project: Lucky 13
dedication: once again, for tricky! & thanks to les for beta'ing this.
disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.
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I'm not going to lie.
Okay, I am. That was a lie. I'm going to lie and lie and lie, and sheepishly back away from reporters, and change my number, and lie to the girl who gave me her number — and I'm going to lie to the pretty news reporter, with the red eyes and the dark hair, until my pants are burning. I will be the definition of liar, liar, pants on fire, bets for hire — whatever it was we — you — I — used to chant on the playground, when we were all young and hiding secrets and so old for our ages.
It's unfair.
Why did we have to grow up?
I'm not talking Peter Pan, here — I don't want to be a Lost Boy. Staying twelve my entire life sounds like a fucking nightmare — I'd never understand the true meaning of women, and that would definitely be missing out. But why did we have to grow up — and so quickly, too? When I was six, I broke my arm — and I didn't even have to go to hospital, because it was as if I'd never even broken my arm to begin with. And when you were six, you never spoke to anyone, even me, and you hated everything and everyone and every tiny little spark of life on this planet, and you wanted to snuff it all out.
And Sakura — she grew up fastest.
That's hardly fair.
I guess we've just got to grow up some more, right?
I think I'm freaking out.
I didn't think you'd be that pissed off — and, c'mon, I'm sorry! But it's not as if I could just let a little girl die, especially when she had so much to look forward to. Especially when she could do so much. And, you have to admit, it was the right thing to do. Sakura said it was, even though that's the only thing she's said to me since we've seen each other; and I guess I did make a mistake, but I couldn't just let her die. That would have been unfair.
'sides, you're not the one who has to see their ghosts.
That was uncalled for.
You didn't have to punch me.
I'm going to stay with Tsunade for a little while, until this entire immortality thing blows over.
Sorry.
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(un)lucky 13
chapter one:—
can you hear the countdown?
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Ino ran her fingers down her legs, tracing little criss-crossed paths down smooth, pale skin, eyes never leaving the mirror. Upon reaching her feet, and bending over entirely, she placed her foot daintily into her tights, and began to roll them up, up, and up her skin, until her right leg was hidden behind shaded-grey material. She did the same again, making sure to run her fingers down her legs slowly, gradually, before pulling up the second leg of the tights.
That was when Sai woke up.
He looked pretty confused, at first; the sort of cute confused Ino liked a lot, where the other person looked all bleary and bemused and ever so slightly scared. Almost immediately, his gaze flickered to her, and he stayed silent — she liked that, as well. In fact, Sai pretty much summed up everything she liked — tall, dark and insanely, ridiculously pretty — and she preferred it when he was quiet. Or kissing her. Whichever. With her tights pulled up over her legs, she slipped off her oversized pajama top, turning away from him teasingly as she pulled on a spotted white-and-black bra.
He decided to talk.
"Ino," he said, finally, and, from the movement she could hear, he was no doubt running a hand through his hair, a habit he'd picked up from who knew where, "Did we sleep together last night?"
She didn't reply, choosing instead to pick up the little green dress off her desk and turn to Sai, holding it up in front of her and flashing a brilliant smile. "What do you think," she asked, before switching the dress for a two-piece, with a black skirt and a spotted black-and-white halter neck upper half. She slipped the second outfit on, before striking a little pose, swishing and swirling and smiling and flirting.
Sai grunted.
For a few seconds, Ino's expression turned carefully blank, and she sighed, taking a steady step forwards, reaching up with one hand to let her hair loose — blonde strands fell across her forehead, and she swept them to the side, in a fringe, before stepping again. One, two. One, two. A little pause, a little smile, and then she was bending down, hands strategically placed on either side of his body, slipping easily onto the bed so that she was straddling him. He didn't seem unnerved at all — typical Sai. She let out another small sigh, before dipping forwards, her lips inches away from his, painted red, red, crimson red.
"How about a good morning kiss?"
And so she kissed him.
Within another few seconds, her clothes were lying on the floor, and Sai didn't really care whether they'd slept together last night, because they were certainly doing something now — and even if he knew Ino would just abandon him, when the next pretty thing came walking along. He'd seen the List. He never told her, though.
He didn't know why.
(But he might have sort of loved her.)
Ino was glad she'd decided to keep him. He was pretty, he was quiet and he didn't ask questions; he didn't know there were questions which had to be asked, but he didn't ask them nonetheless, and that was all that counted. She adored him, when she thought about it; when she looked at her list; and she wouldn't have changed him, not for anyone. She adored him. He was pretty.
But she didn't love him.
She was beautiful.
Too beautiful to be tied down to anyone — am I right, or am I right? No, she was beautiful and he was pretty, and the two matched, but they weren't perfect. It was like trying to force jigsaw pieces together. They matched, when you pressed hard enough, but they just weren't perfect. You knew it wasn't the right one, even if you tried to kid yourself, because you just wanted the jigsaw to be solved and done and over. Ino and Sai were sort of like that.
A jigsaw that matched, but didn't quite fit.
Sort of summed up her life, really.
She swung her legs out of bed, brushing her fingers along his cheek before searching absently for her dressing gown; she'd have a shower and get dressed later, otherwise she'd feel dirty for the rest of the day, and that was just wrong. She flashed him a small smile, pausing with a hand on her hip. "I'm going to make breakfast. Coffee?"
"Sure," he replied, and she watched absently as he sat up, running a hand through his hair again, pale skin gleaming with sweat, and she bit her lip, because Sai was pretty. She wanted to kiss him again, because she liked the control; and she wanted him to hold her, purely because she wanted him to. He never remembered, when she kissed him; he'd just touched her a few moments ago, but she could see his expression turning confused again, see the question lingering on his lips — a question she'd heard time and time again, to the point where she'd gotten used to it, because it was a normality.
She left before he had the chance to ask.
Her kitchen was a mess.
Wrinkling her nose, Ino tried to remember why it was a mess — why there was chocolate on the sideboards and milk spilt across the floor, and why the fridge was hanging open — and decided she didn't want to know. Instead, she stepped over a cracked egg, deciding she'd ignore the fridge, as anything in it was bound to be warm by now, and reached for the eggs. She put some oil in a frying pan, switched on the gas, and cracked the two eggs into the pan, watching as they began to sizzle and crackle, ever so quietly. Turning away, she scooped the remote control off the floor and turned to the mini-TV balanced on the fridge, switching it on and waiting patiently for the picture to crackle into view.
A news reporter, with dark hair and startling eyes, was stood in front of a crowded street, gesturing frantically at a mother and her child; Ino scowled, waiting for the audio to stop crackling, eyes glued to the screen — because, for some reason, it felt important. Whatever was showing, she felt as though she should pay attention to it.
