Fic: Pulse [Minato-centric]
Title: “Pulse”
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: G
Summary: There are days when Minato remembers nothing - and days when he remembers everything. What death feels like.
Disclaimer: Naruto belongs to Kishimoto Masashi.
A/N: Another piece of pseudo-poetic semi-angsty nonsense.
Dedication: to faremyr, my most awesome Nemesis, who is to blame for this assault of Minato-inspiration. Because yes!
PULSE
They say that promises
Sweeten the blow,
But I don't need them.
Natalie Merchant. ‘My Skin’
He feels its presence even when he is seemingly alone. There is no such thing as ‘alone’ here, though, just as there is no such thing as ‘quiet’. Whispers rustle through the empty halls; water drips from the ceiling. Metal keeps clanking. Minato doesn’t know how much time has passed. The darkness around him is thick and disturbed.
Sometimes he falls on his back and lets the waves of orange foam lull him to the frail substitute for sleep. The monster watches him, sniffing in its disquieting animalistic manner, a giant red eye peeking from behind bars. It is always hungry.
It feels like a hundred years. Or like a day. He doesn’t know, doesn’t try to find out.
Things come and go. The colour of the foam brings back the memories of Kushina’s hair. Bright red, it grew longer and longer throughout the years he has known her. He tries to grasp the feel of it, to restore the sensation fully from scraps, but he cannot get ahold of it. His mind taunts him with the sound of her laughter struggling through the sibilant noise of the Fox’s breathing.
If he shuts his eyes, he can see green. Wisps of grass shooting through the cracks in the Hokage Mountain. Shades of viridity stirred up in the river after the rain. Everything is so subtle, so elusive.
He cannot remember the colour of Kushina’s eyes.
At times like this, his heart begins thumping madly, a hot, living lump in his chest. The only memories worth clinging to are those of his wife and son. Everything else, he can let go. But not these.
There are times when the Fox is docile. Hours, even days, it seems, pass by without it making a sound. It just lies in respite in its cage, its long ears pressed against the giant head. Perhaps it dreams. Minato asks himself what demons dream about and if they dream at all. When the Nine-Tails is quiet like that, it looks almost like a normal fox, albeit Minato wouldn’t approach the cage anyway for fear of losing a body part.
At times it seems to him there is someone else inside the damp darkness. The feeling intensifies. He can even hear footsteps, and the Fox roars and rages, tails whipping at the bars, monstrous jaws clenching and unclenching…
Minato dreams. Remembers the way the pages feel when caught between his fingers. Columns of text, hiding his unborn son’s future name. Kushina is smiling.
He turns his head and sees an apparition floating right by him. Orange, blue, and white. Yellow hair. Looks so real. Minato holds out his hand to touch it, but his fingers barely brush the frayed orange fabric. The figure is gone.
He cannot remember the name of his son.
The pictures unfold gradually. He can feel the monster’s chakra draining away and knows, just knows that it is seeping outside. Outside, what a strange notion. There is a world beyond the infinite dripping darkness, the one he used to be part of but has almost forgotten already. Sometimes he wonders which one is real: that world or this one.
He senses the chakra leaking away like water flushing down the kitchen sink. He cannot help but guess what it is for.
He sweeps his palm over the excesses of the demonic chakra. If it were an animal, it would have fur. It would feel warm and woolly, perhaps a bit matted. This feels different. Minato chuckles at the ridiculous analogy that comes to mind. Laundry soap. Rubber. He doesn’t even remember what fur is like to touch. Jiraiya-sensei’s shaggy mane stands before his eyes for a few moments.
Water gushes from every quarter so swiftly that he almost jumps up. The sound of crumbling rock thunders overhead. Minato ducks instinctively. Red eyes flash before him, briefly. Electricity jolts through his chest, drilling a hole in his flesh. He doubles over, mouth wide open.
He lies on bare rock, the taste of strong, sweet tea in his mouth. The memory comes from him: a day or two before the Kyuubi attacked. His hand is on Kushina’s belly. He is smiling. But the sensations belong to someone else. The Nine-Tails is exhausted. It feels as though both of them are dying. He feels betrayed. Remembers the red eyes, a strand of black hair framing the cracked Leaf headband. His chest hurts. Someone close to them is leaving.
