kids are doing it."
"I told you it was just part of my cosplay as a garbage collector. During this afternoon's mission, I encountered Matsuko-chan's dear cousin, twice removed on her father's side, who had accidentally disposed of the family's prized possession, so I chivalrously offered to retrieve it for them," Katsura recounted, sagely nodding in self-satisfaction with his fabricated monologue.
Gintoki, obviously riveted by the story, merely shoved his fingers deeper into his ear canals, delicate eardrums be damned. The inconvenient phenomenon called wishful thinking painted images of his lonely, abandoned pillow, and Gintoki almost, almost longed for the Zombrows' collective company. Katsura, of course, paid his tribulations absolutely no heed.
"Matsuko-chan's cousin neglected to mention, however, that the precious object in question was a giant Densuke watermelon[2], one which had been sequestered in a dumpster for the past week. I couldn't very well refuse her help, you know, since the family has fallen on hard times ever since the recession, and without the melon to sell at market, they were this close to being forced to withdraw poor Matsuko-chan from school to work on the family melon farm in Hokkaido. But all her life, Matsuko-chan has only wanted to be a doctor, yearning to discover the essential cure for the illness afflicting her fath-"
"Who would believe that in the first place?!" Gintoki interrupted, yanking his fingers out of his ears. "There's no way people would carelessly throw away something so important, much less ask a well-known terrorist for help to get it back!"
"You're not listening, Gintoki," Katsura shook his head in disdain. "I see there's just no place for common decency in this country anymore."
"Shh, or your idiotic decency is going to wake Kagura," Gintoki schooled his voice to a hoarse whisper, smirking.
Katsura unconsciously took the bait.
"That's a lie. Don't underestimate Leader; she could sleep through a typhoon."
". . .exactly my point," Gintoki retorted, reveling in his own punch line. "You're one of the few who could wake her up."
Katsura's eyebrows narrowed, emerging from beneath gum-fringed bangs. When this ordinarily serious expression's only effect was prompting Gintoki to erupt in a fit of giggles (I can't take you seriously like that, Zura!), Katsura finally caved.
"Elizabeth and I were being hotly pursued by an entire squad of Shinsengumi members, and they were no more than a block away from cornering us in a dead-end back alley. We played an impromptu round of jan-ken-pon, and Elizabeth won and took the fire escape to the roof. I lost and hid in the dumpster. End of story."
"You should have just listened to me when I told you to cut it, you know," Gintoki enthused with a condescending shrug. "It's like one giant mop of a bubblegum magnet."
Katsura's expression flatlined.
"And your good-for-nothing perm is one giant mop of a female turnoff."
Gintoki's jaw nearly came unhinged as it plummeted to the floor. Katsura camouflaged the faintest glint of a smug smile behind a robed sleeve and affected cough, not that the ruse fooled Gintoki for a moment. Rather than dignify Katsura's apt statement with a response, however, Gintoki chose to collect his jaw from the floorboards, ignore Katsura completely-those are words straight from your own mouth, Gintoki, and you know it-and brush roughly past the other man, sulking his way to the pantry with Katsura's not-quite laugh chasing his footsteps.
Fortunately, the daunting quest to locate and secure a jar of peanut butter from within the crammed-and-cluttered monstrosity of a pantry proved more than enough distraction for the two samurai. Gintoki was also afforded a pointed visual reminder of why exactly he would never again allow Kagura to do the shopping on her own.
"I could've sworn we had some peanut butter here somewhere," Gintoki mumbled, his voice muffled as he probed blindly through an avalanche of sukonbu and assorted sugary snack foods and emerged empty-handed. "I guess we're fresh out. Maybe Kagura declared yesterday 'Giant PB&J Day' without telling me. Better luck next time, eh, Zura?"
A mental exclamation of, Kyaa, sleep, blessed sleep is in Gin-san's future!, was triggered as Gintoki's eyes alit on a tray of New Year's mochi cakes, which strikingly resembled tiny pillows to a presently one-track mind.
Katsura crinkled his nose in disgust as he peeled his attention away from an opened jar of miso stamped with an expiration date two years previous.
"Well, there's a convenience store down the block. Just go buy some."
