A/N: Sorry for taking so long to write something – University has been killing me. That said, this fic was long-ago promised to Positively, whom beta'd my last fic – thanks so much, Momo, you are simply just brills.

Thanks to those whom reviewed Elysium – lime-kitteh, suuy, blissbubbles, Karasu Kurokiba, AvengingMyInnocence, ego sum Caelestis, meigetsuchan, Jellybean06, Aion-sama, Judy-Licious, EvilChibi, Moola Deena, The Only Love For Soujiro Seta, HUUGIRL, Novemberian, usernaem, XoxharlequinxgirlxoX, gemswillfall, hanyou-elf, bamrd92, cleo21, panda-sensei, shenmi meiren, Koolneko22, Building 429, Katseng, Dokueki no Kaiyou, Kurai-Shuwazi, zunmo, LynLin, LadySaturnGirl, eolhc, maddibrah, Myra A., lovethehate, roxxihearts, Dirty Little Rock Star, PageTurn, I'm-not-here-HONEST, YeiYai, Aiwin, Positively, fate-at-work, OvenBased, JigokuShoujosRevenge, mochalatt3, Ile, and JustPlainPrincelyPerfect!

Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto, nor do I own Natsuo Kirino's two masterpieces, Real World and Out.

Warnings: Violence, murder, not-quite-there-insanity, etc. etc. This will not be easy reading and the characters won't all be likeable or even completely canon, but at least I hope they will be believable.

Please don't forget to review!

Nocturnes

0-0-0

I am inhabited by a cry.

Nightly it flaps out

Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.

(Sylvia Plath: Elm)

0-0-0

"Stay at home today."

Itachi's eyes are something unknown as he closes the car door without looking back. Mum pokes her head out of the back of the car. She has her smile on, the one that tells me she has no idea.

"It's alright," she says as I stand there and cry. "It's alright. It's going to be alright."

0-0-0

"I've killed someone."

These are Naruto's first ever words to me.

These three words out of the seam of his lips and the heavy feeling in my limbs fades away as I try to work out if he's lying or not. He's still in his uniform, school tie straight without a crease, the crisp white collar mounted clean and high. He has a school bag slung over one calm, steady shoulder. There's a speck of blood on his tanned right cheek but he doesn't notice.

I do.

After a while, he says it again: "I've killed someone."

I say, "You can't be serious."

"I wouldn't lie about something as big as this."

He doesn't seem scared, he seems perfectly at peace. I try to place him. I try to remember any conversation with him, any time I've run into him during class. He seems to know this and he waits patiently. His shadow slopes androgynously across my doorway and I realise looking down that there's blood on his shoe.

He looks too, frowns a little, wipes it off on my lawn.

I say, "Who was it?"

His eyes land on mine. "My father."

"I don't believe this."

"You do," he tells me without missing a beat and he's right. This is the heavy feeling I've had ever since this morning. My body's seen this coming even if my brain has not, and as I hesitate with my hand on the door he says, "Can we talk inside?"

"I'm sorry?" I say.

"Can we talk inside."

I look at him. Perhaps it's because of the tint to his eyes but, without quite knowing why, I let him in.

0-0-0

He's sitting at the kitchen bench on a high stool, his feet dangling over the tile. He's rolled up the sleeves of the school shirt, his bag on his lap, he's digging in it for something. Nervous, but at the same time strangely exhilarated, I stand with my back to the stovetop and watch him in silence.

A pack of cigarettes emerges. He takes one out.

"You want one?" he says to me.

"I don't smoke."

"Suit yourself."

For a moment I think of stopping him or else my Mum will smell the smoke in the curtains. And then I remember Mum's not around anymore. I swallow the absurd impulse to swat the cigarette from his hand.

"Did you really kill him?" I say after a while, watching the smoke curl up lazily from his mouth.

"Of course."

"How did you... you know. I mean – "

"Knife," he cuts in and I shut myself up. "Kitchen knife."

Now that my heart's slowed down a little I see that he's good-looking, a charm in the wide, full lips. His chin sharpens to an angular point that gives his face a certain kind of quickness, an ease. He has long lashes. They flash whenever he blinks.

"I'm not on the news yet," he says to me, "I only did it this morning. At my house. I don't think the neighbours heard."

I switch on the TV, just in case. "I don't believe this," I say again. "I don't fucking believe it."

"I have the knife with me, if you want me to show it to you. Though I cleaned it before I left the house." He peels the cigarette away and sniffs noncommittally. "Changed my clothes, too. Took a shower. Get rid of the smell, you know."

"What about your mother?"

"She died ten years ago," and he smiles. The sight gives me shivers and I look quickly away.

"So it's just you and your Dad?"

"Yeah. Well, at least, it was."

He stops talking and I watch him smoke. There's a sort of disreality about the whole thing, about the notion of a father-killer smoking at your kitchen bench. It's the kind of disreality that has you wondering whether you should pinch yourself to make sure you're not asleep. Everything feels like it's happening to someone else. I say, to cover up this newfound unease, "Your name's Naruto, right? Naruto Uzumaki?"

He smiles again. The smoke jets and he says, "Uh-huh."

"What do you want me to do?"

He shrugs. "That's up to you. I don't really mind."

"Why not? You must have come here to me for some reason. I hardly know you. I don't think we've ever even spoken before."

"Nothing wrong with that," he says.

I can't help staring at the blood on his cheek, trying not to think too hard about how it got there.