"…witnesses say that Uzumaki Naruto, aged seventeen years, died, on this very street; and, yet, there he is," the reporter gestured towards the blonde boy, and the camera zoomed in; it was at this moment that Ino realized his top was bloody, and his hair was disheveled, and he looked ever so awkward, "Standing directly in front of us, alive and well. Despite the fact that he was thrown more than fifteen meters down the road, he appears to have no real injuries; no broken bones, no cuts, no bruises; but the blood on his shirt would state otherwise."
The screen cut across to Naruto, a microphone thrust in front of his face, and he blinked.
"Sir, can you explain to us what happened here, today?" The reporter asked.
"Hey, your guess is as good as mine," Naruto replied, all blue eyes, blonde hair and a sheepish grin, "Can I go now?"
"You save a girl's life."
"I know."
"You died."
"I kno— wait, that might be exaggerating it a bit—"
"—can you explain how it is you managed to, for lack of better words, come back to life? How it is you managed to cheat death? How is it that this little girl walked away with scrapes and bruises and, yet, despite being thrown into the air by a speeding car, you are unharmed?" The reporter continued, as if Naruto had never even spoken, and the blonde frowned.
"I guess, when you put it that way, it does seem a little odd," and then he smiled, raising his hands in surrender. "But I really have to go now. I've got to visit my, uh, grandmother, and she's pretty sick, so I guess I should just be leaving now—"
"—one last question!"
Naruto nodded.
The reporter sucked in a breath.
The tension rose.
"Are you a superhero?"
"What're you watching?"
Ino blinked, turning around, her arms folded across her chest; her expression softened as her eyes were met with a bare chest and a slightly bemused expression. Sai crossed his arms, taking a few steps forwards, eyes glued to the television; and she shrugged a shoulder, turning the volume down slightly, so that she could talk over the news and still be heard.
"Apparently, this guy managed to save a little girl from being hit by a car," she said, watching as the reporter continued talking, "Thing is, he's supposed to be dead, since the car knocked him through the air, going at, like, sixty or something. Some asshole recorded the entire thing on their mobile. They're going to play it again, in a second."
"Huh," Sai grunted, moving forwards to search through her cupboards; he pulled out a loaf of bread, picked up a slice, and then placed it in the toaster, turning back to face the television. "Is that so?"
"Yeah, it is," Ino replied.
Her brow furrowed and she curled a lip in distaste.
"The reporter called him a superhero. He saves a kid and doesn't die, and she calls him a superhero."
Sai nodded, "Tough break, huh?"
"Are you kidding?" Ino rolled her eyes, jabbing a finger at the television screen — on it, the blonde boy was catapulting backwards, having been hit by the red car; the person recording let out a shout of horror, and then the screen blurred, as they ran closer to the fallen boy. The image cut back, then, to Naruto, standing alive and well, looking a little bit overwhelmed. "That guy's going to be the hottest thing since sliced bread. I mean, he's already pretty cute, without the entire superhero thing he's got going on."
Her lips curled into a perfect smile.
"He's going on my list, for sure."
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Gaara was watching a bird die, when he heard the news.
Well, he hadn't gone out of his way to find and watch a bird die; his siblings were arguing, again, about things he didn't understand. Money. The flat. No, not understanding — that wasn't quite the right way to put it. He did understand, he just chose not to care. And he hated it when his sister got angry, because she got too angry, and she'd cry angry tears. And he hated it when his brother got angry, because he got too angry, and he'd throw stuff and then stay out 'til past three in the morning. And then the anger would start all over again.
And he'd get angry.
No, it was better to sit out of all that drama; so, ever so quietly, he'd stood up, moved away from the sofa, and left the flat. He'd walked until he came to the old park he used to play at, where he used to sit in the sandpit on his own; he'd sat down on the swing, tucked his hands in his pockets, and kicked backwards and forwards. The swing moved ever so slightly, and he stopped kicking, waiting until he swung into stillness again. He repeated the process over and over, until he was thinking of nothing, and he was swinging so high that he felt he could touch the sky. It was the little things he liked.
That was when he spotted the bird.
It was a tiny thing, he thought. So small, that he could cup it in his hands, if he wanted to. It was hopping — slowly, carefully — across the grass, and he just watched it, for a little while. He didn't notice the cat stalking it, nor its injured wing; blood and all. No, he only saw a little bird, hopping across the grass; and that was when the cat leapt forwards, slashing at it with its claws, and Gaara's heart turned blank.
That pretty much summed it all up.
Beside him, a boy a few years older than him was showing something to a friend, "And did you hear? He was fucking dead, man — there was a doctor and everything, and they were like, 'fuck it, this dude is dead', and then, all of a sudden, he just gets up. Groaning like a fucking zombie. He just gets up."
"What, so he wasn't dead?"
"Nah, he was definitely dead. He just… woke up, I guess. Fucking weird. Like a superhero, or some shit."
"What a freak," and they laughed together, as they walked away.
And Gaara watched as the cat slashed at the bird's throat, and the bird let out a sort of squawk, before attempting to flap a wing — the other being too bloody and mangled to properly move. He watched as the cat pounced fully upon the bird, and watched the fluttering wings and the gradually quieting squawks of pain. He watched, and watched, and wondered if there really were superheroes, or if they were just freaks (like him), and weirdoes, but not the good kind.
He decided it was probably the latter.
Still, this immortal guy sounded interesting — well, more interesting than watching a bird die.
Gaara slipped off the swing, pushed his hands in his pockets, and made his way out of the park.
At first, he was walking towards his flat; aimlessly, kicking stones beneath his feet, hands tucked in his pockets, but he was still walking in that general direction. People looked at him, as well; nothing big — not flat out staring. Just sneaking sideways glances, as they walked past, holding shopping bags or small children or whatever. But they were still looking, and that was all that mattered. He didn't even have to do anything, and they still looked.
"Because bright red hair was the equivalent of a target sign, moron."
That's what Kankuro had said, anyway, and it seemed like it was true; besides, his brother would know, because he knew things, and he was Weird. Capital-letter weird, which was generally a Bad Weird, not a good weird. Hell, he walked around with pink patterns painted across his face, because it expressed his "inner voice" — he was definitely Weird.
But, unlike Gaara, he'd played it off. Used it to help himself. Sure, he was Weird, but he could use that and change it; and instead of being Weird, he was unique. He'd crossed the fine line, which felt more like a chasm to Gaara, and people spoke to him; of course, they still looked at Kankuro, just like how they were looking at Gaara, but it was a different look. And he couldn't explain it, but he sort of wanted people to look at him like that.
