Mamoru stood at the gate of the Ninja Academy. He looked listless, squinting as he paused to tilt his head toward the sky.
A breeze carried a few fallen leaves that brushed gently through his hair and the hem of his clothes. The summer cicadas shrilled in his ears, adding to the languid mood.
A moment later, as though accepting his fate, he reined in his wandering gaze and resolutely stepped through the academy gate.
In the empty corridor, his light footsteps sounded. From a classroom on one side came the teacher's droning voice, and the scene gave him the illusion of walking down a corridor of time and a faint, familiar wistfulness welled up inside.
He shook his head, flinging away memories that didn't belong to this world, a flicker of melancholy crossing his face. He had to face reality—this was now the world of ninja.
Without further thought, he went straight to his classroom door, and pulled it open without hesitation, face fearless.
Clatter!
On the podium, Fatty-sensei explaining Chakra composition broke off mid-sentence. He frowned at Mamoru in the doorway and pointed irritably outside.
Mamoru, a seasoned veteran in such matters, understood instantly, and even wore a told-you-so look. With another clatter, he neatly shut the door.
He'd done this plenty of times, standing in the corridor was nothing.
Of course, he wasn't going to be that obedient. Mamoru stretched, and sat cross-legged on the floor. He slipped off his backpack and set it beside him, ears pricked for any sign the teacher might come out on patrol.
When the bell ending class finally rang, he was hauled to the staff room.
Standing there while Fatty-sensei lectured him, Mamoru felt drowsy and couldn't take in a word.
At long last the next-period bell rang. He exhaled in relief and walked out looking liberated.
Back in the classroom, he dragged himself to his seat, and collapsed over the desk the instant he sat down, unwilling to move a muscle.
"Hey, why were you late today? And..." Shikamaru tilted his head, voice drowsy, while glancing at the faint scrape on Mamoru's cheek.
"What happened to your face?"
"Mothing." Mamoru buried his head in his arms, voice muffled and listless.
"Three strays chased me on the way here and one nipped me."
Shikamaru withdrew his gaze, shifted to a more comfortable pose, propped his chin on one hand and closed his eyes. "That joke's not funny. You fought someone. Such a pain."
Mamoru lifted his head, shot him a glance, forced a smile, and added an exaggerated flattery, "Haha, as expected of our clever Shikamaru-sama—spot on. Too bad there's no prize."
"Tch, I can clearly hear the mockery in your voice." Shikamaru half-opened one eye.
"Can't you stay out of trouble?"
"Please, Fatty-sensei's lecture already makes me nauseous."
Mamoru waved a hand and teased back, "Where's your troublesome philosophy?"
Shikamaru sighed, closed his eyes again, and muttered, "You… keep this up and you'll pay for it one day."
Mamoru wanted to retort, then thought better of it. He merely gave a non-committal smile, the glint in his eyes showing he didn't take the warning to heart.
Just then, the teacher re-entered and shot them a warning look.
Mamoru and Shikamaru snapped upright. Provoking the tiresome man meant endless nagging.
Time flew.
The lunch bell rang at last.
The moment the teacher left, Mamoru stretched, rolled his stiff neck, and casually slipped into the empty seat beside Sasuke.
"What good stuff for lunch?" He nudged Sasuke with an elbow, looking hopeful.
Without lifting his eyes, Sasuke took out several neatly leaf-wrapped rice balls and silently placed them on the desk in front of Mamoru.
"Eh! Rice balls again?" Mamoru dragged out the words, disappointment plain on his face, though the two simple rice balls showed care had been taken.
"And I got my hopes up."
Sasuke finally looked up, and gave him a cold glance, voice chilly. "You're eating food someone worked hard to make. Yet you complain? If you don't want them, forget it."
As he spoke, he produced a dark thermos, poured a cup of barely steaming barley tea, and slammed it down in front of Mamoru with a thud, his face twisted in disgust—a stark contrast between action and expression.
"Eat! Who said I wouldn't?"
Mamoru snatched a rice ball and bit off a huge mouthful, chewing the cold yet still soft rice while giving Sasuke a meaningful sideways glance.
"I'm only saying I'd like a change now and then, maybe a deluxe tempura bento. Something to show my poor tongue and stomach a little kindness."
Sasuke had meant to ignore the shameless guy, but couldn't help asking, "Did you get into a fight? Those bruises on your face..."
Mamoru replied, unconcerned, "Nothing serious, just a few bugs."
Sasuke growled, irritated by Mamoru's indifference, "Let me warn you—don't disgrace the Uchiha name."
Mamoru shot him a deadpan look, thinking, 'What's left to disgrace? If Hiruzen hadn't promised Itachi to keep you safe, we'd both be eyeless and six feet under by now.'
"Mamoru, someone's looking for you!" A classmate shouted from the classroom doorway.
Mamoru snapped out of it and glanced toward the entrance, he could already guess what it was about. In this world, puppy love started young.
As one of the class focal points, he was treated to another round of stares.
He wasn't in a hurry, though. Swallowing the last of his rice, he licked a finger and teased Sasuke, "Hope they don't mix us up again like last time."
Sasuke answered coolly, "Tch. Boring."
Though the two looked identical, the hairstyles gave them away: Mamoru's was a fraction shorter, messier.
Anyone who knew them could tell by attitude and voice alone.
Sasuke was aloof, perpetually icy, keeping the world at arm's length.
Mamoru was laid-back, a hedonist, every move dripping careless ease and inexplicable confidence.
He took a sip of hot tea and, instead of standing, called to the doorway, "Tell her I'm eating—no time."
That's how a real man rolls.
Finishing the rice ball, Mamoru drained the last of his tea.
Clack—
The cup hit the desk with a sharp sound.
Sasuke glared.
Mamoru gave an awkward chuckle and slipped back to his seat. He'd barely sat down before a faint rustle sounded beside him.
He turned: a petite figure stood in the aisle.
"Th-thank you." Hinata bowed abruptly, voice soft but clear.
Straightening, she offered both hands: one held a tiny porcelain bottle, the other his 'holy sword'—the makeshift projectile he'd tossed earlier.
The bottle looked like healing ointment.
Mamoru stared at the sword, conflicted.
Could she be any more innocent? Was retrieving the thing really necessary?
The commotion quickly drew the girls' attention. Spotting the bruise at Mamoru's lip, they realized this was prime affection-farming territory. Within moments, several sprinted out—no doubt to fetch medical supplies.
Mamoru scratched his head and said, "No need to thank me. You've got it wrong. I just happened to walk by, didn't like those three punks, and felt like a fight—pure coincidence."
Hinata glanced up, then quickly down again at his bruise. "But… you're hurt."
Mamoru waved his hand. "This scratch? It's nothing."
Hinata said nothing more, just keeping her hands steady, trembling. Head lowered, her thin shoulders quivered until he sighed, "Fine."
He took the bottle, reclaimed his 'holy sword', and asked, "Happy now?"
"Mm…" She murmured, fingers nervously twisted together.
Mamoru couldn't see her face, but her tension was palpable.
His eye twitched. He clearly had no talent for dealing with this type, yet still managed a quiet, "Thanks."
Hinata gave a small shake of her head, then scurried back to her seat.