Disclaimer: I don't own scratch. Naruto will never belong to me.
A/N:
I wrote this one a while ago, and I've been meaning to finish it for the past few months, but then I just suck. I'm posting the first part – edited and halfway readable, hopefully – because I'm not sure when I'll finish this thing. Maybe, I never will, given how hard this was to write.
My original intention was to post this as an uber-long one-shot, but then I think it's better to leave this like this. Extended thanks goes to the people on my f-list who first commented on this, and didn't think it was utter crap. In spite of the fact that what I shared with them was an unedited travesty. This probably still needs some editing, since I epically fail at proofreading. To be honest, I'd like a beta for this (so if you're interested, please contact me?).
Reviews would be honestly love. I'll love you even more if you have intelligent criticism to offer.
----
The landscape was charred -- all coal black burning and wasting away in the scorching heat. Smoke invaded his nose, and the first tell-tale signs of tears were forming in his eyes. Soon, they'd be rolling down his face, but not out of pity, a feeling of loss – or God forbid – sadness. His throat didn't feel dry, and there was no tightening, constricting sensation of pain haunting him.
Indeed, it was simply the smoke – the ashes tossed up in the air, mingling with the other particles and becoming one with them. It was only this that made the water rise to his eyes, made the sight in front of him simmer. But he wasn't crying. God forbid, he wasn't going to cry.
No, he wasn't going to cry for them, was he?
They'd deserved it, after all. More than thoroughly after what they'd done to his brother – his entire family.
Sasuke's jaw hardened, and he inhaled deeply, drawing in the smoke-polluted air and feeling – for the longest time – peaceful.
No, this – this dragon come to life, oozing out his poisonous flames and turning everything to dust – wasn't his doing.
Sasuke continued to watch how his former home continued to roast and be engulfed, surrounded by the cricking-cracked-blackened splinters of trees that had been incinerated; he saw how the houses frizzled away in thousands, how everything – very quickly -- fell to dust in front of his very own eyes.
And none of it was his doing, though it could very well have been.
......
Konoha had burned down, and for a while no cicadas could be heard playing there. No music could be heard at all.
And yet, the scene of horror, the mortification over what had transpired and the loss ebbed away; it faded away into the background and the harp, though it was a little blackened and didn't play as clearly as it had before, picked up its old note again, and – once more – gave its tribute to the fireflies and cicadas. To fireflies because the very music was so light, so transient and fleeting it in its quality that it resembled the weak jets of glowing light. Brighter than a torch, but still weaker than the sun.
Yet, as the sound was crackling, chirruping and broken, it was also a tribute to cicadas (who would never play the same way again).
In the little towns, the harp played differently. There the sound was clear, unbroken and harmonious.
In one of those little towns, far away from the energetic bustle of enthusiastic merchants trying to lure customers in, the simple life had evolved quite sweetly, and cicadas could always be heard playing there. Even when Konoha had burned down. However, to be fair, they'd never heard of the tragedy.
Surrounded by lush-vibrant grass, high-growing oak trees, the town had always been sheltered and kept from invasion. The summers were moist, and the winters mild. The very folk who lived inside of that town were that as well: jovial and temperate, understanding and never too obtrusive.
Here everything worked under the "live and let be" motto.
In that quiescent little town, separated from the rest of the world by rolling hills and quietly flowing rivers, a little pub was situated. And in that little pub, in that pleasant little town set off to the tune of cicadas playing is where the story starts.
---
The smell of tobacco lingered everywhere; it hung suspended over the people sitting in the pub, was sipped in with every drink, and breathed in, and out by everyone and everything. It whizzed and flew around as a fly does around a pot of jam. Or a moth dances about a lantern.
In short, the pesky smoke was that persistent that it was impossible to escape, but no one wanted to escape it. Smoke meant safety, and safety was good. Like a mantle, a curtain draping, it veiled everyone and everything from the harsh whispers of the past, the cold and brooding darkness, and from their own conscience haunting them. All discomforts were washed away by the comforting warmth of liquor that was currently being pushed down the throats of devastated solace-seekers.
