Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11858247.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Naruto
  Relationship:
      Haruno_Sakura/Hatake_Kakashi, Haruno_Sakura_&_Yamanaka_Ino
  Character:
      Haruno_Sakura, Hatake_Kakashi, Chiyo_(Naruto), Sai_(Naruto), Yamanaka
      Ino, Sasori_(Naruto), Kin_Tsuchi
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Modern_Setting, Slow_Burn, Coming_of_Age,
      Infatuation, Language, its_gonna_get_deep, its_gonna_get_dark, Emotional
      Hurt/Comfort, Prosody, Ballet, major_age_difference
  Series:
      Part 2 of Cigarettes_and_Soda
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-08-20 Updated: 2018-01-08 Chapters: 3/10 Words: 7583
****** Miséricorde ******
by Angelas
Summary
     In which Sakura is a young aspiring dancer, and the instructor is not
     what she imagined.
Notes
     I was honestly not sure how to rate this. All I know is that this
     story will be exploring a lot of intimate territory, on the precipice
     of perhaps making some people very uncomfortable. Still, I wanted to
     create something that felt real, as well as to express my love for
     these characters. Here goes.
     all beta credit goes to my beloved who is forever the wisest♡ I love
     you.
***** Ribbons *****
                                      oOo
The drive to the little shopping plaza down the road has for sure taken longer
than it should. Such is life, however. In Chiyo’s ancient Buick.
It’s Friday afternoon, the week before eighth grade—the day before ballet—and
the sun has sunk behind the chalky autumn clouds. It’s cold, an early winter
gripping to the dappled sky. Wet sidewalks brown with mud, no sign of last
month’s summer.
The car tuckers to a stop, one of five, and with a series of doe-eyed pretty
pleases, Sakura lands a kiss on Chiyo’s cheek and frolics on ahead to claim a
shopping cart. A caper to her step, legs swiftly leaping over gum stains on the
pavement. She does it on her toes at first, then spins her best pirouette,
anticipating what it may be like for tomorrow with real life ballet shoes.
She drags a cart out from the cart corral and races it to the shop’s front
entrance. Wild zigzags in between, readily outdistancing her grandmother.
“Brazen child,” calls out Chiyo. “I’ll be wheeling in a gurney the day you slip
from all that prancing—”
“That’s old talk, nana,” giggles Sakura. “No one says that anymore!”
She waits for Chiyo to catch up. Then she pivots to the side, hauling the door
to the thrift store open with a bow.
“Grandmas first!” she smiles.
 
They step inside. It’s warm. Waft of pre-owned books, amber mood. Quiet jazz
tunes play on repeat for the customers.
Sakura keeps close to Chiyo, clinging to her arm as the steely cart squeaks
through the tiny aisles. She looks around. An old couple and their poodle, a
fretful woman with a cloche hat examining an antique record player. No one
else. They pass the children’s section. Bric-a-brac, toys, then finally the
women’s. Lace and yellow halter dresses. Satin party skirts, negligees, used
high heels on proud display.
Sakura threads her fingers through the clothing as they go. She spots a batch
of vintage suits, frilly at the sleeves. She falls behind to sift through them.
Soon, she thinks, she’ll fit them like the agent girls in movies. For things
like prom and dates and costume college parties—
“Here, child,” beckons Chiyo. “I think we’ve hit the jackpot.”
Sakura turns, peering to where Chiyo gestures with a clever smile. Her heart
jumps. It’s all there, rearmost in the teen’s department. Tutus, light pink
leotards, ballet shoes.
Beaming, Sakura lopes forward and flings herself on Chiyo, squeezing tightly
with both arms.
She sniffles through a whisper, “Thank you so much, gramma.”
                                      oOo
She rouses the next morning to the faint pattering of rain outside the window.
Her eyes shoot open the moment that she wakes.
Excitement tugs her lip. She rolls out of her blankets in a whisk, wiping her
eyes as she hustles to open up her closet. She dresses in her outfit (super
careful, limb for limb), and neatly stows the slippers into her trusty Star-
Lord backpack. She swings it on, then leaps to stand before the full-length
mirror on her door.
Just an hour more, she thinks. Just an hour more.
“Just breathe, Sakura,” she tells herself. She brings her arms up high,
crossing her wrists above her head, her left ankle shadowing the other. She
keeps position. Her muscles strain. “Breathe…”
She hardly can.
Her lips press, wondering what the instructor will be like. If she’ll be nice
or mean, short or tall, if all the other girls in class are there already—
“Sakura!” is Chiyo’s holler. “Breakfast!”
“Coming!”
She sidesteps from position, tucks her hair behind her ears, and whizzes down
the little hall towards the apartment’s kitchenette.
 
Two full bowls of oatmeal steaming on the table. Sakura slides the chair and
sits, thanking Chiyo as she lays out spoons and napkins for the both of them.
They dig in. Sakura swings her legs beneath the table, catching sight of the
paint stains blotting Chiyo’s arms and sweater.
“Did you finish the painting, nana?” she asks, wiping milk stains from her
mouth.
“Not quite,” sighs Chiyo. She takes a sip of coffee. Her eyes look tired, the
skin on her wrists gone thin with age. Sakura’s throat begins to ache. Raw.
Like guilt or worry. She swallows, forcing herself to look away. “—all that
racket from those oafs upstairs. But I swear, one more night of it and they’ll
be hearing it from that no-good landlord. Not that the toad would do much for
it—”
Sakura leans in, mischief-quiet. “You know,” she chuckles, “we could always
sick you-know-who on them.”
