Angst. Having serious withdrawls once again.

Inspired by "Under My Skin"...Skillet.

Yeah, this style is not what I'm used to. Parentheses are just Sasuke talking to himself. He's insane. I love him when he's insane. I really can imagine Sasuke being this messed up inside. Sasuke's POV, choppier, and I'm 'eh' about it. I don't put faith into things I make up within one day, so I'm not expecting a wow. But Sasuke's trust in Sakura is something I have always admired and what I truly believe is a large part of their relationship. Um, as always, sequel is possible. Please review.



That innocence of mine rests gently in the ivory palm of your hand. Keep it there. I'm begging you, for all you're worth, to get in. Purify me. Get under my skin.


I. Want. It. Off.

Stupid. Fucking. Nurse.

"Uchiha Sasuke, put the syringe down." A gentle tone, demeaning and sensitive. It says I am right, you are wrong. All that is, please continue to talk to me like a confused little child, because I've been told it too many times and I've never stopped to listen. I never will. Your concern is a falsity with a bunch of




And every single one is a lie. It's a lie.

The curtains dance, quiet flutters doing nothing to ease my temper, instead forcing it to manifest in the wake of the gentle things. Ivory. Coral. Colors that are so soft and sweet and it's got to stop, I don't like those things and it's got to stop. My thoughts seem scattered, no? I cannot think at all and I haven't been able to since that day.



Tell it to me straight, heart. Can I hope that you won't lie to me too? Like all those nurses are with their round, soft little eyes full of pathetic concern and little hands outstretched as if they can take me in their arms and make all of it go away. Screams. Blood. A revelation of a twisted sort; when they kneel in the middle of nowhere (of everywhere) with all those frozen stares, and hold the limp body that was the pillar of one's existence. Yes, that's when they'll comprehend.

(Find her, Sasuke.)

I know, I need her. So badly. No one understands that. They see a raging temper, an animal destined to remain forever insane with a dire need of control. No.

I don't need this, this fucking confinement.

Solace. Comfort. Tenderness. Trust. Her.


Lately, you've been feeling like a consolation prize, heartbeat. I don't think I can depend on you.

Not you.

Not myself.

No one.

But I'm still listening.

Screams echo.

And I'm still breaking.

(Run, and pick up that nurse, that little one, by the neck, and hold the needle to it. Right there, you know your vital points.)


(Now laugh at the panicked chorus.)

"No." Answer the former, embrace the latter with relish.

Weak little voices erupt in the little room. On the sea–green tile and the ivory walls and the coral trim and all the soft, tender, colors. I'm smothered by care. By the unwanted serenity of the simple joys that are so ruthlessly force–fed. Sweet things.

I don't like sweet things.

They plead and they panic and every breath is held. No backbone to speak of, no idea what to do, and they quake in my fucking footsteps and it irks me to no end. Do your job, for god's sake. Kick off your white heels that you can barely balance in as it is, stop being so gentle and do your job!


Ripples, little squeals of terror. Flow through them as if godswept from the sky, and they are still hoping for a miracle to fall through the roof or slap them across the face. You don't wait for miracles. You create them.

I can't stand this much longer. Fatigue is the least of my many worries at this point as I stand stock–still upon the tile, slippery, soaked with crimson but it's not just mine. Soaked into every inch of my flesh, through muscles and cartilage and every fractured bone, though the fibers that I just can't see, in my head and in my heart.

In my fucking fingernails!

And all those lines on my calloused, shaking palm, endless little rivets that all those crazy people say have a story to tell, a story of love and prosperity and life. Like rivers they flow, and all it is, is blood.

But really, it's not all mine.

It's his.

And the worst part is, he has more.

Within a demented mind, within a body that possesses abilities defying all the moral things, within disgusting veins–

(I want to fucking slash them. Every. Single. One. His muscles twitching on the ground and his flesh falling off shattered bones and his heart, no, not the figurative idea of one, his organ. Literally, I want to rip out his worthless heart–)

–Flows blood that seems to suffocate me, and I'm coated in him. Eternally stained.

I fought him again. I lost again. My mind has been tortured, again. Again.

I need to break him, as he has broken me.

Abruptly, the petite nurse in my arms faints. I am not surprised, for her face has no blood within her plump cheeks, stolen by fright. It is fear to her, anyway. Stupid woman has no idea what the meaning of fear is and never will. Oh, dear brother. Truly, you are the definition, and that is the only compliment I can give you, aside from the fact that you really know how to bring down a man, don't you?

