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Shinobis were, to some extent, masters of mind control when it came to the act of sleeping.
In some sense, it was because of the importance of survival in the field, where napping in the foliage or slumbering under the rocks could prove to be the last snooze to those who were not capable of controlling the levels of their awareness. Heavy sleepers were readily rejected from particular missions because of that reason, as were the ones who had been estimated to take too long to separate dreams from reality during surprise attack simulations, since as tragical as it was to lose one shinobi due to a factor of a human error, it was disastrous to lose a whole team because of that same factor. That was also a reason why recently graduated genin teams were very rarely given missions that took them out of the village for more than just one day, especially when outdoor camping was included in the mission parameters.
On the other hand, the view they had on sleep also based on the fundamental philosophy behind their profession: a shinobi was just as strong as their mind was, regardless of their physical prowess. Controlling their minds when it came to sleep, by both fighting against the primal urge to rest their eyes when they had been running on soldier pills for too long to keep themselves going and also by allowing themselves the luxury of a breather whenever possible, was an intricate part of that strength. One could not be too careful when sleeping under the stars or resting in a room on hostile territory, yet only a dead fool ignored the basic needs of the body when on a mission. There was much to be said about the stupidity of operating tired under duress when every single missing nin or an other kind of enemy operator could prove out to be a strong genjutsu user.
There was, however, a feature to this topic that many kept close to their guarded spirits. It became apparent in the hushed discussions between partners sharing the same tent, among friends sharing a drink, in the idly twirling thoughts of the lone nins who were performing their duties to their villages, and in the well-guarded patient folders down at the Psychiatric Ward.
They slept, yet they did not dream.
That was the unsaid agreement between them, yet also the most blatant lie among their ranks. Still, they all understood the meaning behind that particular claim. They didn't have the luxury to dream, to envision something that was not there to be seen, that was not listed among the hard facts but remained only as an abstract thought, because a shinobi who preferred abstract theories to solid proof was soon a dead shinobi. And still, whenever they closed their eyes, their minds conjured up fears, hopes, memories, absurd events that had not taken place in their realm – dreams that they denied seeing. Many of them also knew about the other meaning of dreaming, which made them deny it all more vehemently: wishes they were either denied or that were within their grasp – ghosts that cast no shadow.
Nightmares, on the other hand, were what they saw in every shadow.
It was something they noticed in the tired eyes that stared back at them in the mirror, what they read between the carefully placed words, and felt in the meaningful silence that lingered when talking had stopped. Nightmares clung to their bodies even when they had woken up, cold sweat making them shiver while the silent screams of their disoriented mind still tasted foul in their gasping mouths. They were part of the long shadows they cast over their targets, the shadows that obscured them from view, shadows that hid their horror-stricken expressions from others - while at the same time they longed for the light that gave them perspective and purpose.
They slept, they denied the dreams they had seen, and they feared the shadows that awaited them beneath the surface of their subconscious; in essence, sleep was not only their best ally when keeping their blades sharp, but also the only opponent they were all honestly afraid to lose against.
They had once talked about it, Iruka remembered, when he and Kakashi had sat by a small table in their kitchen at Hokage's personal quarters well after midnight, tea and coffee long gone cold in their cups. It had been the third time when the silver-haired jounin had woken up to see their bed lacking the dark-haired tokubetsu, only to have found his lover staring out of the kitchen window, his rigid posture shrouded in the darkness of the room, the dark eyes unseeing and the full lips drawn into a tense line on a tightly set jaw. They all had their demons, they had both amended during the discussion, and to Iruka's dryly spoken note, the Infinite Tsukuyomi that the world of shinobis had experienced had done nothing to erase that fact. Time had ticked towards the dawn when they had spoken in quiet words, the two seasoned shinobis who had seen more than what they had ever thought to be able to survive from, both the ex-ANBU and the former chuunin sensei having exposed loose ends of themselves to one another.
That night, by the small kitchen table, they had both brought up subjects they had not thought to find words for. They could have dismissed it, blame the lack of sleep once the morning came, yet there was little sense in lying to someone who already had seen underneath the underneath. Neither of them believed in information given freely, and they knew that some things were best to be never said, but they both also knew that talking might help them navigate better when it came to walking down the path together with someone.