Evening had fallen. Out of an arch-shaped window, one could view how the sun, glittering in golden and yellowish streams, was slowly disappearing away into the horizon – farther and farther – and giving leave for dark-blue clouds to conquer the sky. It was only going to take a bit, and soon the sky would be covered in that indigo-blue, which would cloak the entire village in darkness.
Darkness was comforting. In the dark, you couldn't see the scars and blood -- a perfect situation for people who wished to hide or had something to hide. All was fair, and all was good – and what was best was that no one asked questions.
Here you and the others just merged into shapeless, slackened faces and the only history that counted was one you created at the moment.
Everything else played a subordinate role, was meaningless even, and either dissolved or intermingled with the tobacco-odour (becoming one hazy black-greyish puff of smoke).
There weren't many people in the pub, only some ten lone fellows. Ten fellows, who had nothing in common with each other apart from their waned looks, and bloodshot eyes. Still that was enough; in their waned-dissatisfied-tired-worn out look they were closer to each other than brothers, bonded to another by the merciless shackles of what most societies refer to as wasting time.
And yet, on that particular evening with the sun slowly sinking away and the wind – a strong breeze coming from the north – howling and knocking on the thin-framed arched windows, something was different.
Even the landlady, a well-shaped and voluptuous woman of fifty, noticed that something was amiss (and, mind you, she wasn't the type to get suspicious because to have been that would have cost her too many nerves. And, mind you again, she was intent to live until she hit the good old age of ninety-nine).
"Are you going to take some more, sir?" she asked good-naturedly, observing the newest addition to the ten lone fellows with ardent interest. Not even a fire-fighting lion could have absorbed her attention that much – and she'd seen her fair share of oddities, and peculiar characters.
A curious type, he was. Strong of build, with tanned skin and a mop of golden hair falling thickly into his face, she was forced to admit that he was quite stunning. So stunning, in fact, that the landlady blushed, in spite of herself.
What made him even odder was that he'd just ordered a pint of beer and, having swallowed it all down in one go, looked intent to leave again.
"No," he answered, and, flipping a coin, grinned after he'd thrown it onto her wide-spread palms. "That's enough. Quite enough."
"You sure?"
"Yes, quite sure," the young man – he couldn't have any older than twenty-five – replied assuredly, and taking out a crumpled cap out of his moth-eaten pockets, prepared himself for a journey. "Too much drink is bad for the brain. 'Sides, I need to save money."
After having said that, he placed the cap with obvious, ardent self-assurance on his blond head and, with loud, energetic steps, walked away from the inn, leaving its tobacco-infiltrated atmosphere behind. He would never be seen in that pub again.
The landlady sighed, and moved away from the table; she clasped her hands together, and loudly exclaimed:
"What a shame!"
"You looking after younger men now ?" a rough, but jovial-sounding voice called out and minutes later, a stout, and sturdy fellow of some sixty years came out of the kitchen. He wrapped his arms around the landlady's waist and twirled her over to his side, so she could look in his good-natured, and to her still handsome face, "I won't have you running off with young rascals, as long as I'm still alive!"
The landlady snorted, but then broke into a wide smile. "You old fool! What do I need a young one for if I have you?"
Her husband, as if incensed by her smile – pulled her even closer, marvelling that even though his wife had grown older, she hadn't lost a tiniest tint of her beauty. Perhaps, she was little rounder, her hair wasn't quite as dark as it had once been, and there were traces of fatigue on her face. And yet, her eyes were the same; they still sparkled with the same liveliness, and demure coquetry that had made him fall head over heel these thirty years ago (but who was counting?).
"And there's no one better than me."
There was a loud cough, and the landlady was snapped out of her girlish, fanciful reverie. One of the ten fellows, a grimy old man of seventy, had burst out laughing and was sending suggestive looks into the landlady's direction. She cringed.
