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The sun stretched long across the village, painting Konoha in amber and gold. The Academy’s gates swung open with a creak, releasing a flood of young wolves who yipped and bounded down the street, their tails wagging in unison as they darted between one another. The day’s lessons had ended, leaving behind only echoes of laughter and the dust their paws had stirred.
Iruka lingered in the doorway, brown fur brushed with sunlight, his white-muzzled face softening as he watched his students disappear into the crowd. He had the air of patience carved into him, though the lines of the day showed in the slight droop of his ears. With a final shake of his head, he turned to straighten the scrolls tucked under his arm and closed the classroom door.
The quiet that followed was welcome, if fleeting.
He knew that scent before he heard a single pawstep; cool pine, crisp air, and the faint bite of lightning that always clung to him. There was no mistaking that it was Kakashi. The air around him shifted before his pale form even appeared, and Iruka’s chest eased without him meaning it to.
The white wolf strolled through the gates with unhurried grace, fur gleaming like frost in the low light. As always, his muzzle was covered by the black mask he never removed, and his headband hung across his left eye. Despite the lazy tilt of his ears and tail, his presence filled the space without effort.
“You’re late,” Iruka said, though his lips twitched with amusement.
“I’m precisely on time,” Kakashi replied, stepping close enough that their shoulders brushed. His voice was muffled by the fabric but rich with warmth. “It’s not my fault you keep yourself penned in with pups all day.”
Iruka snorted, ears flicking. “Says the shinobi who naps in trees like a lazy fox.”
“The trees are accommodating,” Kakashi murmured, leaning just slightly closer. His nose dipped toward Iruka’s neck without hesitation, pressing into the soft fur there. The touch wasn’t fleeting. He inhaled, slow and deliberate, tail flicking once behind him as if to steady the motion.
Iruka’s throat tightened for a beat, not with unease but with something else. It was a habit Kakashi had built slowly over the years, one Iruka had never stopped marveling at. Kakashi’s sense of smell was hypersensitive, tuned to every shift of the wind and trace of scent. It was something that often left him irritable or avoiding the crush of crowds, and yet, for reasons Iruka still wasn’t sure he fully believed, his scent was the one Kakashi returned to over and over.
Warmth bloomed in Iruka’s chest, and his tail gave a small, unconscious sway. “You’ll make a scene one of these days,” he murmured, though his voice lacked any real admonishment.
“Mm,” Kakashi hummed into his fur, his breath stirring the shorter hairs near Iruka’s jaw. “Worth it.”
Iruka chuckled softly, though his ears tilted back to hide the way they burned. He didn’t mind, not when he knew this was Kakashi’s quiet way of grounding himself. In a world full of shifting scents, fleeting presences, and ghosts that smelled like blood and fire, Iruka was something constant. Something he chose to breathe in, again and again.
When Kakashi finally drew back, his visible eye curved into that crescent shape that told Iruka he was smiling.
“So,” Iruka asked, recovering himself with a tilt of his head, “are you here to walk me home, or did you just come to beg for free dinner again?”
Kakashi’s tail gave a lazy sweep, brushing Iruka’s as if by accident. “Why not both?”
Iruka huffed, amused despite himself. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” Kakashi murmured, leaning close again, so near his fur brushed Iruka’s cheek, “you keep me anyway.”
The village bustled on around them with merchants closing stalls, shinobi leaping from rooftop to rooftop, and children chasing each other with high yips. But at the edge of the Academy gates, in the narrowing light of day, there was only the soft mingling of brown and white fur. An ordinary evening, made extraordinary in the way their lives had quietly woven together.
Kakashi shifted just enough to nuzzle the curve of Iruka’s neck again, one more breath of that grounding scent before they started walking. Iruka let him, because he had always done so. Because he loved that, despite everything Kakashi had lost, he still chose him.
Their walk was peaceful as the last streaks of sunlight clung to Konoha as lanterns blinked awake one by one, spilling their golden glow across cobbled streets. The air carried the mingling scents of grilled mackerel, damp earth, and woodsmoke curling from chimneys. Families were heading in for the night, calling to their pups, while the occasional shinobi drifted across the rooftops in silence.
