Laundry-下 (卡佐) 作者: ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
gelfling8604
Friday, February 18th, 2005 02:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
snowlightWarnings: Yaoi, KakaSasu, NC-17, light humor, complete lack of Naruto Uzumaki.
Summary: Pretend Sasuke never made it to Orochimaru's, and was instead caught and put in Kakashi's overly-sensible and not very sympathetic charge. Kakashi hadn’t been thrilled, but there was very, very little that thrilled Kakashi
Laundry
by Gelfling (gelfling8604@yahoo.com)
There were small prices to pay for his bit of fun, however, and no one predicted the form they took.
Sasuke still accompanied Kakashi on various missions—but by unspoken agreement Sasuke would work only with him; if others were added, group tensions built up in strange ways that eventually found a way out. For the most part, it just meant that Sasuke was more agitated, less reliable, and more distracted with a third or fourth person attached—directly influenced by how many people there were and personality types. Despite various deliberate hindrances on his progress, Sasuke had improved to a chuunin level ninja—higher, if he managed to take the other four seals off his body, excluding the curse mark. The problem was, Sasuke didn’t have the mind of a journeyman ninja—the skills, yes, the stamina and strategizing abilities, yes, but not the level-minded judgment. It was true that many ninja were not mentally balanced—it was the norm, but Sasuke was one where few allowances were given. He was judged too dangerous for that, and recently Kakashi had seemed…too indulgent and inattentive to be healthy.
So, occasionally, another member would be added onto the strange ‘not-cell’ that comprised of the two them, and they would both be annoyed because neither of them were too fond with working with new people on account of new people dying frequently and getting in the way—if possible, Kakashi tried to take someone he knew to spy on them, but again, most of the people he trusted were dead. It was a continuous theme. There was Gai, but he had his own life and was…Gai. Excessively so.
Accidents were unaffordable. They cost too much and were never worth the slack—Sasuke always considered Other People a necessary ingredient in accidents, but mostly because he wouldn’t admit he was fairly apt at creating accidents all on his own; accidentally, of course. Of course, if he’d been the one to get hurt, he would’ve had a decent reason to get angry, would’ve been in a good position that was free from blame, since he’d been the one to get hurt. He hadn’t though, but refused the blame anyway.
It didn’t make him feel better.
He hated to admit he was distracted—hated to admit that any of it was in any way his fault. If it had just been Kakashi and him, things would have gone better; they didn’t need help, and the other guy had been useless for anything aside from…
Of course, Kakashi hadn’t wanted to talk about it. Of course, Kakashi didn’t blame either of them—outwardly. Outwardly—he was still good at hiding what he felt, what he thought, from Sasuke who watched him like a hawk on steroids every day he could. Pain was something Kakashi was used to, and didn’t bother him terribly much; he didn’t like it and never would (which was healthy) but he didn’t particularly care about the bruised bones or bloody wounds in his back. They just weren’t important enough.
Sasuke spent the better part of the days after avoiding him in the not-exactly-dead-anymore house, refusing to go out for meals, remaining shut up in his room wholly convinced Kakashi’s injuries had not been his fault and furious at the slight implication that they might have been. But perhaps, what annoyed him the most, what infuriated and angered him the most, was that Kakashi didn’t seem to care. It had happened, it was over, no one was dead, so it wasn’t important. He didn’t care. He was too busy laying on the porch in the unseasonably warm noon sun shirtless, doing nothing more productive than doze, completely ignoring the resentful glare coming from deep inside the shadows of the house. Kakashi’s back looked sun-starved; paleness could be attractive, but on him it simply looked vaguely unhealthy and suspicious. There were many things about Kakashi that were unbearable. There were many things about Kakashi that Sasuke was just now realizing were far more dangerous, more problematic and lethal, than they had first seemed. Sasuke sulked in the shadows, glowered, then finally—feeling a little apprehensive—stepped into the light and nudged Kakashi’s side with his foot. There was a muffled whine—cranky and weak.
Sasuke’s fingers tightened. He manhandled Kakashi into a sitting position, making him wake up twice, until he had his legs over the low edge of the porch and his back facing him. Kakashi lounged against his knees, refusing to sit straight—Kakashi was an expert lounger. He could make spikes look comfortable by lounging against them.
They usually didn’t talk—Sasuke because he didn’t like to and Kakashi always seemed to know what was going through his head anyway, and Kakashi because he didn’t see the need; if he wanted to make himself understood, he would. He never told Sasuke to feel guilty about anything; that he had done wrong, that running away would get him no where because Kakashi had known he wouldn’t listen. Sasuke hated how he was manipulated and hated the efficiency even more. It wasn’t fair—being read like that. It was unnerving. It was terribly convenient. It was also terribly, terribly horrible for Sasuke to realize that not only was it convenient, but that once his wounded dignity had dragged its feet in the dirt, he didn’t mind. That he trusted Kakashi to that extent—he didn’t begrudge him being able to read or control him, because he trusted Kakashi to never hurt him intentionally or take advantage of him.
Sasuke had planned to live his life alone—not only literally, but metaphorically as well, inside his head and heart. He never wanted to have a friend—so he made a point to avoid people he’d like—and he never wanted to trust anyone—so he made himself paranoid and suspicious. He made a point of not only locking himself away from other people, but of locking them outside his mind—to never care about them and tried to make sure they didn’t care about him. He wanted to be alone—in a very serious sense.
He did this because Sasuke had always known, from a very early age, that betrayal was…not simply painful. Pain was something that came, hurt, and then scabbed over, leaving only faint ugliness. Betrayal was something that did not heal—it was not pain, it was agony. It was degrading, because betrayal was something that was allowed to happen by the victim. There was no defense; there was not even the dignity of a last fight or struggle. Sasuke realized what few children didn’t—that realizing dreams and victories was something that happened very, very rarely, and hardly ever about the things that mattered. However, even in defeat, even in death, you could still hold on to dignity, to pride, to even an illusion of pride or dignity and that somehow made things better, because even though they’d beaten you they hadn’t defeated you, and you were still better than them. Pride and dignity left the possibility that one day you’d get them back, one day you’d make them pay, and it’d be worth it—it’d be worth it a thousand times over. Betrayal, however, took even that away.
He didn’t doubt Kakashi was aware of all the ways he could hurt Sasuke—didn’t doubt Kakashi had realized the power he’d been given. He also didn’t doubt Kakashi knew why he was touching his back gingerly, over the spots that had been bruised and cut and healed, trying to alleviate as much pain as possible without seeming to care. Kakashi knew—and he wouldn’t take advantage of it. Kakashi, Sasuke was beginning to appreciate, had something he didn’t, something many ninjas didn’t—he had personal honor, not just occupational honor. He was ruthless when he had to be, heartless, but he had a beaten up and pragmatically merciless honor, and he probably knew why Sasuke’s fingers were shaking, and he wouldn’t do anything about it. Not because he was lazy, not because he didn’t care, but because it was Sasuke’s decision to do something stupid and reckless and not his.
Kakashi was more than a decade his elder—had been his teacher since he was twelve, his guardian/custodian/jailer for the past two and half years, and been the only real father figure Sasuke had ever had, despite having a father he could name and remember. And Kakashi trusted him. His fingers ran over the old scars, over the muscles weathered by the years into something hard and dense yet still supple. Kakashi’s head hung from his shoulders lazily, body relaxed and languid, allowing Sasuke to do whatever he wanted and hitching his shoulders gently forward or backward to indicate which part of his back needed the most attention, eyes closed and fingers lax. His breathing was slow, drowsy in the clear mid-winter break.
Sasuke discreetly checked his pulse from time to time—he wouldn’t put it past Kakashi to fall asleep on him. There were evident knots of tension—of pain. His fingers worked at them, rubbing and pressing and kneading, until the knot dissolved peacefully. The faint warmth the sun gave off didn’t reach through the layers of Sasuke’s clothes—it was unusual weather, and the cold would return soon enough. Kakashi’s skin was luke warm under his chilly fingers.
He worked up Kakashi’s spine, to the base of his neck and the nape of his hair, carefully redressing the old constant aches that came from day-to-day living and weren’t particularly annoying but not pleasant. Kakashi’s hair felt clean—he washed it every morning. As long as Sasuke had been living with him, he had never, ever, been able to find out what Kakashi did to it to make it stand up—something had gone seriously wrong with the genes, leaving him with busy gray hair that defied both gravity and fashion. It was one of the things he meant to find out before he died—one of the many. But he definitely meant to.
He wasn’t surprised to note that the silence was companionable; at ease and pleasant. It gave him confidence. Whatever happened…happened. No one would die, so even if things went bad it wouldn’t matter, because they’d still be alive and things could get better: that was the gist of what Kakashi taught him. The important thing was to be alive—there were many important things, but once you were dead, they stopped being important. And he had a feeling Kakashi would forgive him, if he screwed up—Kakashi forgave him everything else. He trusted him.
His fingers stopped prodding and simply balanced him as he leaned forward on his knees and pressed his lips, very lightly, against hard muscle of Kakashi’s neck. He let the kiss linger.
Lightening didn’t strike. The sky didn’t fall. The earth didn’t split and roar. No one screamed. No blood spilled. Kakashi didn’t move. If his muscles had tensed up—just a bit, just from shock—it would’ve been done, game over, go away. But he’d been expecting this; Kakashi had been expecting it and accepted it. Sasuke comforted himself with the thought that if Kakashi had wanted to stop him, he would have, so since he hadn’t, it was all right. It was all right. He could touch him. His mouth acted on its own—sucking lightly, the wet insides of his lips catching on the dry skin, the tip of his tongue yanking at the reigns and tasting a bit of sweat and breathing hard, leathery whispers like bat wings flapping. Kakashi tasted faintly of salt. Mostly he didn’t taste of anything too distinct—strongest of salt, a little of soap, a little of water and there was maybe a faint trace of human oil, something distinctly him, but it was hard to be sure. He was very good at making himself anonymous.
