I was honestly not sure how to rate this. Still, I wanted to create something that felt real, as well as to express my love for these characters. Here goes.

Note that this story does contain and will explore a major age difference.

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.

oOo

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.

oOo

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.

oOo

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 pops 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 sinew 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. Coal black eyes, stark upon the firn of his complexion.

"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 pique 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 pique 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

leave me a line and i'll prolly cry tbh.