Chapter Text
Kakashi stayed on the rooftop all day, gazing over Konoha. He did not read. He simply allowed his mind to wander.
It was alright that no one understood him. Yes, the loneliness prickled at his skin and dragged a needle through his heart, but when had that ever not been true? Certainly not since the age of five years old.
In fact, it was kind of nice to acknowledge that no one understood his intentions.
A lot of people thought that Kakashi was a little bit heartless. Cool. Aloof. (Isn't that what Gai had said so many times? Perhaps he had been mistaken in thinking Gai had understood him at all, really.)
He wasn't, actually. In fact, he was hyperaware of the rises and falls in the emotions of those around him. He knew that forthrightness, though valuable in its own right sometimes, could more often turn someone the wrong direction. Be misinterpreted. Be misunderstood.
Honest words more often backfired than they didn't, and there was a time and a place for them. Simply telling his genin that he believed in them would have been worth little; recommending them for the Chūnin Exam meant much. Simply telling Gai that he wanted to be friends meant little; accepting inane challenges meant far more. Simply telling Asuma that his father loved him, really and truly, would have done nothing; Asuma needed to learn that for himself by accepting more responsibility and experiencing how that changed him (and, in fact, Kakashi may or may not have been the first to mention, in passing and in the middle of a conversation about a merchant arriving from the capital, about the Guardians seeking a new member, knowing that the experience would give Asuma space and wisdom). And so forth.
Almost no one – or maybe no one – actually understood that, though. They couldn't, or wouldn't, understand that he played a game seven or ten moves ahead, looking underneath the underneath of the underneath. Perhaps it was a byproduct of his genius. Perhaps he was a special brand of idiot.
Perhaps he was simply destined for loneliness.
He thought about his genin team and smiled beneath his mask, his eye crinkling beneath his hitai-ate as he remembered with real fondness the way that Naruto complained incessantly about eating his vegetables, how Sasuke crossed his arms and grumbled when Kakashi tousled his hair, and how Sakura squealed with pride when he complimented her for mastering a technique before either of the boys did. He hoped they would accept the recommendation by going to the first stage of the exam. (He already knew with certainty that they would pass whatever preliminaries might be thrown at them.)
They might not understand him, but, truth be told, he didn't want them to understand him. He wanted them to have childhoods, not the kind of gory, (infected,) still-weeping scars that crisscrossed his own heart.
He wondered how he would irritate them tomorrow. It would be a good day for it, and some of that emptiness in his heart would be filled as they bickered and shouted at him for being late.
As evening fell, he wondered how the preliminaries were going. He wondered what Iruka was thinking. He wondered why he even cared.
Hope, he acknowledged wryly to himself.
Even now, at far closer to 30 years old than he'd ever thought he'd be, part of him never stopped yearning to be understood. To be seen. Sometime, he hoped with another wry smile, before I get killed on the field, would be nice.
It did not seem very likely that Iruka would be the one to understand.
The moon hung in the velvet sky above him when he felt the faint burn of chakra in the air behind him. At the same moment, he saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye.
An Ame nin stood there, out in the open and without a care in the world.
No Ame nin, then.
And the only reason someone would need to wear the face of an Ame nin would be if they were trying to go unrecognised. By genin, for example.
He turned away, unconcerned that the ninja behind him might attack him. He already knew that Iruka would reveal himself when he was ready to do so.
"How was it?" he asked mildly, looking out over the golden streetlights. Far down below, families laughed together as they went to and from restaurants, couples held hands (one particularly notable civilian couple giggled and canoodled in an alleyway, unaware of their accidental audience), and children played in the summer heat.
"We went to the trouble of having a special preliminary exam," a gruff voice said. Interesting; Iruka had gone so far as to change his voice. Well, Kakashi supposed he had to, else the genin would surely recognise their old sensei's voice. "But all nine rookies passed."
Kakashi heard the distinctive puff as a transformation was released into the hot summer air.
"As you say," came Iruka's mellow voice, perhaps somewhat ashamed, "it appears their skills have indeed improved."
It was an apology, wrapped up in acknowledgement that Kakashi had been right.
