Work Text:
The place is brimming with life—laughter and conversation flow through the izakaya like a warm current, fueled by alcohol and the late hour; the clock on the wall reads a quarter past midnight. Lamps cast a golden glow over the crowd, and Obito watches from his lonely seat at an empty table. They all seem so happy, he thinks absently, taking a sip of his drink—some chilled oolong tea he's been nursing instead of the umeshu and sake everyone else is drinking, since he can't mix alcohol with his meds. He grimaces at the taste and sets the tall glass back on the table.
“Not having much fun, I take it?”
Seemingly appearing out of nowhere—and isn't that just wonderful, another reminder of how much his reflexes have dulled, leaving him incapable of even basic awareness—Kurenai slides into the seat across from him, a faint smile grazing her lips. She looks beautiful tonight, her long black hair cascading down her back, framing her elegant face. The headband with the swirling leaf symbol stands out on her forehead like a scar.
“It’s not as fun when I can’t get drunk like everyone else,” Obito concedes. The meds have numbed him, so in truth, he’s not feeling much of anything at the moment. It’s better this way—he doubts he could stand this celebration otherwise.
“You didn’t even seem to enjoy the food. The yakitori is quite good.”
Obito eyes the plate with the grilled chicken skewers still sitting on the table with distaste.
“Not feeling it tonight.” Any food that isn’t homemade tends to upset his stomach. “But don’t worry about me. Don’t let the sad loner ruin your party. This is for you, after all.”
Kurenai had finally made Jonin, thanks to Anko’s recommendation. No one had understood why she remained a Chunin for so long when everyone knew she was more than skilled enough for the rank. But until now, no one had been willing to recommend her for the promotion. Not even Asuma.
“I needed a breather, anyway, so I decided to check on our resident ‘sad loner,’ as you say,” Kurenai’s smile widens, her white teeth standing out against red lips. Obito’s teeth are yellowed from a decade of pain medication. “Kakashi and Gai started another one of their silly competitions. A drinking contest this time, I think. I didn’t want to be near that.”
“I heard them.” The izakaya is small, and Obito has heard every single one of Gai’s enthusiastic shouts from his seat. He can even see them sitting at the bar if he stretches his neck a little—Kakashi’s slouched back and white hair, Gai’s awful green jumpsuit and wide shoulders. “Any bets?”
“I think everyone’s betting on Kakashi this time.” Kurenai’s red eyes twinkle mischievously—she has astonishing eyes, a wine red just a shade deeper than the Sharingan. “Let’s hope he doesn’t get drunk enough to need help getting home.”
Obito rolls his eye. As if Kakashi would ever allow himself to be that vulnerable. He'll simply cheat, pretending to drink more than he actually does to win.
“I’d just dump him in a back alley until he wakes up in the morning. That’d teach him.”
Kurenai laughs softly. She never giggles like some girls often do, like Rin used to. Then again, maybe Rin had only giggled because she was thirteen. Maybe she would’ve grown up into an elegant woman who laughs softly. He’ll never know.
“Poor Kakashi,” Kurenai teases.
“Don’t pity him. He wanted to give you the latest Icha Icha as a gift.”
Kurenai laughs more earnestly this time.
“That would’ve been an interesting promotion gift, for sure. I still prefer the earrings, though, so thank you.”
Obito shrugs. The meds make the movement smooth instead of painful. “Don’t mention it.”
“Everyone else gave me weapons. Anko’s gift was a poisoned hairpin. Your gift was a delightful surprise.”
Obito shrugs again, feeling a little bashful. “I figured you’d appreciate something unrelated to work. You’re not going to run short on weapons as a Jonin. And they match your eyes, too.”
The long earrings he’d chosen were a deep, vibrant red, with smooth teardrop shapes that tapered gracefully. He’d thought they suited Kurenai’s style when he saw them in the shop. He’d even found the motivation to go out just to look for them—anything to prevent Kakashi from giving her that damn Icha Icha.
