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Chapter Text

Genma Shiranui stepped into the bar on the southeast edge of Konoha and immediately regretted not inventing a reason to turn around. The place was less a watering hole and more a containment cell for the day’s worst decisions: lacquered wood scratched by decades of spilt drinks and knife games, a countertop burnished by countless elbows, and a clientele that managed to make shinobi black even blacker. It was a nice touch, really—a reminder that even the most highly trained killers craved anonymity and cheap alcohol.

He worked the senbon between his teeth, counting on the faint taste of metal to help clear the copper tang of old blood from his mouth. The mission had gone well—by ninja standards, meaning he’d returned with all his original limbs and the right number of holes in his body—but the tension still knotted under his skin. Sleep wasn’t an option; neither was going home. The senbon clicked against his canines as he scanned the room for a familiar face.

He found it at the back, half-sunk in shadow: Kakashi Hatake, silver-haired menace to both authority and personal boundaries, occupying a booth like it was a throne and nursing a drink with the easy arrogance of someone who’d never paid a bar tab in his life. The eye above the mask was as unreadable as always, fixed on the tabletop but betraying nothing of his intentions.

Of course.

Genma considered several alternate plans of attack, most of which ended in him dragging his feet back to his own apartment. None were satisfying. He moved, threading between off-duty chunin and a pair of hunched ANBU in civilian clothes, and let the muted hubbub settle into the background. When he reached the booth, he stopped, looked at the mask, and deadpanned, “Forgot your book, or is staring at woodgrain the new intellectual pursuit?”

Kakashi didn’t look up. “They say the wood tells stories, if you listen long enough.”

“Right. I’ll take your word for it. What’s tonight’s chapter—tragedy, comedy, or one of those experimental volumes where nothing happens and everyone dies anyway?”

Now the visible eye did flicker upward, briefly, appraising him like a puzzle he’d already solved and found lacking. “You’re bleeding,” Kakashi observed.

Genma shrugged and ran his thumb along the cut at his jaw, more annoyed at the observation than the injury. “It’s cosmetic,” he said, and slid into the seat opposite. He pulled his flak vest tighter, then forced himself to relax into the vinyl. It creaked in protest.

The table between them was scarred, faintly sticky, and ringed with the ghosts of hundreds of cups. A lone bottle and two small glasses sat abandoned in the no man’s land. Genma eyed the bottle’s label. Cheap, generic, probably strong enough to disinfect a kunai wound. He poured himself a shot and filled the other glass for Kakashi, just to be contrary.

The bartender, a relic with more scar tissue than either of them, wandered over with a rag and a lack of interest that bordered on art. “You want a tab or you paying by the hour?” he asked without looking at them.

Genma answered without missing a beat. “Depends. Is the hourly rate competitive with other fine establishments, or do we get a shinobi discount for PTSD?”

The bartender grunted and dropped a bowl of dried peas on the table before shuffling off. Genma grinned, stuck a senbon into one of the peas, and flicked it at Kakashi’s drink. It sank with a soft plunk.

“Bold move,” Kakashi said, eyeing the floating object with no discernible displeasure.

Genma knocked back his own shot and made a face. “You say that like you’re planning retaliation.”

“Not planning. It’s more of a lifestyle.”

Genma had to concede the point. There was a rhythm to these interactions, a kind of choreography that only made sense after a decade of trading blows, insults, and the occasional act of grudging teamwork. Even when he tried to keep things businesslike, Kakashi had a knack for sliding in sideways and upending the narrative.

“So,” Genma said, “you here because you ran out of reading material, or because you’re avoiding another ‘urgent’ ANBU assignment?”

“Can’t it be both?” Kakashi asked, swirling the glass so that the pea orbited the rim like a moon.

“Not unless you’re multi-tasking, which I’m pretty sure is against your religion.”

Kakashi ignored that, gaze drifting to the bar’s single window. Rain streaked the glass, distorting the lamps outside and blurring the line between night and not-night. The conversations around them were mostly murmurs, punctuated by the occasional raucous laugh or the distinctive thunk of a sake bottle against wood. Somewhere near the door, someone was losing a bet in spectacular fashion, judging by the volume of the curses.

Genma reached for the bottle again. “You going to make me do all the work tonight, or is there a code phrase to unlock your social skills?”

“There’s a code,” Kakashi said. “But it’s encrypted, and the key changes daily.”

Genma snorted. “Maybe if you spent less time inventing clever ways to dodge responsibility, you’d actually enjoy yourself.”

There was a silence—comfortable, or at least unthreatening. Genma stretched his legs under the table and leaned back, letting his head fall against the booth’s backrest. The ceiling tiles above were stained in a way that suggested water damage, though the patterns looked almost intentional. He wondered if anyone had ever used the stains for target practice.

Kakashi sipped his drink, mask in place, an acrobat’s feat that Genma had never bothered to ask about. “You didn’t have to come,” Kakashi said, finally.

“Yeah, well, apparently I did. You ever notice how our so-called rest days always turn into debriefings at places like this?” Genma gestured around. “If this is team-building, I’d rather be back on the mission.”

“You just want a reason to complain.”

“Complaining is the only honest pastime left in this village,” Genma replied. “At least until they make it a punishable offense.” He watched Kakashi’s expression—or lack thereof—for any sign of a reaction, then added, “What’s your excuse?”

Kakashi considered. “I prefer bars where no one knows my name.”

“Tragic. I’ll have the bartender announce you over the PA system next time.”

That earned the faintest curve of an eyebrow, which, in Kakashi terms, might as well have been a laugh. Genma filed the victory away and reached for another pea.

The bar’s air grew thicker as the hour wore on, sake fumes mixing with smoke from a cluster of retired jonin in the corner. Genma listened with half an ear to their conversation—something about a failed assassination, followed by a debate about whether anyone still used poison darts. The night outside pressed against the window, black and cold. He rolled the senbon to the other side of his mouth.

“So, you want to talk about it?” Genma asked.

Kakashi’s turn to shrug. “Talk about what?”

“Whatever it is that’s eating you,” Genma said, and waited. When the silence stretched, he added, “You’re worse at hiding it than you think. The more you try, the more obvious it is.”

There was another pause. Genma had long since stopped expecting straightforward answers from Kakashi; you had to look for the meaning in the gaps between words.

“I’ll manage,” Kakashi said, in that way he had—like he was telling the truth, but not the whole of it.

“Suit yourself.” Genma let it drop. There were rules to these things, and both of them had been playing the game long enough to know when to push and when to let it ride. He took a sip, then fished the pea out of his drink and set it spinning on the tabletop. It made a slow, unsteady circle and then fell off the table.

Kakashi’s eye tracked the motion. “You ever think about quitting?” he asked suddenly.

Genma blinked. “The job, you mean?”

Kakashi nodded. “The whole thing. Missions, ranks, the village. What it would be like if you just… left.”

Genma chewed the question, considered it from all angles. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But then I remember I have no marketable skills, and a bad attitude towards authority. So unless you know of a bar hiring a professional complainer, I’m stuck.”

Kakashi looked thoughtful. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

“That’s reassuring,” Genma said. “Truly.”

The bartender appeared again, refilled the bottle without being asked, and vanished. Genma studied the new label—same generic, different kanji. He poured another round, slower this time.

He thought about the question, the idea of leaving, and realized there was an honesty to it that most wouldn’t admit out loud. Maybe that was the real point of these nightly retreats: not the drinking, not the company, but the simple fact that for a few hours, they could talk about what couldn’t be said in daylight.

Genma tapped the rim of his glass against Kakashi’s. “To the lifers,” he said.

Kakashi raised his own glass in silent toast. “And to the ones who still show up.”

The glasses met with a soft clink, almost lost in the din.

For a few heartbeats, neither said anything. Genma felt the knot in his chest loosen by a fraction. He traced the pattern of condensation on his glass, let the noise and warmth of the bar wash over him, and decided that, for tonight, this was enough.

They sat that way, locked in truce, until the next round of drinks arrived and the next round of old jokes and new grievances queued up, waiting their turn.

It wasn’t peace, exactly. But it was something like it.

By the time the second bottle was gone, the bar’s population had thinned to a handful of regulars and two academy dropouts play-acting at adulthood with watered-down beer. The air was heavier now, the mix of sake and old tobacco clinging to skin like a second uniform. Genma had stopped bothering with the senbon, resting it in the crook of his ear, but his fingers still drummed out impatient rhythms on the scarred tabletop.

Kakashi, for his part, had shifted from his initial posture of strategic disengagement. He leaned forward with both elbows on the table, hands cradling his glass, shoulders slouched in a way that suggested genuine fatigue instead of calculated nonchalance. The mask stayed put, but Genma had learned to read the language of eyelids and brow muscles; Kakashi was, if not relaxed, then at least resigned to the moment.

Their conversation circled the drain of old missions and ancient beefs, each story sharper and funnier in the retelling. Genma’s memory was a sieve for anything useful but retained every embarrassing anecdote from their genin years with perfect fidelity. He reminded Kakashi—loudly—about the time he’d been upstaged in shuriken training by an actual squirrel, and how the instructor had demanded an apology on behalf of the rodent kingdom.

Kakashi parried with his own stories, delivered with the infuriating calm of someone who never got worked up about anything. He countered with Genma’s infamous napping-through-a-mission debacle, which, to be fair, had required two weeks of fabricated medical notes and a forged signature from the Hokage’s assistant to explain away.

Every so often, the bartender would shuffle past, refill the bottle, and leave a new bowl of peas, as if he’d figured out the arrangement and found it amusing.

Eventually, the old stories gave way to quieter ones. The bragging gave out, replaced by the unguarded stuff—details about teammates who’d moved away, injuries that still ached in the rain, the odd observation about how nothing in the village ever really changed, even when it burned to the ground and got rebuilt. Genma felt the subtle tectonic shift in the conversation: a lowering of defenses, a tacit agreement that neither of them needed to be the sharpest blade in the room.

“Remember the old training grounds?” Genma said, more softly than he’d intended. “Before they renumbered everything after that ‘incident’ with the explosive tags and the visiting dignitaries.”

“You mean before you rewrote the record books for property damage?” Kakashi replied, but his tone was light, almost fond.

“Wasn’t just me. I had help.” Genma squinted at Kakashi over the rim of his glass. “If I recall, someone thought it would be funny to substitute all the smoke bombs for stink bombs. That’s not a one-man job.”

“I have an alibi,” Kakashi said. “I was home, reading.”

“Sure you were.” Genma grinned, but it faded quickly. He rotated the glass between his palms, letting the moisture smear a clear path through the dust on the wood. “Sometimes I miss it,” he said. “Not the missions—the part where things were simpler. Where your only job was to run faster than the idiot next to you, and if you made it to the end of the day, you won.”

Kakashi didn’t answer right away. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, just honest.

“I get it,” he said. “But the idiot next to me is a lot faster now.”

Genma snorted. “You think I’m running? At this point, I’m lucky if I can hobble to the end of the street.”

They both laughed, the sound brief but real. It startled the academy dropouts at the next table, who looked over as if trying to confirm the myth that jonin-level ninja ever expressed human emotion.

The laughter faded, and Genma looked up to find Kakashi watching him with that half-lidded stare, like a hawk pretending to be bored. The moment stretched, unspoken questions crowding the space between them.

Genma let out a slow breath and reached for the senbon, rolling it between thumb and forefinger. “You ever feel like you’re not supposed to be here?” he asked.

Kakashi blinked. “The bar?”

Genma shook his head. “No, I mean… here. The village, the job. Alive.” He let the word hang in the air, heavy with implication.

Kakashi’s eye didn’t waver. “Every day,” he said. Then, as if it required clarification: “But if not me, then who?”

Genma chuckled, a tired sound. “You make it sound like there’s a grand plan, and we’re not all just making it up as we go.”

“There is no plan,” Kakashi agreed. “But I’ve found that people like us—” He trailed off, as if searching for a word that didn’t exist. “We’re good at pretending otherwise.”

“Maybe,” Genma said. “But some things you can’t fake.”

A beat passed. Genma spun the senbon on the table, let it clatter to a stop, and fixed his gaze on it like it might reveal some secret if he just stared hard enough.

“I ever tell you about my old man?” Genma said, voice so low it barely carried over the bar’s muffled din.

Kakashi shook his head.

“Didn’t make it past my first year at the academy. Everyone said it was an accident, but the older you get, the easier it is to spot a bad cover-up.” Genma forced a laugh. “Anyway, point is, I spent a lot of years convinced the only way to make it was to keep everything inside. Never tell anyone anything. Even when it hurt.”

Kakashi’s response was just a steady look, an invitation to continue without pressure.

“I guess I got good at it,” Genma said. “Maybe too good.” He hesitated, thumb flicking the senbon from side to side. “But it’s exhausting, you know? Carrying all of it, acting like you’re just another guy who likes danger and hates paperwork. Like the rest of it isn’t there.”

Kakashi was silent. The bar felt suddenly smaller, every creak and shuffle amplified.

Genma took a long pull from his glass. When he set it down, his hand was steady, but his voice was not. “I’m gay,” he said, and the senbon froze mid-spin. “Thought you should know, in case it matters. To anyone.”

Kakashi didn’t move for a moment. His eye flickered—not with surprise, exactly, but with something Genma hadn’t seen before. Recognition, maybe. Solidarity.

“It matters to me,” Kakashi said, finally.

Genma’s laugh was sharp, brittle. “In a good way, or a ‘please leave my booth immediately’ way?”

Kakashi’s mask twitched, a microexpression that Genma might have missed if he’d blinked. “I like this booth,” Kakashi said. “And I like you in it. And if it matters, I’m gay too.”

Genma looked away, jaw flexing. He felt the old instinct to make a joke or change the subject, but it seemed dishonest after the avalanche he’d just set in motion.

“Yeah,” he said, voice softening. “it matters.”

The moment crystallized, everything else falling away—the bar, the rain, the weight of missions past and future. For the first time that night, Genma felt truly present, unarmored and unafraid.

“So,” he said, after a long silence, “is this the part where you tell me you’re secretly into cats, or…?”

Kakashi tilted his head. “Dogs, actually.”

“Figures.” Genma snorted, and the tension broke.

They sat like that for a while, not needing to fill the silence. When the bartender came by to clear the empties, he paused, surveyed the table, and nodded as if to himself. He left them a new bowl of peas and disappeared into the shadows.

Genma poured the last of the sake, then raised his glass in a half-hearted toast. “To secrets,” he said.

Kakashi clinked his glass against Genma’s. “And to telling them.”

The liquid burned on the way down, but Genma didn’t mind. Across the table, Kakashi’s visible eye was softer, the lines at its corner less guarded. They drank together, silent and content, the ghosts of old secrets finally letting them breathe.

Outside, the rain had stopped. The window was streaked with droplets, but through it Genma could see the street, empty and waiting.

He rolled the senbon between his fingers, then tucked it behind his ear and smiled. “You know,” he said, “I could get used to this.”

Kakashi didn’t answer, but his silence spoke volumes.

They stayed until the lights dimmed and the world outside softened, holding the moment for as long as they could.

Last call in a Konoha bar was less a warning and more a polite suggestion, the kind only honored by the already-inebriated and the deeply jaded. The bartender shouted it anyway, a wordless grunt amplified by the hollow acoustics and the sure knowledge that no one would challenge him.

Genma poured what little remained in the bottle, the final dribble barely enough for two fingers. He split it evenly, nodding to the bartender out of habit more than gratitude. Kakashi set his empty glass down, then stood with a carefulness that suggested he’d been keeping track of his intake with precise mathematician’s logic.

Genma stood too, a little too quickly, and found the world tilting in a friendly but surprising direction. He righted himself with a hand on the table and a low laugh. “You’d think after all these years, I’d have a better tolerance.”

Kakashi shrugged. “Alcohol is one adversary you can’t train against.”

“Maybe not,” Genma said, “but I can still outlast you.”

They made their way to the counter, leaving the empty bottles and peas as silent tribute. The bartender ran the tab without comment, hands moving with the certainty of someone who’d long ago decided judgment was above his pay grade. Genma dug out the coins and slid them across, bumping his shoulder into Kakashi’s as he did.

The contact was brief but electric, neither of them moving for a second that stretched too long to be accidental. Genma could have pulled away, made a joke, shifted the focus. Instead, he let it linger, and so did Kakashi.

“Ready?” Genma asked, voice lower than he intended.

Kakashi’s eye creased in assent. “After you.”

They stepped out into the street, the door swinging shut behind them with a pneumatic sigh. The rain had ended hours before, but the air still tasted of wet stone and promise. Lanterns lined the road, their gold spilling in uneven puddles along the cobbles. Genma’s boots squeaked faintly, a sound he knew he’d never live down if anyone else heard it.

The village was a different creature at night: stripped of its daylight bravado, all the edges softer, secrets exposed. Genma and Kakashi walked shoulder to shoulder, neither in a hurry. The sake burned pleasantly in Genma’s veins, loosening muscles and sharpening his focus in that paradoxical way only a ninja could appreciate.

He glanced at Kakashi, caught the slight tilt of his head as he scanned the shadows. Even off-duty, the man never stopped working the angles. But there was an ease to his step, a rhythm that matched Genma’s stride perfectly.

They walked in silence for a block or two, the only sound the distant hush of wind in the eaves and the occasional bark from some loyal canine defender. When they reached the first turn, Genma veered left, and Kakashi followed without comment.

“You ever think,” Genma said, “about how weird it is that we always end up back here? In this exact spot, walking these exact streets?”

Kakashi gave it a moment’s thought. “It’s tradition. Like mission briefings and ramen shops.”

“Yeah, but tradition’s supposed to be comforting. All this does is remind me how little changes.”

Kakashi’s reply was a soft hum, neither agreement nor denial.

A few steps later, Genma’s foot caught a loose stone and he stumbled, not quite dramatically, but enough to prompt Kakashi to steady him with a hand at the elbow. The grip was strong, almost proprietary. Genma straightened, but didn’t shake free.

“You all right?” Kakashi asked, tone unreadable behind the mask.

“Fine,” Genma said, realizing he was grinning. “Guess I’m not as young as I used to be.”

Kakashi released him, but the space between them stayed charged. “None of us are.”

They kept moving, pace slowing as if by mutual, unspoken consent. At one point, Genma reached up to adjust his headband, only to find Kakashi’s hand already there, fingertips brushing the cloth with unintentional intimacy. Neither commented on it.

“So,” Genma said, after a while. “You got plans tomorrow?”

“ANBU paperwork in the morning,” Kakashi replied. “Might skip it.”

“Bold.”

“I have precedent. You’d be amazed how easy it is to avoid responsibility if you look sufficiently bored.”

Genma laughed, the sound echoing off the empty buildings. “Maybe you can teach me.”

Kakashi arched an eyebrow. “I thought you were already a master of the art.”

“Guess I could use a refresher.” Genma looked at him sideways, searching for something he couldn’t name. “You want to get breakfast? After you sleep off the hangover.”

Kakashi didn’t hesitate. “Sure.”

It was that easy, and that hard. Genma felt the words settle inside him, a pebble in the stomach, weighty and real.

They walked on, sometimes side by side, sometimes not, never straying far. The village belonged to them, if only for this hour, and Genma found himself wishing the walk could last forever.

Eventually, they reached the crossroads: one path leading uphill toward the ANBU barracks, the other winding back toward the residential quarter. Their usual protocol was to nod, mumble a goodnight, and split—Genma right, Kakashi left, never looking back.

This time, they both stopped.

Neither moved for a long, awkward second. Then Genma, caught between impulse and habit, said, “You sure you don’t want me to walk you home?”

Kakashi’s visible eye creased again—amusement or something else, Genma couldn’t tell. “It’s not that far.”

“Right,” Genma said. “It isn’t.”

They stood in the glow of the lanterns, shadows pooled at their feet, the space between them electric and fragile. Genma felt the urge to say something—anything—but found himself at a loss. Words didn’t fit anymore.

Kakashi solved the problem for him. He reached out, casual as ever, and tapped Genma’s arm with two fingers. “See you in the morning,” he said.

Genma swallowed. “Yeah. See you.”

They held each other’s gaze for a moment longer, then—almost as if it had been rehearsed—turned and walked away. The distance was not as wide as it once would have been, and Genma knew, with a certainty that surprised him, that this was not the end of anything. It was only the start.

He grinned into the darkness, the memory of touch and confession still bright on his skin. Tomorrow, the world would snap back to business as usual—missions, paperwork, the old, bruising routine. But tonight, at least, he allowed himself the luxury of hope.

Behind him, he heard Kakashi’s soft, deliberate footsteps—never in a hurry, never out of reach.

And for once, Genma didn’t mind the pace.

Chapter Text

Genma woke to the realization that someone had poured cement into his skull and then set it on fire. His tongue tasted like the bottom of a training sandal. He pried open his eyelids, blinked through the grit, and found himself staring at his own ceiling, a water-stained mess that, at some point during the night, had acquired an extra constellation of mold spots. The air was thick with old sake and the sharper scent of regret.

He didn’t remember getting home. There was a fragment of memory involving a three-legged race with Kakashi down the main road—neither of them had actually tied their legs, but the end result was much the same. Then there was an argument with the village gate, which had been locked, and then a series of blackouts punctuated by a vivid dream about being chased by a giant, amorous squirrel. The squirrel had a silver tuft of hair and wore a mask.

Genma groaned and rolled sideways. His futon was only half-unrolled, half on the tatami, half on the hard floor. It didn’t matter—he felt equally destroyed on both surfaces. He sat up slowly, waiting for the world to stop spinning, and surveyed the battlefield.

His apartment was exactly as he’d left it: one room, one bed, one desk, zero personality. The only nods to comfort were the small mountain of laundry and the ancient kettle perpetually parked on his hot plate. Scattered around the room were several empty bottles, two overturned tea mugs, and a single pack of senbon needles with the top ripped off, needles rolling loose like tiny, judgmental bones.

He reached for the nearest bottle. Empty. Second bottle: a mercy swig left, but the smell nearly did him in. He dropped it, winced as it clinked against his foot, and felt the dull ache travel up his leg and ricochet around his sinuses.

He groped for his flak jacket, found it at the foot of the futon, and burrowed into the inside pocket for a ration bar. It was stale, possibly from the previous Hokage’s administration, but he chewed it anyway, hoping the calories would bribe his nervous system into functionality.

Bits and pieces of last night returned in bursts: the bar, the banter, the edge of something raw that had never quite made it into words. Then, just before full blackout, a single, clear memory—Genma leaning across the booth, the senbon dangling from his lips, and saying it outright. “I’m gay.”

He dropped the ration bar. It rolled away, leaving a trail of crumbs.

There was more, he was sure of it. Kakashi had said something in response, something that had hung in the air like a live wire. Genma’s cheeks heated at the memory, but he couldn’t remember if it was from embarrassment or something else. Maybe both.

He slinked to his feet, stepped over the worst of the bottle field, and padded to the tiny bathroom. The mirror was cracked, the edges dark with age, but the reflection was honest: hair everywhere, eyes red, a scrape on his chin he didn’t remember earning. The senbon was still tucked behind his ear. He pulled it out and considered, for the briefest moment, if it would be better to jab himself into unconsciousness and skip the day entirely.

Instead, he turned on the tap, splashed his face, and rinsed out his mouth. The water tasted like metal, but it beat the aftertaste of shame and fermented rice.

He shuffled back to the main room, squinting at the sun slicing through the blinds. It landed on the desk, illuminating the top layer of paperwork and a half-finished mission report. He considered working on it, but the mere idea of reading made his eyes water.

He was in the process of sinking back into his futon, debating whether to nap or to simply expire, when someone pounded on the door.

He froze. The only person who visited was the landlord, and only when he was late with rent or suspected him of violating the no-weapons-inside policy (which was laughable—who didn’t keep weapons inside?). Genma tiptoed to the door, peered through the peephole, and saw nothing but a tuft of silver and a faint, vertical line of blue.

He opened the door a crack. Kakashi stood on the other side, leaning with one hand against the frame, head tipped to the side. He looked like hell: bloodshot eye, mask askew, hair sticking up at angles that defied physics, and a jacket that had clearly spent the night on someone’s floor. Probably his own. Maybe Genma’s, though the memory was fuzzy.

“Yo,” Kakashi said, voice extra raspy.

Genma stared. “You’re early,” he managed.

Kakashi shrugged. “Didn’t sleep.”

“Me either.” Genma realized, with a wave of horror, that he was wearing only his undershirt and the lower half of his ninja leggings. He thought about slamming the door and hiding, but it seemed pointless.

Kakashi didn’t seem to mind, or maybe he just wasn’t tracking it. He stepped inside with the easy confidence of someone used to being welcome anywhere, and surveyed the disaster zone. “Looks about the same as always.”

Genma picked up a bottle and tossed it into the trash. “I redecorated,” he said, deadpan.

Kakashi’s visible eye flicked to him, a half-second of actual amusement. Then it softened, and he asked, “You okay?”

The question was unexpected. Genma chewed the inside of his cheek, unsure how to answer. “Are you?”

Kakashi ignored the question, instead drifting toward the window and poking at the blinds. Sunlight cut across his mask, painting shadows on the wall. “About last night,” Kakashi said.

“Yeah.” Genma tried to act casual, but the senbon in his hand betrayed him, tapping nervously against his palm.

Kakashi ran a hand through his hair, further demolishing it. “I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said.”

Genma waited, pulse thudding in his ears.

Kakashi turned, leaned against the windowsill, and fixed Genma with a look that was, for once, unguarded. “About you,” he clarified, as if Genma might have missed the point.

The air thickened. Genma’s mouth went dry for a different reason.

He tried to muster a response, but all that came out was, “You want tea?”

Kakashi blinked. “Sure.”

Genma busied himself with the kettle, measuring out leaves with the precision of someone desperate for a task. He filled the silence with the clatter of cups, the soft hiss of water. Behind him, Kakashi didn’t move. When Genma finally turned, he found Kakashi exactly where he’d left him, staring not at the window but at Genma’s back.

They stood like that for a moment, two world-class shinobi undone by a confession and the aftermath. Eventually, Genma handed over the tea, managing not to spill.

Kakashi took it, the fingers of his left hand brushing Genma’s for an instant—warm, steady, deliberate.

Genma swallowed. “So, uh. Now what?”

Kakashi’s eye creased at the edge, a hint of smile. “That’s up to you.”

Genma sipped his tea, let it scald his tongue, and decided he could live with that.

They stood together in the messy, sunlit room, the beginnings of something fragile between them, and for the first time all morning, Genma didn’t feel the need to run.

The first rule of awkward conversation was to pretend it wasn’t happening. Genma and Kakashi observed this law with the solemnity of two monks at a funeral. They sat across from each other at Genma’s kitchen table, both cradling mugs of scalding tea like it was a lifeline, neither making eye contact.

The table itself was laughable: a salvaged piece of plywood balanced atop two crates, surface warped by years of heat and condensation rings. Genma had cleared a space for their tea by shoving aside his usual arsenal of clutter—kunai, paperwork, a balled-up rag that might once have been a shirt. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d hosted anyone in the daylight, let alone someone with whom he’d just shared his most closely-guarded secret.

The sun stabbed through the window with the subtlety of an interrogation lamp. Genma squinted at it, then tried to focus on Kakashi, but the effort only made him more acutely aware of his own appearance: hair still wild, shirt rumpled, the line of dried blood at his jaw now a dark, embarrassing smudge. He absently reached for the senbon, stuck it between his teeth, then thought better of it and set it down, only to pick it up again a moment later.

Across the table, Kakashi was a study in motionless anxiety. He kept both hands on his mug, fingers laced, eyes fixed on a hairline crack in the wall just past Genma’s shoulder. Every so often he would adjust his mask, as if it had suddenly developed a fault that needed addressing, then return to the staring contest with the plaster.

Neither spoke for so long that Genma’s mind started replaying the last twelve hours in high-speed montage: the laughter, the bar, the moment of honesty, the aftermath. Had he really said that out loud? Had Kakashi actually responded in kind, or had Genma invented the whole exchange in a fugue of ethanol and wishful thinking? The memory was blurry around the edges, but the feeling at its core was all too sharp.

“So,” Genma said at last, “got any plans for the day?”

Kakashi shrugged, gaze still locked on the wall. “The usual. Reports. Paperwork. Pretending to be productive.”

Genma grunted. “If you want, I can write you a note excusing you from responsibility.”

Kakashi’s visible eye flicked to him, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner. “Might take you up on that.”

Another silence. Genma spun the senbon on the table, watched it wobble and fall, then swept it up and stuck it between his teeth anyway. “You remember last night?” he asked, as casually as he could manage.

Kakashi’s hand paused mid-mask adjustment. “Vividly.”

Genma waited for more, but nothing came. He realized, with mounting dread, that if anyone was going to make this less painful, it had to be him.

“I meant what I said,” Genma muttered. “About… you know.”

Kakashi nodded, slow and deliberate. “I know.”

“Just making sure,” Genma said, then regretted it. “Not that it changes anything. Just—didn’t want there to be a misunderstanding.”

Kakashi set down his mug, steepled his fingers. “There isn’t.”

That was the problem. There wasn’t. For once, everything was exactly what it seemed, and neither of them had a clue what to do next.

Genma inhaled, bracing himself. “Look, if you want to pretend it never happened, I’m good at that. Professional, even. Ninja art: total denial no jutsu.”

The joke fell flat, but Kakashi finally looked him in the eye. “I’m not interested in pretending.”

Genma felt his pulse stutter. “Okay,” he said, voice just above a whisper. “So what, then?”

Kakashi hesitated, searching Genma’s face as if checking for hidden wires. “You want the truth?”

Genma almost laughed. “At this point, yeah.”

Kakashi shifted in his seat, mask now firmly back in place, posture tighter than a tripwire. “I’ve been thinking. Since we’re both—” He made a vague gesture, encompassing the room, the village, maybe the universe. “Maybe we could… explore it.”

Genma blinked. “Explore what?”

Kakashi exhaled, a visible effort. “Us.”

It took Genma a full three seconds to process. Then he nearly choked on his tea, coughed, and dabbed at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Wait. Are you saying—?”

Kakashi didn’t flinch. “I’m saying we both know what it’s like, and no one else is going to understand. Maybe it’s easier if we do it together.”

Genma stared, senbon forgotten. “You’re proposing a mission?”

Kakashi’s eye creased, a tiny glint of humor peeking through. “More like a joint training exercise.”

Genma barked a laugh, relief and disbelief mixing in his throat. “You’re serious.”

Kakashi nodded. “No strings. No complications. Just two shinobi helping each other out.”

Genma let that sink in. He’d expected anything but this—awkwardness, sure, even avoidance. But a straightforward offer of… what? Companionship? Sex? Both, with a side of plausible deniability? The prospect was so on-brand for both of them that Genma had to admire it.

He tapped the senbon on the table, thinking. “You ever done this before?” he asked, not quite meeting Kakashi’s eye.

Kakashi considered. “Not with anyone who mattered.”

The admission was so blunt it left Genma momentarily speechless.

“Okay,” he said, after a beat. “Let’s say we try it. What’s the protocol? Mission parameters?”

Kakashi leaned back, fingers drumming on the mug. “We keep it quiet. No one needs to know. If it gets weird, we abort.”

Genma nodded, absorbing the logic. “And if it doesn’t get weird?”

“Then we keep going.” Kakashi said it like an order, but softer at the edges.

Genma looked at him, saw the intent behind the mask, and felt something unfamiliar: hope, maybe, or the adrenaline rush of a mission he might actually survive.

“Deal,” Genma said, and reached across the table, offering his hand.

Kakashi took it, grip warm and steady. They held it for a second longer than necessary.

The second rule of awkward conversations was to never let them end, lest you find yourself in uncharted territory. But Genma was used to the unknown. He figured they could improvise.

After all, it was what they did best.

By the time they’d drained their first mug of tea, Genma’s apartment had lost some of its early-morning menace. The hangover was receding, leaving a strange, alert calm in its place—a readiness for whatever stupidity might come next. Genma found himself pacing the tiny living room, senbon clamped in his teeth, hands stuffed in his pants pockets as he tried to figure out if this was the best or worst idea he’d ever agreed to.

Kakashi watched from the wall, posture loose but his gaze pinning Genma like a kunai to a target. It was the first time Genma had seen him relaxed in a domestic setting, and it threw him off: the ANBU legend propped up in Genma’s broom closet of a home, acting like this was just another routine debrief.

“So,” Genma said, chewing the senbon thoughtfully, “first rule of engagement: no one finds out.”

“Obviously,” Kakashi said, as if that had been the first item on his own list.

“No one,” Genma repeated. “Not even the dog.”

Kakashi’s visible eye narrowed, but the corner creased in faint amusement. “He’s very discreet.”

“I’m serious.” Genma spun the senbon, flicked it between his fingers, then jabbed it at Kakashi. “If anyone gets wind of this, I’ll have to murder at least three people. Probably four, if you count the gossip chain.”

“I’d rather avoid paperwork,” Kakashi said, arms crossed.

Genma let the senbon rest in his mouth, rolling it side to side. “Second rule: we keep it compartmentalized. No mixing work and… whatever this is.” He made a vague gesture, encompassing both of them and the weird, charged space between.

Kakashi nodded. “Mission protocol as usual.”

“Right. None of that staring across the battlefield crap. If we’re in the field, we’re colleagues. End of story.”

“Agreed.”

The rhythm of negotiation was oddly comforting. Genma started to feel more himself—less like a man who’d accidentally spilled his guts and more like a professional in the midst of a well-planned operation.

He ticked off another point. “No overnight stays. No toothbrushes or extra keys. We do this, we do it clean and simple.”

“Fine by me,” Kakashi said. “Less mess.”

Genma shot him a look. “That’s not a commentary on my housekeeping, is it?”

Kakashi lifted a shoulder, unrepentant. “Just an observation.”

Genma grinned, despite himself. “Thought so.”

He stopped pacing, planted his feet, and faced Kakashi head-on. “We should probably talk safe words.”

That drew a pause. Kakashi’s mask hid most of his reaction, but Genma saw the tiny, involuntary arch of his eyebrow. “You think that’s necessary?”

“Not planning to choke you out,” Genma deadpanned, “but you never know how these things go. Precautionary measure.”

Kakashi considered. “Fair.”

Genma tapped the senbon against his chin, mind racing. “All right. If things get too intense, we call ‘Kunai.’ That’s your signal to back off.”

Kakashi processed this, then added, “For me, it’s ‘Mission Abort.’ Clear and unambiguous.”

Genma nodded, impressed. “You really are a team player.”

“I try.”

They shared a long, evaluating look, both assessing the new rules of engagement and what they really meant. Genma felt the old adrenaline rush—same as before a high-risk mission, or maybe the first time he’d ever faced Kakashi in the training yards. There was an honesty in it, a simplicity that made everything else seem irrelevant.

He decided to push his luck. “And if either of us wants out, no questions asked. Just say the word, and it’s over.”

“Deal,” Kakashi said, voice soft but certain.

Another beat of silence, filled with things neither of them would ever say out loud.

Genma shifted his weight, tried to keep the mood light. “We should probably set up a meeting point. For… logistics.”

Kakashi’s eye glinted. “Here’s fine.”

“You don’t want a change of scenery?” Genma glanced around, taking in the clutter and the sad, leaning shelf of empty sake bottles. “Could rent a hotel room, go for the full anonymous experience.”

Kakashi shook his head. “Less risk of running into colleagues if we stay put. Besides—” He trailed off, letting the unfinished thought hover in the air.

Genma filled it for him. “Besides, it’s not like either of us has anything to hide at this point.”

Kakashi shrugged, but the ease in his stance spoke volumes.

They stood like that, a few feet apart, the charged silence starting to feel less awkward and more intentional. Genma wondered if they’d actually follow through, or if this was just another of those empty, post-mission promises—like “let’s get drinks after” or “next time, you can win.”

He looked at Kakashi, found the other man watching him with that same, unreadable focus, and realized he wanted this—if not the logistics, then the clarity. The clean lines. The mutual understanding.

“Suppose we should shake on it,” Genma said, extending a hand.

Kakashi stepped forward, closed the distance, and took it. His grip was firm, warm, familiar. Neither let go immediately.

Genma’s heart pounded, but he played it cool. “You realize you’re contractually obligated to be on time for these meetings, right?”

Kakashi’s eye curved, amused. “I’ll do my best.”

“Your best is notoriously unreliable,” Genma shot back, but the heat in his words was more than just banter.

“Maybe you’ll have to motivate me,” Kakashi said, the words landing with more weight than they should have.

Genma’s mouth went dry. He held Kakashi’s hand a moment longer, then released it, stepping back with a nod. “Noted.”

They lingered, neither quite ready to call the briefing over.

Finally, Kakashi turned, moving toward the door. “Tomorrow night?” he asked, casual as always, but Genma heard the undercurrent.

He grinned, senbon glinting between his teeth. “I’ll be here.”

Kakashi let himself out with a soft click of the door. Genma stood in the center of the room, surrounded by the aftermath of a very different kind of mission, and felt something strange and almost pleasant curl in his chest.

The rules were set. The lines were drawn. All that remained was to see what happened when they finally crossed them.

Genma looked around, surveyed the disaster of his life, and decided he could live with it.

He’d never been so ready for a new assignment.

He woke up the next morning convinced it had all been a fever-dream, the kind you get after three days on a suicide detail and a bottle of cheap shochu. But the senbon tucked behind his ear was still there, and the aftertaste in his mouth was definitely not a hallucination: ash, adrenaline, and a faint hint of possibility.

Genma sat up, every joint protesting, and stared at the ceiling for a full minute before remembering his own name. The rest came in pieces: his apartment, the flaking paint on the walls, the smell of dust and ink, the faint bruises from the week’s missions—normal, ordinary, safe. Except nothing was normal anymore, and the thought of that made him want to laugh.

He replayed the previous night—Kakashi in his living room, the conversation that had pivoted from cataclysmic to businesslike in ten seconds, the handshake that lasted longer than any handshake should. There had been nothing delicate about it. No coy glances, no nervous shuffling. Just a deal struck in plain terms, hand to hand, eye to eye.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Genma rolled off the futon and went through his usual routine. He fished a clean shirt from the pile on the floor, rinsed out his mouth, and stared at himself in the mirror. His hair was a disaster. His skin looked worse. He ran a hand over his jaw, reconsidered, and left the stubble. The only part of him that looked remotely awake was his eyes.

He poured himself a mug of green tea, found a half-dry rice ball from yesterday, and started in on his mission backlog. The forms were half blank, half stained with blood (not all his), and each one required a different combination of kanji and creative fiction. He lost track of time filling them out, got ink on his fingers, and only stopped when he heard a knock at the door.

He opened it expecting the landlord or a summons. Instead it was Might Guy, in full uniform, smiling like a sunrise and clutching a sheaf of papers.

“Genma! I bring glorious tidings from the Hokage’s office!” Guy’s volume was easily double what the hallway required. “There is a new administrative protocol! Every jonin must report to the south field by—” he checked his watch, which was bright green and at least an inch thick, “—oh. Ten minutes ago!”

Genma blinked, accepted the stack, and scanned the top sheet. It was a memo, stamped urgent, regarding ‘mandatory recalibration of inter-team protocols.’ He could almost hear Ibiki’s teeth grinding from across the village. “Thanks,” Genma said, deadpan. “You saved my life.”

Guy gave him a thumbs-up, then jogged away with the kind of wild optimism that made Genma want to hibernate.

South field. Great.

He made it to the training grounds with two minutes to spare, ducking between the crowds and slipping past the watchful eyes of the Academy instructors. The field was a bowl of sunlight, the grass trimmed to regulation length, the perimeter lined with bored-looking jonin and the occasional hungover proctor.

He found a spot under a scrawny plum tree and watched as the Hokage’s junior assistant (whom Genma would have bet his best toothpick was still a genin in training) tried to address the crowd. The kid’s voice squeaked on every fourth syllable. Genma couldn’t decide whether to admire the tenacity or pity the effort.

He tuned out most of the speech—something about data integrity, something about mission logs, something about “improving intra-cell transparency for the betterment of the village.” Standard bureaucratic sedative. Genma let his mind wander, tracking the movement of clouds overhead, counting the seconds between the Hokage’s assistant’s nervous tics. He found himself scanning the crowd, looking for a flash of silver hair, a shape he could pick out even in total darkness.

Kakashi, of course, was nowhere to be seen.

Genma was about to nod off when he felt someone behind him, a presence so subtle only a lifetime of paranoia could have noticed.

“Did you get the new protocol?” Raido’s voice, low and a little husky from whatever disaster he’d survived this week.

Genma didn’t turn around. “Got it. Read it. Ignored most of it.”

Raido slid into view, a coffee thermos in hand, bruises blooming along his left arm. “You coming to the after-briefing?”

Genma made a face. “Is that the one where Ibiki throws people off the roof, or the one with the sake and the dice?”

“Why not both?” Raido grinned. “You look like you could use it.”

Genma shrugged, attention already drifting. “Depends if I survive this one.”

The rest of the briefing passed in slow motion. There was a demonstration of new field radios, which promptly short-circuited and smoked out an entire bench of senior instructors. Someone—Aoba, by the sound of it—misquoted a regulation and was immediately corrected by three separate people. Genma almost felt sorry for the assistant, but mostly he just wanted the sun to stop baking him alive.

When it was finally over, the crowd broke apart like a school of fish, each jonin doing their best to avoid any further entanglement. Genma lingered at the edge of the field, spinning a kunai in his palm, watching two fresh-faced chunin practice shuriken throws at a battered old target.

They were hopeless. No follow-through, no coordination. He watched as one of them lined up a shot, flinched at the last second, and sent the weapon spiraling into the dirt two meters short. The other kid, red-faced and sweating, tried to coach him with the sort of excessive politeness that only made it worse.

Genma thought about going over to help, but the effort felt monumental. Besides, the last time he’d offered advice to a rookie, he’d ended up the subject of a three-hour ethics lecture and a week’s worth of “constructive feedback forms.” He decided they’d figure it out on their own. Or wash out. Either way.

He shifted his weight, the heat prickling at his scalp. The cicadas were relentless, a metallic whine that burrowed into his skull. He wondered if that was how people felt listening to his voice—a constant, needling buzz, impossible to ignore.

He closed his eyes, tuning out the world for a second, and let the memory of last night flicker through his mind. Kakashi’s face, half-shadowed, the glint in his eye when he’d said “us.” Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He tried to picture what would happen next. If they met up again—no, when they met up again. Would it be awkward? Would Kakashi act like nothing had changed? Or would it be a seamless, logical extension of last night’s contract?

Genma wasn’t sure if he was nervous or excited by the prospect. Maybe both.

He opened his eyes, tracking a line of ants marching across the base of the tree. They were organized, relentless, like a miniature shinobi platoon. He envied their simplicity.

A shadow fell over him. He glanced up, saw Ebisu, of all people, staring down with a look of polite horror.

“Genma-san,” Ebisu said, adjusting his glasses. “You’re bleeding.”

Genma looked at his arm, realized the old cut had reopened and was dripping onto the grass. He blotted it with his sleeve, unconcerned. “Occupational hazard,” he said.

Ebisu tsked, produced a handkerchief, and offered it with two fingers. “You should take better care of yourself. The Hokage prefers his jonin alive.”

Genma accepted the offer, wrapped the cut, and nodded his thanks. “I’ll try to meet expectations.”

Ebisu lingered, as if waiting for Genma to volunteer something else. When nothing came, he bowed and retreated.

Genma watched him go, feeling oddly grateful.

The sun climbed higher, the field emptying out as everyone retreated to more sensible places. Genma considered following suit, but the idea of sitting in his apartment, waiting for the appointed hour, felt intolerable. He needed a distraction. Something to kill time and keep his mind from running laps around itself.

He wandered the perimeter of the field, hands in pockets, and watched as the two chunin packed up their gear, laughing about something neither would remember by morning. He envied their easy camaraderie, the way they could screw up and move on without it becoming a footnote to the rest of their lives.

He checked the clock tower—still hours to go.

Genma considered going to the noodle shop, but that was Raido’s territory, and he didn’t want to risk running into half the jonin force in one blow. The bathhouse was a safe bet, but it reeked of old tatami and even older gossip. He could always check the mission board for a last-minute assignment, but he’d already used up his quota of heroism for the week.

Instead, he did what he always did when the world got too loud: he walked.

He zigzagged through the village, taking the long way past the market street, through the narrow alleys where the laundry hung like prayer flags and the baker’s wife flirted with the butcher. The village was alive, chaotic, but familiar. He soaked it in with a kind of desperation, trying to memorize every brick and gutter and shouted insult. There was an ease here, a predictability that Genma craved even as he chafed against it. He wondered if that was what he was chasing with Kakashi—the sense that, if nothing else, at least one thing in his life would be exactly as he expected. No surprises. No letdowns. Just the quiet certainty of a promise kept.

He ended up, inevitably, at the training field again. It was deserted now. The grass shimmered under the late sun, the air humming with the lingering heat. He walked the perimeter twice, then sat with his back against the same plum tree as before.

He let his mind go blank, eyes half-shut, breathing slow and steady in the rhythm of a thousand stakeouts. He almost drifted off. It would have been easy, in the gentle warmth and quiet, to slip into sleep—to let himself rest, just for a moment. But years of discipline and paranoia had trained him never to let his guard down, not even in the safest corner of the village, and so he lingered in the borderlands of consciousness, hyper-aware of the micro-movements in the brush and the distant drone of civilian life.

He inhaled the air, thick with chlorophyll and last traces of summer pollen, and willed his thoughts to settle. They did not. Instead his memory unspooled, tape-wormed through the last month: the late-night missions, the endless debriefings, the bruises that never quite faded before new ones replaced them. Even on his days off, the only way he could convince his body to relax was sheer exhaustion.

He remembered the first time he’d been on a mission with Kakashi, years ago, during a mission that should have been a milk run and ended with half the squad in the hospital and the other half reassigned. Kakashi had shown up late, shrugged off the carnage, and treated Genma to a bracing monologue on the futility of expectations. He’d spoken like boredom was a virtue, like disappointment was just the air Shinobi breathed.

Genma had hated him immediately.

But, as the months and the missions piled up, the hatred softened into a kind of grudging camaraderie. The two of them were always the ones left standing at the end—the ones who saw the ugly truths and kept going, because what else was there to do? They didn’t talk much, and when they did, it was in shorthand. A nod, a click of the tongue, a one-word summary of the entire mission. Sometimes, rarely, an actual conversation.

What happened last night was not a conversation. It was a detonation.

He replayed it, again and again, trying to find the exact moment things had shifted. Was it the bottle of sake, opened before either of them could think better of it? The way Kakashi’s voice went quiet, almost gentle, when he said Genma’s name? Or was it just inevitable—a slow, tectonic movement that nobody could stop?

Genma pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose and exhaled. There was no sense trying to unpick it. He wasn’t built for existential analysis. He was built for endurance, for improvisation, for just getting through the next hour and letting the rest take care of itself. That was the problem with a memory like his: nothing went away. Everything, good and bad, stuck around, waiting for quiet moments like this to burrow in and hatch.

He tried to focus on the present—the slight ache in his shoulders, the taste of tea still lingering on his tongue, the phantom itch of blood drying on his forearm. It was almost peaceful, if he could just ignore the way the world kept tilting every time he thought about tomorrow.

A breeze stirred the grass, cool and surprising after the heat of the day. He let his hand drift to the ground, fingers combing through the roots, grounding himself in the physical. It worked, for a minute. He wondered if maybe that was all he needed: a little friction, a little dirt under his nails, to remind him he was still here and not just some ghost rattling around the empty parts of his own head.

He sat like that for a long time, until the shadows stretched and the sun dipped behind the Academy roof. He debated going home, but the idea of the empty apartment made his skin crawl. He thought about the noodle shop again, but the prospect of conversation—real or forced—felt like sandpaper on his nerves. He wished there was a third option, some secret room in the village where a person could sit in silence and not be noticed. The old training field would have to do.

He practiced breathing exercises he hadn’t used since he was a genin himself, counting the seconds of each inhale and exhale, trying to keep the numbers from skipping. He was almost sedated by the rhythm, lulled into a state of near-stillness, when the world snapped back into focus with a single, whisper-quiet footstep.

He didn’t move, not right away. The shadow on the grass was barely perceptible, but it was there, stretching from the far edge of the field like a question mark. Genma kept his head down, waiting for the presence to announce itself. It didn’t, which meant it was either someone he knew or someone who wanted to kill him without preamble. He was ready for either.

The shadow lengthened, then paused. Genma counted three heartbeats before it moved again, closing the distance with the patient certainty of a predator. He recognized the gait, the subtle looseness in the hips, the way the weight transferred from foot to foot without any wasted motion.

Kakashi.

Genma let his eyes close, feigning sleep, and listened as the footsteps halted a meter behind him. There was a long silence, the kind that stretched so far it became a conversation all its own.

“You’re getting sloppy,” Kakashi said, voice pitched just above a whisper. “I could have killed you four different ways before you noticed me.”

Genma opened one eye, squinting into the afterglow. “Maybe I wanted you to.”

Kakashi made a sound that could have been a laugh or a cough. He stepped around the tree, hands in his pockets, eye narrowed in lazy challenge. “That’s a dangerous way to live.”

“Is there any other kind?” Genma asked, rolling his shoulders and sitting up straight.

There was a moment where neither said anything, just stared at each other, the battery of unspoken words arcing back and forth in the space between them. Genma was the first to look away, picking at a blade of grass with exaggerated care. He knew Kakashi was watching him, studying every twitch and microexpression.

“So why are you here?” Genma asked, and regretted the question as soon as it left his mouth.

A breeze rattled the branches overhead. Kakashi leaned against the tree, hands still deep in his pockets, and looked at the horizon instead of Genma.

“You ever think about what it would be like to just…” He trailed off, searching for the word. “Leave?”

Genma frowned. “Leave Konoha?”

Kakashi shrugged, a loose, ambiguous gesture. “Leave everything. Start over somewhere else. Where nobody knows your name, your record, your past mistakes.”

Genma mulled it over, weighing the seriousness of the question. “No. I like it here. Even when I hate it, I’d rather be here than nowhere.”

Kakashi was quiet for a long time. “Figures.”

They sat that way for a while, the silence more companionable than awkward. Genma was about to ask another question when Kakashi finally moved, shifting his gaze back to Genma.

“I thought about last night,” he said, soft enough that Genma had to strain to catch it. “I’m not good at—”

“You don’t have to be,” Genma interrupted. “Good at it.”

Kakashi’s eyebrow arched. “At what, exactly?”

Genma held his stare. “Anything. Doesn’t matter.”

For the first time in memory, Kakashi looked unsettled. Not much, just a flicker, but enough to make Genma feel like he’d won a round in a match he didn’t know he was playing.

Genma gnawed the inside of his cheek, uncertain if he was about to get punched, promoted, or possibly subjected to a third, as-yet-unnamed fate unique to the Hatake school of interpersonal relations. The silence hung between them, as thick and persistent as the summer’s humidity, and Genma felt every second of it in his bones. Kakashi didn’t do silence for intimidation, or for effect—he simply inhabited it, a creature more at home in the negative space between words than in the clatter of actual conversation. Genma, on the other hand, had always filled those gaps with sarcasm, or if that failed, with whatever self-destructive instinct was nearest to hand.

He picked another blade of grass, rolling it between his fingers until it bled clean sap onto his already tacky palm. He watched the droplet form—a perfect, quivering sphere—before flicking it away with the precision of a man who had trained for decades in the art of imperceptible fidgeting.

Kakashi tilted his head, the mask pulling just slightly at the corner of his mouth, as though he was on the verge of saying something important but didn’t want to be the first to flinch. Genma braced, waiting for the verdict, the reprimand, or—worst of all—the gentle, unhurried curiosity that Kakashi reserved for problems too convoluted to fix with violence.

“I thought we had rules,” Kakashi said at last, his voice calm but edged, as if the words themselves were being forced through a sieve. “Or did I imagine that part?”

Genma winced inwardly. He hated when Kakashi did this—turned the world’s most banal statement into a litmus test for character. He shrugged, more out of habit than conviction, and kept his eyes fixed on the dirt at their feet. “We do. I remember.”

Kakashi’s gaze sharpened. “Then stop looking like you want to bolt every time we talk about it.”

The words landed with the weight of an accusation, but they weren’t cruel. If anything, they sounded tired, as though Kakashi had rehearsed this conversation with himself a hundred times and only now, with all escape routes blocked, was he willing to let it out.

Genma took a moment to process, working his molars over the edge of his tongue. He traced a small spiral into the dirt with a stick, the motion grounding him as he debated whether to double down or climb out of the hole. “Not trying to bolt,” he said finally, voice rougher than he meant. “Just not used to being the guy who… talks things out.”

Kakashi didn’t reply right away. Instead, he inched down the trunk, boots crackling the brittle grass, until he was sitting with his knees drawn up, arms looped loosely around them. The pose was almost childlike, if not for the constant, low-grade menace radiating from his every muscle. They sat like that, back to back against the tree, both of them facing away from each other and toward nothing in particular, the silence once again filling the spaces between words with something almost alive.

Genma risked a glance over his shoulder, just long enough to catch the side-profile of Kakashi’s face. The Sharingan was hidden, thank god, but the visible eye was sharp and unreadable, a pane of glass with nothing behind it but dark water. Genma wondered, not for the first time, if Kakashi was ever really present in these moments, or if the man simply played at intimacy the way some people played shogi—always a move ahead, never letting the other player see the endgame until it was already lost.

The thought made him almost laugh, but he stopped himself, aware that any noise might shatter the delicate balance they’d achieved.

Kakashi spoke again, this time softer. “You ever think that maybe we’re just… really bad at the rule part?”

Genma grunted. “I think that every goddamn day.”

A beat. “So why do we keep pretending?”

Genma let his head fall back against the bark, eyes closed. He wanted to say Because the alternative is terrifying, or Because I’m not ready to find out what we are if we’re not pretending, but what came out instead was, “Habit. We’re conditioned to follow orders, even when we’re the ones making the rules.”

Kakashi hummed low in his throat. “That’s bleak, even for you.”

“You asked.”

They let that hang, both men acutely aware of the narrowing gap between hypothetical and real. Genma could feel the conversation teetering, one push away from sliding into something raw and irreversible. He opened his eyes, finding the sky shot with the first streaks of evening, and tried

to decode whether the scratchy sound he heard was a squirrel or an incoming team of assassins. Either would have been preferable to sitting in this conversation a second longer. Genma’s heart thudded with the kind of anticipation that only came from the certainty of either violence or embarrassment, and he honestly wasn’t sure which outcome he dreaded more.

He could almost feel the tension in the air, vibrating between the two of them like a string pulled taut and tuned a half-step too high. Kakashi’s silhouette, framed in the waning gold of an indifferent summer evening, was all lazy nonchalance, but Genma knew better. Underneath the slack posture and the slouch, Kakashi’s attention was needle-sharp, dissecting every move, every twitch, every breath that Genma exhaled into the shared space between them.

They could go hours like this—trading quiet, not-quite-insults and not-quite-secrets—but today even the shared silence was brittle, primed to shatter. The sounds of the training field faltered and faded as the last of the Konoha brats cleared out, their voices receding into the dusk: a chorus of hopefuls, none of whom would ever guess that their legendary jonin role models were currently locked in an absurd, low-key stand-off over the semantics of emotional vulnerability.

Kakashi tilted his head back, just a hair, and Genma caught the movement in his peripheral vision. There was an old scar on the line of Kakashi’s jaw, a faint white thread that ran from the ear to just below the mask—an artifact of some ancient, unshared mission. Genma sometimes wondered whether the mask was there to hide the scars, or if the scars were just proof that the mask had never mattered. Either way, it was the only part of Kakashi’s face Genma had ever really seen, a reminder that for all the secrets the man kept, some things could not be concealed.

He cleared his throat, hoping to break the tension, but only succeeded in drawing Kakashi’s attention sharper. It was like being back in the Academy, staring down the sensei after mouthing off and realizing too late that you’d misjudged your own cleverness.

Kakashi let the silence stretch, as if he were waiting for Genma to say something more interesting than another joke. Genma’s mind flicked through a hundred possible retorts, all of them either too glib or too raw, and found himself stuck on empty.

Eventually, it was Kakashi who broke the equilibrium. He tipped his head back just enough so that their skulls touched—a gentle pressure, nothing at all like the hard crack of a sparring match or the accidental collision of two bodies in a hallway. It was deliberate, measured, and so far outside their usual inventory of gestures that Genma froze.

He didn’t flinch away; instead, his jaw locked, muscles tensing against the urge to either retreat or escalate. He could feel the precise spot where Kakashi’s hair, soft and just a little damp from the heat, brushed against his own, and the contact shot a ripple of static through his nervous system.

Genma waited, braced for a punchline, a jab, some cutting remark. Instead, all that landed was the warm, barely-there exhale of Kakashi’s breath against the sensitive skin at the base of his neck. It was subtle, the kind of thing you wouldn’t notice unless you were already wound too tight to think straight.

Genma caught himself grinning, a crooked, self-deprecating thing, and forced the laugh out before it could get tangled up in feeling. “What is this, a meditation circle now?”

“Just conserving energy,” Kakashi replied. His voice was so close Genma could taste the word on his tongue, like the aftermath of a mint or a mouthful of sake. There was a lazy humor to it, but it didn’t quite mask the undercurrent of intent.

For a moment, the world narrowed to the four inches of space where their bodies met—shoulder blade, back, the curve where Kakashi’s knee pressed just barely against Genma’s thigh. The heat between them was almost a physical force, electric and insistent, and Genma had to remind himself not to shift, not to lean in, not to give away the fact that he was at least as invested in this weird, silent game as his counterpart.

Kakashi stayed like that, unmoving, for what felt like an hour. Genma found himself hyper-aware of every tiny detail: the blood thrumming in his ears, the uneven rhythm of their breathing, the faint smudge of dust where Kakashi’s boot had scuffed the grass bare. He could sense the other man’s focus, coiled and patient, waiting for Genma to make the next move—because with Kakashi, it was always about who dared more. Who would blink, who would break form, who would expose the soft part under the armor.

Genma considered his options: a) Say something so caustic it would rupture the moment and put them back on familiar ground, or b) let this standoff ride, see if the tension would transform into something less terrifying. He settled for a third option: doing nothing, just letting the contact linger, because if there was one thing he’d learned from a lifetime of close calls and failed missions, it was that sometimes the only way out was through.

The cicadas amped up their racket as the sun slid closer to the horizon. Genma found himself cataloguing the constellations of scars on his own forearms, half-remembered souvenirs of missions gone sideways, and snorted at the thought that the worst wounds were always the ones you couldn’t show anyone.

He felt rather than heard Kakashi’s next words, the vibration of them traveling through the back of his skull. “We could just stop pretending,” Kakashi said, so quietly it didn’t even register as a challenge.

Genma shut his eyes. He wanted to say something clever, maybe brush it off, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he let the silence spool out, hoping that maybe if he waited long enough, the question would answer itself.

But nothing ever did with Kakashi. You had to give as good as you got, or you got nothing at all.

So Genma said, “If we stopped pretending, I don’t know what the hell we’d do instead.”

He felt the faintest nod, almost imperceptible. “That’s the idea.”

They sat like that, anchored together, until the last of the light faded and the first street lamps blinked on in the distance. Genma felt the urge to laugh, or maybe to scream, but settled for letting his hand drift over until his knuckles brushed the back of Kakashi’s. It wasn’t an accident, but it wasn’t quite a declaration, either. Just another move on the board, one that could be retracted if the other player decided not to respond.

Kakashi didn’t move his hand, but he didn’t pull away, either. They sat, breathing in sync, each pretending not to notice how close they’d drifted to the edge of something unspoken.

Genma exhaled, slow. “You ever think about how strange this all is?”

Kakashi’s reply was almost a laugh. “Which part?”

“Any of it. All of it.”

There was a pause, then a deliberate rustle as Kakashi shifted to sit even closer, the contact now unmistakable, solid. “I try not to.”

Genma let the moment hang, then said, “I think about it all the time.” He meant it as a joke, but it came out with more gravity than intended.

Kakashi hummed, a soft sound of acknowledgment. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

The cicadas quieted, and in the sudden hush, every heartbeat felt amplified. Genma wondered what would happen if they just stayed, rooted to the spot, until dawn. He wondered if anyone would notice, or care, or if the story would just get folded into the endless catalog of weird jonin behaviors that the village gossips traded like playing cards.

He rolled his head to look at Kakashi, who met his gaze with an unreadable eye. For a second, Genma thought maybe he’d say something—some pithy summation, an inside joke—but instead, Kakashi just looked at him, waiting.

Genma said, “I don’t know how to do this.”

Kakashi’s mouth, visible only in the barest curve under the mask, twitched slightly. “Nobody does.”

That was the closest thing to comfort either of them was likely to manage.

They sat back to back against the tree, two flawed halves of a unit, and let the night swallow the distance between them.

When Genma finally stood, he offered a hand to Kakashi, who took it without a word.

Shoulder to shoulder, they headed back toward the village. Neither said anything, but the air between them felt lighter, the rules—whatever they were—just a little less binding.

Genma didn’t invite Kakashi in. Not formally, anyway—he just unlocked the door, nudged it open with the back of his heel, and let the momentum of their synchronized march carry them both into the dim, narrow foyer. There was a kind of inertia to it, a sense that if Genma paused even for a second, if he let himself assess the situation in the honest light of his own apartment, he’d lose his nerve and the whole thing would collapse into embarrassed silence and a hasty retreat. So he kept moving, boots still on, shuriken pouch swinging against his hip, letting the familiar ache in his legs and the stranger, more electric feeling in his chest guide him through the entryway.

He heard the scrape of another pair of boots against the warped wood of the genkan, and the quiet, decisive click of the lock as Kakashi sealed the door behind them. It was so unassuming, so typical, that for a moment Genma almost convinced himself that this wasn’t new or significant at all—just two comrades decompressing after a mission, nothing more. But then he registered that he could hear neither footsteps nor even the regular hush of breathing from behind him. Instead, there was this prickle along his skin, as if the very atoms in the air had noticed that two people had crossed some invisible border and were now alone together, with nothing but the rattle of Genma’s aging refrigerator and the pulse of his own heartbeat to fill the space.

He moved into the living room, flicking the light on out of habit and then immediately regretting it. The apartment was a disaster. Not in the way of criminal neglect—Genma would rather take a kunai to the liver than let mildew actually win—but there was something about the way the end table had slumped sideways under the weight of too many mission files, and the way a week’s worth of laundry had staged a coup against the confines of its basket, that felt suddenly, unbearably personal. The tatami was overdue for a brush and the window had fogged up with the faint suggestion of mold around the edges, and as Genma drew up short in the middle of the room, he felt a crawling, wretched self-consciousness he hadn’t experienced since he was a teenager being sized up by a new sensei.

There was a pair of ramen bowls on the kotatsu, both half-finished, from the last time he’d hosted someone—Raido, probably, after they’d gotten rained out of a fireworks festival and come back drenched and starving. The memory made Genma’s lips twitch, but he was too preoccupied with the present to let nostalgia soften the blow of how small and unremarkable his place must look to someone like Kakashi. After all, the rumors about Kakashi’s own living quarters were legendary: minimalist, spartan, obsessively tidy, as if the man spent his off-hours erasing evidence of his own existence. Genma wondered if the contrast was as glaring to Kakashi as it was to him.

He hovered beside the couch, debating whether to sit or stand or just keep moving, paralyzed by the sense that any gesture would telegraph intent, and that was something he couldn’t risk—at least, not yet. He heard a faint rustle behind him, the unmistakable sound of a body shifting weight in perpetual readiness, and he wondered, not for the first time, if Kakashi could read his thoughts just by the way he clenched his jaw or flexed his fingers.

It was odd, Genma thought, how the space seemed to shrink with every step. The walls, already close, pressed in with the collective weight of a thousand unspoken words. He became acutely aware of the way the lightbulb in the overhead fixture flickered at irregular intervals, stuttering like a heartbeat that couldn’t make up its mind whether to race or stop altogether. He fumbled with the pile of mail on the counter, pretending to sort it, but the letters were all junk—reminders for appointments he’d already missed, advertisements for things he’d never want. He let the stack fall back into place, the gesture pointless but somehow necessary.

He risked a glance over his shoulder. Kakashi hadn’t moved from the threshold, hadn’t even removed his shoes. He stood with one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his tanto, the other tucked into his pocket, mask and hitai-ate still in place, the very picture of nonchalance. But there was nothing casual in the tilt of his head or the way his visible eye tracked Genma’s every move. It was the same look he gave enemy ninja who wandered too close to an ambush site: clinical, predatory, faintly amused.

Genma swallowed, his mouth dry. He thought about offering tea, but the idea was laughable. He thought about pouring sake, but the last time he’d tried to drink with Kakashi, a few weeks ago, he’d ended up face-down on the floor of a karaoke bar while Kakashi recited the village address directory backwards for reasons no one ever explained. He settled for staring at the battered coffee table, waiting for one of them to blink first.

