If You Love Until It Hurts

A/N: I've been having this muse (and variations of it) in my head for almost an year now, but for various reasons I didn't want to commit to writing it. Finally, I gave in, and here it is. Also, as you'll see there's some MinaKaka implied in the fic - I've taken the liberty to play a little with the timeline so Kakashi wouldn't be underage when that happened.

If You Love Until It Hurts

“Are you alright?”

Kakashi slowly turned and looked down to meet the calm, wise eyes of his canine familiar, Pakkun’s words barely registering in his tired mind.

“Kakashi?” the dog tried again. The Jounin sighed and rubbed his hands over his masked face.

“Yes, Pakkun. I’m just tired.”

The corridor in the Konoha hospital he was sitting in was quiet and semi-dark, only a few of the lamps in working order – or they had just turned the rest off to save money from electricity bills. If he focused, he could hear the hospital staff – at least those that were on duty tonight – moving around, visiting patients, snoozing in between visitations, having sex in one of the locker-rooms. He didn’t have the energy to focus though, so everything remained blissfully silent around him.

“You should go home and sleep.” Pakkun insisted. “You look like hell, boss.”

Kakashi gave him a wry little smile under his mask, knowing that the little dog knew how to read his expression even covered as it was.

“I’m fine. I just want to make sure Naruto will be okay. Physically, at least.” No one could be sure how Naruto would take Sasuke’s betrayal. They had all made such a great effort to get him back home, to save him from the clutches of that monster Orochimaru, and yet it had all been in vain. The entire team decimated, all of them, barely children sent on a mission that was supposed to be executed by adults, not by inexperienced Genin. When Kakashi realized what was going on it was too late, too late to catch up to them, too late to save them, too late to stop Sasuke, too late to shield Naruto from the pain. He had failed, again. That thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Jiraiya-sama is watching over the boy.” Pakkun tried again. “He’s in good hands.”

Kakashi released the summoning technique without another word and the pug disappeared in a puff of undignified smoke. He wasn’t going to be happy next time Kakashi summoned him, but he really didn’t want to listen to any of this any more. He needed the silence. He looked down at the floor under his feet, his eyes following the lines and veins of darker stone that ran through the polished granite. The halogen lamp on the ceiling above him flickered and went off for a moment, then the light returned again. The hospital needed better funding.

Suddenly he heard steps – faint and elegant, definitely shinobi’s, if one who wasn’t bothering to hide his presence, but also rapid and tense. Whoever he was, he was worried. The steps were approaching fast, and when the newcomer turned the corner Kakashi curiously lifted his head to see who it was, meeting the cool brown eyes of the Chuunin who had confronted him during the Exam. Umino Iruka? Yes, that was his name.

The younger man slowed down to a stop before Kakashi and spoke, his voice quiet and seemingly calm:

“They said he was still in surgery.”

Kakashi nodded.

“Tsunade-sama is with him. She’s been working all day on him and the rest of them.”

The Chuunin nodded grimly, then walked up to the benches lined by on the opposite wall and sat down, his eyes still boring into Kakashi, like two chips of dark ice.

“You can say it, if you want.” Kakashi prompted quietly.

“Say what?”

“That you told me so. That entering them in the exam was a bad idea.”

“What would it change, if I said that out loud, Kakashi-san?” the other returned, though his tone was still frosty. Kakashi shrugged.

“It seems like the appropriate thing to say.”

Iruka finally looked away, and turned to the direction of the surgery hall.

“You don’t really need me to tell you how you screw up. The consequences are something we’d all have to live with from now on. And that includes you.”

Suddenly the door opened and Jiraiya walked out, looking worn out if calm. He was dressed in the white scrubs hospital staff wore – Tsunade must’ve made him put those on if he was to be present during the surgery. Iruka was on his feet immediately, Kakashi following closely after.

“Will he be okay?” was the first thing that came out of the Chuunin’s mouth. Jiraiya’s smile did not reach his tired eyes.

“Yes. His healing factor took care of most of the damage. Tsunade patched the rest.”

Iruka stared over Jiraiya’s broad shoulder, obviously hoping to see Tsunade, but she was nowhere in sight.

“She went to rest.” The older man answered the unspoken question. “She’s been fixing banged up teenagers all day. She’s exhausted.”

