I Shall Not Want

A/N: This chapter gets a little gory. Just a warning, in case you're thinking of eating Taco Bell while you're reading this, like one of my betas. There's also man-sex, and heaps of inner turmoil. Yes, this chapter has all sorts of fun stuff. You should review it. Make me proud. 'Cause I know that's what you live for.


Part 10: Suffer the Children

The morning telepathic check-in reveals that, so far, recon for all three teams hasn't gotten very far. As expected, Schuldig is getting an idea of who the major players are in Kurocha from tuning in to people's random thoughts, but it's not an instant process. Hydra and Nagi have a few names to look into, and Jackal is planning on sneaking into records with Dagon to research the Director General and a few other Department of Security and Law Enforcement higher-ups. So, not very far along, but they're not stymied yet.

The only problem Dagon can see with the leads he and Jackal are pursuing is that Law Enforcement officials, even the extremely powerful Director General, do not make the kind of money that would be necessary to maintain a shinobi guerrilla army. Evidence suggests that many of them are crooked enough to gain substantial funds moonlighting in something like slave, drug or arms trafficking, but that sort of thing would be hard to track through official records. Nonetheless, Jackal remains confident that it's a solid enough starting point, and Dagon knows that Jackal might be able to put something together just from information that's omitted.

They spend the morning finessing the records people—Jackal with flirtation, guile and charisma, and Dagon with an affected stuttering disposition that he's found to be remarkably endearing to people, and a cheerful, open smile. Jackal does most of the reading, surreptitiously scanning the pages with his Sharingan so he doesn't forget anything. By midday, when their precinct captain comes looking for them, they've learned all they can about everyone who seems a likely candidate for being their target.

The precinct captain doesn't seem overly concerned that they've skipped patrol to, as Jackal puts it, brush up on departmental policies and procedures. Dagon suspects it's because she has a bit of a crush on Lieutenant Janak. He smiles vacantly in the background as the captain brushes up against Jackal more than strictly necessary, fingering his collar and once brushing a finger along his jaw. Jackal responds with silent invitation, his eye, lips and fingers suggestive even if his words are professional. Dagon ignores the slight tension in his own jaw.

When the encounter is finally over, they are instructed to join Vidya and Pavan once again, along with a few other officers, to patrol an area of the slums. Dagon quickly learns that 'patrol' is more a figure of speech than a duty, when talking about the slums. By and large, the officers don't care at all what goes on among the Dalits, and they're not about to soil their hands getting involved in any of it. To them, Dagon finds, it would be like asking the police to settle affairs between cockroaches: laughable.

Thus, instead of doing recon, Dagon ends up sitting at a poker table in a shabby portico on the edges of the tin-roofed shantytown. There is a rickety chain-link fence surrounding them on three sides, the one open side facing a dank alleyway leading to a decrepit laundromat. The Dalits seem to do their laundry in the river or in concrete reservoirs, from what Dagon can see, so he's not sure whom the laundromat is for.

The garbage is truly astounding. There are practically levees built up along the river made of nothing but discarded junk. It seems to pave the very streets. Children run and play on it as though it's nothing but grass and flowers. He wonders if any of these children have ever even seen grass and flowers. To them, the hills and valleys of trash are a playground of infinite possibility. It is amazing what people can consider normal, just by virtue of growing up with it.

The stench is acute and vile, but Dagon has long since just blocked off his awareness of his sense of smell. Taste is harder, but he's working on it.

As Iruka, he is not a good poker player, so Dagon decides Ravi is not a good poker player either. He's still not the worst player at the table; that honor goes to a cop Iruka recognizes as the one who checked out his ass in the locker room. The man doesn't seem to even recognize him, though. Iruka's not surprised; the man didn't spend much time looking at his face.

