Chapter Text
—You're boring... and weird. You're like chicken with rice; flavorless and meaningless.
Those words settled into him like a stagnant echo, a mantra that beat rhythmically against his skull until it silenced his heart. Suddenly, the wool of his sweater felt heavy as a thorny armor, and the tea lost its warmth. He always sweetened it generously, but that afternoon, the sugar seemed to have given up; the taste was a sour stain that tore a broken smile from him. With a slow nod and the crystalline gleam of someone who no longer knows how to hold back tears, he let the world become a blur behind his brown eyes.
His heart, once vibrant, now beat against his ribs like a caged animal. The sighs that escaped his lips were threads of sadness dissolving into the steam of the tea, letting silence settle into his mind with a deafening echo.
He hated that internal architecture from which he couldn't escape; he wanted to tear out his autism, his ADHD, and that anxiety that clouded his judgment. He wanted, with a painful hunger, to simply be "normal." To be that magnet of stares that was the black-haired man with the boisterous laugh, the one who watched the gray-haired man as if he were the center of the universe. They had a story, one of those beautiful tragedies the world celebrates. He, on the other hand, only had silence. When his eyes collided with the serenity of those gray pupils, Iruka felt he wasn't enough. He looked away, taking refuge in the immensity of a garden that bloomed oblivious to his shipwreck.
He sank into the back of the chair, taking refuge in the pages of a book; a non-existent world where the noise was, at least, more compassionate than the chaos of his depressed heart. He dreamed of a love that felt like a distant shore, unreachable for someone "weird" in a universe that confuses peace with boredom.
He accepted his invisibility with a resignation that almost seemed like relief. Being a shadow allowed him to be the silent spectator of a world that didn't include him; he could dissect how others loved, how they laughed, and how they inhabited those vibrant stories that for him only existed on paper. He convinced himself that his happiness was piled up on the shelves of his library, in worlds that couldn't reject him. When his phone vibrated on the table, there was no burst of hope or accelerated pulse. He knew it wasn't a message, but a cold, automated reminder from the bank. A notice of debt for someone who already felt in the red with life.
That was his ritual: entire afternoons dissolving in the corner of a café, his eyes fixed on the same couple. He knew them without knowing them; an Uchiha and a Hatake who carried the weight of a myth. Iruka recited their story in silence, like a rosary of sorrows: the shared childhood, the fracture, the ghost of that girl, Rin, whose death sowed guilt in one and winter in the other. He admired how chaos had transformed into redemption, how that bloodied path had ended up birthing red camellias. It was a beautiful tragedy, a story with the right to be told, while his... his was a blank book that no one would bother to open.
One day, the balance broke. Arriving, he found the gray-haired man inhabiting his solitude; he was there, sitting exactly at his table, the sacred corner where Iruka used to shelter his chamomile tea and blackberry cheesecake facing the garden. He searched with his gaze for the Uchiha, hoping the picture would be complete, but there was no trace of him. A curiosity tinged with fear made him tilt his head. He approached with the caution of someone afraid of scaring a wounded bird, feeling that his own voice was a forbidden noise in that silence.
—Excuse me... —he whispered, barely a thread of a voice that resisted coming out. The gray-haired man looked up, lazy, blinking about five times. Yes, Iruka counted them. The brunet buried his nose a bit more into his own scarf, the aroma of chamomile tea still there —You're at my table —he finally let out.
His voice was a silk thread about to break, an absurd shyness that dragged the chronic fear of being insulted, hit, or, worse, looked at with that contempt that "normal" people reserve for what they don't understand.
The gray-haired man raised an eyebrow, exuding an elegance that even in solitude was hurtful. He let out a dry laugh, a spark of mockery that, in anyone else, would have provoked humiliation. But in Iruka... in Iruka it only caused his brow to furrow with implacable logic. It wasn't that the man bothered him per se; it was that the order of his universe was based on that chair, that angle of the garden, and that plate of cheesecake being constants. And Kakashi was an unforeseen variable.
—Your table? —asked the gray-haired man with sharp sarcasm, running his gaze over the wooden surface —. Wow, I don't see your name written anywhere. Does it have a property plaque that my eyes can't see?
Iruka blinked, processing the question with absolute seriousness. He ignored the mordant tone and the intention to ridicule him; for him, the question was a request for technical information.
—No, it doesn't have a physical plaque —Iruka replied in a flat, honest voice, starting to count on his fingers —. But I've been sitting here for three years, four months, and two weeks. Every Tuesday and Thursday at half-past four. The employees know it, so there's an implicit contract of use based on repetition. Also, my name isn't written because that would be vandalism and damage to the café's private property, and I don't do that kind of thing.
He stood there, looking at Kakashi with a fixed stare that didn't blink, waiting for the man to understand the force of his data.
Kakashi was silent for a couple of seconds, blinking slowly. He was used to tragedies, staring contests, and words loaded with double meanings, but not to a technical audit on the use of a café table.
—Wow... —Kakashi let out, recovering his apathetic tone —. I didn't know the coffee came with an intellectual property regulation. I suppose "repetition" makes you the owner of the air around the chair too, doesn't it?
Iruka tilted his head, analyzing the proposal with a seriousness that was starting to become desperate for the gray-haired man.
—No, that would be physically impossible —Iruka replied calmly —. Air is a fluid in constant movement due to the establishment's ventilation and thermal convection. I can't own something I can't retain. Only the chair. The chair is solid.
Kakashi let out a long sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. It was like talking to an instruction manual that refused to give in. Iruka, for his part, felt the conversation was flowing well, so without the filter most people use to protect themselves, he let out the question that had been circling his mind since he entered the place.
—And the Uchiha? —asked Iruka, looking at the empty seat in front of Kakashi —. He's always here. The visual balance of the table is broken without him. Is he delayed because of traffic, or is it a health problem?
