- no spoilers, if you know the basic characters and their basic background stories. Naruto and all characters from the Naruverse belong to Kishimoto Masashi, whose crazy mind I wish I owned, effectively making the characters mine. Sadly, nothing here but several pets and my laptop.
- this contains implied yaoi, which means two guys paired up with each other. While there isn't any overt action, the implications are clear, and are intended, to make the story work. Please do us both a favor and NOT read if you're squeamish with this.
.
.The most beautiful boy I
Touched ran away from me:
and all I could do was pick up the grains
of sand by where his feet were, hoping
these kept bits of him, enough of his
matter to be changed somehow.
- Cathy Candano, "The Most Beautiful Boy I Touched Ran Away from Me"
Summer gave Konoha its name.
The countryside burst with green life, the last traces of snow having melted away. If one climbed the hills that bordered the village, all one could see for miles around was one vast, lush carpet of leaves. Canopies of leaves in varying hues of green layered one over the other in an almost seamless interweaving of branches and mossed-over rock that, to the untrained eye, the subtle village markers remained invisible.
Beneath the leafy awnings, genin teams practiced their jutsu and sparred with each other, flitting through clearings, disappearing again in the sunny haze. Jounin-sensei carefully kept to the shade, while charges exploded in smoke, multiplied to three times their number, dodged blunt sparring-kunai.
In the Academy, shinobi schoolchildren dozed on their desks, lessons forgotten. Chuunin teachers tried in vain to reign in the day's exercise, but most had given it up as well, content to join in the communal dream of watermelons and ice candy. End-of-summer exams were a long way away, anyway, and there was plenty of time in between for sojourns to the creek, iced candy, and petty races to the top of Niidaime's head.
The scarred little boy stifled a yawn in his seat. He had to be extra careful not to be caught dozing again, as the irritatingly watchful Nara-sensei had placed him in what they all called the Dead Zone—the four seats smack in the middle of the front row, in the sensei's direct line of sight. Mess up in the Dead Zone, and straight to four-hours' worth of after-school detention one went.
How troublesome.
It was useless, however. Even the teacher's strict voice gave way to listless droning in the middle of the third chapter ("There are several ways to tell whether your opponent belongs to a shinobi village or not. Likewise, there are several non-village clan crests—").
Outside, not a cloud dotted the sky. It was as blue as the hills were green. Hearing that was heightened by the stillness of air made out the rush of water along the river that ran through the village. Niidaime stared out from his rocky height, much put-upon by the heat.
Lassitude was a welcome temptation, even for ninja.
"Alright. You brats. You better make sure you do the whole of pages fifty-four and fifty-seven right down to sixty-two," their teacher snarled half-heartedly, snapping the book shut. Twenty-two suddenly-energized students yelled in glee and streamed out of the door.
The scarred little boy was first to dash outside with his schoolmates, grateful for the reprieve. It was just a little before noon; there was plenty of time in between for play, before he needed to be home to assist with dinner.
Summer danced in the boy's veins, and it caught on from one child to the next like a bushfire so that, bursting out of the Academy in a riotous crowd of laughter, the whole school stared out of their classroom windows, quite alarmed and curious.
"Iruka-kun, let's head over to Catfish Bend!"
"Betcha can't catch me!"
"Betcha I can!"
"I'll beat all of you losers to the creek!"
Twelve shinobi children raced down the dusty road, screaming and laughing in the still noontime heat.
It was a beautiful day.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
He had run all day and all night, and fatigue was an invisible weight clamped onto every pore of his too-young body. It was the biggest burden of all, and it surpassed even the troublesome weight of the blood-soaked vest (it was the smallest they could procure for him, and yet it was terribly loose), and the scrolls he had strapped on his back.
The heat hadn't helped; once in a while he was forced to stop and catch his breath, to drink a little of the bitter water from his near-empty canteen. As it was he had stopped bothering to replace his facemask; it was a waste of effort, and it didn't alleviate his discomfort one bit.
He estimated an entire two days' worth of travel between him and the remnants of his team; southwest to the Wind Country was where his mission took him, into the arid flatlands that bordered both countries.
They had been ambushed just as they were about to exit the scene, all because he had underestimated the genjutsu that surrounded the lone sentry, giving her enough time to call her comrades to her aid.
"Go on ahead of us," his team leader had whispered urgently, strapping the scrolls onto his back tightly. "They will not think to chase a villager child in the night. Hold up the illusion for as long as you can manage. We'll meet you in the village."
It was his fault, after all, and how he had wished he had some means of natural detection when it came to telling apart cleverly constructed genjutsu.
It had been a long, hard run, and the illusion his team leader had cast on him began to steadily fade as his stamina gradually wore off. But it was fine; he was safely inside the borders of Fire Country, and remained only a small distance away from the village. Even in the harsh daylight, it was difficult to tell just where the woodlands merged with the bustling village.
