Once again, I have been
bitten by the KakaAnko bug. Hard. Hehehe. Hope y'all enjoy!
-Oh, and. There is a bit of
speculation going on in this piece (you'll know it when you get there), so just
remember, it is a crack theory. It has not been proven, kay?
Laid to Rest
It had been
a while since he last visited this place.
Feet crunching over dried,
dead leaves, hands stuffed in his pockets, his dog, Chief, sticking close to
his side, Kakashi swept his eyes—he refused to cover the Sharingan here—over
his surroundings, marveling at how little they had changed. Perhaps the trees,
the brush, the air, knew that he would return, and preserved this memory for
him, this feeling.
And yet…it was different,
somehow. He had come here twice as a boy, once to bury his father, once to bury
his mother, grieving them both. Now, rather than being dragged down by despair,
he was calm, calmer than he would have expected on the anniversary of his
father’s passing.
“I think I’m gonna take
tomorrow off,” he’d told Asuma while they loafed in the lounge at the Hokage
compound. “Housekeeping and all that shit, you know. I’m behind.”
Lighting a cigarette, his
friend gave him a sidelong glance. “Housekeeping,” he repeated, the tone of his
voice cynical.
Kakashi returned the
glance, shifting his ANBU mask back and forth between his hands. “Don’t make
that face at me,” he said impishly. “I might actually start to believe you care.”
Asuma took a drag on the
cigarette and blew a stream of smoke out the corner of his mouth. “Dumbass.” He
shook his head, scratched almost lethargically at the new growth of stubble on
his chin. “Want company when you go?”
The silver haired man
quirked a brow, then chuckled. He’d underestimated his friend’s shrewdness. “Naw.
I’m bringing Chief.”
“The dog.”
“Yeah.”
Asuma immediately stopped
scratching. “So…the dog gives better moral support than the human?”
Kakashi shot him a pointed
look. “Chief’s cute and cuddly. You’re not.”
Snorting, Asuma said,
“Ouch.”
With a grunt, Kakashi stood
up, and clapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks for the offer, though, buddy. I
appreciate it.” As he was shuffling toward the door, Asuma called out to him.
“Kakashi.”
He turned. “Mm?”
“Say hello to them for me.”
Momentarily thunderstruck,
he blinked, and put his mask on. “I will.”
The next morning had dawned
bright and beautiful, rays of sunlight seeping through the thick blinds that
covered his bedroom window. Hatake Sakumo took his life on a day such as this,
not a single cloud in the sky, not a hint of bleak, black melancholy, and
Kakashi knew he picked the right time to pay respects at the graves. He would
have done it sooner—it was never his intention to wait seven years—but
something always made him hesitate. Not yet, he’d tell himself, not yet. You
aren’t ready. You’re still too raw.
But standing out here with
the dead leaves and the solemn trees and Chief, he was at peace, the voice of
doubt stilled, silenced. He was meant to come, to be cleansed, to finally let
go.
Chief whined, tail thumping
against Kakashi’s leg. Ahead of them, two plain white markers jutted from the
ground like hedgehog spines, sturdy and strong, held fast by the earth.
He interred them behind his
father’s beloved fields near the outskirts of Konoha, where Sakumo harvested
his renowned wheat each year. Kakashi’s abandoned childhood home had since
fallen into disrepair, the fields turned to husks, the family’s small, tidy
house a ramshackle skeleton, but the woods flanking the property seemed to have
remained as whole as they were when he left them.
“Well…this is it,” Kakashi
said to Chief, and, resigned, strode forward, the dog following. Once he
reached the markers, he paused to take them in, and sank to his knees, leaves
crackling under his weight. As is the nature of dogs, Chief sniffed the air
around the graves, sharp nose alert, before he settled next to his master.
Kakashi barely noticed.
Lost in thought, his eyes stared without seeing, because they were looking
back, into the past…remembering…
---
“Sakumo, for God’s sake, do
you have to smother him?” Hatake Yuriko, hands on hips, examined her
husband critically, a slight twitch in her left brow. She had been in the
middle of mending a section of her spiked whip at the kitchen table, Kakashi
playing with a few blunted kunai on the floor, when he came home and the
theatrics started. “Honestly…the poor kid’s going to be scarred for life
at this rate.”
Sakumo waved his free hand
in a dismissive gesture. “Relax. He’s fine, aren’t you, Kakashi?”
The toddler, clutched tightly
in his father’s arms, made an ‘mmph’ noise, which Sakumo translated as ‘Yes,
dad, I’m perfect!’
