Chapter Text
Hijikata retraces the path down to the center of the arena that he had first made not even half a day earlier, finding his old footprints leading to the shrubs from the river, only a trace of their original indentations. Snow from the previous night coats them in blankets of itself, the land eerily quiet in the crisp, early morning air.
As he settles into his previous space, his mind naturally beings weighing his odds once more. Four careers remain standing― Abuto and Kada from One, Kamui from Two, Jiraia from Four. He doesn’t know if it came down to it he’d be able to kill any of them. After all, he’s seen their strength in the training room, witnessed intimately the fate that could have struck him with Kada and how it had come to subdue Gintoki in the time after it.
It’s hesitation that kills more than skill.
He is not as experienced as those people. He’d been acutely aware of that fact coming in. He has to use what he has in order to make it out of this alive, of which hesitation can not own space in.
Hijikata finds his vantage point without a hitch. From here, the center of the arena opens up in a wide span until it closes off once more in the dense lining of trees on the other side. The feast is set up on a silver table about a quarter of a kilometer away from the side of the cornucopia and, thankfully, seems to be set further away from it than it was close to it. Bags for the careers had already been seized, leaving only Five, Six, and Seven still waiting for their owners.
Though the odds seemed more favorable than he had pictured them set up in his mind, there was no good reason to rush into this and get himself killed. Surely somewhere along the edge, another tribute was counting down the moments until the perfect one arose, weighing their options the same as him. Of course, being first to grab any of the outlier bags would not be the best option, as the careers were surely awake and watching, waiting for someone brave ― or desperate ― enough to try them.
His heart which had been stuck in his throat since the moment he arrived begins to slow back down to normalcy the longer he sits there and waits. Around thirty minutes pass without so much of a limb shifting free of its heavy snow in the distance. If he didn’t know any better, he’d call it peaceful. Hijikata warms his hands with a breath, flexes his fingers through their swollen protests. He’s just about to slump further back in his place when a flash of darkness darts from its hiding spot past the treeline opposite of him.
It’s a heavy, big body. From his distance, the figure is reminiscent of Ungyou. He sits up, pulling his weapon close as his eyes follow the person. Their legs carry them quickly, too set on getting to the feast to be a career and much too large to be Nobume, which can only mean it’s Harada. Hijikata waits anxiously from his spot, ready to see how the careers react to this stir in the morning’s air.
It dawns on Hijikata all at once that Harada could keep bolting right towards his direction, potentially leading the careers at him unknowingly. With this realization, he secures his backpack as tightly as possible on his body, swallowing the thick lump of spit caught in his throat as he steels himself, prepared to make a break for it. This could be his chance to grab his and Gintoki’s own, too, if all four of the careers decide to chase after the sight of their first prey. Unfortunately for Harada, he could only hope.
Harada makes it all the way to the table and snatches Six’s bag before a body emerges from the cornucopia. He turns tail promptly back where he had come from, to Hijikata’s relief. Even from where he’s crouched, he can hear the piercing laughter of Kada and the voice of one of the other males as they take off in a sprint after him.
Hijikata observes them until they disappear past the treeline, his figure pulled taut. Dread freezes him stiff with its possible outcomes. Breaths leave his lips erratic, shaking. Beads of cold sweat run down his back beneath his jacket. The muscle of his legs feels soft and wobbly before he’s even committed himself to go. He doesn't allow himself the time for his mind to think of it all as a sign; he needs to act now before Kada and the other give up on their chase and he’s once more faced with four against him instead of two.
The thought of returning to Gintoki with empty hands makes him feel sicker than the fear wrecking his stomach. The weight of his spear shifts once in his hands before he takes off, breaking free from the security of the shadows and entering the white scape ahead.
He gets a few good meters out before he stills to a halt, snow kicking up in front of him as he falls back on his ass.
Nobume is cutting through the right side of the arena, not too far down from where Harada had originally emerged. The sight grinds him to an abrupt stop, his thoughts running a mile a minute as he tries to piece together how the scene could change for him with this development.
There is no time to feel comforted by her arrival, nor is there any reason to believe that their allyship will persist. There is only one bag for Five and no telling who between the two of them the gamemakers had catered to. She can have Five’s, but if he runs out for Seven’s now, it’s entirely possible that he’d be seen as a threat, too. The thought is shameful― that he doesn’t trust her trust in him. However, the desperation and desire for survival overrides his heart. He scutters away back beneath the branches nearly on all fours.
