Ficcage: Attraction Ch 16, We'll Make Great Pets 1/2

[gelfling8604]

Hello! Finished next chapter of mondo-fic Attraction, posted below. Chapter warnings include: Swearing, murder, sex, and I think that’s it. SasuNaru, mentions of GaaNaru. Rather short, for one of my chapters. I liked how this one went though-the style is so clean.


We’ll Make Great Pets

***
Attraction
By gelfling

gelfling8604@yahoo.com

//Thoughts//
::Invading thoughts::
|| Demon Thoughts ||

***
If he whistled, I’d come running…Sooner or later, we’re all someone’s dog.
--Sergeant Angua the Werewolf, Jingo, Terry Prattchet

"SIT!!!"
-Kagome, Inuyasha

Why am I fighting to live, if I'm just living to fight?
Why am I trying to see when there is nothing in sight?
Why am I trying to give when no one gives me a try?
Why am I dying to live if I'm just living to die?
--Runnin’, 2 Pac

***
Naruto opened his eyes, which glinted in the pre-dawn shadowed light. He blinked sleepily and inhaled, before he smiled, almost nostalgically, with the aftershocks and feelings his body was still thrumming with, and at the sight of his hand splayed on Sasuke’s hand curled on top of his abdomen. The sight of their skin pressed together, their hands next to one another…

A small blush tinted his cheeks on thoughts of last night. His throat closed up on itself, even though the taste of Sasuke’s mouth and sweat was still slowly waltzing on the back of his tongue. He’d keep that with him. He was…surprised though…to find Sasuke’s hand there. Long, masculine, and incredibly elegant. Still with him. Still there.

Still.

Why?

Naruto didn’t answer-far too likely he wouldn’t like the response. He wouldn’t. No. No point in spoiling a perfectly good morning-after with Sasuke’s hand on his stomach and his knee touching his leg.

His eyes voyaged across the flat planes of Sasuke’s hand, down the rangy smooth limbs in his arm-he felt incredibly good that morning-over his neck and to his face. Elongated black eyes took him in slowly, swallowing him whole without mercy and Naruto didn’t fight.

//I’ve caught you.//

Naruto wasn’t sure if he was meant to hear that or not, but since the very human--and therefore weak--emotion of smugness was attached to it, he was guessing on the latter. Still, he managed to slip on his duster and shoes without cracking. He waited until he was some good miles away to do that.

He cracked up laughing, laughing hard, laughing and laughing and laughing until the tears came. For all the stupidity of it all, the gross irony. For the shallow weakness and petty desire. For the cheap envy and jealousy. For the anger and revenge that piled up like a mortgage with an absurd interest. For the beauty.

It was, of course, all Sasuke’s fault.

It was always all Sasuke’s fault! Sasuke just suddenly realizing the power he had over Naruto, not through strength or skill but through a simple touch. What others couldn’t do with an iron sword or army, Sasuke could do with a heated look and a kiss. Even now, the prick still didn’t appreciate his talents because they weren’t dignified, they weren’t textbook techniques, but he was sensible enough to take advantage of them.

Who else needed to take three showers within ten hours?

Hypocrite. Typical Sasuke.

It had to be just his body that Naruto was attracted to, because he was pretty sure he hated Sasuke Uchiha’s personality down to the bones. He made him jealous, made him feel at home, made him feel abandoned. Even as kids Naruto had been torn between wanting to kill him in battle and taking the title of Hokage, or becoming one of his groupies and killing him then and taking the spotlight. At one point though, he always got rid of him-Sasuke was far too dangerous to have around. Sasuke could do things no one else could. He wasn’t even aware of it.

Sasuke always, always, always, always, made him want to hurt and protect him at the same time, to want and not want his help, his acknowledgement. He didn’t need his acknowledgement-it wasn’t like they were family or anything, he was just Sasuke.

And that, truly, was the problem.

He was just so damn stuck-UP!

Sasuke was a puzzle, one that shouldn’t have been so hard to understand, but it was.

Naruto wheezed as he started to get his breath back. His stomach ached.

And now, every time Sasuke called him…Naruto would come running.

He’d sworn on his name.

He’d come running.

Running for his taste and his skin, his tongue thrust down his throat, their sweat and spit mixing together, his voice, his dark sexy silky careless voice washing him over and speaking his name, calling him names.

But then again…then again probably not even for sex, because Sasuke was that carelessly cruel and insensitive. Just for the…What had he called it later? Ah, yeah, "the promise of sex." Naruto would come running when he called. There was no doubt in his mind of that. He would come. He would always come. Probably just to do his dirty work or be a cheap diversion, but he would come.

He’d keep him waiting of course, come when he felt like it, but he would come.

Sasuke wasn’t blind, but he made a point of not seeing affection, because that made it so much harder to resist temptation and just give in. All these years, and he’d probably never had a clue that when Naruto hit him, punched his lights out and flashed him out with chakra and gouged him through with a knife…it was for more than to just hurt him. It was for a lot more.

Naruto unsteadily got back on his feet, his stomach still aching and his face wet. Then he broke out laughing again and held his face and stomach.

There was name for animals that lived with people, Naruto knew. They were called pets.

Bark, bark. Woof, woof.

***
In theory, it didn’t matter. In theory, nothing mattered.

Gaara’s lifestyle had always been erratic-unpredictable. He wasn’t sure how to make it otherwise, and in any case it kept him safer. He was alone, and it didn’t bother him that much. No. Not really. He had been alone all his life-why should it bother him now?

//what am I supposed to feel?//

What did, really, bother him, was the waste. The waste of his time, effort…whatever. Whatever. Everything. Waste waste waste. It…it didn’t make sense. It wasn’t that he had broken the deal…he wasn’t even sure the deal had been broken. Maybe it hadn’t. Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe it had never been made. Maybe it had never existed only he had wanted it so badly he believed it did, lied to himself. Betrayed himself. Hurt himself. Because he had wanted something that badly.

Pathetic.

He knew how to hurt himself-knew how he could hurt and how he couldn’t. He knew. He could hurt himself and who was there to stop him? Who was there to care? Who was there to prove anything to? Who was there to justify anything? Who mattered at all?

//what am I supposed to do?//

He…he wanted to say he did. He wanted to say he mattered. But why had he hurt himself like he did, if he had mattered? Why had he done that? Why? Did he matter? Did he really? Would the world miss him if he disappeared? If he wasn’t there? Would it notice? Would it matter?

