Chapter 3: The Blindfolded Rooftop Confession
The house had settled into its own rhythm over the past week.
Mornings were the hardest. Rai woke before dawn every day, his internal clock wired to something ancient and wary, and Sakura had learned to be up before him. She'd find him sitting on the edge of his bed, bandaged head tilted toward the window, listening to the birds. He didn't talk much in the mornings. Didn't talk much at all, really, but the silences had changed. They were less hostile now. More like a radio tuned to static, waiting for a signal.
She made breakfast. He ate without complaint. Kakashi appeared sometime around seven, rumpled and half-awake, and the three of them sat at the table like something approximating a family. It was awkward. It was stilted. It was the best thing Sakura had experienced in years.
Afternoons were for training. Kakashi had taken over most of it, teaching Rai to navigate the world through sound and chakra and the subtle shifts of air pressure. The boy was learning fast—faster than Sakura had expected. His kekkei genkai was still unpredictable, still tied to his emotions, but he was starting to understand it. Starting to control it.
Evenings were quiet. Rai retreated to his room after dinner, exhausted from the mental strain of existing in a world without sight. Kakashi read. Sakura worked on patient files or practiced her medical jutsu on the training dummy in the backyard. They orbited each other like planets, close but not quite touching.
And at night, after Rai was asleep, they sat on opposite ends of the couch and watched television without watching it. The space between them felt wider than it had ever been.
Tonight was different.
Sakura had gone to bed early, her body aching from a long shift at the hospital. She'd fallen asleep before Kakashi even came in. But something had woken her—a sound, a shift in the air, a feeling she couldn't name—and when she reached for him, the other side of the bed was empty.
She found him on the rooftop.
He was sitting on the edge, legs dangling over the side, staring up at the sky. His mask was off. His hair was still damp from a shower. And he was wearing the old shirt again—the one with the torn collar, the one he'd cut the blindfold from.
The night was warm. Fireflies drifted through the air like tiny, living stars, their lights flickering in and out of existence. The village below was quiet, most of its inhabitants asleep. A single lantern burned beside him, casting long shadows across the rooftop.
Sakura climbed up without announcing herself. He didn't turn. Probably heard her coming. Probably knew she was there before she'd even reached the ladder.
She sat down beside him. Close enough that their shoulders almost touched. Not quite.
"Can't sleep?" she asked.
"Never can."
"Since when?"
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "Since always. Since I was six years old and watched my father walk out the door and never come back."
She didn't say anything. There was nothing to say to that.
They sat in silence for a while. The fireflies danced. The wind carried the scent of rain-washed jasmine from the garden below. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.
"I started looking into orphanage records," Sakura said.
The words came out before she'd fully decided to say them. But once they were in the air, she didn't regret them.
Kakashi turned. His eye—both eyes, uncovered now—met hers. In the dim light of the lantern, they looked almost black.
"When?"
"Three days ago. After his last session in the clearing. He stayed visible for three minutes straight. Then five. And I just—" She paused. Breathed. "I started thinking about what happens after. When the training ends. When he doesn't need a teacher anymore."
"And what happens?"
"That depends." She met his gaze. Held it. "On what we want."
The fireflies drifted between them. One landed on Kakashi's knee, its light pulsing faintly, then took off again.
"The adoption process is complicated," Sakura continued. "There's paperwork. Interviews. Home visits. They'll want to make sure we're fit, that we understand what we're taking on, that we have a support system in place. It'll take months. Maybe longer. And he's not a baby—he's twelve. There's trauma there. There's anger. There's a whole history we don't know about."
"Because his file is sealed."
"Because his file doesn't exist." She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around them. "I checked. There's no record of him before the incident. No parents. No guardians. No birth certificate. Nothing. It's like he appeared out of thin air three months ago."
"Where did he come from?"
"I don't know. And I'm not sure he does either."
Kakashi was quiet for a long moment. A firefly drifted past his face, illuminating the sharp lines of his jaw, the thin scar that cut through his left eye.
"I started the paperwork two days ago," he said.
