[Naruto] Wraiths and Strays, Act V
Who procrastinates like whoa?
Act V, set to Claire Voyant - Mercy.
Act V
(in these ashes we all fall down)
Naruto groans and twists his body awkwardly to his left, his entire body burning like it's on fire. He takes a few deep breaths, trying to shake the awful sensation of nausea and disorientation that hovers inside his skull, unraveling all his senses to near uselessness.
When he opens his eyes, all he can see is a thick horizon of dirty gray. He blinks rapidly, clearing his head enough to get a bearing on his situation.
He lies on his side in the trampled snow of their previous battle, shivering violently beneath a thin layer of early afternoon snowfall. He has no idea how long he has been there, but guesses it could not have been much more than an hour by the position of the sun and the fact that he has not yet frozen to death. He takes a moment to drag himself painfully to his elbows, numb hands useless as his body screams in protest at the sudden movement.
Several feet before him, Itachi is crumpled in the snow, his pale skin tinged an unnatural blue. Startled, Naruto forces himself to his hands and knees, half-dragging himself across the ruined snow towards the Uchiha prodigy. His hands burn as circulation returns to them in tingling bursts, half-afraid that Itachi has frozen to death in his own front yard.
As he edges closer to the unconscious man, he raises his head to study the landscape around him, until now hidden by Itachi's genjutsu. The forest is naturally thick -- bordering on claustrophobic -- around them, save for a wide swath of clear ground that looks as if it might serve as a road in the warmer months. Beyond the line of trees, a few miles down the path: snow, dazzling and brilliant and it feels somehow bigger than all of fire country. There are no mountains to break up the skyline, just a fierce, pristine canvas that stretches out and out to forever.
Trembling, Naruto rises to crawl the last few feet to Itachi. He reaches out, his hand pressing against the older shinobi's cheek. He is cold, yes, but Naruto does not think him dead yet. "Way to go, asshole," he mutters, and his fingers slide to Itachi's throat to test the carotid artery there.
Itachi's pulse is sluggish and irregular, and Naruto curses softly.
There is work to be done, then. With a sigh, he rolls Itachi onto his back, irritated by the knowledge that life would be a lot simpler if he just left the bastard out here to die.
(There had been nothing but hatred to see in those ghosts' empty eyes, but Naruto knows, as sure as the sun will rise, that the expression beneath that crumbling mask will haunt him for the rest of his life. Terror, oh yes, but below that --
-- pain, enough to break a soul. If only for the memory of that, and what came after -- he shudders at the images that stir in his mind, fragments of memory to bind them together in the dubious brotherhood of shadowed, shared traumas. For this, Naruto will do everything in his power to ensure Itachi's survival.
This time, at least.)
And there is blood in the snow, streaks of crimson where Itachi's arms have hollowed a place in the powder and Naruto blinks, casting a suspicious eye at the older man. His clothes are untouched; yes, that ominous cloak looks rumpled and wet and nothing more, but when Naruto's fingers brush the ice caked to the wide sleeves, they come away wet with more than just snowmelt.
So many questions form behind those glittering blue eyes, taking shape like jutsu newly discovered; Naruto is already bracing himself for the inevitable silences that will be his answers.
*
An hour later, color has begun a slow return to Itachi's flesh. Naruto sighs in relief and stirs the fire once more, unwilling to take his eyes from the Uchiha for more than a few moments at a time. He is all-too aware of the way even a strong life can slip away between heartbeats. Every blanket from the run-down manor is currently stretched across Itachi's prone body, giving the impression of a child buried to the neck in a great pile of blue-white-grey-crimson-eggshell sand. His own hands are just beginning to find real warmth again as well, and his concern for Itachi is almost enough distract him from the terrible burn of nerves coming out of hibernation.
Something happened that shouldn't have. This much, Naruto understands. He may not have the faintest idea as to the workings of illusions or their counters, but he's fairly certain Itachi shouldn't have rope burns on his wrists, or long jagged gashes along his arms, beneath the sloppy bandages Naruto has wrapped them in. He should never have seen the long, bird-thin bones beneath that shredded flap of flesh atop Itachi's left foot.
He should never have seen the things that really haunted the older shinobi.
Naruto could leave now; there is nothing to stop him. Perhaps Itachi will not live through the morning, even with Naruto's amateur but well-intended care. He does not know the area, but he is robust and there will surely be a village somewhere close, right? Surely Konoha and her allies are looking for him now.
Even as he considers his options, he knows he will not leave Itachi's side. Not now, not after this, not after--
"Come on, dammit," he growls, and rests his hand atop Itachi's cool forehead once more. "Wake up."
If Itachi hears him, Naruto cannot tell.
Itachi will wake up.
He has to.
*
The next two days are unspeakably lonely, as far as Naruto is concerned. He spends his time talking to the sleeping ninja, weaving marvelous stories of the things he's seen, the battles he's fought that Itachi likely knows all about but did not witness. When it gets dark, Naruto moves closer, stirring the fire as he talks about Sasuke. Important things, trivial things, the way he left him hog-tied once in an attic and tried to steal the girl that loved him on lunch hour -- all these things and more, as if he's trying to press upon the unconscious man all the things he's missed. As if he can replace all those memories with something ... different. Something better, certainly.
Sometimes, when his voice is exhausted and there is no meal to make (he has taken to cooking for two in the stubborn hope that Itachi will wake up soon) or bandages to tend, he wanders the house and wonders where Itachi keeps his stuff. Because though is his house and so many things about it make more sense now, there is nothing within its crumbling walls that describes its owner.
He comes back to those dead, crumbling flowers with every revolution he makes.
Perhaps this is all he needs to know.
The next morning, Itachi opens his eyes to see Naruto leaning over him, a length of white binding wrapped 'round his fist.
