| [Feb. 6th, 2012|01:32 am] |
Hiruzen hooked a half-smile at the man who lead two-thirds of his ANBU. “I believe that is putting it mildly.” He put his arms up and stretched, voluminous sleeves pouring down to float around his elbows. “Though I seem to have become quite cunning in my later years, as that sounded like agreement. Off with you, Hisoka. And I will expect to hear that you have taken a late morning.”
"Meaning you'll be checking in with Yayoi?" Arakaki smiled and mirrored Hiruzen’s stretch, another yawn breaking through. "Who am I to ignore a direct order backed up with a credible threat?" He reached a hand for the files. "Shall I be disciplinarian once you've spoken to Chihiro-sama, or would you prefer to mete out the punishments yourself?"
Hiruzen placed his hand over Arakaki’s, capturing the files before they could be removed. “It should come from me,” he said. “I owe them that much.”
Arakaki nodded and withdrew his hand. “I understand.”
“You always do,” Hiruzen said, with a faint smile. He flapped his sleeve. “Off, off. To bed with you, before I chase you from the building.
If Arakaki had any objection to being shooed away like a genin, the spark of amusement in his dark eyes gave no sign of it. "I hope you get some rest, too, Hiruzen,” he said quietly, rising. He tapped his shoulder in the ANBU salute, like any one of the two hundred hunters who served beneath him, and walked to the door. He paused with his hand on doorknob. "Thank you."
“Goodnight, Hisoka,” Hiruzen said.
Arakaki nodded and slipped silently away.
In the lamp-lit shadows, the quiet wrapped around Hiruzen’s shoulders like a cloak. He pulled the uppermost file closer and flipped it open, looking down into the striking smile of the young man in the ID photo. Tousaki Ryouma, twenty-three years old and unlikely to get any older, ANBU hunter for six months.
He’d stood in this same room, tall and straight-backed, and taken his mask and his oath with ringing pride, believing every word. Promising to be the soul and sword of Konoha. The mask had been a ram, Hiruzen remembered, with stylized red horns curling at the temples.
Lost, now, just as much as the boy who’d worn it.
Hiruzen picked up his ink-brush, set the hilt gently between his teeth, and read until the dawn stretched pale fingers through his window. |
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