I like to believe I am not a hypocrite. But I hate lying to myself so that never lasts long.
I tell myself I am different from others, and yet I judge them with the same quick absolution that they use to back their cruelties.
I like to try to think of what could be good about them, to feel some sort of compassion for them, but when I play their faces through my mind, all I can feel are the aches of half-healed bruises on my side.
"Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. OW!"
I like to complain. I don't get to do it very often, because rarely is there someone around to complain to, and it's even rarer to find someone who'll put up with it. So with a captive (if murderous) Gaara under one arm and a too-nice-for-her-own-good girl under the other, you better believe I'm milking this for all it's worth.
Until, of course, I am dropped on my ass in front of my apartment door. Tenten looks at me with a tight smile and I know that all her kindness and caring has been spent for the day.
"Hope you feel better Naruto. Gotta go!" she says cheerfully and bolts.
I'd bet anything that she's gone home to wash off the scent of my "idiocy."
I cast Gaara a look, pleased when I see that some of the craze has receded. Not a lot, but enough that we can eye each other in a narrow hallway without someone getting killed.
Eventually, the tension gets chokingly thick and I decide to try to be a nice guy. Or a stupid one.
"You want to come in?"
He looks at me with understandable surprise. I haul myself to my feet, using the door handle as leverage and open it with clumsy fingers. I got lucky--Sasuke's lot forgot to take my keys today.
"If you want, you can eat something."
He looks like a paranoid animal waiting for me to pounce, but I see an old longing for affection beyond that from a childhood long screwed up.
I step aside, and he steps in.
"So what's with your eyes?"
It's only through close proximity that I realized Gaara's eyes weren't bruised, but really, really shadowed.
I believe in eating well, because I have high stress levels and they tend to mess with my metabolism. I also believe in eating sparingly to conserve funds, so when I start cooking, I make Gaara fork over eight bucks.
"To pay for what I'm about to feed you," is my way of explaining. I'm shocked when he actually gives me the money, instead of punching me and storming out like a six-year-old; he seems like the type to take it personally.
His face is impassive.
"I don't sleep," he says. His voice is horribly rough, and I wonder if I should offer him a cough drop.
"Crack keep you up?" His sinuses don't look bad enough for that, but God knows his sister sure likes her drugs.
"Coffee."
Ok-iee dok-iee then.
"Starbucks or off the shelf?"
"I like...Espressos."
I'll bet you do, buddy.
I roll my eyes but dish out the dinner anyways. When I turn around, I'm almost scared out of my skin to see him standing right behind me, holding a bottle of vodka.
I wonder if he knows how creepy that is.
Normally I don't drink this late for the sake of hangovers but my aches and pains could use some liquid sympathy. I pour us a glass each and he takes the instant ramen and fresh veggies without complaint.
That makes four people who like to carry around illegal substances in their backpacks.
What can I say? We outcasts like our liquor.
By the end of the week I've been to Sakura's place not once, not twice, but three times. I try not to contemplate the variety of ways to kill one's self that I've learned so far. She's quite creative, though she says not all close-calls are on purpose. Did you know a person could accidentally hang themselves? With panty-hose? From a rafter? Amazing, I know.
By the time Saturday rolls around I have almost become a permanent fixture at the Haruno house, and Tsunade has invited me to tea.
In the daytime.
Near windows.
Where people might see me.
Sakura doesn't like this.
"What if people see?! What if someone finds out he knows me?! It'll ruin everything! My reputation is on the line here! What if Sasuke finds out?!"
She rants and raves around the house, throwing things and yelling at me while her aunt just takes a drink. Ino's out shopping. Smart girl. I stand in the doorway and wait for her to vent until she finally runs to her bedroom to finish her tantrum.
"Earl Grey or Chamomile?" says Tsunade at last, pointing to the beautiful Victorian tea set.
"Chamomile." I sit down and when the screaming/crying starts up again, she adds an extra bag and a pill to my cup.
"For the stress."
She pours herself a glass of wine, saying it's for her heart. Bullshit. The wine isn't even red.
God, is everyone I know an alcoholic?
Tsunade wasn't always this weak. There was a time when she was a flourishing young doctor with powerful men salivating over her and the world at her beck and call. She was a princess in her own right, until her princes died—victims of the Four Days of Anarchy.
Now all that's left is a rich old crone who blows her money on youth treatments and bets she never wins and bottles to drown herself in. She gives a bad name to blonds.
Dan was a nice guy, I'm told, and I suspect she wears his clothes to bed, relishing in what's left of his smell.
I'd also guess she only likes me because I look like her little brother, but I need her too much to hold a grudge.
That's the nice thing about Tsunade--I doubt there's anything I could do in this world that would make her turn her back on me completely. She likes believing that she saved her little brother, so I ignore it when she calls me Nawaki, and take the money she offers for my upkeep.
