The Passage of Time

Days later, he can still feel that pale hand around his throat, and the static punched through his chest. He feels it so clearly that he has to look down to make sure thin fingers aren't indeed wrapped around his tan neck. He feels it so vividly that he had to pull up his shirt and make sure there's no hole in his chest.

And when he verifies that there aren't fingers around his throat, or a hand in his chest, he lets out a sound. It isn't quite a sigh, or a moan. The sound that issues forth from his chapped lips is pure sorrow. It's a heart breaking sound.

He almost wishes that those pale fingers were there, that the hand was angrily pushing through his chest. Because that would mean that he was still there. That would mean that he hadn't left. It would mean that things were still... normal.

Months later, he can still hear the insults, and the angrily shouted words that voiced pain he had never known the true extent of. He hears the insults so clearly that he turns around to yell his own reflexive insults back. He hears the words so vividly that he begins to open his mouth to display his own pain.

But then he realizes that there aren't insults coming his way, or shouted words issuing forth from between pale lips and he lets out a choked sob. While his physical self stands strong, there is a boy behind closed bars, sobbing over the loss of his best friend. His heart is breaking.

He wishes that insults were being directed towards him; that shouted words voiced pain and insisted that he would never understand. Because that would mean that he was still there. That would mean that he hadn't left. It would mean that things were still... normal.

Years later, he can still see that pale face, framed by ebony locks, smirking smugly at him, and the way that smug demeanor shattered when he was forced to display his pain. He sees that smug smirk so clearly that he has to blink several times before the image dissolves. He sees the broken look so vividly that he has to look away and then back before he realizes it isn't there.

And when he's through blinking away the image and has confirmed that Sasuke isn't really there, the broken sob rips from his throat. Now, even his physical self can no longer stand strong, and he allows the tears to drip freely from his cerulean orbs. He's broken.

He wishes so dearly that the smirk that used to infuriate him to no end was there, clear as it used to be every day. He wishes he could see the pain that assured him his rival - his best friend - was human. Because that would mean he was still there. That would mean he hadn't left. It would mean that things were still... normal.