Genre/Theme: Drama
Summary: Nine years after Uchiha Sasuke leaves Konoha, he returns seeking advice from Uzumaki Naruto. Naruto, however, is more reminiscent than helpful, reflecting on the way things used to be and how much things have stayed the same between himself and his former best friend. Sasuke leaves, not finding what he seeks, and Naruto is left to wonder if he dreamt the entire situation up. (Could be considered slightly Aleternate Universe/Timeline).
Rating: T (PG/PG-13)
Author: Queen Angelblood
Fandom: Naruto
Pairings: None
Spoilers: Nothing stated blantantly.
Warnings: Minimal use of the word 'bastard'.
Disclaimer: All characters and related material is copyrighted to Masashi Kishimoto.
Feedback is greatly appreciated.
It's almost impossible to believe that you're back. I don't really believe it's you, sitting there, after all this time. You look so different. Is it really you? You've been gone so long, that I don't think I really remember you anymore. Did you always look like that? To me, you're just a sort of fragment that burned into my memory, and I just can't forget you. You're like a shard of glass, stuck in my foot, painfully reminding me you're there with blood, pushing yourself further into my skin, staying imbedded in me forever. You were gone for such a long time.
But now you're back, and you're lying there, on my worn sofa, with the sunset filtering in through the picture window and catching you in all the right ways (not that there's a 'wrong' way, not with someone like you. . .). You've grown up. Sasuke, and you're more painful, more beautiful than you ever were before. You're like the sun in the sky, going down blazing just outside my window in a fiery finale, and it hurts me to look at you. I simply have to look away. You're just too much.
The light is so intense now, and it gets caught in your hair, turning the natural blue highlights a stunning rhapsody of flaming hues: crimson, orange, gold, with even a hint of violent violet. The sunset lends your pale pallor colour, making your cheeks hold a soft hue they've never had before. You're dressed all in black, but somehow, the light makes the bite of the colour seem softer. It takes away from that infernal brooding edge of yours.
You're absolutely breathtaking.
Honestly, I've got a pain in my side. I can't breathe. Your presence is choking. I don't think you realize just how stunning you are there, in your own radiance, saying in that smooth, rich voice of yours, "Taint me, just a little."
You're tainted enough, in my personal opinion. But that's not what you're talking about. You don't want to be hurt again, or tainted in that black way. You want to be shown how to open up, how to make yourself vulnerable. To you, it is a taint to live like that. You've never bowed to emotions before, but you're tired. You're tired of living the way you do. It drains you, more than being emotional ever drained a person. I can see it in the lines that have formed just around your eyes. They make you look older, wiser. It hurts me just a little to see them. It makes me think of all the time we've lost together.
You complain that you're tired of living. You didn't need to tell me that. I'm not as dense as I used to be. I've grown older too. I've a little wisdom of my own. As reluctant as you are to admit it, you want that wisdom to be shared with you. Your own path has led you nowhere, and now, you're lost. I feel little pity for you. You were always so headstrong.
You're telling me that nothing matters to you anymore. I don't quite believe you. There are still things - dreams - you want to chase after. But those are just dreams. You're just too tired to chase them right now. You've hit a blockade, somewhere out there, alone, and you've realized that your path was not one to your goal.
You say that you don't want to go on overlooking all the small things. I wonder what small things you're talking about. I wonder if it's not something to do with family. I wouldn't understand that. You've changed topics again. You're talking about things that I've no use for: eternity, the end of pain. You're seeking them out. You want to know where they are. You sound a little bit too optimistic about them. I've come to realize that there aren't any such things. If there were, I'd still be seeking them too.
You've always lived too much in the past, you say, and I can't help but agree with you. You've clung to the past so hard, that it's hard to separate you from memory. Maybe that's why I can't quite remember you properly. You're persistent in asking the questions I used to ask. I've been searching for the answers all this time, but I can't find them. "When?" you beg, "when?" and I can't answer you.
I don't know when you'll accomplish those goals you made an eternity ago. To you and I, they're just castles in the sky. I think you realize that. We were young and stupid then. We still are. You and I both know you'll never get there, but you'll never give up trying. You were always stubborn like that. I understand that all too well. Dreams are all people like us have left.
And when dreams fall away, what will we cling to then? I've invested all my hopes in the future, and you've put all of yourself into the past. Neither one of us is in here now. You're distant, thinking about memories and faded photographs. I wonder where you keep them. You probably remember a sunset like this. I wonder, what happened then to make you remember? I wish you were here. The room is strangely quiet without you. I'm not here either though. I'm thinking about the future again, because I can't stay still. I'm always moving, forever, forward. I can't reach back and pull you out of the past. I'm too far gone in the future. We're too far apart.
Time and space are all that separate us, and we've overcome space now. You're only a few feet away; so close, I could reach out and touch you. I think I might, but I'm afraid you'll break, like the crystal sun catcher that used to dangle in my window and scatter rainbows across my walls. I'm fairly sure you're no rainbow, but I want to be careful. You seem too fragile to be strong like you want to be right now.
You want me to teach you, taint you, and you know, I wish I could. I wish I could taint you, make you a little more open. I wish I could teach you to live like a human being. Somewhere in there, you're a monster, lurking, and I can't make you human again. I can't right your wrongs, and I can't change the past. That would take a miracle, and I'm no saint.
You break me, just sitting there, melancholy as you are. Only you could be so ravishing in your angst. I don't want to break this sort of spell the moment seems to have, but I want to soothe away your pain. You're like a scared child, and it hurts me to see you this way. It scares me. You always were the stronger of the two of us. I don't want to see you weak. If you're weak, what am I?
