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i.
Iruka doesn’t mean to befriend Kakashi.
But then again, he’s been told enough times in his life that his nigh unbearable tendency to care is the reason he ends up in so many situations most people would never willingly seek out for themselves. So, it’s not exactly a surprise when Iruka realizes that somewhere between foolishly, stubbornly challenging Kakashi’s teaching methods in front of the Sandaime himself and despondently watching Naruto’s offensively orange back grow farther and farther away from the gates of Konoha, he’d formed a comfortable camaraderie with the jounin.
Now, a year since Naruto’s departure, it has managed to survive even in the face of Iruka’s admittedly frequent bouts of ire and Kakashi’s idiosyncratic compulsion to set people off. In fact, their relationship has grown into something resembling friendship.
Not like the relationship Kakashi shares with Gai, maybe, but close enough for Iruka to know the man better than he’s pretty sure most of his colleagues do. It’s something that fills Iruka with something like teacherly pride, really. That Kakashi’s managed to open up to someone in such a short amount of time is nothing short of a miracle—although, Iruka does have to admit much of the gossip surrounding the infamous copy-nin had coloured the majority of his opinions prior to actually getting to know him. So maybe it’s not that big of a deal.
Still, Iruka’s fairly certain some rumours ring truer than others. It doesn’t take a Yamanaka to decode Kakashi’s carefully curated brand of indifference for what it is—a reticence to form bonds with others. Be known by them.
Iruka’s dealt with his fair share of repressed, haunted children at the academy. He’s got an eye for these kinds of things, no matter how fervently some teachers believe tending to a child’s mental state makes them soft.
Kakashi is much harder to read, of course, but not impossible, and Iruka knows that’s because he’s purposely let his guard down a little. Iruka used to believe Kakashi was just irrevocably cold, but he knows better now. Kakashi’s heart is a well-loved blanket, torn and threadbare from overuse but rebelliously strong where it still holds together, set on allocating warmth where it can.
The revelation has moulded some of the friendly affection Iruka’s grown to hold for the man into something decidedly less platonic, but Iruka doesn’t think about that. Ever. For obvious reasons.
He channels a lot of his not-thinking into nagging. It works out pretty well.
“You can afford to relax in my home, Kakashi-san,” Iruka sighs after looking up from his grading for the third time to find Kakashi still sitting with a straight back, Icha Icha dutifully in hand.
He’s taken to dropping by quite frequently as of late, more often than not resigning himself to a single corner of whichever room Iruka is in with book in hand. It gets Iruka to clean more frequently, if anything, but it’s also surprisingly pleasant. Naruto’s absence is something he’s still not completely used to.
“And you in my company, sensei,” Kakashi retorts without missing a beat, lowering his book just enough that Iruka can catch the crinkle of his eye.
They’ve had this conversation before, fleetingly. Iruka just can’t shake off his sense of decorum, though. Besides, he’s tried saying Kakashi in front of the mirror before. Even without the man in front of him, it had coloured his cheeks an embarrassing pink.
“Don’t change the subject,” Iruka admonishes, gesturing up and down to the way he’s sitting with a pen. “You don’t have to be so stiff. The entire village is well-acquainted with your terrible posture, you know, I won’t judge.”
“Maa, if my comfort is your concern, rest assured you’ve got nothing to worry about.” Kakashi waves him off dismissively and buries his nose back in the book. It’s clear that he thinks the conversation is over, but Iruka squints suspiciously at him.
He’s sitting at the dining table with one leg crossed over the other and his back ramrod straight, well-defined shoulders pushed out of their usual hunch. He hasn’t got his vest on so it’s even easier to see the way his shirt doesn’t sink inwards the way it usually does when he’s slouching around the village.
Iruka usually grades on the couch, which he’s reasoned Kakashi is maybe not entirely comfortable sharing with him just yet, but he does want the man to be kind to his back, especially considering how much time Kakashi spends in that exact position when he’s over.
“I don’t believe you,” Iruka declares, leaning off his knees so he can settle back into the couch, crossing his arms across his chest.
“Belief is a fickle thing.” Kakashi sounds annoyingly whimsical.
Iruka huffs. He’s used to the rollercoaster of emotions being around Kakashi puts him on by now. “I’m asking you to convince me.”
Kakashi looks up at that, an eyebrow raised curiously. “This is bothering you.”
“You do have a bothersome habit of not being reliably forthright.”
For a moment, it looks as though Kakashi’s going to retort with something snarky, but Iruka’s learned to read the small shifts under his mask by now. His lips move minutely before halting, and then he’s placing the book on the table and sticking his hands in his pockets, gaze assessing.
Iruka tries not to buckle under it.
“My poor posture,” he begins, less like a confession and more like he’s telling a particularly dull story, “is forced. Sitting straight comes more naturally to me.”
Well, that’s difficult to reconcile with the image of the infamously lazy jounin-sensei Hatake Kakashi, but it is, Iruka reasons, just an image, after all.
