A Remedy for Lassitude
By: firefly
Note: Jeez, sorry about the exceptionally long wait, guys. University was a time-consuming monster. But anyway, here's chapter two, which means there's one left to go. :D
Thank you to everyone who reviewed. You guys are awesome.
And none will hear the postman's knock
Without a quickening of the heart.
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?
—W.H. Auden
A Remedy for Lassitude ch.2
July 2nd.
I know you don't take any of the horoscope stuff seriously, but it's fun to read once in a while to see what you get. Wouldn't hurt to ruminate on some advice, right? So here, for Aries's upcoming week: Take life a little more slowly—rushing doesn't work for you. If you can just relax and put off big projects for a little while, you should be able to recharge and get more out of life.
July 8th.
What the hell does THAT mean? I've been holed up in this shitty little camp for a year. How much slower am I supposed to go? Unless by 'big projects' this thing is talking about a potential kamikaze mission, which would make a hell of a lot more sense. Not being in a rush to get blown to pieces should definitely help me get more out of life.
July 16th.
You are the most morbid person I've ever—well, I guess I can't use the word 'met,' but you know what I mean. There is no guarantee that you'll be chosen to carry out a suicide mission, so don't be so eager to die. Besides, didn't you say you wanted to be a minister?
July 24th.
It comes with the job description. And you're right. There is no guarantee about the mission. But it's all I've got going for me, because seriously, the whole minister thing? From here, it's all starting to look like a fucking pipe dream.
Hidan shifted, pausing his writing to shake his wrist and get the circulation going. The sand was frigid through the thin material of his pants, appearing purple beneath the glow of the fluorescent floodlight overhead. In the area surrounding the base, the air was perfectly still, not a breath of wind tangible in the chill night.
Next to him, Kubo released a loud, impatient sigh and glared back at the dark outline of the camp.
They were straddling the enemy line, hidden behind a five-foot wall of sandbags and flanked by parched shrubbery and the trenches left from the last battle. Guard duty wasn't exactly a glamourous assignment, but it was the only kind deemed safe enough for the last remaining berserker. Besides, Hidan had volunteered, more than happy to escape the stifling enclosure of the camp, not to mention have a place to finish that letter he'd started a few days prior.
Still, the Jashinist groused inwardly, stopping his writing long enough to glare at Kubo. Making this bastard come with me was a bitch move.
"Is this what we're gonna be stuck doing the rest of the night?" Kubo suddenly burst out, punching the sandbags. "I didn't sign up for this shit."
Hidan stopped writing again, barely restraining himself from stabbing the pen into the soldier's thigh.
"Seriously, dumbass, sit down and keep your damn head out of the light. It's bad enough I've gotta keep watch with you—last thing I need is getting spotted."
"What's it to you?" Kubo sneered. "Just shut up and keep on writing to your mama."
"My ma is dead, dipshit."
Kubo merely snorted and turned away.
Hidan took a deep breath, momentarily closing his eyes to quell the urge to murder before returning his attention to the stack of papers in his hand. This letter had been nearly a week in progress, the content resembling sporadic diary entries more than a formal correspondence. He'd never been one to have the patience or inclination to keep up with this sort of thing, but as time passed, he found that receiving and writing the letters were gradually becoming the only things keeping him from losing his mind.
The captain was saving him for something big, he knew that. He'd been saving him for that special something for nearly a year, refusing to let him join the troops for field duty and keeping him restricted to the parameters surrounding the base.
There were only so many times one could re-read the bible and do laps before cabin fever settled in, so the correspondence he had going for the past two months was a welcomed reprieve.
She was an interesting character, he'd decided. Once her letters lost their mechanical, guarded edge and formality, they were actually entertaining to read, becoming vital coping mechanisms when the effects of his confinement became too great.
Their exchanges, too, had gradually developed a specific style suited to the frequency of their correspondence; rather than undergo the tedious process of paraphrasing parts of each other's letters to formulate a reply, they'd taken to simply quoting certain passages that stood out or warranted a direct response. The quote would be written out and a reply would follow. That way, it was almost like a real conversation. Almost.
Hidan returned his attention to the letter, pen hovering above the paper for a moment before descending to write again.
You know, it's moments like these I sorta regret joining the army. I'm on guard duty right now and the douche they sent with me is gonna get fucking killed, I just know it. It's cold and I'm tired and my ass is numb from sitting on rocks. Seriously, if it wasn't for the whole vengeance thing I would've ditched this place a long time ago.
The only thing keeping me from going batshit is praying and writing to you, sad as that sounds, but even praying is hard to do around here. Most of the time I'm inside the camp running drills so I've got no way of knowing what the damn time is. Would it kill them to give me a watch? But I guess they've got their reasons—most of us are gonna die anyway.
He paused long enough to withdraw a fresh piece of paper, pen lingering at the margin before resignedly continuing his train of thought.
But like I said, dying is no big deal. At least it'd be better than
The pen stilled when a muffled thump suddenly resounded above Hidan's head. A moment later, sand came tricking down into his hair and scattering over the letter. He blinked, expression immediately contorting into a scowl as he raised his head to look at Kubo.
"Okay, now what the hell are you—"
Then the second impact hit and the ensuing spurt of blood was like a slap in the face, cutting off the rest of his words as it exploded across his skin and clothes along with bits of what resembled bloodied scrambled eggs. Hidan gaped, pen and paper frozen in hand, not realizing what had happened until the soldier collapsed in a heap with a gaping gunshot wound in his skull.
A fraction of a second later, a small, dark object arched over the sandbags and hit the ground with a light thump near the body.
Hidan stared at it for a moment, then a heartbeat later dropped everything as he scrambled to his feet and practically flung himself into a mad dash towards the camp, only to abruptly halt midway with a half-panicked, half-furious hiss of "shit!" when he realized he'd forgotten the letter.
He stumbled back for it, and when it dawned on him midway that he wouldn't be able to get away in time, he swiped up the sheets, took a running leap, and threw himself into one of the nearby trenches when the grenade exploded.
"Have a good day, Gaara."
Temari smiled when her brother glanced back over his shoulder to look at the car, raising his arm to give a little wave before turning towards the school. She watched him from where she was parked as he melded into the crowd of students gathering at the school's entrance. It was only when he'd disappeared inside that she reluctantly pulled away from the curb and headed towards her university.
It was his second week back at school after six months of absence. Although she still occasionally found herself guilty of fretting over him, he'd improved so much over the summer that even she was beginning to think her worries were unfounded. Besides, he'd been the one to suggest returning to school and initiative was an optimistic sign of recovery.
The thought was comforting as she pulled into her university's parking lot. Her first class was Plant Structure and Development, and then she would have an hour-long break before her remaining two classes.
