M Rating is for later themes.

Charles Kensington lived to the ripe old age of 37.

Although his hair had just begun to grey, he had been cursing hooligans off his lawn since he was 7 years-old. Always the bitter, sad man, he didn't win the lottery in life and instead of actively attempting to change his fate, he just accepted his lot in life - but he didn't go out quietly.

And so, when the screeching of the tires of his car against road filled the dull silence, screams piercing the air as the windshield shattered into a million pieces; crumbling into a million more when his ageing body hit the glass - he wasn't scared. At that moment, he felt something he had never felt before; content. This was it. This was his death. His life was over and he was fine with that. Relieved almost.

But he was still the same sad, bitter old man.

Although this time; he was a sad, bitter old man in the body of an unfairly beautiful newborn, surrounded by walls painted with red and white fans, and a boy with haunting red-eyes.

Charles I

Charles Kensington (Princess; as he had been not so affectionately referred to in his youth) had been a name fit for a King, or at least a gallant knight. Unfortunately (or was it fortunately?), Charles had been born anything but gallant and was sure to never earn the regal title of 'King'.

He was the eldest of seven, a family of nine, and a poor man's excuse for an angelic child. Growing up in a time when the world was on the cusp of a Nuclear war, the people up in arms in the fight for civil rights, while he, ever the bitter child, kept his time occupied by knocking up the skirts of adolescent girls and hurling rocks at passing cars; all for the jeering approval of the knobbly-kneed companions he called his 'friends'.

With a name like his, Charles was almost expected to achieve greatness. Born into a family on the brink of poverty, spending his youngest years toddling about the darkest of alleyways as his playgrounds, all the responsibility fell on him to take his song-worthy name and do great things with it. To gather up his starving family and carry them up to a life where comfort is no longer a luxury.

The world was his oyster, but Charles had never liked oysters.

He liked to complain when his mother nagged; that even if he did try to achieve something greater than oxygen for breakfast, lunch and dinner — it was impossible. No matter how hard he would try, society would always push him down. Once a poor man, always a poor man, (but you don't try, Charles! You just run off with those damn friends of yours! I love you, baby, but if you don't turn your life around and stop blaming the world for how unfair it is then you'll never—) His mother never understood him. How could she? She had been born into wealth and had chosen to throw it all away to be with his deadbeat of a father.

And for what? (For her starving children to huddle together for warmth in the winter because the rain seeped through the hole in their roof and Father had blown the money to fix it on whatever that piss was he excused as alcohol!) It was her fault he was like this, not his, hers!

So, as soon as he was old enough to work the factory lines, he left home. At nine, maybe, his mother would have screamed at him to return, collapsing to the ground in a heap of her own tears in pure, unadulterated agony.

But, at fourteen, she merely looked at him (their eyes locking, even from a distance. He waited for the tears, for the resistance, his heart yearned to shatter when he realised he would never stop waiting), then she looked away.

And so, his life as a young bachelor, alone in the rural streets in all of Great Britan, had begun!

Charles Kensington would spend the next thirteen years of his life alone. He would take few lovers, father no children, drink himself into more stupors than he could count, lose more than three times as many unstable jobs, and all around live a life he had never wanted; but one he was also been destined to live.

Or, perhaps, that was how he saw it. He never wanted to end up this way but it was always in his immediate future. All he could do was dig his heels in, grit his teeth and ready himself for the inevitable.

He would not go out kicking and screaming. He would simply go out, and fade from the memories of the few he even remembered him, to begin with.

And when the time would come; he would remember it forever.

He had been speeding down an empty street in the dead of night. No one around could really afford cars and the ones who could work day and night, far too busy for the leisure drives he indulged in. His grip tightened on the steering wheel, nose flaring as he recounted the words in his head. The wind violently tussled his hair from the open window, his left hand, when it wasn't switching with the right to change gears, hung out the window, tapping faintly on the rusted metal of the car.

(You don't get it, do you? You've always been like this! Just fuckin' listen to me, Charles, can you at least manage that!?) His fingers curled tighter around the leather, teeth grinding together. Charles had a strong urge to reach into his back pocket and pull out the cigarettes stashed away there. When he did, he was forced to lift himself off the seat, eyes tearing away from the road every few moments to steer his hand.

Just as his fingers grasped the plastic, the car hit a bump in the road, and the box slipped from his hand. He cursed, teeth tightening even more as he shot his hand out erratically, clawing blindly at the bottom of his seat to find the box of cigarettes.

(You're pathetic, Charles. You always have been.)

Charles ripped his eyes off the road, turning his body to dive down, using both his hands to dig through the pile of trash. (I wanted to come after you, that day. Not to ask you to come back, I couldn't care less what you did. You were a waste of space then, and you're a waste of space now) The street was silent, the night was silent, the whole damn town was silent. Only the lone sound of his beaten up car along the pothole-ridden road, and the screeching that followed.

(I wanted to beat the shit of you that day. Make you feel the pain you put Mother through, but she begged me to not, she begged me to let it out. Can you believe that? Even after all these years, she still pitied you.)