"Anyway," he continues after a barely-there pause, "I need somewhere just to lay low for a while. It's not smart to go to a hotel, or to people you know well. I'm not going to bother you, I just need somewhere to sleep. If you want, you can just pretend I'm not here."

This doesn't hit me quite as hard as it should. The reason for that isn't clear to me, either. In some strange way I feel this is supposed to happen, this boy in a uniform identical to mine, smoking calmly with a school bag in his lap containing a kitchen knife which a few hours ago, ended somebody's life. I shift slightly against the stove and look out the nearest window. It's getting dark outside, the first stars beginning to crackle. They look distant, as if they're from another world altogether.

Naruto moves to the sink next to me and stubs out his cigarette.

"I can't let you stay," I tell him. "I don't want trouble."

"You won't get any," he says. "You live alone, don't you?"

"I have a brother, he's six years older than me. I live with him."

"Will he mind?"

"Well, he will when he finds out what you've done," I point out, and Naruto tips his head as if to mull this over. "He's pretty straight, he'd blow a fuse, you have no idea. And anyway, this is crazy. Sorry, but I don't want to get mixed up in all this."

He nods. Thinks about it some more. Then, suddenly: "Do you like your brother?"

I'm caught off-guard, and for a moment I don't know what to say. "What?"

"I've read about your brother in the papers, heard you guys didn't get along too well. That true?"

My silence tells him too much. He nods at me again, and when he smiles this time I catch a tight look in his eye, like a wound-up spring.

"Don't worry," he tells me, "I'll be very careful. If the police start snooping around I'll get out straight away, and you'll never have to hear from me again. That's a promise."

I let a breath out and stare at a spot on the floor. "Naruto, I don't understand why it has to be me – "

"I trust you," he says simply.

I fold my arms. "Why?"

"I don't know."

I say nothing. I continue staring at the blank floor tiles. In my head I get that image again, that old haunting, like a grainy camera lens. When I next look up I realise with some surprise that Naruto has already gone; I can hear the shower upstairs turned on and running. Outside the sky has drained itself out, and I shiver as I think of Naruto's knife, slitting his father and draining him too.

0-0-0

The second time I see her she has that silly look on her face, too limpid, too blank. Too watered-down blue.

"Sasuke, my boy," she says to me, but I know without speaking that I've already lost her.

0-0-0

Itachi doesn't come home that night, it doesn't surprise me. He's done this sort of thing before. Mum used to fuss about leaving me home alone but I'm fifteen now, I'm old enough. And anyway, Itachi's never really cared.

"What time is it?"

Naruto's lounging there on my bed, his hair wet. He's changed into a T-shirt and pants. I skirt around him to close the room's only window, drawing the curtains against the cold.

He watches me. I nod at the clock on the wall. "Eight thirty."

"Where do you want me to sleep?"

I don't know what to say, so I shrug instead. The TV's on and I flick the channels aimlessly. It's too late for the news, but I can't help being jittery; Naruto's so calm that it makes it all worse.

"Can I sleep in your room?"

"Why?" I say, a little too sharply.

A smile fingers his mouth, as if he's read my mind. "No reason. I just thought it'd be safer, is all."

I reign myself in and think about it for a while. "That's fine," I say finally. "I guess it's alright."

"I won't do anything, if that's what you're worried about."

"It's not," I say but my voice gives me away.

"On the floor, then?"

"Mm-hm."

"Do you have a spare pillow somewhere?"

"Sure," and then before I can stop myself; "How long will you stay?"

"As long as you'll let me." He stretches out his long legs and lies flat on his back on the bed. His shirt rides up, baring his stomach and the top of his hips, but he doesn't care. There's a thick black tattoo swirling over his belly, both ugly and fascinating at the same time. "Or when the police show up, whichever comes first."

I look at him curiously. "You don't seem to be very worried."

He turns his head in my direction, watching me from my bed. He shifts onto his side, and the tattoo disappears.

"Should I be?" he says.

"Well, I don't know. You'll go to juvie for a couple of years, at least."

"I don't mind."

"Was it worth it then, do you think?"

His voice is indifferent when he says to me, "Yeah."

I let out a breath and sit down on the carpet by the bed, letting the TV remote slide out of my hand.

"I guess you must really have hated him."

"Who?"

"Your father. Who else?"

"That's not it," he says, and I'm mildly surprised. He has an unreadable verdigris to his blue eyes now, one that makes me want to look away. "It's not the same thing. I can't explain it to someone who's never felt it before."

"Can't you try?" I press him, too interested now.

He blinks slowly at me. His gold lashes flash once. His eyes on the bed are just level with mine and I watch as he props himself up on his elbows, then onto his knees, sliding across the bed to me. I tilt my head up to keep his gaze, feeling my heart beat faster as his face starts to darken, the light from the ceiling curling around his blonde hair. The blood on his cheek has gone; now I notice faint scars. Wire-thin and fresh, they cup his face with six lines. A feral look has transformed his face and suddenly I realise that I'm afraid of him, afraid and fascinated in equal measure.

His hand finds its way to my chin and I hold my breath. I can feel my entire body trembling.

"It's not hate," he says to me again.

I force the words through dry lips. "Then what is it?"

He ignores me and clamps his fingers down on my chin, hard enough to make me wince. The nail of his thumb finds the soft spot above my throat and digs in, cutting off half of my breath.

My eyes widen and I try to pull away but his grip is too tight. I feel bruises form. The fascination leaves me, all in a rush.

I believe, then and there, that he's killed someone.

"Let me go," I gasp. My hand grabs at his wrist. "Let me go!"