Temari couldn't help but grin a little in anticipation of opening that familiar envelope with that haphazard scrawl. She'd grabbed it from the mailbox on her way out of the house so it would be a nice change of pace to read it instead of a biology textbook during break. Judging from the bulk of the envelope, it was a long letter.
Their correspondence had spanned two months since she'd sent her first letter and Temari could safely say she'd never been so amused, intrigued, and intimidated by a person in her entire life.
He cursed as if he'd been educated in it. His blasé attitude towards everything most people held dear was bewildering. He had a bizarre fascination with death yet somehow managed to come off as the complete opposite of a brooding weirdo.
Temari had an inkling that he was completely aware of how absolutely insane he must have sounded to her, but nonetheless was completely unabashed in who he was. It was refreshing, for lack of a better term, and she found herself unable to fight the temptation of pulling out the letter a little early midway through her first class when the professor turned his back towards the students.
Nobody noticed when she slit the envelope open in her lap, all the while keeping her gaze at the front of the class in case the professor turned around. Deftly, she removed the bundle of folded sheets and drew them up slightly to read.
She chanced one more glance at the professor and lowered her gaze to the sheets in her hand, only to gasp out loud.
A girl sitting to the left of her glanced in her direction, eyes widening when she saw the blood-splattered sheets of paper.
Temari stared at the discoloured stationary, momentarily dumbstruck before quickly shoving them out of sight into the desk, attempting to ignore the gaping girl to the left of her. She waited till the girl eventually looked away, awkwardly shifting in her seat to make sure no one could see the paper as she drew them out again.
There were about ten pages or so, all speckled with dull, brownish red stains. But the last one was the worst; it looked as though someone had hemorrhaged over it. Fighting back a grimace, Temari pulled up the first page to read.
Temari,
I'm not dead. Thought I should let you know in case you were wondering, even though from the looks of your letters it doesn't really seem like you give a shit about me all that much, but hey, whatever passes the time. Maybe I'll grow on you, eh? Then you can send me a box of cookies so I don't kill myself the next time they give me a frozen eggplant Panini.
Anyway, I'm thinking that maybe we're getting somewhere with finding the guy behind this whole mess (AKA the guy responsible for blowing up my church). His name's Manzo Heki. If you watched the news, you'd know that, since he's on the most wanted list and all, but whatever. All you need to know is that he's the main target and that I'm gonna kill him.
The more I think about it, the more I like the idea of just ending it like that. Think of it: an eternity of bliss. No pain, no sickness—and all the damn cake I want. Why cake? Because that's my version of heaven. I like to think heaven will be what you want it to be. Makes the idea of dying seem worth it. Like, you and your whole obsession with vegetables and shit? Picture you in heaven with a greenhouse the size of a fucking football field. Nice, isn't it? You could probably benefit from a little spirituality in your life. Your first letters made you sound like a depressed robot.
Despite herself, Temari smiled.
As the professor droned on, she made her way through the rest of the letter, finding it to be a composite of bits and pieces he wrote whenever he got the chance; mostly complaints, ramblings about his religion, doodles of a symbol he indicated was representative of Jashin, arrows leading from sentences detailing his frustration with his confinement to a graphic stick figure drawing of himself bashing his brains out against the margin, and some background information concerning his position, which she read with increased interest.
There were originally six of us in the berserker unit when I enlisted last year. It's not exactly something you try out for—we were all handpicked by the general (AKA Pain—what a retarded name, eh?). Met a guy named Deidara when the team was drafted up. Crazy as shit, that guy, but he was all right because he wasn't in the war for the same reason everyone else was, either. He was always spouting some crap about art I didn't get, but yeah, he got specialized training for the air force, took out twelve insurgent encampments, then packed his jet full of enough explosives to take out a fucking mountain and flew it right into one of their ships. Went out with a bang, just like he wanted. Too bad I never got a chance to convert him. He would have loved Jashinism.
The other guys I didn't get to know so much. Kisame joined the naval fleet so I don't know if he's still alive. Sasori bit it out in the field. Itachi took out 43 guys by himself before some blood disease got to him. The last guy, Zetsu, he got drafted for espionage—don't know what happened to him. Now I'm the only one left.
Captain's saving me for something big. It's the only reason that explains why he won't let me leave the fucking base or do field duty. Asshole needs his precious little berserker in good condition. I'd be touched if I didn't already know he doesn't give a flying fuck about me. But at least I got him to give me guard duty for tonight.
The next page, she realized after reading it, must have been written during said guard duty, and it ended abruptly with the presence of the giant blood splatter. Despite the blood, she could make out the large, furious words he'd scrawled over it with permanent black marker. Her expression gradually grew aghast as she realized where, and who, the blood had come from.
I TOLD THAT FUCKING IDIOT TO SIT HIS ASS DOWN BUT THE MOTHERFUCKER DIDN'T LISTEN AND GOT HIS GODDAMNED HEAD BLOWN OFF AND NOW THERE'S BRAINS AND SHIT IN MY HAIR GODDAMN IT
AND THIS LETTER IS FUCKED TO HIGH HELL BUT I DON'T GIVE A SHIT THERE'S NO WAY I'M WRITING THIS ALL OUT AGAIN
Temari stared at it blankly for nearly a minute, then lifted her head when she felt herself being stared at; the girl to her left was gawking at her and the blood-splattered letter again with a visibly frightened look on her face.
Temari somehow managed a faltering smile before stuffing the letter back into the envelope and burying her face behind her textbook.
September 12th.
You almost gave me a heart attack. A little warning would have been nice, you know. Maybe a "hey Temari, just so you know, the letter's soaked in BLOOD" on the back of the envelope or something like that. I honestly thought it was yours.
September 19th.
Aww, you thought it was mine? Were you worried? I'm touched, seriously. But what the fuck was I supposed to do—write it all out again? Like hell. Paper's kinda hard to come by over here. (Ha ha ha I wish I could've seen your face.)
September 27th.
(I think horror and disgust sum up my reaction succinctly enough.) If paper is so hard to come by, then how about I send you some personalized stationary? I'll make it something pretty and uplifting. How does Hello Kitty stationary sound to you?
October 4th.
Hello Kitty stationary sounds like I should take better care of the paper I have.
It was a mistake on Temari's part to misinterpret Gaara's penchant for silence as an indicator for apathy.
Her youngest brother was far more perceptive than she gave him credit for. She was oblivious to his curious stares and meditative expressions whenever he was around her and it wasn't until he pointed out emerging nuances that she realized writing to a certain pen pal had inadvertent side effects.
"Stupid…goddamn…piece of shit."
Temari gave her shopping cart a good kick to dislodge it from a crevice in the asphalt. The wheels squeaked in protest as the cart was extracted and Gaara shot a bemused glance at his sister as he followed her into the supermarket.
"You've been cursing a lot recently," he stated.
Temari threw him a surprised look from where she was browsing through shampoos and conditioners. "Come on. It's not like you haven't heard me swear before."
