Title: On the Road of Life, Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Naruto and all affiliated characters belong to Kishimoto Masashi. This story is written without permission and for personal/fan/nonprofit entertainment purposes only.

As Iruka woke up, he felt…warm. That was really weird. He knew he had slept outside. He should be cold and damp and probably shivering, like all the other times he had slept outside. Iruka jerked upright in alarm, a jacket sliding off his body and onto his legs. He grabbed it before it slipped off entirely. This was why he had been so comfortable. Why -? Who-? He didn't have a jacket like this. He hadn't earned it.

Someone must have thrown it over him sometime during the night. Puzzled, he wondered who would do something like that.

There were no clues. Almost as if the darkness itself had given it to him. That made no sense.

He checked the position of the sun overhead – and swore. He had to hurry if he was going to meet his team. But first, he needed to go home and clean up.

During the day, he found himself asking his jounin-sensei, Atsushi, asking if he, or any chuunin he might know, had stopped at the training grounds over the night. None had.

When asked the reasonable question as to why he was asking, Iruka had to hurriedly make up a lie.

Atsushi eyed him curiously as the blush crept over Iruka's cheekbones, but didn't ask further. They both knew there were bigger things to worry about – namely, getting Iruka to successfully, finally pass the last round of the chuunin exam.

Returning home to his tiny studio apartment that evening, Iruka inspected the jacket. There had been nothing in the pockets. While it was obviously worn, there were no identifying marks. None that he could see, anyway.

Of course, there shouldn't be, as virtually every single piece of uniform worn by a shinobi was actually the rightful property of Konoha. But that had never stopped anyone from affixing a small marker or piece of embroidery in a discreet location, if only to differentiate theirs from the literal thousands of identical items across the village.

He set back on his heels, searching much more closely. He held the jacket up. It was dirty, threadbare and frayed in places, spotted with what could be mud or dried blood. There were assorted rips and tears. There were patches of various ages. He stuck a finger through a hole that was so clean, it had to be recent. He held it to his nose – under the unpleasant tang of sweat, there was a wild, musky smell. It was unlike anyone he knew. He sniffed again. The scent was sharp and deep, intoxicating. He wanted to clutch it and absorb it into himself. It was absurd. He was becoming drunk on the heady smell of a stranger.

Whose jacket was this?

Was it a prank? It didn't seem like any prank he was familiar with. Unless it was "drive Iruka Umino crazy with unknown clothing." Which, while effective, sounded like the worst prank ever.

After a moment's thought, he knew exactly who to ask.

Iruka knocked on a door. While he waited, he shifted back and forth nervously, flak jacket folded on his arm.

The door opened to reveal a small, middle-aged man who blinked in the semi-darkness of the hall. "Iruka?"

"I'm so sorry for bothering you, Hachiro," he said. "I know it's late…"

"Oh, not at all," replied the building superintendent, opening the door wide.

"Is Minori home?"

"Of course," Hachiro replied curiously. "Come in, come in. I'll get her."

A dark-haired woman, whose natural height had been altered by the prominent hump on her back, entered the room. She smiled sweetly at her guest. "Iruka, dear boy, come in! How have you been?"

"Well, Minori. Thank you. And you?"

"Very good. The tailoring business is always good – what with all you ninja needing repairs and alterations. Now, what brings you by?"

"He doesn't need a reason," interrupted Hachiro gently.

"Of course not," she assured Iruka. "But I know you're so busy with the exam. And if it was about the building, you'd talk to Hachiro." Her eyes lit on the jacket on Iruka's arm. "What have you brought for me?"

When finally approached for the reason of his visit, Iruka flushed. Maybe he was wrong coming here. It was so very obviously not his jacket. He would have drawn back his arm had she not already grasped it.

Minori's long fingers, knurled through a lifetime of delicate handiwork with minute instruments, professionally assessed the damage. "Do you want me to help you sew it up? Some of these holes will need more than a little fix."

"Can you tell me, please, Minori, whose this is?"

Eyes shrewd, she nodded and turned. Iruka was relieved his initial instincts were correct. Minori was kind enough not to ask how he had gotten it.

She walked into the room, flicked on some additional lights, and laid the garment out on a table. After lifting her reading glasses up onto her nose, she began critically examining the lining. Flipping it over, she checked the collar, the shoulders, the yoke, the inner sleeves, and then all the seams.

Iruka became twitchily nervous.

She lifted open the scroll pockets, her fingers dipping into each one in turn. "Ah," she smiled, "Of course." She beckoned Iruka to come stand beside her. "Feel."

Iruka reached out to touch the underside of each pocket flap. He could feel the faintest raised edge of stitching under the lining. He had missed this the first time he had searched. But now he wanted to smack his own forehead. He should have sought to see underneath the underneath.

"So, tell me, Iruka, who owns this jacket."

Each flap, save for the last, contained just a character or two of hiragana. Iruka read them aloud. "Heno-heno-mo-he-ji?"

He was rewarded with a nodding smile.

"But that's nobody!"

"No," corrected Minori, "that's Kakashi Hatake."

