[ It feels like forever, standing in that doorway, just looking at Obito sitting there in that chair, all awkward and uncomfortable like he always used to be -- he never did seem to ever find a comfortable position to sit in, always fidgeted to the point of driving Kakashi a little mad back then -- and realizing that this, this is real.
This is really happening.
Obito isn't standing under a sky red with blood, but sitting awkward and uncomfortable and fidgeting in a poorly made chair. And that is a hitai-ate with a leaf printed on the metal band, and a pair of goggles hanging around his neck -- the same pair of goggles they buried in a coffin with only a picture to represent the boy they left behind. A boy that now sits with eyes rimmed in red, a boy, not a man, Kakashi's beginning to realize, because this Obito is much younger than the one who stood before him on the battlefield. His cheeks are still soft, still have the faint roundness of adolescence, and haven't yet hardened into sharp, gaunt lines.
He looks just like Obito would've looked if he had somehow survived.
The very sight of him alone is worse than a knife to the chest, an ache that goes straight to the core.
(And Kakashi can't help but think to himself: it's living that's the most difficult part. So maybe this isn't a strange, impossible blessing, but some kind of a curse.)
Kakashi's gaze traces the lines of Obito's body, flowing up over the scars that line the right side of his face. And it's only when he meets Obito's eyes -- both eyes (where did he get the other one, anyway?) -- that he lets out an audibly slow, shuddering breath he hadn't known he was holding all along.
He swallows past the tightness in his throat.
Swallows past the ache that's formed a knot in his chest.
Because this--
This is what could have been.
(If not for the rock he couldn't move.)
Kakashi stares at Obito for a very long moment, the treble of silence between them stretching further than the distance between the stars. He should say something, but all he can manage is just one word. ]
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This is really happening.
Obito isn't standing under a sky red with blood, but sitting awkward and uncomfortable and fidgeting in a poorly made chair. And that is a hitai-ate with a leaf printed on the metal band, and a pair of goggles hanging around his neck -- the same pair of goggles they buried in a coffin with only a picture to represent the boy they left behind. A boy that now sits with eyes rimmed in red, a boy, not a man, Kakashi's beginning to realize, because this Obito is much younger than the one who stood before him on the battlefield. His cheeks are still soft, still have the faint roundness of adolescence, and haven't yet hardened into sharp, gaunt lines.
He looks just like Obito would've looked if he had somehow survived.
The very sight of him alone is worse than a knife to the chest, an ache that goes straight to the core.
(And Kakashi can't help but think to himself: it's living that's the most difficult part. So maybe this isn't a strange, impossible blessing, but some kind of a curse.)
Kakashi's gaze traces the lines of Obito's body, flowing up over the scars that line the right side of his face. And it's only when he meets Obito's eyes -- both eyes (where did he get the other one, anyway?) -- that he lets out an audibly slow, shuddering breath he hadn't known he was holding all along.
He swallows past the tightness in his throat.
Swallows past the ache that's formed a knot in his chest.
Because this--
This is what could have been.
(If not for the rock he couldn't move.)
Kakashi stares at Obito for a very long moment, the treble of silence between them stretching further than the distance between the stars. He should say something, but all he can manage is just one word. ]
Obito...