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The world was bathed in darkness, a twisted landscape of gnarled trees and dense cloudcover. Every now and then, a harsh wind tore through the treetops, amplifying the terrifying, roiling mass of shadowy figures beneath them.
Lost in the mob, body yanked and pulled along by the thousands of desperate hands, Kakashi felt ghostly talons clawing at his body, nails digging ruthlessly into his skin and screeching against the metal of his ANBU gauntlets. Fingers wrapped about the rim of Kakashi’s ‘Hound’ mask, filling the eye sockets and jostling the porcelain with their unrelenting touch. He gritted his teeth and cried out as the shadows began to pull, pitching his skin as they fought for a better grip, tearing the fabric of his cloth mask.
Something needle-like pressed into his side, digging into the flesh just above his hip, emitting a low aching, throbbing pain that steadily grew in intensity until Kakashi found himself twisting about in agony.
Hands pressed against his chest, roughly flipping him onto his back and down to the ground.
A partially-translucent foot slammed down on top of his chest, pinning Kakashi as it mercilessly crushed his ribs. He screamed, thrashing as he frantically tried to fight against the unwanted contact. He could feel the hot stickiness of blood soaking into his clothing, seeping down from wounds that he could not locate--
He wanted help-–needed help, but there was no one.
The ANBU porcelain vanished, torn free of his face, and the straps cracked against his exposed skin. Without its protection, he felt naked, vulnerable.
Panic exploded inside of Kakashi’s chest as the faces began to morph, light and color distorting until their features finally sharpened and gained definition.
His breath caught.
Kakashi could recognize them, all of them, because they were his: their blood staining his hands, visible only through the sharingan, waiting to carry him down into the depths of the void the moment he closed his eyes.
Fear nearly blinding him, he struggled to calm himself.
He had one chance.
One.
Leaning back, Kakashi allowed his body to go limp, even as his heart thundered in his ears.
For a moment, everything seemed to go still–-
And then Kakashi surged upwards against his captors, heaving himself from the ground, muscles straining as he brought his palms together, weaving the signs to the only jutsu that could possibly save him from the hell of his own creation.
Lightning filled the air, an array of blinding blue light, dancing to the chorus of high-pitched shrills.
The foot on top of his chest disappeared as Kakashi dug his electrified fingers into ghostly flesh.
Tears pricked at Kakashi’s eyes as a familiar loathing churned in the pit of his stomach. He hated the jutsu as much as he loved it--just as he hated and loved the feeling of his hand connecting with flesh and blood and bone.
A scream left his lips and he spun, lashing out and kicking at the phantoms. The raw sound tore from his chest, devoid of coherent words or meaning. More than anything, it was the scream of an animal–-devastated, cornered, and with nothing left to lose.
Relentless in their pursuit, the shadows reached out towards him in spite of the jutsu he brandished. Their bodies were limp and heads lolled to the side like that of a rotted puppet, eyes vacant of any life as they advanced. Blood seeped down and soaked the forest floor from bloody holes in their chests; each rhythmic, ghostly footstep seemed to smear fresh trails of lifeblood across the ground, painting the landscape with Kakashi's sins.
The world was converging in on itself, veiled by a red haze of pain and rage.
He would never escape. There was only the fight, the war against the darkness within.
Kakashi lunged, snarling, the chidori shrieking in his ears.
His fingers connected with the warm flesh and Kakashi felt his nails push through, electricity crackling in the darkness, muffled by the body at his mercy.
Goosebumps erupted across Kakashi's skin.
Something felt wrong.
A hand worked its way around Kakashi's shoulder, an unexpected, gentle touch.
Through swimming vision and sluggish thoughts, he registered that the figure before him was leaning heavily, somehow still standing.
That was unusual.
Kakashi’s sharingan spun wildly as his mind frantically tried to comprehend what was happening.
A part of him was still back on battlefield, slowly being torn limb-from-limb by the hoarde. His gifted, left eye, however, was telling him something very different…
As his muddled brain slowly began to recognize the cold floor beneath his feet, Kakashi’s vision began to tunnel even more so than before, the world shrinking into a pinprick of semi-darkness.
A gentle, yet chill breeze ran across his bare chest from the open window, the sound of the rustling curtains singing softly in his ears. It roused him, pulling at his senses.
Kakashi’s heartbeat began to accelerate until it slammed against his ribs like a battering ram.
He was standing.
Standing.
The hand on Kakashi’s shoulder crept up to his cheek.
This...this was real.
But Kakashi didn’t want it to be.
More than anything, he wanted this to be the dream–-the true nightmare, and for him to still be back in that hell, pinned to the ground and beaten by the mob.
His vision blurred as tears traced their way down his cheeks.
Iruka made no sound when Kakashi withdrew the hand from the center of his chest. Instead, the man silently crumpled forward, fingers ghosting Kakashi’s cheek for only a second more before falling back, limp.
Kakashi couldn’t say anything, he couldn’t think–-or even breathe.
Blood spilled down from the gaping hole in Iruka’s chest and ran freely down into the fabric of Kakashi’s light blue pajama pants, droplets staining the floorboards.
Slowly, Kaksahi sank to the ground, his partner cradled in his arms. Blood drew a distinct pattern across his right hand, caking beneath his nails.
This can’t be real. Please no-–not again. No–-
Brown eyes, glittering in the distant moonlight, gazed up at Kakashi, wide and already glazed with unbearable pain.
“I’m sorry–-” Kakashi’s voice cracked, and he struggled to draw breath. “I’m sorry–-”
A smile slowly turned the corner of Iruka’s lips, followed by a thin trail of blood. “It’s–-okay, Kas–-shi–-”
It was not ‘okay.’ Death was never okay, even on the battlefield when slaughter was the only way to success. And this–-
“–-’s okay. ”
Tears rolled freely down Kakashi’s face, splashing down on the chunin’s dark sweater as he watched Iruka’s expression slowly began to even out.
Gently, he leaned forward and laced his fingers between Iruka’s, slowly crumpling forward in order to bury his face in the man's shoulder.
Kakashi felt his heart slowly tearing from his chest, fracturing, shredding slowly as the life began to fade from his partner’s face.
“I… love-–” Iruka’s words were faint.
Completely numb, Kakashi heard Iruka take one last, shuddering breath.
Then everything was silent.