Rumor Has It

Rumor Has It


New AN Since this is a reposting, all of the comments from the original version are still here. I couldn't get rid of them; they're practically part of the story.

Old AN- Thanks for keeping me on my toes, you guys. Geesh, you'd think I would have read enough fan fiction and seen enough subbed episodes to know how to spell Naruto's last name. I went back and corrected my spelling error and will use the right version from here on out.

I know you guys want silver hair, but I've decided to go with a platinum blonde color for practicality's sake. I don't believe that the higher-ups in Lord Byron would condone a teacher with dyed hair; they're a little too stuffy for that. For all of you who voted for blonde, congrats, you won! o_O

Don't kill me over this, 'kay? :(

I'll compensate for it later, I promise. Gaara's role in all of this will be revealed in good time, don’t worry. Right now, his primary function is as a rival to Sasuke and a friend to Naruto and Kiba. And sooner or later, most of the character will be referenced in some way. Most, not all. Has anyone managed to guess who the headmistress is yet?


But I'm babbling. On with the drama. . . .


Folly

Kakashi


While the students are made to sit through a welcoming ceremony, the teachers are forced to endure something even more horrendous(by which I mean mind-numbingly boring) to sit through for two hours. The orientation staff meeting.

This is one of the many times throughout the year where they gather all of the teachers into one of the castle's many parlors turned conference room to tell us about all the things we were and were allowed to do. In reality, they might as well have just given us a giant pamphlet on Lord Byron no-no's.

Do not smoke in the building.

Do not allow assignments to be turned in late.

Do not allow students to talk out of turn.

Do not espouse personal philosophy.

Do not wear sneakers or jeans.

Do not allow public displays of affection.

Do not leave on your cell phone during class.

Do not show films unapproved by the board.

Do not teach unapproved curriculum.

And so on and so on.

Two years ago, I would never have imagined that I could be teaching at a place like Lord Byron Academy. Fresh out of graduate school at twenty four, I became an English teacher in a London school where I taught for one year. Then, the astounding comes into play. There was a sudden vacancy for a teacher in the prestigious castle boarding school I'd heard so much about it. My boss insisted that I consider the job. He even offered to be my reference.

I had a good academic record, top of my class in high school and member of an honor society from City University. I interned with a publishing company on my summers off. I had a good reference. I decided to go for it.

I wish I hadn't.

Lord Byron, for all the hype surrounding it, is a cesspool of degradation wrapped in metallic paper and set afloat in champagne. It catches the light and distracts you from unwrapping the package. This is a world of deceit and elaborate fabrications designed to distort.

Fake. And yet, I fit nicely into the distortion.

Whilst my colleagues fastidiously inscribed copious annotations (that was me invoking my B.A. in English) I was busying myself with another type of marginal cryptology. Pictograms. My pencil moved deftly in the spare space of my handout, capturing the passion of the moment as Gai Maito, lover of youth and all things physical, put forth the movement for a locker room renovation since the athletes' showers needed re-cauking. His finger pointed dramatically at Ibiki Morino shook with emotion as he spoke on the behalf of hygiene, his third love.

I captured this all with rapid strokes of my pencil, Gai's thick exclamatory eyebrow, his set chin, the glisten of moisture in his eyes. I then moved on to recording Ibiki's stern features and crossed arms, the slightly amused upturn of his lips.

I paired Gai with a speech bubble that said "I admire your physicality, you big bear of a man. Let's make sweet love in the locker room." Ibiki’s bubble sported a large question mark.

The things I do to amuse myself.

As I was putting the final touches on my drawing, Genma Shiranui, a friend of mine, angled his head to get a better view of my masterpiece. I saw his lips tug into a grin in my peripheral vision. The usual toothpick in his mouth was missing in honor of our oh-so-important meeting. He was one year my senior in rank and three years my senior in age. Like me, he discreetly rolls his eyes and laughs at the living spirt of Lord Byron.

His golden brown eyes reread Gai's speech bubbles with unabridged mirth, chuckling softly. He extended an open handed palm, silently requesting my pencil. I gave it willingly. He slid my paper over and proceeded to sketch something extra on my drawing. I couldn't see what he was doing from the angle at which the paper lay. After several minutes of intense drawing and coma-inducing rhetoric from Shizune, my "notes" returned by way of Genma's sly hand. Curious, I glanced down and concealed a grin.

