AN: Hi guys! Sorry it's been so long. No real excuses except the ones we all use part-time writters. Here's chapter...eh...13, right? The next one is all done except the action scene since I have no idea how to write it but remember--reviews inspire motivation! Hope you all like this thing.
It's always fun to learn something new about someone. Especially when that something is a secret, or extremely personal. For example--I didn't know I liked opera. Well, to be precise, I didn't know Kankuro liked sing opera, and I didn't know I liked to listen to him.
*
I wasn't intending to slip into the theater that day. It was raining too hard on the way back from Jiraiya's to get home successfully, so I dashed into the nearest place I could find. Today, that happened to be the side entrance of the Firefly Theater.
The door was cracked--I didn't stop to ask why. All I knew was that heat was oozing out and I was cold.
I'd only been back here once before, when I was exploring with my seventh-grade class on a field trip, but I remembered the place I was in now. It was a tiny side room mostly used for the performers to wait for their cues. We'd been given a tour by the most beautiful ballerina I'd ever seen, and I remembered how three others slipped out the door to smoke cigarettes and talk.
That was the day I first picked up a Marlboro. I found one that still had a few puffs left in it, with a perfect impression of its smoker's mouth made in a ring of lipstick, the same color of a rose.
I stubbed it out and took it home with me, so that I could preserve that beautiful kiss.
Soaked to the bone and wary of the unrelenting downpour outside, all I wanted to do was hide in this little cubbyhole and dry off. I spread the wettest of my clothes out over the floor where they began to form puddles and tried to salvage my papers by laying them out near the heating vent in the floor.
At first I ignored what was happening on stage. I was too preoccupied with making sure my History notes survived.
But then…I heard something.
It was different from the lines and songs being rehearsed on the stage—those were easy to ignore.
This sound was too strong, too piercing, and much, much too beautiful to block out. It made chills shoot through my fingertips and set my nose hairs on end. My insides wiggled around inside of me and I could feel my pupils dilate sharply as I looked around.
Kankuro was in the spotlight, arms extended and posture strong. His mouth was open, almost slack jawed as he hit the long notes, and it was a siren's song that emerged from his great lungs. It made me think of Absinth visions and meteor showers. It brought to mind great tragedies where love dies unrequited, and setting sunlight pushing through stained glass. It made my mind run through everything bitter-sweet and wonderful and awful I have ever known, right down to the day I opened my first page of ANBU—trembling fingers, dry mouth, racing heart, desperate joy—a day that changed my life.
He saw me from the stage, peeking around the corner, and I got the sense that, from then on, he was singing to me.
When I was dry and he was finished, I walked back into the rain, my arm pressed against his under a purple umbrella, and he told me about Puccini and his tragic Butterfly.
Eventually, as must happen, Iruka catches my arm and makes me look him in the eye before I can leave the classroom.
"Naruto," he says, "What did I do?"
Looking him dead in the face, empty of anything but politeness, I answer, "Nothing, Iruka. You've done nothing wrong."
I leave without a huff, or dramatics, but the air is still thick behind me.
I did not lie to him. Iruka cannot help feeling affection, or passion, and he cannot help that Kakashi has set out to hurt me. He cannot help that something weak and young was broken when I opened that door. That is all on my shoulders, and I hold him free of all guilt. The distance between us is nothing that wouldn't have been there in a few years; Kakashi's cruelty just brought it about sooner.
When I wreck this world, I will still think of Iruka fondly, and spare him the worst of it, out of an old respect.
Sai is a bright and budding teacher's assistant in Mr. Ebisu's classes—a development that took me quite by surprise when I came in last week to find him grading my latest essay. I saw Gaara staring (not glaring) at him from his most lofty place between his siblings, and felt a little better knowing that I wasn't the only one caught off guard.
I tried to brush off how the shock had made me drop my book bag, as if I'd meant to do that.
When we cornered Sai at lunch that day, Gaara had snarled, "What are you doing here, government meat?!"
He'd only smiled and I'd slammed him into a locker, demanding an answer.
"ROOT needs recruits," he'd said, gesturing with his head to the new flier on the bulletin board, "And I, of course, live to cater to ROOT's needs."
"Funny talk from a man who frequents KS parties," I threw back.
"Tread lightly, Two-face," Gaara had said. "Our numbers grow larger with every gathering."
Sai only smiled and said, "Our numbers may be thinner, but they will be more loyal than drunken, rebellious teenagers out for some fun."
Then he pushed us off and wandered away, leaving us to stew in our uneasiness.
He had a point.
"Naruto."
