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Gai’s absence is like a cold breeze when he wakes up. Like having fallen asleep somewhere that’s not home and wondering where one is the next morning in the few instants before being fully awake.
But it is home.
His fingers fumble around in the sheets at his side before stopping when the awareness that they won’t find anyone there finally arises back to his conscience.
It’s not as sad as it used to be. Not as gut-wrenching. Not the kind of agony that had him spending days and nights crying until it didn’t because there weren’t even any tears left anymore. Not the utter dread that had him bent over the toilet, dry heaving in between sobs without anything to get out because the knot of grief in his stomach wouldn’t let anything in in the first place.
It’s still painful, obviously, like a light tightness in his heart.
But it is home.
Kakashi gets up. Puts on his pair of slippers. The second one is still by the bed. He hasn’t found it in him to get rid of it. It didn’t feel right to do so.
Mornings are all very alike now. They were when Gai was still here too, in a sense, but also they weren’t. There were no two days the same around him. Every time Kakashi thought he had seen it all, understood it all, there was something new, something unexpected, something surprising. A new challenge, a new workout routine, a new farandole of words to declare his love and affection, a new grey hair on his head, a new way of smiling at him, a new way of kissing him, a new way of touching him. Gai was always new. It’s just that all things new with him were already familiar.
Kakashi turns on the kettle for his tea, going into Gai’s home office in the meantime. Everything is where he left it. The chair. The pile of scribbles and drafts. The wall of books behind the desk. The fragrance of his skin has long faded from the air but his presence hasn’t. Not completely.
When Sakumo had died he hadn’t thrown out anything either. Hadn’t changed the blood-stained tatami in the living room. Hadn’t burned the old clothes. Hadn’t gotten rid of the tantou. Hadn’t folded back the unused futon. And for a moment at first, he had thought this was all the same over again.
But it wasn’t. Far from it.
The blood had dried. Sakumo’s room had filled up with dust. The tantou had broken. The futon had moulded. None of this had ever been about keeping Sakumo or his memory alive. It was only about becoming a ghost himself.
He opens the window to get some fresh air in. Waters the plants after having greeted each of them by their name like Gai used to do. It felt silly at the time. It makes more sense now. He dusts the desk and the library. At this point, the water in the kitchen should be just the right temperature.
When he leaves the office, the room feels alive and breathing. Gai is gone. It’s not a fact he will ever fully make peace with, but it’s a fact. And although he might not completely accept it either, he, on the other hand, isn’t. Not yet.
No one had said the words when Gai had died, but he had heard them. In every eyes he crossed looks with, in every pat on the shoulder he was given, in every word of comfort or condolence, everything told the fear that he would soon follow. Gai had planned to die like his father, and at times, Kakashi had too. That wasn’t a secret to anyone. The fact that Gai was the main reason it hadn’t happened so far wasn’t really one either.
And of course, it had crossed his mind. It still did, sometimes, in a much softer way. Like a whisper. “I miss you.” And for a few seconds, the idea of doing it would linger before fading like the strings of smoke of burning incense in the wind. Gai had not died opening the Eighth Gate after all. And apparently, Kakashi would not die with a tantou through his gut either.
He fills his cup and settles down at the kitchen table. After having been a fervent partisan of low tables and kotatsu for most of his life, he eventually had come to admit they weren’t the most wheelchair-friendly to have around. Now, with how reluctant to any sort of activity his knees have become, he is learning to appreciate the change for himself too.
If someone were to ask why he hasn’t killed himself, he would probably say, “Gai wouldn’t want me to do that.” but it would be a lie. At least half a lie. Kakashi had begged him to never open the Gate of Death, had asked him to promise he wouldn’t, countless times. Gai had always refused, and he had done it in front of Kakashi’s very eyes. Gai had never been in a position to ask Kakashi not to die over him. He had been the first to try.
Truth is, life is just worth living. A few decades earlier he would have never imagined himself surviving, that is true. But it’s precisely Gai’s power. Filling every little thing around him with life, enthusiasm, beauty, joy. It happens that, with a little help, those could stay when he wasn’t around to keep them going anymore. It also happens that, of all things and people, Kakashi is the one that has been around Gai for the longest time.
