Characters: Uchiha Sasuke and Haruno Sakura
Author's Notes: I've been trying to write angst for days now but I've failed—repeatedly. Two angst attempts have turned into fluffy fics and, really, I couldn't stop until I finally managed to make one purely angsty piece… I simply couldn't stop. O.o Seriously. And I couldn't get it out of my head and couldn't function so—uhm, here. Yeah, angst. :D Hope you like it. I'm free now. XD Yay. Please R & R. For the record, though, I fully believe SasuSaku will happen happily and not like this--
Disclaimer: Naruto belongs to Kishimoto.
The Beggar's Moral Dilemma
"When life—" she begins, a finger in the air, her stance contemplative, and her voice soft, "—gives you lemons—"
He wishes that she won't really say it, hopes against hope that she's not this fucking stupid.
But she does, and he can't help but hate her a bit.
Because what does she know about life, really?
She who has never probably even seen, much less tasted those proverbial lemons; She with her peaches and cream childhood, her pink hair and frilly, lacey clothes, her funny friends and doting parents; She who has yet to experience any form of tragedy save for a slight case of bullying; She who—
—She who loves him;
She, the only one he has left.
So what choice does he have, really?
Life is ironic, life is cruel, life is a curse, lifelifelifelife—
He hates life—and her, he hates her. But she loves him.
There's a cheeky grin on her face that he wants to erase – but what could he do about it? Nothing. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
She doesn't need him. He needs her.
"Hey, Sasuke-kun, are you okay?
"Is—Was it something I said?"
She could capitalize on that, he thinks. But she won't. She's fucking beyond that, bastion of morality and goodness she has suddenly, inexplicably become.
He would, though – rub it in and use it to his advantage and do all sorts of unspeakable things with it. If he were in her place, he would. Hell, he's not even in her place and he's doing so.
And that's the difference between them. That's the reason why he hates her.
Because she – fragile little, unblemished thing that she is – does not belong in his world, cannot belong in his world, could never have belonged in his world in the first place—
Father - father so noble, father so stern, father so dead - would not have approved, she simply would not have done, pink hair and negligible lineage and all—but oh, how the tables have turned, he's the one who just won't do anymore, isn't he? Traitor that he is, he simply won't do.
But she'll insist even if he pushes her away, even if he says no, even if he rips apart the brittle little pieces of the heart she had so trustingly put in his hands a thousand times over.
She'll stay, no matter what.
She said so herself, and he—well, that's leverage, isn't it? That promise—he can hold it over her head and demand things.
Because she won't leave him, will she? Pathetic little orphan boy that he is. There's love—and even without it, there's pity. And he hates it, pity. Hates it with his guts and his core and his very being. He trembles with the sheer force of his hatred for it—this pity. He hates it— but he'll take it.
Because he has nothing—nothing, nothing, nothing but ghosts and stately, empty mansions and—damn it all, he's a fucking decrepit beggar.
Of course, he never has to beg. She won't let him.
Because she – with that rose colored glass through which she sees the world – thinks that he is simply the most remarkable thing—beautiful Sasuke-kun, aristocratic Sasuke-kun, proud Sasuke-kun, dignified Sasuke-kun, strong Sasuke-kun, wonderful Sasuke-kun, Sasuke-kun, Sasuke-kun, Sasuke-kun…
Delusional – she's delusional.
She sees something in him that, quite plainly, isn't there – he knows, God, he knows, he tried so fucking hard to find it himself, but it's simply not there.
But she doesn't know that, because she's delusional and blind and—really, he won't bother to correct her.
So sorry, sorry, sorry, he simply can't give her what she deserves. Sorry, sorry, sorry, he's so fucking sorry. Sorry, he's going to use her anyway – because her embrace is warm, and her kisses are soft, and she makes him feel loved and— SorrysorrySorry, but he's going to marry her.
And later today, when he asks her, she's going to say that it's the happiest day of her happyhappy life— except it's not, not really. The moment she says 'yes' and seals her fate, she's going to trap herself in an illusion—and he won't stop her.
Let her live in her fantasy world, if that makes her happy, let her love this fucking concept she created out of her twisted, pampered mind – it's all the same for him.
So what if she spouts off silly, ignorant, cliché statements like they're the answer to everything?So what if she's delusional? So what if she doesn't know who he really is? So what if she's too stupid to see what's right in front of her? So what if she's walking into a trap? So what if he hates her and she loves him? So what?
Beggars can't be choosers, after all.
Uchiha Sasuke and Haruno SakuraGenre:
Mors et Vita
Death – it's something that you think about often, maybe too often. But then again, why shouldn't you? Your whole being is built around it. Your life revolves around it. If anything shaped you, turned you into what you are, then that something would be death. It was the death of your father, your mother, your family that broke you. And it was for the death of your brother that you forced yourself to survive. It's really painfully ironic how things turned out in the end, how Itachi turned out to be – what – innocent? Not quite. Innocent is not a term that can be used for someone capable of killing his own blood. But he was a victim, a victim just like you. And his death – well, it shattered the broken pieces of you. But it's not like you can do anything about it, not now. You can only do what you've always been doing, and that is to seek revenge. As it is, death is once again the thing that drives you – the death of Konoha's elders, and after that, the death of Uchiha Madara.
Death has become so incredibly central to your life that you could say that it is the only thing you live for, although there is still that tiny, forgotten, almost dead part of you that wants to create life. You could say that you know death intimately, almost like a lover. And, like a jealous, possessive lover, you don't just give it to anyone. You choose your victims meticulously, and always, always, for a good reason.
But sometimes you wonder if, despite how intimately you think you know death, you actually have it all wrong. You wonder if death is really a form of respite, and not a punishment. Because, really, on the two incidents before this one that you yourself have come precariously close to death, all you felt was oblivion – sweet oblivion. You spiraled into it and you almost welcomed it, because it felt like finally, finally you were free. But you've never gotten close enough to know whether oblivion really is the only thing death held, or whether there is something else, something like damnation. Because in those moments when oblivion almost claims you, you get pulled back into life. You always… you always wake up… you always wake up to her.
So this time, the third time, when you feel that insistent pull and you know that it is not your time, not yet, it no longer comes as a surprise that it is her that you see when you first open your eyes.
And you wonder, as you're once again encased in a tight, desperate embrace, if maybe she is life. She's certainly as confusing, as frustrating as life. Because you never know if you hate her or you love her, if you're better off with her or without her. All you know is that she's there and she's yours, whether you like it or not.
And you're powerless against her, you always have been, so you sag against her as she presses herself closer against you, persistent and insistent and… warm. For a few moments, you savor it, the feel of her pink hair pressing against your cheeks, the familiar smell of her vanilla-scented soap, the forgiveness and acceptance and the love in her much-too-tight hold.
Then you notice it – her sobs, her tears – they make you conflicted, confused, they make your skin crawl and your hands tremble, and they make your heart constrict, twist, and ache. And if only it wasn't so damn painful, then you could almost say that you're happy, that you're glad, that you're relieved that you still have life, that you still have her.
See, the thing about life, you think as you push her away and she looks at you with eyes that are full of tears and warmth and love and pain, is that it's not like death at all. You can't welcome it as easily as you welcome death. Because, as much as you wish otherwise, you don't really deserve it.