Write a poem about yourself in thirty words or less.
So I think about it.
Hard.
And this is what I come up with.
Fatherless.
Without a clue.
What would you do
if you could fit into my shoe?
I crumble up the paper and start again.
.
.
.
I've brought it up lots of times.
No. Not lots of times. Just once was enough.
Our kitchen is a small square within an even smaller square. Kaa-san can't afford much on her own, but that doesn't stop her from complaining about the size of our apartment. She says that she bought it for herself when she was fifteen with all the money she made from being a kunoichi, or girl ninja. She says that she misses that, too, but wouldn't trade me for the world.
Sad smile.
I was eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich when I noticed her staring out of the window, a sad, sad, sad smile on her face. I'd already adjusted to the standard sad smile. It happened—happens—so often that only me and Naruto-oji can tell the difference between the real happy smile and the fake one. This smile, though, made me want to make her happy. The real happy, for as long as I possibly could.
"What are you staring at, Kaa-san?"
She jumps as if a spider landed on her shoulder. Then, "Nothing. I was just thinking," she pauses in washing the dishes. The suds make funny popping noises in the silence, and then she repeats, almost to herself, "It was nothing."
I wish I can make myself believe that Kaa-san gets lost in thought so easily, deeply, and as often as much as she tries to convince me to.
It would make things—everything—much easier.
.
.
.
I don't even fit into my own shoes.
.
.
.
And the pain is tangible. It's unbelievable. Unimaginable.
But I didn't know—don't know—what was worse.
The excruciating, ripping, pulling, tugging, electrical, burning, hot, tearing feeling erupted underneath and around my eyes. The pain would've made them water if all my tears weren't dried by the singeing heat.
That was bad.
When I, somehow, lifted my heavy lids and a surge of my chakra flooded the Training Fields, I could feel the difference. It was almost terrifying. Everything that had chakra reflected differently in my eyes.
The trees glow a soft, muted green. Birds were a vibrant yellow color. Alive. The whole world was alive.
I blinked quickly three times, trying to ignore the tingling sensation that scorched throughout my skull each time. Every picture looked the same, each detail, maybe with a small difference—chakra moved when someone, something, breathed.
A small grin split across my face.
That was amazing.
My eyes flickered toward the left when a distinct, large, but contained springy green color slipped into my line of sight. I blinked again, adjusting to the chakra so much bigger than that of the trees and birds, and saw the form of my mother.
But her face was unsettling. For once in my life, I didn't find comfort in just the sight of her.
Eyes wide, she was shaking her head back and forth. "No," she said repeatedly, each syllable growing louder and louder until I couldn't mistake it anymore. Her aura exploded in a mass of energy and charged toward the ground, spears of rock shooting upward. I swiftly jumped out of the way, landing on my behind.
"Kaa-san, I—"
She was shaking, chakra returning to its original, contained size with a swooshing sound.
Something about the sudden upward and downward spiraling spikes of power unnerved me; the newfound fact that I could see it and feel it, even know when and where and even how it was going to happen made me shiver with satisfaction. Something about the way Kaa-san looked at me, though, was foreign. It erased all pride I felt for myself.
She said that she didn't know what took over her.
But, since then, I've never done it again.
Ever.
.
.
.
I grow too fast.
.
.
.
"Sharingan," I repeated slowly, getting used to the feel of the word on my tongue.
As soon as the last syllable left my mouth, I glanced toward the Hokage, silently asking if I had said it correctly. My throat went dry in anticipation under the honesty of his eyes, and when a smile split across his face, I followed suit with a grin of my own.
My eyebrows rose in excitement, mouth twitching as I tried to control the wideness of the smile. "Sharingan," I said again, with more confidence. I shot out of my chair, walking around the office, "Sharingan." A laugh exited my mouth before an array of uncontainable hoots.
