The little words he purrs are pretty words, because those are the things that Iruka should have, pretty things, because Iruka’s pretty. In Kakashi’s opinion, Iruka’s just about the only pretty thing in the world, and everything about Iruka’s pretty. His smiles, his laugh, his eyes. Kakashi thinks that the prettiest thing about Iruka is his tears, pretty little droplets that reflect sunlight and shadows and all the pretty things in the world. Maybe this is wrong, for Kakashi to love Iruka the most when he’s crying, but he’s so pretty, and then Kakashi can kiss his pretty little tears and hold his scarred hands and lick his wet cheeks and fuck his hard body.

He walks into their home, the pitiful one-roomed apartment they live in together, and Iruka’s sitting on the bed, eyes staring at something far beyond Kakashi. He’s shirtless and there’s blood dripping down his arm, staining his skin and the sheets on their bed. Kakashi kicks off his shoes and Iruka’s eyes finally lock on him, dark and wide and exhausted.

“Mission,” he says, and Kakashi nods. “Didn’t see the kunai, and my shoulder…”

Kakashi wants to scream, wants to kill something. He touches the shoulder gingerly, fingertips brushing and fluttering like butterfly wings, light and cautious. Seven stitches and Kakashi wants to rip out seven hearts. He pulls the thread through the skin, pulling Iruka back together, just like the time before this, and the time before that. The thread is tied into little knots, ugly things marring dark skin, and then he bandages the shoulder. The smell of antiseptic and blood, clotting together and smothering the senses. White cloth, torn into strips and wrapped around and around, holding Iruka together, because on nights like these, he always falls apart.

“Come to bed,” he whispers, and Iruka lies down near him, curled up on his uninjured side. He nestles closer to the younger man, wrapping his arms and his longer body around him, smelling the scents of wet grass and fresh air and bandages. It’s only a matter of time, and Kakashi waits. Soon Iruka shifts away, disentangling himself, his breathing rough and broken. The three stumbled footsteps required to reach the bathroom, then the click of the door handle and the buzz of the light. The water’s running in the sink and Kakashi stretches out on the small bed, reaching his hands over his head as though to grab sky outside. It’s raining now, and the raindrops on the tin roof above almost drown out the desperate sobs from the bathroom.

He waits, counting time in his head, until he can see the steam from the water come out of the bathroom. He pulls himself out of the bed and over to the bathroom, watching the scene replay itself like a broken record. Iruka’s scrubbing his hands frantically, whimpering and sobbing, fingernails scratching at his skin. His arms are red and raw, burnt from the hot water, and Iruka scrubs, scrubs and scrubs and scrubs, pulling and pushing the bar of soap.

“Iruka?”

Iruka drops the bar of soap into the sink and presses an arm to his eyes, dashing away clinging tears. By some miracle the soap doesn’t get into his eyes, and he goes back to scrubbing his hands.

“What are you doing?”

“The blood,” he says hoarsely, and Kakashi turns off the water. “It won’t go away, ‘Kashi.” His right leg’s shaking, foot tapping, and he scratches at the backs of his hands.

“You’ve burnt your hands again,” Kakashi says, grabbing the red, scarred hands. Iruka looks somewhere over his shoulder and Kakashi pulls him around and pushes him the three footsteps to the bed. He shoves Iruka down on the bed, straddles him and pins the red, raw hands to the mattress. He bites and kisses Iruka until the younger man is a tangle of desperate, mewling limbs, and when Iruka shakes apart, Kakashi holds him together, because Kakashi loves him and wants him and needs him, just like Iruka loves and wants and needs him, and to be needed is such a horribly wonderful thing.

He stays awake the rest of the night, watching the streetlights outside cast strange shadows and shapes on the cracked ceiling above. Time passes slowly, the shadows growing darker before the room begins to lighten, slowly, with the morning. Iruka stirs next to him and Kakashi closes his eyes, forcing his muscles to relax in a parody of sleeping. Iruka stirs again and curses his shoulder carelessly. Kakashi can feel the chuunin’s breath, light and airy, brushing against his neck.

“‘Kashi?”

He opens his eyes when Iruka kisses, him, and Iruka’s smiling at him. He loves this Iruka, just like he loves the other Iruka, and he kisses him back. He loves that Iruka loves the things in him that Iruka hates in himself, and in return, he loves everything of Iruka that he hates of himself. He loves and hates and everything’s so strange, so wrong and messed up, tangled in these webs of red and black thread, and he can’t disentangle himself without cutting his heart into a million bloody pieces. He’s stuck, caught and imprisoned, and Iruka’s his, completely and utterly and irrevocably his, and this is so wrong it’s right. And on mornings like this, when one Iruka’s smiling at him and the other’s just waiting to come out again, crying and screaming, on mornings like this, the world just seems so right.

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