Archive of Our Own

Kakashi liked pain. It sounds strange, but he did. It made him feel alive, it made him feel like he was good for something. His friends said it was just a savior complex; others said he simply 'accepted crumbs'. That, in his gray eyes, like cloudy days, he looks for a bright sun, without understanding that sometimes that sun burns.

But come on, Hatake isn't stupid, or at least he tries not to be. He's a smart guy, he's clever, he's pleasant... But he has nuances, he has edges like any beautiful object that's been struck and has dents on its sides. But who doesn't? They say imperfections make you perfect. That in his melancholic gaze he looks for warmth, but warmth should be welcoming, it shouldn't burn you, right? So why does he enjoy that radiant smile from someone who only has darkness in their eyes? From someone who lies, who hides, who's a hypocrite, who's fake, who plays the victim, but then gives you a sweet kiss and whispers a...

—I love you, Kashi —. He loved him too, but why did he feel so empty?

—Are you okay? You seem... distracted.

Kakashi snapped out of his thoughts, out of that sadness drowning his lungs, and forced a smile.

—Yeah, I'm fine, just thinking, that's all. — What a bad lr he was, but he just doesn't want to see those bright, dark eyes looking at him with reproach over a simple question.

Why don't you try a little harder, Obito Uchiha?

He remembers the beginning of the relationship. It was beautiful, warm, gentle, kind, dreams... They came from being childhood friends, Obito had even seen him cry over his father's suicide, and he stayed by his side. He kissed him and said everything would be okay, but why did it last so little?

They say relationships truly have four seasons. Spring and summer are the warmest, but the ones that are truly a war are winter and autumn. But Kakashi feels stuck in a winter without snow, one that's just gray and ugly, without a landscape as beautiful as a lovely winter.

—Obito. — Kakashi finally spoke, with that lazy voice, that tired voice that carried things as if he'd been doing it for centuries. There was a sliver of hope, a hint of desire in that request from the silver-haired man. —I was thinking maybe we could have a date this weekend, we haven't had one in a long time. — He practically purred. There was a glimmer of hope, a trace of that dream that their relationship could become so wonderful again, so full of sex, pleasure, happiness that now were just blurry memories lost in the life of an adult, and someone not so adult.

—Yes! Maybe... go see a movie? — Kakashi nodded, that sounded fine. —I've really wanted to see...— He didn't finish, because the black-haired man's bright smile interrupted him.

—I want to see The Bride! —. Kakashi blinked. He had no problem with it, but...

—Obito, I told you months ago I wanted to see Hoppers, and you said it was fine. — His voice sounded dull, melancholic. But he tried to sound strong, he always tried to sound strong.

—But Kashi, that one's animated! You'll love this one, they say it's so bad it's a whole experience. The other one is too... I don't know, for kids. — The silver-haired man just nodded, a bitter sound that seemed like nothing more than resignation. But the black-haired man smiled and kissed his forehead; Kakashi had never felt a kiss on his forehead so... cold.

—Well, I have to go. — The silver-haired man looked at him with a certain surprise, forming a small pout. —You said you'd stay with me tonight. — He wanted to protest, but the man was already leaving, saying a clumsy goodbye that Kakashi no longer found adorable.

The apartment was left alone, cold. He looked around. Since when did the apartment feel so big and cold? Since when did it feel so boring? Gray colors, white, no color. Since when was his life like this? Don't get him wrong, he really likes those colors, but why do they feel so impersonal now?

He walks to the bedroom; Obito's scent mingles with his own, but again, it feels so alien. He walks to the closet, opening it carefully to pull out some boxes, one by one. Until he reaches the last one, opening it carefully to see what was inside.

That was years ago. When Obito was still romantic and didn't come home at night demanding sex only to fall asleep and turn his back. It was that sweet Obito he missed so much. Now they just seemed like strangers with shared memories.

In the box, there was a handwritten letter, there were photos, so many memories that when Kakashi saw them, he felt tears threatening his eyes, but he just blinked rapidly, trying to wipe them away.

—What am I doing wrong? Hmm? Don't I try hard enough? — Maybe it's just relationship problems, it's not like they've talked about it a thousand times, right? He's just crazy.

Then Saturday arrived. Kakashi read the reviews for that movie "The Bride!" and thought it wouldn't be so bad. It was their anniversary! But the more he read, the more he felt that familiar emptiness settling in his stomach. "It's just a movie," he told himself, putting his phone away. "The important thing is that we'll be together."

He got ready carefully. Not too much; he didn't want to seem like he was trying too hard — because that always made Obito uncomfortable, made him feel like he wasn't measuring up. But just enough: that gray sweater Obito liked, that cologne he'd stopped using because Obito once said it was "too strong."

He got to the cinema early, as always. He bought the tickets, the popcorn, found a spot near the entrance to wait. Five minutes passed. Ten. Twenty.

The message arrived after the movie had already started.

"Can't make it, something came up. See you at home later. See? I'm not even mad it's animated lol love you."

Animated? But... they were going to see Bride!

Kakashi stared at his phone screen until it went dark from inactivity. People were going in and out of the cinema, couples, groups of friends, laughter, hugs. He was just holding those useless tickets, that popcorn he no longer had any appetite for.

He didn't remember the way back. He only remembered the apartment door, the keys trembling in his hand, the sound of the lock clicking open.

And the silence.

The apartment was dark. Cold. Empty. Obito hadn't even arrived. The bed was still made, just as he'd left it that morning, the sink with no trace that anyone had spent the day there.

Kakashi dropped the keys by the entrance. He walked to the living room and sank onto the sofa, his head in his hands. For a moment, he just breathed. He tried to calm down. He tried to think clearly.

Maybe it was something urgent. Maybe he had an emergency. Maybe...

But the rage began to boil in his chest, hot, bitter. He clenched his fists, his teeth. He wanted to scream. He wanted to break something. He wanted... he wanted Obito to be there to see him, to see what he was doing to him, to finally understand for once—

And then the treacherous thought appeared, as it always appeared, soft, almost maternal:

But maybe... maybe if I don't get angry, if I welcome him calmly, if I explain how I feel properly... maybe this time he'll understand. Maybe this time everything will go back to how it was before.

Kakashi let out a breath. The rage slowly faded, replaced by that weariness so familiar, so his own. He got up, walked to the kitchen. He made tea, two cups, just in case. He left them on the table. Then he sat on the sofa to wait.

Again.

It was nighttime when the door sounded again. Kakashi was cooking, it was fish. On the table, two cups of tea, already cold, silent witnesses to a wait that had lasted hours. The oil sizzled in the pan, that sound that was once home and now was just noise.

—I'm home — Obito's voice came through the door before he did, cheerful, light, as if nothing had happened—. Ugh, I'm starving, are you making fish? Smells good.

Kakashi didn't respond. He kept staring at the pan, the fish browning, his hands that didn't tremble but wanted to.

—Kashi?

—It's eleven o'clock at night — he finally spoke, without turning around. His voice sounded flat, neutral. The voice of someone who had rehearsed this moment too many times—. The showing was at eight.

He heard the keys drop by the entrance, the sound of the backpack hitting the floor. Footsteps approaching, cautious now.

—Oh, that... something really came up. Rin asked me to help her with something and I couldn't say no, you know how she is, she's so intense and—

—Don't call me Kashi.

Silence.

Kakashi turned off the stove. The fish was ready, but he wasn't hungry anymore. He was never hungry when this happened. He turned slowly, leaning his hands on the counter, and looked at Obito for the first time since he'd entered.

—Today was our anniversary.

—I know, I know, but it's just that—

—We haven't had a date in three months.

—Kakashi, please, don't start—

—We haven't had a date in three months — he repeated, more slowly, as if the words were heavy—. I asked to see Hoppers. You chose The Bride. I agreed. I arrived early. I bought the tickets. The popcorn. I waited. I stood there waiting like an idiot for forty-five minutes.

Obito looked away. He shoved his hands in his pockets, that gesture so typical of him when he wanted to disappear.

—I sent you a message.

—One message. After the movie started.

—Well, I was busy, Rin was upset, you know how she is, she needs so much support, and I'm the only one who—

—There's always a reason.

The phrase cut through the air like a knife. Obito blinked, surprised.

—What?

—There's always a reason — Kakashi repeated, and his voice was no longer flat. Now there was something underneath, something that had been accumulating for months, maybe years—. There's always an emergency. There's always someone who needs you more. There's always something more urgent than us. Than me.

—That's not true, it's just that you don't understand—

—What don't I understand? — he took a step forward, and Obito stepped back—. Explain it to me. Because I've been at this for months, Obito. Months trying to understand. Trying to talk. Trying to fix something and I don't even know how it broke.

—It's just that you're perfect! — Obito's voice rose, and there was something desperate in it, something Kakashi knew all too well—. You always have everything under control, you always know what to say, you always know what to do. I don't. I'm a mess, Kakashi. I always screw up. And you're there, with your perfect fish and your perfect apartment and your perfect life, waiting for me, judging me—

—Judging you? — Kakashi felt a bitter laugh climb up his throat, but he didn't let it out—. You think this is me judging you? I've spent months keeping quiet about things so I wouldn't make you feel bad. I've spent months swallowing my own shit so you wouldn't feel 'less than'. I accept crumbs, Obito. Like my friends said. And I still stayed.

—I don't ask you to stay!

The shout echoed in the kitchen. They both froze. Obito's eyes were bright, his breathing ragged. Kakashi just looked at him, and in his gaze there was no longer any anger. Only exhaustion.

—You left — Kakashi said quietly—. Today, on our anniversary, you stood me up. And you haven't apologized. You made excuses, you played the victim, you told me I'm perfect like that's a flaw. But you haven't asked for forgiveness.

Obito opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked at the floor.

—It's just... you're so good with words, I don't know how to say things, I always feel like what I say is wrong, that it's not enough, that—

—Obito.

The accused looked up.

—Stop doing that.

—Stop doing what?

—Always making it about me. About what I am, about what I have, about what I do right. This isn't about me. It's about you. About what you don't do. About what you don't give. About what you're not.

Obito blinked. For a moment, just one moment, Kakashi saw something genuine in his gaze. Something that might have been shame. Or maybe it was just his imagination, that foolish hope that there was still something left to save.

—I'm not enough for you, am I? — Obito whispered, and his voice trembled—. I always knew it. You're too good for me. Too smart, too attentive, too everything. I'm just... me. A mess. A useless failure. A—

—Stop. Now.

Kakashi ran a hand over his face. The exhaustion weighed on his bones, on his eyelids, on his chest. He looked at the fish in the pan, the cold cups of tea, the dark lights of the apartment he had once wanted to paint in colors and never did.

—Do you remember what I used to cook for you when we were kids, when we were alone?

—What?

—When we were kids. After what happened with my dad. You'd come to my apartment with some excuse, saying your grandmother had given you too much food, that you had to share it with someone. Lie. Your grandmother lived far away. It was always a lie.

Obito looked away. He said nothing.

—I'd cook you the only things I knew how to make. White rice. Miso soup. Fish, sometimes, when I could afford it. Simple things. Things that didn't taste like anything special. — Kakashi swallowed—. And you ate it all. Always. You'd say it was horrible, that the rice was overcooked, that the fish was burnt. But you ate it. And you stayed.

—Kakashi...

—What happened, Obito? When did I stop mattering? When did what I cook stop being enough, when did *I* stop being enough?

Obito shook his head, fast, nervous.

—It's not that, it's not that you're not enough, it's that... it's that you're too much. And I can't... I can't compete with that. With you. With your perfect life, with your perfect home, with your—

—Don't say that.

—It's true!

—It's not true, dammit!

The slap on the table made the cups rattle. Obito flinched. Kakashi breathed deeply, trying to control the trembling in his hands.

—My life isn't perfect, Obito. My father killed himself when I was a child. I grew up alone. I learned to cook because if I didn't, I would've starved. And you appeared. You, with your grandmother lies and your huge smiles, and you stayed. You were the only good thing I had. The only thing that hadn't left. — His voice broke, just a little, just enough—. And now I have you, but I don't have you. You're here, but you're not. And I don't know what I did wrong. I don't know when I stopped deserving you truly staying.

