Chapter Fifty-Three: The Crumbling Man
Canon-Manga Info: At the end of the final battle between Naruto and Sasuke that took place at the 'Valley of the End', Naruto confessed that seeing Sasuke hurt, hurts him, as well.
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Blue eyes, soft blues, that gazed at the sky beyond the mist—his birthdate was near, and as if a sudden, wild thought struck him, anger scurried across his face and lines creased his strained brow. What did that day mean to him now? He curled his fingers into a fist and clamped his other hand over it, eyes looking at Sasuke and the rest of the Team.
It was Trials' Week, and the ground was reserved for their team at this time of the day. It was early morning, but the sky was so bleak that it felt as if dusk was an hour away. The mist was thick and heavy, and he could see nothing beyond the trees. Everything was grey and shadow-like round the crooked branches there. The flowers were gone and raindrops clung to their rough tips, gleaming and shining in lights.
Hinata was practicing Chakra Control with Neji. She was trying to execute a successful Thirty-Two Palms attack. She had improved: her footing and stance were better. She made quick stabs with her fingers, missed, and nearly landed face-first into the mud. Neji had easily countered her. He was still too fast for her sluggish movements. Her cheeks got pink and hot. She had come a long way. How far had he come? In five years, not that far . . .
His eyes found Sakura's face. This cold was not too unkind to her. She was teaching a Trainee Medic, a boy, how to expel chakra from his palms to close up the wounds. Pink hair was sticking to her pinker cheeks and raindrops glimmered on her lips. When she smiled, the droplets fell down on her bosom that was flushed like the most pink roses. Soft, delicate, sweet—like her body.
She did not have the fullness of Hinata's breasts and the flare of her hips, yet he found her beautiful in her own way. She had smaller curves one would associate with athletic girls, not women. Her breasts were small, too small for women, like tiny buds on her breast that had yet to flourish and discover the fullness of a woman's youth. The curve of her inner thighs was harder than Hinata's—much harder. There was strength in her legs, and her muscles were far more defined than a woman should have.
But he did not care. She was a different woman—a new kind of woman. He had only been intimate with one harlot in his whole life before Hinata: a perky girl of twenty. When he saw her nakedness the first time, his loins stirred violently. He had never so much as seen a naked breast; and seeing a bare woman offering herself to him with her thighs wide-open was . . . exhilarating, if anything.
And he had jumped on her and forced her legs further apart. She never protested when he squeezed himself inside her. She was sopping wet, and he stroked her whilst she lay there, mewling as though she enjoyed the act. He could not really say for sure, but he felt that it was the smell and taste of money Sasuke had given her that had made her so horny—a pouch over-flowing with gold coins: it was a birthday gift from Sasuke, and Naruto was too eager to accept it.
When he lost his virtue, he considered himself a changed man. Sex was new, thrilling, delicious. The warm and tight feel of a woman's body was not something he could compare his own innocent touches to. His masturbations felt almost silly afterwards. The heat of being inside a woman . . . was not the same; so when he was wedded to Hinata, he was just as overeager, and that tact-less enthusiasm did not bode well for him.
She winced and bled and cried. She was not wet and eager for him. He did not know which scents and tastes would make her flow like that harlot. He truly did not know. He was clueless, clumsy, too ashamed to ask Sasuke of anything. He knew it would humiliate him. Just thinking of speaking on this private affair bruised his ego. What would he have asked him? How to make his wife wet like that one prostitute he had slept with? It was shameful.
And so, it went on and on like that till he got sick of her distance and her pain and her tears. He wanted soft sighs and softer moans. He re-discovered them with Sakura; she told him what to do and how to touch her and where to touch her. She told him how she liked to be caressed and bedded. She loved to have her breasts be fondled by his tricky hands and tactless mouth. His tongue upon the pink-tipped crests elicited lovely breaths from her lips.
When he had lain with her in warm days, hearing the sounds of the first spring rain outside the window, feeling the heat of her flesh against his, he knew he loved her. Her green eyes were the moors—not the empty moors where he had left behind Hinata—like the spring's moors where grass grew tall and lush and rustled wildly in wind, and Sakura flowers' smell tantalised the air.
Her body became his world and his sanctuary. The scent of her between her legs was lovely and stirring. It roused him in ways that that harlot never could. Hinata never could. It was beautiful, raw, musky—like the scent of earth when it drank down the first rain of summer, like the aroma of wet flowers in the marsh. It was bewildering in a very lovely way, and he never wanted to part with such a feeling. It was his, his to cherish, his to relish, his to love . . .
