There was a chilly wind coming up the street, tearing leaves along with it. It pattered against the parked car's windshield, and Naruto, standing beside it, had to raise his hand, knocking leaves away out of his eyes.

When they were gone, it was still there; the quiet streets and houses and trees. Valehill County.

"Aren't we the quiet one," Iruka said quietly, lifting a box out of the car. He regarded the boy for a moment, and then looked at the old creaking house beyond the yard. "Looks like a nice place, doesn't it?"

Naruto shrugged. He went to the back of the station wagon, picked up a box and started up towards the house.

"Hey, wait," Iruka said, reaching for him. "You don't have to--"

Too late, Naruto was already heading up to the house. Iruka sighed. All of these boxes were his. Naruto's only possessions were in that backpack the kid wore. He didn't have to be carrying Iruka's pack-rat quirks all the way up that house's stairs.

Naruto pushed open the door, and it creaked open, dust billowing out. The house had obviously not seen anyone for quite some time, and it seemed almost dead, a house that had forgotten how to be a house. He walked in, dropped the box in the middle of the kitchen, straightened.

Oh, how quiet this life will be. Maybe. Iruka was in his mid-twenties, way too young to do what he was doing, harbouring an orphan in some town. It would be very different, though. Before, in the other foster homes, he began to get used to the concept of the cycle of abuse. The honeymoon period was always the best, when everyone was smiling.

Iruka was, of course, different. He had the training, he had the patience. Naruto had met others like him. Iruka didn't need for him to smile because he believed he would smile eventually. Why not? A smile for Iruka one day, nice little payment for this.

Dependent. Naruto hated the word. Just drop me off in a ditch somewhere; I'll get by. But no, this society was, of course, obsessed with giving everyone under eighteen a chance at life, and Iruka would do his best to give Naruto a chance.

"Right," Iruka said, appearing in the doorway, hefting a box. "Pizza tonight, a couple of movies, and then first day of school tomorrow. That sound good? Things not moving too fast?"

With Iruka, life moved by with the mute button on. Naruto never needed to rush, because Iruka would never get angry; it was the training he had. "No," he said. "Not too fast."

He clucked his tongue. Another highschool. Whoo.

Naruto's room would be in the attic above. Naruto has chosen it himself. Iruka was, again, in his mid-twenties, and Naruto would be damned if his presence would screw up his guardian's social life. Hidden in the attic, it'd be quiet enough for Iruka to have anyone over.

He set his backpack in the corner of the small room, and peered out the window. He was struck again by how huge the tree in the yard was, its branches nearly obscuring the light coming in. It was autumn, though, and the leaves were yellowing, turning orange. Through them he had a good view of the street.

Maybe I'll be safe here, he thought.

And outside the window, he saw him: a young boy, walking alone down the streets, dressed in black, dark hair swinging around his face.

Closed body language, Iruka, the trained social worker, would call that: hands in pocket, face down, the collar of the shirt obscuring his mouth. There was a boy who wasn't interested in social interaction.

"You want to make more friends?" Iruka had once said. "Keep your posture open -- look confident, and stay relaxed. Makes it easier to talk to people, makes it easier for people to talk to you."

Naruto liked talking to people. People around him just tended to die, that was all. There were the shadows following him, and there was his own violence, burbling inside. One of his foster parents had called him a monster. Naruto'd never hurt anyone though. Not badly, at least.

What to do with all that anger? Iruka said a good way was to either talk to him, or to a friend, or write it down. There were those who couldn't control it, of course. That girl in his old home had BPD, used to cut herself. Naruto could understand that: physical pain often obscured emotional pain in a big way.

Sometimes, however, Naruto didn't feel physical. He felt a lot like the shadows that pursued him, just a flat version of a human being. There was only him, after all, and few friends, if any, and that backpack in the corner of the room. He didn't leave marks like other people, didn't make imprints. Iruka would mark this house, he knew, would set down that old phonograph of his and put up his posters and put on his jazz music.

Naruto unclasped the lock on the window (a clasp? How old was this house?) and forced it open. "Hey! Hey you!"

The boy in black turned to regard him.

"What's your name?"

Hesitation: a pause, and then, quietly, "Sasuke. Why do you ask?"

"Just curiosity! I'm Naruto! I'm new in town!"

"Are you now? Well. Welcome, I guess."

"You want to hang out?"

"Not really."

Closed body language. An introvert of some degree. Iruka's jargon filled Naruto's head. God, he thought; I've spent too long in the hands of social workers. "Oh," he said. "Okay."

But even as Sasuke turned away, and Naruto closed the window, the boy's darks eyes were burned on Naruto's eyelids, like an afterimage. Introvert, Iruka's voice said in his head. Anti-social. He'll come around. Just have to be friendly. Friendly and open.

Making friends was something new to Naruto, but after all, this was a new life. He sat down, and opened his backpack.

Something out of the corner of his eye: a mirrored surface. He saw himself, and forming behind him, a shadowy figure.

Damn. Naruto grabs the mirror, forced open the window and hurled it out. It spun out, flickering, landed somewhere in the thicket.

They're here for me already, he thought, sitting down; goddamn it. They're here for me already.

"Naruto?" Iruka's voice called from the stairs. "What kind of pizza do you want?"