The Mystery of Devotion

A/N: If I owned Naruto, do you really think Haku would have suffered the fate he did? Come on now. Anyways, it's a one-shot. The first Naruto one I've uploaded, though there's at least one more on the way. Enjoy.

It can't be all that late, but already the sun has dipped below the horizon; Kakashi is grateful for this, because it provides an alternate explanation to the lack of warmth in the house, one his mind puts up less resistance to. That dim chill would go unquestioned at his own home, where it is as everlasting as the peeling wallpaper or the dusty windows – but here, in this cozy little place with its scattered photographs and too-soft bed, it does not belong. For that matter, comes the grimly deadpanned inner murmur, perhaps he doesn't either. The house has never borne more than one resident – he recalls that conversation now, recalls that near-apologetic smile as Iruka explained that his old home was among those lost to the kyuubi's rampage, as though he felt guilty sharing the memory – and yet it feels more real and more lived-in than his own ever has. Offhandedly, he chalks this up to the simple fact that no one has ever died here, and attempts to return his attention to the printed text before him. But the dimming glow of the windows renders the novel's words blurry, and somehow it doesn't seem important enough to warrant turning on a light, and the story is bookmarked and pocketed once more. He's had the better part of the day to himself, here or in the shade of one of the dying oaks that line the village; why he hasn't been able to focus throughout more than a half-chapter at a time is a mystery he quietly chooses not to explore.

No more progress on it will likely be made tonight, for now there comes the click of a key in the door, and the house's absent warmth has returned once more. The called 'tadaima' is reflexive by now, as is Kakashi's response, head tipping to regard the figure who now stands inside, toeing off his shoes. He isn't smiling, comes the idle observation. Looks weary, more so even than usual; so has been the case on each previous occasion that he's been away on this particular errand, perhaps two or three times now since Kakashi's been around to witness his return. The green vest denoting his rank – bearing, today, a half-affixed sticker labeling him "VISITOR" – is hung in its place beside the door, a place as established for that as the patch of couch beside Kakashi onto which he drops is for him.

To ask how it went is frivolous, for one look at Iruka's disheartened slouch or downcast gaze says it all. He's been like that as long as Kakashi's known him, and likely longer – wears his heart on his sleeve. That sheer honesty is a near-constant fascination of the jounin's, though he hides his intrigue well. Usually. Now, for example; his gaze is casual enough as he watches the weary removal of the inscribed plate across his forehead, accompanied by a sigh and the lifting of a hand to rub at the newly-bared skin. He looks exhausted, and it is because Kakashi knows this is the fault of more than the day's long journey that he entertains a brief flair of protective instincts. Unneeded, and unseen, but there nonetheless – for Iruka is in pain.

And so he doesn't ask, merely allows the silence that has crept in to live out its time. Experience has taught him that Iruka will need to speak now, to air his thoughts, but that he will resist this unless certain it's safe to do so. This isn't a hard reassurance to make, as Kakashi has learned; pale hands find their way to the other's hunched shoulders, coaxing him first to lean forward and then setting in to knead carefully – a small enough gesture, but needed and appreciated, for as usual that form is rife with tension and strain. There is an initial resistance, a refusal to let the skilled touch do its work…but he succumbs, and with the slow slouch of his frame come the words.

"He's doing a lot better lately," he murmurs, gaze trained on the floor. "It's amazing, what the doctors have been able to do." Kakashi knows that tone; he is trying to believe his own optimism, but having limited success. Any thoughts on that are kept to himself, though, and when the new silence is broken it is again by Iruka's voice. "He…looks more normal, at least." He pauses then, winces – silently, Kakashi scolds himself and softens the motions of his fingertips on those stiff shoulders – and does not speak again for a long moment.

"He still hates me." The words are soft, and Kakashi is glad his gaze was not on Iruka's expression when they were spoken – he can hear the bitter, wistful smile that accompanied them, and there is something in that expression that never fails to make the jounin's chest ache. The massage has become absentminded now, existing more for the sheer sake of contact than for its initial purpose, and when Iruka falls silent again it is abandoned; the hands stop their kneading, but one lingers against his back. It is an invitation, one accepted with a quiet shifting that brings the chuunin's head to rest against his companion's chest. This kind of comfort must go unquestioned if it is to survive, and so it does, neither speaking as that hand finds its way to brush through the bound strands of Iruka's hair.

