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The harsh winter winds forced most back to their homes, holed up in front of the heat, but the clouds also heeded to this force of nature. The result was a sky numbered with unnamed galaxies and unexplored universes. The habitual glow of Yoshiwara’s nightlife, composed mainly of windows illuminating various human sins, wasn’t enough to drown out the brilliance from above. The pleasures of modernity faded from consciousness as most eyes were fixated upwards. Societies and civilizations came and passed, but not one in particular escaped the timeless captivity of the clear night sky.
Somehow, Tsukuyo broke free of the spell, because she had her own night sky.
The winds of the wild stripped the most powerful men naked, their souls raw and bare. Gintoki was no exception. In the evening, the pompous and unruly aura that defined his public character was shed with his clothing, leaving nothing to protect the realities of a battered, torn soul. Tsukuyo treasured the conclusion of each day for this reason, finding a sublime beauty in the nightly ritual. No other person could experience this inner sight, and she took pride in this fact. As the two crawled into bed, Tsukuyo always made sure she had an undisturbed view of her lover’s back, the physical manifestation of the pains and emotions that had shaped Gintoki’s soul. The muscular expanse of skin was carved thoroughly with scars, most dulled with times and some still fresh with texture and vibrant color. Tsukuyo had yet to find two that share even a single characteristic, giving each mark somewhat of an individual personality. Yet, months of staring at the same injured constellations failed to produce any feeling of boredom. Rather, each night pushed her imagination further and further.
Tonight, she was fixated on one wound in particular. One end appeared just a couple centimeters left of where her lover’s right shoulder meet his neck and continued on until around the halfway point of his right shoulder. From there on the dull, crimson pigment faded back into its muscular backdrop. Countless nights had made Tsukuyo an expert in scar analysis, now possessing the ability to associate any mark with a relative date and source of creation. The close proximity to the neck suggested a fatal attack was meant to be executed. Even after a decade of healing, the hills of scabs still retained their structure, the skin around the scar raised higher than any other mark she had found thus far. A mark as precise as her subject of interest suggested the blow was dealt by an extremely experienced marksman. In addition, killing an enemy by skillfully loping the head off in a single, precise blow could not be pulled off on a battlefield filed with distractions and the threat of another body bumping against the executioner, some sweaty from war and others bloody, falling to the end of their existence. Either would mess up the crucial hit.
Tsukuyo concluded her lover must have been betrayed by a close comrade, and that man attempted to assassinate him. She had no historical information that could possibly explain who or why. And it would be foolish of her to expect an answer from the source, Gintoki, considering he has only brought up vague allusions to his warrior years about four times since officially becoming a couple. She tried numerous methods to get him to speak about anything from that time. Just one battle, or one enemy or one situation or hell, even about the food he ate, but each time she was met with denial in the form of a grunt, usually followed by a verbal refusal such as “Why’d you bring that up? You know I don’t like thinking about that stuff.” And when she responds with a pouty expression, it continues only a little longer to fit in a sigh and “Maybe another time. I don’t feel like getting all depressed right now. It’s not exactly easy to discuss y’know. It’s not like describing your favorite TV or something.” That was the end of it.
Luckily for Tsukuyo, her imagination could fill any gap. Each scar had its story to convey, and if concrete facts failed, then Tsukuyo could whip up the events in a heartbeat. If her lover refused to let her into his past, she would force her way in. This mark was no different: while Gintoki allowed his body to grow limp under the spell of sleep, the lost comrade and his motives for betrayal began to take form in her mind.
_
She gave him the name Yashiro, but the title that followed and legacy associated stuck with people more than a bunch of letters to be called by. He was known as Yashiro the Noble. Him and his lord were regarded as the most powerful force in Japan for a number of years. Yashiro came from a long line of formidable men, each son’s ruthlessness and influence far surpassing his father’s. Yashiro, of course, was no exception. Around this time, most sons of controlling, prominent families crumbled under the immense accumulation of bloodline expectations, but Yashiro withstood the paternal force and was able to reach even further heights. From the second his hand gripped the hilt to moment the brilliant metal slid back into the sheath, the strike of his sword followed a perfect trajectory. Most often the cause of his enemy’s downfall was due to the chilling sense of awe that petrified even the toughest warriors, as each opponent watched a strike unfold in front of their eyes that could hardly be conceptualized in their dreams. His hand never shook, his stance never wobbled, his sword’s stability was unrivaled. Once, his lord was speaking with a noble from another region, who wished to understand how his lord was able to sleep so soundly night after night. The lord let out a rumble of laughter and replied, “With Yashiro as my samurai, I don’t even have to worry about demons in my nightmares bothering me!”
