Kakashi was grateful, in a tight-feeling, throat-hurting sort of way. In a way he almost didn't recognize, beyond relief at the fact that Ginta hadn't laughed, or looked at him cross-ways, or done anything other than answer his question. Given him something measurable to take away. New knowledge. Something real.

My mother was good at poetry card games. Someone once thought she was lovely.

It wasn't much to know, but compared to the distant memory of a few old photographs, the dusty voices of half-remembered conversations, it was something to hold onto.

Like the way Ginta was still holding onto his hands.

Kakashi looked down and watched his fingers twitch, almost like they belonged to someone else. Watched Ginta's grip tighten, just a little. He had small hands--smaller than Kakashi's--with slender fingers and square nails, scarred knuckles. Compact hands, functional, perfectly designed for a calligraphy brush or a kunai. Pale, but still darker than Kakashi's. Talented hands, but not steady.

Not remotely steady.

Kakashi stilled himself, swept both thumbs across the backs of Ginta's hands, then let go and pulled away. Gained a little thinking distance. Ginta's blue eyes watched him sharply, the colour of arctic skies.

"My father--" Kakashi began, hesitated, and then realized he did want to say this. Wanted to explain. "My father never talked about her very much. I think it was too painful. And I can't exactly blame him." One shoulder hitched in a bare shrug. "She died giving birth to me, but... He never did blame me."

Ginta's eyes widened, and Kakashi realized he'd said the wrong thing. Probably several wrong things. He switched the topic.

"What were your parents like?"