a fanfic by the butter of flies
naruto characters belong to their creator Masashi Kishimoto
the butter of flies receives no financial gain from the writing of this work
Reviews are very welcome, and as for hate mail, I find they make the most amusing reads.
This fanfic includes slight shounen-ai implications. If such content bothers you, I suggest you not read it.
I. Rain over Konoha
Storm clouds rolled in the sky over Konoha, hanging above the hidden village ominous and stoutly grey. The rain poured, drenching Uminou Iruka as he ran home after a long day at the Academy. He kept from the rooftops, which were wet and slippery, choosing to travel through the village market instead. But the wet ground was treacherous as well and Iruka skidded once or twice.
Careful, he cautioned himself, slowing down a little to sacrifice speed for safety. He turned right onto a smaller street dimly lit by the light from apartments on either side of the road. Iruka plucked dejectedly at his damp clothes and veered right into an alley, sticking to the side where it was drier.
He was looking forward to having tea, coffee, or maybe soup, as soon as he got home. Anything warm would be heavenly accompanied with a nice bowl of reheated ramen, reflected Iruka, sighing.
Coffee, he decided. He'd brew coffee.
Warm, no--hot coffee.
Hot, fresh-brewed coffee.
Iruka's mouth watered. Forgetting his earlier resolution to be cautious, Iruka switched to a light jog and turned another corner, shivering.
Fresh-brewed coffee steaming in a mug, with four lumps of sugar and two spoons of cream to be drunk curled up under the blankets in bed. There was a stack of essays from last week waiting for him at home, but Iruka figured he deserved an occasional break. His student's wouldn't mind another day's delay.
Hot coffee, hot coffee, hot coffee, hot--
Iruka turned another corner, muttering to himself. Head bowed, the chuunin didn't realize he was not alone and he collided.
Newton's third law of motion says that for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.
Uminou Iruka unknowingly proved this very true law as he yelled something unintelligible and was thrown backwards. He fell, landing in an undignified manner on the ground. The mud oozed between his fingers, covered his pants, his uniform, his face.
Iruka groaned. He could feel his butt bruising.
"Ah...sorry, you okay?" The voice was muffled, distant, as if coming through cloth. Iruka, as a way of reply, nodded dumbly and tried to stand up, only to slip in the mud.
Oh god--that honestly hurt more the second time.
"Here, let me help you up." A hand, larger than his own, touched his fingers. The stranger bent down, and through the mud over his eyes and the rain the fell between them, Iruka thought he saw strands of silver, drooping and wet.
"Thank you," Iruka murmured appreciatively, reddening at the light brush of fingertips more calloused than his own against his wrist. "A fellow shinobi," he thought, and marveled at the ease with which his rescuer pulled him up. Recalling the silver hair, he amended, "Perhaps a retired shinobi," but dismissed the notion.
This stranger had been much too agile, and had stepped away lightly to accommodate the chuunin's weight when he had pulled Iruka up. A young man with silver hair, or a retired shinobi agile enough to rival a jounin in his prime: Iruka just couldn't figure it out.
"But no matter what he is, he obviously trains a lot," thought Iruka, rather awed, "and he's probably in much more toned, and in a much better condition than I am." Recalling his own inadequacies and comparing them to this stranger made the chuunin flushed harder.
Increasing uncomfortable, both with himself and with their proximity, Iruka took a step back and squinted into the rain, but it was difficult to make anything out through the mud spattered over his eyes. "Thank you," he repeated, a tinge of pink still dusting his cheeks and over his scar. Iruka rubbed at his eyes with a sleeve, trying to remove the mud.
"Sorry," he began, and remembering his manners, bowed. "I was so anxious to get home I didn't even notice you coming." Glancing at the sky, Iruka smiled awkwardly. "Quite a storm, isn't it?"
Still grinning, the chuunin straightened to thank his mysterious helper properly, but to his great surprise, the street was deserted.
It was an eerie feeling, standing alone in an empty street with the rain pouring down. Iruka shuddered, his skin prickling.
Then, feeling something brush against his leg, Iruka looked down.
It was an umbrella.
It was not his own umbrella, as Iruka had not had the foresight to bring one with him that morning. The chuunin examined it critically, as if the umbrella held a hidden jutsu that needed to be revealed and broken.
"Who do you belong to?" He asked, picking it up and half-expecting the umbrella to answer.
Naturally, besides the steady rhythm of raindrops, there was nothing.
Feeling slightly foolish, Iruka felt a blush that highlighted the rough edges of his scar steal across his face. The chuunin tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, coating it with mud from his hand.
He gave the empty street one last searching glance and, finding nothing, ducked under the umbrella. Home was only two streets away and he had a cup of coffee to brew.
--
Home again, Iruka closed the door behind him and stripped off muddy shoes, pants, uniform, and carried the soaking heap to the bathroom. He left the pile dumped unceremoniously in the sink, then peeled off the rest of his clothes.
After a quick shower, Iruka set a pot of coffee to brew and lounged sluggishly on the couch. The hot shower water had warmed his chilled body and his Iruka sleepy. His eyes, heavy and impossible to keep open, drifted close.
The umbrella--what was he going to do about the umbrella?
"Gonna return it tomorrow," Iruka muttered drowsily aloud to himself.
But who was that mysterious person--to whom the did umbrella belong?
Iruka wanted to know. And not because he was interested in said person. No, of course not--he was not interested and he not care. He wanted to know, but only so he could return the umbrella to its proper owner and then go his merry way, as lazy as he pleased.
Yep, Iruka didn't care, didn't care too much, anyway.
With a yawn, he burrowed into the pillow.
He'd ask around tomorrow. Find out whom the umbrella belonged to, and be happy, leave it at that, and not further.
But the stranger's calloused fingers had been so warm and gentle against his own. Iruka blushed fiercely, drove the thought down.
Rather an interesting contrast, his uncooperative mind quipped.
Iruka growled, turned so he lay on his side.
Warm, thought Iruka drowsily, exhaling into the pillow. He was warm.
The coffee maker beeped once, twice, thrice.
Iruka's index finger twitched. Fingers, calloused.
The coffee maker repeated itself, louder.
Iruka murmured something incoherent, but remained comfortably prostrate on the couch.
Its contents still untouched, the machine fell silent.
Lulled by the warmth, Iruka dozed off. The umbrella sat on his doorstep, dripping a puddle on the floor.
Outside, thunder rumbled some place far into the distance.
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