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Just over the two-month mark after getting together, Kakashi departs for what’s supposed to be a three-day mission. With a little luck, the jounin says, he might be home a day sooner, depending on how smoothly the A-rank goes.
On his way out, he lingers in Iruka’s doorway, as he always does. Every time, it seems that he stays just a little longer, and wants to leave just a little less. Iruka would like to think so, at least.
“Go and come back,” he smiles, because he can’t show the worry he begins to feel before his boyfriend’s even fully past the threshold. It’s a distraction Kakashi doesn’t need in the field, and it’s a weakness he doesn’t particularly want to show.
And as always, in lieu of a goodbye, the jounin kisses him before taking to the rooftops.
Even though he understands why he wouldn’t say it, just for once, Iruka wouldn’t mind a see you soon.
----
On the third day, Iruka picks up eggplant from the market after work.
He prepares dinner close to when he guesses Kakashi will arrive home, and when that estimate turns out to be off, he keeps the food warm for an hour, then two. It takes effort for Iruka to finally stop waiting to have his meal, and even then, he barely gets through half his plate.
Just in case the jounin gets back in the middle of the night, he wraps an individual portion to leave in the fridge.
Several times as Iruka is falling asleep, he jolts back awake at a noise he thinks could be Kakashi slipping inside, and every time, the bedroom remains empty, and the apartment silent.
----
The fourth day arrives with no sign of him.
Iruka resolves to stay calm and avoid dwelling on his lateness. A-ranks are complicated by nature, something well beyond his own skill level, and it’s perfectly normal for time estimates to be off. Even as a small child, he had been prepared for one or both of his parents to occasionally arrive home late from a difficult mission.
But still, he dwells.
It begins as a small, nagging anxiety: a tightening in his chest, a lump in his throat. The sensation is both foreign and familiar— something he is painfully acquainted with, but not in recent memory.
Iruka had learned a fundamental lesson earlier in life than most others: loss is an inherent part of being a shinobi. In their occupation, minor slip-ups could mean the difference between life and death, regardless of the mission’s rank or team. With spies, disasters, and accidents always a looming threat, even keeping inside the walls of the village isn’t a promise of stability, but being active in the field only skyrockets that potential for a life to shatter in seconds.
And loneliness, though a bitter pill to swallow as a child, had always been better than risking being shattered again.
Kakashi had been another perfectly fine friend to hold at arm’s length. The more Iruka enjoyed their time together, and the more he came to care about him, the more resolute he had been in making sure the distance between them never narrowed enough to allow any real risk back in.
Sitting now, waiting to have another dinner kept warm over a low flame, Iruka can’t help but wonder if he’s made a terrible mistake.
----
On the fifth day, even his students can tell something is wrong.
Iruka doesn’t realize how irritable he is, even by his own standards, until one of his children complains about how much he’s been yelling. He’s embarrassed enough for his face to redden, and when he passes his colleagues later in the hall, he doesn’t make eye contact with any of them.
By the time he arrives home, he has no energy left to cook. Iruka goes directly to the hot bath he usually would have taken much later, hoping vainly that the chance to relax will ease him enough to get back to his usual self.
But the invisible fist around his chest only squeezes tighter, and the lump in his throat grows heavier.
The weather of late winter hasn’t changed much in the past few weeks, but the cold tonight feels bitter. He moves immediately to his kotatsu after his bath, but no matter the coziness of the blanket or the pleasant warmth of the heater, he still finds himself shivering. His grading sits before him, untouched for several minutes, not quite in focus. It isn’t until he attempts to lift his pen that he notices how hard his hands are shaking, and realizes that the tremors may be more influenced by the racing of his heart than the cold.
----
The sixth day is the longest yet.
Forcing himself to act normal in front of his students is already enough of a struggle, let alone extending that by several hours while dealing with seemingly endless shinobi at the mission desk. With an entire day’s worth of restless energy, anxiety, and stress buzzing through him and begging for a release, there isn’t the slightest error that can go unnoticed by him today. Poor grammar, illegible strokes, tiny ink smudges, and wrinkled paper all result in a lecture just as thorough as a disastrous report would have received, leaving every shinobi in line as stiff as a statue while waiting their turn to face the wrathful chuunin.
