Inspired by Sora Omote's fanart, to whom I would have asked permission had I known how to write Japanese.
One of the most important ninja rules taught at the academy was, "Always be aware of your environment." Not only would it prepare you in the off-chance of a battle, but it could save your life as well.
And somehow, he had managed to forget this.
Perhaps it was the sudden increase of friends he had, or at least people he knew whom he would call friends. Perhaps it was the fact that he woke up every morning with a place to go, to people who were waiting for him. Or perhaps it was that after so many years of loneliness, he had finally dared to hope, that by some small chance, he was being accepted.
And so, while in the midst of this desperate dream, he had forgotten.
He had forgotten that the village of Hidden Leaf extended farther than the few roads he walked down daily. He had forgotten that a handful of children and a few adults did not represent Konoha as a whole.
And he had forgotten what it meant to be despised.
So when he was shot with a look, that look, by a random stranger passing him on the streets, he could not stop the sudden hitch in his breath nor the icy coldness that gripped his heart. And God, it hurt.
It hurt remembering the looks, the names.
Demon.
The utter hatred.
Abomination.
And suddenly, his apartment seemed too big and too cold, and he wanted nothing more than to get out and find someone, anyone, who would look at him with a friendly face. Anyone who would see him.
But Iruka-sensei was busy and Konohamaru had class. Shikamaru said being with him was too tiresome, and Chouji never did anything except eat. When he had found Kiba, the other had raucously insulted him, and Shino had said nothing, because, well, he was Shino. Lee was out training, and when he became desperate enough to seek out Neji, the Hyuga was nowhere to be found. Sakura was with Ino, both too busy fighting over Sasuke to notice him. Kakashi-sensei said he had to go save Lady Shijimi's pet cat from a tree again, but he knew that pervert was off to read that book of his. And Sasuke…he laughed at the notion of going to his rival for comfort.
And it was thus so, how his blissful dream began to fall away. Because he realized how alone he was, even surrounded by all these so called "friends." And he was reminded of how many times those "friends" yelled at him, told him he was too loud, too annoying, a pest, a brat.
Dobe.
And somehow, that hurt worst than anything the villagers called him.
Suddenly, he didn't want to be Uzumaki Naruto. He didn't want to be the #1 Loudmouthed Ninja, because he knew that's what they all called him. He didn't want to be the boy with the Demon Fox. He didn't want to be the outcast, the class idiot.
Dead last.
And that's how he found himself, months ago when the coldness first began to devour him, stealing from the department store. And that night, he had found his release.
It was suppose to be a one-time thing. He had thought after that one time, everything would go back to normal, and he wouldn't feel the way he did, wouldn't feel so alone. And everything from that night, he had readily buried in a box deep beneath his bed, left to be forgotten.
But every day, the looks were there, burning into his head whenever he stepped out of his building. And suddenly, the mornings didn't seem so bright and the bridge didn't look so welcoming, because Sakura only ever waited for Sasuke, and Sasuke wouldn't care if he came or not, and Kakashi-sensei…well, he never waited for anyone, but the other way around. No one was waiting for him. But…but they were there, right? And that was enough.
Then, one morning, no one was there waiting.
Several hours later, Kakashi-sensei had shown up, apparently on his way to train Sasuke, and he swore that he had told them to tell him there were no missions that day. And after a rather unconvincing apology, the gray-haired man had left, leaving him still standing alone on that bridge.
That night, the box had been unearthed from under his bed.
And soon, the clothing didn't feel so awkward, and the make-up didn't feel so disgusting, and it didn't take him so long to adjust to his new body. It should have been scary, how often he took on this form, how comfortable it was starting to feel to where he almost wanted to be that way all the time. And the first time he realized this, he had immediately changed back, couldn't yank the clothing off fast enough, shoving them back into the box and hid them away again, this time in the deep recesses of his closet. His face didn't feel clean for days, even after the five times he washed it, making sure every bit of foundation and lip gloss was gone, and he vowed that was the last time.
But the looks were there and the coldness was there and as much as he tried to resist, as much as he tried to ignore it, the loneliness was there. And it burned.
So it wasn't long before he pulled out the box from under a pile of dirty laundry, lifted the lid with shaky hands, and lost himself again. Month after month, he did this, feeling relief for a few hours, only to be hit by the coldness twice as hard each time he returned to himself. Every month, he vowed it was the last time, only every month turned into every week, and every week into every day.
It was like a drug.
And so, here he was Friday night, walking down a street he had walked down so often, in a city he had found on his first escape. It wasn't far from Konoha that he couldn't get back before morning, but far enough for him to forget. And he wanted to forget.
His body thrummed with energy as he neared his destination, the loud beat already reaching his sensitive ears through the walls. He bypassed the long line of strangers, already feeling some of their gazes upon him, heated by something that wasn't the same as the villagers back home, as he walked all the way to the front and past the big man at the door. Mika shot him a smile as he placed a hand upon the door handle—
"Go give 'em a show."
—and with a wink, he was inside.
All around him were bodies, not the dead ones he saw from his job, but live, writhing ones, meshed together in a pool of heat. Strangers were up against strangers, twisting, grinding, living in a world created by the flashing colored lights upon the darkened room, the loud music reverberating off the walls in a fast, maddening tempo.
As soon as he stepped in, the eyes were upon him, burning him in a way that made his blood sing. And as he made his way towards a relatively less crowded part of the room, some of the occupants had stopped to stare at him with obvious heat. Some of them stepped out of his way, pushing others to do the same, but with no less intensity in their eyes as they also watched him. They knew his rule.
Their gazes were still on him from all around when he stopped, and closing his eyes, he reveled in their attention. The heat of the room had peaked upon his entrance, several eyes drinking in his form hungrily, and he smiled, just a little. The effect was imminent, as instead of appeasing their want, his action had intensified it.
He wondered if the Kyuubi was a vixen instead of a fox.
Before he could dwell further upon that thought—wasn't he here to forget? — he threw himself into the music, moving in a way he had seen some girls move, with a mix of his own style. Soon, the deep thumping of bass entered his body, took away his senses until all he could focus on was the rhythm. That and the looks.
Almost on their own, his hands ran across his chest, down his hips, and then back up in the air as he tossed his head to the side, sending his pigtails flying in a majestic arc. The eyes followed those hands, and he knew they wished they were their own, touching him, owning him—he arched his neck, exposing a milky throat, and parted his mouth in a small exhale of breath—but none of them took a step nearer. No one dared, because they knew his rule. But that did make them want him any less, if not more.
And like a succubus, he drank in their want, replacing the looks of venom and disgust that haunted his mind with looks of heated lust and desire. This is what he needed. This is what he wanted—
Look at me. Make me forget. For tonight, make me forget…
—except a pair of eyes of the darkest night, the piercing gaze of a certain boy, was not there. And he knew he would never feel those eyes upon him like the way he wanted, not just because he was a boy, but because he was himself.
For tonight, let me be someone else…
So amidst the loud music and dancing bodies, he let himself forget, and the loudmouthed ninja, the vessel of the feared Demon Fox, the clown, Uzumaki Naruto, was no more.
The picture which inspired this piece can be found at http : nanafuku . vivian . jp / nana-f / 5432hit . html (without the spacing).
This was meant to be a one-shot, but I decided to break it up due to its length. It's about 4 or 5 parts. Please review if you would like to see more. It is already mostly done.