[Fic] december
Apr. 28th, 2011 10:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
suchacharmerDecember: It's sad quiet in our apartment, because Itachi doesn't talk much. He laughs even less. I don't laugh much either, because there's nothing to laugh about anymore. Especially in December.
Category: Chapter fic
Status: Work in Progress
Rating: R for language, mature subject matter.
Notes: First person narratives alternating between Sasuke, Itachi, Kisame, and Kakashi.
Chapter One
We all know I'm not Kishimoto, don't we?
-------------
August
III. Angels wear blue jeans and eyeliner in the between breaths.
Summer camp at the community center is bad for a lot of reasons. The food they give us is always overcooked, we play the same games over and over again, someone always cries, the arts and crafts sessions are nothing more than an excuse for the cafeteria to get rid of excess pasta, and the whistle the instructors blow to call us over sounds like a rake on a chalkboard.
If I make one more macaroni necklace or picture frame, I'm going to wrap one of the stupid things around Ms. Sengal's neck until she promises to keep the macaroni away from me.
There are only two good things about summer camp: the pool and Naruto Uzumaki.
We have a corner of the pool staked out as our own, far enough away from the stairs and the really little kids floundering around in their floaties and inner tubes. For an hour each day, we get away from the macaroni, the burnt hotdogs, and the beach balls and just relax in the water.
"Count for me," Naruto says. Then he holds his breath and dips his head underwater. I count the seconds for him, one, two, seven, ten. At eleven he resurfaces, shaking his hair just like a dog, golden blonde locks darkened to the color of wheat. He blinks water droplets out of his blue eyes. "How long was that?" he inquires anxiously.
"Eleven seconds."
He frowns. "That's not very long, is it? Count for me again." He takes a deep breath again and disappears beneath the surface.
One, two, three, four, five. . .
Now that I know what he's doing it is easy to see his fight against the upward pull of water and his need to breathe.
Six, seven, eight. . .
As hard as he tries, the water gets the best of him and he inevitably floats back to the surface in nine, ten, eleven. . .
He shakes his head like a dog again, a golden retriever. "Any longer?" he asks hopefully.
I shake my head. "Still eleven seconds."
"Try it with me," he insists. "We can count to ourselves."
I don't see the point in bothering. He'll improve by one second, at the most. Maybe if we were a little bit older, if we had bigger lungs. Maybe I'll have enough money to buy a golden retriever one day, one with hair like Naruto's. He'll live in the apartment with me and my brother, lick my toes in the morning to wake me up. Itachi might like a dog as a companion. They don't talk, and I could feed it walk and feed it and pet it and wash it and we could take him to the park at night to chase fireflies like we used to. Dogs make people happy just by being dogs.
"What's the point, moron?"
Naruto splashes water at me angrily. He doesn't like it when I call him a moron, so naturally I call him that a lot. It's fun to make him mad. His eyebrows scrunch together and his lower lip juts out in imitation of a pout. "Don't call me that, jerk. And the point is to see how long you can last."
I still think its pointless, but I'm pretty sure I can hold my breath at least one second longer than Naruto can. If he's going to do it, then so am I. Naruto gulps down air like he gulps down the pasta they serve us in the cafeteria. I hold my breath like I'm preparing to slip between bookshelves and plunge beneath the surface.
One, two, three. . .
The underwater world is dark and eerie with my eyes closed against the chlorine.
Four, five, six. . .
Noises are muffled in clarity but magnified in volume under here, like a gunshot in the distance that sounds too close for comfort.
Seven, eight. . .
I hear Naruto struggling besides me, thrashing against the upward pull. We float to the surface together in the expanse of exaggerated distance in nine, ten. . .
"Eleven second," he says disappointedly. "Can't do it."
Fifteen minutes left to swim. We try again.
*^*^*
Saturday is a long day. Itachi works from nine in the morning to nine at night in a café two blocks from Kakashi's house. He smells like coffee when he comes home, thick, heavy, and rich. Sometimes he brings home leftovers from the bakery: blueberry pies, apple streusel, cheese Danish, peach crepes, smells that occupy the cracks in the ceiling. If he's in a good mood, we heat up pieces of pie in the oven and eat them on the couch in the living room. Itachi loves pie when he's in a good mood. When he's in a bad mood he drops the desserts on the table and disappears. I eat pie alone. It doesn't taste as good.
Kakashi's house doesn't have pie, but it does have that same thick, heavy, rich coffee smell every hour of the day. He brews coffee like clockwork, once at eight in the morning and once at seven in the evening. He never drinks the entire pot from the seven o'clock brew. A small part of it goes to me, a cup to him, and the rest to the air. Colombian potpourri.
Saturday is a company day. Itachi walks me to Kakashi's house at quarter to nine before leaving for the café. He barely says goodbye to either of us.
Kakashi grunts something as a hello to me and turns the page of his newspaper. His cup of coffee is still steaming. There's another, smaller mug in front of the empty chair to his left. My coffee. The chess board is off to the side of the table. Mornings in Kakashi's house are for neither chess nor talk. Mornings in Kakashi's house are for silence, newspaper print, and coffee.
It isn't the bad kind of quiet like in our apartment. The smell of coffee and the rustling of newspaper pages make it comfortable. Most people like to sleep in on Saturdays, but Kakashi wakes up early to brew his coffee at eight. Kakashi likes routine.
"Sunday is a day for rest," Kakashi told me once, right after he finished his morning coffee. "Saturday, that's a day for ghosts."
As soon as we finish our coffee, Kakashi packs us a lunch and we walk the ten blocks to the cemetery on Morgan Avenue. I hop from concrete block to concrete block, studiously avoiding both the mischievous tree roots breaking through the surface intent on tripping pedestrians and the cracks in the sidewalk. Cemeteries make me automatically superstitious. It's instinct these days to look for good luck amongst the clovers and shy away from the bad luck of sidewalk cracks because life, God, Mother Nature, Allah, Kami-sama, whoever it is up there in the pages of Kakashi's books that make the world spin on its axis have not been good to me and my brother. I don't think they've been very good to Kakashi either, since he visits the cemetery like its his own personal religion.
He's superstitious, too.
The first time he took me to the cemetery, a black cat darted out of the bushes a few feet in front of us and across the street. Before I could take another step, Kakashi put his hands on my shoulder and steered me away from the cat. We took the long way to the cemetery that day.
He never steps over me when I lie on the floor. He goes around me, even if it means climbing over furniture. (1)
Curiously, he doesn't hold his breath when we pass the cemetery. I want to hold my breath sometimes. Mom and Dad are buried in there, though I don't go to see them anymore. Something about the granite crosses and marbles angels makes me want to dart outside the black iron wrought gates just like that black cat. Everything's dead in the cemetery, even the angels.
Kakashi likes the cemetery. He sits next to the same gravestone every time we go and talks, partly to me, partly to the gravestone, partly to himself. I can't help but listen to the strange lilt of his voice as it changes depending on who he's talking to.
"Saturday again." Sad, to his dead friend. "I brought Sasuke with me. You remember, the kid I watch for Itachi? He likes to hear about you." That last part was to me, sounding more brotherly than anything. "He's a good kid. Tries to beat me in chess. Ambitious." A sigh, a touch to the long scar running through his eye. "I remember when Obito and I played chess. He was nowhere near as patient as Sasuke." Each word here is a bitter snap, although who he's angry at, I don't know. Maybe he's mad at himself. "You were really bad at chess."
The hour goes on like this, inter-spliced with long silences where tears should have flown and the sound of distance where I think Kakashi splits into three people slipping away from his grasp. I'm not supposed to talk to him while he breaks apart, only after he puts himself together again and floats back to the surface as a whole person.
He looks up into the trees nearby. "Remember summer when we were kids? Chasing dogs and never catching them. I could use a dog, I think. You're almost like a dog, pretty bird. No where near as messy, though. He was always a mess, always touching everything. Don't touch the sugar bowl, mom will get mad if you break it."
I'm not allowed to touch a lot of things in Kakashi's house. The magnets on the fridge have to stay in the exact same position, the watermelon beneath the coffee mug, the dog with its bone to the right of the watermelon, and the optometrist calling card between them. The blanket in the living room has to be folded and draped over the left hand side of the sofa. He never leaves the house without his little book, just like his wallet. Kakashi is the only one who can touch the sugar bowl. Those are parts of his personal religion, like weekly visits to the cemetery and silence with his morning coffee, like prayers.
Now I know why I can't touch the sugar bowl- why no one can touch the sugar bowl.
"Sure is hot today," he comments idly. The leaves in the trees above us rattle in agreement as squirrels scurry from branch to branch. "Hot as hell." He reaches into the backpack where our lunch is tucked away and tosses me a water bottle. Some time in the last few seconds he's put himself back together. He's Kakashi again.
"Why do you talk to him?" I ask as I unscrew the cap. I ask him the same question every Saturday without failure. "He can't hear you."
