Disclaimer: Naruto © Masashi Kishimoto
Warnings: Shounen-ai, sexual implications
Summary: Seven days, and seven different ways of being in love. Kakashi x Iruka.
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Week at a Time
By Orange Coconuts
I. Sunday
Everyone is supposed to hate Sundays.
It always rains, which makes it a bad day to go for a walk in the local park, due to the unavoidable mud puddles the size of small lakes in the middle of the road. All the stores are closed if one should run out of life-sustaining coffee, and the newly-shipped in goods that the marketplace offered were priced ridiculously high. There's no morning post, and the looming reminder of work the next day hung at the back of your mind menacingly, jibing you with their sharp elbows about unfinished paperwork and the upcoming meeting with the council members from the Land of Earth. The mornings are too cold while the afternoons are stiflingly hot, the humid air burning as you inhaled and exhaled. It gets dark too early during the wintertime, and everything seems to be painted with a dreary hue of grey overtones that won't quite go away until Wednesday.
But Iruka doesn't.
Sundays mean sleeping well into the afternoon, with Kakashi's damp, warm breath against his neck, protective arms curled around his waist, and sleepy, deep kisses in the grey light just before the sun rises, with the muffled whirring of the lawn mower when their eccentric neighbour begins cutting his front yard in the background. If the fridge was empty from the lack of grocery shopping, Iruka and Kakashi would immediately venture down towards the supermarket, ducking into random, dark alleyways when the tension between them was too much and they couldn't help but push their tongues into each other's mouths, satiating the hunger for one brief moment. Getting to the marketplace took just as long as getting home from the marketplace. There just happened to be many convenient alleys in every little nook and cranny of Konoha.
When the stress from work finally settled onto Iruka's tense shoulders, Kakashi would quietly lay him down on their makeshift bed and gently knead his aching muscles until they were relaxed again, starting from Iruka's forehead down to the very soles of his feet. The brunette would often fall asleep during these sessions; mind humming pleasantly at the talented fingertips of his silver-haired lover, and at the end, Kakashi would place a lingering and chaste kiss upon his lips before snuggling down with him.
If there's no post, then it only means that there was no reason to get out of bed besides finding the Sunday paper, and Iruka can spend the entire day lost in the slow curl of arousal burning deep in his stomach, casual touches and butterfly nips as he does the crossword, and just how long do you think you can ignore me, Iruka smiles.
Chilly mornings are the perfect excuse to push his numb hands underneath Kakashi's shirt, feeling the smooth skin jump at his light caresses and eliciting a shiver from his coldness. Hot afternoons give them a reason to take a long and refreshing shower, sharing sweet kisses and exchanging tender words underneath the persistent spray of water above them.
Kakashi's hands are large and warm, and Sundays will always be tangled up in the sense-memory of the feel of them against Iruka's skin, in the taste of tangy strawberry-apple jam and bitter black coffee whenever the jounin makes breakfast, and in the low, languid things Kakashi murmurs whenever he thinks Iruka is too far gone.
Iruka doesn't mind rain either; after all, it was raining when they had first met.
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II. Monday
Mondays are a rush of hurried half-showers and trying to do-up buttons and fasten weapons while wolfing down a steaming bowl of cinnamon-flavoured oatmeal. There was no time for playful kisses or teasing words, as Iruka could never locate his previously-organized stack of marked chakra-based essays or the caseload of important mission reports that he was supposed to have gone over the night before, but had chosen instead to translate the Hokage's manuscripts. So the grouchy brunette would multi-task (a sight that never failed to amuse Kakashi), skimming over the mission reports one after the other while searching for his students' assignments, and reorganizing Tsunade's manuscripts at the same time. Kakashi never tried to help, because the last time he had offered, Iruka had exploded and droned on about time and work and how taxing it was to juggle three jobs at once.
Iruka noticed how Kakashi had always stuck with his own morning routine, a less chaotic and stressful version of his own. The older male would always stand in the open doorway, leaning against the doorframe casually as he sipped his warm mug of morning coffee and glanced at Iruka from underneath his eyelashes slyly. The light blue pyjama pants hung loosely on the Copy-Nin's sharp hip bones, whereas the spare cotton robe that was thrown over his shoulders looked too big and worn for Kakashi's body, making him appear scrawny as he swimmed in the excess fabric. Iruka then would have the uncanny urge to burn all of his documents and papers – along with his career as a teacher and office nin – into the fireplace, drag Kakashi back into bed and desperately wish that it was Sunday again.
However, he doesn't do that, and instead berates himself as to why he hadn't prepared all of this the night before, and where on earth is that hairbrush before quickly raking through his tangled locks with a free hand, attempting to tie it up in its usual neat and orderly ponytail. Then along comes Kakashi, chuckling lowly in the back of his throat as he pulled out an old and fairly large hairbrush from the many folds in his robes. Iruka will then sigh a relaxing sigh – a tension-relieving sigh – as he felt the dull ends of the brush mow through the jungle on top of his head, before it was all pulled back and secured with a black elastic band.
