[The knives are dull. The knives are dull, and now they're snapping, and Sasuke's armor is chipped and cracked (like Itachi's face was chipped and cracked in the last moments Sasuke saw him before the light of permanent impermanence snatched him away again) and it's falling apart at the seams just like Sasuke is. He scrabbles to hold onto the pieces, to find the broken end of a blade and hold it out with hands cut and bloodied from trying to work with what's already ruined into shrapnel. All he manages - muscles tight, hands holding fists into the fabric of his own shirt, tenseness that curls him in on himself and tries to resist as Kakashi pushes close and brushes the dust of decaying armor away - is a last thrash, aimless and desperate. Hands let go of the threads of his shirt - the last leather straps that once kept pieces of armor molded tight to his body - to push instead, to use those last scraps as weapons instead of shields, to do whatever he can to keep the other from getting close. And the terror of approach has nothing to do with mistletoe or lightning and everything to do with the fact that underneath that armor, he's small and helpless and seven and it has nothing to do with the Sharingan that Kakashi can see it.]
[But fingers curl against Kakashi's vest just as Kakashi's curl against the back of his head, cradling him like Kakashi did when he was thirteen, like his mother did when he was six. His hands are still bloody but the knife is nothing but splinters and dust, and the only evidence of armor are the bruises of straps that gripped too much weight against his skin. Those fingers, clean to the touch but bearing the ghosts of blood both old and new, curl in to find a grip on the straps of vest pockets, and instead of shoving Sasuke yanks, and instead of curling away he's burying his face against the zipper just under Kakashi's throat.]
[He's not seventeen and he's not seven, right now. He's thirteen and soaking wet from the rain, or with burns and bandages and weeping slits scorched from lightning wrapping around his left arm. Mistletoe is far from his mind, no discomfort or worry or more petty hurtful lying bullshit about personal space, because when he isn't pretending to be safe and strong and dangerous behind old armor he's been using to play dress-up, he can't pretend he's ever actually resented Kakashi pulling him out of the strapped-on weight that's always been far too much for him to carry around on himself all the time. Kakashi could always tell, could see the way he faltered when everyone was convinced by the show that there was a warrior underneath the weight, and while Sasuke's always hated that Kakashi could see it, he's never been able to resist (never been anything but silently grateful under the loudness of spittle and bile) when Kakashi's pulled it off over his head and set it to one side for a little while. For years, years that felt like decades, Sasuke has worn the armor constantly. Didn't dare let anyone else pull it off. And now he has the sores to show for it, the bruises, the calluses scraping rough on tired skin. He's pretty sure Kakashi saw those, too, underneath all the splits the armor picked up from constant use, and he's pulled Sasuke out again. And right now, Sasuke can be bare, and thirteen, and frightened and unknowing and desperate and helpless and lonely and all the other things he can't be when he has to bear all that weight, pushing close and weeping into Kakashi's chest.]
[Unlike the last time Kakashi was here, this closeness has nothing to do with the Malnosso or a spell or Shift or anything like what may have been attraction (he'll never be sure just like he's never sure of anything else in his life). It's just him and Kakashi and the weight of four long, long years stretching out between them. Sasuke sort of wishes Kakashi had locked the door, because whether or not he's the only one in this apartment (the only one on this floor, by design and choice) he can't help the creep of horror under his skin that anyone might see him like this, anyone but Kakashi who's already seen him like this (or worse) more times than Sasuke can count. But with Kakashi's arms tight around him, maybe right now he can trust in a very different kind of safety. The same safety he knew years ago on the bank of a river where there were no doors and no locks, only physical strength and a promise. (He can't hurt you right now, and Kakashi kept what of that he could in the literal. But the full breadth of it had never been true, hadn't been a promise Kakashi could really make, because the unspoken answer was always Yes he can. Being like that - like this - had hurt, hurt him in every breath, hurt him just by leaving Sasuke alive and making him remember. Still existing had hurt more than anything else. It still hurts.)]
[He doesn't have the words for this. He thinks he probably doesn't need any - Kakashi already knows - but there's a yawning weight of silence in his throat just the same. He needs the words. He needs words because the silence is deafening, and silence broken only by cracking breath and sobs is no better than the silence at night when all the screams are inside his head. It's still heavy and black and loud and empty all at once. His throat forces up a vomit of words to fill the silence, and for the instant in which they come he's absolutely, horrifyingly certain he's joined the throngs of fools who spill only vapid air.]
I want to go home.