Gintoki excavated himself from the pantry and blinked back at Katsura, nonplussed, until the latter's words could sufficiently compute.
"Excuse me?!" he finally spluttered. "Go get it yourself!"
Katsura gasped shortly and stumbled backwards a pace from his kneeling position.
"We've been best friends-nay, comrades all these years, and you're willing to sacrifice me to the Shinsengumi for lack of a jar of peanut butter?" Katsura waxed dramatically poetic before a captivated audience of instant ramen, one hand clasped over his heart. "You wound me so. I have held our friendship in the utmost esteem, but I now realize the error of my ways. I should take my leave before I impose upon you further. Good night and farewell, Sakata-san. May this be our final parting."
Katsura stood and tossed his hair over his shoulder to execute the "Memorable and Heartrending Exit" moveset (a hidden Easter egg that had debuted in Bakiboki Memorial 2: Revenge of the Swordfish), though the smattering of rainbow bubblegum twisting and tangling the silky strands of his hair thoroughly negated any and all of the move's melodramatic potential, making it downright hilarious instead. Still, without advance warning beyond an exaggerated sigh, Gintoki lunged forward to seize a surprised Katsura's arm, used the leverage to heave himself to his feet, and stalked to the entranceway, clumsily yanking his boots on while he hopped to the door and carrying on wildly about useless samurai who should have pursued careers as two-bit street performers and air-headed, pansy-sniffing terrorists with cosplay complexes each and every stumbled step of the way.
Either Katsura brooked one hell of a death wish or had genuinely misconstrued these actions as positive signs, for he possessed the blatant nerve to call, "And, Gintoki, pick up some corn potage Nmaibo while you're out, will you? I used my last stick as a diversion," while waving cheerily from the kitchen door.
In response, Gintoki stormed out without even pausing to shoot mental daggers over his shoulder, boots unbuckled, hair disheveled, and effectively still clad in his pajamas, simply to thwart the nigh-irresistible urge to throttle his oh-so-very-best friend.
- - - - -
Notes:
1. "jinbei": Traditional, loose-fitting Japanese nightwear or leisure clothes. Gintoki wears something similar as pajamas.
2. "a Densuke watermelon": A highly prized Japanese watermelon with a black rind, only grown in Hokkaido. One melon can sell for anywhere from 25,000 to 650,000 yen ($275 to 7,100).
- - - - -
Lesson 3: Making Friends Is Like Rubbing Salt in a Wound
- - - - -
None of the street's wayward, early-morning occupants gave Gintoki's odd appearance and even stranger behavior a second glance as he sidestepped the meandering parade of listless drunks and stomped to the 24-hour Oedo Store down the street, his feet pounding the dirt to the infectious beat of, stupid Zura, stupid Zura, stupid Zura. . .
The bell dangling from the glass-paneled door of the konbini to signal a customer's entrance clanged like the entire host of a handbell choir as Gintoki wrenched the door open on its hinges. After snagging a plastic jar of creamy peanut butter and a pair of the most crushed, battered Nmaibo sticks he could find from a back shelf-it's not like you'll reimburse me anyway, Zura-Gintoki's fingers lingered lovingly over the familiar cover of last week's Jump. His own copy of the serial, already thoroughly thumbed and ogled, was lying safely (miracle of miracles) atop the teetering stack in his bedroom.
As Gintoki approached the register, he surveyed the store's pair of other occupants. The first was the bored-looking teenager of a shop clerk who had doubtless drawn the short straw and been consigned to the night shift. The second occupant was the sole patron of the store.
"Long time no see, Yorozuya," came a low, familiar voice.
"Likewise, Hijikata-kun."
The Shinsengumi's vice-commander stood at the counter, clutching a purchased bottle of mayonnaise while shoving spare change from the completed transaction back into his wallet, an unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth. Perceptive eyes raked Gintoki's unkempt form and haggard appearance, sparing a glance for the jar of peanut butter and packages of Nmaibo, which Gintoki had neglected to shove behind his back and out of sight. As for Gintoki himself, his cool-as-a-cucumber façade belied nothing of the frantic internal turmoil plaguing his brain.
