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From an early age on, Kakashi’s mirror image seemed to haunt him.
Strikingly pale skin in combination with a singular charcoal eye staring at him, only contrasted by the bright crimson in the other socket, a pair of pink lips sitting below and tugged downward and toward the deep black mole standing out from his skin. His chin was as though chiseled by Kami, a product of avid training he indulged in every passing day and night, his muscles trained until they could not improve anymore, creating a sharp jawline. Atop his head sat the most prominent of his features, hair so silver it took on a new glow in the sunlight, streaks of gray mixed in between to give it a richer color, one that stood out even among busy crowds.
There was no denying it, the Copy Cat Ninja was a man with a unique appearance, one that drew the attention of those crossing paths with him immediately, leaving them to never forget the man. His appearance was one that many considered flawless, the obsidian mask he wore on his face was considered to do him a favor more than anything. People regardless of their gender found the man attractive, as though he were a magnet pulling everyone in close proximity toward him, to admire the man of extraordinary beauty.
The man with the Sharingan was a sight for sore eyes for both allied and opposing sides. The tomoe of his Sharingan eye swirled lazily as his body moved ever so swiftly, too quickly for his opponent to even take note of. His muscles were as taut as a bow when not slouching, able to overcome even the most straining of challenges through decade-long training. They merely strained as he climbed the mountainsides of the village, hanging onto one arm with the other tied behind his back. Sweat would glisten his body and make silver strands of his hair stick to his forehead.
He had more than enough admirers, of which he was well aware. They followed him day and night, crossed one boundary after the other to have him hear their countless proclamations of love, oh so vain, he knew them to be. It was his looks combined with the reputation he had built for himself which had people lust after him, their wildest fantasies starring him, and him only.
And yet, in spite of what other people thought of him, Kakashi’s mirror image had his stomach churning upon sight, feeling as though at any moment the remnants of his breakfast might crawl up his throat and push past his pink lips.
Because the face he saw in the mirror every day was not his own, no, but rather, the one of his deceased father.
From the various stories the also silver-haired man had told his son during his times of living, Kakashi knew his reputation to be similar to that of his father when the man had been younger. As his son would later be, Sakumo had been a man of attraction, a man who captivated those who walked past him, pulling their attention to him without a word or action, merely by his presence alone.
During his living times, the man had strikingly pale skin, paired with a matching pair of charcoal eyes that appeared to burn so brightly back in the day, but had dulled to turn a shade akin to coal as he grew older. A pair of pink lips sat below his nose, more often than anything tugged upward into a gentle smile, with no dark mole in sight. As he would later pass down, his chin too was very defined and sharp-looking, and that of a well-trained man, a man who took his occupation as a man of the village rather seriously. In his younger days, a mop of silver hair had sat atop his head, as unruly as it could be. In later years the man had grown it out to become a longer mane, often tied into a tight ponytail that only had the grey streaks in his hair stand out more, giving his hair a new glow in the sunlight.
There had been no denying that the White Fang of the Leaf was a man with a unique appearance, one that captivated and practically demanded the attention of those who came in contact with the man. The man was not easily forgotten, but rather remembered for his appearance of people of all genders, finding themselves pulled toward him, as though he were a magnet.
Throughout most stages of his life, Kakashi truly was his father’s son, it was a fact he was unable to change, no matter how much he tried.
Growing out his hair hadn’t done the silver-haired any favors during his first years in the Anbu. Rather, he discovered that with his hair grown out to past his shoulders, he looked more like his father than he wanted to, more like a perfect reflection of the man whom he held a grudge toward than an individual of his own. Not even a photograph could catch such a likeness of the late Sakumo as young Kakashi did, their features and appearance equal.
No matter how hard he tried to, Kakashi could never forget the face of his father as it was the same as his own, as though they were mere copies of one another, appearance-wise the same person. Unintentionally, they were more alike than either of them could have ever predicted, or avoided in the case of Kakashi. With each day passing, he grew more to be his father, more to be the man who left him, and more to be who he wanted to be as a child.
He wasn’t sure when he had stopped viewing his father as a hero and inspiration, a role model for himself. Whether it had been prior to or following his untimely death, Kakashi could not recall. Memories of what happened during his life were often blurred by the grief he felt, his emotions too much, numbing him even.
Kakashi hid one-half of his facial features behind a black mask, under which more than enough people have wanted to take a peek already. He had always told them off, fear settling deep into his bones that one day someone would mistake him for his father, the man he desperately tried to forget. The other half of his features he now hid behind a porcelain mask which a hound drawn upon it. The mask gave him the chance he needed to hide from the world, hide even the smallest hints of emotions away and become a puppet following orders, someone who did weigh his emotions into decisions, someone not easily swayed.
And yet, once the only Hatake returned home from the long mission, sweat, dirt, grime, and unidentifiable fluids covered and stained his whole body, hiding in every crevice possible, the masks he wore to protect himself he eventually had to remove. His fingers shook as they held onto the Anbu mask before he removed it carefully, placing it down on the cold floor by the sink. Underneath the mask, his face was just as dirty as the rest of his body, even his mask appearing darker than it did before he had left the village. Pulling down that mask, however, cost him more nerve than he would ever admit that it did. It was a painfully slow process, one that had his nerves burning him alive and his eyes fluttering shut, not wanting to face the image in the mirror.
Because as Kakashi pulled down his final face covering to reveal the face underneath, even with how dirtied his face was, it still held familiarity to the face he was so desperate to forget. The dirt did not make his features indistinguishable, and neither did it blur them into something different, into something new. Even underneath all the grime and dirt, Kakashi still wore a face akin to that of his father.
His mirror image would forever remain the only portrait of his father that Kakashi could never destroy.