"I think maybe the orange one looks good on you," she tells him, without blushing, "It's your favorite color, isn't it?"
"Well, you know, yeah," he says, wrapping the scarf around his throat, "But - Shikamaru said I have to be more, uh, diplomatic? More, presentable! More presentable, you know. Like a politician, he said."
"A politician? Th-"
"Yeah! I thought I'd try it out, tonight, you know? I sorta need to do a good job next week."
"You'll be great! You'll be great next week."
Rubbing the back of his head, Naruto laughs a small, string of a laugh. He feels Kurama bristling, annoyed, woken up by his uncertainty.
"I promise you'll be great," she says, grabbing his left arm, tightening her grip around the prosthesis; it's too smooth, hairless, without muscle, like rubber, so she smiles up at him, a winning smile, a nindo smile, his favorite smile, "Hanabi just wears her favorite things and smiles a lot, when she goes to those - parties."
"I'm a grown-up though, you know."
She purses her lips-
"Can I ask your dad for help?"
She blinks, she shakes her head - no. He grins at her, all teeth and whiskers, and she pushes her face into his scarf, letting him grin into her hair, long and dark and reflective like a river at night. He smells her shampoo, cherry and soap.
Kurama forces himself back to sleep. Naruto laughs.
"What?"
"It's nothing."
They stand like that, pressing into each-other. All the immortal sadnesses, the rat-maze of childhood, the leaden treason of orphanhood - these things re-emerge and are defeated against her presence, her body, her unspoken warmth.
Lifting her chin with his bandaged fingers, he closes the distance between their faces. A moment passes full of molasses, faraway music.
"You taste like red bean paste."
She blushes. He laughs. Closing her mouth, she follows him out the door, as if tied by string.
— — —
Beneath the hospital sheets, his body lies narrow and flat like a wooden board. Thinning legs, forearms, wrists; gnarled fingers, knuckles. His skeleton seems to press against his skin, as though trying to escape. His eyes are black, half-open.
He is a retired Chunin, a survivor of the Great War, which he referred to, up until two weeks ago when he last breathed on his own, as the 'most recent war'. Bitter fighting humor, until the end. That was his final act of pride.
Words always stung her, his doctor. She is a decorated war veteran too, a Jonin, renown as a medical genius, and one of the six still living humans that did not experience Infinite Tsukoyomi. How many friends did she make and lose in those two, three days?
The thought plays in her mind, so she folds it, making it smaller, until it becomes invisible. She is at work; she keeps working, testing his pulse, turning knobs on the machines keeping him alive, adjusting the white drapes so that they fall in a nicer, more pleasing way.
"Doctor?"
It's the new nurse, a Genin, not even drinking age. Sakura knows her voice, already. A small, dark-violet voice, a voice always asking questions, always bowing slightly at the start of conversations. Something like a pinprick hits Sakura's brain, a small jag of annoyance, then - a small jag of forgiveness.
"Yes, what is it," she asks, turning away from the drapes. The nurse stands there, dressed in white, carrying a clipboard. Everything is white. Sakura's long white coat. The nurses' cream-white smocks and scrubs, the white papers on the clipboard. The off-white hospital sheets, the white mattress, the white tiled floors, the translucent white drapes. Even the fluorescent bulbs cast a white-beige color, unmarred by normal scatter, just a solid spread of soundless textureless light.
"The director said we - that it might be time to unplug," she gets the words out, pushing them through closed teeth, squinted eyes. Sakura folds her arms, shifts weight to the other foot. The nurse flinches.
"I agree."
He lies there, breathing, wheezing, unsure of the world around him, unable to know what is being discussed about him. He is an absolute, crippled by unconsciousness. Hooked up to machines, monitors, screens, and tanks. All this humming, buzzing, electronic noise. All the beeping, and whirring, and murmuring, and bubbling. Packs of blood hang from poles, in clear plastic bags, snaking into his arms via needles. A breathing tube, with it's forked tongue, sits perpetually in his nose, with a mask over his mouth… When is it still life, when does it become life? He has no chance of seeing, speaking, having consciousness. His experience of the world, currently and for the rest of his days, is the same as those who are dead and those who are not yet born, not yet conceived, not yet thought of. He does not possess will, he does not possess fire.
