Divided Loyalty

A/N: Yes, the Snarry fics I am reading don't help at all with finding free time to write my own fics. :( I really wanted NOT to go back to HP fandom, but alas, the urge was stronger than me. At least, I feel no desire to actually write HP fics. WHEW.



CHAPTER 5



For Nagato, working for Masayoshi-san, the innkeeper, provided for a new routine. A routine where he woke up early in the morning, helped Kakashi wash and dress, then both of them went downstairs to eat in the kitchen. Afterwards, his lover headed for the isolated backyard, which was mostly filled with scrap metal but there was still enough free space, and began his exercises, for the first time being able to do them out in the open, without fear that anyone could see him.



Nagato, on the other hand, filled his day with work. He cleaned the kitchen floors, the utensils, the pots, plates and mugs, cleaned the oven, the stove, the sinks, washed the vegetables and scaled the fresh fish. The work was exhausting and demanding, but it kept them both safe and provided them with a roof above their heads and food on the table and he was more than grateful for that. The kitchen staff seemed to take a liking to him and accepted him in their midst, even if he was in the most junior position. He didn’t mind that – the truth was, he had never been a leader, not a real one, anyway. Not like Yahiko had been, not like Madara, even. He was content to follow orders, and having this job reminded him of the old days, when he was the one responsible for the preparing of whatever food his friends had managed to provide. What surprised him was that these memories no longer caused him pain – because of the loss of his friends, or because of the all the misery that homelessness and hunger inflicted on them. All he remembered now was being happy with them, his little family.



Immersed in his memories, he sat in the pantry and kept pulling the feathers of one of the many unfortunate chickens that would be made into dinner for the guests of the Inn tonight, when his hand suddenly cramped and he sucked in his breath at the pain, then closed his eyes and tried to force himself to relax. Another wave of agony shot all the way up to his shoulder and he moaned through his clenched teeth, struggling to ride it out.



When it finally went away, he found himself slumped against the wall, covered in cold sweat and panting helplessly, his fingers twitching in the soft feathers.



He had ignored the signs ever since they had arrived on the island – the nightmares, the shortness of breath, the vertigo, the constant, gnawing hunger twisting in his gut like a coiled snake, no matter what he ate. But now that the muscle cramping had started, he knew that he had little choice left. He had to feed, and soon, or this body would begin to reject the soul that was now attached to him. He couldn’t allow that. Not for Kakashi’s sake, even if the thought to go out and search for a suitable meal revolted him. Despite the hunger, he had hoped that at least for a few months, given the circumstances, he wouldn’t have to sell himself. Then again, he could go to a bar, he was quite sure that there were such establishments on the island, and simply pick someone up, fuck them till they were too exhausted to remember their own name and fell asleep, and then feed from them. That was a good plan, but he couldn’t do that to Kakashi. At least, when he prostituted himself, he got something out of it that was good for Kakashi as well, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it if it only affected him.



Bitterness washed over him and he grabbed the next bird, stuffing it in the large pot of boiling water next to him for a few minutes, and then began to pull out its feathers with sharp, angry movements, letting them fall in the large bag next to his right leg. The hunger twisted again in his gut and he closed his eyes and tried to stifle a moan of desperation. There was no use. He knew that at some point, it would become unbearable, and he knew that when that happened, he would have very little sefl-control. He might harm someone who didn’t deserve it, someone who had been good to him, and that was completely unacceptable. He had to feed. Tonight.



He worked in the kitchen well into the night, keeping the fire in the stoves running, helping the cook to prepare the meals for the guests and cleaning up after him. By the time he was done, his entire body hurt, and he wasn’t sure if it was because of the tiring labour or because of the hunger that by that time had become a focal point of all his needs.



Tired and sweaty he went out into the yard, pulled a bucket full of cold water out of the well and dumped it on himself after removing his shirt, washing away at least some of the sweat and soot of the kitchen. Afterwards, he headed back inside through the backdoor.



When he finally slid quietly into their room Kakashi was fast asleep, curled up on their narrow bed, almost falling off the edge in a clear attempt to leave enough space for Nagato to lie in when he came back – he had firmly refused to allow his lover to sleep on the ground.



