Disclaimer: Every time I write Naruto stories, I have this... urge... to eat ramen. Which is why it's a good thing I don't own Naruto.
A/N: Number 25! We're 1/4th of the way there...
Karuta 加留多
It was clear he was on edge.
In a way, he expressed this more blatantly than anything else he'd ever shown; portrayed by his rigid shoulders, the erratic drumming of his fingers on the counter that seemed to start and stop suddenly, the slight furrow of his eyebrows, and the occasional glances toward the direction of the village center that seemed to exude annoyance (some would say it was wistful, in a way).
It was clear he was on edge. And his blond friend knew why.
It seemed that those who participated in the matsuri, the street festival, did not realize that the noise they made—the singing, shouting, laughter—found its way down the walkways of a dead District, bouncing off the hollow and hallowed walls, and could be heard almost perfectly in the central house.
And the way it all sounded; like it was right outside. Like that shriek of laughter wasn't a fifteen minute walk away, but rather fifteen seconds. Like the District was alive again, brimming with life that seemed to never have existed in the first place. Like the laughter of ghosts.
And the pale boy, still standing at the counter, fidgeted and seemed to be on the verge of shivering.
It almost seemed like a cruel mockery, if it wasn't so obviously unintentional.
"Haha, we have something that you can only dream of! Something you'll never have! Haha!"
The blond had figured out immediately that there would be no going to the festival; whether to falsely immerse themselves in the festivities or to look at what they, indeed, did not have. Before, just a short time before the quiet torment had begun, he'd arrived at the house and before he'd managed to form any sort of word, a simple, 'I'm not going to the matsuri,' had sliced through the air like cold steel. He hadn't argued because that wasn't what he'd been planning to ask anyway.
And the blond wasn't quite sure what to do, because he hadn't thought of how the matsuri might be affecting him, and quite truthfully hadn't wanted this to be awkward, just... wanted to... be here.
It seemed like, for once, he didn't know what to say. Or rather, he felt like he shouldn't just say anything. But dark eyes passed over him briefly, gaze meeting for just a second, and it seemed like it was almost expectant (because pleading just didn't fit with those eyes) and he knew that he was supposed to say anything.
The words fell out of his mouth before he'd thought of them. "Hey. Bastard. You gonna stand there all fuckin' day?"
A flicker passed over his face—maybe relief, maybe annoyance—before he rolled his eyes and muttered a casual, "Moron," with his usual scoff.
There was a moment, and then something like an epiphany hit the blond, and he pulled out a deck of cards, still residing in their red-decorated box with the seal unbroken. He'd bought them on a whim, on his way there, because he'd played cards with one of his teachers once and he'd had fun then.
"Want to play? I bet I could beat your ass."
A cool, confident smirk played upon that pale face and moments later they were in the living room seated around the tiny coffee table and the blond was shuffling quickly, if not sloppily, and he dealed.
They played for nearly an hour.
And the blond just knew that his friend was cheating. Even if he couldn't catch him at it.
It was a short lull, a break of sorts, when they had stopped playing and the black-haired boy was staring with unfocused eyes into a past that the blond could not see. He wondered if this District had their own private matsuri or if they would join in with the rest of the Village. Both possibilities seemed likely.
Innocent, unassuming laughter rang down the empty walkways and for the first time he thought to was utterly cruel to be alone on a day like this. It wasn't like they had a choice.
The blond picked up the cards again, shuffling them noisily. He breathed.
"I hate festivals too."