AN: I have a lot of things that I'm supposed to be doing but unfortunately, I'm the sort of person that only produces something good if I can go with the flow and at the moment, my flow is taking me in this direction. For a while, I've thought about what it would be like to just up and disappear from society, to cut all roots and just float around aimlessly discovering things about yourself and about the world as you go. Then last weekend, I watched 'Into the Wild' and this took shape.
With this story, I'd like to play with different mediums of writing but I read something in the Fanfic guidelines about not publishing lists? I was hoping that it was just 'a list by itself, not part of an actual story?' but if not I guess I could remove the beginning of the first 2 chapters if it really does break the rules. It would suck though.
Warnings: Probable yaoi at some point. Naruto is 16 going on 17 in this fic and Sasuke is nearing 21 for all those that are like 'le gasp! Non-con!'. This fic is AU which means none of the places in it relate to anything real at all so don't expect any particularly realistic geography or anything. There will be liberal swearing in this fic because swearing is cool and comforting when you're in the mood y'know? There might be references to casual drug usage later on as well - the rating for this story has been carefully selected for this very reason.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, have rights to nothing and shouldn't even be writing this fic but if I can't up and leave society myself, I need to experience it somehow and hey, it would be cool if you could come along for the ride.
1: The Art of Apple Scrumping
Everything I own:
1 pair of thermal socks
1 pair of ripped denim shorts
1 black vest
1 tattered woollen Christmas jumper
1 pair of black jeans
1 pair of Wranglers combat boots
3 pairs of underwear
1 hooded waterproof rain-Mac
1 dark grey zip up hoodie
1 pair of old school sunglasses
1 cast iron pot
1 bent metal fork
1 metal spoon
1 thermal sleeping bag
1 chequered blanket
1 pop up tent
1 thermal mat
1 water container
1 bag of 15kg rice (currently down to 13kg)
3 bags of trail mix
3 lighters
1 notebook
5 bic biros
1 razor
1 switchblade
1 dark green travelling backpack
1 roll of cheap toilet paper
1 small first aid kit
1 copy of the SAS Survival Guide
1 copy of a foraging book
I'm squatting over the ugliest shrub I've managed to find out in this wilderness, a bush so disfigured, so monstrous that it would be a veritable crime to continue to let it live but no matter how many times I remind myself that I'd be doing the world a favour by disposing of this thing, no matter how many times I repeat to myself that I was beyond desperate for the bathroom not 3 seconds before, nothing happens. My pale ass is hovering over the bush like some kind of miniature sardonic parody of a moonlit night and I'm straining like I've got constipation but so ingrained is my upbringing, the mental conditioning that I must excrete in the toilet and nowhere else, that I just can't do it.
The real tragedy of this conditioned road block in what should be a natural process is the fact that when I stand up again, I'm going to be in some serious digestive pain and the nearest civilised toilet is probably still about 5 or 6 miles away. Why, when it's obviously going to cause me serious discomfort and nausea, can I not just let go of social conditioning and take a crap in the woods? There's no one around, not for miles. Hell, up here there's not many animals either, just endless reams of budding trees witnessing my attempted fall from civilised grace.
Well…less of a fall…more of a plunge.
I don't need to use the bathroom, I just have to take a dump. Here is as good a place as any other damnit, rise against your conditioning, take bowel control to the next level!
The death of nature's ultimate disfiguration is a small personal victory. My heart beats a little faster with the achievement as I stand and breathe in the not so fresh air. If only my father could see what I've just managed to accomplish or, more importantly, if only he could understand that I feel a stronger sense of triumph in this moment than I did when I stood on the stage back at Konoha U to receive my first class degree in business and economics.
This is a rebellion beyond anything I could ever have conceived, a drop of dignity so significant that to even comprehend it, I believe Uchiha Fugaku would have a heart attack.
"Hey mum, what's that man doing?"
I stiffen.
The little hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end and a ripple of goose bumps has broken out over my skin as I whip back, dark eyes locking on a girl that can't be older than 6 holding on to the hand of an ashen faced mother wearing hiking gear.
Fuck!