His mind wandered again, and the road there tapered off to a tight street that ran like ugly ruts left by wagon tires between the filthy and cramped houses. It had been wandering often now. He dreamt terrible dreams where he ran and ran across the engulfing dark, with eyes watching him, pursuing him in the shadows. He was hearing faint voices whisper to him in the quiet nights and cold days. They whispered of evil and ominous things.
That thing in the dark always slithered there, spewing its malice. Its mouth would lift and reveal razor-sharp teeth, and then it would snarl a challenge as though he was an adversary it needed to conquer. A cold shudder moved through his limbs and heart. He did not know what was happening to him.
He looked to Sasuke, scratching his blond hair. In his eyes, Sharingan slept. They were black—so black. It was a trait all Uchiha shared, and it always looked magnificent when the red consumed black, overcame it, an ooze from a wound fresh. He inhaled a cold breath, heart still racing. The Jōnin Trials were drawing near, yet he felt that he was behind. If he failed this, what would he do?
He grimaced. A hateful thought went through his mind again, and that evil feeling from something sinister under his skin singed his heart. It jumped and roared for some moments before it found its nervous pace again. Thunder rattled and echoed twice, and he lifted his face to feel the drizzle on his cheeks. They grew pink and cold. His birth-date . . .
He bent forward, rested his elbows on his knees, bowed his head as he gazed at the few yellow flowers, which still remained, dance and sway by his muddy sandals. They were tenacious. Sakura called them Yellow Poppies. Most of them perished in autumn, but few escaped deathly winter to survive for another season before they finally embraced death in spring; yet most perished, crushed between Winter's beaks . . .
A smile came to his face, and he felt it twist his lips. They were odd flowers, bright yellow and tiny. His eyes traced their delicate stems and saw the manner in which they bounced back up again and again after being pelted by raindrops. They looked delicate, fragile, but they did not want to remain down. No, they rose back up over and over again. They were stubborn—like he . . . ?
"Naruto," a voice spoke, and he raised his eyes to meet Sasuke's. They were still black and void of that colour that was soothing and frightening at the same time. Sasuke was always the same: he was a moody man—on his worst days, he was moodier—who blew hot and cold at the tiniest of things these days. Itachi really had brought him up in the most bizarre ways . . .
"Yeah?" Naruto said and wiped his face on his wet sleeve.
"Are you feeling well?" Sasuke asked, his face turning a little curious and wary. "You don't look so well. Do you have a fever?" He moved his hand and placed it over Naruto's forehead. It was wet and cold. The Sharingan flickered in his eyes like embers in the fireplace, and Naruto felt denuded before him. Shame rose in his breast. He did not want Sasuke to see everything, so he averted his gaze and began to look at the flowers again. They were still bouncing in the rain like excited children.
"I think so," he said, a little uncertainty in his voice. Then he scratched his hair again and grinned and turned his face up to Sasuke who looked as serious as before.
"You look like you haven't slept a wink in weeks," he said and narrowed his eyes, his Sharingan weighing his half-lies and half-truths. "Is Sakura keeping you awake at night? So demanding, your little mistress." And then he smiled a mischievous smile this time, revealing his white teeth.
Thunder roared and rolled over the grounds and wind made Sasuke squint his right eye. The Sharingan was still there, and Naruto felt his insides squirm in agitation at the sight of it. He let out a nervous laugh and wiped at his nose. "No, you grouch," he said in a manner as if Sasuke's words amused him.
"Still clinging to the profitless life of a monk?" he asked and watched Naruto frown childishly, his cheeks wearing his exasperation. "Tell you what, next time we go outside the village, I'll buy you a good Sancha."
"A common one for your best friend, eh?" Naruto asked and rose to his feet faster than a bolt of lightning as though he wanted a fight. "How about you get me a Tayū?"
Sasuke looked at him odd for a moment or two, and then a deep laugh rattled in his white throat, his cheeks getting hot with the warm blood that rushed to his face. "I can't afford them," Sasuke said, looking thoroughly amused.
"Hah, I knew it! You're a miser, Sasuke," he said loudly over the sound of wind. "All good things for yourself and none for a poor man like me?"
"Are you mad? They're expensive. I'll be giving away months' worth of my pays just to take a peek at their thighs," he said with a very sober face and started walking out of the grounds, with Naruto in his wake. He hurried forward to match Sasuke's pace, his sandals sloshing through the mud.
