AN: Haven't really written in a while, and I've especially missed my midnight jaunts at the keyboard that seem to give me brilliant ideas. Couldn't get over some Wicked lyrics, and got an idea. Vague seems to work for me, and the reviews seem to appreciate it as well…

We Deserve Each Other

Both washed up, faded images of celebrated fame. There was a time when they could go nowhere for having a following party, speak of nothing without interjected comments, blinded to anything that didn't involve either missions or festivities.

They were loved, admired, as most were in those days. Everyone was at the top, and no downfall could be spied, whether by Byakugan or Sharingan.

But when pieces are put together so well, something always jars the table that the puzzle is seated upon. They had all tumbled from the top; now little more than a sentence in children's history books remembered their names. The infrequency of being called by such causes even them to question it at times in their insanity.

Because nearly all of them had been driven mad. Once the dust had settled and the new regime had no intention of picking them up from the rock bottom they had dropped them at, the suicides began. The only injustice superior to being thrown from their thrones in the first place was receiving the news of another friend, colleague, or just associated name & face, (the feeling always worse if you had ever done them wrong), that had taken their own kunai to the throat.

Names were no longer officially recorded on the memorial stone, and a suicidal death would not have resulted in an engraving ceremony anyway. But those losing their loved ones left and right brought their own rusty, dull tools to hack away at the hard, black memories to leave some sort of recognition for those who had decided the world had forgotten them forever.

As numbers dwindled, the panic finally set in. Those who were not "offing" themselves were either "released" or forced to reside in the shabby underworld that most did not realize existed. The exterior of the village never faltered from its sunny pretense but down specific alleys and passages were places most couldn't dream existed within their walls.

What other choice did they have, when given none?

Those who could scrounge up enough money on odd-jobs were most often in the make-shift bars that had a habit of sprouting in dank, dirty places. This is where he spent most of time, since time was endless and death seemed further every day. By chance, she had stumbled into the same one as he was just getting settled in for a long night of, unsurprisingly, drinking himself to unconsciousness and waking up in a hay bale with a naked form, whether female or male.

It had been years-the end of the ninja was long ago, although direct dates were unknown to her now. Those years had not been kind to any of the survivors, and he fared no differently. His silver hair was stained a dirty yellow, and no longer stood in its proud spikes. It was matted and wild, long enough to brush his shoulders, which were covered in a threadbare black material that looked an awful lot like it had been taken from an animal's backside.

A patch was taped to his eye; she had an uneasy feeling the socket beneath was empty. True to his tradition, however, he kept the mask hitched up around his ears, although the loss of weight in his face caused it to sag in the cheeks. She couldn't help but feel a tug at the corners of her mouth, no matter how painful it was to feel her muscles twist in such an unusual fashion.

"Come here often?" She asked, depositing herself on the makeshift stool next to his.

"Only when I have an off day," he replied dryly. His voice sounded like sawdust; it had been long since he had done more with his mouth than sip drinks. He took a moment to survey her from his lone eye: limp hair and what appeared to be dried mud unsuccessfully combed through it hanging in clots and clumps, masking what had been, in another time and place, famously known tresses. Once-vibrant eyes were bloodshot and pale; the way she slumped in her seat suggested she had been broken one too many times. Her smeared and gaudy makeup confirmed this, giving away her odd-job as a whore.

"So funny how some things stay the same, when so much else has changed," she nearly whispered, eyes lingering on the mask before dropping her gaze to the mud floor. He searched the eyes he had once known so well for traces of tears or wetness; when he saw none it only confirmed that in the past seven or odd years she had indeed gone through too much. They all had.

"I like to think that I'm a pretty consistent man," he said cheerfully, giving her his signature eye crease. She looked up at him with that almost-smile, and he knew she would smile beatifically up at him if only it hurt less. Their eyes locked and although he only had one, he could see something light in the far recesses of her dead eyes.

"What do you say we get out of here?" she asked huskily, meaning layered heavily into her tone. He was not surprised. It was her job after all. Many times had he been approached by those who he had known in that other life, begging him to convince them they could still feel human. All he kindly rejected, before turning back to his dirty and dismal glass.

But this was his long-forgotten student, long-forgotten teammate and above all, a good friend for so many years. And a good drinking buddy to boot if his fuzzy memory recalled correctly. How could he refuse her the one request she had when they only had this moment, and would probably part ways and never see each other again?

Although he didn't admit, a smaller part of him knew it was because she could give him just as much assurance of his life as he could for her.

No one lived anywhere anymore. They had the alley, they had the shadows. So he laid her in the dirt and had her there. There was simply perspiration that rolled off the conjoining bodies and left tracks in the grime caked on their faces. Even while committing the animalistic act in unfortunate settings, they had never felt so clean.

They knew each other as they once had been; the good, the bad, the late, the heartsick. When they led desired lives and had such gifts as hot water and a reputation as clean as they were now dirty. What did it matter if the grandeur had faded, if the memories were all but lost? They could close their eyes and imagine the one they panted for as in the recollections sealed tightly in time capsules, never to be opened and soiled by the grim future.

How this could have happened in the old times- But, if they had been in the old times, this scene would not be playing out. Because they had lived in a neat and ordered world where the lines must be toed and the rules were absolute. Where you didn't fuck someone fourteen years older than you for a buck or because you once knew them. Or maybe only because then you hadn't needed a reassurance of your existence.

It was a good thing for their current positions that there were no rules anymore.

When there was no more dust kicked up from the movement, and the echoes of her cries had faded from the muggy sky, she crawled out from underneath him and chose, instead of leaving with her pay as she usually did, to curl up next to him.

"This one's on me," she said sleepily as she nuzzled into his chest. It didn't matter what they had been in past lives. They both lay there now; reeking, filthy, tired, just so tired, unemotional, hopeless, and altogether not caring if this day was their last. These thoughts filtered into both minds.

It was with unspoken acceptance that they both decided they deserved each other.

AN: Before anyone wanting to fly off the handle at me does for writing such an atrocious story, its 350 am. I've worked on this for a half hour and it's basically me babbling until I find a stupid way to put the title into the story. So sue me. I'm not really happy with this at all but I just felt like writing something. Enjoy.