Gaara cracked a small, wispy smile. "Not so fluently."
Temari grinned in return and then held up two (rather expensive) shampoo brands to scrutinize. Gaara did not miss her muttered words.
"…idiot didn't specify which kind to use."
"What?"
"Nothing," Temari said distractedly, eventually settling on the pomegranate and soy shampoo. "A friend recommended it."
Gaara trailed after her as she leisurely picked out the rest of the items on her shopping list, including his favourite brand of coffee. As Gaara filled his bag with the fresh coffee beans, Temari wandered further up the aisle and slowed to a stop.
When he caught up to her, he noticed her musing over a shelf of cookies. It was odd, especially since Temari knew which kind Kankuro liked and would usually grab it without dawdling. But now she simply stood there, gazing at the boxes with a peculiar expression on her face. She almost looked amused.
"Temari," Gaara prompted, raising an eyebrow.
"Everyone loves chocolate chip, right?" she asked suddenly.
Gaara blinked, about to answer when she reached forward and grabbed a box of chocolate chip cookies along with Kankuro's Oreos. Dropping both cartons into the shopping cart, she idly continued on, oblivious to the fact that as she shopped, she smiled periodically at nothing, her expression seeming to convey recollections of something funny.
Gaara watched wonderingly, torn between wanting to be glad for her happiness, wherever it was stemming from, and wanting to know what was causing it. In the end, as they left the supermarket and piled the groceries into the car trunk, he settled for another observatory remark.
"You're smiling a lot lately, too."
Temari looked perplexed at the comment, peering thoughtfully at her reflection in the rearview mirror as she started the car. "Don't I do that normally?"
Not so readily, Gaara thought, biting his tongue.
"You look happier," he said instead, watching her contemplatively as she pulled onto the road. "You look…less worried."
Temari didn't reply for several moments, staring thoughtfully out at the traffic; the cars were bumper to bumper for as far as she could see and in the back of her mind she realized she would be late in getting dinner started and subsequently late in doing the laundry. Where the circumstances would have once provoked stress, there was only comfortable serenity. She turned her head and gave Gaara a faint smile.
"I am happier."
She turned her gaze back to the road, adding as an afterthought, "Life is too short to spend worrying, anyway."
"Eggplant," Hidan mumbled under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut. "I fucking hate eggplant."
Yue stood next to him, torn between looking amused and exasperated as the Jashinist sat with his head between his knees, struggling not to dry heave.
"Hidan, you have to sign this," he said for the third time, rubbing his forehead as the silver-haired man produced a muffled gagging noise. "For God's sake, it was just a sandwich!"
"I hate eggplant," Hidan reiterated through gritted teeth, perspiring in the effort to hold back the disgusting Panini that constituted dinner. "And sign what? Never had to sign for mail before."
"Yes, well, you never got a package before."
Hidan opened his eyes, forgetting his nausea long enough to raise his head and look at what the weary soldier was holding. It was a box. A rather large box with his name on it.
Yue gratefully left after Hidan straightened and signed for the package, sitting up now with the box in his lap. It was rather pathetic, he had to admit in retrospect, the sheer amount of anticipation he felt in those few seconds spent examining the box, attempting to prolong this moment—this break from monotony for as long as he could.
It didn't take long for him to give in to curiousity and a moment later he was running the tip of his bowie knife through the seal in the box, pulling it open and digging through the layer of Styrofoam peanuts. His fingers came into contact with another box. When he pulled it out, his jaw dropped.
Chocolate chip cookies.
He gaped at the carton for a good ten seconds, barely reigning in the urge to tear into the packaging when the presence of two more items in the box caught his attention. The first, he was bemused to discover, was a cassette tape and the last a digital watch. A note accompanied the gifts.
My baking skills are lacking, so you better appreciate the fact I found you worth spending $4.00 on. The watch used to be my brother Kankuro's, but he doesn't wear it anymore. There's also something in there to help you remember what music sounds like again. I hope you have a cassette player over there.
He couldn't help but grin at the box of cookies, oddly flattered she did find him worth spending four dollars on. It felt especially odd that she had obliged his complaints about the watch. He spent a few minutes examining it, his expression a strange composite of surprise and gratitude. The latter nearly felt like a foreign sensation.
After familiarizing himself with the watch, setting the time, slipping it over his wrist, and eating a quarter of the cookies in the carton, he turned his attention to the cassette she'd included.
It wasn't labeled, nor was it new. What must have been the remains of a faded, worn sticker label was affixed to the side. There was no writing on it. He considered it for a few moments, idly turning it between his fingers.
The room resonated with the din of conversation and no one took notice when he suddenly stood up and walked to the storage cabinet, searching the leisure items till he found a decrepit-looking tape player. It was old and small, meant only for handheld use and sported a brand name that was no longer manufactured. But it was intact and had batteries.
Nobody had used it since they'd been deployed eight months earlier, forgoing the use after mp3 players were banned to keep them aware and alert of their surroundings. Besides, no one used tapes anymore.
A few of the soldiers glanced at him to see what he was doing when he set it atop a table and inserted the tape. Despite not knowing if the device had even turned on, he pressed the play button anyway, turning the volume dial.
Nothing but the faint crackle of static emerged at first, but then the noise ceased and a soft, soulful voice spilled out from the dusty speaker.
The room fell silent almost immediately. Hidan heard the voices die down behind him, paying no attention to the fact that they were all staring at his back because he, too, was stunned into dumbfounded silence. It was an old love song—maybe from the 50s or 60s. He couldn't put a name to it, couldn't remember who sang it, and didn't bother trying to.
Nobody spoke for the duration of the song, staring at the cassette player as though it was a real person, regaling them with the euphonies of something they thought they'd left behind and forgotten.
It must have been for that reason, everyone in the room realized later on, that even though the song continued well past 9:00, the captain only ordered lights out once it had finished.
November 5th.
Thanks for the stuff, seriously. Especially the watch. How bad I needed that, you have no idea. Wasn't expecting you to send anything, to be honest. Now you've got me hoping I've actually got a chance at converting you.
November 13th.
Well, I guess you could say you've grown on me. And just out of curiousity, why are you trying to convert me? Honestly, are you doing it because—if, by chance I do happen to convert—you'll score brownie points with God? Because in that case I would be somewhat offended, since you'd be doing it for purely selfish reasons.
November 20th.
Yeah, so maybe I'm selfish. I like the idea of getting on Jashin-sama's good side and I kinda like the idea of getting you out of a one-way trip to hell—just for the satisfaction of being able to do it. Or maybe I'm trying to score myself a happy afterlife, huh? Maybe I just wanna save your soul for company.
The watch emitted a jarring string of beeps, audible even through the noise of weary soldiers returning from the field and discussing their hopes for an end to the war. Hidan paid them no attention, engrossed in what he was reading and mechanically silencing the cue for evening prayers.