The fridge kicked on with a groan, breaking the silence. Genma jumped at the sound, then cursed inwardly at how jumpy he must look. He shot another look at Kakashi, who still hadn’t moved, but whose eyebrow—barely visible above the mask—had arched in silent commentary.

“Can I get you something?” Genma blurted, wincing at how his voice cracked on the word “something.” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so exposed, or so desperate to fill the air with noise.

Kakashi gave a slow, deliberate shake of his head. “I’m good,” he said, voice muffled but unmistakably wry. “Didn’t expect you to keep snacks for guests.”

Genma barked out a laugh, startled by the honesty of it. “Yeah, well, you’re not most guests.”

That hung in the air for a minute, and Genma wondered if he’d overplayed his hand, if maybe this was all just a colossal misunderstanding and Kakashi was about to excuse himself with some manufactured errand. But instead, Kakashi stepped out of his boots, placed them neatly beside Genma’s ratty pair, and padded across the tatami with the silent grace of a born assassin.

He stopped an arm’s length away, gaze fixed and unblinking. Genma could see, now, the way the sweat had dried in the lines of Kakashi’s neck, the way a faint hint of blood—probably not his own—had stained the edge of his collar. There was something intimate about the proximity, the fact that they stood so close with no obvious reason to fight or flee.

For a long, hanging moment, neither spoke. Genma felt himself drawing in, shrinking to occupy less space, until the only thing he could focus on was the sharp, clean scent of ozone and soap that clung to Kakashi’s skin. He wondered, wildly, if the other man could feel the way Genma’s pulse thudded against his own ribs, or if he was just imagining it.

He wanted, more than anything, for someone to make a move—any move, even a bad one. He almost wished for a random attack, a thrown kunai, a sudden intrusion from the outside world, just to break the unbearable standoff. But there was only the thin hum of the bulb, the faint click of the fridge, and the presence of the man standing less than a meter away.

Genma realized, with a kind of rueful clarity, that he’d run out of strategies. Bravado, sarcasm, evasion—they had all fallen away, leaving only this strange, raw vulnerability. He had no script for this, no contingency plan. It was just him, and Kakashi, and the possibility of whatever came next.

He tried to think of what Anko would say, or Raido, or even Hayate, but the words wouldn’t come. All he could muster was a crooked smile, half defiance, half surrender.

“So, uh,” Genma said, voice softer now, “what happens if we stop pretending?”

Kakashi’s eye narrowed, a microexpression of surprise. Then, with a precision that was almost tender, Kakashi lifted one hand and reached for the senbon Genma had been worrying between his teeth. He plucked it free with two fingers, the motion so gentle and assured it made Genma’s breath catch.

Kakashi twirled the senbon once, then set it lightly on the coffee table. “We find out,” he said.

There was nothing left to hide behind. Genma could feel his own face heating, the flush spreading up his neck and over his cheeks. He wondered if Kakashi could see it, if he kept a running tally of every micro-failure in Genma’s composure.

The silence that followed was less tense, more suspended—like that moment before a storm finally broke. Genma could sense the balance shifting, the tug of gravity drawing them closer. He thought about all the times he’d watched Kakashi from across a battlefield or a bar, all the silent calibrations and near-misses, and how it had always seemed like there was an unspoken rule between them: get close, but never too close. Now, with nothing between them but slightly stale apartment air, Genma wondered if maybe the rule had never really existed.

He exhaled, slow and deliberate, and turned. Kakashi didn’t step back, didn’t act embarrassed, didn’t bother to disguise the inspection in the way a normal person might. Instead, he slowly began to undress himself. As each piece of clothing fell to the floor, Genma felt an intense gaze wash over him from head to toe. He met it with the only defense left to him—he lifted his chin, squared his shoulders, and forced his voice to stay steady.

“You’re not going to say anything clever, are you?” he said. It wasn’t a complaint. Not exactly.

Kakashi tilted his head, considering as he removed the last of his garments. “No.” The syllable dropped like a stone in a still pond. “Not tonight.”

Genma stood solid with his mouth hanging. It was his first time seeing all of Kakashi’s face and the first word that came to his mind was, ethereal. Kakashi’s pale, smooth and supple skin was almost doll-like. Genma could feel his heart beat faster as he wondered why someone so beautiful would want anything to do with plain looking Genma. Genma’s brain conjured a thousand angles—ways to escalate, to retreat, to turn the moment into something manageable, but his hands began to work on his own clothing, stripping away everything that had separated him from Kakashi. Genma settled on the fact that they had known each other for years and so Kakashi’s involvement with Genma must have become habit, like that one co-worker you just can’t get rid of and you have no idea how became friends with. He didn’t move away when Kakashi set a hand on his shoulder, fingers settling with surprising lightness, as if the bone beneath might prove fragile on closer examination.

Their bodies now bare and exposed, Genma watched as Kakashi’s fingers slid down his shoulder and arm, tracing the line of his body with deliberate care. When those fingers reached Genma's hips, they hooked around them and pulled them closer together.

Was this what he’d wanted? Genma couldn’t catalog the signals. He only knew he didn’t want to be the first to let go, not after a lifetime spent beating everyone—even himself—to the punch.

Kakashi stepped even closer, their hesitant embraces becoming more urgent as they ground against each other. The friction between their bodies sent shivers down Genma's spine. His mouth was dry and his mind raced through every mission, every moment, trying to find the precedent for what was about to happen and coming up empty.

Kakashi’s voice, when it came, was softer than Genma had ever heard it. “You look like shit.”

Genma started to laugh, but it stuck in his throat. “You’re not exactly a prize yourself.”

“Not here for prizes,” Kakashi murmured against Genma's skin as he kissed the base of his neck. He let his hand slide down his back, firmly grasping one ass cheek and pulling them even tighter together.

If Kakashi was nervous himself, it didn't show. "Just wanted to make sure you meant it."

Genma nodded and managed a raspy laugh. "If I want?"

Kakashi's response was to kiss Genma deeply, tongues intertwined as they explored each other’s mouths. The taste of Kakashi, the feel of his lips and tongue, became all that mattered in that moment.

They broke from the kiss, faces still close enough that Genma could feel the brief, frantic flutter of Kakashi’s breath on his lips. The silence, suddenly charged, pulled taut between them like a tripwire. Neither bothered to cover up—or look away. Kakashi’s eye, barely narrowed, darted to Genma’s mouth and back. For a moment, Genma’s fingers hovered uncertainly at his own side, unsure if the next move was up to him.

It wasn’t. Kakashi’s hands, rough and cold, found the hinge of Genma’s jaw. He held it there, thumb stroking the hollow beneath Genma’s cheekbone, gaze fixed and analytical—measuring, maybe, or memorizing. Genma felt a wild urge to laugh, to break the spell with some dumb joke, but the words died under the pressure of Kakashi’s intensity. He swallowed instead, shuddered, and waited.

Kakashi’s grip softened, slid down Genma’s neck, and trailed methodically over the curve of his shoulder and down his ribcage, as if Genma might vanish from under his hands if he didn’t keep constant contact. When Kakashi stepped in again, their chests pressed flush together, nipples hardening from the chill and the nerves and the promise of what might come next. Genma dug his nails into Kakashi’s spine in retaliation—just a little, just enough to get a reaction. Kakashi made a noise, more exhale than voice, but didn’t protest or pull away. In fact, he seemed to burn hotter for it.

They moved together, stumbling backward until Genma’s knees hit the edge of his mattress, and he went down with Kakashi following, one hand bracing against the wall; the other wrapped around Genma’s shaft. It was clumsy for half a second, then not—Kakashi’s weight a familiar presence, a reminder of every sparring match that had ever ended in a draw because neither could stand to lose.

Genma’s head spun; his erection throbbed painfully against Kakashi's hand. Trying to steady his breathing only made it worse as Kakashi kissed a line down his neck and all the air left him again. He hooked his leg around Kakashi’s hip, grounding himself, refusing to let his body give in to the tremor of anticipation.

Kakashi paused only once, lips at Genma’s ear, voice softer than Genma had ever heard: “Okay?”

Genma answered by dragging Kakashi down by the nape, crashing their mouths together, a desperate affirmation. His hands found their way into Kakashi’s hair, tugging, and Kakashi groaned—a real sound, raw and unguarded. Their bodies seemed to recognize each other, moving in tandem; Genma’s hands splayed across Kakashi’s back, mapping out every scar and muscle and shift of breath.

They rolled, fighting for top position with the instinctive competitiveness that defined every interaction between them. Kakashi eventually pinned Genma, forearm pressed to the mattress, and offered a wicked, lopsided grin. Genma grinned back, baring his teeth and parting his legs wider.

For once, he wanted to see what happened if he didn’t fight it.

The world narrowed to the press of skin on skin as Kakashi's fingers explored Genma's entrance - two slick digits pushing past tight resistance before retreating. The dizzying pulse of blood in his ears matched the rhythm of Kakashi's fingers working him open. All other thoughts—about rules, about consequences, about tomorrow—shrank to nothing, outmatched by the sharp, bright now.

Unsteady equilibrium stretched their game of give-and-take thin. Genma could feel his own pulse echoing through the few centimeters of air that separated his skin from Kakashi’s—could feel the slow deliberate press of each breath as they tried to remember how to synchronize; how to move together; how to let go.

Kakashi’s weight became a force field—anchoring but never oppressive - grounding him even as Kakashi's cock pushed inside him, a reminder of every time Genma had gotten knocked flat in training and every time he’d gotten up again, grinning through the blood and the ache. Their legs tangled, shins scraping, feet slipping against cotton sheets that needed a change. Kakashi’s hands skated up his ribs, tracing hollows and ridges, searching for something Genma wasn’t sure he had ever let anyone find before.

A hand cupped Genma’s jaw, gentle but non-negotiable, and drew his lips up into another kiss. This one was different—less about the challenge, more about the mutual need to be close, to prove something neither of them would ever put into words. Genma responded by deepening it, letting his tongue flick against the seam of Kakashi’s mouth while their hips met in a steady rhythm. He savored the taste of old blood, toothpaste, and something indefinably Kakashi. When they parted for air, Genma felt the world shrink to the four walls of the room and the two bodies inside it.

With every thrust from Kakashi's hips, Genma's body tensed closer to climax. And Kakashi, damn him, must have sensed it because his pace quickened - mapping Genma’s body like a surveyor reading a familiar but always dangerous landscape. Genma arched when Kakashi hit that spot inside him just right - a shaky exhale escaping him - and tugged Kakashi even closer. He’d spent a lifetime learning to control every reaction, but here with nobody watching but Kakashi he let himself go.

It wasn’t perfect—there was an awkward shuffle; a knee to the ribs; a moment where Genma’s elbow knocked something off the nightstand and they both froze in the half-second of panicked laughter before Kakashi reached down to stroke Genma's cock in tandem with his thrusts. “Relax,” Kakashi said quietly, the word less an order and more permission. Genma found himself obeying, easing into the unfamiliar sense of safety.

Their rhythm stuttered and built until Genma’s nerves fizzed with anticipation and his mind emptied of everything except sensation. Genma’s mouth found Kakashi’s shoulder, bit down gently, and was rewarded with a sharp inhale, a shudder that ran the length of Kakashi’s body.

When they finally lost the last of their caution and let instinct take over, it was less a seduction and more a collision. Their thrusts became erratic as they approached climax - Genma coming first in wet stripes across their chests before Kakashi followed soon after, burying himself deep inside Genma. They shuddered together, both trembling, both trying to memorize every detail in case it never happened again.

They collapsed together, arms and legs knotted, the sweat on their skin cooling too fast in the draft from the cracked window. Genma felt his heart racing, felt the rawness of his own vulnerability, and waited for the familiar compulsion to sabotage, to undercut, to make a joke and dissolve the moment before it got real.

But nothing had ever felt less like a mistake.

So Genma let himself stay, held where he’d landed, one arm thrown lazily across Kakashi’s chest, listening to the slowing rhythm of their breathing and the stillness of the apartment around them. For the first time in a long time, he let the quiet mean something other than defeat.

Chapter Text

The training grounds at dawn were Konoha’s answer to collective punishment. Dew soaked the grass, turning every step into a cold, wet dare, and the morning air crackled with an energy that was equal parts ozone and the scent of fresh sweat. Genma Shiranui stood at the north end, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the last chill of night. He flicked his senbon between his teeth in a steady, silent rhythm, every click as precise as a metronome.

Across the expanse, Might Guy radiated enthusiasm from the center of the field like a small, self-sustaining sun. “COMRADES! Today we BECOME THE WINDS OF YOUTH!” His voice carried, flattening birds in their nests and causing a nearby squirrel to freeze in existential terror. Guy’s uniform was as green and as tight as ever, the orange legwarmers twin pillars of optimism in a world that had no business supporting that much color.

Genma rolled his eyes but didn’t let the expression last. He tracked the field as the other jonin filtered in—Asuma Sarutobi, with a lit cigarette already dangling from his lips; Kurenai Yuhi, red-eyed and perfectly composed despite the hour; a rotating roster of ANBU and career chuunin, all with the look of people who’d rather be anywhere else but had long since lost the capacity for rebellion.

And then there was Kakashi, off to the far side, perfectly on time by being so nonchalantly late it looped back to punctuality. The man’s posture was textbook: casual slouch, one hand in a pocket, his entire being tilted at an angle that communicated both utter disengagement and total readiness. Even now, reading a luridly orange-bound book, he could have mapped every movement on the field without once raising his visible eye.

Genma snapped his senbon into his left hand, ran his thumb along its length, and allowed himself a single, unguarded look. Kakashi didn’t return the glance—not directly—but Genma could tell from the slight quirk in the way the book dipped that he’d been noticed. Of course he had. Shinobi vision was 360 degrees, and the two of them had been tracking each other since before they could reliably tie their sandals.

“SHIRANUI!” Guy’s voice, this time directed squarely at him, yanked Genma out of his reverie. “The Fervor of Youth is not a spectator sport! Pair with Asuma and DEMONSTRATE THE DRILL!”

Genma spat the senbon into his hand, then tucked it behind his ear. “You heard the man,” he said, sidling up to Asuma’s side. The other jonin grunted, flicked ash onto the ground, and sized up Genma with a grin.

“Try not to embarrass me, yeah?” Asuma said, voice low and easy.

“Depends. What’s your threshold these days?”

They squared off, Guy barking cadence from mid-field. The first round was textbook: block, parry, dodge, disengage. Genma’s body fell into the rhythm like it had been waiting for this—muscle memory, years of repetition, and a baseline desire to win that had nothing to do with the "fervor of youth" and everything to do with not getting hit in the face before breakfast.

Asuma feinted right, stepped in close, and Genma twisted, letting momentum carry him behind Asuma’s guard. He tagged the other man’s shoulder with an open palm and danced out of range, mouth twisting in a wry half-smile.

“Getting slow, Sarutobi,” he said, barely winded.

“Or maybe you’re finally learning to keep your mouth shut and your hands busy,” Asuma replied, resetting his stance.

Genma caught the movement out of the corner of his eye—Kakashi, who had closed his book and was now stretching with deliberate slowness, every muscle extension a study in casual threat. Genma let his gaze linger for a microsecond longer than necessary before focusing back on the fight.

They went through three more rounds, the choreography escalating in speed and intensity, until Guy called them off with a thunderous, “YOUTHFUL SPIRIT, EXCELLENT! Switch partners!”

Asuma stepped aside, nodding at Genma. “You’re up, Kurenai. Try not to hypnotize me again this time.”

Kurenai, who had been paired with a hapless ANBU trainee, glided across the field with a composure that suggested she’d already been up for hours. She and Asuma exchanged a brief, silent nod, then squared off in a show of textbook form. Genma, momentarily unassigned, drifted back to the sideline, pulled the senbon from his ear, and spun it across his knuckles.

He watched as Guy gestured at Kakashi, who strolled to the center with a laziness that bordered on subversion. “Hatake!” Guy boomed. “Partner with Shiranui. Show the others the POWER OF COMPETITIVE RIVALRY!”

Genma felt a pulse in his chest that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with the memory of last night—the heat, the slow loss of control, the way Kakashi’s touch had burned away all the noise. He clamped down on the feeling, masking it with a smirk.

“Ready to lose, Hatake?” Genma called, tossing the senbon once and catching it cleanly.

Kakashi’s visible eye crinkled. “I’m always ready.”

They circled each other, neither bothering with the pretense of warmup. Genma moved first—standard forward lunge, then a snap-kick aimed just shy of Kakashi’s ribs. Kakashi dodged, sliding sideways with the smallest shift of balance, and countered with a hand that brushed Genma’s wrist, nearly imperceptible but just enough to throw off the trajectory.

They traded blows—nothing lethal, but sharp enough to sting. Genma noticed the way Kakashi’s gaze never quite settled on his face, always flickering to his hands, his feet, the exact angle of his hips. It was like sparring with a mirror that saw two seconds into the future.

Genma feinted left, swept Kakashi’s ankle, and for a split-second had the upper hand. Kakashi’s counter was to grab Genma’s forearm, twist it with a torque that bordered on painful, and pin Genma’s wrist to the small of his back. It was a familiar hold, one they’d practiced a thousand times in ANBU, but this time the pressure was different. Not more or less forceful—just precise, intimate, like the difference between a handshake and a hand pressed over your heart.

“Still with me?” Kakashi murmured, barely loud enough for Genma to hear.

Genma snorted. “I’ll let you know if I pass out.”

“Please do. It would make my morning.”

“More ENTHUSIASM, Genma!” Guy’s voice shattered the moment. “The fires of youth burn brightest in combat!”

Genma used the distraction to flip out of the hold, breaking free and executing a rolling breakfall that landed him just inside striking range. He swept the senbon from his palm, flicked it at Kakashi’s shoulder with surgical precision, and watched as Kakashi batted it away midair with two fingers. The needle hit the ground and stuck upright in the dirt.

Kakashi looked at the senbon, then at Genma. There was a split-second pause, and Genma saw the smile behind the mask even if it never reached the surface.

They squared off again, but before either could make a move, Guy clapped his hands and shouted, “EXCELLENT! Everyone, gather for closing statements!”

The field broke up in a scatter of grass-stained uniforms and half-faked groans of exhaustion. Genma dusted off his pants and retrieved his senbon, then joined the group at midfield. Kakashi was already there, hands back in pockets, eye half-lidded in feigned boredom.

“Today’s session has PROVEN that the will of fire lives on!” Guy said, beaming at his assembled troops. “You are dismissed! Recover, hydrate, and remember: YOUTH NEVER SLEEPS!”

The crowd dispersed, most heading toward the showers or the promise of breakfast. Genma hung back, watching as Kakashi lingered at the edge of the field. He waited until everyone else had cleared out, then walked slowly, deliberately, to where Kakashi stood.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. Instead, Genma bent to the grass, retrieved a second senbon he’d planted there earlier, and let both needles fall from his palm in a cross at the base of the nearest training post. It was a code, years old: Meet in the woods, same place as always.

Kakashi’s eye flicked to the signal, then to Genma. He nodded, once—almost imperceptible—and faded into the tree line.

Genma lingered just long enough to be sure no one watched him go, then slipped away in the opposite direction, heart pounding with the promise of another round.

The training grounds were empty, save for the flutter of crows overhead and the memory of every blow traded and every look that lingered a little too long.

Tomorrow, the drills would repeat. Tomorrow, it would all be the same.

But today, there was more to do.

Kakashi drifted through the woods like a rumor—barely audible, even to the birds that nested in the high branches and traded complaints about the shinobi below. He ghosted Genma’s trail at a respectful, regulation distance, but both of them knew it was only a matter of choreography; either could have vanished or pounced at any moment. The rules of this dance were old and well-rehearsed: never make it easy, never make it boring.

He let his gaze flick over the path Genma had chosen—past the broken twigs, the splay of moss kicked up by swift feet, the faint shimmer of a disturbance in the undergrowth. If he hadn’t been following with deliberate intent, he’d have missed every sign. Genma was one of the few in the village who could move with true silence, leaving only the hint of presence behind—a trick that, even now, made Kakashi’s pulse jump in anticipation.

The deeper they went, the thicker the air became. Sunlight filtered down through a canopy that filtered nearly everything: sound, heat, intent. The calls of distant birds overlapped, then faded, until the only music was the hiss of leaves in the breeze and the slow, deliberate exhale of someone who knew exactly who was behind him, and how close he dared to get.

Genma broke into a clearing without slowing. The light here was different—brighter, more exposed—but the space itself was a well-kept secret. Kakashi circled wide before entering, checking for signatures or surprises, then stepped into the open as if summoned.

Genma stood in the middle, hands at his sides, face tilted up to the sun. He looked, for a moment, like someone who’d forgotten the mission and was just there to breathe. But then he turned, and the expression he wore was sharp enough to make Kakashi pause at the edge of the circle.

“Took you long enough,” Genma said, voice stripped of its usual armor.

Kakashi shrugged. “Had to be sure you weren’t setting a trap. You’ve pulled better ones.”

Genma grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “If I wanted you dead, you’d never know.”

“Comforting.”

They stood, motionless, each waiting for the other to move first. Then Genma did—closing the space in a blur, hands bracketing Kakashi’s arms, spinning him and pinning his back to the nearest tree trunk. The bark was rough, the trunk solid; Genma’s grip, for all its bravado, was careful, practiced, never cruel.

Kakashi let the momentum carry him, let his spine absorb the impact, and gave a low, approving sound. “If this is an ambush, you’ll need to commit.”

Genma’s answer was a bruising kiss, all teeth and force, the kind of kiss that left marks—on purpose, as if to say yes, this happened, and yes, it matters. Kakashi opened to it, matching pressure for pressure, hands sliding up Genma’s back to lock them together. It was violent in the way only two professionals could manage: precise, mutual, neither relinquishing control but both choosing to share it.

They fought for dominance, not because either wanted to win, but because losing was its own reward. Genma’s hands, rough from calluses and years of mission rot, slipped beneath Kakashi’s vest and mapped out the ribs beneath. Every touch was a dare: Can you take it? Will you let me? Kakashi answered with his own, uncoiling a leg and hooking it behind Genma’s calf to destabilize him, then using the momentary loss of balance to reverse their positions. Genma ended up chest-first against the tree, Kakashi’s weight pressing him there, mouths still locked and breathing suddenly urgent.

For all the speed and violence of it, there was a care to the way they handled each other. Genma’s breath hitched, but he didn’t flinch; Kakashi’s grip, even when it bruised, never crossed the line into pain he didn’t want. It was a performance for no one, but the discipline of it—the awareness of every inch of skin, every muscle held in tension—was unmistakable.

Kakashi broke the kiss first, biting Genma’s lip before pulling back. “You’re bleeding,” he said, tongue darting to taste the red.

Genma twisted, lips parted in a smile that bordered on defiant. “Cosmetic.”

Kakashi licked the blood away, slow and deliberate, then used both hands to turn Genma around. They faced each other, foreheads nearly touching, breaths syncing up. Kakashi felt the edge of Genma’s senbon as it pressed, cold and metallic, against his thigh.

“You bring that thing everywhere?” he asked.

Genma shrugged, one hand already at Kakashi’s waist. “Habit. Never know when I’ll need it.”

Kakashi didn’t bother with a reply. He let his hands do the talking, running along Genma’s arms, feeling the history in the scars and the way the muscles flexed beneath the skin. He let himself memorize the shape of Genma, the rhythm of him, the way his body always seemed to be on the verge of laughter or violence and never quite sure which it preferred.

They collapsed to the moss, tumbling with a grace that looked accidental but wasn’t. Kakashi ended up straddling Genma’s hips, knees on either side, his hands pinning Genma’s wrists above his head. Genma’s eyes glinted up at him, wild and bright, a silent invitation for more.

Kakashi leaned down, pressed his mouth to the angle of Genma’s jaw, and bit—gentle at first, then harder, until Genma bucked under him and gave a low, involuntary groan. It was the kind of sound that made Kakashi want to tear him open and put him back together, better.

He eased up, just a little. “You okay?”

Genma answered by wrenching one hand free, grabbing the back of Kakashi’s neck, and yanking him down for another kiss. “Stop asking stupid questions,” Genma said against his lips.

So Kakashi stopped.

The rest was less a series of events and more a single, continuous movement: hands everywhere, mouths everywhere else, the heat of skin and the rush of blood as both of them remembered exactly why they did this. Genma’s free hand slipped between their bodies, found the seam of Kakashi’s pants, and made short work of the tie. Kakashi did the same, and for a brief, hilarious second, they fumbled and laughed into each other’s mouths, both too stubborn to cede the initiative.

In the end, Genma got there first, his hand wrapping around Kakashi’s cock with a familiarity that should have been embarrassing but wasn’t. Kakashi let his head drop, teeth gritted, and gave as good as he got, stroking Genma in time with the desperate beat of their mutual need. It was messy, frantic, punctuated by the soft thump of bodies against moss and bark and the little, urgent noises that neither would ever admit to making in daylight.

When it was over—when they both shuddered and spilled, hands sticky and breaths ragged—Kakashi collapsed forward, resting his forehead against Genma’s chest. For a moment, neither moved. The world outside was impossibly far away.

Then, from somewhere in the distance, a voice shattered the quiet:

“HA-TA-KE! SHI-RA-NUI! The fires of youth DO NOT WAIT for stragglers! There are MORE CHALLENGES to conquer! And the penalty for tardiness is ONE HUNDRED LAPS!”

They froze, the absurdity of it landing like a kunai in the ribs. Genma was the first to recover. “He can’t be serious,” he whispered.

Kakashi grinned, voice muffled against Genma’s skin. “With Guy, it’s always serious.”

They scrambled to their feet, reassembling uniforms and erasing evidence with the practiced speed of men who’d spent their lives cleaning up messes before anyone noticed. Genma wiped the blood from his lip, spat into the grass, then tucked his senbon back behind his ear. Kakashi checked the perimeter, adjusted his hitai-ate, and retrieved his book from the hollow of a tree.

They reentered the path from different directions, converging at the edge of the training grounds just as the rest of the team finished their warm-down stretches. Asuma was already lighting a new cigarette; Kurenai leaned against a post, arms folded, expression unreadable.

Genma strolled in, hands in pockets, looking for all the world like someone who’d just been on a leisurely walk. “Got distracted practicing target technique,” he said to no one in particular.

Kakashi ambled up, nose already buried in his book, voice as bored as ever. “Got lost. The path of life is very confusing.”

Guy eyed them both, suspicious, but his sense of timing was never great. “AHA! The lost sheep RETURN! As punishment for tardiness, you will perform two hundred push-ups! Each!”

Genma exchanged a look with Kakashi, who didn’t even bother to sigh.

They dropped to the ground in sync, the muscle memory kicking in before the orders had even fully registered. Genma grinned into the grass, counting off in tandem with the man beside him.

“Forty-nine,” he muttered.

“Fifty,” Kakashi replied.

Above them, the sun finally broke through the clouds, throwing everything into sharp relief. The world was bright, the air was clean, and the only thing left was the thud of their own hearts, the press of hands into dirt, and the knowledge that, for now, their secret was safe.

“Eighty-two,” Genma said.

Kakashi didn’t answer, but the weight of him was enough.

They finished their set, dusted off, and joined the rest of the team for the post-training debrief. No one said a word about the woods, or the missing time, or the way Genma’s smile lingered a little longer than usual.

The rules held, for now.

But neither of them had ever been great at rules.

Chapter Text

Recon missions in late spring were supposed to be the easy ones—the forest so green it nearly sang, the creeks running low and clear, the air pre-cut with birdsong that masked the sound of three shinobi ghosting through the undergrowth. If Genma’s mind had been on the job, he would have called it almost pleasant. Instead, he found himself tracking more ghosts than just the ones on his team, every crunch of damp leaf under his foot jarring him back from wherever his head kept trying to drift.

He ran point for this formation: a professional courtesy, a show of trust from Raido and Iwashi, or maybe just an old joke at his expense that he’d lost the thread on years ago. Genma didn’t mind. The lead meant less opportunity to get tripped up by someone else’s mistakes—or his own, if he kept spacing out.

He flicked the senbon from one side of his mouth to the other, absently cataloging the tang of copper, the almost sweet aftertaste of the oil he used to keep the metal from rusting. Three meters back, Raido moved in measured, perfectly-spaced increments, his silhouette ghostly in the filtered light. Iwashi brought up the rear, head always moving, eyes never still. It was the same team Genma had run with since before the war, and the muscle memory between them was so tight it bordered on psychic.

They were closing on the border outpost now, less than three clicks from the waypoint. Genma slowed his pace, signaled with a two-finger flick, and let the silence settle over them. The world here was quieter—fewer birds, the canopy thicker, the only noise the distant ripple of wind. He kept his profile low, weaving between the twin trunks of a pair of twisted beeches, and scanned for tripwires, scouts, or the kind of trap you only noticed after the first man got his leg blown off.

The mission was supposed to be routine: sneak and peek, count heads, get a read on whether the rumors of a smuggler cell were more than just merchant paranoia. No direct action. No glory. It should have been perfect—except Genma’s brain, ever the professional saboteur, refused to stay locked in the present.

Instead, it kept conjuring flashes of last night’s last night, and the one before, and the week before that, every memory circling back to Kakashi in a way that was starting to feel like an obsession, or worse, a curse.

He could still see the angle of Kakashi’s visible eye when he laughed—how it crinkled at the edges, sharp enough to cut. The way he’d said “I’m not good at—” and Genma had interrupted before he could finish, not ready to hear the end of the sentence. The shape of Kakashi’s hands: long-fingered, always colder than Genma expected, but so sure they could have mapped every flaw in his body blindfolded.

He nearly missed the turn at the next fork, a half-buried marker stone that anyone but a native would have stepped right past. Only the hiss of Raido’s breath caught him, the fractional intake that meant Raido was about to cover for him, or call out a warning, or maybe just sigh in that judgmental way he’d perfected in their genin days.

Genma doubled back, dropped to a knee, and motioned the others up. He pressed a palm to the moss, pretended to check for recent prints, and caught the flicker of Raido’s glance when he thought Genma wasn’t looking.

“Earth to Genma,” Raido whispered, voice pitched just loud enough to carry but not echo. “Your body’s here but your mind’s somewhere else.”

Iwashi, ever the team player, didn’t let it slide. “Statistically speaking,” he added from behind a spray of ferns, “distracted field leads account for sixty-two percent of mission anomalies.”

Genma flashed a grin, but it was more habit than humor. “Guess we’re due for an exciting day, then.”

“Wouldn’t want to deprive us,” Raido muttered, but his eyes were already on the next approach—always working ahead, always looking for the angle Genma might have missed.

They moved on, but the rhythm was shot. Genma tried to reset, to focus on the job: the scent of turned earth, the drag of his boots in loam, the faint trace of cooking smoke that wasn’t on their maps. Instead, his mind replayed the split second last night when he’d let his guard down and Kakashi’s mouth had found his neck, teeth and lips and breath all at once, leaving a mark that even the most aggressive scrub in the morning shower hadn’t erased.

He reached up now, half-conscious, to rub at the spot—just below his left ear, over the pulse point. He let his hand hover there, a two-finger check for swelling or tenderness, and froze when he caught Raido watching him with the kind of look that didn’t need words to communicate exactly what he was thinking.

Genma dropped his hand like he’d been burned. He moved ahead, this time paying a little more attention to the layout of the terrain, the game trails and false clearings, the way the light changed color with every step toward the outpost. If he kept moving, if he kept the others just barely behind him, maybe the wheels in his brain would slow down enough to let the day pass uneventfully.

They hit the first perimeter scan in a dry gully, just north of the border marker. Iwashi sketched a quick perimeter in the dirt, marking possible ingress points and egress routes, then settled in beside Genma as Raido laid out the field glass and started cataloguing targets. The outpost itself was barely more than a shack, three tents, and a half-collapsed wagon, but from this angle you could see the sentries—two outside, another visible at the makeshift cookfire.

“Movement pattern’s lazy,” Iwashi whispered, peering over Genma’s shoulder. “Half-hour intervals, maybe less. These aren’t professionals.”

“Doesn’t mean they’re not dangerous,” Raido replied. He thumbed the focus on the field glass and adjusted his angle. “I count four, maybe five. No visible heavy weapons.”

Genma grunted. He tried to focus on the details, to let the discipline of the job crowd out the static in his head. But the memory kept circling, every attempt at distraction looping back to the feel of Kakashi’s palm on his chest, the way they’d ended up tangled in the aftermath, neither able to look away, neither wanting to.

He reached for his senbon, twirled it between thumb and forefinger, and watched as a beetle crawled up his sleeve before flicking it away. “We’re not here to engage,” he said, more to himself than the others. “Just eyes, ears, then we book it.”

“Copy that,” Raido said, but his tone was dry as salt.

Iwashi started to drone on about the likely provenance of the tents (“Definitely surplus from the Sand-Sound border, see the pattern of repairs on the seams…”), but Genma tuned it out. He made himself watch the enemy movements, count the breaths between sentry swaps, memorize the route from the lean-to to the latrine and back. It was the kind of work that should have been meditative, but all it did was remind him that discipline, like anything else, was a choice you had to keep making.

After twenty minutes, the team rotated positions. Genma found himself alone on the far side of the ridge, crouched under a bent pine, the sweat of the hike drying cold on the back of his neck. He should have used the time to check for pursuit, or to nap, or at least to re-tape the bandage on his forearm. Instead, he let his eyes drift shut and allowed himself a five-second vacation—just long enough to replay Kakashi’s laugh, the half-second afterglow when the man’s mask came down and he let himself be seen.

Five seconds. Maybe ten. Not enough to be dangerous, but enough to leave Genma feeling exposed when Raido joined him, silent as only a fellow jonin could be.

They waited in companionable, pointed silence, listening to the rhythm of the enemy camp. At the top of the hour, Raido cleared his throat and said, “You know, you’ve got it bad.”

Genma didn’t look at him. “What’s that?”

Raido snorted, and the sound was so unfiltered it almost made Genma laugh. “You walk into a branch, you daydream in the middle of a perimeter check, and you keep rubbing your neck like there’s a brand on it. Who is he?” Raido was the only person he’s ever told that he’s gay, since they’re best friends and all.

Genma looked up, the smile automatic but the eyes sharp. “Since when are you the love doctor?”

“Since I had to save your ass three times in one morning.”

“Exaggeration.”

“Not by much.”

They let the subject drop, but Genma could feel Raido’s gaze on him, not unkind, just… curious. Protective, maybe, if you wanted to flatter him.

They cycled back to the original observation point. Iwashi handed Genma a slip of paper—transcription of what little chatter he’d picked up—and Genma tried to focus on the ciphers, the half-finished code words, the lazy short-hand that all but confirmed the smuggling ring’s involvement. But even now, with a job to do and a report to file, the old instincts kept giving way to new, less useful ones. Like: What was Kakashi doing right now? Had he even left the village, or was he skulking through the rooftops, reading a trashy novel and pretending the world wasn’t spinning faster every time Genma let his thoughts slip?

They bedded down at dusk, trading shifts so Iwashi could get in a full round of terrain sketching before moonrise. Genma lay back against a root, staring up at the thin slice of sky visible through the mesh of branches, and tried to replay every minute of the day for anomalies or loose ends. But his brain kept rerouting to last night, and the night before, and the next time, and the hope that there would be a next time, that this wasn’t just a one-off mistake but something they might actually pull off more than once.

He rolled over, tucked his arms under his head, and told himself he’d do better tomorrow.

He would have believed it, too, if he hadn’t caught himself smiling like an idiot at the memory of how that first kiss had felt—dangerous, necessary, and exactly as it should have been.

He closed his eyes and pretended not to dream about the next one.

Kakashi felt the wind before he saw it—a crossdraft sweeping the rain gutters, a sudden dip in barometric pressure as a weather front rolled over the rooftops. Kakashi flattened himself along the broken ridge tile, shifting weight from the balls of his feet to the slimmest possible point on his shins, then let the breeze buffet his cloak and carry the sound away from the mission site. His porcelain mask, pale in the predawn, reflected nothing. He’d polished it the night before, hands moving on automatic, each micro-abrasion smoothed by the ritual of anticipation.

He should have been cold, perched in the open with nothing but three centimeters of clay and the assurance of his own reflexes to keep him alive. Instead, the only chill he felt was internal—a dissonance, vibrating just beneath the skin, refusing to resolve even when he locked down every other variable.

Three meters off, Tenzou crouched at the roof edge, eyes scanning the interior courtyard. His posture never slipped. If Kakashi had written the book on infiltration, Tenzou was the one who annotated every page, color-coded, filed and cross-referenced. They made an effective team, even when there were no words.

The target was an old customs house, half-rebuilt after the last border dispute and now housing a rotating crew of chuunin-level smugglers who hadn’t yet learned the full definition of paranoia. The ANBU mission brief had called for zero casualties and less than six minutes exposure: grab the files, sanitize the room, evaporate.

Child’s play.

Except, for reasons that hovered just out of reach, Kakashi found himself lagging half a heartbeat behind Tenzou’s signals. Not enough for an outsider to notice. Maybe not even enough for Tenzou, whose poker face was legendary. But Kakashi knew his own rhythm, knew the precise interval at which his muscle memory fired, and the fact that it was out of sync nagged him like a sliver you couldn’t tweeze out.

He fingered the clasp of his cloak, flexed the tendons of his right hand, and let his focus drift a little—just enough to let the sound of his own pulse settle.

And then Genma’s laugh crashed through his recollection, unbidden and too vivid, the exact timbre it had carried the night before the night before. There’d been a low table, a bottle and a half of sake, and Genma’s head tipped back just so, exposing the sharp line of his jaw. A different kind of mission, no parameters, no exit strategy. Kakashi could still feel the memory of Genma’s fingers at the side of his face, tracing the diagonal scar that bisected his eye like it was a navigation tool, mapping out intent.

He blinked, sharp and fast, and forced his mind back to the present. Tenzou flashed the all-clear, two fingers extended just below the roofline. It should have been the moment for a silent, precise descent—but Kakashi hesitated, not for a tactical reason, but because for the first time since he was ten years old, he’d nearly missed the cue.

He covered, as he always did. Shifted his center of gravity, dropped into the gap behind Tenzou with the barest whisper of motion, and let the secondary charge of adrenaline erase the memory of what had almost been a mistake.

They moved as a unit. Tenzou led through the ventilation crawl, limbs compact, every movement measured; Kakashi covered the rear, pausing every five meters to recalibrate and listen for pursuit. The ductwork was cramped, lined with decades of grease and soot. The job was a two-man job, which meant Kakashi had less than three feet between Tenzou’s back and his own mask at any time. The scent of damp canvas and oil from Genma’s senbon kit clung to Kakashi’s hands, despite three washes and a morning scrub with vinegar.

He tried not to think about it. About the way Genma had pressed him against the wall, the friction, the heat. About the way he’d said “Stop asking stupid questions” and meant it. About the fact that, for all the bravado, Genma had flinched less than most when Kakashi let the mask drop.

There was a brief, whispered exchange in the vent—a mechanical issue, or maybe just a confirmation of the plan—but Kakashi barely registered the words. He could feel the slip, the way his mind kept doubling back on itself, chewing over the past while his body moved forward. In another life, it would have been fatal. Here, it was just annoying.

They reached the target chamber. Tenzou popped the grate, landed with a soft exhale, and swept the room in a single, fluid motion. Kakashi followed, silent, but when he tried to signal the next step—hold, scan, secure—he fumbled the hand sign. Not by much. Just enough that the pinky flared wrong, the angle off. In the soft light, Tenzou’s eyes narrowed.

“Captain,” Tenzou said, voice low and perfectly neutral. “Is something wrong with the approach?”

Kakashi considered the question, considered the dozen possible answers, and dismissed all but the most direct. “No. We proceed as planned.”

Tenzou didn’t argue, but there was a half-beat of uncertainty in the way he reached for the file cache, as though he was waiting for Kakashi to double-check or to correct. Kakashi didn’t. He fell in behind, scanning the perimeter, every sense hyper-tuned but none of them quite erasing the memory of the slip.

They extracted the documents, neutralized the single guard who happened to wander too close, and melted out through the back corridor. The mission clock read four minutes, fifteen seconds. A record, by most standards. But as they hit the rendezvous, Kakashi found himself replaying the entire route, counting every microsecond he’d hesitated, every fractional delay.

Tenzou pulled off his mask as they dropped into the alley two blocks from the safehouse. His face was unmarked, except for the deep-set creases at the corners of his mouth—tension, or maybe skepticism. “We’re clear,” Tenzou said, voice still in mission mode. “You want to walk it or jump?”

Kakashi shrugged, not trusting himself to speak for a moment. The memory of Genma’s fingers, ghostlike on his scar, made his skin itch. He’d always prided himself on compartmentalization—on being able to box off the unprofessional, the personal, the dangerous. But the wall wasn’t holding like it used to.

He opted for the rooftops, launching himself upward with a calculated burst of chakra, the wind in his face sharp enough to slice the thoughts in half. But even up here, moving at triple speed, the distraction lingered.

They regrouped on a high ledge, city sprawled beneath them, the sky beginning to bruise with the first hint of dawn. Tenzou sat, legs dangling, file folder secure in his lap. He regarded Kakashi with that particular brand of frankness that only came from years of shared secrets.

“Whatever it is, you can tell me,” Tenzou said, his tone neither prying nor dismissive.

Kakashi shook his head. “It’s not mission critical.”

Tenzou’s lips pressed into a line. “If it wasn’t, you wouldn’t have fumbled that sign.”

He could have lied. Could have made up a story about lack of sleep, or a tactical misread. Instead, Kakashi said nothing, letting the silence speak for itself.

Tenzou waited, then nodded once. “Copy that.”

They split the cache, each taking a share of the documents, and parted ways. Kakashi lingered on the ledge, watching as the village shifted from darkness to indigo to the pale, uncertain light of day. He flexed his fingers, felt the crackle of electricity where the old precision should have been, and recognized, with a clarity that made him almost laugh, that he was no longer the sum of his discipline.

He was something else—something messier, less predictable, and much, much more dangerous.

He headed home, knowing he wouldn’t sleep.

Knowing, even more acutely, that he wouldn’t stop thinking about Genma. Not for a while.

The scent of woodsmoke crept in under the canopy, snagging on Genma’s senses before he even registered the soft orange bloom of fire at the center of the old clearing. Raido had already set up camp with his usual ruthless efficiency: the bedrolls equidistant, the perimeter booby-trapped, the ration packs lined up in a way that made Genma want to trip over them just to see if Raido would flinch. Iwashi hunched over a tiny field desk, scribbling notes into a waterproof logbook with the compulsive focus of someone who thought every detail, no matter how insignificant, would one day save his life.

Genma went through the motions—took the first shift, circled the perimeter twice, checked and rechecked the tripwire, then wandered back into the circle of firelight and pretended to stretch. In reality, he was watching the tree line, waiting for a shadow to move, a telltale flicker, some sign that the day’s tightrope act was finally over and he could let his guard down. The sky overhead had faded to black, the moon a thin white cutout, the air heavy with the sweet decomposition of last year’s leaves.

He was tired, but not in any way that sleep could fix. The kind of tired that came from holding back—words, impulses, the urge to sprint through the woods at reckless speed and see who or what would catch him first. The only thing sharper than the fatigue was the memory of the tree at the far end of the clearing, the one with the missing chunk of bark, where Kakashi had shoved him hard enough to bruise, then kissed him like it was a contest they both meant to lose.

He eyed the tree now, could almost feel the echo of the collision in his shoulder, the heat that lingered even after they’d gone cold again. He wondered if it was possible to haunt a place while you were still alive.

Raido and Iwashi were deep in a conversation about the day’s haul, Raido running diagnostics on their target’s communication system and Iwashi speculating on the optimal number of backup radios for a camp that size. The talk was easy, practiced, so in-sync that Genma felt like a tourist in his own life. He drifted closer to the fire, let the warmth sting his cheeks, and picked at a blister forming on his palm from the climb earlier.

“So,” Raido said, suddenly, his voice pitched low, “are we gonna talk about it?”

Genma blinked. “Talk about what?”

Raido didn’t look up from the ration pack he was squeezing into something like food. “Whatever’s got you walking into trees. Because it sure isn’t field fatigue.” His eyes flicked up, and for once there was nothing but gentle mockery in them—a warning, but a friendly one.

Genma snorted. “Maybe I just missed your charming company.”

“Sure,” Raido said, not missing a beat. “But you keep staring at that tree like it owes you money.”

Iwashi, oblivious or just polite, looked up. “You mean the one with the scar halfway up the trunk?” He peered into the darkness, then made a note in his book. “That’s a field boundary marker, technically. I think it’s been there since—”

“Not that kind of scar,” Raido cut in, then grinned at Genma. “You ever gonna introduce us to the guy?”

Genma rolled his eyes, but the impulse to bristle at the accusation was half-hearted. “There’s no guy,” he said, with the easy fluency of a man who’d said it a hundred times. But the denial landed flat, even to his own ears, and Raido just grinned wider.

“Whatever you say, Shiranui. But if you get us killed out here, I’m telling the Hokage it was heartbreak.”

Genma gave him the finger, then stood up and wandered to the edge of the clearing. He leaned against the familiar trunk, the rough edge of the missing bark digging into his shoulder, and let the noise from the camp fade into a low hum. The firelight didn’t quite reach here, but it didn’t need to—the spot was so fixed in his memory that he could have found it in total darkness.

He closed his eyes and tried to let the day roll off him. Tried to ignore the way his skin still prickled where Kakashi had touched him, the way his pulse sped up at the thought of another encounter, another chance to make sense of whatever was happening between them.

He wondered if Kakashi ever felt like this—if he ever let himself, even for a second.

In another part of the village, on a roof slick with dew, Kakashi knelt at the apex, elbows resting on his knees, mask pulled down just far enough to let the night air hit his lips. He’d lost track of Tenzou hours ago, the other man having peeled off after a mission debrief with the kind of polite discretion that was almost a dare to say more. Kakashi didn’t mind. He preferred the quiet, the anonymity, the feeling of being just another shadow in the cityscape.

He should have gone home, run the report, maybe even slept. Instead, he lingered, watching the last windows go dark, counting the distant sparks of other shinobi running their own patrols. He flexed his hands, rolling the ache from his knuckles, and replayed the moment in the customs house when he’d slipped—not a real mistake, not enough to cost the mission, but a tremor in the perfect record that should have never happened.

He’d blamed it on fatigue, or the rush, or the sudden crackle of static in his earpiece. But the truth was simpler and much less flattering: he’d let his mind drift. He’d thought about Genma’s laugh, the way it curved up at the edges even when he was being a complete asshole, the way Genma said “relax” like it was a joke and a challenge both. He’d thought about the mark he’d left on Genma’s neck—had wondered, for a wild second, if anyone else had noticed.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, the mask rough on his skin, and tried to box the thoughts away. Compartmentalization was supposed to be his specialty, but lately the compartments leaked. He kept seeing Genma’s face, not just in memory, but projected onto every other moment, like his brain was running a parallel mission in the background at all times.

He wondered if this was what it felt like to be compromised.

As the clock ticked past midnight, he stood and took a circuitous route across the rooftops. He didn’t have a destination, not exactly, but his feet carried him with an inevitability that made him want to laugh. He let the wind cut through the dregs of adrenaline, let the rhythm of his jump-mask-jump settle him into the familiar pattern. Eventually, inevitably, he landed just outside the border of the woods, the old clearing visible between the branches, its entrance worn smooth by the passage of too many years.

He paused, one foot on the trunk of a squat pine, and scanned the perimeter. The campfire was low, the voices of the other jonin muffled by distance. But what caught his attention was the single figure at the far end, slouched against the tree like a man waiting for a train that was never coming.

Genma. Of course.

Kakashi didn’t move, not at first. He let himself watch, cataloguing the angle of Genma’s shoulders, the way his head dropped back against the trunk, the exhale of a breath visible even from this far away. He debated, for a ridiculous second, whether to stay put or to retreat—whether to maintain the distance or risk everything on one stupid, impulsive decision.

He went.

It wasn’t loud, but Genma heard him. Genma always heard him. The other man’s head snapped up, and for a second neither of them said anything. The distance between them was no more than ten paces, but it might as well have been an ocean. The fire crackled behind them, casting wild shadows, but in this corner of the clearing there was only starlight and the thrum of blood in their ears.

Genma opened his mouth, then closed it. His hands flexed at his sides, as if unsure what to do now that the hypothetical had become real.

Kakashi stopped just short, weighed the odds, and said, “You’re supposed to be asleep.”

“So are you,” Genma shot back, but his voice was softer than usual, almost… hopeful.

They stared at each other, the silence as brittle as glass. Words hovered between them, unspoken and dangerous.

“Wasn’t sure you’d show,” Genma finally said, eyes locked on Kakashi’s.

Kakashi shrugged, mask hiding the worst of his smile. “Didn’t want to miss anything interesting.”

The air between them went taut. Genma took a half-step forward, then hesitated, waiting for some signal. Kakashi offered nothing, just watched, letting the tension spool out until it felt like the whole world might snap.

When it became clear neither of them would make the first move, Genma shook his head, grinning in defeat. “We’re idiots,” he said, but there was no heat in it.

“Probably,” Kakashi agreed.

Genma dug his hands into his pockets, looked at the ground, then back at Kakashi. “You wanna sit?”

Kakashi did.

They settled against the tree, shoulders not quite touching, both staring up at the slice of moon overhead. The sound of the fire faded into background noise, replaced by the distant chirr of insects and the slow, steady rhythm of two hearts refusing to back down.

No one spoke. No one needed to.

For the first time in weeks, Genma let himself relax. For the first time in years, Kakashi didn’t try to calculate the next move.

They just… were.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t even close. But in the stillness of the clearing, with nothing to distract or disguise, it felt like the best possible start.

The rest, they figured, could wait until morning.

Chapter Text

The tavern was half-empty, which was how Genma liked it—enough bodies to keep the walls from closing in, not so many that you had to wait for your poison. He took the usual table: far corner, a little in the shadows, sightline to both exits and a decent angle on the bar. The lacquer was peeling from the surface, the cushions compressed flat by decades of abuse, and the grain of the wood was sticky with the day’s spills. Genma spun a senbon between his fingers, rolling it over his knuckles and letting the faint metallic click of it striking the rim of his sake cup fill the gaps in conversation.

Raido was late, which wasn’t like him. Genma checked the clock behind the bar—an ancient analog thing, hands set slightly wrong and a dull smear over the glass where the owner had tried to clean it with a rag that left more residue than it took away. He poured another splash of sake, chased it with a tepid sip of water, and contemplated the black hole that had opened in his day somewhere between waking up and the last mission report.

His memory of last night was patchwork: bright slices of Kakashi’s skin, the roughness of hands, the way his own laughter had stuck in his throat and come out as a half-choke. He remembered, too, the silence after—how it had felt like someone had removed the bones from the room, leaving only flesh and gravity and a tension that couldn’t be explained with science or chakra or even the oldest, dirtiest jokes. He’d fallen asleep with Kakashi’s weight pinning him, woke up cold and alone, and tried not to think too hard about whether it had been a dream.

Raido appeared in the doorway with the slow, predatory walk of a man who never fully turned off his perimeter alarms. He clocked the room—one, two, three—before heading straight for the table, a faint line of sweat at his collar and a shinobi-issue bruise blooming across his left cheekbone. The sight of it—so ordinary, so predictable—snapped Genma back into alignment.

“You look like hell,” Genma said by way of greeting.

Raido slid into the booth, stretching his legs under the table with a wince that was half real, half show. “You should see the other guy,” he said, though Genma doubted the other guy had survived the encounter.

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, watching the bartender rinse glasses with the furious efficiency of someone trying to hit a quota before closing. Genma spun the senbon faster, watching the flicker of light on its tip. Raido eyed it, then Genma, then the half-empty carafe between them.

“Is this a drinking night, or a talking night?” Raido asked, voice low.

Genma considered. “Yes.”

Raido made a sound that was half a chuckle, half a snort. He flagged down the bartender, ordered a bottle of the decent stuff, and set his elbows on the table like he was bracing for impact.

Genma waited. The technique was simple: let Raido talk first, absorb the rhythm, then slip in sideways with a line that changed the topic or made it impossible to circle back. He’d been doing it since they were thirteen, and it usually worked.

But Raido didn’t start with the usual. Instead, he watched Genma spin the needle, then reached out and caught it mid-roll, trapping it between two fingers with a speed that left Genma blinking.

“You’re wound tight,” Raido said, returning the senbon with the deliberate care of a surgeon returning a blade. “Want to tell me why?”

Genma smirked, but it didn’t stick. “Same old,” he said. “Three missions in four days. Not enough sleep.”

“Bullshit,” Raido said, but there was no bite to it. “You look like you lost a bet with the world’s meanest cat. That’s not mission fatigue.”

Genma shrugged, but Raido’s eyes didn’t leave him, so he gave up the act and went for the deflection. “You ever notice how the more you do this job, the less sense anything makes?”

Raido grunted. “The trick is to stop trying to make sense of it.”

Genma snorted. “Spoken like a man who’s dead inside.”

“Only from the ankles down,” Raido shot back. “Rest of me is very much alive. Unfortunately.” He uncorked the new bottle, poured them each a shot, and clinked Genma’s glass with his own. “To the living.”

Genma drank, feeling the sake burn a trail to his stomach. He watched the way the light bounced off the surface, the way Raido’s eyes lingered just a second too long after every question.

They traded small talk: gossip about the Academy, the politics of the new jonin assignments, the rumor that someone had finally snapped and painted a mural of the Hokage naked on the bathhouse wall. Genma was three cups in before Raido circled back to the original line of attack.

“So who is he?” Raido asked, voice soft.

Genma bristled. “Why do you always assume it’s a ‘he’?”

“Because you only get like this over men,” Raido said, deadpan. “And it’s not Aoba—he’s in Suna until Thursday. Is it Hayate? Please tell me it’s not Hayate. He’s a mess.”

Genma rolled his eyes, more out of habit than conviction. “It’s nobody.”

Raido sipped his drink, unhurried. “I’m not gonna push,” he said. “But if you want to talk, I’ll listen.”

That was the thing about Raido—he didn’t push, not really. He’d wait, weaponized patience honed over a hundred stakeouts, and Genma would always, always break first.

He ran a hand through his hair, felt the crunch of dried sweat, and let the words out before he could catch them. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

Raido set his cup down, all attention. “You wanna be more specific, or should I guess?”

Genma huffed a laugh. “I’d pay to watch you guess.”

Raido gave it a beat, then: “You met someone. You like him. It’s new, and you’re not sure what the rules are.”

Genma’s eyes flicked up. “You skipped a few steps.”

Raido grinned. “I know you. You only start spinning your wheels like this when you’re trying to talk yourself out of something you already did.”

Genma let that settle, watching the way Raido’s fingers traced the rim of his sake cup, slow and methodical. “You ever get the feeling you’re in over your head, but you can’t remember when you stopped having a choice?”

“Every day,” Raido said. “But I’m an adult. I compartmentalize.”

Genma barked out a laugh, then dropped his forehead to his hands. “That doesn’t work anymore.”

Raido’s voice was gentle. “What happened?”

Genma didn’t answer for a long time. He watched the play of light on the glass, the shadow of his own hand curled around the senbon. He wanted to say it out loud, but every time he tried, the words stacked up behind his teeth and refused to be spoken.

“It was supposed to be simple,” Genma said finally. “But it’s not.”

Raido nodded, as if that explained everything. “It never is.”

“It was just—” Genma stopped, shook his head. “We agreed. No mess, no drama, just… take the edge off. But every time I see him, it’s like the edge gets sharper.”

Raido let the silence stretch. When he spoke, his voice was the closest to kind Genma had ever heard it. “You want to stop?”

Genma shook his head, a short, decisive movement. “That’s the problem. I don’t.”

Raido looked at him, really looked, the way he did before a mission, scanning for any sign that Genma was about to do something reckless or stupid. “Then what do you want?”

Genma opened his mouth, then closed it. He didn’t know. He really, really didn’t.

Raido took pity on him. “Listen,” he said. “You don’t have to have it figured out. Give it time. See where it goes naturally.”

Genma snorted. “Naturally. In this village.”

Raido’s lips quirked. “Or, you know, you could try talking to him.”

Genma’s laugh was sharp. “Last time we tried that, we ended up fucking. Not sure it helped.”

Raido shrugged. “Sometimes that’s the only language some people speak.”

Genma finished his drink, set the cup down with a thunk. “And if I screw it up?”

“Then you screw it up,” Raido said. “But at least you’ll know.”

Genma let that roll around in his head, the simplicity of it almost infuriating. He picked up the senbon, spun it once more, and let it clatter to the table. “Why is it always more complicated than it needs to be?”

Raido leaned back, arms crossed behind his head, and grinned. “If it wasn’t, you’d be bored.”

Genma smiled, in spite of himself. He refilled both their cups, lifted his in silent toast, and drained it in one go.

“Next round’s on you,” he said, savoring the warmth in his chest and the certainty that, if nothing else, he could rely on Raido to be the one constant in a world that refused to stop spinning.

As the noise in the bar rose and the night wore on, Genma caught himself glancing at the door, hoping for a glimpse of silver hair or a flash of mask. When it didn’t come, he turned back to Raido, the laughter in his throat less forced than before.

But when they stood to leave, Genma hesitated, looking back at the empty table and the twin impressions their bodies had left on the battered cushion.

“Relationships,” he muttered, shaking his head. “They were simpler when it was just physical.”

Raido clapped him on the shoulder, a little harder than necessary. “Speak for yourself, Shiranui. Some of us are still working on step one.”

Genma grinned, but it felt less like a mask and more like something that might, eventually, be real.

They stepped into the night together, two points in orbit, each carrying the unresolved weight of what came next.

Training field number seven was supposed to be abandoned at this hour, the mist still too thick for the Academy students and the instructors nursing last night’s regrets with burnt coffee and empty promises. But when Kakashi arrived, he found the space already staked out: Might Guy, illuminated by a shaft of anemic morning sunlight, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a human paint mixer with a mission.

“KAKASHI!” Guy’s voice split the fog, sending a murder of crows up and out of the cypress trees that ringed the field. “You are EXACTLY eighty-seven seconds late! I was beginning to believe you had finally admitted DEFEAT in our eternal contest!”

Kakashi slouched out of the shadow of the weapons shed, hands in his pockets, hitai-ate angled low enough to imply he’d just woken up, which was only half a lie. “I like to keep you on your toes,” he said, voice a comfortable monotone. “Wouldn’t want you to fall into complacency.”

“HA!” Guy beamed, the force of it nearly visible. “Complacency is the enemy of YOUTH! But you, my friend—” here Guy paused, scrutinizing Kakashi with a furrowed brow “—you seem… listless. This is not the Kakashi I know and adore and strive every day to surpass!”

Kakashi would have shrugged, but it was more effort than he wanted to expend. “You caught me,” he said. “I’m a shell of my former self.”

Guy clapped a hand to his heart, as if physically pained by the statement. “Then it falls to me to RESTORE YOU! I challenge you to the original obstacle course of our genin days! Winner buys the other lunch at the noodle stand—loser must recite the Code of Conduct backwards while holding a handstand for twenty minutes!”

Kakashi let his eye close, as if considering. In truth, he was measuring the weight of his own inertia. He’d been running on autopilot since the last mission, since the last time he’d let Genma’s name into his mouth without biting it off at the root. He’d thought a morning of mindless exertion might bleed off the static, but now, confronted with Guy’s irrepressible energy, he felt a crackle of annoyance—and, uncomfortably, a twinge of nostalgia.

“Fine,” Kakashi said, drawing the word out with theatrical boredom. “But if you start with the push-ups, I’m leaving.”

Guy punched the air, then sprinted to the start line, a painted board still marked with the faded handprints of generations of shinobi. “ON YOUR MARK!” he boomed.

Kakashi ambled over, adjusting his gloves with deliberate slowness. He glanced up at the sky, then at the line of obstacles—a rope ladder, a wall, the ridiculous balance log that had sent more than one overachieving genin face-first into the mud. He sighed, more for effect than out of genuine reluctance.

“Set,” Guy prompted, already vibrating.

Kakashi dropped into a casual stance. “Go.”

The first stretch was nothing: sprint, hop, vault, all muscle memory. But Guy was right—something was off. His body moved as it should, but the connection between intent and execution was loose, as if the wiring had been yanked out and plugged back in backwards. He hit the rope ladder second, half a step behind, and felt his grip slip on the third rung—a mistake so minor it was almost funny, except it wasn’t.

Guy was waiting at the top, grinning down. “Sloppy! You need to EMBRACE the moment, not just survive it!”

Kakashi shot him a look, then doubled down on the next segment, closing the gap in three strides. The wall was higher than he remembered, the wood grain sharp against his palms as he levered himself up and over. He heard Guy below, singing encouragements and commentary in a relentless staccato.

“Focus!” Guy hollered. “Imagine the enemy is at your heels—what would you do then?”

“Probably let them win,” Kakashi muttered, but he hit the ground running, boots silent on the packed earth.

The last segment was the balance log—a slick, uneven beam suspended over a pit of mud that reeked of mold and old missions. Kakashi calculated the optimal path, the minimum number of steps, and went for it. He was two meters from the end when his heel caught on a knot, just enough to throw off his center of gravity. For a moment, he hovered, then windmilled his arms and—utterly, shamefully—fell.

He hit the mud with a splat, the cold shock of it registering just before Guy’s victorious shout.

“KAKASHI!” Guy stood at the finish, fists raised in triumph. “Never in all our years have I seen you so… HUMAN!”

Kakashi lay there for a second, processing the novelty of failure. He rolled over, mud caking the side of his face, and stared up at the sky. He half-expected to see Genma’s face staring back, but it was only Guy’s—upside-down, intrusive, entirely too alive.

“Are you alright, my friend?” Guy asked, concern warring with exuberance.

Kakashi wiped the mud from his mask, sat up, and regarded Guy with his best deadpan. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Of course!” Guy said, kneeling down beside him. “But also—” he lowered his voice “—I am worried about you.”

“Don’t be,” Kakashi said, but the words tasted sour.

Guy studied him, brow furrowed. “You know, when I feel out of sorts, I find it helps to seek guidance from those I admire. Perhaps you should try—”

“Spare me the motivational poster,” Kakashi said, but the edge was gone.

Guy smiled, softer than usual. “Sometimes the best way forward is to charge through the uncertainty with all the passion of YOUTHFUL COURAGE! Or, failing that, talk to a friend.”

Kakashi shook his head, but the motion was more resigned than dismissive. “It’s complicated,” he said, surprising himself with the honesty.

“Life is always complicated!” Guy replied. “That is why we must attack it with both hands!”

Kakashi stood, flicked mud off his gloves, and looked at Guy. “You ever have something you want, but you don’t know if you can handle it?”

Guy considered. “All the time. That is why I set small goals. First, I wanted to beat you in arm-wrestling. Then, I wanted to outrun you. Then, I wanted to save you from the loneliness that sometimes leaks out of your eye when you think nobody is looking.”

Kakashi blinked, taken aback. He looked away, pretending to clean his hitai-ate.

Guy leaned in, lowering his voice. “Is this about Genma?”

The name landed like a thrown kunai. Kakashi’s eye narrowed, but he didn’t bother denying it.

“I saw you two after the last council meeting,” Guy said. “I have never seen two people avoid each other so… pointedly.”

Kakashi almost laughed. “He’s good at that.”

“So are you,” Guy said, then, softer: “Maybe you should stop avoiding. Maybe you should… I don’t know, try being honest for once?”

Kakashi grunted, uncomfortable. He scratched at the back of his neck, gaze fixed on the distant horizon.

Guy stood, dusted off his hands, and smiled. “Remember: the fire of youth never burns out. It just needs fuel. Sometimes, that fuel is embarrassment. Sometimes, it is heartbreak. But it is always worth the burn.”

Kakashi let the words hang in the air, heavy and ridiculous and, somehow, not entirely wrong.

“Thanks,” he said, and meant it.

They walked back to the start line together, Guy already planning the next rematch, already plotting a training schedule that would put the ANBU boot camp to shame. Kakashi nodded and agreed to whatever Guy suggested, knowing full well he’d ignore most of it. But as he left the field, the mud drying on his uniform and the ache of effort settling into his bones, he felt something else, too—a flicker of motivation, or maybe just the desire to prove Guy wrong by not giving up, not letting go, not letting himself fail at the one thing that really mattered.

He set off toward home, the echoes of Guy’s voice ringing in his head:

“SEIZE THE MOMENT, KAKASHI! The future belongs to the bold!”

Kakashi rolled his eye, but he didn’t slow down.

He had work to do.

The city was a labyrinth of after-hours quiet, the kind of lull that only came after a hard rain and a harder day. Genma walked home with his hands stuffed in his jacket, shoulders hunched against a chill that wasn’t entirely the fault of the weather. The streets glittered with oil and memory, and every fourth step brought a fresh echo of Raido’s words, looping in his head like an old song he couldn’t quite forget.