Kakashi tensed. The sarcasm evaporated from his face, leaving an expression of absolute exhaustion. He rolled his eyes with a mixture of annoyance and sharp pain that Iruka couldn't read in time.
—We're done —Kakashi said in a dry, cutting voice —. He's not coming. Not today, not Thursday, not for the next three years, four months, and two weeks that you plan to sit here.
The silence that followed was dense. Iruka felt a lurch in his stomach, a cold knot he knew too well: the sign that his words had crossed an invisible line that he hadn't seen. His mind processed the information: "We're done." Breakup. Pain. Real tragedy, not from a book.
Iruka shut his mouth abruptly, gripping his bag strap. Logic told him he should say something to fix it, but his anxiety screamed that any extra word would only worsen the disaster. He looked at his cold tea cup, then the garden, and finally his own shoes. He felt small, too weird for a world of such sharp feelings. He had messed up, and the worst part was he didn't know how to apologize without sounding even stranger.
—I'm sorry —Iruka stammered, lowering his gaze to his hands —. I... I didn't mean to ask something private. My brain doesn't always filter the social relevance of questions before my mouth executes them.
Kakashi let out a heavy exhale, losing his rigidity. Seeing the brunet so genuinely distressed made his own bitterness feel, for a moment, too heavy.
—It's nothing —Kakashi murmured, turning his gaze back to the garden —. Forget it.
A long silence followed. Kakashi expected the stranger to leave or, at least, look for another table after the awkward moment they just had. But when he looked up again, Iruka was still there. Standing. Looking at him fixedly with those brown eyes that knew neither the concept of "personal space" nor "leaving discreetly."
—What? —Kakashi let out, already somewhat exasperated.
—You're still at my table —Iruka replied with imperturbable calm.
Kakashi was stunned. There was no trace of mockery on the brunet's face, only infinite patience, like someone waiting for a traffic light to turn green.
—Alright, fine... sorry. I'm sorry —Kakashi said, raising his hands in surrender as he picked up his coat —. I didn't know the table protocol was so strict. I'm moving, I'm moving. It had a good view, that's all.
As soon as Kakashi stood up, Iruka's face lit up. He sat down with efficient speed, arranging his bag on its usual hook and aligning his cup with the edge of the table with millimeter precision.
—I sit here to read —Iruka explained, already fully recovered and happy, taking out his book as if Kakashi's breakup drama had never happened —. The angle of the light at this time is optimal to avoid eye strain, and the blackberry cheesecake tastes better if the jasmine scent from the garden reaches it directly.
Kakashi let out a snort, a mix of disbelief and a laugh that didn't quite come out.
—Incredible —he muttered between his teeth as he walked away —. Definitely, this town is full of weirdos.
Iruka didn't even hear him. By the time Kakashi was crossing the café door, Iruka was already immersed in his non-existent world, with his tea cooling and his heart at peace, because the order of the universe —his universe of a single table— had been restored.
It was at night, while the blue light of the screen bathed his room and his cat, Ramen, vibrated with a heavy purr against his chest, when the question returned to haunt him. They're done? Why? They were supposed to love each other with the strength of those who have survived a shipwreck.
He shifted clumsily. Suddenly, the texture of the sheet became unbearable, an erroneous friction that forced him to wrestle with the blankets until he found the exact angle between physical warmth and perfect visibility to watch Satoru Gojo release his Domain. Iruka had always felt a pang of pain for Satoru; that story of the best friend turned antagonist, a bond broken by tragedy and duty. Inevitably, his mind returned to Kakashi and the Uchiha. They were echoes. Different stories, different tragedies, but with that same taste of loss that he only knew through fiction.
He sank deeper into the pillows, trying to stifle the thought. He didn't want to analyze others' lives; doing so only underscored the emptiness of his own, surrounded by plants that didn't speak and cats that looked at him with sovereign contempt at the slightest movement.
—I'm sorry, Ramen... —he murmured, pouting when the cat let out a snort of indignation.
But curiosity was a persistent parasite. Where would he look? On Instagram? His profile was a desert of likes on animal rescue videos and kitten photos; he didn't know how to navigate the digital trail of real people. Asking them directly was completely illogical; it would be intrusive, a violent rupture of his anonymity. Besides, that Kakashi must be hurting inside. A friendship of decades, a love forged in ashes... it was a story full of spices and nuances.
In contrast, he... he felt like sick-person soup: bland, lukewarm, something that's just there to accompany while the real action happens elsewhere. Just a witness.
Ramen meowed with evident annoyance when Iruka decided he couldn't stay still. He got up and went to the kitchen, shuffling his feet and feeling the cold.
—You're so whiny, Ramen! But you have no choice but to love me, it's cold and I'm your only heat source —he scolded him, sticking out his tongue with a childishness he only allowed himself in the solitude of his home.
He turned off the kettle and poured the water over the supermarket chamomile tea bag. The taste was flat, almost metallic. He looked at the steam rising and thought that maybe he should order that box of expensive teas he'd seen in an ad online. Maybe, if his tea had a complex and sophisticated flavor, he would also stop feeling so bland.
The next day was perfect. Sunday with the smell of new books, incense smelling of an old library, and murmurs of turning pages. Perfect for losing himself even more in those stories he could never live. So Iruka walked among the aisles with his guard down, absorbed in the aroma of old paper and ink, until fate —or his lack of motor coordination— decided to intervene. He turned a corner too hastily and collided head-on with a firm chest.
—I'm sorry! —he exclaimed, jumping back as his glasses slid down the bridge of his nose.
—Wow, it seems today you're not just claiming tables, but also pedestrian transit territories —said a lazy, drawling voice.
Iruka blinked, adjusting his glasses. It was him. The gray-haired man. Kakashi looked at him with one half-closed eye and an expression that Iruka couldn't decipher.
—I'm not claiming the hallway —Iruka replied with total seriousness, analyzing the space —. Bookstores are free transit zones, although I admit my vector trajectory was deficient. It won't happen again.