Despite knowing all that, in one afternoon, Iruka found himself staring at a sight that greeted him when he had come home after the long day and had walked into a scene of his companion sleeping soundly on their couch, the man's lean, lanky figure taking over the whole length of the light-colored piece of furniture. The dark mask was off from the slack, pale face: thin lips were parted with the calm breaths flowing past them, the sharp eyes were closed and silvery eyebrows were relaxed. Even the man's silver hair seemed to have softened by the lull of sleep. However, Iruka felt his neck prickle with unease the more he looked at the view of his sleeping lover, since to his knowledge, Kakashi never slept anywhere else than in their bed when they resided inside Konoha's walls. Admittedly, he had seen the man slouched, sprawled, slumped, collapsed, lounging, reclining, basking in the sun and slacking his spine off on every remotely suitable surface there was in the Hokage Tower and its immediate surroundings like Iruka's office at the Academy, but he had not seen him sleep, even when the word was used loosely on the said matter. In that sense, it was understandable that Iruka did not let his guard down as he approached the odd anomaly that had pulled his daily routine to a halt.
The dark eyes turned to look at the clock he knew to be ticking on the kitchen wall, and the tokubetsu made a passing estimation that the audience between the Rokudaime and the leading psychiatrist of their psych nins concerning the mental well-being of Konoha's shinobis had most likely taken a fair share from Kakashi's day. It also seemed to have taken a fair toll on the superior commander's energy levels, if the man currently snuffling against their couch pillows was any indication.
That, however, did not give any more sense to the sight Iruka once again turned to stare at.
Slowly, he put down his satchel, but decided against taking off his armory and forehead protector as he made his silent way to stand by the pale feet that had been propped over the armrest. What he had learned during that one long night many weeks ago was enough to make him cautious, knowing that the man, whose light snores almost made him smile, was a man who slept lightly. Fitfully, even. Not the way he was at that very moment, where it seemed that he had not registered a single sound of Iruka's approach, or the tick of the clock, or the screech of the kite that carried through the kitchen window.
Dismissing the thought of how ridiculous the whole situation undoubtedly was to anyone who would see him, Iruka snuck the length of the couch, and experienced a moment of healthy paranoia before crouching next to the silver-haired head, keeping his hands relaxed on his bent knees while the rest of his body was pulled tight as a string. There he squatted, watching the fair lashes of the jounin flutter against the pale cheeks, listening to the quiet huffs and sighs of breath that flowed back and forth between the parted lips, absently matching his own breathing rhythm with the other's, and analyzing the probability of observing someone who had infiltrated Konoha when disguised with a henge and had now been found sleeping on the couch on which he and Kakashi had made many wonderful memories. Deeming that his day could not be so cruel after his visit at the Administration Wing where he had made many enemies regarding the newly promoted chuunins who clearly did not understand the concept of keeping their archives organized and moreover making sure that certain important papers were not put in the wrong folders, the dark-skinned tokubetsu paid some attention to yet a new thought that surfaced in his mind when he observed the snoozing elite.
The bright memory of one afternoon spent over take away ramen in his office at the Academy brought a warm smile to his face, and after a brief inner debate, Iruka deemed that it perhaps wasn't so bad to witness the frail humanity of his partner, from time to time. On that note, he also felt a pull of sadness in his chest when a stray thought made him ponder about the thickness of Hatake's personal folder at the Psych. The man before his eyes was a living legend, a surviving reminder of times that many wanted forgotten, erased from their archives and history books. A man who had many names, both fitting and insulting in equal measure, a man who was just as easy to kill as Iruka and many others were when the right opportunity presented itself.
A man who was just as vulnerable as any mortal man was when sleeping in his home, on his couch, with his quiet lover by his side.
Iruka could only blame the overwhelming rush of both dread and devotion that made him reach for the pale cheek, trace his trembling fingers over the smooth skin, as he closed the distance between his and the jounin's lips. When he felt the other stir against his lips, it soon followed by a deep sigh of breath and the answering press of jounin's lips on his, Iruka pushed back the thoughts of filed psychological evaluation papers of a young, serious boy who had found his father; the hidden reports from psychologists about a young man who slipped into his armor just as easily as he disappeared into the surrounding shadows; and the many discussions he had heard about the mental stability of one silver-haired jounin; the passing, haunted look in those teasingly smiling gray eyes he had learned to accept in the man who he had found to have become a part of his life.
As the time ticked by, the afternoon of Konoha turned into evening behind the kitchen window, yet Iruka held onto the dream he had resting in his arms – a dream he would never deny of having all to himself, and giving his life to protect.