The hot tea warms his chest up as it passes down his throat and he stays a moment there, sipping on it slowly, eyes lost in the movement of the foliage of their garden in the wind. The square of vegetables and herbs Gai had started growing there when they first arrived in the house after Kakashi’s well-deserved retirement has turned back into a fallow since they both gave up on it years ago. All youthful that he was, Gai had eventually grown somewhat aware of the increasing limits of his body. Surviving the Eighth Gate had already been a miracle, it couldn’t have come without some damage. Pain is an old companion of all Shinobi, but the amount of destruction Gai had brought upon his flesh with the Gates was an entirely different level.
On the other side, at the back of the garden, are the eight flat stones of the Ninken’s grave. He probably could have had them buried in the Shinobi cemetery, but there was enough space here, and it felt right that they would stay home. They hadn’t been Shinobi dogs for quite some time anyway, enjoying as much as their master to become house creatures and spending most of their day spread on the couch or under the sun in the grass.
He gets up and rinses the cup by the sink. He should get Ningame home one of those days, it’s been a while.
Gai had asked him to sign his contract when it had become evident he would be the first to leave. “I want him to be able to visit every now and then. To go to my grave, if he wants to. To get news from you, Genma, Lee, Tenten, Metal and his little family.” Kakashi had refused at first, because no, obviously, it wasn’t necessary, because Gai wasn’t about to die, because how could he be? Gai hadn’t said anything but the mix of endearment and sadness in his eyes was way more painful than any words. A few days later, Kakashi had signed.
He sighs in front of the half-empty fridge. He’ll have to pass by the market on his way to the cemetery. It’s not exactly a chore, he’s just never really been a people person, and he had grown quite used to their countryside life at the edge of village, the two of them and the pack, Gai happy to have his writing retreat and his long run to go into the village for groceries, lessons at the academy, medical appointment or whatever other idea animated him on a given day, him happy to stay home, alone except for Gai, who was more life and action and ideas at the minute than ten regular people added up, and although he was so in a much more bearable, endearing and appreciated way, it was still enough for Kakashi not to need anyone else.
The emptiness of the house had been one of the hardest things to adapt to. Kurenai, who wasn’t foreign to that kind of pain, suggested he stayed with her for a little while. It was one of those words that said, “I’m trying to make sure you don’t kill yourself.” without saying it. But everything he had left of Gai was there, he couldn’t not go back to the one and only places in Konoha that still smelled like him, sounded like him, felt like him.
Kurenai had still passed by often. Bringing some groceries. Taking out the ones he had let rot. “It’s never going not to hurt,” she would say, “but it gets easier with time, trust me.” And he wanted to, he really did, but for the first months, time just wasn’t passing. Every day felt like Gai’s cold body had been taken away from his arms mere hours ago, pain crushing his chest if he dared to try to get some air into it, brain cloudy and blurry from being suffocated by sorrow.
But, eventually, time had started resuming its court again. It was almost imperceptible at first. Like a slow drip, with each of its tiny drops like cold water on a burn. Being able to take a deep breath, once in a while. Feeling the soreness of his throat subside a little. Eating a few bites in a row without retching. Saying actual words that were somewhat more than a shapeless whine.
It wasn’t that he felt less sad, although the word sadness was not anywhere near describing the utter agony he was in to begin with, but for the first time in forever the thought of “I might actually survive this.” had started crossing his mind.
It had never been like that with the others. His father, Obito, Rin, Minato, Obito again. Grief had never eased, it had settled, like layers of mud that no one had ever found the will to wash and that had dried on top of one another, enclosing his mind and heart in their dirt, waiting for them to turn into stone.
Gai’s death was different. It was devastating, but it was, just like the man, ever moving and, ironically, ever alive. The storm had turned into a turmoil which had turned into a boil which had turned into a simmer, and the pain was always there, but not dead, not ghost and dust and cold stone. It was pulsating and warm. Somewhere along the way, he had stopped drowning in it and had started living again. There still was the ever-present heaviness of his numbed body moving through the water, but Kurenai had been right. It did get easier.
He closes the fridge. It’s time to put on some proper clothes and get out. Go through another day. With its pain and its treasures. With its grief and its healing memories. With the gentle thought of, “Maybe tonight will be the one I join you.” when he goes to bed.
Gai’s absence is like a cold breeze when he wakes up.
His fingers fumble around in the sheets at his side before stopping when the awareness that they won’t find anyone there finally arises back to his conscience.
It’s not as sad as it used to be.
It’s still painful, obviously, like a light tightness in his heart.
But it is home.