Reminiscing Diamond
Morning comes cruel and golden.
It carves through the shoji panels like kunai through silk—thin lines of heatless light fanning out across the floor and landing directly on Kakashi’s face with the precision of a veteran assassin.
He isn’t asleep, not really. That luxury has been filed under “civilian privileges” a long time ago. What he does is something more… strategic. A light drifting, a tactical rest. Enough awareness to recognize danger. Enough fatigue to keep his body weighted to the futon. Like staying half underwater in a lake—you float, but only because sinking isn’t an option.
So when the light is suddenly blocked and a shape rises like a shadow above him, he doesn’t flinch.
He blinks, slow and unimpressed, the way a cat might acknowledge something that dares to interrupt its nap.
Small. Cross-armed. Silhouetted in indignation.
Toma.
The boy is frowning at him like he’s committed a war crime by sleeping past dawn. Hair sticking out in every possible direction. Eyes sharp with intent. Mouth pressed into a mutinous little line, like he’s physically holding himself back from an outburst.
Kakashi blinks again, slower this time, dragging a forearm across his eyes with the sigh of someone who hasn’t had coffee, doesn’t want coffee, and still resents that he doesn’t have it.
“What is it?” he asks, voice hoarse and flat from disuse.
Toma doesn’t answer.
Instead, he stands there with the grim resolve of someone delivering bad news. Like he’s practiced it in the mirror. Twice.
Kakashi considers rolling over and pretending this was a dream. Or coma.
Then, finally—low, bitter, and sounding deeply offended by the universe—Toma mutters in a single quick breath, “They’restealingyourwife.”
Kakashi stares up at him, deadpan. “…My what?”
“Your wife,” the boy repeats with righteous clarity, arms folded tighter. “They’re taking her.”
There are a lot of things Kakashi could say to that. Instead, he closes his eye for a beat and murmurs, “I really need you to define ‘they.’”
Toma looks like he’s being tortured just recounting it. “The women. They just showed up. With brushes. And clothes. And things that sparkle.”
Kakashi sits up, sluggish and confused. The futon rustles beneath him, hair disheveled and gravity-defiant. One hand reflexively goes for the edge of his mask—already in place, of course.
“What?” he asks, though he’s already reaching for the familiar pulse of your chakra. Steady. Calm. No flicker of distress.
“She’s fine,” he mutters aloud.
“She doesn’t look fine,” Toma hisses, agitated and as if his whole world had folded. “She doesn’t even look like her anymore! They put something on her lips. And her eyes. And her hair. Like—like she’s getting married or something! And they said something about the festival, and I—just—get up! You have to stop them.”
Kakashi scrubs a hand over his face. “Festival,” he repeats numbly.
That gets him on his feet.
He follows Toma down the narrow wooden hallway, the soles of his feet whispering against polished floorboards. His shirt hangs loose, hair still tousled from sleep, and he can’t shake the feeling that this might be some elaborate dream. Or prank. Or mission gone sideways
Toma, meanwhile, marches with all the righteous fury of someone who has tasted betrayal before breakfast. He mutters furiously to himself as they turn corners, shove open sliding doors, and finally—at the end of the corridor—approach the one room that still buzzes with life.
The door is already open.
And there you are.
You sit on a cushion in the center of the room, framed by soft lamplight and the flutter of kimono sleeves. A ring of women surrounds you like attendants, their hands swift and practiced, adjusting the rich folds of patterned silk with reverent precision.
You aren’t moving. Not really. Just… enduring. Regal in your resignation. The kind of poise that isn’t learned, but forged.
Someone pins a delicate comb into your hair. Another brushes something glossy onto your lips. A necklace is clasped behind your neck with a soft click. A pale flower is tucked just behind your ear.
You are all quiet dignity and reluctant grace.
And you don't look like yourself.
You look like someone who might belong to this world.
Kakashi stops in the doorway.
A pulse beats behind his eye. Not alarm. Not confusion.
Just… pause.
You are beautiful. In a way that hurts a little. In a way that catches him so entirely off guard he forgets how to move.
He doesn’t notice Toma glaring up at him until a small foot kicks the back of his calf—sharply.