"Sorry, no bathrooms out here," I mumble out, abandoning all hope of being able to cover myself and lunging for my jeans still pooled around my ankles as the mother starts to scream. Moments later, I can hear the crashes and sharp yelling that usually precedes an unpleasant encounter so I grab the strap of my overly heavy backpack, snatch up the roll of toilet paper still hanging from the thin spruce serving as partial camouflage (though I really didn't think there'd be anyone to have to camouflage from so you can't blame me for lack of proper cover) and take off as fast as I can in the opposite direction, careening straight over the edge of a near vertical drop into a valley and rolling through several gorse bushes in my grand attempt at escape.
My heart has launched itself into my throat by the time I hit the compact earth at the bottom and all the air escapes me in a wicked rush. There are some serious grazes on my arms and I'm covered in dead bracken but I don't stop to wait for dad to follow me over the edge into nature's downward hell, spooked into running for my life enough by his enraged yelling at the top of the hill. This isn't exactly my first time accidentally infuriating the locals so I know that it's smarter to run than to try and defend my honour with careful and controlled logic. I still have a yellowing bruise just under my ribs to remind me of this simple fact.
It takes about 10 minutes of flat out sprinting for me to realise that dad isn't going to follow his rage instincts and throw himself down the potentially suicidal drop just to shriek at me about indecent exposure in front of a minor and as soon as the realisation hits my addled mind, the adrenaline drops away and I collapse in a dead heap becoming vaguely aware of the noise of the road not too far from here.
I listen to the sound of my throbbing heart beat over the steady sound of car exhausts and try to regulate my breathing, carefully repressing this whole episode as I wheeze for much needed oxygen so I'll never have to fully process the intensity of how humiliating this whole debacle has been.
One thing's for certain following this though, screw shitting in the woods - I'll take the societal oppression that comes with doing my business in the appropriate facilities.
A kid at my school used to swear that because his garden ran with the wilderness theme, a fashionable gardening statement at the time among the well to do families which incorporated a more natural, eco friendly feel, that he could smell wild garlic growing on the school grounds from the second floor window where our classroom was round by the sports fields.
I remember being suitably amused by this idea because no-one could ever smell anything but old gym socks from that window though now that I think about it, those gym socks smelt an awful lot like this plant that my foraging book is confirming as wild garlic.
I glare at it warily, my eyes narrowing into snake-like slits as I set it down next to the onion I managed to pilfer from my last ride and my rice bag. If this really is wild garlic then I could be setting up for a hearty meal of garlic and onion seasoned rice, a veritable feast by my usual standards. I weigh up the pros and cons of eating something potentially dangerous but I've read the foraging book from cover to cover, the plant matches the description absolutely - like a perfect specimen.
If my Biology teacher was here right now, he'd probably hit me over the head and start reprimanding me for my hesitance but living this life-style has made me over-cautious.
Maybe I should just go for it.
I sniff the plant again, double check the book and scrutinise the leaves before setting it down and deciding that I don't need to put the garlic in until the rice is partially done anyway which will take a century so I'll have plenty of time to mentally re-assess the stupidity of trusting something uncertain.
I mentally mourn the lack of oil required to fry the onion and decide to boil the flavour out of it in a rice broth instead. By the time I'm supposed to put in the garlic, I've decided that it really is far too stupid to potentially kill myself just for a little garlic flavouring when garlic isn't even something I particularly like anyway. I scowl at the carefully plucked up plant wilting slowly in the dirt as I slurp on my oniony rice broth, not so subconsciously disappointed in myself for chickening out when this whole 'hobo life' thing was supposed to be a chance to be more adventurous, to cut loose and explore all possibilities without the insufferable overhanging disapproval of my everyday obligations.
But there's a difference between experiencing true adventure and being a reckless moron…isn't there?
"Hey grandpa, he's different from the other hitcher we picked up."
"Not everyone's the same Inari."
"I know but I kinda thought he'd be more…y'know, talkative like that other guy."
The kid in the front seat of the van turns to look at me, dark eyes bright with a silent challenge as he regards me and I look him dead in the eye without flinching, stubbornly ignoring the singular dark hair that attacks the edge of my eye making me want to twitch with violent intensity.
"Hi," I manage in a monotonous voice.
"Hi," the kid responds reluctantly, his face screwing up in obvious disgust.
In the driver's seat, the old man I've managed to snag a lift from chuckles good-naturedly, his eyes on the road as he mediates the little clash between his passengers.
"So…" the kid says, obviously rallying against my overly sarcastic response to his assessment of my travelling preferences. "Where you going?"
