The Cycle of Hatred: A Naruto Insert

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The building was pretty modest as far as houses went, but it was still a damned sight better than my apartment and surprisingly modern to boot. The exterior was painted in soft, earthy tones and a small, well-maintained garden bordered the front, filled with a variety of plants.

I guess I was… surprised that the house was still being tended to after over a decade, brushing my hands over the bright flowers and eyeing the hardy shrubs beside the stone path leading to the door. A few wind chimes hung from the eaves, their gentle tinkling sound carried by the breeze.

I pulled the key out of my pocket, tongue thickening inside my mouth, and twisted the lock. Gulping, I held the handle to steady myself as a sudden wave of vertigo slammed against me. A wave of damp heat washed over my face and I blinked, getting used to the faint scent of lemon-scented incense. Closing the door behind me, I fumbled for the corridor light, illuminating the frames hung all along the bottom of the staircase to my right.

I inspected the pictures capturing various moments across their lives and swallowed.

The first photo showed my parents standing side by side in front of our home; it looked exactly as it did in real life. My father wore an easy smile, while my mother's face was lit up with a far bright, confident grin, and yet, they looked so happy together, like nothing in the world could touch them.

Clenching my jaw at the memory of Obito's orange mask, I moved my eyes to the next picture—it was a picture of them on their wedding day. My mother's red hair was pulled back into a neat bun, and she was wearing a simple, elegant kimono. Dad stood tall beside her, looking proud and a little embarrassed, like he wasn't used to being the centre of attention.

I chuckled quietly, tracing my fingers over each picture. Each one was a window into a time I couldn't fully remember but could feel in my bones—a past filled with love, hope, and the family I never got to know but that warmth I felt twisted into something darker that had been simmering under the surface for years.

My hand clenched into a fist, and I had to force myself to take a deep breath, but it didn't help because the rage was there, burning hotter with each second.

Obito. He took this from me. He stole my parents, my family, and what my childhood ought to have been. I could have had all of this—a mother's warm hugs, the feeling of being loved, of belonging, but I grew up alone again, with no one to turn to.

All because of him—him and his selfish delusions.

My fingers dug into the wood of the picture frame as I imagined what my life would've been like if Obito hadn't ripped it all away. Every struggle, every lonely night, every time I wondered why no one was there for me—following me beyond the grave and here. Obito turned my life into a fight for something that shouldn't have been so damn hard to find after it slipped between my stubby, infantile fingers.

A family.

My breath came out ragged, and I realized I was trembling. I wanted to smash something, to destroy something the way he destroyed my life. The way he destroyed my parents. I forced myself to let go of the frame.

The photos were all I had left of them, and no matter how much I wanted to give in to the anger, I wouldn't let it take this away from me too because I had people I cared for; a sister in Ayame, a father in Teuchi, and a team of friends and a mentor who cared for me as family should.

Still, the rage wouldn't disappear, it wouldn't fade nor I didn't want it to.

I wouldn't let it.

It was the fire that drove me forward at the worst points of my life, the reason I fought so hard. One day, I'd make Obito pay for everything he'd taken from me, but for now, I'd keep these memories close and use them as a reminder of what I was fighting for.

After wandering through the house and finding little more than the remnants of a life left behind, I found myself standing at the door to the second study that I'd found. I hesitated for a moment, my hand resting on the worn wooden handle, before finally pushing it open. The room was small and cosy, with a single window letting in a soft beam of sunlight that lit up the dust particles in the air.

The shelves were lined with books—some old, some newer, all of them carefully arranged. A small desk sat nestled in the corner, cluttered with writing tools and an old, empty ink pot. Whoever it belonged to.

I stepped further into the room, running my fingers along the spines of the books—they were all pieces of fiction—until something caught my eye, its cover worn from years of use. I pulled it from the shelf, feeling the weight of it in my hands, and took a seat at the desk before opening it.

