| [Feb. 21st, 2010|04:41 am] |
Genma let go a shimmering held breath. Took another one, just as shaky, and another. He was acutely conscious of Kakashi's chakra, blue-white, edged in turquoise. Ragged and sharp, like a serrated blade. Unbroken. And that hand, with its scar-creased palm that could have punched a lightning storm right through Genma's sternum, but instead just rested there, trembling, warm, rising and falling with the slight motion of Genma's inhalations.
"Was still a suicide move," Genma rasped back. He lifted his own hand, aching and chased all over with Saint Elmo's Fire now that the cuffs were off, as feeling returned to his fingers. Lifted it and wrapped his fingers loosely around Kakashi's wrist, holding Kakashi's hand in place.
Kakashi flinched, then allowed the touch. He looked at Genma sharply, puzzlement in his weary eyes.
"Shut your Sharingan before you pass yourself out."
Kakashi's gaze seemed to turn inward for a moment, and then he refocused one grey eye; the red one slid closed.
"That's better," Genma whispered. He held on to Kakashi's wrist, feeling the steady beat of Kakashi's pulse under his fingertips. Held on to the edge of his own sanity, the edge of his own dignity. It had been a suicide move, and neither one of them were dead.
After a long moment, Kakashi inhaled, then coughed. It reminded Genma to take another breath, too.
"I'm sorry," Genma whispered, looking away from Kakashi's eye. He stared at close-cropped grey hair, at a bruise he could see edging under the newly exposed hairline. "About Arihiro." Three deep, shaking breaths followed. One for every corpse on that unforgivable mission.
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