Chapter Text
Sakumo was in a dark place in his life.
His mind was in a constant state of muted turmoil, repressed thoughts always shoved against what he believed to be his solid judgement every waking moment. It seemed that a depressive haze clouded his senses to numbness, leaving a dull pain in his chest whenever he thought about where he was going to go from here. It was no puzzle how far he had fallen since that mission, and sometimes he wished that it would all just stop, releasing him from his worries and pain.
It could be said for him, with a self-depreciating grimace, that the lights in his life were dimming incredibly. This being both physical and mental, seeing as he was stuck in a continuously neverending rut in his life and hiding out in a cave for the night with his current teammates for this reconnaissance mission. He could only hold to the small comfort that this task was simple and took him out of the village and away from the swirling mass of negative emotions that awaited him at home and followed him everywhere he went. It was at least a three days’ journey, though Sakumo could not be too entirely sure. (It seemed that keeping track of time these days only lengthened the already long days and even longer nights where he could never fall asleep amongst the screaming thoughts for him to stop everything.)
However, the simple fact that he was physically removed from his suffocations did nothing.
The rocky ground beneath them as he slept did nothing to soothe the ache in his heart.
The ever present pounding in his head.
The numbness in his mind.
The constant stress.
The way the people, civilians and ninja alike, constantly talked and whispered behind his back, snide comments creeping behind him about how he was a traitor and a failure of a shinobi to Konoha's finest and brightest minds. He was a poison in their system; the White Fang, broken down and ignoring every rule ever given for the completion of a crucial mission for the village’s growth. Completely dishonoured and vilified by even those he had thought he sought to protect. Sakumo was nothing more than a failure.
He did not deserve to wear the forehead protector of their strong shinobi village for failing that mission so bad. For failing the trust of his village’s leader. For failing the simple mission guidelines just to carry out what he believed to be right. For failing his own name, his legacy, his family, his son. It mattered not how justified and right he felt that his actions were for the goodness of his colleagues, his teammates, his friends. He was simply trash, putting everything at risk because he was too soft, too shortsighted, too kind (or at least he hoped to be, for he could only cling to whatever thoughts that could maybe alleviate the stabbing pain he felt whenever he even breathed).
It did not matter how much he kept his stance with his beliefs or held his head high with whatever pride he even had left in his mind; they simply knocked him back down, throwing words and at times actual objects in his direction when he went out into the streets of Konoha to go buy food and other supplies for his clan, his compound, his home, for him, and for Kakashi.
And Kakashi. Oh, Kakashi.
His own son. So cold, so unnervingly cold that Sakumo’s mind blanked whenever he thought about his young boy, barely matured enough to even be considered a ninja.
When was the last time they had held a comfortable discussion together face to face? No. When was the last time he had even talked to his son, much less held a decent father to son conversation about how their day was, or how they were feeling, or even passed a few simple words in greeting? It seemed ages ago that Kakashi would look up with an easy smile on his face, expression brightening whenever he saw his father.
No, they passed each other without greetings or goodbyes, all words lost in the accusing looks his son’s dark eyes gave him whenever they passed, and Sakumo hated this so so much yet he could do nothing but watch, a remorseful and ever so guilty pit in his chest building up until he felt that he needed to cough up every organ in his body until death itself came to take him. When was the last time Kakashi even felt relaxed at home? When was the last time his son acted like his age, free to feel and free to laugh? Sakumo did nothing but watch as Kakashi flew through the academy with his prodigious skills, rising amongst the ranks at even such a young age, with whispers of “genius” and “lost pride of Konoha’s White Fang” following his back whenever he passed.
It was heartbreakingly sickening.
He loved Kakashi so so much yet he could do absolutely nothing to prevent his only child from suffering the effects of social rejection that Sakumo brought upon himself and his name. It was his fault.
Sakumo was suffocating. He could not breathe through the stabbing glares and the cold looks and the haunting comments of “trash” and “utter failure” binding his chest and clamping down on his throat. Every effort felt so useless for Sakumo to even try to rebuild and save whatever face he had left. He felt absolutely helpless and he hated it deeply.
But more than anything, Sakumo simply felt tired.
He was tired of the whispers behind his back.
He was tired of the snide looks and lips turned in disgust.
He was tired of the sharp gazes boring into the back of his head regardless of whether he noticed them or not (he always did, the voices never left him alone) and the graffitti on the sidewalk to his compound and the way they all side stepped him in the streets, ignored him, and ridiculed him for his faults and cut open every wound that never had a chance to heal.
He was just so tired of everything.
