When Iruka was five, he wanted to make tea for the beautiful boy with empty gray eyes.
When Iruka was six, he found that boy in his dreams. He never did make that boy any tea, but he believed that someone had. He saw light in those eyes that hadn't been before, and that was enough.
When Iruka was ten, his entire world was ripped from him, and for the very first time, Iruka wished that someone was around to make tea for him.
When Iruka was twelve, he realized he wanted Wolf to be that person.
When he was fourteen, he realized that it wasn't enough for someone to make tea for his wolf; Iruka wanted to make it.
By the time he was sixteen, he had seen enough glimpses of their harsh world to understand that it might never be possible.
That didn't change anything.
He still wanted to be that person.
Wolf was older than Iruka by at least a couple years. He had silver hair, pale skin, and dark gray eyes. He had carried a tanto on his back as a child, secured by straps across his chest; the sword made Iruka think he was a weapons specialist, although his ninjutsu was also above par since he had executed a perfect shunshin in a single blurred moment.
The only other clues were what Iruka had learned in the dreams. Wolf was a jōnin, and very active duty if his inconsistent sleep schedule was anything to go by—possibly, even ANBU.
Iruka knew enough by sixteen to understand that ANBU weren't just the strongest shinobi Konoha had to offer, but those who sacrificed the most. Those chosen for ANBU were without lovers or children, and sometimes they didn't live long enough to accrue either. They lived behind a mask, and Iruka didn't know for certain, but he had heard tale of ANBU who hadn't returned to the village in years, living undercover in foreign lands and spying on other nations from within their very midst.
Wolf was strong. He was a child prodigy. The only family he had ever spoken of was his father, and Iruka didn't remember any mention of him since Wolf's ears still flopped.
The reason he hid his waking self from Iruka might not have been out of a desire for anonymity, but a requirement beyond his control.
Iruka wouldn't press.
He would wait. He would wonder.
He would keep the kettle hot and the tea fresh, and when his wolf was ready to take a drink—Iruka would be there to fill him.
Uchiha Itachi had been part of Kakashi's team for less than two years when he was promoted. He was a prodigy. While his technical skills weren't much beyond what Kakashi's had been at a similar age, his mastery of the sharingan and position among his clan had propelled him quickly to a high status within ANBU ranks.
Just like Kakashi, Itachi had never truly been a child.
He certainly wasn't one by the time Kakashi met him.
Itachi was patient, poised, and—miraculously—had enough personal connections to keep him tethered to human emotion. While the majority of their missions together had been spent in companionable silence, Itachi found cause to mention (twice each) his younger brother and his cousin (Shisui of the Body Flicker, a name even Kakashi knew) with something almost bordering a smile on his face.
There was no one that Kakashi thought of with a smile.
There was someone he dreamed about.
Did Iruka think of Wolf with a smile?
The greatest influence Kakashi had on this world, outside of steel and blood—the only person who would remember Kakashi without a single thought of death or lightning or a stolen eye—and he would never know what happened if Kakashi died. Iruka would never visit the memorial stone and trace a name, because to him, none of them would be Wolf.
It was a comfort.
It was a comfort, until Iruka made chūnin, until he was accepted on B-ranks and then A-ranks—until he began travelling roads Kakashi didn't know, into abysses he couldn't see—until he walked paths that would lead him straight into the dens of lions.
What was a single, imaginary wolf against that?
Iruka may never know which name gracing the memorial stone was his companion's; Kakashi would.
Kakashi was on a mission when Shisui committed suicide.
Kakashi was on a mission when Obito's clan was obliterated from the earth, except for a seven-year-old boy and a mass murderer.
A mass murderer Kakashi had trained.
He supposed he should be grateful that Itachi had the humanity to spare his younger brother, if living in that situation could indeed be considered a mercy.
The whispers said it wasn't.
Kakashi knew it was.
He was no fool; there were plenty of things worse than death. But as a child, Sasuke would have an opportunity to grow, to find new reasons for living.
So many others had never been given that chance.
The first night back in Konoha was the first night Kakashi had actually slept after weeks in which his team swam through sand, tracking a group of targets around the outskirts of the Land of Wind. He expected Obito's sharingan to assault him with an endless repetition of red lips, blank eyes, swirling tomoe, lightning, crows, chakra flickering out of existence—
Instead, he found Iruka.