"Well, the actual Chūnin Exams won't be this easy, but..." Kakashi answered in an apology of his own. He knew that they would be difficult. He knew that he could lose his precious students, who were nearly his family – but he had no choice but to let them grow. He would only hinder them by overprotecting them.
"Thank you," Iruka whispered. "I... didn't realise."
Kakashi tossed a look over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised.
"Didn't realise?" he asked, wondering what Iruka had parsed from his apology.
"How worried you are about them," Iruka said with a tenuous smile. "You... are, aren't you?"
Kakashi blinked, because he wasn't quite sure what else to do. He wondered how Iruka could see how much he cared, and how much the recommendation meant to him, from a few simple words in an apology that lay underneath the underneath of the underneath, far more layers down than most people ever saw.
"What makes you say that?" he asked lazily. The laziness was, as it typically was, an act: part of his means of accumulating greater information from those around him. But he watched Iruka closely with a half-lidded gaze. Because what he was really asking was, How much of me can you see?
Iruka, too, blinked, his head cocking slightly.
"Ah," he said softly, as if in understanding, as if something had been explained to him. And bizarrely, Kakashi had a feeling that they were having three conversations at once: one about the children, one about Kakashi, and one about Iruka.
"You'll have to forgive me," Iruka said with a sudden, small, yet dazzling smile. "I'm not nearly as subtle as you are. The pre-genin would never understand what I was saying if I were, you know?"
Kakashi cocked his head slightly, looking at Iruka more discerningly now. There it was: an open acknowledgement that Iruka had seen.
All the wariness had vanished from Iruka's dark eyes, replaced only by warmth.
"Please explain," Kakashi said with the most bored tone he could muster. He wanted proof. No– he needed proof, because hope beat broken wings against his ribs as it suddenly surged to life again.
"Hmm," Iruka said, his words measured and his brow furrowed. "What are you hoping I'll say, Kakashi-sensei?"
Kakashi stilled, because... well... it sounded like an honest question. It sounded like Iruka truly wanted to know what Kakashi was hoping he would say, and nothing more.
He tried to remember the last time someone had asked him a fully honest question, with nothing behind it to pick apart and understand.
"I'm... not sure," he finally confessed, freely giving honesty for honesty. "What are you hoping I'll say?"
Iruka looked at him for a long time. Then the corners of his lips twitched into a half-concealed smile.
"You know it won't always be like this, right?" Iruka asked, his dark eyes piercing in the night.
Kakashi half-smiled. This could mean so many different things. Easy. Natural. Open. Honest. Understood.
"It rarely is," he countered. "So? What are you hoping I'll say?"
"'Yes'," Iruka said confidently.
Kakashi blinked, legitimately bewildered this time.
"'Yes'?" he repeated blankly.
Iruka's soft mouth untwisted, and a smile spread across his lips.
His scar crinkled a little at his nose when he smiled, Kakashi noticed.
"Oh, good! I'll see you tomorrow evening at 7, then," he said cheerfully, his knees dipping as if he were about to leap away into the darkness. "In front of the Hokage Tower. Don't be late."
"Wait, what?" Kakashi spluttered. "Tomorrow evening? What does that have to do with anything?"
Iruka's smile turned into a little smirk.
"You said yes," he said smugly. It was a rather nice look on him, smugness, a far cry from the uncertain and insecure young man Kakashi had once advised on a park bench so many years ago.
Kakashi smiled despite himself. The childlike playfulness combined with cleverness was, if nothing else, entertaining. And Iruka's eyes, dancing with laughter, made the night seem a little brighter; his smile, dazzling and free, made the world seem a little softer and more kind.
He knew that other people would see that smile and say, Ah, you've never had your heart broken before. I can see it. And Kakashi also knew that those people would be desperately wrong – that Iruka had loved, and lost, and had his heart crushed and shattered more deeply than most people could ever hope to know.
It was nice, to see a smile like that: so full of life that most people could never even dream of recognising what it held.
"And what did I say yes to?" he asked, amused. It had been a while since someone had jerked the proverbial rug out from under his feet like that.
"Oh, didn't you notice me ask you to join me for dinner?" Iruka asked, all innocence.
Kakashi laughed, a lightness suddenly opening up in his chest.
"At 7," he agreed, and then Iruka was gone.