December

Chapter 4


Warnings- Honestly, I don't think this should be rated NC-17. Sex of a graphic nature is not suited for this story. From here on, consider it rated R.

AN- Loads of thanks to my reviewers, especially my multiple reviewers like yaoi_is_my_antidrug, sadistickiss, KiaraNxiar, justdancing, and Lychee. Especially justdancing for offering me fanart for December and yaoi_is_my_antidrug for reviewing and reading almost all of my fics and writing deliciously good KakaxSasu. You rock my world. For anyone not reading A Tenuous Grasp, go do it now!

Wow o_O This chapter is even longer than the last one! Why am I so loquacious? I guess it has to be so. I consider this chapter somewhat of a turning point in terms of plot. And it's the first one without Itachi’s point of view. But Kisame is back.

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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 knew 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.


September
IV. There are rules for a rendezvous, you just forgot the pronunciation


I must be an addict of some kind. But honestly, when you find that one cup of coffee that satisfies your cravings, no others are good enough in comparison.

"Three twenty-five," Genma says as he hands me my latte. I picked up his name over the weeks by listening to conversations behind the counter. He smiles easily, so I smile back. Friendly is a nice change from Itachi, who usually ends up taking my order purely by happenstance. I know he wouldn't volunteer to serve me as last week more than aptly demonstrated.

I fork over a five, at which he nods and punches into the cash register. I take a small sip of my coffee, planning on taking a quick walk around the block before I head back to my office and next patient. The sometimes muggy September weather is just starting to cool into breezy October weather and I plan on making the most out of my lunch break.

"One seventy-five is your change," Genma says as he hands me my change and a receipt. "You must really like our coffee if you keep coming back even though he’s not working."

I'm surprised at the conversational tone in his voice as he brings up Itachi casually. As if we both have the right to talk about him like old friends. "It's good coffee," I admit as I take another sip. "Maxwell House just doesn't cut it anymore."

Something flashes behind the smile. "Glad to be of service, doctor." He leans forward, closing the gap between us as he rests his elbows on the counter. "You wouldn't happen to have seen him, would you? He doesn't answer the landline when I call and he was supposed to pick up his paycheck yesterday but never showed."

"No," I answer as I shove the change into my back pocket. "And he didn't come to his session, not that I'm surprised."

Genma nods. I find his agreement too easy. “He's not very fond of you, that's for sure. 'Course, he didn't much like the last one either so I'm sure it's nothing personal. Still," he says as he sticks a tooth pick between his teeth, "you did make him angry enough to hurt his hand. What do you do in that office?"

It almost sounds like a joke, and I'm tempted to return the sentiment, but the toothpick seems to be pointing accusatorily at me. "Nothing. We barely even speak." I sit on the stool, my plan for a walk temporarily abandoned. "You haven't seen him then? I was wondering how his hand is doing."

He shrugs, not moving from his position. "Don't know. But I don't think he can pick up his painkillers until he picks up his check." He sighs. "That kid worries me sometimes."

At the risk at sounding like I'm prying, I decide that a nod is the wisest course of action. I worry about him constantly, especially after our little confrontation last week. There was so much anger simmering under his skin I'm surprised he didn't break down and yell at me. "I do feel bad, you know. About his hand." I let out a quick sigh. Never let it be said that patients don't frustrate me sometimes. I enjoy the challenge of a quiet patient since that usually means the problem is deep-rooted and they really need to be helped, but sometimes I'd like to strangle them. "He's just so damn.. . ."

"Stubborn," Genma cuts in and finishes for me. His smile hasn't changed at all, but he switches the toothpick to the side of his mouth so that it isn't pointing directly at me.

"Exactly."

"Well, that's Itachi. Stubborn to a fault."

I don't tell him that I can be just as stubborn. I'm sure he understands. "Character quirk, I guess." And I'm sure he has plenty more where that came from. The things no one sees but him. He's that private of a person, I guess, that not enough people can notice the parts of him that make him more human and less like a statue. I've seen small glimmers of it, in the office when I gave him that book to read. "Thanks for the latte," I say as I step off the stool. "I'll be back for more."

"I know you will. Enjoy your coffee, number eleven."

I pause mid-stride. "Number eleven?" I question dumbly, turning my head to see his face. Something about it is familiar, but I can't put my finger on it. "I didn't realize we were on nickname terms."

He smirks at me, toothpick waggling idly. "That's what we call you around here," he informs me with a flick of his head. "Me and Raidou. Since we don't know your first name and all. You're Itachi's eleventh psychiatrist."

Slapping myself for my oblivious stupidity sounds appealing. It's a wonder I didn't pick up on it before, although the easy smile gave me something of a clue. "Dr. Hoshigaki," I introduce myself formally, stepping forward to shake his hand. "But you can call me Kisame."

His handshake is firm. A long scar runs across the back of his hand and another along the side of his wrist. I can't help wondering where he procured them as I spot yet another just below his jaw. "Genma Shiranui. You can call me Genma. Nice to finally make your acquaintance, Kisame."

"Likewise," I return as I tip my coffee cup in imitation of a salute. "I have to get back to the office, though. I'll talk to you later?"

"Mhmm," he says as he twirls his toothpick between his fingers. "Later. Oh, one more thing though." He uses the toothpick to point at the windows left of the door. "Itachi just left barely a minute before you came in. You should be able to catch him if you hurry. He took a left out the door."

