Chapter Text
Gintoki knows many things. This, Toshirou knows like he knows the imperceptible bullet wound scar on the back of his own hand — well aware although rarely considered. Sakata Gintoki had his ears peeled to his windows where little birds perched willingly, or unwillingly — he doesn’t know (truly, what does he know about Gintoki except that he still had all his wisdom teeth — a drunken confession during an unbearable summer’s night — and that his grip was — begrudgingly — stronger than Toshirou’s if only by very very little because when they pulled at each other’s collars on the streets, Gintoki pulled him in just that little) and the birdies wallowed and cried and whispered and brought him love letters or bad omens or whatever Sakata Gintoki needed to exert control over the people he considered his.
So when he pushes Gintoki’s doorbell, covered head-to-toe in amanto goop, Gintoki considering him without much surprise isn’t very surprising. Wow. Toshirou nearly applauds him. Congratulations, you creep, he would say, did you also figure out I’ve been struggling with a chipped toenail on my right foot? You did? Fucking congratulations I guess. Would you prefer that therapy session for takeout or for dining-in? Toshirou doesn’t say any of this. After all, the house across the street he stationed Yamazaki inside to spy on Gintoki all those months ago looms over his shoulder like an overbearing school teacher.
Neither of them speak because battle is only won with patience. To onlookers, it must look tense and awkward like two not-strangers meeting in the middle of the night unwillingly, neither of whom thankfully liked the prospect of cleaning up the blood in case they stabbed each other in the eye with whatever sharp object was within reach (Toshirou could probably break the door and use the splinters if he was willing enough) but that’s not exactly what this was. Toshirou only comes here when he has reason to, and reason rarely submits to chance. Especially not with Toshirou’s job. This is that rare visit, so Toshirou rolls his dice. He says, “Do you remember in July when Glasses chased you out of the diner for skipping on his salary? Or was it because you spent it all on pachinko? I believe the details don’t matter either way.” Gintoki considers him with his unnerving poker face.
He was, afterall, not an idiot. Gintoki was a cunning enough man. He leans heavily on his door frame in response, refusing any sort of invitation. Toshirou grits his teeth. “Really?”
“Yeah. Baa-chan assumed we were friends because — well, I suppose she is old and not very reasonable. In any case, I was forced to pay your bill.”
“That’s not possible.” Gintoki says, “I have a tab there.”
“Yeah.” Toshirou says, “A tab that doesn’t exist. Now, can you imagine how many times I’ve paid your bill?”
Gintoki remains quiet, but there’s that twitch to his mouth that Toshirou recognises as amusement. “It’s true what they call you, then.” He says, “A messenger of the devil.”
“No one has ever called me anything like that.”
“A demon.” Gintoki digresses.
“Yeah, that — I’ve been called.”
“A demon bidding for his chance, huh?” Gintoki gives him a once-over and winces dramatically, “What is that, slime? Did you vandalise a kids toy store?”
Toshirou shifts his weight and tilts his head up to look down his nose at Gintoki — his bangs clumped thickly, his skin sticky. “It rained.”
Gintoki smiles, small and entertained. “Let's say that it did. Getting back to the point — you let me think I had a tab and you kept paying for my meals so you had I-O-Us hanging over my head? So, what? So you could one day bring—” he points at Toshirou’s height— “All this inside my home?” Gintoki gasps, “Truly, what has the world come to? The government sure is corrupt. I say we stop feeding your schmuck organisation our hard-earned taxes.”
“I’d prefer a broken tape-recorder to you.”
Gintoki scoffs, “Who even uses those anymore? But if you insist — and promise to cross off all my non-consensual I-O-Us — I’ll introduce you to a lady who can sell you one. It might be cursed, though — just a heads-up. I know how you prefer to jump in with both feet when it comes to those. Hey, how’d your doujin sell, by the way?”
“I want a shower.”
“Where’s your please and thank you?”
“Shoved far up your ass. Want me to get it for you?”
There’s that twitch of his mouth again. “You sure know how to impress.”
Toshirou flaps his heavy wrist. Goop flies. “Of course.”
