Naruto ficlet.
Dec. 9th, 2005 05:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
midnightdiddleRandom Asuma/Kakashi drabble.
Asuma used to have a cat. It had been a stray kitten he'd picked up during the summer. It'd been mewling from inside a box in the alley beside his apartment building and, in a fit of loneliness, he'd grabbed it by the scruff on the neck and had taken it inside to give it some water, because his milk was sour.
He'd named the kitten, a little girl, Mitsuko, after his mother. She'd follow him around, tumbling after his feet, and she'd bat at his fingers with soft paws, claws carefully retracted. Asuma never admitted it, but, for a long time, he lived for Mitsuko. His family was dead, mother father brother sister, aunt uncle cousin grandparent. All dead, all gone, and Asuma felt very alone, but he had Mitsuko.
Mitsuko was killed by a wild dog when Asuma was twenty-three. Six years, and when she didn't appear at his table one morning, crying for milk, he felt something get stuck in his throat. He searched for Mitsuko, whistling and calling, 'here, kitty kitty kitty,' throughout Konoha. He found her body in the back of an alley, inside a tipped over box. Asuma didn't cry, because he never cried, and she was only a cat. A cat, a cat, nothing more. He chanted it to himself as he dug a hole outside the wall, sang it to himself as he covered Mitsuko with dirt. Only a cat, just a cat. Not a person, not family.
Asuma felt like a little piece of himself died that day.
When Asuma was twenty-eight, he picked up another cat. It was a stray, sitting outside an apartment building, next to the stoop, in the rain. Asuma grabbed it by the scruff of the neck, dragged it up to his apartment, towel-dried its fur and gave it some water, because his milk was sour.
He called the tomcat Kakashi, and Kakashi sat in a kitchen chair, staring at Asuma with one eye. Kakashi was scarred and bleeding from fights, a split lip bleeding through the mask, ear nicked. A mess. Asuma tossed some blankets at Kakashi, made a nest on the couch, and left the cat to his own devices. The next morning, Kakashi was still sleeping on the couch, sprawled out belly-up. Asuma bought some milk and set out a cup and saucer of coffee and milk, and left for a mission.
When Asuma came back, Kakashi was gone, but over the next few weeks, the cat came and went, crawling through the window, or crying outside the door until Asuma let him in. At first, Kakashi slept on the couch on blankets that Asuma left out, then, one night, the cat snuck into Asuma's bedroom, slid in next to Asuma.
A few years later, when Asuma was thirty-two, Kakashi was killed by wild dogs. Asuma searched for Kakashi, silent, sending out lines of chakra. He found Kakashi's body outside an abandoned building, crumpled by a falling-apart stoop. It was just Kakashi, nothing more, nothing more. Just Kakashi. Asuma burned Kakashi's body and shoved the dogtags into his pocket, telling himself it didn't matter. It wasn't as though Kakashi was part of the family.
Asuma felt like a little piece of himself died that day.
He went back home, glanced at his sour milk, and threw it away.
Maybe he'd get another cat.
Asuma used to have a cat. It had been a stray kitten he'd picked up during the summer. It'd been mewling from inside a box in the alley beside his apartment building and, in a fit of loneliness, he'd grabbed it by the scruff on the neck and had taken it inside to give it some water, because his milk was sour.
He'd named the kitten, a little girl, Mitsuko, after his mother. She'd follow him around, tumbling after his feet, and she'd bat at his fingers with soft paws, claws carefully retracted. Asuma never admitted it, but, for a long time, he lived for Mitsuko. His family was dead, mother father brother sister, aunt uncle cousin grandparent. All dead, all gone, and Asuma felt very alone, but he had Mitsuko.
Mitsuko was killed by a wild dog when Asuma was twenty-three. Six years, and when she didn't appear at his table one morning, crying for milk, he felt something get stuck in his throat. He searched for Mitsuko, whistling and calling, 'here, kitty kitty kitty,' throughout Konoha. He found her body in the back of an alley, inside a tipped over box. Asuma didn't cry, because he never cried, and she was only a cat. A cat, a cat, nothing more. He chanted it to himself as he dug a hole outside the wall, sang it to himself as he covered Mitsuko with dirt. Only a cat, just a cat. Not a person, not family.
Asuma felt like a little piece of himself died that day.
When Asuma was twenty-eight, he picked up another cat. It was a stray, sitting outside an apartment building, next to the stoop, in the rain. Asuma grabbed it by the scruff of the neck, dragged it up to his apartment, towel-dried its fur and gave it some water, because his milk was sour.
He called the tomcat Kakashi, and Kakashi sat in a kitchen chair, staring at Asuma with one eye. Kakashi was scarred and bleeding from fights, a split lip bleeding through the mask, ear nicked. A mess. Asuma tossed some blankets at Kakashi, made a nest on the couch, and left the cat to his own devices. The next morning, Kakashi was still sleeping on the couch, sprawled out belly-up. Asuma bought some milk and set out a cup and saucer of coffee and milk, and left for a mission.
When Asuma came back, Kakashi was gone, but over the next few weeks, the cat came and went, crawling through the window, or crying outside the door until Asuma let him in. At first, Kakashi slept on the couch on blankets that Asuma left out, then, one night, the cat snuck into Asuma's bedroom, slid in next to Asuma.
A few years later, when Asuma was thirty-two, Kakashi was killed by wild dogs. Asuma searched for Kakashi, silent, sending out lines of chakra. He found Kakashi's body outside an abandoned building, crumpled by a falling-apart stoop. It was just Kakashi, nothing more, nothing more. Just Kakashi. Asuma burned Kakashi's body and shoved the dogtags into his pocket, telling himself it didn't matter. It wasn't as though Kakashi was part of the family.
Asuma felt like a little piece of himself died that day.
He went back home, glanced at his sour milk, and threw it away.
Maybe he'd get another cat.
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no subject
Date: 2005-12-10 03:10 am (UTC)*sighs*
Also, in an unrelated topic, I can't find that Iruka/Anko fic you said you had. WHere?
J
no subject
Date: 2005-12-10 03:10 am (UTC)I need sleep. Or something.
J
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Date: 2006-02-03 10:23 pm (UTC)I really didn't expect that. And it actually hurt to read.
I love the way you wrote it. Sort of detached. It really worked.