He knew his family wouldn’t-they didn’t even know where he was. He didn’t have friends. Never had comrades. Never had allies. That had been part of the deal-they would work towards the same goal, but they would not be equals. He hadn’t wanted comrades. He had refused them. Hurt them. Hurt himself. It was so much easier just to kill. Simpler. He didn’t have anyone, just his family by blood and they didn’t know where he was and they could never be on par with him. They couldn’t make him do anything. Couldn’t stop him from doing something. Anything. Nothing. Possibilities. Ends. Means. Everything.

So they didn’t matter much to him: he couldn’t matter much to them. He didn’t matter to anyone, and no one mattered to him.

So did he matter?
Did he matter at all?

Why was he even alive?

Why? Really? Really alive? He didn’t care about vengeance anymore and didn’t know who he was proving his existence to anymore and there were so few who knew what he was much less who he was and if everyone died by his hand here and now would they even realize it to justify and prove his existence? Or would they simply die? Would there be a point? Had there ever been a point? Would it matter? Would he matter? Did anything matter? Had anything ever mattered?

They were cold, simple facts. Facts. Numb. Cold. Still.

Dead.

//what happens next?//

Gaara didn’t blink.

But the point…the point was that there had been a waste of time. That somehow, somewhere, he had been cheated. He could feel it. He just couldn’t see it.

His mind was looser now-more fractured than when Naruto had left it. Spoiled it. Both. Yes. He had been…better…but he wasn’t now, and his mind was cracking on the edges. He could feel the difference in thoughts, in souls, like the difference between whole wheat bread and white bread. One was rough, one was soft. One stagnant, the other vivacious.

Dead, alive.
Black, red.

Shift.
Shift.

//what happened?//

Gaara stared out at the sunrise eyes blank and unfocused like a doll. He didn’t look away when the sunlight hit his eyes and made the rims contract. Finally, his eyes closed, and he smelled the cold dryness in the air that made his skin cling tighter to his muscles. The faint threat of rain.

//where am I now?//

Shift.

//what am I now?//

//what happens next?//

When the rain did hit, sparse light wet things, he was still sitting cross-legged on the ground, staring east. His eyes were still closed. His hair plastered to his skull, still the color of blood.

//do I even care?//

***
The first time Sasuke called, Naruto had been scrounging through the candy aisle of a mini-mart, three miles north. He felt a tinny sound between his ears, not really inside his skull, but ringing against his spine like a telephone wire. He had new leather boots-the serviceable kind that weren’t flashy.

He left store without paying for the potato and cheesy chips that made up dinner, with a fudge icicle for dessert.

The first time Sasuke called, he wasn’t sure Naruto would come, or even if he heard him. He wasn’t sure how this system worked exactly-he had his name, but he hadn’t asked for instructions or explanations. Damned if he would ask Naruto for anything he didn’t need to. There were some things pride wouldn’t allow. Sasuke still had his pride.

The first time Naruto had showed up leaning against the rented bedroom wall in another tavern in Lower Grass that reeked of cold with an undertone of bodies and beer, casual in black jogging pants and a band shirt, Sasuke had started the fight. It was a restrained, verbal fight, a show of control, power, and knowledge without ever actually acknowledging the fight. Tension without the explosion. A cold war, with Naruto’s smile flashing on and off in the darkness white and sharp-or at least showing off his teeth. His voice wasn’t soft or friendly, but sharp and swift. Sasuke stayed cold, blunt, and deliberately slow. He wasn’t in a race-that small show of arrogance incensed Naruto. What made it worse was that Sasuke could get away with it. That he could get away with it and knew he could get away with it and knew Naruto knew he was getting away with it.

Naruto wondered, depressingly, if he was really getting away with it or he had a right to it. As always, he tried to focus that anger on Sasuke.

Sasuke’s questions related to werewolves-he was curious about them. Heard there might be some in the area. Wanted to know what Naruto knew. He partly needed the information, and partly just wanted to antagonize Naruto. Naruto came close to tearing his head off-he was a demon, he was not a damn wolf! They weren’t the same thing…demons were not the same things. Monsters were not the same thing. They did not all look alike; they did not all act alike.

He was himself-he was Naruto the Fox. He’d dragged Hell out and over to prove that point, and Sasuke ran that point over now with academic disinterest.

Sasuke kissed him, and it was like kissing glass. Then he shut Naruto out of his life again; didn’t even bother to throw him out or tell him to go. He simply finished him.

The second time Sasuke called him, the process repeated itself almost exactly, except that Sasuke’s coldness erased somewhat as his arrogance grew. That time, he had Naruto do more than simply kiss him.

***
// If you had not, it would not have happened. //
//Because it did happen you have done. //
//The stone is written. It is not air. //

“This isn’t what I wanted.”

//Whom do you blame? //

“Everyone.”

// What will you do? //

“…I don’t know. I want…I want to hurt something. Like I do. But I won’t be able to make it hurt enough. I hurt too much.”

// Attempt. //

“It won’t make a difference.”

/| Nothing will. //

“It’ll make things worse…”

// Is possibility? /|

“…No.”
“…I’m…I’m tired. I’m just so tired.”

// Move. //

“No.”

// Move. //

“No.”

|| Move. ||

“No.”

// Move. |/

“No.”

// Move. //

“I’m tired.”

“…No.”
“No.”
“No.”
“No!”
“…I…”
“…”
“Nnnn.”

***
The second time Sasuke called was in the afternoon, from one of the barren muddy meadows Grass was plentiful with, harsh with cold and bits of snow. It wasn’t sparring-it was fighting.

Naruto didn’t hold back; kicked at his head and hit every now and again and punched his ribs and the bones bent. They skidded in the mud and skied over it-solid water almost that stuck to their clothes. Sasuke remembered the ‘popping air bubble’ feeling he got running up his arm as he shoved the blade through Naruto’s body past the fox’s skin.

The fantastic surge of adrenalin, release of frustration and pain, the familiar comfort of violence. The allure of power, sizzling off his fingers and Naruto’s skin.

Naruto’s claws tearing at his shoulder and neck. Naruto’s tongue along his skin while he held his arms down, pinned him with his weight. The stink of burning flesh; scent fresh hollow baked earth; smell of ozone and lightening. The Flight Of Birds.

The out-of-body experience as Sasuke saw himself stand up his hand tight on the sword handle but his stance shaky, uncertain. His ribs. His ribs felt like walnuts. His chest heaved. His skin was sweaty. Barely controlled anger and jealously darted behind his eyes.

His heartbeat hungry and frantic in his ears. Life lashing at his skin.

The ghost of Naruto’s tongue on his neck.