What was the point in getting up in the mornings, to get up and go train? He could barely drag himself out of bed each day, feed himself breakfast, and make himself seem presentable to the public for whatever pride he had left in him.
It seemed that his tanto, his forehead protector, and the thought of public face were the only things physically binding him down to Earth and keeping him going, now. Keeping him awake. Forcing him to push oxygen into his lungs so that he could breathe past the choking hands around his neck. Keeping him alive.
One unbearable night he had sat on his heels in his room and held his tanto out in front of his stomach, the tip resting on one thin layer of fabric. The night’s silence enveloped the room. It seemed as though the entirety of Konoha was asleep that hour, and Kakashi was only a few doors down the hall lying quietly in his own deep slumber. Sakumo felt eerily calm, yet his palms were slicked with sweat and the buzzing in his ears only multiplied tenfold with the haze around his senses thickening in the dead of night. But no matter how much his mind screamed, begged, and prayed, his hands would not move the extra inch. But Kakashi. Kakashi deserved better. But what was better? His arms would not give the final push to finally release him to his eternal slumber beyond this world and away from the agonizing weeks he had been suffering from. The sword only slipped through his fingers and clattered onto the matted ground with a shattering loudness in his ears, cold sweat crawling over his body as his hands began to shake and tremble with utter revulsion from the actions he had taken. Almost taken. Oh, god, he hated himself.
Even when thoroughly wracked with utter shame, it seemed that Sakumo would never gain his peace.
As they pushed through the green forests bordering the Fire Country once more, the captain signed for them to stop, leaving their group to approach the old wooden cottage they had arrived at during their treck. It was a simple enough mission. Reconnaissance for an old hideout that had been in use during the last war, what with the nomadic tribes from Grass having used the little nondescript building as a checkpoint monument.
But Sakumo was already lagging and he could feel himself slowing down and dragging behind every single one of his teammates. The Hokage must already know that his performance was trudging in the mud, and so must the rest of the shinobi population, with their whispers of “trash” and “failure” and “good for nothing” hovering in the air wherever he stepped and breathed. But here, Sakumo only felt his mind slowly succumbing to fatigue and weighing himself down.
Maybe after this mission he could go home to a peaceful rest. Maybe the incident would have blown over and he could go out for a drink or two with his colleagues to relax. Perhaps he should go check up on Jiraya and see how his friend and his students were doing. Hadn’t the white-haired man mentioned something about his one student Minato taking an interest in fuinjutsu? The boy must be making incredible progress for his praise to be so high. Perhaps he could finally have a second to breathe and eat a nice dinner with his son at home.
But Sakumo knew none of this would happen. He would only come home to the hands around his throat and the dense pit in his chest multiplying on itself with his most darkest thoughts. He would only continue to suffocate even more, drowning in his own despair and clinging to whatever light was thrown his way. Sakumo was just tired of it all.
As they entered the wooden building, they came across an assortment of scrolls and tablets, most of them scrawled with unfinished jutsus and pieces of history that were to be recorded and sealed back in the village archives when they returned in the next few days. They, after all, still had a few more points on the map to hit before turning back.
Sakumo had just sealed a rather large and hefty looking scroll into storage when he felt a sudden tugging at every single one of his senses, causing his muscles to tense. It came from the room next door. Shaking his head, Sakumo followed the urging force, only nodding to his teammate when she passed him with a tip of the head in the narrow and dank hall.
The source was carefully hidden within a dusty old wooden desk and Sakumo picked up the tightly and carefully wound scroll, the tugging feeling growing even stronger now that it was right there. He held it in front of himself, fingers hesitating to move.
Ignoring the voice in the back of his head telling him not to do anything stupid, he tore through the wax seal and unfurled the stiff and crinkling paper, holding it out in front of his face. It was scrawled over with swirls and patterns and writings in what he could only guess to be an ancient language, probably used by the tribes that had once laid claim to these grounds before the warring countries came into play.
Against his better judgement, (and it seemed that this has been happening ever so often recently; there really was no point, was there- what with his shame and constant build up of depressive anxiety, and, oh the pain, how much pain he must be thrusting onto his son simply by association, his boy, his Kakashi-) he released some of his chakra into the yellowing and cracked paper, lighting up the black and fading ink with an electric white (is that what Kakashi’s chakra looked like when he tested his ninjutsu? Sakumo had never gotten around to asking, with his throat closing tightly whenever he looked to his young boy). Chakra rushed back through his fingers and he breathed in sharply past the surge of energy.
The scroll ignited.
Sakumo’s last thought before his entire vision went black from the explosion was: Maybe I may reach my well deserved rest at last.