Build a Bridge, a naruto fanfic

Title: Build a Bridge

Author: DeadSummerXx

Characters/Pairing: Konan

Type: Un-Continuous (Complete)

Genre: Angst

Word Count: 1036

Rating: T

Disclaimer: The universe of NARUTO and its characters belong to Kishimoto Masashi.

Last Revised On: July 20, 2009

Summary: "Something of an equal amount must be lost in order for something to be gained." Konan/Yahiko/Nagato-centric; drabble-ish (NOT pairing, Konan's POV)

A/N: Ugh. So boooored.

…And this may seem a little half-assed and short, but…deal with it.

Build A Bridge

Build a bridge to your mind
Takes me there every time
Lay it all on the line
If there's a way
Build a bridge, make a path
Overlook the aftermath
Make my tears be your bath
If there's a way
Only if you'll take a ride
Go with me to the other side

It disgusts Konan, Nagato parading around in Yahiko's body.

It has always disgusted her, for as long as she can remember—since the time that, all those years ago, Nagato came back to their home, no Yahiko with him, bearing the awful, heart-wrenching, heartbreaking, terrifying, horrible, gut-curdling, painful news of his death, because she knew what would happen to his body—and he had walked through the door, sallow and paler than she'd ever seen him, blank as a cloudless summer sky (but not as happy, not as joyful—like he could ever be), his Rinnegan glowing eerily in the dim light of the afternoon covered with clouds and endless, endless rain, and he told her, and merely watched as the grip on her teacup tightened and the small piece of porcelain crashed to the floor in a million pieces, as the blood from the cuts on her palm dripped slowly into the auburn liquid, mixing and swirling and rippling on the cold linoleum floor.

WhywhywhywhywhyWHY?

"Something of an equal amount must be lost in order for something to be gained," Nagato had said impassively, pokerfaced and monotone, and she hazily realized she had spoken it aloud, as she watched the blood on her hand make small plip, plop noises into the spilt tea, and right then, she wanted to slap him so hard his mother could feel it.

But she didn't, and she didn't cry either, because she knows Yahiko would have said the same thing, and even though she loves him, she hates him for it. For peace.

Sometimes she has doubts, doubts that Nagato is doing the right thing, even if she does trust him, believes in him. Because of this—because of their fight for peace, they—she—have lost Yahiko.

Because Konan wonders if the sacrifices are really worth it, if peace is worth the loss.

But she will stick by her struggle for peace, because it is all she has known almost her entire life, even if she is afraid of what it might mean for her if they don't succeed, and most importantly if they do, because she is afraid of letting go, because she has no idea what to do if she does.

(but don't you doubt Nagato as well? Haven't you stuck by him and the both of your—his?—ideals all this time, just like you have done for peace? Isn't that the same thing, even if you are afraid, because they are the same thing and what then (what now?)? Because you are afraid, you're afraid of Nagato and you just want it to stop, stop the clock, the time, the breathing, the beating, the pain, pain, pain, painpainpainpain—)

The rain.

Yahiko had always said that he wanted to stop the rain, in the metaphorical sense of it as pain and suffering. And to this day, as she watches from the roof of the tallest of buildings in Ame, Nagato's "radio tower", the anniversary of Yahiko's—the sandy-blonde, blue-eyed mastermind, her friend, her savoir, her brother, her everything—death, the rain is endless.

"It's important to him," she says to Nagato's unresponsive back (but it looks like Yahiko, and she blinks hard at the strange sensation behind her eyelids).

There is nothing but the sound of the rain for the longest time after that, and Konan desperately wants to know what he is thinking, just this once.

Nagato turns his head towards her, and inwardly she thinks she has never seen him look so tired, so old. "I know," he says, and it sounds like Yahiko but it's not (and whywhywhywhywhyWHY?).

The rain doesn't stop, and she wants him to do something, anything, but Nagato doesn't, and she wants to hate him for it so much it hurts. This is the fifth anniversary of Yahiko's death since Nagato won control of Ame, since he had the power to stop the rain—and he never did it once, and she knows that it's because he thinks if he ignores it, lets the rain fall, ignores Yahiko, the pain, the suffering, the hurt, the agony, will just go away.

Konan's mouth suddenly feels dry, her throat raw and aching—like she's been screaming at the top of her lungs, needing to fill the suffocating silence, for centuries, like she has swallowed sandpaper, swallowed something large and nasty and prickly and oh God, she feels like she wants to diediediediediediedie—

But then she blinks, and the all feeling goes away to the most inner, darkest recesses of her broken mind, left to resurface again some other time, most likely when she is in her private quarters later today, taking a shower, ("Rain, rain, go away, come again another day."), and she thinks vaguely that she will use the vanilla scented body wash, as her thumb absentmindedly traces the scars on her right palm from that one teacup that spilt on that one floor on that one day, that one afternoon, on that one year, so long ago.

It is her defense mechanism, her way to cope, just like this is Nagato's, and she can't find it in her heart to resent him for it, no matter how much she wants herself to, because Nagato is as much of a brother as Yahiko is (was), because maybe she is just too kind-hearted, because maybe she is too foldable, bendable, breakable, like paper (and she smiles with all her heart as she presents her beautiful origami flower, and it shines through her very soul and suddenly the world seems so much less darker, less painful, and she is so happy she can barely stand it.)

A little piece of paper with a picture drawn
Floats on down the street till the wind is gone
The memory now is like the picture was then
Once the paper's crumpled up it can't be perfect again

I love symbolism. :/

Anyone catch the last one?