This relationship continued without fail: Yashiro extinguishing even the smallest spark that could reach the estate and his Lord, with peace of mind, handling behind-the-scenes political matters to solidify his presence in Japan. But the arrival of the Amanto destroyed this grandiose status in a matter of days. If Yashiro was unrivaled when it came to the blade, his Lord was the equivalent in the political arena. He was not uneducated in such affairs and caught on to the exigencies of the situation right away. The Amanto could outwit and outthink the current state of mankind in any area. To even consider opposition would require at least another hundred years of research to understand the enemy. No analogy could begin to describe the immense difference in ability between man and alien. The lord’s options were either buy into the new ways of the world or die and become the center of ridicule as a man who too foolishly clings to what was flawed and outdated.
He approached Yashiro and presented to him two options to deliberate as well: “In a matter of months, samurai will be nothing more than a word in a history book. Run away and become a new man, or if your pride runs too deeply in your veins, cut your belly open and die while there is still dignity left in the world for your kind.”
At first, Yashiro was hurt by how quickly his lord had flipped loyalties. Years of dedication to his lord were of no meaning anymore. In addition, it would be no lie to say his lord was able to sit so highly above the other men because he sat atop a mountain of Yashiro’s undeniable influence. It came as an insult, but Yashiro was not mad. Had their occupations been flipped, he would make the same decision, telling his lord to pick between two unsavory paths. Thus, Yashiro picked up what could be salvaged of his fortune and left Edo.
Yashiro wandered through neighboring towns, expecting the more remote, agricultural regions had not yet succumbed to the alien authority, but it took only a couple stops for him to see that his assumptions were wildly departed from reality. It had taken 20 years of service for Yashiro to establish himself as common name, but it had taken the Amanto a matter of 20 days to touch the lives of every Japanese citizen. Like his lord, people of every walk of life caught on to the improbability of resistance and adopted to the new rule swiftly. Yashiro might as well have been walking on an alien planet, because not one village resembled the Japan of only a month ago. He felt suffocated: no one or no thing had any connection to his way of life. It wasn’t as if Yashiro resisted the Amanto rule because he was a bully looking for conflict. Rather, he simply couldn’t. He tried to assimilate like the rest, but every bone in his body was engraved with the samurai way, the codes of the warrior ran through his blood stream. Every breath he drew was dedicated to his lifestyle. To reject his samurai upbringing was to reject his entire being. It wasn’t a simple profession switch but a reconfiguring of his soul.
A thought kept permeating into his consciousness: My lord gave me two options and I took the first, but perhaps they are both the same. There is no place in this world for a samurai, except in his grave to join the rest of history.
This notion continued to follow Yashiro until that pivotal day.
He was walking along a dirt road, situated between two fields populated by sweating farmers. Deep in his thoughts, his head hung down, the sight of the barbaric path registering in and out of his consciousness. The sudden appearance of blood drops jolted him out of his brain and back into reality. Metallic fumes told his nose it was indeed blood, but the fluid stained the ground blue. It wasn’t human blood, but Amanto blood. A mix of emotions flooded his body, quickening his pace in the direction of the bloody tracks. The thought that just one man shared but one single connection with his being, the hatred of the Amanto, in a world of brainwashed worshipers, ignited every inch of him.
His intuition proved correct: the trail lead to a sight that inspired hope in Yashiro and a tug at his samurai roots. An Amanto lay dead in a field, surrounded by at least 10 men, all easily identified as samurai. Each warrior’s robes displayed a distinct, regional design, with no two outfits alike. Some sleeves were littered with holes up and down the arm, while others had not a single crease. The geographical and class differences held no significance in this organization of men. Bound by the inherent understanding that the Amanto rule as wrong, they cling to their samurai identity and used their newfound sense of unity to rebel.
