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midnightdiddleDrabbles! Four! One Spider-Man, three Naruto.
Spider-Man: Movie-verse
Rainy Day in the Third Degree
It was, all in all, a bad day, but nowadays, most days seemed to be bad days. Mary Jane wasn't happy anymore, no matter what he bought her. His father seemed more interested in Peter, though Harry couldn't really blame him, and Peter-
Well, Peter was Peter. Peter had changed since graduation, and now Harry wasn't quite sure about anything that was supposed to be Peter. Really, though, everything had changed, except for Harry. Harry was still Harry, still stupid, flunk-out Harry, who couldn't ever understand the most simple of things.
His professor had written on the last test "come see me in my office" in red felt-tip marker, and Harry was pretty sure that for once, his father's money wasn't going to be much help. He'd skipped out on the meeting, instead walking home in the rain, sloshing through puddles with the like-mindedness he tried so hard to put towards something his father would approve of. Like maybe M.J. M.J. was, as near as Harry could remember, like his mother. Beautiful and captivating, and maybe his father would be impressed, and proud. He certainly couldn't impress his father with college.
When Harry got back to the apartment, he dragged in with a vicious glee, dripping on the floors and in the elevator, small puddles on the old marble. He kicked off his shoes when he got into their apartment, yanking off his socks clumsily, then trailed more water about the apartment, just like the straps of his backpack were trailing on the floor as he dragged the bag around.
"Pete?" he called, wandering up the stairs. "Peter?" He paused at his bedroom door, kicking it open so he could throw his backpack into his room. Peter's door was closed and Harry hesitated for a second, opening the door with a wary feeling not unlike the feeling he got whenever he tried to kiss M.J., like he was doing something that he wasn't supposed to be doing, treading where he wasn't supposed to be.
Peter's room was cluttered in a way that Harry yearned for. Harry'd never had a cluttered room before, and still didn't. His father had always said a cluttered room led to a cluttered mind, and even now, living in an apartment in the middle of the city, with only weekly visits from his father, spent downstairs next to the phone, Harry couldn't shake free of the little things. He loved Peter's room, loved to lean in the doorway, watching Peter dig through piles of clothes, dirty and clean, trying to find a chemistry book or folder of pictures.
Peter was sprawled out on his stomach, face turned towards the doorway and mouth open, breath barely too soft to be called snores. Harry kicked at the doorjam, looking from Peter's bed to the window. The window was open and rain was coming in, splattering across the floor. Harry had to yank the window closed, wincing as he hit his elbow on the windowledge.
He looked out the window, at the wet pavement below, the cars splashing water up onto the curbs, soaking passers-by. He watched a taxi pull to a stop down below, the door opening and a red-head standing up, Mary-Jane's fingers pulling the neck of her jacket up, head ducked against the rain. Harry closed the door to Peter's bedroom carefully as he left, taking the stairs at a quiet two-at-a-time, grabbing his shoes as he left the apartment. He'd take M.J. out, buy her dinner, kiss her goodnight, and maybe, when he got back, Peter'd be awake.
Maybe, when he got back, Peter'd help him with his science paper. They'd sit at the table, windows closed against the rain, and Pete'd explain things three, four times, until Harry finally got it, in a way he didn't really get anything until Pete explained them, because somehow, in this crazy life, Peter was someone Harry could always understand.
Really, when he thought about it, rainy days weren't so bad.
Naruto
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drelfina, Life Support
Genma doesn't particularly like the hospital. He doesn't hate it like Raidou had hated it, or like Hayate had hated it, or like Iruka hated (hates, he tells himself, hates) it. But Iruka's in the hospital right now (has been for two weeks and counting), so Genma swallows his dislike, which tastes bitter-sweet, and walks through the door for the thirty-first time since Thursday two weeks past.
There are flowers on the table next to Iruka's bed, from the Yamanaka flowershop, and there're a few notes from friends and students, past and present (and future, Genma tells himself, future). The flowers are starting to wilt, though, drooping in the dry summer heat, and Genma thinks briefly of closing the window.
