My own take on Gintoki's story. Written for a friend.

Afterlife

"We'll meet sensei again, right?" The boy next to him held tightly on to his sword, the thin graceful piece protruding from the ground like a malevolent expression of sanctity. No one knew where he had gotten it. There were no swords around school, but suddenly it was there, in Takasugi's bloody, grimy fist. Gintoki on the other couldn't remember being without his, even once. He tugged his sword around like an extension of his body, an anatomical part. As if he wasn't whole without it.

Sensei had found him like that.

What had used to be a school disbanded pretty quickly. They had, after all, no reason to stay together. Not most of them anyway, but the three of them had no home to return to and thus didn't. Somehow they got by, hesitantly, and kept together for a month, two, four, until they dispersed. It was less work to feed one mouth instead of three; a collective consciousness that ate on them.

It was easier being alone. He didn't eat anything, most days. Money was sparse, and most people needed it more than him. He wound the light kimono tighter around him, fruitlessly trying to shield himself from the angry biting wind. The faint not-really snow whirled in the air, rushed on by invisible currents. To think that only six months ago he'd been at the school with the others. Well-fed and with proper clothes for the first time in his life. Now they appeared as a dream; those lavish, care-free days. And sensei... that there was someone in this world that didn't want anything from him, that didn't throw rocks at him, or moved out of his path. He'd met all kinds of accusations, lonely moving from one town to the next. Once in a blue moon, if he was lucky, they'd give him something to eat if he would only leave.

He'd never been one for begging or even asking, because of all the grown-ups he'd met there had never been anyone who had anything left to give (to give to him) and so he knew there was no point. People seemed to think he was some kind of demon, and maybe he was. At least fiercely impure, he thought sadly. When he heard traveling priests holding sermons about values and what one should do in life, how one should behave, he always felt disappointed. Defeated. What kind of life had he led? If his actions were weighed once he died, he'd been doomed at a young age. No matter what he did he'd always be just that. Ransacking dead fathers for food... Now where would those actions get you?

The wind howled brusquely where he sat, in the down-trodden vacant alley.

They met each other again when they had grown up a bit. As their legs grew the world got smaller. Suddenly he could reach places, go places. Gintoki had heard a lot of things, some of them about the man in front of him. According to the stories, Takasugi had reached very far.

"I'm glad I ran into you," he said, and Gintoki knew that he was lying. Just as some children never lie, as some people lack even one single dishonest bone in their body, Takasugi seemed to have a bunch and then some. He'd been like that when they were kids too; saying one thing and then doing the opposite. Gintoki had heard stories of him fighting. It seemed his actions finally met his words, correlating into a maelstrom of ceaseless change. He brought war, and didn't care about what he left behind as long as it was better than what was in front of him. He struck, but only because it was better than sitting around, waiting for a hard kick to the chest. His eyes gleamed in the vagrant light from the lanterns by the bars. Their lazy light bathed the town in orange, softly colored. He didn't say anything but Gintoki knew why he had come.

He had heard they were winning, so how come it felt as if they were doing anything but?

He untied the ribbon, making the heavy chest-guard fall to the floor with a tired, licking sound.

"Gintoki-..."

He knew whom the voice belonged to but he didn't want to see him, didn't want to face him, couldn't bear to have him close. Not after what he'd done.

He started pulling at his pants too, wishing they'd give way. He was hindered by the wet fabric that wouldn't come loose from its knot. He started yanking at them with shaking hands because he wanted them off and his fingers became stained with red too. He felt the rise of a dreadful, panicky laugh because how could there be so much blood-

Outside in the corridor he heard people in passing, talking brightly, unaffected. They hadn't seen, couldn't know. His undershirt was wet too, stuck to him, he wormed out of it. He threw it on the floor in a disgusting pile, never be looked at or acknowledged again.

"Gintoki..."

