talking of michelangelo (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
suchacharmer) wrote2011-05-02 11:33 pm
suchacharmer) wrote2011-05-02 11:33 pm
Entry tags:
[Fic] december
December: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, drug and sexual references, mature subject matter.
Notes: First person narratives alternating between Sasuke, Itachi, Kisame, and Kakashi.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
***
Come on, we all know I'm not Kishimoto, don't we?
September
III. Cloud nine is right above cloud eight and right below the six on your phone
When I was five, mom got really sick. She coughed nonstop for hours. I didn't know it was possible to cough while you sleep until I heard mom do it. It sounded so horrible, like she was going to die if I didn't do something but I was too scared to go near her and Itachi was at school. I shut myself in my bedroom, listening to her hacking cough through walls that had never felt that thin.
Itachi isn't coughing like mom was when she got sick, but I still think he might ill. His skin is even paler than usual, a chalky white color. The circles under his eyes look even blacker. He's sitting at the kitchen table in a rickety chair kept upright by copy of the bible, staring into the cup of tea I made him for breakfast. The bible was Mom's before she died. Her name is still in it. Whenever I miss her I prop the chair up against table so that it doesn't fall and flip open to the first page where her name is written. My name is in there too, just like dad's and Itachi's. There's a permanent depression in the center of the leather cover from the chair leg. I'd take it out right now, but Itachi is sitting in the chair and I can’t ask him to move when he's so sick. He never touches the bible anyway.
Mom always knew what to do when once of us got sick: cool clothes to the forehead, foot-rubs, water whenever our throats went dry; soft food for sore throats and saltines for upset stomachs. I thought my mom was a doctor because she was so good at fixing us up all the time. Unlike her, I don't know what to do for Itachi. He hasn't said a word to me in the past five days since he hurt his hand other than the few things he said at Kakashi's before leading me away. He's stayed home everyday this week.
Times like this are when I really, really want him to say something. If he would just let me know that he's okay that he's going to be okay after his hand heals. Right now, his silence is keeping us in limbo. I don't know what to think of say or do. He's not even drinking the tea I made and I don’t think he's going to.
Maybe he would eat some chicken noodle soup if I made it for him. He cooked it for me when I was sick last October. It was from a can, not homemade like mom used to make it, but it still tasted good. We almost never had any food last year because Itachi hadn't started working two jobs yet. I'm not sure, but I don't think he ate dinner that night. He stayed in the bedroom with me almost the entire time, keeping me busy playing the memory game. We couldn't afford to see a doctor back then. We probably still can't. The doctors stitched up his hand at the hospital, but I can't figure out how he paid for it if we can't even afford a pediatrician. I wonder how long it'll be before the food starts to run out.
If I could do something to help, I would. I don't think people hire kids in their stores though; I guess because we're supposed to be in school while all the grown-ups are working. I could be like Naruto and beg for money in the streets, but I don't think Itachi would like that much. He does his best to make sure I don't have to worry about how much money we have. He's always managed to feed me even if it means he has to skip a meal. That's why I have to figure something out. I have to help. Itachi might not want me to worry, but it's too late for that. I'm already worried.
I can't do anything now, of course. I have to catch the bus to school. Popping the last piece of toast into my mouth, I grab my book bag and slide off of the chair. My legs are still too short to reach the floor, properly. Itachi has the very tip of his finger in the tea, going around and around in tight circular movements. He's not paying attention to me. He probably wouldn't notice if I hugged him. So I don't. He doesn't like to be touched anyway.
*^*^*
Early morning calls aren't unusual in my line of work. Sometimes I wake up to the ring of my phone instead of the music of the alarm clock radio. Not unusual, but not pleasant either. I can't help the groan I let loose as the damn thing rings at five in the morning, rousing me from sleep an hour early.
"Hello," I rumble out with as much normality as I can in my sleepy state. In working with victims of trauma, it's always a good idea to use a calm voice no matter what the situation. It usually helps a patient relax, especially since the only calls I ever get this early are from patients of mine who've woken up from a nightmare of some kind. Knowing that their doctor isn't out-of-sorts eases some of the panic. "Dr. Hoshigaki speaking."
"Kisame? That you?"
I rub my eyes as I sit up. That's not one of my patients. None of my patients call me at five in the morning playing Edelweiss on the piano. I don't need to see him to imagine the way his fingers move on the piano keys. Of course, I'm thinking of the old piano we used to have wedged into the corner of the living room. The keys were more ivory than white and there was a scratch on the lid. "No proper place for a piano," as he would comment every time he sat on the bench. The middle of a room, the foot of a spiraling staircase, that's were pianos belong. My dad has all kinds of illusions of grandeur when it comes to music. The one he's playing now is some new piano I've never seen out in California. Hell, I've never even met Claudia in person. It's their piano.
"It's midnight in San Francisco, Dad. Why are you still awake?"
"The music called," he answers as he slips into the melody of a song I've never heard before. One of his originals that he never quite finishes. "Besides, I wanted to know something."
"Now?"
"When else?" The sound of tinkling glasses sounds not far away. Wine glasses, maybe. A woman laughing. "Kisame, say hello to Claudia."
"Good morning, Claudia," I say pointedly into the receiver. "I've always wanted to wake up before sunrise."
Claudia laughs. Even her laugh sounds like a piano. "Sorry, hon. Your dad's had a little too much to drink."
As if my dad needs alcohol in his system to call me in this early in the morning. Time means nothing to him, sleep even less. "Mhmm," I say as I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. The piano in the background is slowly pulling me out of sleep. I know I'll be awake by the time the phone call ends. "Having a party of some kind over there?"
"Just a few friends." Laughter erupts and the piano's tempo picks up. When I was little I used to think that no fingers could move as quickly as my dad's. "He just wanted to hear your voice, I think. You're on speaker phone."
I flick the light on next to the bed, illuminating my small loft bedroom. It's divided from the living room and kitchen by a backless shelving unit that housing all of my cds and some of the old albums Dad left behind when he moved to California. Our old piano is just past the bookshelf, sandwiched between the shelving and the sofa. I use the lid covering the keys as an impromptu coaster for the drinks. Dad would have been outraged at the irreverence of it.
"I should write him a letter," Dad says as he stops playing for a moment. "Do you think he'd like a letter?"
"I'd love a letter, Dad," I assure perfunctorily, knowing full well that any letter he tries to write will turn into an attempt to write a song. I stretch sleep heavy climbs as I stand up, thoughts of coffee on my mind. Dear Kisame and bar notes on makeshift sheet music.
He laughs throatily. My dad was born to sing the blues with his raspy vocal chords, no smoking required. "Then I'll write you a letter." There's another long pause before I hear him picking out chords on the piano again, testing new sound combinations. Then he's humming and whispering words under his breath that I can't hear. He's gone, leaving me wondering why he even bothered to call. He won't write me a letter. I haven't even seen him in three years.
According to prestigious psychological journals I'm supposed to be angry at him for not being there for me in my childhood. A boy needs his father, right? Then I touched piano keys and understood something about him: I needed my father, but my father needed the piano.