Iruka walked a half-step ahead, scrolls tucked neatly beneath his arm, his posture straight in that unconsciously disciplined way he carried himself even outside the classroom. His rich brown fur caught the warm lantern light as his tail swayed in steady rhythm, betraying the fact that he was more at ease now than he had been all day wrangling thirty restless Academy students.
Kakashi padded at his side, easy and unhurried. The white wolf looked almost spectral in the evening, his coat reflecting every flicker of light. His single uncovered eye was soft but watchful, and his tail swayed lazily, the picture of carelessness, though his ears twitched at every sound around them.
Iruka broke the silence first, as he often did. “You know,” he said with a tired but amused lilt, “two of the kids decided today was the perfect day to try transformation jutsu on my desk. My desk, Kakashi.”
Kakashi tilted his head slightly toward him, humming low in acknowledgment. His gaze didn’t leave Iruka’s face.
“They turned it into a frog,” Iruka went on, ears flicking back as if reliving the moment. “A frog. With legs that wouldn’t stop jumping across the classroom. By the time I dispelled it, half the ink bottles had spilled and one boy was halfway out the window!”
Kakashi’s visible eye curved faintly, that small crescent shape of amusement. “And people say you have an easy job.”
Iruka shot him a look, though his lips twitched. “Don’t you start. Do you have any idea how hard it is to teach simple jutsus to thirty pups who’d rather be outside chasing each other than sitting still? But they can do shit like that to mess with me?!”
“Sounds like a nightmare,” Kakashi murmured, his tone soft but edged with the faintest teasing note.
“It was.” Iruka laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “But… They're trying. Even the difficult ones, you can see it when they finally get something right. You’d think I’d handed them the moon.”
Another low hum came from Kakashi, this one heavier, warmer. He let Iruka’s words settle in the air, didn’t rush to respond, just listened. That was something Iruka had grown used to, the way Kakashi never interrupted, never rushed him along. He soaked up Iruka’s rambling with a patience that felt deliberate, like listening itself was the point.
Iruka’s ears tipped back when he caught the weight of Kakashi’s gaze. “You’re staring again.”
Kakashi didn’t flinch or look away. “I’m listening.”
“You can listen without staring,” Iruka said, flustered, his tail flicking nervously.
“Can I?” Kakashi’s tone was maddeningly smooth, a touch of playfulness undercutting his calm. “Because you talk better when I look at you.”
Iruka groaned, dragging a paw through his fur. “You’re insufferable.”
“Maa, you sure know how to hurt a poor wolf’s feelings.” Kakashi murmured, his tone light. He brushed his shoulder lightly against Iruka’s, “Can’t a guy look at his beautiful boyfriend?”
(Hearing such praise always flustered Iruka, even when he’s been with Kakashi for a while. But no matter how many times he told him to stop staring, Iruka never really wanted him to.)
Iruka muttered something under his breath that Kakashi chose not to catch, though his ears tipped forward in quiet betrayal. His tail, too, gave the smallest wag before he stilled it.
They rounded a corner where the lanterns burned brighter, their shadows stretching long across the stones. Iruka filled the quiet again, telling him about a student who’d shyly brought him a crookedly wrapped rice ball, and another who’d asked him if all shinobi “got old” or if some stayed cool forever.
Kakashi didn’t laugh aloud, but the curve of his eye softened, fond. “And what did you tell them?”
“That shinobi get old like everyone else,” Iruka replied. He hesitated, then added dryly, “Though I may have mentioned there are a few exceptions. Namely you, apparently.”
Kakashi tilted his head, the barest arch of mischief in his gaze. “So even your students think I’m cool.”
Iruka groaned again, ears heating. “That’s not the point.”
“Sounds like the point,” Kakashi said easily.
Iruka stopped mid-step and glared, but the warmth in his chest betrayed him. Kakashi never pressed too far, never mocked him in ways that cut. He just knew how to fluster him, and worse, he enjoyed it.
By the time they reached the steps to Iruka’s apartment, night had fully settled. The lanterns above the door glowed soft and steady, throwing long shadows up the stairs. Iruka slowed, paw resting on the railing. “You’re not even going to ask if you’re invited in, are you?”
Kakashi leaned casually against the post, his tail sweeping the ground with slow rhythm. “I assumed the answer by now.”
Iruka’s ears twitched back. “One of these days, I’ll mean it when I say you should leave.”