His hands wavered erratically from one extreme to the other—being too hard and bruising, then too light and soft, too hesitant and then too brash, and occasionally just right, slow hard caresses over pale skin. He wasn’t sure where to put them—his body knew, but what his body wanted and what he and/or Kakashi could accept were two different things. It was pleasant to just touch him—like running his hands over smooth warm stone. Relaxing. Intoxicating. He pulled away once, not far, but enough to give an opportunity for something to go wrong—not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel heat, to get an impression. His lips pressed against Kakashi’s pulse—flowing hard and fast against his mouth, aware and not indifferent. Maybe not interested, maybe nervous, but definitely not indifferent, and that was as good as any place to start.
He wasn’t stopped.
His hair brushed his skin, and this time Sasuke hesitated less and tasted more, feeling the insides of his fingers and sensitive pads tingle and heat, let his hands wander farther and let them touch the way they liked, giving less regard to illusions of control and more to immediate physical satisfaction. If his arms felt this way, the muscles under the skin felt this way, had this amount of heat, this amount of strength and made Sasuke twitch and tingle, then his stomach, lower down he must feel like…he couldn’t imagine it.
Kakashi stopped him.
His hand had been halfway down his mid-riff, fingertips lightly brushing the stomach ridges sending little shocks up his arm and another hand—larger than his, leaner, harder, and a good deal dryer—grabbed his. The grip had tightened before Sasuke had gotten his head together to get up and get away with as much possible dignity, immovable as iron. Inside his head, Sasuke had cowered. Outside, he had frozen. He should’ve torn his hand away—wanted to tear his hand away, but couldn’t move.
Kakashi hadn’t said anything—just held his hand tightly, let his head hang off his shoulders and allowed Sasuke’s other hand to fall away without comment. He hadn’t looked at him—hadn’t done anything, but after a beat or two of not letting Sasuke run and making it clear he had no intention of letting go, leaned back a little (against him) propped up on his arms, one suspiciously close to Sasuke’s leg, the fingers of the other very, very lightly trapping Sasuke’s fingers down. Not enough to hurt—there wasn’t much weight on them, but the arrangement hadn’t been accidental—few things were, with Kakashi.
And then he glanced over at him, gave him a level steady look with his one good gray eye.
Sasuke flushed.
After a while Kakashi looked away, tilted his head up towards the sky. Cautiously, Sasuke placed his free hand over Kakashi’s—nothing happened. Then, slowly but with a single-minded stubbornness, he kissed his neck again lightly, and trailed his lips against his collar bone, found he didn’t have the courage to do anything with his tongue, before relaxing, lungs still laboring a good deal harder than he wanted them to, against Kakashi’s shoulder. He found himself wondering how, exactly, did it feel to have someone else’s breath break against your skin? It sounded delightful—like a warm breeze in the chill. If Kakashi enjoyed it, he gave no sign. Sasuke pressed his lips against the corner of his jaw, against the warm black fabric. Sasuke pulled his hands out, and went back inside.
The afternoon took too long—the night took longer. Dinner was awkward. He hadn’t been sure what to say or do, so a lot of what Sasuke wound up doing was poking his food and twitching every time the chopsticks hit the bowls too loudly, and kept his eyes on the table. He contemplated touching Kakashi’s feet under the table with his own, but that sounded childish—beneath him. He still wanted to do it though; he didn’t.
He’d left the table for Kakashi to clear (he’d cooked and hadn’t been able to eat) and went to his own room, to pace and sulk and was embarrassed to find himself licking his lips and rubbing his wrists. Embarrassed, but not really afraid. He wasn’t sure what happened now—wasn’t sure about the appropriate procedure, about who’s move it was or what the move would entail or if he should even expect anything or if he was expected to go to bed without a decent answer or indication if anything came next at all. Perhaps it’d been a fluke. Perhaps it’d been only a fluke.
Down the hall—three rooms down—he heard Kakashi’s bedroom door slide open, then closed. His fingers tightened on his arms, momentarily. Then he went out, down the hall, and through Kakashi’s door in a daze: he was direct, but he didn’t like being a fool. He didn’t like it at all.
Kakashi was seated when he came in, casually leaning forward on his knees; he’d been expected. Sasuke froze for a second, his hand still on the door. Then he closed it, stepped forward, face as carefully blank as he could make it and trying to keep his steps from trembling or hands from fisting, and taken the long four and half steps to the bed, and nearly choked when Kakashi gave him that steady, burning look. It wasn’t hungry—not exactly. He was nearly fifteen, repressed, isolated, and while Kakashi was nearly thirty, he hadn’t lost any of his appeal or memories of what it was like to be fifteen with just two hands and a pornographic novel. And Sasuke had come to him—entirely on his own will. It would cause outrage with most people, because of their age difference and sex similarity, but most of the things Sasuke did caused outrage in people and Kakashi had no intention of anyone knowing—no one knew anything else about his life anyway.
Kakashi offered him his hand.
He took it, of course. He’d come too far not to.
He allowed himself to be pulled on the bed (sitting? lying down? straddling him? his heart was going too fast) and seated over the edge, and was blindfolded deliberately, the knot secure in the back and consciously felt the switch from being dependent on visual stimulus to auditory and tactile stimulus. His nerves were strung to where he was sure they were twanging, muscles feeling like they’d been filled with hot lead—heavy and sluggish. It probably wasn’t the effect Kakashi had been planning, but it happened and he was aware of it happening, nonetheless.
Weight shifted on the bed behind him, coming back to the edge (the bed itself was narrow and low and so thin that their combined weights might’ve broken it and what would happen next?) and hands had guided his face gently (cool, dry, and very, very tender) and he’d felt lips on his mouth. Warm, dry lips brimming over with secret smiles and power. From there, whatever mantle of control he’d been wearing went up in flames. He kissed a lot more aggressively, clumsily, and hungrily than he ever wanted to seem, and Kakashi hadn’t stopped him. His hands were allowed to go where they wanted—fingers digging into Kakashi’s arm and the other fisting the back of his shirt, while Sasuke tried not to tremble at the tongue licking his bottom lip with slow, burning skill, and groaned instead. His breath came out in hot waves, shaky but trusting, and his body trembled gently as teeth nipped along his jaw—wet, warm, and dull. His heart was racing, thudding so hard against his ribs he was fairly certain there would be some amount of physical damage later and didn’t care.
This was…this was amazing. This is what it felt like? Like his insides were being demolished gently from the inside, with the meticulous gentle care he’d gotten far too used to? He’d thought…he hadn’t been sure what he thought. What he expected. This was nothing like what woke him up at odd hours of the night, something excruciatingly pleasing but brief and unsatisfactory. He’d never been this afraid then—this unsure. And this was far from unsatisfactory—far from brief. This was carnal and raw and guided, something he could touch and be touched by, could draw closer and hotter and pull back from when the pressure got too much.
The arms around him were sure—strong, deliberate, and the mouth against his, allowing for all his eagerness and tension, and unfortunately excess spit, was equally confident and skillful. Without really knowing how (except he had known how—he was working on various levels, the topmost overriding one only concerned with being as naked and hot as possible and the others alternately cowering, running, screaming, or taking notes on the perfect way to push someone onto a bed without permission, supporting the body weight while never leaving the mouth alone) he found himself flat on his back with a knee between his while his hands clawed and scratched Kakashi’s shirt. He made a point to tangle his fingers in that hair—that strange, funky hair. It felt dry…dry and coarse. Wild. At one point, a hand had gotten up his shirt, brushing along his breastbone and chest, fingertips trailing through the sweat. He’d arched up into panting, a hip pressing into his groin a little too hard and his neck had vaulted backwards in terribly clear hunger and abandon. A regular throbbing beat in his temples as his heart scuttled and raced. Teeth fell upon his neck, hard and cannibalistic, wet calloused palms stroked his chest and scraped at his nipples and petted his belly, making him jump and writhe. Brilliant white shards fluttered and leaped in his lower abdomen, scratching at the paper-thin skin of his inner thighs, wanting out.
The best part, however, was how safe he felt. He hadn’t been sure, but he’d been right. He felt safe—safe to act on what he felt, safe to react to touches and caresses and not-so-idle strokes that had been waiting for him even before he’d gone down the hall…
The pressure had increased—the pacing. Sasuke had run over a cliff at full speed before, so was familiar with the idea that you could only fall so fast for so long before the ground hit, so was trying savor and remember as much as he could, from the labored breathing wet against his neck to the way it felt to have someone else’s hands stroke his hair and then he’d groaned and nearly died of asphyxiation when a hand that was not his, hot, moist with sweat and spit, very wide and strong, found it’s way into his pants, grabbing hard decisively and stroking more like a knife than flesh.
Kakashi had always been good at making him move, and he proved just as apt at making him scream. It came out strangled, pained, and a tongue slipped inside his mouth, running him over and attacking when he was weakest, when he was most distracted, before finally breaking off long enough to allow Sasuke to dig his fingers in cringing and grit his teeth when the death-blow came.
It…it hurt. It was hard and rough—alien and too strong and not his and if it had been anyone else touching him, anyone else biting his jaw while fondling the inside of his pants, Sasuke would’ve torn their arms off and beat them to death with them. As it was, he merely left ugly dark bruises on Kakashi’s shoulders and angry wet scratches on his neck.