“Tell them,” the boy hisses, “that she can’t go.”
Kakashi doesn't answer. His eye stays on you.
Not the way the others look at you—with admiration, or pride, or delight—but the way a man looks at something he isn’t supposed to touch. Something that doesn’t belong to him. Not really.
He knows the tilt of your mouth when you’re trying not to fidget. The way your shoulders sit when you’re thinking too hard. The brief glance toward the window, lingering on the golden spill of sunlight like someone considering escape.
You haven’t said you want to go. Of course not. But he knows you. Knows the signs. You’re curious.
Interested.
Hopeful.
Kakashi sighs and rubs the back of his neck.
“She’s not my wife,” he says, mostly to Toma.
“You sleep in the same room!”
“Barely.”
“You travel together,” the boy counters immediately.
“Because we’re teammates.”
“Then why aren’t you stopping them?” Toma demands.
Kakashi tilts his head, eyeing you again. His voice is quiet. “Because I think… she wants to go.”
Toma looks betrayed. “You’re just… giving up?”
“It’s called compromise,” Kakashi murmurs. “You’ll understand one day.”
“You’re supposed to be a ninja!”
“I am,” he says, dragging a hand down his face again. “A very tired one.”
Toma looks at you, then back at him, then lets out a noise like a kettle starting to boil before stomping off with all the weight of a miniature storm.
Kakashi stays.
His gaze follows the way you sit in the middle of the chaos, still and quiet, but not passive. Present. Curious. Open
The kind of openness he hasn’t seen in you in a long time.
He exhales slowly, the last of his reluctance ebbing out with the breath.
Maybe it isn’t logical. Maybe it isn’t safe. But when is it ever?
And when is the last time either of you saw fireworks without needing to duck behind a roof or a tree?
Maybe—just maybe—this time, it could be different.
The laughter around you ebbs like a tide.
One moment, the room is alive with easy chatter and rustling fabric, the warm scents of cosmetics and herbal oils mixing in the air. The next, silence slips in like a blade between ribs—sharp, sudden, undeniable.
You don’t need to lift your head to know why. The energy shifts; the mood pivots on its axis.
Every woman in the room subtly straightens. Someone inhales too sharply. Fingers twitch at sleeves that were already perfectly arranged. A few cast wide-eyed glances toward the doorway, their voices caught somewhere between surprise and thrill.
Kakashi has arrived.
You raise your eyes slowly, deliberately, expression schooled into neutrality.
He’s standing just inside the threshold, stiff and awkward like someone who walked into the wrong house. The henge alters him, smoothing away the familiar edge. His silver hair is now a muted brown, tied back loosely at the nape. His stature seems less imposing, broader in the shoulders, his mask now a deep navy instead of black. He’s ordinary, nondescript—someone designed to be forgettable.
And yet.
He is anything but.
Even beneath the illusion, something about him cuts. The posture. The tilt of his head. That lone, exposed eye, sharp and unguarded. One hand lifts to scratch the back of his neck, a telltale sign of discomfort, though the gesture looks practiced now. Too practiced. He’s wearing this false skin like an ill-fitting coat.
You’d pity him—if your own pulse hadn’t just kicked up a notch.
If the heat creeping up the back of your neck weren’t giving you away.
“Oh—” one of the women breathes, clasping her hands together like she’s been handed a birthday cake. “So this is the famous husband!”
You blink. “Famous what?”
Another woman, older and cunning in the eyes, leans in with a grin. “Yui said he was handsome. But she didn’t say this handsome.”
You remind yourself—quietly, with resolve—to murder Yui later.
“We’re not—” you begin, but your words are already swallowed by the mounting chorus.
“—married, mmhmm, sure. You shinobi always have your little technicalities. ‘Just teammates,’ ‘only partners,’ ‘not like that.’ We’ve heard it all.”
“She really undersold him,” another says, fanning herself as if she needs air. “He’s got that look, doesn’t he? That quiet, dangerous charm.”
Kakashi is still frozen by the door, hand at his neck like he’s seriously considering tunneling his way out through sheer willpower. His eye flicks to you, then to the floor, then briefly to the ceiling—as if praying someone, anyone, will spare him.