Kakashi let out a small laugh, tilting his head.
—I was joking, Iruka. It's a joke.
—Ah... sorry. Sometimes I don't understand jokes —he admitted, feeling that familiar warmth in his cheeks that signaled the start of an imminent flight —. I'll leave now so I don't interrupt your...
Iruka froze. His eyes dropped to Kakashi's hand, which held a copy of The Poppy War. The gleam in his brown pupils changed in a blink: from social terror to absolute euphoria.
—Are you going to read R.F. Kuang? —Iruka blurted out, forgetting that a second ago he wanted to be swallowed by the earth —. It's... it's devastating. It's a raw deconstruction of shamanic mythology mixed with war history. The way Rin sacrifices her humanity for a power that ends up devouring her is a terrifying metaphor for transgenerational trauma and the cost of revenge. And chapter twenty-one! Well, I won't spoil it for you, but statistically, it's the point of no return where the reader loses faith in human goodness.
He spoke for minutes, the words tumbling out like a cascade. He explained the relationship of the gods with madness and how the Sinegard academy was a microcosm of political corruption, gesticulating so energetically that he almost hit a poetry shelf. When the air finally ran out, the silence of the bookstore fell on him like a lead weight.
Kakashi looked at him with his eye wide open, processing the avalanche of information.
—I did it again, didn't I? —Iruka whispered, shrugging and returning to his melancholic shell —. I talked too much. My brain doesn't know when to stop the data transfer. I'm sorry. I know it's annoying for normal people.
To his surprise, Kakashi didn't walk away. Instead, a soft, vibrant, almost intimate laugh escaped his lips.
—Don't apologize —Kakashi said, and this time his voice had a warmth that Iruka couldn't classify —. Actually, I like it when people talk. It's... refreshing to hear someone who says exactly what they think, without filters or games. You have a very particular passion, Iruka. You almost make me want to skip the first few chapters to get to that disaster you mentioned.
Iruka nodded stiffly, processing the phrase. His brain analyzed the words: I like it, Refreshing, Passion. He tried to find the sarcasm, the hidden mockery, or the signal that he should leave, but he found nothing more than a gray gaze observing him with genuine curiosity.
—If you skip chapters, you'll lose the structure of the protagonist's moral decline —Iruka warned, completely oblivious to Kakashi's flirtation —. It wouldn't be efficient reading.
Kakashi smiled under the fabric of his mask (or so Iruka thought, judging by the wrinkles around his eye).
—You're right. It would be a tactical error. I suppose I'll have to read it carefully... maybe in a quiet place. Do you know if there's a good table at the corner café on Tuesday afternoons?
Iruka blinked, serious.
—Yes, table four has the best lighting, but it's reserved by an implicit contract of repetition. You'd have to ask the owner for permission.
—I'll talk to him —Kakashi concluded with an amused tone that Iruka, of course, didn't fully understand.
It was a gray Monday, after work. Iruka walked buried in his burgundy coat, seeking refuge in the velvet voice of Laufey filtering through his headphones. He hummed in his own world, a bubble of jazz and isolation, until he collided with someone.
Jet-black hair, a leather jacket that exhaled a penetrating smell of ash, and a look of disdain so sharp that Iruka stepped back two steps out of pure instinct.
—You should be more careful —the voice said.
Iruka recognized it immediately. It was the Uchiha; the man with the boisterous laugh, the other half of the epic tragedy. But there was no trace of the gentleness or charisma that others described; only a man who seemed made of sharp edges remained.
—I'm sorry —Iruka managed to say.
He heard the black-haired man click his tongue in annoyance before walking away with firm steps, leaving a trail of irritation behind him. Iruka sighed, trying to resume his calm pace, but his mind was already working overtime. People said the Uchiha was light, but what he had just seen was an eclipse.
He crossed the square, lost in his thoughts, when he saw him: the gray-haired man. He was there, sitting on a bench, a solitary figure under the pale sky. Iruka hesitated. Are we acquaintances?, he wondered. They had met twice, exchanged strange words about tables and war books. A cordial greeting was logically correct, right?
But as he approached, the air became heavy. There was no greeting, but a muffled sob, a weak cry that seemed to come from the bottom of a well.
Social panic shot through Iruka's chest. What did the protocol dictate? Flee? Pat him on the shoulder as if it were a formality? Offer a hug that would probably be awkward for both? His mind was chaos of wrong options.
—Iruka?
Kakashi's voice anchored him to the ground. The brunet felt a sudden heat climbing up his neck.
—Sorry... I was passing by. I'm sorry —the words stumbled over each other, trampled by his clumsiness —. I thought about saying hello, but you seem... busy.
He stopped upon seeing his face. Kakashi's gray eyes were clouded, the dry trail of tears marking his cheeks and the sclera lit up in a vivid, painful red. Kakashi wiped his face with the cuff of his jacket, forcing a smile loaded with a bitterness so honest it hurt Iruka in his own bones.
—Busy isn't the word —Kakashi murmured, his voice broken —. I'm just... coming to terms with the fact that some stories don't have a book ending, Iruka.
Iruka felt the electric impulse in his legs; the flight signal was lit in his brain with neon red lights. Run. You don't know how to handle this. There's no manual for crying in public squares. But just as he was about to take the first step back, Kakashi's chest shook with a stronger, more broken sob.
—Damn it... —Iruka whispered to himself, feeling guilt win the battle against his social panic.
With robotic movements, he sat down next to the gray-haired man. He kept a prudent distance of exactly fifteen centimeters, but the space evaporated when Kakashi, searching for an anchor in the midst of his storm, let his head fall onto Iruka's shoulder.
—I just... I just need company —Kakashi managed to articulate between gasps.
