Naruto Fan Fiction ❯ No More ❯ One-Shot

I do not own Naruto in any shape or form, exempting the story below. Please enjoy.

 

No More

 

 

It's been a long time, you want to say, but the look in his eyes tells you not to.

 

It's dark; a vision that you never wanted to see in those orbs that had once been so clear. The sight tears you apart inside, because he was never meant to look that way and now he does because you were the one who caused it. It's a look that shows how much he has—and hasn't—changed.

 

At the same time, you want to pray that he is the same (though it means that he's just like a broken record, playing over and over in senseless destruction). You want to be told that no, this is not what he has changed into.

 

But he has, so you know that perhaps, it would have been better if you had never left.

 

Then those pained eyes meet yours, and you can see a stronger sense of conviction in them and it is a bit more dark than you would like it to be (but it is definitely your little brother) so you embrace it and wait for him to move first.

 

He stays where he is, unsurprisingly, and you aren't sure what the right thing to do in this situation is. So instead of comforting or insulting or whatever it is that you should be doing, you watch his eyes, and wonder if he would have had different eyes if he had been with you all this time.

 

But that time has passed. You will never get those moments back, so it is useless to even imagine it.

 

Black eyes tell you that regardless of the lies coming from his mouth, he wanted and he needed and you weren't there. So instead he had to do things he never wanted to do. Then he moves, fast, faster than you thought he could move, and his eyes have turned blood red.

 

He doesn't want to kill you; this, you can tell from his movement—there's still a little part of him that wants you to come back and be with him. But time's up for you.

 

It's been too long since your crime has passed. Now, it is impossible for you to ever become the brother that he had long adored. So you harden your heart and instead of dropping your guard you dig a kunai neatly through his femur.

 

It is a clean break, one that you know won't kill him or permanently injure him; it will suffice, however, to hold him back for a while.

 

But then he pulls it out of his leg and you have to resist from scolding him like the older brother you were. Because blood is precious—you will never get back what you have lost. It is similar, you think ironically, to the way time has passed between you and he, and you back off.

 

The blood is clean and unrestrained, and you know that he will not have an infection unless he leaves it open and decides to walk through marshes in that time. Your materials are clean; sterilized in a way that makes them efficient to your cause.

 

He stares at you with blank eyes now, and you aren't sure if you prefer these over the eyes from before—but you cannot name the emotion that had been running through his eyes previous, and so you think that perhaps this pain is better than the other. His lips are not speaking lies, now, not any longer, but the words are just as fickle.

 

You don't listen to them, instead paying attention to his movements.

 

He is letting the wound bleed out—you wonder if he thinks that you had poisoned him, because that is the only real reason you can think of him letting himself lose so much precious blood.

 

You say, “I didn't poison you.”

 

He doesn't respond for a moment, and you repeat yourself. Afterwards, he finally responds.

 

“I know.”

 

That doesn't make sense, you think, and then wonder if those eyes had gone through more than they were supposed to. So half-heartedly, you toss a roll of bandages into his lap; they landed square in his lap, as you had intended.

 

“Do you ever regret it?” He says, questioning you. But it isn't angry, but a curious, quite tone that you know now means that he is being honest with you.

 

You answer.

 

He looks at you carefully at your answer, and then turns back to his leg. You can already see that he doesn't have an adequate splint and that his bone will align improperly if he continues. But you remain silent, and watch his hands a while more.

 

They are white.

 

They are a pure, clean color, one that you had abandoned on that night so many years ago. It makes you feel a bit sad, knowing that this color is a brief reminder of that night.

 

It wakes you from the place you had so easily fallen to. You wonder, for a moment, if it would be possible to take him with you and flee, if he would ever forgive you for ripping him from his place of comfort for a second time. But the thought soon passes as you hear a hiss of pain escape from the fallen boy's lips.

 

You lean down, gently pushing his hands out of the way, and dig the tips of your fingers into the flesh of his thigh. None of the muscle was pierced to a remarkable degree you note, and force the bone into place.

