Chapter Text
The breakfast table still smelled faintly of grilled fish and chestnuts, though the plates had already been cleared. Takeshi’s sandals had clattered down the porch only minutes ago, Shiro padding after him, and the house felt quieter for it.
Hiroshi sat perched on the bench, pack hugged close to his chest, mask tugged halfway up his nose but not fully. His feet swung, heels bumping lightly against the wood as though he couldn’t quite keep still.
Kaori came back in from the kitchen, drying her hands on a cloth. She crouched in front of him, adjusting the strap of his pack even though it was perfectly straight. “You’ve got everything?” she asked gently.
Hiroshi nodded, quick and firm. “Hai!” Then, after a pause, softer: “…I think so.”
Kakashi leaned against the doorframe, one hand still wrapped around his morning mug. His silver hair caught the light, both eyes steady on his son. “Lunch?”
Kaori gave a small smile. “Already packed. Double portion.”
That made Hiro perk up, cheeks rounding under the mask as his grin pushed against the fabric. “Arigatou, kaa-chan!” He threw his arms around her neck suddenly, nearly tipping her over. She laughed quietly, hugging him back, pressing a kiss to his temple.
When he pulled back, Kakashi bent low enough to tap his forehead with two fingers. “Remember, Hiro — observe first, then move.”
“I know, otou-chan…” Hiro mumbled, though he tilted his head into the touch for a second longer. Then he hopped off the bench, pulling his mask high over his nose in one practiced tug.
“Ganbatte,” Kaori called softly as he padded toward the door.
The boy turned at the threshold, one hand lifted in a small wave. His voice was muffled but clear: “I’ll do my best!”
And then he was gone, sandals slapping against the wood of the porch, carrying him down the path toward the village.
Perfect — here’s the walking scene, weaving in Hiroshi’s appearance, character, and little details that make him stand out as Kakashi’s younger son while keeping that sweet, shy energy of a ten-year-old.
Got it — Hiroshi will wear his hitai-ate on his forehead instead of around his neck, giving him a more “official” genin look while still showing his childlike side. Here’s the revised walking scene with that detail changed and polished in:
The morning air was cool, carrying the faint smell of damp earth and fresh rice bread from the stalls setting up along the street. Hiroshi’s sandals scuffed lightly against the stone path, each step quick and purposeful but with that tiny bounce of someone too small to slow himself down.
He adjusted his mask again — habit, comfort — until it sat snug over his nose. Beneath it, his cheeks were still round with youth, though already sharpening at the edges. His hair, a soft dark brown like Kaori’s, refused to stay flat, sticking out in uneven tufts that curled slightly over his forehead protector. The shiny plate of his hitai-ate sat proudly across his brow, tied too tightly at times, but he refused to wear it anywhere else — he wanted to look like a real shinobi, not a kid playing dress-up.
At ten years old, Hiroshi was noticeably smaller than the other students in his year — a little leaner, a little shorter — a fact that made him bristle when pointed out, even as it gave him that sharp, foxlike quickness his family had learned not to underestimate. His eyes, though, were unmistakably his father’s: cool, steady gray, carrying an attentiveness far older than his age.
A vendor sweeping his doorstep raised a hand. “Off to the academy already, Hiro-kun?”
Hiro gave a small nod, polite as ever, though his ears went faintly pink. “Hai.”
Another woman leaned out of her stall, smiling. “Tell your mother the pickled plums are ready.”
He ducked his head quickly, mumbling a shy “Hai!” before hurrying his pace, embarrassed by the attention. His fingers curled into the straps of his pack, clutching it tight. He wasn’t used to being greeted so openly — not when so many eyes lingered just a moment too long on “the Hokage’s son.”
Still, his steps quickened more out of excitement than nerves. He was already picturing the academy gates, the faces of his teammates, the tall figure of his sensei waiting there. His chest tightened with that same mix of dread and thrill — today wasn’t just another day of drills. It was two weeks before the exams. And he’d already skipped a class to stand alongside kids older than him.
“I’ll show them,” he whispered to himself, voice swallowed by the street noise. His hand tugged at his mask again. “I’ll keep up. I can.”
Perfect — here’s the continuation, blending Hiroshi’s arrival at the academy grounds, introducing the team members with full descriptions, and the sensei laying down why training comes first:
The academy courtyard was already alive with chatter by the time Hiroshi arrived, sandals crunching on the gravel path. The familiar red-painted gates loomed over him, and beyond them the training grounds stretched wide — dirt circles worn smooth by countless sparring matches, a scattering of old logs and posts lined up like sentinels.
Three figures waited there.
