Why is it Always Cold
By: Yami no Varu
Disclaimer: I own nothing, I just play with and angst them to death!
Warnings and notes: This is Yaoi…or will be later. This is also my 2nd fic to be put up so please review!
Chapter 1
Icy air fills his lungs, as always and like every morning as he takes his first deep morning breath. The chill of it runs through his body and breaks shivers over his smooth, colorless skin. Why must it always be cold in these rooms…in this dreadful prison-like lair? Expelling the air from his lungs and casually noting the light frosty puff coming from his mouth, he tosses the dark covers off his naked body. Longly he stretches up and out, forcing the sleep from his body and a small yawn breaks across his passive face for a moment, bringing a small drop to the corner of his eye.
Shivering again, he gracefully slides his legs off the massive western style bed and drops his naked feet to the near-frozen, black and grey stone floor. Standing up easily he treads over to the large wardrobe near the small and only window in the room.
Pulling the heavy doors open without effort and without care he reaches into the vast cabinet and an amber and red silk kimono is randomly chosen from the dozens in front of him. Long, pale hands pull the insubstantial article over bare skin and around him, wrapping it tightly to his lithe body. Reaching into the cherry-stained wardrobe once more, he seizes a black silk tie from a hook near the far side and with nimble fingers, it too is quickly wrapped around him and is tightened to keep the kimono firm and secure to his waist. Bored he drops his arms to his sides and he walks over to his oak door. Snarling slightly, he opens it just enough to bark out an irritated command to the nearest minion standing by before loudly shutting it again. He hates all of them…his loyal watch dogs. Humph.
For a moment his hand lays hard against the heavy door and he lets the feel of it under his hand calm him. For a while, when he first came here, he hated the western likeness of this cage-room he was given and he longed for traditional Japanese…anything. But one day, months ago he found the wood of the western oak door to be…comforting. Smirking slightly he traces the numerous cracks and splits in the grains with his index finger. Closing his eyes, he remembers why.
Burning between tears and blood and rage, he stormed into his room and slammed his door shut. Turning to it he curled a fit and punched…hard. The skin over his knuckles split and bled instantly. Growling, he hit it repeatedly and unforgiving until it cracked under the force of his strikes, splinters immediately shooting outward and a few pieces slivered into his skin. Hissing, he tore them from his hand and dropped his head against the door and his fingernails dug little crescent shapes into the wood. Standing there breathing and crying, despite his will, he stayed for many long minutes, just willing himself to relax. Eventually he calmed and his breath evened. He let himself stand, mind blank for long seconds just breathing when suddenly he noticed the smell of the oak door. Closing his eyes tight, the smell of the wood flushed through him and with it his mind was flooded with memories. Good memories and memories long since forgotten. New tears leaked from his eyes unexpectedly and he clung to the door. He stayed there, slouched on the ground leaning against the door, flushed in memories and pretending he was there with that idiot again or with his family again and not here for what could have been hours. When his spell passed, he got up embarrassed and annoyed at himself for his weakness and pressed away. But every time after that when he broke he would shut his door hard then slide against it and just breathe its scent and remember and cry.
Sighing emotionlessly, he pushes away from the solid oak and pads back across the room and to his expansive table and mirror. Searching shortly, he finds what he is looking for and picks up the violet earring. Gripping the metal hook he guides it into the small opening in his left earlobe. It dangles heavily. It is always heavy.
knock knock
"…Nani…" he questions, his monotone voice smooth and revealed nothing as usual despite his shock at the unexpected knocking.
"Orochimaru is looking for you, Sasuke-kun. He is in his room." Kabuto's voice chirped before the sound of disappearing footsteps was heard retreating down the long hall.
Sighing, he pushes away from the table and mirror and walks over to his door, opens it, exits his room and shut the door behind him. Ignoring the crony near his room's entrance, Sasuke starts down the hallway.
Why is it always cold here?