With the box clutched tight in his grasp, he didn't even have time to raise his hands. The tires screamed as they struggled to grip the slippery road, still wet from the rain, not even an hour prior. Pain seared across his chest as he lurched forward, winding him as he slammed into the dashboard, spit trickling down his chin, eyes still wide with shock.

The windshield shattered into a million pieces; crumbling into a million more when his ageing body hit the glass, thrown from his beltless seat.

(You were never a brother of mine, Charles, but you know that isn't even the most fucked part)

His world was spinning, his stomach lurching and his heart pounding. But, suddenly, when his eyes focused on the cigarette box in his hand, already slipping from his reach — he didn't feel scared.

(The most fucked up part of this, brother dearest, is that I don't think you ever once considered us family. Not Mother, not me, not any of my siblings. I denounced you when you left that day... but the moment you came screaming into this world; you had already denounced all of us)

At that moment, he felt something he had never felt before; content. This was it. This was his death. His life was over and he was fine with that.

(You truly are a sad, sad man... Charles.)

He was relieved, he realised as his world darkened. It was finally over. Now, he could rest. Now, he would be free. From what? At that point, Charles had lost count. He would simply be free.

"Charles, I worry about you, you know? You run off with those friends of yours and I hardly see you anymore—Oh, Charles, stop pouting! I'm not mad, baby, just worried. I know life is hard... but I will always be with you, okay? Remember that for me, won't you? Don't give up, baby, I know you can do it, I've always believed in you."

Charles thought of her smile and how rare it came to be the older he became. He really did let her down, didn't he?

"Charles, just remember that I will always be proud of you. Nothing you could do would make me think lesser of you. Remember that, Charles."

Maybe, he should have visited her, one last time. He never did, not since he left that house all those years ago. The last time he saw her, had truly become the last time he would see her.

"I love you, Charles."

She was probably long dead. And now, he would never see her again.

"Char—"

Miho I

"—iho!"

Uchiha Miho came into the world kicking and screaming. He was here and he made sure everybody within a ten-mile radius knew it.

Everything was bright and loud and all around uncomfortable. He hated every second here and he wanted to go home. (Where is home? Is there a home? Where even am I?) He couldn't see, he could barely breathe and he was so, so cold. Despite the cloth wrapped around him, hugging him tighter than he had ever been held in his life, he continued to shiver and shiver until he had tired himself out.

He tired himself out a lot, he realised or at least he hoped he had. Everything is still too confusing. Still too bright, too loud. He can't see anything, not yet and perhaps not ever. He could make out light and shadows, through this he was able to tell the difference between night and day.

So far, he counted that seven nights had passed since he was captured.

Because that's what it was, wasn't it? He was uncomfortable, cold and alone. He couldn't move, he couldn't see, he was basically a useless lump. Someone had done something to him, rendered him unconscious and bound him. That must be what be what he's feeling, it has to be.

Except, why would someone do that? He was no secret agent sent to assassinate the Queen. He didn't even have a dime to his name. What would anyone hope to gain from holding him hostage?

But was he even hostage? He was in no pain, although his stomach cried out for food every once and awhile, but he usually fell unconscious and awoke to a satisfied stomach. Did they feed him while he slept? (Maybe I'm hooked up to something?) They seemed to be taking awfully good care of him if he's just a prisoner.

How did he even get here? When he tried to think he was only met with a blank wall. He couldn't remember; he couldn't remember anything at all.

(Who am I? Where am I? Why is this happening?)

Eight days had passed (or was it nine?) when his vision had begun to return to him. It was slow, at first, but little by little he could make out simple shapes. He wasn't in some dark cell, he was in a room. Unfortunately, he still couldn't muster the strength to lift himself up so his view was limited to whatever direction he was facing.

Have they drugged him? Why couldn't he move? He wasn't strapped down, he found that out quickly, but he was so weak that he couldn't even move his own head. Is this some kind of trickery? They must be putting something in the food; whatever the food was.

He only had one choice; he had to try and stay awake so he could figure out what they were feeding him.

(Easier said than done) He didn't know why but it was so difficult to remain awake. His eyes burned, begging him to close them and rest for just a little while, but he knew that if he did he would never make any progress in figuring out where he was.

But, resistance proved futile as his eyes soon fluttered shut. He had never wished more to open them when he heard rustling in the distance. (I'm not alone!) It was his kidnappers, it had to be! He needed to stay awake and find out who— He was asleep in seconds.

Despite the humiliation that was seething through his veins, he had made progress. The rustle of the door sliding open was the first bit of evidence he had that he wasn't alone. The second bit of evidence came slowly, realisation only sinking in on the eleventh (twelveth? I've lost count) day.

He remembered a soft melody; a low hum. He listened to it at least a dozen times before he realised it was someone singing. Very softly, very faintly; singing him to sleep (the humiliation! I am a grown man, not some child!) almost every night.

The voice, as much as he hated to admit it, was soothing. It brought him comfort and even made him feel safe; secure. The voice was his last bit of sanity within his prison.