Ibiki now sported teddy bear ears and a jar of honey. Genma had altered his facial expression to include a suggestively quirked eyebrow and wide grin. "How sweet it is," was now written in the speech bubble formerly containing a simple question mark.

It's so refreshing to have found someone with my same perverted sense of humor. Really brings people together.

I was glad to have found an ally in Genma. Like me, he was new to the system and as of yet untainted. He was an art teacher for the basic drawing classes for kids that had about as much passion bricks. I was an English teacher in charge of instructing human beings who don't know how to think you themselves.

Can you hear me singing Joy to the World?

On the other side of my peripheral vision, another young teacher was scrutinizing mine and Genma's collaborative artwork. His lips, however, were pressed together in tight lipped disapproval instead of amusement. Iruka Umino, my teaching assistant, was already proving to the perfect example of what Lord Byron looked for in their teachers; the brunette had a large stick, nay, a whole tree, shoved so far up his ass that it protruded from his head.

I hoped he wasn't the tattling type. I didn't think Ibiki would appreciate his portrayal as a teddy bear, no matter how adorable his ears were.

Genma noticed Iruka's attention and retook the paper, his mischievous intent transparent on his face. No one else at the table was paying mind to the exchange. We're the young blood. We don't matter in meetings like this. Our input is of little to no value as of yet, and won't be until we've held tenure for six years. We're expected, of course, to listen and obey the rules of those older and wiser than us, but we are equally expected to keep our opinions, especially those which deviate from the majority, to ourselves.

In other words, shut up and listen.

My paper was purposely pushed a bit too far past me to allow Iruka maximum viewing ease. Again, I suppressed a smile. Genma had sketched Iruka in the background, arms crossed and a jealous pout on his face.

Genma grinned like the Cheshire cat. Iruka scowled and made a show of pointedly ignoring our antics. He was obviously displeased.

Victory is ours.


~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


Genma was waiting for me in the dining hall when dinner rolled around. He was leaning against the column closest to the serving area, arms crossed limply. The toothpick absent during the meeting was between his lips.

I greeted him with my usual head nod. He uncrossed himself and fell into step as we joined the line of hungry students. Today's menu was roast chicken, scalloped potatoes, and asparagus. We filled our plates to the top, grabbed some more coffee, and headed to an isolated corner of the hall. Faculty members technically had their own, smaller dining room to eat in, but Genma and I preferred to distance ourselves from them as much as possible. The students were far more interesting to observe and less likely to bother us while we were trying to eat.

"This asparagus looks like it was left to die in a roadside grave," Genma commented as we slid into our seats. I had to agree with his analysis. There was some sort of unidentifiable brown sauce covering the extremely limp vegetables on our plates.

"Gravy, I think," I offered. Thick, lumpy gravy.

"Looks more like mud," he returned, pushing the vegetables off to the far side of the plate to avoid contamination. "This school is supposed to be for the wealthy. You'd think they’d feed us better than this."

"That would be the common consensus." I prodded one of the stalks with the outer prong of my fork. "You should eat one, see if it tastes like mud."

"No way. You eat it."

I did nothing more than raise an eyebrow, which was tantamount to "Sure. I'll eat mud if you eat paint."

"Point taken." Another reason I like Genma: he understands what my frequent silences and supplementary expressions translate into in the realm of vocabulary. He speaks fluent Kakashi. He reached up with his free hand to tuck back a strand of brown hair that had escaped from his bandana. Art teachers are allowed to disregard the rules of academy dress. They are supposed to be artistic. If I wore a bandana, I would be politely discouraged from doing it again. "But I feel it only fair to remind you that I have eaten paint before."

"Taste good, Genma?" I teased mildly.

His face twisted in disgust. "Nastiest thing I've ever done. Never," he commanded firmly, fork waving at me in place of his index finger, "believe an older sibling who tells you that purple paint tastes like grapes. Chances are, their intentions are insidious."

"I'll remember that should I ever encounter a long-lost brother."

