I don't know why–maybe it's the fact that I was sick as a dog when I started watching the dubs of the Retrieve Sasuke arc and therefore found Kimimaro extremely appealing or what, but now all of a sudden I've just fallen head over heels over his character. And so the other day, when I remembered those episodes of Scrubs with (I think his name was) Dave, the guy who's always walking around with an I.V. and saying things like, "Wow, I used to have a nose," or something else ridiculously silly because he had Walking Corpse Syndrome, I just couldn't help but think about Kimi-kun and how fitting it was. Him moving on sheer will and all that. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized I was in for a plot if I added Juugo into the mix! And Juugo did have mental problems as well! This would work!!

Ahem, pardon my giddiness.

This fic is going to be rather difficult, mainly because the mental disorder in this fic is so incredibly rare. I have only been able to look at one case study over Cotard's syndrome so far, and the rest have all been secondary accounts.

Cotard's syndrome–also known as Walking Corpse Syndrome–is difficult to describe. It can result after a brain injury or even after sinking into the lowest levels of depression. There's nothing that has been reported to work, although in four studies, electroconvulsive therapy has worked. Whether this is related to severe depression (electroconvulsive therapy is used in severe cases of depression) or not is still debatable. The rarity of the syndrome makes it difficult to treat and study effectively, so I'm just winging it. The biggest thing I've resorted to studying in detail are antipsychotics. (That means the drug mentioned in this can also be used for other things like bipolar isorder, OCD, .)

Well…this is also my first Kimimaro-centered fic, and I happen to like the whole friendship between him and Juugo–the one mentioned in Shippuuden–, but I felt like it'd be nice to actually do a yaoi pairing for them. And that's where this fic is going to eventually go. (There needs to be more KimiJuu, damn it! D:)

It's AU, and centered around a mental institution, so expect to see a few other members of the Sound Five making an appearance, maybe even Gaara.

Alive
Chapter One – The Diagnosis

My parents weren't…loving. To be honest, they rarely knew what to do with me so they just sent me to a relative's house for the weekend. I couldn't blame them, really. They weren't used to kids, and they often said they hated kids. I couldn't complain, of course. They hated kids, and I was a kid, so therefore they hated me. It was that simple.

…That is, until I started to get sick.

The second I started feeling drained and hollowed out from the inside, too sick to even get out of bed, they finally decided they wanted me around. Instead of taking me to the hospital, they kept me at home. It wasn't until my condition took a turn for the worse that they finally called the ambulance and sent me to the hospital.

They tried to resuscitate me numerous times. I hadn't woken up when my parents tried to wake me up, and by the end of the day I finally opened my eyes, but by then it was too late: When I opened my eyes, I saw the world through a shroud, a fog. I had a purpose before then. I couldn't remember what it was, but it was there. When I woke up…it had left. I had no purpose, no reason to exist. My purpose no longer existed…I no longer existed.

That was the day I died.

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"Kimimaro, you need to eat."

The nurse slid the tray toward him, anxiously saying, "Your parents are coming to visit you. You need to eat so we can tell them you've made some progress." She grabbed a spoon and forced it into his hand, pointing at the mashed food all over his plate–a substance he wouldn't even need to chew when he put it in his mouth for sustenance.

He lifted his pale face toward her, eyebrows knitting together. "My stomach decomposed months ago. It's useless to eat this…even if it is mashed up beforehand…" He looked down at the food, pursing his lips together. "I cannot digest this. It is…unnecessary."

The nurse huffed and walked off, leaving it in front of him in hopes that he would smell it and his appetite would return. As she left, she walked into the hallway, down the corridor until she reached a large door. She pushed against it roughly–the door was heavy–and forced her way in, setting her clipboard onto the desk she approached.

"Doctor, the patient's condition seems to have worsened. The pills aren't working. He's still exhibiting symptoms of schizophrenia. What do you suggest we do?"

The doctor looked at her, clearing his throat and folding his hands under his chin. "Which patient is worsening? How has it worsened…?"

