GoldenDaddyTM may I please have some sakamoto for the word: temperature? Please and thank you *mwah*!
Sakamoto doesn't know where, exactly, he is. Just knows that it's hot, then it's cold, then it's freezing, then everything's burning. No but strangely, Sakamoto thinks with some amazement, the universe is not on fireāit's all a dizzy blur.
Aha, he's sick. Oh, but no no no, this is worst time for getting sick. The Amanto haven't left Earth yet. The war isn't still over. Sakamoto is busy, he still has things to do. Supplies to procure. Deaths to count. The friends that all he has left to keep safe.
He's struggling to crawl. Actually, when did he ever fall to the ground? Is he on the ground? Sakamoto doesn't remember, but he shakily tries to push himself forward anyway (backward? sideways? he doesn't know where he's going either, but he has to be going somewhere; how could he be nowhere?) There's a wall, a strong force that's holding him back, like hands pushing against his straining shoulders.
Tatsuma, it calls to him. Tatsuma.
Let me go, Sakamoto vaguely thinks, delirium slowly setting in, he needs to go somewhere that needs him, and help. Let me go please.
I know. But they need me, Sakamoto pleads with the force, pushing back with renewed vigor. It's mercilessly unrelenting, and his energy is sapped, suddenly gone like a light, and gravity rushes in to collapse him down; everything fades to black as he free-falls back to the earth.
"-sick as a dog." Someone grumbles overhead, gruff voice awfully familiar.
It's not over yet, when Sakamoto wakes up. He's still burning like something furious. And his head is swirling. But this time, something soft is pushed under his neck and tucked over his body. Something cold and damp is placed over his forehead, giving him some relief from the hot.
Sakamoto tries opening his eyes. His eyelids are like weights, but after minutes of effort, he manages to crack them open a smidge.
Light. Blinding light. Then, a face. A head full of white, wavy hair. Red eyes.
"Awake are you?" A voice scowls at him. Sakamoto's not sure why, but he kinda wants to sob. It's Gintoki.
But he opts for laughing instead, except it comes out more like this:
Gintoki's face further wrinkles in displeasure, and he reaches out a hand to adjust back the falling towel on Sakamoto's head. "Found you on my doorsteps, out of your damn mind, and groaning your moron head off about something like, 'I need to go!' and 'I need to help them!'ā who's they? You in trouble or somethin'?"
Gintoki sounds like he's dealing with something burdensome, but Sakamoto can hear the gentle voice of a concerned friend extending a helping hand. It's always been like that; you just have to stick around long enough to figure it out.
Sakamoto's voice is an unrecognizable croak. "War," is all Sakamoto can rasps out, but Gintoki will understand, if not moreā he lived it much worse than Sakamoto.
And he does. Gintoki's dead eyes stare down at Sakamoto's red face for a long, long time. Unable to stop it any longer, Sakamoto's eyes starts to drift close.
"Yeah," Sakamoto hears Gintoki quietly murmur a mile away, more to himself than to Sakamoto it seems. "Never leaves does it?"