By the time he was two kilometers away from the walls of Konoha, he had slowed down to a trudge. Heat exhaustion, chakra depletion, and fatigue finally took its toll on him, so that he had to rest, even for just a bit, if only to regain his composure.
He was badly shaking, he realized with mild surprise, as he put down his scroll-filled rucksack. He watched his half-gloved hands, as pale fingers grimy with dirt and blood that wasn't his own (or was it?) twitched sporadically, stilling only when chakra was applied.
I'm more tired than I thought.
Nobody could begrudge him. It was his first Special B mission as a chuunin, and he was the youngest in the team. For all the genius he possessed he was still easily the most inexperienced, but age difference and rank had made him haughty.
"A shinobi must never show emotion. He is a tool, and his duty is to his village. The mission must be accomplished."
The three that had pursued him had been genin. He had not known of course, until he had strangled the last of them to death, pushing the flailing body into the unsteady sand. In the desperate attempt to breathe, the boy had ripped off his headcloak, and in the dull luminance of moonshine, child's eyes stared back at him with a fear he could not name.
"In a mission, all ninja are equal. One who wears the forehead protector is ready to die for one's village if necessary."
His very first teacher had taught him that, after all. Why indeed, would killing a man be so much different from killing that boy? He had stabbed his first full-grown opponent (four times his small height) in the Forest of Death when he took the exams two years ago. There were plenty of men and women, since then, in between that unfortunate Taki examinee and the Suna child for him to count.
"And there are several ways to tell what village your opponent belongs to."
They probably thought he looked suspicious running away from the commotion like that, and a distracted jounin-sensei probably sent his three charges to investigate.
When he reached down to splash his face with cool river water, he started. For a bizarre moment it seemed as if Sakumo-sama himself was reaching out to him from under the water, mirroring his movement.
Only this alternate "Sakumo-sama" had wide eyes, a blood-splattered face, and very unsteady hands. The real Sakumo-sama never had unsteady hands, and his reflection scowled at him disapprovingly.
"Stop that nonsense, Kakashi," he murmured, before he caught himself.
Well. That was what the man always said.
The sun rode high in the noontime sky, and he could hear familiar sounds carrying in the air—the shrill whistle of the Inuzuka dog trainers, the faraway call of some highly irritated Jounin teacher, leaves whipping in some tree-jumping nin's wake.
I am…sure…that the rest will follow.
What was important was that he had the scrolls, and the mission was a success. His team leader had told him to go on ahead. What did it matter that the Suna child had stared at him as if seeing something terrifying?
He closed his eyes, willed his hands to stop shaking, and for his disciplined thoughts to stop eroding like loose sand afoot. He was at the end of his strength, but he would deliver the scrolls to the shinobi-in-charge, and he would—
"Are… are you okay?"
He could not hear anything except for the turbulent silence ringing in his ears, and the imaginary sound of sand rushing in to fill an empty space. The second call came with touch, and was a little louder than the first.
"Hey…? Are you… okay?"
Fingers on his shoulders, so light that he would have brushed them away. The world stilled. Slowly, he lifted his head, and stared wanly at the scarred little boy who stood, shocked and staring, a small distance away.
The younger boy gasped lightly, and quickly retracted his hand, but didn't move away. He was staring openly at the seated chuunin boy, in a mixture of disbelief, and amazement.
Genin would have reacted quickly after the initial shock; a drawn kunai, perhaps, was instinctive. He could have not been more than perhaps three years younger at most, an Academy student, from his general reaction, and the frozen, blatant stare. Class probably dismissed early, in favor of the splendid weather.
The weather is splendid, Kakashi thought, as if noticing for the first time.
He thought he could smell summer emanating from the other boy (impossible as it seemed when he thought about it)—watermelons, mint on crushed ice, textbook pages—and it was such a strong, nostalgic scent, that it almost made his exhausted, sleepless senses reel.
Overhead a messenger bird called, but Kakashi did not hear. Sunlight streamed in through the leafy canopy, dappling in the grass around them.
They both stood frozen, staring at each other. The boy, transfixed at the sight of so much blood stark on pale skin, splattered all over a mostly-torn chuunin vest; Kakashi, in his daze, hypnotized by the play of light dancing on the other boy's skin and eyes.
He was close enough to see the slight shiver that wracked the other's frame, as if chilled. He was close enough to observe the thin, pale scar running horizontal across the boy's nose. He was close enough to maybe reach out, and place a weary hand on the other boy's shoulder, grateful that it was someone from his own village –
And then, all of a sudden, whatever spell held the universe in motionless balance snapped at that moment. With a sharp breath the ponytailed boy blinked, backed away shakily, and dashed away, tripping once, twice, running still.
"Wait—" Kakashi began, intending to pursue the boy and clarify matters. But the sudden motion of standing up left him dizzy, and vertigo compounded with three days' worth of exhaustion buckled his knees, and dimmed his sight.
He thought he heard something thump against the ground, and wondered why he felt loose gravel pressed against his cheek.