My eye twitches slightly, a flinching movement that makes me feel like I've lost some sort of silent game as I continue to level with this kid, a failure that's only confirmed by the way the kid's shoulders relax a little and he grins at me like we're suddenly best pals though nothing really tangible has changed between us. I resist the urge to flip him the bird - my dad would say that swearing around young children is nothing short of blasphemous - and instead focus on giving the most disappointing answer I can possibly muster.
"Nowhere in particular."
And against all expectations, instead of having the desired effect of quelling this kid's irritating curiosity, it only seems to make him chummier. He laughs out loud, his black eyes sparkling as he nudges his grandfather and cocks his head back at me in the depths of the van, a reaction that seriously perplexes me until he opens his mouth again, answering my non-verbal question.
"Oh man, he's more like that other hitcher than I thought."
I raise an eyebrow at him but don't ask him to explain himself. I'm curious as to why my cryptic answer would make me more like this fabled god hitcher he and his grandfather picked up before me but I'm too proud to make my curiosity obvious.
To my chagrin, the kid correctly manages to interpret my nondescript eyebrow raise, smirking smugly as he elaborates:
"When we asked the other hitcher where he was going, he said the same thing. Said he didn't really know where he was going but that it wasn't the destination that mattered anyway."
I nod slightly before I can stop myself because that's it exactly, my matted hair falling in front of my face in slightly greasy reams, reminding me that I need to find somewhere to wash up soon enough. I wonder vaguely if my hair has grown much since I set out from home all those months ago now and vehemently hope that I've retained my unique, naturally spiked style at the back.
Because if my hair has grown long enough to hang flat then I'll be more or less a doppelganger for…
"Hey…you know, I can cut that for you if it's bothering you."
I have to blink the image of the kid in front of me back into focus, only really becoming aware that I let myself drift into unwanted places when I find myself looking at the kid's slightly concerned expression and my own fingers pinching a few midnight strands as though preparing to examine potential split ends that I really couldn't give less of a shit about. Breathing through my teeth, I drop the hairs and let myself run a hand through the unpleasantly matted locks, feeling the trail of scraggly, string-like wisps as they snake down the back of my neck. My appearance aside, long hair could become seriously uncomfortable in the warmer months coming up, especially if I'm in a hilly area round about then like I'm planning.
"Hey don't worry friend," the old man says in the front seat as he pulls into a fuel station. "Inari's really good with a pair of scissors. He's been hacking away at my hair for years and doesn't it just look great?"
I stare at the old man's outrageously spiked greying hair, analysing the thick, unshaped chunks that really do look like they've been hacked at and feel an expression that probably wouldn't be taken with much good humour fighting for its right to present itself over my features. I open my mouth to say something, politely decline the offer of a hair cut maybe before something more insulting can work its way out into the open but the boy is already rifling through his bag for a pair of glinting silver scissors and a comb with more than a few teeth missing.
"Just sit still," he tells me as he opens the passenger door of the van to scramble into the back with me.
For a moment, I'm presented with a tantalising view of freedom, the open road beyond the petrol station and dark green trees that would offer suitable cover should I give in to the urge to up and bolt away from this inevitable hair cut from hell but then I remember that I really shouldn't be hung up on something so…shallow. I've been sleeping rough for weeks, moving my way through bracken, dust and debris and the last time I looked into a mirror, it was a public rest room in a McDonald's. The mirror was blurred with grease and I was more interested in the change in my jaw line than I was with the changing shape of my hair.
Who honestly gives a fuck what my hair looks like?
Who am I trying to impress now?
My eyes swing across to watch as the kid picks up the first few strands of my hair, preparing to cut out the carefully styled snips that my father paid a fortune for back when he was still grooming me to be successful and as the scissors create that harsh scratching sound they sometimes make when they tear through stubborn material, ripping through the ink product of my scalp, a strange sense of peace fills me.
It is the most content I have felt in the presence of another person since my brother died.
I suppose you could say that this whole 'hobo lifestyle' thing started with the death of my brother. It wouldn't exactly be a lie, the idea for just taking all my money out of the bank, buying a backpack and hoofing it into the wilderness to live unburdened certainly crept into my head whilst I was watching Itachi being lowered into the dark earth, listening to the mournful words of a priest that never knew him, but it wouldn't exactly be the truth either.