"See what you did, you silly, silly man. Nearly made me lose face in front of the guests," she reprimanded her husband, but then smiled. "You really needn't be jealous, dear. Why, I could have been his mother! Hmm, and he was a strange one – that bo... young man."
"How so?" the man asked, though he knew exactly what his wife was talking about. But then again, he was too fond of her voice; it was always lyrical and sounded beautiful in his ears. Men, who are really in love, do listen to their wives.
"He smiled a lot, but ... I don't how to explain, there was a hollow look of devastation in his eyes. Like he'd been through hell and back."
"Ah, are... you surprised?" the man inquired, sitting down on a chair that was placed before the kitchen door. He sat there cross-legged, and pulled out a pipe from his shirt-pocket. With a mixture of understanding, annoyance and acquiescing tolerance, the wife watched his actions and sighed again. She'd never cure that old ruffian of his nasty pipe-smoking habits. After fifteen years of useless struggle, she'd given up.
"I guess you're right. Nowadays things aren't simple anymore," she said, and shrugged her plump shoulders," I really don't know what the world is coming to."
....
On that night the pale yellowish moon hung low in the sky, so low that you believed it would only take a few very energetic jumps to touch its stony surface, and yet still far away enough for it to appear like a shining spectacle in an otherwise dull night. Poets would have coined the term "glittering jewel adorning the heavenly sky", but the stranger didn't give a damn, really. For him it was just a moon -- plain and simple.
The strange stranger was seen walking down the well-kept and clean streets of the little town. Still, cicadas could be heard playing in the distance, and the moon was high up in the air, making the stony streets and wooden roofs glitter green in the cool night.
He coughed and shuddered. He'd forgotten – whether out of haste or respite against long-sleeved things – to put a jacket on. So, as a consequence, the hairs on his arms stood up, and the now increasingly harsh wind was bruising his cheeks. And he was trembling more than necessary.
He reached a little inn, which was a small, but tidy-looking little building. And the owner, who showed himself as soon as he'd heard a knock on the door, was tidy and small in appearance as well. He was balding, and his pink-coloured, cherub-sized face briefly reminded Naruto of a peach.
"How much do you charge for a night?" Naruto demanded gruffly, feeling that it was better to get to business at once. All this beating around a bush was something that repulsed and annoyed him.
"Not much. Please do come in sir," the owner replied pleasantly, far too pleasantly for Naruto's tastes. There had to some kind of foul business going on here. He really wasn't sure whether this was such a good idea, after all.
But a quick glance around the streets, and the cold that was beginning to amass around him washed away his doubts, or at least made him rather less picky than he'd usually have been.
Perhaps, the room was going to be awful... still, it was better than spending the night out, freezing and clattering your teeth, Naruto reasoned. That's why, without causing any further ado, Naruto shoved his doubts into a proverbial cupboard and accepted his room for what it was.
And you know what?
It wasn't that bad of a room at all.
....
The sky was a frightening red; the clouds gathered together in a maddening rush and the very air crackled with thundering, ominous potency. Still, no rain was falling. Instead, everything was burning.
He could see Sasuke, standing there and looking at the all-enveloping flames, circling and destroying what had once been his home. Sasuke looked perfectly apathetic.
Naruto's fist trembled, his entire body was convulsing. And he felt that numb sensation of nausea creeping over him.
"Why?" Naruto spat out, that accusing and bitter-like-black coffee word rolling out of his tongue like a single great wave, flooding everything in a single second.
Why did you allow this to happen? Why did you ever have to leave? Why, you stupid fucker, didn't you allow me to save you?
Why of all things are you here, right now?
"Naruto- Madara is dead. I killed him."
