Atelophilia for xsimplyxrandomxlovex

There was a leak in the cell. It dripped an incessant stream of dirty water down the wall and onto the floor, creating a yellowish, rippling puddle. The workmen tried way too hard to fix this leak. They poked at it and dabbed at it and filled it with things. It never stopped dripping, no matter how much spackle they shoved into it.

The sound irritated the officers. The constant patter of water on the concrete echoed in the cell, so they would stop their conversations and hiss profanity under their breath. The sound also irritated the medics, the ANBU and the council. It put everyone in a terrible mood.

In no way did this leak irritate you, though it did make the cell floor slippery and mildew creep up the cracks in the wall. The whole thing smelt of sourness and blood, slightly metallic, and air was very heavy and damp. It was a warm cell. The wood of the single chair was rotted slightly, and moisture seeped out from the breakage. The cot was low and rusted, the cushion spattered with gore and other bodily fluids long dried into the fabric, though sometimes there was new blood on it.

You surveyed the mossy walls of the underground maze-like prison as you pushed your cart along the surprisingly smooth pathway. The corridor was well-lit by unseen flames, and the ceiling had been boarded up to prevent the slimy, off-color water that dripped in the cell from dripping on visitor’s heads. It was a nice gesture. You had learned to appreciate the attempt at cleanliness considering how many times you had walked down that hallway.

Your cart rattled as you turned the corner. The last corner. There really were only three corners in the entire hallway, but this was the final corner. One couldn’t go any farther on the path without going up or down. It was a suitable place for the kind of treatment doled out.

“Okay,” you sighed, slowing the cart down as you came to stand beside a large, metal door set into the rock. You pulled a ring of keys from your uniform pocket and sifted through dozens of them before singling out a thick, dulled, silver one. You slid it into the lock on the door and turned, listening as the bearings of the door shifted as the bolt slid out. There was a short quiet as you shoved your keys into your pocket quickly and righted the cart so it would fit between the threshold. Once you were inside the cell, you shut the door and waited until you heard the thud of the bolt sliding back in.

“Hello,” you sighed, pushing your cart up against the back wall, where you began organizing your tools. “How are you today?” You didn’t expect a response; he never gave one. Sometimes, rarely, you received a grunt of recognition or at least a look. But recently all there had been was silence and the drip. Always the drip.

“That’s good,” you answered yourself, smiling down at the gauze and antiseptic in your hands. “I’m doing well myself.” It was always a one-sided conversation. Pleasant and one-sided. You pulled the tiny capsule of serum from the small cooler on the cart and shined your penlight through it. “Good, good,” you muttered, shaking it slightly and picking up another capsule full of tinted blue liquid. That also got looked at with the penlight. You were satisfied and put everything away except for the light, gauze and antiseptic.

You glanced over at your patient, sitting hunched on the only chair. His body moved rhythmically with his breathing, but he was entirely still otherwise. You sighed and picked up the penlight, moving to stand in front of him.

His scarred skin looked bruised with shadow as you stared down at him, his body almost visibly retracting into itself. You sighed again and reached over to gently take his chin and tilt his head up toward yours. There was never any resistance; he moved fluidly under your hand, though the wounds rippled painfully over his bones. You watched the skin of his neck pull taut as he was forced to tilt his head higher, the ropey muscle beneath pushing at it. You held back another sigh and redirected your attention.

His eyes gazed up directly into your own, rarely blinking, glassy. You stared into them for a while, tilting his head minutely from side to side as you looked into their depths. The penlight was flicked on, and the tiny, focused beam of bright light shot out into the dim lighting of the cell. For a moment, you watched as the shadows of the room danced in the wavering light of the single bulb.

You pointed the light into his eyes, observing the mirror-like quality to them. He had no pupils, so nothing happened. You sighed after a moment, tilted the light away, and began lightly pressing your fingers to the skin around the sockets. From all your weeks of observation, it had become apparent that there was nothing physically wrong with his eyes. You chewed the inside of your cheek slowly walked back over to your cart.

As you sifted through all your tiny tools, you watched absently as he very slowly lowered the tilt of his head by a few degrees. The endlessly placid look on his face was always unnerving, and you constantly wondered why they had assigned you to be locked in a cell with him at all. He could, very easily though with great consequence, just reach over and snap your neck. But he never acted malicious and never appeared to hold anything against you. In fact, he always seemed rather relaxed. But that was probably because that’s how he always was. There was no life left.

“Let’s see,” you mumbled, reaching into the cooler and pulling out the capsule of clear fluid. You emptied the liquid into a syringe and capped the needle, tugging latex gloves on and rolling up your sleeves. “Okay,” you said, once you’d moved to stand in front of him. You tilted his head higher toward you, shining the penlight into one red-and-black-colored iris. The star marking there gazed back up at you blankly. You frowned delicately and shined the penlight toward his inner forearm. You pulled the syringe out of your uniform pocket and uncapped it, pressing at the veins.

The needle slipped down into the warmth under his skin and you pressed on the plunger, forcing all the serum into his body. You extracted the needle, capping it and placing it back into your pocket. You pressed a piece of gauze to the slight bubble of blood left from the needle’s entrance and held it there until it stopped flowing. “That’s good,” you sighed, stepping back to survey his arm once it was done.

You returned to the cart and filled another needle with the blue liquid. This was injected into his neck, in the soft, vulnerable flesh right where it slopes up to meet the jaw. You watched him swallow, the muscle rippling, wave-like, under the pressure of your fingers. You pressed harder until you felt the click, imagined his non-existent pupils contracting, and pulled your hand away and the needle out. He didn’t move, though you saw him take a deeper breath than usual. “Hey,” you started, capping the syringe and putting it in your pocket, “you’re going to feel really sleepy. I suggest you lay down.” You nodded to the stained cot and sighed. “Someone will be around later to talk to you—ˮ Interrogate. “—so maybe you should rest up.” You smiled and shined the penlight toward his chest, where the torn, white skin glowed bluish in the off-color light.