Everything clicks all at once. I shake my head and smile ruefully, clucking my tongue against my teeth. "So nice of you to let me know."

"Aren't I just?" he vollies back with a shrug and a flirtatious grin. A look of remembrance dawns on his face suddenly. "Wait one second though." He waves that infernal toothpick at me in casual warning. I have the sudden feeling he's used to threatening with more than a toothpick in his hand. I've seen kids younger than him in my office with the same mannerisms, totally in control, unfailingly casual, perspicuous, and covered in mysterious scars. I’d willingly to put money on a bet that he lived just over the wrong side of the tracks in Boston before he came to Arden. "I have something to give you, kay?"

Before I can answer, he ducks under the counter and heads into the kitchen.

I check my watch to see if I have enough time to catch up with Itachi and make it back to the office before lunch break is over. It took me a total of seven minutes to pass a test I was barely even aware I was taking, one which apparently earned trust in Genma's book. Under different circumstances I'd assume they were friends, but I can't assume anything when it comes to Itachi. But it is obvious that Genma feels compelled to look after Itachi, whether as a father to a son or a brother to a brother. In any case, I'm walking away from him feeling as I'd been a potential boyfriend under fatherly evaluation and that Genma could have done well in psychology.

Another minute or so wouldn't put me under any more pressure. None at all. "Take your time, Genma," I mutter to my watch. "I'm not under time constraints or anything." An older man chuckles a few stools away, pretending not to have been listening to the whole exchange. I think about sending him an annoyed look, but since Genma is the one I'm growing exasperated with, it would be unfair to take it out on an innocent bystander. Appealing, but unfair.

"Sorry," he apologizes without meaning it as he finally reappears he plops a semi-large box on the counter. "I had to sneak this out from under Raidou's nose. I'm not supposed to be giving out free pie, but he looked so damn skinny when he was in here."

"You want me to give him pie?" Translation- he made me wait for a pastry?

"S'good pie. Apple raspberry."

Good pie or not, it was costing me time I needed to track him down. "Right. Pie. What if I can't find him, Genma?"

"Then I guess you've got yourself a free pie, Kisame. I meant to give it to him earlier, but he left before I remembered. If you find him, tell him that Genma says he looks like a stick. And if he still doesn't take it, tell him it's for his brother."

"Okay," I agree dubiously, picking up the white box with one arm and holding my coffee in the other hand. With one last nod of my head, I dart out the door, quickly scanning the area for him.

Immediately left of the Red Lantern is a post office, a few houses, and a video store. A church is just down the street going the other way. There's a park just past that on the next block with a playground for kids, a few open areas where some people walk dogs, and a miniature courtyard. Arden is a relatively small town just twenty miles outside of Boston that's probably been around since the colonial days. A few of the houses on Seward Street can most definitely attest to that. I moved here when I went to college in Cambridge into the same small apartment I haven't bothered to move out of since. I'm only one person and don’t need a lot of space. Visitors are few and far between since the rest of my family is in New York City and my dad is all the way out on the west coast.

Walking as quickly as I can without feeling as if my coffee is going to splash over the lip and soak my shirt, I head toward the park. If I don't find him there, I'll have no choice but to return to the office and hope that he doesn't switch psychiatrists before I can offer an apology for his injury.

On the upside, I guess, I'll have pie. Smells good.

As it turns out, finding him doesn't take long. He's sitting on a bench near the sidewalk, watching the dog spit water from the circular fountain in the center of the courtyard. His injured hand is cradled in his lap.

I approach slowly, feeling like I'm sneaking up on a wounded animal. Never a good thing, but I don't want him to leave before I'm able to say anything. Meaning, too, that I have to choose my first words wisely.

"I have pie."

Itachi turns his head slowly, looking at me over his shoulder. He says nothing.

Wise first words indeed. Maybe I'd been subconsciously hoping such a random opening would throw him enough to respond. Which worked, technically, but I give myself too much credit. "It's from Genma," I continue, trying to make it look like I didn't just blurt out the first thing that came to mind. I take another step closer, watching him for signs of a dodge. "He says you look like a stick."

And really, he wasn't kidding. The shirt he was wearing looked like it was hanging off of his shoulders. Skeletal. Worse than he'd ever looked in the office. The ever present dark circles under his eyes only increase his gaunt appearance.

Itachi lets out an uncharacteristically harsh bark of laughter. I'm barely used to hearing words out of his mouth much less such a stark laugh. "He would say that. Jackass."

I contain a smile. It looks like Itachi has somewhat of a soft spot for Genma. Or, at the very least, he tolerates him.

"I take it you're the messenger," he goes on. "Or it that a bribe?"

"It's not a bribe," I assure him. "Unless you're susceptible to them. Then, yes, it is a bribe."

There's no laughter this time, our meeting turning into the same silent affair it always winds down to. I can't let that happen, not this time. I'm afraid it might be my last chance to bid for his cooperation. "So," I say as I shift my weight. "Do you want to know what kind it is?"

He shakes his head slowly. A dog barks somewhere off across the park. "It doesn't matter. Just put it on the bench."

"You aren't putting up much of a fight," I say as I approach the bench, still taking care not to spill my coffee. "Should I be flattered?"

