A/N: Typing up with WordPad for a change. NO SPELLCHECK. D; Anywho, quick oneshot. Very unedited, probably full of mistakes I'll fix later. Please point out spelling mistakes so I can fix them. (Am very tired at moment.) Note: I call Sasuke a dummy in this. I am not insulting his intelligence; it's a term used in bridge for the partner of a declarer who's cards are exposed. They don't really influence/play on the same level as the others. EDITED!

Undeniable Deniability

Kaguya Kimimaro's existence was swirling into a point of finality, as if a dark hole were pulling him into the abyss. He was dying, in painful, shuddering waves slowed down to an excruciating pace by the drip-drip-drip of his medicine. Though, lying there, the pale sheets fitted to his ever-diminishing form, Kimimaro reflected that the sickly yellow of the liquid delivered to his mouth via tubes (seen through a flirtatious downwards glance) did nothing to cure his ailments, only reflected the state his body was in.

Quite indeed, Kimimaro could realize with startling clarity the fact that this life which he was born into – ( hated, cursed life, full of bitter treatment and doubt, changed by a willowy figure in a fluttering kimono, who's pale, pale lips formed words seeming to promise so many things) – was ending. Why else would he be confined to the sheeted bed, that gripped his body, clinging tightly to his form like the desperate grip of a child not wishing to leave its mother.

If only his green eyes, that a romantic type of person might classify as 'emeralds', could survey this pitiful situation. As much as the white-haired once-to-be vessel accepted, embraced and acknowledged his fate, it was almost surreal with the top half of his face covered, and if it were not real why had this nightmare not ended? With the covering, it grew monotonous, staring up at nothing but a muted darkness. To pass the time Kimimaro would imagine that a whole different path stretched in front of him, one of living and loving and a cheerfulness never achieved in his true lifespan. Unless, to be fair, he was with someone who's idea of being cheerful was just having dominated an entire society of beings he once called comrades.

Kimimaro didn't have comrades, people to work and share and play with. He had a master, to serve with blind devotion, striving, as humans always do, for acceptance and love. He had a doctor, to tell him lies coated in enemal-destroying joy, with round lens' flashing and casual gestures and smiles that were simply 'faux'. He also had a group of four persons whom he really did not give a care for, more considering them captivating and strange ornaments to make himself appear even more . . . the word failed him, for Kimimaro simply believed perfectionism a state of other's people's beliefs on how well one conducts themselves, and no one was judging Kimimaro. He wasn't really worthy of that kind of scrutinization.

Yet after a few thoughts on those twinkling little 'team-mates' (a word scoffed among their inner circle), they would certainly make an entrance. Enter stage right, exit stage left, a brief appearance that certainly leaves the audience disappointed. A few lines, one from a master of deceit who's true identity was as lost as Kimimaro's health. A few from a disposable character, certainly not truly important in the grand scheme of things.

"Kabuto-sensei, I really don't see the point in keeping him alive."

"Well, Kidoumaru-kun, if Orochimaru-sama wishes to keep Kimimaro-kun alive, then we shall keep him alive."

Privately, the mayu-marked boy believed them a bunch of fools, for what is more foolish than keeping someone suspended in a rotting existence. It would be a rare occurrence indeed that a discovery would be made to save said someone. 'I suppose I can suffer if it's what Orochimaru-sama desires.' Kimimaro would ponder, as he felt another slow, agonizing tremor start at the core of his festering illness and echo outwards. A ripple effect. Throw a stone into a pond, and soon the aftermath of this action will reach you. 'What would be the stone? The pond? Pushing myself to hard and hurting my body? Or is this disease just a sign I really am uneeded?'

"Ahhh, I see Kimimaro-kun still has not improved. What a shame. I suppose that Uchiha boy has been showing promise." Speaking as if the walls have no ears, and the near-dead no feelings. The sannin would step inside for the momentary visit, as if passing through a unpinpointed location for a few moments of change from a 'normal' lifestyle.

'No, I am needed. To Orochimaru-sama. He doesn't need some second rate Uchiha, he needs me.' To Kimimaro, jealousy was not a player in this dizzying game of desire for a snake master's attention. After all, this Uchiha was only a dummy, not really aware of the events falling into place around him like the sure setting of stones into a building designed to last a century.