He lets the darkness envelop him.
* * *
Memories come alive in chains, becoming overgrown with new links. Grains of dirt beneath Obito’s fingernails. The freedom Hiraishin no Jutsu brings. Images float around him but he cannot dub in sound, cannot add smell and touch.
He hears a boy’s voice from time to time. He knows the boy is the one that almost died that day by the water - and the boy talks to the Fox, yells at it, tells it to piss off… Minato smiles. Remembers the book.
The name is Naruto.
One day it gets somewhat crowded there. Naruto is back. His suffering curls off of him in bitter-tasting vapour. Someone else is with him. Minato tries to discern the words of their conversation, but the dark-haired one does something to dispel the Nine-Tails’ chakra, and springy orange bubbles flood the hall and thrust Minato back. The Fox bellows, infuriated. Minato is angry too, even though he barely realizes why.
He can see more now. Whether it is a conscious step to becoming stronger or a coincidence, he cannot tell. Glimpses of the outside enter the snapshots of his past life, but he can almost tell them apart.
His son is handsome. He is proud. He wishes Kushina could see him.
The Fox grumbles. It appears that, for all its malevolence, it somewhat likes the boy. Or perhaps it has just grown soft after years of imprisonment, though how exactly do demons measure time?
Voices echo in the dark emptiness. Minato thinks of the colour blue. His son is the newer version of him. The same blue eyes, the same bright blonde hair. The only thing that isn’t his are the whisker-marks. The Kyuubi whispers evil things into the boy’s mind, but the boy never listens.
Except one day he does. He falls to his knees in front of the bars, crumbling under all the pain, all the suffering, all the loss. Minato knows only too well what it tastes like. And he knows the game the Nine-Tails is playing.
He reaches out, fingers wrapped around the boy’s wrist, and stops him before the seal is peeled off of the gate.
He remembers the colour of her eyes.
How old are you, he asks.
Sixteen.
Sixteen. That’s all Minato needed to know.
October 14, 2009
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: G
Summary: There are days when Minato remembers nothing - and days when he remembers everything. What death feels like.
Disclaimer: Naruto belongs to Kishimoto Masashi.
A/N: Another piece of pseudo-poetic semi-angsty nonsense.
Dedication: to faremyr, my most awesome Nemesis, who is to blame for this assault of Minato-inspiration. Because yes!
PULSE
They say that promises
Sweeten the blow,
But I don't need them.
Natalie Merchant. ‘My Skin’
He feels its presence even when he is seemingly alone. There is no such thing as ‘alone’ here, though, just as there is no such thing as ‘quiet’. Whispers rustle through the empty halls; water drips from the ceiling. Metal keeps clanking. Minato doesn’t know how much time has passed. The darkness around him is thick and disturbed.
Sometimes he falls on his back and lets the waves of orange foam lull him to the frail substitute for sleep. The monster watches him, sniffing in its disquieting animalistic manner, a giant red eye peeking from behind bars. It is always hungry.
It feels like a hundred years. Or like a day. He doesn’t know, doesn’t try to find out.
Things come and go. The colour of the foam brings back the memories of Kushina’s hair. Bright red, it grew longer and longer throughout the years he has known her. He tries to grasp the feel of it, to restore the sensation fully from scraps, but he cannot get ahold of it. His mind taunts him with the sound of her laughter struggling through the sibilant noise of the Fox’s breathing.
If he shuts his eyes, he can see green. Wisps of grass shooting through the cracks in the Hokage Mountain. Shades of viridity stirred up in the river after the rain. Everything is so subtle, so elusive.
He cannot remember the colour of Kushina’s eyes.
At times like this, his heart begins thumping madly, a hot, living lump in his chest. The only memories worth clinging to are those of his wife and son. Everything else, he can let go. But not these.
There are times when the Fox is docile. Hours, even days, it seems, pass by without it making a sound. It just lies in respite in its cage, its long ears pressed against the giant head. Perhaps it dreams. Minato asks himself what demons dream about and if they dream at all. When the Nine-Tails is quiet like that, it looks almost like a normal fox, albeit Minato wouldn’t approach the cage anyway for fear of losing a body part.