He was so busy thinking of looks and the like, that he didn't realize he'd bumped into somebody until he was lying sprawled across the ground, body stinging in pain. He didn't wait for long before standing up — he was, after all, attracting more looks — and then he stuck his hand out in front of him, where the person had fallen, speaking one word.
"Sorry—"
And then Gaara froze.
Because there was no one there.
(And if there was one way to get people to look at you in a way that just screamed Weird, just try talking to thin air.)
Hinata sat as still as she could, heart pattering, palms of her hands pressed against the pavement as she gazed up at the stranger. He was frowning, arm still outstretched, confusion etched across his features; and Hinata felt that urge again, to reach out and touch him — to see him blink and stutter and yelp in fear, because that's what they always did. To whisper in his ear. To do something — anything — to make her presence known.
Instead, she sat there, as still as a statue, and wished he'd walk away.
His eyes narrowed further and he moved forwards; and she didn't move backwards — not even as his fingers crept forwards and brushed against her cheek. Not even as his eyes widened in surprise, and his mouth dropped open, and his hand moved downwards, gingerly pressing against her shoulder. It was only when he went to say something that she pushed herself to her feet and bit her lip. It was only then that she realized she was invisible and that he shouldn't ever know that.
It shouldn't be happening.
"Wait—"
He heard someone shift about; heard the rustle of clothes; and found his eyes narrowed, his brow furrowing, as he tried to make sense of what was happening. Before he could do so, however, someone — something — bumped into him, and he staggered backwards. He heard footsteps walk away; and so he turned, tilting his head in curiosity and disbelief, and wondered.
Then he rubbed his eyes.
"—I think I need some more sleep," he murmured, shaking his head, pushing his hands back in his pockets, and deciding he would head back to the flat.
After all, he was imagining invisible people.
Hell, he was talking to them.
That was Weird.
Hinata hugged her arms to her sides, making sure to keep her head down, but keep light on her feet, so as to avoid bumping into anyone again, as she continued walking down the street. She couldn't help but, after a moment, chance a glance over her shoulder; but the red-headed boy had vanished almost entirely, and she could only just see his frame disappearing into the distance. She bit her lip, eyes returning to the pavement ahead of her, just in time for her to duck around an elderly woman; she didn't want to bump into anyone again.
No, the sooner she returned home, the better.
There, she was always invisible, both metaphorically and literally. She could walk into a crowded room, without using her power — as plain and obvious to the eye as the sun — but no one would notice her. Likewise, she could change whenever she wanted to, and, even if she did it right in front of one of them — just vanished — her family would never notice. They didn't notice her, because they didn't need to notice her, and that was that. But it was okay — it didn't hurt as much as it used to; and, besides, she enjoyed watching.
Watching, when no one was looking.
Looking, when no one was watching.
It reminded her of her childhood — pretending to be a super spy, or a secret agent, and creeping around the garden with her collar pulled up and her mother's Gucci sunglasses. It reminded her of sunshine smiles, and being a little girl, with her scabby knees and elbows — not that she ever had scabby knees and elbows, of course — and she liked that. She liked being a secret. A whisper in the wind. Hush, hush — because no one could see her.
It was her big secret.
Gaara ran his fingers through his hair, briefly, before stepping into his flat, feeling himself deflate almost instantly — his brother and sister were still at it. Temari was sat at the table, her entire body tensed and coiled, as if ready to strike out — she was leaning forwards slightly, one finger pointing, her face that of grim determination, as she spoke; and her voice was controlled, the anger in it perfectly measured and calculated in a manner which meant she best showed her annoyance. His brother, however, was all wild gestures, all tumbling movements, no control, no nothing; he ranted and raged, face twisted in fury, and he didn't bother controlling it at all.
That's why, secretly, Gaara preferred Kankuro — because the other was so easy to read, so predictable, it was laughable.
He moved into the room, ducking past his brother — who was gesturing violent, waving his arms like a windmill — and moved into the kitchen. His mind strayed back, for a moment, to the invisible person, but his thoughts didn't linger on the matter for too long; no, his gaze turned to the little vial of sand, kept on the kitchen counter, shaped like an egg timer. Previously, it had been in his bedroom, but Temari had found it and confiscated it, in the hope he'd explain what it was for.
His fingers reached out for it.
For a moment, it was in his hands — his big secret — and he felt the power roar inside of him. He saw the sand seem to jump in the vial, moving as one body — as one creature — beneath his command; and it felt good. He wanted — no, he longed — to let loose; to use the sand, and manipulate it, because he wanted to, and, some day, he might need to. Absently, his thoughts returned to the immortal boy, the one the boys at the park had been talking about, and he wondered if there were others, maybe, like him, who felt this feeling — this need. And, as he thought those thoughts, he decided he couldn't control it for any longer.
He tipped the sand into the palm of his hand; but, before he even thought it, the sand began to dance at his fingertips, spiraling and shimmering in the light, each grain sparkling like a jewel. He cupped his other hand around it, his expression clear, peaceful, as he began to jerk his fingers backwards and forwards, controlling the sand like a puppet; it formed shapes and figures — a person, sprawled across the floor; the sun, bouncing briefly off the ceiling, grains showering to the tiled floor; a boat, a plane, a bike—
"What are you doing?"
Gaara blinked.
The sand fell to the floor.
There, at the doorway, stood Kankuro, an eyebrow arched in confusion, disbelief etched across his face as he stared at his brother. "What the hell was that?"
"Nothing," he replied, pushing past his brother, before the other could open his mouth again — he felt Temari's eyes on the back of his head, as he moved past her and along the corridor, ducking into his shared bedroom, and then climbing out of the window, landing easily on the fire escape. He didn't look back.
In the kitchen, the sand twitched and jerked, before falling completely still, and Kankuro moved to sweep it up, still frowning, still uncertain of what he'd seen. And, at the table, Temari told herself she'd known all along that her baby brother was hiding something, and that, as soon as he returned, she'd try and make everything better. She'd be the big sister she knew she could be. And, halfway down the road, Gaara kicked a stone across the pavement, face carefully, dangerously blank.
His big secret was out.
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By default, Tenten didn't like video games involving superheroes.
She was a cut-and-slash-and-kill sort of girl. Give her a couple of zombies, and she was away. Give her flesh-eating souls and empty-eyed demons, and she'd slice them down with an oversized sword, because she was a hired hitman, and that was what her profession had started doing, since the resurrection of the Antichrist. But, if you gave her bright red pants, blue tights, a snazzy cape and a silly logo, she'd just stare, because seriously?
Almost by default again, Tenten didn't even particularly like superheroes. They held no real appeal to her; even the dirty, gritty ones, with the dark past and the darker future, was too perfect for her. She wasn't one of those people who believed your average, everyday person could become a superhero, either; they could become a hero, but not a superhero. They could do something really good, really brilliant — like save a girl from getting hit by a flashy red sports car, for example — but that didn't make them a superhero.