Genma chuckled at my witticism. Third reason I like Genma: he has a good sense of humor. Never has he hesitated to laugh at something he found amusing, no matter how small or trifling it seemed. In him, I found a soul with whom I could hold sarcastic, often far-fetched conversations without offending. "That was actually my sister's evil genius. My brother was responsible for the green paint."

"What did he tell you that tasted like?"

"Asparagus, actually."

I smirked at his witticism. "A six year old who like asparagus? You're asking for a serious willing suspension of disbelief."

"Who says I ate it willingly?" he questioned as he wiggled his eyebrows lecherously. "My brother shoved it so far into my mouth before he released it that I nearly deep throated the thing."

A strangled gasp of horror filled the air about ten feet away. I'd sensed some one’s presence about a second before Genma's last, horribly wrong-sounding statement. Genma looked up to identify our mystery guest. The delight that sprang into his eyes told me all I needed to know, for Genma is only happy when a) talking about sex or b)making people uncomfortable with stories about sex. It had to be Iruka.

I slouched in my chair, after taking a bite of chicken. Chewing thoughtfully and ignoring Iruka's gape, I decided it would be fun to disturb him even further. "Yeah, brothers are good for that."

If I'd actually thought for a spilt second that Genma really was talking about what Iruka was assuming, I'd would not be amused; I'd be outraged and disgusted. But it wasn't true, and it was it's fallacy that made it funny. The reprehensible can only be laughed about when it isn't actually happening. That is the quintessence of morbid humor, and the essence of Lord Byron.

Iruka was stuttering silently, mouth opening and closing like a fish when I looked up. I was having a hard time believing that Iruka could think Genma was serious at all; the expression on his face was intended for comedic purposes. I could assume one thing about Iruka, then. He was prone to believing the worst.

"Did you want something, Iruka?" I asked, quite pleasantly, the utterly unnerved man before us. Genma and I continued to act as if he hadn't walked in on a fucked-up conversation involving molestation and incestuous deep throating. When you can truly act as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening, you can alter someone's sense of reality. The longer we looked at him expectantly, the more he started doubting what he'd heard. I could see compromise creeping into his eyes, justifying our nonchalant reactions.

It is so easy to mess with peoples' minds.

He shook his head to dispel whatever it was gripping his thoughts and crossed the gap to come stand one chair away. "I was, uh, just wondering if I could take a look at your syllabus for the term. Just so I can be ready for whatever you're teaching."

"My syllabus, huh?" Genma bit his lip in an attempt not to laugh. Working with Iruka was going to be interesting, if he was always going to feel it necessary to have a plan. "Sure, Iruka. I'll show it to you on Tuesday."

Iruka frowned. "Don't classes begin on Tuesday?"

"Yeah."

"When I said I wanted to be ready, I meant in advance."

Iruka was under the impression that I was stupid, it seemed. "Oh, did you?" I braced elbows on the table and rested my chin on the back of my hands. "Well, in that case, I'll show it to you on Tuesday."

His caramel colored skin flushed in an irritation he was trying to contain. "Kakashi, with all due respect, I think it best if. . ."

"I'll show it to you," I cut in sharp but smiling, "on Tuesday, Iruka." The smile combined with the firm tone was meant to throw him off-base, not knowing if I was a nice guy or a force to be reckoned with. It had the desired effect.

"Tuesday?" he questioned blankly, as if Tuesday didn't actually exist.

"Tuesday."

By now, Genma was biting his lip so hard that it was probably going to start bleeding. Iruka was displeased, but accepted that he wasn't getting my "syllabus" until Monday. "Right. Tuesday." He nodded curtly, turned heel, and left us to our devices.

Genma let his laughter go in a harsh bark. "Hah. He actually thinks that you have a syllabus. You." He wiped away imaginary tears. "He's a funny little guy, isn't he?"

I shrugged. "Funny, sad. One of those."

"In any case," he said as he stood up. "I'm going to go throw this sorry excuse for a vegetable away. Don't go anywhere, hot stuff."

"Wouldn't dream of it, babe."