No, if you want the truth, I'd be more comfortable saying that it started much earlier than that, with my parents and the unrealistic expectations they dropped like solid weights on the shoulders of two young boys, with the massive realisation that we weren't free to live our lives the way we decided was best, with the need to escape the flimsy image of the 'perfect elite Uchihas'. Sometimes when I was young and I got a B on some test and my father had spent most of the afternoon reprimanding me for being a disappointment to the Uchiha legacy, I would fantasize about running away, starting a more romantic life somewhere else where I could pursue pastimes that my family frowned on but I had always secretly loved - most of the arts for example…
I never did anything about these fantasies of course but that didn't stop them from taking root in some remote part of my mind, an idea, a maybe to hang on to during the hardest times to give me a way out of falling into the trap of being completely broken.
So yes, it started with Itachi - Itachi's death was the catalyst that forced me to become proactive about the invisible prison that was the 'Uchiha' because he had lived his whole life without experiencing freedom and he didn't just die, he died at age 25 because he was overworked, literally choked to death by the legacy of our name.
I wasn't about to become another victim.
It's just. So. Beautiful.
I'm staring through the smashed window of an industrial sized greenhouse at an apple that probably looks better to me right now than the infamous poison apple did to Snow White. It's succulent, well rounded and a deep rouge in colour despite the fact that this isn't the time of year for apples at all. The branches beside it are pointedly bare and squinting through the condensation on the intact panes of glass tells me that the other trees are just as bare as the naked branches around this bad boy. The apple is sitting tantalisingly close to the edge of the smashed glass catching the last rays of the afternoon sun.
They must have missed it when they were harvesting the most recent batches for the super markets. From inside, it would be only too easy to miss an apple hidden by the main trunk of the tree growing so close to the windows where it would be difficult for the pickers to reach it. All I have to do to enjoy what appears to be an artwork of a piece of fruit is slip my arm through the smashed glass and pull it right off the branch. Looking as it does, practically ready to burst with natural juices, I probably won't even have to tug it off the branch.
I bet it'll fall right off into my hand.
I lift my hand up but the movement is jerky, hesitant and I pause as my fingers brush against the sharp tips of the glass jutting up into nothing, my mind working at a million miles per hour.
How is it that the glass just happens to be smashed in exactly the right place for me to slip my arm through and grab the apple? Has someone else tried to steal an apple by creating this oh so perfect opening but been too distracted by approaching authorities to reap the benefits of such a destructive action? Or is this a cleverly designed trap?
Paranoid.
The word drops into my brain like a slab of hard ice and subconsciously, I clench my jaw enough to cause the muscles to ache.
Ever since we were little, my parents encouraged both my brother and I to be paranoid, wary of everyone we met in case they had some ulterior motive for socialising with us. For the most part, I suppose this was a sensible frame of mind to nurture because the kinds of people interested in the 'Uchihas' were the sorts of people that always wanted something more. The idea of being suspicious about everything and everyone was supposed to encourage us to manage our finances, detect the truth in all interactions and never be caught out enough to tarnish the family name. The result of that went a bit further than anyone could ever expect. Both Itachi and I ended up being paranoid about more or less everything and everyone regardless of whether or not it was rational to apply our nurtured paranoia to the situation.
This has got to be one of those times where the paranoia is irrational.
Why would anyone set up a trap to bait people in with apples?
Who would they need to catch?
…Unless this is some fucked up cannibal camp…
Hn.
Whatever this is, I don't care. That is the most perfect apple I have ever seen, I'm not about to let it fall off the tree to rot in the dirt. That would be a harder tragedy to take than being caught by some whacked out authority and being shipped back to my invisible prison.
My hand steels, plunging into the warm, humid depths of the greenhouse to close around my prize, so firm, perfectly resistant against my palm and, as predicted, it comes away from the tree as though it was never really attached in the first place. I can't help the smile that splits my face and it surprises me when the muscles feel strained. How long has it been since I smiled? How long have I been walking around with dead features pasted onto a living body?
It's as I'm withdrawing my arm that a shrill sound pierces through my head like an arrow and I jump about a foot in the air, grazing the underside of my arm against the glass to leave a streak of dark red blood on its jagged tips. I make a small noise of distress and grit my teeth in response to the pain whilst identifying the shrieking sound as some kind of hard core alarm.
