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Apr 24, 2022

The White Wolf of the Woods

💌 Mail Carrier!Reader x Obito!Lives AU 💌

Chapter Summary: A single night. That's all it took for Obito's life to change for the worse. All he wanted, all he ever wanted in his exile, was to go unnoticed. To fade away, to be forgotten.

But how could he forget what life he earned when it was taken from him, and when you insisted on replacing it?

Chapter: 2/4

Words: 24.3k

Read: AO3 / FFnet

Chapter 2: Summer

One hour, two hours, three hours you managed to go without thinking about Obito before you spotted a particularly red tomato at the grocery store reminding you of him. Coincidentally, it was of the same variety planted in his backyard.

Three hours. A new record.

~~~

One day, two days, three days you spent learning your new route after a hefty envelope tumbled from your locker and right under the muddy shoe of your coworker.

You took your time meeting the tenants of the houses and apartments, introducing yourself as their new mail carrier, familiarizing yourself with their names and faces–and especially their pets. Giggling at their dogs sniffing your gloves, and their cats leaving hair on your pantyhose. All around, it was an ideal route with happy customers. Towards the end of your shift you had to climb uphill to reach the wrought iron gates of some corporate bigwig, but you couldn’t deny the view from his driveway was an absolute dream. Overlooking the city in the golden hues of the setting sun. A fine vantage point for, once again, peering into the distance at the southern staircase, discerning it and the forest’s edge in the late-day haze. Looking for him, like you did yesterday, and the day before..

Wondering if he thought of you as often as you thought of him.

~~~

One week, two weeks, three weeks passed and you were fed up with waiting.

You may have never planted a garden before, but you knew vegetables didn’t grow that fast. Obito should’ve needed you by now. If you weren’t there to see him, then Kakashi should’ve received an aviary message, a smoke signal, a shout in the night–something! anything! relaying what he required from the store so you could bring it to him. But he didn’t. He should’ve reached out to you, but he resisted. And in his passivity, you became antsy.. Which would explain the vast array of groceries contributing to the mess on your kitchen counters.

What his groceries did not account for, however, was one of your moving boxes sitting amongst the heads of cabbage, with every cabinet door opened and drawer pulled out while you rifled through your belongings, choosing which ones to give to Obito.

One of everything may have been sufficient for his lonely life in his cabin, but the dejection clouding his eyes when his only mug shattered on the floor stayed vivid in your memory.

Besides, you had quite the collection of dishes as an avid thrifter. After moving out of your parent’s house at the ripe age of sixteen-years-and-one-day, you couldn’t afford the matching sets of dinnerware sold in fancy department stores in packs of four. Instead, you bought cheap things as you needed them. Then more, as you made friends in Iwa and entertained them to store-bought meals portioned out on plates as if you cooked it yourself.

Now, you had little use for three mismatched plates. You placed one in the box, alongside extra cutlery, a variety of bowls and glassware, and–most importantly–two mugs. One of them was your favorite, and it hurt to give it up, but maybe he’d do anything other than frown when he saw the design.

You topped off the box with his half of the groceries and loaded it in your arms. Spending your afternoon after a long morning of work trudging up a mountain to visit the thorn in your side.

~~~

Up and up the stairs your smile blossomed wider and wider. Squealing at every landing to rid yourself of excess energy. Giddy as all get out. Anticipating his face lighting up with delight when he opened the box and was met with fresh food and thoughtful gifts. You couldn’t wait to see him, and it was so dreadfully obvious when you skipped through the regrown wildflowers flocking the footpath past the train tracks, whistling pretty tunes for the birds scattering in your wake like a fairytale princess. Even the droning from freakishly large cicadas seemed less grating, and the scratchy tree branches became less painful the more you barreled your way through them.

Life was good, and you were ready to show Obito his could be as well, if he allowed himself to accept the kindness others bestowed upon him.

You shook a pebble out from in your shoe, laughing at nothing but the rush of endorphins from picturing what his reaction would be when you handed over his box of goodies.

Life was beautiful, and Obito deserved to know its forgiveness; the same as flowers blooming after a storm. Forgiving the wind and rain for tearing them asunder. Prospering anew. Regrowing better, stronger. As he should, too.

You stepped over a fallen limb. It was snapped at its base, splintered, as if done so by unskilled hands wrenching it free and shredding the bark.

Life existed to be lived, to be enjoyed, and nothing mattered to you more than making your customer happy.

Bringing your knee up to help balance the weight of the box, you switched your grip from the cutout handles to hugging it to your torso, giving your fingers a break as you rounded the final bend to his driveway.

Life was magnificent.

Until it wasn't.

Dread stole cheer from your lungs. Fear collapsed your birdsong into a distorted, choking gasp; speechless for words other than a weak shriek as you looked on at his yard, vision running wet at the horror.

Tragedy closed its fist over your aching heart, wringing it dry of hope for Obito ever living a normal life.

Paralyzed, the scene before you sank in at an unfortunate slow rate. Eyes ticcing from one thing to the next, unable to process it all. Failing to catch your breath, causing black spots to invade the sharpened colors of vile reminders of how cruel humanity could be.

The flower beds were decimated.

His yard, ruined. Trashed.

Patches of grass were browned, stomped into the shape of heavy bootprints. The wood chip barrier on either side of his stairs was nonexistent. The flowers were.. gone. Ripped from their roots and pulverized. Slammed into the ground to cause the maximum amount of damage, spreading dirt clods to the driveway, streaked in decayed petals like blood splatter. Violent and lifeless. Meant to send a message to the lone owner of the cabin who became a recluse for his own good, and still, people found ways to harm him.

A long, curled petal stuck to the toe of your leather loafers. It was once vibrant orange, the color of the daisies you chose to plant next to his white pansies. You lifted your gaze to his porch and whimpered–the ceramic pots were smashed and the plants were tossed over the railing.

Clouds blotted the sun. Everything was dull. Browned, dried out, and decomposed; telling you this happened weeks ago. This was the catalyst for Obito not reaching out.

Obito.

The drinking glass in the box rolled, thumping against your chest, stuttering your shaky exhale of his name. “Obi-to?” You didn’t expect a reply, but it scared you all the same when he didn’t.

“Obito?” you called louder, forcing your legs to move. Feet plagued by a harsh reality clinging to your shoes, crunching the remnants of flowers he secretly adored. Leaping up the stairs, kicking chunks of pottery out of your way. There was no use in crying about it. Those pieces didn’t matter if they crumbled to dust. They couldn’t feel. They couldn’t hurt. They couldn’t regret existing. You had only one concern: relieving the panic clogging your throat.

“Obito!” you cried, using the disgust you felt to empower your voice. “Obito!” You knocked on his door. “Obito!” You kicked his door. “Obito!” You rattled the dusty paned glass window wishing beyond belief his dumb face would appear in the corner.

Nothing. No response. You tried the door handle. It was locked.

You fled to the back yard where you recalled seeing another door. Somehow, in your scrambling, you were able to discern his vegetable garden in the blur. It was intact. Tiny green sprouts were in the process of unfurling from the undisturbed soil. Unharmed. Beautiful and good.

“Obito!” You rammed your shoulder into the solid wood door and fell through into his kitchen, crashing the box of goodies into the countertop and knocking the wind from yourself.

Hissing at the corner dug into your side, you wrangled the box in your arms and prayed none of the clatter coming from it was a broken mug. You took a few cautious steps across the scuffed linoleum floor and entered the living space where the round table and den should be. You waited for your eyes to adjust, but it was useless. The house was suffocated in black. The type of darkness where vibrancy existed in the murky outlines of drawn curtains, but no light could penetrate the cold shadows beyond. As if nature itself ceased to exist in this place.

You held your breath until you were blue in the face, listening. Too dazed to do anything other than repeat, “Obito?”

Identifying the round object in the corner as the dining table, you set the box down, sliding it along the buffed wood and drew back the curtains for the window beside it, lighting the small corner with dimmed sun from his covered porch. You ran your glove over the cobwebs clinging to the glass. Precise. Emotionless and unnervingly calm. Brain shutting down at the pinnacle of stress.

Gathering the curtains and tucking them into the corners to keep them from falling across your only source of daylight, you cocked your head at the table. Two chairs were sat at it. A surprising revelation for the man who owned one of everything. However, one had track marks on the floor from daily use, while the other was dressed in layers of dust.

Delaying the inevitable, you moved the box again until it was perfectly placed in front of the used chair, and turned towards the hallway. It wasn’t pitch black as you expected. A door was cracked ajar, painting an entrance to your fate.

Would you find a body?

Or worse, no one?

The floorboards creaked under your shoes. Excruciatingly loud, like the pops and snaps of twisted tendons; churning the unsettlement in your stomach. The hallway slanted sideways, stretching and stretching the door out of reach, only coming to when your fingertips brushed the cold metal knob and you pushed, squinting from the brightness.

“Obito?” you whispered into the squeak of the door hinges.

No response, except for the tumble of your nerves and tongue amalgamating into you tripping over your words and catching your shoe on his bedpost as you hurried to his side. Broken out in a cold sweat, overwhelmed with relief to see him again.

Obito was sitting on the edge of his bed staring out the window of his room overlooking his backyard, just out of view of the garden outside his kitchen. Statuesque, as if he’d been waiting there for hours. You made to grab his shoulder, then retracted your hand and made due with curling your fingers into his moth-eaten blanket beside his thigh. Afraid you would frighten him from his trance.

He looked.. fine. You scoured him for injuries, but other than the dry spots on his hands where he wrung them, he seemed unharmed. Though he had neglected his hygiene since you last saw him, judging by the heavy shine of oil streaking his white hair and the stubble on his chin–which was black, strangely enough.

You refused to give into your weakness; bending at the waist to see him better, but denying the innate reaction to wrap him in your arms and soothe yourself with physical touch like you were desperate to do. “Obito, what happened?”

Never once did you consider him committing the destruction outside by himself. This was a warning. An abuse of power over someone who couldn’t fight back. Obito was gentle. A monster did this to him.

You endured one second, two seconds, three seconds stretched to a minute of him not acknowledging you; his eyes glazed over, peering out the window at nothing. Chest filled with an exhausted sigh expelled over his clasped hands resting between his legs. Mouth fallen in a reticent line. Entire being tinged with depression. Alive, yet deceased. A corpse without joy or happiness or ego. Haunted.

Fresh rage trembled your fists. The shock had worn away to grief, mourning the work you put in together to plant life in his yard. Seeing him sit there, torn down and stripped bare to a man who tried to cultivate purpose into his companionless existence, and then made to reap the consequences for it. “Tell me who did this to you.” Wrath deepened your voice to a husky timbre. Raw and demanding. Mouth coated in the thick saliva before a storm, rain brimming in your eyes.

When he didn’t look at you, you forced him to.

You stood in front of the window and crouched to his eye level. Acutely aware you were a meager civilian to him, inadequate. Incapable of solving his problems. Yet, you tried. Because someone had to.

“Tell me who did this to you.” You grappled a handful of his sweatpants over his knee and scrunched it, pleading with him to focus on you.

His troubled swallow undulated the white curve of his throat, hardening the sharp edge of his jaw as he readied himself.

Obito didn’t deny your presence any longer, and you sorely paid for it. His bloodshot eyes locked onto yours, and your heart leapt. “It doesn’t matter,” he stated. You opened your mouth to refute him, but he spoke again, “There’s no point in telling you what they looked like.”

“You.. You watched it happen?”

“And what if I did?” he asked with the first spark of an emotion unfortunately directed at you: a warning growl to drop it. “What does it matter if I sat at my table and watched them do it? Or if I curled into a ball and hid under my blanket, crying, pulling my hair out? Wishing they would go away? Wishing they would do more? Wishing they would burn my house down? Wishing it were over? Wishing–” Everything was over, he stopped himself, but you heard the frightening implication.

Your face was arced in alarm, and his glare waned to confusion at your concern.

The animosity he held against the world seeped from his bones the moment a tear slipped from your cheek, dripping to your inner elbow, splashing your skin and blotting your blouse. A visceral twitch coursed through his twined fingers. Almost–almost reaching out to touch yours. “Don’t pity me..” he said, softer. “They don’t give gardens to prisoners. I should feel lucky enough living out here in this cabin as is. This is my repentance.”

You dropped your head in defeat, tapping the brim of your hat on his knee, grazing it over the back of your gloved hand. Rubbing the fabric of his pants between your thumb and forefinger in circles. Methodical. Soothing. Stalling the explosion.

It was useless.

“That’s not..” you tried, voice wavering in the heat of white-hot tears stinging harsher, coming faster. Angrier. “God, Obito, you didn’t-” You wiped your face and realized this was too much. This had gone too far.

You pushed off his legs, removing yourself from him and marching towards the hallway. Rocking the earthen foundation beneath you, imagining you were stepping on the faces of those who did this to him.

At the last second, you caught yourself on the doorframe and before you could calm your temper, you rounded on him and stabbed a shaky finger at his startled face. “That isn’t what you deserve! You deserve to live in peace and I won’t hear otherwise. Ever! Got it?” You didn’t wait for his response. You vacated his room, his hallway, his den, his house, channeling all your frustration into slamming his front door. Rattling the loose window to a worrying degree.

Obito blinked several times at your departure, utterly bewildered as to why your ire was directed at him. His eyes drifted around his room for answers, to the rickety nightstand next to his bed, wobbling after all your stomping. To the teetering lamp, with its cord so aged and yellowed. To his deteriorating dresser missing a few drawers. And his ragged blanket in need of replacing.

His life was an embarrassment, but it was his. It’s what he deserved. Why were you so angry with him?

What happened to him was deserved, so why did it upset you so?

His stomach growled, wearily, reminding him he was mostly mortal now.

Facing forward, he pushed himself off his squeaky mattress and ran a hand over his flat belly. Famished and a bit faint if he were being honest. Also a bit annoyed as he scratched at the stains on his dark blue shirt. No matter how many times he washed it, they never came out, and he couldn’t venture beyond his driveway to get another. Nor was he about to bother Kakashi with buying him something so trivial.

“Well,” Obito exhaled, tying a knot in the drawstring of his loose sweatpants. Maybe he’ll catch you before you made it to the staircase so he could apologize for putting you in this position: having to choose between being a good person and your safety. Surely–he was absolutely certain–you were leaving him for good this time in order to protect yourself after seeing what sort of harm could come your way. He wasn’t just another customer. He was a target. It was in your best interest to drop him from your route and tell Kakashi to hire an actual shinobi again, someone who could protect themselves.

He just desired, if nothing else, that his life had a different outcome. One where he could nurture.. something more. Like a friendship between the two of you, as pathetic as that sounded to admit.

“Whatever.” Obito shook himself off the idealistic fantasy and accepted his unwantedness, dragging his feet to the den where he heard an odd noise. He tilted his ear towards it and surmised it was you making a ruckus pushing your way through the overgrowth blocking the pathway. Once you were gone, the branches would have the opportunity to knit together like his gnarled hands. Keeping anyone from entering, and finally, he could be alone. Alone. Alone, to fade from existence.

Obito opened the unlocked door and reeled.

You had his rake from the backyard in hand, raising it high over your head and pitching it in uncoordinated directions with your full reach, dragging the teeth along the grass to collect piles of dead flowers at your feet. You bent down, smashed the debris between the tines of the rake and your fingers, walked into the forest and chucked them from view.

“What’re you doing?” he yelled.

Hopping on one leg, jumping over a rather short bush, you clicked your tongue and answered him cheekily, “Composting!”

At a loss for words, he scoffed to bide him time to process your indignation, and once he registered the fact he was arguing with you, he was livid. Disregarding footwear, he listened to the eruption of resentment in his chest and charged towards you. Skipping his steps entirely and crossing the section of his yard you cleared with a scornful vengeance.

He snatched the rake from you–you yelped, but you didn’t let go of the handle. Without meaning to, he drew you into him once more. To where your neck ached from looking up at him, sun in your eyes, and his skin buzzed at the little contact, muscles straining with a wicked craving for more.

“Why are you still here?”

“What?” you asked in disbelief. “What’s it look like? I’m cleaning your yard so you don’t have to see this shit anymore.”

Obito brought the rake to his chest. Your hand followed its trajectory. His stomach coiled at your knuckles digging into his thin shirt and he lost his fight in the pool of determination burning bright in your eyes. “I.. ” He worked his jaw. “I don’t need your help.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I don’t,” he emphasized. “Go home to Konoha and return to your idyllic world. Ask Kakashi for a normal route and leave me alone.”

You puffed your cheeks. “I already have a normal route, that’s why I’ve been too busy to come here and check on your sorry ass for the past few weeks.” Clasping the handle higher than his hand did, you continued, “I woke up early to finish my route on time.”

He raised his hand, fighting for purchase above yours. “Great, sounds like you have your future planned out for you, so you can leave.”

You placed your hand above his, overlapping your pinky on his forefinger, running out of room. “No. I’m cleaning up this mess, then I’ll leave.. Then I’ll come back tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day, and the next to check on you.”

He cupped his hand over the very top on the rake, and for a moment, he beheld you with the smugness of a champion before he snuffed the elation from his features. “Do you always disregard your safety to become the thorn in someone’s side like it’s your sole duty to annoy them?”

You pulled the rake’s handle into yourself, nestling it in the crook of your arm. “Funny, I was just thinking the same about you,” you said, and he narrowed his glare. “There’s something waiting for you inside. Why don’t you go open it.”

“I don’t–”

“Now.”

Dismissed like a pesky insect, Obito wrung his hand around the rake and finally surrendered it to you. Muttering to himself and slinking away with his tail between his legs, returning to his empty cabin where he questioned why his curtains were open, and if the giant box was always there on his table.

Using utmost caution, he pried the cardboard box open, suspicious of what could’ve been so important for you to go through the trouble of making the journey up here, and the instant his rough palms smoothed down the flaps blocking his view, his question was answered.

Tilting the box towards the window, a poignant twinge of exhilaration sent his pulse racing as he gazed at the item on top: his haori. Steamed crisp. Free of wrinkles. Folded nicely. Not a particle of dirt on the vivid midnight blue. Well taken care of by someone who respected it. Presenting the Uchiha crest to him first, a symbol of blazing white and red. Calling out to him. Welcoming him home.

He grabbed it by the inner collar.

Inhaled deep around the neck.

Searched for something long lost to him.

Chased it, fingers spread. Reached for the warmth his chest he was missing. Closed his fist around it. Exhaled.

It escaped him.

Obito withdrew his nose from the garment and furrowed his brow. He inspected it. Smelled it again, chose different spots. Ones where he should be able to grasp the fleeting comfort of his daydream. Yet, it evaded him.

His haori didn’t smell like you. It smelled like him.

The corner of his mouth twitched down. Disappointed, he balled the useless clothing and dropped his hands to the table, knuckles knocking on wood. Haori languishing in a heap of vexing fabric.

A visceral yearning coursed through him the moment sunlight beamed on it, setting off every fiber of his being to lunge and bury his face in the parts that hugged you. Praying it carried your scent. Hoping it smelled like you, his mail lady–an utter stranger. And the realization of his immediate thoughts and actions upon opening the box was to fill his lungs with some reminisce of you clinging to a tangible object that could be used to console him, swathe his shivering body late at night when the nightmares shocked him awake–No. The humiliation struck him hot across the cheeks.

The echoing pain of solitude rattled his nerves.

You were an innocent civilian sent to be his lifeline to the modern world. Nothing more.

The haori slumped to the floor. Obito stared into the box. At the plethora of produce, damp with loamy freshness. Picked from a market that morning without him sending a notice to Kakashi.. Meaning you would not have received compensation. Meaning, you bought these things out of pocket. Expecting nothing in return.

Rummaging through the loose bundle of vine-ripened tomatoes and shifting aside the boxes of dried pasta, he uncovered the dishes. The single plate, the fork, the knife, the spoon, the drinking glass. One of everything to add to his collection, creating two of something in his home where he resided in bitter isolation. Moving the dishes, he found the mugs in the corner. Two of them. One to replace his. One, theoretically, for a guest, if they were to stay and share a drink with him.

None of it matched. All of it unique. All of it insisting on taking up room in his thoughts. Forcing its way into the dusty corners of his subconscious longing for such tender affections. Stimulating him in ways your delicate touch could not. Resonating a deep longing in his soul to be completed. Fulfilled.

And like before, when he acted on impulse to cozy his face into an article of clothing like a smitten man with a crush on his first sweetheart, this sentiment invoked fear and guilt and a terrifying acceptance.

Obito had grown too attached.

Those men sent a mild warning. It could’ve been much worse. Tearing up his yard was nothing in comparison to the harm they could’ve inflicted on you.

Their terror was over within the hour. A long hour, recalled in perfect bursts by his good memory. Flashes of him sitting by the fire after you left, running his knuckles over his grin. Hair raising on his arms by a presence stumbling through his woods. Then, pitch blackness. Dousing the fire, killing the lights, hiding in his room. Seizing with panic. Shaking so terribly the woolen blanket slipped through his wet fingers, drenched in sweat and tears. Plucking strands of hair from his head as the men laughed, kicking the clay pots from his porch.

Wishing everything was over.

What happened to him was deserved. But you?

Obito stood at his window watching you dispose of a disaster he earned because you were kind-hearted, generous, and unfathomably caring for a man who couldn’t care for himself.

It was irresponsible to grow this enamored with you, and you with him.

He had to do something drastic.

Every walk here, every delivery, every smile you wore when leaving his residence marked you, and if you wouldn’t heed his advice to leave him be, then he’d have to show you he wasn’t worth the effort.

He couldn’t bear ruining another person’s life again.

