Iruka understood.
He had always been an understanding man, and an infinitely patient one at that. There was no helping that distinction after all the years he had spent as an academy teacher. It was a necessity in his life with dealing with rambunctious youngsters and oddball jounin, whether he dealt with the latest teasing or quarrel among nine-year-old students, or remained politely indulgent to the eccentricies of the jounin he collected reports from.
It was Kakashi that taught him the need for boundless, infinite understanding.
Iruka understands the need for discretion, to hide everything that they were, the reasons they were only together under the cover of the shadows, why Kakashi only came to him in the night.
Iruka understood why the other man's hand would cover his mouth, stopping hi speech. He understood why Kakashi did not want to speak.
Iruka understood that he should not comment as the jounin removed his mask, revealing handsome features haunted by the puckered, brazenly white scar etched from jaw to brow.
Iruka understood the pain in the other's eyes, the hidden loneliness and sorrow. As the long, muscled body levered over him, he should not let his eyes look too long into the eerie read of the Sharingan, or wonder of the secrets it held.
And in those moments as pleasure spiraled and sent his mind flying into oblivion; when his body arched and tensed and writhed in a final culmination, his understanding fell apart and then come back together faster than he could understand as his lover collapsed against him.
Iruka understood, even as Kakashi lay heavy in his arms, sated, panting and slick with sweat, he would know better than to dare say those three words that would break or mend the hidden heart of his Copy-nin lover.
Iruka understood. He just wished he didn't have to.
Maybe then, it wouldn't hurt so much.