Ginta closed his eyes anyway. "Don't go getting all weird and religious on me," he mumbled. "Not gonna be a hungry ghost." He listened to the clone preparing them food, smelled steam and cooking grain. When he opened his eyes again, it was to watch Kakashi; to stare at a lean back hunched in weariness. Kakashi's broad shoulders showed bandages where the sleeveless ANBU shirt bared them, and beyond the bandages, a few spots of reddened skin where the burns had been only first degree.

Under Kakashi's skin. Like a tick, he thought. Like a parasite. Was that why Kakashi was here?

I'm not afraid you're going to die. I know you're going to die. But I've got no plans to be the one left hurt enough to mourn you.

This wasn't mourning. Not yet. But Kakashi's posture spoke volumes of grief.

You don't want to mourn me? Then die first.

The layers of meaning in his own words struck Ginta now. Was that why Kakashi was here? Because Ginta was already under his skin? Because the only way Kakashi could avoid having to mourn Ginta, whether he called him a friend or not, was to die first?

Ginta clucked his tongue and sighed. "I guess it's too late, huh, Genius? Good thing I didn't die."