After that, Kakashi would purposely place the brush on the kitchen counter, murmuring a quick always put it back here before gasping sarcastically about being late for meeting his team mates, and heads towards their bedroom with a soft smile pulling at his mask-covered lips. But, it is to no avail. The stupid hair appliance would always go missing. Every Monday morning.
And as Iruka is about the head out of the front door, papers in their proper places and documents sorted, labelled, and locked in his briefcase, Kakashi would appear beside him in a puff of grey smoke, the one visible eye curving downwards into a happy grin as he bid his lover goodbye. The shorter man would then knock over the coat rack as he reaches for his umbrella, cursing uncharacteristically as he put on his sandals with great difficulty, and then breath hitching when he sees Kakashi pull down his mask
( his barrier, the wall hiding his identity, the blessed amulet that protects him from seeing the face of the monster he loathed )
and offer Iruka a genuine and brilliant smile, the kind that lights up Kakashi's black
( dull, dead and haunting )
eyes and adds colour to his face. Iruka decides that this is what Monday mornings needs and it gets him through his day.
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III. Tuesday
Kakashi leaves before Iruka wakes up, leaving a warmth beside him that was quickly dying in the bed that is too large for one, and doesn't return home until long after the brown-haired chuunin fell asleep, angry at how his eyelids drooped and closed in on him, body betraying and the comfort and warmth from the sheets inviting (but so cold and anxious without the other person beside him).
Iruka knows that Kakashi needs time, needs to feel the harsh raindrops splatter against the rigidness of his skin, needs to experience the cutting wind as it pushed against his body mercilessly.
Iruka cannot hate Obito, but he can hate Tuesday. Yes, he hates Tuesdays.
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IV. Wednesday
Wednesdays are Iruka's day off from the office, and after teaching a bunch of rowdy students in a closed four-walled environment, the chuunin is never less than enthusiastic to go home, entering in to the warm sanctuary with the intoxicating smell of dinner wafting lazily in the air; the dinner that for once isn't leftovers or take-out. The front foyer would have been swept and the shoes placed in their proper places upon the little metal rack, which Kakashi knows that the simple sight would have eased all tension from the brunette's mind, and Iruka is forever grateful. This day, there are no stray articles of clothing to trip over as he makes his way towards the sitting room, or unsuspecting textbooks and heavy scrolls to stub your toe on as Iruka walks tiredly towards bed. The carpet feels soft and vacuumed underneath his feet, the floorboards feel clean and scrubbed against the skin of his soles, and Iruka is deeply drowning in gratitude, because days like this only come once in a while, and you should enjoy them while you can.
Still, sometimes Iruka thinks that he should be at home, dusting and sweeping and cooking while offering to run a nice, hot bath for Kakashi after a long day of mentoring his team. Sometimes he regrets his lack of input, but all remorseful thoughts are driven out of his mind as soon as Kakashi enters the scene, smiling mysteriously underneath the blue mask and saying a happy welcome home, Iruka in the husky, low baritone that only he could pull off. Then he'd feel Kakashi's calloused and nimble fingers against his collar – let me take your coat, my dolphin – and then would follow the jounin like a forlorn puppy towards the kitchen, or the bedroom, whichever they preferred.
Iruka notices the gentle way that Kakashi handles him, like precious porcelain, as their mouths softly collide and roaming hands curiously venture into familiar territory, whether it be under the wrinkled black shirts or pushing them through the waistbands of their pants. Hatake's tongue is rough and wet and soothing, igniting the slow burning of need in his lower abdomen, licking away the sweat and lapping up his torso or the slender curve of his neck. And when Kakashi takes him, it's too sweet and breathtakingly slow. It never fails to take the very air away from Iruka, mesmerized at how gentle he could be, at how it was like he's afraid Iruka would break from the slightest of pressure.
After, in the dim glow of the dinner lights, hunger satiated and libido stilled, Kakashi would pour two glasses of red wine, talking quietly about whatever came to their minds, the pleasant drowsy feeling enveloping Iruka from the libation and the cozy atmosphere. Then the younger male would pop in a video, and the duo would sit on the couch, legs entangled and their bodies taking up space. It wasn't long before he decided to crawl towards the silver-haired shinobi, promptly beginning a make-out session, film forgotten. When they finally parted, faces flushed and lips kiss-swollen, the movie's credits were rolling, the ending song on its last verse.
Sometimes they'd crawl into bed, but Iruka likes it when they never make it there at all, snuggling on the couch in the warmth of each other, thin quilted blanket thrown over them.
Iruka thinks that Kakashi's arms define home, and there wasn't any other place he'd rather be.
