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Gintoki knows the wound is fatal seconds before he receives it.
It’s over, finally.
The adrenaline, the thrill of the kill, the—striking horror at his past-self losing, losing ground, losing blood, losing hope as his—blade cleaves flesh and demands blood, blood, blood, ceases immediately. A shiver snakes up his back. His hands shake. His sword is lost. The embrace of death wraps their arms around his soul, squeezing tighter and tighter.
His last— he's going to die, die alone with too many regrets. His death isn’t one of them, he's waited far too long to regret this. The nanites force him to take another— breath grates against the ruined building, the empty city, his lonely grave.
This isn't the catharsis he was imagining. He's too dizzy to remember it any earlier fantasies. Gintoki watches his body as it explains something. Useless or helpful, he doesn't know. For the future, for their future, he hopes it's the latter. His body slumps pathetically, lungs drinking blood instead of air.
Maybe he dreamed of a heroic death, able to fight off the nanites at last, leading his past self to victory.
Maybe he dreamed his past-self found a cure, saving Otae, saving him—
He dreams of Shouyou.
Gintoki is clutching a sword. It's almost taller than him. Shouyou towers over both Gintoki and the sword. His gaze is fond as he smiles down at Gintoki. Shouyou ruffles his hair, Gintoki almost leans into it. Gintoki lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Wind languidly flows through the classroom, lulling him to sleep. Phantom sensations of fingers —Shouyou's fingers, he hopes. Shouyou was safe, after all—drag down his eyelids. Shouyou mummers in his ear that he's done well, that he can rest now.
Gintoki is tired.
He's saved the future, their future. He should want nothing else. Gintoki has always been selfish to a fault. Pachinko, and parfaits, and alcohol, and skipping rent. Then there was Shinpachi and Kagura. He was still selfish, but there was always a bag of rice stocked in the kitchen, more dog food than needed after he forgot once, begged the Shinsengumi to protect the Shimura siblings when he could not. They were too good for him. He forgot all the conflicts and traumas when times were good, then fought with everything he had to keep them safe, because—it feels like an epiphany, as his life flashes before his eyes, he knows—they became his world.
These five years he hasn't been selfish. He hasn't gone down to see them and shake them until they make up. He hasn't fought battles to protect them. He hasn't gone near them at all. To protect them, he'd do anything. So he left.
If he could be selfish, and Gintoki wants to be, he'd want to see them, one last time.
Gintoki looks back at Shouyou, his hair gleaming gold. He leans against Shouyou's leg as the world around fades. There are loud footsteps coming from somewhere, but those fade too. His longing bleeds into contentment. He lifts his foot to step nearer to the light. A strange trepidation in his chest boils over, and he hesitates. He takes a step, and hesitates again.
In his soul, he knows this decision is final. If he steps forward, he will die. He will die regardless. He’s already delayed this enough, but—
There is yelling, at the back of his awareness. Gintoki swivels his young body backwards, searching. Hoping.
They have never disappointed him.
"Gin-chan!"
"Gin-san!"
It’s a hallucination, he thinks, seeing Shinpachi and Kagura in their old outfits, before the plague. If he looks down, will his hands be older? Marred with green runes? His heart aches to hug them, squeeze them, and never let them go.
Every muscle in his body burns back to life with renewed vigor. If he does not wake up right now, he won't see them. He wants to hold them more than anything he’s ever wanted before. He needs to see them.
He has pushed his broken body to the breaking point countless times. He can do it again.
Gintoki has bested armies, battled inhuman foes. He can defeat death, if only for a minute. One minute more precious than all the years before. He demands his battered lungs give him one more breath. Lifting his eyelids is harder than fighting Benizakura or Takasugi or every opponent he’s ever faced combined. But for them—they are his world, do they think the same of him? what is his role in their lives after leaving for so many lonely years? Destroyer of their planet? A mentor who never taught them? Is he a father to Kagura, and an older brother to Shinpachi? No matter what he is to them, they will always be important to him. They are, simply— his family.
For them he will do anything.
For his family, he can open his eyes.
Their faces barely come into focus. Kagura's hair is longer, but just as vibrant. Shinpachi wears his bokuto by his waist. They're both crying. He wants to brush away their tears and protect them from this sadness, but he can’t.
It is dangerous to touch him, the carrier of the White Plague. He tries to warn them, but his throat is filled with blood, and he paints the concrete red. His brats are too stubborn to listen to him, no matter their age. When he falls forward, they catch him. He slumps into their arms. The sense of calm that again embraces him is unassuming, yet light. If home was a feeling, he's just found it. They’re panicking, he thinks, shaking him around lightly, looking at his wound, speaking to him. He wants to commit their voices to memory, but he’s slipping too far into Death’s embrace to try.
How is he supposed to say goodbye?
How can he describe the burning pride in his chest when Shinpachi swings his sword in a minute?
How can he describe how much easier getting up in the mornings has been with Kagura's outgoing attitude in a single breath?
As Shouyou comes back into view, he thinks he understands. Shouyou’s last words, their promise.
He loves his little twerps.
He loves who they were and who they've become.
He loves them.
With all his strength, he mutters "thank you " and smiles.
He hopes they’ll understand.
He takes Shouyou's hand and walks into the light.