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The sun, a tired god, was already gone. But its memory lingered, a final wash of bruised purple and gold across the empty training ground. The air hung thick with the ghosts of a thousand thrown kunai and shouted commands. Kakashi sat on a weathered wooden post, a cigarette between his fingers, a lonely lighthouse in the fading light. It was an act, a clumsy rebellion, a borrowed jacket that didn’t quite fit the angles of his teenage body.
“That’s disgusting,” Tenzō said, a shadow among the long shadows, crouched nearby. His hands, rough with calluses, moved over a kunai’s edge, searching for flaws that weren’t there. He was a quiet, constant thing, always watching Kakashi with an architect’s precise eye, as if seeing the blueprints of a building no one else knew was being built.
“Mm.” Kakashi took a deliberate drag, not because he particularly wanted to, but because Tenzō was watching. The smoke burned his throat—he still hadn’t figured out how to make it look effortless, and it tasted of desperation, of a lie he was trying too hard to make real.
“You don’t even inhale properly.”
Kakashi’s visible eye, a sliver of dark defiance, narrowed. “Like you’d know.”
“I know you’re doing it wrong.” Tenzō stood, brushing dust from his hands as if shedding a skin he no longer needed. He was a new kind of quiet now, one with a current running underneath it. “Give me that.”
“What?”
“The cigarette. If you’re going to poison yourself, at least do it right.”
Kakashi stared at him. Tenzō—rule-following, mission-focused, entirely prudish Tenzo—was asking for a cigarette. “Since when do you—”
“Since now.” Tenzō held out his hand with that particular brand of teenage logic that brooked no argument, palm up—an invitation, and a dare.
A laugh threatened to break Kakashi’s composure. He slipped the cigarette from his own lips and into Tenzō’s waiting hand. Tenzō took it, not with the theatrical flare Kakashi had tried for, but with a natural grace that was entirely his own, and probably with more confidence than he probably felt.
Tenzō brought it to his lips, inhaled—actually inhaled, not the shallow pantomime Kakashi had been doing—and somehow made it look natural. Easy. He held the smoke for a moment before releasing it in a slow, serpentine stream that caught the last of the dying light and made it holy.
“Show off,” Kakashi muttered, but he was impressed despite himself.
“You’re just mad because I’m better at your own bad habit,” Tenzō replied, and his voice was low, a steady thrum as he took another drag, then held the cigarette back out—a peace offering, a mirror, maybe. “Here.”
Their fingers brushed in the exchange. Tenzō’s were warm, slightly rough from training, and Kakashi found himself holding on a beat too long. When he looked up, Tenzo was watching him with those dark, serious eyes, a universe of unasked questions.
“You know,” Tenzō said quietly, softer now, like rain, “you don’t have to pretend to be someone else.”
The words hit something raw in Kakashi’s chest. He took a drag to buy time, but this time he did it right—deep and slow the way Tenzō had shown him. The smoke curled between them like a question.
“I’m not—”
“You are.” Tenzō stepped closer, close enough that Kakashi had to tilt his head up from where he sat on the post. “The smoking, the attitude. It’s not you.”
“And what would you know about who I am?” The words came out sharper than intended, defensive.
“I know you stayed up all night reading mission reports so you’d be ready for Minato-sensei’s briefing. I know you practice that jutsu sequence even though you’ve already mastered it because you need to be perfect. I know—”
“Stop.” Kakashi’s voice was rough. No one was supposed to see that much. No one was supposed to look that closely.
Tenzō fell silent, a stillness settling between them. Then, his hand was on Kakashi’s mask, and his touch was a kind of gentle force. He tugged it down, and Kakashi, too surprised by the tenderness, let him.
“I know,” Tenzō said, and his voice was a whisper now, a fragile, brilliant thing, “that you have a nice smile. When it’s real.”
Kakashi’s breath caught in his throat. The cigarette burned down to his fingers, forgotten. Tenzō leaned in, a world of gold flecks swimming in his eyes, the heat of his skin a magnet.
“Tenzō—”
But Tenzō was already closing the distance, pressing their lips together in a kiss that tasted like smoke and rebellion and something entirely their own—the reckless abandon of a new kind of truth. It was clumsy—they were young, inexperienced—but it was real in a way that made Kakashi’s chest tight with possibility.
When they broke apart, breathless, Tenzō smiled, a small, private sunbeam meant only for him.
“There,” he said, thumb brushing over Kakashi’s bottom lip gently. “Much better than the cigarette.”
Kakashi stared at him, something fundamental shifting in his chest. The cigarette had burned down to his fingers without him noticing, and he dropped it, grinding it under his heel.
“Yeah,” his voice was a new kind of rough, a real kind of rough. “Yeah, it is.”
Tenzō’s smile widened, and this time when he kissed him again, Kakashi was ready for it—ready for the taste of smoke and the promise of something more.
The abandoned temple had seen better days—probably better decades; it was a skeleton of itself, a ruin that had surrendered its grace to time and neglect. The sun, a cold and indifferent thing, sent down spears of pale morning light through a gaping hole in the roof, turning the dust motes into a slow, golden snow. The air smelled of decay, of wet stone and the tenacious green life of weeds pushing through shattered floor tiles.
It wasn’t much of a shelter, but it was what they had.
Kakashi was a mess of sharp angles and bruised skin, propped against a fallen pillar that offered no real comfort. The world tilted on a liquid axis, and he held it together with gritted teeth and a silent prayer for stillness, trying not to think about how much blood he’d lost or how the world kept tilting sideways when he moved too quickly. The mission had gone sideways in spectacular fashion—what should have been routine reconnaissance had turned into a running battle that left them both battered and stranded twenty miles from the nearest village, a story of steel and blood that ended in this quiet, ruined place.
“Stop moving,” Tenzō said as he worked over him, a patient, living sculpture of exhaustion and focus. His hands were a paradox of gentleness and efficiency, a medic’s calm cutting through the chaos. A gash on his temple had stopped its slow bleed, leaving a crimson smear of warpaint down his face, a raw and honest kind of beauty.
“I’m not,” Kakashi protested, then immediately proved himself wrong by trying to sit up straighter. The world spun, a violent, nauseating shudder. He closed his eyes against it.
“Kakashi.” There was something in Tenzō’s voice—worry, maybe, or frustration. When Kakashi opened his eyes again, his partner was studying him with the kind of intensity usually reserved for enemy movements. “How do you feel? Honestly.”
The truth was a heavy thing. His head was pounding, his left shoulder screamed protest every time he breathed, and he was pretty sure he had at least two broken ribs. But he saw the fear in Tenzō’s eyes, the exhaustion etched in the deep shadows beneath them, and he swallowed the truth.
“I’ve been better,” Kakashi admitted, a hollow-sounding laugh caught in his throat. “But I’ve been worse too.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s not supposed to be. It’s supposed to be honest.” Kakashi managed a weak, watery smile. “You asked for honesty.”
Tenzō was quiet, his attention returning to the long cut on Kakashi’s side. His touch was professional, but the tremor in his hands was a language Kakashi understood perfectly. Adrenaline, worry, a silent scream of what-ifs that had not quite yet faded.
“You scared me,” Tenzō said quietly. “When that building came down and I couldn’t see you for a moment, I thought—” He stopped, jaw clenching tight.
“But I’m fine,” Kakashi said, which was a lie and they both knew it.
“You’re not fine. You have a concussion, your ribs are a cage of splintered bones, and you have enough cuts to make a patchwork quilt.” Tenzō’s voice was steady, but there was something raw and vulnerable humming underneath. “And your mask is torn.”
