He knows that Naruto sneaks into Kakashi's apartment every night. He can smell it every time Naruto comes close. He knows that Kakashi smells guilty, knows that Kakashi can't look Iruka in the eyes anymore. Knows that Iruka gets drunk each night, and goes home with people he doesn't know. He can smell that, too. He can smell all these things, in this village, and he knows everything. 

  He smells Ino on Shikamaru and Shikamaru on Chouji and Chouji on Ino, and the whole team reeks of it, of fumbling and panting and sex. Hinata smells of too many hormones, of pregnancy, and Neji smells of fear. Shino smells of bugs and dirt and clean hospitals, because he's dying away, and Kiba can smell the disease in him, the disease that's deep within the bones, eating his teammate inside out. 

  Kiba can smell Sakura's frustration and anger. Can smell the tears that well up in her eyes, and the stubborn, ugly pride that she wears like a coat. He can smell Sasuke's longing, the peaks and spikes in hormones every time the damn Uchiha sees Naruto. 

  All these things, they're running through his head. There's too many, he can't count them all, can't keep them in order and under lock and key. He writes them down to get them out of his brain, because they try to eat their way out, just like Shino. He scribbles them down on paper as fast as they come, scratches them into wood of tables, traces them in dirt on the ground, all the time, because he can always smell everyone, and everyone's dirtiest little secrets stink like sin. 

  Sometimes Hinata asks him what he's writing, and it takes all his life to not growl at her. He smiles at her, fangs sharp and bright and white, ready for red, and hides the papers in his pockets, or covers the wood with his hands, or kicks the dirt with his feet. His secrets, his, because the secrets are Konoha's secrets, and Kiba is so very Konoha's, body and soul. 

  He writes down the times that Kurenai doesn't bleed, and the times that she starts bleeding again, and she has to close the door to the nursery. He scrawls letters across newpapers and magazines every time Kakashi smells of Iruka's sickness and Iruka's anger and Iruka's hate. He scribbles when Asuma tries to quit smoking, and never quite makes it, even though his lungs are breaking down. 

  Kiba knows a lot, too much, and sometimes, when he starts writing with blood, because his fingertips are raw from scraping over the paper, he can smell his mother's despair and his sister's fear. 

  He writes that down, too.

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