Hijikata-kun?! What the hell do you need mayonnaise for at four-thirty in the morning, you moron?! Arrgh, look at the trouble you've caused Gin-san! If Zura hears the Shinsengumi were still out on patrol, I'll never hear the end of it-!
Exerting the considerable effort required to still his shaking hands, Gintoki advanced to the counter. Hijikata eyed him curiously.
The clerk absently punched a series of numbers on the cash register's keypad. As he bagged the groceries, the kid peered down at the time on his wristwatch before sweeping a knowing, significant look from the peanut butter to Gintoki.
"Got a pregnant wife at home, oniisan?"
Hijikata snorted around his cigarette, intrigued as he observed Gintoki's eyes nearly spring from their sockets and a pink flush tint his cheeks.
"Hah, as if any sane woman would fall for someone with such a rotten personality," the vice-commander interjected, his obvious amusement coloring every word.
Gintoki sputtered helplessly like a fish out of water for a few moments before he could recall his scattered faculties and sufficiently perform the complex function of stringing syllables together into words and said words into sentences.
"W-what kind of a stupid idea is that, you idiot?! Have you ever heard of a pregnant woman craving peanut butter before?"
Hijikata propped his elbows jauntily on the counter and traitorously proffered a vague utterance of, The man doth protest too much, his unabashed snickering permeating the brief silence. The kid hastily shook his head in response to Gintoki, utterly baffled by the customer’s sudden outburst.
"No? I'll bet you haven't! That's because pregnant women always want ice cream or pickles or something weird like that! Not peanut butter! So go home and ask your mother before you spout off random nonsense like-"
"Then are you finally admitting you have a sugar fetish?" Hijikata suggested.
Gintoki retaliated by pitching the exact change for his purchases right in Hijikata's smirking face and viciously snatching up his plastic bag of purchases.
"Don't talk like you have the right to criticize other people's condiment fetishes, Mayora-kun!" Gintoki barked before swerving on his heel and striding to the exit, whereupon another door met its unfortunate fate and was savagely pummeled open.
"I suppose we all have our crosses to bear," the clerk amended ambiguously, gesturing to Gintoki's retreating figure.
As Hijikata smoothed the scramble of bills and coins on the counter and turned to leave, the clerk demonstratively ladled to his mouth a heaping spoonful of a runny, whitish substance that mysteriously resembled ranch dressing.
Hijikata gagged.
- - - - -
I'll post the next chapters as I finish them. Thanks for reading!
Series: Gintama
Summary: Patience is a virtue, albeit one which the majority of even occasionally sane human beings sorely lack at three o'clock in the morning. Gintoki, Katsura, and their partners in crime navigate a few such dysfunctional ante meridian hours.
Warnings: rated T for a bit of swearing and a boatload of in-universe Gintama references. Just chaos as usual!
Disclaimer: Gintama and its excellence (c) Hideaki Sorachi
Comments and/or concrit is loved. ♥ Fanfic/writing archive at hikuitsubame
- - - - -
Lesson 1: What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stronger
- - - - -
Gintoki huddled in a corner, his back pressed to the wall, a glass containing a half-melted, soupy parfait seized in one hand's white-knuckled grip and his bokuto clutched defensively in the other. The menacing shadows of beings with an insatiable appetite to rival Kagura's and an equally absurd amount of facial hair played starkly over the shōji in cinematic contrast, the color-sapped images accompanied by a chorus of moans and groans and the thump, thump, thump of shuffling footsteps on the veranda. A nervous laugh cracked high in the octaves of Gintoki's vocal cords, and he compensated by cranking up the decibel level and shouting loud enough to drown the pubescent tremor in his own voice.
"W-w-what is this, some campy B-movie rehash of Night of the Living Zombrows? Come and g-get me, you bastards! If you wanna get your grubby paws on the w-world's last parfait," Gintoki bit back a genuine sob at that, "then you'll have to go through me first!" he concluded, his yells now verging on hysterical.
Bang, bang, bang answered the thunderous pounding of fists on the shōji, the sounds more impatient and ever closer with each passing moment. Thump, thump, thump.
Craaap, now they know where I am!, Gintoki panicked, squeezing himself further and further into the corner as if he could spontaneously meld into the boards. Of all the half-baked, big-mouthed ideas-
The nearest shōji screen ominously rattled open on its tracking to reveal a horde of Zombrows, their forms eclipsed in shadow beneath the light of a stereotypical full moon.