Kakashi’s hand flew to his face, finding the ragged tear that exposed his cheek and the corner of his mouth. In all the chaos, he hadn’t even noticed. He reached to pull the tattered fabric up, to hide, to disappear back into the anonymity of his protection, but Tenzō’s hand caught his wrist.
“Don’t.” The word came out softer than intended. “It’s just me.”
They stared at each other across the small space, and something shifted in the air between them. The temple around them was a ruin, they were both hurt and stranded, and yet somehow this felt like the most honest moment they’d ever shared. In this small, quiet space, something new was being built.
“Just you,” Kakashi echoed, the words a breath, and his hand fell away.
Tenzō’s eyes were a slow, careful study of his exposed face—the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the faint white scars that were the cartography of a life lived in shadow. There was wonder in his expression, and something deeper that made Kakashi’s breath catch.
“You’re beautiful,” Tenzō said, so quietly it was almost lost in the sound of dripping water.
Heat rushed to Kakashi’s cheeks, a foreign and not entirely unwelcome fire. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not.” Tenzō insisted, his thumb brushing a soft line across Kakashi’s knuckles where their hands were still joined. “Even here, even in all this destruction, you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Before Kakashi could form a response, could even process the weight of the confession, Tenzō reached past him, his fingers closing around something growing from a crack in the broken floor. He pulled back, and in his palm, a small cluster of flowers rested. Tiny, white, almost translucent petals, impossibly pure against the grime of his hand.
“Look,” Tenzō said, his voice a soft reverence. “Even here. Even in this ruin, something beautiful found a way to grow.”
He held the flowers out, and the gesture was so tender, so unexpected, that it stole what little breath Kakashi had left.
“Like us,” Tenzō said softly. “Finding something good in all this chaos.”
Kakashi took the flowers, his fingers unsteady as they marveled at the fragility and resilience of the small white petals. When he looked up, Tenzō’s eyes held promises neither of them was brave enough to say aloud.
“Thank you,” Kakashi said softly, and meant it for more than just the flowers.
Tenzō smiled—soft and private and entirely his own. “Always.”
They sat in the quiet ruin, sharing water from Tenzō’s bottle, waiting for strength to return. The flowers were tucked carefully between the pages of Kakashi’s mission report, a fragile secret pressed against his heart. And if sometimes their eyes met, and a new, unspoken language passed between them, well…
Some things were worth waiting for.
Years later, and Kakashi’s hands were shaking as he lit the cigarette. Not from nerves—never from nerves—but from the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, the electric afterburn of a mission gone sideways and somehow, impossibly, right again.
The air was thick with the scent of spilled blood and the ghost of rain that never came.
“You’re an idiot,” he said into the dim space, the flame from the lighter a brief, fleeting sun against his face. Twenty feet away, the izakaya hummed with the easy ignorance of a city that didn’t know the quiet, brutal language they spoke.
Yamato—not Tenzō anymore, hadn’t been for years—slumped against the brick wall. His flak vest was a map of spattered blood, none of it his. His hair, usually so neat, was a wild thing, tangled with the memory of a near miss.
“An idiot who saved your ass,” Yamato pointed out mildly, but his voice had that rough edge it got when the mission high hadn’t worn off yet. He was the calm after the storm, a stillness that hummed with a dangerous charge.
Kakashi finally looked at him, taking in the split lip, the scrape along his jaw, the way his dark eyes were still bright with battle-fever. “You threw yourself in front of a B-rank technique. For me.”
“Yeah, well.” Yamato shrugged, then winced when the movement pulled at something in his shoulder. “You would’ve done the same.”
“That’s not the point.” Kakashi took a harsh drag, the smoke burning like an old wound in his lungs. His hands had found their stillness, but his chest was a tightly coiled spring, a waiting thing. “The point is you could’ve died.”
“But I didn’t.”
“You could’ve—”
“But I didn’t.” Yamato pushed off the wall, stepped into Kakashi’s space with that easy confidence he’d grown into. At seventeen, he had been a boy with a borrowed name. Now, he’d filled out, gotten taller, learned to carry himself like he knew exactly what he was capable of. Solid and certain and sweet. “Neither of us did. We’re both here, breathing, intact.” He reached out, plucked the cigarette from Kakashi’s lips. “Alive.”
The word hung between them, weighted with everything they couldn’t say. How many missions had they walked away from? How many times had they cheated death by inches, by seconds, by pure dumb luck and stubborn skill?
Yamato brought the cigarette to his mouth, inhaled slow and deep. When he exhaled, the smoke wreathed around them both, and Kakashi found himself caught, leaning forward, just slightly.
“You’re still shaking,” Yamato observed quietly.
Kakashi looked down at his hands, a quiet curse forming on his lips. “Adrenaline.”
“Yeah.” Yamato’s voice was softer now, a low echo of understanding. “Same.”
And then, somehow, the dam broke. Laughter, quiet and breathless, bubbled up between them—the kind that comes after violence, a giddy, hysterical release. It was the laughter of men who knew what it was to look into the face of a god and say no.
Kakashi laughed until his ribs ached, until the corners of his eyes were wet, until Yamato’s grin was a blinding, beautiful thing, a flash of white teeth against the blood on his lip.
“God,” Kakashi gasped, “we’re insane. Completely—”
But Yamato was already moving, already closing the distance between them. He kissed Kakashi hard, desperate, tasting like copper and smoke and relief. Kakashi kissed back just as fiercely, one hand fisting in Yamato’s vest, the other coming up to cup his jaw.
They were both still laughing into it, breathless and giddy and alive, alive, alive.
“You taste like blood,” Kakashi murmured against Yamato’s mouth.
“So do you.”
“We’re covered in—”
“I don’t care.” Yamato bit at his lower lip, just sharp enough to sting. “Do you?”
Kakashi’s answer was a harsher kiss, a brutal and honest thing that backed Yamato against the brick wall until he made a soft, surprised sound in his throat. The cigarette, a forgotten afterthought, lay smoldering on the pavement between their feet, a small and smoking monument to the chaos they had survived.
When they finally broke apart, breathless and unsteady, Yamato’s eyes were dark and bright and completely focused on him.
“Next time,” Kakashi said, voice rough, “don’t throw yourself in front of anything for me.”
Yamato smiled, slow and dangerous. “Make me.”
And despite the blood, the danger, the simple fact that they were standing in a dark alley with the whole world happening just twenty feet away, Kakashi found himself smiling back, a little piece of light breaking through the wreckage.
The mission had been routine—escort duty that barely deserved the name. They’d finished two hours ahead of schedule, a luxury of time they found themselves sprawled on a grassy hill overlooking the small border town they’d just left behind. The afternoon sun was a warm weight on their faces, the kind of quiet that follows a storm.
Kakashi pulled out his cigarettes, a reflex more than a craving. The ritual was comforting now, familiar. Something that belonged just to them.
He lit one, took a drag, then held it out to Yamato without looking. This was how it always went—back and forth between them like a conversation in smoke.
But when he glanced over, he didn’t find Yamato’s hand reaching for it. Instead, he found him plucking something from the grass, a small white daisy with petals as delicate as paper.
“What are you—?”
Before Kakashi could finish the question, Yamato had plucked the cigarette from his fingers and replaced it with the flower in one smooth motion. Kakashi stared at the daisy, its white face innocent and absurd against his gloved hand. He looked at Yamato, who was now taking a deliberate drag from the stolen cigarette, looking entirely too pleased with himself, a small, knowing smile on his lips.
