None of his dreams are ever pleasant. They’re nightmares. Replays of his bloodied past again and again. Again and again he’s always brought back to the battlefield to watch the countless comrades and friends die over and over again before his eyes. Again and again he only sees them fall before him, soulless, lifeless eyes looking back at him vacantly, seeing nothing but the darkness that is death.

And he trembles. No longer does he ever feel like the invincible Shiroyasha as his enemies make him out to be—he only feels like a weak, helpless child unable to do anything at all.

Confused, lost and weakening by the second.

So many times since the end, he’s been brought back here again and again—to see them dying again, the fresh red blood spilling and staining the earth. And then he trembles again, eyes wide with shock and fright. He doesn’t want this anymore, didn’t want to witness this again. He doesn’t want to see all these people falling down before him like puppets cut from their strings.

No more, he pleads, no more.

I don’t want this anymore.

And again he trembles in fright.

I don't want to see anymore deaths anymore...

Hijikata knows Gintoki’s dreaming again.

He knows because the man’s trembling in his sleep, whimpering and sniffling ever so quietly. It’s completely unlike the happy-go-lucky samurai he’s so used to having those shouting matches with, or the quiet, concentrating man whom he beds with so often now. Unlike what he’s so used to seeing, this is unlike anything that he’s ever known. The annoying, loud-mouthed freelancer he’s so frequently bickering with now curled up against his chest, sobbing like a helpless child who’s afraid of the dark.

The vice-commander has never questioned just what is it that makes the man reduced to this state, to cause him being like this so many times already ever since they started this. He doesn’t intend to ask, because he can already guess. Against his own code, he’s sneaked out files in the Shinsengumi and read up on him—and knows more than he should about Gintoki’s past. Sakata Gintoki, the greatest warrior of the Joui. One of the most feared samurai to be still living in this time… reputed to have killed nearly or even over seven thousand Amanto in the war…

…now lying beside him, naked and defenseless and whimpering like a lost child.

Toshirou stirs from his sleep, blinking away the tiredness from his eyes. The moon is still high in the sky, pale silver light shining down through the window and splayed upon Gintoki, his unruly silver hair highlighted with near-blinding streaks of white. Hijikata guesses that it’s most likely only about three in the morning—there was still time to sleep, especially since it’s his day off tomorrow.

There’s another muffled whimper, and he turns back his attention to the freelancer who’s now frowning in his sleep, hints of what seems to be tears at the corner of his eyes as a quiet whisper escapes Ginoki. “No more…”

No more? Hijikata can’t help but wonder just what is it that makes the usually carefree man now becoming like that—it has to be something so frightening that it can send him into a sniveling ball like this. The demonic vice-commander of the Shinsengumi wouldn’t have tolerated anything like this but now—now, he wasn’t the vice-commander. He was just himself, and Gintoki—despite anything he would say—was and is someone he loved very much. So much, his own heart seemed to hurt seeing the other like this.

So he lies himself as close to Gintoki as possible, one arm sliding around his hip as the other goes to his back, hand rubbing small soothing circles across it and fingers brushing gently against his skin. Toshirou rests his chin lightly on top of Gintoki’s head, letting a small smile cross his face as he senses the other responding well. There’s a soft groan, and then an incoherent mumble—but the whimpering is slowly fading. Gintoki instinctively snuggles himself even closer to the other, head resting against Hijikata’s chest as the sniffling soon vanishes and the freelancer’s back to snoring ever so lightly, just like a little child.

Maybe in many ways, Gintoki was still a child. He gave off the aura of a spoilt brat, acted a lot like a child and well… really seemed like a child in many ways. There were only so few times where he had let that adult side of him show—a man tired of life and of the fighting, someone who had seen and witnessed far too much for anyone else to handle. But now, more then ever…like this, he was perhaps, truly only a child.

Someone who never grew up, not truly wanting to accept fate as it is.

But for now, that didn’t matter. Those thoughts could wait for tomorrow, or another day. For now, the nightmare had passed again. Draping an arm across the freelancer, Toshirou closes his eyes and lets himself drift off into slumber again, knowing that the coming morning was one that he would especially look forward to for once.