Hijikata steps out into the night and watches the falling rain—a thin curtain in front of his spot underneath the eaves—before lighting his cigarette. The orange flame suddenly softens the red glow of the neon sign above. The new guy and Taro are out trying to convince people to come inside, holding out their umbrellas to shield them from the rain, while most just hurry their steps and do their best to disappear out of the reach of cheaply worded promises. At first he barely registers the looks on the faces of those who try to leave the new guy and Taro behind, hurrying themselves into the rain, their shoes splashing water onto their clothes, but then he recognises some of them, some of the looks. He's seen those before. They're lucky they're beautiful. The feeling of dread, mostly emptiness, is back, and with it anxiousness only comparable to the one felt during the last days of summer, when the sun is high, the glare blinds all eyes, and the sky looks almost white for a second. It's nostalgia for things that never happened, nostalgia for the future, the same one he felt when he was in school and his future was a road spread out for him to follow, made possible by Kondou's kindness. The road now covered in the looks of people hurrying into the rain, away from where he is. He grinds the cigarette stub into the floor with his foot without trying to avoid the sight of the people being approached by the two men holding their umbrellas. It's what it is, he thinks, it doesn't hurt at all anymore. Suddenly he's back at school, on the rooftop with its white tiles baking in the sun during the first days of the semester, his hand holds a cigarette as he crouches in a spot in the shade, hiding from the sun, hiding from the tiles that'll be cooked, decayed, hiding from Gintoki's gaze when he steps into the rooftop, glances at him, and says nothing for a second or two, before he too takes out a cigarette and smokes looking into the horizon, away from Hijikata's crouching figure.
When he steps back inside, Gintoki is no longer sitting at the booth. From other tables he can hear his name being slurred by various voices, Toshi, Toshi, beckoning him over and he takes his time before deciding on one. He figures it's luck that Gintoki's left because he does that thing—distractedly rub circles on Hijikata's back while pretending not to notice he does—and makes Hijikata feel he's back at school, staring at Gintoki's white coat, the white back of his hair, his figure cut out into a sky too white, blinding, while unable to speak or say anything at all. That's why he stepped outside with some flimsy excuse, and thinks he did so Gintoki would leave. In a week or so he'll be back. He'll ask for Hijikata, order three drinks and talk nonsense before his hand is rubbing circles on the low of Hijikata's back, and he's telling other customers who've dared sit down that he was Hijikata's teacher in highschool, that he's lucky to be so beautiful, that if it wasn't for his hair he'd be just as lucky, of course. The emptiness will be too much for Hijikata to bear, same as it was in highschool for different reasons. Everything about it is obnoxious, angering. Just like Gintoki. Hijikata wishes he had the energy to go at it against his old teacher like he used to, sometimes, but even the few times he has since Gintoki reappeared in his life are different. Maybe he downed his willingness with all the drinks, puked it out to keep going, mopped it while cleaning after Kondou, after the house, making food, waiting for Sougo to come back from school. It must be that because Sougo doesn't mock his career choice anymore. He didn't even do it more than a couple of times, the little bastard.
He's called to a private table by one of his regulars—the one who gets him expensive gifts he refuses with a smile—before he can sit down at a lively party of four, so he goes into the private room and slides the door behind him, lights another cigarette and offers his best smile. He wants to think he's giving nothing away, he's lucky. It doesn't take any effort anymore, to smile, and he wonders if that's anything he should be alright with.
On his way home, sweaty and tired, his head buzzing, he goes over the groceries he needs to buy, and Kondou's medicine that'll run out, the appointment coming up, Sougo's hand at the side of the door before saying good bye when he leaves in the morning for his classes, Kondou's hand years ago patting Hijikata's head after his brother's funeral, when Hijikata was only as tall as Kondou's hips and Kondou looked indestructible, and full of life, like his brother had looked once too. The wind blows in a certain way, making his knuckles ache, but he's too buzzed to really notice, to really care.
Once he's home he checks in on Kondou, who's asleep, before setting the futon down in his room with tired hands and falls asleep with the taste of Pocari in his mouth.