"So is Pain. I killed him myself," Naruto stated in a off-handed tone, as if he'd been talking about the weather. There was no hint of anything on his face; his features were hard and ruthless, and only the dried blood on his hands and red stains soaking his clothes were a visual evidence of what had transpired. His eyes were cold, colder than Sasuke had ever seen them before.
"This means-"
"This means everything's fine now," Naruto replied sarcastically, although this wasn't true. One look at the ruins, the burnt down village, and the smell of blood assaulting his nose was enough to assure Naruto that, no, nothing was fine. And that nothing ever would be.
He'd seen her die, and no matter what Naruto did – no matter how much he yelled, screamed and cursed the Gods – nothing would purge the memory of Sakura falling before his eyes. He'd never see her again.
And it was all, Sasuke's fault. All his damned fault. A thousand thoughts shot through Naruto's brain, each more piercing and furious in its intensity than the former. It made him shudder, made his heart beat in an irregular rhythm, and he felt like he was being torn in half, eaten up inside by some all-consuming grief.
"It's too late," Naruto interrupted harshly, his voice firm and strong, although he could feel himself broking inside (bit by bit, the way a clock slows down, then comes to a sudden jolt and stops ticking forever). "I won't ever forgive you for this, Sasuke."
Sasuke didn't respond: his verbal communication skills had come to a standstill. Even his face, that perfectly sculptured face, was nothing but a mask. A lifeless mask. Nothing would move him, it seemed. Even if the world came crashing on them, he'd never do more than flinch a muscle.
He was so disgusting. Sasuke wasn't worth half the fuss. And all this time, and all this damned fucking time -
I've been chasing after a useless dream.
Something inside of Naruto – whatever it was – broke. It didn't break loudly – not like the crunching sound of a clock being stepped upon, or the knick of a bone crushed in two. No, on the contrary, it was a silent and unassuming sound, which appeared and flashed away the way water comes running down out of a tap.
"I tried to keep cleaning up your mess for so long. I – fuck it. Words are wasted on you."
"This- "
"Isn't right. I hope you're happy now, Sasuke. Because that's what you wanted, wasn't it? If you kill me now, it would be picture perfect."
Sasuke didn't move, and Naruto understood. He'd never understood better. In fact, an entire series of epiphanies came crashing down his head in that single, horrible instance.
"You're just a coward, a hypocritical coward. Your brother Itachi -- he was a hero. You're nothing but a poor puppet who's being controlled by pitiful hatred."
And I'm a fool for not having realised this earlier.
Not waiting for Sasuke to respond, Naruto turned away; he walked away with his heart drumming, beating restlessly and his steps heavy, as if little monsters had attached himself to them.
Yet, nothing could have stopped Naruto, apart from one person, but that person didn't do anything. He just continued to watch, and he was watching so hard and fixedly that he could have burned a hole into Naruto's retreating figure.
But that didn't happen: the only thing that happened was that the very first tell-tale signs of regret were burning themselves into his heart.
A harsh breeze started to blow while Sasuke watched Naruto walking out of his life.
.....
Naruto gasped out in his sleep and he placed a shaking hand on his sweat-dampened forehead; he could sense that his entire body was soaked in cold sweat, and – what was worse – he was trembling like a leaf. He hadn't been in such a condition forever, or at least he couldn't consciously recall when he'd last felt like tearing his hair out, bit by bit.
This – this utter pain – mocking and taunting him was maddening. It was utterly maddening, and unbearable. He had to do something; anything that stopped him from experiencing that horrendous sensation again.
"Shit not good. I should have gone to a brothel," Naruto groaned out, and promptly got out of bed, not caring the slightest for the cold of the night.
Yes, he'd do that: he'd seek out a whorehouse for the night. He might have not done in ages – or say quite frankly, not often enough, but it seemed like a good idea to him now.
If you're feeling a little down and in need of being consoled, boy, there's nothing better than sweet wine and the company of a whore.
That, amongst many other lessons, had been something Jiraiya had taught him.
"It's been ages, I should have forgotten him."
....