I figured out pretty early on that the quickest way to make him pay attention to me was to pick up his music. Those kinds of revelations seem like magic when you're young, but when you're older they seem practical. If the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, than my way to Dad's heart was through his eardrums. He taught me everything I know about music. Even in his darkest of moods, I said "show me how" and he would happily position my hands on fingers on the strings of his guitar or count measures for scales. Discovering I could play just like he could felt like magic at the time too. I've developed a sense of logic since then. I am born the child of musicians. Nights of guitar chords, the smell of cigarette smoke. My childhood lullabies and mother's perfume and bedtime stories all rolled up into one.
Looking at our relationship, it's would be unfair of me not to call him on his mistakes. He lived off in a different world as far as I was concerned, only coming into contact with mine when I showed an interest in his. He isn't meant to be a father. As young as six I understood that that I didn't matter to him nearly as much as the mother I never met and the music he never finished writing. For those same reasons I can't hold anything against him. I may not play the piano or the guitar anymore, but that's only because I know what it's like to want something you can never have. How much some things just never change.
"Dad," I said softly as I turn on the lamp in the combined living room and kitchen area of my bachelor loft. The soft lighting, dim like the corner jazz clubs in Boston, casts just as much shadow as light into the small space. I don't expect an answer and I don't get one.
Beautiful song, though. Absolutely beautiful.
I hang up mid-chord, dropping the phone on the sofa as I make my way into the kitchen area to make some coffee that's nowhere near as good as the cup they brew at the Red Lantern. I went there on Wednesday even though Itachi wasn't working, just for the coffee.
I wasn't surprised that he'd skipped our session on Thursday, especially since I'm part of the reason he cut his hand, intentionally or not, and owe him some kind of apology. I've just never met anyone quite as stubborn as Itachi Uchiha, in or out of the office. He's like a wall of ice when it comes to me. I have to find a way to make him let his guard down. I can't help him any other way. My only choice is to rely on time and insistence to wear him down. Just being around him more than once a week is a start, although I fucked that up pretty spectacularly. Creating public scenes is not a way to get someone to like you.
As the smell of coffee fills the room, I ready a coffee mug and get the creamer out of the fridge. The scent doesn't fail to remind me of Itachi. He smells like it on our Thursday session; it settles into the corners of the office and doesn't leave until the next day.
I wish I knew more about him. So far I only know the basics; eye color, hair color, height, where he works, his records from court, his brother's name. I have the psychological evaluation from the time of the trial. His blood type. Newspaper clippings from the murder. Everything superficial. He's easy enough to figure out on the surface. It's a case of classic repression. Talking about it makes it real. So on and so forth. It's all in the text books.
What I see is a scared kid playing at being a grown-up. And those eyes, dark, tired, hard eyes that remind so much of my dad after sleepless nights. I can only guess at what he's thinking when he sets those eyes on me. They watch me warily, like I'm conspiring to hurt him somehow. Like the whole world is out to make him suffer a little more. Like I don't care.
I pour myself a cup as soon as it's done, blowing lightly before I take a sip. It's not as good as The Red Lantern's coffee.
*^*^*
Hearing my name over the intercom right after school let out caught me by surprise. The last time I was called to the office was in the second grade when I accidentally left my project at home on the dining room table. Mom brought it in for me with a note warning me to be more careful and signed with a smiley faced heart at the bottom. I've never forgotten a project since then, mostly because of the smiling heart. Leave it to moms to put embarrassing stuff like that where anyone could see it.
I almost don't want to go to the office. The buses are going to leave soon and if I didn't get on then I would be stranded at school. But I couldn't just leave now that my name had been called. It could be about something important. Maybe I'm in trouble for something, although I can’t imagine what since I don't remember doing anything wrong. Maybe I did something good and they want to give me a certificate. I did make honor roll again. Maybe. . .I swallow back a brief burst of uncertainty. Neji's father died during the school day; he was called to the office in the middle of our grammar lesson just before school let out for the summer. Itachi is at home all alone with his cut-up hand. I don't know if that kind of injury can kill a person or not, but I can't get Neji out of my mind. If Itachi died, what would happen to me?
Pushing my fright down to my feet where I can't feel it clenching my stomach, I turn left instead of right at the end of the hall. Very few kids are going in my direction. Everyone just wants to go home to their air-conditioned houses and pull out their videogame consoles and veg out until their parents make them do their homework. Itachi and I don't even have a television at home. At first we had a really tiny one with a fuzzy screen that I watched when I got tired of playing bored games with myself. I always tie with myself because both parts of me are too stubborn to lose. Monopoly is the best. If I'm both players, I have twice as much money and own the railroad and properties on the boardwalk.
Before mom and dad were gone, Itachi used to play Monopoly with me. He always, won, of course, being older and smarter than me. I always ended up in jail and Itachi was always the banker with all the money. Sometimes he took pity on me and tried to help, but I never took his advice. I wanted to figure out the best way to win on my own. It never worked.
It's been such along time since we played Monopoly together. It's been such a long time since we did anything together. I miss losing to him. I'm not sure I'll ever have the chance again. Itachi does everything he does for me, but he doesn't have time for me. I can't complain because I know that without all of the hard work he does we'd be in big trouble, but I miss having a brother and doing the fun things brothers are supposed to do with each other. It's like he all of a sudden grew up in the blink of an eye, leaving me behind.
How much would change if Itachi did die? He's already missing most days, busy at work where I can't see him.
I have to toss that thought out of my head as I push open the door to the main office. Itachi dying is not an option. I know what happens if Itachi is gone. Foster care. Adoption. Strangers. That's the last thing I want. Itachi may not be the same as he used to be, but he's all I have. His brain is broken and he didn't drink the tea I made for him, but he'll always be my brother. The thought is both comforting and frightening, knowing that I can't change what we are anymore than I can change what's happened to him.
The office is still full of receptionists, as well as some parents and kids. I guess I have to walk up to the desk and tell them that I’m here, because no one notices my arrival. The office is a slightly intimidating place. Kids tend to get called down to the office when we've done something wrong or something is just wrong in general. I think the office is custom made to make kids feel inferior. The reception desk is way too tall and the windows almost reach the ceiling. I make my way to the desk, standing on the balls of my feet in order to see past the woman in front of me. It doesn't work.
A hand in my hair startles me. I know it's not my brother because he wouldn't do something like that. He doesn't like it when people sneak up behind him, so he tries not to sneak up on me. The weight of the hand feels awfully familiar though, as if it's someone I should know. Then the hand ruffles my hair and chuckles, and I no longer wonder who it is. Instead, I turn my wonder to what exactly he's doing here in my school. "Kakashi?” I ask as I twist my head out of his grasp. "What are you doing here?"
