Sasuke-centric, Team 7 friendship - His head falls back on his pillow as he lies on his bed and he reminds himself, This is a fever, these are simple delusions.
His neck itches.
The junction between neck and shoulder specifically; not quite there, but almost. His hands are frigid but his forehead feels warmer than the snowy white of skin appears to be.
Even in this/, a devious voice- annoying for reasons Sasuke did not entirely understand- says in the back of his mind that he usually ignores, /state, the world is not so different.
He feels delusional, seeing things he shouldn't, like smiles and sun and green leaves and flowers, things he'd left behind for the power within darkness. His hands are sticky and he is reminded of the sugary anko dumplings he's seen her eat with fingers so thin-why was he thinking about that?-but he knows it is blood and as he musters the strength to curl his fingers in. Deep red crust chips of his fingers and he smells metal. Copper.
He has never liked the smell; he can smell it in his own house some- oh, what is he doing thinking about that place again? Is he crazy?
He licks his lips, and gags at the smell. Maybe he is.
He ends up vomiting- again, and he looks at the light brown within the red bile and its color reminds him of ramen, the soup color, in a way. Of the dob- of the doe. He had seen a deer with a pleasant color brown, once.
Oh fuck, his head swims into concrete one or six times too many, Oh fuck.
His gut fucking /hurt/.
He remembers a memory from long ago. You should've guarded your side, Kakashi had said. It repeated. You should've guarded your-
His head falls back on his pillow as he lies on his bed and he reminds himself, This is a fever, these are simple delusions, it's nothing, it's nothing, it's nothing, it's no...
He wakes back up from sleep at three-eighteen in the morning, two hours of sleep, just in time to see it turn nineteen. His hair is matted to his temples, and his bloody clothing is sticky and carries a stench throughout the room. The fever and everything both feel farther away than they should be, or maybe, it is himself out of place.
He realizes this when he remembers that when was forced to bunk next to another person on a mission, next to...them, he always slept on the far, far right, facing outward and right fist under pillow. He uses his left hand to pick himself up while his right remains sweaty under the pillow's shelter.
With the clang of metal he shatters the mirror that taunts in mocking reflection, and he does not bother to pick up the pieces.
He knows it would prick his fingers, pieces so tiny and persistent; too difficult to pull away, jeering mirror image laughing.
He sleeps on his stomach that night.