Itachi took me to the cemetery one time after our parents died. Just once. He was dressed in black from head to toe, jeans, t-shirt, shoes, hair, eyes. I hated him at the time. He put carnations on mom's grave. On dad's grave, he poured a bottle of gin. Then he walked away. I had to try really hard not to cry. The smell of gin was so strong in the March air, strong like the anger building in my stomach. I already knew he didn't care that they were dead, but you weren't supposed to do that to graves. There was no religion in the world that said it was okay to defile someone's grave.
"You killed them!" I shouted to his departing back. "You killed them, Itachi! Why did you have to kill them?!" I missed mom's cooking and smile, dad's cigarettes and wrenches and evening coffee with gin. I missed having a warm house instead of an cold apartment. "What did they do to you?!"
He paused in his departure, looking just as cold and hard as the granite crosses and marble angels rising from the ground like corpses. "Hell is on earth, Sasuke," he replied softly. "He made sure of that."
I still don't know what he meant when he said that. It didn't answer my question.
Kakashi stretches his limbs, leaning back comfortably against the gravestone. He looks up at the sky as he talks and its almost like I'm not there. "He reminds me of my mistakes," he says to the clouds. "That's what death does. It teaches us what not to do again."
His answer is the same every Saturday without failure. It doesn't answer my question, but I ask him anyway in the hope that it'll be different one day, or that I'll magically understand. Another one of those grown-up things I won't understand until I'm older.
If I ask Itachi why he killed mom and dad again, would he say the same thing he did two years ago? Would he pour gin on Dad's grave? Would I yell at him again?
Maybe that's why I'm afraid of cemeteries. They're full of words that don't mean anything to me, black cats, distance, cold gin-soaked angels and crosses. The bad kinds of religion.
*^*^*
"Genma," Raido calls from behind the counter. "Table five. Order up."
Genma, the newest arrival to the Red Lantern, sweeps by me to collect the four waiting mugs of steaming coffee on a tray. "That redhead at table five is smoking," he says in a low timbre. "You could try smiling at her when she looks at you with smoldering eyes."
I glance over at the girl in question. She's pretty enough, I guess, creamy skin, a light dusting of freckles across her small nose. Pale blue tank top and khaki shirts. Of course, Genma's right. She's looking at me candidly as her girlfriends talk with those smoldering green eyes he mentioned.
I'm used to girls looking at me like that. It seems they all do it. I'm not naive when it comes to sex. I've even had it, although not by choice. I know what those looks mean. They're imagining me naked.
Raido rolls his eyes. "Don't listen to him. He'll screw anything that walks."
"And some things that don't," he adds as he sprays a dollop of whipped cream on two of the coffees. It's six o'clock in the evening, and the café is full of couples on dates and groups of girls who try to look older than they really are by drinking lattes and chai tea. "Seriously, though kid, do something about your fan club. They occupy tables so that they can stare at you for way too long."
"Backs up business," Raido says with a sage head nod.
"Phft," Genma says. The toothpick he keeps perched between his teeth twitches as he scoffs. "Like I care about that. It just pisses me off that they come here for him, but he wants nothing to do with them. All those pretty girls are going to waste."
"Genma, they're like fifteen."
"Age is no barrier to lust, my friend."
"You're disgusting," I tell him honestly as I count up the tips I've earned so far. Their giggling may be annoying, but they're good tippers. "No offense."
"None taken."
Raido sighs in exasperation. "Hurry up with that coffee already, Shiranui, you're backing up business. Itachi, don't listen to a word that comes out of his mouth."
"I never have."
Genma shrugs. "You are no fun at all. So serious all the time. You know, you two are perfect for each other."
"You know, Genma, I'd tell you to go fuck yourself, but I don't think it would do any good."
He laughs lecherously and adds stirring straws to the mugs. "You know, Raido, you're probably right." He leans down, grinning in my ear. "But I'd rather let him do it for me."
I lose count and pause long enough for Genma to knows he's gotten to me. He laughs smugly and saunters away balancing the coffee laden tray easily on his right hand. Genma delights in making me all kinds of uncomfortable, and yet I can't help liking his presence for the sheer oddity of it in an otherwise dull place. He smiles a lot. The world's most personable sadist.
Raido wants to be annoyed, but his lips slip into a slow, easy smile, his vocal chords into a chuckle. "If I wasn't dating him, I'd have to kill him for being such a damn pervert."
"The sex is that good, huh?"
"We haven't had sex yet," Raido mumbles with a blush, looking around to make sure no one heard. "We've only been dating for one month."
"Isn't one night pretty much the standard for getting laid when you're gay?"
"That's the standard for gay whores. I am not a whore." He motions in Genma's direction, who is taking too long talking to the pretty, underage girls. "That's his area of expertise."
Still talking to the girls at table five, Genma says something that makes the blonde blush and giggle. The green eyed red head tilts her head in my direction and smiles faintly. Somewhere deep down I think that I should do something back, nod my head, smile, wave. But I don't, because I just don't care enough. It's not that she isn't pretty, because she is, but I smiling at her would indicate that I'm interested in her, which I definitely am not.
"Why don't you say something to him?" His behavior makes me uncomfortable. Genma is twenty four, too old to be hitting on sixteen year olds.
Raido watches his boyfriend thoughtfully. "Because when it comes down to it, Genma's harmless. Perverted, sadistic, and annoying, but harmless. He wouldn't actually do anything."
I don't think you can vouch for any one. No one guessed that my father was capable of doing the things he did. Of course, he never smiled like Genma, or chuckled like Genma. Sasuke was too young to remember at the time, but I remember Mom crying a lot when he came home from the police station. No matter how softly she cried, her tears always pulled me from sleep. That's when he'd come into my room.
The café feels hot all of a sudden and I wonder if the air conditioner is on the fritz again. Besides Raido's calm sensibility, the major perk of working here is the air conditioning, which now doesn't feel like it’s turned up high enough. I grip my glass of ice water, willing the chill to seep into my bloodstream.
"And anyway, he knows that I'll wring his neck if he does."
I think of his chuckles and grins and decide that Raido's probably right. I refuse to trust him entirely, but probably is good enough for me. Probably is as close to optimism as I know how to get. I envy Raido's trust in his boyfriend. I envy people who can trust, because every time I leave Sasuke alone with Kakashi, my stomach contracts and I want to carry him away and lock him in a closet so that no one can touch him.
And it's still too hot in here.
"Your break ends in five minutes," Raido reminds me. "You should eat something. I can make you a sandwich and give you an extra ten minutes to eat."
"And abuse your position of power for little old me?" I say sarcastically. "I couldn't possibly let you do that."
"Fine, then your break ends now. Look alive, you have a customer."
That figures. I turn around and promptly freeze in my tracks. Dr. Hoshigaki's tanned face looms three seats down from me like a rock star straight from a tour poster, his blue-black eyes matching his curly blue-black hair, complimented by his royal blue t-shirt and black jeans. Seeing him in street clothes is more than a little unnerving. The last two times I saw him he was bedecked in professional garb, suit, tie, the whole shebang. Also blue, if I recall.
He smiles crookedly, flashing me white teeth as he takes a seat at the counter. I hate that he smiles at me like he knows me. Who does he think he is, anyway? I've known him for two hours in the past two weeks; he has no right to smile at me like that.
"I didn't realize you worked here, Itachi," he says as I hand him a menu because I have to. I'd rather him leave, but work is work. "I was just here on Tuesday and the food was so good that I decided to come back and try the coffee I've heard so much about from my neighbors."
I nod politely, smile because they make me. I hate to show him my smile. I know he'll say something about it at our next session. "I'll give you a few minutes to look over the menu," I tell him before turning heel and departing to attend a couple freshly occupying one of the window tables.
Genma's back behind the counter when I get back, pinning his order to the strip of cork board along the window separating the restaurant from the kitchen. I rip off my order form and hand it to him to tack up along with his. He obliges, but replaces the order slip with a folded piece of lined paper.
"The redhead asked me to give you that," Genma explains as Raido snatches both order slips away. "Says her name is Addie and she's very much single."
"I don't really care." I push the paper back into his clutches. "Not interested."
"Oh come on, Itachi," Genma whines in exasperation. "She's cute, single, has a nice smile. It won't kill you to give her a call."
"I don't need anything else to worry about right now," I say as I storm away. Genma, of course, follows on my heels. He's like a dog; no matter how many times you slap him on the snout, he always comes back for more. "I don't have time for a girlfriend."
"Take the number," he insists, following me over to Dr. Hoshigaki. "You don't have to call her, but take the number."
"No."
"Come on, kid."
"Hi, my name is Itachi," I say to the doctor, hoping that Genma will take the hint and make himself scarce. “What can I get you tonight?" God, I hate saying that.
"It's just a phone num. . ." He trails off abruptly, attention fully on my shrink. Genma has a bad case of wondering eyes when it comes to men. He also attracts them like nectar attracts bees. "Hi, I'm Genma," he introduces himself. "Seeing anyone?"
"You're not single, jackass," Raido yells from the kitchen. Raido has ears like a bat.
Dr. Hoshigaki smiles knowingly. With looks like a rock star, he probably has to ward of women with a baseball bat. I've already seen a few of them gazing at him since he walked in. He's used to men hitting on him too, judging by his nonchalant reaction to Genma. "What's the coffee special of the day?"