He looks just the same as always, wildly unruly hair doing whatever it wants and rumpled clothes that make it look like he rolled out of bed five minutes ago. Maybe it's just because he's not a parent and has no reason to be here, but I have the distinct feeling that something is wrong with all of this. Shoving his left hand in his pocket, the right one holds up a ring of keys. There aren't very many of them. Out of the seven keys, I recognize six of them. Three are for his car, one for the ignition, one for the door, and one for the trunk. The fourth one, bronze instead of silver, is the key to his house. Five and six belong to the store. I have no idea what the seventh key opens. I've never seen him use it. "I'm here as your personal chauffeur, pretty bird. Ready to go?"
"Where are we going?" I ask suspiciously. No one said anything about this to me. As much as I miss Kakashi after not spending the afternoon with him for the past few days, I find it hard to believe that he would miss me that much.
"My place. Your place. The park. Out for ice cream. Wherever."
I look around again. The receptionists are still busy and not taking notice of us. I don't understand why none of them find it strange that Kakashi is here. Students aren't supposed to leave the school unless they're picked up by family. Kakashi is not family, and yet they paged me. "Are you supposed to be here?"
"I'm beginning to think you aren't happy to see me." He cocks a silver eyebrow. "Did you find a new babysitter so soon?"
I shake my head fervently. "No, that's not it." I did miss him. I miss him, his crowded house, and his fat, lazy dog. I miss playing chess with him and drinking coffee, feeling so little and so grown up at the same time. "But you aren't family, Kakashi. I don't think you're allowed to pick me up."
"Is that all?" He takes his hand out of his pocket to check his watch. Kakashi always has to know what time it is. There's more than one clock in every room of his house. Most of them are round clocks with the tree hands, but the one in the upstairs hall is shaped like a sunflower. "Your brother listed me as an emergency contact with the school office. I have special clearance."
Oh. Well, that makes sense, I guess. But. . .I twitch my shoulders to ease the weight of my backpack. Something is still weird about this. I can't figure out why he came. Unless for some reason Itachi sent him, which wouldn't make any sense since the bus is probably quicker. "Does my brother know you're here?" I ask suspiciously.
"I called him," he said with a shrug. "He's fine with it."
I can't prove that he's lying, but somehow I just know he is. Maybe he did call my brother, maybe he didn't. That doesn't bother me. But I know he's lying about Itachi saying he doesn't mind. About saying anything. Itachi answered him in silence; Kakashi interpreted the silence to mean yes when it really didn't mean anything at all. We both know that.
He checks his watch again. He wears the same watch every day; it's made out of silver and reflects light like a prism. The glass is so clear that I'm tempted to touch the surface and see if I can feel the second hand ticking away. "We should get going, pretty bird," he says as he tucks his hand back into his pocket. "Or did you want to walk home?"
Somewhere in all of this is the real reason why he's here. I've always know that Kakashi likes to lie. Just like his smiles, Kakashi does things in halves. He answers a question without answering a question so that the truth is buried somewhere beneath all of the things he doesn't say. I never know how much of what he says is true. Sometimes it's all, sometimes half, sometimes nothing. I've learned to just take what he gives me as one fraction of the story that I'll unravel on my own one day. Asking him is useless, so I have to depend on time to work it out for me.
"No, we can go," I say as the receptionist finally looks down at me. She smiles and gives me a little wave that says go with him. My sign that all is as it should be has come after I've worked things out on my own. "Can we go to your house?"
"Sure. I was going to take you there anyway."
*^*^*
The ride to Kakashi's house doesn't take very long. His house is four blocks away from the bookstore, which is only five blocks away from the school after you turn the corner. My bus stop is six blocks away from that going that same direction. The bus drops me off two blocks after Kakashi’s house. Itachi arranged it with the school, otherwise it would be closer to my house.
I like riding in Kakashi’s car. Since Mom and Dad died, I haven't been in too many of them. Itachi can't drive yet and Kakashi usually likes to walk places. I've only been in his car two other times, both times in the dead heat of July with the air conditioner aimed to blow on my face, the fabric of the seat pleasantly cool under my legs. Today, since it's been cooler the past few days, he has the windows rolled down as we cruise lazily down Seward Street. "Premature autumn," Kakashi says as he takes one hand off the wheel to push his hair out of his eyes. It flops back over his forehead as soon as he moves his hand away. "I should try wearing a bandana when I drive."
Even if it is premature autumn and it is still summer, the slight chill in the air is a relief from the heavy heat of August. As we drive past the park, mostly blocked from my sight by Kakashi's larger frame, a particularly strong gust of wind tangles itself in his hair and seems to pull the silver strands in several directions at once. I imagine the wind chuckling at the mischief it's created, thoroughly pleased. He doesn't try to fix the damage.
He parallel parks almost exactly in front of his house. The curtains are tied back and the windows are half-way open. Pakkun is lounging on the porch, dark brown eyes open and trained on Kakashi as he steps out of the car. His short tail wiggles ever so slightly before he rolls over onto his back and sticks his tongue out, stubby little legs floundering in the air. Seeing Pakkun makes me wish that Itachi and I had a dog. Dogs are supposed to feel people feel better too, aren't they? They're like soup with fur.
Kakashi's front yard is a simple, forlorn-looking affair. There's no fence separating his yard from the sidewalk. Bushes with tiny green berries border the porch, two on each side of the steps. I think there used to be a walkway leading from the sidewalk to the porch steps, but now it's cracked so badly that thick clumps of grass have sprouted through the fissures. It's almost impossible not to step on at least one crack. The railing is loose on the right side of the porch and his roof sags a little.
I've never minded the state of his house. It's just old. You can't blame a house for being run-down if it's old. None of the other houses on the block are quite as neglected as Kakashi's, but you can see the signs of age in every single one of them. The house across the street has a badly overgrown tree in the front yard, and the house two doors down needs a new coat of paint. My own apartment is so much worse off than Kakashi's that I have a hard time understanding why his next-door-neighbor said something to him about fixing the sidewalk. Kakashi smiled one of his amused smiles at him, said he'd look into it. He never did.
I don't think it's that Kakashi doesn't care about what his house looks like; he keeps the inside of the house clean in spite of the oddly mismatched furniture. His chairs are always pushed in, his carpet vacuumed, and his pillows tucked neatly into the corners of the couch. As much as Kakashi is languid and lazy, the other part of him is careful and particular. I just think he likes the outside the way it is, cracked sidewalk and all.
He nudges Pakkun with his foot as we pass by. Pakkun makes a disgruntled noise before rolling back onto his belly. His yawn is indignant. Kakashi ushers me inside, leaving the front door open.
Dropping his keys in their usual spot, Kakashi eased his feet out of his shoes before padding into the kitchen. I took my shoes off as well, but didn't let go of my book bag. Just because I'm not at the store doesn't mean I have to change my routine. I like to get my homework out of the way as quickly as possible. I decide to do it at the kitchen table, mostly because I'm sure Kakashi would insist.
Pakkuns nails click against the kitchen tile as he wanders in from the porch. He settles down beside my feet and yawns again. Pakkun always looks sleepy, his eyelids at half-mast.
