A/N: Hello~ this is a very small, short project while I get over my writer's block for 'Sorcera Descent'. This is a drabble series with one chapter uploaded every few days. I've been trying to minimise my writing style lately, so please do tell me what you think :)

The coughs shook him, like an earthquake shattering the wooden floor below him, just like that; for a few minutes- his world was splintered. As always, the blood that stained was too dark, and too eager to taunt ere he grabbed a handkerchief to his face.

If Okita were honest, it was the period post-episodes that truly shook him. His throat felt flayed, and his skin went cold, even though sweat dripped from his chin and slithered into his eyes. Suddenly, his world was righted again, as if the fits had never occurred; but he felt weak and pathetically helpless anyway.

Far away, in the corner of the room, metal glinted. His eyes shifted to the slit of blade peeking out from its sheath, there propped against the wall like a forgotten afterthought. The katana was a family heirloom, passed down from father to son within the bloodline of the Samurai Okita family.

It made him scoff. He wasn't a Samurai.

Samurai do not flee to the mountains seeking to escape an invisible enemy. Samurai do not curl into themselves while their lungs claw out of their throat. Samurai do not run, do not leave their precious ones behind, do not do not go down this way.

He wasn't a Samurai. He was just a dying man.

And he was a man who would pass from this world hating himself, hating everything, hating life, the Shinsengumi, the Shogunate, the Emperor, Chizuru, his sister, this place, his failing, crippling body. Was it fair? Now that he thought about it, perhaps it was simply karma for all the blood spilled on his hands. He knew he swung his blade without judgement, without sentiment; he was Isami Kondou's sword after all, and he always knew he would end up in hell. He knew the price he would pay, and he thought he didn't care. He thought he didn't care.

Chizuru had wept over him when the illness progressively became worse. After all the pain he had caused her; taking her blood when he hungered as a Rasetsu, frightening her, acting recklessly without thought, she still clung to him. He had been lying on his futon, breathless while faint tremors shook him. He had joked about the inevitability of his passing. She didn't laugh. Instead, she had asked him, "What am I going to do once you're gone?"

The question was like a slap to the face, but his face had stilled and his eyes turned to stone.

He had smiled. "You go on without me."

That was what he wanted. He wanted Kondou-san to succeed. He wanted the Shinsengumi to come out on top. He wanted Chizuru to be happy and forget him, he wanted himself to just be turned over to the annals of time.

And now everyone went on without him. While he was stuck here. He sat up and sucked in a painful breath before struggling upwards and towards the porch. He didn't care if the sun pained him. He knew deep, deep inside that he was not going to recover from this, and he wanted to feel the wide open space of the outdoors anyway.

He lounged against the steps and tilted his head back. If he imagined harder, he could nearly feel Chizuru running her small fingers through his hair.