"Gintoki!" a voice murmured, close enough that the speaker's breath tickled in Gintoki's ear.
Gintoki's eyes flashed wide in terror.
Health me! Wait, that's not right. . .help me! Help, it knows my name! How on earth does it know my name?! It's-it's game over!
But even steeped in such grim prospects and without a Heart Container[1] in sight, Gintoki resolved to defend the lone parfait to his very last. He wound his sword arm tight as a pitcher's on the mound before heaving backwards and mightily hurling his bokuto at the nearest Zombrow assailant.
"Aaaaah-!"
"Ginto-mmmph!"
Gintoki awoke suddenly to find himself not encircled by ravenous, blood- thirsty and parfait-hungry Zombrows but perched ramrod straight on the edge of his own futon, panting, as beads of cold sweat trickled down his forehead. The blankets had long been flung aside in his nightmare-induced frenzy, but Gintoki's groggily reorienting brain alerted him that his alarm clock was pinched viciously in his left hand's death grip where a parfait had been mere moments before. Gintoki then traced the imaginary trajectory of his would-have-been bokuto, only to find that he had actually transformed his pillow into a makeshift weapon. While still sound asleep, he had apparently managed to nail the invading foe clean in the face with said pillow-which you have to admit is pretty impressive. As evidence of this minor victory, a single, oddly lumpy and irregularly outlined silhouette was framed in the doorway, the pillow resting at its feet.
Well, I can deal with one straggler, at least, Gintoki assuaged his wounded pride, warily securing his hold on the alarm clock in a vestige of self-defense.
But instead of, "Nnnnrgh, give mee paaarfaaait," the Zombrow simply looked at him and said, "I did knock."
Gintoki frowned, taken aback for the briefest of moments at what most certainly had to be a very bad joke, before two and two converged to make four and somebody flicked the light on upstairs. Oh.
The images vividly hearkened back to Gintoki's childhood recollections of a town shrine festival, when after gorging himself on sweets beneath the dreamlike swirl of color eddying in the warm light of a million paper lanterns, he and Shouyou-sensei's other students had trodden barefoot through a cool patch of grass to gaze in awe at the hanabi. Sensei had regaled his wide-eyed students with thrilling tales of the devious kidnapping antics of Aobōzu and Yama-uba[2], demons who would surely snatch the children away if they neglected to practice and do their chores.
Late that night, suffering a temporary case of sugar-induced insomnia and timidly skirting every dark temple corner with a wide berth for fear of vengeful yōkai[3] (Gintoki was self-consciously aware that in his earlier excitement about the festival, he had neglected to clean the fude brushes like Sensei had asked), Gintoki had tiptoed his way to Katsura's futon.
Katsura was lying awake, staring at the ceiling and apparently experiencing similar circadian complications. He stole one look at Gintoki, who was nervously clutching his pillow and sporting the "I'm not scared, stupid" pout, before rolling his eyes and obligingly scooting over. Without further pause, Gintoki had commandeered half of Katsura's futon and two thirds of the blankets with only a smartly kicked shin for his trouble. The ensuing bruise had been a small price to pay for a peaceful night of yōkai-free dreams.
Gintoki squinted through the darkness at the misshapen figure in his present-day doorway.
". . .you're not a Zombrow, are you," Gintoki established flatly, lowering the alarm clock with still-shaking hands and suddenly feeling a tad foolish.
"No, I'm not," the silhouette offered, unfazed as it calmly stooped to retrieve the pillow projectile.
Gintoki cocked his head in bewilderment when the silhouette moved and something squishy subsequently plopped to the floor with a wet-sounding plunk. He caught a simultaneous whiff of an incredibly potent rotten smell that reeked of last week's burnable trash. But before the appropriate question could form on his lips-
"Aha! You're still calling them 'Zombrows'!"
A triumphant index finger was shoved nearly under Gintoki's nose, and the revelation hit his sleep-hazed brain like a ton of bricks.
Zura.
Of the million pithy remarks and burning questions that simply begged to be voiced, "You look like hell," was the first coherent phrase to slip uninhibited from Gintoki's mouth, quickly followed by, "And you smell like garbage."
