smoking area

A/N: Sorry for disappearing; life kinda got in the way hehe.

And oh, a warning: this contains their velocity spoilers, so you might wanna read that first. It's long but tolerable, I promise.

Enjoy!

JUNE 11, seven days post-incident

The ashtray doesn't shatter when he throws it. It thunks against the wall, smacks him right in the face, and clatters to the floor.

Sonovabitch, that actually hurts. Hijikata rubs his nose but can't even muster the energy to make a sound. He sits on the bed and eyes the ashtray, which sits before him, clearly unimpressed by his attempt at a dramatic display.

"Shut the fuck up," he says to it.

It says nothing. Clearly it does not feel the need to sink to his level.

Hijikata blows out a breath, one of the many he finds himself holding these days. Dozens of inhales without exhales. Each one carries with it a faint scent of vanilla - the last piece of her in his home. The rest he gave away or burned.

Loss is practical that way.

The ring, however, he keeps. He wears it around his neck. I was gonna get married. Now I'm not. She died. I'm doing fine, thanks.

It's the fastest way to tell them, that's all.

Hijikata stands and picks the ashtray up. It fits well in his palm, its cut-glass surface clear. She never approved of how often and how much he smokes, but she got him the ashtray anyway, because it looks like the one he bought with his first paycheck, the one he can't remember losing.

He fights the urge to throw it again. Instead, he puts it on top of his nightstand that's for the living room, toshirou, really, what am I going to do with you? and walks out of the bedroom to the veranda, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and his lighter out. He lights one and leans on the railing, sucking in a breath full of smoke.

Clear. Calm. Cold.

This is the only way he can replay that entire day in his head. He has to, because no one else will. Because that day is his fuck-up. He has to go over the operation, the details, the orders he gave, the orders he didn't give, what he did, what he should have done, what he could have done.

Everyone around him skirts around the topic, afraid to even mention the damn date of the incident in his presence. Afraid to mention her. When his colleagues discuss it, they call her 'the hostage'. 'The civilian'. 'The casualty'. Hell, he calls her that. Just to show them he can talk about the op like a professional. Like a leader. Like he knows what the fuck he's doing.

Smoke clouds his view of the city. He taps the cigarette on the railing, ash and ember falling away from the tip that's what ashtrays are for, silly and exhales gray.

He waits for the air to clear and looks at the street below. Windows like dead eyes peer from buildings with dead neon signs. A man in a suit hobbles down the sidewalk, laughing at a joke made several drinks ago. He grabs streetlamps for support and grins at them. Every single one of them.

Hijikata watches the man's progress, mind adrift. This is the only way he can go through the wedding checklist. What is already done must be undone, reservations unmade, refundable deposits refunded. Dates marked on calendars are now dates without events. Deadlines have lost their gravity. The guest list: radio silence on his end. He has assumed they already know. Everyone on that list must have gotten wind of the news, one way or another.

It's the visions he can't do anything about. Their visions. The design of a cake not yet ordered. The reception decor. The gifts for attendees. Her hair. Her dress. He hasn't even seen it once. She would have looked devastating in it. Her vows. His vows. The honeymoon in Hyogo. A week in Kinosaki Onsen. The long walks they were going to take. The taste of seawater in her mouth.

Fuck.

Loss builds in his chest. Accumulates. Rises up his throat like a skyscraper, almost leaves his mouth.

Fuck.

He should have been more careful. He should have planned more thoroughly. He should have foreseen the hostage angle. He should have found the mole sooner.

He struggles to breathe in. He almost doesn't want to, but he does it anyway.

The man in a suit has long rounded a corner and disappeared from his view, but Hijikata can still hear him laughing.

He breathes out, the sound too loud. Loss implodes and collapses on itself. It hurts more than it did when it built. But it has to be done. He will give himself time until he is the picture of composure.

Breakdowns are for people who are not Hijikata Toshirou. He has things to do, places to be, broken little sadists to take care of.

So he stands there, smoking, waiting for the sunrise, planning for a terrorist attack already foiled, unplanning a wedding that will never happen.

#

A/N: Consider me on semi-hiatus i.e. i'm busy but cannot stay away from these idiots. Originally, this was going to be a super long one-shot. Yeahhh that's not going to happen. Will be a series of vignettes-ish instead. Updates are guaranteed, but frequency and promptness will be, well, unguaranteed.

Haven't written anything in a while, so feedback on how I wrote Hijikata here would be appreciated. Too angsty? OOC? Not angsty enough? No feels? Whatever helps. Thanksss