~~~

“Y’know, the other day I was reading an article in the newspaper about upcycling.” You nudged the door open with your shoe. “We could take the broken pieces of this pot and glue them together to create a cool staircase effect for.. moss.. or.. something..”

You spun in a circle, registering he wasn’t at the table like you expected. You ducked your head into the kitchen and didn’t see him putting away his groceries, either. Shifting your eyes around the room, you took the opportunity to ditch the shattered pot pieces into the trash, clapping your hands free of the responsibility of performing arts and crafts, and turned the corner to look for him in his room. However, you stopped short of the hallway.

His door was closed, swallowing the area in gloom.

“Obito?” you repeated his name for the hundredth time, never growing tired of the sound of it muffled in your own head. “Is something wrong?” Braving the dark, you planted yourself at his door and pressed your ear to it. You knocked lightly with the back of your hand. “Are you not feeling well?”

Beyond the barrier you heard the rustle of his blanket, a tiny squeak of his mattress, and nothing more.

You cleared your throat, warring with the empathy gnawing at your conscience to ease the tension, wracking your brain for a solution. Confused as to what caused him to regress into a recluse again. Worried the answer would be you. “I didn’t think the mugs looked that bad, but I can see how the kitten gives off an air of-”

“Go away.”

You flinched from the words he shoved at you in a flat tone without remorse. “Okay.”

Shrinking back to the table, you picked his haori off the floor and draped it across the back of his chair, running your hands over the sleeves. Over and over, fingertips remembering the intricate weave, pondering the care package you thoughtfully put together for him. It was rifled through, but none of it seemed amiss. Another good deed gone underappreciated. Being overly nice to grumps wasn’t in your blood, but he had grown on you, especially after catching the look in his eye when you locked gazes in front of his fireplace. Milliseconds frozen in time. Substantial glimmers of hope reflecting back at you until he blinked them away, pretending they were nothing.

So here you were. Buying his groceries with your own money, tidying his yard, putting away the dishes you brought him, and wiping down his counters without so much as a “thank you.”

It was the least you could do when met with the gaping white void of his fridge, and the sparse, used up, crusty jars in his cabinets. Expired and useless and thrown directly into the garbage where they belonged. The produce you purchased was truly random, having the faintest clue to what he needed, but he had a better chance at making himself a meal and not ending up with food poisoning now.

You retrieved your personal pen and notepad from your bag and started scrawling a note, fully aware he would scoff at your childish matching stationary set of rectangular sticky notes colored pastel green with cartoonish frogs hopping along the bottom, eyes popping out of their sockets with fat red hearts in their pupils as they gazed at one another in love. The pen was equally cheesy, wrapped in the same design. You clicked the end and jotted a quick idea for pasta and tomato sauce using what you left in his fridge, knowing full well you were talking out of your ass, having cooked so seldomly you could only assume simmering tomatoes would eventually lead to them becoming a bland sauce. At least making the pasta seemed straight forward.

Resisting the urge to shred the note in a million little pieces, you left it on his table and wished for the best.

“I’ll leave you alone now,” you announced to his hollow home. And you did. Until the next day.

~~~

One hour early–that’s what you set your alarm to. Waking up and dressing in a uniform you groggily ironed hours ago when you stirred from your nap, arriving home too tired to undress before falling into bed.

Two hours–you were out of breath. It didn’t matter. You raced the clock of the rising sun to deliver the mail waiting for you downstairs from the Hokage’s office before the sorting plant burdened you with more. Luckily, today was Wednesday, and Wednesdays prioritized coupons and magazines, lending you to an easy route completed in time for you to punch out early in front of your coworkers drinking their second cup of piping hot french roast. Suckers.

Three hours–you combed through the grocery store studying every product and considering it’s worth to Obito. Debating if he truly needed canned beans, and if he did, what would he eat it with? You could get a bag of rice, but did he know how to cook it? The last time you followed the directions on the back of the bag the starchy grains became a paste not unlike glue.

And what if Obito hated beans and rice? Were you buying the wrong things?

Your vision was spinning, and if the grocery basket cutting off blood circulation to your hand was any indicator, you had a long afternoon ahead of you.

Paying for what groceries you deemed necessary after witnessing the abysmal state of his kitchen, you made your way up the steep staircase to his cabin; thighs burning, shoulders sagging, spine and hips crying–but by God, you were determined to reach the top just like yesterday, body be damned. At some point you entered a state of nirvana where no pain mattered. Only the adamant goal of completing the task. Similar to a runner pumping their arms, feet pounding pavement, eyes on a banner waiting to be broken by their proud chest at the end of a record-breaking sprint.

Except you bore no resemblance to such athleticism flinging open the back door and collapsing to your knees in his kitchen, crawling on all fours, swearing you saw steam rising off your sun-beaten body when you stuck your head inside his fridge.

It was summer, and nature had little sympathy for your act of kindness.

Dragging the plastic bags from where you dropped them on the rotten pinewood steps, you apologized to the used-to–be-frozen items thawing in real time as you lined them up on the bottom shelf of the fridge with limp arms, still seated on the floor. Hinging your fingers on the edge of his countertop, you hoisted yourself to your knees to organize the bottle of soap and sponge on his sink, feeling the weight of your busy morning come crashing down on you at the mere thought of putting away the heavy canned food in the cabinets out of your reach.

Even the bag of rice would have to wait on account for you succumbing to your desires to be at one with your new bed.

The deflated plastic bags surrounded your body like an outline at a crime scene.

You figured he wouldn’t respond, but you tried anyway. “Obito?” When no answer came, you submitted to the beige monotony of his ceiling. Resting your eyes. Reveling in the way your sweaty uniform absorbed the coolness from his linoleum floor.

Since you accepted this job you spent many mornings bitching at your alarm clock. Muscles revolting at the idea of moving. Searing with pain as if wounded by a thousand hot knives when doing the most mundane of tasks like brushing your teeth. But not once did you regret the decision to wheedle your way into his home.

You accepted he wasn’t going to answer, so you made yourself laugh. “I purchased you many perishables from the finest food vendors, Milord,” you bellowed irreverently, swinging your arms in an overabundance of gestures. Stirring flakes of dried mud in the shape of shoe treads dirtying his floor, and now, the back of your clothes.

No answer.

Your mirth subsided to nothing.

Nothing.

The intensity of his silence sank its teeth into your chilled flesh.

Silence.

Nothing.

He gave you cold hearted nothing.

You picked yourself off the floor and stuffed the bags in the trashcan on top of the clay pot fragments and expired jars possessing more mold than food product. Rising to your tiptoes, you hurled a box of cereal on top of the fridge and reordered the inside. Arranging the milk where it should go, rolling a head of lettuce to the side to make room for the vine of tomatoes. Trailing your captivated fingers along their fuzzy stems. Checking on the cabbage in the crisper. Eyeing the water pitcher filled to the same level it was yesterday.. It was then an unfortunate fact occurred to you.

The fridge was exactly how you left it. His entire kitchen was. No dishes on the drying rack nor out of place where you dropped them off. Not a drinking glass used nor a vegetable missing. Not a fork rinsed and put away, nor a morsel eaten.

A sigh formed in your lungs, exhaling your woes as you rolled your head from side to side, massaging the crook of your neck. Questioning if you were biting off more than you could chew. Obito was a difficult customer to parse. That much was clear when you insisted on the curtains he closed in the den to be opened, and in the stark daylight you took inventory of his table, evolving your weary sigh into an amused snort.

His haori was missing, along with your note.

He could pretend you didn’t exist, but he couldn’t erase the actuality of his presence.

You didn’t bother calling his name again. You kept your eyes transfixed ahead, chin held high. Immune to the urge clawing at your attention to slide your gaze to his door as you passed on your way to the end of the hallway, flipping on a switch. A dim bulb flickered, emanating an eerie hum in his cramped bathroom. Crowded with the usual sink, toilet, and bathtub-shower combo.

A mirrored medicine cabinet hung above the sink and a small frosted glass window helped grant you a peek into the dark linen closet housing a seemingly functional washing machine and a stack of shallow shelves cluttered with extra toiletries and a box you didn’t care to inspect.

Clever to the odd detail, you were charmed to see he was the type to keep both the toilet seat and lid down, and the shower curtain rod was bare, fancying himself a bath lover. These specifics were insignificant and unimportant, but in an era starved of intimacy, they were insightful and cherished.

Acclimating yourself to his house, you took note of the things he needed like razors and such and returned to the kitchen, chugging a tall glass of water and bringing a wet washcloth to the dining table. You wiped down the second chair, gagging at the layers of neglect caking itself into the crevices of the carved decorative frame. When wringing out the washcloth did not return it to its original white state, you dropped it in the washing machine to be taken care of some other day.

You walked past his room again. Slower. Eyes trained on the floorboards in hope for a slice of light spilling out from under his door. Bargaining for the squeak of his mattress. Hoping for the rustle of his blanket. A groan to go away. Anything would suffice. But his room remained in a dreadful slumber.

Swallowing your hurt, and your dignity, you couldn’t help but stop and knock. “Hey,” you called out to him, muscles cramping tense in the stillness of your breath, “I left you some easier things to make like cans of soup and stuff. All you have to do is heat them up on the stove–” You paused, “--You have a can opener, right?”

Nothing.

You allowed him a wide berth to scold you for coming back. To hurt your feelings and yell at you to leave.

But the disdainful silence was worse. Drowning and ear ringing. Buzzing like a mosquito. Itchy like a rash. His house was covered in it. Willful silence. Rubbing your face in the glaring sentiment you stubbornly blocked out: he’s ignoring you.

Collecting your fist to your chest and cradling it there, you mumbled a final, “Please eat something..” and wrote him another note detailing which cabinet the soup was in and ensuring the pot sitting out on the stove was clean.

You ran your thumb over the sticky edge of the paper onto his table. Going through the motions. Finding yourself next ducking under a branch cutting across the footpath to the train tracks. Coming to when you asked yourself if the nasally grunt you heard was him turning over in his bed when you knocked, or if it was your imagination.

