show me a hero and I'll write you a tragedy

[khr] snippets

2009-05-20T08:56:16Z

Mostly just little pieces for RP, as I attempt to build on a little Kakipii. Unbetaed. New to the fandom, new to the character; don't mind me. :3

I.
(losing all feeling now that sunrise is outlawed.)

Ken was the stronger one, of course. Chikusa may have been taller, but there was a gaunt lankiness to his limbs that everyone important knew he would never outgrow. Even now, Chikusa can recall with crystal clarity the way the examiner had poked and prodded and deemed the four year-old entirely unsuitable for experiment HAH-417k.

Perhaps he was lucky, in that regard.

Chikusa remembers the day (April tenth, seven thirty-two am CET) a pair of armed, suited men accompanied the examiner to the feeding room to take Ken away. The silence had been absolute, save for the quiet whimpered prayers of the six year-old girl three seats to his left, an endless, breathless litany to a god Chikusa no longer believed in as they stalked their way in patent leather shoes toward their table, and called the name of his first and only friend in terrible basso cantale harmony. He remembers the way his blood ran cold as Ken put down his spoon, stood, and pushed the chair in gently behind him.

He remembers the way the tiny blond had smiled at him then, the slight quirk of thin lips that held no joy or hope, only an all-encompassing resignation that Chikusa knew even then had no place in the expressive repertoire of a child.

He did not see Ken again for almost two months. When he did --

-- when he did --

--well. He remembers that too.

.

II.
(the world is all bending and breaking from me.)

Chikusa's head had felt heavy and uneven, each of his senses muted as if his whole body had been wrapped in cotton batting. Even his tongue felt thick and half-numb, like someone had drawn a line of fire across the back of his head, but he pushed it away with the un-self-conscious determination only little boys and hardened warriors can muster. After all, there was something far more interesting happening just to his left.

There was a part of Chikusa's mind, one that was only just beginning to acquaint itself with concepts like irony and fate, that was not surprised to see that the child strapped to the bed next to him was Ken -- it was just that between his battered senses and the sheer amount of damage visible against the pale gold of his Ken's skin, it took him a moment to realize it.

It took him a few tries to push out that single syllable that was Ken's name, but he did it, and almost flinched when Ken twisted his head to blink owlishly at Chikusa. There was something about his eyes -- something wild, something different --

Chikusa stared back, focused on those glittering eyes. It was easier to do that than to catalog the bruises that had bloomed across cheeks still chubby with baby fat, spreading down Ken's neck beyond the collar of his thin hospital gown, emerging from the sleeves around the IV's taped to the crook of his elbow.

Ken didn't speak -- there was something weirdly wrong with his swollen mouth -- but he tried, and despite the swelling, Chikusa saw that all his milk teeth were gone.

Chikusa remembers leaning back against the thin pillow of his own bed and staring up at the ceiling for what seemed like a small eternity, confusion warring with his first taste of pure hate. He remembers the way it felt, then, hot and almost comforting, the way it overrode the pain and left him feeling both full and empty.

He remembers the way that, some time in the night, his small hand met and folded around another, just as tiny but now somehow strangely jointed.

.

III.
(and kids get lost, and kids get broken.)

Chikusa remembers because he cannot forget.

Ken might have been the stronger one, but Chikusa's mind was sharpest, and in many ways that was just as dangerous in those days.

The Estraneo may have been bastards -- pure bastards, down to their black, black hearts -- but they were powerful bastards. And when their experiments were successful, they created masterpieces.

And yet, as every critic knows, even the most poignant masterpiece has its flaws, however slight.

Take Ken, for example. Channels upon channels; the ability to become a beast of choice while keeping his human's analytical mind. To a soldier or an assassin, it would be almost as good as the perfect armor. Imagine: the ability to become a panther, to stalk prey by smell alone, to move with beyond-human speed, to rend flesh from bone with an errant swipe of a paw. The ability to become a gorilla, to overpower an enemy with raw strength.

To a fourteen year-old boy with a bad temper and a short fuse, it's just a hell of a way to fight dirty.

Take Chikusa. Take a naturally curious mind, and open the gates. Memory like photographs, ever-crisp, a series of events laid out in chronological order with commentary intact, set aside neatly in stacks, simply waiting for the time Chikusa chooses (or not) to go back and browse. A mind brimming full of knowledge he has never been given time to earn, and a small cable jack that will in all likelihood, within twenty years, corrode inside the sensitive grey matter of his brain (nestled tight, just above the temporal lobe) and -- if he's lucky -- cause a fatal hemorrhage.

(Assuming he has the chance to live that long.)

What good, really, are the siege tactics of Hannibal to an angry child whose greatest ambition is to protect his best friend?

Take Mukuro.

Take Mukuro.

A flawed masterpiece, indeed.

Chikusa remembers, because he cannot forget.

Even when he wants to.

There'll be more -- I haven't even touched on their relationship with Mukuro, which is weird and fascinating in all my favorite ways. But these three bits were in my head tonight and uh ... yeah.]

[Naruto] Wraiths and Strays, Act V

2009-02-10T20:49:48Z

Who procrastinates like whoa?

Act V, set to Claire Voyant - Mercy.

Act V
(in these ashes we all fall down)

Naruto groans and twists his body awkwardly to his left, his entire body burning like it's on fire. He takes a few deep breaths, trying to shake the awful sensation of nausea and disorientation that hovers inside his skull, unraveling all his senses to near uselessness.

When he opens his eyes, all he can see is a thick horizon of dirty gray. He blinks rapidly, clearing his head enough to get a bearing on his situation.

He lies on his side in the trampled snow of their previous battle, shivering violently beneath a thin layer of early afternoon snowfall. He has no idea how long he has been there, but guesses it could not have been much more than an hour by the position of the sun and the fact that he has not yet frozen to death. He takes a moment to drag himself painfully to his elbows, numb hands useless as his body screams in protest at the sudden movement.

Several feet before him, Itachi is crumpled in the snow, his pale skin tinged an unnatural blue. Startled, Naruto forces himself to his hands and knees, half-dragging himself across the ruined snow towards the Uchiha prodigy. His hands burn as circulation returns to them in tingling bursts, half-afraid that Itachi has frozen to death in his own front yard.

As he edges closer to the unconscious man, he raises his head to study the landscape around him, until now hidden by Itachi's genjutsu. The forest is naturally thick -- bordering on claustrophobic -- around them, save for a wide swath of clear ground that looks as if it might serve as a road in the warmer months. Beyond the line of trees, a few miles down the path: snow, dazzling and brilliant and it feels somehow bigger than all of fire country. There are no mountains to break up the skyline, just a fierce, pristine canvas that stretches out and out to forever.

Trembling, Naruto rises to crawl the last few feet to Itachi. He reaches out, his hand pressing against the older shinobi's cheek. He is cold, yes, but Naruto does not think him dead yet. "Way to go, asshole," he mutters, and his fingers slide to Itachi's throat to test the carotid artery there.

Itachi's pulse is sluggish and irregular, and Naruto curses softly.

There is work to be done, then. With a sigh, he rolls Itachi onto his back, irritated by the knowledge that life would be a lot simpler if he just left the bastard out here to die.

(There had been nothing but hatred to see in those ghosts' empty eyes, but Naruto knows, as sure as the sun will rise, that the expression beneath that crumbling mask will haunt him for the rest of his life. Terror, oh yes, but below that --

-- pain, enough to break a soul. If only for the memory of that, and what came after -- he shudders at the images that stir in his mind, fragments of memory to bind them together in the dubious brotherhood of shadowed, shared traumas. For this, Naruto will do everything in his power to ensure Itachi's survival.

This time, at least.)

And there is blood in the snow, streaks of crimson where Itachi's arms have hollowed a place in the powder and Naruto blinks, casting a suspicious eye at the older man. His clothes are untouched; yes, that ominous cloak looks rumpled and wet and nothing more, but when Naruto's fingers brush the ice caked to the wide sleeves, they come away wet with more than just snowmelt.

So many questions form behind those glittering blue eyes, taking shape like jutsu newly discovered; Naruto is already bracing himself for the inevitable silences that will be his answers.

*

An hour later, color has begun a slow return to Itachi's flesh. Naruto sighs in relief and stirs the fire once more, unwilling to take his eyes from the Uchiha for more than a few moments at a time. He is all-too aware of the way even a strong life can slip away between heartbeats. Every blanket from the run-down manor is currently stretched across Itachi's prone body, giving the impression of a child buried to the neck in a great pile of blue-white-grey-crimson-eggshell sand. His own hands are just beginning to find real warmth again as well, and his concern for Itachi is almost enough distract him from the terrible burn of nerves coming out of hibernation.

Something happened that shouldn't have. This much, Naruto understands. He may not have the faintest idea as to the workings of illusions or their counters, but he's fairly certain Itachi shouldn't have rope burns on his wrists, or long jagged gashes along his arms, beneath the sloppy bandages Naruto has wrapped them in. He should never have seen the long, bird-thin bones beneath that shredded flap of flesh atop Itachi's left foot.

He should never have seen the things that really haunted the older shinobi.

Naruto could leave now; there is nothing to stop him. Perhaps Itachi will not live through the morning, even with Naruto's amateur but well-intended care. He does not know the area, but he is robust and there will surely be a village somewhere close, right? Surely Konoha and her allies are looking for him now.

Even as he considers his options, he knows he will not leave Itachi's side. Not now, not after this, not after--

"Come on, dammit," he growls, and rests his hand atop Itachi's cool forehead once more. "Wake up."

If Itachi hears him, Naruto cannot tell.

Itachi will wake up.

He has to.

*

The next two days are unspeakably lonely, as far as Naruto is concerned. He spends his time talking to the sleeping ninja, weaving marvelous stories of the things he's seen, the battles he's fought that Itachi likely knows all about but did not witness. When it gets dark, Naruto moves closer, stirring the fire as he talks about Sasuke. Important things, trivial things, the way he left him hog-tied once in an attic and tried to steal the girl that loved him on lunch hour -- all these things and more, as if he's trying to press upon the unconscious man all the things he's missed. As if he can replace all those memories with something ... different. Something better, certainly.

Sometimes, when his voice is exhausted and there is no meal to make (he has taken to cooking for two in the stubborn hope that Itachi will wake up soon) or bandages to tend, he wanders the house and wonders where Itachi keeps his stuff. Because though is his house and so many things about it make more sense now, there is nothing within its crumbling walls that describes its owner.

He comes back to those dead, crumbling flowers with every revolution he makes.

Perhaps this is all he needs to know.

The next morning, Itachi opens his eyes to see Naruto leaning over him, a length of white binding wrapped 'round his fist.

"It's about time," Naruto says, and sounds like he means it.

[Axis Powers Hetalia] Power Play

2009-02-10T05:29:37Z

Notes: Once, Finland was a Duchy of Russia. To strain relations between Sweden and Finland, Russia elevated the Finnish language to the same level of importance Swedish enjoyed. It was a smooth move; even today, there's a very obvious tension between the two countries.

This was a response written for hetalia_kink. It was a totally awesome prompt, and I'm glad I got the chance to jump on it. The actual porning in itself is kind of weak, but I haven't written anything remotely porny in pretty much forever, so. Bear with me, eh?

Also, writing sane, quietly evil Russia-kun is way too much fun.

Russia shows Sweden his place in the world, by leaving his mark on the one thing Sweden cannot protect -- his wife.

power play
(my head is aflame
my body is distant)

Sweden stands statue-still, long fingers clenching into tight fists at his sides as he tries to survey the situation with some semblance of dignity. Russia is ... is he doing this for Sweden's benefit? Drawing borders? Or is it --?

Oh, how his little wife has grown, willowy and lean and beautiful with sky-blue eyes that dance like a child's. His wife, the one he's protected and cherished since their break from Denmark. His wife, who now kneels near the great throne where Russia sits, those dancing eyes clouded by something entirely different, now. Power. Real importance, or something close enough to it to matter. His first true taste in who can say how long. Something Sweden has not, has never offered; and addictive, without a doubt.

Sweden thanks the seas that Russia is in one of his better moods. Though still dangerous, his mind seems clear enough this day. He almost seems ... affable, pleasant. And even if he isn't, Finland can deal with that type better than anyone, save for perhaps Lithuania.

So far, Russia seems to be completely ignoring (or has forgotten) Sweden, concentrating those luminous violet eyes on the smaller nation at his feet. For the hundredth time, Sweden wonders why he's decided to accompany Finland on this unexpected journey to give thanks for this unexpected honor; he is not unfamiliar with the way Russia works, and it is this knowledge that keeps him close by Finland's side, even as Russia sets aside the bottle and begins to work his magic.