His feet pressed against the floor, his head into the mattress as his spine arched and stretched, ivory piercing through his skin, and then he was only aware of the dizzying high of finding all his blood was missing from his brain and not caring. He felt his heart stop, and loved it.
He wound down slowly, drunk on sensation and success, and felt his body sink into the depressions in the bed, listened to the heavy but not hasty breathing above him, felt himself visually examined with something he liked to think was desire and not caution.
He lay still a minute or two, breathing hard and lightly dusted in sweat. Kakashi lounged on one elbow, watching as Sasuke slowly came back to himself. He continued to watch with interest (more curiosity than interest) as fingers, rather slowly, touched the hem of his shirt, and gradually began to move down his abdomen in light fits and starts.
In stops and guesses, it had gradually stolen over Sasuke that Kakashi was probably…just as affected and he should…touch him back. It was part of the deal. He just…wasn’t sure where to start. What to do—what was the next move? Was he supposed to undress him? That was a bit too intimate—he hadn’t bargained on doing something like that. Something fast and hard, something to get the kinks out; he’d planned on that. Not on something else. But he didn’t really know…and he hated looking like a fool.
Kakashi’s hand caught his again, and this time he didn’t mind at all. His shoulders sagged, ever so slightly, ever so invisibly, with relief. He didn’t mind demanding sex from his teacher, but he had problems catering to anyone’s needs; Kakashi had expected it. The kid was man enough to demand more than toys and sweets, but not grown enough to know how to give without expecting a return—selfish, immature, but expected. Damp lips touched Sasuke’s fingers, licked the webbing between them and the rough knuckles and sucked on the tips, almost tickling, but tickling and had never made the sides of his neck heat and tingle, never made him swallow loudly. He could imagine the way Kakashi was looking at him—that steady hard look that saw everything and gave nothing away, the one that could be intimidating and threatening but, lately, had only made him feel a little hot and flustered and irritated. His palm was kissed tenderly, the rough hot back end of a tongue laved the inside of his wrist, which appeared to be a good deal more sensitive than what Sasuke had ever given it credit.
He noted his breathing had heated again, percolating in his chest. He leaned forward, asking instead of demanding, and let himself be kissed, his mouth painstakingly ransacked. Let himself be squished into the thin bed, let hands strip him shirtless and kicked off his own pants, feeling stupid again for being stripped naked but not caring enough to stop.
He…liked this. Rather liked this a lot.
The first had been something hurried and needy and frantic, but now it was just…slow. Gentle. Filled with certainty that nothing would go awfully wrong, that everything would be carried out with efficiency and meticulous attention to detail.
He found he didn’t mind being sandwiched between sheets and heavy flesh—only felt slight yet lingering claustrophobia, nothing he couldn’t ignore with sufficient diversion. He felt only slightly embarrassed when he was the only one undressed—when his body was the only one explored and exploited and manipulated, fingers and tongue delving into ravines in ways and places he never would have imagined on his own. Only a little embarrassed (pink across his cheeks and neck limp) when a tongue dipped in his navel (the same one that barked orders, the same one that evaluated, condemned, and pardoned) or when hands wet with sweat ran up and down his ribs, the calluses on thumbs scratching against the sensitive sections of his skin. He was only a smidge uncomfortable when someone else’s tongue was in his mouth, touching his teeth and tickling his palate, when a hand hardened with age and warfare slipped again between his thighs, this time soaked with his own saliva and touched where he wasn’t used to and touched where it made him shiver and tense and, gradually, brought him off, mewing gently. His thighs felt weak and helpless all the way from his navel to his ankles, trembling and so starved that every morsel and caress was torture.
There was no telling what Kakashi felt like below the waist; probably criss-crossed with scars like the rest of him. Sasuke wasn’t eager to find out—he wouldn’t have known what to do with another naked body anyway; he could’ve figured it out if he had enough time and really, really felt like it, but why bother? Kakashi was a grown man—despite his eccentricities, he had to have had a hundred people in his bed before. There was no point in showing his ignorance more than he had to, not when Kakashi didn’t seem interested in being touched anyway, not when he seemed completely engrossed in making Sasuke twitch and react. He wasn’t complaining. It wasn’t like he wanted to touch him all anyway. It was more energy efficient like this.
When he was worn—finally worn, finally spent of months of randomized tension—Kakashi shoved him underneath the sheets, pushed back his hair, and left the room quietly, twisting the kinks out his spine. Sasuke grabbed his hand just before he left, squeezed it, and then turned over and pulled the sheets over his shoulder and curled up to sleep. Kakashi spent longer than he meant to in the shower, reviewing the bruises and inconsequential cuts he’d gotten here and there—nothing serious, just annoying. It was nothing that couldn’t be covered up. He spent the last few hours waiting for dawn on the threadbare couch (also dragged from storage) in one of the main sitting rooms, catching up on what sleep he could.
This hadn’t been entirely unexpected—he hadn’t Sasuke to be as direct as he had been, had been expecting something of a dance mixed with denial and some misgivings, but Sasuke could be surprising like that. He’d have to be careful though—would have to teach Sasuke to be careful too. The boy’s own aloofness and indifference would be a good barrier from getting too attached, too fixed on a certain pattern, but it would still be good to reinforce that idea.
Sasuke was at the age where he wasn’t completely in control—where his body deviously seemed more intelligent than his brain (which had always been the case, more or less, which was a shame when the potential his mind represented was considered), and hormones had the run of the board. It would be too easy for him to confuse sex with affection, and while his body was ready, his mind wasn’t. To some degree, Sasuke was aware of that: was prepared that he might act inexcusably stupid, which was probably why he hadn’t bothered too much with preliminaries—he wasn’t able to make promises on either a conscious or sub-conscious level and wasn’t able to deal with them either.
Sasuke didn’t trust his emotions because he couldn’t control them, couldn’t predict which way they would throw him or what would happen afterwards. He did, however, trust Kakashi to control them and him; to guide him.
It was late in the morning when Sasuke stumbled off to shower. They both ignored everything, until two nights later when Sasuke lounged expectantly against Kakashi’s bedroom door after dinner. That time, Kakashi let him without question.
The other part of the price of freedom was the fact that Sasuke could now, with some prodding and concentration, active the curse seal; nothing advanced, but it gave him a serious jolt of power and madness when it did activate, which it never did without reason and necessary stress. And, of course, any time it did activate, it caused a good deal of stress in everyone else.
Regaining consciousness without explanation was something Kakashi had never gotten used to, over the years. Any time he woke up in a hospital bed, drugged, wounded, and bandaged, was a time when he realized he could’ve—possibly should have--woken up dead or in enemy hands, where the doctors would be more interested in taking things out of him instead of making sure they stayed in and functioning. It was something that happened (fairly frequently, sometimes) but it was something he had never gotten used to—never wanted to get used to. It was a defeat, in its way. A reminder of human weakness, despite everything.
By chance, he had managed to secure a bed by the window—it was mid-afternoon outside. Window beds, window desks—anything near a window always reminded him how easy it was to be assassinated near a window—you wouldn’t even have to see your attacker. Nice easy jobs, windows were—and the glass in the hospitals weren’t bullet proof. In the distance, he registered shouts and clamor. A fight was happening.
When he woke up again, he first thought it was evening from the faint sunlight, and then realized the direction was off—it wasn’t evening, it was morning. Early morning, but still morning. His mind had come to some conclusions—one, that he hated being hit/ stabbed from behind, and two, that Orochimaru was most likely dead, and three, that the power he had felt could not have been Orochimaru, since he was supposed to be dead. This left one possible alternative of someone with traces of Orochimaru’s energy signature and sudden fluctuations in temper when attacked without warning in a crowd in the vicinity.
Sasuke was good at fighting isolated—but once he was placed in a crowd, he was distracted too easily. A lot of that was the Sharingan’s fault—the skill was designed to take in as much detail as possible, as much information regardless of whether or not the mind behind it would be able to process it all and remain sane, and with Sasuke’s paranoid nature everyone in a crowd was a potential enemy. The overload was considerable, if unimaginable.
Still…the crass lack of control. The disrespect for dispassion, for focus, decorum…it was all so predictable. So common. So crude and unsophisticated—far below expectations. One of these days—seriously—Kakashi would have to take some kind of affirmative action. Some kind. Probably tomorrow or the day after, when he felt able to move his neck up from the pillow, but definitely some kind of action.
Kakashi closed his eye. When he opened it again, it was midday, and Sasuke was sitting on the edge of his bed, looking at him a shade resentfully. Kakashi tried to focus on the hunched monochrome figure, blinking awkwardly, before his senses registered footsteps coming down the hall at the same time Sasuke’s did, and grabbed him by the wrist. That earned him a sharp, hurt look, but (flushing slightly) Sasuke settled back down, pretending Kakashi wasn’t touching him and taking extreme interest in his feet. The door opened, men came in half way, and milled uncertainly, not quite certain if they should attempt to capture a target who seemed to be, at some extent, already caught. Or no longer fleeing, at any rate. At one point, Kakashi mumbled something about letting the draft in, and feet filed out shutting the door, with a good deal less enthusiasm than they’d entered. Sasuke kicked the edge of the bed, and continued to ignore him. Kakashi closed his eye, and pretended not to notice when, fifteen minutes later, his hand was removed and placed on someone’s warm thigh, and covered with another hand.
