The morning air in Konoha tasted of sawdust and wet mortar.
Kakashi Hatake walked down the main thoroughfare, hands buried deep in his pockets, his posture an expertly crafted slouch. To the civilians rebuilding their shops, he was the Copy Ninja—a lethal, lazy eccentricity. A weapon that read porn in public.
He preferred it that way. If they looked at the book, they didn't look at the man.
He turned the corner near the Academy and stopped.
The Konohamaru Corps was conducting a very serious operation involving a lost cat and a step-ladder. Moegi was shouting directions. Udon was wiping his nose. Konohamaru was trying to look like a leader while holding a bag of treats.
And standing in the middle of them, adjusting the strap of a backpack, was Iruka Umino.
Kakashi didn't move. He stood in the shadow of a glazier's awning, watching.
Iruka looked tired. There were new lines around his eyes, etched by the invasion, by the funerals, by the sheer administrative weight of being one of the few people in the village who remembered the names of every single dead genin.
But his hands were steady. He reached out and straightened Konohamaru's goggles, a gesture so casual and domestic it made Kakashi's chest ache.
A kind person is a soldier, Kakashi thought. He fights the war by making sure the children survive the peace.
Iruka looked up.
His gaze cut across the street, through the dust of reconstruction, and locked onto Kakashi.
For a second, the mask slipped. Not the physical one—Iruka wore his scar like a badge—but the emotional one. His eyes widened. His breath hitched visible in his chest.
Kakashi had been in a coma for a month. To the village, it was a tactical absence. To Iruka, it had been a silence that screamed.
Iruka took a half-step forward, his hand lifting as if to reach out.
Kakashi didn't step back, but he sharpened his gaze. Not here.
The message passed between them, silent and absolute as a hand sign. The street is watching. The village needs the Teacher and the Killer, not two men relieved to be alive.
Iruka's hand stopped. He converted the motion into a wave—stiff, professional, collegiate.
"Yo," Kakashi said, his voice flat.
"Kakashi-san," Iruka replied. His voice was steady, but his eyes were wet. "Good to see you on your feet."
"Maa. The hospital bed was lumpy."
Iruka smiled. It was a small, fragile thing, but it was real. He turned back to the children, clapping his hands. "Alright, Corps! Moving out!"
Kakashi watched them go. He waited until Iruka's ponytail disappeared around the bend before he let himself exhale.
Duty, Kakashi thought, turning his back on the warmth. Duty first.
The afternoon sun was hot, baking the damp earth dry.
Kakashi sat on a bench near the river, the orange cover of Icha Icha Violence shielding his face from the world. He wasn't reading. He was listening to the rhythm of the water and the shuffling of cards.
Fifty feet away, Izumo and Kotetsu sat at a stone table.
They weren't on duty. They were in civilians—loose shirts, sandals kicked off under the table. They were playing a card game that seemed to involve more arguing than rules.
"You cheated," Izumo said lazily.
"I improvised," Kotetsu corrected, slapping a card down. "Strategy."
"You hid an ace in your sleeve."
"That's just good inventory management."
They laughed. It wasn't the polite laughter of colleagues. It was the easy, resonant laughter of two people who shared a center of gravity. They bumped shoulders. Kotetsu stole a sip of Izumo's tea without asking.
Kakashi watched them over the rim of his book.
The village called them "The Eternal Gatekeepers." Partners. A unit. In a military society, "partners" was a convenient word. It explained the shared meals, the shared patrols, the fact that they were never seen apart. It wrapped their devotion in the flag of martial loyalty.
Aggressive brotherhood, Kakashi mused. Hide in plain sight.
If they were loud about it—if they framed it as camaraderie, as the bond of soldiers in a trench—no one asked questions. No one looked at the way Izumo's foot rested against Kotetsu's ankle under the table.
Kakashi turned the page of his book. The text described a woman pining for a man in the rain. It was flowery. It was melodramatic. It was safe.
People assumed Kakashi read it because he was a pervert. They didn't realize he read it because fiction was the only place where people said "I love you" without checking the perimeter first.
Kotetsu looked over, spotting him. He waved, a broad, easy gesture.
"Yo! Kakashi-san! Want in on the next hand?"
Kakashi eye-smiled. "I'm afraid my luck is terrible today."
"Suit yourself!"
They went back to their game, their bubble of intimacy impenetrable because it looked exactly like duty.
Kakashi stood up and walked away. He felt a pang of envy so sharp it tasted like iron.
The sun died over the Hokage Monument, turning the stone faces into silhouettes against a blood-red sky.
Kakashi stood at the base of the great oak tree that grew near the Fourth's ear. He leaned his back against the bark, looking out over the village. The lights were coming on below, a grid of golden sparks in the twilight.
He heard the footsteps.
Soft. Deliberate. Not sneaking, but quiet.
Iruka stopped on the other side of the tree. He didn't come around. He leaned his back against the bark, mirroring Kakashi.
They stood back-to-back, separated by three feet of ancient wood.
"You're late," Iruka said softly.
"Black cat," Kakashi murmured. "Crossed my path."
"You should find a new route."
"I like this one."
Silence settled between them. It wasn't the heavy silence of the hospital room, or the dangerous silence of the mission field. It was the silence of a pressure valve finally being released.
"They left," Iruka said.
He didn't need to say names.
"Yeah," Kakashi said. "They did."
"Naruto... he was wearing the necklace."
"Tsunade's bet."
"It's heavy," Iruka said. His voice cracked, just a fraction. "He's too small for that much history, Kakashi."
Kakashi tilted his head back, resting it against the rough bark. He thought of his father. He thought of the White Chakra Saber, broken in half. He thought of Rōran, glassed and silent, and the weight of a decision that had saved a squad and destroyed a city.
Sakumo had died to cut the strings. To make sure Kakashi didn't have to carry the ghost of that city forever.
"He'll grow into it," Kakashi said. "Or he'll break it. He's good at breaking things."
"He is," Iruka huffed a laugh. "He really is."
The wind shifted, rustling the leaves above them. It carried the scent of Iruka's shampoo—something cheap and lemony—and the smell of chalk dust.
It was the smell of home.
"I thought..." Iruka started, then stopped.
Kakashi waited.
"When the report came in," Iruka whispered. "About Itachi. About the coma. I thought the board was cleared."
The King, Kakashi thought. Once it's off the board, you can't drop it back in.
"I'm hard to kill," Kakashi said. "I have too many books to finish."
"Idiot."
"Teacher."
Kakashi slowly, carefully, moved his right hand.
He reached around the side of the tree. He didn't reach far. He just rested his hand on the rough bark, palm open, fingers curled slightly.
A moment later, he felt warmth.
Iruka's hand covered his.
Their fingers intertwined. Rough palm against rough palm. Callus against callus. It wasn't a soft touch; it was a grip. A desperate, anchoring hold that said I am here and You are real.
They didn't move from behind the tree. Anyone looking up from the village would just see the Copy Ninja keeping watch over the city, a solitary sentinel against the dark.
They wouldn't see the hand on the other side.
"Stay safe," Iruka whispered to the leaves.
"You too," Kakashi whispered to the stone.
They stood there as the sun vanished, holding onto the only piece of the world that didn't belong to the village.
Duty was the tree.
But the roots touched underground.