There was a slow, settling beat of quiet. Then Kakashi inhaled.

"Jackass," he agreed, somewhere on the line between cautious and companionable, and let his head drop down to rest on Ginta's slimline shoulder. Black cloth moved against blue-checked as he exhaled; mask and hospital gown -- each, in their own way, a kind of armour.

Ginta's arm tightened. "Jackass," he corrected, soft-voiced, without ever opening his eyes.

Kakashi felt a laugh rumble deep in his chest, like the warm afterburn of a sparring partner's kick, or the heat of a sake shot. Almost comfortable, almost familiar -- dangerous if he didn't watch his guard or stop at the first glass.

Ginta's arm was still gripped in his hand; Kakashi released him and laid his hand out flat over Ginta's blanket-covered stomach instead, feeling the open-weave material catch against callouses. Feeling the rise and fall of Ginta's torso, lifting with each slow breath.

Nothing like a dog, nothing like Ryouma. Ginta was only himself, fiercely and completely. His own unique puzzle. Strange and wild, sometimes savage, sometimes unbearably kind, defiant of anyone who tried to drop him into one neat category.

A friend?

Kakashi closed his eyes, breathed in the scent of warmth-and-sweet-and-blond, and relaxed under the weight of that encirling arm. It didn't matter what they were to each other, he decided. For now, Ginta wanted nothing from him. And Kakashi found that was exactly what he had to give.

He unwound, let everything go, and slept.