***
The one and only time Sasuke came anywhere close to seeing Kakashi’s naked face had been on sheer accident. He was—understandably—flustered and edgy and aggravated and embarrassed, and had barged in on the bathroom without knocking or even pausing for a reaction. He’d started talking, sharp low rapid shards of words, before his eyes shrieked and slapped his mind, noticing a missing patch of black instead of the apparent splash of skin, the shock in one gray eye and one red one and had smacked his head into the door frame as he whirled around, feeling embarrassed and stupid and slammed the door shut two seconds past the appropriate moment. He kept his shoulder blades pressed against the door, face still flushed and feeling guilty and irresponsible.
He mumbled something incoherent about Naruto and the front door and waiting, and remained there until the sounds from the bathroom indicated that Kakashi was about exit before walling himself up in his room and locking the door. It was late afternoon when Kakashi broke his door down, after trying to get it open every other way (including knocking) and failing, and dragged him out to eat in a shifty small restaurant where everything was served with watery filmy soup that contained an overabundance of chopped green onions. Sasuke picked at the food, and kicked Kakashi hard in the ankle once accidentally-on-purpose for no reason he understood.
They walked home in silence, and Sasuke wasn’t surprised to find the silence was more apologetic than anything he could’ve ever managed to choke or vomit out, and hoped harder than he wanted to that Kakashi understood. He didn’t argue or fight when he was pushed into the bathroom once they got home (the old cold house that was somehow home now, whenever and however that happened) but he did flinch. He kept still when he was blindfolded, apprehensive and a little relieved, and didn’t freeze so much as chill over when Kakashi placed Sasuke’s hands over his own face, guided his fingers to take the mask off and trace the cheek and jawbones, and never gave a clue or hint to what any of it meant. Kakashi would’ve left it at that; he gave enough to comfort, but never placed himself out on a limb for another’s consolation. He’d die for Sasuke, but he’d never reveal more of himself than he just had. Except that Sasuke had jerked his hands away awkwardly before he’d finished, preferring to grip his wrists that feel his face, nearly crushing the bones together, shoulders wrenched back like a hawk before diving.
For a second, Kakashi thought Sasuke was going to break his wrists.
Kakashi didn’t move—it hurt, but he didn’t move. Eventually, breathing a little shaky, Sasuke leaned into his chest, hiding his face. He didn’t hug him—physical affection (open affection of any kind) had never been Kakashi’s strong point, so he simply held still when his wrists were finally released and arms slipped around his waist and clung to his shirt, Sasuke’s neck vulnerable and soft looking, framed by his razor-sharp blades of black hair.
And it became obvious to Kakashi—sharply, worryingly obvious—that events had suddenly become a good deal more intricate and dangerous than he had gambled on.
His pulse picked up; harder than what he was used to. Sometimes, it was hard to remember that not only did Sasuke not have any solid friends he trusted, or healthy romantic/sexual/amicable interest in anyone, but also that he didn’t have a very strong impression of parental figures. Except Kakashi.
Too much compression, too much pressure around one point, and that point eventually exploded—it happened all the time in construction and weaponry, during earthquakes and storms and other unprecedented events of chaos. It took time, of course, accruing stress and debris until everything exploded bloody shrapnel flying, but time had a reliable way of continuing, regardless of human intervention.
For some reason, he became acutely aware of his breathing—how air entered through his throat and separated into dual lungs that leeched oxygen out as they inflated before forcing the air out again. This was far, far more than he had bargained. Kakashi had never been emotionally dependent on anyone. Not his father, not his teacher—no one. And no one, ever, had been completely dependent on him. Not outside of battle. Not outside of the field, outside the job.
Eventually, he gingerly put one arm around Sasuke’s shoulders, the other hanging at his side, and let the boy decide when enough was enough. Not really a boy anymore, but not yet a man. He wasn’t crying—he was just having trouble breathing, trouble inflating his lungs. Sasuke slept in his bed that night too, but fully clothed and back to back.
Sometimes, Kakashi mused, you were attacked from the angle you least expected, and sometimes you realized there was no way to dodge or deflect it, but it when both those circumstances collided in the same sequence then you were caught, no matter what. From there, it was only a matter if whether you’d survive or not.
But, really, the worst attacks were the ones you saw coming, the ones you allowed to hit, because some part of you—something uniquely human and detached from animal biological programming—felt the phantom wound rip that would happen, if you dodged. You could shirk the pain, but someone else would get hurt. It was your choice. It was, always, your choice of who lived and died, who got hurt and who didn’t.
Sasuke’s spine bumped against his gently as he breathed slowly, deep child-like breaths, two snake skeletons bone to bone in sleep and trust. Eventually, Kakashi closed his eyes. It was too late now.
***
Without a word, Kakashi plunked the scroll canister next to Sasuke’s plate as he sat down on the opposite side of the table, arranging his chopsticks as he gave the food a cursory uninterested glance. It was meat that could probably be named mixed up with frozen peas, some kind of brown sauce that seemed to be mostly salt, and fairly decent rice. Neither of them had really improved at cooking, over time, but guaranteed that they would never get overly food poisoned.
With Kakashi, Sasuke had to remember, everything was a test. It wasn’t always a big one, or important, but Kakashi had been what he was for longer than he could remember, until it was nearly second nature—everything he did always had (almost always) an ulterior motive, a second reason under the first that benefited him in some way, that gave him information or moved his subject towards something. We of the council wish to inform you that as of the second of next month, you will no longer be the responsible charge for the Gennin…returned to regular duty in accordance with your rank…
If he’d been two years younger—no, actually if he’d been two months younger—he would’ve torn the paper up, thrown it, slammed his hands on the table, done something destructive and violent. His fingers shook as he stopped half-way through the message and placed it back on the table with a faint rattle, and put his hands under the table to clench his fists until his knuckles and nails hurt, the faint clink of Kakashi’s chopsticks just slightly covering his strained breathing. A few seconds later, he was able to eat, more for show than need—his stomach was too much in knots for that.
Kakashi watched later, after Sasuke washed the dishes, as he tore the scroll up strip by narrow strip, burned the bits in a bowl, placed the ashes back inside the scroll, almost shoved the canister down the throat of the luckless messenger who came to the door just as Sasuke was stalking out, and slammed the door in his face. He avoided looking at Kakashi—didn’t want to see the unsurprised disappointment in his eye or the amused glint and quirk of his mouth, under the mask.
Later, he realized he had no idea why he was furious at being released. He’d been given his freedom, as if freedom was something that could be given, like a second-hand pair of shorts or extra detergent. Later that night, he figured it was because he was tired of people deciding his life for him, shoving into whatever hole was convenient for them at the time—it wasn’t the inconsideration that pissed him off (people were inconsiderate—so what?), it was the fact that they honestly thought he wouldn’t fight them. That he would follow. The prominent delusion that he was something that could be controlled by them, like a dog to any master that would feed it. It was…degrading. It was an insult to his intelligence and their own, and he vowed to never follow morons as stiff-assed haughty as them, who honestly believed he would follow the flick of their fingers simply because of the official robes they wore.
He kicked Kakashi later that night when he heard him chuckle against his throat, struggling enough underneath to show annoyance but not enough to escape, and kissed him hard on the mouth in his own form of revenge. Always his own form of revenge, his own method of victory—he didn’t belong to anyone.
Whatever he did, he always tried to do it different, to surprise Kakashi who was never surprised by anything he did, since no one knew him like Kakashi did. He never wanted to be anything less than his own—anything less than original, than unique. He never wanted to follow in anyone’s footsteps ever again, regardless if it were for better or worse.
Immaturity—anything less than perfection—was something Sasuke would never admit to, couldn’t admit to, but he didn’t really mind that Kakashi teased him about it in a roundabout, subtle way, pushing him and testing him and letting him dangle. In a way, Kakashi had earned it. And, in another way, another confused uncomfortably messy way, Sasuke enjoyed it, because no matter how far he jumped or how stupid he got, there was someone who wouldn’t kill him too painfully waiting in the shadows, ready to snag him back out of harm if things started to go wrong.
Kakashi was dangerous, and a part of him hated how close he let him get, but didn’t try break it off now. It was a part of him now, and it was only a matter of how the road and wash of life would shape them now.
***
Man is born free but is everywhere in chains
-- Rousseau
-THE END-
作者回复1：
1: I actually designed this Sasuke to be weak--I've never seen Sasuke as being emotionally strong, which is why I think Itachi can pick his bones the way he does. So yeah; you're completely right in that. Also, while I wanted to show that Sasuke did love Kakashi, I wasn't thinking of a romantic, adult love--more of a crush and parental love.
2: Yeah--Kakashi's always been a hard one to write, but I wanted to make him seem more...I don't know, I think you were right in calling him cool. He was a bit colder in the fic than he is in many of the manga's shots of him, but that's mostly because I just wanted him that way, and partly because I was trying to...take into account his WHOLE history--he and Sasuke are staying in the house his father committed suicide in. In retrospect, I should've made him a bit more positive and emotional, but it never really seemed to fit the scene.
I like Oni's description of Kakashi too--that's a beautiful way to put it.
作者回复2：
But yeah--I always thought KakaSasu is too unhealthy; it makes Sasuke too dependent on Kakashi, so he doesn't learn how to deal with anyone else and remains pretty self-absorbed and even though he CARES for Kakashi (even in the original manga he never stops caring for his friends) he still isn't considerate of other people. Sasuke wouldn't mature very well as Kakashi's lover--I'm also not sure how Kakashi would be with raising a teenage boy, since he kept away from children until team 7 came along. Kakashi's afraid of letting people down and of his friends dying, so even though I'm not sure he actually DOES it, I kind of think that's why he's so aloof about his personal life. Sasuke has the same fear about getting close to people because of his family's massacre, so even though they're living together, they still keep their distance.
