Flash of Blue
Drabble. Examining the five stages of emotional upheaval. Iruka-centric.
Disclaimer: Nope, I still don't own Naruto.
Author's Notes: Written for the Revenge challenge on LJ's Naruto500 community. It's one of the usual teenage Iruka-angst drabbles… but it's still my favorite fic.
It hurt.
Every time Iruka returned to the small apartment he had been assigned to, it hurt.
Despite the three long years after his bereavement, he could never really get used to an empty, lonely existence when he had known the love of a family.
He walked inside, slamming the door behind him and didn't even bother to turn on the lights. Tossing his bag into a distant corner of the room, he leaped onto the bed and burrowed under the sheets.
Currently, Iruka was going through the four stages of emotional upheaval after a loss.
First was denial. Well, that one didn't apply to the young teen with a scar running vertically across his slightly feminine face. Watching one's parents running into battle, seeing the blood red glow that radiated off the fearsome kyuubi had forced the reality of the situation on Iruka better than a sledgehammer could. Although he had been dragged away, violently protesting in the form of loud, anguish screams, the desperate way his mother clung to him told him more than ever that his parents were running into certain death.
He wasn't even allowed to see their bodies after the kyuubi was sealed, for fear that it would "traumatize the younger generation." All he had left to remember his parents were the gray, stone memorial whose contents had sky rocketed that fateful night, and several mementos that Iruka was allowed to keep.
Second came depression. For days and nights, Konoha had been embroiled in a frenzy of recuperation and rebuilding. The disposal of the many casualties, the rebuilding of the infrastructure and the need to uphold the Leaf's fiery reputation consumed all the survivals' attention. The Third had been reinstated as Hokage; he was the only one who cared about Iruka's well-being as one of the few unfortunate enough to lose everything in the span of about two hours.
Parents. Mentors. The loving embrace of a family. All gone in an errant flash of a paw.
Iruka spent his days choking back tears, trying his best to suppress what was considered a sign of weakness in the nin community. In the quiet of the night, however, even that iron resolve not to disappoint the memory of his parents broke down.
Third came bargaining. Since Iruka didn't know any death gods or gateways to heaven, he could scarcely bargain with anyone to get his parents back. And Iruka was obviously underage, so he couldn't even haggle for the price of sake to drown his sorrow.
Bargaining was obviously out of the question.
Fourth came anger. It throbbed in his mind, the constant need to lash out somehow, in someway, to make someone else experience the same pain that he had to endure. Being essentially the kind hearted person that he was, this anger was held in check together with his tears, and only the poor trees and practice boards bore signs of his explosive tendencies.
Acceptance comes last, after all else has passed. Acceptance? Let's just say Iruka's got a long way to go before he reaches this stage.
At the moment, Iruka's stuck somewhere between the second and the third stage. More on the third, really. Anger and revenge seem to come hand in hand; but how can you avenge your parents when the creature who killed them was already sealed by the Fourth's own hand? As far as he knew, the kyuubi had been sealed within a baby, who by now, according to Iruka's brilliant calculation skills, should be around three.
How can you go up to a child; a toddler, really, and strike the little creature in anger?
Still, it didn't stop Iruka from entertaining that little thought of revenge in the confines of his mind when his anger got the better of him.
He often took to wandering the streets, roaming like a restless wild cat on the loose. He did it to escape the pitiful looks others often leveled him, and the dead, silent atmosphere of his house, but mostly he threw himself wholeheartedly into this activity in hopes that he would tire himself out so much that dreams would not come to him that night.
That isn't to say that if a certain wildly blonde toddler crossed his path, Iruka wouldn't notice. Such as today, for instance.
Iruka had taken one of the irregular routes; without the familiarity of the trail, he was forced to focus his attention on navigating and keeping track of where he was. It was close to his parent's death day, however, and the memories of that night kept assaulting him.
So absorbed he was in his own thoughts that Iruka didn't even notice the little child until he plowed headlong into and over the small form. Picking himself up somewhat dazedly, he turned his attention the blonde toddler, who merely stared forlornly at the ground. Curious, Iruka stepped closer, studying bowed form.
His eyes flickered to the characteristic lines that adorned the edges of the small child's face. Whiskers?
Iruka's eyes narrowed.
Here stood the kyuubi, in front of him, vulnerable, small, and ultimately powerless.
His deep anger and the coming death day of his parents swirled together into one volatile mix. Before he knew it, his hand swung to his belt, where a kunai hung, and he raised it high into the air, ready to strike what he personally considered the kyuubi, never mind that it sealed in a human form.
In the split second before kunai could begin its decent, the younger boy turned his face up to meet his assailant, his expression accepting, and his brilliant blue eyes met Iruka's.
Within those soulful eyes were a myriad emotions, but one thing stood out clearly. A deep, dark sorrow filled those depths, and something within them struck Iruka as human…
Because the feelings in the boy's blue eyes echoed the very ones Iruka knew he would see if he looked in a mirror.
Iruka dropped the kunai, eyes dilating. As tears once again filled those chocolate orbs, he turned and fled, running away from what he had almost done, leaving a bewildered Naruto, who wondered why, for the first time in his three years, someone, this brown haired, browned-eyed boy with a scar across his nose, didn't strike him.
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