Hatake Kakashi’s front door was about as friendly as Asuma remembered. Iron-railed steps led up to an open-aired concrete hallway that circled the outside of the building, providing access to a row of apartments. Kakashi’s was 213, right on the end, as far away from the steps as possible. Black door, steel numbers, not a single potted plant. Asuma had seen storage locker doors with more personality.

“Cheery,” he told the cold morning air.

It was edging past nine AM, but the sun was still lukewarm and there was bite in the breeze. The half-smoked cigarette between his teeth didn’t provide much warmth, but it was doing a marvellous job as breakfast.

He rebalanced the be-ribboned cake box and its somber, wood-boxed twin under one arm, and knocked on the door.

There was a quick, half-muffled trade of voices inside. A tired-sounding mutter, and a much more awake: “I’ll get it.”

The door pulled halfway open a moment later, and Asuma raised his eyebrows as he looked down at a scar-crossed, half-tattooed, one-nippled chest still damp from the shower. The man attached to it was wearing a towel low on his hips, and not much else.

Tousaki Ryouma blinked. “Package delivery?”

“Close enough,” Asuma said, with a grin that mostly said you dog, Tousaki. He hefted the boxes. “Home-coming cake and a house-warming present. Which d’you want first?”

“Cake,” said Ryouma instantly, so fast it had to be a reflex. “Who are you, anyway?” He shifted his weight, glancing once behind him. Asuma leaned up to look over Ryouma’s shoulder; he caught a glimpse of a bed, a tangle of blankets, and one sleeveless arm dangling off the edge, before Ryouma shifted to block his view. “D’you need to see Kakashi?”

“Nope,” Asuma said cheerfully. “I like my head still attached. I’m here to see you.” He dropped the cake-box into Ryouma’s arms, freeing up a hand, which he offered. “I’m Asuma. I was on the mission that dragged your boyfriend home. Glad you managed to make it back, too.”

Ryouma’s grip was strong, firm, and blood-warm from his shower, testing Asuma’s a little, but not enough to bring on a finger-crushing competition. “Thanks. I owe you one, for that. Two, maybe.” His grin shaded to wry. “I did the jutsu that pulled the place down on ‘em. Did you have much trouble draggin’ ‘em out?”

“Eh,” said Asuma, see-sawing his hand in the universal gesture of so-so. “Had an exciting moment or two when Hatake tried to throttle my partner, but the guy was an asshole. My partner,” he clarified. “Not your partner. Well, actually, Hatake’s kind of an asshole, too. But I figure he means well.” He held out the second box. “Open your present, man. I’m dying to see your face.”