Plurk paste

There’s something about the rain, Yasusada thinks, that makes everything so much more solemn.

It’s not as if he’s never felt it on his skin before—the first time he saw rain at the Citadel, he remembers, he stood out in it for hours, fascinated by the way each drop soaked into his hair and his clothing. But it had been new and wondrous, then, a way for him to correlate the concept of “spring” with a tangible sensation.

Now, it keeps him alert, a chilling contrast and a somber reminder of why they’re here, watching Kondou Isami march to his death with his hands tied behind his back and his head held high.

Okita’s death had been a slow, drawn-out sort of agony, but at least he’d had the time to grow used to the idea of his passing. Yasusada has no idea when Kondou decided to lay down his life for Hijikata’s, but he does know that Nagasone had absolutely no say in it—and as Kondou kneels with grace and gravitas, the absence of Nagasone’s spirit by his side is painfully obvious. He looks at Nagasone’s face, at his wide eyes and parted lips, and this, too, is like looking into broken glass. The look on Nagasone’s face right now can’t be very different from how he’d looked, watching Okita collapse at Ikedaya. But it’s startling to see pain so openly displayed on Nagasone’s face, and that makes it so much deeper.

It’s not fair of him to press Nagasone to talk. He knows that. He <i>still</i> hasn’t really opened up about his own thoughts and feelings to anyone but his younger self, and he’s certain that doesn’t really count. But Kondou’s being blindfolded right where all of them can see it, and Nagasone’s turning away with a quiet “tch”, and Yasusada can’t help himself.

“Nagasone-san,” he calls out, but when Nagasone looks at him, he falters. The mask of stoicism is so obvious, and Nagasone has to know that none of them are fooled, doesn’t he? It can’t hurt to try reaching out to him again, while they still have time to talk. Finding the right words is another matter entirely, though.

There can’t be anything like etiquette for a situation like this, but he doesn’t want Nagasone to misunderstand him again, and he definitely doesn’t want to seem self-centered. Even if they all know Okita is always on his mind, saying his name out loud, here and now, suddenly seems extremely insensitive. But if he doesn’t, how else is he supposed to say <i>“I understand”</i>?

He’s quiet for a little too long, and Nagasone doesn’t wait for him to gather his thoughts. “Don’t get careless!” he says, brusque, as if he’s trying to act as Commander to make up for the sight of Kondou in the distance. As if any of them could possibly think he’s weak, for loving his master just as much as they do. “We don’t know where our enemy’s hiding.”

Yasusada’s heart aches for him. It’s terribly distracting.

He looks down at his feet, but he doesn’t have time to dwell. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up just as he feels the others tense around him; they all sense it together, right before Horikawa calls out.

“They’re coming!”

They fall into formation without needing to be told, watching the air shimmer as the Revisionists emerge. So little is known about their methods—their way of travel, their way of <i>life</i>, if they have one. Yasusada’s got no idea how they managed to recruit a youkai, or a demon, or whatever it was that slithered into his consciousness and nearly forced his hand; for all he knows, it’s the thing in charge of the entire Retrograde Army.

But it doesn’t matter now. It isn’t his job to know. All he can do is fight, and when Hachisuka gives the order to attack, he launches himself into battle with a fervor he last displayed four years ago.

Sparring is a dialogue, but battle is a song. Steel sings through the air in time with the pounding of his heart, and the voices of the others mingle with the growls and cries of their enemies, discordant but a melody all the same. It takes some work to smooth out the dissonance, but there is, at least, one person with whom he is always in harmony.

He catches Kashuu’s eye across the battlefield, a solid line of their enemies between them, and they move in sync—Yasusada attacking from the left, Kashuu slicing through them on the right, until they’ve traded places entirely. Horikawa and Kanesada leap forward to dispatch anyone they’d missed, and he turns around in time to see Nagasone and Hachisuka right behind them, alert and ready.

The rain has swollen from a drizzle to a storm, but Yasusada pays no mind to the extra weight of his clothing, simply shaking his wet bangs out of his face. The Revisionists, of course, can’t be deterred by something as trivial as the weather, and he catches a glimpse of movement back where they’d come from, too close to the execution grounds for comfort.