"I'm too tired to fight with you," he says as he follows the descent of the pie box from my arms to the empty place beside him on the bench. "Sasuke will eat it no matter what kind it is."

He ought to eat it too. As he rubs his temple in small circular motions, I remember Genma saying that he couldn't pick up his pain killers until he picked up his paycheck. Is it possible that he's been in too much pain to eat? I know how irritating stitches can be with a painkiller to dull the pain, so I can't even imagine how he's feeling.

I'm trying hard not to pry. I really am. But I've run out of things to say that won't make him leave. Luckily, he speaks before I do, though his words are certainly not what I expected to hear out of his mouth. You can leave now I anticipated. Instead he rubs his temple a little harder and scoots the pie a little closer to his legs. "Sit down. I have to talk to you."

Wonders never cease. Keeping my distance on the bench, mindful of the barrier, I cross my legs and sling an arm across the back of the bench. I'm careful not to look like my intent is to touch him in any way. He sighs lightly, leaning forward to rest his head in his hands. I can almost hear the throb in his head as he increases the pressure. He doesn't waste any time with pleasantries. "Stop coming to the café. I feel like I'm being stalked."

"I come for the coffee," I retort, brandishing my piping hot cup as proof of my innocence.

"You came for me. The coffee is a perk."

I shrug. "Is that so bad?"

He lets out that derisive laughter again, too much emotion leaking through to be the Itachi I'm used to confronting. "I don't want you where I work. I don't even want to come see you on Thursdays, but that's a court order."

"Am I that horrible? Really?" I pose the question without really expecting an answer, and for a while am met with just that. Nothing. No movement, no sound. Just the smell of coffee that for once isn't emanating from him. And I can't even drink it because it would burn the roof of my mouth.

It doesn't seem like any time had passed when he answered, probably since I hadn't been anticipating one. It's quiet enough that I would have missed it had the words not been so startling. "No," he says to the ground. "You're not. This would be easier if you were."

I let the conversation, if you can call it that, dissolve into silence. A young woman pushes a stroller up to the fountain, wheels rattling on the bumpy stone of the courtyard. The baby in the stroller looks exceedingly content with his pacifier in his mouth, big eyes taking in everything. I wonder what Itachi and I look like to by-passers. Father and son? We both have dark hair, but our skin colors are not even close. He's on the small side, petite almost, while I'm practically a giant. Friends? We can't be mistaken for total strangers because of the position of my arm, too casual and familiar for two people who've never met. All I can do is watch the woman take her baby out of the stroller as I grapple with terminology, figuring out what I am to him and what I want to be. I'd settle for just being not a threat, an acquaintance if I have to give it a label. Not the enemy.

I've always been good at examining situations from the bottom looking up, like a thief looking to break-in and whisk something away. I see cracks and crevices to pry at. Give the beggar money and he will tell you what you want to know. Exchanges and compromises. With my dad, music was the exchange. I gave him ears to listen with and fingers he could coax and in return I got the attention I wanted. With Itachi, maybe giving in can give me what I want in return: a little bit of his trust. I know there's an unhealthy amount of emotions much compressed in his mind and it scares me because I know what crazy people are like. Just look at my dad, who had a breakdown the day my mom died and never fully recovered. I can very clearly see him heading down the road to a mental breakdown from the strain of keeping his emotions locked away. I'd be able to see it even if I weren't a psychiatrist; the blank look in his eyes, straight line of a mouth, and the rigidity of his posture can tell anybody that he's been through more than anyone that young should have endured. More than anyone should have endured.

I'm sure going to miss the coffee, though.

"Okay," I say as I break the silence. "I'll stop coming to the Red Lantern. But you have to agree to something."

Itachi looks at me dubiously, hands dropping from his temples. I go on unbidden, not dwelling on the fact that he thought I'd be naïve enough to be so glaringly obvious. "You and your little brother have to come to dinner with me in two weeks. Thursday, when we usually have our session."

"My brother?" he questions breathily, confusion clouding his usually stoic features. "That's it? Dinner with me and my brother?"

"That's it," I agree simply. "Just dinner. And you don't have to come to our session next week. You need the recuperation time." I stand up, looking at my watch. I need to be back in the office by one o'clock for another patient. "Does that work for you, Itachi?"

He nods absently, probably too puzzled to figure out what kind of trick I have up my sleeve. Having his sense of logic befuddled with pain probably helped my cause as well, though I certainly wasn't going to be picky about his lack of reasoning. A yes is a yes.

"Good. Normal time. Bring your brother. I have to go." I step around the bench, throwing back a wave that he doesn't see and taking the first sip of a cup of coffee I won't be able to enjoy for a long time, if things pan out right. It's iffy at best. "Enjoy the pie."

*^*^*

His hands are completely covered in dirt by the time we are finished. I take him into the kitchen to wash his hands before he touches anything. As it is I already feel grimy, like I need to take a shower. I hate dirt, the way it sucks the moisture out of my hands and stays under my fingernails for weeks and leaves prints wherever I touch. I'll have to wash the floor after he leaves now that I've left traces of dirt from the undersides of my feet.

Sasuke washes his hands without question at the sink alongside me, he standing on a chair since he can't reach the sink. He's small for a nine-year old, just like his brother is small for a fifteen year old. Or maybe I'm just biased because I was so tall when I was a teenager. He's just incomparably tiny next to me.