Janak rakes in chips by the armful, of course, much to Pavan's annoyance and Vidya's great amusement. The others don't seem to mind much, since they're not playing for real cash, and Janak lets them win a hand or two now and again so things don't get too boring. No one bothers them, and Dagon finds that he has to devote quite a bit of attention to not enjoying himself too much. It's relaxing, just sitting around a shaky card table with a bunch of colleagues, losing hand after hand and laughing about it, getting ribbed with varying degrees of profanity and raunchiness. It reminds him of games he used to play with his fellow Academy sensei.

He almost doesn't notice when the atmosphere changes.

It's obviously not perceptible to his colleagues, though he's certain Jackal notices it. It feels like the tension in the air before lightning strikes; hairs on the back of his neck are standing up. He keeps laughing, while subtly shifting so he can search the area more thoroughly. ::Captain, what's..?::

::I'm not sure,:: Jackal sends. He sounds a little stiff. ::Whatever it is, follow everyone's lead, okay?::

::Of course.::

It isn't long before Dagon notices the noise level in the east rising, the sound of shouting carrying through the polluted air. Then screams, getting closer. Dagon hears “Death to the Zorossi!” and then all hell breaks loose.

Suddenly there is a swarm of people surrounding their little cage, running here and there, wide, terrified eyes on almost everyone. Dagon notices that most of the people are women, several of them herding children. In the distance, Dagon sees many men come chasing around the corners after them. They are brandishing weapons, many of them makeshift, others obviously brought from elsewhere. They are clearly caught in the mob mentality, and their eyes have a peculiar brand of insane righteousness that reminds him of a word—jihad. Even so, their timing and chosen targets suggest cold strategy, attacking women and children at a time when most of the men are elsewhere, trying to scrape out a living.

It flashes through Dagon's mind that these are not shinobi, that these able-bodied women

mothers sisters daughters

are not combat-trained, these children are not genin. From what he understands of the Zorossi, the women of their faith opt for the old-fashioned conventions of keeping house, such as it may be in the slums, and raising children. They are not prepared to fend off angry mobs of men wielding two-by-fours, pipes, and machetes. In this instance, it's definitely up to the police to protect those people.

That flashes through his mind, but no one gets up. In fact, he seems to be the only one at their table that's paid any mind to the scene developing—in slow-motion, it seems—just a few meters away.

He is getting used to the feel of a rictus smile on his face as he sees a woman at the edge of his vision go down in a spray of blood.

“Man, Ravi, you grow up sheltered or something? First you get all squeamish about the shudderlings,” Pavan says, poking him, “and now you're getting grossed out by some fucking gutter rats getting the beat-down? What the hell, man?”

“Like I said, I'm used to better hygiene,” he hears himself say. “I don't like the mess.”

Everyone at the table laughs amiably, including Jackal. Janak. Whoever he is. Dagon can hardly recognize him.

Two children appear from the fray, a little half-naked boy and a girl in a patched up yellow dress. They apparently don't know the score, because they both grab onto the chain-link separating them from the relaxing officers and scream, “Help us! You have to help us! Please!!!”

Vidya slams her beloved tonfa against the fence, smashing the little boy's fingers in the process. “Get out of here!” she snarls. “Move it! Damned little rats!”

The girl backs away as the boy doubles over in pain, and Dagon sees the man come up behind her, sees the two-by-four with the nails sticking out of it heading for her skull. It's slow; these are civilians, after all. He could have broken the man's hand in sixteen places in the time it's taken him to raise the board and begin his swing. He could shout a warning. He could leap over the fence and smash the man's face in.

He does nothing, smile still affixed on his lips, and watches as the board caves in the side of the little girl's head. He is still smiling as the man tries to pull the board free, and has to lower her to the ground and step on her neck to get the leverage to free the nails that have embedded in her skull. He smiles as the details burn themselves into his brain: the hair stuck on the wood, the greyish pink brain matter caught on the nails, the blood soaking into the rubbish-covered ground.