Once secluded, he turns to see a lone career emerging from the lip of the cornucopia, a sword in their hand with sunlight reflecting off of its upper edge. The hair is short and dark, which must mean it’s Jiraia. Nobume spots him almost as she gets to the table but continues forth, nabbing the bag and taking off toward the closest treeline.
Jiraia, however, is quick on her tail. Snow barely stirs from where his feet sink in and out of the blanket, his stride light and his legs picking themselves up nimbly so as to not drudge through extra force. He’s past the table before she has the chance to break into the forest.
Something is thrown and she collapses forward into the ground. From where he’s at, it’s hard to tell exactly what happens before Jiraia is close enough to swing. His body eclipses hers. Hijikata is already taking off.
There is no more thinking, no more planning. His breath leaving him in quick huffs is the only sound, his arms and legs carrying him as swiftly as he could toward her the only feeling. Any lingering cowardice and uncertainty abandon him the moment he sees her hit the ground. Even if he doesn’t make it in time, even if he’s not good enough to save her, he refuses to be a traitor to the expectations of both his mentor and his district.
Hijikata makes it close enough to them in less than half a minute, drawing his spear back and letting it soar before Jiraia catches wind of his presence. It sails through the air, sinking into the flesh of the man’s shoulder blade. Shallow ― thanks to the plate of bone ― but a hit nonetheless. The man cries out as Nobume takes the opening to kick him further away.
By this time, it’s growing clear that the career has been left alone, thus outnumbered. Jiraia stumbles back, glancing over his shoulder to find Hijikata still beelining towards him. He reaches with his sword arm to pull the spear loose but Nobume keeps his attention preoccupied with another swift blow, this time to his knee, allotting enough time for him to get there and pull the weapon out from its hold on flesh and bone. With a steady grip on it, he plunges it forward once more in hopes to catch soft tissues in the lower torso, to deal a lethal blow. However, the tip of it drives through nothing but air as the career dodges the path of it, rolling away from the two of them to catch his bearings.
Hijikata places himself between Four and Nobume, allowing her the time to get up, though she stumbles. Jiraia laughs at that or the sudden switch in his circumstances, mumbling beneath his breath words that barely miss Hijikata’s ears. He can guess what they are easy enough. The grip on his short sword is steadied, blood just now beginning to run down and drip off from his non-dominant hand― the wound on his shoulder appeared deeper than originally thought.
“Which one of you is first?” Comes the simple question, five-o’clock shadow turning up with a smirk. Nobume pulls a knife free from the back of her thigh and raises it. There’s no time to prod her with questions, Jiraia plunging forth toward him.
The clashing of metal pierces sharply through the air, ringing in his ears. Birds flee from nearby trees. Swift blows are blocked one by one with the long piece of steel beneath his grasp, his fingertips going numb with the vibration. His thoughts clear to pave the way for focus, fear subdued to another distant feeling like the grinding of his teeth. Nobume darts in on the career’s side, lightning fast. Lethal, and equally as quiet. The swiftness sneaks past him until blood splatters across the snow and over his sleeve, a wail as he slices through the flesh of her arm, her knife still managing to carve a clean slot through his side. Hijikata pulls the spear back from where it had been braced in front of him to cement the other’s fate.
Pain blooms somewhere on his own forearm in the same motion, loosening his grip. He narrowly misses the tip of the next swing that swoops across his chest, the chill of the outside air on his newly opened clothing. Jiraia is deathly nimble and calculated, even as a cornered animal. He shouldn’t have expected any less, even with the trusted body by his side.
He swings inward blindly. It’s by a stroke of sheer luck that the sword that moves to deflect his strike connects solidly in the center of the blade, the tip of it running along the edge with his momentum until it slices halfway through the hand holding it. It’s just enough of a delay that Nobume can bridge the distance.
