Kakashi can’t remember why he wears the mask anymore.
Every inch of his skin is coated in blood. He’s sure that beneath the mask, his face is, too—but that’s nothing new. Red and damp and faintly metallic-smelling, tickling his nostrils with the stench of it.
It’s Obito’s, he thinks. Most of it. And it’s vaguely ironic, Kakashi decides, that the only way to wash away the figurative blood on his hands is to literally soak in it.
Obito’s blood runs down his arms and hides in between his fingers, crusting and hardening on skin that was never that clean to begin with. But it’s different, now; this blood will wash away with a good shower.
Except, Kakashi realizes, he’s not sure he wants it to. Because the red on his hands is the last thing he will ever have of Obito. And he doesn’t know if he’s ready to let that go, just yet. He’s never been good at letting go anyway.
When Kakashi was six years old, he buried his face in a strip of cloth because he hated his father. When he was thirteen, he forgave his father. Ten minutes and a dead friend later, he hated himself instead.
Kakashi never wants to see his face. It’s this face that lost Obito. It’s this face that killed Rin. It’s this face that couldn’t save his Sensei or his team or his friends; and ultimately, it’s this face that lost Obito all over again. But now, the mask is ripped and torn and sagging against his lips. And as the alternate world swirls and fades around him, he can feel it—and finally, Obito—sliding away.
He’s half-dead when he returns to the real world. It’s frighteningly quiet for a war. He lies in the dirt with his face upturned towards the morning sky.
Where is everyone?
Oh, of course. They’re dead. That’s what happens to people Kakashi cares about. Dead because of him.
He reaches weakly for the remains of his mask. He can’t remember why he cares, why he wears it in the first place, why he’s wearing it now. He’s dying (let’s face it) and it’s not like he’s going to see that ugly, twisted, blood-coated flesh ever again.
Suddenly, blue is looming in his vision.
That shouldn’t be so strange—except he can see clear through it, can see the shreds of his mask resting on his face. Something warm and rough brushes across his skin. Then a voice, faint and strong and familiar all at once is ringing in his ears.
"It’s him—I think it’s him. God, I haven’t seen him since he was fourteen. How can this be him?"
Sensei? Kakashi thinks, but the word, dry and ragged on his lips is, “Dad?”
Minato smiles, and gently pushes the mask off Kakashi’s mouth, and for the first time since he was six years old, Kakashi looks at his own face in the reflection of his Sensei’s eyes.
Kakashi said ‘Dad’, not ‘Sensei’, but Minato understands him anyway.
"Yes, Kakashi," he replies. "I’m here. You’re okay. You’re okay."
Kakshi nods, closes his eyes. His last thought before the darkness takes him is, so that’s what my smile looks like.
owari