EXPERIMENTAL
Disclaimer: The characters are not my own and are the copyright of Kishimoto Masashi etc.
Summary: Kakashi Hatake, Ph.D: 36 years old, brilliant, broken and a shell of his former self. Suffocating in a life forced upon him, he meets a captivating young student that reawakens his long lost raison d'être. Will it do, to knowingly lead another into the abyss?
Author's notes: I count this as my first real attempt at writing fanfiction. Apologies for any grammar, spelling etc. mistakes. Initially I just wanted to try my hand at a vignette with the aim of creating atmosphere but it turned into this! I write for myself but feedback is always appreciated.
Story width: ½
Playlist recommendation: 9 Crimes – Damien Rice
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Chapter 1: Seed
The room is small - too small. From station to station, the teeming, lava mass of students slowly ooze. They fill every space; one sideways shift births a pocket that is quickly filled as another is born across the room.
Above, a singular fan helps spread wafts of sharply cool air but its sweeping arcs are too infrequent. Slowly, a tangy musk lifts and disseminates. Nostrils flare but the mass segues on.
He sighs, wanting to breathe.
...
An hour on and even the armpits of his button-down shirt are starting to stick. His swollen feet ache, toes rubbing against the unrelenting patent leather. There is a dryness settling in his throat from the 7th - 8th? - reiteration of his spiel.
He feels his mouth moving but like a patient etherised upon a table, his mind drifts. The heat and ennui are spurring in him memories of another time: of huge halls and unending avenues of poster displays; of rushing between different conference rooms; of firm handshakes and crisp suits; of the hurt from the metal edge of the lectern as he grips it. He is again before them – steeling his nerves and fighting for his corner. He can do this, if only he could just…
One blink, and the hawkish eyes and teeth bared in apparent agreement dissolve into wide-eyed uncertainty and slackened mouths. Slightly disorientated, he uncaps his water bottle and takes a breather in the form of a long swig.
When he lowers the bottle, she is there in the second row of those gathered around his station.
It is the ridiculous shade of her hair that jars him into the present.
He inhales deeply.
Then, ever the consummate professional, he clears his throat, crinkles a brief smile and turns back to the diagrams behind him.
"So our research largely focuses on…"
Words spew forth like comfortable permutations of a memorised verse. He knows what to say, which leading questions fish out the potential in the still malleable minds before him. He is a master of keeping the back and forth seemingly natural, of how to slip in a compliment here and there because flowers in the dawn turn toward the first swathe of sunlight. This is his life now.
From the periphery of his vision, he sees her otherwise guileless eyes narrow with cool curiosity. Another one netted.
Afterwards, in the period where his audience files away to be replaced by a fresh batch, she thanks him for the information and he hands her the A4 version of his poster with his email at the bottom. She flashes a hesitant smile. It seems she is eager to leave a good impression.
He should feel buoyed but his hands dampen, as if he'd plunged them into the wet earth to weed.
...
A/N: Thanks for getting to this point. R&R, please?