Title: You're Not Right
Type and Genre: yaoi, Yondaime x Kakashi
Rating & Warnings: R for sexual tensions, adult situations and language.
Summary: Whispery streamy/crazy style fic—angst, sex, with mild bibs of happy insanity. Basically Kakashi's shell-shock after Obito died, and his attachment to the Yondaime as a result of it. Not sappy or waffy, a bit gritty and slightly dark; mostly psychological. All 2nd POV, from Kakashi's POV. I liked the descriptors—I had fun on this one.
Notes: I liked this one—it felt smooth.

You can't admit you're afraid of dying.

You spin and spin and spin in the rain, your hands turned upwards to feel the raindrops falling from the sky. You're laughing—smiling.
There's a exuberant, explosive euphoria boiling in the arch of your ribcage, just bubbling and boiling away in there and you laugh and laugh, because you've never felt like this before. You've never felt like this.

You've felt pain and anguish and dread and stress and contentment and security and danger and excitement, hell even anticipation which is one emotion you've come to love because even after its over things only keep getting better but you've never felt anything like this exuberance that you feel now.

Distantly you hear someone calling you name. Calling and calling and calling—it's a little annoying but it's more funny than anything and you don't stop spinning because it's too much fun.

You're having fun. Fun.

Not work or responsibility or the small indulgences you take every now and again when no one's looking—or you think no one's looking—and the danger is half the fun, really, but it's nothing compared to this. That was just a nap compared to this, this is…amazing.

Spinning around the rain, feet tripping because you're not looking where you're going but you never fall and that's the scariest thing of all. You don't look where you going you don't know what you're doing but you do it all perfectly anyway.

The calling gets closer and someone grabs your shoulders and slaps your face.

No silly—not your mask, your face.

Yeah. They found your face.

Fucking bastards.
Fucking hurrah.
For all the good it did them. For all the good it does you.
For all the good…

For all the nothing.

The euphoria caves in and sloshes like water in a bucket in that space in the arch of your ribs, huddled and hungry like peasants in a cathedral in a famine and plague and you look straight in his eyes with something a good deal like anger simmering under the boring gray slate of your eyes.

Yes.
You still have both your eyes.
There's so much that hasn't happened yet.
You poor bastard.
You've got it all coming.

You hit him back.

Understand: he slapped you. It was sharp and loud and demeaning, but even though it stings and hurts you somewhere deep inside your neck even though it hit your cheek it isn't a textbook fatal wound so you should have nothing to worry about.

You hit him—with your knuckles, not the flat of your hand. You hit him hard where you wanted it to hurt—along his straight smooth jaw that drips tears (it's only rain) and you don't know how badly you hurt him because there's a limit to how bad you can hurt him but at the same time you're not sure where that limit is because you're not sure who you are right now.

It's part of the joke, see?
It's part of the joke.
You'll see.

You shouldn't be able to do what you did—you're still just a kid. You do train but you lack discipline which you make up for in raw talent determination and luck.

Luck.
For all the luck it did you.
For all the luck it did him.
Luck.
Who needs it?

They were grown men. They were grown men and outnumbered you and were just more advanced—they should've been able to slaughter you without breaking a sweat. They should've killed you.

It's a disturbing feeling: Knowing you should've died yet you didn't.

It inspires guilt at proving destiny wrong and being uppity and it inspires fear because you know that nothing is known for certain and the people you talk to today will die tomorrow (it makes it hard to converse really, those conditions) and all the 'higher purposes' that they go on and on about (that he went on and on about) mean exactly dick.

Six years of training.
Six years of sacrifice.
Six years of friendship.

Reduced to exactly dick—the meat on the floor of the cellar, prepared for the worms and bugs to feast in the beautiful cycle that is life. Somehow, you don't want to break out in song. You want to scream.

You're content to laugh.

The Yondaime rights himself slowly, deliberately, seething with anger. Perhaps. The rain drips off his blond hair, making it dangle instead of plastering it to his skull. You find this amusing. You wonder if he's going to hit you.

You hope so.

You want him.
You want him to.
You want him to touch you.
You want him to touch you more than anything.

You want him to touch you so you'll wake up from whatever dream this is into whatever your class you're skipping on whatever roof you're napping. You want him to wake you up. You want him to tell you you're alive. You want him.

You can believe Obito is dead. You know Obito is dead. You accept it. You…you expected it.

What you can't believe is your reaction. Your lack of reaction. You don't feel sorrow. You don't feel regret. You don't feel pain. You only feel guilt, and you resent that and wonder if it's even genuine or just something you dug up to convince yourself that you're somewhat normal.

