It wouldn't have taken much to break Ginta's grip: a twist, a jerk, a step back. A sneeze could've done it. But Kakashi didn't. Didn't have the will or the want or the damn strength. He'd been awake less than seven hours -- less than a day, total -- and there seemed to be nothing but fighting in the world. Guilt, burning muscles, paying your debts--

If he didn't stop thinking about Ryouma soon, he was going to scream.

Ginta's hand ran down his spine again, firm but gentle, entirely sure of its place; Ginta's breath tickled the side of his neck, whisping through silver-gray hair. Kakashi held himself perfectly still, lips pressed together, and tried not to inhale. Tried not to come apart.

Hated himself, inside and out, for being so damn needy when Ginta was the one who'd really lost a teammate. Had actually been in surgery. Had nearly died.

"Bastard jackass," Kakashi whispered; it was almost a groan. He shut his eye, dropped his forehead onto that knife-blade shoulder, and wrapped his arms tightly around Ginta's lean ribcage. Hugged him back, because at least he could do that much. "I hate you right now. You should know that."