“Why?” He asks, stopping himself from cringing at how much he sounds like one of his pre-genin kids.
Fortunately, Kakashi seems game to answer. He smartly applies the question to both his statements.
“I appear less threatening slow and slouched.” There’s a quick flicker of hesitation in his eye Iruka only pinpoints because of how much time he’s spent tuning himself to Kakashi, consciously or not, and then Kakashi continues, tone growing deliberately casual. “Good posture was a strict requirement, growing up. It’s second nature.”
Iruka barely manages to stop himself from tensing at the mention of Kakashi’s childhood, knowing it will only make him flighty. He hears what Kakashi doesn’t say, that his father taught him to sit well. The Hatake clan had been one of great honour, after all, Kakashi must’ve been taught to represent it accordingly in public from a young age.
After the White Fang’s passing… well, Iruka knows firsthand what it’s like to cling to any and all surviving remnants of family, even through the mind-numbing haze of anger.
He only registers the first part of Kakashi’s answer after easing through the shock of the second.
Imagining Kakashi as anything but the laidback shinobi he is now is probably hard for most of the younger villagers, but Iruka remembers the whispers from his childhood, cruel and unrelenting. Friend-killer Kakashi, they murmured amongst themselves when he walked through the village, carrying himself like the lethal weapon he was.
Still is.
Kakashi, who had so much power when was so young. One mission gone wrong, and it suddenly became Kakashi, who had too much power when he was so young.
Iruka’s not familiar with the details, but he knows what a haunted child looks like. When Kakashi needed love the most, he was feared instead.
Iruka wonders when Kakashi decided to make the change. When he started dragging his feet to announce his presence, keep his hands in his pockets so no one could see them involuntarily twitch for kunai at sudden movements, slouch so he didn’t seem perpetually combat-ready. Even the Icha Icha books served a purpose, really. People were more approachable when they seemed distracted, off-guard.
Somewhere along the way, Konoha’s residents had grown kinder to Kakashi, but he’d had to work for that kindness.
Iruka doesn’t know what to say, and Kakashi seems to pick up on this, grabbing his book cheerily. “So you see, Iruka-sensei, I’m perfectly at ease in your home.”
A few quiet moments pass before Iruka comes back to himself, leaning his forearms on his knees and grabbing his pen. He taps it once, twice against the table, then stops, circling something on the paper in front of him and scribbling in a little note next to it.
“Belief really is all too fickle,” he says quickly and quietly, flipping over the test.
He thinks he hears Kakashi laugh, just barely, and Iruka hides a smile of his own, chest warm.
ii.
Unlike nearly everyone who knows Kakashi, Iruka does not have a particularly strong desire to see what lies behind his mask. He’s been subjected to quite a few outlandish theories courtesy of Naruto’s imaginative brain, but in truth, he knows there’s probably nothing all that impressive to be uncovered.
Through the contours of his mask alone Iruka can make out a strong jaw, an average nose, and lips that don’t even come close to resembling those of a fish. He’ll admit that he’s spent perhaps an inordinate amount of time sneaking glances at Kakashi’s face, but it’s how he learned to read him better, that’s all. Whether or not he thinks about how Kakashi’s jaw would feel under his fingers is a separate matter, one that he’s filed away deep, deep into a dark and lonely cabinet in his mind.
From time to time, though, Iruka does wonder who’s had the privilege to see beyond the mask. Just as a little thought exercise.
He knows Gai knows because he’d been invited to dinner with the two of them at Kakashi’s place once and Gai had opened the door with a blinding grin, thumb pointing behind him where Kakashi was unhurriedly disappearing down the hall with a hand towel held to his face.
“Iruka-sensei!” Gai had boomed with glee. “Excuse my Esteemed Rival! His usual Exemplary Aptitude for Organization has uncharacteristically failed him today! Come in, we shall engage in Lively Conversation over a cup of Fragrant, Passionately Brewed tea while we await Kakashi’s masked arrival!”
He’d eventually returned before Iruka’s ears started ringing, a handkerchief tied around the lower half of his face. It had looked unfairly good on him.
Other than that one incident, Iruka can’t personally confirm or deny if anyone else has seen Kakashi’s face. He doesn’t expect to add himself to the roster quite so soon, though, that’s for sure.
Maybe he should’ve expected it—after all, shinobi who end up in the hospital after missions aren’t usually in any condition to request much of anything, and the Hokage has been more than obvious about her lack of patience for Kakashi’s antics. Still, it startles him a little to see a sleeping Kakashi’s bare face when he visits the suite all the medi-nin have taken to calling The Copy Room. He’s heard one too many jokes about broken machines and restocking paper already, and it’s only been fifteen minutes since he stepped foot in the hospital.
