Chapter 4
Sukea slumped heavily on the riverbank, his legs trembling from the adrenaline crash. He felt damp and uncomfortable, water soaking through his sleeves and clinging to his skin. His wig felt sticky and wet with either sweat or water—he didn’t know or care which.
With a sigh, he tugged the wig off, letting it fall limply into his lap. Digging into his shirt, he pulled out the training mask he’d swiped earlier. The familiar fabric slipped over his face, grounding him with its scent and weight.
“Wait.” Kakashi’s voice cut through the quiet. “Isn’t that mine?”
Sukea glanced up at his younger self, who stood glaring at him, arms crossed and looking mildly betrayed.
“Mine still has that new mask smell,” Sukea muttered, too drained to argue.
Kakashi’s eyes narrowed, but he only huffed, muttering something about thieves under his breath before plopping down next to him.
For a moment, silence hung between them. Sukea leaned back, palms pressing into the damp earth as he closed his eyes. He could feel Kakashi’s gaze on him but didn’t have the energy to care.
The sound of heavy footsteps broke the quiet, and Sukea opened his eyes to see Chōza towering over them.
“Kakashi? Where’s—” Chōza’s words trailed off as his eyes flicked between their identical masks. His brow furrowed, then relaxed with faint recognition. “Oh, Sukea,” he said. “Didn’t notice the resemblance before. Almost didn’t recognize you.”
“We’re twins,” Kakashi said flatly, arms crossed. “Of course we look the same. Especially when he’s wearing my mask.”
Sukea snorted at how that seemed to be the thing his younger self was focused on.
“Well, it looks like you’re feeling a little better, then?” Choza asked, his deep voice steady but not unkind.
“Better’s a strong word,” Sukea admitted. He straightened slightly, trying to seem a bit more together. “But… yeah. I’ll live.”
Chōza studied him for a moment before he crouched beside him, his large frame somehow managing not to loom intimidatingly. “Living is good, but what happened back there?”
Sukea stiffened, his gaze flicking away as the memory of Rin’s blood resurfaced. “Nothing,” he said finally, his tone stubborn and clipped.
For a moment, Chōza didn’t respond.
“Sukea,” he began, placing a large hand on his shoulder in what was probably meant to be a comforting gesture, but Sukea’s muscles locked under the weight of that hand. He didn’t like how pinned it made him feel, as though escape wasn’t an option.
Choza’s voice softened into a gentler tone. It was the kind of voice someone used with a spooked animal—careful, coaxing, and entirely patronizing. You don’t need to pretend with me,” he said gently. “I’m your sensei, Sukea, and I want to help. I know it must have been hard seeing Rin hurt like that. Your reaction—well, it was understandable, I do recall what happened to your father even if the village likes to pretend it doesn’t.”
“Excuse me?” Sukea asked, his voice sharper than intended. He could feel Kakashi bristling on his other side.
Chōza sighed, his grip on Sukea’s shoulder firming slightly like he was trying to give comfort. “It’s clear that blood… affects you,” he began carefully trying to explain himself. “I looked into your clan's specialities when I took you on as a student and noticed that most of the Hatake often tended to use kenjustu yet Kakashi is the only one of you with a sword, I even noticed you opted for the kunoichi track instead of the standard combat training and yet when I gave you training drills, you took to them very well, so it’s not a lack of experience drawing you towards it. You’re avoiding combat.”
“It’s no wonder you’d have a hard time,” Chōza continued, his voice laced with sympathy. “Possibly witnessing something like that… it affects even the most seasoned Shinobi. There’s no shame in it, Sukea. If you or Kakashi ever feel comfortable, you should consider speaking to someone—perhaps a Yamanaka. My old teammate is Inoichi Yamanaka and I can ask him—”
Sukea froze, his breath catching and tuning out his sensei’s probably well-intentioned but misguided theory. The implication hit him like a blow: He thinks my reaction to Rin’s blood is some blanket fear of blood… from witnessing Father’s death?
He barely remembered his father’s death in detail—just the detached haze of trying to stop the bleeding, until he realised it was too late, and then feeling duty-bound to guard over Sakumo’s lifeless body until someone discovered them. He hadn’t cried then, hadn’t felt the overwhelming grief they’d expected of him. To him, it had just been a mission.
The breaking point hadn’t come until much later. It was Obito’s blood, Rin’s, and then the endless crimson of his loved ones that followed in his years as a shinobi that finally made him feel the weight of it.
“I…” Sukea’s voice cracked, his throat tightening. Sukea feels conflicted, should he lean into his teacher's misconception? But before he could say anything, Kakashi cut in.