"We can share—just you and me!" he said excitedly and created this big smile on his face and smacked his fist into his other hand. Then his smile slowly faded and he frowned. "That came out wrong . . . "
Sasuke shook his head and breathed out a long sigh. "You can't share Tayūs, you fool. They only serve one customer at a time," he said and sniffed the air. It was cold and redolent of dead leaves and rotten wood.
"Why does Itachi get all the good stuff? Cold, rich deviant . . . " Naruto grumbled under his breath and then sneezed a couple of times. Cold weather never suited him. His runny nose turned bright red, and he wiped at it, like a clumsy Genin kid, a couple of times, looking to the right and then to the left to make sure nobody saw him.
"What?" Sasuke asked and stopped walking and so did Naruto. He stared at Naruto, an irritated expression on his countenance. "Stop talking about Nii-Sama's private affairs with me. It's sick—you're sick."
"I didn't say anything," he mumbled indignantly by making a funny face and quickly looked away when Sasuke raised his eyebrows high enough that they disappeared behind the untrainable hair flopping on his forehead.
"A'right, you grouch, I was—" he stopped at the sound of a loud caw up in the tree. He craned his neck and squinted his eyes and tried his hardest to get a good look at the bird. "Is that your brother's bird?" He raised his curved hand, placed it against his forehead, stared up as though he was sitting in a ship's crow's nest to keep a lookout for danger.
"Figured it out just now?" Sasuke asked and folded his arms across his breast. He watched as Naruto's mouth created a sheepish smile. Then he let out his habitual, sputtering chuckle and turned redder than before.
"Fine, I'm a dunce and you're smart. Happy?" he said and raised his hands up, making a really serious face this time.
"The more things change, the more they stay the same," he said slowly, a smile on his lips, and started walking again.
"Why—you stupid bastard!" he yelled and took quick steps to match Sasuke's stride. Then he threw his arm around Sasuke's neck and pulled him close. "Just borrow some money from your bother. Make that sad, miserable face like you always do. It melts most people—it'll melt Itachi faster!" He jabbed his finger into the air and grinned with all his teeth peeking out.
"What sad and miserable face?" he asked, with nothing but curiosity apparent on his face, and suddenly stopped to face Naruto.
Naruto grabbed his shoulders. "This sad face," he said, smiling, and then his mouth turned down to form a near perfect bow, and he widened his eyes as much as he could that his blue-eyes were like two foreign balls about to pop out of their sockets.
"What nonsense," Sasuke said incredulously, red tinting his cheeks in irritation. "I don't make faces."
" 'Course you do!" Naruto said, louder this time, and placed both of his hands on each side of Sasuke's face. "I'm telling you—you don't always look good." His eyes widened in a manner as though he was still trying to imitate an expression.
"Knock it off," he said and pushed Naruto's hands away and turned around to look at the infirmary in the distance between a huddle of buildings, and he felt the wind hit his eyes and cheeks. The winds had turned colder . . .
"Why—you think you look stupidly good-looking all the time? Trust me, you make a really miserable sad face that only your brother can love," he said with a slight wave of his hand and nodded to himself.
"I'm not asking Nii-Sama for money. What's the matter with you?" he asked and looked over his shoulder at Naruto who was still grinning.
"You can. He'll listen," he took two bouncy steps forward and playfully jabbed his elbow into Sasuke's ribs.
"Yes, that would be a pleasant conversation—Nii-Sama, how was your day? Can you lend me some gold to rut with a Tayū? Oh, and lend some extra, too, so that Naruto can finally lose his unending virtue," he spoke with a fake smile.
"I have had sex—I didn't jump out of that pleasure-quarter's window. Stop accusing me of that, damn you!" he bellowed and raised his customary shaking finger into the air like a disgruntled judge.
"The jury's out on that one," he shot back, smiling.
"Sasuke, I told you before, I'm a one woman—" his voice disappeared into a yelp, and he jumped a little when the bird landed on his shoulder to release another caw. "Get away from me, you annoying bird." He flailed his arms about to scare it off. The crow flapped its wings and pecked at his head a couple of times. His hands shot up to protect his head as he shouted obscenities about 'bitch-crows' and 'cunt-birds' and squinted his eyes.