Chiyo’s cackle fills the room.
“Sasori? Feh. That boy cannot be bothered.”
The rain outside lets down, but the slam of heavy wind claws yet on the
windows. Sakura pokes the porridge with her spoon, her foot marking lazy
circles on the carpet underneath her.
“Nana?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Go on.”
She hesitates, gaze focused on her bowl. “Do you think… I’ll be an artist, too?
Like you and uncle Sasori?”
Chiyo smiles, her eyes crinkling gently at the corners.
“Why, you already are, child.” She reaches, ruffling Sakura’s short pink mess
of hair. “You’re a dancer.”
                                      oOo
Half an hour in, and Chiyo drops her off.
From outside, the building’s shorter and a lot smaller than Sakura had thought.
Old spray paint freckled on its walls, lay of smaller businesses (delis and a
lonely yogurt shop) flanking left to right. Noise of rushing cars, barren
parking lot. Sakura’s fingers knot into the fabric of her tutu.
“Oh, child,” sighs Chiyo. Her tone is soft, remorseful. “Had I more luck with
those flighty art collectors—”
Sakura shakes her head, lurching to the side to catch Chiyo in her arms.
“It’s perfect, grandma.”
She pecks a kiss on Chiyo’s cheek, then pulls away, beaming as she does away
her seatbelt.
“See you later!”
She waves, hoisting up her pack before skipping through the double doors.
 
Inside, the walls are newly painted, row of leather chairs lined neatly side to
side. For when the parents start to come, Sakura supposes.
She makes her way to the murmuring of voices, courage tightening in her gut,
and steps into the only open room. She tenses for a moment, standing there,
gripping tightly to her backpack as she catches sight of everyone in front of
her.
The room goes quiet. All glance back in her direction.
Late, then. But not as late as the instructor. Sakura swallows, willing the
muscles in her legs to move. She finds a spot, aside the mirror, and last to a
girl who turns around to look at her. Down and up, down and up.
“I like your hair,” she says.
“Thank you,” smiles Sakura. “I like yours, too—”
The girl snaps a bubble with her gum. She doesn’t smile back.
Slow, and in some fragile reflex of uncertainty, Sakura shoulders off her pack,
sinking to the floor so that she may switch her shoes. The girl turns around
again, this time whispering to the student standing next to her.
They’re so dirty.
Ugh, you’re so mean.
Maybe she’s poor…
Oh my god, maybe.
Some wounding cinch, twisting sharply in her stomach. Still, Sakura ignores it,
focusing instead on the ribbons of her shoes. Eventually, the girls turn back
around. Sakura stands, allowing her chin to raise up high, her shoulders firm.
Like this, she silently canvasses the room. Twelve others in the class, two of
whom undeniably stick out to her. Across her, the only boy in class, skin so
white she has to stare a bit in order to believe it. Short black hair, limbs
lithe, wired strong with dancer’s sinew. No expression, just the faint nuance
of an artificial smile as the girl beside him chatters on and on. But it’s the
student leading at the front who immediately captures Sakura’s attention:
Long blonde hair tied tall upon her head, swinging gently as she speaks. Blue
eyes, purple leotard and tutu. Glittered ribbons to her slippers, an aplomb to
her posture as the girls around her beg to touch her hair, what brand of
perfume she is wearing.
“Oh, Ino,” one exclaims. “You always come to class so pretty!”
“I bet there’s someone for it!”
One of them leans in. “Is it Sai? Oh, I know, it’s totally Kak—”
Suddenly, a man walks in. All shoot back to their positions.
Silence.
Sakura’s pulse begins to quicken, a mothing flutter to her veins, down, to the
tendons of her knees. She straightens up her back despite it, hands made flat
against her thighs, staring.
“Sorry, class.” It’s more a drawl. The man tosses his keys to the side, using
his foot to close the door behind him. “Got lost on the path of life.”
A faint murmur from somewhere in the back. He always says that.
Indeed, the instructor is not at all a woman, but this man. Dressed in black,
all skintight, and very naked at the shoulders. Tall. Lean, fair of skin, like
the powdered gypsum Chiyo sometimes uses as a finish to her sculptures.
He circles the room, quietly counting down the rows. He’s barefoot. A small
black dot stippled to the upper portion of his chin, hair hued soft in snowy
silvers. He finishes the count, tapping steady on his lip. He goes up front,
overlooking as if searching for a difference. The muscle in his forearm flexes.
Sakura nibbles on her lip.
“Oh,” he says. “That’s right. We’ve got a new student in the class.”
He smiles, though the tone of his voice is candidly indifferent.
“Well. I’m Kakashi. Or Hatake. Or Mr. Hatake. I don’t really care.” He taps his
chin again. “As for things I like. I like a lot of things.” He pauses, turning
swiftly on his heel. “So. Which one of you is new?”
Sakura feels her bones congeal. She swallows. Her heart drums holes inside her
chest. She raises her hand. Her elbow shakes.
Slowly, Kakashi’s gaze lowers down upon her.
“Ah,” he says.
And that is all he says, before he continues forth with the instruction.
                                      oOo
They start with stretches. Left foot high upon the metal bar, then the right,
checking for posture on the wall-length mirror facing them.
