The sound of coughing doesn’t even make him stir anymore. Nor does the sound of Okita talking to himself--and why should it, when they’ve no one’s company but each other? If anything, it’s silence that concerns him now, even when Okita’s frail body sees fit to let him sleep for an hour or two. If Okita’s hunched over in pain, coughing blood into a cloth, well... at least it’s a sign he’s still breathing. That’s the only way he can justify lying on the engawa with his eyes closed, while Okita rests in the garden. He should be at his side, probably. But it doesn't matter. If no one’s come by now, to visit or to attack, then they aren’t coming at all.

That’s why he stays put, without making any effort to be useful. He gave up on that long ago. If Kashuu were still with them... if his partner still claimed the spot on the stand meant for him, then things would be different. But there's no Kashuu. There's no Hijikata. There's no Kondou. There's just Okita, and Yasusada, and the sound of cicadas on the trees.

He remembers the days when people moved out of the way when Okita walked. Even when they didn’t know who he was, when he was unarmed and using a different name for everyone’s safety and peace of mind, he exuded an aura of strength and brilliance that demanded to be noticed. Now, he can barely stand on his own.

"Oh, a cat...? Come here, kitty..."

And it isn’t as though he loves his master any less. Okita’s strength is waning at an alarming pace, but he still makes time every single day to hold him, to tend to him with the same level of care he’s always used with his beloved swords. Okita can no longer wield him properly, but he’s never left Yasusada feeling neglected and alone, and even in all his naivete, he knows that’s not something just anyone would do. Okita is a true samurai--and Yasusada thinks he loves him even more now than he did back then, when he’d just been naive and delighted to serve at his side in battle.

"I’m sorry, I’m afraid I can’t play with you..."

But this is not the fate either of them had envisioned for themselves. They’d always pictured a glorious end, dying with honor and pride in the middle of a tremendous fight, where they were always meant to be. Fading away like this, alone in a sickbed, it’s not--

"Oi, now, stop that--"

--there's a hissing sound, and then, Okita's voice changes. It's enough to draw Yasusada's attention, and he rises with the stiffness of someone who hasn't moved in a long time. His form isn't corporeal yet, of course, but there's an ache through his body anyway as he moves closer. When he sees what's going on, his eyes widen.

Okita's drawn his hand close to his body. On the back of it are three long, deep scratches--and his hand is nearly skeletal, at this point, but he's still so painfully human. It isn't only his lungs that bleed.

The cat is fully black, with eerie yellow eyes. It's dirty, and bony, but its tail lashes with the strength of a whip, and the growling sound it's making is horrific. Apparently, Okita thinks so too--he takes a step backwards, as if to give it distance, but it surges forward, fangs bared. Yasusada cries out without realizing it, throwing himself between them. He can't physically block an attack, but the presence of his spirit must be enough of a distraction, because the cat looks straight at him, hissing wildly.

"A bakeneko, is it?" Okita doesn't sound angry. His voice is terribly weak, but mostly, he sounds sad. "Very... very well, then..."

Yasusada's never met a bakeneko, but like always, he'll trust Okita's judgment. He glares back at the creature, instinctively hold out his hand as Okita returns to the engawa on unsteady feet, where he'd laid Yasusada's sword down. The blade materializes in Yasusada's hand as Okita draws him out of his sheath, and for the first time in so, so long, Yasusada feels a surge of hope in his heart. Finally, he can <i>do</i> something, he can protect his master, he can--

--Something is wrong. Yasusada can tell from the moment Okita swings him. His hands are ice cold, but there's sweat beaded on his forehead, and his swing is wildly off-balance. Yasusada does his best to guide his hand, but, predictably, they miss. The cat leaps backwards, tail puffed, but it doesn't flee. He whips around, dread filling his chest.

"Okita-kun--!"

But there's very little of Okita in Okita's face. He'd be flushed, if he wasn't so sickly pale these days, but his eyes aren't even fully open, and his whole body is shaking. Still, he swings again, and it's all Yasusada can do to follow the motion. They only manage one more swing before Okita collapses, coughing blood onto the ground at an alarming rate. Yasusada barely registers the pain of his blade hitting the ground as he drops to his knees beside him, trying in vain to touch him, to shake him, to do anything to get a response. But Okita's closed his eyes, and no matter how loudly Yasusada screams, he doesn't open them again.

He doesn't know how long it takes, for another human to find Okita's body. But when he finally lifts his head, the cat is long gone.