She sighed. "Kimimaro, Doctor. Now he says he has no stomach so he can't eat. Last week it was his teeth, this week he says his stomach decomposed months ago. He has no concept of time, just like always, but now he refuses to eat!"

The man smiled, releasing his hands from his chin and pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He stood, taking the clipboard off the table and peering it over. Finally, after a few moments of deliberation, the pale-haired man turned around, smiling toward the window.

"Up the dosage of Seroquel to 325 miligrams. If he shows no improvement in the next week, it's clear we'll have to take a different approach…"

She nodded her head. "Yes…Doctor Kabuto." She exited the room, and the doctor cleared his throat, unable to keep the smile off his face any longer. He wouldn't even need to give it a week to see if the medication would work. He and the head of the institution already knew exactly what was wrong with him after the head went to a seminar the week before.

"It seems we've stumbled across a goldmine," he chuckled. "A condition as rare as that would warrant funding benefits…"

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Apparently, mental institutions had come a long way from what they'd been even ten years ago. Kimimaro wouldn't have had any idea–he'd only been there for six months. Schizophrenia–that's what he had, they said. Of course, it wasn't as if he could've had anything. His brain had gone long since. His kidneys would leave him soon, then his liver, his lungs, his heart. His blood would dry up, his eyes would deteriorate, his bones would stiffen, and soon he'd just be a corpse in a bed.

He stared at the food for a while longer before he finally stood, leaving the room to go wander the halls. The ward he was on didn't allow it, but he was given that privilege. As he stepped, he made sure to only step on the dull grey squares of the checkerboard floor. The walls were washed white, grubby hands from patients clawing their way from their rooms, shoulders brushing the walls in that way they were forced to walk–the patients who were more violent than others.

The pale, pale teen looked up at the ceiling, at a light flickering before buzzing loudly, finally flickering off for the last time. He sighed, a slight ache burning through his chest before fading away a split second later. He couldn't really feel anything at all.

His ward was with the schizophrenics. Some were long gone, others in catatonic states, and others getting better with medication. He seemed to be the only one not improving–of the ones that weren't long gone, that is. A few of them were absolutely delusional and had lost their battle years ago. One man spent his days sitting in the corner of his room and talking animatedly to servants he supposedly had because he was a king of some kind. Another lay in bed all day, staring up at the ceiling, his eyes rolling side to side as he looked across the ceiling at things that weren't there.

"Kimimaro, come here, man."

Kimimaro turned to see a head poking out from the corner, leading to a doorway that separated the two wards. It was one of the twins…he didn't know which–they both looked the exact same and enjoyed switching clothes to fuck with people's heads. He went to the younger teen, looking at him wearily. The twins were…complicated. One twin had been placed there for substance abuse, while the other had been put there for self-mutilation and numerous suicide attempts. It was something to the effect of, "If we have to be separated, we might as well both die." He didn't really understand them, but they were on separate wards. Occasionally they would switch places in the stairwell, and both would experience what it was like on the other ward–that was where they were caught, unable to move forward because neither wanted to progress, each wanted to just have fun while they were there.

"What is it…U…Sa…eh…" He was wearing Ukon's clothes, but…had they decided to change clothes again?

"It's Sakon, you idiot. My brother is far more attractive than me. Yeah, I know, my hemp necklace isn't around my neck right now, but don't you think the way I talk is at least a bit of a clue?? Either way… Which organ failed you this time, Dawn of the Dead?"

"…My stomach decomposed. I can't eat."

Sakon snickered, grabbing him and pulling him around the corner. "Sucks to be you. Eating's the best thing in the world. I do it a lot. I know how to make this great cake filled with weed. You should try it sometime. The taste is different, the texture's the best part. The last time I smoked weed was…three years ago, I think. Now all I like doing is cocaine. This one time, our dad accidentally put the coke on his French toast, thinking it was powdered sugar. It was hilarious!! But let me just take a look at that absence of stomach you got…"

He lifted Kimimaro's shirt and placed his hand to Kimimaro's belly, holding it there and going completely still. It was so weird–the twins seemed to have a knack for feeling someone on the inside without actually entering them. The younger teen frowned, looking at the pale teen.

