Full Circle
The note had torn when he fastened it. The bird, snowy and gray, nipped at his index finger affectionately, and he pressed his thumb to the feathers on its head.
Acknowledgement.
He wondered, even as he stroked the pigeon, if he knew the meaning of that word. Kakashi was in the doorway, gripping the frame lightly, looking more tired than Sakumo had ever seen him. Yet he waited, staring expectantly.
Sakumo fixed his eyes on the pigeon, examining the black specks that dotted its neck, trying to ignore how small his son looked on the other side of the room.
Tenderly, he secured the string around the bird's legs again, and then whispered his command.
"Go," He said softly, shooing it away. It exited through the open window, its wings flapping swiftly, making noise like music.
Sunlight filled the room, and he followed the rays of light to the far wall, which cut out around Kakashi. He was sure, as he scrutinized the wood stain on the panels, that he had failed in something.
He had no idea what it was he'd neglected to do, but the feeling gripped him so insistently he thought his body might shatter.
It was then that he noticed Kakashi's face. It was young, pale and soft, but there were angry red marks around his piercing eyes. (Like conflicting pools of paint.) His mouth was curved downward at the corners, and there were lines on his cheek, bright white. The tracks were incriminating.
He'd been crying.
Sakumo fingered a pad of paper on the desk distractedly, his gaze boring into his son, about to burn a spot on Kakashi's shoulders – which were sharp, like the point of the pen in Sakumo's hand. They stretched out awkwardly, fanning open.
(His own face aged, wrinkled like a walnut.)
Fin.