I spill most of my hot tea down my front.
"Shit! Itachi--someone needs to put a bell on you!"
He smirks at me and holds up a pile of paperwork. "You're planning on going to college, correct?"
"Why do you ask?"
"You haven't taken any of your tests yet. No ACT, SAT, or State Standardized tests. Why?"
"Why are you asking?" I repeat.
The smirk deepens. He tosses the papers before me. They are college applications for some of the most prestigious and forward thinking schools in the world. Most are out of the country, I note.
"To apply to any of these schools, you need your grades, your scores, and several letters of recommendation."
"No dice, man."
His smirk vanishes. "I beg your pardon?"
I dream of college—feel the tug of endless learning every time I open my mail to find a flier for another University, and long to drown myself in the greater knowledge that begs to be known. But the thing is…
"Kyuubi doesn't belong in a classroom full of books and thirsty minds. He belongs in a cage, and I'm required to give him that, until his time—our time—comes."
We should see these things coming, but it's hard to look past one's own rage and hatred.
It's just after Christmas break when the tensions between ROOT supporters and baby KS members erupt. Until today, we didn't know what sort of numbers we were looking at on either side—it's not as if you can take a head-count of a society that's seen as a terrorist group, and the Government keeps its budding ROOT operatives well hidden.
It happened just a few blocks from school at a pizza place patroned by both the popular and the outcasts. They have—sorry, had—good pepperoni.
It started out simple—a couple of ROOT kids were chilling at one of the back tables when a group of K.S. members came in, flashing rainbows and discussing some book called Heather has Two Mommies. They didn't notice the ROOTs and so didn't bother to sensor their discussion, which then turned to Pain's rallies—a sore spot for any budding Government dog.
The ROOTs got curious and pissed off and decided to "remove" the KS guys.
Bad, bad, bad idea.
Insults were thrown around until fists made their entrance. Then someone started hitting someone else with a chair, and things got pretty violent after that. People in the shop and outside got involved, recognizing a battle when they see one, and soon enough bodies were flying through windows, people were being run over with cars, stuffed in garbage cans, and beaten with anything hard and metallic. There were casualties on both sides, since not everyone who was in the shop wanted to start fighting, but I heard that it took the cops three hours, to break up the street brawl.
Fifty-six people got arrested that day, and now, tree days later, Itachi and Kisame are coming back to Pain's café to report just how many of them work for us.
"Twenty-nine potential 20/20s. All were tattooed with a Kiss prior to the skirmish. The numbers were in our favor."
Pain nods, pleased. "What charges are they facing?"
"Every one of them has Assault and Rebellion pending on their records. Unless they can pay bail, they will all have to answer to a judge and then," Itachi shrugs, "Who knows?"
Pain stands, and the other two follow. "I will go there and interview them. I will free those who are truly dedicated to the cause, as an example to ROOT of the strength of our numbers."
There is a murmur of impressed voices and nervous comments. How does Pain expect to pay the bail for twenty-nine people? I know politicians are usually loaded, but one of the founding principals of the Konoha Society was that those with the most power must have little of anything else—especially cash.
The Pain and his lackies sweep from the café in an impressive display of confidence, concluding the meeting.
I'm about to leave when I see Shikamaru, and Chouji's fathers talking with a man with a strange rag handing down from his turban to hid half his face. Baki, from Gaara's gang, I think. They all look pissed off, and I inch closer to listen in.
"Exactly how many drugs is that little bitch on?" says Chouji's father. I'm taken aback by the harshness in his voice—I've never heard any of the Akamachi's swear.
The man—Baki, I think, who carried the bleach on my first run with Gaara's gang—just shakes his head.
"Temari is not my concern—Gaara is. If your sons have a problem with her you'd better handle it through them, not me."
" Mr. Baki," Shikaku starts, eyes tired but voice soothing, "What we're concerned with is her influence on those around her. She's promiscuous and volatile. Shouldn't you be a little more involved with her activities? You are her legal guardian."
Baki just shakes his head. "I have had nothing to do with that girl's behavior. She acts alone and takes those repercussions with her. Your son is simply in love with her. It will pass, if he survives it."
Chouza snarls through gritted teeth and makes a lunging movement at Baki. "You Fucker!"
Shikaku just sighs and puts a calming hand on his friend's shoulder.
This all seems very backward to me. Why is Chouji's father angry, when it's Shikaku's son that's up to his neck in powder and needles?
Shikaku isn't the one who's son suffers. Or have you not noticed that? Kyuubi whispers.
I take a moment to consider that, try to look at it from Chouza's angle.