“Yamato.”
“Mm?” Yamato exhaled slowly, watching the smoke dissipate like a forgotten thought.
“What the hell is this?”
“It’s a flower, Kakashi. Surely even you know that.”
Kakashi twirled the stem between his fingers, feeling ridiculous. The daisy was soft, delicate—nothing like the harsh burn of tobacco he’d been expecting. “I can see that. Why did you give it to me?”
Yamato was quiet for a moment, watching the smoke dissipate in the breeze. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer. “You’ve been smoking more lately.”
It wasn’t an accusation. It was an observation, a soft, low note of concern.
“So?” Kakashi said, a wall rising in his voice.
“So.” Yamato finally looked at him, his dark eyes serious and honest. “I worry about you. Your lungs, your health.” A pause. “Your tendency to self-destruct in small, incremental ways. The ways you hurt yourself. On purpose.”
The words were a direct hit. Kakashi looked down at the daisy, its fragile petals a stark contrast to the rough texture of his glove. “It’s just a cigarette.”
“Is it?”
The question hung between them, weighted with things they’d never quite said aloud. How Kakashi smoked more after difficult missions, after sleepless nights, after the anniversaries that crept up and left him hollow. How the ritual had started as something shared and had slowly become something Kakashi reached for when he was alone, when the quiet got too loud. How the ritual that had begun as a connection had become a way to fill an empty space, a slow erasure.
“I don’t need you to save me from myself,” Kakashi said quietly.
“I know.” Yamato’s voice was gentle, a hand on his arm. “But maybe I can give you something better to hold onto.”
Kakashi looked at him, saw the small, worried lines around his eyes, the way he held his breath, waiting. As if braced for rejection.
Instead, Kakashi brought the daisy to his nose. It smelled like grass, like sunshine, like something clean and real. Nothing like the bitter tang of ash.
“It’s impractical,” he said finally.
“Most good things are.”
“It’ll die.”
“So will you,” Yamato said, his voice light but with an edge of steel, “if you keep poisoning yourself.”
Kakashi huffed, almost a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe.” Yamato stubbed out the cigarette against a rock, then stretched out on the grass, hands behind his head. “But I’m persistent. And I care.”
Later, back in his apartment, Kakashi found himself standing in his kitchen with the daisy in his hand. He should throw it away. It was already wilting at the edges, its stem bent and bruised from the journey. Instead, he filled a glass with water and set the flower in it, telling himself it was just to keep the gesture from being a total waste.
The daisy lasted three days on his windowsill, and when its petals finally fell, he found himself unable to throw them away. He pressed them between the pages of a mission report, a quiet, defiant act.
The next time they shared a cigarette, Yamato replaced it with a dandelion gone to seed. Kakashi blew the white fluff into the wind, each little parachute a silent wish he would never admit to.
The dandelion stem joined the pressed daisy petals.
After that, it became a game of sorts, a silent, beautiful conversation: a sprig of lavender after a particularly brutal interrogation; a handful of violets when spring finally broke through the winter cold; a single red poppy that Yamato had somehow found growing through a crack in the memorial stone, a tiny, vibrant thing in a place of grief.
Each flower was a gift, chosen with a tenderness that made Kakashi’s chest ache. Each one found its way into his apartment, pressed between pages or floating in water or, eventually, tucked into a small wooden box on his nightstand.
Nobody knew about the flowers. Not Genma, who crashed on his couch more often than not. Not Gai, who would have composed a poem on the spot. Not even the ANBU who swept his apartment, a routine security measure—the pressed flowers looked like bookmarks, the fresh ones easily mistaken for an odd aesthetic choice.
Just him and Yamato, and a collection of small, beautiful things that said everything they couldn’t put into words. The cigarettes were still there, still shared. But increasingly, Kakashi found himself looking forward to the moments when Yamato would pluck one from his lips and replace it with something that smelled of life instead of smoke.
Kakashi was dying.
At least, that’s what he told Yamato when he called to cancel their training session, his voice a theatrical rasp, rough and pathetic through the phone.
“I think this might be it,” he’d croaked dramatically. “Tell Gai his eternal rival fought bravely until the end.”
“It’s a cold, Kakashi.”
“A devastating plague that’s slowly destroying my respiratory system.”
“You sound like you have a stuffy nose.”
“The end is near, Yamato. I can feel my strength fading—”
The line had gone dead, which was probably for the best. Yamato had no patience for Kakashi’s theatrics when he was actually injured, and even less when he was being a baby about minor illness.
Which was why, three hours later, the sound of his door unlocking came as a complete surprise.
“I brought soup,” Yamato’s voice carried from the entryway, followed by the rustle of bags and the soft thud of boots being removed. “And medicine. And vegetables, because I know for a fact you have nothing but condiment packets and expired milk in your refrigerator.”
Kakashi, a miserable bundle of blankets and self-pity, burrowed deeper into the couch. He had been perfectly content to wallow in his own quiet, pathetic misery, surrounded by tissues and self-pity. “Go away. I’m contagious.”
“I’ve been exposed to your germs plenty already. Scoot over.”
The couch dipped under Yamato’s weight. A warm hand settled on Kakashi’s forehead, a familiar touch, a kind of casual intimacy that made Kakashi’s chest do something complicated and unpracticed.
“You’re barely warm,” Yamato said, his voice a low, fond murmur. “Come on, sit up. You need to eat.”
“Can’t. Dying.”
“Kakashi.”
There was something in Yamato’s tone that made him surface from his blanket cocoon, blinking up at him with watery eyes. Yamato was looking at him with that particular expression he got sometimes—exasperated but soft, like he couldn’t decide whether to lecture him or kiss him.
“The soup will help,” Yamato said gently. “Let me take care of you.”
So Kakashi let himself be coaxed upright, let Yamato fuss over him with warm broth and medicine that didn’t taste like punishment. Let himself be tucked back into the couch with fresh blankets and a cup of tea that steamed with something floral and soothing.
“I’ll clean up,” Yamato said, already gathering empty bowls. “You should sleep.”
Kakashi was already drifting, warm and fed and comfortable in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. Distantly, he heard Yamato moving around his kitchen, the soft sounds of dishes being washed and put away.
Then, quieter: “Where do you keep your—oh.”
Something in Yamato’s tone, a note of discovery, made Kakashi crack open an eye, but the cold medicine had turned his mind to soup. He was too drowsy to focus. Through the haze of exhaustion, he heard a soft intake of breath, and then a profound and meaningful silence.
The next thing he knew, gentle fingers were carding through his hair, pushing the silver strands back from his forehead with a touch so tender it made his breath catch.
“Rest,” Yamato murmured, and there was something different in his voice now. Something wondering and quiet and infinitely gentle. “I’ll lock up.”
Kakashi wanted to ask what had changed, what had put that note of discovery in Yamato’s voice, but the fingers in his hair were so soothing, and the medicine was pulling him under like a warm tide.
The last thing he felt was the press of lips against his forehead, soft and lingering and full of something that felt like promise.
When he woke, hours later, his fever had broken. The apartment was quiet, empty, but there was a glass of water on his nightstand and, beside it, a single stem of forget-me-not—tiny blue flowers the color of forever, delicate as a whispered secret.
Kakashi picked up the flower with careful, reverent fingers, marveling at the perfect, miniature blooms. Forget-me-nots. The flower of true love and remembrance, of promises that transcended time and distance.
