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Seven, eight, nine times the spoon has clinked against the mug, swilling the dark coffee around like it was entertainment more than a drink. Yamato feels like a tenth turn of the spoon would be too much, but it is then that he realises he has only been counting a minute into stirring. And he still has to put sugar in.
It smells divine. He breathes deeply, slowly, watching the whirlpool of black settle in the middle of the purple mug. The cafe is full of purple and pink crockery, almost as bright as her flower shop. Ino never was subtle about her favourite things - the colour purple, and pink, which reminds her of Sakura. She has achieved so much in so little time - can he say the same?
Ten, eleven, twelve, the brown sugar disappears within the coffee, sweetening the darkness.
He doesn’t even like coffee.
But this isn’t about coffee.
The air is rich with words, with laughter and lies; with the promise of coffee and cake; with the aura of comfort and escape. Life exists within a coffee shop almost as much as within a home, he thinks, as he watches, one by one. Friends grow, parents escape, families be, lovers become - all with the witness of the world.
There are familiar faces here. Only one other is alone, but he likes to be alone, sketching in the corner, a pencil his companion. Nearly everyone is smiling, but the facade is not lost on him. The mask of war hangs beneath their eyes. Weathered, worn, writhing. Some wear it well, moulding it gently into who they are, day by day; some wear it cracked, fragmented, letting it break painfully into their lives; some snap it in half, discarding it to the side, not knowing that it will only pull itself back together, the threads stronger, harder and fiercer. And for some, it’s now become them, the remnants of who they were, fading, beneath.
Touching his face, Yamato feels the soft groove his happuri leaves just by his ear. A gentle line that feels like he was born with. The familiarity of it beneath his touch is grounding as he draws his finger down.
The mask behind his eyes is rigid, layered, uneven, the edges cracked and worn as he keeps it steady beneath the surface. Usually he has little trouble in keeping that part of him, part of him.
Has he just seen too much?
Yamato takes a sip of the coffee and grimaces, pouring three more sachets of sugar into the bitter liquid.
Thirteen, fourteen-
“Have they ran out of tea?” says Kakashi as he slides into the seat before him, languid, leaning, legs crossing as he sets down his mug of black coffee.
The teaspoon is poised, coffee dripping onto the table as he watches Kakashi. Just, watches.
“I thought I’d try this one - see if I liked it,” he says, half lie, half truth. He always does new things in twos. One has to work out, right? And the coffee is awful.
He sets down the teaspoon, smiling. Yamato smells the rich earthy pine from Kakashi’s clothes, seeing a leaf stuck to his scarf - a scarf he pulls down just enough to drink. His mole peeks over the edge of the red check.
“What’s the occasion?” says Kakashi, every word slow and smooth. A hand runs through a side of grey hair hanging over his scarf while he waits for Yamato’s words. He waits, but almost like he knows what to expect. His eyes are lazy, with a smile to match. His posture is comfortable, his fingers stretching out across the table, bare pads peeking through the fingerless tips.
Yamato touches the groove on his face again, a blunted nail digging into the marked flesh.
“I don’t want to wait anymore.”
Kakashi is about to drink, but he stops, the coffee poised before his parted lips, the silent whisper of a hundred words ready to fall past them. But where does he start? He isn’t one for words. He is one for, not. He does. He thinks. He does. He doesn’t talk.
But Yamato does.
And that’s why he is here. To talk. He knew that. He knew that when he wrapped the scarf around his neck this morning; he knew that when he accepted the invitation from a nervous, talkative Yamato; he knew this a week before when Yamato couldn’t look at him when they spent the day sparring and ended up with a black eye; he knew this last month when Yamato was drunk and wouldn’t stop cuddling him, then cried on-top of his lawn.
He knew.
The coffee sits back on the table.
“We talked about this. I need time-”
“How much? There’s been time.”
Kakashi picks up the spoon.
One, two, three.
It’s pointless. Three’s nothing to stir except coffee.
“Losing Obito-” He stops stirring. The swirl of the coffee reminds him of kamui. Sometimes he wishes he and Obito had never left kamui’s dimension and that had been their end. At least they would have ended together. “Losing him again was - was almost too much. I’m-”
Kakashi touches his scarf, hands pushing the thick fabric over his lower face. It’s the comfort he needs, the comfort he knows. The mask that echoes the one within.
The familiarity of the gesture, the fragmented words - Yamato understands. He knows. He’s seen this a thousand times in his life. He’s known Kakashi for most of it and he knows him better than he thinks. He expected this - this withdrawal. They’ve been here before. And before. And before.