He flipped to the next page.
Her letters had progressed a long way from when they had been nothing more than a form of entertainment; they were a coping mechanism, a medium for escapism, an outlet for pent-up energies, stimulation for an ennui-addled mind, and a constant reminder of who he was and why he was here, returning to him resolution for his cause where months of nothingness had instilled doubt.
And as disconcerting as the realization may have been, he found that communicating with someone besides his god, with someone who directly responded, someone tangible, flawed as they might have been, elicited more assurance than prayer alone. Someone was listening to him, someone was replying to him, and there was nothing more convincing of self-worth than acknowledgment.
Not to mention being fretted over, he thought wryly, smirking at the page in his hand.
I can't believe how fast you ate the last box. Just because I'm sending you cookies doesn't mean you get to gorge yourself. Eat in moderation or you're going to wind up with a premature case of diabetes, or, depending on what you think is worse, turn into a lard ass.
He snickered, and as if to spite her, grabbed another cookie from the carton and took a bite. As he read on, he was hardly aware one of the soldiers had come to a stop near his bedside, the sound of his name almost getting lost in the blend of voices.
"Hidan."
"What?" he said distractedly.
"Captain's here to see you."
His brow furrowed as he flipped to the next page. "What the hell does he want now?"
The soldier attempted to say something but meekly withdrew when a louder, gruffer voice broke the silence.
"Lieutenant."
Hidan stopped reading, recognizing the voice and raising his gaze. The captain's expression was taut with grimness. Without preamble, he lowered a briefcase onto the table and opened it.
Hidan stared at its contents as the captain inclined his head and handed him a sealed envelope.
"The date is set for December tenth," he continued as Hidan slowly took the envelope, unable to tear his gaze away from the briefcase. "The details are disclosed inside."
Without waiting for a response, the captain saluted and briskly strode out of the room. Hidan finally sat up straight, hesitating only momentarily before reaching for the briefcase. The C-4 explosive was innocuous in appearance, encased in a black plastic binder; he found it nearly inconceivable that the little object was capable of annihilating a building and that he would be its carrier. The detonator looked equally harmless, cylindrical in shape and small enough to conceal in his fist.
After examining it for a while, he placed the detonator onto his bedside table and glanced askance at the calendar tacked to the wall above his bed.
December 2nd.
Mind blank, he took a moment to slit open the envelope containing the details of the mission. The location, date, and target were listed, and an odd, euphoric sensation encompassed him when he saw the name of Manzo Heki listed as the primary target, only to have the feeling intermingle with the incredibly sobering realization that he was assigned to die in eight days. As he attempted to process this, he lowered his gaze to the letter on the bedspread. The room echoed with the din of conversation and laughter as he sat there, considering it. Without reading the rest, he set it aside and grabbed his notebook from underneath his bed.
The book, once containing one hundred and twenty pages, was now reduced to a mere six. Annoyance bristled inside of him at the thought of having to rush this last reply, considering how the deadline for the day's outgoing mail was in less than an hour. To wait and send it out any later meant it wouldn't make it in time.
Mind made up, Hidan tore a single sheet out of the notebook and uncapped his pen with his teeth, wondering where and how to start. Breaking the news on paper felt like an interruption—an unnatural breach in the flow of their letters' conversational tone. He had no time for banter or languid prose, no time to quote from her previous letter, and his initial sentences sounded almost as mechanical as her first letter had.
Aggravated, he scrunched the paper into a ball and tossed it over his shoulder. As he tore another sheet out of his notebook, Yue wandered up behind him, smacking the dead batteries out of the old handheld tape player. The young soldier had developed a particular fondness for the mix tape, and judging by his expression, was apparently oblivious to the news the captain delivered.
"Hey, Hidan, you got any batteries for this thing? These ones are dead."
"No," Hidan said irritably over his shoulder, pen pausing long enough for the ink to bleed into the paper. "Just use the ones in a walkie-talkie or something."
"I don't see any—ah, never mind. Found some."
Hidan ignored him, intent on finishing what he was writing. Half an hour later and ten minutes before the deadline, after defacing the letter with several scribbled out passages and crossed out words, he folded the crumpled sheet and stuffed it into the envelope.
Writing out the address and sealing the envelope had become second nature to him, but this time he waited, debating with himself until the very last moment when the mail collector arrived and made his rounds with the mail box.
When the man stopped in front of him, Hidan regarded the object he'd placed in the unsealed envelope for a long moment; eventually, a closed expression overtook his features. He sealed it and dropped it into the box.
December 9th.
It took every ounce of willpower Temari possessed to put off reading the latest letter until she was finished studying. Granted, she knew she was more than well-prepared and could spare herself cramming the day before the exam, but nevertheless, she stuffed the envelope in a kitchen cabinet at noon and locked herself in her room.
Eight hours later, Kankuro glanced up from the couch where he was watching TV, grinning with a mix of incredulity and admiration as Temari slowly made her way down the stairs, blinking blearily.
"You're totally crazy," he said, shaking his head. "What are you trying to do, steal your professor's job? Jeez."
Temari shrugged and stifled a yawn. "Hey, if nonstop studying is what it takes for me to get that scholarship for grad school, then so be it. Did you eat dinner?"
"Yeah."
"And Gaara—"
"Yes," Kankuro interrupted, exasperated. "He's seventeen years old, for God's sake, not five. Go eat your own dinner. You look half-dead."
Temari managed a self-deprecating smile as he rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the TV. Once in the kitchen, she grabbed her dinner from the fridge and put it in the microwave; as it heated, she crossed the room and retrieved the letter from the cabinet.
It felt unusually heavy, she noticed, as she pulled up a stool to sit at the counter. As she ran her fingers over the envelope, a distinct, hard shape was tangible through the paper. Curious, she slit the envelope open, surprised when it yielded a single sheet of paper.
Her brow furrowed when she unfolded it, finding the handwriting messier than usual; the letter appeared rushed and the paper was devoid of his distinctive subsidiary comments and drawings. The microwave beeped but she ignored it, settling for reading the letter first.
Temari,
I've only got a half hour to get this thing done before the mail's due, so I'll make it quick. Captain finally came through on what he promised me and we finally know where Manzo is.
It's supposed to be secret intelligence or some shit, but fuck that. If I'm gonna die, I have the goddamn right to tell somebody about it. Not like anyone besides you is gonna get a hold of this letter.
But yeah, date's set for December 10th.
A strange, cold sensation crept into her fingertips. She could tell he'd paused at this point, the period at the end of "10th" resembling a large blot where his pen must have lingered. He started again at the next paragraph.
Estimated time is 1600 hours. That'd be 11:00 AM your time. I'm not scared or anything, hell no, if that's what you're thinking. It'll be quick and I'll be taking most of the whole damn insurgency with me, including that Manzo bastard. Jashin-sama will be STOKED. And I can quit stressing about everything. That's probably the best part of it—not having to worry anymore about money and bills and whatever, even though I won't get a chance to have my own church, which kinda blows.