. . .I don't know. I don't want to know what I am if you're weak. Contrasted with you, I'm nothing. Maybe that's why I've never bothered holding that comparison in high opinion.
I hated you, but sometimes, it's as easy to love you as it is to hate you. Sure, you're a bastard. There have been so many times I've just wanted to bash your head off a wall, repeatedly, until you had some sense in that pretty little head of yours. But you're so fragile inside that I just can't bring myself to shatter your illusion. You worked so hard to bring yourself to that cool, calm exterior. Your image is all you really have left, you narcissistic bastard.
You've forgotten all about the you inside. You don't want to remember that you're fragile, like glass. You don't want to remember that you're a human being, because human beings are fragile. You don't want to remember that you're ugly inside. You're a seething, roiling mass of unsorted emotions under that calm exterior, and you've got no idea how to deal with that. You're scared of yourself, of what you feel. You turn a blind eye to all that you don't want to see.
You do that in this physical world too. Sakura was weak, to you, and you'd ignore her every time. You still do. She's a lot stronger now, but I suppose that doesn't make her beautiful to you, does it? She could smash your head in, but she doesn't want to and that makes her weak. She loves you and you call her weak for doing so. Is it because it's you she loves? I can't believe how stupid you are sometimes, holding onto your beliefs the way you do. Don't you know you're wrong?
It's okay to be wrong, sometimes. You've never been told that. Everybody always expected you to know what was right and wrong, and to be able to discern the truth from a lie in an instant. Nobody ever showed you the path was a winding road. Everybody taught you that it should be a straight path. Nobody ever gave you the chance to screw up. I feel a little sorry for you. You look like your ego's committing suicide, under my words. Maybe it is. After all, you came to me for help. You've covered your ears. You don't want to listen to my biassed truths anymore.
You're wrong, and you've been wrong all this time. It's okay to be wrong. Sasuke. I can't even count all the times I've been wrong. Nobody has ever been perfect. No, not even you, though you'd believe that you are. You're still bullheaded, even after all this time. It's been nine years and you haven't changed much at all. You're still the bastard I knew. You're still that fragment of glass in my foot.
I feel a little silly sitting beside you. You're so elegant and graceful, even in your moment of weakness. You're so composed. The vibrant sunset does everything for you and nothing for me. I clash with it, my already bright colours being made brighter, almost neon. It does nothing for my complexion, and the only thing it really does for me, is reflect in my eyes. I feel clumsy next to you, and somehow, inadequate, as if I'm falling short of some imagined standard. What are the stakes between us again?
I'm ugly, to you, just as Sakura is. I'm still shorter than you, and I'm not as slender, or graceful as you. It amazes me how pretty you are. Boys aren't supposed to look like you do. It really looks as if puberty didn't make much of a difference to you. In fact, you look more effeminate than you ever did before.
I've always talked too much, haven't I? I'm doing it again. I'm telling you too much, and you don't even want to hear a breath of it. Somehow, I get the feeling talk isn't what you came here for.
I've missed you, you bastard, but I won't tell you so. It would be too weak of me to admit that I've ever felt anything but hate for you. Keeping up appearances is harder than it looks, isn't it? You wouldn't tell me if you missed me, not even if you knew you were going to die in the next day or two. And for that reason, I'll never know what you think about me. I'm happy with that. You can be such a procrastinator when it comes to talking.
So, you want to live more vulnerably? Well, I can't teach you how to do that. I wish I could but I can't even begin to explain what you need to know. All I can do for you is point out all your shortcomings and mistakes. I can't even offer you any sort of advice about fixing them. You're just going to have to look for the answers on your own.
You turn away with a huff at that. You always want everything easy, to just fall into your lap; you want someone to spoonfeed you the answers so you don't have to risk making a mistake. Maybe that's why your dreams are still just castles in the sky.
You shoot me a glare for saying that. You really hate me sometimes. I know. You really hate it when I tell you the truth. But you have to hear it. You need to be thrown to your knees, sometimes, to taste the dirt. After all, one day, dirt is all you're going to be. You'd better get used to the feeling now, hm?
No, I'm not going to apologize for what I've said to you. Don't even ask me to. You've never apologized to me for what you've done. It's the truth, and that's what you came here seeking. You've gleaned from me some scrap of truth, some peculiar sense of humility and I'll leave you with that. Right now, you don't deserve any more than that.
You're ready to leave now. Your eyes tell me so. I'll tell you one more thing before you go. You're a stuck-up, narcissistic bastard with a terrible superiority complex, and you should seriously seek professional help. You've got issues as deep as the sea. So please, don't change that. I want to remember you like that. Just as a sort of fragment in my foot, in my mind, and nothing more, but always there, jabbing at me; reminding me of everything that has happened.
You're gone again, with the sunset, and the shadows set in now, creeping out of the corners they slept the day in. I'm alone again, and I'm the idiot again, for letting you go like that. But I have to ask myself, as I sit in the darkening apartment, were you ever there at all? Your place on the sofa is cold, as if you were never there, though you sat there for a good half-an-hour, maybe longer. That fragment of you inside my head buries itself deeper, digging itself a grave. I don't want to forget you. After all, you're just a memory that I barely remember. You're a memory that keeps haunting me like this, and driving me, slowly, beyond the parameters of feeble sanity. I don't know if I can bear this sort of amnesiac treatment for much longer.
So, now I've told you the truth. Will you tell me some of your secrets?
Fin-