Iruka nodded, relief visible on his face. Before Kakashi could speak, the older man continued:

“He was asking about you, Umino-san. Talking while he was unconscious. You can go and see him, if you wish, but let him rest.”

Iruka nodded, bowed respectfully, the hurriedly walked down the corridor. Kakashi followed his form until he disappeared behind the corner, then turned to Jiraiya.

“You should probably go home.” His superior said with surprising gentleness. “You and Iruka will crowd him if you’re both in his room and he needs to rest.” He paused, looking over Kakashi, taking in his tired form. “You need to rest too.”

“I am perfectly fi-“

“Go home, Kakashi.” The tone was still gentle, but it was an unmistakable command. Kakashi nodded, then bowed as well.

“Goodnight, Jiraiya-sama.”

He left afterwards, walking out of the hospital and down the road to his home. He could just teleport there, he knew, but the thought of returning to that empty, quiet place was almost as painful as sitting in the hospital corridor, waiting for news. Best to put off his return for as long as possible. The streets were quiet and empty, the only tangible presence he could feel being that of the ANBU patrols that always watched over the village. Almost everyone else seemed to be asleep, oblivious to the drama that had occurred only a dozen hours ago. The silence was almost oppressive.

Finally, he returned to his house and locked the door behind him, taking off his shoes and setting them in neatly at the foot of the genkan. The inside of his home was as dark and quiet as the rest of the village, and he didn’t bother turning the lights on as he made his way through the living room and into the tiny kitchen. His fridge was almost empty, containing only several rice-balls and a forgotten carton of juice. He opened the cupboard above the stove and took out the only plate and glass he kept there, then moved the food in them and sat down at the table. He wasn’t hungry. His stomach churned at the thought of eating now, after all that had happened during the day. A good ninja, however, always took care of his body – it was a weapon, a tool to be kept in top condition so it could be used by his employers. Foregoing food even when you felt like throwing up just thinking about it was not an option.

Kakashi took the first riceball and bit into it, chewing slowly and trying to suppress the nausea that roiled in his stomach. He swallowed the mouthful with a gulp of juice, than bit another. The food tasted like ash in his mouth, but he forced himself to swallow it all, then sat the table and stared at the empty plate, trying to keep the food down. It wouldn’t do to puke now. Finally his stomach seemed to settle and he sighed with relief, burying his head in his hands.

The events of the day were replaying in his mind, over and over again – rushing desperately ahead of the medical team, passing battlefield after battlefield, finding the broken bodies of the squad that went after Sasuke. They were all alive, thankfully, but in condition so dire that it only served to unnerve him more, worry more if he’d even find Naruto in one piece. When he stumbled out of the bush and did find him, lying there, unconscious, bloodied and helpless, both of them soaked to the bones, Sasuke nowhere in sight, it felt like the entire world came crashing down around him. When he lost Obito he felt in a similar way, and then Rin, and then Sensei…He didn’t even want to try and remember how he felt when he found his father in a pool of his own blood. It seemed like it was his destiny to always be a few minutes too late to save those who were precious to him. His stomach turned again.

Kakashi got up from the table and moved to his living room, sitting on the sofa and then pulling his feet up, pressing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. He felt bone-tired and yet not sleepy at all. The empty silence of his house felt deafening and he regretted releasing Pakkun’s summoning. Calling him again now wasn’t really an option – unless they were in a combat situation the little dog would be too offended by his earlier behaviour to be a pleasant companion. He stared emptily at the window, his gaze falling on the two framed photographs propped on the windowsill – one of his old team, and another of his new one. Both broken, both gone now. Minato was smiling on the picture, the expression gentle, warm and sunny, his arms wrapped protectively around Kakashi’s teammates, Kakashi himself assuming the same pose in the other picture. Both photographs were glimpses of happier times, before the war, before the Kyuubi, before Orochimaru’s invasion.

He unfolded himself slowly and walked up to the pictures, taking the one with Minato and running his fingers over the glass, tracing the tender smile on his Sensei’s lips. For a while, his new team had filled the gnawing emptiness left by the loss of his old one, even though he tried to avoid getting attached to them. And now that team was gone too, even if all its members were still alive. The empty void inside him returned, more oppressive than ever.