Iruka nodded with exaggerated slowness, leaving his arms rigid at his sides. His mind, meanwhile, was a seething mass of contradictory thoughts:
«He's going to get snot and tears all over my coat. It's good quality wool, the label said dry clean only. Disgusting. Oh no, Iruka, you're so selfish, the man is suffering. Poor thing. Should I touch his hair? No, that's too intimate. What if I pat him? Humans do that. But how often? Three pats per second or one long one? What if he's bothered by my cheap detergent smell? Shit, he's squeezing my arm. My shoulder is going to go numb, but I can't move, I'm structural support now. I'm a column. Columns don't complain about snot.»
—It's okay —Iruka said finally, with a voice that sounded firmer than he expected —. You don't have to talk.
Iruka kept his back straight, functioning as the physical support Kakashi needed. In his mind, his therapist's words paraded like subtitles: «You are not responsible for others' emotions, Iruka, you are only a compassionate witness.» For months, those phrases were his only anchor when he felt the world was a stage where he had no script.
But now, the script was this: a broken man crying on his shoulder over a love that, for Iruka, had always seemed like a cult novel. «What an angsty fanfic», he thought, remembering those sleepless nights reading stories where love was only valid if it came with scars and broken promises.
—I... I loved him, you know? —Kakashi let out, his voice thick.
Iruka nodded. A slow, mechanical movement. Data registered: Persistent love despite the breakup.
—But he loves living in the past and tragedy —Kakashi continued, pulling back just a few centimeters, enough for Iruka to see the bitterness in his gaze —. Obito is... he's like a fire that refuses to go out. He doesn't know how to be happy if there isn't something to lament. He clings to what we lost years ago, to the mistakes we made when we barely knew who we were, as if that pain were his only identity. He built an altar for his wounds and expects me to live kneeling at it.
Kakashi let out a dry laugh, devoid of any trace of humor.
—I tried to get him out of there, Iruka. I tried to tell him we could have a normal life, a boring life, without ghosts. But he doesn't want a life, he wants an epic. For him, if there's no blood, sacrifice, or an eternal debt to the past, then our love has no "meaning." And I... I no longer have the strength to be the martyr of his story.
Iruka processed the information. He thought of the Uchiha he had collided with minutes before, with that smell of ash and that look that seemed to seek an enemy in every corner.
—So —Iruka said, breaking the silence with his disarming logic —, he suffers from a trauma-based self-sabotage narrative. He doesn't love you, he loves the pain you represent.
Kakashi fell silent, looking at Iruka as if he had just explained a complex equation with insulting simplicity.
—That's a very clinical way of putting it —Kakashi murmured, wiping a trace of moisture from his cheek.
—It's the only way that makes sense —Iruka replied, adjusting his glasses —. If love requires one of the two to be chained to a tragedy for it to be "real," then it's not love, it's a very exhausting literary genre. And you seem to have a severe caloric deficit of happiness right now.
Kakashi rested his head on Iruka's shoulder again, but this time there were no sobs. Just a long sigh, as if the brunet's literal, flat words had lifted a weight that Obito's tragic romanticism had imposed on him for years.
—A happiness deficit... —Kakashi repeated in a whisper —. You're right. I'm starving, Iruka.
Kakashi whispered, still pressed against his shoulder, with that voice that dragged all the world's weariness.
Iruka frowned. He stared at a fixed point on the grass, processing the information in the most direct way possible. If someone is hungry, the solution is biological, not metaphorical.
—Then eat —Iruka replied, without moving a millimeter.
Kakashi slowly pulled away. His face was a mess: red eyes, skin irritated by tears, and a strand of hair stuck to his forehead. He blinked several times, looking at Iruka with a mixture of incredulity and disappointment, as if he expected the brunet to read the subtext of his soul.
—It was... so that, well, we could go eat —Kakashi murmured, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly —. I... Wasn't it obvious? I thought that after all the crying, the logical step was to invite you for something. Or for you to invite me. I don't know, get out of here.
Iruka felt that little internal short circuit. Ah, it was a social invitation. He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling very aware that his hands were rigid on his knees.
—No, it wasn't obvious —Iruka blurted out, feeling that knot of frustration he got when people expected him to read minds —. I mean, you're crying, you just broke up with your boyfriend... the last thing I thought was that you wanted to go for tacos. I thought you were just... I don't know, existing. Badly.
Iruka looked away at his feet, playing with the edge of his sleeve. He felt exposed. He hated it when the world went into "code" and he didn't have the key.
—Besides, I don't know how this works —he continued, with the honesty that sometimes came out unfiltered —. Are you supposed to invite someone who's in the middle of a collapse to eat? I'm afraid you'll order something and start crying on top of the food. It would be a waste of dinner, and I wouldn't know what to do with the napkins.
Kakashi was mute for a second, processing the response. There was no scientific data, just Iruka's raw and somewhat clumsy truth. The gray-haired man let out a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.
—I guess you're right. It's a bad time for a three-course meal. But really... I'd prefer anything to staying here alone thinking about him.
Iruka looked at him out of the corner of his eye. Seeing Kakashi like this, so deflated, took away some of his own anxiety.
—Well, there's a ramen place nearby —Iruka said, starting to walk to break the tension —. It's nothing fancy, but the owner doesn't ask questions, and the kitchen noise covers any awkward silence. If you start crying again, at least there will be steam to hide it.
Kakashi stood up, stretching his back with a groan.
—Steam to hide the drama. I like it —Kakashi smiled, matching Iruka's pace —. Thank you, really. For not giving me the usual motivational phrases.
—Those phrases are useless —Iruka replied, putting his hands in his pockets —. Hot food works. Walk, if we arrive late, we'll have to sit at the counter, and I hate people breathing on my neck while I eat.
It was exactly 00:25, and Iruka sought refuge in the absolute darkness of his room. He liked it that way: a black void where neither the moon nor the city lights dared to enter. Just him and the rhythm of his own breathing. But that night, silence was a lie. The hum of the TV on standby, the refrigerator motor in the distance... everything sounded with an electrical vibration, irritating, as if the world were screaming at a frequency only he could hear. He sank under the pillow, letting out a silent scream so as not to scare his cats, wishing the universe would simply turn off.