He feels a sharp pain in his leg, and dimly realizes that Jackal has pinched him under the table, hard. ::Don't lose focus,:: Jackal reminds him harshly.

“Heh, sorry,” he says, realizing that it's been his turn at the game for a while. He's been playing badly all day, so no one will take any notice if he's distracted, he thinks. Though Vidya, Pavan and the others are all eyeing him more closely than he'd like. Eyeing him, and paying no attention to the carnage just beyond their isolating little fence.

Dagon fervently wishes that one of the mob would crash through that chain-link, into their sad little table, disrupt this hoax for even one minute, but of course that doesn't happen. The Bandu mob don't want the police involved any more than the police want to be involved. The Bandu are the ones with money and influence.

There really is an awful lot of blood. It might end up washing onto their raised portico, if this goes on.

Dagon is self-aware enough to realize that he might be drowning. He reaches deep into his soul bond for Jackal's icy blue anger, to crystallize and clarify his thoughts. He tries not to be desperate about it, to remain as calm as an ANBU should be, but he thinks he's failing.

Without meaning to, he sees another little child trying to escape the Bandu by crawling under a wall. Two men—men who in other circumstances might be fine, upstanding citizens of Kurocha—grab hold of its legs. One has a machete, that rises, and falls—once—twice—three times. The man picks up a little leg, cut off through the femur, and tosses it aside with the rest of the trash. Someone pulls the child from the other side of the wall, and the other man's hands slip in the blood on its remaining leg. Dagon knows the child will get no decent medical treatment, has almost no chance of surviving. He's almost glad.

He finds the anger. It rushes over him in a burst of needling cold, and his thoughts boil down to one.

He thinks, I am going to kill everyone at this table. Including Jackal. Including me.

The thought is so clear and sharp, and seems so rational and reasonable, he can't think of anything else. He feels another pinch on his leg, but he notices it about as much as he'd notice an eyelash falling on his cheek. He makes a joke, reaching for his stash of kunai, and laughs, and it sounds clear and pleasant.

Just before he would have made his move, though, he sees a flash of white out of the corner of his eye, and looks up to see Jei standing amidst the butchery. Jei is holding two long, thin, rounded blades with prongs on either side—sai, he thinks with a slight jolt. They are bloody. Jei is bloody. Jei smiles, the scars across his mouth pulling his lips unevenly. He raises a blade to his mouth, slowly sticks his tongue out and snakes it along the metal from hilt to tip. Blood is dripping from his tongue when he finishes, and he leaves it out of his mouth for just a second, ghoulish, still smiling. Then he retracts the tongue, swallows the blood, and laughs. Dagon can't hear the laugh, but he can imagine it: gravelly, heady with murder.

Another second, and Jei is gone. Dagon doesn't know if he was really there, if it was a trick of Schuldig's, or if he was hallucinating, but the vision kills his bloodlust instantly. And without it, Dagon is falling away, into Iruka, and there's nothing he can do about it.

He knows he can muster up the willpower to either talk normally or look normal, but not both, not now. He has to make a decision quickly, and makes the only one he can, at the moment, before he loses all composure and falls apart.

He quickly makes hand seals under the table, using as little chakra as possible, which is still too much.

::Dagon!:: Jackal snaps.

::Sorry, Captain,:: Iruka sends helplessly. He finishes the henge. It's a simple one, just an illusion of his own face, normal, friendly, over the face that he's rapidly losing control of. Just in time, too; he can feel the tears spilling over as he channels all his focus into modulating his voice. Feeling like he's ripping out part of his soul, he turns his back on what remains of the massacre, because he just can't take any more.

He manages to get through the last few hands of poker without anyone becoming too suspicious of him, though they all poke fun at his 'twatty hygiene fixation', as Pavan christens it. The tears don't stop falling, though he manages to keep his voice even.

He doesn't notice much more than that for the rest of the afternoon, though he does notice that his ANBU captain is not at all pleased with him.

