Chapter Text
[clearcut / klîr′kŭt′ / (of an area) from which every tree has been cut down and removed]
--
Yamato doesn’t remember the war, not really. Even something so tremendous as a war is hard to remember when you spend the majority of it unconscious. What little he does remember comes to him in fragments – a sharp pain in the back of his head, murky darkness whenever he managed to claw his way back to consciousness, a pervasive sense that something was wrong. A lingering fear that maybe no one was coming for him.
He remembers waking up, barely, to a familiar voice and the faint scent of blood and scorched fabric and wet dog. He remembers the feeling of someone gripping him tight, strong hands carefully carding through his hair and a face pressed into the crook of his neck. The sensation of being lifted, cradled gently in someone’s arms as they stood.
Thinks he remembers someone speaking, voice soft and low and thick with emotion as he slipped back into unconsciousness, words at the edge of his consciousness that he couldn’t quite make out.
--
(Kakashi doesn’t really remember finding Tenzō, either, just unthinkingly picking him up – anything to avoid having to look at his still, twisted form on the ground – and being vaguely aware of someone murmuring a mantra, a steady stream of “thank god we found you, Tenzō, thank god you’re alright. I thought you were gone. Thank god—” before realizing that his mouth was moving, that it was his voice saying Tenzō’s name over and over, a quiet prayer in the dark.)
--
--
--
He wakes up in the hospital after a week, listens, numb, as Tsunade explains what happened to him. How Madara used his body, his chakra, his knowledge to kill thousands of people. How his betrayal – forced, unknowing, unwilling, but a betrayal nonetheless – almost killed him, too.
A violent shudder runs through his body at the realization that he had been trapped and used and hadn’t been able to do anything to stop it, that all his training hadn’t been able to prevent him from being controlled, that his worst nightmare had been realized all over again. He’s been leaning against Kakashi’s side, knows the other man feels the tremors and his single hitching breath, but when Kakashi just gives his shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze, he can’t bring himself to mind.
--
--
--
His house hasn’t been repaired yet, he finds, upon dismissal from the hospital a few days later.
He’s missed a lot – Sasuke coming and going all over again, Kakashi’s inauguration, the gradual resettling of Konoha. Everyone else has had time to come down from the tension of the war but he’s only just woken up, and he mulls over that idea as he walks, the sensation that he’s behind, somehow, in learning peace. Kakashi is trailing behind him, hands in his pockets in a casual shrug like he thinks Yamato can’t feel him practically vibrating with tension.
“I’m not going to keel over if you leave me alone for longer than thirty seconds, senpai,” he mutters, petulant. Kakashi just hums, an irritating, non-committal noise that Yamato can’t quite unpack the meaning of.
“You could just stay with me, you know,” Kakashi says for the seventh time since leaving the hospital. “I’ve got the space, it would be easy. Sakura’s already checking up on my eye every day, she can just fit you into her rounds too. It would be more convenient, don’t you think?”
Yamato just rolls his eyes, forming the hand familiar hand signs that will put a roof back over his living room. It’s only when he begins to push chakra into his jutsu that he feels it, something wrong and unnatural and rotten coursing through his body, a massive vine threatening to surround him and strangle him and and drag him underground all over again—
He’s on his hands and knees, heaving into the dirt. There’s vomit in his nose and he can’t breathe and he can feel the damp ground seeping up into the knees of his uniform pants. In all his years of abusing his body for the village he has never felt anything so uniquely awful as this in his life.
Kakashi is there in an instant, smoothing his hair away from his face. His breath is still coming in shuddering gasps, short and shallow, and even with Kakashi rubbing slow, steady circles on his back he can’t seem to fill his lungs.
“Tenzō? What happened, are you alright?” There’s something off in Kakashi’s voice, Tenzō notes absently, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. If it were anyone else, he might say the other man sounded shaken.
“I can’t—” Yamato tries to explain but he still hasn’t caught his breath. Kakashi doesn’t seem to mind that he can’t get the words out, just lets Yamato sag against his side.