He took the long way, past the shuttered tea stalls and the alley where he’d once pulled Kakashi out of a three-on-one knife fight, both of them laughing too hard to breathe by the end of it. He paused at a cross street, instinct yanking his gaze left, toward the block where Kakashi lived. The impulse to detour, to show up at the other man’s door and demand an answer—or, more likely, a rematch—was so strong it buzzed in his teeth.

He hesitated, foot hovering over the slick cobbles, then snorted at his own indecision and kept walking. “Give it time,” Raido had said. “See where it goes naturally.” The only thing that went anywhere naturally in this village was gossip, and Genma wasn’t sure he wanted to be the subject of the week’s rumor mill.

He kept his head down, counting the lines of bricks beneath his boots, but every so often his hand drifted up to his lips, brushing the spot where Kakashi’s mouth had landed the last time they’d been stupid enough to let the world fall away. The memory burned, but Genma couldn’t decide if he hated it or wanted to feed it more fuel.

On the roof of the mission office, Kakashi perched with a paperback in his lap and his eyes on the restless line of the skyline. The village felt different up here, like he was hovering just above reality, too distant to touch but too tethered to ever float away. The wind curled around the eaves, flapping at the edges of his jacket, but Kakashi hardly noticed. He hadn’t turned a page in twenty minutes.

Guy’s words clattered through his mind, louder and more annoying than any emergency siren. “SEIZE THE MOMENT, KAKASHI! The future belongs to the bold!” As if it were just that simple. As if opening his mouth wouldn’t break the whole fragile arrangement, snap it in two like the stem of a cigarette before you even got to light it.

He ran his thumb along the seam of his mask, a nervous tic he’d developed somewhere between ANBU and adulthood. The fabric was familiar, comforting, a buffer between himself and the world. But he could still feel Genma’s hands there, the way they’d tugged the mask down, insistent and gentle and absolutely refusing to be denied. The contact replayed on an endless loop, as vivid as if it had happened seconds ago.

He wanted to see Genma. Wanted to say something that would fix the static between them, even if it meant just sitting in the same room and pretending nothing had changed. Maybe especially then.

The clock on the office tower chimed the half hour. Kakashi set the book aside, straightened his collar, and resolved to stop thinking so goddamn much. He’d never been good at waiting. Even now, with the stakes higher than they’d ever been, he found himself leaning into the first impulse, ready to leap from the edge and see where he landed.

At the same moment, two blocks away, Genma stopped at his own front door and stared at the peeling numbers on the frame. He dug out a cigarette, lit it with hands that barely shook, and watched the ember flare against the gloom. It would be easier, he thought, to let it go. To chalk the whole thing up to bad judgment, to never mention it again, to disappear behind the next mission or the next bottle or the next set of rules that everyone else seemed to live by.

But he wasn’t like everyone else. And neither was Kakashi.

He finished the cigarette, ground it out against the wall, and made up his mind.

Tomorrow, he’d find Kakashi. Talk to him, fight him, fuck him, or maybe just sit across a table and spin the senbon until one of them caved. It was a bad idea. It was probably the worst idea he’d had in a decade.

But Genma had never once regretted doing the wrong thing, as long as it meant feeling something sharp and real.

He let himself smile, just a little, and slipped inside, already counting the hours to sunrise.

Morning hit the village like a slap, sunlight reflecting off wet stone and painting the alleys in jagged bands of white and gold. Genma left his apartment with an empty stomach and a head full of bad ideas, letting the familiar ache of hangover and anticipation guide his route toward the mission office and, possibly, disaster.

He cut through the market, past the same stalls that would always smell of pickled plums and fried dough no matter what season it was. The town was waking up, people moving with the cautious optimism of a day that might not try to kill them. Genma wove around a pair of delivery boys fighting over a sack of rice, lost in the mechanical rhythm of his own footsteps. He hardly noticed when he turned onto the narrow lane by the tavern—until he rounded a blind corner and collided, full body, with a warm, solid mass.

Instinct took over: Genma’s right arm shot out, catching the other person by the elbow; his left hand flashed to the senbon already in his sleeve, the tip a hair’s breadth from a throat he recognized before his brain caught up. Silver hair, a mask, a visible eye so surprised it looked like it had never seen sunlight before.

Kakashi.

The world paused for a fraction of a second. They both held perfectly still, Genma’s palm pressed to Kakashi’s forearm, Kakashi’s book dropped to the mud. For a moment, neither breathed.

“Sorry,” Genma said, trying to back up, but the alley was too tight for a graceful retreat. He cleared his throat, searching for a joke, a quip, anything to break the silence. “Didn’t expect to see you vertical at this hour.”

Kakashi’s mouth curved under the mask, an almost-smile that was as much nervous tick as greeting. “You should know by now that I never sleep,” he replied, bending to pick up his book. He dusted it off with a care that made Genma’s heart stutter.

They stood, blocking the alley, eyeing each other like two animals unsure if they were about to fight, mate, or run in opposite directions.

“So,” Genma started.

“About the other night—” Kakashi said at exactly the same moment.

They both stopped. Genma waited for Kakashi to continue; Kakashi waited for Genma. The resulting silence was so thick it could have been cut with a kunai.

Genma rolled his shoulders, trying to play it off. “If you’re about to apologize, don’t bother. I’ve survived worse.” He aimed for casual, but it came out brittle.

Kakashi’s visible eye narrowed, not unkindly. “That’s not what I was going to say.”

“Oh.” Genma’s fingers spun the senbon at his wrist, a nervous tic that betrayed him more than he’d like. “Then what were you going to say?”

Kakashi looked away, gaze traveling up the wall to a patch of moss growing between the bricks. “I thought maybe we should talk.”

Genma snorted, more out of relief than derision. “That sounds dangerous.”

“It is,” Kakashi agreed, thumb tracing a line along the edge of his book, a gesture so precise Genma wanted to bite it. “But not talking seems worse.”

They stood there, words swirling in the space between them, both waiting for the other to bridge the last, impossible gap.

Genma drew a breath, feeling the cold rush of air burn his lungs. “Look,” he said, “I don’t know what’s going on, but if you want to call the whole thing off, just say so. I’m not going to chase after you.”

Kakashi’s head snapped back, surprised. “Why would I—”

“Because,” Genma cut in, too fast, “last time someone got this close, I ended up with a knife in my ribs and a week in the hospital. I’m not in a hurry to repeat the experience.”

The honesty sat there, raw and exposed. Genma hated it. He wanted to stuff the words back in his mouth, but it was too late.

Kakashi’s eye softened. He stepped forward, just enough that Genma could smell the faint trace of ozone and morning air on his skin. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, voice quiet.

Genma almost laughed. “Not on purpose, maybe.”

There was a beat, then Kakashi did something unexpected: he reached out and, very gently, set his hand on Genma’s shoulder. The contact was so light Genma could have shrugged it off with a breath. But he didn’t.

“You’re not easy to get close to, either,” Kakashi said, as if reading his mind.

They both stood there, awkward and exposed, the world narrowing to the damp stone under their boots and the unspoken challenge in the air.

Finally, Genma broke first. He pulled away—not harshly, just enough to give himself room to breathe. “Maybe we’re both idiots,” he muttered.

“That’s been my working theory,” Kakashi replied, the barest glimmer of a smile behind the mask.

The tension eased, but it didn’t dissolve. It hovered, electric, as they each tried to figure out the next move.

“You want coffee?” Genma offered, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “Or do you need to be somewhere?”

Kakashi shrugged. “I have time.”

They moved together, side by side, the alley suddenly too small for the distance they’d just traversed. Neither spoke, but the silence was different now—less an absence, more a holding pattern.

As they reached the mouth of the alley, Genma risked a glance at Kakashi. He expected to find the other man smirking, or already mentally checked out. Instead, Kakashi was watching him, the intensity of his gaze tempered by something Genma couldn’t quite name.

“Hey,” Genma said, pausing.

“Yeah?”

“Next time, try not to sneak up on me.”

Kakashi’s mask creased in a way that suggested he was smiling. “I’ll do my best.”

Genma rolled his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders eased a fraction. They turned the corner together, the path ahead uncertain but, for once, not entirely unwelcome.

They walked on, neither leading nor following, both pretending the world hadn’t just shifted under their feet.

Kakashi’s apartment was upstairs from a tea shop, the kind that reeked of old lacquer and secrets. The hallway always smelled faintly of dried seaweed and cat piss, and the stairs creaked in protest at every step, as if warning intruders to turn back before it was too late. Genma had been here before—three times, if he was counting, and he always counted—but every visit felt like stepping into a parallel reality. The difference was subtle, but it was there: the illusion of safety, the idea that maybe, in this one small room, the world was less capable of taking things away from you.

Kakashi unlocked the door, the motion so smooth Genma almost missed it, and held it open with a casual, “After you.” Genma hesitated a breath too long before crossing the threshold, unsure if it was nerves, or habit, or just the weight of what waited inside. The entryway was tidy to the point of surgical precision—no dust, no shoes, not even a rogue strand of hair on the mat. Genma toed off his boots and lined them up with the accuracy of a man at customs, waiting for the next checkpoint. Kakashi’s movements were equally meticulous, almost ritualistic: the lock clicked, the chain slid home, and the mask came off, all in a series of silent, well-practiced gestures. It struck Genma, not for the first time, that this was the truest version of Hatake Kakashi—every symbol of casual indifference layered over a core of almost pathological control.

The kitchen, if you could call it that, was a nook carved out of the main room, stocked with exactly three mugs, one chipped bowl, and a single-use coffee filter balanced on a clean glass jar. The cupboards were so bare that the hinges whispered when opened, the space between them echoing louder than the hum of the ancient refrigerator. Genma glanced inside out of habit; two bottles of electrolyte solution, a half-empty carton of milk, and a covered dish of something unidentifiable. He shut the door before the smell could escape, and leaned instead on the counter, watching Kakashi measure coffee grounds with the focus of a bomb technician.

“Does it always look like this?” Genma asked, meaning the apartment, but also maybe the man.

Kakashi lifted a shoulder, the barest suggestion of a shrug. “I’m not here much,” he said, words muffled as he reached for the kettle. “And I don’t cook.”

Genma almost pointed out that the absence of food preparation didn’t explain why the entire place was so clean, so untouched, but he let it slide. Some lines of inquiry were less about the answer and more about the statement they made. Instead, he traced a finger along the edge of the countertop, feeling for grit and finding none.

The place was small enough that a turn in any direction gave a panoramic view: the futon, rolled tight and stacked with geometrically folded sheets; a battered desk, every paper filed and squared; a low bookshelf, impeccably organized by subject and spine color, with only a few novels wedged between thick anthologies of tactical analysis and outdated plant field guides. There were no photographs, but a tiny, brittle origami crane perched on the corner of the lamp, and beside it, a dog-eared copy of The Tale of the Utterly Gutsy Shinobi, the cover nearly rubbed blank by thumbprints.

Genma exhaled, slow and measured, letting his gaze drift to the window. The street was still waking up, vendors hauling crates of produce and the occasional civilian pacing off to work, heads down. From up here, the village looked almost ordinary, the scars and repairs hidden by distance and morning haze. In a way, it was peaceful. In another, it made the whole scene feel staged, like a diorama behind glass.

Kakashi handed him a mug—black, no sugar, no cream. Genma took it and sipped, registering the faint bitterness. It was stronger than he expected, which made sense. He wondered if Kakashi brewed every cup with the same intensity he brought to the rest of his life, or if this was just the default setting. It was hard to know.

They stood in silence, neither meeting the other’s eye. Across the room, the clock ticked, louder than the traffic below.

“So,” said Kakashi, voice flat but not unkind, “are you going to say what you came here to say?”

Genma’s first instinct was to dodge, to make a joke, to subvert the moment with something sharp and clever. But this wasn’t a mission, and the only person he was lying to was himself. He took another sip, buying time, then set the cup down with deliberate care.

“I don’t know what I came to say,” he admitted. “I just…” He trailed off, the words slipping away before they could solidify. “I just wanted to see if it was real, I guess.”

Kakashi leaned back against the counter, arms folded. He waited, not pressing, but also not stepping in to rescue Genma from the awkwardness of his own honesty.

Genma forced his eyes up, meeting Kakashi’s gaze. Without the mask, the man looked younger, almost delicate, like the skin hadn’t decided if it could trust the air yet. The scar over his left eye seemed less pronounced, and there was something in the set of his mouth—a wariness, maybe, or the memory of a hundred things unsaid.

“Look,” Genma said, “I meant what I said yesterday. If you want to forget about it, I can pretend it didn’t happen.” He tried for a grin, but it came out crooked, more apology than humor. “I’m not going to haunt your doorstep.”

Kakashi’s lips twitched. “You’re the one who haunted mine.”

Genma let out a breath, an involuntary laugh. “Fair.”

There was another silence, but it felt less loaded now, the air settling around them as the coffee cooled.

Kakashi’s gaze drifted to the window, then toward the battered desk, as if searching for something they’d both forgotten. “You ever think about quitting?” he asked.

Genma blinked. “Ninja work?”

Kakashi shook his head. “The other thing. The—” He waved a hand in the air, as if trying to summon the right word. “The trying.”

Genma considered it. “I think if I stopped, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.”

Kakashi nodded, then took a sip from his own mug, eyes half-lidded in thought. “That’s what I figured.”

For a while, they didn’t talk, both men orbiting the problem at the center of the room, neither brave enough to touch it yet. Genma paced to the bookshelf, trailed a finger along the spines, then circled back to the futon. He caught himself inspecting the orderliness of the sheets, the sharpness of the folds, and wondered what it must be like to live somewhere that never let itself fall apart.

He sat down on the edge, elbows on knees, and looked up at Kakashi. “You know I’m terrible at this, right?”

Kakashi’s eye softened, the faintest hint of a smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. “I know.”

Genma nodded, as if that settled something. “Just making sure we’re on the same page.”

They lapsed into silence again, but it was companionable this time, the kind that didn’t demand to be filled.

Eventually, Kakashi broke the spell: “Do you want to stay? Or should I walk you out?”

Genma wasn’t sure what answer he was supposed to give, but he heard himself say, “I’ll stay.” The word tasted strange, but not unpleasant.

Kakashi nodded, as if he’d expected nothing else. He took the mug from Genma’s hand, set it in the sink, and returned to lean against the counter. For a long time, they didn’t do anything but exist in the same space, letting the village wake up around them.

Chapter Text

Genma was pretty sure the moonlight in Kakashi’s apartment could cut glass. It angled in through the slats of the blinds, carving the futon into a field of alternating shadow and cold, clinical blue. The rest of the room was dark—except for the discarded arc of clothing leading from the door to the mattress, and the bright white of Kakashi’s bandages as they glowed faintly in the gloom.

He tasted sweat in the back of his mouth, bitter and animal, and the air in the room felt denser than water. He’d lost count of how many times they’d started and stopped tonight, which round this was, or whether he was supposed to be keeping track. At this point, he wasn’t even sure if his own body was going to cooperate, or if it would just shut down from overstimulation and make an awkward, unfixable mess of the whole thing.

Not that it mattered. At the moment, Kakashi was kissing the hollow of Genma’s throat, tongue searching with a focus that bordered on compulsive. Every time Genma tried to twist away, those damn hands found him—one splayed wide across his ribcage, the other anchored hard to his hip, pinning him in place. The exhale of his breath was hot enough to raise goosebumps on Genma’s arms.

Genma dug his fingers into the sheet, fumbling for leverage. The mattress wasn’t helping, barely a half-inch thick over the tatami, and every shift of their bodies left him more tangled and off-balance. Somewhere above his head, his own senbon glinted on the nightstand, a tiny, gleaming accusation. He wondered, briefly, if it was judging him.

He tried to focus, to let himself float the way he sometimes did in the middle of a fight or a fuck—let the world narrow to pure sensation, and forget that the rest of his life was out there waiting to trip him up the second he relaxed. But this wasn’t like that. There was too much happening, too many crosscurrents: the scrape of stubble against his skin, the ache in his thigh where Kakashi’s knee pinned him, the throb of his own pulse as it skipped in his wrists and his throat.

He heard himself laugh, just a little, and realized too late that it was the sound of someone in over his head.

Kakashi noticed, of course. He always noticed. The man didn’t say anything—didn’t have to. He just paused, visible eye sharp and a little too bright in the dark, and traced his thumb along Genma’s jawline as if confirming that yes, this was real, and no, Genma wasn’t about to bolt.

“You okay?” Kakashi murmured. The words hit Genma’s ear like an electric shock.

“Fine,” Genma lied, but he didn’t even try to make it convincing. “Just—” He cut himself off, breath catching as Kakashi’s hand slipped between his legs, gentle but not tentative. The friction was maddening, the pace slow enough to border on cruel.

Kakashi smiled, or at least did the approximation of it that passed for a smile in his world. “You never let me finish,” he said, and for a second Genma thought he was talking about the sex.

But then Kakashi shifted, mouth catching Genma’s in a kiss that was all tongue and teeth and nothing held back. The force of it sent Genma’s brain spinning, and for a few seconds he was pretty sure he could have been anywhere—on a battlefield, in a rain-soaked alley, or flat on his back under a man who understood him better than he wanted to admit.

He bucked his hips, trying to regain control, but Kakashi’s grip tightened, holding him exactly where he was. The friction built fast, rough and perfect, and Genma’s hands found their way to Kakashi’s shoulders, nails digging in hard enough to leave marks. He felt the sharp bones under his palms, the flex and strain of muscle, and the slick slide of sweat as it beaded between their bodies.

“Don’t let go,” Kakashi whispered, and Genma, against all better judgment, didn’t.

He came first, shuddering so hard his teeth rattled, the world going fuzzy around the edges as pleasure twisted through him. He felt himself gasp, tried to bite it back, but the sound escaped anyway, desperate and raw. Kakashi followed a few heartbeats later, the tremor in his body impossible to miss, but his face didn’t change. The only sign was the way his eye squeezed shut, lashes going white at the tip, and the way he buried his face in Genma’s neck like he couldn’t stand to be seen.

For a second, neither of them moved. Genma tried to catch his breath, tried to map the feeling of skin on skin and remember it for later. The air was thick with ozone and salt, and his hands shook from the aftershock.

And then, because he was an idiot, because his mouth always worked faster than his brain, Genma heard himself say it:

“I love you.”

The words fell into the space between them like a dropped kunai—no warning, no chance to snatch them back.

Kakashi froze. Not just a little, but completely. His fingers stopped moving, his breath stopped against Genma’s collarbone, and for one horrific second Genma thought maybe he’d just killed the other man outright.

Genma’s own heart thudded in his ears, loud and arrhythmic. He tried to say something else, anything, to patch over the mistake, but his tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth and every part of him felt like it had shorted out.

The silence went on long enough that Genma started to count seconds. One, two, three. He could feel sweat cooling on his chest, the press of Kakashi’s weight suddenly intolerable. He wanted to run, to laugh it off, to make a joke so savage it erased the last five minutes and rewrote the script from the beginning.

But he couldn’t. He was trapped in the moment, pinned more effectively than by any jutsu.

Finally, Kakashi lifted his head. His eye was wide, the pupil blown so far open it looked almost black, and for once Genma couldn’t read what was happening behind it.

“You—” Kakashi started, then stopped. He cleared his throat, voice thin. “That’s just the endorphins talking.”

It was a joke, or an attempt at one, but the edges were rough. Genma felt the words dig in, cold and careful, and he wanted to scream at how clinical it sounded.

He managed a laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “Must be.”

Kakashi rolled off him, just far enough that their skin still touched but their eyes didn’t have to meet. Genma stared at the ceiling, counting the lines in the plaster, willing himself not to say anything else that might give away the fact that he’d meant every syllable.

Beside him, Kakashi’s fingers drummed a spastic tattoo on the sheets, as if his hands hadn’t gotten the message that the rest of his body was supposed to be calm. He exhaled, slow, and for a second Genma thought maybe he’d say something—something real, something that would fix the world back to how it was before.

But he didn’t. He just lay there, silent, and let the moon carve both of them into shreds.

After a while, Genma swung his legs over the side of the futon and sat up, rubbing his face with both hands. The air in the room felt thick and wrong, every breath an effort. He reached for the senbon on the nightstand, rolled it between his fingers, then set it down again. He thought about getting dressed, about putting the armor back on and pretending nothing had changed, but the idea of fabric against his skin made him want to crawl out of it entirely.

Behind him, Kakashi still hadn’t moved. Genma could feel the weight of the other man’s gaze on his back, but he couldn’t make himself turn around.

Eventually, he heard the words, flat and uninflected:

“You’re not obligated to mean it.”

Genma barked a laugh, sharp and too loud. “Good thing, too.”

They sat in parallel silence, both naked and more exposed than either had ever been in their lives. The moonlight moved a fraction, shifting the pattern of shadows across the floor, and Genma focused on that, anything but the sound of his own heart.

He almost missed it when Kakashi spoke again, softer this time, as if testing the air for poison.

“I’m sorry,” Kakashi said.

Genma shook his head, smiling with no humor at all. “Don’t be.”

But of course, that was the lie. He wanted him to be sorry—wanted him to be furious, or confused, or anything but this numb, untouchable blankness.

He waited, holding the silence like a blade, hoping it would cut the right direction.

It didn’t.

After a while, Genma stood, dragging the crumpled sheet with him, and padded into the bathroom. He shut the door without locking it, because they’d never bothered with locks before, and he ran the water cold, letting it sting his wrists and flush the heat out of his head.

He stared at his own reflection in the mirror, watched the way his mouth shaped the words without making a sound: I love you. I love you. I love you.

He waited for the shame to hit, but all he felt was tired.

Back in the main room, Kakashi had pulled the covers up, his body curled away, the curve of his spine a question Genma didn’t know how to answer.

Genma crossed to the window, opened it, and let the night air in. He watched the silver trail of the moonlight as it stretched over the rooftops and wondered how far away you had to run before you stopped embarrassing yourself.

He didn’t know.

He only knew that tomorrow would come, the same as always, and they would both pretend not to remember this.

But tonight, at least, he could say he’d meant it.

He could say he’d survived.

Genma spent the last fifteen seconds before escape locked in a losing battle with the snap on his pants. He’d never realized how loud that particular sound could be until now, every misaligned tug a ricochet in the hush. The room was so quiet you could hear the tick of the apartment clock three doors down, and the only other noise was the wet slap of his own heartbeat and the faint, almost delicate rustle as Kakashi shifted to sit up.

Genma toweled off, wiped the worst of the sweat from his face and chest, and tried to return to the futon without making eye contact. The sheet tangled around his shins as he bent for his shirt. He dropped it twice—once when his fingers missed the collar, and again when he tried to shake it right-side-out and hit himself in the jaw with the sleeve.

Kakashi didn’t help, didn’t even pretend to. He just sat at the edge of the futon, blanket drawn to his waist, elbows on knees, watching. The visible eye was half-lidded, unreadable.

Genma found his senbon on the nightstand, fumbled it once, and swore. He had to grip it between his teeth to keep from visibly trembling.

He’d rehearsed the exit a hundred times, but all the lines he’d practiced felt wrong now, dangerous, liable to break if you pressed them. He tried anyway.

“I have an early op,” he said, voice thin. “It’s a double. Raidou needs me for recon and then I’m covering for a rookie who called in sick.”

Kakashi nodded, but the expression didn’t change. He didn’t stand, didn’t reach out, didn’t say Genma’s name like he had the night before when it was just the two of them and nothing else.

Genma yanked on his shirt, realizing halfway through that it was inside out but not caring. He didn’t bother with the flak vest—probably didn’t need it for whatever made-up mission he’d just invented, but even if he had, he couldn’t have managed the zippers without drawing blood.

He bent for his boots, knees popping like firecrackers, and saw that the laces were hopelessly tangled. He left them as they were, grabbed both boots in one hand, and made for the door.

He risked one last look at Kakashi. The man hadn’t moved, but his hand was pressed flat to the mattress, knuckles white against the blue of the sheet.

“See you,” Genma managed, already regretting it.

“Yeah,” Kakashi said. The word was too normal, too even. It sounded like a placeholder, like something you said when you’d already left the room in your head.

Genma was out the door before he could do any more damage. He closed it behind him, careful not to slam, but it still made a sound—final, absolute, the kind of click you remembered for years.

He reached the end of the hall before realizing he’d left his vest slung over the back of a chair. He considered going back, but the idea of facing that room again was unthinkable. He kept moving, boots in hand, down the stairs, out into the raw chill of night.

In the apartment, the silence collapsed inward, a negative space where Genma had been. Kakashi sat for a long time, unmoving. He waited for something—maybe the return of gravity, maybe the restoration of his own mental processes—but neither came. He heard the faint echo of Genma’s footsteps on the stairs, the muffled slam of the entry door, then nothing.

He reached for the glass of water by the futon and drank it, slow, as if the act would anchor him. He studied the shape Genma’s body had left on the mattress, the way the sheet twisted, the faint bloodstain on the edge where a scab must have opened, unnoticed. He wondered how long it would take for the imprint to fade, how long before the room felt normal again.

He didn’t move for fifteen minutes. Maybe longer.

Eventually, he saw the vest on the chair and crossed to it. It was heavier than it looked, packed with side pockets and concealed pouches. The inside lining was worn to a dull shine, and the zipper tab was bent at a shallow angle—a quirk that Genma had probably never even noticed.

He held it for a while, thumbs tracing the seam where the padding gave way to mesh. He lifted it to his face, inhaled the scent—sweat, the sharp tang of dried metal, something faintly herbal and bitter that might have been the soap Genma used in his apartment.

Kakashi set the vest back on the chair, folding it carefully. He thought about calling Genma, about sending a message, but the notion felt ridiculous, an escalation that neither of them would survive.

He let his face rest in his hands, fingers pressed to temples, elbows digging into his knees.

He tried to remember the last time he’d let anyone get this close. He couldn’t.

He spent the rest of the night awake, the room too bright with moonlight, the sheets too cold, the clock’s relentless tick echoing like an accusation. When the sun finally came up, he was still sitting on the edge of the futon, eyes open, waiting for the moment to pass.

It didn’t.

The assembly hall was designed to break men before the speaker even opened his mouth. Rows of chairs, too close together and too hard to slouch in, all pointed at a dais with the illumination of a surgical theatre. Every surface reflected glare—off polished wood, off the sheeted glass of the big windows, off the impassive forehead of the man already standing behind the lectern.

Genma arrived early, which wasn’t like him, but he couldn’t stand the thought of walking into a room full of witnesses and having to scope for a seat while everyone else tracked his every movement. He chose the back corner, two seats in from the wall, and let himself go limp, arms draped over the chairbacks on either side. He spun his senbon slow and methodical, tracing its path with his thumb and counting the rotations: a steady anchor in a morning that had started with no sleep and gotten worse from there.

The room filled in increments, squads of chuunin and ANBU, a couple of scruffy jounin captains who looked like they’d lost a bar fight with their own paperwork. Kurenai slid in with her team, hair perfect and uniform so crisp it might have been starched by hand. She clocked Genma immediately, raised an eyebrow in question, but didn’t approach. Asuma and Guy came next, the latter already sweating through his green jumpsuit and vibrating with whatever it was that passed for energy in his species.

Guy made a beeline for Genma. “Shiranui!” he bellowed, voice echoing off the walls and sending a ripple through the early arrivals. “The burning flame of your punctuality surprises me! Did you not sleep? Or are you merely so EXCITED for Ibiki’s update on security protocols that you could not resist arriving early?”

Genma opened his mouth, then shut it. Any answer he gave would be the wrong one. He twirled the senbon and said, “Couldn’t wait to see the new regulations on classified storage.”

Guy boomed a laugh, slapped him on the shoulder, and squeezed into the next seat. Asuma, trailing behind with a half-smoked cigarette and two cups of coffee, nodded at Genma and settled in on the other side, crowding Genma between the two of them like a particularly jaded pimento.

The crowd thickened. Genma felt the hum of anticipation, watched as people picked seats in patterns—by squad, by hierarchy, by who they wanted to be seen with or avoid. He scanned the perimeter for danger, habit from too many missions where the worst threat was often in the same uniform as you.

He didn’t see Kakashi until the meeting was already underway. Ibiki had started with a grim recitation of recent breaches—paperwork missing from a supply depot, rumors of an enemy leak, the usual panic-in-the-bloodstream fare that made up ninety percent of village life. Genma had zoned out, the monotone drone acting as a kind of white noise, until a shift at the side door caught his eye.

Kakashi slipped in with the practiced nonchalance of someone who’d made an art form out of being late. He wore his mask, hitai-ate at the usual tilt, and a posture that radiated exhaustion to anyone who knew how to read it. He paused at the threshold, saw Genma, and in that one microsecond Genma could feel the temperature in the room drop three degrees.

Kakashi chose a seat on the far side, three rows ahead, back to the wall, exactly equidistant from both the exit and the main aisle. He sat so still it was like he’d been airlifted into position and bolted down. Genma watched, unable to look away, until Asuma nudged him with a cup.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Asuma muttered, voice pitched for Genma alone.

“Wrong color hair,” Genma said, and forced himself to take the coffee.

Ibiki’s presentation rolled on, all grim predictions and passive-aggressive warnings about “internal discipline.” At regular intervals, Ibiki would pierce the room with a hard stare, daring anyone to break attention or whisper. Genma ignored this, letting the rhythm of Ibiki’s voice and the slide-clicks wash over him. He watched Kakashi for signs—twitches, eye movements, anything that suggested he was listening or, more likely, tuning the entire world out.

Across the row, Kurenai kept sneaking glances between the two of them, her expression unreadable but her attention obvious. Guy noticed, too; his brow furrowed in a way that suggested deep tactical concern.

Ibiki wrapped up with a slide showing a photo of a smashed ANBU mask and the phrase REMEMBER WHAT’S AT STAKE burned across the bottom. He opened the floor for questions, and Genma nearly laughed at the sudden, collective desire of a hundred ninja to become invisible.

Kakashi chose this moment to adjust his headband, two-fingered, slow, like he’d done it a thousand times. Genma focused on his senbon, spinning it fast enough that the metal blurred.

Guy raised his hand. “Will there be a joint training for teams to practice the new breach protocols?” He leaned forward in his seat, face the picture of earnestness.

Ibiki’s gaze flicked to him, then to Genma, then to Kakashi, and Genma wondered if the man saw everything or just enjoyed pretending he did. “We’ll be scheduling team training by department,” Ibiki said, not missing a beat.

Asuma raised his hand, lazily. “Are there new clearance levels for those of us covering dual assignments?” He gave Genma a sideways look, which Genma ignored.

Ibiki fielded the question, his delivery so dry that Genma imagined he could feel the moisture being sucked from the air. Kurenai turned in her seat, finally pinning Genma with a look that said: Are you going to talk to him, or do I have to arrange an intervention? Genma looked away, feigning interest in the next slide.

A few more perfunctory questions, then Ibiki dismissed the meeting with a “Stay vigilant.” The crowd exploded into motion, the bubble of false politeness popping all at once.

Genma stood, not sure if his legs would support him. He wanted to get out before Kakashi moved, before anyone could force them into the same airspace. He managed two steps, then felt Guy’s hand clamp down on his shoulder.

“Genma! There is a rumor that you and Kakashi—”

He never finished the sentence. Genma ducked and twisted, a maneuver that would have earned a medal if it hadn’t been so obviously an escape. He made for the exit, boots slapping on the stone, and willed the world to swallow him before the conversation could resume.

In the corridor, he hit the first corner and leaned against the wall, counting breaths. He could hear the crowd behind, the shuffle of feet, the rise and fall of voices as people filed out in packs.

He was about to make a break for the stairs when he heard it—the soft, unmistakable step of Kakashi behind him.

Genma tensed, every nerve lighting up at once.

They stood like that, separated by maybe ten feet of empty hall. Neither turned around. For a moment, Genma thought about saying something—anything—to shatter the standoff. But the words stuck, and the only thing that came to mind was: I love you. He bit it back, hard, and waited for Kakashi to make the first move.

He didn’t.

After a moment, the footsteps retreated. Genma let himself breathe.

He waited until the corridor was empty, then checked the exit, scanning for observers. When he was sure no one was watching, he took the back stairs, careful to keep his head down and his pace steady.

Guy and Kurenai lingered at the exit, comparing notes on the meeting. Asuma drifted over, hands in pockets, still smoking.

“You see the way they didn’t look at each other?” Kurenai said, voice pitched low.

Guy nodded, eyes narrowed. “It is not healthy. Normally, there is a SPARK between them—today, only static. I worry.”

Kurenai frowned. “I think they fought. Maybe a bad one.”

Asuma shrugged, but the concern was real. “Should we do something?”

Guy’s face lit up. “An intervention! A team-building exercise!”

Kurenai shook her head. “Maybe let them sort it out first.”

They watched as Genma exited through the back, head down, and as Kakashi vanished up the main stairs, posture rigid.

Guy said, “I have never seen two people try so hard not to be noticed by each other.”

Asuma flicked his cigarette into a planter. “Means it’s serious.”

They stood in silence for a moment, then drifted off, each carrying the unspoken weight of their friends’ orbiting disaster.

Outside, Genma made it to the training field before collapsing onto the grass. He lay on his back, eyes closed, letting the sun burn away the edge of panic. He wondered how long he could stay there before someone came looking for him.

He rolled the senbon between his fingers, counting the rotations, and decided he could outlast anyone.

In his own apartment, Kakashi sat on the windowsill, head against the glass, mask off. He stared at the village below, the movement of people so simple and remote. He tried to imagine a day where he didn’t see Genma around every corner, in every window, in every line of code in a mission brief.

He tried, and failed, to think of anything else.

Chapter Text

The conference room was a low-ceilinged, airless box that seemed to have been designed by someone with an abiding hatred for human comfort. The table was too small for the number of bodies crammed around it, the light a migraine-grade slab of fluorescence, and the only ventilation came from a whining vent in the far corner that stank of burned dust. Someone—probably a civilian administrator—had left a tray of courtesy water and a pyramid of instant coffee packets at the center, both untouched except for the faint ring left by an impatient thumb.

Genma sat with his back to the wall, a little to the left of the door. His senbon shifted from one side of his mouth to the other at three-second intervals, a tempo calibrated to annoy anyone within a meter. Across the table, Kakashi was doing a creditable imitation of a coma patient, visible eye half-shuttered and headband pulled so low it threatened to slide right off his face. He tapped two fingers, slow and unvarying, against the manila folder in front of him. Every so often, his gaze flicked up, locked onto Genma, and then skittered away.

If it wasn’t for the presence of their immediate supervisor—Anko Mitarashi, ex-ANBU, master of the fine art of psychological warfare via snacking—the two of them probably would have started biting each other out of sheer boredom.

As it was, Anko had command of the floor. She paced at the whiteboard in the front, marker in one hand, a half-demolished stick of dango in the other, and a smudge of red bean paste at the corner of her mouth that Genma couldn’t stop tracking. She’d been outlining the logistics for a joint training mission with the kind of military precision that made every word sound like a personal affront. Even the bullet points she scribbled came off as threats.

“—and if anyone gets clever with the smoke bombs again, I’ll personally stuff you inside the nearest septic tank and leave you there until you’ve evolved new gills,” she said, capping the marker with her teeth. “Questions?”

The silence that followed was profound, nearly reverent. The chuunin from Tactics flinched when Anko’s gaze landed on him, and Kurenai, seated two spots down from Genma, managed to both nod and shake her head in the same motion, which was an impressive feat of diplomatic noncommittal.

Genma rolled his senbon to the right and allowed himself the luxury of watching Kakashi’s face for a tell. The man’s pulse was unreadable, but his fingers had sped up. He looked less like he was going to die of boredom and more like he might take someone with him just to make a point.

Anko set her dango aside and leaned in, bracing both hands on the edge of the table. “Nobody? Sarutobi, you got that thing you needed from Supplies?”

Asuma, slouching in the corner with a toothpick between his teeth, gave her a thumbs-up. “All set,” he said. He sounded like a man who was three minutes away from a nap and couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Yuhi?” Anko barked.

“Ready as we’ll ever be,” Kurenai replied, her voice so calm it was almost passive-aggressive.

Anko’s eyes slid to Genma, then to Kakashi, then back. “Shiranui, Hatake. You two good?”

Genma bared his teeth in a parody of a smile. “Living the dream.”

Kakashi didn’t bother with words, just nodded once, slow.

“Then we’re done,” Anko said, sweeping her hand across the whiteboard so hard she nearly erased the schedule with her sleeve. “If you don’t have a question, get out. If you do, make it quick. Some of us have a life, and the rest of us should learn from their example.”

She left the room first, trailed by Kurenai, then the chuunin, then Asuma, who managed to snag two coffee packets on his way out without ever breaking stride. The room drained until it was just Genma and Kakashi, the silence now thick enough to scoop with a spoon.

They didn’t move for a full thirty seconds. Genma’s mouth went dry. He spun the senbon and let it rest against his tongue, savoring the metallic aftertaste. He counted the seconds until Kakashi would blink first, then stopped when he realized it was probably mutual stubbornness keeping them both pinned in place.

Kakashi broke the spell. He stood, slow and deliberate, then swept his manila folder into the crook of his arm. He paused at the edge of the table, looked at Genma, then at the door. “You coming?”

Genma arched an eyebrow. “I’m not waiting for a written invitation, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Kakashi didn’t smile, but something about the tilt of his head suggested that he might have, in a different life.

They left the room together, but not side-by-side. Instead, Kakashi moved ahead, taking the lead with a posture that said he knew every angle of the building and wasn’t interested in showing his back unless it was a calculated risk.

The corridor outside was less a hallway and more a gauntlet. Staff offices and small briefing cells lined both sides, and the overhead lights threw shadows like a line-up of suspects against the walls. A pair of junior ANBU, faces half-covered by their masks, drifted by. One glanced at Genma, the other at Kakashi. Both made a show of looking away, but not before Genma caught the flicker of curiosity.

He ignored it. He had bigger problems.

They reached the landing near the stairwell and, without warning, Kakashi grabbed Genma’s elbow and spun him into the alcove between two file cabinets. It wasn’t a hard move, but it was decisive, and Genma felt his body react before his brain caught up. His back hit the wall with a thud, not enough to bruise but enough to snap his attention to full. Kakashi followed, stopping with less than a foot between them, so close that Genma could see the exact pattern of stubble through the lower half of the other man’s mask.

For a second, neither said anything. Genma could feel the pulse hammering in his own throat, and if he was honest, it was probably visible through the collar of his shirt. The corridor beyond was far enough that their voices wouldn’t carry, but close enough that any ninja worth the title could eavesdrop without breaking a sweat.

Kakashi’s hand stayed on Genma’s elbow, not squeezing but not letting go either. His visible eye was fixed on Genma’s face, sharp and almost… afraid?

“I need to say something,” Kakashi murmured, so quietly that Genma wasn’t sure he’d heard it right.

“Shoot,” Genma said. He tried for flippant, but his voice came out dry.

Kakashi drew a breath. It sounded like it hurt him to do it. “This isn’t just physical for me anymore.”

Genma blinked. He waited for the punchline, the retreat, the familiar misdirection. But Kakashi’s eye didn’t move, didn’t soften, didn’t flick away. It was steady, and the hand on Genma’s arm was starting to shake, just a little.

“I have actual feelings for you,” Kakashi said. The words were raw, unbuffered.

For a second, Genma’s senbon actually slipped. It caught on the edge of his lower lip, and he had to grab it before it fell. He licked the spot, tasting blood, and stared at Kakashi as if he’d just seen someone set off a firework in a cave.

He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. He looked away, at the wall, at the ceiling, at the far end of the corridor where an admin drone was just visible through the glass of a supply closet, pretending not to watch.

“I thought I was the only one,” Genma said, eventually. The words came out soft, almost unrecognizable. “For a while there, I figured you’d just let it go until it fizzled. Or that you’d get bored, find someone who didn’t make you want to strangle yourself after three minutes in a room together.”

Kakashi laughed, but it was a thin, sharp sound, all nerve and no humor. “That would have been easier.”

They stood like that, a foot apart but feeling like less, for what might have been a minute or might have been the rest of their lives.

“You want to do something about it?” Genma asked, not quite trusting the question.

Kakashi let the silence expand, then contracted it with a word: “Yes.”

They didn’t touch. They didn’t need to. The tension between them was physical, like a pressure field, and Genma was pretty sure anyone with a decent chakra sense could have mapped the entire exchange in three seconds flat.

“Tonight?” Genma ventured, because the alternative was letting the moment die, and he’d done enough of that for one career.

Kakashi’s hand dropped away from Genma’s arm, but not before his fingers brushed the inside of Genma’s wrist, just above the pulse point. “Ichiraku, after last call?”

Genma grinned, and this time it was almost real. “You buying?”

Kakashi tilted his head, the slow arch of an eyebrow just visible above the mask. “If you can get there before I finish the first bowl.”

“You’re on,” Genma said. He felt himself relax, just a fraction, as if some hidden muscle had finally unclenched.

They walked back to the main corridor together, this time a little closer. The admin drone from before pretended to be absorbed in a stapler, but Genma saw the flush on the kid’s face as they passed.

“By the way,” Genma said, as they hit the stairwell. “That was the worst confession I’ve ever heard. You should be embarrassed.”

Kakashi’s eye creased at the corner. “I was going for memorable.”

“You nailed it.”

They split at the first landing, Genma heading for the rooftops and Kakashi for the basement archives. The air in the stairwell was cooler, the smell of ozone replaced by the scent of old paper and waxed floor.

It wasn’t much, Genma thought, but it was something.

And it was more than he’d expected.

Ichiraku at dusk was a different animal from the lunch-rush circus Genma remembered. The lanterns—paper, soft, all warm amber—were already burning, and every available surface gleamed with a luster that owed as much to humidity and condensed steam as it did to the elbow grease of the owner. The evening clientele was a rotating parade of delivery runners, night-shift shinobi, and the odd civilian salaryman looking for comfort in a bowl. The place was never empty, but it pulsed to its own low heartbeat, less about speed and more about endurance.

Genma arrived ten minutes early, because there was nothing more humiliating than being the second party to show up for your own first date. He’d thought about dressing up, then remembered that every non-standard outfit he owned either had blood on it or was a relic from the last time Konoha hosted a formal event. He settled for clean: black undershirt, fresh vest, and the bandana he’d never quite gotten used to wearing but which kept his hair from falling into the broth. He claimed the leftmost stool, back to the wall, with a view of the street.

Kakashi was already there. Not at the counter, but loitering by the bulletin board outside, pretending to read a list of missing cats and D-rank mission sign-ups. He didn’t spot Genma immediately—if he did, he was committed to the bit—but Genma could tell from the set of Kakashi’s shoulders and the rhythm of his steps that he was counting off the seconds, waiting for a socially acceptable window to enter.

Genma let him hang. He watched through the glass as Kakashi did a slow lap of the perimeter, checked his reflection in the window, and finally drifted in, all nonchalance and slouch. The bell above the door announced him with a ding that made every head swivel, and Genma caught the twitch at the corner of Kakashi’s eye: he’d been made.

They exchanged nothing—no nod, no wave, just a shared, excruciating awareness. Kakashi took the stool two down from Genma, left a neutral zone between them, and spent a full thirty seconds inspecting the menu. The menu had not changed since the Second Hokage, but Kakashi read it like he was searching for a hidden message.

Teuchi, the owner, watched this with undisguised amusement. He wiped down the counter in slow, deliberate swipes, then set out two glasses of water and a tiny dish of sliced pickled radish. “Welcome, boys,” he said, voice pitched to cut through the static. “What’ll it be tonight? House special’s a double pork with spicy garlic, but I can make anything you want.”

“House special,” Genma said. He didn’t look at Kakashi, but he could feel the pulse of the other man’s attention, sharp as a wire.

“Same,” Kakashi replied, setting the menu down with unnecessary precision.

Teuchi nodded, then busied himself at the back stove, whistling under his breath. The tiny, assistant—Genma thought her name was Ayame, but it had been years—gave them each a side-eye and then disappeared into the storage closet. The mood was bright, but there was an undercurrent of scrutiny, as if the whole place had picked up on the weird charge between the two shinobi at the end of the bar.

Genma reached for a radish, popped it into his mouth, and chewed with deliberate slowness. “You think he remembers us from last time?” he muttered, not loud enough for the next table over but definitely loud enough for Kakashi.

Kakashi’s eye drifted to Teuchi, then back to Genma. “Last time you tried to pay with counterfeit currency and blamed it on an assassination attempt.”

“Technically, it was an assassination attempt,” Genma replied. “Just not the kind you could prove in court.”

Kakashi’s mouth did a thing under the mask—possibly a smile, possibly an aneurysm—but the lines at the corner of his eye softened. He picked up his glass and sipped, then set it down with a clink.

“You nervous?” Genma asked, because the silence was getting thick enough to swim in.

Kakashi stared at the counter for a long beat. “You’re supposed to pretend it’s not obvious.”

“Pretending is your department,” Genma said. “I get paid for honesty.”

Kakashi’s hand twitched, fingers drumming the wood in a four-count. “I’ve never been on a first date.”

“Is that what this is?” Genma rolled the senbon between his fingers, then set it carefully on a napkin.

Kakashi considered the question, then nodded. “If you want it to be.”

Genma grinned, slow and wide. “I thought you said you were terrible at this.”

“I am,” Kakashi replied. “But I’m trying.”

The food arrived fast, two steaming bowls with enough garlic and chili oil to reanimate the dead. Teuchi set them down with a flourish, then gave Genma a look that was equal parts conspiratorial and warning. “Careful with the broth,” he said, “it’s hotter than hell tonight.”

Genma reached for his chopsticks, but in the same motion his knee knocked the underside of the counter, sending the whole setup into a wobble. The chopsticks slipped from his grip, bounced off the rim of the bowl, and clattered to the floor. He caught one on the rebound, barely, but the other spun under the stool.

He heard Kakashi laugh. Not a full-throated cackle, but a genuine, helpless huff.

“I swear I’m not this clumsy with senbon,” Genma said. He ducked down, fished out the wayward stick, and came up red-faced.

“Senbon aren’t as slick,” Kakashi said. “Or as prone to user error.”

“Speak for yourself.” Genma ran a thumb over the rescued chopstick, then shrugged and used it anyway.

They ate in companionable silence for a while, the only interruption the background burble of voices and the periodic slurp from a salaryman two seats down. Genma tried to find a rhythm, but every time he settled into the act of eating, he caught Kakashi watching him. It wasn’t a hungry look, exactly, but it was intent, and it made Genma’s hands sweat.

Halfway through the bowl, Genma took the plunge. “You remember that mission in Rain Country?” he asked, “The one where you got the entire squad poisoned and then made us walk out because ‘rest is for the weak’?”

Kakashi’s eye narrowed, but the lines at the edge crinkled. “You’re embellishing.”

“You puked in my shoe,” Genma said. “I can still smell it when it rains.”

Kakashi tilted his head. “That was a side effect of the antidote.”

“You didn’t even warn me,” Genma said, and he was smiling now, a real one, toothy and almost feral. “Just left it there for me to find. Who does that?”

Kakashi shrugged. “I thought it would motivate you to improve your perimeter awareness.”

Genma snorted. “You’re an asshole.”

Kakashi’s gaze dropped, and for a moment the mask slipped—metaphorically, this time. “I’m working on it.”

They ate a little more, then Genma reached over and snagged a slice of pork from Kakashi’s bowl. “Yours is better,” he explained, popping it in his mouth before Kakashi could protest.

Kakashi watched him, then, with exaggerated care, fished a noodle from Genma’s bowl and ate it. “Yours has more chili oil,” he said, like it was a professional assessment.

“Trade you next time,” Genma offered.

Kakashi nodded, the motion precise.

The next pause was less awkward. Genma took the opportunity to survey the room: three civilian tables, one off-duty medic, and a pair of Kurenai’s trainees at the far end, deep in a whispered argument about whether or not the pink fishcake was edible. Nobody was paying them undue attention, except for Teuchi, who was pretending to wipe the counter but clearly listening in.

“You want to do this again?” Kakashi said, so low Genma almost missed it.

Genma felt the words hit him, somewhere in the chest. He tried to play it cool, but the heat in his face probably gave him away. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

Kakashi looked at his bowl, then at Genma, then away. “Good.”

A silence settled, but this time it was charged with something new: not dread, not tension, but potential. Genma felt his foot brush against Kakashi’s under the counter, and neither of them moved to pull away.

Teuchi reappeared. He poured a fresh glass of water for each, then leaned in. “You boys want dessert? I have mochi, or some melon if you’re feeling healthy.”

Kakashi shook his head. “Just the bill, please.”

Teuchi nodded, but his eyes lingered a moment on the two of them. “You know,” he said, “they say a bowl of ramen shared is the best start to any partnership.”

Genma snorted. “I thought they said that about sake.”

“Why not both?” Teuchi said, with a wink.

He left, and Genma caught Kakashi rolling his eye.

“I think he ships us,” Genma whispered.

Kakashi shrugged. “He has good taste.”

They stood to leave, both reaching for the bill at the same time. Their hands touched, just briefly, and Genma felt the static run up his arm.

“I’ll get it,” Kakashi said.

“No way,” Genma replied. “I lost the bet, remember?”

Kakashi let go, just like that, and Genma paid the tab. They lingered at the door, neither wanting to be the one to call an end to the night.

Outside, the street was lit with lamps and the air tasted of fresh rain and spent oil. They stood on the curb, side by side, the village bustling around them but not touching them. For a minute, neither spoke.

Then Genma, on impulse, reached out and brushed his knuckles against Kakashi’s wrist.

“You want to walk?” Genma said.

Kakashi’s hand closed, soft, around Genma’s for just a heartbeat before letting go. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

They set off together, not quite holding hands but never more than a foot apart, steps matched. The noise of the city faded as they turned down side streets, the glow from the ramen shop following them for a while before it, too, was swallowed by the dark.

They didn’t talk much, but they didn’t have to. The space between them was full of everything they hadn’t been able to say, and now—finally—it felt like enough.

They walked until the streetlamps grew thin and the world grew quiet, and only then did Genma risk a look at Kakashi.

Kakashi glanced back, the mask still in place, the hair a mess of white against the night. But the eye—sharp, alive, and fixed on Genma—said the rest.

They kept walking.

This time, neither looked away.

Chapter Text

Genma woke before his alarm, the way he always did on days when it mattered. A thread of sunlight sketched a pattern through the paper window, landing square on the bed, highlighting the ruined geometry of rumpled sheets and the single dog hair curled perfectly at its center. He reached for his senbon on the nightstand, twirled it once, and exhaled, letting the morning slot into its familiar grooves.

The apartment was silent except for the pulse of hot water in the pipes and the distant scrape of a neighbor’s front door. Genma rolled off the mattress, feet finding the chilled floorboards with practiced care, and took inventory.

The first thing he saw was the book—halfway under the kotatsu, spine cracked, a crease at the page he’d left off last night. Not his book. Not his fold. The second thing was the spare mask, looped over the coat hook like a forgotten scarf, mouthless and blank, the color already leached from too many cycles through Genma’s overzealous laundry routine. The third was the line of tea mugs at the sink, all identical but each with a different fingerprint smudged at the rim. One was chipped. The chipped one was always last.

There were other signs, too. A kunai, tip down, wedged into the bookshelf to mark the spot where Kakashi had gotten distracted halfway through a manual on cryptographic ciphers. A clean shirt, crumpled, abandoned on the back of the only chair Genma liked. Two mismatched pairs of socks in the entryway. A faint, persistent ozone tang that overpowered even the strongest cleaning spray. None of this would have been here three months ago, and for a moment Genma considered what it meant to have his own space reorganized at the molecular level by someone who never seemed to leave an impression on anything at all.

He went about the morning with mechanical efficiency: water boiled, tea steeped, floor swept, cushions fluffed and re-centered on the tatami. He ran a lint roller over the futon, pausing only once when he found another dog hair. This one was long, white, and curved at the end, like a fragment of memory or a question mark.

Genma set out the tea, two cups, side by side, just shy of symmetrical. He checked the time: seven-thirty. The plan was for breakfast before training, a rare overlap in their schedules, the kind of thing that never happened unless both parties agreed, under pain of death, to show up. He allowed himself the luxury of a five-minute sit, legs folded, the world distilled to the aroma of steeping sencha and the ticking second hand on his battered wristwatch.

Five minutes turned to ten, then fifteen, then thirty. Genma’s patience was not infinite, but it was famously durable. He picked up the book, re-read the last two pages, and tried not to think about the sound of Kakashi’s laugh, how it always surfaced exactly when Genma was about to get angry. He rinsed the cups, poured another round, and re-checked the time.

By nine, the tea had gone cold and his nerves were starting to fray. The senbon traveled from his hand to his mouth, to his fingers, back to his lips, a steady, restless cycle. He cleaned the sink. He organized the knives by length and frequency of use. He rearranged the shoe rack, lining up the boots so the toes pointed at the exact same angle. He even, with a sense of rising dread, dusted off the frame on the kitchen window—a spot he usually ignored on principle, because even perfectionists had to set boundaries.

By the time the clock hit ten, Genma’s patience had calcified into something sharper, a kind of low-frequency hum that vibrated behind his eyes and at the base of his tongue. He considered whether it would be more dignified to send a message or to let Kakashi arrive and see for himself the consequences of making a man like Genma wait.

He opted for neither, settling instead into a slow, deliberate sharpening of the senbon on the smooth side of the old tea mug, letting the friction of metal on ceramic speak for him. He was on the sixth pass when the front door clicked open, slow and careful, like a burglar testing for a live wire.

Kakashi drifted in, hands in pockets, posture so loose it bordered on disrespect. The visible eye tracked Genma, flicked to the table, then back, registering the untouched breakfast, the cold tea, the atmosphere in the room.

“Sorry,” Kakashi said, voice airy as the clouds. “I got lost on the path of life.”

It was the least original excuse Genma had ever heard, which only made it worse.

He stood, arms crossed, and gave Kakashi the benefit of his best dead-eye. “You’re three hours late.”

Kakashi’s mouth did the thing it always did behind the mask—a twitch, barely there, but enough. “I thought it was casual.”

Genma snorted. “Nothing about this is casual, Hatake. Especially not when you’re the one who suggested it.”

Kakashi toed off his sandals, lined them up with inhuman precision, then padded to the kitchen. He poured himself tea, ignoring the way Genma’s eyes tracked every movement. He sipped, then made a face. “You let it go cold.”

“Some of us have been waiting since dawn.”

Kakashi shrugged, as if to say: the sun rises every day, you’re not special. He set the cup down, then moved to the window, pushing the curtain aside with two fingers.

Genma closed the distance, not bothering to hide the clench in his jaw. “You do this on purpose,” he said, voice low. “You want to see if you can break me.”

Kakashi turned, the mask tilting. “Is that what you think?”

“I know it.” Genma kept his voice level, but the senbon vibrated between his fingers. “I spend half my life picking up after you, and the other half waiting for you to show up.”

Kakashi leaned against the wall, arms folded. “I’m here now.”

Genma laughed, harsh and bright. “For how long? Until the next mission? Until you get bored?” He took a breath, then let it out slow, trying to sand down the edge on his words. “You don’t respect anyone’s time but your own.”

Kakashi considered that, head cocked. “If you wanted someone punctual, you should have dated a clock.”

Genma didn’t dignify that with a response. He stared, hard, at the other man, trying to see if there was any crack in the armor, any sign that the words had landed. For a second, he thought he saw something—an almost-flinch, a narrowing of the visible eye. But then it was gone.

Kakashi pushed off the wall, closed the distance, and reached for the senbon in Genma’s hand. He took it, turned it over, then slipped it into Genma’s shirt pocket, a motion so gentle it almost hurt.

“I said I’m sorry,” Kakashi repeated.

“It doesn’t matter,” Genma said, voice gone small. “You’ll just do it again.”

Kakashi’s hand hovered at Genma’s shoulder, not touching, just there. “Maybe I will.”

Genma stepped back. He could feel the tremor in his hands, the adrenaline spike that came before a fight or a fuck or something equally irreversible.

He grabbed his jacket off the chair, shoved his feet into his boots, and went for the door.

“Where are you going?” Kakashi asked, sounding, for once, genuinely curious.

Genma paused, hand on the latch. “To find someone who can keep a promise,” he said, and slammed the door hard enough to rattle the frame.

The sound echoed down the corridor, past the neighbors, out into the morning.

Inside, Kakashi stood perfectly still, the chipped tea cup in his hand, the silence settling like a snowfall over everything that mattered.

For once, there was no clever line to break the tension.

Just the empty space Genma left behind.

The shop was an annex to the apartment, technically—a converted storage room, windowless and barely big enough to swing a broom. Genma had tricked it out over the years with scrap wood, improvised shelves, and a bench just long enough to work steel without hunching over and breaking his back. He loved the place for its secrecy: no one in the building, not even the landlord, knew what the reinforced door was hiding, and most assumed it was just where the resident weirdos went to mutter and drink.

He flicked on the light and let his eyes adjust. The workbench was already set: files, clamps, a battered magnifier lens, and a tray of unfinished senbon, each in a different state of incompletion. Some were raw blanks, sharp but unshaped; some had been heat-treated and straightened, the steel blued to a deep indigo; a handful were etched with half-finished patterns, the lines shining like veins in stone.

He rolled up his sleeves, slid the senbon from his shirt pocket, and got to work.

The first step was always the same: clean the blank, fix it in the clamp, inspect for flaws. His hands moved with the speed of muscle memory, nerves attuned to every micron of difference in weight and balance. He used the fine grit stone, then the polishing cloth, taking care not to leave any oil from his fingers. The world narrowed to the hiss of metal, the pulse of his own breathing, and the glow of the task lamp overhead.

He tried not to think about Kakashi, or about the fight, or about the way the man’s voice had gone soft—almost apologetic—right before Genma had lost it. He tried not to think about the look on Kakashi’s face, the blank surprise at the door slam, or the silence that followed. He tried, but the thoughts kept surfacing, riding the rhythm of the work.

He remembered the first time Kakashi had been late to anything important. Not a date—they’d never called it that, not even in the privacy of Genma’s head—but an after-hours sparring match that Kakashi had insisted on, because “no one else will go three rounds with me and actually try to win.” Genma had shown up early, stretched, run warm-ups. Kakashi had drifted in an hour after the agreed time, not even out of breath, and acted as if the whole thing had been scheduled for the next week.

Genma had let it go, because he’d already learned that Kakashi wasn’t just late, he was fundamentally unbound by the rules that governed time, space, and—sometimes, it seemed—human decency.

The needle took shape under his hands. He honed the point until it was sharp enough to whisper through silk, then moved to the magnifier to work the shank. The engraving was the hardest part. He’d prepped the template weeks ago, half as a joke: a string of microscopic kanji that spelled out “Hatake” in a font so small even the best forgers would need a microscope to copy it. He laid in the guide lines, then etched the characters, one after another, holding his breath for every stroke.

It was meticulous, mind-killing work, and he loved it.

The motif was next: a subtle, zigzag pattern that ran from base to tip, like a stylized lightning strike. It was technically unnecessary—the weapon’s deadliness didn’t depend on aesthetics—but Genma knew Kakashi would notice. The man saw everything, even the things he pretended not to.

He finished the etching, then wiped the needle with a rag, inspecting it under the bright, unforgiving light. It was perfect—no, better than perfect. It was singular.

He sat back, fingers cramping, and let himself breathe.

He could feel the anger still, low and stubborn, but there was something else now: a thin thread of understanding, an admission that maybe the thing he hated about Kakashi was also the thing that made him irresistible. You couldn’t bind a current like that, couldn’t schedule it, couldn’t force it to show up at a certain hour and stay where you wanted it. You could only catch it, briefly, and hope it didn’t fry you to the bone.

Genma found a strip of soft cloth, the kind used for wrapping surgical implements, and rolled the needle inside. He tied it off with a neat, quick knot, then set the package on the corner of the workbench.

He let his hands rest in his lap, stared at the blank wall, and listened to the slow tick of the cooling lamp. He wondered if Kakashi was still at the apartment, or if he’d already vanished, off to some mission or rooftop or god-knows-where.

He doubted it mattered. Kakashi would turn up. He always did. And next time, Genma would be ready—sharper, maybe, or at least better armored.

He stood, rolled his shoulders, and grabbed the package.

Time to test if lightning ever struck the same place twice.

Genma expected the apartment to be empty. He’d pictured it as a kind of Schrödinger’s den—maybe the shoes would be gone, the cup in the sink dried out and waiting for him like an apology, the mask reclaimed and the dog hair vanished. He’d even rehearsed a line or two for the possibility that Kakashi was still here, something scathing enough to level the field but not so harsh that it broke whatever fragile agreement they had left.

Instead, he found Kakashi in the living room, sleeves rolled and broom in hand, eyes fixed on the patch of floor where Genma usually dropped his keys. The place was tidier than Genma had ever seen it: books lined up, laundry folded, not a cup out of place. The only evidence of chaos was the man himself, moving with deliberate slowness, as if he was afraid the room would collapse if he swept too quickly.

They stared at each other, Genma halfway in the door, Kakashi frozen mid-sweep. For a long moment, neither moved.

Genma set the package down on the table, not trusting himself to speak first.

Kakashi broke the silence, voice low. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come back.”

Genma shrugged. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be here.”

Kakashi set the broom against the wall, lined up with mathematical precision, and crossed to the table. He didn’t sit, but leaned one hip against the edge, arms folded.

Genma glanced at the window. “You missed a spot,” he said, because it was safer than saying anything else.

Kakashi’s eye flickered, then softened. “You want to show me where?”

Genma rolled his own eyes. “You wouldn’t see it if I pointed with a neon sign.” He reached for the package, slid it across the table. “Here. Thought you might need a reminder next time you blow off breakfast.”

Kakashi picked up the bundle, unwrapping it with surgical care. He paused at the first glimpse of the senbon—let the cloth fall away, pinched the needle between thumb and forefinger, and brought it to the light.

For a second, Genma thought the man wouldn’t notice the engraving. But Kakashi’s eye caught it, sharp as ever, and he angled the needle just so, reading the name, tracing the pattern with the tip of a nail. He ran his thumb along the lightning motif, once, then again, then looked up.

His face didn’t change, but the air in the room shifted. “You made this for me?”

“It’s not a bomb,” Genma said, trying for a joke. “You can trust it.”

Kakashi nodded. He kept turning the needle, watching the light scatter off the steel. “It’s perfect.”

Genma ducked his head, felt the old embarrassment flare up, the kind that only came when someone looked too closely at a thing you’d put your soul into. “You don’t have to use it,” he said. “Just—maybe don’t leave it somewhere the dog can find it.”

Kakashi’s mouth curved under the mask. “I’ll keep it safe.”

They stood there, the gap between them smaller than before, but still present. Genma leaned against the table, arms crossed. “You gonna say anything else?”

Kakashi shrugged, but the gesture was softer. “I’m sorry. Again.”

Genma let that hang. He looked at the needle, then at Kakashi, then at the line of shoes in the entryway, now perfectly matched in size and direction.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Genma said. “Just—if you’re gonna make plans, show up.”

Kakashi nodded, once. “I’ll try.”

They stood in the silence, but it wasn’t hostile anymore. Genma could feel the tension bleeding out of his shoulders, the way the room seemed to expand now that the air had cleared. He watched as Kakashi slipped the needle into a slot inside his vest, close to the heart, and buttoned it closed with a precision that matched Genma’s own.

“You want tea?” Genma asked.

Kakashi hesitated, then nodded. “If you’re making.”

Genma moved to the kitchen, set the kettle, and waited for the water to boil. He felt Kakashi watching him, not predatory, not analytical, just… present. When he poured, he made sure to fill both cups, and placed them side by side on the table, this time with the handles facing the same way.

They sat, neither quite looking at the other, both sipping in companionable quiet.

It wasn’t a solution, not really. But it was a start. And when Genma reached for his senbon, he realized he didn’t need it, not right now.

They finished the tea. Kakashi stood first, stretching, rolling his neck like he was about to head to a mission. He reached for the door, then paused.

“You want to train after?”

Genma raised an eyebrow. “You think you can keep up?”

Kakashi’s mask crinkled. “Try me.”

They left together, shoes perfectly aligned, neither leading nor following.

Behind them, the apartment was empty, but not lonely.

Just waiting for them to come back.

Aoba Yamashiro prided himself on two things: a near-perfect record of mission completion, and a deeply annoying ability to read social dynamics better than anyone else in the building. Most people assumed the glasses were an affectation, or maybe a shield against sunlight, but the reality was that Aoba took in every detail—every shift in posture, every misplaced word, every scrap of data that might help him predict the next crisis before it happened.

That morning at the jonin standby station, he noticed Genma before the man even cleared the threshold. The old Genma would have walked in with his head down, senbon between his teeth, the aura of a man who’d been up all night and was already counting the minutes until lunch. This Genma moved differently: not slow, not quite fast, but deliberate, like he had a destination and the time to get there. No senbon in the mouth, either—just a careful, neutral line, the barest hint of a smile at the corner.