Kurenai’s red eyes soften. “They do.”
She doesn’t have time to say anything else—the commotion at the bar surrounding Kakashi and Gai reaches its peak, and Obito knows the competition is over. When he glances over, it’s no surprise to see Gai sprawled across the bar while Kakashi is already on his feet, heading their way, looking perfectly composed.
“Obitooo,” he drawls, plopping down on the bench next to Obito and sliding closer until their thighs are touching. He sounds slightly drunk, but Obito knows he’s faking it. “I won. Where’s my reward?”
“Your reward is me not leaving you here because you're too drunk to stand.”
“Maa, Obito, you’re so mean to me.” Kakashi pouts, somehow making it noticeable through the mask, but before Obito can mock him for acting like a child, he turns to Kurenai and says: “Thanks for keeping him company. I hope he didn’t sulk too much.”
“I don’t sulk—”
“Not at all,” Kurenai says politely. “He was wonderful company.”
Obito raises an eyebrow at the lie.
“Obito is wonderful,” Kakashi agrees, a little too eagerly. Obito turns fully to meet his gaze, visibly baffled. The atmosphere in the izakaya suddenly feels stifling, and heat rushes up Obito’s neck. He clears his throat, uncomfortable, while Kakashi remains completely nonchalant.
“I was thanking him for your gift, actually,” Kurenai continues, immune—or pretending to be—to the awkward atmosphere. “It was beautiful.”
“We figured a weapon would be too cliché. It’s not like you’re short on those,” says Kakashi, as if he had any say in the gift. “My idea was to give you the latest Icha Icha, but Obito doesn’t like them.”
“Yeah, because they’re trash,” Obito snorts.
“They’re high literature, Obito. If you let go of your prejudices and gave a chance to something other than your pretentious books, you’d see—”
“My pretentious books? You mean books with plot?”
“Icha Icha have a plot—”
“Putting the characters in ridiculous scenarios to have sex is not a plot, Bakashi—”
“Eroticism is an art, Obito—”
“Kurenai! What are you doing with these two losers?” Asuma strolls over to their table, a cigarette hanging from his lips and his face flushed from alcohol. “Come have fun at the bar! We’re stacking glasses on Gai while he’s passed out. Can’t miss it!”
“Well, I can’t say no to that,” Kurenai chuckles, rolling her eyes. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”
“Enjoy,” Kakashi waves her off casually. “We should head out anyway, right, Obito?”
“Yeah, let’s go.” Obito, who never wanted to come in the first place, feels instant relief.
They both rise—Obito with some effort due to his prosthetic leg, and Kakashi, still feigning drunkenness for some goddamn reason, stumbling awkwardly. No one pays them any mind as they leave—Genma is in the middle of stripping on top of a table, with Anko tossing bills at him—and the cold air of the street welcomes them before anyone can stop them. The empty street glows softly under the warm light of the streetlamps, while the vibrant neon sign of the izakaya flickers, casting colorful reflections on the wet pavement. It had rained earlier in the evening. Obito breathes in the scent.
Beside him, Kakashi stumbles again, and Obito instinctively reaches out to steady him. In a swift motion—any pretense of clumsiness gone—Kakashi seizes Obito's hand and spins them around, pinning Obito against the damp wall of the building with his body.
Obito scowls, eyes narrowing. “The hell are you doing, Bakashi?”
Instead of answering, Kakashi buries his face into the crook of Obito’s neck, inhaling deeply. The heavy sensation from earlier creeps back over Obito, making him uncomfortable. He swats at Kakashi's head, harder than necessary.
“Get off me.”
“But you smell so good,” Kakashi murmurs, almost whining. “It’s your fault. You’re too beautiful, Obito.”
What the fuck, he thinks.
“What the fuck,” he says. “Are you actually drunk, Bakashi?”
“I had a lot to drink,” Kakashi replies lazily, still resting his face against Obito's neck.