Silence filled the kitchen. Long. Heavy. Obito looked at the floor, arms crossed over his chest, lips pressed tight. When he spoke, his voice was barely a thread.

—It's not that you don't deserve it... it's that I don't know how to do this.

—Do what?

—This. Being a partner. Being enough. I always feel like I'm going to screw up, that I'm going to disappoint you, that any moment you're going to realize I'm a fraud and you'll leave. Like everyone else. — He looked up, and his eyes were wet—. So I get ahead of it. I leave before you do. It's easier.

Kakashi looked at him for a long time. There was something in those words, something that almost seemed vulnerable, almost seemed real. But there was something else too. Something he had heard too many times, in too many arguments, always at the right moment, always when guilt was starting to weigh.

The perfect excuse.

The perfect victimhood.

The perfect trap for Kakashi to end up consoling him, telling him no, that he wasn't a fraud, that he wasn't going to leave, that everything was going to be okay. So that the problem would stop being what Obito had done and start being what Obito felt.

And Kakashi, for a moment, felt the impulse. The impulse of years. The impulse to step closer, to hug him, to whisper that everything would be alright.

But he didn't.

—The fish is in the pan — he said instead, with a voice he didn't recognize as his own—. If you want to eat, help yourself. I'm going to sleep.

And he walked past Obito without looking back.

Later, he fell asleep with the side of the bed cold, with Obito's scent absent, but that wasn't what hurt Kakashi... What genuinely hurt him was feeling like he didn't care.

—You two always have the same conversation. — The sake tasted terrible right now.

—I know, but maybe he's tired... going through depression! For some reason, I don't know, and I want to help him. — Gai raised an eyebrow.

—Since when are you a therapist, Kakashi? Last I checked, you're a cop, not a psychologist. — Kakashi fell silent. The background noise of the bar began to sound like white noise, as if silencing the bitter thoughts coming to his mind.

—Gai, I haven't been the best boyfriend either. I mean, I'm always criticizing, judging, pointing things out, I get angry too, it must be annoying. — He heard his friend's exasperated sigh. Kakashi was partly grateful to have him as a friend, to have him there by his side; if not, without him, Hatake would probably have drowned long ago.

—When was the last time he asked how you were without you having to look upset first?

That's when the world stopped. Not because Kakashi didn't know the answer, but because he knew it all too well. Because the answer wasn't "a week ago" or "a month ago." The answer was a void so vast it made you dizzy to look into it.

And then, as if his mind wanted to hurt him a little more, the memory came.

It wasn't an important memory. It wasn't a fight or a crisis or a night of tears. It was something smaller, more everyday, more hurtful because of that.

A few months back.

Kakashi had come home excited. He'd seen a documentary at work, the kind they play in the break room while you wait for something to happen. It was about cinema, the evolution of audiovisual language, how long takes could tell more than a thousand dialogues. And Kakashi, who was a fucking nerd, even if he'd never admit it, had wanted to share it.

Obito was in the kitchen, eating something quickly standing up, as always.

—Did you know the long takes in Hereditary last almost twenty minutes? — Kakashi had said while putting down his keys—. It's insane because the camera never cuts and then you're there, trapped in the scene, unable to breathe, as if—

—I don't understand.

The phrase fell like a bucket of cold water. Kakashi blinked.

—What?

—I don't understand. — Obito wasn't even looking at him. His eyes were fixed on his phone, on his food, anywhere but Kakashi—. I don't understand cinema. I don't understand shots or sequences or any of that.

—Well, that's why I'm explaining it to you, because it's interesting and—

—What if I don't want you to explain it?

Kakashi froze. The excitement he'd brought home began to deflate, slowly, like a balloon with a tiny hole.

—Obito... we don't even talk anymore. We just eat in silence, you watch TV, you fall asleep. I just wanted... I don't know, to share something with you.

Obito looked up then. And there was something in his eyes that Kakashi couldn't read at that moment. Something between annoyance and... guilt? Discomfort?

—Well — Obito said, and his voice had that edge Kakashi had started to know too well—. Then enlighten me, oh wise one. Talk to me about cinema since you know so much.

Kakashi felt the blow to his chest before he even processed the words.

—What did you call me?

—I'm serious. — Obito smiled, but it wasn't a kind smile. It was that smile he used when he wanted to disguise something ugly as a joke—. If you know so much, talk to me. Enlighten me. Tell me everything you're dying to say.

—Don't talk to me like that — Kakashi's voice faded—. I don't like it.

—Like what? Acknowledging that you're more intelligent than me? That you know more than me? That you always know more than me? — Obito put the plate down on the counter, the sound of it hitting the stone echoing in the silence of the apartment—. That's what you want, isn't it? For me to admire you. For me to say 'oh, Kashi, you're so smart, I'm so lucky to have you.'

—I never—

—Always. Always with your things. Your books, your movies, your useless facts. And here I am, listening to you, pretending I care, but you know what? I don't care. I don't care about cinema, I don't care about your long takes, I don't care about any of that. — Obito took a deep breath, and his voice changed, grew smaller—. I'm not like you. I'm not smart. I don't know about those things. And every time you talk, I remember how little I know, how little I'm worth, how little I—

And there it was. The twist. The moment when the one doing the hurting became the one being hurt. The moment when Kakashi, once again, had to set aside his own pain to console Obito's.

—Don't say that — Kakashi said, and his voice no longer had any emotion. It was automatic. By-the-book—. It's not a competition. I just wanted to share something with you.

Obito shook his head, arms crossed, gaze on the floor.

—I don't understand why you want to share things with me. I'm stupid. I don't bring you anything. You should be with someone like you, someone intelligent, someone who—

—Obito, please.

—See? It always has to be me who's wrong. It always has to be me who needs help. You're probably tired of me. You'd probably rather be with Gai, who at least understands you.

Kakashi wanted to say something. He wanted to say no, that he wasn't tired, that he loved him, that he just wanted them to be like before, when everything was easier, when Obito listened without getting defensive, when conversations weren't minefields.

But he said nothing.

Because he had already learned that saying something only prolonged the cycle. That Obito would play the victim, that he would end up consoling him, that the original problem would be buried under layers of "I'm useless" and "I don't know why you put up with me" and "you probably deserve better."

And in the end, Kakashi always ended up wondering if Obito was right. If he deserved better. If all of this was his fault for expecting too much.

That night they didn't watch the movie. Obito went to sleep early, and Kakashi stayed in the living room alone, staring at the blank screen, wondering when sharing something you loved had become an act of selfishness.

Back to the present. Gai was watching him, waiting for an answer Kakashi couldn't give him. Not because he didn't know it. But because putting it into words would make it too real.

—I don't remember — he lied.

Gai leaned over the table. The movement made the dim bar light cut his face in half: one side illuminated, one in shadows. His voice dropped, so low that Kakashi had to lean in too to hear him, as if what he was about to say was too heavy to speak aloud.

—Tell me something, and I want you to be honest with me, even if you're not with yourself.

Kakashi swallowed. The sake glass had been empty for a while, but his fingers still clung to it as if it could hold him too.

—When was the last time you felt like he loved you? —Gai asked—. Not that he needed you. That he loved you.

The question entered like a knife. Not a sharp one, the kind that cuts clean. A dull one, that has to be pushed hard to pierce the skin, and when it does, it tears everything in its path.

Kakashi opened his mouth.

For a moment, he thought he'd be able to answer. What was he going to say? "His love language is different"? But not even with the five love languages had he felt loved; he only lied to himself that there was affection, not a habit, not a comfort on his boyfriend's part for Kakashi to take care of him like he was a goddamn child who needed his stupid father. But the words didn't come. Only air. Only that void that opens in your chest when you realize something you'd known for a long time, but hadn't wanted to accept.

His mouth closed.

And then he started searching. Seriously. Like someone searching for keys in every pocket, like someone checking every corner of the house at three in the morning because they know they're somewhere, they have to be somewhere.

He searched through recent memories. The goodbye kisses. The "I love yous" said in passing. The hands that met in bed half-asleep. But he didn't find what Gai was asking for. He found habit. He found routine. He found empty gestures that once meant something and now were just movements.

He searched further back.

Three months ago. Obito crying on his shoulder, saying he was worthless, that everything went wrong for him. Kakashi hugging him, rocking him, whispering that he did have worth, that he was enough, that everything would be okay. That wasn't love. That was emergency. That was fire. That was Kakashi putting out fires with his bare hands.

Six months ago. Obito arriving late, again, with another excuse, another apology, another "forgive me, I'm a mess." Kakashi saying "it's okay" even though it wasn't, even though it never was. Obito smiling, relieved, going to sleep while Kakashi lay awake staring at the ceiling. That wasn't love. That was surrender.

Years ago, when it all began, when Obito was still sweet, when he still asked questions, when he still stayed.

There.

There it is.

The last memory he finds where he truly felt loved isn't a recent memory. It's a memory from when they were friends. From when Obito would show up at his door with lies about grandmothers and bento boxes. From when they'd stay up late talking about nothing and everything. From when Obito saw him cry for the first time, after what happened with his father, and said nothing, just sat beside him and waited.

That was love. That was caring.

How long ago was that?

Too long. Far too long.

Kakashi opens his mouth again. He wants to say something. He wants to fill the silence that's stretching too long, that silence that is already an answer in itself. But all that comes out is a sigh. A sigh that weighs as if it carried inside all the months, all the years, all the times he chose to stay quiet.

Gai nods.

There's no triumph in his gesture. No "I told you so." Only a deep sadness, the kind felt for another's pain, the kind that hurts almost as much as your own.

—You don't have to say anything — Gai murmurs.

But Kakashi needs to say it. He needs to hear it himself. He needs the truth to exist outside his head, even if it hurts, even if it burns, even if it confirms what he already knows.

—I don't remember — he whispers.

His voice comes out broken. It's not a dramatic whisper, like in the movies. It's a real whisper, the kind that comes out when your throat closes up, when words have to force their way through knots and scars. It's the voice of someone who has just realized they've been empty for a long time and is only now noticing it.

The tears don't come. That's the worst part. They don't come because there are none left. He cried them all in silence, in the shower, in bed while Obito slept with his back turned, at work when no one was watching. There's nothing left. Only that enormous void that was once filled with hope.

Gai reaches out a hand and places it over his. He says nothing. He doesn't need to.

The bar continues to sound around them. Laughter, conversations, the clinking of glasses. Life going on as always, indifferent to the small sinking happening at this table, in this corner, in this man who has just discovered he doesn't remember the last time he was truly loved.

The apartment was lit. That was the first thing Kakashi noticed when he opened the door. The lights on, the TV off, and Obito sitting on the sofa with his arms crossed, waiting.

Not waiting for him. Waiting to confront him.

—Where were you?

Obito's voice cut through the silence like a whip. Possessive. Sharp. With that hint of fragility that Kakashi knew all too well, that fragility that always appeared at just the right moment, always when Obito needed to be the center of attention, always when the blame should be elsewhere.

But Kakashi came home tired. He came with a heavy soul, with Gai's confession still echoing in his chest, with that "I don't remember" still burning his throat. He didn't have the strength for this.

—With Gai — he replied, leaving his phone on the coffee table carefully, as if the object could break as easily as he felt—. You know him.

He headed to the kitchen. He needed tea. He needed something hot to remind him he could still feel warmth, even if it was from a cup.

—Him again?!

Kakashi's feet stopped. He didn't turn around. Not yet.

—Is there something between you? — Obito's voice rose, and there it was, that note, that mix of accusation and fear that Kakashi had learned to recognize but never understand—. If there is, you should tell me. I mean, I don't know, Kakashi, don't you spend too much time with him?

Kakashi's hand found the coffee jar. He held it. His other hand hung in the air, not knowing where to place itself, not knowing whether to rest on the counter or on himself.