It doesn’t take long for Sakura to realize that she is far behind. That she
does not stretch as well as neither Sai or Ino, that sometimes she must risk a
whisper to the girl beside her for some insight on most the terms Kakashi
exerts.
“It’s when you jump a little,” the girl whispers in return. Debussy’s La Mer
soothes into the speakers. “Then cross your legs. Like this. Then—”
He walks by. The girl turns back around. Sakura doesn’t ask again. They’re on
glissades now. He restarts the count. A dozen battements. He demonstrates all
twelve before them. Like water, some facile élan to his limbs. Sakura tries her
best to mimic him. She falls the first time, but not the second. She bites her
lip, lands piqué each time he culminates the count. She feels sweat begin to
varnish on her brow. A couple cycles more, then they’re left on water break.
The girls crowd outside the room (Sai, too), chattering near the snack
machines. Sakura stays behind, staring at her best piqué before the mirror. But
that’s not the only thing she stares at in the mirror.
Behind her, and in his office, Kakashi stands with a handheld book cradled in
his palm. Chintzy orange cover, notable restriction on the back. He turns the
page, sipping bit-by-bit into his soda. Gleam of sweat on both his shoulders,
on his neck, ankles crossed casually beneath him. Like a statue, muses Sakura.
Like a painting limned in oil, like the most graceful person that she’s seen—
He turns his chin, just enough to catch her staring.
She drops her gaze immediately, shoving strands of hair behind her ears, and
pretends to rush into the restroom.
                                      oOo
***** Lespedeza *****
Chapter Notes
     why is this fandom so sweet. ;-;
     still. sorry for the wait. start of uni got in the way, but no
     longer.
     all beta credit goes to my love who is the bestest. I love you.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                                      oOo
She waits, red-faced in the stall, until she hears everyone else bunch back
into the dance room.
She slinks out, wishing she had not looked, wishing she might have had just a
minute more to look, how his lips had mouthed against the soda tab, the flicker
of his tongue, the wet smear on his chin, the hot horror that she’d felt the
moment that he’d seen her seeing him—
“Are you alright?”
Sakura looks up, realizing she’s stopped in the middle of the hall. Her cheeks
feel warm. Elsewhere, too. Sai there, lashes low in unemotion.
“Um...” She fumbles with her arm, “Y-yeah. Sorry. I was just—”
“You don’t have to tell me,” he tells her bluntly. “That would be invasive, and
prone to lend a girl the wrong idea.”
“Wha—”
He smiles by a fraction, then swivels on his heel, making his way back into the
dance room.
 
The second half of class begins.
Kakashi gives a brief lecture on breathing exercises, how studied rhythm in the
lungs may help with things like spinal tension. Sakura keeps her head down when
he passes by, listening to the girls beside her giggle as they turn their necks
to watch him saunter down the row.
Hot.
Like Jared Leto hot.
Yeah, but prettier.
Something in her bristles. Subtle, but it does. Like she’d felt in grade
school, red and sharp, when the others on the playground would rush to crowd
around her uncle, clinging and tugging to his clothes on the rare occasion he’d
come to pick her up.
Her fists clench. Her eyes narrow on their own.
“We’ll start slow,” proceeds Kakashi. “Relevés. Eyes forward, elbow on the
bar.”
Everyone moves, taking up their spots. The music starts. The class does as
instructed. Amid it, Sakura notices Kakashi’s attention linger at the front.
His gaze on Ino, on her feet, then a smile that he gives her as a compliment
before he strides on to the next.
Spurred, Sakura duplifies her effort. She rises taller, straighter, and then
down low, her heel bones touching firmly. She focuses on breathing, breathing
to the music, until she hears him stepping closer. Her heart springs. She wants
to look at him, needs to look at him. Anticipation wires in her stomach—
The music changes track. He pauses to renew the count, then his shadow halts at
last to tower over her. Moments pass. Quick, she glimpses from the corner of
her vision, and sees that he has crossed his arms. Her face goes hot. Her
joints do, too. Still, she does not stop moving.
Then, without much warning, he moves to stand behind her. He takes her by the
arm—strict and warm and soft—setting her elbow to rest upon the bar. He toes
her foot, nearer to the wall, then glides back up beside her.
“Better,” he tells her.
                                      oOo
After cambré as a way to unwind, Kakashi lowers the music and wraps up the
class.
Even Sai (who has stood two spots in front of her) bends forward as a way to
catch breath, while Ino herself skids down from the wall in exhaustion.
“Good work, guys,” Kakashi announces. “Maybe even closer to harmonization.”
With that, he goes back to his office, pushing the door with his foot just
enough to leave it half open. Sakura stares after him, slumping down to the
floor so that she may swap to her sneakers. The girls flock to their packs,
conversations filling the room. Sweat lusters Sakura’s brow, breath huffing
tight through her nostrils. She ravels her laces, then scoots until her back
hits the mirror. Even now she can see him. There, towel swung on his neck, hand
neatly draining a carton of milk into a portable protein shaker.
She slides in her legs, resting her chin. Wet strands of hair web to her face,
allowing the rest of the room to blur all around her. Voices drown out. He
mixes the nutriment powder, then opens the lid enough to quaff it all down. She
watches him. Generous bulks of white liquid disperse with every leap of his
throat. A rindle of milk slips from his mouth, thick and slow, caressing down
to his jaw bone. He finishes. Then tongues the stain from his lip, dragging the
rest to be licked with the push of one finger. Sakura feels her thighs begin to
squeeze in, her hand clamping hard to the spot where he’d touched her—
“No way!” is the shout that slams her back to her senses. “Is it really yours?”