Eyes the color of summer skies stare at you. There's no bottom. Where is the bottom of the sky? When you look up and see that it doesn't end, that it continues forever only forever is such a small word that it doesn't even make much sense because aren't friendships supposed to last forever if they're real?

The end of the sky is longer than forever. Deeper than forever. What you felt, what you invested in like a careful merchant building up his finances, was not real.

…So why should you regret something that was not real?

His hand flashes towards you. You see it. His hand flashes towards you and you see it and that's impossible because you've never been able to see him move before because he was always too damn fast so how is it you can see it now? It's not possible. It's not real.

You fight back because it's how you feel even though your chest is still heaving and the euphoria still lives in the hollow of your ribcage only it isn't really euphoria anymore—it's something much darker and sinister than that. It's something…else and you fight back and create another bruise on his face and another on his body until finally he's crushing you against him because he's that much stronger and bigger than you and you're not fighting as hard as you could've.

He's a grown man—or damn close to it. He's…what, twenty-four? 26? Does it matter? The point is that he's at least a decade your elder and taller and just…buffer than you are as he holds your arms against you and the side of your face is pressed into his chest you can smell his scent even through the rain and that is what calms the bubbling roiling thing under your ribcage by overwhelming it with a warm hurting feeling located in your groin.

Not for the first time since he was your teacher and mentor and guardian do you wonder what his skin would taste like against your tongue. Not for the first time do you have the painful burning urge to dig your fingers into his hair and push his head down. Not for the first time you feel the liquid hot metal spurs clinging and pulling at your chest and legs and pulling off skin because he's just that close. Not for the first time do your thighs give up the ghost.

Not for the first time do you wonder, really wonder, "What the hell is he keeping in his pants? It's huge…it's gotta be huge. With a body like that…even if it's not I don't care. I just want…"

It's nothing he knows. It's nothing he needs to know.

You're fourteen and growing, skinny but strong enough and incredibly lithe and flexible. You have both your eyes still, your hair's the same gray spikes and even though your body isn't much to look at right now, not compared to his, it is undeniably masculine and trim, testament to the strain and stress you've put it through.

You've done things most men haven't done—you've killed at least fourteen people today, excluding Obito. This cold wet winter day with the rain coming down and the sun not dead but vomiting into its toilet because nothing was certain and nothing was true and (unlike you) it doesn't have the Yondaime to press his body against.

You've done things. Fourteen is the number of people who live in your apartment complex. Fourteen is the number of years you've been alive. You've done things.

You can most certainly do this one thing you want so badly.

He's shaking—minutely in his bones, not in his muscles because damn it he's the Hokage and he has more control than that—against you. Its not in desire. Its not even in lust. Its all the things you don't feel, and you hold still. He's better than you are—at the very least, he acts more normal than you do.

Are normal and better the same thing? Is he better than you? Are you bad?

Your heart isn't racing anymore and your chest isn't heaving and you slide your fingers away so slowly that he doesn't restrain you and put your arms around him so it looks like you're only hugging him back.

Like a student, hurt and small and young, running back to the only safety he's ever known what with his family being dead and gone and all.

He holds you tighter—he falls for it or doesn't care enough to look past the illusion you've created. You have to admit, it is a lot more conventional than what you really want.

Your face is pressed into his neck as he leans down, his arms like wings soft and strong but the things you've seen him do with those arms spikes something in your gut with danger and anticipation and security all at once and you close your eyes as you hold his shoulders.

He smells soft. He smells sweet.
It's a silly description, but no less true for that. It's simple, sexual, and it's everything you want.

You want to put your hand between his thighs—smooth and resilient, probably baby-soft to the touch. You want to get on your knees and put your tongue there, feel the skin smooth and warm and slightly bitter, like…like coffee with butter's texture. Only better, because it would be cleaner. More natural. Simple. Real.

You want him to put his hands on your ass, his hands wide and fingers long and his hands had to be one biggest fucking turn-on's ever. No one else has hands like his—no one even comes close. Absolutely no one could move his hands at the speeds he can, like you've seen him done. You want him to squeeze. You want to jerk against him, so he can know how much he effects you—how badly you need this. How much your stomach twists and your heart cants. You want him to know what you've known for too awfully long, because it's hanging like an evil secret from your cock every time he touches your head or shoulder like a father.

You press your nose against his neck and inhale deeply.

It wavers, like dominos in an earth-shake.

Then you lick him.

Despite your bravado, its only the tip of your tongue.

You loser.

It feels burned with frostbite.