~~~

The next day you yawned at his bedroom door, seeing it clearly for the first time.

His house was flooded with sun, condemning the shadows to the outer corners where you threatened them. Throwing open every door. Wrangling every curtain. Invading his living space with cheer while simultaneously depending on it to keep yourself awake after your midnight bedtime and 5:00 AM alarm.

That was your new standard. Rolling out of bed and rushing to work. Beating your coworkers to the first pot of coffee and guzzling it down, heading out for deliveries as they looked on perplexed. Finishing your route in time to skip a lunch filled with concerned looks for the exciting opportunity of scoping out the men’s hygiene section at the grocery store, deciding which toothpaste brand Obito would prefer.

Putting one in your basket, you stood in the checkout line trying to appear as normal as possible smelling the deodorant you chose for him, dropping it on the conveyor belt before your private thoughts evolved into anything more inappropriate than contemplating how the scent would interact with his body’s chemistry. Your cheeks flushed hot the more you let your mind wander–that is, until your eyes landed on a succulent photograph on the cover of a magazine amongst the racks of tantalizing candy bars and chewing gum. The honey glazed ham pictured was dressed in rings of juicy pineapples speared into place by sprigs of rosemary buried deep in plump cherries, glistening the roasted skin in a translucent pink ooze of delectable decadence.

In a fit of carb-deprived hunger, you grabbed all the recipe laden magazines you could get your grubby little hands on, salivating over the delicious dinners presented on unnervingly pristine tables set for families of six with embroidered place mats and napkin rings worth more than your government salary.

You were determined. You bought them all.

You yawned at Obito’s bedroom door again and flipped the page. “Some of these are way too hard. What am I, a chef?” You sucked your teeth and stuffed the magazine in your shoulder bag, grabbing another with a photo of a microwave on the cover. “Thirty Easy Recipes for Singles Over Thirty. Dang, they didn’t have to target my demographic like that.” Thumbing past the initial ideas like “beans on a potato,” and “have you heard of toast?” you recited the non-patronizing recipes you believed you could handle. “How about.. Hm. You’d think omelet rice would be easier to make. And I’m not feeling spaghetti today. What the– You can make cake in a mug? Oh! What about pancakes? There’s frozen hashbrowns in the freezer. Does a big breakfast sound nice?”

“Would you just go away.”

He spoke.

Words striking you like searing white lightning amidst a storm, like a cold sea splashing your skin. Like a joyous breath of fresh air rousing every sense in your body. Like an almighty sword to fend against the fatigue defeating you.

Obito spoke to you. Stunned you with his proximity, roughly sitting at the edge of his bed. Booming voice reverberating the thin wood dividing you. Sending waves of sound crashing in your eardrums. Goosebumps rippling down your arms. His voice. His lovely raspy voice directed at you.

He spoke to you, and it was enough to keep you going.

“Breakfast it is, then,” you responded with a smile shining so bright it could illuminate a moonless night.

In the kitchen you donned your proverbial apron and got to work. You cleaned your workspace, got out the equipment listed in the instructions, spread out your ingredients, propped the magazine on a paper towel roll, and proceeded to make the worst pancakes in existence. They were.. tough. Dense to put it nicely. Even the syrup couldn’t help undo the misreading of tablespoons and teaspoons in reference to things like baking soda and baking powder. Such discrepancies should be negligible, not devastating consequences.

Still, you scarfed down the first pale pancake you made, and perhaps tried more than your fair share of the hashbrowns, packed your things, and left him a note on his medicine cabinet’s mirror reminding him to floss.

It was a long day. A terribly long day. An awfully tiring day; that was your only excuse for signing the note with a heart out of habit.

The moment the two curves connected in a “V” at the bottom, you balked at the betrayal of your pen.

You’d never live this down.

~~~

The day after that you returned to a clean kitchen.

The skillets you used were washed and put away in the appropriate cabinets adjacent to the stove. The spatula was in the vintage ceramic utensil holder painted with retro mushrooms. The counters were cleared of powdery flour. Your chair was pushed in at the table.

Insurmountable signs speaking volumes as you checked the trash and saw the plastic grocery bags on top. Not an ounce of wasted food.

You cooked for him and he ate it.

It was too soon to be this elated, but you hugged your middle, ran your cotton gloves up your biceps and squeezed in celebration of this little victory. This little puzzle you completed. This little bloom of validation in your heart.

Holding one of the canned soups you bought yesterday, you matched the ingredients on the label to what was in his fridge and created an edible concoction to the best of your abilities. The vegetables were roughly chopped and the broth was underseasoned, but it was food nonetheless.

You turned the dial to a simmer and sat at the dining table to cut out the usable recipes from the magazines and throw away the rest far too advanced for your skill level. Ridding yourself of the excessiveness of staring at the grandiose table settings on the covers while you sat alone with an empty chair next to you. A room away from a man who refused to leave the safety of his bed. Shying from you. Shielding himself from your downcast expressions as he told you, once again, to go away for your own good. Never elaborating on what he was so afraid of.

You lined the recipes up on the table and took out your notepad, instructing him to choose which one he wanted you to make next. Then, you paused. Pen hovered over the paper. Listening to the thrifted clock you left on the countertop to be hung at some point when you had the time. Tick-tocking weighing heavily on your pride.

In a rush you scribbled an afterthought hoping he loved the soup and immediately cringed at yourself. It was a presumptuous addendum considering your tenuous relationship, seeing as how he ate one meal of yours and gave no review on if it was edible or not besides the clean dishes, but your humiliation could be unpacked some other sleepless night.

Your brain pounded stress at your temples like the tap-tap-tap of your fingertips resting on his door. Allowing yourself the small comfort of picturing him doing the same thing on the other side. Wishing him a goodnight, and imagining, in a better time, he was wishing you one too.

~~~

And the day after that you replaced your brimmed hat with a handkerchief and got to work cleaning his filthy home.

You put away the soup pot and bowl he left on the drying rack. You swept and mopped the floors. You sprayed the bathtub with bleach and desperately unlatched the small window, wheezing for fresh air. You scrubbed, you washed, you polished, you laundered, you used the dining chair to reach the curtains and beat them over the banister outside, coughing in the clouds of dust.

The sun dipped and your muscles ached. You attempted to stir chocolate chips into the cookie dough you made, but your shoulder met its resistance and went no further, arms quivering in futile. A body burdened by guilt. Doubled over at the waist, accumulating the chill settling over the countertop in the early night on your forehead, cooling the frustration from your cheeks as you tamped down the urge to cry over something so stupid.

The recipe adhered itself to the sheen on your forehead. But along with it was a little note torn from the corner of lined paper with a simple phrase handwritten messily in pencil:

double the servings

You screwed your eyes shut and peeled it off, rebelling against the existential exhaustion creeping in your sinew and instead, summoned the last of your strength to dole out round balls onto the cookie sheet, trembling under the weight of the metal, causing you to bump it on the edge of the oven rack. Instinctively reprimanding yourself for almost knocking it from your hands and ruining everything.

“I think it’s time for me to go home. Do you think you can take the cookies out in a few minutes when the timer goes off? If not, I can–”

“Go,” he cut you off from justifying yourself.

You thanked him–rather, his door–and aimed your flagging smile at the note in your palm.

~~~

One week later you hadn’t accomplished much in the sleeping department, but you did remember to water his vegetable garden. You had to attribute their growth to a miracle; not only had the plants survived their temporary drought, they had begun sprouting baby leaves despite the soil being so dry it was practically ash under your nails.

“Sorry I’m a little late. Lots of people ordering packages before going on vacation, y’know,” you grunted. “Had to make a couple of trips.” With effort, you undressed from your uniform. You peeled off your sweaty gloves and laid them beside your hat, untangling yourself from your shoulder bag and unbuttoning the top of your blouse while taking an unopened pint of ice cream from the freezer and sealing the frozen icicles to your clavicle. Focusing on the instant relief of the cold treat on your skin and not at all on the dining table, where you slung your bag and gasped–opening your eyes just in time to stop the motion before disaster struck.

A glass of water anticipated your arrival, condensation dripping down its sides forming a ring around the bottom. Placed in front of your chair. A kind, unexpected gesture Obito thought to leave you knowing it was well into the season of long hot days.

You used your bag to mop up the excess water, not wanting to ruin the table more than it was. “The elderly woman at the end of my route gave me a puzzle today,” you said, removing the bulky object from your bag and cramming your fingernail under the lid, lifting it with one hand, using the other the bring the glass to your lips for a few hearty gulps, drinking it dry. “She said her grandkids didn’t want it. They called it lame right in front of her, which was really sad to hear. Anyway, I told her I’d love it, so she gave it to me.” You dumped the pieces on the table, and in watching them scatter, you had the sudden sensation you’d regret this endeavor.

If you weren’t mindful to keep the pieces orderly, they could be mistaken for crumbs if they fell on the floor. Tiny, tiny things, and just.. so dang many of them necessary to complete the picture on the lid of a cottage surrounded by a dizzying meadow of wildflowers.

You blinked at the number in the corner followed by an obnoxious amount of zeros and voiced your defeat, “Feel free to help me with the puzzle whenever you want!”

Having a short attention span, you lost track of time, but you knew it didn’t take long to start making excuses to drag yourself away from the table, growing bored of sorting the green pieces from blue. Convincing yourself the casserole Obito requested from the Super Easy Cookbook for Beginners was dire. His stomach took precedence over your silly puzzle. Plus, it’s not like the calendar you bought him would fill itself out with the week’s forecast.

It was painful enough forcing yourself to watch the news rather than your usual housewives of Suna reality show, but you found yourself genuinely sitting at the edge of your seat ardently taking notes when the weatherman came on. Fixated on the screen to see if it would rain that week. Doing whatever you could if it meant providing Obito with information he may need.

Though, you weren’t sure he left his room most days to notice if it was sunny or cloudy out.

You drew a cartoon sun in the corner of next Thursday and stood up. “This way you’ll know if you need sunscreen before going outside.” You grabbed your ice cream and impaled it with a spoon, hands reeking of the onions you chopped for his dinner. “Just kidding! You should always wear sunscreen.”

“Helpful as always,” he mumbled and rolled over in bed, more than likely burying his head under his pillow to block out your voice.

“Sun damage is no joke, Obito! We’ve gotta protect your handsome face from premature wrinkles.” When he didn’t respond to your bait, you shrugged it off thinking it an easy abrasion to heal with time.

Time, food, gifts, talks, smiles. Eventually.. Eventually he’d come around and see the world you provided for him was no longer tainted with the evils of his past. Eventually he’d leave his room and eat the meal you cooked for him together at the table, sharing shy glances and nervous laughter.

Until then, your gaze went unfocused. Moving the spatula in your hand idly, sweating the onions in the skillet. Hoping they were as finely diced as he asked of you in the note in your pocket.

~~~

The second week you entered through the backdoor of his cabin and swiftly reached into the trash can, curling your fingers around an object and retrieving it. “Just a rude man,” you grumbled, bringing the tabby cat figurine to the den where it belonged on the fireplace mantle. You used your glove to clean its adorable red bowtie and turned it this way and that, catching the perfect position of the morning rays to brighten its charming green eyes.

Digging through your bag, you extracted a small aged painting of a sailboat cresting white ocean waves and set it atop the clock you never hung on the kitchen counter, along with a few other trinkets you picked up from the thrift store, grinning at the note he left you.

stop bringing this ugly shit into my house

You snickered and stowed it in your pocket and produced your own pen and paper to leave one for him, tearing your second to last sheet off after writing a simple “no,” with an excessive amount of hearts. Although, you swore this notepad came with fifty sheets and there was no way you used that many to leave notes around his house, right? To add to the mystery, you never did find them crumpled in the trash, either.. Forgetting that particular conundrum, you washed and peeled the potatoes and carrots for fried rice and relaxed in the den while they sizzled, staring down your nemesis from across the table: the puzzle. Edges bordering on completion. Its middle painfully bare. A fearsome task of which you accomplished a solid row of daisies for and called it quits.