"Hazelnut vanilla."
"Sounds good." He hands me the menu. "You look cute in that apron, by the way. Red is a good color on you."
Teasing me. He's not allowed to do that. He's not allowed to wear casual clothes and waltz into my restaurant and make all the women gawk at him just because he looks like he belongs up on stage. And it isn't apron, it's a smock.
"You know him?" Genma exclaims in bemusement.
"Not well," I reply before Dr. Hoshigaki can say anything.
"I'm his therapist." I wish he'd stop being so friendly.
"Oh, you're number eleven, huh?" He switches his toothpick to the other side of his mouth. "Good, then maybe you can tell him to take the phone number," he says as he tosses the slip of paper on the counter. "He doesn't listen to me."
"From what I can gather, Itachi doesn't listen to anyone." His crooked smile flashes. "Stubborn to a fault."
"I'll be right back with your coffee," I say stiffly. He only smiles at me, the infuriating bastard. We've only has two sessions, but both were unlike any session I've had with a therapist to date. The first time, he started telling me about his love for music, but never asked me questions about my own life. I learned a lot about Led Zeppelin that day, although I don't know what they sound like aside from his vivid descriptions. The second time, neither of us said a word. I sat in my chair waiting for inquiries that never came. He worked on a crossword puzzle, wasting both of our times.
Music is a waste of time, too. Insubstantial, fleeting, here then gone. I don't have time for rock stars anymore than I have time for girls.
Rock stars and their infuriating smiles.
"Yeah," Genma agrees with a familiar chuckle. "That's Itachi alright."
Dr. Hoshigaki is quiet as I leave for his coffee and is quiet when I come back. I hate him for knowing when to back off and leave me alone. I hate him for not making me talk. He's a psychiatrist, how dare he make me sit in comfortable silences? He's not doing his job very well, because I dislike him more with each passing second as he sips his hot coffee and hums to himself.
Music. A waste of time, trying to make me like him with music. I don't listen to music.
----------
IV. Curiosity killed the cat and nothing you say can bring him back
I know Sasuke is bored during our cemetery visits, but I can't stop years of tradition just because I'm suddenly the kid's number one babysitter. Honestly, Itachi's lucky I'm such a laid-back guy, otherwise he'd have serious problems.
Having Sasuke around all the time is strange, though not in a bad way. I grew up an only child, so I’m not familiar with brotherly affection. He's a sweet kid, curious, smart, quiet, grimly determined to beat me at chess (which will never happen, but I admire his effort) and more observant than any nine year old I've ever met. Granted, I don't know many nine year olds. I didn't know many nine year olds when *I* was nine either. I was never big on the whole "go make nice with the other kids, sweetie" thing parents are supposed to instill in their children.
Still, what I feel toward Sasuke is not brotherly. Fatherly is wrong, too. Those feeling would indicate a kind of protective instinct that I don't have. I don't treat Sasuke any differently than I treat his older brother, or Iruka, or Genma. Teasing, irritating, joking, embarrassing, those are my mediums for communication. As small and young as he is, I consider him just another person that I can call a loathsome nickname, tease into scowling, and embarrass into blushing. Okay, so the last one is reserved specifically for Iruka, but generally speaking, those are my goals. He's just a person.
So as just another person in my life, I don't feel obligated to exclude him from my rituals. If he's going to be a permanent fixture, then he has to endure the stranger aspects of my life. Its not as if I don't know that talking to a gravestone is out of the ordinary. The thing is, I don't know how to stop. I've come to depend on my conversations with Obito. Dead or not, I swear he can hear me. Maybe its just another sign that I'm losing my sanity, but lately, I think it's the only thing *keeping* me sane.
If what I do at the cemetery scares Sasuke, he doesn't say anything. Like in everything else, he seems more curious than anything, intent on figuring out why I talk to the dead. Sasuke seeks rationale behind everything: why my hair is silver when I’m so young, why the "e" is silent, why his brother is so distant, why his parents are really dead, why I talk to inanimate objects. Some questions I answer, some questions I don't. Some I have no right to answer, others I can’t answer because I just don't know.
Keeping him naive is not my intention. Telling him why his parents are dead would tread on his brothers toes, one of those questions I don't have the right to answer. Telling him why I talk to my dead friend is too personal, one of those questions even I don’t know the answer to. But I can tell him why the "silent e" isn't actually silent. I can explain to him the things that don't matter so much. Anything else is beyond me, the relevance of our existence, the marionette strings of guilt, the intricacies of prayer. I tell him what I know, that death teaches us what not to do again. And it never lets us forget.
After I force him to endure my communication with the dead, I feel that the least I can do is take him out to dinner. He really is a patient kid, more so than most adults. Feeding him chicken fingers and fries is the least I can do after letting him see me fall to pieces that many times.
"Hey sexy, what’s shaking?" Genma quips as he plops two menus down on the flat surface of the small booth. Light brown cocoa eyes that promise anything and charlatan grins made Genma quite the lady killer in the olden days. He's managed to settle down for the record of five weeks with a guy named Raido, who, for what I expected from wild west bandanna wearing Genma Shiranui, is tame and down to earth. But he makes a mean cup of hazelnut vanilla coffee, so I have no choice but to approve.
"I brought a friend," I tell him. Sasuke's never been to the Red Lantern Café where Itachi works nights and weekends, so he's never met Genma in person. "This is Itachi's little brother, Sasuke Uchiha."
Upon hearing his name, Sasuke looks up from the menu and gives Genma a once over. "You're the guy from the picture in his living room," he informs him astutely. The once over has turned into a lengthy appraisal of this man that I know. He knows I'm peculiar about my company.
"Wow," Genma marvels. "Itachi told us he had a little brother, but I didn't realize they'd look so much alike."
"He has better hair than me," Sasuke says with a frown. Half jealous observation, half complaint. "Mine always sticks up in the back." His raven locks are in an awkward stage of growth. I don't blame him for having hair envy. Mine is very much like his. There are days when I'm convinced that each individual stand has a conniving mind of its own.
Genma takes a few second to return the appraisal, his brown eyes flicking over Sasuke from head to toe to head again. "I wouldn't worry about that, kid. Your hair's got attitude. It's like a character quirk."
Sasuke regards him carefully, judging his merit. Like Itachi, he analyzes everything before he speaks. I'm not sure whose influence that was. It might have been mine, since it seems to have escalated in the last month of chess matches. "Character quirk?"
"Yeah. They're the things that make you Sasuke and not Kakashi. Everybody has them and the older you get, the more of them you have."
His hand flies to the back of his head, brushing down the unruly licks of hair that jut out of his head like bird feathers. The idea of having character quirks appeals to him. Makes him feel a little bit older. Sasuke doesn’t like being treated like a little kid not allowed in on the big secrets we adults hide from him. The secrets his brother hides from him to keep him safe.
That's where Itachi and I are different. Itachi lies to protect Sasuke. I lie to protect myself.
He grins like only a nine year old can, with the pure, unadulterated excitement of fortuitous revelation. It’s amazing. After knowing Sasuke for a total of one whole minute Genma has him smiling like they've been close friends for years. That's Genma, making you fall in love with him with Cheshire cat grins and milk chocolate eyes. That's how he got me up against the wall within two days. We had a thing briefly a few years ago, a purely sexual thing that lasted a grand total of two weeks. He's amazing in bed. I’ll never tell him that little fact, of course. He doesn't need anymore boosts to his ego. Just another secret I keep to myself.
I'll have to clue Raido in one of these days. Maybe it'll expedite the gravitational pull of his pants.
"I'll have the fried clams," I say after scanning the menu for a moment. The Red Lantern has amazing fried clams *and* amazing coffee. I don't know why I bother scanning the menu.
"Chicken fingers," Sasuke says decisively. "And chocolate milk."
"I'll take an iced tea."
Genma scribbles on his pad and tucks the pen behind his ear. "Okay. Be right back kiddies."
"He's your friend, right?" Sasuke asks as Genma slips behind the counter to get our drinks and place our order.
"Genma," I say by way of answer. "He was my roommate for a couple of years in college. I had your brother recommend him for a job."
"Itachi did you a favor?"
I chuckled. The notion is rather odd. Favors are things that friends do for each other, and I can't say I classify him as a friend. Sasuke is more of a friend than his stoic brother. He's been through a lot in a short span of time, that I understand. Raising a kid on your own when you're fifteen isn't exactly a walk in the park, but there's just something off with him, something mechanical that makes sympathy hard. "He owes me for all the baby-sitting I do. For free, I might add."
"I'm not a baby, Kakashi," he shots back with as much venom a nine year old can manage. It comes out as something closer to indignant. "I haven't been a baby for seven whole years."
"Are you trying to impress me with your math prowess, pretty bird?"
"Depends. What's prowess?"
"Something you don't have in vocabulary yet."
He scowls, and it’s my turn to grin. His reactions amuse me. "Show-off."
"Iced tea and chocolate milk," Genma announces as he plunks our drinks down on the table. "Don't tell Itachi I'm doing this, but your meal is on the house. He'll glare at me for days if he finds out."
