Kakashi's hand clenched against Genma's chest; Genma winced, his own grip tightening with an automatic flinch, and Kakashi had to fight down the feeling of a manacle snapping closed around his wrist. He hissed out a breath between his teeth. Carefully, they both eased up.

"Arihiro's been -- dead for two years," Kakashi got out, like the words didn't burn in his mouth, or catch fire in his throat. "He's--" His voice shook, caught, and fell apart. He dragged it back. "I can't. We have to -- focus on us. Apologies later. I can't think -- about that much."

Not and keep functioning. Takajin had covered him in a lifetime's worth of blood; buried him under crawling heaps of rotten corpses; locked him down in the graves of fallen comrades. It'd all been genjutsu and Kakashi knew that, but after thirty-six hours he'd forgotten how to care about the difference.

Something must have shown on his face, because Genma hauled himself upright, sat loosely cross-legged, and put a hand that was probably meant to be comforting on Kakashi's shoulder. Protective, where Takajin had been possessive. Strengthening, instead of destroying.

Kakashi braced himself better, shrugged free of both holds before they took him apart from the inside out, and splayed a hand over his lower face. Wished for a mask.

"They're probably watching us," he said, voice growing stronger as his mind rediscovered tactics, mental weapons. "I think a message -- got through from Konoha. That's why we're here, now. Did they treat your chakra?" One hand almost twitched back to Genma, but stopped far short. Kakashi gave him a long, searching look, then said cautiously, "You look better."

On a comparative scale from mostly-dead to half-alive.