What makes history (Hijikata x OC)

Coward

"Yarō !", Hijikata swore, sending his already bruised knuckles into the nearest wall. Repeatedly, until it actually broke the partition. The loud crash echoed in the room, making my ears ring. My heart lurched; I'd never seen him throw such a fit... Fukuchō, totally out of control, was a terrible sight.

My breath came short, chest constricting before this onslaught of aggressivity. After the past days, I was too weary to handle it. I didn't know what to do, and from the looks upon both Sōji and Kondō's face, neither did they. Chizuru looked downright terrified as she supported Okita's weight.

The relief of finding them both alive and on the mend was gone, eclipsed by the bomb Kondō dropped at our feet; the Shōgun had fled, taking with him the Chanoine mission – aka Brunet, Cazeneuve and his peers. Deception, fear and anger flooded my veins, turning them to ice. But now only remained sheer bewilderment, for Hijikata's wrath was as powerful as that of a dark angel. His arms shook from rage, shoulders heaving as he faced the destroyed wall.

Completely unhinged.

My mind went blank as I watched the Vice Commander gather himself. All the occupants of the room remained frozen, unsettled by the sheer devastation of Hijikata's angry aura.

I eventually found my courage and approached him slowly, as I would a wounded beast, to lay a hand upon his forearm to ground him into reality. Toshizō released a sharp breath, his stricken gaze half-hidden behind the loose bangs that brushed his jaw. He couldn't meet my gaze; I didn't force him to. Despite him being the demon commander, he knew I could read him easily. He was probably struggling to rein his feelings at the moment.

And even though everyone in this room knew our association, he still needed to be our Fukuchō until we settled for the night.

"Toshi..."

Kondō's plea was interrupted by Okita. "Tokugawa is a coward."

His usual sharpness was devoid of any humour.

"Sōji...", Kondō frowned.

Toshizō whirled around, his piercing gaze pinning his long-time friend into place. The swirling anger caused me to back away, danger oozing from every pore of his too pale skin.

"Sōji's right," Fukuchō growled, and his voice seemed to come from the deepest pits of hell. "Sōji's been right all this time!"

Said captain's eyes widened in disbelief; there was such passion in the commander's voice that he couldn't mistake his statement. But Kondō couldn't accept it, and he opened his hands in hopes of laying our fears to rest.

"I'm sure the Shōgun had his reasons for retreat. The imperial banner destabilised his allies."

I never thought I'd feel like punching Kondō, but I sure was quite ready to yell at him. Of course, the hot-tempered Hijikata beat me to it.

"Gen-san died for that man!" he hollered, the thunder of his voice smashing my insides. "Yamazaki ! Kitsu's scarred for life..."

Me? Who cared about me? I was alive and kicking, better than our men, bathed in blood, still wearing the blue haori on the battlefield.

Kondō's warm brown eyes suddenly dissolved into grief. I was pretty sure that this was what effectively stopped Toshizō. There they stood, brothers contemplating the dream that had killed their friends. The responsibility would always fall to them; they locked gazes, and time seemed to still. I caught Sōji's slight squeeze of Chizuru's shoulder before his eyes turned to me.

He seemed ... almost grateful that I would remain by Hijikata's side. It reminded me of the way I looked at my sister-in-law; I sometimes fought with my elder brother, but trusted her to handle him. Always. At last, Hijikata's voice settled.

"YOU are worth fighting for, Kondō-san," he stated. "But not a man who abandons his troops in battle!" Strangely, it was Okita who defused the tension: "Neee, Hijikata-san. I didn't think I'd agree with you someday."

His twisted sense of humour seemed to reach Hijikata who snorted, and took a moment to look at his adopted and annoying little brother. Colours had returned to Sōji's face, even though he looked pretty wobbly on his feet. I watched Toshizō's face soften, but the barely suppressed rage was still lingering in the background.

"Arigatō gozaimashita, Yukimura, for watching over those idiots."

The young woman blushed and bowed her head, even though she couldn't do much more tucked under Sōji's heavy frame. Hijikata pinned the little lady with an unreadable look.

"By the way... Kazama Chikage won't cause you more problems. We sliced his head clean off his shoulders."

Fukuchō ignored the stunned gasps in favour of storming out of the room, tugging at my sleeve to signify I was supposed to follow. I did, obediently, too weary to do anything else. How Toshizō was still standing was a mystery.

We found a private area to clean ourselves up and wash our clothes. Toshizō was mostly silent, mulling on both his grief and anger. I allowed him some space to think; I was also lost in my thoughts, trying to suppress memories of bloodshed and battle.

I didn't protest when he washed the steri-strips upon my face; it still stung like bitch. Neither when he undressed me, replacing my soiled t-shirt with a clean juban. The commander was gone, leaving behind a man in dire need of human contact. He pulled me in his lap, the bare skin of my thighs against his. His presence soothed me, and I simply returned every gesture, every caress; I yearned to feel him close just as much as he called for my touch.

His muscular forearms flexed when he allowed his hands to travel upon my skin, finding slashes, bruises and painful spots as often as pleasurable ones. I watched him, mesmerised; his eyes were unguarded. Such a rare feat when he usually clamped walls over his emotions, the only outlet that of anger. Violet hues danced in his gaze, so intense that I couldn't tear myself away from it. Parted lips called for kisses; I feasted upon them like a starving woman. Seeking love, compassion and warmth to counteract the coldness of death.

His taste, to forget the coppery tang of blood.

His touch, to overcome the sting of harsh blows.

He looked at me as if he wanted to consume me. I surrounded him, our scent mingling, hands framing his cheekbones until his eye closed and both desperation and passion overcame him. Limbs intertwined, bodies dancing in unison, we forgot, for a moment, about death and strategy. And once he was totally spent, Toshizō laid his head upon my collarbone and wept. I kept silent as tears soaked my juban.

Officially, it never happened.