| [Jan. 22nd, 2010|04:05 am] |
In a few short months of knowing the man, Ginta had learned to read Kakashi far better than he might have thought. Especially here, at such close range, with the pulse of Kakashi's chakra ebbing and flowing in synchrony with Ginta's own, with hands that caressed and pulled away, the mask Kakashi wore couldn't hide him. Ginta saw hurt, chagrin, the tinge of something -- fear? regret? -- fleet behind Kakashi's eye, before it was winced away with a falsely-bright question.
"I..." He paused. What was there to say to a confession like that? To say to someone whose very coming into life had resulted in a tragic death? "It couldn't have been your fault. I remember during the war, there was a civilian woman who had just had a baby and was..." He choked the words away again. How could his story of death and loss, of medics who couldn't help, of watching the life ebb from the woman's face while her husband cradled their squalling newborn, possibly ease Kakashi's pain?
"I never knew my dad, either," he said instead. "I don't know who he was, but when I was a little kid I used to pretend to myself it was Minato-sensei, because of my hair." His laugh was dry, embarrassed, falling into the quiet room like a baby bird falling from its nest.
"My mom had a lover and got pregnant when she was seventeen. Brought shame on the family. My grandfather kicked her out of the house. She always told me my dad was a great ninja, and that he'd died on a mission before I was born, but she never told me who he was, and I've never been able to find out." |
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