I will never kill Iruka because he is a good man who cares for me. I will never kill Tsunade because it's better to feel pity for the useful living than the wasted dead.
Will she always be so indulgent of the teenagers around her? Perhaps. I have hope one day she will snap out of it and take charge of her life again.
"Thanks for coming to watch her." Her mammoth F-cup breasts heave with each breath. "I think you're being here will stop her from doing something stupid."
"Doubt it."
I light a cigarette and she wrinkles her nose at me.
Hypocrite.
"I saw your essay in the ANBU yesterday. Impressive. You've got a good voice but your organization needs work. And you're content is shaky. And you had grammatical errors. And you need a better hook. And--"
"I thought you said it was good?" I protest. "Did I do anything right by you?"
She grins a little grin.
"You've got something in you kid--something no one can name, but if you play your cards right--," she takes a drink, "--you'll be getting far in this world."
She tosses a magazine with an abstract flower image on the cover. The word ANBU is spread over each of the petals and an eye forms the center.
The original cover page—The New Yorker's latest—sits on the side of the table where it's been ripped off. Rumor has it that the two magazines have a deal—the New Yorker takes a piece of the profit from the sales of the illegal ANBU, which is why you have to have a subscription to both to get it, and why ANBU is more expensive.
"Cute pen name."
"I like it," I pout, and she reaches over to ruffle my hair.
She pours me another cup (sans the pill this time) and I thumb through the illicit pages until I come to a photo of a gate made of hands clawing to get out. A chain of haiku poems accompanies it.
…Fleshy fingers claw
Metallic walls grip—a vice
The caged bird sings…
"Have you seen this?" I ask, showing Tsunade the pages. She laughs.
"Gentle Fist's latest work—it's not bad, but I suspect it's more of a personal issue with the government than an overall criticism, and was likely written desperately close to the deadline to keep their slot."
I nod, familiar with the process; you have to earn the right to publish in ANBU, because half the people writing in don't have the balls to handle the repercussions of what might happen if they were caught. And if ANBU thinks you have been caught because you failed to send a piece, they will ruin you, if only to keep you quiet.
Tsunade sighs mournfully. "Oh how I miss the good old days when even Nazi's had the right to post hypocritical bull, and no one could say shit because it was their right too."
"Free Speech before ROOT," I say, and she echoes—
"Before ROOT…"
I continue on, to a picture of powder laid out in a cross shape.
Outrage of the Cross! Part III is the article below it, and I don't need to read it to know what it criticizes.
Colossal misinterpretation of the word, "faith"...complete disregard for human and civil rights...corrupted position of political power...blah blah blah.
I wrote those words in the midst of a caffeine splurge during documentary on pagan prosecution after a day with the ASSES. My mood at the time was a little...extreme, and the like. I barely remember the words, but I know what I said.
Angry words. Cruel words. Undeniable words.
Kyuubi's words.
It's not often I voice my opinions. I usually shun them for a more docile comment and let the world believe me to be an idiot, if a mildly rebellious one from time to time. But Kyuubi never stays quiet for long, so when I pick up a pen, I have to work not to let my more…sadistic side seep into my sentences.
"What will you write next?" she asks and I pause to sip and consider.
"Probably take up the opposing side, spread the sympathy. After this I was going to dabble in the educational system's screw-ups. Beyond that...who knows?"
"What did you call his opponent again?"
"The devout priest, Hidan. Ever faithful in his tyrannical God."
She snorts. We lapse into calm silence as I scan over the Holier-than-though-edits the ANBU writers love to poke into my work.
She's right about her comments, of course. I sound too overwhelming--out of control. And I forgot to switch a few lines and change a few words. You'd think ANBU would have enough skill to notice that seam/seem screw up.
"You're causing quite a stir in the community with those articles."
I smirk, a little wistfulness in my eyes. "Yeah, but I've still got a long way to go before I cause any riots."
"You know I know someone who could help get you on your way."
"Oh really? Have I heard of him?"
She wrinkles her nose again, as if a foul odor has wafted under her pert cartilage.
"You'd better not have. He's been writing some notable filth for the past few years. You're health teacher likes to read his books, I've heard."
My eyes get wide and my mouth drops. "You're bulling me!"
She rolls her eyes. "I wish."
"You know the author of the Make Out Paradise Series?!"
I'm stunned. I didn't expect someone as proper (cough, cough) as Tsunade to be caught within a mile of any of those stories, let alone their authors.
"He used to write 20/20 stuff and worked for the Liberal Parties. Was a professor at a college until an ex-friend of ours backstabbed him. It's been a while since I've seen anything of his near anyone with power, but I'd bet he'd take you on if you showed him some of your work. You remind me of one of his old students."
This is what I mean when I say Tsunade is more useful to me alive than dead. She looks young and beautiful, but believe me; she's got her years on her and the numbers of some seriously high power players.