His heart did a slow, warm flutter in his chest as he reached for the glass of water. It was only then that he noticed the small wooden box on his nightstand. Its lid was not quite closed the way he always left it.
Yamato had found them.
Had seen the careful collection of pressed petals and dried stems, the evidence of every flower he’d ever given him. Had discovered that Kakashi—practical, unsentimental Kakashi—had kept them all.
And instead of saying anything, instead of teasing or questioning or making a big deal of it, he’d simply tucked him in and left him with something new. Something that said: I know now. I see you. I won’t forget.
Kakashi held the forget-me-not up to catch the morning light filtering through his window, and for the first time in days, he found himself smiling. Not the sharp, practiced smile he wore like armor, but something soft and real and entirely his own.
When he was better, when they next shared their ritual of smoke and substitution, he wouldn’t mention the discovery. Neither would Yamato. But something had shifted between them in the quiet of his apartment, in the space between sleep and waking, in the language of flowers that said everything words couldn’t touch.
The forget-me-not would join the others in his wooden box, but first he pressed it between his fingers and held it close, breathing in the faint, sweet scent of promises kept.
The izakaya was warm with bodies and laughter, the air thick with the smell of grilled meat and spilled sake. Laughter was the heartbeat of the room, a collective joy that made Kakashi feel loose-limbed and content, that perfect space between tipsy and drunk where everything seemed softer around the edges.
“—and then Gai actually said, with complete sincerity, that his ‘flames of youth’ would protect him from the poison dart,” Genma was saying, his beer bottle a wild pendulum in the air. “Like that’s how antidotes work.”
“My passion burns away all toxins!” Gai declared, his voice a roaring flame in the dim room, raising his drink high. “It is a proven scientific fact!”
“That is absolutely not how science works,” Iruka said, laughing despite himself. “You can’t just youthful spirit your way out of biochemistry.”
“Tell that to the three enemy nin who underestimated the power of my dedication,” Gai shot back, his grin a blinding, white thing.
Kakashi smiled behind his mask, letting the familiar rhythm of their banter wash over him. These nights were rare, a borrowed luxury. All of them in the same place at the same time, a temporary truce with a world that was always trying to pull them apart. Just friends and drinks and the kind of easy warmth that made him forget, for a while, about everything else.
Beside him, Yamato chuckled at something Genma said, his cheeks flushed with a soft, warm color. He’d loosened up over the evening, shedding some of his usual careful composure, and Kakashi found himself stealing glances at the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the way his hair fell across his forehead when he leaned forward to hear better over the noise.
“I need some air,” Yamato said suddenly, the words a quiet break in the noise. He squeezed Kakashi’s shoulder, a touch that lingered just a beat too long before he pushed back from the table and made his way toward the back exit. A warm, anticipatory hum settled in Kakashi’s chest, a silent, electric promise.
“—don’t you think, Kakashi?” Genma was saying.
“Mm, absolutely,” Kakashi replied, having no idea what he was agreeing to. “Excuse me.”
He followed Yamato into the cool night air, the sudden drop in temperature a welcome shock against his skin. The alley was a narrow, dimly lit space, a forgotten corridor where the distant laughter from inside was a soft, muffled sound. Yamato was a silhouette against the brick wall, the orange tip of a lit cigarette a single, pulsing star in the darkness. He looked up as Kakashi approached, and his smile was a soft, private language, a quiet I knew you’d find me .
“Thought you said smoking was a bad habit,” Kakashi said, settling beside him against the wall.
“I did.” Yamato took a drag, exhaled slowly. “I also said I was a hypocrite.”
“When did you say that?”
“Just now. Implied it, anyway.” Yamato’s voice was warm with amusement and alcohol, looser than usual, a thread unspooling. “Sometimes a man needs his vices.”
Kakashi turned to study his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his eyelashes cast long, dark shadows on his cheeks. “And what’s your excuse tonight?”
“You,” Yamato said simply, and before Kakashi could process the word, Yamato was moving. He pushed off the wall, stepping into Kakashi’s space with a gentle, inexorable pressure that backed him against the cool brick.
“Yamato—”
But Yamato’s hands were already coming up to frame his face, thumbs hooking into his mask to pull it down with practiced ease. The cigarette had been dropped somewhere, forgotten, smoke still curling between them like promises of almost.
“You’ve been watching me all night,” Yamato murmured, voice low and rough-edged. “Thought I wouldn’t notice, but I did.”
Kakashi’s breath caught. “Have I?”
“Mm.” Yamato’s thumb brushed over his bottom lip, gentle and possessive. “Like you wanted something.”
“Maybe I did.” The words came out breathier than intended, honest in the way alcohol made him. “Maybe I do.”
Yamato’s smile was slow and knowing, and when he leaned in to kiss him, it wasn’t the desperate, adrenaline-fueled urgency they’d shared after missions. This was different—deliberate and unhurried, the kind of kiss that said we have time, we have this moment, let me savor you .
Kakashi melted into it, hands coming up to fist in Yamato’s shirt, pulling him closer. He tasted like sake and smoke and something that was purely him, and Kakashi found himself making a soft sound in the back of his throat when Yamato’s tongue swept across his lower lip.
“Easy,” Yamato whispered against his mouth, and Kakashi realized he was trembling. Not from cold or fear, but from the want of it, from the careful, patient way Yamato was taking him apart with nothing but his lips and tongue and the warm weight of his body pressed against his own.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Yamato didn’t move away. Instead, he rested their foreheads together, hands still cradling Kakashi’s face as if he were something precious.
“We should go back,” Yamato said, but he made no move to step away.
“Should we?” Kakashi’s voice was rough, wanting.
“They’ll wonder where we went.”
“Let them wonder.”
Yamato laughed, soft and fond. “You’re drunk.”
“So are you.”
“Not drunk enough to get fined for public indecency.”
Kakashi pouted, which was probably undignified but felt perfectly reasonable given the circumstances. “Since when are you the responsible one?”
“Since always.” Yamato pressed one more quick kiss to his lips, then stepped back, reaching down to retrieve his fallen cigarette. It had burned down to practically nothing while they were distracted. “Come on. One more drink, then I’m taking you home.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.” Yamato pulled Kakashi’s mask back up, fingers gentle and careful. “But behave yourself until then.”
Kakashi grinned behind the fabric. “When do I ever misbehave?”
Yamato’s look was eloquent enough that words weren’t necessary. He took Kakashi’s hand, threading their fingers together, and led him back toward the warmth and noise of the izakaya. But Kakashi could still taste him on his lips, could still feel the phantom weight of his hands on his face, and he knew that the night was far from over.
The cigarettes burned down to filters between Kakashi’s fingers, one after another after another. He’d been standing here since dawn, watching the sun climb higher in the sky, and still, the ache in his chest hadn’t dulled. If anything, it had grown sharper, more insistent, like a blade twisting between his ribs.
Obito’s birthday.
Again.
Another year added to the count of all the birthdays his teammate would never see, all the celebrations that would happen without him. Twenty-four now, if he’d lived. Old enough to complain about his back after long missions, to worry about settling down, to have laugh lines around his eyes instead of his name carved in cold stone.
Kakashi lit another cigarette with shaking fingers. The pack was nearly empty, his second since this morning, but the smoke was a useless ghost in the hollow space inside him. Nothing ever did, not on days like this.
He almost didn’t notice the soft footsteps on the grass behind him. Almost didn’t register the familiar presence settling beside him, close enough to touch but not quite touching. It was only when gentle fingers plucked the cigarette from his lips that he looked up, blinking as if surfacing from deep water.