Sakura presses her thumbs against her temples, squeezes.
"Do it, now. It's time. The coma's lasted too long, now, weeks, more… You'll need the extra bed, tonight. It's Saturday. You'll need the bed."
"Are, you sure?"
"It's the right thing to do, it's the - compassionate - thing to do," Sakura adds, injecting a bit of husk into her tone, a bit of maternal authority. She is only twenty, but she is asked questions of. Younger nurses come to her for help and guidance. Three Genin consider themselves her pupils. Chunin follow her orders. She is one of the famous Konoha Eleven, the little cabal of war heroes that closed ranks around the Sixth Hokage.
This is something Sakura, daily, must remind herself of. Her own fame, her own authority. Kunoichi are an increasingly powerful force, with three Kage in the most recent generations, whose presence in society still threatens and frightens the oldguard. She thinks of her friends who will marry and have children, relegated to the household, lauded for becoming full-time mothers, respected for giving up their careers, their aspirations, their talents. But - is that something Sakura wants, too? Is there anything wrong with becoming a mother, a wife? Or maybe this is not the place for that, in the hospital, at work, at the bed of a dying veteran.
"Okay," Sakura says, more to herself than the Genin, "Its time. You know how to do it, right?"
Nodding, the nurse grabs the man's forearm, unsealing the white bandages - then, she stops to pray. Sakura waits, arms folded, watching. The girl's eyes close shut, her hands cease trembling, her jaw tightens, and something settles into the room, something languid and muted and assured.
"Okay," the nurse says, opening her eyes, "Okay," she repeats, pulling the bandage off the rest of the way in a snap, revealing the residual glue framing the puncture wound, the reddish bruised hole. Grabbing hold of the syringe's base, the nurse presses then pulls, sliding the needle out in a slow, sure manner, with deliberate crescendo. The wound does not bleed, anymore. It is pale, pink, flushed, drained - and it smells like rotten leaves, burned rubber.
"The respirator, next," Sakura commands. Blinking several time, biting her lower lips, concentrating, the nurse kneels down by the oxygen tank, turns the dial, unplugs the tube - there is an exhaling sound, a hissing, like wind sucking through a pinhole. Then, a kind of armistice, an interpersonal peace treaty. The room is white and well-lit and noiseless.
Standing, folding her hands over her waist, she watches the man as his body strives to breathe with what little organic will remains. It looks pitiful.
Life clings, even to the dead. Maggots surround bodies; decay is the passing of life, substance, food. Even a body without respiration, without working lungs, heart, kidneys, or liver, will struggle in the unappealing ugly way we all always struggle: in the body way, in the way of sweat, rippling fat, ape-like clumsiness. Life wants to happen, and when it cannot happen, when it finally submits, it scatters, giving itself to the next bodies.
Until then - the animal of death, it snarls and snaps and bites. Dying is never a beautiful thing. Always, it is a thing of shit and piss and blood, of vomit and taut skin and crumbling nails, of splintering bones and clumps of hair. The noble part of dying comes from the viewers, the audience of your death, and it comes from the way you lived, the choices you made, the people you saved. This man, here, in the bed, was a veteran of the most deadly war in Shinobi history. A survivor, embittered, genial, prone to sullen bouts of pride. Now, he shakes, gasps and gurgles from the throat; turning off.
"Oh - oh God," the nurse whispers, looking down at her hands, clutching her fingers, twisting her knuckles. Quick, like wind, Sakura steps over, lifting her girl's chin.
"This man lived well. He dies fighting like a Shinobi should. Don't you dare deny him his final dignity, don't disrespect him by looking away."