Russia can be incredibly gentle and persuasive when it pleases him to do so. And Finland, eyes glazed and glittering, is accepting every note, every low rumble of a whisper that hints of a special intimacy, responding in soft, lyrical Finnish, his tone giddy. Russia, who is leaning in, an expression of benevolence painted across his features as he presses a feather-soft kiss against the smooth skin of Finland's forehead.

Sweden doesn't know whether to snort or turn away. Instead, he settles for continuing his vigilance, fighting the brutal sting of dismissal as Russia slowly undoes the dark ribbon at Finland's throat. There is no resistance, not even when those large, pale hands began working at delicate pearl buttons, loosening them slowly, one by one.

"You love me, yes?" Russia's words are husky, pushed through a throat that has been burned by far too much vodka, and far too many screams.

The smaller man nods.

"I will take good care of you, little one." Even the accent is soft, and Sweden knows Russia is at his most dangerous now, displaying a manner easily underestimated. Finland makes a soft noise of acceptance, and then Russia is upon him, all eager mouth and hands, claiming dominance over such an unspoiled prize. Sweden, a forgotten statue between suits of ancient armor in the shadows, cannot look away as his little wife is undressed.

Surprising, that Russia can still be gentle. Perhaps he cares for the smaller Finn as more than just a conquest; the thought does not sit well in Sweden's mind. And then there is little mind left for such thoughts; Russia is leading Finland closer, one large hand directing those slow, inexorable steps, the other curling against Finland's hip. A calculated gesture, to offer a place on this throne to Finland, and never mind the exact coordinates of that seat -- Finland, however, does not seem to notice (or perhaps he simply doesn't care, caught in the thrill of recognition), the first start of a tremble visible even from where Sweden stands. The many layers of symbolism certainly aren't lost on Sweden.

Russia, his first hand mirroring the hold of the second, lifts Finland as if he were made of paper and settles the smaller man in his lap, face to face. There's a soft gasp, and then a quiet sound of another kind: it's impossible to be ignorant of the fact that this arrangement pleases Russia in more ways than one, especially when Russia's hands are pressing Finland closer, violet eyes fluttering for a moment in indecision before falling closed. Those huge hands roam across Finland's back, calming with measured gestures before moving to the other side to inflame. From where he stands, Sweden cannot see what exactly Russia does, but from the sound of Finland's gasps and groans (so shy and hesitant at first, but steadily gaining volume and heat) and little whimpers of want, it's more than enough.

The big Russian pauses for a moment to retrieve the ribbon, to tie it once again around the smaller man's throat. It seems to amuse him somehow.

When he begins again, there is something far less gentle in his ministrations -- Sweden, caught between the deep desire to turn away and deny the scene, and another, less savory fragment of himself that is able to appreciate it in the way one might appreciate a tasteful erotic painting (one that hides more than it reveals, allowing the viewer's fertile imagination to fill the tableau on their own), barely stifles the quiet moan that threatens to escape his lips. As if he'd heard -- and perhaps he had -- Russia's eyes flicker open as he leans forward, focusing on the shadows Sweden inhabits. He smiles then, the look feral and wild. He bends his lips to Finland's ear and murmurs something inaudible; Finland shudders hard and nods once, tightly, before his small hands are caught in a motion of their own, teasing and exploring and finding and Sweden is certain this is no longer a one-sided game.

Their lips meet, crushing and tasting, and one of Russia's hands has found a focal point, moving rhythmically, a counterpoint to the steady shift of Finland's hips. The smaller man is shaking, fingers twisting into winter-blond hair as he moves against Russia, and Sweden finds his attention caught suddenly on the play of muscles beneath pale, pale skin, just as surely as his ears are straining to catch the muffled cadence of Finland's soft moans over the sound of sliding, sweat-slick flesh. The tension in Finland's body is growing visibly, building and expanding until Russia stops moving altogether and breaks away to allow the grateful cry of release to ring through the audience chamber.

It is then that Sweden realizes he is shaking like a leaf, hard as a rock and sick with shame and unfulfilled need.

The game will not conclude so easily. Russia is a practical man (when it pleases him), and it is only a few brief seconds from the time Finland's head falls against Russia's chest to the moment Russia is reaching a wet, sticky hand to Finland's rear, seeking a new target, the real target. Finland stiffens when one of those fingers presses against him, then pushes inside.

Sweden is clenching his teeth so hard his jaw aches, glaring daggers at Russia; Russia does not notice or care, and merely continues this new task, dismantling resistance, in this as in all things. Finland is stirring once again, gasping and squirming at what is most likely a painful invasion. In the end, Sweden cannot tell whether the sound Finland makes when Russia withdraws is one of gratitude or loss. Not that it matters for long; Russia is already coaxing Finland into motion, reversing Finland's direction, directing delicate hands to clutch the arms of his throne and lift as he withdraws his own hard cock from his trousers, engorged and dark with arousal. Sweden's eyes search Finland's face for some sign of recognition, a gesture, anything, but Finland's eyes are closed tightly, head lifted to the ceiling, giving Sweden a perfect view of that dark ribbon wrapped around his slender, milk-pale throat.

Whatever preparation Russia has performed, it is not enough; Russia is huge and impatience makes him lose that gentle demeanor as he impales Finland in one smooth stroke. Finland gasps, and Sweden mirrors the sound, a hand pressing against his mouth as soon as it escapes. Russia is still for a moment that seems to last forever, allowing Finland a moment to adjust to the intrusion, surprising Sweden once again. Russia, however, is not idle, not even now, arranging Finland's body just so, back arched, head against Russia's shoulder, Finland's thighs trembling with strain and perhaps something more -- oh yes, definitely something more because Russia's hands are roaming across Finland's boyish chest, tweaking and stroking and bringing to life once more the smaller man's once-spent arousal. And then he's moving, all of him, one hand moving to guide a skinny hip down and down and down and up again, a quickly-caught rhythm, old as time itself. The steady sound of flesh-on-flesh and Russia's quiet grunts fill the space with something more than uneasy silence, and Sweden thinks 's this show for my benefit?, and Sweden thinks th' chair must have gotten bigger since th' last time or maybe it's because Finland's just that much smaller, and Sweden thinks of Finland, sweating and writhing fifty paces before him, paying the price of his gratitude, tousled and shaking and lovely -- so lovely -- still.

Russia's eyes find Sweden over the curve of Finland's shoulder, and he smiles again, eyes half-lidded, an expression that's anything but friendly. An expression that says mine, that draws a half-growl from Sweden's throat, pulling him one step closer. The moment past, Russia finds greater entertainment in marking Finland's shoulder with his teeth. It takes a moment for Sweden to realize that Finland now is watching him, and a moment longer for Sweden to decipher the look he's being given -- a look that, had Russia caught it, would have surely caused him to raze Sweden to the ground. Blue eyes widen impossibly, but that moment passes as well, and Finland's eyes are closing once more.

"Come," Russia growls at last, his attention fixed on Sweden like a predator. Sweden jerks back a step, now there's a phrase with meaning, but Russia is beckoning with a sadistic half-smirk that brokers no room for argument. As soundlessly as possible, Sweden approaches, eyes wary, watching for that spark of insanity to arise once more. He wonders what, if anything, he can do -- he has always been removed, Finland eternally caught between the two of them, and it's never had so much meaning as it does now. Whatever desire he felt dies a quick, ugly death, shriveling in the face of the half-mad creature before him and his games.

"You want to touch him, don't you?" That rough voice rides up his spine, sends him shivering despite the warmth of his clothing, and Sweden cannot find the voice to answer, fighting hard to keep the fury from his eyes. Russia's lips caress the side of Finland's neck, continuing on as if for all the world he were just sharing a word of wisdom over tea rather than driving himself into the smaller man between them, harder and deeper with every stroke. "Do it, if you can." The last is little more than a challenging growl, and Sweden understands what he means. Russia's mark may in time fade from vision, but on Sweden's soul, it is indelible.

As much as he wants to reach out and pull Finland away, he interjects enough hesitant-seeming pause to satisfy Russia's sense of triumph -- as usual, Finland does not understand what is unspoken, and the expression he turns on Sweden is full of confusion, followed by resigned hurt. Later, Sweden tells himself. Time for that later. He reaches out to cradle Finland's face in his hands, averting his gaze as Russia gives one final, rough thrust, and Finland cries out softly in answer. It is a face he has wanted to see for years and years, and now he is not ready to face.

At last it is over, and despite the churning nausea Sweden holds Finland steady until he's sure he won't fall over, then bends to retrieve Finland's clothes, moving with deadly calm. Russia, unmoved since his release, simply watches with lazy curiosity, and Sweden wants nothing more than to wipe that smug smile from Russia's face with his fist. Finland does not resist when Sweden guides his arms into his sleeves, and only gasps softly when he's pulled away from Russia's lap. Sweden doesn't spare Russia so much as a sideways glance as he finishes dressing Finland, then gathers the smaller man into his arms, cradling him against his chest protectively.

Wordlessly, he stalks down the carpet, towards the door.

Behind him, Russia giggles softly, an eerie combination of innocence and madness that hangs in the air like a poisonous cloud. "Come again!"

Never again, Sweden swears silently, and prays that it is true.

[axis powers hetalia] intercession

2008-08-26T03:16:39Z

Summary: In the last days of the Cold War, a conversation between Alfred (US) and Toris (Lithuania). Also, US-kun really needs to pay attention to his history.

Intercession
(hurry up then, or you'll fall behind
and they will take control of you)

"This really needs to stop, you know." Toris eyes Alfred over a half-empty glass of juice, great green eyes narrowed in a rare look of utter seriousness. Long, pale fingers spread across the middle of their small table, almost like they're reaching out toward Alfred -- a young man that has suddenly found himself with few peers at the top of the world.

It was a familiar gesture, placating and offering all at once, but the war had changed Alfred, colored his perceptions -- where once he might have seen compassion and friendship, he now saw weakness and maneuvering. Lithuania knew Russia, had known him most intimately for a long, long time if the rumors could be believed, and looking over at the slight thing sitting across from him, it wasn't hard to believe.

"I've heard your excuses before, Tor," Alfred snorts, turns his head away stubbornly to face the Pacific, eying the horizon hard enough that Toris thought maybe he was trying to see across that expanse to the poor crazy creature that stood against him.

Toris sighs then, following the younger man's gaze out across the water. "You can't keep this up forever. Sooner or later, you're going to go too far, and the rest of us are going to get hurt badly."

That pulled Alfred's attention back to the balcony, and the small man sitting across from him. "Don't you dare try to put the blame on me," he hissed, blue eyes reflecting a sort of youthful hurt that would have surprised Toris had he not lived with that look for centuries, back home. Another sigh, softer this time, as he collected his thoughts. He's too young for this much responsibility. Growing up too fast, just ... just like he was.

Those elegant hands rise from the tabletop, fluttering nervously in a vague gesture of appeasement. "I'm not saying that at all, Alfred. It's just that ... there are things you don't understand about Ivan. For everything he's seen, he's still like a child. A big child, yes, and with terrible power, but a child nonetheless, vulnerable to a child's hopes and a child's fears. For every move you make, he sees a threat, and reacts in the most practical way he can think of -- he builds himself up, trying to outpace that threat so he can feel safe again. You were his ally once. When he looks at you, pulling others to your side, he sees the knife in your hand, and feels your target, warm over his heart." He pauses here, his lips twisting into a heartbreaking smile as he draws his hands back to his chest. "You've forgotten who he is, Alfred. You, who were once his friend."

"I can't condone what he stands for anymore," is the soft, murmured reply, delivered after a moment of silence, punctuated by the distant cry of gulls. Alfred is staring at his own hands, clasped in front of him, trying to see past his own fear and anger to trace the threads of truth in Toris' words. "He'll tear the world apart, Tor. I--I can't let him do that."

"Well," Toris mutters, "speaking for the rest of us, we're not fools. Most of us been around a long time, you know. Your concern is noble, but sometimes the braver thing is let us do what we need do, on our own terms."

Alfred looks genuinely puzzled, and it shows his age; in a way, it's endearing, but Toris is all-too aware of the fates that hang heavily on the youth's decisions. "This, from a guy that's been under his thumb for how long? Tor, sometimes I don't you at all!" He leans back in his chair with a quiet grunt, stretching his legs out in front of him, instep bumping clumsily against Toris' ankle.

"I'm leaving him," Toris whispers, so softly that Alfred does not hear him.

"Besides," he says after a pause, eying Toris with a frown, "a little guy like you wouldn't understand. I've ... I've got a responsibility to you all--" He stops when he notices the smaller man's face, suddenly blank and white as a sheet. He wonders if he's said something stupid again but nothing stands out, so he simply blinks at Toris and waits for a cue.

Toris, however, is far better at composing himself, and he's been around long enough to get used to many kinds of ignorance. He just shakes his head and moves to stand, the slight stiffness in his movements the only indication of any offense. When he turns his back to study their surroundings, it's not meant as an insult, and Alfred is too confused to take it as such, anyway. For a few moments, he studies the ocean, and the hustle of the coastal city beneath their feet. A salty breeze tugs at his hair, and he pushes it away as he glances back to Alfred, who takes the look as an invitation to join him.