“And when you do,” Kakashi said, his voice quiet but certain, “I’ll still find my way back in.”
Iruka’s paw hesitated on the step. He looked back at him, at that one exposed eye softened in the lantern glow. The mask hid most of his face, but it didn’t matter. That single look said enough.
Heat pricked along Iruka’s ears, and he turned quickly, fumbling for his key. “You’re impossible.”
Kakashi followed with unhurried steps, brushing Iruka’s side as he passed, his gaze steady and unyielding.
Iruka pretended to sigh at the intrusion, but inside, he felt that familiar swell of warmth. Their rhythm wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs. Iruka spoke, Kakashi listened. Iruka bristled, Kakashi softened. Balance.
Evenings in Iruka’s apartment had long since taken on their own rhythm, one so natural that neither of them questioned how it formed. It simply… happened, as though some part of them had always been drawn to this pattern.
Dinner was small and simple: steamed rice, grilled fish, and pickled vegetables. Iruka moved with the easy grace of someone used to cooking for himself, every movement efficient, almost practiced. Kakashi, for his part, leaned against the counter and offered unhelpful commentary until Iruka swatted his paw away from the sauce bowl.
“You’re going to ruin the flavor balance,” Iruka scolded, tail flicking.
Kakashi’s ear twitched. “It could use more sauce.”
“It doesn’t need more sauce.”
“I’m sure I’d know.”
Iruka huffed, setting the dish firmly in front of him. “Then cook it yourself next time.”
But his lips twitched as he said it, and Kakashi, amused, quietly obeyed. They ate in silence broken only by Iruka’s sighs at Kakashi’s shameless pace. The meal wasn’t about the food anyway, it was about sitting together, side by side, not on duty, not answering to anyone else.
Afterward came the ritual that had grown between them. Iruka settled himself on the floor in the living room, his back comfortably propped against the wall, scrolls and papers spread in tidy stacks before him. He had long ago stopped apologizing for the grading. It was part of his life, and if Kakashi wanted to spend his evenings here, he would have to accept it.
Kakashi never seemed to mind.
The white wolf stretched out along the floor in his usual sprawl, his body long and loose, as if gravity had finally claimed him. He rested his head across Iruka’s thigh, opening Icha Icha with the casual ease of routine. His tail laid curled lightly around his own paws, but his posture betrayed his contentment; relaxed shoulders, ears angled half-forward, every line of his body unguarded.
Iruka’s paw moved with the steady rhythm of grading: scratch, pause, shift, scratch again. The sound was soft, almost lulling, a constant backdrop Kakashi had grown to crave. Every so often, Iruka’s claws drifted down without thought, scratching lightly through the fur at Kakashi’s temple or smoothing down the fur along his jaw. The gesture was so absentminded it might as well have been instinct, but for Kakashi, it was everything.
Because here, with Iruka’s warmth against him and the faint scent of ink and parchment filling the room, Kakashi let his mask slip away. Literally and otherwise. The fabric was folded neatly on the low table, forgotten, while he breathed in the apartment’s smell.
It was all Iruka. The clean citrus soap, faint musk of ink and sage, the earthy warmth of someone steady, grounding, alive. To Kakashi, it was a scent that wrapped around him like a cloak, one he couldn’t get enough of. Even with his hypersensitive nose, this was the one smell that never overwhelmed him. He wanted it in his lungs, in his fur, in his memory forever.
From above, Iruka chuckled softly. “You’re not even reading anymore.”
Kakashi hummed in reply, not looking up from the page. “Sure I am.”
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” His eye slid up lazily, meeting Iruka’s narrowed gaze. The corner of it curved in that subtle crescent smile. “Maybe I just prefer the view from here.”
Iruka flushed, ears twitching, and turned abruptly back to his papers. “You’re impossible.”
Kakashi only shifted enough to press his cheek more firmly against Iruka’s thigh, letting the silence answer for him.
They stayed that way until the candles burned low, Iruka’s hand slowing over the page, his tail flicking with the last of his wakefulness. When he finally set the pen down, Kakashi was still stretched across him, eyes closed, breaths even. Iruka sighed, brushing a paw absently through his soft fur.
“C’mon, let’s go to bed, Dear.”
*****
Morning came softly, as it always did.