As I watched Genma's ass retreat to the garbage can, I mused on the state of Iruka's uppityness. Was he born with that complex, or was it a quality he gained throughout the years" He struck me as the kind of guy who didn't know the definition of fun, much less how to have it. Maybe he just needed a good lay. That was my stress relief method.

His syndrome was common. Lord Byron has a reputation for strict rules and by the book policies. When I'd first started out, I'd tried to follow the rules too. Before I caught on how the system works, that is. When I learned the inner trappings, the way students structured their society through an elaborate balance between truth and lies, I found that I could fit into that society with ease. Even the faculty, for all our rules and regulations, bends to the unwritten law of a larger societal code practiced by the monied elitists that paid big bucks to send their sons and daughters to the prestigious persona embodied in Lord Byron Academy's very name.

In the three years I've been teaching here, I feel like I haven't taught my students a damn thing. Their ways are so set, their sense of obligation to carry on tradition so deeply entrenched in their neuron pathways that they've lost the ability to absorb what doesn't fit into their preconceived notions of action. They recite SparkNotes at me. They quote the author. They don't think and they don't learn.

More than anything, they're puppets.

It's my personal mission to take a student under my wings and show them how to think originally, and that they can have ideas of their own. Even if it's just one student, I'll feel better about releasing them into the world. I'll feel like I've done my *job*.

Amazingly, I managed to find someone last year. He's not ready to be released from my tutelage yet, but I've planted the seeds of change so that with a little more work flowers will be able to crowd out the weeds in his mind.

I would have to locate him within the next couple of days since he wouldn't be in any of my classes this year; I teach sophomores and juniors. I'd just stalk the library on my free periods. He would be there. When in doubt, I could always look in the library.

Besides, he owed me a book.


Naruto

"Alright, Naruto," Kiba said as he polished off the last of his chicken. "Tell us why you're brooding."

"I'm not brooding," I corrected testily. "I've been contemplating."

"Is it actually something important, this time?" Shikamaru drawled wearily, shoving some really gross looking veggies around his plate. "I don’t want to hear anymore super hero comparisons."

"Who were you comparing?" Gaara asked, mild interest apparent in the slight tonal inflection.

"Batman and Superman," Kiba supplied.

"Superman."

"Awesome. Told you, Naruto."

Shikamaru let his fork go with a clatter. "Veering off topic, guys."

"Yeah, can we focus here?" I said in an effort to bring them back to my problem. "We can resume super hero superiority negotiations later." I took a deep breath in an effort to collect the last of my jumbled thoughts. "Okay. I'm going to put this out there, and you guys tell me if I'm over-thinking this."

Gaara snorted in contempt.

"Criticism will be held until after my presentation," I continued with a glare in Gaara's direction. Shikamaru motioned for me to proceed. "Kay. So earlier today, when we first came up to our rooms, you remember the conversation you and Shika were having?" Nods from Kiba and Shika prompted me to continue. "Well, while you guys were talking, I was having a, um, confrontation, I guess."

"With what?" Kiba asked incredulously.

"With Sasuke, idiot." Shikamaru rolled an unlit cigarette between his fingers. "You know, the only other living organism in the room at the time."

I held up my hands for silence. "I was checking him out, like I always do when I see him. Who wouldn’t right?"

"I'm not into guys."

"Don’t like pretty boys."

"I hate his guts from the bottom of my soul."

"You have a soul?" Kiba scoffed.

I slammed my palms down on the table, earning a few ill-begotten glances from neighboring tables in the process. "Can I finish my story, please?"

"Sorry, man," Kiba said apologetically. Shikamaru shrugged. Gaara rolled his eyes remained silent, but gifted Kiba with a piercing look that pierced *my* soul. "Go ahead."

"Thank you. So I was checking him out"-ceramic skin the color of cream offset by the stark midnight black strands of hair that frame his face just so- "while you guys were talking about Kiba's problem. I thought he wasn't lookin' cause his eyes were closed. But the next time I looked at his face, his eyes"-black faceted onyx jewels that reflect light in sparks- "were opened and trained right on me. I panicked, couldn't look away. Then it got weird." I leaned forward, feeling like this was a little too personal to be heard by neighboring tables. The others followed suit. "You know that thing girls sometimes do to Sasuke when they’re trying to seduce him?"