When he does close the window, though, it feels too stuffy in the room, so he opens the window again. Closes it, opens it, moves the chair closer to the bed, closer to the window. He closes the door, then props it open with the trashcan. He thinks briefly of bringing a fan from home, but he doesn't want to haul it all that way if it won't be used long, and the thought of that makes him want to scream.
Around lunchtime he leaves because the nurse is staring at him from the doorway, clearing her throat and asking him again and again if Genma-san wants something to eat, and doesn't lunch sound good to Genma-san, and Genma-san can come back after lunch, does that make Genma-san feel better? Genma leaves because the sound of his name on her voice makes him feel sick. He knows his name, has known his fucking name all his fucking life, and he doesn't care about his name, 'cause Iruka's never going to know his name ever again.
That thought, though, makes Genma move down the hallway faster, because Genma hates himself when he thinks of what will (but won't, he tells himself) happen. It's down in the cafeteria, as he's forcing himself to swallow dry rice, that the others find him.
Kakashi doesn't say anything, but neither does Gai. Genma looks at them, they look back, and after a moment he pushes the bowl of rice towards Gai and pushes his cup of water towards Kakashi. Kakashi lifts an eyebrow, takes a sip of the water, refits his mask, and leans closer. Genma leans back in his chair, wondering if it's been long enough that the nurse has left Iruka's room.
"How is he?"
Genma shrugs, taking back the cup to take a drink of water. He swallows, water sticking in his throat for a few seconds, then breathes out, a whooshing sigh.
"He's fine."
Kakashi leaves after a while, saying something about a mission, and Genma waits impatiently for Gai to leave. When Gai spins the bowl of rice, pushing it back towards Genma, Genma gets up, moving back upstairs. Gai follows and Genma slows his steps, letting Gai enter the room first.
The monitors are louder than Genma expected. The beeping falls in time with the rise-fall-rise-fall of Iruka's chest, and the hiss of oxygen makes Genma think of things he'd rather not think of, because they mostly involve the way Anko screamed and Raidou burned and Orochimaru watched, yellow eyes and hissing mouth.
Gai sits in the chair, close to the open window, and Genma sits on the edge of Iruka's bed, looking out the window. Gai doesn't say much, and Genma doesn't say much, either. Iruka doesn't say a word. Gai leaves some hours later, saying words about his team, and Genma watches the light outside the window slant.
He leaves after visiting hours are over, going home for a few hours of sleep. He dreams of Iruka, of a small red line across Iruka's shoulder, edging onto the neck. He dreams about the way the poison soaked in, slipping into the blood, sinking into Iruka's heart and Iruka's lungs and Iruka's brain. He dreams of Iruka dying and wakes up, face dry and heartbeat slow. He wonders, just a little, if that means he doesn't love him anymore.
The forty-third time Genma walks through the door of Iruka's room, two and a half weeks after it became Iruka's room, the plug's pulled. Genma shoves the notes from the friends and students into his pockets, not quite careful enough to avoid crumpling them, and flips the nurse off as he leaves.
He stops at their apartment (or his, now it's just his apartment, 'cause Iruka's not going to keep up on the rent anymore) to grab all the cash he's got, and all of the cash Iruka's got, too, because Iruka's not going to need it anymore. He goes out and gets wasted, then gets a bit more wasted. He drinks whatever the bartender puts in front of him, swallows whatever the rookies and the veterans offer him, wrapped up in little pieces of white paper.
He makes it home somehow, though he's relatively sure it involved Kakashi dragging him most of the way there. Genma sleeps for a few hours, and he dreams about Iruka. Genma dreams; Iruka's lying on the couch, flicking senbon at the ceiling. Genma wants to complain about the plaster Iruka's knocking loose, but he can't, because there's blood on Iruka's lips, and there're blank holes where Iruka's eyes should've been, and when Iruka breathes, a snake's hiss, his chest doesn't move. Genma wakes up, face wet and heartbeat fast, and wonders if that means he loves (loved, he tells himself, loved) him.