You lick your lips—chapped and rough and wet in the rain and bloody freezing as the temperature drops because all the blood is pooled between your legs.

Your tongue rubs against the back arch of his neck smooth as fish scales and just as wet, and you swallow and suck at the junction of his neck half-delirious with fear and disbelief. You're too high to feel anything but the hype. You groan; visceral and low in your throat. It feels like you've died—numb but alive.

Feeling the same thing over and over again until it becomes monotonous but never boring.

And you have to admit, that somewhere deep down inside…
…You're probably in love with him.

You wouldn't be this afraid of him, you're sure, if you weren't.
You are afraid of him.
You're terrified.

More afraid of him than you were of dying, of the flash that meant a sharp edge, of the cracking sound in your left leg which meant it might've been broken. More afraid than when you saw the coherency go out of Obito's eyes still looking at you, and realized you didn't feel sorry and afraid you didn't look sorry either and he deserved to look at something better than that.

He pulls you away.
He looks at you.
He just looks at you.
He pulled you away.

His eyes are summer skies, and smarter than you are—even you can admit that through all your pride. They aren't happy, they aren't stunned. They look a little surprised, but what they look mostly is dry even though his face is wet.

You know this wasn't the best place to let him know.
You know the dead people all around really kill the ambience.
You know this probably wasn't what he wanted to know.
You know this isn't what he was expecting.
You know that if you had waited longer you never would've done it.
You know you couldn't have done it if they hadn't taken your mask.
You know you never would've felt this brave again.

He looks at you.
He knows you.
He knows you.
He knew you at four years old.
He knows you at fourteen.

…He has to know you want him. He has to.

You could throw yourself at his mercy. You could. Act small and soppy and clingy and he'd take you in because his heart is that warm and wide and loving and you could bask in it and try and seduce him again. You could.

You're fourteen.
You've done things men haven't done.
You're a man.
You have your pride.
You have your desire.
You're at war with yourself and losing and you want nothing more for him to come and trample everything you are and everything you think because it can't possibly be normal (so it isn't right either, right?) and take both parties and claim the spoils for himself.

You're already sure he won't. It's not the kind of thing he does. He's not like you.

He takes his hands off you. You grab his belt.

Not his shirt, not his arms, not his hand, his belt. The thing that holds up his pants.

You want him sexually. You make no mistake of this. You want him sexually, you want him bad, desperately, you want him now. Something in your eyes breaks and you want your mask more than ever—you don't want him to see you like this and you need him to see you like this and for a long time all you can do is look at his clothes and body wet and dirtied with blood and mud and not fall to your knees and press your mouth against his stomach and the temptation crosses your mind too often to be simple desire. You're rational.

He stares at you.
That should have been enough.
It was enough.
You don't fight, and he pulls your hand off.

You don't take your eyes off his even though you feel like you caved in like a building built on a lake because you are who you are and you may be beaten and cold and alone and not natural and evil but damn it you have your pride. Obito might be dead. Gai might be dead. Obito is dead. Asuma might be dead. Obito is dead. You might have lost everything and all but you have your pride because it's the one thing you won't allowed to be killed and it's gotten you into a lot of trouble and it'll get you into a lot more and he just stares at you knowing all of that.

Aware of his surroundings and who was watching and who wasn't and who was dead and who wasn't and the gravity of the situation. He was aware and you weren't because the only thing you can think about is how bad you want in his pants.

He pulled your hand off.

Then he leaves you, after giving you one long look.

Then with the rain falling around you and on you and making your skin clammy and your clothes and stick with your eyes still dry and static you feel a shudder crack from your ankles up your spine to your shoulder blades.

Then finally with the rain drilling and hitting your clothes and draining the blood and dirt out of your hair never touching your skin do you look up into the clouds only you can't because water keeps hitting your eyes and that stings and hurts and you have to close and rub them and you want more than anything at that moment to look up and see the clouds dark and bulky pregnant with water. You want to see the clouds.

You feel cheated.

The euphoria's gone. The hollow under your ribcage is dead and cold, so you hold your arms out again, palms up, and feel the water making them so wet you can't even feel the raindrops hit because its so wet why would you notice more water so you don't. Your arms drop because you feel silly and know you look silly and you don't care enough to feel the water hitting what's already wet, doing what's already done so you drop your hands because you're already wet and its already too late to go back and be dry like you were you can't go back to being what you were you can only be what you are and you can't go and bring him back only know it's happened and what's happened stays happened because that was logic simply still and you learn something in that second.
Your arms drop. You must look really silly.

You feel cheated.

Maybe it should've been you who died.

You can't admit you're afraid of dying.