“Iruka-sensei,” Kotetsu says under his breath, taking advantage of the brief lull in which Iruka’s most recent victim, a young tokubetsu jounin on the verge of tears, withdraws her report to go revise it. “The desk isn’t that busy today. I can handle the rest of our shift.”
Iruka, still flushed and tense from his latest tirade, stiffens even further in his seat. “What are you trying to say? You think I can’t do my job?”
Kotetsu puts up his hands in a placating gesture. “No, but I think you could use some extra rest.”
“Do I look tired to you?” Iruka challenges, well aware that the entire room can hear him. The shinobi at the front of the lines inch backwards.
“You just seem—”
“Iruka-sensei,” a weathered voice calls from the door. Everyone in line quickly steps to the side, bringing Hiruzen into view.
“H— Hokage-sama,” Iruka scrambles to stand and bow, his rage crumbling to embarrassment in a split second. “What can I do for you?”
“Gather your things and come with me.”
Shit. It’s been a while since he last pissed off the Sandaime, and most of those incidents had been pranks as a child. Although Iruka’s stubborn nature and admittedly short temper has put him at odds with the elder’s decisions now and then, he can’t ever remember being dragged away from his work over anything.
He expects to follow him up the tower to his office, but instead, Hiruzen guides him to the streets below. Iruka fumbles to withdraw his scarf and gloves from his bag, not having expected to be forced back out into the chilly evening so soon.
Initially, Hiruzen doesn’t speak, simply nodding at passerbys as they walk beneath the light of the fading sun. Pink and orange bands streak low over the horizon, becoming more visible as buildings give way to a park where the colors seep easily through bare branches.
Iruka holds his breath for whatever scolding is about to come his way, but once they’ve reached a comfortable distance from the other stragglers in the park, Hiruzen simply comments, “Kakashi was due to return three days ago.”
Iruka glances at him, startled into a brief silence before he manages, “…He was.”
“I have received no word that he is in any danger,” the Hokage notes. “It is natural to hold concern for those that you care for, but you must not let that fear consume you.”
You haven’t received word that he’s safe, either, he thinks, but does not say. As petulant as he’s feeling today, he knows that Hiruzen has no obligation to give him any information about Kakashi’s status at all, and even if what he has given doesn’t do much to soothe Iruka’s churning anxiety, he can appreciate the gesture.
“It is difficult,” Hiruzen continues, casting a sidelong glance at the younger man, “caring for others. But it is worthwhile.”
With how sick the chuunin feels to his stomach, he isn’t sure he agrees with that in the current moment.
“I understand,” he forces himself to say, regardless. A beat of silence passes before he echoes a quieter, “…It is very difficult.”
The Sandaime comes to a stop in front of a frozen pond. All of the cracks and imperfections that mar its surface are highlighted by the slanting gaze of the sun, a jagged map of winter’s wear. Even still, it’s a beautiful sight.
A warm, wrinkled hand settles on the teacher’s shoulder.
“Have patience. He will come home.”
Iruka wants to believe that. Even if he can’t quite swallow the sentiment, he can carry those words with him, cradled close to his chest, as some small shield against the cold.
----
The seventh day ushers in the brief reprieve of the week’s end.
It’s a day of much-needed rest for any teacher of the academy, coming on the heels of long days spent caring for tiny balls of poorly controlled chakra and long nights spent grading and preparing lessons for the following day. The labor is as difficult as any mission, and just as in need of being balanced out with lazier days. A trip to the hot springs would be a welcome chance to melt the worries away; if nothing else, a leisurely day at home can suffice.
So of course, from the moment he wakes, Iruka throws himself as vigorously as he can into his chores.
Before 08:00 hits, he’s got his clothes in the wash, the living room dusted, and the floor scrubbed. He tackles his bathroom next, determined to ensure every inch of it is spotless— and when unwanted images surface of the last time Kakashi had drawn him a bath, he only scrubs harder to avoid lingering on the memory.
