Warnings: angst.
cursing. insane people.
Disclaimer: I own no
Naruto...
For those of you who forgot...
The Story So Far: Naruto crashes his car when he and Sasuke argue over something pointless. As far as Naruto's concerned, this drives his lover to madness, and the young blond must learn to cope with the new situation. Sasuke is admitted into a mental facility. One summer, Naruto takes Sasuke to see fireworks. When Sasuke's transferred to the adult ward, Naruto is forced to take a break from seeing his old flame, and meets Gaara...the two hook up, and Naruto muses about life. Thus done, Naruto takes Sasuke to his work, they play around, and Naruto gets depressed. He wanders around for a while, meets up with a mysterious Sasori...and faints.
My Sasuke.
waiting arms...by Taes
I don't remember anything, save what they told me.
Gaara was kind enough to inform me days later that I conked out not long after he caught up with me, and then the guy has the balls to dispute a hell-of-a-lot of what I said happened. See, according to my man, there weren't no ethereal puppet-master...not a guy at all, to say the least of a guy with pale blond hair and moonlit eyes...
...and my guy, he said there weren't no conversation 'bout Itachi.
I'm damn lost, is all...there's nothing in my head that makes sense, not a single solitary thing, you hear? It's all lies...everything I think I know, and it's not shit to anyone 'cause I'm overreacting, oversimplifying—god knows what else.
I don't know, anymore...'cause every time I think I've finally caught up to something, I get doused with water so fucking cold it'd turn my eyes to ice—the truth, Gaara says...in a soft, deep voice that rolls over you like nothing else. He says the truth's my "water." That it's what I fucking need.
Damn it, he's lying to me, lying 'cause he don't want me out lookin' for Itachi's past, lyin' 'cause he's an asshole who don't want me hurt—
—fuck it all.
Fuck him.
That night.
The night I met the marionette.
When I woke up, see, Gaara was wrapping my feet, see, soakin' 'em in hot water 'n pulling bits of glass and shit out...something I wouldn't have wanted to do, myself. But I don't complain, I don't moan or whimper when he gets the tiny shards, else I'll have him feeling bad for doing me a favor...
...I dunno how long I was watching him 'fore he realizes.
"Naruto," he say, all calm and bitch at me for bleeding, the mother-fucking contradiction... "what were you thinking?"
My eyes half close. I want to shut 'em all the way, but my main man, yeah, he don't like it when I forget ta look at 'im...
It's a habit.
I shake my head simply and shrug, helpless. My eyes glitter with a response he wouldn't understand, and my mouth trembles with untold secrets...
Shit.
My boyfriend's trying to make me seem fucking crazy...that's the only explanation. But I know I've seen the bastard—pale and tall and beautiful as ice—I remember his voice, I can feel his eyes on me, damn it...
The world's shut me off from everything I care about. And if I let 'em, the whole fucking continent'll make me swallow some damn pills, one by one, instead of letting me watch the truth with eyes unclouded...
My whole life's going up the chimney.
It started with my Sasuke...and where'll it end, huh? Where the fuck will it stop?
I left work Sunday with a smile on my face and a cheerful farewell on my lips, thinking nothing'd change 'till forever...thinking I'd wish my grumpy, caring, anti-social manager a happy thanksgiving, a merry Christmas and all that shit.
Sure, I saw her put together a pile of junk...sure thing I knew she took plants home to keep her pets—her only close family—company. It was just a load of crap, that stuff, nothing she didn't have right to.
I listened to the bullshit about her being a thief, an alcoholic, a bitch, a dyke...and I couldn't say crap. 'cause who the hell'd listen to me, anyway? What good would it do?
So our little store, our big place with thousands of items of clothes, we were busy, yeah? As busy as a damn thrift store gets. Shorthanded and overrun with after Thanksgiving shoppers...so.
So.
My big boss pulls me into his office one day, I remember it real well...the wind's gotten cold, and the rain just leaks down...he's got a severe little smile on his stern face, and a cigarette dangling from his mouth.
His daughter's sitting right there, right next to 'im with her drink in one hand, snacks in the other. She's a good woman, but the poor girl's sick half the time.