The nurse stands up straighter, watching. Sakura swoops down to the bedside, placing her forefingers on the man's upturned wrist… His pulse is as dry as a clock without a second hand. She can feel him dying, that's what the rhythm of his blood says. Somewhere, a phone rings, buzzing once, letting out a single chirp. A text message. Sakura bows her head, destroys herself, reaches inside her pocket, turns it off.
His eyes, black and encrusted, do not close. A week from now, after they bury him at the Graveyard of Heroes, the Genin nurse will not eat lunch at the hospital cafeteria. She will feel small amidst the thousands of white stone-heads; she will vow to never again bow her head in shame.
— — —
A door slams, down the hall, like a bark. "I miss my dog," he mutters, changing the channel. It's an informercial; two citizens with big white smiles, wearing floral gowns, beg the viewers to buy embroidered shuriken packs; they come with 'iron fence' and 'cherry blossom' patterns.
He sips; he smells the hops, the sour, the foam and the type of metal the decanter was made of. He changes the channel; he smells the sulphur snap inside the Tv set, the copper wires, the black plastic and glass.
It's a cartoon about martial arts; the main character is a little orphan kid learning all three basic types of Fire Country Taijutsu: Strong Fist, Gentle Fist, and Monk Fist; she learns these styles from outrageous senseis who conjure ridiculous tasks for her to complete, such as running around the city five thousand times on just your hands.
He sips; he blinks.
The lights in his apartment are dark; the bulbs burnt out two, three weeks ago; he smells their blackened filaments, their residue gas.
He changes the channel; he sips; he blinks. It's the news; he turns up the volume; the newscasters look handsome, beautiful in a rigid and sterile way, as if made of angles. There's a construction project in the Grass, they're adding a new wing to Hozuki Castle, to be named after the previous warden; it will house refugee criminals only.
He sips.
There's a merger between two companies, both involved in manufacturing trains and train-lines, the ceremony held in the sunny Rain City. One CEO has investing stock in the Fire Iron Mines while the other CEO was named to the Fire Capital Relocation board. The two of them, both old, balding and war-less, shake hands, smoke cigars, wave to crowds, and cut a ribbon in front of a train station; the new line will be called Konan's Line, in honor of their martyr angel.
He sips, blinks, grabs the remote, and smells the battery acid inside the black plastic, the rubber buttons, the copper and wire.
The news is 'breaking', they say; a protest has pushed past the gates of the Fire Daimyo's mansion, the crowd spills into the front courtyard, the gardens full of violets and statues, the massive front steps; protestors hold signs, blow horns, shout and scream and yell, pounding fists on the front door; it's unclear what they're angry about, but they're burning an effigy of the First Hokage; then, one of the mansion windows shatters, a rock was thrown - all hell breaks loose, smoke and firecrackers and riotous noise, shields, mace and bottles; then - in an instant - the crowd falls asleep in unison; one of the Twelve Ninja Guardian stands at the top of the stairs, hands drawn in the Tiger sign.
He sips.
The news turns off, goes to commercial; it's a plush toy kunai, it comes in pink, orange, and green, with plans to add new colors, a full rainbow of colors, within the year.
He sips, sips and changes the channel. A jazz band plays in a dark blue club somewhere in the Land of Waves; the lead musician wears dark black sunglasses, with a saxophone shaped like a brass tuna, and a voice like an animal, all feral and erotic instinct. The music fills his head, transforms him into someone he doesn't quite recognize.
He changes the channel, sips, then sips. It's a pastor, on a stage, somewhere in a town hall near the Nara Forest, preaching about the Will of Fire; bald head gleaming, sweating, running a napkin through the sweat, eyes bulging with fervor and heat, fingers thick like pork, and the voice is a garble, a megaphone; the preacher says - "Know thyself, love thy neighbor, hate thy enemy!" - all these 'thys', its always 'thy' this and 'thy' that; he coughs, scratches his chin, scent of his own saliva, his own stomach acid, and the preacher keeps talking, spitting, veins bulging, diaphragm bursting, and -
He changes the channel, sips. The newscaster makes a pun, she smiles at him through the television, her teeth are bright and straight; he lifts his chin in greeting, tips the bottle her way. He feels like himself, again.