But his mind wouldn't turn off. He tossed and turned in the sheets, feeling the excessive heat of the fabric against his skin, reliving the day over and over again.
It had been strange. Uncomfortable. He was only the witness of "Table 4," the one who observed from the periphery how the Uchiha and the gray-haired man built and destroyed their story over coffees and arguments. How did he end up being the support for someone else's breakup? Kakashi had mentioned other friends —Yamato, Gai, Tsunade—, but apparently they had exhausted their patience quota by the fifteenth crying session of the week.
However, it wasn't Kakashi's presence that burned in his thoughts. It was the question that had escaped him without permission, that doubt that jumped from his mouth before his brain could stop it:
—But do you still love him?
Iruka remembered the pause. He counted the seconds in his head while Kakashi looked at him, with those cloudy gray eyes fixed on his. It was an eternity of silence. Iruka apologized immediately, hating himself for being so intrusive, but Kakashi didn't interrupt him; he just stayed there, processing the question as if it were a language he no longer knew how to speak.
And for Iruka, that only had one possible reading.
If you take so long to answer, the answer is no longer "yes." Because love should be an immediate reaction, something obvious, right? So, what was hurting Kakashi so much? Why those tears if the feeling had already evaporated?
Iruka curled up in the fetal position, squeezing the pillow. If love has to hurt with that intensity to be real, to have "flavor"... maybe he was better off like this: bland, alone, and silent. Even if the hum of the refrigerator kept telling him otherwise.
It was a week after that silent ramen. Seven days without seeing each other, during which Iruka believed his life would return to its gray monotony as always. But the world crumbled beneath his feet in the cruelest possible way. Moshi, his companion of fourteen years, got sick. It was a matter of hours; a swift decline that left Iruka breathless. With his usual vet on vacation, he ran to the nearest emergency clinic, feeling his skin burn over his bones and the oxygen refusing to enter his lungs.
—I need someone to see him, please! It's urgent! —His voice broke, high-pitched and desperate. He had Moshi wrapped in a blanket against his chest; he could feel the erratic, weak breathing of the small body that had been with him since he was a teenager.
A door swung open, and a familiar face appeared behind the consultation counter. Iruka fell silent. It was him. Without his usual mask, dressed in a white coat that seemed too bright for the darkness of the moment. Kakashi looked at him with surprise that lasted barely a second before his eyes dropped to the bundle in Iruka's arms.
—Pass him to the table. Now —Kakashi ordered. His tone wasn't sarcastic or apathetic; it was that of a professional who recognizes a lost battle but refuses to give up.
Iruka stayed in a corner, clenching his fists until his nails dug into his palms. He watched Kakashi work. He saw his hands, the same ones that had held the R.F. Kuang book with elegance, now moving with frantic urgency. He saw the gleam of the stethoscope and the effort to cannulate a vein in a leg too thin. But he also saw how Kakashi's shoulders tensed and how his gray gaze filled with a heavy shadow.
Time stopped. The buzzing of the clinic's machines began to drill into Iruka's head. It was a dirty noise, an echo that screamed that the order of his universe was about to break forever.
Finally, silence won. Kakashi stopped moving. He stood for a moment with his back turned, head bowed, before covering Moshi's small body with the blanket. He turned slowly and walked towards Iruka. There was no need for words; the "brutal honesty" that Kakashi had shown in the square was there again, but this time it wasn't for him, but for Iruka's pain.
—I'm sorry, Iruka —Kakashi whispered, approaching until he broke any barrier of personal space —. His heart was just too tired. I couldn't... we couldn't do anything else.
Iruka didn't respond with data. There was no analysis of multi-organ failure or mentions of the cat's age. He simply collapsed. A hoarse, dry sob escaped his throat as he covered his face with his hands, feeling the ground disappear.
This time, there were no protocol doubts. Kakashi took the missing step and wrapped Iruka in a firm, solid hug. The brunet buried his face in the white coat, soaking the fabric with tears that had no filters or shame. The smell of ash and antiseptic surrounded him, and although his hands clung to Kakashi's back with desperate force, the only thing he could think about was the silence waiting for him at home.
—It's okay, cry —Kakashi murmured, resting his chin on the chestnut hair, giving back exactly the same refuge Iruka had given him a week ago —. I'll watch the rubble this time. I'm not going to leave you alone.
Iruka could only nod against his chest, grateful that, in the midst of the blandest tragedy of his life, at least he didn't have to be invisible to process it.
The return trip was a void of shadows and asphalt. Kakashi didn't let Iruka drive; he simply took the keys, carried the small wooden box where Moshi rested, and settled the brunet in the passenger seat as if he were made of glass. Iruka didn't protest. He stared out the window, eyes swollen and chest compressed, feeling that the outside world —traffic lights, pedestrians, neon lights— was a silent movie that had nothing to do with him.
They drove to a small clearing on the outskirts, a corner where the city surrendered to a young, silent forest. Kakashi took a shovel from the trunk with a familiarity that suggested it wasn't the first time he had helped someone say goodbye.
While the sound of metal hitting the earth rhythmically filled the air, Iruka knelt beside the box. His fingers caressed the polished wood, tracing the grain as if searching for one last contact with the soft fur that was no longer there.
—Fourteen years —Iruka whispered, his voice barely a sigh the wind almost carried away —. Fourteen years of waking up with his weight on my legs. He didn't know I was weird, or that I talk too much, or that sometimes the noise of the refrigerator made me want to scream. For him, I was just "his human." The one who served tea and let him sleep on the books.
A solitary tear slid down his nose and fell onto the fresh earth.
—You were the best companion, Moshi. Thank you for not asking me to be normal. Thank you for being the flavor of my days when everything else seemed tasteless to me.