Kakashi’s chakra-exhausted body lies perfectly still on the bed, and Iruka averts his gaze almost immediately, feeling guilty. He focuses instead on his surroundings, letting his eyes roam around the room even as concern creeps up on him. He can feel the—very faint—presence of Kakashi’s chakra, sluggish but even the way it tends to be in sleep.
Next to the bed, there’s a photo of a bored Kakashi. His hitai-ate isn’t present, much like now, silver hair falling messily in his eyes in that way that softens his edges a bit. His arms are crossed and he’s sitting upright in bed, looking straight into the camera as if to say, really?
Underneath, there’s a small label Iruka leans in to see. He has to stifle a snicker when he reads what it says. Reserved: Biggest Brat in Konoha.
The Godaime has always had excellent penmanship.
“Is my current state really so amusing, sensei?”
Iruka starts, an involuntary flush flooding his face as he turns to find Kakashi looking at him with one eye just barely open. He hadn’t felt any changes in his chakra signature, which can only mean Kakashi was pretending to sleep and wanted to surprise whoever had walked into his room. Iruka scowls almost immediately, torn between chatsising Kakashi for even attempting to mould chakra when he’s clearly unfit to do so or quietly revelling in his ability to execute as much control as he did despite his weakened state. As per usual, the two feelings wrestle briefly before resigning themselves to reluctant coexistence.
Iruka sighs, dropping his gaze to the side table once he realizes he’s looking directly at Kakashi. There may be some masks in there, if he looks. “The medi-nin seem to think so, although I can’t begin to see why. Having you as a patient must be infuriating.”
“They must be used to it at this point,” he continues, squatting down to push things around in the first drawer. “The hundredth visit is probably a lot less harrowing than the first.”
Even tired, Kakashi’s scratchy voice still manages to hold some semblance of humour. “Are you calling me careless?”
“Well, now you’re just putting words in my mouth, Kakashi-san,” Iruka chides, though his lips twitch upwards. He grabs a slightly crumpled mask that had been sitting underneath some gloves and stands back up, holding it out in Kakashi’s general direction without looking. “Here, you’re missing your mask.”
Calloused fingertips brush his own for a moment before finding their way around his wrist, loose and weak. His wrist is lowered, but only because Iruka lets it be, and Kakashi’s voice is soft when it addresses him. “No need for that, it’s just you.”
Iruka throws chains around the lone filing cabinet in his head, keeping it firmly locked. He swallows against his better judgement, hoping in vain that Kakashi doesn’t take note of it. “Are you sure?”
“Quite,” Kakashi assures. “You can look, sensei. I promise not to bite.”
Iruka purses his lips, mentally preparing himself, then nods once and turns, truly taking in Kakashi’s bared face for the first time.
It’s… young. For a lack of better words.
Without much else to look at, Iruka’s spent a considerable amount of time catching Kakashi’s eye, examining the little exposed skin around, searching for further depths within in. It had always seemed very old, to Iruka.
There’s a history that weighs more than most people can carry in the darkness under his eye and the hardness deep inside of it, underneath the layers of light he’s built overtop it through the years. There are wrinkles Iruka knows shouldn’t be there so soon that come from squinting in pain more than they do smiling. The few times he’s seen the other eye, he’s come to a similar conclusion. Pair all that with Kakashi’s silver hair and aged mannerisms and one could easily size him up to be ten years older than he really is with the mask on.
But underneath it, his face holds none of that wear and tear.
His skin is strangely smooth, untouched by the elements, and his lips looks soft and oddly pink. His nose is a delicate curve free of awkward ridges or harsh bone structure. Like this, Kakashi looks as if he wouldn’t comprehend what war was, much less have been deeply, permanently changed because of it.
Iruka is suddenly very aware of his own scar. Kakashi’s rips through his eye like a tear immortalized, and Iruka’s sweeps wide across the ridge of his nose, an accessory layered over the place he develops a brilliant flush when he cries.
If he were more of a romantic, he would think it means something. As it is, it just sobers him.
Battle scars, honourable spoils of the field, and yet both of theirs are most obvious when they’re at their most vulnerable. The scars weren’t about honour or duty when they’d gotten them. As children, they were just about pain. The heated flow of blood. Dark, bitter loss.
But Kakashi’s never truly been a child, has he?
Iruka wonders if it scares him, to look at his own bare face and be reminded of his age. He wonders if it feels like tempting fate.
“You have a very young face,” Iruka observes somewhat belatedly, blinking out of his trance to make eye contact with the other man.
“Hm, yes, I’ve been told that before,” Kakashi says, sounding a little spacey. One hand comes up to scratch absently at his cheek, and his lips turn up into a slight smile, impish in the way children are.
Iruka realizes his hand is still being kept in a light grip. He doesn’t make to move it, instead hooking a chair closer with his foot and sitting down, hand resting on the bed with the mask still held loosely between his fingers.
“By Gai-san?” Iruka guesses, because it’s the only name he’s sure of.