The joining of two human bodies was always a sticky and wet transaction to him; he'd learnt to view it as he viewed eating or doing the laundry. Simply put, it was nothing special.
It's essentially an exchange of fluids, though it's been grossly over-romanticised over the past few decades, Naruto thought and shook his head.
He'd just finished rolling about in the hay with a nicely shaped, albeit a little foul-smelling woman. But she was good enough. Good enough to enjoy and toss away once the well had run dry, the milk was spoilt and ugly, ugly reality came a-knocking on the door again.
Yes, Naruto thought, flexing his aching arms, she was good enough.
Not too old, too young. Experienced enough, but not entirely tainted by the ghosts of her past. These – these ruined doll-ghosts – he detested more than anything; they only lay there – forlornly – while being debauched. No, he'd chosen this one because she was alive.
"You're quite a stud," the woman muttered, giggling a little. Naruto, who'd been engaged in looking out of the window, glanced up at her quickly. The moonlight enlightened her features and body, which she'd wrapped up in the white blankets.
Her flushed face and her sparkling green eyes, which looked impishly up at him, were rendered nearly beautiful at that single instant. For a single instant, Naruto allowed himself to recall another pair of green eyes, which years and years ago had looked up at him in the same manner (but with even more impishness lurking behind their depths). But, as quickly as the spark had appeared, it passed again, and burned away into nothing.
Naruto looked away, and shook his head.
"Don't say stupid things."
"No need to be shy," the prostitute insisted, and let her hands ran over Naruto's taut stomach muscles, liking how hard and rough his skin felt to her touch. Seeing that the man wasn't protesting, she let her hands –ever so cautiously, nearly shyly – wander to his face; that scarred, toned yet utterly beautiful face. When Naruto still didn't protest, she moved towards him, letting the blanket that had been shielding her body from the cold fall to her hips. Her fingers moved to touch his lips, and she licked her own lips suggestively, and Naruto was struck by how desirable she looked. Even if it was only for a sheer second.
But the image was shattered and broken once she opened her mouth.
"It's been so long that I've been allowed to spend the night with a young man," she whispered, and Naruto could nearly taste the fathomless longing and desire rolling off her tongue; the despair and desire to escape were so omnipresent that it made the bile come rising to his throat. Perhaps, this hadn't been such a good idea, after all.
Naruto hissed out; that – in his opinion, utterly unnecessary – gesture sizzled, scorched his skin and hurt, hurt worse than a hundred needles being pushed into his skin. He needed to escape. Get away before the pain grew enormous and swallowed him alive.
So, with a loud slap and another hiss, Naruto recoiled from her, and pushed the woman away.
"I'm no stud, okay? Here just take the money and leave me alone."
The woman stiffened abruptly and pulled the blanket over her body again, all the while shivering and trembling like a lost puppy wandering around in the rain. She bit her lips before speaking again.
"No, don't send me away yet. Please," the woman begged, her tone suddenly losing all the playfulness she had flaunted about earlier. All of a sudden, Naruto was painfully aware of the fact how young she was, how thin and frail she appeared to be, and – what was worse – how big and imploring her eyes were.
It made him feel sick, sicker than he'd felt in years.
Something inside of Naruto screamed, roared its lungs out at his conscience and caused him to tremble involuntarily. Now, he remembered exactly why he didn't do this too often. And why he'd resolved not do it again -- and, most important, why he'd never do it again. Ever.
"Alright. But don't try to touch me again," Naruto warned her, rising from his bed and, under the sombre gaze of the moon, hastily put on his clothes, which consisted of a white dull shirt, very worn out orange pants and a black cap. "You can stay here till I set out. That's all I can offer you."
The woman nodded, and submitted to his orders with perfect compliance. Naruto turned away from her, suddenly not being able to observe her anymore. Her eyes were too imploring, far too alive and earnest for someone who should have been dead inside.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, Naruto thought and punched his clenched fist against the window; a crack formed, but it didn't matter. It didn't matter a bit. The pain was fleeting; it definitely wouldn't kill him, and Naruto knew that it would be healed in a short while.
