Disclaimer: Naruto is not mine.
Thirteen and thirteen. Twenty-two and thirteen. Twenty-six and two months shy of thirteen.
Their ages were like the number a criminal wore, painting him for what he was and what he had done. Kakashi was a criminal. He had sinned not once, not twice, but thrice - and he tortured himself daily for it. He was a broken wreck of a man for having done what he had. Not even the sick lies he told himself could justify it.
They weren't his lovers. They were his victims.
He was incapable of loving; he was a monster, a freak. Someone who took of advantage of others when they were weak or gullible, when they wanted something that they shouldn't have, when they were rebellious, when they sought a source of relief from the condescending gaze of their elders. When they had no one else to turn to, he would be there.
He disgusted himself for having slept with them. He might as well have raped them. None of them had been in their right minds when they had committed the act, not even if they had done it a thousand times. Too foolish to know what they were getting into, too angry to judge whether or not what they were doing was right (and more importantly, that they wanted to do it), too focused on gaining revenge on whatever enemy of theirs had one-upped them that they lost themselves and their way in the process.
He knew he was sick. He knew he was bent--queer, even.
The only way he kept breathing with the knowledge of the sins he had committed -- those sins worse than taking the lives of the countless hundreds he had, for at least those victims no longer felt pain -- was the single truth that he held closer than all others: it wouldn't be right to end his life as long as they were still alive to suffer in silence. As long as they continued to burn with self-hatred, he would see to it that he suffered alongside them.
One down. Two to go.
Their ages were like the date on the execution slip, drawn up, signed and witnessed by the dead, painting him for what he was and what he would do.