"Only kind of?" Kakashi said, arching an eyebrow. "I must be doing something wrong."

Something very wrong, if Genma was actually starting to warm up to him. Kakashi turned that thought over in his head and felt his gut roil. Genma was supposed to be the one who never liked him, no matter what. They'd shared three pointless deaths together, three teammates who never should have fallen--

Arihiro, Kakashi remembered, with a white press of lips beneath his mask. The thirteenth lost dog of fifteen, and the youngest so far, all giant paws and sharp-angled joints he'd never had time to grow into. It still hurt to remember him.

--and had baptized the anniversary a year later with a shower-fuck that had ended in blood and scalding, soul-aching relief. Had ended in a thank-you punch and Genma's ass on the floor, his face looking every kind of shocked white.

You desire in others what you lack in yourself.

But Genma knew that was wrong -- or should have remembered, at least. Knew that Kakashi liked fast and hard and halfway to violent. Liked to wear bruises afterwards, as if he could force the purple-black stains of old nightmares out on his skin, away from his brain. Liked to not think, just for a scatter of heartbeats, which was...

Well, nothing like him, but it wasn't exactly a quality he sought out in other people, either.

His fingers picked absently at hot cooked flesh; Kakashi glanced down and realized he'd almost stripped his entire quail carcass without actually putting any of it in his mouth. A pile of meat-shreds mounded up on his bowl of rice, steaming gently.

He picked up the bowl and slid to his feet, turning his back on Genma. Genma with his kind of's and his tired eyes and his weird new stutter Kakashi wasn't worrying about, dammit.

"I'm going to scout," he said coolly. "You should start packing up."