His physical scars always did. What a shame that his emotional scars never did.
On that night, Naruto decided that Jirayia's opinion on sex was pretty much shit and not much worth.
.......
A few months later, on a windy Autumn, Naruto returned to Konoha. Not with a bang, not with an accompanying concerto of crackling thunder and howling storms, but with the yellowed, nearly golden leaves of fall hovering over the air and the sweeping, cold gust of an approaching winter's breeze.
And he didn't come with that energetic rush, or the outburst of energetic, youthful vivacity that he'd been associated with before. Instead, he came in slowly, stealthily and the leaves gently moved in accord with his idle trailing.
It happened to him every now and then: a lark or some siren in possession of horrendous powers would pull -- practically drag-- him back to the place he loved (and hated) with mindless passion.
Empires are easily destroyed, and just as easily rebuilt. The same could be said for Konoha; it had risen from the dust, and now glowed and prospered more beautifully than ever before. Progress had become a big word now -- heard everywhere in the pubs, the inns and every other little corner of the town; it spread like a fire and changed everything in its wake. Everyone was eager to partake in the new technological development and hence, everyone and everything had seized the opportunity to change things.
At times, Naruto barely recognised his village anymore. It was his, but at the same time this sparkling, shining new place wasn't the same place he'd grown up in.
Yet, to the more astute and experienced connoisseur of observance, things were different, but also sadder and more lifeless. Yes, the buildings – now built a little higher and a bit more glorious – were polished, but also drab, lacklustre and dull in colour.
The people themselves, though dressed well and of healthy builds, were – upon closer inspection – lacking something. Something vital. They moved around like ghosts, unaware of what the present, the past and – most importantly – the future could bring.
They'd learn to hide the pain underneath a smile.
But the cicadas didn't sing when Naruto returned. No, the it was the stormy trashing of trees and whipping of leaves that he was greeted with.
One of the few edifices that had been rebuilt with respect to its former appearance were the Hokage Towers; it had not only been restored to its former glory, but had been saved from being modernised, like so many of the other buildings. It was one of the only buildings this side of town where you didn't have to pretend.
Naruto felt a stab of pain when he walked the few steps towards the office, haunted by a hundred conflicting thoughts and useless memories.
Too much happened here. Too much.
The ANBU guard let him pass, without even asking him for his intention or his ID. Everyone knew who Naruto was and, therefore, these formalities were nothing but a bothersome obstacle, so they'd been dropped altogether.
Similarly to the unchanged appearance of the building itself, the man bent over his papers hadn't changed a lot in the past ten years either. Even if the skies had come crushing upon them, Naruto doubted that this person would have ever changed – and this was comforting in a world that had twisted and turned its shape so much recently.
Though it was painful because it also reminded him of what things had been like once; once being that awful, powerful word that haunted him in his dreams and which he tried to escape in his non-sleeping moments.
"Kakashi," Naruto said as a way of greeting and, not waiting for any kind of acknowledgement, he sat down on the chair facing the Hokage who had been his teacher once.
"Naruto," Kakashi said, looking from his over-laden paperwork and his left eye twinkled, revealing that he was amused -- perhaps, even happy to see his former student sitting in front of him.
"I guess, I won't have the honour of being called Rokudaime by you?" he asked Naruto, half in jest, and half seriously. No one ever knew when Kakashi was being serious, and when not. To be truthful, he didn't know it anymore, either.
Naruto paused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully; he'd grown a stubble and Kakashi, finally truly seeing the man facing him for the first time, noticed how much more ragged, tired and broken Naruto looked. It shouldn't have surprised him; so and so many days had passed since Naruto had been that twelve-year-old child, but it still managed to shock the core out of him at times (when, oh, when, had Naruto grown up into that man?).