Sakura's breath caught.
"What?"
"I've been thinking about it since the day we brought him home. Since the first time I saw you with him, in the hospital. I didn't say anything because I was scared." He looked at her. "I'm still scared."
"Kakashi—"
"Let me finish." He shifted, turning to face her fully. "I've spent my whole life losing people. My father. Obito.Rin. Minato. Kushina. Jiraiya. Everyone I ever loved died, Sakura. Every single one. And after a while, I started thinking that maybe it was me. Maybe I was the common factor. Maybe loving me was just a death sentence."
She opened her mouth to protest. He held up a hand.
"I know it's not true. I know it's survivor's guilt and trauma and all the other things you've been trying to tell me for years. But knowing something and believing it are two different things."
"Then what changed?"
"You." He said it simply. Without drama. Without weight. "Watching you with Rai. The way you touch him like he's made of glass. The way you stay patient when he lashes out. The way you keep showing up, day after day, even when he's trying to push you away. You're so—" He stopped. Swallowed. "You're so good with him. And I kept thinking, that's what she should have. That's what she deserves. A child. A family. Someone to come home to."
"You're someone I come home to."
"It's not the same."
"No." She didn't argue the point. It was true. "It's not."
"I've been terrified," he said. "Terrified of losing you. Terrified of losing a child. Terrified of being the man who ruins everything he touches. But then we took Rai to that clearing, and I saw the way you looked at him. And I thought—" He stopped again. His voice was rough now, scraped raw. "I thought, I'm more afraid of what happens if I don't try."
Sakura reached for his hand. Her fingers found his, cold and steady.
"I've already filled out the intent to adopt form," he said. "I've got the home study scheduled. The interviews. Everything. I started it the day after the first training session, when he stayed visible for a full minute and I saw you smile for the first time in months."
"You didn't tell me."
"I was waiting."
"For what?"
"For you to tell me first." A ghost of his old smile crossed his face. "I didn't want to pressure you. I didn't want you to think I was only doing it because I thought that's what you wanted."
"Do you want it?"
"Yes." He said the word without hesitation. "I want him. I want to be his father. I want to teach him how to shave and how to throw a proper punch and how to handle his kekkei genkai. I want to argue with him about curfew and make him eat vegetables and embarrass him in front of his friends. I want to—" He laughed, soft and surprised. "I want to be Dad."
The sound of it hung in the air. Dad. Them.
Sakura kissed him.
It was tentative at first. Soft. Just the briefest press of her lips against his, testing the waters. Then it deepened, and his hand came up to cup her face, his thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone, and she leaned into him, into the warmth of his body, into the years of longing and patience and quiet love that she'd never stopped feeling.
"The paperwork can wait," she murmured against his mouth.
"What do you have in mind?"
She pulled back just enough to look at him. The fireflies circled. The lantern flickered.
"Come to bed," she said.
They moved together without words.
The hallways were dark. Rai's door was closed, the faint sound of his breathing barely audible through the wood. Sakura led Kakashi past it, her fingers curled around his wrist, her heart beating a rhythm she hadn't felt in months.
The bedroom was warm. The window was open, letting in the night air and the faint hum of distant crickets. Moonlight pooled on the floor like spilled milk, silver and soft.
He kissed her again. Slower this time. Deliberate. His hands found the hem of her shirt, and he paused, waiting for permission. She nodded. He lifted it over her head.
They made love in the silver dark.
It was unhurried. Unpracticed. Two people relearning each other after too long apart.
He traced the line of her collarbone, the curve of her hip, the small scar on her shoulder from a mission gone wrong three years ago. She mapped his body too—the old wounds, the new calluses, the places where he held tension he didn't know he held. They didn't talk. Didn't need to. The language of touch was enough.
Afterward, they lay tangled in the sheets, breathing together, the sweat cooling on their skin.
"I missed this," Sakura whispered.
"Me too."
"You never said anything."
"I didn't know how." He turned his head to look at her. In the moonlight, his eyes were wide and unguarded. "I've never been good at telling you what I need. I've always been better at pushing away."