Kakashi only moves to stand when Yamato’s breathing has evened out, hoisting Yamato onto his back without hesitation despite the younger man’s weak noise of objection. He takes to the rooftops, soft footsteps lulling Yamato closer to calm.
Yamato is the first to break the quiet. “I think there’s something wrong with my chakra,” he murmurs into Kakashi’s back.
Kakashi hums, soft and unexpectedly reassuring. “We’ll figure it out,” he says, tightening his grip where he’s holding Yamato up. There’s a pause, like Kakashi is weighing his words. “It’s lucky for you that I happen to have space at my place.”
Yamato just tilts his head into Kakashi’s shoulder, letting himself be carried without protest.
--
Yamato had assumed Kakashi would take him to the jounin apartments, but when he opens his eyes they’re at an old house, one Yamato doesn’t recognize.
“The Hatake compound,” Kakashi says, voice soft and uncertain. “The wards here are better, so—”
He trails off, but Yamato doesn’t need him to finish the sentence to know what he means. Kakashi has always been a little overprotective when he’s feeling off-balance.
“Thank you, senpai,” he says, still leaning heavily against Kakashi’s side as the other man makes a few quick seals to grant them both entry. Kakashi doesn’t say anything, just squeezes his shoulder and steers him into the house.
It’s a nice building, Yamato observes as Kakashi guides him through the entryway and gently pushes him down onto the couch, the type of classic construction that speaks of longevity, of ancient clans and old money.
“You just wait there a minute, alright?” Kakashi says, and even though it’s phrased as a question Yamato can hear the command in his tone. He’d bristle at being bossed around, but a wave of exhaustion has washed over him and he’s suddenly remembering Tsunade’s instructions as they left the hospital – straight home and back to bed – and how dismal a job he’s done at following them.
So he sits and listens as Kakashi moves through the house, hears the faint clattering of dishes and the whistle of a teapot. The air of the house is stale, and he can smell the faint scent of old, rotting wood – for all that Kakashi seems suddenly intent on moving back in, it’s clear he’s let the house fall into disrepair over the years, and Yamato catalogues all the damage that time has wrought almost automatically. The sun is setting, and dust floats in the light streaming into the room; Yamato lets out one last shaky breath and slip into an uneasy sleep.
--
When he opens his eyes again the afternoon sun is all but gone, a soft darkness spilling into the room where the lamplight doesn’t quite reach. At some point Kakashi has draped a blanket around his shoulders – it’s old and a bit scratchy and it smells of mothballs but Yamato can’t find it in himself to care.
Kakashi is curled up in the corner of the couch, reading. The warm glow of the lamp casts a yellow hue on the room; Kakashi’s hair almost seems illuminated. Out of uniform and mask down, he looks younger, the lines in his face less harsh. Yamato stopped being surprised at the sight of his bare face long ago, but he’s still not used to seeing both of Kakashi’s eyes at once – and judging by Kakashi’s scrunched-up face, he’s not quite used to having two eyes at his disposal, either. He huffs out a noise that might be a laugh, watching as Kakashi registers the sound.
He looks over, eyes widening as he realizes Yamato is awake.
“Hey,” he says softly, “alright, Tenzō?”
Yamato thinks about his answer, remembers the overwhelming sense of wrongness coursing through his chakra coils, and pulls the blanket tighter around himself. Evidently that’s all the answer Kakashi expects, because he starts talking again.
“I sent a message to Tsunade while you were asleep,” he admits. “We’re meant to visit the Hyuuga compound tomorrow. Well, you are, at least. I told Tsunade I would go, too. Unless..?” He trails off, uncertain.
“I’d like you to come,” Yamato murmurs, and then pauses, surprised at his own honesty. “If you don’t mind the trouble. Senpai.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” Kakashi says, waving his hand as if to dispel the idea. “Whatever you need.”