On the photograph Minato kept smiling. Years ago that smile always reassured him, always gave him a sense of safety and stability. Now it only served to emphasize his guilt. His eye moved from the picture to the moonlit tatami on the floor. His fingers tightened around the frame as he struggled with himself. He always promised himself not to do this again, not to give in to his need, and he always broke his promise. Sometimes it took him weeks, months even, once he held out for over an year before he gave in. The tension in his body, in his mind was nearing a breaking point again, and he knew what he needed to do, even if it filled him with revulsion.

He took a deep, calming breath and carefully returned the picture back in its place, making a mental note to clean all the dust tomorrow. Turning, he took two steps forward and kneeled on the floor, his fingers finding the edges of the tatami with practiced ease and pulling, rolling the straw mat back to reveal the wooden floorboards beneath. He pressed a fist against one of the boards until he heard the familiar click of hidden compartment unlocking, then pulled the board up to reveal the small space he had personally built under it years ago, shortly after Minato died. In that hole there was a plain wooden box with a seal drawn where its lock should’ve been. Kakashi took the box out, carefully placed it on the floor next to him and returned the floorboard and tatami mat back their places. When he was done he picked the box up again and headed for the bathroom.

His bathroom, like the rest of his apartment, was small and utilitarian. The walls and floor were covered in dark, smooth tiles, a sink and a cabinet with a mirror on its door were mounted on the wall facing the door, allowing him to observe the entrance while he was bathing even when his back was turned to it. On the wall next to the mirror there was the traditional hot tub, now covered with a lid, and on the other wall, separated with a curtain there was a shower.

The Jounin placed the box on the lid of the hot tub, then formed the seals necessary to unlock it but didn’t open it. Leaving it there for the moment he turned and began to undress, meticulously folding his clothes once he removed them and placing them on the lid as well – first the flack jacket, then his shirt, and finally his pants, socks and underwear. When he was done he took the small bundle of clothes and placed them in the now empty laundry hamper under the sink. He was going to wash them later – after a full day of running through the forest they were filthy. He hesitantly ran his fingers over his mask and forehead protector – he felt uncomfortable taking them off even in the privacy of his own home, but having soggy cloth clinging to his face after he took the shower would feel truly unpleasant, so he removed them as well and placed them beside the box.

Now naked he examined himself in the mirror, taking note of every bruise and mark on his body, carefully cataloguing each and every one of them – he needed to be sure he wouldn’t add or remove anything to them when he healed the damage afterwards. He always seemed to accumulate new scars, especially when a lot of time passed between these indulgencies of his.

He took note of the discoloured gash on the back of his hand where Zabuza’s sword had cut through the protective plate of his glove when he blocked his attack, the circular scar on his shoulder when an enemy managed to stab him with a Kunai during one of his more recent solo S-ranked missions, another discolored patch along his hip where debris from an explosion caught him while trying to shield himself from it – he had been lucky he got away only with a flesh wound, rather than broken hip-bones. His hip bones were jutting out more than they had a few months ago, testament of the long hospital stay after his unfortunate run in with Itachi’s Tsukiyomi and all the stress related to Sasuke’s mental state after the same event. He needed to eat more if he was to be useful.

Having finished the evaluation of his body’s condition, he opened the cabinet and removed the bag of cotton and a bottle of strong disinfectant he kept there, then finally turned and walked up to the tub, placing the items next to his mask, forehead protector and the box. He stared at it for a few moments, both savouring the release its contents would bring and dreading having to use it. His hands shook a little when he finally reached for the lid and opened it, revealing the various tools and instruments he had accumulated for the past thirteen years. The truth was, he could achieve the same results with any of his weapons, be they shuriken or kunai or just a plain kitchen knife. He ran his fingers lovingly over the blades and needles carefully stacked inside the box, each meticulously wrapped in a soft cotton cloth. He had tried to use one of his kunai in their place once, years ago – it felt wrong, like he was sullying something precious. He never repeated the process. Each of these blades, however, was carefully chosen and crafted specifically for this purpose, each meticulously maintained clean and each having a personal significance. They were both hated and beloved companions, too precious to throw away and too shameful to display openly.

