Chapter Text
There's a ringing in his ear, a constant white noise plunging him into a state void of thoughts ever since the doctor conveyed the news of his wife's passing. She died in her labor. She went inside the room alive but now she is no more, how? She was alive an hour ago? How?
His entire world came crashing down when he heard those words. What would he do now? What would he do when his lover is no more? What would he do now that he is left stranded alone in this life they were supposed to navigate together? what would he—
No, she shouldn't have, she shouldn't have died, there's something wrong, his wife shouldn't have died, they were supposed to take home their baby, they have made plans for the naming ceremony, they have prepared everything, this isn't supposed to happen, she shouldn't have died, No, no, no.
There is a burning in his chest and behind his eyes. He feels like his lungs are filling up with something heavy and it's weighing him down. He can't swallow nor can he breathe. He tries to grab on to the nearby chair to steady himself but his movements are uncoordinated.
His knees buckle and throw him off balance, a pair of hands grabbed and held him so that he didn't fall. Paralyzed in the hold, he couldn't breathe, he is drowning. It's suffocating him.
He isn't able to process anything that happened after that. He cannot feel the warmth of hands holding his in consolation nor can he make out the face of the person holding it. His surroundings feel like it's closing in on him, his breath coming in short pants. In all that stupor he hears someone calling his name, shaking him back to earth, getting his consciousness back. He feels like he is being hauled up from the depths of the ocean, temporarily relieving him from the suffocation.
"Sakumo...." a gentle voice trails off. "Sakumo— look at me. " the voice nudges like he is pressed against the familiar broad chest.
He turns in the hold to look at the face of the one holding him to find a blur of silver. He blinks slowly to clear the haze but couldn't.
"I—" his lips move, trying to get the words out, but what is he supposed to say? What more does anyone want from him? What more does he have left to give? His throat constricts again.
"My boy please" the gentle voice returns to him again, he is helped to a seat in the waiting chair.
People walk in and out of the delivery room. More hurried steps and more static noise. He couldn't pay attention to anything other than looking at his own palms like it held answers for him.
He watches as a small warm bundle placed into his open palms. He can hear words adrift around him like health, stable and grip. So he instinctively adjusts his hold. The weight in his arms shifts a little with soft snuffles and faint whimpers.
He snaps his head to look at his father whose arms wraps Sakumo hold around the baby.
"Father—", the burning behind his eyes returns when the baby briefly opens eyes for a moment and closes again. "I—" he swallows around the word again. "Father, it's — it's my baby" he whispers, his voice in slight wonder.
"He is my baby, isn't he? Father, isn't he? He is my baby " He holds his baby close to his chest, watching in fascination when the little one moves his hands in air with a squeak.
"He is your boy, Sakumo" his father says whilst rubbing soothing circles on Sakumo's back though eyes still holding the tightness around it.
A smile blooms on his face when his father says, "He looks just like you" with fondness brimming.
"He is, He is my baby" Sakumo repeats again, his eyes anywhere but the soft puffiness in his arms, taking in the cherub cheeks, grey lashes framing his eyes and the head full of silver mane. He is his carbon copy.
The smile morphs into sadness when his eyes land on the beauty mark in corner of his mouth like his wife. The enormity of it settles over him. The beauty mark—hers—opens the wound afresh, and grief rushes back into his lungs like seawater.
As if sensing his distress, the baby shifted in his arms with an uneven eh, eh sound, his soft, puffy face scrunching up in protest. Sakumo's thumb moves of its own accord, brushing over the blanket once more, as though he needed to reassure himself that the little weight in his arms was real.
Then a tiny hand emerged, wrapping its entire palm around his index finger. Whatever fragile restraint Sakumo had been clinging to shattered. A sob tore from his chest, tears spilling freely down his face as the baby blinked awake, large grey eyes slowly opening to look up at him.
And for the first time since hearing of his wife's death, Sakumo cried.
He weeps until his chest aches and his breath comes in uneven shudders, tears falling freely onto the blanket cradled in his arms. Strong hands settle on his shoulders again, another physical anchor in this dreadful circumstance other than his son in his arms, his father's steady presence at his back, while across from him his wife's parents wipe at their own eyes.
They simply let him grieve.
Somewhere amidst the tears and the suffocating ache threatening to swallow him whole once more, the tiny hand around his finger squeezes.
A wet laugh escapes him.
"Persistent little thing, aren't you?" he murmurs, voice rough from crying.
As though offended by being ignored, the baby lets out a disgruntled sound and nudges his face forward with all the determination his tiny body can muster, his nose pressing against Sakumo's wrist.
The sight is so unexpectedly earnest that another laugh escapes him, quieter this time, drawing startled smiles from those around him.
And suddenly, through the haze of tears, a memory surfaces.
"If he gets your hair, he'll look like a little scarecrow," she had teased one evening, her laughter bright and unrestrained.
"And if he gets your temper?" Sakumo had retorted.
"Then Heaven help us."
"Poor child."
She had swatted his arm with a scandalized gasp before dissolving into laughter once more.
"We should give him a strong name," she had declared. "Something fitting for the son of the great Hatake Sakumo."
"That's too much pressure for a baby."
"Fine. Then we'll call him Kakashi."
"Kakashi?" he had repeated, unable to hide his amusement.
"Mm. So when he's old enough to get into trouble, you can tell everyone your son takes after his mother."
The memory leaves him smiling through fresh tears.
"Kakashi," he whispers, looking down at the tiny face nestled in his arms.
Grey eyes blink sleepily up at him, and impossibly, a small yawn answers him.
Fondness blooms in his chest, gentle and aching, settling beside the grief instead of replacing it.
"Your mother and I chose well, didn't we?" he says softly, thumb brushing over the blanket tucked beneath the baby's chin.
Around him, he hears quiet sniffles and watery chuckles. His wife's mother presses a hand to her mouth. His own mother smiles through tears.
And Sakumo smiles too.
Leaning down, he presses a kiss to his son's forehead.
"Welcome home, Kakashi."