He heard Katsura's voice again, a beckoning row of pearls, of forgiveness. He didn't want to be forgiven, couldn't be. He stomped out of his pants,

"Stay-" he quietly began but his voice cracked. Stay there. Don't look at me.

He sank down in the bed, kneeling as if in prayer, yet another grim reminder of all the deities he'd forsaken.

People passed in the corridor again and by the momentary change in sound he heard that the person outside the door was still there.

The alcohol he'd chugged down started to make itself known, biting its way along his insides. Pass out, pass out, pass out, he willed himself. He heard Katsura sigh, knew that his elemental black hair had fallen out of its knot and was framing his face.

It felt as if he was drowning, he couldn't breathe. As if ordered the alcohol made his head spin, just right. As if he was in a boat and it was sinking. Just right.

I'm so sorry.

When he wasn't looking, the war had changed its course. The amanto sent reinforcements, countless assailants with clubs and guns and swords. They could mobilize soldiers from other worlds while the joui only stemmed from one; their world.

He cut and he cut and he cut. With every swing of his ever-blunter sword, worn tired from hacking into bodies, he learned the meaning of fighting a losing war.

A hundred nameless, despicable days later the opposition had been rounded up outside of Edo. He knew the slopes were green from the rapidly approaching spring, but he couldn't see the ground from behind the mass of enemies. The four of them had woken up that morning knowing that they would not go to bed. He didn't especially want to die, no, but he'd rather die than sit by and do nothing.

There weren't that many of them and there were so many of the rest. In a normal battle the amanto would have been decimated, defeated, but there were more. What had used to demand one swing now cost him two then three as the blade dulled. He felt the metal tire, tasting the desperation through his hands. He jumped down a slope to gain some kind of leverage but was met with even less room to strike. They were upon him then, swords clanging, shrieking, until his finally cracked. A heartbeat later he was slammed into the ground.

It's over, he thought.

When he came to it was to a slanted world, askew because of the weight of all he'd failed to protect. His arms were tightly wound behind his back, his legs tied as well. He felt the clammy taste of blood in his mouth and cold, moist tiles under his face. It had happened again. He'd been there, but unable.

I'm not strong enough.

The thought pained him more than any blow they dealt him.

In a little cell with walls made out of bricks, there was nothing to distract him from his thoughts.

By now the amanto must have seized Edo, everything was under their control. Was it the same world, outside the walls? Through the sinister bars he could hear and sense the air of company. It seemed dinner had been served, and he always got it last. His cell was the furthest away and it always took a while before they made it to his door. Some days not at all. He knew it well; his head was filled with days as thick and unmoving as rocks at the bottom of a slowly oozing river.

A late afternoon a guard approached his cell. The man's hat was pulled down low and he knew it meant trouble, whoever it was. He tried to remain calm, awaited actions to be brought upon his figure like thunderstorms. He was moved, the guards sword behind him, prepared. The man didn't speak but simply led him on. It seemed like they were going to the courtyard but then they took a left, ending up in a slim corridor. Its high walls led upwards and it seemed like the perfect place for an accident, the kind you could hear about, with prisoners that never returned. Something started shifting in him, a danger he hadn't felt in ages. He longed for a sword, a bokuton, for something to hold. He knew he wasn't allowed to but he spun around, "Oi," he breathed, "What are you-"

"Took a while," the guard muttered, pushed his hat up. His hair was the same color as a night sky made of ink. His eye didn't follow when he smiled. What had happened to the other?

"Look at you. Pathetic," he continued.

"I thought I smelled a beast," Gintoki replied. He wondered why he had come.

Takasugi wasted no time on pleasantries. "We will have to fight our way out," he said, and didn't seem to mind the notion.

