Chapter Text
I come weary,
In search of an inn—
Ah! These wisteria flowers!
Poem by Matsuo Basho, translated by William George Aston.
Iruka knows, even as he straightens himself before the mansion’s gates, that they might very well be walking to their deaths.
“Remember your pleases and your thank yous,” he instructs the child at his side, fretting over the lapels of his samue jacket. “This is not the Sagiri mountain, not every Hashira will be as lenient with protocol as lord Sarutobi. Promise me that you will count to three before you speak a word, and add at least one nicety for every sentence.”
The frustration in Naruto’s eyes is evident. It pulls at the skin above his brows and adds creases to his nose. When Iruka met him, he assured him that he was thirteen years old—in this moment, it’s terribly obvious that he inflated that number quite a bit.
“I promise,” he does end up saying. Iruka nods and pats his shoulder, trying to look more confident than he feels.
“Thank you. Now, we will ask for an audience.”
In truth, they must have been spotted from leagues away, or at the very least since they passed the property marker that took them off the common road and onto the elegant rock-laid path that paves the way towards the Hashira’s mansion. If there was ever a time for idleness for demon slayers, it’s certainly not now: the night crawls with creatures growing stronger and stronger and they days are barely more safe. This is precisely why Iruka is here, after all.
For years now, he had been a simple slayer affiliated with the Leaf mansion and its leader, the Monkey Hashira. He travelled with his blade on his hip, tracking demons by word of mouth and guiding potential slayers towards the safe haven of the Leaf Mansion, where Lord Sarutobi’s teachings paved the way for them to pass the Final Selection. Hard, rewarding work, which Iruka toiled under alone.
That was, until he came across a ravaged cart on the road to Kyoto, its foul stench of blood carried by the summer breeze.
Iruka had approached with caution, fingers already wrapped around the handle of his sword. It was early morning, too bright for any demon to still be at the scene, but there were other dangers waiting for a lonesome traveler: beasts and men, too likely to attack at the chance to sate their hunger. The bugs and birds had already come to feast: the rest would come soon after.
In truth, Iruka had only meant to inspect the wreckage to see to any trace of demonic activity, and maybe to provide the last rites to any unfortunate corpse left there to rot in the sun.
Instead, he had found a child.
Small, yellow-haired and tear-stricken: the boy had made for a sorry sight. He was hiding in the wide shadow of the cart, his round cheeks marred with blood streaks that Iruka would unsuccessfully try to wipe off later. But that would be at dinner, hours away, at a roadside inn marked by an inconspicuous climbing wisteria.
Before that, the boy—Naruto, he was called, all alone in this unfortunate world—would try to rip Iruka’s head off.
To this day, Iruka cannot help but feel somewhat guilty that he whacked the boy’s head hard enough to send him back reeling against the cart with a loud thud!
“I’m sorry!” Naruto had wailed, holding his forehead. “I dunno why I did that, it just smelled really good!”
Blood. Iruka’s blood had smelled really good. Because the boy was a demon.
He should have killed him. Should have been done with him and buried his severed head with the rest of the corpses, like the Slayers Corps’ mandate commanded it.
He hadn’t.
Later, as he was brushing flakes of dried blood out of the little boy’s hair, he would ask himself why, and find no answer.
Naruto was a demon, yes. Turned by an unknown creature that stalked the night on that side of the road, leaving no chance of survival to the raggedy group of workers that a landowner had called from the city to work the fields for food and board. Their cart had been overturned by the violence of the attack and left a dozen bodies in its wake, which Iruka took the time to summarily bury before taking the child’s hand and levelling the promise that he would not try to take a bite out of his arm if he was to be given a warm meal and a roof for the night.
A deal with a devil, slayers more resolute than Iruka would have said. He doesn’t have much in terms of justifications: he spared Naruto before knowing the truth of what he was exactly.
A little boy with fangs and a thirst for blood, standing straight with a faceful of sun. A demon that eats and sleeps and walks in the light: nothing that Iruka would believe if he did not see it with his own eyes.
Naruto slurps on ramen and squints painfully at the sky and drools all over the inn’s futon. He looks at Iruka like he’s food he’s craving, fisting the cloth of his haori when Iruka’s hands are occupied. He’s younger than he says he is.
There is only so many ways in which Iruka can be shattered. He took Naruto with him on the road, to the fishing villages along the coast, the snowy mountains of Shinshu, the old shrines and the new cities. Saw him age one whole year and knew, in the innermost part of his soul, that he could not bear to see him die.