Sakura nearly jolts from the wall. She sits up, carding her hair away from her
eyes, and sees that Kakashi has casually whistled his way to the restroom.
Immediately, she scoots from her spot, an unfamiliar aftermath spurring her
pulse. Her ears feel fevered, gnawings of guilt tingling to the tips of her
toes.
“Yeah, it is,” is the cordial response to the shout. “My father gave it to me
as an early birthday present.”
Sakura looks to the source, quickly hauling her bag to her lap so that she may
huddle against it. Ino. The few girls remaining ensorcelled around her, oohing
and aahing over her shoulder.
A brand new iphone. The most recent model, its custom shell a doughy purple
contoured in gold.
“Your dad must be the coolest,” one says.
Ino chuckles. “He sort of is.”
“I’ve seen him once. He looks just like you!”
“I guess so,” Ino smiles. “Not counting the stubble, of course.”
They giggle. Sakura swallows. A tug in her tells her to join them. She wants
to. Nearly does, but then one of the girls leans towards Ino’s ear, glare
honing in to where Sakura’s sitting.
Daunted, Sakura lowers her gaze. The girl steps back, snickering back to the
others. Still, Sakura musters courage enough to peek from the edge of her eye,
and sees that Ino has furrowed her brow in annoyance.
“Anyway…”
She changes the topic, some really great thriller she’d stayed up watching past
midnight.
Sakura’s fingers clench to the strap of her backpack. She smiles, a comforting
spark in her gut.
                                      oOo
She starts to suspect she’d given Chiyo the wrong time that class would come to
an end. Then she remembers that it is not so uncommon, getting picked up this
late whenever her grandmother pends on the verge of completing a painting.
Sakura sighs, tracing the Star-Lord design on her backpack. The studio empties
person by person, the sky veiling dark by the minute. Kakashi still not in his
office. She nips on her lip for constantly checking, then slowly unpacks a
chocolate bar she’d snuck from the kitchen.
Suddenly, someone plops down in front of her. Faint scent of lavender. Sakura
lowers the bar from her mouth.
Ino.
“Hi,” she smiles.
“Hi,” Sakura smiles back.
“I saw you,” she says. “You held up pretty good today. Even if Kakashi did get
all up in your bubble. Must’ve been scary.”
“Thank you,” stammers Sakura. “You were really good, too...”
Ino’s smile desists. She stares at Sakura’s backpack. Sakura finds herself
hugging it just a bit tighter, the chocolate bar wrinkling up in her hand.
“You like boy stuff, huh?”
“Um…”
Ino giggles. “It’s pretty dumb, don’t you think? When people think space is for
boys.”
“Do you like space?” Sakura finds herself blurting.
“Sometimes.” Ino crosses her legs, scooting closer. “I like Kylo Ren. He’s
tough. He’d totally kick Peter Quill’s ass.”
Sakura’s eyes widen by a modicum.
“Or should I say rump?” she snorts. “Not that Star-Lord isn’t cool. He’s just a
bit too silly. Like this guy I know.”
Sakura looks to her lap, attempting to think of what to say in return.
“Do you think...they’d get along?”
Ino laughs. “Who? Quill and Kylo? Of course not!” She stills, her eyes baring
bluer. “Oh my god. You haven’t even seen Star Wars, have you?”
Sakura shakes her head, flush seeping to her cheeks.
“Hey, don’t worry about it,” winks Ino. “But you know, I have all the dvds at
my house. Maybe I could come over sometime and we could watch them together.”
Sakura perks up. “Really?”
“Really, really.” She pauses, quickly checking the blinking text on her phone.
She puts it down, adds, “On one condition, though.”
Sakura swallows, nodding in oath.
“Maybe do it like this a little more often.”
Ino reaches, slipping one of her flower-shaped hair clips into Sakura’s bangs.
It pins the strands away from her forehead, revealing the breadth she’d always
fought so hard to keep hidden.
“There. Now you look like Gamora.” She stands. “Catch you next week!”
Ino skips out, leaving her hair clip behind, as well as the lavender scent of
her perfume.
                                      oOo
Half an hour, and Sakura realizes she is indeed the last in the studio, but not
the last in the room.
Kakashi strides in, steaming latté in one hand, nose deep in his book with the
other. He’s wearing a jacket, slate green, brown fur on the hood, black ankle
boots which echo in tandem. Sakura peeks from the crux of her knees, claiming
full frontal view into the open door of his office. She veers a bit to the
side, making sure to stay at an angle where he might not think she is gawking.
He sits, bringing his feet to cross on his desk. He turns the page of his book,
sipping into the chic paper cup of his coffee. He rests his back on the chair,
slumping so that the fur of his jacket envelopes his neck. Wolflike and stoic.
Sakura feels her toes curling in the more that she watches. His legs so long,
thighs firmly outlined by the dark faded jeans he is wearing.
He runs a hand through his hair. It slopes to the side. A faint indentation
down his left eye, narrow enough to seem like a ploy of the light. Still, it’s
deep, and slightly jagged. Her mind revs alight, envisioning all the ways it
could have happened. If he’d fell, if it’d hurt, if perhaps he is afraid of it,
too. Like how it feels in her chest when her bangs would stray from her
forehead, scared and ashamed that someone might stare, might notice—
“Sakura, right?”