"Think about what I've said," Toris says, lifting his head to stare into Alfred's face. "It'll take the both of you, but you two need to work something out. For all your differences, you've got too much in common."

Alfred doesn't quite frown.

"I need to go."

"Be careful, Tor. He might be a kid to you, but don't forget what he can do. If he acts up, give me a call, okay?"

Alfred's dogged concern is almost as heart-wrenching as Ivan's casual atrocities. Toris, who won't forget -- can't forget -- simply nods, not quite trusting himself to speak.

"I'll be in touch. Thanks for dropping by."

And just like that, Toris is gone. Alfred sighs and returns to his seat, taking a moment to get comfortable before focusing again on some unseen point on the horizon, an invisible trajectory that would inevitably intersect with Ivan's. An inevitable conflict, yeah. A chance to be a real hero.

Fifty years is a long time, especially when one is too young to know any better.

Maybe he'd consider a call, after dinner.

-fin
24.08.08

---

Because Al is totes grumpy when he's hungry, haha.

Firstly, I'm totally new to the Hetalia fandom. The webcomic itself is ridiculously interesting, because seriously? Ridiculously adorable anthropomorphized countries of WWI/II import and their wacky hijinks are cause for much thought (and lulz). It's not really to be taken seriously, though there's a lot of wisdom in the pages. Check out the scanlations at hetalia to see what I mean. Love Sweden/Finland with me. Crai moar for Russia. I do. Oh god, I do. D:

AU-ish -- I don't think Lithuania and the US had that much going on during the later parts of the Cold War, and the setting here is just before Liet declares independence from Russia. So, yeah.

For the non-historyfags, Toris' reaction at the end is mostly because, uh ... while he's a little guy now, back in the 1300's Lithuania was the largest country in Europe. Very very big.

And hey! I'm writing again! /o/ Slowly but surely working on the next part of Wraiths and Strays, though spending time away from it and Itachi's more recent revelations made my brain do funny things. Hopefully, more to come. I've got a big urge to write Sweden/Finland fluff. >.>

[ Naruto ] Wraiths and Strays, Act IV

2007-09-04T12:06:41Z

This is pretty much my longest attempt at a multi-part. WTF, right?

Act IV, set to Kenna - Hell Bent

Wraiths and Strays, Act IV
(the pain is of no consequence)

Absolutely not. He heard the Nine-Tails' voice rumble through his skull, full of dark intent. Are you so desperate to let this mongrel clan destroy you?

Naruto wonders about that for a moment. No, he returns softly. I want... To save them, perhaps, he thinks, but that's not quite accurate. He does not know exactly what this thread that binds him to the Uchiha clan may be, but it is not a tie so easily ignored.

The fox's laugh echoes into the night.

Naruto recognizes his surroundings, this time around. He runs his fingers reverently across the faded fan crest on the compound walls -- beneath them, the paint flakes away.

There are no birds singing tonight. The only sound is the unhurried cadence of his own breathing.

"This place is a tomb," Naruto says softly.

By the dead glow of the full moon, Naruto begins once more to climb the path to the house, each step thrumming with power. Behind him, ghosts stir to life, hovering in the bloody shadows.

And now, the boy is scrambling across the sand, all flesh and fear. This time, Naruto reaches out, catching him by the shoulder. The boy spins sharply, and stares into endless blue eyes, radiating with unworldly energy.

He opens his mouth, but no sound escapes his thin lips.

The boy crumbles to dust, and is gone.

Naruto gazes at the empty spot as if he can still gauge the outlines of where the boy once stood. He wonders if there is a meaning in this -- any of this -- or if it is as empty as the idea of clamoring for power just to say it is yours. He laughs at the foolishness of the situation, but the sound that escapes him is bitter and sad.

The dead leaves rustle in a sudden gust, as if these ghosts are in agreement.

Naruto walks the path to the old house with sure, unhurried steps. Power ripples beneath his feet, intoxicating him with the rush, and as it bleeds outwards, the plum and osmanthus bloom for a few fragile moments before falling again into decay.

The ghosts follow him faithfully, though none seek to cross the undrawn border that surrounds him.

As he steps onto the polished cedar porch, there is a sound of tiny bells ringing from somewhere inside the house. Naruto pauses for a moment, his hand inches from the paper-screen door.

Can you smell him, boy? The Nine-Tails' voice is smug inside Naruto's head.

Naruto lifts his face and inhales deeply -- he can smell old blood and death, the decay of summer flowers, and beyond it, the recognizable scent of Itachi: familar, but distorted.

"I smell fear," Naruto murmurs.

Yes.

Naruto shudders like his skin is trying to roll itself from his bones. Cautiously, he steps inside.

The corpse in the corner (Naruto searches for it immediately) twitches in the dull candlelight and begins to stir. Stiffly, like a broken puppet, it starts to rise, and Naruto watches impassively. It takes a few moments to steady itself on its feet, and lurches forward, almost losing its tenuous balance.

It stares at Naruto with large, pupilless eyes, but makes no move towards him.

The sound of bells is louder, now, and Naruto only waits a moment before moving towards the insistent chime.

Like an animal in a trap, Naruto thinks.

Yes, the fox replies. Just like that. Naruto can hear the grin in its voice.

Before him, a shaft of moonlight has broken through the torn paper screen. He pauses there, calm as a monk as the dead gather behind him in the narrow hallway. He breathes in, taking in the scents of death and decay around him, curling his fingers with the innate knowledge that he could tear this house apart, piece by piece.

He smiles, a slow and sleepy baring of teeth.

The door offers resistance when he tries to push it aside. Naruto growls softly and pushes harder, and while it creaks against the runners, it does not open. On the other side of the rice paper, something moves along the threshold, and the ghosts rustle back into the darkness, murmuring.

Naruto crushes the fragile cherrywood frame without a second thought. The shape shrinks back, and he bats away torn paper, staring into the darkened room with wide eyes.

Exposed in the flickering glow of several crimson candles, Itachi lies spread across the tatami in a bloody ANBU uniform, the falcon-head mask covering his face cracked down the middle. Naruto stops completely, fascinated by the scene before him, and the ghosts of the Uchiha clan crowd around Itachi like morning shoppers in a marketplace. At his head, a lone ghost kneels as if in prayer. Though Naruto does not know her name, he knows her face, the way her pale hands contort in death.

As Naruto moves closer, Itachi jerks and the bells chime again with urgency, tiny glittering charms strung along the delicate red rope that binds his limbs. Naruto is close enough that he can see Itachi's black, black eyes through the shimmering, translucent curtain of his mother's hair, and they are wide and glittering with unrestrained terror.

The ghosts are murmuring for blood, a sacrifice.

For an instant, Naruto is seized with the desire to tear out Itachi's throat with his sharp teeth, to feel the rush of hot blood spilling across his tongue. He shakes his head, willing the sensation away, but he can almost taste the coppery tang in the back of his mouth, how good it would feel to have Itachi's life slipping down his throat. He can barely sense the manic grin that curls his lips.

"You will die, here," Naruto says to Itachi in a voice too low for his boy's throat.

Itachi's eyes widen, then narrow sharply as he stares into Naruto's eyes, sky blue gone hate-filled crimson. "Nine-Tails. How did you--"

"You gave me the keys, Uchiha," the fox retorts, the wicked grin spreading until it seems the boy's lips would split wide open. "You opened yourself to me. You were a clan of fools, mongrels drunk on power that was never yours."

Itachi growls and strains at his bonds, the bells jangling furiously against the stress of his motion. "Demon," he snarls, his perfect composure slipping away, "is their death not enough to satisfy you?"

"You still live." The fox says simply, and the grin slides from Naruto's face. "But not for long. I will kill you here, in your own precious illusion, and then I will destroy your pathetic brother. And him." The fox bends in Naruto's body, callused fingers giving way to wickedly sharp claws that reach out towards Itachi.

The ghosts of the Uchiha shudder and sway, tightening the circle around them. The Nine-Tails takes a step closer, savoring the reek of fear coming from Itachi -- he shudders, suddenly collapsing to his knees at Itachi's feet, convulsing as he reaches his clawed hand towards Itachi's prone body.

There is a short snapping sound, then an explosion of bells clattering across the tatami as one of his claws shreds a length of rope like cobwebs. Immediately, Itachi pulls his leg back to deliver a brutal kick to the Nine-Tail's shoulder.

It doesn't connect -- with lightning-fast reflexes, one clawed hand catches Itachi's foot in motion -- there's a short, sharp grunt of pain and Itachi stills once more. Shuddering, the fox rises to his knees with Itachi's booted foot still in his tight grasp. Itachi's eyes widen as the fox applies pressure, claws cutting into the soft leather, drawing blood.

The glowing light emanating from Naruto's discolored eyes doesn't suit him at all, Itachi thinks absently. He wonders if he truly will die here. His illusion has turned against him, his ninjutsu has failed him, his strength has failed him, his cursed blood has failed him -- perhaps, he thinks, the clan will truly die out under this monster's hand.

Naruto (the Nine-Tails, Itachi reminds himself) shakes his head furiously, panting with unknown effort. The pressure on his foot lessens, but Itachi considers his options and holds perfectly still, fascinated by the struggle playing out across the vessel's face. For a moment, the evil light in Naruto's eyes dims, and the familiar blue bleeds out like an ink spill. Naruto's fingers convulse, the claws drawing back halfway into sun-worn flesh.

Naruto gasps for air like he is drowning, head down, crawling up Itachi's body like a ladder, leaving a series of shallow, painful gashes in his wake.

Itachi realizes, too late, that the fox is winning. Naruto lifts his head, his eyes once more those of the Nine-Tails, and smiles.

It's a smile of victory, a perverted, corrupted version of Naruto's annoying grin, all razor-sharp teeth and flecks of saliva. Itachi watches the Nine-Tails come, forces himself to clench his teeth and not scream as claws shred his forearms down to the bone, as he tries to think of some way out of this.

The ghosts press around them, tightly, and he feels rather than sees the shimmering figure of his mother pull away. Itachi, through the haze of agony, thinks that he can't blame her. After all, he hadn't been there when--

--with a fluidity of motion unlike anything Itachi thinks possible, the Nine-Tails rears up, a victorious noise pouring itself from Naruto's mouth as the fox begins its downward ascent, teeth bared and claws extended, all in a perfect arc towards the fragile skin of his neck.

He closes his eyes and lifts his chin. He is proud -- a member of the Uchiha clan, still. He will not die asking mercy, not even if it means saving his soul from hell itself.

He is still a shinobi, the one thing the fox can never take from him.

On either side of his face, mere centimeters from his ears, the tatami erupts in a shower of bamboo chunks, scattering debris that bounce off the broken porcelain mask precariously balanced on his face.

Itachi can feel the light pressure of teeth against his neck -- human teeth. Naruto's breath comes in a long, shuddering pulls.

"No," Naruto mutters, raising his head. "No." His blue eyes are glazed and unfocused, and he pulls away from Itachi's throat, only to collapse on top of him.

And then the ghosts are upon them, phantoms wordlessly screaming their rage at being betrayed once again.

[ Naruto ] Wraiths and Strays, Act III

2007-08-21T07:57:15Z

Plz to be telling me I'm not the only one all unf unf unf over the last few chapters? Because I am. >D (Also, don't expect this sudden run of things coming out at a decent pace to last; the inspiration is flowing, yes, but tomorrow is Moving In day, and it's just the beginning of my favorite clusterfuck of all time: re-situating. Alas!)

Act III, set to Tom McRae - The Boy with the Bubblegun.

Wraiths and Strays, Act III
(I cannot hit to hurt, or cause you pain)

The first days are always the hardest. There is always time needed to adjust, whether captive or captor, to the presence of something (or someone) not entirely planned (or wanted). The first days are the contained stresses of lines constantly being drawn and crossed and drawn again, correcting as needed until some semblance of peace can be attained. Usually, it ends when a captive is broken, but Naruto is not the fragile type, and Itachi is no more strict than he feels he must be.

And so the first days are mostly Naruto learning what he can get away with, and Itachi learning what he can stand. As the snow quietly buries their empty corner of the world, Itachi and Naruto build something of a truce, hesitant and fragile as it might be. Effectively, Naruto does not try to leave the house, and Itachi does not crush the bones of Naruto's legs to dust.

Naruto understands that without a solid working knowledge of genjutsu, he will never be able to go past the line of trees beyond the house without Itachi's knowledge and consent. After a few hours of testing (and confirming) the thoroughness of Itachi's jutsu, Naruto decides to work off some steam by chopping wood. Itachi lets Naruto try to figure it out for himself for a while, but when his patience runs out he rises from his place near the fire to teach him how to split the abused cedar into proper pieces as opposed to mangling it to ruin with the worn axe.