Naruto half-crouched and circling him, licking his lips and elegant deadly white teeth, chest holey and black with burns that wriggled with red worms as his skin started to heal itself. Translucent scarlet energy twisted around his body like wisps of wind. His eyes vibrant, predatory, mischievous. Shifting, sparkling red wine without the actual menace. Playful. Hungry.

Naruto. Not Naruto. Naruto.

Sasuke pushed his libido back in his pants and slammed the door shut-it was threatening to take him by the ears and swing him around. The way Naruto was looking at him…the way he knew he looked. The way he knew he felt.

“Don’t touch me.”

Naruto slowed but didn’t stop.

“Don’t touch me. I’ve had enough. This is enough.”

“Chicken,” Naruto called, a harsh growled laugh.

“Why me?” He didn’t beg. He demanded.

Naruto shook his head and stopped. “God you’re stupid.”

“Why can’t you let go?” He was sick of this.

“Why can’t you?” Naruto shot back, childishly. “Don’t blame it all on me, Sasuke…”

Naruto looked disgusted now, like a kid who had been caught in the act by his partner-in-crime; familiar and comfortable. Sasuke swore he could hear the sword graze the air particles as he swung blade slowly in a perfect arch, the handle hot and perfect to his palm. Naruto circled him-it was Naruto but like an animal. He was going to charge. Sasuke knew it. He knew Naruto well enough again. He was going to charge. It was just a matter of when. And what he would do.

Something hit his wrist-he didn’t let go. His butt hit the mud, then his elbow as he pulled to the side and threw Naruto on his back. Threw Naruto away. He let go of the handle. Naruto grabbed his arms and pushed; Sasuke pushed back. Naruto’s teeth hit his. It didn’t hurt. The Art went out of it. His back was covered in mud, along with his hands. He held Naruto’s wrists as he pushed down, straddled him, and Naruto fought back up-he pushed his elbows off the ground.

His heartbeat rang in Sasuke’s ears-Naruto’s eyes shifted from ruby to magenta pink as he blinked the sweat out. Naruto had long eyelashes, Sasuke noticed. Curved ones. Dirty blond. The air vibrated. Naruto’s wrists hit the mud with a splat, the skin cold and wet and his body under Sasuke’s burning and shivering. Naruto’s breathing was loud.

Sasuke gave him a short once-over, eyes flitting down and back up to his, and Naruto still didn’t look away. His lips were soft, pliant, but demanding and for once Sasuke didn’t mind because he felt just as hungry. He sucked his tongue hard. He bucked his hips and groaned. Naruto’s boot caressed the back of his knee. Something warm and liquid crystalline in him sloshed, waking up from sleep.

Sasuke got up. “God you’re stupid.”
He left.
Naruto tackled him from behind, and he went down.

Downward.
Downhill.
Downstairs.

***
The base amplifiers played heavy and hard, making the floorboards pound and jump under the strain. It was intentional-it made the dancers feel they were rocking the world, breaking up the tectonic plates under their feet, the strobe lights flashing and pulsing in magenta and neon orange colors. Sweat and alcohol was heavy in the air, weighing down nostrils like velvet.

Kei Watanabe sat alone at the bar dressed all in black and wishing she could’ve had time to dye her hair properly instead of the slap-together job she had. It looked terrible-she hated it. She hated her boyfriend more-it was the reason she was stuck at the bar. She couldn’t dance when she felt this down-everything was off. She threw back another shot, and couldn’t even feel the alcohol burn-her nerves were numb.

She had a ‘Do Not Disturb’ vibe going on around her-the only good thing her mother had taught her to do after driving her crazy and shutting her off for seventeen years. It was part of the reason she managed to be alone at the bar on the crowded night, backs and elbows hitting her back on accident every now and again-nobody wanted to be close to her. She ignored the couple groping each other three seats down from her: bastards. She wanted more alcohol: the bartender had left for a 3-minute break 30 minutes ago. She wanted her boyfriend’s head in a paper bag. She wanted to get her hair redone. She wanted a break.

The counter shuddered.

She turned to glare blearily at the guy who had slammed into the seat a space away from her, interrupting her solitude noisily.

He was also dressed in black with vinyl pants and only a leather vest. His feet were bare naked //The hell?// and dangled as he laid half on the chair, half on the counter, and half on empty air. He was short and unattractively pale, wearing a single dangling glass earring and deep-tinted wrap-around glasses that the strobe lights flickered off of as the lenses scoped and scanned the crowd. Shaggy dyed red hair had been pushed back roughly, and he looked…a little homeless. Very unkempt.

His grin was threatening to take off his head-it was that wide.

Kei shrugged and sniffed, before turning her attention back to her drink. She rubbed one eye, and stared at the empty shot glass. She sniffed again. Then she watched, her eyes drifting to the side, still feeling pretty angry at the world and sorry for herself, as a full shot glass was pushed in front of her cautiously. She shot the red head a look-what did he want?

He simply smiled at her awkwardly, the smile fading in and out of reality like a phantom thing, twitching like a heroin addict. He looked… like a drug user in withdrawal. Or a geek. The kind who wanted to ask a girl out, but wasn’t sure how to go about it and inwardly terrified of being shot down. He had the smile of a guy who knew he always ejaculated prematurely, but hadn’t given up on dating yet. The smile of a guy who knew what he wanted, but wasn’t quite sure how to get there-raw but eager.

Kei stared at him, doubt and pity for herself evident in her eyes. Then she took the glass, raised it up in a silent toast, and drank it down in a single gulp.

The sidesplitting grin beamed once more-he had impeccably white teeth. And he hadn’t said anything yet-she had had it with shitty pick up lines and stupid flattery and the over all asshole-ish-ness that made up the male population. He was smart enough to keep his mouth shut; for now anyway. Probably couldn’t do much more.

She smiled back, laughing to herself. She waited for him to blush and back off, maybe buy her another drink (which she would accept, because even if you weren’t going to date them didn’t mean you couldn’t mooch them), or break his record and say something stupid. He didn’t though, just stared at her with that head-splitting smile that never wavered or trembled (though his lips had to hurt, right?) and black sunglasses that caught the light and her distorted reflection but never showed his eyes. Her eyes hurt before his lips did-he didn’t stop smiling or looking at her attentively.

He still had the hungry vibe around him-drug addict. Had to be. Well, too bad for him, but she didn’t do stuff like that, and had nothing to give him. She waited for him to look away, to get the message, to go. She stopped smiling, but he didn’t.

She waited for him to look away-she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it first. He never did though, and it must have been the alcohol leading her (had he drugged her?) because she didn’t even protest all that hard when he pulled her behind the bar and took her panties off.

