Iruka’s seventeen, and he’s alone.

He’s been alone since he was eleven and his parents died in the Kyuubi attack. If he really thinks about it, though, he’d been alone long before his parents had died. He’s sure his parents had loved him, but they’d never shown it with the embraces and caresses Iruka now longs for. Instead, there had been shuriken practice and words of praise, the prepping for the life of a shinobi. They had taught him how to stay alive, and that is how they had shown their love for him, their only son. Now, at seventeen, Iruka thinks that it might be a very big adventure indeed, if he died, and so he wishes, if only a little bit, that he’d never learned how to live.

He had graduated from the academy a few months after his parents’ death, and he had cried bitterly. He cried for the memories he had, of his mother showing him how to dodge attacks, of his father giving out praise and criticism equally. He cried for the memories he wished he had, of laughter and games and all those things that children are supposed to have. At night, when he was alone and the night seemed darker and colder than usual, he would dream new memories, ones to take the place of what he’s forgotten, and he’s forgotten so much. He sung lullabies to himself, dreaming of his mother tucking him in when he was small, and he hugged his knees, dreaming of his father carrying him on his shoulders. But here, at seventeen, he knows he’s too old for these games and dreams, and so he cries as he puts them away, cries as he tries to forget what he had never remembered. He no longer remembers his mother’s gentle voice, or how her hands on his shoulders had felt. He no longer remembers the rough calluses on his father’s palms as he taught him how to aim a shuriken. Worse, he can’t remember which memories are real and which are fake, and so he’s lost everything of his parents, and he feels so very alone.

At sixteen he passed the chuunin exam, him and the other boy on his team, though the girl didn’t pass. His team moved up on missions, and began working harder. Though he was alone when he went home, he could dream about his team and his sensei, and he could whisper everything to his parents, who’d give soft, empty peals of laughter. Now, when he thinks back on it, he decides that it had been the happiest time of his laugh, and perhaps, just maybe, he’d like to move onto a very big adventure after all.

Now he is seventeen, and his parents have been dead for six years. He’s seventeen, and his team was wiped out only six hours before. He’s lying in a hospital bed, trying to ignore the pain and the way that his eyes are burning. The nurses had left after he’d thrown a cup at them and he’s now staring at the shattered pieces of glass on the floor near the door, dreaming and wishing and hoping, though he doesn’t know what for. He’s very alone, more alone than he’s ever been before, but he’s always been alone.

“I heard what happened.”

He tries to ignore the opening door, the boy coming in. He’s angry, bitter, and hates this boy for trying to drag him out of his isolation.

“About your team,” the boy continues, moving closer to Iruka’s bed. Iruka’s hand searches for another cup to hurl, but the nurses had removed everything an hour before. “I’m sorry, it must be hard.”

“Go ‘way,” he whispers hoarsely. His team’s six hours dead, lying in the morgue below the hospital, the boy and the girl and the sensei, and Iruka can’t remember their names, because if he does then they become real and they become dead and he becomes alone. And this boy, this stupid, silly boy won’t leave him alone.

“My names Mizuki,” the boy says boldly, and Iruka wants to kill him.

“‘zuki…” he tries repeat after the boy, tongue heavy and thick. “Go ‘way, ‘zuki.”

The boy finally reaches Iruka’s bed, knees bumping against the mattress, and Iruka tries to turn away, but he can’t move. His body betrays him, just the way his eyes do as hot, burning tears run down his cold face.

“Hey,” the boy, Mizuki, says worriedly, “you hurt?” Iruka wants to laugh at that. His team’s gone, all dead and gone, and he wants to follow after, but the doctors and nurses won’t let him, and the boy asks if he’s hurt? “You want me to get a nurse?”

He shakes his head as frantically as he can, whimpering when his muscles in his neck and back scream in protest. “‘m fine,” he gasps out. “‘m fine, fine, fine.”

“You sure?” But the boy seems content with that, giving Iruka a tightlipped smile. His hands are warm, almost as hot as Iruka’s tears, as he wipes away the tears from Iruka’s face. Iruka hates him for the friendly gesture, for the touch.

“Don’t touch me.” He’s faintly surprised at how coherent he is, and that his tongue didn’t mangle the words. Mizuki seems as surprised as him, for a moment.

“Painkillers wearing off?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says insolently.

“Yeah? Well, just wanted to say I was sorry about your friends.”

Iruka’s eyes are still burning and he turns his head away, pushing his cheek against the cold pillow. “Doesn’t matter.”

“You want a new friend?” Mizuki says this off-handedly, as though he’s talking about the weather. Iruka shoves his face further against the pillow, wishing away the burning tears and the empty home and the broken bodies five floors below.

“That’d be nice,” he whispers, almost smiling when Mizuki again wipes away his tears.

!-!-!

Iruka’s twenty-three, and he’s alone.

His last friend, his only friend, has just betrayed him, less than six hours ago. Now Iruka’s sitting on a hospital bed, biting his lip to keep from wincing, as a doctor stitches up his back.

“You’re lucky,” the doctor says. “Barely missed the spinal cord. It’d be best if you stayed overnight for observation, and if you ever lose feeling in your lower back, come back. Other than that, you’re good to go.”

Iruka wants to scream, wants to throw cups at the door and curse at the nurses. Instead he smiles wanly, thanking the doctor as the old man leaves.

“I heard what happened. About your friend.”

Iruka starts laughing, hysterically, at the similarities. “Six years and six hours,” he gasps out as he laughs, stitches straining at the shaking of his shoulders and back. This time, instead of the morgue, his friend is lying in the asylum a few floors above him, watched over by ANBU.

“Hey,” the man says, walking closer to the bed, “you ok?”

“I’m fine,” Iruka forces out as he tries to stop laughing. A few deep breaths, a few bloody coughs, and he’s calm again. “I’m fine,” he repeats.

The man’s eyeing him critically and Iruka uses this time to eye him back, looking him over. Masked, with only one eye. That meant the copy-nin.

“I’m Kakashi,” the man says needlessly. “Hatake Kakashi.”

“I know,” Iruka replies, suddenly tired. He doesn’t want to talk, doesn’t want to go through the motions again, the same way he did six years before. An awkward silence falls, both men trying to ignore and pay attention to the other.

“You have silver hair,” Iruka finally blurts out, tired eyes fastening on Kakashi’s hair. The copy-nin looks surprised at this comment.

“I do,” he states carefully.

Iruka sighs complacently, moving to sit crosslegged on the bed. He pats the end of the bed, and gives a smile when Kakashi sits. “Mizuki had-” he pauses, grimaces, then continues “-has silver hair, too.”

Kakashi nods as though it’s an important statements, says “yeah?” is a questioning tone, looking interested. Iruka feels as though Kakashi’s humoring and for a moment he wants to smile.

“Yeah.”

“And he taught at the academy with you? Wasn’t he your friend?”

Iruka shrugs, a careless motions that sends fire through his back. “I guess, but it doesn’t really matter,” he says flippantly, trying to ignore the way his eyes burn.

“You need a new friend?” Kakashi’s voice is just as flippant as Iruka’s, careless and empty. Iruka’s face grows cold, and his eyes burn even more. When Kakashi’s fingers touch his cheek, wiping away burning streaks of tears, his fingers feel cool, comfortable.

“That’d be nice,” Iruka says. “Never did like being alone.”

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