Categories > Anime/Manga > Naruto

why we can't be saved

by sanguineus 3 reviews

what separates us is what separates an arm from a body - and we tear apart just as painfully.

Category: Naruto - Rating: PG-13 - Genres: Angst - Characters: Naruto,Sasuke - Warnings: [!!] - Published: 2007-10-28 - Updated: 2007-10-29 - 427 words - Complete

For a moment they are facing each other, and the pain bubbles to the surface, catches raw and fresh in those vast blue eyes and then Sasuke is on him, crushing him into the sheer stone wall and burning with sick, depthless rage.

Naruto struggles to breathe through the fingers that crush his throat, but is otherwise motionless. There are more fingers worked up under his rib cage, and it hurts; he gasps softly, the sound snagging in his lungs, but the hands on him tremble so he does not fight them. He can almost feel the violent flutter of the alternate loss and need as they flip through the dark, angelless beast that is falling into him.

So he finally says, because Sasuke isn't quite killing him and isn't letting him go either:

“How long are we going to do this to each other?”

And what he means is, 'how long are you going to do this to me?' because at this point, he holds no illusions; there is nothing in Sasuke left for him, even if there is everything in him left for Sasuke. And he says it in a way that hides this knowledge; low, and kind. A melancholy whisper to a lost

“Until I can kill you,” he says it harshly, “without regretting it.”

Something falls into a place, just a little, because Naruto can be stupid when it comes to Sasuke, and he realizes that this rift isn't smooth on the other side, but jagged both ways. And he wants to know why Sasuke will hurt him if he hurts in return. And he wants to know why they can't be saved.

“So, forever.”

It slips out almost like he hadn't meant to say it, but the universe is jolted, reined in, and Sasuke freezes.

Then he relaxes, and his hands fall to Naruto's waist, and he breathes against the blond's neck, “Yes, Naruto.” There is a hot wetness that soaks into him.

The rocks and half-mountains and the distant waterfall that took no part in this fade out; he gradually becomes warmer, once the night and the chill drift from his mind, and he wakes up groggy and alone and there are dream-bruises on his ribs, but they are gone when he skids his fingers down to check. He wouldn't hate it so much if there had just been some finality to it—some closure, some solid reason or action to seal it.

But as it stands, all he has are dreams, and he doesn't even want them anymore.
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