One of the women edges closer and gives him a playful wink. “No need to be shy, sweetheart. She’s beautiful, and you’re clearly smitten. You should be proud.”
“I’m not—” he tries, voice hoarse under the henge, but it’s hopeless. They’re enjoying themselves too much to hear him.
“Oh, look at them,” someone sighs dreamily. “Perfect pair.”
“Made for each other.”
“I hope you’re taking her to the festival tonight. You are, right? Don’t be the type who makes a girl go alone.”
His eye flicks back to you again. It holds a glimmer of something like desperation. Help.
You don’t move. Don’t even blink. Your voice is smooth as water. “He’s always very considerate.”
A ripple of delighted squeals follows. The woman nearest you clasps her hands together like she’s witnessing a romance novel unfold in real time.
Eventually, the group begins to gather their things, energy crackling as they disperse. One gives Kakashi a warm pat on the arm. “Don’t let her out of your sight. Too many admirers out there.”
Another chuckles over her shoulder as she goes, “And don’t do anything scandalous before the fireworks!”
Their laughter spills out of the room like confetti on the wind, trailing down the hall in bright, teasing fragments. The door clicks shut behind them, leaving silence in their wake.
Almost silence.
You stay where you are, posture composed, as the hush settles like falling snow.
Then, finally, you turn to look at him.
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath the entire time. “I’m going to kill Yui.”
You snort. “Get in line.”
Kakashi steps further into the room now, his movements looser but still awkward beneath the shell of his disguise. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of the plain yukata he borrowed—too simple, too neutral, not at all him.
His eye lingers on you. The fabric draped over your form. The subtle shimmer of color at your mouth. The curve of your earrings catching light.
“You look…” he starts, then stops. Clears his throat.
You tilt your head. “Different?”
His mouth twitches beneath the mask. “That’s one word.”
“Good different or horrifying different?”
He pauses, drawing it out just to make you twitch.
“Still deciding.”
You narrow your eyes at him.
He huffs a quiet laugh, eye crinkling. “Good. Definitely good.”
The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s rich. Comfortable. Humming with things left unsaid.
He looks away first, then moves to the window, gazing out at the amber-tinged sky. “It’s been a while,” he murmurs. “Since I’ve seen anyone get dressed up for something that wasn’t… tactical.”
You glance at him, watching his profile in the burn of golden hour light. “You don’t seem like the festival type.”
“I’m not.” A small shrug. “Last one I went to was with Obito. He got into a shouting match with a kid over who had better reflexes. They decided to settle it by timing firework launches.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes. Two stalls caught fire, I ended up covered in ash, and Rin nearly beat us to death with her folding fan. Good times.”
You laugh, soft and full, the image unexpectedly vivid.
“My last one wasn’t much better,” you say. “Slipped on grilled squid and faceplanted in front of a taiko performance. I think someone caught it on a scroll.”
Kakashi winces in sympathy. “Brutal.”
You nod. “Still worth it. The food was great. The fireworks were better.”
The silence comes again, gentler now. It rests between you, neither awkward nor heavy—just present. A pause with weight, not emptiness.
You glance at him once more.
He’s already watching you.
So you ask, quietly, “Should we go?”
It’s a simple question. But in this hush, it feels louder. Deeper. Like asking for more than an evening out.
He doesn’t answer right away.
His eye flicks back to the window—the sky dipped in molten light, shadows stretching long across the floorboards. Then back to you. It lingers.
One beat. Two.
Then he murmurs, barely above a whisper, “Guess I’ve got nowhere better to be.”
You smile, just slightly. It feels like something loosening inside your chest.
He turns toward the door, hands still buried in his pockets.
You watch him leave. And then, as you turn back to the mirror, adjusting a hairpin at your temple, you see it—not your own reflection, but his.
He hasn’t gone far.
He’s just beyond the frame of the glass, half-shadowed. Watching you. Not with suspicion. Not with tension.
Just quietly. Intently. Like he’s memorizing something.
You don’t say anything.
Neither does he.
And after a moment, he turns and walks away.
But something lingers behind him.
A tension in the air. A warmth under your skin.
Something unspoken.
Something understood.