"It's about time," Naruto says, and sounds like he means it.
Act V, set to Claire Voyant - Mercy.
Act V
(in these ashes we all fall down)
Naruto groans and twists his body awkwardly to his left, his entire body burning like it's on fire. He takes a few deep breaths, trying to shake the awful sensation of nausea and disorientation that hovers inside his skull, unraveling all his senses to near uselessness.
When he opens his eyes, all he can see is a thick horizon of dirty gray. He blinks rapidly, clearing his head enough to get a bearing on his situation.
He lies on his side in the trampled snow of their previous battle, shivering violently beneath a thin layer of early afternoon snowfall. He has no idea how long he has been there, but guesses it could not have been much more than an hour by the position of the sun and the fact that he has not yet frozen to death. He takes a moment to drag himself painfully to his elbows, numb hands useless as his body screams in protest at the sudden movement.
Several feet before him, Itachi is crumpled in the snow, his pale skin tinged an unnatural blue. Startled, Naruto forces himself to his hands and knees, half-dragging himself across the ruined snow towards the Uchiha prodigy. His hands burn as circulation returns to them in tingling bursts, half-afraid that Itachi has frozen to death in his own front yard.
As he edges closer to the unconscious man, he raises his head to study the landscape around him, until now hidden by Itachi's genjutsu. The forest is naturally thick -- bordering on claustrophobic -- around them, save for a wide swath of clear ground that looks as if it might serve as a road in the warmer months. Beyond the line of trees, a few miles down the path: snow, dazzling and brilliant and it feels somehow bigger than all of fire country. There are no mountains to break up the skyline, just a fierce, pristine canvas that stretches out and out to forever.
Trembling, Naruto rises to crawl the last few feet to Itachi. He reaches out, his hand pressing against the older shinobi's cheek. He is cold, yes, but Naruto does not think him dead yet. "Way to go, asshole," he mutters, and his fingers slide to Itachi's throat to test the carotid artery there.
Itachi's pulse is sluggish and irregular, and Naruto curses softly.
There is work to be done, then. With a sigh, he rolls Itachi onto his back, irritated by the knowledge that life would be a lot simpler if he just left the bastard out here to die.
(There had been nothing but hatred to see in those ghosts' empty eyes, but Naruto knows, as sure as the sun will rise, that the expression beneath that crumbling mask will haunt him for the rest of his life. Terror, oh yes, but below that --
-- pain, enough to break a soul. If only for the memory of that, and what came after -- he shudders at the images that stir in his mind, fragments of memory to bind them together in the dubious brotherhood of shadowed, shared traumas. For this, Naruto will do everything in his power to ensure Itachi's survival.
This time, at least.)
And there is blood in the snow, streaks of crimson where Itachi's arms have hollowed a place in the powder and Naruto blinks, casting a suspicious eye at the older man. His clothes are untouched; yes, that ominous cloak looks rumpled and wet and nothing more, but when Naruto's fingers brush the ice caked to the wide sleeves, they come away wet with more than just snowmelt.
So many questions form behind those glittering blue eyes, taking shape like jutsu newly discovered; Naruto is already bracing himself for the inevitable silences that will be his answers.
*
An hour later, color has begun a slow return to Itachi's flesh. Naruto sighs in relief and stirs the fire once more, unwilling to take his eyes from the Uchiha for more than a few moments at a time. He is all-too aware of the way even a strong life can slip away between heartbeats. Every blanket from the run-down manor is currently stretched across Itachi's prone body, giving the impression of a child buried to the neck in a great pile of blue-white-grey-crimson-eggshell sand. His own hands are just beginning to find real warmth again as well, and his concern for Itachi is almost enough distract him from the terrible burn of nerves coming out of hibernation.
Something happened that shouldn't have. This much, Naruto understands. He may not have the faintest idea as to the workings of illusions or their counters, but he's fairly certain Itachi shouldn't have rope burns on his wrists, or long jagged gashes along his arms, beneath the sloppy bandages Naruto has wrapped them in. He should never have seen the long, bird-thin bones beneath that shredded flap of flesh atop Itachi's left foot.
He should never have seen the things that really haunted the older shinobi.
Naruto could leave now; there is nothing to stop him. Perhaps Itachi will not live through the morning, even with Naruto's amateur but well-intended care. He does not know the area, but he is robust and there will surely be a village somewhere close, right? Surely Konoha and her allies are looking for him now.
Even as he considers his options, he knows he will not leave Itachi's side. Not now, not after this, not after--
"Come on, dammit," he growls, and rests his hand atop Itachi's cool forehead once more. "Wake up."
If Itachi hears him, Naruto cannot tell.
Itachi will wake up.
He has to.
*
The next two days are unspeakably lonely, as far as Naruto is concerned. He spends his time talking to the sleeping ninja, weaving marvelous stories of the things he's seen, the battles he's fought that Itachi likely knows all about but did not witness. When it gets dark, Naruto moves closer, stirring the fire as he talks about Sasuke. Important things, trivial things, the way he left him hog-tied once in an attic and tried to steal the girl that loved him on lunch hour -- all these things and more, as if he's trying to press upon the unconscious man all the things he's missed. As if he can replace all those memories with something ... different. Something better, certainly.
Sometimes, when his voice is exhausted and there is no meal to make (he has taken to cooking for two in the stubborn hope that Itachi will wake up soon) or bandages to tend, he wanders the house and wonders where Itachi keeps his stuff. Because though is his house and so many things about it make more sense now, there is nothing within its crumbling walls that describes its owner.
He comes back to those dead, crumbling flowers with every revolution he makes.
Perhaps this is all he needs to know.
The next morning, Itachi opens his eyes to see Naruto leaning over him, a length of white binding wrapped 'round his fist.
"It's about time," Naruto says, and sounds like he means it.