He took his time choosing the blade he wanted to use now, immersing himself in the memories of the one who had used them before, so loving and accepting and forgiving. Finally he picked a scalpel-like knife with a long handle and a short blade. He unwrapped the cotton cloth around it, examining the clear, shiny metal for any blemishes and rust and finding none – the steel was truly the best possible quality money could buy, even in a place like Konoha. It fit in his hand with easy familiarity and his trembling finally stopped, as if soothed by a reunion with a long-lost friend.

Still holding the blade he moved towards the shower and pulled the curtain around it, then turned the water on, making it as hot as he could stand. Steam immediately began filling the small bathroom, despite the warm weather outside. He placed the blade on a small stand on the wall by the shower next to the soap and shampoo he kept there, then began to wash. It was a long established ritual, once he gave in to his need – prepare your tools, cleanse your body, indulge your needs. First was his face and hair, then his chest, arms and legs, and finally his genitals and his entrance, soapy fingers carefully sliding in and out of him to make sure he was clean both inside and out before he did this. By the time he was done, he was already hard, the engorged tip of his erection peeking under its hood and pointing towards his navel.

Once he was sure he was clean, he washed off all the soap and finally picked up the blade. The shiny metal was fogged up, just like the cabinet’s mirror and the mist was quickly washed away once the shower water slid over the blade.

His free hand slid over his smooth inner thigh, carefully choosing a suitable place and making sure he wouldn’t nick any major blood vessel by accident. He licked his lips in anticipation before lowering the blade, a drop of clear fluid forming on the slit of his erection as he throbbed with need. The familiarity of the first cut, long and shallow, felt like coming home after a long and difficult journey. At first there was no sensation, the knife was too sharp for that. When it came, it was slow, a burning sensation that blossomed alongside the cut. He gasped and closed his eyes, reveling in the pain. He had longed to do that for weeks now, ever since he first woke up in the hospital bed with Tsunade-sama hovering over him, a disapproving expression written all over her pretty face. His failure to stop Itachi, to protect both Sasuke and Naruto was heavy in his heart, growing heavier with each passing day while he watched things falling apart. He remembered that same despair, back when he was a child, his father, subjected to so much abuse and humiliation, withdrawing further and further away from everyone, even from his own son. Now, as an adult, he felt the same helplessness, the same despair.

The next cut was shorter but deeper as he dug the blade in his flesh, eager for more, as it had long been his one coping mechanism when things went out of control. The world around him might be falling apart, and trying to stop it might feel like trying to dig a hole in the sea, but he still had control over this, control over his own flesh and blood and his own pain.

The third cut was over his other thigh, long this time, from knee almost all the way up to his groin and he shuddered, because his mind was finally finding its focus, the familiar burning sensation, the sight of his blood sliding down his legs, washed away by the shower and swirling down the drain bringing back bittersweet memories.

A strong arm around his waist, a naked, powerful body behind his, holding him, caressing him gently, soft lips against his ear, reassuring him this wasn’t wrong, he wasn’t bad for wanting it, needing it, another strong, graceful hand holding the blade and cutting alongside Kakashi’s inner thigh...

“Sensei…” he whimpered and came, wiry body arching and shuddering when pearly ribbon after pearly ribbon shot from the tip of his erection and splattered against the nylon curtain of the shower, quickly washed away and mixing with the pinkish water sluicing down the drain.

The orgasm caught him unprepared, even if he had been aware that too long had passed since the last time he did that. Kakashi almost dropped the blade and held onto it through sheer force of will and instinct created by extensive training. He washed it under the warm water and placed it back onto the stand, leaning against the cool, wet tiles of the wall behind him. He slid down until he was crouching under the shower, shivering despite the hot water still falling all over him. The end of these sessions sometimes felt worse than the beginning – he was still deep in headspace, but there was no gentle embrace around him, no tender aftercare to retain the feeling of warmth and freedom. He was cold and alone and he had just abused the tool that belonged to Konoha, willfully harming its weapon. The pain always brought release and focus, but along with it came even more crippling guilt and humiliation. What would his colleagues think if they knew? What would Gai think? Or Tsunade-sama? They couldn’t know. It was his dirty little secret and despite the almost overwhelming need to share it with someone, he knew he could never do that.

With a sigh he got up and waited for the shower to wash away whatever had left of the blood. He had so much work left to do – best to get down to it.