Kakashi put the shovel aside and approached, staying at a respectful distance, letting the silence of the forest envelop Iruka's words.
—You're a good owner, Iruka —Kakashi said softly. His gray eyes, once loaded with selfish tragedy, now reflected a serene empathy —. It shows in how you talk about him. Animals don't stay fourteen years with someone they don't consider their home.
Iruka wiped his face with his sleeve, leaving a smudge of dirt on his cheek.
—It's that... I love cats. They're logical. If they don't love you, they leave. If they stay, it's an absolute truth. There are no second intentions or sarcasm I can't understand. They are... the only thing that makes sense to me.
They stayed like that for a moment, under the dying moonlight, in a melancholic peace found only after the exhaustion of crying. Kakashi sat on the root of a nearby tree, watching Iruka finish arranging some stones on the small grave.
—I understand you —Kakashi murmured, looking towards the treetops —. I'm more of a dog person, I suppose.
Iruka looked up, blinking curiously through his fogged glasses.
—Do you have a dog? —he asked, trying to imagine the elegant, tragic veterinarian walking a canine.
—I have eight —Kakashi replied with absolute naturalness.
Iruka froze, a stone half-placed. His brain processed the number, multiplied it by basic needs, living space, and sensory noise level.
—Eight? —he repeated, his voice rising an octave in pure incredulity —. Eight dogs? That's... statistically, that's a pack, Kakashi. How do you survive that?
Kakashi let out a low laugh, a warm sound that cut through the heaviness of the night. It wasn't a mocking laugh, but one born from acceptance of one's own madness.
—Sometimes I wonder that myself. Especially when they decide that three in the morning is the ideal time for a collective existential crisis. They're noisy, demanding, and always smell a bit like wet dog, even when they're dry. But... —his gaze softened — when I come home after a day where everything feels like an epic tragedy, or after someone breaks my heart in a square... they don't ask me why I'm sad. They just offer me twenty-four paws and eight tails wagging at the same time. It's chaos, but it's a chaos that keeps me sane.
Iruka looked at him with genuine surprise, forgetting his own pain for a second. He imagined Kakashi, the man with the sad gaze and expensive coat, covered in dogs of all sizes on a sofa. The image was so absurd and yet so strangely comforting that Iruka felt a small crack of light in his own darkness.
—Eight... —Iruka insisted, lowering his head and letting out a sigh that was almost a smile —. That's too much hair. My vacuum cleaner would explode in three minutes.
—It does —Kakashi admitted, getting to his feet and offering him a hand to help him up —. I've gone through four vacuum cleaners this year. But, if someday you feel too alone in that silence of yours that you care for so much... you can come meet them. I assure you they won't let you be a filler character. They'll make you the protagonist of their afternoon as soon as you walk through the door.
Iruka looked at Kakashi's hand and, for the first time, didn't think about bacteria, social protocol, or how weird it all was. He simply took it. His hand was warm and firm, a real anchor in a world that had taken something precious from him that night.
—Maybe —Iruka said, walking beside him back to the car —. But only if you promise they won't all bark at the same time. My brain has a decibel limit, Kakashi.
—I promise nothing, Iruka. But I promise I'll be there to cover your ears if it gets ugly.
They walked together under the whisper of the trees, two wounded shadows who, between improvised graves and invisible packs, had found a way to make solitude a little less heavy. The silence no longer felt like an insipid void; now it had the bittersweet taste of cold chamomile and the promise of a chaos full of paws that, perhaps, someday Iruka would dare to meet.
—Have you ever been to the beach?
Iruka looked up from his book. It was Thursday afternoon and, as dictated by his implicit contract of repetition, he was sitting at his same table. The afternoon sun bathed the paper while he enjoyed a warm drink and a copy on his lap; this time, an urban fantasy about demons and hunters. It was always the same: tragedy and pain as protagonists, elements that only made Iruka feel more alien to the world. In that universe of epics, someone "boring" and "weird" like him simply didn't seem to fit.
—Yes, I've been a couple of times —Iruka replied with his usual honesty —. Why? Haven't you?
Kakashi hummed, leaning his body back with that lazy elegance that characterized him, while losing his gaze in the garden that stretched behind the window.
—Yes, I've been. I just... felt like going back —the gray-haired man confessed —. Gai and Yamato can't; Tsunade yelled at me that she was busy; Itachi isn't speaking to me since I broke up with his cousin.
Iruka noticed that, this time, mentioning the breakup didn't drag that trace of bitterness or dense silence. In fact, there was a slightly amused spark in Kakashi's expression that caused Iruka to sketch a small smile. He felt strangely proud of his... acquaintance? friend? He didn't know which label best fit his internal architecture, he only knew that Kakashi's presence had become a subtle constant, and he enjoyed it the same way.
—So I'm your last option? —Iruka asked.
He said it smiling, allowing himself to joke. He had started to imitate that wordplay that the gray-haired man used so often, but Kakashi seemed horrified by the question and immediately shook his hands, breaking his carefree pose.
—That's not what I meant! —he exclaimed —. I... God, I just wanted to seem interesting, I'm sorry. But I thought it would be good to go. I could introduce you to my dogs, besides... I need to get out of this town a bit.
—The sand bothers me a little... but if I can, I'd like to.
Iruka smiled with genuine joy, the kind that lights up the face without pretense. He was so absorbed in the possibility of the plan that he didn't notice the subtle rise of color in Kakashi's cheeks, nor the sudden clumsiness with which the gray-haired man looked away. Kakashi cleared his throat abruptly, an inelegant attempt to hide a reaction he didn't expect to have in the face of Iruka's gentle gaze.
—Alright then, we'll go —Kakashi concluded, recovering his composure —. We'll finally see your true home.
There was a hint of mischief in his words; Iruka detected it immediately from the curvature of his smile and that peculiar gleam dancing in his gray pupils.
—Do you mean because of my last name? —Iruka raised an eyebrow, letting out a soft, crystalline laugh.
