St. Pat's day drabble (angst/PG-13)
Ugh. This is sad drabble. Short, so read it. Sasunaru as a whole, but nothing really happens. No spoilers, just speculation. And it is very sad. ;.; Ech. Does not get heading or anything ;.;
St. Patrick's Day drabble.
h. tsuki
Naruto can drink. If nothing else can be said of him-and many, many things can-no one can debate this. It is fact, it is assumed, it is common knowledge.
His body, and the regenerative qualities of kyuubi, are exceedingly helpful-they keep Naruto from dying of alcohol poisoning; because, some nights, he very well could.
It is years After. There was the initial parting-that first real battle, and Sasuke on his knees and falling forward into an almost-kiss and then leaving. There are three years, and almost losing him again.
And then, there is the Reconciliation.
For one night, the night Naruto slipped into the Sound, killed many and for the first time, the sound-nin guards-for one night they were together with each other. Everything from before fell away; stripped, peeled, cut off and away and back, and they were laid bare against one another.
The next day Orochimaru took him.
He can't remember if Sasuke refused to come; he can't remember if Sasuke said, “one more week,” he can't remember if he left and promised to return the following night, the plans were almost complete, we've made contact, tomorrow we can get you, we can free you.
Sometimes people become prisoners by choice; sometimes they receive payment.
Sometimes it is power.
When Naruto killed Orochimaru, killed Sasuke's body even if it was killing a Sasuke that was dead in spirit already-well, it was killing himself and living through it.
Now Naruto drinks until he passes out. He can hold his liquor, but he just manages to get spectacularly drunk often. Sometimes Sakura drags him home with her monstrous strength; most times not, because she is not at the bar every night. Naruto isn't always, sometimes he is okay. He has gone months, but always it comes back to Sasuke and he starts to Think, and then he goes.
He never finds solace in the clearing of his mind, the systematic erasure of each memory cell that follows the curve of Sasuke's throat when he kissed it, the hollows of his ribs when Naruto's fingers pressed into them, his thumbs; nothing can cut out the image of Sasuke's eyes burning with such an open expression, bleeding, begging.
But he goes to the bars, he drinks, he stumbles home. They are deterrents, at the very least-it chases the dreams away. He cannot forget or cover up; he can only disregard.
There are nights Sakura stays with him and holds him; she is all he has left that still echoes Sasuke.
Even that isn't enough anymore.
St. Patrick's Day drabble.
h. tsuki
Naruto can drink. If nothing else can be said of him-and many, many things can-no one can debate this. It is fact, it is assumed, it is common knowledge.
His body, and the regenerative qualities of kyuubi, are exceedingly helpful-they keep Naruto from dying of alcohol poisoning; because, some nights, he very well could.
It is years After. There was the initial parting-that first real battle, and Sasuke on his knees and falling forward into an almost-kiss and then leaving. There are three years, and almost losing him again.
And then, there is the Reconciliation.
For one night, the night Naruto slipped into the Sound, killed many and for the first time, the sound-nin guards-for one night they were together with each other. Everything from before fell away; stripped, peeled, cut off and away and back, and they were laid bare against one another.
The next day Orochimaru took him.
He can't remember if Sasuke refused to come; he can't remember if Sasuke said, “one more week,” he can't remember if he left and promised to return the following night, the plans were almost complete, we've made contact, tomorrow we can get you, we can free you.
Sometimes people become prisoners by choice; sometimes they receive payment.
Sometimes it is power.
When Naruto killed Orochimaru, killed Sasuke's body even if it was killing a Sasuke that was dead in spirit already-well, it was killing himself and living through it.
Now Naruto drinks until he passes out. He can hold his liquor, but he just manages to get spectacularly drunk often. Sometimes Sakura drags him home with her monstrous strength; most times not, because she is not at the bar every night. Naruto isn't always, sometimes he is okay. He has gone months, but always it comes back to Sasuke and he starts to Think, and then he goes.
He never finds solace in the clearing of his mind, the systematic erasure of each memory cell that follows the curve of Sasuke's throat when he kissed it, the hollows of his ribs when Naruto's fingers pressed into them, his thumbs; nothing can cut out the image of Sasuke's eyes burning with such an open expression, bleeding, begging.
But he goes to the bars, he drinks, he stumbles home. They are deterrents, at the very least-it chases the dreams away. He cannot forget or cover up; he can only disregard.
There are nights Sakura stays with him and holds him; she is all he has left that still echoes Sasuke.
Even that isn't enough anymore.