“Did I ever update you on the TV drama I watched last week?” you asked nonchalant, sliding from the table and the problems it held to pace the hallway. “No? Well, the twist was so dumb, and so predictable at this point. Turns out they’re brother and sister! Who could’ve imagined! I swear, it’s always a secret baby or they’re actually siblings. It’s so stupid. Why can’t the reveal ever be like–” You spun your hands in a circle, “--he secretly owns an animal shelter and rescues rats or something.”

“Can you take this to Kakashi?”

Mid-rant, you eyeballed the envelope poking your foot sticking out from under his bedroom door. “Sir, yes, sir.” You saluted no one and his groan could be heard by the dead.

“Tonight, preferably.. It’s important.”

Giving him a few indicators on when the potatoes and carrots should be soft enough to add the rice and soy sauce, you pushed your chair in at the table and rushed to the Hokage’s office, pleased to see Kakashi perk up at your arrival.

And the subsequent withering of his demeanor the longer his eyes lingered on the paper in his hands.

You asked, “Do I want to know?”

“Just the usual,” Kakashi explained, sapped of energy. “Asking me to ask you to resign.”

“Oh, is that all?” You rolled your eyes to the ornate ceiling painted with figures of the past detailing a unionization which led to the very foundation of Konoha.

Ever helpful, Kakashi relayed the end of Obito’s letter. “He also said you talk too much.” To smooth over the blow, he leaned to the side and discarded the letter into the waste paper basket beneath his desk. Becoming serious, he laced his fingers and tucked his chin, composing himself for what news you brought. “How is he doing?”

Weeks ago you enlightened Kakashi on the flower situation. He launched an immediate investigation on the culprits who defaced Obito’s yard, but it was unsuccessful. Everything concerning evidence came up dry without Obito’s cooperation, and he wasn’t willing to pursue the injustices transgressed upon him.

Fidgeting with the note in your pocket, you concentrated on the grooves of letters etched in pencil under the pad of your thumb.

Kakashi’s name was ubiquitous with calm. Often mistaken by others for an attitude lacking care, but oh, did he care. He cared an awful lot when it came to Obito. Doing what he could for his friend from the Hokage’s office to ensure both you and him were provided for. Alleviating your dwindling bank account by enacting a permanent raise to offset the cost of Obito’s groceries.

“He hasn’t left his room yet,” you said, and the breath he held in his chest emitted as a melancholy sigh. ”But I’m confident he’ll come out soon! I can feel it in my bones.”

Kakashi raised his eyebrows. “He’s made progress?”

Dancing around a direct answer and potentially lying, you hummed. “He eats what I make him and I know he bathes when I leave. He washes the dishes by the time I come back. Sometimes he talks.. even if it’s to tell me to go away. It’s not much, but I’ll settle for anything at this point.” The joviality of your lilt ebbed and the crinkles at the corner of your eyes drooped.

Kakashi was as persistent as Obito in letting you know you could quit at any point. Or cut your hours. Or go over there less. Anything, really, since you were a citizen of Konoha first, employee second, and caregiver never.

“What you’re doing for my friend is far beyond what you were hired to do; my original offer still stands, I hope you are aware of that.”

“I know, but.. I’m quite fond of him, even if he is a little rough around the edges.” You offered him a reassuring smile. “I think I’ll stick with it.” The significance of your statement hung in the air, permeating in the eye contact you held. Shuffling the blunt truth of your blistered feet and wringing the honesty of your chapped hands. Imbuing the dirt under your nails with worthiness and the bags under your eyes with loyalty. Doing the work of many, alone, because you wanted to.

“Were you still interested in putting that order in? It’ll be a few weeks before they get here.”

“Yeah,” you went along with the change of subject. “I think he’ll like what I picked out.”

~~~

By week three you were ambling to the side of Obito’s house without windows and dropping into a squat to unload the bag of soil aggravating your sore shoulder, piling it on top of your small collection brought in single trips over the course of days in preparation, splashing your legs with mud from an ever growing puddle.

You wobbled on the fungi slickened steps leading to his kitchen, body too exhausted to contemplate the dangers of your heel sinking into the drenched wood. Pushing past the worry about their integrity and putting your weight into opening the door, trying a few times due to the humidity warping it in the late summer rains.

Once inside, your tired eyes met relief.

His one towel waited for you. Folded on the back of your chair.

You dried your face first, clutching the terry cloth fibers to your nose. Inhaling until your lungs stretched to their limits and the nerves in your brain tingled. You may have used the same soap as him, but knowing this combination was organically his.. It was so much better. Thrilling, exciting, and bewitching.. Honestly, you sat at the table with good intentions–to complete the cottage part of the puzzle–but alas, you pieced together the roof and decided you deserved the reward of spreading out your new stationary set to write letters to your friends back home in Iwa. But alas, that too did not foster into anything substantial due to the distraction brushing your forearm.

One minute, two minutes, three minutes. A new record until your gaze traveled to the towel beside you. Coiled into an inviting pillow. Soft and mostly dry. Emphasizing your wet clothes clinging to you, body heat escaping the thin fabric. Compelling you, begging you to take pleasure in it and wrap it around your back. To tuck the corners into your fists and rest your head on your bundled arms. To give in to the overwhelming desire of your eyelid’s blank slate.

To take solace in the dreary day and fall into a deep slumber in the safety of Obito’s house. Soothed by his scent dwelling under the artificial perfumes, your nose keen to the nuances. Pretending the warmth was his arms welcoming you home after another long day of labor fueled by what little rest you could manage when in charge of two households.

~~~

One room over, Obito dozed off now that you were here. His stomach was full of leftovers. His head was flat on the mattress, hugging his pillow, pretending the drowsy scene looping in his head was real.

Sleeping peacefully as you slept peacefully. Until jerked awake. Trapped in his personal hell. A nightmare more alluring than any fantasy he could conjure. An unkind, unpleasant, unacceptable truth:

His plan wasn’t working.

Isolation. Imprisonment. A fortress of solitude alone in his room. All his effort. And still. He developed a bond with you. An intrinsic obsession passed down in his lineage acting as a convenient excuse to blame for what he felt. What he knew pumped his blood so quickly when your footsteps approached his cabin. What stroked his soul so lovingly when your laugh comforted his woes from beyond a door. What calmed his panic so effortlessly when you included him in every part of your life and shared the minutiae of your day with him like he’d respond in kind.

What he knew he couldn’t have.

It wasn’t working. His plan wasn’t working. You were still here. He wanted you here, and here.. here was no home. It was damnation.

~~~

In the fading light of the setting sun you leaned the shovel against the side of Obito’s cabin and dragged yourself up the steps to the kitchen to wash your hands, watching the metal sink run murky with clumps of dirt adhering to the sides, swirling down the drain. Standing there for some time. Failing to focus on your reflection in the night-black window. Ignoring the harrowing cut of your sunken cheeks.

Dropping into your seat at the table, you marked off the last day of the month and flipped the calendar page, laying it on top of the puzzle to hide your struggle with the field of flowers at the bottom. Especially the pieces peeling at the corners from shoving them together in a fit of bitterness.

Obito didn't acknowledge you coming in late. Then again, he hadn’t spoken to you in weeks. Whenever you walked past his room you slowed your pace to listen, but other than the odd snore, there was nothing. No communication. No notes. No gestures of washing the dishes. No water on dry days, no towel on wet. No food eaten, no effort to lighten your burdens. No fucks given to recognize all you did for him.

Your body was giving out. Powered by the adrenaline of his inadequate affections for so long, when they lapsed, so did you. You were done.

Just the act of putting the shovel away depleted what fortitude you had left. Beaten down to a civilian woman who was asked to do so little, but cared too much. Pulled in every direction except inward. Shunning any task that did not directly aid in Obito’s benefit.

Your life had become one purpose. And what a meager existence it was.

Thankless. Unappreciated. Unworthy of platonic love. An invisible cog in society. Working. Working.. Working.. Pleading for anything and receiving nothing.

Nothing.

The more you tried, the more he regressed.

You wanted to give up.

The curry simmered. Boiled over. Sizzled on the stove while drool pooled around your bottom lip and your knuckles dug into your cheek. Wakened from your dream state by the smell of vegetables caramelizing themselves on the non-stick surface of the pan.

Wading through the sluggishness, you fumbled with the stove’s knob, turning it on high at first, then off, processing the charred remains slowly. You opened the back door to let the smoke out, and for a flitting second, you felt yourself float away in the gray clouds of your failure. Joining the defeat billowing to the sky.

You burnt his dinner. But it’s not like he would’ve eaten it anyway. There were plenty of leftovers in the fridge. The curry would’ve only added to the rotation to be thrown out next week when it expired.

Feeling weak, you left the pan where it was on the stove and stood in the unlit hallway. Confronting your fears, your temptations. Building up your confidence and sacrificing it in one fell swoop. Admitting incompetence in the bareness outside his room. Intruding on his life when he so clearly didn’t want you to. “I..” You crossed your arms, hugged your elbows. “I burnt dinner. I’m sorry.” Stress. Anxiety. A spike of both when he didn’t react.

You spoke louder, but kept the mood light, akin to any other time you came over to entertain the notion Obito coveted your friendship like you craved his, ignoring the signals telling you differently. “Tomorrow’s my day off, so I’ll have more time to cook if you want me to come over.” His silent rejection festered like an angry wound. “I can do that meal prep thing they always talk about in magazines.”

“Don’t bother.”

Those were the words he chose for you.

“What?” Sweat broke across your skin. Dripping in embarrassment.

“Don’t bother coming back,” came his stern words slicing you right to your throat. Defeating you with the cry of his mattress, the whoosh of his blanket, the intensity of his feet striking the floorboards, and his booming demand. “Leave.”

You lost the will to fend off the demoralization from breaking you. “W-Why? I don’t understand.” And just when you thought you were making progress..

“You know why,” he muttered like he was grinding his teeth. “It’s not safe for you to come here. Those men who destroyed my yard were shinobi. Do you know what they could do to you– I mean, they could follow you home and, and–”

“Obito!”

“They could hurt you. You’re a civilian, and you have my eternal gratitude for continuing to come here after what you saw,” he said, absent of a tone that would convey such recognition, “but what they did to me pales in comparison to what they could do to you.”

You were stunned at his overreaction. Rationally you understood those men were the catalyst for Obito’s seclusion, but they were the furthest thing from your mind. Truthfully, you had forgotten about them weeks ago, only reminded when Kakashi made mention of them; otherwise your focus was solely on Obito as he was now. The result of such cruelty. Not the individuals who did this to him. Those men were inconsequential, and you knew that as well as he did. They would’ve attacked you by now if they were going to.

“Where is this coming from? Why are you even bringing this up now? Did something happen or do you just not trust me to take care of myself?” you argued with the door, riling yourself up at the fitting replacement for his infuriating face–equally as uncompromising as a hunk of wood. “I think I’ve been doing a fine job babysitting you while staying out of harm’s way! Taking care of you around the clock like a goddamn newborn. I think I’ve proven myself responsible enough for the both of us.”

“Stop it. I’m being serious.”

“Not serious enough to come out here and look me in the eye.”

The thump of his knuckles startled you. It was a harsh sound, but not one of lashing out in anger. More like he was mulling something over. Softly knocking them on the wood at the height of your head. Rhythmic and precise. Possibly with his white eyebrows drawn together and his mouth wringing itself into the same slant he wore when you were in his vicinity. Like he was upset you chose to spend your time with him, and not alone. Disallowing his soul to drift into the abyss. Eternal and suffering.

“You don’t strike me as someone averse to safety, so why keep doing this? Why risk putting yourself in danger to do chores for someone who obviously can’t pay you back? Why clean my house, buy my groceries, and cook my meals when you could be in Konoha living an ordinary life?”

“What does it matter?”

“Because I want an answer,” Obito enunciated, speaking slowly. Teetering on a warning.

“You know my answer.”

The same instantaneous answer you experienced when you saw him struggling to come to terms with living when others didn’t. The one crossing your mind when you hissed, lowering your tender body into the plush dimples of your mattress late at night only for your brain to run rampant, replaying the time at his cabin in quick flashes, hanging onto his dismissive groans as if they were more than the result of you irritating him. The answer you lingered on now, when he continued to push you away.

You gave him the simplified version. “Because I want to.”

“You’ll regret coming here.”

“Doubt it.”

“You’ll get hurt. Then you’ll see.”

You turned and said, “We’ll see,” with arrogance and optimism, and left.

~~~

And from that day on he punished your insolence with his greatest weapon. A power only he could wield against you to drive you away.

His silence.

~~~

Silence.

An ugly, intrusive thing. Insidious and prevalent in the gaps between the cricket chirps and the mechanical click of your digital clock flashing the appalling red digits of 4:29 AM. Between the pebbles kicked along the pavement on your way to your last customer and inserting the crinkled envelope into the elderly woman’s mailbox, hearing it slide across other letters she received and hadn’t picked up yet. Between the sound of a key turning a lock and a door’s chime as the cashier welcomed you into the thrift store.

A daunting hushness swallowed you in the inconspicuous alleyways between abandoned city buildings where you cut corners and lost yourself. Diverging your route to the southern staircase. Heeding Obito’s warning about potential harm trailing your heels; no matter how pointless it felt when, at the end of the day, there was but one path to take to and from his cabin.

A suppressed stillness disheartened you. Adding another cheap embroidery piece you liked to the pile of kitschy home decor on his kitchen counter, suffocating the tick-tock of the clock underneath an eccentric collection of items you loved when paying for them at the register, seeing them as worthy to be hung in a home to be adored. But as they sat there, weeks later, the passion for finding a hammer and nails had been bled from you one visit at a time. Always visible lurking from the corner of your eye when cooking. A massive beast requiring your attention. Just as thankless if you had tried.

It’s not like Obito would have responded if you had asked where the hammer was, anyway.

~~~

Before long, you opened your eyes to the second month of his silence. Welcomed by your ceiling. Astonished to see it. It wasn’t like you to sleep in whilst dawn crept across your bedroom window. Nor was it like you to sleep at all, visiting the bleak dreamless scape in glimpses, playdates, fleeting affairs, not lifelong partners.