Then, he sips, he sips, and touches the red tattoos on his face; it was a clan thing, something cultural; his mother cut them into his skin when he was four, five. A long time ago, now, and long before the war, or exactly ten or eleven or twelve years before the war. What is the difference between 'a long time ago' and 'this many years ago?' He doesn't know, but the thought plagues him, punctures him, steals him away. His apartment smells like beer, and spit, and dog hair, and asbestos, and lead paint, and the alley outside where the cats gather to rummage and pilfer and hold their little meetings, their Catkage Summits: he laughs, he laughs and stops laughing.
He sips; he changes the channel. Static. White and black static haze, the noise is soothing, the noise is good, so he sips, sips and sips.
— — —
She does not linger to watch them wheel the corpse down to the morgue. Instead, she turns her phone back on, and peers at herself in the black mirror, her hair parted down the middle, her sharp green eyes, the crease of overwork crossing her face. I have a diametric face, she thinks, with a well-sized forehead and the little purple diamond, a symbol of power, a symbol of strength and resilience and control. Yes, she remembers, I am controlled, deliberate, permanent, and marketable. This is something she tells herself.
In four letters, she swears; a passing resident doesn't glance over his back; she likes the way he doesn't look at her even though he's younger than her, weaker than her, and just a Genin. She's always found repudiation, coupled with confidence bordering on dysfunction, slightly pornographic. There's something lovely about disrespect - in the right context. This is not the right context, the hospital, but he is already down the hall, around the corner, and to chase him down, now, and call him out for not acknowledging her presence, no salute, no nod of the head - she is the highest-ranked doctor in this military hospital, after all - to do that, now, would simply result in gossip, in secret slander, and the slow betrayal of every young woman here… the older ones would understand, maybe? She is unsure. She is sure. Yes, they would understand; Tsunade and Shizune would understand, but they would tell her something like 'earn respect with your skills' which, she feels, she has already done. Hasn't she? At thirteen, she brought a fish back to life, was taken in by the world's greatest doctor. At fourteen, she was promoted, expected to lead medical teams, regularly saved lives, limbs, on missions. At fifteen, she cured an incurable poison and was lauded by Suna's most respected healer. At sixteen, she saved the life of Hyuuga Hinata, along with several others, during Konoha's worst disaster. At seventeen, she helped lead the Medical Regiment in the Great War, she saved countless lives doing meatball surgery while selfish little soldiers confessed their love to her. At nineteen, she healed both the body and heart of the world's strongest shinobi, helping - again - to save the world. And, now, she is in the process of founding her own hospital, a children's mental health ward. You'd think, somewhere between all the lobbying on behalf of compassion, the saving of lives every single day of her life, and the locking down her own heart in order to continue saving lives and lobbying - you'd think, somewhere in all that, she'd gain a little respect from these young, somewhat handsome Genin men wearing scrubs a size too small, strutting up and down the hospital hallways, as if becoming a doctor is a thing of celebrity rather than compassion, as if becoming a doctor is a thing of money rather than honor.
Oh well, she mutters, hugging her knees in tight, checking her phone. It hums in her palm, the screen stings her eyes. A text from Ino: Everyones meting at Sheeps!
Another text from Ino: *meeting LOL
Another text from Ino: Cum to Sheeps!1!?
Another text from Ino: srsly !
Another text from Ino: Sheeeeaeep's!
Five more texts, she doesn't read them. Ino, Ino, unknown, Naruto, and Ino.
Slipping her phone into her pocket, Sakura folds her arms, rests her head against the wall, and closes her eyes. Eyelid darkness always, somehow, turns pink; it only takes two-and-a-half minutes. As the memories swell, she -
Her pager goes off. Someone is dying. She runs down the hall because down the hall someone is dying.