“I thought you were cheating, asshole!”
“I don’t cheat against Gai,” Kakashi says, then seems to think it over, because he adds: “I don’t usually cheat against Gai.”
Wonderful.
“I don’t care about whatever shit you’ve got going on with Gai,” he lies. “But don’t bother me with it.”
“Maa, don’t nag me, Obito. Gai and I are just rivals; you don’t need to be jealous.”
Obito’s hair stands on end.
“I’m not fucking jealous. I don’t give a fuck what you do.”
“Is that why you were talking with Kurenai earlier?”
What?
“What?” Obito asks, baffled. What did Kurenai have to do with anything?
“She likes you,” Kakashi mumbles, still nestled in his neck.
Obito slams his good hand against Kakashi’s head again. “She was just being polite, moron.”
“I can’t blame her,” Kakashi continues, oblivious. “You looked so beautiful tonight, I could barely focus on anything else.”
A wave of disgust hits Obito so hard he’d have stumbled if not for Kakashi’s body holding him against the wall.
“This isn’t funny, Kakashi,” he warns, lowering his voice.
“I’m not trying to be funny.”
“I don’t care how drunk you’re pretending to be,” Obito growls, anger rising inside of him like a storm. “There’s shit you don’t say, no matter what.”
“I can’t say you’re beautiful?” Kakashi asks into his neck, and Obito can feel his masked lips move against his skin. The sick feeling inside him intensifies—the urge to push him away is so powerful he trembles; his crippled body feels weaker than ever, like a weight he can never lift.
“Some lies are simply too obvious, no matter how good a liar you are. And I won’t tolerate you lying to me.”
There’s a brief pause; the noise from inside the izakaya sounds distant in the night air.
“It’s not a lie. I do find you beautiful.”
Obito snarls, his voice trembling with fury. “My body is a mess, Kakashi. Half of me is scar tissue, I’m missing a fucking leg, and I have a disgusting, sagging stomach—” A wet flash of heat— a tongue —grazes the scarred part of his neck, and Obito gasps, interrupting himself.
“All of that makes you beautiful,” Kakashi whispers, his breath hot against Obito’s skin. He feels the soft press of Kakashi’s lips as his mask slides down. “Your scars are beautiful, Obito.” A cold hand makes its way beneath his shirt, tracing the edges of his scars, and Obito can’t suppress a shiver. “They’re mine. You got them because of me, so they’re mine and I say they’re beautiful.”
Kakashi keeps talking, but Obito can’t make out a single word. Blood rushes to his ears so suddenly that he loses the ability to hear.
They’re mine. You got them because of me, so they’re mine.
That arrogant, entitled, stupid fucking asshole. How dare he? How dare he claim something like that? Obito can’t think. He can’t think. He—
(—has to kill him, for saying that. It’s the only way to make him stop. To make it end. He can’t allow this to continue, can’t keep going on like this. He needs to—)
—grabs Kakashi by the hair, hard, and forces him—Kakashi has allowed it; Obito doesn’t have enough strength to physically compel him—to pull back and meet his gaze. Kakashi’s bare face is illuminated by the streetlamps and the neon sign behind them: a strong jaw, smooth skin, soft lips. Obito feels lightheaded every time he looks at him without the mask on. It’s unfair, really, that someone could be so perfect in every way. So flawless. Perfect shinobi, perfect student, perfect body, perfect face. It makes him angry. It makes him want to—
(—kill him. Destroy him. Break him. Wreck that perfect face until they’re both scarred and then—)
—press his lips against Kakashi’s, angry and demanding—hungry, so, so hungry—his hand still buried in Kakashi’s hair. Kakashi moans brokenly, returning the kiss like a man starved. He lets Obito control the flow, following the path Obito carves with his tongue like a devoted acolyte yielding to the dictates of his god. It’s a clumsy kiss—too much saliva, teeth knocking together—it’s their first kiss, after all—
(—and fuck, Obito shouldn’t let this happen. This is against the rules. He should be pushing Kakashi away, setting clear boundaries. They can have sex—awful, painful sex—but not this, never this—)
—and it feels so good. How did Obito live so long without this? Without knowing the noises Kakashi makes against his mouth when Obito pulls his hair a little harder? How could he live without knowing the taste of him, the feel of his tongue? Without knowing how Kakashi turned soft and pliable in his arms—the body pressing him against the wall no longer an oppressive force, but a warm comfort?