Summary: Pretend Sasuke never made it to Orochimaru's, and was instead caught and put in Kakashi's overly-sensible and not very sympathetic charge. Kakashi hadn’t been thrilled, but there was very, very little that thrilled Kakashi
Laundry
by Gelfling (gelfling8604@yahoo.com)
There were small prices to pay for his bit of fun, however, and no one predicted the form they took.
Sasuke still accompanied Kakashi on various missions—but by unspoken agreement Sasuke would work only with him; if others were added, group tensions built up in strange ways that eventually found a way out. For the most part, it just meant that Sasuke was more agitated, less reliable, and more distracted with a third or fourth person attached—directly influenced by how many people there were and personality types. Despite various deliberate hindrances on his progress, Sasuke had improved to a chuunin level ninja—higher, if he managed to take the other four seals off his body, excluding the curse mark. The problem was, Sasuke didn’t have the mind of a journeyman ninja—the skills, yes, the stamina and strategizing abilities, yes, but not the level-minded judgment. It was true that many ninja were not mentally balanced—it was the norm, but Sasuke was one where few allowances were given. He was judged too dangerous for that, and recently Kakashi had seemed…too indulgent and inattentive to be healthy.
So, occasionally, another member would be added onto the strange ‘not-cell’ that comprised of the two them, and they would both be annoyed because neither of them were too fond with working with new people on account of new people dying frequently and getting in the way—if possible, Kakashi tried to take someone he knew to spy on them, but again, most of the people he trusted were dead. It was a continuous theme. There was Gai, but he had his own life and was…Gai. Excessively so.
Accidents were unaffordable. They cost too much and were never worth the slack—Sasuke always considered Other People a necessary ingredient in accidents, but mostly because he wouldn’t admit he was fairly apt at creating accidents all on his own; accidentally, of course. Of course, if he’d been the one to get hurt, he would’ve had a decent reason to get angry, would’ve been in a good position that was free from blame, since he’d been the one to get hurt. He hadn’t though, but refused the blame anyway.
It didn’t make him feel better.
He hated to admit he was distracted—hated to admit that any of it was in any way his fault. If it had just been Kakashi and him, things would have gone better; they didn’t need help, and the other guy had been useless for anything aside from…
Of course, Kakashi hadn’t wanted to talk about it. Of course, Kakashi didn’t blame either of them—outwardly. Outwardly—he was still good at hiding what he felt, what he thought, from Sasuke who watched him like a hawk on steroids every day he could. Pain was something Kakashi was used to, and didn’t bother him terribly much; he didn’t like it and never would (which was healthy) but he didn’t particularly care about the bruised bones or bloody wounds in his back. They just weren’t important enough.
Sasuke spent the better part of the days after avoiding him in the not-exactly-dead-anymore house, refusing to go out for meals, remaining shut up in his room wholly convinced Kakashi’s injuries had not been his fault and furious at the slight implication that they might have been. But perhaps, what annoyed him the most, what infuriated and angered him the most, was that Kakashi didn’t seem to care. It had happened, it was over, no one was dead, so it wasn’t important. He didn’t care. He was too busy laying on the porch in the unseasonably warm noon sun shirtless, doing nothing more productive than doze, completely ignoring the resentful glare coming from deep inside the shadows of the house. Kakashi’s back looked sun-starved; paleness could be attractive, but on him it simply looked vaguely unhealthy and suspicious. There were many things about Kakashi that were unbearable. There were many things about Kakashi that Sasuke was just now realizing were far more dangerous, more problematic and lethal, than they had first seemed. Sasuke sulked in the shadows, glowered, then finally—feeling a little apprehensive—stepped into the light and nudged Kakashi’s side with his foot. There was a muffled whine—cranky and weak.
Sasuke’s fingers tightened. He manhandled Kakashi into a sitting position, making him wake up twice, until he had his legs over the low edge of the porch and his back facing him. Kakashi lounged against his knees, refusing to sit straight—Kakashi was an expert lounger. He could make spikes look comfortable by lounging against them.
They usually didn’t talk—Sasuke because he didn’t like to and Kakashi always seemed to know what was going through his head anyway, and Kakashi because he didn’t see the need; if he wanted to make himself understood, he would. He never told Sasuke to feel guilty about anything; that he had done wrong, that running away would get him no where because Kakashi had known he wouldn’t listen. Sasuke hated how he was manipulated and hated the efficiency even more. It wasn’t fair—being read like that. It was unnerving. It was terribly convenient. It was also terribly, terribly horrible for Sasuke to realize that not only was it convenient, but that once his wounded dignity had dragged its feet in the dirt, he didn’t mind. That he trusted Kakashi to that extent—he didn’t begrudge him being able to read or control him, because he trusted Kakashi to never hurt him intentionally or take advantage of him.
Sasuke had planned to live his life alone—not only literally, but metaphorically as well, inside his head and heart. He never wanted to have a friend—so he made a point to avoid people he’d like—and he never wanted to trust anyone—so he made himself paranoid and suspicious. He made a point of not only locking himself away from other people, but of locking them outside his mind—to never care about them and tried to make sure they didn’t care about him. He wanted to be alone—in a very serious sense.
He did this because Sasuke had always known, from a very early age, that betrayal was…not simply painful. Pain was something that came, hurt, and then scabbed over, leaving only faint ugliness. Betrayal was something that did not heal—it was not pain, it was agony. It was degrading, because betrayal was something that was allowed to happen by the victim. There was no defense; there was not even the dignity of a last fight or struggle. Sasuke realized what few children didn’t—that realizing dreams and victories was something that happened very, very rarely, and hardly ever about the things that mattered. However, even in defeat, even in death, you could still hold on to dignity, to pride, to even an illusion of pride or dignity and that somehow made things better, because even though they’d beaten you they hadn’t defeated you, and you were still better than them. Pride and dignity left the possibility that one day you’d get them back, one day you’d make them pay, and it’d be worth it—it’d be worth it a thousand times over. Betrayal, however, took even that away.
He didn’t doubt Kakashi was aware of all the ways he could hurt Sasuke—didn’t doubt Kakashi had realized the power he’d been given. He also didn’t doubt Kakashi knew why he was touching his back gingerly, over the spots that had been bruised and cut and healed, trying to alleviate as much pain as possible without seeming to care. Kakashi knew—and he wouldn’t take advantage of it. Kakashi, Sasuke was beginning to appreciate, had something he didn’t, something many ninjas didn’t—he had personal honor, not just occupational honor. He was ruthless when he had to be, heartless, but he had a beaten up and pragmatically merciless honor, and he probably knew why Sasuke’s fingers were shaking, and he wouldn’t do anything about it. Not because he was lazy, not because he didn’t care, but because it was Sasuke’s decision to do something stupid and reckless and not his.
Kakashi was more than a decade his elder—had been his teacher since he was twelve, his guardian/custodian/jailer for the past two and half years, and been the only real father figure Sasuke had ever had, despite having a father he could name and remember. And Kakashi trusted him. His fingers ran over the old scars, over the muscles weathered by the years into something hard and dense yet still supple. Kakashi’s head hung from his shoulders lazily, body relaxed and languid, allowing Sasuke to do whatever he wanted and hitching his shoulders gently forward or backward to indicate which part of his back needed the most attention, eyes closed and fingers lax. His breathing was slow, drowsy in the clear mid-winter break.
Sasuke discreetly checked his pulse from time to time—he wouldn’t put it past Kakashi to fall asleep on him. There were evident knots of tension—of pain. His fingers worked at them, rubbing and pressing and kneading, until the knot dissolved peacefully. The faint warmth the sun gave off didn’t reach through the layers of Sasuke’s clothes—it was unusual weather, and the cold would return soon enough. Kakashi’s skin was luke warm under his chilly fingers.
He worked up Kakashi’s spine, to the base of his neck and the nape of his hair, carefully redressing the old constant aches that came from day-to-day living and weren’t particularly annoying but not pleasant. Kakashi’s hair felt clean—he washed it every morning. As long as Sasuke had been living with him, he had never, ever, been able to find out what Kakashi did to it to make it stand up—something had gone seriously wrong with the genes, leaving him with busy gray hair that defied both gravity and fashion. It was one of the things he meant to find out before he died—one of the many. But he definitely meant to.
He wasn’t surprised to note that the silence was companionable; at ease and pleasant. It gave him confidence. Whatever happened…happened. No one would die, so even if things went bad it wouldn’t matter, because they’d still be alive and things could get better: that was the gist of what Kakashi taught him. The important thing was to be alive—there were many important things, but once you were dead, they stopped being important. And he had a feeling Kakashi would forgive him, if he screwed up—Kakashi forgave him everything else. He trusted him.
His fingers stopped prodding and simply balanced him as he leaned forward on his knees and pressed his lips, very lightly, against hard muscle of Kakashi’s neck. He let the kiss linger.
Lightening didn’t strike. The sky didn’t fall. The earth didn’t split and roar. No one screamed. No blood spilled. Kakashi didn’t move. If his muscles had tensed up—just a bit, just from shock—it would’ve been done, game over, go away. But he’d been expecting this; Kakashi had been expecting it and accepted it. Sasuke comforted himself with the thought that if Kakashi had wanted to stop him, he would have, so since he hadn’t, it was all right. It was all right. He could touch him. His mouth acted on its own—sucking lightly, the wet insides of his lips catching on the dry skin, the tip of his tongue yanking at the reigns and tasting a bit of sweat and breathing hard, leathery whispers like bat wings flapping. Kakashi tasted faintly of salt. Mostly he didn’t taste of anything too distinct—strongest of salt, a little of soap, a little of water and there was maybe a faint trace of human oil, something distinctly him, but it was hard to be sure. He was very good at making himself anonymous.