Sasuke laughed. Naruto cracked his one eye open and found the crow sitting on Sasuke's right shoulder. It twisted its head a little to the left and then to the right, gazing into Sasuke's right eye, the shuriken whirling excitedly there.
"This bird's as mean as Itachi," Naruto said, patted his head a couple of times, and winched.
"That managed to shut you up about your monk stories," Sasuke said and smiled at the bird, and it cawed loudly in response and suddenly fell silent, stretching its neck threateningly in Naruto's direction as though it did not enjoy his company.
"I hate this damned bird," he grumbled through clenched teeth and followed Sasuke as he walked to a bench under the tree. He sat down, and the bird on his shoulder shook its body and fluffed out its feathers. Its tiny red eyes were still on Naruto, and the Shurikens there made him shiver, made him—no, made it remember!
Naruto kept looking at the crow and an eerie darkness fell over his eyes. He swayed and fell forward, but Sasuke caught him. He helped him sit down on the bench and stared into his empty eyes. "Naruto, what's wrong?" he asked, but he was still looking at the bird, and the Sharingan there was staring at him as if it could see his thoughts. He was naked, shamed, humiliated.
He inhaled a deep and broken breath. "I don't know, Sasuke, I—" and a shuddering spasm closed the sentence, and he could speak no more. He could think no more. Everything was gone. Only his shame—red in the crow's eyes was left.
He heard Sasuke move, and then he felt his cold, wet fingers on the back of his neck. He heard a soft breath escape Sasuke's lips. Then Sasuke sat down beside him and clamped his hand on his shoulder, but Naruto's face was still working feverishly with an honest fear he had not seen in weeks. The seal . . . it was disappearing!
"Come with me. You can stay in the guest-room," he said softly, looking from Naruto's confused blue eyes, which continued to stare at the crow, to the odd manner in which the Shurikens spun there like brilliant undying flames in the crow's head.
"Your brother will allow it?" he asked in a sad voice that Sasuke felt nothing but pity for him.
"I will . . . talk to Nii-Sama. He'll listen," he said, and his face was set in anger and defeat and shame.
Naruto let out a dreamy laugh and blinked. "Last time he asked you to stop pursuing Anbu in exchange for having me in your Squad. I wonder what he'll ask you to give up this time—you know, when he finds out that I'm just a mad-man who's barely keeping it together?" he said and created a bitter smile on his face that suddenly looked quite pallid. "I feel guilty. I was selfish. I wanted to be close to you, Sasuke. You're dear to me—our friendship's dear to me. You gave up your dream. I hope—I hope you forgive me."
Faint red flecks appeared in his eyes, and tears trailed down his cheeks. He sniffed and wiped his face clean and let out a weary laugh. "I'm pathetic," he said and tilted his head back to stare up, blinking his eyes rapidly as rain fell down upon his face that exhibited defeat. "I've failed at everything. I'm not a good husband—I've failed Hinata. I'm not a good lover—I've failed Sakura. I'm a burden to her. I-I've shamed my parents—failed them, too. I . . . " He did not say anything more and closed his eyes; but Sasuke's Sharingan was sharp enough to see lines of chakra leave his eyes. He was still weeping . . .
His eyes were red and sad now, and Sasuke did not know what to say to comfort him. "I've failed you, too, Sasuke," he said in anguish and opened his eyes to stare up at the sky again. It was cold to him today, cruel, but he was glad that it hid his shame—if only a little. "I always fall back on you. I know you love your brother. He's dear to you. You may not say it, but I can see it in your eyes. They always . . . glow when you talk about him—even when you're angry with him."
"Naruto, you don't need to—"
"No, let me say it," he said shakily and placed his hand upon his breast and tried to settle his breaths into an even pattern. His heart pounded, but he found pieces of strength and courage to speak in the rain. "I shouldn't have done it. It was selfish. It wasn't right. Seeing you hurt like this . . . hurts me. I keep asking favours from you, and you go against your brother. I don't want that anymore. I don't want to see you like this, hurting over things that don't matter."
"Naruto, you—" he suddenly stopped and looked at Sakura as she appeared from behind the trees. At that moment, he felt anger's surge, but he stayed silent and looked back at Naruto who was smiling at her.
"Naruto, shall we leave?" she asked, her voice shy, and an innocent smile rose to Naruto's lips and his face changed. He looked happy, almost hypnotised.