Kakashi rolls his head to look at Iruka, eyelid drooping. “By everyone. It’s why I wear the mask.”
Iruka holds his tongue, knowing it’s not his place to ask who exactly Kakashi means by everyone, but the curiosity lingers, only sated by the fact that he was just given the answer to what might be one of Kakashi’s best kept mysteries. His eye looks a little foggy, and Iruka wonders distractedly if he’s on any painkillers. It would explain the sudden confession.
“I moved up the ranks quite swiftly, sensei,” Kakashi explains conversationally. “I’m sure you’re familiar with how seriously younger children in higher classes are taken.”
Iruka snorts. Not very, he knows, even if they’re geniuses. There’s too much festering resentment.
“If they couldn’t see my face, it was harder for them to tell,” Kakashi finishes happily, looking at Iruka like he’s waiting for him to praise his clever thinking.
Iruka recalls seeing the picture of Kakashi’s academy team in his room once, the one led by the Yondaime. He must’ve been something like ten-years-old, but he was muscled, if a little wiry. He could’ve passed for someone older, even then. Iruka feels like he’s been entrusted with information he really shouldn’t know. The cabinet in his head bursts open, and with it, overwrought concern for how Kakashi was treated by his peers back then.
“I’m glad you found a way to receive the respect you deserved,” Iruka tells him carefully, although he’s not sure how much sincerity he was able to push into the words. Genius or not, children shouldn’t need to have such tact.
The effects have been long lasting, clearly, if Kakashi still takes refuge behind his mask.
“Thank you for trusting me, Kakashi-san,” Iruka adds, softer and truer. He smiles and gently taps the hand still circled around his wrist. “Perhaps you should get some rest, now.”
He doesn’t want Kakashi to share anything more he might regret. And, selfishly, he doesn’t want his heart to keep clenching in sympathy.
“That might be a good idea,” Kakashi admits wearily, eye finally fluttering shut. His grip loosens, but doesn’t release. “Will you be leaving?”
Wishful thinking, Iruka hears, stay.
So he says, “Not yet. Please, rest.”
And he stays until he’s as sure as he can be that Kakashi’s really asleep, pulling his hand free without resistance.
His heart doesn’t unclench until he’s home.
iii.
Iruka doesn’t realize just how much he’s gotten used to spending time with Kakashi until he stops coming around.
A week passes, then two, and Iruka’s gotten nothing but radio silence. He spends some of the time feeling guilt over their last encounter, fearing he crossed an unspoken line by overstaying his welcome, letting Kakashi speak when he was clearly looser-lipped than usual. When the guilt troughs, the annoyance swells. It’s not like any of what he did was premeditated! And he and Kakashi aren’t strangers—doesn’t the natural progression of any friendship warrant learning new things about the other?
Iruka spits aggressively into the sink, staring at his toothpaste-covered frown in the mirror for a few seconds before slackening. In truth, the overwhelming majority of his feelings haven’t been the anxious oscillation between guilt and annoyance, but the desire to care. Long, well, and hard.
Kakashi’s much too similar to Naruto, soundlessly tucking away his hurts just to don a bright smile and power through them. At least Naruto had the good sense to eventually accept ministrations when he needed them, inviting himself over to eat or sleeping over after missions. Kakashi, on the other hand, would probably body-flicker into an alternate dimension if Iruka attempted to press him about his issues.
More than half of what Iruka knows about Kakashi has been extrapolated from single sentences, vague and sporadic. It’s infuriating, but it doesn’t make Iruka want to care any less.
He finishes up brushing his teeth and pulls his hair-tie out on the way to his bedroom, massaging the top of his scalp for a few seconds to ease the ache of wearing a ponytail all day. He needs to sleep, body physically drained from a week of pre-genin flinging shuriken at him, and mind emotionally tired from two weeks of picking at a Kakashi-shaped scab.
Still, even knowing he needs rest, his brain doesn’t stop whirling.
Loathe as he is to admit it, it’s getting harder and harder to prevent his feelings for Kakashi from spilling over. Fourteen days apart and Iruka feels like he’s gone into withdrawal. He misses Kakashi’s easy company and his juvenile sense of humour, and it upsets him more than he usually lets it when he thinks about how Kakashi probably doesn’t miss much of anything about Iruka.
He’s spent a fortnight hearing a hushed confession, feeling warm, roughened fingers around his wrist, so distracted that even some of his students have started to notice.
That, more than anything, is unsettling. Iruka is a man of duty before anything else, a fact usually unshaken by even the largest of tremors in his life. Clearly, Kakashi is a seismic anomaly.
Iruka groans, burying his face in his pillow. If Kakashi had just come around, things would’ve been normal and he wouldn’t be feeling so wrongfooted. He rolls back over after indulging in a few seconds of childish petulance, knowing tomorrow will be hell without enough sleep.
He doesn’t expect to see the chilling silhouette poised in his window.
