Mist.
It cloaks his skin, pulling at his clothes with dreary consistence, whispering sullenly through his damp hair. It blinds his vision, until all he can see are his blood-worn reflections, thinking, when did I do that clone jutsu...? It numbs his body until he can barely feel—not the liquid ice seeping into his skeleton, not the acupuncture needles stuck in all the wrong places.
Sasuke!
Can hardly feel that burning irritation in his teammate's eyes leaking on to his face—only their blood mixing, singing through his veins as molten fire. Hotter then anything he could've believed, especially in the snow.
Blood is thicker, after all.
But he feels his touch on him, his arms on his, feels infuriated vibrations and raucous trembling with his yells. Cerulean burns through the oppressive layer, and he's never seen eyes so blue before.
God damnit, Sasuke, don't die on me! He screams, and he wonders—
Why say that when it feels like this is the first time I've ever lived?