Grudgingly, she admitted to Shino, eyes still glued on the television, getting hit by a car, dying and then getting back up might make them a superhero.
(Even then, she didn't want to say it.)
Besides, his entire immortality thing had totally beaten her running-so-fast-that-she-broke-the-pavement thing. Power. Whatever it was. And she was loathed to tell Shino, now, especially after sounding so cynical about it all — and the moment the news had flickered onto the television, and Naruto's grinning face had appeared, Sakura had let out a little squeaking sound, picked up her jacket and raced out the house. Neither Shino nor Tenten said anything about it; the pink-haired girl constantly did that. They knew she had friends, somewhere, but they just didn't know who.
She never told them who called her at midnight, and made her smile like a giddy schoolgirl — and who, just as easily, could reduce her to trembling, a mess, tears — whatever. It didn't concern them, even if it did infuriate Tenten.
What possibly did concern her, however, was the blue-eyed boy on the screen in front of her.
After all, he didn't seem that surprised; not even when the reporter had announced, with a grand sweeping gesture, that Naruto had died. He'd looked a bit embarrassed about it all. He'd smiled a little sheepish smile, and then asked if he could go, and he hadn't seemed disturbed or scared or confused. He'd looked as if it were all a bit too much, considering all he'd done; and Tenten couldn't believe a boy with such an open smile could be so mysterious.
It was a little bit attractive, actually.
"Hey, Tenten," Shino said, finally, pushing his shades up his nose and then slouching in his seat; a game controller perched on his lap, his trench coat zipped right up, Shino was probably the definition of 'all things a bit weird', at that moment. And he was wearing shades indoors. "Do you think it's true that he died? He could have just simply been knocked unconscious. Do you think he really—"
"—yeah, I do."
"But that wouldn't make any sense."
"I know the feeling, trust me," Tenten replied, and decided this was the time — this was the right moment. "I know it's not as cool as, well, immortality, but I broke a pavement today. I was running, and then I started to get faster, and the pavement just broke."
Shino looked incredulous, even behind his sunglasses.
"I can show you."
"You're trying to tell me that you did this," Shino said, finally, as Tenten hugged her arms to her body, freezing cold and wondering why they weren't moving more, "That you made these cracks, because you were running."
She nodded.
His gaze traveled back along the pavement, following the jagged crack up the street — it looked more as though there'd been an earthquake, and the ground had shifted apart. If she had made those marks, he noted, eyebrows shooting upwards, she would have had to have been running much faster than Shino could ever have dreamed. She'd have to have been running — he paused, attempting to do the calculations in his head, before letting out a little sigh.
She'd have to have been running really fast.
"This is impossible," he stated blankly, before turning to look at her — all smiles and bright eyes and a little sheepish look, as if she hadn't done something completely amazing and incredible and a little bit scary, "You're an impossible girl."
"Aren't all girls impossible?"
"As true as that might be, you happen to be the most impossible of them all," he countered, before pausing. "And incredible. Pretty incredible, actually."
Tenten looked embarrassed.
"Can we go home, now?"
"On one condition," Shino replied, crossing his arms over his chest. "You run."
It was impressive, he was willing to admit that; but it wasn't speed. At least, he didn't think so; she didn't move her legs quick enough, he thought, for it to be super-human speed. He made sure to watch carefully, eyes narrow behind his sunglasses, and he was pretty much sure of that; her legs weren't a blur of black-and-white, and she didn't move so quickly that his eyes couldn't keep up. Oh, she moved fast, that was true.
That was definitely true.
But she left little craters when her feet touched the ground, and her strides were incredible. He took a step forwards, frowning ever so slightly, moving over towards one of the craters; it was wide, almost as large as her arm-span, and it was deep; when he stepped down into it, he found that the ground reached his calf. He couldn't bring himself to believe, however, that she was doing this purely because she was so fast; because that didn't make sense, not in his mind.
He thought back to his comics.
This — these craters — this was more the Hulk, than the Flash.
Absently, Shino wondered whether he could convince Tenten to punch a wall; and whether that would mean bringing down the entire building, as well. It probably wasn't worth it, he thought; after all, there was every chance he'd just made a mistake; he beckoned for her to move over to him, and she did so, face flush with excitement. There was a moment of silence, as he peered at her — then he opened his mouth, ready to speak. Tenten cut across him before he could even say a thing, squinting at something past his shoulder.
"Is he flying?"
Shino rolled his eyes, "You say that like it's a weird thing."
Tenten elbowed him, smiling despite herself. "I'm going to go and check it out. Meet you back at home?"
"I'll warm the sofa up for you."
"You do that, Shino."
And, with a wink and a leap, Tenten jumped entirely up into the air, disappearing out of sight, before landing a distance away. Shino watched her go, chuckling softly before pressing his hands into his pockets and walking back in the general direction of the flat. It was weird, really. All these weird things. Tenten turning out to be more impossible than he'd ever thought. In fact, her just being so weird.
But weird was good.
It was exciting.
And things would never be the same again.
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Colourful.
It was all so beautiful.
Reds and greens, oranges and yellows — and bright, bright, bright blues. Each colour sparkled like a jewel, shimmering and spiraling and dancing before her very eyes. There were splashes of crimson and scarlet; splotches of violet and indigo and peach, and it all looked so wonderful. Like a circus of colours — like a rainbow, painted high across the sky, and—
She took a step forwards, laughter bubbling up from between her lips, as she crept through the sleeping mind of her older brother. He'd always had a pretty, pretty mind, although he hid it behind his dark eyes and heavy glares and scowls. She'd always known it. She'd always wanted to explore it.
See how he ticked.
Pull him apart.
Karin let herself laugh, then, and the noise echoed all through his mind, because it was all so beautiful and wonderful and—
—and only she could see it.
She felt her brother stir — his entire conscious seemed to rumble, like thunder, and she felt the ground below her feet shake. She folded her arms across her chest, scowling ever so slightly, before taking a few steps forward, moving towards a black door — black as ink, with a little white sign on it; it had always been there, resting in her brother's mind. She'd always begin to walk towards it — and she'd break out into a run — but it would never get any closer. She couldn't see what the little painted white bit was, or meant, either; she was too far away. Sometimes, she thought it was a name — other times, a symbol.
A skull.
She wanted to open it — even if it was Pandora's Box.
Because it was a Secret, and, when you can see into the mind itself, there are no secrets.
At least, not for Karin.
It was a restless dream.
Black and white.