"I cut him here," he tells me then. "I cut him, right here."

"Let me – go – !"

He complies and I tear my face away. I can feel him watching as I scramble to my feet, feel his eyes as I lunge recklessly for the door. I yank it open. He doesn't say anything. Only when I'm in the spare bedroom downstairs do I stop for breath; and even then I see his eyes and his black tattoo, looming out at me from the silent dark like a pair of great jaws lined with cold white teeth.

0-0-0

That night I wake from a terrible dream and retch and retch over the side of the bed. Nothing comes up, and I can't remember the dream, but I can't get back to sleep again. I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling, dragging the damp air into my lungs.

0-0-0

Itachi calls at six in the morning. I throw the covers off the bed and run into the hallway. It's still dark, and it takes me one or two tries to locate the phone on a glass coffee table.

"Hello?"

"Don't go to school today."

His voice is the same old suited-up ice, stiff and formal and giving nothing away. I shift the phone to my shoulder and ask him the obvious.

"Why not?"

"It won't be open. It's going on lockdown today. No students, until they can get security in."

"What? Security? What are you talking about?"

"Didn't you watch the news?"

I sense a presence and I turn around, catch Naruto watching me from across the hall. He's changed into his uniform again. The guttural look of last night has vanished from his eyes and he now looks completely ordinary, nonchalant. The difference is unsettling and I turn back to the wall.

"No, I didn't. What happened?" But I already know.

"Kid at your school suspected of murdering his father. Stabbed him to death, apparently. More than forty-five times. Police think he's unstable, and they're worried he'll show up today at the school."

I can barely hear my own voice as I say, "Do they, now?"

"Stay at home today."

I blink at those words, the clipped way they come out. Suddenly, I feel myself becoming furious. I don't know why. But I've heard those words before.

"Where were you last night? You didn't come home."

He sounds surprised, probably sensing the anger in my voice. "At work. What's the matter? Did something happen at home?"

"Like you care," I mutter darkly. "You've never given a shit."

He doesn't try to deny it, he simply hangs up. I stare at the wall for a few seconds more before settling the phone back into its cradle. As quickly as it came, the anger leaves again. Absently, I notice that it's twenty past six.

"Was that about me?"

Naruto's voice shocks me out of my daze. I stare at him. He's standing in the doorway now.

"Were you listening?"

"Not really. Just a feeling, I guess."

"They've closed the school for the day," I say, moving past him. "They think you'll show up there."

"And do what?"

"I don't know," I lie quietly. My throat still hurts. My hand goes up unconsciously to rub at the bruise, as if trying to scrub it off of my skin.

He catches the movement and his blue eyes cloud.

"Sorry about last night," he tells me softly. "I didn't mean it. I just got carried away. Are you alright now? Did you put some ice on it?"

I say nothing and open the fridge in silence. He follows me. I hear a lighter, and then comes the smell of smoke. His shadow peels away from mine and I catch the scrape of a kitchen stool. Glancing over, I register the curve of his back, both his elbows on the bench and his wrist cocked back. I slam the door of the fridge a little harder than necessary.

"Why are you in your uniform?" I accuse him then. "Were you planning to show up to school?"

He understands what I'm saying. He shakes his head.

"I didn't bring another change of clothes. This uniform and what I had on last night – they're all I brought. I don't have anything else."

"Oh," I say.

"Can you lend me some clothes?"

I ignore his question. "Why did you bring your school uniform? That's hardly going to help you blend in."

"It was the only thing I had that was clean."

He has a tiny smile on his face, as if sharing a joke. He puts the spent cigarette down, watches it burn itself out. I bite my tongue to stop myself getting angry at the mustard scorch-mark this leaves on the bench. When it's done he folds his hands on his lap and turns to me.

"So what are you going to do today?"

I'm annoyed at his attempt to make light of things.

"Do you still have the knife?" I ask him, sharp. "Shouldn't you get rid of it, instead of carrying it around?"

"But I don't want to get rid of it. I want to keep it."

I shake my head. "You're so screwed up, you know that?"

He looks over at me from his spot at the bench. Suddenly, a new feeling not too distant from panic knifes through my chest like a jet of steam. His eyelids are low; he's peering at me through slits. He looks almost sleepy, but I know better than that. There's a growing urge in me to back away from his eyes but I don't.

"And you're pretty, you know that?" he says.

I stare at him. The heaviness returns to my body and it becomes difficult for me to stay upright.

"Why does that matter?"

"It doesn't. So it doesn't matter if I'm screwed up or not." He looks away slowly. "Do you want to see it?"

"See what?"

"The knife."

My fingers grip at the fridge door behind me. "No."

"Are you sure?"

Unable to help myself, I say, "There's no blood on it anymore, is there?"

"No."

"Then it's just a plain old kitchen knife, right?"

"Right."

My fingers tighten and I suddenly need to get out of the room. His presence feels like a giant black bubble, expanding until it's impossible to breathe. As I move towards the door his hand catches me on the arm.

"I want you to see it," he says to me.

"You're crazy," I say, but I don't pull away.

"Come upstairs."

For a moment I hesitate, afraid to look up into his eyes. I've noticed that they seesaw violently between two things – apathy, and a terrible, murky intent.

His hand tightens. "It's clean, I promise. I just – need you to see it. Please."

Another moment goes by before I finally give in. I follow him back upstairs to my room. When he lets go of my arm, I don't try to run. Now that I've taken the first step I know something within me, something strange and unmentionably brutal, leads me after him as if I'm being tugged on with string. I feel it there, like a tiny grain of steel, both attracting and repelling me from something unknown. It frightens me, but I don't say anything. When he locks the door I sit on the bed without making a sound.

