He remembered those long, horrible days of being too small to reach the food, and too young to know how to make it. His hunger was something he could visualize.
It sat curled in the pit of Naruto's stomach, uncut fangs and teeth far far too white - for what substance can be marred with nothing to mar it?
He was born in October, when things are hidden.
But he never talks about it, you know. What it was like to be so young, and alone and cold in the dark for so very long.
And Chouji eats until the food has no taste, and becomes as bland as used gum, chewing until the act is but a chore - more habit than need.
For him, and his whole family, this is normal. They eat until they can take no more, when more to their stomach would make it empty itself.
They do this because this is their weapon - their food. Their energy. This is the last resort, what they turn to when all else fails.
But Naruto longs so hard for some things, that they become etched against his soul. This wanting and yearning desire. He tries not to hate, would give almost anything to keep that greasy fire from winding through him. But he can't help it.
He remembers the wanting. The hiding behind a too-long flap of fabric hanging from a merchant's stall. Watching the rows and rows on display as if, by merely waiting, it would come to him.
As if he could bring life by desire. As if it would move.
The blood was easy to find. It slept in soft burrows and rain gutters and the back alleyways under the garbage bins. He dug and he sought and he found, and he shifted through the useless bones and thrown-out paper, ripping bags apart with his teeth, with his nails, his claws.
They called out to him on the streets. Monster. Demon. Was he? Was he not?
He was hungry.
He was always hungry.
t i t l e - s u m m a r y
CRAVING
a strong desire, a need