The office had become cold, colder than what he was used to, colder than what he supposed was normal for a November.

Dumbass, he thought to himself, it's always cold in November, always, It's only gotten colder since then.

He fights it sometimes, the anxiety, the pain, the tears. But he was only human and there are somethings in life that occur, that you have no control over and you can do nothing, nothing at all but hope that it will pass. This deep sadness that you feel right to your very aching soul.

His wine tinted eyes take in the atmosphere of the room he is in, the blinds behind the chair pulling in the powdery blue light of daybreak and he sits in uncomfortable stifling silence with just the hum of the refrigerator and the drowned out sound of obnoxious snoring behind the thin closet that only belonged to one person he knew.

He sits, on that couch for a very long time, a mug of tea clutched in his right hand, resting on his right thigh, he slumps, feeling the burn of the cup from under his thin sleeping pants and his eyes close,. And he is taken back to a time he wouldn't want to remember awake.

The grey of the sky blended in with the greys of the armor, that both he and his comrades shared. Overlooking a sight of destruction and death, he walks away from the inevitable truth behind him, where his two comrades friends, brothers stare in chilled shock, he would rather not remember the light leaving Katsura's eyes or how quickly Takasugi's jaw tightened. All he felt was a bone deep weariness settle in him, in his mind. All heard was static, not the wails of anguish or the slow drip of blood from Katsura's temple.

He walked farther and farther away, taking the sight and committing it to memory and hoping that he will somehow die in some odd twist of events. When he had almost left the vicinity completely, he felt someones hand on his shoulder, and it didn't take a genius to know who it was, for he would never come. Katsura, not looking any better than he did only looked him in the eyes, his expression serious and stiff.

"We should bury the remains."

He said, like it was so fucking easy.

Katsura blocked the punch he knew was coming his way and looked at him with an expression of so much understanding that it fucking hurt. It hurt like hell, to know that he was wrong, that he was too late. But they walked back, who knows how many minutes, hours passed, he stood in front of the makeshift grave. Takasugi, to his far right, looking to the ground in some trance and Katsura, to his left, kneeling and fixing the stone that marked it.

And without a word, Takasugi walked away from their sights, his back stiff and shaking. Gintoki only watched unfeeling to it all, but he was trying, trying to forget it again. Katsura looked at him sympathetically, his eyes dewy and his mouth not catching up with the words, a few moments of struggle, then he too walks north of where they were and Gin is left alone.

And he doesn't feel a thing, he lies to himself, his body wracking in angry screams, tears falling freely, as he slumps to the ground, right on the grave and his head buried in the infertile hearth. The rain falls mercilessly, unforgiving as he was feeling and drowning out his cries, he felt it then for a moment, a small light beckoning to him, and there stood his reasons for living.

And when he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the boyish face of Shinpachi Shimura holding a broom and decked out in an apron, only jerked away to the side by an obnoxious Yato girl with a heart as big as her appetite. "I thought you died, Gin-chan."

He looks to the window again and he sees that it's morning.

AN: Sorry for the grammar mistakes and choppy way of writing, I am full of feels.

/sweats profusely