I offer my best smile, fidget in my shoes, and ask, "you wanted to see me?"
All sorts of thoughts run through my head—of when my best mate here got fired, my least-liked lady laid off, and all other shit of the sort.
"You know, Naruto," the guy's puffin' away on that lung-eating cylinder, a small smile level on his eyes. "What happened to our assistant manager," he trailed off.
I nod, curt and ill-amused.
He settles into his chair, awesome in his girth. "...and I'm sure you've realized your workload's twice as bad without her." He stick the used-up piece of tobacco in a filled-up ash tray, and sighs a bit. "How'd you like a higher position, son?" he asks.
My mouth goes numb, my fingers wide. "...sir..." my face flushes, stomach turns. "I can't."
He coughs, amused, and he say, "now why's that?" his eyes glitter a little bit, and a bit of resignation sets in those dark pools. His hair, I realize, is streaked with gray and white...he looks older than his years, this old bear...much older.
A million excuses fly through my head, each one more acceptable than the last.
But I shake my head, mouth dry.
My boss sighs a little, and shrugs it off. "You can go." He breathes, and I see his fingers itch for the box of cigarettes.
I leave quickly, pulling the door shut behind me. Kllk. Lean up against the door, close my eyes and heave a shuddering breath.
He's still watching me from the office, looking at my shoulders go up and down under the monitor.
It's no time at all before I hear the gossip 'tween the cackling hens, watch as each one burns her own end of the story, setting each other up and waiting for the fall...they've each got their own ideas about me, but the basic idea is there.
They all think I'm crazy.
His boyfriend's in the nuthouse...crazy as a loon!
How long do you think it'll be before he goes nuts on us, too?
Who wouldn't accept a raise but a crazy guy? It's not like it's hard!
So I keep away for the day, staying at work longer 'n necessary and skipping breaks while the hens are in the clucking house. I keep myself busy, moving guys' furnature when they're bigger 'n fatter 'n me, and I'm just smiling a Naruto smile...grinning with eyes
wide
shut.
I can feel their irritation, see their mirth, and I just grin as I sell old clothes, help kids get the toy they never said they wanted, wrap dishes that will break anyways.
Every day now, for the past few weeks...I see it. A dainty smile, wide, glass eyed little puppet with hair the color of wheat under moonshine.
My puppet-master always keeps an eye on me...he's always close by...but not close enough, 'cause I'm always with somebody.
Someone's lips moved, someone's mouth said, pull him up. Pull him on.
It's enough to unnerve a guy.
I can't convince Gaara to walk me home at night. He says it's too far, I bitch every night, but he just won't believe me when I tell him—someone's following me. He thinks I'm just pulling on him, trying to get him to stay at my place more than he should.
So it's a cold day, cold enough for early winter so that everyone's always asking about sweaters, jackets and coats and whatnot...and my mind is half on where the hell Gaara is, half on the forecasts for snow, wondering if I need to hitch a ride home.
And then comes this guy.
You know...there are times when I've got to ask...why the hell does a guy come into a second-hand store and act as though he's lord of the whole damn place?
Now, I know arrogant bastards. There's a whole clan full of 'em that know me on sight. Then there's Gaara...something else altogether, really. He's...not exactly conceited, not like this prick who comes in at six at night with a grumpy scowl and awful taste in clothes.
The ass who comes in, I know him okay. He drops by every now and again, always bitching about the low quality of our goods and the "high" prices. So he fucks with us cashiers, always saying an object's not worth half its marked price, on and on like we've got a say in it all.
Like hell.
So that day he bugs me, I was minding my own business, busying myself with a cart full of old books, filling the shelves like it's nothing at all. So said man stalks up behind me, mouth pursed in a thin line, holding two sweaters.
I eye the things with distaste and a small frown.
My feelings must've carried, so the guy's usual irritation bumps up a notch. "These don't have a price on them." He says slowly, like he's afraid I don't follow.
I sigh, and shrug. "They're probably four-ninety-eight," I offer and turn away. I don't feel like arguing with him that day.
And this is the lovely beginning to the longest conversation I've ever had with the bastard. So I'm standing there, and I remember, suddenly, that one of the nicer girls pointed it out to me once, seeing I'm too 'nice' to know—this guy smells like alcohol.