"Free food? I think I can keep a secret." I take a quick peek around the café, searching for the long haired boy with perpetual lines around his eyes. "Where is Itachi anyway?"
"Working the counter." He flicks a lazy thumb behind his back. "He likes working with smaller groups of people. And it’s harder to see the red apron when you're behind the counter."
Itachi is busy arranging a mug of coffee and a plate of biscotti. He's too thin; I realize looking at him from the side. The red of the apron is harsh against his snow white skin. The expression on his face is carefully schooled to blankness. He looks like a bleeding statue. His eyes betray him, though. His eyes are glaring at a man with a mop of curly black hair.
"Who is he glaring at?" I inquire with mild curiosity. Itachi's glares aren't unusual for me. I irritate him to no end. I find it odd that he would glare at a customer, however. It isn't very professional of him. He takes work very seriously.
Genma glances over his shoulder. Sasuke busies himself with sipping his chocolate through a straw and feigning disinterest. His eyes betray him too. "Oh, you mean the guy that looks like he fell off the back of a tour bus? That's Dr. Hoshigaki. His psychiatrist."
"Number eleven?"
"Yup. This is the second Saturday in a row he's been in here. Can't say I'm complaining. He's a nice addition to the scenery."
"Wandering eyes, Genma," I warn him playfully. Genma’s not a bad guy, but his libido is on permanent overdrive. Fidelity is a backseat driver when it comes to Genma’s gear stick.
He catches the warning and grins his Cheshire cat grin. "Don't worry. I'm being a good boy. And I'm pretty sure Raido’s gonna give in to temptation soon."
I almost miss Itachi's disapproving glares as Raido and I talk about dirty things in front of his little brother, currently redirected at the good doctor unwittingly providing me with an gracious view of his extremely taut ass. "What makes you say that?"
"I have my ways, Kashi." Rodeo eyes, feline smile. I miss his ways. Suddenly, I long to give Iruka a call. He's not usually doing anything on Saturdays.
I sigh. Saturday is not a day for sex. That's Sunday, the day of rest and sins and sins that never rest.
Itachi none too gently places the biscotti and coffee in front of Dr. Hoshigaki. I can't help wondering what in the world he did to entice Itachi's mild-mannered wrath.
"Is Kashi that nickname that I'm not allowed to call you until I'm older?"
"Stop being so curious, pretty bird." I smiled. Iruka calls me Kashi. "And yes."
*^*^*
The clock in the office ticks too slowly for my liking. Each passing second is disjointed and loud.
Dr. Hoshigaki is lipping the eraser on his pencil, blue eyes lowered in thought. I'm pointedly trying to communicate my displeasure, mostly by sending intense glares to the center of his forehead. Unfortunately, the rays of my wrath are bouncing futilely off of his forehead and back to me. He sits there, legs comfortably crossed as he switches from lipping his pencil to tapping it on his knuckles.
Our fourth session of silence.
My smock is folded up and resting underneath my chair next to the leftover pie I'm bringing home for Sasuke. The rest of me is folded up as well. I'm still waiting for the questions that I know he wants to ask. I'm ready for him, whenever he decides to strike. Right now, however, he's about as poised to strike as a cat napping on a window sill. Sleeves rolled up past his elbows and tie loosened and askew, he looks to casual to be here, in this office with oriental rugs and diplomas displayed in neatly aligned picture frames on the wall behind his desk. The only sign that he has any hold to this place is the autographed ticket stub perched on the oak mantle behind him.
There is no point in being here if he isn't going to talk. I sigh for what I think is the seventh time since my arrival thirty minutes ago. The hour wasted here is an hour I normally spend working at the café making money and otherwise being constructive.
I stand up. This gets the bastard's attention. He looks up and watches me gather my smock and pie wordlessly. "There's still thirty minutes left in your session," he reminds me. As if I don’t know.
"If you aren't going to do your job then I don't see the point in staying," I say briskly.
"You said you didn't want to talk."
My grip on the pie box convulses momentarily. He's looking at me in what I can only describe as amusement. The man thinks I'm funny. I'm not funny. I'm angry, mostly at him but partly for the pie filling dribbling from a corner of the box. I hope it stains his faux-exotic oriental rug from Wal mart.
"You also said you didn't want me to talk about myself."
Calm down, I command myself. On the outside I keep my features schooled into neutrality. On the inside I’m seething. He knows very well what I meant when I said I didn’t want to know anything about him in our first train wreck of a session. He knows I meant. He knows that I don't like him showing up in my café on Saturdays. He doesn't belong there any more than he belongs in this office not talking to me, or any more than I belong in that damn chair listening to the too loud ticking of his clock.
"You aren't doing your job," I inform his stiffly. "You aren't a very good psychiatrist, doctor."
I can't help the venom that leaks from my tongue as I call him doctor. I can't help the way the blueberry pie sliding down my wrist tickles in the slightest. I can't help thinking that in spite of his grating personality and unprofessional antics, I can almost hear guitars and I wonder exactly what Led Zeppelin sounds like.
He tosses the pencil aside. It rolls back as he rests his head on the hands tucked behind his head. "If I'm not allowed to talk about you and I'm not allowed to talk about me, then how in the hell am I supposed to do my job?" His tone is deceptive. Even the word "hell" is said as if we were having a pleasant conversation. Dr. Hoshigaki is the first psychiatrist who has cursed at me. He's also the first psychiatrist to leave me speechless for a fraction of a second.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three, four, five seconds.
"You're supposed to answer the questions I ask you, Itachi. What do you want me to do with you?"
Six seconds, seven seconds, eight seconds. Somewhere in my brain there's a nagging voice telling me that my silence is giving him the victory, but if I say what I want, then I lose too. I want him to leave me alone. He was doing exactly what I wanted from the rest of my psychiatrists.
Nine, ten, eleven seconds.
I concede defeat by sitting back down in the abandoned chair. He grants me reprieve by not smiling.
I still hate it that he knows when to leave me alone. All he does is pick up the pencil and fill in a word on the crossword puzzle.
Silence. The clock ticks like a succession of gunshots. The overhead fans whirls, the air conditioner hums. Cicadas thrum in the trees, the traffic comes and goes, the rain smacks gently against the glass. Dr. Hoshigaki breathes out musical notes. His voice is nice in sighs.
"What's a seven letter word for decay?"
I meet piercing blue eyes when I look up. I’m lost for a second, thinking about how those eyes of his mimic the sound of his breathy singing voice. I can't even remember the question. A seven letter word for what? All I can think about is blue and all the words to describe it: azure, sky, robin's eye, royal, navy, aqua, cerulean. Blueberry, like the stain on my arm and not on his carpet.
*Stop that,* I command myself. *They're just eyes. It's just a color. Seven letter word for decay, Itachi. Give him the seven letter word for decay.*
"Atrophy," I say after I've recovered, hoping my pause wasn't long enough to be suspicious.
He examines the puzzle and then nods approvingly. "Right. Thank you." He smiles at the crossword puzzle. Really, does he have to smile at everything? Just like Genma with his damn smiles.
*^*^*
What started as a light rain turned into a thunderstorm. At eight thirty, the ceiling above the coffee table started a steady drip. Kakashi and me pull out all of the big bowls from the cabinets and place them under all the spots in the apartment that leak, the chair in the kitchen, the back burner of stove, just outside the rim of the bath tub, on the arm of the couch.
Bowls are everywhere. I like the water fountain sound the rain makes once the bowls fill up a little. The bright colors of the plastic bowls are, as usual, out of place in the apartment, but the sound of rainwater belongs here.
The jangle of keys in the lock of the apartment door. Kakashi looks down from his inspection of the ceiling in time to see the door creak open on rusty hinges. It sounds like a cat hissing.
"How long has the ceiling been leaking like this?" Kakashi asks. Concern is just barely noticeable in his tone.
"Since we moved in," is Itachi's curt reply. He drops a box on the table. One of the corners of the box is dyed a deep blue color. He leaves without another word. The door to our bedroom clicks quietly shut a few seconds later.
Kakashi eyes dart from the bedroom door, to me, to the pie. "I should go, now, pretty bird."
I understand. I don't like it, but I understand. He's concerned about us, but not enough to stay and eat pie with me. It's not his responsibility to make sure we are okay.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he promises. He's trying to make amends for leaving, but I'd rather have him here *now.* He doesn't belong here among the plastic fountains, but I wish he would stay anyway. As nice as he is to me and Itachi, he can't be here when I really *need* him. I realize then exactly how much I depend on him. He's the closest thing I have to a friend after Naruto.
He ruffles my hair and leaves with a wave. I'm alone with the sound of rainwater and blueberry pie that doesn't taste as good without someone to eat it with me. Itachi is always gone, and Kakashi, with all of his character quirks, routines, and prayers to ghosts, isn't someone I should depend on because he'll still practice his superstitious, cemetery-black cat religion even if I'm not a part of his life. The problem is, I do anyway. Without him, I have a brother who doesn't talk and an apartment full of water. As I open the box of leftover café dessert, I wonder if I could practice holding my breath in one of the bowls. They're big enough for my still small head. I can practice for Saturdays.
