as sick as they can get

Disclaimer: I do not own Gintama or anything associated with it.

For Okita Sougo, love was simple. It could be summed up with one name: Mitsuba.

Definitions from every song, movie, soap opera all boiled down to everything his sister had done for him and with him, and everything he was willing to do for her. There was no need to turn it into poetry. It was there, it had a face and a name and the gentlest hands and it regularly sent him spicy food.

Her dying was the entire universe turning its back on him. For a long time, nothing tasted right. New slaves meant nothing, bloodbaths and soap operas and love meant nothing, trying to kill Hijikata-san meant nothing because as much as he hated to admit it, the bastard was the one closest to understanding how he felt. Sougo supposed that for Hijikata-san, love was pretty simple, too.

Love was just losing.

When he first met the little shit who would someday pick her nose and slowly but thoroughly smear her snot all over his definitions, he had no time to be confused. He didn't want to be confused.

As he found out more about her, he established her status as a massive pain in the ass. She was an illegal immigrant, a Yorozuya employee, part Yato and part sukonbu (at the rate she was consuming them, it wasn't impossible). She managed to inherit the Yorozuya Boss' bad habits through proximity and sheer determination to be an utter menace to society. She was loud, she wasn't an M, she was a competitive candidate for the position of the biggest idiot in the galaxy, she didn't respect authority or order or the law, he wanted to punch her in the face every time he saw her, and for the love of fuck, she rattled around inside his head, smashing things to pieces and refusing to leave.

But she was brave and strong and compassionate and all the positive adjectives Sougo would never allow past his mouth. Holding back was not in her dictionary. Every time he fought her, life inched a little closer to perfect. She protected as fiercely as she kicked ass, and always helped people when she could.

She cared. She cared for people so damn much. She bled for family, friends and strangers with zero hesitation. She told him what he needed to hear without being sappy or condescending about it.

And horrifyingly enough, she was also lovely.

Still, with her being a dumb monster pig and him being in denial, it took him a while to realize that.

She happened gradually to him, like a stick being shoved slowly up his asshole. It hurt and he wanted to slice himself open because he was convinced that it was the only way he would go back to normal. He was undone. He was back to not understanding his own body and its internal functions and why the damn China girl smiling could disrupt said functions, why the distance between them made him ache.

He went with trial and error. He tried widening the gap, staying away from her. No matter how far he was, the ache remained. Like forgetting to record his soap opera reruns. Or letting a day go by without blowing something (Hijikata-san) up. Only much, much worse. There was a sense of incompleteness he didn't want to dwell on, so he resigned himself to staying close to her in order to get rid of the annoying feeling.

Except it didn't work. It was an almost physical object in his chest. She would laugh in the middle of their fight simply because she was having so much fun, and it would do him in far more effectively than her Yato strength ever would.

Oi, Sougo! Quit slacking and get up!

I'm sick, Hijikata-san.

Damn right you are, you little shit. Now stop napping!

Not in the mood for this. I'm literally sick, Hiji-baka.

Silence. Probably frowning. Realizing that he was serious. A click of the lighter. What happened to you?

Nothing. Nothing he could explain.

That Yorozuya girl finally find a way to kill you?

Yanked his sleeping mask off before he realized what he was doing. The hell you mentioning her for? What'd make you think she has something to do with me being sick, huh? Not everything is about her. All that white shit has finally replaced your brain, Hiji-baka.

A beat of silence. Another. A third. Nothing moved in the entire universe.

Then a plume of smoke. Aha.

And just like that, he knew he was found out. So he said nothing.

Reminds me of a little sickness I had. Breathed out gray clouds, little ghosts. Thought it would go away if I pretended it didn't exist. That didn't work. Thought I could cure it if I left. Embers drifting to the ground. That didn't work, either. Apparently the secret is that nothing ever works.

Nothing?

Nothing except going to the cause of it.

With hope in his voice: And kill it?

A derisive snort. Like it'd be that easy, idiot. You gotta do something worse: be honest with it.