Gintoki moves away. Toshirou follows him to the bathroom after taking off his shoes and socks that stick thickly to his skin yet come off smoothly. Toshirou grimaces. As they walk, his gaze becomes fixated on Gintoki’s broad shoulders. Gintoki had such a homely gait — the sound of his naked footsteps on the wooden floor so painfully nostalgic. He glances over his shoulder only once, their gazes meeting, and Toshirou wonders what Gintoki could have confirmed from that singular look. Gintoki doesn’t enter the dressing room attached to the bathroom with him, instead standing right outside the open door— waiting for Toshirou to close it? No. So Toshirou thinks about Gintoki waiting to watch Toshirou shed his clothing, his blazer first, obviously, then his vest. His shirt would come off a little slowly because of all the buttons that need undoing, and the anticipation would be a fire burning down objects as quickly as burning paper or as slow as dining tables riddled with memories — or hearts. Toshirou imagines that: holding Gintoki’s heart in his palm and setting it on fire. Gintoki would look at him impassively then too.
But — but Gintoki would look at him when Toshirou bared his shoulders and his tender-skinned flank, his ass when his pants came off; the back of his thighs, and when Toshirou turned around to hand over his clothes, his bare, half-hard cock. Toshirou thinks about standing inside Gintoki’s home, in his bathroom — naked, just like that. For Gintoki to see, for him to remember, for him to desire. Thinks about Gintoki desiring him — and Toshirou already knows that Gintoki has a thing for his arms and his neck and his shoulders, by virtue of his indecent, excessive staring whenever Toshirou wears the thin layer of his yukata. Toshirou wonders where Gintoki’s gaze will return to the most if he was bare like that. Perhaps the inside of his elbows, maybe the crease of his groin; the emphasised V of his hips, his knees, maybe, or would it be the mole next to his belly button, hidden to anyone and everyone but — but to him.
Toshirou’s breath is a creature trapped inside his chest, struggling to escape. Gintoki taps the door. “Leave the clothes there.” He says, his words like marbles rolling along the dirt road, “I’ll get you new ones.”
Toshirou grunts. The door shuts behind him.
Stripping is hurdled by the heaviness of the sticky substance drenching him. Thankfully, it doesn’t stink, or Toshirou would be having a completely different night. It has a mild scent — briefly Toshirou wonders what it is. Mucous, maybe? Or saliva? Then he shakes his head gently to himself. Better stop right there. Toshirou slides open the frosted folding doors. It’s a cramped shower room; a large bathtub with a detachable showerhead taking up a majority of the space. Toshirou goes inside without stepping on the floor mat and closes the door behind him. He can’t remember the last time he’s had a private bath to himself; either bathing in the communal showers at headquarters or at public bathhouses. He sighs as his shoulders slump altogether. Toshirou turns the tap to fill the tub, checking the temperature and adjusting it.
There are two shampoos. Toshirou brings each under his nose. One smells like — something. Toshirou doesn’t know, maybe some kind of flower. The other one smells like Gintoki; the scent that comes to mind when he thinks of shampoo. Toshirou grabs the stool and sits down once the tub is filled. He cleans himself, lathering his hair and finds a bar of soap, and it feels like he’s thieving, taking something which does not belong to him. He thrills, nonetheless, like a child learning there’s no school on a weekday, to let such a miniscule thing hang in the air between them, inconsequential surely, yet — yet. Because this was Gintoki’s smell on him, and who would notice? Except for himself — and except for Gintoki? He scrubs until his arms ache; his armpits and the clumped up hair there, his nape, thoroughly behind his ears and the twisting cartilage of its shell between his index and the pad of his thumb — until the top of his shoulders is a raw wound, and then finally washing himself under the showerhead. When he steps into the tub and the hot water comes up to his calf, swallowing up the soreness in his muscles, Toshirou sighs again, sinking into the bath, his knees two curves of ragged mountains poking out.
Outside, the door to the changing room opens and Toshirou sees the vague silhouette of Gintoki coming in to collect his clothes and put new ones in their stead. He wonders if Gintoki was doing the same; carefully perusing the figure of Toshirou inside his bathroom.
“Do you want these washed?” Gintoki asks, his voice muffled. Toshirou takes his time answering, leaning his arm across the tub’s rim and resting his cheek along it. Gintoki waits like he can’t leave the room. And Toshirou thinks about — sex. He imagines Gintoki opening the unlocked door and walking inside the shower room when Toshirou refuses to answer, imagines him looking at Toshirou’s naked body swirling within the bathwater, mostly-hidden, and his skin nowhere and everywhere all at once; peeking out in accordance to Toshirou’s intentions. Toshirou imagines Gintoki stepping right up to him to feed him his hard cock. Toshirou wonders — the warmth of the bath getting to his head — how Gintoki liked to fuck. Whether he would push his glans into the pouch of Toshirou’s cheek and shallowly fuck him like that, rubbing his texture languidly and roughly along Toshirou’s tongue; getting off on the aesthetic value while Toshirou made pretty sounds. Or whether Gintoki preferred to push his cock into Toshirou’s throat, its weight hitting the back, urging on his gag reflex and causing him to choke — forcing Toshirou to make ugly noises and hollow his cheeks. Whether Gintoki would pinch Toshirou’s nostrils closed and make him struggle, make him swallow over and over and over around his cock. He would kneel in the tub; in Gintoki’s bathtub, and memorise the shape of his cock using his tongue and stain the back of his teeth with its taste.