She freezes.
He doesn’t look at her, just puts the book down on his lap for a moment. She
nods either way, lump in her throat at the call of her name, heat on her face,
so potent that a sensation of fear leaches in.
He turns his chin, glancing once to the left.
“There’s a Buick outside,” he says.
She stands in an instant, fumbling her pack over her shoulders. He turns from
the window, back to his book, and sips on his coffee.
Silence.
She scrambles to leave. Then sidesteps, holding her breath as she dares herself
back towards his office. Her heart pelts, little knots twisting tight in her
stomach. She pauses, just a few feet before him, full aware of Ino’s hair clip
still pinning her hair to the side, of the scar she can now clearly see on his
face, of the marble expanse of his chin and his jaw and his neck, the warmth of
his space.
She clasps the straps of her backpack. They scrunch in her fists.
“Um...Mr. Hatake?”
Nothing at first, then he puts down his book, veering his gaze just enough to
regard her. Black eyes, lashed low in tedium. She swallows.
“Thank you,” she musters. “For letting me into your class. I...I learned a lot
today. From you.”
Her last few words slip before she can stop them, fragile with truth. He tells
her nothing. He brings his book back up again, taking another mouthful of
latté.
Seconds pass. Something in her pulverizes. She nearly runs out. Nearly regrets
it, nearly knows why—
“I’m glad.”
She looks at him.
“See you next week, Sakura.”
Her eyes widen. His kind voice. She nods, then rushes out, both palms cradling
her mouth.
                                      oOo
The ride home is slow.
Rain whelms the traffic, heavy enough that the windshield wipers are unable to
keep the dashboard from constantly blurring. The sky quakes. A covetous rumble
echoes all through the interstate. Cars honk, others take their sweet time on
purpose. It’s been several minutes, having been stuck at this stoplight. Chiyo
sighs, leaning forward to lower the radio’s volume.
“Forgive me, child,” she starts. “That crazed doctor called. Nagged until my
ear fell off.”
Sakura smiles. “It’s alright, nana. I understand.”
Chiyo shakes her head. “You are too forgiving, Sakura. Too quick. Be careful
with that.”
Sakura nods, tracing the crumpled sequins of her tutu. The car quiets. The
immediate need to hold on to her grandmother, to have her close, wheedling her
limbs.
“Sasori...he will come to pick you up this coming week.” Chiyo’s tone sounds
tired. The car moves by an inch. “Now, do not cause him too much trouble. I
would not be back till evening. And Rasa has an entire litter to fret after.
You know this.”
Sakura nods again, an unnameable gnarl scraping in her gut.
“Are you...going to be okay, grandma? Can I come with you? Please?”
Chiyo’s cackle fills the car. “Don’t be silly, Sakura.”
Sakura wipes her nose with the back of her arm. A stinging in her eyes. She
sniffles. Chiyo’s laughter simmers.
“And your class?” she asks. “How about it? I saw that teacher through the
window. Too young to be instructing. Lounging on the job like that. Thirty
years ago the world would have been mortified.”
Sakura turns, helpless not to grin. “He’s real nice, nana. And smart and strong
and tall and cool and his name is—”
Chiyo’s brow draws up. Sakura clears her throat, neatly straightening in her
seat.
“And anyway, I have a new best friend now,” she mentions proudly. “Her name is
Ino. She’s the best dancer in the class. She’s got a new phone. It’s purple.
And she gave me this.” She unpins the hair clip from her bangs. “She likes bad
guys. Like Kylo Ren.”
Chiyo smiles, gazing at the pin.
“Ino, you say?”
Sakura nods, divvying each detail, till the ride home does not seem so slow
anymore.
                                      oOo
Chapter End Notes
     feedback is the spark to my gear tbh♡
***** Autumnal *****
Chapter Notes
     this took longer than expected, but I think my muse finally dropped
     by again. ;-; (also, did I mention that I love these two??)
     thanks to my love for kindly looking over this. I love you♡
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                                      oOo
It’s the first day of school. It’s cold. The sky is white. Fog presses dew on
the windows.
Sakura sits at the front row of US History class. She nestles into herself to
try and keep warm. She buttons her coat, stuffing her hands in its pockets. It
doesn’t quite help. The buckram uniform skirt does nothing to warm her, and the
hand-knitted socks Chiyo had made for her during the summer aren’t long enough
to reach her knees anymore.
The teacher struggles with roll call: an elderly woman with reading glasses
that make her eyes look like thumbtacks. She uses her finger to sort through
the list, losing track each time she looks from the paper. Some of the girls in
the back start to pass notes, some doodle on the back of their workbooks.
Sakura takes the time to canvass the room. The walls are light blue, postered
in biblical references, cartoon cutouts of Jesus quoting straight from the
gospel. Blackboards, wiped clean of chalk dust. Even the desks and the floors
are pristine. No boys. Not like in her previous school, and all of her teachers
are women.
Sakura looks to her lap, toying with the pleats of her skirt. She imagines
Kakashi taking attendance, imagines everyone’s name in his voice. She smiles,
pretending he were sitting beside her, that her jacket were his, how the faint
smell of latté would cling to the sleeves, the scent of his hair left behind on
the collar.
Her name is announced. It isn’t the first time. Sakura straightens, shooting
her hand in the air.
“Present!”