By nightfall, you slip into his bed. It's past midnight, and it's nothing but a roll on the ground in a tent while the rain still drums and you slip in dripping wet and drop your clothes by the entrance and slide naked under his sheets. His back is to you.

"Kakashi. Leave."
"No," you put your hand on his back and almost hiss on how warm it is through his clothes.
"I could have you punished for this, you know." He doesn't threaten. You both know that.
"You can't afford it," you point out because he's short on men. You both know that.
"Today's events don't excuse your actions now. I understand but…"
You move closer, so your thighs touch his buttocks and your heart races.
He turns around, not looking amused but his voice is still casual, head propped on his elbow.
"Do you know what would happen if I slept with every ninja in Konohagakure who wanted me?"
"You would have many happy ninjas?"
"No," he answers dryly and you prepare for the sermon.
"My wife would divorce me, and then I'd have to go through the whole dating thing all over, and I don't have the money to afford that many flowers again. Do you understand?"
You stare at him, and he stares right back.
Finally your mouth twitches and he breaks out into a slow grin and you start laughing a little like you did on the battlefield. He combs his fingers through your hair and holds your shoulders as they heave and you laugh. He strokes your back, pale and shivering.
You're not sure when the laughter turned to sobs. It did, somewhere. He knew, probably. Definitely. He held you even after it stopped while you got his shirt wet trying to muffle the sounds, choking in your throat because you didn't want to believe that was your voice making that wet shallow sound. Painful. Pained. Pain.
You're fourteen. You're a man. You've done things other men haven't. You want things other men don't. You watched your friend who was like your brother and twin die and didn't even cry or twitch. You've done things. You are things.

You laughed.

He cradles your body against his.

Your fingers clutch his back, caress him through his clothes and to your eternal chagrin and mortification, your absolute complete shame, your hear yourself sob, "I love you."

…

You're ready to kill yourself. If you hadn't felt as weak and wet and flat as you did then, unable to do anything more than to want the ground to swallow you, you might've. Or at least yelled at yourself thoroughly and taken on one of Gai's insane challenges like running six miles on one hand or some other shit like that. You want to swallow the words like glass. You don't want him to know that.

All he says is, "I know." He combs through your hair, dirty and tangled and wet as it is.

You rub yourself against him—press yourself against him. Hold him. You're reminded just how small you are, compared to him.

"Just…just let me? Just once? Just once, please, I'll never tell anyone. I'll never tell anyone—no one has to know, just once?"
"Three people saw you come in here."
"What do they care? You can do anything you want…please?"

His hand caresses the side of your face and combs through your hair while he looks at you. You wish you had more muscle on you—more meat. More…more of whatever it is he finds appealing. Your eyes aren't enough even if they are gray—you know your face is attractive, but it's not enough. Not for him. You're rational.

You haven't lost your left eye yet. You don't have as many scars on your body as you will. You aren't as screwed up inside as you will be. You wake up to nightmares sometimes, but that'll stop with time as you get more and more used up the twisted dark thing your mind becomes as you live a world you almost don't want to understand because its too ugly.

You're not there yet. He will never see you like that.

His eyes are an incredible shade of blue. Deep, yet not dark, because they are very bright. Beautiful, in a way the sky never is. The sun will never have his body.

"If you're man enough to ask for this," he says gently while combing his fingers through your hair, his eyes holding you like gravity can't, "You're man enough to take no for an answer."

For a moment you're stunned.

You shouldn't have been.

You lay there, his arm still over you and his hand in your hair and his eyes on your face. You lay there, and you feel how he feels and imagine every contour of skin under his skin. You lay there.

Finally, you blink.

"Do you understand?" he asks gently. He's always gentle with you, even when reprimanding you or punishing you for taking your bets with Gai too far or being too reckless on the field. He's gentle with you like no one else is and is sometimes criticized for it because you don't require gentleness or to be babied. What they say you need is some discipline and a sense of responsibility. What you want is him.

"Yes," you answer.

He waits for you to run away.
You cling to him, and put your head in his chest again.
He combs through your hair, his body relaxed and lean and powerful beside you.

"I love you," you repeat, only this time its calm and cool.
"I know. I love you too."

You know he means it. He never lies. He doesn't tell you things, he doesn't tell you a lot of things, but he doesn't lie.
You also know he doesn't mean it. Not the way you do. Not the way you want.

You both lay there, while the rain drums on making sure no one else could eavesdrop because its pretty damn hard for even you to hear his voice right in front of your face. You're still naked, and his body is warming yours.

