Christmas Drabbles

[midnightdiddle]

Sorry for the wangsting in the last post. Thank you all, for your concern. I'm sorry about worrying anyone.

Umm, I have the drabbles I sent in Christmas cards this year. So, here it goes...

For eloquencelost, there was Understood

The first time Ibiki met Mitarashi Anko, the girl was just that, a girl. She was fourteen, and angry at the world. Of course, Ibiki was only seventeen, but he didn’t feel quite as angry as Anko seemed to feel. Instead, Ibiki was tired with the world. There was an interrogation, jounin yelling and screaming about traitors, and Anko was in the center of it, snarling about Konoha and family and fuck them all, they didn’t understand.

Ibiki thought that he did.

The second time Ibiki met Anko, Anko was lying in a hospital bed, staring out the window. There was an inquiry into a mission gone wrong, and something about someone being a traitor, still. Anko told Ibiki and the other jounin to fuck themselves, because she had a home, and she just wanted to go back home, and none of them understood.

Ibiki still thought he did.

The third and fourth and fifth, all the way up to the thirty-second time Ibiki met Anko, Anko was laughing and snarling and biting and scratching and killing to survive. She was bitter, angry, and too happy for her own good. She cried as she laughed, screamed as she sang, did things no one understood. Except for Ibiki.

Because Ibiki? He understood.

The thirty-second time, though? The thirty-second time there was a traitor, and Anko was wiping her sword on her sleeve, blood smearing across the fabric. A blade sheathed, and some footsteps forward, then Ibiki felt Anko move his head, her fingers soft on his chin.

“Had to,” she said, and she didn’t sound so angry anymore. She sounded tired, bone-weary. “I need to go home.”

“I understand,” Ibiki said in a whisper of a sigh, and he did.

He understood.



For aozora23, there was Fireflies

In some ways, Iruka was very much a child. It probably came from teaching little children day in and day out. So, it was with no surprise that Kakashi found Iruka standing outside, bare feet in the wet grass, hands clasped tightly, space between his palms.

“What’re you doing?” Kakashi asked, and he rested his head on Iruka’s shoulders, looking at the teacher’s hands. Iruka breathed out, then in, and cracked his hands open.

“Fireflies,” Iruka said needlessly, and the insect slipped from between Iruka’s hands. Kakashi watched as the spot of light moved away, hovering low on the ground.

“Fireflies?” Kakashi asked, and he lifted his head. Iruka nodded, and stepped away from Kakashi, leaning upon his toes, catching another firefly in his hands.

“Fireflies.”

And when Iruka held his hands close to his chest, cradling them, fingers barely spread to watch the glint of light, Kakashi had never loved him more.



For fuyu_no_fuhei, there was Grey Skies

Shikamaru hates grey skies. He hates the winter, when everything’s grey and sleet and slush, when the sidewalks freeze to ice, and salt’s sprinkled around to keep people from sliding and falling. Shikamaru still falls.

He falls when Chouji doesn’t come home anymore. He slips and slides and can’t find his center of balance when Ino disappears, and when the smell of Asuma’s cigarettes fades away. His feet can’t find purchase on the damn ice, and when he falls onto his ass, slush melting into his clothes, sinking into his skin, then his bones, and then his heart, there’s no one there to laugh and grab his hand and pull him up.

Sometimes, like right now, when he’s standing next to the memorial, and the bandages are wet and he’s not sure if it’s dirty water or blood, and when his hitai-ate, tied against his arm, is freezing to the touch, and there’s no one there but some names carved into a piece of obsidian too big and too wide to be that full of names, he decides he hates winter.

How he hates the grey skies.



For oakdoitter(?), there was Perfect

There were blue flowers everywhere in the field, overpowering the green and brown and gold. Iruka stretched his hands out, touched the blossoms of a flower near his head, and plucked the flower.

“You alright?” Kakashi asked. Iruka brought the flower close to his face, twirling it between his fingers.

“You’re early.” The head of the flower was heavy, dragging the stem down, bending nearly in half, and Iruka watched it sink.

“Am I?” Kakashi sat next to Iruka, glanced around him. “It’s pretty here. Blue. Where are we?”

Iruka lifted his head enough to look around them, to look at the flowers of blue that bled into the green and brown and gold. The flower in his hand melted away into a butterfly, blue and green and brown and gold. Naruto’s eyes, Sakura’s and Genma’s and Tsunade’s. Eyes that stared at Iruka and Kakashi and cried tears that turned into pearls.

“Heaven,” Iruka said with a laugh, and the butterfly was melting into ribbons that slipped like water through Iruka’s fingers. He laid back in the grass, and sank into the flowers.