"Thanks. I hadn't noticed."
- - - - -
Notes:
1. "Heart Containers": Heart Containers are collected in the Legend of Zelda video games to increase and recover the player's health.
2. "Aobōzu and Yama-uba": Aobōzu (a blue monk) and Yama-uba (usually a hideous old woman) are traditional Japanese demons known for preying on children. Ironically, a benevolent Yama-uba is said to have raised the orphan Kintaro, who grew up to become the legendary warrior Sakata no Kintoki (yay, Gintama reference XD).
3. "yōkai": Japanese folk monsters, as above.
- - - - -
Lesson 2: It's the So-Called Little Things That Become the Most Complex
- - - - -
Over the course of the last hour, Katsura had successfully dislodged himself from most of the foul-smelling muck by way of the kitchen sink's garbage disposal, a hot shower, and a generous dollop of shampoo. After discarding his filthy kimono (Katsura couldn't quite recall what had become of his customary haori), he had donned an old set of Gintoki's jinbei[1]. The clothes hung stubbornly baggy on Katsura's slim frame like an oversized nightshirt despite all of Gintoki's multi-knotted efforts to the contrary-you need to eat more sugar, Zura; it's good for you.
Now, the two samurai were confronted with the ultimate gauntlet: the final boss battle posed by the numerable gobs of neon-tinted chewing gum stuck fast in Katsura's hair like a silly crown of rubber confetti.
"I heard you can get it out with peanut butter. It's supposed to be relatively painless," Gintoki commented, eyeing the gum clinically and yanking experimentally on a fuchsia-colored wad.
"That's connected, idiot!" Katsura yelped and batted Gintoki's hands away. "And peanut butter?! You want to rub a salty, sticky condiment in my hair?"
"Did you even see yourself an hour ago? The grunge look is all the rage now. All the kids are doing it."
"I told you it was just part of my cosplay as a garbage collector. During this afternoon's mission, I encountered Matsuko-chan's dear cousin, twice removed on her father's side, who had accidentally disposed of the family's prized possession, so I chivalrously offered to retrieve it for them," Katsura recounted, sagely nodding in self-satisfaction with his fabricated monologue.
Gintoki, obviously riveted by the story, merely shoved his fingers deeper into his ear canals, delicate eardrums be damned. The inconvenient phenomenon called wishful thinking painted images of his lonely, abandoned pillow, and Gintoki almost, almost longed for the Zombrows' collective company. Katsura, of course, paid his tribulations absolutely no heed.
"Matsuko-chan's cousin neglected to mention, however, that the precious object in question was a giant Densuke watermelon[2], one which had been sequestered in a dumpster for the past week. I couldn't very well refuse her help, you know, since the family has fallen on hard times ever since the recession, and without the melon to sell at market, they were this close to being forced to withdraw poor Matsuko-chan from school to work on the family melon farm in Hokkaido. But all her life, Matsuko-chan has only wanted to be a doctor, yearning to discover the essential cure for the illness afflicting her fath-"
"Who would believe that in the first place?!" Gintoki interrupted, yanking his fingers out of his ears. "There's no way people would carelessly throw away something so important, much less ask a well-known terrorist for help to get it back!"
"You're not listening, Gintoki," Katsura shook his head in disdain. "I see there's just no place for common decency in this country anymore."
"Shh, or your idiotic decency is going to wake Kagura," Gintoki schooled his voice to a hoarse whisper, smirking.
Katsura unconsciously took the bait.
"That's a lie. Don't underestimate Leader; she could sleep through a typhoon."
". . .exactly my point," Gintoki retorted, reveling in his own punch line. "You're one of the few who could wake her up."
Katsura's eyebrows narrowed, emerging from beneath gum-fringed bangs. When this ordinarily serious expression's only effect was prompting Gintoki to erupt in a fit of giggles (I can't take you seriously like that, Zura!), Katsura finally caved.
"Elizabeth and I were being hotly pursued by an entire squad of Shinsengumi members, and they were no more than a block away from cornering us in a dead-end back alley. We played an impromptu round of jan-ken-pon, and Elizabeth won and took the fire escape to the roof. I lost and hid in the dumpster. End of story."