His hands wavered erratically from one extreme to the other—being too hard and bruising, then too light and soft, too hesitant and then too brash, and occasionally just right, slow hard caresses over pale skin. He wasn’t sure where to put them—his body knew, but what his body wanted and what he and/or Kakashi could accept were two different things. It was pleasant to just touch him—like running his hands over smooth warm stone. Relaxing. Intoxicating. He pulled away once, not far, but enough to give an opportunity for something to go wrong—not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel heat, to get an impression. His lips pressed against Kakashi’s pulse—flowing hard and fast against his mouth, aware and not indifferent. Maybe not interested, maybe nervous, but definitely not indifferent, and that was as good as any place to start.
He wasn’t stopped.
His hair brushed his skin, and this time Sasuke hesitated less and tasted more, feeling the insides of his fingers and sensitive pads tingle and heat, let his hands wander farther and let them touch the way they liked, giving less regard to illusions of control and more to immediate physical satisfaction. If his arms felt this way, the muscles under the skin felt this way, had this amount of heat, this amount of strength and made Sasuke twitch and tingle, then his stomach, lower down he must feel like…he couldn’t imagine it.
Kakashi stopped him.
His hand had been halfway down his mid-riff, fingertips lightly brushing the stomach ridges sending little shocks up his arm and another hand—larger than his, leaner, harder, and a good deal dryer—grabbed his. The grip had tightened before Sasuke had gotten his head together to get up and get away with as much possible dignity, immovable as iron. Inside his head, Sasuke had cowered. Outside, he had frozen. He should’ve torn his hand away—wanted to tear his hand away, but couldn’t move.
Kakashi hadn’t said anything—just held his hand tightly, let his head hang off his shoulders and allowed Sasuke’s other hand to fall away without comment. He hadn’t looked at him—hadn’t done anything, but after a beat or two of not letting Sasuke run and making it clear he had no intention of letting go, leaned back a little (against him) propped up on his arms, one suspiciously close to Sasuke’s leg, the fingers of the other very, very lightly trapping Sasuke’s fingers down. Not enough to hurt—there wasn’t much weight on them, but the arrangement hadn’t been accidental—few things were, with Kakashi.
And then he glanced over at him, gave him a level steady look with his one good gray eye.
Sasuke flushed.
After a while Kakashi looked away, tilted his head up towards the sky. Cautiously, Sasuke placed his free hand over Kakashi’s—nothing happened. Then, slowly but with a single-minded stubbornness, he kissed his neck again lightly, and trailed his lips against his collar bone, found he didn’t have the courage to do anything with his tongue, before relaxing, lungs still laboring a good deal harder than he wanted them to, against Kakashi’s shoulder. He found himself wondering how, exactly, did it feel to have someone else’s breath break against your skin? It sounded delightful—like a warm breeze in the chill. If Kakashi enjoyed it, he gave no sign. Sasuke pressed his lips against the corner of his jaw, against the warm black fabric. Sasuke pulled his hands out, and went back inside.
The afternoon took too long—the night took longer. Dinner was awkward. He hadn’t been sure what to say or do, so a lot of what Sasuke wound up doing was poking his food and twitching every time the chopsticks hit the bowls too loudly, and kept his eyes on the table. He contemplated touching Kakashi’s feet under the table with his own, but that sounded childish—beneath him. He still wanted to do it though; he didn’t.
He’d left the table for Kakashi to clear (he’d cooked and hadn’t been able to eat) and went to his own room, to pace and sulk and was embarrassed to find himself licking his lips and rubbing his wrists. Embarrassed, but not really afraid. He wasn’t sure what happened now—wasn’t sure about the appropriate procedure, about who’s move it was or what the move would entail or if he should even expect anything or if he was expected to go to bed without a decent answer or indication if anything came next at all. Perhaps it’d been a fluke. Perhaps it’d been only a fluke.
Down the hall—three rooms down—he heard Kakashi’s bedroom door slide open, then closed. His fingers tightened on his arms, momentarily. Then he went out, down the hall, and through Kakashi’s door in a daze: he was direct, but he didn’t like being a fool. He didn’t like it at all.
Kakashi was seated when he came in, casually leaning forward on his knees; he’d been expected. Sasuke froze for a second, his hand still on the door. Then he closed it, stepped forward, face as carefully blank as he could make it and trying to keep his steps from trembling or hands from fisting, and taken the long four and half steps to the bed, and nearly choked when Kakashi gave him that steady, burning look. It wasn’t hungry—not exactly. He was nearly fifteen, repressed, isolated, and while Kakashi was nearly thirty, he hadn’t lost any of his appeal or memories of what it was like to be fifteen with just two hands and a pornographic novel. And Sasuke had come to him—entirely on his own will. It would cause outrage with most people, because of their age difference and sex similarity, but most of the things Sasuke did caused outrage in people and Kakashi had no intention of anyone knowing—no one knew anything else about his life anyway.
Kakashi offered him his hand.
He took it, of course. He’d come too far not to.
He allowed himself to be pulled on the bed (sitting? lying down? straddling him? his heart was going too fast) and seated over the edge, and was blindfolded deliberately, the knot secure in the back and consciously felt the switch from being dependent on visual stimulus to auditory and tactile stimulus. His nerves were strung to where he was sure they were twanging, muscles feeling like they’d been filled with hot lead—heavy and sluggish. It probably wasn’t the effect Kakashi had been planning, but it happened and he was aware of it happening, nonetheless.
Weight shifted on the bed behind him, coming back to the edge (the bed itself was narrow and low and so thin that their combined weights might’ve broken it and what would happen next?) and hands had guided his face gently (cool, dry, and very, very tender) and he’d felt lips on his mouth. Warm, dry lips brimming over with secret smiles and power. From there, whatever mantle of control he’d been wearing went up in flames. He kissed a lot more aggressively, clumsily, and hungrily than he ever wanted to seem, and Kakashi hadn’t stopped him. His hands were allowed to go where they wanted—fingers digging into Kakashi’s arm and the other fisting the back of his shirt, while Sasuke tried not to tremble at the tongue licking his bottom lip with slow, burning skill, and groaned instead. His breath came out in hot waves, shaky but trusting, and his body trembled gently as teeth nipped along his jaw—wet, warm, and dull. His heart was racing, thudding so hard against his ribs he was fairly certain there would be some amount of physical damage later and didn’t care.
This was…this was amazing. This is what it felt like? Like his insides were being demolished gently from the inside, with the meticulous gentle care he’d gotten far too used to? He’d thought…he hadn’t been sure what he thought. What he expected. This was nothing like what woke him up at odd hours of the night, something excruciatingly pleasing but brief and unsatisfactory. He’d never been this afraid then—this unsure. And this was far from unsatisfactory—far from brief. This was carnal and raw and guided, something he could touch and be touched by, could draw closer and hotter and pull back from when the pressure got too much.
The arms around him were sure—strong, deliberate, and the mouth against his, allowing for all his eagerness and tension, and unfortunately excess spit, was equally confident and skillful. Without really knowing how (except he had known how—he was working on various levels, the topmost overriding one only concerned with being as naked and hot as possible and the others alternately cowering, running, screaming, or taking notes on the perfect way to push someone onto a bed without permission, supporting the body weight while never leaving the mouth alone) he found himself flat on his back with a knee between his while his hands clawed and scratched Kakashi’s shirt. He made a point to tangle his fingers in that hair—that strange, funky hair. It felt dry…dry and coarse. Wild. At one point, a hand had gotten up his shirt, brushing along his breastbone and chest, fingertips trailing through the sweat. He’d arched up into panting, a hip pressing into his groin a little too hard and his neck had vaulted backwards in terribly clear hunger and abandon. A regular throbbing beat in his temples as his heart scuttled and raced. Teeth fell upon his neck, hard and cannibalistic, wet calloused palms stroked his chest and scraped at his nipples and petted his belly, making him jump and writhe. Brilliant white shards fluttered and leaped in his lower abdomen, scratching at the paper-thin skin of his inner thighs, wanting out.
The best part, however, was how safe he felt. He hadn’t been sure, but he’d been right. He felt safe—safe to act on what he felt, safe to react to touches and caresses and not-so-idle strokes that had been waiting for him even before he’d gone down the hall…
The pressure had increased—the pacing. Sasuke had run over a cliff at full speed before, so was familiar with the idea that you could only fall so fast for so long before the ground hit, so was trying savor and remember as much as he could, from the labored breathing wet against his neck to the way it felt to have someone else’s hands stroke his hair and then he’d groaned and nearly died of asphyxiation when a hand that was not his, hot, moist with sweat and spit, very wide and strong, found it’s way into his pants, grabbing hard decisively and stroking more like a knife than flesh.
Kakashi had always been good at making him move, and he proved just as apt at making him scream. It came out strangled, pained, and a tongue slipped inside his mouth, running him over and attacking when he was weakest, when he was most distracted, before finally breaking off long enough to allow Sasuke to dig his fingers in cringing and grit his teeth when the death-blow came.
It…it hurt. It was hard and rough—alien and too strong and not his and if it had been anyone else touching him, anyone else biting his jaw while fondling the inside of his pants, Sasuke would’ve torn their arms off and beat them to death with them. As it was, he merely left ugly dark bruises on Kakashi’s shoulders and angry wet scratches on his neck.
