Wait Until Tomorrow
The Disinclination towards morning light.
A vague effort to feel some angst by the Brass Dragon

His fingertips were numb. Not that the calloused bits of flesh held much sensation in the first place, but they were cold and the act of picking the hairbrush up off the sink top felt strange and slightly tingly. He cast a one eyed glare at the entire hand; brush included and hurled the thing into the waiting box.

'There.' He thought to himself. 'A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.' Shaking his head he wandered into the bedroom and cast his eye about. There was a sweater hanging out of the hamper, a framed photo of the last graduating class of genin… Sighing Kakashi tugged on already rucked up sleeves and pulled the sweater out from amongst the other dirty clothes and fought the urge to bring it to his nose. Sniffing dirty laundry wasn't something he was going to do. He slowly made his way around the room, blue sweater draped over his shoulder, and began picking up odds and ends; carefully setting them in the box.

Under the comforter was a slightly lumpy pillow, a strand of dark hair inexplicably woven into the fine weave. He held it for a few moments; it seemed to hover above the appointed box, remiss to go in. Swallowing he set it next to his own at the head of the bed, Iruka wouldn't notice if he kept it, it was an old pillow. Who would care about an old pillow?

For that matter, who would care if he hung onto the sweater? It fit him rather nicely.

Growling low in his throat he spun on heal and made his way into the kitchen. With quick movements he turned on the faucet and filled a glass. Setting it on the counter he lowered himself into a kitchen chair and absorbed the silence.

The echo of the clock on the far wall, the call of cicadas outside the window. There was a cold cup of tea on the counter, left there early this morning as he'd ran out the door. He'd left so quickly with harsh words and a slam of the door. Iruka so rarely got genuinely angry at him. For the life of him, Kakashi couldn't remember what their words had been about.

So very clearly he could see him standing there, face set in irate lines, hands jerky as he pulled his hair up with a length of kitchen twine. It had degraded quickly; Iruka hated the silent treatment more than any possible tone of voice.

So he'd been tired and grouchy. So he had just gotten back from a grueling mission, and three days late at that. Iruka had waited for him. Iruka had gotten just as much sleep as he had, worrying about him.

When this morning had he decided that being an asshole this morning was the way to go?

Passing through the bedroom door he stood over the box.

The cicadas chirped pleasantly on, and Kakashi carefully began putting everything back in it's rightful place. The pillow was tucked back under the comforter, the sweater was set on top the hamper, and the brush went back onto the sink top.

On the floor in the bathroom, sitting by the doorframe, was a creamy circle of elastic. The rubber band Iruka had been looking for.

Bending carefully, his spine might come undone like a cheap strand of pearls; he curled his fingers around it. Twisting, stretchy. He sat on the bed and slowly rolled the band down to circle his wrist. Giving it a snap he smiled.

Forgetting Iruka wasn't the way to go. He was who he was. And perhaps he was fate's bitch, and destined to be left, and no one wanted to live like that. But maybe little segments of his life were blessed.

Clenching his jaw he climbed under the covers and curled around that lumpy pillow. Swallowing convulsively he held his breath and closed his eyes.

Tomorrow his life would falter on.

Tomorrow someone would pound on his door and drag him off to yet another funeral.

Tomorrow everyone would see just how badly he'd been dumped.

I have no purpose…