We work in silence. Kakashi mops the floor while I breeze through my math. I don't think the floor actually needed to be cleaned. It was already cleaner than my kitchen floor would ever be. He washes the counters as I work on my reading homework. Mr. Umino wants us to read a paragraph and answer six questions on it. Right near the end I run into a word I don't know. Out of habit, I ask Kakashi what precedent means. He steps out into the living room and returns with the dictionary I've come to regard as the Great Kakashi Translator.
"What, you thought I'd let you off easy?" he says as he picks up his sponge. The entire room smells like berries. He's changed scents in cleaning solution. Used to be lemon.
"No," I say honestly, flipping resignedly through the t section of the dictionary. "I was just hoping."
“Your hope still springs eternal I see.” Pakkun shifts at my feet, and in that transition Kakashi changes the subject with all the fluidity of water. "Nearly done?" He turns on the water to rinse the sponge just as I find the definition of precedent.
"Two more questions." Precedent- an action or decision that can be used subsequently as an example for a similar decision or to justify a similar action. The problem with dictionaries is that the definitions are just as complicated as the word you're looking up. "Why?"
He puts the sponge down, glancing around one more time to make sure he's satisfied with his work. He nods in absent contentment before turning around. "Because I have something for us to do," he says, surprising me as he slips into the chair beside me, long limbs hanging loosely. "A task, if you will, of great importance."
My interest is piqued. Just a little. I hate when he uses that kind of voice on me, the one that says "I know something you don't know," because I always want to know and then half of the time he doesn't tell me what I want to know because he's a jerk like that. "What is it, Kakashi?"
"You have to come outside before I tell you, pretty bird."
I sigh in impatience, flipping to the s-section. I need to look up subsequently before I can figure out precedent. "Fine, but I'm not done yet."
"Don't you worry," he says as he crosses his legs. "I'm very good at waiting."
I find subsequent, which is close enough for me. It would be so much easier if Kakashi would just tell me what precedent means. But I know he won't, even though he's sitting right there. Instead of helping he's humming something under his breath, tracing the face of his watch with his thumb. Luckily, the last problem doesn't involve any words I don't know the meaning of, because I can't take anymore of Kakashi's humming. It's not that he sounds bad; I just know he's doing it to make me even more annoyed with my homework and more impatient to follow him outside. Teasing, always teasing, yet somehow I've actually missed him over the past four days. It doesn't seem possibly to miss a nickname that I don't like and tauntingly vague answers, but I did.
He stands up as soon as I put my pencil down, closing my book for me. He motions for me to follow him as he heads out the back door. Barefoot again.
To my surprise, we don't stay in the back yard. Kakashi props the backdoor open with a small statue of a frog and leads me around the side of the house. I've never been on the side of Kakashi's house before. There are two decrepit looking bushes matching the ones out front that act as a gate from the edge of the porch to the neighbor's fence, blocking the front yard and the side of the house from view. We squeeze through the gap between the somewhat scratchy bushes. Being smaller, I have an easier time making it through than he does. He ends up with a light scratch on his forearm.
The grass here is neat and trim with less spots of brown. A wheel barrow against the fence holds a rake, shovel, and hedge clippers. Against the house is a small plot of brown, almost black earth dotted by leafy green foliage and mutely colored flowers. I blink, stunned.
"You have a garden," I say with more then a little bit of conclusion. I think I meant it to come out as a question.
Kakashi hums in response, reaching into the wheelbarrow for something. He comes up with two pairs of gloves, one light blue, the one other yellow. He hands me the yellow pair and keeps the blue one for himself. I take them, eyeing him, the gloves, and the garden all in turn. "You have a garden," is all I can come up with again.
He eyes me right back. Apparently, nothing about this seems off to him. With a straw hat on his head he’d look like my grandmom. "I needed a hobby."
And here I thought his hobby was confusing me. "You want me to help you garden?"
He nods swiftly, walking to the edge of the plot and dropping to his knees. His bare toes curl in the grass as he shifts his weight to rest on his heels. I'm still trying to figure out how this newly discovered hobby fit in with the Kakashi who doesn't prune or water the bushes in front of his house. "Weeds. They're starting to crowd out the rest of the plants." He pats a spot on the ground right next to him. "The sooner we start the sooner I can make us dinner. You like beef, right?"
"Yeah," I say as I join him on the ground. Closer up, the soil in the garden plot is lighter in some spots than in other. I press an ungloved finger into the earth. Damp. "Hamburger?"
"Mhmm." He taps my yellow gloves. They match the patch in his sofa. "You don't have to wear those. They're probably too big on you."
They definitely look too big. They’re almost twice the size of my hand. I put them on anyway, pinching the extra fabric at the back of my hand to make them look as if they fit. My fingers are lost in the material. I probably won't be able to grip anything, especially tiny weeds.
He takes my gloved hand in his gloved hand and presses our palms together. I curl my fingers so that I can see where my fingertips stop. His hand completely dwarfs mine. He's still taller than me, even with both of us down on the ground. I can't help feeling really young all of a sudden, younger than I've felt since Mom and Dad died. "These aren't my gloves," he tells me as he folds the excess fabric down over my thumb. "The man I bought the house from left them behind with the other gardening tools. The garden was his and his wife's before she died." He does the same for all of my fingers, a contemplative expression in his eyes before he lets the fabric go again. "Such tiny hands, Sasuke."
I freeze as I hear him say my real name. It doesn't scare me, exactly. It just makes me realize that's he thinking about things I don't understand. He only says my real name when we're playing chess. Or when we're at the cemetery. He always calls me Sasuke when he's talking to his dead friend. I look up into his eyes; they aren't looking back at me. They're focused on my hand. "Hard to believe our hands were ever that small. You had such clumsy hands."
I fight the urge to jerk my hands away. I know he won't hurt me, but he's not talking to me anymore. The little flinch I do allow myself has him pressing harder against my palm. It feels like we're back in the graveyard on a Saturday, talking to Obito.
"They'd probably like to meet you, you know. The people who lived here. He's a cute kid. Kind of quiet. Wonder if they had any grandchildren."
This isn't a graveyard. He shouldn't be doing this here, should he? It sounds like he talking to the people who lived here before he did, not Obito. He's talking to a dead woman he never even met. "Kakashi," I break in as he pauses, pushing back against his hand. I'm not waiting for him to pull himself together this time, not here, not today. Not in the place I've come to think of as a second home. I hate cemeteries. "It's not Saturday."
His eyes flick up to meet mine, recognition dancing across the grey of his irises. Which, I note as the flicker steadies into a gaze, have streaks of blue running through them. We're a bit more even in height sitting like this, he back on his heels and me upright on my knees. A brief, hard squeeze to my hand and he’s pulled back completely, taking my glove with him. "Sorry," I just barely hear him breathe. "Sorry, pretty bird."
I'm just glad he stopped. I don't like seeing him like that, when I can nearly feel him lose contact with the present before slipping into a place where he somehow sees when no one else does. It twists my stomach in a bunch of knots I don’t know how to untie. All I can make myself do is nod, pulling the other glove off as Kakashi bends over to pluck the first weed from the garden.