You took your cart and left the room, but not before waiting until he slowly rose from his chair and lay down on the dirty bed, staring blankly up at the concrete ceiling. The hallway was significantly brighter than the cell, and your eyes watered as his door closed behind you. The wet sounds of dripping water surrounded you as you made your way back down the corridor.

As far as you knew, they only used knives. The scars were too thin and too deep to be from a whip and there weren’t any burns or welts. You supposed knives were more efficient, but not nearly as powerful as chakra. But, then again, nobody was allowed to use chakra in his cell at all.

You looked at the tray of ‘food’ before you, covered mainly by little bowls of soup-like concoctions and some strange packets filled with paste. “Vitamins,” they said, because calling it ‘food’ would be taking it too far. You wrinkled your nose and picked up one of the packets, rolling it between your fingers. The door to the lab slid open and someone shut it behind them with a heavy groan.

“Lena,” Kakashi said, sidling up to the table and leaning against it. “How are things? I’ve heard from Naruto that you’ve been spending more time down there with Sasuke.” He paused and fixed you with a tired look. “But I hear you can’t say much.”

You laughed a bit and set the packet of paste down on the tray. “Yeah. It’s mainly confidential because it’s medical business, but,” you sighed, “it’s not anything unexpected. I was hoping to get around telling Naruto because he’s so emotional about it. He’d take it very personally.”

Kakashi nodded and looked at the tray with you. “I understand. Could you tell me anything? I should probably have something to report back to the team since they knew I was coming here…”

You looked over at him and he returned the gesture. There was a moment of silence. “Well,” you started, turning away from the tray and leaning against the table, “his eyes were replaced. In interrogation he said they were Itachi’s eyes. The Eternal Mangekyo Sharingan is powerful, but it’s not…” You worried your lip and thought about that. “It’s not ideal for his condition.”

“He’s going blind,” Kakashi offered, sounding somewhere between saddened and frustrated.

“He was,” you said. “Before the operation. I don’t know.” You shook your head and reached behind you to pick up one of the packets and squish it in your fingers. “In the current situation, his eyes are okay. He can see perfectly in the dark and moderately well in the light. But it’s exacerbating the problem. If he goes blind with those eyes, he’ll be irreversibly blind. We don’t have more eyes to give him.” You looked at the paste packet and then up at Kakashi. “The only way to save his sight is to stop him from using the current Sharingan.”

Kakashi nodded and watched your hand knead the packet. “What’s the plan?”

“I’m giving him antibiotics to help stem the deterioration. And narcotics. Lots of narcotics.”

“He’s in pain?”

“More as a sedative, but, yeah, I suppose he’s in some pain.” You put the packet back on the tray. “There’s another drug I have yet to start giving him, and that’s the confidential part.” You looked up at the jonin.

Kakashi thought for a while. “Maybe I shouldn’t tell them anything,” he finally said. “It was hard enough hearing that he’d been caught without letting them see him.” He sighed deeply and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Tell him we’ll try and visit soon. Not too sure if he’ll care, but at least he’ll know. Oh,” he said as he turned to leave, “ask him something for me.”

You picked up the tray and balanced it carefully so as not to spill the bowls of liquid. “What’s your question?”

The drip was louder, you swore to yourself as you entered the dark cell and shut the door behind you. The air was thick with the smell of blood and metal, your eyes watering slightly from the intensity of it. Through the darkness, you could see his shadowy shape lying on the cot, back toward you. You could hear the soft breathing, but knew he wasn’t asleep. He was never asleep.

“Hello,” you said softly, “how are you?” Nothing. “That’s good. I’m here to bring you food.” You set the tray down on the only chair, taking care to position it perfectly in the middle. “It’s not much, but they wanted you to get more nutrients, so it’s not going to taste very good either, I’m afraid.” You smiled at his prone form and sighed. He just breathed.

You walked over to the bed and stared down at him below you. His thin, gray shirt was riddled with streaks of blood, probably seeping from his back and into the cloth. You reached over and pulled down his collar, revealing the top of a deep gash that apparently started at the nape of his neck. Your sigh filled the room.

“Will you sit up?” you asked, not wanting to hurt him more by trying to move him yourself. After a long moment, he rose slowly, turning so he sat on the edge of the cot, feet on the floor. You could see the dirt smeared across his chest and along his arms. There were scratches on his knuckles and his palms were torn and bleeding. You noticed blood trailing down his shins, and you thought there were probably scratches on his knees, too. Another sigh, quieter. “I’ll be right back; don’t start eating yet.” You took inventory of the food and exited the cell.

Back in the lab, you dug around in the cabinets for gauze and antiseptic. “Why?” you muttered. “Honestly, it’s not like he can fight back.” After grabbing all the necessary tools, you rushed back out and down to his cell again.

When you returned, he was sitting in the same position, eyes directed blankly forward. His breathing was calm and his body unmoving, but there was something off about his face. You chalked it up to pain. “Here,” you said, setting all the items down on the bed beside him, “I’ll clean you up and then you can eat. It’s better to get the wounds taken care of first.” You paused and surveyed his torso. “Can you please remove your shirt?”

He took the shirt off, moving slower than usual and you remembered the injuries on his hands. “Oh,” you mumbled, reaching over to help him finish. It took you a while to wrap his hands with gauze and antiseptic cream, but, as always, he moved as you told him to, and it wasn’t a big deal. You looked at his legs and knelt down to pull his pants up above the knees. The skin there was covered in tightly-packed, shallow cuts, as though he had been dragged along the floor. You bit your lip and sighed.