He stood up and Sasuke got to his feet, too. His hand was still upon Naruto's shoulder, and Naruto turned his face to stare deep into his red eyes. It was as though he wanted to say so much. "I'm a small matter," Naruto whispered and placed his hand on Sasuke's shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze, "you shouldn't worry about me."
And then he walked away with slow steps towards Sakura. Mist rose between them, a soft wall, and when light fell down upon Sasuke, shadows grew thickly about Sakura and Naruto. "Naruto, come with me. You don't look well," Sasuke spoke with nigh elusive desperation in the tone of his voice, and Naruto stopped to look back, a firm smile on his weak lips; he had made up his mind.
Naruto looked at him for a moment in silence and his smile widened. "Don't worry. I'll go to the infirmary. I'll see you tomorrow," he said and walked away with Sakura. Sasuke caught a glint in her eyes, and he did not like it at all . . .
The matter on the grounds was done. He wasted no moment to do something about Sakura. She had to be stopped; so with an application-scroll clutched firmly in one hand, he took firm steps up the stairs of the Hokage's office. The windows were closed and fogged. Fire burnt in the hearths in the hall. It was empty save two lowly grunt-shinobis.
His steps resounded in the emptiness, cut through the faint sounds of excited babble that came from beyond her office's thick door. He barged in and the room fell silent. Shizune stood by the table, a stack of scroll-files in her hands, and another ninja he did not know stood on Tsunade's left—probably someone from her Medic-Team. The smile on her face slowly faded.
Tsunade took a quick sip of sake, and her cheeks instantly glowed with a robust hue. A smile curled her lips when she looked at him, but she did not say anything to mock the urgency in his face. He closed the door behind him and took few steps to place the scroll on the table that was cluttered with scrolls, two sake bottles, three different cups. She had even spilled some of it on the old scrolls—she was a clumsy drinker and a more clumsy woman.
"I need to speak with you," he said, quite firmly, and then looked at Shizune and the other timid-looking female ninja to add, "privately."
Tsunade drank down the cup full of sake and put it down on the table. Her brown eyes appraised him for a moment. She appeared to look faintly amused. She nodded to Shizune, and she left the room with the other shinobi. When the door clicked shut behind Sasuke, he brought his eyes back to the woman, and the Sharingan appeared in his eyes, it always did when there was faint distress and some thrill in his heart.
"What is it this time, boy?" she asked and licked at her lips—she wanted to relish the taste that still lingered there. Her eyes twinkled, and she breathed out a satisfied sigh.
"Naruto's ill," he began and clasped his hands behind his back. "I want him off the squad and sent home till he doesn't recover."
Tsunade pressed her fingers to her lips and looked at him with the most suspicious look in her beautiful face. Her gaze roved on his young, rigid features for a moment, and then she looked at the scroll and picked it up from the table. There was silence in the room now. The wind outside was gaining strength, and the bare boughs, pressed close to the window, smacked themselves against the glass.
She pulled in a breath and held it for a moment before letting it go in a sigh. "He's working hard for the Jōnin post. I don't see how a little illness can be used to send him home—now that he's so close," she said and rolled up the scroll, her eyes still upon his face that became a little more rigid than before. "You aren't being fair to your friend."
"If he isn't sent home, he'll fail," he said and there was a slight inflection that came into his voice. He was trying to control his anger.
"Where is he? Why is he not here with you to request for a leave?" Tsunade asked, lacing her fingers together on the table. She was calm and met his eyes with a firm expression of authority.
Sasuke sniffed the air, and his jaws clamped shut as though he wanted to shout at her for being a fool, but he forced himself to create a rude smile in its stead. "Despite my protests, he's run off to play with your student. I hear that it's a common habit of a mistress," Sasuke said with an air of disgust about him and a smile he had no intention to hide.
She narrowed her brown eyes, and a quick anger came into face, only to go away again. "Get to the point, boy," she spoke, and her voice came out like a hiss.
"But she is the reason for his failures," he said and continued to smile, and she could see Itachi's ghost in him—in his red, cunning eyes; his soft, beautiful face; his cold, serpent smile. Every feature there was blurred into a smear of child-like innocence. He looked young—young and pure—that it was heart-breaking for her to see this frigidness permeate his skin and muscles like a theatre-show of make-believe spectres; and despite his protests and angers and tricks, he imitated Itachi. It was not hard to see.
"You love to pin her with everything, don't you?" she asked slowly and watched, mesmerised, as the smile vanished from his face in a manner that had far less finesse and control than Itachi possessed, but it truly was the same: the ghostly twitch of the lips, the slight squint of the eyes, and the flickering green vein that popped out on the side of his white jaw.
