AN: I don't know why I wrote this.

The first thing Katsura did when Takasugi saw him a few days before the festival incident was to drag the pipe-smoking rebel into the nearest bathhouse and proceed to scrub the hell out of him. In the midst of the vigorous scrr-scrr-scrr of the bath brush, he could hear Katsura lecturing him on grown men, personal hygiene, and honour. As to how any of these three subjects could be connected together, he wasn't sure. He wanted to ask, but he was already beside himself trying not to shriek like a banshee on fire every time the scrubbing got too intense or the brush went over a sensitive spot. Because having your skin get scraped off by something that feels like heavy-duty sandpaper isn't the greatest experience in the world.

"If you took care of yourself better, I wouldn't have to do this!"

That was before Katsura took it upon himself to wash Takasugi's hair.

"It's shiny because it's greasy, not because you have good hair!"

It wasn't his fault that he only washed his hair at most once a week. He's not lazy. He just couldn't be bothered.

"Look at all these split ends! You need a haircut! If only you took care of your hair better… You need to start using conditioner if you want healthier hair. You only use soap, don't you? There are special shampoos for different hair types, you know. It might be to your advantage to look into them."

If Takasugi were to accurately describe the feeling in his scalp, it would be something along the lines of someone ripping out his hair while setting his scalp on fire. It was a good thing he was never an eloquent man. Through the haze of burning sensation, Takasugi took note of the other customers' frightened expressions. It was up to debate whether the cause was his tortured and murderous expression, or Katsura's ungodly dedication to the task at hand. Katsura said something, but it was chased out of his mind by a torrent of freezing water. He's pretty sure several expletives and some ugly death threats flew out of his mouth then, judging from the way the other customers scuttled away like wary beetles from a hungry predator. Another bucket of cold water was dumped on his person, and then Katsura forced him into the bathtub.

This must be how chickens feel when they get slaughtered, but backwards.

The water was scalding. His skin was stinging. His skin was stinging and burning and his scalp was on fire and he couldn't feel his hair and it was probably what clams feel like when they're being cooked. Except the water wasn't even halfway to boiling temperature and if he would just relax, maybe the horrible sensations would go away and this ridiculous ordeal would be over faster.

Ten minutes, and Katsura had him out of the bathtub and another ten minutes later, they were back out on the bridge they originally stood on.

Later, as Takasugi lounged by an open window, clean as a baby, he would patiently endure Bansai's curious questioning glances. This was exponentially more preferable than Katsura's earlier treatment, and as the evening breeze brushed past his thoroughly cleaned self, he could see Bansai's arched eyebrows and the big question lurking behind those sunglasses he always wore.

No, Takasugi did not know, nor did he want to know, why the mens' section of the bathhouse supplied chamomile rose lavender apple soap.

And he definitely did not want to dwell on the fact that his hair currently smelled like a really strange mix of mango peach papaya shampoo and chocolate honey milk conditioner.