"It's just here."

Naruto pulls out his school bag and rummages in it for a moment or two. I wait. The light is rising outside, very weakly. When he straightens the knife is there in his hand, bare and silver, and he holds it out to me.

"Here," he says. "Take it."

I make no move. He tips it into my lap. There's no aura about it, nothing sinister – just an ordinary kitchen knife, the kind you might use to slice up carrots. It's been cleaned and polished carefully.

I test the blade on a blanket. It's not very sharp.

"Why did you do it?" I ask him without looking up.

"He tried to send me to a foster home."

The information unnerves me, so I pretend not to hear. I hold the knife back out to him.

"Why do you need me to see this?"

"I want you to take it."

I stare at him, uncomprehending, so he squats to my level and takes my hand in his.

"Hold it properly. Like this." He wraps his fingers over mine, as if waiting for me to understand. He puts the handle of the knife against my palm and I feel its smooth wood digging into my skin. My heart flips a little. "Now. How does that feel, Sasuke?"

It's the first time I've heard him use my name, and it stuns me. His face is suddenly too close to mine. His blue eyes are hungry – too hungry. I lean back.

"You're crazy," I say again. To buy myself time.

"No, I'm not."

When he kisses me I feel my whole body tense up, my eyes wide as his warm lips press against mine. His grip slackens on my hand and I let the knife drop. It gives a dull thud and I shove away from him.

The door makes a hollow sound behind me as I slam it, leaving him still squatted there on the floor.

0-0-0

"I won't be home tonight either," Itachi says.

I twist the phone cord around my fingers, saying nothing. It's hot – the thick air seems to blunt my feelings, make everything numb and unapproachable. I try vaguely to remember the last time he came home but I can't. It feels like it never happened at all.

Finally, I say: "You working again?"

"Hn."

"Have you gone to see Mum?"

There's a pause; long enough for me to know the lie that is coming. "Yes, I have."

"Did she need anything?"

"No."

"Does she want to see me?"

"I have to go back to work."

I stare at my fingers, at the loops of white plastic around them. Suddenly too tired to keep it all up I say, quietly, "What happened to us, Itachi? Where did we go wrong?"

"Dad died."

He doesn't seem surprised that I asked – he's probably been asking that himself, anyway. When he hangs up I keep the phone to my ear, as if trying to reconnect the phone line. Somewhere along the lengths of wire I feel the glass sheet that has sprung up on its own between us, smooth and perfect, not a scratch in it.

0-0-0

The next time, she has a potted plant on the windowsill. The pot's plastic, just in case she decides to smash it. There's a bright, childish watering can in the shape of an elephant in her frail right hand and when I come in she's standing in front of the plant with a trembling expression, as if she's about to cry.

The nurse who opens the door for me has a firm voice, as if she's scolding a child.

"Now, Mrs. Uchiha, what's the matter? Your son is here to see you. Aren't you happy?"

"I forgot to tie it to a stake," my mother says, still upset. She doesn't even look at me. "I forgot and now it's too late, it's too old, the stem will never be straight again. No matter what I do now, it will always be twisted inside. Always!"

I watch as she begins to cry, and without quite knowing why, I start crying as well. At my sound my mother pauses mid-sob and turns to me with a slightly bewildered look.

I know, just looking at her, that she doesn't understand who I am.

"Oh, Sasuke," she says to me, "don't cry. I don't mind. I'll just buy another one tomorrow. It doesn't matter."

And she puts the watering can away, sits down with that obedient look on her face.

0-0-0

As the news reporter garbles on, I try not to imagine the scene.

"...confirmed that a man, aged in his early forties, has been found stabbed to death outside his Jindalee home..."

I try not to imagine that small laundry room, one that probably opens out into a backyard. I try not to imagine the screen door. Maybe Naruto has a dog – maybe the screen has been scratched, shorn off at the corners, barely managing to exist. I try not to imagine the sharp, keening screech that it makes whenever it opens or shuts.

"...alerted when a postman came upon the body in the victim's backyard between ten and eleven yesterday morning..."

I try not to imagine the hot, rising sun, the smell of wet clothes left to bake outside. Naruto's father – Minato, was it? – standing outside, wooden pegs stuck between his lips, shaking out the trousers and the shirts and the singlets and draping them carefully over the lines. Maybe he pauses after a few minutes to wipe the sweat from his neck, note to himself that it'll be another sweltering night. I try not to imagine the washing basket finally empty, him giving it a second check for odd socks before putting the rest of the unused pegs back into their dirty canvas bag.

"...particularly gruesome, with as many as forty-five stab wounds in various parts of his torso and neck..."

I try not to imagine Naruto.

"...believed to be the victim's fifteen-year-old son..."

I try not to imagine the casual glance Minato gives him as he opens and closes the scratched screen door.

"...at the prestigious Sacred Family Catholic College..."

I try not to imagine his voice – deep and unconcerned – "I've ironed your uniform, it's on the laundry bench. You'll have to put it on a hanger yourself."

"...quiet and reserved..."

I try not to imagine him turning his back; Naruto's lunge; the plain old kitchen knife, grabbed from the drawer next to the broken dishwasher, the drawer still open because there hasn't been time to close it –

" ...any... "

– and the surprised little gurgle that breaks from his throat as his windpipe is slit like the throat of a fish –

"...information..."

