Breaking You
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Notes: Concrit is welcome?
It's cold and the storm is making you shudder, but you don't cower. You never do, for cowering is a sign of weakness, and the last thing you want to be is weak.
Not only is weakness a sign of foolishness, it's also slow agonising death – the weak always die first, death creeps and creeps around them like an unabashed crook. You don't want to die, but live. Yes live, in order to become strong and powerful and acknowledged: it's the only thing worth living for. As long as you're strong and can stand proud on your two feet, looking down upon your achievements, then you're worthy of being considered a human-being. At least, that's what used to be the mantra of your childhood and most of your teenage years, until shit happened and your existence was reduced to nothingness.
It's a stupid phrase, but you don't feel like sounding original, and poetry has never been one of your strengths.
Maybe you've only got a single strength – that of obsessing about one thing to such a sickening extent that you'll push anything good away from you. And then, if the obsession's gone, you're nothing, but a wasted shell, expendable and apathetic. At least, you force yourself to be like this; it's the only thing that keeps you from being weak.
You're sick – and insane, that inner voice, the last bane of reason you've got left – tells you. If you were creditably sane, you wouldn't stand in front of the window now and stare out into the storm, gazing at the thrashing trees and look at it as unconcerned as a child. It's dangerous and you shouldn't lean that close to the window. Not that close that your lips are nearly touching the glass, teasing it like a timid maiden who's trying to woo a suitor, but it hardly matters.
Nothing matters as long as you can see how the trees whip their branches to and fro, nearly blazing in some wild dance and creating a vivid wave of orchestral moments that are enthralling and transfixing to the eye. You could lose yourself forever in this because the power of nature makes everything pale in comparison. The power makes you grin slightly because you know that it's so strong that it could end a dozens lives in a single minute. You've suddenly realised how insignificant a human's life is. You've realised how worthless you truly are.
You're really insane and shouldn't be standing here; it's only making you more morose than usual.
Besides, he's worried, and you've sworn to yourself that you wouldn't do anything to capture his attention, not unless you're truly burning – or rather thirsting to feel his lips on yours again. It's convenient to use him like this, to have him around when the need for physical contact overwhelms you. Yet, the downside of this little arrangement is that it's inconvenient to have him about you when humanity is odious and troublesome, when you'd like nothing more, but to crawl into a cupboard and hide yourself in an encompassing darkness until …until the ferocious and mind-rattling raving within your head stops. When you're haunted by such things, you certainly don't need another human-being in your proximity. Admittedly, it's not seldom that you wish he were a tin doll – a mechanic apparatus – instead of a living creature that cannot be switched off at importunate moments.
But no, he has to be a human being; insistent on being emotional as well as sentimental, never leaving you alone, unless you feign being asleep or insult him so barbarously that he doesn't come back till next morning. You hate him then, for he's being avoidant and that's something he never did in the past.
It's aggravating to have him worried about you; he is such a bother. Surely, you could easily push him away from you, slap him across the face until he would sob and roar from the pain, but it would be futile. Actually, it would more than futile: it would be like praying with outstretched arms in front of a grave, waiting for a wonder to happen, knowing fully well that nothing of the sort will happen. You should know because you've done exactly that as a child and spent nights outside, after the massacre. It took you a cold and some rather harsh –your friendly teachers and commonsense - truths to accept that your parents wouldn't come back again. And it took countless nightmares to reaffirm the simple truth that your brother was guilty for that unpardonable fray, even though your heart tried to deny it for so long.
Love, even if it's for a sick bastard isn't something that can be extinguished easily. Sometimes you ask yourself what would have happened if he'd simply killed you or penetrated your mind to such a harmful degree that nothing could have made you return to reality. Maybe that would have been better for you in the long run. Then you wouldn't have ended up here; you could have spared yourself the pain of becoming what you are now.
It seems, that you're really insane and stupid because the soft thump and creaking on the floor makes it painfully clear that you've failed in your intent. Like the unwanted sandman from the fairytales, you can detect his presence and something inside you squirms. Some part of you squirms because it's afraid of him, afraid of the energy and inner strength he seems to be glowing with; you're terrified that he might be contagious and infect you with something that you never want to feel again – hope and the feeling of simple, simple happiness and familiarity.
"Sasuke," he whispers, motioning closer to you, pushing a few strands of your hair back. It's irking to be touched by him because he's so tender and loving – and goddamn, being loved is the last thing you want. If anything, you want to be crushed or cheered upon – yes, that's fine because it rarely is meaningful or profound – but being loved or hated is another matter. Both sentiments are lasting and intense; both can't be easily escaped from. Yet, he doesn't pay any heed and pulls your face closer to his, enabling you to feel the harsh whisper of his breath: he smells like ramen, you decide, but that's hardly something that surprises you.
"Leave me alone," you gloat, but even to your own ears that hushed sound sounds weak and unresisting; you're not really trying to push him away, even though his touch is partly frightening you. But it can't surprise you anymore.
