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Tatsuma looked at Gintoki and then at himself. At his right hand — at his sword hand. The cut there was nasty, but it was just that. One cut. And he fell, hard and fast. Gintoki was still standing with his bloodshot eyes; his whole body a collage of scar tissues and fresh wounds.
He looked at the firm grip on the sword, at the bored expression, at the normalcy of it all. He looked at Gintoki acting like this was just another day for him. It probably was. It probably wasn't any different from the time they had gone fishing with everyone, or the time they had laid down on that roof together, watching the stars and talking.
He looked at Gintoki walking away, the blood shinier than the blade it was on. And Gintoki wasn't looking back.
Gintoki told him he was still a samurai, and that the war wasn't won by clashing swords. Tatsuma wasn't sure he had ever been a samurai, even before the injury. But that sentence sounded to him like a reassurance of something he wasn't allowed to understand yet.
Gintoki told him he should just do his job — whatever that was, Tatsuma didn't have a clue — and Gintoki would make sure everything was right again. Tatsuma doubted Gintoki knew what that meant, but he said it with such conviction that he felt like there was no other choice but to believe him.
The stretcher swayed as he was being carried back to the temporary base they'd set up. A medic walked along with them, taking a look at his hand. It was still bleeding. Blood pooled and dripped from the gaping split on his wrist. Tatsuma could see his tendon — ripped apart and a tiny bit whiter than the fat around it. He felt like he was about to faint.
Tatsuma didn't want to faint, he—
He fainted.
The sound of hurried footsteps and chaotic shoutings came to him first before he could force his eyelids upwards. He sensed panic in the air, hovering just outside of his stretcher. For a moment he thought something heavy was on his chest preventing him from breathing, but a couple of dreadful pants later it turned out to be nothing. Tatsuma tried to feel his hand.
Oh.
He couldn't.
He couldn't feel it.
Tatsuma suddenly found himself drowned in the overwhelming lack of sensation. He couldn't feel it. He hadn't even expected his hand to hold out, not when the gash looked more like a part of him than the wrist it was on, but to actually lose something was another kind of hopeless. His hand was too heavy and too light. He couldn't feel it. And everything was dark. Tatsuma really needed to open his eyes.
It was already dusk, but the light still pierced through his eyes directly to his brain. He was still sinking. Tatsuma tried to eye his right hand — which he wished was still there. What looked like a pile of thick bandages laid in place of it. That at least let Tatsuma know they hadn't amputated his hand yet.
"Sakamoto-san" A medic stepped around a makeshift medical bench next to him, leaning over his head. Tatsuma couldn't really recall if he had seen this particular person before, but the face looked familiar enough. "You probably still couldn't move that yet. You wouldn't for a while. Don't worry though, it's not paralyzed."
Cool. Good. Tatsuma wanted to ask when he would be able to hold something long and sharp and made of metal. "Hmm," He said.
He wasn't sure if he was only pretending to want to get back. Tatsuma never liked it out there, where the smell and the yelling and the blood were. And that was wrong, because out there was also where his friends and followers were. He felt like if he thought about it too much, someone might pry into his mind; to listen, to judge. Then everyone would know, there is no place for Tatsuma here. So he focused on the part of him that wanted to recover. He still didn't know if that part was real or not, but Tatsuma was good at picking and choosing what to ignore.
Katsura came in a few minutes later to let him know the amanto he helped was with them, alive and fine. Their name was Kanda and they wanted to see him when he felt better. He almost told Katsura he was already fine then, but the voice stopped in his throat. Takasugi came in after with a brooding face. "Couldn't find him." He said, and Tatsuma told him to never worry about it. Takasugi told him he never cared what Tatsuma thought and never would.
He waited, but Gintoki didn't come to visit the med bay. It wasn't the kind of care he knew how to give. Instead he went out. He clashed and slashed. He hurt and killed. That was how he cared.
Tatsuma didn't mind.
He laid there, letting the sounds of soldiers being carried in whispered to him about the war going on outside, letting the white canvas above scream at him about his inability to be of use.
Tatsuma closed his eyes. Maybe it was better down in the infinite darkness of his own mind.