Edited and revised: 8/13/2012

I just had to write an ItaNaru. Such a lovely couple. (x I will be placing a lot of my own personal experiences into this story since I, too, am madly in love with my art teacher.



I was a month away from being fourteen when I began my first day of high school.

It was cold, gloomy, around the time, and I was dressed in my favorite orange jacket.

It was an approximate thirty minute walk to Konoha High, which made getting there tedious every morning, but my counselor insisted it would be worth it in the end to attend the school. Then she said something about the work not being so hard.

Clearly, she, and everyone else, deemed me stupid.

The way people treated me assured me that I was, and I hadn't looked back. I had no leverage to go against what they said. My grades were horrible, and I had no particular talent. That is, if failing classes persistently didn't count as a 'talent'.

I made my way inside the school, being nervous out of my mind. I walked reluctantly through the hallway entrance and noticed the incredible amount of people surrounding me. I glanced here and there, only to notice a few of them glaring at me.

Eww.. Look at his hair! It's so nappy! And that yellow is so outdated!

Look at that idiot wearing orange! What is he? An orange peel?

I looked away and tried to keep a straight face. I was used to letting people's comments get me down, making me feel like the priss I was. I knew I was ugly. I knew I was stupid.. Wasn't that enough for them?

Something pushed me hard on the shoulder, forcing me to look up. Some guy with two red marks on his cheeks, and thick, brown hair gave me a toothy smirk.

"What are you? A fruit?"

Everyone in the hallway burst out in laughter, and I tried my best to ignore it all as I pushed my way through him. I roamed around aimlessly through the hallways for the next fifteen minutes or so until, finally, it was time for the first class of the day. I checked my schedule, ensuing my search for the geometry classroom.

It must have been twenty minutes that passed until I finally found it, and when I did, the teacher gave me a long, embarrassing lecture on irresponsibility in front of the entire class. Some guy threw a paper ball at me, followed with another when the class finally ended.

The day dragged on.

I found myself hardly listening or caring about any of my surroundings. All I remember was sitting through the lectures and introductions, doodling away at my notebook.

I've always wanted to draw, but I knew I sucked badly at it. I didn't know why I persisted. It's not like anyone ever complimented it, or cared, for the matter.

I was invisible to the world, and I could hardly blame them.

Soon, I would drop out like everyone assumed I would, and I would live an empty, meaningless life of minimum wage and.. loneliness.

I stared at the clocks, counting every second that went by that did not consist of me attempting to draw a straight line.

Lunch time came. I cringed at the thought.

Surely, it would go as it always did. People would laugh and point at whatever I did, and I would end up holding back stupid tears; only to let them out in the bathroom like an idiot. I reluctantly got out of my seat and into the danger of the school's courtyard. A group of girls stared at me as if I were some sort of zombie roaming the building, making some comment about my shoes.

"You know, those are so old-looking!" one of them shouted, her pink hair almost a light in the fog, "You should really go shop for new ones! Weirdo!"

They burst into a high-pitched laughter. I walked away as if nothing happened, dragging my feet through the concrete. I looked around, only to see everyone with their own group of friends, laughing, talking, and looking like they were having a blast.

I had nothing but an orange jacket, and a strong, unbearable urge to dig a hole somewhere and die there.

I made my way to an empty table, not bothering to eat or to approach anyone. I took out my notebook and began drawing the girl with the bright, pink hair with horrible accuracy.

I giggled a little when I looked down, a bulbous plate of a forehead staring back at me from the paper.


Lunch had ended, and so had Computer class.

I looked down to my schedule, noticing that I had one final period:


I was a little surprised that they would give me a choice class since my transcript consisted of nothing but Fs and Ds, but I obliged to attend, anyway. I made my way through the halls, and out of some miracle, I found it just on time. I went right in and noticed how small the class was. If you could even call it a 'class'.. There were hardly fifteen people in it.

I looked around for a teacher to no avail as I sat in my seat.