He finally drops the henge when they get to their apartment. He's certain he looks hungover and miserable, and hopes Jackal will let him off from doing recon tonight. There's not much hope of that, but he just can't find Dagon right now.

Jackal leans against the wall as he flops down on his mattress in the bedroom. Iruka puts his face in his hands for a moment, and then sits back up and meets his Captain's eye.

“So,” Jackal says conversationally.

“So,” Iruka sighs. He knows this is going to be unpleasant, and thinks that perhaps this is the worst day of his life. He hopes so. He hopes it's not going to get worse than this. He's been tortured and it wasn't as bad as this.

“What made you decide to suddenly take it upon yourself to use chakra and broadcast our location to anyone in the vicinity?”

“It was better than the alternative, which was to blow my cover and possibly yours as well, Captain.”

“And for what possible reason would you have blown your cover?”

Deliberately obtuse. Iruka wants to punch Jackal more than just about anything in the world. “I'm afraid I am not yet able to be as aloof as an ANBU should be, sir.”

“So, a situation that had nothing to do with our mission caused you to lose enough composure that you cast a henge and put us all at risk.”

“Yes, sir.” The ramifications are only hitting him now—if the enemy didn't know there were foreign ninja in town, and he happened to be monitored while using chakra, they'd go on the alert. Probably try to hide, possibly go on the offensive. Either way, they'd be that much harder to deal with. But what could he have done? Either he definitely blew their cover with the police, which might also lead to their being discovered by the target, or he possibly revealed his location by using chakra. His decision was a gamble, but it was the best he could have made under the circumstances.

However, he doesn't think it's his decision that Jackal is taking issue with, it's his inability to suppress his emotions to the degree that an ANBU is supposed to be capable of.

Iruka can't focus his thoughts enough to analyze the situation as clearly as he should; he figures that's just another aspect of his failure to be the emotionless android he ought to be. That Jackal clearly is.

“I am sorry, Captain,” he continues after a moment. “I will endeavor to do better.” Even as he says it, it seems hollow. He doesn't know how much 'better' he could be, given another situation like the one he experienced today.

“See that you do,” Jackal says sharply. “I will not hesitate to relieve you of duty if you are unfit to carry out our mission.”

The thought of being relieved of duty, however much it might spare his wounded heart and mind, is completely repugnant to Iruka. It's never happened before and it never will happen, if he can help it. But he knows his mind has not fully wrapped around what happened this afternoon—sitting and playing cards while a bloody riot claimed lives, children's lives, not three meters from him. He doesn't know what he'll think once that fully processes, if it ever does.

He looks into Jackal's dead shark-eye and can't stand it anymore. He knows what the answer will be, feels stupid for even asking, but tries, “Can I please speak to Kakashi?”

Jackal smiles, cruel and icy. “You expect comfort?”

Chills run down Iruka's spine, and he tries to reach for Dagon, but Dagon has left the building. “I just want to talk to him for a moment.”

“What kind of ANBU goes running into their lover's arms when they've had a bad day? What kind of shinobi, for that matter? You deal with what you have to deal with at the end of the day, and you do it without anyone's help, Dagon. At least until the mission is complete. You know that.”

Jackal is implacable, and nothing like Kakashi, and everything like him. Iruka grits his teeth. “I just want to talk to him,” he quietly repeats, unable to think of anything else to say, futile though it may be.

His captain shakes his head, as though pitying, though Iruka knows better. Pitiless, merciless Jackal. “I am not here to be your comfort, and we are not here to save anyone except the Kazekage. Keep that foremost in your mind.”

The captain turns on his heel and leaves the room, and Iruka stays sitting on the edge of his mattress, feeling more wretched than ever. His mind is racing but he can't catch any one thought, and he's restless but he feels like he can't move, can't do anything but sit in his room with its dingy peeling wallpaper and stained floor. He can't cry, can't scream, can't rage against ANBU and all of its varied atrocities that he will be expected to endure, that he can't even conceive of.