[But the horror in the next second is different, and it's the horror of the words not being inanities but heavy, spike-covered truths that tore his throat on the way up, screaming into the air where there's no way he can swallow them back down and pretend they aren't true. Pretend he isn't just a stupid, lonely child crying helpless wishes into the night. That he has dreams burning with righteous vengeance and truth and self-sacrifice and the desire to right not only his wrongs but other people's, past and future. The words scream the reality that he's weak and scared and has no agency or control, not here and certainly not in his own world. And what scares him the most, what makes him the most sick to his stomach (because he's still just helplessly following the path Itachi drew for him with no ability to stray or do anything like follow his own tread) is that he doesn't just mean he doesn't want to be in Luceti. He means what Team 7 has wanted him to mean since the moment his feet left the gate. But behind that gate are people like Danzou and a world where the web of red threads is a web of red tape, and every inch of it is colored with blood, much of it Uchiha. And he doesn't think he can face that much of his family's blood again.]
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[But fingers curl against Kakashi's vest just as Kakashi's curl against the back of his head, cradling him like Kakashi did when he was thirteen, like his mother did when he was six. His hands are still bloody but the knife is nothing but splinters and dust, and the only evidence of armor are the bruises of straps that gripped too much weight against his skin. Those fingers, clean to the touch but bearing the ghosts of blood both old and new, curl in to find a grip on the straps of vest pockets, and instead of shoving Sasuke yanks, and instead of curling away he's burying his face against the zipper just under Kakashi's throat.]
[He's not seventeen and he's not seven, right now. He's thirteen and soaking wet from the rain, or with burns and bandages and weeping slits scorched from lightning wrapping around his left arm. Mistletoe is far from his mind, no discomfort or worry or more petty hurtful lying bullshit about personal space, because when he isn't pretending to be safe and strong and dangerous behind old armor he's been using to play dress-up, he can't pretend he's ever actually resented Kakashi pulling him out of the strapped-on weight that's always been far too much for him to carry around on himself all the time. Kakashi could always tell, could see the way he faltered when everyone was convinced by the show that there was a warrior underneath the weight, and while Sasuke's always hated that Kakashi could see it, he's never been able to resist (never been anything but silently grateful under the loudness of spittle and bile) when Kakashi's pulled it off over his head and set it to one side for a little while. For years, years that felt like decades, Sasuke has worn the armor constantly. Didn't dare let anyone else pull it off. And now he has the sores to show for it, the bruises, the calluses scraping rough on tired skin. He's pretty sure Kakashi saw those, too, underneath all the splits the armor picked up from constant use, and he's pulled Sasuke out again. And right now, Sasuke can be bare, and thirteen, and frightened and unknowing and desperate and helpless and lonely and all the other things he can't be when he has to bear all that weight, pushing close and weeping into Kakashi's chest.]
[Unlike the last time Kakashi was here, this closeness has nothing to do with the Malnosso or a spell or Shift or anything like what may have been attraction (he'll never be sure just like he's never sure of anything else in his life). It's just him and Kakashi and the weight of four long, long years stretching out between them. Sasuke sort of wishes Kakashi had locked the door, because whether or not he's the only one in this apartment (the only one on this floor, by design and choice) he can't help the creep of horror under his skin that anyone might see him like this, anyone but Kakashi who's already seen him like this (or worse) more times than Sasuke can count. But with Kakashi's arms tight around him, maybe right now he can trust in a very different kind of safety. The same safety he knew years ago on the bank of a river where there were no doors and no locks, only physical strength and a promise. (He can't hurt you right now, and Kakashi kept what of that he could in the literal. But the full breadth of it had never been true, hadn't been a promise Kakashi could really make, because the unspoken answer was always Yes he can. Being like that - like this - had hurt, hurt him in every breath, hurt him just by leaving Sasuke alive and making him remember. Still existing had hurt more than anything else. It still hurts.)]
[He doesn't have the words for this. He thinks he probably doesn't need any - Kakashi already knows - but there's a yawning weight of silence in his throat just the same. He needs the words. He needs words because the silence is deafening, and silence broken only by cracking breath and sobs is no better than the silence at night when all the screams are inside his head. It's still heavy and black and loud and empty all at once. His throat forces up a vomit of words to fill the silence, and for the instant in which they come he's absolutely, horrifyingly certain he's joined the throngs of fools who spill only vapid air.]
I want to go home.
[But the horror in the next second is different, and it's the horror of the words not being inanities but heavy, spike-covered truths that tore his throat on the way up, screaming into the air where there's no way he can swallow them back down and pretend they aren't true. Pretend he isn't just a stupid, lonely child crying helpless wishes into the night. That he has dreams burning with righteous vengeance and truth and self-sacrifice and the desire to right not only his wrongs but other people's, past and future. The words scream the reality that he's weak and scared and has no agency or control, not here and certainly not in his own world. And what scares him the most, what makes him the most sick to his stomach (because he's still just helplessly following the path Itachi drew for him with no ability to stray or do anything like follow his own tread) is that he doesn't just mean he doesn't want to be in Luceti. He means what Team 7 has wanted him to mean since the moment his feet left the gate. But behind that gate are people like Danzou and a world where the web of red threads is a web of red tape, and every inch of it is colored with blood, much of it Uchiha. And he doesn't think he can face that much of his family's blood again.]