Figures.
Without pausing to think any further, I take off, streaking across the fields like a black blur, adrenaline pumping through my system enough to power a super sprint back to the road, the apple clutched in my hand like stolen pirate's treasure. Eventually, the shrill sound of the alarm in the industrial greenhouses fades and I'm left panting by the side of the motorway holding out a shaking thumb and hoping that someone might stop if only to help a bleeding traveller in need.
Eventually a couple stops on their way to the city and I scoot into the back with muttered apologies for the blood. They watch as I pull out a roll of bandages from the top pocket of my backpack and do up my arm, pulling the knot tight on the clean white fabric before taking a good look at my spoils of war and biting into its flesh.
And oh God…
So sweet, so tangy, such full, crisp flesh…
"Never seen a guy enjoy an apple quite so much," the man in the driver's seat comments a little wistfully making his red-headed companion scowl at him as he sets off onto the road again.
"I know that look, how can you be thinking about food again, you just ate 20 minutes ago you fucking fatty!"
The man's eyes narrow in the rear view mirror and he pouts like a child.
"Women really shouldn't speak so vulgarly Tayuya."
I resist the urge to comment with my own opinions on freedom of speech, instead sitting quietly in the back seat of their car enjoying every single second of the pilfered apple whilst my arm gently throbs against the pressure of the bandage.
Somehow the painful pulse only serves to make the stolen apple that much sweeter.
Dear Itachi,
So it turns out a 15kg bag of rice will only last you about 4 months if you're literally eating rice for every meal which means I'm gonna have to venture back into civilisation for a little while. The couple that picked me up just outside of that really rainy town actually ended up taking me all the way to Otogakure which is great for me because the place is famous for its under the table cash-type jobs. I was actually thinking of starting to look for something down at the docks because the working hours, more often than not, are night shifts of some description and its actually easier to sleep through the morning when the weather is a little warmer.
That reminds me, I've been meaning to thank you for leaving me the Christmas jumper that neko-baa knitted for you back when we used to help look after her cats. The wool in that thing is such high quality and the knitting is so meticulously tight that its managed to keep me warm even through the freak overnight snowstorm in March when I was camping up in this really hilly region. If not for that jumper, I probably would have died of hypothermia. It was seriously the most invigorating thing in the world to go to sleep in a sea of dark green only to wake up and find everything had turned alabaster white overnight. It was nothing like the snow we used to get in our neighbourhood, when we used to come home after school only to find that the kids that had been off school had already used most of it making snow men or having snow ball fights, do you remember?
The weather's changing now which is kind of a relief. Living rough through the cold months is actually harder than I thought it would be so I'm really glad I read up on how to actually survive the cold before I left. You might have laughed at my academic approach but now I can truthfully say that reading has saved my life.
Well, reading and your Christmas jumper.
Anyways, greetings from Otogakure, the underbelly of society as mother so delicately used to push it. Wish you were here, miss you always.
Sasuke.
PS. Scrumped an apple from a greenhouse. I like to think you would have been proud of me.
I'm walking 'home' and it's fuck ass cold.
It's just a little after 4 in the morning and I've decided that as the weather thaws out over the course of the morning, I probably don't want to take the brunt of the wind from the coast by the docks so I'm walking through town to the nature preserve where the trees will provide the perfect natural wind break which should make a huge difference to the quality of sleep I get this morning.
Despite the fact that it's so early, there are people moving through the barren streets, dark, loitering shapes with hidden features that make me glad I decided to wear the Christmas jumper under my grey hoodie for this particular work shift. My eyes track them with rabid awareness as the darkness of full night lifts into dawn, making sure I take note when someone starts paying particular interest but even if they've singled me out as a mark or whatever, their eyes slide off of me quick enough when they pay attention to just what I'm carrying with me, a filthy backpack, a rolled up tent that looks like its seen better days, cast iron pot and water container hanging off of the straps at the back plain as day. It's obvious that this is all I'm worth and whatever they're waiting for, it's bigger than me.
A bigger fish.
The air around this place is tense enough that my heart rate elevates. It takes everything I have inside myself to maintain a casual gait through this Valley of Death but its like dealing with wild animals. If I run, they'll chase, whether I'm worth it or not.