I sent a surge of chakra to my eyes and awed at the differences in the room with the Sharingan in my eyes. Look at the plants. Look at the little flowers and the baby trees in the pots and vases. Something swells in my chest when I turn to the window, the window that showcased all of Konoha. Look at all the people. The ninjas, the civilians—they all live and breathe and move and glow with their own distinct and unique chakra.
All because of my Sharingan.
"You know, Hokage-sama," I say, stopping ahead of his desk, arms spread to both ends. "you look a lot less stupid with my Sharingan."
He shoots me a look that sends me back into normalcy. I sink back into my seat, folding my hands together professionally. It takes quite a lot of effort and concentration to dispel the power around my eyes and circuiting throughout my nerves, but I manage this with a straight face. When I open my eyes again, I know that they olive green orbs are dancing in excitement.
"So, Sharingan. Tell me more," I ask, a tiny smirk on my face. "Tell me more"
There's a name for it.
Pride. Knowledge. Vitality. Power. Specialty. One step closer to finding out who my father is.
It blows my mind.
.
.
.
Instantaneous
.
Haruno Sakura slides her hands around the warm mug of coffee, raising the red ceramic slowly up to her lips. Her emerald eyes remained trained on the strangely blank face of one of her first best friends. She was trying to decipher the meaning in the uncharacteristic glint in the blonde woman's eyes.
It wasn't often that Ino requested to meet with Sakura, especially on days when they were both scheduled for early shifts at the hospital. The two had, however, reworked their friendship back together, piece by piece, so the acquisition to meet with her wasn't completely odd. What was odd about it was, simply, the urgency in Ino's voice, the importance that she tried to mask with a warm smile and a silly pet name.
Sakura wondered throughout all of the night what this sudden 'Hey, Forehead, let's go get some coffee before work together,' was about, truly. She hardly got any sleep, though that—the unpredictable request for coffee—solely could not be put to blame. There were many reasons why the Haruno lacked in hours of sleep, why she turned to coffee instead of the standard tea.
As she sipped the warm, thick liquid, she decided that if Ino didn't start talking—drinking, eating, or doing anything else besides staring at her with that mysteriously masked expression—she was going to leave with the excuse of an early appointment with a civilian. Or maybe a report on the status of the hospital with the Hokage. Perhaps even a visit to her parents' house would get her out of this sticky situation.
Just as Sakura began working out the details of her lie, Ino cleared her throat, all guises falling.
"How's Daichi-kun?" the blonde woman started carefully, finger tracing the rim of her finished coffee cup.
Sakura watched as her blue eyes dodged her own decisively and purposefully. Her eyebrow furrowed slightly in confusion, putting up a shroud of chakra around her mind. She knew that Ino would never intrude, at least not normally, but for some reason, the rosette felt obliged to protect her wary thoughts.
Sakura shrugged lightly, smiling. "He's great."
Ino hummed and stirred the air in her cup with a straw. She swallowed thickly, the familiar taste of her latte turning sour with the flavor of the words she knew she had to say. If she didn't care for Sakura as much as she did, she would easily be able to bring up her concern about her son. However, she understood where Sakura came from. If she was in the same situation, she would be doing the same, if not slightly different, thing.
"That's great," Ino beamed, grin as stunning as always. "He's twelve now?"
"Thirteen," Sakura corrected quickly, absentmindedly. After realizing her misstep, she sipped her coffee and grinned, tilting her head. Feeling the need to fill the empty, awkward silence, she added, "His birthday was last month."
July, Ino mentally notes.
She takes a deep breath and flicks her eyes toward her friend, surveying her stature. Her hands gripped the mug tightly, fingers wrapped like vices around the cup. Ino looked at the small bags underneath muted green eyes, smile lines and the beginnings of crow's feet confessing her age.