"You sure about that? The stomach thing, I mean… I felt a bubble of stomach acid."

"…It's no longer there."

"Then how do you explain the stomach acid? If you're dead, how do you manage to walk around? People don't just get up and walk around after they die. Why aren't you trying to eat my brains, Resident Evil?"

"What's there to explain? I no longer exist. My body's just moving on sheer will. Pretty soon my kidneys will go, and then my liver, and then my blood will dry up, my gall bladder will decompose, the spleen, the lungs, my heart, and eventually I'll just–"

"You are fucked up. Anyway, come 'ere. I got somethin' to show ya."

The younger teen reached into his pocket, producing a handful of anti-depressants from it, looking half-dissolved, like he'd snuck them out of his mouth after the nurses walked out of the room. "I managed to get my hands on these when me and Ukon switched. He's been giving them to me, and when we switched two weeks ago for a while, he managed to get his hands on something to cut himself with. You know those playing cards they have out in the commons room? He managed to filch the Ace of Spades from the room, and apparently with the right amount of pressure he managed to break the skin. The docs ain't seen the fresh marks on his thigh yet, and we don't plan on giving them that pleasure. Ukon had this great idea of slicing his wrists wide open while I OD on his anti-depressants. What do you think?"

"…Does it matter?"

"Hell yes it matters! We're committing a joint suicide this Friday!"

A loud noise echoed down the hall and Sakon clamped a hand over his mouth, dragging them both behind the doors to look through the windows. An older teen was being dragged out of his room and down the hallway to another room, kicking and screaming. The younger teen finally relaxed, shrugging his shoulder casually. "Ah yeah…that guy's a tool. He won't shut up, either. Anyway, Kimimaro, what do you think about our joint suicide this Friday? If we kill ourselves and don't get up and start walking around, what would you say to that?"

"…I didn't kill myself. And my will is stronger than yours."

"Whatever. You think it's a good idea? What do you the think are the chances we'll succeed? He's been hiding the pills under his mattress and sneaking them to me; there should be enough for a proper overdose, but I'm not that sure… Should we wait a month or so just to be safe on my end?"

"…The longer you wait, the greater the chances are that you'll be discovered before you even get to attempt it."

"Smart thinking! This Friday it is, then! Thanks for the chat, Dead Alive!"

Kimimaro narrowed his eyes. "Why do you keep calling me things like that?"

Sakon flashed him an easy grin, leading him through the doors to the ward he was exploring when he and his brother switched. "You've never seen a zombie movie, have you? Dead Alive's my favorite by far. So hilarious! Peter Jackson's a genius when it comes to morbidly funny shit like that! Ukon can't stand stuff like that, but whatever. My brother's a tool, too. But he's a lazy bastard. Spent most of his days sleeping when he should've been out doing something with me. Why do you think I turned to drugs? Gave me something to do at home, while he was sleeping, by his side. Lazy little dick finally started telling me I was a dumbshit when I had a freak-out on the bedroom floor… God, he's so fucking…" He licked his chapped lips, looking for the right words to say, staring at the ground, eyes swirling with so many emotions Kimimaro couldn't keep up with them all.

He turned back to the pale teen, smiling wryly. "We're changing wards today. You wanna step out into the stairwell and watch? It's going to be great."

Kimimaro shook his head as they passed the stairwell in question. Before he could say a thing, Sakon had patted him on the shoulder and flown to the door, as if he couldn't wait any longer. A few seconds later, something came crashing into the doorway and he could hear the twins whispering frantically.

"What took you so long, Sakon?"

"Ran into Brain-eater. He suggested we do this joint suicide Friday, bro."

"Good. How many pills did you manage to collect? I'll give you the rest on Friday and we can do it at two in the morning."

"This many."

"Good. Take your, er, my pants off."

"Not until you take mine off first, man. Oh, my necklace."

"I'll get to your necklace after your pants. Keep my pants on."