“See?” He said, exuding the
aura that many—irrationally—proud parents do when their offspring delight them.
Sakumo was prouder than most parents, however, a fact that his son had learned
early. Nary a day went by without at least seven or eight exuberant hugs—the
boy usually wound up airborne at some point—endless streams of commentary on
Kakashi’s apparel (“Bitty overalls!”) or expressions (“He smirked, I’m
serious!”) or progress (“Nailed that target on the oak. Nailed it!”), and
numerous insistences that no, Sakumo was not royally tampering with the
future of his child’s mental stability, so quit nagging, please.
But Yuriko did nag.
Often. It was her job to nag. She and Sakumo wouldn’t have gotten
anywhere in their relationship if she hadn’t nagged. Although, to be fair, he
was responsible for attracting her interest to begin with—you only met a kisser
of his caliber when the chips were stacked in your favor.
“Sakumo—”
Her husband was too busy
coddling their son to pay her any heed.
“You…are…so…cute!”
He exclaimed, and covered the boy’s cheeks in kisses while Kakashi stared
forlornly at his giggling mother.
“At least he’ll know he’s
loved,” Yuriko conceded, and went back to her whip, mourning the absence of a
camera.
---
“Whew!” Sakumo wiped the
back of his hand across his forehead and shook it, scattering drops of sweat. The
unyielding sun beat down upon him, browning his exposed skin. His sleeves were
tied up, the cuffs of his pants rolled to the knee, his long silver hair
secured at the nape of his neck. Leaning on the handle of his spade, he
surveyed the field, eyes bright. He’d bring in a good crop for certain.
“Oy, shortshit.”
“Eh?” Sakumo peered over
his shoulder.
The source of the voice
grinned wolfishly. “Yo.”
Sakumo did a double take. “Jiraiya?”
“Who else?” The big man
crossed his arms and lifted an expectant eyebrow. “I figured my illustrious
presence would warrant more of a welcome than this, though.”
Laughing, Sakumo released
the spade and embraced his brother, both slapping each other on the back. “How’ve
you been?”
“Better than I was.”
Jiraiya thumbed the side of his nose. “Got into a scuffle with some Rock
bandits. My leg was all sliced up, took about a week to heal.”
Sakumo winced. In their
profession, injuries were common, even expected. Rarely did an active ninja
manage to carry out his missions without earning scars. “Still doing ‘research’
for those silly books of yours?” He wondered, changing the subject.
Jiraiya assumed a lofty
air. “Ah, you say that now, little brother. Just wait. Those ‘silly books’ are
gonna make millions, and then you’ll wish you possessed a mind as astute as
mine.”
“Astute.” Sakumo blew at a
stray piece of bang. “More like ‘perverted’ if you ask me.”
“And I didn’t,” Jiraiya
retorted, trapping his brother’s head in the crook of his arm and digging his
fist against his crown.
After a brief struggle,
Sakumo extracted himself from Jiraiya’s hold, hair mussed all about his face,
cheeks rosy. He looked no older than seventeen in that moment, young and hale
and happy, his mirth seeming to spring directly from his core as he
traded banter with his wayward sibling on a variety of topics, from their
mother to the harvest to Jiraiya’s love affairs or lack thereof.
A four-year-old Kakashi,
sent by Yuriko to fetch his father for dinner, would keep that image of him in
his heart, would cling to it when his sorrow threatened to overwhelm him, when
resentment, a vile, nasty beast, latched onto him like a vice. This was
the father he venerated beyond all measure, the father who balanced the world
on his palm and smiled down at it, the father who was so alive he spread his
essence to everyone around him.
This was the father who
would never die.
Quite suddenly, Kakashi was
filled with the urge to run. “Daddy!” He cried, plowing determinedly through
the wheat.
The conversation ceased as
Sakumo, hearing his son, crouched, arms outstretched. “Hey kiddo!” He called
back, and caught the boy up in a fierce hug when he crashed into him. “Your
uncle’s here. Exciting, huh?” He straightened, supporting Kakashi on his hip.
“Damn,” Jiraiya whistled.
“He’s your clone.”
Kakashi studied his uncle
curiously. “Hi,” he said. It had been a year since he’d seen the man, and he
was trying to reacquaint himself with his recollections of him. Thankfully,
Jiraiya’s appearance was the same—long, unruly silver hair, just like Sakumo’s;
mischievous eyes set above red, pennant-shaped tattoos; broad mouth prone to
leering. He wore his commoner’s clothes like he was born in them, a powder
blue, sleeveless tunic loosely belted at the waist, khaki cut-off breeches, and
simple wooden thong sandals, canvas pack—containing his notebooks—strapped to
his back. Kakashi’s lips quirked. Ma always had a lot to say about Jiraiya’s
notebooks, and none of it was praise.