He says my prices are outrageous.
I refuse to back down, show him other styles—with the same price.
He scoffs, "surely you aren't the only one here." As though he'd contest my authority over something that little.
My irritation flares. "Yes, actually." I grit my teeth, "I'm on my own today, except for the assistant manager—"
"Where is he?"
I start to shrug, start to protest my uninformed state, when he hurriedly cuts me off.
"Let me go talk to him..." he mutters, and swift as a snake about to strike, he's off...eager to save himself two dollars and some ragtag, dull sweaters.
I ignore him for a while, until he comes back with a malevolent little smirk of triumph on his round, ruddy features. "They're one-ninety-eight each." Says the guy.
I glare at the new assistant—a position offered to me, but refused—and I wonder what makes my buddy side with this awful man.
I disagree with the statement made, and this guy has the gall to object, "he's higher up than you, don't you think there's a reason for that? He knows more than you do!"
"—and I've been here longer, and I work more with prices—"
The argument could have gone on forever, and all over two fucking dollars.
My dark skinned friend cops out, saying—like he usually does—to call his boss when he doesn't know.
I think it's kinda annoying, that he doesn't listen to my opinion, when I've been here so long.
But we call up our boss at dinner, and he says exactly what I said—
—much to my favorite customer's annoyance.
He retreats, putting the garments on an abandoned rack, raging, "I can't believe I'm letting someone who makes four-fifty an hour bother me."
My eyes narrow. I open my mouth.
He cuts me short. "All right." The unheard bastard echoes between us. "You've got your wish."
I roll my eyes. "It's not necessarily my wish, sir—"
He argues with me on that for a bit, and finally holds up his hands, like he's the master of an insolent little puppet. "—just stop talking. You're annoying me."
I grumble, "—sir, I assure you, that's not my—"
"Stop. Talking." His voice is firm, filled with indignant frustration. "Just. Stop."
...so all down the aisle he stomps, growling to anyone who'll listen about a stupid kid who doesn't listen to authority.
My stomach turns around and around for a good while afterwards, and the damn sarcastic man bothers me—on and on—while I grumpily try to ignore him while still doing my job.
Bind my eyes, tie my hands and feet...cast me from the darkest tower and watch me fall weakly, watch me dance a puppet's walk with unaccustomed grace.
Fuck the holidays, screw the snows and god damn all gift-giving shopping sprees. On Christmas Eve I'm sacking purchases, wishing late people happy holidays when I should be holding hot chocolate with Sas—
—Gaara...sipping quietly and laughing like lovers should.
I got off early—thank the lord—and took myself out of doors, hurrying along the sidewalk with holiday carols under my breath and an anxious smile flitting between me and the cold Christmas air.
There's a shift in light, and a faint kkkk of wooden limbs on cement. My heart skips, my pulse quickens and I can't help but catch the breath in my throat—but I shove all thoughts of stalkers and Itachi out of my head. Nothing will keep me from going...
My head's too dizzy, my lungs too full. Nothing's for it but to walk onwards, push for the hospital with a small package clutched between cold fingers.
Gaara knows I'm going. I said I'd be back...he knows I'll find my way to his place once I catch the right bus. He remembers that my car's in the shop—has been for a long while due to hell knows what—he knows.
It takes me no time at all to get the hospital, not time in comparison, anyways. I find my hands clutching at various things to keep from noticing the flow of the clock, and at last my hands meet cold metal doors.
The nurses nodded at me that cold Christmas Eve, and that's...
...it.
I know it sounds like a load of crap, that I can't remember anything else...not seeing Sasuke, not the room, not the adorable, childish card I found tucked in my pocket, later. I don't recall his soft, sweet smile of misunderstanding. I don't even know if he likedthe present I gave him, the little toy giraffe...I don't remember if he liked the bow better 'n the stuffed plushy...
...but I remember some things afterwards...
...a little.
Gaara and dinner—turkey, veggies and sparkling grape juice spiked with some dry wine, I saw this in the fridge the following morning—and I recall holding Gaara close to me, remember pressing my face into his hair and pretending his warm, smooth and gently soft body was colder, firmer, and attached to a black-eyed, black-haired young man with pride to match an ocean.