Sasuke, the boy who loved to mimic his brother and who so adored his brother, his features had probably forgotten what he himself felt. No, they loved this act of mimicry, this act of wearing a readymade façade, this act of love. His face was a ghost of his brother's visage. No, he really was Itachi's ghost—a lovely ghost that was still young and innocent and pure; but the games, these cruel games, he played really made him a strange canvas for his brother to fill. He always had been a boy left to craft his Self at Itachi's cold whims, and something about it was so tragic . . .
"It's the truth," he said and his tone quickened a bit in anger and stubbornness. "Your student is ruining him. I won't let it happen."
"Sakura has nothing to do with—"
"You know what's inside him," he cut her off in a harsh and grave voice this time as his Sharingan flashed and changed to take on a different pattern. They were petals, like that of a flower, spinning in his eyes as if being swept away by the winds, like pin-wheels. "Don't think I don't know. I can see it, too. It's killing him. His seals are weakening, and I get the feeling that your student is behind this."
Colour flew from Tsunade's face. Her face and hands began to tremble, but she, too, had the experience and age to hide her emotions behind the tricks of her features. She rose to her feet and placed her hands on the table, her eyes looking into the odd pattern with a challenge she was not ready to lose. "And what is your proof for this accusation?" she asked, and her voice became hard and rough. To her surprise, he merely smiled—a kind of cool, habitual smile his brother always wore.
"I'll get the proof—don't you worry, Hokage-Sama," he spoke, his voice soft and earnest, and his demeanour frightened her. He looked mischievous, devoid of any feelings for his teammate, but he never cared much for her when he grew older. He had left many things behind—Sakura was one of the many he discarded like a used-up toy. Though it existed upon his face like an unending farewell, his innocence was probably another toy he had little desire to pick back up again. That playtime was over, and she knew it was a thing of the past for this precocious and impish boy so coddled by his wicked older brother: he was just a naughty little boy-child in Itachi's eyes . . .
Tsunade breathed in deep and fast, anger consuming her heart and mind, but at that moment, steps sounded on the outside and the door swung open the next moment; and there in the door stood Minato. His expression was blank, but it turned curious and then suspicious when his eyes fell upon Sasuke looking over his shoulder at him. He could not clearly see the young Uchiha's face. He slowly closed the door and walked inside. His eyes were blue and beautiful—a gift Naruto had inherited from him.
He stopped close to Sasuke and inhaled a great breath. He looked angry. "My son collapsed in the infirmary," he spoke, and he sounded frigid and distant.
Shock came into Tsunade's pretty face. She steered her gaze from Sasuke's expressionless face and red eyes to Minato's that worked in the kind of fury she had never seen before. "Did this happen just now?" she asked and made her way around the table to look clearly at Minato's countenance. The shadows had found their home along the lines of his face. It was a little hazy in the dusk's lights.
He did not answer her; instead, he turned a little and looked down at the shorter man before him, his features knotting in contempt and anger. "Have you been using your Sharingan on my son?" he asked and Tsunade saw such hate in Minato's eyes that she did not think he had in him.
Sasuke's face twisted in ferociousness, eyes flashed like fire, and he turned to face him. There was not an ounce of fear on his young face. He matched the hatred of the man before him. No, he beat it with his own contempt and arrogance. Light flashed into the room, and Tsunade could not believe how murderous Sasuke looked. Minato should not have said that.
"What are you suggesting?" Sasuke asked, the fury in his voice apparent; it was a hissing voice that came from his lips. He was ready to avenge his clan—here . . . at this single moment. He knew he would not care for Minato's blood or how it would dirty and stain the new mat. She, too, knew.
"My son has been getting ill and the Sharingan is known to tame the daemons," Minato accused again, and his blue eyes gleamed in anger. Another flash blinded her for a moment, yet the red in Sasuke's eyes shone through the haze, and she could see his face so clearly now, warped by anger and a murderous intent her eyes could not deny. How much did he know?
"Choose your next words wisely, Minato," he spoke brusquely, and his fine features worked into a thin, sneering smile that angered Minato even more. "I won't allow you to insult my family for your own mistakes. You're paying for them with your shame. Embrace it. I doubt you deserved any less."
