I do not own Krylon or American Accent spray paints, I just stock them every weekday at my job.
-Naruto-
-Earlier that day-
I
don't clean much. It's Sasuke who's the neat freak. But I had
ramen stashed away—he's also a health food nut—and I want to
eat it. I don't remember where I hid it, and Dadi told me that if I
clean, I will find what I am looking for faster. There's not much
to clean, so I organize. Sort of. He's so meticulous. I move stuff
around and put it back exactly where I find it. I get to the bedroom,
shuffle over to the desk in the corner and begin rifling through
drawers. Pencils, looseleaf lined paper, highlighters, paper clips,
binder clips, yellow legal pads, a dark blue cover spiral-bound
notebook, ballpoint gel pens that write more strongly than normal
pens and don't pretend to run out of ink, erasers, stationary,
rubber stamps, boxes of small white envelopes (he has pen pals) and
big yellow manila envelopes. I reach for the bottom drawers. The left
one is stacked with neatly folded cavas bags. He and I use them when
we go grocery shopping. I closer the drawer a little harder than
usual and hear the rattle of…spray paint aerosol cans. I open the
drawer again, hurriedly, and they rattle insistently. I dig through
the drawer, flinging the bags around. A black beanie cap—the one he
was wearing the night we met—tries to hide the cans. I toss it onto
the floor as well. Krylon paint. Flat black. Glossy black. Glossy
white. American Accent indigo blue. American Accent iris blue.
American accent various shades of purple and blue. Twelve cans in
all. He tags. It's the only thing that makes sense for the
situation.
I yank open the other drawer after carefully replacing the bags and cap. The second is horrifying and I want to deny what I am seeing. Old spoons that claim to be stainless steel are rusted over and have suspicious stains on them. Blood-stained rags. Lighters with fluid in various stages of emptiness. Pale beige foundation—makeup to hide the sores. He probably started eating meth from the spoon like some people eat ice cream. I shudder. No needles, no antifreeze or glue. He's not cooking but he's using. No rolled-up dollar bills or bits of paper, so he doesn't snort. Why the nosebleeds then? I mean, it might not be nosebleeds but I think it is. It's undoubtedly meth. I can tell by the smell—I've had to go into meth labs before for raids, to interpret, whatever.
I've lost my apetite. I just can't believe
Sasuke. Or myself. Or anything. I scramble for the telephone in the
kitchen. It sits placidly in its cradle.
--Hello.—
--Rosario.—
--Hi,
Francisco!—
--Your boyfriend's a cop, right?—
--Yeah.—
--Does
he know the number for the Sexual Assault and Child Abuse Unit? Did
he tell you?—
--It's…--
--Thank you so much.—I am
nearly breathless. Anxiously, I dial the squad. "This is FBI agent
badge number 2908. I need to be transferred to sex crimes detective
Sasuke Uchiha." Sasuke picks up shortly. "Uchiha."
"Come
home right now."
"How did you get this number?"
"Come
home and I will tell you everything if you tell me everything."
"I'm
on my way," he sighs, already exasperated.
Damn this
all.
-Current time-
I open the door and start talking right
away.
"You'll need to sit down for this. Listen. Don't judge
me. I'm sorry for lying, but I am telling the truth now. I am being
the honest one first. My name isn't Francisco, I'm not a Navy
SEAL, my hair is not black and my eyes are not brown. I work for the
FBI as a Special Agent Linguist. It's hair dye and tinted contacts.
You and I both know why and if you tell anyone I'll have to kill
you. My legal name is Naruto Uzumaki, I'm a natural blond—check
out my arm hair and leg hair—and my eyes are naturally blue. The
only reason I shave my pubic hair is that it's too much of a hassle
to dye. I'm really Peruvian, and as I said before,
Japanese-Peruvians are common. My scars are real. I got them during
an interrogation during which the suspect became violent. I'm
adpoted. Never knew my birth parents. They fled to America, where I
was born, then they left me in adoptive care—Dadi's my mom—and
went back to Peru, where they were killed by the Shining Path. My
skin really is this color of brown. I really am Latino. I'm gay and
out to my family but not at work and it's going to stay that way.
Any questions?"
I pause for breath. Sasuke blinks and stays
quiet, digesting the information. "Sit near me," he finally
speaks. I do. "Closer. Good." Silence. I supress the desire to
fidget. Silence. I rub the back of my neck. Sasuke takes my hand. Or
eye contact is unwavering. "Why didn't you tell me before?" he
murmurs. "I couldn't," I whisper. "I wanted to."
"Did
you kill the suspect?"
"I had to. It was self-defense."
All
Sasuke can do is shake his head. I don't blame him.
Sasuke
leans further back into the couch and closes his eyes. He takes my
arm, looks at it carefully and nods, then releases it. I've never
seen him fidget. Oh, he's hesitating to tell me something. I
'harrumph' internally then scold myself for being such an
asshole. At least he's going to talk or at least he's acting like
it.
"I don't want you to turn me in—"
I remember the
times he's come home high—
"but I'll understand if you
do—"
and tossed things around, screaming—
"It's fine
if we break up—no, I'd be devastated but I mean—"
The sex
was so rough and I felt terrible afterward—
"I've never had
anyone move in with me, much less after two months—"
Am I
codependant? I was in denial for a long time. "Please, don't
leave me," I beg.
Sasuke is crying. I'm crying.
"Don't
turn me in," he whispers desperately. "I use meth. And I really
need it."