— — —
The fridge is empty, except for cardboard and aroma. That damp smell, and whiff of onion rind, livered carrots, and chinese takeout. Even though the fridge is empty, the odors remain. Nothing is hidden from him. He smells every single thing he has put in this fridge since he moved in after the war, and he smells most of the things his predecessor put in the fridge, too. Milk, although he hasn't bought milk in months. Pizza and frost, pepperoni, cheddar, tomato sauce, bread, and all the litany of preservatives. Rotten kale, which he never bought, and sour cream, which he has never bought, and sweet rolls, which he buys most night at the corner-store. He also smells the lightbulb, the filament, the glass, the gas, the copper. He smells the freezer, with it's ice and coils and the blue pack thing. And, he smells the plastic of everything, the types of plastic, the concoctions of plastic. Nothing is hidden from him. The fridge is empty, except for cardboard - and he smells the cardboard, slightly damp - an empty cardboard case; it's emptiness inside of emptiness. Emptiness doesn't smell like anything, though; emptiness is odorless and facile.
Closing the door, he lingers on the kitchen tiles, hands stuffed in his pockets. His faces itches, where the hair grows, his chin and cheeks and neck. The bad thoughts start to creep in, he smells the mortar-fire, the blood-soaked trees, and the iconic formaldehyde of the Zetsu.
In one swing of motion, he grabs his phone, his keys, puts on his coat - and all those scents, too, come at him, the threading, the sour beer stains, the metal of the keys, the plastic in the phone, the dog-hair - and he opens the door, closes it, locks it, and leaves down the hall.
He smells all the neighbors, their sex, their dinners, their work odors.
From his pocket, he pulls a plastic tube, uncaps it, holds it up to his nose - ginger - and snorts. All the odors in the world disappear at once, leaving him in breathable isolation. Finally, everything is hidden from him. His back straightens, his chin rises, something like mischief creeps into his grin, his fangs, his devil eyes.
He walks down the hall, down the stairs, out the door of the building, into the streets, where nothing smells like anything anymore, and he follows the map in his head, the memorized motions, all the way there.
Back at home, the television is still on, murmuring, flickering, illuminating the couch and all the cap-less empty bottles cluttering his coffee table.
— — —
"Just texted her. I think she's at work, though."
…
"Hinata," he says, and she turns to look at him. She'd been staring at a fence-post where, last week, she saw, somebody had sprayed their name in graffiti, all bulb-ish and blue font, like cotton candy, but then, today, or yesterday, somebody else, probably a city employee, had painted over it in a slightly off-color paint than the fence itself, leaving just a gray square.
"Naruto," she says, and a smile slips onto his face. Her face is pale and beautiful. Her people came from the moon, "I-"
"Hey, Hey, I was just thinking, we should - uh, would you want to head towards the Utatane District, tonight, right now?"
"- what's happening over there?-"
"Some of the guys are meeting up at a bar… Sheep's! You remember Sheep's? Kiba'll be there. Ino, too. And - uh, maybe Sakura, some of the others, you know."
She blinks, looks off in the direction, northeast. The Utatane District lies where the Chunin Exams stadium used to be, before it was destroyed.
"I mean-" he starts, and she looks at him, her eyes are big and pale and all-knowing, he talks faster, "I know your limit is sort of low, you know, but you don't have to drink, obviously, you know," and he laughs.
"It's fine, I like drinking, too, just not as much as Kib-"
"Right. Yeah. Right!"
"Are you okay, Naruto?"
"Hmm? I'm fine. Im fine! Sorry. I'm fine, though. I'm just worried about next week. I shouldn't be worried though, 'cause I'll do great."
She folds her hands in front of her, standing, waiting by the fence-post. She looks almost porcelain, under the moonlight. Deep and low, Kurama growls, mutters something ancient, obscene. Was it a joke? Kurama doesn't make jokes. He only judges, seduces, and gives advice.
Naruto clears his throat, its been like that ever since he swallowed that crow, "I think Sakura will be there, eventually. I know Ino will."
"I'll go, c'mon, lets go see our friends," she says, taking his real arm. As they walk, the street-lamps flicker.