Title: These Winter Bones
Summary: Iruka always did love winter.
Disclaimer: Kishimoto owns Naruto and I can only dream that I owned his characters, his imagination and his drawing skills.
Authors Note: Title from the poem 'Winter Conversation' by Joyce Wakefield
Iruka loves it when it's uncharacteristically cold in Konoha, after the rain has quenched the dry soil, disintegrating the dried crunching leaves and the climate has changed to that bitter chilled wind that whips his hair and stings his face; any moisture within becoming icy against his skin. He lets his classes out early, and neglects his voluntary shifts at the mission desk to get home. He walks through the freezing rain to his modest apartment on the border of the civilian area, dawdling along the way. These moments of peace are a gift to him; too cold for people to stop and talk, only a brief wave or curt nod as they hurry back to their respective homes. The feeling his hands has all but vanished, and Iruka realises that he his thoroughly soaked, long strands of brown hair sticking to his face, chunin uniform clinging to his body. A few more minutes in the downpour and he would surely become ill.
When finally inside, sandals shuffled off and left in a damp sprawl, his flak jacket unceremoniously dumped on top, Iruka begins his winter night routine. He lights the fire with a basic katon jutsu and slowly stokes the flame until a roaring fire has materialised, reaching each corner of the flat. He strips naked and balls his clothes, leaving them in the kitchen, and begins the task of gathering every blanket he owns. In the bedroom he layers each blanket, until layer upon layer of mismatched fabric rests on his mattress, thin sheets and throws are added into the mix and Iruka smiles down at his hand work. He checks his clock, 15 minutes to finish.
He journeys the short distance to the bathroom and showers quickly, heat stinging his freezing feet and fingers, bring the blood back to the surface and warming them slowly. He scrubs his hair with the coconut shampoo he saves for such occasions, being able to have an obvious scent linger on him is a luxury he intends to take advantage of. He dries himself with such force and speed he's sure he'll gain a few knots and rub some skin raw. 5 minutes remaining.
He pads over to his mattress and slides between the many sheets and blankets. He wraps a few around his body, careful to leave enough room for another body and smiles contently. Stretching and rubbing his cheek into the pillows, Iruka buries himself into warm and finds a comfortable spot to wait. A small gust of cold air slips under the bedroom door and Iruka feels it across his exposed shoulders. The sound of feet clip slowly along a wooden floor. Iruka strains to hear a creak and then the sound of running water intertwines with the humid smell of damp forest and lingering sweat. After 10 or so minutes of lazy shifting around his bed he hears another creak and the slap of slightly wet feet making their way to the kitchen. A scuffle ensues and eventually a rumbling sound and a click is overheard above the sound of porcelain clinking on glass. The smell tells him today is a Columbian roast day and a smile stretches across Iruka's face as he folds the opposite corner of sheets over.
A slim foot appears in the slightly ajar door, pushing it open further and his favourite sight greats him. The tall, lithe form of his lover, his usual gravity defying hair flattened with wetness and he's holding two steaming cups of rich coffee. He's naked, smiling opening; any remaining tension drops from Iruka's shoulders as he feels a dip in the mattress, a hot cup in his hand and his lovers cold thigh against his warm.
And that's how they spend their evening, lying in bed, talking, kissing occasionally and enjoying each others presence; Iruka remembers why he always did love the cold.