(He has to end this. He can’t let this happen.)
He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care. He wants to kiss Kakashi until he’s drunk on it, until all he can breathe, taste, and feel is Kakashi. A needy moan escapes him, hungry and desperate—so fucking horny he’s about to lose his mind. They can fuck in the middle of the street for all he cares, and Kakashi seems to share the sentiment, because he presses him harder against the wall, one hand tracing the outline of his scars under his shirt, the other a warm weight on his hip—
—Kakashi breaks the kiss, backing away as Obito lets out a small, frustrated whimper at the loss. The sudden rush of cold air in Kakashi’s absence startles him back to reality, and he steadies himself, leaning heavily on his flesh leg. Kakashi slips his mask back on and turns around to face the ANBU soldier standing in the middle of the street like an apparition.
“Report,” Kakashi orders in his Captain's voice, sounding completely unfazed and in control, as if he hadn’t just been caught making out in public like a teenager.
“The Hokage requests your presence,” the masked ANBU says, his voice unmistakably Itachi’s.
“Dismissed.”
Itachi vanishes, and Obito is left panting against the wall, staring at Kakashi’s back.
“I have to go, Obito. Sorry.” He doesn’t turn back to look at him. “Can you make it home on your own?”
The question, so patronizing, pierces through the haze of warmth and desire and Kakashi.
“Of course I can.”
“I can always summon Pakkun—”
“I said I can fucking do it.” He’s not walking home with a guardian dog as if he were a child.
“If you are sure. Then I’ll see you later.” He hesitates. “Sorry,” he says again.
And then he’s gone. As if he hadn’t been there at all.
Obito stands there, still catching his breath, running his good hand over his face, trying to clear his head. The taste of Kakashi lingers on his lips.
I’m a fucking idiot.
The izakaya’s door bursts open—Gai stumbles into the street, face flushed, hair wild and damp.
“THE NIGHT IS STILL YOUNG, LIKE US!” he bellows to the empty street. “THE SPRINGTIME OF YOUTH IS UPON US! WE MUST WORK HARD AND ACHIEVE OUR DREAMS!”
He promptly doubles over and vomits onto the pavement.
He remembers it like a fever dream. The pain was unbearable—he was still trapped under the boulder, and with his eye already given to Kakashi, he couldn’t see. But Minato’s voice cut through the agony, horror, and chaos before the darkness could reclaim him:
“Can we save him?” Minato asked someone nearby. Obito didn’t know who; he couldn’t see anything—everything was darkness.
He never heard the answer. The darkness swallowed him whole.
Obito remembers dreaming. He dreamed of Konoha, missions, and Rin, always by his side. In those dreams, he was no longer clumsy or weak. Instead, he was skilled and agile, his hand crackling with lightning as he struck down enemies.
Am I Kakashi? he asked himself in the dream. Where is Obito? Where am I? Why am I not with them?
As if summoned by the question, Obito saw himself lying in a hospital bed. It was a gruesome sight—the right side of his body was completely destroyed, wrapped in layers of bandages, and his face was pale and gaunt. He looked like he was on the verge of death.
The only comfort in those visions was Kakashi, watching over him. He saw Kakashi reaching out, gently caressing the face of the gravely injured Obito. That’s how Obito knew he was dreaming—Kakashi would never do something like that.