I plunge a fork into the pie, alone. Thursdays are long days, too.
Chapter Three
Category: Chapter fic
Status: Work in Progress
Rating: R for language, mature subject matter.
Notes: First person narratives alternating between Sasuke, Itachi, Kisame, and Kakashi.
Chapter One
We all know I'm not Kishimoto, don't we?
-------------
August
III. Angels wear blue jeans and eyeliner in the between breaths.
Summer camp at the community center is bad for a lot of reasons. The food they give us is always overcooked, we play the same games over and over again, someone always cries, the arts and crafts sessions are nothing more than an excuse for the cafeteria to get rid of excess pasta, and the whistle the instructors blow to call us over sounds like a rake on a chalkboard.
If I make one more macaroni necklace or picture frame, I'm going to wrap one of the stupid things around Ms. Sengal's neck until she promises to keep the macaroni away from me.
There are only two good things about summer camp: the pool and Naruto Uzumaki.
We have a corner of the pool staked out as our own, far enough away from the stairs and the really little kids floundering around in their floaties and inner tubes. For an hour each day, we get away from the macaroni, the burnt hotdogs, and the beach balls and just relax in the water.
"Count for me," Naruto says. Then he holds his breath and dips his head underwater. I count the seconds for him, one, two, seven, ten. At eleven he resurfaces, shaking his hair just like a dog, golden blonde locks darkened to the color of wheat. He blinks water droplets out of his blue eyes. "How long was that?" he inquires anxiously.
"Eleven seconds."
He frowns. "That's not very long, is it? Count for me again." He takes a deep breath again and disappears beneath the surface.
One, two, three, four, five. . .
Now that I know what he's doing it is easy to see his fight against the upward pull of water and his need to breathe.
Six, seven, eight. . .
As hard as he tries, the water gets the best of him and he inevitably floats back to the surface in nine, ten, eleven. . .
He shakes his head like a dog again, a golden retriever. "Any longer?" he asks hopefully.
I shake my head. "Still eleven seconds."
"Try it with me," he insists. "We can count to ourselves."
I don't see the point in bothering. He'll improve by one second, at the most. Maybe if we were a little bit older, if we had bigger lungs. Maybe I'll have enough money to buy a golden retriever one day, one with hair like Naruto's. He'll live in the apartment with me and my brother, lick my toes in the morning to wake me up. Itachi might like a dog as a companion. They don't talk, and I could feed it walk and feed it and pet it and wash it and we could take him to the park at night to chase fireflies like we used to. Dogs make people happy just by being dogs.
"What's the point, moron?"
Naruto splashes water at me angrily. He doesn't like it when I call him a moron, so naturally I call him that a lot. It's fun to make him mad. His eyebrows scrunch together and his lower lip juts out in imitation of a pout. "Don't call me that, jerk. And the point is to see how long you can last."
I still think its pointless, but I'm pretty sure I can hold my breath at least one second longer than Naruto can. If he's going to do it, then so am I. Naruto gulps down air like he gulps down the pasta they serve us in the cafeteria. I hold my breath like I'm preparing to slip between bookshelves and plunge beneath the surface.
One, two, three. . .
The underwater world is dark and eerie with my eyes closed against the chlorine.
Four, five, six. . .
Noises are muffled in clarity but magnified in volume under here, like a gunshot in the distance that sounds too close for comfort.
Seven, eight. . .
I hear Naruto struggling besides me, thrashing against the upward pull. We float to the surface together in the expanse of exaggerated distance in nine, ten. . .
"Eleven second," he says disappointedly. "Can't do it."
Fifteen minutes left to swim. We try again.
*^*^*
Saturday is a long day. Itachi works from nine in the morning to nine at night in a café two blocks from Kakashi's house. He smells like coffee when he comes home, thick, heavy, and rich. Sometimes he brings home leftovers from the bakery: blueberry pies, apple streusel, cheese Danish, peach crepes, smells that occupy the cracks in the ceiling. If he's in a good mood, we heat up pieces of pie in the oven and eat them on the couch in the living room. Itachi loves pie when he's in a good mood. When he's in a bad mood he drops the desserts on the table and disappears. I eat pie alone. It doesn't taste as good.
Kakashi's house doesn't have pie, but it does have that same thick, heavy, rich coffee smell every hour of the day. He brews coffee like clockwork, once at eight in the morning and once at seven in the evening. He never drinks the entire pot from the seven o'clock brew. A small part of it goes to me, a cup to him, and the rest to the air. Colombian potpourri.
Saturday is a company day. Itachi walks me to Kakashi's house at quarter to nine before leaving for the café. He barely says goodbye to either of us.
Kakashi grunts something as a hello to me and turns the page of his newspaper. His cup of coffee is still steaming. There's another, smaller mug in front of the empty chair to his left. My coffee. The chess board is off to the side of the table. Mornings in Kakashi's house are for neither chess nor talk. Mornings in Kakashi's house are for silence, newspaper print, and coffee.
It isn't the bad kind of quiet like in our apartment. The smell of coffee and the rustling of newspaper pages make it comfortable. Most people like to sleep in on Saturdays, but Kakashi wakes up early to brew his coffee at eight. Kakashi likes routine.
"Sunday is a day for rest," Kakashi told me once, right after he finished his morning coffee. "Saturday, that's a day for ghosts."
As soon as we finish our coffee, Kakashi packs us a lunch and we walk the ten blocks to the cemetery on Morgan Avenue. I hop from concrete block to concrete block, studiously avoiding both the mischievous tree roots breaking through the surface intent on tripping pedestrians and the cracks in the sidewalk. Cemeteries make me automatically superstitious. It's instinct these days to look for good luck amongst the clovers and shy away from the bad luck of sidewalk cracks because life, God, Mother Nature, Allah, Kami-sama, whoever it is up there in the pages of Kakashi's books that make the world spin on its axis have not been good to me and my brother. I don't think they've been very good to Kakashi either, since he visits the cemetery like its his own personal religion.
He's superstitious, too.
The first time he took me to the cemetery, a black cat darted out of the bushes a few feet in front of us and across the street. Before I could take another step, Kakashi put his hands on my shoulder and steered me away from the cat. We took the long way to the cemetery that day.
He never steps over me when I lie on the floor. He goes around me, even if it means climbing over furniture. (1)
Curiously, he doesn't hold his breath when we pass the cemetery. I want to hold my breath sometimes. Mom and Dad are buried in there, though I don't go to see them anymore. Something about the granite crosses and marbles angels makes me want to dart outside the black iron wrought gates just like that black cat. Everything's dead in the cemetery, even the angels.
Kakashi likes the cemetery. He sits next to the same gravestone every time we go and talks, partly to me, partly to the gravestone, partly to himself. I can't help but listen to the strange lilt of his voice as it changes depending on who he's talking to.
"Saturday again." Sad, to his dead friend. "I brought Sasuke with me. You remember, the kid I watch for Itachi? He likes to hear about you." That last part was to me, sounding more brotherly than anything. "He's a good kid. Tries to beat me in chess. Ambitious." A sigh, a touch to the long scar running through his eye. "I remember when Obito and I played chess. He was nowhere near as patient as Sasuke." Each word here is a bitter snap, although who he's angry at, I don't know. Maybe he's mad at himself. "You were really bad at chess."
The hour goes on like this, inter-spliced with long silences where tears should have flown and the sound of distance where I think Kakashi splits into three people slipping away from his grasp. I'm not supposed to talk to him while he breaks apart, only after he puts himself together again and floats back to the surface as a whole person.
He looks up into the trees nearby. "Remember summer when we were kids? Chasing dogs and never catching them. I could use a dog, I think. You're almost like a dog, pretty bird. No where near as messy, though. He was always a mess, always touching everything. Don't touch the sugar bowl, mom will get mad if you break it."
I'm not allowed to touch a lot of things in Kakashi's house. The magnets on the fridge have to stay in the exact same position, the watermelon beneath the coffee mug, the dog with its bone to the right of the watermelon, and the optometrist calling card between them. The blanket in the living room has to be folded and draped over the left hand side of the sofa. He never leaves the house without his little book, just like his wallet. Kakashi is the only one who can touch the sugar bowl. Those are parts of his personal religion, like weekly visits to the cemetery and silence with his morning coffee, like prayers.
Now I know why I can't touch the sugar bowl- why no one can touch the sugar bowl.
"Sure is hot today," he comments idly. The leaves in the trees above us rattle in agreement as squirrels scurry from branch to branch. "Hot as hell." He reaches into the backpack where our lunch is tucked away and tosses me a water bottle. Some time in the last few seconds he's put himself back together. He's Kakashi again.
"Why do you talk to him?" I ask as I unscrew the cap. I ask him the same question every Saturday without failure. "He can't hear you."
Itachi took me to the cemetery one time after our parents died. Just once. He was dressed in black from head to toe, jeans, t-shirt, shoes, hair, eyes. I hated him at the time. He put carnations on mom's grave. On dad's grave, he poured a bottle of gin. Then he walked away. I had to try really hard not to cry. The smell of gin was so strong in the March air, strong like the anger building in my stomach. I already knew he didn't care that they were dead, but you weren't supposed to do that to graves. There was no religion in the world that said it was okay to defile someone's grave.