The teacher slides her glasses down on her spindly nose. She peers at Sakura
sternly.
“We do not overdress, Ms. Haruno.” Her tone is ascetic. “Our campus indulges
our girls with adequate heaters inside every classroom.”
Everyone stares.
Sakura shrugs off her coat.
                                      oOo
It’s lunch break. An apple, fusilli, and salad.
Sakura sits at one of the tables, neatly twisting open her drink. She tucks in
her hair, rolling up the sleeves of her uniform sweater. A group of girls pass
her by, holding their trays. Dutch braids entwine their blonde hair. They smell
nice, their uniforms perfectly pressed. Sakura smiles, waving at them. They
glance at her. Down, up. They sashay the other way.
Sakura watches as they fill the opposite table. They huddle, murmur. One points
in her direction.
Sakura’s appetite fades.
 
She goes to the restroom. She clutches the straps of her backpack, staring at
her face in the mirror. The clip is still there, the one Ino gave her. She
presses her palm on her forehead. Exactly five fingers. Sakura’s lip starts to
quiver. She bites on her cheek, swallowing heat from her eyelids. It takes all
that she has not to rip the clip from her bangs, to not snap it in half, to not
flush it—
Voices out in the hallway.
Sakura slinks into the empty stall behind her. She locks it. She peeks through
the slit of the door. Three girls shoulder in, crowding over the sinks as they
giggle.
“Oh my god, Kin,” one says. “You can’t be serious.”
Kin laughs. “I am so serious”
“How did you do it? Weren’t they all under the mattress?”
Kin nods. “My mom was out with her boyfriend. The timing was perfect.” She
shrugs off her knapsack, placing it down in the sink. “I only took this one. No
way I was risking the rest.”
She opens her bag, revealing the glossy front of a magazine. A man on it,
shirtless and grinning. The two other girls cover their mouths. They
reposition, craning their necks over Kin’s shoulder.
They flip through the pages. Sakura squints, trying to make out some of the
pictures, some of the words on the titles.
Soon, the girls start to snicker. Their shoulders bunch up, barefaced
excitement in the laughter they try to hold back on a particular image they
stop on.
“Oh my god, look at him,” the shortest one says. She traces the page. “He’s so
pretty. Those pecs. He totally works out every day.”
“Yeah, and with those legs, he probably dances or something—”
“No way,” Kin interjects. “He’s gross. I mean, his dick is kinda nice, but his
arms are total letdowns—”
Sakura unlocks the stall. She steps forward. The girls spin around, their backs
shielding the magazine as if attempting to hide it.
Silence.
Sakura clears her throat.
“Can I see?”
The girls look at each other. They nod, stepping aside to make room for one
more.
                                      oOo
The week drags on. Math, Gym, History, Bible study.
At home, Sakura keeps up with practice and homework, anxious for Sunday. It’s
enough. Most times. Though sometimes all she can see are the magazine shots
laid out in front of her, reeling pictures that oftentimes move, faces
replaced, her blankets drawn up to cover her mouth and her chin as she wrestles
for sleep in the stillness.
She stares at the ceiling, quiet guilt like a second pulse through her body.
But it isn’t just guilt through her body. She thinks of him. It feels heady. A
snag which blooms below her stomach. She swallows, fingers flat on the
mattress. She thinks of the restriction on the back of his book, the same as
the one in the magazine, and wonders if it’s because he feels it, too, has felt
it. Might if by chance feel it now. This moment. For someone. For her. Could
want to feel it for her.
Her lip tucks itself between her teeth. She wants to see him. His chest. His
thighs, his legs… Her knees press. Heat.
It’s wrong.
She nibbles her cheek, squeezing her eyes shut. Chiyo, her uncle...they would
both say it’s wrong. She rolls face-down in her covers, forcing off thought.
She stays there, an hour unmoving, till the warmth in her ebbs and sleep
palliates.
                                      oOo
A few mornings later, she wakes without her alarm clock. Her heart flits. It’s
Sunday. She untangles herself from her sheets in a hurry, checking the time.
Exactly six thirty.
She rolls out of bed, a bubbling jolt of excitement energizing her limbs. She
makes her bed quickly, then zips through her room, asearch for her dancewear.
She dresses, then carefully laces her slippers. She stands in front of the
mirror, brushing the knots from her hair. Finished, she sits, counting down a
series of butterfly stretches. Calf stretches, too. She leaps to her feet,
dusts off her tutu, then checks again for the time. Only ten after seven.
Though she’s certain that Chiyo has begun with breakfast already, an hour
before she usually calls to make sure that she’s up.
Not wanting to badger, Sakura plops on her bed, swinging her legs, a wild
series of smiles aglow on her face. Minutes pass. The urge is too strong. She
whirls on her backpack and runs to the kitchen.
 
Noises. No scent of breakfast.
She halts at the end of the hallway, backing to huddle close to the wall. She
thinks she hears murmuring out in the kitchen. She presses her ear to the
stucco, listening closely.
“How is it, then?”
The voice is unmistakable. Soft, almost a whisper.
“Feh,” answers Chiyo. “It’s fine. That doctor doesn’t know what she’s yapping
about. As if I’d fall for her leechcraft. It’s madness.”
“It isn’t leechcraft,” Sasori says. “Or madness. It’s medicine.”
