What makes history (Hijikata x OC)

Ōsaka castle

"Tch"

I frowned. Hijikata's haori was ripped and the blood stains refused to yield. Still, mending it soothed my busy mind. The repetitive movement was excellent to prevent my brain from handling those images that haunted my every step. Still ... was this garment even salvageable?

I'd picked it up after seeing Toshizō's desolate face; the haori uniform meant so much to him. Anything to make him feel a little better, even if it was a few stitches neatly organised on a ripped sleeve and mending holes.

"Oi! Kitsu ! Descends! (Get down there!)"

Sanosuke stood down there, spear in hand, eyes squinting in against the sunlight. Even though he was perfectly capable of climbing up, he didn't seem too keen on joining me upon the defensive wall of Ōsaka castle. Actually, his gait seemed a little off. I secured the needle into the haori's sleeve and rolled the cloth neatly before jumping down.

Damn, all my muscles ached. I'd never felt so weak after a battle, but it was the first time I participated in three major fights in a row. I joined Harada, and pointed to a stone bench in a zen garden. We gently walked over there, relishing in the near silence; no cannon balls, no gun shots, no cries or swords clinking. Even though many soldiers remained, including ours, the castle was pretty quiet at the moment. Admiral Enemoto awaited more troops in Ōsaka bay; his warships would allow us to regroup in Edo. From then... I had no clue how this war would turn out.

"Tu sais ce que ça veut dire ?"

I blinked, finding a finger pointing at the comb that adorned my hair today. Kondō had returned my belongings this morning, including the Sarmatian bow and Toshizō's last present. Somehow, the lacquered comb had called to me, and it kept my hair secured in a bun.

"Quoi ?" (What ?)

"Le...", he hesitated, then switched to Japanese because the word wouldn't come in French. "The comb. You know what it means ?"

I started, unaware that the present had an ulterior meaning. But of course, this picky culture was full of symbols. Seeing my bewildered face, Sano chuckled, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe my ignorance.

"No. And it's called a peigne."

"Ah. Peigne," he repeated, hazel eyes flickering in the crisp air. "It means that he wants to be with you until your hair turns white."

I froze, floored by the significance of such a present. No wonder Sanan had spotted it at once on new year's celebration. Then a shiver ran down my spine; what should have been a declaration of intent felt like a plea to cheat doom. Toshizō and I both knew none of us would reach the greying age... and worse, white hair could also mean turning into a Rasetsu.

Had Kazama succeeded, our Fukuchō would be a creature of the night by now.

"He doesn't show it," Sano mused, "but he can be really sweet."

He did, but only to me. I just nodded to avoid laying more fears at my friend's feet; Harada did not deserve the burden of our visions. He was, after all, the sweetest of them all with his wife and son. Speaking of which....

"Have you heard from Masa?"

"No. I told her not to write. C'est trop dangereux (Too dangerous.)"

I could only bow to his wisdom. When it came to protecting his family, Sanosuke was pretty thorough. A dejected sigh followed his statement, and I squeezed his hand.

"It's not like any letter could reach us anyway...", he added.

"Yeah." Our flight from the Fushimi magistrate, tail between our legs, still stung. Not as much as this stupid slice on my cheekbone, but still... For the thousandth time today, my hand shot up to probe at the strips that held the wound in place.