His feet pressed against the floor, his head into the mattress as his spine arched and stretched, ivory piercing through his skin, and then he was only aware of the dizzying high of finding all his blood was missing from his brain and not caring. He felt his heart stop, and loved it.
He wound down slowly, drunk on sensation and success, and felt his body sink into the depressions in the bed, listened to the heavy but not hasty breathing above him, felt himself visually examined with something he liked to think was desire and not caution.
He lay still a minute or two, breathing hard and lightly dusted in sweat. Kakashi lounged on one elbow, watching as Sasuke slowly came back to himself. He continued to watch with interest (more curiosity than interest) as fingers, rather slowly, touched the hem of his shirt, and gradually began to move down his abdomen in light fits and starts.
In stops and guesses, it had gradually stolen over Sasuke that Kakashi was probably…just as affected and he should…touch him back. It was part of the deal. He just…wasn’t sure where to start. What to do—what was the next move? Was he supposed to undress him? That was a bit too intimate—he hadn’t bargained on doing something like that. Something fast and hard, something to get the kinks out; he’d planned on that. Not on something else. But he didn’t really know…and he hated looking like a fool.
Kakashi’s hand caught his again, and this time he didn’t mind at all. His shoulders sagged, ever so slightly, ever so invisibly, with relief. He didn’t mind demanding sex from his teacher, but he had problems catering to anyone’s needs; Kakashi had expected it. The kid was man enough to demand more than toys and sweets, but not grown enough to know how to give without expecting a return—selfish, immature, but expected. Damp lips touched Sasuke’s fingers, licked the webbing between them and the rough knuckles and sucked on the tips, almost tickling, but tickling and had never made the sides of his neck heat and tingle, never made him swallow loudly. He could imagine the way Kakashi was looking at him—that steady hard look that saw everything and gave nothing away, the one that could be intimidating and threatening but, lately, had only made him feel a little hot and flustered and irritated. His palm was kissed tenderly, the rough hot back end of a tongue laved the inside of his wrist, which appeared to be a good deal more sensitive than what Sasuke had ever given it credit.
He noted his breathing had heated again, percolating in his chest. He leaned forward, asking instead of demanding, and let himself be kissed, his mouth painstakingly ransacked. Let himself be squished into the thin bed, let hands strip him shirtless and kicked off his own pants, feeling stupid again for being stripped naked but not caring enough to stop.
He…liked this. Rather liked this a lot.
The first had been something hurried and needy and frantic, but now it was just…slow. Gentle. Filled with certainty that nothing would go awfully wrong, that everything would be carried out with efficiency and meticulous attention to detail.
He found he didn’t mind being sandwiched between sheets and heavy flesh—only felt slight yet lingering claustrophobia, nothing he couldn’t ignore with sufficient diversion. He felt only slightly embarrassed when he was the only one undressed—when his body was the only one explored and exploited and manipulated, fingers and tongue delving into ravines in ways and places he never would have imagined on his own. Only a little embarrassed (pink across his cheeks and neck limp) when a tongue dipped in his navel (the same one that barked orders, the same one that evaluated, condemned, and pardoned) or when hands wet with sweat ran up and down his ribs, the calluses on thumbs scratching against the sensitive sections of his skin. He was only a smidge uncomfortable when someone else’s tongue was in his mouth, touching his teeth and tickling his palate, when a hand hardened with age and warfare slipped again between his thighs, this time soaked with his own saliva and touched where he wasn’t used to and touched where it made him shiver and tense and, gradually, brought him off, mewing gently. His thighs felt weak and helpless all the way from his navel to his ankles, trembling and so starved that every morsel and caress was torture.
There was no telling what Kakashi felt like below the waist; probably criss-crossed with scars like the rest of him. Sasuke wasn’t eager to find out—he wouldn’t have known what to do with another naked body anyway; he could’ve figured it out if he had enough time and really, really felt like it, but why bother? Kakashi was a grown man—despite his eccentricities, he had to have had a hundred people in his bed before. There was no point in showing his ignorance more than he had to, not when Kakashi didn’t seem interested in being touched anyway, not when he seemed completely engrossed in making Sasuke twitch and react. He wasn’t complaining. It wasn’t like he wanted to touch him all anyway. It was more energy efficient like this.
When he was worn—finally worn, finally spent of months of randomized tension—Kakashi shoved him underneath the sheets, pushed back his hair, and left the room quietly, twisting the kinks out his spine. Sasuke grabbed his hand just before he left, squeezed it, and then turned over and pulled the sheets over his shoulder and curled up to sleep. Kakashi spent longer than he meant to in the shower, reviewing the bruises and inconsequential cuts he’d gotten here and there—nothing serious, just annoying. It was nothing that couldn’t be covered up. He spent the last few hours waiting for dawn on the threadbare couch (also dragged from storage) in one of the main sitting rooms, catching up on what sleep he could.
This hadn’t been entirely unexpected—he hadn’t Sasuke to be as direct as he had been, had been expecting something of a dance mixed with denial and some misgivings, but Sasuke could be surprising like that. He’d have to be careful though—would have to teach Sasuke to be careful too. The boy’s own aloofness and indifference would be a good barrier from getting too attached, too fixed on a certain pattern, but it would still be good to reinforce that idea.
Sasuke was at the age where he wasn’t completely in control—where his body deviously seemed more intelligent than his brain (which had always been the case, more or less, which was a shame when the potential his mind represented was considered), and hormones had the run of the board. It would be too easy for him to confuse sex with affection, and while his body was ready, his mind wasn’t. To some degree, Sasuke was aware of that: was prepared that he might act inexcusably stupid, which was probably why he hadn’t bothered too much with preliminaries—he wasn’t able to make promises on either a conscious or sub-conscious level and wasn’t able to deal with them either.
Sasuke didn’t trust his emotions because he couldn’t control them, couldn’t predict which way they would throw him or what would happen afterwards. He did, however, trust Kakashi to control them and him; to guide him.
It was late in the morning when Sasuke stumbled off to shower. They both ignored everything, until two nights later when Sasuke lounged expectantly against Kakashi’s bedroom door after dinner. That time, Kakashi let him without question.
The other part of the price of freedom was the fact that Sasuke could now, with some prodding and concentration, active the curse seal; nothing advanced, but it gave him a serious jolt of power and madness when it did activate, which it never did without reason and necessary stress. And, of course, any time it did activate, it caused a good deal of stress in everyone else.
Regaining consciousness without explanation was something Kakashi had never gotten used to, over the years. Any time he woke up in a hospital bed, drugged, wounded, and bandaged, was a time when he realized he could’ve—possibly should have--woken up dead or in enemy hands, where the doctors would be more interested in taking things out of him instead of making sure they stayed in and functioning. It was something that happened (fairly frequently, sometimes) but it was something he had never gotten used to—never wanted to get used to. It was a defeat, in its way. A reminder of human weakness, despite everything.
By chance, he had managed to secure a bed by the window—it was mid-afternoon outside. Window beds, window desks—anything near a window always reminded him how easy it was to be assassinated near a window—you wouldn’t even have to see your attacker. Nice easy jobs, windows were—and the glass in the hospitals weren’t bullet proof. In the distance, he registered shouts and clamor. A fight was happening.
When he woke up again, he first thought it was evening from the faint sunlight, and then realized the direction was off—it wasn’t evening, it was morning. Early morning, but still morning. His mind had come to some conclusions—one, that he hated being hit/ stabbed from behind, and two, that Orochimaru was most likely dead, and three, that the power he had felt could not have been Orochimaru, since he was supposed to be dead. This left one possible alternative of someone with traces of Orochimaru’s energy signature and sudden fluctuations in temper when attacked without warning in a crowd in the vicinity.
Sasuke was good at fighting isolated—but once he was placed in a crowd, he was distracted too easily. A lot of that was the Sharingan’s fault—the skill was designed to take in as much detail as possible, as much information regardless of whether or not the mind behind it would be able to process it all and remain sane, and with Sasuke’s paranoid nature everyone in a crowd was a potential enemy. The overload was considerable, if unimaginable.
Still…the crass lack of control. The disrespect for dispassion, for focus, decorum…it was all so predictable. So common. So crude and unsophisticated—far below expectations. One of these days—seriously—Kakashi would have to take some kind of affirmative action. Some kind. Probably tomorrow or the day after, when he felt able to move his neck up from the pillow, but definitely some kind of action.
Kakashi closed his eye. When he opened it again, it was midday, and Sasuke was sitting on the edge of his bed, looking at him a shade resentfully. Kakashi tried to focus on the hunched monochrome figure, blinking awkwardly, before his senses registered footsteps coming down the hall at the same time Sasuke’s did, and grabbed him by the wrist. That earned him a sharp, hurt look, but (flushing slightly) Sasuke settled back down, pretending Kakashi wasn’t touching him and taking extreme interest in his feet. The door opened, men came in half way, and milled uncertainly, not quite certain if they should attempt to capture a target who seemed to be, at some extent, already caught. Or no longer fleeing, at any rate. At one point, Kakashi mumbled something about letting the draft in, and feet filed out shutting the door, with a good deal less enthusiasm than they’d entered. Sasuke kicked the edge of the bed, and continued to ignore him. Kakashi closed his eye, and pretended not to notice when, fifteen minutes later, his hand was removed and placed on someone’s warm thigh, and covered with another hand.