Aoba watched as Genma clocked the room, then made a straight line for the coffee urn, pouring with a steadiness that bordered on zen. He checked his watch only once, briefly, then put it away. Not even a sigh.

Aoba made a note of this in his mental ledger. He kept watching. The next clue surfaced at the mission board, where Genma stood in companionable silence with Might Guy, the two men reviewing the duty roster without the usual banter or competitive energy. Genma said something—Aoba couldn’t hear the words, but he caught the way Guy threw his head back, laughing, then clapped Genma on the back hard enough to nearly send him into the next room. Genma didn’t even flinch.

Aoba’s theory was solidifying when the third data point arrived: Kakashi, twelve minutes late, drifting into the room with a distracted air. He exchanged a wordless nod with Genma, then sidled to the coffee urn, standing just close enough that their sleeves brushed when they both reached for sugar. For the span of three seconds, neither moved. Genma’s eyes slid to the side, catching Kakashi’s, and a silent exchange passed between them—quick, practiced, so subtle that no one else in the room seemed to catch it.

But Aoba did.

He watched as Kakashi stirred his coffee, then fished into his vest and withdrew a senbon—one unlike any Aoba had ever seen. He used it to scratch under his nail, wiped it on a napkin, then tucked it back inside. Not a kunai. Not a standard-issue needle. This one was customized: a faint blue sheen on the shaft, the tip notched with a minuscule engraving.

Aoba felt a slow, satisfied smile creep up his face. He waited for an opportunity, then sidled up next to Genma at the bulletin board.

“Morning,” Aoba said, keeping his tone casual.

Genma didn’t look up. “Hey.”

Aoba let a silence hang, then said, “You seem… chipper.”

“Must be the coffee.”

Aoba nodded, pretending to buy it. “Good batch today?”

“Something like that.”

He could have pressed further, but Aoba understood the value of patience. He waited, scanning the mission assignments, listening to the slow drip of coffee and the shuffle of papers, until Genma finished and headed for the door. Aoba waited another minute, then followed.

He caught up on the street, falling into step beside Genma. They walked in silence for a block before Aoba said, “You hear about Ebisu? Got assigned to the chuunin squad full-time.”

Genma shrugged. “He’ll love that. Finally gets to run things by the book.”

Aoba grinned. “Yeah, but they say he’s already filed three formal complaints about his team’s punctuality.”

Genma snorted. “He’s gonna lose his mind.”

Aoba let the conversation trail off, then circled back. “You see Kakashi this morning?”

Genma’s face stayed neutral, but there was a fractional pause before he answered. “Briefly.”

“He’s got a new needle. Custom job.” Aoba made the words sound innocent, but watched Genma closely.

“Does he?” Genma said. He didn’t blink. “Maybe he’s finally learning some style.”

Aoba laughed, but the sound was short, almost surgical. “Suppose you’d know more about it than I would.”

Genma rolled his eyes. “Don’t start, Yamashiro.”

Aoba put up his hands, mock-surrender. “Hey, I’m just saying. It’s a good look.”

They split at the corner, Genma heading for the supply depot, Aoba for the east gate. As he walked, Aoba reviewed the data: the absence of sarcasm in Genma’s tone, the new serenity, the custom tool in Kakashi’s kit. Something had changed, and for once, it wasn’t about sabotage or personal vendetta.

Later, at the training grounds, Aoba found Ebisu running drills with his new squad. He waited until the kids were busy, then flagged Ebisu over with a wave.

Ebisu adjusted his sunglasses, straightened his vest, and approached. “Yes?”

“Got a question for you,” Aoba said.

Ebisu looked annoyed, which was his default. “If this is about the mission queue, I’m already at capacity.”

“It’s not.” Aoba leaned in. “Have you noticed anything… off about Genma and Kakashi lately?”

Ebisu snorted. “Other than the fact that both of them are walking violations of proper decorum? No.”

Aoba grinned. “I mean, have you seen the way they look at each other?”

Ebisu’s lips compressed. “They are rivals. It is well-documented that rivalry breeds—”

“I’m not talking rivalry,” Aoba said. “I’m talking something else.”

Ebisu shook his head. “Impossible. Those two? Oil and water.”

Aoba let the silence stretch, then said, “What if they finally figured out how to mix?”

Ebisu went still, his posture rigid. He adjusted his glasses, but Aoba caught the hint of a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“I have no comment on the personal lives of my colleagues,” Ebisu said.

“Sure,” Aoba replied, “but you’ll be watching, right?”

Ebisu hesitated, then shrugged, almost imperceptibly. “Of course. It’s my duty.”

Aoba clapped him on the shoulder, harder than necessary. “That’s the spirit.”

He left Ebisu standing there, squad in the background, sunglasses glinting but the mask of certainty just a little bit cracked.

Aoba walked away, already plotting his next move, and wondered if maybe, just maybe, this would be the thing that finally made the village interesting again.

Chapter Text

Reconnaissance missions were supposed to be a reprieve: no paperwork, no chance of being cornered by middle management with a clipboard, just clean field work with no witnesses except trees and maybe, if you were unlucky, the occasional woodland animal. That’s what Genma kept telling himself as he threaded between moss-dark trunks, boots landing soft on the loam, the taste of early spring sharp in the back of his throat. The sector was quiet, just like the last five. The radio hissed with static and the faint murmur of Kurenai’s voice, but nothing more.

Genma made a show of checking the marker tags nailed to the trees, but the real draw was the air itself: unbottled, cold, unscented by burning trash or civilian laundry. He stretched, a ripple from neck to wrist, and let his senses idle for the first time in weeks.

A shadow detached from the undergrowth, dropped in at his elbow without preamble. Kakashi, of course—because nobody else could sneak up on a jōnin in broad daylight and make it look like the most casual thing in the world. The copy ninja’s mask was as blank as always, but the visible eye had that glint: the one that meant he was about to either propose a tactical maneuver or, more likely, a mutually embarrassing waste of time.

“Report?” Kakashi said, in a voice barely above the buzz of the insects.

Genma pretended to consult his log. “Same as the last six sweeps. If there’s anyone out here besides us, they’re really committed to stealth.”

Kakashi hummed, the kind of noncommittal noise that could have meant anything from agreement to impending homicide. He looked Genma up and down, then—very slightly—tilted his head toward the nearest chunk of deadfall.

Genma nodded, the message received. “Five minutes,” he said into the radio, “sector clear, regrouping at B3.”

“Copy,” came Kurenai’s voice. “Watch for traps, there are fresh prints east side.”

Genma grunted, then thumbed the radio to silent and followed Kakashi behind the fallen log, into a pocket of shadow so deep you could have mistaken it for night. Out of direct sight, the mood shifted: businesslike, but with an undercurrent. The kind of undercurrent that had gotten them in trouble before.

“You know,” Genma said, lowering himself to a crouch, “for a guy who spent the last month trying to act normal, you’re not great at subtle.”

Kakashi’s mask didn’t move, but his eye did: a flick up and down Genma’s body, the kind of scan that, if you weren’t paying attention, could be chalked up to assessing for wounds. But Genma was paying attention, and so he knew. They both did.

Kakashi leaned in, voice so low it barely made a sound. “You’re the one who kept looking over your shoulder.”

Genma grinned, then, letting the tension in his shoulders slip for half a second. “It’s the only way to keep you from getting bored.”

They were quiet for a beat, the hush so absolute it almost squeaked. Kakashi looked at Genma, Genma looked back. The senbon on Genma’s tongue threatened to fall, but he kept it pinned with practiced flex of jaw. He considered the next move.

Kakashi made it for him. He reached out, gloved hand on Genma’s collar, and drew him forward the barest fraction. The kiss was brief—less a declaration, more a fact check. Genma let it happen, eyes open, senbon pressed awkwardly between their chins. They broke apart as quickly as they’d met, both glancing back at the path to check for signs of witnesses.

“You are, of course, terrible at this,” Genma muttered.

Kakashi’s visible eye crinkled. “You love it.”

Genma did, but that wasn’t the point.

A sudden explosion of foliage and a shout that sounded like the war cry of a dying animal preceded the arrival of Might Guy, who burst into the deadfall clearing like a man trying to set a world record in personal space violation. He wore his full kit—vest, green jumpsuit, orange leg-warmers—and carried three times the required gear for a basic recon op. In one hand, he brandished a forestry survey flag; in the other, a ten-pound steel trap, currently disengaged but held like a weapon.

Guy stopped dead at the sight of Genma and Kakashi, still squatting together behind a log. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again, like he was trying to decide whether to yell at them or recite a haiku about their proximity.

“Oh-ho!” Guy thundered, and the trees vibrated. “What is this, my friends? Secret rendezvous in the pursuit of youthful passion?”

Kakashi’s body stiffened, and Genma knew exactly what that meant. He took the fall, vaulting upright, brushing dirt off his knees with theatrical indifference.

“Mission debrief,” he said, deadpan.

Guy’s face twisted, skepticism and delight vying for supremacy. “In the middle of the patrol? With such… intensity?”

Genma made a show of checking his watch. “We’re on schedule. You’re early.”

Guy bellowed a laugh and dropped his gear, the steel trap clanging off a rock. “Early is the foundation of EXCELLENCE!” he declared, and lunged forward to slap Kakashi on the back. “But I see now that I am interrupting the springtime of your HEARTS!”

Kakashi’s visible eye widened in something approaching horror, and Genma nearly bit through his senbon to keep from laughing. Guy, oblivious to the cosmic scale of the faux pas, turned in a single fluid motion to face the path, hands cupped around his mouth.

“KURENAI! ASUMA! You must come quickly! The fires of youth are burning at DOUBLE BRIGHTNESS in our comrade’s soul!” The volume was enough to send a flock of birds careening out of a nearby stand of birch.

Kurenai and Asuma appeared almost instantly—because, as Genma had long suspected, both had been shadowing the perimeter and were probably less than ten yards away the whole time. Kurenai landed first, elegant, barely ruffled, the only sign of surprise the half-second she spent absorbing the tableau before her. Asuma followed, slow and deliberate, hands buried in the pockets of his vest, cigarette already in place.

The group assembled, and for one long, excruciating moment, nobody said anything.

Genma found himself spinning his senbon compulsively, rolling it over the pads of his fingers and back again. Kakashi was uncharacteristically silent, his eye stuck on Guy with an expression usually reserved for hostage negotiations. Kurenai looked between the two of them, then at Guy, then back at Genma and Kakashi, and raised one perfectly sculpted brow.

Asuma took a drag on his cigarette, exhaled a slow, measured cloud, and shrugged, as if to say, “Well, this was inevitable.”

Guy, emboldened by the lack of outright violence, spread his arms wide. “Do not be ashamed, comrades! To be alive is to be in love with the very act of living! Let the world bear witness to your passionate devotion to the flame of YOUTH!”

Genma couldn’t help it. He snorted, and the senbon nearly went down his throat.

Kurenai composed herself, then spoke, voice cool but not unkind. “Are we finished here? There’s still half a grid to clear before dark.”

Genma shot her a grateful look. “Affirmative. Ready to move.”

Guy radiated energy, bouncing in place. “I will scout the northern sector with Asuma!” he declared. “Kakashi! You and Genma take the eastern slope! Leave no stone unturned!”

Asuma, without looking, knocked the cigarette to the side and muttered, “That’s not the only thing they’re leaving unturned.”

Kurenai stifled a laugh. Guy didn’t notice.

The group split, the new pairs heading off in opposite directions. As they moved, Genma felt the heat creep up his neck, a rare thing for a man who’d spent his entire career breaking and re-breaking social boundaries for sport. Next to him, Kakashi matched pace, hands in pockets, face unreadable except for the edge of embarrassment so sharp it could have peeled paint.

“Nice save,” Genma said, under his breath.

“You’re the one who insisted on five minutes,” Kakashi replied.

“Could have been worse,” Genma allowed.

Kakashi’s eye ticked sideways. “How?”

“We could have been naked.”

Kakashi grunted. “Guy would have burst a blood vessel.”

They continued, the forest silent but for the crunch of leaves and the distant echo of Guy’s voice, already retelling the story to Asuma with the volume and verve of a man auditioning for a play.

Genma looked up, took in the canopy, and let himself smile. At least now, he thought, there was no point in pretending. The worst had happened, and the world had not ended.

In fact, it was just getting interesting.

The next three hours set a new record for collective restraint.

If Genma had been hoping that the spectacle behind the log would fade into the background noise of mission logistics, he was tragically naive. The pace of work did not slow—Kurenai saw to that, ushering the group through the grid with the crisp efficiency of a woman who’d once run ANBU ops with nothing but a kunai and the force of her will. But every maneuver, every cross-check, every exchange of radio code was now shaded by the knowledge that three people in the party were desperately pretending not to replay the last ten minutes in their heads, while Guy was doing the psychic equivalent of live-tweeting it to the entire district.

Genma tried to focus. He really did. The map was clear, the markers on schedule, and all he had to do was drop the radio beacon at point C7 and get out. Easy work, stuff he could do with his brain set to ‘off.’ Instead, he found himself obsessing over every footfall, every crack in the underbrush, sure that at any second Kurenai would catch him slacking and assign him to three months of remedial debriefings.

He reached the drop point, unspooled the beacon, and just as he was setting the timer, his hand slipped. The entire assembly tumbled down the slope, taking his mission log with it. He scrambled after, cursing, and managed to snag the beacon by the antenna before it slid into the ravine. The log was less fortunate. It shot into a mess of thornbush and vanished.

Genma swore, a soft but spirited string of profanity that was immediately picked up by the headset.

“Everything okay?” came Kurenai’s voice, smooth as a scalpel.

“Fine,” Genma lied. “Lost a log. Nonessential.”

There was a pause. Genma knew what was coming before she said it. “Try not to lose anything else today, please.”

“Roger.”

He repacked his gear, double-checked that the senbon was still in his mouth, and retreated to the rendezvous. Behind him, the woods seemed to whisper his failure to every squirrel and bird in a hundred meter radius.

When he got to the clearing, Kakashi was already there, perched on a rock, flipping through a map with the air of a man determined to look busy. Genma dropped his pack and slouched next to him.

“Lose anything?” Kakashi said, voice low.

“Just my dignity,” Genma replied.

Kakashi didn’t look up from the map. “Could be worse.”

“How?”

“You could be the one who botched the coordinate relay.” Kakashi turned the map around, showing a grid where two entire zones had been highlighted in red marker. “I sent Guy and Asuma to sweep an area we already covered. Twice.”

Genma couldn’t help it. He grinned. “Maybe you wanted more alone time.”

Kakashi’s eye flicked up, sharp. “If I did, I wouldn’t have picked the man with the world’s loudest voice as our chaperone.”

The radio crackled again, this time with a high-pitched whoop: “Kakashi! Genma! There is a suspicious deer carcass at grid F4! We require backup!”

Kakashi’s face did not change, but Genma heard the sigh in the way his fingers slowed on the paper.

“Should we report it?” Genma asked.

“Only if you want to be lectured about proper disposal techniques for the rest of the afternoon.”

Genma leaned back on the rock, stretching out his legs. “Guy’s never gonna let it go, is he?”

“Nope.”

“Think Kurenai will kill him before or after debrief?”

Kakashi considered. “Before. She hates paperwork.”

They sat in companionable silence for a minute, each lost in the calculus of what came next.

Genma was the first to break. “You regret it?”

The question came out sharper than he’d meant, and he braced himself for the usual deflection. Instead, Kakashi shrugged, an actual, honest-to-god human gesture.

“I don’t regret anything that makes Guy lose his mind,” he said. “But next time, maybe we wait until the mission is actually over.”

Genma barked a laugh. “Deal.”

Kurenai arrived a few minutes later, her uniform as pristine as when they started. She didn’t say anything at first, just surveyed the area and jotted a note in her logbook. Eventually, she sat across from them, legs folded, and regarded Genma with the kind of neutral appraisal usually reserved for medical charts and crime scenes.

“I know you both think you’re subtle,” she said.

Genma bit down on the senbon, tight. “Didn’t realize it was an issue.”

Kurenai’s lips quirked. “It isn’t. Not for me. But if you want to avoid Guy staging an intervention, you might consider more… discretion.”

Kakashi nodded. “We’ll be careful.”

“Good.” Kurenai closed her logbook and gave them both a look that was surprisingly gentle. “For what it’s worth, I think it’s nice. The village could use more people who care about something.”

Genma felt the heat in his face again, and he couldn’t blame it on the sun this time.

“Thanks,” he said, voice just above a whisper.

They were spared further embarrassment by the approach of Guy and Asuma, both trailing bits of deer fur and the smell of overripe forest. Asuma looked resigned; Guy looked as if he’d won a medal for bravery in the face of unnatural romance.

He bounded into the clearing, arms wide. “SUCCESS! The beast was vanquished and order is restored! But more important—” here he turned to face Kakashi and Genma “—the bonds of love have given you new strength, I can tell! Your teamwork was UNPRECEDENTED!”

Asuma dropped onto the nearest stump, lit a cigarette, and made a show of not looking at anyone.

Kurenai managed to corral Guy’s enthusiasm long enough to finish the last mission sweep, and they set a brisk pace back toward the village. But even on the return, the air between the team had changed: less brittle, less forced, more like the camaraderie Genma remembered from the old days, before everything was classified and compartmentalized and held at arm’s length.

At the edge of the forest, Kurenai called a five-minute rest. Asuma wandered off to smoke in peace, and Guy took the opportunity to practice handstands on the trail marker posts, counting out loud in a way that ensured no one within a mile could nap.

Genma stretched, popping his neck, when he felt Kurenai at his side.

“We’re happy for you both, you know,” she said, quietly.

Genma didn’t have a script for that. He just nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“Don’t let him push you around,” Kurenai added, smiling.

Genma snorted. “I’ve got my tricks.”

She nodded, then drifted back to herd Guy away from the markers before he knocked one over.

Genma watched her go, and for a moment let himself imagine what it would be like if every day was this easy.

The news traveled faster than Genma thought possible.

They were still half a mile from the main gate when Asuma slowed, then paused to speak in low tones with a jōnin from another patrol. The exchange was quick, both men perfectly composed, but Genma saw the flicker of understanding pass between them, the unspoken: “You see it too?” It took less than two minutes for the knowledge to reach the next checkpoint, and by the time the team made the final turn toward the village, there were at least three chuunin pretending not to look as they passed.

Guy, naturally, was incapable of subtlety. He spotted an off-duty medic by the mission desk and bounded over, both hands waving. “Did you hear? KAKASHI has embraced the fire of YOUTHFUL ROMANCE! It’s a new era for Konoha!”

The medic looked bewildered. Genma, who was standing close enough to catch the echo, felt the blood drain from his face and pool in his boots.

Kurenai shot Genma a sympathetic look, but there was nothing for it. The cat was not just out of the bag, it was speedrunning its way through the entire administrative building.

Kakashi didn’t say a word. He just shrugged, as if to say: “We knew this would happen.”

Genma, for his part, decided there were worse things than being notorious. At least, he told himself, he wouldn’t have to sit through another staff meeting in which Guy lectured him about the purity of his “flame.”

They made it to the debrief with minimal casualties, and as the team split for the evening, Genma caught Kakashi’s arm. For a moment, they stood together in the hush of the corridor, the noise of the world receding to a manageable distance.

“You okay?” Kakashi asked, voice soft.

Genma grinned, slow and feral. “Never better.”

They stood for a long time, neither quite willing to let go.

From down the hall, Guy’s voice boomed: “LIVE BRAVELY, COMRADES! There is no shame in the pursuit of TRUE HAPPINESS!”

Genma shook his head. “I swear, if he ever finds out about the time we—”

“Don’t even think it,” Kakashi said.

They laughed, quietly, and for the first time in weeks, Genma realized he could get used to this.

He really could.

Kakashi’s apartment was not designed for visitors. It had the smell of old paper and metal filings, the walls painted in a shade of gray that could have been the result of actual fire damage or just aggressive neglect. The futon was folded down and squared to the floor with geometric precision, a single pillow set dead-center at the head. There was no art, but a pair of kunai were mounted above the window, and the only color in the place came from a battered shelf of Icha Icha paperbacks, their spines warped by years of rereading.

Genma had been here before, but the first few times he’d made a point of not looking too closely, as if the apartment itself was a mask and staring at it would be impolite. Tonight he let his eyes drift, taking in the way the tatami mats had been worn into faint paths, how even the tea set on the low table seemed positioned with mathematical intent.

He dropped his pack by the entry and peeled off his jacket, draping it over a chair. His senbon kit came next—tucked into a little lacquered case, every needle filed and sorted—and he set it gently on the table before collapsing onto the futon with a sigh.

Kakashi followed, slower, hanging his own vest by the door and lining up his boots side by side. He sat cross-legged at the head of the futon, arms folded. For a minute, neither spoke. The only sound was the faint clink of a neighbor’s dishes through the thin wall.

“So much for keeping things quiet,” Genma said, finally. He pressed a palm to his brow, working at the tension in his temples.

Kakashi’s mask was off, and for once his mouth actually moved. “Guy will have told half the village by morning,” he said, resignation bordering on amusement.

“Half?” Genma shot back. “More like all. You think Ebisu’s not already writing an incident report?”

Kakashi shrugged. “No point worrying. Kurenai and Asuma don’t care. And if the Hokage has a problem, he’ll tell us.”

Genma grunted. “Yeah, but it’s not the Hokage I’m worried about.”

He meant it. There was a difference between what was allowed and what was smart, and Genma had spent enough years navigating the social minefield of the shinobi corps to know that being public was a liability. Not just on missions—though that was bad enough—but in the endless, grinding parade of gossip, innuendo, and weaponized small talk that defined village life.

He rolled off the futon, paced once to the window and back, then ran a hand through his hair, making it stick straight up in weird directions. “You sure you want this?” he asked, not quite facing Kakashi.

Kakashi’s answer was a long time coming. “No,” he said. “But I want you more.”

The words hung in the air, awkward and raw. Genma tried to think of something clever, but all he came up with was a laugh that sounded more like a cough.

“You know, for a genius, you’re pretty bad at talking about your feelings,” he said.

Kakashi’s lips twisted. “I could say the same for you.”

They stood in the quiet for a while. Genma stopped pacing, unsure what to do with his hands. He fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, the rough edge where a kunai had nicked it last week. Kakashi watched him, eyes flat and unreadable.

“It’s not just about us,” Genma said. “You know that, right? Missions, teams, all the people who have to trust us not to screw up because we’re…” He waved a hand. “Because we’re this.”

Kakashi didn’t flinch. “We haven’t screwed up yet.”

“Today wasn’t exactly flawless,” Genma said.

Kakashi shook his head. “Nobody’s perfect. And Guy is a force of nature. If it hadn’t been today, it would have been next week.”

Genma slumped against the wall, letting it take his weight. “He’ll probably throw us an engagement party.”

“Let him. It’ll distract him from trying to set me up with his cousin again.”

They both laughed, the sound bouncing off the empty shelves and ricocheting into a more comfortable silence.

Eventually, Genma sat down on the floor, close enough that their knees nearly touched. He stared at the wall for a while, then at the battered tea set on the table. “You got anything stronger than tea?”

Kakashi considered. “You can check the freezer, but last I saw, Guy replaced all my sake with electrolyte gel.”

“Sabotage,” Genma muttered. He didn’t get up, just let his head fall back and stared at the ceiling. “You think it’ll always be this weird?”

“Yes,” Kakashi said, without hesitation.

“Great.”

They both looked at each other, and for the first time that night, neither looked away.

Genma leaned in, catching the edge of Kakashi’s hand with his own. It wasn’t dramatic or romantic, just two people resting in the same orbit, sharing a little warmth in a room that had never quite learned how to keep the cold out.

“You want to do this?” Genma said, voice barely above a whisper.

Kakashi nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

They sat like that, the world outside ticking over into night, the sounds of the village distant and easy to ignore. Eventually, Kakashi got up, moved to the kitchenette, and put water on for tea. Genma watched him, then followed, leaning on the counter, content for once to just be present.

They drank in silence, two cups steaming in the dark, the lines between them softening with every minute that passed.

When the tea was gone, Genma reached for his senbon and, instead of putting one in his mouth, set it on the table between them.

“Truce,” he said, smiling crookedly.

Kakashi mirrored the gesture, setting down his own cup with a soft clink.

They didn’t need to say anything else.

In the morning, the sun cracked through the blinds and drew a line across the futon, right down the center. Genma rolled toward the light, hair sticking up in impossible angles, and blinked at the shape next to him.

Kakashi, awake for who knows how long, watched him from the pillow.

“Hey,” Genma said, voice rough.

“Hey,” Kakashi replied.

They lay there, neither in a hurry, the space between them as comfortable as it was likely to get.

Somewhere outside, Guy’s voice carried up from the street, already narrating the day’s training regimen at a volume meant to shake the foundation of the building.

Genma groaned. “He’s never going to let us live this down.”

Kakashi shrugged. “Let him try.”

Genma grinned, reached over, and nudged Kakashi’s shoulder. “He’ll get bored eventually.”

Kakashi looked at him, the corner of his mouth curving up just enough to be visible.

“Doubt it,” he said. “But as long as he’s not bored with each other, I think we’ll be fine.”

Genma let the words settle, and for the first time in a long time, he agreed.

They stayed in bed until the sun climbed higher, until the tea set called, until the world needed them again.

But for now, at least, the only thing either of them had to do was nothing, together.

Chapter Text

The training ground at this hour was less a place of discipline and more a slow-motion feeding frenzy. Clusters of chuunin, genin, and the odd junior jonin floated between battered obstacle courses and uneven patches of trampled earth, migrating in loose, unstable formations that dissolved whenever Kakashi entered their line of sight. It was like the whole field had been calibrated for the sole purpose of providing him with a thousand opportunities to wonder if he'd remembered to close his fly.

He kept his book propped, thumbed open to the most boring possible chapter—a treatise on cloud formation that doubled as a sleep aid—but let his visible eye roam the perimeter. Every few steps he caught a fragment: the snap of a wrist as a shuriken was released, a high-pitched whine of complaint from an academy hopeful whose leg sweep had not gone as planned, the whispery hush of kunai passing air. Sometimes, it was the absence of noise that registered—a sudden silence that hung just long enough to be unmistakable.

He passed a trio of fresh-faced genin attempting a group handstand. All three dropped in sequence at his approach, the smallest landing directly on his ass and yelping as if struck. Kakashi kept walking, but the air behind him vibrated with suppressed giggles.

Further up, by the warped plank set for jump drills, an older group of jonin broke off their conversation mid-sentence as he approached. Their eyes tracked him with the cool, appraising look of men who'd spent enough time around explosives to know better than to prod the casing. One of them—a guy with a scar like a poorly mapped river system down his left cheek—muttered something behind his hand. The others leaned in, all fake-casual, as if they were discussing the weather and not the cost of his latest mission.

He'd seen enough to know which kind of attention this was. Not "oh god, don't let the copy ninja see me screw up my chakra control," but "is it true he caught the ANBU quartermaster making out with an enemy agent, and then blackmailed him for a month before turning him in for the bounty?" (Yes, and no. The quartermaster had come clean after three weeks, and the only thing Kakashi had gotten out of it was a box of smuggled cigarettes with a note that said, "Please don't let them know I smoke Menthol.")

The book helped. If nothing else, it gave people something to talk about that wasn't the latest inbred rumor from the Hokage Tower. But today, it seemed even the cover of "Clouds: A Meditation" was not enough.

He hit the edge of the training field, where the battered remains of last year’s exam stations marked a no-man’s-land between the grass and the first line of scrubby, wind-burned pines. It was quieter here—no audience, no sense of pressure except the ticking clock in the back of his mind. He stopped, feigned a page turn, and let his focus drift to the low, irregular murmur coming from just beyond the trees.

Aoba's voice was unmistakable, a nasal twang that somehow always found its way through stone, weather, or even the triple-reinforced walls of the mission office.

“Can you believe he actually got married?” Aoba said, loud enough that it was obviously meant to be overheard.

Kakashi didn’t react. He kept the book open, but let his eyes flick sideways. Through the trees, he could see the man himself, leaning against a half-buried log, sunglasses glinting despite the lack of sun. Next to him was Iwashi, the poor bastard always picked for his ability to not spill tea, except he was currently the one being force-fed it.

“Not really,” Iwashi replied. He was slouched, arms crossed, hitai-ate pushed up to keep the sweat out of his eyebrows. “But who would fake that kind of thing? If it’s a cover, it’s a pretty deep one.”

Aoba clicked his tongue, a sharp sound like the snap of a glass thermometer. “You’re thinking small. This is Konoha. You can’t swing a cat without hitting at least three double agents and a guy who’s technically on fire. What if it’s a bet? Or, like, a political thing.”

Iwashi shrugged. “Doesn’t look like a power move. He’s not even using it for leverage. Most people don’t even know who she is.”

Kakashi froze, a page half-turned. Who are they talking about? one of the rotating disasters in his circle?

Aoba adjusted his sunglasses, then leaned in, voice dropping. “I heard she was pregnant. Like, had the baby already. He’s playing dad now.”

Iwashi barked a laugh, then cut it off quick. “No chance. If Genma had a kid, we’d all know. Guy would have bought matching jumpsuits for the christening.”

Genma. They were talking about Genma. The man that Kakashi was in love with and thought had a trusting relationship with was married and had a kid?

Aoba grinned, unbothered. “Maybe it’s not his. Maybe he’s just doing a favor. There’s precedent, you know. Foundlings, orphans, the whole village-raising-a-child thing.”

“That’s not the same as marrying the mother,” Iwashi said. “That’s an actual legal record. You think he did it just for the paperwork?”

Aoba looked thoughtful. “Could be a jutsu thing. Or maybe—”

Iwashi interrupted, his tone gone flat. “Or maybe it’s none of our business.”

Aoba laughed again, a thin and knowing sound. “You say that, but you want to know too.”

There was a beat of silence, and then Iwashi, quietly: “Just seems like a waste, is all. If you’re going to go through the trouble, why not pick someone who can cook?”

Aoba’s smile went wolfish. “Or maybe she’s really, really good at something else.”

They both snorted, and the sound was mean, but not in the way that stung. It was the familiar cruelty of people who’d spent too long watching the world rearrange itself around the whims of men in masks and women with knives for eyelashes.

Kakashi felt his grip on the book tighten, the paper creasing beneath his thumb. He didn’t move, but he could feel every muscle in his arm go rigid, a controlled explosion of embarrassment and irritation that would have been invisible to anyone without line-of-sight on his nervous system. His first instinct was to walk away, make a show of being above it, but the words stuck. “He’s playing dad now.” “Doing a favor.” “Not even using it for leverage.”

He waited, silent, until the laughter died. Then, like a ghost, he vanished into the shadowed fringe of trees, his footsteps a deliberate nothing on the soft earth. He let the needles scrape his boots, let the chill under the pines work its way through his jacket and into his skin. He needed the cold, the sharp air, something to scrub out the static of being observed, even secondhand.

He didn’t get far—just to a spot where the ground dipped and the sounds of the field faded into the slow tick of wind through old bark. He leaned against a tree, let the book rest against his knee, and listened to his own breath until it slowed.

Married. The rumor itself was absurd, but the precision of the details was what got him: three years, a kid, a woman with no name. If it was a test, it was a good one. The kind that you didn’t realize you’d failed until the scorecard showed up on your desk, stamped in red ink and triple signed by every person you’d ever annoyed.

He considered his options. Confront Aoba? Waste of time. Set the record straight? Riskier; there was a reason why denials in this village only made the story grow legs and teeth. The best strategy, as always, was to let the noise cycle itself out, to starve the thing by ignoring it until the next scandal came along.

Except, sometimes, the noise didn’t die. Sometimes it attached itself to you like a leech, feeding in silence until the only thing left was a hollowed-out shell and a reputation for whatever the world had decided you were this week.

He let the book drop to his side and exhaled, slow, controlled.

If they wanted to talk, let them talk.

He’d always been better with action anyway.

He stayed in the pines, eyes half-shut, listening for the moment when the rumors moved on.

But they didn’t. Not yet.

The tea shop smelled like deep-fried nostalgia, the kind of place that had never once changed its oil or its mind about who was allowed to take the corner booth. Genma got there early, staked his claim with a single elbow on the table and a bent senbon riding the edge of his mouth. He liked it here: the chipped mugs, the deliberate clatter of plates in the kitchen, the way the old lady behind the counter could spot an off-duty jonin at fifty paces and have the order ready before you sat down.

Across from him, Anko was in rare form. She’d gone through two dango skewers before the first cup of tea even cooled, her words tumbling out in the same rat-a-tat as her chopsticks against the plate. She was updating him on the usual: department gossip, mission rotation, the most recent prank she’d engineered against the new intake at T&I. He let it all wash over him, the senbon spinning slow and regular between his fingers.

“—so then Ibiki tells the rookie to file a full incident report, and the kid’s hands are shaking so bad he can’t even write his own name. And that’s when Ibiki leans in and says, real quiet, ‘Get used to it, kid. The paperwork’s the easy part.’” Anko finished the story with a howl, bits of mochi stuck to her molars.

Genma snorted. “He’s got a real gift with people.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t love it,” Anko shot back. “Last week you said you’d pay cash to see him break the will of a council rep in under ten minutes.”

He shrugged. “I was joking.”

“Sure you were.”

They grinned at each other, an old rhythm with more muscle memory than genuine malice.

Genma refilled her cup from the battered metal pot, aiming for exactly the right meniscus height—Anko would call you out if you left her even half a centimeter short. She accepted with a wink, then leaned back, arms stretched and eyes scanning the ceiling as if reading graffiti that only she could see.

“So,” she said, “when were you going to tell me?”

He played dumb, twirling the senbon. “Tell you what?”

She made a show of checking her nails. “That you’re shacked up with the ANBU captain. Or is it just a casual thing? I can never keep track with you.”

Genma kept his face blank, but the senbon paused mid-spin, resting on his lower lip like a dare. “Nothing to report,” he said. “But you seem to have strong opinions.”

“Oh, I do,” Anko said, voice syrupy. “I’m just surprised you went for it. That’s a lot of baggage to haul into a relationship, even for you.”

He raised an eyebrow, not quite smiling. “You’re the village authority on emotional baggage?”

She laughed, sharp and unbothered. “Absolutely. And let me tell you—” here her voice dropped, suddenly confidential, the two of them hunching in unconsciously “—dating someone with an ANBU background is like adopting a wolf. Sexy, but the odds of waking up with your throat intact go down every year.”

He rolled the senbon, flicked it between his fingers. “You think he’s dangerous?”

“I know he is,” Anko said. “But not in the way you’d expect.” She glanced over her shoulder, checking for eavesdroppers, then pressed on: “They say he never sleeps. That he keeps files on his own friends. That half the time he spends in those mission debriefs, he’s not even listening, just cataloguing who blinks when and who always shows up late.”

Genma shrugged. “Sounds normal for this village.”

Anko leaned in, dropping the voice again, barely a whisper over the hiss of the tea urn. “You know what they say about him in T&I? The stuff that doesn’t make the mission log?”

He shook his head, just once. “Not my department.”

She grinned, all teeth. “Of course not. But you might want to know, anyway.”

He let her have the pause. Anko loved to make people lean forward.

She did, savoring it. “He’s the one who takes the sex missions. Every time they have to send someone to seduce or distract or whatever, it’s always him. Not because he likes it, but because he doesn’t want his team to have to do it. ‘Always the noble captain,’ Ibiki says.”

The words hit like a thrown knife, clean and direct. Genma’s grip on the cup went hard, whitening the knuckles just for a second. He kept his mouth shut, but the senbon went still, the tip angled directly at her.

Anko watched him, eyes narrowed in curiosity. “Didn’t know that, did you?”

He flicked the senbon away, let it clatter to the table. “Never came up.”

“Yeah, well. Now you know.” She drained her tea in one go, then went back to her dango, chewing with the concentration of a woman for whom every meal might be her last.

Genma let the silence stretch, listening to the noise of the shop: the clash of mugs, the lazy drone of conversation from the back booths, the distant, whiny thread of a toddler refusing to eat. He forced his hand to relax, picked up the senbon and spun it again.

He wanted to ask more, to press for details—how long, how many, was it still happening, did the Hokage approve, was this the reason he never answered the door before noon—but he knew better. If you poked at a story in this village, it had a habit of poking back. Instead, he asked: “So what’s your take?”

Anko shrugged, letting her chopsticks hang loose. “I think it’s fucked up. But also, not surprising. You can always count on a martyr to ruin a perfectly good thing by trying to spare everyone else the pain.”

He almost smiled. “You’re not usually this charitable.”

She grinned. “Don’t get used to it. Next week I’ll be back to calling you a degenerate.”

He set the cup down, hard enough to make a sound but not enough to spill. “You ever think people like us aren’t built for this shit?”

She tilted her head, mock-philosophical. “If by ‘this shit’ you mean relationships, probably. If you mean the work, then absolutely not. I’ve seen you patch up three bleeding rookies while suffering from a concussion and a cracked rib, and still manage to sneak a smoke break before the medics showed up.”

He almost blushed. Instead, he reached for his wallet, pulled a crumpled bill, and slid it across the table. “I’m gonna be late for my next rotation. You want anything to go?”

She blinked, surprised at the pivot, but shook her head. “Just tell me if you need backup.”

He nodded, once, then stood, grabbing his jacket and making for the door.

“Hey, Genma?” she called, as he reached the threshold.

He turned, backlit by the gray morning light.

She pointed a chopstick at him, expression unreadable. “You’re not the only one with tricks. Remember that.”

He nodded, left the shop, and let the door swing shut behind him.

Outside, the air felt colder, the light more raw. He walked the length of the street, keeping the pace even, the senbon biting into his teeth with every step.

He needed to know more, but that could wait.

For now, he had a mission.

The city after dark was its own private universe, stitched together by yellowed lamp-glow and the slow tick of curfew. From the edge of the roof, Kakashi could see the way the light spilled over rooftops, pooling in the gutters and collecting on the undersides of window ledges. The air carried the low hum of distant voices, the clatter of a late delivery cart, the faint crackle of an overloaded power line somewhere east. It was all so ordinary, so familiar, that for a second he almost convinced himself nothing had changed.

He sat with his knees up, forearms draped over them, mask pushed down to his chin. The book—ostensibly a volume of essays on experimental swordsmithing—rested forgotten on his thigh. He’d tried reading, lost the thread by the end of the first page, and given up on pretending it mattered.

Below, a pair of alley cats staged a standoff over a crust of fried dough. Further down the street, a genin on house arrest paced her balcony, flinging a rubber ball at the wall and catching it every third toss. Someone was watching TV loud enough to rattle the vents, the canned laughter spilling out in waves before being dissolved by the wind. For a village built on secrets and paranoia, Konoha was surprisingly noisy at night.

A soft, familiar click sounded behind him. Kakashi didn’t need to look; he knew the sound of Pakkun’s nails on concrete, the quiet patience in the way the dog exhaled before announcing himself. Pakkun padded over, stopped just short of the ledge, and flopped down in a practiced sprawl that managed to be both dignified and contemptuous of the concept of gravity.

The other ninken followed, a slow procession from the open window. They ranged themselves in a loose crescent, careful not to crowd him, the way they did when he was particularly insomniac or freshly back from a mission that required more than the usual share of moral dislocation.

Pakkun met his eyes, then looked away—never direct, always a side-glance, as if being seen by the boss was something to be endured, not enjoyed.

“Should be sleeping,” Kakashi muttered, mostly for the benefit of the audience. The air shifted, the dogs collectively managing a group shrug. Pakkun yawned and rolled onto his side, presenting a view of paws that had not been groomed in at least a week.

Kakashi let his gaze wander over the village. There was a set of windows still lit in the council block—late meeting, or someone trying to outwait a rival by burning more candle than sense. Further up the slope, the old academy building glowed like a lantern, shadow puppet heads crossing the shades at irregular intervals.

He traced the line of the main avenue with a finger, from the Hokage’s office down to the tea district, across the river and up to the first of the guard towers. Somewhere in that sequence was Genma’s building, the squat one with the leaky eaves and the neighbors who left their shoes out overnight. He let the finger drift there, hovering just above the roofline, and let the memory build itself: Genma standing at his own window, brushing his teeth with the lights off, perfectly aware that nobody could see him but always acting like the world was watching.

Kakashi shut his eye, leaned his head back, and listened to the night.

It was supposed to be simple. You met a person, you tested the edges, you decided if the risk of staying outweighed the risk of leaving. If it didn’t, you let things ride out until one of you cracked. Genma had cracked first, and in the moment it felt like everything else would follow suit, unspool in a rush of clarity or catastrophe.

But here he was, still stuck, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maybe it was better this way. Maybe if he waited long enough, the rumor would become reality and he could let it erase the awkward, tender truths that threatened to pull him out of orbit. Or maybe he’d just end up another shadow on the roof, chewing over old stories while the rest of the village got on with its life.

A chill gust pulled at his flak jacket, snapping him out of the reverie. He pulled it tighter, mask slipping back up out of habit. The book sat heavy on his lap, a lump of paper and dead trees that refused to be anything but steady.

Pakkun rolled upright, shook out his fur, and trotted over, resting his chin on Kakashi’s boot.

“Genma’s not home,” Pakkun said, voice pitched low. “He left the district an hour ago.”

Kakashi nodded. “I know.”

Pakkun waited, reading the silence the way he always did. “You want me to follow him?”

He considered. “No.”

A long pause. Then: “You want me to fetch him?”

Kakashi smirked. “No.”

Pakkun grunted, a half-bark, and padded away, joining the others in a loose pile of fur and muscle and old breath. They pressed together, pack instinct over brains, and hunkered down for the long watch.

He let the dogs’ presence anchor him, keep the night from floating away. He traced the path of streetlights again, stopping each time at the same window, the same point on the map, as if repetition could conjure a new outcome.

The hours trickled by, marked by nothing but the moon shifting position and the gradual draining of light from the council block. The cats vanished, the genin gave up on the ball and slumped inside, the TV dropped off mid-laugh track.

The village settled, and so did he, finally, the edges of his mind growing soft and gray.

He stayed on the roof until the sky went faint with dawn, arms locked over his knees, book unopened.

There was nothing left to say, and nobody to say it to.

But the pack stayed with him, all the same.

The lamp over the bench cast a hard-edged oval of light, bleaching the wood to bone and throwing everything else into a soft, bottomless dark. Genma sat hunched, knees braced wide, the worktable crowded with the aftermath of a week’s worth of orders: neatly stacked senbon, lengths of polished wire, a couple of shuriken with the paint still sticky in the center grooves. He set the next blank into the clamp, thumbed the wheel tight, and reached for the whetstone.

It was a simple job—take the raw steel, shave away the irregularities, chase out the burrs until the point would whisper through silk. Genma liked the work. It was mindless, repetitive, a place to put the fidget and the rage and the things he didn’t know how to fix. He pressed the edge to the stone and pulled, slow and measured, counting out the rhythm: one, two, three, reset; one, two, three, reset.

After a few strokes, his hand started to speed up. The motions grew sharper, more percussive. He let the muscle memory take over, let the rest of his brain drift, scrubbing through fragments of the day like someone flipping cards and not liking any of the results.

Anko’s voice floated in: “He takes those missions so his team doesn’t have to.” Like that made it noble, not just another way to dodge having to let anyone close.

He pressed the senbon harder to the stone, felt the resistance of metal against grit. The edge sharpened fast, but the friction left tiny curls of steel floating in the lamplight, flecks of gray dust accumulating in the crease of his thumb. He rotated the blank, reset the angle, pulled again, faster.

He wondered how many people actually knew. If it was an open secret, like Aoba’s gambling debt or Guy’s monthly trip to the same tailor for “emergency” seam reinforcement. Or if it was something uglier, hidden in the files, a favor repaid in whispers and sideways looks and the kind of silence that never did anybody any good.

He thought about Kakashi on the roof, hair silvered out under the streetlamps, eyes hollow from a week with no sleep. He thought about the way the man never asked for anything, never demanded, just absorbed all the damage and carried on like a patched tire. Genma ground his teeth, then forced himself to stop. He checked the tip of the senbon under the lamp, saw that it caught the light at exactly the right angle, then flicked it into the tray with the rest.

He reached for another blank, but his hand was shaking. Not much, just a quiver, but enough that he had to pause and press his palms flat to the bench until it went away.

The shadows in the workshop were thick, cut only by the hard white of the lamp and the blue stutter of moonlight through the window. He stared at them, wondering if this was what it felt like to be a ghost: present, but only where the light let you exist.

He found the old carton of smokes in the back drawer, fished one out, and let it hang from his lip while he reset the clamp. He didn’t light it—never did when he was working—but the weight helped, a ritual from his apprentice days that he’d never managed to quit.

He started in on the next needle. The stone hissed, smoother now. He dialed back the pressure, made the passes gentle, deliberate. The focus helped, but the thoughts kept circling back: what if she was lying, what if she was right, what if none of this meant anything and he was just another warm body filling in for someone better?

He tried to remember the last thing Kakashi had actually said to him. Not a joke or a brush-off, but an actual, honest admission. It was harder than it should have been.

He checked the point, wiped it down, set it with the others.

The tray was nearly full—two dozen finished, each perfect, identical, ready to fly. He could probably do this all night. Maybe he would.

He closed his eyes, just for a second, and tried to blank his mind. The effort only made the ache behind his eyes spike. He set the last blank into the clamp, rolled the smoke between his lips, and started over.

One, two, three, reset.

The lamp buzzed, the only sound besides the rasp of steel on stone.

He wondered if Kakashi was still awake, if he’d ever say what needed saying.

He wondered if it mattered.

He let the edge bite deeper, sharper, until the next pass sparked and the tiny glow faded instantly to cold.

Chapter Text

The door hit the wall so hard it left a scuff. Genma stood in the entryway, jaw clenched tight around a senbon, eyes black with anger that had been fermenting for at least a day and a half. He didn’t bother taking off his boots. The entry mat skidded under his heel as he slammed the door shut behind him and stalked into the apartment.

The air inside was thin and stale, cut with a faint trace of ozone and old ink. Evening bled in through the single west-facing window, striping the tatami and the battered futon with long rectangles of orange and blue. Kakashi sat on the floor, legs folded under the low table, the spill of mission files like a floodplain around him. He had a pen in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, but at Genma’s entrance he stopped mid-sip and set both aside.

The visible eye, always half-lidded, went round and sharp.

“Don’t,” Genma said, and the word landed like a thrown knife. “Don’t you dare pretend you didn’t know I was coming.”

Kakashi didn’t. He watched, motionless, as Genma crossed the room and planted both hands on the edge of the table, looming over the paperwork like he was about to ignite it.

The silence held for three beats.

Then Genma said, “Is it true?”

Kakashi blinked. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“The sex missions,” Genma spat. He didn’t say it quietly. “The ones you take for the ANBU. Is it true?”

The pause this time was less than a breath, but it was there. Kakashi’s fingers tensed on the rim of the tea cup. “If you’re asking whether I’ve been assigned infiltration assignments involving—”

“Don’t do that,” Genma cut him off. “Don’t sanitize it for me. I want the truth, and I want it without the mission report voice.”

A muscle jumped at the hinge of Kakashi’s jaw. He set the cup down, hands folding together on the tabletop, and met Genma’s eyes. “Yes,” he said. “It’s true.”

Genma made a sound—a half laugh, half snarl—and the senbon snapped between his teeth, the metal pinging against his incisors before it clattered to the floor.

“Unbelievable,” he said. “You want to tell me why I had to find out from Anko? Why she gets to be the first to say, ‘By the way, the guy you’re screwing is also screwing enemy officers for the good of the village’?”

Kakashi’s eye didn’t flinch. “It wasn’t relevant.”

Genma slammed his fist on the table, hard enough to scatter a pile of paperwork. The tea cup skidded, sloshing amber across the grain. “To who?”

“To you,” Kakashi replied. He spoke quietly, but the words had edges. “You said you wanted no-strings. That’s what this is. I do my job, you do yours, and the rest is none of anyone’s business.”

“You fucking coward,” Genma said. “You can’t even say what it is.”

Kakashi’s mouth—unmasked, for once—drew into a thin, colorless line. He let his hands rest on the table, one thumb tracing an invisible circle on the lacquer.

Genma paced. Three steps, hit the end of the room; a pivot, three back. The senbon lay on the floor, forgotten.

“So you just—what, seduce whoever they tell you to? Sleep with whoever the Hokage points at and hope you don’t get knifed in the shower?”

“It isn’t about seduction,” Kakashi said, slow. “It’s about gathering intelligence. My assignment is to—”

Genma’s laugh was a dry, harsh rip. “You want to call it intelligence, fine. But don’t pretend it doesn’t make you sick. Don’t stand there and act like you’re too numb to care.”

Kakashi’s eye flicked up, caught Genma’s, and held it. “Would it make you feel better if I said I hated it?”

“I’d believe it more if you acted like it,” Genma snapped. He planted his hands on his hips, breath coming shallow and fast. “Because right now, it looks like you don’t give a damn about anyone, least of all yourself.”

Kakashi didn’t answer.

Genma bared his teeth. “You’re a piece of work, Hatake. Really. You get off on the martyr act, don’t you? You want everyone to think you’re so above it, so damn professional. But you’re just like the rest of us—lonely, fucked up, looking for something that’ll stick.” His voice caught, and he forced it steady again. “Even if it’s a person you can’t trust further than you can throw.”

Kakashi moved, slow and deliberate, stacking the mission files into a neat pile and setting them at the corner of the table. He wiped the tea spill with the side of his hand, not looking at Genma as he did it.

“It isn’t about trust,” he said.

“It’s always about trust,” Genma shot back. “You just don’t know what it looks like anymore.”

The apartment felt too small, every wall closing in. Genma wanted to hit something—Kakashi’s face, the table, maybe the wall with the peeling calendar where last year’s page was still thumbtacked under this one. He settled for digging his fingers into his scalp and pacing again, faster.

“Was I just one of your jobs?” Genma demanded. “Or is it that you like a challenge, and I was just the first idiot to say yes?”

Kakashi finally looked up. There was a flatness in his expression that Genma recognized—no emotion, no tell, just the maskless void of a man who’d learned how to survive by feeling less, not more.

“None of it was a job,” Kakashi said.

“Could have fooled me,” Genma muttered. He leaned back against the fridge, knuckles white on the enamel. The hum of the appliance was loud enough to fill the silence for three heartbeats.

Kakashi’s eye drifted to the senbon on the floor, then back to Genma. “If you want me to stop,” he said, “all you have to do is say it.”

Genma scoffed. “Don’t make this about my boundaries. I’m not the one whoring myself out for village security.”

“That isn’t what this is.”

“It’s exactly what this is!”

The words bounced off the walls and stuck in the air, buzzing like hornets.

Genma swallowed, then—softer, almost a whisper—said, “Just tell me why, Kakashi. Tell me why it had to be you.”

The silence stretched. When Kakashi spoke, his voice was low, and for the first time it sounded tired. “If I didn’t take the assignments, someone else would. Someone younger. Someone who didn’t have the clearance or the leverage to say no. I’m not the only one, Genma, but I am the best at it. It’s less dangerous if I do it.”

Genma’s face twisted. “So you’re a hero now.”

“No,” Kakashi said. “I just know what I can live with.”

They stood there, the distance between them maybe ten feet and a whole ocean of shit that couldn’t be bridged by logic, or trust, or anything that looked like affection.

Genma stared at him, chest rising and falling, a vein throbbing at the side of his neck. Then, in a voice so quiet it almost didn’t land: “I wish you’d lied to me.”

Kakashi didn’t answer. He just sat, hands folded, back straight, the only motion the steady, careful blink of his eye.

Genma let the silence stand, then turned and put his fist through the wall, just below the light switch. Plaster dust snowed onto the tatami. He pulled his hand back, flexed it once, twice, then wiped the blood on his pants.

He grabbed the doorknob but didn’t turn it, just stood there, shoulders hunched, looking for the words that would make any of it hurt less.

None came.

He stalked out, the door scraping behind him.

Kakashi stayed where he was, not moving, not breathing, letting the tea stain dry on the table and the memory of Genma’s voice burn itself into the walls.

On the floor, the snapped senbon caught the last light of day and glinted, sharp as regret.

Genma didn’t make it past the first stairwell. He hit the landing and stopped, knuckles pressed to his temple so hard they left a pale half-moon on his skin. The senbon had vanished somewhere—maybe in the street, maybe in the seams of his shirt—but he didn’t miss it. He was too busy trying not to put his hand through the next wall he saw.

He stood there, breathing like he’d just finished a marathon, until the sound of a door opening echoed down the hall.

Kakashi’s voice: “Genma.”

He didn’t turn.

“Get back in here,” Kakashi said. Not loud, but with the same magnetic pull as a gunshot.

Genma went, because he always did. The anger was still raw, but curiosity, or maybe just masochism, was stronger. He stalked back into the apartment, the door shutting with a click behind him. This time, Kakashi wasn’t at the table. He was standing, arms folded, spine straight, looking every inch the bastard captain who could kill a man with a look.

For a second, neither spoke. The light outside was dying, and the whole room was dim except for the rectangle of fluorescent above the sink.

“What,” Genma snapped, “you want to keep going? I’m happy to finish what we started.”

Kakashi didn’t move. “What about you?” he said, voice flat and cold. “Were you planning to tell me about your wife and child?”

The words landed like a slap. Genma reeled, one hand coming up as if to deflect a physical blow.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he said.

Kakashi’s eye didn’t blink. “You think I don’t know? There’s a file on you in every department. ‘Shiranui Genma, spouse: none.’ And yet three years ago, you signed off on medical for a dependent. Infant. Maternal name redacted, but not well enough that I couldn’t find her in the mission logs.” He let the words settle. “You married her to keep her from being exiled. Or was that just for the child support credit?”

Genma’s face went white, then flushed so fast it looked like he might pass out. For a second he just stood there, mouth working, the words sticking in his throat.

Finally: “That was a long time ago.”

Kakashi nodded. “But you never mentioned it.”

“It’s not—” Genma shook his head, ran both hands through his hair, sending spikes of it in all directions. “It wasn’t like that. I never even met the kid.”

“Your name’s on the birth certificate,” Kakashi said.

“Because I was the one who fucked up and got her pregnant on assignment! What was I supposed to do—let her deal with it alone?”

Kakashi shrugged, slow and brutal. “You could have told me. Instead of letting me hear it from a staff medic who thought it was funny.”

Genma’s lips twisted. “Yeah, well, I never saw you as the nurturing type.”

Kakashi’s voice went razor-thin. “So you just omitted it.”

“It’s none of your business!”

The air in the apartment had gone toxic. Genma could feel his own heart pounding in his throat. He wanted to punch Kakashi, or maybe himself, or maybe just take the mission files and set them on fire.

He spat the words: “You’ve been lying to me this whole time.”

Kakashi’s fists were white at his sides. “We both have. It’s part of the job.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

Kakashi stepped in, closing the distance to two feet, his shadow cutting a sharp line across the tatami. “If you wanted honesty, you should have asked for it,” he said. “You don’t get to play victim when you’re just as dirty as I am.”

Genma bristled. “At least I didn’t volunteer for it. At least I didn’t sign up to get fucked for a living.”

“Right,” Kakashi said, the word so soft it stung. “You just did it by accident and then ran.”

“Fuck you.”

“You already did.”

Genma snarled, but it was all show. The fight had drained him, left him vibrating on fumes. He dropped onto the edge of the futon, hands locked on his knees.

“It meant nothing,” he said, eyes on the floor. “The marriage, the kid, the whole thing. She left the village before the ink was dry. There’s nothing there, nothing to tell.”

Kakashi watched him, eye unreadable, but Genma could feel the judgment, cold and heavy.

“So what are we doing?” Genma said, the words burning on the way out. “Is this just another mission for you? Another box to check?”

Kakashi shook his head, slow. “No.”

Genma let out a breath that sounded more like a sob. He rubbed his palms together, staring at the red crescents where his nails had broken the skin.

“You’re a monster,” he said, but there was no heat in it.

Kakashi sat down, cross-legged, opposite. “I know.”

For a long minute they just breathed, the only sound the hum of the fridge and the faint ticking of the old clock by the window.

Genma looked up. “You still going to take the missions?”

Kakashi considered. “If the Hokage orders it, yes.”

Genma nodded, once, sharp. “Then don’t come crying to me when you get cut up.”

Kakashi’s mouth moved, like he wanted to say something, but in the end he just nodded, a bare dip of the chin.

They stared at each other across the low table, two animals with nowhere else to go.

The apartment felt smaller than ever.

Outside, the sun dropped below the rooftops, and the last light turned everything blue.

The silence stretched so tight it could have sliced skin. Genma hunched over the table, staring at the mess of paperwork and tea stains, seeing none of it. Kakashi sat across from him, posture perfect, hands folded in his lap.

For a while, neither moved. The apartment filled up with the tick of the clock and the hush of night pressing in at the windows.

Genma was the first to speak. He didn’t mean to, but the words spilled out anyway, raw and unfiltered. “You know what pisses me off the most?” His voice had a rasp to it now, the sound of too many cigarettes and not enough sleep. “It’s not even the lying. It’s that you’re so fucking good at it.”

Kakashi’s only answer was a flicker in his eye, gone as soon as it came.

Genma pushed off the table and started pacing again, arms crossed so tight it looked like he was holding himself together by force. “I bet you’ve got a folder for every person you’ve ever met. Their weaknesses, their tells, how to break them if you had to. But you never use it, do you? You just file it away and pretend you’re not waiting for everyone to disappoint you.”

Kakashi didn’t reply.

Genma stopped at the window, looked out over the rooftops, and pressed his forehead to the cold glass. His breath left a ghostly oval, obscuring the view. “You made me think—” He cut himself off, jaw working, and when he turned back, the look on his face was naked and furious. “Was I just another mission to you? Another body to keep you entertained between assignments?”

Kakashi flinched, just a little. “Don’t be dramatic,” he said, but there was no heat in it.

Genma laughed, the sound ugly and close to tears. “Right. Because that’s my job. Keep it light, keep it fun, never let on that any of it might actually matter.”

He grabbed the edge of the table, knuckles whitening, and stared at Kakashi like he could will the other man into cracking first. “You ever care about anything, Hatake? Or is the whole world just a game to you?”

Kakashi’s eye flashed, hurt sharp and sudden, but then it went cold. “We were never anything real,” he said, voice icy. “Just friends with benefits, remember? That’s what we agreed on.”

Genma’s jaw snapped shut, and this time the senbon—recovered at some point in the argument—bent between his teeth. He spat it onto the floor, where it rolled and landed point-up, trembling in the aftermath.

“Fuck you,” Genma said, voice breaking for the first time. “I would have given you everything, and you’d rather die than let yourself want it.”

Kakashi didn’t answer. He just turned away, presenting his back like a fortress wall.

Genma waited, breath ragged, for some sign—any sign—that he’d landed a hit. Nothing. Just the set of Kakashi’s shoulders, the dip of his head, the way his hands curled and uncurled in his lap.

“This was a mistake from the beginning,” Kakashi said quietly.

Genma stared at him, the muscles in his face jerking like they couldn’t decide if he wanted to cry or laugh or start swinging. For a moment, it looked like he might. Then he wrenched the door open and stormed out, footsteps echoing down the hall.

He hesitated at the threshold, waiting for Kakashi to call after him, to say anything. But the apartment stayed silent.

He slammed the door, hard enough to knock a crooked photo off the wall. It landed face down, the glass shattering in the frame.

Inside, Kakashi didn’t move for a long time. He sat there, listening to the echo of Genma’s departure, the way the sound lingered in the bones of the building. Eventually he stood, picked up the broken picture, and set it on the table. He stared at the shards for a minute, then at the empty space where Genma had been.

He wiped his eyes, and let himself fall onto the futon.

The tears didn’t make a sound, but they soaked the pillow just the same.

Chapter Text

Genma started packing with the precision of a mortician, hands steady only because they’d lost the ability to tremble any slower. There was a routine to it: three rows of senbon, one labeled with black marker for the dose that would drop a bear in half a heartbeat. Backup kunai, two at the left calf, one at the hip, none of them standard issue. A roll of wire, a patch kit, an ampule of something that burned like the devil but stopped bleeding if you jammed it into a wound and didn’t think about it for too long. The bag zipped closed, the zipper’s teeth biting through the hush in the room.

He checked the straps, checked the contents, checked his wrist for a watch that wasn’t there, and then did it all again.

Raido was waiting by the gate, tapping out a message on a battered comms unit and not even pretending to look busy. His uniform was creased, hair still damp from an unnecessary shower, and he’d already found a way to get a grass stain on his knee. He looked up as Genma approached, scanning from boots to brow with the clinical affection of a fellow career insomniac.

“You’re loaded up like we’re going to war, not border patrol,” Raido said, grinning. “Expecting trouble?”

Genma bit down on the answer, which was yes, always, and instead rolled a senbon between his teeth. “Never hurts to be prepared. You got Iwashi?”

Raido jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Iwashi was hovering near the sentry shack, half-hidden by a plume of cigarette smoke and the tendency to shrink when scrutinized by senior officers. He perked up when Genma gestured him over, did a nervous shuffle, then joined the formation, eyes darting everywhere except directly at either of them.

Genma didn’t wait for the usual pleasantries. “We run the perimeter, counterclockwise, two sectors each before rendezvous at the river.” His voice was flat, stripped of even the polite veneer that Kurenai had once described as “barely adequate.” “Radio checks every half hour. If you see anything that even looks like a chakra signature, mark and fall back. No heroics, no deviation. Questions?”

Raido shook his head. Iwashi started to say something, then thought better of it and just nodded.

“Let’s move.”

They hit the tree line at a trot, Genma leading, the others flanking a step behind. The woods felt close, the old-growth pines soaking up sound and light until the whole world seemed reduced to the hush of footfalls and the tick of radio static. Genma set a brutal pace, not caring if the others lagged or if his own lungs started to seize after the second kilometer. Every movement was deliberate, every sense tuned to the point of discomfort. He scanned for ambushes that weren’t there, recalculated route options with every step, all to avoid thinking about anything except the next thirty seconds.

They made the first handoff at sector four. Raido slid in beside Genma, easy as a ghost, and matched his stride without breaking rhythm. Iwashi peeled back to cover the rear, relaying their position to Konoha with a code phrase that Genma didn’t bother to memorize.

“Nice day for it,” Raido said, after a hundred meters of silence. “Supposed to rain tonight. I hear that’s good luck, if you’re into that.”

Genma grunted.

Raido didn’t press. Instead, he dropped into a comfortable silence, content to let the woods fill the gaps. They moved like that for another sector, Genma’s mind slipping into the bliss of single-minded exertion.

Then Raido, out of nowhere: “Saw Hatake at HQ yesterday. Looked like hell.”

Genma’s senbon froze mid-spin. The momentum died on his tongue, the bitterness bleeding up through the enamel.

“Didn’t know he was back from the field,” Genma said. The words came out careful, the kind of careful that tasted like blood.

“Yeah. Paperwork up to his eyeballs, I heard. Not that he’d talk about it.” Raido’s eyes flicked sideways, checking for a reaction. “Said he was on extended standby. That’s gotta be killing him.”

Genma didn’t respond. He pivoted over a fallen log, picked up the pace, and ignored the way Raido’s gaze lingered on him, waiting for something to crack.

“Maybe he just needs to get out more,” Raido offered, voice light but not unkind. “You know how some guys are. If they’re not in the field, they start eating themselves alive.”

Genma snapped a low branch out of the way, didn’t bother holding it for Raido. “We’re here to work, not psychoanalyze the ANBU captain.”

Raido let the branch hit him, didn’t flinch. “Just making conversation.”

“Don’t.”

They made it to the river by noon, the three of them spacing out along the bank while Genma scouted the crossing. He checked the water for movement, then the treetops for anything off, then finally the air, pulling in a slow drag of oxygen and humidity until his head cleared a little.

Iwashi had already set up the portable stove, heating water for tea that neither of the others would drink. He fiddled with the radio, flipping through channels in a pattern that Genma recognized as nervous habit. When Genma approached, Iwashi straightened, clearing his throat.

“Heard a rumor they’re going to rotate us to the western sector next week,” Iwashi said. “Supposed to be less eventful, but the pay’s better.”

Genma grunted. “That’s what they said about the last rotation.”

Iwashi hesitated, then: “Suppose so. At least we haven’t had any bodies turn up this time.”

The phrase landed heavy in the silence. Raido looked up from where he was lacing a fresh tourniquet around his forearm—testing it, not using it—and snorted. “If you want excitement, you can trade shifts with the outer perimeter crew. Last week, they had to fish a bear out of the river.”

Iwashi’s mouth twisted. “I’ll pass.”

Genma sat, knees popping, and started assembling a fresh set of senbon. The kit was immaculate, the tools lined up like soldiers, every needle inspected for flaws. He was halfway through a bundle when Raido sidled closer, dropping his voice.

“You haven’t slept, have you?”

Genma didn’t look up. “Enough.”

“You look like you’ve been run over by a horse and then used to resurface the training field.”