As it turned out, her math geek was not a premature ejaculator, and he handled her awkwardly, clumsily but deftly, with a confidence that very few had. The experience would’ve been one of the more memorable ones of her life if he hadn’t torn her lower jaw off and crunched through her throat halfway through it. Alcohol content in her blood was high-less appetizing, but he could only be so picky after hungering after it for so fucking long…

After he had screwed the body (not to his contentment because it had been too small and too fragile and too weak and hardly worth the wait and damn it he wanted something more) he pawed at her stomach, breaking the skin and becoming a controlled frustration. Finally (it had been a while, he could allow some short cuts) he shoved his hand through her vagina, past the cervix and uterus, trying to remember where the kidneys were and what was the stomach and spleen and where the hell was the liver in this tiny thing!? Some frustration ran out of his shoulders when he pulled it out in bits (damn these things were slippery and delicate) but the tension stayed in his body like static-invisible and visible in every move or twitch he made.

Half an hour later, the redhead stood up behind the bar, arms dark and wet and mouth clean and wet, the wrap-around glasses firmly in place. His chest heaved and he kept licking his lips. He felt faint. He weaved a little unsteadily as he stood up, gripping the counter as his shoulders shook gently, but seemed to regain control quickly.

He vaulted the counter easily, sliding through the sweating throng smoothly like a wolf through mist, making his way up the second level, content to merely look down over the railing at the throbbing, undulating bodies and bags of blood and bone and let the hunger grow a little more, the meat still wet and uneasy in the stomach. He had always been a little masochistic-Gaara had inherited some that tendency from him, but most of it was the boy’s own creation, not his.

A girl tapped on his shoulder, and he turned his head to the side, the strobe lights reflecting off his sunglasses. The strobe lights weren’t strong enough to show what he had on his arms-it could’ve simply been gauze, if it was noticed at all. The girl-he sniffed-the boy gave him a measuring look before saying, “I’ve been watching you. Ever since you got here.”

The redhead continued to smile his foreigner’s smile: ‘Hello, I don’t speak the language, but I can smile very nicely and let’s all be friends?’ Eager, but also raw, and slightly…off.

“I saw what you did.”

The young man joined him on leaning over the railing. The light on the black sunglasses glinted as their elbows touched purposefully, the boy next to him stretching his neck luxuriously. Then the redhead’s attention swung smoothly back to his face with single-minded concentration, still smiling in bright confusion.

“I thought it was pretty cool.”

The wide, uncomprehending smile continued patiently. At times, the head would tilt inquiringly to the side like a bird.

The boy next to him frowned a little, “You don’t say much where you come from, huh?”

The redhead shook his head slowly, the sunglasses never leaving the boy’s face and the smile never wavering.

“Oh. Well,” the boy seemed a bit putout, but recovered quickly as he threw him a faint grin. “Can you say hello?”

The jaw moved as lips parted, worked in open air as the muscles rearranged themselves in unfamiliar patterns, the sunglasses still eyeing him in confusion and faint amusement, before a rough and drop-dead husky voice growled softly, “Lllooo.”

The smile returned swiftly.

The boy looked surprised, and then gave a little laugh. The smile got wider. The boy elbowed him playfully, “You dog you.” The redhead’s hand flashed. The boy’s head tumbled over the railing, hitting someone on the shoulder before bouncing to the floor and tripping someone else. The redhead looked in the other direction when the body next to him folded over the railing, as if it didn’t interest him anymore. He sniffed the air in short, rapid inhalations.

When the scream went up from the crowd, delayed and uncertain, the doors and windows-even staff entrances-were already sealed and packed with sand.

The redhead continued to grin his head-splitting grin, and for a moment was simply content to watch from the second level as shadows of sand slipped through the crowd and yanked people down by puncturing through their ankles and lower spine, like a whirlwind without the wind. Like raptors without wings. They wiggled and flopped like many different fish on the deck of fishing boat.

Fantastic.

Fantastic!

Some fought back, with knives or their hands, kicking and screaming in protest. The sand blanketed them, the dark brown color turning darker when it got wet. All the lights were being destroyed systematically-first the strobe lights, then the others. The music was allowed to throb, mixing with the screams that rose and fell and swirled.

The creature watching from above was able to restrain himself for five minutes more before leaping down into the throng when the scent of fear and horror as they lost control of their bodies and selves was drowning out even the scent of sweat, and let himself have a little more fun.

Fantastic.

He had forgotten what it felt like to hold a heart still beating in his hand, to tear through it with his bare teeth, to feel bones give way and crack under his hands and feet, like styrofoam or brittle wood. The rush as he slipped through the throng, the power he felt because they were terrified of what they couldn’t even see, what they couldn’t even kill though some did try and it made him laugh: a rough, ripped barking sound. The familiar feeling of power while he learned how to fight and play without losing who he was. The scent and taste of blood and sweat and fear, sharp and acidic and thick as they attacked each other in their panic to flee, trampled each other as their baser survival instincts took over their already drunk minds and relished every second.

He had forgotten. He had forgotten. Damn it! He wondered how he had ever survived without it: without this fear, this hunger, this blood lust and sexual power.

Sex.

There was sex-there was a lot of sex. Not just blood, there also had to be sex-he had missed that too. He had missed that like anything. Not as much as he had missed the blood, the fear, but almost. Nearly.

Oh god he had missed it…

The feel of a body wet and warm and pliant under him, around him, still warm even though the body was newly dead or dying and still smelling sweet and soft like leaves in the very early morning dawn, before the sun rose and roasted the land in it’s heat to dust. The salty taste of sweat, acidic vaginal fluids and bitter semen…the explosion of sensation. It brought him no peace, but it did bring him a softer, gentler kind of pleasure, while the slaughter had brought him a swift, euphoric bouncy type of pleasure.

…How had he lived without this? How had he managed?

He took his time-tried to stroll as slowly as possible through it all to make it last. He didn’t want it to end. He wanted to do it all over again, from the beginning, but he also didn’t want this little jaunt to end either. It was…

But all good things must end. He had taken his time with the last girl, keeping her alive as long as he could, until finally her body gave up due to her human fragility and blood loss-he hadn’t had to restrain her, because he had pulled her arms off carefully just below the shoulder joint. Her pelvis fractured-the bones slid and ground against one another slowly. The sound made his teeth ache. She screamed. He had been unusually gentle with her, but eventually, even she had died, crying.