***
The one and only time Sasuke came anywhere close to seeing Kakashi’s naked face had been on sheer accident. He was—understandably—flustered and edgy and aggravated and embarrassed, and had barged in on the bathroom without knocking or even pausing for a reaction. He’d started talking, sharp low rapid shards of words, before his eyes shrieked and slapped his mind, noticing a missing patch of black instead of the apparent splash of skin, the shock in one gray eye and one red one and had smacked his head into the door frame as he whirled around, feeling embarrassed and stupid and slammed the door shut two seconds past the appropriate moment. He kept his shoulder blades pressed against the door, face still flushed and feeling guilty and irresponsible.
He mumbled something incoherent about Naruto and the front door and waiting, and remained there until the sounds from the bathroom indicated that Kakashi was about exit before walling himself up in his room and locking the door. It was late afternoon when Kakashi broke his door down, after trying to get it open every other way (including knocking) and failing, and dragged him out to eat in a shifty small restaurant where everything was served with watery filmy soup that contained an overabundance of chopped green onions. Sasuke picked at the food, and kicked Kakashi hard in the ankle once accidentally-on-purpose for no reason he understood.
They walked home in silence, and Sasuke wasn’t surprised to find the silence was more apologetic than anything he could’ve ever managed to choke or vomit out, and hoped harder than he wanted to that Kakashi understood. He didn’t argue or fight when he was pushed into the bathroom once they got home (the old cold house that was somehow home now, whenever and however that happened) but he did flinch. He kept still when he was blindfolded, apprehensive and a little relieved, and didn’t freeze so much as chill over when Kakashi placed Sasuke’s hands over his own face, guided his fingers to take the mask off and trace the cheek and jawbones, and never gave a clue or hint to what any of it meant. Kakashi would’ve left it at that; he gave enough to comfort, but never placed himself out on a limb for another’s consolation. He’d die for Sasuke, but he’d never reveal more of himself than he just had. Except that Sasuke had jerked his hands away awkwardly before he’d finished, preferring to grip his wrists that feel his face, nearly crushing the bones together, shoulders wrenched back like a hawk before diving.
For a second, Kakashi thought Sasuke was going to break his wrists.
Kakashi didn’t move—it hurt, but he didn’t move. Eventually, breathing a little shaky, Sasuke leaned into his chest, hiding his face. He didn’t hug him—physical affection (open affection of any kind) had never been Kakashi’s strong point, so he simply held still when his wrists were finally released and arms slipped around his waist and clung to his shirt, Sasuke’s neck vulnerable and soft looking, framed by his razor-sharp blades of black hair.
And it became obvious to Kakashi—sharply, worryingly obvious—that events had suddenly become a good deal more intricate and dangerous than he had gambled on.
His pulse picked up; harder than what he was used to. Sometimes, it was hard to remember that not only did Sasuke not have any solid friends he trusted, or healthy romantic/sexual/amicable interest in anyone, but also that he didn’t have a very strong impression of parental figures. Except Kakashi.
Too much compression, too much pressure around one point, and that point eventually exploded—it happened all the time in construction and weaponry, during earthquakes and storms and other unprecedented events of chaos. It took time, of course, accruing stress and debris until everything exploded bloody shrapnel flying, but time had a reliable way of continuing, regardless of human intervention.
For some reason, he became acutely aware of his breathing—how air entered through his throat and separated into dual lungs that leeched oxygen out as they inflated before forcing the air out again. This was far, far more than he had bargained. Kakashi had never been emotionally dependent on anyone. Not his father, not his teacher—no one. And no one, ever, had been completely dependent on him. Not outside of battle. Not outside of the field, outside the job.
Eventually, he gingerly put one arm around Sasuke’s shoulders, the other hanging at his side, and let the boy decide when enough was enough. Not really a boy anymore, but not yet a man. He wasn’t crying—he was just having trouble breathing, trouble inflating his lungs. Sasuke slept in his bed that night too, but fully clothed and back to back.
Sometimes, Kakashi mused, you were attacked from the angle you least expected, and sometimes you realized there was no way to dodge or deflect it, but it when both those circumstances collided in the same sequence then you were caught, no matter what. From there, it was only a matter if whether you’d survive or not.
But, really, the worst attacks were the ones you saw coming, the ones you allowed to hit, because some part of you—something uniquely human and detached from animal biological programming—felt the phantom wound rip that would happen, if you dodged. You could shirk the pain, but someone else would get hurt. It was your choice. It was, always, your choice of who lived and died, who got hurt and who didn’t.
Sasuke’s spine bumped against his gently as he breathed slowly, deep child-like breaths, two snake skeletons bone to bone in sleep and trust. Eventually, Kakashi closed his eyes. It was too late now.
***
Without a word, Kakashi plunked the scroll canister next to Sasuke’s plate as he sat down on the opposite side of the table, arranging his chopsticks as he gave the food a cursory uninterested glance. It was meat that could probably be named mixed up with frozen peas, some kind of brown sauce that seemed to be mostly salt, and fairly decent rice. Neither of them had really improved at cooking, over time, but guaranteed that they would never get overly food poisoned.
With Kakashi, Sasuke had to remember, everything was a test. It wasn’t always a big one, or important, but Kakashi had been what he was for longer than he could remember, until it was nearly second nature—everything he did always had (almost always) an ulterior motive, a second reason under the first that benefited him in some way, that gave him information or moved his subject towards something. We of the council wish to inform you that as of the second of next month, you will no longer be the responsible charge for the Gennin…returned to regular duty in accordance with your rank…
If he’d been two years younger—no, actually if he’d been two months younger—he would’ve torn the paper up, thrown it, slammed his hands on the table, done something destructive and violent. His fingers shook as he stopped half-way through the message and placed it back on the table with a faint rattle, and put his hands under the table to clench his fists until his knuckles and nails hurt, the faint clink of Kakashi’s chopsticks just slightly covering his strained breathing. A few seconds later, he was able to eat, more for show than need—his stomach was too much in knots for that.
Kakashi watched later, after Sasuke washed the dishes, as he tore the scroll up strip by narrow strip, burned the bits in a bowl, placed the ashes back inside the scroll, almost shoved the canister down the throat of the luckless messenger who came to the door just as Sasuke was stalking out, and slammed the door in his face. He avoided looking at Kakashi—didn’t want to see the unsurprised disappointment in his eye or the amused glint and quirk of his mouth, under the mask.
Later, he realized he had no idea why he was furious at being released. He’d been given his freedom, as if freedom was something that could be given, like a second-hand pair of shorts or extra detergent. Later that night, he figured it was because he was tired of people deciding his life for him, shoving into whatever hole was convenient for them at the time—it wasn’t the inconsideration that pissed him off (people were inconsiderate—so what?), it was the fact that they honestly thought he wouldn’t fight them. That he would follow. The prominent delusion that he was something that could be controlled by them, like a dog to any master that would feed it. It was…degrading. It was an insult to his intelligence and their own, and he vowed to never follow morons as stiff-assed haughty as them, who honestly believed he would follow the flick of their fingers simply because of the official robes they wore.
He kicked Kakashi later that night when he heard him chuckle against his throat, struggling enough underneath to show annoyance but not enough to escape, and kissed him hard on the mouth in his own form of revenge. Always his own form of revenge, his own method of victory—he didn’t belong to anyone.
Whatever he did, he always tried to do it different, to surprise Kakashi who was never surprised by anything he did, since no one knew him like Kakashi did. He never wanted to be anything less than his own—anything less than original, than unique. He never wanted to follow in anyone’s footsteps ever again, regardless if it were for better or worse.
Immaturity—anything less than perfection—was something Sasuke would never admit to, couldn’t admit to, but he didn’t really mind that Kakashi teased him about it in a roundabout, subtle way, pushing him and testing him and letting him dangle. In a way, Kakashi had earned it. And, in another way, another confused uncomfortably messy way, Sasuke enjoyed it, because no matter how far he jumped or how stupid he got, there was someone who wouldn’t kill him too painfully waiting in the shadows, ready to snag him back out of harm if things started to go wrong.
Kakashi was dangerous, and a part of him hated how close he let him get, but didn’t try break it off now. It was a part of him now, and it was only a matter of how the road and wash of life would shape them now.
***
Man is born free but is everywhere in chains
-- Rousseau
-THE END-
作者回复1：
1: I actually designed this Sasuke to be weak--I've never seen Sasuke as being emotionally strong, which is why I think Itachi can pick his bones the way he does. So yeah; you're completely right in that. Also, while I wanted to show that Sasuke did love Kakashi, I wasn't thinking of a romantic, adult love--more of a crush and parental love.
2: Yeah--Kakashi's always been a hard one to write, but I wanted to make him seem more...I don't know, I think you were right in calling him cool. He was a bit colder in the fic than he is in many of the manga's shots of him, but that's mostly because I just wanted him that way, and partly because I was trying to...take into account his WHOLE history--he and Sasuke are staying in the house his father committed suicide in. In retrospect, I should've made him a bit more positive and emotional, but it never really seemed to fit the scene.
I like Oni's description of Kakashi too--that's a beautiful way to put it.
作者回复2：
But yeah--I always thought KakaSasu is too unhealthy; it makes Sasuke too dependent on Kakashi, so he doesn't learn how to deal with anyone else and remains pretty self-absorbed and even though he CARES for Kakashi (even in the original manga he never stops caring for his friends) he still isn't considerate of other people. Sasuke wouldn't mature very well as Kakashi's lover--I'm also not sure how Kakashi would be with raising a teenage boy, since he kept away from children until team 7 came along. Kakashi's afraid of letting people down and of his friends dying, so even though I'm not sure he actually DOES it, I kind of think that's why he's so aloof about his personal life. Sasuke has the same fear about getting close to people because of his family's massacre, so even though they're living together, they still keep their distance.