Yamato isn’t sure what he needs. But Kakashi’s open concern for him, the weight of the blanket on his shoulders, the quiet rasp of pages sliding against one another as Kakashi reads – it seems like a start.
--
He’s not entirely sure how long they sit in the stillness of that pocket of warmth created by the lamplight, but eventually Yamato can’t fight his yawns any longer.
Kakashi seems to take it as some sort of signal, ushering Yamato through the rooms of the house on an impromptu tour. It’s larger than he had thought at first glance, and there are some rooms where the disrepair is more evident – the kitchen looks almost perfectly intact, but some of the other rooms show signs of sagging beams and sliding doors that have fallen apart after years of neglect.
Eventually they make their way into a hallway lined with bedrooms.
“That can be yours,” Kakashi says, tilting his head towards a door on one end of the hallway. Yamato nods. “I’ve already made up the bed. But you’re also more than welcome to join me.”
The generosity of the offer is somewhat undermined when Yamato turns to see Kakashi wiggling his eyebrows and leering at him almost comically. He can’t help but snort at that, the feeling unfamiliar in his throat. “You’re incorrigible, senpai,” he scolds, but he’s smiling as he turns away.
--
(Kakashi sees one corner of Tenzō’s mouth twitch up as the other man turns away, feigning annoyance, and sags with relief. It’s the first time he’s seen the other man smile since he woke up. It’s enough. He’ll pitch a thousand more cheesy pick-up lines if it means Tenzō might quirk the corners of his lips up even once.)
--
Yamato jolts awake, unending darkness and the scent of dirt lingering at the edges of his memory. He knows he hasn’t made a sound – that particular reaction trained out of him years ago – but his throat is still ragged as he lets out a shuddering exhale.
He’s in Kakashi’s house, he reminds himself, and the wards here are as strong and ancient as anywhere in Konoha. Kakashi is just across the hall. He’s safe.
It’s not enough.
When he’s been staring at the ceiling for close to an hour and can still feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins, Yamato admits defeat.
“Room’s cold,” he mutters, a half-hearted excuse, as he slides the door to Kakashi’s room open. Kakashi is still up, seemingly lost in the pages of another novel. He quirks an eyebrow at Yamato’s entrance but doesn’t seem particularly surprised to see him, scooting sideways and lifting the blanket next to him in silent invitation.
If he weren’t so desperate for a single night of sleep Yamato might be embarrassed, or bothered by the fact that Kakashi is treating him like a housecat – as it is, he slides between the blankets unthinkingly, grateful that Kakashi’s made it so easy.
Kakashi reaches across him to turn out the lamp and they curl up underneath the covers by unspoken agreement, backs pressed together. For a moment it’s like they’re kids again, back in the ANBU barracks and looking for warmth and security and some reassurance that there was at least one person in the world who cared whether or not they made it back through the gates at the end of the day.
They’re older now, but the feeling is the same, Yamato realizes, warmth starting to surround him underneath the comforter. Kakashi’s breathing is even, soothing. He can feel the rise and fall of the other man’s shoulders against his back, the gentle pressure each time he inhales, soft and solid all at once.
The tension in his shoulders begins to ebb away and he lets out a single deep sigh as his pulse finally slows. Safe, he reminds himself, and this time he believes it. Yamato falls asleep to a warm, sturdy presence pressed against him, lulled into unconsciousness by quiet, sleepy breaths.
For once, he doesn’t dream.
--
(If Kakashi feels an unexpected wave of protectiveness when Tenzō pads into his room, it’s only because he’s feeling nostalgic. And if he waits until Tenzō is asleep before rolling just to watch, to make sure he’s breathing, if he gives in to the urge to rest gentle fingers over a pulse point, well. It’s nothing to do with the stab of fear he felt when Tenzō collapsed, nothing at all to do with his silent prayer of please, no, not him too. He’s just looking out for the wellbeing of a fellow Konoha shinobi. Anyone else would do the same, really.)