The messenger bird circled once, before crying out once again.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
It was sunset, and the bloody golden of it spilled across the room from the half-closed hospital blinds.
He could barely see clearly; as it was, the ceiling above him, etched with the kanji sequences for healing, swam in blurry haze. A small ache when he flexed a hand told him that an IV needle was taped to his wrist, replenishing his much-dehydrated body.
"You're awake, finally."
Kakashi barely had strength enough to turn his head. His eyes lit up when he thought he saw a familiar figure leaning over his bed, but closed in defeat when he realized the presence wasn't familiar.
It was a jounin he had seen his father talk to sometimes, but it wasn't his father. The crest of Konoha glinted across the polished forehead protector.
"Sakumo-san told me to watch out for you," the pleasant jounin said, as if knowing perfectly well what he was thinking, "He's just left, you see, for what promises to be a long one."
"Scro—" he began, remembering his mission, wondering where on earth they could have been, if they had been taken.
The blonde jounin shook his head. "You're clearly very lucky. Hastily-bandaged wounds, stamina almost next to nothing, no wonder you passed out. You even still had that faint genjutsu on you. Thankfully several Uchiha children were practicing in a grove nearby, and carried you to the village." Blue eyes glinted. "The scrolls are safely with Hokage-sama. Very, very good work, Hatake-kun."
"Gen…jutsu?"
The blonde jounin nodded once, and moved away to stare outside the window. "You were still clinging to it unconsciously, so to speak, which was probably why you got depleted so quickly."
Oh. So that was why. The image of his team leader casting one last genjutsu over him before sending him off flashed in his mind's eye. He squinted at the blonde jounin by his bedside.
"The team? Have they returned? I promised I'd regroup with them."
The jounin turned to look at him squarely, a kind of sadness apparent in his face. "I'm afraid they didn't make it. Two miles into the border of Fire country, two chuunin bodies and a jounin were recovered by our Hunter nin."
Kakashi looked at his needle hand, resting and still on the blanket by his side. It twitched in his scrutiny, once, a passing shiver. He remembered the boy he met by the river.
"Admittedly, the sentries were alerted because some kid was yelling about a dead nin discovered so close to the village perimeter. Of course, everyone thought it was the work of a Sand spy. Even unconscious, you were still hanging on to the genjutsu, faint as it was, that perhaps genin could easily see through it. Which was dangerous in your state, had the Uchiha not found you."
The blonde jounin circled the bed and nodded down at him. "Try to get some rest, Hatake-kun. You're overworked, and your body needs all the rest it can get." So saying, the jounin walked out of the door, clicking it shut behind him.
Kakashi remained awake, watching as the tree outside his window cast strange, dancing shapes in the ceiling of his room. In the vivid light, leaf-shadow and kanji danced like tongues of fire at the tail-end of a Katon; danced like sun-mottled water, and the flash of wide, summer-lit brown eyes.
The boy had not recognized him. Certainly not as a fellow shinobi; perhaps the terror was what glued the other child to the spot, frozen and shivering in the heat of midsummer, before he turned to run away. There were several ways to identify an opponent, after all, and unskilled as the scarred boy probably was with genjutsu, he still would have looked to all the world like a runaway Suna child.
Kakashi would have willed himself to sleep anytime he wished. But already something that felt like sand began a slow burning behind his lids, and all he could hear was his breathing, sharp as a small bird's call.
Author's notes:
This one was inspired by a poem a friend and sempai wrote, which I have quoted at the very beginning of the story. The image of Ko!Iruka running away from a bloodied Kakashi was too strong to resist, and it has been playing over and over in my head all the time. Erm, right. Mail me if anyone wants the full poem, as I don't want to risk any sort of new rule infringement from the staff.
(1) Kakashi was still hanging on to the genjutsu his team leader cast on him. It's very faint now that he's all worn out, but Iruka, being an Academy student, still can't properly tell. That's why Kakashi sees himself in the water reflection, whereas Iruka still saw him as a bloodied Sand kid.
(2) Again, I lament the fact that, due to the withholding of Yondaime's name, you can describe him only in so many ways. "Daddy" also works, in different contexts, of course. :D
(3) Age-wise, I'm conforming to the newest character guidebook, which says that Kakashi is three or so years older than Iruka. Here, he would therefore be 8 years old, and Iruka 5. The reason why this is the first time Kakashi is sent to a Special B (mixed-rank assignment) mission is because of his physiological build-up; at 6 years old, he may be a genius, but his body, particularly his "inner body" is still that of a child's, and therefore still unfit for long, drawn-out missions.
Inspired by the imagery of Cathy Candano's poem, "The Most Beautiful Boy...", published in the school folio, No.1 vol. 52, pgs 7-8. She's wonderful. Her writing's wonderful. (-weeps-) As per the recommendations of the lovely people at the kakairu LJ community, I just might continue this, for real. Please leave a note if it was fine, or if you feel like it ought to be continued. (-bows-)