Chapter Four-Part 2
Category: Chapter fic
Status: Work in Progress
Rating: R for language, drug and sexual references, mature subject matter.
Notes: First person narratives alternating between Sasuke, Itachi, Kisame, and Kakashi.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
***
Come on, we all know I'm not Kishimoto, don't we?
September
III. Cloud nine is right above cloud eight and right below the six on your phone
When I was five, mom got really sick. She coughed nonstop for hours. I didn't know it was possible to cough while you sleep until I heard mom do it. It sounded so horrible, like she was going to die if I didn't do something but I was too scared to go near her and Itachi was at school. I shut myself in my bedroom, listening to her hacking cough through walls that had never felt that thin.
Itachi isn't coughing like mom was when she got sick, but I still think he might ill. His skin is even paler than usual, a chalky white color. The circles under his eyes look even blacker. He's sitting at the kitchen table in a rickety chair kept upright by copy of the bible, staring into the cup of tea I made him for breakfast. The bible was Mom's before she died. Her name is still in it. Whenever I miss her I prop the chair up against table so that it doesn't fall and flip open to the first page where her name is written. My name is in there too, just like dad's and Itachi's. There's a permanent depression in the center of the leather cover from the chair leg. I'd take it out right now, but Itachi is sitting in the chair and I can’t ask him to move when he's so sick. He never touches the bible anyway.
Mom always knew what to do when once of us got sick: cool clothes to the forehead, foot-rubs, water whenever our throats went dry; soft food for sore throats and saltines for upset stomachs. I thought my mom was a doctor because she was so good at fixing us up all the time. Unlike her, I don't know what to do for Itachi. He hasn't said a word to me in the past five days since he hurt his hand other than the few things he said at Kakashi's before leading me away. He's stayed home everyday this week.
Times like this are when I really, really want him to say something. If he would just let me know that he's okay that he's going to be okay after his hand heals. Right now, his silence is keeping us in limbo. I don't know what to think of say or do. He's not even drinking the tea I made and I don’t think he's going to.
Maybe he would eat some chicken noodle soup if I made it for him. He cooked it for me when I was sick last October. It was from a can, not homemade like mom used to make it, but it still tasted good. We almost never had any food last year because Itachi hadn't started working two jobs yet. I'm not sure, but I don't think he ate dinner that night. He stayed in the bedroom with me almost the entire time, keeping me busy playing the memory game. We couldn't afford to see a doctor back then. We probably still can't. The doctors stitched up his hand at the hospital, but I can't figure out how he paid for it if we can't even afford a pediatrician. I wonder how long it'll be before the food starts to run out.
If I could do something to help, I would. I don't think people hire kids in their stores though; I guess because we're supposed to be in school while all the grown-ups are working. I could be like Naruto and beg for money in the streets, but I don't think Itachi would like that much. He does his best to make sure I don't have to worry about how much money we have. He's always managed to feed me even if it means he has to skip a meal. That's why I have to figure something out. I have to help. Itachi might not want me to worry, but it's too late for that. I'm already worried.
I can't do anything now, of course. I have to catch the bus to school. Popping the last piece of toast into my mouth, I grab my book bag and slide off of the chair. My legs are still too short to reach the floor, properly. Itachi has the very tip of his finger in the tea, going around and around in tight circular movements. He's not paying attention to me. He probably wouldn't notice if I hugged him. So I don't. He doesn't like to be touched anyway.
*^*^*
Early morning calls aren't unusual in my line of work. Sometimes I wake up to the ring of my phone instead of the music of the alarm clock radio. Not unusual, but not pleasant either. I can't help the groan I let loose as the damn thing rings at five in the morning, rousing me from sleep an hour early.
"Hello," I rumble out with as much normality as I can in my sleepy state. In working with victims of trauma, it's always a good idea to use a calm voice no matter what the situation. It usually helps a patient relax, especially since the only calls I ever get this early are from patients of mine who've woken up from a nightmare of some kind. Knowing that their doctor isn't out-of-sorts eases some of the panic. "Dr. Hoshigaki speaking."
"Kisame? That you?"
I rub my eyes as I sit up. That's not one of my patients. None of my patients call me at five in the morning playing Edelweiss on the piano. I don't need to see him to imagine the way his fingers move on the piano keys. Of course, I'm thinking of the old piano we used to have wedged into the corner of the living room. The keys were more ivory than white and there was a scratch on the lid. "No proper place for a piano," as he would comment every time he sat on the bench. The middle of a room, the foot of a spiraling staircase, that's were pianos belong. My dad has all kinds of illusions of grandeur when it comes to music. The one he's playing now is some new piano I've never seen out in California. Hell, I've never even met Claudia in person. It's their piano.
"It's midnight in San Francisco, Dad. Why are you still awake?"
"The music called," he answers as he slips into the melody of a song I've never heard before. One of his originals that he never quite finishes. "Besides, I wanted to know something."
"Now?"
"When else?" The sound of tinkling glasses sounds not far away. Wine glasses, maybe. A woman laughing. "Kisame, say hello to Claudia."
"Good morning, Claudia," I say pointedly into the receiver. "I've always wanted to wake up before sunrise."
Claudia laughs. Even her laugh sounds like a piano. "Sorry, hon. Your dad's had a little too much to drink."
As if my dad needs alcohol in his system to call me in this early in the morning. Time means nothing to him, sleep even less. "Mhmm," I say as I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. The piano in the background is slowly pulling me out of sleep. I know I'll be awake by the time the phone call ends. "Having a party of some kind over there?"
"Just a few friends." Laughter erupts and the piano's tempo picks up. When I was little I used to think that no fingers could move as quickly as my dad's. "He just wanted to hear your voice, I think. You're on speaker phone."
I flick the light on next to the bed, illuminating my small loft bedroom. It's divided from the living room and kitchen by a backless shelving unit that housing all of my cds and some of the old albums Dad left behind when he moved to California. Our old piano is just past the bookshelf, sandwiched between the shelving and the sofa. I use the lid covering the keys as an impromptu coaster for the drinks. Dad would have been outraged at the irreverence of it.
"I should write him a letter," Dad says as he stops playing for a moment. "Do you think he'd like a letter?"
"I'd love a letter, Dad," I assure perfunctorily, knowing full well that any letter he tries to write will turn into an attempt to write a song. I stretch sleep heavy climbs as I stand up, thoughts of coffee on my mind. Dear Kisame and bar notes on makeshift sheet music.
He laughs throatily. My dad was born to sing the blues with his raspy vocal chords, no smoking required. "Then I'll write you a letter." There's another long pause before I hear him picking out chords on the piano again, testing new sound combinations. Then he's humming and whispering words under his breath that I can't hear. He's gone, leaving me wondering why he even bothered to call. He won't write me a letter. I haven't even seen him in three years.
According to prestigious psychological journals I'm supposed to be angry at him for not being there for me in my childhood. A boy needs his father, right? Then I touched piano keys and understood something about him: I needed my father, but my father needed the piano.
