"I hate you," Kakashi whispers as he stands before Sakumo's grave, his eyes glazed with a sheen of tears. The words sting harshly but it's the love lingering in his voice that twists the dagger in Sakumo's heart. He would rather suffer Kakashi's hatred than his love – then only one of them would be in pain.
The older Hatake hovers by Kakashi's side, untouched by the elements but frozen all the same. He ruthlessly suppresses the urge to flee because this is his punishment – to witness every consequence of what he had done and live in it.
When Kakashi's face twists in anger or moulds into cool apathy, Sakumo stays close, cutting himself raw on the jagged edges of his son's silence. When the bottomless grief in Kakashi's eyes threatens to drown the child, Sakumo breathing falters and he sinks together.
If he had thought the village's scorn was difficult to bear, now… Now he realises that he had not even known pain.
He hadn't known shame.
He hadn't known guilt.
He hadn't known regret.
"I hate you." Kakashi's lips move silently, repeating the phrase over and over, but glittering track of tears down his cheek cry "I miss you." His fingers trace the characters engraved in the plain gravestone, catching on the freshly cut edges.
It is a dull, grey thing, empty save for Sakumo's name, hidden away within a grove of trees bordering Konoha. Even this is a concession barely earned by his ritual suicide. There is no place for Sakumo in the Konoha Cemetery, not for a disgraced shinobi. Neither do the Hatake lands open their embrace for a son who has dishonoured the family name.
It is alright. Sakumo accepts the fact; hides it between his ribs. He isn't a man who deserves tribute.
The wind scours the fresh mound of soil that conceals Sakumo's ashes and bones, sending bits of wet earth tumbling and boughs of leaves rustling overhead. Perched on the broadest branch above is Jiraiya, his red-marked face set in sombre lines as he keeps vigil over Kakashi.
It was pure chance that the Sannin had found Kakashi the morning after Sakumo's death, having just returned from an information-gathering trip of indefinite duration.
How frightening it is that things can change so utterly and completely when time itself has barely trickled by. Barely three months have passed since Sakumo and Jiraiya enjoyed a drink together at home, enjoying the languid thrum of contentment in their veins while Kakashi slept peacefully upstairs. Two months since the revered White Fang had accepted that fateful mission. One month since he stumbled back a disgrace. 3 days since Sakumo succumbed to soul-wracking depression and took his own life.
And now, Sakumo paces the mortal coil restlessly, trapped ethereal form, unable to move on or make penance.
"Take care of him, Jiraiya," Sakumo cranes his neck to murmur to his friend, eternally grateful for Jiraiya's quiet, solid presence by Kakashi's side. The Sannin can be capricious, to say the least, but he is a man who understands loss.
Jiraiya won't stay forever but he will stay long enough.
The wind howls, whistling between branches and breaking across the curve of Kakashi's back. Sitting before the gravestone, Sakumo leans his head back and lets a wan smile tilt the corner of his mouth.
Like this, it is almost as if Kakashi is seeing him.