In an instant, Iruka is sitting up with the kunai from under his pillow gripped in his hand. He lets it fall just as fast as soon as he notices the ANBU mask.
He wouldn’t have a fighting chance, and he’s much safer unarmed in the presence of the black-ops.
“ANBU-san,” he greets calmly and clearly, recognizing the unnatural stillness of the ANBU for what it is—a there-but-not-there override. Their only thoughts right now are related to survival, and Iruka has to dig deep, dredging up memories of basic training he underwent lifetimes ago to get a handle on the situation.
“How can I help you?” He asks evenly, very obviously telegraphing his movements as he drops his arm and turns his palms up. He holds the pose for a few beats before tediously removing his blanket. It’s a good thing he doesn’t wear a shirt to bed, it’ll make it easy for the ANBU to scan his person for weapons.
Iruka inches over to the side of the bed before swinging his legs over, soles of his feet pressing flat onto the floor. He’s hyperaware of being observed as he rests the back of his hands on his knees and looks straight ahead.
Trying to discern what the ANBU looks like is as fruitless as trying to trap water in your fist. Their masks draw all the attention, and attempting to look at identifying features like hair only gives you a headache, like you’re seeing too many blurry images stacked on top of each other. When you look away, you forget everything but the markings of the mask. Iruka knows this well, having spent much of his time in the Sandaime’s office attempting to memorize the ANBU in rotation.
He can practically taste his own heartbeat, mind attempting to race with questions of who and why and what but being shut down by a primal instinct hissing at him to keep a clear head, stay alert.
The silence stretches as far as it can before snapping, and between one blink and the next, the ANBU is standing in front of him, kunai pressed just hard enough under his chin that Iruka knows it’ll have no reservations going further if he gives it a reason to. He tries hard not to swallow, and slowly looks up.
This close, Iruka can see through the eyeholes of the mask.
He can spot the red glow of the Sharingan.
For a moment, Iruka stops breathing.
Then, quietly, he dares to ask, “Kakashi-san?”
It’s the wrong move. The kunai draws blood, and Iruka feels its slow trickle down his throat. Internally, he curses. Of course Kakashi is ANBU, of course he is—it’s not surprising enough to warrant Iruka foolishly letting down his guard. Like this, given the chance, Iruka knows Kakashi won’t hesitate to kill him. He can see it in his eyes, even in the dark.
“You have a beauty mark on the left side of your chin, near your mouth.” Iruka states like he’s giving a report, the sane alternative to shaking him by the shoulders and screaming friend, friend, I’m your friend!
The pressure recedes just slightly, and Iruka catches the slow blink from behind the mask. The imperceptible relaxation of his shoulders.
“Umino Iruka.” It’s Kakashi’s voice, but not. Kakashi’s voice carries shades of warmth and humour, always light, always relaxed. This Kakashi is devoid of all personality. Blank.
A sudden anger flares in Iruka and he has to stomp it down with force. This isn’t the time to berate what ANBU asks of its members, how intricately it breaks them.
“Kakashi,” Iruka tries again, purposefully dropping the honorific. It does the trick; Kakashi relaxes, the tip of the kunai barely grazing skin. Iruka’s off-book, now. Training never covered what to do when you know the ANBU’s identity. He adopts his best teacher-voice, attempting to sound assertive but non-threatening. “Please lower your weapon, Kakashi. I am not your enemy.”
“No,” Kakashi murmurs in distant agreement. He lowers his arm, but doesn’t back away, still looming over Iruka. Grateful the Sandaime’s chosen punishment for him was so often meditation, Iruka keeps perfectly still.
“Why are you in my home.” Kakashi states, sounding a little less monotone.
That throws Iruka off.
“This is my home, Kakashi,” he responds, a little confused.
Some form of self-recognition seems to sputter back to life in Kakashi’s eyes, and the Sharingan disappears right when the kunai hits the floor. Kakashi sinks to his knees, shifting his mask to the side of his head, and Iruka can finally look at him without feeling like his head is spinning. His open eye flicks to Iruka’s throat then away, squeezing shut. Gently, one hand supporting his ribs, he leans forward until his forehead meets Iruka’s palm, right over his knee.
His chakra re-appears with a flicker, no longer a silent void, and Iruka lets out a shaky breath, finally letting his muscles relax.
“I think I’m getting too old for this, sensei,” Kakashi confesses quietly, a bitter laugh unlike anything Iruka’s heard from him before leaving his mouth. Iruka feels it on his knee, warm.
He doesn’t ask how long Kakashi’s been ANBU for, afraid of what a truthful answer might do to him. Kakashi’s loyalty has always been a tiringly selfless thing, built on a mountain of grief Iruka hasn’t yet summoned up the courage to step foot on.
“Iruka,” he corrects gently, wiping the blood off with his free hand. “I think we can do away with formalities.”