– and the sun still coming down, steady as always, as Naruto drives his knife in once, twice, more; the sun on his hair, on the laundry, on the first red drop that flicks out and lands in a perfect circle on Naruto's right cheek, the second red drop that lands on his shoe –

"...contact..."

– on the pool that is slowly beginning to widen, creeping up the cracks between the brick pavers and the leaves of the dandelions that have wedged themselves there –

"...police."

– and the victorious look in Naruto's eyes, as he leans back to watch his own father die.

0-0-0

"I want you to go."

The way I say it sounds more like a question than a fact, maybe because I'm not sure if it's true or not. I'm not sure what I want, what I want him to do. Whether I want him here, or whether I want him gone.

"Go where?"

"I don't know. Go anywhere."

He's wearing my shirt and a pair of my pants. Although he's a little shorter than me, they don't look that out of place on him.

"But you know I don't have anywhere else to go."

"I don't care," I snap at him. I'm feeling too thin, like a knife that has been sharpened too many times. "Maybe you can persuade another of your classmates to be a good Samaritan and take you in. You don't need me."

"Are you angry because I kissed you this morning?"

"Yes," I say, although that's not the whole truth.

"I won't do it again. If you don't want me to."

I give a sigh and sit down next to him on the bed. I don't know what I feel towards him anymore; whether it's fear, or revulsion, or some perverse, twisted kind of admiration. It seems to be all three, or perhaps none of them at all. I stare at my hands out of a complete sense of loss, not knowing how exactly to express myself.

"Why did you kiss me, anyway?" I ask at last. "To mess with my head? Because that wasn't necessary. I'm pretty messed up already, you know."

"Yeah, I heard." He leans back onto his elbows. "Your Dad died in a car accident, didn't he? And then they checked your Mum into a mental institution."

"How do you know?"

He doesn't look at me, his blonde hair over his eyes. "My Mum died in a car accident as well."

I'm about to point out that he hasn't answered my question when he suddenly says, "I want to kiss you again."

"Well, that's not happening."

"Why do you keep pretending to be someone you're not?"

I blink at him, a little irritated at the assumptions he's made. "What do you mean?"

"I used to be like you. I used to think that, if I just accepted things, if I just let things be the way they'd always been, things would work themselves out. So I used to pretend things were alright; that I didn't hate anyone." He looks at me, gives a shrug. "But then I got sick of pretending."

"I thought you said you didn't hate your Dad."

"I'm not talking about him."

"Then who do you mean?"

He pats the bed for the packet of cigarettes, tips one out. "Someone I'm going to kill someday. But you wouldn't understand that."

"No, I wouldn't. I've never wanted to kill anyone."

"You haven't?" His eyes are interested, almost laughing. "Lucky you."

"You don't believe me."

"No, I don't," he says. "Once upon a time, I would've believed you. But no-one's that good. Everyone wants to kill at least someone; whether they do it or not, depends how well they've convinced themselves that they're happy with things staying just the way that they are. But it's still there, you know. The desire. The want. No matter how well they hide it, it'll still be there."

"You're crazy."

"Why do you keep saying that?"

He looks genuinely curious, but put on the spot I don't have an explanation. I stare at the floor instead.

0-0-0

In my dream, I'm lying in bed with a woman. A girl. She has her head thrown back and her hair out, her pale lips slightly parted as she rides my hips with slow, soft thrusts. Every now and then, a mewl or a whimper drips out from her mouth and trickles down her neck, between her well-formed breasts. I can see the small triangle of pubic hair like a dark wet arrow beneath her stomach. Her hands are braced on the tops of my thighs. Her skin is cool as it meets my own.

As the minutes go by, her body moves faster and the sounds from her mouth swell out, become groans. Suddenly desperate to reach my own climax with her, I lean forward to draw her closer to me.

But it doesn't happen.

For some reason, at that very moment, I stop feeling everything.

I watch with a growing sense of horror as the girl puts her arms around my neck and begins riding in earnest, her breath in thick gasps and her body beginning to shake next to mine. But I feel nothing; I feel no pleasure, no pain, no desire. I could be a prop, a wooden mannequin. I clutch her closer.

Her groans blossom out into cries.

"No," I find myself whispering against her. "No!"

At the knowledge that she's about to move on without me an overwhelming rush of panic overtakes me and, just as she enters the first few shudders of climax, I reach up and grab her neck with both hands.

She doesn't fight me. She just continues to ride, her fingernails digging into my back.

"You stop it!" I scream at her. "Stop it! Stop it!"

When my fingers tighten and begin to squeeze she gives a loud sigh, as if in deep pleasure. Her body slumps against me, still warm. I keep squeezing. I can't bring myself to stop.

The last look in her open eyes as I kill her is one of perfect obedience, as if she doesn't even know what's happening to her.

0-0-0

I wake in a cold sweat, shivering as if I've sprinted a mile. The covers are tangled somewhere around my legs. I can't think – it's so dark I can't work out if my eyes are even open or not, whether what I see is real or still a part of my dream. My hips ache. I fumble about blindly for the lamp, my heart gagging somewhere deep in my throat and making me want to throw up. When the light spills on I look at my hands, terrified that some brand has appeared there, something marking me out as a murderer.

"It won't be there."

I give a startled shout and look up wildly. Naruto is there, sprawled on a chair just outside the ring of the lamp, the tip of his cigarette smouldering faintly.

My voice comes out hoarse and dry. "What won't be?"

"Whatever it is that you're looking for."