"I noticed."
He smiled. A real smile. Small and crooked and entirely his.
"I'm going to try. For Rai.For you. For—" He gestured vaguely. "For whatever comes next."
Sakura propped herself up on one elbow. Her hair was a mess, tangled and sticking to her forehead. She didn't care.
"What comes next," she said, "is a lot of paperwork. And interviews. And home visits. And probably a few arguments about discipline and schooling and what to do when he accidentally disappears in the middle of the street."
"Sounds overwhelming."
"It will be."
"Good." He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I like overwhelming. It means we're alive."
She laughed. Soft. Real. The sound filled the room like light.
Down the hall, Rai slept.
He dreamed of darkness, but it wasn't scary. It was soft. Warm. Like being held. And in the dream, he could hear two voices, low and steady, weaving around each other like something alive.
He didn't know what they were saying. But he knew they were staying.
For the first time in a long time, he didn't try to disappear.
When morning came, Sakura was still in bed.
For years, she'd been the first one up, waking before the sun to start her rounds at the hospital, to train, to do all the things that needed doing. But today, she stayed. Her body was sore in ways it hadn't been in months. Her heart was full in ways she'd forgotten it could be.
Kakashi was beside her, still asleep. His arm was draped over her waist, heavy and warm. His breathing was slow and even, the breath of a man who wasn't running from anything.
She turned her head to look at him.
He looked younger in sleep. Softer. The lines around his eyes faded, the permanent tension in his jaw smoothed away. He looked like the boy he must have been before the war, before the loss, before the long years of pretending he didn't feel anything.
She reached out and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead.
He stirred. His eye opened. Found hers.
"Morning," he murmured."Morning."
They lay there for a while, not talking, watching the light shift across the ceiling. The house was quiet. Rai wasn't up yet—she could tell by the absence of sound from his room, the lack of soft footsteps on the floorboards.
"We should tell him," Sakura said.
"I know."
"Not everything. Just—the important part. That we want him to stay. That this isn't temporary."
"He's not going to believe us."
"Probably not. Not at first." She sat up, pulling the sheet with her. "But we'll keep telling him. Every day. Until he does."
Kakashi sat up too. He found his undershirt on the floor and pulled it on—not the torn one, just a plain gray cotton. He looked at her with that unreadable expression, the one that meant he was thinking too much.
"What if he says no?"
"He won't."
"You don't know that."No." She met his gaze. "But I know what it's like to be alone. To think no one wants you. To push people away because it's easier than hoping they'll stay." She reached for his hand. "He'll say yes. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But he'll say yes."
"Because you'll keep asking."
"Because I'll keep showing up."
Kakashi smiled. It was a small thing, just a twitch of his lips, but it reached his eyes.
"You're terrifying," he said.
"Thank you."
He leaned forward and kissed her. It was soft and warm and tasted like morning breath and forever.
They were still kissing when they heard it.
A crash from down the hall. The sharp sound of something breaking. Then a voice—Rai's voice—calling out in panic.
"Sakura? Kakashi?"
They were out of bed before they'd fully decided to move.
The hallway was bright with morning light. Rai's door was open. He stood in the middle of the room, bandaged head swiveling wildly, hands outstretched as if searching for something.
"I heard something," he said. "I don't know what it was—something fell—I can't—"
"It's okay." Sakura reached him first. She touched his shoulder, light and steady."It's okay. You're safe. You're at home."
He was shaking. She could feel it through the thin fabric of his shirt.
"I heard glass break."
Kakashi appeared beside them. He surveyed the room quickly—bed, window, nightstand—and found the source. A glass of water, knocked over, shattered on the floor. Rai must have reached for it and missed.
"It was just a glass," Kakashi said. "You knocked it over. Nothing's wrong."
"I didn't know—I couldn't see—"
"I know. It's fine."
Rai's breathing was ragged. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides. For a moment, Sakura thought he might flicker out, disappear into that invisible space he retreated to when things got too much.