Genma rolled his eyes. “Is there a point to this, or are you just bored?”

Raido leaned back, hands behind his head. “You know what happens when you don’t rest, right? You start making mistakes. Little ones at first, then bigger.”

Genma snapped a needle into its case. “Noted.”

“I’m serious,” Raido said, and there was a weight to it that cut through the banter. “You can’t keep running yourself into the ground. Not after—” He hesitated, then shifted gears. “You’re not the only one who’s lost shit lately.”

Genma’s fingers went still. The edge of the senbon dug into his palm, cold and sharp.

“I’m fine,” Genma said, voice low. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

Raido let the silence sit for a while. Then, soft, “Sure.”

They spent the afternoon running drills, mapping the choke points along the river and logging every footprint, broken branch, and suspicious ripple in the current. Genma found comfort in the pattern, the way each task could be completed, checked, and then locked away as done. If he kept moving, there was no room for anything else.

Night fell fast. The clouds moved in, thick and low, turning the sky the color of old bruises. Iwashi set up the tent, while Genma did a sweep of the perimeter and Raido stoked a fire that did nothing to cut the cold.

They sat around the flames, each pretending to be absorbed in their own little world. Iwashi cleaned his boots, Raido whittled at a piece of driftwood with a kunai, and Genma stripped and re-stripped his gear until there was nothing left to fix.

When the watch rotation came up, Genma volunteered for first and last shift. Raido raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue.

As the others turned in, Raido lingered at the edge of the firelight.

“You can’t keep this up,” Raido said, quiet. “It doesn’t end well.”

Genma met his gaze, the fatigue scraping at the back of his eyes. “Watch me.”

He took the first watch, boots crunching on frost as he paced the bank. The moon was a pale smear behind the clouds, throwing just enough light to turn the water silver and the trees into hulking silhouettes. Genma let the rhythm of his patrol bleed into the rhythm of his thoughts, keeping both tightly leashed.

At the far end of the loop, he stopped, staring at the sky. The silence was so complete that he could hear his own breath, ragged at the edges.

He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing the rough edge of a folded photo, a scrap from some other life. He pulled his hand back before he could unfold it, shoved both fists into his jacket, and kept walking.

There was no room for old wounds tonight.

He had a job to do.

The ANBU underground was designed for anonymity: corridors bleached of personality, offices with the warmth of medical freezers, every door sealed tight enough to keep the world at bay. The room they’d given Kakashi was functional—barely. A desk big enough to sleep on, which he’d tried twice; a wall of lockboxes for classified scrolls; a cot for “rest” that sat untouched. The only sign of occupation was the drift of paperwork that overflowed the desk and accumulated in slow, semi-conscious piles on the floor.

Kakashi hunched at the epicenter, mask half-askew, visible eye bloodshot from the glow of too many hours under the wrong kind of light. The lamp overhead cast everything in shades of gray-green. The coffee cup nearest his hand had gone cold three hours ago, but the taste was still thick in his mouth. He chewed it over, letting the bitterness numb the nerves, and turned another page.

There was a logic to the work: every document a puzzle, every annotation a breadcrumb. He moved from report to mission log to incident debrief with a speed that had long since outpaced his ability to care. But caring wasn’t the point. Completion was. If he could get to the bottom of the stack, maybe the noise in his head would stop for a minute.

He’d just finished signing off on a disciplinary action—some idiot had dropped a smoke bomb in the HQ foyer, tripping every alarm for a quarter-mile—when Tenzou entered, the man’s presence immediately palpable in the change of air. Tenzou always knocked, even when he didn’t need to. Today he didn’t bother.

“Captain,” Tenzou said, shutting the door behind him. The rank sounded perfunctory, an old habit more than respect.

Kakashi nodded but didn’t look up. “What’s the problem?”

Tenzou crossed to the desk, scanned the mess with a tactical eye, and set a fresh folder dead-center. He took in Kakashi’s appearance in one sweep: the hair pointing every direction but down, the half-moon of grime on the mask, the way the uniform bunched at the collar like he’d slept in it, which was a fair assumption. Tenzou’s mouth twitched, concern barely disguised as contempt.

“You’ve been here for thirty-six hours straight,” Tenzou said. “According to sign-in, anyway.”

Kakashi grunted. “Nobody’s counting.”

“I am,” Tenzou replied. He produced a cup of tea from somewhere, set it within reach. “Hydrate or die. You say that all the time, but you’re the worst offender.”

Kakashi let the cup sit, untouched, as he skimmed the new folder. He flipped the first page, found the summary, and scanned it in two seconds.

“Border incursion, western sector. Thought that was outside our jurisdiction.”

Tenzou shrugged. “Supposed to be, but somebody lost a relay drone, and now there’s a hole in the perimeter.”

Kakashi’s hand moved fast, redlining the relevant section. “Who’s running the sweep?”

Tenzou hesitated, then: “Shiranui’s team.”

For a second, everything in the room stilled. Even the lamp seemed to buzz louder.

Kakashi’s fingers tightened on the pen, knuckles going pale. He kept his voice even. “They’re competent.”

“I’d hope so,” Tenzou said, “since they haven’t slept either. Raido reported in six hours ago; said Genma’s pushing double shifts and won’t let anyone else take lead.”

Kakashi shrugged. “He likes control.”

Tenzou frowned. “He likes living. There’s a difference.”

Kakashi said nothing. He read to the end of the page, marked it, then set the file aside.

“You want me to intervene?” he asked, not looking up.

Tenzou considered. “No. But you could lighten their load.”

Kakashi turned to the next file, shutting down the conversation. “That’s above my pay grade.”

Tenzou’s patience was legendary, but even he had limits. “I’m serious, Captain. If you keep running your people like this, you’re going to start losing them. Maybe not today, but soon.”

Kakashi ignored him, or pretended to. He could feel Tenzou’s eyes drilling into his skull, picking apart every sign of fatigue. There was a time when this would have led to an argument, or at least a performance. Now it was just one more thing to file and forget.

Tenzou let the silence stretch, then gave up. He straightened a stack of loose papers, took the empty coffee cup, and left the tea behind.

When the door clicked shut, Kakashi sat back, closed both eyes, and waited for the world to slow down. It didn’t.

He glanced at the cup—still steaming, the ceramic white and out of place on the stained surface. He reached for it, hesitated, then pulled his hand back.

The room was stifling. He peeled off the jacket, tossed it on a chair, and went to the locker at the far wall. Inside: a spare mask, still in its plastic, and a shirt he hadn’t washed in two weeks. He changed without looking in the mirror, not wanting to see what had become of his own face.

On the way back to the desk, he caught his toe on a cardboard box tucked under the cot. He’d meant to throw it out months ago. It contained: two ruined masks, a set of dog tags (not his), and a photo frame, glass spiderwebbed from the last time he’d dropped it.

He bent to pick it up, hesitated, then flipped it over so the picture faced the floor.

He set the empty box on the cot, sat down, and pressed his palms to his eyes until the afterimages started to swirl. He counted to a hundred, then a thousand, then lost count.

When he opened his eyes, it was like nothing had changed, except the world had gone an hour grayer and his brain felt ten degrees colder.

He got up, returned to the desk, and started working through the pile again, every report another step away from what waited at the edge of consciousness.

It was after the fifth file that he realized he’d been holding the same pen for half an hour, the plastic bent near to snapping. He flexed his hand, felt the ache all the way up to his elbow, and let it drop.

He reached for the tea, found it tepid, but drank it anyway.

At some point, the lights went out in the hallway, plunging the room into half-dark. Kakashi kept working, head down, breath slow, mind lashed to the task in front of him.

It was easier this way.

He didn’t notice the time until the clock on the wall chimed three times, the sound tinny and far away.

He closed the last file, stacked it on the right, and reached for his mask.

He tugged it off with one hand, not caring where it landed. His lips were split, the skin at the corners raw from too much clenching. He ran a thumb along his jaw, feeling the bruise that had never really healed, then let his hand drop to his lap.

He sat there, face bare, the room closing in. No one to see. Nothing to hide.

After a while, he pulled the spare mask from the locker, slipped it on, and prepared for the next shift.

If there was pain, he didn’t show it.

He’d trained himself not to.

The first light of morning painted the training grounds a sickly shade of blue, a color reserved for failed sleep and the ghosts who lived at the edges of respectable society. Genma liked it best this way. The dew froze his boots to the grass, the air cut like a kunai, and no one—absolutely no one—was around to see him.

He worked the senbon through his routine, balancing one on the tip of every finger, then swapping them back and forth without dropping a single piece. He’d done it so often that his body moved ahead of his brain, letting the small muscles in his hands think for themselves. Every so often he’d miss on purpose, just to feel the sting when the point grazed a knuckle. The pain kept him awake, present, real.

He was halfway through a pivot when a sound—more seismic event than footstep—shook the air. Might Guy, in his full green glory, hurtled over the nearest fence, landed in a squat, and bellowed, “GENMA! The fires of YOUTH beckon us to greater heights today!”

Genma froze, senbon hovering between thumb and palm. He let his breath out in a sharp hiss, shoulders cording as he forced himself upright.

“Morning, Guy,” Genma said, flat as cement.

Guy bounded over, a metronome of uncontainable energy. “You are here at DAWN! Most inspiring!” He leaned in, eyebrows threatening to bridge the gap between their faces. “But, my friend, you seem… how do they say… undercaffeinated? Have you been unwell?”

Genma snorted. “Guess you could say that.” He started picking up the fallen senbon, keeping his back to Guy. “Just making up for lost time.”

Guy’s face—never subtle—pinched in concern. “It is good to push one’s limits, but over-training can lead to tragic setbacks! Even the springtime of youth requires proper recovery, Genma!”

Genma hunched lower, assembling his kit with mechanical precision. “I’m fine,” he said. “Seriously. You don’t need to—”

“On the contrary!” Guy said, planting his fists on his hips. “As your comrade, it is my duty to ensure you remain at PEAK FITNESS!”

Genma closed his eyes. He counted to five, then ten, but the volume didn’t go away.

Guy edged closer, voice dropping a fraction. “Kakashi has been absent from these fields of late. I know you two are not rivals in the classic sense, but you have always balanced each other. I worry, for both of you.”

Genma’s jaw ticked. “That so.”

Guy hesitated, the silence uncharacteristic. “You know, in times of emotional duress, one must share the burden with friends.”

Genma snorted, not unkindly. “Not much of a burden to share.”

“You underestimate the concern of your comrades!” Guy’s hand landed on Genma’s shoulder, the grip just shy of a death clamp. “If you need to talk, I am always available. If words are insufficient, perhaps a contest of push-ups will restore your SPIRIT!”

Genma slid out from under the hand, putting three paces between them. “Thanks, Guy. I’ll pass on the therapy-by-muscle-exhaustion.”

Guy’s face fell, but only for a second. “Then let us at least spar! Physical expression can be very cathartic!”

Genma shook his head. “Don’t want to break myself, or you.”

“Impossible!” Guy boomed, but the words rang hollow. He dropped to a crouch, then looked up, face unguarded. “Genma. Are you truly all right?”

Genma looked away. The sky was getting lighter; soon, other ninja would filter in and the world would reassert its rules.

“Some things you can’t fix with talk, or push-ups, or even a thousand drills,” Genma said. He snapped his senbon kit shut, the click final. “Some stuff just has to wear out.”

Guy nodded, solemn. “Then I will wait, as long as it takes. But remember—you are never alone, Genma! Not while the fires of youth burn in the hearts of your friends!”

Genma almost smiled, but the muscles wouldn’t cooperate. “Thanks, Guy.”

He turned, moving off the field before the day could catch him.

Across the village, the jonin standby station was a shrine to boredom: battered chairs, three types of stale snack, and a reading selection that had not been updated since the Second Hokage’s reign. Asuma lounged at the end of the table, cigarette poised over a napkin, and watched as Kakashi pretended to read a book without turning the pages.

“Didn’t expect to see you here before noon,” Asuma said.

Kakashi’s eye didn’t move from the text. “Didn’t expect to be here.”

“Can’t sleep?”

A half-shrug. “Sleep is overrated.”

Asuma ground out his cigarette, eyeing Kakashi with the shrewdness of a man who’d spent years spotting weak points in stone walls and people alike. “You hear about that border situation? Genma’s running himself ragged.”

Kakashi kept reading, but the fingers on his book stilled. “He’s always been a hard worker.”

“Hard enough to skip meals and night-watch back-to-back?” Asuma arched a brow. “Even for him, that’s excessive.”

Kakashi didn’t bite. “Maybe he’s training for a promotion.”

Asuma leaned in, elbows on the table. “So what happened?”

Kakashi turned a page, slow and deliberate. “What do you mean?”

“You and Genma. Everyone thought—” Asuma paused, collecting his words. “Well, at least that you’d be speaking to each other.”

Kakashi shut the book with a soft thud. “People think a lot of things.”

Asuma grinned, but it was more sympathy than gloating. “You know, I used to think being a jonin meant you could solve any problem. Turns out it just makes you better at hiding them.”

Kakashi eyed the book, then the clock on the wall. “You’re very philosophical today.”

“Comes with the territory,” Asuma said. “Cigarettes help, too.”

A silence. Then, quieter: “If you ever want to talk, I can listen. I’m better at it than I look.”

Kakashi considered. For a moment, it seemed he might take the offer. Then: “I think you’d be bored.”

Asuma snorted. “Maybe. But I’d rather be bored than watch two of the best jonin in the village self-destruct over a fight nobody else even remembers the cause of.”

Kakashi’s eye creased at the corner, a shadow of his old humor. “Thanks for the concern.”

Asuma shrugged. “Don’t mention it.”

Kakashi stood, tucking the book under his arm. “I won’t.”

He left in a swirl of displaced air, barely making a sound.

Asuma watched the door for a while, then lit another cigarette, letting the smoke rise and dissipate like the hope he’d ever get through to either of them.

Back on the training field, Guy went through his own routine, every move crisp and loud enough to be heard from the next block over. But there was a heaviness to it, a weight that slowed even his most flamboyant flourishes. He finished a set of handstands, then paused, sweat trickling down his face. He looked to the spot where Genma had been, eyes distant.

“I believe in you, Genma,” he whispered.

Then he attacked the next set with a vengeance, as if he could muscle the world back to order with enough effort.

But the field, like the day, remained stubbornly indifferent.

Genma’s apartment felt smaller after midnight, like the walls had inched closer while he was away, closing ranks against the threat of sleep. The entryway was a logjam of half-dried jackets and paperwork, mission scrolls tossed atop a layer of shoes and boot grit. He kicked through the mess, dropping his bag by the door with a sound like a sigh. No one to hear it, not even the neighbors; they’d learned to ignore the late comings and goings of shinobi who never kept a schedule.

He flicked on the overhead light, which flickered before settling on the color of diluted soup. The kitchen sink overflowed with unwashed mugs, their rims crusted with old tea and something that might have been soup. Genma ignored them, moving instead to the battered kotatsu and collapsing on the floor beside it. He pulled out the senbon kit, flipping it open with a practiced flick. The first thing he noticed was how badly his hands shook.

He tried to set the next needle in its clamp, missed, and watched it skitter across the table and onto the floor. He reached for another, dropped that one too. By the third attempt, he was swearing under his breath, the words melting together in a hiss. Eventually he got a grip, but the work was slow, and the tip of his thumb was bleeding by the time he’d finished polishing a single needle.

He set the kit aside and leaned back, eyes to the ceiling, counting the slow crawl of a spider as it navigated the cracked paint. He stayed like that for a while, letting the world blur at the edges.

When he came back to himself, the clock on the wall had jumped two hours, and his body felt like it was made of cement. He forced himself upright, crawled to the sideboard, and started digging for a pen. The first drawer he opened stuck halfway; he yanked, and it jerked free, scattering a stack of old forms and a single, dust-coated dog figurine.

Genma stared at it for a second. Silver fur, black nose, the kind of mass-produced trinket that showed up in the market every festival season. Someone—he didn’t remember who—had gifted it as a joke, because of the resemblance to a certain ninken. He picked it up, weighed it in his palm, and then, without thinking, slammed the drawer shut on it.

The noise echoed through the apartment, the only pulse of sound in an otherwise dead space.

He scribbled a note on the first scrap of paper he found, then lay down on the tatami, mission bag still packed and ready by the door. He hugged a scroll to his chest—not for comfort, just because it was there—and let sleep pull him under, a slow spiral into nothing.

Half a mile away, the rooftops of Konoha shimmered in the light from a thousand windows, but the one above Kakashi’s flat was dark. He stood at the edge, mask slouched to his chin, arms crossed tight against the cold. The Hokage Monument loomed in the distance, lit from beneath by floodlights that cast the faces into a drama of shadow and indifference.

Pakkun sat beside him, paws splayed, head tilted just enough to suggest skepticism.

“You know,” Pakkun said, after a long silence, “most people don’t work themselves to death for fun.”

Kakashi kept his eyes forward. “I’m not most people.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” Pakkun yawned, exposing an impressive set of teeth. “You could at least pretend to have a hobby.”

Kakashi didn’t answer. He let the chill cut through his shirt, feeling the ache where the bruises still hadn’t faded. He rolled his neck, then his shoulders, but the tension only got worse. His hand moved, unthinking, to his chest, pressing where the old senbon wound had healed into a line of pink.

Pakkun glanced at the hand, then back up to Kakashi’s face. “If you keep this up, you’re going to end up like one of those statues. All stone, no heart.”

Kakashi closed his eye, let the wind slice the rest of the words away.

He stayed like that for a long time, until the city dimmed and the only sounds left were the distant rumble of patrols and the creak of the old roof settling under his weight.

When he finally went inside, the apartment was as empty as he’d left it. He moved straight to the futon, not bothering to turn on a light.

Something crunched under his foot. He looked down and saw a senbon, bent but still sharp. He let it be.

He lay down, arms folded behind his head, and stared into the dark until his body shut itself off.

He didn’t dream.

Across the village, Genma did—unpleasant, fractured things that left him gasping and alone when the morning came. But neither of them, even awake, was ready to do anything about it.

Not yet.

The next week ran itself on repeat, a loop of skipped meals and silent days. Genma’s world narrowed to the routes that kept him away from the high-traffic streets, the missions that could be completed at a dead run, and the places in Konoha where he knew he wouldn’t run into anyone he didn’t want to see. Most days, that list included everyone.

He saw the shock of silver hair in the market on Thursday, between the miso vendor and the stand that sold oranges bruised enough to pass for apples. The air froze in Genma’s lungs; he pivoted so fast he nearly knocked over a civilian, muttered an apology, and ducked down a side alley. He kept moving, heart tripping, not stopping until he’d lost three blocks and the world had gone gray at the edges.

He waited in the shadow of a delivery truck, breathing slow, until his pulse decided to play along. Only then did he hazard a glance back. The market crowd churned as always, but the silver was gone—vanished, like he’d imagined it.

He hated that it still got to him. Hated more that he couldn’t predict when it would strike: sometimes he could see the color and feel nothing, other days it was all he could do not to double over and retch. He braced a hand on the wall, eyes closed, and let the morning sun bake the world back into color.

Across the rooftops, Kakashi’s days blurred into a series of tactical retreats. He’d sense Genma’s chakra signature long before the man came into view, and every time, without fail, Kakashi would alter course—sometimes by as much as a mile—to avoid the collision.

He told himself it was strategic, that there was no value in old wounds. But every time he felt Genma’s presence, something in his chest went taut and wild. He’d lie low, wait out the proximity, and only move when he was sure the space between them had grown cold again.

The avoidance became a game of its own. By the end of the week, Kakashi had mapped out an entire secondary circuit of the village, a secret network of alleys and fire escapes designed for nothing but escape.

He wondered if Genma had done the same.

The friends, for their part, noticed. Iwashi saw it first. He cornered Genma after a mission briefing, handed over the latest batch of patrol logs, and frowned at the way Genma’s vest hung on his shoulders.

“You losing weight?” Iwashi asked, blunt as a punch.

Genma shrugged. “Hard to keep up with the calories, that’s all.”

Iwashi didn’t buy it. “If you don’t slow down, you’re going to get yourself benched.”

Genma shot him a look, more warning than thanks. “Better benched than bored.”

The phrase echoed in Iwashi’s head for the rest of the day.

Over at the ANBU HQ, Tenzou watched as Kakashi burned through a month’s worth of solo recon assignments in a single week. Each time, he returned with a report that was technically flawless but left the office air sharp with ozone and tension.

Tenzou flagged him after one shift, standing in the corridor outside the file room. “You’re running hot, Captain,” he said. “I know you don’t like downtime, but you’re not helping anyone if you fry your nerves.”

Kakashi gave him a long, measured look. “I’m handling it.”

“Doesn’t look like it,” Tenzou replied. “You haven’t been to a team debrief in days.”

Kakashi shrugged. “No need. Everything’s covered.”

Tenzou considered, then tried a different approach. “You ever think about talking to him? To Genma, I mean.”

Kakashi’s eye went flat. “Nothing to say.”

“Suit yourself,” Tenzou said, but the words landed with the weight of unfinished business.

The only time they nearly crossed paths was at the memorial stone.

Genma went early, as was his habit, hands in pockets, letting the morning fog coat his hair and soak through the old bandage on his finger. He stood at the edge of the field, counted the names, and left before the sun could burn away the last of the mist.

Kakashi arrived five minutes later, trailing the scent of ozone and cut grass. He stood where Genma had stood, eyes tracing the engraved names, fingers curled loose at his sides.

He almost missed the senbon, half-buried in the mud at the base of the stone. He bent, picked it up, and turned it in his fingers, the tip still bright from last night’s polish. For a long time, he just held it, unmoving. Then he set it on the edge of the stone, point outward, and stepped away.

The rest of the week played out as more of the same. Bar invitations from Raido went unanswered. Iwashi stopped asking. Even Guy, undeterred by any previous obstacle, started dialing back the volume when Genma passed in the halls.

Genma noticed it, in the way people looked at him and then didn’t, in the extra space granted him on the bench outside the mission room. He didn’t care. Or maybe he did, but he liked the quiet.

Late at night, he sat at his table, rolling the broken senbon between his palms, the steel flashing under the lamp. He traced the flaw in the shaft, pressing his thumb into the notch until it stung.

He wondered if it could be fixed.

Kakashi, for his part, spent more time on the rooftops than in his own apartment. The city felt easier from a distance; the problems of the world looked smaller, the people less sharp-edged. Sometimes he’d bring a book, flipping through the pages until the words bled into nothing. He found himself checking the edges of his vision for a hint of brown hair, a glint of senbon, but always found only sky.

He kept the book open to the page where, once, a senbon had marked his place. He ran a finger over the crease, imagining the weight of it, the way the needle fit so neatly between the leaves.

He wondered if Genma had another, or if the loss had left a mark.

A week became two. Then three.

At some point, both men realized they were waiting for something—the world to shift, or maybe just for the ache to dull enough that they could stand to look each other in the eye again.

But neither was quite ready to make the first move.

Not yet.

In the meantime, the senbon remained on the stone, silver and unbending.

Waiting.

Chapter Text

By the fifth drink, Genma had started to lose count, which was not the same as being drunk—just a sign that the part of his brain that did math had finally thrown up its hands and gone on strike. He traced the rim of the glass with a thumb, staring through the liquid at the warped reflection of his own face, and thought, not for the first time, that the only honest thing in the room was the ring of sticky residue left by the last round.

The bar didn’t have a name, or if it did, nobody used it. Out front, a flickering sign promised “Sake Beer Spirits Good Time” in three alphabets, none of them properly aligned. The inside was barely a step above a bunker, low ceiling stained with years of smoke, every surface lacquered with the kind of grime that only came from a clientele who considered hand-washing an affront to their warrior spirit. The air was equal parts rice wine, old sweat, and the metallic tang of cleaning fluid that never quite got the job done.

Raido and Aoba were flanking him, as usual, one to each side like they were afraid he might tip over and roll under the table if left unsupervised. Raido had the look of a man preparing to catch a live grenade, knuckles pale on his glass. Aoba, more subtle, hunched with his head angled toward Genma but his eyes on the door, as if half-expecting a surprise inspection from the Hokage himself. They were talking, but the words blurred together—a low drone, punctuated by bursts of nervous laughter.

Genma pretended not to notice. He had the routine down: nod at the right intervals, punctuate with a deadpan “heh,” and every now and then toss in a detail from a mission long enough ago that nobody would remember he’d already told the story twice. It was easier than acknowledging the way the senbon trembled in his mouth every time he took a sip, or how his vision had started to ghost at the edges when the room got too loud.

Three months since the fallout with Kakashi, and Genma still felt the raw spot behind his sternum, the place where the old pain set up shop and refused to leave. He’d tried to medicate it—first with extra shifts, then with extra missions, and finally with enough alcohol to kill a small dog. Nothing stuck. The pain just found new ways to crawl into his bones, gnawing at him like a bored ninken.

He took another drink. The stuff burned, but in a way that was almost nostalgic—a distant echo of nights spent in worse bars, with worse company, pretending the world outside couldn’t touch them.

Raido broke the script first. He leaned in, his voice low and pitched for privacy, but Genma knew damn well everyone within five feet could hear him. “You ever think about taking a break?” he said. “You don’t have to be on duty every night.”

Genma snorted. “I am taking a break. That’s what this is.” He tipped the glass, making the dregs swirl. “See? Recreational activity.”

Aoba tried to laugh, but it came out strangled. He poked at the rim of his own drink, then said, “You’re setting a new record, you know. They’re going to name the next bottle after you.”

Genma shot him a look. “Only if I die first. Otherwise, it’s just embarrassing.”

Aoba shut up. Raido didn’t.

“Seriously,” Raido said, fingers drumming on the table. “You look like hell, Gen. I get it, you’re tough, but—”

Genma didn’t let him finish. “But what? You want me to start crying? Tell you all my problems?” He rolled the senbon between his teeth, a quick flicker of muscle memory. “I’m fine. I just don’t see the point in pretending things are okay when they’re not.”

Raido’s jaw flexed. “You could at least stop drinking like you’re trying to win a bet.”

Genma grinned, wide and empty. “If there’s a prize, I want to know about it.”

Silence settled in, thick as syrup. Genma drained the last of his glass, then raised a finger for another round. The bartender—an old man with arms like tree trunks and a forehead that could deflect kunai—nodded without looking up from the glass he was polishing.

Aoba shifted, trying to ease the tension. “So, uh, did you hear about the mission to Land of Rivers? Iwashi says they got lost for two days because no one wanted to ask directions.”

Genma grunted, but let the story roll. It was better than thinking about anything else. He watched the neon from the sign outside ripple across the bar’s chipped mirror, turning every face in the room into a mask of colored shadow and cheap light. He wondered if anyone here actually liked each other, or if they were all just killing time until the next disaster.

The door opened. Genma’s spine went rigid, an old habit that never really left. He watched the entrance through the bottle, heart jumping even though he knew it wouldn’t be him—wouldn’t be the man with the mask and the lazy drawl and the knack for showing up exactly when Genma least wanted him to. Just another regular, wet from the rain, hunched and sullen. Genma relaxed, only a little.

Raido noticed. “Still waiting for him to walk through that door?” he said, voice soft.

Genma stared at him, eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Raido held the gaze, not backing down. “It’s been three months. If you were really over it, you wouldn’t flinch every time someone with white hair walks in.”

Genma bared his teeth. “You’re not my therapist, Raido.”

Raido set his glass down, hard enough to splash. “No, but I am your friend. Or I was, before you turned into this.”

Aoba froze, caught in the crossfire. Genma looked from one to the other, then back at the glass, tracing the rim with the tip of the senbon.

“What do you want from me?” Genma said. “You want me to start dating again? Want me to sign up for a cooking class? Maybe take up knitting, like the old ladies in the tower?”

“I want you to stop acting like you’re the only one who’s ever been left,” Raido said. “We all get it, Gen. It sucks. But you can’t keep doing this forever.”

Genma let the words sink in, tasted them on the back of his tongue. He thought about the last time he’d seen Kakashi—how the man had looked at him, empty and cold, like he was already halfway gone. He remembered the sound of the door closing, the silence that followed. He remembered thinking: this is what it feels like to be hollow.

He snapped the senbon from his mouth, twirled it once, and stabbed it into the wood of the table. “I’m just enjoying my night off,” he said, voice flat.

Raido shook his head, but didn’t argue. He signaled for another round.

Aoba tried again, desperation in his voice. “Maybe we should try the new place on the other side of the street next time. Different scenery, different drinks, different—” He caught himself. “—everything.”

Genma almost laughed, but it came out as a sigh. “Sure. Next time.”

They let the silence hang, three men hunched over their drinks, shadows bleeding into one another on the battered table. Genma watched the neon smear across the glass, watched the world outside bend and break in the rain.

He wondered if anyone would notice if he just got up and left. He wondered if he would even notice, anymore.

The bartender brought the next round, and Genma raised his glass, hand trembling only a little.

“To different everything,” he said, not really meaning it.

They drank, and the night pressed in closer, thick and unrelenting.

The forest after dark was a different country: every tree a border post, every patch of fog another layer of defense against the world beyond. Kakashi moved through it like he’d been born here, body dropping from limb to limb, never touching the ground unless he meant to. The uniform, standard-issue but battered, clung to him in patches of mud and leaf-stain. The mask was so soaked with sweat it felt like another skin, fused to the line of his jaw.

He didn’t bother to slow down. There was no reason, no threat he hadn’t already catalogued, no patrol route that didn’t yield to his relentless calculus. He was on his third sweep of the outer perimeter, muscles burning in a way that would have been pleasant if he’d cared about that sort of thing anymore.

He hit a snag—barbed wire, improvised, the kind of trap that would have shredded a genin’s thigh. He slid past it, barely a pause, but caught a scrape on his wrist. He didn’t bother to check if it bled. It probably did.

The air here was thicker, heavy with the smell of moss and wet stone. Every now and then, a scrap of moonlight cut through the canopy, catching the edge of his movement and casting a double-shadow on the ground below. The effect was ghostly, but he was used to it.

The radio crackled to life in his ear, a burst of static and the low voice of Tenzou, somewhere to the east.

“Hatake. Status?”

Kakashi landed on a dead branch, barely a flex in his knees, and thumbed the receiver. “Clear. North sector stable. Moving to the next point.”

A pause, then: “You’re ahead of schedule.”

Kakashi checked the horizon. “No reason to waste time.”

“Captain—” The word hung. “You should rest. Rotate shifts.”

Kakashi muted the channel before he could respond. The protocol said he was supposed to check in every hour, but the protocol was written by people who’d never had to outrun their own thoughts. He jumped the next twenty meters in two moves, ignoring the twinge in his calf.

By the time he reached the second checkpoint, the sun had fully surrendered to the night. He flicked a kunai at the sensor, heard it ping, then landed beside the receiver. The data scroll spat out a strip of code, which he scanned, then tucked into his vest. The other hand checked the map—unfolded with care, the edges already frayed and soft from constant handling.

He traced the patrol pattern, saw that he’d covered every inch twice, and felt nothing but the dull ache behind his eye. He made a note in the margin anyway, then leapt away, moving west, eyes tuned to the colorless world.

He didn’t remember when he’d started doubling up on missions. Maybe it was after the third week of silence from Genma, or maybe after the first night he woke up to find himself alone and reaching for a body that wasn’t there. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the next task, and the one after that, and the one after that.

Another radio burst, this time softer, as if someone was afraid to wake a sleeping dog. “Captain. You’re off grid. Report position.”

Kakashi took a slow breath, letting the air scald his lungs. “On route. North by northwest, sector C3. Will relay in thirty.”

He could feel the skepticism through the line. He understood; nobody else in the squad ran solo at night. Nobody else preferred it.

He kept moving, eyes scanning for anything that broke the pattern: a branch at the wrong angle, a rock with too much moss, the faintest shimmer of chakra in the air. Once, he thought he saw movement—a flash of fur, maybe, or a ninken that had gone feral in the off-season. He paused, waited for the world to settle, then pressed on.

His body started to betray him at hour four. The sweat dried and left him cold, a shiver creeping up his spine. The mask clung tighter, every breath a rasp. His hands shook when he reached for the next marker, and the pen he used to annotate the map slipped, leaving a smear that looked almost like blood.

He ignored it. There was no time for weakness.

As midnight approached, he hit the last required checkpoint, but didn’t stop. Instead, he rerouted himself, taking a detour along the river—the path least likely to be watched, most likely to reveal a hidden adversary. The banks were slick, the rocks uneven, but he navigated them with numb efficiency. When he reached the end of the line, he sat, just for a second, legs dangling over the edge.

The moon was out, turning the water into a strip of burnished steel. He let himself breathe, just once, then unfolded the mission notes, scanning for any sign that he’d missed a detail. The page shook in his hands, the text blurring until he forced his fingers to lock down.

He set the notes aside, then reached for the map. In the moonlight, it was clear how much extra work he’d taken on—every sector marked, every route crosshatched with annotations, some written so small he could barely read them. No one had told him to do this; no one even knew.

He held the map out, letting the chill air flatten it against his knees. The hands, when they stopped moving, trembled. He pressed them flat to the page until the tremor stilled.

For a moment, he remembered the taste of Genma’s hair, the way it always smelled faintly of burnt sugar and tobacco, even after a week in the field. He wondered what the other man was doing now, if he was still drinking himself stupid or if he’d finally found something better to fill the emptiness.

He dismissed the thought, folding it away with the map.

The river kept moving, silent and relentless.

Kakashi stood, joints popping, and started back for the village. The job was never done, not really.

But for now, it was enough.

He faded into the trees, another shadow among shadows, and left the moon to mind the rest.

By midnight the bar had become a low-rent crucible: heat rising from too many bodies, the chatter lurching between boisterous and near-violent, every glass sticky and every table down an average of three legs. Genma had not only lost count of his drinks, he’d lost count of the number of times Raido tried to cut him off. The fifth, maybe sixth attempt ended with Genma slapping Raido’s hand away, a frown carved deep into the lines of his face.

“You’ve had enough,” Raido said, reaching again.

Genma snatched the glass back, sloshing liquid onto the counter. “You’re not my handler.”

The bartender, mid-polish of a cloudy tumbler, looked up with a warning in his eyes. It was the same look he reserved for customers about to be thrown out on their ass. Genma saw it, logged it, but refused to acknowledge the growing tension.

Aoba, trying to keep the peace, shifted tactics. “So, uh, next week’s rotation—they say the mission desk is assigning only C-ranks. Raido, you believe that?”

Raido, not taking the bait, kept his eyes on Genma. “Maybe they’re finally trusting the chuunin to handle their own problems.”

Genma grunted, the sound thick with contempt. “Chuunin couldn’t handle a wet towel without a written tutorial.”

Aoba laughed, too loud. “There’s a rumor they’re sending Ebisu to lead one of the squads. He’ll whip them into shape.”

Genma rolled his eyes so hard it was almost audible. “Perfect. Nothing like a stuck-up jonin to show everyone how it’s done.”

He drained the glass, then stared at the bottom, as if daring the alcohol to vanish through force of will.

The door banged open. Ebisu entered, as precise as ever—uniform pressed, hair immaculate, posture ramrod straight despite the haze of beer and shouting that filled the room. He surveyed the bar, nose wrinkled, then made for the far end, passing Genma’s table on the way.

Genma clocked him before Aoba did. The look on Ebisu’s face—something between polite disdain and honest confusion—was all it took to get Genma’s blood up.

He stood, too fast, the chair clattering. “Oi,” he said, voice pitched high enough to cut through the noise. “You got something to say?”

Ebisu paused, sunglasses catching the neon. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me,” Genma spat, senbon clenched between his teeth. “You’ve been giving us that look all night. If you have a problem, say it to my face.”

Raido was up in a second, hands hovering near Genma’s shoulders. “Gen, sit down—”

But Genma was already moving, a sway in his step that made him look dangerous or just dangerously off-balance. “Come on, Ebisu. Out with it. Or is there a regulation against talking to the lower classes?”

Ebisu, to his credit, didn’t retreat. He adjusted his sunglasses, face set to maximum professionalism. “I wasn’t aware you were so sensitive, Shiranui. Perhaps you should moderate your intake.”

The crowd at nearby tables went quiet, sensing the possibility of a brawl. Genma grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Or what? You’ll write me up? File a report?”

He took a step closer, and Raido intercepted, hand clamping down on Genma’s upper arm. “That’s enough,” Raido hissed.

Genma jerked his arm away, but Raido didn’t let go. The tension between them hummed, a taut line that could snap either direction.

Ebisu, looking distinctly uncomfortable, offered a stiff nod. “Enjoy your evening,” he said, and retreated to the far end of the bar, spine even straighter than before.

Genma watched him go, chest heaving. The senbon in his mouth trembled, a tiny semaphore of rage and exhaustion. Raido waited, then eased his grip, guiding Genma back to his seat.

Aoba was pale, hands tucked tight around his drink. “He’s not worth it, Genma.”

Genma slumped, elbows on the table, head in hands. “None of it’s worth it.”

They sat like that, in the fallout of the confrontation, while the noise in the bar picked back up, people returning to their private dramas. Every so often, someone would glance at Genma’s table, but the show was over.

After a long silence, Asuma appeared. He’d been lurking in the back, nursing a cigarette and a look of permanent fatigue. He slid into the booth next to Genma, one hand resting casual on Genma’s shoulder.

“You trying to get thrown out?” Asuma said, voice low.

Genma shrugged him off, but not hard. “Just making conversation.”

Asuma let the smoke curl from his lips. “You ever think about what you’re doing?”

Genma gave him a sidelong glance. “You ever think about minding your own business?”

A slow smile from Asuma, more sad than amused. “You’re better than this, Genma.”

Genma barked a laugh, but it sounded like a cough. “Yeah, sure. We all are.”

Aoba, desperate for normalcy, tried again: “So, uh, anyone up for darts?”

No answer. Genma was staring into his empty glass, watching his own reflection warp and bend in the dirty bottom.

Asuma squeezed Genma’s shoulder once, then let go. “Don’t make me drag you out next time,” he said. “You won’t like it.”

He left the table, a ghost trailing smoke. Raido watched him go, then turned back to Genma.

“You done?” Raido said.

Genma nodded, slow and heavy. “Yeah. I’m done.”

Aoba stood, relief visible, and together they half-carried Genma out of the booth. The bartender gave them a nod—reluctant permission to leave rather than an invitation to ever come back.

Outside, the air was wet and cold, the streetlights refracting through fresh rain. Genma breathed deep, letting the night air burn away the last of the alcohol’s illusion.

Raido clapped him on the back, gentle this time. “Let’s get you home.”

They walked, three across, down the empty street. Genma’s head cleared with every step, but the ache in his chest stayed sharp.

He looked up, watched the clouds drift across the moon. He thought about Kakashi, out there somewhere in the dark, and wondered if he even noticed the difference.

Probably not.

Aoba started telling a story—something about a chuunin who got lost in his own shadow technique and had to be rescued by the academy staff. Genma let the words roll over him, not listening but glad for the noise.

He kept walking, kept moving forward, because that was what he was trained to do.

But for the first time in weeks, he wondered if maybe, just maybe, he wanted something different.

The senbon in his mouth tasted like metal and old regrets.

He kept it there anyway.

Chapter Text

Ibiki Morino’s office was built to be uncomfortable. The furniture had been selected for durability, not comfort, and the overhead lighting was just a little too bright, flattening faces and carving out the shadows under every eye. The walls—gray, cinderblock, institutional—reflected the light into a sickly haze, and even the battered sign above the door (“Mission Assignment—Classified Entry Only”) looked like it wanted to leave and never come back.

Genma arrived first, as usual, because punctuality was easier than small talk and nobody ever called you on being too early if you found something productive to do with your hands. He leaned against the far wall, directly beneath a warped map of the Fire Country border, and rolled a senbon along the back of his knuckles, left to right and back again, never letting it drop. The muscle in his jaw ticked, but otherwise he might as well have been made of stone.

Ibiki appeared a minute later, unannounced, moving with the slow, ominous confidence of a man who’d never once needed to raise his voice to get a confession. He took his place behind the desk, set down a folder—fat, manila, stained in one corner with something that might have been blood and might have been coffee—and propped his scarred hands atop it, fingers interlaced in a web of old burns and newer calluses. He didn’t look at Genma, not directly, but it didn’t matter: the force of his presence was like a barometer drop.

“Shiranui,” he said, not a greeting but an acknowledgment of a problem that had yet to be solved.

“Morino,” Genma replied, voice even.

Ibiki’s eyes flicked to the door.

Kurenai and Asuma entered as a unit, the unspoken synchrony of people who’d survived at least three near-death experiences together. Kurenai’s eyes, red as a warning flare, swept the room with practiced assessment, cataloguing every point of tension before she’d even let the door close behind her. She lingered near the end of the table, arms folded in front of her, the picture of composure with just enough stiffness in the spine to betray a lack of comfort.

Asuma slouched in next, cigarette already in hand, though he didn’t light it. He dropped into one of the steel-framed chairs, spun it once so it creaked, and then propped his ankle across his knee, the universal sign for “I’m not here to cause trouble, but I’m also not here to fix it.” The scent of old smoke clung to him, merging with the faint disinfectant reek of the office.

For a few seconds, there was just the hiss of fluorescent tubes.

Then Kakashi arrived.

He didn’t enter so much as appear—one second the doorway was empty, the next, the ANBU captain was there, mask in place, uniform fresh but rumpled, the infamous eye already scanning the room for exits and potential ambushes. He took a measured step to the other side of the table, opposite Genma, and let his hands slide into his pockets with practiced carelessness. The only hint of animation was in the way his thumb tapped, slow and silent, against the metal zipper.

Ibiki waited another beat, as if expecting a fifth presence to materialize, then cracked the folder with a snap. “I’m not going to waste anyone’s time,” he said. “You’re here because you’re the only team on standby with enough field time to handle this, and because the last four missions you ran together didn’t end in a reportable homicide.”

Asuma almost smiled. Genma didn’t move.

Ibiki continued: “There’s an asset cache on the forest border, designated Hokkaido Station. High priority, suspected to be a relay point for outside operatives. Your assignment is to conduct a four-person surveillance operation for seventy-two hours, identify any inbound or outbound contacts, and report directly to me. There are secondary objectives, but you’ll receive those in the field.”

He pushed a sheet of paper across the desk with two fingers. “Standard rules of engagement. You are not to intervene unless you have visual confirmation of S-Class assets. I want eyes, not bodies.”

He looked up, scanning each of them in turn. “Questions?”

Kurenai’s voice was velvet over steel. “Is there any evidence of infiltration, or is this strictly a precautionary detail?”

Ibiki tilted his head, a movement that exposed the full map of old burns along his jaw. “Two supply runners went missing last week. One returned, claimed a bear attack. The other turned up two days later at the border checkpoint, very much not alive. The message was clear enough.”

Kurenai nodded, processing.

Asuma flicked the unlit cigarette between his fingers, then shrugged. “Anything you want us to do if we spot a bear?”

Ibiki didn’t blink. “Document it, and try not to be the third casualty.”

The room allowed itself a brief, grim ripple of amusement.

Genma’s voice was the next to break the silence, low and sanded smooth at the edges. “Is this a test?”

Ibiki smiled, but it wasn’t nice. “Every mission is a test, Shiranui. Some are just more honest about it.” His gaze lingered, cold and steady. “Your team’s performance has been… inconsistent, lately. I’d like to see that corrected.”

He didn’t have to say it. The subtext was painted on the walls.

Kakashi said nothing, but his eye moved off Ibiki’s face and focused on a spot six inches above the man’s head. His posture—loose, hands deep in pockets, one shoulder lower than the other—was a study in deliberate nonchalance, but the line of his back gave away a tension that had nothing to do with the mission.

Ibiki closed the folder, satisfied. “Departure is at 1600. Travel light. Dismissed.”

The group filed out in a cloud of silence, the door shutting with a hydraulic hiss.

Out in the corridor, Asuma tried for a conversational tone. “Well, at least it’s not a direct-action job. Three days in the woods sounds almost like a vacation.”

Genma rolled the senbon between his thumb and index, never looking up. “You haven’t been to Hokkaido Station.”

Asuma grinned, easy. “I’ll bring bug spray.”

Kurenai followed them, gaze darting between Genma and Kakashi, trying to gauge whether she needed to intervene or whether the pair would sort their own poison out before it got into the drinking water.

Kakashi drifted several paces behind, seemingly absorbed in his own shadow on the wall.

As they reached the stairwell, Genma slowed, just enough for Kurenai to catch up.

She didn’t say anything, not at first. Just kept pace, waiting for Genma to break the silence.

He didn’t. So she tried a gentle nudge: “You’re unusually quiet.”

Genma shrugged, but the motion was more of a wince. “Nothing to say.”

She let the answer stand, but not for long. “You know, if you’re still—”

“It’s handled,” he said, just sharp enough to cut. The senbon clicked against his teeth. “Nothing that needs fixing.”

Kurenai gave him a look—steady, unyielding—and then turned her attention to the rest of the team as they moved down the corridor.

Asuma, for his part, leaned back and waited for Kakashi to catch up. “You ready for seventy-two hours of Genma’s greatest hits?” he asked, not unkindly.

Kakashi gave a noncommittal hum. “I can always take second watch.”

Asuma laughed, and the group fell into a strange, temporary rhythm, each member orbiting the others with just enough distance to keep the system stable.

No one mentioned what had happened three months ago, or what hadn’t happened since. But it hung in the air, every bit as heavy as Ibiki’s warning.

Genma hit the outside door first, letting the cold slap of air wash over him before he could think too hard about what came next.

Asuma nudged Kurenai with his elbow. “You think we’ll survive?”

Kurenai smiled, eyes already on the horizon. “We always do.”

Behind them, Kakashi paused at the threshold, as if waiting for permission to follow.

It was Genma who turned and said, flat but not unkind: “You coming, or are you waiting for the next shift?”

Kakashi’s eye creased, just for a fraction of a second, then he stepped out into the light.

They walked together, not quite side by side, but not alone either.

For now, that would have to be enough.

They traveled in a file, the way seasoned soldiers do: not quite single file, never clumped, each keeping the exact spacing that said “I trust you with my back, but not my thoughts.” The woods at the border were old, grown with more intent than nature, every tree spaced just enough to allow a line of sight for the watcher, but dense enough to stop a thrown kunai at half force. The ground underfoot was a mat of needled duff and creeping moss, and every step sounded louder than it should have in the thickening twilight.

Genma took point, mostly by silent consent. Kurenai followed, steps ghosted by the fact that she weighed nothing at all when she wanted to. Asuma trailed, hands loose, every once in a while flicking a cigarette filter into a patch of undergrowth when he thought nobody was looking. Kakashi drifted at the rear, boots never quite touching down at the same angle twice, his face as unreadable as the sky in a dust storm.

They covered the six kilometers to Hokkaido Station in just under thirty minutes, which was either a world record or a sign that nobody wanted to spend another second in anyone else’s company. By the time the wooden guard hut came into view—sagging against the side of a root-bound hill, shingled with moss and the greasy remains of two decades’ worth of field rations—Genma’s jaw had stopped ticking and started to grind.

He motioned for a halt, hand slicing horizontal, and the others faded into position without a sound. They waited as he ran a sweep, circling the hut twice to check for trip wires, perimeter tags, or anything left behind by the last team that might turn up as evidence in an inquiry. Finding nothing except a long-dried bloodstain at the base of the door, he gave the all-clear.

They entered as a unit. Inside, the hut was more an idea than an actual building: just enough structural integrity to hold out the weather, but none of the charm. There was a scarred plank table, two chairs (one missing a leg and propped up on a folded ration tin), and a crate of supplies that had been raided down to a single, unappetizing package of dried squid. The only window was smeared with resin and dust, letting in the last, pale scraps of day.

Kurenai claimed the chair near the window, running a quick scan with her eyes closed before settling in, back to the wall. Asuma dropped his pack onto the table, then sat on the edge of the crate, legs stretched in front, hands folded loosely across his stomach. Genma stood, refusing the chair, and instead unrolled his gear mat on the windowsill, starting to inventory senbon with the grim thoroughness of a man counting the ticks until next year’s harvest.

Kakashi positioned himself in the far corner, well out of the main arc of sight, and immediately pulled out his book. He flipped to the center and started reading, but his visible eye was on the glass, tracking the shadows as they lengthened across the clearing outside.

For several minutes, nobody spoke. Genma worked through his kit with slow, methodical care, testing the point of each needle against a callus on his thumb before setting it into a row. Kurenai watched the perimeter, her fingers playing at the edge of her sleeve. Asuma made no effort to disguise the fact that he was staring at the two of them, weighing their body language like it was a mission log he needed to sign off on before the end of shift.

Finally, Asuma said, “There’s supposed to be a cache drop tomorrow morning. If we rotate in twos, we can keep it covered until then.”

Kurenai nodded, not opening her eyes. “I’ll take first watch with Asuma. Genma and Kakashi can cover midnight to dawn.”

If Genma flinched, it was only a flicker in his jawline. Kakashi didn’t look up from the page.

“Fine by me,” Genma said, voice thin as the filament in a broken bulb.

Asuma shrugged. “I’d kill for a hot meal. I’ll see if the fire ring is still functional.”

He stood, stretched, and gestured to Kurenai, who followed him out with a final, lingering glance at Genma. The door creaked behind them, then fell shut with the click of a swollen latch.

For a while, there was nothing but the sound of Genma’s senbon, tapping out a slow, uneven rhythm as he worked the whetstone with more force than was strictly necessary. The grind carried through the hut, a brittle rasp that might have been sandpaper on bone.

Kakashi turned a page. His breathing was steady, but every so often his eye would flick up to the window, then back down, like he was using the movement to calibrate some internal measure.

At the fifth senbon, Genma finally paused. He set the needle down, wiped his hands on the thigh of his pants, and said, “You don’t have to act like I’m going to stab you in your sleep.”

Kakashi didn’t respond at first. Then, in a tone so dry it barely qualified as speech: “Only amateurs get caught asleep.”

Genma snorted, and for a second the edge of a grin surfaced, then vanished. “You wish.”

A beat of silence. Outside, the wind shifted, rattling the slats in the wall and stirring up a thin draft that carried the scent of wood smoke and something sweet, maybe old cherry blossoms, maybe just the memory of spring.

Genma fished a strip of cloth from his kit and started polishing the blades, each motion precise, almost meditative. “So,” he said, not looking up, “you really reading that thing, or just hiding behind it?”

Kakashi’s eye didn’t move. “Would it make a difference?”

“Probably not,” Genma allowed. “You always did like to keep score.”

Another silence, longer this time. The only sound was the crackle of Asuma’s fire outside and the irregular click of Kurenai’s radio, her voice soft as a secret as she checked in with the perimeter squad.

Genma risked a glance at Kakashi. The man was angled away, but not all the way—enough that Genma could see the cut of his shoulder, the line of tension in the way his arm braced the book. He looked tired. Not battlefield tired, not the bruised and bloodied aftermath of a bad op, but the bone-deep weariness of someone who hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since before the war.

Genma set the last senbon in its case and snapped it shut with a click. “You hungry?”

Kakashi shook his head, barely.

Genma stood, rolled his kit, and tucked it into the side pouch of his vest. He moved to the table, perched on the edge, and for a minute just stared at the grain of the wood, tracing the old knife marks with his finger.

After a while, he said, “You ever think about just quitting?”

Kakashi’s response was immediate. “No.”

Genma smiled, for real this time. “Me neither.”

The night pressed in, slow and inevitable. The temperature dropped, and Genma realized he was cold, but didn’t bother to fix it.

From outside, Kurenai’s voice floated in: “Movement, southeast. Small, four legs. Possible wildcat.”

Asuma replied: “Probably just after the squid. Let it be.”

Genma closed his eyes, let the sounds of the woods fill the space. In the distance, he heard the soft pulse of a patrol team moving along the ridge, the irregular cadence of trained feet and the click of gear against gear. The sound faded quickly, replaced by the chorus of frogs and night birds.

Kakashi had stopped turning pages. Now he just held the book open, thumb parked on the crease, staring at a single line like it held the solution to an equation he’d been working on for years.

Genma cleared his throat. “You remember that time at Training Ground Seven, when Guy tried to break the push-up record and nearly blew out his shoulder?”

Kakashi’s eye flicked, briefly, toward Genma. “He still insists it was sabotage.”

“It probably was,” Genma said. “I saw you move the counter.”

Kakashi’s lips twitched. “Nobody ever proved it.”

They sat in silence for a while, the awkwardness sloughed away by the weight of old memory and shared exhaustion.

Eventually, Genma said, “We should get some sleep. I’ll take the first two hours. Wake you after.”

Kakashi nodded, set the book aside, and leaned back against the wall, arms folded. “Wake me in one.”

Genma almost objected, then let it go. He stood, stretched, and took up his post at the window, watching the shadows flow across the clearing.

Outside, the fire cast a wavering ring of light, and Genma could see Asuma’s silhouette, leaning back, cigarette ember pulsing red in the dark. Kurenai moved in the perimeter, eyes reflecting a faint, unearthly glow as she made her circuit.

In the hut, the silence was easier now. Not comfortable, not exactly, but less likely to break.

Genma stayed at his post, watching, waiting, until the next hour arrived.

And when he turned to wake Kakashi, the man was already awake, eyes open, as if he’d never really slept at all.

For most of the night, the world outside the hut held its shape: the low thrum of insects in the gully, the regular pulse of Kurenai’s watch check-ins, the scratch and shuffle of Asuma’s boots as he walked the perimeter. The inside was another matter. Genma could measure the hours by the way the cold spread from the floorboards to the base of his spine, the way the thin moonlight crawled from east window to west and back again. The air between him and Kakashi had settled into a pressure gradient, less a shared room than two separate atmospheres competing for the same square meter of space.

When Kurenai finally returned, it was just after 0200. She entered quietly, but didn’t bother masking her presence: she let the chill in with her, closed the door, and stood with her back to it, arms folded and her eyes—a red, faintly phosphorescent—scanning the room with forensic precision.

Genma didn’t look up from his task, but the rhythm of the senbon in his hand faltered, just for a beat.

Kakashi didn’t move. His head was down, book open, but the page had not turned in at least forty-five minutes.

“This is getting ridiculous,” Kurenai said, voice as clean as a scalpel. “Whatever happened between you two, you’re letting it poison the whole mission.”

Genma scoffed, spinning the senbon once, fast, between his thumb and middle finger. “Nothing happened. We’re professionals.”

Kakashi’s visible eye stayed fixed on the page, but his finger stopped dead on the line it was meant to underline. For a heartbeat, he was a statue—only the tension in his shoulders gave him away.

Kurenai pushed off the door, crossing the room in three measured steps. She leaned against the table, directly between them, her gaze flickering from Genma to Kakashi and back. “You’ve been on rotation together for years,” she said. “I’ve never seen you both this… fragile.”

“Fragile?” Genma echoed, making it sound like a threat.

She didn’t flinch. “You haven’t been yourself since the last mission. Neither of you have. Ibiki noticed it, too. It’s in your reports, your performance reviews—hell, even your handwriting has changed.”

Genma barked a laugh, but it didn’t carry far. “My handwriting?”

“You used to write in print,” Kurenai said, “now it’s half-cursive, and you forget to dot your i’s.”

Genma opened his mouth, closed it. The senbon clicked against his teeth, a sharp staccato.

Kakashi finally looked up, meeting Kurenai’s gaze with the cool indifference of a man who’d spent his entire career perfecting it. “We’re fine,” he said. “Mission is on schedule. No deviations. Unless you have a complaint, I suggest—”

“I have several,” Kurenai interrupted. “The biggest is that neither of you are fooling anyone. Not Asuma, not Ibiki, not me. You want to go on pretending, that’s your choice, but it’s compromising our work and you both know it.”

The silence that followed was different from the previous hours: denser, more charged. The kind of silence that could spark if you struck it just right.

Genma broke first. “You finished playing counselor?”

Kurenai tilted her head, considering. “Not even close.” She slid her gaze to Kakashi. “You, at least, used to hide it better. Now you just sit there, still as a corpse, waiting for someone else to make the first move.”

Kakashi’s mask did nothing to conceal the narrowing of his eye, but he said nothing.

Kurenai pressed on. “You want to know what I think? I think you both care more than you want to admit. And instead of dealing with it, you’re burning every ounce of energy pretending it isn’t true.”

Genma’s laugh was a low, broken thing. “You think we’re in love or something?”

“I think,” Kurenai said, “that you’re terrified of what happens if you stop pretending.”

For the first time all night, Genma lost the thread of the senbon. It slipped, clattered to the floor, and lay there, gleaming in the half-light. He stared at it, like it might offer a script for what to say next.

Kakashi exhaled, a single, slow breath. Then: “If you’re finished, I’d like to get back to the actual mission.”

Kurenai smiled, small and sharp. “Of course.” She straightened, took two steps toward the door, then paused with her hand on the latch.

“You still have each other,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Stop acting like that’s a bad thing.”

She left, the door shutting softer than it should have.

The hut was a vacuum after she left. Genma sat, hands on his knees, staring at the senbon on the floor. Kakashi pretended to read, but after a minute, the book slipped lower, and he let it rest on his thigh, fingers drumming an uncertain rhythm against the cover.

“I’m not fragile,” Genma said, eventually. “I just—don’t want to fuck things up more than they already are.”

Kakashi’s voice was so quiet it nearly evaporated. “You couldn’t if you tried.”

Genma looked at him, and for the first time in months, didn’t look away.

They held it, the line of sight, until something shifted—maybe a recalibration, maybe just mutual exhaustion.

Genma leaned back, rubbing his palms together. “She’s not wrong, you know. About the handwriting. I never noticed.”

Kakashi nodded, one slow dip. “You always had terrible penmanship.”

The joke hung there, awkward and incomplete, but it was a start.

Genma reached down, picked up the senbon, and held it between his thumb and forefinger. He twirled it once, then set it on the table, point aimed straight at Kakashi.

“I still care,” Genma said, soft. “That’s the problem.”

Kakashi met his eyes, and this time, there was no armor. “Me too.”

The rest of the night passed without incident, but the silence was different now: less of a shield, more of a space where words might someday land without shattering.

When the first light bled through the window, Genma was still at the table, chin on his arms, awake but at peace.

Kakashi watched him for a long moment, then stood and stretched, letting the new day soak in.

Outside, the cherry blossoms had started to fall, the world turning soft and pink at the edges.

Inside, something was mending itself, one awkward word at a time.

Chapter Text

Konoha’s market street was not a place for subtlety. Even at nine in the morning, the air boiled with haggling, laughter, the slap of laundry against wooden planks, and the bark of vendors hawking everything from pickled eel to live fireworks. The crowd moved in tidal surges: civilian mothers in loose yukata, Chuunin runners on urgent snack missions, squads of Academy brats in matching shorts and bruises. No one here had time to notice anything except their own immediate business.

Except Genma.

He made a show of leaning against a lamp post, thumb hooked in his vest, a senbon tucked so deep in his mouth it looked like he might inhale it on the next breath. His eyes tracked the flow of people not with the sharp, clinical focus of a jonin on duty, but with the twitchy obsessiveness of someone waiting for a specific disaster. He’d woken up early for this. The timing had to be perfect.

There: a flash of gravity-defying silver, three stalls up and closing fast. Kakashi, moving through the crowd with the practiced slouch of a man who’d rather be anywhere else. Book in hand, as always, open to the middle. Genma had tried to read it once, out of boredom or spite—he couldn’t remember which—and decided the plot made more sense if you skipped every other page. He doubted Kakashi even read the words, at this point. It was just armor.

Genma waited until the ANBU captain was exactly eight meters away, then peeled off the post, weaving through a cluster of shoppers and straight for the fruit stand. It wasn’t the best one in the market, but it had a rack of apples stacked with the precariousness of a demolition charge, and the old lady who ran it was half blind.

He slowed, bent to “inspect” a peach, and with his off hand nudged the lowest crate just as Kakashi passed.

It was a beautiful cascade: six, then twelve apples bounced down, rolling across the dirt, straight into Kakashi’s path. He didn’t pause. He sidestepped, never looking up from the page, letting the fruit pass harmlessly behind his heel. In the same instant, his left hand flicked—a tiny, blink-and-you-miss-it gesture—and something metallic flashed in the air, landing with a neat little ping against the stones.

Genma’s senbon. His actual, custom-sharpened senbon. Impossible unless Kakashi had been hoarding one for weeks.

Genma palmed the peach and tossed it, underhand, at Kakashi’s head.

Kakashi caught it without shifting his gaze from the book, took a bite, then set the fruit, with clinical precision, back onto the fruit stand as he walked past. Not a drop of juice hit the page.

The people nearby barely reacted; this was Konoha, and weird ninja shit happened hourly. But twenty meters down, at the edge of the miso cart, a knot of their friends were watching with open amusement.

Kurenai sighed and shook her head, the motion sending a wave through her hair. “How long are they going to keep this up?” she asked, voice soft but carrying.

Asuma, leaning heavy on the cart, grinned around his cigarette. “Until one of them swallows their pride. Or a senbon, whichever comes first.”

Aoba and Raido hovered just behind, faces stretched into mirror smirks. Aoba leaned into Raido’s shoulder, whispering, “Fifty ryo on Hatake, two days tops,” and Raido snickered, not even pretending to disagree.

Genma felt his ears burn, but he let the heat run out through his jaw. He stooped, scooped up the “lost” senbon, and rolled it between his fingers, then snapped it back into his mouth with a flourish. “Amateur,” he muttered.

He’d only taken two steps before a soft thud landed just behind his ankle. He glanced down, and there it was: the book. Fallen from the sky, or maybe just from Kakashi’s disinterested hand.

Genma picked it up, thumbed the page, then flipped to the back cover where, in tiny, sharp handwriting, was the phrase:

You missed me.

The fucker.

Genma started after him, but by the time he’d cleared the fruit stand, Kakashi was already two blocks down, turning the corner into a side street and gone before Genma could even contemplate a smart retort.

He let out a long breath, slower than necessary, then pivoted and walked back past the peanut gallery.

Raido waved, too broadly. “Genma! You win the morning shift or is this still warm-ups?”

Genma ignored him, but Aoba wouldn’t be denied. “You want us to hold onto the book for you? Or should we get it engraved?”

Genma shot them a look. Kurenai, at least, had the decency to hold her smile behind her hand. “Don’t encourage them,” she said, though Genma couldn’t tell if she meant the boys or him.

Asuma lifted the cigarette in salute. “You hungry? There’s supposed to be fresh noodles at the lunch counter. Or you on some kind of cleanse now?”

Genma rolled the senbon to the other side of his mouth, the point glinting. “I don’t eat carbs before noon,” he deadpanned, and Asuma lost half the ash off his cigarette laughing.

He cut through the crowd, detouring around a particularly energetic street performer—one of Might Guy’s spawn, if the haircut was any indication—and ducked into a side alley, away from the open stares. The book was still in his hand, and for a second he considered hurling it into the gutter. He didn’t. Instead, he flipped it open and scanned the page, looking for some kind of code, a message, anything that would make sense of the ridiculous dance they were both stuck in.

All he found was a scrap of old receipt paper, folded into a perfect square and tucked into the center.

He unfolded it, half expecting a threat or a dare. What he got was a drawing—pencil, quick, but unmistakable. A caricature of Genma, stick-figure-thin, with a senbon in his teeth and a look of absolute exasperation.

Below, a caption: “Sorry I’m late. Did you wait long?”

Genma stared at the sketch, felt the battle between irritation and amusement resolve in favor of neither. He slipped the note into his vest, then made a show of hucking the book at a passing delivery cart, where it landed with a thunk and promptly vanished beneath a tarp.

He was still smirking when he rejoined the market proper. He didn’t look back, but he could feel the eyes on him. He made a point of striding through the square like he owned it, every muscle relaxed, every step saying: I won, and I’m not even tired.

Behind him, Asuma leaned into Kurenai, voice pitched low: “How long do you give them?”

Kurenai didn’t miss a beat. “Long enough for one to figure out how to apologize without admitting they were wrong.”

Raido snorted. “So, never.”

Kurenai smiled, eyes on Genma’s retreating back. “Stranger things have happened.”

At the far end of the square, Kakashi had reappeared, perched on a fence, bookless for the moment, but with a look of feline self-satisfaction.

Genma caught the glance. He didn’t wave, didn’t nod, just rolled the senbon between his teeth, slow and deliberate.

The stalemate held.

The training grounds at sunrise belonged to nobody. Officially, anyway. In practice, every square meter was staked and defended by a rotating cast of lifers and lunatics who would sooner rupture a disk than cede prime real estate to a rival. Genma had long since claimed the northwest corner as his own; it had the best range markers, a clear shot at the embankment, and was far enough from the main path that nobody from the Academy would dare trespass during his window.

He’d gotten there first, as usual. The air was sharp with cold and ozone, the kind of morning that made his lungs feel like they’d been scrubbed with steel wool. He lined up three rows of senbon on the low target post, each needle filed to a whisper of a point, and started in on his drills. Throw, reset, throw, reset—the rhythm was supposed to be meditative, but today it only made his fingers twitch faster.