Kakashi makes a sound resembling a laugh, and Iruka smiles despite still feeling rubbery. His free fingers twitch, wanting to comfort Kakashi in some way but aware of the potential dangers of initiating touch. For the time being, he lets Kakashi rest on his palm, keeping it as straight as he can.
“Just a little while longer and I’ll be out of your hair,” Kakashi promises, barely a whisper, and Iruka immediately wants to strangle him.
He looks like he’s about to pass out, and he’s still clutching his ribs like they’ll poke through skin if he doesn’t. There’s blood matting his silver hair, spackling his uniform, pressed over his tattoo in the shape of a hand, and he wants to just leave.
“You’ve disappeared on me for long enough,” Iruka says in a no-nonsense tone. “Just stay the night. There’s nothing to gain by continuing to push yourself, Kakashi.”
Kakashi doesn’t stiffen, but Iruka feels the slow exhale on his knee.
“Disappearing… there are times I can’t help it,” Kakashi says after a lengthy silence, some strength returning to his voice. He sounds frustrated, but it doesn’t seem to be directed at Iruka. Against his good conscience, he lets himself be relieved about this, that the avoidance wasn’t intentional.
He reaches out, hesitating for a moment before carefully curling a hand around Kakashi’s bicep. He squeezes, lightly because he’s not entirely sure where Kakashi’s more minor injuries lie, and is rewarded with a sloping shoulder.
“It takes more than that to make an enemy out of me,” Iruka assures him, mouth quirked up even though he can’t see it. “You’re good, Kakashi.”
“Bold words,” Kakashi notes, finally pushing up until they’re facing each other again. Iruka’s palm is warm, and it tingles with the severed touch. He flips it over to quell the need to reach out.
Kakashi looks between his eyes for a moment, then drops his gaze like he’s ashamed, staring at Iruka’s hand over his tattoo like it’s an anchor.
“Did I scare you?” He asks, already sounding apologetic.
And because Iruka respects him too much to lie, he says yes. But then, firmly, he adds, “But we’re shinobi, Kakashi. To fear or to be feared, they’re occupational hazards.”
Kakashi sits with this, and Iruka lets him. Eventually, Kakashi turns his gaze back to Iruka, and his eye curves ever so slightly. “I like the way you say my name.”
Iruka laughs loud enough to drown out his quickening heartbeat and thinks about how only Kakashi could manage to go from somber to flippant with such a short turnaround.
“We should get some rest,” Iruka smiles. Kakashi’s in too poor of a condition to be cleaned up or treated, that can wait until tomorrow. Iruka will take the couch tonight.
“Thank you for letting me stay.”
Iruka thinks, thank you for staying.
He says, “Don’t make a habit of it.”
“Ah, Iruka,” Kakashi says, quiet and warm. “You always do know what to say.”
+ i.
A month later, Gai invites Iruka out for drinks after a late-night shift. Drained as he is, he doesn’t think Gai will take no for an answer lying down, so he agrees before the jounin begins preaching about the importance of Living Fruitfully in the Prime of His Youth.
The Blind Spot, a lovely little sit-down bar tucked away in a blink-and-you'll-miss-it corner, is almost always full. Because of its size, though, “full” doesn’t ever mean more than a handful of people. Iruka figures the thin crowd is why Gai has toned down his volume to something that more closely resembles an average speaking voice.
“Delectable as always, Yumiko-san!” Gai normal-people yells with a blinding grin, raising his glass of craft beer to draw the owner's attention. She shoots Gai an affectionate smile from behind the bar, waving him off like he’s a grandson prone to excessive flattery.
It’s a funny gesture coming from her; she looks like she’s only around twenty years Gai’s senior, but then again, looks can be deceiving. Iruka sips on his own beer and sends out feelers for a chakra signature, only turning up with the low, faded texture of chakra that denotes civilians. Case closed, then. Civilians always tend to look far better for their age than shinobi.
Iruka flashes back to Kakashi’s face. Usually, he amends, they usually look better.
“Now, Iruka-sensei,” Gai pivots, setting his glass down. Iruka straightens up out of habit. “I have to admit to you, there was an ulterior motive to my invitation tonight.”
“Ah,” is all Iruka offers, trying not to seem caught off-guard. “Gai” and “ulterior motive” just don’t sit right next to each other in a sentence. He politely clears his throat. “What might that be, Gai-san?”
As if he’s been waiting to be asked that, Gai beams. “I would like to get to know you better—”
Iruka braces himself. He’s not one to jump to conclusions, but that sounds an awful lot like—
“—since you have entered a Most Beautiful partnership with my Esteemed Rival!”
Public interest has definitely been piqued, if the way Iruka notices conversations halting at the passionate declaration is any indication. He can’t bring himself to do much more than blink, though.
Taking this as a sign of being right, Gai melts, slamming a hand over his green chest with feeling. “Ah! Young Love!”