"Do you want to be called that?" Naruto inquired, searching the older man's face for a non-verbal answer.
"No, not by you. Not by you, Naruto."
Having said that, Kakashi let the white cloak slip from his shoulders and carefully hung it over his chair. He sat down and faced Naruto again, glad to have someone treat him like a normal person, instead of a leader.
"It's been a while."
"I know. I stayed longer, thinking that this would be better for the people. To help them and so," Naruto admitted in a nonchalant tone, and then grinned mischievously. "You know, I got tons of free ramen. And the women were hot too."
"I see," Kakashi noted and after that, both fell silent. It was the same nearly age-old dance they'd been practising for the past ten years. Both of them were pretending. Neither of them were really talking about what was truly important.
Naruto hated the silence. Way, way too unsettling. Plus, it reminded him of nasty things. So, he broke the silence.
"Did you get the copy I sent you?" he asked, grinning impishly. Kakashi, in spite of everything, had still not gotten over his porn obsession.
"Yes, I did," Kakashi answered, and then smiling, confessed," I think Jiraiya would have proud of you. In fact, you've become so much like him that it's scary."
Naruto tried not cringe at the mention of his mentor's name. And yet, he couldn't suppress the slight nostalgia arising within him.
"Well, he certainly encouraged me enough in that. He always dragged me to bathhouses or brothels. It's hardly surprising that some of his lifestyle has rubbed off on me," Naruto said, and then broke out into a laugh. Kakashi laughed back in return.
He'd missed the boy's laugh (because, damn, no one laughed the way Naruto did).
"Who would have expected that?" Kakashi then continued, drawing circles on the table with his fingers.
"Getting all melancholy now, are you? But then who would have expected that you'd end up being Rokudaime, of all people?"
"You do realise that -"
Naruto's eyes hardened.
"Don't talk about that, Kakashi. I'm not interested."
Kakashi laughed softly. "Strange, I still remember that twelve-year-old boy who'd talk about nothing else."
"That boy's dead. As far as I care, he died in that fire ten years ago," Naruto said hoarsely, not looking at Kakashi while he did so, trembling with a suppressed rage that he'd buried inside of him for too long. Had he been younger (and stupider) he'd have demolished a few buildings by now, but restraint had become a second name to Naruto. Besides, he just wasn't in the mood.
"Are you sure?" Kakashi tried again.
"Yes."
Naruto rose from the seat, feeling that this discussion was over and done with. He really didn't understand why they'd wasted any words on it at all. The well had run dry, the carriage had broken and the horse had run off a long time ago. And as such, there was no point in dreaming about things that could no longer be fulfilled.
"Naruto..."
"Yes?"
"You know, he's – Sasuke – he's been -"
A short exasperated breath followed was by a snort. Kakashi could very well perceive that this discussion – if it had ever been one, really – was not worth continuing. However, he wasn't willing to drop the subject entirely yet.
"You know-"
But Naruto interrupted him again. He was trembling from head to toe. In anger. Or despair. Kakashi couldn't tell.
"Come on Kakashi, stop that. I thought I told you not to mention that name in my presence ever again."
"Don't you think it's time that you finally just forgive and for-"
Naruto clenched his fist, and shook his head.
"I can't forgive nor can I forget, Kakashi. The old me -- that part of me that is now dead -- might have. But I can't. I just can't. Not now or ever."
With that, Naruto said "I gotta go" waved briefly and turned his back on Kakashi. He couldn't stay.
And yet, Kakashi thought, while he watched Naruto's figure lose itself into the shadows of a long hall, why is that you're still so troubled by it?
After all, if someone was truly dead, then there was no difficulty of him staying that way.
The doors closed behind Naruto, and Kakashi sighed, letting his gaze wander to the Hokage Mountains. They were the same as always, and yet Kakashi couldn't help thinking that the faces, which had once been proud and so full of grace, looked a little jaded and worn out. To him, they represented the same faces he met on the streets every day -- at least, the adult faces looked like that.