When Nagato did lie down next to him, it felt like his body was on fire, liquid need flowing through his veins. Kakashi murmured something in his sleep, turned around and snuggled next to him, pressing himself against the warmth and safety Nagato’s body provided. Tentatively, the older man put his hand on a too thin shoulder and looked down at his lover. He looked serene and relaxed, the suffering that twisted his fair features during the day wiped out by the rare occurrence that was the undisturbed sleep. His hair had grown during the recent months, softly framing the handsome, even beautiful face, the full lips slightly parted, warm breath puffing against Nagato’s chest. He was wearing thin dark green shirt and pants made of threadbare cotton that had become too large for him. Despite Kakashi’s obsession with covering his body as much as he could, Nagato could see the outlines of his slender form through the thin material.



A hunger of an entirely different kind shot through him, pooling in his groin, his organ hardening slowly in his damp pants. His hand on Kakashi’s shoulder slid down to his elbow, a touch that would appear innocent to anyone who watched from the side, but immensely arousing for Nagato. For all this time, he hadn’t had Kakashi. Not once. He had known what those men had done to the Jounin, he knew now that the trauma – the emotional trauma – might never heal enough for Kakashi to allow him such touches. Or perhaps he would. The latter scared him. He knew that Kakashi loved him with intensity that would be creepy if it came from anyone else, and he knew that if he gave any indication that he wanted to have him, the former Jounin would let him. He would let him, despite the hurt and fear that such an action would cause. So Nagato never gave any indication that he wanted to have sex with Kakashi, no matter how much he desired him.



Instead, he went out, and found the nastiest, most perverse client he could and let them have their way with him – it was his penance – for his mistakes that had led to Kakashi’s ruin, for his own desire for someone who was already so hurt and broken, all because of him, a desire he couldn’t banish, no matter how much he tried.



Even now, he could imagine Kakashi slowly waking up in his embrace, his single dark eye opening, the long eyelashes fluttering sleepily, looking up at Nagato and seeing the fire in his gaze. He would smile tenderly and look away, an expression of open submission on his face, he would reach and hook his poor fingers around the hem of his wide pants and pull them off, then spread his slender legs for him, inviting Nagato bury himself in him to the hilt, taking his pleasure in his broken body, again and again, and when Nagato was finally spent, he’d sink his teeth into the graceful throat and drink his fill…



His erection throbbed and he bit through his lip in an attempt to regain control over himself, the taste of blood, his own blood, flooding into his mouth and almost driving him into frenzy. Abruptly he let go of Kakashi’s elbow and slid off the bed, his entire body shaking as he approached the window and opened it soundlessly, then quietly slid out of it into the night. He had to feed.



Minato watched quietly the strange scene in the small room and then the man’s departure, safely hidden in the darkened bedroom of a neighbouring house with a clear view to Kakashi’s current location. Next to him, Masayoshi was sitting quietly in a chair and watching as well.



“Where do you think he’s going?” the man muttered inquisitively to the blonde.



Minato had a theory, a theory he had developed after careful analysis of all that Naruto had told him about Nagato’s mysterious transfer to another body, as well as what he had learned about his activities during their time on the run.



“To find a client, I assume.” He lied. Well, maybe it wasn’t entirely a lie, but money, he was sure, came in second place to what this man really wanted. No, not wanted. Needed.



“A client?”



“For sex.” Minato clarified.



“You’re telling me I took in a prostitute under my roof?” Masayoshi said, an outraged note in his voice.



“Since when did you become so moralistic, old friend?” Minato answered calmly, his eyes fixed on Kakashi’s sleeping form.



“They get adequate food and shelter in my inn. I fail to see why he would need to do that, if it wasn’t some sort of kink.”



Minato turned to him.



“The other boy has medical bills which obviously cannot be covered by whatever you pay your scullion for his services.” He noted.



Masayoshi frowned darkly but didn’t argue.