Contemplative silence. Wrestling with the idea of it. And then it'll go away?

Nope. It's going to get worse.

Like I thought, you're useless, Hijikata-san.

But it's also going to feel real good.

The hell are you even talking about?

Well. Unlike you, I am a responsible officer of the law, and I have a job to do. If you want to stop being sick, you can just go to Kabuki District and find some kinda medicine around there. But if you just wanna use that sickness as an excuse to keep slacking off, go commit seppuku.

Glared at his retreating back. A hundred different reasons to ignore the mayonnaise moron.

Two simple reasons not to:

1) Said mayonnaise moron knew exactly what he was talking about.

2) There may be the faintest, tiniest, slightest possibility that Okita Sougo may or may not be in love with a certain dumbass whose name he never dared speak even in his own head, because somebody might hear the way he said it and realize that he—

As it has been said:

Love and a cough

cannot be concealed.

Even a small cough.

Even a small love.

Sitting on their usual park bench. Blue sky. Cool breeze murmuring through the trees. In the distance, voices. The world turning.

Footsteps approaching. Loud barks. Heavy paws on the grass. Growling. The sound of chewing. The smell of sukonbu and cheap shampoo.

Looked at her. Really looked at her. Red hair. Pale skin. Wide eyes the color of bruises. That small mouth still sucking on that disgusting snack. Him focusing on that mouth. Everything inside him clenching. Want. Need.

Waited for her to say something about corrupt cops. Swing that umbrella and try to bash his head in. Start the usual fight so they can complete each other's days.

Instead, without preamble: You do not feel like fighting. You are bothered by something, yes?

Abnormally perceptive when it came to him, as usual. Your stink bothers me, China girl.

Didn't rise to the bait. (They must be growing old now.) Kept walking towards him, raising her umbrella. Poked him in the cheek with it. (Or not.) Do not look so down, chihuahua. I am sure you will get lucky someday and beat me, yes?

She was smirking at him and he wanted to kiss her. If he opened his mouth now, something monumentally stupid would come out, he was sure of it.

She stopped poking him. Leaned down to peer at his face. So close the ends of her hair were brushing against his chest. Oi. What is wrong with you today, sadist?

Too close. She was too close and words were coming out of his mouth without his permission. Maybe I'm just starving, China girl. I'm so hungry I could even tolerate that disgusting thing you're eating right now.

Didn't think she'd actually do it—she was too possessive of her food—but there she was, pulling a strip of sukonbu from her packet and handing it to him. More worried than she let on. He must have looked worse than he thought.

Put it in his mouth. Too sour. How the hell did she eat these things?

Leaning towards him again, this time perhaps closer than before. Well? It is delicious, yes? Even sadists must know this.

Chewed on it. Ish terrible.

Opened her mouth to defend her snack or possibly say the thing that will finally lead to them fighting. But he was done thinking straight and he closed his mouth over hers, shoving the sukonbu between her teeth. Drew away and stood up ever so casually. Pocketed his hands to hide their shaking. And her, just staring at him with her mouth still open, her precious snack lying limp on her tongue.

(He knew it wasn't a confession, nor was it as honest as he wanted to be…)

He faced her. Come on, China girl. Let's get some real food.

A beat of silence. Another. A third. Nothing moved in the entire universe.

Then her umbrella, swinging. It smashed right into his face. You perverted chihuahua!

Groaned. Cradled his now bleeding nose. You're overreacting, China girl.

Her umbrella thwacked him on the head. You idiot sadist! Thwack. Good-for-nothing! Thwack. Next time, do it properly!

He hid his surprise and smiled a little. Whatever you say, China.

(…but it was a start.)

A/N: I'm sorry for this. It's so confused and jumbled up together and I didn't think it through properly. I just needed to write it.

Also, this thing—

As it has been said:

Love and a cough

cannot be concealed.

Even a small cough.

Even a small love.

—is from Anne Sexton's poem Small Wire.