My hands are too warm. My eyes are tired, and I'm really too dead to do anything.
So Christmas Eve blends to Christmas morning, and I find myself wandering over to the kitchen. Gaara's kitchen, see, is bigger 'n mine. He's got room enough for two people to stand comfortably—to dance, even—and plenty of materials to take advantage of...even though I doubt he so much as touches most of them.
There's a recipe one of my foster moms taught me about how to use leftover turkey...she calls the product "hot-browns," and uses a combination of bread, mashed potatoes, cheese and seasoning. It's not hard, so there I am at eight in the morning, holding a plate full of leftover turkey in my boxer shorts.
The hot-browns remind me of sandwiches, most of the time; they're good enough, too. Except for when I forget to check the burner or let hair catch fire...then it's awful smelling and generally not so nice a thing.
...hair...
Gaara's, you know...it's amazingly soft. I mean, I remember Sasuke's, too...it's smooth, silky when pet like some costly fabric. But it's coarse on soft cheeks...much stiffer than western hair, but you know what? It looks damn near perfect even untamed, uncontrolled...but mine 'n Gaara's, yeah? It's soft enough but often too puffy, too full first thing in the morning—which is why it falls onto unsuspecting skillets—and a pain to get unknotted.
...my Sasuke, yeah? He's perfect. There's no other way to say it.
I realize Gaara's awake when I feel his hand on my shoulder...I guess I didn't hear him in the commotion of the smoke...see, when I let one of my boyfriends know I'm there, I'm not nearly that subtle. I'll snake my arms around his chest, pull him close and trace tiny, light circles on his skin...it's enough to make your senses prickle with delight, to waken you and stimulate unused muscles—
—the old Sasuke would laugh darkly, calling, "Oi, Naruto—"
...while the childish young man I've got instead...he just starts like I've shocked him, or falls limp against me like he's some kind of cat...
Gaara, now. He stiffens, usually, before worming his way out and returning the hug with an easy embrace. All of it's short lived...all too quick.
Even as Gaara opens his mouth to greet me, I'm overwhelmed by the
soft
silent
and oh-too
blue
differences between my loves...the firm set of determination in someone past, the soft disposition of indifference of the new...
So what can I do, hmm? I stall his words the best way I know how, being all-too willing to stall any coming events with a single, solid meeting of lips...my tongue slides past a murmur of surprise, tasting, searching for the
soft,
wet
and oh-so warm breath of a desert born brat with strong arms and a crying heart. The pressure is firm, soft and unbelievable—
—at last we pull apart, breathe harsher than intended. Sweet lips swollen. My mouth tastes of his—water and mint like a mountain spring—and gently, I wipe free the liquid dotting my mouth.
Gaara looks at me with coal-lined eyes, and the deep, startling gaze reminds me...you don't belong here.
When his mouth parts again, he runs the tip of his pink tongue along the smooth lips, and an engaging smile touches his eyes. "Naruto," he breathes, "my sister is expecting us."
I let the words flow over me, willing them to numb my heart or fill it up, but nothing of the sort happened. I nodded, then, and move for the saran wrap...to get the hot-browns...and I want Gaara to put his arms around me. I want him to
pull
me
close. I
would forget the things he mentions, and I would
open no more
doors.
"...let's go visit Sasuke afterwards," I mumble, and watch.
A flicker of understanding, a wry twist of lips, and his earlier content falls thin. "Of course," he murmurs, "but what about your fami—"
I've leaned in once again, stealing the question from his lips with a perfect grin and challenging laugh. The hot-browns forgotten, and Gaara's mouth is put to more beneficial use.
I would that I forget.
The morning passes with quick showers, hustling of gifts to brightly decorated bags, soft tinsel and elaborate crumpled ribbons Sakura taught me how to make. We're off before I know it, with a plate full of homemade cranberry sauce and a bottle of pickled apricots in my pocket.