Thunder crashed, and the new wooden floor beneath their feet shook. Minato's eyes did not leave his, and he could see malice in them. He felt as though Sasuke was avenging his own father by hurting his son. It was justified, yet cruel. He could not fault the boy, but he could not bear the thought of his son suffering any longer at his devious hands. His eyes . . . they made Minato feel a delicious, slow fear that flowed unobstructed into his heart, and his soul was suddenly awash with its intensity.
Yet he fought it. It did not matter if his father was a saint or sinner. It did not matter—only his son did. He loved him so dearly. He was all he had. To lose him would mean he would have no future, and he had already lost a past in the wake of shame and mistakes and blunders. If he could save his son, it would be enough.
So Minato narrowed his eyes that were two bluest oceans, and snuffed out that fear. Naruto was his son and he loved him. "You are a scornful young boy, are you not? Whatever game you are playing, leave my son out of it. Or, I swear, you will be remorseful," he spoke in a voice that was still laced with traces of bygone authority and raised his hand to point an accusing finger at him.
"I wonder if you were ever remorseful when you chased after tulips in autumn mists and thick fogs," he said and wore a clever smile, watching with detached amusement as Minato's features changed so suddenly. He was so shocked that he could not tame his features, could not smooth the lines to hide his treachery.
"You . . . " Minato's voice trailed off, and he showed teeth in anger, " . . . what game are you playing?"
"You treacherous, arrogant foo—"
"Be silent, Sasuke!" Tsunade cut across Sasuke loudly, and he sharply turned his angry gaze at her as though he did not like her interference. "Leave my office—now!" And she saw his eyes alight with mischief, and his lips twist with a curl of delight, before he left her office in silence.
Silence fell over the room, like a burden. Minato was breathing a bit heavily. His eyes were still on the door. At last, he brought his gaze upon her face and fixed her with a look that was no less angry than before. He looked at her for a few moments in silence, weighing his words, and then he spoke as his anger cooled down to something more endurable: "I am taking my son home. He is ill. His seal is weak. I do not want him to perish for my mistakes. I will not repeat them again, but I will never sacrifice my son for the sake of Leaf. Not again. Never again."
And he did not stay and left as quietly as he had come into her office. Tsunade leant back against the table and put her hand to her bosom, listening to her heart beat so loudly there. Tulips and mists . . . what did Sasuke mean by that?
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"Stop treating me like I'm a child, Ryo," Kikyo spoke in a half-embarrassed, half-angry voice. "I know what I want. You're still young. This matter's beyond your understanding. Leave your sister be." And she fastened her eyes on the ruffled features of the young man before her. He was no older than fifteen—a fine, tall, and a slightly ungainly fellow. His angry face gave him an air of mighty anger, too much for his young age.
"I left you alone and this is what you did?" he asked, anger flaring in his eyes that shone with scorn and fury. It was a matter of honour. "You've shamed yourself, sister. Must you have me tell you that there's a line you shouldn't have crossed? The men are talking, women are talking, children are talking—everyone's talking!" And he was breathing heavily with wide, ghastly eyes, and his young breast moved with haste to the rhythms of his fiery heart.
She looked at him with deep attention as if he was an unexpected intruder and pressed her fan to her delicate lips; they folded upon the paper there and she smiled. "Come here, my darling," she said and placed the fan in her lap and stretched her arms out to embrace him.
He did not move for a few moments as he stared at her in annoyance. At last, his features grew serene, and he let out a weary sigh, got up, and went to her. Then he sat down beside her and allowed her to clasp him in her delicate arms. She laid his soft cheek against her bosom, parted the messy shock of brown hair, and kissed his head a few times with heartfelt affection.
"You shouldn't have done this," he said and twisted his lips into a frown as if he had tasted something sour. "You shouldn't have done this. It would give that fool in Shitchi more reasons to lay dirt on you. You shouldn't have done this . . . " And he was shaking his head in disappointment, his features becoming hard and sober that he began to look older than his years.
He was still a delicate young man. Winter made him feel cold, and he hid in his room to escape it, often. He avoided the hills like the plague. The cold made it too hard to venture into the snow that whipped around the sparse villages there. They were men of the marsh—wolves of summer. Winter was their death; it weakened them, but his young blood was too arrogant to accept it.
"Must you always worry yourself?" Kikyo asked so sweetly and held his face in her palms. It was a different sweetness, free from the evils of elations and poisons of passions—beautiful and free. And she bent her head a little to place kisses upon his warm cheeks and forehead.
