What makes history (Hijikata x OC)

In sickness and in health

Hours went by; sore muscles impaired my sleep. The nightmares weren't much better, memories of men sliced by my blade. Men digging graves with branches for their fallen comrades. People burying me alive... And that resigned look in Kazama's eyes as Hijikata severed his head, laughing at us when his decapitated body walked away. The fever fluctuated; I froze to death, then sweated all my water away. The stench was now mine, mingled with iodine and moist; I couldn't help but duck in shame every time a friend decided to visit.

Days couldn't pass fast enough.

At last, on the third day, I found the strength to walk up to the deck, if only to get a breath of fresh air. Despite the many months I'd spent on Jack Aubrey's Man-o-War, I still hated enclosed spaces. Especially those that smelt like disease. Chizuru changed the linens and helped me get rid of the crust of sweat with a basin of hot water. But nothing held a candle to watching the sea, and feeling the breeze sweep at my damp hair.

How I wanted to jump in !

Of course, I was swarmed by captains at once. Sanosuke first, of course, who tried to support me as I slowly made my way to the bow. I lost track of the number of times I yelled at him to stay away; it would be catastrophic if he reunited with his family only to spread a disease. But he ignored all my protests, only sighing about the missed chance – again ! – to travel the Tokkaido road. I was regaled with the tale of the Shinsengumi's migration from Edo to Kyoto through the Nakasendō road.

"I bet Serizawa mistook us for mountain goats, tch."

"Before or after he had the inn burnt in Kondō-san's name ?" Shinpachi piped in.

I remembered Toshizō mentioning the incident once, and wouldn't fathom how gentle and honourable Kondō must have felt watching an honest man's income burn to ashes in his name. Was it so very different from losing men for the sake of the Shōgun?

The conversation soon steered from the memory of the great – or rather, terrible - Serizawa-dono to brush politics and the Daimyōs susceptible to join Aizu in the fight against imperialist. Heisuke popped by, chatting my ear off; Okita as well, with a smirk upon his lips, yet serious eyes.

Eventually, though, a tall shadow appeared and we all cringed at Fukuchō's thundering expression.

"Kitsu," he growled.

He grabbed my arm and pulled me back against him. My feet almost didn't touch the ground as he dragged me downstairs, and I took advantage of his proximity to bask in his warmth, just for a moment. But when he closed the door of the diminutive cabin, I couldn't help but shrink under his pointed stare. Then he knelt by my side, and tucked a piece of my horribly dirty hair behind my ear.

His lips lifted into a gentle smile, and I blinked in bewilderment. What, he wasn't pissed?

"Harada was right. Those curls are cute."

What? My heart twisted in surprise; had he been listening to our conversation that day? It was so long ago that it almost felt like a lifetime. Too much had happened. But more importantly, I remembered he had been talking with Yamazaki this very evening. Seemed like Fukuchō could listen to many conversations at once ... was it the reason he always knew everything that went on at the compound?

"You shouldn't be so close, Toshi," I responded. "You're exhausted and I'm afraid you'll catch my illness."

His eyes softened, but he heeded my warning and retreated slightly. "Don't worry. I'm sturdy."

I gave him a lopsided smile. Men and their tendency to believe themselves invincible. Or was it warriors? His hand squeezed mine, and I found myself wanting more ... so much more. I dreamt of cuddles, kisses, and to fall asleep on his naked form. I wanted to become his blanket, and slumber the nights away tucked into his embrace. The wave of longing came so suddenly that I felt my chest squeeze.