A figure, running towards him, an arm outstretched; hauling him to his feet, but he was only small, and he was covered in blood. It clung to his face, his cheeks, his hair, his clothes, and it stank something terrible. He couldn't move, not at first; he was being dragged along, but his feet didn't want to move, and oh God, oh God, oh Go—
The ground was littered with bodies.
—d, oh God, oh God; the person holding his arm, gripping his wrist so tightly he felt it might shatter, turned and looked over his shoulder, with red, shining eyes. Eyes like a dragon, his six-year old mind screamed; eyes like a monster. Like the thing under the bed. Like the creature in the wardrobe. Like the demon that tap-tap-taps against the window, in the dead of night. Eyes like a monster.
He let out a scream.
Six-years old morphed into twenty-years old.
His eyes opened, and he was still screaming, because he still saw red; and that monster, with the red, shining eyes — that was him, now, and oh God, oh God, oh God—
"Wake up, you idiot!"
Someone slapped him.
And the illusion vanished.
Karin hadn't reached the door; it had flung itself open, and black threads of nothing had spilled out, creeping and crawling towards her; and she'd turned and ran the opposite way because she'd known, deep in her heart, that it was dangerous. But, likewise, she was scared of what would happen if she let those threads entirely cover his mind — would her brother disappear into the darkness, vanishing like a ghost? And how could she save him, either way?
Well, whatever.
If she was going to do something, she wouldn't be able to do it hidden in his mind, scurrying about like a mouse. She skidded to a halt, squeezed her eyes shut, and waited for the familiar rush — the sucking, popping feeling, as she was pulled from his mind, and as she returned to her own. Her eyes flickered open, and she was lying in her bedroom, sprawled across her bed in her oversized pajama shirt. Immediately, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up.
She heard a familiar low moaning, coming from her brother's room, and she began to pick up speed. In her mind, she saw the door. The darkness. The black. She stepped into his bedroom, spotting him thrashing and turning on the bed, his moans turning into screams of pain and raw terror; and, without a second thought, she lifted her hand and slapped — a single, solid slap, which sort of dissolved into a punch midway through.
"Wake up, you idiot!"
He was panting heavily, clutching the bedsheet below him, chest rising and falling; his hair fell into his eyes and, for a second there, Karin swore she saw spiraling red in the depths of those eyes. But she blinked, and it was gone, along with any doubt she might have had. She placed a hand on his forehead, frowning at the high temperature, and then let out a rattled sigh.
"Christ, Itachi — wake me up, why don't you."
He smiled shakily, and her expression of annoyance (and fright, although she tried not to show the other part) dissolved entirely. "Sorry, Karin," he said, and her face turned gentle.
"I was getting up already, so don't worry."
"Sorry," he repeated, raking a hand through his hair.
"Idiot — that was my way of saying don't worry about it!" Karin snapped, reaching out and ruffling her brother's (immaculate, even despite his tossing and turning) hair, before grinning.
Itachi returned her smile, with a casual shrug.
"I'm going to make breakfast," she said, but he placed a hand on her shoulder, raising an eyebrow.
"If you make breakfast, we'll dine on burnt toast and runny eggs. I'll do it. You go and shower, or something. Just give me a second to feel more awake."
Karin nodded, making her way towards the doorway. She paused, just for a second, glancing back at her brother; she didn't really understand him, although she tried to. He was sat on the bed, hands clasped loosely in his lap, gazing down at his palms; it was something she saw him doing a lot. He'd look at his hands, as if he saw something she didn't; and no amount of mind-hopping ever showed her what he saw — whether it was his past he saw, or the brother he said they'd lost, when she was younger. Absently, she thought Shikamaru might now — he knew a lot of things — but then Itachi's gaze moved to her, and she saw that his eyes were distracted. Pained.
She bit her lip.
"You can talk to me, you know."
With that, she turned and left.
Itachi stayed sat on the bed, for a moment, still staring at the spot where his sister had stood, and he wondered if he was causing her pain. He could be, for all he knew — he was never really around, except in the early mornings, and late, late at night. He glanced absently at the alarm clock on his bedside table, frowning slightly; if he continued at this rate, he would be late. He changed quickly, easily, into a suit — crisp white shirt and tailored black trousers contrasting wonderfully with his pale skin and his disheveled features — before taking the stairs two at a time, moving into the kitchen. He fixed Karin breakfast, not bothering with anything for himself, leaving it sat upon the table with a note beside it. He thought his messy, scrawled handwriting looked awfully lonely. So did his sister's eyes.
He banished the thought from his mind, as he left the house.
He walked slowly, at first, hands in his pockets, ducking left and right around different corners, weaving aimlessly with no real purpose; he knew his destination, but he didn't quite want to get there, not yet. No, he took another left, and then another, carried straight on, and then began to slow down, expression perfectly blank as he gazed at the abandoned shop opposite him. Boards had been nailed across a window — another had a hole punched straight through it — and a padlock hung over the door. He crossed over and walked down the alleyway beside it, until he came to concrete stairs, which led down to a smaller door, below the pavement.
He knocked once.
The door swung open.
Blonde hair and blue eyes peered back at him, before the person's lips split into a wild grin, and a hand clapped across his back, "You're late. If you'd been any later, Sasori might have had a heart attack, yeah."
"Hn."
"Not that I really care, of course," Deidara continued, slinging one arm casually around the other's shoulder, pretending he actually gave a shit, despite the fact that both of them knew he loathed Itachi, "But who'd have wanted to see him maim your pretty face, right? Not me, yeah. I prefer your face un-maimed. Or, if anyone was going to do the maiming, it would have to be me, okay?"
"Shut up."
"Eesh, for such a pretty person, you sure are grumpy," the blonde winced, shifting his arm away, before grinning again. "You'd make lovely art."
Itachi resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "You're worse than Orochimaru."
"Come on, yeah! Give a guy a break."
"I'm not going to let you blow me up, if that's what you want," he replied, moving towards the room at the far end of the corridor, where he was certain his partner would be — Deidara stayed where he was, arms crossed over his chest, grumbling curses beneath his breath, as he watched the Uchiha disappear, with one final call. "And stop calling me pretty."
He plastered a big, huge, mad smile across his face, blue eyes sparkling.
"What can I say, yeah? Pretty people make the best art."
Itachi simply rolled his eyes, ignoring the blonde as he stepped into the room; the area was smoky, the smell of cigarettes drifting throughout the room. A single, flickering television stood in one corner, a game's console of some sort plugged into it, despite the fact that the screen was broken, and glass littered the floor; there was a desk in the other corner, a curious man sat behind it. His skin was a light shade of blue, his hair a darker shade, and his teeth shone in the dim light, each one of them pointed and terribly, incredibly sharp. Behind him was a tank.