The thud of a body hitting the ground sounds only a moment later. At his feet, blood pours freely out from the deep slit in Jiraia’s neck, snow melting with the warmth of the fluid. Hijikata’s gaze is caught in the white of his eyes as the other chokes on desperate gasps of air, his mind just beginning to comprehend his fate. Fear looks into him, and Hijikata reflects it back tenfold. Life drains out of the career faster than he’d witnessed it happen to any other tribute, so much so that he can pinpoint the exact moment the soul departs.
The cannon reverberating through the arena is what breaks him from his paralyzation.
Snow chills the rough flesh of his hands, wetting through the thermal fabric of his pants. When he had fallen to his knees is unbeknown to him. Breaths heave unevenly through his lungs, his chest rising and falling with them as he scrambles for the security of his weapon. Before him is only the lifeless body of Jiraia. Nobume is gone, along with the bag from Five and the short sword that had cut new wounds into both of them. He follows her footsteps with his eyes, drops of blood speckling her path. He needs to leave.
Grabbing Seven’s supplies from where they lay untouched by the table, he takes off toward the treeline.
The metal of his spear where the sword had collided dug its rough edges into his palms, though the newly regained sight of his task prevented him from switching the grip. Getting to Gintoki and away from the cornucopia was the top priority― the two solitary thoughts on his mind that carried the weight of his legs for him.
It takes the better half of an hour to reach and scale up the frozen lake. During it, a second cannon shot had cut through the morning. He prays indiscriminately to higher beings and fate that it is not the one he’s returning to.
Past the fallen log, it takes only several long strides before Hijikata is stumbling through the lip of the cave, his knees giving out by Gintoki’s cold figure. Blood runs down his wrist, wetting where the string of the bag is coiled around his fingers. He prys it off, freeing his hand and stuffing it between his thighs to warm it as he wrangles the thing open with his free hand. He’s making noise, but Gintoki has yet to stir, so he speaks clearly: “Gintoki, I’m back.”
There is still no response. Worry begins to take root, his heart dropping. A hand flies toward Gintoki’s neck and checks for his pulse while the other one shakes his arm. “Gintoki?!”
There is a heartbeat, though faint, and Hijikata slaps at his face, not minding to keep it free of blood. “Gintoki! Oi, this isn’t a fucking joke―”
Slowly, his eyes flutter open. The light of his face is paler than before, and blotchy red patches of blood discolor his skin. His lips have darkened with the cold. Still, the presence of life peaks through his lashes, which was all Hijikata needed it to do.
“I have…” He has something, but what that something is is not yet known to him. “I have your bag from the feast.” Is what he settles on, finally rending the opening free and feeling around for its contents. The inner padding is thick to be deceiving, but Hijikata knows exactly what is beneath his fingers as soon as the metal container touches his skin. It was rounded exactly like the ointment Shouyo had gifted Kyuubei, which feels like a lifetime ago. The medicine this time was parted down the center, half filled with ointment, the other empty spare for a single pill.
One task would definitely be the easier one to pull off, so he starts with that: rolling Gintoki over for better access to his stab wound and parting his jacket. Crust from the infection binds the fabric of his shirt to it, Hijikata pulling it free slowly and gently, Gintoki’s face tensing with his haggard, conscious discomfort. It always looks worse each time he gets at it. The wound is festering, red and purple, oozing as it tries and fails to close itself up. Even with the added caution, it begins to bleed again, Hijikata cursing loudly for the cave’s compact walls.
He cleans his hands as best he could, the last water from his flask wetting the floor, blood and dirt mingling at his feet. Half of the ointment is taken, slathered over the wound in a thick layer. What was once clear gel darkens to a rusty hue as it mixes with blood, a sharp breath hissed in from Gintoki when his nail accidentally grazes a swollen, sensitive spot. He apologizes without thinking about it, wiping the residue of the medicine from his fingers onto his pants leg and rummaging through Gintoki’s bag for his canister.
There’s only a sip left, not enough to wash down a pill of the caliber the gamemakers had given them. He debates going outside and cracking the river open, but the water would have to be boiled, and getting this in Gintoki’s system in a timely matter did not favor that approach.
Instead, he holds it above Gintoki’s gaze, and asks instead: “Do you think you can swallow this without choking?” Gintoki’s eyes fall on it, and then to Hijikata’s own before he nods. “You don’t have a lot of water left, but get it at least halfway and you’ll get the last sip for it to go down.”