I'm concentrating so hard on maintaining a casual demeanour that it takes me a moment to realise that a fight has erupted in one of the side roads connecting to the main high street. Before I can check myself, my head has whipped up in the direction of the yelling and crashes and my eyes connect with one of the wonders of the world.
Blue.
A blue lit from beneath with primal fire.
Flashing like lightning in the half light, absolutely defiant, a physical manifestation of everything my 'hobo lifestyle' embodies.
Virulent, cobalt eyes devoid of fear, filled instead with something so soul-shatteringly rebellious that I feel my own convictions, my own finger flip to society as a whole, are nothing but a childish tantrum.
I quake in the wake of this anarchist's survival.
The blue is obscured momentarily by a spike of outrageously blonde hair as the kid in the grasp of the thugs in the alley kicks out, shouting out a battle cry as they grab at his hoodie, tugging the rusted orange fabric to try and hold him still. He's young, probably no more than 14, 15 judging by his height and the weird tones his voice takes on when he calls out, squeaking in a way that kind of makes me want to gauge out my own ear drums. He's a lightweight though he has sturdy shoulders so he won't be able to put up much of a fight against the veritable human bulldozers currently attached to him. Watching him kick out against them, throwing his body around enough that it makes it seriously hard for anyone to get particularly close, I have to wonder if he's just a helpless victim these assholes picked out of thin air or if he did something to provoke them.
Probably the latter…
He was probably asking for it.
I should probably turn a blind eye to the trouble if I want to keep myself intact, if I want to survive until tomorrow without serious injuries that could lead to permanent life scarring and painful, honest questions designed to systematically return me to the bullshit of the beginning - that house in Konoha where my parents wait with disapproval and metaphorical chains but 2 of the guys have managed to get a hold of the kids feet and they've managed to hoist him into a horizontal position, slamming him down onto the hard concrete and I can't turn away, almost like my eyes are glued to the situation, like watching a compelling drama unfolding on TV.
Are we so forcefully conditioned into mindless spectatorship that we can't differentiate between the moments when we should watch and when we should act?
"Hold him still Mizuki!" one of the thugs yells and the breath catches in my throat when I see him withdraw a knife from the belt at the back of his trousers, the silver of the weapon catching the violent orange of the flushing sky and weirdly, my mind correlates that orange flash with the fire beneath that kid's eyes, the beauty of the human spirit that I saw reflected in the depths of that absolutely defiant blue gaze.
The thug with the knife lifts up the kid's hoodie revealing a flat, tattooed naval and I feel compelled to move, throwing myself forward with a strangled cry. My heart rate, a vaguely escalating tempo within my body explodes into an epic drum beat that rams against my rib cage and with the blood suddenly being pushed around my body at twice the speed it usually is comes a rush of power that makes me feel invincible.
And feeling this way is the most wonderful thing in the world.
The thugs are obviously not expecting the kid to have outside help so when I attack, the element of surprise works wonders. My fist drives into the jaw of the guy with the knife causing his neck to snap backwards at an almost sickening angle and his hands to flinch violently enough that the knife clatters onto the concrete. I don't watch him go down, instead turning my attention to the first of the brutes clamped around the kid's feet, dropping down like I'm ducking something coming overhead and moving forward in one smooth motion so my arm slips around the guy's throat. As soon as I pull back and he chokes, he drops the kid's foot, hands automatically flying to the arm around his jugular, his nails digging in to hard muscled flesh in a way that I can't feel simply because of the adrenaline circulating my system, cutting off the neurological responses to pain in a way that would be fascinating if I had the presence of mind right now to analyse anything.
Thankfully, the kid wastes no time once free, swinging himself round so his newly freed foot connects with the gaping face of the other guy holding on to the remaining, trapped foot and as that guy drops the canvas clad foot he's holding to clutch at what has to be a thoroughly broken nose, the kid contorts himself into a weird looking pretzel shape to give the guy holding on to his hands grief.
I don't have the luxury of keeping tabs on that particular fight though. The first asshole I punched has recovered enough to go for the knife still lying forgotten on the hard ground and I have to abandon my attempt to incapacitate the guy I'm currently choking to throw myself at the weapon, hands scrabbling at the cold ground in a desperate attempt to feel the edge of the leather handle before the other guy can get a grip.