Boruto Uzumaki leaned against one of the posts, arms folded tight across his chest, blonde hair messy as ever, blue eyes scanning the yard with the easy impatience of someone who wanted to be anywhere else. He spotted Hiroshi and straightened. “Finally. Thought you were gonna hide behind your mom all morning.”
Mitsuki stood not far off, calm and pale in the morning light, his snake-like eyes following Hiroshi with quiet curiosity. His posture was relaxed, but there was always that faint stillness about him — as if every move he made was deliberate, nothing wasted.
And crouched on the fence rail was their sensei, Konohamaru Sarutobi. Scarf draped casually over his shoulder, dark eyes sharp despite his easy smile. He was slouched in a way that mirrored his grandfather’s gentle warmth, but the confidence of his stance marked him as a shinobi who’d long since stepped out of his elders’ shadow.
“Good, you’re all here,” Konohamaru said, hopping lightly down. “We’ll start with drills today.”
Boruto groaned immediately, throwing his head back. “Drills again? C’mon, sensei, we should be out on missions! Two weeks until the exams, and you’re having us run laps like little kids.”
“Yeah,” Hiroshi found himself murmuring — softer than Boruto, but with that flicker of defiance all the same. “Shouldn’t we… practice real missions?” His gray eyes darted up, uncertain, then away again.
Mitsuki tilted his head. “Missions wouldn’t sharpen our teamwork. They’d just test what we already know.” His voice was calm, almost flat, but it carried weight.
Konohamaru’s grin widened. “Exactly. Mitsuki gets it.” He folded his arms, tone turning serious. “Listen — drills aren’t punishment. They’re how we make sure you don’t freeze, or trip over each other, when things get real in the exams. If you’re too busy thinking about how to counter, you’re already too slow.”
Boruto scowled, but his foot scuffed the dirt like he’d already accepted it. “Tch. Fine. But if we’re doing this, then I say we spice it up. Make it a real challenge.”
Konohamaru arched an eyebrow. “A challenge, huh? Alright. Let’s see if Team Seven is ready to push themselves harder than yesterday.”
Hiroshi adjusted his mask again, nerves buzzing in his stomach. Harder than yesterday… that always meant bruises. But it also meant growth. He squared his shoulders, small frame set in determination, and stepped closer to his teammates.
Perfect — here’s the continuation with sparring, a glimpse of Hiroshi’s shy-but-sharp style, and the team heading into lunch before dismissal.
Konohamaru-sensei clapped his hands once, pulling their chatter to a stop.
“Alright, enough complaining. If you’ve got the energy to whine, you’ve got the energy to spar. Exams are in two weeks, and you won’t pass without tightening your teamwork. Pair off.”
Boruto groaned dramatically, flopping back onto the grass. “Again? We’ve been sparring all week.”
“Exactly,” Mitsuki said mildly, already sliding into stance. “And you still leave your left side open.”
Hiroshi suppressed a smile behind his mask. He always let Boruto and Mitsuki’s banter run first — it gave him time to think.
Konohamaru’s eyes flicked toward him. “Hiroshi, you’re with Boruto this round. Show me you’re not just hanging back like you usually do.”
Hiroshi’s cheeks warmed at the call-out. He nodded anyway. “Hai.”
The spar started quick — Boruto bounding in with the same reckless energy as always, kunai flashing. Hiroshi’s small frame let him duck under the swing, sliding to Boruto’s blind side. Instead of countering with a strike, he pivoted and swept Boruto’s leg, forcing him to stumble.
“Oi!” Boruto barked, catching himself with a roll. “Cheap!”
Hiroshi’s eyes crinkled faintly. “Tou-chan says nothing’s cheap if it works.”
Konohamaru’s laugh rang out across the field. “Good! That’s what I want to see.”
They cycled partners, Mitsuki’s calm precision cutting neatly through Boruto’s impatience, Hiroshi forced to adapt and push harder than he liked. By the time Konohamaru called it off, sweat plastered Hiroshi’s hair to his forehead protector, chest heaving but eyes bright with focus.
“Lunch break,” Konohamaru announced, lowering himself onto the grass with his pack. “Eat up. You’re dismissed after.”
Boruto collapsed onto his back, groaning. “I’m starving!”
Mitsuki produced neatly wrapped onigiri from his pouch, serene as ever.
Hiroshi sat cross-legged, unpacking the bento Kaori had tucked into his bag — rolled omelet, rice, and pickles, everything neat and tidy. He hesitated, then pushed the little pack toward Boruto. “Kaa-chan made extra.”
Boruto lit up instantly, grabbing a piece. “You’re the best, Hiro!”