“’Lo there, squirt,”
Jiraiya replied cheerfully, and tweaked Kakashi’s nose. He directed an arch
look at his brother. “I’m starved. Got any grub for a poor, decrepit wanderer?”
“Ma made dinner,” Kakashi
said promptly. “It smelled good.”
“I’ll bet,” Sakumo said. “We
should hurry, then, or it’ll get cold.”
“Fabulous.” Jiraiya rubbed
his hands together, expression euphoric. “I love Yuriko’s cooking.”
“Be sure to tell her that,”
his brother advised. “If you’re lucky, she won’t punt you out as soon as you
step foot inside the house.”
“Me?” Jiraiya said,
mock indignant. “Why would anyone want to do such a thing?”
They argued the entire trip
home, but Kakashi didn’t mind. He was content to listen to them.
---
“Had enough, boy?”
Sakumo’s face, normally so
open, was drawn, hard, and his bright eyes flashed. He glared at his son, who
lay sprawled on his stomach in the grass, panting.
“Ready to give up?”
“Like…hell…” came Kakashi’s
muffled voice. With visible effort, abused muscles trembling, he used his arms
to lift his torso from the ground. At one point he nearly buckled, but by sheer
force of will, he remained aloft long enough to get his legs under him, rising
ponderously to his feet. “I’m not finished yet,” he growled, swiping at a
trickle of blood by his mouth. Though his body protested, he assumed a guard
stance and beckoned to his father.
Sakumo did not move. “Is
this wise?” He said, a hint of ridicule in his tone. “You scarcely have the
strength to stand, let alone defend yourself. Admit it.”
Kakashi closed his eyes,
breathing evenly. Never lose your head, his father had told him, because
that’s what the enemy wants. He’ll taunt you, dash holes in your pride, but you
can’t take the bait. Allow his words to pass through you, and focus. So he
focused, cleared his mind. He knew his limits, and if he was swift, vigilant,
precise, he could last another five minutes at most. Better make them count.
“Come,” he said, beckoning again.
It was only then that his
father grinned. “As you wish.”
The fight was over faster
than Kakashi anticipated.
“You’re improving,” Sakumo
noted, and extended a hand to his son. “I’m very pleased.”
Kakashi gawped at the
proffered hand, not entirely sure what to do with it. The ringing in his ears
was rather distracting, and that, coupled with his present state of dazed
giddiness, inhibited his common sense. “How lovely,” he remarked.
His father cackled. “Ah.
One of those, I see.” Gripping the boy’s forearms, he hauled him up and
appraised his balance. Finding it significantly diminished, Sakumo slung him
over a shoulder as if he were a sack of grain, Kakashi too far gone to protest.
Five minutes…ha! More like
five seconds…
---
“I…I’m tired, Kakashi…so
tired…”
The man curled on the
tatami mat in the dark room wasn’t his father. Those shadows…his father didn’t
have those shadows beneath his eyes. His father didn’t shrink from the light,
all the lamps unlit, all the windows closed.
“But…the fields—”
“Not now, Kakashi.” The
voice had a finality to it, a darkness as dark as the room, as dark as the
shadows beneath his eyes. Not now, not ever.
His father was dead.
“I’m sorry I disturbed
you.”
Kakashi took his leave, and
slid the door shut behind him.
---
“I have to take this
mission, baby, do you understand?” Yuriko hooked her whip on her belt, unable
to meet his eyes. “It’s important.”
Oh, Kakashi understood. The
hollow, empty smiles; the sobs at night; the mechanical way she chewed her
food, cleaned the house, trained…He understood more than she realized.
“Sure, ma,” he told her. “Be
careful.”
“I love you,” she said,
already distant, spirit halfway out of her body.
Goodbye…
---
Kakashi didn’t know when he
had pressed his cheek against the earth in front of the markers. Truthfully, he
may have spent the remainder of the day in that position, traveling through his
memories, had Chief not deigned to lick his face.
“Gee, thanks” he said to the
dog, who, in response, treated his master to another lick before a chipmunk
caught his attention and he bounded off.
Alone, Kakashi toyed with
the notion of sitting up, but for whatever reason, he chose not to. Closing his
eyes, he ran his palm over the dirt. Maybe they felt him, wherever they were.