At first, the other men viewed Yashiro as simply another threat, repositioning their weapons towards him, until one man from the back walked out of the crowd and towards Yashiro. They lowered their swords and watched as the man, who Yashiro suspected to be the leader, stared forcefully into his eyes, breaking through to his soul. Without a word, the leader sighed, turned away and began the retreat back, his men, quickly understanding the situation, scurried behind.
Finally, the leader spoke. “The walk back to camp will be long and dirty with more blood. If you can’t survive even this, then you certainly aren’t cut out to join a cause such as ours. Die a dreamer of the old world and rest peacefully knowing I will take this country back from the Amanto’s clutches.”
Back at the camp, Yashiro’s soul was immediately rejuvenated by the atmosphere of the hundreds of like-minded samurai. That night, an Amanto snuck into their temporary warehouse with the goal of burning their rice, effectively starving the troops. Yashiro stabbed it through the heart. As the body of the creature fell forward, he became mesmerized by the deep blue blood dripping down his blade, baptizing his soul for rebellion. The leader from earlier in the day, known as Takasugi, immediately acknowledged his aptitude and recruited him to join the higher ranks of his faction. Eager to enact his revenge, Yashiro accepted.
Yashiro the Noble was no more. Yashiro the Rebel emerged from the Noble's carcass.
A couple decisive battles were enough to sever any lingering ties Yashiro had with his old life, fully embracing his new identity as a rebel. Whatever was accomplished in the past meant nothing in his new circumstances. He began anew, focusing on establishing himself within the new conflicts. He became respected among the other samurai not due to achievements of the past, but because of his ferocious demeanor on the war field. A couple men described Yashiro’s position as an anchor: when a violent conflict grew sour on the side of the samurai, if they took a look around, they would be able to find Yashiro’s figure somewhere, still standing strong and proud. The image reminded the other men why they choose to keep their sword at their hip, even at the expense of making their home country an enemy, and preserved on. Nothing could strike Yashiro down. He charged into battle time after time again, and each time, his efforts tapped deeper into the fighting spirit of the rest of the rebels.
This was how Yashiro connected with new allies. Words hardly accomplished anything in this type of environment. Relationships formed around the battlefield. Yashiro took notice to those were always standing at the end of a fight, no matter how tough or tricky. These men were nearly impossible to cut down, therefore, Yashiro knew these men would always preserve forward and, if needed, would always be available to have his back. Naturally, the anchors were pulled together, forming a bond deeper than words could express.
It was obvious from the first meeting that Takasugi would become one of those anchors, and not just for Yashiro. One could say his presence was able to mask the natural order of nature that created differences and quarrels among men and in its place bring about a new law that held all the regionally-distinct warriors together as one unit under one goal. Warlords and politicians spent their entire lives hoping to pick up as much as a hint on ending the fragmentation that engraved the nation, and Takasugi did it with one swing of his sword. As long as he breathed, the movement was sustained by that breath. Yashiro’s spirit was also sustained the very same way, making contact with others along the same thread. Some men he would have never fancied being acquainted with in the context of his old circumstances, but the shared morale expanded his connections and allies.
One such man was a man whose very humanness was constantly questioned. Unlike the other men, no detectable resolve seemed to fuel his desire to take a stance on the battlefield. It was as if the fibers of his body only knew the way of the sword and any act of violence initiated by the Amanto side was met with an almost mechanical reaction. Experiencing a skirmish with that man by his side firsthand, Yashiro believed the best available war machines experienced more of a margin of error than him. At the conclusion of such clashes, Yashiro would look over and the other man’s face gave no hint of the outcome, whether the enemy had been overwhelmingly pushed back or if the samurai suffered yet another humiliating slap in the face. Yet, since the two were aware of each other’s presence in a foul sea of dead bodies, it was only natural they were drawn to each other in kinder situations.
This man was given a variety of nicknames that all alluded to his beast-like fighting capabilities, but Yashiro learned his human name: Gintoki. In conversation, cynical remarks were his go-to, with a philosophical musing about life slipped in when a few drinks were involved. He took no precautions around the increasing air of helplessness engulfing the rebel cause and cracked jokes about the situation that hundreds of men had sacrificed their lives in support of. This attitude encouraged most warriors to limit their interactions with Gintoki to strategies and dire emergencies, but Yashiro found it refreshing after years of being surrounded by the pompous, uptight samurai types. As the months wore on, Yashiro grew founder of this particular comrade, and he could say with the upmost confidence that the feeling was reciprocated.