Mitsuki tilted his head, smiling faintly. “You always share.”
Hiroshi shrugged, cheeks pink. “…We’re a team.”
Konohamaru watched them quietly from his spot in the grass, a faint pride tugging at his features. Two weeks left. They weren’t ready yet — but they were getting there.
The academy grounds thinned out as students drifted home. Boruto and Mitsuki split off with quick waves, and Hiroshi tucked his half-empty bento back into his bag.
“Kaa-chan’s probably shopping,” he murmured, and sure enough, when he reached the market street, Kaori was there — basket on her arm, comparing vegetables with the same calm focus she once carried into missions.
“Kaa-chan!”
She turned at the call, face lighting instantly. “Hiro.” Her hand brushed his hair flat as he bounded up, and without a word, he slipped his smaller hand into hers.
The market buzzed, scents of grilled fish, chestnuts, and cut herbs thick in the air. Hiroshi’s nose wrinkled beneath his mask — he always wore it here, too many smells crowding at once — but he squeezed his mother’s hand tighter instead of pulling away.
“What did you train today?” she asked as they moved past the stalls, her voice warm but curious.
“Konohamaru-sensei made us spar,” Hiroshi replied softly, swinging their linked hands once. “He said I can’t always just stand back and watch. So I…tried. Even against Boruto-nii.”
Kaori smiled at that. “And how did it feel?”
Hiroshi thought a moment, brows furrowed. “…Scary. But good, too. Tou-chan always says observing is important. But… maybe using it is important, too.”
Kaori’s squeeze of his hand said more than words. “That’s right.”
They stopped at a stand, the vendor bowing politely to the Hokage’s wife and son. Kaori began picking through vegetables, while Hiroshi leaned against her hip, amber eyes scanning the flow of people with quiet alertness. Despite his age, he never quite let go of that instinct.
Still, when Kaori held up a bundle of chestnuts, asking, “Should we get these?” — his whole face brightened.
“Yes! Please, Kaa-chan!”
Her laugh slipped out soft and low, almost teasing. “Just like your brother.”
Hiroshi tilted his head, mask tugged down enough to show his grin. “Takeshi-nii will eat all of them if we don’t hide some first.”
“Mm. Then we’ll buy two bags.”
They walked on, sunlight slanting through the market banners, his small hand still firm in hers. For all the noise, all the scents, the moment was simple — a boy and his mother, the weight of shinobi life waiting just far enough ahead.
Kaori shifted the basket higher on her arm once they had finished at the last stall. Hiroshi trotted a half-step ahead, chestnuts clutched proudly in his hands like treasure.
“Ne, Hiro,” Kaori said lightly, “what do you think about stopping by the tower before we go home? We could bring your father a surprise.”
Hiro’s head turned instantly, eyes brightening. “Tou-chan?” he asked, hopeful. The excitement flickered almost at once though, shoulders hunching. “…But the ANBU are there.”
“They’re just doing their jobs,” Kaori reminded him gently, brushing her hand across his hair. “Nothing to worry about when you’re with me.”
Still, as they crossed into the Hokage tower’s grounds, Hiroshi instinctively tugged closer to her side. The ANBU stationed by the gates didn’t speak — they simply moved aside, masked faces unreadable. Hiro tried not to look at them, clutching the chestnuts tighter, his other hand gripping Kaori’s fingers.
Inside, the corridors were quiet but busy. Hiroshi’s sandals scuffed against the polished floor, and each time an ANBU flickered into view — silent and sharp in their movements — his eyes darted down, shoulders rising like he could make himself smaller. He wasn’t afraid of seeing his father, but all the masked shinobi with no faces unsettled him.
When they finally stopped before the doors to Kakashi’s office, Hiro let out a soft breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He held the chestnuts up toward Kaori, his voice lower now. “…Do you think he’ll be happy? Even if it’s just chestnuts?”
Kaori smiled, squeezing his hand. “Of course. He’ll be happiest because they’re from you.”
Kaori slid the door open, Hiroshi padding in at her side.
Kakashi’s head lifted from the paperwork, both eyes visible now, softened instantly when they found his son. The mask was still in place, but the warmth in his gaze carried easily across the room.
Hiroshi faltered just a little when he noticed the ANBU stationed in the corners. His grip on Kaori’s hand tightened.
Kakashi noticed. With a flick of his wrist, the shadows emptied — ANBU gone as if they’d never been there. “Better?” His voice was calm, low, just for Hiroshi.
The boy gave a small nod. He shuffled forward, holding the small paper bag close. “…We brought you something.”
Instead of waiting, Kakashi pushed his chair back and stood, rounding the desk with unhurried steps. When he crouched down in front of his son, the Hokage was gone — only Tou-chan remained.