But he didn't.He stayed. Stayed visible. Stayed present.
"I'm sorry," he said. His voice was small. "I broke your glass."
"It's just a glass." Sakura squeezed his shoulder. "We've got more."
"I can't—I can't do anything right. I can't see. I can't help. I can't—"
"Hey." She crouched down, bringing herself to his level. "Look at me. Or—toward me. Whatever works."
His bandaged head turned. She wished she could see his eyes.
"You're doing fine," she said. "You're doing so well. A glass is nothing. We'll get a new one. Or we won't. It doesn't matter."
"You're just saying that."
"I'm saying it because it's true."
He didn't answer. But he didn't pull away either. Just stood there, small and shaking and trying so hard to be brave.
Kakashi stepped forward. He didn't touch Rai—he'd learned that the boy needed space—but he stood close enough to be felt.
"We're going to have a lot of broken glasses," he said. "And broken plates. Probably a broken vase or two. You're going to knock things over. You're going to trip. You're going to accidentally disappear and reappear in the wrong place. It's going to take time to learn how to navigate the world without sight."
Rai nodded. A jerky, reluctant movement.
"But we're not going anywhere," Kakashi continued. "We're going to be here for all of it. The broken glasses. The frustration.The panic. The nights when you can't sleep and the mornings when you don't want to get up. All of it."
"Why?"
The word came out sharp. Angry. The old hostility, flaring to life.
"Why do you care?"
Sakura stood. She looked at Kakashi. He looked back.
And then, together, they said it.
"Because we want you to stay."
Rai went still.
"What?"
"Not as a student," Sakura said. "Not as a patient. As our son."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Rai's hands unclenched. Then clenched again. His whole body was trembling now, hard enough that Sakura could see it.
"You're lying," he said.
"We're not."
"You don't want me. No one wants me. I'm broken. I'm blind. I'm—"
"We want you."
"You're just saying that because you feel sorry for me."
"No." Kakashi's voice was firm. "We're saying it because we've spent the last three weeks watching you fight. Watching you survive. Watching you try, even when it's hard. And we've decided we want to be part of that."
"You can't just decide that."
"We can, actually."
"It doesn't work that way."
"It does now."
Rai shook his head. He was crying. Sakura could see the tears soaking through the bandages, dark spots on white cloth.
"You're going to leave. Everyone leaves. Everyone—"
"We're not everyone."
"You don't know that. You can't promise that. You can't—"
Sakura reached for him. Slow. Careful. Giving him time to pull away.
He didn't.
She pulled him into a hug. He was stiff at first, rigid with fear. But then something in him broke. Something that had been holding him together for too long, through too much, finally gave way.
He collapsed against her.
She held him. Held him while he sobbed. While he shook. While he cried out all the grief and terror and loneliness that he'd been carrying for months.
Kakashi moved closer. He didn't touch Rai—he wasn't sure he was allowed yet—but he put a hand on Sakura's shoulder. Letting her know he was there. Letting the boy know too.
They stayed like that for a long time.
When Rai finally pulled back, his face was a mess of tears and snot and bandages. He looked terrible. He looked exhausted. He looked like a twelve-year-old boy who'd been holding up the world by himself for far too long.
"Okay," he said. His voice was wrecked. "Okay."
Sakura's heart stuttered."Okay?"
"I'll stay." He wiped his face with the back of his hand. "For now. Just—for now."
"Okay," she said. "For now."
It wasn't a yes. Not really. Not completely.
But it was a start.
Kakashi moved to stand beside her. He reached down and ruffled Rai's hair—a casual gesture, nothing dramatic, the kind of thing a father might do to a son.
Rai flinched. Then relaxed.
And then, slowly, hesitantly, he reached up and found Kakashi's hand. Held it.
The morning light was warm on their faces. The broken glass sparkled on the floor. And somewhere in the house, in the kitchen, the kettle began to whistle.
The three of them stood there in the hallway, holding on to each other, and for the first time since any of them could remember, the silence didn't feel empty.
It felt like home.