It was perfect. Iruka was happy.



For sherriaisling, there was Love

Kiba finds the idea of bugs disgusting. The thought of something crawling around, beneath his skin, makes him squeamish, but more than that, it’s the mentality. The Aburame clan is like a hive. Shino’s grandmother is the queen. She sits in the center of the collection of houses and buildings, and the rest of the clan revolves around her. They live and die by her will, work under her eyes. There’s no playing in the Aburame clan, because they’re all about the hive, about gathering food and building tunnels and living their days or weeks or months of life they have.

The Inuzuka clan is as opposite as possible. It’s a pack, full of roughhousing members who bark and snap at each other, but in a pinch, they pull together. Someone’s always fighting for leadership, but beneath the bickering and arguing and loving backstabbing, they’re all watching out for each other, protecting the pups and gnawing old bones together. Kiba likes to call it love. He watches Shino, and Shino’s family, and he wonders, mostly to himself, how the Aburame clan can call anything they have love, because it certainly isn’t a love that Kiba understands.

But times like now, when Shino’s lying sprawled on top of him, and he’s touching Kiba’s face like Kiba’s the first person Shino’s ever seen, Kiba wonders if maybe, just maybe, the Aburame’s know a bit more about love than they’re letting on.



For jbmcdragon(?), there was Locks

There’s no lock on Neji’s door. Instead, the door slides open easily, smooth on its tracks. Every night, just after the houses have quieted and the lights have gone out, Neji’s door slides open. Footsteps cross the room, and Hinata sits on the edge of Neji’s futon.

“Neji,” she says, and he rolls over, facing her. She touches his forehead, fingers cool against his hot skin, and then she smiles. He can see a glint of her teeth, white in the room, just like her eyes and her face and her hair, because Hinata’s grown old.

“Hinata-sama,” he says, and she leans forward, a kiss on his forehead, on his temple. She brushes his hair back from his face, kisses the other side of his forehead, his other temple, and then she stands. She sighs when she’s upright, touches her back with a careless hand, and Neji wonders when Hinata grew so certain of things.

“Goodnight, Neji-oniisan.” And there’re footsteps out of his room, and the door slides closed. It’s tradition now, the kisses and the door and even though Neji doesn’t like it, he never puts a lock on his door, because it’d do no good. After all, he can’t lock out ghosts.



For techiegoat, there was Merry Christmas

Ken was sitting in the kitchen, staring at a glass of water in his hand, when he heard the door open. After a few moments Yohji wandered into the kitchen, leaning a bit to his left, duster hanging open.

“Hey,” Yohji said, and his voice sounded rough, like too much sex and too many drugs and too much to drink. Ken spun his glass in between his hands slowly.

“Hey. Omi was looking for you earlier, something about a Christmas tree.” Ken took a quick sip of the water, then stood up, moving to the sink to pour the water out. He set the glass on the edge of the sink and turned to head back upstairs, freezing when Yohji moved, stepping in front of him.

“Was he?” Yohji asked lazily. He tilted his head, looking down at Ken, then leaned forward, kissing the younger man. Ken was painfully still beneath him, and when Yohji leaned back, Ken blinked slowly.

“You taste like cigarettes,” Ken said softly, stupidly, and Yohji grinned.

“Yeah? Well, Merry Christmas, Ken-kun.” He ruffled Ken’s hair, hissed when Ken punched him in the arm, and stumbled out towards the stairs.

“Merry Christmas,” Ken said behind him, still in the kitchen, and Yohji’s smile grew.

Merry Christmas indeed.



For dragon_bite, there was Mint

When Hinata was a child, her mother had a herbal garden. It wasn’t anything special, and most women in Konoha had a small herbal garden, if they had room for a garden. It was easier, and cheaper, to have homemade remedies for the common cuts and scrapes ninja got on missions. In her mother’s garden, there was a small corner where mint plants flourished, taking over all the other plants.

Hinata used to pick the leaves while her mother weeded and tended the small garden. Hinata would hold the leaves in her small hands, and her skin would smell of mint as the leaves were crushed between her fingers. When her mother was finished, they’d go inside, and Hinata would be set up on the counter. Her mother would boil water, and Hinata would put the crushed leaves into two cups, and together they would drink water that tasted of mint and childhood.

Now, at the edge of seventeen, when her father’s talking about an engagement to Neji, and the need for her to grow up, to grow out of the girlish daydreams and childish fantasies, she wishes that she could drink water tinged with green and mint and life with her mother. She misses her mother more than anything. She misses her mother more than she misses Hanabi, or Naruto, or Kiba. She misses her mother, dead and buried and under the corner of the herbal garden. She swallows the bitter tea in the small cup in front of her, and as her father speaks in the slow, calm way of his, she dreams.