Yet, Yashiro wasn’t the only one who gained a greater appreciation for Gintoki. When it came to raising spirits in the face of increasing pressure from the Amanto’s side, Gintoki’s inability to be cut down was the main source of inspiration, but eyes began to wander to the figures standing next to this infamous rebel. Childhood ties and other attachments that Yashiro still didn’t fully understand meant Gintoki was only a couple steps away from Takasugi in any major splitting of blood. His unwavering stance was never overpowered by Takasugi’s intense battle charisma, staining his appearance in the consciousness of the cause. The rebels revered him almost to the level of his faction’s leader.
Rather than having pride in his new comrade’s social status among the once-elite samurai class, Yashiro grew uneasy about the morale of the future. It was an unspoken assumption that if the rebels could unchain Japan from the Amanto's imprisonment and return to tried and true tradition, Takasugi was to be the head of such a unified nation, but the strength of Gintoki’s impression began to distort this idea. Old Japan and its institutions had its benefits, but is that what the samurai, and furthermore, the citizens of the nation, needed? Or should the power over destiny be returned to the individual? Gintoki defied any notion of the proper samurai definition and created his own path. The body count of the Amanto speaks as the results of the warrior’s notion of life. If success was ultimately in the future for the cause, Gintoki’s legacy was to be the foundation of modern Japan.
Coming to this realization, Yashiro felt as if the ground had been pulled out from under him. He had picked this path to redeem an entire class of men from being termed useless antiquity. Winning the war but scrapping the system was the same as admitting that the samurai class’s only purpose nowadays was to be a museum exhibit. Yashiro would find himself wandering aimlessly once again through a country that tied his existence and morals to a past decade, only this time he carried a few more grave injuries and near-death experiences. The future once filled Yashiro’s soul with energy to move forward, to fight. It now paralyzed his entire being with anxiety. And it was Gintoki’s fault.
Yashiro knew what he must do next. He must kill his closest ally. The torment from the deed would be carried by him even into the afterlife, but for the future of the country, he must betray him.
On the outside, Yashiro’s interactions with Gintoki remained as animated as usual, but inside, he was alert to any opening of sabotage. Under normal circumstances, a fight-to-death in which the most morally-righteous individual found victory should have been initiated, but cruelty of admitting his switch of perception of his once closest-ally was an act most television villains would be reluctant to commit. To cut him down without a hint of motive was the kindest course of action. Gintoki had lost nearly all his comrades to a war that promised no outcome in his favor, and Yashiro could not bring himself to inflict that pain. He would strike in silence.
The perfect opportunity presented itself one morning when Yashiro overheard a directive from Takasugi to make an inventory of weapons. A couple minutes of arguments later and Yashiro heard the footsteps of his target heading back to the warehouse. Taking care that wandering eyes had not taken an interest in Yashiro’s movements, he stealthy made his way to same location. The structure of the house posed a serious problem to concealing his presence. The opening of a door or window would be enough time for Gintoki to gauge the situation and respond with the proper counterattack. Upon arrival, Yashiro realized his worried were baseless, as his target had carelessly left the door open.
Seeing Gintoki’s back, unguarded and defenseless, the realization of the what Yashiro planned to do fully registered in his consciousness. He drew in a shaky breath, focusing on reeling his concentration to center. His only concern for the past several months was the loping of Amanto heads. It had been a while since he had ended the life of another human.
His resolved floated clearly to the front of his mind. He was ready.
He turned towards his former-ally and grasped the hilt at his hip. There would not be a second to waste for finding his sword once he entered. He could only afford to run and kill.
Finally, following the scenario that played through his head a thousand times the past week, Yashiro charged forward. The back of his comrade, the hope of the rebel movement, was an arm’s length away, meaning his sword needed to be summoned.
But Yashiro had made one grave miscalculation. Had any other samurai been in that warehouse, being blindsided from the same position, their head would be rolling among the crates. Of all the warriors he had ever encountered, violent or otherwise, their humanness was a fact that could not be disputed. And then Yashiro met a man whose reflexes were equated to those of a beast.