Was it her age? Ino placed a hand on her head, inhaling the coffee bean smell of the cute café again as she calculated. No, no, it couldn't be age. They were both barely thirty, along with the rest of the Rookie 9. Sakura, beside Naruto, who worked day in and day out in that messily stuffy office of his, was one of the nine who showed signs of aging most predominately. The transition was very swift, instead of gradual, for her, and while many others refused to place two and two together, Ino knew why her friend looked more like her mother than the ripe twenty-nine-year-old she was.
Stress. It was stress. Sakura worked very hard already, and with the promises she made to everyone aside from her job, she hardly had time for herself. Add to that her son, who was now avidly a part of the ninja world of missions, and the equation was very easy to decipher.
Ino believed strongly that every woman needed at least four to six days in a month to herself—and just to herself, possibly with girlfriends—to rejuvenate. Ino could say confidently that her best friend had not had a 'Sakura Day' in years.
She sighed, pouting lightly as she voiced her concern.
"You worry about him so much, Forehead."
The look in Sakura's eyes could break glass.
She placed her mug down carefully, calculatingly, so not as to chip the nice piece. Her eyes defied the calm demeanor that covered her like a blanket, and, though she could not fool Ino, no matter how hard she tried, Sakura smiled maternally.
Fingering a strand of hair behind her ear, she giggled lightly, "Well, he is my son. How can a mother not worry?"
Ino shook her head sharply. "No, Sakura, no," she said, heavy trademark ponytail swinging. "I'm not talking about Daichi."
Sakura inhaled pointedly, lips straightening into a thin line. So she couldn't pretend as if she didn't know whom Ino was speaking of. Even though she wasn't surprised, hearing the words in reality instead of in her mind sent her in a frenzied shock of sorts. She didn't want to talk about this.
She wouldn't.
The rosette gathered her purse and fished for her wallet within the bag. "I have to go, Ino-chan," she said tiredly, the patience she had before long gone. She placed a few Ryo on the table, a small grin on her face, "We should do this again, though."
But she didn't want to do this again, not when she knew Ino was never going to give up on the topic until she fulfilled its purpose. She avoided Ino's eyes as if it were her mission, as if a single glance would send her into flames.
"Ohayo," Daichi greeted routinely, swishing water through his mouth.
He truly hated bananas, but he couldn't find anything else in the kitchen that morning beside ramen. So, with much spite and attitude, he'd swallowed down three bananas and managed to keep them in his stomach. He glanced toward the garbage can, on the other side of the island, barely visible to his eye. Maybe he should scoot it closer, just in case.
Sakura locked the door behind her before returning salutation.
"What time is training?" She asked, sifting through the mail. Bill, bill, bill—a wave of agitation hit her. These past few weeks were not kind to her at the hospital; the peace in the ninja world was nice, but it really hurt her pay. Civilians didn't hurt themselves enough to provide a solid check.
In all honesty, everyone was struggling a lot more than in previous years, and the only common answer between all in the ninja community was the lack of their necessity. While no one would dare ask for the chaos, war, and violence that existed during and even before their childhood to return, the moths flying out wallets and pockets were threatening. Daimyos and other county wealthy wished not to spend big money for small tasks anymore, not as if they could.
Sakura held in a sigh of something akin to self-pity, and walked over to the island, dumping the envelopes with the others in a drawer. She closed it swiftly and pressed her hand into the lock, locking it with a small bit of chakra.
Daichi pretended not to notice the hasty, secretive movements, or the small spike of chakra that bounced throughout the kitchen. He acted as if he did not even notice, forcing down one last portion of cut banana.
The painfully bitter, sweet taste sent the feeling of nausea coursing through his body. He untwisted his water bottle and drained the last bit of water into his throat. It barely masked the taste, but the actions seemed natural enough to make him seem as if he did not know that Sakura was hiding something.
Or, at least he hoped.
Sakura cleared her throat. She folded her arms atop one another, giving Daichi a stare that seemed to translate into Well? I asked a question.
The teenager groaned, swallowing another swig of water. "Fifteen minutes ago," he answered honestly. "I'm still waiting for Jun and Bunko; we're supposed to race to the bridge or something like that."