He receives another nod. “Open, tilt your head back. I’m going to put it on the back of your tongue.” Gintoki does as he’s told, Hijikata’s fingers brushing past his cracking lips and placing the pill. “As much saliva as possible, yeah? Then swallow.”
Eventually, Gintoki’s throat constricts, his adam’s apple bobbing as the medicine goes down. “Good job―” The praise leaves his mouth in a whisper unconsciously, too focused on making sure he doesn’t spill the last bit of Gintoki’s water. His fingers hold up his chin, his eyes watching the moment it leaves the rim of the bottle before pulling it away, only to be caught staring the moment that Gintoki’s tongue wipes his chapped lips.
It’s a silly question, but he desires to ask it all the same, seeking validation: “How are you feeling?”
Gintoki tilts his head to the side. So-so. He shouldn’t have expected anything more yet, but perhaps it was good priming for future self-evaluations. A hand reaches up to his jacket and pulls him in with meager strength in comparison to what he’d been pulled by previously, before it pats down the space next to him. Hijikata understands what he’s being asked to do and although his mouth salivates thinking about getting water for them both, he does as he’s told. That could come after Gintoki falls asleep with his warmth as a companion.
Hijikata does his best not to disturb the ache on Gintoki’s side, sliding in by him and slotting himself in his space. An hour, he decides. An hour he will lay here. That should be enough time for the other to fall back asleep deep enough for Hijikata to slip away.
Gintoki, however, falls asleep without so much as a hitch. His teeth chatter up until the moment his head ebbs down to the side of his shoulder.
He leaves his side roughly twenty or so minutes earlier than planned and takes the bloody knife to carve divots out of the river if it refuses to break beneath his boot. He sets the bonfire up further past the cave, fighting tooth and nail to keep the moist wood of the area burning enough for flames. Eventually, the water inside the canister begins to bubble, heat lapping against the rim of the bottle, but only after the better part of the early afternoon passes by. Hijikata cleans blood and grime free from his skin while the canister cools down enough the pry free from the live coals, assessing his knicks and cuts from the battle earlier.
He’d been lucky to get out of it as good as he did. The wound on his forearm needed bandaging, but it was shallow in comparison to what Nobume had been dealt. It was still capable of gripping and being used, thus he deemed it minor. The slit down his chest, though barely breaking the skin, stung with the same fervor of a cat scratch. The winter air the new opening in his clothes invited was invasive even by the fire. It would be a hassle to figure out how to sew shut.
Blood is caked beneath his fingernails, which he cleans out carefully with the tip of the knife’s spine. They’ve grown much longer than he would ever keep them at home. The thought to tear the excess off while he was looking at them arises, but the idea that they might become a possible weapon stops him from following through with it. He douses his face in the cold water of the stream, hoping that type of thinking doesn’t continue after the games, if he lives to see it.
Hijikata tries not to take his time by the river. Footprints he left fleeing lead in this general area, and he did not want to be caught out in the open if vengeful careers happen to make their way in the right direction. Once the canisters have boiled long enough and the blades he’s set out burned to sterilization, he stomps out the fire with his bloody boot and coats it in a layer of snow.
The trek back down to the cave by the river is easier than the trek up. When he returns, the gleam of a silver parachute is hung on the lowest tree limb, making it a wonder how Gintoki was still asleep. He snatches the thing free from the pine and rounds the entrance to the cave with excitement bubbling in his chest. The warm water canister is set down and into the crook of Gintoki’s arms instantly, something to keep him at bay from the chill while Hijikata works on prying the lid of the gift open. It was from Kondo, along with a note that read, “Sorry for the wait, Toshi.” He can’t help but huff at the nickname, the familiarity of the voice that came with it comforting.
Inside is a thin, curved, golden needle and what he assumed to be surgical thread, wound in a tight coil on a spool. In the same way Shouyo had looked out for him when he was with Kyuubei and Yamazaki, Kondo had now gifted Hijikata’s ally something vitally life-saving― if he can figure out how to stitch it correctly. Gintoki, who had been stirred by the sudden warmth peeks his eyes open, surveying the lip of the cave before finally landing on Hijikata, who was threading the needle. He huffs, knowing already where it was going, and shifts his weight up and into a better position. Hijikata pulls aside his clothes once he gets the thread through the eye and secures a knife.