He’d just landed a tight cluster in the red when the world went blue-white and a static snap raced up his spine. He jerked, more startled than pained, and turned to see Kakashi perched ten meters away, palm crackling with low-voltage lightning. The bastard had the nerve to look bored, like he’d been standing there for hours and Genma was the late one.

Genma rolled his neck, then pointedly retrieved the senbon, walking slow so the static would have a chance to build in the soles of his boots. He stuck a few extra needles between his teeth, making sure they caught the light. The next round, he aimed just to the left of the post—close enough that any observer would think it an accident, but in truth calibrated so that the ricochet would ping off the dirt right at Kakashi’s feet.

The first needle grazed the ground, sending up a perfect rooster tail of dust. Kakashi’s visible eye flickered, but the rest of him didn’t move. He kept channeling the lightning, now arcing it over his wrist and onto the iron sand in front of him, each spark popping loud enough to disrupt the air.

Genma launched another volley, this time walking the shots down the line until the last needle skimmed Kakashi’s pant leg, leaving a line of scored fabric but not quite breaking skin.

“Your aim’s getting worse,” Kakashi said, not bothering to project.

Genma shrugged, voice dry. “You should try standing still. Makes it easier to miss.”

The game escalated. Kakashi, in an apparent fit of laziness, lay down flat on the grass, book in hand, and started reading one-handed. With the other, he built up a charge, then discharged it in tiny, insect-like zaps that leapt from the ground up Genma’s legs, turning his hair into a low-budget fright wig.

Genma bared his teeth, snagged a smoke from his vest, and rolled it between his lips. He didn’t light it, but let it dangle, then took aim at the dead branch above Kakashi’s head. The needle hit just hard enough to drop a clump of cold dew, which splashed down onto Kakashi’s book and, more importantly, into his exposed ear.

Kakashi blinked, slow and reptilian. “That was a first edition.”

“Should have kept it somewhere safe,” Genma said, loading another needle.

Off to the side, Iwashi and Raido watched with a mixture of awe and embarrassment. Iwashi had a notebook out, theoretically for tactical notes, but he mostly used it to tally the number of times Genma’s hair stood on end versus the number of times Kakashi’s book suffered collateral damage. Raido just shook his head, arms folded, betting himself on how long before one of them actually bled.

“Do you think they know how ridiculous this looks?” Iwashi whispered.

Raido eyed the standoff. “If they cared, they’d be less consistent about it.”

The silent war reached a new phase. Kakashi, in a rare show of initiative, rolled onto his elbows, then charged the air enough that the next lightning snap left a visible arc between his thumb and the target post. It scorched the wood, leaving a charred spiral right where Genma’s last shot should have landed.

Genma bristled, then smirked. “Compensating for something?” he called.

Kakashi sat up, brushing imaginary grass from his uniform. “Just tired of waiting for you to catch up.”

The next time Genma retrieved his needles, he found the tip of each replaced by a brightly colored toothpick—green, blue, orange, some with tiny paper flags glued on. He held up a handful, then looked back at Kakashi.

“Clever,” he said. He didn’t throw them away, just reset the rack and left them for the next person.

For a moment, it seemed like the cold war might stall. Then, without warning, Kakashi tossed aside the book, stood, and strode directly into Genma’s range. “Care for a real spar?” he asked, not quite smiling.

Genma spat out the smoke. “You afraid of losing in front of an audience?”

Kakashi tilted his head, one hand already flickering with chakra. “Not to you.”

They closed to five paces, then three. Iwashi muttered, “This won’t end well,” and started edging backward.

Genma made the first move, a half-lunge that drew Kakashi’s guard up and left his flank open for a quick wrist grab. But Kakashi was faster, sliding around the attack and countering with a gentle, almost affectionate tap to Genma’s forehead. The touch left a fingerprint of ozone and a tingling warmth that lingered even as they broke contact.

Genma grinned, the old competitive fire catching. He feinted low, then spun, aiming a heel for Kakashi’s ankle. The ANBU captain let it land, rolled with the momentum, and twisted Genma into a textbook shoulder lock—but instead of finishing, he paused just long enough for Genma to slip a folded scrap of paper into the breast pocket of his vest.

Kakashi noticed, of course. He always noticed. But he let Genma finish the move, tumbling them both onto the ground in a heap of limbs and static.

When they rolled apart, Kakashi fished out the note. It read, in handwriting even sloppier than Genma’s normal scrawl: “Still waiting for your apology.”

Kakashi held it up. “That supposed to mean something?”

Genma shrugged, dusted off his pants, and grinned wider. “You’re the genius. Figure it out.”

Kakashi folded the note, slid it back into his pocket, and shook his head. “Next time, bring a pen. I’m not sharing mine.”

From the sidelines, Raido let out a low whistle. “Ten out of ten,” he said. “Not bad, considering neither of them slept last night.”

Iwashi, unable to contain himself, called out: “So, are you two dating, or just really into mutually assured destruction?”

Genma snorted, walking back to his rack. “I don’t date people who cheat at sparring.”

Kakashi smirked, retrieving his book. “Then you’d better find another hobby.”

For a moment, they just stood there, neither willing to give ground. The world seemed to contract to the space between them, the tension strung tight enough that even a breeze might have snapped it.

Then, as if by mutual agreement, they turned away at the exact same time.

Genma headed for the weapons shed, boots dragging in the grass. Kakashi wandered off toward the edge of the woods, nose buried in the now-damp pages. Neither looked back.

Iwashi shook his head. “Do you think they’ll ever just have a normal conversation?”

Raido watched the retreating figures. “Not unless it’s a competition to see who can talk less.”

They both laughed, but there was something like hope at the edges of it.

On the other side of the field, Genma found the toothpicks still waiting on the post. He left them there, a tiny, idiotic monument to the fact that some things were too dumb to throw away.

He looked up, found Kakashi watching from the tree line, and gave a half-salute, two fingers to his brow.

Kakashi returned it, barely moving, but the message was clear.

The war wasn’t over.

But maybe, just maybe, the casualties would be worth it.

Mission assignment room, 0800 sharp. The kind of place where lightbulbs lasted half a decade and nobody bothered dusting unless it was to read a security label underneath. The table at the center was long enough for war councils, with metal chairs so uncomfortable it had to be deliberate. Ibiki Morino stood at the head, hands folded, staring down at the two most stubborn men in the building, both parked at opposite corners and doing their best impression of mutually assured indifference.

Genma had chosen the seat closest to the door. His foot bounced a quiet, relentless rhythm under the table, and the senbon in his mouth looked like it might snap in half at any moment. He’d brought paperwork, a pile of half-completed after-action reports, but he wasn’t reading them. Every thirty seconds, his eyes darted up to the other end of the table.

Kakashi had set up a small fortress of paperwork and was "reading"—or at least pretending to read—something stamped in three colors of ink. The mask was up, the forehead protector at its laziest angle, and the book was open in his lap. To anyone else, he looked relaxed. Genma knew better. The way Kakashi’s left index finger drummed the tabletop meant he was two ticks away from bolting for the window.

The audience arrived in a staggered trickle: Asuma, first, his hair barely combed and a cup of instant coffee steaming in his hand. Then Kurenai, crisp and awake, pausing in the doorway to scan the room before she sat next to Asuma. Raido and Aoba entered as a pair, bickering quietly about a payroll error that neither of them really cared about. Iwashi slid in last, looking like he’d been up all night but couldn’t remember why.

Ibiki cleared his throat. It cut through the noise like a test proctor’s bell.

"Thank you all for being on time," he said, not sounding remotely thankful. "We’ll keep this short. New perimeter assignments start tomorrow, and I want teams briefed before the end of today." He shuffled the stack of folders, his hands moving with the economy of a blackjack dealer. "Kurenai, Asuma, you’re taking northern sector. Raido, you and Aoba are covering the market routes. Iwashi, you’ll run comms for both sectors."

He slid the folders down the table, each landing with a crisp slap.

"Shiranui, Hatake—you’re being split," Ibiki said, gaze flicking from Genma to Kakashi and back. "Separate missions. Different sectors. Minimal contact."

The words landed like a cold rag across the room. Genma felt the shock before he realized he’d even wanted the opposite. Kakashi’s eye didn’t move, but the corner of the mask tightened.

Ibiki let the silence settle. "Any questions?"

Asuma stretched, then shook his head. "Nope. Makes sense." Kurenai didn’t answer, but her eyes lingered on the ends of the table, watching Genma and Kakashi like a hawk tracking two field mice.

Raido and Aoba exchanged a look, the kind of look that held three full conversations and a wager.

Iwashi hesitated, then said, "Uh, for how long, exactly?"

Ibiki smirked. "Until one of them kills the other, or they figure out how to work together without the drama. Whichever comes first."

There was a ripple of nervous laughter. Genma felt his ears get hot, but kept his face flat.

Ibiki capped it: "You’re dismissed. Briefings are in the folders. I expect full readiness by oh-six-hundred."

As the group filtered out, Genma tried to bolt. He was three steps from the door when a green blur materialized in front of him and blocked the exit.

Might Guy, in full, unblinking glory.

He radiated energy, sweat already visible on his forehead despite the early hour. "My comrades!" he declared, voice echoing off the tile. "How fortuitous to find you all assembled so early! The power of YOUTH truly never sleeps!"

Genma took a half step back. "Guy, we’re—"

But Guy was not to be stopped. "I come with an urgent request! I need two—no, three!—sparring partners for a new regimen I devised just this morning. It involves teamwork, trust, and the glorious combustion of emotional tension!"

Behind him, Asuma choked on his coffee. Kurenai pressed her lips together, visibly trying not to smile. Raido muttered, "Called it," to Aoba, who nodded with mock solemnity.

Kakashi, to his credit, tried to fade into the wallpaper. "I have to be somewhere," he said, voice barely audible.

Guy spun, pointing at Kakashi like an executioner announcing the condemned. "NO! The time for escape is past! Your eternal rival, Genma, awaits your challenge! The flames of camaraderie burn too brightly to be denied!"

Genma nearly swallowed his senbon. "We’re not—"

Guy seized both men by the shoulder and marched them to the center of the room, his grip as inescapable as a mission deadline. "You two! Your combined potential is wasted on petty conflict! It is time to unite your strengths, to transcend your limitations, and to—" here he paused for effect, eyebrows doing the work of ten thousand emoticons—"become the ultimate team!"

The room went dead quiet.

Genma stared at Kakashi. Kakashi stared at the floor, the wall, anywhere but back.

Guy released them, then planted his feet in a horse stance. "If by sunset tomorrow you have not resolved this pathetic standoff, I will personally lock you both in the supply closet until you emerge as brothers-in-arms!"

Aoba’s jaw dropped. Raido whooped. Kurenai put her face in her hands, laughing into her palm. Even Ibiki, who had been pretending to sort papers, let the ghost of a smile slip onto his face.

Asuma, deadpan, intoned: "So let it be written. So let it be done."

Iwashi scribbled something in his notes, probably "never get on Guy’s bad side."

Guy held out a thumbs up, his teeth shining. "The power of friendship will prevail!"

He bowed, then marched out, presumably to go punch a mountain.

The room sat stunned.

Genma said, "I think I hate you all," but nobody believed him.

Kakashi looked at Genma for the first time in weeks. The eye above the mask was wide, but not cold.

They both stood there, trapped by the embarrassment and the crowd’s anticipation.

Asuma clapped Genma on the back, nearly knocking the wind out of him. "You’d better start liking each other, or else."

Kurenai, recovering, said, "It could be worse. At least Guy has an honest approach."

Raido and Aoba had already started a betting pool on how long it would take before Genma and Kakashi snapped.

Iwashi, for the record, started a separate pool on who would say 'sorry' first.

Genma didn’t bother to fight it. He just rolled the senbon between his teeth, shoulders sagging.

Kakashi turned to go, but paused. "See you tomorrow?"

Genma shrugged. "Looks like we don’t have a choice."

The friends watched them go, the buzz of gossip already building.

Ibiki, left alone at the table, shook his head and started another folder. "Idiots," he said, but there was no anger in it.

Outside, the sun was barely up, but the next phase of the war had already begun.

Chapter Text

If the training grounds had ever been peaceful, it was only because Might Guy hadn’t arrived yet. At five-thirty sharp, the northwest field was already vibrating with the sound of his voice, which echoed off the empty bleachers and rattled the squirrel population for a three-mile radius.

He stood atop the highest boulder, hands on hips, chin raised to the sky. The signature green jumpsuit was, as always, flawless. The legwarmers practically glowed in the predawn. Guy’s teeth—already infamous—flashed with the kind of gleam that caused passing birds to re-route.

Below, his audience assembled with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Asuma had drawn the short straw, and it showed; his hair was still damp, and the cigarette dangling from his mouth looked like it might jump ship at any moment. Kurenai arrived in a cloud of quiet exasperation, arms folded, the only sign of agitation the rapid blink of her crimson eyes. Raido and Aoba stuck to the periphery, trading glances that said, If we leave now, maybe he won’t notice. Iwashi lurked behind them, notebook open, already documenting something, probably his own suffering.

Anko was last, striding onto the field with a yawn so immense it nearly dislocated her jaw. She tossed a dango stick in the air, caught it behind her back, and propped herself against the nearest tree.

“Attention!” Guy bellowed. The force of it cracked a tiny sliver from the boulder under his boot. “Today is not just another day! Today, we undertake a mission more perilous than any ranked by the Hokage himself!”

Asuma ground out a sigh. “It’s too early for this.”

Kurenai’s lips barely moved. “I told you not to bet against Guy. He never forgets.”

Guy pointed, his index finger trembling with the anticipation of a man moments from unveiling his magnum opus. “Comrades! We begin—Operation: Lovebirds!” The last two words detonated in the air. If Guy could have shot off fireworks from his teeth, he would have.

Anko cackled. “Did you seriously name it that? I’d have gone with ‘Project Mutual Humiliation.’”

Guy leapt from the boulder, landed in a perfect split, and popped upright, windmilling his arms for effect. “Negativity is the poison of youth! Our friends—no, our family—are ensnared in a web of pride and emotional constipation!”

Aoba muttered, “It’s called adulthood.”

Guy ignored him, seizing the moment. “We have observed, we have documented, but now we must intervene! Shiranui and Hatake’s ongoing cold war has threatened to freeze the very soul of our team!”

Kurenai closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “You make it sound like a diplomatic crisis.”

“It is a crisis!” Guy insisted, clasping his fists together. “The beautiful power of love must not wither on the vine of inaction! We, as their friends, must nurture it with every fiber of our being!”

Anko lobbed her dango stick, which arced gracefully and landed, improbably, sticking upright in the grass beside Guy’s foot. “If you want something to nurture, teach them how to get drunk and fuck it out. My solution, by the way.”

Raido snorted. “Or blackmail. We could always use blackmail.”

Kurenai, without looking up: “That’s your solution to everything.”

Guy vibrated. “NO! We must inspire them to seize their youth, to embrace the tender vulnerabilities of the heart!” He spun, pointing at each member of the group as if assigning them their lines in a school play. “Kurenai! Your insight into the human psyche is our scalpel! Raido and Aoba, you are our surveillance and logistics—nothing escapes your sharp eyes! Asuma, your wisdom and resilience will provide the necessary stability to anchor this enterprise!”

Asuma took a long drag, exhaled, and said, “This is going to be troublesome.”

Anko smirked. “What about me, Captain?”

Guy straightened, faced her square. “Your creativity and disregard for rules will ensure we never grow complacent.”

Anko threw both fists in the air, as if she’d just been given free reign to commit whatever felonies she desired. “Hell yes.”

Iwashi raised his hand, timid but determined. “I’m on observation, then?”

Guy rushed over, clapped him on the shoulder with enough force to buckle the man’s knees. “You are our chronicler! Our historian! Your meticulous records will keep us on the path to victory!”

Iwashi managed a weak thumbs-up.

Guy turned on his heel, eyes blazing, his voice dropping to the level of “inspirational speech before a suicide mission.” “We will deploy every tool at our disposal—fortitude, compassion, even deception if we must! For too long, our friends have suffered in silence! No more!”

Aoba whispered to Raido, “I give it a week before they both file restraining orders.”

Guy stomped once, rattling the field. “Are we in agreement? Will we unite to reignite the fires of their springtime?”

Kurenai opened one eye. “I’ll help, but I’m not optimistic.”

Asuma shrugged. “Better than paperwork.”

Raido and Aoba exchanged a look, shrugged in tandem, and nodded. Iwashi set his pen to paper with the focus of a man determined not to miss a single line of dialogue.

Guy beamed, every tooth a beacon of belief. “Then let us seal our pact!” He extended his arm, palm open, and waited.

Nobody moved. The silence stretched, thick and unwilling.

Anko rolled her eyes, but she was the first to step forward, slapping her hand on top of Guy’s. “Let’s make it messy.”

Kurenai joined next, her fingers soft but steady. “Let’s just make it quick.”

Asuma flicked his cigarette butt away and, with a resigned grunt, set his hand atop the pile. “Here’s to the most insane mission I’ve ever been on.”

Raido and Aoba, less reluctant than embarrassed, layered their hands on with synchronized shrugs.

Iwashi, hands trembling, reached in last, completing the stack.

Guy’s voice shook the morning dew off every blade of grass: “For love and youth!”

Anko snorted, but the rest echoed—some with sincerity, some with world-weary sarcasm. The moment hung in the air, a perfect absurdity, as if the entire field had paused to recognize the gravity of the coming disaster.

On the distant horizon, the sun broke the line of the mountains, and the training grounds glowed with the pink-gold promise of catastrophe.

It was a stupid plan. But it was theirs.

If the first rule of ninja operations was Don’t Get Caught, the second was Don’t Get Cocky, and the third—possibly most important—was Don’t Get Involved With Your Own Stupid Schemes. The friend group violated all three before noon.

Anko’s plan was up first. She called it “Classic Honeytrap,” but it was really just a forced collision at her favorite dango shop. She texted Genma a cryptic summons—“new info, urgent, bring yen”—and took a seat at the counter, blocking the exit with a wall of dango skewers and her own formidable aura. Genma arrived on schedule, wariness dialed to eleven. He did a sweep, noticed the empty counter seat, and sat as far from Anko as geometry allowed.

“Morning, Shiranui,” she chirped, leaning back on two legs of her chair.

He grunted. “Don’t tell me this is about the cross-border leak. We both know it was Raido.”

Anko wagged her skewer, bits of mochi flecking the table. “No, no, just wanted a little friendly breakfast. Sit, eat. I’ll even buy.”

He eyed her, then the dango, then the server—a tiny man who looked like he’d been trained to call the police if Anko came within five meters of the shop. Genma shrugged, snagged a skewer, and gnawed on it with the grim focus of a starving dog. His hands stayed visible at all times.

Anko checked her watch, then glanced to the door. Right on time: a silvered blur, book in hand, flickered past the window. Kakashi’s visible eye tracked the inside with a predator’s patience, then he entered, mask up, aura set to “barely contained murder.”

Anko’s grin went predatory. “Hatake! What a coincidence. Come sit.”

Kakashi’s eye narrowed. “I’ll wait for takeout, thanks.”

“Don’t be shy,” she sang, patting the stool next to Genma. “It’s not like you two can’t share a meal.”

Kakashi didn’t move. “I’d rather not interrupt.”

Genma looked away, but his jaw worked faster on the dango.

Anko threw an elbow into Genma’s ribs. “You’re gonna let him be rude? At least offer a seat.”

Genma said, “He can stand.”

Kakashi: “I prefer it.”

Anko’s smile faltered. She motioned the server, who ducked under the counter and returned with a perfectly wrapped takeout box, which he set on the counter at arm’s length from the intended target. Kakashi took it, nodded at the man, then vanished in a flicker, leaving an afterimage and the barest tremor of ozone.

Anko blinked. “Well. He’s gotten faster.”

Genma finished his dango and stood. “If that’s all, I have work to do.”

Anko tried to block his path with her leg, but he sidestepped it, rolling a senbon into his mouth without missing a beat.

Anko slumped back into her chair. “Amateurs,” she muttered. The server nodded, and poured her another tea on the house.

Attempt two was Guy’s “Physical Challenge.” He summoned Kakashi to the training field, blaring an invitation that could be heard by anyone with functional ears and a general disdain for sleep. The note read: “URGENT: Defend your honor in single combat! Genma will referee!”

Kakashi arrived five minutes early, found Guy already stretching, his tracksuit somehow brighter than the sun, the word YOUTH embroidered in kanji across the back. The field was ringed by caution tape, orange cones, and a hand-lettered sign reading “NO CIVILIANS.”

Guy paced the line, radiating energy. “My eternal rival! Today, we surpass all previous limits! First to five clean hits wins!”

Kakashi regarded him, eye half-lidded. “Where’s the referee?”

Guy beamed. “Genma will be here shortly. I sent him three reminders!”

Kakashi waited. And waited. The minute hand rolled over. At precisely six minutes past the hour, Guy checked his phone, then his paper schedule, then the horizon. Genma did not appear.

Guy called Genma, put him on speaker. The phone rang once.

Genma’s voice: “Not coming. I’m sick.”

Guy froze, devastated. “But your spirit—”

Genma: “My spirit’s sick, too.”

The line clicked. Guy stared at the phone, then at Kakashi.

Kakashi shrugged. “Guess you win by forfeit.”

Guy’s fists shook. “Unacceptable! We must reschedule!”

Kakashi: “I’ll check my calendar.”

Guy saluted, then proceeded to run a full obstacle course alone, as if Genma’s absence only increased the pressure to excel.

On the far side of the field, Kurenai and Asuma watched, both sipping coffee.

Kurenai: “He’s taking it hard.”

Asuma: “He always does.”

They made no move to intervene.

The third intervention was a classic: the double date ruse. Kurenai and Asuma worked it together, with a tactical precision that suggested a long history of tricking reluctant friends into socializing. The venue: Ichiraku Ramen, neutral territory, small booths, low risk of property damage.

Kurenai invited Genma with a direct approach: “We’re having lunch. Join us, or we’ll send a search party.”

He showed up on time, wearing clean clothes and a look of resigned doom. Asuma was already there, two seats in, arms splayed across the booth with all the subtlety of a mob enforcer. Kurenai waved Genma over, and he joined, sliding in so tight to the wall that he left an imprint in the plaster.

The plan was for Kakashi to “accidentally” drop by, but three hours passed and he didn’t show. Kurenai called. No answer. She texted, then tried again, then gave up. The ramen went cold.

Genma finished three bowls, thanked the chef, and left.

Asuma exhaled a long, pained cloud of smoke. “He’s getting worse.”

Kurenai: “Or better at hiding.”

She flagged the waitress, paid the tab, and left with a note of apology. Out in the street, they saw a flash of silver vanish over the rooftop, moving at double speed.

Asuma didn’t say anything, but the next cigarette lasted longer than usual.

Fourth try, Raido and Aoba’s brainchild, was “intellectual entrapment.” They forged an official memo—complete with the Hokage’s seal—summoning both Genma and Kakashi to the archives for “urgent threat assessment.” The intent: trap them in a room, force them to communicate, then lock the door for three hours.

The day arrived, and so did two perfect shadow clones, one for each target. The clones sat in the archive, staring at each other with the exact same level of apathy, until Raido and Aoba, exasperated, tried to “nudge” them together.

Genma’s clone went first. “You’re not the real one,” it said.

Kakashi’s clone: “Neither are you.”

They blinked, stood, and exited, leaving the real Genma and Kakashi in parts unknown. The only thing left in the archive was a single, sharpened senbon and a torn page from Icha Icha Paradise.

Raido stared at the mess. “I can’t believe they sent clones.”

Aoba: “I can.”

Iwashi, observing from the next aisle, scribbled a note: “Subjects display advanced evasion tactics even in simulated environments. Recommend new approach.”

After every defeat, the group reconvened at the training field, the boulder now serving as both headquarters and confession booth. Guy remained undeterred, each failure only increasing his resolve. Anko took to bringing popcorn, which she ate by the fistful, offering zero help but maximum commentary.

By the fifth regroup, morale had cratered. Guy delivered his updates with all the solemnity of a fallen general. “We have encountered obstacles, but our youthful resolve shall not be denied!”

Anko: “We’re getting our asses handed to us.”

Kurenai: “Maybe we’re being too obvious.”

Raido: “I say we escalate.”

Aoba: “To what, kidnapping?”

Anko: “Don’t tempt me.”

Asuma: “What if we just let them be?”

Guy gasped. “Never! Abandoning our comrades is the ultimate betrayal!”

Iwashi, who had been silent for most of the session, closed his notebook and spoke. “They’re both jonin-level shinobi. We need something they can’t refuse or detect.”

The group fell silent, pondering the unspeakable.

Guy’s eyes widened. “A challenge worthy of their abilities… Yes! A mission they must undertake together!”

Just then Anko’s stomach growled as loud as a lion’s roar as if to say they’re headed in the right direction, and so the crew decided to reconvene at a teahouse to talk shop over lunch.

They had failed at every turn, but the war was not over.

Not yet.

The teahouse looked like a front for something illegal. Even the name—"Lucky Koi"—sounded like a dare. Booths were draped in mismatched curtains, the tatami stained with generations of spilled secrets and dubious herbal blends. The staff operated on a strict don’t-ask-don’t-tell basis, and the back tables were strictly reserved for the kind of business that left everyone a little worse off.

Which made it perfect for Anko, who was already three cups deep and winding up for a pitch.

“I’m telling you, it’s the only way,” she said, slamming her fist onto the low table and sending the dregs of everyone’s tea flying. “We need Ibiki.”

The words hit like a thrown kunai. Guy’s eyes went luminous, delighted. Raido and Aoba flinched. Asuma’s hand paused mid-cigarette, and Kurenai exhaled so sharply she nearly upended her own cup.

“No,” Aoba said. “Absolutely not. That’s—he’s—do you know what he did to the last team that pissed him off?”

Raido nodded, face gone pale. “They say one guy never talks above a whisper anymore.”

Guy sat up so straight he nearly hit his head on the lamp. “Ibiki Morino! The unbreakable will! The master of psychological warfare! Anko, you are a genius!”

Anko basked in the glow. “Damn right I am.”

Asuma flicked the table with a fingernail. “You realize if Genma or Kakashi ever find out we went over their heads, we’ll all be on hospital food for a month.”

Kurenai shrugged. “Desperate times. Besides, it’s not like we’re going to ask for actual torture. Just… official manipulation.”

Aoba dropped his voice. “It’s a slippery slope from ‘official manipulation’ to someone waking up in a basement with a hood over their head.”

Raido: “Does Ibiki even do this kind of thing?”

Anko, grinning: “He’ll do it if it’s for the good of the village. And if we ask nicely.”

Guy pounded a fist into his palm. “Then we must approach him with all the passion and sincerity of youth!”

The booth rattled.

Kurenai drained the last of her tea and stood. “Better now than never. If we don’t move, someone will tip off Genma before we even get the paperwork in.”

The group exited with the subtlety of a prison break, Anko leading, Guy bounding in place, the rest following in their wake.

Ibiki’s office was exactly as terrifying as the rumors claimed: all hard lines, high-backed chairs, and a desk that looked like it might be bolted to the floor as a murder prevention measure. The walls were lined with cabinets marked in black, each locked, each promising a different kind of administrative hell. Even the windows were frosted, so the only sunlight that entered did so under duress.

Ibiki was at the center, hunched over a ledger with a red pen and an expression that suggested the pen was an instrument of divine judgment. He didn’t look up when the group filed in.

He finished a line, set the pen down, and folded his hands. “I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling.”

Guy took the lead. “Morino! We beseech you as comrades, as defenders of the Leaf, as—”

Ibiki raised a finger. “Last time you said ‘beseech,’ it involved a rooftop, three kilos of gunpowder, and an apology tour I’m still cleaning up. State your business, and make it quick.”

Anko slid into the nearest chair, propping her boots on the desk. “We need you to assign a mission. Direct order. For Genma and Kakashi. Together.”

Ibiki’s eyebrows didn’t move, but the temperature in the room dropped. “This is not a matchmaking service.”

Kurenai, gentle: “We’re worried about them.”

Ibiki: “You should be worried about yourselves.”

Asuma leaned forward, measured and calm. “It’s affecting their work. They’re both sharp, but it’s getting personal. We just want them back to normal.”

Ibiki steepled his fingers. “You want me to waste classified resources on an intervention.”

Anko, shameless: “You owe me. Remember the incident at the border? I never filed the full report.”

Ibiki’s eye twitched. “That would be blackmail.”

Anko: “That would be leverage. You taught me the difference.”

Guy bounced on the balls of his feet. “It’s for the good of the village! For love and youth!”

Ibiki considered, then, with a look that could freeze water: “If I do this, I do it my way.”

Anko smirked. “That’s the only way you do anything.”

Ibiki let the silence build, then reached for a blank mission scroll. He scrawled for thirty seconds, the pen scratching so loud it felt like a threat. When he finished, he stamped it with a seal, then set it on the edge of the desk.

He fixed the group with a look. “This is a one-time arrangement. If either of them suspects my hand in it, I will find new and creative uses for your free time.”

Raido: “Noted.”

Aoba: “Understood.”

Guy, hand over heart: “You have our eternal gratitude!”

Ibiki grunted. “Don’t push it.”

The group left, as quietly as they were capable, but the door wasn’t fully shut before Anko let out a whoop.

“He said yes!”

Guy grabbed Kurenai and spun her in a circle. “The flames of youthful hope burn ever brighter!”

Kurenai, dizzy but grinning: “Don’t drop me.”

Asuma just shook his head, smiling behind his cigarette.

Raido and Aoba exchanged a low five. Iwashi, at the back, scribbled a note in his pad: “Never underestimate the power of collective stupidity.”

Through the frosted glass, they watched Ibiki lean back, a tiny smirk pulling at the scarred side of his mouth as he began writing the orders.

The plan was in motion.

This time, it might even work.

Ibiki’s summons always arrived the same way: hand-delivered by a humorless Chuunin, stamped with the official mission sigil, and worded so impersonally that the recipient couldn’t decide if they were being promoted or threatened. Genma found his tucked under the apartment door, sandwiched between a bill for utilities and a flyer for some new ramen joint. The directive was blunt: “Report to Office 17. 0600. Do not be late.”

The walls of Interrogation and Torture Division were a colorless, institutional blue, the kind that seemed to absorb any trace of warmth from the people inside. Office 17—Ibiki’s lair—was the only room with an actual metal door. Genma arrived with three minutes to spare, senbon in his teeth, hands shoved deep in his vest pockets. He didn’t knock; instead, he leaned against the wall opposite the door and waited, cataloguing every detail of the corridor out of habit.

Inside, Ibiki shuffled papers. The rhythm was precise, as if he meant to cut the desk in half by friction alone.

The door swung open at exactly 0600, and a different Chuunin poked her head out. “You’re up,” she said, and vanished before Genma could even fake a polite response.

Ibiki was already at his desk when Genma entered, the overhead light trained to cast maximum shadow across his scarred face. There were no chairs for guests, only the metal desk, the pale light, and the weight of expectation.

Genma stood at parade rest, senbon locked in place, and waited for the hammer to fall.

Ibiki didn’t look up. “I take it you’ve seen the reports from border sector six?”

Genma grunted assent.

“There’s a situation. Requires unique skills. Your skills.” The pen in Ibiki’s hand never stopped moving. “You’ll be briefed at oh-seven-hundred. Until then, read this.” He slid a folder across the table.

Genma snatched it, flipped it open, and scanned the first page. His eyes didn’t move, but his pulse kicked up a notch. The operation was redlined “URGENT,” and the secondary officer named on the detail was—

Ibiki’s door clanged again. This time, the Chuunin announced, “Hatake. Here as ordered.”

Kakashi slipped in, posture loose, mask in place, eye half-lidded but alert. He caught Genma’s presence instantly and hesitated, just a split-second hitch, then composed himself and leaned against the far wall, opposite Genma.

Ibiki gestured. “Both of you. Here.”

They approached, Genma flipping the folder closed, Kakashi glancing at the cover but not taking one for himself.

Ibiki folded his hands. “You’re being sent together. This isn’t a request, or a favor, or some kind of experimental team-building exercise. You are the best at what you do, and the window for this mission is closing.”

Kakashi’s eyebrow arched, just enough to register skepticism. “What’s the target?”

Ibiki stared him down. “Border incursion. We have reason to believe the enemy is deploying new genjutsu countermeasures. We need confirmation, sabotage, and extraction. You’re the only two who can pull it off in time.”

Genma’s jaw worked around the senbon. “No support?”

Ibiki: “No backup. The fewer involved, the better the odds you’re not compromised.”

Kakashi’s eye flicked to Genma, then away. “You sure you don’t want someone… less obvious?”

Ibiki’s voice grated, all gravel and finality. “You’ll do. Both of you. Unless you have a compelling reason to decline?”

Neither answered. Genma’s fingers tapped out a slow Morse code on his folder. Kakashi’s hand reached for his book, but the book itself stayed holstered.

Ibiki watched them for a long, silent stretch. “Then we’re clear. Go to logistics, get your kits. Report to checkpoint D at zero seven. Dismissed.”

Genma tucked the folder under his arm. Kakashi nodded, as much to Ibiki as to Genma, and turned to leave.

They reached the corridor, both moving in the same direction, but with a half-step of space between them that neither tried to close.

From the corner, a faint, almost imperceptible shuffle—then a whisper, too loud to be accidental:

“The springtime of youth is about to bloom again!”

Guy, of course, lurking behind a mop bucket, fist in the air, eyes wet with joy.

Genma rolled his eyes and kept walking. Kakashi glanced at the ceiling, as if praying for an actual emergency to interrupt.

At the far end of the hall, Anko and Kurenai pretended to check a schedule, but the way they avoided eye contact with the departing pair was a dead giveaway.

Genma shot a look at Kakashi. “You buy this?”

Kakashi shrugged. “Not for a second. But we’re stuck with it.”

They reached the stairwell, boots echoing in near-unison.

“I’ll take point,” Genma said.

Kakashi: “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Down the corridor, Ibiki’s door closed with a final metallic thud. On the inside, Ibiki allowed himself a rare, predatory smile.

And in the hallway, Guy’s voice rang out once more, echoing off the walls:

“FOR LOVE AND YOUTH!”

Genma and Kakashi said nothing, but the next several meters passed a fraction closer together.

War was hell.

But it had its moments.

Chapter Text

Genma arrived at the secluded forest cabin eight minutes early, which was neither a record nor particularly intentional; it was just that the alternative was lingering in the clearing, where he might run into Raido or—worse—Guy, both off duty but capable of appearing at the exact wrong moment. The mission summons in that manila folder had been clear, in the way that all urgent orders were: Report to Cabin 2A, 0700. Do not be late. Do not bring personal items. Do not expect to be home for dinner.

A narrow wooden walkway led to the cabin’s front door, flanked by thick pines. Inside, a short vestibule was hung with old hunting trophies—deer antlers bleached by time, fox pelts fraying at the edges. Genma kept the left wall to his back, senbon pressed between his teeth. The cabin, even at this hour, thrummed with quiet life—wood crackling in the hearth, a distant hammer on shingles. But the little entry hall was silent. Too silent. Genma’s shoulder blades crawled.

He stopped at a chipped door marked storage, tested the latch, and found it unlocked. Beyond lay a single rickety table, two battered folding chairs, and a stack of sealed wooden crates against the far wall. The air smelled of fresh pine shavings, old paper, and something faintly medicinal. Genma didn’t move past the threshold.

He leaned against the frame and waited. Seconds in his head ticked by with mechanical accuracy, and as the minute hand slid to 0700, he braced for what he knew—knew, by the prickle at his nape—was coming.

Kakashi emerged from the tree line exactly sixty seconds late, just to prove he still could. He looked like hell, even by his usual standards: mask slightly crooked, uniform rumpled, a red scuff on his cheek that might’ve been new or simply ignored. He gave Genma a once-over and said, “You’re early.”

Genma shifted the senbon to the other side of his mouth. “Someone’s got to make a good impression.”

Kakashi padded past, his visible eye unreadable, and flipped a switch on a kerosene lantern hanging from a hook. The flame flickered, casting a dull yellow glow. He dragged over one of the chairs, dropped into it, and stretched his legs so they blocked the narrow aisle between table and crates. “So,” he said, “you hear anything from Ibiki?”

“Not a word,” Genma replied, still standing. He scanned the cabin, noted the absence of any mission packet or briefing scroll. The only paperwork in sight was sealed inside the crates. “Maybe we’re here to alphabetize.”

Kakashi’s eye crinkled. “I’ve had worse missions.”

Genma felt the itch under his collar intensify. He stepped in, let the door swing nearly shut behind him, and began pacing the cabin’s perimeter. The floorboards creaked beneath his boots, each step muffled by a thin layer of sawdust. He trailed a finger along the edge of one crate, lifted it to his nose, and caught the distinct bitterness of Wood Release chakra, half-faded.

He was about to turn and make a crack about Tenzou’s taste in decor when the door slammed shut behind him with a crack and a sound like a tree being felled. Both men froze.

From the hallway came a low, triumphant voice: “Mission objective: contained.”

Genma spun, tried the handle. It was fused solid, the metal seamlessly encased in fresh, living wood that had already budded with tiny, mocking leaves. He pounded twice—first with a flat palm, then with the side of his fist. The door didn’t so much as shiver. “Tenzou, you bastard!”

There was a pause. Then, from the other side, a patient, slightly apologetic tone: “I am not authorized to open the door until you two come to a mutual agreement.”

Kakashi was already on his feet, moving with that same gliding grace Genma hated and admired in equal measure. He circled the crate stack, looking for a window—there wasn’t one. The shelves ran wall to wall, stacked with scrolls, binders, and the odd box labeled with the sort of code only ANBU cared about. The room was ten by ten, maybe less, and the only light was from the single, anemic bulb and the slats in the upper door panel, which glowed green from the leaves outside.

“Well,” Kakashi said, voice flat, “this is new.”

Genma pressed his forehead to the door, exhaled slow. “We’re locked in.”

Kakashi didn’t bother to reply. He formed a quick, one-handed seal—electricity crackled in his palm, the ozone instantly overpowering the dust and cedar—and jammed his thumb against the wood. There was a sizzle, a sharp snap, and then a hiss of fresh, wet sap. The wood blackened, but immediately healed over, growing thicker and more robust.

Kakashi tried again. The result was the same, except now the room smelled like burnt pine and static. He glanced at Genma, shrugged. “Tenzou’s getting better.”

Genma bared his teeth. “Give it another go. This time, try not to burn the whole forest down.”

Kakashi flexed his hand, eyed the char spot, and—almost imperceptibly—smiled.

Genma leaned into the wall, let his head thump back. The room was already heating up, two bodies’ worth of air recycling in the sealed space. The dust motes floated in the shaft of light from the door, each one backlit so perfectly they looked like embers. If Genma breathed too deep, he could taste the oldness of everything—the ink, the glue, the secrets pressed into every cracked binder.

“You realize what this is, right?” Genma said after a minute.

Kakashi was already halfway up a shelf, scanning the ceiling for a vent. “A poorly-executed kidnapping?”

Genma grinned. “Operation: Lovebirds.” He spat the senbon into his hand, twirled it, then pointed the tip at Kakashi. “You see the betting pool on the mission board? They want us to kill each other, or fuck, or both.”

Kakashi hopped down, barely disturbing the boxes. “That would explain the camera in the smoke detector.”

Genma squinted, then followed Kakashi’s gaze. Sure enough, there was a black lens embedded in the red plastic, aimed dead-center at the room.

He raised both middle fingers at it, then said, loud enough for the mic: “If you’re watching, Raido, get me a coffee.”

Kakashi circled to the opposite side of the room and sat, cross-legged, on the floor. He braced his elbows on his knees, hunched over. The pose looked casual, but Genma recognized the way Kakashi’s fingers tapped out a tiny, ceaseless rhythm against his thigh.

They sat like that for a long minute. Neither spoke. The air thickened, the sweat started to bead at the nape of Genma’s neck, and the silence was so profound that every twitch, every breath, was doubled back on itself, echoing off the packed shelves.

Genma broke first. “How long you think they’ll keep us in here?”

Kakashi shrugged. “Depends. How stubborn are you feeling?”

Genma almost laughed, but it came out as a snort. “Stubborn enough to wait you out.”

Kakashi’s eye narrowed. “I can wait longer.”

Genma rolled his eyes and resumed pacing, a predator in a cage so small that every turn brought him within striking distance of the other man. The first two or three circuits were easy. By the fifth, he felt the need to throw something—preferably at the smoke detector, but the only objects handy were either lethal or mission-critical.

He settled for slamming his palm against a shelf, hard enough to knock loose a roll of tape. It hit the floor and unwound itself, the sound eerily loud in the boxed-in quiet.

Kakashi tracked the tape’s spiral, then looked back up, gaze flat. “You always do this when you’re nervous.”

Genma’s mouth twisted. “What, pace?”

“Make a show of not caring.” Kakashi’s voice was even, but the words had a bite. “It’s annoying.”

Genma spun on him. “Says the guy who brought a book to an execution.”

Kakashi blinked. “It’s a classic. And it’s better than your ‘tough guy with a death wish’ routine.”

Genma crossed his arms. “At least I don’t hide behind paper.”

Kakashi shrugged. “You hide behind everything else.”

For a second, Genma wanted to put the senbon through something vital. Instead, he jammed it back between his teeth and leaned against the shelf, staring at the wall. The impulse to keep moving was strong, but now that Kakashi was watching, every step would be a loss.

“So,” Genma said, quiet now, “how long until Tenzou gives up?”

Kakashi’s eye slid shut, as if calculating. “Three hours, minimum.”

Genma sighed. “I didn’t bring lunch.”

“Neither did I,” Kakashi said. “But I did bring a deck of cards. If you want to lose some ryo.”

Genma huffed, but he didn’t say no.

He slid down to the floor, opposite Kakashi, and for a moment, the only thing that moved was the dust in the air, twisting between them in slow, impossible shapes.

They were still enemies, maybe. But for now, the room belonged to both of them, and no one else.

For the first hour, they managed not to speak.

Genma alternated between staring at the door and cataloguing every object in the room by weight and thrown distance. Kakashi barely moved, except for the restless tap-tap of his thumb against his knee and the way his left eye flicked, every minute or so, to the smoke detector camera. The air was thickening by the quarter-hour, the dust less embers now and more haze, and Genma felt a slow, sticky pulse building at the base of his skull.

He couldn’t keep it down forever.

“You know,” he finally said, picking up the deck of cards Kakashi had left abandoned on the floor, “they’re not gonna let us out until we at least pretend to have a breakthrough.”

Kakashi didn’t open his eye. “We could always fake a murder. Let them think it’s over.”

Genma shuffled the cards one-handed. “Not sure which of us would look better dead.”

Kakashi’s mouth curved behind the mask. “I think we both know the answer to that.”

A silence. Genma picked at the tape on the back of the king of hearts, found a sliver of red marker, and wondered if the deck had been borrowed from the prison wing. He set it down, then looked up, meeting Kakashi’s gaze dead-on.

“Why’d you do it?” Genma said, the words sudden and hot. “The last mission. You had to have known it was going to get ugly.”

Kakashi shrugged, slow. “Orders are orders.”

“Bullshit,” Genma spat, the senbon rattling between his teeth. “You always have a way out. You always have a goddamn escape plan. Unless you wanted it to go bad.”

Kakashi’s eye darkened. “Maybe I was tired of running.”

“Or maybe you just wanted everyone to see you as the martyr, again.” Genma let the venom coat each word. “Poor Kakashi. Always sacrificing himself for the greater good.”

Kakashi’s hands curled, slow, into fists. “You want to talk about sacrifice?” His voice was lower, rougher. “You’ve spent the last year torching everything you care about just to prove a point. You’re not special, Genma. You’re just lonely.”

Genma stood, too fast, the chair scraping back and hitting the wall. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

“I know enough,” Kakashi replied, rising in turn. “I know you’re married. I know you have a kid.” The accusation sat heavy in the air. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

Genma felt the punch before it landed. “That’s not—” He cut himself off, snapped the senbon out and rolled it in his fingers, as if he could jam the truth down into the metal and spit it into the wall.

Kakashi took a step closer. “You lied to me. For months.”

Genma barked a laugh, sharp and ugly. “Says the guy whose last six missions were classified as ‘seduction and infiltration.’ You’re not exactly the poster child for honesty.”

Kakashi’s eye narrowed to a blade. “Those were assignments. I didn’t have a choice.”

“Yeah? Because I heard you volunteered for half of them.” Genma’s fists trembled at his sides. “Iwashi said you came back with hickeys.”

Kakashi tilted his head. “Jealous?”

Genma slammed his palm against the nearest shelf. Scrolls tumbled down, one unrolling at his feet with a snap of parchment and a puff of ancient dust. “I’m mad because you made me think I was crazy for wanting more. For thinking it was more. And all the while, you were out there—” He gestured, wild and furious, “—fucking your way through enemy lines like it was just another Tuesday.”

The words hung, vibrating. Even the smoke detector seemed to shrink from the noise.

Kakashi’s voice was ice. “You didn’t want more. You never did. If you had, you wouldn’t have hid your entire goddamn family from me.”

Genma pointed the senbon at Kakashi, the tip trembling. “That’s not how it happened.”

Kakashi didn’t move. “Explain it, then.”

Genma bared his teeth. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Kakashi took another step. “Try me.”

Genma sucked in a breath, felt it burn. “It was over before it started. The marriage. The kid—” He looked away, the words snagging. “I didn’t even know until six months in. She’s gone. Moved away. The only reason it’s still on the record is because I couldn’t figure out how to file the paperwork to undo it.”

Kakashi absorbed this, face unreadable behind the mask.

“I would have told you,” Genma said, softer now, “but I didn’t want you to look at me like that.”

Kakashi’s eye didn’t waver. “Like what?”

Genma tried to find the word, but everything in him was knotted and clumsy. “Like you’re disappointed.”

For a moment, the only sound was the ragged pull of their breathing, the dust spinning in thick, lazy spirals in the sickly light.

Kakashi reached up, ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not disappointed,” he said, so quiet it was almost drowned by the hum of the light. “I’m just—”

Genma waited. The senbon stilled in his hand.

Kakashi dropped his arm, the hand falling limply to his side. “I wanted it to mean something.”

Genma laughed, but this time it was hollow, empty. “It did. That’s the problem.”

They stood there, staring at each other, the room a chaos of unspooled scrolls and half-buried confession. Genma’s skin felt electric, every nerve raw. He wanted to scream, or punch the wall, or just walk out and never look back.

Instead, he slid down, back against the shelf, and buried his face in his hands.

Kakashi stood for a moment longer, then followed, sitting opposite, knees almost touching Genma’s boots. His visible eye was softer, now; the old edge gone, replaced by something tired and sad.

They let the silence rebuild, each slow breath shrinking the fire in the room down to a quiet, aching pulse.

After a while, Genma said, “You ever think we’re just too fucked up for this?”

Kakashi looked at him, and this time, he didn’t look away. “Every day.”

Genma rolled the senbon in his fingers, then set it down, flat on the floor between them. He tapped it once, then left it alone.

For a long minute, there was nothing more to say.

The fight was over. All that was left was the waiting.

It took another ten minutes for either of them to move.

Kakashi was the first to break, shifting his back against the wall, exhaling slow and controlled, as if the argument had spent every remaining ounce of his patience. He let his head loll to one side, face turned away from the camera, and pressed both palms flat against his knees.

“I never meant to lie,” he said, voice gone so soft that Genma almost missed it under the hum of the light. “About the missions. I just… didn’t want you to know.”

Genma picked up the senbon, turned it over in his fingers. “Because you thought I’d be jealous?”

Kakashi shrugged, a single, lopsided movement. “Because I was. Every time I took one of those jobs, it was for the file, not for me. But it still felt like cheating, even if the sex didn’t mean anything.”

He scratched at his jaw, the mask damp with sweat now, and let his hand rest just beneath the edge of his headband. “First time I did one, I was eighteen. ANBU captain. They didn’t even tell me what the mission was until I was already in the building. After that, I started volunteering. Figured if I did it, nobody else had to.”

Genma let that sink in. “So you fucked for the greater good,” he said, a little too dry.

Kakashi’s eye flicked up, then away. “Something like that.”

They sat in the quiet, the only movement the slow, involuntary lean of their bodies towards the path of least resistance—which, in this room, meant closer together.

Genma worked the senbon back into his mouth, then took it out again. “I didn’t know how to tell you about the marriage,” he said. “It was over so fast, it didn’t feel real. She wanted the kid to have legitimacy, so I signed the papers, went to the ceremony, never saw her again after that.”

He let the words roll out, dull and unfinished. “I sent money for a while, but she stopped cashing the checks. Moved out of country. I think the kid’s with her family now. My name’s still on the file, but it’s just ink.”

Kakashi nodded, not looking over. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Genma shrugged. “Wasn’t proud of it. Didn’t want you to look at me and see something you couldn’t fix.”

Kakashi considered this. “Maybe I wanted to try.”

The admission hit harder than any of the shouting had. Genma felt his chest hollow, then slowly refill with something close to relief.

He let his foot slide forward, the sole of his boot nudging up against Kakashi’s. The contact was accidental, but neither moved away.

They stayed like that, the distance between them shrinking by degrees, each taking turns pretending to study the ceiling or the pattern of dust on the floor. Eventually, Genma managed a laugh—quiet, real.

“We’re both idiots,” he said.

Kakashi’s mouth curled at the edge of his mask. “Takes one to know one.”

For a minute, the room felt almost spacious. Genma tipped his head back, eyes closed, and let the tension drain out of him in slow, measured pulls.

He didn’t look at Kakashi, but he knew the other man was doing the same.

After a while, Kakashi said, “If they ever let us out of here, I’m buying breakfast.”

Genma smiled, teeth bared. “I want dango. And tea. And a day off.”

Kakashi nodded. “Deal.”

They sat in the aftermath, not talking, not needing to.

There was nothing left to confess.

Only the waiting, and the slow, steady repair of what had been torn up between them.

The hours lost their shape after that.

Genma dozed, woke, lost track of time. Kakashi’s head bobbed once or twice, but he always snapped back up, eye alert and scanning. They shared a bottle of water Genma found behind the crates, passed it back and forth like a peace pipe. The silence was different now—not tense, not hollow, just easy, like sitting on a porch watching the rain.

It was Genma who finally broke the calm, voice soft as he pulled the senbon from his mouth and held it, idle, between two fingers.

“I missed you,” he said, not looking up. “Didn’t think I would, but I did.”

Kakashi’s lips curled behind the mask. “You missed yelling at me?”

“Yeah,” Genma said, letting a small smile creep in. “And the rest.”

Kakashi stretched his legs, toes nudging against Genma’s shin. “Could’ve called.”

“You could’ve answered,” Genma shot back, gentle. Then: “I tried, once. You were on some mission in River Country, I think.”

Kakashi nodded. “They kept me busy.”

“Is that what you wanted?” Genma asked. “Being busy?”

Kakashi thought about it. “Sometimes. Sometimes I just wanted to stop thinking.”

Genma looked up. “You ever manage that?”

Kakashi shook his head. “Not really. I kept waiting for you to show up and yell at me for being an idiot.”

Genma let his head rest against the shelf, rolling it so he could look at Kakashi without turning all the way. “I kept telling myself it was just sex,” he said. “That you didn’t mean anything by it.”

Kakashi’s eye softened. “Did you believe it?”

Genma shrugged, the motion small and resigned. “For a while. Then I saw you with the dogs. The way you are with them. Figured you didn’t keep anything around unless you wanted it.”

The mask hid most of Kakashi’s reaction, but his hand came up, almost involuntarily, touching the fabric as if to make sure it was still there. Then, slowly, he peeled it down, revealing the full line of his jaw and the healing split at the corner of his mouth.

It felt like a secret handshake, an unspoken treaty.

Genma’s smile deepened, crooked and true.

They edged closer, knees knocking together, the cramped space an excuse neither needed anymore. Genma’s hand, still holding the senbon, landed next to Kakashi’s. They didn’t interlace fingers—too on the nose—but they let their hands rest together, palm to palm, skin warm and dry.

From the hallway came the faint echo of voices, Raido and Tenzou arguing over whether it was time to check the seal. Someone—probably Guy—suggested they give it another hour, just to be sure.

Genma didn’t care. Neither did Kakashi.

They leaned forward at the same time, so that their foreheads touched, soft as a bow, as if they could transfer meaning by proximity alone.

For a while, they just sat like that, breaths mingling, nothing left between them but what they chose to keep.

On the other side of the door, the world moved on, oblivious.

In the storage room, it finally made sense.

Chapter Text

Genma nudged Kakashi’s leg with his own. “You ever think about what happens after this?”

Kakashi held still, then let out a shaky exhale. “Not really.”

“You should.” Genma kept his tone light, but it cost him. “We get out of here, and then what? You go back to pretending nothing ever happened?”

“No,” Kakashi said, immediate. “Not this time.”

Genma believed it. He surprised himself by wanting to.

He let his head fall back against the wall, angled so he could watch the ceiling. The bulb above was still on, burning with a steady, unflinching light. He followed a line of spiderweb from the corner, tracing it to where it vanished behind a shelf.

When he spoke, his voice was softer. “I’m tired, Kakashi.”

Kakashi’s eye darted to him, concern sharp. “From the mission?”

Genma shook his head. “From pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

The words hung, exposed, between them. For a second, Kakashi looked like he might try to make a joke of it. Instead, he let the mask slip, just a little.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” Kakashi said.

Genma rolled the senbon to the other side of his mouth. “But you did.”

“I know.” Kakashi’s hands flexed, open, close, open. “I didn’t know how not to.”

They let it be, for a while. Outside, the wind shifted, sending a fresh draft of cold air through the cabin. Genma shivered and wrapped his arms around his knees.

Kakashi shifted, pulled off a glove, and dropped it in Genma’s lap. The gesture was so absurd Genma almost threw it back, but instead he pulled it on, fingers too big for the slim fit.

“You’re an idiot,” Genma said, but he kept the glove.

Kakashi smiled, visible even with the mask. “Takes one to know one.”

A shadow flickered by, followed by a flash of orange and the distinct sound of someone stifling a snicker.

Genma jerked his chin toward the door. "You think they're watching us?"

Kakashi nodded. "They're definitely watching."

"Great," Genma muttered. "All I need is Anko narrating my love life."

Kakashi's voice was a shade lighter. "Could be worse. She could be running a commentary."

Genma barked a laugh. "You're not helping."

They sat in the easy quiet for a while, the shared heat radiating off their bodies, pooling between them on the cold floor. Genma flexed his toes against Kakashi's shin, testing the limits, and found none.

Finally, Kakashi said, "You want to get out of here?"

"Not yet," Genma said, surprising both of them.

Kakashi nodded, once, slow.

There was another silence, but this one was warm. Genma closed his eyes, let his head loll to the side until it knocked gently against Kakashi's shoulder. The contact was simple, clean, like the first inhale after a long swim.

He waited to see if Kakashi would pull away.

He didn't.

Instead, Kakashi moved his hand, the bare one, until it rested palm-up on the floor between them. Genma stared at it for a long second, then placed his own hand over it, palm to palm, fingers rough against the smoothness of Kakashi's skin.

Genma could feel the tremor there, tiny and insistent. It was enough.

He opened his eyes, caught Kakashi's gaze, and held it.

"Hey," he said, voice low. "You ever do this before?"

Kakashi considered. "What, get locked in a room with you?"

"Be afraid to lose someone," Genma said.

For the first time, Kakashi looked honestly thrown. The answer, when it came, was ragged at the edges. "No. I haven't."

Genma let the words settle. "Me neither."

Kakashi's thumb flexed against Genma's palm, a tiny, involuntary squeeze.

"I don't know how to do this," Kakashi said, so soft it was nearly a secret. "Not... this."

He gestured between them, helpless. Genma wanted to make a joke, but he couldn't. The moment was too raw, too real.

So he said, "I can't imagine my life without you in it anymore."

He meant it. The senbon was an afterthought now, rolling, forgotten, somewhere beneath the crate.

Kakashi's mouth twitched, and then, with a deliberateness that made Genma's breath catch, he reached up and peeled the mask from his face. He did it slow, almost reverent, as if the fabric weighed a thousand pounds.

The bare skin was flushed, the old scar at his lip raw and healing. Genma reached up, almost without thinking, and traced the edge of the mask, then the line of Kakashi's jaw.

"Damn," Genma said, grinning. "You really are beautiful."

Kakashi ducked his head, the motion embarrassed, but then he laughed—real, and clear, and a little bit surprised.

Genma leaned forward until their foreheads were touching and let out a small sigh. Their breathing quickened as they inched closer together—lips moving closer and closer until they finally met in an urgent kiss filled with passion and desire.

With each touch of their tongues and intertwining of their fingers—hands fumbling along each other’s bodies—they found themselves lost within each other’s presence; every physical sensation amplified by the anticipation that had been building between them.

As Genma’s hands slid beneath Kakashi's shirt, he could feel the rise and fall of Kakashi's chest as his breath hitched at the contact. Their lips never parting, they moved together—bodies pressed firmly against one another—in an intoxicating harmony.

They didn’t hear the first round of applause, but the second was impossible to ignore.

Genma broke away, laughing, and rested his forehead against Kakashi’s. "I hope they’re recording this."

"They are," Kakashi said, but he didn't sound mad about it.

They sat like that, heads pressed together, hands still locked, while the sounds of their friends' victory parade echoed through the door.

After a while, Genma said, “You think they’ll ever let us out?”

Kakashi glanced at the ceiling, then at the wood-wrapped door. “Not until morning, probably.”

Genma squeezed his hand. “Fine by me.”

And for the first time in a long while, he meant it.

Chapter Text

The next morning, the storage room became a greenhouse. The heat had risen as soon as the sun crested the east wall of the cabin, burning through the slats in the upper window and saturating the little cell with the smell of pine resin, old ink, and sweat. It was a good kind of heat, the kind that forced you out of your own head and into the immediacy of now. Genma sat cross-legged on the floor, arms looped loosely over his knees, senbon pinched lazily between his teeth. Kakashi was a meter away, chin propped on his hand, visible eye fixed on the tiny whorls of smoke curling from the burnt patch in the door. For once, neither of them felt the need to fill the air with words.

It lasted right up until the moment someone hammered twice on the other side of the door.

Genma stiffened, felt the reflexive jolt in his jaw before he caught it. Kakashi didn’t move at all, but his eyebrow crept up half a millimeter—permission, or a dare, or maybe just readiness. Genma stood, stretching the sleep-crack out of his spine, and crossed to the door.

On the other side, Raido’s voice, muffled by the wood: “You two still alive?”

“Define ‘alive,’” Genma shot back.

There was a pause, then a low, unmistakable rumble of Aoba’s laughter, and the sound of someone fiddling with a latch. For a second, Genma considered just waiting it out—maybe they’d leave, maybe he could let the moment hang forever, neither inside nor outside, just perfectly poised.

He didn’t, of course. The latch clicked, and the door creaked outward, scattering a miniature avalanche of sawdust and wood splinters across the threshold.

Genma blinked at the sudden light. He squinted, expecting to see only the two on duty, but instead the whole parade was there: Raido, Aoba, Guy, Anko, Kurenai, and Asuma, all packed into the narrow hallway of the cabin like they’d been camping there for days. The surprise was so complete Genma almost missed the fact that, somewhere along the line, his hand had found Kakashi’s and hadn’t let go.

The first thing that happened was Aoba raising both fists in the air, like he’d won the lottery. “Holy shit, they did it!” he crowed.

Anko whooped, “Well, look at you, all grown up and hand-holding,” before ducking around the side of the group to jab an elbow into Kakashi’s ribs. “I bet you didn’t even set off a single booby trap, did you?”

Kurenai’s mouth twitched, and Asuma let out a low, appreciative whistle, but neither said anything. They didn’t have to.

Guy, whose energy seemed to radiate in waves even in a contained space, was vibrating with barely-contained joy. “THE FLAMES OF YOUTH HAVE TRIUMPHED OVER ALL ADVERSITY!” he shouted, and the echo rebounded down the hall with such violence that even Raido flinched.

Genma’s senbon shifted to the left corner of his mouth, and he grinned, sharp and a little wild. “You make it sound like we survived a hostage situation,” he said.

Guy was undeterred. “It was a trial by fire, and you emerged as one! Together!” He clapped Genma and Kakashi on the back, hard enough to send a shockwave down their joined arms.

Kakashi, for his part, didn’t try to dodge the attention. He even let his visible eye crease, the way it did when he was actually amused. “I’d say it was more of a mutually-assured destruction scenario,” he offered.

Anko barked a laugh and aimed a punch at Kakashi’s shoulder, landing it with just enough force to be friendly and just enough to remind everyone she could kill a man with her pinky. “Took you idiots long enough,” she said.

Raido was stoic as ever, but Genma caught the edge of pride in the man’s nod. He reached out, clamped Genma’s shoulder, and for a second, the steady grip said everything neither of them ever would.

Aoba, not to be outdone, brandished a clipboard and declared, “I’ll need both of you to initial here, confirming that neither party was coerced and that all... uh... emotional damages are settled.”

Kurenai rolled her eyes, but she was smiling, soft around the edges. “Don’t listen to them,” she said. “We’re glad you made it out in one piece.”

Asuma, never one for dramatics, simply held up a fresh cigarette and arched an eyebrow. “You want to hit the roof later?” he asked Genma.

Genma shrugged, but the gesture was more relaxed than it had been in months. “Only if you bring the good stuff,” he said.

The group let the noise swell and crash, everyone talking over each other, jokes and teases and nudges stacking into a kind of wild, accidental harmony. It could have been overwhelming, but Genma found himself relishing it, letting the current of their friends’ energy carry him. He looked over at Kakashi, who was still holding his hand, thumb grazing the ridge of Genma’s knuckle in small, deliberate strokes. It was a ridiculous gesture, at odds with the man’s reputation, but it felt more honest than anything Genma had experienced in years.

Guy cleared his throat, winding up for another speech. “Let this day be remembered as a testament to the enduring spirit of comradeship! The Leaf will flourish so long as its bonds are strong!”

Anko groaned, “Oh my god, stop before you start crying.”

“TOGETHER!” Guy boomed.

Kakashi, deadpan, “I think he’s about to try to hug us.”

“He absolutely is,” Genma said, and braced for impact.

The moment could have stretched out forever, but eventually the attention shifted—someone made a crack about the time, someone else remembered a real mission that actually needed doing, and the group began to peel away, their laughter echoing down the hall.

In the sudden quiet, Genma and Kakashi stood in the doorway, still joined at the hand.

Kakashi tilted his head, the ghost of a smile behind his mask. “You want to bail before they come back for round two?”

Genma considered it, but shook his head. “Nah. Let them celebrate. We can deal with the paperwork later.”

Kakashi squeezed his hand, just once, then started down the corridor, pulling Genma with him.

They walked the length of the cabin in silence, the only sound the soft crunch of their boots on dusty wood. Every now and then, Genma would catch a glimpse of their reflection in a window—a tall, pale-haired man in a battered mask, and himself, lean and sharp-edged and no longer alone. It was a good look.

Outside, the forest was waking up. Birds stitched the air with calls, and the breeze smelled of fresh needles and morning.

Kakashi stopped just shy of the gate, glanced over at Genma. “You think they’ll let up now?”

Genma snorted. “Not a chance. This is gonna be headline news for weeks.”

“Should we give them something to talk about?”

Genma grinned, reached up, and flicked the edge of Kakashi’s mask. “I think we already did.”

They stood there, shoulders touching, not in a rush to be anywhere else.

And for the first time, the future didn’t look like a fight.

It looked like a promise.

The next morning, the world reset to zero.

Kakashi’s apartment always looked best at dawn, before the day had a chance to clutter it up. The place was a study in careful neglect: low futon, battered sofa, half the tatami faded by sun and the other half covered with a scatter of books and training manuals. A single plant struggled for life in the corner, the rest of the decor limited to a mismatched set of cups and whatever the dogs had dragged in from their early patrol.

Genma was up first, or maybe just hadn’t slept at all. He’d spent the first hour after sunrise watching the patterns on the wall—light through blinds, shifting as the sun crawled—and the next hour memorizing the rhythm of Kakashi’s breathing, the way it changed when he drifted further from or closer to dream. He’d never noticed before how noisy the old apartment was: every shift of the building, every bark from the street, every sigh from the ninken in the back hallway.

He made coffee, careful not to spill grounds across the counter, and set out two mugs from the drying rack. The kitchen was barely big enough for a man and a half; Genma found himself maneuvering around the cabinet with micro-adjustments, a kind of morning sparring that was almost meditative.

Kakashi drifted in, hair even wilder than usual. He stopped in the doorway, assessed the scene, and then—without a word—went to the fridge for milk. They performed the entire routine in silence, the movements so familiar they bordered on choreographed.