By the time we're done, the area around the sink smells like cranberries and vanilla. I used to use aloe scented soap before Iruka brought over cranberry-vanilla lubricant. I like the smell of him on my hands since out meetings are infrequent. Not his fault, of course.

I toss him a towel to dry off his hands, which he doesn't see until it's too late. The red-checkered towel lands right on his head. He peers at me, disgruntled, from under the towel. "You did that on purpose."

I chuckle. "I did no such thing, pretty bird." Lifting him off the stool with ease, I set him down on the ground and take the towel off of his head. "You're imagining things."

After my little show in the garden I have no right to talk about people imaging things. Quite frankly I'm amazed that the kid didn't bolt for the hills. It just goes to show how much he trusts me, for reasons I can't even begin to understand. His trust is a little unnerving for me to comprehend. I suppose I encouraged it by picking him up at school, but I was compelled by something beyond me. Most likely the same forces that brought on my episode outside. It's happened before, out there in the garden that isn't mine. But usually no one is there to see it. Sasuke's really the only one who's seen me like that, another thing I don't understand. Of all the people, why a nine-year old kid?

"Kakashi?" he says as he hands the towel back. He's biting his lower lip and for a moment I fear he'll tell me how much he hates me for making him watch that, not just today, but every Saturday since I've known him. "Can I ask you something?"

I nod hesitantly, hoping he doesn't ask me something I can't answer. Hoping he's learned enough about me to know better. Though he asks every Saturday already. "Sure," I say as I dry my own hands off. "What is it?"

"Does cake make people feel better?"

I look down at him, pretending not to be thrown by the sheer randomness of his question. Well, he is only nine. "Cake?"

He nods solemnly. "Yes. Is it like soup? Because Itachi's sick and I don't know how to make soup, but I thought maybe you know how to make cake. Do you?" His words all come out in a rush, tumbling over each other in a hurry to get them out.

What strikes me as funny, or maybe just disturbingly familiar, is that he thinks Itachi is sick. Just like I used to think about my dad before I figured out what marijuana smelled like. But I don't know how to tell him something like that, or if he'd even understand. I wonder, not for the first time, if keeping secrets from him is helping him or hurting him when he has to figure out so much on his own. "Like a get-well cake?"

"They have those?"

You can get a cake for just about anything, but I don't tell him that. "M-hmm. But I don't think I have cake here."

Sasuke's somewhat hopeful face falls one hundred feet. Was there ever a time when I was able to portray such a range of emotions on my face? I can't remember. Around Obito, maybe. "Oh. That's okay."

He needs to get better at this whole lying thing. I went shopping over the week, so I'm sure I bought something. Then again, I don’t keep many sweet things in the house aside from sugar for my coffee. I check the cabinets so that it doesn't look like I'm giving up on him so easily. Pasta, rice, tuna, and various kinds of sauces are predominant, but on the very top shelf there's a promising looking box that I think has been up there for months. "Well, it's not technically cake," I say as I pull the red box down. It's more like cake's distant cousin."

Sasuke raises an eyebrow, something he undoubtedly picked up from me. One of my less detrimental mannerisms. Thinking about what else he could pick up from me is something I don't want to dwell on too much. "What?"

I flash the box at him. "Pancakes. Will those work?"

"Can you make pancakes?" His eager hope is unprecedented by any look he's ever given me before. It actually astounds me sometimes how much he still loves his brother, especially since he doesn't know what really happened. I only know because he had to explain his situation applying for a job in The Den. I had to interview him after he checked yes next to "have you ever been convicted of a felony?" and things became what they are today, where I don’t have the heart to tell him that I have absolutely no idea how to go about making pancakes. Not after the garden. Never should have taken him out there.

"I think I can manage," I tell him honestly. Really, the directions are right on the box. I scan the directions quickly. One egg, one cup of pancake mix, water. Mix thoroughly. Distribute evenly in circular dollops on a preheated griddle. Cook golden brown(1).

A griddle? Do I own one of those?

"Okay," I say as I put the box down on the counter. "Get the frying pan."

*******

Twenty minutes later, we've discovered something which they should probably put on the back of the box: pancakes are not meant to be cooked in a frying pan.

"I don't think you're flipping it right," Sasuke admonishes as I clumsily try to wheedle the spatula under. He's back to being perched on his chair next to my stove, hands planted on the counter as he watches me make a mess of the pancakes with a worried lip. "Is it supposed to stick like that?"

Probably not. They also aren't supposed to be so lopsided. This is why I don't cook things that are complicated. The only thing strenuous about stir-fry is chopping vegetable. Pancakes are too much work for something his brother probably won't eat anyway. "They seem to be against us," I explain, handing him the spatula. "Give it a whirl."

Biting his lip in concentration, he takes the spatula as if he's been assigned some solemn duty. To him, it probably is something he feels he needs to do. For Itachi. Mimicking my earlier actions, he slides the spatula under the stubborn pancake, but adds him own little wiggle-motion. After a while, I'm amazed as the insistent wriggles break the pancake's hold on the pan. I hold his wrist as together we flip it over, managing not to completely destroy the thing.

"See," he says cheekily. "You were doing it wrong."

"Smart-ass," I say mildly, giving him back full reign of the spatula. He grins at me and goes to work on the next pancake.