It's a few weeks later that Gai drops a cat off in Genma's arms. Genma looks at the cat, looks at Gai, and lifts an eyebrow.
"Kakashi's tired," Gai says, and he doesn't need to finish it with 'dragging you home,' 'keeping you alive,' 'taking care of your pathetic ass, because you can't take care of yourself.'
Genma nods, because there's not much he can think of to say to Gai. Then again, there's not much he can think of to say to anyone. He opens his mouth, clears his throat, and wonders when was the last time he talked to someone, other than the Iruka who sits besides Genma's bedside at night, sticks for fingers and seaweed for hair and coals for eyes.
"Thanks," Genma says, and his voice is rough. Gai nods and leaves, and Genma closes the door behind him, going over to the window to watch the sunlight slant. The cat starts crying half-way through dusk and Genma grabs it by the scruff of its neck, depositing it on the counter. He puts out a bowl of milk and leans back against the fridge, watching the cat lap at the milk. After a while he picks up the cat, lifting it up to check, then sets her down.
A few days later Kakashi stops by, slouching through the doorway, hands shoved into his pockets. Genma kicks the cat away from his feet and she pads over to Kakashi, winding around Kakashi's ankles. Kakashi looks down at the cat, crouches to scratch her head for a moment, then snatches his hand away before she can bite him.
"You been sleeping?" Kakashi asks. Genma shrugs, nudging the cat with his toes. Kakashi watches Genma and Genma watches Kakashi, and after a moment Kakashi stands up, hands back in his pockets.
"You name her?" Kakashi asks curiously, nodding towards the cat. Genma shrugs again and Kakashi blinks slowly, glancing to the side.
"What'd you name her?" Kakashi asks. Genma shrugs, then grabs the cat by the scruff of her neck, lifting her up to his chest, and scratches her neck.
"Iruka."
Forkilerkki, Jounin Lounge Blues, or The Day the Bake-Sale Went Bad
It wasn't that Gai couldn't dance. It was just that when Gai danced, it tended to be pelvic-thrusts reminiscent of Sakumo, known as the greatest pelvic-thruster of his age, on par with the Sannin. And it wasn't that pelvic thrusts were bad, per se. It was just that it was Gai. After all, when these same pelvic-thrusts, handed down by the late Sakumo, were performed by Kakashi, there was a village-wide swooning amongst all the women of reasonable age (and Genma). When performed by Gai, though, clad in his green lycra, the pelvic-thrusts seemed to have a very dissimilar effect: that is, chaos would break out. It was highly rumored that it was Gai's dancing, in fact, that drove one Uchiha Itachi to the murders of both Fugaku and Mikoto.
So, as it stood, dancing was something that the ninja of Konoha tried to limit, especially in the presence of Gai. Alas, it seemed that not everything in life could go so well.
The day of the infamous "incident" was a warm, windy day. The jounin lounge was fuller than usual, which was probably due to the fact that it was the day of the annual Akimichi bake-sale, and Chouza was giving special discounts to his fellow jounin. Shikaku had (somehow) been roped into helping, though his help mainly consisted of hiding the mint brownies from Inoichi, who was developing quite the belly. Asuma and Kurenai were arguing over exactly how many cookies Asuma had devoured, and Raidou was trying to convince Aoba that eating some cake wasn't dishonoring the memory of Hayate.
It was during this idyllic time, while Neji and Tsunade shared their sorrows of the memories of Hizashi and Dan over a plate of warm and gooey brownies, that Gai burst into the room. Shizune screamed. Anko cursed. Shibi twitched. As one, all the pairs of eyes in the room focused on that green-clad form, that epitome of masculinity. And, as one, all the pairs of eyes in the room dropped to- well, best not to say.