You plastered on a smile for your coworkers and gathered your deliveries like it was a normal day. Choosing to examine the addresses written in ink rather than eavesdrop on their whispered conversations; heads together, throwing glances your way.

You dropped packages off on doorsteps. Fed treats to the excitable dogs. Waved at the children on their way to the Academy.

Pretending all was well.

Until it wasn’t.

Approaching the last house on your route, you lingered on the memory of the elderly woman’s face. The mischievous twinkle in her clouded icy blue eyes, her thin lipped smile, and her crooked inarticulate fingers grazing the back of your hand when she gave you the impossible puzzle currently residing on Obito’s table.

You collected the bills from your shoulder bag and lined them up to insert them into her mailbox. They stopped. Edges bunching up, refusing to give. Jamming the slot.

Your stomach sank.

You knew it then, as all mail carriers did, your nightmare was happening at the worst time.

~~~

Dread. It was the only emotion you could comprehend in the purge accumulating for months. Spewing everything on the police officer who sat you down on the curb and took your statement, leaving you there with an electrolyte drink. Waiting. Waiting for her children to arrive. Waiting for her grandchildren to arrive. Three hours you sat. Numb. Joints screaming to go, to move. They didn’t show. No one showed. At the payphone on the corner of the liquor store your boss gave his condolences, some anecdote about experiencing the same thing himself when he was younger, and dismissed you for the day.

The bottle of spirits in your hand refracted the stupendous sunshine onto the grungy sidewalk, illuminating your path in rainbows as you drank yourself to sleep.

~~~

Obito wiped his clammy palms on the front of his sweatpants. Paced from door to door. The room. The porch. The bed. His room. His porch. His bed. His front door. To the forest beyond. Lights off. Pitch black. He stepped into the starless, moonless night. Not a shred of guidance. Breaching the first overgrown limbs blocking his driveway, looking back at his cabin, feeling nothing. And everything. Panic clogging his throat. Hands sticky with sap. Stumbling sightlessly, face winced shut from stomach churning fear. Palms shredded. Bare feet sinking into wet leaves. Bile rising, spat from his mouth. Gasping for oxygen as he focused on the distorted train tracks, seeing them for the first time. He stopped. No further. He had gone no further than the edge of his forest. Not a step since his exile. Beyond was Konoha. Unsafe.

He gulped. Lifted his gaze to the city lights and concentrated his chakra. Searching. Finding many, but not the one he needed laying dormant. He closed his eyes, steadied himself on the tree trunk piercing the sensitive skin of his bare chest, and forced his eyelids to lift the veil. His Sharingan spun around his dilated pupils, zeroing in. Tracking the countless blips crossing his vision. Interwoven strands networking from house to house. He dug his nails into the bark. Sucked in a breath. Panted. Blood surged from his tear duct, mixing with the despair spilling over his lashes, streaking his scarred cheek. Staring hopelessly into the inky sky. Giving up. Returning to his forsaken house. Where he shuddered. Wept. Crumpled to his knees short of his front porch steps.

“This is all my fault.” He released the sentence. Accepted it. Sobbed it into his stained fingers. The grass. The soil. The earthen core who had no reason to listen to his pleas, marred with innocent blood he spilt. “This is all– my fault,” he hiccuped, convincing himself he did it. He finally accomplished his goal. His plan. He pushed you away. You were not arriving late. You were not arriving at all. Gone. Leaving him alone.

Alone.

Alone without distraction. Insomnia. Crying until the morrow. Trying to discern which was worse: if you hadn’t come because you listened to him, or because you were left in an alleyway, bruised and battered. Hurt. Cursing his name with a golden tongue he silenced.

Alone.

~~~

You awoke to snow.

Fat unmelting flakes caught in your curled fingers blurring in and out of consciousness. Muscles in your hand contracting. Grasping at the white specs sprinkled about your familiar bedspread. Sweeping your arm towards them laggardly, like your body took the brunt of your memories for your brain to be free of them, clutching the pretty snowflakes to your chest. Innocent and calming and comforting snow lulling you to sleep when you needed it most. Perhaps invoking the wrong emotions upon reflection as the sleek smile you dedicated to them wore to an inescapable frown.

double the recipe

i hate the textures of onions

can you chop them finer? sorry

i liked this one. can you make it again?

these were good

i ate it all in one sitting

cleaned the bathroom last night

you forgot your umbrella

it rains next friday

dont forget

Obito was the type to grip his pencil as if he held a grudge against it. Carving the sheet of paper with thick, messy trenches of lead in the shape of letters. Leaving trails of graphite powder in the aftermath of an uplifting sentence.

Finding comfort in the sheer inappropriateness of notes left by a man who was rejected by society and yet resided in your mind like he was meant to be there. Notes pressed to your lips, as you knew you did last night.

You rolled out of bed and dressed in your mail carrier uniform. Another day. One less customer. Another day. One less person to serve. Another day. One more burden. Another day. One more fucking day of delivering, gardening, cleaning, cooking, existing.

You did your best.

You tried to do your best.

Keeping your head down, eyes on your shoes, avoiding the hole in your heart at the end of your route, and at the end of your day.

Obito said nothing when you took the hamper from his bathroom. Forbade an answer to your presence in his house. Ignored the near-mute sniffle you concede to when walking past his door.

You held it in. Held it in. Held it in. And burst.

Opposite his flourishing vegetable garden in the backyard, the laundry basket tumbled from your hip, spilling the contents you meant to wash yesterday across the luscious green grass. With your head down, you hooked your fingers around the clothesline and skimmed them along the weathered cord, encountering a wooden clothespin, then another. Unpinning them in an abrupt shiver on the dry, breezeless afternoon. Ripping his black t-shirt off the line. Scrunching the stiff fabric in your fists. Jolting in a quiet sob, clinging to a tangible item you assigned too much value to considering he appreciated you so little.

Stark grief dripped from the tip of your nose. Standing, swaying. Then, burying your face in your chore. Wobbling, crouching to your knees. Imprinting your skin with rough pebbles and mucky dirt. Breaths catching in your chest, released in ugly coughs. Mourning the loss of kindness in the world.

It didn’t take you long to clean your face and stand up, reminding yourself you were outside Obito’s cabin, and had things to do. But as you looked at the laundry hanging before your stinging eyes, more tears came. You knew you should’ve stayed home.

Inside, you journeyed aimlessly into the den and his voice coaxed you from your depressive trance.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, sounding out of breath. Jittery. Nervous. “Did something happen?” His house was so quiet you could hear his anxious swallow and stammer. “Are you okay?”

He spoke to you, and your body didn’t know if it should rejoice or buckle.

You were lost. He found you again. “Come here and tell me what’s wrong.” It was a tender demand for your feet to move, and you listened. One step at a time. Chunky heels of your loafers clunking on the worn wood you walked hundreds of times in the pursuit of happiness. Treading the hallway you paced when you sought his ease and came up empty. Except, this time you could see his shadow from beneath his door.

Daylight spilled from his room. Closed off, but lively. Sun grazing its fingers over the items it hadn’t seen in months, warming them in its palms. Touching the telling feet of a man who shuffled them when he was distressed.

Obito’s throat was parched hoarse and the harshness put an edge of unsettlement in his consolement, “What happened? If those men–”

“She’s dead,” you stopped him in his tracks. At the question he didn’t want to ask, you answered, “The old woman who gave me the puzzle–.” Your bottom lip pinched upwards. It all came rushing back. “She died. Days ago. Weeks ago?” you squeaked your shame, earning the guilt running down your cheeks. “I should’ve noticed– No one came– I didn’t know– And, and, the police–they–”

“Shh,” came his lullaby.

You closed your eyes on his command, and your forehead collided with his door; your hand too, flattening it to the wood and imagining him doing the same when you heard a similar sweep of skin to grain in the vicinity of your face. Imagining what your life would be like if you had never had this moment. Imagining what your life would resemble if he had never spoken to you for the rest of your waking days. “Her mail was piling up. I should’ve..”

“Shh, it’s okay. It, uh, it happens.. You’ve been busy.. being here and doing stuff for me. She was older and– You said she had grandkids, right? They didn’t come? I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. If anything, it’s mine,” he stumbled through the blame.

“She died alone, Obito,” you snapped. “You don’t get it.”

“If I don’t get it, then explain it to me.”

“What if it was you?”

The truth reverberated in the acoustics of the hallway; in his home conquered in loneliness with him as the sovereign king of his tragic domain. Utter stillness coating the flesh of a tongue. Shushing his need for a denial.

You relaxed into the barrier separating him from you, his room alight for the first time in months while you wallowed in the dark. Leaning into the soulless piece of wood, craving something it couldn’t give, and slumping. Friction burning your shoulder as you slid down to a sitting position, hearing him do the same. He sat with you.

“What if you were here alone and something happened?” Your throat narrowed to an unnatural high-pitched wail, “What if I found your body?”

“That wouldn’t-”

“You didn’t contact me for weeks. Then you wouldn’t talk to me for months.” Pressed up against the door, you used the heel of your palm to wipe your tears. Your other fingers dug into the door, needy for his doing the same, reaching for you, and you reaching for him. “What if you died? I’m the only one who would find you and then I would have to tell Kakashi–.”

You whimpered at the thought of telling his best friend he was dead.

“I wouldn’t-”

You were screaming. It was the only way you could get the words out from your lungs. “I can’t do this anymore, Obito! I can’t come here every day scared out of my mind that it’ll be the last time I hear from you. That the next time I see you is when a police officer opens this door and it’s your dead body. Don’t put me through that. Don’t fucking put me through that!”

You hiccuped another unattractive sob-bubble of croaky fear for his safety, and his reaction surpassed your expectations for a socially inept man who had a woman weeping on her knees at his expense. Stroking his thumb against the grain near your cheek, giving you the grace of leaning into the cold wood where he couldn’t see you yearn for his hand. Supporting you in the ways he could, for now.

Obito’s baritone voice was especially calming when he harnessed it for your ears only, speaking from his heart despite his reluctance to be so bold in the time you came to know him. “I’m unwell, but not enough to do that to you..” He shifted his position, mashing his cheek to the wall he resurrected in a futile effort to distance himself from his weakness. “Are you listening to me?”

“Is that a nice way of asking if I’m done talking?”

He hummed a negative. “I want you to go home,” he said, missing the inflection to incite a demand. It was all he could muster when, on the other side, you were concerned for him. Like a friend. Like more than an employee forced to come to his house. Like more than he bargained for. Like more than he was willing to confront for the time being. “I want you to go home and worry about yourself. Eat, wash your clothes, get some sleep. Whatever it is you need to do to rest.” Just as you were about to protest in his brief pause, he allayed you. “But,” he stressed, “you have to promise me to come back tomorrow.” At your uncharacteristic silence, he forfeited to the sadness lurking in his chest, begging you in a broken whisper, “Please.. Please. Come back tomorrow and I’ll make it worthwhile.”

“Are you sure you’ll be okay being left alone?”

“Will you?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I’ll be okay, too.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Robbed of serotonin for months on end, you finally had something to be excited about; fragile euphoria jostled you, picked you up and dried your tears. It preened your wrinkled clothes reeking of alcohol, and it blessed you with a timid–yet grateful–smile tracing the edge of your lips. Thrilled at the prospect of Obito leaving his room, if that was what he was alluding to. Such a simple thing, and it meant the world to you.

“Do you have food for–”

It was his turn to interrupt you, joining you in standing to your feet, hand on the door for balance. Drawing on the heat of your dormant chakra to place his fingers exactly over yours. “Stop worrying about me for once.”

“If you insist.” After another doting remark, you left his house out the back, bidding him a sweet goodbye and a reminder that promises were sacred.

Obito held it in. Held it in. Held it in until his heightened hearing lost track of your footsteps on the metal staircase, and burst.

All the bravery he summoned to endure his vices vanished. His locked knees went soft, sending him to a dry-heaving wreck on the floor. He clenched his fist at the doorknob; muscles recoiling in full bodied resistance, fingers clawed for his escape–his reason for more–wanting to ravage this wooden barrier and go after you, down the forbidden stairwell–punishing himself for sending you away when he needed you most.

He sobbed openly into his knees tucked against his chest. Fingers locked behind his head. Suppressing the pain devastating his chest, then unleashing it superbly. “You have no idea what it does to me when you’re late,” he admitted to his unclothed self. “What I went through when you didn’t come yesterday.”

The cries were strong. Letting it all out for no one to hear except the startled birds outside his window, where they perched on the clothesline.

“I missed you.”

~~~

Weaving through an unconventional alleyway made of crooked bricks on a glorious morning stroll to Obito’s cabin in the woods with the rosy knowledge of another day off at your manager’s behest and the gratifying premise of many surprises to be had when you arrived, you halted as your gaze drifted across a grand window display at a men’s clothing store, eyeing the male mannequins dressed in the window.