There's an unexpected knock on the front door, which is odd since I left the it flung open for Pakkun to come in and out at will. People who know me know that they don't need to knock. Such an odd formality, knocking on the door of a friend. Not that I have many of those, but at least I can automatically rule out Genma.

"Keep up the good work, pretty bird," I say as my visitor knocks yet again. "I'll be right back." He nods absently, finally succeeding in flipping the second pancake.

My living room and kitchen are designed in an overlapping catty-corner with a somewhat wide hallway dividing them, like two boxes aligned with one beginning halfway down the other. I walk out of the kitchen and cross the hall into the living room, where Pakkun is lying on the rug near the door, the perfect example of what a dog shouldn't do when a stranger knocks at your door.

"Hello?" I venture as a way of greeting. "Door's open, you know."

"Kashi?" the visitors says back. Not a stranger. Just a voice I haven't heard in almost a month.

Iruka is standing in the doorway when I make it to the front door, hands on his hips. Contrary to what one might think, his akimbo pose has nothing to do with feeling pissed. It's the stance he adopts when he has something on his mind or something has gone wrong. He uses it like a brace. "Hi," he says with a quick wave. He's still dressed in his teaching clothes, and un-tucked light blue button down shirt and loose slacks that I personally think ought to be tighter. His kinky brown hair is falling out of the ponytail more than it usually does in the front, giving him an altogether frazzled look. "You shouldn't leave your door open like that. Anybody could just walk in here."

"So why didn't you?" I say as I lean against the door jam, my lips quirking into a slight smile. Like I said, it's been a while since I've last seen him. I always manage to forget how much I like him in the time we spend apart.

He throws back his own, cheekier smile. "Because my momma raised me right."

"I'll bet she did. Did you want to come in? You didn't say anything about stopping by." Iruka usually calls first, more of a courtesy call than anything since I never turn him away.

"Well, it was kind of a last minute thing. My apartment complex is foreclosing. So, we're basically all being evicted without prior warning."

"Foreclosed? Rats in the cellar?"

"Bank fraud, I think. Mr. Katz always looked kind of suspicious anyway. Something about the beady little eyes."

That doesn't explain why he's here. Our relationship, which I use in the most general sense of the word, is anything but ordinary. We go on dates, sometimes, and we have sex when it suits us. Weeks, sometimes months will pass before one of us decides to set another date. It's like a long-distance relationship in close quarters. I met him my sophomore year of college, his freshman year, at some horribly alcoholic party Genma threw at one time or another. I was drunk. He wasn't. And nothing much has changed, because Iruka's still the one who sees things in real time.

"You're homeless, then?"

"Pretty much. But," he goes on as he toes the suitcases just outside the frame of the door. I wouldn't have noticed had he not brought attention to them. "Since my family is down in Jersey and I can't possibly abandon my students, I thought maybe you could give me a hand."

That last statement should have had a question mark attached to the end. I don't say anything, keeping my gaze firmly away from his face where all of the danger is hidden. He has a total of three suitcases, two fairly large and the other a somewhat small duffel bag. His shoes are scuffed within an inch of their life. "It's only until I find a place of my own. It's not permanent or anything, if that's what you're worried about."

The lace on the left shoe is fraying on the ends. "How long did you plan on staying?"

I can imagine the look on his face. Eyes careful as he searches for the right words and placating smile in place. He knows me well enough to know my boundaries, the things I will and will not do. I can handle Sasuke being here because he doesn't spend the night. He comes, he goes. He doesn't stay. I'm infinitely more used to people leaving my life than staying in it. They trip in, they trip out, and each time it takes a little bit more effort not to cry.

"A month, maybe." The shift of fabric lets me know that he's made some kind of motion, probably a shrug. "Give or take a week."

Most of my mind is screaming at me to say no, little alarm bells sounding in my head. As much as I like Iruka, I don't have the room for him to be more than what he is already. I can handle him in small doses, little increments where after I can push him to the background where he doesn't have to matter as much. But as much as I want to say no, I can’t do that. For as much of our relationship remains nameless, I will admit that he's a friend. I decide on not saying anything verbally, my head inclining in a nod. Really, I give myself too much credit. I couldn't have made my vocal chords work.

"Thanks," he says like a sigh of relief. "I'll try not to impose. I'm gone as soon as I find a new place."

Gone. Such a familiar, ironic concept. "It's fine, Iruka. You can stay."

Obito, it's a good thing I'm so perfect at lying. I can almost fool myself.

He steps all the way through the frame of the door, adjusting his shirt as he does. "Good. Because I'm pretty desperate." The color of his skin matches the wood tone of the floor, blending, as if he's supposed to belong here. I can't help feeling a familiar shudder ghost through my body as the clock in the hall strikes six. I barely notice anything until he’s yet another step closer, moving into my body heat. "Besides, this has its advantages." The hand around my waist is feather light and warm. "It's been a very long time."

"A month, now," I say as Iruka slides his hand up along my spine, finding all of the places he grips in the dark beneath me. "One, extremely long month."

I let him pull my head down for a kiss. Such a long time without lingering lips and teasing tongue. He's pressed close enough that I can feel his muscles shifting. Just like always, I can't believe I forgot how good he feels until I remember that I meant to forget. The realization sends something hot and altogether unpleasant skittering up my spine, following the path of Iruka's caressing palm.

