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The walls echoed the dull reflection of the TV, the muted colours stretching over the whitewash walls, bare of any decor, photos, life.
He'd been living here for almost a year, but it still felt halfway. Never whole. Some mementos on the walls wouldn't help. Some superficial displays of the past, as if having them on paper was your declaration that you'd never forget.
Kakashi didn't need printed paper. He didn't need another echo of the past spread before him. It was always with him, eyes open, eyes shut. Awake, asleep. Alive, dead.
Kakashi spooned the instant coffee into his mug, then two into the other. He also liked three sugars. Clicking on the kettle, the teaspoon fell against the mug with a ting. Tenzo had a favourite mug. Blue. Covered in silly faces of dogs. It had been Kakashi's favourite. Was that why it was now his?
He touched the handle, drawing his thumb along the curved ceramic, feeling the small chip at the top. The handle felt different now. It was moulded to Tenzo’s hand. The chip was bigger. Tenzo thumbed it idly when he sat and talked; when he watched TV silently for hours next to Kakashi while he read, the coffee long cold, but the mug still in hand.
It was almost 10pm. He usually left around 11pm. Maybe if he waited to give him the coffee he'd stay later. Maybe if it tasted shit and he had to remake it he'd stay longer.
But the coffee always tasted shit.
Tenzo stretched, arms dangling over the back of his small sofa, the peek of his stomach bright beneath the TV’s glow.
“The kettle boiled about five minutes ago.” Tenzo’s voice was soft, but still loud enough over the TV. It was comfortable inside these walls. More so than Kakashi’s voice ever did alone.
It was never going to be pictures or mementos he needed. They carried too much weight he was sure that he'd crush. The monument and grave was all he could hold right now. It wasn't enough for his penance, but it was something. Guy and Tenzo had tried to share the burden with him some mornings as he stood quietly, patiently, serving his time and duty, reflecting their carved names into his eyes, over, and over.
Watching Tenzo smile at the TV; scratching the groove his haipuri made just by his ear; rolling his trousers to his knee as he moved - Kakashi realised he never really noticed - or cared - how bare or barren his home was when Tenzo was in it, because when he was here, it wasn't.
He made home, home.
“I'm dying of thirst over here.”
Kakashi touched the handle of his mug, thumbing the chip.
“Do you want to move in?”
Tenzo laughed. Then he stopped. Then he turned.
“Do you mean-” He paused, sitting half off the sofa. “Move in, move in?”
Kakashi smiled, dipping his head as he stared at the dried coffee, hearing Tenzo stand, hearing Tenzo walk, the sound of his steps on the wood unmistakable. He still touched the mug, moulding his hand with the handle.
Tenzo approached, leaning against the counter at his side, hand to arm. “Kakashi-”
“This isn’t home.” He paused, taking Tenzo’s hand as he stared ahead at the bare walls, at the empty table, at the dull, frayed carpet. “You are.”