Icha Icha Paradise
The house is smaller than you imagined.
It crouches low against the slope of the valley like something trying to disappear, huddled into itself beneath the weight of years and weather. The roof dips at the center, swollen slightly from rain, patched with mismatched tiles and moss that creeps up along the eaves in soft, curling threads. From a distance, it looks almost like a memory—something fragile, flickering at the edges. The wooden walls have bowed and buckled under the pressure of time, boards gone silver-gray and warped, but hammered back in place with stubborn, crooked nails. It’s not much. But it’s endured.
Just like Yui.
Behind the house, a garden struggles toward wildness, creeping and lush. Vines tangle thick along a crumbling stone wall, their leaves beaded with moisture. Squash blossoms nod heavily, their petals the bruised gold of late harvest, glistening with rain. Herbs spill from mismatched clay pots—shiso, mint, a withering tomato vine still clinging to a single green fruit. Nearer, a clothesline sags between two weathered poles, weighed down with threadbare blankets that flap listlessly in the rising wind.
Smoke curls in a thin ribbon from the crooked chimney, pale as a ghost against the bruised gray sky. It carries the sharp tang of cedar and something sweeter beneath it, faint and fermented. Persimmon, maybe. Soft and ripe, sugar melting into ash.
The smell wraps around you as you step closer, catching in your throat like memory.
The front door creaks open before you can knock.
“Well, don’t just stand there in the wet,” Yui says, her voice the same cracked warmth as her home. “You’ll catch your death. Or worse—something lingering.”
She’s smaller than you remember. Bent, maybe, or simply folded inward from time. But her eyes are quick, and her hands—still quicksilver fast—tug the door wider.
You duck beneath the low lintel. The wood is cool against your back as you pass under it.
Kakashi follows a heartbeat later, silent as always, shadowing your steps. His presence fills the doorway more than his body does. Dampness clings to him like a second cloak—mud, mist, sweat, and the iron tang of travel. His sandals leave dark marks on the warped floorboards, and his gaze flicks around the room with sharp, impassive calculation.
He doesn’t speak. But the look he shoots you as he steps inside is pointed. Dry. Razor-thin.
I told you this was a mistake.
You offer no reaction. “Do you need help with anything, Yui-san?”
She waves a hand toward the stove already smoldering in the far corner. “No, no—I’ve got it. Toma!” she calls, voice rising. “Get the dry cloths from the basket. And the old yukata—bring the green one!”
A scuffle from the hallway, and then the boy appears—eyes bright, hair askew, clutching what looks suspiciously like a toy dagger fashioned from an old spoon. His bare feet slap the floor as he sizes up Kakashi like a wild animal caught somewhere between awe and suspicion.
Then he vanishes again.
The house is a single wide room, divided by paper screens and faded curtains that sway with the draft. Shelves line the walls, crowded with glass jars and herb bundles bound in twine. Dried citrus peels, bay leaves, something red and sharp-smelling. Flowers—lavender and chrysanthemum—hang in brittle bouquets from the rafters, casting long shadows in the flickering firelight.
A low table sits in the center, its lacquer long since worn to the grain. The hearth burns softly, orange light pulsing in rhythm with the wind outside. Rain chatters against the windows.
Kakashi remains just inside the door, unmoving. Arms folded. Posture casual—but too casual. As if he’s ready to pivot, to bolt, to meet violence mid-step if it comes. Even here, in the lull. Even now.
He scans the space, methodically. Eyes like a drawn blade.
You set your pack down with a soft thump and lean into the support of a wooden post. “You can relax, you know,” you murmur. “It’s a roof, not a trap.”
“I’m more comfortable outside,” he replies, without turning.
“Yet here you are.”
He says nothing. But his head tilts just enough to catch the firelight in the soft silver arc of his temple. The warmth of it flickers across the curve of his mask.
The kettle begins to whine. Not shrill, but long and breathy. Like something remembering how to sing.
Yui hums beneath it, pulling mismatched cups from a shelf, her movements unhurried. Toma returns, dragging a basket behind him with both hands. It’s nearly as big as he is. He grunts as he heaves it over the threshold and begins pulling cloths from within, sending them flopping onto the floor in uneven piles.
