Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto, dammit. *Sobs*. It belongs to Masashi Kishimoto. The lyrics belong to James Morrison. I love him xD I edited them accordingly to fit with the characters, but only changing 'she' to 'he' when needed I switched a few of the verses around.
Pairings: SasukexNaruto
Notes: This was my first ever Naruto fic. I quite like it :) This IS a repost.
Themes: Romance, hurt/comfort
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"This boy wants to play, there's no time left today/It's a shame 'cause he has to go home."
The streets are awash with the icy rain oozing from the gaping seams of the clouds above. The sky, once a beautiful, hopeful azure blue, is now a bored yawn of dismal grey. The streetlamps that line the sodden pavements flicker into life, illuminating the puddles that swell beneath them with an ugly orange light. The streets are surprisingly crowded. Businessmen and suited women spill from the train station like blood from an open wound. They struggle with smart black umbrellas, pulling the high collars of their long, expensive coats around their necks and trot towards their cars with world weary expressions. School girls huddle in compact groups of three or four under a single fancily patterned umbrellas, shuddering in their short skirts and thin cardigans, gossiping about whatever had caught their fancy. Boys dart around in the rain in sporty jackets, laughing at obscene jokes and splashing each other with the dirty water.
Cars speed along the road, head lights bright and tires grappling with the road to keep some kind of grip. They throw sheets of water over unsuspecting pedestrians – businessmen curse into their mobile phones, the girls shriek and scramble away from the curb and the boys yell and tease each other.
Naruto Uzumaki watches this all from a distance. He observes the groups as they move on towards their warm homes and warmer families. Hot chocolate and family dinner awaits them, he is sure. The twinge of jealousy that stabs at his heart with an emerald slice is painful but fleeting. He sighs and turns away from the town centre. The others – Kiba and Hinata and the rest – had asked him if he wanted to join them at the arcade. He had, there had been that desperate kind of longing gripping at his stomach even as he refused.
He forced his smile – a practise he had mastered a little too easily – and had shaken his head. He made his excuses. Work. Homework. Housework. All the truth and yet all lies. Work didn't start for another hour and a half, and the housework could wait for a little while longer. But Naruto guesses as he heads homeward bound, shrinking inside his coat in a vain attempt to seek refuge from the downpour, they'd have a better time without me.
"This boy's got to work, got to sweat/Just to pay what he gets to get left all alone."
He works every moment that he can – a restaurant where he often serves his peers, who only look down on him and sneer. He isn't well liked, he knows, it is something he is used to. Each school year has that kid, that kid that everyone else in the year doesn't like, simply because it gives them something to do, someone to talk about. It just so happened he was that kid. Too loud. Too boisterous. Too stupid.
Stupid. Useless. Unwanted.
Funny how he can become acclimatised to the stumbles, to the practical jokes, to the more physical side of the bullying, but the words? He will never acclimatise to those.
What was that rhyme? 'Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.' Naruto snorts bitterly at the concept. Whoever had written that was a fool – bruises faded, bones healed, but those taunts? They stay with you forever.
Even his friends are somewhat distant. Naruto often thinks they only befriended him to ease their own consciences rather than through any genuine like. Dark. Depressive. Naruto hates it. He hates to feel this way, and yet on these wintry days he can't help but be affected.
But he straightens his back and ties his apron, ready to face another evening, ready to face the disapproving scowls and mocking laughter as he serves those who hate him with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
Naruto works hard, works hard at his job, at school and home. He works hard to smile and forget that horrible voice in the back of his head that whispers 'you'll always be alone.'
"This [boy] tries [his] best everyday/But it's all gone to waste 'cause there's no one around."
He hates perfection. It makes him sick and yet here he is, once again perfecting his uniform, perfecting his hair, perfecting his homework. He loathes it, but without it the boy loses his definition. He was, is, will be perfection. Without it, he is nothing.
He is Sasuke Uchiha. It comes with the territory. Even now, with no one to remind him but the watchful stares of the family portraits that linger in his cold home, he must uphold the family name. He will not shame the ghosts of the dead, even if he hates himself because just as the perfection gives him identity, so does the hate. A black winged angel, leader of the group and yet so separate from those who 'serve' him – he is torn.
The girls, they love him. Adore him. His perfect looks. His perfect grades. His perfect manners. His perfect aloofness. How can they get close, how could he let them? How can he let anyone? They would all know, they would all see that he is not perfect at all; they would see that he is not effortless. They would see the dark haloes around his eyes from studying all night, the thinness of his bones from skipping meals.