He asked only once, months ago – the first time the house had been vacated for one of these trips, these solo pilgrimages made far from the village to the newly-rebuilt prison hidden amidst the trees. It had bewildered him, of course, and when the low-spirited sensei returned home he'd let that confusion voice itself, inquiring incredulously as to why, why, Iruka would put himself through this. Was it pity? Some kind of misplaced guilt?

Iruka had only smiled, as though he hadn't noticed his own broken-down state, and replied with his heartbreaking sincerity that the lost soul he was visiting – this man who was scarcely human any more, and who despised him – had once been his only friend. It had angered Kakashi at the time, reawakening a long-dormant frustration at the willingness of those gentler, more sensitive than himself, to form such attachments; he'd lashed out, and had nearly been yelling by the time he pointed out that, had it been Iruka in those straits, the kindness he was showing now would never have been returned.

For just a moment then, the rich brown eyes had wavered, and the gaze he'd fixed Kakashi with made a lump stick in the jounin's throat. It had been a terrifying instant, because Iruka seemed ready to somehow break, and he had no idea how to repair such destruction.

But in the end he'd held together on his own, softly reiterating the inexplicable sentiment that drove him, and Kakashi - accepting that this was beyond his understanding – had nodded, and devoted the night to trying to soothe away the pain that Iruka suffered by his own innocent empathy.

Nearly a year has passed now, and he can't say for certain whether it makes any more sense to him now than it had then. But he knows better than to ask, for it is no more something that Iruka could explain than it is something he could conceive of. Nor does he urge him to stop this devotion – such a request would not only go unheeded, but would shatter the delicate agreement between them. It is not his place to dictate Iruka's life, he reminds himself, fingers finding the cord that held the chuunin's hair into its usual style and deftly working it free; he felt him flinch at that, for that particular alteration usually signals more intimate things to come, and let the slow deliberate stroking of the newly-loosed strands serve as reassurance to the contrary. In time the form slouched against him eases, a deep sigh brushing past his lips, and it seems there will be no more said tonight. This is almost true, but then Iruka is speaking once more, words murmured softly against the dark fabric of the jounin's shirt.

"Do you think he'll ever forgive me?"

Kakashi winces, and is glad the expression goes unseen, for to burden Iruka with his own pain now seems impossibly sinful.

"Iruka…"

And now those eyes are on him, soft and wounded and needing an answer, and he can find none. He wants to grab the distressed chuunin by the shoulders and shake him, to tell him desperately that he doesn't need this any more, that he is no longer alone – to show him, in any way he can, that there is someone here who will never take him for granted, and to spend this night and each one after it proving that to be true ---

But he is silent, and slowly the plea for reassurance fades from Iruka's gaze; he understands, though he doesn't want to. The quiet that sets in is one of grim acceptance on two parts – one accepting that his compassion will never be returned, the other, that his own will never really be seen – and the door seems inviting now. This may be a home, but it is not Kakashi's…and then Iruka is shifting, sitting up and trying to smile through it all.

"It's been a long day," he says, and Kakashi tries to focus on his words rather than on his fascination with Iruka's strength, or on the captivating sight of the chuunin, tanned features framed by the dark strands that fall freely to his shoulders. He is standing then, and his hands have found another to latch onto, drawing Kakashi to his feet as well. "Come on, let's go to bed."

It can't be all that early, but already the sun is creeping above the horizon; Kakashi is grateful for this, because it illuminates the sleeping form beside his own, nestled into the sheets and holding onto his arm like some treasured security blanket. How foolish, he thinks, is the man in that distant cell, the former friend Iruka refuses to abandon. How unlucky, for abusing such a person as the one whose forehead he leans to kiss now. And how fortunate he himself is, to be trusted with this chance – to be handed this beautiful thing, knowing all he can do is try his best not to break it. Iruka sighs at the touch, cozies nearer, and how this has happened – how he has become worthy of such a moment as this one – is a mystery he quietly chooses not to explore.