Yamato touches the groove on his head, nail scratching into the skin. He pushes aside his coffee, lukewarm, forgotten.
“If you’re going to use losing someone as an excuse for not loving anyone again, then I don’t know what to say, because this would be the most loveless village in the world if everyone thought that way,” says Yamato, staring at his upturned hand for a moment before he reaches out and takes Kakashi’s pulling it across the table and between his, hands cradling his gloved fingers. There was no resist, no resent.
“I failed him.” The voice is quiet, the words practiced and weathered.
“No.” Yamato kisses his cold fingers.
They’ve also said these words to each other a thousand times. Back. Forth. With anger, without; with tears, without. Yamato is never sure if Kakashi will feel otherwise. But he wants to make the words quieter.
“Do you know how many lives you’ve made better?”
Kakashi doesn’t move. He stares at his hand, caught in-between Yamato’s, fingers twined, touched.
“More than I can count,” continues Yamato. “More than those words let you remember,.” He pauses, feeling people walk past, the gentle breeze of their bodies ruffling the silver droop of Kakashi’s hair. It’s messy, today. Limp. Tangled. Strands are caught beneath his scarf, and when he lets go of it, his fingers scratching at the table, there are several more stuck to his lips. He doesn’t care.
“The ones that meant everything to me,” says Kakashi, a blunt nail scratching at a chip on the table beside their hands, “I failed.”
Yamato sets his hand atop Kakashi’s, pressing firm and flat, pads pushing tightly against the skin. He swallows, the words feeling raw and ruinous in his throat, afraid that if he says them he will shout and scream rather than simply, speak.
“What about me?” He breathes. He breathes, so aware of the way he moves; of his lips, parted; of his eyes, unsteady, damp; of his breaths, his breaths. “ I’m still here .”
They sit so close. They touch, hands together, faces inches apart. But Kakashi feels so far away. He needs to keep running, running towards Yamato. He feels like he’s never going to stop.
“I’ve wasted your life by making you wait for me.” Kakashi whispers, the threads of hair moving against his lips as he talks, falling away, one, by one. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.” He stops. “Because I’ll never deserve you.”
It’s like he’s heard Kakashi speak for the first time. It’s like his breath is being plucked, plucked out one by one. The unspoken sentiment was always there. There was very little in the world that Kakashi believed he deserved. It was so clear to Yamato, and he’d tried to do all he could to show Kakashi he deserved the world. Hearing the words out loud as they fall past Kakashi’s lips, Yamato wants nothing more for the rest of his life, than to prove him wrong.
All four hands are tangled together in the middle of the table, coffee forgotten and cold. Rain taps on the window, loud, comforting. They used to spend hours in silence listening to the rain fall on the windows as they read on their rare days off when they were younger. Where there was no fourth war. When Obito had only ‘died’ once. When their sorrow and loss was enough.
Yamato opens his mouth several times, trying to speak. He can’t. Thumbs press along the bumps of Kakashi’s knuckles. Kakashi is holding on so tightly, like he’s afraid what will happen if he lets go.
At last, there are words. Tumbling, breaking, almost lost within their echoing hearts.
“Don’t I get a say in who deserves me?”
Kakashi looks up and of course he smiles. Yamato can always do that to him.
But it’s a sad smile. A smile that hurts Yamato’s heart. A heart that’s trying to speak. To speak the right words.
“Kakashi Hatake,” he says, holding their hands tightly. “Would you like to go out for dinner?”
“We’ve been out of ramen about a hundred times, Ten.”
“It’ll be a date.”
“Isn’t this a date?”
Yamato frowns, staring at their cold, untouched coffee, then their sore hands, then Kakashi’s messy hair. “A shit one.”
Kakashi laughs.
He wonders if those words are quieter when he makes Kakashi laugh. He hopes so. He’s beautiful when he laughs.
“Shall I get us new drinks? I feel like this could be a better date.”
Kakashi shakes his head. His laughter is fading, but his smile persists. “Not yet.” He squeezes his hands, wrapped with Yamato’s, and just listens to the rain, the din of the cafe, the clatter of plates, the hiss of the steamer, the bang of the door, the cry of a baby, the tap of a spoon, the beat of his heart. “I don’t want you to go.”
Yamato dips his head. “Where you go, I go.”
“Except the bathroom,” says Kakashi with a smile.
“What if I really need to pee too?”
They laugh, loudly, knocking over a cup of cold coffee.