Human tears. That was another thing. Salty but thinly flavored, and not sour at all. Her bodily fluids were sour, in the dark place between her legs, sour and acidic like vinegar on his tongue. Her sweat was thick, much saltier than her tears and tasted a little like peanuts. The faint coppery taste of blood, sweet and thin, the tender chewiness of her flesh ripped easily between his teeth, not stringy or particularly resistant.

Humans lived an easier life here and now than they had done-their muscles weren’t as strong as they used to be. Not quite as rewarding, but as he crouched over her body and thoughtfully gnawed through the muscles on her thighbone, he decided he was too hungry to care much.

He was a little disgusted with himself-he was so hungry he was ready to accept and enjoy the meager meat of commoners. There had been a time, once, when he had taken no less than the finest warriors and fighters the village had to offer, a strong and juicy meal after a brief battle of might and skill, interspersed with the occasional demand for a child. Children were exceptionally tender and succulent, muscles and flesh incredibly soft that melted on his tongue. Tasty. They lost their luster after a while, but they made a nice treat. The sacrificial virgin-young girls and maybe a boy if it was pretty enough, but he had…he had forgotten so much…

Red hair shook as he roused himself, tearing the rest of the excess flesh off and broke the thighbone (the strongest in the human body) in his hands clumsily (another reminder of how long it’d been), and sucked the fatty vitamin-rich marrow out of it (was it possible to sicken after eating too much iron-filled blood? Possibly. Did he remember? Did he care? No). Chewy weak pink stuff, that got caught between his teeth too easily.

He stood slowly, keenly aware of his surroundings and the soft buzzing of the few flies that hovered in the corners. Scavengers. Annoying, but of no interest. Still sucking idly on the marrow, he picked his way through the corpses, half lost in his thoughts, half aware of things-the buzz of the insects, the temperature, the darkness and quiet that had enfolded the club.

Tranquil silence. The scent and taste of blood and violence.

He chewed industrially then swallowed. Prolonging. Stalling. Half-wondering. Bored. He was…

No. Hm.

He grinned to himself, the bright white head-splitting smile tinted pink and red. There were many types of pleasure; he specialized in the carnal and had tasted them all at one point in his lifetime. But with that appetite of his temporarily slaked, he found himself hungering for something more abstract. He was always hungry.

It wouldn’t make things any less easier, but it would make them…interesting.

He took off the glass earring, fingers fiddling clumsily with the post and stud before ripping it off, and dropped it onto a small tendril of sand that rose dexterously from the floor before swimming and cresting over the barkeep.

Then, finally, sighing to himself and cursing his curious position, he allowed his body to go limp on his feet, the bone falling from his fingers with a loud wet thud in the quiet.

Nothing happened.

His body seemed to fall back into itself, and after what seemed hours, his lungs inflated and his neck tilted up. He looked around, surveying the odd forms that drooped and lay on the floor, for once without the air of delight and ever-lurking hunger. Now he simply seemed…unimpressed.

He looked down at his own body: pale and streaked over with blood and bits of skin and flesh, and idly picked a slip of something off his arm and flicked it away. Spooky. Uncanny. Whatever. He touched his stomach uncomfortably-it was too full. He started to tuck himself in and zip his pants up, before getting a good look at what he was wearing. He stripped the vinyl pants off and tossed them, before searching through the horizontal throng annoyed dressed in only the black vest and sunglasses.

He turned over a pair of legs, the jeans still attached. He was about the same height and width, and he stripped the wet pants (blood, not shit or urine thankfully, the overwhelming stench greasing his lungs was bad enough) and slipped them on, pulling on the waistband thoughtfully. Not a great fit, but a fit. He felt the side pocket-knife. Whatever.

His ear was bleeding. He was…oh. Stupid. Huh. His…his…

Whatever.

He sniffed the air, and rolled his head on his shoulders languidly. Couldn’t really smell anything with the blood choking the air and shit and sweat oiling it, but the energy tracings were enough. It was nearly his chakra, after all.

He leaned over the bar counter, then vaulted it silently. Kei Watanabe’s remains were still on the floor, head attached by the spine, tinted pink white rocks in dark red mush. The floor was wet with her blood. He crouched in front of the trembling figure packed tightly under the small space meant for keeping extra bottles and saw the glass earring lying on her foot.

He stared, unsure.

She was…nothing. She was terrified. She stank-her body had released itself in fear. She was one more, one more of a hundred million zillion. She was nothing. She was the one who had escaped. She deserved nothing. She was nothing.

He yanked her out hard by her ankle, her head and body hitting the shelf and she kicked and struggled. She stayed silent. Her butt hit Kei’s foot, and she jerked back and pulled herself up against the counter, legs jerking feebly. Either she couldn’t summon the will to stand it up, or he had broken her ankle when he grabbed her. Or both.

Two wide trembling brown eyes cowered in front of him, the size of dinner plates. There was a thin streak of blood against her face.

He wasn’t grinning-his face was stiff, impassive, dressed in bloodied black jeans, the open vest, and sunglasses. He held one hand out to the side casually, and sand flowed through his open palm smoothly, his fingers sieving out the slim glass earring and post.

She jumped, terrified of him, terrified of the sand.
He raised an eyebrow.

It was quite an impressive publicity stunt. People would be talking of the murdering sand for miles. He held the sliver of glass in his hand tightly.

He was supposed to kill her. That was clearly the point-it was a trick. He was supposed to kill her. He had nothing against killing her-it was aggravating how she stared. She smelled bad.

But he…he wasn’t sure if he wanted to kill her. He could…but should he? Would that be a mark for the demon? Or would it be a mark for him? Was this a competition-a contest to see who could kill the most, who could commit the worst horrors? Or was it a test? A temptation? The demon’s way of…of controlling him. Manipulating him. Deciding for him.

He held the earring.

She was terrified of him. He could see it in her eyes, in the small muscle spasms that broke out around her face, in the stench of her body and fire in her sweat. She was terrified of him, and she knew that he knew it.

Gaara took off the sunglasses.

His eyes, as Naruto had noticed, were unusually strange. When he was relaxed, they were a teal aquamarine color. When he was content, they were cerulean blue, with bits of green hinted in the center rings. When he was furious, they turned lime color. When he wasn’t quite him, they went yellow, and developed black pupils. They weren’t human pupils, nor any animal found in nature. Gaara normally had no pupils.

His eyes now were green, slightly darker in the center and slightly brighter in the middle rings with yellow. He sucked and ran his tongue over his molars thoughtfully, swallowing whatever he found after chewing it briefly. His eyes never left hers, staring at her in frank animalistic contempt. He turned the earring around in his hand.