Iruka knew even then that he would not be able to keep this a secret forever.
Coming back to the Leaf Mansion after one year of absence had felt like too many things. Familiar faces turned wary, easy meals offered with cautious hands, a warm welcome followed by a command for explanations. Naruto’s status in the world of the Corps had been, of course, a difficult subject to handle.
“A council on this matter would not go your way, I’m afraid,” Lord Sarutobi had said.
His wrinkled face seemed to crumple itself some more, thoughtful and worried. “I can persuade Jiraiya and appeal to Tsunade, and securing Gai’s support on this matter should not be an issue, but that leaves us with only four voices vouching for your boy. Too much risk, knowing the Shadow, Mind and Stone Hashiras will vote as an united front and the Water Hashira will want the boy’s head on the block as a matter of principle.”
“Why?” Iruka could only ask. “Why would Lord Hyuga wish ill upon Naruto?”
“He is a demon. That is reason enough.”
“There must be a way,” Iruka had pleaded. “Other people we can appeal to.”
“There might be. But, well, the Beast Hashira is too far away and too unpredictable to be counted on, the Insect Hashira is an unknown quantity and the Rumble Hashira…” The Monkey Hashira grimaced. “If it were only a few years ago, I would have considered him a trusted ally, but he has become… uninvolved, as of late.”
“A Hashira that spurns his duties?” Iruka can hardly believe it. He can find some faults in the Corps, but to leave the world at the mercy of demons seems impossible for anyone who has borne witness to their damage.
“Oh, he does his share of the work against demons. It is the Corps he has grown disinterested in. Still…” Lord Sarutobi purses his lips. “We need one more voice on our side, and I want to believe that he can still be the man I knew him to be. If you went to see him and argued your case, we could secure a decisive vote in this matter.”
And to see the Hashira they went: all the way down to beg the Rumble Hashira for protection.
It’s a shame that this is such a lovely house, and Iruka can appreciate none of its beauty. The wisterias, so bright and lovely in the sun, now serve as a grim reminder of the risk he’s taking bringing Naruto here. He would have preferred leaving him at the Leaf Mansion, but Lord Sarutobi had argued against it. Some of his reasons Iruka could understand: the other, more demon-adverse Hashiras would start arriving for the council and sharing a house with Naruto would make for a poor cohabitation. Still, he can feel it sometimes, rearing its head like the dark shape of a catfish in a pond: the Monkey Hashira accepts Naruto mainly as an extension of Iruka, not as a whole person.
Iruka despairs, sometimes in his darkest nights, at the thought of the world passing by that child, that brilliant boy with a smile full of misaligned teeth, and deeming him not worth saving. Too often recently, he feels like he’s only been indulged in a pet project rather than a mission worth every effort.
Why would so many people in the Slayer Corps love Iruka and face the wrath of their peers for him, only to spurn a small child in turn?
And if that is what he can expect from those who know him best and care for him, what is he doing trying to convince a man he doesn’t know to make the same effort?
Walking into the outer courtyard, he can feel the eyes of the whole mansion digging into his back. The servants are discreet, but Iruka comes from too little to be able to ignore them completely. He places a careful hand on Naruto’s shoulder, an attempt at centering him as they reach the last door separating them from their fate.
“Master Hashira will meet you now,” an attendant informs them. Two servants open the sliding doors with synchronized deference, revealing the main hall with its coffered ceiling and luxurious tatami.
“Do everything I do, but quietly,” Iruka whispers to Naruto’s ear, before he steps into the room.
“Introduce yourself,” the attendant directs him.
Iruka bows as deep as he can, making a show of baring his neck. He’s relieved to hear Naruto do the same behind him. “My name is Umino Iruka, a slayer carrying his blade. I request your help in the name of Lord Sarutobi, the Monkey Hashira, to save a child’s life and bring us ahead in the fight against the Demon King.”
The silence that follows his introduction is deafening, filled by the static coursing through Iruka’s ears.
“Well, that’s all very nice and good, but I don’t see much of you down there. Rise up.”
Iruka does as he’s told, finally allowed to take a good look at the man he’s been looking for. The Hashira is probably tall, though it’s difficult to tell with the way he’s slouching in his seat. His hair is gray, unkempt in a way that speaks of carelessness rather than lack of means. A woodblock print is thrown over his lap, delicate paper treated as if it was worth next to nothing. Most of his face is hidden away under a protective mask, leaving little to parse through his affected disinterest.
Hatake Kakashi, the Rumble Hashira, does look like a Slayer spurning his responsibilities. And it’s up to Iruka to convince him not to.