“Well, whatever happened, it must’ve been bad,” you said, squeezing liberal amounts of the cream onto the gauze bandages. You wrapped each knee carefully, tightly, but so he could walk. It was a delicate balance. You stood and evaluated your work. “Good enough,” you sighed, for what seemed to be the eightieth time that day. Then you decided it honestly was out of your expertise to deal with the open flesh wound on his back.

“Here you go,” you said, bringing the food tray over to the cot and setting it down beside him on the stiff, board-like mattress. “It’s all I have,” you said apologetically, “but I can bring you some water later, if you’d like.” It didn’t matter if he’d like it, actually. You picked up the closest tiny bowl and held it out to him. He tilted his eyes toward it slightly, and, after a minute of apparently surveying the situation, took it from you.

You watched as he tilted his head back and let the red gelatin-like substance slide down his throat. He seemed to taste it on his tongue before swallowing, so you watched the muscles in his mouth and neck work. He gave the bowl back. You handed him a packet of paste. The paste was yellowish and grainy. He dug his fingers into it and shoved them in his mouth, swallowing back the mush without hesitation, but with a detached sort of gusto that reminded you of your childhood, when your parents would make you eat something you didn’t like, and you’d eat it without tasting it.

After a while, he’d eaten everything on the tray. You stared down at the empty bowls and packets, all in a pile on the gray plastic. “Hopefully that will lend you some strength,” you mumbled, slightly disgusted by the concept of eating jelly and unknown things in little aluminum pouches. “I’ll get someone to help with the rest of your wounds,” you said, picking up the tray and gazing sideways at him. He was staring back at you, face removed, placid, eyes a confusion of black and red and shapes. You had a moment of wild panic and then nothing.

“Get some more rest,” you intoned quietly as you backed out of the door. His eyes had returned to middle space. You took a moment to listen to the drip before exiting into the hallway and locking him inside, alone.

The chart on the wall was supposed to be anatomically correct, but you were still skeptical. Of course, the point wasn’t the body but the chakra locations, but it was distracting when the drawing had two left feet. You couldn’t learn this way.

“Here,” the nurse was saying as she pointed to the stomach with a long, thin stick, “is the central point for all—ˮ You pretended you couldn’t hear her. The room was very white and too cold and smelled of latex. You shifted in your uncomfortable plastic chair and recalled the reason you were part of this seminar in the first place.

Everyone involved in the Sasuke case had a different opinion. Everyone had made the executive decision to disagree with everyone else, so some people thought he should be banished from Konoha, and some thought he should be executed, and some people thought he should get life in prison, and some people thought he should be kept here in Konoha under surveillance, and some people thought he should be pardoned, and some people thought this was a stupid discussion.

What everyone agreed on though—the single thing that united these people—was that he shouldn’t be allowed to use chakra ever again. You supposed it was a logical reaction to what had happened. He had the capacity to overwhelm the world with his prowess and animal vengeance, and so he did. If he hadn’t had the capacity in the first place, it would never have happened. The ruling vote was that he shouldn’t be allowed chakra, so that was that.

You looked down at your hands as the nurse went on and on. It wasn’t up to you, but your opinion was that he should be left alone. He was broken and nothing was left; it seemed overkill to punish him further. And, honestly, you couldn’t find it in yourself to blame him. It was a matter of all the wrong circumstances.

You glanced up at the chart as the nurse was gesturing to the legs. The other people in the room were engrossed in her voice, her cheerful monotone, and the way her hands moved. You thought she was too skinny.

Your phone rang, a metallic reminder that there was life outside the classroom, and you excused yourself from the room with some embarrassment. “Hello?” you said into the receiver once you were standing on the front steps of the building in the mild, early-summer heat. A group of genin raced past you at street level, clothing a rush of vibrant color and shape. You watched them turn a corner off in the nearby distance. You hoped it wasn’t the last corner.

“Lena?” Kakashi said at the other end. “Hello. How are you?”

“I’m fine,” you said, shuffling your sandals against the sandy stone of the stairs. You knew why he was calling. While you had been sent off to learn about chakra points—a subject you were already proficient in—the rest of the doctors and some of the involved jonin and ANBU had a meeting. It was about the amber vial. “How are you?” you replied, shielding your eyes as you stared into the shockingly blue sky.

“I’m doing well,” he said. “How is the class?”

“A mistake,” you muttered, watching the group of colorful genin rush past again. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes.” No. “I was wondering how you feel about the decision.” Kakashi sounded strained. You shuffled your feet again and stared down at the contrast of your blue shoes against the beige rock. You wish you had been at the meeting.

“I don’t know how I feel,” you said honestly, “I think it’s a rushed decision.”

“Agreed. I assume you already know about it since you weren’t at the meeting today.”

“All about it,” you replied. A warm breeze ruffled your dark hair and you half-heartedly tried to keep the black mass in place. “How do you feel about it?”

Kakashi didn’t reply immediately. “It’s sad,” he said finally. You watched the townspeople ambling about on the streets, wandering into vendors and restaurants, laughing and enjoying the weather. You thought about the hallway and the darkness, the nonexistent light and the drip, the loneliness.

“Yeah,” you murmured, thinking about the corner—the last corner.

“Hello,” you said, opening the cell door and shutting it carefully behind you and the cart. “How are you?” Outside, it was cool morning; not yet six. Inside, it was cool timelessness. You couldn’t imagine living in here and not knowing what time of day it was. You nudged the cart over to the back wall and began arranging your tools on the blue paper mat. “Kakashi said he’ll try and visit soon,” you told the unmoving body sitting in the chair.

You gave him the clear and blue shots, in the arm and in the neck. You watched him take the needles with no recognition, no movement or shift. You felt the pounding of his heart, the pumping of his blood, up in the soft part of his throat. You were reminded he was human.

