A/N: Well this is late as shit.

I wrote this ages ago but spent more time editing it than I've genuinely ever spent editing my own work before. Including throughout my entire undergrad career (winning). There's something about transcribing stories that began as an intricate daydream that I find really challenging. It worked so well in my head that I obsess over every goddamn detail to try to convey everything I originally fathomed.

Also life's been kind of a bucket of shitballs and angst, so that didn't really help my productivity. Let's just say it's been hard to write about "love" lately. But oh well, life goes on.

The next chapter's been written for a while as well, so I should be able to edit and upload that soon.

Read. Cheers.

Morbid Original

Maybe it was the liquor. The nicotine. Or just the restoration of her senses, as the overhead lights came up and the room returned to a normal decibel level. Or perhaps she really had fallen victim to some technique from which she was just now emerging, dazed and vaguely nauseous from the abrupt transition back to reality. Whatever the cause she couldn't shake it, the whirlwind of wordless thoughts and combative emotions that suddenly swelled inside her.

She couldn't wrap her head around it. She had had fun, that was undeniable. Her mission for the night had been executed successfully. So why was her elation so rapidly fading, overtaken by some powerful breed of perplexity she'd never felt before?

She looked to the now darkened stage, the latent instruments and curled stacks of wires. Everything that had just moments ago blazed with light and life, strength and energy now seemed dormant, discarded, strangely inanimate. The music that had so carried her away had stopped. What had for the first time in years freed her from the importunate plague of thought, her every capricious qualm of heart, had come to its necessary end, draining her of joy; pumping her heavy with the concerns she had briefly shirked.

But it was more than just the absence of music that disturbed her, she realized, staring down at the drink that had appeared in her hand. It was the music itself. Or more accurately, the singer.

"Were those covers?" she asked the bartender, having lost track of Ino in her distraction.

He shook his head. "Nope. All original. Pretty fucking strong, right? For a bunch of kids."

She nodded absently, her trepidation confirmed, and retreated to a corner table to sit beyond the chatter of the crowd.

Naruto might not have acted like his typical, boisterous self during the set, she thought, but the music positively screamed of him. The palpable angst, the vivacious energy – and the lyrics. It had shocked her stupid at first to hear him produce that poetry, that impassioned prose. Sure, it wasn't the most clever or complex of verbiage, but it had moved her, empowered her. Made her feel like she wasn't alone, combating the petty frustrations of youth. But still it left a bad taste in her mouth to think that her friend – her teammate – had written all that. Had felt enough pain to pen those words, take the microphone, and release them into the world for all to hear. For her to hear.

'Better off dead' – really? Could he possibly think that? 'A walking disaster'? 'I'm better off on my own'?

Another outburst of whistles and cheers jostled Sakura from her thoughts (and nearly knocked her from her chair as well) as a throng of bystanders flocked in her direction. Unknowingly, she had planted herself just outside the backstage door from which the boys were now emerging, Naruto in the lead.

Watching him accept all the words of praise, the fist bumps and high fives from friends and strangers alike, her heart lifted a little. There was no way, she told herself, that the boy who beamed and laughed before her now could really feel as dejected as the songs implied. As distraught and lonely and unwanted. It simply wasn't possible. The others must have written them, she concluded, or maybe she had just read too far into their implications. They were just lyrics, after all. They didn't have to mean anything.

But still a nagging doubt persisted, knotting her stomach as she stood.

"Sakura-chan!" Naruto exclaimed, her name sounding more like a question than a greeting. He brushed past the congratulators that stood between them and hugged her, squeezing her so tight she couldn't respond.

While it wasn't unlike Naruto to be physical with her in moments of excitement, she couldn't help but feel taken aback by the bold gesture. Something about the feel of his pulse against her cheek, the thud of his heart against hers – the overall tangibility of his post-performance adrenaline – made it feel overly intimate, overwhelming. She knew how it must have seemed to the lookers-on as he'd rushed straight to her, renouncing their attention in favor of hers. But even so, she couldn't move, could make no effort to chastise him for his brashness. She remained stalk-still in the rigidity of his grasp, the extreme warmth that radiated from him.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have hugged you, I'm all sweaty and gross," he said breathlessly, running a hand through damp hair. Perhaps it was just his elevated temperature, but his face looked slightly red when he released her. "I just can't believe you're here."

Sakura gave him a playful nudge. "Like I'd miss your first show," she replied, sounding more collected than she felt. She tried to ignore her furious heartbeat, her feverish flush, chalking it up to her own residual excitement from the show; but still the dull ache in the pit of her stomach remained, throbbed as the last of his warmth evaporated from her skin. "And don't worry, I'm sweaty too, from dancing."