Ebisu swallowed. Tsume prayed. Ibiki shoved another piece of cheesecake into his mouth. Gai?
Well, Gai danced.
The jounin of Konoha would never be the same.
Forgigabomb, Huddling Place
Itachi had a huddling place. It was the far left corner from the door, a few feet away from the window. Itachi had been there for over an hour now, head resting on his knees, blood oozing from the black cloak to the floorboards.
"Kisame," he finally said, his pale hands clasping around his legs.
Kisame didn't move, just blinked slowly, mouth partially open. "Itachi-san?"
Itachi was quiet for a moment, hands tightening. Kisame looked at Itachi's hands, at the fingernails with chipped teal. If Kisame squinted, he thought he could see still see blood crusted around the fingernails, drying and flaking beneath the nails.
"Do you remember your parents?" Itachi asked, voice careful. Kisame blinked again, breathing shallowly as his side burned.
"No." Kisame thought briefly about moving forward, a little bit closer to Itachi, but his body refused. He let his head rest against the side of the bed, closing his eyes for a moment.
"Neither can I," Itachi said after a few moment, voice low and slow. Kisame let out a breath, opened his eyes again.
"Why do you ask, Itachi-san?"
"He remembered my parents."
Kisame could see a flicker of Itachi's eyes, black irises that hadn't been red for what felt like a very long time. Kisame wondered, for a moment, what Itachi saw in his head.
"Do you think," Itachi asked, "now that he's dead, no one will remember them?" Itachi struggled to his feet, his hands holding onto the wall for balance. Kisame watched him cross towards the bed, hand hanging until it hit the edge of the bed. Itachi's fingers slid along the sheets on the bed, until they brushed against Kisame's shoulder, and then Itachi knelt, mouth next to Kisame's cheek.
"Will no one remember me," Itachi murmured, black eyes fuzzy, "when you're dead?"
Kisame let out a shallow breath, lungs burning, and closed his eyes.
Spider-Man: Movie-verse
Rainy Day in the Third Degree
It was, all in all, a bad day, but nowadays, most days seemed to be bad days. Mary Jane wasn't happy anymore, no matter what he bought her. His father seemed more interested in Peter, though Harry couldn't really blame him, and Peter-
Well, Peter was Peter. Peter had changed since graduation, and now Harry wasn't quite sure about anything that was supposed to be Peter. Really, though, everything had changed, except for Harry. Harry was still Harry, still stupid, flunk-out Harry, who couldn't ever understand the most simple of things.
His professor had written on the last test "come see me in my office" in red felt-tip marker, and Harry was pretty sure that for once, his father's money wasn't going to be much help. He'd skipped out on the meeting, instead walking home in the rain, sloshing through puddles with the like-mindedness he tried so hard to put towards something his father would approve of. Like maybe M.J. M.J. was, as near as Harry could remember, like his mother. Beautiful and captivating, and maybe his father would be impressed, and proud. He certainly couldn't impress his father with college.
When Harry got back to the apartment, he dragged in with a vicious glee, dripping on the floors and in the elevator, small puddles on the old marble. He kicked off his shoes when he got into their apartment, yanking off his socks clumsily, then trailed more water about the apartment, just like the straps of his backpack were trailing on the floor as he dragged the bag around.
"Pete?" he called, wandering up the stairs. "Peter?" He paused at his bedroom door, kicking it open so he could throw his backpack into his room. Peter's door was closed and Harry hesitated for a second, opening the door with a wary feeling not unlike the feeling he got whenever he tried to kiss M.J., like he was doing something that he wasn't supposed to be doing, treading where he wasn't supposed to be.
Peter's room was cluttered in a way that Harry yearned for. Harry'd never had a cluttered room before, and still didn't. His father had always said a cluttered room led to a cluttered mind, and even now, living in an apartment in the middle of the city, with only weekly visits from his father, spent downstairs next to the phone, Harry couldn't shake free of the little things. He loved Peter's room, loved to lean in the doorway, watching Peter dig through piles of clothes, dirty and clean, trying to find a chemistry book or folder of pictures.