“No.” Toshirou answers, his voice groggy. He presses his forehead to the rim of the tub, gulping harshly, his eyes closed shut.
“I left clothes for you here.”
Toshirou grunts, almost says wait when Gintoki leaves.
Settling better into the bath and ignoring his half-hard cock — it’s dirty, he thinks compulsively, to get off in someone else’s home without them knowing, and besides, when else would he get the chance to take a bath in private? — Toshirou relaxes into the water slowly growing lukewarm, resting his head back against the tub to stare at the narrow and high ceiling. His feet slide against ceramic, fingers tapping at a regular rhythm. If only he had a cigarette. Not that he can smoke in someone else’s bathroom, and his cigarette pack was soaked through and useless now.
That’s how Toshirou liked to fuck, he thinks — bone-loose and allconsuming; his mind on nothing else but on his body and his pleasure. He would like to smoke a cigarette, Toshirou considers, as he languidly rides Gintoki’s cock, relaxing into the sensations. Toshirou wonders if Gintoki was also like him, or whether he’d become impatient — animalistically chasing completion. Toshirou’s fingers push along his sides, imagining Gintoki in his place and shies away within the next moment, refusing further thoughts.
When he’s done, Toshirou drains the tub and steps outside on the floor mat. He picks up the towel Gintoki has left him and dries himself off absently. The colour of the yukata Gintoki has given him is a gentle lavender; the colour of wisteria. Toshirou ties the grey obi around his hips and walks outside into Gintoki’s kitchen and then into the living room.
Gintoki is sitting behind his desk and appraises Toshirou shamelessly for a moment in which they both liked to pretend nothing was amiss — as per usual. So then, nothing really was amiss, wasn't it?
“I have something for you.” Gintoki says, beckoning him closer. “Write off another I-O-U for it, won’t you?”
Toshirou stands next to Gintoki and looks at the paper on his desk. Then he stares disbelievingly.
“How’d you—” Toshirou picks it up, “Why do you have this?”
Gintoki leans back in his chair. It creaks noisily under his weight. “I don’t know. It was here all of a sudden.” He lies.
“This is evidence.”
“Is it? I wouldn’t know. I just thought that if it was lost and found I should hand it over to a cop, you know?”
“This is incriminating evidence.”
“Yeah?”
Toshirou glares at him. Gintoki smiles unassumingly. “Robbery is a crime.”
“Then you should apprehend the criminal— who is not me, by the way.”
“I’m gonna get to the bottom of this, you know that right?”
“Man,” Gintoki sighs, still smiling, “Are you gonna stalk me like your wayward commander again? Go ahead— I can’t control my fans.”
Toshirou grits his teeth and grabs a fistful of Gintoki’s hair— the closest thing within reach. “Bastard,” he hisses.
Gintoki hums, dragging Toshirou closer by a firm grip on his obi — Gintoki’s obi — and it’s very uncharacteristic. He would expect Gintoki to scream back or— or something. Toshirou can’t concentrate very well past the mix of frustration and confusion and anticipation making his thoughts unclear. “Don’t pull so hard.” Gintoki says severely, wrapping his fingers around Toshirou’s wrist firmly. Toshirou tightens his grip and Gintoki hisses, tugging on his clothing again so Toshirou becomes off-balance, almost crashing into Gintoki. “Don’t write off that I-O-U if it bothers you so much.” Gintoki tells him, looking up through his unruly bangs. Lecherous, arrogant, unbelievable, “Come on,” he pats Toshirou’s waist, running tickling fingers along his sides until he gripped Toshirou’s hair on the back of his head, “Come on.”
He tugs once — meaningfully — and Toshirou lets go immediately. He steps back, adjusts his obi and hides the paper inside his collar. His face is flushed. Toshirou refuses to look at Gintoki and walks to the front door, realising once more that the moment Toshirou stepped foot within Kabukichou, there would be nothing Gintoki wouldn’t know about him. He gulps, stealing a pair of Gintoki’s sandals. The night air is chilling across his warm skin. The spot on his scalp stings.