“These are clean,” he announces, frowning as if daring anyone to question it. “Even if they look like rags.”
You kneel, fingers brushing the soft cotton. They’re worn thin in places, but they smell faintly of cedar and soap. Home, of a kind.
Toma shuffles through the layers, then tugs free a faded green yukata and holds it out to you like an offering. “You’ll wear this one,” he says with absolute certainty. “It’s my favourite.”
You arch a brow. “Oh? Why?”
“Because it looks like you. Or… maybe your eyes.”
You blink, caught off guard by the quiet sincerity.
Kakashi’s voice interrupts the moment, flat and dry, very much not amused. “And me?”
Toma doesn’t even glance at him. He rummages again and plucks out a plain grey robe, threadbare and unadorned, the kind worn when nothing better is clean. He holds it up and gives it a once-over, nodding in approval.
“You get this one. It matches your face.”
There is a beat of dead silence. Then:
“Toma!” Yui gasps, half laughing, half appalled.
Kakashi stares at the boy, unblinking. The air shifts. You brace for a sharp remark, but—
He sighs.
“Charming kid.”
You press your knuckles to your mouth, trying not to laugh. “He’s got a keen eye for symmetry.”
Toma beams with pride. Kakashi levels a look at you that should, by rights, flay skin. But the edges of it don’t quite cut.
The moment stretches—and eases. Not fully, but enough. Enough to draw breath without flinching.
Outside, the wind rises, hissing through the valley. Inside, the fire crackles and the scent of persimmon thickens. You can feel the warmth leaching into your skin, chasing out the chill buried in your bones.
Not safety.
But something near it.
For now, maybe, it’s enough.
The table is too low and too narrow for four people, but it feels like it holds a world’s worth of warmth.
It’s worn smooth at the edges, the surface nicked and darkened by years of meals and quiet evenings. Clay bowls—each one a different size and color—sit haphazardly around a steaming pot of rice, its lid slightly askew, releasing the thick, earthy scent of jasmine and starch. Mismatched chopsticks rest at odd angles. A chipped teapot murmurs steam, its spout casting small curls into the air, the scent of roasted barley and something floral threading through the room like a lullaby.
You and Kakashi sit side by side on thin, faded cushions, knees drawn close, legs brushing under the table in passing moments neither of you seem inclined to acknowledge. The fire pit nearby crackles softly, casting a golden hue over the room. Toma is curled slightly toward it on the opposite side, as though trying to melt into the glow, his small shoulders hunched under a too-big sweater that smells faintly of smoke and pine.
Yui moves with a grace born of repetition, the way someone does when their hands have made the same motions thousands of times. She pours tea without looking, ladles miso soup into bowls with practiced ease, the sleeves of her kimono pushed to her elbows, an apron tied crookedly around her waist. Her cheeks are flushed from the heat of the hearth.
“Thank you again,” she says softly, settling beside her grandson. “For helping us on the road. If you hadn’t been there when that cart overturned…”
She trails off. Her gaze turns inward, clouded by memory. “Well. I don’t like to think about it.”
You nod, murmuring something vague and polite, your hands cupped around the warmth of your tea. Beside you, Kakashi says nothing, but the faintest shift in his posture—shoulders angling slightly toward you, fingers loose but alert near his bowl—betrays a quiet readiness. Even here, in this little pocket of domestic safety, the mask of a stranger hangs heavy on him. The role doesn’t fit. Or maybe it fits too well.
“I wasn’t sure, at first,” Yui admits, folding her hands in her lap. “About taking you in. The village’s been uneasy lately. What with everything happening farther east.” She glances between you and Kakashi. “But… you feel familiar, somehow. Like you’ve been here before.”
Her eyes linger, kind but searching. “It’s been a long time since luck brought good people to our door.”
The fire shifts with a soft hiss, resin popping in the logs. Toma slurps his soup noisily, lifting his bowl with both hands. Kakashi’s fingers twitch subtly, like he’s physically resisting the urge to correct the boy’s grip. You hide a smile behind your sleeve.
Yui sets her bowl down with a sigh. “This place used to be nothing. A handful of houses tucked against the valley, the road barely a road at all. After the war, people started drifting in. Some stayed. Shinobi. Traders. Widows like me. They built over the old fields. Now we’ve got paved paths, though they crack in the spring and flood in the fall. Still—it’s livable.”