Peter was sprawled out on his stomach, face turned towards the doorway and mouth open, breath barely too soft to be called snores. Harry kicked at the doorjam, looking from Peter's bed to the window. The window was open and rain was coming in, splattering across the floor. Harry had to yank the window closed, wincing as he hit his elbow on the windowledge.
He looked out the window, at the wet pavement below, the cars splashing water up onto the curbs, soaking passers-by. He watched a taxi pull to a stop down below, the door opening and a red-head standing up, Mary-Jane's fingers pulling the neck of her jacket up, head ducked against the rain. Harry closed the door to Peter's bedroom carefully as he left, taking the stairs at a quiet two-at-a-time, grabbing his shoes as he left the apartment. He'd take M.J. out, buy her dinner, kiss her goodnight, and maybe, when he got back, Peter'd be awake.
Maybe, when he got back, Peter'd help him with his science paper. They'd sit at the table, windows closed against the rain, and Pete'd explain things three, four times, until Harry finally got it, in a way he didn't really get anything until Pete explained them, because somehow, in this crazy life, Peter was someone Harry could always understand.
Really, when he thought about it, rainy days weren't so bad.
Naruto
For
drelfina, Life SupportGenma doesn't particularly like the hospital. He doesn't hate it like Raidou had hated it, or like Hayate had hated it, or like Iruka hated (hates, he tells himself, hates) it. But Iruka's in the hospital right now (has been for two weeks and counting), so Genma swallows his dislike, which tastes bitter-sweet, and walks through the door for the thirty-first time since Thursday two weeks past.
There are flowers on the table next to Iruka's bed, from the Yamanaka flowershop, and there're a few notes from friends and students, past and present (and future, Genma tells himself, future). The flowers are starting to wilt, though, drooping in the dry summer heat, and Genma thinks briefly of closing the window.
When he does close the window, though, it feels too stuffy in the room, so he opens the window again. Closes it, opens it, moves the chair closer to the bed, closer to the window. He closes the door, then props it open with the trashcan. He thinks briefly of bringing a fan from home, but he doesn't want to haul it all that way if it won't be used long, and the thought of that makes him want to scream.
Around lunchtime he leaves because the nurse is staring at him from the doorway, clearing her throat and asking him again and again if Genma-san wants something to eat, and doesn't lunch sound good to Genma-san, and Genma-san can come back after lunch, does that make Genma-san feel better? Genma leaves because the sound of his name on her voice makes him feel sick. He knows his name, has known his fucking name all his fucking life, and he doesn't care about his name, 'cause Iruka's never going to know his name ever again.
That thought, though, makes Genma move down the hallway faster, because Genma hates himself when he thinks of what will (but won't, he tells himself) happen. It's down in the cafeteria, as he's forcing himself to swallow dry rice, that the others find him.
Kakashi doesn't say anything, but neither does Gai. Genma looks at them, they look back, and after a moment he pushes the bowl of rice towards Gai and pushes his cup of water towards Kakashi. Kakashi lifts an eyebrow, takes a sip of the water, refits his mask, and leans closer. Genma leans back in his chair, wondering if it's been long enough that the nurse has left Iruka's room.
"How is he?"
Genma shrugs, taking back the cup to take a drink of water. He swallows, water sticking in his throat for a few seconds, then breathes out, a whooshing sigh.
"He's fine."
Kakashi leaves after a while, saying something about a mission, and Genma waits impatiently for Gai to leave. When Gai spins the bowl of rice, pushing it back towards Genma, Genma gets up, moving back upstairs. Gai follows and Genma slows his steps, letting Gai enter the room first.
The monitors are louder than Genma expected. The beeping falls in time with the rise-fall-rise-fall of Iruka's chest, and the hiss of oxygen makes Genma think of things he'd rather not think of, because they mostly involve the way Anko screamed and Raidou burned and Orochimaru watched, yellow eyes and hissing mouth.