It was only when Kakashi leaned in, reaching across Genma for a spoon, that their shoulders collided. Genma braced himself for the reflexive withdrawal, the old automatic recoil, but it didn’t come. Instead, Kakashi just… stayed there, close enough to share air, the brush of his sleeve a steady, grounding weight.

Genma rolled the senbon to the left, then handed over the spoon. “You want sugar?”

Kakashi shook his head, mouth curved up and eye creased. “No, but thanks.”

They drank their coffee in the living room, side by side on the sofa, knees nearly touching. Outside, the ninken pack had begun to stir, a low chorus of paws and grumbling voices as Pakkun assembled his troops for the morning patrol.

It didn’t take long before the door slid open and the entire crew poured in, a flood of fur and attitude. Pakkun, as always, took the lead, hopping up onto the coffee table with the authority of a captain on deck.

“Look at this,” he said, nose twitching. “The lovebirds finally figured it out.”

Genma snorted, but Kakashi didn’t dignify it with a response. He just reached down and gave Pakkun’s head a gentle scratch, then looked over at Genma, eyebrow arched in silent apology.

The dogs, unimpressed by the lack of drama, sprawled across the tatami, forming a half-circle around the humans as if waiting for instructions.

Genma set his mug down and leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You going out today?”

Kakashi shrugged. “Later. I figured we could… take it slow.”

The words hung, uncharacteristically awkward, in the air. Genma picked up on the uncertainty, and for once, didn’t feel the need to make a joke out of it.

“I like slow,” he said, voice low.

Kakashi looked at him, his eye softening in a way Genma remembered from a long time ago, back when things were simpler and both of them still believed in “later.”

They spent the day in increments—reading, napping, passing notes back and forth (sometimes literally, when neither could find the right words). Every time Genma got up to stretch his legs or raid the kitchen, he’d find another little reminder that Kakashi had been here first: a trail of dog hair, a marker in the middle of a book, a teacup with the handle turned just so.

At one point, Genma noticed that his spare senbon kit had migrated from his vest pocket to the edge of the coffee table, nestled beside a stack of Kakashi’s favorites. He picked it up, turned it in his hands, and felt a rush of something like nostalgia, or maybe hope.

It wasn’t all easy. There were moments when the old anxieties surfaced—when Genma caught himself counting the exits, or when Kakashi went still and silent, gaze fixed on a point no one else could see. But the tension never lasted. It was always broken by something small: the weight of Kakashi’s head leaning onto Genma’s shoulder, the steady pressure of Genma’s fingers tracing the line of Kakashi’s jaw, the dry, relentless humor of the ninken as they bickered over who got to sleep closest to the sofa.

They ate dinner cross-legged on the tatami, the meal cobbled together from leftovers and takeout. Genma made a show of critiquing the seasoning, and Kakashi countered by stealing half the pickled ginger from Genma’s bowl.

“You know,” Kakashi said, after a long silence, “I don’t think I ever said I was sorry.”

Genma set his chopsticks down, gave the other man a measured look. “For what?”

Kakashi hesitated. “For not telling you what I wanted. For making you guess.”

Genma shrugged, but it was a careful, deliberate motion. “I wasn’t exactly an open book either.”

“No more secrets,” Kakashi said, the words an oath and a plea at once.

“No more running,” Genma agreed, and placed his senbon on the table, point-down, a line in the sand.

Kakashi smiled—a small, imperfect thing, but real. Genma stared for a beat, then reached out and ran his thumb along the edge of Kakashi’s jaw, feeling the stubble and the heat of skin underneath.

They spent the rest of the evening on the sofa, reading and not reading, both pretending not to notice when the other drifted off mid-paragraph. At some point, Genma shifted, stretching out so that his head rested in Kakashi’s lap. He expected to be shoved off, or at least mocked, but instead Kakashi just carded his fingers through Genma’s hair, slow and steady, until the world faded to gray.

He woke later, maybe hours later, to find himself curled on the sofa, Kakashi slumped sideways, chin tucked against his chest and mouth open just enough to snore. Genma’s arm was thrown over Kakashi’s waist, and the senbon had migrated to the crack between two cushions.

For the first time in months, maybe years, Genma felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

He closed his eyes and let himself sleep.

The first real test came three days later, when Raido and Aoba cornered Genma at the training ground and staged an intervention disguised as lunch.

“We’re going to Ichiraku,” Raido said, voice flat and unmoved by argument. “You’re coming, and you’re bringing Kakashi.”

Aoba, fidgeting behind dark glasses, added, “You know, for—uh—team building.”

Genma arched an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware we were still a team.”

Raido shrugged. “You’re both on the schedule next week. Might as well get used to it.”

Kakashi arrived, as always, just late enough to seem unplanned, hands shoved in pockets and an expression of polite boredom stitched across his face. He greeted Raido with a brief nod, ignored Aoba’s nervous half-wave, and let Genma take point as they headed down the street.

The ramen stand was packed, every counter seat taken by a rotating cast of shinobi, civilians, and the odd Academy brat. Raido commandeered a booth in the back, waving them over with the authority of a man who’d already ordered for the table.

They squeezed in—Genma and Kakashi on one side, Raido and Aoba on the other. For a minute, the only sound was the slurp of noodles and the low drone of conversation from the other tables.

Genma started to relax, but Aoba immediately derailed that with, “So, uh, you two are—” He cleared his throat. “Official, then?”

Kakashi raised an eyebrow, but didn’t answer.

Genma slid his hand under the table, found Kakashi’s, and laced their fingers together. “Yeah,” he said, voice even. “We figured we’d give it another shot. Properly, this time.”

Aoba’s face went crimson, but Raido didn’t blink. If anything, he seemed relieved.

The first interruption came when Kurenai swept by the booth, carrying a tray of tea for another table. She paused, set down a stack of extra napkins, and said, “Just in case,” with a knowing smile.

Next was Asuma, who detoured from the register to clap Genma on the back and lean in, cigarette unlit but still present. “I see the rumors were true,” he said, eyes flicking between Genma and Kakashi. “Glad to see you worked it out.”

Genma just nodded. Kakashi, never one for small talk, kept his eye on the ramen.

The third cameo was Anko, who appeared in the next booth over, dango skewer balanced in her mouth. She gave Kakashi a slow, mocking once-over and said, “You finally let him off the leash, huh?” before winking at Genma.

Kakashi didn’t bother to reply, but Genma snorted. “He’s more trouble than he looks.”

Anko raised her skewer in salute, then returned to her meal.

At some point, Guy materialized at the entrance to the restaurant, caught sight of the group, and launched into a thumbs-up so vigorous it almost tipped him into the soup. “True love endures!” he shouted, and several heads turned, but nobody seemed surprised.

Raido watched the circus unfold with the air of a man who’d seen it all before. “You know,” he said to Genma, “this is the happiest I’ve seen the squad in a long time.”

Aoba, still pink but gamely trying to steer the conversation, said, “So, uh, what’s next for you guys? Joint missions, or…?”

Genma considered, then shrugged. “Whatever comes up.”

Kakashi added, “We’re taking it slow,” the words a careful echo of what they’d agreed.

The meal passed in fits and starts, Aoba growing more flustered each time he spilled his water or knocked over a napkin holder. Raido stayed stoic, occasionally offering a well-timed deadpan to defuse the tension. Kakashi said little, but every so often his thumb would stroke Genma’s knuckle under the table, a silent reminder of the new equilibrium.

They paid the bill, dodged Guy’s second attempt at a group hug, and stepped out into the evening. The street was strung with paper lanterns, each one swinging in the soft wind, coloring the night in stripes of gold and red.

Raido and Aoba split off at the corner, Raido with a nod and Aoba with a bashful “Goodnight,” leaving Genma and Kakashi alone in the half-lit street.

For a while, neither spoke. The silence was comfortable, each step measured to match the other’s pace. Genma glanced sideways, saw that Kakashi’s mask had slipped slightly, exposing the shadow of a smile underneath.

Genma reached out, caught Kakashi’s hand, and squeezed.

Kakashi let himself lean, just a fraction, until their shoulders touched.

The walk home was slow, every step deliberate, the world finally moving at a pace they could keep up with.

For once, there was nowhere else to be.

And that was enough.

Chapter Text

The entrance arch for the Konoha Cherry Blossom Festival loomed like a dare, all painted wood and hand-inked banners stretched so taut Genma half-expected them to snap under the pressure of a hundred party-planning committees’ expectations. Paper lanterns swayed on ropes overhead, fat with sunlight and the laughter of the village, which echoed in bursts as the crowd surged through the gates. Even the air was dressed for the occasion—petals heavy in the breeze, every exhale sweet as nostalgia.

Genma lingered at the edge of the avenue, working the senbon between his teeth like a gear in need of recalibration. The absence of his standard forehead protector made him feel naked, which was ironic given that the rest of him was clad head-to-toe in the regulation uniform—ANBU-grade black, jounin vest, every patch sewn down with the stubbornness of a man who never lost a button. He had considered wearing something else, if only to match the mood, but the idea of shopping for clothes with Kakashi had felt a little too much like a honeymoon, and Genma wasn’t ready for metaphors that loud.

Kakashi, for his part, had gone rogue. No vest, no flak, not even a shuriken pouch. Just a dark blue yukata—slouchy but sharp, the kind that made him look half-aristocrat, half-delinquent—and his ever-present mask, which only deepened the effect. His hair, as usual, defied both gravity and social norms, but he’d at least made a concession to the festival with a tie of red string at the nape, holding the wildest spikes in check. Genma wasn’t sure if he wanted to punch him for looking so good, or drag him behind the dango stall and do something else entirely.

They’d met on the main path, just before the first food cart, and started walking together. Not side by side, at first—more like two clouds orbiting the same weather system—but as they approached the festival gate, Kakashi’s hand found Genma’s, and that was that.

The crowd thickened under the arch. At least a dozen Konoha regulars clustered near the entrance: squads of genin with hair dyed pink for the day, old ladies in layered kimono, even a pair of Genma’s least favorite Academy brats, already eyeing the prize wheels and throwing daggers in each other’s direction. The moment Genma and Kakashi crossed into the festival proper, a hush fell across the immediate group, like someone had hit pause on the village.

Three kunoichi from the med division stopped mid-laugh, mouths open as if waiting for instructions on how to react. Two male jounin, faces painted for festival patrol, blinked in sync and then quickly averted their gazes, pretending to find the next lantern utterly fascinating. Someone behind them whispered, not even trying to keep it subtle, “Is that Hatake? With Shiranui?” A third voice: “No way. They hate each other.” A fourth: “Are they holding hands?”

Genma almost stopped, but then Kakashi squeezed his hand just enough to remind him who had the higher pain tolerance. He powered through, the senbon shifting to the left side of his mouth as he let a slow smile play across his lips.

“Well,” Genma said, his voice pitched low for Kakashi’s ear only, “at least we’re giving the gossip mill a break from the Hokage’s love life.”

Kakashi’s eye creased, a single fold so expressive it nearly qualified as an entire facial language. “If you’re going to make a scene, might as well be a memorable one.”

A cherry blossom petal landed on Kakashi’s shoulder, then slipped into the crook of his yukata, a pink stowaway. Genma flicked it away, careful to brush knuckles along the edge of Kakashi’s neck in the process. Kakashi didn’t flinch. Instead, he let his thumb draw lazy circles on Genma’s wrist, right over the old scar from the border mission that everyone still pretended not to know about.

They moved deeper into the festival, weaving between clusters of villagers and ninja in varying stages of tipsy celebration. Everywhere they walked, eyes followed, but the longer they stayed, the more the crowd reabsorbed them. A handful of children darted past with sticks of pink mochi, shrieking at each other about “ANBU coming to get you,” and neither Genma nor Kakashi regarded so much as a sideways glance.

Genma risked a look over his shoulder. The same three med kunoichi were still there, but now they’d swapped positions, and one was openly taking notes on a notepad. Genma barked a laugh, then sobered as they rounded a corner and nearly collided with a trio of off-duty genin, one of whom managed to trip over his own foot in the effort to turn away discreetly.

“Nice yukata, Sensei,” one managed, and Kakashi raised a hand in half-hearted greeting.

Genma caught his reflection in a mirrored sign advertising festival games. He expected to see discomfort, maybe even resentment, but what he saw was… calm. Or as close as he ever got. The weirdest part wasn’t the public spectacle, or the way his free hand still hovered near his weapon pouch out of habit; it was how right this felt, walking with Kakashi, not hiding anything except the usual national secrets.

“You realize,” Genma said, “if we make it to the tea garden without a civilian fainting, that’s a statistical miracle.”

“Maybe we should pick up the pace,” Kakashi replied, and this time his voice carried a smile.

They hit the main festival square. Fire spinners had claimed the northern edge, while the dango and okonomiyaki stalls lined the southern walk like competing armies of grease and sugar. Overhead, streamers arched in tangled webs between lanterns, and the air was thick with overlapping festival music—drums from the big stage, shamisen from a tiny cart run by two elderly men, and the underlying, constant chatter of a thousand villagers deciding what part of the celebration to hit next.

Genma felt the pressure in his jaw ease. The longer they walked, the less he cared about the stares, and the more he noticed the other details: the way Kakashi’s stride matched his exactly, the pulse in his own wrist settling to a normal rhythm, even the distant, familiar sound of Might Guy yelling motivational slogans somewhere to the east.

He made a bet with himself about how long it would take before Guy found them. He gave it twenty minutes, tops.

They stopped at a stall selling skewered chicken and plum wine, the latter in tiny cups that looked more ceremonial than functional. Genma ordered two, handed one to Kakashi, and made a show of sniffing the cup before sipping.

“To being a spectacle,” Genma said.

Kakashi clinked his cup gently against Genma’s. “To not caring.”

They drank, and the wine was sweet and sharp. A group of teenagers at the next stall started a rumor that Kakashi and Genma were on a secret mission to investigate festival security. By the time they finished their drinks, it had mutated into a story about undercover lovers sent to expose a dango cartel.

Genma wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “We could have worn disguises,” he said, mock-disappointed.

Kakashi’s eye sparkled. “I like this better.”

The next stall sold festival masks—fox, tanuki, a couple of really grotesque snake designs that looked suspiciously like Anko’s taste. Genma slowed, considered, then picked out a fox mask and spun it on one finger.

“For you,” he said, handing it over. “To complete the look.”

Kakashi took it, but didn’t put it on. Instead, he handed it back, then reached up and set it gently on top of Genma’s head, where it perched askew.

Genma was about to protest, but then caught the look in Kakashi’s eye and shut up.

It was the sort of moment that would have embarrassed him a week ago. Now, he just let it ride.

They continued through the festival, passing more ninja than Genma cared to count, but none of them gave more than a polite nod or a quick, sidelong glance. Somewhere in the crowd, someone called Genma’s name, but he ignored it. For once, nobody expected anything from him but to be here, with the man beside him, eating skewers and getting lost in the lights.

As they neared the western end of the park, the crowd thinned out and the canopy of cherry blossoms grew so dense that daylight barely filtered through. Genma took a breath, the air sweet with petals and promise.

He looked at Kakashi. The yukata suited him, but not as much as the quiet confidence in his posture, or the way he didn’t let go of Genma’s hand even once.

Genma felt the nerves, the old instincts, but he let them go. He leaned in, lips close enough to Kakashi’s ear that only he could hear.

“We’re really doing this,” he said.

Kakashi’s response was simple, and for once, entirely unmasked: “We are.”

The festival continued around them—louder, wilder, and brighter with every passing hour—but for a moment, all Genma heard was the hush of falling petals and the slow, certain drum of his own heartbeat.

He was here. They were here.

And for once, that was all that mattered.

If there was one universal law in Konoha, it was that the second you let your guard down, someone would offer you food. Genma barely made it twenty steps before he found himself holding a paper tray loaded with sweet potato fries, courtesy of a vendor whose handshake grip rivaled the Hokage’s. Kakashi got roped into a matcha mochi eating contest by a cluster of overzealous Academy hopefuls, who demanded a demonstration from “the Copy Ninja” and then collapsed into a pile of giggles when Kakashi outpaced the reigning record without ever once lowering his mask.

Genma watched the display, grinning around a mouthful of fries, and couldn’t help but enjoy the reversal—Kakashi, the legendary ANBU captain, taking a bow to a table of sticky-fingered children and then deftly palming the leftover mochi into Genma’s vest pocket as they strolled away. He didn’t even need to say it; the gesture was pure Kakashi, equal parts mischief and care.

They detoured around the main stage, where a troupe of Kurenai’s genjutsu students put on a color-changing light show set to an aggressively cheerful pop ballad. Genma faked an aneurysm, but Kakashi’s eye flickered in appreciation at the cleverness of the illusions. Several villagers nearby recognized them—one particularly ancient matron pointed a trembling fan and whispered, “Are they allowed to do that in public?” to her friend, who just shrugged and took another bite of grilled squid.

The festival stalls grew more outlandish the further they ventured: goldfish scooping, target shooting, a giant ring-toss with prizes ranging from plastic kunai to stuffed animals of the ninken variety. Kakashi eyed the last one, then nodded toward the row of toys strung up along the backboard.

“Think you could win one of those?” he asked, voice low.

Genma snorted. “You’re asking the wrong guy. Never had the patience for carnival games.”

Kakashi raised a brow, then pulled a handful of tickets from his yukata sleeve. “Fortunately, I do.”

He paid the vendor, who grinned like he’d just caught a live tiger, and handed over three oversized plastic rings. The first two tosses arced perfect and landed clean, right on the necks of the targets. The third ring Kakashi tossed up, spinning it so it caught the lantern light, then let it drop at the exact moment a breeze nudged the stuffed dog—Pakkun model, complete with little hat—just far enough forward to catch it. The vendor whistled, then offered up the prize with a wink.

Kakashi turned to Genma, holding out the plushie with exaggerated solemnity. “For you. To commemorate our first date.”

Genma rolled his eyes, but took the toy, giving its soft ear an experimental tug. “You know if Guy sees this, he’s never going to let us live it down.”

As if summoned, Might Guy materialized out of the crowd, green jumpsuit blinding even in the afternoon shade. He caught sight of the two of them, clapped both hands to his face, and then burst into what could only be described as the world’s most sincere parade of happy tears.

“MY YOUTHFUL COMRADES!” he boomed, voice somehow amplifying above the festival’s chaos. “WHAT BEAUTIFUL BLOSSOMING OF LOVE THIS IS!”

Kakashi managed a small, almost sheepish bow. Genma tried to hide behind the plush dog, but Guy wasn’t having it. He barreled in, wrapping both men in a hug that felt like being tackled by a motivational speech. Genma wheezed but endured, knowing resistance was useless.

Guy stepped back, eyes shining. “Your boldness inspires even ME, the ETERNAL BEACON OF PASSION!” He thrust a thumbs-up skyward, then wiped his face with a handkerchief that had his own face stitched in the corner.

Genma tried, weakly, “Guy, it’s really not—”

“NOTHING COULD BE MORE BEAUTIFUL!” Guy declared. “You honor the will of fire with every step!”

Genma gave up. “Thanks, Guy. Appreciate it.”

Guy turned to Kakashi, dropping his voice to a mock-whisper. “Take good care of him, rival. He’s a national treasure.” He then performed a full bow, nearly headbutting the ground, and vanished in a blur toward the next event, shouting “SPINNING YOUTHFULNESS!” as he went.

Kakashi regarded the afterimage, then looked to Genma. “Well. That could have been worse.”

“Could have been a proposal,” Genma said, only half joking.

They found the next booth manned by Anko, who was supposed to be running a “guess the number of dango balls in a jar” contest but seemed more interested in lobbing snacks at passersby and heckling the slow-witted. She spotted Genma and Kakashi instantly and made a beeline.

“Well, if it isn’t the village’s hottest messes,” she said, mouth full and tone gleeful. “Heard you two finally worked your shit out.”

Genma shrugged, the plush dog still under his arm. “We’re testing the public safety of it, actually.”

Anko flicked a dango ball at him, which Genma caught in his mouth without thinking. “I give it a week before you both snap and end up in my office for injury reports,” she said. “But you look happy, so who am I to judge?”

Kakashi nodded politely. “Nice booth.”

“I know, right? They wouldn’t let me run the spicy dango challenge after last year’s incident,” Anko said, throwing a glare at an invisible authority figure. “But I can still corrupt the youth with my charm.”

She winked at Genma, then gave Kakashi a brief, sincere look. “Glad you’re here,” she said, softer. “Both of you.”

Kakashi actually seemed touched. “Thank you, Anko.”

She faked a gag, then shoved another stick of dango in Genma’s vest. “Now go make out somewhere, you’re scaring the children.” With that, she returned to the contest, yelling, “THREE HUNDRED AND NINETY-TWO, YOU LOSERS!” at the nearest hopeful.

They didn’t get far before Raido intercepted them, emerging from a side path with the smoothness of a man who’d spent his entire life perfecting the art of subtlety. He wore his standard dark uniform, not a speck of festival color on him, and carried himself with the tired dignity of a teacher on field trip duty.

“Genma,” he said, voice even. “Kakashi. Enjoying the festivities?”

Genma nodded, wary of a trap. “Trying not to get arrested, mostly.”

Raido’s eyes flicked to their joined hands, then to the plush dog, then back up. “Good,” he said, and for a split second the edge of his mouth twitched up. “You’ve earned it.”

Kakashi bowed slightly. “Thank you, Raido.”

Raido shrugged, already moving past them. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Genma watched him go, feeling a strange warmth in his chest. “He’s not as scary as he looks, you know,” he said to Kakashi.

Kakashi smiled. “I’ve known that for a long time.”

The next hour blurred together in a run of festival amusements: Kakashi convinced Genma to try the goldfish scooping (they both failed spectacularly), Genma nearly toppled a shooting gallery with a single, badly-placed senbon, and they both agreed to avoid the haunted maze after hearing that the Hokage’s nephew had already cried and fled twice.

It was near the cherry blossom path that they ran into Kurenai and Asuma, who were sharing a bench and looking exactly like a couple who thought they were being subtle but absolutely were not. Asuma had his arm draped over the back of the seat, cigarette forgotten in one hand, while Kurenai leaned in, voice pitched soft and private. They saw Genma and Kakashi, and after a brief, silent exchange, Kurenai smiled and waved them over.

“I see the festival is treating you both well,” she said, eyes twinkling with the kind of gentle mischief only she could pull off.

Genma shrugged, dropping onto the end of the bench. “So far, nobody’s set us on fire, so I call it a win.”

Asuma offered the pack of cigarettes. “Smoke?”

Kakashi shook his head. “Not in this crowd.”

Genma took one, though, lighting it with a practiced flick. “How are you two?”

Kurenai laughed. “Better now that Asuma stopped betting on when you’d show up.”

Asuma grinned, sheepish. “You were overdue.”

Genma exhaled, the smoke mixing with the scent of flowers. “Can’t stay away from the drama, you know that.”

Kurenai’s eyes softened. “I’m glad to see you happy, Genma.”

He blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity. “Yeah. Me too, honestly.”

They sat a while longer, talking about the festival and its inevitable aftermath. The conversation drifted from small talk to comfortable silence, and when Genma finally stood, Kurenai gave his arm a quick squeeze.

“Don’t let anyone ruin this for you,” she said, words meant for both of them.

Kakashi nodded, and for a moment, the four of them were just friends at a festival, no history, no drama.

They wandered back toward the main path, only to be intercepted by Aoba, who’d apparently been hiding behind a yakisoba cart in the hopes of “catching them in the wild.” He blushed furiously when Genma waved, stammered through a greeting, and then attempted a congratulatory handshake, only to forget which hand to use and nearly drop his sunglasses.

Kakashi rescued him with a gentle clap on the shoulder. “Good to see you, Aoba.”

Aoba nodded, then ran off, probably to report to the rest of the intelligence division that Genma and Kakashi had not, in fact, murdered each other.

The last sunlight faded into a wash of pink and gold, the lanterns brightening overhead. Genma and Kakashi walked the perimeter of the festival, taking in the laughter, the smells, and the relentless pulse of village life. Every now and then, someone would stare too long, or whisper too loudly, but neither man cared anymore.

At some point, Genma realized that his free hand wasn’t hovering near his weapons anymore. Instead, it was stuffed into the pocket of his vest, fingers playing with the little stuffed dog.

He nudged Kakashi. “We’re not the only weird couple here, you know.”

Kakashi’s eye sparkled. “We might be the only one with an audience.”

Genma laughed, and it was a clean sound, no bitterness at the edges. “Let’s go find the best view of the blossoms before Guy comes back and sings at us.”

Kakashi nodded, and they made their way to a quiet stretch of path, where the petals fell in thick, lazy drifts, blanketing the ground in a riot of color and possibility.

Genma leaned into the hush, savoring the sweetness of the moment. For the first time all day, he didn’t feel watched. He felt seen.

Beside him, Kakashi exhaled, the slow release of tension so palpable Genma could almost taste it.

They stood together, not speaking, as the world spun out in celebration around them.

For the first time, Genma didn’t mind being the center of attention.

As the night deepened, he just let himself be happy.

Dusk slipped in quietly, thinning the crowd until the festival belonged only to the stubborn, the inebriated, and the romantics who refused to call it a night. Paper lanterns shed warm circles of light, casting the walkways in a soft, golden haze and picking out the slow swirl of petals tumbling from the trees. The music faded to a background hum, a few notes drifting up from the far side of the square as last-call vendors packed up and the more persistent revelers staked out the best blossom-viewing benches.

Genma and Kakashi wandered without direction, following the curve of the path until they reached a part of the garden where the canopy thickened, turning the world pink and muffling the noise of the village. Here, the air felt cooler and the ground beneath their feet was carpeted with fresh blossoms, each step giving way to a gentle, fragrant crunch.

They stopped beneath a particularly dense bough, the branches so heavy with petals that they formed a ceiling, catching the last traces of light and holding them close. The silence was deep, comfortable. Genma exhaled, long and even, the sort of breath he used to mark the end of a mission, the moment when everything dangerous was past and all that remained was the walk home.

Kakashi’s hand was still entwined with his, the grip loose but constant. Genma could feel the roughness of old scars along the edge of Kakashi’s thumb, the callus where he habitually flicked the page of every book he’d ever read. He didn’t let go, not even when Genma’s other hand started compulsively spinning the senbon, working out the last fragments of tension from the day.

Above, a petal drifted free and fell, catching in the air between them. Kakashi reached up, fingers closing around it with the kind of precision that made Genma wonder if he ever stopped thinking like a shinobi. Instead of discarding it, Kakashi opened his palm and offered the petal to Genma, who plucked it gently from his hand and gave it a careful inspection.

“Perfect catch,” Genma said, voice just above a whisper.

Kakashi shrugged, but his eye was bright. “I had good motivation.”

Genma laughed—a soft sound, as much exhale as amusement—and let the petal go. It landed on Kakashi’s shoulder, a speck of color against the deep blue of his yukata. Genma brushed it away, this time letting his fingers linger at the base of Kakashi’s throat, just beneath the line of the mask.

He hesitated, suddenly aware of how private and exposed this moment felt, here in the hush beneath the cherry trees. But when he looked up, Kakashi was already watching him, eye steady and patient.

“I never thought we’d be here like this,” Genma said, the words coming out unfiltered.

Kakashi nodded, not looking away. “I’m glad we are.”

For a while, there was nothing else to say. The wind picked up, scattering more petals, and Genma caught himself thinking about how strange it was to feel completely safe, to stand in the middle of his own village and not brace for the next disaster.

He let the senbon slip from his fingers, catching it deftly as it fell, and then—without thinking—brought his hand up to Kakashi’s face. The mask had always been a barrier, one more secret in a life built on them, but tonight it felt like less of a shield and more of a formality.

Kakashi saw the gesture coming. He reached up, caught Genma’s wrist, and held it steady. Then, slowly, he pulled the mask down just far enough to reveal the curve of his mouth, the faintest hint of a smile.

The kiss was brief, careful, but more honest than anything they’d managed in years. It tasted of sake and sweet rice, of risk and reward, of all the times they’d nearly said what they meant and never quite dared. Genma pressed in, just enough to be sure it was real, and then let it go, stepping back with a grin so broad it nearly hurt.

Kakashi fixed the mask, the motion practiced, but this time he didn’t bother hiding the smile that lingered above it.

From somewhere nearby came a muffled cheer, followed by a thunderous “TRUE LOVE WINS AGAIN!” that could only have come from Guy. Genma groaned, burying his face in Kakashi’s shoulder, while Kakashi just shook with quiet laughter.

They peeked around the trunk of the tree to see Guy, hand to his heart, eyes brimming with what were absolutely real tears. Beside him, Anko pretended to retch, but her smile was so wide it nearly split her face. Raido and Aoba stood just beyond, Raido smirking and Aoba blinking rapidly as if he’d just witnessed something borderline illegal.

Kurenai and Asuma watched from a respectful distance, the two of them linked arm-in-arm and wearing identical expressions of smug satisfaction. Kurenai gave a discreet wave, and Asuma raised his cigarette in salute.

Genma gave them all the finger, but it was half-hearted at best.

He looked at Kakashi, who shrugged as if to say, “It’s a festival.”

“Let’s go,” Genma said, “before they start a chant.”

They walked back toward the lights, arms brushing, steps unhurried. For once, the village felt like home—a place where history didn’t have to be a weight, and where the future was something to look forward to.

They lingered at the edge of the main path, watching as the last wave of petals drifted down, settling on lanterns and rooftops and the shoulders of every passerby.

Kakashi reached up, thumb grazing Genma’s cheek. “You’re happy,” he said, not a question.

Genma considered it, then nodded. “Yeah. I am.”

They stood there until the world faded to soft light and distant music, until the only thing left was the warmth of each other’s presence and the certainty that, at least for tonight, everything was exactly as it should be.

When they finally moved, it was together, side by side, heads high, walking straight into the heart of the festival and not caring in the least who saw them.

Chapter Text

The morning after the festival, Genma arrived at Kakashi’s apartment building with three boxes of belongings, a plastic bag of cleaning supplies, and the distinct impression he was about to be murdered by a retired jonin grandmother. The stairwell was both steep and inexplicably sticky—some ancient resin holding the whole place together, probably—and the third floor hallway was narrow enough that carrying more than two boxes at once was a declaration of war on his own shins.

By the time he reached apartment 303, he’d already shed a layer of patience and most of the skin off his left elbow. He shifted his grip, gave the door a tap with the toe of his boot, and waited. Nothing. He tried again, louder.

From inside, muffled by the door and the usual fortress of detritus, came a lethargic, “It’s open.”

Genma fumbled with the knob, got it halfway open before the cardboard stack wedged in the gap. He elbowed the door the rest of the way and maneuvered through with a grunt. Inside, the world was… not what he’d expected. Worse, in a way that felt deeply personal.

The apartment was the definition of “lived-in”—not filthy, but the kind of chaos that happens when a man and seven dogs share 900 square feet and no one takes responsibility for anything but the toilet. The main room was half-futon, half-pile-of-books, with a single ancient couch that sagged so low in the middle it looked like it had been hollowed by termites. Kakashi was slouched at the far end, feet up, reading a battered copy of Icha Icha Tactics. He wore a t-shirt and sweats and looked—Genma would not say “domestic,” but the word was hovering, somewhere in the unspoken.

Next to the couch, two large dogs and one extremely small, angry one eyed Genma as if he’d brought a bomb instead of personal effects. The rest of the ninken pack was presumably in the back, plotting against the neighbors.

Kakashi didn’t look up. “You made it,” he said, voice bored even by his own standards.

Genma kicked the door closed and set the boxes down with a thud. “Next time, you get the elevator.”

Kakashi turned a page. “There is no elevator.”

“That’s the point,” Genma muttered. He pulled a senbon from behind his ear and jammed it between his teeth, scanning for a clear path through the maze of furniture and animal. He found exactly none.

Pakkun, the only ninken with even a shred of social grace, padded over to sniff the nearest box. “Smells like bureaucracy and disappointment,” he said, then sneezed, the effect ruined by his own wheezy dignity.

Genma knelt, unzipping the box. “It’s mostly files and senbon. Maybe a few shirts.”

“I see you travel light,” Kakashi said, still not looking up.

Genma yanked out a zippered roll of needles and set it on the coffee table. “I left half my stuff at the barracks.”

The small, angry ninken—Shiba, if Genma remembered right—began a low growl, the kind reserved for rats and vacuum cleaners. Genma arched an eyebrow at him.

Kakashi finally put down the book. “They’ll get used to you. Eventually.”

“They better. I’ve got more sharp objects than you have dogs,” Genma replied, extracting a second, even larger senbon case from the box.

Kakashi let that hang in the air for a moment, then nodded at the coffee table, where the first case had already been commandeered by the larger dog. Bull, appropriately named, sniffed the edges and then flopped his massive head across the top, effectively staking it as pack property.

Genma reached to retrieve it. Bull did not yield.

Pakkun sighed. “We’ll talk to him.”

“Don’t bother,” Genma said, “I’ll just keep them in my room.”

Kakashi made a noise—a sort of low, skeptical hum. “About that.”

Genma froze, case in hand. “You said I could have the bedroom.”

“I said you could use the back room. The dogs get the actual bedroom,” Kakashi replied, as if discussing the weather.

Genma set the case down, careful now. “You’re joking.”

Kakashi looked up, eye as flat as a pond in January. “They’re creatures of habit. You can sleep there, but if you try to move their stuff, they’ll just drag it back.”

Genma processed this. He chewed the inside of his cheek, then leaned over to peek down the hallway. Sure enough, the “bedroom” was a repurposed kennel palace—three dog beds, two shredded blankets, and a pile of rawhide bones that made up its own small continent.

“Where do I put my clothes?”

Kakashi gestured at a chest of drawers, wedged into the hallway between the bathroom and a wall of stacked newspapers. “You get the top drawer. Don’t touch the second one, it’s all emergency gear.”

Genma opened the drawer. There was space for maybe three shirts and a pair of socks, provided he didn’t mind sharing with a loose shuriken and a handful of dog treats.

He looked back at the main room. Kakashi had returned to his book, feet still propped, as if the conversation had already concluded.

The third box—clearly labeled “fragile”—sat untouched. Genma opened it, extracted his favorite mug, and surveyed the kitchen. There was a space on the counter for exactly one more mug, but it required displacing a mound of instant ramen and a mug shaped like Pakkun’s head. Genma slid his in front, feeling a tiny, stupid thrill of conquest.

Pakkun had resumed sniffing the senbon cases. “You know,” he said, “Hatake’s last roommate left after six days.”

Genma rolled his eyes. “I’m not his roommate.”

Pakkun wagged his tail. “We’ll see.”

The sound of Shiba gnawing on the zipper of the senbon roll brought Genma’s attention snapping back. He lunged, grabbing the case before any permanent damage could be done. The motion sent the case flying, popping open and launching an arc of senbon across the rug like a porcupine’s last stand.

The chaos was instant. Shiba barked, Bull tried to catch a needle in midair and missed, and Pakkun dove under the coffee table, howling something about unsafe work conditions.

Genma scrambled to retrieve the loose needles, hands moving with the speed of a man used to life-or-death field repairs. He managed to corral most of them, but when he looked up, Kakashi was watching— eye crinkled in a way that said: I could help, but this is better.

Genma jammed the last senbon into the case, wiped his hand on his pants, and stood. “You’re enjoying this,” he said.

Kakashi tilted his head. “I like to see how you handle stress.”

Genma bared his teeth in a near-smile. “Keep watching, you might learn something.”

Bull padded over, dropped a slobbery senbon at Genma’s feet, and retreated, tail thumping the floor in a rhythm of deliberate insolence.

Genma picked up the needle and, with a flourish, spun it between his fingers before flicking it into a planter across the room. It landed with a satisfying thunk, dead center in the dirt.

Pakkun poked his head out. “Nice shot.”

Kakashi’s visible eye softened, almost imperceptible. “He’s a professional,” he said, the words as much a benediction as a burn.

Genma eyed the remaining unpacked box, the heap of dogs, the single drawer of allotted space, and the tangle of old rugs on the floor. It was chaos, but it was familiar, even—he’d never admit it—comforting.

He flopped onto the couch beside Kakashi, elbows on knees, mug in hand. The ninken settled around them, forming a loose perimeter.

After a long moment, Kakashi closed his book, set it aside, and leaned back, stretching until his arm nearly brushed Genma’s shoulder.

“You want to order food?” Kakashi said.

Genma let out a slow breath. “Yeah. I do.”

They sat in the thick hush of a place finally, and fully, lived in.

Pakkun yawned. “He’ll last two weeks,” he said, mostly to himself.

But Genma heard, and he wasn’t so sure.

He had a bet to win, after all.

Genma woke to the sound of artillery, or what passed for it in Hatake Kakashi’s apartment: the staccato machine-gun fire of bubble wrap being systematically obliterated by a pack of bored ninken. The smallest one, Shiba, had wedged himself behind the TV stand and was detonating the air pockets with such force that every pop rattled the cords in the wall. On the coffee table, Pakkun lounged with the air of a retired general, overseeing the operation with half-lidded, judgmental eyes. Genma swore he saw a single, crumpled bubble stuck to the bottom of Pakkun’s paw.

He rolled out from under the pile of blankets that constituted his new bed, stretching the tension from his shoulders. Every muscle in his back protested, but compared to the springless bunks at the barracks, it was luxury. He swiped a senbon from the nightstand—he’d stashed them on every flat surface, just to feel like he had the upper hand—and stuck it between his teeth, surveying the destruction.

The living room was even worse than the night before. Bubble wrap, torn envelopes, and a million tiny plastic shrapnel bits littered the floor. At some point, one of the ninken had tracked in mud from the fire escape, leaving a trail across the rug that ended in an oval nest of upturned boots and a single, very dead plush toy. Genma made a mental note to sweep later, then immediately decided not to bother.

He found Kakashi in the kitchen, hair defying gravity as always. He was frying eggs with a detached precision that suggested he could have done it blindfolded and one-handed, which, given Kakashi, was likely true. The air smelled faintly of black tea, singed rice, and wet dog.

Genma slid onto the stool at the counter. “You know your dogs are waging war on my bubble wrap, right?”

Kakashi turned, pan in hand. “They’re pacifying the environment,” he said. “You brought contraband into the house. It’s only natural.”

Genma grunted, then pointed his senbon at the carnage in the living room. “Pretty sure it’s a Geneva Convention violation.”

Kakashi shrugged, sliding a plate across the counter. Two eggs, perfectly over-easy, and a slice of toast that looked like it had been cut with a kunai. Genma raised an eyebrow. “You cooked?”

“I’m not a monster,” Kakashi replied, pulling up the other stool. He poured tea from a battered kettle, setting a mug in front of Genma with a little more ceremony than necessary. “You’re going to need the energy.”

Genma sipped, then immediately set the mug down and poked at the toast. “This from the guy who lived off cup ramen for a decade.”

Kakashi’s eye crinkled. “Ramen isn’t breakfast.”

Genma rolled the senbon from one side of his mouth to the other, considering whether to let the conversation drift or steer it toward the inevitable topic: the next phase of living together, the unspoken contracts and fault lines of sharing space. He decided on the path of least resistance.

“We should talk about the arrangement,” he said. “I can’t live out of a box and a single drawer.”

Kakashi took a slow, meditative bite of egg. “There’s more space under the futon. Or, if you clear out the second shelf in the bathroom, you can have that too.”

Genma suppressed a sigh. “What about the closet?”

Kakashi sipped his tea. “Occupied.”

“By what, exactly?”

“Emergency supplies. Blankets. Guy’s old ‘springtime of youth’ banners. You never know when those will come in handy.”

Genma bit down on the toast, chewing with more aggression than he meant. “I’m going to reorganize it.”

Kakashi shrugged, as if to say: do your worst. The challenge had been issued.

Pakkun wandered in, hopped up onto the kitchen stool, and regarded Genma with a gaze that could have belonged to a hungover landlord. “If you’re looking for more shelf space, you could always sleep outside.”

Genma pointed the senbon at the dog. “That’s Plan B.”

Kakashi snorted. “He means it, you know.”

Genma sipped his tea, letting the heat cut through the grogginess. He eyed Kakashi over the rim. “I hope you like your territory marked. Because I’m going to color code the entire apartment.”

Kakashi’s eyebrow twitched. “Try not to use the ugly stickers.”

Genma finished breakfast in silence, a kind of truce settling in over the kitchen. The bubble wrap detonations had shifted to the bathroom, the tempo now less machine-gun and more artillery barrage.

Kakashi set his empty mug in the sink, then leaned back against the counter, arms folded. “You could move the dogs’ beds to the hallway. They’d complain, but they’d adapt.”

Genma considered it, running through the logistics. “You’re willing to take the heat?”

“Better you than Guy,” Kakashi said. “Last time he stayed over, it took them a week to recover.”

Genma grimaced at the memory. “He tried to sing them to sleep.”

“He succeeded,” Kakashi deadpanned. “But the trauma was lasting.”

They stood there, side by side, both pretending not to notice how easy it was to be in the same room, how much of the old friction had already worn itself down to a comfortable edge. Genma found himself almost disappointed.

The peace lasted right up until Bull—massive, gentle, utterly lacking in spatial awareness—lumbered into the kitchen and, with one swipe of his tail, knocked Genma’s meticulously reassembled senbon case off the counter. The case popped open, needles scattering across the tile with a noise like a dozen wind-up toys meeting their end.

Genma’s eye twitched. “I’m going to murder your dog.”

Pakkun yawned. “Get in line.”

Kakashi snickered, making no move to help, then bent to retrieve a stray senbon from where it had landed near his foot. He turned it over, inspecting the point. “You want this back?”

Genma plucked it from his fingers, tucking it into his sleeve. “Keep it. Maybe you’ll learn to use it properly.”

Kakashi’s eye glittered, then he let the silence stretch. “They’ll get used to you,” he said at last, voice softer. “You just have to stick around.”

Genma looked at him, really looked, and saw the truth under the mask—the hope, the uncertainty, the tiniest flicker of fear that he’d wake up and Genma would be gone, vanished back to the barracks or the bottom of a mission file.

Genma grinned, flashing all his teeth. “Question is, will I get used to them?”

Kakashi shrugged. “Adapt or die.”

Genma snorted, then reached across the counter to nudge Kakashi’s mug closer. “We’ll see who breaks first.”

Pakkun, sensing the moment had passed, hopped down and trotted out, leaving the two men alone in the kitchen. For a long moment, neither moved.

Genma finally reached for the tea kettle and refilled their mugs, setting one in front of Kakashi. They drank in a silence that was, for once, not empty.

It wasn’t peace, exactly. But it was something close.

And for Genma, that was more than enough.

By six that evening, Genma had resigned himself to the fact that no housewarming party in Hatake Kakashi’s apartment could ever be described as “cozy.” “High-threat social environment” was closer to the mark. The entire place still looked like a weapons locker after a bomb threat—boxes stacked, senbon cases lined up along the baseboard like some kind of perimeter defense, and a single folding chair set up in the middle of the room as a negotiation platform. The air was thick with the scent of rice wine, instant ramen, and dog hair. At least half the ninken had already posted up in strategic locations: one by the fridge, another under the table, and Pakkun in his usual spot on the armrest, presiding over the whole circus.

Genma had spent the last hour trying to turn the kitchen into something less than a war crime. The counters were cluttered with both unpacked groceries and whatever relics Kakashi had left behind in a decade of bachelorhood: mismatched mugs, a small collection of cracked bowls, and one truly menacing wooden spoon that looked like it had seen actual combat. Every time Genma opened a cabinet he found another surprise—expired spices, a stack of tupperware with biohazardous contents, and, once, a shriveled, possibly mummified yuzu.

He’d planned to cook, mostly to prove he could, but the first ingredient he touched (a bag of rice labeled in a handwriting he swore was Guy’s) dissolved into powder on contact. Genma resorted to boiling water, then improvising with some noodles and a handful of leftover vegetables, while Kakashi supervised from the kitchen doorway, arms folded, mask hiding everything but the curve of his unimpressed eyebrow.

“Are you sure you want to serve that?” Kakashi asked, voice as mild as rat poison.

Genma scowled, hands deep in the colander. “I’m not aiming for a Michelin star. Just basic nutrition.”

Kakashi drifted into the kitchen, picking a shred of carrot off the cutting board and popping it into his mouth. “If you use less salt, you might survive the night.”

“If you want to help,” Genma said, “you can set the table.”

Kakashi considered this. “We don’t have enough plates.”

Genma slammed the colander down. “Then get creative.”

“Copy-nin,” Kakashi deadpanned, “not copy-dishware.”

Genma ignored him, attacking the mess with the focus of a man used to working under fire.

The first knock at the door came just as Genma was plating the “main course” (two kinds of instant noodles topped with pickled radish and what might have been beef jerky). He wiped his hands, stuck a senbon between his teeth, and opened the door.

Anko shoved past him immediately, toting a jug of what looked like homemade plum wine and wearing a t-shirt that said “I Survived ANBU Training and All I Got Was This Lousy Trauma.” She swept the apartment with a glance, then spotted Genma’s collection of senbon and went straight for them.

“These the real thing?” she asked, picking up a case and popping it open.

“Don’t,” Genma started, but Anko had already pulled out three needles, rolling them between her fingers with an expert’s glee. “Nice. These are custom.”

“They’re poison-tipped,” Genma said, hoping the warning would register.

Anko just grinned. “So’s the wine.” She set the case down with surprising care. “Where’s the food?”

“Kitchen,” Genma said. “Try not to break anything.”

“I make no promises,” she shot back, disappearing into the chaos.

The second knock was quieter. Genma opened the door to Asuma and Kurenai, a unit so seamlessly paired it was almost boring. Asuma carried a plastic-wrapped potted plant the size of a toddler, while Kurenai balanced a tupperware of homemade dumplings in one hand and a six-pack of beer in the other.

Asuma shrugged. “We figured you could use some oxygen.”

Genma eyed the plant. “I’m going to forget to water it.”

Kurenai smiled, the way only she could. “That’s okay. Asuma will remember for you.”

Asuma set the plant on the floor and Kurenai set the food on the table, careful to avoid the clusters of senbon. “You should label these,” she said, “so nobody ends up with a surprise acupuncture treatment.”

“Noted,” Genma replied.

By now, the kitchen was a war zone of laughter, Anko already halfway through the first glass of wine and heckling Kakashi’s attempts to set the table with a mix of cups and soup bowls. The smell of beer, wine, and dumplings clashed in the air, but nobody seemed to mind.

The next arrivals were Raido and Aoba, both dressed in black and already arguing about something deeply petty.

“I’m telling you, it’s a fire code violation,” Aoba insisted, gesturing at the boxes blocking the hallway.

Raido rolled his eyes. “Only if you set them on fire, genius.”

Aoba looked at Genma, desperate for backup. “You agree, right?”

Genma shrugged. “If the place goes up, the senbon are the bigger problem.”

Raido snorted, then handed Genma a heavy paper bag. “Gift,” he said. “Not from me, from my partner. He said your kitchen is a disgrace.”

Genma peeked inside: a new set of knives, kitchen towels, and a cutting board. “This is… practical.”

“That’s the point,” Raido said, already moving on.

Aoba presented a smaller, carefully wrapped box. “This is from me. For the apartment. Well, for you. And Kakashi.” He looked away, flushing.

Genma unwrapped it: a framed group photo from their last team reunion, all of them in varying degrees of drunkenness, some in costume, Kakashi’s face just a blur of mask and hair.

He set it on the shelf, next to the new knives, and felt something warm settle in his chest.

The last guest was Might Guy, who didn’t knock so much as announce his arrival with a thunderous “CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR NEW DWELLING!” that shook the doorframe. He burst in carrying a banner that, when unfurled, spanned the entire living room: “WELCOME HOME, YOUTHFUL COUPLE!”

Genma buried his face in his hands. “Guy, please.”

But Guy was already scaling the back of the sofa, hanging the banner with tape and “youthful vigor.” In his wake, he trampled a pile of magazines and nearly sent the plant flying, but the enthusiasm was contagious. The ninken barked in approval, and even Pakkun got in on the fun, barking commands from the couch.

Within minutes, the apartment was a noisy, crowded, impossible mess. The air was alive with laughter, bickering, and the constant crunch of dog paws on plastic and tile. The table was set with a patchwork of plates and cups, the food was demolished in record time, and the only casualties were three dumplings, one wine glass, and Genma’s last shreds of dignity.

Through it all, Genma kept a weather eye on his senbon collection, intercepting Anko’s attempts at “trick shots” and the occasional nosey ninken who decided to test the edge of a poisoned needle with their tongue. He found himself hovering near the cases, nudging them further back with each round of guests, until finally he caught Kakashi watching, mask up but visible eye unmistakably amused.

“You’re protective,” Kakashi said, voice low.

“Of my stuff? Yeah.”

“Of your friends,” Kakashi clarified.

Genma shrugged, picking a noodle off the table. “It’s a full-time job.”

Kakashi leaned in, just close enough to be heard over the noise. “They’re glad you’re here, you know.”

Genma glanced around: Anko arm-wrestling Guy, Raido and Aoba locked in a debate over fire safety, Kurenai and Asuma entwined on the battered couch, the dogs weaving in and out of legs and empty cans.

He let himself believe it. “Yeah,” he said, quieter than before. “Me too.”

At some indeterminate hour—long after the first bottle of plum wine had vanished, but before anyone had even considered the word “bedtime”—the party began to lose its shape. Boundaries collapsed. Empty cans replaced plates as table decor, and the ninken had migrated from polite observers to active participants, weaving through legs and occasionally making off with a dumpling or two.

It was during this phase of cheerful decay that Anko decided to escalate. She’d been drinking at a steady clip, alternating sake and beer with the stamina of a professional, but now her volume doubled and her filter gave up completely.

She perched herself on the arm of the couch, one knee braced against the threadbare cushion, and draped her arm around Kakashi’s shoulder. “You know what?” she declared, voice loud enough to rattle the glassware. “I know things about these two that would make even Jiraiya blush.”

At the coffee table, Genma froze mid-sentence—he’d been explaining to Raido the difference between field-grade and ceremonial senbon—while Kakashi’s visible eye widened, the first real sign of alarm Genma had ever seen from him.

Anko jabbed a finger into the side of Kakashi’s mask, mashing the fabric. “You,” she said, “pretend you’re all cool and unreadable, but you’re a lightweight compared to this one.” She pointed at Genma, who gave a slow, mechanical shake of his head, warning her off.

But Anko was immune to warnings. “Remember that time in the Land of Hot Springs when Genma—”

Kurenai materialized from nowhere, soft but inexorable, sliding onto the armrest between Anko and Kakashi. “You know, Anko, I think you’re overestimating Jiraiya’s embarrassment threshold.”

Anko blinked, recalibrated, then shrugged. “You’re probably right.”

Asuma, quietly efficient, reached over Kurenai’s shoulder and removed the half-empty sake bottle from Anko’s grip, replacing it with a mug of tea he’d been holding in reserve for just such emergencies.

Aoba, who had up to this point managed to avoid eye contact with anyone, looked up and said, “Wasn’t the Hot Springs mission classified?”

Raido coughed, disguising a laugh. “Only if you survived it.”

For a second, the tension hung in the air, teetering between threat and farce. Then Guy, missing the entire subtext, leapt to his feet with a thunderous, “I PROPOSE A TOAST TO YOUTHFUL INDISCRETIONS!” and raised his glass to the ceiling. The banner over the window fluttered, as if agreeing.

Kurenai caught Genma’s gaze and gave him a small, reassuring smile. Asuma’s hand landed on Genma’s shoulder, solid and grounding.

Anko, already distracted by Guy’s challenge, downed her tea in a single, reckless gulp and banged the mug on the table. “Beat that, heroes,” she crowed.

The moment passed. Conversation picked up again, the near-catastrophe receding into the noise and the light. Even the ninken seemed to relax, sprawling out across the rug, bellies up and legs twitching in post-feast dreams.

Genma exhaled, only then realizing he’d been holding his breath. He met Kakashi’s eye, the silent thanks in it, and returned it with a crooked grin.

For the rest of the night, nobody brought up Hot Springs. Or Jiraiya. Or any old wounds that couldn’t be turned into a joke before they scarred over.

As the last stragglers slumped onto the futon and the ninken began their midnight patrol, Genma felt something unfamiliar settle over him. Security, maybe, or just the realization that whatever happened next, he wouldn’t have to face it alone. Not with Kakashi. Not with this group of beautifully broken idiots.

He poured himself a last inch of sake, lifted the glass in silent salute, and let the laughter and the warmth fill the apartment until the sun threatened to rise again.

It was chaos. It was home.

By the time the last straggler had stumbled out—Anko clinging to Kurenai for balance, Guy leading a chorus of ninken in a final victory lap down the stairwell—the apartment looked like the aftermath of a successful siege. There were sake stains on the rug, dumplings in places no one would ever admit to, and Guy’s “WELCOME HOME, YOUTHFUL COUPLE!” banner hung lopsided across the window, half its tape already peeling. A senbon protruded from the ceiling tile above the couch, defying gravity and common sense.

Genma stood in the center of it all, arms folded, surveying the carnage with an odd sense of satisfaction. The room was a mess, but it was their mess, and every out-of-place object was proof that people had come, eaten, and decided to stay.

Kakashi shuffled through the wreckage, picking up cans and stacking them in the sink, face unreadable behind the mask but body language set to “content.” The ninken had vanished—probably to the roof, giving the new cohabitants a measure of privacy.

“You want to start with the bottles or the floor?” Kakashi asked, gesturing with a bag already half-full of empties.

Genma considered. “Floor. Anything we don’t clean now is going to fossilize.”

They worked in silence, weaving around each other in a rhythm that was already second nature. Genma gathered up plates, tucking forks into cups and shuffling them into stacks, while Kakashi wrangled the banner down and folded it, surprisingly gentle with the paper. Every so often their paths crossed—shoulders bumping, hands grazing over a bowl or towel—but there was no tension, just the easy overlap of people who understood each other’s gravity.

At one point, Genma knelt to retrieve a stray dumpling from beneath the coffee table and came up to find Kakashi holding out a senbon, pinched delicately between two fingers. Their hands met, the touch lingering a beat longer than necessary.

“Thought you’d want this back,” Kakashi said, voice lower than usual.

Genma took it, the steel warm from Kakashi’s skin. He rolled it between his fingers, then slipped it into the inside pocket of his shirt. “Wouldn’t want to leave evidence,” he said, but the usual sarcasm was softened at the edges.

They finished the worst of the cleanup in under an hour. The kitchen was still a disaster, but the main room looked almost respectable, provided you didn’t look too closely at the carpet or the still-damp walls near the window.

Genma sat on the battered couch, stretching his legs out, and watched Kakashi toss the last of the trash into a bin. For a while, neither spoke. The silence was deep, thick, not oppressive—more like a heavy blanket.

Kakashi finally flopped down beside Genma, slouching into the cushions. “So,” he said, “still think moving in was a good idea?”

Genma eyed the leftover mayhem: the framed photo from Aoba, the plant already listing to one side, the pile of kitchen gadgets. He glanced at Kakashi—at the line of his jaw, the wild white hair, the relaxation in his shoulders. “Surprisingly, yeah.”

Kakashi nodded, looking ahead. “Good. Because it’s too late to back out.”

Genma grinned, feeling the exhaustion settle in. “I’ll just start a coup. Take over from the inside.”

Kakashi’s mask crinkled. “That’s the spirit.”

A draft rolled in through the cracked window, stirring the banner and rustling the plant leaves. Genma let the sound fill the room, the last traces of the party trailing away like smoke.

After a while, he stood and stretched, then headed down the hallway. The “bedroom” was still mostly dog territory, but Kakashi had cleared one corner and covered it with blankets. Genma collapsed onto the pile, rolling until he found a spot that didn’t poke him with dog toys or hidden kunai. Kakashi joined him, settling in so their bodies aligned along the length of the mattress, shoulders brushing, hips in easy proximity.

For a moment, neither moved. The darkness was soft, the quiet absolute.

Genma turned onto his side, propping his head on his hand. “You going to keep the mask on?”

Kakashi was quiet, then peeled it down, baring his face for the first time all night. His mouth was set in a line, not smiling, but the tension was gone.

“Better?” Kakashi said.

Genma reached over, tracing the curve of Kakashi’s cheek with his thumb. “Yeah.”

The touch sparked arousal between them, different from the reckless hunger of their first nights together—slower, more measured. Their lips met in a tender kiss as they explored each other's mouths with patient tongues. As their breaths mingled, Genma leaned in further to close the gap between their bodies.

Kakashi responded by sliding a hand up Genma’s back and pulling him closer. The heat between them grew as their erections grazed against one another. Genma let out a gentle moan as they shifted positions until he straddled Kakashi’s hips.

Their eyes locked momentarily before Genma began to stroke Kakashi through his trousers. He could feel him throb beneath his touch, and he smiled at the low groan that escaped Kakashi’s lips.

Slowly, Genma unfastened both their pants, freeing their erections from confinement. He took hold of both lengths in one hand and began stroking them together, reveling in the slickness of pre-come that made the movement smoother and more pleasurable.

Together they moved seamlessly from touch to counter-touch, their breathing becoming heavier and more labored as they approached climax. Time seemed to slow as they enjoyed every sensation—the feel of skin against skin, the heat emitted by their bodies pressed so closely together.

Finally, Genma's rhythm intensified and urged them closer to completion. With a strangled cry from both men, they reached climax together, hot spurts of come coating their hands and lower abdomens.

Their breathing gradually steadied, the tension dissipated from their bodies. Genma rolled off, chest heaving, and tucked himself against Kakashi’s side. Kakashi’s arm wrapped around him, holding him close.

They lay there, listening to the city settle and the ninken snore on the rooftop. The world had shrunk to this room, this blanket, this impossibly small space between two bodies.

Kakashi spoke first. “You know,” he said, “I never thought I’d be any good at this.”

Genma smiled into the dark. “You’re not. But neither am I.”

Kakashi laughed, the sound low and real. “Guess we’ll just have to improvise.”

Genma closed his eyes, letting the comfort sink into his bones. “We’ll figure it out.”

Outside, the village was silent. Inside, the mess and the chaos and the promise of another day were all they needed.

And as Genma drifted toward sleep, he wondered if maybe, just maybe, home wasn’t a place at all.

Maybe it was just this: two idiots, learning how to stay.

Chapter Text

The Hokage’s office always smelled like old ink and threat. Paperwork in endless stacks, every corner suffocating under the gravity of mission scrolls, stamped requests, and the lingering aroma of a thousand signed deaths. Genma stood just inside the door, hands at parade rest, senbon pinched between his teeth. He watched the interplay of sunlight and dust motes as the morning sorted itself out on the office side of the desk.

Kakashi was already there, perfectly on time for once, his posture a study in bored compliance. The mask was new—Genma could tell by the way it pinched behind the ear—and the visible eye was at half-mast, a warning that he’d rather be anywhere else. Genma clocked the detail but said nothing. That was the new protocol: say nothing in front of the Hokage unless asked, or unless you wanted to buy yourself a month of garbage patrol.

The Third leafed through their files with the kind of focus Genma reserved for bomb defusal. He didn’t bother with small talk. “You’re both due for rotation,” He said, voice sandblasted flat. “I need my best on separate fronts. Shiranui, you’ll be north of the border, Black Range pass. Three weeks, deep recon, full report on any movement. Your contact is a local, use the alias in the packet. Hatake, you’re running an ANBU squad on Water Country infiltration. Target asset is coded ‘Yurei.’ Estimated one month, but don’t count on it being quick.”

Genma rolled the senbon in a slow circle. North border in March meant sleet, zero cover, and a roster of half-feral scouts to babysit. He glanced sideways: Kakashi didn’t so much as twitch, but Genma recognized the tell. Shoulders too squared, hands open on his knees. Braced for an order he’d already memorized.

Neither man broke the silence. The Third waited, giving them room for protest—none came.

“You leave in the morning,” He said. “I need both of you back in one piece. Preferably not as paperwork.”

Genma’s lips curled, senbon shifting a fraction. “No promises.”

The Third shut the file, eyed them both. “Questions?”

Kakashi said, “Will it be the regular ANBU roster, or are you giving me rookies again?”

The Third’s mouth twitched. “Mixed bag. Try not to break them.”

Genma: “What’s the signal protocol for Black Range?”

“Encrypted. You’ll use relay hawks from the outpost. Don’t let the messages get intercepted.”

Kakashi: “Any secondary objectives?”

“Survive, that’s the main one.”

He dismissed them with a wave. Genma followed Kakashi out into the corridor, the door swinging closed behind them with a pneumatic hiss. They walked in step down the hall, neither speaking until the echo of their boots vanished beneath the main stair.

Genma said, “You’re really taking a rookie team?”

Kakashi shrugged. “They’re not all rookies. Morino’s kid is on it.”

Genma snorted, slow. “He’s got the subtlety of a freight train.”

“He’s improved,” Kakashi said. But the tone made it clear he hadn’t.

They hit the junction where the corridor split. Genma paused, thumbed his senbon to the other side of his mouth. “Three weeks isn’t bad.”

Kakashi considered. “Depends who’s counting.”

They didn’t touch, didn’t nod, didn’t even exchange a look as they split directions—Kakashi heading down the ANBU stair, Genma toward field logistics. But there was a catch in the air, a gravity that pulled Genma’s focus back over his shoulder even as he walked away.

It was only after he’d turned the next corner that Genma let himself clench his jaw, the bite of metal a bright thread against the noise in his head.

The day dragged under the weight of pre-departure ritual. Genma hit the supply room, the mess, then the weapons check, running each errand on autopilot. He signed the last of his release forms, then wandered back to the apartment while it was still light enough to make out the stain on the third floor landing—remnant of last week’s wine, or possibly Anko’s hair dye, depending on who you asked.

Inside, the world was wrong. Not off, exactly, but bristling with the static of something about to be disrupted. The kitchen was clean—too clean—countertops cleared of dog hair, senbon sorted and stacked by length along the edge of the table. Genma dumped his pack next to the sofa, then slouched onto the battered cushions, boots still on. He spun the senbon between his fingers, listening for the scratch of ninken claws or the low drone of Kakashi’s radio. Nothing. Silence.

It wasn’t until dusk that Kakashi reappeared, lackluster shopping bag in hand. He set it on the table, extracted a packet of tea and two vacuum-sealed rice balls, and then began laying out his own mission kit with mechanical precision. Genma watched, saying nothing. The air felt thick, but it was hard to tell if it was tension or just the prelude to a rainstorm.

Kakashi packed as if every item was a breakable limb. Spare masks, emergency rations, the dog-eared copy of Icha Icha that had outlived three previous editions. He kept his movements smooth, but Genma recognized the tempo: slower than usual, as if more time meant less distance.

Genma said, “You’re packing heavy.”

Kakashi, without looking up: “New protocol. Expecting trouble.”

Genma rolled onto his side, the sofa creaking. “You want to trade jobs?”

Kakashi’s visible eye narrowed, unreadable. “Not even for a week in the hot springs.”

They let the silence build. Outside, the corridor lights flicked on in sequence, and somewhere overhead, the first drop of rain smacked the window.

Kakashi finished with the pack, then stood in the middle of the kitchen, hands in his pockets. “If you need to send a message,” he said, “use Pakkun. He knows the route.”

Genma nodded, filing it away. “If you get lost, I’ll send Bull to find you.”

Kakashi grunted. “He still can’t track in water.”

Genma smirked. “Maybe he’ll learn.”

He stood, stretched, and moved to the table, sorting his own gear with less ceremony. Standard knives, two flare tags, a box of caffeine pills, and a bundle of mission scrolls. The only personal item was a battered photo—team portrait, years old, edges soft from overhandling. He folded it, tucked it into the back of the senbon kit, and shut the clasp with a snap.

Kakashi had wandered to the window, peering out at the rain. Genma walked over, close enough to share the view, close enough to feel the heat radiating through both their uniforms. He wanted to say something. Instead, he just reached for the tea packet, breaking the seal with his teeth and dumping the leaves into the pot.

The evening passed like a held breath. They ate in silence, cleaned up in silence, and by the time the rain was hitting sideways, they both ended up at the kitchen table, gear packed and ready, hands idle for the first time all day.

Kakashi’s thumb traced the edge of a kunai, the blade rocking on the wood with each pass.

Genma rolled his senbon between his fingers, faster than usual. “You want to run through the plan?” he asked, meaning: you want to talk about anything except the fact that in eight hours, you’ll both be somewhere else?

Kakashi said, “There’s nothing in the plan we haven’t already said.”

Genma considered this. “You think he did it on purpose?”

“Splitting us up?” Kakashi’s tone was even, but the muscle in his jaw flexed once. “Probably.”

“Why?”

Kakashi glanced at him, then away. “Keeps us sharp.”

Genma grunted. “Or he wants plausible deniability.”

They let the quiet stretch. The rain pounded harder, a white noise that erased the rest of the world.

Kakashi pushed the kunai away, then pulled a blank mission scroll from his kit and started writing, the pen scratching slow and careful across the page.

Genma eyed the script—tight, slanted, meant to be read only by someone who knew the code. “You’re not supposed to write messages,” he said. “Orders.”