It's not surprising because you've come to known him so well that nothing about him seems strange or unknown to you. So, it doesn't send pangs down your spine either, when he grasps your shoulders and pulls you closer to his body, sharing that impossible warmth of his. Lastly, it's the warmth that makes you return the embrace and place your hands around his neck. It's not hard because he's only a few inches taller than you and so damn close that he would be in danger of losing his life if you were an enemy. Indeed, it would be so easy to just stretch out your hands and simply strangle him, making him choke like a whimpering hound bound by too tight a chain. Yet, you don't, but return the kiss with as much passion as you can muster: it feels good to kiss him because it's demanding and always exciting, never boring or too gentle.
You allow him to drag you to the bedroom – it's so odd that this colourful mess of orange and comfy furniture should be called that, but you've stopped caring about things like that a long time ago. At the moment, you merely care about feeling that heat on your skin again, be it his tongue or the feel of his hands slowly sliding down your skin. You should say something, but aren't in the mood to deliver another jutting and hateful remark: you've said too many of them, already. However, you can see – easily discern by his frown – that he's waiting for some kind of reply -anything to assure him that you're not a wax doll. You detest that inquiring and begging gaze in his eyes and would rather he struck you hard and recklessly, than look at you with such eyes.
In fact, you'd like him to simply tear off your clothes and fuck you into oblivion– so hard that you couldn't even form a single coherent thought. He should do it quickly and roughly without taking care to prepare before entering you; pain is always good because it makes you forgot. But he's still staring at you, the idiot, forcing you to stay something…
"Stop looking at me, Naruto. You're so fucking pathetic, it disgusts me." You utter those words in a familiarly arrogant tone, but that voice is rugged, awkward. It doesn't take a genius to realise that what you've said is nothing, but a poor imitation of what you were once capable of.
In an undefined moment, you hope that he'll jump at you in anger, eyes blazing red and body a-tremble with unrepressed emotion. But he disappoints you once again, and though he doesn't want to show it, he can see that he's let you down. However, you can also see that you've let him down; it's such a frustrating mess of misunderstandings.
"Sasuke," he merely says. His voice is that fragile and sounds so much like a broken chord that you'd like to turn around and punch him flat across the face. You hate that sound; it doesn't befit him, not him who should be eternally optimistic and aggravatingly loud. You open your mouth to mutter some half-hearted insult, but you never get the chance.
He kisses you again, hungrily with a touch of despair this time. You can tell that it's despair because only a desperate man will kiss with such haste, such unbidden and hungry passion as if he has nothing else to look forward to. It's odd and unsettling because he's got a lot to look forward to: a realm of possibilities awaits him. It's your future that is thwarted; you're the one who has fucked up and can't do anything, but stare out of a window all day. It's what you deserve, and you should scream at him for ruining his future by wasting it on you. Yet, again, it would be like talking to a drunken donkey; he's that impervious.
You'd like to reflect more, but his touch is distracting and makes you forget everything. It doesn't matter that the wind is howling insistently or that a bough is continually hitting against the window, creating a singular melody that provides a nice contrast to the monotonous ticking of the alarm clock. That alarm clock. It still baffles you that once fought with him over it, threatening to throw it at his head if he didn't remove it immediately. It stills stands on the shelf, though, and you don't have the strength or the will to throw it away. In the absence of pride – a sentiment you've tossed away, you don't care whether you've got an impossibly ugly alarm clock or not.
His hands are warm, though calloused, and in certain manner, they're soiled with blood. It makes you shudder to think of it, to remind yourself that these hands that are ever so cautiously undoing your yukata have strangled other men to death. He's extremely powerful and could kill you right here and now, but you know he wouldn't ever do that. Not to you, even though a part of you would shout with glee if he did thrust a fist through your heart. Aside from his fierce strength, there's a monster lurking behind those blue eyes, ready to burst forth if it had the opportunity. You often feel that are two souls in that body, he's a bundle of contradictions: strong and intimidating, yet gentle and protective.
It's disquieting, indeed. He could either crush or heal you. Or possibly do both.
He fumbles hastily with his clothes and you can tell that he's dying to do this, even though you don't know why. He's done it often enough; you can't even remember how your little affair with him started, but it's of no importance. It doesn't change the fact that he's the first and only person to touch you like this – you would never allow another to do this.
Before you can get used to the notion of being vulnerably naked, he covers your body with his and the heat – noticeably more intense and stronger this time – enshrouds you again, sending pleasurable jolts all over your body. You love the feel of his body, and your hands tremble slightly while they trace down his back, caressing it. While he prepares you for the inevitable, you writhe under his touch, and sweat pours down your skin like tiny icicles. It's the only thing you can offer him; you've got nothing else, but that. You've lost your strength or rather it's been taken from you, your social status and your pride – it's odd that such a broken shell like you is still living. Yet to be honest, you haven't felt alive for a very long time. No, you're slowly dying – are fading away.
