A/N. I know this story doesn't exactly follow the canon, but I hope you will forgive me that. I was pretty much influenced by the fanarts when writing this, so I kind of made up some things. The story is dedicated to Selyann, an admirer of Shōyō-sensei who didn't scold me for giving Shinsuke the past she didn't see herself ^^ Thank you for your support, Selyann!
Shōyō admired all his pupils, but - even though he would never admit it - this particular trio simply won his heart. He tried to share his attention fairly among the whole group and spare his time to every boy, but these three lights always were closest to him. He couldn't really push them away.
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Kotarō was undoubtedly a star, and he was well aware of it. A son of the high-rank samurai of the Chōshū. A princeling. A sun. A future. At first, he turned his nose up at being sent to the school in the countryside; he couldn't possibly believe he might actually learn anything more here than from the teachers in the city. It didn't stop him, though, from becoming the top student right from the start. Or, maybe, looking from his position, he found that obvious? And felt responsible - for the honour of his family, for not letting anyone down, for always meeting expectations. Doing obvious things and being responsible - Shōyō couldn't really tell which one prevailed here. Maybe neither; after all, being responsible was an obvious thing for a samurai.
On his schoolmates Kotarō looked down, believing he was better than them, even if the propriety didn't let him show it. He simply treated them with a lofty politeness... and applied himself to his studies more than anyone. He longed for praise and... acceptance - even though he'd set about it in a completely wrong way. Maybe it took one to be Yoshida Shōyō to spot anxiety, resentment, pride and disappointment under that princely conceit...? Kotarō could behave like an adult, but he was still a child sent away from home and his family to some unfamiliar place. Maybe he felt abandoned. Maybe he didn't understand. Maybe he blamed himself for something and kept asking himself the question: why? Was there more to it than just his education? Was there anything wrong at home? Shouldn't he be there? Could it be that they no longer wanted him...?
His pride didn't let him inquire about it or demand comfort. He had to perform his task and fulfil an obligation. He had to respect his parents and their decisions. No, it wasn't that he "had to"; for a samurai, obedience was a right and a privilege. Kotarō knew perfectly that no other way existed. He could only do what he was accustomed to: play his role of a princeling and a sun, his head always high in order to never let down the ones that were below him - even if sometimes he just wanted to press his face to his knees and simply be a child.
Shōyō let him be a princeling, for taking away that last bastion would be a cruelty on his part. He knew that Kotarō would learn one day that the bastion protected him but also isolated - and he would decide himself when it was safe to finally leave it. Shōyō didn't worry about Kotarō, who'd learned how to smile much earlier one could expect it of him. He was but a child who had yet to become an adult and realize that life wasn't a courtly game of ideals, that people were just people, not saints, and that staying faithful to himself and listening to his own heart was what really mattered. Shōyō believed Kotarō would understand he could trust others and didn't need to shoulder all the burden himself, for those looking up to him would be happy to lift the load... Comparing to this, seeing beyond the end of his nose and realizing others could be right, too, was just a trifle, wasn't it?
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Gintoki was usually asleep. The supposed demon found on the battlefield didn't demand much. He was a star shining as brightly as the Sun-Kotarō and had no faintest idea of it. Snoring at the back of the class, he pretty much annoyed the said sun... that just couldn't ignore him, despite the best efforts. Perhaps it was because Gintoki had given him a whacking right upon their first meeting. Or, rather, would have given. The princeling had been saved by the fact that Gintoki'd got hungry during their fight and suddenly could no longer hold his sword. Shōyō decided it was a draw, which rescued Kotarō's dignity in others' eyes, but the boy himself knew that the days of his shining as a top student were numbered. He was fortunate that Gintoki had arrived at the school illiterate - he couldn't even write down his own name (and Shōyō suspected he had just made it up) - and disinterested in studying, so at least in theory Kotarō could enjoy his being the best. But it could be that, deep in his heart, he was happy to find such a worthy rival as a sparring partner. With that wild child, who seemed to have a swordsmanship in his blood, as an opponent, Kotarō could only polish his own gift as it had quickly appeared that no other pupil could match him.
Gintoki could seen a simple boy who needed only sleep and food, but in fact Shōyō knew him the least and found him the most amazing of all his students. Gintoki spoke very little and never about himself. As the time passed, Shōyō became convinced that the boy either didn't remember his past or did anything to forget it. That was, of course, if you didn't believe he was a real demon who had simply materialized one day on the plains of Chōshū. All Shōyō could do was to provide him with the shelter, a bowl of rice and some frames for his genius. He could only show the boy some aim and hope to give some sense to his blade - and nothing more, such strange that child was. He lived in the moment, always happy with what he had, never complained and never needed more.