Iruka stared at the jacket as it hung on the back of his door. Kakashi Hatake's jacket. Even he knew who Kakashi Hatake was. Sure, he didn't know what Kakashi looked like – but who in the village didn't know who Kakashi Hatake was? The infamous – notorious – infinitely dangerous - Copy Ninja, Kakashi of the Sharingan, had given Iruka his jacket.

And Iruka couldn't think of a single reason why.

In the week since Iruka had taken it to Minori, they had worked on the jacket together. In little snatches of time, they had cleaned it, repaired it and replaced what couldn't be repaired. During all that time, he had wondered.

He had never met Kakashi, they had no friends in common, they couldn't possibly have crossed paths. At least, not until that one night. And Iruka wasn't even awake for it, so it couldn't have counted. It was probably some kind of mistake.

He decided right then he would return it to Kakashi, as soon as he could. If he could find him.

It had been a bad day. Training had been miserable. Atsushi had screamed at him, consigning him to chasing runaway pets, gardening missions and babysitting for the rest of his useless, clumsy, underachieving life.

Iruka had come home, closed the door, and thrown himself on the bed. It was no good. He was no good. He was tired of running, tired of drills, tired of practicing, tired of defending himself. Maybe Atsushi was right. He should give up on passing the final round. He turned over.

Something caught his eye. Kakashi's jacket. It still hung on the back of his door.

Impulsively, he reached out and put the jacket on. It fit him well, though it was a bit snug through the shoulders.

He crossed his arms and grabbed the front panels in his fists, hugging it to himself. Iruka inhaled. That scent, wild and musky, still clung faintly to the fabric. He shut his eyes so tightly, the dampness in them threatened to overflow. But he would not allow it. Rule 25. Ninjas must never show emotion. And despite regularly breaking that rule, and the awfulness of what had happened today, he was a good ninja. A good genin.

He wanted to be worthy of having been given this jacket. Even if it was all just a mistake.

He couldn't give up.

Iruka released the tension in him with a shuddering sigh. Today was just a bad day. Tomorrow, he would do better. And the day after, better yet. There was a village to gain respect from. He would prove he was more than just a dumb prankster. People would learn to depend on him, acknowledge him, trust him.

He was going to earn his own jacket, just like this one. He would.

He would be an excellent chuunin. And he would become a chuunin, come the final rounds of the exam.

Then he would give the jacket back.

"Kakashi Hatake, you're a hard man to find," sighed Iruka as he carefully made his way through the grove of riotously blooming cherry trees on the far end of the hospital gardens. The air was warming with the arrival of spring, and the soft, sensuous smell of the flowers filled the late afternoon air.

It had been months since Iruka had finally earned his own chuunin jacket. But there was the problem of finding the Copy-Nin, who was even more elusive than the average ninja. Only a chance conversation, accidentally overheard in the mission room, had given Iruka a clue. There had been further conversations with nurses and hospital staff, most of whom seemed surprised that Kakashi would have anyone visit him at all.

Iruka caught sight of a figure slumped against a fat trunk, asleep, book propped open, face-down, on his lap. Slowly, cautiously, Iruka approached. He couldn't forget the stories. Even if they were 99% exaggeration, that final 1% was still enough to lay waste to any number of men of far greater ability than himself.

Iruka stopped and placed a small packet down on the ground near Kakashi's ankles. True to the state of chakra depletion the Sandaime had muttered about, Kakashi remained still and unaware. Iruka looked at him. So this was Kakashi Hatake. Why, he was only Iruka's age! Even asleep, with his face mostly covered, Iruka could see the shapeliness of Kakashi's brow and nose, the softness of the unblemished skin about his visible eye. As for Kakashi's form...Iruka could only sigh.

A single, perfect, pink blossom dropped from the tree above, lazily floating on the faint currents of air to settle on top of the orange book.

He should go, Iruka thought. He had done what he had set out to do and should go now, before Kakashi awoke.

Impulsively, Iruka knelt down next to the sleeper, putting a hand up on the tree to balance himself as he leaned forward. There were so many cherry blossoms this year, he thought whimsically as he drew closer, the sunlight seemed to be blushing. It cast a rosiness across the entire orchard, the ground, and most especially across Kakashi's skin.

Iruka inhaled, pulling in the scents of the flowers, the grass, the earth and the singular, unforgettable scent of Kakashi Hatake into an exhilarating, dizzying whole. His lips, hovering a shivery hairsbreadth from Kakashi's ear, whispered, "Thank you for the loan of your jacket."

Extra scene:

Kakashi cracked open his eye. He watched the man walk away, hands in his pockets, head tilted up to look at the trees, feet creating small shallow troughs on the blossom-strewn ground. Kakashi allowed himself a small smile.

The road of life took one on some strange journeys. Each step taken had been prepared by the previous step, a previous meeting, some previous action. People met, crossed paths and then moved on. In Kakashi's experience, the meetings were usually brief, often brutal and deadly. He tended to move on as quickly as possible.

But this time, something was different. Something important was happening. Now.

This time, something – someone – wonderful had come to find him.

And this time, he was not about to let that go. Kakashi slowly stood up and stepped forward.

Inspired by yet another piece of artwork. From the scarecrowanddolphin tumblr, March 31, 2011.