An idea formed.

~~~

Too antsy to put the finishing touches on your project, you rummaged through the bags you placed on Obito’s porch and unzipped the first aid kit you bought to replace the one you used up in his bathroom. You wiped the cuts on your hands and bandaged your fingers, admiring the work you put in to making your customer happy, even if it did end in bloodshed.

You gathered your hoard of gifts and went to the back door, opening it to a clean kitchen and an assault of cloying aromas. Burnt sugar and citrus peel. Clearly, Obito had been busy. You smiled, and found yourself hiding your grin in your shoulder shyly as if he could see you, but from the sound of the rich snores rumbling down the hallway, you were assured he was sound asleep.

Loud, robust snores. So charming in the oddest way.

The paper bags rustled against your thighs on your way to the den. Thick cardstock and woven handles telling of the quality encased inside, and still, you dropped them on the pile of dirt he must’ve swept and forgotten to dispose of.

You covered your mouth in awe, bottom lip sucked in. Failing spectacularly in your vow not to cry today.

When you were in the kitchen, you didn’t notice your pile of framed thrift store finds were gone. The cross stitched pieces you collected, the embroidered flowers done by grandmothers to pass time while raising their grandchildren, the sepia toned memories from other family’s vacations. They were all gone. And now, they welcomed you. Hung on the wall closest to your seat at his table with your marked off calendar at the center.

And that wasn’t Obito’s only apology.

for you

The final puzzle piece weighed down the slip of paper. You pocket the note, and rubbed the piece between your fingers, imbuing it with hope for the future, and slid it into place. The very center of the cottage’s door. Thus, completing the image of quaint beauty. A single home in a field of blooming promises.

Turning towards the hall, your trinkets were placed wherever there was space for them. Deficient in surfaces around his house due to lack of furniture, most of them crowded the fireplace mantle, staring back at you with their big, round eyes in the slice of light angled from the closed curtains, keeping what lay beyond them outside a mystery.

Your heart was painfully full, squeezing the last of your tears from over the border of your lashes, carving trenches in the layers of topsoil coating your face.

“Obito?” Your soft voice followed three quick knocks on his door, disturbing his cute snores. “Obito?” you repeated the sequence until he gave a final, hearty snort and startled himself awake, mumbling and moving in a way that squeaked his mattress. “Can I come in? I have something for you.”

Despite being disoriented, he hurried to answer you. “Yeah, it’s open.” Syllables disrupted by the grogginess in his throat. Wonderfully rough and deep with sleep.

You nudged the door and the knob clicked. “Was it always unlocked?”

“Usually.”

“Jerk,” you quipped, but nothing could deflate the swell of joy magnifying the series of events unfolding before you.

The opening of his door. The turn of his head, the tilt of yours. The flash of impatience in his eyes as he roamed your face, your body, the bags hugged to your sternum, the bashful dip of your chin to the handles to avoid his obvious study of your features, memorizing them again and comparing them to before.

“Hey,” you said.

Silence.

“Hey,” he said.

No more silence.

Sounds. Many sounds. Lost in the reverent stares and the shaky breaths; in the scrape of metal drapery hooks sliding along a curtain rod, beating away the cobwebs in the corner of the grimy window from clinging to the velvety fabric. His childish protest, grimacing at the striking sun and its natural brilliance coming only second to your glow when your sweeping gaze landed upon his organic self and your heart beat rose in the stillness between his joints popping, ascending to its truest state–heating your cheeks and quickening your pulse to the tune of an innocent girl’s first crush.

So cranky, Obito was, shielding his bloodshot eyes from your greeting. Mouth in a hard line as he groaned and rolled onto his side to face you, draping his arms across the mattress lazily. Nuzzling his cheek into his pillow. Acting deathly tired, yet regarding you with rapt, undivided attention. Pupils constricting, then dilating at your every step to the corner of his bed where the top of his foot brushed the hem of your shorts.

The tender cant of his jaw blended into the vulnerable dip of his Adam’s apple, appealing to the magnificent curve of his bare shoulder, mottling his pure white skin with shadows leading to the beautiful slope of his arms–twisting tanned over scarred–preceding the inviting crook of his elbow, the knotted tissue of his forearm, and his hands. His tempting hands. Fingers curled into his palms in an attempt to quell the inherent lurch to complete one another’s tangible grasp now that you were here, and he was here, in the same room.

You took note of his messy hair painting itself in a crown against his dingy green bedding, and the moth-eaten blanket pulled to the apex of his sturdy chest, adding it to your growing list of Obito’s needs.

It was funny, in a way, how a heartbreaking amount of hours culminated into this one victory, and you were so overwhelmed at the sight of him your first instinct was to revert to your routine as caretaker. It was easier than scrutinizing your dizzying vision, or the buzzing tingle in your fingers, or his nervous gulp, or his blistering focus on your adoring smile, or the way you both were too afraid to address anything other than the surface level reason why you were reuniting today.

“I bought you some things,” you said lamely, placing the bags on the end of his bed, unwilling to encroach the space between your bodies just yet. “I don’t know much about men’s fashion, but I thought they would look nice on you. Your entire wardrobe needed to be replaced, anyway.” Fingering the jagged edge of the paper bag, you slipped your hand into its depths and produced a pair of light wash jeans. You held them up in front of you for him to see, boring your awkwardness into the back pockets as you waited for his opinion. “They’ll look good with this.” Obito gave a cursory glance at the olive green shirt you unfolded for him and placed beside the jeans near his covered thighs, but otherwise, gave you little to garner other than his cautious expression.

You watched him. Studied him. The way he dared to let go of the thinning maroon wool to test the smooth cotton sleeve between his fingers, allowing a soft hum of approval to exist in his throat; for you, or the clothes you picked out, it did not matter when his eyes refused to leave yours.

You spoke for him, “New clothes,” as if to clarify why you were beholden with each other this way. He did a nice thing for you, hanging all your framed home decor. You did a nice thing for him, buying new outfits without stains. That was it.

A mail carrier and her customer.

And yet, the intensity of his admiration validated you, praised you when he could not. Could not speak. Could not move. In fear of the unknown. What his body may do. What your body may do. What he may say. What you may say. Things he could not divulge, things you might reject.

Months. Months of waiting.

It led to this.

Minutes, hours, days, weeks, months.

This.

Obito lifted his head the necessary amount to see what you were doing, digging through the bags in search of something, but the build up of depression weighed heavily on him, dropping back to the pillow. You grabbed an item with an “aha-!” and he assumed you were about to show him something silly like a bowtie or matching socks.

That is, until warmth enveloped his outstretched hand and a bar was urged into his grasp. You pressed it into his palm and curled each of his fingers around it, one at a time, trapped under yours. Gentle, so gentle. Knee on his mattress, leaning towards him–over him. Dropping your shoulders and rounding your spine. Lowering your voice to a whisper. Showering him in unprompted affection.

“Eat this, then meet me on the front porch.” He dragged his wandering focus to the protein bar in his hand and away from the loose lock of hair falling over your cheek. “It’s chocolate flavored; I know you like sweets. Eat it and meet me outside, okay?”

Obito scrunched his brows, confused. You knew he liked sweets? He was careful to not ask for any in the few times he cooperated and made a grocery list. Sweets, candy, chocolate–it was all unnecessary. He couldn’t just ask for frivolous things. Prisoners did not deserve cupcakes or pies or brownies. Sure, you made chocolate chip cookies once, but it was your idea first. And he supposed the few times you made him lemon bars from a box, he ate the entire pan that night, but unless you paid attention to which dishes were dirty and which savory leftovers remained in the fridge for the next day, you shouldn’t have known that.

You shouldn’t know such intimate things about him. Not unless you thought of him nearly as much as he thought of you..

Your palms remained tightly bound over his scarred hand. Benevolent thumbs stroking his inner wrist. Cradling his fingers around the small breakfast you thought to pick up for him on your way here, angering your stomach rioting for its own sustenance. You should’ve excused yourself by now. He should’ve dismissed you. Instead, you were locked together. Smiling just like he remembered, like he pictured you did when lingering outside his bedroom door.

It had been so long since someone touched him..

The novelty slowed time itself. Stopped the world from spinning. Your body heat sank to his marrow. Stole his breath. Your touch swathed his burdensome heart. Set his nerves on fire. It destroyed his facade, it broke him, and it built him anew. It was wrong. It was right. It was upsetting. It was stirring.

His other hand, gnarled with harsh scars, obeyed your gravitational pull, reaching out to your orbit–

If he were a braver man, he’d surrender his control to the back of your neck and draw you in for a tender confession to your temple–

Hesitating, he traced the loose lock of hair pinched between his index and thumb and tugged gently on its length. “What’s this?”

You exhaled along his knuckles, inspecting the flake of tree bark paused in the separation between the gleam of sun cutting your cheek and the reflected light cupped in his palm; to him, it was miraculous how they fit together. Your cheek, his palm–two pieces carved from the same stone as if made to complete one another from birth.

You answered simply, “Mulch.”

“Mulch,” he repeated. “Mulch..” Recognition crossed his face, sparked vibrancy in his eyes. He looked at you, and you looked at him. For a long time. Hanging onto the beautiful silence of his wonderment. Hushing the tremble in your joined clasp.

Unsure he was understanding correctly, he questioned you, “Why are your hands bandaged? And why.. why are you covered in dirt?”

You laughed a glorious laugh. He was always so distrusting, even when it came to his own deduction skills. “Get dressed, eat, and meet me outside, then you’ll understand.” Chancing your forehead closer to his, you jeopardize his dwindling self-restraint to assure him with a lasting, fawning grin, and he couldn’t do anything but stare into the magnetic draw between your almost-touching noses, hungering for the fading haven emblazoning his palm when you withdrew your presence and shut his door behind you.

The earth began to spin again. Obito remained frozen where he was. Sprawled across the bed, hips hurting from the awkward angle he twisted himself in to watch you leave. Protein bar melting in the wrapper in his hand. Dust motes settling their blustery dance onto his still body. Lips parted at what transpired in single, wanted hold.

It took the bags cascading to the floor to frighten him from his stupor and begin moving.

The blanket was first; sitting up and shoving the scratchy fabric away from his sensitive skin. It was the worst texture he had ever had the displeasure of knowing, but he was immensely grateful for the cover. Peeling it back, he grabbed the haori from where it was tangled around his legs. His salvation. His demise. No matter the time of day or night, he fell asleep with it bundled under his head, but with his nightmares wringing him of peace, it ended up elsewhere; on the floor, behind his mattress, tossed in the corner of his room like the wretched reminder it was, Uchiha crest glaring back at him. Now, he was thanking the scant layers of fabric keeping him modest.

Stark naked, Obito peeked into the hallway and scurried to the bathroom, arms loaded with all the bags he could carry. He set the protein bar on the sink and rifled through the clothing, taking out boxer briefs, socks, a belt, tennis shoes. Above and beyond what was necessary, because that’s what you did. What you always did. You took care of him when no one else would, or could. Lavishing him in undue kindness far greater than what was required of a mail lady.

He lost his balance in his eagerness, dressing himself for the first time in ages. Tripping into the leg of the underwear, slipping on a sock, shocked you got his shoe size right as he shoved his foot in one. Obito approached the sink and put his arms through the sleeves of the olive green shirt, gathered the collar and pulled it over his head. Hiding his disfigured chest and its two-tone divided past from view. Craning, he tried to peer lower in the medicine cabinet’s mirror, but it cut him off at the ribs, where his chest hair linked to his flat stomach, obscuring the rest of his outfit below. He wanted to see the whole thing; no mystery stains, no holes, no stretched out seams from two years of constant use.

He wanted to see what you saw.

He was a fool. An idiot. With no other option, he climbed onto the rim of the tub in his squeaky clean white sneakers, pivoted on the edge, and used the shower curtain rod to steady himself from teetering. He was a fool, but now he could see what a fool he was.

“Oh..” What reflected in the entirety of the mirror was not what he expected. He looked.. almost normal. A bit like he was wearing a civilian costume, but other than his prematurely white hair and battle scars, he looked ordinary.

Is this what you saw? A normal man, not a criminal, or a murderer?

Crouching to get a better look at his hair in dire need of a cut and comb, he tightened his grip on the rod and hung onto it, turning this way and that, checking out the fit of his jeans across his thighs and how the shirt clung to his biceps. That is, until he trusted too much of his weight in the hands of his neglected cabin.

The tension snapped and Obito fell into the tub, slamming his back against the wall, and smacking himself upside the head.

A fool. An absolute idiot mirrored him above the sink, scowling and rubbing his scalp. Deepening the intense wrinkles crowding his forehead contrasting with his young age.

“She will not be finding out about this,” he threatened his image, dropping the curtain rod in the tub and continuing on with the rest of his routine like nothing happened. Shaving his patchy beard without eye contact. Hoping the blush burning his cheeks subsided before he went outside.

~~~

You supported your weight on the porch banister and crossed your arms, knotting your fingers in the sleeves of your blouse. “If you take any longer, I’m gonna–” The door opened and your boredom vanished.

Temptation zinged its way from your stomach to the pitter-patter of your heart. Yet, you stayed facing forward. You couldn’t look at him. It was too intimidating knowing he was reacting to your gifts. You put so much work into making him happy, the thought of disappointing him was too much to bear.

However, in keeping your attention on the tittering birds hopping amongst the branches, you missed the way his gaze swept from the crooked wood planks, to your shoes, to your casual outfit, to the shallow rise of your shoulders, to the lock of loose hair flowing in the breeze–honing in on it in particular after learning of its allure. Looking at you first despite the copious amounts of striking exuberance encircling your figure.

Obito joined your side. His cadence failed him. His shoes hung off the top step. His shoulders lost their imposing expanse. His jaw slackened, and his head jerked in a slight, disbelieving shake.

“You did this,” he whispered after a deserved pause, exciting the feathery hairs on the back of your neck into a ripple of pleasure. “You did this.”

Pretty words escaped him as he struggled to come to terms with the great lengths you sacrificed to provide for him. Disregarding your safety, your well being, to do this.

Cooking, cleaning, shopping, decorating, caring, companioning. This.

His yard was a symphony of beauty. Grass so green it hurt to admire in the divine sun. Young stalks of wildflowers bending in the wind, having yet to unfurl their varied blooms. Muted hues of yellows, and oranges, and brilliant pinks rocking their budding petals back and forth in a slow waltz, waiting for another day to release their blessing unto the world. Shrubs of purple sage calling to the bees and butterflies around the perimeter. Even the simplest bluebonnets lining his driveway were breathtaking, not to mention the roses in front of the porch. Nearly a dozen bushes of red roses planted in fresh soil with a wood chip border.

You replaced the destruction. Fostered compassion in its stead. Nurtured friendship in the wake of malevolence.

Smirking, you formed bandaged fingers into claws and clenched them repeatedly. “I figured if those punks come back and wanna rip them out, they’ll have another thing comin’ for ‘em,” you said, indicating to the thorny rose bushes with the jut of your chin.

Still in his state of shock, Obito asked in a frail breath, “Why do this for me?” When you opened your mouth to respond, he interjected, “And don’t tell me it’s because you want to. I want a real answer.”

“A real answer?” It was a hard thing to ask–a hard thing to answer–taking into consideration the multitude of complicated reasons you harbored for enduring his harmful indifference and still returning day after day to tend to him. None of which you felt particularly willing to parse nor share. “Because I wanted to see you smile.”

“You wanted to see me smile?” he scoffed at the ridiculousness. “No sane person would go through the trouble of all this for a smile.”

“I would. For you.”

He didn’t respond, and you didn’t need him to. You matched his unguarded glassy stare, and his demeanor softened. Neither of you willing to blink until your eyes stung you apart. Sniffling, scratching the dirt from your nose to distract yourself from the embarrassing candor you let slip on purpose. Willing to do anything to elicit a reaction from him. Aching to keep him talking, to hear his true voice unmuffled. Desperate to fall into your ways of conversation, goading him into giving you those irritating eye rolls and exasperating sighs, anything, after months of waiting, anything. “So, were you actually surprised?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

“You really never looked out the window and saw the holes I put in your yard for the flower beds and wondered what the fuck I was up to?”