Despite the ego shakedown, Naruto slides open the door at sundown to announce that there is no more wood left for him to beat on, and that Itachi had damn well better cook something extra good for the effort he's put in.

Itachi responds with a few packets of beef-flavored ramen, and regrets it almost immediately. After several hours, Naruto is still chattering away at him like he were an old friend. He doesn't stop until Itachi turns over in a pointed display of going to sleep.

The next day, Naruto is up early, practicing his shuriken throwing against the trunk of an old tree. Itachi spends most of his time out of Naruto's reach -- a part of him is afraid that the blond will search him out to ask advice, and that bothers him more than he is able to admit.

*

Itachi spends most of his days meditating near the fire. Naruto wonders what Itachi could possibly have to think about for such a long time; Naruto does his thinking in motion, recalling Sakura's smile and Sasuke's glare in every kunai and kick that strikes wood.

Sometimes when Naruto is tired, he will attempt to mirror Itachi's stillness, but in those times the thoughts just won't come. Instead, Naruto holds the image of a snow white forest in his mind, and imagines the sound of ice shattering, one cold piece at a time.

*

"I suppose you're going to kill me soon," Naruto says one morning, between mouthfuls of warm venison stew. His expression doesn't change as he speaks -- if anything, he simply looks curious. "After the snow melts."

Itachi's indifferent pose is betrayed only by the slight lift of his shoulders. His eyes are dark as he raises his head to look at the younger shinobi. "That's the core of it. Unless you are speaking of me, personally."

Naruto laughs harshly. "What? Too lazy to take it all the way and finish me yourself? Or maybe you just don't want to mess up your nails." His spoon thumps against the tatami floor as he turns away, a scowl darkening his face. (Itachi thinks that Naruto's hair has grown noticeably in the last few days, and is slightly irritated by the way it covers his eyes. It's one of the few things Naruto hasn't complained about during the course of their time in the old house. Itachi wonders why it's crossed his mind at all, but then again Itachi has always been slightly compulsive about his personal appearance, as well as his surroundings -- he has the feeling that Naruto has realized this as well, which would explain the amount of time he spends milling around the house when it's too cold for practice, shuffling objects seemingly at random.)

Itachi studies Naruto for several minutes, observing every nuance presented in his posture. Naruto's head hangs low between slumped shoulders, limp arms extending into clenched fists that rest at his sides. Itachi is intrigued by Naruto's attitude as usual -- a casual (if not sparing) conversation turns to musings on his death, and if anything he seems mostly upset that Itachi has not claimed killing rights.

"What makes you think you're worth the effort?" Itachi asks, his voice carefully neutral.

Naruto stiffens immediately, a low growl escaping his parted lips. Instantly, Itachi activates the sharingan, still as death as Naruto slowly turns to face him. It's somewhat amusing, Itachi thinks absently, how simple it is to strike nerves with him.

And just like that, their fragile truce is broken. Naruto lifts his head and gives Itachi a look full of hate, but beneath it Itachi can easily trace the undercurrent of pain.

Entranced as he is by this display of emotion, Itachi is ready when Naruto attacks. He is aware of the fact that any serious battle will destroy the most useful room in the house, so when Naruto comes for him he responds with a vicious kick that sends Naruto rolling across the tatami, using the pause in action to throw open the sliding doors and step out into the frosty morning air.

A part of Itachi welcomes the fight, and he wonders if this is more an outlet for Naruto's excess energy than an angry response; after all, each of the jinchuuriki he has encountered so far have been violent creatures, and Naruto, despite his compassion, is no different in that respect.

Naruto and Itachi both understand the futility of this battle. Both know, undoubtedly, which is the stronger shinobi. Itachi will not kill Naruto, even if he wants to -- Naruto's time of death has already been determined by those above him, and to destroy those carefully-laid plans now would be to seal his own death as well. Naruto will not kill Itachi, even if he has the opportunity -- Itachi is his last link to Sasuke and his own redemption, and without that link he may as well be dead.

Armed with that knowledge, they fight bitterly, the necessity of landing killing blows replaced by frustration at their helplessness. They fight like wolves without teeth or claws, trading ugly punches and kicks that hurt, but will do no lasting damage. They wheel around each other, scattering snow in their wake, and Naruto is screaming his fury into the frigid air as he empties his weapon pouch into the space where one of two shadow clones prepares a fire jutsu. Temporarily blinded by the sun's reflection off the snow, Itachi skips backwards just enough to avoid a frantic kick to the kidney -- he misjudges his step, however, and one of Naruto's clones lands a brutal punch to his temple. Naruto comes for him with glittering kunai in each fist, and Itachi sways back, feigning disorientation for just long enough to find an opening; he strikes, open-handed, and his palm catches the underside of Naruto's chin. He finds satisfaction in the tooth-shattering crack that echoes across the clearing as Naruto tumbles across the trampled snow.

It takes a moment for Naruto to rise, and Itachi takes the time to assess his own aches and bruises. Naruto has landed a few solid blows, even managing a successful swipe across his forearm with a kunai. It's a shallow wound, but it stings, and Itachi frowns in annoyance; despite his own vicious regiment of training, it has been several months since Itachi has fought so long without resorting to genjutsu, and he can feel what a mistake it has been. The side of his head is awash with pain, brilliant light blossoming behind his eyelids each time he closes his eyes.

Across from him, Naruto is forming a dangerous blue sphere in the palm of his hand. Itachi's skin prickles with the energy flooding the clearing, and he can almost see the malevolent chakra of the Nine Tails twisting around Naruto in hot red waves.

There is only so far genius can take you, Itachi thinks wryly. Well.

He feels the familiar, disorienting pull as the tomoe in his irises lengthen and begin to spin with renewed intensity. There is a split-second of dizziness, the sensation of falling backwards, and then he blinks it away.

And then Naruto charges with an angry cry, the rasengan whirling in his hand with all the fury of a compacted hurricane. Itachi snaps off a shuriken, precisely aimed, and when it is deflected by the invisible barrier of the Nine Tails' chakra, Naruto lifts his head to Itachi in a feral snarl.

Itachi does not hesitate to catch Naruto in his tsukiyomi -- Naruto halts mid-stride, eyes wide and unseeing, the rasengan sputtering out like a smothered candle in his cupped palm.

It takes Itachi a moment to realize that something has gone very wrong. As he slips from consciousness, he hears a sinister snarl, as if from a distance.

[ Naruto ] Wraiths and Strays, Act II

2007-08-14T04:58:47Z

I'm still alive, kids. This has been close to finished for some time, but with the moving and all I haven't had time to get to it -- that, and I kind of forgot that I was trying to keep these bits short, and I was trying to fill it in. Bah.

I dislike using honorifics in English language fiction, but it's pretty hard to get away from them where Itachi and Naruto are concerned, you know?

Act II, set to A Perfect Circle - Passive

Wraiths and Strays, Act II
(maybe you're better off this way)

Itachi crouches in front of the sunken fireplace and contemplates the snowmelt boiling in a kettle suspended above the flames. This is an old house, nestled against the mountainous border of Earth Country, and the tatami is worn and fraying from years of disuse. It is warm house, however, separated from the rest of the world by a distance that seems that much greater under heavy layers of snowfall.

It is also eerily similar to his childhood home, and while does not dwell much upon the connection, he cannot deny the slim amount of comfort it offers him.

His gaze tracks across the room, taking note of the withered flowers bowed over a cracked vase, the light carpet of fallen petals slowly turning to dust at its foot. They have been there since he first entered this house over a decade ago, and no matter how often he cleans the rest of the building, he leaves them to decay in peace. All things considered, perhaps it is a fitting tribute: dead flowers, once lovely, to commemorate a house in ruins.

Halfway between the flowers and the fire, Naruto is beginning to stir beneath heavy futon blankets.

Itachi activates the sharingan out of habit and studies the unconscious vessel with a mixture of idle curiosity and annoyance. He had not intended to encounter Naruto for some time, yet -- there were still two vessels left to deal with, and to catch him early would be to allow far too much opportunity for Konoha to stage a rescue. Circumstance, however, seemed to have different ideas, and he had instead encountered the boy hunting him.

Naruto had gotten stronger since their last meeting, but not yet strong enough. A simple mistake had given Itachi victory, but in exchange forced him to abandon his current mission until he could dispose of Naruto. Thus, Itachi had set off towards the Akatsuki headquarters for safekeeping until the ritual, and this time, nature intervened -- winter had come early this year, with unnatural violence. With dangerous weather and no other options available to him, the most pragmatic option had therefore been to bring Naruto to this once-abandoned house that he had turned into his home.

Itachi measures the space between Naruto's shallow breaths, and prepares himself for the vessel's awakening. He stirs the embers with fresh wood and wonders if Naruto will try to fight or run. Itachi believes that Naruto will fight -- it seems to be his natural response to any threat, and it has always been his response to Itachi's presence.

It may be an interesting spectacle, Itachi thinks. A week is a long time to neglect one's body, especially if one is a shinobi.

Naruto groans softly and turns his face towards the fire. He is not yet awake, but he will be within minutes -- Itachi intently watches the way his eyes flutter, searching for consciousness beneath heavy lids. Naruto's hands fist slowly against the thick cotton of the blankets, the movement jerky and uncoordinated, like old machinery creaking slowly to life. Itachi is unsurprised by this -- after all, he had subdued Naruto with one of his stronger forms of mid-level genjutsu, and then suppressed him further with an incapacitating seal. It would do no lasting damage, but it guaranteed a handful of days in which the nine tails' vessel would not wake.

Suddenly Naruto tenses completely, his peaceful expression melting away into a mask of nothing. Itachi leans forward, one hand sliding across the dusty tatami towards his weapons. He doubts he will need them, but Naruto's unpredictability is legendary, and Itachi has never been fond of surprises.

"Who--" Naruto's voice cracks with disuse, and he swallows a few times in an attempt to coax his vocal cords to life. "Who's there?"

"Good evening, Naruto-kun," Itachi says softly.

Naruto's expressionless face holds for a moment, and then the mask cracks, thin lips pulling down at the corners in the beginning of a scowl. A shiver runs down his shoulders and arms and disappears beneath the futon blankets, and Itachi can sense the beginning of fear slipping through the vessel's chakra. Naruto, Itachi thinks, is not nearly as afraid of him as he used to be, and he wonders if it is just foolishness, or if Naruto has simply learned to hide his fear. Across the room, sky-blue eyes blink against the firelight, trying to shake the filmy haze of sleep.

Itachi's immaculately groomed fingers rest against the cool steel of a kunai, waiting for what will happen next.

After a few moments, Naruto sighs and turns towards Itachi, squinting at the older shinobi. "Good evening, Itachi-san." If he is afraid, he manages not to show it. He wears the expression of the condemned.

Itachi cocks his head to one side, studying the younger shinobi. He is still hesitant, waiting for the attack, but it's beginning to look like Naruto isn't interested in a fight. "How are you feeling?" He asks, out of a sense of politeness more than true concern.

Naruto's scowl deepens, and he attempts to brace himself on one arm, a maneuver he hardly manages. There is a moment of awkward silence between them: Naruto grumpy and sleep-tousled, Itachi perfectly composed, both gauging the other for a sign of danger.

It is Naruto who gives in at last, grumbling as he flops back onto the warm futon. "Seriously? I feel like shit. My head hurts, my body hurts, my eyes hurt--"

Itachi bites back the urge to smile, instead cutting off Naruto's laundry list of woes. "Would you like some tea?"

"Yes." Naruto's voice is surly, and his expression shows that he knows this. "Please."

Calmly, Itachi ladles boiling water into a chipped sake cup that bears a faded, elaborate version of the Uchiha crest, then adds a generous pinch of sweet-smelling herbs to the water. He stands and walks to Naruto like a hunted animal, moving just barely within arm's reach to offer the cup.

Naruto sits up and watches Itachi for a moment before accepting, as if he's enjoying Itachi's discomfort. He cradles the cup in both hands, warming his face over the steam, and he keeps his eyes on Itachi for the entirety of his retreat back to the fire.

They sit in silence, at a stand-off, watching each other over cups of cooling tea for the first hint of action.

After several minutes, Naruto tears his gaze away, scowling. "Well, this is stupid," he grumbles. "What now?"

Itachi just snorts, and keeps watching.

[ Naruto ] Mourning Air

2007-06-03T15:32:39Z

So, this was actually the first Naruto fic I ever started writing. It's been molding on various hard drives since about, gee, 2003. You'd think that after four years, I'd somehow manage to come up with some truly inspiring opus, but there was a reason that it sat there. I'd look at it from time to time, half-finished as it was with bits that I was totally pleased with, and just not know how to get to the end. Surprisingly enough, I ended up pulling pretty much all of those parts, because I've learned a lot about characterization in that time, and I've learned a lot about Kakashi as well. I also discovered that I prefer writing present-tense to past-tense.