He blinked.

Obito's words took a moment to process. They were so absurd, so out of place, so hypocritical, that his brain needed a moment to translate them from accusation to meaning.

Was he doubting him?

Obito? Obito Uchiha, who came home late every night, who had stood him up on their anniversary, who fell asleep without looking at him, who hadn't asked how he was in months, who received messages he hid, who came home with scents that weren't his?

Obito was doubting him?

Kakashi turned slowly. The movement was measured, almost ceremonial, as if he knew that what he was about to say needed his whole body to support it.

He looked at Obito. His gray eyes met those dark ones that rivaled the night. But Kakashi had always loved the night. The night was silence, it was calm, it was the only moment of the day when he could breathe without anyone asking anything of him.

Those eyes, however, seemed to want to devour his soul.

—Excuse me? — The word came out on its own. His lips dried as he pronounced it. The air left his lungs as if someone had pressed an empty button. And beneath it all, deep inside, anger began to simmer.

Not explosive anger. Not the anger of shouting and slamming doors. A cold anger, the kind that settles in your bones and doesn't leave, the kind that makes you see everything with painful clarity.

—That you spend too much time with him — Obito got up from the sofa, crossed his arms over his chest, and Kakashi noticed how his posture became rigid, defensive—. Always. I mean, you're always with him. You always do everything with him.

Kakashi stayed silent.

He couldn't speak. Not because he didn't have words, but because the words were too many, too heavy, too sharp. If he opened his mouth, he would say things that couldn't be unsaid.

But there was something else too. Something that twisted his stomach in a different way.

He couldn't believe that Obito, his boyfriend of years, the one who had been acting strange, distant, absent, cold for months... was the one doubting him. The one accusing. The one projecting his own shadows onto Kakashi as if they were mirrors.

—Obito — his voice came out more controlled than he expected. Colder than he expected. But he couldn't help it—. Why would I be with Gai?

He didn't wait for an answer.

—He's married to Anko. They have a child. You know Lee, Obito. You know Lee because he's your friend's son. You've watched him grow up. You've been to his birthdays. You've eaten in that house. — He paused. The storm ran through his blood, but his voice remained firm, cutting—. So, why would I be with Gai?

Obito looked away. Just a second. But Kakashi saw it.

—He could be polyamorous — Obito murmured, shrugging as if the explanation were obvious, as if it made sense.

Kakashi blinked. Confused. Not by the word, but by the absurdity of it all.

—What? — he frowned—. What does that have to do with anything?

—That he could easily be in a relationship with you — Obito looked up, and his eyes had something Kakashi couldn't name. Insecurity? Fear? Manipulation?—. And I don't like sharing, Kakashi. I don't like it.

That comment was truly strange.

Not strange in the sense of unexpected. Strange in the sense that it didn't fit. That it came from someone who had no right to say those words. That it was the most blatant projection Kakashi had witnessed in his entire life.

He opened his mouth. He was going to respond. He was going to say something, anything, maybe "sharing? You're talking about sharing?" or maybe "since when do you care who I spend time with?" or maybe "seriously, Obito? SERIOUSLY?"

But nothing came out.

Because Obito crossed the distance between them in three steps. Because his arms wrapped around his waist. Because his face buried itself in his neck, and his lips left a kiss there, warm, but... lukewarm.

Now that Kakashi thought about it, it was lukewarm.

Like everything else. Like the kisses on the forehead. Like the "I love yous" said in passing. Like the hugs he received when Obito needed something, not when Kakashi needed them. Lukewarm. Neither cold nor hot. Just... lukewarm.

—Sorry — Obito whispered against his skin—. I'm just afraid of losing you, Kashi. You know? You're so amazing. You're a dream. I wouldn't want to lose you, love.

His lips moved across his face. Cheek. Jaw. The corner of his lips. Each kiss felt rehearsed, forced, hypocritical. As if Obito were following a manual on "how to fix an argument without actually fixing it."

But Kakashi reciprocated.

Not because he wanted to. Not because he felt anything. But because it was easier. Because he had already learned that saying no, pulling away, asking for a moment to think, only prolonged the cycle. Because he had already learned that his role in this relationship was to receive these crumbs and smile.

He let himself be guided.

The steps toward the bedroom. The dimness of the room. The bed waiting for them. Obito's hands on his clothes, his on Obito's, the empty ritual of an approach that led nowhere.

Because in the middle of the kiss, Obito pulled away.

—I'm tired — he murmured, without looking him in the eyes—. Let's just sleep, okay?

And he turned around. And he lay on his back. And in less than five minutes, his breathing became deep, regular, asleep.

Kakashi lay staring at the ceiling.

The sheets were cold. The bed was cold. The space between their bodies was cold. Everything was cold, but above all, there was that void in his chest, the one he already knew, the one he'd been carrying for months.

He thought about Gai. About the hug. About the words. About "you don't have to save him." About "if you sink with him, you're not going to save anyone."

He thought about the answer he couldn't give. About the "I don't remember" that was truer than he wanted to admit.

He thought about Obito, sleeping beside him, so close and so far, accusing him of things he himself was doing, projecting his own shadows, his own guilts, his own absences.

And he thought, for the first time, with clarity:

When was the last time he asked for forgiveness without expecting me to console him afterwards?

When was the last time he asked how I was and stayed to listen to the answer?

When was the last time I felt like he loved me?

He found no answers. He only found more questions, more emptiness, more of that cold that was no longer from the apartment but from within.

He turned over. Back to back. As always. As every night. For so long that he no longer remembered the last time they slept face to face, looking at each other, breathing the same air.

And he closed his eyes.

But he didn't sleep.

He didn't sleep until much later, when exhaustion overcame the pain. And when he did, he dreamed of an Obito who no longer existed. One who looked at him without accusing him. One who asked without expecting anything in return. One who stayed.

He woke up with his pillow damp.

He didn't know if it was sweat or tears.

He didn't care either.

Three days of polite silence, three days of "What do you want for dinner?" and "Nothing, whatever you want." Three days of coexisting without inhabiting, of sharing space without sharing anything else. Kakashi had counted them, one by one. He counted those strange looks, that scent of perfume that wasn't Obito's, he counted the tasteless kisses, he counted the disinterest that was there, he counted even the I love yous, which totaled zero. They were zero, the "I love yous" would always come from Kakashi.

Why? Because Kakashi is an idiot.

But Kakashi had hope, because he felt love, or it was habit, he didn't know. But tonight would be different, at least that's what he prayed to the gods if they were listening.

Kakashi came home early from work. He bought dinner, he didn't cook it —because cooking was an act of love he no longer knew if he wanted to keep doing—. Chinese food, Obito's favorite. He set it on the table. Two plates, two chopsticks, two glasses. And he waited.

Not on the sofa. Not watching TV. At the table, with his hands crossed on the wood, watching the door like someone awaiting a verdict.

Obito came in at nine. He saw the scene and stopped.

—What's going on? — he asked, with that tone of someone who already knows something uncomfortable is coming.

—We need to talk — Kakashi said. His voice sounded calm. It was a borrowed calm, the kind held up with pins—. Sit down, please.

Obito hesitated. For a second, Kakashi saw the calculation in his eyes: assessing whether he could escape, whether he could make an excuse, whether he could avoid this one more time. But he found no way out. He dropped his backpack on the floor and sat across from him.

—What's going on? — he repeated, more quietly.

Kakashi took a deep breath. He had rehearsed this so many times. In the shower, in the car, in the moments of insomnia when Obito slept beside him. The words were there, waiting, but now that he had them in front of him, they weighed differently.

—I need you to listen to me. Really listen. Without interrupting, without making excuses, without turning this into something about you. Can you do that?

Obito frowned. He was going to say something —Kakashi saw it in the movement of his lips—, but he held back. He nodded.

—We've been like this for months — Kakashi began, and the words came out easier than he expected, as if they'd been trapped for so long they were happy to be free—. Months of distance, of silence, of coming home late, of excuses, of promises that aren't kept. I've tried to talk to you so many times I've lost count. And it always ends the same: you play the victim, I end up consoling you, and the problem stays there. As if nothing happened.

Obito opened his mouth. Kakashi raised a hand.

—You said you'd listen.

Obito closed it.

—I don't want to console you today — Kakashi continued—. I don't want to be your therapist, or your savior, or your emotional cushion. I want to be your boyfriend. I want a relationship where we both contribute, where we both try, where we both care about each other. And I don't know if you want that.

Silence.

Obito looked at the table. His fingers played with the edge of the plate, nervously.

—I know you've had difficult things — Kakashi's voice softened, just a little—. I know you carry things that aren't easy. And I've tried to support you in that, really. But I carry things too, Obito. I have bad days too. I also need someone to ask how I am without me having to be upset first for them to ask.

He paused. Swallowed.

—Do you remember when we argued about favorite characters?

Obito looked up, confused by the change of topic.

—What?

—A few weeks ago. You said your favorite characters were better than mine. You laughed, you said mine were boring, that you didn't understand how I could like them. And I stayed quiet, as always.

—It was a joke — Obito said quickly—. It was a joke, Kakashi, it's not—

—I know — Kakashi interrupted—. I know it was a joke. But it wasn't just that one time. It's always like that. Every thing I like, every interest I have, every part of me that doesn't fit what you consider interesting, you minimize it, you mock it, you ignore it. And I spend my life consuming what you like, watching your movies, listening to your music, talking about your things. But when I try to share mine, there's always something. Either you don't understand, or you get bored, or you get defensive. And I end up staying quiet.

Obito shook his head, but said nothing.

—I don't want to live like this — Kakashi said, and his voice trembled for the first time—. I don't want to feel like what matters to me doesn't matter to the person I love. I don't want to feel like I'm the only one trying. I don't want to come home and feel more alone than when I'm actually alone.

The silence stretched on. Heavy. Uncomfortable.

And then Obito spoke.

—You're right.

Kakashi blinked. He hadn't expected that.

—You're right — Obito repeated, and his voice sounded different. Lower. More sincere—. I've been an idiot. I hadn't realized... any of that. I thought it was just... I don't know, that this was how we were. That we were in a rough patch. But it's not just a rough patch, is it?

Kakashi slowly shook his head.

—No. It's not.

Obito ran a hand over his face. He looked tired. He looked, for the first time in a long time, like someone who was actually listening.

—I want to change — he said—. Seriously. I don't want to lose you, Kakashi. You're the most important thing I have. And I've been stupid, I know. But I want... I want to really try. I want to learn to listen to you, to be interested in your things, to ask how you are without you having to be upset first. I want to be better. For you. For us.

Kakashi felt something in his chest. A small, fragile tingle he hadn't felt in months. Hope? Illusion? Or just the desire to believe?

—Do you mean it? — he asked, and his voice was so small it was almost inaudible.

—I mean it — Obito reached across the table and took his hand. His touch was warm. Warmer than the kisses on the neck, warmer than the reconciliation hugs—. Give me a chance. One last chance. I swear I'll change. Let's start over. Let's do it right this time.

Kakashi looked into his eyes. Those dark eyes that rivaled the night. And for a moment, just one moment, he saw something there he hadn't seen in a long time. Something that seemed sincere. Something that seemed real.

He squeezed his hand.

—Okay — he whispered—. One chance.

Obito smiled. That bright smile Kakashi had loved since childhood. He stood up, came around the table, and hugged him. A tight hug, the kind that said "I'm not letting you go."

—Thank you — Obito murmured against his shoulder—. I won't let you down. I promise.

Kakashi closed his eyes. He allowed himself to feel the hug. He allowed himself to believe, just for that instant, that everything could be different.

But in the back of his mind, in that place where lies don't enter, a small voice whispered:

"If this doesn't work, it'll be the last time."

"If it goes back to the way it was, I'm leaving."

"This is the last chance."

He didn't say it aloud. He didn't want to ruin the moment. He didn't want to put conditions on this small bubble of hope floating between them.

But the idea was there. Planted. Firm. Like a promise he made to himself, the only one he was sure he could keep.