“If you say so.” He said. “So what are you going to do? Your letter to me didn’t say anything other than give them shelter, if they ever appeared in my establishment. How did you know they might come, anyway?”



“I didn’t. I knew the general direction in which they were running and I sent similar notes to all of my former associates. Well, at least to those I could trust. You happened to be one of them. I figured that it couldn’t hurt to be prepared, as small a chance it was for them to run into you or one of the others. Fate, it seems, likes to joke with all of us.”



“Ah.” Masayoshi got up from the chair and approached the window again.



“What are you going to do?”



“Nothing.”



“Nothing?”



“For now at least. I want to watch them for a while. See for myself what their habits are, make a plan.” Minato explained.



“So I should just keep being the graceful host and employer?”



Minato nodded.



“I know who they are, Minato. I know that the one who just left attacked your precious village, and I know the other one is his accomplice. I assumed that you’d want them dead, or at least captured.”



“You assumed too much, Masayoshi-san.”

“Mmm. Why else would you be here? You’re not a ghost who has come to haunt them, that much I am sure. And you are certainly not a ghost, my friend. Which brings us to the other matter. You didn’t tell me how come you’re alive.”



“I was never truly dead. Just… inconvenienced by the worst prison you can imagine.”



“I am too old to think that someone is sexy when they are being cryptic, Minato.” Masayoshi muttered with annoyance. With that, he turned around and made his way out of the room, intent on going back to his inn to sleep.



Minato spent the rest of the night in Masayoshi’s vacated chair, watching the inn and the room where Kakashi slept. Just before daybreak, Kakashi’s lover returned, his steps slow and pained, his clothes torn in several places. His face was hidden by the darkness but for a split second he moved through a lighter patch in the street and Minato noticed his bruised cheekbone. Still, he looked strangely peaceful, despite being in obvious pain. Strange.



It took some effort to climb back to their room and slide the window open, then sneak inside. This time, Kakashi was woken up and he gingerly got up from the bed, making his way to Nagato, his legs stiff under him. He looked torn between being angry and being worried as he wrapped his arms around the man and they both made their way to the bed, supporting each other. They sprawled gracelessly on it when they finally reached it and Kakashi began to pull off Nagato’s clothes, his movements slow and clumsy but determined at the same time. The other looked ashamed but allowed him to do it, even cooperated. Kakashi’s anger became much more pronounced when he finally removed his pants and saw the blood on his thighs, his face blanching at the sight and then he exclaimed angrily, to which Nagato turned his face away and clearly apologized.



Minato watched as Kakashi clearly demanded an explanation from his lover, his movements tense and jerky, but the other obviously refused to give one, growing sadder and sadder at each word Kakashi uttered until he looked like he was about to cry. He grabbed Kakashi’s hands and began kissing his crooked fingers, the look on his face so pained and desperate that it stopped the former Jounin short and drained his anger. He wrapped his arms around Nagato and held him gently for a while, both of them rocking back and forth on the blood-stained sheets of the previously pristine bed. Sometime later he gently let go of him and limped to the bathroom, then returned with a wet towel and began cleaning the blood and other fluids off his lover, who seemed torn between shame at being seen like this and bone-weary exhaustion. He lay on the bed, body limp and relaxed and allowed Kakashi to take care of him.



It was a strange display, especially considering the worried, tender expression on Kakashi’s face as he cleaned his lover. If anything, he looked just as guilty as Nagato, just as eager to help him and take care of him as the other men felt about Kakashi himself.



Minato continued his observations for the next three weeks, although nothing really changed: during the day, Kakashi was either in their room or in the back yard, doing his best to try and force his body into some form of normalcy while Nagato worked in the kitchen from dawn to way after dusk, after which they returned to their rooms and had dinner together, talking quietly to each other. When they were done and the dishes were clean, they curled on the bed together, still speaking, Nagato’s arms gently wrapped around Kakashi in an obviously protective gesture. Every night, before going to bed they disappeared in the bathroom together and emerged well-washed, their hair still damp, Nagato helping his lover to get dressed.



