I don't own Naruto. I don't own Paper Bag by Fiona Apple.

Shove it. Things come into my brain (re: Fiona Apple's music). This slush crap came out. Deal with it. I just really liked this song.

Okay, sorry about that if it seemed a touch angry. Erm, this is told in Naruto's POV, if it's not obvious, which it might not be. It begins, let's say, right after they come home from the Naruto Bridge Arc. Sasuke leaves to find Orochimaru. I know Sasuke didn't tell Naruto he was going to leave, 'cause it kinda defeats the point of his leaving at night and being all secretive, don't it? I don't care. Try to flow with it, alright. I wrote this while I took a SHORT break from Two Swans.

Paper Bag

It was a colder night than most. I put on my orange jacket and red scarf. Being inside was starting to cramp, and I needed to get out or I would implode. So I wandered until I felt this is where I could just sit and not feel the stuffy crap I felt sometimes. Then I was staring at the sky, just looking for a star. To pray on, or wish on, or something like that. I was having a sweet fix of a daydream of a boy, whose reality I knew, was a hopeless to be had. But then the dove of hope began its downward slope, and I believed for a moment that my chances were approaching to be grabbed.

But as it came down near, so did a weary tear. I thought it was a bird, but it was just a paper bag.
I got, up tired of paper bags, and of the ache I suddenly felt. Inside, I went in again, the rain beginning to sprinkle on the ground, making things dark and soaked.

The next day we trained, and we bickered, but I remembered that paper bag. His harsh comments bit me like little animals. I felt like crap, and I didn't wanna be here anymore, all of a sudden. He could make me feel so inferior, but I yearned for it, nonetheless.

Hunger hurts, and I want him so bad, oh it kills. 'Cause I know I'm a mess he don't wanna clean up. I got to fold 'cause these hands are too shaky to hold. Hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much to love.

And then he was mine. I didn't know how, an' most of the time I didn't give a crap the hows and whys. I just liked him next to him, his eyes on me, his lips on mine. And it was good, and the bird wasn't a damned paper bag after all. It was just a caged sparrow, aching for the skies.

And someone left the door open.

And I went crazy again today, looking for a strand to climb. Looking for a little hope. Baby said he couldn't stay, wouldn't put his lips to mine, and a fail to kiss is a fail to cope.

I said, "Honey, I don't feel so good, don't feel justified. Come on put a little love here in my void."

He said, "It's all in your head."

And I said, "So's everything." But he didn't get it. He never really got it, after all.

I thought he was a man, but he was just a little boy. A little boy too weak to deal with death, with betrayal. Of he acted tough and grown up, but he was a fucking child at heart. He called me immature, and if immature meant I didn't fight hate and ignorance with the same, than good, I would be immature for all my life.

He looked so big, so strong, so wise for such a long time. With his power, with his deep sadness and hurt I wanted to heal. But he never got it.

Hunger hurts, and I want him so bad. But it was just a paper bag.