There is a sickening moment where I see my enemy out of the corner of my eye, his arm reaching just that much further than mine.
The world loses all sound.
My heart beats so poignantly that I'm afraid it will actually shatter my rib cage.
But then his hand slaps down onto the ground a couple of centimetres from the handle of the knife and he blinks through the eye that hasn't swollen up in disbelief.
His depth perception is damaged, he can't really see where the knife is.
My hand clasps over the handle of the weapon…
…and the power balance of the battle shifts.
"Wait, wait for fuck's sake!"
The enemy holds up his left hand to call for a cease fire, keeping his right hand clamped to the side of his face gradually getting bigger and darker in colour and to my vague surprise, the other thugs relent at his signal, staring at the guy in front of me for a moment or two with expressions ranging from outraged to violently angry before their eyes snake down to the glinting knife in my hand.
Ah.
I keep my own eyes on my opponent for the most part, only allowing them to flick across to the kid to see if he's badly hurt before levelling once again with the thug that appears to be the undisputed leader here. I wait for him to say something.
"Jesus fucking Christ kid," the guy before me says, spitting out a diluted clot of blood through his teeth onto the pavement where it sits in a sticky globule shining in the light of the rising sun. "You could have warned us about the body guard."
He glances at the blonde kid who glares at him and takes a pointed side step to stand behind me, making sure to angle his body in behind the knife, a practiced move that solidifies the theory that he did something to provoke these guys, probably a misplaced show of bravado…though his eyes say the bravado isn't particularly misplaced…
What's that all about?
I take a step back towards the main high street, listening to the reassuring sound of my pot hitting my water container over the edge of my over-laden backpack. So I didn't lose anything during my moment of suicidal chivalry, it must be some kind of miracle. You'd think that wearing a backpack this size would have seriously hindered me in a fight like that but honestly, I forgot I was wearing something so bulky, that everything I own was strapped to my wiry frame.
Is that the true power of simple adrenaline? How much muscular strain can I expect to contend with later?
The kid shuffles back behind me, edging towards the high street until the pair of us are bathed in a combination of the flickering overhead lights and the gradually lightening hues of morning. The fight couldn't have lasted more than a few minutes but it's like some enchantment has been cast over this area because the harsh hooded figures that were flanking me on the way to the nature reserve have been replaced by trudging tradesmen on the way to set up early for work, blinking sleepily in the morning.
One society being replaced by another with just a change of knife wielding hands.
I keep the knife pointed at the leader as the other thugs gather around him in the still darkened alley. Their eyes are hard, venomous but alight with a grudging respect that makes me feel an insane mixture of powerful, triumphant and barbaric somehow. Raising a dark eyebrow at them, knowing they can do nothing now we're amongst the morning tradesmen who'll bring all sorts of the wrong kind of attention if they try to pull anything, I pocket the knife in one slow, precise movement.
The leader's eyes narrow but I'm done here and he knows it. I shove my hands into the pockets of my hoodie and hunch up, inclining my head in the kid's direction, motioning for him to set off in the direction I was walking in before I got dragged into his mess.
"Let's go," I tell him in a flat voice, waiting until I'm sure he's out of their sight before following him at a purposefully relaxed pace, keeping up the apathetic tough guy appearance for as long as I possibly can, knowing on some instinctual level that this is important but not really able to identify why. I fall in to step beside the blonde kid, my thoughts colliding like freight trains in my brain.
What the fuck just happened?
What if they follow me back to my camp and realise I'm alone?
What if there's no-one to find my murdered body for days?
What kind of statement will my sad corpse make to the world when they eventually find me stuffed inside my own tent, a mound of rotting flesh?
What would father think of me if he found me brawling like this?
Fuck him.
I glance down at the kid beside me, taking in the wildly spiked blonde hair, the angular profile and frown as the clearer open light of the high street reveals striking, dead straight, whisker-like scars marring his cheek like a statement.
How did I miss that?
His clothes are tatty, the rusted orange hoodie frayed, faded and a size or two too big for him. His grey jeans have the kind of holes in that make it obvious it isn't a fashion statement and the shoes on his feet make my battered hiking boots look like the epitome of luxury. I wonder what kind of life he's been living, what he'll be going back to when he eventually splits off from my side but have no place asking. I don't want him prying into my life after all.