Originally, it was titled 'Bad Guys', and was supposed to be follow a conversation between Kakashi and Naruto over morality and Zabuza and Haku's villain status. The end product, however, deviated considerably, and while I still wanted to follow that thread (and may at some later time), it became a lighter piece on Naruto's first real encounter with mortality and reality as he never imagined it.

Inspiration via Portishead and, uh, Dan Fogelburg. (SHUT UP DON'T JUDGE ME. D:) Naruto is not mine, and I'm totally making no money whatsoever with my fandrivel. Comments are appreciated -- I wonder if you can tell where I picked it up?

mourning air
(a part of the heart gets lost in the learning)

Twilight lingers beyond the aspen groves, six hours since they died here and it is still snowing. Two shinobi work side by side in respectful silence, the younger of them unnaturally quiet since they'd begun this thankless task.

Kakashi wonders if this is the real Naruto he works with now. The boy is reserved, unencumbered by the mask of the childish prankster, his expression mournful and contemplative in a way that doesn't fit his carefree image at all.

Kakashi is proud of him, as curious as he is concerned about the obvious bond that had been forged between his pupil and the young shinobi Zabuza had retained. Perhaps there will be a time to ask, though Kakshi knows he never will -- he of all people can understand the value of secrets, and for that reason he does not mention seeing the boy slip a piece of the broken mask into his pouch.

The wood is wet with snow, but it is a trivial concern; fire jutsu creates enough heat to burn things far less flammable than this. It would be easier to just forego the wood altogether, but Kakashi has great respect for the shinobi pair and will hold a proper funeral. (There is also the matter of erasing the bodies; without a true hunter-nin, it is up to Kakashi to obscure the secrets of the Mist.)

Beyond that, he has a feeling Naruto would not allow anything less.

Naruto leaves for a few moments, returning with one last armload of wood, almost stumbling before continuing on stubbornly without so much as a sound of complaint. Their battle has taken much from them, but there is no one else who can do this -- Sakura refuses to leave Sasuke's side, and the Uchiha boy is back at Tazuna's home, slipping in and out of consciousness as his body tries to negotiate the damage it has taken from Haku's devastating attacks.

That is part of Naruto's silence, Kakashi thinks. There had been so much in the sudden spike of chakra, but it had been so, so strange. Dark and foreboding and evil, oh yes, but it was the--

--the tangible swirls of grief that curled like smoke through that seemingly endless power, thin and choking, like stepping out into deep winter from the warmth of a welcoming home. It left him gasping for air. It left him feeling that the world had ended, and he wasn't sure why.

He wonders, briefly, which of that body's inhabitants had been responsible. Not because he doesn't believe his student can grieve (nor does he truly believe the kyuubi can), but because he didn't think humans are capable of that level of anguish. It had felt so...endless.

Overpowering.

Inhuman.

Naruto kneels in the snow, placing the last pieces of wood on their makeshift pyre; inelegant, yes, but it will serve its purpose well enough. He sits there a moment in silence, and Kakashi wonders what sort of thoughts run through the boy's head. Dimly, the jounin realizes that this has been Naruto's first battle to end in death. A twinge of unexpected sympathy hits Kakashi.

He should have been able to keep his innocence a little longer.

He quells the thought, almost as soon as it occurs.

But we are shinobi, and he is the fox-child, and this is the first of too many deaths that he will see. It would not do to turn away now.

Naruto jumps beneath the damp fleece of his coat as Kakashi's hand clasps his shoulder. Slowly, he lifts his head to face his sensei, and it is impossible not to feel the pain painted across his deep blue eyes. His is a child's grief; the sorrow of first blood smeared across his cheeks and clothes. For a moment they simply look at each other, and then Naruto turns away like he has been caught doing something wrong.

Kakashi lowers his hand, and leaves the boy to his silence and his grief.

"This sucks," Naruto says quietly. "This really, really sucks."

"This is what we all become one day," Kakashi answers, a little too quickly. "One day, it will be me. One day, it will be you, too. Sasuke and Sakura too, and everyone else we've ever known."

Naruto's hands shake visibly, and Kakashi realizes that perhaps that was not the right thing to say. He sighs, and tries something a little more appropriate. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay." Naruto answers simply. "I guess we should do this, huh?" He gestures to the wood inarticulately, and starts to stand.

Kakashi blinks. "Yeah." He pauses a moment to gather his chakra, feeling the warmth rush through the channels in his arms, swirling and building in his fingertips as he forms the seals. Naruto gasps softly as fire blossoms before them, igniting the wood and the bodies in an instant.

Another silence passes between the pair, two shinobi seperately contemplating both Death and Purpose. For one, it is a struggle--what has happened today is so vastly different from the glorious heroic ending he has raised himself to believe in, and the part of him that isn't reeling in horror is attempting to come to terms with this reality. For the other, it is an avenue of thought too-often travelled, and he still no closer to understanding.

Before them, the fire crackles and rages, the sickening scent of charred flesh and burning hair riding the currents. Naruto shudders and fights not to turn away, and it takes every ounce of effort in his small frame not to run for clearer air. He stares at the pyre, stares until his eyes lose focus and the crisp outlines of the flames blur into a red-orange wall. He holds on to that image until the smoke forces his eyes closed and leaves him blinking hot tears that cool fast against his cheeks.

"Kakashi-sensei?" Naruto's voice sounds small, empty of his usual forced confidence.

Kakashi shifts and lowers his head, watching Naruto struggle for words. The boy doesn't bother to wipe the tears from his cheeks, and for a moment, Kakashi's previous thoughts rise again to the surface before being pushed down firmly. "Yes, Naruto." It is not so much a question as an encouragement.

"Ha--Haku," Naruto tastes the syllables hesitantly, as if he isn't sure whether he is allowed to speak the dead boy's name, "he wanted me to kill him. He said I took his reason to live." He shudders and huddles in on himself, the action making him look far younger than he is. "I understood what he was saying, Kakashi-sensei. I don't--I don't understand why he had to die. Why wasn't there another way?" His voice rises as he continues, traces of desperation beginning to lace through his tone.

Kakashi contemplates that for a moment, sifting through his thoughts and memories in an attempt to explain to a twelve-year old ninja that there are things that supercede personal safety, that sometimes nindo is just another name for death wish; that one can rarely succeed on belief alone. He thinks of Obito and Rin and he thinks of the Yondaime and he thinks of all those names carved in cold stone and realizes that this is something that simply cannot be explained, no matter how one tries.

He notices that Naruto is looking at him, eyes wide and full of confusion, and he knows that Naruto will never understand because his will to live is stronger than anyone Kakashi has ever met. The fire crackles and spits, and Kakashi turns his attention back to the flames and curses silently the fact that he has never had a talent for words. "Sometimes," he says and swallows against the bile rising in his throat as his memory finally settles on the image of white hair streaked crimson with slick blood, the gut-turning scent of intestines freshly ruptured. "Sometimes, the price of our failure is more than we have."

Kakashi forces the memory back down and closes his eyes, recalling the secret satisfaction on Haku's face as Kakashi's hand broke through his fragile chest. He combs the snow out of his hair and says softly, "sometimes, there is no choice at all."

Naruto turns away, his expression pained, and Kakashi knows he is trying to reason out this thing that he is far too inexperienced and far too young to understand. He opens his mouth and abruptly closes it, then opens it again. "I was going to do it," Naruto says after a moment, his voice so low it's almost lost in the wind. "He stood there and told me to come at him because it was the only way and I thought Sasuke was dead and--"

"--You didn't kill him, Naruto," Kakashi says, and looks at Naruto with such intensity that the boy shrinks back. A part of him wants to lecture Naruto. A part of him wants to tell Naruto that at his age he had killed more people than he had years to his name. A part of him wants to tell Naruto that if he had killed Haku it would have been for the mission and nothing more --and that before long he will do just that-- but even though Naruto has not been Kakashi's student long, he can sense that there is more to this child, and that he will not be able to hide behind the encompassing wall of mission priority.

Naruto only looks away, and Kakashi tries to remember what it feels like to not have blood on his hands.

Several minutes pass, the silence hanging between them only emphasized by the whisper of falling snow and the crackle of burning wood. The fire has started to burn low, and where once bodies lay there is little left but cinders. Naruto slips a cold hand into the larger curve of Kakashi's, small fingers trembling as they press against the rough fabric of his glove. Kakashi starts, surprised at the sudden gesture, the childlike display of weakness. He regards the boy for a few long seconds, and then surprises himself by squeezing back. He has never been good at offering comfort, but Naruto's face softens then and Kakashi is overcome with a sudden, unexpected wave of gratitude.

"Can we go back?" Naruto asks quietly, and Kakashi realizes after a moment that Naruto is speaking of Tazuna's home beyond the forest. Kakashi can see that he is shivering, and he knows that Naruto is concerned about Sasuke, though Naruto would never admit it. He glances back to the dying fire, but there is nothing left to do here, no reason to remain in front of this heap of burned wood and ashes. He nods briefly, and Naruto releases Kakashi's hand, straightening and brushing the snow from his shoulders like he was never vulnerable.

Kakashi watches the embers for another moment, then turns and thrusts his hands deep in his pockets. He offers one last silent prayer for the spirits of the dead as he walks towards the edge of the forest, and listens behind him for the soft crunch of Naruto's footsteps in the snow. Before long, he knows, this storm will pass. Sasuke will rise and pretend that nothing ever happened, Naruto wil return to his careless ways, and Sakura will again take her place between them as the middle ground that binds them both firmly to the earth. Before long, this storm will pass, and perhaps they will be that much wiser for it, because there are lessons to be learned from life and mortality that no amount of his instruction can provide.

Or perhaps it won't. Perhaps Sasuke's indifference or Sakura's obsession or Naruto's foolishness--perhaps all these things--will be their ruin. Kakashi doesn't fool himself into thinking that there aren't flaws in the bonds his team is struggling to form; he is constantly reaching through the years to extract the important lessons of those who have come before him. He hopes it will be enough.

Above, the sun breaks through the clouds and Kakashi briefly imagines this small island as a jewel floating at the edge of a glittering sea. In the distance, the sound of the village bells echoes off the water, rising above the snow and the forest and escaping into the atmosphere. Naruto trots past him and turns back, and Kakashi is relieved to see that Naruto's face has been cleared of that melancholy expression, replaced with a look of impatience that propels Kakashi forward into the forest, toward the village where the rest of his team is waiting.

Yes, Kakashi thinks and lifts his face to the sky, this storm will pass.

-fin
June07

-- I know I say this a lot, and I really intensely dislike the idea that I seem to be constantly whining, but the more I go over this the less happy I am with it. Maybe it's because I still remember what I wanted it to be, and really feel that the product comes up short. I'm definitely going to sit on this for at least a few days before archiving it anywhere else, see what you cats' opinion on the thing is. I also think I need to find me a beta that I can sling ideas at; I'm kind of hesitant to go searching really hard for one, though, since my output isn't exactly expedient, and trying to keep someone's interest with a lot of dry periods in between is kind of difficult, sometimes. Anyone have any ideas on where to look? I know there are a few communities out there, but I'm kind of shy. >.<

I'm totally moving to Arizona in a few months. How excited am I? A WHOLE LOT. ♥

[kingdom hearts] the drifts

2007-04-23T01:00:03Z

Just realized that this never got archived anywhere, due to it being super-secret Secret Santa fic for anzila from this last Christmas at kh_drabble. So. That said, have some Leon/Aerith waff; spoilers only for Hollow Bastion's "true" name.

the drifts
(when you gonna love you as much as I do?)

"You're going to catch cold if you stay out here like this, you know."

Aerith turned, silver bracelets jingling softly against each other as she raised a hand in greeting. "I know better. I just got a little caught up here, I guess."

Leon stood on the crumbling edge of the bailey with his arms crossed, his chin tucked into his collar. He watched her silently, unwilling to break the fragile peace of the evening with any further admonishment.

Snow fell thickly, glistening like diamonds in the moonlight, blanketing the ravine trails and bluff in a heavy layer of powder. Aerith lifted her face to the sky, delighting in the sensation of snow melting on her cheeks. Perhaps it was cold, but it wasn't often one could see Hollow Bastion --no, Radiant Garden-- in such a state of utter stillness.

Wordlessly, Leon hopped down to join her on the cliff. He removed his coat and draped it over her shoulders, and she bowed her head gratefully.

"Beautiful, don't you think?" Aerith asked softly as she turned her eyes back to the horizon. Her cheeks were flushed with cold, her face framed by snow-spangled auburn bangs and thick, white fur. She smiled then, and it was like watching the sun rise -- he blinked as the wind kicked up, sending snow spinning around her furiously in a brief, violent storm.