"You should have just listened to me when I told you to cut it, you know," Gintoki enthused with a condescending shrug. "It's like one giant mop of a bubblegum magnet."
Katsura's expression flatlined.
"And your good-for-nothing perm is one giant mop of a female turnoff."
Gintoki's jaw nearly came unhinged as it plummeted to the floor. Katsura camouflaged the faintest glint of a smug smile behind a robed sleeve and affected cough, not that the ruse fooled Gintoki for a moment. Rather than dignify Katsura's apt statement with a response, however, Gintoki chose to collect his jaw from the floorboards, ignore Katsura completely-those are words straight from your own mouth, Gintoki, and you know it-and brush roughly past the other man, sulking his way to the pantry with Katsura's not-quite laugh chasing his footsteps.
Fortunately, the daunting quest to locate and secure a jar of peanut butter from within the crammed-and-cluttered monstrosity of a pantry proved more than enough distraction for the two samurai. Gintoki was also afforded a pointed visual reminder of why exactly he would never again allow Kagura to do the shopping on her own.
"I could've sworn we had some peanut butter here somewhere," Gintoki mumbled, his voice muffled as he probed blindly through an avalanche of sukonbu and assorted sugary snack foods and emerged empty-handed. "I guess we're fresh out. Maybe Kagura declared yesterday 'Giant PB&J Day' without telling me. Better luck next time, eh, Zura?"
A mental exclamation of, Kyaa, sleep, blessed sleep is in Gin-san's future!, was triggered as Gintoki's eyes alit on a tray of New Year's mochi cakes, which strikingly resembled tiny pillows to a presently one-track mind.
Katsura crinkled his nose in disgust as he peeled his attention away from an opened jar of miso stamped with an expiration date two years previous.
"Well, there's a convenience store down the block. Just go buy some."
Gintoki excavated himself from the pantry and blinked back at Katsura, nonplussed, until the latter's words could sufficiently compute.
"Excuse me?!" he finally spluttered. "Go get it yourself!"
Katsura gasped shortly and stumbled backwards a pace from his kneeling position.
"We've been best friends-nay, comrades all these years, and you're willing to sacrifice me to the Shinsengumi for lack of a jar of peanut butter?" Katsura waxed dramatically poetic before a captivated audience of instant ramen, one hand clasped over his heart. "You wound me so. I have held our friendship in the utmost esteem, but I now realize the error of my ways. I should take my leave before I impose upon you further. Good night and farewell, Sakata-san. May this be our final parting."
Katsura stood and tossed his hair over his shoulder to execute the "Memorable and Heartrending Exit" moveset (a hidden Easter egg that had debuted in Bakiboki Memorial 2: Revenge of the Swordfish), though the smattering of rainbow bubblegum twisting and tangling the silky strands of his hair thoroughly negated any and all of the move's melodramatic potential, making it downright hilarious instead. Still, without advance warning beyond an exaggerated sigh, Gintoki lunged forward to seize a surprised Katsura's arm, used the leverage to heave himself to his feet, and stalked to the entranceway, clumsily yanking his boots on while he hopped to the door and carrying on wildly about useless samurai who should have pursued careers as two-bit street performers and air-headed, pansy-sniffing terrorists with cosplay complexes each and every stumbled step of the way.
Either Katsura brooked one hell of a death wish or had genuinely misconstrued these actions as positive signs, for he possessed the blatant nerve to call, "And, Gintoki, pick up some corn potage Nmaibo while you're out, will you? I used my last stick as a diversion," while waving cheerily from the kitchen door.
In response, Gintoki stormed out without even pausing to shoot mental daggers over his shoulder, boots unbuckled, hair disheveled, and effectively still clad in his pajamas, simply to thwart the nigh-irresistible urge to throttle his oh-so-very-best friend.
- - - - -
Notes:
1. "jinbei": Traditional, loose-fitting Japanese nightwear or leisure clothes. Gintoki wears something similar as pajamas.
2. "a Densuke watermelon": A highly prized Japanese watermelon with a black rind, only grown in Hokkaido. One melon can sell for anywhere from 25,000 to 650,000 yen ($275 to 7,100).
