Alive, breathing, next to a man who said things like you make me better and meant them. Ryouma had played insane for six months, convincingly enough that Suna had believed him. The Hokage had believed him. But Konoha had still brought him home.

No, not Konoha. Konoha’s ninja.

Those who break the rules are trash. But those who abandon their comrades are worse than trash.

(a bastard street-rat who can’t even read)

If I'm going to be called trash either way, I'd rather break the rules.

(Ryouma had always been the rule breaker)

Kakashi took a shaky breath, inhaling sleeping storms and old hurts, and thought very briefly of the half-empty bottle of shouchu in the back of his fridge. Of quieting his thoughts and sleeping easily, without dreams. Then he thought of waking up headachey and dry-mouthed, badly rested, and having to explain himself.

Ryouma deserved better.

Kakashi looked down at him, and realized that he’d never really done this before—he’d sat vigil three times by Ryouma in the hospital, once after the mission when Ryouma had almost bled to death in the showers, and twice after the disaster with Tsume and Kuromaru, when Ryouma had screamed himself awake. But every other time they’d been together, Kakashi had fallen asleep first and woken up last. He’d never looked at Ryouma before, without Ryouma looking back.

There were still thin silver scars edging into Ryouma’s hairline, legacy of a smashed porcelain mask, barely visible in this light. His nose was bladed and straight except for the slight dip where it must once have been broken and reset. His jaw was strong and angular, leading down to a slightly narrow chin—another feature from his mother, Kakashi guessed. Dark, thick lashes lay against tanned skin like crescents of coal. Ryouma’s hair was the shortest Kakashi remembered it ever being, but it suited him, rough and soft and still a little wild.

He didn’t look younger in sleep. He just looked like himself, unguarded and very tired.

Mine.

Something to live for.

“A very long time ago,” Kakashi began quietly, “there was a priest who bought a bewitched iron kettle...”