Don't you?

Don't you?

I dare you to answer. You've raped my mind one too many times of all that innocence. I dare you to do it again.

I've hidden it. That innocence.

She's holding it for me in her fragile little hands.



My heart speaks again.


The beat goes on.

(Ask for her, Sasuke. Find her.)

She's coming.

Clueless orderlies remain in a state of panic, and I surprisingly find it humorous despite the circumstances, all these silly circumstances. I need her, I need her now, I need her to tear me apart and break me down and show me I'm still alive.

Am I breathing?

Are you coming?

Get in. Get in.

Get under my skin.

How do I know those are her footsteps, hurriedly tapping across the corridor from the direction of the surgery wing? Panicked and light and moving ever closer and the weak nurses clear the way faster than they would for Tsunade herself. I remain still, but I let the limp body in my arms fall to the floor because you won't want to see me like that, not again, and I would do anything to shield you from what I am.

Your innocence, and mine.

Forever intertwined.


(Take me away from here.)

This place has no windows, and it suffocates me with fake kindness. Radiating 'sweet' that makes me retch even more than the lingering scent of disinfectant that sets my head spinning.

You're in the doorway, poised on the threshold, and you say those words. My salvation.


(Get me out get me out get me out–)

Pristine, white coat with silver stethoscope slung carelessly around your neck, hair done up in an intricate bun to keep them out of your face and your eyes, god, your eyes. That color that I've never used to describe anything but you. Knuckles white as they grip the door frame to keep your slim frame from collapsing to the floor to hold me, to show a weakness.

"I need to leave." I say this monotonously. My insides writhe. It's not nausea, it's like asphyxiation of the worst sort.

( Please, take me out of here, I can't stand this–)

"Sasuke–kun, you're not well."

(They can't help me, they don't understand, get me out–)

"I need to leave." Repetition bothers me, but I have always been patient with her. I won't let them see me break.

(I need you.)

"The nurses were trying to clean you. Let them do their job." Voice barely above a whisper, the slightest tone of a reprimand, but she sees through me. She sees me losing stability.

"Tch. I'm fine. I can help myself." In a sultry tenor, I keep my pride. (But I need you to do this, not anyone else.) Only she can see those tears forming on my eyes and I'm ashamed, I'm so fucking ashamed. Of all the things I've done and all that I've failed at. "I don't like this room." Who would? I'm in the wing and there's people shuffling past me with dead eyes, and I'm tempted to slit their oxygen cord and let them go. They're not doing anything. They can't think. They have no aptitude. I need her, and I'm in here. With crazy people.

I'm not crazy.

Get in. Get under my skin.

Her eyes are brimming with tears, for she is struggling to uphold a protocol she's disregarded so many times. Her gaze hardens; she is steeling herself to remain steadfast in demeanor. Or maybe just to be able to stand. She hates when I get like this.

We stare. And we stare. Onyx and jade.


Before these stains refuse to fade.

My shakes are worse now.

"Okay, Sasuke–kun."

Outbursts commence.

"You're ignoring protocol!"

"Sakura–san, he's dangerous–"

"You need an approved release form–"

The protests halt abruptly as her eyes glimmer dangerously in a way so reminiscent of myself it hurts to remember.

"I'll take the blame," she says firmly, stepping forward as her heels (that don't make her any taller than me) make squelching sounds in the scattered puddles. Like the water left from a heavy rain, those ones that children seem to love to jump in, to make themselves dirty and earn a disapproving look from their mothers.

Enjoy the rain, kids. While it's there, while you're there.

"Sakura–san," a nurse whispers, almost a pleading whine. She's a sweet woman. I can't stand her. I hate sweet.

"Who's in charge here?" Sakura demands, turning an unnaturally angry glare upon the nurse. "You think I can't handle myself?"

Without waiting for an answer, she walks to me at a calm pace and kneels, letting me put my arm around her shoulders and heave me to my feet, and now she's covered in blood. Mine. His. I grimace. At least it will come off her.

I, however, am undeserving of that.

She is forced to carry me, for once I know I'm with her, I know I will be okay. Dragging my lifeless, broken weight through the door. I wish she was able to simply send us home, but that annoying preventative jutsu for the people trying to escape precludes this.


(I'm sorry, so sorry. I know I'm such a burden.)