The kitchen smelled like burnt toast and something sweeter underneath—jasmine tea, maybe, or the last traces of the incense Sakura had burned the night before.
Rai sat at the table with his hands wrapped around a mug he couldn't see. The warmth seeped into his palms. He could hear Kakashi moving around the kitchen, the clink of dishes, the hiss of the kettle.
Sakura was beside him. He could feel her presence, that specific weight of her chakra, like standing near a fire. It radiated. It stayed.
"You don't have to drink it," she said. "If you don't like tea."
"I don't know if I like it."
"Then try it."
He lifted the mug to his lips. The steam curled against his face, warm and damp. The first sip was bitter and strange. The second was better.
"It's okay," he said.
"High praise."
He almost smiled. Almost.
Kakashi set a plate in front of him—eggs, toast, something that smelled like sausage. Rai found the fork by touch, found the edge of the plate, found the food. He was getting better at this. Slower than he wanted. Faster than he'd expected.
"After breakfast," Kakashi said, sliding into the seat across from him, "we're going to the hospital."
Rai's fork stopped halfway to his mouth.
"Why?"
"Your bandages need to come off. The wounds have healed enough."
The fork clattered onto the plate. Rai's appetite vanished like a candle snuffed out.
"I don't want them off."
"I know."
"I don't—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I don't want to see."
"You won't. You can't." Kakashi's voice was gentle but firm. "But the bandages are a breeding ground for infection. They've been on for almost two weeks. It's time."
Rai shook his head. His hands had started trembling again, a fine vibration he couldn't control.
"Hey." Sakura's hand found his shoulder. "It's okay. I'll be there the whole time. I'll do it myself. It won't hurt."
"I don't care if it hurts."
"Then what do you care about?"
He couldn't answer that. Couldn't put it into words. The bandages were the last barrier between him and the world. The last thing that hid the wreckage underneath. Once they were gone, everyone would see.
Everyone would know.
"I don't want people to look at me," he finally said.
"You won't see them looking."
"But I'll know."
Sakura's hand tightened on his shoulder. "Okay. We'll figure something out. But the bandages have to come off. That part isn't negotiable."
He wanted to argue. Wanted to disappear into that invisible space where no one could see him, where he couldn't see himself.
But he'd promised to stay. For now.
"Fine," he said.
The hospital room was white and sterile and smelled like antiseptic. Rai sat on the edge of the examination table, legs dangling, hands gripping the edges hard enough to turn his knuckles white.
He could hear everything. The hum of the fluorescent lights. The distant beep of monitors. The soft shuffle of Sakura's shoes on the linoleum.
And underneath it all, the steady rhythm of Kakashi's breathing from somewhere near the door.
"Ready?" Sakura asked.
"No."
"I'm going to start with the outer layer. Just tell me if you need me to stop."
He nodded. Couldn't speak.
Her fingers found the edge of the bandage near his temple. They were gentle—so gentle—but he flinched anyway. Old instinct. The body remembering pain even when it wasn't there.
"It's okay," she murmured. "You're okay."
The bandage unwound slowly. Layer by layer. He felt air on his skin for the first time in weeks—cool and strange and alive.
"The wounds are healing well," Sakura said. "There's some scarring, but that's expected. The tissue looks healthy."
"Can I see them?"
The question came from Kakashi. Rai's head turned toward the sound.
"The scarring?" Sakura asked.
"No. His eyes. Are they—will they be—" Kakashi paused. Cleared his throat. "Do they look normal?"
Rai's stomach clenched.
The silence stretched.
"They're clouded," Sakura said finally. "There's some discoloration. But they're still his eyes. They're still part of him."
Rai touched his own face. His fingers found the skin around his eyes—the lids, the lashes, the hollows beneath. No bandages. No cloth. Just skin.
Just him.
"I want the blindfold," he said.
Sakura's hand found his. "You don't need—"
"I want the blindfold."
Another silence. Then Kakashi's voice, quiet and steady.
"I have one."
Footsteps. The rustle of fabric. Something soft pressed into Rai's hands.