Maybe I read the schedule wrong?

At that precise moment, the door opened, and a tall, elegant man with haunting red eyes made his way inside. I stared in amazement as he seemed to glide to the front of the classroom, his long, black hair following closely behind him.

"I apologize," he began. His voice was deep and resonating, making the whole room dim into complete silence. "This is my first day here, and I managed to get lost."

I studied his face, noticing how unreasonably handsome he was.

His skin was a sun-kissed pale, and the lashes on his eyes were probably the longest I'd ever seen. He was dressed in a black, button-up dress shirt that hugged his figure in all the right places, his sleeves pulled up in an artsy way. My eyes involuntarily trailed down his body, tracing the outline of the dark jeans that hugged his full, muscular thighs.

I stared in awe, unable to separate my gaze from him.

"I'm Itachi Uchiha," he went on, writing his name on the board in long, majestic letters, "But that's hardly important."

There was a calmness and acceptance in his voice; as if he knew just how the entire world worked, and what every person in the room was thinking. He overflowed with both confidence and beauty.

I was left overwhelmed by it all, and it took me a moment to realize that he had noticed me. His geranium eyes had locked with my own.

I gulped, not at all knowing how long he had been looking at me for.

To my relief, a moment later, he simply looked away and continued talking as if nothing at all had ensued.

"Everyone, get out a sheet of blank paper."

The rustling of paper and the unzipping of bags flooded the room as I quickly pulled out my notebook to a blank page. I held my pencil and waited, secretly stealing glances here and there as he began to revolve around the room.

"I want you all to draw the face of someone who is precious to you," he said, as if he weren't really speaking to us at all, but a ghost in the air. "It doesn't have to be perfect. This is about expression, not quality."

He suddenly paused in his stride, and looked down, as if correcting himself, "Though, the quality does depend on the expression itself." He seemed more certain of that statement, allowing himself to continue his stroll throughout the class,. "Take your time, there is no limit."

I looked around. Everyone began to draw lines on their papers in clear unison. I took a moment to look around the classroom's bare walls, and noticed framed portraits. My mouth fell open in astonishment at the mere exquisite quality of them, and I found myself unable to close it again.

There was one of an old man, the wrinkles shaded and blended to perfection; and another of an appealing woman titled 'Mikoto' in large, sophisticated letters. I stared at that particular one. There was a distinct, deepening sadness emanating from it that it must have made my face look weird because his voice alone, (which was directed straight towards me), almost threw me out of my chair.

I turned nervously towards him, only to be greeted with a very, very faint smile on the man's face.

"She is my mother."

I quickly looked away from him, concentrating on the nothingness of my paper.

"She died when I was young," his words were quiet, and a vibe of sorrow slid from them. "She was very beautiful."

I sat still, not wanting to say the wrong thing. I felt a veil of comfort falling upon me, however, as I heard him speak. My mother had died, too, when I was younger, and I knew perfectly well the pain that came with it.

"I'm sorry.." I heard myself say in a way that resembled more of a whimper.

"It's fine," he flicked a long strand of his hair to the side, "How is your drawing coming along?"

I panicked, trying to hide the notebook with my hands.

"It takes a moment to really know where to start," he said, his voice not the least bit upset as I thought it would be. "I want to see you start."

I inwardly gulped, and began to meet the paper with my pencil, trying my best to calm down. His presence was just so great, so intimidating..

I thought of my father and attempted to draw the outline of how his face looked. I could see Itachi from the corner of my eye, watching me intently. I had an overwhelming need to impress him. Something I had never felt before.

I never cared of anyone's opinion of me because I knew what it would be. That I was an idiot, a dumbass. Someone who was impossible to teach or befriend.

My hand was choking my pencil almost frantically, and just when I was about to erase everything I had done so far, his hand suddenly encased my own.

I held my breath, my eyes widening at the very small distance that was now barely present between us.