He's surprisingly tender tonight, you decide, entering you carefully and trying not to move too quickly. He's licking your ear shell - it should be disgusting, but you like it - and kissing your forehead repeatedly, while thrusting in and out of you. He's hot and warm and alive, making you feel close –nearly reaching toward – heaven for a very short time. He's all around you, forcing you to acknowledge him; his lips are close to your ears again, whispering.
"I love you," he says.
He shouldn't say it, but he does and you want to scratch his eyes out for saying it. But at the same time, you're grateful because it means that he's truly yours. You hold on to him, moaning softly once in a while, proving him that you're still here, somehow. You can't bear looking into his eyes, though; they would force you to become truly alive again – it would be like an unwanted resurrection. Yet, with an unexpectedly rough movement of his hip, he thrusts more deeply into you, forcing you to open your eyes and stare into his face. His movements are rough now and his eyes are blazing – depths of red that send chills down your spine; he's intent on making you remember that it's him who's filling your body now and not some faceless stranger. He continues his movements, until you're both moaning and coming closer to ecstasy. Once there, it doesn't last long, but it's a beautiful feeling; it's beautiful because it's with him, a faceless stranger could never make you feel like this. But you would never disclose this information to him.
Later, after he thinks that you're asleep, he caresses your hair, twiddling several of your strands in his fingers and playing with them. Then, he tires of it and cuddles you, his face nuzzling your neck and sending renewed shivers over your body – his breath makes you feel tingly.
It's not unpleasant, but it is out of place and perturbing to you; it makes you feel even guiltier than usual. Not that you'd ever voice your concerns in an audible manner – he wouldn't listen to you. On the contrary, he'd shake his head and flash a stupid grin at you, trying to comfort you with inane speeches and tales of bravado. Grimly, you realise that he hasn't ever listened to you, but ignored each of your words defiantly, challenging them each time. You wish that he would still do that; it's better to be insulted and sparring about than being given reassuring, but empty consolations.
It makes you wonder why he's with you, even though you're nothing, but a feeble ghost. You're drained, on the verge of jumping off a cliff, albeit still hovering on the edges. Still, it doesn't mean that he has to follow you, breaking, tearing himself apart with a promise that might have suicidal consequences for him.
Occasionally, you try to make him comprehend that it's hopeless to be with you, that it's like clutching to a broken toy that can't be mended. Sadly, common sense fails him and logical thinking has always been a foreign concept for him; he doesn't wish to understand and is keen to follow to you hell or whatever Fate's got in store for you. You never admit it, but it flatters you: love like that is rare to come by, you can appreciate that. But it doesn't mean that you'll relent. You're not ready for that yet. Maybe you'll never be.
"You know that I'm not good for you, Naruto," you whisper gently, allowing that name to roll down your tongue like a cube of ice. It has been ages since you've used that name, or at least, it feels like a lifetime to you. Truthfully, you've been scared to use that name because it is linked with so many other painful memories you would rather like to leave buried in the deepest recess of your mind. It's easier to think of Naruto as an anonymous individual: this enables to keep you protected from the past.
He hasn't given you any indications of understanding, but you know what his reply would have been – know it as certainly as you know that Itachi's really, truly dead. Only that Itachi's death brings you some kind relief, while his answer would have given you anything, but that feeling. You can feel it in the way he tightens his hold on you and tentatively lets his fingers stroke your cheek. Moreover, you can feel it in his gentle breathing that would be comforting if you would only allow it to be so. God, he's still such a thick-headed idiot, not realising that you don't want to be saved, that you don't wish to be loved by him. You never asked for his love, never asked for anything. It's him who's shoved his obsessive love down your throat, not even giving you a chance to digest it.
The storm has subsided and is being replaced by the sound of silence. Not even a single twitter can be heard, and the world seems to have fallen prey to some nameless conqueror, happiness is whisked away and everything is – momentarily – dead: gone with the wind - literally. It should be ominous and haunting, but you rather like it. After all, with the silence literally hugging, embracing you from all sides, it's so much easier to pretend that this is an open grave and you're already dead, only waiting to be reduced into pieces of flesh and bone by hungry decomposers.
Yes, it would be perfect, if he were not by your side; breathing and so obviously alive, making you feel that you are pulling him into that grave as well. Although he never blames you, you know that you're Naruto's doom – you're something that will or already is slowly driving him insane, too. Hell-bent as he is on dragging you out of the grave, he can't see that he's losing himself. Yes, you've broken him, destroyed him with your love. Yes, in spite of never talking to him about it, it's your loving –being in love with - him that keeps you by his side. It's love that binds you two together. It's so simple that it nearly makes you laugh - it's so stupid that it's nearly saddening.
He doesn't want to know it, but in his childish desire to save you – to make you alive again – he's digging his own grave. He'll follow you, obediently until you've both reached the total bottom of the pit. That's his unfailing loyalty and it's your unfailing selfishness that shall kill you both. It's only a question of time.
You should push him away from you because he's too damn good for you, but you don't – it's so much easier to fall with him than being alone. You should try harder, you should simply run away, but you're too selfish to let him go. You love him and are obsessed with him, breaking him is such a delicious treat that you can't let him go; it's as simple as that.
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