He tries; he tries so hard to keep up the Uchiha persona, to be worthy of the name bestowed upon him. Its' all he has now. A name. And he needs to honour it, to keep his family alive through his efforts. This is all he has left. A remnant of a past he misses and the shell of something he hates.
But he will preserve because he is perfect, and to be perfect one must be able to handle anything and everything with aristocratic poise.
And Sasuke will be perfect.
"This [boy] [he] can draw, [he] can paint/Likes to dance, [he] can skate, now [he] don't make a sound."
There is a sketch pad in his room, full of drawings – still-lives, abstract, portraits, landscapes and more. They were once things of beauty, full with summertime shades and vibrancy, they came to life on the page. But flick a little further through; notice how the colour fades into simple charcoal outlines. They are still brilliant, but their life has ebbed. What beauty is there in black?
Perfect, they are. Perfect yet emotionless. Epitomes of the Uchiha way.
Then the entire sketch pad is abandoned, left somewhere to rot in the darkness. Locked away under cobwebs and dust in the storage places he never ventures to.
Art is frivolous – a passing folly. There is no security in art or dance, no poise or sophistication in skating. What business does an Uchiha have in such childish whims? None. So he abandoned those pastimes and followed the more substantial lessons in business and science and maths. Practical things, things without abstract answers or obscurity. You can trust math. There is only one answer. You can be brillaint, you cannot be disputed.
You can be perfect.
He doesn't talk much in lessons. He ignores the girls who make side long glances and the boys who taunt others. He ignores the laughter and the jeering and the giggling and gossiping. He focuses only on the teacher and his notes – copied so flawlessly.
He concentrates only on being the image of excellence his father expected him to be. Because Sasuke can do that, he can be faultless, but he can't talk to others. What if they guess? What if he lets something slip? What if he brings shame upon the memories of those he mourns?
He can't possibly run the risk, so he simply turns away from polite conversation and buries his nose in his notes and books, aiming for that perfect A grade.
"I'm still here but it hasn't been easy/I'm sure that you had your reasons."
Naruto doesn't go home after his shift. The sky has ceased its sobbing and he ventures across town towards the large park. The stars glitter comfortingly over head, the moon watches with a shocked expression that never fades. The night is an inky blue, the furious clouds having moved on to sunnier pastures.
His heavy boots snap some stones beneath his feet, light splashes from water flicking up the back of his smart black slacks. He barely notices the nightly chill that reddens his nose as he walks. The path is empty, void of any life save for the scarce rodent or fluttering bird. He hugs himself, rubbing up and down his own arms to try to create some body heat. His breath is visible as small puffs of silvery white as his blue eyes scan the area incuriously, lazily, revelling in the peace night time brings. He hurries up the path and steps up onto a bench, settling on the back of it and ignoring the wetness seeping through his trousers.
There is movement behind him, and Naruto hesitates before turning around, head tilted. His eyes fall on a familiar shadow and he nods his head in greeting.
"Sasuke."
"Naruto."
There is no need for anything more as Sasuke quickens his pace and sits besides Naruto's feet. There is a pause before he rests his head against Naruto's knees, sighing when the blonds' hand gently touches his hair. There is no need for words here. Their understanding is deeper than that.
"I'm scared for this emotion/For years I've been holding it down."
"Sasuke?"
"Hmm?" The dark haired boy sounds close to sleep, and Naruto doesn't want to disturb him. He doesn't sleep enough as it is.
"I didn't expect to see you this evening."
"I didn't expect to come."
There is a moments silence.
"I'm glad you did."
"Hn. Is that so?"
"Yeah..."
There is a sentiment unsaid, a meaning underlying those softly whispered words. There is something they find in each others' company that they can find nowhere else, a sense of clemency and safety and unconditional acceptance that evades them elsewhere.
Here, in this is cold park, in their random nightly meetings, Naruto is not alone. He is not hated. He is not stupid. He is not useless. He is a friend. He is a lover. He is a listener. He is a comforter. Here, someone has use of him. Someone cares for him, tends to his bruises, to his cuts, to his tears. Here he is himself and is accepted.
Here, in his dismal park, in their once surprising nightly meetings, Sasuke isn't perfect. He is not worshipped. He is not just a mask. He is a friend. He is a lover. He is a talker. He is a healer. Here, someone sees him, not his name. Someone cares for him, causes him to smile, to laugh, to care. Here, he is himself and is accepted.
And neither boy could ask for more.
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I have forgotten how much I liked this piece :)