“He’s fine,” the younger Kakashi said sharply, his tone clipped but strangely defensive. “We don’t need to see a Yamanaka. He just overreacted. It happens.” He shrugged, as though the ordeal was a minor inconvenience, nothing worth dwelling on. “The academy combat classes were boring anyway. And he doesn’t have a sword.”
Sukea blinked, taken aback, realizing that Kakashi was trying to defend him from the allegation that he… had a fear of blood and combat. The pause that followed was faintly awkward, almost hesitant, before Kakashi added, “I suppose I could let him borrow the White Light Chakra Sabre sometimes.”
Sukea flinched as if struck. That blade wasn’t his to touch. He’d broken his own weapon long ago. He had no right to Kakashi’s. It was Kakashi’s choice whether to cherish it, wield it with honour, or let it shatter like Sukea did. Logically he knew the boy was trying to do a kindness but the offer tore at Sukea’s already raw emotions, scraping against the fragile stability he’d just begun to piece together. His voice snapped before he could stop himself.
“I don’t want it!”
The words hung heavy in the air, echoing louder than he’d intended. Both Choza and Kakashi froze, startled by his outburst. The silence that followed pressed down on Sukea. His chest burned, his emotions unravelling beneath the strain.
Choza raised his hands slightly, a placating gesture. “All right,” he said carefully, his voice even and calm. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Sukea sucked in a shaky breath, willing himself to regain some semblance of composure. But the tightness in his chest refused to ease, and every muscle in his body screamed for escape. “I’m fine,” he muttered, though even to his own ears, the words sounded hollow, a brittle attempt at reassurance. He turned to Kakashi, his voice tight and strained. “Kakashi. I want to go home. Help me up.”
Kakashi hesitated but offered his arm. Sukea gripped it, leaning heavily on his younger self as his legs wobbled beneath him. Together, they began to hobble away from the riverbank. Sukea kept his gaze fixed on the ground, avoiding Choza’s concerned eyes, unwilling to face the compassion or pity he might see there.
Sukea didn’t look back. His mind swirled with conflicting emotions. He knew, in the back of his mind, that his reaction had only cemented Choza’s misconceptions about him disliking blood and avoiding combat. Yet, he couldn’t summon the energy to care.
By the time they reached home, Sukea was running on empty. The moment they stepped inside, he made straight for the bedroom, barely bothering with the lights. He sank to his knees by the small collection of belongings he’d had on him when this whole mess began, fingers brushing absently over the camera and rolls of undeveloped film.
He pushed them aside and found what he was looking for—a well-worn copy of Icha Icha. Relief coursed through him as he cradled the book in his hands. Flipping to the first page, he curled up in the corner of the far too big bed that had come with the apartment. He didn’t need to think to follow the words; he’d memorized every line long before, even without the aid of his Sharingan. The familiar, vivid descriptions swept over him, comforting in their predictability.
His mind wandered freely as he read, allowing the cadence of the story to soothe him. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when the subtle creak of a floorboard drew his attention. He glanced up to see Kakashi quietly settling down beside him.
The boy didn’t say anything at first, pulling a book of his own from his pouch—a well-thumbed training manual— and offering a few simply made riceballs. At some point, they fell asleep.
—
.
.
.
The steady trickle of running water tugged Kakashi from the edges of sleep. He groaned, burying his face deeper into the pillow, willing the sound to fade. But it didn’t. It continued, persistent and grating, gnawing at his fraying patience. Why would the tap even be running at this hour?
With a groan, Kakashi pushed himself up, the cool night air biting at his skin as his bare feet hit the floor. Muttering under his breath about carelessness, he shuffled toward the source of the sound. The faint echo of a voice accompanied the water now, barely audible but unmistakable. Someone was there.
He froze outside the bathroom door, unease prickling at the edges of his irritation. Slowly, he pushed it open and steam billowed out.
Sukea was hunched over the sink, his hands under the relentless stream of water. He scrubbed furiously, his movements rigid, almost frantic, as if trying to erase something only he could see. His fingers were raw, his knuckles red and swollen from the assault and based on the steam filling the room the water was probably running hot. Kakashi had seen him do this after the sparring match earlier that day, obsessively scrubbing his hands clean. He’d assumed it had been resolved once the blood was gone. He’d seemed fine.
But he doesn’t seem fine now.
