Disclaimer: No I don't own Gintama
Genre: Fluff
Notes: short af but i just NEEDED to write something for this ship. will probably be back to write a longer one but my brain's working against me at the moment so it's gonna be just this for a while.
(05/12/21 Crossposted from Ao3)
Gintoki never needed much closet space. He had his four same everyday get-up that he switched out, a summer set, a scarf, and a haori (and also maybe the pink kimono Paako wears, but no one needs to know about that). He barely used up his closet; leaving more than half the space empty.
What was the point in having too many clothes anyway? And obviously, he's the main character. He can't go changing clothes more than he needed to or else the readers would get confused and the animators would have a hard time animating everything. They wouldn't be able to reuse scenes too, then where will they be when they end up using all of the budget?
Nowadays though, his closet is always dangerously close to spilling over, Takasugi's elegantly patterned yukatas taking up every spare inch of his—their closet space.
It's honestly become a daily struggle; getting their closet to close properly, and Gintoki sometimes worries about the ominous creak it makes when he finally does get to close it.
He bitches about it to Takasugi, complaining that the amount of clothing he owned would make their closet explode one of these days, but he never really means it. He likes seeing those golden butterflies, colourful flowers, and shimmering kois more than he wanted to admit, and he'd sooner spend all his remaining money on a new closet than see them gone.
Sometimes, when everyone's out or busy, Gintoki finds himself staring at their shared closet, his heart stupidly feeling close to overflowing with warmth.
"Stop staring at the closet," Takasugi murmurs one night, voice husky with sleep. Gintoki would feel embarrassed, caught in the act at his new hobby, but there was fondness in the other man's drowsy eye, and a softness he'd once thought gone.
"Shut up, bastard," he replies, his words carrying no heat at all as he slides down onto the futon.
He'd thought once, as a kid, he'd forever be on the battlefield; living amongst the dead, breathing the stench of blood, and dying alone in a field of corpses.
But here he was, with a closet full of yukatas, Takasugi faintly smiling beside him, Kagura snoring in her closet, Sadaharu at his usual spot, and everyone else at their own homes.
Here he was, alive, happy, and content.