"I should say the same to you, bro. Where's all this patience coming from? Usually you're telling me to get my ass moving."

Both boys snickered as quietly as they could to themselves, and the door banged against the wall again. Kimimaro stared at it for a long, long moment before he realized he didn't even want to be down this corridor in the first place. He walked away from the door, choosing to ignore their antics for once. There was something strange about those two. Not that he could complain–he was dead after all.

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His mother looked at him, putting a hand to his face and watching him just look at her mutely, deep red rings under his eyes. He was getting sicker, they could tell. Whether it was the medication or the fact that he felt like he didn't need to sleep, or something no one was telling them, they had no idea. His mother finally sat down on the bench beside him, looking around the room they had been shoved into for some privacy.

"Kim."

He just looked at his knees. …His spine cracked as he leaned over a bit, propping bony elbows onto his knees. Sometimes he wondered if he had bones. Sometimes he wondered if he had muscle, if he had anything anymore. His stomach was gone, his teeth were gone, his brain was gone. What if he were decomposing faster than he thought? What if he–

"Kim," she said, more firmly this time.

He looked over at her. He looked over at the frail woman sitting to his left, at the woman with no trace of life in her eyes and a shattered look to her face, the woman with a weak constitution. She stood shakily, placing a shaking hand to his face again, bones creaking, back leaning when she was standing up straight. Calcium deficiency, that's what she had. Osteoporosis, that's what she had. Something like that, that's what she had.

"Kimimaro. Look at your mother when she speaks to you," his father said, sounding ten times more sure of himself than his mother ever had. He was stocky, thick necked, with broad shoulders and a thick torso, a strong ribcage. He had always been stronger than his wife; he'd always been sturdier.

Kimimaro finally turned and looked at his mother, mouth opening to speak. No words came out, and he looked back down.

His mother turned to his father and her face fell deeper than he'd ever think he'd see it go.

"…It's the medication making him like this. I read up about it. Schizophrenia, the pills…they…they do that to you. They turn you into a zombie, they make you muted, a shell of what you used to be off of them. They block your brain from clear, concise thought. I…I knew it would. He's–"

"Your son is not a schizophrenic."

They both turned to a tall, lithe-framed form of a man. His skin was the colour of chalk, and he looked somewhat greasy. His eyes were so vibrant green they looked almost yellow, and he smiled at them, flashing a corrupt-looking smirk. Black hair hung over his face, tied back into a ponytail in the back. He coughed, stepping toward them again.

"Just the other day, his doctor came to me and told me that his symptoms haven't improved. Now, this could easily be the medication, but we have changed his medication so many times over the six months he has been with us and still nothing has worked. While looking through a diagnostic journal, and after attending a few seminars, I think I have the answer for your son's…symptoms…"

His mother stared at the man, shivers going up her spine, but Kimimaro just looked on, sucking in a breath. Schizophrenia…a misdiagnosis…? Where would they send him this time? To a different ward? To a different institution?

"Who are you?" His father looked at the man, demanding an answer.

"I am the head of this institution. Orochimaru, at your service… After discussing things with Doctor Kabuto, we have determined he may have been misdiagnosed."

"Misdiagnosed? What kind of institution are you running!?"

"I assure you, he has all of the symptoms of schizophrenia. Even a doctor twice as skilled as Kabuto could have misdiagnosed him. We believe he has Cotard's syndrome. The case is rarer than rare, and there are barely any recorded cases of it. It's understandable for people to look over this case when diagnosing a patient, so don't be so upset."

"Then we'll just have to send him to a specialist. He needs to be somewhere that can–"

"Your son is very special, and I feel it would be in both our interests to leave him in my care. We have the facilities to treat him, and now that we think we know the problem–"

"You think? If you don't know the problem–"

"Dad."

The three adults turned and stared at him, and Kimimaro looked over at Orochimaru, his insides twisting under the man's gaze. "I…I agree. With…Mr. Orochimaru."