Sukea’s expression was blank, his eyes hollow and distant, as if he were somewhere else entirely. The look made his stomach twist, as it dredged up a memory, what with Sukea’s teacher bringing it up. He’d seen that kind of look before—once, just once—in his father’s eyes. It was after he had returned from that ill-fated mission when Kakashi had come across him in the kitchen in the dead of night. For one fleeting moment, Sakumo hadn’t been wearing his usual smile, hadn’t put on a cheerful front. He’d looked… empty, weighed down by something Kakashi hadn’t understood at the time.
The memory spurred him into action. Kakashi darted forward and shut off the tap, the sudden silence jarring. Sukea didn’t even flinch, his hands still clawing at the air, scrubbing at something that wasn’t there.
Kakashi grabbed his wrists, his small fingers wrapping tightly around Sukea’s trembling hands. “Stop it,” he said firmly, his voice sharper than he intended.
Sukea blinked, his movements faltering. His gaze slowly shifted to Kakashi, but it was unfocused like he was struggling to place where—or when—he was.
Kakashi’s chest tightened. He didn’t know what to do with Sukea. He didn’t know how to handle people breaking apart in front of him. Kakashi tightened his grip, feeling a pang of something he didn’t quite understand. Helplessness? Frustration? He blurted out the first thing that came to mind, blunt and unfiltered. “Why are you like this? Why are you so… broken?”
Sukea looked down at their joined hands, eyes still looking hazy, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse and barely above a whisper.
“I don’t want this for you, Kakashi,” he murmured, his words heavy with something Kakashi couldn’t name. Regret? Guilt? “I’ve hurt so many people—people who mattered to me. And the things I’ve done… they’ve caused even more pain. My hands never feel clean.” He swallowed hard, his voice cracking. “I can still feel it, no matter how hard I try to scrub it away.”
Kakashi stared at him, unsure what to say, unsure how to process the raw vulnerability spilling out of this strange, older version of himself.
Sukea was still such an enigma, someone who felt simultaneously familiar and alien. Most of the time, Kakashi could almost believe the lie—that Sukea was just some hidden sibling rather than an older version of himself. He was too childish, insisting Kakashi “loosen up,” lazing around, and reading trash novels Kakashi wouldn’t touch with a kunai. But then there were those quiet moments when they moved around each other, perfectly in sync, or when their likes and dislikes aligned so effortlessly. Those moments made Kakashi feel like he was staring into a mirror.
But this? Sitting on the bathroom floor, watching Sukea fall apart and insist that he didn’t want Kakashi to end up like him—this left Kakashi with more questions than answers.
—
Sukea stirred, the cool hardness of familiar bathroom tiles anchoring him as he blinked blearily into consciousness. His limbs felt heavy, his thoughts muddled, but the faint ache in his neck reminded him where he was—and why. Another nightmare. He grimaced, shifting to sit up, but something held him down.
Kakashi.
The boy was slumped awkwardly beside him, one small hand gripping Sukea’s sleeve even in sleep. His hair was mussed, his breathing soft and steady, and his expression was uncharacteristically peaceful. The sight tugged at something deep within Sukea—a pang of guilt, tangled with reluctant fondness.
What is he even doing here? The thought came unbidden, sharp and laced with unease. Not here in the bathroom, but here in this time.
He still wasn’t sure how he’d ended up in the past. The Sharingan’s abilities were vast and unpredictable, but even this felt beyond comprehension. Kakashi—the younger Kakashi—had offered him refuge under the pretence of being a twin. But it’s not even like he had a choice but to accept. It was either that or being on the run, and doing that during a war would be a death sentence, especially in a time that still vividly remembers his father. Even if he’d wanted to return to his time, there was no clear way back.
And now he’s here, sitting on a bathroom floor, staring at hands that still stung from the frantic scrubbing he barely remembered doing. He thought he’d broken that habit long ago. As Hokage, the compulsions had grown rare, pushed aside by overworking himself and a need to keep moving forward. But this… this time, this place, with its fresh reminders and reopened wounds, had unravelled years of fragile progress.
His gaze lingered on Kakashi, his younger self, and a weight settled in his chest. Sukea knew he was dragging the boy into his own mess, into a mire of grief, guilt, and regrets that weren’t even Kakashi’s to carry yet. He clenched his jaw, swallowing back the bitterness. ‘I’ll make it better’, he thought fiercely. ‘Somehow, I’ll make sure he doesn’t end up like me.’
Bitter. Broken. Haunted by ghosts that wouldn’t let him rest.
His voice was barely more than a whisper, echoing in the stillness of the room like an apology.
“In the ninja world, those who break the rules are scum… but those who abandon their friends are worse than scum.”