Her voice lowers, edges worn thin. “My husband didn’t think it would last. He was always worried about the future. About me. He… got sick. And it didn’t stop. For a while, neither did I. I was so tired.” Her thumb runs absently along the rim of her cup. “The kind of tired that doesn’t sleep off.”
The fire flickers across her face, casting long shadows.
“There were nights I thought I’d just… follow him. Drift away, wherever he’d gone.” A breath. “If it weren’t for Tsunade, I think I would have.”
The name drops like a stone in still water.
You glance at Kakashi. He’s already looking at you.
It’s not just recognition. It’s calculation. A quiet alertness. A tension coiled in his shoulders—not hostile, but wary. You know the name, of course you do. But the woman Yui speaks of isn’t the one you knew. Not exactly. Not yet.
“She helped me,” Yui says, voice softer now, touched with something reverent. “When no one else would. The princess of the shinobi, people call her. I thought it was nonsense at first. She smelled like old sake and pine bark. Had no patience. But she saw me. Really saw me. Sat beside me while I cried. Held my hand like it mattered.”
You absorb her words in silence, heart prickling strangely. The title—princess of the shinobi—echoes in your thoughts, warped by distance and memory. In your world, Tsunade was a legend, a ghost, a woman haunted by grief. You remember her stone on the Hokage Monument in this world’s Konohagakure. The Firth Hokage. You remember thinking she must be dead, because most Hokage die. That’s how the job works. Legacy by blood and fire.
But maybe she left, here. The same way she left in your world.
Maybe she walked away.
“She still lives nearby,” Yui says, lifting her cup again. “In the hills. Doesn’t come down much. People say she still drinks like a sailor and gambles like the dice owe her money.” There’s a disapproving sniff. “Hard woman to admire sometimes. But I do.”
Toma stares into his bowl for a moment. Then: “Grandpa used to say she was the strongest person alive. But if she’s so strong, why didn’t she save him?”
Yui’s face softens. She reaches over, brushing a hand along his arm. “Even the strongest people can’t stop death, baby. That’s not weakness. It’s just the way life works.”
There’s a silence.
Then, cautiously, Toma looks toward Kakashi.
“You’re a ninja, right?”
Kakashi pauses with his cup midair, then sets it down without drinking. “Something like that.”
“You don’t look like one.”
“Good,” Kakashi murmurs. “Then I’m doing my job.”
Toma’s eyes narrow. Then widen, like a dam just broke behind them. “Wait—so are you undercover?”
Kakashi says nothing. But his eye creases just enough to hint at a smile.
The kid is hooked. He leans forward with elbows on the table, practically buzzing with energy. “Do you carry secret weapons? What kind of missions do you go on? Have you ever fought a rogue ninja? Can you walk on water? Turn invisible? Do that shadow thing with the hands—”
“Toma,” Yui warns gently.
“Sorry,” he says, not sorry at all. “But he looks like he’s seen stuff!”
Kakashi leans back slightly, eyeing the boy. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“You didn’t say no,” Toma says, eyes sharp with excitement. “So that means yes.”
Kakashi hums. “Maybe.”
“Do you have a sword?”
“Sometimes.”
“Knives?”
“Sometimes.”
“Can you do fire jutsu?”
“Sometimes.”
You bite down on a laugh. Toma is practically levitating with excitement.
The boy stares at him, clearly trying not to appear thrilled.Then, grudgingly, as if issuing a royal decree: “…You’re a little cool.”
Kakashi offers a solemn nod. “I’ll take it.”
You watch the exchange with an ache so gentle it surprises you. Toma leans closer to the fire again, but this time his eyes keep drifting toward Kakashi, furtive and full of questions. And Kakashi lets them.
Across the table, Yui watches the two of them and mouths a quiet thank you in your direction.
And you nod, holding it close.
Because this—this strange, borrowed peace—it won’t last forever.
But for now, you let it live.
The wind shifts the trees like breath against a window. A branch taps softly at the wooden frame, again and again, like it’s asking to be let in.