It makes no sense, you know, but for whatever reasons, Temari has adopted Gaara and Kankuro into her in-laws' family. What's worse, she's dragged me along by invitation to her new parents' house...I suspect this is to makeup for their convicted father's absence—screw that acid-junkie, anyways, he never did anything good for his kids—and is trying to supplement the crappy guy with a more...uh, normal...family.
Only the lord understands the workings of women's minds. Hell knows I don't get it...
I brushed those thoughts aside, finding myself smiling slightly. "Merry...Christmas," I mumble, and look awkwardly at my boyfriend.
Holidays have never been my strong suit...my foster families never could include me like they did their own kids—maybe I was too much of a handful—and none of my friends were much better...Sakura being out of the state, most of the time...
So Temari laughs a little, a cocky little smirk on her round face—so similar to her male siblings—as she takes her husband's hand. "Glad you could come, Naruto," her golden hair jostles from her, and an undeniable twinkle glistens in her beautiful eyes, "...maybe you can keep Gaara in line, hm?"
The in-laws exchanged glances, small eyes amused at the flavor-filled girl's suggestion.
I wondered vaguely at how they felt about their daughter-in-law's brother bringing a boyfriend to Christmas, but the thought was shoved aside as a whirlwind of dizzying conversations picked up.
Temari's husband—Ryan, I think his name is?—kept laughing at odd frowns of Kankuro's, and the stories of his wife's two "hilarious" kid brothers. The guy got along with his wife to an amazing degree, despite the fact that his nature was more open and kiddie than hers—she's definitely of the innately serious-and-oh-so-better-'n-you category.
I thought the guy was a riot, but hey, that's just me.
Systematic jokes and irritable protests from Kankuro brought a few grins to the in-laws' faces, and at last I found myself relaxing, bit by bit, as I curled up in a squishy chair.
Did you get what you wanted for Christmas, Sasuke? the memory floats up unbidden, and the light from the room fades as I watch the scene play out. The world bleaches gray.
My family doesn't celebrate Christmas, the dull reply comes, too hurt and unexplainable to ten-year-old me.
You don't?
Sasuke's lower lip juts out a little, and he coldly turns away. What'd I just say? he demands.
I fidget in place, right net to him, annoyed, dejected and more than a little miffed. Why not? I ask.
Sasuke's eyes close. Because there is no Santa Clause.
I frown. I know that! I kick a pebble. But everybody—
And there's no such thing as God!
With that, my faith shattered and feelings hurt, he ran away.
My best friend, my childhood rival who I wound up on the floor with more often than not, wrestling and boxing like nothing else...and he ran away.
My hand fell to my side, then, the wooden sling clutched desperately between my fingers.
I wanted to show you my new toy... I called, but Sasuke's gone now, too far from me too fucking far gone to ever retrieve.
I sigh, and wish there was a way to drag him back...wishI could just grab him—kicking and screaming, if need be—back into my arms.
Good god, why aren't I happy with how things are?
It could be worse. It could be a lot worse.
I blink.
Gaara leans against the wall, his arm vaguely touching mine as we watch the family open gifts, as we listen to the crinkle of paper as everyone exchanged useless tributes of "affection."
I took Gaara's hand, pulled him closer, and wove my arms around his back. Heedless to the cloth around sensitive skin, I drew abstract signs all about. Breathing in his faintly sandy smell, I imagined the to of us, cream-and-honey alongside toasted-gold, our sweet, painful and almost nostalgic Sasuke...all sitting in a tree too tall to climb, nestled between branches that pulled us in.
For once, my redhead didn't push me aside.
Content, amused, I let my impish smile overrun softer emotions, and yanked my man towards the center, knocking him off balance as Temari motioned towards a piece of carpet clear of wrapping paper. The slender man recovered just in time, happening to save himself from a face full of Christmas tree.
"This is from me and Ryan," Temari tossed a packet over, and swiftly followed the action with more light-weight ammunition. "This is from your brother," the first landed in a bemused Gaara's arms, "That's from Jackie and Lynn, okay?"
Gaara, arms full of crinkling paper, offered a tentative smile.
Draping my arms around a "bored" Gaara, I wink. "You already got yours from me," I teasingly kiss his ear, murmuring softly to avoid embarrassment. Louder, I say, "and your guys's from us have been opened."