A knock at his door startles him. It's a soft knock, nothing like the brisk, business-like raps of Captain Jackal, and he looks up, faintly curious.

Kakashi is standing there. His partner, his lover, his friend. He can tell immediately from a thousand subtle signals, many that no one but he would be likely to know. He stares, mouth slightly gaping, unspeakable hope and relief flooding him.

“You wanted to see me?” Kakashi softly inquires.

“Kakashi--” Iruka's voice cracks, and he lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. The exhalation blows down what little self-control he had left, and before he even realizes he's moved, he's across the room, arms flung wildly around his partner and he is crying so hard, so silently, that his eyes and clenched jaw are already sore.

Kakashi doesn't push him away as Iruka half expects him to, just wraps his own arms loosely around Iruka and nuzzles his neck and face. That just makes Iruka cry harder, and he fists his hands hard in Kakashi's police uniform shirt, trying to get himself back to rights. What Jackal said about dealing with such events on one's own keeps running through his mind, and he feels guilty about pushing Kakashi to such a pass, about wanting his partner when so many ANBU have no partners, no one to take solace in. That's the way he's supposed to prefer it, but at the moment he can't imagine being able to be that removed, that divorced from himself.

In the back of his mind, he wonders if Kakashi is taking solace in him as well, but squashes the thought.

When Iruka has cried himself out, they sit on the edge of the mattress together. Jackal has been sleeping on the couch in their living room, leaving the bedroom for Iruka, but he hopes he can convince Kakashi to stay with him a while tonight. At least until he falls asleep, if such a thing is even going to be possible. “Sorry,” he croaks, his voice hoarse even though he refused to indulge in noisy lamenting.

Kakashi shakes his head, running his hands continuously through Iruka's hair.

“I didn't mean to push you,” Iruka continues. “I know I should deal with this on my own, like you said, but...”

Shaking his head more firmly, Kakashi says, “Forget it.”

Iruka looks over to meet his eye. “I can't forget it. You're my captain.”

“Jackal is your captain,” Kakashi almost growls. “Me, I'm telling you to forget it.”

Iruka chuckles with a tired edge of hysteria. “I don't make much of an ANBU, do I.”

Kakashi continues to run his hands through Iruka's hair, asking, “What do you think makes a good ANBU, Iruka?”

Iruka looks over at him, surprised. “Well...you, for instance. Sai, too. I'm not sure about Jei and Schuldig, but they seem to have their own unique reality concepts that set them apart from the rest of humanity. I guess good ANBU can set themselves apart that way, no matter the circumstances.”

Kakashi nods thoughtfully. “And you think new ANBU recruits all just start out with that ability?”

Iruka shrugs. “The good ones.”

A bark of laughter. “Let me tell you something, Iruka. It takes years of conditioning to be as...separated from one's humanity as Sai and I can be. I got a very early start, and so did Sai. From what little I could dig up of Jei, Nagi, and Schu, while we were in Suna, those three had the most fucked-up upbringing of any of us—Orochimaru-style genetic experiments, just on a different continent, different organization—so it's no wonder they're on a separate plane of existence now. You, on the other hand, are more normal. You're old for a new ANBU, but your emotional turmoil is perfectly normal. How you dealt with it is what sets you apart.”

Iruka's brow furrows. That almost sounded like a compliment. “How so?”

Kakashi's hands finally come to rest on Iruka's shoulders. “You could have lost your shit and blown our cover completely. You could have decided the mission wasn't as important as saving those strangers, also totally blowing our cover. You could have crippled yourself by trying to keep all your emotions in check, even though you haven't had sufficient conditioning to be capable of that. You could have forced a denial state, which many ANBU do effectively when they encounter something traumatizing, and is another way of crippling yourself because that always, eventually, breaks down. But you were able to prevent yourself from extreme hysteria--”

“I think Schuldig might have had something to do with that,” Iruka mutters.