Thus, as Yashiro drew his sword from his hip, Gintoki swiftly turned his head, and witnessed the betrayal of his comrade.
__
“How terrible.”
Tsukuyo reached out to caress the mark, hoping her touch could calm the feelings of horror and hate that permanently made a home in her lover’s physical being. Maybe she couldn’t uproot the horrors completely, but perhaps she could provide a bit of dullness, inherit a bit of the pain herself so her lover had comfort in knowing he wasn’t making the journey forward alone, but that someone shared a bit in feelings so alien and isolated from the rest of the world.
Her fingertips were only able to graze the wound for a second before her world tossed and tumbled before her eyes. The sorrows of the past became distorted, twisting into new shapes and hues until it all washed away and was replaced by a face she knew too well.
“What the hell ar’you mumbling about?” Gintoki groans, his speech still in a state of half consciousness, punctuated by an obvious annoyance of being awoken.
The embarrassment of being caught in her fantasies washed over Tsukuyo, her face became flooded with a sweaty, hot blush. “N-Nothing that concerns you!” She spat out, wanting nothing greater than Gintoki to roll over back, relieving her of her current situation.
But he wasn’t that easy to shake him off. Actually, he only seemed to grow more alert.
“Obviously it does. It’s keeping me from sleeping.”
“W-Well whatever, I’m done so go back to sl-"
“And what’s going on with the back thing? You’re starting to freak me out.”
Tsukuyo was reaching her breaking point, which was quite low tonight due to her own tiredness and the lack of patience over Gintoki’s words in general. She shot upright so her verbal assault would be felt more forceful.
“I don’t want to talk about this right now. Can you just shut up and go back to sleep?”
The same angry force that propelled Tsukuyo out of her sleeping position caught her lover next. Now it was her turn to be stared down. “What the hell do you mean? You started this.”
“No, YOU started this by hiding everything from me!” Emotions washed away her volume restrain as her voice neared a shout.
Gintoki narrowed his eyes in on her. “How am I hiding anything? And anyway, I’m not to one moaning obviously-masculine names that don’t sound anything like Gintoki.”
“Excuse me what? How dare you accuse me of something as distasteful as that! When the hell did I ever do that?”
“Oh, come on! It was literally a minute ago. Who the hell is Yashiro??”
“Well maybe if you told me a DAMN thing about ANYTHING, I wouldn’t…!” In her head, she ran through thousand of ways to end her sentence and a thousand more complaints she could spout off to her lover, but every possibility brought her to the same result, which was no result. His true feelings, his past attachments, his demons, they were back behind an impenetrable wall. It took Tsukuyo months to find even the smallest opening, and she happened to stumble upon that crack one night in bed. 30 minutes ago, she ventured through that path once again to experience a tiny fraction of that universe, but that entrance had closed.
Outside, darkness still shrouded the world, but the only night she cared to stargaze upon long since turned to daytime.
Defeated, she exhaled. Her hand came up to support the weight of her forehead, heavy from the endless thoughts still cycling around over and over. “Just… never mind. I’m tired.
She heard him match her sigh with his own, and suddenly, her head was forced out her position of forfeit and was rested in the nook of her lover’s neck. She felt his arm lay over her shoulders, securing her into his warmth. Calming Gintoki down was normally a feat of epic proportions that Tsukuyo could only dream of mastering, but apparently, the hint of distress in her voice seemed to have sobered him. She could hear his heart beating, slow and relaxing, reassuring her that the tension of a few moments ago would not return for the rest of the evening.
“What’s got into you tonight?”
Tsukuyo was worn down from the earlier shouting match, and she could barely scrap together the energy to process what her lover just asked. “I don’t know. It’s just… every night when we go to sleep and you turn over and I see all the pain you’ve gone through, I… I don’t know, I feel so helpless and sad because I can’t do anything.”
Hearing her words, Gintoki sighed again, shutting his eyes out of annoyance. Annoyed not with her words, but with himself. “Those ugly marks started all this?”
“They’re not ugly. I-I don’t know… I kinda love them.” Once that sentence staggered out of her mouth, she cringed. Embarrassed, she traced her finger over her lover’s chest, grasping for any kind of distraction. She did earn an eyeroll from Gintoki.
