AN: Okay, so I actually really quite like this. I put a lot of effort into this. Tried to get my descriptive writing in there, tried to get rid of too much repetition in there (apart from the obvious bits where it's (quite obviously) for effect). Also. I started crying when I was writing this. SILLY ROSIEFAYCE. Anyway. Sasodei, if you don't like then you can ignore that. Just read it as a simple mourning fic. This is after Sasori dies and it's written in second-person which I just love doing so much it should be a crime (hence why I don't do it very often – I don't want to get rid of the weird pleasure I get from doing it…. LAWL, NO NOT THAT KIND OF PLEASURE). Anyway. Please read. 3
Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto. This is Sasodei, basically, and I don't own either of them. 3
Gasping for air that dances out of reach.
You know that you can breathe.
You know that there's nothing stopping you, nothing constricting your lungs but still oxygen evades you.
You clutch to the bed, to the covers that you won't let anyone else touch. In desperation, your fumbling hands shake as you paw at the material, dropping it several times as you try to move it, straighten it out as you feel that tightning in your throat, the stinging wetness in your eyes, start to appear again. You've ignored it for so long, almost the entire day and you can feel it trying to pour out of you like the blood you imagine him spilling and spilling.
No one's there.
In an almost ironic act of desperation, you reach for the pillow with clumsy hands and unstable fingers. Fluff it up in much the same way as you might find in a meaningless hotel bed. A badly made one.
And still no one's there, despite your efforts which you were so sure would work.
You now you're going crazy as you whisper to the empty, hollow room, two beds but one person. One shell of a man, almost a boy, already unstable.
Your voice is shaking as you call for him, pleading with a degrading lack of shame; you hear the broken tone of words that are meant for him and only him and they used to make him smile before but now they're not doing anything. And then you call two words that you've not been able to stop saying, not for more than five minutes while you're fully conscious and not thinking properly.
You've even made his bed for him, right?
Why isn't he coming, why is he staying so stubbornly far away?
You'll change, if that's what he wants. He can be as stubborn as he likes, you won't mind. Art can be eternal, if that's what he thinks, and what he wants you to think.
Then another desperate move, but this time even you don't know what you're doing. You fling yourself onto the bed, realise that while you tried to find him, you'd been crying. Your body knew he wasn't coming back but your mind won't accept that.
You sob, ugly, terrifying, – you don't remember crying all that much before he went forever – heaving and painful as grief comes out of your eyes and you hide your head in his pillow. What are you trying to do? Deny that you're crying? But you know that all this grief, shame, mourning, heartbreak, betrayal, anger, love… Everything and more, you know that you can whisper any one of these feelings and it won't make a difference, not anymore. You can say that you love him over and over again and it just won't make a difference.
So you try one last desperate move, you whisper one last word, one that they won't understand but he will, and you hope that this time, someone will come. He will come, with all his grace newly found as an Angel – he always deserved that, no matter what he'd done. No matter how many people he'd hurt and killed and left, though never meaning too… He was always an Angel because he was your saviour.
You whisper that one word with a voice laced with the sickly feel of the dying man that you only wish you were.
No one's there.