The Memoirs of Jiraiya
The Memoirs of Jiraiya
A/N: Ugh, I always take so long to update. I'm sorry.
I had a nice rhythm going when I started, but then I messed up.
Shame on me!
More Minato (Part 2)
So, as I said, I ended up taking some of my anger at Kyouza out on Minato's father.
Which is probably wrong, but, too late now.
So, I socked him in the jaw, and when my fist came in contact with his face, I heard a sickening CRACK .
But, I am not going to lie, in a way it was sort of satisfying, because I knew it would
A) draw attention to us and
B)…draw attention to us.
See? Perfectly logical reasons!
Someone would run to tell the Hokage, who would in turn send an ANBU cell.
Which he did, so we all got sent to the principal's office.
Er, I mean, the Hokage's office.
Same thing, really.
I mean, we were caught fighting in the schoolyard.
Right. Off track. Anyway, the Hokage was steamed until Minato and I explained what happened.
Because then he was totally sympathetic and let it slide. Well, let it slide for me, anyway.
Namikaze-san was shipped off to, you know, where the abusers, wife-beaters, and child molesters go.
No, no, before they go to hell.
After that, Minato was pretty much living with me full-time, as he had no relatives.
Not that I minded, because I understood what he was going through.
I can't recall if I ever actually told him that, though.
But I do remember, when I told him he could live with me at my place, he started to cry, because he was…happy?
You see, in my younger days, I never quite understood how people can cry when they're happy.
But that's just how I am.
have always associated tears with sadness.
I really doubt that I ever cried with happiness.
I don't cry often at all.
When I'm happy, I laugh.
And when I'm depressed, I…laugh some more.
I think laughing is my defense mechanism.
Everybody has one.
If Kakashi doesn't like where a conversation is going, he withdraws immediately.
Even when Asuma was younger, when he would get upset, his first move was to pull out his pack of cigarettes and go out for a smoke.
When he got nervous, he would chew mercilessly on his lower lip.
I swear, I spent at least half of my time with him treating that poor, defenseless lip.
Not that I minded.
I was glad to be of some help to that boy.
Because, let's face it:
He was my boy.