Anyway, just thought I should say when my letters stop coming. I might as well make the best of the time I have left and pray. But since I don't want my rosary going to waste, you take it. If you don't wind up tossing it (and you better not, damn it, or I'm coming back to haunt your ass), don't just let it lie around looking pretty.
That's it. Don't have much else to say.
It's been fun, seriously.
Hidan
The cold permeated from her fingers into the rest of her limbs. She sat, frozen, expression strangely impassive as she attempted to process what she had just read.
The letter did not warrant a second read; there was no need. She eventually set the paper down on the table and then reached for the envelope. The clinking of beads filled the air as the rosary spilled into her outstretched hands. She drew them up in her fingers and ran her thumb over the tarnished surface of the pendant.
She didn't move for a long time.
December 10th. 1400 hours.
"This is it, men. If we succeed in this mission, you can more or less count this war as over. Troops are also deployed on the west side. Infiltration starts at…"
The captain's voice droned on, the truck rumbling noisily over the unpaved road as the platoon headed for their final destination: the enemy's base and reported hideout of Manzo Heki. Hidan sat with his back to the interior of the truck, barely paying attention to the captain as he subconsciously touched his chest.
The bomb was nestled beneath his flak jacket. A wire led from the explosive into the detonator in his fist, and it was mind-boggling to consider that the little device could erase his existence in less than a heartbeat.
When he heard the soldier next to him take a sharp breath, he lifted his head and glanced outside. The base was in plain view now, surrounded by the rest of the trucks carrying the troops. As soon as the truck pulled to a stop, the captain ordered them out. The ramps were dropped and soldiers spilled into the area like a swarm of ants, immediately triggering the alarm.
As the truck emptied, Hidan tensed, waiting for his opening as enemy soldiers burst out of the building and lifted the gate. The captain clasped his shoulder from behind.
"Don't let us down. You're doing this for your country."
Hidan turned his head to look at him and sneered. "Correction, asshole. I'm doing this for my church."
Then he leapt out of the truck, taking off full-sprint towards the building. The distance to the building had appeared miniscule from the truck, but now it seemed insurmountable with the obstacles of gunfire and bodies. A grenade went off and he stumbled sideways, barely managing to avoid tripping over the debris before staggering upright and throwing himself into another mad dash for the building.
There was no fear; a sense of closure and satisfaction tempered the violent onslaught of adrenaline and his thundering heartbeat. The bomb strapped to his chest felt like a part of him now, and as he crossed the threshold to the building and went through the first door he found open, he closed his eyes and muttered a prayer. He would not feel the impact of his body against the floor when he threw himself forward, as his thumb would descend on the detonator as soon as his feet left the ground.
That was the plan from the very beginning.
He expected a jolt, a violent jarring of the nerves the instant before death, perhaps something like a ripple in his blood and the initial quivers of a soul about to take flight. Instead, he became conscious of the rather lasting, agonizing impact of his body crashing through a bookcase and the throbbing pain that shouldn't have followed a building-collapsing explosion.
Odd, he hadn't heard the earth-shattering boom he'd been expecting, either. Instead, he became aware of the sounds of gunfire and splintering wood before he skidded to a stop over the floor. Eyes closed, features screwed up in a tense grimace, he waited.
When nothing happened, he cracked open one eye, staring in dumfounded silence at the decimated pile of wood and books he was lying in. The weight of the bomb was heavy against his chest and his eyes widened when he lifted his hand to look at the detonator. His thumb was still pressed against the button.
Unthinkingly, he lifted his thumb from the button and pressed it again. Then he shook it and pressed it again. Nothing happened.
Confounded, Hidan turned the device over, only to see the little plastic covering on the back missing, exposing the empty battery slot. He stared at it incredulously.
"Aw, fuck me…"
8:59 AM.
The gymnasium was silent save for the squeaking of chalk on chalkboard. The instructor turned from the board to face the hundreds of nervous biology students seated at their desks, pens at the ready and fingers tense around their exam booklets.
"The exam is exactly three hours, starting now," he announced. "Good luck."
There was a flurry of noise as the students turned over their booklets and flipped them open. The clock struck 9:00, and Temari closed her eyes at the sinking feeling in her chest as she opened her own exam booklet.
Estimated time is 1600 hours. That'd be 11:00 AM your time.
She took a deep breath, tore her gaze away from the clock and began to write.
1412 hours.
A burgeoning sense of panic was slowly taking over as Hidan crouched beneath a window in the office he'd thrown himself into, waiting for the rebels to run past before he gingerly raised his head to look outside. It was a complete melee of blue and green uniforms, bullets, and grenades going back and forth, and it would only be a matter of time before the platoon ditched.
"Shit," he breathed, pulling away from the window, glancing wildly around the room for a power source. There was absolutely nothing that stood out except for a clock hanging on the wall.
Desperate, he dashed over to it, pulling it off the wall and turning it over to remove the batteries. A curse of frustration burst out of him when he found the battery slot covered by a bolted-on plastic lid.
Outside, the sounds of gunfire grew louder, and realizing he didn't have time to waste, Hidan lifted the clock over his head and flung it as hard as he could against the floor. It shattered on impact, separating into several pieces when he brought his boot down on the face of the clock.
The plastic cover fell away to reveal the batteries, and suddenly hopeful, he smacked them out of the slot and grabbed the detonator, flipping it over and sliding the first battery in.
It didn't fit.
Flabbergasted, Hidan stared at the device for a few seconds before attempting to shove the battery in again. It remained on an obstinate angle, refusing to fit into the slot. His hope quickly dwindled away when he pulled the battery out to look into the slot.
The tiny, etched letters at the bottom indicated the need for AAA batteries.
Hidan looked at the ones in his hand.
They were AA batteries.
The window shattered when he violently flung the useless batteries through the glass, screaming in frustration. "Shit!"
Furious, he moved back over to the window, feeling the blood drain out of his face when he saw several of the rebels running into the forest in retreat, including a figure decked out in the bright red commander uniform. Manzo Heki.
"I'm fucked," Hidan said blankly. "I'm beyond fucked."
The bomb blast was delayed and Manzo was getting away, and even if he could find a way to detonate the damn explosives, he couldn't afford to give up his life for it without taking Manzo with him.
The escalating fury culminated in him flinging the first piece of furniture he could find—the desk—halfway across the room and throwing down the last standing bookcase. It fell with a satisfying crash, knocking one of the doors off a wall cabinet on its way down. At the same time, several grenades went off somewhere above the room he was in, the ensuing shower of rubble barring the doorway.
For a few seconds after that, all he could do was stand there, staring blankly at the destroyed room as the noise outside increased in volume, more explosions raining dust from the ceiling and causing the lights to flicker.
