Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto, quite obviously.
Warning: shonenai, hints of yaoi, prostitution, slight insanity
An idea of darkness and forgetfulness and insanity and wishes that somehow wrote itself into this. I like it anyways, despite how it is.
It might be mildly confusing, so, if 5 people or something ask me about it, I'll summarize exactly what happened and what's going on in the bottom or something.
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Sipping Champagne
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His world is coming to an end, and he looks but doesn't see. He waits and waits for what will never come back, all the while sipping champagne.
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He doesn't remember things very clearly anymore; for all of his memories tend to blur together now, like a view through a foggy window with panes of uneven glass, but he remembers one night, almost clearly.
He stared at his reflection and saw himself clearly, the first time in who-knows-how-long and the last. His fair skin is paler that he remembered, a translucent white, like the silence of snow falling in thick fog, and he wonders when he became so poetic and he looks at himself again, deciding that he no longer needs any powder, not with his nearly flawlessly white skin.
He has become thinner, slender, his frame almost femininely so, and his eyes – the narrow, black and red Uchiha eyes – are large and striking on his face, and he draws a thin black line around each, thickening it until his eyes seem too dark, too bold, too large for his sharply defined face.
He blinks and the spell is broken, and he adds more make up, mascara and eyeliner and eye shadow, carefully darkening his eyelashes, too long and too girly; he has never liked them. He smears the eyeliner and blends in blues and grays and silvers until his eyelids are dark to light and shimmery with a practiced hand, before he stares at his reflection again, noticing and seeing the sharply defined bones, the long, straight nose, and the thin, pale lips, and the long , silky hair that frames his face. He colors his lips in, until they are dark and red and almost gleaming dully, and stares at his reflection again, and dusts on pink blush and leaves.
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He sits in a dark corner, coloring in his long nails; he should cut them soon, he thinks absentmindedly, and sips his glass.
Champagne, he notes with a touch of surprise. He hasn't drank champagne in a long time; it is better than he remembers, tickling his mouth pleasantly.
It trickles down his chin, and he is surprised, for it was colder than expected, and he wipes it away, dully hoping that it would not stain his yukata. It was one of his favorites, and he is surprised to remember that he likes it. And he rubs the fine material between his gaunt fingers, pleased by the smooth texture. He no longer remembers how it looks, but he thinks that it was white, a pretty pearly white, with black edges and a design of delicate black blossoms with foxes hidden behind the blossoms, roses, he thinks. Cute foxes, and mischievous ones, that appear black at first glance, but are really a deep, deep crimson scarlet.
He sits there, and he waits, listening – feeling, really, the deep beat vibrate through his bones, shaking him into a slight daze, and he almost, almost, remembers, but it is not remembering, not really, merely reminiscing of these feelings, digging through what he has felt and looking at it and not recognizing anything he knows, anything that he remembers, and he is disappointed in himself, and once, when he thinks of this bright gold, gold and red and sunny and dark, it is nothing but a blur, and his chest aches, but he can't remember why.
He welcomes the pain; he has not felt any in a long time; and he looks at his wrists out of reflex, and when there is nothing but smooth white skin with pale blue veins underneath, he is surprised, but unsure why. And a memory of that pale skin but darker and deep deep scarlet crimson blood spilling outwards, life's blood staining everything.
He was no longer paying attention to the world, but merely thinking, wondering, and he wishes he knew. Then the wish is forgotten, fading away, and he watches the dark room, seeing the people there and hearing the voices behind the loud, loud music and smelling the burning smell of smoke, and for a second he is almost frightened, but then he is not, merely sitting there, sipping his champagne.
Someone is in front of him now, and he looks up, smiling smoothly; he knows that he looks innocent-yet-not, pure-yet-tainted, and his smile changes subtly and he looks at him, and his world is coming to an end, spinning around him, but he is still there, and he looks, saying nothing, still as the night after snowfall, chilly and frozen and dying.
He smiles again, seeing-yet-not-seeing the vibrant blond hair, the vivid-but-dull cerulean blue eyes, the warm-but-empty crooked smile, and his chest hurts, his heart is throbbing throughout his body, and he cannot say a word for his throat has tightened painfully, but he does not know why.
And the blonde says something quietly, and turns on his heel, heading for the back rooms, and he follows, not really hearing the words, but he heard the voice, quiet and hoarse and sad, and he wishes it were not sad, for its clear sorrow makes him feel sad.
The blond looks down at him, his back to the wall, and he thinks there is something wrong with that picture; I should look down at him, he thinks, not realizing that it is the first in a forever-and-a-day that he is I, not he.
"Sasuke?" And the murmur resonates in his body, and he remembers remembering but cannot remember, so he stares at the blond, looking for something, but he doesn't know what that something is.
The blond puts one hand on his cheek – white as falling snow, he remembers, and dusted with pale pink – and he sees tears in those sorrowfully beautiful blue eyes, and they make him ache so, and he wipes one off without thinking, licking the tear off his finger without ever moving his eyes away from that strange, familiar face. It is salty, he notes with surprise. Salty and good and golden.
He tilts his head slightly, one hand tangling itself in the surprisingly silky blond hair, and then they are kissing, and it feels right. Right and golden and true, and he feels warmth travel across his body, and for the first time he realizes that he was freezing.
They stumble into one of the rooms, and he does not recall much of anything, but the blond's voice, raw and husky and hoarse, whispers and murmurs, and he hears his own, smooth and cold and resigned, and feels the blond's warmth as he sleeps.
He wakes before the blond, and leaves. When he is back, the blond is gone, and all he can remember is the vivid golden hair and the beautiful grief-filled eyes of a sparkling blue and the warm voice hoarse and husky and sad.
He sits there and waits, night after night, for the blond, beautiful and sad and whispering, I love you, Sasuke, and the warmth that filled his bones but left him, so that he was cold, and knowing that he was cold.
He sits there and waits, but the blond never returns, never comes back, and he waits until his death, waiting for warmth that chases away the cold and colors that drown his black-and-white.
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So, yeah. I'm glad you read it, and I really, really hope that you'll review, critique, etc.
Written: July 22, 2008
Words: 1,185