You put the used syringes back on the cart. The drip echoed a bit and you looked at the yellowish puddle on the floor. “How is your back?” you asked him, turning to look at his wrapped hands. You moved behind him and pressed your hand flat against his shoulder blades, slowly sliding your palm down his spine. You could feel where thick stitches wound through his skin, holding it together. You wrinkled your nose and sighed. “I bet it hurt…” The muscles under his skin rippled beneath your hand.

You moved to stand in front of him and tilted his chin upward. Faint, blotchy smears of discoloring mottled the skin around his sockets. You thought you wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t cared. His eyes were twin pools of glassy nothingness, just a mirror-like reflection of you in a fish-eyed world, looped in amongst red stars. You sighed and pressed your fingertips to the delicate, silky skin just below his lower eyelid. “There’s a question I was requested to ask you,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him, “but I don’t know if it’s really necessary when the answer is obvious.” You were tempted to reach up and touch the perfectly still iris just to see if it rippled like pond water.

The effect was ruined when he blinked. You felt the skin shift and then registered the movement. He was staring up at you, eyes in focus, face a mask of calm. You saw his mouth open slightly and jerked your hand back as though you had touched something hot. He watched you peer at him with a horrified sort of relief on your face and then said, “Ask me.” His voice carried through the cell. It was clear and decisive and relaxed. You supposed he didn’t find you much of a threat in the first place.

You took a few steps back and tilted your head. “Kakashi wanted me to ask you about your brother,” you said slowly, carefully, hoping he wouldn’t lunge or stand or move at all.

He blinked again—you imagined the red stars rippling—and took a moment. “What’s the question?” he asked, though it sounded more like a statement. There was no animosity in his tone, no warning of danger, no sense of impending doom; it was very conversational.

You swallowed inconspicuously. “Whether or not you killed Itachi or something else did…” You paused and readjusted your lab coat. “As in illness, or something along those lines…” You recalled the exact moment when Kakashi asked you to ask Sasuke that question. It was a moment of cold and confusion and complete dread.

Sasuke was still watching you. He seemed to think for a very long while. Then, “I don’t know.” After that, his eyes faded back out and saw nothing. You watched him return to the pleasant darkness of his mind and settle back into the perfect stillness.

Even with the two of you in the cell, it was solitary confinement.

“He did what?” Kakashi asked from across the table. The small tea shop was cool and bustling full of happy people drinking tea and thinking about tea and loving tea. You eyed Kakashi and his bottle of sakē and found yourself highly amused.

Picking up your own jade green mug of tea, you blew at the steaming water and shrugged. “Spoke, I guess,” you muttered, still perplexed even days later.

Kakashi whistled and leant back in his chair. “Interesting,” he intoned thoughtfully, closing his one visible eye for a minute. “And he hadn’t spoken to you before?”

“Not when we were alone, no.” You looked out the window by your head. “I’d heard him speak before, but…”

“But not to you,” Kakashi offered. You nodded your head softly and he let out a deep breath. “He doesn’t know,” the jonin mused aloud, taking a swig of the alcohol through his mask somehow. “That’s all?”

“That’s all.” You smiled at the silver-haired man and sighed. “It was scary, honestly. But he didn’t seem to be upset. If anything, he sounded relieved to be talking after so long.” You paused, evaluating your next words. You decided against them.

Kakashi nodded sagely and leaned forward again. After a moment, he blinked and looked into his drink. “What are you going to do?” he asked.

You took a sip of your tea and breathed into the damp steam. “I can’t do anything,” you whispered, watching the mist billow out of the cup. “It’s too late.”

“You knew him, Lena, before all this.” Kakashi set aside his alcohol and pulled off his headband to reveal his other eye. You watched the red Sharingan watch you, a seeing pool of power. The two of you held eye contact for a very long time.

You knew you looked familiar to him and to Sasuke. You had black eyes and black hair, the distinct features of the Uchiha clan. You were entirely unrelated, though, and you supposed that was disorienting. “Kakashi,” you began, trying to find your tone of voice—even now, nearly four years later, he still had the power to shake you. “I’m a medic. I’m relatively disposable—ˮ

“No you’re not,” he cut in, narrowing his mismatched eyes in your direction. “The reason you were assigned to treat him was because they knew you two had a connection.” He stopped suddenly and leaned back in his chair. You shot him a confused look before catching Naruto’s orange presence out of the corner of your eye.

“Oh,” you mouthed at the jonin. He nodded and a well-formed, fake sort of smile suddenly appeared. You sighed. “Hey, Naruto!” you chirped as the blond boy came up to your table.

“Lena!” he announced. “It’s been forever! Hey, Kakashi-sensei!” Naruto beamed and pulled a chair over to the open side of the table. Sitting down heavily, he leant his elbows on the surface and tilted two very brilliant eyes toward you. “How’re things, Lena?”

You evaluated the situation briefly. “Well, I suppose,” you offered him. “A lot of work.”

“Must be,” he said with a childish awe. “How’s…ˮ He stopped and looked at Kakashi. The jonin pretended to stare out the window. You kicked him under the table.

“Ah,” said Kakashi, turning his attention to Naruto as though he hadn’t realized the boy had sat down at all. “What’s the question?”

“How’s…” Naruto dropped his voice to a whisper. A pained sort of whisper. “How’s Sasuke?”

Kakashi looked at you pointedly, pulling his headband back down over his left eye. You felt the pull of the Sharingan disappear instantly. “I’m not exactly supposed to talk about it with people not involved,” you said slowly, glancing over at your silver-haired companion for support. He blinked impassively at you with his one eternally disinterested eye.

Kakashi tilted his head toward Naruto. “None of your business, Naruto. Confidential information.” He gave the blond the most obviously-veiled annoyed look you had ever seen. “Leave now.”

Naruto suddenly forgot about being worried. “Is this…” He leaned forward conspiratorially, smile stretching across his face. “A date?”