They ate dinner together that night. They talked about unimportant things. They laughed a little. For the first time in months, the apartment didn't feel so cold.

And when they went to bed, Obito turned toward him. Looked at him. Stroked his cheek.

—I love you — he said—. And I'm going to change. Really.

Kakashi nodded. Smiled. Returned the caress.

But when Obito turned over to sleep, Kakashi lay awake staring at the ceiling.

"Last chance," he thought.

And the void in his chest didn't disappear. It only grew smaller, quieter, waiting to see what would happen.

Waiting to see if this time, finally, Obito would choose to truly stay.

But in that darkness, in that silence that only existed between one breath and another, there was also something else.

Something Kakashi had been carrying for months and had never put into words.

Because if Obito had to change, if Obito had to try, if Obito had to learn to love him better... then maybe, just maybe, the fault wasn't only his. Maybe Kakashi had failed too.

He bit his lip in the darkness, staring at the ceiling he knew by heart, that ceiling he had contemplated hundreds of nights while wondering where the exact point was where everything began to break.

What if I'm too cold?

What if when I get angry, when I criticize, when I say things with this voice that sounds like judgment, he just shuts down because he doesn't know how to respond to me?

What if I've been childish? What if I've expected him to guess what I feel without telling him, as if he could read my mind, as if love worked like that?

What if there are things I've unintentionally hidden? Pieces of me I don't show, fears I don't tell, bad days I hide behind fake smiles and automatic "I'm fines." What if he feels that distance? What if he perceives there are parts of me he can't enter and that's why he's been building his own way out?

The questions came in waves. They weren't new. He'd had them before, hundreds of times, on this same ceiling, in this same bed, in this same silence. But he'd never let them stay so long.

Have I given him enough trust? Have I made him feel he can talk to me without being judged? Or have my silences, my looks, my way of keeping everything to myself, made him believe I'm not a safe place?

He breathed deeply. The air came in and out silently, so as not to wake Obito, so as not to interrupt his own questions.

What if there's something wrong with me?

That was the deepest one. The one that hurt most. The one that always came back, like a dog finding its way home.

What if I'm not enough? What if no matter how much I try, how much I stay quiet, how much I swallow, how much I endure, I'm always going to be too much or too little? Too cold, too intense, too quiet, too complicated? What if I'm the problem? What if I've always been the problem?

Because his father had left too. He didn't choose to leave, but he left. And before he left, there were silences. There were distances. There was something Kakashi could never reach, something that always slipped through his fingers like water.

What if I don't know how to love? What if no one taught me and that's why I can't? What if all of this is my fault for expecting someone to love me when I don't even know how to do it right?

He turned his head on the pillow. Looked at Obito's back. That back he knew so well, that he'd watched sleep hundreds of nights, that he'd caressed, kissed, held.

Maybe I haven't tried hard enough to make him feel loved.

Maybe I've taken for granted that he knew how much I love him, without saying it, without showing it, without making him feel he's important.

Maybe my "I love yous" have become routine, my gestures habit, my love something he has to guess between the lines.

The tears didn't come. They didn't come anymore. But his chest felt heavy, as if all those questions were stones piling on top of each other, forming a wall between him and sleep, between him and peace, between him and the possibility of believing this could be fixed.

But also...

He closed his eyes.

I've also given everything. I've given my time, my patience, my body, my home, my food, my bed, my life. I've given until there was nothing left and then I kept giving, taking from where there was no more, inventing love where only habit remained.

And if that's not enough... then what?

He found no answer.

He never found an answer.

Only more questions. Only more sleepless nights. Only more silence.

Outside, the city continued its course. The lights of other apartments went out one by one. Life went on, indifferent to the small drama unfolding in this bed, in this chest, in this man wondering if the problem was him for expecting too much or for not knowing how to give enough.

Obito breathed deeply in his sleep. A small sound, almost a snore. The sound of someone sleeping peacefully, without questions, without guilt, without this weight crushing Kakashi's chest.

And Kakashi, in the darkness, looked at him one more time.

I wish you knew how much I love you, he thought. I wish you knew how hard I try. I wish you knew I spend nights wondering how to love you better, how to be enough, how not to fail you.

I wish you knew.

But he didn't know.

Because he never asked.

And Kakashi, who had learned to say nothing so as not to bother, so as not to be too much, so as not to become a burden... remained silent.

As always.

Until sleep, tired of waiting, found him too.

He didn't really know how long had passed. The truth was, between his life and work, sometimes the days passed like water through his fingers, and he didn't feel bad about it. In fact, lately he enjoyed his work much more. And yes, he felt quite guilty about it, about feeling that work was more interesting than a relationship where it seemed like he was raising his child.

It was during that night when he arrived, when his feet hurt and he just needed to lie down on something and drink a little coffee, that Obito appeared at his side, with a childish smile. He had a gift in his hands, nice wrapping, nervous smile. Kakashi felt that spark of illusion —maybe he really was trying.—

He opened it and... it was just a cheap plastic samurai replica. It wasn't even from one of the movies Kakashi treasured so much; it was a generic toy, the kind you find in the clearance bins at convenience stores. The figure had the sword glued to its body with industrial adhesive so poorly applied that it had left a white, rough crust, deforming the warrior's arm. But the worst part wasn't the poor quality, but the trace of disinterest: the plastic was stained with dried drops of soy sauce and grease. Obito hadn't even bothered to clean the toy before wrapping it, evidence that he'd had it near him while eating, like an unimportant object he only remembered to give out of pure obligation. Kakashi looked at the figure, feeling how the weight of that 'gift' sank his chest more than any insult. Obito was smiling, waiting for thanks, not noticing that he was handing him physical proof that he no longer knew him at all.

—I found it on sale. — He didn't know whether to feel more offended, or not... But there was pride in Obito's voice, which Kakashi wasn't able to silence, but something broke inside him. He felt guilty, he felt materialistic. The important thing is the affection, the important thing isn't material things, maybe Kakashi was being materialistic, right? At the beginning of the relationship, Obito gave him letters, beautiful, dedicated handmade things that showed the love he felt. —See? I do pay attention to you.

Kakashi blinked, even more confused. Pay attention? The samurai was a generic one, and he was sure that when he told him he liked samurai was more than three years ago, when they watched a samurai movie. Yes, that he liked samurai was true, but it was a specific samurai! Not a generic, badly glued one! Kakashi wanted to cry, not because the gift was ugly or broken. But because it was a reminder that Obito only remembers what suits him, only listens when he's interested, only makes the minimum effort possible to be able to say "I tried."

But he smiles, he smiles, he says thank you, he puts it on a shelf and Obito is already on the sofa, waiting for Kakashi to thank him a little more, a little better, a little like he needs.

Kakashi forgot about the Samurai. He dismissed it as "it was an effort, really what matters is the intention." A few weeks passed, time that Kakashi stopped counting, it stopped hurting.

They made plans with friends. An informal dinner, the kind that used to fill Kakashi's soul and now only reminded him of what he had lost. Gai, Anko, Kurenai, Asuma. Laughter, food, wine, that warmth he no longer found at home but could still find here, at these tables, with these people who loved him unconditionally.

Obito was in a good mood. He laughed, talked, gestured with that energy Kakashi had once loved. And Kakashi, from his place at the table, watched him and felt something akin to hope. Maybe he was changing. Maybe this time, yes.

Until Obito spoke.

—He's just such a nerd — he said, laughing, nodding toward Kakashi—. Look at him, always with his books. Never stops. The other day he was watching some documentary about cinema and he wouldn't stop talking about shots and sequences and I'm just like... — he shrugged, made a bored face—. "Yeah, babe, how interesting."

The table fell silent.

Just a second. Long enough for Kakashi to feel the heat rise to his cheeks. Long enough for Gai to put his fork down on his plate with a harder thud than necessary. Long enough for Anko and Kurenai to exchange a look Kakashi couldn't interpret.

—Well — Gai said, with that voice of his that was too cheerful, too forced—. Anyone want more wine? My treat.

The table breathed. The conversation continued, pushed by the collective effort of those who know something uncomfortable just happened and need to bury it quickly. But Kakashi was no longer listening.

He just stared at his plate. The food had become a shapeless mass of colors.

Obito, beside him, kept eating as if nothing. As if he hadn't said anything. As if he hadn't handed their friends the most intimate part of their relationship —the one Kakashi guarded jealously, the one that hurt— wrapped up in a joke.

The walk home was silent. Not the comfortable silence of two people who don't need to talk. The dense silence, the one that weighs, the one that accumulates in the air like smoke.

Kakashi opened the apartment door. He put down the keys. He took off his shoes. And when Obito was heading to the sofa, as always, as if nothing, he spoke.

—Why did you say that?

Obito stopped. Turned slowly.

—Say what?

—At dinner. About my books. About the documentary.

Obito rolled his eyes. A small gesture, almost imperceptible, but Kakashi saw it.

—It was a joke, Kakashi. Again?

—It wasn't a joke. It was... — Kakashi searched for the word, one that would say exactly what he felt without sounding too much, without being too much, without starting the cycle again—. You made me look like an idiot in front of our friends.

—Not an idiot. A nerd. Which is what you are. Or aren't you?

—Yes, I'm a nerd — Kakashi's voice trembled, just a little—. But it's not something I like you using to humiliate me in front of others.

—Humiliate you? — Obito laughed, but it wasn't a happy laugh. It was that laugh he used when he wanted to take weight off something that did have weight—. You're exaggerating. You always take everything personally. You're so sensitive.

The word fell like a blow. Sensitive. As if it were something bad. As if feeling, as if hurting, as if caring were a defect.

—It's not personal — Kakashi said, and his voice grew smaller—. It just made me feel bad.

—Oh, right — Obito crossed his arms over his chest, and his posture changed. It became more rigid, more defensive, more accusatory—. You're always the victim. Always the one who suffers, who feels bad, who needs to be apologized to. See? This is why I can't talk to you. You turn everything into drama.

Kakashi opened his mouth. He was going to say something. He was going to say "it's not drama, it's that it hurts" or "I just want you to understand" or "why is it so hard for you to listen to me?"

But he said nothing.

Because he already knew this conversation. He already knew this script. He already knew how it ended.

Obito looked at him, defiant, waiting. Waiting for Kakashi to continue, so he could continue too. So he could keep playing the victim, so he could keep turning the tables, so he could keep converting Kakashi's pain into his own wound.

And Kakashi, tired, so tired, did what he always did.

—Sorry — he whispered—. You're right. I overreacted.

Obito blinked. For a moment, just one moment, he seemed disconcerted. As if he hadn't expected to win so easily. As if the victory, suddenly, tasted like nothing.

But he recovered quickly.

—Well, that's settled then. No problem. — He approached, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek—. Is there dinner?

Kakashi nodded.

—Yes. In the fridge.

Obito went to the kitchen. And Kakashi stayed at the entrance, still, staring at nothing.

Sorry, he thought. I apologized for something I didn't do.

Again.

Always again.

He went to the bedroom. He sat on the bed. He looked at the shelf where he'd put the cheap plastic samurai, the one Obito had given him with so much pride.

And he thought about dinner. About the laughter. About the uncomfortable silence of his friends. About Gai changing the subject to save the unsavable.

He thought about how he'd felt when Obito said that. That heat in his face. That desire to disappear.

He thought about how, in the end, he'd ended up apologizing.

When was the last time I truly defended myself?

When was the last time I didn't end up being the one apologizing?

He found no answer.

He only found more silence. More emptiness. More of that certainty growing in his chest like a plant he hadn't asked for but could no longer uproot.

Obito entered the bedroom with a plate of food. He sat on the bed, turned on the TV, started eating without looking at him.

—You coming to watch something? — he asked, with his mouth full.

Kakashi looked at him.

And for a second, just one second, he saw everything clearly.

He saw the boy who stayed by his side after what happened with his father. He saw the teenager who wrote him love letters. He saw the man who promised to stay forever.

And he saw the ghost he had become. This stranger who occupied his bed, who shared his life, who constantly reminded him that nothing was left of what they once were.