It was one of those rare mornings, unusually quiet, and free of responsibilities. The Academy was closed for the weekend, and there were no missions demanding Kakashi’s attention. Days like this didn’t come often, but when they did, they were treasured, a chance to simply exist together without the constant tug of duty pulling them apart.
Kakashi stirred first, ears twitching faintly at the sound of early birdsong outside the window and the distant creak of the village beginning to wake. His instincts urged him to rise, to slip away and prepare for the day before the world demanded his attention.
But he didn’t move.
Iruka was pressed close against him, face buried into his fur, breathing slow and steady. His body radiated warmth that seeped into Kakashi’s bones, a steady heat that went deeper than just comfort. Iruka’s tail was curled loosely against Kakashi’s flank, their limbs tangled together in a way that spoke more of trust than anything either of them would ever put into words.
Kakashi laid there, motionless but awake, letting himself drown in it. His muzzle pressed faintly into Iruka’s fur as he inhaled that familiar, grounding scent. His own tail gave the smallest flick, settling again across Iruka’s leg as if to anchor him.
Every time he thought about pulling away, about slipping out of bed before Iruka stirred, he found his body refusing. There were few things in life he wanted badly enough to resist habit. This was one of them.
Because here, wrapped up in Iruka, the world felt far away. For once, Kakashi didn’t need to be Hatake Kakashi, the shinobi, the prodigy, the survivor. He could simply be a wolf resting in the warmth of another.
Encapsulated. Safe. Home.
And he thought, selfishly, that he would never stop wanting this.
The first thing Iruka became aware of was warmth. Not just the lingering heat of blankets, but the steady, almost overwhelming warmth pressed against him, most definitely Kakashi.
He stirred slowly, paws curling, his ears twitching at the faint rustle of feathers outside the window. A soft groan slipped past his throat as he blinked awake, the pale morning light spilling across the room. It caught Kakashi's fur, bright white, almost glowing.
Kakashi, of course, was already awake.
He hadn’t moved an inch, his muzzle still tucked lightly into Iruka’s fur, his body sprawled with a kind of calculated laziness. The single exposed eye was half-lidded, watching Iruka wake with quiet contentment. His tail gave the smallest sweep against the sheets as Iruka blinked up at him groggily.
“Stop looking at me,” Iruka murmured, voice rough with sleep.
“Good morning to you too,” Kakashi replied, his voice softer than usual, all the edges smoothed out by the early hour.
Iruka’s ears flicked back as he pushed himself upright with some effort. Kakashi followed the movement only with his gaze, chin still settled on the pillow, clearly in no rush to move. “You wake up too early,” Iruka muttered, stretching his arms overhead until his shoulders popped.
“You sleep too late,” Kakashi countered easily.
Iruka shot him a half-hearted glare before running a paw through his messy fur, trying to flatten it. “I have long days. I deserve the extra hour.”
Kakashi tilted his head, eye curving in faint amusement as he teased softly. “I can give you something else you deserve.”
Heat prickled along Iruka’s ears, and he turned toward the window instead of answering. “You’re insufferable in the morning.”
“You always say that,” Kakashi murmured, finally shifting enough to nudge his shoulder lightly against Iruka’s back, “but you love it.”
Iruka huffed a laugh despite himself.
Their morning routine was as practiced as their nights. Iruka moved to the small kitchen, paws deftly pulling ingredients together, while Kakashi trailed behind, not helping so much as hovering. He leaned against the counter, posture relaxed, tail swaying lazily behind him. His gaze followed Iruka’s every movement, the way his ears twitched when the pan hissed, the flick of his tail when he measured out rice.
“You could help, you know,” Iruka said over his shoulder.
“I could,” Kakashi replied, leaning a little closer. “But you’re better at it.”
Iruka’s sigh carried no real annoyance. “Convenient excuse.”
“Accurate excuse,” Kakashi corrected, and when Iruka flicked water from his paw in his direction, his eye curved with a hidden smile.
Breakfast was quiet in the way only familiarity allowed. They ate at the small table, shoulders brushing now and again. Iruka’s ears twitched when Kakashi pushed the pickled vegetables onto his plate without asking, but he didn’t protest. He just muttered, “You’re so spoiled,” which earned him a lazy, “By you,” in return.