The shark-man was soaking wet.
"Hey, 'tachi," the figure spoke, flashing a grin and waving a hand. "Wan' a swim, or did ya do your hair all pretty this mornin' or somethin', so you can't?"
Itachi pinched the bridge of his nose.
"No, Kisame — the reason I don't want to swim is because the last time I went swimming with you, you savagely attacked a small child in a rubber dingy."
Kisame chuckled. "Yeah, good times, right?"
He didn't dignify that with a response.
"Did ya see the news, anyway?" Kisame said, finally, after a brief period of silence — Itachi shook his head, and Kisame gestured towards a newspaper, spraying droplets of water across the folded paper as he did so. The Uchiha crossed the room, picking it up and unfolding it, eyes narrowing at the news he saw; a familiar face was plastered across the front cover, underneath the bold title of "Zombie Boy Walks the Streets!", and Itachi felt his frown worsen.
His partner looked only mildly worried. "Did anyone tell ya frownin' will give ya early wrinkles?"
"What are we doing about this?" Itachi said, ignoring the other completely.
Kisame's grin turned dangerous.
"The same thing the Akatsuki always does, of course — we're gonna steal it."
.
.
.
He loved the sky.
The stars — the moon — Konoha City at night.
He loved it all.
Arms outstretched, palms turned to the heavens, eyes wide, expression blank; he felt at peace. The wind whipped at his hair, tugged at his clothes, pulled at him, willing for his wings to burn, for him to fall, fall, fall — but oh, how the caged bird enjoyed his moments, his periods, of beautiful, fleeting freedom. It was wonderful, this emptiness — and emptiness he hadn't felt before, and didn't understand, but it was brilliant nonetheless.
But it was lonely.
It was oh so lonely, up there in the darkness, so high where no one could even begin to reach—
—Tenten's fingers closed around the boy's wrist, and she flashed him a grin.
"Ha! I told him you were flying!"
He blinked.
"Who're you—"
But before she could answer, they began to fall.
"Fly, you idiot!"
"I can't," Neji scowled, attempting to pry the stranger's fingers from his wrist, wondering vaguely how she'd gotten up there in the first place, with no wings, no magical powers — no flight. "You're too heavy. Let go."
"Flap those wings, Bird Boy!"
"Let go!"
"You let go!"
"What does that even mean?"
When they crashed into the tree, Tenten was forced to go back on her word; her reflexes meant that she ended up snatching her hand away from his wrist, instead moving her palms up to cover her face, curling awkwardly forwards into a sort of ball. Not that it really mattered, though. As soon as she'd pulled her hand away, his had snatched back at her again, snagging at her wrist, holding onto her, and she wasn't quite sure why; after all, it was her fault they'd crashed into a tree. Branches scratched her skin and, for a second, she was forced to think of other things; when they finally stopped falling, she let her gaze move to him again, curious.
He was pretty.
Pale skin and dark hair, which fell across his face, cut loose from the ponytail it'd been pulled into; it fell into his eyes, which shone white like the stars, lonely as the moon; tinged ever so slightly with lilac. His shirt had ripped from the fall, but it had been crisp and neat before, and he'd been wearing a suit. He was ever so handsome, with aristocratic features and a gentle, sloping nose; beautiful, she thought. Pretty as could be. She sort of wanted to touch him.
It was a shame he was glaring at her.
There was a brief, awkward silence, in which she noticed that his wings were caught in the branches above him. He noticed her looking and his scowl merely intensified; she smiled and waggled her fingers sheepishly, adjusting herself so that instead of being ensnared by the branches, she was in fact perched upon a particularly thick branch.
He furrowed his brow.
"Do you know what I think?"
"That we should elope?"
His expression turned confused.
"…what?"
"Nothing," Tenten replied, waving a hand. "Continue."
"Fine," the boy snapped, managing to shake away his confusion in favour for a familiar scowl, "As I was saying, you need to climb over and help untangle me. After all, it was your fault we fell in the first place." His expression turned curious, and he crossed his arms over his chest, dangling fully from his wings — which had to hurt, Tenten thought. "How did you even get up there to begin with, anyway?"
"I jumped!"
She gestured wildly behind her, in the general direction of the street; his gaze followed her finger, until his eyes were scanning the pavement, searching for anything to prove her right. Apparently, the series of mini-craters she'd left behind her, as she'd jumped down the street, was enough proof, and his eyes widened in surprise, before his gaze flickered back to her. He looked vaguely interested. He uncrossed his arms, pressing them against the branches beside him, helping himself stay steady. Then he nodded at her, raising an eyebrow. "You can help me anytime soon, you know."
"Sorry," she said, before wriggling along the branch, attempting to move closer to him; she reached out, gingerly brushing a finger against his wings — and they were so soft! So wonderful! She noticed him staring up at her and felt herself flush, despite the fact that she hadn't even been doing anything worth blushing about. "Ah, your name?"
He blinked.
Tenten rolled her eyes, "I'm Tenten. I have an obsession with pointy things, I can kick any guy's ass on any games console, and, when in the comfort of my own home, I wear orange goggles. Hi, what's your name?"
The stranger raised an eyebrow.
"…Neji. I can fly. And I noticed that challenge in your little speech; bet I could kick your ass at any games console."
Tenten grinned.
"I can see this is going to be the start of a beautiful relationship!"
.
.
.
Sasuke shoved his hands into his pockets, walking aimlessly down the street, his mind on other things. There was rarely a time when he was so distracted; when he couldn't really see the people around him, to the point where they just became a blur of swirling, changing colours; but it was nice. The noise of Konoha City just bustled into nothing — into a steady, static silence, which hung heavily in the air, and made his head buzz with brilliant, bright ideas. It made him hurt.
It made him hurt.
But it was good — it was fine. It was better than being back at the flat, with Naruto, who had been hounded constantly be paparazzi for almost three days flat; it was better than waking up, opening the curtains to your bedroom window, and finding a few minutes later that your naked upper-torso is spread all over fifteen different newspapers, underneath the headline "Invincible Boy Wakes Up Next to Pretty Boy". And that wasn't really a headline you could miss.
In fact, when he confronted Naruto about it, saying he'd have to leave or do an interview or something, the blonde had merely laughed, taking the newspaper and saying, "Yeah, I don't get where they're coming from, either, Sasuke. You're not that pretty."
At which point, Sasuke had punched his best friend in the face.
And then left.
Which was, in his opinion, the best way of solving any argument.
Which was why, when he felt the hand slip into his pocket, casually, ever so gently, and reach for his wallet, he turned pretty easily and punched the pickpocket in the face.
