[Fic] "When You're Not Strong" -- Naruto
Jun. 1st, 2010 12:50 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
edenfallingSo I was going to write that sidefic about Iruka cleaning out Aunt Sadako's room before Sasuke moves in. Instead, I seem to have written a standalone fic about Aunt Sadako cleaning out Iruka's parents' room shortly after the Kyuubi's attack, while Iruka sits in the doorway and watches. Oops? (875 words)
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When You're Not Strong
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It seemed ungrateful to be grieving the loss of his parents when he still had Aunt Sadako, and they still had their house. So many people had lost not just their families but also their homes -- lost every place and every possession that could serve as a reminder or be placed in a makeshift shrine. So many people didn't have recognizable bodies to wash and dress and bury.
Iruka sat in the doorway of his parents' room, his back jammed against one side of the frame and his feet braced against the other, and tried desperately not to cry.
In the room, Aunt Sadako continued to sort through his parents' closet, dividing the clothes into piles on their bed. "When I finish," she said, "we'll take these down to the command center for our ward. There are a lot of people who'll need them."
"I don't care," Iruka said, clutching his parents' ruined forehead protectors in white-knuckled hands. His hair was falling out of his ponytail and straggling into his face. He didn't care.
Aunt Sadako turned to face him, one of his mother's good formal kimono draped over her arms. The silk was a soft blue-gray with a pattern of waves. "To match our name," she'd said when she bought it. His father had smiled and spun her around the main room downstairs, helping her learn the ways it restricted movement so she could work around them.
"They're only things," Aunt Sadako said now. "Your parents don't need them anymore, and they won't fit me or you."
"I don't care," Iruka said again. "That was her favorite kimono. You can't give it to someone else. It was hers."
Aunt Sadako's face softened fractionally. She limped over to Iruka and lowered herself awkwardly to sit on the floor beside him. "All right. We'll keep that one. Here, you take it and put it somewhere safe." She folded the kimono into a neat square of fabric and set it onto into the cradle of Iruka's arms. "Pick out one thing of your father's that you also want to keep."
"I want to keep all of it," Iruka said. "It's not fair."
"Life rarely is," Aunt Sadako agreed. "I know you're hurt. I know you miss them. But we can't undo death, Iruka-kun, and we can't make time stand still. We have to face the world and move on. You keep your parents in your heart now. The rest is just like old, shed snakeskin. It's no good keeping around things that only remind us of pain."
Iruka lifted the forehead-protectors, making the kimono slide down his forearms to rest in the crook of his elbows. The silk was cool against his skin. "What if I want it to hurt?"
"Then you'll hurt just as well without the clothes, while other people will have something to wear," Aunt Sadako said. She pressed one hand on his shoulder. "Iruka-kun. Look at me. It's all right if you hurt. It's all right if you're angry -- at the world, at me, at them. But your parents gave their lives so we and the rest of Konoha would live, and I am going to honor their sacrifice by making sure the other survivors don't go destitute."
She pushed herself up, slowly, bracing her hands against the doorframe over Iruka's head for support. "Now stand up and choose a memento from your father's things, and help me put these clothes into baskets."
Iruka looked at the forehead-protectors, and his mother's kimono, and the room Aunt Sadako was methodically pulling apart. His mother would hate the mess. His father would laugh and say it was time to redo the house, and joke about donating Iruka to charity along with the clothes.
They were never coming home again.
Iruka curled in on himself and cried.
After a moment, Aunt Sadako sat down again and gently tugged his hair free of its ragged ponytail. She ran her hands through his hair and across his scalp, again and again and again, like his mother used to do. "Let it out, Iruka. Let it go. They didn't want to die. They didn't want to leave you. I promise. Let it out. We'll get through this together."
Iruka cried for an embarrassingly long time, and only barely had the presence of mind to blow his nose in his shirt rather than his mother's kimono. Aunt Sadako smiled sadly, and helped him sit upright again.
"We'll get through this," she repeated. "We're Umino, and no matter how hard you push the ocean, it can never be moved unless it chooses. The ocean always remains. As long as you remember your father and mother, they remain too."
Iruka looked at his parents' forehead-protectors again, his fingers tracing the leaf symbols in the heat-warped metal. "Do you promise? That I won't forget them if we give their things away?"
Aunt Sadako nodded. "I haven't forgotten my parents. You won't forget yours. Now why don't you help me stand up, and put your mother's kimono and those forehead-protectors somewhere safe? We have a lot of work to do."
Iruka stood and helped Aunt Sadako lever herself to her feet.
Then he took his father's matching wave-pattern kimono from the closet and went to find a box to store his memories.
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Inspired by the 5/31/10![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
15_minute_ficlets word #34: vacuum
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In other news, I made a few tweaks to "What Isn't Broken (Can Still Be Fixed)" and posted it on ff.net tonight. The file was about 21,350 words long, including the header information. For some reason, ff.net insists that the file is actually 22,674 words long.
