midnightdiddle

A ficlet. Thing. Naruto-fandom, Kakashi-centric.

Kakashi first tasted beer when he was four. His father held out a can, said "sip," and Kakashi dutifully took a sip. The taste was bitter, too strong for his senses, and Kakashi winced, swallowing with difficulty.

"This," Sakumo said, pulling the can away to set it on the counter, "is stupidity. Loosens your tongue, dulls your senses. It's stupidity, and it's a poison. Poison," Sakumo said, and his hand was heavy on Kakashi's head, "takes root in your body, and it will kill you. Understand, Kakashi?"

Kakashi let his head drop until his chin was nestled against his collarbone. Sakumo's hand shifted, sliding until his fingers were cupping Kakashi's chin.

"Good boy," Sakumo said, and he patted Kakashi's cheek. He left the kitchen in a rustle of sleeves and a sliding of doors and Kakashi watched him go, grey eyes staring at the floor. When the footsteps were down the hall Kakashi leaned up onto his tiptoes, reaching for the can. He poured the beer down the sink, listening to it gurgle like his stomach did on nights his father was gone and his mother was lying in her bedroom. When the can was empty Kakashi shook it once, twice, then set it in the garbage can, carefully hiding it beneath the trash.

After all, his mother would be home soon.

x

Sakumo's door was closed the night he died. Kakashi slid it shut, pounded nails through the frame of the door into the frame of the wall, reaching up as high as he could. He couldn't reach very high, but he was never very tall. Either way, it was enough. The door was locked, his father's ghost inside.

A few months later he pounded nails into his mother's door, fastening them a little higher than he could with his father's door, and the house was two rooms emptier.

Time went by, like time always did, and Kakashi closed more and more doors, and the nails went higher and higher in the doorframes, until Kakashi could reach up and brush his fingertips across the top of the doorframe. Time went by, like time always did, and Kakashi learned that sometimes his father had been wrong. Some lessons hadn't been lessons at all, and some truths had been lies wrapped in gauzy fabric, slinking through the house like the ghosts that crept from room to room, scratching at the nailed doors.

Sometimes, when the wind was blowing through the trees outside, sending leaves spiraling through the air-- Sometimes, when Kakashi could feel his father's hand on his head and his mother's hand on his shoulder, Kakashi thought that he'd already been poisoned, ghost fingers knotting roots around his heart.

x

It was an unusually cold winter when Asuma died. There was a light snow on the ground, crunching underfoot, and the chill in the air made the bar feel all the hotter. Kurenai looked beautiful in the way that mourners always looked beautiful, cheeks pale and eyes dark. Kakashi brushed her hair back from her face and rubbed his thumb against her dry cheek. Kurenai caught his fingers in her hand, pulled his hand away from her face, and Kakashi wondered if she ever dreamt of Asuma crouching at the foot of her bed, fingers twisted and eyesockets empty.

He led her home that night, left her shivering on her doorstep, her keys clutched in her hands. The street was still empty, sky a dirty gray overhead. There was a little snow on the ground, melted and frozen over and again until it was more ice than powder, sharp and brittle. Kakashi sat in the snow outside Asuma's apartment, ice cracking beneath his weight, and he waited there until the ice was melting beneath him, seaping through his too-thin pants, through his skin and muscle, into his bones. When his body burned numb he shifted, pushing himself upwards with his hands. The ice cut into his hands, digging into his skin and muscle, reaching for his bones, and he curled his fingers in towards his face, blood seeping through his mask to his mouth.

The blood from his hands smeared on the doorframe as he nailed the door to Asuma's bedroom shut. When he stepped back he could barely see the glint of light off the smears of blood, and when he sat on the bed he couldn't see anything at all. He laid there waiting, his hands burning hot and cold, blood running sluggish down his fingers. The curtains from the window over the bed fluttered, gauze around Kakashi's head as fingers scratched on the door, tearing thin notches into the wood.

When Asuma crawled onto the bed, voice raspy and cold, Kakashi held out his bloody hands. Asuma's face was close to Kakashi's, and the taste of death in the air was heavy on Kakashi's tongue, bitter against the taste of beer. Asuma's skin felt slack beneath Kakashi's fingers, dry and cool and flimsy, like thin paper that ripped and tore and dissolved beneath salty tears. Kakashi pressed his palms against Asuma's face, blood slipping over the pale skin and into the scraggly beard.

"Sorry," he said, his forehead touching Asuma's, and Asuma's forehead felt burning cold, while his own felt freezing hot. "Sorry," Kakashi said, as he curled his fingers against Asuma's face, holding Asuma's head still. "Sorry," he said, kissing Asuma's forehead.

When morning came, Kakashi nailed Asuma's door shut, then sank to the floor outside the door, listening to raspy breaths and groaned pleads and fingernails digging at the bottom of the door. He waited until it was dark again, until the room on the other side of the door was silent, and then he left, scabbed hands shoved into his pockets.

It was a long walk home.

x

Kakashi didn't like to drink. He didn't like the way the alcohol burned its way down his throat, and he didn't like how it sat, heavy like lead, in his empty stomach. He didn't like feeling his fingers go numb, tingle in the way he knew meant he wasn't all quite there. He didn't like the smell, or the taste, or the feeling.

Sometimes, though, he'd sit in the hallway of his home, legs spread out before him, toes curled against the floorboards. He'd drink anything he had, sake or beer or whiskey, and he'd listen to the walls begging to him. He'd drink until he was warm and tired, almost-but-not-quite content, and he'd slump over until his head was leaning against the wall. He'd listen to the wall whisper to him, soft voices and rustling sleeves, and he'd wait for someone to touch his head, slip careful fingers through his hair.

Sometimes, when Kakashi knocked over an empty can and listening to it rattle in the not-empty house, he'd wonder if his mother had felt this lonely. Sometimes he wondered if his father had felt this tired, and sometimes he wondered if his sensei had felt this empty.

Sometimes he wondered who would nail his door shut.