The first page that greeted me was a picture of my mum, younger and full of life, holding up a certificate and standing with a broad smile next to Dad after her graduation. As I flipped through the pages, the photos told a story of their lives together—training, laughing, sharing moments that were both mundane and extraordinary.

Like one where Dad lay flat against the ground, crushed under the weight of a blue, haori-clad toad—but it wasn't just pictures of them. The more I turned the pages, the more I saw my mother with other people, and more commonly, another woman, someone who looked familiar.

They were older in these photos than the ones from before with Dad, often caught in moments of laughter, sometimes sitting together under a tree or sharing a meal with other people. I kept flipping through, finding more photos of the two of them, until two folded pieces of paper slipped out from between the pages. One was a picture of my mother with the dark-haired woman I'd seen her in several photos with and another was a note, weathered and dog-eared, but still whole.

Leaning forward, I began to read:

"Mikoto's always been so good at remembering everything. It's like she has this perfect recall of all her best moments, and it drives me crazy sometimes. I guess that's the Uchiha for you with their special eyes. She doesn't need photos to remind her of the good times—she just remembers. I wish I could do that… just to keep its voice away. Maybe that's why I keep this book, so I don't forget all the love and laughter we've shared. Like Lady Mito said, sometimes, when things get tough, I look back at these pictures, and it fills me up from head to toe with… I can't even describe it."

I leaned back, realising with a start why I found the raven-haired woman so familiar: she was Mikoto Uchiha, Sasuke's mother. Tucking the photobook underneath my arm, I slipped the photo and note into my pocket and left the room as quietly as I entered it. Downstairs, I traced my fingers against the photos, stopping at one of Team 7.

A young Kakashi looked like he was in the middle of scoffing at an irate Obito. Dad had a hand atop both their heads with a helpless smile and Rin stood between them, twin peace signs flashing with an accompanying grin despite her friends' expressions.

"...Kakashi, huh?" I murmured, staring into his grey eyes, unscarred and alight instead of the damp pools they'd become.

I travelled, both certain and uncertain; I knew where I was going and what I wanted to do, but I didn't know how he would react. I didn't want to dredge up bad memories, but he was the last point of connection I had with my parents.

The last point of connection I had access to, so I entered the hospital through the shinobi entrance. The receptionist let me pass without a question and I murmured Lord Third thanks for it. Faint antiseptic lingered in the air, mingling with the soft hum of distant medical equipment. The walls were a calming shade of blue, with occasional framed prints of the village.

The floor beneath my feet was polished and almost too quiet, except for the muted footsteps of nurses and doctors as they moved about their duties. I stopped in front of the door to Kakashi's room. There was no one around, so I knocked on the door, not expecting any response.

"Come in," came his voice, muffled but cool.

I blinked and opened the door, heartbeat thrumming in my throat, walking into Kakashi's hospital room. There was a long, single bed placed by the window, sunlight coming through the translucent vertical blinds and making the room feel a bit less sterile.

Kakashi lay in bed, looking pale but calm. An IV drip was attached to his arm, and the beeping of the heart monitor was the only sound apart from the soft rustle of the blinds. The bed was neatly made with crisp white sheets, and there was a small table beside it with an Icha Icha book and an empty cup beside a jug of water.

The air smelled clean, with a hint of the plant's freshness from the pots on the windowsill. Kakashi shifted slightly and looked my way, offering a weak smile. It wasn't his usual grin, but it was enough to remind me of the person he was, even in this hospital room, and he still wore his mask despite it all.

"What can I do for you, Naruto?" he croaked.

I set the thick photobook on the visitor's chair on the other end of the table. "I can pour you a glass of water for one."

He pulled his mask down, taking a deep gulp from the glass. "...Thank you."

"You're welcome," I said, blinking.

"Didn't expect to see my handsome face so easily, did you?" he said, the crow's feet around his right eye wrinkling. "I usually keep a subtle genjutsu over anyone I'm around when I eat or drink. It makes it look like I have another mask under this one but I'm wiped—have been all week since we got back."