"The whole 'bat your lashes and part your lips sensually' thing?" Gaara frowned. "I'm sure it happens to him at least twice a day."

"Hot, when done right" Kiba threw in for the opinion of hormonal teens everywhere. "I've seen some trainwrecks, believe me."

"Oh, he did it right. It was hotter than hot."

"Sasuke did that to you?"

"I was under the impression that he liked girls," Shikamaru mused.

"Yeah," I said with a head shake. "I know. Freaky, right? I was memorized by his"-full, ruby red-"lips and terrified by his attention all at the same time. I didn't want him to catch me doing it. I think I went into a temporary coma. But anyway, after he did all that, he bit the air."

"Bit?"

"You know, like, snapped his teeth. He bit the air."

"How carnivorous of him."

I slumped in my chair, feeling the mire of confusion descend again. "So what does it mean? I don't speak Sasuke."

"I think it means he wants to eat you."

"Kiba, I know its hard for you, but try to be intelligent."

"No Shika, I mean like 'you're delicious I want to devour your hot body' kind of eat. Maybe he thinks you've got in goin' on, Naruto."

I blushed instantly. "Don't get my hopes up." I'm not his type, in any sense. "Look at me. I'm short, loud, poor, unobservant, cutesy. I'm his exact opposite." Sasuke, god. Sasuke was too sexy for words. He's the only person I've seen who would be so beautiful but still undeniably masculine at the exact same time. His carriage, his very breath, exuded confidence that turned all the soft features in jagged angles. "Guys like him don't fall for guys like me. This isn't a fairy tale, it's my life." And let me tell you, my life hasn't exactly been easy.

Shikamaru placed the cigarette in his mouth, signaling that his frustration level was rising. If he hangs out with us enough, he's going to develop lung cancer before graduation. "I think we're jumping to conclusions. We're not even sure of the state of Sasuke’s sexuality."

Gaara reclined in his chair, looking far more composed than I was feeling as he embarked on what was, for Gaara, a long-winded speech. "Take it from someone who's known Sasuke for a long time. His sexuality is a non-issue. He was just fucking with you."

Fucking with me? Why? I barely even know him. I've never even talked to him. Not a word. Sasuke and I belong to completely different social circles. Why would he suddenly have an interest in a guy like me, since he probably doesn’t know my name? “"What do you mean, Gaara?"

"I mean, Sasuke's a bitch who likes to play cat and mouse,” he expounded as he examined a chip in one of his grey painted fingernails. "He was just having a bit of twisted fun making you squirm."

I blinked owlishly, processing this new information. "He was just having fun with me?"

Gaara, and Shika, nodded affirmatively. "That's Sasuke's specialty. He loves messing with people. Probably makes him feel powerful or something."

"But why me?"

"You were there," Shika said simply. "He just picks at random who he wants to bully. Come on, Naruto, you presented him with a golden opportunity when he caught you staring. "

"Most likely, he'll leave you alone now," Gaara, the self-proclaimed Sasuke expert, went on. "He had some sick fun with you and tomorrow he'll do it to someone else."

I slouched even further in my chair, unsure if I was relieved or disappointed with the joint verdict reached by Shika and Gaara. Subconsciously I'd known that the reason was something like this, but I'd irrationally hoped that it wouldn't. I wanted Kiba's theory to be true. I wanted Sasuke to see me like I saw him. I wanted him to want me.

The harsher reality of it hurt. He was just having a moment of fun and realizing that made me sadder than I anticipated. It was weird. I didn't want him to fuck with my mind all the time, but I did want him to pay attention to me.

"Shouldn't you be relieved?" Shikamaru asked when he noticed how far down in the seat I'd sunken. "He won't bother you anymore."

"I know," I mumbled. "It just. . .I like him. Can I help it if I crave attention from him? That was the first time he ever made eye contact with me. It was weird and all, but at least he saw me."

Gaara allowed himself a rare sigh. "You don't want that kind of attention from Sasuke. It doesn't mean anything."