Chiyo’s cackle fills the apartment. “As if those pills could mend these old
hands. Next thing you know she’ll have me showered in slugs. Ice’ll do it. It
always has—”
Sakura slides from her hiding spot. The room falls quiet. Sasori’s gaze shifts,
curls of red hair slipping to dandle his face in the kitchenette’s low light.
He blinks, his complexion silk-white.
“Oh, child,” says Chiyo. She offers her chair. “Sit. I’ll serve you a plate.”
She heads to the stove, warming the burner. The sweet smell of batter sugars
the room. “To think you’d be up so early.” There’s a wink in her tone. “But I
think I’d know why.”
Sakura smiles, nervously rubbing her arm as she shuffles her way to the table.
Sasori’s gaze, like a feather upon her. He’s noticed her outfit, a faint
curiosity in the subtle lift of his brow. She flushes, sits down, gathering
courage enough to speak up and greet him.
“Good morning, uncle,” she tells him.
He doesn’t say anything. He sips on his coffee.
“How are you?” It’s shaky. “I didn’t know you’d be here already. I would have
started with breakfast. Nana mentioned you’d visit—”
“Is it new?”
It’s all that he says. Sakura looks to her clothes. Her fingers clinch the
tulle of her tutu. She swallows, then shakes her head no. He answers with
nothing.
“Didn’t she tell you?” Chiyo calls from the stove. “It was a squabble, but I
managed to wheedle that teacher into making room for one more.” She chuckles.
“Said he had enough girls. Feh. Took me ten phone calls, that one. Ballet.
Isn’t it, Sakura?”
Sakura nods. “Yes, nana.”
“Tell him, then, child. No need for coyness.”
“Um…” she tries to look up. “I…”
She can’t. She shifts in her seat, the zest in her wilting. An ache through her
belly, like if the girls from last Sunday’s class had been right about her
clothes being dirty, had been right about her. She stares at her lap, head
hanging low.
Cups being filled, the sizzle of hotcakes taking form on the skillet. Sasori
puts down his coffee and slides from his seat. Sakura feels him walk past her,
not daring to peek as he goes to where Chiyo is busy with plates. Words, too
faint for her to discern. Curiosity rends. She knows she isn’t supposed to. She
does it regardless.
She turns, just enough to glimpse from the edge of her vision. Chiyo there, her
shoulders drawn tense, a onefold of bills Sasori gives her clutched tight in
her trembling hand.
                                      oOo
No one talks in the car. Sasori drives, Chiyo beside him. Sakura sits in the
back.
His car is different than Chiyo’s. Black leather, the faint scent of oils
infixed to the seatbelts. The occasional crumb of modeling paste sways on the
opposite seat, remnants of Sasori’s most recent art piece. Sakura starts to
collect them, careful not to get caught. She rolls the pieces to amass on her
palm. It’s soft, as soft as it must have been in his hands. She smiles, stowing
the globule of paste into the little pouch of her backpack.
The trip is short-lived, what with the interstate clear. The dance building
there, its parking lot empty. The car brakes, but the engine stays on. Sakura
opens the door and clambers out slowly.
It’s freezing, clouds like clusters of ash blockading the sun. Frost on the
sidewalks. She turns, but the car has already roared off.
 
It is her first time, not hugging Chiyo goodbye. Stricture, like malaise in her
gut. She makes her way to the dance room. Her heart pelts, what-ifs dissuading
her step. She takes a lungful of air, clinging tight to the straps of her pack
before finally entering.
Everyone there, conversations abuzz at all parts of the room. Nobody stares,
nobody notices. Sakura exhales, nervousness fading. An empty spot at the back
of the row. She goes to it, shimmying off her backpack and jacket. She fidgets,
looking around.
Ino. Up at the front of the room, surrounded by the same group of girls. She
giggles, pointing to the screen of her phone. The others join in, bunching
beside her. Sakura swallows. Ino’s blue eyes, almost silver in the crux of the
downlight. Sakura takes the first step, wanting to greet her, wanting to show
that she’d kept true on her promise, wanting to stand close to her, too.
Ino looks up from her phone. Sakura stills. Their eyes meet. For a moment,
Sakura considers sinking down to the floor, to hide, to pretend she hadn’t been
gawking as hard as she had—
Ino smiles at her. Once and brightly, her soft mouth appended by the purple hue
on her eyelids.
“Hey, Sakura!” She waves her over. “Get over here, you’ve gotta take a look at
this!”
Sakura beams. She leaps, wasting no time in whisking her way through the row.
She doesn’t get far.
The door opens.
Latté in one hand, book an inch from his nose in the other.
“Sorry, class,” drawls Kakashi. “You wouldn’t believe the wait at the
crosswalk.”
                                      oOo
He begins with attendance.
He slips from his coat, ticking through names with a coloring marker he borrows
from one of the students. He paces, dressed in tight black, a sleeveless top
which collars tautly to his neck, all around the wired muscles of his abdomen,
down lower. Sakura’s knee bends to press against the other. She stares. It is
more obvious than ever, the breadth caught between his legs. Her thoughts fill.
She thinks of the magazine. If without these clothes to hide him he’d look like
all of the other men inside the magazine, would look better.
She swallows. Her heart thumps, so hard it feels like drums throughout her
body. This tall man before her, lips yet flushed from the autumnal freeze of
the outdoors.
Someone nudges on her shoulder. She jolts. Heat on her cheeks. Kakashi’s gaze
upon her, remiss but still as heavy. She lifts her hand. She barely can. She
feels naked, feels as though he’s read it on her face, the unsubtle gnawing of
her lip, has watched her watching.
