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It's the little things that are the most important, those tenuous threads that weave small comforts through everything else and hold sanity and humanity together.
There is always a salty hint in the air as Kakashi passes, a mix of sweat and soup that dances across stressed nerves more effectively than anything a medical ninja had ever concocted.
Salty soup is the smell of home, of chill evenings spent hunched on a bench, noodles hanging out of a mouth like a catfish's feelers as Kakashi pauses, mid-slurp and mid-thought, and Yamato tries not to let a smile crack through the stoic mask he has cultivated.
Kakashi eats like he is engaged in a race against himself, determined to end up just that much better than he was a moment before. He finishes his mouthful and wipes the inevitable splatters from his face with absentminded fastidiousness. Then he casually drops some ridiculous observation into the middle of the conversation, a non sequitur meant to distract and edge the conversation back in a direction he was comfortable with. That he was in control of.
Sometimes that control made all the difference.
Kakashi's calm control eased them through the worst of engagements, took the bite from the taste of blood and the quivering ache of overworked muscles. As does the easy smile that curls the corner of his eyes as they both pant through the realization that they are again the last ones standing, and is the sign of a job well done.
Yamato couldn't help but return it, even now, years later, when a worn out Kakashi raises a hand in greeting, facemask wrinkling and eye crinkling in a tired yet honest smile. There is affection there, hidden quietly in the way his visible eye softened just so, how crow's feet replaced strain lines and his entire frame settled into a comfortable, familiar slouch.
"We creak like old men." Kakashi observes, voice as light as if he had been discussing new additions to the menu sitting in front of him.
Yamato opens his mouth to argue, to point out that neither of them are particularly old, but their history hangs like humidity in the air and catches in his throat. So he settles for a small smile and a shake of the head.
Kakashi examines the menu with a raised eyebrow though they both knew he will decide on the same bowl of noodles he always orders, a slightly apologetic look on his face for taking up so much time on a predetermined decision.
"Did you lose weight?"
The crease of Kakashi's mouth shifts under his mask. Sporting something that is half grimace, half grin, Kakashi glances up. "You've seen how Naruto eats."
Yamato and Kakashi split a snort and shake of the head between the two of them. The sound rings less of cynicism and more of history and humor shared by two men who settle into each others presence like old hounds.
"Being in the field with him is always something of an…experience." Yamato decides on a bowl of ramen, and orders for Kakashi, who wont get around to it for a few minutes yet as there is a whole new section of menu to subject to his in-depth investigation.
A smile curls a path of wrinkles across Kakashi's mask. "Reminds me of some other kid."
It was something in the way Kakashi's face shifted, slipping into an expression that Yamato had never seen directed at anyone else. It was the way Kakashi's slouch suddenly had direction, how Kakashi's weight settled comfortably against his side. It was the same feeling that twisted through his stomach and jangled down his spine, making sure to trip on every nerve as it went when they went back to back in battle, when they curled together for warmth under a blanket in the woods.
It was a simple spark of human contact between two human beings honed into the roles of inhuman archetypes. They were efficient, effective, and so very lonely. Kindred spirits that understand each other all too well. It had prompted that first shrug and loose, one-armed hug on Kakashi's part, had encouraged Yamato to rest his head on Kakashi's chest as opposed to the rocky ground. It was acceptance and appreciation, not just appreciative awe. And it meant so much more than any rank or honor the Hokage could offer. They were accidents of circumstance, and had one hell of a time sorting out the humanity of their situations.
Kakashi found it in the way Yamato was shy about kissing, about keeping his eyes open when Kakashi was that close. Yamato caught it in the slight shivers that shuddered through Kakashi's frame at each accidental touch.
Yamato allows himself to lean back into Kakashi, reassurance as well as reciprocation.
It is in the little comforts, the shared blankets and shared humanity. Their reminders to themselves, and of each other. The smell of sweat and ramen, and the mix of cedar and the particular cologne Yamato uses when he remembers. It's the smell of home. The scent of reassurance that stays with them when eyes narrow and assess each threat, when muscles are tense and sore and the dry cotton taste of tension is thick on the tongue, that scent of salt and soup and cedar always remains as something to come back to.
To come home to.
Yamato smiles as Kakashi slurps his ramen, smiles as the lines on Kakashi's face smooth as tension is dispersed with this singular ritual. Kakashi pretends not to notice the expression, but his leg curves out and hooks around Yamato's under the table.
"Eat. I can't be that interesting."
Yamato chuckles, leaning so that the side of his head knocks against Kakashi's lightly before turning his attention to the bowl steaming in front of him.
It's the little things that are the most important.