His mother nodded, humming to herself.
Daichi narrowed his eyes slightly, silvery olive eyes turning into slits. Whenever Sakura hummed, she was really trying to distract. Despite the knowledge that he knew he probably was not ever going to find out what his mother was trying to hide from him—or even hide from herself—he wasn't going to stop trying. He twisted and untwisted the cap over his water bottle, watching Sakura.
After many moments of the rosette staring at him blankly, shadows of the morning casting funny lights onto her face, he gave up. She was in one of her episodes, whether she wanted to admit it or not, and it scared him. The long pauses in conversation and the even longer blank stares—usually at him—had been happening more and more often lately, and the only way he knew how to break them was to ask a stupid question.
"Can I fill my bottle up with the tap?"
His heart seemed to leap into his throat when she shook out of her stony expression, as if a cold wintery draft had entered the room. It was August, and without an air conditioner, the chances of a cool breeze coming into their apartment were slim to none. He was just about to ask her if she wanted a jacket or something, anything, but she then blinked her eyes rapidly, breaths coming in and out of her mouth haphazardly.
His hand shot out and grabbed her smaller hand, shocked to feel how cold it was. "Mom," he called, dark eyebrows furrowing in concern. He squeezed the numb fingers, "Kaa-san, it's me, Daichi. Are you okay?"
Her body trembled beneath his grasp, knocking against the island counter. Daichi tightened his hold on her hand, even taking both of his hands over her own, which seemed so much smaller than his now. "Kai," he tried, out of any other idea of what was going on. Maybe some idiot had set a genjutsu in the general area on accident. Despite the fact that that didn't explain why he was unaffected, he repeated the phrase over and over again, until it became a mantra.
"MOM!" He finally yelled when she started murmuring words, bits and pieces of some conversation that he could not understand. He probably would not ever understand, but with his eyes wide with panic and Sakura's eyes blank and desolate, his call seemed to rip her out of her trance.
Even when her breathing slowed to a normal, natural pace, his eyes were studying—confused, trying to figure out what was going on with his mother. Perhaps it was the fact that it was just him in the room, but he could not help but feel as if it were his fault, not some genjutsu. Whatever 'it' was, it scared him. He did not like seeing Sakura's tremors, emotionless masks, eyes so distant it was certain that she was not here anymore. She was far away, and it was his fault.
"Kaa-san—"
With a sharp intake of breath, Sakura swiped her hand out of Daichi's and covered her eyes, body tight.
He stood across from her, on the other side of the island, waiting patiently for her to gather herself. Though he was not counting the seconds, minutes, or even possibly hours—it felt like hours—he could tell time had passed significantly. The sounds of morning birds, early risers, giggling children, and general pedestrian traffic could be heard from outside the open window.
Gathering as much strength as he could, he turned away from the statuesque woman and strode over to the window over the sink, grasping the frame. He shut it with a grunt, a cloud of dust rising into the air. He coughed a few times, glancing out of the window only to see the two forms of his teammates trudging down the road.
His eyes flickered back to Sakura, noticing that she was still immobile. He sighed deeply and decided that leaving her like this, with the image of her struggling as hard as she was to get whatever image that was in her head out, was not going to do either of them any good. "Sakura," he tried, carefully reaching out only to put his hand back into his pocket. Maybe he should not touch her. That was probably a bad idea.
"Sakura," he called again.
She lifted her head up slowly, ghosts for eyes staring at him, without a blink. Though there were no tears, Daichi felt as if the woman had been crying, sad eyes not matching the small smile that her mouth formed. "Don't think that you're old enough to call me anything but Mom, now, Dai-kun," she reprimanded softly, head tilting.
"Sorry," he smiled, not knowing what else to do. The hardwood flooring creaked beneath his feet as he shifted his weight awkwardly, and it was the only sound in the room. He licked his dry lips, "Jun and Bunko are here; I have to go."
