M A R I O N E T T E
aokubi daikon
c h a p t e r 1
The city of Tokyo was spread out before him. Various colorful pinwheels and blurs of light leaked into the dark, burgundy depth of his wine glass. His eyes—a dull, tired blue tonight—drowned their last qualms, wears, and other subtle histrionic sentiments into the wine before a quick swig sent it down his throat. As the last rays of sunlight sparkled across the depressed horizon, he leaves his balcony with a cold shoulder and a hostile air. White curtains billow out into the playful beckon of the fall breeze, until they're cut short with the sharp click of sliding doors.
In the inky darkness that draped itself in somnolent strokes across his bedroom, he can only make out the silhouettes of boulders he presumed were his clothes. The shrill shadows that stretch catlike over his mussed orange covers, the ghostly blue tint that lined the fringes of random objects and the howl of distant cars used to haunt him when he was younger. Uzumaki Naruto spits in the face of fear and danger today.
Aside from the distant whine of Tokyo traffic, or the occasional screech from the vehicles outside, he found an eerie silence settling in his hotel room. The silence wasn't out of the ordinary, but a nagging feeling of anticipation ate away at his mind. At some point he decided that it was just stress from work that had followed him home (if this is what you could call it), and fell into his bed without any cares, curling limbs affectionately around his cover and pillow.
He had waited for this time all day. After the jet pulled into the Japanese airport yesterday, he found it was a challenge to close his eyes. Much less get his brain from responding to the most insignificant of stimuli. Eventually, he had succumbed to pills to ease him into much needed REM sleep.
A brush of polyester and cotton crumbles into the dead silence of his bedroom. The tunnel of darkness before his eyes seems to have adopted a burning, bright red color. His eyes open soon after the flick of his lamp light. The vision before him seems less surreal than he would imagine it; he had not seen the man in what seemed years. In truth, it was only a month ago.
"Where've you been?" He asks, immediately sitting upright at the sight of the person before him; hands lost in his orange sheets.
The man—who was currently demolishing Naruto's careful boulders of clothing from a nearby chair—turned back with random clothing hanging from the clutch of ghostly pale hands. He always thought that the Uchiha was much too pale; as if he never left his home. Every time the man stood next to him, he felt as if he did not belong in his own (ever-so-tanned) skin. Other times, it wasn't the man's skin that caused the Goosebumps to flock across his arms. Just the simple stare, or the smug smile that he would smile (that smile)--as if trying to say that he knew something that the others did not--had Mr. Uzumaki sitting at the edge of his seat.
"Got sent on a secret mission." He brushes the topic away by turning his head back to the matter at hand, literally. The man's eyes get lost in the dim surrounding, just as his whole body does; he was still in his work clothes. He sits down after tossing away the last of the clothes.
"Did it go well?"
"It was tiring, but we pulled through in the end." An exasperated sigh is released into the air—hanging there inconclusively as if there were more things to be said that would not.
"You're not too tired to play, are you?" A cheeky grin is plastered between whiskered cheeks. The covers shifted as the blonde leaned over the edge to tug at the pale hand sitting on the knee across from him.
Sasuke immediately began to loosen his tie as an attractive smile falls on his delicate lips. He purses them into a word, "Beep."
His brows knit in confusion as Sasuke gets lost in a sea of orange threads and the gradually deafening cry of his phone suffocates the Uchiha's words. It takes him a few moments to shake the lethargy that clouded his motor skills.
His heavy, tanned hand falls over the receiver in one awkward movement. A glance at the digital clock (sitting on the end table next to the bed) tells him it's 7:56 PM.
"Sir, we have a call waiting for you." A chirpy, female voice booms into his ear. The buzz of the downstairs lobby is more than enough to let him know it's the hotel receptionist.
"All right, put it through.
He rubs the weariness out of his eyes before pulling himself upright against the chill of the bed's frame. The sheets pool at his pelvis, ever so cliché had he been engaging, in say, physical extracurricular activities.
"Uzumaki, report to headquarters in Kyoto immediately. Transportation has been arranged." Johnstone's voice commands into his ear. Naruto can just imagine the graying man before him.
"…You're calling through the hotel phone." Albeit obvious and stupid, it was the only thought running through Naruto's mind. The idea that Johnstone—head of FBI—was calling through a hotel line made him doubt any emergency.
"You were not responding to your personal devices. Uzumaki, hurry." With that voice, Naruto feared he would be digging his own grave if he did not comply.
"I'll be there as soon as possible."
"Make that sooner." The phone was hung up on him with an unnerving energy, a sign for Naruto to get his gears moving and that the man was serious in all earnest. However, the blonde was glued against the cool wall of his bedroom; wallowing in confusion and tinges of embarrassment.
His dream had been uncalled for and scandalous; he would never think of his friend—no, enemy!—in that way. Sasuke hardly fit that type of role. He could name a few other people who fit that role much better. The arrogance, the nerve of the man infuriated him more than any other person could. And that was only scratching the surface of their relationship.
Lights from a passing helicopter remind him to get up and get going.
Naruto Uzumaki was a special agent, sent on an assignment to Japan to guard the summit meeting of the G7 (more like, G8) taking place in Kyoto. He had been off duty for (what time was it again?) three hours, and here he was getting back to headquarters.
Concluding that there was no way to wriggle his way out of this, he lets out a groan and swings his legs off the bed.
Blurs of different colors pass him in a rush under the benign tint of car windows as the driver whisks him away in haphazard turns to the left and right. His mind feels clogged with stubborn cobwebs (work, work, work); a mix of much needed sleep, paperwork, and the emotional turmoil of the past few months. As if old coffee stains plagued the clear, napkin white canvas of his mind. However, before it could ever interfere with his work (fidelity, bravery, and integrity), these minor instances of disturbance were washed away by the cleansing help of a pill.
Naruto Uzumaki had no idea that he would need more of those pills as he headed toward headquarters.