I could smell him, and I could feel his warm breath behind my ear. His scent was both floral and gallant. The hair that was held into a ponytail behind him cascaded ever so slightly on my shoulder. I nearly fainted from the fierceness of his presence; of the situation.

"Hard strokes lose grace," he whispered dangerously close to my ear, "soften your hand and let your eyes lead the pencil," he led my hand throughout the paper, closing the gap between the bottom half of the head, "as if you're tracing straight from the image in your mind."

He then began to slowly let go of my hand, and I immediately attempted to follow his advice. He stood near me, watching me as I progressed through the hair faster and more gracefully then I ever had before without much of a thought. I stopped for a moment, surprising myself with how good it had actually turned out. The hair resembled very closely how my father had it. I turned to smile at Itachi in thanks, warm blush on my face.

"You have talent," he said, leaning away from me and looking straight into what felt like my soul with those red, piercing eyes of his. "Someday, you'll become a great artist."

I looked at him in mere amazement as he walked off, leaving behind his intoxicating scent. No one had ever said something like that to me before. That they thought I could be something..

He had acknowledged me.

I wanted nothing more but to impress and to please him as much as I could from then on. I breathed in, concentrating on the image beneath my hand and the hold of my pencil.

Loose strokes.. Trace from mind.. Relax..

As I drew, I thought of nothing but him.

Itachi was astoundingly beautiful; perfect. I could hardly think of anything that was not his warm, experienced hand holding at my own. Leading me, teaching me..

A need began to surface into me, and I wasn't completely sure what it was.

All I knew was that I had to impress him as much as I could, to show him that I could be someone.

That I could be an artist.

I drew consistently until the end of the class, an impossibly loud bell nearly shaking the entire school to the ground. I reluctantly put my stuff away, and stood to make my way out the door. A hard smack on the back of my head, however, stopped me dead in my tracks.

It was the same guy from earlier with the two red marks on his face. He gave me a sharp sneer, "Drawing's for pansies! Loser!"

He made his way loudly out of the classroom, throwing the assignment that Itachi had given us rudely on his desk. I looked towards his face, noticing that he was hardly phased. At that moment, he motioned for me to approach him.

He had probably noticed the way my face had began to twist when the other guy had smacked me; the way it always does when I hold myself back from crying. I approached him in shame, trying my absolute best to get my face back to its normal, unemotional state.

"A true artist only cries to the rhythm of their pencil," he said quietly in a voice that was both firm and comforting, "Or when the picture is finished."

I looked up at his handsome, captivating face, regaining some composure of my own.

"They just.. never leave me alone.."

He closed his eyes momentarily, as if understanding deeply what it was that I was saying.

"Practice. Draw what you feel."

He suddenly stood, opening one of the drawers to his desk, and handed me a thick drawing pad with a set of seemingly expensive charcoal pencils. "It's Bristol paper. It's good for the darkness and heaviness of your lines."

I took it, and slowly packed it in my backpack, looking at him in utter disbelief. He seemed mildly amused at this, and he chuckled quietly, giving me a very brief, but noticeable, smile.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Naruto."

He said my name.

I nearly fainted. I nodded vigorously before I thanked him one more time, and ran out the door.

That night, I practiced until my eyes were heavy and my hand grew raw from constant strain. I showered and spent another lonely night in that lonely place of an apartment. There hadn't been a foster parent in a million mile radius that would take me in.

The dreadful feeling of being an outcast spread over me eventually, and I punched angrily at the wall.

What was wrong with me? Why did everyone feel the need to hate me so much?

When I gave up on asking the empty room questions, along with mindlessly insulting the banana on the kitchen table, I fell into bed, allowing sleep to take me.

I woke up the next morning with the notebook Itachi had given me in my arms, and with the yearning, undeniable ache of seeing him again.

This time, there would be a meaning to the day.


I was contemplating deeply on replacing Itachi with an older Sasuke, but I figured the personality just wouldn't mesh. Let me know if you guys think I should continue this! The world needs more ItaNaru. :D Don't you think?