I figured out pretty early on that the quickest way to make him pay attention to me was to pick up his music. Those kinds of revelations seem like magic when you're young, but when you're older they seem practical. If the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, than my way to Dad's heart was through his eardrums. He taught me everything I know about music. Even in his darkest of moods, I said "show me how" and he would happily position my hands on fingers on the strings of his guitar or count measures for scales. Discovering I could play just like he could felt like magic at the time too. I've developed a sense of logic since then. I am born the child of musicians. Nights of guitar chords, the smell of cigarette smoke. My childhood lullabies and mother's perfume and bedtime stories all rolled up into one.
Looking at our relationship, it's would be unfair of me not to call him on his mistakes. He lived off in a different world as far as I was concerned, only coming into contact with mine when I showed an interest in his. He isn't meant to be a father. As young as six I understood that that I didn't matter to him nearly as much as the mother I never met and the music he never finished writing. For those same reasons I can't hold anything against him. I may not play the piano or the guitar anymore, but that's only because I know what it's like to want something you can never have. How much some things just never change.
"Dad," I said softly as I turn on the lamp in the combined living room and kitchen area of my bachelor loft. The soft lighting, dim like the corner jazz clubs in Boston, casts just as much shadow as light into the small space. I don't expect an answer and I don't get one.
Beautiful song, though. Absolutely beautiful.
I hang up mid-chord, dropping the phone on the sofa as I make my way into the kitchen area to make some coffee that's nowhere near as good as the cup they brew at the Red Lantern. I went there on Wednesday even though Itachi wasn't working, just for the coffee.
I wasn't surprised that he'd skipped our session on Thursday, especially since I'm part of the reason he cut his hand, intentionally or not, and owe him some kind of apology. I've just never met anyone quite as stubborn as Itachi Uchiha, in or out of the office. He's like a wall of ice when it comes to me. I have to find a way to make him let his guard down. I can't help him any other way. My only choice is to rely on time and insistence to wear him down. Just being around him more than once a week is a start, although I fucked that up pretty spectacularly. Creating public scenes is not a way to get someone to like you.
As the smell of coffee fills the room, I ready a coffee mug and get the creamer out of the fridge. The scent doesn't fail to remind me of Itachi. He smells like it on our Thursday session; it settles into the corners of the office and doesn't leave until the next day.
I wish I knew more about him. So far I only know the basics; eye color, hair color, height, where he works, his records from court, his brother's name. I have the psychological evaluation from the time of the trial. His blood type. Newspaper clippings from the murder. Everything superficial. He's easy enough to figure out on the surface. It's a case of classic repression. Talking about it makes it real. So on and so forth. It's all in the text books.
What I see is a scared kid playing at being a grown-up. And those eyes, dark, tired, hard eyes that remind so much of my dad after sleepless nights. I can only guess at what he's thinking when he sets those eyes on me. They watch me warily, like I'm conspiring to hurt him somehow. Like the whole world is out to make him suffer a little more. Like I don't care.
I pour myself a cup as soon as it's done, blowing lightly before I take a sip. It's not as good as The Red Lantern's coffee.
*^*^*
Hearing my name over the intercom right after school let out caught me by surprise. The last time I was called to the office was in the second grade when I accidentally left my project at home on the dining room table. Mom brought it in for me with a note warning me to be more careful and signed with a smiley faced heart at the bottom. I've never forgotten a project since then, mostly because of the smiling heart. Leave it to moms to put embarrassing stuff like that where anyone could see it.
I almost don't want to go to the office. The buses are going to leave soon and if I didn't get on then I would be stranded at school. But I couldn't just leave now that my name had been called. It could be about something important. Maybe I'm in trouble for something, although I can’t imagine what since I don't remember doing anything wrong. Maybe I did something good and they want to give me a certificate. I did make honor roll again. Maybe. . .I swallow back a brief burst of uncertainty. Neji's father died during the school day; he was called to the office in the middle of our grammar lesson just before school let out for the summer. Itachi is at home all alone with his cut-up hand. I don't know if that kind of injury can kill a person or not, but I can't get Neji out of my mind. If Itachi died, what would happen to me?
Pushing my fright down to my feet where I can't feel it clenching my stomach, I turn left instead of right at the end of the hall. Very few kids are going in my direction. Everyone just wants to go home to their air-conditioned houses and pull out their videogame consoles and veg out until their parents make them do their homework. Itachi and I don't even have a television at home. At first we had a really tiny one with a fuzzy screen that I watched when I got tired of playing bored games with myself. I always tie with myself because both parts of me are too stubborn to lose. Monopoly is the best. If I'm both players, I have twice as much money and own the railroad and properties on the boardwalk.
Before mom and dad were gone, Itachi used to play Monopoly with me. He always, won, of course, being older and smarter than me. I always ended up in jail and Itachi was always the banker with all the money. Sometimes he took pity on me and tried to help, but I never took his advice. I wanted to figure out the best way to win on my own. It never worked.
It's been such along time since we played Monopoly together. It's been such a long time since we did anything together. I miss losing to him. I'm not sure I'll ever have the chance again. Itachi does everything he does for me, but he doesn't have time for me. I can't complain because I know that without all of the hard work he does we'd be in big trouble, but I miss having a brother and doing the fun things brothers are supposed to do with each other. It's like he all of a sudden grew up in the blink of an eye, leaving me behind.
How much would change if Itachi did die? He's already missing most days, busy at work where I can't see him.
I have to toss that thought out of my head as I push open the door to the main office. Itachi dying is not an option. I know what happens if Itachi is gone. Foster care. Adoption. Strangers. That's the last thing I want. Itachi may not be the same as he used to be, but he's all I have. His brain is broken and he didn't drink the tea I made for him, but he'll always be my brother. The thought is both comforting and frightening, knowing that I can't change what we are anymore than I can change what's happened to him.
The office is still full of receptionists, as well as some parents and kids. I guess I have to walk up to the desk and tell them that I’m here, because no one notices my arrival. The office is a slightly intimidating place. Kids tend to get called down to the office when we've done something wrong or something is just wrong in general. I think the office is custom made to make kids feel inferior. The reception desk is way too tall and the windows almost reach the ceiling. I make my way to the desk, standing on the balls of my feet in order to see past the woman in front of me. It doesn't work.
A hand in my hair startles me. I know it's not my brother because he wouldn't do something like that. He doesn't like it when people sneak up behind him, so he tries not to sneak up on me. The weight of the hand feels awfully familiar though, as if it's someone I should know. Then the hand ruffles my hair and chuckles, and I no longer wonder who it is. Instead, I turn my wonder to what exactly he's doing here in my school. "Kakashi?” I ask as I twist my head out of his grasp. "What are you doing here?"