Fear sharpens my temper and I glare at him. "What are you doing here while I'm sleeping? Aren't you supposed to be getting yourself out of my house?"

"You were yelling something."

"I wasn't," I mumble. "And even if I was, you shouldn't have been listening in the first place."

"Who was it?"

I'm breathing slower now, a little bit more in control. I don't look at him, getting back under the covers and turning pointedly away. There's a familiar heaviness within my chest but I shove it away almost physically.

"Are you afraid something is going to happen?"

"Go away," I snap tiredly over my shoulder.

When he sits down on the bed I jump. I didn't hear him coming.

"It's not wrong to want to kill someone, you know," he says.

"But is it wrong to do it?" I don't move when he puts a hand on my back, the warmth of his palm seeping through my pyjamas. "Is it wrong to actually kill them?"

"Not always."

There's a long pause. I stare at the shadow on the opposite wall, the great dark, rising mound that is my shoulder and side. Out of that Naruto's body rises ominously, as if he is somehow grafted to me, a creature both separate and yet conjoined. The effect is eerie. I shudder involuntarily.

"It's not wrong if it's necessary. If it's justified." His hand trails quietly over to my hip. "I killed my father – but I found myself. It's worth it."

Suddenly struck by his carelessness, I shrug his hand away in a surge of disgust.

"You sound so sure of yourself," I hiss. "You know that you're a criminal now, don't you? A father-killer. People will be talking about you for the rest of your life."

"I know who I am," he says calmly. "People can say what they like. It's better than spending the rest of my life not knowing who I am, not knowing what I want. This way, at least I can say that I did something I knew I needed to do."

For some reason, what he says irritates me and I say nothing. I want him to let me sleep. I can feel the dream still there inside me; I feel it pressing against my lungs and ribcage, demanding to be let out and set free. I screw my eyes shut but I still see her face. It's a terrible face, terrible in its placidity, terrible in its mute acceptance of death.

I know then that I've had this dream before.

I spit the words out as if they were knives: "You're a monster. You'll go to jail for this."

His body stiffens. "What?"

"You'll go to – "

I give a shout as he grabs my hip and pulls me roughly onto my back to face him. His head is a black silhouette against the golden light of the bedside lamp.

"What did you say I was, Sasuke?"

"I – what are you – "

"I won't have you saying that!"

His eyes are as bright as his cigarette. They look black now, the blue so dark I can't see it. I hold my breath, planting the heel of my hand against his collarbone to stop him coming closer. I clench my jaw to stop him seeing how scared I am. His forearm pinning down on my chest makes it hard to breathe, but at least he doesn't press harder.

"I won't have you saying that, you hypocrite," he snaps down into my face. His breath fans out over my lips.

"I'm not a – "

"Yes, you are."

The punch hits me squarely in the stomach and I double over in mingled pain and surprise, my arm lashing out at his cheek just a split second after he rears away. The second punch he aims falls short. As I twist away from him I forget the blankets around my legs and end up in a mess on the bedroom floor. He follows. He takes the chance and throws himself onto me, hitting, biting, kicking, furious; not holding back, his eyes glittering with a terrible light that doesn't come from the bedroom lamp. I get a knee into his stomach and throw him clumsily off, hearing the thud as his back hits the built-in closet.

"You bastard," I hear myself hiss at him. The moment the word comes out, it doesn't feel bad enough and I struggle to find one that fits the bill. "You – you – "

"What?" He has blood on his lip, a jagged line of red that yawns down towards the point of his jaw. "What am I, Sasuke, that you aren't as well?"

"You're a murderer!"

I'm stunned when he laughs. "That's not very original. And not very true, either."

"I haven't killed anyone!"

His eyes harden, two black chips of flint. For a moment, he looks like he'll hit me again and I steel myself for it, untangling my legs.

"I don't mind if other people say that," he says coldly. "But you can't. You've seen the knife. It's not very special, is it? You'd find one in any house in this city. And that's just it, Sasuke – I'm not very special, either. I'm not so very different from you."

"I'd never kill my own father."

"Well, you can't now, can you?"

I turn my face away. The room is silent now, the smell of violence and hot breath rising like vapour. The sudden stillness is almost confusing, but I decide not to break it. It seems too essential. I sit there softly on the floor and wait.

Finally, Naruto gives a sigh and I catch him wiping the blood from his mouth.

"Anyway," he says quietly, "that's what your dream was about, wasn't it? Killing someone."

I say nothing.

"You don't need to lie to me. I won't judge you." His lips curve into a ghost of a smile. "I can't judge you. I suppose I don't have a right."

"Leave my room please," I say to him, as flat as I can.

When he goes I catch the look in his eye, one that tells me he understands everything.

0-0-0

I don't remember falling asleep but when I next force open my eyes it's late morning, the sunlight is coming in rich and thick. For a while I don't move; just lie there and listen. Above the rush of my breathing, I hear nothing else.

The day all around me is muted and still, as if separated from my body by something long dead – as if it's moved on already but left me behind, and all I'm left with is the puzzled sort of silence that comes before or after a momentous event.

0-0-0

Itachi comes home when I'm still making breakfast, my hand hovering over a plastic bowl in the middle of cracking an egg into it. He takes one look at me and heads for the stairs. I pretend I didn't hear him come in.

Five or ten minutes later he comes down again. I have my back to him this time; I'm making the toast. Just two slices, for me – he makes his own food. I hear him sit down at the kitchen bench, and as he does so I remember how Naruto had sat in the exact same stool only a day ago. I don't know where he is now. Perhaps he listened to me when I said that I wanted him out of the house by today. I try not to think about last night.