It took Kakashi a few moments to recognize what he was seeing; he had spent so little time in his life between these four walls, and most of it when he was barely old enough to form lasting memories. Logic deciphered it for him when recall failed, but there was no doubt the location had been of Iruka's choosing.
It was one of the Academy's classrooms. Whether it was one Kakashi had ever entered, he couldn't say.
Papers and writing utensils were scattered across all flat surfaces, except the clear spot of desk upon which Kakashi had appeared. Colorful paper airplanes joined them, along with wads of old chewing gum and a single leaf-green chrysalis that might have been the way-stage between caterpillar and butterfly. It hung from the underside of a window, sunlight turning the edges translucent. The shadow of an amorphous shape twisted within. The chalkboard held writings that couldn't quite form in Kakashi's mind, rough lines growing fuzzy and blurred when he tried to decipher individual kana.
This must have been Iruka's childhood.
It wasn't Kakashi's.
Iruka was perched on the podium, somehow managing to sit on top, legs dangling off the front, without tipping the entire thing over. Part of it had to have been dream-magic, but another might have been the large, fully-feathered wings that spread from his shoulder blades, held aloft and keeping him balanced.
They were beautiful. That was the first word that came to Kakashi's mind. Black fuzz had been replaced with lush plumage, shades of tawny browns combining with black and near-white, leafing together and giving the appearance of owl wings. In all of their dreams up to this point, Iruka's hair had been long, reaching some midpoint between back and waist. Now, a tie restrained it in a high ponytail, only a few inches longer than Kakashi knew he wore it in reality.
For the first time, Iruka also appeared in uniform—chūnin vest, shinobi sandals, and Konoha hitai-ate, all straightened to absolute perfection.
The only impurity lay in the scar across his nose; it ran deep and dark, drawing Kakashi's attention before raising it to sorrel eyes.
Eyes that watched him.
"Your scar." Iruka murmured.
As if his words had spoken the reality into Kakashi's consciousness, he became aware of a sensation he had never experienced in the dreamworld before, at least not with the sharp clarity of the waking:
Pain.
Obito's eye was still absent, as it always was, but the scar was etched deeper than before, stinging as if it were fresh again. Beads of crimson blossomed along the raw wound, which split his furred cheek, the thin, vulnerable skin of his throat, and reached finality just above heart.
In a form without a sharingan, Kakashi knew what it meant—Obito was crying.
When he didn't respond, Iruka apparently made his own assumptions. "You heard?"
"Yes." He acknowledged, sitting back on his haunches. His tail curled closely to his body, while he watched Iruka with keen eyes.
"Only one boy left." Thick emotion broiled beneath the surface of Iruka's voice, so different from the playful bubbles it once brought. "Seven years old. He's an orphan now."
"He'll be taken care of." Kakashi said coolly. "He'll have the entirety of the Uchiha fortune at his disposal, and a ward if he needs one. They won't allow the last of a great clan to go to waste."
"His clan shouldn't matter." Iruka replied fiercely, leaning forward and waving a hand with hostile aggression. The podium beneath him wobbled. "And that's—what about his mental health? What about having someone who cares about him beyond his name? He's a child, Wolf, not a goddamn resource."
"He is both." Kakashi contradicted. Fury twisted Iruka's scar, but Kakashi didn't give it time to erupt. "In this case, it's a good thing. It ensures he'll be treated fairly. They won't risk one of the last potential wielders of the sharingan due to negligence."
Iruka's glare could have cut diamond. If Iruka wanted to, he could wield it as a literal kunai, wedge it between Kakashi's ribs, chipping bone, or slice his soft underbelly.
Iruka wasn't the sort of person to imagine such things. Kakashi was.
"And that's how he's supposed to grow up?" Iruka demanded. "Knowing he's nothing more than a weapon to his own people? With the expectation of an entire clan resting on his traumatized shoulders? That's going to kill him as surely as his brother would have."
"Maa," Kakashi drawled. "I think it worked alright with me."
An auditory vacuum sucked out the air between them. Kakashi could feel breath entering and leaving his lungs, smell the faint scents of chalk and—was that explosive powder? But Iruka's stricken look stole all sound.