"I worry for you," he said with visible emotion, and his eyes flickered with fear as he backed away to look upon her. "That man is a snake—a trickster. He can't be trusted. He became the commander of all military corps at the mere age of eighteen. That—that's unheard of! He's not an easy meal to swallow. Why do you treat him like a common adversary? Putting yourself in danger and—" he stopped, biting his tongue, "—getting intimate with him for an alliance? That's not what we agreed with that man. We agreed to stall him here and keep the scroll safe. He isn't even interested in your proposal."
Ryo's eyes caught the light of the lamp and they glimmered, hot and fiery. It was night, and the shadows stood tall. Kikyo smiled in response, and her smile was unabashedly wicked. "I adore his tricks," she said in a sinister tone, and it was like a serpent's voice in his young ears. "He's cold and elusive and powerful . . . and so beautiful. It makes it thrilling to pin him down like a fish." And she laughed and the laughter rippled through his body. He did not like the sound of it.
"You're being a fool. He isn't a fish," Ryo warned, and his featured knotted up into another look of cold fear. "He'll bite you, and I'll be left to clean up the mess. Make up your mind!"
Kikyo's face assumed a shocked expression. "Do you believe it to be so easy? It isn't. I can't just offer him the scroll if he's hell-bent on refusing me. That can't be done," she said and adjusted the delicate silk shawl draped around her shoulders. Her black hair was spread like brush-strands on her skin. She tossed them back, and the beads dangling from the golden pins in her hair tinkled.
Ryo slapped his hands on his knees and bent forward. "It isn't about the damned scroll! It's about you hanging yourself above a monster's mouth with nothing to gain," he snarled, and she looked taken aback by the sudden rise in his anger. "This man's dangerous. If your game of Sharingan isn't working, we have nothing to gain from this—no light to gain to change its fate. Why can't you see the foolishness in all this? I don't understand you." He looked down to his lap and rubbed his hands together. He was nervous.
"Then I'll kill him in his sleep," she hissed and the natural ruby of her cheeks showed up brighter against the light. "He shall die here, writhing on the sheets. His long white throat, I shall cut it deep. We all must throw away the things we play with. He'll be the same, my darling."
And she placed her hand against his soft cheek and gave him a kiss on the forehead. A blinding light flashed into the room, and he saw her face tightened in a manner that made him fear for her. He wanted to say more, but as the sound and smell of rain filled the dark room, he chose to remain silent . . .
Yet his silence did not stop the rain, did not stop the wails of wind and the roars of thunder, did not stop the stench from rising into the air and into the nostrils of the man in the forest. He wanted to turn away. The smell was harsh, penetrating, rotten, but he had seen worse and smelt worse. This was not new to him. With an air of firmness and a slow pace, he stalked forward, his feet sloshing through rain, blood, and bits and pieces of rotting corpses that littered the open space.
They were lying there by the dozens—many of them had no heads and limbs. It was a macabre scene of ghoulish despair and a still sort of deathliness that hung there the way ghost-less mirages of the dead would. He kept walking, leaving Karin and Serizawa in his wake. Her pink eyes were wide, and she had her hand pressed to her nose. The stench was unbearable even in the rain.
Serizawa was silent, too, as his eyes traced the lines of broken faces and crooked lips after the swords, wielded by cruel hands, were through with them. Only their headbands glimmered defiantly in the flashes as if they had been stubborn to not let their foes' swords damage their artificial splendour.
Itachi made a full stop when he came close to the only headband his Sharingan could see differently. He picked it out of the mud, and it shone with a different and coarse pattern compared to the fine lines of Leaf and Cloud etched into the metals so many wore upon their foreheads with pride. Bandits . . .
"Convenient," he rasped as his eyes wore fury over the cold soul's depths. He shoved the headband into his pocket and turned away from the open graveyard that was free for the beaks of the hungry scavengers. They had flown away when the rain came down. He knew they would be back again. These foolish men had been dead for three days.
"Send a letter to the Hokage," Itachi spoke and did not stop walking, "we will leave for Konoha within a week." He kept walking away from them till he disappeared beyond the trees and Serizawa could have sworn he saw murderous anger in his eyes that he had never seen before. He did not understand his words: how would they finish this business within a week?
Serizawa looked back at the dead men once more and left with Karin for the next outpost . . .
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EN: Yes, that "fish" dialogue between Ryo and Kikyo poked fun at Itachi's "people are not fish" juvenile philosophy in Canon.