Kiba fell backwards, dazed, his hand instantly recoiling to clutch his nose. Absently, he inspected the stranger, all the while trying to stem the flow of blood which was steadily dripping from his nose, inwardly wailing at the injustice of it all — across the street, Hana was barely stifling her laughter. The guy had seemed so small! From both the front and the back! In fact, Kiba had spent half an hour following the stranger, inspecting the slight body, the tiny wrists, the long fingers — and he'd pretty much judged that the guy was a pansy, likely to fall flat on his face in the event of a fight.
He hadn't expected to come up against a fucking ninja.
Oh, the world was cruel.
Still, at least he had the guy's wallet — and he let himself grin at that, making the stranger narrow his eyes in suspicion. Kiba spread his left hand apart, holding the wallet with the faded brown leather between his thumb and forefinger, waving it mockingly; and the other scowled, eyes narrowed to the point where, if looks could kill, Kiba would be way worse than dead and buried. He'd have been ripped apart, fed to dogs, had his remains burnt to ashes, and then been scattered all across the world.
He grinned anyway, though, because he was Kiba, and Kiba wasn't scared of anyone — especially guys with hair as stupid as that.
"Dude, I ought to give you this back, just so you can go and get yourself a haircut."
"I've got a better idea," the stranger replied, easily, not moving, hands tucked in his pockets. "You're going to give me it back anyway, and I'm not going to get a haircut."
"I don't think you know what compromise is."
"I do. It's just not something I'm used to."
Kiba frowned, tilting his head, one hand still holding the wallet. The boy was thin — fragile, in his opinion — but fast. He'd seen that much already; he hadn't been ready for an attack, or expecting one, and so when an attack came, he was stopped pretty easily. But Kiba's fingers were just as fast, and he'd yanked the wallet nonetheless, and would have gone on his merry way, had he not felt the need to gloat for a few seconds. And, well, he was sort of in a mess now, because the guy obviously wasn't just going to let him saunter away and, judging from the punch beforehand and the mocking tone of voice, the other was pretty sure he'd win any upcoming fight.
"Fine," he said, finally, brow furrowed as he attempted to talk his way out of it, "I'll give you your wallet, on one condition — and, c'mon, hear me out. I'm hardly living the high life, at the moment, so buy me and my sister a sandwich, and you can take your wallet back. And then we'll all go our merry ways. Deal?"
The boy raised an eyebrow. "If you're trying to make deals, then you obviously think I'm going to beat you."
"No, I just don't want to ruin your pretty face."
"Fuck you."
"Not anytime soon, pretty boy."
Sasuke punched him again.
In all fairness, he deserved it.
But the guy sprang back, this time, and Sasuke's punch lost a little bit of its power. The other gripped his arm, grinning wolfishly, and then tugged him forwards; a quick, short, sharp jerk, which sent him staggering towards the other, straight into the line of a punch. He doubled over, gasped for breath, and then pulled himself back up, in as short a time as possible, then spinning on his left foot for a kick. The other let out a little squeak of surprise, before falling — making sure to tug Sasuke down with him.
Through a series of punches, kicks and lots of rolling, the other guy somehow managed to pin Sasuke to the floor.
He wondered, absently, if the entire world hated him.
"Is it a deal now, pretty boy?"
Sasuke considered head-butting the other — but, in retrospect, it wouldn't have been worth it — before shrugging lopsidedly, attempting to shift out from underneath the other boy. When he found that he couldn't move at all, and would probably be pinned against the ground until he agreed — and that guy had no shame, seriously — Sasuke nodded. "But stop calling me pretty."
Kiba resisted the urge to victory dance. It wasn't the right moment — he could do that later. Instead, he stood up, stretching a hand out to the other, and tugging him to his feet. "So, what should I call you?"
"I'd prefer it if you just didn't speak to me."
"Embarrassed?"
"Yes."
"Would it be okay if I victory dance'd right now?"
"No." The stranger paused, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed. "You're annoying. Call me Sasuke."
"Like that isn't something I've been told before," Kiba grinned, before stretching out a hand. "'kay, Sasuke. You can call me Sex God. But, since that'd be a little awkward when we're in company, just call me Kiba."
Sasuke peered at the other's hand for a moment, as if he was looking for some sort of trick; but then, after a moment of hesitation, he shook the other's hand, because it was better than just standing there and looking stupid. For a moment, they just stood there, shaking hands, one of them beaming, the other looking rather irritated, before Sasuke pulled his hand away and then punched the other. Kiba swore loudly, spinning away, rubbing his nose once again, and Sasuke folded his arms over his chest, expression blank.
"What was that for?" Kiba snapped, eyes watering as he scowled at the other.
"You stole my wallet," Sasuke replied, "And then pinned me to the floor. I believe it was justified."
"Dude, I think you gave me concussion."
.
.
.
"Sakura, don't sugarcoat it — does Sasuke hate me?"
Sakura peered at her friend over the brim of her coffee cup, inspecting him idly. Blue eyes, blonde hair — he hadn't changed at all, since she'd seen him broken like a doll, flying through the air after being hit by a car. Still, he hadn't explained any of it to her, although she'd managed to piece most of the jigsaw pieces together. He'd told Sasuke, though.
Apparently, Sasuke had punched him.
Which was, in Sakura's opinion, a little unfair.
"Most likely, at the moment," Sakura replied, returning to stirring her hot drink, not looking at Naruto. "You should probably apologize."
Naruto let out a wail of despair.
"But I didn't do anything!"
"That's probably true, as well," she continued, wrapping her hands around her cup and blowing at the steam. "But you apologizing will make Sasuke feel as if he's right. And then he'll probably let you back into the flat, again."
"That's not fair!"
"Once again, you have a point," she finished, taking a sip of her coffee. "But both you and Sasuke are stubborn. Like mules. Or boys. Neither of you wants to break, but one of you will have to break first, so be the mature one, and let yourself break. Then Sasuke will break, and you can hug it out, or whatever it is you two do."
"We normally punch each other for a little while."
She stared at him.
"I worry about you two."
And Naruto flashed her a grin.
"If you didn't, Sakura — who would?"
.
.
.
After the entire debacle with the professor yesterday, Shikamaru had been given a stern telling-off. Which, really, he didn't care about; he'd been close to falling asleep through that, too, and it had only been because of his mother that he'd even bothered staying awake — if he got himself expelled, she would kill him.
No, he took that back.
She would castrate him. And then maybe kill him, if she was in a good mood.
So he'd sat upright and nodded at all the right moments, and pretended to be sorry, and looked a little bit ashamed of himself, and then yawned quite loudly right near the end of the lecture — and the entire thing had started up all over again. The professor had shouted and shouted, and then opened a door, and brought in a boy with pale skin and pale hair and a sharp-toothed grin, and then pointed at him, and said, "This is Suigetsu. He is a fellow delinquent, much like yourself, so I'm sure the two of you will have all kinds of fun. If he doesn't pass his mathematics class, you're both expelled."
