The Misadventures of an Early Morning

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Lesson 5: You'll Catch More Flies with Honey than with Vinegar

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At six o'clock sharp, the first rays of morning sunlight peeked merrily through the cracks in the blinds, and Gintoki's first impulse, which emerged groggily from a swamp of headache-muddied thoughts, was to catapult off the veranda and pound the cheery sun to a pulp for making his head throb so. Common sense (of a sort) eventually stepped in to quash this notion: Gin-san really shouldn't blame the poor, innocent sun when this whole convoluted mess is that blasted Zura's fault. Accordingly, Gintoki's second impulse was to channel his sleep-deprived rage into a more productive outlet: namely tearing the bathroom door off its hinges and pummeling Katsura into 2D for daring to take a twenty-six-minute-long shower on a friend's dime.

Gintoki's intentions were forestalled, however, by the painstaking but necessary ordeal of prying sticky, greasy wads of peanut butter and bubblegum off his fingers with the help of an old rag and some industrial-strength soap. Just as he was rolling up his sleeves and gathering his wits to give Zura an earful about the dangers associated with racking up excessively high water and electricity bills, Katsura deigned to emerge from the bathroom, blissfully unaware of the imminent peril. He was once again clad in Gintoki's spare jinbei, his expression weary but content as he absentmindedly patted his damp hair dry with a towel.

Fortunately for Katsura, all of Gintoki's bravado and bluster evaporated into thin air when confronted with the sight of that miraculously, blessedly, brilliantly clean hair. Even in the faint light of a new dawn, Katsura's squeaky-clean locks shone and sparkled like highly polished onyx. There was not a single glob of bubblegum in sight, and Gintoki couldn't help but admire his handiwork. Rather than desiring to punch Katsura to kingdom come, Gintoki was overwhelmed by the urge to ask Zura to whip his hair back and forth like Willow Smith in a Pantene commercial.

Gintoki resisted, barely, and only by reminding himself that he was obligated to maintain his reputation as the sane half of this relationship.

An hour later, after much half-hearted hemming and hawing between them about what constituted a proper breakfast for a samurai, Gintoki and Katsura sat down to a makeshift breakfast. (In all fairness, "makeshift" was the only kind of meal that existed within the confines of the Sakata household.)

When Katsura had put in his order for a samurai-worthy meal of tea, rice, miso, and pickled vegetables, Gintoki had brusquely declared, "We're fresh out of that fancy shit," and plunked a chipped mug of tea and a plate of two onigiri on the table in front of his friend.

After a few long minutes of awkward silence punctuated only by chewing noises, Katsura, gaze averted and mouth lodged shut with a gob of onigiri, mumbled something that Gintoki almost didn't catch: ". . .ahmmsrry."

But Gintoki's selective hearing was finely tuned to pick up on the sound of an old friend taking a voluntary bite of humble pie. He turned to flash a flat-out leer at Katsura, smirking self-righteously. "Oi, come again? Didn't Shouyou-sensei ever teach you that it's not polite to talk with your mouth full?"

Katsura flushed hotly in spite of himself, his eyes now locked with Gintoki's. He gulped stiffly on his bite of onigiri, the rice sticking in his throat and his pride similarly refusing to be swallowed.

"Your rice is dry," Katsura deadpanned.

Gintoki's grin remained wide and impish enough to rival that of the Cheshire Cat. Katsura gulped a mouthful of tea.

"And your tea is bland. How many times have you reused these leaves?" Katsura continued, obviously stalling. Gintoki stubbornly held his ground, his smirk curling around the lip of the strawberry milk carton.

"Fine, you arrogant bastard!" Katsura snapped. "I'm. Sorry. About. Last. Night," he said, laboriously grinding out the series of syllables and grimacing with the advent of each word as if it cost him an arm and a leg and his space captain eyepatch to boot. "Are you satisfied now?"

Gintoki swiveled sideways to perch cross-legged on the couch, facing Katsura. "What, no magic words? How about a 'thank you'?" he teased.

"Don't push it."

"Alright, alright. Apology accepted. . .on one condition," Gintoki qualified as his former grin eased into a wry, lazy smile that slipped perfectly to its mark and even managed to color the pair of dead-fish eyes above. "Swear to me, Zura, that you'll lay off the dumpster diving the next time you're on the run from those Shinsengumi bastards. The week-old cocktail of moldy miso, spoilt yoghurt, and chewed bubblegum hardly works wonders for that silky mop of hair, am I right? And I refuse to lose another night's sleep trying to salvage it."

"Agreed," Katsura laughed lightly, the heated ceramic of the teacup warming his palms and gently soothing sleep-deprived, frazzled nerves. "And it's not 'Zura', it's 'Katsura'," he added, invoking the mantra out of sheer habit and really nothing more.

An easy silence settled between them, the moment caught somewhere in the soft shadows of dawn and the steam rising from the tea and the weight of exhaustion when the day had yet to even begin, tempered by the not-quite-unpleasant company of an old friend, all set to a soundtrack of Kagura's snores echoing like a white noise machine being held under duress in the closet.

Katsura's eyes drifted up to meet Gintoki's own as the latter munched nonchalantly on his anman. "You're a real idiot, you know that?" Katsura remarked fondly, his words lacking any real bite.

Gintoki simply shrugged. "Birds of a feather, I always say."

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When all was said and done, Gintoki and Katsura should have thanked their lucky stars that Kagura was partially blinded by an exquisite case of bed head and wholly distracted by the pestering of a growling stomach when she finally meandered out of the closet at half-past nine, for she remained mercifully oblivious to the pair of deadbeat samurai dozing peacefully on the living room sofa, Katsura's head slumped onto Gintoki's shoulder.

Shinpachi, however, was ruefully awake and alert when he sauntered through the Yorozuya's door fifteen minutes later, calling Gin-san's name and inviting Otose in as she came to collect the rent. A mere fifteen minutes had passed, yes, but Katsura had somehow managed to nestle even more cozily into the crook between Gintoki's neck and shoulder. Gintoki, for his part, had allowed his arm to slide down from its perch on the back of the couch and curl neatly about Katsura's waist instead.

Shinpachi froze in the doorway, completely unsure what to make of the sight of his boss and his old war buddy asleep and snuggling on the sofa. Otose, who was usually a staunch supporter of the analog camp in the endless analog versus digital debate, was suddenly imminently grateful for a little piece of technology called a "camera phone".

With just a few clicks and a bright flash, Otose secured a potent piece of photographic blackmail. She had no doubt that Gintoki would be paying his rent on time next month.

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Notes:

Happy final chapter! Here's a big round of applause for you, the reader. I hope Gintoki and Katsura's antics gave you a good laugh. Thanks for sticking with this fic since the beginning (which was not-I repeat not-nearly three years ago). See ya for the next round!