He then lets me wrap my arms around his waist, pulling him close enough that I have no doubts as to whether or not I like the way this feels. My hands wander across his backside idly, searching out the little spots he likes best, like the area just behind and below his ribcage. His mouth tastes like tea of some kind, probably mint. He smells like vanilla and cranberries, and with him in such proximity all I can think about is how perfectly practical a bed would be.

"Kakashi," a small voice says from behind us. Iruka jolts in surprise, knocking out teeth together painfully. I look over my shoulder to see Sasuke just down the hall, spatula in hand. There's pancake batter on his shirt. "I think there's something wrong with the pancakes again."

Iruka turns redder than I've seen, the blush spreading from his cheekbones down to his jaw as Sasuke waves the spatula. "Hi Mr. Umino."

"S-sauke," he stammers out. "I had no idea you were here." He smiles a little too sweetly at me and murmurs under his breath so that Sasuke can't hear. "Why didn't you tell me one of my students was here?"

"Didn't strike me as important," I replied honestly, knowing full well that it matters to Iruka. I’d honestly forgotten I'd left him waiting for me in the kitchen in light of the suitcases at my front down and Iruka's tongue down my throat. I don't know who taught him how to kiss, but whoever did deserves some kind of award.

"Of course it didn't." He struggles to recover from his initial shock, rubbing his face as if he can erase the light streak of red across his skin. It takes a bit to make Iruka blush. He'll let me do anything to him anywhere, even while people are watching. We spent more than one party at college making other people highly uncomfortable on couches and beanbag chairs. I've never exactly been forward with public displays of affection, but sometimes I swear Iruka wants people to watch, which makes me wonder what I missed. Probably more than I picked up, which is more than likely considering our history. He may have said something while I was drunk, but I don't remember much of anything after he pulled me down on top of him with absolutely no shame.

Apparently, though, his voyeurism does not extend to his students.

"Well," he says as he fights for words. "Sasuke. I. . . you see. We were. . . It's just that. . ." He gives up with a wave of his arms, his will gone and the blush returning. "Kakashi, what were we doing?"

A fairly ironic question given the suitcases at the front door. I had no idea what I was doing in the grand scheme of things. "We were kissing," I told him simply. No need to lie to the kid. He saw what we were doing quite clearly.

Sasuke nods, taking a few steps closer. He giggles as I'm slapped on the arm for my statement by a very red Iruka. "It's okay, Mr. Umino. He has a picture of you."

Iruka looks genuinely surprised, though I'm not sure as to whether it's a reaction to the remark or the mouth it came out of. Because he's still young, people tend not to realize how observant he is on a day to day basis. He notices things nine-year olds shouldn't notice. I'm more than sure it's because of the people in his life, the ones preparing him for a life of reading between the lines. “Oh,” he says in wonderment. "Well. Okay then?"

"Okay then," I agree.

Sasuke nods too, extending the spatula to Iruka. "Okay. So, do you know how to make pancakes, Mr. Umino?"

"Pancakes? Yes, I think so."

"Good. Because Kakashi doesn't know what he's doing." He motions with the spatula. "Come on."

Iruka looks at Sasuke's retreating back, looks at me, then looks at the suitcases and mutters something under his breath. It's probably directed at me.

"Go with him," I insist with a nudge to his shoulder. "I'll take your stuff upstairs and then I'll be down. Five minutes."

He sighs as I plant a quick kiss on his lips. "What is he doing here, Kashi? When did you turn into a babysitter?"

"You can ask him," I reply. I have more than one way of being evasive, although I could answer these questions easily. The answers were straightforward enough, simple enough.

He sighs again, hands back in that familiar position on his hips. "Right. Fine. See you in a few." He walks away with another quick kiss, shaking his head.

As soon as he's gone, I lean back against the door jam, reeling from his arrival. Without the suitcases, I'd have no problems letting him stay the night. We've done that dozens of time before. And if Genma ever needed to crash here for the night, I wouldn't hesitate. The suitcases make things harder. He makes things harder.

Looking down, I take in the sight of the suitcases just outside the door, waiting to come in, just like Iruka. There was another time when suitcases were outside my front door. I was six at the time and they were waiting to leave. I remember long blonde hair, shouting, a dog barking. And the dog’s name, Keller. A German Shepard with a limp.

I close my eyes swiftly, blocking out the sight of the suitcases and the slew of memory threatening to break the dam. It's not that I'm trying to forget. I haven't consciously tried to forget anything since I deliberately blocked out all good memories of my dad. But I know what remembering these things does to me, the way memories make me act, say, do. I have a long history with graves that only Sasuke has ever seen. It's not normal or even particularly sane, but it's the only way I know how to move through the memories of the things I can't forget. I won't let myself forget.

But not here. I can't do this here. Not with Iruka in the next room. Sasuke's voice echoes in my mind, bringing me back from déjà vu. It's not Saturday, Kakashi. It's not Saturday.