"Oh? Which one?"
"Minato Namikaze."
A thrill runs down my spine and the hairs stand up on my arms while I choke on my tea.
Holy crap.
"N-no-oh joke?" I wheeze.
"No joke."
There is a gleam in her eye that sends that excited feeling running for the hills to be replaced by a sinking in my gut. She's planning something. I know it.
BANG!
The door swings open and Sakura strides out of the plush suite, her heels high, hair primped, makeup done up--the works. Another public appearance with Sasuke and the Uchiha family, for sure.
Another melt down in the making, definitely.
I mentally sigh and prepare to clear my schedule for the night.
Tsunade closes her eyes and I see her internally seal herself against it all.
"Tell you what kid. You come around about ten tonight and take care of her before she does too much damage, and I'll see about sending your words his way. Deal?"
I'm groaning internally, but nod anyways.
"Deal."
She's violent tonight. She screams loud enough to make my ears ring, and scratches at me with filed nails. I grab her wrists and drag her down to the cool linoleum floor, prying a razor out of one hand, ignoring the thin cuts on her hips as I bind her with my arms.
She sobs for a while, but eventually soothes herself while I rock her back and forth. I take some pills from the counter and when she starts struggling again, I pinch her nose and cover her mouth.
Open wide and swallow.
What happened to us, Sakura? Where did we go wrong?
Her tears flow long into the night.
"Naruto." He sounds horrible even over the phone.
I would ask why Gaara keeps showing up in my spy hole, or how he got my number, but these past few weeks, he's as much a part of my place as I am of Sakura's. He knows where my spare key is, and that makes me nervous, but I've noticed people attack our group less when he's around.
"What's up?"
"..."
"Uh, Gaara?"
"..."
"What is it man? Spit it out, I'll listen."
"...Are you interested in fighting this weekend?"
Well my, that was blunt. Vague, but blunt.
"What do you mean 'fighting'?"
"...There are weak men causing trouble in my territories. We will teach them a lesson. Will you help?"
One of the first things I learned about Gaara and his family; they aren't just 20/20 rioters that missed the party, though that is their preferred definition. They run a rather powerful gang of delinquents--drug dealers, thieves, head cases, people who like to hurt people, etc. I don't judge, but I think that's to be expected.
I drum my fingers on the counter, ignoring the sounds of the news on my old rabbit-ears set.
"What's the most likely outcome?"
"...What?"
"Are we looking at jail time or body dumping or just scaring them 'til they piss themselves?"
"...The police will not touch us. There will be no killing that night."
Uh-huh. Between his blood lust and my other half, I wouldn't bet too high on that.
"It is your choice."
"You trust me that much?" Hard to believe from someone who probably sleeps with an eye open.
"I know things about you that should remain hidden."
Meaning he has just as much shit on me, so there'd be no point.
"...I'll think about it."
"Answer by Friday, or else," and the line goes dead.
How cheery.
Her hair is soft a soft blushing color to match the primrose tint of her checks. She fidgets with the hem of her dress and watches her toes, glancing up shyly from time to time.
My heart thuds hard in my chest.
She's an angel with all the flower petals caught in her hair--souvenirs from our recess games. She smiles softly and I store that coy look away for my dreams with all the other sweet things about Sakura.
It's a different look than the one she shows me when she grins at me from the top of the slide. A different look from the one she gets when she's figuring out what color to make the sun in a drawing.
"What is it?"
"I--I--"
'Spit it out!' I want to tell her. The sooner this is over with the better for us all.
He glares coolly.
"I like you, Sasuke."
We do everything together--everything! She's never far from me, even when she's at home, because Tsunade lets me stay over most nights. She holds my hand all the time and the ground is always even under us.
If one of us is up, the other goes up. If one of us falls, the other jumps to join them.
My hand tingles where her palm should be.
I watch them from above in a tree and I wonder with a child's confusion, 'Why does she feel so far away from me?'
"You hang out with that freak, don't you? The one nobody likes."
'She likes me!' I would yell if I could.
Sakura nods.
"I don't like anyone who likes him."
"I don't like him either!" she says quickly, and I feel like I should be falling. "I just play with him because my aunt likes him. She makes me drag him around. He won't leave me alone anyways."
She wrinkles her nose in a way I once thought cute. Now it just looks the same as everyone else. Cruel.
Sasuke nods. "Good. You can play with my friends if you promise not to like him. But try to get out of bringing him along. Tell your aunt he's mean."
"OK!" She beams for him. The blame is lifted from her shoulders and she can relax. She is accepted. She can go on to better things.
I see no guilt in her eyes, no uncertainty.
This is what she wants.
Soon I will be alone again, and my heart slows down until it hurts.
'Sakura--why are you so far away?'
I sit up bolt right in bed, crying, and I wonder why I still remember that.
