A MinaKushi Fanfiction
"The Obvious and the Oblivious"
. . .
VI
He doesn't quite understand her.
She is confident and she is optimistic, rampantly defending herself, audaciously resorting to physical aggression whenever someone taunts her, mocks her. She is bold and she is boisterous, unafraid to voice her cutting remarks, to express her genuine opinions.
Yet, a single biting commentary about her hair and her composure crumbles. She bites her quivering lips, crosses her trembling limbs, blink her moistening eyes. She hides behind her deceitful façade, but he notices. He notices her and he doesn't quite understand.
Her smile is beautiful
Her hair is beautiful
She is beautiful
So why does she hide? Why does she believe the blasphemy, disregard the praise?
He finds it endearingly amusing, whenever her temper flares and her face flushes the same hue as her vibrant hair. She may hate the iridescence of her long locks, but he's captivated every time the wind blows—sharp, unhurried, tender. And her hair dances along, hovering above her shoulders, exposing her slender neck, her lips contorting into a sneer as she tries to tame her wild hair.
And he thinks: the colour has never looked as good on anyone else.
VII
Her self-introduction on her first day is a permanent fixture in his memories.
Standing in the center of his old, empty classroom, he grins and closes his eyes. He lets the vivid memory wash over him, engulf him until he is sitting in his old seat beside his trusted friend. Until she is standing on the small podium in front of his class.
And he relives it.
There is just something about the way she is holding herself that has seized his attention. Her arms are behind her, her jaws firm, her chin held high, but the slight movement of her shoulders and the minuscule shuffling of her feet betrays her. She seems hesitant and confused and lost—then her outburst, obnoxious and unexpectedly loud, catches him off-guard.
There goes that shy girl.
Murmurs break out, criticizing her supposedly insanely wishful dream and her blazing hair; no one notices her gnaw her bottom lip, her fingers brushing her silky tresses forwards to curtain her face from their scrutinizing gazes
But he does.
He notices and he wants to rid her of her embarrassment.
Unconsciously, he finds himself standing up, hears himself voice their shared dream. They could be friends, he thinks. She would appreciate it, he thinks. He thinks a lot of different possibilities, each optimistic, none pessimistic. So when her eyes flare, he is unprepared and he is confused.
He observes daily, witnesses them constantly belittle her competence, her individuality; watches those clueless kids recoil and scatter when her patience bursts and she reclaims her dignity. The first few times, he tries intervening, but he quickly learns to keep the distance, to avoid her line of fire.
Besides, she is more than capable of protecting herself.
He opens his eyes and he is back to the present, back in the old empty classroom with a frown marring his face, an issue disturbing his thoughts. Everyone always chastises her for being rebellious, for being brash, yet no one questions her, no one approaches her, no one attempts to learn her. To them, she is unpredictable, she is disagreeable and she is volatile.
He knows better.
He knows, deep inside, she keeps the anguish hidden and that shy girl he has caught glimpses of tucked away. And he thinks to himself, she shouldn't have to.
It confuses him why she does.
It confuses him why he cares.
VIII
She sees him as a means to get stronger; a challenge she stubbornly wants to overcome, to win. She makes him question his abilities, second guess his actions, doubt his knowledge. So much so, he entertains the thought of her being a close advisor when he one day becomes Hokage. After all, she shows him the worst of his best.
Yet, she always keeps him at a distance
More often than not, she disregards his existence in the presence of others. She is always prepared with a nasty jibe or a sarcastic remark, constantly laughing at him rather than with him.
So when she confesses, he's baffled and wary and giddy.
.
.
.
They are laying side-by-side under the shade of the usual tree, arms splayed, chests heaving and sweat trickling down their too-warm-skin from their too-intense-battle. Suddenly feeling euphoric and victorious, she laughs out loud, struggling to keep her breaths even.
"I beat you baka."
"I know." She hears his elation ringing in his voice and she knows, without seeing, that he is grinning as widely as she is.
"I'm stronger than you now."
"I know."
"I'm amazing."
"I know."
"I like you."
"I kno— what?"
And she gasps. Horrorstruck, she sits up, whirling around to face him. She sees his stunned expression and scrambles to her feet. Between them both, she does not know who is more surprised. She is not waiting to find out.
So she runs away.
He yells her name and she quickens her pace. She knows, without seeing, that he is running after her.
She hears his frantic footsteps as she dashes out of the training grounds into the crowded village. Blood pounding in her ears, she dodges stalls, pushes past people, stumbling over their feet and ignoring their defiant cries. Her limbs still ache from training, but she does not stop. She keeps on running, keeps on dodging, keeps on pushing. When she felt it safe enough, she skids around a corner and ambles through the back alleys, expertly using their natural darkness to conceal her presence.
This is not the first time she's been an embarrassment to herself. She has always faced them head on, laughing off most and brushing off the rest; but this?
This is an embarrassment she is not willing to face.
IX
How hard can it be to find one girl in an overpopulated village?
With his up-par shinobi skills, it should not be that difficult.
So Minato searches for her, jumping from roof to roof, ransacking every public area, scouring every shinobi-only access buildings. He combs through each back alley, upturns all corners blanketed by darkness. He asks her sensei, her teammates, and every other friend and acquaintance he passes by if anyone has seen her (no one has).
Then he does it again.
And repeats for a third time.
But he doesn't find her.
Releasing a frustrated cry, he ruffles his hair aggressively before pulling at them in hopes of relieving some of his irritation. How can a girl with such large reserves of chakra be this hard to detect? And here people thought Kushina would be of no use in espionage missions, not with her boisterous demeanor and impulsive behavior. He is sure there is irony in there somewhere.