It reminded him of (mother) someone he had long forgotten. The thought made him sad, sadder than he had ever felt. In an overload of emotions, he felt tears fill his eyes, but he didn't cry out. Merely letting them fall down his cheek, knowing that he had not the strength to stop them.

That night was the first and last time he would cry. He could never allow his kidnappers to see him break. He kept silent, not a single muffled sob slipping through his lips. And when he did, the voice sang to him louder; the tears almost speeding up at the sound.

(They're here) Standing near him, while he is awake. Completely conscious, if he could turn his head he knew he would find the owner.

He opened his mouth to speak but he couldn't. He wouldn't. The words dying in his throat before he could realise, letting out a soft whine that would have brought him shame if he weren't so busy crying softly.

The voice whined back. Not sadly like his own but in sympathy, in kindness. He could feel a weight on his chest (A hand), gently stroking him in a way that shouldn't be comforting but it is.

He realised, then, that this person was not his kidnapper. They couldn't be. He wouldn't accept it. No one could be so kind to him, so comforting and yet confide him to such a fate.

When the voice left he felt colder, emptier. He longed to cry out but his voice only came out in soft whines, no curses shouted or screams of frustrations; just soft coos that made his head spin.

The voice came more often. He lost track of the days, only focusing on the voice. Sometimes, it would stroke his hair, mutter words of gibberish to him, sing the occasional song. But, most of all, it would just sit with him. Even if he couldn't see it, he knew it (they) were there, watching over him.

He felt safe. But more than that, he felt loved.

It was a foreign feeling (was it really?) but one he wasn't against.

Days passed. Nights came and went and his entire existence seemed centred around the voice that visited what seemed like every night. But, after discovering the voice, he discovered the other voices.

They weren't as frequent and they never sang to him. Some were harsh, overbearing. Another was quieter, softer, kinder, but it wasn't his voice. He caught himself thinking that once; claiming ownership over a person he had never met.

(What is happening to me? Why am I becoming so reliant on a phantom?)

Time continued to pass without him keeping track and he noticed a pattern beginning to surface. The first time it had happened it terrified him.

He felt something engulf his entire body like a blanket. It felt strong, frighteningly so, but was also gentle. Almost as if it feared it would break him. It felt familiar, it felt right. It would rock him back and forth in a way that would have humiliated him the first time he arrived at the prison, but now, after spending so much time around the voice; it didn't bother him.

(Why? Why? WHY?)

One night, the voice sounded different. It was the same voice, but it sounded... excited. He felt the familiar blanket feeling, but he didn't fight it; the voice became so much closer, muttering gibberish into his ear.

He knew that if he opened his eyes he would discover who his mystery voice was, but he was afraid. (Of what?) Of everything. He wondered if he connected a face to the voice, the perfect illusion would be shattered.

(But this isn't an illusion. This is reality)

He was content listening to the voice gabber on, just as he was content with the blanket-feeling. That was, until, he heard the familiar sound of another voice. It was the second most frequent voice, the kind, soft voice that often appeared just before he would fall asleep and awake to his stomach full and his cell cleaned.

He didn't mind the second voice, but it wasn't his voice. (Stop this. Stop this now!)

He listened to the voice speak complete gibberish until, to his horror, the second voice replied with similar gibberish. They continued for a while, completely oblivious to his sudden horrific realisation.

It's not gibberish—(they're talking.)

It was a language. A foreign language. The blanket-feeling was back and tighter than ever, only this time, he was moving. Jolting with each step that he didn't take.

There was no blanket-feeling. (I'm being carried)

He didn't hesitate to open his eyes now. The voice had stopped walking, speaking gibberish (no, this sound familiar) to him as he struggled to focus his eyes. Lights flashed as he stared ahead, his head lifted up so he could see whatever the voice was likely talking about.

It was a mirror.

And now, he was finally able to see what the voice looked like. He was finally able to see what he looked like after being held captive for so long.

Only he hadn't been held captive.

(Chubby cheeks, pale skin, a head of dark curls)

There was a reason he couldn't walk, a reason he couldn't lift his head or manage anything more than a soft whine. (Dark, dark eyes)

He stared into the mirror and for a moment, he didn't see a mirror. He saw a windshield; shattering into a million pieces.

(Tires screeching, glass shattering, sirens blaring, I've always been proud of you, Charles)

"Miho," the voice smiled. The same beautiful dark eyes staring down at him, pointing to the mirror. "Otouto."

(Shi—)

MIHO: in which I take a bunch of Naruto Fanfiction cliches, smush them into one and hope for the best! Because (say it with me!) cliches are OKAY!

Cliches become cliches for a reason. They worked, but now they work too well. They become stale and unoriginal, but some of the best Fanfictions I've read come from authors taking popular (or unpopular) cliches and making it their own. Hopefully, I can at least half-succeed and you guys can enjoy!

Charles' DOB is not specified: Late 50's. Death: Late 80's.

The brackets are kind of his conscience - sometimes taking the form of what people have previously said to him (like his brother's monologue in Charles I)