Yamato stood beside him, holding the cigarette as if it had personally offended him. His dark eyes were soft with a quiet understanding, a mirror of Kakashi’s own exhaustion and grief.
“How long have you been here?” Yamato’s voice was a low, steady current in the loneliness.
Kakashi’s voice came out rough, unused, like a rusted key in a lock. “What time is it?”
“Nearly evening.” Yamato dropped the cigarette and ground it under his heel, then reached for the pack in Kakashi’s pocket. Kakashi let him take it, too empty to protest. “You missed training. Missed lunch. Gai was worried.”
“Sorry.” The word felt hollow, inadequate.
Yamato was quiet for a moment, his gaze fixed on the memorial stone. The neat rows of names, a litany of every loss they had ever carried.
So many names.
Too many.
“I brought something,” he said finally, pulling a small bundle from his jacket. White lilies and red camellias, baby’s breath scattered between them like captured stars. It was a simple arrangement, but the careful choice of each flower spoke a language of remembrance and respect and a love that defied death.
He knelt at the base of the stone, placing the flowers with a reverent gentleness. His fingers traced over Obito’s name, just once, before he stood and returned to Kakashi’s side.
They stood in silence as the sun continued its descent, painting the sky in shades of gold and pink. Kakashi felt hollowed out, scraped raw, but there was something comforting about Yamato’s steady presence beside him. Something that said: you don’t have to carry this alone.
“He would have been twenty-four today,” Kakashi said eventually, the words scraping his throat.
“I know.”
“He never even got to see the village at peace. Never got to see…” Kakashi’s voice cracked, and he stopped, swallowing hard against the grief that threatened to choke him.
“Tell me about him.” Yamato’s voice was gentle, patient. “What was he like? Really like, not just the mission reports.”
So Kakashi talked.
Haltingly at first, then with growing ease, he told Yamato about Obito’s terrible jokes and his fierce loyalty. About how he’d cry at sad movies but never back down from a fight. How he’d always shared his lunch, always had time to help academy students with their kunai throwing, always believed the best of people even when they didn’t deserve it.
The sky darkened around them as he spoke, stars beginning to prick through the deepening blue. A cold wind picked up, carrying the promise of snow, and still they stood there, Kakashi’s words painting pictures of a boy who’d died too young, too soon, too far from home.
When the first snowflakes began to fall, soft and silent as feathers, Yamato finally moved. His hand found Kakashi’s, fingers threading together, palm warm against palm, a silent anchor in the growing cold.
“He sounds like he was extraordinary,” Yamato said quietly.
“He was.” Kakashi’s voice was steadier now, though tears tracked ice-cold down his cheeks. “He was everything I wasn’t. Everything I should have been.”
“No.” Yamato’s grip tightened, sure and grounding. “You’re exactly who you’re supposed to be. He wouldn’t want you to disappear into grief, Kakashi. He’d want you to live.”
The snow was falling harder now, dusting their shoulders, their hair, the flowers at the base of the stone. Kakashi felt the cold seeping into his bones, felt his body begin to shake with something that wasn’t entirely from the temperature.
“Let’s go home, Kakashi,” Yamato said gently, tugging on their joined hands. “It’s cold, and you haven’t eaten all day. Come on.”
For a moment, Kakashi didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Part of him wanted to stay here forever, rooted to this spot where grief felt most honest, most real. But Yamato was waiting, patient and warm and alive beside him, and slowly—so slowly—Kakashi let himself be led away.
They walked in silence through the falling snow, Yamato’s hand an anchor in his, guiding him home. And if Kakashi looked back once over his shoulder at the memorial stone, now dusted white and beautiful in the lamplight, well—Yamato pretended not to notice the tears still slipping down his cheeks, just squeezed his fingers a little tighter and kept walking.
The underground laboratory was a tomb of glass and metal, a place where light felt like a trespass. Row upon row of empty tanks lined the walls, each one a silent monument to experiments that should never have been, to a clinical cruelty that had a specific, terrible scent—the smell of antiseptic and fear that hung in the air like a shroud. The mission briefing had mentioned a research facility, but the words felt hollow now, inadequate to describe the bone-deep wrongness of this place.
Kakashi moved through the sterile space with a practiced detachment, his mind a steel trap of protocol: cataloging, photographing, gathering evidence. He’d done this dozens of times, had built a quiet sanctuary in his own mind to hold the horror at bay, to focus on the cold facts of the job, rather than the implications of what they’d found.
But then Yamato went very still beside one particular tank. His breathing, usually a steady anchor in their shared space, was shallow and controlled in a way that immediately set off alarm bells in Kakashi’s head.
“Yamato?” he called softly, the name a question into the silence, but he got no response.
Moving closer, Kakashi saw what had stopped him. Technical diagrams plastered on the wall above the tank, schematics for cellular manipulation and genetic modification. The kind of research that took children and turned them into weapons, that stripped away every fragile piece of a person’s humanity in the ruthless pursuit of power.
The kind of research that had created the man standing frozen beside him.
“Tenzō.” The old name slipped out, a soft, careful thing, a memory whispered into a quiet room before Kakashi could stop it. “Hey. Look at me.”
Dark eyes snapped to his, wide and glassy with something that looked like panic barely held in check. Yamato’s hands were shaking—actually shaking—and he was breathing too fast, too shallow.
“I can’t—” Yamato’s voice cracked, a small, broken sound. “I can’t be here. I need to—”
“We’re leaving,” Kakashi said immediately, catching Yamato’s elbow, his voice a quiet, firm command. “Right now. The mission can wait.”
“No, I’m fine, I can—”
“Tenzō.” The name again, firmer this time. “We’re leaving. That’s not a request.”
Something in his tone must have gotten through, because Yamato nodded jerkily and let himself be guided toward the exit. They moved through the facility in tense silence, Kakashi’s hand a steady presence at the small of Yamato’s back, until they finally emerged into the grey afternoon light.
The moment they were outside, Yamato doubled over and was violently sick in the bushes.
Kakashi didn’t speak, didn’t try to console him with empty words. He simply stood there, his hand on Yamato’s back, rubbing slow, gentle circles, offering the quiet comfort of touch while Yamato’s body purged itself of the poison the memories had stirred up. When the retching finally stopped, Kakashi produced a water bottle and a clean cloth, his field medic instincts taking over with a smooth, practiced grace.
“Better?” he asked quietly.
Yamato nodded, accepting the water with unsteady hands. His face was pale, drawn, and he wouldn’t quite meet Kakashi’s eyes.
“I’m sorry. That was unprofessional. I should have—”
“Stop.” Kakashi’s voice was gentle but implacable. “You have nothing to apologize for. Nothing.”
They made their way back to the village in silence, Yamato withdrawn and fragile in a way that made Kakashi’s chest ache. Not once did Yamato try to light a cigarette—a small, silent detail that somehow worried Kakashi more than anything else.
Instead of heading to the mission debriefing, Kakashi steered them toward his apartment. When Yamato started to protest, Kakashi simply shook his head.
“Debriefing can wait until tomorrow. Right now, you need rest.”
His apartment felt like a sanctuary after the sterile horror of the lab, warm with a quiet, living kind of light. Kakashi guided Yamato to the couch, pressing a cup of tea into his hands and settling beside him. For a long moment, they just sat there, two bodies in a quiet room, the only sound the soft hum of the world outside.
“It was like being back there,” Yamato said finally, his voice a whisper, a thread of sound so thin it might have broken. “In Orochimaru’s lab. All those tanks, all those diagrams... I could smell it. The chemicals they used, the fear. God, Kakashi. We were just kids.”