He marks her present. He moves on to the next.
 
Class starts.
Warm-ups go by quickly, relentless counts to thirty, till most of everyone is
bent against the wall, catching noisy breaths to curb exhaustion. Sakura
recovers briskly, more than even Sai, fighting to keep up with the older girls
beside her. She counts her breaths, glancing on occasion to where Ino excels in
chaînés, toes like silk against the flooring.
They switch to battements. Sakura elevates her effort, remembering to place her
elbow firmly on the bar. She rises, aptly as she can each time Kakashi saunters
past her. She feels his shadow, his scrutiny upon her as she fights to keep her
left arm swanned. She lifts her chin, leveling her spine, and does not stop
till at last Kakashi strides off in approval.
A breathing lecture follows. The right know-hows on how to rub down foot
cramps, tips on surviving shifts like développé in slowing combinations.
Kakashi demonstrates all he mentions, pausing every now and then for Q and A.
Water break, then they start with pirouéttes, though not for long. He halts the
exercise, calling names from the roster in prechosen teams of two.
“Pas de Deux,” he says. “Fancy for Step of Two.” He taps his lip. “We talked
about it last month. Practiced. Then I made us stop. Hoped we’d get a few more
boys.” He shrugs. “We’ll try it out again.” He swivels on his heel. “Sai. With
Sakura.”
Her name grips her by surprise. Sai’s, too, her fingers having crossed behind
her back for Ino. She turns. Sai there, already next to her. Everyone splits
off into duos. Adolphe’s Giselle eddies from the speakers.
“Hello,” says Sai.
“Hi,” she answers back.
“We met before.” He smiles. “You probably remember. Out in the hallway. You
were hiding in the women’s bathroom.”
She stiffens. “Wha—of course I wasn’t! It was, well, I was actually just...”
“Ah,” he says. “That’s why.”
Silence. Sakura shifts her foot awkwardly.
“Can I pick you up?”
He steps closer. She looks around. Indeed, it is part of the dance.
“Okay,” she utters.
He moves behind her, then grabs her firmly by the waist. He lifts her, neat and
without trouble, then puts her down again. He smiles, as dry and as put-on as
before.
“Ah. You’re a lot slimmer than Ino. The entreé will be easy.”
She half-nods, unsure on what to say as she fiddles with her fingers. Moments
pass. She doesn’t have to check to know he’s staring.
“Can I tell you something, Sakura?”
She looks up. Sai’s eyes are nearly inklike, a stark contrast against the
pallor of his skin. His lips are bowed, symmetric as the rest of him. She tucks
her hair behind her ear, nodding shyly.
“You have a very large forehead.”
Sakura’s face goes hot.
She hears it in her ears, a sizzle which runnels like a landslide to her fists.
It’s different than before. Like her vision streaked in red, like a wasp-sting
pinching in her brow. Her wrists shake, her fists squeeze tighter, the
overwhelming urge to lift them up and—
Sai blinks.
“Did I say something?” He tilts his chin. “Oh. Oh. I’m sorry. I only meant it
as an ascertainment.”
He smiles. Sakura’s fists unclench.
She glares at him. “What?”
“Hm?”
She swallows, the storm in her subsiding.
“Let’s...let’s just do this,” she says.
                                      oOo
Five minutes before lunch break.
All curtsy to their partner and stagger to their spots, tiredly unpacking
snacks and water. Sakura, too, the muscles in her arms and hamstrings thrumming
from exertion.
Conversations spur. Kakashi approaches the front of the room. He clears his
throat. Everyone hushes.
“Alright, guys.” He slings a towel over his shoulder. Sweat glistens on his
biceps. “We’re halfway through. Though I think I have an important announcement
before we fan out.” He cards his fingers through his hair, damp white strands
which bundle neatly to reveal the jagged scar along his eyelid. Sakura holds
her breath, suspense rousing in her veins as he pats his chin in thought. “Ah.
That’s right.” He takes his hand away. “Parent meetings. Next week. Bring
jackets. And cookies. Shouldn’t take longer than an hour.” He unfolds his arms.
“Kay. Get busy.”
The room lets loose. Girls ditch their homemade lunches to crowd into the
hallway, hearts set on the blinking snack machines outside. Sai, too, what with
Ino dragging him along.
Sakura stays behind, watching from the corner of her eye as Kakashi ambles back
into his office. His door is open, his hands sifting through his desk drawer
for the same chintzy orange book from last week. He flips the pages before
sitting, ankles crossed atop his workspace.
Fair. Even at a distance. She rips her gaze from him. She stands, careful not
to give herself away as she stuffs the empty wrappers of granola back into her
backpack. She slinks before the mirror, determined to busy herself with
refining her écarté. She swans her arms, reaching high upon her toes, focusing
strictly on her reflection.
She inhales, then quickly swaps to piqué, feeling the ache twist sharply
through her calves. She holds it, steady as she can, until at last her feet
land forward without missing.
Seconds pass. She swallows. She cannot help it. She peeks upward on the mirror,
towards the reflection of his office. And sees it.
He’s looking at her.
Keeps looking at her. Blunt and without pretext. Till finally his gaze veers
back to the pages of his book as if nothing had happened.
                                      oOo
Chapter End Notes
     drop me a line. like alms to the pyre♡
     also, shameless fic art here. I mean, how could I not.
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