Kakashi swallowed, gaze flickering away for a poignant second. When it returned, it was harder, steadier. "The children of clan heads aren't treated the same as others, Iruka. I know you blame Konoha for ignoring you, the other orphans, and I'm not saying you're wrong—but Sasuke's place in the village is assured. It won't be much different than he was raised to expect. And his personal scars won't be fixed by a concerned stranger."
Crimson flushed Iruka's face. "Someone needs to be concerned. Maybe if someone had been, this wouldn't have happened in the first place. If—" Iruka looked away, eyes closing. He breathed in shakily. It left him in a pained gust.
The thread of frustration and grief pulled taut in his quiet voice was more powerful than any shouting.
"Uchiha Yato was on my genin team. We hadn't talked much since we became chūnin, but he told me about his cousin. A prodigy. Pushed through the Academy too young. It's not even war-time, but he was promoted so quickly. ANBU, if the rumors are true. Yato spoke about him with some sort of—of admiration. If anyone had stopped to consider what was best for Itachi, for any of these kids, rather than just what would be profitable to the village—"
"Maybe this wouldn't have happened." Kakashi concluded flatly. Iruka opened his eyes. "Or maybe it would have turned out exactly the same. Iruka, you can't see what goes on behind closed doors—in the T&I building, in ANBU. I will tell you that Konoha isn't deliberately driving her shinobi to commit mass murder; not without being paid for it, at least." His dry addition earned a glare, which he ignored. "There are procedures in place. Psychological assessments are nearly as second-nature to the higher ranks as kills, and counseling isn't a myth, even if few willingly take it. I won't say that more shouldn't be done, but the human mind isn't a clock you can always fix with regular winding and oil in the gears. I think you know that."
On either side of his legs, Iruka's fingers tightly gripped the rim of the podium, keeping him steady as his wings trembled. He pursed his lips and looked to one of the windows, out on a green grass lawn that stretched for an eternity, blades of grass swaying in a gentle, idyllic wind. A rope swing hung perfectly still from a large ash tree, a rock unmoved by the waves.
"I know." Iruka whispered. "But I want to try. Even if it does nothing, I—I want to show them that someone cares. If they have to be taught to kill, they should be taught how to love, too."
Suddenly, Kakashi understood the reason for their location. Warmth blossomed in his stomach, spreading out to each of his limbs, the tips of his ears.
"You want to be a teacher."
"Even if you think it's useless. 'You don't have to be the Hokage to be strong, you know.'" Iruka parroted, stubborn and righteous anger building visibly in his chest.
Kakashi had long since learned that his smile looked more like a snarl, but he couldn't stop the way it stretched his lips. "You're proof of that. If there's anyone I believe can teach someone how to love, it's you, Iruka-sensei."
Kakashi didn't want Iruka to think that he could save every kid, that a single person caring would somehow be the perfect fix in each child-soldier's life. Idealism was the epitome of ethics, until it coincided with that harsh and fickle creature called reality.
However, that didn't mean Iruka couldn't save some.
He had saved Kakashi.
Iruka's gaze flickered to him, then the floor. He ducked his head and scratched at his scar, as if his hand could hide his blush from Kakashi's sight. It couldn't. Even when the rest of their world was a blur, Kakashi's crystalline focus could never waver from the one thing that mattered.
"I'm not going to make jōnin anyway. I'm not sure I want to, to be honest. But becoming a teacher isn't easy, either. My application might be rejected."
"It won't be." Kakashi intended to reassure, but he also spoke the truth; beyond being a competent shinobi and one of the Sandaime's favorites, the Academy's classes were growing larger than ever by the influx of post-war babies aging to Academy admittance. Adequate teachers were in short supply.
There was silence for several minutes.
Iruka watched the grass, and Kakashi watched Iruka.
"Maa, I guess you've finally figured out what you want, then." Kakashi's claws made a slight scraping noise against the surface of the table as he laid down. It seemed this was going to be one of their longer nights. "You'll have to wake up early for classes, you know. No more sleeping in until noon."