Shikamaru was pretty sure they couldn't do that, but he hadn't felt the need to argue then, and so he'd just nodded and agreed.
Which was how he'd gotten himself into his current situation, tied to a chair by the leads of some game controllers, as Suigetsu sat slouched across his sofa, watching television and drinking beers. Shikamaru wondered, absently, if he were allowed to fall asleep — Suigetsu had made it pretty clear he didn't want to do any math — in fact, that was why Shikamaru was tied to a chair to begin with. So, well, sleeping sounded like a good idea.
A brilliant idea.
So he was about to fall asleep, when the door to the flat opened and someone else fell into their merry mess.
Juugo wasn't surprised.
When Suigetsu had said he was getting a math tutor, he really should have seen this coming; in fact, Juugo himself had two, because he was awful at math, and it seemed like the right thing to get. Besides, he was generally a nice enough guy to teach; he tried his hardest and he learned — but Suigetsu was different. He seemed, for lack of better words, unable to learn, at all — and Juugo often wondered why the idiot even went to college, especially since he loathed it so much. But when Suigetsu had said, "Hey, I'm gettin' myself a tutor," Juugo had applauded him. He'd celebrated with beer. He hated beer.
Still, he'd really thought Suigetsu was pulling his socks up.
He stepped into the room, took one glance at the boy tied to the chair — it was that Nara kid, he thought, maybe; the narcoleptic kid, who fell asleep at the drop of a hat — and then marched across to Suigetsu and punched him fully in the face. He hadn't really expected Suigetsu's face to then splatter, showering him with droplets of water, and Juugo took a step backwards, attempting to pat the droplets away. Meanwhile, Suigetsu's face began to reform.
Shikamaru blinked.
He decided he was probably dreaming.
This was all pretty surreal.
(But then he thought of Karin, of the boy on the news, and decided that it wasn't really that weird at all — just troublesome.)
"That is disgusting."
"You're the one who broke my face," Suigetsu replied, scowling.
"I didn't think you were just going to splatter everywhere," Juugo snapped, crossing his arms over his chest — there was still water on his shirt; so, what, was that bits of Suigetsu's face soaked into his clothes? It just wasn't worth thinking about. "That's disgusting. And weird. Plus, we have company."
Suigetsu blinked, before looking past Juugo at Shikamaru. "What, him? Like Shika's gonna tell anyone."
"Shika?"
"His name's too long. I shortened it."
"Alright, then, Sui."
"Funny," Suigetsu scoffed, before turning back to the television, beer still in hand, completely unfazed.
"That's not the issue here, anyway," Juugo frowned, attempting to steer the conversation back to where he'd wanted to take it originally, before he'd punched the other — he jabbed a finger in Shikamaru's general direction, eyes narrowing. "You've tied up your tutor — you said it was your idea to get a tutor in the first place, so why did you even tie him up? Why didn't you just not get a tutor?"
"Because if he didn't have a tutor, he'd be expelled," Shikamaru piped up, with a yawn and a shrug.
Juugo blinked.
"You — what."
"Way to sell me out, Shika," Suigetsu snapped, scowling. "I thought we were friends."
"You tied me to a chair."
"Touché."
"I can't believe you lied to me!" Juugo cut across, his voice rising with irritation — frustration at not being told, once again, no matter how many times he told Suigetsu to tell him these things, "I said you should tell me if anything bad happens! If anything big happens!"
"I did," Suigetsu replied. "I can turn into water an' stuff. Nothin' else is really all that important."
"I can see where he's coming from," Shikamaru agreed.
"Don't side with him! He tied you to a chair—"
"—neither of you are particularly rushing to my rescue, though—"
"—that isn't the point! Suigetsu, untie Shikamaru — and apologize! I'm going to go and get myself a drink, and, when I come back in, he had better be untied; otherwise all hell will be let loose. Do you hear me?"
Suigetsu didn't reply.
Juugo scowled and stomped off into the kitchen.
There was an awkward silence, as Suigetsu glowered down at his beer, obviously sulking. Shikamaru stared at him, before shrugging, tapping one foot along the floor in an attempt to entertain himself, before finally speaking.
"Eesh, I didn't know you were still living with your mother."
Suigetsu scowled.
"Neither did I."
Juugo stomped around the kitchen, because that was the mature and adult thing to do — and, besides, Suigetsu was annoying. Irritating. He knew full well the idiot wouldn't untie Shikamaru, purely out of pride and the like, and so he began to prepare a little lecture, or the like, so that he could bore the other to death. Which he probably wouldn't even use. He'd probably just punch Suigetsu, until he gave up. It seemed like a good enough option.
And so he didn't particularly expect to see Shikamaru and Suigetsu sat side by side, game controllers in their hands, as little flickering figures shot zombies on the screen.
"You really untied him?"
"Yeah, I figured I migh' as well. After all, he doesn' wan' to tutor me. He said it was troublesome." Suigetsu paused. "Is tha' a good thing?"
"No," Juugo shook his head. "Probably not."
As Suigetsu opened his mouth to reply, Shikamaru held up a hand, rolling his eyes, still using one hand to make the figure jump high into the air, flipping before landing, a spray of bullets hitting the ground and zombies around it. "You bicker like a married couple."
"That's disgustin', Shika."
"I loathe to do it, but I'm going to agree with Sui. We're nothing like a married couple."
Shikamaru rolled his eyes.
"How troublesome."
.
.
.
The cell was cold.
Empty.
So empty.
He pressed his arms against his chest. Tears. So cold. So empty. Icicles on his lashes. Snow beneath his feet. It was so cold. Awful, awful. He wanted to cry and scream and die, because it was oh so cold, he felt as if his heart would, any second now, stop ticking, ticking, ticking. It was oh so, oh so, oh so—
A hand, clad in a black leather glove, reached out for him.
—warm.
He wasn't cold anymore.
And the man — his savior — was framed by sunlight; a halo of sunlight, surrounding long, dark hair and pale, pale skin. Cold skin, probably. Like a snake. The sun cast a shadow across his features, and the boy squinted, trying to catch a glimpse of what the other could look like, but there was nothing. Only darkness and shadows.
"You are blessed, child."
((blessed))
"Come with me, Haku."
He nodded.
"Who — who are you?"
And the man's smile widened.
"God."
.
.
.
.
.
notes1: this is partly for fran, as well; i hope you're feeling better, now!
notes2: also, kiba & sasuke interaction makes me giggle.
notes3: please review!