Even as he throws all of his strength into attacking the most stubborn spots, he can still practically feel Kakashi perched at the edge of the tub, reading his book and sharing in the simple silence between them, glancing up every now and then to smile at the sleepy teacher soaking beside him. The sheer domesticity of it had had the redness of Iruka’s face less related to the heat of the water and much more a consequence of a love he still hardly knows what to do with.
Aren’t you bored in here?
You’re asking someone who regularly spent hours in a tree just to watch you teach, Kakashi had pointed out.
You’re exaggerating.
Not even a little. Don’t tell me you’re just now realizing I was a truly dedicated stalker, sensei.
Iruka had snorted, flicking water at him to hide the brief deepening of his flush. Can’t get rid of you, can I?
Nope. You’re stuck with me now.
The silence of the apartment is even more glaring in the bathroom, too insulated to hear the birds on the roof or the ruckus of children playing below.
No matter how many times he swallows, he can’t get the lump out of his tightened throat.
----
Iruka considers taking sick leave on the eighth day.
Worn thin enough with anxiety, stress, sleep deprivation, and overexertion, he can’t tell anymore whether he has a cold or he’s simply run ragged enough to feel like it. Every joint in his body aches, and no matter how much he layers up, he can’t seem to stop shivering. He’s sick enough to his stomach that even the thought of eating feels repulsive, and his brain is hazy enough to be capable of engaging in little more than thinking himself in circles.
Of all the years he had spent with Mizuki, he’d never had to endure any significant absence from him or worry for his safety. There was dread, sure— frequent dread, but of a much different kind. There was the dread of his unpredictable temper, of being iced out for days on end, of cruel words that always seemed capable of striking far deeper than any bully Iruka had ever known in his life.
Even that, somehow, was easier than this. The dread of losing something good, for once— of losing someone who actually gives a damn about him, and not only when he’s useful.
The dread of going back to long nights alone, and living only to teach, and keeping that carefully-portioned distance from everyone again, and pretending that the isolation isn’t eating him alive.
He forces himself to go to work, of course. He could be running a fever high enough to be on the verge of passing out and still wouldn’t stay home unless Kakashi was there to force him to rest. Lovingly, in spite of the chuunin’s unbearable stubbornness, which is certainly not easy to love at times.
Iruka manages to coast under the radar for the first half of the day. He gets no prying questions from his children, and manages to ignore the pitying looks his coworkers think they’re hiding.
Anko sees straight through him on their lunch break. It could be the fact that she’s known him for years, and can fairly easily spot when something’s off.
It could also be the fact that he breaks down into tears spontaneously.
He takes himself off guard even more so than Anko, who he immediately tries to apologize to mid-sobbing. After a few vigorous pats on his back, a stern insistence that he stops apologizing (and does not apologize for apologizing, Iruka, Christ), and several deep breaths, he manages to mostly quiet himself, save for the muffled sniffling from the runny nose he’s now graced himself with.
He’s always been an ugly crier.
“You know, if you didn’t bottle up your feelings all the time, they wouldn’t be so explosive when they come out.”
Iruka scoffs, but the sound is weak. “You’re one to talk.”
“Maybe so,” Anko sniffs. “But I’m not the one having a lunchtime sob session.”
Iruka tries to glare, but it isn’t particularly effective to glare with pathetic puffy eyes. Anko rolls hers and puts an arm around the chuunin, squeezing him in a tight enough hug for it to verge on painful.
“Go home, punk. I’ll tell the headmaster.”
“Tell him what?” Iruka laughs weakly. “That a shinobi can’t handle living the damn life of a shinobi?”
“That a shinobi who never takes breaks needs one,” Anko corrects, flicking Iruka’s forehead and ignoring his offended ouch. “Immediately. Now get out of here before I make you.”
Iruka does get out of there. His stubborn will to work may be strong, but the desire to avoid the unbearable mortification of marching through the school post-cry is stronger.
Strong enough, even, that he takes to the rooftops in lieu of the streets on his journey home to have as few eyes on his pathetic state as possible.
“What would Kakashi think, seeing me like this,” Iruka mumbles to himself, leaning his exhausted frame against the wall of his entryway as he works his scarf off of his neck. “He would never be this much of a wreck over nothing.”