The last dream was a nightmare. Rin had been captured, but instead of saving her, Kakashi drove his lightning hand into her chest. Obito saw it through Kakashi’s Sharigan and felt the horror—No, no, no! Rin, what are you doing? We came to save you! He knew it had to be a mistake. He could feel Rin’s warm blood running down Kakashi’s arm.
That’s when Obito woke up, screaming. His body was burning, and his right eye—the only one he had left—throbbed with pain. He tore the bandages from his face, desperate to relieve the stinging sensation. Suddenly, he could see. The hospital room was bathed in red—red, red, red, red.
(Red like the Sharigan. Red like Rin’s blood.)
Somehow, he had gotten out of bed, passed through the wall, and was now standing in the hallway.
Rin. Rin. Rin. Kakashi. I have to save them. I have to go with them. I have to—
A nurse screamed as she saw him standing there on one leg. Obito felt something hot and wet sliding down his face. The pain was unbearable.
He tried to take a step but had no other leg to stand on. He collapsed to the floor, and for a few agonizing seconds, he tried to crawl before the pain overwhelmed him. Darkness fell over him again, heavy and inevitable.
Rin. Kakashi. Wait for me. I’ll save you. That was just a nightmare. I’ll save you!
Obito slept. When he woke up again, Rin was still dead.
Obito’s walk home is slow. He has to stop three times to sit on a bench, already out of breath and in pain. He and Kakashi share a small apartment on the outskirts of the Uchiha Compound, and by the time he finally makes it home, the thigh where his prosthetic leg attaches is seizing up.
The Compound is quiet as Obito climbs the stairs, gritting his teeth to stifle any sounds of pain. Once inside, he immediately takes two painkillers and a sleeping pill. He doesn’t want to think; he just wants to lose consciousness and forget everything. The clock in the living room ticks quietly, its hands resting at one-twenty in the early morning. After removing his prosthetic leg—a heavy metal thing with a worn-out joint at the knee—he collapses face-down on the bed, the meds already kicking in.
He wakes up what feels like mere minutes later, though more time must have passed—he can sense Kakashi's presence behind him. It’s still night, and Obito is still lying face down, but Kakashi is now perched above him, his body hovering just barely over Obito’s, supported by his hands and knees.
Obito is not in the mood for whatever this is.
“Minato-sensei let you off already?” he mumbles into the bed, his voice groggy.
Kakashi mutters something, too low for Obito to catch. Annoyed, Obito feels ready to ignore him and drift back to sleep, but Kakashi keeps mumbling. It’s starting to freak him out.
“The fuck are you saying?” Obito groans, his patience wearing thin. He was hoping Minato would send Kakashi on a mission, so he wouldn’t have to see him for a few days.
Kakashi lowers himself even closer, until Obito can feel the warmth of his chest against his back, his breath gently brushing against Obito’s neck. It’s only then that he manages to make out Kakashi’s words.
“Obito,” Kakashi repeats like a prayer. “Obito. Obito. Obito. Obito.”
Fucking weirdo.
“Yeah, that’s my name, you little freak. What do you want?”
“Obito,” Kakashi whispers again against the back of his neck. “I love you.”
Obito freezes.
“Get off me.”
“No.”
“Get the fuck off me, Kakashi. I'm not fucking joking.”
“Neither am I,” Kakashi says, his voice soft—a confession in the quiet of the night. “I love you, Obito.”
“Stop,” Obito snarls. He writhes under Kakashi’s body, trying to push him off. It's useless—Kakashi is a firm presence at his back, and Obito's crippled body can't do anything about it. He's terrified, suddenly, of what Kakashi could do to him.
(He’d tell Obito how good he is, how much he is loved—whispering endearments to distract him while he kisses his neck, his back, his arms, his scars—eventually kissing him down there too, opening him up with his fingers, slowly, tenderly, lovingly. Until Obito forgets the world is a terrible place and says the forbidden words back.)
He wants to throw up.