At times it seems to him there is someone else inside the damp darkness. The feeling intensifies. He can even hear footsteps, and the Fox roars and rages, tails whipping at the bars, monstrous jaws clenching and unclenching…
Minato dreams. Remembers the way the pages feel when caught between his fingers. Columns of text, hiding his unborn son’s future name. Kushina is smiling.
He turns his head and sees an apparition floating right by him. Orange, blue, and white. Yellow hair. Looks so real. Minato holds out his hand to touch it, but his fingers barely brush the frayed orange fabric. The figure is gone.
He cannot remember the name of his son.
The pictures unfold gradually. He can feel the monster’s chakra draining away and knows, just knows that it is seeping outside. Outside, what a strange notion. There is a world beyond the infinite dripping darkness, the one he used to be part of but has almost forgotten already. Sometimes he wonders which one is real: that world or this one.
He senses the chakra leaking away like water flushing down the kitchen sink. He cannot help but guess what it is for.
He sweeps his palm over the excesses of the demonic chakra. If it were an animal, it would have fur. It would feel warm and woolly, perhaps a bit matted. This feels different. Minato chuckles at the ridiculous analogy that comes to mind. Laundry soap. Rubber. He doesn’t even remember what fur is like to touch. Jiraiya-sensei’s shaggy mane stands before his eyes for a few moments.
Water gushes from every quarter so swiftly that he almost jumps up. The sound of crumbling rock thunders overhead. Minato ducks instinctively. Red eyes flash before him, briefly. Electricity jolts through his chest, drilling a hole in his flesh. He doubles over, mouth wide open.
He lies on bare rock, the taste of strong, sweet tea in his mouth. The memory comes from him: a day or two before the Kyuubi attacked. His hand is on Kushina’s belly. He is smiling. But the sensations belong to someone else. The Nine-Tails is exhausted. It feels as though both of them are dying. He feels betrayed. Remembers the red eyes, a strand of black hair framing the cracked Leaf headband. His chest hurts. Someone close to them is leaving.
He lets the darkness envelop him.
* * *
Memories come alive in chains, becoming overgrown with new links. Grains of dirt beneath Obito’s fingernails. The freedom Hiraishin no Jutsu brings. Images float around him but he cannot dub in sound, cannot add smell and touch.
He hears a boy’s voice from time to time. He knows the boy is the one that almost died that day by the water - and the boy talks to the Fox, yells at it, tells it to piss off… Minato smiles. Remembers the book.
The name is Naruto.
One day it gets somewhat crowded there. Naruto is back. His suffering curls off of him in bitter-tasting vapour. Someone else is with him. Minato tries to discern the words of their conversation, but the dark-haired one does something to dispel the Nine-Tails’ chakra, and springy orange bubbles flood the hall and thrust Minato back. The Fox bellows, infuriated. Minato is angry too, even though he barely realizes why.
He can see more now. Whether it is a conscious step to becoming stronger or a coincidence, he cannot tell. Glimpses of the outside enter the snapshots of his past life, but he can almost tell them apart.
His son is handsome. He is proud. He wishes Kushina could see him.
The Fox grumbles. It appears that, for all its malevolence, it somewhat likes the boy. Or perhaps it has just grown soft after years of imprisonment, though how exactly do demons measure time?
Voices echo in the dark emptiness. Minato thinks of the colour blue. His son is the newer version of him. The same blue eyes, the same bright blonde hair. The only thing that isn’t his are the whisker-marks. The Kyuubi whispers evil things into the boy’s mind, but the boy never listens.
Except one day he does. He falls to his knees in front of the bars, crumbling under all the pain, all the suffering, all the loss. Minato knows only too well what it tastes like. And he knows the game the Nine-Tails is playing.
He reaches out, fingers wrapped around the boy’s wrist, and stops him before the seal is peeled off of the gate.
He remembers the colour of her eyes.
How old are you, he asks.
Sixteen.
Sixteen. That’s all Minato needed to know.
October 14, 2009