Every so often, my head flicks out and my eyes trail the slowly thickening crowd, searching for the hostile glares of the people I chose to pick a fight with and as the adrenaline of the whole thing calms, the hand that formed a fist and punched the leader starts to throb so hard that I have to bite back the urge to cry.
I expect the kid to veer off at the end of the high street but oddly, he follows me up into the suburbs. As soon as we've turned a corner off of the straight track, he looks very obviously behind us and lets out a huge sigh, sinking down against someone's front garden wall.
"Oh man, fuck! I actually thought I was gonna die back there."
I stare at him sprawled out against the wall, my eyes brushing the other cheek which is equally marked with symmetrical, whisker-like scars.
They're really fascinating.
So I pull my eyes down to his dirty hands, gaze catching on the scrapes and cuts marking the tanned skin there.
"If it weren't for you, I think I'd probably be mince meat by now. Thank you so much!"
He lifts his head up and I'm able to catch a brief glimpse of that electrifying, soul-destroying blue before his eyes are forced closed by the size of the shit-eating grin that spreads across his face.
And all I can do is gawp at him…
…because that smile is…
Genuine.
After what he's just been through, after how hard he was outnumbered, after experiencing what those guys were about to do to him…
How can he smile so genuinely?
"Hn," I grunt out by the way of acknowledging his thanks, gripping the strap of my backpack in hopes that the feel of the rough fabric will detract from the crawling feeling in my chest and the throb of my knuckles which is making me feel a little sick now, truth be told.
As quickly as it came, the grin drops off the boy's face and he gives me a highly judgemental, kind of irritated look that throws me almost as much as the grin.
"Yeesh, you could at least say 'you're welcome' or something. Ever heard of manners where you come from?"
My gawp turns into the Uchiha patented glare, a look shared between all the members of my family, a look designed to make lesser men's toes curl, and turn away from this kid in disgust.
So much for gratitude.
Whatever.
I start trekking out towards the nature reserve without a backwards glance, cruelly hoping that if those thugs are intending on following me, they'll find and be satisfied with their original mark before they can even get close to me. Infuriatingly, the telltale sound of the kid's dying shoes slapping on the pavement alerts me to the fact that I haven't managed to successfully ditch my unwanted attachment and I up the glare to what might be considered a Level 2 Uchiha patented glare as he pulls up by my side.
"Hey, hey, I'm sorry alright? No need to get so offended by an observation teme, I know you're a good guy alright? Why'd you save me anyway? Most people would have just walked right by even if it was obvious I was getting murdered y'know?"
The label 'teme' causes a new flare of irritation to ignite in my stomach because this kid is…is what? Turning out to be different to the picture I had of what he should be like in my head?
As fucked up as that is.
The question, though…
The question unnerves me.
Why did I save him?
Because for just a split second, I saw something in the oceanic blue depths of his eyes that ignited something inside me and made me feel like I was looking at something truly beautiful.
Forgive me if I don't want something like an artwork ruined by some nobodies with no idea.
I can't tell him this.
"I don't know, look don't you have a home…or something to get to?" I ask, floundering against this kid's continued pestering, needing now to be by myself even if it means having to face those thugs when I set up camp later.
"Nope, I'm a free man, much like yourself by the looks of things," The kid informs me with another one of those 100% real and mysterious smiles. "You been travelling long? Where you going?"
This question is standard. So many people have asked this by now that I can practically recite the answer 'nowhere in particular' without really thinking about it but this kid is…
What? Homeless? A liar? If he's a 'free man' then where's his backpack? Even the crazy drunks I've come across in the city have at least a backpack or a jacket.
"…I don't know."
The kid's grin is stable as he meets my eye and as the sun continues to climb the sky, pushing the vivacious orange of dawn to fade into the more standard blue of mid-spring, the blonde of his hair catches the light, glinting a million different yellows.
"Ah, a nowhere man," he says. "Me too. My name's Naruto by the way."
AN: This is the best piece of work I've produced in a while. It makes me absurdly proud so I really hope you guys enjoyed it and aim to be back for the next chapter. A random note for those of you that move with the music, I listened to a lot of Imagine Dragons whilst writing this and highly recommend them. They seriously gave me the feels y'know? Also Bat for Lashes & Beck - Lets Get Lost and Bombay Bicycle Club - How Can You Swallow so Much Sleep