She stared back at him, though she no longer trembled quite as hard. It was because he was hesitating-she thought she had a chance. Then something caught his eye, and he yanked her foot up. She gasped, but didn’t kick.

Her foot was jerked up; his hand tight and painful around her ankle as it squeezed the pressure points and twisted her ankle around painfully. Her elbows tried to pull her away, and while her other foot pushed too. The floor was wet and sticky, and she slid on it. Her free leg touched Kei’s and she would’ve jerked it away only it would’ve made her…more vulnerable. She wasn’t sure enough of herself to kick him. She thought it would be a good idea and thought it wouldn’t and thought she wouldn’t get another chance like this and thought this wasn’t an opportunity at all and no matter what she did she’d be killed and now she only had to decide if she could let go of all hope of surviving. She couldn’t.

“Size 8?” he asked.

She swallowed, then nodded rapidly, and then shook her head. She stuttered and shuddered, wearing on his nerves, before finally mumbling, “N-nn-nine…”

Gaara nodded. “Wide?”

She nodded again.

He took her shoes off roughly, pulling hard when they wouldn’t come off easily and allowed her to untie the laces hurriedly, flinching when his fingers came close to touching hers before yanking them off. Then he slipped them on, tying the laces inexpertly-he preferred sandals. Next to sandals he…didn’t know. He had no idea where his shoes were now-probably in some river or dumpster. Lost.

He stood up and switched his weight from one foot to the other, unselfconsciously dancing a little, finding he didn’t really like the enclosed feeling his toes felt, but liked the way they looked. They looked…urban. Red. Good color. A bit small, but wide enough. They would serve.

The woman had crawled close to the counter and pulled her body tight against herself protectively, instinctively. It was a stupid instinct-he could still kill her, and she had less area to fight back or run away in, with her legs cramped in against her. Not that it would help either way, but it was something for him to analyze.

He examined the unopened bottles under the counter, the sand curling around and offering him out a bottle of rice wine and looked at it a shade somberly-more seriously than he displayed earlier anyway. He opened it expertly, leaned against the wall, and stared at her half-curled against the counter while sniffing the rim. He didn’t want to get drunk-he had enough alcohol running in his blood already. His stomach was still queasy though-he needed something to cool down on.

There was only so far he could enjoy the mastery laid out on the dance floor, because he hated and resented the creature that created it. If he had made it himself, Gaara would’ve appreciated it more.

Finally, perhaps tired or frustrated with her own silence and realizing that he wasn’t going to forget or leave her alone, the woman cautiously pulled out a bottle as well, not bothering to open it but cradling it by her chest. The way she had grabbed it tipped him off-her wrist was in the wrong direction. She was planning to hit him with it, and he wasn’t even amused. Not insulted either, just not amused. He didn’t care enough.

Then, again, she moved. “Are you going to kill me?”

He didn’t move. He hadn’t made up his mind yet.
He was also concentrating on his stomach-it was a lot for it to take in one night. It was used to absorbing material at more sedate pace, not the meaty frenzy it had gotten. The glass sliver and sunglasses dangled from his left hand crossed over his chest, while his other held the bottle. The dark splatters seemed to extenuate the paleness of his skin-he still didn’t look healthy.

She crawled a few inches away from him. He shoved down the impulse to yank out her throat-not even his eyes twitched. He shook the bottle a little-the smell had started to wane, and a fresh burst came out. He wondered if he’d bother chasing her if she ran. He didn’t really feel like it. Felt like throwing up; his stomach ached.

“Are…are you going hurt me?”

Again, he didn’t know, so he didn’t move. He wasn’t about to take any credit for anything Shukaku had done, the horny bastard. He was Gaara-he was himself. He was a million things, but he would always be himself. No one could change that-not Shukaku, not…not fucking anyone!

“Are…you’re not gonna rape me…are you?”

Her voice was both dying and growing in confidence. She was both terrified and hopeful-a very dangerous combination. But this time Gaara knew the answer, so he replied in the rough voice he had always had, but would always but smoother and softer than what the demon had. She didn’t flinch at the sound of his voice-good for her.

“Don’t be stupid. I couldn’t stand to touch anyone long enough for that. I might kill you. I won’t touch you more than I have to.”

Her eyes darted to the counter, as if trying to look through the wood and cleaning materials to the dance floor. She had heard the screams, the sounds-she had imagination. Kei’s body was still on the floor, evidence, Gaara slouching over the left leg nonchalantly. But she didn’t say anything.

Gaara snorted in what could’ve been disgust.

He…he had actually…

He vaulted back over the counter, stalking away with little noise that died out quickly. The woman shivered then sighed deeply, her body going lax against the wood, relief washing through her. The overwhelming relief, the guilty ugly joy she felt because she had survived, was perhaps the reason she didn’t hear his footsteps stop. It could’ve been because she realized she was too exhausted to cry-she wanted to. She wanted to throw up. Her nerves were dead.

It was something he had never told anyone. He had never had a reason to do so, and the times when he had felt the impulse, found he didn’t have the trust needed. He doubted even the demon knew-he hoped he didn’t. But…when he had woken up…

When he had woken up on the dance floor, with that smell in his lungs and taste on his tongue and liquid over his body…the silence and chill filling every dirty dusty corner, the stillness wrapping up the carnage like a murder victim in a black body bag…

He felt…

He felt home.

He felt safe. He felt content. He wished-foolishly-that the demon had killed this last girl. She was disrupting his space: his quiet and tranquility with every beat of her heart. Every thump bump lub-dub lub-dub tick tock of the biological clock as one human out of a million lived on for…for what?????!!

He reappeared perched on the counter, slamming into it and she looked up startled. Gaara shoved the knife through her chest, his arm sweeping down, the blade scraping and ripped upwards. He stared right back at her face upraised, fear turning to surprise, surprise turning to pain, and pain finally turning to what could’ve been understanding or possibly just hatred. His hand felt warmth.

He would’ve liked to say he owed her nothing. He didn’t have to give her anything. He could’ve done nothing or anything, but just because it was available and sensible and he rather liked her shoes, Gaara decided to explain himself.

“I didn’t have to kill you. Remember that. I didn’t have to kill you-I chose. I wanted to. I felt like it. But I didn’t have to-I don’t have to do anything. I won’t be ruled by my feelings again, my appetites. I decided to kill you, so I did. But I didn’t have to. No one controls me. I wanted to.”

She died long before he finished talking. He jerked the knife back, glanced at it, decided he didn’t like anything that shiny, and threw it behind the counter with her. Then he grabbed her arms, pulled her up, and twisted the bone out of the socket and tore the flesh apart expertly with some difficulty because he was tired, but grace. He started licking at the bleeding parts at a slow, social pace, walking away and to the door, picking his ways daintily through the bodies.

