It was a nice spring day. Not very often did Kakashi get to see a nice spring day — in the years past he had always been somewhere in the shadows, bloodying his tantou and his hands — so he decided that today was going to be an unproductive day, no matter how much his cute little students would complain. He arrived late, later than usual, possibly a record late-time of four and half hours, and was pleasantly surprised to find that his kids had already started on their warm-ups. They did not notice him, although Sasuke did hear the slight rustle that Kakashi made on purpose. He sat high on a tree branch, looking down, watching their bickering, their energetic flopping around — that was not a punch, Naruto — and he reminisced about the old days, back when he was smaller than them, back when wartime made life much worse, and yet life, somehow, was also much better.
The wind brought pollen from the northern mountain range, and Kakashi caught the amalgamation of too many flower scents, all blending to make a unique, earthy, sneeze-inducing smell that one could only associate with Konoha. He remembered that ANBU missions on days like these required a quick rinse after leaving the village, or traveling with a coat despite the humid, balmy weather, because too often an agent was discovered by the pollen on their uniforms.
It was on a spring day like this that Namikaze Minato proposed to one Uzumaki Kushina, in the midst of his allergies, with red eyes and a slightly runny nose — an accidental confession, of all things, and Kakashi and his teammates had later berated Minato so terribly for derailing from their months-long plan.
I'm sorry, Minato had said, scratching the back of his neck. I saw her and I couldn't hold back. She was so beautiful, you know? She's the love of my life.
Their lives had entwined deeply with each other, and even death could not part them. A magical, romantic tragedy, to most. An aching wound that would not close, for Kakashi.
The result of their union was currently accusing Uchiha Sasuke of being a dickhead, and a short scuffle occurred. Haruno Sakura was debating whether she should intervene or amuse herself with their shenanigans — as much as she pretended to be a goody two shoes, bending over backward to appeal to her crush, Sakura had the seed of intelligence and the backbone of a powerful kunoichi, so Kakashi could not in good conscience declared her useless. His three students stopped their training in favor of some much-needed team bonding moments, which slowly became a three-on-three sparring session. Sakura still had not found the courage to hit Sasuke properly; or perhaps her jerky, doll-like movements were the outcome of an internal conflict — whether to appear elegant or to be serious. Uchiha Sasuke was angry — the boy had too many pent-up problems that the Hokage had never been too keen to resolve — but Uzumaki Naruto was directing that anger into something more productive, something more, dare he say it, healthy, and so Kakashi owed Naruto, this time around, for doing what Konoha hadn't been able to do for six years.
Still not a punch, Naruto, Kakashi thought ruefully. Sakura had the most correct form, but with no real power behind it. Sasuke's style was a mess of incomplete Uchiha techniques, the Academy's standard training, and trying too hard to compensate for the infinite gap between him and his brother's skills.
Much work was needed.
Ah, not today, not on such a nice spring day.
But nice, it seemed, was something transient. The sky grew cloudy, and soon, rain fell, light as a silk curtain as first, then heavy like the gods were pouring buckets and buckets of water down below to see people running around like headless chickens, which was exactly what his students were doing. They shrieked incoherently, they floundered about, they bickered, again, and then Sakura proposed that they seek shelter, which solidified her position, sadly, as the sole thinker of the team.
Kakashi did not avoid the rain. He welcomed it, feeling the water seep into his clothes, and under his mask a small smile formed. It was raining on the wedding day of his teacher, on the first birthday of the friend he saved, on the day he returned his box of ANBU gears to the ANBU Commander. It was raining, also, on the day of his Chuunin promotion, when he had donned the Chuunin jacket over bloodied, mud-soaked bandages with something like reverence, something like mild regret — that no one else was witnessing this ceremony except a dying man — mixed with an urgent desire to complete his mission, as the only survivor of the reconnaissance team. Later, he was praised by the Hokage and the Jounin Commander, but what he loved most was what happened after: A bright young Jounin had decided to take this new Chuunin under his wings, and then, slowly, miraculously, a team was formed.
Kakashi's little students were heading to a teahouse nearby. Perhaps he should treat them for a round of dango, just this time, in celebration of a nice, rainy spring day.