"What happened?" I asked, taking a seat and settling the photobook across my lap.

Kakashi shook his head. "It's classified."

I sighed. "Lord Third said as much. Can you tell me why you're in hospital at least?"

"Let's just say I used an ability that I haven't mastered and paid the price for it."

Taking the answer for the deflection it was, I nodded slowly. "...Okay."

"More interestingly," he said, pumping energy and cheer into his voice, "why the visit—not that I'm complaining. I've only had Sakura and Shino for company these past few days. Sasuke visited me once when I woke up and never again… my heart weeps!"

I shook my head, not sure what to make of his melodrama-worthy performance but I couldn't let the conversation go his way. After the house and last night's talk, I wasn't in the mood for anything except the truth, so I pushed the photobook across the table, moved the jug to the floor and opened it to a page.

Kakashi sat up immediately, eyes roaming over the pages and his fingers turned them, over and over, until he reached the end. He sighed, and the usual hidden regret in his eyes pushed to the surface in all its damp, pitiful glory.

"So… you know."

I nodded.

He bowed his head. "You must hate me for not being there for you."

"No more than I hate Lord Third for choosing the village over me." He flinched at the heat in my voice and I sighed. "I'm not… happy with your choices, how could I be? But… more than anything, I want to understand them."

"Well, what do you want to know?" he asked, shifting against the mountain of pillows at this back.

I tapped my chin—what did I want to know?

"Why?" I asked, more curious than upset. "Why didn't you reach out at all?"

He looked at the ceiling, mask still around his neck and sighed. "Why, huh? I… to be honest, I was afraid."

"...Why?" I repeated, frowning this time.

"Because you were like me." He looked at me then, and his grey eye hardened so much that I could swear it grew darker. "Always training—and you had that look in your eye too. That look that cared only about results because you had something to prove. I don't know what, but it was there."

I gulped, wincing at my dry, sore throat.

"I might not have been there, but I paid attention," he continued, looking through the vertical blinds this time. "Naruto, it hurt watching you push your friends away and put the second to your training because it's exactly what I did."

"...Is that why you didn't teach me?" I murmured, to myself in part.

Kakashi tilted his head. "Not completely. I found out about you and Asuma. In the few years he'd been training you, you learned to balance training with valuable friendship."

"But you could have still taught me as my jonin sensei," I pointed out. "I… wasn't the best friend, but I was learning, you know?"

"I could have," he agreed, "but on the off-chance that I stoked your worst impulses, I would have never forgiven myself… besides, I've failed too many people to add you to that list—your parents included."

…That was certainly something. I swallowed, not so much accepting his words as I tried to understand them. I was the least angry at Kakashi out of everyone in my life, which started and ended at Hiruzen. Jiraiya was my father's sensei, and my parents picked a name out of his book, but he wasn't my godfather.

All responsibility over me was on Lord Third's shoulders, as per my mother's dying breath and while I had no want for money, my childhood was no childhood at all.

And now, I knew why and I hated it… but I understood.

Kakashi had spent his life searching for reasons to continue beating himself over the head with guilt and something told me that if I allowed him to use me as yet another reason, he'd never stop.

"Life's not a single straight road," he continued, "and more often than not, it goes to unexpected places. You see, it's not my place to be your jonin sensei anymore, but that's life—it doesn't mean I can't help you out, though, so ask away. What else do you want to know? Not like I get many visitors these days..."

I smiled and leaned forward. "How was it? Learning from my father?"

"First thing's first, get me my flak jacket from the coat rack, will you? It's getting cold but I don't want to close the window."

I did as ordered, draping the green vest across his lap.

He blinked and then a hesitant smile twitched from the corner of his mouth, mask still draped around his neck. "It was… educational—yeah, that's how I'd best put it. I dunno, Naruto… there was so much… so much."

From there, it was perfectly smooth sailing. I don't know how long I sat across the table, listening to stories and cautionary tales about my mother and father. They were close with Kakashi for sure, but I didn't know they were that close. He told me of nights where they'd huddle around the living room and watch television with the rest of his genin team and the weekly dinners with as many as a dozen of their friends.