Seconds later, the doorbell rang, the cheery tone breaking the ice that had formed between the mother and son.
Sakura nodded, pushing herself off the island, standing straight. "Of course," she murmured, following behind her son toward the doorway. "I have to get to the hospital, anyway."
He hated when she acted as if nothing ever happened. He despised when she would open the door with a wide smile and a taunt of, "Only half an hour late this time, you guys!" But, looking at her talking to his teammates animatedly, asking if they had mastered this jutsu or figured out this sequence or that chakra control method, glowing in the early morning sun, he wondered if she even knew what he saw.
He wondered if he should tell anyone else what he saw.
When all small talk was finished, Daichi closed the door softly behind him, locking it with a bit of chakra, just in case anything out of his control was happening.
"Sorry we're late, Daichi-kun," Bunko apologized, clasping her hands together in a pleading gesture, almost as if she were praying for the acceptance of her apology.
Daichi spared a glance toward the only female on his team.
There she was, ridiculously long pigtails centered perfectly on each side of her head, colorful orb like ties holding the pitch-black hair together. Her lips were in a pout and her milky eyes were dog-like crescents, begging for his forgiveness.
If this did not happen every morning, he would have fallen for the trick and forgiven her—them, his mind quickly altered—without a second thought. However, since he was accustomed to waiting for them for nearly an hour every day, he waved away the overly dramatic show of regret, shrugging away its importance.
It was still relatively early, he assumed it was about eight, maybe eight thirty, and the mild temperatures chilled his raging mind. So many thoughts raced passed his eyes. When was the last time that Sakura had been so…he could not even put a name on the feeling? Maybe it was so hard for him to define it because 'it' was not his, but, in some sort of twisted and warped way, he felt like he had something to do with it. Perhaps not directly, but…a small headache rang at his sinuses.
He decided at that moment that he was going to visit Hokage-sama after training. If Sakura, his own mother, was not giving him any sort of hint toward figuring out the answers that he so desperately felt like he needed to know, Naruto would help him. It had become a birthday present of sorts. Every year, the blond leader would offer one small bit of information toward the identity of his father. Though nothing was as big as figuring out what the Sharingan was, Daichi still wanted to know more.
But, then, he wondered, was knowing more about his father what he really wanted to learn? Was that going to help him any? He could not even find any records of this 'Sharingan' in any of the village libraries. What would knowing anything else help if even the most prestigious libraries contained no information on the most obvious pointer toward the other half of his being?
Sakura never talked about the mysterious man, and whenever he tried questioning people—even strangers—the air always stiffened. They made up excuses. They just left.
It was obvious that his father did not want to be a part of his life or that of his mother's anymore, so why should he be so concerned? Well…he did not know himself, really, but somewhere deep within him, Daichi knew that at least knowing the name of his father would make things simpler. Not necessarily easier, but simpler. He wanted that, at least.
Daichi looked up toward the sky then, wondering how long it was going to take until he got the answers that he felt like he needed to have to feel as if he belonged to something. Sure, he belonged to his mother, he belonged to his teammates, his sensei, and the village, but he did not feel…complete with that. He did not know how else to say it. He was still a kid, technically. He was not too young to know that there had to be a father, whichever way you want to look at it, but he was not old enough to figure the rest out himself. He had to rely on people that did not want him to know, and that was torturous.
He felt like he was running away from the other half of his entity, while the part of himself that he did have was encouraging him to do so. And that was the most twisted, corrupt, ridiculous thing he could ever think a person could do.
Why did they not want him to know who his father was?
The sound of Jun's voice broke through his mental conversation that was worsening by the thought.
"Are you alright, Haruno? You're glaring at the sun," the Inuzuka asked with a sharp hoot afterward.
Daichi swept his eyes over to the tanned brunet, narrowing the orbs threateningly. "You can't glare at the sun," he spat out, "baka. My eyes would've dried out by now."
