| The Storm Before the Calm. [Closed to Kakashi and Ryouma] | [Apr. 20th, 2009|07:19 pm] |
[Takes place the afternoon following Watch Me Burn]
When Kakashi woke up, it was to the dull soundtrack of agonized blood beating in his ears. He groaned very, very quietly, and curled up, pressing the heels of his hands to his overheated forehead. That prompted another deep-in-the-throat noise when he touched what felt like the morning after-impression of someone's fist, and ratcheted his headache up from bloody awful to apocalyptic.
Most ninja were relatively good at waking up, putting the pain aside, and working out why they didn't know where the hell they were. But Kakashi was fairly certain most ninja hadn't had their skulls recently unscrewed and filled with hot tar. He bit down a third unhappy sound and focused on breathing for a while.
When it felt like he could move without his head spontaneously exploding, he risked opening one eye--and immediately closed it. Whatever bastard had taken the time and effort to steal his memory and replace it with molten lava had also apparently spared a moment to sandpaper his corneas off.
Or--no, wait. He'd passed out with his contacts still in.
He breathed a silent curse word, unwilling to risk speech just yet, and pulled very carefully on the thinnest thread of chakra; it crept into his hand with surprising ease and glimmered on his fingertips. Whatever had happened the night before, it apparently hadn't involved much fighting on his part. He forced himself to open both eyes a crack, used chakra to stick the contacts to his fingertips, and eased them out. Then he held his head again.
So, last night. There'd been a mission. A club. They'd met the target--
They.
Ryouma.
Forgetting about cause and effect, Kakashi's eyes snapped open as he lunged up on one elbow--and almost fell right off the bed. He was lying on the very edge, covers kicked off and tangled around his feet, dressed in unzipped ninja blacks that had fallen down his hips, and a huge red hoodie. His mask had slipped down to the end of his nose.
Next to him, Ryouma sighed in his sleep and shoved his face deeper into the pillow.
Kakashi exhaled and curled over his knees, slid his fingers through his hair and pressed his palms against his skull in an effort to squeeze the pain right out. His throat, unwilling to be left out of the action, woke up and pointed out that someone had apparently taken a dislike to it during the night. He touched it once, felt gauze taped from one side to the other beneath the cloth of his mask, and left it alone.
The room was quiet and undisturbed. Late afternoon sun crept in through the drawn curtains. Ryouma's scent coloured the air with the confusing mesh of exhausted sleep, adrenaline crash, and relative peace. Looking around, Kakashi caught sight of clothes strewn about on the floor, a med-kit left open on a disorganized ANBU pack, and a plate of barely touched fried rice sitting stone-cold on the bedside table. He stopped looking at the last; it did unpleasant things to his stomach.
Mission. They'd been on a mission. They'd gotten into the club, they'd had one drink, several kisses, met the target...
Then nothing.
Kakashi dragged his hands over his face, shook the ridiculously long sleeves back--Ryouma's hoodie; why on earth was he wearing Ryouma's hoodie?--and reached down to shake his mission partner's blanket-covered shoulder, reassuring himself that Ryouma was really definitely breathing at the same time.
Hey, rookie,, he tried to say, but it came out like a raw croak and made his throat hurt. He gave up on words and shook Ryouma again. Wake up, dammit. |
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