Temari's smile widens a bit. "Hey, back up, kid." Without waiting for me to comprehend, she tosses more packets from nowhere at me, tinsel and ribbons flashing in the glittering string of Christmas lights, "or you'll get an extra present from me, sweet," the grin showed faintly pointed teeth, "a split lip."
Laughing, I stepped back to receive the gifts--clpp!-- with open arms. Beneath the paper, it's soft in my hands, and as I watch Gaara unwrap his, I slide one finger underneath a gently protruding flap.
"...thank you..." Gaara mumbles, and I glimpse over his shoulder a form clinging, cream-colored, thick shirt fashioned with a vague memory of middle eastern design.
Curious, I opened the biggest of mine—
—a thick set of cloth reminisant of Japanese kimono...a brilliant, leaf-colored emerald that went well with Gaara's soft colors.
Bemused, looking at Temari with respect, I nodded, saying, "Thanks."
Gaara's unwrapped the other two of his, and I start visibly. One round, simple hat—it reminds me of the French beret—matches his shirt, with a strip of emerald trim to accent his gorgeous eyes...
...and matching my sweater.
"That is such a girlie thing to do..." I laugh, opening my other packets and examining an English golf-lookin' hat of similar make. "To make couples match?" I tease, and toss the bows back at the blonde girl.
She grins. "Hey, they agreed to giving me money for your presents," she winked, "knowing that I'm much better at matching your guys' tastes, anyways."
I blushed, and let Gaara open his last present...unsurprisingly, it's another matching thing—this time all emerald, with cream trim—a long, hand-woven scarf...the pattern falls like stardust...
...and mine's flow like leaves in the wind, subtle variations on the cream that make for an intricate little piece of craftsmanship.
Temari winked. "They were on sale," she drawls, too serious for my tastes, "so...you better wear 'em, boys."
Ryan snorts, and gestures to his own clothes—a complimentary match to Temari's. "She's serious, dude," he laughs.
I roll me eyes. "Geeze, Temari, thanks for making us look like fashion models."
Her laughter is brighter than bells.
The remainder of the afternoon goes on in comfortable quietness, watching an old movie and cuddling close to significant others with good graces—before I prod Gaara impatiently.
"...we gotta go," I say,
and they are left to
watch
as we bring
our
heavy, long and beautiful
bodies
up and out.
I take Gaara's hand, and we walk away...more silent than Sasuke and I had ever been...
I have to wonder, so I say, "...if you die..."
Gaara's footsteps stop, and for a moment I keep walking—'till his warm hand jerks me to a motionless stance. "...I won't." he says, quiet, still.
The clatter of wood on cement, and my eyes close.
"Don't fucking leave me behind, Gaara." I mutter, and we go off again.
You see, I don't think I could stand it...I don't deserve to lose any more loved ones...I don't.
I
..don't.
Sasuke is
warm and understanding and too soft for my memory, clinging to me like I'm some god-forsaken toy. He mewls Christmas greetings and birthday wishes in the same breath, a happy little smile on his uncomprehending face.
I sigh, wondering, where the hell did you go, Sasuke?
Gaara coughs lightly, and puts one hand on Sasuke's shoulder. "Sasuke," he murmurs,
Memory jarred. Spilt open like poorly-crafted glass.
Itachi stands close by, his lithe form shrouded in a heavy coat from the turn of the century. His face is smooth, expressionless, but his hands tremble—just a bit—as he hands a bawling Sasuke a perfectly wrapped gift...garnished with a pine sprig and piece of holly...
Sasuke, Itachi breathes,
"This is for you," Gaara mumbles, and a small box is pressed into waiting hands.
This is for you. Itachi continues.
Amazed, delighted, Sasuke coos quietly at the redhead. He takes a piece of the ribbon and dangles it from his fingers, reaching for Gaara's matching hair—
In my head, images of a smaller Sasuke come into focus.
The child stops, having just told me about the uselessness of the Christian holiday, but he looks at his brother with huge, adoring eyes.
With one hand, he takes the holly and sprig of pine...pockets it.
"You're supposed to open it," Gaara mumbles, a touch of irritation in his deep, smooth voice.