“For me?” he asked gently.
Hiroshi’s ears turned red as he held out the bag. “Chestnuts. From the market. I thought… you’d like them.”
Kakashi set the bag aside without even opening it. One hand rose, resting on Hiroshi’s small shoulder. The next moment, Hiroshi was folded against his chest, Kakashi’s arm firm around his back.
“Not just like them,” Kakashi murmured into his son’s hair. “I love them. And I love the one who thought of it.”
Hiroshi’s face burned against the cool fabric of the vest. He gave a token squirm, then gave up, fingers curling into Kakashi’s sleeve. Kaori’s quiet laugh slipped into the room, warm as tea.
Kakashi didn’t let go right away, only eased his hold enough to stand, keeping one hand resting on Hiroshi’s shoulder as though anchoring him. He guided him gently toward the small couch near the window — not the Hokage’s desk, but the quieter corner he always used when family slipped in.
Kaori followed, setting the paper bag on the low table. “I told him you’d be buried in work again,” she teased softly, “but he insisted.”
Kakashi sat down, tugging Hiroshi down beside him. The boy perched close, practically folded into his father’s side. Kakashi pulled the bag open and the familiar roasted scent filled the air. “You remembered.” His visible eye creased faintly — a rare, honest smile.
Hiroshi ducked his head. “Tou-chan always eats too fast when kaa-chan makes them. So… I wanted to get extra.”
“Smart,” Kakashi murmured, plucking one chestnut free. He cracked it open with practiced ease, held the half-shell out not for himself, but for Hiroshi.
The boy blinked, then grinned, taking it quickly and popping it into his mouth. “Mm. Perfect.”
Kaori shook her head, but she was smiling too, watching the quiet domesticity replace the heavy air of the office. Kakashi took another for himself, leaned back, and let the silence linger — soft, unhurried, warm.
It was a rare sight: the Sixth Hokage sitting in his office, papers forgotten, with his youngest curled up at his side and roasted chestnuts in hand. For once, it wasn’t a mission, or ANBU reports, or endless duties. Just Tou-chan, kaa-chan, and Hiroshi.
Kakashi leaned back, letting his arm rest across the back of the couch while Hiroshi sat snug against his side. He cracked another chestnut, passing it wordlessly to his son.
“So,” Kakashi asked, voice calm, “what did Konohamaru put you through today?”
Hiroshi perked up a little, swinging his legs. “We sparred, then drills again. He said we have to sharpen everything before the exams.”
“Exams,” Kakashi echoed, his eye narrowing faintly in thought. “Two weeks away. That’s soon.”
Kaori lowered herself onto the armrest, brushing her hand through Hiroshi’s hair. “How did it feel?”
Hiroshi toyed with the metal plate of his hita-ate. “Okay, I guess… Boruto kept complaining we should be doing missions instead of training. And Mitsuki said it’s ‘inefficient’ to repeat the same exercises. But—” his voice dropped softer, more thoughtful, “—I think sensei’s right. If we mess up in two weeks, there’s no retry.”
Kakashi’s hand ruffled his hair lightly, careful not to displace the headband. “That’s called perspective. Not bad.”
Kaori chuckled softly. “He’s getting more like you every day.”
“Mm.” Kakashi hummed, but his gaze lingered on Hiroshi a moment longer, quiet pride in his expression. Then he straightened, stacking the scrolls on his desk into a neat pile. “Go on, you two. Head home before it gets late. I’ll finish here.”
Hiroshi’s face fell a little. “You’re not coming for dinner?”
“Not tonight,” Kakashi admitted, adjusting his cloak. “Too much to finish before the exams.” He bent just enough to press a hand to his son’s shoulder. “But I’ll try not to be late.”
Kaori gave him a long look — half exasperation, half understanding — before reaching for Hiroshi’s hand. “Come on, Hiro-chan. We’ll save him some.”
The boy clung to Kakashi for one last squeeze before letting himself be led out, his small voice drifting back over his shoulder: “You better come home, Tou-chan. Or kaa-chan will be mad.”
Kakashi’s quiet chuckle followed them out the door.
The walk home was quiet, Hiroshi’s small hand tucked into Kaori’s as the market lamps flickered to life one by one. By the time they reached the gate, the scent of simmering broth and fresh rice already drifted from their home.
Inside, Kaori set the groceries down with practiced ease. Hiroshi, eager to help, darted forward to unpack, lining up vegetables in uneven rows on the counter. “See? I can do it faster than nii-san,” he said proudly.