“Whether he did or not, you were the only one capable of restraining yourself from violence.”

Iruka is ashamed. He'd had even less control over himself than he'd thought. “You could tell I was getting violent?”

Kakashi smiles crookedly. “I could feel it, just a little, through our bond. I also heard you thinking that you were going to kill us all. I think a part of you must have wanted me to hear it, and projected it. A cry for help, maybe. Or maybe you just wanted me to know you wanted me dead.”

Iruka twists sharply to face his partner. “I didn't want you dead. Not you, Kakashi.”

Shrugging, Kakashi says, “I know Jackal is like a different person, but it's still essentially me, Iruka. It wasn't so many years ago that you couldn't tell the difference between us.”

Iruka manfully refrains from rolling his eyes. “I know that. I don't want myself dead either, but you'll recall I thought I would include me in my rain of destruction.”

“Yes, I didn't like that much. If you'd really gone over that far, Iruka, I would have stopped you, you know.”

“I know.”

“But we're getting away from my point, which was that you didn't go out of your mind with rage or withdraw from reality, or anything like that. You analyzed the situation and made a calculated risk. Something that might not have even occurred to me, I might add, but was effective. It probably didn't use enough chakra to put us on anyone's radar, although we can't be sure of that, of course. It was simple, creative, and was enough to put our police comrades off your scent.”

Iruka sighs heavily. “Be that as it may, I still feel like I have a long way to go before I can show the dispassionate face you showed, during a situation like that. I don't even want to be capable of that, but if Konoha needs me...” He shrugs.

“Just remember that even though Jackal can show that face, can feel nothing, I feel everything,” Kakashi says grimly. “It's like having an emotionless kage bunshin; as soon as I banish him, all my experiences come back to haunt me, and I have to have feelings about them. It's why I was so reluctant to send Jackal away and come to you,” he finishes in a whisper, as though it's a secret.

Iruka puts his hands on Kakashi's face. “I'm sorry,” he whispers back earnestly. “I'm really sorry.”

Kakashi covers his hands with his own. “Stop apologizing. You did well. Maybe too well.”

“I don't understand.”

“Hmm,” Kakashi hums, pulling Iruka's hands from his face and turning slightly away. “The sort of ANBU you keep describing as being a good ANBU, a person who is truly as emotionless as a person can be, and focuses on the mission and nothing else—that sort of person makes an excellent soldier, it's true. A good grunt, and nothing more. They can't be entrusted with responsibility for anyone but themselves, and they might be technically adaptable but they aren't able to adjust for external factors very well because of their narrow focus. Someone like you, Iruka, who can keep themselves under control despite a severe emotional upheaval, who can act on educated guesses and calculated risks, who has a broader scope than the mission despite an ingrained imperative to complete it...” Kakashi bows his head. “You have the qualities Ibiki looks for in a captain, Iruka.”

Iruka can feel his jaw drop, as if there's a weight attached to it.

“I don't want you to be an ANBU captain, Iruka,” Kakashi hisses. “I know that's what it will come to. I knew as soon as you were appointed, because I know you. Having you as a subordinate is bad enough. If you become a captain...” He throws his hands up. “You'll change. You'll have no choice. I don't know who you'll become. I'll love you regardless, but I don't want you to change in the ways I think you will, the ways I've seen other captains change. Today was bad, Iruka, but there are worse things out there. Far worse. Imagine being in my position on a day like today, with a new recruit sitting across the table from you, maybe one that couldn't control themselves so well. Do you think you could be in charge of that situation without being very different from who you are now?”

Iruka sits in silence for a moment, thinking, trying to absorb what his partner is saying. “I don't know,” he says truthfully. “Maybe not. But Kakashi, it's only my first mission as an ANBU. Even if what you say is true and not skewed by some sort of weird bias, I'm not a contender for captaincy at the moment. There's no sense getting so far ahead of yourself.”

