Summary: There comes a moment in the middle of a fight where the world stops and perfection is attained. Somehow, Gintoki’s life isn’t so serious.
Feedback: Comments are welcome; constructive and positive. Flames are nice too because they make for something to laugh at and keep my feet toasty.
Warnings: Yaoi hints (blink and you miss it), Un-betaed and my first Gintama drabble
Disclaimer: The characters found here *do not* belong to me. The story itself *does* belong to me. I am making no profit from this endeavour.
Notes: I was browsing DA one day and found this awesome picture that just struck me with the words ‘dusty sunlight’ and then I wrote this drabble. I should have gone to bed instead, I didn’t. Oh well.
This is also kinda… I wanted it to be something artsy-fartsy, but it didn’t turn out that way. I suppose it’s appropriate for Gintama, eh? Oh well, again, it’s my first attempt in this fandom.
They spun together, backs to the other, swords in hand. Their dance was a slow motion waltz, slowed in time in the late autumn afternoon. The golden sun glowing, lighting the copper and rusty leaves that swirled about in the still air.
Dusty sunlight crept over his white-clad shoulder and the moment seemed to gently freeze in place. The warmth of his body still reflected that burning orb at his back, though he could feel a greater warmth from the man behind him.
Long, onyx strands of hair, caught in the movement of their dance and then left to hang in the air as the world stopped for Gintoki and the only thing that filled his world was the beauty of the late-autumn day, and the raw slendour in the way his lover attacked him.
He breathed in a lungful of crisp air and time resumed its normal progression. His body continued in its momentum, bringing him to move until his wooden sword matched Katsura’s metal blade and he grinned. “You’re still so touchy.”
The dark-haired man frowned, never letting the insult go, and he often found himself punishing the snowy-haired man for his careless tongue. He pressed his weight into the blade and shoved Gintoki back. “I told you,” he growled warningly, the coppery leaves whirling about in his anger. “It’s not Zura, it’s Katsura!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Gintoki blocked another attack and wished he were eating an ice cream sundae instead.
Why did his perfect moments always degenerate into foolishness?