“Yes that means you too so shut up!”

“I decided to sleep-no!”

“Just shut up. You had your fun. I allowed it…I control you far more than you control me.”

“Just shut up…those were ugly pants. They shone…that’s what made them ugly!”

“Shut up…”

***
Winter finally came in full during the December and January months.

The rain continued on, heavy and constant and imprisoning. Sasuke’s wasn’t fighting it. He could’ve left the tavern days ago-the weather hadn’t been this bad then. He just didn’t have anywhere he wanted to be. He thought briefly about Kakashi-sensei, and then thought about the suckled marks on his neck and stomach. Inside his thighs. Warm and chafing.

The glass was warm in his hand, or perhaps his fingers were simply colder than the ice in the drink.

***
There wasn't too much left in the world that Naruto hadn't done that he really wanted to do now.

***
Gaara sat on the curb steps across the street from the yellow police tape titled “Do Not Enter” crossed in front of building. He was sucking on a cherry slurpee, sunglasses pushing his bangs back wearing a regular white T-shirt with the “I Love Kyoto” logo on it in black kanji and blue jeans. He had showered properly, though his hair was still a mess. He could smell the blood easily at this distance-thick and decomposing.

He wasn’t quite sure where he was, because he had woken up in the dirty recreational ‘forest’ simulation bench, dripping from the koi pond. The fish had been, surprisingly, unharmed. His body ached, groaned, and somehow he had gotten a wooden clothespin shoved in his shoulder. He didn’t remember how he had gotten where he was or whom he had killed. He didn’t care either.

Being awake was…painful. He had gotten depressed, angry, resentful, jealous, and gone through every major stage of rejection. Now he wanted to be Numb. Living Pond Scum. Surviving On The Surface On The Bare Minimum With No Higher Goals, Thoughts, Or Emotions Involved. No pain, no gain, no change. Simple existence until something made everything better.

When he watched Yashamura die, Gaara decided something innately. Pain was a component of life. Pain could be overwhelming. Despite that, Gaara decided-innately, instinctually, on a level he wasn’t aware of and wasn’t even conscious of making a decision-that he would live. He might not enjoy living, but he would live.

He couldn’t explain why, because he wasn’t aware of his choice.

Gaara had never been in a relationship before that was so mutually desirable. He had never been in a romantic situation at all. He hadn’t even thought of a sexual event including him until…until…

He still couldn’t think his name in his head. He tried not to picture his face or hands. He kept on seeing flashes of his smile or eyes in strange things-like the pattern of shadows in the noon-day sun, or the glare of electric light on white plastic: strange things. Sunlight fractured inside a clear lollipop, the soothing sensation of blood coating his hands. The smell of his (her?) red shoes, the sound of rubber skidding on linoleum. Strange, artificial reminders.

It wasn’t just pain. It was very close to loss. It was almost truth.

It was a comfort, too often, to simply close his eyes.

He wouldn’t find something new. Wouldn’t do anything. He didn’t feel like getting in a huge fight-didn’t want a challenge. Didn’t want…

It was too easy to close his eyes. The slurpee was cold and icy down his throat that felt torn. The curb hard under his ass (don’t think of that), the sun not touching his arm (don’t think about that), and the disgusting thick smell of old blood in his nose.

He sat in the shade of a four-story building and watched men and women in dark, important-looking clothing go in and out of the building, writing things down, carrying paper bags, taking pictures, and talking in thin black boxes that talked back.

Gaara didn’t even make an effort to conceal himself. His body ached-his eyes wanted to close. But they didn’t see him. He wasn’t sure if it was a demonic reflex or ninja reflex or if they were simply stupid-his hair was rather distinctive, but they never glanced in his direction. It was like he was invisible. Gaara had been invisible during most of his childhood, and now all of a sudden he was again.

He sucked on his slurpee and scratched at the back of his neck, closing his eyes and making a mental note to cut his hair-it was getting too long. He didn’t like the way it felt. His lips let go of the straw as he started scratching behind his ear, tilting his head and becoming relaxed, the world gently, slowly going numb as he started to fall asleep again, taking pleasure in physical contact because it was his own hand and no one else’s.

Then, without knowing why, he opened his eyes and looked up, hand frozen behind his neck and the other holding the wet paper cup as the ice melted and condensed. Someone was looking at him. Gaara looked back.

Then he went back to sucking on his liquidy slurpee and scratching his long sideburns. He really needed to cut his hair.

***
The times when they did meet up, at night somewhere dark because Sasuke, to his own surprise and shock, found he didn’t like looking at the kid and seeing Naruto’s face, Naruto would realize that Sasuke really didn’t have much of an idea what he was doing. At times like that, Naruto would smile the smile that always felt like it was cut even though it wasn’t.

In a way it scared him. In…in many ways, it scared him.

First, it scared him because while Sasuke was cruel…he wasn’t doing everything he could’ve. Naruto’s imagination had created far, far worst torments for himself. That in turn frightened him because he realized how very different and distant he had grown from Sasuke’s world-how much he had changed. Sometimes his pride would come to rescue him, to tell him it was okay, but sometimes pride wasn’t enough.

Second, it scared him because it showed he had been right. It was hard to imagine Sasuke as anything besides cruel and intolerably selfish. Sasuke had never done anything to make himself popular-he was anti-social that way. People forgot that. And because people forgot he was anti-social, that there were plenty of things he had never learned to deal with as a kid, he only had a facsimile way of dealing with certain things as an adult. It wasn’t really dealing but it was close enough for legal work.

What it all led up to, in Naruto’s mind, was this:

At the core, Sasuke truly was decent. He hid it, rarely exercised it, and when he did he covered it up. He was single-minded but also shortsighted-he didn’t plan for the future well because he didn’t imagine himself with much of one. It allowed him to offer his food to a hungry castoff who had done nothing more than make himself a pain, and allowed him to hunt for his brother with the abandon that he did.

The question Naruto found himself asking was if Sasuke would be able to kill his brother, even if he could. He had been able to slit the throat of the man who had sex with him without really asking first, but hadn’t killed him when he was asleep, weak, and defenseless.

Sasuke Uchiha had never asked to look like he did. It was very possible he never realized how attractive he was-this was stupid of him and of people, because people found it difficult to see under the surface and past the family name. For the most part Naruto had figured it was because Sasuke was nothing more than the family name, but now he was starting to wonder if…if he had imagined that too.