“Not really, I, uh.. didn’t want to look out here. It was just another reminder of everything. It’s why I stopped closing the curtains; it was easier to ignore what happened by avoiding them, leaving them open,” he explained. You uttered a quiet “ah,” possessing little understanding of the type of trauma Obito suffered from.

“You have chocolate on your lip, just so you know.”

“Oh,” he scrubbed his sleeve over his mouth, figuring that’s why you had stuck out your thumb and advanced towards him before catching yourself and revoking your unstated offer to wipe the spot yourself.

A disgusting part of him wishes you hadn’t stopped.

Seeking a change in subject, he cocked his head and broached a topic he’d been curious about since he met you, “I meant to ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“You’ve taken shinobi classes, haven’t you?”

“Well,” you wilted in your shame, “I went to Iwa’s Academy like the other kids, but I failed pretty spectacularly. I had no talent for ninjutsu. Definitely couldn’t perform genjutsu even if my life depended on it. Taijutsu? I came in last place every single time. My parents stuck me in remedial classes before and after school; hired a tutor on weekends and summer break, too. Still flunked. Pretty unremarkable, right?”

Obito fixed you with an unexpectedly stern look. “No. Quite the opposite, actually. I think you’re pretty remarkable.” Giving you the grace to gather your jaw where you dropped it on the floor, and him the time to cool the redness from his ears, he narrowed his eyes as something occurred to him. “So–wait. Does that mean you don’t know how to jump like a shinobi? You climb all those stairs to come here every day?”

Confused to what he meant, you prolonged your confidence by positioning yourself on the bottom step of his porch. “I mean,” you drew out the vowel, “I can do this.”

You bent your knees, tucked your elbows in, and hopped up an entire two stairs with your impressive leap, landing on the step beneath him. Your round, innocent eyes sought his approval, and immediately drooped into a scathing glare.

He had no poker face. “I-I forgot I had something to do! Inside! Uh, be right back,” he excused himself in a cluster of stammers, pointing towards the kitchen and whisking away right as you placed your fists on your hips and yelled at him for making fun of you.

~~~

Obito splashed cold water on his face. Slumped over. Grappled the edge of the kitchen sink. The window provided little reflection, but he felt the water droplets plunge from his disheveled hair, zag over his scars, and drip from his contorted lips. Doing his best to negate an unfavorable simper from developing when your enthusiasm fell flat.

“That was really fucking cute.” He groaned hearing himself say it out loud. Clearly, he’d lost his dignity being locked away in his room for ages.

Wringing his damp collar dry in front of the cupboard housing his drinkware, a decision sprung forth. He wanted to experience what it was like to treat you. To do something nice, just because. To be the giver, and you the receiver.

~~~

“Oh, thank–!” you began, but Obito was already jogging back to the kitchen after thrusting a muffin and a glass of water in your hands, apologizing over his shoulder after spilling some on your socks.

“Whoops!”

Giggling at his penchant for making everything awkward, you sat on the steps with your goodies and mused almost loud enough for him to hear. “You’re adorable, sometimes.”

“What was that?” He approached you steadily with his hands full. Falling into place beside you, he gave you one of your two mugs. It was your favorite one, decorated with a fancy handle and a kitten surrounded by pastel hearts and a mushy message about being purr-fect. It was garish, but you couldn’t leave it behind.

“Nothing,” you teased. “I didn’t say anything.” He eyed you, and it didn’t help assuage him when your face morphed from confusement at the hot mug burning your hand, to a mocking lip curl when he lifted his chin and out dropped a muffin from where he huddled it against his throat so he wouldn’t have to make a third trip to the kitchen. “Actually, I was saying what a dunce you are.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled.

“Care to explain why you made tea on this hot day?”

“I figured you gave me the mugs for a reason. Did you not want to use them?”

So dear, Obito was, challenging you with a derisive arc of his eyebrow. Incompetent in all matters of the heart; the poor man couldn’t even hold a friendly conversation without bristling at the first sign of disagreement. But, you had to admit, seeing him try to navigate your sense of humor ignited a tenderness in your soul unlike any other.

“Thank you for the tea, Obito. I appreciate it. Hanging up my home decor stuff, too. That was sweet of you.” You praised him with an easy smile. Which only contributed to his suspicion.

Somehow, he managed to take a bite of the muffin angrily, chewing it through his frustration when you didn’t react how he assumed you would to his antagonizing remark, like he had a chip on his shoulder because you were being nice to him again. As if your kindness returned your dynamic back to normal after everything he did to you. Forgiving him when he hadn’t earned his repentance. “Don’t thank me. It’s nothing compared to what you’ve been doing since you moved to Konoha.”

You waved him off, preferring the zesty orange peel confection melting in your mouth over his mumbling. “All I want is a single smile out of you, then it’ll all be worth it. This is delicious, by the way.”

He was back to not looking at you, sneaking shy glances at your battered hands at most. “About the old woman’s passing, I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“Yeah, that sucked. I didn’t know her very well, but I could tell she was incredibly loving and considerate of others.”

Fiddling with the paper cup encasing his muffin, he tore and tossed the wrapper, moving in a way that closed the gap between your nearly-touching elbows. Brimming with undue confidence from introducing the brush of his forearm against yours without your explicit permission. “When I was a kid I always helped old ladies. Carrying their groceries, giving them my arm when crossing the street, making it my personal mission to find their lost cats, or to water their plants. It was kinda my thing, I guess. I just wanted to take care of the vulnerable.”

“Aw, that sounds so unlike you,” you said through a mouthful. “What happened to that nice kid?”

He sipped. “The world took advantage of his naivety.”

“Oh.” Oh. “I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s okay,” he stopped you by raising his hand, skimming his knuckles over your knee. “I don’t mind telling you about my past when it comes up.”

“Deal.” Succumbing to the urge for eye contact, Obito held your gaze. Communicating something sacred in this little space in front of his house. Bodies confined together on the narrow stairs. Close enough to discern the way he drank in your appearance. No barriers. No doors. “I’ll tell you everything about me whenever it comes up whether you like it or not.”

“I’m sure you will.” And with that single line of banter aided by him rolling his eyes, he crashed into the familiarity of your company. Depending on you to guide him through interactions he’d never encountered before, like extending the compliments looping in his head to voicing them aloud.

Wringing his bicep until his knuckles turned white, he said, “I’ve never seen you out of uniform before. You look nice.”

It was successful.

You brightened. “Oh, don’t be fooled.” You twisted to show him the embroidered stone logo on the opposite sleeve. “It’s still an old shirt from Iwa, and technically these shorts were once my uniform skirt too. My friend took up hobby sewing and swore he could fix the hole in the hem. Least to say, I was surprised when he gave me a pair of shorts the next day.”

Swallowing the rest of the muffin clinging to the roof of your mouth, you clapped the crumbs from your hands and embarked on sips of tea chased by cooling gulps of water. “I’m glad the clothes fit you. You look so good in them. Way better than what you were wearing before.”

He abstained from accepting your flattery and directed the focus back to you. “I can tell you haven’t been eating well. You can have mine, and before you ask, yes I’m sure you can have it. After cleaning out the leftovers in the fridge last night, I’m not that hungry.” Not one to complain about free food, you snatched the muffin he offered you from his open palm and helped yourself to the first thing he’d made from scratch with the intent to impress you.

Yet, in turn, he was the one left stunned when you started eating from the side he took a bite from. Putting your lips to the spot imprinted with his teeth. Clouding his mind with certain thoughts he shouldn’t be having about his mouth and yours.

“Did you want to help me make a list of what groceries you need?”

He cleared his throat. “Yeah, we can do that. Make a list. Yeah.” Like a flash, he collected his mug and ducked into the house, hanging his head, combing a fierce hand through his hair.

“Okay, don’t wait for me then,” you mumbled, picking up your things along with the wrapper he tossed and joining him in the kitchen. Standing with your pen and pastel pink mushroom notepad in hand jotting down every other thing he listed. Staring out the window at the powdery clouds crawling across the vaulted blue. Romanticizing the shade under the ancient oak tree in his backyard, longing for the nostalgia of childhood summer, when life was easier.

“Are you listening?”

“Nope.”

The cabinet squeaked closed, and still, you couldn’t tear your eyes from the charming view overlooking his teeming vegetable garden.

“I was saying if you’re coming by tomorrow with groceries, I can prepare us lunch with what I already have, like a hot pot, so you have something to eat.”

Sweat dripped down the curve of your back at the thought of more hot items burning your tongue. “How about I bring us lunch,” you volunteered. “There’s lots of new restaurants popping up in town that I’ve been dying to go to, but I’m usually on my way here during lunch, and by the time I get back they’re closed for the night.”

You raised your eyebrows at him and he had the decency to appear intrigued, but the rigidity from his frown remained. It was an easy tell he was about to disapprove of something with the way he picked at his fingernails.

You persuaded him gently, “The forecast said it won’t be as sunny tomorrow. We can have a little picnic outside.”

“A picnic,” he mouthed the concept as if he’d never considered it before.

Like it was another opportunity to spoil him with insurmountable indulgence.

“How does cold soba take-out sound?”

“Fine,” he said hoarsely, “but next time I’m cooking for you.”

“Or,” you wagged your finger, “hear me out. We make something together using the vegetables you grew.”

“That you grew.”

“That I watered. Anyway!” You clicked your pen and stuffed it and the notepad in the back pocket of your shorts. “I’ve gotta get going. Tomorrow is a work day and I still have to clean my apartment and wash my clothes and all that other soul sucking adult stuff. I’ll just use the bathroom and be on my way. Did you want help with the dishes?”

Obito raised a lazy hand in acknowledgment, eyes on the shady spot beneath the oak, squinting like he had something on his mind. “I can do it.”

You gave him a double thumbs up and twirled, pointing at your exit and leaving him be.

It was only when he was wrist deep in soapy water did a sharp stab of anxiety pierce his spine, prickling him in the itchy perspiration of someone caught red handed. From the doorway of the kitchen, you asked him, perplexed. “Why is the shower curtain rod in the bathtub?”

“Nothing! No reason.” His shoulders were pinned to his red-hot ears. “I mean–! What? What curtain rod?”

~~~

It was just like you, and he hated it.

Your overabundance of everything. Attentive to his every need. Arriving on his doorstep with your arms loaded. Plastic bags smelling of sesame oil swinging about your knees, a thin quilt tucked under your arm, and your mail carrier bag’s strap digging into your shoulder. You handed him a heavy box, and a heavy heart.

A new bed set. A comforter, pillow case, and sheets.

And still, visibly tired from your journey, you dragged your gaze over his khaki pants and paid him a compliment, smiling far too wide at a criminal who had no business breathing the same air as someone so cherished.

“Cold soba!” Your voice rang humanity in his ears and he was entranced, following you to the backyard without so much as a command. Stepping out of his shoes, bare toes enveloped by pleasant grass. Taking the other end of the calico quilt and smoothing it out. Securing his place next to you, untouching, spreading the array of food out between you, ensuring his distance.

In his astute observance of your proximity, he noticed your swift change in behavior. Going from carrying a verbose conversation by yourself, to absolute quiet.

“Do you think there’s spiders out here?”

“It’s nature, so one would assume.”

Your tells were as easy to read as his. Darting your narrowed gaze around the blanket in search of eight-legged intruders. Pinching your chopsticks and dunking your noodles in soy sauce until the buckwheat stained the color of chestnuts.

“You’re afraid of spiders,” Obito concluded and you shot him a dirty look. “Fine, give me some room.”

Not one to interfere with a grand performance, you set your clamshell tray down and leaned back on your hands, watching him set the stage. Obito inhaled through his nose, exhaled out his mouth; another breath, building the tension. He unfocused from middle distance and closed his eyes, bringing two fingers to his temple.

He began humming. Concentrating. Vibrating, even. Pursing his lips and turning tomato red. Bulging the vein on his forehead and flexing the muscles in his neck. Throbbing the deep pulse in his throat to the surface, enrapturing you with his talent.

“Ah, no spiders detected,” he said, opening his eyes.

“Really?” you exclaimed. “Is that how the Sharingan works?”

He answered you deadpanned. “No, not at all. I was kidding. There’s probably hundreds of spiders closing in on us from every angle, especially from the branches above you.”

“I hate you.”

“I know.”

You peered at him from under your lashes, and it wasn’t the smile you hoped for, but his sly, wolfish grin was plenteous for the silence encompassing you. Not a dreary, seething silence, but a peaceful resonance in the brief exchange of direct, fond eye contact.

Peaceful silence.

A beautiful, tender thing. Between the clouds breaking for glorious sunshine, skimming the tops of aging leaves, curving to the knots of dry bark, kissing the apples of your cheeks. Thriving on the mild pass of your knuckles over the back of his hand as you reached for the same egg sandwich. Awakening a gentle aspiration in Obito, and unbearable determination in you.

“The skies are going to be clear tonight, and you live in the middle of nowhere, far away from the city lights,” you led on, but he did not follow, giving you a blank stare to elaborate. “My second shift starts soon, but I can come back later tonight. We could-” You approached the subject with an insecure pause. “W-We could stargaze. If you want to. Or not, if that sounds lame.”

“Stargazing.. “ He stopped himself from merely repeating your words in awe. “Second shift?”

“One of my coworkers is on maternity leave, so I picked up an extra shift. Letter mail in the morning, packages in the afternoon. No more seven hour lunch dates with you, I’m afraid.”

“I see,” he mumbled under his breath, casting a sidelong glance at his cabin. At the kitchen window and the emptiness inside. At the clock hung above the stove. “I’ve never stargazed before.. You can leave the quilt. We’ll use it later.”

The conversation tapered off–a mutual decision–in lieu of daydreaming about the future. As he did the night before, standing at his kitchen sink. As you did the night before, smiling at your bedroom ceiling.

Looking forward to tonight, on what you both internally reasoned was well within the parameters of a platonic meeting of acquaintances. Not a date.

~~~

“Ready?” Obito had one foot in the kitchen and was clinging to the doorway with his hand hovering above the lightswitch. His shadow dominated you, his face cast in sharp lines from the final light alive in his house. Looking down at you from the top step, marking your place on the bottom as you gazed up at him with round, eager eyes.

His hand fell and surrendered you to the mercy of total darkness.

Unequipped for the sudden change in your surroundings, you groped for the handrail, and after closing on nothing but air, you were reminded his back stairs did not have one. You grappled with stark blindness. Searching. Until the warm touch of sight guided you. Obito slid his palm along the underside of your forearm. Cupped your elbow. Tucked his fingers between your arm and ribs.

