First fanfic about Kakashi and his dad, Sakumo so don't hate me if it's horrible! Also my first fanfic in a long time, hope I haven't gotten rusty. Well that's all from me for now. Please R and R and enjoy!
"Dad . . . wake up. It's time to wake up . . . Dad!" his cries did not reach his father's ears. The still figure beside the child did not make a move. The child shook his father's arm and called out again. Still the father did not move, his arm only falling to his side, limp and lifeless.
His eyes shot open and light flooded his view. Through squints and blinks he looked around the familiar living room. He had fallen asleep on the patio again. He yawned and sat up, stretching to his left and right. It was then that he noticed the empty bed covers to his right. His eyes widened and he let out a small whisper,
His eyes filled with fear and anxiety, he called out again, this time louder and clearer.
"Dad!" he climbed out of the bed sheets and ran out onto the walkway.
"Dad!" he passed the empty kitchen and ran up the old wooden stairs.
"Dad!" gasping and grabbing at the wall with sweaty hands, again he cried out,
"Dad!" he came to the second floor landing and dropped to his feet,
"Dad . . ."
"Kakashi!" the child raised his head and saw his father running to him, half dressed with a towel draped over his head. "Kakashi, what's wrong?" Kakashi looked up at his father with moist eyes but blinked and looked away quickly. "Kakashi?"
"It . . . it was nothing," the famous White Fang of Konoha stared down at his only son, a mere seven years of age. His little hands were squeezed up into small fists that despite Kakashi's reassurance were shaking. The White Fang sighed and then with a slight grin he knelt down and gently patted his son's head.
"What's wrong Kakashi? Was it a bad dream?"
"It was nothing," Kakashi got up quickly and moved away from his father's hand, a slight blush beginning to form on his cheeks. The White Fang smiled and stood up and with a shrug said,
"Then I'll just go back to showering—,"
"No!" immediately Kakashi sprung and clung to his father's leg. "Don't leave me!" the White Fang felt a shot of pain and looked down affectionately at his little silver haired son. He bent down and picked up Kakashi in his arms.
"I'm not going anywhere,"
With Kakashi glued to his side the White Fang finished his daily morning routine and seeing as it was summer vacation, he took up the task of cleaning up their home. The two silver haired shinobi raced through the hallways wiping down the wooden floorboards with wash cloths. The White Fang grinned when he saw his son jump in joy at defeating his father in the race.
"What should we clean next Dad, your study?" Kakashi began making his way to the small study at the end of the hall.
"Ah no that's alright Kakashi, I'll clean up that room later," Kakashi looked up at his father. They stood silent for a moment and then Kakashi made a small sound of disapproval. The White Fang raised his eyebrow curiously, "What?"
"No it's nothing," Kakashi responded but continued to stare at his father with suspicious eyes. The White Fang blinked and when Kakashi spoke again, he found himself completely flustered and caught off guard, "You have perverted magazines in there that you don't want me to see, right?" The White Fang gaped at his son and then cursed silently at the blush forming on his cheeks that betrayed his excuses. Kakashi clucked in disappointment like a middle aged woman and stalked away with the White Fang behind his heels, desperately sprouting excuses. They continued in their carefree cleaning until mid afternoon when the doorbell rang.
"I'll get it Dad!" with an extra spring in his step Kakashi made his way to the door,
"Sensei, what are you doing here?" Kakashi found the Fourth Hokage, his mentor, standing at his doorstep, a worried expression written across his face.
"Kakashi, it's just that you weren't at the Academy today so I—,"
"Sensei what are you talking about? Its summer break." the Fourth Hokage blinked and stared at Kakashi.
"Kakashi, its September," confused and becoming more aware, Kakashi took a step back,
"Um, maybe you should talk with Dad . . ." Kakashi stopped. At his last few words, the Fourth Hokage froze and his worried frown deepened.
"Kakashi, where is your father right now?"
"He's in the kitchen. Why?" Kakashi eyed his sensei suspiciously.
"Kakashi . . . could it be . . ." the Fourth Hokage trailed off and then looked at Kakashi.
"What?" Kakashi demanded and despite his attempt the worry showed in his voice.
"Kakashi, your father passed away three months ago." Kakashi stared at the Fourth Hokage, the shock quivering over his eyes. His words came out slow and halted, unsure and scared,
"That . . . that's not—," Kakashi trailed off and then turned and ran down the hallway as fast as his small legs could carry him.
It's not possible, you're lying Sensei! You're lying!
"Dad!" Kakashi cried out as he reached the kitchen entrance. He slid the door open and found an empty room. No one was in sight. Nor was there any sign of another being in the room. His heart sped up as he swivelled and dashed through the house, calling out for his father. Room after room he passed, all empty. Finally he came to his father's study and with trembling fingers he reached out and pulled the door to the side.
The room was dark, only a sliver of light peeked through the curtains. Kakashi trailed the small line of light to the abandoned table in the middle of the room. It was there that his eyes fell upon the simple black frame, the bowl of oranges, and single burning stick of incense. His vision blurred and he took a shaky step forward. His knees buckled and he fell to the ground, his hand reaching for the photo of his deceased father.
That's right. I remember now. That day I came home late for training. No one responded when I came home. That had become normal. The house was silent as usual. Only the sound of the floorboards creaking underneath my feet could be heard. I came to the door of my dad's study. He didn't come out often, only to go to the washroom or the rare meal. I had knocked and then slowly I had slid open the door.
Usually he would be sitting at his desk, leaning over piles of papers, scrolls, and books. He would only look up at me after I shook his arm violently. But even then, he'd only look at me with glazed eyes, eyes that didn't know who I was. He would smile sadly after a moment and then say my name as if it had just occurred to him that I was his son. But that time he did not have to struggle to remember my name. He did not have to strain to keep a smile on his face.
He was dead. Lying in a pool of blood. A sword jutting out of his side. His mouth hanging open. His lifeless eyes, staring up at me.
We used to always sleep on the patio, our toes stuck out into the cool air and our heads warmly snuggled into soft pillows in the living room. When it was time to wake up I'd always have to shake and yell at Dad to wake up. It was always the same.
Only now, no matter how much I scream, Dad will never wake up.