"Absolutely," he breathed, and she did not notice that he was paying no attention to the landscape.

[ Naruto ] Wraiths and Strays, Act I

2007-04-19T03:31:26Z

Notes: It's been a while since I've done much of anything around here, but this is why. This is the fic that is Consuming My Soul. Seriously. Originally, I was noticing a sudden surge of fanmixes/etc going on in some of the communities I stalk, and I thought about doing something like that, along the ItaNaru lines because it's probably my favorite Naruto pairing of the moment. But it's hard to take a kind of cracky, baseless OTP and throw some songs at it and assume it will make sense, so I thought I'd drabble a bit for each one. But then it grew, and instead of drabbles, I settled on short chapters set to a soundtrack.

This part has been finished (mostly) for a while, but I had some stylistic issues I wanted to address. I'm not completely happy with it, but I'm a lot closer than I was last week. This is an experiment, and I'd love to have some serious c/c before I release it to the World at Large.

With that said, I'm dedicating this mess to somekindofen , because she is a fabulous genius and I want to kidnap her and keep her all to myself and covet her and her fiction for all eternity, and ronsard , because it's all her fault anyway. :D

Act One, set to Coil - Rosa Decidua/In Memory of Truth.

Wraiths and Strays, Act I
(I've put away the poisoned chalice, for now)

The first thing Naruto notices is the return of sound. It blossoms slowly around him, hesitant at first but growing louder. Wind whispers through a grove of bamboo, pulling eerie moans from the throats of weathered, severed stalks. To his left, a pair of oururi sing softly to each other over the rasping song of cicadas -- he can gauge his uncertainty by the shudder of his breath as he takes a small step forward.

Beneath his feet he hears the crunch of coarse stones, freshly raked.

The next sense to return is smell. He smells wet earth like morning after a rain, but above it the fragrances of plum and sweet osmanthus are overwhelming, swirling through his mind, cradling his scattered thoughts in a pleasant, hazy cloud. He sways unsteadily on his feet, slightly dizzy as he takes another step. The wind whips past, adding a frantic ensemble of windchimes to the chorus of his surroundings.

Naruto tells himself he's not afraid, but he's beginning to smell the blood and human decay rising from the earth, and he is terrified.

Touch, then sight. He feels the cold wind across his face moments before opening his eyes to a landscape drenched in lifeless moonlight, old and faded like a washed-out watercolor. The trees shiver and shake, scattering petals across an obsessively-kept garden, pale pink and yellow spinning wildly before falling to the white sand below.

To his right, a familiar fan crest adorns the inner walls, proud even as it shows obvious signs of age and disrepair.

House Uchiha.

Naruto has never dared to walk this path, only looked on from the outside. He does not belong here.

Behind him, beyond the old compound gates, there is nothing but an inky void.

Slowly, he begins to follow the stones across the courtyard. He is sure he is dreaming -- no time, in reality, does the earth feel like the life has been sucked from it in this way. It's like stepping into a painting half finished, a whole body rendered half-alive by ancient, unshakeable power.

Footsteps echo empty through the courtyard; Naruto turns to see the ghost of a small boy run blindly across the grounds, ignorant of the careful arrangement as he scatters sand and uneven footsteps in his wake. Naruto is intimately familiar with the boy's features, the expression he remembers as so somber now screwed up into a mask of barely restrained terror.

He's ready to wake up now, but he can't, and so he passes the stately bamboo grove to reach the veranda surrounding the old house, following the disappearing trail of the child. The door is already open, and shredded rice paper flutters weakly from the panes.

There is a moment of hesitation before he slips inside. The smell of blood is thicker here, and his hand shakes as he reaches for the wall to steady himself. Fear trickles like cold water, sliding heavily down his spine.

Inside, the anemic light of a single candle gutters on a low wooden table, casting flickering shadows across worn tatami mats. The weak light doesn't quite reach the alcove, and so it takes him a moment to distinguish the form of a corpse bent against the wall, a spray of blood drying slowly across the face of an ancient-looking scroll that hangs there.

At its feet, a wilted arrangement of summer flowers lies scattered, abandoned.

In another area of the house, he can hear the boy screaming, a sound of primal agony.

He's ready to wake up now, but he can't. Naruto does not want to intrude on the private agonies this boy holds close to his heart in the places he cannot reach -- he is unwelcome in this memory, and he knows it.

Something is drawing him further in. Helplessly, sorrowfully, he follows, a faltering path steeped in the blood of another's madness and misery.

He knows how this story ends.

*

The passageways are littered with corpses and pooling, drying blood, and Naruto thinks he'll choke on the scent with every step he takes. Kunai and broken blades are buried in beams and furniture and bodies, and some of these corpses bear the telltale wounds of vicious sword strikes.

There is carnage everywhere, and not a single living person in sight. Despite his utter revulsion, Naruto feels a twinge of something -- wonder, perhaps, over the sheer brutality on display. Some (the unarmed, he thinks, and supresses the urge to gag) show signs of precise, instant kills, throats split wide open like second, gaping mouths. This is merciless in every aspect; were his thoughts any less lucid, he would pass it off as nothing but the darkest of nightmares, if only for the sake of his sanity. Men have gone mad for less, he knows it and reaches out to gague his own breaking point.

The screams at the far end of the hallway have dampened to sobs, punctuated by the occasional keening cry. Naruto tilts his head toward the sound; his legs are frozen and he is momentarily overcome by the intense desire to flee in horror. He should not be here. He should not be here this is not his to carry runrunrundon'tlookbacknever-

Shakily, he crosses the final stretch, and trembling fingers grasp at the door.

(In retrospect, Naruto will think, between the two of them perhaps he is the lucky one. It is a fact that his lack of a true family bears the blame for a fair share of his developmental psychology. Fulfilling that emptiness is something he can hope and labor to achieve, yet in the end, what he will have can only be an imitation.

It begs the time-worn question: is it better for one to be born blind and never know what is missing, or to be born with sight and spend the rest of one's life in mourning for what has been lost? Generally, Naruto will choose the second option, and laugh, and say "well, at least I once knew."

Generally.)

Naruto will never really understand how to act like a brother, because he has never had the experience. Despite this, he knows without a shred of doubt that this is not what a brother does, forcing the mother and father who surely love him to their knees, perfect sacrifices to some pointless evil and there is a clean slice and blood slick and heavy and pooling into the thirsty grooves of the floor again and again and again. This is undoubtedly not what a brother does. This is not what a son does.

The child shaking so fiercely, pale round face hovering inches from the corpses, babbling softly to the cold face of his father (the body is still fresh, the blood sliding from the corner of his mouth has not yet begun to congeal). This is his line, Naruto thinks sadly; this is his boundary and he has been gone for years and years. Naruto kneels beside this child, reaching out to lay a comforting hand on the trembling shoulder of the memory of his closest friend.

In the shadows, there is movement, the flash of dull tainted silver as the bloody blade catches a shaft of moonlight. Naruto lifts his face to the other (Itachi, his mind says in Sasuke's voice), calling his power to his hands, rage stirring his chakra in a fierce, angry surge of raw energy. Perhaps this is simply a dream, perhaps it is something else entirely, but he cannot stand idly by and let this go unpunished.

"No." The word is spoken sharply with a voice full of imperious authority -- despite himself, Naruto falls back on his haunches in a cringe. There is power in Itachi's words and it sucks him dry, violently tearing away the red-heat of his chakra away to nothing at all.

Enraged, Naruto leaps toward this shadowed assassin, forcing all of his energy into this sudden attack. And he is fast, but this man is faster, easily absorbing the weight thrown against him as he turns and pins his would-be attacker against the wall.

"Why?" He forces the words out from behind gritted teeth, angry and struggling for air against the strong arm pressing against his throat.

There is a moment of utter stillness, and then he is swallowed in the deep swirl of spinning crimson eyes.

*

Thoughts?

Fic domain!

2007-03-07T04:23:36Z

So, hurrah me. Recently, I decided to just up and get a seperate domain to house my growing pile of fics. Therefore, I'd like to introduce to y'all karaoke-soul.net. I've gone with the eFiction CMS, which despite lots of bugs and whatnot, is still a remarkable piece of script (I'm almost positive it's the script Ficwad uses). So. I've spent a good pile of hours the last day or two to skin it (kind of plain, but meh), figure out the quirks, and upload almost all of the surviving pieces. I'm, um, really excited about this. :3

As an added bonus, there's a module that makes me particularly happy; people visiting can post challenges, so feel free to test it out and give me something to write about!

If you're interested, check out the site and tell me what you think. I'm planning on adding some more skins in the future, at the very least -- like I don't have enough design projects already. ToT Any input or ideas would be loved.

As for fiction, I'm currently working on volume two of Fragments, as well as thinking about resurrecting an old Tekken epic I was working on some number of years ago. Still plotting Death Note epic, but the amount of research involved is kind of intense, and I'm muddled in places with where exactly I want it to go toward the middle. O_o

naruto :: fragments, volume one

2007-02-27T13:23:24Z

Notes: So, I had this idea the other day, as kind of a writing exercise, because I'm a total masochist when it comes to that sort of thing. The gist is to use each chapter's cover page of the Naruto manga as something of a prompt, and yeah, the total on that is, as of this week, somewhere in the 340's. Sometimes the application will be obvious, other times, not so much. The intention is to try to keep things current with the chapter; that is to say essentially no spoilers in twenty-one for something that doesn't happen until forty. Don't quote me on that, though, because I'm not terribly far into this, and there's a chance that plans may change. The other intention is to base each bit off the image, but I may deviate from that, rarely. (Kishimoto seems to have a serious hard-on for drawing pictures of Naruto and frogs, and I can imagine this might get a bit redundant after a few volumes. :P)

Fortunately, I'm sticking to drabbles/flash fiction because 340+ full fics is painful-sounding and vaguely terrifying. As far as posting goes, it'll go by volumes (split if it's one of those killer 15+ volumes); something around 7-10 chapters/drabbles per post, because that seems to be a lot less friendlist-abusive than one at a time, you know?

I'm just getting back into the Naruto game after a multi-year hiatus. That said, some of it might be a little on the 'blah' side as I warm back up into things. :D ConCrit is lovedlovedLOVED; I like praise as much as the next person and handle flames pretty well, but neither of those things will make me a better writer.

Disclaimer: Naruto belongs to Kishimoto and his handlers. This is just fanwork.

zero. this is only the beginning/darkest before dawn
(there is nothing in his space but darkness and cold and silence)

And then the earth began to heave and quake with preternatural violence, wreckage and bodies crumbling broken to the streets below.

Then the scream: primal, timeless, terrifying, a demand for absolute destruction that sent even the most steadfast shinobi tumbling (like so many dead leaves) against the sheer force of ancient hatred that gave it voice.

Then...

Then came the silence. It was a soundless explosion, a vacuum that swept the village. It took with it the cries of the wounded and dying, snuffed out the smoke and the flames and the hopelessness of the people and sent all those things outward to crash against the granite cliffs and into the forest beyond the broken walls.

One by one, the survivors lifted their faces to the east as the sun began to rise.

The stillness was shattered by an infant's cry.

one. what dreams may come
(a talent for smiling, a talent for living)

In dreams, Naruto has friends, people who love him and laugh with him and eat ramen at his side. Sometimes he even has a family: a mother who wakes him up with breakfast and a warm hug each morning, a father who teaches him how to be strong. He has a rival, and a beautiful girl that that adores him. The people of Konoha line up as he walks by to congratulate him for being such a fine ninja. (Naruto dreams in full color, ten million shades of little boy desires that spring to life in vibrant watercolor washes of hope and happiness.)

In dreams, Naruto does not live by himself in a cold apartment that leaks during the rainy season. He does not spend his days reaching for the backs of the people who surround him. He does not wonder what it's like to feel the warmth of another's love and affection.

But only then.

two. appearance deceiving
(hiding from some poisoned memory)

Naruto stands in front of the bathroom mirror, naked to the waist, crimson paint drying on his fingertips like old blood.

He does not know what inspires the patterns, but he likes the way it turns his soft face feral. He stares at his reflection, entranced.

Perhaps he stares too long. Something in him stirs: he bares his sharp white teeth and grins, not a Naruto grin, but something other that surges to the surface and he thinks he imagines screams and the smell of smoke and death and iron tang sliding heavily across his tongue and--

He shakes his head abruptly, startled.

three. juxtapose
(after all this time I still carry my heart blind)

Kakashi doesn't need the Hokage to remind him who Uzumaki is. A part of him realizes that Sarutobi probably knows this, but goes through the motions to spare him the discomfort of having it pointed out.

Kakashi knows all about legacies. He knows how unfair it is to walk in the shadow of a father. He also knows that Naruto doesn't know these things.