He blinked, looking up as the lights flickered again. His gaze settled on the cabinet he'd knocked open. Without thinking, he moved over to it, eyes widening when he realized the doors had been covering the building's circuit breakers.
He stared at it for a second longer before whipping around to look at the wall he'd shoved the desk away from, eyes scouring the corners of the room for an electrical outlet. A double outlet was visible close to where he was standing, nearly obscured by a potted plant.
The idea clicked into place with a clarity and celerity that must have been borne of utter desperation because even Hidan was momentarily stunned at its brilliance. It was absolutely insane and there were far too many what-if factors to consider, but it was the only remaining option.
The building needed power to run surveillance, needed power for its radars and various communication feeds to function. A trip in the circuit breakers would be catastrophic at a time like this.
Inwardly, Hidan recited a short prayer of gratitude and blessing towards Deidara for his endless ramblings about the beautiful simplicity of explosives and how at their basest levels, all they required was a little spark, a little route to carry the spark, and a little fairy dust.
The fairy dust, of course, was a euphemism for an explosive substance. At the moment, it was the C-4 plastic explosive strapped to his chest. It had the copper wire route, but no charge to deliver the spark.
Without hesitation, Hidan removed the bomb and slammed the detonator down on the desk, smashing it open and tugging loose the copper wire. Then he proceeded to destroy what remained of the desk in search of a paper clip, finding one affixed to one of the documents inside a drawer. Had Manzo still been in the building, the plan would have been simple; all that was left to do was wrap the copper wire around the paper clip and jam it into an outlet.
The resulting charge and simultaneous electrocution would have detonated several bombs without a hitch, but since he couldn't afford to die just yet, the insurgents running around in the building would have to do their part to make it happen.
He prepared the impromptu paperclip detonator, setting it next to the bomb on the floor near the outlet. Then he fished around in his pockets for a matchbook, striking a match and ensuring a flame leapt up before he reached for the circuit breakers and pulled the main switch supplying power to the building.
The room was instantly plunged into darkness save for the lit match and the faint light streaming through the window on the far side of the room. Several muffled cries of surprise at the sudden power-out were audible through the vents.
Moving quickly, he cupped a hand over the flame and knelt, edging forward along the wall until the flame illuminated the outlet and the bomb. Picking up his paperclip detonator, he took a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut before inserting it into the outlet.
When he realized he wasn't being electrocuted, he let out a relieved breath and lowered the burning match, making sure the wire attached to the paperclip followed its route into the explosive.
The reality of the situation seemed to sink in all at once when he realized his plan might actually work, and at the same time he was overwhelmed with the burning urge to get the hell out of there as fast as his legs could take him.
He dropped the extinguished match, realizing he wouldn't be able to escape through the door. There was only one exit, and he didn't pause to reconsider when he braced his arms over his head, breaking into a sprint and throwing himself through the window. It shattered noisily, raining shards over the dirt and snagging in his jacket. He turned his fall into a roll midway before hitting the ground and immediately shot to his feet again, taking off.
Despite the hail of bullets flying in all directions around him, he still shed his vest and gun in mid-sprint, flinging the items away in the attempt to lighten himself. A grenade went off a few meters away, spraying debris in all directions and forcing him to veer slightly off his course from the forest.
The rest of the team had long since ditched. Even the helicopters had started to pull back. He was the only one remaining, and the thought almost brought a hysterical laugh out of him when it occurred to him that he was somehow still alive and running through a warzone in nothing but a jacket and cargo pants.
It was at that moment one of the rebels ran into the room Hidan had just left. The man's flashlight only happened to catch sight of a wire leading from an outlet into a bomb when he pushed down on the circuit breaker switch.
The explosion that followed blew a crater twenty feet deep in the ground beneath the building, shattering glass, bricks, and reducing steel beams to tangled wreckage all within the expanse of a few seconds. It drowned out the beating of helicopter wings and rattling gunfire, muting whatever screams had sounded before flame and debris engulfed everything.
Hidan had been at least thirty feet from the edge of the forest when the shockwave threw him well beyond the entrance and into the dense foliage, sending his body crashing through branches and brambles before he landed in a pile of brushwood.
He laid there for several minutes, limbs spread-eagle as he fought to catch his breath and convince himself he had all his body parts. Everything ached, throbbing as though he'd been beaten with clubs, though getting caught in a bomb blast and crashing through tree branches wasn't so far from the analogy.
An attempt to move yielded agony and a string of curses, muscles protesting when he forced himself to sit up anyway, clutching his side. Even from where he was sitting, he could see the thick, billowing clouds of smoke rising up from the destroyed building, filling the air with the acerbic stench of burning wood and plastic.
He dragged himself to his feet, staggering before managing to stand upright and get a good look at his surroundings. It didn't even occur to him to celebrate for getting the job done when the odds had been so against him; the fact that the building had been destroyed didn't change the fact that at that very moment, Manzo was still alive and running away like a cowardly little bitch.
The realization evoked another vicious onslaught of fury. Hidan shoved the pain to the back of his mind and took off in the direction of the flattened undergrowth and disturbed foliage.
He encountered several bodies along the way, most of them sporting single gunshot wounds to the head. The thought that Manzo wanted to lighten the load and make his tracks less obvious wasn't surprising at all to him.
The light within the forest dimmed considerably as late afternoon began tapering off into evening. The sun slunk out from beneath the clouds, reddening with the passing hours and making it all the more difficult to follow the tracks through the forest.
Hidan persevered, his clinking dog tags eventually becoming the only audible sound in the area. That was only until a single, muffled gunshot sounded somewhere ahead. He froze, pausing to listen and discern which direction it had come from.
Straight ahead, he realized, quickening his pace into a run.
At the cost of what Manzo had thought was lessening his chances at being followed, he'd given away his location. Hidan grinned at his luck, inwardly aware that Manzo had a gun whereas he didn't. It didn't occur to him to think it would make a difference. He knew it wouldn't. He simply wouldn't let it.
Fifteen minutes later, he staggered through the foliage into a clearing, the last of the branches snapping back and lining the pale skin of his cheeks with streaks of blood. The silence lasted far longer than he felt was normal and his suspicion was justified with the loud, jarring report of a bullet slamming into a tree behind him.
Hidan whipped his head in the direction of the gunshot, throwing himself out of the way as another bullet slammed into the ground near his feet, spraying up leaves and grass.
Silence fell again as he lay low, scouring the trees for a sign of movement. His fingers curled into the matted grass when Manzo suddenly stepped out into the clearing, his gun held out in front of him. His coat was gone, leaving him clad in nothing but pants and a thin shirt that was stained with blood and sweat.
"Come out," Manzo called suddenly, eyes searching the trees. "I know you've been following me."