Ah, it has to be old age gaining control over me slowly, he thought with a snort. Oh well, it was unavoidable. Sooner or later, he'd end like one of those old men.
Like one of those sentimental old guys who go and on about "those were the days, my friend ...".
Kakashi thought that it was woefully ironical that he, of all people, had managed to survive his thirty-fifth birthday. It wasn't much. He wasn't an old man yet, and still, for a ninja, he was quite old. So much older than he'd ever wanted to be.
.....
In another part of the town, where the dead haunted the deserted, ghost-like streets and everything – even the dust-laden air itself – seemed to have come to a standstill, Sasuke Uchiha had just woken up. A bit later than usual, perhaps, but he'd spent the past two weeks on a stupid mission, escorting some old man to a town, which hadn't been a town at all. No, it had been a small, cherry tree ensconced village, and there had been nothing but trees, huts and a flowing river for the eyes to feast upon.
Pretty much boring, and a waste of time to boot.
And the only thing the man had needed protection from was himself, and his absent-mindedness. During the trip to that blasted village, Sasuke had had to ensure that a) the man didn't trip over his own feet, b), didn't end up being eaten up by some wolf, and c) make sure that nothing disquieted the old guy or he'd certainly have died of a heart attack.
Sasuke really did hate his life, at times. No, he didn't hate it sometimes, he hated it most of the time – the whole useless twenty four hours were a bane to his existence. If he could have worked his will and wished his existence away, Sasuke would have done so – then, all would be fine, and no one would bother him anymore.
Sometimes, Sasuke thought that Kakashi, who must have been feeling extremely bored being confined to an office all day long, was fond of torturing him with asinine missions. Whenever he complained, Kakashi's only retort was:
"It could be much worse. We could have had your sorry ass executed, you know?"
They hadn't had him executed, of course; they hadn't even stopped him from being a ninja, which wouldn't have awfully productive.
After Konoha had been left destroyed, they'd needed every willing hand to help rebuilt it and afterwards, they'd needed every single power to help keep it protected from possible invasion. So, Sasuke had remained a ninja.
And Kakashi often reminded that he'd already been punished enough. Sasuke couldn't help agreeing. He'd been punished enough.
More than enough.
Sasuke yawned loudly and rubbed his eyes, still not taking in the dim-light, which had invaded his sombre and darkish room. The wallpaper was peeling off, there were cobwebs hanging down from the ceiling and a stale smell of dust hovered over the place. However, Sasuke wasn't affected by this; all these aspects – as negative as they were – had grown on him like a second skin.
In the same unconcerned, nonchalant way, he put on his clothes. It was a simple jounin's outfit, which was worn and quite sorry-looking from years of usage. He should have bought a new one, but Sasuke didn't feel like replacing it.
Because no one bothered about it and, if no one bothered about it, Sasuke didn't feel like caring either. Then, to be honest, he'd never really cared – not about his appearance, anyway.
Sasuke realised that he was good-looking, beautiful even. A simple glance at the mirror told him that -- even if he was unkempt and his hair a little shaggier than necessary -- he still looked good.
After he'd finished putting on the awful vestiges of his clothes, Sasuke set out – walking through deserted streets and even more deserted houses. In the past, this had haunted him, had sent his heart beating wildly against his ribcage. It had broken him time and time again. He'd been attacked by images of what the streets had once looked like, and what he'd irretrievably, irreversibly lost.
But now it didn't matter anymore. Perhaps, because Sasuke had finally grasped the fact that mourning the dead would not bring them back.
There was another reason why Sasuke hated his life, and when he entered the full classroom with the creaking floor, he knew exactly why. He could then feel at least sixty pair of eyes staring up at him, and it disgusted him. And yes, he absolutely hated his life at that moment.
One of Kakashi's ingenious ideas had been to make Sasuke a teacher.
.....
TBC