(When the adults of Konoha look at Naruto, Kakashi knows what they see. He'll never forget the way the flames guttered and cast grim shadows through the smoke, the way terror slid cold and clawing in the pit of his belly as he realized what it truly meant to be powerless. He supposes he understands; they weren't there at the end, when the Yondaime curled around the infant and prayed forgiveness, gripped by a force Kakashi could feel but not see.)

A worn photograph peeks out from a pile of half-rolled scrolls. From beneath the shock of thick golden hair stares brilliant blue eyes unlike any left in this world, defiant and determined and heavy with an undercurrent of loneliness that hovers just beneath the surface.

"He doesn't know," Kakashi says softly, eyes flickering to the man standing quietly beside the kitchen table.

Sarutobi intently studies the piles of dirty bowls, and pretends not to hear him.

four. dirty mirror
(we all must make this mistake)

If they had the senses to receive it, they would have felt this: heavy tendrils of destiny, slick and slipping 'round their fragile throats and hearts, something far greater than themselves guiding each desperate kunai throw and frightened shudder belly-down in the brush.

Sasuke would not have accepted it, even if he had the knowledge. His mind was heavy with his own chosen path.

Sakura, steeped in genjutsu and a twelve-year old's guileless adoration, would have missed it in the corona of the Uchiha's glow.

Regarding Naruto, things rarely went as planned, destiny or not.

five. idle hands
(intrigued but no more astounded)

"It could be worse," Sarutobi murmurs thoughtfully as he surveys the elite teacher's bleach-splattered clothing. "It seems he's calmed some since the graduation."

On the other side of the desk, Ebisu simmers, fists clenched tightly at his sides.

six. horizon eyes
(pardon me while I burn)

Naruto knows he is a great ninja, even if no one else wants to admit it. But there is always greater.

Until, of course, he gets to the top.

seven. your famous heart
(once again love calls you by your name)

There are many things that Sakura knows. Her forehead may be large, but so is the expanse of her knowledge, and she prides herself in this. She knows seventy-four different points that can be used to kill a man. She knows all the rules of the shinobi, rules that will keep her from making mistakes in future missions. She learns quickly, and does not forget. She has yet to learn that knowledge and application are light-years apart.

(Sakura is confident in her own way, but only when cushioned by a margin of superiority in a given task.)

No scrolls, no perfect scores, no recitations will tell her how to win the Uchiha's heart. Common sense tells her this is true, but she is young and sure that somehow, someday, Sasuke will surely understand the depth of her feelings.

She is willing to wait.

True love always prevails, right?

--end volume one--

End notes: Phew. I had no idea how patience-trying it would be this early on! Some of them I like (two and three particularly), and some ... I really don't (six comes to mind; it wasn't supposed to, but it ends up feeling like a cop-out, and seven is image that could go so many places, but my mind is stubborn and gods I was ready to write something *not* Naruto-centric). Zero is a potent and beautiful thing in my head, but I've fought it and fought it and the words just won't cooperate, last line especially.

Thoughts? Pointers? Should I just give up now? Oh-em-gee 33 volumes left, just counting current *full* volumes. AUGH.

death note :: inertia

2006-12-19T07:26:33Z

Another Death Note fic. I'm not happy with it, but I've been staring at it for hours and I don't want to deal with it anymore. LightxL slash, not worth an NC-17, but definitely a hard R for sexin'.

Summary: It is a battle of a different kind, though no less brutal.

inertia
(recollect me darling raise me to your lips.)

He is not in love.

Nothing even close, really.

L's body arches against his, and he smiles brutally - despite the haze of pleasant stimulation, he is clearly in control.

How strange, Light thinks; L does not react like a lover should. He will not drag any sound beyond a throaty growl from those thin, sugar-coated lips. Reedy fingers may scramble and fist into the sheets and the tender flesh of his back and thighs, but those dark eyes will never close, not even at the peak. It is a battle for dominance, one of the more interesting ways they fight. (And they do. It is savage and animalistic, teeth and nails and sweat and one would think they are trying to rip each others' throats open with the sheer force of their lovemaking, if it could even be called that. They fuck like enemies. They are an even match.)

Even now, even while L's sharp white hips grind against him in obvious challenge, the detective is searching for Kira in his touch.

That suits Light just fine.

L's bottomless stare tracks each movement: analytical, emotionless, simply waiting for the slip. Perhaps he has learned to school his emotions better than Light; perhaps he simply does not care. Either way, Light thinks that perhaps he's losing, and the thought drives him mad.

For a moment, Light hates him more than he has ever hated anything. He wants nothing more than to destroy those black, black eyes, to force a scream of something from the cadaverous man beneath him. Anything at all. With a soft cry of frustration, he bows his head against L's pale chest, rocking forward hard enough to push L six inches closer to the headboard, hard enough to exact a shallow gasp of pain.

It's not enough.

Light jerks the chain that binds them harshly to one side, snarling like a dog as the aluminum links tighten around L's throat. When he raises his head, there is no mistaking the touch of madness gleaming in his dark eyes.

L's mouth shapes the words slowly, lazily. Twenty-seven percent.

Fuck you, Light hisses, but it's too late, and the slick clenching heat of L's body is too much. His body spasms and twitches as he comes, clutching the chain hard enough to leave bruises against his palm. L follows suit soundlessly, the only indication of his own release a shudder that travels the length of his body, and the sticky pool of warmth spreading between them. Perhaps he is excited by the pressure against his throat. Perhaps it is something else entirely.

Light knows he has lost. He holds the chain there a moment longer (waits for the madness to retreat), breath coming in sharp, stacatto gasps before releasing it and collapsing to his elbows. He shifts, burying his face in the damp curve of L's neck. "Why," he murmurs thickly, "are you so fucking cold?"

He is still inside him.

L snorts softly, turning his head away from the warm, soft face so close to his own. In this war, he thinks, it is impossible to leave unscathed.

"What does it matter?" L returns softly, and if Light were watching, he would see dark eyes flutter closed, a bleak look slipping across L's face. His voice does not tremble. "You don't care at all."

-fin
18.12.06

I reallyreally need to stop writing porns and get my KH secret santa fic done. Speaking of porns ... I swore I'd never write them again. Oops, huh?

Also, anyone familiar with the Death Note universe that wouldn't be interested in being an idea-beta for me? I just want to throw some ideas for an epic!AU at you and see if it wouldn't work, at least a little. If interested, email/g-talk me (shiikuATgmail) or AIM (roketto rabu).

kingdom hearts :: an interlude

2006-12-14T04:17:59Z

Sora has his first run-in with snow. Goofy thinks of someone else.

Spoiler-free. I finally break my self-imposed rule of not using the prompt in the fic, sigh, but there are only so many words for snow that aren't just silly in fiction. I have been hit with Death Note Plot of Doom, homg.

an interlude
(never forget the warmth.)

"Whoa."

The words are breathed rather than spoken, and Sora presses his nose against the view port, entranced. He's out the hatch before the ship even finishes landing.

(It doesn't exactly snow much on tropical islands.)

Donald squawks indignantly, webbed feet pounding across the deck as he chases the Keybearer. But Goofy gets there first, wearing a silly, almost fatherly smile as he throws an arm out to block the mage's pursuit.

"What does he think he's doing?" Donald hisses, horrified.

"Makin' snow angels, looks like. Snow ... somethin', anyway. Yup."

And it's true. Sora is lying on his back in the snow, eyes wide as he watches the flakes rush towards him. He might not be laughing out loud, but his eyes are sparkling with unabashed delight.

He looks like he's having the time of his life.

He looks like any normal, happy kid would, racing out to meet the first snow head-on.

"Well ... huh." Donald watches for a moment longer before turning back to the warmer parts of the ship. "Let me know when it's time to get to work." He pads of, grumbling half-heartedly about frostbite and nobodies.

The knight waits until the shivers set in to lure Sora back with promises of dry clothing and hot chocolate with fluffy white marshmallows. Sora complies (of course), noticing for the first time how wet his clothes have gotten in the last half hour, the way his shoes squelch with each step he takes. He retreats down the hallway in search of the next big adventure and warm drinks, his head spinning with yet another experience to share with his friends.

Goofy lingers at the hatch a moment longer, eyes unfocused as he tilts his head toward the horizon.

He is not thinking of this boy at all.

-fin
13.12.06
words: 300

WHO IS THOROUGHLY UNIMPRESSED? That's right, it's me. D

death note :: three pages

2006-12-13T06:41:28Z

Oh, man. Another new fandom for me. >.> This is a test-run for future DN stuff which may or may not happen, also this is me getting my feet wet. Bless.

Summary: Living with ghosts has never been easy. Spoilers up to the end of the (manga) series.

one. loose-leaf.
(killing softly and serial.)

Oh, he'll remember this forever. Abso-fucking-lutely.

Light drifts through the center like a ghost the room darkened but for the anemic glow of the monitors. It is deserted here, its patrons dead, the other members of the team surely wringing their hands at home, waiting for that telltale pressure to rise up inside their fragile chests.

(he is not the ghost)

Beside a stack of reports lies a slender tea spoon, still sticky with old saliva and traces of sugar.

He does not want this. Light does not dwell upon obstacles removed.

(God does not second-guess himself)

Yet as always, Ryuuzaki proves to be the exception to the rule even from beyond the grave, a lingering, tangible presence accompanied by the bitter feeling that maybe Light didn't win as much as he'd first thought after all.

L was his enemy, the proverbial wrench thrown carelessly into the gears of his grand machinations. Ryuuzaki-

Ryuuzaki had made Light's life interesting for a while, and maybe brought him a little bit of happiness. Perhaps Light had deceived Ryuuzaki about many things (sometimes on purpose; sometimes not), but he had not lied when it mattered.

Light is haunted by cake crumbs and six different flavors of vanilla, a handful of sugar cubes scattered beneath the desk. His hand shakes as it touches the glass. He can hear a voice rattling off percentages and scenarios, ways that he could have avoided this whole stupid mess in the first place.

It is his own.

.

two. crumple.
(singing the song her sinking lover sung.)

Some days are better than others. Days when he was still alive, certainly.

Misa sits kneeling on her apartment floor, surrounded by flowers (mostly wilted) and plush animals that grin down at her manically. She has not taken a job since her last conversation with Matsuda, and unheard voicemail floods her cell. Hey Misa-Misa, this is Yakimoto speaking. We're worried down here. Don't you remember? We have a contract.

She is dimly aware that she's sitting wrong, the beginnings of paraesthesia harassing her skinny legs. She can't remember how long she has been here or even why, only that there are things left to left to be done. And she is right, of course - she often is - it's just that the world she inhabits cares for little more than the promise of bare curves and kisses.

(And eyes, of course, but that is a different story.)

There is nothing special about this notebook. Nothing at all.

Amane

kanji like broad, like the fist-sized hole in her chest he once inhabited

Mi

kanji like ocean

Sa

kanji like sand.

She keeps writing, ink-stained fingers cramping (she doesn't stop) as she repeats the characters over, over again. The pages are turning black.

Saturated.

Misa is haunted by pressed shirts and pens twirling on perfectly rounded fingertips, the ghost of a fallen god. (Two, really, but only one that mattered, even if the words he whispered were mostly lies.)

But not for long.

.

three. tin-foil.
(you've still got to ask for proof.)

Near is more comfortable close to the earth, even seperated by layers of concrete and subways and water mains. It keeps him grounded. It keeps him humble.

Behind him, Gevanni's hands dance across two keyboards, hunting either criminals or information - the others left him days ago, tired but alive. How fortunate that his team made out so well. He understands he had not necessarily been the one better prepared, but things were far simpler when your hands were allowed to stay clean. Mello had assured him that privelege.

(another debt unpaid)

Tiny finger puppets lay scattered amidst chocolate wrappers before him, vulgar effigies of the people they represent. After a moment's deliberation he selects two of them, feeling the cold weight in his palm.

One: eyes bulging, a lump of dirty white to indicate hair.

The other: golden and impish and scarred, a bit more intricate than the others.

He studies them for a moment, compiling lists of differences and similarities, passive-stone-introverted, fearless-kinetic-gone--

He sighs and closes his hand into a fist. In the darkness there, plastic cheeks press together, hard lines and soft curves surrendering in pursuit of a whole.

(but only until the pressure is gone)

Near is haunted by the raw scent of leather and the memory of cool, most hands wrapped 'round his throat, the inexplicable feeling of something missing.

Naturally, he thinks.

-fin
12.12.06

AMIDOINGITRITE?

kingdom hearts :: rubicon

2006-12-13T05:39:13Z

On Axel, and the final encounter with an old friend -- perhaps. Spoilers for near-end of the game. This was written while under the influence of Apoptygma Berserk (with special regards to Unicorn).

I'm really sorry for those of you who just got your flist SPAMMED. >.< I kind of got behind. Sorry, y'all.

rubicon
(when the time comes, I'll give you my life, anything.)