Kaori laughed softly, smoothing his hair. “You’re not in competition, Hiro. But… thank you. That helps.”
Together, they moved around the kitchen — Hiroshi carefully washing carrots under her watchful eye, Kaori chopping with steady rhythm. The boy hummed under his breath, leaning on tiptoes to peek into the bubbling pot. “Kaa-chan, can we make tamagoyaki too? Takeshi-nii likes it… even if he won’t admit it.”
Her smile warmed. “We’ll make some. He’ll know it’s from you.”
When the rice cooker finally clicked and the kitchen filled with soft steam, Kaori tapped Hiroshi’s shoulder. “Bath first, or dinner first?”
“Bath!” Hiroshi decided instantly, puffing his chest out. “Because then I can be extra clean for dinner.”
The ofuro’s warmth wrapped around him like a blanket. Hiroshi sank down with a blissful sigh, cheeks pink from the heat, Kaori sitting at the edge to scrub his hair with gentle fingers. “Tou-chan works too much,” he mumbled, eyes half-lidded. “But… it’s okay. We’ll eat with him tomorrow.”
Kaori’s heart softened. She kissed the crown of his head. “Mm. Tomorrow.”
By the time Hiroshi padded back into the kitchen, hair damp and sticking up in every direction, the table was set. He helped light a single lantern, proud of the small glow it cast over the room. He was halfway through piling rice into bowls when the sliding door creaked open.
Boots at the threshold. A heavier step, familiar.
Takeshi.
He didn’t announce himself. Just dropped his pack by the wall and let out a quiet huff — the sound of a boy still carrying the weight of the day, shoulders tight, sulking even before words were exchanged.
Shiro padded in right behind him, tail sweeping low, as if sensing the mood already.
The door slid shut behind him, wood rattling in its frame.
“Takeshi-nii!” Hiroshi bolted across the room, hair still damp from his bath, grin wide. “You’re home!” He flung his arms forward, eager for a hug.
But Takeshi’s shoulders were stiff, his jaw tight from the weight of the day. He didn’t even slow down — just shifted his arm and nudged his little brother aside, not hard, but enough to make the boy stumble back.
“Not now,” he muttered, pulling his mask higher as though it could hide the storm brewing on his face. His eyes didn’t linger. He didn’t want them to.
Hiroshi blinked, stunned for a second. His smile faltered, dropping into a small frown.
Before the quiet could stretch too long, claws clicked on the floorboards. Shiro trotted up, tail wagging once before bumping his head gently against Hiroshi’s side. A low, friendly whuff escaped him, the kind he never wasted on anyone else but the boy.
Hiroshi’s face softened again. He knelt to wrap his arms around Shiro’s neck, burying his pout into the thick fur. “At least you missed me,” he whispered, the dog’s steady presence already mending the sting of his brother’s brush-off.
From the kitchen, Kaori’s voice drifted in, calm but carrying:
“Takeshi.” Just his name. Enough weight in the syllables to remind him she’d heard every sound at the door.
Takeshi froze halfway out of his sandals, his mother’s tone snagging sharper than any kunai. He didn’t look up, didn’t want to — but he could feel her gaze even through the wall.
“…What?” he muttered, shoulders tense, hand buried in Shiro’s fur for an anchor.
Kaori appeared in the doorway, drying her hands on a towel. Her eyes softened at the sight of Hiroshi clinging to Shiro, but her voice didn’t waver when it shifted back to Takeshi. “You don’t shove your brother away like that. I don’t care what kind of day you had.”
Hiroshi peeked up, lips parting to defend his brother — but Shiro’s warm huff against his ear kept him quiet.
For a heartbeat Takeshi’s jaw worked, ready to snap back. But the sight of Hiroshi still crouched on the floor, small hands knotted in Shiro’s fur, pulled the words out of him before he could bite them back.
“…Gomen.” He said it low, dragging his hand over his face. He crouched down too, awkwardly ruffling Hiroshi’s damp hair. “Didn’t mean it.”
Hiroshi’s pout cracked into a faint grin. “You’re grumpy.”
“Always,” Takeshi muttered, but his lips twitched, the edge of his sulk softening.
Kaori exhaled, towel dropping over her shoulder as she crossed to them, her hand brushing both boys’ heads in one sweep. “Alright. Enough. Dinner’s almost ready. Both of you wash up again — and don’t you dare trail dirt into my clean floors.”
“Yes, kaa-chan,” Hiroshi chirped, springing up with Shiro right behind him.
Takeshi rolled his eyes but followed, mask tugged down just enough to hide the small, tired smile he didn’t want them to see.
The house settled again, warm and whole — the weight of the day slipping into the quiet comfort of family.