"Sasuke."

I don't turn to face him. "Hmm."

"She died."

I freeze. My whole body seems to choke up; I stop breathing. I seem to not need to, any more.

"What did you say?"

"She died," and his voice is so far away, but I still can't find it in me to face him. "Last night, she went walking on the upstairs balcony of the visiting room and when the nurse wasn't looking, she jumped over the rail."

"You mean Mum?"

"Yes, of course. Who else?"

The toast pops up and I start. I can feel Itachi's eyes on my back as I put them onto a clean plate, trying hard to stop my hands from shaking. I have to force myself not to look at my palms. In my mind all I see is that woman's face from my dream, the obedient look so similar to Mum's – Naruto's voice as he says, That's what your dream was about, wasn't it?

"You don't seem very shocked," Itachi says mildly from his spot at the bench.

"What do you want me to say?"

He seems surprised. "What do I want you to say? I'm afraid I don't get you."

"There's nothing to get, Itachi," I say; but inside me a coldness is creeping out, a glacial calm that frightens me.

"You were like this when Father died as well. No tears at all, just nothing. And you were five then, too. I would've expected tears from a five-year-old."

"I'm sorry that I disappointed you."

He pauses as if to consider this before getting up off the kitchen stool. "Well, it doesn't matter. I'll be leaving soon anyway. I'm closing the company branch here next week and following our new branch to New York in a month."

I'm forced to face him now. I feel hollow. "New York?"

"I've already found an apartment there."

"What about me?"

He blinks at me calmly, surprised again. "You can come with me of course, if you'd like. Or if you'd prefer to finish up school here first, I can arrange for you to stay here. I'll get someone from the company to check on you from time to time. You know how to take care of yourself."

The dream comes back, thumps me in the stomach like a blow. I bend over, overcome with a wave of nausea – that old panic, the fear of being left behind. I clench my fists against my stomach. Suddenly, in a blinding sort of flash I see the black fury of Naruto's eyes, his desperation to make me understand.

Itachi looks at me with a kind of muffled concern.

"Are you alright? You're not sick, are you?"

At his words, the panic becomes something else. Abruptly, everything around me seems to sharpen and I realise that my head is level with the kitchen drawer.

Itachi is coming around the bench, his bare feet padding over the tiles.

"Sasuke? Sasuke, are you alright?"

Naruto's eyes are saying, It's not very special, is it? You'd find one in any house in this city.

I see the girl in my dream putting her white arms over my shoulders, her soft hands folding behind my neck.

"No," I whisper. I can almost feel her against me, still moving. "No, not again – "

"What did you say?" Itachi is asking me.

"Stop it!"

Naruto says, I used to pretend things were alright; that I didn't hate anyone. But then I got sick of pretending –

Everyone wants to kill someone. No matter how well they hide it, it'll still be there –

I'm not so very different from you.

And that's the moment when I understand –

Itachi stops just a metre away. "Stop what?"

My hand shoots out before I know what I'm doing and I yank the kitchen drawer open. My fingers wrap themselves around the wooden handle of a knife.

He knows immediately what I'm doing, but he doesn't move fast enough. My first lunge sees the knife into the base of his back, squarely between his shoulder blades.

The girl in my dream cries out in delight.

Naruto smiles and says, You hypocrite.

"Stop it!" Itachi is screaming now. He twists away and runs. "What the fuck do you think you're doing!"

My second lunge misses; he's half up the stairs. There's no exit up there, so he must be thinking of locking himself up in a bathroom. Something hot is dripping down my arm and suddenly I realise that it's different now; I feel something. Naruto was right – it's not exactly hate. It's more the knowledge that there's a part of you that you must reach, and this is the only way.

I follow him.

My breath is even and calm as I take the staircase in twos and threes. Itachi's faster, usually; but I'm not wounded. He is. I reach the bathroom door just as he's about to close it and my third thrust catches him on the arm. He hisses and lets go of the door.

"You're crazy," he spits at me as he backs away. He has one hand clasped over his arm. "You're crazy, I should've locked you up along with Mum – "

("You're crazy."

"Why do you keep saying that?")

"You were the one who killed Dad. You were the one who was driving."

"Fuck you!"

I've never seen him this way; with me he's always been cold and diplomatic. With a heady rush, I realise I'm finally reaching him. I'm breaking through. I'm starting to scratch at the glass.

"They'll lock you up," he's hissing at me now, "and I hope they lock you up for life, or bring back the death penalty just for you, you fucking crazy ungrateful little – "

(The moment the word comes out, it doesn't feel bad enough and I struggle to find one that fits the bill – )

One last time, I throw myself at him. He tries to dodge me, but he comes up short; my knife catches him somewhere in the torso and he collapses backwards into the shower door. It shatters, spraying us both with glass. Somewhere in the back of my mind I can hear someone screaming, but I can't tell who it is; perhaps it's Itachi, perhaps the girl, perhaps it's even Naruto – it doesn't matter, now. A wave of pure ecstasy breaks over me and as I punch my knife into him over and over all I find myself thinking is how beautiful it is, having broken free of myself at last.

0-0-0

My palms are sticky.

Is this the brand I was looking for?

Naruto is smiling and saying again: You hypocrite, you hypocrite, you hypocrite, you.

0-0-0

I'm washing the dried blood off of my hands when Naruto comes back, sticks his head in the door.