“You're more mature and have more experience than most new recruits,” Kakashi continues. “He'll want to harvest you as soon as he can; probably will throw you into all sorts of situations that will make you question every belief and moral you've ever held dear. If I can stop him, I will. I have some influence with him, but not as much as I used to have, and hardly any at all when it comes to you. Still, I—”

“Kakashi, stop,” Iruka cuts in. “Please, stop thinking about all of this right now. We have enough to deal with as it is, don't you think?”

A shaky sigh, and a chuckle. Kakashi rubs his temples with his thumbs. “Yeah, we do, but I don't know if I can shut my mind off on this subject. I can shut up about it, though.”

“I suppose that will have to do.” Though, in the silence after Kakashi finishes speaking, Iruka regrets telling him to stop. As long as his partner is spouting crazy theories, he doesn't have to think about today. He wants Kakashi to start talking again, but he can't think of anything to say, himself.

Kakashi reaches for Iruka's hand, lacing their fingers together. After a few minutes of silence, he finally says, “I'm glad you can separate us. Me and Jackal, that is.”

Iruka smiles. “It's pretty easy, really. You've perfected the art of voluntary multiple personalities.” He pauses. “Do you separate me and Dagon?”

“Well,” Kakashi replies, squeezing Iruka's hand, “Dagon hasn't taken on his own life, yet. Not really. It will take time.”

“Mm,” Iruka concedes. “Kakashi?”

“Yes?”

“While you're here visiting me, can we fuck?”

“I was just about to ask you,” Kakashi says, reaching over for the buttons on Iruka's shirt. “I wasn't sure you'd be in the mood.”

Iruka ducks his head down and bites Kakashi's thumb, flicking his tongue along it. “I wouldn't say I'm in the mood, so much as I need stimuli that's stronger than my memory, just now.”

“Ah.” Kakashi leans over and kisses Iruka's cheek, nibbles hungrily on his neck. “Just what every guy wants to hear,” he murmurs as he finishes unbuttoning Iruka's shirt, pulling it off and yanking the attendant undershirt over Iruka's head, tossing both onto the floor. The undershirt hits a roach, which skitters across the room and into a floor vent.

Iruka reaches for Kakashi's buttons, but can't get a grip on them since his partner is ducking forward to lick his collarbones, one arm snaked around his middle and the other hand pinching and tugging his nipple. For a second an image of Jackal frowning at him over the card table surfaces in his mind, and he almost pushes Kakashi away. But Kakashi's blunt fingernails scrape over his belly, the way only Kakashi knows makes him hot, and Kakashi whispers, “Want you so much, baby,” dark and low in a voice Iruka knows no one else gets to hear, and Iruka is suddenly so flooded with lust that he feels like his skin is burning off.

He tears at Kakashi's shirt, buttons flying onto the floor and the rumpled, untucked sheets on the mattress, vaguely thinking that he'll sew them back on in the morning. He pushes his mouth on Kakashi's, smearing his lips open as wide as he can, forcing his tongue inside and clacking their teeth together. His hands reach for Kakashi's hair, closing on almost nothing because it's cut so short now. That frustrates him, and he growls, shoving his partner onto his back and straddling him.

Iruka scoots down just far enough that he can reach the fastenings of Kakashi's pants, and undoes them while Kakashi pulls off his own undershirt. Kakashi yanks him forward, crushing their chests and mouths together, kissing like a frontal assault. Iruka remembers that his boots are still on, and pulls away impatiently, rolling off his partner and tugging them off in a hurry. His progress is impeded by Kakashi, who latches onto Iruka's middle and mouths his ear, hugging him tightly. Even so, Iruka manages to get his own pants off too, and, naked, turns to his partner, biting at Kakashi's shoulder and shoving his pants down over his hips.

