A/N: Wow! I'm… well, I'm glad people are actually reading and reviewing *scratches head*. Thank you!

Oh yay~ three day early update! That means the next one will be a three day late update . Dunno. I'll update the expected update dates on my bio by 24th Feb.
As you can tell, this was meant to be a drabble series before I stitched three chapters together. It has that dislocated feeling. Dunno. *shrugs?*

He gasped as he opened his eyes. It was pitch dark, with only the silver moon hovering against the navy expanse. Crickets chirped. The cold breeze tousled his auburn hair and rattled his lungs. He got up.

His body ached.

He shut the door behind him— before his body gave way and he fell to the ground. Okita lay there, unmoving. His limbs were failing, and the cool surface of the wooden floor was comforting to his cheek. He didn't care anymore, couldn't care. The Shinsengumi's sword had eroded away, and what use is a blunt edge to its master?

He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, feeling the chilly air pour into his brittle lungs.

Time, it seemed, could not pass fast enough.

If there was anything Okita hated more, more than dying, and more than leaving everything behind, it was the long, bitter wait. He was never a patient man; impulsive, daring, even reckless. Souji Okita demanded, and he demanded now. Honestly, really, as he thought this, a bitter smile twisted his handsome face. The gods truly enjoyed fucking with him. He took in another breath; willing himself to stay calm when all he wanted to do was to scream and cry out and lash at everything and to burn this fucking house down and to- and to run to Kyoto with his blade at his hip and cut down each and every enemy Kondou-san had, because he had to. He had to before he passed. He had to—

He gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut. Unbidden, the memory of one of Chizuru's rare outbursts replayed in his head. He had been sitting upright in his futon, his head bowed. He couldn't tell what expression had been on his face, and he couldn't remember what he had said. But—

No. No, you're wrong. It's not fair!

Fair? This whole disaster? Was it really fair? To him, it was fair. Fair enough, more like. He had brutally murdered many people without thought: fathers, sons and whatever; or so some of his comrades had muttered beneath their breath. He was Kondou-san's sword. Faithful warrior or devoted murderer? Maybe both. He deserved this. He…

He was only twenty-four. For fuck's sake, was it fair? Souji Okita didn't know. Fair? A part of his mind yelled yes, but deep inside his heart, a shard pierced and with all the resolute yeses in the world, it could not dislodge that resounding 'no'.

Perhaps he was being extremely selfish then; to resent a fate he very much earned. But was it wrong, to feel that way?

To hate—

There was a cold breath above him, sifting through his hair, before an icy hand stroked his head. His eyes shot open and he flung himself up. Intruder?!

In a split second, he prepared himself to lunge at the stranger. He didn't have the energy to punch, but he still had his wits about him and he could twist about and snap a neck—

Large, brown eyes looked up at him in boredom, framed by thick bangs of long dark hair. The moonlight shone through her translucent form, as if she was a half-faded reflection. Something dark and red glinted on her, in areas cast in shadow.

She blinked. Right eye first before the left.

Souji Okita could see the glint of his unfully sheathed blade through her.

And that was when he knew he was definitely going to hell.

He stirred the pot with a sigh. Cooking was never his forte. Apparently, according to all his fellow comrades in the Shinsengumi, Souji put way too much salt in his creations. In all honesty, he had no idea what they were talking about; because they tasted perfectly fine. However, he did admit to feeling slightly insulted during the incident back in the day when Hajime-san had gotten up to wash the gravy off his food— and the rest had all followed. He had simply sat there, staring at his bowl, contemplating hard.

Before shrugging it off and getting up to follow all the same. Well, maybe he did put too much salt in the food. He had a unique taste, could they really blame him? Still, he had to resist chucking his still full bowl at Hijikata's face when the man made an offhanded comment.

Okita snorted. That stupid Demon. In the end however, he was the only man he trusted with the care of Chizuru.

He resisted the sudden urge to chuck the bowl in his hand at the wall.

The girl next to him shifted, her movements an airy sigh. She dwelled in the shade where firelight met shadow, and strangely, amber flames did not glitter in her brown eyes. She turned to him questioningly when he made the small noise, but he ignored her. The pot bubbled in the hearth and he plucked off the cover, crassly digging through the food with a ladle.

Another chuckle made its way past his lips as he tasted his own concoction. He still couldn't cook worth a damn.

The girl tilted her head childishly, her black hair gritted with something nameless falling over her left eye. He still didn't bother to look up, because he knew she didn't need to eat, but he asked her anyway as he lifted the ladle.

"Stew?"

She gave him an odd look. He shrugged noncommittally and ladled a portion into his bowl. She watched him curiously, her large brown eyes blinking slowly. They did not close in sync, so they looked as if she closed with her right eye before alternating with her left. Blink. Blink. Her kimono was in tatters, and the raw scratches on her face and body distracted from her cute loveliness. She tilted her head and propped her chin on her arms childishly. She was very small, and could pass as Chizuru's age.

"Still can't remember?" she asked. Even her voice was young, and hinted of girlishness.