—No — Kakashi said—. I'm going to read for a while.

Obito shrugged.

—Suit yourself.

And he kept eating, watching TV, living his life as if Kakashi weren't there, as if the distance between them were normal, as if this were what love was supposed to be.

Kakashi picked up a book. Any book. He opened it to a random page. And he stared at the letters without reading them, wondering how much longer he could go on like this.

Wondering when it would be enough.

Wondering if someday he would stop apologizing for existing.

Kakashi was excited. Finally, they would go out, a date after so long. He was excited, genuinely excited. To be able to go out, to rekindle the embers that the wind blew fervently, but that Kakashi had no intention of giving up for absolutely anything. Because he loved him —or at least he tried to tell himself that— because he was excited about something new outside of a routine that was killing him.

But Obito canceled the plans again.

Kakashi had lost count of how many times. He kept a mental record, like someone keeping track of days without sun, without really knowing why, only because he needed to know how much rain he could endure before drowning. Yes, he shouldn't be surprised.

—It's just that my friends need me — Obito said from the door, already with his jacket on, already with one foot out—. I'm sorry, okay? Another day.

Kakashi nodded. As always.

—It's fine — he said—. No problem.

And Obito left. And the door closed. And the apartment remained in that silence that Kakashi knew better than his own breathing.

No problem, of course. There was never a problem. That was the problem.

The night fell slowly, like every night. Kakashi made tea. He picked up a book. He sat on the sofa with his legs crossed and the book in his lap, and for a while, he almost managed to convince himself that he was fine. That this was what he wanted. A quiet night. A night for himself. A night without Obito, without his absences, without his half-presences.

He took a photo. A book, a cup of tea, the warm light of the lamp. He posted it to his stories with a vague thought of "this is me, this is what there is." No text. No need to explain.

And he kept reading.

Or at least he tried.

Because the words danced on the page without forming meaning. Because his eyes kept going back to his phone. Because a part of him, that stupid part that never learned, expected a message. A "how are you?" A "what are you doing?" An "I miss you."

It didn't come.

An hour passed. Two.

And then, without meaning to, without looking for it, he opened Instagram.

He saw Obito's story.

He was at a bar. With "his friends." Laughing. With a drink in his hand. With that neon light that makes everyone seem happier, more handsome, more alive.

No emergency. No "they need me." No drama.

Just a normal night out. An ordinary evening. People laughing, background music, Obito having fun as if he hadn't left Kakashi alone, again, with his tea and his book and his silence.

Kakashi stared at the screen.

He stared for a long time.

Then he took a screenshot.

He didn't really know why. He wasn't thinking about saving evidence, he wasn't thinking about "when this ends." It was just a reflex, like someone seeing something that hurts and needing to save it for later, to process it, to believe it really happened.

He saved the screenshot in a folder. No name. No label. Just there, waiting.

And he continued with his night.

Or at least he tried.

Hours later, with the early morning weighing on his eyelids, Kakashi remained sunk in the sofa. The bluish glow of the phone was the only light in the room, while his thumb moved across the screen in an automatic scroll, devoid of purpose; it was that inertial movement of someone seeking external noise to silence the thunder of their own thoughts.

Suddenly, a story interrupted the monotony of the algorithm.

It came from a profile his eyes couldn't immediately register. A name that didn't evoke any face, a profile picture that barely showed a generic landscape, stripped of identity. However, the shared text stopped before him with the force of a silent slap; it was one of those fragments of digital wisdom that appear just when the universe decides you've ignored the truth for too long.

The paragraph read:

«Love is not a hospital; you are not here to save anyone. Love should be a home: a warm, reciprocal space where you are simply allowed to be. If your existence is based on putting out other people's fires, you are not loving. You are consuming yourself in the flames.»

Kakashi frowned, feeling a pang of defensive irritation. —And who is this? —he murmured to the solitude of the living room, with that subtle annoyance that arises when a stranger seems to be reading your soul through a screen—. Since when do I follow this person?

Driven by an almost masochistic curiosity, he clicked on the profile. It was then that recognition hit him full force.

The photo. The name. The mutual friend tags. Iruka Umino.

He blinked, processing the image until the memory emerged from the depths of his memory with the force of a granite block. It happened a year ago, maybe more, during one of those dinners at Minato's house. His superior in the police force, that man of eternal warmth and golden hair, always insisted on organizing gatherings under the pretext of "maintaining team cohesion." Kushina had orchestrated a noisy, joyful banquet while little Naruto transformed the house into his own personal battlefield.

And there, among the laughter and the steam of food, he was.

A man with brown hair pulled back in a simple ponytail, with a scar crossing the bridge of his nose that, far from hardening his features, accentuated a look of disarming honesty. He wasn't police; he was a teacher. Minato had introduced him to their circle through Naruto's school, fascinated by the devotion with which the child spoke of his favorite teacher.

—He's Iruka —Minato had introduced proudly—. A great friend.

Iruka had given him a smile that Kakashi now recalled with painful clarity. It was an expression that came from the eyes, the kind that knows neither artifice nor fatigue. The evening passed with anecdotes, until Minato, with that paternal curiosity that characterized him, tossed the question into the air: —And you, Iruka? Any special someone on the horizon?

Iruka had blushed slightly, a human gesture that made him seem even more real. After a brief moment contemplating his plate, he looked up and responded with a transparency that clashed with the usual cynicism of Kakashi's world: —No, I'm single for now. But I guess I know very well what I'm looking for.

—Oh, really? —Kushina had leaned toward him, genuinely intrigued—. Tell us, don't keep it a secret.

Iruka shrugged with enviable serenity. —I look for emotional maturity, I suppose. Someone warm, empathetic... someone with whom dialogue is a bridge and not a barrier. Someone with whom silence is not a void to fill, but comfortable company. I'm not looking for someone who needs to be rescued; I'm not a hospital or a therapist. And I don't want anyone trying to save me either. I just want someone to walk beside, not someone I have to carry on my shoulders.

A dense but respectful silence enveloped the table, the kind that arises when someone articulates a truth that everyone longs for but few dare to ask. Until Obito's voice broke the spell.

—That's a utopia —he had let out with a dry, almost mocking laugh—. What you're asking for is an ideal of perfection that doesn't exist. No one is that functional.

Iruka had observed him then. There was no trace of offense on his face, no need to defend his position. He just maintained that imperturbable calm that seemed to be his natural refuge. —I'm not looking for perfection —he replied softly—. I'm looking for reality. I'm looking for someone willing to build a life with me, not someone who expects me to build theirs. They're very different concepts.

Obito let out a snort of disbelief and changed the subject to something trivial. Kakashi, at that moment, felt a burning shame run down his spine, one that forced him to bury that exchange in the darkest corner of his mind.

Because in Iruka's eyes, Kakashi had seen a mirror. One that forced him to look at Obito and question himself, if only for a second of weakness, whether his relationship was a shared path or if, in reality, he had been stooped for years under the weight of a burden that wasn't his.

Back then, fear prevented him from answering himself. And he decided to forget. Until that night. Because that night Obito didn't stop talking about that guy. About "Did you see how he looked at you? He definitely wanted you"; "He doesn't know anything, he must not know pain, Kashi! Those people are weird"; "He's not like me, who's been through a lot, you know? Not like us, who are insecure, who've been through things"; "He's someone who just fakes perfection, just a person who doesn't know what pain is."

And he didn't stop all night about why that stranger —Iruka— was just an idiot, someone who didn't know what pain was, or insecurities, and "not like me, who has suffered so much." God, did he really have to remember all that now? How uncomfortable it was.

Kakashi looked at Iruka's profile —it was curiosity driven by the shame from two years ago—. He saw the photos. He saw one with Naruto, both laughing, Naruto with his orange scarf and Iruka with that warm smile. He saw another with Minato and Kushina, at a barbecue. He saw another, just him, with a book in one hand and a cup of tea in the other.

He seemed... calm. At peace. Like someone who had learned to be okay with himself.

Kakashi felt something strange in his chest. Not exactly pain. Not sadness. Something more like an echo. A question he didn't want to ask himself.

Someone to walk beside, not someone to carry?

He lowered the phone. He left it on the table. He looked at his own cup of tea, now cold. He looked at the open book in his lap. He looked at the shelf where the cheap plastic samurai stared back at him with its badly glued sword.

And then, without really knowing why, he picked up the phone again.

He looked at Iruka's story again. That text about love, about hospitals, about homes.

—What a habit of reading my mind, stranger — he murmured, and almost, almost, managed a smile.

But it didn't come through.

The smile got stuck halfway, trapped somewhere between irony and pain.

Because Iruka wasn't reading his mind. Iruka was just saying obvious things. Things that anyone with a minimum of self-respect would know.

Things that Kakashi, at some point, had also known.

And had forgotten.

He didn't know how long he stayed like that, staring at the screen, looking at the photos of a stranger who said things that hurt because they were true.

When he looked at the time again, it was late. Obito still hadn't arrived.

Kakashi didn't expect him to.

He expected nothing, really.

And that, he thought, was the saddest part of all.

He put away his phone. He turned off the light. He stayed in the darkness, with the book in his lap and the cold cup of tea beside him.

And in his head, over and over, Iruka's phrase.

"Someone to walk beside, not someone to carry."

He closed his eyes.

And for the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to wonder if he, at some point, had stopped walking and started carrying.

And if anyone, in this relationship, had ever walked beside him.

The days following the revelation of Iruka's profile passed in a kind of emotional twilight. Kakashi moved through the apartment like a ghost, inhabiting a space that felt increasingly foreign, increasingly stripped of the warmth he once believed he had built. Routine was an anesthetic balm: work, bitter coffee, the polite silence he shared with Obito when he deigned to appear.

It was an ordinary morning, one of those where the gray of the sky seems to seep through the windows, when the precarious order of his denial cracked over an insignificant detail.

Kakashi was in the bathroom, getting ready for a day that already felt exhausting before it began. He reached toward the medicine cabinet, looking for a bandage for a minor cut he'd gotten in the kitchen, but his side of the shelf was empty. With a sigh of resignation, he slid his fingers toward Obito's drawer. He didn't usually do this; he respected that foreign chaos the way one respects a war zone, but the urgency of the moment overcame his reluctance.

He moved aside expired pill bottles, dull razors, and remnants of dried soap. And then, at the back, hidden behind an old bottle of sunscreen and a forgotten towel, his fingers brushed against something different. A small object, with cold glass and elegant edges that didn't fit with the roughness of Obito's toiletries.

He pulled it out slowly. It was a bottle of perfume.

It wasn't the citrusy, somewhat coarse fragrance Obito usually wore, nor was it the woody scent Kakashi used to prefer before Obito found it "too strong." It was a small bottle, delicately designed, containing a pink liquid that caught the scant light of the fluorescent bulb.

He uncapped it with an almost ritualistic movement. Instantly, a sweet, floral, deeply feminine aroma flooded the small bathroom space. It was a pretty fragrance, the kind that evokes spring gardens and sunny afternoons, something that clashed violently with the smell of staleness and fried fish that had settled into the apartment. Kakashi closed his eyes for a second, letting the scent dictate a truth his mind was still refusing to process. He didn't recognize that smell. It didn't belong to his life, nor to memories of his mother, nor to anything that was part of the world he shared with Obito.

He put the bottle back exactly where he'd found it, covering it again with the mess, but the scent clung to his fingers, like an invisible stain.

That night, when Obito crossed the threshold with his usual noisy, light energy, Kakashi watched him from the kitchen. He watched him put down his keys, watched him smile with that brightness that no longer reached his eyes, and felt how the void in his own chest widened.

—Whose perfume is that in the bathroom drawer? —Kakashi asked with a naturalness that cost him years of police training to fake. His voice sounded flat, almost curious, as if asking about the weather or the fish for dinner.

Obito froze. It was barely a second, a blink longer than normal, a subtle stiffening in the line of his shoulders that for anyone else would have gone unnoticed, but for Kakashi was like a scream in the middle of the night.