Kakashi stands at the far end of the room, half-shrouded by thin curtains and moonlight. The cotton fabric flutters faintly against his side, ghosting over his arm like a shy child brushing past. The view from the window isn’t much—just the sleeping valley below, dotted with the dim flicker of lanterns and the occasional glow of firelight peeking between roof tiles. The town’s quieter at night than he expected. More honest. The kind of quiet that doesn’t feel like silence but like a place remembering how to breathe.
He’s still in his undershirt, ANBU scar faint against his shoulder, the dull gray yukata folded neatly on the corner of the futon behind him like an afterthought. The shared futon. Singular. Folded, of course—how courteous of Yui.
Behind him, you sit cross-legged on the floor with your back against the wall, fiddling with the strap of your pack like it holds the answer to everything you don’t want to say aloud. You unwind it slowly, then wind it again. Unwind. Wind. Kakashi doesn’t turn, but he can see the motion reflected faintly in the warped windowpane.
The room smells of cedar smoke and old tea. Floorboards groan with the memory of footsteps, the weight of years. It’s the kind of place where quiet isn’t awkward. Just… lived-in.
He knows what Yui’s doing. The room, the futon, the blanket folded with almost ceremonial care. The faint wink she gave when she handed over the key earlier, like she was handing them some potion of guaranteed domesticity. A one-night cure for all things prickly and cold. He’s seen that look before. A woman’s knowing mischief, the kind that says: If only you two would stop pretending.
And you seemed either oblivious or entirely unbothered. He doesn't know which is worse.
He’d nearly short-circuited at the time, but in true Kakashi fashion, he’d brushed it off—cool as always, mask and half-lidded stare doing the heavy lifting. But the reality is more complicated than charm and aloofness. Because now he’s standing in a tiny room lit by moonlight, watching the curve of fog roll down into a sleeping town, and you’re here.
And unfortunately—unfortunately—this sort of setup reminds him of things. Things he has no business thinking about in a four-by-four bedroom.
Like his Icha Icha Paradise book. Which he misses. Ridiculous as that sounds. Say what you will, the damned thing was a reliable distraction. Comfort reading. Not that there’s anything comforting about thinking of that book right now. Not with you behind him. Not with a futon between you.
He shifts slightly and feels the brush of cool air across the back of his neck.
And of course it’s ruined. Completely, utterly ruined.
Kami.
He can’t stop his mind from veering. Not even the story itself—just the idea of it. The buffer it used to be. A cheap little distraction with predictable endings and overly flexible characters, and exactly zero of the current emotional minefields wrapped up in one futon across from him.
He used to laugh at those books. Now? The thought of opening one makes something in his chest twist like it’s tied up wrong.
Because unfortunately, being alone in a small, dark room with you? It’s nothing like those books.
It’s worse.
Because in those, the tension always snaps into something neat and manageable. In this, the tension lingers. Grows teeth. Presses into the silence like it’s looking for purchase.
He can’t even remember the kiss scene in his book without remembering how he woke up sprawled on top of you, legs tangled, your breath caught beneath his chin and his arm around your waist like a lock. The heat of your skin, the smell of your neck, your chakra steady and low like it was cradling him—
No. Nope.
He shuts the memory out like slamming a door. Crams it into some deep mental closet labeled NOPE, under lock, key, and spiritual duct tape.
The room creaks again as you shift. He doesn’t need to look. He can tell by the sound that you’re fidgeting, probably for the same reason he’s staring out a window and pretending to be deeply fascinated by fog.
You remember that morning too. You must.
Neither of you said a word about it. Neither of you will.
He closes his eyes for half a second. Reopens them.
The moon has shifted, and the wind outside sighs against the wall.
Then you speak.
“She was the Fifth Hokage here.”
Your voice is quiet. Clear. Like you’ve been thinking about it for a while.
Kakashi doesn’t answer right away.
“Tsunade,” you clarify, in case he’s playing dumb. “In this Konoha. Fifth Hokage. But clearly not anymore, though.”
He turns a little, only enough to glance at you from the corner of his eye. Your knees are drawn up now, arms resting loosely atop them.
“It’s strange,” you say, brows pinched. “Back home, she… disappeared before that could happen. She’s the last person I'd expect. I always assumed it would be someone else, maybe the Uchiha.”
Fugaku Uchiha.
Kakashi tilts his head. “But here she was the one trusted to lead the village.”