Maybe they read the forgiveness written on his heart, the acceptance. Maybe
they saw a little boy shedding the chains he’d forged himself, chains wrought
of bitterness, of fear, of faithlessness.
This is it, Kakashi, his father had said. This is the
only life you’ve got.
“I miss you,” Kakashi
murmured, and his hand stilled, his eyes opened. He knew he was crying, the
tears neither happy nor sad. They just were. “Sometimes I can’t look in
the mirror, because it’s you reflected there instead of me.” As he talked, he
unburdened himself of everything he’d clung to, everything that had prevented
him from moving on. “I’m not you, dad. And… you didn’t want that. You wanted me
to be who I am, to surpass you. Obito…Obito taught me how to live. Obito, and
Rin, and mom…and you. I know that now. You all shaped me. You paved the road
for me…”
“And that’s why, when you
lose your way, you have friends to help you find it.”
Startled, Kakashi lifted
his head.
Anko sat beside him,
expression strangely tender. While she and Kakashi had been friends and
occasional lovers—the ball was often in her court when it came to that—for
years, so he knew she wasn’t a hardass all the time, it still made his
nerves fizzle pleasantly when she showed her compassionate side.
Between the two of them,
Kakashi was the ardent one, declaring his undying love as frequently as
possible in her presence or out of it—Asuma, Genma, and Gai (who tagged along
regardless of the others’ preferences) were the usual victims subjected to his
incessant gushing, and they made him the brunt of many a joke.
His goal, of course, was to
persuade her that they belonged together, because he certainly did not intend
to settle for anyone else, and wouldn’t rest until she comprehended how crazy
he was about her.
Sure, their personalities
clashed—she was hyper, he was mellow—but at least boredom wouldn’t factor into
their relationship.
“How long have you been
there?” He said, awed. “I didn’t even sense your chakra…”
Anko smiled slyly, and
reached out to brush the tears from his skin. “I saw you in town, and since I
had nothing better to do, I followed.” When he looked at her quizzically, she
added, tone bland, “I’m as skilled as you at concealing myself, Kakashi.”
He stared at her a moment,
then shook his head ruefully. “So…you were listening, eh?”
She nodded. “Are you
angry?”
Kakashi frowned. “Why would
I be?”
The Special Jounin raised a
brow. “That was some pretty personal stuff. If it were me—”
He placed a finger on her
lips. “I’m glad you came,” he said, eyes searching hers. “Everything you heard
I would’ve told you eventually.” He took the finger away. “And…I think my
parents would appreciate you being here as much as I do.”
Mutely, Anko turned from
him to gaze at the markers. Kakashi examined her, trying to guess what she
might be thinking. Of her own volition she tracked him, to what end she could
not have guessed. Yet still she followed, and waited, and as soon as he needed
her, she appeared.
My
guardian angel…
He almost laughed aloud at
the concept. He adored her, yes, but Anko was not an angel.
Just as well. He wasn’t an
angel, either.
“Your son,” she said
abruptly, addressing the graves, “is an ass.” Her twinkling eyes flicked toward
him. “But don’t worry. I’ll keep him in line, I promise.”
Kakashi gaped. “Wha—?”
Anko, ignoring him, touched
her forehead in an ancient sign of respect and stood. “Let’s go home,” she
said, bending to offer him a hand…like his father had done. As Kakashi watched,
his vision blurred, and Sakumo was in her place,
holding out his callused hand, grin as bright as the dawn. “Kakashi?” He
blinked and his father evaporated, though the hand lingered. “Let’s go home,”
Anko repeated softly.
Home…
“Okay,” he said.
Her hand was warm, her
fingers laced through his squeezing tight, as if to remind him he was alive,
and she was with him. “We should bring flowers next time,” she suggested. “And
food. A picnic would be nice, yes?”
Kakashi, a trifle
teary-eyed, yanked her into his arms. “A picnic would be wonderful,” he agreed,
pulling back to kiss her swiftly. “You’re a godsend, kid.”
“Damn straight,” she said
wickedly, and looked around. “Where’s that dog of yours? I thought—”
Chief trotted proudly
through the leaves, tail wagging, a large acorn in his mouth.
“Have fun, Chief?” Kakashi
asked, and the dog’s tail wagged harder.
“There,” Anko said,
satisfied. “Now we can go.”
They went, Kakashi and Anko
hand-in-hand, sniggering like teenagers, Chief guiding them.
It had been a while since
he last visited this place, but the ghosts were laid to rest.