—What perfume? —Obito let out a short laugh, the kind he used to disguise discomfort as a joke—. Oh, that... must be Rin's. She stayed over once, months ago, and forgot it. Yeah, that must be it.

Kakashi nodded slowly, keeping his gaze fixed on the black-haired man. He said nothing more. He simply watched how Obito looked away toward the television, seeking refuge in external noise so he wouldn't have to bear the weight of his own lie.

But Kakashi's mind, the one Obito often dismissed as "too smart" or "nerdy" with contempt, began to dissect the phrase. Rin hadn't stayed over. Never. Rin lived in the adjacent building; she was his next-door neighbor, his lifelong friend. Why would she cross a hallway to sleep on an uncomfortable sofa or a shared bed, leaving her own things behind? The lie was crude, a patch badly glued like the sword of the plastic samurai decorating the shelf.

He felt something cold, much colder than the snowless winter he thought he was stuck in, settle definitively in his stomach. It was the certainty that Obito's disinterest wasn't just tiredness or a "rough patch," but something much more deliberate and cruel.

He didn't mention the perfume again. He didn't ask for explanations, nor did he seek the confrontation that Obito always ended up winning through victimhood. Simply, like someone adjusting a camera lens to focus on a painful scene, Kakashi began to pay attention. To the messages that arrived late, to the scents that weren't his, and to that void that, he now knew, wasn't an absence of love, but the presence of a betrayal that still had no name.

Maybe it was habit. Come on, Kakashi isn't that stupid, he knows his love has died and is kilometers deep in the sea. Who really cares? He can't let him go, not for love, not for fear, just... He doesn't know, truly there is a sliver of hope living in the depths of his heart, of his soul, maybe some self-loathing that wouldn't allow him to move from there. The fear of losing who was his best friend, the fear of losing the only thing he has ever loved.

The fear of... Of being alone and not knowing who he was without Obito by his side? The fear of knowing the answer. Of a man who has always cared, consoled, who has always been a nurse, a psychologist, who has always been a lover, father, mother, brother, friend, who has always been everything and received nothing. That his effort was worth nothing, that was his fear.

But he didn't want to think about that. He closed his eyes, took a breath, and thought that he was just exaggerating, that he was imagining things, that everything would be okay. He repeated it to himself like a mantra, at least until the night Obito decided to play childish and immature again.

The night felt heavy, dense like the smoke from a fire that won't go out. They were on the sofa, the TV light bathing their faces in pale blue flashes while some random series filled the void of the living room. For Kakashi, it was a desperate attempt to "walk beside" someone, to share a language that didn't require putting out fires. But the silence, the one Iruka described as comfortable company, in Obito's hands was a sharp weapon.

—This character is much better than the one you like —Obito suddenly blurted out, breaking the truce with a laugh that wasn't funny at all.

Kakashi raised an eyebrow, feeling that chronic tiredness settling at the base of his neck. —Again? —he murmured, trying to keep his voice in that neutral tone that avoided explosion.

—It's true. Yours is boring —Obito insisted, pointing at the screen with a contempt that seemed directed at Kakashi himself—. I don't understand how you can like something so... flat.

—Obito, they're tastes. It's not a competition —Kakashi replied, closing his eyes for an instant, internally begging for the conversation to die there.

But Obito had already raised his shield. His shoulders tensed, his gaze darkened, and that smirk of superiority appeared to disguise the wound he was provoking in himself.

—Sure, always the same. "It's not a competition." But you always have to be right, don't you? You always have to like the best, the most intelligent, the most cultured. What's on "your level."

Kakashi looked at him, genuinely lost in the labyrinth of that twisted logic. —What are you talking about? We're not discussing culture, Obito. It's just fiction.

—It's about you making me feel like an idiot, Kakashi. Always. With your series that analyze every shot, your five-hundred-page books, your documentaries. Nothing I like is ever good enough for you. You always look at me like I'm... less.

Silence fell between them, a dizzying void. Kakashi processed the words, trying to find the exact moment when "I like this character" had transformed into a personal attack on Obito's intelligence.

—I've never said that —Kakashi finally said, his voice small, feeling how the air grew scarce in his lungs.

—You don't have to say it. It shows. It shows in how you explain things to me like I'm a child, in how you smile when I say something that's not "deep," in how you change the subject when I talk about my video games.

—Obito, I spend hours listening to you —Kakashi replied, and this time indignation seeped through the cracks in his self-control—. I listen to your theories, I play what you want, I watch the movies you choose, even if they're bad, because I want to be with you. When have I ever said your tastes aren't good?

—You don't have to say it —Obito repeated, closing the circle.

It was the same cycle as always, a snake biting its own tail. Kakashi tried to use reason, facts, the logic of someone who has learned to investigate the truth. But against "it shows," there was no possible defense. There are no arguments against a distorted perception that feeds on its own victimhood.

Kakashi let out a long sigh, a sound that carried months of surrender inside him. —Fine. What do you want me to do?

—I don't want you to do anything. I just want you not to make me feel like an idiot.

—I'm not trying to make you feel like an idiot, Obito. I never have.

—Well, you do.

Without adding another word, Obito stood up. His footsteps echoed in the hallway with a deliberate heaviness until the bedroom door slammed shut, sealing the discussion, leaving Kakashi alone with the echo of the bang and the background series, which kept playing as if the world weren't shattering into a thousand pieces of cheap plastic.

He stayed there, motionless on the sofa, staring without seeing the screen. He wondered when his love had become a hospital where the patient attacked the one trying to heal them.

Hours later, when the early morning was already filtering through the cracks, Obito came out of the bedroom. He walked with that insulting lightness, as if the storm from earlier had never happened. There was no "sorry for what I said," no acknowledgment of the pain etched into Kakashi's chest.

—Is there dinner? —Obito asked, his gaze fixed on the kitchen.

Only hunger. Only immediate needs. Only Obito being the center of his own universe while Kakashi, once again, got up with heavy bones to set the table, swallowing the rage and tears so as not to reignite the fire.

He didn't remember giving birth to a child, he didn't remember signing a contract to have a patient, he didn't remember installing a goddamn hospital.

But the worst were the following days. Kakashi began to notice things, small, almost insignificant things. The ones he would have ignored before because he trusted, because he believed, because he needed to believe. But now his eyes seemed to have learned to see differently. As if something inside him had adjusted, like a camera finding focus after a long time of blurriness.

Obito would come home and put his phone face down on any surface. Always, as if the gesture were a reflex, a learned defense mechanism.

Obito would laugh at messages he didn't show. A short, complicit laugh that cut off when Kakashi looked up. Then silence, then the phone put away, then nothing.

Obito would go out to "get some air" at eleven at night. With his jacket on, with an easy excuse, with the door closing before Kakashi could ask "Get air where?"

Obito would come back with wet hair at strange hours. Two, three in the morning. The smell of dampness, of shampoo, of something that wasn't his own shower because in their house the hot water took a while to come out and he always complained about it.

And there were days Obito smelled different. Not of perfume, not of anything so obvious, it was more subtle. Of different soap. Of shower gel they didn't have in the apartment, a clean, fresh scent that Kakashi didn't associate with anything they shared. Kakashi said nothing, but he noticed everything.

In his head, in a corner that once held trust, there was now a list. Without words, without concrete evidence, only sensations. Only those small things that, together, began to weigh more than they should.

He didn't want to think badly. He didn't want to become that kind of person, the paranoid boyfriend who sees shadows where maybe there are only trees. But the shadows were there, each day stretching a little longer.

One night, Obito left his phone on the table. He went to the bathroom, without thinking, without that obsessive care he always had. The phone lay there face up, the screen still warm from recent use.

Kakashi looked at it.

He didn't touch it. He didn't approach. He just looked at it from his place on the sofa, with the book open in his lap and the words dancing again without meaning.

And then the phone vibrated.

The screen lit up.

And Kakashi saw.

A notification. A name he didn't recognize. A message that only showed the first words, the ones that appear in the preview before you decide to open or ignore.

"Love, shall we meet tomorrow? I can't wait to..."

The rest wasn't visible. It didn't need to be.

Kakashi stayed still.

The word bounced off his chest like a rubber bullet. Love. Not "Obito." Not "hey." Not "hello." Love.

Time stopped. Or so it seemed. Seconds turned into minutes, the letters on the screen etched into his retina like red-hot iron.

He heard the water running in the bathroom. He heard his own heartbeats, too loud, too fast.

Love.

The screen went dark. The silence returned.

And then the bathroom opened.

Obito came out, drying his hands on his pants, with that naturalness of someone who doesn't know his world has just tilted a few degrees toward the abyss. He looked at his phone. Picked it up. And then he looked at Kakashi.

Something in his eyes changed. Something alert. Something defensive.

—What? —he asked. His voice sharp. Defiant. As if Kakashi were the one who had done something wrong.

Kakashi looked at him.

He could have said something. He could have asked "who is that?" He could have pointed at the phone, the notification, the word still burning his retina. He could have started another conversation, another argument, another turn of the same old circle.

But he said nothing.

Because he already knew how that conversation ended. He already knew the script. The excuses, the victim-playing, the "you're just too perfect," the "you always judge me," the "you don't trust me." Obito would turn him into the villain of the story, and Kakashi would end up apologizing for having seen what he saw.

Tired. He was so tired.

—Nothing —he said.

And he smiled.

A small smile. Polite. A smile of "no problem, everything's fine." A smile he had rehearsed so many times that it came out on its own now, without effort, like another reflex.

But it was a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Obito scrutinized him for a second. Two. Looking for something, some crack, some sign that Kakashi had seen something. But Kakashi had already learned to hide. To put on the face he needed to put on. To be the one who always understood everything, who never caused drama, who swallowed and swallowed and swallowed.

—Okay —Obito said, and put the phone in his pocket—. I'm going to sleep.

He left. As always. Leaving Kakashi on the sofa, with the book in his lap and the dead smile on his face.

Kakashi stayed still for a long time.

Then he looked at his hands. The hands that cooked, that cleaned, that caressed, that waited. The hands that never held a phone with secrets, because he had nothing to hide.

Love.

The word spun in his head like a knife.

And somewhere very deep, very far down, something that had been holding on for months —maybe years— began to crack.

It didn't break completely. Not that night. But a crack appeared. A small one. The kind through which later, when you least expect it, light ends up entering.

Or cold.

He still didn't know which of the two.

He watched Obito sleep, looked back at the phone. He couldn't shake that thorn, but it wasn't painful, it was... annoying. Too uncomfortable, he was almost at the limit, just a little more was missing, just a little to be able to break in two, to scream all the accumulated rage in his lungs, in his heart, in his soul. But there was no pain, and that, that was the saddest part.

A few days passed after the notification. Obito, in a display of cynicism that Kakashi almost mistook for effort, had been "attentive." He arrived early, rehearsed questions about his day, feigned interest. Kakashi, with that self-loathing that still whispered hopes to him, allowed himself to doubt his own eyes. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe I'm just paranoid.

Until fate, or Obito's own negligence, left his Instagram session open on the computer.

Kakashi didn't have to search. There was no need to rummage through drawers or decipher passwords. The screen was there, vomiting the truth in his face with the obscene brightness of direct messages.

It wasn't a slip. It was a parallel life. An instruction manual on how to love someone, executed to perfection... only the recipient was never him.

