Chapter Text
The first time Obito realized he had made a catastrophic mistake, it was already too late to undo it.
It had started, as most of his problems did, with him minding his own business. Or at least attempting to. The late afternoon sun stretched warm across Konoha’s streets, catching on the red and gold banners strung lazily between buildings, and Obito had been halfway through a perfectly satisfying snack when he noticed the whispers. At first, he ignored them. Shinobi lived under constant observation; people stared, people talked, people speculated. He was used to it. What he was not used to, however, was the very distinct pattern of footsteps that followed him for three consecutive turns, nor the unmistakable sound of hurried giggling every time he glanced over his shoulder.
He frowned, slowing his pace slightly as he bit into his skewer, chewing thoughtfully while pretending not to notice. Maybe it wasn’t about him. Maybe it was coincidence. Maybe—
“Uchiha-san!”
He nearly choked.
Obito coughed once, sharply, then again, eyes watering as he turned around to face the source of the voice. There were three of them. No—four. Four young women, all standing just a little too close together, their expressions a mix of excitement, nervousness, and alarming determination. One of them stepped forward, hands clasped tightly in front of her.
“We’ve been looking for you,” she said, her voice trembling just enough to make it clear this had taken effort.
Obito blinked. “Uh… congratulations?”
The other three shot him looks that suggested he had already fumbled something important, but the first one pressed on bravely. “We were wondering if you might have time to—”
“I don’t,” Obito said immediately, too quickly, instinctively defensive in a way that had saved his life more than once. “I’m busy. Extremely busy. Urgent shinobi business. Very classified.”
There was a pause. One of the girls tilted her head. “But you’re… eating.”
He glanced down at the skewer in his hand, then back up at them. “Classified eating.”
That, apparently, was not enough to deter them.
“We won’t take long,” another one insisted, stepping forward now, her confidence bolstered by numbers. “We just wanted to talk.”
“I don’t want to talk,” Obito said, already inching backward. “I actually have a strict no-talking policy today. Doctor’s orders.”
“You don’t look sick,” the third one pointed out.
“I’m emotionally unwell,” he shot back, pivoting on his heel and beginning to walk away, faster now, hoping that would be the end of it.
It was not the end of it.
“Wait!”
They followed him.
At first, he thought it might be temporary. People gave up eventually. They always did. Persistence was admirable in theory, but in practice, most people got tired. These girls, however, seemed fueled by something far more dangerous than ordinary determination. Every time he turned down a street, they followed. Every time he quickened his pace, they matched it. When he attempted to lose them in a crowd, they reappeared minutes later, somehow closer than before, like an increasingly inconvenient curse he couldn’t dispel.
This was ridiculous.
“I said I’m busy!” he called over his shoulder, dodging around a fruit stand with a sharp turn that nearly sent him colliding into a passing civilian.
“We can walk with you!” one of them chirped.
“I don’t want you to walk with me!”
“That’s okay, we don’t mind!”
“I mind!” he snapped, accelerating into something just shy of a sprint.
This had officially become a problem.
Obito darted down another alley, then another, weaving through familiar paths with practiced ease, but every time he risked a glance behind him, they were still there, skirts swishing, sandals tapping against the stone with relentless consistency. He couldn’t fight them—obviously—and genjutsu felt excessive, not to mention embarrassing. He couldn’t outrun them forever without making a scene, and the longer this went on, the more attention it attracted.
He needed a solution. Immediately.
His eyes scanned the street ahead, searching for anything—anything—that could get him out of this situation without permanently damaging his reputation or requiring him to fake his own death. For a brief, desperate moment, he considered climbing onto a rooftop and simply not coming down. It was a tempting option. A viable option. A—
And then he saw him.
Kakashi stood a little ways down the street, exactly where Obito did not need him to be and yet, in that moment, exactly where he did. Leaning lazily against the wooden post outside a small shop, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other holding a worn book angled just enough to suggest he was reading while simultaneously remaining aware of everything around him, Kakashi looked entirely unbothered by the world at large. It was, Obito thought distantly, the most inconveniently perfect timing imaginable.
Because suddenly, a solution presented itself.
It was not a good solution. It was not a smart solution. It was, in fact, the kind of solution that would almost certainly make things worse in the long run. But it was immediate, and it was available, and Obito, currently being hunted down by a group of increasingly persistent admirers, did not have the luxury of long-term thinking.
He made a decision.
“Kakashi!” Obito shouted, far louder than necessary, already veering toward him with the kind of urgency that suggested something far more serious than what was actually happening.
Kakashi looked up.
There was a split second—just a fraction of a moment—where his visible eye narrowed slightly in confusion, his posture shifting subtly as he took in Obito’s approach, the volume of his voice, and, most importantly, the four girls trailing closely behind him.
Obito didn’t give him time to ask questions.
He closed the distance in seconds, grabbed Kakashi firmly by the arm, and declared, with absolute conviction and just enough breathlessness to sell it, “Sorry, I already have a boyfriend.”
The words hung in the air.
There was silence.
Kakashi froze.