You choked on your sip of tea and watched as Kakashi kicked Naruto out of his chair with a thud. “Where did you get that?” the jonin asked, though he didn’t sound particularly upset.

Naruto didn’t seem to hear. “Because that’s, like, a fifteen year age difference,” he said from the ground, “and that’s a little… you know…”

“Not a date,” Kakashi said shortly, pouring the rest of his sakē over his student’s head. “In a romantic sense, it isn’t. We were talking business.”

Naruto remembered. “Oh,” he muttered, ignoring the alcohol streaming down his neck and face. He jumped up and leaned over the table again. “How’s Sasuke?”

You took refuge in your tea cup while the blond stared at you intently. “He’s…” You stopped and thought. “It’s complicated…”

Naruto opened his mouth to speak, but Kakashi quickly silenced him with a raised hand. “When I learn more, and when I decide it’s the right time, I’ll let you and the others know,” he said easily, tossing Naruto a calm, knowing stare. “Until then, don’t try and ask.”

Naruto started protesting in broken bits of what you supposed were meant to be complete sentences. Then he pouted and gave you a resigned sort of look. “Okay. Sorry, Lena.”

“It’s okay,” you told him, smiling at him until he smiled back. “You’ll get to see Sasuke soon, hopefully.”

“See him?” Naruto shouted, but Kakashi shook his head.

“It might not be for months and months,” he intoned, sighing. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

“But that’s great, Lena,” Naruto gushed. “I guess I’ll see you around. Bye, Kakashi-sensei!” The blond boy shot out of the tea shop and down the street. You blinked at his speedy exit.

“Where were we?” Kakashi muttered, removing the headband again. The heat was back. “How close were the two of you exactly?” He had made the complete switch from irritated, jaded sensei to focused, overwhelming ex-ANBU in a matter of seconds. You were impressed.

“Not especially,” you began slowly, wondering where this was going. “He just never seemed bothered by me.”

“Would you consider yourself his friend?” Kakashi nonverbally took that back. “Back then, would you have considered yourself his friend?”

You sipped at your tea and felt it cool on your tongue. “Maybe. It’s not as though he confided in me, or anything, but we got along. I think, perhaps… Well, he seemed to try and communicate with me sometimes,” you admitted as though embarrassed. “I think he may have wanted to connect in some way…”

“You probably reminded him of family,” Kakashi said, turning his heterochromatic eyes to the window. You followed his gaze and found the bright, sunlit street outside, full of bustling people. You touched the glass and felt the sun’s heat. “I bet he found comfort in that,” Kakashi almost whispered, closing his left eye and training the other heavily lidded, dark one on you. “The council assigned you to this position because they assumed he was least likely to become violent with you around. They were right. Something about you relaxes him.”

You swished the liquid around in your cup and sighed. “He seems permanently relaxed at his point. I am giving him sedatives.” You caught Kakashi’s stop-it-you-know-that’s-not-the-real-reason stare and sighed again.

He leaned back and looked at the ceiling. “Just a few days,” he said quietly, “and then it’ll be all over.”

You nodded absently and took a sip of your tea. You hadn’t realized how bitter it was.

You rolled your cart along the hallway, mechanically moving to avoid slight dips or bumps in the dirt floor. Two days ago they had given you the amber vial, and two days ago you had learned to use it, to slip the needle in and let it drip, drip, drip into the veins. Two days you spent staring at it coolly, trying to detach yourself from it—from the situation entirely—and trying to reconcile the fact that, while you were the one administering it, you were not actually the amber vial itself. It was a difficult thing.

It was the last corner, and you took it, coming to a rest before the large, metal door set into the wall. Pulling out the keys, you let the jingle echo off the curved ceiling before sliding the key into the lock until it caught and clicked. You opened the door and moved inside, closing it as quietly as possible behind you.

Your eyes caught the still, shadowy form on the bed before you realized he was looking at you. For a long moment, it was predator versus prey, and you greatly considered turning and running, but then you realized he was faster than you even hurt and you would’ve been overcome anyway. Forgetting all this, you met his gaze and tried to quell the irrational beating of your heart. “How are you?” you asked in the same way you always did. You rolled the cart up against the back wall and felt his eyes shift with you. “That’s good. I’m doing well myself,” you continued, pulling out the clear and blue syringes and prepping them. As you turned, you caught the red through the darkness and stopped.

The Eternal Mangekyo Sharingan, while it deteriorates the daytime eyesight, a voice ran through your head, allows for perfect nighttime vision. It utilizes the same tracking techniques used by birds of prey and hunting cats; it can register small movements and body language even in complete darkness using a complex type of chakra able to sense body heat and movements in another’s chakra flow—

You felt the fear, first a little bubbling in the back of your mind, then raging to the front like hot, bursting air. You tried to find the source of it. Were you scared he was going to kill you? Were you scared he was going to say something? Nothing seemed logical, and you blinked back the rising panic and calmly labeled it ‘nerves’.

The two glowing eyes suddenly disappeared, and you realized he had shut them. The resulting unbroken blackness wasn’t as nice as you once thought it might have been. “We’re trying something new today,” you started levelly, making your way over to the cot, “so bear with me…” You stared downward at his seated, immobile form before gesturing to the rotting wooden chair with a hand. “Please sit over there.”

He stood smoothly and, with his eyes still shut, moved to sit in the chair. It creaked as he sat. Then he reopened his eyes and found the middle space, face falling into a state of perfect detachedness. You suppressed a sigh and gave him the shots.

There was a long, thin scar that ran down the underside of his jaw. You felt it first quickly and then stopped and pressed your fingers to it. You wondered absently if it was permanent and how long it had been there. Sasuke tilted his head very slowly toward his left shoulder until you realized he was giving you better access. You felt the fear dissolve into something like nausea.