It was the cloth from the clearing—the one they'd used to blindfold Sakura. He recognized the texture. The faint scent of jasmine that clung to it, from being stored near her things.
"It's yours," Kakashi said. "If you want it."
Rai tied it himself. His fingers fumbled with the knots, but eventually he managed. The cloth settled over his eyes like a second skin. Dark again. Safe again.
He exhaled.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"Don't thank me." Kakashi's voice was close now, right in front of him. "You don't have anything to hide. You know that, right?"
Rai didn't answer.
"Your eyes aren't something to be ashamed of. They're part of you. Part of what makes you who you are."
"You don't have to say that."
"I'm not saying it because I have to. I'm saying it because it's true."
Rai's jaw tightened. He wanted to believe it. Wanted to believe that the clouded, ruined things in his skull weren't something to hide.
But he'd seen the way people looked at damaged things. He'd been on the receiving end of those looks before.
"I want to keep wearing it," he said. "When we go out. When other people are around."
"Okay."
"Not because I'm ashamed. Just because—because I don't want to deal with it. Not yet."
"Okay."
"You're not going to argue with me?"
"It's your face," Kakashi said. "Your choice. If the blindfold makes you feel better, wear the blindfold. We can work on the rest later."
Rai nodded. The knot in his chest loosened just slightly.
"Can we go home now?"
"Yeah." Sakura's hand found his shoulder again. "Let's go home."
The first trip out was three days later.
Rai had been dreading it since Kakashi mentioned it over breakfast—casually, like it was nothing, like he wasn't asking Rai to walk into a world of noise and movement and people who would stare at the blindfold and whisper behind their hands.
"The market," Kakashi had said. "Just for an hour. We'll get some vegetables, some fruit, maybe some of those dumplings you liked from last week."
Rai had wanted to say no. Wanted to lock himself in his room and never come out.
But he'd already agreed to stay. And staying meant trying. Or something like that.
The market was hell.
Noise hit him first—a wall of sound so dense it felt physical. Vendors shouting prices. Customers haggling. Children laughing and crying and screaming. Somewhere in the distance, a bell chimed. Somewhere closer, a dog barked.
The smells came next. Fish and spices and sweat and perfume. Thick and layered and impossible to separate.
Rai's hand found Kakashi's sleeve. Found it and held on.
"You're okay," Kakashi said. His voice was low, pitched just for Rai. "I've got you."
There was a pause. Then a slight shift of air pressure as Kakashi looked down at him.
"You want to hold my hand?"
Rai's first instinct was to say no. Twelve years old was too old to hold someone's hand. Too old to need that kind of comfort. Too old to be scared.
His second instinct was to grab on and never let go.
"Yes," he whispered.
Kakashi's hand found his. It was warm and dry and solid. An anchor in the chaos.
They walked like that through the market. Rai on Kakashi's left, Sakura on his right, both of them letting him set the pace. He stumbled twice. Tripped over a stone he couldn't see. Stood frozen in the middle of the aisle when he heard a particularly loud crash from somewhere nearby.
"Just a pot falling," Sakura murmured. "Nothing dangerous."
He nodded. Kept walking.
The sounds started to blur together after a while. Less like individual noises and more like a river—constant and overwhelming but something he could float on instead of drown in.
He started to notice other things. The texture of the ground under his feet. Warm stone, smoother than the forest floor. The way the air changed as they moved between buildings. Cooler in the shade, warmer in the sun.
And the people. He could feel them. Not just hear them—feel them. Their chakra signatures bumped against his senses like stones in a stream. Some bright and sharp. Some dull and quiet. Some curious. Some impatient.
Some staring.
He knew they were staring. Could feel the weight of their eyes even without seeing them.
"They're looking at me," he said.
"Yes." Kakashi didn't lie. "The blindfold draws attention. It's unusual."
"I don't want attention."
"I know."
They walked a little further. The crowd thinned, then thickened again as they passed a fruit stand.
"Most people are just curious," Kakashi continued. "They look, they wonder, they move on. They're not judging you. They're just trying to figure out what they're seeing."