Therein lies all the guilt, every step we take a painful blow to not only my body but my mind. Every time I have accepted your grace.

And every time I refused to thank you.

Even inside, I still can't.

But I still need you.

(Under my skin.)

And when I wake the pain is unbearable, ribs shifting and pinching nerves within my torso and I'm freezing, back against the shower wall.

(It's raining, it's pouring, I'm breaking–)

I'm dripping blood. Cascading down my toned chest, diluted by the scalding water you have turned on for you and I. It's faint now, tinged with the slightest pink, running onto the bottom and disappearing down the drain. We're alone now, you and I.

Eyes caked with blood, I moan loudly, my wretched voice echoing in the bathroom, our bathroom. Applying the least pressure you can, the wet cloth is pressed to my eyes, carefully cleaning it away. Breathing is a pleasurable impossibility in the steam– filled air. With you though, my mind can, for the most part, clear.

You're straddling me carefully, one pale leg on either side of me and those pink rivers are on you too. With a weak and shaking hand, I slide my burning fingers across your bare thigh, trying to sweep them away. Pink locks that have fallen out of your elegant bun are plastered to a flushed face full of pity.


(Say my name again.)

I tug your hair out of it's confining style and it falls across your shoulders, delicately framing a face that has been etched in my mind for so many years. Every month, day, second, breath.

Lips against my ear, speaking softly, calming the never ending ache. Running your hands–

(Too soft to be real–)

–over my chest. And do you know that even if you hadn't been healing me with that useful chakra, just your touch is enough. It always has been.

"You're going to leave again." You say this as a statement and I nod in agreement, because you know me too well. "I'm going to miss you." Every syllable spoken against my ear as the sound of the water hitting your bare back fades away, resolutely otiose.

I say, "I know."

Get in. Get in.

Get under my skin.

There is no pain in my ribs; it's as if it never existed. I feel something frigid against my face and realize it is your tears. Shed for me, only for me, as they always have been.

When am I going to be able to repay you for all you have done? And why do I always turn to you for the unanswerable questions?

"I know you'll never rest until he's gone," you whisper, trailing burning lips down my defined jaw line, eventually hovering too close, way too close.

(Touch me when I'm vulnerable.)

"I'm pathetic," you hiss into my lips, forehead against mine, every inch of your sopping body touching mine. "I can't...stop...loving you."

Gently, you kiss me, and that's it. You can't help it anymore, and together, as I grip your thigh and pull you against my hips and taste you...I feel your helplessness. I taste your tears.

I've always been one to deny myself those things that most would embrace.

From far away I hear myself speaking; I won't lie anymore, not to you.

"I'm sorry...I'm sorry...I'm sorry..."

(Don't stop touching me.)

"I'm sorry too, Sasuke–kun. For you." Despite her mumbling as I dominate you in all ways, it is so terribly sincere. You never lied to me. You may have hurt me, but you never lied. I put trust in you for everything: Body, mind, tears, fears, it's all resting in your hands, and as you close the ivory fingers over it all once again, I know–

(Just say my name.)

–you'll always protect my innocence. Waiting for me forever. It just hurts that I have to break your heart again.

(And water glides over our bodies and I'm still murmuring, how sorry I am, and I'm touching you just where you like–)

But I cringe when I hear your final words, for not only are they true as the day is long, they shake me to the core and make my life so much more difficult.

"I love you, Sasuke–kun."

And I'll never know what made me reply, so softly in your ear:

"Thank you."

You've gotten in, under my skin.

(It's raining, it's pouring, the people, they're staring.)

(How is this long distance relationship faring?)

I can't stand this, and you can't either.

But I have to go.

If I had the time, I'd thank you more than once. For all you've done. And when I come home at my lowest again, pride beaten and bruised but hopefully secured, you will bring me out of it again. Pulling me out of a deep crevasse of the most painful emotion, my eternal struggle: Loneliness.

I never liked sweet things.

But I always liked you.

You cleansed me, washing away the failure.

You held me, telling me I could.

You got in.

(Under my skin.)

To leave you crying in the rain felt wrong, and it definitely was.

I know you will be in quite a bit of trouble. Very soon. Blame and heartache that you endure for me.

I never liked sweet things.

And yet I clung to your words. You are the definition of innocence, and the keeper of mine. An ivory mausoleum of tiny, fragile fingers. I leave it, and you, behind.

I accepted your praise, your comfort, your words.

Every single one.

All so sugarcoated.