"You killed them!" I shouted to his departing back. "You killed them, Itachi! Why did you have to kill them?!" I missed mom's cooking and smile, dad's cigarettes and wrenches and evening coffee with gin. I missed having a warm house instead of an cold apartment. "What did they do to you?!"
He paused in his departure, looking just as cold and hard as the granite crosses and marble angels rising from the ground like corpses. "Hell is on earth, Sasuke," he replied softly. "He made sure of that."
I still don't know what he meant when he said that. It didn't answer my question.
Kakashi stretches his limbs, leaning back comfortably against the gravestone. He looks up at the sky as he talks and its almost like I'm not there. "He reminds me of my mistakes," he says to the clouds. "That's what death does. It teaches us what not to do again."
His answer is the same every Saturday without failure. It doesn't answer my question, but I ask him anyway in the hope that it'll be different one day, or that I'll magically understand. Another one of those grown-up things I won't understand until I'm older.
If I ask Itachi why he killed mom and dad again, would he say the same thing he did two years ago? Would he pour gin on Dad's grave? Would I yell at him again?
Maybe that's why I'm afraid of cemeteries. They're full of words that don't mean anything to me, black cats, distance, cold gin-soaked angels and crosses. The bad kinds of religion.
*^*^*
"Genma," Raido calls from behind the counter. "Table five. Order up."
Genma, the newest arrival to the Red Lantern, sweeps by me to collect the four waiting mugs of steaming coffee on a tray. "That redhead at table five is smoking," he says in a low timbre. "You could try smiling at her when she looks at you with smoldering eyes."
I glance over at the girl in question. She's pretty enough, I guess, creamy skin, a light dusting of freckles across her small nose. Pale blue tank top and khaki shirts. Of course, Genma's right. She's looking at me candidly as her girlfriends talk with those smoldering green eyes he mentioned.
I'm used to girls looking at me like that. It seems they all do it. I'm not naive when it comes to sex. I've even had it, although not by choice. I know what those looks mean. They're imagining me naked.
Raido rolls his eyes. "Don't listen to him. He'll screw anything that walks."
"And some things that don't," he adds as he sprays a dollop of whipped cream on two of the coffees. It's six o'clock in the evening, and the café is full of couples on dates and groups of girls who try to look older than they really are by drinking lattes and chai tea. "Seriously, though kid, do something about your fan club. They occupy tables so that they can stare at you for way too long."
"Backs up business," Raido says with a sage head nod.
"Phft," Genma says. The toothpick he keeps perched between his teeth twitches as he scoffs. "Like I care about that. It just pisses me off that they come here for him, but he wants nothing to do with them. All those pretty girls are going to waste."
"Genma, they're like fifteen."
"Age is no barrier to lust, my friend."
"You're disgusting," I tell him honestly as I count up the tips I've earned so far. Their giggling may be annoying, but they're good tippers. "No offense."
"None taken."
Raido sighs in exasperation. "Hurry up with that coffee already, Shiranui, you're backing up business. Itachi, don't listen to a word that comes out of his mouth."
"I never have."
Genma shrugs. "You are no fun at all. So serious all the time. You know, you two are perfect for each other."
"You know, Genma, I'd tell you to go fuck yourself, but I don't think it would do any good."
He laughs lecherously and adds stirring straws to the mugs. "You know, Raido, you're probably right." He leans down, grinning in my ear. "But I'd rather let him do it for me."
I lose count and pause long enough for Genma to knows he's gotten to me. He laughs smugly and saunters away balancing the coffee laden tray easily on his right hand. Genma delights in making me all kinds of uncomfortable, and yet I can't help liking his presence for the sheer oddity of it in an otherwise dull place. He smiles a lot. The world's most personable sadist.
Raido wants to be annoyed, but his lips slip into a slow, easy smile, his vocal chords into a chuckle. "If I wasn't dating him, I'd have to kill him for being such a damn pervert."
"The sex is that good, huh?"
"We haven't had sex yet," Raido mumbles with a blush, looking around to make sure no one heard. "We've only been dating for one month."
"Isn't one night pretty much the standard for getting laid when you're gay?"
"That's the standard for gay whores. I am not a whore." He motions in Genma's direction, who is taking too long talking to the pretty, underage girls. "That's his area of expertise."
Still talking to the girls at table five, Genma says something that makes the blonde blush and giggle. The green eyed red head tilts her head in my direction and smiles faintly. Somewhere deep down I think that I should do something back, nod my head, smile, wave. But I don't, because I just don't care enough. It's not that she isn't pretty, because she is, but I smiling at her would indicate that I'm interested in her, which I definitely am not.
"Why don't you say something to him?" His behavior makes me uncomfortable. Genma is twenty four, too old to be hitting on sixteen year olds.
Raido watches his boyfriend thoughtfully. "Because when it comes down to it, Genma's harmless. Perverted, sadistic, and annoying, but harmless. He wouldn't actually do anything."
I don't think you can vouch for any one. No one guessed that my father was capable of doing the things he did. Of course, he never smiled like Genma, or chuckled like Genma. Sasuke was too young to remember at the time, but I remember Mom crying a lot when he came home from the police station. No matter how softly she cried, her tears always pulled me from sleep. That's when he'd come into my room.
The café feels hot all of a sudden and I wonder if the air conditioner is on the fritz again. Besides Raido's calm sensibility, the major perk of working here is the air conditioning, which now doesn't feel like it’s turned up high enough. I grip my glass of ice water, willing the chill to seep into my bloodstream.
"And anyway, he knows that I'll wring his neck if he does."
I think of his chuckles and grins and decide that Raido's probably right. I refuse to trust him entirely, but probably is good enough for me. Probably is as close to optimism as I know how to get. I envy Raido's trust in his boyfriend. I envy people who can trust, because every time I leave Sasuke alone with Kakashi, my stomach contracts and I want to carry him away and lock him in a closet so that no one can touch him.
And it's still too hot in here.
"Your break ends in five minutes," Raido reminds me. "You should eat something. I can make you a sandwich and give you an extra ten minutes to eat."
"And abuse your position of power for little old me?" I say sarcastically. "I couldn't possibly let you do that."
"Fine, then your break ends now. Look alive, you have a customer."
That figures. I turn around and promptly freeze in my tracks. Dr. Hoshigaki's tanned face looms three seats down from me like a rock star straight from a tour poster, his blue-black eyes matching his curly blue-black hair, complimented by his royal blue t-shirt and black jeans. Seeing him in street clothes is more than a little unnerving. The last two times I saw him he was bedecked in professional garb, suit, tie, the whole shebang. Also blue, if I recall.
He smiles crookedly, flashing me white teeth as he takes a seat at the counter. I hate that he smiles at me like he knows me. Who does he think he is, anyway? I've known him for two hours in the past two weeks; he has no right to smile at me like that.
"I didn't realize you worked here, Itachi," he says as I hand him a menu because I have to. I'd rather him leave, but work is work. "I was just here on Tuesday and the food was so good that I decided to come back and try the coffee I've heard so much about from my neighbors."
I nod politely, smile because they make me. I hate to show him my smile. I know he'll say something about it at our next session. "I'll give you a few minutes to look over the menu," I tell him before turning heel and departing to attend a couple freshly occupying one of the window tables.
Genma's back behind the counter when I get back, pinning his order to the strip of cork board along the window separating the restaurant from the kitchen. I rip off my order form and hand it to him to tack up along with his. He obliges, but replaces the order slip with a folded piece of lined paper.
"The redhead asked me to give you that," Genma explains as Raido snatches both order slips away. "Says her name is Addie and she's very much single."
"I don't really care." I push the paper back into his clutches. "Not interested."
"Oh come on, Itachi," Genma whines in exasperation. "She's cute, single, has a nice smile. It won't kill you to give her a call."
"I don't need anything else to worry about right now," I say as I storm away. Genma, of course, follows on my heels. He's like a dog; no matter how many times you slap him on the snout, he always comes back for more. "I don't have time for a girlfriend."
"Take the number," he insists, following me over to Dr. Hoshigaki. "You don't have to call her, but take the number."
"No."
"Come on, kid."
"Hi, my name is Itachi," I say to the doctor, hoping that Genma will take the hint and make himself scarce. “What can I get you tonight?" God, I hate saying that.
"It's just a phone num. . ." He trails off abruptly, attention fully on my shrink. Genma has a bad case of wondering eyes when it comes to men. He also attracts them like nectar attracts bees. "Hi, I'm Genma," he introduces himself. "Seeing anyone?"
"You're not single, jackass," Raido yells from the kitchen. Raido has ears like a bat.
Dr. Hoshigaki smiles knowingly. With looks like a rock star, he probably has to ward of women with a baseball bat. I've already seen a few of them gazing at him since he walked in. He's used to men hitting on him too, judging by his nonchalant reaction to Genma. "What's the coffee special of the day?"
"Hazelnut vanilla."
