For half of a very alarmed second, Kakashi thought Ryouma wanted him to choose which of Ryouma’s remaining scars should go. Forget definitions, that was not a level of intimacy he’d planned to achieve with anyone in his entire lifetime.

Then he realized what Ryouma actually meant. Kakashi’s scars. Kakashi’s choice.

That was… fractionally less alarming.

The bump on the bridge of Ryouma’s nose was gone. So was the mark of Iebara’s blood-stealing jutsu. So were a dozen other scars, collected from a lifetime of fights and falls. Faint lines from Ryouma’s chin, throat, and shoulders. Landmarks Kakashi had memorized on their first day as teammates, because they were the hardest details for an enemy to replicate in henge and illusion.

Kakashi tilted his head the other way, calming his own rapid heartbeat, and reframed his perspective. It was still Ryouma’s face: his sharp cheekbones, angled jaw, smart mouth. Dark eyes that went from worried to wrathful to playful at a moment’s notice.

Worried right now. Kakashi stepped closer, disregarding their audience, and reached up to brush his thumb over Ryouma’s jawline. Ryouma twitched slightly. Kakashi pressed down until the skin blanched, then let up; blood rushed back into his thumbprint, making a brief red mark. This close, Kakashi could see the faint imperfections: freckles, sun lines, the darker shadows under Ryouma’s eyes that were likely permanent.

He smiled at Ryouma, behind his mask. “Still you. Now you’re just extra pretty. And symmetrical, apparently.”

Ryouma flushed — another thing his skin did normally — and his mouth tugged up at the corners. “The nose isn’t too big now, is it?”

“Just straighter,” Kakashi assured.

That seemed to help. Ryouma settled more into himself, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he was trying to relearn the shape of it. “It, uh, didn’t hurt. Better than the wolves’ version, that way.”

“The wolves?” Himself said, credibly outraged. “The wolves have no finesse. Of course this was better. Were you really so attached to the bump on your nose? I could put it back, if you insist.”

“No, that’s okay, you don’t need to rebreak it,” Ryouma said, with enough alarm that Kakashi turned to put himself between the two of them. “This is great. I’m just— getting used to it again.” After a belated pause, he added politely: “Thank you. For the healing, and… the rest of your hospitality.”

Himself nodded, satisfied. “Good. It’s better to have your nose repaired. Better for breathing.” He inhaled deeply, demonstrating a point Kakashi reluctantly agreed with. “The rest was cosmetic.”

The silver tanuki’s gaze fell on Kakashi, almost interrogative. Kakashi considered his choices.

He shrugged the yukata off his shoulders, folding the cloth down until it hung from the belt wrapped around his hips, and let his arms fall loose at his sides. The wind curled gently over his shoulders. The bonfire warmed his chest. He knew the firelight highlighted his scars. There were a lot of them.

Kakashi didn’t think about most of them. The old burn over his right hip still tugged sometimes, where the scar had healed thick and inflexible. A few of the deeper ones ached when the weather got cold, especially where they overlaid bone injuries. His hands were toughened and silver-latticed, though Rin had done stellar work in keeping his joints flexible.

It hadn’t bothered him. Most of his life, he’d regarded his body as a container for mind, chakra, and speed. The aesthetics were a distant second. He had a mask, anyway.

He glanced back over his shoulder. Ryouma was staring at him, fascinated and hungry and appreciative. For the first time in a very long time, Kakashi found himself considering how he looked, and whether he could look better.

“Nothing above my neck. Or my arms below the elbows,” he told Himself.

Himself studied Kakashi’s face with bright, curious eyes, so intently that Kakashi’s skin started to prickle. Could he see—

The pale head nodded. The tail swept warm over Kakashi’s shoulder, and he watched with queasy detachment as a set of shrapnel gouges melted away. Himself muttered as he worked, whiskers twitching in concentration. Occasionally a word made it to the audible range; most of them were about symmetry.