| [Nov. 19th, 2011|07:08 am] |
“Oh sure,” Kakashi murmured softly, “get all metaphorical on me.”
Ryouma’s arm tightened briefly around his chest, lean muscle and exhaustion replacing the solid strength Kakashi remembered. Painkillers conspired to knock Ryouma out in another minute; his breathing evened and settled, lapsing into something slow and peaceful as his body became warm dead-weight. Very carefully, Kakashi brushed fingertips over one too-sharp cheekbone. Dark eyelashes flickered, but Ryouma didn’t stir.
“I wasn’t the only one,” Kakashi told him, keeping his voice low. Village is full of suicidal rabbits, and you’re just as bad as me.
He let his head drop back, looking up at the golden lamplight reflected on the ceiling. The corners were full of shadows. He’d been four, maybe five, when Sakumo had told him that story. Still learning what it meant to wear Konoha’s hitai-ate, full of fire to get out and kill bad men. We were at war, I wanted to defend my home. He remembered hard, calloused hands in the dark; white hair that smelled of blood; a strong-jawed, unmasked face with a gentle mouth. Feeling safe and warm and wanted, because his father was home and all was right in the world, and for a brief heartbeat of time between missions and training and tragedy, he’d had the White Fang’s undivided attention without having to earn it.
He hadn’t thought about that in years.
You loved him. And the village killed him.
Sakumo had killed himself. Alone and dry-eyed, kneeling respectfully on the living room tatami floor, in the most painful way possible. He’d been in the war — he’d been compared to the Sannin in his heyday — he’d known how long a belly wound would take to bleed dry, but he’d done it anyway. He’d still been kneeling when Kakashi had come home from a mission, hours later, and smelled the blood.
Rabbit to the fire, but no one had been there to catch him. |
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