Geesh, Gaara really can be tactless. His philosophy in life is straightforward: tell it like it is. He's a very honest person, honest to the point where it exceeds common human courtesy. Gaara doesn't believe in such trifling things as white lies. If a girl asks him if she looks fat in a dress, he'll tell her yes without hesitation. To most people, he's rude, but we accept that it's just Gaara's demeanor. He doesn't mean to be caustic, he just doesn't see the need to sugar coat things or beat around the bush; he mows the bush down with a industrial weed-wacker.

If I slouched any further in my chair, I was going to slide right off and under the table. "Yeah, you're right." I mean nothing to Sasuke Uchiha. I never will. I smiled weakly. "You wanna grab dessert with me, Kiba?"

"Duh." He scrambled to his feet and draped a conciliatory arm around my shoulder, trying his best to comfort me. I thanked him silently. "I'm always up for dessert. Hey, Shika, you want something?"

"Peanut butter cookies," he answered without hesitation. I don't know why we bother asking him what he wants. He ate peanut butter cookies after every meal last year, and snacked on them in-between. He's a peanut butter junkie. We didn't ask Gaara. He doesn't like sugar. "Lots of them," he clarified as he shoved his plate of vegetable away.

"Right, plate full of cookies, comin' up." Kiba clasped me a little tighter as we walked away. "I know how you feel, buddy," he commiserated as he took a quick glance back at Shikamaru. "I know how you feel.

Itachi

The next few day passed by at a leisurely pace. I tucked myself into the upper corner of my bed in a cocoon of pillows and reread The Sirens of Titan for the sixth time. My days of peace were marred only by the moments when Kisame attempted to make conversation. As I anticipated, my other two roommates ignored my existence barring the moments they glanced over to make sure I wasn't praying to Satan or preforming ritualistic voodoo ceremonies on miniature dolls of them.

This morning, for instance, he was returning from the shower as I was buttoning my shirt and thought it would be a good time to strike up conversation.

"Mornin' mate," he greeted as he toweled his wet hair. "My shower stall had a huge spider in it. Little bugger scared the daylights outta me. Not something you wanna see first thing, eh?"

As was quickly becoming custom, I granted him a small nod. It was the easiest way to deal with him. A little indulgence, and eventually he went away, just like a kid.

He tossed the towel on the floor and loosened the tie on his robe. "Well, what do you expect from an old castle? There's probably a spider in here somewhere now. Just gotta learn to live with the critters." He opened the closet he shared with Zaku. "At home, we sometimes get snakes in the house. Gotta keep the doors closed if you wanna keep 'em out." The robe fell to his ankles to reveal the full rear nudity of Kisame.

I considered the view presented as I tied by shoes methodically. He had, from what I could gather from the talk of the female half of the species, a nice ass that was not the least bit pale. I could only assume he sunbathed in the nude to achieve such an even skin tone.

The human anatomy has never served as a catalyst to rev my hormones into action. I look at the human body in term of structure; I can tell you where each and every bone in the body is located and precisely which muscles move when you rotate an ankle. In that sense, I find both males and females fascinating, but not sexually enticing. Looking at Kisame’s ass was not giving me a hard-on. It was, however, giving me a clear picture of his workout regiment.

A pair of pants covered the area of his body I'd been examining. This was bemusing. Kisame apparently did not consider underwear essential to his wardrobe. That would be interesting in the locker room.

Kisame turned around abruptly, providing me with a view of washboard abdominal muscles. "Are you staring at my ass, mate?"

I shook my head. "Examining. You work out a lot."

He was shot me a quizzical look. "Yes? I work-out everyday." A big grin spread across his face to conceal his discomfort. "Have to impress the shelia's, right?"

I shrugged indifferently. My usual form of exercise involved a long run, some sit-ups and push-ups. I did't weight lift often. I also didn't do it to attract girls; I did it for health reasons. Girls just seemed to be an unavoidable side-effect.

"You aren't very interested in girls, are you?"

"Not very."

"Are you interested in girls at all?"

I shrugged. To date, I'm not interested in either. I don't need to be. My father will find someone he deems suitable for me to marry, and that will be that. He can't force me to marry someone against my will, but I probably won’t have a reason to object. Nothing does it for me.

