One-Shot: While You're Gone
NejiShika
"Sometimes, when he was in this state, he could hear the whisper of a voice." How does a genius react to these circumstances? Is he even aware of his own actions?
A/N: It's been a while, hasn't it? This was written some time ago last year, in between waiting for classes to start. I sincerely hope you'll enjoy this little drabble, and if you can relate a bit, that's all I ask for.
It started out innocently enough. Every time he passed by the store, the sign tempted him.
Eventually, after passing by enough times, his will crumbled a little and he exited the store some while later with a pack of cigarettes in his hand. He stared, not really knowing what to do with the things.
He figured it out soon enough.
His black jacket hung on the chair. When he walked past it, he was reminded of the damp smell of rain clinging onto the clothes of the crowd; of the soft ground beneath his feet; of the pattering of rain drops against the leaves overhead.
He really should put that jacket away. It's been hanging there, unmoved, unworn save but for one time, and untouched for a month now.
He found himself digging into the pocket, and drew out the crumpled packet.
He coughed when he lit it and took in a breath. His eyes watered and he couldn't decide whether the lopsided curve of his lips counted as a real smile.
The first time, he went for the atmosphere. It was different, seeing the jounin of the village drunk half out of their minds, swaying dangerously and generally acting like academy kids.
The music worked to numb his ears as he sipped as his drink. He didn't know what it was, but it made him sleepy. He took out a lighter, and lit his cigarette. He didn't like the way it felt comfortable between his fingers, but he didn't stop.
Hours passed; the drink and the smoke burned his throat. He couldn't talk for a while after that.
He found it was surprisingly easy to skip breakfast. Maybe a cup of coffee now and then, quickly downed before he dashed out the door. He couldn't stomach the white rice and fish with miso soup that he had laid out for himself the first morning.
So he just went without.
He started by collecting a pillow.
He put it at the head of his bed and by next week, another had joined it. He couldn't help the strange habit and soon his bed was decorated in a manner comfortable enough for a king.
He slept in whenever possible. Sometimes he smoked, and his eyes watered from the fumes as he laid on his back, chest bare and body half tangled in the blankets. Sometimes, when he was in this state, he could hear the whisper of a voice.
It's been five months, but he's lost track of days and hours. Sometimes he just goes through the motions without really thinking of it all.
He was smoking again when the cigarette was ripped from his hand. He turned his head and found angry white eyes glaring at him.
He's pulled into a rough embrace. A familiar and comforting smell fills his nose – it's mixed in with a slight scent of dried blood and sweat.
"Can you not stop destroying yourself every chance you get, Shika?"
His arms are a bit numb, but after a second's hesitation, he wraps his arms around Neji – lightly at first but then he draws the other toward him in a bone-crushing hug.
Ah, was that what he was trying to do?
End