Sitting up was marginally harder than translocating had been. At least Ryouma’d had a spike of adrenaline driving him then, a splinter-edge of fear—it’s always easier in an emergency. And the headache was back in full force now, threatening to crack his skull open like a watermelon at a midsummer party. He dragged himself up against the head of the bed and blinked hard, trying to resolve Kakashi’s face into something more than a black-and-silver blur. “I’m sitting.”

“Good,” Kakashi said. “Stay that way.” He tugged Ryouma’s sandals off, unzipped his vest and peeled him out of it, then began wiping sweat and blood from Ryouma’s face with the wet cloth. His hands were rough, almost angry, but he never jostled Ryouma’s head.

Ryouma waited. The room stopped spinning eventually, and the tickling seep of blood from his nose ebbed. He was still too hot, after the chill night-time air outside, but without his bulky flak vest he’d cool again in time. And the stabbing pain in his head was beginning to die back to an angry throb, so maybe he actually would survive the night.

A cool palm pressed against his forehead. Ryouma refocused with an effort and Kakashi’s face swam into clarity at last. His brows were pinched together under his heavy fall of bangs, and his mouth was a straight, tight line beneath his mask. “They gave you painkillers?”

“Little white pills,” Ryouma agreed. “Three of ‘em. And nobody even tried to crack my head open with a mace this time, so I’ll probably live. Why did you go see the Hokage?”

Kakashi was silent for a long moment. “To ask him why.” His hand dropped from Ryouma’s forehead at last and closed, half-fisted, in his lap. “And to yell at him. He said I should show you the village again, remind us both why it’s worth anything.”

The bitterness in his voice burned.

Konoha’s hatred, its blind thirst for a scapegoat, had killed his father. And Kakashi had given up his life in the village’s service anyway, spent blood and sweat and soul until he had nothing left to give, until the village had wrung him dry and threw him back. What had he said outside the kimono shop?

We fight until we die. Or until we break and they kill us, or until they break us and we kill ourselves.

I won’t be a missing-nin.

I don’t want to kill myself.

Ryouma fumbled for his hand. Found it, and curled his fingers around the smooth-scarred palm. His hand was bigger than Kakashi’s, and his skin was warmer.

“What was it worth when you started?”