Iruka's laugh filled the room, quiet and scratchy. His cheeks grew round and pink with his smile. "Don't worry; I'll make time for you somehow. You're the very first member of my pack, after all." Iruka's smile slipped into something soft—so painfully soft—yet firm enough to carry a dozen things Kakashi didn't know how to name, but desperately wanted to learn. He met Kakashi's eyes. "I want to pass on the Will of Fire, but… I know something else I want, too. I'm willing to wait a while longer, if that's what it takes."
There was no question what Iruka wanted.
Kakashi should tell him not to wait, that what he wanted would never come.
The words stuck in his throat until they burned and the ashes crumbled down to his stomach, lost too deep to retrieve.
It was selfish, very selfish—but Kakashi wanted him to wait.
Wanted there to be something to give him.
Maybe, one day, when porcelain and blood and the stench of death were no longer Kakashi's constant companions…
Maybe there would be.
"Shouldn't it be a 'flock' for you?" Kakashi finally asked, tone and mouth dry. "Or a 'pod'?"
Iruka's wings somehow generated enough current to knock a full-grown wolf off of a desk while barely rocking the podium he sat on.
The barking laugh that burst from Iruka was worth Kakashi not catching himself as he fell.
There wasn't any pain, but Kakashi would have suffered through a lot worse for Iruka, anyway.
ANBU had been Kakashi's life for a decade. After Obito's death, Minato had recognized Kakashi's need for structure, for clear commands; and most likely, he wanted to keep a close eye on Kakashi personally. The Sandaime hadn't seen fit to change that when he took over, and Kakashi had served the old man faithfully.
Until Hiruzen did see fit.
There wasn't an incident that incited his discharge. At least, not that Kakashi was aware of, and not that Hiruzen deigned to tell him. It wasn't Kakashi's place to determine what role he played to Konoha; he would do whatever she needed. So Kakashi was unceremoniously ripped from his team and forced to take back on the jōnin blues—and genin.
That was the part that concerned Kakashi most.
He had thought he might be forced to instruct the remaining Uchiha in the use of the sharingan, should the kid develop it—but he hadn't ever anticipated becoming an actual jōnin-sensei, and thought he would have years before the Uchiha graduated. He did have a few more years for that, but apparently, the Sandaime believed in giving people time to adjust. Time Kakashi didn't want.
Leaving ANBU was like a helium balloon being cut free from its tethers, soaring into the sky without a clear direction or boundaries to keep it from reaching the atmosphere, where it would inevitably implode with violent force.
In ANBU, Kakashi had been apart from the village. He was a shadow, a spectre, interacting only with those he needed (excepting Guy, who thought he was always needed). He traversed the streets of Konoha from point A to point B, never stopping to look at what was between.
Now, he was forced to look.
Iruka was accepted at the Academy, as Kakashi had known he would be. He began as an assistant to a current instructor, but within a year was granted his own class—one that contained more than a single familiar name.
That information came to Kakashi in a dream.
Hokage rock overlooked the entirety of Konoha, with a panoramic view of the tree lines, the village gates, and the roads that stretched in cardinal directions. Within the Hokage heads was a complex network of passageways and rooms, one of the many fortresses in the village that would be used to house children and civilians in the event of an invasion.
Further beneath it, starting a hundred feet below those tunnels and branching through the midst of the Earth like a many-armed root, was ANBU headquarters. A place to which Kakashi would no longer be privy—not while he wore hitai-ate and cloth mask, flak vest rather than armored guards. Even as a wolf, the absence of his katana was a heavy weight on his back, as if he could still feel its presence. Technically, there was nothing stopping him from gaining another sword, but it was a mark of the ANBU, and while Hound was proficient in it, Hatake Kakashi specialized in ninjutsu.
The only sword Hatake Kakashi had worn had long since been destroyed, its broken hilt and tattered scabbard locked away in a hidden compartment beneath his bed. Their presence was both a comfort and—much as Obito's eye and Rin's med-kit and Minato's kunai—an ever-present reminder of his failures.
As the wolf, Kakashi needed no sword. His fangs were weapon enough, sharp and long and a stunning white.
Perhaps some of his father's tanto had survived, after all.
"This high up without wings?" Kakashi remarked, padding across the dusty ground to where Iruka sat at the edge of the rock face, cross-legged and staring out across Konoha. Pinks and oranges shaded her foliage. The village was eerily still, no movement to her lush leaves or streets, yet a cool wind whistled through Kakashi's fur and tugged at Iruka's hair.