"Why are you here?" he asked in return. Takasugi didn't answer, instead looked at him intently, as if trying to assign adjectives befitting the person he'd become. From one second to the next the prison exploded with alarms and he stuck a sword in Gintoki's hands. "Take this," he turned around, rushed out of the corridor and took a left. He followed, his legs unsteady, had forgotten about speed and quick turns. There were guards all around them and it felt like the last battle he'd been in. But, as he quickly discovered, there was one difference- the shrieks that met his ears belonged to humans, to people just like him. He switched his hold so that he hit with the back of his sword instead. A man fell to his knees with a busted face and for every person Gintoki wounded he wondered if he didn't belong in there after all, locked up.

Takasugi had gone ahead and he hurried after but as he stopped to catch his breath a multitude of things happened at once. The guards had apparently expended all the more experienced men and were now down to the youngest; those barely old enough to realize what the swing of a blade could alter. One of these men, young and hesitant, brought his sword down on Takasugi, who'd been furiously fighting four people at once. As he spun around the young man's sword was right there and it gave a slash in his shoulder. The man lifted his sword again, unfamiliar with the shivering in the metal from cutting into something, and Takasugi who was bleeding heavily rammed his blade in the soft muscles of his unprotected stomach. The guard made a surprised sound, because he couldn't believe he was being gutted like a fish and what would his wife say and then he ceased being altogether.

Hours later they had lost the pursuers. Edo was enveloping them like a courtesan, a darkness and forgetfulness that existed only because it had learned to thrive upon itself.

"The idiot is on the second floor," Takasugi said, looking eaten and proud with a dirty, sodden bandage tightly wrapped around his upper-arm. They were outside a murky teahouse and Gintoki tiredly wondered which idiot he meant.

"The other one went up into space, like he always said he would," he went on, as if he hadn't been interrupted. "I've never met such a cowardly man," he added bitterly.

This was goodbye. "I won't join you," Gintoki said, because it needed to be done. It didn't matter what he was planning, he wanted no part in it. Takasugi was quiet for a moment and he thought about what he'd heard from an artist, about how space, how the lack of things sometimes said more than their presence, and he wondered if it applied to words as well.

"Keep the sword," Takasugi said, and then disappeared in the water-based stream of people on the street. Gintoki didn't know who he was meant to be fighting and for what he'd need a sword, but he clung to the relentless weight of metal in his hand.

The teahouse was warm and cramped, filled with people wanting to forget and be forgotten. He took the stairs, felt an array of gazes centered on his back only to gradually let go. Things were more quiet on the second floor and he stopped outside a door. Something told him it was the right one. He opened it carefully, and the chatter of voices died down as all eyes became trained on him. Katsura was by the wall farthest away.

"There you are," he said, and got up. "Meeting adjourned for today."

Nobody moved.

"Isn't that..." A voice was heard in the middle of the room, doubtingly. "Isn't that the guy we're supposed to save?"

Quiet. They were all staring at him.

He smiled, grinned, made himself look carefree despite that he was far from it.

"You can go now," Katsura said and this time they did as he told them. The room slowly cleared out and Gintoki moved to the side to let them pass. A couple of them looked at him disbelievingly, as if he might dissipate at any given moment.

Katsura pointed at the cushion, sit, and he did so. After a detour to another room the joui member returned with hot water in a lofty bowl along with a variety of bandages.

"You got some cuts," he said and sat down in front of him. Gintoki held his arm out, and it felt as they were younger. As if they had once again become the source of sensei's mild distress. When you created bonds, your hurt was other peoples hurt as well. He'd always been careful not to make trouble under Shouyo's roof; that would mean disrespecting the trust that had so valiantly been placed upon his shoulders.

He moved past the feeling of the past, concentrated on the present instead. The present was cleaning yet another wound he had acquired when shielding his face. Katsura looked focused, absorbed in the peril. They were both quiet, because there was a lot of words and it was a daunting task to pick just one.

"I would have gotten you out," Katsura said, having chosen. Gintoki was quiet, revered the faint burning sensation of cuts being cleansed. He felt like he had finally stumbled upon a path that wouldn't lead to misery and he was reluctant to shake off the quaint joy that came from being out from the drought of the brick walls.