“I know.” Kakashi set aside his own tea, turning to face him fully. “I know.”
“I thought I was past this. Thought I’d dealt with it.” Yamato laughed bitterly, the sound hollow and broken. “Twenty years later and I’m still that scared little boy who doesn’t know if he’s human or just another failed experiment.”
“You’re human,” Kakashi said fiercely. “You’re the most human person I know. What was done to you doesn’t define you, Tenzō. It never has.”
The old name seemed to unlock something in Yamato’s careful composure. His face crumpled, and suddenly he was crying—not the quiet, controlled tears of someone trying to hold it together, but the raw, ugly sobs of a grief finally given permission to exist.
“Come here,” Kakashi murmured, opening his arms, and Yamato collapsed into them without hesitation.
Kakashi held him as he fell apart, one hand running soothing patterns up and down his back, the other cradled against his head. He whispered quiet reassurances against Yamato’s hair— you’re safe, you’re home, I’ve got you —and meant every word like a promise.
When the tears finally slowed, Kakashi gently coaxed Yamato toward the bedroom. He helped him out of his mission gear with careful hands, found him soft clothes to sleep in, and tucked him into bed tenderly.
“Stay?” Yamato asked quietly, and there was something young and vulnerable in his voice that made Kakashi’s heart clench.
“Of course.”
Kakashi settled beside him on top of the covers, fully clothed, and pulled Yamato against his chest. The position was a little awkward, but Yamato relaxed into it with a shuddering sigh, his breathing gradually evening out.
“Thank you,” Yamato whispered against his collar. “For using that name. For knowing I needed to hear it.”
“You don’t have to thank me for caring about you,” Kakashi said softly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Sleep now. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
And he was—hours later when Yamato stirred in the grey light of dawn, Kakashi was still there, still holding him, hand still moving in gentle patterns across his back. Still anchoring him to the present, to safety, to the knowledge that he was loved not despite his past, but including it, all of it, everything that had made him into the man Kakashi treasured.
The mission had gone wrong in every way a mission could go wrong. It was a broken story of steel and blood, a simple intelligence-gathering operation that had unspooled into a chase through three villages, an eighteen-hour hostage standoff, and a final, brutal confrontation that had left half their gear a twisted ruin and both of them bleeding from a constellation of wounds. But they were alive. Somehow, impossibly, they were still breathing.
The sky, a witness to their survival, opened up. Rain began as heavy, deliberate drops, turning the ground to treacherous mud, then became a downpour—the kind of storm that washes away tracks and scent trails and any hope of a dry, clean ending.
“Safe house is another hour north,” Kakashi called over the sound of water hammering against leaves.
“We won’t make it,” Yamato yelled back, his voice a strained, exhausted thing. His foot slipped in the slick earth, and he stumbled, the last of his strength threatening to give out. He was right. They were running on fumes, their bodies pushed well past their limits. The rain was a solid curtain, a violent, drowning thing, coming down so hard they could barely see ten feet ahead, and the temperature was dropping fast. “Not in this.”
“There,” Yamato pointed through the sheets of water. “Cave.”
It was nothing more than a rocky overhang, a shallow grave in the hillside, but it was dry. They collapsed inside, backs against stone, and for a long moment, did nothing but breathe.
Kakashi looked over at Yamato, and then, inexplicably, he started to laugh.
It began as a low chuckle, a soft, absurd sound in his chest, then unspooled into something bigger. His shoulders shook with a helpless, hysterical mirth, and he couldn’t have stopped if his life depended on it.
“What—” Yamato stared at him like he’d lost his mind, which maybe he had. “What’s so funny?”
“Look at us,” Kakashi gasped between bouts of laughter. “Just look at us.”
Yamato did. He saw their ruined clothes, plastered to their bodies with mud. Their hair, slicked to their skulls. The cut across Kakashi’s cheek, still a slow, dark confession of blood. The way his own left eye was already beginning to swell shut.
They looked like they had been dragged through hell. Which, of course, they had.
“We look terrible,” Yamato said solemnly.
“Absolutely awful,” Kakashi agreed, still breathless. “Complete disasters.”
“Gai would have something poetic to say about the indomitable spirit of youth triumphing over adversity.”
“Genma would ask if we’d considered a career change.”
“Iruka would lecture us about proper mission planning.”
“And Tsunade…” Kakashi paused, considering. “Tsunade would probably just throw something at our heads.”
That broke Yamato. He started to laugh, a wild, slightly hysterical sound that echoed off the cave walls and mixed with the sound of the rain. They laughed until their ribs hurt, until they couldn’t breathe, until the sheer, bloody absurdity of their situation overwhelmed everything else.
“We almost died,” Yamato said when he could finally speak again.
“Multiple times,” Kakashi confirmed.
“That explosion should have killed us both.”
“Probably would have, if you hadn’t yanked me behind that wall.”
“You saved my life too. That poison dart—”
“Would have taken your head off if I hadn’t tackled you.”
They stared at each other across the small space, rain still drumming overhead, and something shifted in the air between them. The laughter faded, replaced by something rawer, more immediate. The kind of silence that holds a universe of unsaid things.
“We’re alive,” Yamato said quietly.
“Yeah.” Kakashi’s voice was rough. “We are.”
“I thought—when I saw that kunai coming for you—I thought I was going to watch you die.”
“But you didn’t.” Kakashi was moving now, closing the small, impossible distance between them, drawn by a gravity he couldn’t name. “We’re both here. Both breathing.”
“Kakashi—”
But whatever Yamato had been about to say was lost as Kakashi crashed into him, all desperate hands and hungry mouth. This wasn’t like their other kisses—not careful or sweet or teasing. This was wild and messy and undeniable, tasting of rain and relief and the fierce joy of being alive when they shouldn’t be.
Yamato kissed back just as desperately, hands fisting in Kakashi’s ruined shirt, pulling him closer until there was no space between them at all. They were both shaking—from cold, from adrenaline, from the weight of everything they’d almost lost—and the kiss became a way to ground themselves, to prove they were real and here and still breathing.
“We’re alive,” Yamato whispered against his mouth, and it sounded like a prayer.
“We’re alive,” Kakashi echoed, and kissed him again.
Outside, the storm raged on, but inside their small sanctuary, they held each other and kissed like it was the only thing keeping them tethered to the world. Wild and messy and absolutely undeniable, just like the love that had been building between them for years, finally acknowledged in the space between one heartbeat and the next.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Yamato pressed his forehead against Kakashi’s and smiled—brilliant and alive and entirely adoring.
“I love you,” he said, simple as breathing. “I’m in love with you.”
And Kakashi, rain-soaked and mud-stained and happier than he’d ever been in his life, smiled back and said, “Me too.”
Kakashi had found the perfect spot.
High in the branches of an old oak tree, the world a soft, distant hum below him. Dappled sunlight fell in warm pools through the leaves, a quiet benediction over the book in his hands. He was hidden, a ghost in the canopy, with only the scent of fresh leaves and his cigarette for company.
The newest volume of Icha Icha Paradise was a masterpiece. Jiraiya had outdone himself—the romantic tension, a taut, beautiful wire of possibility; the carefully crafted scenarios that felt both scandalous and deeply, embarrassingly real, and—
“Oh, for crying out loud.”
Kakashi looked up from his book to find Yamato climbing toward him through the branches, moving with the easy grace of someone who’d spent half his life in trees. His expression was a familiar mix of annoyance and a soft-edged fondness that Kakashi had learned to read as an accusation of affection.
