That was unexpected. The petting. The question. Maybe if Ginta had been a little less worn out from surgery and painkillers; from too much tension, and the constantly shifting landscape of his relationship with the man sitting there awkwardly, hands twitching in Ginta's hands... Maybe he'd have a better handle on the situation. On himself.

"Your mother?" he echoed back. "My grandmother talked about your mother?" Of course she had. Of course she had reached for that formidable weapon in her arsenal of shame. She'd even said as much to Ginta while Ryouma kept his vigil. "She said your parents were lucky they didn't have to see their son grow up to be a deviant." He winced. "But she also got Ryouma for you when I asked her to. And yelled at him for kicking your bed when you were asleep. I think... I think she thinks you're sort of her responsibility, the same way I am."

That wasn't an answer. He tried again.

"My grandfather was friends with your dad, I think. Comrades, anyway. I mean, I remember hearing about him every now and again, but mostly in that... In that you don't talk a lot about Sakumo, and isn't it a shame about his son." Ginta looked down at his hands clasping Kakashi's, guilty at the memory. "They said your dad was in an impossible situation, and what he did was wrong, and what the village asked of him was wrong, but that he died with honor. I was too young to really understand it then."