I can do dark stuff, too. Still don't own Naruto, though. Maybe with a little sake, some dice, some rope, and a dimly lit room, I could...?
Sickness. It's always sickness. And he always has some stupid, smart aleck thing to say about it.
(Now, now, my fragile flower. You should really be more careful.)
He always looks at her like he's laughing (Ha ha ha HA, you dolt), just like he's looking at her now, trying to pretend like he's some kind of sweet, caring (You need your rest!) doctor/friend. (not really friends; they're more and they're less than that every day. ) She knows it's his fault (the sickness, he totally gave it to her on purpose, the sick ba-) but all Miharu does is lie back, smile gratefully (and stealthily glare daggers at his back when it turns, even though they both know she's doing it - he always catches her doing wrong somehow, it's freaky.) Light conversation ensues.
"Symptoms this time?"
"You already know, you jerk."
"Now, now, Princess Porcelain." (even though she's not weak, they know it's his work)
"Go to h- "
He hits her sometimes.
"It's very rude to curse at me. I won't tolerate it." (after all I've done to- I mean, for you?)
In the beginning, she would scream, but now she barely responds.
(Now she just stares at him straight and true and he admits it unnerves him because those eyes- those dark, almond eyes scare the life out of him and so many other people- they're so sure and hateful, sometimes he just wants to cut them out of-)
Next comes the nausea. (Nausea, nausea, nausea, It's like he gets off on watching her puke, or something.)
He's so kind and helpful and reassuring (Watch where you aim that, you klutz; you almost got my shoes that time.) and it helps, it really does.
(Except it doesn't; it never has and it never will, he just needs to go away.)
Then (this innate ability to count down the seconds between each phase - he knows exactly what he's doing to her, he's got it down to a perfect science) comes the trembling. (His favorite part. She hates, hates, hates the wracking tremors because she always always has to cling to him - Don't let me go, please, I'm afraid - for stability. She also think it's kind of funny.)
"Hold on, sweetheart, it's almost over. You've done so well this time. I'm proud of you." He pets her hair and kisses her face and shoulders, the same damn pattern every week, every month, all the time.
"You're proud, but do you love me?" (Of course I don't, why do you ask that, stupid?)
"Yes, I do love you," he says. "You're my Princess Porcelain."
The trembling and dizziness gone? It's time to sleep. (Is that all she does? Maybe.) The unconsciousness she knows so well (sweet release is only sweet when you don't wake up to his smiling face.) comes back, only this time, it's less strong, so maybe she's finally changing. Maybe when she wakes up next time, some indefinite time later (he doesn't ever tell her the damn date or anything) she'll be home and far, far away from this nightmare.
Except that the cuts and the stitches are still there (the bastard leaves them there on purpose, and she knows because everyone knows how he can slice a person completely in half and reattach them without leaving a scar for a microscope to find, god damn it.); the bruises, the sores, and the aching joints are there; she's still sensitive to light (So. damn. bright. those fluorescent lights are.) and when she looks up he'll be standing there (He stares so hard at her but then starts and breaks into a smile - forcibly? - he's so happy to see her alive, his precious Princess Porcelain.) and her heart will sink into her belly (Oh, God, what has he done to you now, Princess?) and die there.
(Will they be lovers today, or will they play mad-scientist-and-willing-but-really-unwilling-patient?)
She always cries. He thinks it's out of relief.
It's not. (Never getting out of here, never, ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever-)
Except it really is.
(God I wish I didn't love you. But thanks for not letting me die.)