Gai sits in the chair, close to the open window, and Genma sits on the edge of Iruka's bed, looking out the window. Gai doesn't say much, and Genma doesn't say much, either. Iruka doesn't say a word. Gai leaves some hours later, saying words about his team, and Genma watches the light outside the window slant.
He leaves after visiting hours are over, going home for a few hours of sleep. He dreams of Iruka, of a small red line across Iruka's shoulder, edging onto the neck. He dreams about the way the poison soaked in, slipping into the blood, sinking into Iruka's heart and Iruka's lungs and Iruka's brain. He dreams of Iruka dying and wakes up, face dry and heartbeat slow. He wonders, just a little, if that means he doesn't love him anymore.
The forty-third time Genma walks through the door of Iruka's room, two and a half weeks after it became Iruka's room, the plug's pulled. Genma shoves the notes from the friends and students into his pockets, not quite careful enough to avoid crumpling them, and flips the nurse off as he leaves.
He stops at their apartment (or his, now it's just his apartment, 'cause Iruka's not going to keep up on the rent anymore) to grab all the cash he's got, and all of the cash Iruka's got, too, because Iruka's not going to need it anymore. He goes out and gets wasted, then gets a bit more wasted. He drinks whatever the bartender puts in front of him, swallows whatever the rookies and the veterans offer him, wrapped up in little pieces of white paper.
He makes it home somehow, though he's relatively sure it involved Kakashi dragging him most of the way there. Genma sleeps for a few hours, and he dreams about Iruka. Genma dreams; Iruka's lying on the couch, flicking senbon at the ceiling. Genma wants to complain about the plaster Iruka's knocking loose, but he can't, because there's blood on Iruka's lips, and there're blank holes where Iruka's eyes should've been, and when Iruka breathes, a snake's hiss, his chest doesn't move. Genma wakes up, face wet and heartbeat fast, and wonders if that means he loves (loved, he tells himself, loved) him.
It's a few weeks later that Gai drops a cat off in Genma's arms. Genma looks at the cat, looks at Gai, and lifts an eyebrow.
"Kakashi's tired," Gai says, and he doesn't need to finish it with 'dragging you home,' 'keeping you alive,' 'taking care of your pathetic ass, because you can't take care of yourself.'
Genma nods, because there's not much he can think of to say to Gai. Then again, there's not much he can think of to say to anyone. He opens his mouth, clears his throat, and wonders when was the last time he talked to someone, other than the Iruka who sits besides Genma's bedside at night, sticks for fingers and seaweed for hair and coals for eyes.
"Thanks," Genma says, and his voice is rough. Gai nods and leaves, and Genma closes the door behind him, going over to the window to watch the sunlight slant. The cat starts crying half-way through dusk and Genma grabs it by the scruff of its neck, depositing it on the counter. He puts out a bowl of milk and leans back against the fridge, watching the cat lap at the milk. After a while he picks up the cat, lifting it up to check, then sets her down.
A few days later Kakashi stops by, slouching through the doorway, hands shoved into his pockets. Genma kicks the cat away from his feet and she pads over to Kakashi, winding around Kakashi's ankles. Kakashi looks down at the cat, crouches to scratch her head for a moment, then snatches his hand away before she can bite him.
"You been sleeping?" Kakashi asks. Genma shrugs, nudging the cat with his toes. Kakashi watches Genma and Genma watches Kakashi, and after a moment Kakashi stands up, hands back in his pockets.
"You name her?" Kakashi asks curiously, nodding towards the cat. Genma shrugs again and Kakashi blinks slowly, glancing to the side.
"What'd you name her?" Kakashi asks. Genma shrugs, then grabs the cat by the scruff of her neck, lifting her up to his chest, and scratches her neck.
"Iruka."