He looks just the same as always, wildly unruly hair doing whatever it wants and rumpled clothes that make it look like he rolled out of bed five minutes ago. Maybe it's just because he's not a parent and has no reason to be here, but I have the distinct feeling that something is wrong with all of this. Shoving his left hand in his pocket, the right one holds up a ring of keys. There aren't very many of them. Out of the seven keys, I recognize six of them. Three are for his car, one for the ignition, one for the door, and one for the trunk. The fourth one, bronze instead of silver, is the key to his house. Five and six belong to the store. I have no idea what the seventh key opens. I've never seen him use it. "I'm here as your personal chauffeur, pretty bird. Ready to go?"
"Where are we going?" I ask suspiciously. No one said anything about this to me. As much as I miss Kakashi after not spending the afternoon with him for the past few days, I find it hard to believe that he would miss me that much.
"My place. Your place. The park. Out for ice cream. Wherever."
I look around again. The receptionists are still busy and not taking notice of us. I don't understand why none of them find it strange that Kakashi is here. Students aren't supposed to leave the school unless they're picked up by family. Kakashi is not family, and yet they paged me. "Are you supposed to be here?"
"I'm beginning to think you aren't happy to see me." He cocks a silver eyebrow. "Did you find a new babysitter so soon?"
I shake my head fervently. "No, that's not it." I did miss him. I miss him, his crowded house, and his fat, lazy dog. I miss playing chess with him and drinking coffee, feeling so little and so grown up at the same time. "But you aren't family, Kakashi. I don't think you're allowed to pick me up."
"Is that all?" He takes his hand out of his pocket to check his watch. Kakashi always has to know what time it is. There's more than one clock in every room of his house. Most of them are round clocks with the tree hands, but the one in the upstairs hall is shaped like a sunflower. "Your brother listed me as an emergency contact with the school office. I have special clearance."
Oh. Well, that makes sense, I guess. But. . .I twitch my shoulders to ease the weight of my backpack. Something is still weird about this. I can't figure out why he came. Unless for some reason Itachi sent him, which wouldn't make any sense since the bus is probably quicker. "Does my brother know you're here?" I ask suspiciously.
"I called him," he said with a shrug. "He's fine with it."
I can't prove that he's lying, but somehow I just know he is. Maybe he did call my brother, maybe he didn't. That doesn't bother me. But I know he's lying about Itachi saying he doesn't mind. About saying anything. Itachi answered him in silence; Kakashi interpreted the silence to mean yes when it really didn't mean anything at all. We both know that.
He checks his watch again. He wears the same watch every day; it's made out of silver and reflects light like a prism. The glass is so clear that I'm tempted to touch the surface and see if I can feel the second hand ticking away. "We should get going, pretty bird," he says as he tucks his hand back into his pocket. "Or did you want to walk home?"
Somewhere in all of this is the real reason why he's here. I've always know that Kakashi likes to lie. Just like his smiles, Kakashi does things in halves. He answers a question without answering a question so that the truth is buried somewhere beneath all of the things he doesn't say. I never know how much of what he says is true. Sometimes it's all, sometimes half, sometimes nothing. I've learned to just take what he gives me as one fraction of the story that I'll unravel on my own one day. Asking him is useless, so I have to depend on time to work it out for me.
"No, we can go," I say as the receptionist finally looks down at me. She smiles and gives me a little wave that says go with him. My sign that all is as it should be has come after I've worked things out on my own. "Can we go to your house?"
"Sure. I was going to take you there anyway."
*^*^*
The ride to Kakashi's house doesn't take very long. His house is four blocks away from the bookstore, which is only five blocks away from the school after you turn the corner. My bus stop is six blocks away from that going that same direction. The bus drops me off two blocks after Kakashi’s house. Itachi arranged it with the school, otherwise it would be closer to my house.
I like riding in Kakashi’s car. Since Mom and Dad died, I haven't been in too many of them. Itachi can't drive yet and Kakashi usually likes to walk places. I've only been in his car two other times, both times in the dead heat of July with the air conditioner aimed to blow on my face, the fabric of the seat pleasantly cool under my legs. Today, since it's been cooler the past few days, he has the windows rolled down as we cruise lazily down Seward Street. "Premature autumn," Kakashi says as he takes one hand off the wheel to push his hair out of his eyes. It flops back over his forehead as soon as he moves his hand away. "I should try wearing a bandana when I drive."
Even if it is premature autumn and it is still summer, the slight chill in the air is a relief from the heavy heat of August. As we drive past the park, mostly blocked from my sight by Kakashi's larger frame, a particularly strong gust of wind tangles itself in his hair and seems to pull the silver strands in several directions at once. I imagine the wind chuckling at the mischief it's created, thoroughly pleased. He doesn't try to fix the damage.
He parallel parks almost exactly in front of his house. The curtains are tied back and the windows are half-way open. Pakkun is lounging on the porch, dark brown eyes open and trained on Kakashi as he steps out of the car. His short tail wiggles ever so slightly before he rolls over onto his back and sticks his tongue out, stubby little legs floundering in the air. Seeing Pakkun makes me wish that Itachi and I had a dog. Dogs are supposed to feel people feel better too, aren't they? They're like soup with fur.
Kakashi's front yard is a simple, forlorn-looking affair. There's no fence separating his yard from the sidewalk. Bushes with tiny green berries border the porch, two on each side of the steps. I think there used to be a walkway leading from the sidewalk to the porch steps, but now it's cracked so badly that thick clumps of grass have sprouted through the fissures. It's almost impossible not to step on at least one crack. The railing is loose on the right side of the porch and his roof sags a little.
I've never minded the state of his house. It's just old. You can't blame a house for being run-down if it's old. None of the other houses on the block are quite as neglected as Kakashi's, but you can see the signs of age in every single one of them. The house across the street has a badly overgrown tree in the front yard, and the house two doors down needs a new coat of paint. My own apartment is so much worse off than Kakashi's that I have a hard time understanding why his next-door-neighbor said something to him about fixing the sidewalk. Kakashi smiled one of his amused smiles at him, said he'd look into it. He never did.
I don't think it's that Kakashi doesn't care about what his house looks like; he keeps the inside of the house clean in spite of the oddly mismatched furniture. His chairs are always pushed in, his carpet vacuumed, and his pillows tucked neatly into the corners of the couch. As much as Kakashi is languid and lazy, the other part of him is careful and particular. I just think he likes the outside the way it is, cracked sidewalk and all.
He nudges Pakkun with his foot as we pass by. Pakkun makes a disgruntled noise before rolling back onto his belly. His yawn is indignant. Kakashi ushers me inside, leaving the front door open.
Dropping his keys in their usual spot, Kakashi eased his feet out of his shoes before padding into the kitchen. I took my shoes off as well, but didn't let go of my book bag. Just because I'm not at the store doesn't mean I have to change my routine. I like to get my homework out of the way as quickly as possible. I decide to do it at the kitchen table, mostly because I'm sure Kakashi would insist.
Pakkuns nails click against the kitchen tile as he wanders in from the porch. He settles down beside my feet and yawns again. Pakkun always looks sleepy, his eyelids at half-mast.
