#30-minute

The clothes were once his father’s: trousers worn through at the knees and a plaid shirt with a ripped hem. Straw stuffing poked through tiny holes eaten by insects or the elements and the left arm hung deflated at its side. The henohenomoheji that formed its face had once been stark black against burlap, but nature had weathered it to a dull gray, barely indistinguishable in the dim light. That was fitting. In the last years, Kakashi hadn’t wanted to see his own face, either. Locusts buzzed, nearly drowning out Kakashi’s quiet whisper: “Iruka.” It didn't take long; it never did. Darkness shimmered. Nameless colors coalesced, taking shape and form, until a young man was perched on the scarecrow's shoulder. The scarecrow didn't bend or sag, showed no signs that it's new rider had weight or substance—but Kakashi knew better. He had never doubted, not for a moment, that Iruka was real—even if he lacked the limits and definitions that usually confined humanity. That was good, actually. Kakashi was well acquainted with humanity these days. Humanity was the faces behind Kakashi's eyelids at night, the weight on his chest when adrenaline strangled his heart. "You look older," Kakashi remarked. Iruka ran clawed fingers over the bridge of his nose. A raised red line, like unhealed flesh, marked the definition where skin had once transitioned into a sharp, avian beak. "Because you do,” Iruka agreed. His voice caressed Kakashi’s ears the way it always had: warm and effervescent, curling in the space between them like smoke. He didn’t mention the new scar that adorned Kakashi’s face, or the bloodied sclera and mangled pupil. “How long has it been since you last called me?" Iruka asked quietly. "Four years. My father died. I went to fight the war in his stead." Iruka’s eyes sharpened and a crease formed between his brows. His wings undulated. The scarecrow remained stagnant. Iruka looked away, gaze running over the grounds. "I don't like the woman who took over when you left. She's planted corn too many years now. It'll eat the nutrients from the soil." It would; everyone knew that. It was a precocious crop that could feed many, but it stole life to do so. The purple flowers that lined its field could ward away insects, but not the diseases that lurked in the dying earth. Kakashi had seen far too much consumed by death. He had seen crows peck at the festering corpses of his friends, digging into their tender bellies to eat away their intestines and pecking at clouded eyeballs. "My father, the first time I asked about you—he told me that Tengu were portents of war." Kakashi murmured. “I didn’t believe him.” Iruka’s dark hair fluttered, breaking into the outline of the full moon. "Do you believe it now?" Kakashi shivered. He hadn’t brought a coat; he could have. "I don't know. I’m not sure if I care. The war’s over. Rin, Obito—” ‘I don't have anything to live for.’