"You're not going to change your mind, are you?" That's your voice. That's you. A little broken, but not hurt. He can break you…without making you hurt. He's always gentle with you. Even though you like to believe you don't need it.
"You will, with time," he answers, avoiding your question.
"No. No I won't."
"You're young still Kakashi—"
"No."
He doesn't answer. He never answered your question.
You inhale—smell his skin. Finger his shirt and shoulder blades. Feel his knees against yours and know you could probably put your hand between his legs before he could stop you.  Smell him and lick him everywhere.  Everything you want, so close, and that's stupid, because it was never close at all. You continue talking and your voice sounds better.
"Obito died today."
He takes his time answering. He was decoding your voice—the tone and rhythm of it, not the words. You know that, because he taught it to you.
"Yes. I'm sorry. I'm…I'm sorry."

Is this normal? Is this natural? Is thinking this way—using his name the way you do justified? Is it correct? Is it decent?

You laughed. You cried. Did any of it matter? Was any of it real? Did you ever care, or simply pretended you did to fit in? To seem normal? To seem natural? Are you normal? Are you right?

"You could die tomorrow."
"Don't."
You stop.
Now you want to run.
At that sound in his voice…just like a dog. Your reaction. It's frightening. He has that loyalty. He has your loyalty without question. That loyalty, that control. He got more than he bargained for, you can't help thinking.
"…We can't change what happened. We can't guarantee what will happen. All we can do is live in the moment."
"Then kiss me."
He isn't even daunted. "Nor do we live recklessly and fearing the future. That's just silly. We embrace the future. Eyes open."
"Even if it kills us?"
"Yes."
For a long time, you say nothing to that. You can't think of anything to say. Actually you can, but it takes you a while to say it, with the darkness thick in the tent and ground hard and wet under the plastic tarp and thin blanket. You sniff and wipe your face.
"That sounds like crap."
"Well it's late. If you want poetic and pretty, you should've asked me in the morning."
"Is it true?"
"Of course."
He's always so sure. He's always so damn sure about these things, without question. He believes in them. He believes in higher things that he goes on and on about for all the good it does…
You're so close. You're so close it's frightening.
When you're older, you'll look back on this moment and shudder because suddenly you know the answer to the question that continues to haunt you even after you answer it. You'll shudder and there's nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run.

You're not right.

"…Kiss me?"
"I gave you my answer."
"That was to sex," you say it without fear. That's what you want. That's what you want and your body is half-aroused and warm and hard and if he just ran his fingers on your spine just right he could have you writhing under him in seconds. You would scream his name, if that was what he wanted.  Just to feel his body against yours again, just feel him on top of you.
"This is…different." Your mind scrabbles—you're about to get kicked out. "I understand. But your wife won't divorce you for just a kiss, right?"
"She might."

You wait.

You can feel him looking at you. Weighing you.
Three people saw you come in.
Three people know you're here.
More than three people had to have seen you feeling up the Yondaime earlier on.
You know that. He knows that.
In truth, you're really not worth his time. Worth the trouble he'll get into.

His fingers stroke though your hair, and he says, "Get some sleep. We've got work in the morning."
He lies down next to you.
His arms are around you like wings.
You tell yourself you're not hurt.
You tell yourself you weren't expecting anything more.
You can't take your eyes off him, and you watch in the dim light, and see that he doesn't close his eyes either.

If they had been, you would've gone for him.
If they had been, you would've taken advantage of the trust he gives you. He has your loyalty. You have his trust. But he isn't dumb.
As it is, you only stare at him.

Finally, you get tired.

You move, and press your lips to his mouth.
He doesn't move away.
It's hard to breathe. You shake and hurt. Hunger. Your heart doesn't race, but it doesn't beat either. You can't see anything because your eyes are closed, but you can feel his hand cradling the back of your neck, warm and secure. His lips are mature, mouth skilled and warm and dry and they gently treat you to that skill in careful moderation like a paraplegic's only walk. Your body reacts—slowly, without fear or stress. Your arms are around his neck, and you feel thin and weak.

But happy. So happy and warm, sensual and sexual and beautiful at the same time you feel so awkward and small.

He pulls back first, letting his lips linger against yours before settling back.

You don't tell him. He already knows. He has to. He does.

Then you close your eyes.
You don't sleep.

You can't admit you're afraid of dying.

A/N: For all those who don't know the Naruto all that well, the Yondaime dies when the Nine Tails is imprisoned, a little after Naruto is born. It's a bit of a…clincher.  Kakashi's 14 at that time, when the Yondaime dies.  I'm not sure of the Yondaime's exact age, but I know he was young for his job—under 30.