The budget of disinterest: Obito always dragged his feet when Kakashi suggested a getaway. "No money," "work is tough," "traveling is a useless expense." But on the screen, the photos burned: weekends on the coast, cabins in the mountains, the blue sea in the background. "With you, everywhere is special," Obito wrote. The money existed; what didn't exist was the desire to spend it on a landscape where Kakashi was present. The theater of dates: For Kakashi, the plan was always the sofa and silence. Obito said going out was boring, that he preferred "the comfort of home." Lies. The reservation history showed a route of elegant restaurants, candlelit dinners, and concert tickets. Everything Kakashi had begged for over the years, Obito served on a silver platter to someone else without being asked. The affection agenda: Kakashi guarded anniversaries like solitary treasures, while Obito forgot them with insulting consistency. But there were the screenshots: reminders set with alarms. "Her birthday," "buy flowers." Flowers. Kakashi looked down at his empty hands. In all those years, Obito had never walked through the door with a single petal for him. Active listening: At home, Obito would fall asleep if Kakashi talked about movies or books, or worse, he'd dismiss him as a "nerd" with contempt. In the audios on the screen, however, Obito's voice was an echo of fascination. He asked questions, asked for more, laughed with a complicity Kakashi didn't recognize. "Tell me more," said the man who at his own table only knew how to grunt or emit leaden silences. The charade of the bed: "I'm tired," "I have a headache," "tomorrow, Kashi." The litany of rejection that Kakashi accepted as a sentence of cold. But the messages spoke of electric early mornings, clandestine meetings in hotels, of a desire that knew no exhaustion. Obito didn't have an energy problem; he had a destination problem. The fire was still there, Obito simply used it to warm another house while letting his own become covered in frost. The recovered smile: But what really churned his stomach was the photo gallery. Obito was smiling. It wasn't the grimace of obligation he put on at dinners with Gai or Anko. It was the smile from his childhood. Bright, genuine, stupid with happiness. The smile Kakashi thought was lost forever and that, apparently, was only kept under lock and key, far from his reach.

Kakashi looked away from the screen. He didn't feel like crying. He felt a deep nausea, an indignation that ran down his spine like an electric current.

They weren't cheating on him with another person; they were cheating on him with the version of Obito he always knew existed and that had been systematically denied to him. He felt like a spectator in the life of a man who reserved the best of himself for the outside world, while giving him the leftovers, the "I'm tired"s, and the cheap plastic samurai.

It was no longer a hospital. It was a scam. And he had just read the full contract.

Kakashi read. Message after message, photo after photo, proof after proof of a life that had been systematically denied to him. He didn't cry, he didn't scream, nor did he feel the urge to break absolutely anything. He only experienced how something very deep, at the core of his being, finally disconnected; it was like a fuse blowing in the middle of a storm to keep the entire structure from going up in flames.

Then the truth emerged with the coldness of a police report: it wasn't that Obito couldn't be that attentive and romantic man. It wasn't that he was really tired, or that exhaustion prevented him from inhabiting his own relationship. It wasn't that he hated dates, trips, gifts, or public displays of affection.

The reality was much crueler and simpler: it was that Kakashi was not who Obito considered worthy of that effort. That was what finally bled out the little hope that remained, much more than the infidelity itself or the web of crude lies that sustained their days. The sleepless nights waiting for a sound at the door didn't hurt, nor did the cheap excuses, nor the silences that weighed like lead. What destroyed him was the absolute certainty that Obito could, that Obito did know how to love and, above all, that Obito did want to. He had just decided, deliberately, that with him it wasn't worth trying.

He heard the door open.

Obito's footsteps in the entryway. His voice, cheerful, casual.

—I'm home. Is there dinner?

Kakashi didn't move. He kept staring at the screen.

Obito appeared at the study door. He saw the scene. He saw his computer. He saw the messages. He saw Kakashi's face.

The color drained from his skin.

—Kakashi, I... that's not what it looks like.

Kakashi looked up. Slowly. As if looking up took superhuman effort.

And he said, with a voice so flat it was frightening:

—Then what does it look like?

Obito opened his mouth. Closed it. Searched for words he didn't find.

—Because what it looks like —Kakashi continued— is that you did with her everything you never wanted to do with me. Trips. Dinners. Flowers. I love you. Energy. Time. Excitement. Everything.

His voice didn't tremble.

—What it looks like is that you weren't tired. You weren't broken. You weren't depressed. You weren't insecure. You were just... with me.

Obito took a step forward.

—Kakashi, please, let me explain—

—Explain what? —Kakashi's voice rose for the first time, just a little, just enough to make Obito stop—. That you lied to me? That you hid things from me? That you made me feel like I was the problem, that I asked for too much, that I was the one who didn't understand, when really you just... I just wasn't enough for you?

He stood up. The computer remained behind him, all the evidence still on the screen.

—You did everything with her —he said, and now his voice did tremble, now it did break—. Everything I asked for, everything I dreamed of, everything I waited years for... you gave it to her. And to me, you gave excuses. Silences. Turned backs. Crumbs.

Obito shook his head, fast, nervous.

—It's not like that, it's just that... she's different, she understands me, she—

—She understands you? —Kakashi let out a bitter laugh, the kind that tastes like bile—. And me? What was I, Obito? Your therapist? Your savior? Your emotional cushion while you waited to find someone you actually liked?

The silence that followed was worse than any scream.

Because Obito didn't deny it.

He just looked at the floor. As always. Like every time the truth weighed too heavily on him.

And Kakashi understood.

He understood everything.

—You know what the worst part is? —he whispered, and the tears that hadn't wanted to come before began to gather in his eyes—. The worst part isn't that you cheated on me. The worst part is that you made me believe the problem was me. That I wasn't enough. That I asked for too much. That I was too intense, too sensitive, too much. You made me doubt myself for years... and all this time, you could. You just didn't want to. With me.

Obito looked up.

—Kakashi, I love you—

—No. —The word cut through the air like a whip—. Don't say that. Don't tell me "I love you" after all this. Don't do that to me. Did you enjoy it? Huh?!

Obito fell silent, there was... horror in his gaze, but Kakashi cared little when the storm had just begun.

—Tell me if you enjoyed me being like your goddamn father! —He shouted, thunder beginning to show reflected in his eyes—. I was your damn nurse, your damn therapist, it was always me putting in the effort! I gave everything, absolutely everything.

He felt his throat closing, his watery eyes burning more than ever. Obito wanted to speak, but Kakashi just gave him a look to shut him up.

—You always compared yourself to me and felt inferior! Always, as if it were my fucking fault, Uchiha!

—Ka...Kashi, I—

—Don't call me Kashi, dammit!

The silence echoed like thunder, and the hurricane was far from calming. He was letting go of all that pain, rage, sadness accumulated over years, the water overflowing, the winds blowing, and the lightning resonating with immense force.

—You always compared yourself to me, making me feel guilty. You know what the worst part is, Obito? Huh?! Answer me!

—You said not to say anything!

—It's that you're always a fucking coward. —Kakashi clenched his jaw, his voice trembled, but his legs remained firm—. A fucking toxic, victim-playing manipulator who hides in his own pain to excuse himself, but can't face things, can't have a little maturity.

He stepped back, walked to the door, his hands trembling on the door, but he tried to hide it.

—I hate you, I despise you, that's the worst part. You don't deserve anything, you don't deserve a single shred of any kind of feeling, Obito. You're pathetic, you were just looking for an emotional therapist and I was the idiot standing right next to you, right?

—Kakashi, I don't...

His voice sounded broken, there was something like regret.

—This time I'll really try, I swear! But you have to understand me, I don't know what's wrong with me.

—What's wrong with you is that you're an idiot, a fucking narcissist seeking validation.

Kakashi opened the door, looking again with anger toward the jet-black haired man.

—I'm going to Minato's tonight, but if I come back tomorrow and you're still here, I'll burn all your things, you hear me? Leave. You have until tomorrow morning.

And he slammed the door behind him, leaning against it as he closed his eyes and pressed his lips together, screaming silently, feeling the hot tears sliding down his cheeks.

Had the night in Tokyo always been so beautiful? He had never noticed it before. Was he too busy trying to save something that couldn't be saved? Letting the pain drown him in the sea waves. Why? He just didn't understand: so much effort for nothing? Fighting for nothing? It was always him alone against the world, against the relationship, against everything. When would someone actually sit with him, offer him tea, and listen? But truly, not out of obligation, not because there was no other choice, not out of pity. But because there was genuine interest. But Kakashi is an idiot. How would he face his friends to tell them everything that happened? Yes, he was the idiot who didn't want to listen, he understands that... But was it all his fault? He genuinely couldn't comprehend it: was it completely his fault? Maybe yes, but to the level of infidelity? To the level of playing with his heart? To the level of using him just because his love was beautiful? It was obvious that Obito was in love with the love Kakashi gave him, not with Kakashi himself. And thinking about that while watching the moon hide timidly among the clouds, hurts.

He knew the way, the way to Minato's house. That man always told him he could trust him like a father, like they were family, and they were, weren't they? When he arrived, he knocked on the door timidly, cold, because he had left without a scarf and his nose was freezing.

Minato came out, the door of that house closing behind the blonde, a soft, welcoming sound, so different from the slam he had given an hour ago. Kakashi stood still at the entrance, not really knowing what to do with his hands, with his body, with all that pain that weighed on him as if he carried all the oceans of the world inside.

—Kakashi? —A feminine voice brought him out of his trance, the door again slightly ajar, a red-haired woman came out of the door, with an expression mixed between confusion, surprise, and maternal concern—. Minato, let him in!

Minato murmured something Kakashi didn't hear, but he entered with a certain shyness, as if he hadn't been in that house many times before.

—Have you eaten? —The woman asked as she hurried toward the kitchen. Minato smiled, with that paternal, warm expression that reminded Kakashi that not everything was lost.

—No, I haven't eaten —he replied with his dull, lazy, drawn-out voice. He didn't remember the last time he had eaten something meaningful. He shook his head, a small, childish gesture that reminded him that sometimes, just sometimes, it was allowed not to be okay.

Kushina asked no questions. She served him hot soup, put a blanket over his shoulders when she saw him shivering —even though it wasn't cold— and left him on the sofa with a steaming cup of tea in his hands. Minato sat beside him, in silence, waiting.

And Kakashi, for the first time in years, allowed himself not to speak.

Just to be.

Just to receive.

Just to let the warmth of the soup and the silent presence of someone who asked for nothing in return remind him that there was another way of being with people. One that didn't involve carrying, or saving, or putting out fires.

The wall clock in the Namikaze living room marked three in the morning with a rhythmic, almost hypnotic tick-tock. Kakashi was still there, the blanket Kushina had put over his shoulders weighing on him as if it were made of lead. He had let everything out. The words had come from his mouth like bile, thick and bitter: the empty bank account from trips he never took, the contract for an apartment that now felt like a tomb of fraudulent memories, and the irrevocable decision to sell everything so as not to leave even a trace of Obito's scent in his lungs.

Minato had listened without a single interruption, maintaining that calm that always made one feel safe, but also deeply exposed.

—You can't go back there, Kakashi —Minato murmured finally, breaking the silence. His voice was soft, but it had the edge of an order that admitted no argument—. Not while the sale process is underway. That place will devour you.

Kakashi squeezed the cup of tea, now cold, between his hands. —I know. But I have nowhere to go that doesn't smell of him. Gai has his family... and I don't want to be the fire others have to put out.

Minato leaned forward, leaving his own cup on the coffee table. His blue eyes studied his student's tired face, looking for a way to offer him a bridge that didn't seem like a rescue raft.

—A few days ago I spoke with Iruka —Minato said, with calculated casualness—. Naruto's teacher.

The name sent an electric jolt through the base of Kakashi's skull. The memory of the dinner two years ago, Obito's dry laugh, and the transparent gaze of that man with the scar on his nose flashed through his mind in an instant. «Love is not a hospital.»

—I remember him —Kakashi replied, his voice so rough it hurt his throat.

—He's moving to a bigger place near the school. He needs a roommate, someone who values silence and order as much as he does —Minato paused, measuring his words—. It's not a favor, Kakashi. It's a mutual need. He's looking for someone to walk beside him with expenses, and you... you need a home where you are simply allowed to be.

Kakashi looked down. The idea of packing his life, or what was left of it, into boxes and moving in with a stranger was terrifying. But the word "home" resonated differently from "apartment." It wasn't an offer of salvation, it was an honest transaction. Exactly what Iruka had defended at that table while Obito mocked him.

—I don't know him at all, Minato —Kakashi said, although deep down, he felt that Iruka's words on Instagram knew him better than anyone at that moment—. I only saw him once.

