A/N: It's been a while, you guys. Sorry for the long break, but, you know. Life and things. Anyway, since the world is going to hell I decided to reread Gintama to make myself laugh. I ended up crying most of the time, of course. And so I am back.

I feel like I've gotten quite rusty, but that's nothing practice won't fix.

I hope you enjoy anyway.

JUNE 14

Hijikata Toushirou is not a complete weirdo.

He takes pleasure in normal, everyday shit: copious volumes of mayonnaise, nicotine, the way light falls through windows and curtains, the sound a house makes when someone you love arrives, well-fitted uniforms, a beautifully crafted ashtray, the sound a house makes when you arrive to someone you love, long train rides, sushi and nicotine.

He wants to explain this to every stranger he passes, even though he's wearing his coat and no one can see the patches on his arms.

There are days when he doesn't feel like explaining himself to anyone, when the voices of everyone asking him how he's doing sounds like a distant ringing after a nearby explosion. But he knows to nod anyway, say he's doing just fine.

And then there are days like this, when he feels like stopping everyone in their tracks to talk to them.

I walked these streets with her. In the morning, after spending the night in my apartment, she insisted on walking home.

Oi, you! The soles of your shoes are touching the ground she stepped on—tread carefully, jackass!

And you. You are buying from the bakery that sells her favorite spiced buns in the city, the old man who runs it didn't say anything when I told him about her, just gave me more buns than I know what to do with and some mayonnaise, and his fingers are brushing against your palm as he hands you your change, as he has surely touched dozens, hundreds of other hands in his lifetime including hers—

Hey, don't throw your trash in that alley, there was a night the three of us spent hours there, hammered as hell, because Sougo kept throwing up and insisting he lived there, and it wasn't long before she was throwing up too, and Sougo declared he would never approve of someone who can't even vomit in solidarity with his sister, Sougo—

Hijikata stops walking for the briefest second, then goes on. He shakes himself. His hand twitches toward his pockets where his lifeline waits, but he curls them into fists.

It's Sunday morning and the city is waking up. Sunlight scrapes against towering buildings. Windows come alive. Doors are opening and people are spilling across sidewalks and parking lots.

There is no rain. The sky is immense, is cloudless, is so blue it makes the mountain peaks look like old wounds. It's warm, but not hot.

On any other day like this Hijikata would be frantically turning the city inside-out looking for Sougo, or the freelancers, whichever party is more likely to destroy public property and/or cause irreparable chaos.

They would be making their own little crashes and explosions: bullets tearing through the silence, an umbrella smacking police officers from one district to another, tossed like ragdolls, sniper rifles twisted and bent into Neo Armstrong Cyclone Jet Armstrong Cannons and hurled with blinding force and speed at whichever rooftop Sougo chose to impose his evil presence on.

Today is peaceful. Pedestrians discuss lives and travel and trees and themselves and other animals. Traffic is sparse. No brats screeching at each other in a pathetic attempt to disguise their flirting, just car engines singing. No vulgar permheads promising to fix his family's mess and making said mess exponentially worse, no flying dic—Neo Armstrong Cyclone Jet Armstrong Cannons.

There is nothing and no one for the glasses to play straight man to.

For some reason, this is what makes Hijikata want to smoke even more.

As usual, on the front steps of the building the Okitas live in are one vulgar permhead, one just as vulgar semi-daughter, and a glasses-holder, the first two lounging like they own the place. The latter is standing to the side, looking contrite.

Hijikata stops. The China brat peers up at him from under her umbrella and nudges the permhead, who stops picking his nose and flicks his booger at Hijikata.

He dodges with ease. He can't find it in him to tell the asshat to go lick a urinal or engage in some other activity more useful to the society than existing. There are a lot of things he can't find in himself.

And as usual, he asks: "What are you doing here?"

The brat folds her arms. "Sunbathing. It is the season for tanning and such, yes?"

The glasses heaves a long-suffering sigh. "Oi, don't go forgetting your character setup all of a sudden."

The permhead digs back into his nostril. "Pattsan, don't just go stealing tsukkomi lines from canon."

It's the brat who doesn't look away, who hasn't looked away from Hijikata since the scene started. She says nothing, just stares at him.

Hijikata thinks of the state the sadistic little shit is in. He was worse in the first week, but he still refuses to get up. Or even talk. He just lies there, on a couch that faces street-level windows, and watches a fraction of the world move on without Mitsuba in it.

I don't know what to do, Hijikata wants to say. Tell me what to do with him.

Instead, he says, "Go home."

The glasses looks at him, and there is a world of pain in the eyes behind it. "Hijikata-san, we thought we might—"

"Go home," he repeats. What the hell are you pitying me for? I look fine, don't I? "He's in no condition for visitors right now."

The China girl's shoulders sag, the movement so small he almost misses it. "What visitors? The Yorozuya has better things to do, yes?"

So why do you come here every day, dumbass? "Then you should go do them," he tells her.

She gets up and stomps away without another word. She doesn't look back at any of them. The permhead and the glasses glance at each other.

"You're terrible with women, Hijikata-kun," says the perm, still working at the excavation of his nose. "It's a wonder you ever got a fiancé, huh?"

Hijikata just meets his dead fish eyes because today, he doesn't feel the sting. He has five nicotine patches on each arm. Loss is at a construction site. It digs and digs and only finds snot, the sticky kind that can't be balled into a weapon and shot at a permhead.

The glasses winces. "Gin-san, really—"

"Go home," Hijikata says for the third time. His voice comes out even. Normal. "There's no need for you to be here. I'll look after Sougo."

Both men stare at him. The perm then shakes his head, jabs a snot-coated finger in Hijikata's direction, and looks at the glasses. "This here is called an idiot, a big mayonnaise idiot. Remember what one looks like, Pattsan. They're a danger to society and to themselves."

"Gin-san, you're the biggest danger to society."

And with that, the perm gets up. He is as tall as Hijikata. The only eyes more dead than his is Sougo's. "Put our taxes to good use and buy yourself a brain," he says, then wipes his finger on Hijikata's coat and walks away.

The glasses-holder shakes its head. "We don't pay enough taxes to afford that, Gin-san." It turns to Hijikata. "We're sorry for intruding, Hijikata-san. The truth is, we do want to check up on Okita-san, but we also want to ask how you're doing."

What was said earlier is a lie. Everyday, Hijikata doesn't feel like explaining himself to anyone. There are just nicotine-fueled moments in between when everything feels calm, and right, and he can open his mouth and talk in a voice flatter than Otae's chest.

He nods and says, "I'm doing just fine."

He steps past the glasses-holder, up the steps, and into the building. There is no sound except for a door closing. The morning light claws at windows and curtains, seizes dust motes mid-flight. The rest of the city feels far, far away.

He walks down the corridor, his fists in his pockets, and feels the lighter and the pack of cigarretes brush against his knuckles.

Loss digs and digs. There is no depth to his need for a goddamn smoke.

#

A/N: Still can't promise regularity, but I have vague plans and a timeline for this fic. Plus there have been a few one-shot ideas brewing in the back of my mind, so yeah. See you when I see you. Thank you very much for the patience and support.