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Kakashi sat on the floor of his too-empty house. It was cold and dark, but the young shinobi made no effort to change that. He had been sitting here on the floor for hours now, as he did so very often, and had no intention of leaving. Instead, he let his mind flip through painful pages of his past. The room still smelled of sick-sweet blood. If he looked close enough, Kakashi thought that he might be able to find old blood stains on the floorboards, even though he had scrubbed them a million times over.
The man wrung his hands over each other, then scratched at his furrowed brow. No matter how much time passed, being here, in this house, on this floor, was painful. No matter how much time passed, Kakashi felt cold dread wash through his gut before opening his empty home’s door. He tugged at pale hair as his chest tightened, attempting a physical distraction. Tears began to well in the corner of his eyes and he dug his nails into his arms, leaving angry red lines. He bit into his flesh, smacked it, punched himself in the chest, made the pain physical until he could hardly breathe.
Angry tears were falling from his eyes, rolling down his face and soaking his mask. There wasn’t anything he could do to stop them. Kakashi rolled onto his side and grabbed his own waist, holding himself in a way he no longer let anyone else. He laid there in his own misery and disgust, remembering all the faces that had died for him, because of him. His right hand seized as Rin’s smile floated through his mind and he let out a choked sob, feeling the warmth of her innards ghost across his arm. The liquid heat of her blood, her tears shining against the light of his chidori. Kakashi’s chest was burning now, his heart seeming to physically break as he choked on his own tears. He blew a hot breath out of clenched teeth and hit his head until his ears rang.
It wasn’t healthy, he knew, he had to focus on something else, but the memories of friends dying were stuck on repeat again, as they were every time Kakashi found himself alone. He wanted nothing more than to feel his father hold him again, to hear his soft words and be gripped by the safety of his hug. Kakashi wished he could feel and hear his father’s heartbeat just once more. He wished the man had been here when everything else happened, that he could be holding him as he cried over his friend’s deaths. But maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe his father would have told Kakashi that he had become a monster, killing his best friend. Friend-Killer. The title rang true; perhaps Sakumo Hatake would have repeated it just like everyone else.
Kakashi sucked in a bitter breath. Blinking sore eyes, the man sat up and stared at his hands. Maybe it was a blessing after all, his father dying before he could watch his son turn into a monster. Tired eyes gazed at the empty space where he had found his father’s dead body so many years ago. He wondered if the man would comfort him at all. He wondered if he could still be considered his son. Maybe not.
Kakashi sighed, head too aching and tired to throw himself into another breakdown. He tried to focus on old memories, before the sharingan. He saw all the images of death and killing the sharingan had given him, and the ones he had memorized himself. But he also remembered cooking for his friends in this house and smiled even as another hot tear rolled down his face. He remembered telling his father about his first day at academy, and how he was surely better than the other students, arrogant child that he was. He remembered eating at Ichiraku; first with his father, then his team, then his friends. Kakashi's heart ached again as he recalled how Obito confessed his love for Rin to him. He had spoken so fondly of her, proclaiming that one day he would ask for her hand in marriage. Because of Kakashi, neither of them would ever have a chance. Kakashi remembered Obito giving him his sharingan. He remembered using the chidori to avenge his friend’s death and then to kill his other. Rin’s smile flashed across his mind again and Kakashi grimaced at the familiar pain. If Obito were still alive, he would surely hate him, despise him, maybe vow vengeance against him. Kakashi bit out a harsh laugh, chest feeling like it was caving inwards. Everyone he wished were alive, everyone he wished to feel comfort from once more, would see him as a monster.
A feeling of numbness took over, and Kakashi took sick comfort in the familiar deep cold and weariness that followed his breakdown. Is this what his life had come to? All these years of bitterness and regret, and for what? To be good at killing? He was good at that, if it was all he was good for. Konoha’s prime shinobi, their best killer. Their best monster. Not the jinchuriki, but Kakashi of the Sharingan, Friend-Killer.
Kakashi untied his headband and pulled the mask off his face, the scent of night air now coming full force into his senses. It was nothing truly terrible, but the scent of blood still haunted this house. Kakashi focused on the sounds of toads outside instead. The smell of wind, lake water, fresh sweat and tears. The ragged sound of his own breathing. The man fisted his sleeves, fingers digging into already-bruised biceps once more. He stood, finally, and reserved himself to taking a shower. Maybe he should move out.