He advanced till he was standing at the side of the forest Hidan had just emerged from, unaware that his pursuer had crawled out from the underbrush and was creeping up behind him, steps muffled by the carpet of grass underfoot.
"Come out!"
When no response was forthcoming, he slowly turned his body back around, gaze still fixed on the trees, only to feel a vice-like grip suddenly take hold of his arm. He whipped around just as the gun was shoved down by his side.
What greeted him was a sight resembling a wraith more than a man. Hair in disarray, face streaked and bloody, eyes reflecting the sun in a way that made them appear scarlet—he was wearing a grin so malicious it would have cowed the Devil.
"Surprise, motherfucker," Hidan said, then slammed his head forward in a vicious head butt.
Manzo stumbled back, the blow knocking him off balance and onto his behind. The gun landed on the grass in front of him, and when he regained his senses long enough to try and lunge for it, a swift kick under the chin sent him flying onto his back.
Manzo saw him coming and lunged for the gun again, fingertips managing to brush the barrel when he was hauled to his feet by his shirt, doubling over as a fist slammed into his stomach. Winded, he would have fallen to his knees if he wasn't abruptly thrown against a tree.
A moment later, a hand descended against his throat with enough force to make him choke, raising his head till he was staring into his captor's livid expression.
"I've been waiting a year," Hidan hissed. "A year in this fucking shithole just to kill you."
"You'll gain nothing from killing me," Manzo retorted, though his eyes shone with fear. "And for what, your country? For the love of your—"
A yelp burst out of him when Hidan released him long enough to belt him across the face.
"Bastard," he snarled, grabbing him by the throat again. "You had no idea who you were fucking with when you decided to go ahead and blow up my church, did you?"
"Church?" Manzo echoed blankly. "What church?"
"The Church of Jashinism, you cocksucker. Nineteen months ago. Blew it up in your shitty attempt to kill the prime minister. Or was it so unimportant you don't remember?"
"Is that why you're here?" Manzo suddenly sneered, contempt momentarily overshadowing his apprehension. "For a church? Churches can be rebuilt. It would be practical to harbor that passion for something more useful."
Something in his captor's face told Manzo he must have said the wrong thing. The commander's expression melted into one of alarm when the fingers around his throat abruptly closed inwards.
In a last ditch effort, the commander reached for the knife in his back pocket, flicking it open and slashing forward blindly. Hidan abruptly released him, both of them glancing down to see that the blade had only pierced the fabric of his jacket. That was enough for Manzo, as he took advantage of Hidan's surprise and shoved him off, slamming the blade of the knife into the tree.
It bought him enough time to stumble the few meters it took to reach his gun, grabbing it and spinning around in time to see Hidan rip the knife out of the tree and lunge after him. The sight was more than enough incentive for him to forgo aiming and simply pull the trigger.
Several missed, but one bullet hit a shoulder and another bit into his side; Hidan felt none of it, aware of nothing more than muffled thumps and flowing heat.
Manzo attempted to fire off another round, panic gradually trickling into his features when the soldier he shot stumbled but did not fall down and the trigger he pulled did nothing but elicit a resounding, hollow click in the gun's chamber.
The commander dropped the gun, turning to flee back towards the other side of the forest where he'd left one of his followers' bodies.
Hidan tore after him with the single-minded fury of one who held no expectations to come out alive, intent now on only fulfilling his goal. He reached for his last weapon—a Bowie knife in his shin holster—an enraged scream erupting out of him as Manzo burst into the forest and dove for the corpse's gun.
The commander whipped around, thrusting the gun out just as the knife arched into his field of vision.
The gunshot nearly shattered Hidan's eardrums, the impact throwing him back against a tree with enough force to snap the overhanging leaves from their stems, sending them spiraling down onto the forest floor.
A moment later, Manzo dropped the gun in favour of clutching his slashed throat, choking on the blood flooding his trachea and staring in shock at the sight of the bloodied knife at his feet. After a few seconds, he collapsed, motionless.
Hidan didn't take his eyes off of him until Manzo was facedown on the ground, not seeming to realize that he'd been shot; a rush of endorphins dulled the pain into a pulsating throb that was more annoying than anything else.
He straightened to stand on his feet, quaking arms releasing the trunk that had been supporting him as an uncontrollable grin spread across his face.
"I did it," he breathed, eyes widening. "I did it, Jashin-sama…"
The euphoria was brief, for as soon as the words left his lips, blood followed the air striving to get into his lungs, reducing his next inhalation to a gurgling rasp.
The grin gradually wavered, perspiration beading on his forehead as a crushing heaviness settled into his chest. The pain it evoked drowned out every intrinsic sense and perception; he lost touch of the ground, along with the ability to distinguish the far-off echoes of gunshots from his own throbbing heartbeat. Balance abandoned him and he fell back against the tree, unaware of the blood streak he left on the bark when he eventually slid to his knees.
For a brief moment, he merely sat there in bewilderment at the inexplicable weakness that was spreading through him like poison, staring unfocusedly at the blood speckling the dirt. The reality of the wounds sank in when he counted the empty bullet shells littering the floor near the corpse. As if to verify, he reached up to touch the throbbing points on his body.
One… two…three, he counted, fingers ghosting over each gunshot wound, lingering on the one in his chest before trailing away. They glistened with a stunningly bright, garish red, the colour almost violent in its contrast against the muted tones of his surroundings.
He was trembling; it didn't occur to him to wonder why, but it stirred a vague sort of anger that blocked out the pain long enough to take control of his mouth.
"Pussy," he mumbled, brow furrowing slightly in self-reproach. "You fuckin' pussy…it's nothing… seriously."
Hardly aware of the screaming protest of his injured shoulder, he mechanically reached forward to grip a tree branch. An attempt to bring his legs to movement sent him toppling forward. He didn't register the impact with the ground until blades of grass were tickling at his lips and he was returning the gaze of the dead commander across the beaten path.
I'm dying, he realized, confounded by the limpness of his limbs and the crushing heaviness weighing him into the dirt. Holy shit, I'm dying.
He vaguely noticed he was still holding onto the branch. When he released it, the impact of his arm hitting the ground sounded hollow. Final.
"Shit," he mumbled. "Fuckin' shit…"
The sun dipped further beneath the clouds, casting scarlet and orange beams through the haze of smoke and dust, spotting the forest floor with vivid little spots. A shaft of light fell across his wrist, illuminating the digital display of the watch in time to see it hit 16:00. As the numbers flashed, the watch emitted a jarring string of beeps, signaling the time for afternoon prayers.
"I know," he muttered in response, forehead sinking into the blades of grass. "Just…gimme a sec."
The prayer specifically meant to be uttered during death, to ease his passing and guide his soul to Jashin was fresh in his mind, one of the first he'd learned upon joining the church. The smothering weight on his chest prevented him from saying the prayer the way he would have liked, stifling the words to the extent that they didn't even disturb the grass they escaped into.