Without thinking about it, you shifted to stand behind his chair and placed each hand on the side of his neck, so your fingertips met at the center of his throat. Since the beginning, you had always wondered why he was so easy to move and to control; he never seemed to care what you were doing or why you were doing it. And now, thinking about what Kakashi had said and feeling the life pulse beneath Sasuke’s skin, it seemed all very reasonable.

You pressed your thumbs into the hollows just beneath his ears and dragged them downward, feeling the ropey, elastic muscle in his neck and the heat. You felt the contours of his throat, the hardness of space just under his jaw and then the incredible softness of that seemingly-empty pocket where it sloped to meet the sternum. You felt as though you were violating some boundary.

You shot a look over at the cart, decided momentarily to stop thinking about what was to come, and climbed back into your headspace. His breathing was level and rhythmic, expanding his lungs against his ribcage. From your position, you could see down his shirt and at the tiny, crisscrossing scars marring the extreme paleness of his chest. You had a sudden, intense need to pull away and leave the room and never come back again. It seemed alive, the feeling, as it rose steadily to the top of your head and then, waiting a minute as though giving you a chance to decide, faded downward toward your feet. You felt hot and cold.

Gently you used your hands at his neck to tilt his head back until he was staring at the ceiling. He gradually relaxed his body in the chair and you felt him unwind slowly, as though he were undoing a tight spring that ran from the top of his spine to his tailbone. After a few moments of this state of complete silence and serenity, he closed his eyes. You stood there for minutes, cradling his head until he found a state of calm so deep, you could only feel very faint heartbeats.

You gazed down at his untroubled expression and felt the tips of his hair brush your hands where they were at his neck. You hadn’t realized until now that his hairstyle had changed. You wondered why you noticed this. His hands were resting on his lap, and you looked from afar at the little healing scratches there that you had, not too long ago, bandaged up. You thought about how he had probably suffered more physical damage in Konoha than out on the run.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, feeling the thickness of tears clog your throat. You took a moment to breathe deeply and blink back the hot blur that turned the room into a mess of swirling darkness and unidentifiable shapes. “Sasuke,” you said, because you knew he was listening, “the new treatment is the last one we’re giving you. After this, you’ll just…” You paused and forced the click back. “You’ll just heal on your own, I guess.” Not that the drugs were doing much healing to begin with.

You all of a sudden felt an overwhelming pity for him and gently released his head to take a step back. He let it rest lightly against the top back of the chair and opened his eyes at the ceiling. You could sense him watching you out of his peripheral vision. The effect was overwhelming. You hated those eyes. The Sharingan was lifeless and still; it didn’t respond to light and darkness the way pupils did. They were like the eyes of a corpse. You wanted to reach over and gouge them out. You felt sick.

“Hold on,” you whispered, feeling your way numbly back to the cart. The amber vial was in a small cooler buried in ice, and you took it out and looked at it, through it, until you didn’t feel sorry anymore. “This is a different kind of needle,” you said, pulling out the IV and its respective tube. “But it shouldn’t feel much different.” You twisted off the safety cap on the amber vial and connected it to the tube. Walking back over to him, you looked between the short little needle and his arm. He tilted his head to watch you as you pressed searchingly at the veins just below the skin of his inner elbow. “Okay,” you breathed, feeling the heat.

You stuck the needle in his arm and tilted the vial until the reddish liquid slid down into his body. You looked at him and imagined horror sliding over his face. After a moment, he blinked and said, “What?” Then he looked up at you and held your gaze. You watched the redness fade from his eyes until they were black again, normal. Nothing but blank pools. You knew he knew when his body went slack again and he closed his eyes.

You pulled the needle from his arm and stood there. You reached out and laid a hand on his chest, sliding it under the cloth to feel skin. You leaned over and kissed him. After a moment, you leaned back and thought how nice it would be if he were crying now, like a normal person. You realized you were crying and rubbed your hand down his bare skin to feel the scars on his chest. They were there, little rough, crisscrossing ridges. You felt his abdominal muscles ripple beneath his skin. You felt his ribs and thought about how much weight he’d lost. “Oh my god,” you whispered for the second time, and then you leaned over and kissed him again. Underneath you, you felt him breathe and part his lips slightly, minutely. You stood up straight and sighed shakily. Never mind, you thought.

You got your cart and left.

Kakashi sat alone on the conference room at the huge table, looking small. You stood in the doorway watching him for a bit before entering. “Hey,” he said, gesturing to a chair beside him. “I want to talk.”

You sighed. “Don’t you have work?” you asked tiredly. He blinked at you.

“Please, Lena.”

You sat down beside him and rested your head on your arms. “What did you talk about?” you asked him, feeling the emptiness of the room keenly.

Kakashi pulled off his headband and rubbed the back of his neck. “Not much,” he said. “We agreed he should be able to live normally.” He paused and looked down at you. “They ought to award you a medal for bravery.”

“Stop it,” you said listlessly, raising your head. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Stop it,” he said, just as listlessly. “You did what no one else wanted to do—ˮ

“Because they would feel guilty,” you mumbled. “I feel guilty.”

“You shouldn’t,” Kakashi said, “you did well.”

“I killed him.”

“You did not.”

You looked at him and sat up straight in the chair. “What do I say?” you whispered. “When I see anyone, what do I say? People will want to know…”

“It’s been three days.”

“People will ask,” you told him, looking up into his mismatched eyes. “What do I say? I won’t say anything.” You looked away from his intensity and down at the table. “What do I say?”

“Tell them the truth,” Kakashi said. “Or part of it. You don’t need to feel guilty because you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I kissed him,” you said incredulously.

“I know,” the jonin intoned, “he told me.”

“What?”

“You did well,” Kakashi hummed. “No one could have done it better. You don’t have to say anything. It’s not your job to make sure people know. If someone asks, just say it’s private.”

“It’s not private.”

“It is.”

