Rating: T, just to be on the safe side
The Woman In the Water
Kurenai, the woman of illusions, who saw visions in the bottom of her cup.
She was praised as the greatest user of genjutsu in the village, even though she knew it wasn't entirely true. If she was the greatest user of genjutsu, why hadn't she been promoted to Jonin? Why was she stuck in her career, in her relationships, in life?
One of the only things that she was consistently applauded for was how she looked like a genjutsu user, with her dark hair, the air of mystery, and the red eyes both sinister and alluring.
Great. She should enter herself in a Miss Shinobi contest or some shit, then.
She didn't even think she looked like an illusionist, herself. She was too tall, too broad in the shoulder and in the thigh. Kurenai tended to envision someone like Satsuki, even with her straight black hair, tied high in a ponytail, and her dull grey eyes. There was something so haunting about the way she looked at people, her eyes morose and her lips set in a sardonic smile, like she knew something no one else did.
She was so thin, so tiny, like the ghost of a murdered child or an old crone who foretold grisly destiny.
Kurenai and Satsuki had always been compared as they grew up, even though they were four years apart, the way all kunoichi were compared. When they were younger, it was mostly to Kurenai's favor – she was a formidable illusionist, capable of distorting reality and the fabric of existence to an extent that jarred both her allies and enemies. Asuma, Raido, and she would finish mission after mission, and their skills were lauded. They made Chunin soon after.
But as the years went on, Satsuki garnered new skills – taijutsu from training with Gai, ninjutsu with Kakashi, and of course, she always had the famed Ishikawa fuinjutsu. Before Kurenai noticed that she had lost the upper hand, Satsuki made Chunin and Jonin simultaneously, and joined Anbu soon after.
And Kurenai had been left behind.
The last time they had seen one another, Satsuki had on her Root mask, the goblin from hell with its distended tongue. Kurenai preferred her regular Anbu mask, the one with the angry chipmunk face. They had seen each other – Kurenai could tell from the way Satsuki hesitated, just a little. Then she had left.
And Kurenai had been left behind.
She was a fraud, an imposter, who lived in illusions and, increasingly, in the bottom of a bottle.
And then Asuma returned from guarding the daimyo of the Fire Nation, smoking to kingdom come. His laughter was too loud, his greetings too jovial, his grumbling too endearing. He didn't even fear her sullen looks like the others did – he'd seen so many that he could even decipher what each one meant.
"You're angry at me again?" he guessed, nudging her and eliciting a grudging smile. "No, you aren't, see, you're smiling. Wanna go get a drink?"
"Only if you're buying," Kurenai said, forgetting whatever small transgression he'd committed against her, feeling saintly for doing so.
"You're gonna run me into the ground, Yuhi, but you know what, I like you so I will," he said easily, and pull aside the canvas curtain for her to duck under. It was around their second bottle of shochu, the tako-wasabi long gone, that she began to speak, to confess what had troubled her for so long.
"Hmm," Asuma said, his cheeks hollowing as he inhaled, the tip of his cigarette flaring up. "You know, that must have been hard. But you should go for it again. Y'know, I'm thinking about taking on a team – Gai's already got one, and he swears by it, too, something about youth and whatever. We're thinking about dragging Kakashi out of Anbu. You know they usually open about three slots. You should apply."
It felt like someone had brought Kurenai back to life, dragged her out of the water that pressed down on her lungs, on her ears, muffled sound and made it hard to breathe.
Satsuki didn't matter – she was no longer Kurenai's specter, dogging her steps. No, that wasn't it, she realized, as she looked down into her cup to see one red eye look back at her.
It was her. She had been the drowned woman in the water, clutching her ankle so that she couldn't swim for the surface. It was time to let go.
Kurenai drank deeply, felt the fire from her lips to her stomach, feeling it settle there. The bottom of her cup was just the bottom of another cup.
She took his cigarette from his lips, tap-tapped it into the ashtray, and took a long draught, resisting the urge to cough.
Asuma stared at her, with her red lipstick and red nails, and she returned the cigarette to his open lips, eyes streaming. There was some lipstick around the rim.
"See you with our new teams, Sarutobi?" she wheezed, her chuckle turning into a suppressed bout of coughing.
Asuma's adam apple bobbed, and he grinned around the cigarette.
"You betcha."
In my culture, victims of drowning accidents often pull on people's ankles when they're in the water, to ensure that they are not the only ones who die. We have a lot of mountainous streams here that people visit in the summer, and if you feel a weird spot in the water, it's best not to go in.
Just a factoid for spooky month! Happy October!
And of course, thank you for reading!