Wood groaned under his weight and the stair dipped when he positioned himself at your side. “One more,” he said gently, waiting until you were turned and willing to descend the last step. “The blanket is this way.” His tone was apologetic. Shamefully soft for not predicting your disadvantage, but with his gifted eyes, you trusted him.

Plush grass folded beneath your feet. Crickets shushed in your vicinity. His grip tightened, affirming your direction, and you shuffled to the edge of the quilt, but as soon as you sensed the change in texture through your pantyhose, he let go. Releasing his hand like it pained him to keep it there.

You sat and brought your knees in, blinking at nothing, save for his silhouette standing out against the black of night. “It’s so dark out.”

“There was a New Moon two days ago.” You heard his shirt shift like he was gesturing at the sky. The fabric under your legs went taut, signaling he laid down, so you did the same. A low grunt sounded from beside you as he sank into his spot for the next eternity–or as long as you two tolerated each other. “It’s a sliver of a crescent behind the trees over there.”

You didn’t know where “over there” was, but you verbally agreed anyway.

The early hours of the evening were sticky humid, but as you concentrated your limited vision on the first blinking star, an early autumnal chill rolled over the forest floor, draping you in goosebumps and shivers.

You crossed your arms and listened to Obito do the same.

“How was your second shift?” His raspy voice was closer than anticipated. Too close.

You were not prepared for his fluttering breath on your neck, nor the steady rumble of his words in your skull, nor his elbow nudging yours, causing a colossal flip in your stomach upon realizing he was asking about your day, on a blanket, under the stars.

Not a date. Two people. Two elbows meeting at the points. The juts of bone and tender cartilage. Two sleeves overlapping. Hands laced politely over their owner’s sternum. Two neat sets of nerves yearning to be tangled.

“It was okay. Her route takes me to the north side of town, so it was a longer walk to get here.” You wished you could see his face as you ravished the profile of his nose. “It made me a little late. Did I worry you?”

“Now I know,” was all he said. Now he knew why you were late. Now he knew when to expect you. If this were to happen again.

If you were to see each other again, after work hours, with only a flimsy reason to be in one another’s company.

“Y’know,” you said, “when I was a kid my dad would take me outside at night to teach me about the stars. He’d tell me all about the constellations, how to read them, how to track them in the summer and winter, how they got their names, their legends. Their usefulness for identifying your location when you’re on a mission in a foreign country. He loved astronomy, he could rant about it for hours. It was important to him to pass on the knowledge; he thought it’d help me later in life.” Your voice dulled to a tone of neutrality, “Unfortunately, the stars didn’t tell him I’d never be in a situation where it’d be of any use.”

Obito didn’t miss a beat. He unfolded his arms and pointed at a particular cluster of stars to the south, a simple one even young children would know. “What’s that one?”

Scratching at your crooked smirk, you answered, “Dunno. I said he taught me, I never said I listened.”

The thrum of night came to halt. Chirping crickets stretched their legs. Hooting owls flapped their wings and took to the sky. Skittering field mice wiggled their whiskers and dove for their burrows. Everything was hushed. Except for Obito.

His laugh was.. pure.

Loud, cackling, and announcing, like his snores. Each intake of air used to its fullest. It was lively. It was innocent. Childlike in nature, yet hoarse, like a man who’d lived hundreds of lives before he met you. Barking. Dry in his throat. Uncontrollable and oh, so damning.

The gratification of bringing him joy bestowed you the confidence you needed for your next set of actions.

He dropped his arm from pointing at the Little Dipper. At that exact moment you placed yours at your side. Your hands collided, his on top, and when he went to move, you stopped him. Hooking your thumb over the crook leading to his forefinger, you claimed him. A simple latch over his broad palm, and he was yours. Giggling at the way he tensed, like he always did when you touched him.

All laughter ceased. Judgemental quiet prevailed. Rendering you frozen with anxiety. Fear. Preparing yourself for his rejection. He turned to look at you–to see you for who you were; a failure, a dropout, a nobody, a civilian–and you had never been so accepted.

Your life was a series of rejections, but not from him.

Obito lifted his thumb and placed it over yours. The pressure was equal, the sentiment matched.

The position was unconventional. It wasn’t an entwining of spry fingers woven with promises of the future; it was your fist balled into his palm with his fingers cupping yours. Only your thumbs were privy to the intimacy of being held. And what a wonder it was, to be reciprocated.

To be caught in the chest-heaving heart-pounding swell of being wanted.

He dipped his chin to speak to you, “I smiled,” he confessed in a breathless whisper teasing the shell of your ear. His moon-white hair blended with yours, and if you turned any more, your noses would have touched.

“It’s too dark, I missed it. I guess I’ll have to earn it again some other time.”

“Why do I get the feeling you’re going to bother me until the day I die if you don’t?”

“Because you’re exactly right.”

For a moment–a fleeting second–his fingers clenched around yours, but before you could digest the newness of the sensation, he moved the conversation away to a topic he meant to ask in good faith, not knowing the sting he was about to deliver. “You don’t seem close with your family. Is it because you weren’t a shinobi?”

“Bringing shame to your family’s name tends to drive a wedge between you, yeah.”

His thumb pinned yours and you imagined he was giving you a distasteful glare. “Just because you didn’t pursue the same career as your brothers? That’s not shame-worthy.”

“You don’t get it,” you sighed. Then you backtracked when the sweat wetting his fingertips cooled on your knuckles. “Well, maybe you do get interfamilial drama.”

“Yeah, I think I do.”

Rolling slightly onto your side, you encouraged his arm to slip into the curve of your body, the one created by your joined hands. Nesting your elbow into his waist and his elbow into your hip. Asking for his comfort, and providing him with yours in this safe space under the canopy of stars witnessing two people confide in their pasts.

Fact: Obito Uchiha directly aided Itachi Uchiha in the massacre of their clan.

“Don’t feel like you have to explain anything to me,” you murmured, “it doesn’t reflect who you are now, as far as I’m concerned.”

Obito’s tongue strained against the innate impulse to dismiss you for being naive, but, as his vision went blurry taking in the grand heavens above–painted in strokes of midnight in a stream of violet parting the sea of asterisms–he quelled the need to push you away. As much as it was the wrong decision. He just wanted to know you better. As improper it was, holding your tiny fist in his large hand.

He fought his memories in those glittering stars. “Tell me about your life in Iwa.”

Relaxing into the blankets, you swallowed your pride and he submitted to the repressed craving for peace he found only with you. He would come to need it.

“It’s not as bad in Konoha, but back home, if you’re not a shinobi, you might as well not exist. You’re invisible. Or you want to be. It’s like you’re tainted with an aura everyone can see but you. Like some kind of signal that shows you’re an outcast before you’ve even introduced yourself. Civilians are relied on to keep the city running, but you can tell who used to be part of the military; they scowl at you whenever you hand them their mail, or open a door for them. As if you being nice is an insult to their status. We’re usually put into low ranking government jobs, and even then, there’s an underlying threat that an ex-shinobi could take it at any point and do it better. You’re followed home from bars and blamed for the reason they have PTSD, screaming at you because you’re just a worthless burden they put themselves in danger to protect.”

You wet your lips and explained what you could with wide-eyed fear and ghostly whispers, “According to my family, I’m a disappointment. They stopped caring when it became clear I wasn’t going to graduate. I stopped crying at night when I realized no one was coming. I achieved nothing, therefore, I am nothing. My brother’s aren’t even that good at fighting, but they’re better than me, so they are worth more.”

He stroked your thumb, flexed his arm to clutch you tighter.

“It’s tradition where I’m from to be arranged into a marriage with a shinobi if you’re lesser, and– and–” Resentment spilled from the corner of your eye, dripping to your hairline. “I would’ve hated my father if he did that, but it still hurts he didn’t even try. He said I wasn’t wanted.”

This was all so new to him, Obito warred with himself over the right thing to do and to say. But all that was forgiven when the blazing inferno in his belly grew too wild to tame.

A spark of anguish. “You don’t believe those things, do you?”

A flare of rage. “You are not worthless.”

A flicker of hatred. “Your father’s wrong. Anyone would be proud to marry you–”

And the sharp shatter of his fracturing exterior when you sniffled into your palm, swiped your knuckles across the rest of your tears, and used your wet hand to pat his cheek, dousing the beast within him.

“That’s the past, Obito, and I much prefer the future,” you said. “The present isn’t so bad, either.”

Two people, on a blanket, under the stars, blending into the nightscape. Two experiences in opposing struggles coming together to heal what was broken. Uniting in two crossed thumbs, willing to give more, if their lives were different.

You coasted into the caress of his clenched jaw, receding when you reached his chin and didn’t dare to repeat the motion. You asked in stark sadness, “Why did you avoid me?”

“Because it was irresponsible to do otherwise,” he said, forcing the words from his reluctant throat.

“Don’t ever lock me out again.”

You couldn’t see it, but he met your pleading stare with a guilty expression. Ashamed for circumventing what was always going to happen. Avoiding the inevitable. Escaping what he knew to be true on the darkest of nights. The realism of your futures: that even defying your born statuses, you were never meant to be.

You were too pure, too hard working to be stuck with someone like him. He could provide nothing for you, exiled in a cabin. You deserved better.

He met your beg with a promise, not knowing if he was willing to sacrifice his morals to make it happen, “I won’t.”

~~~

Obito outpaced you to the edge of the forest. He lifted branches out of your way, told you when to duck, and guided you from a distance ahead. Unfathomably quick to forget you were holding hands minutes ago. At contention with the tender moment he facilitated.

Back to stargazing, you said, “Sorry for crying like that.”

“Don’t be sorry. I cry all the time. Does that make you think less of me?”

“No. Quite the opposite, actually. I think more of you,” you parroted him from the other day. It brought a smile to your face, and maybe one to his as well.

If he wasn’t caught up in the state of his broken heart.

The woods dispersed. The footpath gapped. A fresh breeze petted your cheeks and the overgrown grass swayed over the train tracks. You entered the clearing before the staircase and glanced back when you didn’t hear him follow.

Obito was cemented on the spot where the wildflowers parted and the escape to normal life began. He looked from you, to the staircase, to the bustling lights of Konoha in the yonder. Twinkling brighter than the stars. Mesmerizing, entrancing. His gaze traveled over your posture–posed in a curious lean–and he retreated to the soft dirt you stamped into packed earth from your daily trek to see him.

“Not walking me home after our date?” you teased, waning in mirth when he stuttered.

“I haven’t gone beyond this line,” he said. “I’ve never left the woods.” He uttered these things without hope. Just facts of the matter. He’d never left his cabin in the two years before you snagged his hand and introduced him to the wonders beyond his doorstep. His uncertainty showed.

Empathy saddened the evening. Watching his fingers fidget along the sleeve of his unbutton overshirt. Nervous and too shy. Evading you, and the city behind you, by inspecting the dried leaves hanging by their stems from the branches obscuring him. Not taking a single step towards the outside world. Even if it meant pacifying the unrest in his head at the thought of you walking home alone in the dark.

The forest’s edge was the furthest he was willing to venture, but you wore the sly smile of someone who knew the secret to changing his resistant ways.

“Where did you get the hammer and nails to hang the picture frames with?”

He jerked his head up in surprise to hear you speak to him. “They were in the cardboard box in the bathroom.”

“The one on the shelf out of my reach?”

“Yeah.”

You sucked your teeth. “Figures.” He released a noise like a snort at your vertical misfortune. “Not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

“Maybe a little,” you conceded. You stepped towards the staircase. A finite amount of distance of which never felt greater. “I’ll see you in a few days, alright?”

“In a few.” He nodded in farewell and kept his head down. His feet moved. His hands found their way into the depths of his pockets. Your voice, your footsteps, your smile faded. He would know, he watched. From the shadowed trees, he watched you leave, and listened when he lost sight of you. Tracked you as far as could from the secrecy of his residence. Picturing every move you would make that night, from turning your key, to laying in your bed like he did. Reminiscing on the not-date like he did. Recreating the way you held his hand. Like he did.

Obito’s lower lip shrugged. Sweat broke across the left side of his body. He dropped his disfigured hands acting a poor replacement of yours in an act of self-hatred. His eyes stung and lines of hot tears flowed to his white pillow case.

Surrounded by his fluffy comforter, his cool-to-the-touch sheets, his cotton bedding accepting his worn body, he rolled onto his side, and rinsed his mistakes into his calloused fingers clawing at the empty sheets beside him.

“I’m sorry,” he tried to vocalize his repentance in that whiny pitch he loathed, where words slurred together. “I’m sorry for being happy today. Please don’t hurt her. Please don’t take her away from me.”

~~~

On the other side of town..

There was a noise. A ruckus which startled you in the alleyway you’d taken the day before. It wasn’t like you to make the mistake of taking the same one again, but you thought you’d be okay–

A trash can lid crashed, circling on the cobblestone before running into the wall and falling over in a roundabout circle.

No other shadows moved but yours, clutching your chest.

“Meow.”

It was so cranky and human-like you second guessed your ears. Peering into the dark corner, you waited for the paper lantern to catch the upswing of the wind and there, huddled, chewing fervently on a chicken bone, was your reason for nearly jumping out of your skin.

“Pss-pss-pss,” you called the cat, crouching to his level. At first he ignored you, then he offered you a single ear swiveled in your direction in your trying time. “Kitty cat,” you made more detestingly sweet noises until he decided you were more interesting than his decomposing dinner.

Orange and filthy, those were the glaring traits you noticed first. His coat had lost all sheen, muddied with dirt and who-knows-what. He walked into the light, enticed by your fingers extended with the intention to pet him, and you perceived his other qualities.

He hobbled to you due to having his right front leg amputated, and once he’d sniffed your fingers, he turned further than necessary to size you up on account of his missing left eye. An odd cat, to be sure, but he reminded you of someone.

You had nothing to offer, yet he climbed into your lap and made it his bed, covering you in drool while you showered him in affection.

“Do you need a home, Mr. Cat?”

Asked and answered, he purred louder than your inner voice of reason, and you hoisted him onto your chest, giggling at the way he draped over your shoulder and complained in your ear about being stirred from his nap.

“No more lonely nights. No more rotten dinner. No more sleeping on the cold hard ground, okay? I’m rescuing you.”

Together, you walked home with your surly, grumpy, grouchy cat who pouted at your kindness, and you had never been more in love.

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