 

Another hiss comes from his lips and you smile sadly, face hidden by the collar of your shirt. He is still trying to be like you; he is still not yet ready for what he had been born into. You gently take the scabbard from your kodachi and place it against the bone; afterwards, three precise, thin layers fall into place above it, and the bandage, you check, is not tight enough to stop circulation but tight enough to do its job.

 

You raise bloody finger to your face, watching how the red looks in the sunlight.

 

To your dismay, you realize it looks like all the other blood you had ever spilled in your lifetime.

 

And the eyes are back.

 

They are questioning this time, less aggravated as their predecessors, but equally bright and trusting. The thought makes you ache, a little bit, when you realize that he still looks up to you when you really shouldn't have it. You don't deserve it—

 

You ruined his life.

 

You killed the ones he had so long looked up to, to the ones who could have trained him to be the best.

 

From where he is, though, it doesn't look like he cares. The thought is reaffirmed when he carefully moves his wounded leg out of your way, and speaks. “Sit with me?”

 

“Ah,” you reply, and walk over, but do not sit. Your eyes are not trained on his weapons, but on the eyes in front of you. They are brighter now, and a color that you do not realize could be in the eye. It is a color that you know so well…a color that is born from sorrow and darkness.

 

You sit there, with him, for a long while, and when you finally feel the nin of Konohagakure approaching, you rise from your place next to him.

 

He doesn't try to stop you, and you realize with a start what the emotion in his eyes has always been.

 

­Acceptance.

 

 

Every time you meet afterwards is bloodier than the last.

 

And then, finally, he is soaked in blood that you cannot determine as his own or another's. You watch him as he goes to take the head of the renegade nin, and you slay the nin in his path for attempting to injure this precious person.

 

He doesn't notice; the blood is making his perception abstract, and you wonder if he will survive this mission. He stumbles many times, and each time you watch, wanting to support him and force him on his own two feet at the same time. He isn't weak, he has never been weak. But it is that word that in the most nullified his concerns and made him strive for greater success. So you heartlessly use the word to improve his performance.

 

You wonder if that makes you evil, but he is moving, so you don't dwell on it for too long. He slips, and your blood red eyes lock onto his target.

 

They would never know, you realize, and wonder if it would be better for you to end this pitiful scene.

 

But then he gets up again, and you can't get yourself to move.

 

He struggles, holding heavily onto the walls and grasping the last kunai he has in his pouch carefully. The grip he uses is weak, and you know that he will not succeed.

 

And then you suddenly find yourself in front of his target and cutting off his needless appendages.

 

“Matsumoto Ken,” you hear yourself saying without thought, “you will be killed by a limping nin in a few moments from now. You will not struggle or attempt to hurt him in any way. Do you understand?”

 

The man nodded, pulling his now stubs of fingers from your grasp, and you can smell the scent of urine in the air. It disgusts you, but you very carefully mask your chakra and watch as he finally forces the door open.

 

His target is frozen in place, and he manages to behead him without ceremony. Then he collapses.

 

You stand and lift his prone form over your shoulder and grasp the target's head.

 

 

The one who found him is the Kyuubi.

 

You watch as the other male slings his arms around him, and as he grudgingly accepts the Kyuubi's attention. He even smiles back, and returns shouts with callous comments.

 

Then another is there, this one crying over his shoulder; and another, congratulating him on the successful mission. There are more and more people arriving by the minute, and he is listening to each of them and responding in his own way. You wonder if he would have been like this had the clan survived, but again the thought is dismissed.

 

You never notice how his eyes flit over to where you are or how his fingers trace the sheath bandaged to his leg.

 

You instead watch as more people come and crowd around him. You watch as he silently is moving on from the place he used to be, how quickly he is transitioning into this new life. You watch him, watch as he is hugged by the Kyuubi again….

 

And then you rub at your chest, wondering why it hurts.

 

Written in the middle of Spanish class, for the prompt `no more'.

 

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