What Naruto was discovering, that at heart he knew very, very little of what made Sasuke Uchiha tick. He had stormed his mind, forced open his nightmares, dragged his memories out into the light still-born and ugly, but had never really figured out what made him tick. He only knew what Sasuke made him feel, and even that, Naruto didn’t understand completely.

If the positions had been switched, Naruto would’ve made his life a living hell. He would’ve played around with the Sharingan and his body until the point where he was nothing more than a wet, boneless sack on the floor.

Naruto had a baser nature that Sasuke did not-to his surprise, he felt competitive.

But he was starting to think he made Sasuke uncomfortable-very uncomfortable. After all the fuss Sasuke had put into making him swear, he had only called twice. First was for information, for showing off. The second was just for sex. The third time though…

Sex was, surprisingly or not, one of the other things Sasuke was uncomfortable with.

Without his hair and face (and body of course), Naruto thought, Sasuke might be mistaken for a nerd. He'd learnt the higher mechanics of gay sex from Naruto. Various little tidbits of information that he didn't know and didn't care about Naruto told him about. But for all that, he was still withdrawn, often reluctant, and quietly ashamed.

The third time Sasuke had called Naruto out, it had been raining bullets and freezing cold, so cold that the puddles in the muddy street clinging to the curbs and building had started to glass over with ice even while the water fell. Naruto had gotten soaked-he had been miles away when he had heard the call like a tug on his stomach, like a longing he couldn’t name that he had been living with forever that he had actually forgotten was there.

By the time he had gotten to Sasuke’s room holed up in the corner of an attic of the village’s laundromat, he was drenched and freezing so his teeth chattered, blue jeans and sneakers soaked through with a fine layer of mud. He still had his red coat, but the rain had penetrated it and his human skin down to the bone. Even his joints hurt.

Sasuke had given him one look-that look that always made him want to punch his teeth out.

Then he had thrown him, more or less (perhaps only manhandled), into the rickety shower the attic was equipped with in a corner, a thin plastic tarp keeping the water from falling on the dusty and cluttered floor and flowing into the grimy drain below. Sasuke left him to strip and clean himself, returning to the corner where his own dark clothes were hanging wet and clean under a faint light bulb that faded in and out of intensity. Sasuke was dressed in simple dry shorts and shirt-they smelled old.

After the rain, the unheated water actually felt warm-long enough to scratch at the cold feeling in his bones and rinse the mud from his jeans…kind of. Mud proved pretty resistant to rinsing, and Naruto compromised. He burned his chakra at a low heat over his skin because there wasn’t a towel or something he could dry himself in, shaking his already-chilled hair free of water and glanced cautiously at Sasuke already wrapped up in the narrow cot across the room, facing the wall.

//I don’t want to spell it out for you.//

Naruto had raised an eyebrow. ::Don’t worry ass hole; you don’t have to.::

He turned off the faint lightbulb; slipped under the sheets giving Sasuke his back and letting their bodies touch reluctantly. The temperature was dropping steadily-he could see the warmth in his own breath fog out into the air, and let his chakra grow and expand like a bubble in a breeze, the silver necklace off his neck.

Naruto didn’t mention that he disliked being reduced to a human heater. Sasuke didn’t mention that he disliked having to use Naruto for anything useful. Naruto didn’t mention that he disliked being a kept animal. Sasuke didn’t mention that he disliked having the control he did over Naruto, and not making him cry. Naruto didn’t mention that he disliked feeling grateful to Sasuke for even the littlest thing.

Neither mentioned that they hated the silence more than anything at that moment.
Neither mentioned that they hadn’t forgiven each other for what they had and hadn’t done.

Neither mentioned that what, perhaps, they hated the very, very, very absolute most about each other, was the simple fact that they couldn’t kill each other. That they couldn’t kill themselves. That they couldn’t hurt each other without hurting themselves.

That there was no one else in the world who knew how they felt, who could do the same things that they could to each other, that no one could hurt them like they did each other, and how much they resented the other that position of uniqueness. Resented the other the similarities inherent between them, the attraction they couldn’t quite shake.

It struck them both as an incredibly unfair situation.

It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t.

It struck them both, almost at the same time (Sasuke first), that it was perhaps not impossible to kill the other. That of anyone else out there in the world, he had the greatest probability to kill him, the best opportunity. And it struck them again (Naruto first this time) that he wouldn’t do it, because even though he could, he wouldn’t. Which meant a choice had been made. Which meant there was a reason.

//I think I just hate myself.//

That seemed to explain it all.

The roof was thin, and Naruto watched as a leak developed, splattering with a tinny sound against the old dryer and washer equipment, before sliding down the stainless steel. The water pooled on the floor, turning it dark brown. He waited to see if a leak was going to start above them-that would be unpleasant. Be funny if it hit Sasuke. None did though, and he waited, listening hard, until he was fairly sure Sasuke was asleep because his mind felt like dark cotton, and let the tension go out of his bare shoulders. He kept the margin of empty, crowded space between them. He didn’t want to touch him more than he had to.

It was hours later that Naruto was really sure Sasuke was asleep, because he had been too until he had finally fallen off the edge of the bed. He stormed as quietly back under the sheets as he could, goosebumbs over his skin because he was still naked and it was cold and the floor wet and clung to Sasuke’s back with the full intention of biting him if he said anything.

He didn’t though, and it was 5 in the morning when he finally did stir and turn over. Naruto was more asleep than awake, but still tried to scoot out of the bed and find his clothes before Sasuke could push him out-he had done that before. He hadn’t expected Sasuke to hold his shoulders down. Naruto squinted, still asleep in his head and, for some reason, unafraid.

He blinked unsteadily in the dark because the sun still wasn’t up and the rain drummed slowly, and felt something warm and soft touch his lips completely. His eyes closed and he exhaled heavily, one hand coming up to caress Sasuke’s side gently while he opened his mouth and kissed him back in the same slow, casual, half-awake kiss Sasuke was giving.

Naruto didn’t even question it. Sasuke was kissing him. What else mattered, at that moment?

After that Naruto had simply gone…quiet, inside. Responsive and unthinking. He felt like he was really waking up, because, hey, it felt really, really nice. Soothing and cool as green herbs and chamomile tea, and his fingers relaxed and opened by themselves as his body sunk further into the thin mattress. Warm and soft, sexual yet chaste too because Sasuke wouldn’t do this to anyone else, to no one else, just him…he felt wonderful. Very warm.

This…this was worth waking up for…or going to sleep for, whichever. It was worth it. It was really, really worth it.

Continued at: http://www.livejournal.com/users/gelfling8604/40653.html#cutid1