It’s late. Too late for anyone with sense to be out, but apparently neither of you qualified.
Kakashi blinks in quiet surprise when he finds you sitting on the rooftop of his apartment building, legs swinging like it’s some casual Wednesday hangout spot and not a five-story drop beneath you.
His eye narrows, lazy as ever, but soft in the corners.
“What are you doing here?”
You glance over, trying to look unaffected, despite the way your heart has been hammering since you sensed his chakra nearby.
“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
That catches him off guard. A full second of silence stretches into two. He scratches the back of his head, eye flicking away.
“You know I’m a jōnin, right? I can take care of myself.”
You snort, leaning back on your hands.
“And yet, somehow, you still manage to get yourself blown up, stabbed, or emotionally wrecked on a weekly basis. Funny how that works.”
A chuckle escapes him. It’s low and warm, rumbling in the quiet like something that doesn’t get used often. He sits beside you, not too close—but not far enough either.
“I could say the same about you,” he mutters. “You’re the only person I know who walks away from an ambush with a black eye and still manages to sass the medics.”
“Gotta keep things interesting.”
A beat passes. The wind is gentle tonight, stirring your hair. You feel his gaze linger, but he doesn’t say anything. Neither do you.
And maybe that’s the problem.
You could say it—how you always know when something’s wrong, how your chest tightens when you hear he’s on a dangerous mission, how you’ve memorized the exact way he laughs (because it’s rare and you don’t want to forget).
He could say it—how he checks your chakra signature before he even checks the weather, how your stubbornness drives him crazy in a way he kind of likes, how you’re the only one who makes him feel normal.
But instead, you both sit there. Side by side. Close enough to touch, but not quite.
Because you’re just two idiots, pretending the space between you is easier to maintain than the truth.
sunrise on the reaping raises an incredibly important ethical question: how many generations does it take to erase history, to the point of blind, unquestioning acceptance?
i fear the answer is far fewer than any of us are comfortable with.
anyone else thinking about effie spending 24 years watching haymitch completely fall apart. effie, who met haymitch by accident, who knows exactly what kind of person he is, who sees him every year on his birthday for 24 years and each year he’s drunker, each year he’s angrier, each year he’s faster to give up. and then they get katniss and peeta. peeta, who is kind and open and understanding, who refuses to give up on haymitch. and katniss, who is so much like haymitch at 16 that it hurts. and over the few days they’re together, effie watches haymitch come back to life. watches him try. watches him have hope. and then they get to keep not one but both of those kids. they get to come home. and then, less then a year later, effie pulls haymitch’s name at the reaping.
the way haymitch must have seen it as all his ghosts coming back to haunt him at once when katniss walked onto the train with the face of burdock and asterid, the pin of maysilee, the voice of lenore dove, and a background so devastatingly similar to his own. of course sweetheart slipped out. and of course he did everything he could to keep her alive
stormborns
turnnoffyourmind
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pixelskylines
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2087
baratheonpilled
origamiaround