I take in a few deep breaths, supplying oxygen to my befuddled brain. It's getting worse as the years go on, beginning just with him and then spreading to other ghosts of mine and spiraling out of control to ghosts that aren't mine. I still don't understand why Sasuke doesn't leave when I slip into my morbid habit. He's almost fascinated by it; I can always feel his eyes on me while I talk, wide and willing to take it in whether he's frightened or not. And suddenly, I know why I so willingly let him see my deviations from reality, my increasingly impromptu séances with the dead. It's as clear as the suitcases at my feet, the same reason his words ran through my mind not a minute earlier. He understands something in all of my evasiveness; he asks questions without expecting answers. He comes to his own conclusions about me, ones that he accepts even if he's still left with holes. I am what I am to him, just another enigma he can't understand. He takes the things I do as things he can't change, things that are just a part of me.

Would Iruka be afraid? Would he understand?

Looking once more at the suitcase, I've never been more grateful to have Sasuke, who already understands that he'll never understand. Because I know Iruka will want answers if he sees the things Sasuke has seen, and I can't possibly explain to him why I see my mom and her long blonde hair standing next to the suitcases, keys jingling as she gets ready to head for the car, never once looking back for me.

He wouldn't understand. He's not drunk on memory.

*^*^*

Mr. Umino really does know how to make pancakes. Light, fluffy ones that taste almost exactly like the ones Mom used to make. The kind that are good even without syrup.

It's strange to see a teacher outside of school, especially after I just saw him kissing someone. He looks different when he's not in the classroom with a piece of chalk or a red pen in his hand. His hair is messy, and more of his buttons are undone. His fingertip is in the batter, swirling the mixture around before licking it off and nodding in approval. He looks more like he does in the photograph Kakashi has of him.

"So, Sasuke," he says as he ladles some batter into the frying pan. He may look different than he does in the classroom, but he still sounds like a teacher. "Does Kakashi usually make you pancakes for dinner?"

Over in his chair by the window, Kakashi is idly fingering the crown on his rook and munching on one of the pancakes. He might or might not be listening.

I shake my head. "They're not for us. They're for my brother. So he'll get better."

Kakashi finishes off a pancake and reaches for another. Ever since he started talking to strangers out in the garden I can't keep my attention away from him for long. I wonder how many other times he's done the same thing, I just wasn't around to witness.

"I see. That's sweet of you."

I shrug. Pancakes aren't really cake, but I guess I have to make due with what Kakashi has. I'm still not sure they'll really help.

"You should draw smiley faces on them."

I never expected a grown up to suggest something so silly. He has a sheepish smile on his face when I look up at him, hands busy with the pancakes. He knows some kind of trick that keeps them from sticking to the pan. "My mom used to do things like that when I was little," he goes on to explain. "It always made me laugh because she used mismatched gummy bears for the eyes."

Mom used to do that for me too. Except she used raisins. "I don't think Kakashi has gummy bears."

"Maybe not," he says with a mischievous grin that seems like it's meant to be a secret between the two of us. "But he does like to eat gummy bear pancakes."

Kakashi drops his pancake, making Iruka grin even wider. But I see the quirk of amusement pass Kakashi's lips as he picks it up again, tossing it to Pakkun down near his feet. "He thinks he's being funny, pretty bird," he says as he rubs Pakkun's head with his bare foot. Pakkun growls lightly, defending his pancake. "It's not fair to lead the kid on like that."

As if he doesn't do it all the time. I scowl at him, but he just winks at me. Which confuses me to no end. He's never winked at me before.

"I'm not leading him on. I'm sharing a fact. You do like gummy bear pancakes."

"I know I do," he says, looking at me instead of Iruka. I feel like the secret keeping has changed hands and that I'm now conspiring with Kakashi instead. It's almost like I'm on the inside. "Maybe Sasuke would like to know why I like them so much, hmm?" His gaze turns away from me and settles on Iruka, something I've never seen before present in his eyes. It reminds me of those women on the front pages of the magazines in the curtained-off section of The Den. Another something I don't understand. "And where?"

Mr. Umino promptly threw a towel at him, which he dodged with a chuckle. "You wouldn't. He's too young for that and you know it."

I'm always too young for everything. Why can't I hurry up and get older? Why can't I know where Kakashi likes to eat pancakes? They're just pancakes. Itachi and I used to eat them for breakfast all the time, raisins and all.

Kakashi chuckles again. "There's a box of raisins in the middle cabinet, pretty bird." The conversation is over, just like that. "You can use those if you want."

Sometimes I think he can read my mind. Most of the time, actually. It's eerie, in a way, but nice in another. It makes me think that maybe we've gotten to know each other to some degree. Just a little. There must be something I know about him that really matters among all the secrets I'm still discovering he has.

Somehow, Kakashi’s house has become a sort of refuge for me over the summer. There are a lot of things about him that I don't understand and probably never will. But he has a chess set and Pakkun. He cooks for me. He talks to me, however few, far between and teasing the words are. And now there's Mr. Umino, who's bound to know more things about him than I do. He's Kakashi's boyfriend, I guess, since he's not a girl and kissing makes them more than just friends, even if he is my teacher. I'm not surprised that Kakashi likes a boy instead of a girl, just like I'm no longer surprised that he takes his shoes off before he goes outside. I'm almost not even surprised anymore that he has a garden. I'm learning to expect surprise. He's a contradiction in action, a clash of routine and mystery, that makes staying with him interesting, if not always easy.

As Iruka flips the pancakes in the frying pan, I crawl onto the counter and open the middle cabinet door. Just like Kakashi said, there's a box of raisins inside, right behind the broccoli soup that I don't like. I tuck the box under my arm as I hop back down, dragging the chair back to the table once I reach the ground. Kakashi helps by hooking his ankle around the leg of the chair and pulling it in for me.