It was Saturday when Kakashi came to pick up Iruka with eight dogs howling in unison from the car. Iruka said goodbye to Ramen, promising to return by night; he left a kiss on his little head and activated the surveillance system from his cell phone. After Moshi's departure, the fear that Ramen would feel lonely or abandoned had become a constant that only technology managed to calm.
—You're a responsible father —Kakashi commented in a soft tone.
Iruka laughed softly and nodded, greeting the pack excitedly. He stretched out his hands and stroked the fur of each one with an enthusiasm he rarely showed in front of humans.
—They're adorable! —he exclaimed as he settled into the passenger seat.
The dogs moved between them, seeking attention, until a pug named Pakkun decided that Iruka's lap was the best place in the vehicle to settle.
—Wow, it seems you won them over in record time —Kakashi observed, surprised by the immediate acceptance of his pack.
Iruka hummed a distracted melody, smiling sweetly while petting the dog's ears with infinite tenderness.
—I'm good with animals, not with people —Iruka joked; although, deep down, both knew the phrase carried the weight of an absolute truth.
Kakashi smiled with a hint of tenderness and started the car towards a nearby beach. They were looking for a refuge that would distance them from the city's hustle, although the journey was flooded by the chaos of eight dogs barking and seeking the affection of an absorbed Iruka.
—I'm not very good with people either —Kakashi confessed as he drove —. Sometimes I don't know how I managed to have friends... or a partner, to be honest.
Iruka looked at him with compassion, but not pity. It was that tacit understanding that only exists between those who don't know how to fit into a noisy world that idolizes chaos and despises tranquility.
—I understand... I've never had a partner —Iruka admitted, lowering his voice a little —. They always say I'm boring. Like chicken with rice; flavorless and meaningless.
Those words, spoken some time ago by someone else, still hurt. They seeped deep into his heart, sticking like needles in his chest as the landscape began to open towards the marine horizon.
Upon arriving, the roar of the sea mixed with the festive chaos inside the car. As soon as Kakashi opened the door, a tide of paws and fur jumped onto the sand. Iruka got out more cautiously, but didn't have time to process the texture of the grains under his shoes; before he could activate his sensory alert mode, the eight dogs surrounded him as if he were their center of gravity.
Kakashi went to the trunk and began to take out blankets, a cooler, and a picnic basket. However, when he turned around, he stopped dead in his tracks.
Iruka was kneeling in the sand, completely oblivious to his usual discomfort. He had Pakkun resting on one shoulder, while two other dogs licked his hands and the rest ran in perfect circles around him. Iruka laughed, a clean laugh that needed no protocols, while he spoke to them in whispers as if sharing an ancient secret.
Kakashi stayed leaning against the car, a blanket hanging from his arm, watching him in silence. There was something about the image —the light of the setting sun, the movement of the dogs, and the absolute peace on Iruka's face— that tightened his chest in a way he couldn't name.
—Sorry to interrupt, Disney Princess, but I need your help to carry the things.
Iruka startled slightly and jumped to his feet, brushing the sand off his pants with some haste and a trace of blush on his cheeks.
—I'm sorry! —he exclaimed, approaching the car with clumsy steps —. I got distracted, they are... very persistent. Disney Princess?
Iruka looked at him with genuine curiosity while taking one of the blankets Kakashi handed him. His logical mind sought a connection between his wool sweater and animated cartoon royalty.
—Because of your skills, Iruka. You just needed a couple of birds to land on your shoulders to complete the picture —he joked, nodding towards the dogs that followed him as if he were their leader —. You have that gift of attracting forest creatures. It's fascinating, really.
Iruka raised an eyebrow, processing the comparison.
—Well... I guess being a Disney Princess is better than being "chicken with rice" —he murmured, and although he said it quietly, this time there was a small spark of confidence in his voice.
Kakashi paused for a moment, looked at him intently, and nodded.
—Much better. Although, for your information, I really like rice. It's comforting. But you definitely have more of a protagonist than a side dish.
The afternoon stretched lazily, tinged with a vibrant orange that Iruka found much more compassionate than the fluorescent lights of his office. They spread the blankets on the sand, creating a small island of fabric where the order of Iruka's universe was reestablished, this time with the cooler perfectly aligned with the edge of the blanket and the dogs forming a perimeter of warmth and panting.
They ate in a peace that Iruka didn't know could exist outside the pages of his books. There was no pressure to fill the silences; Kakashi seemed to understand that, for someone like him, silence wasn't a void, but a necessary breath.
—This is... statistically better than I expected —Iruka admitted, watching the steam from his thermos of tea dissolve in the sea breeze.
Kakashi, who was lying on his elbows while Pakkun used his stomach as a pillow, let out a soft laugh.
—Better than Table 4?
—Different —Iruka corrected seriously —. In the café, I'm an observer. Here, with the noise of the waves and the weight of your dogs... I feel like the volume of the world has lowered enough for me to exist without asking permission.
They stayed for a while in silence, sharing some sandwiches that Kakashi had prepared. Iruka was surprised to notice that he wasn't analyzing his posture or counting the seconds to flee. On the contrary, he felt strangely solid, like one of those columns he had become when Kakashi cried on his shoulder.
—You know, Iruka —Kakashi said suddenly, looking towards the horizon where sea and sky became one —, most people try to be "interesting" by pretending their life is an epic tragedy. But being with you is like reading a handwritten instruction manual: it's honest, it's clear, and you don't have to guess the subtext. It's the first time in years I don't have to decipher what the other expects from me.
Iruka felt a warmth that didn't come from the sun. He lowered his gaze to his hands, playing with a loose thread on his coat.
—People usually say I'm too literal. That my lack of filter is a factory defect.
—For a world that lies out of politeness, your literalism is a gift —Kakashi replied, turning his head to look at him directly —. You're not "chicken with rice," Iruka. You are the calm after a fire that lasted too long.