Maybe when I stumbled across the right person I would be caught up in sexual desire. I was of the opinion that gender wasn't an obstacles, you like what you like. I just haven't figured out what I like yet. I don't feel anything for guys or girls. I don't feel much of anything at all. What am I supposed to feel? I have nothing in life to look forward to, nothing that hasn't already been decided. I accepted that years ago.

"Are you gay, then?"

"I don't know," I replied honestly.

"Confused?"

I turned away to tuck my lab top into its carrier. I gave up on notebooks for every subject in my freshman year in favor of carrying one notebook for in-class writing assignments and the lab top for notes. "No," I replied shortly. He didn't need to know about my sexuality in the first place, but it was better to be straightforward with him so that I could get out of here without anymore questioned. "I just don't know."

"Where're you goin'?" he called out as I slung my bag across my shoulder and began walking out the door. I didn't answer him. He had eyes. "Class doesn't start for twenty-five minutes!"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The library. My sanctuary in times of chaos. When things get too loud or I just need to escape for a little while, I come here, to the second floor library. This floor is where the fiction books are stored, which makes it relatively empty in comparison to the first floor main library full of students working on research projects. I have an armchair near the back of the library, in an isolated corner by a window. The lighting was always dim, giving the room a soft orange glow that I loved. It made me feel warm, alive in ways I couldn't elsewhere.

Classes began in twenty minutes, but twenty minutes was plenty of time to prepare me for the day. I pulled a book at random from the shelf and settled into my chair. It was a thin volume, one that I could easily polish off in a day. A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams.

I don't read the synopsis of novels before I read. I'd rather everything be a mystery unraveling at my fingertips. That's what I like about books, the mystery, the way I don't know what is happening. So unlike my life.

Three pages into the novel, there was a familiar presence materialized at the end of the row of shelves. I didn't need to look up to know who it was. Who else would seek me out back here?

"Stalker," I accused the man leaning against the book shelf with his hands shoved into his pockets. He always stood like that. I didn't need vision to see the man imprinted in my mind. Hatake-sensei, white-blonde hair that flopped into his eyes and curled around his ears. Hatake-sensei, slate grey eyes flat like rock one second and glinting like storm water the next, writhing and alive. Eyes that kept secrets in-between telling all. Hatake-sensei, tall, sharp angles that he commanded with an instinctive ease, keeping at bay and opening like gates. He was evasive and blunt, friendly and aloof, a contradiction.

"You owe me something," he returned in that voice that sounded like honey sliding over gravel. "A personal possession."

I turned the page. "It's not with me right now." I didn't want to part with that book yet. I liked being able to hold his name in my hands, feel the weight of it.

"Forgot?"

"Memory is folly."

"Deception is folly, Itachi." His eyes flicked to my cover of my book, the lightest of amusement lifting his brow. "Interesting reading choice."

"Does it come recommended?"

"With a grain of salt." Hatake-sensei, blunt and evasive, telling me something without telling me anything. "It's a good play. You'll enjoy it, I'm sure." He pushed himself away from the shelf and crossed the distance between us, perching on the arm of my chair. "Classes start soon, you know."

In an instant our conversation had gotten far less personal, leaving an empty feeling that I couldn’t justify. Physically closer, he was farther away. I nodded in answer.

"It's too bad I don't teach seniors. You were a good student."

I'd always been a good student. I was an amazing student: studious, diligent, over-achieving, consumed by the rigors of academia. I mastered every subject I encounter. I was the pride of Lord Byron. Hatake-sensei saw me that way, too. Again, I nodded.

"I have to go. My teaching assistant is probably hunting for me." He scratched the back of his head. "He's hard to shake."

Nod.

He was walking, to his classes, away from me. I turned the page I hadn't read.

"I want my book back," he called back lazily. I looked up at his retreating back, safe because he couldn't see the way I admired his carriage.

"Tomorrow," I lied. Memory will still be folly tomorrow. Deception will always keep me safe.


TBC

~*~*~*~*~


There you go, guys. I hope I've managed to please some of you with Kakashi's hair color. I promise, I will write non-AU stories where his hair will be the correct color. But this satisfies my authorial purposes. He still has the scar on his left eye, though. I'm not going to stray that far from the original.