- - - - -
Lesson 3: Making Friends Is Like Rubbing Salt in a Wound
- - - - -
None of the street's wayward, early-morning occupants gave Gintoki's odd appearance and even stranger behavior a second glance as he sidestepped the meandering parade of listless drunks and stomped to the 24-hour Oedo Store down the street, his feet pounding the dirt to the infectious beat of, stupid Zura, stupid Zura, stupid Zura. . .
The bell dangling from the glass-paneled door of the konbini to signal a customer's entrance clanged like the entire host of a handbell choir as Gintoki wrenched the door open on its hinges. After snagging a plastic jar of creamy peanut butter and a pair of the most crushed, battered Nmaibo sticks he could find from a back shelf-it's not like you'll reimburse me anyway, Zura-Gintoki's fingers lingered lovingly over the familiar cover of last week's Jump. His own copy of the serial, already thoroughly thumbed and ogled, was lying safely (miracle of miracles) atop the teetering stack in his bedroom.
As Gintoki approached the register, he surveyed the store's pair of other occupants. The first was the bored-looking teenager of a shop clerk who had doubtless drawn the short straw and been consigned to the night shift. The second occupant was the sole patron of the store.
"Long time no see, Yorozuya," came a low, familiar voice.
"Likewise, Hijikata-kun."
The Shinsengumi's vice-commander stood at the counter, clutching a purchased bottle of mayonnaise while shoving spare change from the completed transaction back into his wallet, an unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth. Perceptive eyes raked Gintoki's unkempt form and haggard appearance, sparing a glance for the jar of peanut butter and packages of Nmaibo, which Gintoki had neglected to shove behind his back and out of sight. As for Gintoki himself, his cool-as-a-cucumber façade belied nothing of the frantic internal turmoil plaguing his brain.
Hijikata-kun?! What the hell do you need mayonnaise for at four-thirty in the morning, you moron?! Arrgh, look at the trouble you've caused Gin-san! If Zura hears the Shinsengumi were still out on patrol, I'll never hear the end of it-!
Exerting the considerable effort required to still his shaking hands, Gintoki advanced to the counter. Hijikata eyed him curiously.
The clerk absently punched a series of numbers on the cash register's keypad. As he bagged the groceries, the kid peered down at the time on his wristwatch before sweeping a knowing, significant look from the peanut butter to Gintoki.
"Got a pregnant wife at home, oniisan?"
Hijikata snorted around his cigarette, intrigued as he observed Gintoki's eyes nearly spring from their sockets and a pink flush tint his cheeks.
"Hah, as if any sane woman would fall for someone with such a rotten personality," the vice-commander interjected, his obvious amusement coloring every word.
Gintoki sputtered helplessly like a fish out of water for a few moments before he could recall his scattered faculties and sufficiently perform the complex function of stringing syllables together into words and said words into sentences.
"W-what kind of a stupid idea is that, you idiot?! Have you ever heard of a pregnant woman craving peanut butter before?"
Hijikata propped his elbows jauntily on the counter and traitorously proffered a vague utterance of, The man doth protest too much, his unabashed snickering permeating the brief silence. The kid hastily shook his head in response to Gintoki, utterly baffled by the customer’s sudden outburst.
"No? I'll bet you haven't! That's because pregnant women always want ice cream or pickles or something weird like that! Not peanut butter! So go home and ask your mother before you spout off random nonsense like-"
"Then are you finally admitting you have a sugar fetish?" Hijikata suggested.
Gintoki retaliated by pitching the exact change for his purchases right in Hijikata's smirking face and viciously snatching up his plastic bag of purchases.
"Don't talk like you have the right to criticize other people's condiment fetishes, Mayora-kun!" Gintoki barked before swerving on his heel and striding to the exit, whereupon another door met its unfortunate fate and was savagely pummeled open.
"I suppose we all have our crosses to bear," the clerk amended ambiguously, gesturing to Gintoki's retreating figure.
As Hijikata smoothed the scramble of bills and coins on the counter and turned to leave, the clerk demonstratively ladled to his mouth a heaping spoonful of a runny, whitish substance that mysteriously resembled ranch dressing.
Hijikata gagged.
- - - - -
I'll post the next chapters as I finish them. Thanks for reading!