"It feels like judging."
"That's because you're twelve and everything feels like judging."
Rai almost laughed. Almost.
By the time they reached the dumpling stand, his grip on Kakashi's hand had loosened. Not gone—still there, still reassuring—but not quite so desperate.
"The usual?" the vendor asked.
"Double," Sakura said. "We've got a growing boy."
Rai heard the smile in her voice. Heard the casual, easy way she said it—like he was already part of them. Like he'd always been part of them.
The dumplings were warm in his hands. He ate them slowly, standing in a patch of sun, listening to the world move around him.
It wasn't so bad.
The second trip was harder.
They went to the park. It was afternoon, and the place was full of children—running, screaming, playing games Rai couldn't see but could hear in every direction.
He stood at the edge of the playground, one hand on Kakashi's arm, and tried not to panic.
There were so many of them. So many voices. So many feet pounding against the ground and hands clapping and laughter and shouting all tangled together.
A child screamed somewhere to his left. Not in pain—just excited—but Rai's body didn't know the difference. His chakra flared.
"Hey." Kakashi's hand landed on his shoulder. "You're still visible."
Rai exhaled. Checked himself. Felt the familiar hum of his chakra under his skin.
"I'm visible," he confirmed.
"Good. Deep breath."
He breathed. In through his nose. Out through his mouth. The way Sakura had taught him.
"The screaming is just kids playing," Kakashi said. "Nothing's wrong."
"I know."
"You don't know. Not yet. But you're learning."
Rai nodded. Forced his shoulders to relax.
"Do you want to sit down?" Sakura asked from somewhere nearby.
"Yeah."
They found a bench. Rai sat between them, his blindfold facing the playground. He could picture it in his head—the swings and slides, the kids chasing each other through the grass. He remembered what it looked like, what it felt like, to run without worrying about what he might crash into.
He missed it.
"You used to play here?" he asked.
"Sometimes," Sakura said. "When I was little. There was a girl—Ino—who used to push me on the swings. Before we became friends."
"Before?"
"We were rivals first. Long story."
Rai thought about that. About having history with someone. About knowing them so long you couldn't remember not knowing them.
He didn't have that. Didn't have anyone like that.
Until now.
"What about you?" he asked, turning toward Kakashi.
"I didn't play much as a kid."
"Why?"
"I was training. From the time I was young."
"How young?"
Silence.
"Six," Kakashi said finally. "I graduated the Academy at six and made chunin at six. There wasn't time for the playground."
Rai's stomach tightened.
"That's not right," he said.
"No.It wasn't."
More silence. The children screamed and laughed and ran. The sun moved behind a cloud.
"I'm not going to do that to you," Kakashi said. "Training isn't your whole life. It's part of it. The rest—school, friends, dumplings, whatever—that's important too."
"But I need to be strong."
"You need to be strong and you need to be whole. One doesn't work without the other."
Rai didn't know what to say to that. So he didn't say anything.
They sat on the bench and listened to the children play. And for a little while, the noise didn't feel like an attack. Just a sound. A part of the world.
The third trip, Rai let go of Kakashi's hand.
It was small—just a trip to the grocery store, just a quick run to grab rice and eggs. But somewhere between the front door and the produce section, Rai's fingers slipped free.
He kept walking. One foot in front of the other. Listening to the sounds around him and mapping them in his head.
The shelves were to his left. The checkout counter was straight ahead. The door was somewhere behind him.
He was not lost. He was not shaking. He was not holding anyone's hand.
He was just a boy buying groceries.
"How you doing?" Sakura asked from beside him."Okay."
"Want to find the rice?"
He did. Found it by touch and smell—the familiar shape of the bag, the soft rustle of grain. He carried it to the counter. Waited while Kakashi paid.
When they walked out, the sun hit his face and he didn't flinch.
"I did it," he said.
"You did."
"Can we do more tomorrow?"
He heard the smile in Kakashi's voice.
"Yeah. We can do more tomorrow."