A/N: Ninety-minute challenge written for the temps_mort
community over on LJ. Also my first actually finished Sasunaru,
so go me, yah? ^_~ About time I got one of these done.
"A Less Attractive Gray"
I hate him.
I hate him, I hate him, I HATE him.
From the stupid grin to that garish jacket, from the never-neat
hair to the brash, chaotic attitude, I hate him. I will never
know how he managed to finally pass the shinobi test and earn
his headband. It's a miracle the idiot hasn't gotten himself
He just makes me absolutely sick. Every time I see him, every
time I speak to him, my stomach twists unpleasantly and I feel
as tense as I would if left unarmed in a roomful of enemies: as
hot and angry and needlessly sensitive.
His jacket is much too bright. I hate it. I hate him.
. . . why can't I stop repeating myself? Why am I still
thinking of him? Other people are so much easier to brush off.
But him . . .
Him I can't forget.
And sometimes I think I might hate that, and not really him at
I'm not used to feeling like this about people. I didn't think
that I still could, in fact. That a person could so affect me.
That a color could become such an obsession.
Sunrise. I watch it from my roof, and try to ignore the color's
place in it. His color's place in it. When I looked for
breakfast, of course the only food I had in the house was a few
oranges. I should've gone grocery shopping, but I had not
thought to before and it is too early right now.
I never liked the color orange when I was younger. It was too
bright, too gaudy- too likely to give its wearer away when they
were seeking to go undetected. I still can't imagine myself
ever willingly wearing it- I always wanted as far away from that
particular shade as humanly possible.
But when HE wears it . . . that is something else. Something
very hard to dislike.
Except that I hate him.
I have to hate him. Because if I don't, then I won't know how I
feel about him.
Not knowing things like that can come back to bite you at some
very bad times.
So I hate him, because he's loud and gaudy and explosive and too
good at being happy. I like silence and subtlety and cool
nighttime colors. The sunrise is not for me. The daylight is
not for me. He is not for me.
Let the orange go to Heaven or Hell. I'll stay here in
Purgatory, where it's dull and pointless and safe; where I can
try to repent for the things that I've done- or didn't do, in a
few truly miserable cases.
It is better that I stay in the blank places: the gray that
Because the orange is too hot and if I get closer, I know I will
burn. Still, the burning itself is not the problem- what I fear
is what his fingers will find when he sifts through the ash of
me for whatever is left. Would he find precious stones, or just
brittle glass? Would the heart have survived his fire?
And if it did, would it have been worth the trouble anyway?
Such a hideous, glorious flame. I can't look at it again. Let
me back into the darkness, into the gray where I can see no
Orange. What do I know about orange . . .?
It is a tree. It is a fruit. It is a butterfly. It is vibrant
and alive and burning and so, so him.
The sun is up now. I can see too much. I can see him on the
ground before me, looking a little bored and watching me. Me,
who wants nothing but to see the gray again.
"What the hell are you up to?" he demands with a frown, but I
keep my silence for fear of what I might say in reply. His
scowl, unsurprisingly, darkens.
I want him to smile at me. Even if it burns, I want to see his
light: the light that burns so powerfully that it will blind you
and send you back into the darkness in the end anyway.
But that painful light is still so worth it, even if you can
never see any other again.
"Get off the roof, dumbass!" he yells up at me, throwing a rock.
I catch it halfheartedly and toss it back. He yelps as it hits
him and I have to force back a snicker.
"Pay more attention, would you?" I say with a snort. "If that
had been a kunai you'd thrown at me, you'd be bleeding all over
my yard right now."
"Nice to know you care," he says irritably. "Get dressed, would
you? We have a new mission. Last-minute deal."
"Coming, dead-last," I reply lightly, taking a step forward and
dropping to the ground in front of him. He greets me with a
punch that I dodge easily enough- it is an old ritual between us
now- and we go inside with only a minor scuffle.
I dress quickly while he watches, again looks slightly bored but
still following my movements. I wonder what that means even as
I pull my shirt over my head.
"I like that color," he says suddenly, and I pause, slightly
puzzled at the comment.
"What color?" I ask.
"That blue," he explains, pointing to my shirt. "It's cool."
" . . . Thank you?" I try, beyond confused now. Why is he
mentioning this? It's the same shirt I wear almost every day;
the same color it's always been.
"I just noticed it, but it's like exactly the opposite of my
jacket," he says cheerfully. "You know how every color's got an
opposite- a complementary shade that goes the best with it?
It's like that. Or whatever you call 'em."
Why is my face suddenly hot?
He stands next to me, pressing our shoulders together, and says,
"See? Isn't that weird?"
I do see. He's right- our orange and blue look very good
But for some reason, I think that I like this situation for more
than just its aesthetics.
And I have the strangest line of thought going through my head
right now in regards to what he'd kiss like if he were doing it
Somehow, gray is so much less attractive when I am with him.
* fin *
. : crazy like a FOX : .