"I'm here now," he said.

Katsura sighed, cleaned out the rag in the still-steaming water, turning the liquid into nuances of rust. "I wish he'd told me."

Gintoki had thought about it as well, on why he'd done it. Maybe he'd surmised Gintoki would join him out of gratitude. That didn't seem likely. There was nothing to say, and speculating further would only bring him pain.

"What's going on?" he asked, hoped that the waft of questioning would come across.

Katsura had finished cleaning out the dirt and moved closer to be able to better put the bandage on. Gintoki let himself be molded by his hands.

"Hold still," he commanded and started to wrap his arm up. "We got amanto politicians," he said, looked at him for a second then concentrated on the bindings. "The shogun remained, they expanded the police force and the amanto are practically untouchable." There was a pause when he wrapped very carefully. "People are afraid," he summarized with an air of finality. "and the bakufu are cowering."

Gintoki had felt it too, out on the street. People had given up. "Everyone but you."

Katsura met his eyes, and there was something in them that abused his mind.

"Gintoki..."

He could hear a quiet please that was bit down. He didn't answer. He knew what he was asking of him and he couldn't give it, because this time it was impossible. What he wanted couldn't be done. The amanto had gotten there, their roots intersecting the ground and just like a parasite's disease you couldn't rid yourself of it. He didn't want to fight, not in a war he was unable to win.

"This country needs-" Katsura went on, but he didn't finish.

This country needs a fighting force, someone strong to stand behind.

Gintoki wouldn't wage that war. Not again. His guilt was a cup and it was overflowing, deeming materials beneath it and staining them.

The other man loosened his fingers that had been squeezed into whitening fists on his lap, "We have to tread gently," he continued. He meant that it wouldn't be an all out war, at least not at once. "It's a complicated situation."

"But I'm not complicated," Gintoki said, trying out a smile, as wistful as a child learning to walk. His dry statement was an obvious lie, it fell flat the moment it left his mouth.

They were quiet.

"What will you do now?" Katsura asked. He sat up straighter, stretched his back.

Gintoki opened his mouth to reply but was overwhelmed by the alternatives that multiplied in front of him. The joui leader gestured for him to reach his arm out so he could look at it. He checked the bandages. "Don't-" he pulled at them, making him wince, "-forget your friends," he said as goodbye.

"No," Gintoki replied once he'd gotten his arm back and a reminder gnawed into him.

I won't forget you.

"Gin-chan," Kagura's voice came crawling in through the open door. "I carried the container home but I can't get it up the stairs..."

He looked up from the Jump he'd been reading for the fourth time only to see her standing there, looking puzzled.

To his right Shinpachi made a strangled sound. "How much sukonbu did you buy!?" he cried, and flung himself out of the sofa to see for himself.

"A container," Kagura repeated, looking mightily pleased.

"WHAT-"

Gintoki watched them rush out, heard their continued voices down on the rampant street. After a while he'd gotten used to their antics, their constant squabbling and their outrageous arguments. Their childhoods looked nothing like his, and the thought was cotton in his chest. They had had it rough, sure, but nothing they weren't able to handle. Sometimes he found himself showing something or explaining a grown up commodity and he wondered if that was how his sensei had felt. As if he was reliving the world, for a split second seeing it as brand new. They were friends and family at the same time, a mixture of bland mornings and stale rice and broken umbrellas and chocolate cakes when they felt rich. It was incomprehensible, the turn his life had taken.

He put the book down on the coffee table and went to help carry in the sukonbu, to Kagura's great joy. Shinpachi sighed a bit but then helped as well because they had to eat something. Gintoki jogged down the stairs and felt the sun leaning on his skin, a vacant summer breeze and the faint whiff of the seaweed sticks, smelling like the ocean.

Once you'd gotten used to the taste, it wasn't all that bad.