Clustering raisins for eyes and lining them up in a curve for a smile, I decide that my pancake face doesn't need a nose. There are already too many raisins on such a small circle.

The sunflower clock in the hallway begins to chime. Once on the last raisin, twice on Kakashi standing up to make the seven o'clock coffee. Footsteps sound in the hall on the third chime, light and barely detectable over the sound of the frying pan. No one knocked that time. I turn around in my chair, feet tucked under me as I look first at Kakashi and then his vacated chair. His chair is a dark wood where mine is light and mine with a rounded back where his is square. The clock strikes six as I see a dirty footprint on the floor he just cleaned underneath his chair, a nearly perfect imprint of his arch and heel and toes. On the seventh chime Itachi appears in the doorway, a white box in his arms and small white bag nestled in the crook of his arm. He's not barefoot.

The clock is silent again.

"That's a loud clock," Iruka comments as he transfers the freshly hot pancake from the pan to the plate, taking care not to disturb the smiling pastry.

It is a loud clock. The loudest thing in his house that usually so quiet. Even in a house full of mismatched furniture it doesn't belong, making those chimes sound like an unwelcome celebration in a cemetery. Why would he have a clock like that when he doesn't even turn on the radio? Once again, I wonder how I came to like his company. Like everything else in my life, it makes no sense.

The smell of coffee begins to fill the air, faint at first but steadily growing as Kakashi offers Itachi a seat in one of the chairs that don't match the table. Nothing in this house matches. And he wants it that way, I realize with a start, the pancake smiling at me as if it too knows something that I don't. If the garden belonged to the woman that lived in the house before he bought it, then maybe some of the furniture belonged to her too. After all, the clock matches the garden and he wouldn't have bought that clock on his own. I may not know him very well, but I know that much. That's not his clock anymore than that's his garden outside. How much of this house really belongs to him?

I've never realized how full of ghosts Kakashi's life really is. It's more than just Obito. The garden is like a tomb for the lady who died here and the sunflower clock is an epitaph in her name. He talks to her just like he talks to Obito. Like they're still here, hidden in everything from the blanket on the couch to the coffee in the pot. And for once, I can really feel them. I still don't understand why he talks to them, but I do understand that he's not just talking to air. Maybe I've caught some of his craziness, but as I look at Itachi I'm surer than I've ever been that ghosts do exist. Not the kind you see in movies, but the real, living kind that are all over the house. The kind running down Kakashi's face, the one he touches again and again on Saturday.

And all the neighbors see is a young bachelor too preoccupied to bother with a little bit of landscaping.

"We're going to go," Itachi says as he flicks is eyes over Mr. Umino. He didn't take the offered seat.

"But Sasuke made you pancakes," Iruka protests, holding the plate aloft over my head. Even he can tell that something is wrong. "With raisins."

Amazingly, Itachi reacts to this, taking a fraction of a step closer. "He what?"

"Made you pancakes," Kakashi supplies, pulling fours coffee mugs from the cabinet and arranging them in a cross on the counter. My Mardi Gras mug is not among them. "And they're happy to see you."

"They're get-well pancakes," I say as I finally find my voice. "Kakashi didn't have real cake so we made pancakes instead."

He's looking at me strangely. I focus on his eyes, like always, shuddering under the moments the slip into vacancy, just like I shudder when Kakashi slips away from me in the graveyard. But I make myself keep looking, just to see if there's something behind them. I don't want to be afraid of my brother. I've never wanted to be afraid of him. If I try hard enough to see what he sees, there's a chance that I don't have to be scared of him. I found out that Kakashi's ghosts are real after watching him long enough. Itachi's must be too. Whatever it was that made him kill mom and dad, whatever it was that makes him look just past me and spend hours in silence on fire escapes is hidden somewhere in his eyes.

"Some of them may be slightly burnt," Mr. Umino says apologetically.

Itachi blinks, finally, and sighs, ignoring Mr. Umino's remark. "Sasuke, you didn't have to do that."

He might not think so, but I did have to. I had to do something. I shrug in reply, taking the plate from Mr. Umino and setting it back on the table. "I wanted to."

There's a moment of quiet interrupted only by the rumble of the brewing coffee. Itachi sighs again before walking to the table, placing both the white box and the bag next to the pancake plate. "Here," he says as he opens the box. "I brought you pie. I'm not sure what kind it is."

I personally don't care what kind it is. All I care about is the fact that Itachi is speaking more now than he has in the past week. All I care about is the scrape of the chair as he pulls it away from the table and sinks down, resting his chin in his good hand. All I care about is the smell of coffee in the room as I eagerly anticipate my sugary cup. As Itachi pokes one of the raisins that make up the left eye of his get-well pancake, all I can do is smile and hope he doesn't lapse back into silence. At least for tonight. Kakashi's ghosts may be real, but I don't want anymore of them tonight.

Tomorrow is Saturday.


TBC


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(1) I have no idea if those are the correct instructions on the back of a pancake box. I just kind of guessed.

End AN- Extra points to anyone who can catch the mistake in continuity I made between the second and third chapter. It's a rather egregious mistake. First one to figure it out wins their choice of a drabble written by me of any paring they choose. Leave guesses in reviews, which I still love to death.