Sasuke stares at him, uncomprehending.
I watch.
Open it, Itachi bids, a small, almost invisible smile on his pale face.
Sasuke laughs a little, but the sound seems more of a sob than anything.
His fingers tremble as he opens it.
"Go on," Gaara urges, a touch of worry about him.
For you, Sasuke. Itachi repeats.
Sasuke's smile is soft, buried beneath a wall of darkness.
"It's okay..." Gaara murmurs, anxious now.
Open it, Itachi says again, gesturing this time to the inner white box.
Sasuke's small fingers pull at the cardboard, and a faint whiff of blossoms drifts my way.
In front of Gaara and before me, Sasuke's lips tremble.
"Sasuke?"
Sasuke, Itachi murmurs, to you, I give a single...red...blossom. When it fades from this world, you will carry with you a shield of unbreakable make...
The ten-year-old me whimpered a little, and as if sensing the intrusion on privacy, Itachi leaned forward...and whispered into Sasuke's ear—
In the room of blue too deep for a simple heart, Sasuke's eyes shut. He rocks back and forth, covering his ears with frail hands and moans like he's been struck.
"Sasuke, it's okay—" Gaara steps back with a frustrated, half-angry look at me. He turns back to the mewling child, "Sasuke, I'm giving this to you because I—"
The breath I take is sharp. Painful.
"Don't." I say, walking forward in a dream.
I take the box—a chocolate rose in red foil—and shake it a little. It rattles in its prison of plastic, and I smile, tired and dead and wanting to return to my dreams.
"Sasuke." I say, quietly, "There aren't any strings on this," I mumble, "it's not a key, it's not a promise."
Sasuke stops shaking as the orderlies bustle into the room.
I move forward, pick up the kid—he's lost weight—and place him on the bed. "Sasuke," I repeat.
"Gaara is not your brother."
A choked sob—
—was it me or him I can't tell—
...and a simple fold of hands.
Gaara and I are ushered out like rats from a church. I clutch at Gaara's hand and shake my head, his face is blank.
Finally, I say, "...you remember about Itachi..."
Gaara nods tightly.
I take a shuddering breath, "...he gave him a Christmas present once...
"...a single rose...
"wrapped in white and decorated with dead, fragrant branches.
"all dead, all cut, and he told Sasuke something..."
I know that it's better not knowing, what that man said...
Gaara puts a hand around me, and as we walk out together, he murmurs something soft and sweet—
—but it's not enough to cut the chill when the secretary calls, "Oh, Naruto! I'm glad you came by..." she smiles at me, warm and loving in her brown eyes and soft curls, "to think, that awful family doesn't come by on Christmas!"
I find myself laughing quietly.
She doesn't take note, continuing with a bitterly ironic smile, "they just sent a single piece of cake, of all things, with a note not to eat it all at once. Imagine that!" she shakes her head in sympathy for my Sasuke.
The smile hasn't faded when I tell her, "Sasuke isn't Christian," I begin, "he never was..."
Her ironic smile falters.
"The Japanese eat cake on Christmas," I continue, "...but they don't exchange gifts,
"it's considered a holiday for...
"...couples..."
Her eyes widen in surprise, and a look of understanding flashes in her kind eyes, "oh," she mumbles.
"Yeah," I reply, "...it gave me a whirl, too...growing up. I thought everybody celebrated Christmas."
Gaara tugs at my arm.
Outside, I breathe deeply. It's unusually warm for December, I know it, when there was heap-loads of snow not two weeks before. Enjoying the crisp breeze, I stop, put out my hands and twirl like I hadn't a thought in my head. Childlike and mournful, I let out a low, soft croon—
—until I nearly fall—
—into Gaara's waiting arms.
I am loved.
...what more should a guy ask for?
My heart could answer for me, but the reply would be two-fold. Nothing's simple, nothing's clear cut. And the words would ring clear and loud in my silence-filled ears,
my
Sasuke.
Happy (late) Christmas, Taise. You're very predictable in what you want for presents...but! Sorry I 'm late! I usually am...
Comments are really helpful...I get sore necks and headaches from this fic...
tbc...whenever Taise makes me...