I look up and his face, only slightly surprised, is reflected back at me in the bathroom mirror. He's in the uniform he was wearing when he turned up on my doorstep. I stop what I'm doing when I see him there, and for a moment we say absolutely nothing, just stare at each other.

This time, I don't even try to fight the current that passes between our eyes.

Eventually, he nods towards my brother. "You killed him?"

I nod.

"How long ago?"

"I don't know."

He says nothing. He seems to understand. His eyes lower, and for a brief moment he's almost ashamed. I finish washing my hands and turn off the tap, feeling numb.

"Where did you go?" I ask, to fill in the time.

He just shrugs. "It doesn't matter now."

"Then why did you come back?"

"I was going to kill you."

Leaned there in the frame of the bathroom door he cuts a casual figure, his blonde head low and his eyes on the floor. But suddenly I recognise the loneliness, the utter sense of isolation that I'd previously thought was a steady, still calm.

I turn to him. "You're not going to anymore?"

"No, I'm not."

"Because I've killed my brother?"

"I suppose."

I brace my hands on the sink, rest my back against it. A blood-red ribbon has stretched itself from the shower to the edge of the drain, where it drips away slowly into the pipes. Each drop is regular; you could almost tell time that way. Suddenly unable to come to terms with it all I turn and retch onto the tiles beside me, emptying my stomach in painful heaves. The acrid sting of the scent of bile burns my eyes. I feel them start to water.

"You better clean up," Naruto says. "You're a mess. You've got blood all over you."

"I guess," I say. But I still don't move.

He hesitates a moment, then walks over to me. I wonder then how I was ever afraid of him. All I see now is a lonely, high-school kid, one who in his desperation to keep everyone he loved close to him only managed to drive them further away.

"Come on," he says to me, very soft. "We'll have to go soon. The neighbours must have heard."

I stay put. "Why did you want to kill me?" I say.

His eyes fumble. "I don't know," he says.

"Yes, you do."

"Why does it matter now, anyway?"

"I need to know."

The shame re-enters his face, draws it into itself. He leans against the sink next to mine.

"I don't really even know anymore," he says. "I think I must have hated you."

This doesn't surprise me, but I still have to ask. "Why?"

"Your father died in a car accident ten years ago, didn't he?"

The knowledge hits me full in the face and I realise that what he says is not a surprise. Somehow, in the same way I'd known he was serious when he first told me on his doorstep that he'd killed his father, I know now that I'd known how his mother had died. It had been there within me, like everything else; like the desire to kill my brother, the desire to break free from the suffocating walls that kept this murderous need out.

My voice doesn't even sound like my own.

"Your mother died in the same accident, didn't she? The same accident ten years ago that killed my father."

"Yes."

I look at him. "Is that why you hated me?"

He thinks a moment, but then he shakes his head.

"You seemed to still have everything," he says. Then his voice breaks, and he clears his throat. "You still had a mother who wanted you – a brother – but my Dad didn't want me. After the accident, he didn't want me anymore. He always talked about sending me away, to relatives at first, then to foster homes."

"You didn't hate him?"

"I don't think I did." He looks at me. "But you still had everything. You were still okay, and I guess that's why."

I want to tell him, then, how wrong he is.

I want to tell him how Mum changed after the crash, how she knew things were different but still tried to pretend; how painful it was, not acknowledging that anything in our lives had gone wrong. I want to tell him how we all grew apart, those thick sheets of glass beginning to form – how we all just seemed to lose contact with each other, so slowly that we didn't even notice at first.

I want to tell him how desperately lonely I was.

I want to tell him – but then I see his eyes, and I know then and there that I don't have to try.

0-0-0

"We should go."

I don't give him an answer, but he already knows that I'm not going to leave. I sit down with my back to the bathroom wall.

I belong here.

With the glass shattered here all around me, I belong here, I belong. I know who I am.

As the sound of police sirens comes up the road, Naruto's shadow flicks up over the tiles as he finally sits down next to me. I look up and give him a small, quiet smile.

"You can leave if you want," I say to him. "You don't have to sit here with me, waiting for the police."

"I don't mind."

When he kisses me I let my eyes slide closed, not fighting. His lips are soft and warm. The simple, silent rush of freedom leaves me light and content and slightly dizzy, as if I've finally found what I've been looking for.

0-0-0

Hatred is simply an emotion born out of the desire to be accepted by someone else.

(Natsuo Kirino: Out)

0-0-0

Owari.

A/N: Like Elysium, I must once again humbly beg you to read this One-Shot again if it didn't make sense to you. I haven't put an explanation here of what the story is about like I did for Elysium, simply because in this case I think the writing style I've used is a bit more straightforward so you can probably work it out for yourself.

I guess the one thing I want you to take away from this is that NARUTO AND SASUKE ARE NOT 'INSANE'. They are not 'crazy'. Pleading insanity is an easy way out of analysing a character's motives, and in this case, I'm not going to spare you that easily... mwahahaha! :evil grin:

That said, if you read it again and it still confuses the hell out of you, I may put a (scant) explanation up on my LiveJournal account sometime soon – at http://knowmydark[dot]livejournal[dot]com. It depends if people would like me to or not. But please try your best to understand it in the meantime!

Last thing – please, please, pretty please review! Let me know if you liked it, hated it, couldn't understand it, etc. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated!

Adieu, and thank-you all in advance!

PS. Readers of my chaptered fic, Not Ever: PLEASE TAKE A LOOK AT MY LIVEJOURNAL ACCOUNT (LINK ABOVE); THERE IS A VERY IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT POSTED THERE. :)