Title: White Intentions
Author: Pickled Death
Genre: Angst
Rating: PG-13
Summary: one-shot; one-sided Mizuki x Iruka; there's a time and place
for showing people you care.
Author's Notes: The plot bunny made me do it, I swear.
If Mizuki wasn't so…you know…not-there anymore, he would be a lovely plot
device.
MIZUKI: (aims a shuriken at the author)
Um…! I mock because I love!
On a side note, is Mizuki-kun actually dead? Because. You know. If he was
alive, then I could—plot device—and—erm—(eyeing shuriken warily) right…
Pre- and post- chapter one, volume one. Early.
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"There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness." Friedrich Nietzsche
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The night before, he has an evil plan.
The night before, he sits up in bed, for once arranging rather than dreaming. Sketches and diagrams and skits lay in crumpled heaps at the foot of his desk until he finally decides to resort to improvisation because he damn well can.
But…
The morning before, he awakens slowly, languidly from a dream that as of late has become more of a plague than a passing fantasy.
The morning before, he sits up and climbs out of bed. Climbs out of sheets lightly saturated with more than sweat. Stumbles clumsily (so unlike a ninja of his caliber) out of bed, into the shower. Turns the tap on and ignores the way ice-cold water makes his skin crawl, focuses on not the whats but the whys and thinks.
The morning before follows routine. He arrives at the academy. Somehow manages not to make a fool of himself with easygoing words and a laidback tone, even as the object of his "passing fantasy" sits beside him, so innocently unaware. Like waltzing into a den of wolves, really.
The morning before, he says a joke.
The morning before, Iruka laughs and tells him he's crazy.
The morning before, he smiles wryly and says, in the deadest tone, that he knows.
The morning before, he is ashamed.
Iruka can see it—he sees through him and into him so easily that it fascinates him and intrigues him and makes him wonder. Iruka cannot possibly fathom why; it's merely a part of his naïveté. Iruka wonders but does not understand. And so, Iruka asks, and is hurt and confused when he does not respond—and gods, he hates it when Iruka is hurt or confused.
The night before, he idly notes that the sky is black. Black like…Iruka's hair. Soft. Nice. Black. Could spend hours threading his fingers through it. Would probably never find a tangle or a knot.
Except maybe on Mondays. Iruka's punctuality tends to fail on Mondays. Iruka looks disheveled on Mondays. Most amusing, if not disturbing. Iruka hates Mondays.
The sky is black. Most unlike his intentions. His intentions are pure and good and white and, hell, the entire village will thank him for ridding the world of that menace. That demon. That boy. Or, how Iruka says out of sheer good will, Uzumaki Naruto.
If not for Iruka, then no one, aside from the Hokage, would utilize Naruto's name in place of a good derogatory term.
He chastises himself for dawdling off-track.
The night before, he has an evil plan.
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The day has come and the day has gone.
He awaits retribution in the darkness. Seethes quietly.
Still dreams, in spite of everything. In spite of the fact that Iruka thinks him lower than dirt. In spite of the fact Iruka, somewhere, is lying awake, hurt and confused and betrayed.
He still dreams, you know. Dreams of threading his fingers through black hair. Playing his fingers along a scar that isn't his. And dreams some more.
There's a time and place for showing people you care.
He tries.
He hasn't found it yet.