His eyes brightened noticeably at the comment, lips quirking into a smile. This was the same, old Naruto after all. The one who reveled in any slight display of approval, any allowance of attention. But this thought brought little comfort as her mind raced with the lyrics he had sung, the conviction with which he'd pronounced them. She could no longer extract from her mental image of him the orange spotlight, the boy on stage who had cornered her somewhere between impressed and depressed. She felt guilty, as if any sadness on his part were her fault. She was his friend, after all. How hadn't she noticed?

"What're you drinking?" he asked, pointing to the glass that Sakura had once again forgotten she was holding.

"I don't know," she answered honestly, shrugging. "I guess Ino ordered it for me."

"You don't know?" he repeated, one blond brow arching over the other, grin as amused as ever. "Are you wasted?"

"Please, not even." Despite her concerns, Sakura found herself particularly susceptible to his contagious grin as she handed him her drink. He took a sip and winced, thrusting the glass back to her, eliciting a laugh. He had always had a talent for cheering her up, even if it was him she was worried about.

"I wouldn't have pegged you for a tequila girl," he said between disgusted sputters.

"Well aren't we all just full of surprises, then?" she returned, bringing the glass to her lips – and parroting his reaction exactly. "Okay, this is just horrible," she admitted, laughing.

Face still scrunched in a grimace, he took the glass from her hand and placed it on the table. "Let's get a real drink," he said, then with a convivial wink, "C'mon – the band drinks for free."

Sakura followed him back to the bar, their progress impeded as every newfound fan stopped to speak to him, shake his hand, slap his back, offer him drinks. At times she lost sight of him entirely, completely cut off by a ring of admirers young and old, but always he would emerge from their depths, looking for her.

"Jesus, sorry," he mumbled, as they finally reached the bar. "It's easy to lose people in here." They sat, and as he flagged down the bartender, still more people came to offer their congratulations, their praise, and Sakura could only look on in awe. Contrary to his cool composure during the show, he now seemed vaguely flustered, embarrassed; unsure of how to react to the compliments.

Maybe this wasn't exactly the type of acknowledgement he'd always sought, but it had to count for something, Sakura thought as another group of well-wishers said their piece, leaving his cheeks slightly red but his grin as big as ever. Her unease began to dissipate. She was happy for him. She was proud.

"Sorry," he muttered again, staring into his beer.

"Don't apologize," she said, the force in her tone snapping his eyes to her. "You deserve it. You kicked ass." Now she was quite sure he was blushing, not just reddening from the heat; but his smile cut through his mild discomfort.

"Thanks, Sakura-chan."

"When did you start playing?" she asked, finding herself genuinely interested.

"Like a couple months ago."

She nearly spit out her vodka tonic. "A couple months? As in two?"

He nodded, not seeming to comprehend her incredulity. With a sigh, she shook her head. Leave it to Naruto to pick something up and master it in record time, just because he could.

"That's incredible," she admitted, causing the blond to flush once again. "Really, Naruto. That's awesome. You guys killed it tonight."

"It went pretty well," he said, his modesty continuing to astonish her. "Kiba just found all this equipment at his cousins' house, and since they weren't using it anymore he told us to check it out." He paused to consider the half-empty stein in his hand. "I didn't really think it would go anywhere."

But it did. It had. For the past two months he had been committing himself to something new and extraordinary, something that had blown her away – and she hadn't even known about it until that night, even though she saw him almost every day. What else had she missed, she wondered, when she'd been too wrapped up in her own shit to register the life around her? Too obsessed with her own selfish concerns, too trapped in her own head?

Once again she felt her heart sink, past the sphere of concern and into a bitter well of guilt. She had been a terrible friend, she thought, even to those she was closest with. Those she needed the most.

"Is that why you didn't invite me to the show?" she asked quietly, swirling the drink in her hand, listening to the ice pop and clink against the glass. Because you thought I wouldn't care? "Because you didn't think it'd be any good?"

Naruto looked up, taken aback by the question, almost as if he'd heard what she'd truly wanted to ask. "No, I just…didn't think you liked this type of music."

Before she could offer any response, she felt an arm wrap around her neck in a chummy sort of chokehold that could only belong to –

"There you are, you sneaky little strumpet!"

…a rather intoxicated Ino.