We work in silence. Kakashi mops the floor while I breeze through my math. I don't think the floor actually needed to be cleaned. It was already cleaner than my kitchen floor would ever be. He washes the counters as I work on my reading homework. Mr. Umino wants us to read a paragraph and answer six questions on it. Right near the end I run into a word I don't know. Out of habit, I ask Kakashi what precedent means. He steps out into the living room and returns with the dictionary I've come to regard as the Great Kakashi Translator.
"What, you thought I'd let you off easy?" he says as he picks up his sponge. The entire room smells like berries. He's changed scents in cleaning solution. Used to be lemon.
"No," I say honestly, flipping resignedly through the t section of the dictionary. "I was just hoping."
“Your hope still springs eternal I see.” Pakkun shifts at my feet, and in that transition Kakashi changes the subject with all the fluidity of water. "Nearly done?" He turns on the water to rinse the sponge just as I find the definition of precedent.
"Two more questions." Precedent- an action or decision that can be used subsequently as an example for a similar decision or to justify a similar action. The problem with dictionaries is that the definitions are just as complicated as the word you're looking up. "Why?"
He puts the sponge down, glancing around one more time to make sure he's satisfied with his work. He nods in absent contentment before turning around. "Because I have something for us to do," he says, surprising me as he slips into the chair beside me, long limbs hanging loosely. "A task, if you will, of great importance."
My interest is piqued. Just a little. I hate when he uses that kind of voice on me, the one that says "I know something you don't know," because I always want to know and then half of the time he doesn't tell me what I want to know because he's a jerk like that. "What is it, Kakashi?"
"You have to come outside before I tell you, pretty bird."
I sigh in impatience, flipping to the s-section. I need to look up subsequently before I can figure out precedent. "Fine, but I'm not done yet."
"Don't you worry," he says as he crosses his legs. "I'm very good at waiting."
I find subsequent, which is close enough for me. It would be so much easier if Kakashi would just tell me what precedent means. But I know he won't, even though he's sitting right there. Instead of helping he's humming something under his breath, tracing the face of his watch with his thumb. Luckily, the last problem doesn't involve any words I don't know the meaning of, because I can't take anymore of Kakashi's humming. It's not that he sounds bad; I just know he's doing it to make me even more annoyed with my homework and more impatient to follow him outside. Teasing, always teasing, yet somehow I've actually missed him over the past four days. It doesn't seem possibly to miss a nickname that I don't like and tauntingly vague answers, but I did.
He stands up as soon as I put my pencil down, closing my book for me. He motions for me to follow him as he heads out the back door. Barefoot again.
To my surprise, we don't stay in the back yard. Kakashi props the backdoor open with a small statue of a frog and leads me around the side of the house. I've never been on the side of Kakashi's house before. There are two decrepit looking bushes matching the ones out front that act as a gate from the edge of the porch to the neighbor's fence, blocking the front yard and the side of the house from view. We squeeze through the gap between the somewhat scratchy bushes. Being smaller, I have an easier time making it through than he does. He ends up with a light scratch on his forearm.
The grass here is neat and trim with less spots of brown. A wheel barrow against the fence holds a rake, shovel, and hedge clippers. Against the house is a small plot of brown, almost black earth dotted by leafy green foliage and mutely colored flowers. I blink, stunned.
"You have a garden," I say with more then a little bit of conclusion. I think I meant it to come out as a question.
Kakashi hums in response, reaching into the wheelbarrow for something. He comes up with two pairs of gloves, one light blue, the one other yellow. He hands me the yellow pair and keeps the blue one for himself. I take them, eyeing him, the gloves, and the garden all in turn. "You have a garden," is all I can come up with again.
He eyes me right back. Apparently, nothing about this seems off to him. With a straw hat on his head he’d look like my grandmom. "I needed a hobby."
And here I thought his hobby was confusing me. "You want me to help you garden?"
He nods swiftly, walking to the edge of the plot and dropping to his knees. His bare toes curl in the grass as he shifts his weight to rest on his heels. I'm still trying to figure out how this newly discovered hobby fit in with the Kakashi who doesn't prune or water the bushes in front of his house. "Weeds. They're starting to crowd out the rest of the plants." He pats a spot on the ground right next to him. "The sooner we start the sooner I can make us dinner. You like beef, right?"
"Yeah," I say as I join him on the ground. Closer up, the soil in the garden plot is lighter in some spots than in other. I press an ungloved finger into the earth. Damp. "Hamburger?"
"Mhmm." He taps my yellow gloves. They match the patch in his sofa. "You don't have to wear those. They're probably too big on you."
They definitely look too big. They’re almost twice the size of my hand. I put them on anyway, pinching the extra fabric at the back of my hand to make them look as if they fit. My fingers are lost in the material. I probably won't be able to grip anything, especially tiny weeds.
He takes my gloved hand in his gloved hand and presses our palms together. I curl my fingers so that I can see where my fingertips stop. His hand completely dwarfs mine. He's still taller than me, even with both of us down on the ground. I can't help feeling really young all of a sudden, younger than I've felt since Mom and Dad died. "These aren't my gloves," he tells me as he folds the excess fabric down over my thumb. "The man I bought the house from left them behind with the other gardening tools. The garden was his and his wife's before she died." He does the same for all of my fingers, a contemplative expression in his eyes before he lets the fabric go again. "Such tiny hands, Sasuke."
I freeze as I hear him say my real name. It doesn't scare me, exactly. It just makes me realize that's he thinking about things I don't understand. He only says my real name when we're playing chess. Or when we're at the cemetery. He always calls me Sasuke when he's talking to his dead friend. I look up into his eyes; they aren't looking back at me. They're focused on my hand. "Hard to believe our hands were ever that small. You had such clumsy hands."
I fight the urge to jerk my hands away. I know he won't hurt me, but he's not talking to me anymore. The little flinch I do allow myself has him pressing harder against my palm. It feels like we're back in the graveyard on a Saturday, talking to Obito.
"They'd probably like to meet you, you know. The people who lived here. He's a cute kid. Kind of quiet. Wonder if they had any grandchildren."
This isn't a graveyard. He shouldn't be doing this here, should he? It sounds like he talking to the people who lived here before he did, not Obito. He's talking to a dead woman he never even met. "Kakashi," I break in as he pauses, pushing back against his hand. I'm not waiting for him to pull himself together this time, not here, not today. Not in the place I've come to think of as a second home. I hate cemeteries. "It's not Saturday."
His eyes flick up to meet mine, recognition dancing across the grey of his irises. Which, I note as the flicker steadies into a gaze, have streaks of blue running through them. We're a bit more even in height sitting like this, he back on his heels and me upright on my knees. A brief, hard squeeze to my hand and he’s pulled back completely, taking my glove with him. "Sorry," I just barely hear him breathe. "Sorry, pretty bird."
I'm just glad he stopped. I don't like seeing him like that, when I can nearly feel him lose contact with the present before slipping into a place where he somehow sees when no one else does. It twists my stomach in a bunch of knots I don’t know how to untie. All I can make myself do is nod, pulling the other glove off as Kakashi bends over to pluck the first weed from the garden.
Chapter Four-Part 2