Naruto :: Yours to Begin With :: PG :: no pairings
Title: Yours to Begin With
Fandom: Naruto
Pairings: none
Rating: PG (blood)
Genre: General
Word count: 360
Spoilers: Only if you don't know much about Kimimaro.
Summary: A little drabble on bedridden!Kimimaro. Initially done as a RP sample.
A single ray of light found its way past the folds and depths of the coal black curtains, illuminating a shaft of fine dust particles that continued to rain within the glow. A spot of that intangible gold fell on the bed, about the size of a small fist but wide enough to encompass several of the wires that ran along the sheet. They traveled up the side of the mattress, one branching off from the group to come to an end in a pale wrist, another a little further up on the outside of a shoulder.
The heavy silence draped over the room was disrupted only by the low humming and whirring of a machine at the bedside, joined occasionally by coarse breathing or a dry cough. Dry, only because the wire running through his nose and down his throat -- colored, unlike the others; it kept hidden the black and burnt crimson that caked and flowed scantily along its interior -- had just recently served its purpose in draining the liquid from his lungs. How long the effect would last was a matter of guesswork.
Strong fingers momentarily depleted of their energy grasped the sheet; stretch lines cut across the material as the muscles along his arm barely revealed their role in the effort. That pain was returning -- the pain that left him aching and raw until even the soft blankets felt like sand being pressed and rubbed against his skin. But just like his inflamed chest and sore throat, the pain would be disregarded. He had felt worse, done worse. The discomfort was only part of a fleeting moment. And the present, he had learned, was never as important as the future.
He would bear it as always, unable to do much else, but without complaint. His cursing of the illness had ceased long before -- it was childish, it was beneath him, and it was futile. All he could do was what he could, and that was enough as far as he was concerned.
His esophagus retracted, tightened, and burned as he coughed. His tongue tasted iron; his thin lips felt a new warmth.
Kimimaro was dying every day.
Fandom: Naruto
Pairings: none
Rating: PG (blood)
Genre: General
Word count: 360
Spoilers: Only if you don't know much about Kimimaro.
Summary: A little drabble on bedridden!Kimimaro. Initially done as a RP sample.
A single ray of light found its way past the folds and depths of the coal black curtains, illuminating a shaft of fine dust particles that continued to rain within the glow. A spot of that intangible gold fell on the bed, about the size of a small fist but wide enough to encompass several of the wires that ran along the sheet. They traveled up the side of the mattress, one branching off from the group to come to an end in a pale wrist, another a little further up on the outside of a shoulder.
The heavy silence draped over the room was disrupted only by the low humming and whirring of a machine at the bedside, joined occasionally by coarse breathing or a dry cough. Dry, only because the wire running through his nose and down his throat -- colored, unlike the others; it kept hidden the black and burnt crimson that caked and flowed scantily along its interior -- had just recently served its purpose in draining the liquid from his lungs. How long the effect would last was a matter of guesswork.
Strong fingers momentarily depleted of their energy grasped the sheet; stretch lines cut across the material as the muscles along his arm barely revealed their role in the effort. That pain was returning -- the pain that left him aching and raw until even the soft blankets felt like sand being pressed and rubbed against his skin. But just like his inflamed chest and sore throat, the pain would be disregarded. He had felt worse, done worse. The discomfort was only part of a fleeting moment. And the present, he had learned, was never as important as the future.
He would bear it as always, unable to do much else, but without complaint. His cursing of the illness had ceased long before -- it was childish, it was beneath him, and it was futile. All he could do was what he could, and that was enough as far as he was concerned.
His esophagus retracted, tightened, and burned as he coughed. His tongue tasted iron; his thin lips felt a new warmth.
Kimimaro was dying every day.