You knew it was over the moment you saw him, didn't you? Summer-sky eyes and a heart that sang so sweetly to the part of you that you thought maybe wasn't so lost after all and you knew -- you knew -- that you were undone.

And you wondered (for just a moment) if you couldn't have changed things, couldn't have kept him close to you and out of this boy who is him but not and avoided this entire mess in the first place. Did you not reach far enough the first time he walked away? Did you think you could stop him? This time, you knew you wouldn't make the same mistake. It was the defining moment of your not-life, and you did not hesitate.

Who did you dance with then, two bodies spinning and twisting and diving in that brilliant swirl of blood-fire and violence? When you glanced his way, was it a trick of the light the way his image wavered for those few precious seconds and you saw a splash of golden hair and defiant eyes behind a curtain of shattering duskflesh?

Maybe. (But you knew better, and your chest heaved and clenched so tightly you thought you'd die. No, not yet, not yet!)

When you called the fire from the empty space within you, it was his Memory that fueled the flames that burst like justice from your mouth, his Name that burned away anything that might try to contain him.

And you were pleased with the outcome, even as you collapsed all crushed and broken and empty to the passage floor. You savored the way that even without your fire, warmth spread from your center, rippling outwards with increasing intensity and you thought you might be consumed again. You marveled at how much lighter you felt as the darkness began to fade, and you thought it was a good way to go, far better than death at the end of the keyblade -- death at his hands.

For the first time in as long as you could remember, you almost felt complete. Almost.

Perhaps your own heart was out of reach, but you thought that if maybe he could find it in himself to make a small spot for you in his, the end might not be so terrible after all.

-fin
8.11.06
word count: 387

I think the end is really awkward. Thoughts? (I really honestly do appreciate c&c.) I fought with it off-and-on for about five hours, and finally it and I reached a bit of a compromise. So. Now that I've finished, I'm going to reward myself with a night of FFXII and a little bit of the new Neil Gaiman I've been staying away from for the last several hours.

kingdom hearts :: fair trade

2006-12-13T05:29:41Z

Ambiguous referencing of SoraKairi's Others, not really warning-worthy though. I feel bad letting such a good prompt (reflections) go to waste. >.< It kind of got rushed for fear of missing deadlines (I won't be off work until it's over, I'm sure), and while it maintained the basics of the original idea, it didn't go nearly where I wanted to.

Fair Trade
(but if you listen
you'll learn to hear the difference
between the halfs and the half-nots)

Since they've come home, Kairi doesn't leave home without a sketchbook. She's become something of a star in school, and on more than one occasion, students and teachers alike marvel at how detailed they are, how she almost seems to bring her pictures to life.

Of course, Sora is her favorite subject. And he is a gracious model -- he has no problem sitting for hours, telling her stories of his end of the adventure while she draws happily, skinny fingers instinctively reaching for the perfect shade here, the complimenting shadow there. She puts a piece of herself in each picture. She draws like she's addicted. Some days it's just a ten-minute sketch, and sometimes he has to remind her to try to hurry because mom had dinner ready two hours ago.

Sora doesn't mind, though. Not even when, more often than not, the finished image is blond and quietly feral.

It's a trade-off.

--

Since they've come home, Kairi has definitely learned to appreciate the way Sora can be so inconspicuous that most people don't even notice him. Even though they're closing out their final year of school, Sora has reverted to his youthful habits of passing notes in class, which both amuses her and worries her, just a little. After all, how would they explain to the instructor that most of those sweetly awkward little notes aren't really from Sora, and aren't really meant for Kairi at all?

She accepts them all gracefully, though. And someone in her heart leaps each time she gets one folded just so. The handwriting is scrawling and sometimes a little difficult to understand, but the message definitely is not -- they are words from the heart, from a heart just starting to figure out what exactly that means.

It's sweet, she thinks. It's a trade-off.

-fin
17.11.06
words: 307

kingdom hearts :: homeward

2006-12-13T05:25:18Z

No spoilers, just speculation, set in the far-future. An abbreviated piece of something that will eventually be much bigger and more fleshed out. Sort of a response, or maybe an alternate ending, to this recent influx of Sora being left to go it alone at the end of things stories.

homeward
(but now the ink will fade before the night is through, my dear)

An old woman leans back and closes her eyes.

She glides across the golden beaches of her mind, momentarily freed from the strains of arthritis and age. The light is not quite as bright as she remembers, the sun not quite as warm, but she doesn't mind. She is grateful to have as much.

The ghosts of her life hold a mock tournament in her name. One, defined by silver hair and brilliant green eyes, parries a wooden sword with his own. The other laughs impishly, attacking with renewed intensity. She turns away, for a moment too overcome to continue. They spin around her, a dance of shapes blurred like pictures out of focus.

She absently brings a hand to her chest, thin fingers folding into a fist. Their laughter stills abruptly, two figures suspended in time for a precious moment before they are caught by a stray finger of wind, dissolving to glittering nothing as they race each other towards the sea. Something inside her quivers and shakes, the wings of an old weathered heart trying to beat itself free of its mortal cage.

It wants to follow.

Instead, she turns and slowly follows the path to the cave, passing objects half-buried in the sand: fragments of an old clay honeypot, a few stray playing cards, a withered paopu fruit, a half-unwrapped gift. Once the beach was littered with such things, but without the storyteller to revive them, most of the stories have fallen to disrepair and crumbled away, buried and forgotten. She cannot remember when they started to go, only that she wakes some afternoons to feel another undefinable little something missing.

In the cool dark grotto of her memory, she runs her fingers lightly across the years of accumulated chalk portraits, tracing the figures she once helped create. The edges have started to blur. Her steps lead her further into the cave, further into the memories she has gathered to herself.

In the corner, a girl: still fifteen and beautiful, pale skin shimmering like moonlight in the ether. She hovers like a ghost there, the damp walls reflected through the fragile color of her skin, and her eyes are milky-white. In her hands she holds thelassa shells, cracking at the edges.

Her books have been blank for twenty-six years.

Come home, she whispers.

When she wakes, she will realize it is not yet mid-morning. She will step outside and think that if the wind keeps blowing south, even her old tired arms could row a while. She will drift through her kitchen and pick just the right things for the journey (a boiled seagull egg, a handful of mushrooms, a few fish) and she will find that little wooden box beside her bed that holds her treasure, a slender silver chain twisted delicately around a dozen tiny keys.

And then she will gather these things in her arms and leave the door unlocked behind her. She will walk, steps slow and stately, to the shore.

It has been far too long, she will think.

And she will go home.

-fin
22.11.06
words: 518

kingdom hearts :: the wrong hand

2006-12-13T05:18:11Z

Written for the prompt, in someone else's arms. I'd be more proud of the fact that this is an honest-to-god 100-word drabble, except that the words won't come out right and, well, you know. Riku introspective. Literal interpretation, hurr.

the wrong hand
(you'll only take the things that shine)

Riku knows that it's irrational. He knows that he's better than this.

He knows (better than most) that there are far more pressing things to think of. Mostly, he does. Sora is his best friend, his brother-in-arms, a shining and irrevocable piece of himself as essential as the air he breathes. He understands the facts and the reasons, and that he has no right to feel betrayal, no matter how slight.

Still, sometimes his fingers twitch around the ghost of a hilt that is not his own, the chill sensation of destiny altered.

It should have been his.

-fin
word-count: 100

kingdom hearts :: the scariest thing

2006-11-03T09:24:08Z

First writing in like ... two or three years. Uwaaah.

Kingdom Hearts fic. No spoilers besides a name-dropping. Fluff. Halloween fic. OT3?

the scariest thing
(it was a little rebellion)

It had really all been Kairi's idea. The boys just played along, both secretly relieved because it was awfully fun to do Halloween, and sometimes it was hard for even Riku to act tough and grown-up all the time. Besides, who can argue with free candy?

It was also her idea to go as the scariest things they could think of. Easy, right? They'd seen lots and lots of scary things in the last couple years. Choosing one would be the most difficult.

So when they gathered in the square, both Riku and Kairi had to grit their teeth hard to suppress the gales of laughter that threatened to escape at the sight of Sora. The long wig wasn't nearly as convincing as it could have been, what with the fat brown spikes poking out on top and all. The cardboard sword dragging along behind him was twice as tall as he was (easily), and while she had no idea what the black plastic bags tied around him were supposed to be, it was terribly funny.

With Namine's help, it had been a lot easier for Kairi to make her own costume, even if the end product was hard to walk in (she made a mental note to next year maybe not choose a costume that drug the ground quite so much), the headpiece was kind of awkward, and the paint made her face itch and flaked off her fingers all over her robes.

Sora and Riku both thought she looked pretty good, for a witch.

"Where's your costume?" Sora asked Riku, "or did you decide you were too good to dress up?"

Riku snorted. "I was. You guys showing up kind of killed it."

"Whatever,” Sora retorted. "What's that supposed to mean, anyway?"

After a pause, Riku simply shrugged. "Well, it's supposed to be the scariest thing, right? And I thought about it a lot. Xemnas and Ansem and Heartless and Nobodies and they were all tough, but they weren't that scary."

"I'm glad you think so. I kind of thought they were pretty scary," Sora muttered indignantly.

"Anyway," Riku continued, "I thought about it for a few days, and I think being alone without you guys is a lot scarier than any of them ."

There was a moment of utter stillness while the other two grasped for words. Riku kept his eyes downcast, scuffing the dirt with his toe without saying anything further.

"Yeah," Sora breathed, rubbing the back of his head, managing to look both touched and embarrassed. "I think I was in the wrong costume."

Kairi just laughed and took each of their hands in her own as she led them towards the beach. Sure, getting free candy would have been great, but there were things far more important, like cool nights spent around bonfires in the sand and friendship and the feeling of never ever having to be afraid again.

-fin
3.11.06
word count: 486

--

Yay, cheese. I really need to get back in practice. T_T

Written for the kh_drabble community for the Halloween Challenge. There are some seriously talented writers there. <3

naruto :: on the turning away

2004-02-09T07:59:21Z

Neglecting homework, as is usual. SURPRISE, yo.

Naruto fic. Abiguous. Yondaime goodness. Angsty fun! For the Yondaime drabble contest over at Narutoyaoi ML. (pathetic for a contest, but I was late getting started, and I figured that if they were gonna extend the deadline for my dumb ass, the least I could do would actually be to DO one.)

on the turning away
- if you can’t stand on the earth i will see you on the other side

Konoha has always needed its heroes. Every child in this village grows
up with their dreams of fighting epic battles, struggling against an
impossibly powerful foe to save the village, as heroes ineffably do.

The real problem with being a hero, though, is that it is a title often
awarded posthumously. Heroism, above tactical blunders, suicide, and
mission casualties, is the leading cause of death in Konoha.

He knew that. He knew and He said that He'd never let it happen. He
said that had He too much here, and then He smiled like He meant it.

And I believed him, because I too had a childhood dream.

When she came, no one saw the mark of sacrifice and sealing but me. When
she died, shortly after bearing His child, no one saw the emptiness that
drained the life from His eyes with the haunting clarity that I did.
(Not because they didn't care, because He was the love of the village,
but because they hadn't spent their whole lives watching Him as I had. I
knew the hidden wisdom beneath His casual conversation and the deep
loneliness that hovered just below the surface of His jokes. And even if
I never knew the magic of His hands against me, I knew better than
anyone the beauty of His soul.)

His suffering didn't last long. When the vessel broke, the kyuubi had
been freed from its human prison, and Konoha called for its heroes once
again.

And He answered with the rest of the shinobi who died that night, as a
part of me always feared He would. He fought the battle and He won and
He gave His life to seal the demon into His own flesh. They might have
said it was for revenge, that He secretly hated the child that took His
love away from Him, but I know it isn't so. He would never have done
something so cruel. He loved these people deeply, and trusted them
enough to care for the child He left behind.

Naive, but then again He always was. I loved that.

. . . Ironic, how He wanted them to think of the child as a hero. But it
is easy to love someone when they walk amongst you, and easy to forget
and hate what has taken that love away.

So Naruto walks alone. They won't even give him his birthright, the name
of He who loved the people and His son so much that He'd give His life
and child to protect them.

I watch, and I wait.

I, too, am one of them, as much as it hurts me to say it, and I can't
stop this pain. Every time I see the boy, I remember too much and its
Him all over again, golden and blue and everything that ever meant
anything in my life.

But I am sorry.

- fin
february 7, 2004

Talk about a shitty ending. >.>;;

Honestly, I have no idea who's PoV this is. I think it's more fun to let the reader decide, but I have this haunting thought (perhaps due to something once said by suzukiblu, or perhaps not) that it just might be Hiashi. Uhm, yes.

Not really a whole lot to say on this one. I don't like it.