“Afternoon, Yamato,” Kakashi said cheerfully, taking a drag from his cigarette. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
“Wipe that look off your face, Kakashi.”
“What look?” Kakashi’s visible eye crinkled with amusement. “I’m wearing a mask, Yamato. How can you even tell what look I’m making?”
Yamato settled onto the branch beside him, the wood groaning a soft protest under his weight. He was close enough that Kakashi could smell his shampoo over the scent of leaves and tobacco, a clean, familiar scent that always felt like home. “I can tell. You get this... expression when you’re reading that trash.”
“It’s not trash,” Kakashi protested mildly, a languid, unbothered rhythm to his words. “It’s literature. Art. A carefully crafted exploration of—”
Before he could finish his defense, Yamato had snatched the book from his hands, snapping it shut with a decisive sound. “Honestly, I can’t believe you prefer this book to me.”
And then, before Kakashi could fully process what was happening, Yamato was leaning in and pressing their lips together through the fabric of his mask. It was soft and brief and completely unexpected, and Kakashi froze like his brain had short-circuited.
Yamato pulled back with a satisfied look and moved to climb down from the tree. “Enjoy your ‘literature,’ Kakashi.”
“Wait.” Kakashi’s hand shot out, catching Yamato’s wrist before he could escape. Something warm and electric had sparked to life in his chest, and suddenly the book was the furthest thing from his mind. “Wait.”
He tugged Yamato back toward him, this time reaching up to pull his mask down before capturing his lips in a proper kiss. Yamato melted into it with a soft sound of surprise, his hands coming up to frame Kakashi’s face, and for a long moment the world narrowed down to nothing but the taste of him and the warmth of the afternoon sun on their skin.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing a little harder than the temperature warranted, Kakashi rested their foreheads together.
“You know,” he said, voice slightly rough, “I think you might be onto something about the book.”
Yamato smiled, slow and pleased. “Oh, really?”
“Mm. Although…” Kakashi’s expression suddenly turned serious, almost panicked. “Did you happen to see what page I was on before you closed it?”
Yamato stared at him. “Are you serious right now?”
“It’s just that I was at a really good part, and if I have to go back and find where I was—”
“Kakashi!”
“What? It’s a very complex plot! There are multiple storylines converging, and if I lose my place—”
Yamato kissed him again, harder this time, effectively cutting off his protests. When he pulled back, his expression was a mix of exasperation and deep-seated affection.
“You’re impossible,” he said, but there was fondness in his voice.
“But you like me anyway,” Kakashi pointed out, grinning behind his pulled-down mask.
“Unfortunately, yes.” Yamato handed back the book, open to the exact page Kakashi had been reading. “Page 127, by the way. The scene with the waterfall.”
Kakashi’s eye widened. “You memorized it?”
“I glanced at it while you were having your crisis.” Yamato was already moving to climb down, but he paused to look back with a wicked, knowing smile. “And for the record? Reality is much better than fiction.”
He disappeared into the lower branches, leaving Kakashi alone with his book and a racing heart and the lingering taste of possibility on his lips. The cigarette had burned down to nothing while he wasn’t paying attention, and for once, he didn’t immediately light another one.
Instead, he looked at the book in his hands, then at the spot where Yamato had disappeared, and found himself grinning like a fool all over again. Though this time, it had nothing to do with what was written on the pages.
Kakashi stood outside the flower shop, feeling like a ghost haunting a garden. Through the glass, he saw a riot of color arranged with an artistic precision that felt like a foreign language. Roses, he knew. Daisies, obviously. Beyond that, he was lost.
This was a terrible idea.
“You’ve been standing there for ten minutes,” a voice said behind him, a low, familiar tease. “Either go in or go home, but you’re making the other customers nervous.”
Kakashi turned to find Ino Yamanaka approaching, arms full of groceries and eyebrow raised in amusement. Of all the people to catch him in this moment of quiet panic, it had to be someone who would never, ever let him forget it.
“I’m not making anyone nervous,” he said defensively.
“The old lady with the cart crossed the street to avoid you. Twice.” Ino shifted her groceries to one arm and studied him with the shrewd intelligence that was a birthright of her clan. “So. Buying flowers for someone special?”
“Maybe.”
“Definitely. The question is what kind and for what occasion.” She paused, clearly delighted by his discomfort. “First time buying flowers for a guy?”
Kakashi’s visible eye narrowed. “How did you—”
“Please. You think the entire village doesn’t know about you and Yamato? You’re not nearly as subtle as you think you are.” Ino’s grin widened. “Besides, you’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“Desperately in love and completely clueless about how to show it.” She gestured toward the shop. “Come on. I’ll help you before you give yourself an aneurysm.”
Before Kakashi could protest, she was marching into the flower shop. He followed, the riot of colors and the sweet, dizzying scents a physical assault on his senses.
“What’s the occasion?” Ino asked, setting her groceries down and rolling up her sleeves like she was preparing for a battle.
“No occasion. I just…” Kakashi ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture he hadn’t made in years. “He’s always giving me flowers. I wanted to return the favor.”
“Romantic.” Ino’s expression softened slightly. “How long has he been giving you flowers?”
“Years. Started with daisies, but he’s branched out. Forget-me-nots, lavender, violets…” Kakashi trailed off, realizing how much he had just confessed.
“And you’ve kept them all, haven’t you?” At his startled look, she laughed. “Of course you have. You’re more sentimental than anyone gives you credit for.”
She moved through the shop with purpose, a fluid grace that was a stark contrast to Kakashi’s awkwardness. She stopped to examine different blooms with a critical eye. “The question is what message you want to send. Gratitude? Love? Forever?”
“All of the above?”
“Greedy.” But she was smiling as she said it. “Okay, let’s see. For someone who’s been giving you flowers for years, showing that you pay attention to what he likes…” She paused beside a display of sunflowers, their faces bright and hopeful. “These are good for loyalty and adoration. Cheerful, like him.”
“He’s not always cheerful,” Kakashi protested. “He’s serious. Thoughtful. He worries too much and gets exasperated when I do stupid things and—”
“And you’re completely gone on him.” Ino’s voice was fond. “Okay, serious and thoughtful. What about these?”
She led him to a section filled with purple blooms in various shades. “Irises. They represent wisdom and valor. Very appropriate for a shinobi. And purple suits him.”
Kakashi studied the flowers, trying to imagine Yamato’s reaction. Would he laugh? Be touched? Both?
“Or,” Ino continued, moving to another display, “if you really want to make a statement…”
She stopped beside a bucket of deep red roses, their petals velvet-soft and perfect. Classic, romantic, unmistakable in their meaning.
“Too obvious?” Kakashi asked, the words a nervous whisper.
“Sometimes obvious is good. Sometimes people need to hear—or in this case, see—exactly how you feel about them.”
Kakashi considered this, thinking about all the subtle ways Yamato showed he cared. The carefully chosen flowers, the gentle substitutions, the way he never made a big deal about Kakashi’s collection but left that perfect forget-me-not anyway.
Maybe it was time to be obvious.
“I’ll take a dozen,” he said.
“Roses it is.” Ino began selecting the best blooms, her hands quick and sure. “Fair warning though—this is going to be all over the village by tomorrow.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean Yamanaka flowers for the Copy Nin’s mysterious boyfriend is going to be the hottest gossip since Gai tried to challenge a cactus to a contest.” She wrapped the roses in elegant paper, tying them with a ribbon that matched the deep red of the petals. “Hope you’re ready for everyone to know just how love-sick you are.”