“I’m twenty-four,” Iruka corrects reflexively, then shakes his head, pushing his glass a little further away so he isn’t tempted to swallow all its contents. Loudly implying that Iruka has feelings is one thing, but it becomes a bit of a problem when Kakashi is introduced into the equation. “Gai-san, I think you’ve got the wrong idea. Kakashi and I are just good friends; any partnership we have is akin to the one you share with him.”
Gai falters, cheeks somehow already pink one drink in. He leans over the table indiscreetly, expression pulled into a twist of shock and offense. “But what about his hand?”
Iruka puzzles over this for a good ten seconds before coming up blank. Sighing, he slouches back into the booth. He really should’ve just gone home and gotten some rest, it only makes him miserable to have the unrequited state of his feelings be reinforced like this.
“What about his hand?” He asks, eyeing his drink before dismissing the thought of downing it. It would only lattice him in fraught lines of thinking.
Gai’s eyes widen imploringly, and Iruka barely stops himself from henge-ing into a cushion, taken aback by the sheer force of his belief.
“The red markings, sensei!” Gai cries. “Kakashi told me they were your handiwork, and he is far too Hip and Cool to spout needless lies…”
Iruka holds back a snort. Kakashi is neither hip nor cool on the daily, and he spouts needless lies any chance he gets for the sole sake of his own amusement. Still, he’d been telling the truth this time. Now that Gai’s provided him with some detail, Iruka knows what he’s referring to.
He’d been marking a few days ago in his apartment, Kakashi sat next to him on the couch.
Ever since the night he’d nearly sliced Iruka’s throat for sleeping in his own bedroom, he’d suddenly become a lot more generous with his touches. Kakashi, who Iruka had previously considered to be touch-avoidant, suddenly had no qualms about resting a casual hand between Iruka’s shoulder blades, pulling him along somewhere by the wrist, squeezing his shoulder in reassurance. It’s not like they’d never touched before, but any time they had it had been an outlier in the overall graph of Kakashi’s behaviours—like that one time at the hospital.
Kakashi’s hands have a weathered strength, but they’ve been plenty gentle with Iruka. It makes him embarrassingly weak in the knees to think about it.
In any case, Kakashi’s comfort levels had finally expanded enough to allow him next to Iruka on the couch. Iruka had mentally added the way he catalogued every time Kakashi’s knees brushed his to the long list of things he could never, ever tell Anko about.
Kakashi had been prodding him with questions about school and the kids, and eventually had worked up to volunteering his help with grading. Iruka’s initial elation had quickly dissipated once he’d learned how consistently terrible Kakashi seemed to be at converting number grades to letter grades.
“It’s not that hard, Kakashi,” Iruka had groaned after the fifth time Kakashi had pressed their shoulders together and asked, an air of mischief about him, What letter would this one be, sensei?
Ultimately, it was the sensei that clued him in to the fact that Kakashi was entertaining himself by pushing Iruka’s buttons yet again. So, he’d donned his best shark-like smile, watching wariness spark in Kakashi’s eye, and said, sweetly, “Here, I’ll help you remember.”
In a flash, he’d grabbed Kakashi’s hand and yanked the glove off it. Emboldened by Kakashi’s lack of a reaction, he’d taken his red pen to his palm, scribbling out the percentage to letter relations and underlining them all several times.
“There, a cheat sheet,” Iruka said smugly.
When he looked up, Kakashi was staring at his own palm in something like wonder. And then he blinked and the moment passed, humour lighting up his eye once again.
“Maa, sensei,” he’d drawled, turning a lazy smile onto Iruka, “if you’d wanted to hold my hand, all you had to do was ask.”
Obviously, Iruka had scowled and returned to his own work. His blush had been so furious he’d deliriously considered attempting to throw up a feeble genjutsu to mask it—from Sharingan no Kakashi.
Yeah, he’d just been glad to get Kakashi off his back once he left for a mission later that evening.
He still doesn’t understand how that all relates back to what Gai has convinced himself of, though. Kakashi had gotten back from his mission earlier today, so Gai had probably encountered him at the dorms and wheedled his way into Kakashi’s apartment. Maybe Kakashi had removed his gloves and the marks had still been there, but that’s not so strange—after all, thorough showers are something of a luxury on missions.
“Gai-san, what do the markings have to do with…” Iruka hesitates, then lowers his voice, not wanting the words to be heard leaving his mouth, “…my supposed partnership with Kakashi.”
Gai seems to simmer down at this, and his eyes lose their impassioned shine as gives Iruka a curious look. “You really aren’t aware, then?”
Aware of what? Iruka doesn’t whine, because he is a respected academy teacher and shinobi. Instead, he just shakes his head, trying not to look as tired as he feels.
“Kakashi doesn’t take his gloves off if he can help it,” Gai shares, surprisingly sober. He’s looking at his glass thoughtfully as if lost in a memory, then inhales slowly before locking eyes with Iruka once again. His next words are deliberately vague: “Unfortunately, some stains never quite wash out.”