You looked at the ceiling. “Oh please,” you whispered. “I will never sleep again.”

“Have you been sleeping?”

“Badly.”

Kakashi sighed. “Lena, Naruto wants to speak with you.”

“You’re crazy.”

“He just wants to talk.”

“You’re frustrating.”

Kakashi set a hand on your shoulder and leaned toward you. “Whatever happens after this, it’s not your fault.” He willed you to look his way. “It’s never your fault.”

You worried your lip. “You can tell Naruto, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me what?” Naruto asked, silhouetted in the doorway. You were about to speak up when you saw the look on his face and registered the tone in his voice. “Talk to me, Lena, please,” he said, coming over to your side and kneeling on the floor next to you. “Sakura was crying and everybody’s saying something different. What’s the truth?” He looked on the verge of tears. His eyes were swimming and bright blue, flashing a little in the florescent lighting. “Please, Lena. I know you don’t want to tell me because you think it’ll hurt me, but I need to know.”

You felt your body freeze over and the capacity for coherent language slip from your mind. Beside you, Kakashi rubbed his forehead and groaned, “Naruto—ˮ

“Come on!” the blond ninja said, voice tight with what you knew were tears. “I’ve been waiting three years to get him back and once he’s back he’s hidden from me and I can’t know anything!” He began getting to his feet, but fell back on his heels instead. “Please, Lena.”

You felt the click in your throat and the burning sensation in your nose. “It’s private, Naruto,” you whispered. “But you can see him now.”

Naruto’s eyes slowly widened and when he spoke his voice was low and full of trepidation. “W-what’s the…” He looked around as though confused and then over at Kakashi. “Isn’t there a code or something?”

Kakashi blinked at him and nudged your foot under the table. You nudged him back a little too harshly. “No code right now,” you told him, “he’s in holding. You can see him now.”

Naruto began laughing, chokingly at first and then joyously, as usual. He jumped to his feet and, before you had time to think or react, threw his arms around you in a tight embrace and kissed you on the cheek, roughly and near your jaw line. You felt his tears against your face and his radiating warmth, and you heard the shakiness in his breath when he whispered, “Thanks, Lena,” against your skin.

Then he was off, streaking down the hallways, toward some cold, white room somewhere around a last corner.

Kakashi was chuckling joylessly. “He’ll be in for a surprise.”

“You’re terrible,” you said, and then, “I’m terrible.”

“Not your fault, Lena.”

“Stop it.”

You stepped out into the warm evening air and took a deep breath in. The main street was lined with softly glowing lanterns and tons of loud, laughing people, all in robes and colors and floral patterns. You watched the dark outlines of the trees sway slightly overhead and small blue birds loop around in the air. It was dinner time. You wanted to go home.

Kakashi couldn’t leave. He said he had too much debriefing and filing to do. You couldn’t remember the last time he debriefed or filed anything. But he had hugged you and told you he was very sorry, and it wasn’t your fault, and you said you were sorry and he should go home and cry because it’s healthy—everybody should cry sometimes. And he laughed and said, “Go home, Lena. You’ll sleep fine tonight.” You thought he had very cold hands and a very warm voice.

“Go to bed,” you said toward the hokage’s building behind you. The lanterns reflected like huge fireflies off the windows.

You stepped out onto the street and looked at the document of recognition in your hand. The council and Tsunade had awarded you something for your part in this. You wondered how guilty they felt. Not very, you supposed.

“Lena!” Ino and Sakura called in unison from a booth nearby. They were holding what looked like candy flowers. You waved at them and saw Sakura give you a wide, sad smile. You smiled and waved again and moved on.

Some of the booths were selling food, but most were selling art and textile goods. You thought about how you had been so busy you’d missed talk of the festival, and, if someone asked you what it was all about, you would have no idea.

You stopped at a slightly-busy booth for, what looked like, dumplings to take home. The man selling them was very kind and had a bright grin and crow’s feet. You imagined Naruto might look like that when he was older.

“Thanks,” you said when he handed you the package.

The man chuckled. “You’re very welcome! Are you really at this festival alone?”

You stopped and stared at him. Slowly, you smiled. “I… I guess I am, yeah.” The sense of loneliness felt acute all of a sudden.

“You shouldn’t be,” he told you matter-of-factly, preparing a smaller package of dumplings for a group of chirpy genin. “It’s not that kind of festival.”

“What kind is it?”

He grinned, looking much, much younger for a moment, and quite similar to Naruto. “Whatever kind you’d like! But we’re selling love here.” He gestured to a large banner across the street and above the stalls that said something about springtime and love and happiness. “You should find someone,” he said, and then you thought he was more like Kakashi.

“I should,” you replied, setting your payment on the table. You smiled at him. “Have a lovely evening.”

He laughed loudly. “You, too, young lady!”

You weaved out into the middle of the crowded street and let the flow of people lead you. Eventually, you found yourself standing alone with your package and your document at the beginning of the residential area, a slight way off from the noise of the festival. You sighed up at the purple sky and ahead at the empty, house-lined streets. “I should find someone,” you mumbled, readjusting your items and heading off down the nearest road.

The quiet houses with their glowing windows and flower boxes passed you by as you made your way silently down the street. Every so often, you’d see someone in their house or on their porch, but everything seem to lack sound and movement. You felt at peace and as though you were being pressed into a tiny space all at once.

A warm presence was suddenly at your back and Naruto popped up beside you. “Lena,” he said, beaming at you through the dusky air.

“Naruto,” you replied, noting the lack of wild energy he normally brought with him. “How are you?”

He looked up at the sky. “I’m okay, I guess. I feel better.” He laughed and laughed and then he stopped walking suddenly. You turned back to him, confused, and saw the tears. “Say, Lena,” he said, voice level, wiping at his eyes, “why?”

“I don’t know,” you told him truthfully. “I’ll never know.”