Bunko rolled her eyes and sighed, shaking her head in shameful admission toward their first morning fight of the day. If she really wanted to, she could start gathering data on when and where the two normally started their bickering. That way, she could know when to bring up some sort of distraction to stop it from happening. The girl sucked her lips in, knowing that even the biggest of Hokage-sama's toad summons couldn't stop those two from arguing, and turned her head away from the boys' ridiculous bantering. She looked into the storefront windows, a small smile forming on her face.
Almost all of the shops displayed colorful kimonos and dresses for the upcoming Harvest Festival. Even though the actual event was some time from now, planning had been in the works since the beginning of summer. If her calendars were right, and the words of her parents' ever-changing information were constant and reliable, the event should happen sometime by the end of the next week.
She could hardly wait for the festival. It was the only civilian-esque thing a ninja could ever do without receiving strange looks. Besides, it was fun to pretend that the safety of people decades older than yourself was not your responsibility, but your neighbor. Mai-san could just be somebody who lived next door, not a reason to lose her life over protecting. If only for a day, Bunko loved feeling equal to the common people.
A smile graced her face lightly as they passed a familiar establishment. "Hey, guys, stop being idiots," she called.
The two froze, tangled together in a mess of blocked punches and stopped kicks. How they managed to do so much while walking amazed Bunko. She shook her head again when they pushed away from one another, fixing mussed hair and disheveled clothing. Jun made a face at Daichi, who sneered back.
Before another fight could break out, Bunko cleared her throat loudly. "Ichiraku is open. Don't you want some? I know I'm starving."
Bunko felt immediately conscious of her thin frame when both of her teammate's eyes examined her body, probably wondering how she could possibly ever be anything but starving. She crossed her arms aptly across her middle, huffing and turning away from the two. She reiterated, a tightness in her lips, "Do you want to stop and get some, or not?"
Jun smiled, pointy white teeth shining in the risen sun as he placed his arms behind his head. "Sure, I mean, I didn't really eat breakfast or anything beside my average bowl of amazing."
Daichi sighed. All he wanted to do was get to practice where he could pound some sense into Jun without interruption. He didn't want any food to slow him down. He could always eat when he finished training. Even though he did want the food, he didn't want it to mess up his whole practice session.
So, with that in mind, he shook his head, saying, "I'm not hungry, guy—"
"Yes, you are!" Bunko interrupted harshly, grasping his arm and dragging him to the shack.
All it took was one dumpling.
He didn't even order ramen from the ramen shop and he was already feeling sick to his stomach. Practice had barely begun—with the customary warm-up round of a jog around the village, three minute rest, a few pushups followed by a few more sit-ups, and his individual Taijutsu kicks and punches—and the teen was fatigued.
Maybe it was because he ate the bananas earlier that morning. However, it was more likely that the dumpling was making him feel nauseous. He doesn't eat greasy food, but somehow he had let his teammates—those people that help you improve—talk him into one 'measly', 'harmless', 'delicious' dumpling.
Daichi swallowed thickly again, landing a solid punch into the face of a dummy, watching the neck swing the feather-filled head back and forth in a whiplash. If it were a normal person, they undoubtedly would have either a broken nose and broken neck, or just a broken nose. He shook the joints in his hand loose, examining the new scratches shortly, before winding back for another shot at the puppet.
He was good at Taijutsu. He knew it, and, he wouldn't be ashamed to beat another ninja without any series of hand signs. Whenever Lee-sensei went on about how weak that he used to feel in comparison to the other members of his Rookie 12, Daichi couldn't help but to wonder why.
Why think that you're insignificant as a ninja because you can land a killing punch? Sometimes using up all your chakra reserves for jutsu during a battle is the worst thing to do, at least in Daichi's mind. One could easily run out of chakra and, without any skill in Taijutsu, they were dead meat. Genjutsu required one's essence as well, though Tai didn't. It was following that path of logic—the one that ninjas have chakra and should use it— that led Daichi to understand why his sensei might have felt lesser to his comrades and competitors.