“This is Naruto.” He gestures towards the boy, who, to his horror, has already abandoned his bowing position to stare at the Hashira like he just grew a second, uglier head. “I met him a year ago on the road. He was attacked by a powerful demon that attempted to change him into his likeness. But he failed. Naruto is not a demon of the usual kind: he still has a human’s mind and can walk in the sun. The Slug Hashira has been kind enough to accept to examine him, if you happened to be concerned with the details of his status.”
Through Iruka’s whole speech, the Hashira has shown an evident lack of care. Trying to not let it get to him, he continues: “There is a council soon, at the Leaf Mansion—"
“Is there? What a waste of time.” Hatake makes a show of shifting in his seat, going back to the print in his lap. Is Iruka’s mind playing a joke on him or is that a nude woman he’s seeing drawn on the paper?
“Yes, there is,” Iruka says with what he hopes is not an offending level of aggravation. “I would humbly ask, on behalf of Lord Sarutobi, that on this next council, you vote in Naruto’s favor.”
Hatake does look up at those words, only to throw out a snickering: “You are a fool if you think you can wander around with a child demon and survive the ordeal.”
Iruka, sensing the start of a reaction on the part of his charge, makes a point of looking back at Naruto and stare him into silence before responding: “Naruto has been with me for a year now. I can only vouch for his good behavior.” Then, trying for something a little more humble: “He is but a child. Please, master Hashira, I need your help.”
Hatake sighs, his whole body shifting into a somehow more laid-back position. “I guess I could do it if given the right incentive.”
What, Iruka wonders as he waits with bated breath. What would a Hashira expect from him?
It’s like Hatake suddenly tapped into a previously ignored well of energy. Laugh lines draw themselves around his eyes and he leans forwards as he leers: “Well, you could always marry me. Pretty as you are, you would convince a man to act the fool and give in to your whims.”
Some years ago, Iruka would have reacted in a very impulsive, very stupid way: screaming about the rudeness of the proposition, the seriousness of the situation, or at the very least the core idea that a supposedly worthy Hashira would think he could just ask for random people off the street to marry him for the sake of securing a deal. Word choices would have been made. Insults might have been hurled. All around a very instinctive and very unhelpful reaction.
Now, he’s not the one whose anger is most easily brought up.
“What!?” comes Naruto’s outraged yell, immediately abandoning the remnants of his mishappen bowing. “What do you mean, you masked pervert?!”
Iruka’s hand strikes out in a defensive move. “Stay behind me, Naruto.”
“But he—!”
“Naruto.” Iruka has a special voice that he uses when he needs the boy to really listen to him, which he takes great pain in reserving to dire cases, like a demon trying to suck one of them dry. He’s using it right now and it serves its intended purpose: Naruto’s mouth shuts tight, his eyes still blazing with righteous wrath.
This is a difficult situation. He cannot afford to wreck their chances, be it by rejecting the Hashira too harshly or by letting Naruto dig himself into a hole. This alone is an exercise in balance for which he is exceedingly unprepared.
He could say no. Take the risk of angering Hatake and costing them a vote.
He could also say yes. Buy Naruto’s life by opening his thighs—for he lived in cities long enough to know that men who dangle marriage so openly only want a wife for the night—and swallowing his pride.
If he was sure Hatake truly meant it, he might consider the question more seriously. But the man is not sincere. He meant to mock Iruka, to raise his hackles and have a laugh at his expense, because he knows Iruka would have to take it.
Or, he must think Iruka can be shamed into letting Naruto be thrown to the wolves. He’s wrong. “While I am honored, master Hashira, I cannot accept.”
“Mah,” Hatake scoffs, back to his previous aloof act. His eyes drag an obvious path along Iruka’s whole body. “What a shame. I could offer you a much more comfortable life than running around pleading for lost causes would earn you.”
“I can only believe you, master Hashira.” Iruka bows again, lower than he truly feels he should. “But thanks to you, this cause might not be lost. I hate to ask again, but, will you give us your voice during the next council?”
Hatake waves them off, his nose already buried inside his print. “Don’t know. Maybe I’ll think about it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go back to my reading.”
“Of course.” Iruka bows again. Not as low, this time—it’s not like Hatake is looking. “Thank you for hearing us, Lord Hashira.”
“I don’t like him,” Naruto pouts as they leave the gates behind them, back towards the Leaf Mansion’s familiar walls. “I hope a demon kills him and farts on his bones before the council or whatever.”
Iruka cannot say he likes him either.