This is a work of derivative fiction. All characters and the world in which they live are the property of Masashi Kishimoto.
Fourteen
"Have you ever kissed anyone?"
It's evening, sky streaked red and orange and gold as the sun sinks behind the trees, casting elongated shadows like statues across the hospital roof. Kankurou starts at the question, frowning.
"Of course I have."
It's a lie. There's something shameful about that, really. Nearly fifteen and he's never even held a girl's hand.
He likes to think he doesn't care.
He gets all kinds of shit for being Gaara's brother. Sometimes it's almost like there's a demon inside him, too.
He glances across the roof at Kiba. The younger boy blinks earnestly back at him, arms wrapped tightly around his knees. He's pale, but everything seems to be in shades of grey now. The sky's leached all the colour out of the world.
Kankurou remembers the look on Kiba's face as he watched him kill the Sound ninjas. Like he hadn't quite realised people would have to die.
Kankurou didn't feel quite so good that time.
He wonders if Kiba's ever killed a man. Wonders when killing became more important than kissing.
"...never have," Kiba is saying.
"Never?" Kankurou repeats, because he feels he ought to say something to fill the empty space that surrounds them.
Kiba shakes his head. His slitted eyes are bright but he turns his face away from Kankurou; shy, almost, if not for the set sharp line of his mouth and the tense angles his shoulders make against the sunset.
"It's not like I haven't had the opportunity," he states, scratching a pattern into the dust with the tip of his finger. It hasn't rained in a week, at least.
"Opportunity?" It seems safe just to repeat every last word; Kankurou feels, somehow, that he needs to keep Kiba talking.
"The right moment. You know?" They look at each other. Yes, the right moment, Kankurou knows; he tries to focus on the white triangle of skin visible beneath Kiba's open collar rather than his lips, slightly parted, or the way his hair hangs tousled and dark over his forehead.
Kiba wants to kiss him, this is what Kankurou knows, and he swallows thickly, his mouth suddenly dry.
Kiba wants to kiss him. Kiba is the first person who has ever wanted to kiss him.
"Can I...?"
Kankurou supposes he must have encouraged the younger boy somewhat. And then he supposes he has to do it sometime.
"Go ahead," he drawls. That's good; he's managing to sound encouraging without coming across as eager; like he's done this before.
Kiba leans forward. His breath is hot on Kankurou's face. And the kiss itself, a chaste, quick brush of lips against his, is over before Kankurou has even closed his eyes. He almost blushes, until he remembers he's supposed to know what he's doing.
He puts a hand on the back of Kiba's neck, threading his fingers through the coarse dark hair, then pulls Kiba's mouth down onto his again. He's not thinking about how this is Kiba he's kissing. This is just lips and hands and hips and he's never touched or been touched like this before. And it feels nice, it feels pretty good.
The tongue sliding hesitantly into his mouth feels good too, better than he'd imagined, and he shifts to his knees to press closer to the warm body beside him. He feels Kiba's mouth curve into a brief smile, and thinks he must be doing something right. And he knows he hasn't exactly got years of experience to build upon, but for a first kiss maybe this isn't so bad.
It's awkward, yes, all elbows and knees and bumping teeth, but he thinks maybe this is what it's like to feel wanted.
For once to be out of the grasp of Gaara's shadow.
For once to feel like a real teenager, instead of a murderer with a father who didn't care, a sister who still doesn't, and a brother who never knew how.
For a moment, Kankurou is someone and somewhere else entirely.
And then he shifts, and there's a sharp pain in his hand, another across his jaw as their teeth clash and they're just two boys on a hospital roof, kissing in the dark.
"Fuck-"
"Sorry."
Evidently Kiba thinks he's done something wrong; he is the inexperienced one, after all. He takes his hand away from his mouth to grin sheepishly at Kankurou, running his other hand through his hair.
Kankurou is distracted. In the darkness, the blood pulsing from the gash in his palm looks almost black. He had forgotten for a moment who he was, the things he had done, but now it comes rushing back to him the same way the pain rushes to the centre of the wound, and what hurts worse is the realisation that a first kiss changes nothing. That it feels good while it lasts but afterwards here he is: Kankurou, killer.
"...Are you okay?"
Kankurou balls his hand into a fist. "Cut myself on a slate. It's just a scratch."
He wants to feel that way again. The way he did when he kissed Kiba. He wants to be someone else. Later, when he's older, it is a feeling he will seek to recreate with alcohol and cheap sex, cigarettes smoked one-two-three after a mission. But today, it is easy enough. Today, it takes only words.
"You're probably tired, right?"
"I'm fine," Kiba snaps. He's so easy to provoke.
"So...d'you want to...?"
This won't solve anything, Kankurou realises as he kisses Kiba again. Chasing a feeling like this is futile and he knows it even now.
This is not the answer.
But he can keep trying.
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