There is a deep resignation in the Nara father's face, as though he has recognized the loss of his child and come to terms with it long ago. But Chouza's rage is bleeding out from a parent's heartache as he watches his child grieve for the first time.
You understand it then?
Yes.
This thing between Temari and Shika is only quickening the poison in him. I have known for years that he would die at the hands of a lazy addiction. What I didn't realize was how deeply it was wounding his friend.
It feels like we are all being sucked into a Bermuda Triangle—Temari and Shikamaru, and Chouji at the corners, while the rest of us try not to disappear in the middle.
There is a school play on Tuesday, and I find myself too tired to deal with the tension that revolves around our little group in the ShikaTemaChou tangle that makes it awkward to talk. Instead, I sneak into the auditorium through an exit that the janitor never remembers to lock and eat my lunch at the desk prop in the center of the stage.
I think the play is called Doubt or something.
Eventually, I give into the nicotine cravings that have been bugging me since I woke up and break out a bent pack of American Spirits, just to see if anyone will care enough to track me down when they review the security cameras later.
I spend about ten minutes rocking in the chair, smoking, watching the whirring red lights that provide the tech crews with amusement when freshmen come here to make out at free periods.
I consider it an accomplishment that I only tip my chair over twice.
"Naruto."
I freeze, wary of the pink silhouette in the corner of my eye.
"Sakura." I let her hear my surprise.
She saunters--literally saunters to my side, cat-ate-the-canary smile making goose bumps break out up my arms.
What the fuck is she doing here?
"No Sasuke?" I ask, not making eye contact even as she lays herself out on the desk like a meal. It strikes me that we would make an interesting scene in a play--at the center of the stage, spotlights still on for the next rehearsal.
She stretches like a cat, making her half-exposed breasts obvious, though I can't see past the way her ribs stand out. "He's out with Neji talking crap. Probably planning your demise."
Maybe a soap opera. Or a Dramady? Yeah. My life feels like a dramatic-comedy lately...
I think the conductor of my train of thought is on break.
"Ino?"
"With them, or out fucking someone for petty cash."
"And she didn't think to bring you? How inconsiderate."
She ignores me and steals my cigarette, trying to pass off a mouthful of smoke as actual inhalation, but I can see her trying not to turn green.
"Hey, Naruto?" Her voice is full of a childish hope that sounds like poison. She turns on her side, head propped on her hand like a lover wanting pillow talk, and I tilt myself backwards again.
I pull out another stick and light it, carefully to ignore her pleading green eyes.
"Hmm?"
"Would you like to fuck me? Right here, right now?"
I think I deserve a reward for not choking on my own smoke. Some applause maybe.
I snap shut the lid of my Zippo (a gift from Tsunade) and meet her eyes with a dull expression.
"No, Sakura. No I would not."
She pouts and sticks her tongue out at me.
"I don't believe you."
I close my eyes and tilt my head back, keeping both feet on the ground when I hear her move off the desk.
I don't trust myself not to fall.
She straddles me, her perfume thickening the air like silicone thickening a bust line and I watch her make a fool of herself, wondering when she'll remember the security cameras that watch for just this sort of behavior.
She nibbles my neck and we wait together for the pull in my loins.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Nothing.
I laugh and she pushes her pelvis against mine, agitated.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Nada.
Her tongue curls in the shell of my ear.
Nope. Zilch. Zero.
She humps my lap like a dog in heat and all I can do is laugh through a hysterical grin, amazed as she is shocked by my lack of interest.
Her breath grazes my neck as she searches for something--anything--that might give her back her power over me. Unbidden, the image of Kankuro's guitar neck swinging through strobe lights passes by me and (finally) I grit my teeth and groan.
She misinterprets this as her doing, and chuckles sadistically. A repulsion I've reserved for the weakest of people rolls through me and I shove her off my lap, feeling little remorse as she crumples in a heap like a used rag.
Skirt hiked, breasts falling everywhere, and make-up overdone in the stage lights, she looks like a whore who's been cheated of pay by her first John.
How did I ever bring myself to love her? I wonder. To think there was a time when I would have embraced this wretch with forgiving adoration; I must have been very weak not to see this in her.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" she snarls, and I lean back in my chair, proud that she is below me at last. "I'm giving you what you want!"
Little too late, babe.
"You're not what I want anymore."
She huffs, pride in tatters at her feet, and stands, trying to straiten her hair and pushing her breasts back into the harness of her bra.
I take a drag from the cigarette, deliberately taunting the tech teachers who will see this later.
"Go back to your bastard, bitch. I've got nothing left for you."