"Jashin-sama, the only Seer…disperse the rays and gather up Thy burning light. I behold Thy glorious form."
An explosion shook the encampment nearby, interspersed with the sounds of insurgents' screams and cries to retreat. Bits of debris rained onto the forest floor, impacting dully off his frame. He remained oblivious, annoyed at how damn difficult this was.
"May this body be burnt by fire to ashes…remember my deeds."
As the screams faded in the distance and the noise of shattering foundations and glass tinkled into silence, the insistent beeping of his watch became audible again, sounding almost frantic in the stillness. He swallowed thickly, ignoring the taste of blood and focusing instead on the scent of fertile soil and green grass.
It wasn't so bad, he decided, surprised at his own lucidity. He simply felt heavy and incredibly tired, unaware that he'd already closed his eyes. The background noise melded and quieted into a low hum and his thoughts drifted in that aimlessly hazy fashion privy to late-night ponderings. Just like the thoughts one had while daydreaming. Or just before sleep.
Yeah, like that, he mused. Like sleeping.
The grass gently tickled his lips and the furrow in his brow gradually receded. Suddenly, he found that the wounds didn't hurt anymore.
Just like sleeping.
Temari finished writing the exam half an hour before everyone else, yet she remained in the classroom, checking and re-checking her answers mechanically, refusing to raise her gaze to the clock situated on the wall across the room. Her palms were cold and clammy, throat tight with trepidation and growing tighter when she finished looking through the exam booklet for the third time.
With measured slowness, she carefully closed the booklet and placed the exam questionnaire inside of it, pushing it across the surface of the desk till it rested on the upper right corner. As the paper left her fingers, they curled inwards over the surface of the desk, clenching into tight fists. The room seemed to roar with pencil-strokes, the sound gradually growing more frenzied and intense as writing time neared an end.
Temari stared blankly at the booklet on the desk, reading and re-reading the instructions on the cover, tracing the distinct curves of her writing and the shape of her name.
It took everything she had to restrain herself from jerking in surprise when the professor's hand descended on the booklet. She raised her gaze to a softly smiling face that nodded to let her know she could leave.
She stared at him momentarily before pressing her lips into a firm line and nodding in return, gently easing her chair back to rise and collect her bag.
The noise of scratching pens faded as she slowly left the room, letting the door swing closed behind her. The hallways were empty save for the odd student rushing by to get to their exam. She paid them no heed, eyes trained sightlessly on the tiles as she made her way outside.
She left the campus, stopping at the traffic lights preceding the school parking lot. The other people standing at the crosswalk started across the road. Temari hesitated, then turned away and started towards the park on the other side of the street.
The park was mostly empty; most students were either at home studying or writing their exams. Relieved and grateful for the silence, she found a bench beneath the skeletal shadow of a cherry tree and pulled her scarf tighter around her neck.
Clouds roamed the sky overhead, obscuring the pale sun at odd intervals and casting fleeting shadows over her surroundings. A bicyclist rode by on the footpath in front of her with a clacking whir, and then there was silence.
She sat there for several minutes, doing nothing, feeling detached from herself and her surroundings. The sudden vibration of her cell phone startled her out of her reverie moments later. She withdrew it from her pocket, finding a text message from Kankuro.
Gonna be home late. Work.
The message lingered on the screen till the phone automatically locked itself again, reverting to its regular display. Against her own will, Temari looked away from the time at the bottom of the screen, brow furrowing as she tried to will away the painful feeling finding rest in her chest and wondering why she felt it in the first place.
He was morally questionable. Indisputably insane. Belligerent and crude. Irascible and fanatical.
But at the same time, possessive of the very traits she found lacking in everyone else.
Honest to the point of being blunt. Genuine. Passionate. Devoted. Real.
There was not much to go by on common ground, as he contradicted her in nearly every manner imaginable, but there was communion—communion without bounds. No restrictions stemming from obligations to keep one's appearance. No hesitations. There was a lack of labels, of designated titles and roles.
There was no right or wrong. There were just thoughts in freeform, straying across paper as fast as the hand could record them. No censorship. No facades. No need to fret, to think that her words would incite concern like they would have in Kankuro. She could say what she thought and felt without reprisal or the incipient feelings of guilt one felt after unloading emotional baggage on someone else. Like screaming into a pillow, or writing in a diary, but this time there was someone paying attention, someone listening.
At the thought, a passage from one of his October letters resurfaced.
I need to do it, you know. It's not just because it's my duty as a follower. I'd go out of my fucking mind if I didn't. Nobody else listens, and if they do, you know that inside they're judging you.
But this way you can ramble, run off track, talk shit without feeling like a dumbass because you know the guy on the other side will always listen. You're not boring him. You're not freaking him out. You just do it. You can confess, say shit you wouldn't even tell your best friend. You can vent, yell, curse, laugh, and not once do you think twice about what you're saying or if it's making you look bad. That's why I do it. That's why I have to do it. That's what God is for. And being afraid, worrying about how you're gonna look and sound, putting a plug in and cutting yourself short—being fake? That's what you do with everyone else. That's what people are for.
No fear of judgment.
Just communication.
Those were the reasons behind his devotion to prayer and the reasons behind his failed relationship with the rest of humanity. When she thought about it, he was the type of person she would have done everything in her power to avoid in normal circumstances.
But what were normal circumstances, anyway? She wondered. Where was the shrewdness, the calculating wariness, the caution?
She had feigned being hurt in her reply, when in fact she secretly wondered if he thought of her in the same light.
That's a rather pessimistic worldview for someone who hates pessimists. What about me? Do I count as one of those "people"?
His response had been brief.
Gimme a break, I was generalizing. But seriously, besides talking to Jashin-sama about this sort of thing, you're my next best choice. Feel special.
She let out a slow breath, and when she glanced at the phone again, the time read 12:54 PM. All at once the pain in her throat and chest became unbearable.
Temari didn't realize that a shadow had fallen over her until a voice broke into her thoughts, tinged with concern.
"Are you all right?"
She looked up, blinking at the sight of a young woman standing on the footpath with a stroller. The woman's expression contorted into one of worry when their gazes met. Before Temari could speak, the woman reached into her bag and fished out a packet of tissues, holding one out.
It was only then Temari became aware of the wetness on her face and the damp spots on the thighs of her jeans.
The woman eventually sat down beside her, murmuring things that fell on deaf ears but were comforting, nonetheless, simply because they were said. For once, Temari felt no disgust or self-reproach for the tears—only a resigned sort of acceptance.
It was strange how one's mind could remain cool and detached, even when faced with painful physical sensation; it continued to ruminate, unperturbed as the rest of the body succumbed to anguish, and it was no different now.
I guess when you refuse to let yourself grieve, she concluded reflectively, curling her fingers around the tissue, sometimes your body will go ahead without your consent.