—Sometimes, once is enough to know if someone is a safe place —Minato replied with a sad smile—. Think about it. Iruka isn't looking to save anyone, and I know you don't want to be saved. It's just... a shared roof. No emotional debts.

Kakashi closed his eyes, letting the steam from the tea moisten his face. For the first time in years, uncertainty didn't feel like an abyss, but like a half-open door.

The morning in Tokyo filtered through the blinds with a luminous cruelty, a clarity that didn't ask permission to expose every speck of dust and every crack in the furniture's varnish. Kakashi turned the key in the lock, a gesture that for years had been an act of faith and now felt like the closing of a notarial deed. Upon entering, the air didn't hit him with the usual reproach; the apartment didn't smell of the urgency of demanded sex or of the foreign perfume that used to cling to the curtains like a stowaway.

The silence was absolute, but it wasn't the suffocating emptiness of nights spent waiting. It was a clean silence, almost clinical.

Obito was gone.

Kakashi walked down the hall with slow steps, letting his socks slide over the cold wood. He entered the bedroom and stood in the doorway. The closet was open, showing an incomplete set of empty hangers that once held the jackets of someone who always had one foot out the door. There was no trace of the chaos, of the discarded backpack, or of the emotional sores Obito left in his wake. He had taken his mess, his lies, and his ability to make Kakashi feel small.

He went through the kitchen. The sink was dry. He looked at the pan where three nights ago the fish had gone cold under the gaze of two cups of tea that served as tombstones for an anniversary that never happened. In that corner, Kakashi had been a nurse, a therapist, and a cook of miso soup that no longer tasted like home, but like mere survival. Every tile seemed to exhale a sigh of relief, freed from the weight of circular arguments and the "I'm sorrys" that never carried a real apology attached to them.

Then, his gray eyes landed on the living room shelf.

The cheap plastic samurai was still there. Obito had forgotten it, or perhaps, in a final act of disdain, had decided it wasn't even worth the effort of putting it in a box. Kakashi approached and picked it up between his long fingers. Under the midday light, the toy looked pathetic: the white crust of badly applied glue, the crooked sword, and that patina of grease and soy sauce that revealed it had been bought out of obligation at a convenience store while Obito thought of someone else.

It was the physical representation of their relationship: something generic, broken from the start, and held together by industrial glue that fooled no one.

Kakashi didn't clench his fist. He simply opened his hand, letting gravity do the work he hadn't dared to do in years. The crack of plastic against the floor was small, a dry sound that barely disturbed the apartment's stillness. He looked at the fragments scattered on the floor: the head on one side, the arm with the glue crust on the other. He crouched with a ritual calm, picked up the pieces, and dropped them into the trash bag on top of the remains of last night's Chinese food.

There was no epiphany of pain. There were no hot tears burning his cheeks like the ones he had shed on Minato's shoulder. There was, instead, a strange sensation of space.

He sat on the living room floor, surrounded by the echo of his own thoughts. In front of him, a cardboard box waited to be filled. With unhurried movements, he began to filter his own life. He kept the handwritten letter from when they were children, when love was still a shared bento and a silent presence after his father's suicide. Those memories weren't a betrayal; they were the ground he had once walked on before everything became a minefield.

But he left out the empty gifts, the books Obito never opened, and the photos where his own smile looked forced, rehearsed so as not to discomfort the man who called him "perfect" as if it were an insult.

When the sun began to descend, tinting the white walls a melancholic orange, Kakashi leaned against the window glass. He watched Tokyo stretching toward the horizon, a city of millions of people where a teacher named Iruka spoke of walking beside and not carrying on one's shoulders.

The void in his chest still hurt, that vertigo of having no one to save and no one to hide from. He didn't know if the cracks in his heart would heal or if he would simply learn to live with the cold air that entered through them. But, as he watched the city lights turn on one by one, Kakashi felt his lungs expand without stumbling over the anxiety of waiting.

The passing of a month hadn't erased the feeling of being an intruder, but it had transformed it into a kind of blind choreography. Iruka's apartment smelled of wood, old paper, and a jasmine tea that didn't try to hide any betrayal, and that, for someone coming from a gray, stagnant winter, was almost overwhelming.

Coexistence had settled into the margins of the clock. As a police officer, Kakashi inhabited the shadows of the early morning, returning when the sun was just beginning to punish the blinds. Iruka, on the other hand, was a creature of light and school schedules who left the house with the enthusiasm of someone who doesn't have to put out others' fires. They were two ships crossing in the dimness of the hallway: one arriving with the cold of the street in his bones, and the other leaving with the scent of freshly brewed coffee.

Their only real point of contact were the yellow post-its Iruka stuck on the coffee maker or the edge of the table, written in a teacher's clear, kind handwriting.

«There's miso soup in the fridge. Don't let it get as cold as last time.» «Naruto asked about you. He wants to know if you'll come to soccer practice.»

Kakashi read them with his dry humor and that emotional hangover that still weighed on his eyelids, feeling a bit like a patient in rehabilitation beginning to notice he didn't need a hospital, but a home. But that morning, when he entered the apartment with his feet hurting and his soul sluggish, the coffee maker's surface was deserted.

There was no yellow paper. No trace of Iruka's ink.

Kakashi blinked, feeling a ridiculous, almost childish void in his chest. He poured himself a cup of coffee, leaning on the counter as he looked at the empty spot where his daily dose of "normalcy" should be.

—No note —he murmured to himself with a bitter smile that didn't reach his eyes—. Oh no. It's going to be a bad day.

He said it like an inside joke, an attempt at lightness to silence that treacherous thought that always reminded him how little he felt he deserved for someone to truly stay. He drank his coffee in silence, looking at the plastic samurai that was no longer on his shelf, replaced by the peace of an apartment that didn't demand he be a savior.

He didn't know that fate has a rather twisted sense of humor when it comes to premonitions spoken at random.

The premonition of the missing post-it came to life as soon as Kakashi turned the corner of the street separating the police station from the metro station. The morning air was freezing, the kind that forces you to bury your chin in your scarf, but the cold he felt upon seeing the silhouette outlined against the brick wall was of a different nature.

Obito was there.

He hadn't expected him, hadn't looked for him, but the image brought back an echo of all the times that same presence had meant the beginning of a fire Kakashi had to put out. Obito maintained that pose of studied indolence, shoulders slumped and gaze laden with that fragility he always used as a shield to avoid being judged.

—Kakashi —he said, and his voice sounded small, with that hint of rehearsed regret that once would have disarmed any defense—. I need to talk to you.

Kakashi stopped. He looked at him with those gray eyes Obito used to call "cloudy days," and for a second, years of habit pulled at him. He felt the almost biological impulse to ask, to open the door to explanation, to offer that "emotional cushion" that had been his only function for too long.

But then, the memory of the cheap plastic samurai in yesterday's trash interposed itself between them.

He remembered the hidden notifications, the scent of foreign soap, and the absolute certainty that Obito wasn't broken, but simply busy loving someone else with the energy he denied him. He remembered that the problem was never Obito's inability to love, but his deliberate decision that Kakashi wasn't worth the effort.

Something that had been numbed under layers of "I'm fine" finally regained sensation.

—No —he said.

Obito blinked, surprise fracturing his victim mask.

—What do you mean, no? I just want to explain, I want to tell you that—

—No —Kakashi repeated, and his voice was the reflection of the clean silence that now inhabited Iruka's apartment—. I don't want to hear you. I don't want your explanations, or your apologies, or your promises of change that only last until the next dinner. I don't want anything.

—But Kakashi, I—

—You used me —he interrupted, and this time there was no courtesy in his tone—. You used me as a therapist and a savior while you kept the best of yourself —the trips, the flowers, the real interest— for someone who wasn't me. I spent years waiting for you to look at me one day with the same light you looked at that screen. Waiting for crumbs from a banquet you served at another table.

Obito opened his mouth, but the silence that followed was the same he used to leave in the kitchen while Kakashi waited with cold fish.

—But that was never going to happen —Kakashi continued, feeling how the weight of the burden finally slid from his shoulders—. Because you didn't want Kakashi. You wanted what Kakashi did for you.

—Kakashi, I do love you, really—

—No. Love is asking how someone is and staying to listen to the answer. It's not mocking what the other loves in front of friends. It's making an effort. You did none of that with me because I was never your partner; I was your hospital.

Obito's eyes were bright, tears welling up as they always did when he lost control of the narrative.

—But I can change —he insisted, taking a step that Kakashi didn't allow to close the distance—. I can try. Give me another chance.

Kakashi looked at him for a long time. He saw the boy who brought bentos with lies about his grandmother, and he saw the man who had left another woman's perfume in his bathroom drawer. And he understood that the Obito he loved was a mirage he himself had fed to avoid admitting he was alone in his own bed.

—No —he said for the third time—. There are no more chances. The debts are settled.

Obito burst into tears, loud and desperate crying. But Kakashi didn't feel the urge to console him, nor the guilt that once forced him to apologize for another's pain. He only felt an ancient tiredness that had finally found a place to rest.

—Leave, Obito. And do yourself a favor: find a real therapist. I don't have any appointments left for you.

He turned around and started walking.

—Kakashi! —Obito's scream was lost in the indifferent noise of the city.

But Kakashi didn't stop. He kept walking toward the apartment where there would be no fires to put out, only a cup of tea and maybe, if he was lucky, a new yellow post-it waiting on the coffee maker to remind him that walking beside someone is much better than carrying them.

For the first time in years, his steps didn't weigh.

The extra twenty-four-hour shift at the station had been the perfect refuge to process the echo of Obito's voice. After the encounter, Kakashi had immersed himself in reports and early morning patrols, hoping that physical exhaustion would finally silence the emotional hangover of having cut the last thread with his past.

When he finally turned the key to Iruka's apartment the next morning, his eyelids weighed like lead. He expected the deathly silence of an empty home, but what he found was a scene that forced him to stop dead.

Iruka was in front of the open refrigerator, his brown hair escaping from a messy bun and his shoulders hunched. He didn't have a plate in his hand; he was eating something directly from the container, the cold light of the appliance illuminating his sleepy face. Upon hearing the door, the teacher jumped, almost choking, and closed the refrigerator door with a dull thud.

—Kakashi! I... sorry —Iruka hurried to say, clearing his throat with evident embarrassment—, I thought you'd arrive later. It's a bad habit on rushed mornings.

Kakashi raised an eyebrow, maintaining that lazy expression that hid his tiredness.

—Plates exist, you know? —he murmured with his dry humor.

—I know! It's just that... —Iruka started gesticulating, trying to build a logical defense about time efficiency before work, but stopped when he saw his roommate's expression.

For the first time in that month of coexistence through notes, Kakashi was truly looking at him. Not as "Minato's acquaintance" or "the author of the post-its," but as the man who shared his space. He seemed genuinely pleasant; there was a real warmth in his morning disarray that didn't feel rehearsed or dangerous.

Iruka frowned, tilting his head at the silent scrutiny.

—What? Why are you looking at me like that? Do I have sauce on my face?

—You didn't leave a note yesterday —Kakashi blurted out, looking away toward the empty coffee maker.

—Oh —Iruka made a small pout, a gesture so honest it made Kakashi's chest feel less heavy—. I left in a hurry. Besides, I thought you didn't really care about them. They're just yellow papers.

—You brought me bad luck —Kakashi replied. He didn't mention Obito, or the encounter, or the tears on the sidewalk. He simply allowed himself to accept that this small ritual was, perhaps, the first foundation of something healthy.

He walked to the table, picked up a pad of post-its and a pen. He wrote a series of digits and handed it to Iruka.

—Your number? —Iruka asked, blinking with surprise as he realized that, after a month, they didn't even have a way to contact each other outside these walls.

—So you don't have to waste paper when you're in a hurry —Kakashi said with a small smile that, for the first time in years, didn't feel like a mask.

Iruka laughed, a soft laugh that filled the kitchen.

—Deal, Hatake.