Cloud on My Tongue, a naruto fanfic

Title: Cloud on My Tongue
Author: desolate butterfly
Genre: yaoi, smut, angst
Rating: M for non-specific masturbation scene
Pairing: Zabuza/Haku
Warnings: possible squick for age difference, because Zabuza dreams of doing Haku, even if he doesn't actually do it.
Summary: Zabuza's stopped touching Haku, and he tries to figure out why.

Zabuza doesn't touch him anymore.

It's a small thing, and probably not that important, but it's something that stays in Haku's mind. Zabuza doesn't touch him; not to correct his stance or arm movement for taijutsu or weapons training, although the need for that is long past, as Haku is quite proficient in those areas now, and not to stroke his hair back from his forehead like he used to in an absent caress that always make Haku smile.

Zabuza's hand hasn't fallen heavily on Haku's head since he was twelve.

It's what Haku thinks about every time he tucks the bandages around Zabuza's face, and every time his fingers brush against the pulse in Zabuza's wrist, the slide of a senbon just deep enough into the skin to feign a sleep that never ends. It's what he thinks about when he presses a careful hand into Zabuza's palm and feels the slight stiffness in the limb before he lets go.

Zabuza lets Haku touch him like he isn't really there.

It doesn't bother him. Not really, because it's Zabuza and at least he gets to be around him every day and protect him the way a good shinobi weapon should. It's only that Haku wonders if Zabuza is starting to mind the way Haku keeps getting stronger, the almost horrific speed at which he can control water jutsu and perform one-handed seals. Zabuza said before that what he liked about Haku was his bloodline ability, his usefulness as a perfect weapon for Zabuza to wield.

Haku still works hard at being Zabuza's perfect weapon, but he wonders if doing so has made Zabuza see what his father could in Haku: something too tainted to touch.

On the evening that Zabuza and Haku are accepted into the ranks of Gatou-san—a small, petty man who knows nothing of precious people or their worth—to kill a builder of a bridge, Haku sorts through the medicine kit he packed before they came to Wave Country. Slaughtering innocents is usually not tasking enough to require patching up later, but it doesn't hurt to be prepared.

"We're out of valerian," Haku says, holding up the empty jar. "I saw a few plants in that field we passed yesterday. If you want I can go out tomorrow and get more."

"Save it until we finish this job," Zabuza replies, but he's not looking at Haku and it hurts and Haku can't help himself from raising up, just a little, to rest his head on Zabuza's shoulder.

There's a slight tightening of muscles and then Zabuza is still and silent. His hands remain at his side. Haku's hands remain in his lap.

After a few moments, Haku draws back and scoops the jars and bottles back into the pack.

"If you say so, Zabuza-san," he whispers, offering a weak smile that the other man won't see.

That night, Haku wakes to an unfamiliar sound. His body tenses for an instant, hand immediately clenched around the kunai under his pillow, but there's no alien presence in the room, and he senses no danger.

Confused, he lies in stillness, waiting for the noise that woke him to repeat itself. A quick flicker of the eyes to Zabuza's bed confirms the man's presence, and his well-being.

It confirms something else as well.

There's a rustle of sheets and staggered breathing, and under that the soft sounds of flesh against flesh in steady rhythm. Haku hasn't had a whole lot of experience, but he is old enough to know exactly what Zabuza is doing.

Haku's eyes close again, because it's enough just to hear the rough movement of Zabuza's hand on himself, to smell his scent in the cool night air, to recognize the difference between a hitched breath and a sigh. Haku finds he can picture Zabuza clearly—memories of shared baths and close quarters bringing images of the contours of Zabuza's body, the size of his sex and the shape of it, the broadness of his fingers and how they might grip casually, like they do on the hilt of his sword—and feels his own aching response.

It's torturous, because Haku knows that any kind of movement will alert Zabuza to his wakefulness, and the idea that he might not get to hear what Zabuza sounds like when he comes is more painful than the erection burning between his thighs. So Haku stays still and silent as Zabuza's rhythm quickens and becomes as erratic as his breathing.

There's one muffled groan, and then another and Haku's vision of Zabuza changes into a picture of Haku's hands wrapped around Zabuza's sex, feeling the weight and heft of it between his fingers…and then Haku's body opening up to take him inside in a touch a thousand times more intimate than a pat on the head.

"Ha…ah…"

The softly uttered sounds from Zabuza's throat make Haku's blood pound in his ears, and he can't quite help the way his body strains against the sheet covering his nakedness. He squirms and presses his thighs together more tightly, hoping that Zabuza is too occupied to notice the small movement.

Then Haku hears his own name gasped out between breaths and freezes, suddenly terrified that he's been found out, that Zabuza knows he's awake. He stops the rocking motion of his body and guiltily listens for the reprimand but it never comes.

Instead, Zabuza whispers his name again in a long, drawn-out sigh and the bed springs squeak a little before everything is silent again and Haku realizes that he has just heard Zabuza come…come with his name on his lips.

There's a moment of elation, of extreme gratification because now he's found another way he can be of use to Zabuza, another way to show his devotion, a way that sounds infinitely more pleasurable than killing bridge builders and ninjas for him.

But then Zabuza sits up with softly muttered curses and puts his head in his hands and Haku lies in his cot and realizes now why Zabuza has refused to touch him for so long. He feigns sleep until Zabuza slips out of the room and then wakes the next morning sun to find that feigned sleep turned into real sleep somewhere along the way.

Zabuza hands him a bowl of rice for breakfast and moves casually around the small outer rooms, packing up weapons. Haku watches him through slanted eyes—watches the roll of his shoulders and the small of his back—and shivers slightly before putting his bowl down with a soft thump.

"I'm your weapon," he says suddenly, and Zabuza's movements slow.

"Yeah," he says, not turning around. "You are."

Haku's eyes don't leave Zabuza's shoulders. "Then…you can use me anyway you want. Zabuza-san if…if you need me to…"

A twitch, like a spasm, and then Zabuza's posture is casual again, fingers curling softly around the hilt of the kubikiri houcho.

"I know," he says, voice unbearably gentle, and Haku knows that they will never speak of this again.

The next day, Haku's cot is moved to another room.

The only thing Haku can offer is a smile.

fin