Yet he had to face the truth – and what an ugly face truth had! – that his Orochimaru-sama would no longer require him. A lesser person would have cried, and truth be told Kimimaro would have, except his body wasn't hydrated enough. No swooning tales of 'his tearducts to dry from lack of use', or 'putting up a brave front', just hard cold reality. Reality, Kimimaro perceived, was a lot like needles, for when it comes to needles, if you ignore them, only a slight pinprick will occur and it will be done. If you a large fuss however, it was just messier and much harder to bear. Suck it up and take it like a sensible human being, one might say. Reality was that he was useless to Orochimaru-sama. So he settled for broodingly contemplating how to roll with this, perhaps creating a new manner in which to prove useful without fighting the flow.

When he was given the intimate knowledge that the Uchiha's travel to the hide-out was the full-on contrast to smooth, Kimimaro realized what he must do. This action required movement, which created hurt worse than those lapping waves of taunting pain. It had been painful to an almost unendurable extent to forcefully control a body he really felt like no more than a guest in. Yet, then a miracle occurred, one Kimimaro either attributed to there finally being proof of divine beings, or his faintly glowing medicine taking effect after much time of suffering.

He could move freely, all once-inescapable bonds of agony broken as he transcended all aches and pains into a dimension of pure, enthralling numbness.

'Touching upon the border of Orochimaru's dream.'

As he prepared himself for a departure he would not return from (Kimimaro had lied---he did have one person he could call a comrade, Juugo, and he took some time to say goodbye in brief terms that allowed no true feelings to be revealed) he regarded that Kabuto was appearing as if he had something to comment upon. So, before Kimimaro turned his back on everyone he had grown familiar to (and to a rare few, fond), he gazed upon the medic nin with an expectant look.

"Kabuto-sensei, what is it you wish to say? 'Miss you'?"

Kimimaro was not of the humour-proposing, and sarcasm-hinting genre, so he was honestly curious. This man who was evidently the type of person who didn't form meaningful bonds looked vaguely troubled. However, Kimimaro was not in a better state of mind, and if he were, he would have recalled that Kabuto most likely detested him. And dislike shone through in his next words, like a match being lit in a dull, subdued room.

"Kimimaro-kun, you've heard the saying 'always the bridesmaid, never the bride'? before, right? I'm just thinking it's too bad you'll die before Sasuke-kun can ever toss you a bouquet."

". . . I will keep that in mind. You always have had an interesting way of looking at things. Goodbye, Kabuto-sensei."

Death was an inevitable, compulsory and decided end for the lives of everyone. Yet many sought to escape this event that closed in on all sides, a trap of conformity everyone must obey. His Orochimaru-sama, for example. Kimimaro however embraced death, since he knew that the moment he snuffed out, his usefulness would have been terminated. Why flee, when all reason for living had dried up like a pool of once fresh blood, which was know a stiff, flaky and shadow of all former glory. Death was something to be accepted, in Kimimaro's opinion, like reality. The two often went hand in hand, fingers twined tightly like the inescapable bonds of fate. Everyone's life was brushed by death, though Kimimaro's had been more dappled. Which had led him to his Orochimaru-sama, and his current life, to be ended here, in this fight with a red-headed sand-user and a spandex-wearing taijutsu specialist.

However, Kimimaro decided that it was better than wasting away, shriveling until he collapsed upon himself, coughing up blood and wishing for an end that would surely be welcomed with open arms. He would die conserving a dream that was not even his own. He would die so another could further their own overdue time --- it was a duty he'd desired to perform, and here, he finally could. He would depart this world fighting.

Of course, that would have been too kind, for it had to occur a situation in which he could hold his own or defeat his opponents. In the end, it was the contamination of his body (allied with battling after a dry spell) that hooked into the final wavering flame of his entire existence, and as he unleashed his fury on the duo floating feather-like on the sand, pulled him down . . .

. . . down . . .

. . . down . . .

. . . into indescribable darkness, and then . . .

. . . nothing.

the end