It was in a ponytail, as had become routine since his new career choice took hold, but now it was disheveled rather than perfect. Thick, waist-long strands were torn from the holder at odd places, tangles and snarls in the once-silky locks. He wore no vest or hitai-ate, and his feet were bare, his uniform blacks coated in dust and chalk and bits of paint of a hue that brought to Kakashi's mind the Yellow Flash of Konoha.
There were no wings, no mermaid tail, no fox ears or lizard scales.
Iruka was merely Iruka. A haggard, exhausted, contemplative, Iruka.
He glanced over his shoulder to give Kakashi a wan smile. It touched his eyes for only a moment before fading into formality.
"You've never needed them." He said as Kakashi trotted up and sat down at his side, his tail brushing Iruka's thigh as it settled into the dirt.
"I don't know how to have them."
"That's not true, is it?" Iruka looked forward, eyes losing focus in the distance. "You could get them, if you wanted. You haven't tried because you know who you are, where your strengths lie. You don't need to try out a million forms before you know what you want."
Kakashi watched his claws as they flexed, digging into the dirt. It crumpled like a soaked cloth, wrinkling but not coming free or smudging Kakashi's paws. "I know what I want, but that doesn't mean I can achieve it."
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Iruka turn towards him. He didn't look over to decipher the expression.
Iruka turned away again, and they sat in silence for what felt like minutes. The cool wind burned the tips of Kakashi's ears.
"I got my own class. It's rare, to be promoted to that after only a year. I think it has more to do with demand than my own skills, but..." Iruka leaned back on his hands, shrugging. "It still means they trust me." His voice grew quiet. Somber. "Even if they shouldn't."
Kakashi couldn't imagine a reason in the world that would cause him not to trust Iruka. Surely one existed. Kakashi had seen enough betrayal to know that—but he didn't regret his lack of imagination, in this instance at least.
"My class has Uchiha Sasuke." Iruka said, turning his gaze to the clouds. They swirled in odd, chaotic spirals, an abstract artist spilling white over an impressionist's landscape. "He won't talk to the other kids, and I don't know how to make him. I don't know if I should. The only one who can get a rise out of him is the Kyuubi's jinchuuriki."
Kakashi's breath seized in his chest as he subtracted years and compared dates.
Naruto would be eight. Old enough to enter the Academy under the new, post-war restrictions. Old enough to learn to kill. Old enough to understand the hatred directed towards him, if not its origin.
Iruka didn't sound hateful. Kakashi wasn't sure how much negativity Iruka could contain in his soul.
But there was something wrong nonetheless.
"Uzumaki Naruto." Kakashi corrected softly.
Iruka's lips pressed together, brows drawing down, creating a hard ridge between them. "I know he's not the Kyuubi, not really. The Sandaime would never allow him near the other children if he thought there was a threat to them. But it's… he's not a normal child, either. And the others see that, even if they don't get why."
Kakashi didn't know exactly how Naruto had grown up. In truth, he hadn't thought it was his place to know. After failing Kushina and Minato, after allowing the child's parents to die, after spending years in a role where his name no longer matched his identity and codes were more used than words—Kakashi didn't think he could provide anything for Naruto that others couldn't do better.
Perhaps no one had tried at all.
Iruka could.
"This is exactly what you wanted, isn't it?"
"It was ambitious to think I would be able to help regular students." Iruka laughed without humor. "Now they're asking me to handle the two most difficult cases in Konoha."
"The ones who need you most." Kakashi amended. "The ones who need to be taught how to love."
Iruka was quiet for a moment. The unfelt breeze slowed to a crawl, evidenced by the limp strands of Iruka's hair against his vest. Somehow, despite the torrents, none of the dust had been knocked from the teacher's clothes, stuck there as if ingrained in the fabric itself.
"What about the others?" Iruka muttered. "I can't contradict what their parents have taught them. I can't make them play with the jinchuuriki or make friends with Sasuke's wall of hatred."
"The outside world isn't as easy to change as the one here, but it's possible." In the distance, Kakashi heard a bird chip, only once—a sweet, clarion warble. "Lead by example. Those who can follow, will."
Iruka shook his head with a sigh. "I'm really taking advice on openness and interpersonal relationships from a man who's been hiding his identity from me for the last twelve years."