He calms himself, digging his nails into his palm as he takes a deep breath. Turning on his heel, he launches himself onto the closest roof, fully intent on going another round around the village. And he questions himself. He questions why he is doing what he is doing, questions what he is feeling. Does he like her? Does he not like her? Or worse yet, does he pity her?
What is he going to do once he finds her?
Questions. Tens and hundreds of questions rolling and churning and racing in his overcrowded thoughts. It leaves him restless and apprehensive, his brows furrowing and his teeth abusing his lower lip. The corrugated roofs clang under his weight as he runs across them, glancing at the street below, searching for signs of Kushina.
Pass the market district, through the park, around the training grounds and the bordering forest (waste of time). He searches for her in her empty house, in the Haruno household, as well as both the Hyuuga and Uchiha compounds, raiding her sensei's bachelor apartment in between (no luck). He probes around Ichiraku, the dango stand and that tiny, inconspicuous pub between the weapons shop and the matchmaker's house she has a weird attachment to (evidently, she is not hungry). He tries searching the academy, the public library, the hospital, the shrine, the Hokage tower—even the cemetery!
She is nowhere.
Nowhere.
How… aggravating.
A flash of yellow, a glimpse of red and his head whips towards it. His neck strains, angling awkwardly in his desperation to catch sight of her in the midst of the swarming crowd, and he halts.
There she is.
X
"Kushina," he croaks, His voice sounds hoarse and unused and far too faint to be heard over the commotion around them. He knows it is just nerves overwhelming him.
Hurriedly, he jumps down from the roof and onto the gravel pathway, staggering and carelessly stumbling into people. Catching his footing, his gaze immediately latches onto her figure strolling ahead of him, but his elation, his relief at finally finding her lives short.
There, walking alongside her, is a boy he has never seen before.
"Kushina." This time, his voice is louder, firmer, more in control. A few heads turn towards him, but none of them the one he wants to see.
Pushing past the dense crowd, he hurries after her. He calls out to her, but she doesn't hear him. He watches her laugh at what the boy beside her says, her laughter melodious, easily echoing down the street, resounding in his ears. He watches her gaze at the boy with admiring eyes, her brows slightly furrowed, her lips tilted at the corners, soft and effortlessly noticeable.
He watches her stroll further and further away from him, another boy at her side, her red locks swaying with every step she takes, beaconing him towards her.
"Kushina!" he yells, his voice loud enough to startle the people near him.
When her back stiffens and her jaw clenches, he knows she has heard him. As he closes in on her and her companion, he notices that vibrant pair of violets dart towards him. Her eyes sought him out, so he smiles, his lips curving on reflex when their eyes meet. Now that she is aware of his presence, he thinks and he hopes they could finally talk, finally clear the air, lay their feelings out in the open. But he hopes too much, too soon and it doesn't even take a second; she snubs him.
She doesn't turn back.
She doesn't stop to wait.
She walks on.
Without thought, chakra accumulates around the soles of his feet and he launches onto the roof once more. He takes quick, sizable leaps in need of closing the distance between them. As he does so, he wonders why didn't do so before, or even just jump down right in front of her right from the start.
He chides himself for his idiocy.
He drops down in front of her, his knees bending on impact. She doesn't give him a moment to straighten himself, to speak, to think. She lets her emotions drown her and her instincts take over. Her hands clasp onto the back of his neck, pulling him forwards, and her lips graze his lips.
She tries to contemplate the moment he manages to crack open her walls, manages to creep on the other side, stubbornly refusing to turn back and walk away. She deliberates how she wants—needs to stay away, to gather her thoughts, to liberate the disorienting feelings his smile, his kindness, his courage arouses in her. She thinks of her frustration when she realizes it was futile; he has buried himself deep and he is refusing to climb out.
So she immerses all her turmoil and fury and thrill in the kiss, increasing the pressure, letting the moment consume her, dominate her thoughts. She cannot hear beyond the heavy beat of her heart, but there's a notion niggling past the buzz. There's a voice inside her head, warning her, screaming how wrong this all is. And the haze lifts slowly, gradually. But, the gravity of her action finally hits her hard, fast. It horrifies her, further crippling her already ragged breathing.
There's no more turning back now.
She pulls away.
And she runs.
Again.
.
.
.
His fingers brush over his lips, soft and feather-light, barely touching, unlike the way she has kissed him.
His thoughts are muddled, confusing and frenzied. His mind keeps repeating the image of her taking him by surprise, pulling him closer, mashing her lips with his. It keeps playing over and over and over like broken video record on loop. His neck still tingles with the sensation of her cold fingers and he can still feel the warmth of her body so close to his. The bewilderment, the gaiety, the exhilaration that had taken over him still surges through his veins like the blood that sustains him.
In his preoccupation, he seems to disregard the presence of the boy standing beside him. It is the same boy who, just moments ago, has walked alongside the girl who causes him so much turmoil, making her laugh, making her look at him with eyes of a charmed girl.
Minato doesn't know what to think of that.
Now that he is close enough, Minato can see how she might be attracted to the boy. He is tall—taller than him, and his features are sharp. He has a strong jaw, a sharp nose and eyes the colour of raging storm. The all-knowing roguish grin stretching across his face is enough to make any girl fall.
"Are you not going after her?" the boy asks, bringing him out of his stupor. Minato just nods, his heavy tongue withholding any words he wanted to say.
And he takes off.
If Kushina thinks she can get away with what she has done, she is wrong. He is going to find her, catch her, and he won't be letting her go.
Not anymore.
He's been clueless of his own feelings for too long.
I purposefully left 'the other boy' unidentified. Maybe he was a friend or maybe he was a stranger Kushina just met. Maybe he was a client she was supposed to be escorting. Who really knows? Life is full of mysteries and this is one of them ;)