"In a perfect world, shinobi would not exist. Would they?"
He slumped over his modest desk, still uniformed, hiding behind the mask. These were the moments he wished he could avoid. The sheer disjunction of his bloodied hands and the reflection he faced through this piece of paper chilled his very bones. There was something so mortifying about enlightenment and the reminder of which was carved in his memory. His father's morose face.
His personal tragedy began the very second Obito died. Not his father. Uchiha Obito, that was his moment of enlightenment. He was far too young and he wished he had not understood it but he did. He understood and closure was within his reach. Closure was always within reach. He had to will it away. He did not want closure, that would give meaning to this mayhem.
There was never, and there will never be any meaning in death.
There is always meaning in life however.
That was the naked truth in all its menacing grandiosity.
Kakashi was silent as he dragged himself to his miniscule shower where the door would open only halfway before it hit the sink on the opposite wall. Where the bathtub could almost, and only almost, fit his lithe, durable body lying in a foetal position as the shower washed away the blood. The red rivulets mixed with some salt. He must have been there ten minutes before he stood up and began scrubbing his skin till it stung.
He would normally begin writing his mission report the moment he entered his house so that he could give an accurate account, he told himself, even though the Sharingan never forgets. Today he indulged himself and prepared tea. He lounged on his hard couch with the unaddressed letter, and sipped gently as he read, like it was the most addictive piece of literature he had ever laid hands on. That would not be far from the truth.
Someone had been writing to him for over a year. And he knew who it was, there were very few people who could understand his pain the way this person did.
If he compiled all the letters, he had the world's greatest book on "modern philosophy." Perhaps the only reason he had not done so was the intimate nature of these letters. They felt so personal to Kakashi, sacred even. Meant only for his eyes. They stripped him naked and caressed the scars that light could never see. The other reason was the sheer selfishness that act would mean.
What right did he have to unleash the bitter truth to the world? What right did he have to take away the oblivion that guaranteed pleasure?
The writer was selfish, for he validated Kakashi's own musings of life and its meanings. And Kakashi was very sure there was some ulterior motive to this correspondence than just offering a deplorable shinobi validation. No, the world was not that generous.
"In a …. perfect world," he muttered.
He closed his eyes and tried to think. What would he be in a perfect world? The first answer his brain gave him was shinobi. But in a perfect world, shinobi would not be there. His "pen-pal" had said so. Then, what would become of him?
Farmer.
Kakashi scoffed at that. He was named the scarecrow and that was all he could ever do in a farm. It was not his calling. The farming died with his father. He did not see himself going back to the farm for keeping traditions alive.
He felt angry. He was supposed to be a tool for Konoha. It was very straightforward. Once the letters began, he was …. free.
He was a tool for killing. Nothing less, nothing more.
Kakashi went to his desk with more surety than he had ever felt and wrote his letter. Fifteen minutes later, he was kneeling in front of the Hokage.
"I am glad you made the decision of your volition," Hokage was smiling as he came around the imposing oak desk which contrasted his weak form. "Your friends have been very concerned, Hatake-san."
Kakashi was quiet. This was a turning point for him, it meant a lot. Once he gathered enough courage, he met the Hokage's stern eyes which pierced through him.
"How can I help you Kakashi?", Hokage asked, puffing away little swirls of smoke.
"I want to be a Tokubetsu-jonin," Kakashi informed, perfectly prepared to be rejected.
"Alright," Hokage said without a second's thought. He was already moving to his desk and sifting through papers.
If Kakashi was surprised he did not show it. He only bowed lower in gratitude.
Later at his apartment, he stood staring at the shoebox which had all the letters, the latest one at the top. He should have burned these letters. He should never have read them. He should have reported it. He chose this.
"In a perfect world,"
…. he would be a teacher. An incompetent, pathetic one. But he felt he would be happy in that world. Rin would have liked it.
He had to burn them. He did not know how these letters reached him without interception, but a small part of him was happy he got them. A moment later, a pile of ash replaced the shoebox. It hurt like it hurt when he threw away Pakkun's shredded blanket for a new one. It hurt like it hurt when he broke his Tanto. He sighed and grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled on it.
"In a perfect world, I would be a teacher.
In a perfect world, you would be a brother."
After a moment's hesitation, he added an "Arigatou" in the end. He did not know if Itachi would get his reply, he had never answered the letters. He put his letter in his mailbox, the same where he had found Itachi's letters.
He chose closure. He chose closure because this time there would be meaning to his life as a tool. Like Pakkun's blanket, not like the Tanto. The broken Tanto that was still buried somewhere in his closet.