For
kilerkki, Jounin Lounge Blues, or The Day the Bake-Sale Went BadIt wasn't that Gai couldn't dance. It was just that when Gai danced, it tended to be pelvic-thrusts reminiscent of Sakumo, known as the greatest pelvic-thruster of his age, on par with the Sannin. And it wasn't that pelvic thrusts were bad, per se. It was just that it was Gai. After all, when these same pelvic-thrusts, handed down by the late Sakumo, were performed by Kakashi, there was a village-wide swooning amongst all the women of reasonable age (and Genma). When performed by Gai, though, clad in his green lycra, the pelvic-thrusts seemed to have a very dissimilar effect: that is, chaos would break out. It was highly rumored that it was Gai's dancing, in fact, that drove one Uchiha Itachi to the murders of both Fugaku and Mikoto.
So, as it stood, dancing was something that the ninja of Konoha tried to limit, especially in the presence of Gai. Alas, it seemed that not everything in life could go so well.
The day of the infamous "incident" was a warm, windy day. The jounin lounge was fuller than usual, which was probably due to the fact that it was the day of the annual Akimichi bake-sale, and Chouza was giving special discounts to his fellow jounin. Shikaku had (somehow) been roped into helping, though his help mainly consisted of hiding the mint brownies from Inoichi, who was developing quite the belly. Asuma and Kurenai were arguing over exactly how many cookies Asuma had devoured, and Raidou was trying to convince Aoba that eating some cake wasn't dishonoring the memory of Hayate.
It was during this idyllic time, while Neji and Tsunade shared their sorrows of the memories of Hizashi and Dan over a plate of warm and gooey brownies, that Gai burst into the room. Shizune screamed. Anko cursed. Shibi twitched. As one, all the pairs of eyes in the room focused on that green-clad form, that epitome of masculinity. And, as one, all the pairs of eyes in the room dropped to- well, best not to say.
Ebisu swallowed. Tsume prayed. Ibiki shoved another piece of cheesecake into his mouth. Gai?
Well, Gai danced.
The jounin of Konoha would never be the same.
For
gigabomb, Huddling PlaceItachi had a huddling place. It was the far left corner from the door, a few feet away from the window. Itachi had been there for over an hour now, head resting on his knees, blood oozing from the black cloak to the floorboards.
"Kisame," he finally said, his pale hands clasping around his legs.
Kisame didn't move, just blinked slowly, mouth partially open. "Itachi-san?"
Itachi was quiet for a moment, hands tightening. Kisame looked at Itachi's hands, at the fingernails with chipped teal. If Kisame squinted, he thought he could see still see blood crusted around the fingernails, drying and flaking beneath the nails.
"Do you remember your parents?" Itachi asked, voice careful. Kisame blinked again, breathing shallowly as his side burned.
"No." Kisame thought briefly about moving forward, a little bit closer to Itachi, but his body refused. He let his head rest against the side of the bed, closing his eyes for a moment.
"Neither can I," Itachi said after a few moment, voice low and slow. Kisame let out a breath, opened his eyes again.
"Why do you ask, Itachi-san?"
"He remembered my parents."
Kisame could see a flicker of Itachi's eyes, black irises that hadn't been red for what felt like a very long time. Kisame wondered, for a moment, what Itachi saw in his head.
"Do you think," Itachi asked, "now that he's dead, no one will remember them?" Itachi struggled to his feet, his hands holding onto the wall for balance. Kisame watched him cross towards the bed, hand hanging until it hit the edge of the bed. Itachi's fingers slid along the sheets on the bed, until they brushed against Kisame's shoulder, and then Itachi knelt, mouth next to Kisame's cheek.
"Will no one remember me," Itachi murmured, black eyes fuzzy, "when you're dead?"
Kisame let out a shallow breath, lungs burning, and closed his eyes.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-07-12 11:22 pm (UTC)One typo, though. It's gigabomb, not gigabomg.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-13 04:37 am (UTC)