"Sounds good." He hands me the menu. "You look cute in that apron, by the way. Red is a good color on you."
Teasing me. He's not allowed to do that. He's not allowed to wear casual clothes and waltz into my restaurant and make all the women gawk at him just because he looks like he belongs up on stage. And it isn't apron, it's a smock.
"You know him?" Genma exclaims in bemusement.
"Not well," I reply before Dr. Hoshigaki can say anything.
"I'm his therapist." I wish he'd stop being so friendly.
"Oh, you're number eleven, huh?" He switches his toothpick to the other side of his mouth. "Good, then maybe you can tell him to take the phone number," he says as he tosses the slip of paper on the counter. "He doesn't listen to me."
"From what I can gather, Itachi doesn't listen to anyone." His crooked smile flashes. "Stubborn to a fault."
"I'll be right back with your coffee," I say stiffly. He only smiles at me, the infuriating bastard. We've only has two sessions, but both were unlike any session I've had with a therapist to date. The first time, he started telling me about his love for music, but never asked me questions about my own life. I learned a lot about Led Zeppelin that day, although I don't know what they sound like aside from his vivid descriptions. The second time, neither of us said a word. I sat in my chair waiting for inquiries that never came. He worked on a crossword puzzle, wasting both of our times.
Music is a waste of time, too. Insubstantial, fleeting, here then gone. I don't have time for rock stars anymore than I have time for girls.
Rock stars and their infuriating smiles.
"Yeah," Genma agrees with a familiar chuckle. "That's Itachi alright."
Dr. Hoshigaki is quiet as I leave for his coffee and is quiet when I come back. I hate him for knowing when to back off and leave me alone. I hate him for not making me talk. He's a psychiatrist, how dare he make me sit in comfortable silences? He's not doing his job very well, because I dislike him more with each passing second as he sips his hot coffee and hums to himself.
Music. A waste of time, trying to make me like him with music. I don't listen to music.
----------
IV. Curiosity killed the cat and nothing you say can bring him back
I know Sasuke is bored during our cemetery visits, but I can't stop years of tradition just because I'm suddenly the kid's number one babysitter. Honestly, Itachi's lucky I'm such a laid-back guy, otherwise he'd have serious problems.
Having Sasuke around all the time is strange, though not in a bad way. I grew up an only child, so I’m not familiar with brotherly affection. He's a sweet kid, curious, smart, quiet, grimly determined to beat me at chess (which will never happen, but I admire his effort) and more observant than any nine year old I've ever met. Granted, I don't know many nine year olds. I didn't know many nine year olds when *I* was nine either. I was never big on the whole "go make nice with the other kids, sweetie" thing parents are supposed to instill in their children.
Still, what I feel toward Sasuke is not brotherly. Fatherly is wrong, too. Those feeling would indicate a kind of protective instinct that I don't have. I don't treat Sasuke any differently than I treat his older brother, or Iruka, or Genma. Teasing, irritating, joking, embarrassing, those are my mediums for communication. As small and young as he is, I consider him just another person that I can call a loathsome nickname, tease into scowling, and embarrass into blushing. Okay, so the last one is reserved specifically for Iruka, but generally speaking, those are my goals. He's just a person.
So as just another person in my life, I don't feel obligated to exclude him from my rituals. If he's going to be a permanent fixture, then he has to endure the stranger aspects of my life. Its not as if I don't know that talking to a gravestone is out of the ordinary. The thing is, I don't know how to stop. I've come to depend on my conversations with Obito. Dead or not, I swear he can hear me. Maybe its just another sign that I'm losing my sanity, but lately, I think it's the only thing *keeping* me sane.
If what I do at the cemetery scares Sasuke, he doesn't say anything. Like in everything else, he seems more curious than anything, intent on figuring out why I talk to the dead. Sasuke seeks rationale behind everything: why my hair is silver when I’m so young, why the "e" is silent, why his brother is so distant, why his parents are really dead, why I talk to inanimate objects. Some questions I answer, some questions I don't. Some I have no right to answer, others I can’t answer because I just don't know.
Keeping him naive is not my intention. Telling him why his parents are dead would tread on his brothers toes, one of those questions I don't have the right to answer. Telling him why I talk to my dead friend is too personal, one of those questions even I don’t know the answer to. But I can tell him why the "silent e" isn't actually silent. I can explain to him the things that don't matter so much. Anything else is beyond me, the relevance of our existence, the marionette strings of guilt, the intricacies of prayer. I tell him what I know, that death teaches us what not to do again. And it never lets us forget.
After I force him to endure my communication with the dead, I feel that the least I can do is take him out to dinner. He really is a patient kid, more so than most adults. Feeding him chicken fingers and fries is the least I can do after letting him see me fall to pieces that many times.
"Hey sexy, what’s shaking?" Genma quips as he plops two menus down on the flat surface of the small booth. Light brown cocoa eyes that promise anything and charlatan grins made Genma quite the lady killer in the olden days. He's managed to settle down for the record of five weeks with a guy named Raido, who, for what I expected from wild west bandanna wearing Genma Shiranui, is tame and down to earth. But he makes a mean cup of hazelnut vanilla coffee, so I have no choice but to approve.
"I brought a friend," I tell him. Sasuke's never been to the Red Lantern Café where Itachi works nights and weekends, so he's never met Genma in person. "This is Itachi's little brother, Sasuke Uchiha."
Upon hearing his name, Sasuke looks up from the menu and gives Genma a once over. "You're the guy from the picture in his living room," he informs him astutely. The once over has turned into a lengthy appraisal of this man that I know. He knows I'm peculiar about my company.
"Wow," Genma marvels. "Itachi told us he had a little brother, but I didn't realize they'd look so much alike."
"He has better hair than me," Sasuke says with a frown. Half jealous observation, half complaint. "Mine always sticks up in the back." His raven locks are in an awkward stage of growth. I don't blame him for having hair envy. Mine is very much like his. There are days when I'm convinced that each individual stand has a conniving mind of its own.
Genma takes a few second to return the appraisal, his brown eyes flicking over Sasuke from head to toe to head again. "I wouldn't worry about that, kid. Your hair's got attitude. It's like a character quirk."
Sasuke regards him carefully, judging his merit. Like Itachi, he analyzes everything before he speaks. I'm not sure whose influence that was. It might have been mine, since it seems to have escalated in the last month of chess matches. "Character quirk?"
"Yeah. They're the things that make you Sasuke and not Kakashi. Everybody has them and the older you get, the more of them you have."
His hand flies to the back of his head, brushing down the unruly licks of hair that jut out of his head like bird feathers. The idea of having character quirks appeals to him. Makes him feel a little bit older. Sasuke doesn’t like being treated like a little kid not allowed in on the big secrets we adults hide from him. The secrets his brother hides from him to keep him safe.
That's where Itachi and I are different. Itachi lies to protect Sasuke. I lie to protect myself.
He grins like only a nine year old can, with the pure, unadulterated excitement of fortuitous revelation. It’s amazing. After knowing Sasuke for a total of one whole minute Genma has him smiling like they've been close friends for years. That's Genma, making you fall in love with him with Cheshire cat grins and milk chocolate eyes. That's how he got me up against the wall within two days. We had a thing briefly a few years ago, a purely sexual thing that lasted a grand total of two weeks. He's amazing in bed. I’ll never tell him that little fact, of course. He doesn't need anymore boosts to his ego. Just another secret I keep to myself.
I'll have to clue Raido in one of these days. Maybe it'll expedite the gravitational pull of his pants.
"I'll have the fried clams," I say after scanning the menu for a moment. The Red Lantern has amazing fried clams *and* amazing coffee. I don't know why I bother scanning the menu.
"Chicken fingers," Sasuke says decisively. "And chocolate milk."
"I'll take an iced tea."
Genma scribbles on his pad and tucks the pen behind his ear. "Okay. Be right back kiddies."
"He's your friend, right?" Sasuke asks as Genma slips behind the counter to get our drinks and place our order.
"Genma," I say by way of answer. "He was my roommate for a couple of years in college. I had your brother recommend him for a job."
"Itachi did you a favor?"
I chuckled. The notion is rather odd. Favors are things that friends do for each other, and I can't say I classify him as a friend. Sasuke is more of a friend than his stoic brother. He's been through a lot in a short span of time, that I understand. Raising a kid on your own when you're fifteen isn't exactly a walk in the park, but there's just something off with him, something mechanical that makes sympathy hard. "He owes me for all the baby-sitting I do. For free, I might add."
"I'm not a baby, Kakashi," he shots back with as much venom a nine year old can manage. It comes out as something closer to indignant. "I haven't been a baby for seven whole years."
"Are you trying to impress me with your math prowess, pretty bird?"
"Depends. What's prowess?"
"Something you don't have in vocabulary yet."
He scowls, and it’s my turn to grin. His reactions amuse me. "Show-off."
"Iced tea and chocolate milk," Genma announces as he plunks our drinks down on the table. "Don't tell Itachi I'm doing this, but your meal is on the house. He'll glare at me for days if he finds out."
"Free food? I think I can keep a secret." I take a quick peek around the café, searching for the long haired boy with perpetual lines around his eyes. "Where is Itachi anyway?"