“Sorry to bother you,” he said, smiling around the tears. “I should go see Sakura or something. She’ll want to talk.” He waved at you and grinned, eyes bright and wet and glittering. “Have a nice evening, Lena.”

“You, too, Naruto.”

He began turning, but paused halfway. “Where will he stay?” he asked, looking intently at the ground.

You didn’t know what to say. You shrugged and smiled at him, and he shrugged and smiled at you, and he began crying again and ran back down the road. You watched him go and felt the weight of the food in your arms. “I should find someone,” you told yourself, turning to walk the other way down the street than he had left.

You lived in a small, first floor apartment on a small, narrow road that ran right along a community-garden-field-like thing, and which in the warm months was cool and in the cool months was warm. It was five rooms and had hardwood floors, and you originally lived there with your parents, but then they moved out to what was essentially a nursing home, and then they died there. You figured they had always assumed you’d live with someone; the apartment was really too big for a single person.

A scrawny black-and-orange tortoiseshell cat walked beside you along the high wooden fence as you wound through the oncoming darkness toward the network of tiny roads that lay far from the center of the village and more toward the cliffs. All sound was gone now, and none of the lanterns tossed their light out this far, so the air seemed opaque.

You stopped by the beginning of the fields and gardens to stare at the royal purple sky with its black clouds and perfectly halved moon. The temperature was dropping quickly, and crickets sounded from every possible direction. “How nice,” you breathed, smiling at the expanse of grass.

And then you felt it. The beginning of an itch, an uncomfortable tingle at your spine, that seemed to pool there and have trouble becoming a true sense of danger. You worried your bottom lip and shifted the package in your arms before turning around.

Sasuke was sitting on a high retaining wall across the road. The wall belonged to the single-family home right behind it, and was partially crumbling from the pressure of the earth. You looked at the breaking wall and then at the tortoiseshell cat that tiptoed its way down the stone to wind behind Sasuke and push its head against his elbow.

You wondered if you should be worried. He was sitting there, calm, and swinging his legs slightly in the air. His shirtfront was open and you could see the shadows of healing scars on the pale skin. He was watching you coolly.

You swallowed. “Hello,” you said quietly, readjusting your package and document against your hip. He seemed to freeze in space, and then he nodded at you softly. You nodded back somewhat apprehensively. You thought briefly about how dangerous he was and how strange it was that he was out here at night, in the residential area, as though waiting for someone. And then you remembered what you had done to him and felt terribly guilty for everything and thinking he was dangerous at all.

“Where will he stay?”

“Hey,” you breathed again, voice shaking slightly. Pity had formed somewhat on your tongue, and you felt even worse. You felt your eyes water ever so slightly. You gestured vaguely toward your front door. “Would you like to come in?” you asked, feeling not even the least bit embarrassed or nervous, which you found strange, even though you thought he was probably the one who was embarrassed.

Sasuke jumped off the high wall and walked over to you slowly. You waited until he was only a few feet away to feel really, truly sorry. The wetness in your eyes had faded, but your face felt hot and the thick clog was back in your throat. He was surveying you with an extremely calm, if not somewhat expectant, expression. You looked away from his normal, beautiful, upsetting black eyes to gaze down at the package balanced against your hip. “I was going to make something more complicated to eat, but I got really tired, so I hope dumplings are okay. I think they’re pork,” you said, trying to imagine why it would matter. “I usually fry them…”

There was a short silence as he seemed to process this information. Then he smiled minutely—if you hadn’t been staring at him so intently you wouldn’t have noticed—and nodded softly again. You supposed he was in no position to decline.

“Okay,” you breathed out, turning toward your front door only a yard or so away. As you stepped away from him, there was a glancing pressure along your shoulder blades, and then he was gripping your upper arms gently but firmly. You tried to calm your breathing as he pulled you back against his chest.

Usually, the human body is hot. But when you leaned backward into him, all you felt was a solid coolness, as though, maybe, he wasn’t human or alive anymore. And then he rested his forehead against your shoulder, letting his hands slide down your arms and drop away. You felt his rhythmic breathing, the slow expanding of his ribcage, and the soft, ghostly brush of his hair against your neck.

You felt afraid, not of what he might do, but of his feelings. Until a few weeks ago, you hadn’t even known he had feelings. Well, you did, but they were always just under his skin, seething and roiling, and you never saw them.

Now there was a hand against your back, tracing down your spin delicately. You shut your eyes and tried to breathe. “Hey, Sasuke,” you said for, what felt like, the first time ever. You knew your voice was barely audible. “Let’s go inside. I think—ˮ You choked on your air and took a deep breath in. “I think… maybe… You probably need sleep,” you finally pushed out. He didn’t move much, but to set his hands lightly on your waist.

“Why did you kiss me?” he said, barely there, just a movement and tiny sound against your shoulder. But you felt the intensity, and you thought that if you’d been looking at him, you might’ve needed to look away.

“Didn’t you need something?” you replied, staring worriedly down at the pavement. You reached around and tried to touch something, anything, to make him real and not this sad, lonely, wandering spirit that killed himself in the night or something.

You grabbed a hold of his shirtfront and he moved into your touch, pressing his body against your back, as though, if the two of you thought about it in unison enough, you might meld together and never be separated. How strange, you thought, that you would ever care about him so quickly.

Sasuke was close enough that when he raised his head from your shoulder ever so slightly, you felt the rest of his body ripple and respond to the movement. “Lena,” he said quietly, and in such a weird, specific way that your whole body went hot and cold in one flash.

“Yeah?” you whispered when you realized he was waiting for a response.

He didn’t say anything immediately, but his grip on your waist tightened and you just knew his eyes were open now. “Let me in.”

You let your eyes flutter shut as about fifty different emotions swept over you. “Yeah,” you said, on the verge of tears. “Let’s go inside.”