The boy sent the head twirling again, though this time the dummy's head went flying off the weak kindling it was attached to. Hazy olive eyes followed the body-less head across the field with mild interest as he wiped the dampness from his palms on his shirt. He cracked his knuckles before deciding that, technically, if he had no dummy to practice on, he was done with his one-hundred uppercuts eighty-two punches early. The notion made sense, so the Haruno boy took to seeing where the head landed, most likely on the other side of the hill.
"Come to see how a real genius practices, eh, Haruno?" Jun taunted the minute Daichi rounded the apex of the hill. Daichi lifted his eyes lightly, grimacing at the brightness of the sun as his eyes adjusted to the brightness. He saw Jun at the foot of a tree, a smug look on his face, leaning against the bark.
Daichi sent him a look then, tightening his jaw. "No," he said simply, continuing on in the search for his dummy's head.
"Well, then, is your stomach queasy?" He jaunted, grasping his own abdomen. "You can't handle food like a man, is it? You do look a lot paler than usual."
Their eyes clashed from across the distance of the field. Daichi bit his lip, tightening his fists at his sides with bottled aggression. Looking at the satisfied smirk across Jun's face, Daichi knew that this was what he wanted. He didn't want to give him the feeling of accomplishment that came with aggravating him. He really didn't, so with much effort he turned away.
"You going to your Kaa-san, Momma's boy? I'm sure she can bake you cookies with her kunai knives. Isn't that what Sakura uses them for now?"
The darker-haired teen rolled his eyes and grumbled, strolling with contained disdain toward Jun. He stopped just ahead of the boy, arms crossed tightly across his chest. The two started a glaring contest almost immediately after, jaws tightening, eyes narrowing. In the battle between budding testosterone, olive, and brown, the air tensed.
"What'd you get on your Written Exams?" Daichi asked, obsidian hair blowing with the wind.
Just as a smug grin split across Jun's face, Daichi interrupted, "Without me."
He was well aware of what the self-proclaimed genius had scored, with his own help. He looks back to that day with a conflicted expression, wondering what had overcome him when he decided that helping the Inuzuka would only get him away from him faster. Instead, it got them stuck on the same team.
Daichi took his chance to continue while the simply abashed expression took homage on Jun's tanned face. "Yeah. You would have failed, Inuzuka," he seethed, venom lacing between words. "Keep my mother's name out your mouth, and consider with your tiny brain that I can take away your hitai-e any time I wan—"
A sharp pain met the side of his face, whipping his head to the left. As the taste of blood pooled into Daichi's mouth, a million thoughts whirred through his head. To retaliate, or to not retaliate? Should he let it slide? They were teammates for Kami sake and, even though he really hated Jun, he was the one who gave him the chance to become a Genin. He had to deal with the consequences.
However, then again, he hated Jun, and he needed to be reminded of that every so often. Without hesitation, Daichi sent back a punch of his own, but missed, wood chips scratching his bare knuckles.
Jun grasped his arm with both his hands, brown eyes malicious. His grip was steel-like, ugly purple bruises already forming on Daichi's porcelain skin. "Take it, then," the Inuzuka dared, husky voice coming out like the sharp edge of a knife.
"Baka," Daichi bit out, a sardonic smile splitting his lips, blood staining his teeth. He wound back and landed a solid punch back at Jun, enjoying the feel of the bridge of his nose cracking beneath his fist.
The counterattack was almost immediate. A sweeping kick almost knocked Daichi off his feet, making him stumble for a few moments in the air before he gathered his footing in an unsteady landing. His eyes widened at the charging form of Jun, running straight at him, kunai in hand.
He leaped backwards just in time from the sharp point of the kunai knife, cutting downwards through the wind, what would've been a thrashing hit to his skull.
His heart pounded in his chest.
Did Jun mean to kill him?