Put that way, it sounded bad—but there had been reasons for it.
There still were.
Kakashi was no longer ANBU. Technically, he no longer had the worries of the village's security to fall back on, could no longer excuse his reticence as part of the protection ANBU personas were given.
But he was still Kakashi of the Sharingan. Friend-Killer Kakashi. The Man of a Thousand Jutsu. The Copy-nin. Cold-Blooded Kakashi.
He wasn't anyone Iruka would want to know. Not yet.
Maybe that would change. The ties that Kakashi felt lost without, the ones that had guided him throughout ANBU for so long, no longer held him fast. For the last two weeks since he had left, that had seemed like a loss, like he was being tossed to the sea without control of his sail.
Now, he wondered.
If he were a jōnin-sensei, he would build a new name in the village. A new reputation. He would turn in mission reports at the desk, have an excuse to talk to Iruka about his students, maybe even find a chance to ask him out for an actual meal together instead of an imaginary popsicle.
He could keep Iruka in their dreams all the while. Kakashi's reputation preceded him, but he might have time to work around that. If he couldn't, then at least he would find that out before turning Iruka away from him forever—before tainting the one relationship he had in which there were no expectations, no constraints.
Maybe it could be done.
"I didn't mean that." Iruka said, causing Kakashi to look over. "You have your reasons. But, if you…" He swallowed, shoulders curling in as he leaned forward, fists on his thighs. "If you ever can, I want to meet you. I know you didn't choose this—" Iruka waved a hand at the world around them, "—bond, but you chose to let me back in. If you can do that in the other world…" His voice trailed to a whisper. "I want that."
Kakashi's heart felt different in this form. Lighter, faster, circulating through his entire body in electric pulses that field his instincts, urged him to run, to pounce, to hide—but in this instance, he thought it would feel exactly the same in any form, with any Iruka.
Kakashi stood and turned. Iruka began to twist, following Kakashi as he walked back, mouth opening. The wolf didn't go far. He sat behind Iruka, placing hefty paws on his back and pressing forward with his full weight until Iruka faced forward once more.
"Stay like this."
Iruka hesitated, then gave a jerky nod, the bits of hair left in his ponytail bobbing with the motion.
Satisfied, Kakashi closed his eyes, and focused.
He didn't know how Iruka normally transformed. It was a nearly seamless transition, without hand signs or chakra. He didn't think that asking for an explanation would help him, not in this case. While their world was shared, their bodies had always been their own, and Kakashi couldn't change his in the same way Iruka could.
Kakashi would have to find his own way.
He built an image in his mind the way he would for a henge, conjuring a visual and then expanding on it, filling in details and seams and scars.
It didn't work exactly as intended. He meant to appear as a human in his ANBU uniform, sans Hound mask and gloves. Instead, while the humanoid aspect was basically correct (he wasn't sure if the tail was a phantom sensation or still existent, and he didn't really want to look), the clothes were rather less. He wore the sleeveless ANBU shirt with black sweatpants and no sandals, gloves gone and fabric mask bunched around his throat. He tried to pull it up, but each time it slipped down immediately, sliding from his skin like oil from water.
The hitai-ate was gone, as well, but the sharingan had thankfully remained in the waking world. Kakashi felt his stomach loosen at that, a sense of unease he had barely registered settling down. Obito's eye didn't take hold. It seemed that fear had been unfounded.
Iruka's head twitched slightly, as if he were about to look back, and Kakashi quickly raised a hand to cover his eyes, the other bracing his shoulder much as his canine form's paws had done.
"Maa, sensei." Kakashi breathed. There was something lighter about his tone, a grumble of the wolf that was only noticeable in its absence. "I'm trusting you not to look."
The tips of Iruka's ears stained bright red, nearly incandescent. Kakashi wondered if the chūnin's dark skin flushed so reactively in reality, or if it was merely a by-product of Iruka's unconscious image of himself.
He wanted to find out.
"Comb?" Kakashi requested as he lowered his hand from Iruka's eyes. He used it to slip Iruka's hair tie out, deftly untangling the strands that threatened to break around the elastic.