Kakashi starts to roll Iruka onto his back, but Iruka fears Kakashi's going to go slower than he needs him to, is going to take his time, and Iruka can't bear that right now. He's frantic with need, so he shoves Kakashi over and crawls on top of him, pressing their cocks together with a hiss and wrapping his hands around them both. He strokes just long enough to get them fully erect, and to coax a bit of slickness from Kakashi. His partner seems to understand that Iruka needs the control, and just props himself on an elbow, watching, other hand stroking Iruka's shoulder and the back of his neck.

Without further ado, Iruka gets up on his knees, spreads his asscheeks with one hand and positions Kakashi's dick with the other. He sits down slowly, forcing Kakashi inside of him even though it's more painful than usual. Kakashi steadies him, looking up at him with a concerned eye, but doesn't try to stop him, and Iruka's grateful.

He grimaces as he works his way down, but the pain doesn't really register as anything more than a minor annoyance, about as much as a mosquito bite. As his muscles loosen he breathes out shakily, sliding down far enough that he can feel Kakashi's testicles against his ass. He sits there for a moment, breathing deeply and feeling immensely relieved. Kakashi is with him, united with his body, and no matter what horrible things have happened, there is at least this.

A few moments pass as he tries to absorb the feeling, but Kakashi gets impatient and rolls him roughly onto his back, hauling one of Iruka's ankles up over his shoulder and putting his arm under the knee of the other leg. He kisses Iruka hard, teeth mashing into lips as Kakashi begins plunging into him over and over. It still burns a little, but it feels really good, and Iruka claws at Kakashi's back and head, kissing him over and over.

The dark sea begins to encroach on them. It's usually something Iruka looks forward to, but not right now. He doesn't want the insubstantial sea, with its strange hallucinations. He doesn't care if it would enhance their experience, or how good it would feel. “Keep...keep it away,” he pants into Kakashi's ear.

Kakashi stops moving, and it's almost unbearable. Iruka squirms impatiently as Kakashi tries to focus on his face. “Keep what away, baby?”

“The sea,” Iruka replies, pushing his ass against Kakashi. “The sea, keep it away. I just want you; I don't want anything else.”

Kakashi's hips thrust a little, restlessly. “We've never had sex all the way through without it,” he muses. “I don't know if we can.”

“It only does what we want it to, right?” Iruka latches on to Kakashi's rear with both hands, pressing a heel against it as well, and writhing, squeezing muscles until Kakashi's eyes roll back in his head a little. “I want it to stay away. I just want to be with you, Kakashi.”

Kakashi groans helplessly, hips already moving harder and faster, almost at his former tempo. “As you wish,” he moans, kissing the shin of the leg that's still over his shoulder.

The sea gently recedes.

Their pace grows frantic very quickly. Iruka can't remember feeling so needy, so desperate for his partner before. In a blur, he wraps his hand around his dick, jacking himself with frenetic, slapdash little strokes. His other hand is tight around Kakashi's bicep, his eyes on Kakashi's clenched, bared teeth and almost-closed eye. He lets go of Kakashi's arm to pull off the eyepatch, looking into the Sharingan and almost losing himself in it as it lazily spins. He doesn't fear it, though he probably should.

Kakashi lets him look for a few moments, then closes both his eyes and surges hard into Iruka, latching onto Iruka's neck with his teeth, biting hard and groaning as he comes. Iruka doesn't want to follow him, wants to stay at this barely-aware threshold of pain-laced pleasure, but he can't, he's too far gone. He spills against Kakashi's stomach and his own hand, feeling come splatter onto his own belly as well. He feels the orgasm through his whole body like a soft explosion of red, red fire, flames of blood and stars.

When he comes back to himself he is crying again, as silently as before, and Kakashi is cradling him, whispering apology after apology.

“It's not you; you didn't do anything,” Iruka manages.

“I know. I did nothing. I'm sorry.”

Iruka finally realizes that Kakashi is crying as well, and feels an unendurable welling of gratitude and sorrow.