Just as the thought ran past the forefront of his mind, a high roundhouse kick flew over his head, scathing the longest tips of his up-spiked hair. An uppercut followed quickly after, knocking Daichi in the chin. He went through a minor bought of whiplash before the collar of his shirt was taken by strong hands, and thrust forward. It felt as if his brain was being shaken within his cranium, but he managed to land a solid kick into Jun's stomach, kneeing him.
He spit out a wad of sticky, red saliva, wiping the residue from his mouth with the back of his hand. "What are you thinking?" He shouted, chest heaving. Daichi's hands swung low at his sides, seemingly defenseless, but his fingers twitched with wound-up anticipation, ready to grasp shuriken if need be. Jun was crouched on the ground, one knee planted in the grass.
The wind blew coldly, making goose bumps rise on the teammate's arms. Even though they had barely scratched the surface of what some may call a fight, Daichi was exhausted, and he could tell by the shakiness of Jun's shoulders that he was fatigued as well. Still, Daichi watched with narrowed eyes as he waited for his reply—whether it is in words or another, rash, boisterous, characteristic attack.
Another gust of wind flew between the training fields, crossing both of the boys' eyes. Soon, the figure of a man appeared.
"Haruno Daichi," he called, stony, experienced eyes looking down on the boy. He figured that the man was either an older Chuunin or a retired Jonin, working for the Hokage. He'd never seen him around before, though the headband with the Leaf's insignia and green vest were enough proof for him.
Daichi slowly loosened the muscles in his arms, straightened, and turned toward the man. "That'd be me, sir," he said, bending slightly at the waist. Without much thought, he glanced behind him. He noticed Jun rising up from the ground, shuffling back toward his tree. Chakra charged to his feet before he began practice on chakra control, running up the bark. Daichi turned back to the Chuunin, clearing his throat, "How can I help you?"
The man smiled fondly. "I didn't mean to interrupt," he apologized.
"Oh," Daichi mumbled. "We were just…training."
He nodded in return, understanding, for the most part. Daichi was glad for this, though he made a point to keep his bruised arm behind his back. No one trained with intent to truly harm his or her own teammate, at least on Lee-sensei's team. His head pounded at the thought of having to explain his episode to his sensei; though, he could imagine the way his legs would be throbbing after however-many laps he'd have to run around the village as punishment.
"Hokage-sama wants you to meet him in his office immediately. Your mother is already there. Would you like me to transport you there, or will you walk?" The man smiled shortly after, "Or, can you manage a transportation jutsu already, Haruno-san?"
Daichi smirked, "No, not quite yet, sir. I can walk, but, thanks for the offer."
The man nodded, preformed a few hand signs, and disappeared with a poof.
Just as soon as the messenger flew away with the wind, Daichi regretted his choice to walk to the Hokage Offices. His nausea had come back vigorously, just as the adrenaline of the previous moments left him. He gripped his stomach and covered his mouth, retching dryly before swallowing thickly.
"Ugh," he moaned, the distinct taste of sweet bananas coating his mouth. How disgusting.
The tension within Naruto's office was almost visible, almost tangible, almost, almost, almost, Sakura thought. She sat up straighter, kept her back against the back of the chair and her feet planted on the ground. Her heart pounded against her ribcage almost as hard as she could hear the thudding going on outside the grand office doors.
Was he fighting? What for, she wondered. Was he defending himself, or was he being mistreated, thrown against walls against his will? Or, no, were those just figments of her imagination of which she allowed to go on its on tangents? No, it couldn't be, she decided, the cold air conditioning making her shiver, and the goose bumps stand predominately. It couldn't be that. Naruto would never allow the treatment of prisoners—captured or not—to be treated so poorly before interrogation. Would he? Had all these years erased the well-known fact?
Uchiha Sasuke, missing nin, number one in the Bingo Books, was the Hokage's best friend.
And he was back in Konoha.
tbc