"Where the fuck do you keep wandering off to?" she drawled, her face so near Sakura's it looked as if she might kiss her – which, at this point in the night, she might very well attempt to do. It wouldn't be the first time.

Ignoring her own question, she turned to the wide-eyed blond beside her. "Cool job Naruto that was sick have you seen Kiba?" she asked, her thoughts running together into one vaguely synthesized sentence.

"Uh…he's around here somewhere…"

"Why?" Sakura cut in, her premature smirk confirming she already knew the answer.

"Uh, duh." Ino rolled her eyes skyward, gesturing emphatically with every syllable. "'Cause he looked fucking hot tonight and I want some," she declared shamelessly. Naruto had to cover his mouth to stifle a laugh.

"Really? I didn't notice," Sakura teased, but with some alarm she found her words to be true – literally. She hadn't noticed him at all. From the time they took their places at the start of the show, for all she knew he hadn't even been on stage.

"Then what the fuck were you ogling at all night?" her friend demanded, too preoccupied with her search for Kiba to see the color drain from Sakura's face as her internal answer smacked her like a sack of bricks. She knew all too well what had captivated her attention, monopolized her gaze and overall infiltrated her mind. She knew it down to every flinch of the faintest whisker mark, every subtle shift of light in those cerulean eyes; every annunciation emanated from his mouth song after song, word after word…

The knot in her stomach pulsed.

But before she could process any further an exaggerated gasp shook Sakura from her thoughts, and she feared her stunned expression had exposed her queer revelation. But Ino's astonishment stemmed from something else entirely.

"Sakura, you foxy little slut," was all she uttered, gaze aimed just over her friend's pink head.

Sakura turned and froze. Her mind shut down, went black, her previous train of thought forgotten.

"I can't believe you invited him – I can't believe he came!" Ino hissed in her ear as Sasuke crossed over to them, face as blank and unreadable as ever in the dim fluorescent light.

Her mind screamed, but the words could encroach nowhere near her mouth.

I…I didn't invite him…

In a flash of panic she looked to Naruto, afraid Ino's words would have somehow incensed him, but his face revealed only that he shared in her shock. In their mutual paralysis, Ino was the one to break the silence.

"Sasuke-kun! You made it!"

He came to stand right behind Sakura, leaning against the bar. She imagined this to be an effort to shield himself from Ino, her body simply the barricade, but nonetheless her skin prickled at the feel of his body heat, the vague advancement of his scent, the overall familiarity of the gesture. His hand on her chair. His forearm encroaching upon her portion of the bar as he positioned himself to regard them all. His head so close to hers, as he leaned forward to speak.

"I caught the last few songs. Pretty cool, Naruto."

Unable to turn and face him, suffocated by the proximity, she focused on Naruto instead. Watched his eyes widen at the noncommittal compliment, a curious and increasingly recurrent gleam engulfing those oceanic orbs. It was the past, Sakura recognized. The ghost of his former self flitting to the surface at these words of approval, this paltry token of the acceptance he so feverishly desired.

Suddenly she found herself white-hot with rage as her mind filled with a torrent of toxicity. How dare he patronize Naruto like that? How dare he waltz back into his life and reduce him to a desperate child again in a few measly words, ignorant of the progress and growth the past five years had brought? And how dare he show up and make her feel shitty on the night she was supposed to have fun, supposed to let go and escape the constant harrying thought of him?

Without the slightest hint of malevolence intended, Sasuke had infuriated her. He was trying to be nice, she knew, but she couldn't control it. His every effort at kindness, at familiarity, at camaraderie, sent her over the edge of some emotional precipice – sometimes anger, sometimes grief – from which there could be no swift return. Usually she could suppress these sentiments, beat them into submission with the knowledge of his sincere well-meaning – until she was alone, powerless in the face of her insurmountable hurt, her unjustifiable fury –

But tonight there was no such shred of rationale to restrain her. No relief to be found in her logical understanding of the reality. Maybe she had forsaken her self-control too well in her effort to have fun, but whatever the reason, she found her anger unshakable. Found she was in fact shaking, unsure how to escape the situation without screaming in his face or breaking down in tears.

But then she remembered a third option.

In the dull light, the garrulous crowd, it seemed no one had noticed her impending episode – the telling quiver, the glistening eyes. She managed, in a voice much steadier than she expected:

"Do you wanna go smoke a cigarette?"

It was Naruto who received this query, her loaded gaze, and with raised brows he nodded. "Sure."

She hopped off her chair and walked as briskly as her feigned nonchalance would allow to the nearest exit, her ire ebbing noticeably with each step.