A whisper of the past, Iruka hears friend-killer Kakashi echoing in his head.
Oh. Oh, of course.
Kami, and Iruka had been stupid enough to use red pen. He grips his glass hard to keep from smacking himself on the back of the head the way he does to Naruto when he’s being more of a terror than usual. What had Iruka been thinking, overstepping like that? While it was true that so much as broaching the topic of Kakashi’s past was like pulling teeth, Iruka should’ve been able to piece this one together on his own. The rumours had been anything but far and few in between, after all, and, like the unoccupied child he’d been, Iruka had lapped them up with a shameful hunger.
But even as he berates himself in his head, one thought overshadows the others: Kakashi hadn’t stopped him.
Why hadn’t Kakashi stopped him?
“I apologize if I’ve offended you with my poorly drawn conclusion, Iruka-sensei,” Gai tells him sincerely, but there’s a knowing twinkle in his eye and a small smile playing at his lips that makes Iruka’s cheeks go hot. “But I’m sure you can see how I arrived at it.”
Mind racing, Iruka mumbles a dismissive agreement and quickly calls out for another beer despite not having finished his first. After staying for what he hopes is a passably polite amount of time, he thanks Gai for a wonderful evening and takes his leave.
He knows he isn’t heading home before he’s even stepped out of the bar.
As soon as Iruka lands at Kakashi’s doorstep, he wants to leave.
He’s too nervous, too preoccupied with overanalyzing every interaction he’s ever had with Kakashi to hold a proper conversation with him. Deeper down, he knows he needs to cool down, too, bubbling with latent irritation at the mere suggestion of Kakashi returning his feelings.
If it’s true, then Iruka has spent a whole lot of time agonizing over a whole lot of nothing.
If it’s true, then they could’ve been something much, much earlier.
Halfway through his useless dithering, the choice of whether to stay or go is made for him.
The door swings open, casting Iruka in a somewhat clinical light, Kakashi standing with his head curiously cocked in it. He must’ve felt Iruka’s chakra signature.
“Yo, Iruka,” Kakashi greets, a hand in the air. Iruka wants to murder him a little.
“Are you in love with me?” He demands, mouth working faster than his brain.
“Oh,” Kakashi says, lighting up. Iruka almost expects him to start clapping his hands together in glee. “Deeply!”
Oh, indeed.
Iruka sputters, and Kakashi pretends not to notice, scratching his cheek through his mask like he hasn’t just turned Iruka’s world inside-out. Casually, he offers, “Would you like to come in for some tea?”
Fifty different emotions war inside of Iruka in the space of three heartbeats, and it takes just one to quiet them all.
“That better be a euphemism,” Iruka growls, striding forward.
Kakashi’s delighted oh my, sensei is prematurely cut off. Iruka’s lips find his easily after tugging his mask down to his chin. Pushing into the apartment, Iruka closes the door behind him and leans against it, fisting Kakashi’s shirt to pull him in closer. Kakashi is attentive, giving just as good as he gets and matching Iruka’s frankly wild pace.
It takes the delicate press of Kakashi’s fingers on his hips, ever so gentle like they always are, for Iruka to all but melt, the aggression slowly leaking out of the kiss until all there’s left is a tender ebb and flow.
Kakashi’s gloved hand scratches over his cheek, and Iruka has to squeeze his eyes shut harder at the reminder of how much Kakashi trusts him—how much he let Iruka in even when all the damned stars in the universe have been aligning to make the feat all but impossible.
He folds a hand overtop Kakashi’s and feels him smile into the kiss, breaking apart to look at him with achingly honest affection.
“I didn’t think I’d ever be able to do that,” Iruka speaks first, planting another kiss on Kakashi’s lips just because he’s allowed to. Kakashi responds in kind, catching him as he pulls away to even the score, apparently.
“I didn’t think you’d ever even befriend me,” he admits with a smile, thumb running circles into Iruka’s cheek.
“I didn’t mean to.” Iruka laughs at Kakashi’s frown, gaze drifting over his shoulder when he sees a small movement. It’s steam. From a hot cup of… tea.
“You weren’t kidding,” he says, incredulous. The one time he’d expected Kakashi to have been making a dirty joke. Well, he should know to expect the unexpected from all the weird jounin, by now.
Kakashi’s fingers slide down to his chin, nudging it back to look at him. His thumb swipes over Iruka’s bottom lip, enraptured, and his other hand works on sliding the zipper of his flak jacket down tantalizingly slow.
He looks at Iruka, one eye dark with want, the other red with need. “I wasn’t, no, but that can wait, can’t it?”
Iruka doesn’t even bother replying, immediately entwining their fingers and dragging him down the hall. And if he hears a reverent mutter thanking Gai for his service, well, they’ve got all the time in the world to talk about it.
(After.)