Not dramatically. Not obviously. Just a slight stillness, a pause so brief that anyone not intimately familiar with him might have missed it entirely. His eye flicked to Obito, then to the girls, then back again, processing the situation with the quiet efficiency of someone used to adapting on the fly.
Obito, meanwhile, was fully committed.
He tightened his grip on Kakashi’s arm, willing him—please, for once in your life, be useful—to understand what was happening and play along. This was a one-time thing. A temporary solution. A quick fix to an immediate problem. Kakashi just needed to go along with it for, like, thirty seconds, and then everything would be fine.
There was another beat of silence.
Then Kakashi moved.
Slowly, deliberately, he lowered his book and tucked it away, his attention shifting fully to Obito in a way that felt entirely too focused for comfort. His expression didn’t change much—Kakashi rarely made things obvious—but there was something there, something subtle and sharp and undeniably aware, as if he had reached a conclusion and decided, in that same instant, to act on it.
His arm came up.
It slid around Obito’s shoulders with effortless familiarity, pulling him in just enough to close the space between them, his grip firm but not restrictive, casual in a way that suggested this was something he did often.
Obito’s brain short-circuited.
“Sorry,” Kakashi said, his voice calm, smooth, and entirely too convincing as he looked past Obito to the group of stunned girls. “He’s taken.”
And then, as if that wasn’t already enough, he added, with a faint, almost imperceptible curve to his eye, “Right, koibito?”
Obito nearly died on the spot.
Koibito?
Koibitoi?!
He made a noise. Not a coherent one. Something between a choke and a protest, his entire body going rigid as Kakashi’s arm remained firmly around him, grounding him in a reality that had very suddenly become much more complicated than it had been thirty seconds ago.
The girls stared.
All four of them.
Their expressions cycled rapidly through shock, disbelief, confusion, and something that looked suspiciously like heartbreak, though Obito felt that might be a bit dramatic considering they had met him approximately two minutes ago.
“Oh,” one of them said faintly.
Another blinked. “Oh.”
The first one—the one who had spoken initially—pressed her lips together, her shoulders slumping just slightly as realization set in. “We… didn’t know.”
Kakashi’s grip on Obito tightened just a fraction, subtle but noticeable, his thumb brushing lightly against the fabric of Obito’s sleeve in a way that felt entirely unnecessary and yet very intentional. “It’s not exactly public,” he said, tone easy, as if discussing something mundane rather than the complete fabrication of a relationship that had not existed five minutes ago.
Obito’s brain was still catching up.
“Yes,” he managed weakly, because apparently he was participating in this now. “Very… not public.”
The girls exchanged looks.
There was a moment—a long, heavy moment—where it seemed like they might push further, might question it, might demand clarification or proof or anything that would unravel this increasingly unstable lie.
Instead, one of them sighed.
“Well,” she said, forcing a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, “we won’t bother you anymore.”
Another nodded. “Sorry for the trouble.”
And just like that, they retreated.
Obito watched them go, his entire body still tense, his mind struggling to process the fact that it had actually worked. They disappeared down the street, their voices fading into the background noise of the village, leaving behind a silence that felt significantly heavier than it had any right to be.
It was over.
He had done it.
He had successfully escaped.
Relief flooded through him in a wave so strong it nearly made his knees weak.
“Finally,” Obito breathed, sagging slightly as the tension drained from his shoulders. “That was—”
He stopped.
Because Kakashi’s arm was still around him.
Obito blinked.
Slowly, he turned his head.
Kakashi was looking at him.
Not at the street. Not at the direction the girls had gone. At him.
Up close.
Far too close.
There was something in his expression—something quiet, something thoughtful, something that made Obito’s chest tighten in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with running through half the village to escape a group of admirers.
“…You can let go now,” Obito said, attempting to sound normal and failing just a little.
Kakashi didn’t move.
Instead, his grip shifted slightly, his arm settling more comfortably across Obito’s shoulders, as if he had no intention of removing it anytime soon.
“Can I?” Kakashi asked, his voice softer now, quieter in a way that felt deliberate.
Obito frowned. “Yes. That was the whole point. They’re gone.”
“They might still be watching,” Kakashi said, glancing briefly down the street before returning his gaze to Obito, entirely unconcerned. “We should be convincing.”
Obito stared at him.
“They’re gone,” he repeated.
“Maybe,” Kakashi allowed. “But we should be careful.”
Something about the way he said it—calm, reasonable, completely unbothered—made it difficult to argue, even though Obito was absolutely certain that he should be arguing.
“…You called me ‘koibito,’” Obito said instead, because that felt like the more immediate problem.
Kakashi hummed, as if considering it. “It suits you.”
“It absolutely does not.”
“I think it does.”
“It doesn’t!”
Kakashi’s eye crinkled slightly, amusement flickering there for just a second before smoothing out again. “We’ll need consistency,” he said, as if that explained everything. “Pet names help.”
Obito opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
“No,” he said finally, because that was the only correct response to whatever this had become.
Kakashi didn’t argue.
He didn’t let go, either.
And that was the second moment Obito realized, with growing dread, that this was not going to be as simple as he had hoped.