“They’re ugly and I hate them. And I also hate the effect they’re having on you.”
“I can’t help it.” The entire time, she was becoming hyperaware of the suffering that was imprinted on her own skin, her forehead and cheek warming and tingling. “Besides, y-you know the story behind my scars. You’re forced to carry their weight. I want to shoulder your pain too. It’s only fair, right?”
With his free hand, Gintoki reached out, caressing the marks in question. He first ran his thumb across her forehead, then let it trail down her face. “But it’s not the same.” His thumb continued to graze her cheek, back and forth. So lightly, like rocking a baby to sleep, but so full of comfort and warmth. “When I look at your face, I remember everything… everything we’ve been through… it reminds me why I want you so much… y’know, I think I fall for you a little more each time…”
“But you…”
His tone became firm to counter her interjection. “But mine mean nothing. And they shouldn’t mean anything whatsoever. The man who got in those fights, the man who acted so recklessly… that’s not the man you fell in love with.”
“Gintoki…” She felt his muscles tense under her face. It wasn’t a lie that bringing up this subject put him in a major funk. It took a lot of energy to keep the darkness and frustration buried, and she felt him struggling now to suppress the remnants inside, threatening to throw his headspace back to that era. She planted a peck in the nook of his neck, the least that could be done to defended against the onset of a wave of powerful emotions.
“I wish I could get rid of them. Tear them off, scrap them off, but there’s nothing I can do. As much as I want to forget about them, it’s permanently engraved, chaining me to that awful reality. But then I look at you… and I can forget about all that. For once, I can feel happy about tomorrow, for the future. Especially… our future.”
Tsukuyo let his words linger in the atmosphere, letting them have their effect on her mind.
“Yeah… but you see, I never saw myself that way. Ever. At least until I met you. I just can’t help but think maybe, just maybe, if I had just a glimpse of what happened…” She looked up momentarily to see her lover closing his lids once again, mulling over the unsavory suggestion. “Obviously it doesn’t have to be tonight!” Tsukuyo spat out to stop the conversation from abruptly turning south. “But another day, when we are both less tired and you feel ready.”
His eyes still remained shut. Fatigue and heavy thoughts held his lids down.
“Y-Y’know,” she continued on, “if you’re worried that telling me about something you did in the past will change my mind about you, that won’t happen. I can promise you that. I-I love everything about you. Even your past, whatever the hell it actually is. Nothing you say would make me love you or any part of you any less.”
With that, Gintoki stroked his girlfriend’s cheek one last time and squeezed her closer, kissing her forehead once it was within reach. The two lovers stayed like that, hoping to drag the heightened sense of security and tenderness out for as long as possible. After a good amount of time had passed, he lifted his lips and let go. The reality of 3am hit him full force.
“Ok, ok, I get it. I’ll think about it,” he mused as he released her body and crawled back under the covers.
Tsukuyo’s eyes followed his journey down, and once situated, she rested her gaze and join him, satisfied. Even if he didn’t actually think about anything, even if the next morning he pretended to have no recollection of his own words, Tsukuyo felt as if she’d gotten a little closer to her lover. Most of their conversations consisted of banter with little sustenance or cringeworthy attempts at flirting, but on rare occasions, she was given not empty words or insults, but real words from her lover’s true self. Tonight was one of those occasions. Yes, her galaxy was now many light years out of her sight, but she lay down with an experience even more spectacular that stargazing.
“Oh, by the way,” her lover mumbled, already halfway to dreamland, “my face is facing your face the entire time tonight.”
She let out a snort before laying her head next to his. “Yeah, thanks for letting me know you took nothing I said into consideration.”
“Anytime. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, I guess.” Yeah, she definitely missed the other Gintoki, but the playful jabs would have to fulfill her until the next sun set. And she did admit that she loved all parts of him, but perhaps she would make some amendments to that statement if the conversation ever came back around. In the meantime, she let her mind and body sink into nothingness, only letting the rise and fall of Gintoki’s chest register in her consciousness, until that lull eventually faded away as sleep finally overtook Tsukuyo.
.
.
.
.
..
“Hey!” Gintoki suddenly jolted up. “So who the hell is Yashiro??!!”