For nezuko, there was Nice Day

Hammocks weren’t made for three people. They were made for one, or maybe two, but not three. Three people made a tangle of limbs and rope when hammocks broke and bodies plummeted to the ground. At least, the hammocks would break if the rope wasn’t reinforced with chakra. But when it was reinforced with chakra? Well, then three people could swing with ease, a tangle of limbs some two or three feet above the ground.

“Shove over,” Genma drawled lazily. He pushed at Raidou’s head, and Raidou grumbled, kicking Ibiki. Ibiki snarled, smacked Genma over the head, and then it was calm again.

“Nice day.” Raidou’s voice was drowsy, and he yawned, eyes sliding closed. The sunlight was glinting through the leaves, hitting his face now and again as the hammock swung, and he shifted a little, not quite snuggling.

“You’re snuggling,” Ibiki informed Raidou gravely, but he snuggled back. “Genma, he’s snuggling.”

Genma lifted an eyebrow in a slow leer, then threw his arm over Raidou, fingers resting on Ibiki’s hip. “Nice day,” he agreed, and his fingertips moved in little circles on Ibiki’s skin. “Very nice day.”



For perniciousness, there was Poker. or Geniuses

Kakashi was a genius. In fact, he’d been a genius since he was a baby. He’d been a genius far longer than Shikamaru. So, he wondered, why was it that Shikamaru was always outmaneuvering him?

“Your play,” Shikamaru said, and Kakashi growled low in his throat. He stared down at the cards in his hands, then threw his hand down on the floor next to the sake jar, cards face up.

“Four nines, and a wild,” he said, feeling a flush of pride low on his face. Shikamaru looked up, mouth twisted at the corners in a lazy smile, and Kakashi felt the flush of pride turn to a flush of fear.

“Royal flush,” Shikamaru drawled, dropping his cards on top of Kakashi’s. Kakashi stared at the cards for a moment, Sharingan spinning madly, then looked back up at the younger man.

“Wha- How?”

Shikamaru shrugged and pulled the cards out of the middle, pushing them into the deck and shuffling. “Yeah yeah, whine whine, Genius-san. Now strip.”

This was the last time Kakashi played poker with Shikamaru. Ever.



For keepthefeyth, there was

Domesticity is killing Naruto. There’s something about picking up his underwear, and hanging up towels, that just makes him want to go bat-shit crazy and stab something with a kunai. Or two. Or maybe a couple hundred.

Vacuums, Naruto has decided, will do that to a man. But more than that, it’s Gaara.

Naruto loves Gaara, don’t get him wrong. Gaara is the perfect amount of moping and angsting to compliment Naruto just so, and Naruto really couldn’t find a better person for him. Not to mention the sparring is great, and the sex is even better.

But see, there’s a problem. Gaara has sand. Lots of sand. Sand that goes everywhere. And Naruto, bless his soul, wants to kill Gaara sometimes. He wants to take that gourd and shove it up Gaara’s skinny white ass.

Kazekage his ass.



For akashacatbat, there was Villain

Benny’s not a villain. He’s not the bad guy, no matter what Mark and Roger and Maureen say. They say ‘traitor,’ ‘backstabber’ and ‘sellout.’ He says ‘warmth’ and ‘food.’ He’d grown tired of always being cold, of always being hungry. He’d grown tired of wondering how he was going to make a few lousy dollars last the next two weeks. He’d grown tired of waiting to die.

Allison made things better. Now Benny doesn’t have to worry about his next meal. He doesn’t have to scrounge for loose change just so he can buy a watery cup of coffee. He doesn’t have to worry about anything except Mark and Roger, and he doesn’t want to worry about them, either. He wants to take care of them, make sure Roger gets his meds and Mark stays off the streets. He doesn’t understand how they can be so blind to what he wants. It’s not much he’s asking for, just them. He wants them alive and well and in his life. He wants friends, nothing more.

No, Benny’s not a villain.



Was I wrong on any of those? I mean, were any of those the wrong drabbles? And did I miss any? I can't remember...

ETA akashacatbat's drabble.

Comments

[bandit-wraith.livejournal.com]

That was a lovely (and sometimes amusing) collection. ^ ^ I adore all of your writings, and would comment on all of them ( of course there's only so many ways to express awe.) Your style is fantastic by the way :3 though I shouldn't be trying to read everything at once, it's a little tough to go from snickering over one piece to being in near tears in the next.

But wonderful, wonderful, and again, wonderful. <3