It was amazing that with this nonchalance he could pretty much rivet eyes, rouse whispers and gather people around him. Maybe it was that calmness that someone else could mistake for apathy and inertia: it gave support, as well as a feeling that something lasted and didn't change. Maybe it was that resistance to the environment that someone malevolent could call a defiance and that could also stood for composure and immunity to external conditions.
Shōyō knew that wherever Gintoki would go he would feel good there - for he would always be surrounded by people willing to follow him and support him, helping him to do the same, even if one failed to see it. When he was sitting in the back of the class, seemingly sleeping - while the other students simultaneously tried to arouse his interest and found his attitude repulsing - no-one was able to see that the boy was actually awake and nothing could escape his eyes under the lowered eyelids. If anything were to endanger those he shared bed, food and teaching with, he would be the first to defend them. He was the quickest one to change - maybe it really took only the shelter, the bowl of rice and the good word - and from now on he would change others.
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For the first two weeks, Shinsuke didn't say a word. Later, he understood he didn't really need to speak. Shōyō found him on his way from the city, and it was the right description. Following his intuition, he left the road and went to the village behind the western hills. He found deserted houses and a boy with empty eyes. It didn't took long to realize what had happened here; the crows were still feeding on the bodies of those who hadn't survived the plague. Others must have fled, never caring about the boy who could only bury his parents and... wait for his death? To tell the truth, there was little life in his eyes. When Shōyō offered him his hand, Shinsuke regarded it with mistrust, and Shōyō understood he would never reach that boy by trite speeches of ideals or way of the sword. Instead, he cooked some rice and brewed some tea - and when the boy, after a longer while of hesitation, decided to accept the meal, he knew he won the battle. They both won.
All the way home, he didn't let go of Shinsuke's hand.
Shinsuke wasn't so talented as Kotarō and Gintoki, but he gave his best to equal them - and, in terms of hard working, no-one could really match him. He didn't speak a lot, letting Kotarō talk for the two of them - or even three, if counting supposedly sleeping Gintoki in. Only from time to time, unable to bear the princeling's self-conceit, he would throw some comment indicating his exceptional intelligence and leaving Kotarō open-mouthed and the rest of the class sniggering in their sleeves. Mostly, however, Shinsuke kept silent, and it seemed to Shōyō that the boy felt intimidated by those two intense personalities and his master, too. It was reassuring that, in Shōyō's absence, Shinsuke could be pretty fluent (and even got into fights with other boys), but that eloquence of him would vanish into thin air whenever Shōyō appeared around him. Shinsuke seemed to feel like vanishing too, at least at first.
Shinsuke, as Shōyō learned during another visit in the city, was a son of a middle-rank samurai that, for some offence, had been banished from the castle town to live in the countryside. Shinsuke had a good name, but even it seemed to be of little value to him. Shōyō was glad he could give the boy some purpose in life and some motivation, but he couldn't really be at ease. He tried to focus on the happy images: Shinsuke always staring at him in the classroom, silent Shinsuke walking next to him when outside, determined Shinsuke exchanging the blows with Kotarō and Gintoki during sparring, Shinsuke training alone at the back of the school. He told himself everything was all right - even though Shinsuke still had bad dreams that he would wake up from sobbingly and his gaze would make Shōyō think of that dead village the boy was the only survivor of. When Shinsuke finally stopped crying and simply sat on the engawa, staring silently at the moon, Shōyō would wonder whether he had done the right thing, taking the boy in and trying to save him for the world that could not offer him anything.
He could only try to teach him how to love that world again. And maybe he even succeeded, for Shinsuke learned how to smile, too - with a pale smile that barely reached his eyes. It never lasted long, quickly hidden behind the embarrassment and blushing, but was real. Against the dazzling glare of Kotarō and Gintoki, Shinsuke's own light seemed only reflected - but it was incomparably more important to Shōyō. After all, when standing in the sunlight, no-one really needed any comfort, but when in dark, even the slightest sparkle mattered a lot.
Nevertheless, he never got rid of the feeling of anxiety he couldn't quite explain. He only knew he wished Shinsuke could stay with him for ever... otherwise, the calamity would occur. He reproved himself for such thoughts, knowing it wouldn't benefit the boy... knowing he couldn't make the boy dependant... but he wanted to be with him longer, always longer, yet it always seemed that the parting would happen too soon. He prayed that Shinsuke would meet people who would be important to him, to whom he could smile and for whom he would like to make this world a better place. Shinsuke too was but a child bound to grow up one day and find his strength in life.
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Shōyō hoped that dreadful war would end soon, yet he suspected that his proteges would have to face its terrors. Strangely enough, it didn't frighten him. Every day he spent with them made him more and more sure that his three lights would be able to influence its course: Kotarō would fight for ideals, Gintoki would fight to protect his precious ones, and Shinsuke would fight in order to never again lose anyone. Until then, he could shape their skills and, what was of more importance, their hearts. He didn't need a reward; these three smiles was enough.
He wanted to enjoy them as long as possible.