"How are you feeling?"
The question was simple. Direct. There was no preamble, no softening, no attempt to make it easier.
Kakashi had been walking with his head down, his visible eye fixed on the gravel. He stopped, his shoulders rising and falling with a long, slow breath. When he looked up, his expression was tired—more tired than Renjiro had ever seen it.
"How many times are you going to ask me that?"
His voice was flat, stripped of its usual dry humour. It was not quite hostile, but it carried an edge—the defensive reflex of someone who had been asked too many questions he did not want to answer by too many people who did not truly care.
Renjiro did not flinch. Did not look away.
"I'll keep asking until you tell me the truth."
The words landed in the darkness between them, and for a moment, Kakashi's composure cracked. Just a flicker—a tightening of his jaw, a hardening of his visible eye—but Renjiro saw it.
"Do you want me to say I'm not okay?" Kakashi asked, and there was something almost challenging in his tone. As if he were testing Renjiro, pushing to see if he would back down.
"Yes."
No hesitation. No softening. Just the simple, honest answer.
"Because I can feel it," Renjiro continued, his voice dropping lower, more intense. "You're not okay. You haven't been okay since Rin died. And pretending otherwise isn't helping anyone—least of all yourself."
Kakashi's jaw tightened.
"You don't know what I'm feeling."
"I know what I see."
"And what's that?"
"Someone who's drowning." Renjiro stepped closer, close enough that Kakashi could see the shadows under his eyes, the fine lines of tension around his mouth. "Someone who's trying to keep his head above water by pretending he's not in the water at all. But you are, Kakashi. You're in it. And pretending isn't going to save you."
Kakashi stared at him. His visible eye was wide, the pupil dilated in the darkness. For a moment, it seemed he might say something—might let the walls crumble, might admit to the weight he was carrying.
Instead, he looked away.
"What are you now?" he asked, his voice dry, almost mocking. "Some kind of sage?"
The tension broke—just slightly, just enough.
Renjiro's lips twitched.
"I wish."
Kakashi's shoulders relaxed, just a fraction. He began walking again, slowly, and Renjiro fell into step beside him. They moved away from the house, toward the darker part of the street, where the shadows pooled and the lanterns were fewer. Their footsteps crunched in tandem, a rhythm that was almost comfortable.
"Your Mangekyō," Renjiro said, "I already know you're not okay because it awakened."
Kakashi's steps faltered. Just a stumble, quickly recovered, but enough.
"The Mangekyō is considered a badge of honour among the Uchiha," Renjiro continued. "Proof of power, of evolution, of reaching the pinnacle of the Sharingan. They talk about it like it's a gift, something to be celebrated." He shook his head. "But its awakening is rooted in trauma. Always. It doesn't come from training or dedication or ambition. It comes from loss. From grief. From watching someone you love die."
He paused, letting the words settle, letting them sink into the darkness between them.
"The Uchiha tend to suppress those emotions. They bottle them up, bury them, pretend they don't exist. Shinobi culture encourages it. But it's unhealthy. Self-destructive. The Mangekyō is not a gift, Kakashi. It's a scar."
Kakashi was silent, his visible eye fixed on the path ahead. His hands, shoved deep in his pockets, were clenched into fists. The knuckles were white.
"I'm not going to tell you how to grieve," Renjiro said, his voice softer now, almost gentle. "I'm not going to tell you to talk about it if you're not ready. But I want you to know—"
He stopped, turning to face Kakashi fully.
"It doesn't matter if it's tomorrow, or next week, or months from now. Whenever you're ready to talk, I'll listen."
Kakashi's eye flickered toward him, searching. There was something in that gaze—suspicion, perhaps, or the desperate hope of a drowning person who had been thrown a rope too many times and was afraid it would snap.
"Why are you doing this?"
Renjiro smiled—a small, almost imperceptible curve of his lips. It was not his usual smirk, not the sardonic expression he wore like armour. It was something softer. Something almost vulnerable.
"I'm trying to be what I wish I had when I awakened my own Mangekyō."
The words hung in the air, simple and honest. For a moment—just a moment—Kakashi's expression softened. The tension in his shoulders eased. He looked almost human.
'This is not entirely true,' Renjiro admitted to himself. ' But I want him to open up. I want him to trust me because trust is leverage. Because an emotionally stable Kakashi is a more effective shinobi. Because I need him functional for what's coming.'
'But also because I care.'
He let the thought settle, acknowledging the contradiction without resolving it. He was many things—strategist, survivor, weapon—but he was not a monster. Not entirely.
Kakashi latched onto the Mangekyō comment, seizing the distraction like a lifeline.
"I never asked," he said, his voice carefully casual. "How did you awaken yours?"
Renjiro's smile widened, and there was something knowing in it.
"Changing the subject?"
"That doesn't make me less curious."
"You're deflecting."
"I'm curious."
Renjiro chuckled—a low, genuine sound that seemed to surprise them both. He reached out and slapped Kakashi lightly on the back, a gesture that was almost brotherly.
"I'll tell you once you're ready to talk about your feelings."
Kakashi's eye narrowed.
"You're a bastard."
"I've been told."
They stood in silence for a moment, the tension between them eased, replaced by something almost comfortable. The night air was cool, carrying the scent of earth and distant pine. Somewhere, a dog barked, and another answered.
"We'll talk later," Renjiro said.
Kakashi nodded, turned, and walked into the darkness. His silhouette blurred, then vanished—flicker, gone—leaving Renjiro alone on the quiet street.
He watched the space where Kakashi had been for a long moment, the weight of the conversation settling onto his shoulders. Then he turned and walked back toward the house.
The sounds from inside were quieter now. The laughter had faded, the voices lowered, the clink of dishes and the scrape of chairs a soft, distant accompaniment.
He pushed open the door.
Aiko was standing by the door, her hand on the frame, her coat already buttoned. She had clearly been about to leave.
"You were going to leave without saying goodbye?" Renjiro called out, his voice carrying a note of mock offence.
Aiko turned, her expression unapologetic.
"You took too long walking Kakashi out. I have somewhere to be."
"Somewhere more important than my housewarming?"
"Than watching you brood? Absolutely."
Renjiro raised an eyebrow.
"Where exactly do you have to be?" he asked, crossing his arms. "I'm pretty sure you don't have friends."
Aiko's eyes flashed—not with anger, but with the particular spark of someone who had been trading barbs with him for years.
"That's projection," she said flatly. "Most of the people at your 'housewarming' were basically relatives." She held up her fingers, counting off. "Kushina is family for you. Sama is connected by extension. Miwa is your actual aunt. That leaves Kakashi and me as the only actual friends."
"I have other friends."
"Name one."
Renjiro opened his mouth, then closed it. Aiko's lips curved into a triumphant smile.
"That's what I thought."
"God forbid I'm a private person."
"God forbid you admit you have no friends."
The words were sharp, but there was no real heat in them. Aiko was smiling, and Renjiro found himself smiling back—just slightly, just enough.
Then the smile faded.
"Why are you really leaving early?"
Aiko's expression flickered. The playfulness drained away, replaced by something heavier. She looked down at her hands, then back up at him.
"A friend of mine died," she said quietly. "A few weeks ago. The preparations for her send-off are happening, and I need to be there."
Renjiro's eyes narrowed. The words landed heavily, shifting the atmosphere completely.
"Which friend?"
Aiko met his gaze, and there was something in her eyes—a weight, a grief, a knowledge that made his stomach tighten.
"I'm sure you remember her from a few weeks ago, Shiori-sama."
The name hit Renjiro like a physical blow.
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