He’s good at seeming, Asuma thought, but didn’t say. It was true, but it wasn’t fair.

“He does care,” he said instead. “Cares too much, sometimes. Breaks his own damn heart over orphaned kids and bastard traitors and every single suicidal ANBU that doesn’t make it home—which is a lot of ‘em, after thirty years.”

Ryouma winced faintly. Asuma wondered if his parents were still alive.

“But the village is the thing he’s tryin’ to keep alive, ‘cos we’re one of the biggest and strongest—maybe the strongest, now, with Iwa destabilized and Suna having issues with the Kazekage’s kid—and Fire Country’s relying on us to stay that way, which doesn’t leave a whole lot of room for change.” He scowled. “Old man’s tired, and hurtin’, and can’t see what he’s doin’ wrong.”

“Village is the people in it,” Ryouma said quietly. “Though I’ve known a lot of folks who don't see it that way. Mostly the clans, the ones all tied up with history an’ honor an’ pride. They’re not hurting the way us loners are, an’ they’ve got a voice on the Council if they do.” He tipped his head back, staring up at the cold, winter-touched sky. “Sandaime’s the only one speaking for the rest of us.”

Except the Sandaime was doing a piss-poor job of it.

Asuma glanced sideways. Ryouma was equal-height to him, but a whole lot thinner right now, wearing clothes that had probably once fit him before he’d gone and gotten himself starved for six months. He was good to me, when I came back. Because a kind word and fleck of caring were water in the desert to someone who’d had none, like most of the Hokage’s ANBU. Clan scions didn’t become spooks-for-hire, except in very rare cases. It was the loners who took the tattoo, wore the mask, threw their lives down for crappy pay and force-fed loyalty. People without families, or hope, or the kind of sanity it took to stay away from that hotbox of screaming, dying crazy.

Ryouma looked tired, and cold, and far too lost for a guy with a cake and a present in his arms, and a sleeping partner back home.

On a whim, Asuma stepped sideways and flung a rough arm around the older man’s shoulders.

“Yeah? Well, now we’re talking for us,” he said firmly. “And we’re going to do a damn better job of it.”

Ryouma flicked a startled look at him, dark-eyed, with surprisingly long lashes for a man. Then a swift, savage grin unsheathed like a crescent blade, turning his whole face into something wolf-like. "I'm good at speechifyin'. And if Arakaki's hurtin' for men that bad, maybe he'll listen to what we've got to say."

Asuma laughed and tightened his grip around sharp-boned shoulders, returning the grin. One ally out of two hundred hunters wasn’t much, but it was a damn sight more than he’d had half an hour ago.

“I will totally take you up on that,” he said, relieved and cheered. “Of course, you realize you just came to my rescue and now we’re back to a kissing place?”

A passing civilian woman with a stroller gave them a scandalized look. Ryouma tipped his head, eyebrows lifting, accidentally presenting his cheek.

Well, why not?

Asuma planted an affectionate, whiskery kiss on that knife-sharp cheekbone, and grinned at the civilian lady, who flushed beet red.

“Defying stereotypes, ma’am,” he told her. “You should try it.”