It was just another day.
Or at least that was what he told himself, that it should be no different than the last three-hundred and thirty-four days of the year. It should hurt no worse than yesterday, the day before, or the day before that.
The modern calendar was nothing more than an implement created by man to track time, a system of days and months that should not influence a man's inner being.
It was no more similar to that day than any other day of the year.
It wasn't the anniversary.
If the date had mattered anything to him, which it didn't, an anniversary was a celebration. There was nothing to celebrate, and there was nothing to mourn. He didn't care if 365 periods of 24 hours, of 60 minutes with 60 seconds each had passed since the day he inherited the blade of the White Fang.
It wasn't as if he had spent the last year of his life denied of sleep, of happiness, of anything but the overwhelming pain of loneliness.
It wasn't as if underneath the layers of paint and soap the scent of blood still clung to every corner of the house, and every corner of his mind.
It wasn't as if he cared.
It was just another day to him.
Without a mask to hide behind, he really was a terrible liar.
Wincing at his own visage reflected in the water trickling through his cupped palms, he hurriedly splashed it onto his face, imagining his memories draining down the sink, swirling down the drain.
His dark eyes closed, he felt a few drops of water trickle down his chin onto the mask bunched around his neck, an ever-present memory of his weakness.
It was there to keep his father's shame present in his young mind, and the rules of the shinobi unforgettable. He had no face, and therefore he had no emotions, and he would never make the same mistake that ruined his father, and ruined him.
I'm not mourning. I'm happy he killed himself. He was weak. I was weak as his son. Now I can be strong.
He caught his own tight face in the mirror and the thin mouth twisted into a grimace. He turned, wiping the last drops of water away with a towel before bringing the black fabric up from his neck, covering the bottom of his youthful face.
It was just another day.
Reassured by tight mask and the familiar weight of the tanto on his back, he left the bathroom and drifted into the hallway of the silent house.
The air seemed heavier than usual, pressing in on his small body from all sides. It seemed that each breath was a struggle for oxygen through the material covering his nose and mouth.
It was a tomb.
He could not hold back the relief he felt as he stepped out into the wet morning air. It was half-dark, the sun still sleeping beneath the horizon. He walked towards headquarters at a calculated pace, knowing by now exactly how long it would take to be exactly on time.
A shinobi does not take time lightly.
The water was silent in the early morning fog, barely moving beneath the bridge. He watched it for a moment, enjoying the feeling of being the only one awake.
Just as the sun was beginning to rise, the rosy colors gracing the horizon, a sigh behind him announced a precense he hadn't been able to detect.
"Kakashi. I told you there weren't any missions today." The eight-year-old turned, none of his disgust at being surprised visible beneath his mask.
"I'm ready for a mission, Sensei."
"They're giving us a day off for all your hard work."
"You mean they're giving me a day off." Kakashi replied flatly at his cheerful tone. People assumed that he would spend the day feeling sorry for himself like his father had once done. Even dead, his memory was hurting him.
"I'm not a child, I don't need special treatment. It's my duty as a chunnin to perform my village's missions."
A silence stretched between them, his dark eyes meeting blue defiantly, daring him to argue. He was not weak.
"I knew your father." Kakashi tensed instantly, choosing not to gratify the statement with a response.
"He was legendary for his skill and abilities but for the shinobi he worked with, he was loved for something else. He would put his life on the line for his comrades without a second thought and never lost a teammate. The White Fang was a hero."
Then why did he kill himself?
Not that he cared, of course."Kakashi, there are things more important than all the rules and shinobi laws. There's teamwork, honor, and love. Someday you'll understand it and then you can be truly strong."
He looked away, his thoughts unreadable beneath his mask while the future Yondiame watched his student with a pity that would have angered him.
Five years later, he watched as Rin stared up into the night sky a distance off with a feeling of remorse.
"I know what you meant. Obito showed me what strength was. I think now I can be truly strong."
The man beside him turned with a faint grin on his face, his blond hair swaying around his face.
"The White Fang of Konoha is reborn."
-------------------
A/N: A random and plotless drabble, I guess. It was written because I'm bored and sick. Bleh...