*****
The apartment was quiet, bathed in the soft golden light of early afternoon. Outside, the village hummed faintly with distant activity, but inside, there was only the gentle rhythm of Iruka moving about.
Iruka’s brown fur glimmered in the sunlight as he folded laundry, paws deft and precise. Every motion was calm, deliberate, yet unconsciously graceful; how he tugged at the sleeves, smoothed the fabric, stacked each piece neatly. His ears twitched occasionally, attuned to the subtle noises of the room, and his tail swept lightly behind him as he shifted from pile to pile. He hummed softly, a tune so familiar to Kakashi that it had become a quiet melody etched into his memory.
Kakashi lay sprawled across the couch, a paw tucked beneath his chin, eyes fixed on the scene. His Sharingan, usually a weapon for fighting and strategy, was engaged, not to analyze danger, but to preserve memory. To record, in exquisite detail, the curve of Iruka’s ears when he concentrated, the faint crease of his brow, the delicate way his paws moved over the fabric. Each small gesture seared itself into Kakashi’s mind, a permanent imprint of the wolf he loved more than he could ever hope to put into words.
He had never loved anyone like this. Not like this, so utterly, so quietly, so completely. There had been fleeting bonds before, moments of trust or companionship, but nothing that had rooted him, that had given him a reason to come home alive from every mission, nothing that had made him feel the weight and the lift of living. Iruka did that. Iruka was that.
Kakashi’s chest ached with a warmth so fierce it left him breathless. He felt it in every fiber of his being: the way his heart thumped at the sight of Iruka’s ears flicking with concentration, the subtle twitch of his tail, the small hum as he worked. He could have watched Iruka forever, memorizing every line, every sigh, every tilt of his head.
“Ridiculous,” Kakashi murmured as he got up from the couch, though the sound was lost in the hush of the apartment as he walked toward Iruka. Not ridiculous in disdain, but in awe, in disbelief. How could someone so patient, so gentle, so impossibly beautiful, choose him? Someone scarred by war, someone haunted by loss, someone broken in ways that even he sometimes couldn’t forgive himself for.
And yet, here was Iruka, choosing him. Choosing Kakashi.
The thought made him tremble with a mixture of reverence and longing. He pressed a soft nuzzle to the space just behind Iruka’s shoulder, careful not to startle him, inhaling the comforting scent that was so uniquely Iruka. It grounded him. Anchored him. Gave him the clarity that this was real, that this love, quiet and gentle though it might seem, was everything.
Iruka paused mid-fold to glance at him, ears flicking back, tail curling just slightly. “Need something?” he said lightly, voice carrying that soft tease Kakashi had learned to both dread and crave.
Kakashi’s eye curved, lips twitching in a smile he couldn’t quite hide. “Just your attention,” he said, his words thrummed through him like electricity. He wanted to memorize everything. Every glance, every small motion, every whispered hum of contentment.
Iruka shook his head with a laugh, ruffling a strand of fur that had fallen over his eyes. “You get it everyday, probably the most out of anyone in the entire village.” he said, though it was soft, fond, and warm.
“Maa, You wound me, Sensei.” Kakashi murmured back with a low teasing tone. He let a few seconds pass before speaking once more, but this time, with a voice laced in affection. “Who wouldn’t want your undivided attention? Anyone would be lucky to be able to get even a bit of it.”
And he meant it with every ounce of his being. Iruka was his anchor, his reason to fight, his reason to return home from every mission. He was the reason Kakashi felt again, the reason he could allow himself to hope, to be vulnerable, to be fully alive.
Every twitch of Iruka’s ears, every careful fold of laundry, every quiet hum of a tune became a testament to the life Kakashi wanted to protect, the life he wanted to build around them both. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of Iruka’s head, tail brushing against his back, and whispered, “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”
Iruka looked up at him then, eyes wide, ears flicking in curiosity and affection. “You didn’t have to deserve me,” he said softly, voice carrying the gentle certainty that always made Kakashi’s chest swell. “You’re enough, just the way you are.”
Kakashi closed his eye, letting the words settle deep inside him, letting the warmth of Iruka, of this moment, fill every hollow place. He had loved before, yes, but never like this. Never so completely, never so quietly powerful, never so anchoring.
Iruka was his home. His reason. His everything. And he would carry that knowledge with him through every mission, every battle, every day.
Until the very end.