Disclaimer: Rurouni Kenshin is not mine. But since we already know that…

Notes: Much of the usual angst about how impossible it is to get these two together without things ending in a huge, bloody fight to the end. :D But I kinda like this one, strangely enough. About an hour and a half.

Comments muchly appreciated!

In Winter

It is winter when Saitou comes round again.

It is always winter; Saitou comes with sake (the good stuff) and inserts himself temporarily into the Kamiya dojo, biding his time and waiting. Come January when the frost on the tip of the buds melts, he will get up and leave, trailing cigarette ash in his wake. He departs as easily as he comes— silently and somberly. But while he is there he is a shadow of his sardonic, aggravating self: he too is strolling down the clouded vistas of his memory, a shell warming the steps of the front door and polluting all air in the vicinity by smoking like a chimney. Kaoru raises her eyebrows and grumbles, Yahiko treats him like he isn't there, and Sanosuke tries half-heartedly to pick fights with him.

He ignores them.

The wind is bitterly cold, and the sky bottomlessly grey. The last rains of the year come unhurriedly, sweeping over rooftops and dirt roads with regal finality in each thunderous step. Turbid water rushes under the bridge, foaming where it hurls itself futilely against wood and stone.

He stalks silently through the hallways. It is a time of loss, and remembering. His katana is heavy by his side. The house is too still and oppressive; shadowed rooms and stale air where the windows have been closed to keep out the draught. In the end he settles for throwing on a coat and lounging outside the house on the front steps.

The afternoon passes, all washed out in pale sunshine. He has missed lunch, and he will probably miss dinner if he doesn't get in, quick, but his frozen limbs are comfortable perched on the steps so he doesn't move.

Kenshin opens the door and steps out, half-smiling. His footsteps approach soft and hesitant. His hakama swishes as he walks, breaking the silence between them. Saitou brushes away the light covering of snow that has settled on the wood beside him, motioning the other man to sit with a wave of his hand.

"Cold?" Kenshin asks, softly, as if afraid to break the peace that has settled into the wintry evening. He sits down.

"Mm." The cigarette is burning out between Saitou's fingers.

"I brought tea." Saitou takes the proffered cup with murmured thanks and cradles it in his hands. His gloves are on, and the heat from the ceramic is pleasantly warm against his palm.

Saitou sips tea and sits on the steps and puffs intermittently on the cigarette. Kenshin has closed his eyes and is leaning back against the frame of the door, legs dangling over the edge. There are children playing with a ball: they are happy, he thinks without the usual sourness. Light laughter accompanies his thoughts. He stays that way for what feels like hours.

They go inside when the twilight becomes too dark for them to see the trees that line the edge of the courtyard.

-----

In winter the nights drag long. Kenshin has his dreams invaded by all and sundry.

He sees faces, he sees bodies. The dead mix with the alive in the fertile grounds of his imagination and there are times when it becomes difficult for him to draw the line between the two.

Kenshin wakes with the futon tangled around his legs and the blanket crumpled and fisted in his fingers. His breath is rapid, jerky. He reaches out a hand for the wall to steady himself. It is in winter that the dreams come back, more vivid than anything he has seen. They are so real, so questionably intense that he begins to doubt whether the world of laughter and pastel sunshine that he inhabits during the day is really true.

Calm, steady breaths cut through his confusion, and slowly, in the darkness, his eyes focus on the dull lump that is taking shape in the darkness. Saitou is sprawled over his futon in an uncharacteristic mess, katana leaning against the wall by the side. Momentarily he is struck with guilt, what if he woke the man with his movements? It is rare that either of them will fall into deep, complete sleep in the presence of anyone else. But Saitou has always been the exception.

Kenshin reaches out to straighten Saitou' blanket and rearrange Saitou's limbs such that they fit comfortably onto the narrow futon. When he finally trusts his unconscious mind enough to get lulled back into sleep, he thinks of Saitou's cigarettes, long and slim and filling the room with a heady, smoky scent.

----

Sometimes they go to the market in the mornings.

"What?" Kenshin says, one day when he has caught Saitou staring intently at him while they are looking at fish. He shakes the bucket in his hand. The vegetables knock against the sides.

Saitou turns nonchalantly, shrugging. "Hmm," he says, inclining his head towards the stall in the corner that peddles roasted sweet potatoes.

Kenshin smiles. "Of course, Saitou-san."

The sweet potatoes are scalding hot, and very, very delicious.

----

In the evenings Kenshin will ask Saitou to walk with him. It is always on the pretext of something else; he has forgotten to get the tofu, they've run out of rice, or Kenshin has to run an errand. It's a simple request, and Saitou cannot help but comply.

The days are getting shorter: in the dusk they wander aimlessly though muted sunlight. Saitou walks with his head towards the sky, as if looking for rain. His gloved hands are jammed into his pockets.

Kenshin feels the katana bumping against his thigh with each step he takes. The rhythmic clinking alternates with the soft thump of his sandaled feet on the ground. It is getting late—waning light is lapping at the roofs of houses slanting into the distance, the wind is cutting colder. They should be getting home soon. Kenshin tells himself, just a little longer. He needs this; he needs the silence and the quiet comprehension.

They stand on the bridge leading to the market and just stare out beyond, into the far distance. Kenshin thinks of Tomoe. Saitou counts down the number of cigarettes to his last. People pass, hurrying by. The crowd swirls around them like they aren't there.

When they return home flushed with the cold and unspeakably weary, Kaoru knows better than to ask, or chide them for being late. She stands in the doorway with a blanket and hot tea steaming on the table, and says as cheerfully as she can, "Welcome back."

She thinks this might be all she can do. Winter is never easy.

----

It is midnight when Saitou flattens himself over Kenshin. Kenshin kicks out in reflex, instinctively reaching for his katana beside him. He is jolted from sleeping to wide awake in less than a blink of an eye. When he realises just who it is, he stiffens in realisation. Saitou.

Saitou's tongue is shoved urgently down his throat and impatient arms are winding around his torso; he retaliates, all teeth, nails dragging not too gently down Saitou's spine. Saitou's body is pressed up against his, eager and ready, all animal heat. He shifts and licks a path down Saitou's stomach, half-sprawling across the other man's lap, allowing their sweat-slicked limbs to tangle. Sex with Saitou isn't gentle: it's hard and unrelenting, but in it there is something like understanding that makes each touch fire the nerves all the way to his heart. Sometimes he feels like weeping in relief; it is so right to be pillowed on Saitou's chest, knowing that he is wanted and needed. It is to easy to lose himself in the past, but he doesn't, and more importantly, can't, not when Saitou is clutching his hip and tracing patterns, whispering in his ear—promises, threats, and something more. He's not actually listening to the words, but he'd have to be deaf to not comprehend.

The rain outside doesn't relent in its merciless pounding, but encircled in Saitou's arms and wreathed in the tendrils of Saitou's cigarette smoke, it seems less vehement and less brutal, more soothing and a little tender, not unlike the feeling of when Saitou stops biting, and starts pressing soft, wet kisses down the nape of his neck.

There's just too much at once; Saitou lodged unbearably tight inside of him, Saitou's hand pumping him, Saitou's chin over his shoulder and digging sharply into it, it's Saitou, Saitou and Saitou—

It's unquestionably real, there can be no ghosts lurking at the back of his mind when the man in him is screwing him well and truly into next week — it's mind-numbingly good, and when Saitou grinds against him again, just so, all Kenshin can think of is here, and now.

The End

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