In case it wasn't totally clear, the first chapter was in Sasuke's point of view. This one is from Naru's.
Falling
My sensei once said life is like falling in a little speech. He was just making excuses for his constant lateness, but I took his words to heart. He was wise beyond his years, despite his often funny appearance and childish behaviour.
I didn't know what it meant, life is like falling, but I liked the idea, as far as I understood it. I often wondered about it, what it really meant, if anyone besides me thought it was true.
I wondered if my only friend could apply it to his life. Raven haired, angry, quiet, he didn't seem the kind of person to do deep thinking. He was insanely intelligent, but I feared he only had a few things on his mind. Power. Revenge.
I didn't like the fact that he hated emotions. I felt like he thought he could ignore them and they'd go away. Ignoring an emotion was like ignoring a forest fire; pretend it isn't there long enough, and it will burn out of control. He'd turned his back to that fire long ago, and I knew one day he'd be burned and I'd feel nothing but pity.
He regarded me with curiosity at most times; contempt at others. His curiosity consisted of a sort of quiet, guarded wonderment, and it usually only became apparent to me in a silent form of what the hell did you do this time?
I could care less about whether or not he disapproved of anything I did; at least, that's what I always told him. That was what I was all about; doing what I enjoyed because it was me, and I always wanted to be known for being me, not some fake person.
He hid behind pride and finesse, feigning un-interest in those around him, denying his feelings and denying others their feelings for him. I suppose that all people have their own methods of coping with the world; that just happened to be his way.
I couldn't outright tell him that his 'coping' was stupid; that would be stupid of me. Many people seem to think that that is exactly what I am—stupid—and he happens to sometimes seem like he believes it, too.
Call it what you will, stupidity or whatever, but I think you should be obligated to speak your mind, which is what I always do, regardless of who you are. I've spoken my mind to everyone: to him, to my 'friends', the lowly people I've fought and won against, even my sensei.
I know so many people, it amazes me sometimes. For example, the highest ranking person in the village thinks of me as her little brother or son or something like that. Even with a connection like this, I still find myself sitting on that stool in that ramen shop, next to him, my friend, almost every single night.
He isn't the most pleasant of all people, and I don't understand him all the time. I don't even really understand him a little of the time, actually. He cares too little for himself for me to really understand him. He cared for his power, his revenge, his utter control, but nothing else that I knew.
At the very least, this is what I thought for the longest time. Unfeeling and cynical, and he was the only one to stand for me. He endured a shower of steel death for me, and I was amazed. And then angry, fearful, upset, vengeful. He died for me and then he came to life. I had always watched him and now I knew I could never stop.
I thought he feared death and couldn't bare his fear; I was his reason for his dying, I was his fear. He avoided me and I followed him. He grew angry with me and fought and I was confused and defended myself, but didn't really fight back.
And then he changed. He acknowledged me, fought for me again. He praised me as only he could with this, and he protected me, almost to the death. I wouldn't let him. I stopped him and demanded why. He ignored me, but I wouldn't leave this as it. I didn't accept any answer but the truth, and I couldn't accept the truth of what he said: It doesn't matter if I live or die.
He grew bitter once again, and I couldn't be sure if I liked this. He no longer was self-sacrificing, but he was sacrificing himself to what I felt was useless. Basing your entire life around revenge, that was nothing but a senseless waste, something I thought was stupid beyond reason. To this senseless waste is where I finally lost him.
We fought, and when we fought this time, it was unlike anything before. We laid everything down, every thought, every emotion; almost every emotion. Some were lost in their translation, taken the wrong way, inspiring us to new heights of confusion, to the desperate need to hurt the other before we were hurt ourselves.
He dealt the final blow, leaving me empty and alone in the rain. To who felt emptier, more alone, I didn't know.
Despite this, or maybe because of this, I bulled on. I learned to manage them, my emptiness and loneliness, as I had done before I had really grown to know him, care for him. I maintained the emotions I had, learned the words that said what they really were. Eventually, I knew I'd see him, eventually, I knew I would explain everything to him.
I felt shock when I saw him again. Shaken, weak with fatigue, eyes dead now that the fire once in them was gone. He had no more purpose, I saw that in the corpse by his feet. Why? I asked. Why do I pity you?
I remembered why when the shock filled his eyes. It was the fire, emotions; he'd turned from them long ago. Now he was burned, burned because he didn't know anything. He didn't need hate, he had no more need for revenge, he'd fullfulled everything to these, the only emotions he'd let in. Now he was helpless and didn't know what to do.
He agreed with me then, quiet and uncertain, agreed to himself being pitiful. I couldn't stand his docile agreement, him not fighting the idea. That fight made him who he was, it always had. I pulled him to me, wondering at how he became this, fearing his future, feeling the emotion which had once confused me.
I forced him to come with me, to return to our home, and I found it took little to make him agree. It seemed to me that he wanted to be near me, and I would remember that for a long time to come.
I was beyond happy to finally return with him; I was proud beyond words to hold onto him and say to people that I had finally brought him back, as I'd said I would for years. He tacitly allowed me to, slowly gathering back the shreds of him which had fled when he'd left.
Emotions still confused him, especially that one, the one that had confused the two of us before he'd left. I told him good night, once. There wasn't very much special about it, but he smiled at me and I could see it on his face and in his eyes; he felt it and didn't know what it was, that one emotion. And I needed him to realize what it was. I approached him, knelt by him, and whispered the words, I love you.
Don't say that, he told me, and he shook his head, refusing to accept my words. In puzzlement, I pushed him down, held him down. I love you.
He froze in confused terror and I had to make him know what I meant. I was carried away in the moment, I regretted the ferocity of my movements, the ones that scared him and made him beg me to stop. He was scared; I hadn't known that these things scared him. I hadn't known that anything scared him, much less this. I stopped and held him, hands on his sides, lips on his neck, until he calmed. I lost myself in him, in the pure pleasure that was his body, and I whispered in his ear to quell any of his still-present fears.
He shook quietly at the end of the beginning, almost as though sobbing, but that wasn't like him; he could never cry, and never over this. I held him to my bare self, and he clutched back, trembling and weak. Never before had he seemed more weak; ever since I had brought him back, that is what he'd seemed to be to me.
I whispered in his ear again, trying to decipher his thoughts, understand his fears, but I couldn't.
I understand it now, he'd finally whispered back to me. Life is like falling; no control, but no regrets.
I held him again, took him like before, but there was no fear. He didn't regret, he didn't have any control, he fell.
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