That is over a thousand phantom words.
I seriously do not trust their word counters anymore.
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When You're Not Strong
---------------------------------------------
It seemed ungrateful to be grieving the loss of his parents when he still had Aunt Sadako, and they still had their house. So many people had lost not just their families but also their homes -- lost every place and every possession that could serve as a reminder or be placed in a makeshift shrine. So many people didn't have recognizable bodies to wash and dress and bury.
Iruka sat in the doorway of his parents' room, his back jammed against one side of the frame and his feet braced against the other, and tried desperately not to cry.
In the room, Aunt Sadako continued to sort through his parents' closet, dividing the clothes into piles on their bed. "When I finish," she said, "we'll take these down to the command center for our ward. There are a lot of people who'll need them."
"I don't care," Iruka said, clutching his parents' ruined forehead protectors in white-knuckled hands. His hair was falling out of his ponytail and straggling into his face. He didn't care.
Aunt Sadako turned to face him, one of his mother's good formal kimono draped over her arms. The silk was a soft blue-gray with a pattern of waves. "To match our name," she'd said when she bought it. His father had smiled and spun her around the main room downstairs, helping her learn the ways it restricted movement so she could work around them.
"They're only things," Aunt Sadako said now. "Your parents don't need them anymore, and they won't fit me or you."
"I don't care," Iruka said again. "That was her favorite kimono. You can't give it to someone else. It was hers."
Aunt Sadako's face softened fractionally. She limped over to Iruka and lowered herself awkwardly to sit on the floor beside him. "All right. We'll keep that one. Here, you take it and put it somewhere safe." She folded the kimono into a neat square of fabric and set it onto into the cradle of Iruka's arms. "Pick out one thing of your father's that you also want to keep."
"I want to keep all of it," Iruka said. "It's not fair."
"Life rarely is," Aunt Sadako agreed. "I know you're hurt. I know you miss them. But we can't undo death, Iruka-kun, and we can't make time stand still. We have to face the world and move on. You keep your parents in your heart now. The rest is just like old, shed snakeskin. It's no good keeping around things that only remind us of pain."
Iruka lifted the forehead-protectors, making the kimono slide down his forearms to rest in the crook of his elbows. The silk was cool against his skin. "What if I want it to hurt?"
"Then you'll hurt just as well without the clothes, while other people will have something to wear," Aunt Sadako said. She pressed one hand on his shoulder. "Iruka-kun. Look at me. It's all right if you hurt. It's all right if you're angry -- at the world, at me, at them. But your parents gave their lives so we and the rest of Konoha would live, and I am going to honor their sacrifice by making sure the other survivors don't go destitute."
She pushed herself up, slowly, bracing her hands against the doorframe over Iruka's head for support. "Now stand up and choose a memento from your father's things, and help me put these clothes into baskets."
Iruka looked at the forehead-protectors, and his mother's kimono, and the room Aunt Sadako was methodically pulling apart. His mother would hate the mess. His father would laugh and say it was time to redo the house, and joke about donating Iruka to charity along with the clothes.
They were never coming home again.
Iruka curled in on himself and cried.
After a moment, Aunt Sadako sat down again and gently tugged his hair free of its ragged ponytail. She ran her hands through his hair and across his scalp, again and again and again, like his mother used to do. "Let it out, Iruka. Let it go. They didn't want to die. They didn't want to leave you. I promise. Let it out. We'll get through this together."
Iruka cried for an embarrassingly long time, and only barely had the presence of mind to blow his nose in his shirt rather than his mother's kimono. Aunt Sadako smiled sadly, and helped him sit upright again.
"We'll get through this," she repeated. "We're Umino, and no matter how hard you push the ocean, it can never be moved unless it chooses. The ocean always remains. As long as you remember your father and mother, they remain too."
Iruka looked at his parents' forehead-protectors again, his fingers tracing the leaf symbols in the heat-warped metal. "Do you promise? That I won't forget them if we give their things away?"
Aunt Sadako nodded. "I haven't forgotten my parents. You won't forget yours. Now why don't you help me stand up, and put your mother's kimono and those forehead-protectors somewhere safe? We have a lot of work to do."
Iruka stood and helped Aunt Sadako lever herself to her feet.
Then he took his father's matching wave-pattern kimono from the closet and went to find a box to store his memories.
---------------------------------------------
Inspired by the 5/31/10
15_minute_ficlets word #34: vacuum---------------------------------------------
In other news, I made a few tweaks to "What Isn't Broken (Can Still Be Fixed)" and posted it on ff.net tonight. The file was about 21,350 words long, including the header information. For some reason, ff.net insists that the file is actually 22,674 words long.
That is over a thousand phantom words.
I seriously do not trust their word counters anymore.