"Working the counter." He flicks a lazy thumb behind his back. "He likes working with smaller groups of people. And it’s harder to see the red apron when you're behind the counter."
Itachi is busy arranging a mug of coffee and a plate of biscotti. He's too thin; I realize looking at him from the side. The red of the apron is harsh against his snow white skin. The expression on his face is carefully schooled to blankness. He looks like a bleeding statue. His eyes betray him, though. His eyes are glaring at a man with a mop of curly black hair.
"Who is he glaring at?" I inquire with mild curiosity. Itachi's glares aren't unusual for me. I irritate him to no end. I find it odd that he would glare at a customer, however. It isn't very professional of him. He takes work very seriously.
Genma glances over his shoulder. Sasuke busies himself with sipping his chocolate through a straw and feigning disinterest. His eyes betray him too. "Oh, you mean the guy that looks like he fell off the back of a tour bus? That's Dr. Hoshigaki. His psychiatrist."
"Number eleven?"
"Yup. This is the second Saturday in a row he's been in here. Can't say I'm complaining. He's a nice addition to the scenery."
"Wandering eyes, Genma," I warn him playfully. Genma’s not a bad guy, but his libido is on permanent overdrive. Fidelity is a backseat driver when it comes to Genma’s gear stick.
He catches the warning and grins his Cheshire cat grin. "Don't worry. I'm being a good boy. And I'm pretty sure Raido’s gonna give in to temptation soon."
I almost miss Itachi's disapproving glares as Raido and I talk about dirty things in front of his little brother, currently redirected at the good doctor unwittingly providing me with an gracious view of his extremely taut ass. "What makes you say that?"
"I have my ways, Kashi." Rodeo eyes, feline smile. I miss his ways. Suddenly, I long to give Iruka a call. He's not usually doing anything on Saturdays.
I sigh. Saturday is not a day for sex. That's Sunday, the day of rest and sins and sins that never rest.
Itachi none too gently places the biscotti and coffee in front of Dr. Hoshigaki. I can't help wondering what in the world he did to entice Itachi's mild-mannered wrath.
"Is Kashi that nickname that I'm not allowed to call you until I'm older?"
"Stop being so curious, pretty bird." I smiled. Iruka calls me Kashi. "And yes."
*^*^*
The clock in the office ticks too slowly for my liking. Each passing second is disjointed and loud.
Dr. Hoshigaki is lipping the eraser on his pencil, blue eyes lowered in thought. I'm pointedly trying to communicate my displeasure, mostly by sending intense glares to the center of his forehead. Unfortunately, the rays of my wrath are bouncing futilely off of his forehead and back to me. He sits there, legs comfortably crossed as he switches from lipping his pencil to tapping it on his knuckles.
Our fourth session of silence.
My smock is folded up and resting underneath my chair next to the leftover pie I'm bringing home for Sasuke. The rest of me is folded up as well. I'm still waiting for the questions that I know he wants to ask. I'm ready for him, whenever he decides to strike. Right now, however, he's about as poised to strike as a cat napping on a window sill. Sleeves rolled up past his elbows and tie loosened and askew, he looks to casual to be here, in this office with oriental rugs and diplomas displayed in neatly aligned picture frames on the wall behind his desk. The only sign that he has any hold to this place is the autographed ticket stub perched on the oak mantle behind him.
There is no point in being here if he isn't going to talk. I sigh for what I think is the seventh time since my arrival thirty minutes ago. The hour wasted here is an hour I normally spend working at the café making money and otherwise being constructive.
I stand up. This gets the bastard's attention. He looks up and watches me gather my smock and pie wordlessly. "There's still thirty minutes left in your session," he reminds me. As if I don’t know.
"If you aren't going to do your job then I don't see the point in staying," I say briskly.
"You said you didn't want to talk."
My grip on the pie box convulses momentarily. He's looking at me in what I can only describe as amusement. The man thinks I'm funny. I'm not funny. I'm angry, mostly at him but partly for the pie filling dribbling from a corner of the box. I hope it stains his faux-exotic oriental rug from Wal mart.
"You also said you didn't want me to talk about myself."
Calm down, I command myself. On the outside I keep my features schooled into neutrality. On the inside I’m seething. He knows very well what I meant when I said I didn’t want to know anything about him in our first train wreck of a session. He knows I meant. He knows that I don't like him showing up in my café on Saturdays. He doesn't belong there any more than he belongs in this office not talking to me, or any more than I belong in that damn chair listening to the too loud ticking of his clock.
"You aren't doing your job," I inform his stiffly. "You aren't a very good psychiatrist, doctor."
I can't help the venom that leaks from my tongue as I call him doctor. I can't help the way the blueberry pie sliding down my wrist tickles in the slightest. I can't help thinking that in spite of his grating personality and unprofessional antics, I can almost hear guitars and I wonder exactly what Led Zeppelin sounds like.
He tosses the pencil aside. It rolls back as he rests his head on the hands tucked behind his head. "If I'm not allowed to talk about you and I'm not allowed to talk about me, then how in the hell am I supposed to do my job?" His tone is deceptive. Even the word "hell" is said as if we were having a pleasant conversation. Dr. Hoshigaki is the first psychiatrist who has cursed at me. He's also the first psychiatrist to leave me speechless for a fraction of a second.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three, four, five seconds.
"You're supposed to answer the questions I ask you, Itachi. What do you want me to do with you?"
Six seconds, seven seconds, eight seconds. Somewhere in my brain there's a nagging voice telling me that my silence is giving him the victory, but if I say what I want, then I lose too. I want him to leave me alone. He was doing exactly what I wanted from the rest of my psychiatrists.
Nine, ten, eleven seconds.
I concede defeat by sitting back down in the abandoned chair. He grants me reprieve by not smiling.
I still hate it that he knows when to leave me alone. All he does is pick up the pencil and fill in a word on the crossword puzzle.
Silence. The clock ticks like a succession of gunshots. The overhead fans whirls, the air conditioner hums. Cicadas thrum in the trees, the traffic comes and goes, the rain smacks gently against the glass. Dr. Hoshigaki breathes out musical notes. His voice is nice in sighs.
"What's a seven letter word for decay?"
I meet piercing blue eyes when I look up. I’m lost for a second, thinking about how those eyes of his mimic the sound of his breathy singing voice. I can't even remember the question. A seven letter word for what? All I can think about is blue and all the words to describe it: azure, sky, robin's eye, royal, navy, aqua, cerulean. Blueberry, like the stain on my arm and not on his carpet.
*Stop that,* I command myself. *They're just eyes. It's just a color. Seven letter word for decay, Itachi. Give him the seven letter word for decay.*
"Atrophy," I say after I've recovered, hoping my pause wasn't long enough to be suspicious.
He examines the puzzle and then nods approvingly. "Right. Thank you." He smiles at the crossword puzzle. Really, does he have to smile at everything? Just like Genma with his damn smiles.
*^*^*
What started as a light rain turned into a thunderstorm. At eight thirty, the ceiling above the coffee table started a steady drip. Kakashi and me pull out all of the big bowls from the cabinets and place them under all the spots in the apartment that leak, the chair in the kitchen, the back burner of stove, just outside the rim of the bath tub, on the arm of the couch.
Bowls are everywhere. I like the water fountain sound the rain makes once the bowls fill up a little. The bright colors of the plastic bowls are, as usual, out of place in the apartment, but the sound of rainwater belongs here.
The jangle of keys in the lock of the apartment door. Kakashi looks down from his inspection of the ceiling in time to see the door creak open on rusty hinges. It sounds like a cat hissing.
"How long has the ceiling been leaking like this?" Kakashi asks. Concern is just barely noticeable in his tone.
"Since we moved in," is Itachi's curt reply. He drops a box on the table. One of the corners of the box is dyed a deep blue color. He leaves without another word. The door to our bedroom clicks quietly shut a few seconds later.
Kakashi eyes dart from the bedroom door, to me, to the pie. "I should go, now, pretty bird."
I understand. I don't like it, but I understand. He's concerned about us, but not enough to stay and eat pie with me. It's not his responsibility to make sure we are okay.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he promises. He's trying to make amends for leaving, but I'd rather have him here *now.* He doesn't belong here among the plastic fountains, but I wish he would stay anyway. As nice as he is to me and Itachi, he can't be here when I really *need* him. I realize then exactly how much I depend on him. He's the closest thing I have to a friend after Naruto.
He ruffles my hair and leaves with a wave. I'm alone with the sound of rainwater and blueberry pie that doesn't taste as good without someone to eat it with me. Itachi is always gone, and Kakashi, with all of his character quirks, routines, and prayers to ghosts, isn't someone I should depend on because he'll still practice his superstitious, cemetery-black cat religion even if I'm not a part of his life. The problem is, I do anyway. Without him, I have a brother who doesn't talk and an apartment full of water. As I open the box of leftover café dessert, I wonder if I could practice holding my breath in one of the bowls. They're big enough for my still small head. I can practice for Saturdays.
I plunge a fork into the pie, alone. Thursdays are long days, too.
Chapter Three