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V. Thursday
Thursdays are the days when old, malicious phantoms appear, vicious claws ripping open the forgotten wounds that were hidden underneath layers of skin and lies, the only reminder an ugly and white scar in its wake. The blood is flowing continuously – drip drip drip – and no amount of gauze and bandages can stop it, no amount of healing chakra can cease the outpour of distress. Iruka watches with concerned eyes as Kakashi paces the floor, tight and angry, coiled and loaded. The academy teacher stands in the kitchen helplessly, body on autopilot as his hands systematically washed the dishes – scrub, rinse, dry – eyes cast down in hopes of not seeing the blind illusions set in Kakashi's face, hearing deaf as he wished the low, shaking mutterings would never reach his eardrums.
But he watches anyway, and he listens anyway. Iruka watches the doorframe as Kakashi walks back and forth in the hall, talking quietly to himself or not at all as he goes, an old picture frame in hands, the glass cracked from being held too hard. Iruka catches a flash of yellow, brown, and black with the quickness of his eyes, and his acute hearing lifts up the faint but realistically haunting melody, a broken version of the long-forgotten lullaby – lully lully lullay. The shorter man recalls that this wasn't the first time he's heard Kakashi's barely audible voice hum the familiar tune, but remembers when he accidentally slips it in, whether it be in the shower or when cooking dinner. Funny how he thinks of these things now.
Iruka is done with the dishes, and moves on to more important matters, such as repairing that picture frame, such as straightening the furniture that Kakashi had knocked over, such as saving Kakashi from the demons surrounding him.
The jounin is tired and weary, having stopped his pacing and now sat alone in the corner of the hallway, defeated. The picture now lay beside him, forgotten, and Iruka can focus on its detail clearly. A man very much like Naruto stood over top, towering over the three youths. A younger Kakashi stood beside the beautiful Rin (in the same brooding manner that Sasuke does, the chuunin notices), and a now deceased Obito was beside the future medic-nin, smiling with so much teeth that it was instantly compared to Naruto's. Iruka moves the picture aside and replaces the empty space with his own body, kneeling beside the man, while gently taking his hand.
He dared to touch him now.
I've lost, Kakashi would murmur over and over again, and Iruka would immediately shake his head in disagreement, squeezing the flesh cradled in his own palm. I've lost, I've lost, I've lost. Iruka regards Kakashi with emotion-filled eyes, while his own are hallow and distant. Iruka doesn't dare interrupt him. The silver-haired jounin would turn and look at the photograph again, and it would be Iruka's cue to begin.
He would gather Kakashi against his chest, pat down his gravity-defying hair, and reply with a no, you haven't. I'm here, I'm here, I'm here.
Kakashi does not cry, although Iruka would have felt better if he did. He remains silent, arms weakly wrapping around Iruka's waist in response, for support, for something solid to hold on to. The brunette would fill the silence with his own words – it's okay, I'm here. You haven't lost, I'm here. It's okay, it's okay, it's okay – but to him, they sounded empty and deceiving, falling onto desperate and gullible ears with no remorse. It's okay.
But it's not. Iruka had once lost everything too, and the ghosts will never leave over time.
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VI. Friday
Friday is when everything burns away; leaving only a stunning, vicious intensity that Iruka lets himself fall into. They go out, always, though it's rarely the same place twice. Sometimes they go to the movies, sometimes it's just to walk along the shore of the lake, and once, Kakashi had dragged him to an Icha Icha Paradise convention and spent all of their monthly savings on the Limited Edition Collector's set. But sometimes, when it's Kakashi's week to choose, they go to places Iruka isn't entirely sure he ought to talk about in the morning. Kakashi likes, somehow, to lose himself in the beat of music and the anonymity of a dance floor. Iruka doesn't mind being left at the bar; he always has interesting conversations with the bartenders, or spends a little alone time with himself.
The thing he likes best, though, is when Kakashi comes back for him, and pulls him out too, hand tight against his wrist in a way that makes his heart race. Can't stay against the wall all night, Iruka, he murmurs hotly against his ear, and then, it's perfectly acceptable to lose himself too, because with the strobe light keeping time in slow motion and Kakashi's eyes on his, it's all right to stop pretending to be something he isn't, and to give up all that precious, cultivated self-control.
Iruka can give himself over to Kakashi's hands, warm against his hips, and the perfect, white-blue curve of his throat in the flash of the lights. The movement of Kakashi's body against his is slow and heady, and it fills his blood with an indescribable but familiar pull. Kakashi is close, so close, adrenaline-sharp and alive, and when he smiles – the genuine, brilliant smile – Iruka is momentarily dazed, and swallows. Hard.