He wouldn’t think anything of it, the reasonable voice inside of him reminds him. He would only be there beside you.
Iruka doesn’t realize he’s crying all over again until the teardrops make muted thuds on their meeting with the hardwood floor below.
Once he starts thinking about what Kakashi would do if he were here, he can’t stop thinking about what Kakashi is doing out there. Through every forced bite of dinner, and every graded test, and every stroke of a comb through damp hair, the gruesome possibilities tick past his mind: Kakashi injured by enemy nin, bleeding out alone somewhere in the cold; Kakashi held captive, enduring excruciating torture that’s slowly breaking him into pieces; Kakashi dead, his body cold before the chill of winter even gets to it.
Every time Iruka closes his eyes, he sees a blood-stained uniform, gruesome injuries, features contorted in pain—
If breathing through the lump in his throat wasn’t already hard enough, it feels nearly impossible now.
Kakashi always comes home, he knows. He always makes it out alive, no matter how dire the mission, or how injured he’s been left by it.
But all shinobi always come home, until they don’t.
----
On the ninth day, Iruka wakes to snow.
He smells it in the air before he sees it; how every breath is made crisp with it. Shuffling over to his window reveals rooftops draped in white blankets, thick and sturdy. Flurries continue to drift from light gray clouds above, kneaded by the wind as they make their lazy descent. There is an absolute quiet that occupies the village, but not an overbearing one. There’s a certain peace to this stillness: the knowledge that endlessly overworked bodies will keep inside, today.
The last time it had snowed, Kakashi’s mission had been delayed by the weather, and with the academy closed, it had been a rare day spent wholly alone with one another, neither man having anywhere to be or anything to do. The restlessness Iruka would have normally felt being cooped up in his apartment had been entirely melted away by Kakashi’s presence, just as easily as the snow had turned to slush beneath the sun.
Now, with a lump in his throat and anxiety churning in his stomach, it’s difficult to allow that peacefulness in. The countless overworked bodies in the village may be resting today, but Kakashi is still out there in the cold, somewhere— if he’s alive at all.
In his defense, Iruka does make an honest effort to relax. He uses everything available to him in the confines of his apartment— tries to catch up on his reading, makes a decent home-cooked meal, luxuriates in a long bath, fetches the most comfortable loungewear he can find after.
But that comfortable loungewear he browses happens to include one of Kakashi’s sweatshirts. It’s made of thick material, cozy and oversized on Iruka, now one of his favorite things to wear around the apartment on a chilly day.
Only seconds after pulling it on, his eyes start to water.
He blinks back the tears, determined to at least try to enjoy this— to wear something and be reminded of someone he cares for, even if that caring hurts sometimes. He wraps the long sleeves over his chest, and he remembers the Sandaime’s advice, and he tries his goddamned best to believe in it.
Though it isn’t the most relaxing activity, grading at his kotatsu is a welcome change from being trapped in his head. Images of bloody uniforms and glassy eyes continue to flash through his mind, but with the distraction of parsing through children's handwriting and attempting to decipher particularly creative answers, he at least doesn’t feel as nauseous as he could have.
Even if he is still sick with worry.
By the time he makes it halfway through the tests, the pen in his grasp is growing heavier, and the characters on the page in front of him are slightly out of focus. He tries to fight the encroaching fog of sleep, but his eyelids begin to droop, and the urge to seek out his bed nags deeper at him.
And then the wards at his door shift.
Instinct has him on his feet before his brain has a chance to catch up with the sound. His first thought is intruder, but once he fully focuses, he registers the familiarity of the presence at his door.
His next thought is that he’s dreaming.
Even as Kakashi steps into his entryway, Iruka’s still frozen in place, waiting for the dream to dissipate, and to wake up slumped over a kotatsu that now has a small puddle of drool beside his grading.
But then there is his name on a voice he hasn’t heard for far too long, the syllables saturated with relief and affection, and Iruka runs to him so quickly that he nearly loses his balance closing the distance between them.
A welcome home should be first in order. Checking him over to make sure he isn’t injured and simply dodging the hospital should be second.