You nod once. “Which begs the question: why isn’t she anymore?”
“Maybe she stepped down,” he offers.
You squint. “Or something made her.”
That sits heavier in the room than you probably intended.
You let the silence stretch again before you speak. “Do you think she’d help us?”
Kakashi exhales slowly. “She might.”
You tilt your head, frown deepening. “That’s not very reassuring.”
“She’s not a very reassuring person,” he replies. “Not unless you’re a sake bottle.”
You grin, despite yourself. “Or a slot machine.”
He chuckles quietly. “Or both.”
You pause a beat. Then: “But she could help. Right? I mean—legendary healer. Sannin. Powerful enough to break mountains with a fist.”
“She’s also powerful enough to throw us through a mountain if she thinks we’re spies,” he says.
Your mouth twists. “Fair.”
Then, a beat later: “If Orochimaru were here, he’d probably help us too. Through dissection.”
Kakashi huffs. “At least we’d learn something.”
You smile into your knees, then let the quiet settle again.
When you speak next, it’s slower. “Who came after her, I wonder. As Hokage, I mean. The ANBU tried to skewer me before I could figure it out.”
Kakashi’s breath catches almost imperceptibly.
You’re still gazing past him at the window, not looking. “She’s not the Hokage anymore, so someone had to replace her.”
Kakashi keeps his gaze trained on the window. “We’ll figure it out eventually.”
You sigh. “I wish I could ask her. I wish I knew if she was the same woman I’ve read about in reports.”
He doesn’t reply. Not immediately.
Because he knows. He knows exactly who the Sixth Hokage is in this world.
And for that reason, he really doesn’t want to talk about it.
You shift again, this time lying back across the futon, arms folded behind your head. The blanket still untouched beside you.
Your voice floats up lazily: “Maybe we should go to her. Eventually. If we’re going to figure out what the hell happened to us—why we’re here—she might know.”
He hums noncommittally.
You glance sideways at him. “You’re awfully quiet.”
“Just thinking.”
“Dangerous habit.”
“Don’t I know it.”
You study him for a beat longer, then return your gaze to the ceiling.
The branch taps again at the window, patient and steady.
You shift again, stretching your arms over your head, then pushing yourself upright with a soft groan.
“I’ll take the night watch,” you say, voice casual, but resolute.
Kakashi blinks. “No need, I’ll—”
“I doubt I’ll sleep anyway,” you cut in, matter-of-fact. You reach for your cloak, draping it loosely around your shoulders like a shawl. “Too many nerves. You’ve been carrying the last few nights. It’s my turn.”
He straightens, already preparing a counterpoint, but you cut him off again with a look—just a small one, over your shoulder, that says don’t waste your breath.
“You’ll argue with a wall, won’t you?” he mutters, not unkindly.
You smirk, adjusting your cloak. “Only the stubborn ones.”
He exhales, a long breath edged with amusement. “Fine.”
He moves slowly, almost cautiously, toward the futon, as if half-expecting you to change your mind and throw him off it. But when you don’t say anything, don’t even look back at him again, he relents fully.
The blanket is cool when he slides beneath it. The futon creaks beneath his weight. He doesn’t lie down completely—just props himself on one elbow, head turned so he can see you by the window.
Your figure is backlit by the spill of moonlight through the warped pane. The curtain flutters faintly against your shoulder. Outside, the fog thickens into something soft and pale, bleeding into the town’s edge like spilled milk across stone. You’re a silhouette there, unmoving. Guarded. Quiet.
He watches as you lean your forearms on the windowsill, face turned toward the hills.
You’re not just standing there—you’re listening. He can see it in the angle of your shoulders. The sharp way you hold still. Like you’re reading something no one else can see. Like the silence is speaking only to you.
And even though he’s the one lying down, the one resting, he doesn’t close his eye. Doesn’t even try.
Your presence pulls at the corner of his awareness like a thread he refuses to snip.
It’s quiet now—honestly quiet. Not heavy. Not sharp. Just the kind of stillness that feels like something settling into place.
The branch taps again.
You don’t flinch.
And Kakashi lets himself sink a little deeper into the futon. Not asleep. Not quite awake, either.
Just… watching you watch the night.
And for now, somehow, that’s enough