Iruka didn't know how to respond to that, but for the first time, he didn't feel the anxiety of looking for a technical answer. He simply leaned a little towards Kakashi, letting their shoulders brush just a millimeter. There was no short circuit, only a quiet vibration, similar to Ramen's purr when the world finally stood still.
The afternoon was still there, the picnic was still warm, and for the first time in his life, Iruka began to suspect that his story didn't have to be a blank book that no one wanted to open. Maybe he just needed the right reader, one who wasn't afraid of precise instructions and who loved rice as much as epics.
It was during the return trip when Iruka felt that pang in his heart and fear invaded him suddenly. Between songs by Laufey, Taylor Swift, and Lana del Rey sung at the top of their lungs alongside the veterinarian, realization hit him with painful force. He understood that Kakashi's gaze had the power to calm him, that his presence was a comforting refuge, and that his existence no longer felt heavy.
Suddenly, Iruka no longer perceived himself as a filler character, uncomfortable, annoying, boring, and bland. Now he was... a protagonist? A secondary character with a right to his own plot? He didn't know, but the doubt made anxiety slide through his veins like a cold poison.
—W-what are you looking at? —Iruka stammered when he noticed Kakashi's attention on him —. Did I get sunburned?! I could swear I put on sunscreen.
Kakashi smiled and shook his head in denial. Iruka looked away towards the back, watching how the eight dogs slept peacefully, worn out after the day at the beach.
—It's not that —Iruka replied, lowering his voice —. Just... thank you. I haven't gone out in a long time and had such a good time.
He said it because his life had always been a lonely desert between Netflix series, anime, books, and fanfics. He had spent years inhabiting other people's lives because he couldn't inhabit his own; he felt he didn't fit in anywhere and that love was a concept so idealized in his mind that the real version terrified him. But there he was, looking at Kakashi as if he were a work of art; not as a lifeguard, but as the perfect companion, the seasoning that finally gave flavor to his chicken with rice. But that... terrified him too much.
They arrived in front of his house after a while. A comfortable silence invaded them, lazy and warm, with eyes tired from the sea spray and their souls blooming gardenias.
—Okay. I'll send you the photos later. Rest, alright? —Kakashi said goodbye with that softness that Iruka now recognized as his own.
Iruka nodded, murmuring a farewell before crossing the threshold. When the door closed behind his back, the world didn't crumble, but it stopped annoyingly. It was as if hundreds of flowers suddenly grew in his lungs and in his blood, an eruption of life that stole his breath and caused him a violent desire to scream, cry, and curse at the same time.
He climbed the stairs with mechanical movements, fleeing the echo of his own house. Entering his room, darkness received him as a cold reminder of who he was when there were no dogs or laughter in between. He let himself fall onto the bed, burying his face in a pillow that still held the neutral smell of his cheap detergent, and finally, the dam broke.
He burst into tears with a hoarse sob, the kind that hurts in the chest because it's born of helplessness. Iruka felt ridiculous. How dare he feel that weight in his stomach? How could he be so naive as to believe there was space for him in the life of someone like Kakashi?
His mind, always logical and cruel, began to dissect the situation as if it were a technical failure report. Kakashi wasn't a blank page like him. Kakashi was a cult book, an epic tragedy written with blood, ashes, and broken promises. He had a past with the Uchiha that was almost mythological; a story of redemption and pain that the world celebrated.
«What am I going to paint there?», Iruka asked himself between gasps, pressing the pillow against his ears to silence his own thoughts. He was just the "chicken with rice." He was the man of Table 4 who counted the seconds to avoid eye strain. He had no poetic traumas or scars that told war stories; he only had anxiety, a neurodivergence diagnosis, and a chronic fear of not being enough.
He felt that trying to enter Kakashi's life was like wanting to write a boring footnote in the middle of an epic. Kakashi was used to the intensity of fires that don't go out, and he... he was just a cup of lukewarm chamomile tea.
The crying became more silent, transforming into a bitter resignation that burned his throat. Iruka curled up in the middle of the bed, feeling more "weird" than ever. He was in love with a man who already had a heart full of ghosts, and in his technical logic, there was no way the space he occupied —that bland, linear little corner— could ever be enough to compete with the beauty of a real tragedy.
How naive he had been to fall in love with a man whose life already seemed occupied by a narrative worthy of a movie; a tragic, sad story with meaning. Too much meaning. But what about him? What place did Iruka claim apart from being the eternal boring character? He felt like an intruder without space in the arms of that veterinarian who was only being kind. Kakashi was looking for a friend, not a romance that wouldn't captivate anyone; not an uninteresting book that lacked those tragic colors that weigh on the soul and remain engraved in memory.
Because, at the end of the day, who would like to read something that has the flat taste of lukewarm tea and bland coffee?
How naive and how clumsy. He should have known that he was not the protagonist in anyone's love story. He felt like a simple lost semicolon in a plot full of periods and epic continuations; a typo, a filler character who had nothing else to do but cry over a feeling he considered unworthy. He convinced himself, between sobs, that he was trying to claim a love that simply wasn't his, a story in which he was never invited to participate.
Him? Someone who treasures his space, his tranquility, comfortable silences, and obvious routines; someone who must fight daily against his own scattered mind and who, on his darkest days, feels that even breathing is a nuisance and his mere existence an inconvenience. So, why?
He cursed his stupid heart, which should be just a vital organ and nothing more, but now forced him to experience a love he always read about in books and those sad stories designed to make you feel and cry. Now it was he who cried, sinking into his own tragic mind while building all the possible scenarios of rejection. He imagined Kakashi offering him a condescending refusal, the response of someone who is only kind and seeks a friendship to mitigate the pain of an impossible past to forget.
Why did Iruka still cling to the idea of falling in love with someone who wasn't for him? Why did he allow his heart to seek a place in a story already written in letters of fire, while his own remained a bland, simple draft?