But the only thing he can do is cling to him in a desperate hug, squeezing as though holding him tight enough could ensure his absence is never felt again, and that the dream won’t end.
The fact that he’s crying escapes him until a hand cradles the back of his head, and a gentle hey gets him to look up from the tear-stained vest he’d buried his face in. The unmasked features he’s met with hold far too much concern, and far too much guilt for a shinobi who was only carrying out his duty to the village.
What Iruka wants to say is welcome home or I’m sorry for crying on you or I missed you so much, but all that comes out is a wavered, “What happened? Are you—”
“I’m alright,” Kakashi assures. “I was about to head back when a blizzard hit. Just had to wait out the storm.”
It doesn’t seem like he’s hiding any injuries. Iruka’s seen him home from enough missions by now that he knows what to look for: how he’ll hold himself particularly still, or how his voice just barely strains around the edges.
But as Iruka takes in his appearance, he finally notices the redness underscoring his features— and how cold the hand at the back of his head is.
“You’re freezing,” Iruka says, breathless and dismayed. He pulls out of Kakashi’s grasp and takes hold of his wrist, guiding him with quick steps down the hall. “I’ll draw you a bath—”
The chuunin is spun around in the doorway of the bathroom, his startled gaze meeting one both exasperated and affectionate. “Slow down, Iruka. I’m not about to freeze to death.”
The jovial words, something he would have simply rolled his eyes or huffed at a week ago, threaten to ignite a fire he’s tried for days to keep at bay.
“Don’t joke about something like that,” he admonishes him, his mouth turned down into an angry frown and his eyes beginning to water again. “Do you have any idea— how fucking terrified— not knowing if—”
Sturdy arms surround him again, and though he stiffens initially in shock, he can’t help but melt beneath the comforting pressure and the deep voice that murmurs, “I know. I’m sorry.”
Iruka hates being an angry crier even more than he hates being an ugly crier. He’s grateful, at least, that the few stubborn tears that break free are muffled against the vest.
Sniffling and scrubbing the remaining tears from his face, he turns to head into the bathroom and mumbles, “You still need to get warm.”
He knows the exact temperature Kakashi prefers the water at, but he can’t help but make it just a tad hotter to ensure that the cold is fully chased out of him. He helps him out of his uniform, next— something he always does with slow, careful intent, well aware of how unwise any sudden movements are around a jounin.
When he turns to gather up the clothes for the wash, a hand on his wrist stills him.
“Get in with me. Just relax for a little while.”
Iruka splutters, his face turning red as he eyes the tub that is very much not made for two people. “We won’t both fit— and you need to get warm—”
“Won’t I get warmer much faster with some body heat to share?” Kakashi flashes a crooked smile. “That’s basic field knowledge, sensei.”
With a huff, Iruka glances away, scratching at his scar and grumbling a barely intelligible, “…Fine. But only for a few minutes.”
Kakashi is much more efficient at getting him out of his clothes, but in all fairness, Iruka isn’t the one with part of his head always in the field. It isn’t hard to catch the slight glint of satisfaction in the jounin’s gaze at noticing his sweatshirt has been stolen by his partner— something Iruka has to resolutely ignore to keep his face from turning more red than it already is.
The bath is a cramped fit, but once Iruka gets settled against his chest, he can’t deny the relief of being able to simply be with him again; to feel skin against skin, and the strange safety that comes in surrendering his guard around him. Thoughtlessly, something he would have been far too nervous to do only months ago, he takes Kakashi’s hands in his, not quite able to cover the larger ones with his own, but able at least to share a little warmth.
As his gaze lingers on the sight, a realization suddenly comes over him.
“I never said welcome home,” he laughs softly. “I’m sorry.”
“I somehow caught the sentiment,” Kakashi drawls. “Unless you greet everyone like this.”
Iruka scowls, but the offense is a fast and fleeting thing, gone the second lips brush his temple with a smile he can feel against his skin. Sighing softly, he tilts his face up to catch him in a full kiss.
“Welcome home.”
The jounin kisses him again, just as slow and savored as he had when he’d departed, but this time, he completes: “I’m home.”