Kakashi didn’t stop. “It’s not for them. It’s for me.”

Genma let it go. When Kakashi finished, he rolled up the scroll and sealed it with a plain strip of black tape. Then he slipped it into an inner pocket of the pack.

They ran out of excuses to stay up by midnight. Genma went to the bedroom, which smelled faintly of wet dog and metal, and dug through the old chest for something. He found it—a single senbon, heavier than the rest, marked with a red thread. He rolled it between his fingers, weighing it, then crossed the hall and slipped it into the outer pocket of Kakashi’s pack.

Kakashi was sitting on the edge of the bed, face in his hands. He didn’t look up when Genma came in, but when Genma stood in front of him, Kakashi’s hands dropped, and his visible eye was raw with something Genma didn’t have a name for.

Genma said, “Don’t lose that pack. Or the dog.”

Kakashi nodded, the motion deliberate.

Genma thought about all the things he wanted to say—don’t get killed, don’t go off book, don’t forget this—but none of them were strong enough to clear the distance. Instead, he touched the side of Kakashi’s head, just behind the ear, where the new mask left a faint red line.

“Fits better after a day or two,” Genma said.

Kakashi’s hand came up, resting over Genma’s for a second, then falling away. He stood, and the two of them just looked at each other in the half-dark, shadows cutting the air between them.

“You should sleep,” Kakashi said.

“You too,” Genma replied.

He left, shutting the door behind him, the click louder than it should have been.

They met again in the kitchen at dawn, the rain finally gone but the world still gray and wet. Both wore full gear, packs tight to their shoulders, mission faces in place.

Kakashi finished pulling up his mask, then reached for his gloves. Genma stood by the door, hands deep in his vest pockets, senbon already in his teeth.

For a second, it was like any other morning. But then Kakashi stepped closer, the distance between them evaporating. He reached up, two fingers adjusting the edge of Genma’s collar where it had twisted, then—without warning—slid his thumb along the line of Genma’s jaw, just below the senbon.

The touch was brief, almost accidental, but it left a heat that lingered.

Genma bared his teeth around the senbon, half-smile, and said, “You’re late.”

Kakashi’s eye creased at the corner. “Got lost on the road of life.”

They both knew what came next. Kakashi slung his pack, Genma shouldered his own, and they left together, boots hitting the stair in perfect, synchronized rhythm.

On the street, they split. Kakashi south, Genma north, neither looking back.

But the imprint of that last touch stayed with Genma, the whole walk to the village gate.

And he suspected, for once, it might be the same for Kakashi.

Black Range was not a range at all, Genma realized on day one, but a loose alliance of rocks, snowfields, and mud, held together by the threat of landslide and the shared contempt of every living thing for the human body. Genma spent the first two days picking through the foothills, establishing sightlines, and rigging a relay of makeshift traps and signal points that would have made an engineer weep. He did it all with the kind of methodical detachment that came after years of getting dropped into the worst places on earth and being told to make it homey.

The field kit came with a luxury: a set of miniature glass periscopes, custom-ground by some savant in the barrier team. Genma staked them into the ridges at strategic points, then spent the next twelve hours mapping enemy patrols, marking the direction and spacing of every footprint and snapped twig. There was a rhythm to it, a slow pulse of movement and waiting, movement and waiting, punctuated by short, sharp bursts of adrenaline when a birdcall snapped the wrong note, or when a shadow on the ridge lingered just a moment too long.

Genma kept to the routine. He prepped the morning reports, boiled snow for tea, and sharpened every needle to a mirrored finish. At night, he watched the valley from behind a rock, breath ghosting in the air, and ran the day’s observations through his head until sleep finally came for him.

He also, every hour on the hour, reached into his vest and touched the extra senbon—a twin to the one he’d slipped into Kakashi’s pack. It had a red thread, same as before. He didn’t know why it mattered, but it did. Maybe because it was a constant in the chaos, something precise and deliberate and his.

On day three, a shadow passed overhead that wasn’t an enemy scout or a wayward hawk.

Genma didn’t look up until the pawsteps landed behind him, soft but deliberate.

Pakkun sniffed, sneezed, and shook a crust of frost from his ears. “If you keep picking posts like this, I’m going to demand a travel stipend,” he announced, voice all gravel and indignation.

Genma grinned, the smile brief and mostly teeth. “You’re getting soft.”

Pakkun snorted. “Not as soft as you, sitting out here waiting for mail.”

Genma eyed the bundle strapped to Pakkun’s collar. “Got something for me?”

“From the boss,” Pakkun said, and angled his neck so Genma could untie the waterproof packet.

It was a mission scroll, but the seal was an old, private one—hatched in the alley behind the mess hall years ago, when the two of them still spoke in code and insult. Genma slit the tape and unfurled it.

Most of the scroll was perfunctory: updates on the Water Country op, a warning about enemy shift patterns, and a reminder to rotate perimeter traps on a randomized schedule. But at the bottom, in Kakashi’s tight script, there was a note:

“Don’t drink the snowmelt near sector six. The runoff’s tainted.”

And, below that, smaller:

“Red looks good on you.”

Genma reread it twice, then folded it and tucked it into the inside pocket of his vest, right behind the photo he never admitted to carrying.

He looked down at Pakkun, who was pawing at a patch of icy ground, unimpressed by the emotional significance of anything. Genma dug into his pouch and pulled out a strip of jerky, tossing it underhand. Pakkun caught it, chewed with dignity, then flopped to the ground as if he had nothing better to do.

Genma scribbled a reply onto a thin strip of paper, the kind meant for field notes, and wrapped it around the marked senbon, tying it tight. He handed it to Pakkun, who regarded the offering with mild skepticism.

“Tell him to be careful with the rookies,” Genma said. “And tell him to lay off the instant ramen. It’s making him slow.”

Pakkun barked, a short, sharp sound. “He won’t listen, but I’ll pass it on.”

He trotted off, tail high, the senbon gleaming in the morning sun.

Genma watched him go, then turned back to his post.

The hours that followed were sharper, somehow, the cold less biting, the waiting less bleak.

In Water Country, the world was a study in monotones: fog, mud, the endless silver blur of canal and sky. Kakashi moved through it with his team in tow, the three of them a mismatched shadow—Morino’s kid, an Uchiha with too much to prove, and a medic whose hands shook when she thought no one was looking. Kakashi kept the pace fast, the route unpredictable, and the briefings short. Every night, he rotated their camps, doubling back on tracks and laying false trails. Every morning, he checked his pack, running his fingers over the heavy senbon in the outer pocket, marked with the red thread.

He wore his mask, but he knew the team watched him for tells. He let them, but never enough to get a read. When they asked questions, he answered. When they fell behind, he waited. When they hesitated, he gave them the push they needed, sometimes a word, sometimes a look, sometimes nothing at all.

After the second week, the mission went from tense to brutal. The team lost a medic, not to enemy action but to the slow, grinding rot of the swamp. Kakashi made the call himself, sending her back to Konoha with Pakkun as escort. He didn’t watch her go, but that night, he wrote a message on a scrap of paper and tucked it under the band of Pakkun’s collar, just above the ninken’s left ear.

“Tell Genma he’s on point. Double up security on the ridge. I’ll send a signal if the asset moves.”

He hesitated, then added:

“Don’t eat anything that breathes.”

He pressed the paper flat, then gave Pakkun a scratch between the ears. “No detours,” he said.

Pakkun rolled his eyes. “You’re worse than a mother hen, you know that?”

Kakashi’s eye crinkled. “You haven’t met my mother.”

He sent the ninken off, then sat by the bank, head down, until the mist swallowed the dog from view.

The days blurred together. The team moved at double speed, eating, sleeping, and waiting in two-hour increments. At night, Kakashi ran drills in his head, plotting every contingency for every possible disaster. In the rare moments he found himself alone—taking first watch, or scouting the edge of a canal—he would reach for the senbon in his pocket, rolling it between his fingers until the world came back into focus.

It wasn’t until the third week that Pakkun returned, fur soaked and paws raw from the journey.

He barked once, loud enough to startle the kid on perimeter duty, then padded straight to Kakashi.

“From Genma,” Pakkun announced, dropping the senbon on Kakashi’s knee.

Kakashi plucked it up, examining the thread, the wrap of paper. He unspooled the note, holding it so the rain wouldn’t soak the ink.

The message was short, and pure Genma:

“Don’t die. Don’t come back empty-handed. The rookies need a story to tell.”

Beneath that, a set of coordinates—his current position on Black Range, written in a code only they used.

Kakashi folded the note, rolling it tight and tucking it back around the senbon before placing both in the deepest pocket of his pack.

He felt the pulse of something—relief, maybe, or just the simple reassurance that the other half of the world was still intact, still waiting.

He let himself sit for a moment, letting the rain bead and roll off his mask.

Then he stood, called the team together, and kept moving.

The night before his own mission’s end, Genma watched the valley from a perch high on the ridge. The moon was half-gone, the wind sharp enough to peel skin, but Genma felt only the slight pressure of the senbon against his chest. He thumbed the tip, thinking of how Kakashi would have packed for rain and instead gotten sun, how he’d be complaining about the humidity, how the only thing worse than being cold and wet was being hot and wet and never being able to take off the damn mask.

He waited for the message, knowing it would come.

When Pakkun arrived just before dawn, he was limping, but the note on his collar was dry.

Genma read it, smiled, and tucked it away. He gave the dog his ration of jerky, then sat in the cold, watching the sun rise through the clouds.

He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to.

Half the world away, Kakashi was watching the same sunrise, the message from Genma wrapped tight around the marked senbon in his hand.

They both read their notes again, once, twice, then put them away.

And then, separately, they got up and went back to work.

The fourth week hit like a thrown kunai: sharp, cold, and impossible to dodge. Genma had weathered plenty of storms in his career, but this one had teeth—wind that shredded his tent in under an hour, rain that fell sideways, and a flood that turned the switchbacks below the ridge into a soup of mud and splintered timber.

He lost his main post before sunrise. He spent the day repelling up the rocks, bag of equipment slung across his back, hoping the movement wouldn’t draw attention from the valley floor. The enemy patrols doubled in frequency after the storm, and by sunset, Genma was soaked, freezing, and one step from blowing the whole mission just by being visible.

Worse, Pakkun never showed. Not at dawn, not at the midshift, not even when Genma left the usual biscuit at the marker rock—untouched, which told him the dog couldn’t get through. Genma tried to convince himself it was nothing. But the hours stacked up, and the silence began to scrape.

He kept up the routine. When he switched to the backup post—a hollowed tree at the crest—he spent the downtime dry-firing his knives into the rotten log and running through every permutation of how a message could get lost. By the second night, he was counting the minutes between scheduled relays. When the answer was “too many,” he started making plans to move closer to the border, hoping a better signal or a lower elevation might bring Pakkun in.

He was prepping to leave when he spotted the hawk.

It rode the wind with the composure of a nobleman, banking through crosscurrents and never once faltering. Genma recognized the band on its leg—a Konoha messenger, probably running the same packet of updates he’d been forwarding to the outpost all week.

Desperation breeds invention. Genma hiked down to the relay point, waited for the hawk to touch down, and snatched it mid-feed, murmuring quiet apologies as he pried the capsule off its leg. Inside, a strip of paper, the outpost’s code, and a blank for return message.

He wrote in a hand so tight and slanted it barely took up a third of the line:

“Status: black. Lost contact with ninken. Move assets east. Repeat—move east.”

He added the code that only Kakashi would recognize: the number and color of the relay hawk’s band. Then he closed it up and sent the bird off.

He watched it spiral upward, the hawk’s cry lost in the wind. For the first time, he allowed the thought to creep in: if the message didn’t get through, it was on him. And if Kakashi didn’t read it, he’d be walking blind into whatever waited on the other side of the mountain.

Genma stayed at the new post for forty hours, rotating between nap and watch, eating cold rice and ration jerky. Every time he looked at the senbon in his vest, he tapped it twice for luck, as if it was a radio beacon.

On the third day, Pakkun limped in at dusk, fur caked with half the mountain’s topsoil. He shook himself out, spat a clump of ice at Genma’s boots, and then huffed, “It’s about time. You’re hell to find in a blizzard.”

Genma crouched and scratched Pakkun behind the ears, careful to hide how much the dog’s arrival actually meant.

“You got anything for me?” he asked.

Pakkun nodded at the pouch. “Two. One from the boss, one from the outpost. He’s fine, by the way. Missed you, probably, but he’s too proud to admit it.”

Genma opened the first note, scanning the coded summary. Kakashi’s script was there, tight as ever, but the lines under the main body were new:

“Team took a hit, but we’re good. Saw your message. Don’t change your schedule, I’ll adapt. Status: eager for report.”

The second note was a formal acknowledgment from the outpost—his hawk message had arrived, and they’d rerouted the next supply drop to cover his sector.

Genma let out a breath, slow and even, then penned a new note and rolled it for Pakkun.

“Tell him to stop being dramatic. And that I’m fine. And that if he keeps losing team members, he’ll have to start recruiting from the kennel.”

Pakkun snorted. “He’ll love that.”

Genma sent the dog off, then lay down on his back, staring up at the patch of sky that was almost clear for the first time in days. He allowed himself a small smile.

If the messages could get through, anything could.

Water Country was no less cruel. For the three days Genma waited, Kakashi’s world shrank to a maze of flooded canals, abandoned compounds, and an enemy that moved like smoke. The command from Konoha was strict: no outgoing messages, no ninken, not until the target was secured or the mission failed.

Kakashi ran the operation with the efficiency of a man who preferred not to think about anything else. He split the team, sent the kid and the Uchiha on a decoy run, then doubled back with the medic to shadow the target in the main facility. The building was all damp concrete and peeling wood, every hallway echoing with the wet slap of water against walls.

They reached the inner chamber just before midnight. Kakashi signaled the medic to hold back, then slid the door open a crack, scanning the room.

The asset was there, but so was half the opposition. They’d doubled the guards. Someone on his team must have tripped an alarm.

Kakashi recalibrated in a second, weighing his options. He could see a way in, maybe two, but neither was clean. He thought of Genma, perched on a frozen log somewhere, fingers already tapping out the angles.

He wished he could reach for the message, or for the senbon, but both were buried under layers of armor and expectation.

He settled for the next best thing.

Kakashi waited for a break in the guards’ pattern, then flashed a single, silent signal at the medic—one they’d drilled but never actually used. The medic’s hands steadied, her eyes bright, and when the opening came, she dropped two of the enemy with a pair of perfectly thrown senbon. The rest went down in the confusion.

Kakashi secured the asset, patched up the medic, and got out. It wasn’t flawless, but it was enough.

When they reached the safehouse on the outskirts, he allowed himself to breathe. He told the team to rest, then slipped outside to the rain-soaked courtyard.

Pakkun was waiting, tail wagging in slow, tired circles.

“You look like hell,” Kakashi said, and Pakkun just panted.

“Got a message from your boyfriend,” the dog said. “He says you owe him ramen.”

Kakashi bent, opening the pouch on Pakkun’s collar. There were two notes this time, both in Genma’s handwriting. One was for him, one was for the outpost.

He read Genma’s first, lips hidden behind the mask but his eye crinkling at the corners.

He kept it in his hand for a while before tucking it into the inner lining of his flak vest, right over his heart.

Then he went back inside and made a plan to get everyone home.

The lowest point came just before the end.

Genma had rotated to his third post, eyes grainy from sleeplessness and skin raw from the wind. He was tracking a pair of enemy scouts who’d gotten too close to the border—one looked like a kid, the other a professional, but they moved as a unit. Genma shadowed them for hours, careful not to break cover.

The ambush, when it came, was textbook. The kid took the bait, Genma took out the pro, then doubled back and neutralized the kid before he could send a warning.

He left both alive. But he was less careful on the way back, adrenaline still buzzing in his veins. He tripped a trap—a wire snare, not even well hidden—and went down hard, the metal biting into his thigh.

Genma cursed, gritted his teeth, and dug out the utility knife. The trap was crude, but it was made to hold. He cut at the wire, blood pooling on the snow. For a moment, he had the clear thought: this is how it ends. Not in battle, not in the village, but on some forgotten ridge in the middle of nowhere, snared like an animal and left for the crows.

He thought about the senbon in his vest.

He thought about Kakashi, somewhere out there, probably still pretending nothing mattered.

Genma braced the wire, then snapped it. The pain nearly dropped him, but he managed to bind the wound and limp to the fallback post. He made it just before sunset, collapsed, and let himself black out for a few hours.

When he woke, Pakkun was there, chewing on a stick and watching him with concern.

“Rough day?” the dog asked.

Genma managed a laugh. “You could say that.”

Pakkun moved closer, sniffed at the bandage, then sat on Genma’s chest, pinning him in place. “Rest,” he said. “Or I’ll tell Hatake you’re being stubborn.”

Genma let himself lie still. He reached for the senbon, rolled it between his fingers, and felt the world settle just a little.

In Water Country, the last leg of the mission went sideways.

Kakashi’s team was on the move, asset in tow, when they were hit by an enemy squad at the river crossing. It was chaos—shuriken, kunai, three simultaneous genjutsu traps. The medic froze, the Uchiha tried to counter and failed, and the kid went down with a knife in his arm.

Kakashi broke the first genjutsu with raw chakra, then leveraged a water jutsu to split the enemy formation. He counted bodies, mapped positions, and ran every scenario in his head. Most of them ended badly.

He reached for the marked senbon, the one Genma had wrapped with the first note. He pressed it between his fingers, using the tiny pain to clear his head.

He signaled the team: fall back, circle left.

They made it out, but only just. The medic was unconscious, the asset bleeding, and the enemy still tracking them.

Kakashi stashed the team in a hollow tree, used a perimeter of explosive tags to slow pursuit, then sat outside in the rain, keeping watch. He spun the senbon in his fingers, the motion steady and sure.

He let himself think of Genma, just for a minute.

Then he went back to work.

By the end of the week, both men had finished their missions.

Genma limped the last mile to the outpost, Pakkun pacing at his side. The wound was healing, but it would leave a scar.

Kakashi got his team across the border, asset intact. He handed over the reports, then crashed for twelve hours straight.

The messages resumed—short, to the point, each signed with a code or a small joke, or the hint of something more.

Neither man mentioned the silence.

Neither man mentioned how close it had come.

But every night, Genma checked his vest, made sure the senbon was there.

And every morning, Kakashi read the latest note, then tucked it away where nobody could find it.

The Konoha outer checkpoint was nothing more than a prefab shed, a steel table, and two bored Chuunin with enough paperwork to keep them busy until the next war. Genma hit it just after sunrise, boots caked in mountain mud and uniform slashed at the thigh, the bandage already starting to leak through. He dropped his mission packet on the table, signed where they pointed, and ignored the way the junior guard’s eyes kept flicking to the wound.

He’d hiked through the night to make the handoff on time, not because it mattered to anyone in the Hokage’s office, but because it mattered to him. He wanted to finish this. He wanted to sleep in his own bed, not in a cave or a tree or a clinic cot that smelled like wet gauze.

He signed the last sheet and was reaching for the mission debrief folder when the shift sergeant came in from outside, cold air trailing off his flak jacket.

“Shiranui,” the man said, “You’re clear. Mess hall’s open, but medical’s expecting you first. Don’t try to skip it.”

Genma nodded, took his copy, and ducked out of the shed. The wind cut through him, but the promise of the village just a kilometer down the road kept him moving.

He was halfway to the first turn when he heard it: a quiet shuffle, a footfall not quite in sync with his own. He stopped, spun, hand already on his senbon.

Kakashi stood at the edge of the checkpoint clearing, ANBU cloak hanging heavy, mask still in place. The dog pack was nowhere to be seen—probably sent ahead, or dismissed for the day.

Genma stared, the two of them locked in a moment that felt both endless and absurdly brief. The wind gusted, rattling the nearby fence, and Kakashi took a step forward.

They met in the middle of the road, neither speaking. Kakashi’s posture was different—shoulders slumped, head a little lower, as if the mask itself had gotten heavier.

Genma broke the silence first, rolling the senbon to the left side of his mouth. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Kakashi’s voice was muffled but clear. “I could say the same.”

They stood, unsure, for a heartbeat. Then the checkpoint guard barked a question about orders, and both men defaulted to protocol: no emotion, no display, just efficient confirmation and a fast walk through the gate. Once clear, they started down the path side by side.

They didn’t talk. The silence wasn’t awkward, just thick with all the things neither of them was ready to say. The road wound through a stand of black pines, dew freezing on the needles, turning the whole world sharp and brittle. Genma adjusted his stride, favoring the injured leg, and Kakashi unconsciously slowed to match.

By the time they reached the break in the trees, the village walls visible through the morning haze, they’d closed the space between them. Kakashi’s shoulder brushed Genma’s twice, both times an accident, but the third time neither of them moved away.

Near the turnoff to the east gate, where the road dipped into shadow and the village noise faded to a hush, Kakashi stopped.

Genma stopped, too, watching.

Kakashi’s hand came up, fingers sliding under the edge of the ANBU mask. He paused, then pulled it off in one smooth motion, revealing the familiar black mask beneath and the visible eye, lined with exhaustion.

Genma took the senbon from his mouth and spun it once, an old tic.

“You’re late,” he said, softer than usual.

Kakashi’s mouth curved, the smile small but real. “Got lost on the road of life.”

It was nothing, and everything.

The next moment, their hands brushed—just enough that Genma felt the warmth through the gloves. Kakashi’s fingers wrapped around his, a quick squeeze, and then they were moving again, stride for stride, hands tucked into pockets but closer than before.

The village greeted them with the usual morning chaos: vendors setting up carts, Genin running late for Academy, a drunk still sleeping it off under a stairwell. They navigated it with the ease of men who’d done it a thousand times, ducking alleys and side streets, avoiding attention.

At the apartment, Genma keyed the door and let them in. The place was exactly as they’d left it: the senbon case on the table, Kakashi’s reading pile half-finished, the ninken’s water bowl sloshed all over the floor.

Kakashi went straight to the window, opening it for air. Genma dumped his gear at the door, peeled off the vest, and slumped onto the battered couch, leg throbbing now that the adrenaline was gone.

Kakashi watched from the kitchen, head tilted. “You going to get that checked?”

“In a minute,” Genma said.

Kakashi rummaged for the kettle, started the water. Genma listened to the quiet hiss, the small noises of home. He closed his eyes, just for a second.

When the tea was ready, Kakashi brought over two cups and set them on the table. He took the other end of the couch, sitting close enough that their knees touched.

They sipped in silence.

After a while, Genma said, “How was the mission?”

Kakashi shrugged. “We survived.”

Genma nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”

They sat like that, not needing to fill the air with anything else.

After a while, Kakashi set his cup down and leaned back, letting his head tip against the cushion. Genma followed, letting his body relax into the worn softness, head tilting until it rested on Kakashi’s shoulder.

The ninken filed in from the hallway, one by one, forming a lazy perimeter. Pakkun took his spot at Genma’s feet and let out a long, satisfied sigh.

The sun was up now, warmth spilling through the window.

Genma didn’t move. Neither did Kakashi.

They’d survived, and now, for the first time in weeks, the world could wait.

Chapter Text

Kakashi woke before sunrise, the habit hard-wired and impossible to break. The apartment was a tomb at that hour—silent except for the radiator’s low stutter and the shifting weight of dogs rearranging themselves for optimal warmth. He drifted through the pre-dawn routine: shuffling in mismatched slippers to the kitchen, filling the battered kettle, enduring Pakkun’s early-morning side-eye as he waited for the water to boil. Genma’s snoring, faint but persistent, thumped through the bedroom wall, echoing down the hallway like a threat or a promise. It was the only noise Kakashi missed when Genma was away.

He’d set the table the night before. Not with breakfast, or even with intention—just the small, square velvet box placed dead center, unwrapped and already open. The contents were underwhelming, if you didn’t know what to look for: a single senbon, silvered, the tip capped for safety, its length engraved in a pattern so subtle you’d need a jeweler’s glass to see it. Nestled at the base, pinned with a curl of black silk, a delicate charm: a miniature kunai, worked in white gold, the blade so thin it looked like it might snap under a single harsh word.

Kakashi stared at it, steam curling from the kettle. He’d never been one for grand gestures. His romantic experience could be measured in half-remembered lines from Icha Icha, and even those he mostly skipped to get to the good parts. This wasn’t something he’d expected to do, and it felt like the world’s most elaborate prank. But he’d commissioned the senbon—spent months designing it, vetting the metalsmith, wrangling with Pakkun over what “personal touch” meant. Now it was here. The box. The object. The next step, looming like an ambush.

He tried the speech again. Under his breath, lips barely moving, careful not to wake the house.

“Genma, you’re... Okay. No. Genma, I had this made—” He shook his head. “Too transactional. Genma, I want you to have— Christ, that’s worse.” He poked the senbon with one finger, as if it might give up its own answers.

Pakkun hopped onto the table, squinting up at Kakashi with that old-man wisdom that made the dog seem twice his age and infinitely more patient.

“You planning on proposing to the senbon, or to the man?” Pakkun asked, dry as the tea leaves Kakashi never learned to use properly.

Kakashi flipped the box shut. “I’m practicing.”

Pakkun eyed the velvet, then the man. “Needs work.”

Kakashi poured his tea, watched it go cloudy in the chipped cup. “I was going to do it tonight. Sunset. Genma likes the roof, and if I ask him to walk up there with me, he’ll know something’s up, but maybe he’ll pretend not to.”

“Sunset’s a classic,” Pakkun said. “But maybe don’t open with ‘I had this made for you, now please don’t die using it.’”

Kakashi grunted, sipping at the scalding tea. “Noted.”

He fished the senbon from its box, rolling it between his fingers. The weight was right, the balance perfect. He’d paid extra for the inscription—Genma’s call sign in kanji, minuscule, curling along the shaft in a spiral so it only revealed itself if you twisted it in the light. It was ridiculous, sentimental, and entirely out of character. Which was the point, according to Pakkun.

He tried again: “Genma, I know we’re both... not the easiest to live with. But I think if we—no, not ‘think,’” Kakashi muttered, brow creasing.

The rest of the ninken had started to gather: Bull, massive and snoring in the threshold; Shiba and Urushi, wrestling quietly beneath the table; the others filing in, sniffing and settling, forming the morning perimeter. Even the dogs knew today was different.

Pakkun said, “You could just say what you mean.”

Kakashi glanced at him. “That’s easy for you. You don’t have to listen to it.”

“I’ve heard worse,” Pakkun said, deadpan.

Kakashi rolled the senbon, let the silence stretch. Then: “I want to do this right,” he said, and meant it. “I want it to be something he remembers. Not just another story to tell at the bar.”

Pakkun considered. “You want advice?”

“No,” Kakashi said, “but I know you’re going to give it anyway.”

Pakkun looked up at him, the canine approximation of a smile. “Don’t overthink it. You know Genma. He’ll say yes, even if you choke and drop the thing off the roof.”

Kakashi closed his fist around the senbon, feeling the chill of metal against his palm. “I might,” he admitted.

Pakkun barked once, sharp and approving. “Then do it on the ground floor.”

Kakashi set the senbon back in the box, snapping the lid shut with a sense of finality. He finished his tea, refilled the kettle, and tried not to let his nerves show.

He was about to go wake Genma—softly, with a bribe of coffee and not the usual threat of an incoming mission—when something small and deadly shattered the morning peace. The window above the sink exploded inward with a noise like a kunai shattering bone, and a scroll arced through the air, embedding itself in the dry rack with surgical precision.

Pakkun barely flinched. “Mail call,” he said.

Kakashi snatched the scroll, unrolling it one-handed. The seal was ANBU, the ink still wet. He scanned the contents, jaw ticking.

“Well?” Pakkun prompted.

“Mission,” Kakashi said. “Immediate.”

He closed the box, shoved it to the back of the silverware drawer, and yanked the drawer shut with a violence that startled even Bull. He grabbed his mask from the hook by the door, pulling it up with practiced speed. The switch from domestic to lethal was as natural as breathing—muscle memory older than any attempt at tenderness.

He hesitated, just a beat, glancing at the drawer.

Pakkun’s ears flattened. “You’ll get another shot,” he said.

Kakashi didn’t answer. He was already halfway out the door, boots pounding the hall, the plan for the sunset walk reduced to a casualty of bad timing.

The last thing he saw, as he stepped into the rain and vanished down the fire escape, was the edge of the velvet box, peeking from the drawer like a dare.

Kakashi made it back to the apartment just past four, bone-deep exhausted but running on the kind of adrenaline that only came from nearly getting skewered by someone else’s trap. He shed his ANBU gear in the stairwell, leaving a trail of black fabric and battered pouches like breadcrumbs for a very specific, very dangerous bird. The ninken met him at the threshold, Pakkun in the lead, sniffing at the cuts along Kakashi’s forearms with the air of a physician’s assistant on overtime.

“Genma’s not home yet,” Pakkun reported, eyeing the bloodied sleeve. “You want the first aid kit or the kettle?”

Kakashi considered. “Both.”

He patched the worst of the cuts, scoured the grime from his hands, and stood in the shower until the water ran cold and his skin prickled from the temperature swing. Then he toweled off, yanked on the least offensive pair of sweatpants he owned, and went back to the kitchen.

The velvet box was still there, right where he’d left it. He pulled it out with care, half-expecting it to have grown teeth or developed a cruel sense of humor. Instead, it opened soundlessly, the senbon gleaming up at him like a dare. He palmed the box, thumb flicking the lid open and closed, practicing the motion until it was nearly a nervous tic.

This time, he rehearsed out loud. The kitchen was empty except for the dogs, but Kakashi still kept his voice low, as if the walls had ears. (They probably did, given the building’s reputation for nosy neighbors and Guy’s complete inability to respect personal space.)

“Genma,” he started, “I know we’re not—” He trailed off, rolled the words in his head. “I know I’m not—” That was worse. He tried again: “I made something for you. I thought—”

The world shattered under the weight of a fist slamming into the apartment door. The entire wall shook, a fine dust falling from the ceiling in little, delighted clouds. The ninken scattered, Bull wedging himself under the coffee table, Pakkun ducking behind the trash can.

“KAKASHI!” bellowed a voice, twice as loud as any human larynx should allow. “OPEN UP! THE FLAMES OF YOUTH DEMAND IT!”

Kakashi slammed the velvet box shut, nearly severing his own thumb, and shoved it in the back pocket of his sweatpants. He stalked to the door, yanked it open, and found Might Guy on the threshold, teeth gleaming, jumpsuit somehow even greener than Kakashi remembered.

Guy swept into the apartment with the unearned confidence of a man who’d never doubted a single life choice. He wore a suit jacket over his usual jumpsuit—electric emerald, lapels so wide they nearly achieved orbit. A single, perfect rose nestled in his breast pocket, stem wrapped in what appeared to be chakra-infused ribbon.

“Guy,” Kakashi said, flat as old coffee. “Is there a reason you’re here?”

Guy ignored the question. He planted his hands on his hips, surveying the room, then fixed his laser-bright gaze on Kakashi.

“I sensed a disturbance in the atmosphere of love!” Guy declared. “I have come to help you fan the flames of ROMANTIC TRIUMPH!”

Pakkun, from behind the trash can: “Here we go.”

Kakashi’s jaw tensed. “You didn’t sense anything. You were eavesdropping again.”

Guy gave a broad, innocent smile. “I was on my daily jog. I heard the sacred melody of confession. And I said to myself: Kakashi, my eternal rival, needs the assistance only I, Might Guy, can provide!” He snapped the rose from his pocket with a flourish, twirling it so fast the petals blurred.

Kakashi wondered if there was a protocol for homicide-by-enthusiasm. “You can leave now,” he said.

“Nonsense!” Guy boomed. “The time has come for THE RELATIONSHIP CHALLENGE!” He set the rose on the table, sending the salt shaker skittering across the surface. “You must prove your worth through acts of passion and dedication! I have prepared a training regimen for your HEART!”

Kakashi rubbed his forehead. “There’s no universe in which I do any of that.”

But Guy was already in motion, hands flashing as he rearranged the kitchen chairs and cleared a space on the threadbare carpet. “First! The art of THE ROMANTIC GESTURE!” Guy struck a pose—one leg extended, both arms wide, eyes glistening with the light of a thousand sunsets. “Observe, and learn!”

Pakkun muttered, “Someone’s been into the instant coffee again.”

Guy beckoned, a gloved hand curling in a way that suggested refusal would be met with actual violence. “Come, Kakashi! Sweep me off my feet, as you intend to sweep the lucky Genma off his!”

Kakashi considered burning the apartment down, but it seemed wasteful. Instead, he set his jaw, stepped forward, and—careful not to break any bones—placed one hand at the small of Guy’s back, the other at his shoulder.

Guy melted into the dip, face inches from Kakashi’s mask. “Yes! That’s it! Look deeply into my eyes—imagine the one you desire, and let the passion flow!”

Kakashi deadpanned, “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“IT IS THE SPIRIT OF YOUTH!” Guy roared.

Kakashi dipped Guy lower, just to see if he’d break. Guy didn’t even flinch. Instead, he reached up, clasped Kakashi’s wrist with the grip of a hydraulic press, and murmured, “You can do better. You must do better. For the sake of love.”

Kakashi dropped him onto the rug.

Guy bounced back to his feet. “SECOND CHALLENGE! The love letter!” He produced a notepad and pen from his jumpsuit, slapping them onto the table. “Write a poem for your beloved! Pour your burning soul into every syllable!”

Kakashi glanced at the notepad, then at the rose, then at the ninken, who had begun to form a support group behind the trash can.

He wrote:

Genma,

You make mornings tolerable.

Please don’t stab me with this.

-K

Guy peered over his shoulder, reading upside down. “SO SUCCINCT! SO MYSTERIOUS!” He wiped an actual tear from his cheek. “But you must try again. And mean it.”

Kakashi blinked, once, then wrote:

Genma,

You matter.

You always have.

You always will.

-Kakashi

Guy clapped him on the back, nearly sending Kakashi into the counter. “YES! That is the spirit! But you must deliver the message in person, with GUSTO!” He seized the note, folded it into a heart, and pinned it to the lapel of his own jacket. “Now—final challenge! THE GESTURE OF ETERNAL DEVOTION!”

Kakashi’s deadpan reached a new plateau. “Guy, I think you’ve missed your calling. You should be a wedding planner.”

Guy nodded, solemn. “I have planned seven weddings. All successful! Now, demonstrate your devotion!”

Kakashi reached into his back pocket for the velvet box, but Guy lunged forward, catching his wrist. “No! Not a mere object! A GESTURE! A symbol of your readiness to be vulnerable!”

Kakashi considered. He could kill Guy. He could lock him in the hallway. He could fake a seizure.

Instead, he said, “If you don’t leave, I’ll tell Genma you’re the one who keeps stealing his senbon for your training dummies.”

Guy gasped. “You wouldn’t!”

Kakashi arched an eyebrow. “Try me.”

Guy held the stare for a full five seconds, then sagged, defeated. “You are truly ready. My job here is done.” He clasped Kakashi’s hands between his own, squeezed until the bones creaked, and said, “I’m proud of you, eternal rival. Never forget that.”

He vanished in a green blur, leaving the kitchen chair spinning on one leg.

Kakashi exhaled. He looked down at the velvet box, still in his hand. The edge was frayed from being crushed during the dip. He set it gently on the table.

Pakkun slunk out from behind the trash can. “You going to try again?”

Kakashi nodded. “Eventually.”

He opened the box, checked the senbon, and set about restoring the apartment to some semblance of normal. The rose stayed on the table, a monument to embarrassment.

He glanced at the clock. If he moved fast, he could still catch Genma before sundown. If nothing else, he’d at least have another story to hold over Guy for the next decade.

He pulled on a jacket, smoothed his mask, and slipped the velvet box into the hidden pocket inside his sleeve.

This time, nothing was going to stop him.

Except, possibly, himself.

Kakashi arrived at the restaurant an hour before the reservation, because anxiety was more persuasive than pride. He’d picked Genma’s favorite—an izakaya half-hidden behind a strip of hardware stores, best known for its meat skewers and disregard for anything resembling fashion. The place was small, dark, packed elbow-to-elbow with regulars, and the back wall boasted a mural of the Fourth Hokage arm-wrestling a giant toad. Kakashi hated it on principle, but Genma loved the chaos, the lack of pretense, and the fact that no one cared if you swore at the bartender.

He bribed the hostess to seat him in the corner, away from the open kitchen and the yammer of the evening crowd. There was a table set for two—candles, clean napkins, even a battered menu with the stains scrubbed off. Kakashi checked the position of the chairs twice, then paced the length of the hallway three times, practicing the words he might never say.

The velvet box was in his inside pocket, wrapped in a handkerchief to avoid suspicion. He’d checked on it at least twenty times since leaving the house. Every time, it felt heavier, as if the decision inside was gaining mass.

He ordered sake, then canceled it, then ordered it again. The waitstaff rolled their eyes, but accepted the tip he slid across the table.

Genma showed up three minutes late, which for him was basically early. He wore jeans and a shirt with buttons—unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled—and his hair was still damp, bangs sticking to his forehead in a way that made him look younger and meaner at the same time. Kakashi felt his own composure unravel at the sight.

Genma slid into the seat across from him, eyes bright. “You clean up nice,” he said, flicking a glance at the not-quite-ironed shirt Kakashi had chosen for the occasion.

“Dress code,” Kakashi lied.

“Bullshit,” Genma said, grinning. “You have a date after this?”

Kakashi shrugged, letting the mask do most of the work. “Just wanted to look presentable.”

The conversation started easy, drifting between the day’s missions and the more idiotic moments of their shared history. Genma ordered two rounds of food and spent half the time ribbing Kakashi for his tepid appetite. Kakashi batted back with precision, letting Genma set the tempo, soaking in the details he’d been too nervous to focus on before: the way Genma chewed his ice, the scar at his left wrist from the barbed wire incident, the rhythm of his foot tapping under the table.

It was almost normal.

Kakashi kept his hand under the table, thumb brushing the edge of the velvet box with every lull in conversation. He tried, three times, to steer the talk toward something resembling a segue—a memory, a joke, an opening for the question—but Genma always deflected, either unwilling or oblivious to the weight in the air.

The food came and went, the candles burned low. It was late enough that the kitchen staff had started to close out tabs. Kakashi realized, with a jolt, that he was running out of time.

Genma sat back in his chair, finishing the last sip of sake. “So,” he said, eyeing Kakashi with the kind of directness that used to terrify junior officers. “You planning on telling me what’s got you so jumpy, or are we playing the world’s slowest game of strip poker?”

Kakashi hesitated, words snagged in his throat.

Genma leaned in, elbows on the table, voice low. “If it’s another one of those ‘life is fleeting, let’s live in the moment’ speeches, I swear I’m going to drag you to the karaoke bar and make you sing.”

“It’s not that,” Kakashi said.

“Then what?”

Kakashi slid his hand out, set the box on the table between them. For a second, he thought he might black out. He pushed it forward, just enough that Genma would see, but not enough that the whole restaurant would.

Genma went still, the smile fading to something softer, more curious. He didn’t reach for the box. He waited, letting Kakashi set the rules.

Kakashi cleared his throat. “This is... Look, I’m not good at this. But I wanted to—” He stopped, started again. “You’ve put up with a lot. More than anyone has a right to ask for. I know I’m a pain in the ass, and I know the job is going to keep getting in the way. But I want this. You. Us. As long as it’s possible.”

Genma stared at him, silent, unreadable for the first time in years.

The moment stretched.

Then, as if summoned by the sheer impossibility of happiness, an ANBU messenger burst into the restaurant, mask askew and uniform bloodied at the hem. She moved straight to their table, dropping a scroll between them with a splat of rainwater and red.

“Hatake. Shiranui. Immediate deployment.” Her voice was a drill sergeant’s rasp, urgency leaking through the seams.

Kakashi felt the world drop out from under him. He glanced at Genma, who rolled his eyes and let out a laugh so bitter it nearly curdled the air.

“Of course,” Genma said. He downed the rest of his sake, then stood. “Wouldn’t want to get soft, would we?”

Kakashi stood, mask already in place, the velvet box being tucked back into his sleeve. He turned to Genma, mouth half-open to say something—anything—but Genma just clapped him on the shoulder, a squeeze that meant more than any words.

They followed the messenger out into the storm, boots slapping the wet pavement, the unfinished proposal trailing behind them like a rumor. The rain stung, but it wasn’t the worst pain Kakashi had felt that day.

He looked at Genma, who was already smiling again, hair plastered to his skull, and knew he’d try again.

If it took another hundred dinners, another hundred missions, he’d find a way.

It was only fair.

Night fell in sheets, the rain turning the village into a ghost of itself—lights smeared by water, streets empty except for the rare idiot willing to drown for a pack of cigarettes. In Kakashi’s apartment, the warmth was real and immediate: kettle hissing, tatami dry for once, dogs snoring in a tangle near the heating vent.

Kakashi sat on the couch, one leg tucked under him, the velvet box balanced on his knee. The senbon was out, spinning between his fingers in practiced arcs. He watched it catch the lamplight, the inscription winding around its length like a secret code. There were a hundred ways to do this, he realized. None of them as hard as just saying the words.

From the kitchen, Genma called, “You want yours with sugar or are you trying to impress me?”

“Surprise me,” Kakashi replied.

He heard the familiar rattle of mugs, the clink of spoon on ceramic. Genma emerged with both cups, his hair still wild from the post-mission shower, pajama pants loose at the hip and a t-shirt that said “Property of Konoha Medical” in faded letters.

Genma handed over a mug, then flopped down beside Kakashi, close enough their knees touched. The ninken pack barely stirred, Bull shifting to rest his massive head on Genma’s foot.

For a while, they drank in silence. The only noise was the sigh of rain against the window and the soft, rhythmic breathing of contented dogs.

Genma broke the quiet first. “Heard you and Guy nearly took down the fire station this afternoon.”

Kakashi rolled the senbon to the edge of his palm. “It was mutual. He started it.”

Genma smirked. “I believe it. I saw the Guy-shaped hole in the fence.”

“It was an improvement,” Kakashi said. “You should have seen what he did to the captain’s roses.”

Genma snorted, tea nearly spilling. “Every year, he promises not to ‘accidentally’ level the garden, and every year, Konoha’s most romantic man strikes again.”

“Maybe next year,” Kakashi offered.

Genma leaned back, the lines of his face soft in the lamplight. “I hope not. It gives the kids something to talk about.”

The conversation drifted, lazy and effortless. They argued about the odds of tomorrow’s mission getting canceled, whether Asuma was secretly hoarding the last of the imported cigarettes, and if Pakkun could, in fact, smell the difference between a bribe and a tip.

It felt like every other night they’d spent together—comfortable, private, theirs.

When the mugs were empty and the world outside had gone quiet, Genma set his cup down and let out a long, slow breath.

“You ever think we’d make it here?” he asked, voice low.

Kakashi flicked the senbon, watched it spin. “I didn’t think I’d make it this far, period.”

Genma nodded, not pressing.

Kakashi turned the senbon over, thumb tracing the inlaid kanji. It was stupid, maybe, to want something this badly. But it was the one thing he’d never been able to steal or win by force.

He held out the senbon, resting it on Genma’s palm.

Genma blinked. “What’s this?”

“A bribe,” Kakashi said, deadpan. “For putting up with me.”

Genma turned it in his hand, squinting at the inscription. “You got it custom made?”

“I figured you deserved at least one thing in this place that’s actually yours.”

Genma smiled, the real one, the one that was all teeth and no defenses. “You’re sappy, you know that?”

“Don’t tell Guy,” Kakashi said.

Genma rolled the senbon between his fingers, then stilled. “You going to get on one knee, or do I have to start singing?”

Kakashi hesitated, then shook his head. “No theatrics. Just this.” He took Genma’s hand in his, steady and unhurried. “I want every day to be like this. If you’re willing to put up with me for that long… Marry me?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and perfect.

Genma stared at him, genuinely shocked for the first time in recent memory. Then his fingers curled around the senbon, and he grinned.

“Yeah,” Genma said. “Yeah, I will.”

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to Kakashi’s, their breaths mingling. The kiss was unhurried, more promise than passion, and it tasted of rain and old, unspoken hope.

From the foot of the couch, Bull let out a howl so loud it nearly toppled the lamp.

The rest of the ninken joined in, barking and baying, a canine victory parade that nearly drowned out the sound of Genma’s laughter.

Kakashi pulled him closer, hand tight at Genma’s nape, and thought: This is home. This is it.

The world could throw whatever it wanted.

They’d survive it together.

Chapter Text

The shrine wasn’t large. It sat near the river, half-shaded by a drooping willow and half-hidden behind a fence that had never been mended in Genma’s lifetime. He’d passed it a hundred times, coming back from missions or on forced “team building” walks with his old squad, and never once had he imagined he’d be standing inside it, sober, with his hands not covered in someone else’s blood.

They’d said it was traditional. That was how Kurenai had pitched it, anyway, when she and Anko had shown up at the apartment three nights before with a pile of sample scrolls and a single-minded determination to force the pair of them to have a real wedding. The invitations had gone out (half as blackmail, half as a joke), and by the time the sun was up, Genma had been conned into a kimono fitting and Kakashi was pretending not to be excited about the prospect of seeing all of his ninken in matching bowties.

Now the day had arrived. Genma stood in the shrine’s small antechamber, adjusting the inner collar of the formal kimono for the third time, and considered how the world could possibly make this feel more like a mission and less like an elaborate assassination attempt. Maybe it was the smell of incense, sharp and insistent, or the way the ceremonial senbon motif had been painstakingly embroidered onto the hem of his sleeves—every detail perfectly balanced, every line a quiet reminder that even today, he was expected to play his role. Or maybe it was just the knowledge that Ibiki Morino was out there, waiting at the altar as his officiant, and Genma would have to look him in the eye without the cover of a tactical mask.

He’d gone without the senbon. That was the big concession. He’d practiced it for weeks, until he could talk for an entire hour without needing to roll metal between his teeth, but he still felt the ghost of it whenever he tried to swallow. His hair was combed, mostly, but he’d let the bangs stay loose at the front—one small act of rebellion in a day that had otherwise steamrolled his preferences.

On the other side of the thin wooden partition, the crowd was assembling. Genma could pick out voices with ease. Asuma’s low, measured drawl—probably making bets with Raido over how many times Genma would fuck up the processional. Guy, out front, holding court with the wedding’s tiny ninken contingent and giving each dog a pep talk about the “importance of emotional support in a time of passionate union.” Kurenai, organizing the seating chart, which apparently had been designed like a game of shogi, each side tactically balanced to prevent infighting. And somewhere in the mix, Genma was sure, Aoba, already tipsy, asking every third guest if he could sneak in a flash photo of the happy couple.

Ibiki waited at the altar, a monument to regulation and trauma in a ceremonial haori that made him look even more terrifying than usual. The man was a human exclamation point—tall, broad-shouldered, face set in the permanent scowl of a man whose job was to make people confess their worst secrets. But today, there was a hint of softness in the set of his mouth, and the scars that bisected his scalp seemed less like warnings and more like souvenirs. He nodded at Genma as he peeked out from behind the curtain, then signaled with two fingers—ninety seconds.

Genma closed his eyes, drew a breath, and steeled himself for the only part of the day that genuinely terrified him: the walk down the aisle.

He stepped out into the main chamber. The shrine’s nave was a riot of color—banners hung from the beams, flowers banked at every pillar, the center aisle strewn with a carpet of pink and white cherry petals. Kurenai had outdone herself. She’d even managed to get the senbon-shaped centerpieces for each table, the long needles made of polished silver and wound with red and black ribbon. The crowd was a sea of dark hair and brighter uniforms, and as Genma passed, he felt each set of eyes slide across him—cataloguing, evaluating, approving. It was the closest he’d ever felt to being on parade.

He spotted Raido and Aoba in the second row, flanked by Anko (already rolling her eyes), and—behind them—Might Guy, resplendent in a kimono that could only be described as “hostile to the retina,” dabbing at his face with a monogrammed handkerchief.

At the front, Ibiki stood behind the altar, hands folded, the picture of implacable authority. To his left, the row of ninken—Pakkun, Bull, the rest of the pack—seated in perfect formation, each wearing a collar of white camellia and red ribbon. Pakkun caught Genma’s eye and gave him the slow, dignified nod of a best man in dog form.

And there, at the end of the aisle, was Kakashi.

The bastard looked good. He always did, but today he looked… serene, if Genma was honest, which he almost never was. The silver hair had been tamed into something like order, the formal kimono (matching, but without the senbon motif—Kakashi had vetoed “anything too on the nose”) hung perfectly on his frame, and the customary black mask was in place, though the eye above it crinkled with something like anticipation.

Guy, as human best man, stood beside Kakashi. He managed to look both ready to break into a sprint and seconds from a public weep, vibrating with so much youthful energy that Genma could feel it from across the room.

Genma took his place opposite Kakashi, hands steady, and waited as the rest of the room settled. There was a long, expectant hush, and then Ibiki began the ceremony.

He spoke with the authority of a man who had once made a stone wall confess to conspiracy. “We are gathered here in recognition of a union that, for the safety of the village and the interests of public order, should have happened years ago.” A ripple of laughter from the crowd, just enough to break the tension. “Marriage is not unlike the practice of shinobi discipline. It is demanding. It is often thankless. It is, at times, adversarial. But it is also a bond—a partnership—that can withstand any siege, provided it is maintained with vigilance, respect, and the occasional use of force.”

He fixed each man in turn with his infamous interrogation stare. Genma nearly blinked, but caught himself at the last second.

“Today, we formalize a contract already tested by fire, subterfuge, and the will of several dozen exasperated teammates.” Another round of laughter. “The vows you make here are not only to each other, but to the community you serve, the friends who stand by you, and to the tradition of the village itself.”

Ibiki turned to Genma. “State your vow.”

Genma swallowed, wishing for his senbon, and spoke. “I promise to keep you out of the hospital, unless you ask nicely. I promise to never let you win an argument on the first try. I promise to put up with the dogs, the mask, and the endless parade of trauma that passes for your sense of humor. And… I promise to fight for you, with you, and—if I have to—against you, every day we’re both still breathing.”

A pause, a cough from somewhere in the back (Raido, probably), and then Ibiki turned to Kakashi.

Kakashi’s eye was unreadable, the mask hiding everything but the faintest tilt of a smile. “I promise to remind you that not every injury needs stitches. I promise to let you organize the senbon drawer—most of the time. I promise to protect you, and our friends, even when it means getting out of bed before noon.” The eye crinkled further. “And I promise to always have your back, no matter how many times you try to leave it unguarded.”

Ibiki nodded, apparently satisfied. “Very well. Do you have the rings?”

From the ninken row, Pakkun trotted up, two velvet boxes in his jaws. He set them on the altar with the solemnity of a priest, then retreated to his place.

Ibiki opened each box and handed the rings—twin bands, each with a pattern of tiny inlaid senbon winding around the circumference, so fine you’d need a jeweler’s lens to read it.

Genma slid his ring onto Kakashi’s finger. The mask softened, ever so slightly, and for a moment, the world outside the shrine seemed to pause.

Kakashi returned the favor, and Genma felt the metal settle, cold and perfect, against his skin.

Ibiki closed the book, looking down at them with something that might have passed for affection, if you didn’t know the man. “By the authority vested in me by the Hidden Leaf Village, and by the power of intimidation, I pronounce you husband and husband. You may… do whatever it is you do.”

The room erupted. Guy whooped loudest, a sustained “YES!” that rattled the rafters and set off a sympathetic bark from Bull. Asuma and Kurenai both stood, clapping, and even Raido let out a brief, unguarded whoop. Pakkun and the pack bounded up, circling the couple, while Genma and Kakashi just stood there, quietly, not moving to embrace, not putting on a show.

After a beat, Genma glanced sideways, caught the edge of Kakashi’s hand, and laced their fingers together.

It wasn’t a kiss. Not yet. That was for later, after the cameras and the speeches and the endless line of congratulations. For now, it was enough.

In the midst of the crowd, under the riot of banners and the soft rain of cherry petals, Genma found that—for the first time all day—he didn’t miss the senbon at all.

The reception was chaos, but the good kind—the kind you only got at weddings where half the guests were trained to kill a man with a chopstick and the other half had spent the morning bribing the village’s best caterers not to poison the cake.

The courtyard behind the shrine was festooned with lanterns, each one strung with ribbons in every color of the spectrum, lighting up the evening like a thousand low-flying fireworks. The tables were set with more cherry blossoms, each centerpiece doubling as a functional, if impractical, senbon holder. At the head table, Kurenai had outdone herself again: a replica of the Hokage monument carved entirely out of sweet potato and ringed by edible shuriken.

Genma caught sight of it as he walked in, and muttered to Kakashi, “I give it five minutes before someone uses that as a projectile.”

Kakashi’s eye did that thing where it crinkled so much the rest of his face didn’t matter. “I have ten ryo on Raido.”

“Guy,” Genma countered. “He’s been pacing the perimeter since the ceremony.”

As if summoned, Might Guy appeared at the main table, green suit replaced with a kimono so blindingly white it threatened to collapse under its own self-esteem. He wore a new pair of leg warmers, also white, and had swapped his usual bowl cut for a slicked-back affair that made him look like a cross between a motivational speaker and a late-night TV cult leader.

He clapped Genma on the back with enough force to dislodge a tooth. “MY YOUTHFUL FRIEND!” he bellowed, already misty-eyed. “Never before have I beheld such a TRIUMPH of the human spirit! Your bravery, your passion—”

Kakashi stepped in. “The speech is after the food, Guy. You don’t want to peak too early.”

Guy clapped his hands together, delighted. “But of course! You are always thinking three steps ahead, eternal rival! Such strategy!” He gave Kakashi an approving nod, then scurried off to the punch bowl, where Anko was already starting her own brand of party sabotage.

The crowd was a patchwork of Konoha’s best and worst: a handful of senior jonin, some chuunin hopefuls who’d snuck in to witness history, and a smattering of old-timers who’d clearly come for the free food but stayed for the gossip. At a corner table, Ibiki nursed a cup of sake, engaged in a staring contest with the decorative centerpiece. Next to him, Kurenai and Asuma had paired off, hands entwined under the table, heads close enough to suggest they’d soon be making an excuse to leave early.

Raido and Aoba held down the far end, already halfway through a bottle of sake and deep in a debate about whether the official union of Genma and Kakashi signaled a new era for “openly dysfunctional relationships” in the village. Raido seemed to think it set a bad precedent; Aoba was on the fence, but only because he kept losing track of the argument.

The ninken moved through the crowd like professionals. Pakkun stationed himself by the food table, giving orders to the smaller pups, who darted in and out of legs, scavenging anything that fell. At one point, Shiba returned to the main pack with a whole shrimp skewer clamped in his teeth, wearing the proud grin of a thief who’d just gotten away with grand larceny.

Genma, for his part, circulated with the wary grace of a man avoiding open water. Every time someone cornered him for a hug or a handshake, he smiled—quick, brittle, but real—and moved on. The lack of a senbon made him itch. He kept reaching for it unconsciously, only to have his hand come up empty. Once, he actually fished for one in his sleeve, then caught himself and shrugged, mouthing, “Old habits.”

Kakashi noticed every time. He never said anything, but occasionally, he’d catch Genma’s hand in his own, squeezing it tight for a second, grounding him. The gesture was private, almost invisible, but it made Genma’s heart thump in his chest like a warning.

They stood together at the edge of the main dance area, watching as Guy orchestrated what could only be called a group interpretive jutsu to the sound of some god-awful wedding march. Genma tilted his head, deadpan. “If this is how our future kids turn out, I’m blaming you.”

Kakashi, without missing a beat: “My genetics are perfect. You’re the wild card.”

Genma snorted, but the sound was fond. “You wish.”

They drank, they ate, they survived the endless parade of toasts. Kurenai delivered a beautiful, tearful tribute to “partnership, and the bonds that make us stronger.” Asuma followed it with a toast so short and to the point (“Don’t screw this up, either of you. Please.”) that half the crowd missed it entirely. Raido, surprisingly, managed to give a speech that almost made Genma cry—something about surviving hell together, and how it didn’t mean you had to do it alone.

The only disaster came from Anko, who tried to eat an entire wedge of wedding cake in one go, only to be challenged by Guy. The ensuing “cake-off” resulted in a fist-sized crater being carved out of the Hokage monument centerpiece, and three people needing minor first aid. Pakkun oversaw the operation, barking instructions to the medic team, who were mostly laughing too hard to suture anyone.

Near dusk, the bouquet toss happened. Kurenai organized it, of course, shooing the single kunoichi and the more amenable men into a loose formation near the center of the yard. Genma, handed the bouquet by a beaming Anko, weighed his options and—after a quick glance at Kakashi—lofted the flowers in a perfect, high arc.

They were aimed for the knot of rowdy kunoichi at the back. But at the last second, a stiff breeze (or possibly an underhanded jutsu from one of the ninken) shifted the trajectory, and the bouquet smacked Aoba square in the face. He caught it, more from reflex than intention, and stood there dumbfounded as the crowd dissolved into shrieking laughter. Even Ibiki cracked a grin, which, on his face, was like watching a landslide in slow motion.

Aoba, red-faced, brought the bouquet to Genma afterward. “I… wasn’t expecting that,” he said, shoving his sunglasses up his nose with one finger. “Congratulations. Really.”

Genma clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t let them give you too much shit.”

Aoba flashed a shy, brief smile. “I’ll survive.” He lingered for a second, then ducked away, flowers held awkwardly at his side.

The party bled into twilight. Lanterns flicked on, bathing the courtyard in warm, golden light. The older guests started to filter out, but the hard core—Guy, Kurenai, Asuma, Raido, and Anko, along with the whole ninken brigade—remained. There was more sake, more food, and at one point, a coordinated “mission” to break into the shrine’s bell tower, which ended with Raido and Guy stranded on the roof, loudly debating ninja tactics until Kurenai threatened to jutsu them both into unconsciousness.

Genma and Kakashi watched it all unfold from a table near the fence, bodies close but not quite touching. At some point, Genma leaned in, voice pitched low. “You think this is what they mean by ‘happily ever after?’”

Kakashi considered, then nodded. “Probably more ‘happy for now.’ But I’ll take it.”

Genma’s hand found Kakashi’s under the table, fingers lacing together. For once, Genma didn’t need the senbon to feel right.

He watched the crowd—his friends, his new family, his pack—and thought: maybe this was the point, after all. Maybe it was about the people who stayed, who kept showing up, even when you didn’t make it easy.

He squeezed Kakashi’s hand, and Kakashi squeezed back.

If the world was going to be chaos, this was the kind Genma could learn to love.

The party started to bleed into the bones of the night, the courtyard’s laughter thinning as the guests drifted out—some toward home, others toward whatever after-party Anko was threatening to launch on the far side of the village. Genma kept one eye on the crowd, but his focus was elsewhere: on Kakashi, who sat beside him at the edge of the raised garden, ankles crossed, sipping sake with an ease that suggested nothing could possibly go wrong ever again.

Genma knew better, of course. That was the dangerous part. Even happy endings in Konoha had a habit of exploding into mission reports and body bags before the ink dried.

He watched the pulse of lantern light ripple over Kakashi’s silver hair, the way his hand moved, measured, pouring another round and nudging the cup toward Genma. The air was thick with blossom scent, and for a second Genma thought: This isn’t terrible. It might even be nice.

When Guy and Raido started wrestling for control of the music, Genma used the distraction to catch Kakashi’s eye and nod—just once, toward the garden wall and the alley beyond. Kakashi caught the signal, finishing his sake, and stood. They slipped out unnoticed, the ninken left behind to absorb any fallout.

They climbed the fire escape in silence, the metal rungs cold and a little slick with dew. Genma moved first, light on his feet even with the heavy kimono. He reached the roof and waited, not looking back until Kakashi was standing beside him, hands in his pockets, mask pulled down to his chin.

The roof was familiar. Their roof. It overlooked the village proper, the Hokage’s monument bright against the night sky, the river glinting silver to the east. Above, the moon was a thin, sharp edge—more senbon than sphere.

They stood there for a moment, neither speaking. Genma fished in his sleeve, pulled out the old, battered case, and flicked a senbon between his fingers. It felt right. Like old times, but better.

He slid it between his lips, rolling it from one corner of his mouth to the other. The tension in his shoulders melted away.

He leaned against Kakashi, just enough to feel the warmth through both layers of formalwear. “So, husband,” Genma said, with all the dryness of a man determined not to make a big deal out of it, “think we can make this work without another public disaster?”

Kakashi’s visible eye narrowed—amusement, not suspicion. He took his time answering, as always, before pulling his mask down entirely and kissing Genma on the mouth, senbon and all. The kiss was slow, unhurried, as if the rest of the world had finally decided to give them a minute alone.

When it broke, Kakashi rested his forehead against Genma’s and said, “We’ve had enough disasters. Let’s try for something different.”

Genma let himself smile. “You mean boring?”

Kakashi shrugged. “I can live with boring. If it’s with you.”

They sat down, backs to the roof’s low wall, the city stretching out below them. The wind was soft, cherry petals spinning in the eddies before drifting down to the empty streets. Genma twirled the senbon, then flicked it into the sky, watching it arc and vanish into darkness.

Kakashi’s arm found its way around Genma’s waist, anchoring him. The weight of it was more reassuring than any vow, any ring, any promise.

For a long time, neither spoke. They watched the clouds. They counted the few scattered stars. They listened as the party below faded into memory.

Genma broke the silence first. “You know, I never thought I’d get this far. The whole—” He waved his hand, indicating the rings, the matching kimono, the future. “It wasn’t supposed to be for people like us.”

Kakashi made a thoughtful sound. “I never thought I’d be happy. Not really.”

“Are you?” Genma said, voice quieter than he meant.

Kakashi squeezed his hand, gentle. “Yeah. You?”

Genma nodded. “It’s not what I expected. But it’s good.”

Kakashi’s lips twitched. “You always were bad at expectations.”

Genma laughed, the sound echoing across the rooftops. “That’s the secret. Set the bar low, and nobody’s disappointed.”

Kakashi reached up, thumb brushing Genma’s cheek. “I’m not disappointed.”

They kissed again, this time longer, letting it linger until the chill seeped in and the world narrowed to just the two of them.

They moved inside, away from the wind and the city lights. The apartment was still and dark, ninken curled in their beds, the remnants of the party a faint memory in the hall.

They undressed each other, slow and awkward, more comfortable than graceful. The tattoos, the scars, the callouses—all familiar, all part of the same language they’d been speaking for years. There were no speeches, no grand declarations, just the soft thud of hearts and the hush of skin on skin.

Kakashi stripped completely first, sitting back on his heels to let Genma drink him in as he continued to undress himself with deliberate slowness. He could tell it was driving Kakashi mad with desire - that look in his eyes told Genma everything he needed to know.

When they were both naked and breathless with anticipation—Genma’s pulse thrumming in his ears, Kakashi’s chest rising and falling with the kind of restraint that made Genma want to break it—Genma didn’t waste time with words. He leaned over Kakashi’s prone form, kissed a single line down the ridge of his sternum, and then took Kakashi into his mouth with a certainty that made his own hands tremble. There was no prelude of shyness, none of the lingering awkwardness that sometimes hovered in the air after a party: just the press of tongue and lips, the way Kakashi’s breath caught and his hand automatically found the back of Genma’s head, fingers threading through unruly brown hair and holding, not pushing, just anchoring.

Genma shifted, letting Kakashi fill him, and felt the familiar heat of connection—old, but never routine—settle between his teeth and tongue. He worked slow at first, savoring the slick slide and the helpless, bitten-off grunts that spilled out of Kakashi when Genma scraped his teeth just a little or flicked his tongue beneath the tip. There was something deeply satisfying about reducing the man who’d once been the White Fang’s son, the Copy Ninja, to just another lover in a dark apartment. But then, Kakashi had always been more than the mask, more than the legends, more than what the village needed him to be. Genma was greedy enough to want all of it, especially the parts no one else got to see.

Kakashi’s body was a map of stories: the fine white scar that bisected his left hip, the patchwork of shrapnel nicks along his thigh, the old kunai gouge that had healed ugly but true near his ribs. Genma traced each one with his free hand, memorizing the way Kakashi’s skin quivered under careful attention. He felt the tension brewing, the way Kakashi’s hand twitched and then withdrew, as if he didn’t trust himself not to lose control too soon. It was a rare thing, seeing Kakashi this open, this undone.

When Genma pulled back, lips swollen and eyes half-lidded, Kakashi was already panting, his composure stripped away. He reached for Genma and, with a single tug, brought him down for a kiss that was more teeth than tongue, all hunger and heat. Genma let it happen, let himself be guided, let Kakashi flip him gently onto his back and pin his wrists above his head with a grip that was more symbolic than real restraint.

Kakashi paused, forehead pressed to Genma’s, just breathing for a second. “You’re sure?” he asked, voice barely a whisper, as if the world might collapse if he spoke too loud.

Genma grinned, all mischief and want. “If you have to ask, you’re not paying attention.”