He marvels at how much better the wound looks already, even after only a few hours. Something akin to giddiness rises to his chest― the light, fluttery feeling of hope.
The first poke through the skin makes his own crawl. His hands are shaky, certainly not worthy of a doctor’s, but no amount of pure willpower would be enough to disperse the fatigue and anxiousness that have ingrained themselves into him since he was freed from the pedestal. Though, once he gets a few through, Hijikata is a soundless worker. The new lesions on the aching, already agitated skin is present and painful enough that Gintoki takes to biting his jacket’s hood to quell it away. Hijikata checks on him halfway through the stitch and finds beads of sweat prickling the skin of his forehead. Gintoki urges him to continue with a flavorful variety of curses following the plea.
It takes him several more minutes to complete the sewing, his inexperience with the procedure leading to arguably excessive caution. Eventually the knot gets tied, Hijikata wiping the fresh pricks of blood from the wound before slathering another layer of the medicine atop of it.
He clears the air from his lungs with a sigh, a dull ache in his chest from where he’d been holding his breath in concentration. He pulls the hem of Gintoki’s shirt down back over the wound, clasping the end of the jacket’s zipper next and zipping it to his throat.
A hand finds his wrist in the process. Hijikata’s gaze naturally falls towards the frostbite on Gintoki’s fingers before it meets his eyes. That swift second of distraction was enough to startle him as lips pressed against his own ― chapped and cold ― the weight of a kiss something too foreign and far removed from the gravity of their situation to register properly in his brain. It overwhelms him, silencing his coherent thoughts in pure bewilderment.
Hijikata does not kiss back nor does he tear his gaze away from the dirt caught in the crease of Gintoki’s shut eyelids, too stunned to do anything other than listen to blood beat in his ears. Seconds pass by like minutes. His heart bangs against his ribcage as if it was trying to burst free. Fingers press into the back of his neck, barely brushing past his hair. This― he pulls away from, sucking a shaky breath in through his agape mouth, eyes wide, speechless.
The hand on his neck squeezes the muscle beneath it before it leaves, a shiver running through his spine at the touch. A thousand questions race through his mind but his expression seems to do enough talking, as Gintoki breaks the silence with a chuckle.
“What? Don’t tell me that was your first.”
His chest rises and falls several times before he finally finds a reply.
“No.”
“Then why do you look scared of me?”
Hijikata blinks; tearing his eyes away and covering his mouth with a bloody palm. His cheeks feel like he’s been out in the sun: warm and presumably reddened with embarrassment. A rebuttal falls from his mouth before he has time to process exactly what he desires to say, “―’m not scared.”
Gintoki leans closer at that, forcing Hijikata’s attention on him. The shift of his clothes makes his pulse race. “Then grant the wish of a poor, dying man and allow me another?”
He feels his face pinch at that, irritated. “You’re not going t―” Gintoki shuts him up quickly, pressing into his space, the distance between them crossed in a second. This time, however, it only takes moments for Hijikata to give way into it, his head dipping slightly to the side as he leans in, his hands finding the bend of Gintoki’s knee to ground himself. A sigh leaves Gintoki’s nose at the same moment the muscle beneath Hijikata’s fingers laxes, warming his upper lip.
In the darkness of his eyelids and the caress of another’s hand on his cheek, Hijikata finds the closest thing to peace he’s felt since the hours before the reaping. Like this, the uncertainty of their situation bleeds into obscurity, the fear of what the next hour holds a distant concern.
Outside, the wind picks up. It blows a benign gust into the heavy air of the cave. Hijikata catches it rustle lightly through the disheveled bangs of Gintoki’s hair as he pulls away, his lashes obscuring the view as they hesitantly break free from the spell. A knuckle wipes stray saliva from the corner of his mouth, an observant red gaze following the motion.
Gintoki falls back against the stone, eyes cast up towards some nondescript nook in the rocky ceiling. His hand returned to its home pressing into his side; Hijikata’s own fresh wound throbbed at the acknowledgment of the other’s. Then, barely a whisper, his voice raspy and low: “I understand why she cried now. When you left her by the river.”
His brows furrow, confused. Gintoki cuts him off before he has time to question.
“You’re an easy man to fall in love with.”