Within moments, Iruka was handing back a simple, fine-tooth comb, made of a dark brown wood with rich grain. Kakashi set it on his lap and ran his fingers through Iruka's hair, slowly easing out the worst of the knots. He didn't have any experience with caring for long hair, but it wasn't too different from sorting out tangled chakra wire; don't pull too hard, and let the strands go where they may.
That wasn't a bad philosophy for life, either—except Kakashi had never been very good at remembering to let go.
"My hair's never been this long." Iruka cleared his throat. His voice had gone rough and hoarse. "Or this bad."
"'That doesn't mean you should suffer it here.'" Kakashi quoted.
He couldn't see, but he bet Iruka was smiling. Locks of Iruka's hair suddenly began to slide smoothly between his fingers, silky and unusually warm against his freezing skin.
"Unless you're saying you don't want me to touch you." He added. He intended it to come out as teasing, though there might have been too much sincerity in his question for that.
"No." Iruka denied quickly. The blush began to spread from his ears down his neck, disappearing beneath the high collar of his shirt.
Silence fell until Kakashi picked up the comb and started at the last inch of Iruka's hair, working in short strokes to begin detangling from the bottom. "I won't look, but…" Iruka trailed off, unsteady. "Is this the real you?"
Kakashi could have played dumb. He didn't.
"Mostly." Apart from the sharingan, and the damn mask that decided to play hooky from his face. "Why, did you prefer me as a wolf?"
Iruka hummed wistfully. "You were pretty cute."
"Maybe I'm cute like this." The back of one hand rested between Iruka's shoulder blades, collecting the hair to keep it from tugging at Iruka's scalp as he moved the comb higher.
"I'm not sure I believe that." He sounded like he was smiling. "You'll have to prove it to me."
Kakashi's response stuck in his chest.
Iruka unfolded his legs, drawing his knees up and resting his arms on them as Kakashi continued to work his way up in silence.
An ambling breeze gradually brought life to their surroundings, as if it had been caught in the snarls that Kakashi's hands had freed. The sky remained shaded in oranges and pinks, never rising or setting. Serenity embraced the timeless dream. If Kakashi focused, he could inhale a herbaceous scent, like sage or young rosemary sprigs. Kakashi soaked it in. The rhythmic motions of the combing lulled him into a peaceful refrain.
When he reached Iruka's scalp, he set the comb upon his lap, raking fingers through the base of the hairs in tender, lingering movements. Iruka leaned his head back, pressing into Kakashi's hands. His eyes, when Kakashi chanced leaning forward to check, were lightly closed. Blissful.
They remained that way as Kakashi slowly reached forward. He curled fingers around Iruka's shoulder and gradually, soothingly, pulled him back so that his back rested against Kakashi's chest. No flak vests separated them, nor kunai sheaths, scroll pockets, or shuriken pouches. Kakashi's heartbeat was matched in strength only by the electric tingle that hummed at the points they met.
He hoped Iruka felt it, too.
His fingers worked against Iruka's scalp, no longer detangling, but kneading and caressing, subtle motions that followed the rhythm of Iruka's deep breaths.
If one could fall asleep in a dream, Kakashi would have thought Iruka did.
Some time later, Iruka moved, but he didn't pull away. His left hand moved up to capture Kakashi's where it had remained settled on his shoulder. His palm covered Kakashi's knuckles, calloused skin brushing as he pulled, sliding Kakashi's arm down. He adjusted his grip on Kakashi's wrist while wrapping the arm around his waist, guiding Kakashi's palm to press against the thin cloth at his abdomen.
It didn't move again.
Iruka kept them connected there until Kakashi's fingers trailed down his cheek, jaw, throat; they drew a shiver as they descended past Iruka's collarbone. Yellow paint smeared across Kakashi's pale skin, but he gave it no heed as his fingers came to rest, chastely, at Iruka's side.
His hair was soft against Kakashi's cheek, both of them free of stubble in this lovely world where ten day missions and the follies of field hygiene didn't exist.
Where pain and death didn't exist.
Where Iruka did.
A butterfly lighted on a tree branch below them, pale yellow and amber wings framed in velvety black.
It was the last thing Kakashi saw before the alarmed barking of three hounds startled him awake, coursing adrenaline through his bloodstream and washing away any pleasant illusion of warmth.
In this world, there was pain.