“Kiyomitsu!” he yells, but it’s unnecessary; Kashuu sees them too.

“Right!”

Yasusada likes to think of himself as an honorable sword. Even the Revisionists, he feels, deserve to be killed face-to-face. But there’s nothing honorable about interrupting an execution, so he has no qualms with slashing at their enemies from behind. Beside him, Kashuu does the same, but they’ve barely turned back around before more Revisionists flood the area, tainted blades glowing with sickly light.

“They sent quite the army,” Kashuu says, and the words are insouciant, but his voice is rough, serious.

“Go!” Nagasone yells, and no one hesitates to obey.

After a while, it’s impossible to tell whether it’s the rain beating down on him, or his own blood rushing in his ears—losing himself to the fight is all too easy, especially when it carries him away from the rest of the team. Yasusada doesn’t hesitate to pursue the enemies around him, mostly concerned with preventing them from getting close to the executioners. They’re lucky, he thinks, that even the Imperialists can follow traditions and ceremonies, and luckier still that time seems to slow down around them during large battles like this. Perhaps it’s the saniwa’s magic, or simply the influence of some other being entirely—either way, they don’t have <i>that</i> much time, so he sacrifices technique for speed when he can.

<i>“Hachisuka!”</i>

The alarm in Nagasone’s voice is enough to have him whip around, and even at a distance, Yasusada sees it—a naginata’s blade bearing down on Hachisuka’s shoulder, as he stands with his arms thrown out, shielding Nagasone where he’d fallen.

Yasusada has his own opponents to worry about, though. He glances back when he can, but Hachisuka’s back on his feet and fighting in no time, and once he’s sure their captain is uninjured, he turns his attention back where it belongs. There will be time to wonder what they said to each other later.

(Still, there’s an odd tingling spreading through him, impervious to the wind and rain. It feels, he thinks, a little bit like pride.)

Eventually, he makes it back to Kashuu’s side, or maybe it’s Kashuu who fights his way to him. It’s hard to tell when he’s fallen so deep into the fight like this, mind and senses alike focused completely on his enemies. It takes a flare of lightning and a clap of thunder to jolt him back into awareness, and he pauses to watch Kashuu’s face as his skin blanches white. The rain is coming down hard enough to obscure his vision, now, and still red eyes gleam long after the light fades.

“Ready?” Kashuu asks, and Yasusada blinks harder than necessary, readjusting his grip on his vessel. He feels the rain more starkly on his steel than his skin, making it difficult to concentrate on wielding his body, too, but he nods anyway, calling his assent.

Kashuu takes the lead, charging ahead of him, and Yasusada lets the familiarity of his presence ground him, throwing himself at the Revisionist closest to him with renewed vigor. They don’t have time, they don’t have time, they don’t have <i>time</i> to waste here, with these corrupted husks of former blades; they have no idea the kind of suffering they’ve inflicted on Nagasone by choosing this as their last stand, and Yasusada lets the boiling of his blood keep him warm within the downpour.

<i> “Lose your head and die!”</i>

The words burst from somewhere deep inside of him, some dark corner of his heart festering with resentment and frustration. They could’ve been home four years ago, if not for the enemies crumbling to dust before them. A thousand battles in a hundred years wouldn’t be enough penance for what they’ve all gone through since Ikedaya, so long ago—but then the others are rejoining them, the air is rippling once again, and the next voice they hear is human.

“Commander of the Shinsengumi, Kondou Isami,” says the executioner, his voice clear and strong even through the rain, his blade resting gently on the back of Kondou’s neck. Slowly, he pulls it back, setting his body into position.

“Prepare yourself.”

Kondou doesn’t flinch. Yasusada does. Kashuu tenses beside him, Hachisuka clenches his fists, Nagasone turns his back—

—and there’s a scream, and spilled blood, and the collapse of a body—

—but none of it is Kondou’s.

“That’s—” Kashuu starts, voice full of disbelief. Yasusada barely hears him over the ringing in his own ears.

“Okita…kun?”