Understanding came slowly, dragged through stiff agony and a headache like a bone-ground landslide. Kakashi blinked once, saw nothing but black, and felt warm water hit his face. Probably not rain.

“Unh?” he said, because that seemed like a good place to start.

There were arms around his chest, holding tight. Hands clenched into his armour. The silver-thin weight of an emergency blanket laid over him. A chestplate digging into his back. A chest behind his back, he realized, because Ginta had him wrapped up in something halfway between a hug and a hold, and the only bits of Kakashi that felt warm were the bits where Ginta was touching.

Ginta shivered hard, jarring an iron spike of pain through Kakashi’s skull, and Kakashi realized that low, raked-raw sound was Ginta crying.

“What?” he rasped, and tried to twist around.

More pain. Like a red-hot shards of ice. He froze.

“Can you move your hands and feet?” said Ginta, sounding choked and raw, slurred.

That question never led to good things.

Carefully, Kakashi twitched his fingers, then his toes. They felt halfway numb, but they moved. He hoped they were just cold. His ankles flexed. Couldn’t be a spine injury. Head injury?

Well, obviously.

Ginta was still crying. Rough and silent, smelling like salt and copper — blood, a lot of blood — and not letting go of Kakashi at all. His grip hurt.

“Ginta?” Kakashi said, turning his head very carefully sideways; the blanket crinkled. He thought he was resting against Ginta’s collarbone. There wasn’t far to reach when he picked up one cold, bruised-feeling hand and tried to find Ginta’s face. “What’s—”