A/N: So I've written yet another angsty, depressive, post-war kakasaku fic because I can't seem to get the obsession with it out of my mind. Hope ya enjoy.
Disclaimer: Naruto doesn't belong to me, this is purely one fangirl's delusion.
He inhaled.
She exhaled.
The window in the corner of the room allowed a thick, warm breeze to roll across the room, drying the sweat on their skin. He wraps the sheet around his lean hips, and saunters to their less-than-sanitary bathroom. She lays on her back, stark naked and watches as his figure moves, watches how his skin is the same colour as the sheets.
When he returns, he wraps an arm around her and she tangles her legs with his. He has a hazy look in his eyes and she knows that he's gone and taken a couple more pills from their stash again. She remembers the first time – she'd caught him slipping pills and liquid morphine from the hospital into his pockets. She remembers his wide eyes, and his expression when instead of telling him off, she'd asked, "Can I try?"
It was like he had wanted to say no, but he'd looked down, and mumbled, "Sure." Held out two white pills with little numbers imprinted on them that she knew by heart. She was the best medic in the hospital. Of course she knew what would happen if someone were to take it without prescription. And she didn't give a shit.
They'd gone back to his place, feeling like they were flying. Buzzed and alive. Skin tingling, pupils dilated. They kissed with numbed lips till the sun rose.
She lifts her arm to catch the blanket that's slipped onto the floor, and the sunlight seeping through the windows catch on her skin and she stares. Since when had her skin become like his? When had her lovely golden tan skin gone, when had it been replaced with skin so light that it looked translucent, veins mapped out much too clearly? She looks over at his bare skin, and it's just like hers.
Her heart is racing; it shouldn't have frightened her as much as it did. She draws the curtains and crawls back into bed, burying her nose in his damp hair, seeking the familiar scent she loved. They press their chapped lips together, desperate to feel something. Anything. Why did they feel like empty shells? It was sex, pills, and sex on pills.
Pointy elbows, sharp cheekbones, hollow collarbones. They were bones.
She's crying.
Tsunade knows. She'd been careless, and dropped the clear plastic and spilt the bunch of pills all over her office when she'd grabbed her coat.
"She says I have to go to rehab."
He is unfazed, smoking a cigarette, as collected as ever, "You don't have to go."
She moves closer to him, and tucks herself in, "If I go... will you come with me?"
"No." The answer comes back immediately, quiet, but sure.
"Okay."
And that was that. She takes a cigarette and accepts the lighter he's holding between tapered fingers.
He is watching the purple, pink dusted sky when she comes into the room, and she wraps her slender arms around his waist and presses her head to his shoulder, "I love you."
He turns, and she takes comfort in those familiar mismatched eyes and silvery hair. He strokes her hair, "I love you, too." His voice is rough, and husky, not unpleasant, but unfamiliar. He used to have a smooth, velvety voice, and it didn't have the slightly harsh rasp it did now.
She wants to stay like this, in his arms, just resting her tired eyes. But he is already opening the drawer, shooting the liquid morphine into his veins with practiced precision. It's not enough anymore. The high doesn't last long enough, he always wants more.
He leans down and chases a line after another. When he coughs, there is blood. It stains his porcelain pale skin like a scar and she looks at him meekly, "Are you okay?"
He wipes the blood on the white sheets carelessly, "I'm great." He hands the rest to her, and she hesitates for only a second, before she leans down and presses the needle against her skin with steady hands.
He exhaled.
She inhaled.
But they weren't alive anymore, not really.
A/N: Did you like it? Review if you did. Review if you didn't. Just review XD