At the end of it, the regret returned to his eyes and the same emptiness settled deep inside me and I knew that we were both thinking the same thing.

"Hey," I said, eager to continue the positive conversation, "can you use the Rasengan?"

Kakashi blinked away the regret. "Why do you ask?"

"It's my dad's signature jutsu, right? I wondered whether you could use it too."

He nodded and I saw the ghost of smirk on his face. With a practised motion, he extended his hand and at first, there was nothing—a heartbeat of silence that made me feel like I'd made a fool of myself—but then, a delicate wisp of chakra began to swirl from his palm… right before a plum of smoke flooded out of his palm.

It cleared to reveal an orange book with an ever-popular title that had me slumping in disappointment.

"Behold!" Kakashi held out the book, bowing his head in reverence.

I sighed. "What do you have there, Kakashi-sensei?"

"Don't pretend you're unaware of the famed Icha Icha series, young man," he replied with a leer. "I'll have you know that this was your father's favourite edition. Now, I was going to give it to you when you made chunin—that's when Lord Third said he'd reveal your parents' identities to you—but you decided to be extra mature, so here you go."

My eyebrows crawled up to my hairline at the accusation—something told me my mother wouldn't let those books survive if she found them… unless he kept a stash?

"It's true… and now, I pass it on from father to son… safeguard it." Kakashi's voice was rich with admiration, "The book was a gift from your father… the best gift."

I accepted it gingerly. "…Thank you, Kakashi-sensei.

He chuckled. "When we're alone, Kakashi is fine, alright?"

I nodded dumbly, slipping the porno novel into the same pocket that held the key to my family home and then zipping up the pocket immediately.

"Naruto?"

I looked up.

"I need a favour from you—don't worry, it's not in return for the book," he clarified, sliding the mask back up his face. All the humour vanished off his face. "I'm… worried for Sasuke after our mission. Sakura and Shino tell me he's been avoiding them and, like I said earlier, he hasn't visited me since I woke up. I reckon he's pushing his friends away as a reaction to our failed mission."

"Okay," I digested the information with a slow nod. "What do you need?"

With his mask back up, the crow's feet around Kakashi's right eye crinkled with full effect. "If he's pushing his friends away, maybe his eternal rival can get through to him."

I raised an eyebrow. "For the record, I'm not going to wear a green jumpsuit."

He barked out a laugh at that. "I wouldn't ask that of anyone."

I shared a smile with him and rose out of my chair, tucking the thick photobook under my arm. "I'll see what I can do, Kakashi."

"That's all I ask," was his reply.

Out in the corridor, I opened the front cover out of curiosity—I'd never read an Icha Icha novel before—not even Ayame's secret stash. The inner front cover was empty, and where there should have been a foreword or something on the next page, I found careful penmanship… and a note assigned to me?

Taking a seat outside Kakashi's hospital room, I began to read:

"Dear Naruto,

Honestly, I don't when I'll give this to you and it'll never make up for the years that I wasn't there. I hope you can forgive me, but I'll give this to you anyway. Know that it's incomplete and that it falls to you and me to finish your father's magnum opus—though I've thrown in the towel, so it's all you, kid."

"No way," I breathed, my heartbeat quickening while I flicked through the book.

There wasn't a lick of smut or any prose fiction at all. Instead, I found careful instructions and margin-squeezed tips on learning and mastering the Rasengan and that wasn't even all. I flicked further ahead to a section marked by a dog-eared page and drank in its contents.

"...Furthering the Rasengan," I murmured, "the theory behind the Chidori."

After that, I couldn't read any further.

Slamming the book shut, I raced back into the hospital room, practically bursting through the door. Kakashi lay on his back, snoring loud and hard. I bowed deeply and spoke loud and clear, knowing that he definitely wasn't sleeping.

"Thank you, Kakashi. I'll do you proud."