What he likes most about Fridays, in the end, probably isn't the dancing, or the silent walks, or the way Kakashi looks when Iruka pulls him into a dark corner of the dance floor, shadows obstructing their bodies as they grind methodically to the music. It's later, in bed, when Iruka allows Kakashi to take, and take, and take, until Iruka arches off the bed and begs from the low desperation of need, hands fisted in the sheets and head thrown back. It's the dull, hot pleasure that throbs in every nerve of Iruka's body as the silver-haired shinobi closes his teeth on that one forbidden spot, where the brunette's shoulder meets his neck, the familiar slide of mouth against mouth when no one can get enough oxygen, the physical sensation of touching Kakashi - mouth to the insides of his wrists, palms up his spine - until neither of them can see straight.
And it's the way that Kakahi looks down at him, through the heat of desire and ferocity of passion, like he's never wanted anything more.
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VII. Saturday
Saturdays, as Kakashi says, are theirs.
They usually stay home and bask in the quietness together, occasionally cooking and trying out new recipes that Iruka had been given by Kurenai as a gift. Needless to say, the food turned out well, but still lacked that special something whenever the red-eyed female invites Kakashi and him over for dinner. It's not like they minded anyway. They ate each other more often than they ate the food. Kakashi in an apron was Iruka's newest turn-on.
Iruka enjoys the tranquility that bounces off the sitting room walls when he lies his head down on Kakashi's lap, warm and inviting, his head dizzy and hallucinating about misspelled words and wrongly-used metaphors after a brutal hour of non-stop grading. Kakashi's deep and rhythmic breathing lulls the brunette chuunin into a glazy dream, comforted by the smell of Hatake's familiar cologne and the gentle hand that loosens his hair from its bonds and strokes through it continuously as he reads the latest volume of Icha Icha Paradise. Blunt fingernails scraped against his scalp, soft finger pads rubbing. Saturday afternoons were best spent like this.
Other times, Kakashi would invite Iruka along to watch his team train in the darkness of the woods, standing side by side in the shadows as both pairs of sharp eyes followed the swift movements of the youths, picking up their strong points and the weaknesses that came along with it. Iruka notices that Kakashi often just stands off the side, silent throughout the entire day, reading and hardly sparing a glance. Every yell, every scream of obscenity, every cry of encouragement was ignored, as if the silver-haired man wasn't at all concerned with how things were progressing. And every time Iruka winced when Sasuke's kunai came just a little too close to Naruto's throat for comfort, he would feel the reassuring hand grasp his shoulder, and he would again relax as Naruto defended himself by blocking the attack.
However, on those rare days, Kakashi would quietly place the infamous porn novel back into the left inner jacket of his vest, and pull the oblivious brown-haired partner towards his, holding him from behind as if he was the most important thing in the world. Iruka's mouth would run dry, especially when he descends those velvety, soft lips upon his, tongue snaking in shyly but with expertise. Especially when Kakashi gives him that look, the one that makes his heart race and breaths end in short pants. And when Kakashi whispers in his ear – I love you – Iruka can't help the elevating euphoria explode and tremble throughout his entire body, and he's sure that he's blushing and smiling and sputtering all at the same time.
Then they'd walk calmly throughout the village, hands grasped tightly together, like two missing puzzle pieces connected for the very first time. Iruka enjoys the silence, the sound of laughter around the air, and the sweet and gentle breeze that seems to encircle him and lift him slightly off the ground, defying gravity. Kakashi would lead him wordlessly into the numerous chains of bookstores in Konoha, and they'd get lost in the dusty shelves of yellow-paged novels, the scent of old paper heavy in the air. Sometimes they'd go to new ones, which smells of nothing at all, and always has the newest edition of Jiraiya's ongoing series. Then Iruka would pull Kakashi out, hands still together, flesh warm against flesh.
When they reach home, Kakashi would lie down on the couch underneath the window to read, warm sun beams spilling pleasantly through the pane of glass, and Iruka stretches out beside him, because the leather material of the sofa holds the sunlight, and warmth eases the familiar ache in his bones and the pounding headaches that often possess him. Iruka thinks he'd be all right with stopping here, forever, in between the slow turning of the pages and the warmth of Kakashi's body beside him, in the late afternoon sun, because, after all is said and done, this is where he'd like to spend eternity.
So he closes his eyes and sleeps, letting the afternoon fade away.
Finish
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Author's Note: This was quite an experimental piece, and something that I've wanted to do for a long time. I decided to write Iruka and Kakashi differently than most people would for this coupling, simply because I think a blushing an completely uke!Iruka is completely ridiculous, and a sex-obsessed pervert!Kakashi is out of character. Not once does Kakashi in the manga or anime act perverted, and his book does not count. I honestly believe that he is not lecherous – Icha Icha Paradise just merely amuses him. All comments will be loved, and constructive criticism will he rewarded with Pocky and Sasuke plushies. Flames will be ignored, and doused with a fire extinguisher.