“Why? It's the truth. I love you, Obito. I love you so much sometimes I fear the feeling will swallow me whole,” Kakashi laughs humorlessly. “Some days, I think the only real part of me is the part that loves you,” he confesses quietly. “I want to make you happy. I want to make you laugh. I want to make you feel good. I want you to—” He stops himself, but Obito can guess what he was going to say.
I want you to love me.
Disgusting.
“I know I don't deserve it,” the bastard continues. “But if you’d let me try, I—”
“No.”
“No,” Kakashi echoes. His tone turns harsher, and Obito breathes a little easier. “Of course not. You don't let me love you. You only let yourself feel pain—you only let me hurt you. But I could give you pleasure too, Obito.” His voice rasps, like a whisper carried on sandpaper. His unmasked mouth brushes the back of Obito’s neck again, barely pressing against his skin. An almost kiss. Obito represses a shiver. He’s always been weak to Kakashi’s voice, and like any good shinobi, Kakashi is skilled at exploiting others' weaknesses. “So much pleasure.”
“I said no, Kakashi.”
“Why not?”
Seriously?
“Because you killed Rin.”
The words hang heavy between them, the truth laid bare in its simplest form.
“I know,” Kakashi says softly. “And I accept your punishment, Obito. I know I deserve it. I know.” His voice breaks. “But must you suffer with me too?”
Obito sneers. “It’s not just about you, Bakashi. Who do you think you are? You killed Rin, but only because the world is shit. It’s the world that allowed that to happen in the first place that should be punished.” But I don’t have the power to do that, so you’ll have to pay instead, goes unspoken. “It’s not even about punishment in your case, moron. Not really. Not after all these years. It’s just—we’re alive. And she’s not. And we should suffer for it.”
“Do you think that’s what she would want?”
The nerve of him.
“Doesn’t matter what she would want. She’s dead.”
Obito doesn’t visit the Memorial Stone like Kakashi does—compulsively, repetitively. He doesn’t care. Why should he? Rin is no longer in this world, and a half-hearted attempt at remembrance won’t change that.
There's silence for a moment before Kakashi finally gets off him. Obito turns his head to look at him, but Kakashi doesn't go far. He sits on the bed, his head resting against the headboard, his legs stretched out in front of him. Obito can’t see his face in the darkness, just the outline of his body.
“You could fuck me instead,” Kakashi offers casually.
Obito snorts. “You would enjoy that.”
Kakashi shrugs. “You could make it hurt.”
(He could. He could have Kakashi screaming, begging, and crying—his aloof mask shattered. He could do it. He would like to do it. But he can't, because it’d give Kakashi some relief. Some peace. No matter how much Obito hurt him, Kakashi would take it, accept it, and even thank him for it. It makes him sick—this blind devotion to his own punishment.)
So Obito’s only acceptable answer is: “Nah. You’d enjoy that too.”
Kakashi hums, but doesn’t contradict him. Obito shifts again, trying to find a more comfortable position—one that doesn’t crush his remaining lung or make breathing harder. He ends up on his side, still facing Kakashi, and yawns. He’s tired.
“You should go back to sleep,” Kakashi says unnecessarily. “I shouldn’t have woken you.”
“Not going to fuck me, then?”
“You mean leaving you bleeding and in pain?”
“Yeah.” It’s the only kind of sex they have.
There’s silence again. Obito’s eye starts to close.
“Not tonight, Obito,” Kakashi finally answers. “Please.”
Obito makes a noise in the back of his throat in assent, half-asleep. Whatever. As long as he doesn’t hear any more love confessions, he doesn’t care.
He’s almost asleep when he feels a hand softly caress the scarred side of his face. He wants to shake it off; to remind Kakashi that there’s no place for softness between them—not in a world where Rin’s corpse rots while they still breathe—but he’s too tired.
He dreams of a perfect world where Rin isn’t dead, and Kakashi’s hand against his face is not a sin.