Ripple Effect

It wasn’t often that he found himself in this situation. Usually duty called, and he would don the carefully carved mask [mimicry of a falcon, above all other birds, one to be tamed and yet never forgetting its true nature] for days on end. Until the mission was complete, until he had the right to step over the threshold of their apartment and pull that pseudo-identity from his face.

He could never sleep right away. Not because the place was far too quiet, devoid of all life, all heat. Cold and sterile with the moonlight splashing over the hardwood floors. He enjoyed the silence, the cool atmosphere of nothing. No biting wind to freeze. No blood over hands, staining his uniform and streaking the white of his mask. But it wasn’t complete.

So he would shower. Let the water run hot over skin that still felt numb. Then, he would slip into bed after turning on the bedside lamp. Beside him, there was always some book or another waiting to be held. Fingers would skim with an intimate grace over the spine before stripping the book of its defense and exposing the words before him.

It never mattered how long. The when’s were never known to him, but the door would always open with a near imperceptible crack that violated the quiet. Other than that, however, he could detect nothing. Only knew what was coming because experience told him so.

Lips would quirk upward as the mattress dipped under the added weight. But the book would not be put aside. Because that was not how this went. There was routine here. The timing changed, as did their clothes, the state of their bodies, yet the feeling never did.

As the book was pulled from his hands, he would finally glance up and acknowledge this other. Never once did his eyes deviate from that searing gaze, not even as the book crashed to the ground like a bird shot mid-flight [crashing, crashing, crashing to the ground, all broken wings and desecrated life]. He had come to find that there was a little bit of death in everything.

“Were you waiting for me, Neji?”

There was nothing innocent about that question. No underlying sweetness. Just arrogance and that remorseless smirk.

“Hn. Don’t flatter yourself, Sasuke.”

****

When he comes home, it’s always different. Just when Neji thinks he has left the battle behind, he finds another already being waged in their living room. Or the kitchen. Sometimes, it even starts in the hallway, the door left to swing aimlessly back into the darkness of their apartment.

To say that he’s constantly caught off-guard would be a total lie though. Because he’s come to expect it to a certain extent. However, the tactics always change, and the surprise never fails to overcome him once he’s caught. And Neji is always caught.

That, however, is all a matter of choice. It has never had anything to do with skill.

The most memorable fight is still the first [though there is something irresistible about each time that followed, things he has a hard time forgetting, things that plague his sleep like the sticky warmth of Konoha’s air]. Perhaps because he truly hadn’t expected it. Because it was the first, and the sheer thrill of it now had his body thrumming with anticipation every time a mission ended.

Feeling that depth of alive had eluded him for far too long. Maybe that’s why he could never shake the memories. It was something all his own, that long-awaited for thrill of life that suddenly brought sense to his existence. Something that sat entirely out of the realm of Hyuuga, and those sorts of things were hard to come by. If anything, his whole life seemed centered on depriving those reasons from so many others. It was all the harder to fathom when it felt like he didn’t deserve one of his own.

But Sasuke had always been a selfish bastard like that. When everything around him was hell-bent on keeping Neji caged in misery [a private affair that not even recognition from the Main house could erase – recognition could not bring back what was lost], the Uchiha heir came along and did exactly as he pleased. Not that the younger man didn’t feel himself damned - because he did – and Neji couldn’t help but think that it was precisely that feeling that drove the Uchiha on now. After all, if hell was certain then why not live life?

Sasuke had never been the type to play into expected roles. At least not as far as Konoha was concerned.

****


When he comes home, there is always a fight. The first time it happened, Neji had found himself pinned to the wall, just inside the front door. And without even time to snarl out a furious What the Hell are you doing?, the other’s mouth was clamped down over his, and hands were busy divesting him of all his death-dealing gear.

He doesn’t really remember what exactly took place, only that he didn’t really seem to move [mostly Sasuke pressing against him, all white-hot thrusts and wicked words], and that he came against the wall [a fact that made him blush a sore red the next morning when he went to collect his clothing].

Sasuke was hardly repentant.

The second time was against the kitchen counter, just next to the sink. The third found Sasuke seated in one of their dining chairs. The fourth time they had almost made it to the bedroom, but as always the Uchiha heir proved impossibly impatient. It never failed to make Neji question how it was the young man always maintained flawless composure on his missions and yet managed to fail miserably in that aspect when it came to his personal life.

Then he remembered the rush of emotion, and whatever annoyance he had over Sasuke’s emotional infidelity was forgotten. Actually, it was rather hard to maintain any shred of thought once Sasuke started. Though he could if he really wanted.

Neji just never wanted to.