"Kim, what–"

"Your son does not have schizophrenia, if our research is correct. If that were the case, to send him to a specialist would just prolong the delay in his recovery. The longer the delay, the less we can do for him. Yes, we may have diagnosed him to begin with, but to find a specialist for this disorder would cost thousands of dollars on your part. It would be cheapest–and safest–to leave him in our treatment. We know what his problem is, so we can begin the correct treatment immediately with this."

Kimimaro's mother looked between the two men before her eyes fell to her son. Tears welled up in her eyes before she bent down and gathered him up in her arms. He barely reacted to the contact, and in response the tears began to fall, dripping onto his shoulders and sticking to his hair. She shook her head and kissed his temple a few times, holding his cheeks in her hands.

"I just want my baby back. Give me my baby back and I'll pay anything, Mr. Orochimaru."

Her husband looked back at her with disgust. "What are you saying? We need him well, yes, but we don't have anymore money!! We can't pay for this! We've already been forced to sell your car to pay for his treatment!"

The grip on her son tightened and she glared at him accusingly. "Money shouldn't be an option when it comes to your own flesh and blood, to your own offspring! I want my boy well again, damn it!! I want him to look at me and smile again! I want him to laugh! I want him to talk to me like he used to!! You couldn't possibly understand, you weren't there for him when I was pregnant, and you weren't there for him when he was growing up!!"

"Don't you dare accuse me of not being there for him! You did the same exact thing by pawning him off on your relatives almost every weekend!!"

"I carried him inside of me for forty-three weeks! He didn't want to leave me! That's more than you can say, you–"

"Mr. and Mrs. Kaguya, if you were to sign your son over to me and my associates, we would be able to treat him and pay you for it."

His father reacted first, going toward the man and holding out his hands in disbelief. "Wh-What? You're saying that if we…we…sell him to you, you'll pay us!? Why would we sell him to your institution!? He's not a bargaining chip!"

"Mr. Kaguya, it's not considered selling. If you hand him over to us with permission to study him and his condition in detail, you will get reparations for helping us with our research. It's not selling your son so much as selling away his disorder for scientific observation. We would be helping him. The only difference would be that you'd be allowed to visit him a bit less than you have been now. Aside from that–"

"If we agree to this, we get to set some conditions, correct!?" The men all looked at his mother as she clutched him tighter, turning her eyes to look at the a pale head of the institution. She looked back over her son's face, as if memorizing each and every detail, each and every bump and groove. She ran a hand through his hair and locked eyes with him. His eyes were hollow, lifeless, and she turned back to Orochimaru and her husband, wiping at her eyes uselessly.

"If we agree to this, we get to set some conditions, don't we? We can demand that you let me visit my son more than I'm allowed now, right!?"

The man's white face fell, and he looked at her darkly. "Mrs. Kaguya…not many people are aware of Cotard's syndrome, but in the few cases that have been able to be studied over the years, there's been a link found with depression… I can't risk him seeing you and your husband if the cause of his syndrome is depression, since you two might be the cause of it…"

"That's ridiculous! Why would–"

"Mom," he breathed into her hair, and she turned to look at him, hurt. He continued. "M-Mom…he may be right… You and Dad hate kids, right? That…That means you hate me…"

Her face crumpled, and the grip on his cheeks tightened. "Why would you ever think that, Kim!? How could we possibly hate you!? It's not us, Kimimaro!! It's not because you're depressed! It's that sickness that made you like this!! It was that fever and those head-aches and the restlessness! It wasn't us!!"

"That remains to be seen," Orochimaru replied tonelessly. She whipped her head around to see him standing there beside her, his arms holding out a waiver. Her husband had already signed it, and now it was just her turn to sign it. When she did that, he would no longer be hers anymore: he'd be theirs.

"If you want to help your son, you're going to have to sign this form, Mrs. Kaguya. It might be painful at first, but I assure you, I will give you your son back. And when I do, he will be just as energetic and happy as he used to be."

Her hands trembled as he handed her the pen. She took it in her hand and, with one more glance at her son, she signed the papers.

Kimimaro was no longer theirs.