Kakashi stirred slightly at the sound, his fingers tightening momentarily on Sukea’s sleeve before relaxing again. The sight made Sukea’s throat tighten.
He leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes as exhaustion threatened to pull him under again. He didn’t know if he could fix things—didn’t know if it was even possible to steer this Kakashi toward a better future. But maybe, just maybe, he could push him far enough away from the path Sukea had taken.
Far enough to give him a chance.
—
Sukea's hands stung as he flexed his fingers. It had been a while since he’d found himself in this situation—so long, in fact, that he’d nearly forgotten the clumsy art of tending his own wounds. As Hokage, there had always been a med-nin nearby to tackle him down and patch him up.
He’d snuck away to the kitchen, hoping to quietly clean and dress his hands without alerting his younger counterpart. But the moment the kitchen sink sputtered to life, a white blur shot into the room like an overzealous watchdog.
“What are you doing?” Kakashi’s sharp voice cut through the quiet, his storm-grey eyes narrowing suspiciously.
“I’m just cleaning them before I bandage them.” Sukea said, holding up his hands in a gesture of peace.
Kakashi’s gaze flicked to the counter, where salve and bandages already lay neatly arranged. His expression darkened with determination. “I’ll do it.”
Sukea rolled his eyes, exhaling a quiet sigh as he extended his hands, “Fine. Knock yourself out.”
To his surprise, Kakashi worked in relative silence, his movements precise but tentative, as though afraid of pressing too hard. Sukea couldn’t resist offering the occasional critique, pointing out how to wind the bandages tighter or apply the salve more evenly—tips born of years of ANBU experience. Kakashi grunted in reply, his expression unreadable as he worked.
When the job was done, Sukea flexed his fingers experimentally. “Not bad,” he said, earning a faint shrug from the boy, who disappeared to prepare for his training.
Later, as Sukea wandered into the hall, he spotted Kakashi adjusting his gear. The boy hesitated, fingers lingering on the strap of their father’s sword, now slung across his back. His stormy gaze flickered to Sukea, conflicted, as though waiting for permission—or disapproval.
Sukea’s throat tightened as he realized why. Yesterday’s outburst still hung between them. He forced himself to smile, soft but firm. “It’s yours, Kakashi. I’ll borrow and steal masks and training equipment but not that. I was careless with father's sword and treated it like just any weapon and it broke during a mission in my time. I don’t deserve to take that away from you.”
Kakashi’s grip tightened on the strap at the mention of it getting broken, “Was it a lack of training?”
“What?” Sukea blinked, caught off guard.
“Was it a lack of training that caused you to misuse it?” The boy presses, “If it is I’ll need you to help teach me how to not do that.”
“Are you trying to ask me to teach you kenjutsu? I thought I already showed you I’m not a very good teacher.” referring to their prior attempts at training that just turned into sparring.
“That’s okay,” Kakashi replied, his tone casual, though the faint pink colouring his ears betrayed his embarrassment. “I don’t know anyone else currently learning kenjutsu. It would be nice to have someone to practice with.”
The boy’s earnestness sent a wave of elation through Sukea. This... this is the cuteness of having a student that he missed.
“I’ll warn you now,” Sukea began, his grin softening. “I’m going to have to relearn the Hatake style with you. After the sword broke, I fell back on the standard shinobi techniques when I picked up kenjutsu again.”
Kakashi frowned, clearly processing this, though he didn’t push further. Sukea hesitated. The truth—the destruction caused by the Nine-Tailed Fox’s rampage, had wiped out the Hatake compound along with its records and techniques, leaving anything Kakashi didn’t actively learn lost—was not something the boy needed to shoulder. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.
A knock at the door shattered the quiet moment.
Kakashi’s head turned sharply, his senses instantly on alert. With practised ease, he used a little chakra to scale the doorframe, lifting the cover on a peephole to glance outside. “What do you want, Minato-sensei?” Kakashi called through the door, while waving Sukea away.
Although he had taken to suppressing his chakra like he used to in ANBU, he double-checked, ensuring it was tightly cloaked so his teacher, correction so Kakashi’s teacher, couldn’t feel him.
He quietly indicates to Kakashi that he’s going to go out and Sukea makes himself scarce. He quickly put his wig on and only fumbled a little with his eye makeup before escaping through the window.
From outside, as he quietly shut the window behind him, he could faintly hear Minato’s warm voice explaining, “Chōza mentioned yesterday that I might have been neglecting your needs as a clan shinobi, so I thought we could talk about it before we meet everyone else for group training—”
The rest was muffled as Sukea slipped away.