Still, for all these weeks, Minato saw no proof of any sexual relationship between them, nothing was initiated by either of them. Oh, the desire in Nagato’s eyes was clear when he watched Kakashi while he slept, but he made no move to satisfy that desire, seemingly content to just watch him. If he didn’t know what had been done to Kakashi in Konoha, Minato would’ve considered their relationship quite strange. Only, he knew. He knew in great detail, thanks to Naruto’s descriptions and the medical files he forced the doctors that had worked on Kakashi to give him. And even if he had no previous knowledge, he could see for himself just how damaged his former student was.



He was almost always covered in clothes from head to toe, but occasionally, after a bath, he emerged from the bathroom semi-naked and Minato could see the extensive scarring on his back, the cruel marks that the whip had left on his fair skin. He moved with great difficulty and it pained the blonde to see him so helpless and graceless, comparing it to the memory of the deadly, elegant young man he had known. At one point, he had taken off his eye-patch, and Minato had seen for himself the horrible scarring around the empty socket where his own eye, and later his Sharingan, used to be.



Kakashi had been stripped of everything, it seemed, of his abilities, his grace, his rank, his home, and most of all – of his dignity. There was almost nothing left of the Kakashi he knew in this shell of a man, limping around in a squalid little room, forced to completely depend on another for all of his needs.



And the other, Nagato, as Naruto had called him, seemed to perform this duty to the best of his abilities – he worked hard and he devoted all of his free time to Kakashi. It seemed that he was completely disinterested in his own needs, his entire attention focused on his lover. It disturbed Minato, to witness such blind, desperate devotion, it disturbed him to watch the tenderness between the red-head – as the dye he used had washed off for the past weeks – and his former student. There was nothing fake and false about it, there were no masks or walls between them. Kakashi seemed to find any human touch, other than Nagato’s, repugnant, but he accepted his lover to touch him, hold him, kiss his hair, and even returned those gestures with the kind of desperate ardour that made Minato look away.



All of this disturbed him because it reminded him of his own mistakes regarding Kakashi, the many ways in which he had failed him. How could this man, Nagato, be a better companion, take better care of Kakashi than he himself had never managed to do? All of Nagato’s plans were ashes now, from the leader of one of the most feared criminal organizations, probably used to being pampered and living in luxury, he had turned into a fugitive who sold his body for small change, shared a tiny, poor room with another and scoured floors and cutlery all day, only to return to a lover who didn’t lay with him in the intimate sense of the word, who needed constant care and help. Why wasn’t this man angry? How could he keep doing this, in the face of such odds and inconveniences, and feel no bitterness, didn’t try to run and abandon Kakashi?



Because that was what Minato had done, wasn’t it? After Obito’s death, he had been so deeply overwhelmed with grief, so angry at himself. But he had been a coward, unable to admit to himself that a boy as young and as traumatized as Kakashi shouldn’t be on the battlefield, shouldn’t be forced to make grown up decisions despite his apparent genius. He had been unable to face the fact that Obito’s death had been his own fault and he had blamed Kakashi for it. Oh, he had never said it out loud, but he knew that the boy could feel it. He had withdrawn from him. He had known that Kakashi, already having lost his father in such a cruel way, saw him as a father-figure, looked up to him, admired him, even hero-worshipped him, treasured each praise and compliment he gave him, searched him for advice and mentorship. And after Obito died, he had denied all this to a boy who didn’t have anyone else, because that had been easier than to face the fact that Obito’s death was his responsibility. That rejection had scarred Kakashi deeply, he knew that, he had known it then and he knew it now and he had never made any move to rectify that terrible mistake.



It was his cowardice, his rejection, both after Obito died and the other time, the occasion Minato didn’t want to think about even now, that had pushed Kakashi into the arms of a man like Nagato. A man who was a criminal, who was probably at least partially insane, but who was also loyal, and brave and committed, who didn’t blame his own mistakes on others. How he wanted to hate Nagato for it, like he hated him for killing Jiraiya and trying to murder his son. But, in the face of his love for his former student, of his devotion, he couldn’t bring himself to hate him, because most of all, he hated himself.