He snorted and didn't bother to answer, greedily spooning the beef bits into his mouth. She moved closer as her face furrowed deeply in thought, watching him eat with an intense interest.

It had been so long. She had forgotten what food tasted like.

Slowly, she raised her eyes thoughtfully to the ceiling before tapping her chin. Something was on her mind, or had suddenly occurred to her. He glanced at her then, and her eyes dropped down to meet his questioning gaze.

She shrugged nonchalantly. It wasn't important.

The flames flickered over the marks left on her form. Dried red, streaks of earth; a dark congealed spot on her chest and an unearthly inhumanness in her movements. He shrugged after she did, lifting his spoon helplessly. Really, what could he do? he gestured.

She pouted and folded her arms before lying her chin once again on top of them, and watched the flames dance within the hearth. Behind her creeped some nameless shadow that always followed her wherever she went; as if she was at the entrance of a cave, and behind her yawned a long dark.

Or something like that. ish.

He scooped the last of the food into his mouth, licked the spoon like an eager boy and dumped the bowl and spoon by the side. He would clean them tomorrow. For now, as always, he leaned back on his arms as his legs kicked out, and he watched the fire with her. They danced wildly, elongating in ebbs and flows and chasing warmth into his body. His lungs itched, but he ignored them.

"Hmm…" he started, as he always did. "Himeko?"

She shook her head. Wrong.

"Mizuki?"

She shook her head again. Wrong.

"Amamiya?"

Wrong.

He scowled. "Seiko," he insisted. She shook her head again and lifted her brown eyes to him. They were blank and empty, but her mouth mimed emotions, and now they pulled into an expression of petulance.

Feelings are not privileged to the dead.

"You're tossing random names," she whined, and he nearly could believe it, even though her eyes remained strangely bereft. Night creeped, and anyway Souji Okita was too tired not to. "You're mean. You really can't remember me? I'm hurt."

He shrugged uncaringly. "It's been two weeks," he said plainly. "If I couldn't remember you then, I shouldn't be able remember you now." He turned back to stare into the flames. He wondered if he could speed up this tedious process by venturing out tomorrow to practice a few swings. Spend a few hours baking in the sun, maybe dig his blade through his own organs. His eyes flickered back to the girl briefly, wondering about the strange oddness of this situation. He also wondered why he even bothered.

And that was when he saw her smile at the corner of his eye. The first real genuine smile he had ever seen on her.

"You shouldn't," she agreed.

Morning twisted into noon. He strolled out into daylight. He didn't care.

Meanwhile, she lingered by the doorway in the darkness, her pale face its own moon against the blackness of the house. She watched him, bored. He rolled his eyes before another fit seized him. Dropping down to his knees, he pressed his hand against the red spewing out of his mouth. Pain wracked him, gripped his ribs and threatened to break them. He struggled against the tempting surrender, to drop face down and relinquish his control to the agony. Yet, just as quickly as it came, it eased away, and he was left sitting on the ground panting.

If his sickness was a person, Souji Okita wouldn't even bother with a sword. He'd just strangle him.

As he looked back behind, her brown eyes met his, and something tugged subtly at his memory, of a red-painted smile and innocent brown eyes.

Chizuru?

He blinked again, confused. She canted her head to the side, expectant.

No. Not Chizuru. Someone else… Perhaps simply a memory of another face. Like deja vu when a stranger walks past you, and you twist around to follow him or her, trying to recall who that person resembles— to place a face. She had brown eyes.

Yet, they weren't as wide as Chizuru's.

She smiled. It didn't look sad, or even happy. Or even a smile at all. It looked like a curve.

"Come back inside," she said idly. She sat neatly with her feet tucked beneath her, still and unmoving; and perfectly poised, like a trained geisha. "You're getting sunburn."

He heaved a sigh like a scolded child, stretched leisurely, before rebelliously plopping himself on the grassy floor and propping his hands behind his head.

She rolled her eyes and settled on the steps, where light met shadow. Red glinted in her hair, crusted within her locks. At the back, a crater opened to the remains of her melted brain. Her skull fragments clung to the opening like crystal gems or shattered glass, stark white against the thick, dried maroon.

Her head had been split open when she was raped against the cold, cobblestone streets of Kyoto. Even in death, it itched sometimes.

She heaved her own weary sigh and leaned against the pillar, humming a melody she once learned at her mother's knee. Sunlight wove itself into the auburn locks of the man in front of her, and blasted onto his face. He was handsome, with his eyes closed and his face chiseled with attractive youth. Just the right poetic age; at his prime, taken to the top notch before being dragged downwards to die. He must have been trying to look peaceful with his rusty copper hair splaying out, lashes brushing his cheek.

Instead, she could see that thoughts stampeded behind the skin of his closed eyelids.

She blinked again. Blink. Blink. And gave an hour before his skin would turn a raw sunburned red.

She tapped her fingers according to the slow beat and hummed. Behind, death tugged, and a cold void whispered; but for now, she was content to play the part of a forgotten memory.