Kakashi accepted the bouquet, surprised by how right it felt in his hands. “I think I can live with that.”
“Good.” Ino’s smile was genuine now, free of teasing. “He’s lucky to have you, you know. Both of you are lucky.”
Two hours later, Kakashi stood outside Yamato’s apartment, roses hidden behind his back and heart hammering against his ribs. This was ridiculous. He was a grown man, an elite shinobi, perfectly capable of giving flowers to Yamato without having a panic attack.
The door opened before he could knock.
“I could hear you pacing in the hallway,” Yamato said, amused. “Everything okay?”
“I have something for you,” Kakashi said, and with a small, self-conscious flourish, he brought the roses out from behind his back like ripping off a bandage. “I know you’re always giving me flowers, and I wanted… I thought maybe…”
He trailed off, watching Yamato’s expression cycle through surprise, wonder, and something so soft and warm it made Kakashi’s chest ache with affection.
“You got me roses,” Yamato said quietly.
“Ino helped. I was going to get irises, but she said sometimes obvious is good, and I thought…” Kakashi realized he was rambling and stopped, a soft, helpless look on his face. “Do you like them?”
Instead of answering, Yamato stepped forward and kissed him, soft and sweet and tasting like promises. When they broke apart, his eyes were bright, and he was grinning widely.
“I love them,” he said against Kakashi’s lips. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Kakashi said, and meant it with every fiber of his being.
Later, as they arranged the roses in a vase together, Yamato’s hand warm against his back, Kakashi thought about how strange it was that something as simple as flowers could carry so much weight, so much meaning. But then again, the best things often were simple. Love, laughter, the choice to care for someone despite the world’s sharp edges. The roses looked perfect on Yamato’s kitchen table, bright and bold and impossible to ignore.
Just like love itself.
The ocean was an endless, breathing thing, its surface a scatter of diamonds in the late afternoon light. The boardwalk stretched out before them, a long, sun-drenched road of weathered wood warm beneath their elbows as they leaned against the railing. Overhead, seabirds cried, their voices a wild, lonely music, and the salt breeze carried the distant laughter of children building kingdoms out of sand.
It was perfect.
Almost too perfect, which was probably why Kakashi’s heart was a furious, drumming bird in his ribs, trying to escape its cage.
“Nice day,” he said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to strained.
Yamato glanced at him with amusement. “You’ve mentioned that. Three times in the last ten minutes.”
“Have I?” Kakashi cleared his throat, fingers fidgeting with the small box in his pocket. “Well, it bears repeating. Very nice day. Good weather. Excellent ocean.”
“Excellent ocean,” Yamato repeated, lips twitching with barely contained laughter. “Are you feeling alright? You’re acting strange.”
Strange didn't begin to cover it.
Kakashi had stared down S-rank missing nin without breaking a sweat. He had completed missions that would give most shinobi nightmares. He had looked into the face of death more times than he could count.
But asking the man he loved to spend forever with him? That terrified him in a way a kunai to the throat never could.
“I’m fine,” he said, then immediately contradicted himself by adding, “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something.”
Yamato turned from the ocean to face him fully, his dark eyes soft and attentive, a quiet invitation. “What’s on your mind?”
The words Kakashi had practiced died in his throat. How was he supposed to explain what Yamato meant to him? How did you put into words the way someone became the center of your universe so gradually you didn't notice until they were already woven into every breath, every heartbeat, every hope for tomorrow?
“We’ve been together a long time,” he started awkwardly.
“Years,” Yamato agreed, though his expression was growing more puzzled. “Are you breaking up with me on a romantic boardwalk? Because I have to say, your timing could use work.”
“No!” The denial came out sharper than intended, and Kakashi took a steadying breath. “No, the opposite actually. I was thinking... maybe it’s time we made it official. Permanent.”
His fingers closed around the ring box, pulling it from his pocket with movements that felt clumsy, obvious, and all too real. But before he could get down on one knee, before he could launch into the carefully crafted speech he’d rehearsed, Yamato’s eyes went wide.
“Oh,” Yamato breathed, and then he was laughing—a bright, delighted, hysterical sound that made something tight and brittle in Kakashi’s chest loosen with profound relief. “Oh my god.”
“What’s so funny?” Kakashi asked, but a smile was already pulling at his lips, caught in the sheer joy of Yamato’s laughter.
“This,” Yamato said, and reached into his own jacket to pull out an identical small box. “This is what’s so funny.”
Kakashi stared at the box in Yamato’s hand, then at his own, then back at Yamato’s face. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I’ve been carrying this around for weeks,” Yamato confessed, still laughing, the sound a beautiful, broken thing. “Waiting for the perfect moment. And here you are, beating me to it.”
“I’ve been carrying mine for months,” Kakashi shot back. “If anyone’s beating anyone to it, it’s me.”
“Months? I bought this ring years ago!”
They stared at each other for a moment, then burst into laughter together. The kind of helpless, joyful laughter that drew curious looks from other couples walking the boardwalk, but neither of them cared.
“We’re ridiculous,” Kakashi managed between chuckles.
“Completely,” Yamato agreed. “So what do we do now? Dual proposals?”
“I suppose we could flip a coin,” Kakashi suggested, but he was already sinking down to one knee on the sun-warmed wood. “Or I could just do this.”
He opened the ring box, revealing a simple band of white gold set with a small, perfect emerald—the color of new growth, of hope, of all the flowers Yamato had ever given him.
“Yamato,” he said, and his voice was steadier now, sure in a way that came from the heart. “You’ve been saving me from myself since we were kids. You’ve given me flowers instead of ashes, laughter instead of silence, hope instead of regret. You’ve shown me that love doesn’t have to be something that destroys—it can be something that builds, something that heals, something that lasts.” He took a shaky breath, the words a quiet prayer. “Will you marry me?”
Tears were streaming down Yamato’s face now, but he was still smiling as he dropped to his own knee, ring box open in his hands. The band inside was identical to the one Kakashi offered, except for a small diamond that caught the late afternoon light like captured starfire.
“Only if you’ll marry me too,” Yamato said, his voice thick with emotion. “Because you’ve taught me that strength doesn’t mean standing alone—it means finding someone worth standing with. You’ve shown me that home isn’t a place, it’s a person. It’s you, Kakashi. It’s always been you.”
“Yes,” Kakashi whispered.
“Yes,” Yamato echoed.
They slipped the rings onto each other’s fingers with trembling hands, the metal warm from being carried so close to their hearts for so long. When Kakashi leaned forward to kiss his fiancé—his fiancé!—it tasted like salt air and promises and the fierce, undeniable joy of forever.
Around them, a small crowd had gathered, applauding and cheering, but Kakashi barely noticed. All he could see was Yamato, backlit by golden sunlight, wearing his ring and smiling like the world had just rearranged itself into something more beautiful.
“So,” Yamato said when they finally broke apart, “I guess we’re engaged.”
“To each other,” Kakashi pointed out unnecessarily, his own smile so wide his cheeks ached.
“To each other,” Yamato confirmed, and kissed him again.
Later, they would walk hand in hand along the beach as the sun set, making plans and sharing dreams. They would talk about flowers for the wedding, about the small ceremony they both wanted, about growing old together in a house filled with pressed petals and shared laughter.
But for now, they just held each other on the boardwalk as the ocean sang its ancient song, two men who had found their forever in cigarettes and flowers, in smoke signals that had finally led them home.