A/N: Yes, my second One-Shot. This one is to thank all my reviewers for Not Ever – in celebration of me reaching, or very nearly reaching, 150 reviews. Thanks, guys! This one's for you!

(And so, dedicated to:

a, Akirakun17, Alis rein silvervine, animefreak312, -, .Kumori-, Ann, Anonymous, Asian Tinkerbell, A Single Fragile Rose, Belladonna-Isabella, Blood Zephyr, blueandorangesky10, Broken Sexed Up Bloody Kitten, cadywise, Caranina, criesbloodredtears, DeliciouslyGood, DesperateLoveKoi, dragontwister, EdSpikeSesshyGirl, EienKohaku, elegentmess, elveljung, falconXXfaerie, fan girl 666, furbybeing, Fuurai, GossipgalMishi, HilariousConspiracy, Hispanic Tenshi, hollowsmile, Hopelesslielost, iamie, icyhiei, imaxgoxgnomgnomxonxya, Inu-bitch, JaRyse, Jay-Jay51, jureez, Kai's kitty, kalbus2002, Kazame, kitsunelova, KittyBlue, kma3000, KokoXKonoha, Kyorose, losethemask, Loud-Little-Thing, Michelle, monkeyface17, narsas, Naruto-Commenter, Navi, Nejihyugasfangirl, notperfectXbutXhonestcritc, OrangeSpiral, OvenBased, pat, Patet, pinktears, poke-the-kitty, Queen Valgarity, RASENGANXD, realityfling18, redfoxmoon, Rhionae, roar303, rosekyo, SasuNaru-luv321, seeing-the-light, ShyHyperactiveNinja, sleevelessgloves, Solarstar7, StreetRacerSakura, S. Wright, Tulpia, UchihaAkimoto, utoi, valgarath-zolthier, Vivid Impact, Vohx, Wing of Darkness, Writemyname, Writer Black Butterfly, xNeTsUx, xXPixiexxStikXx, and xXxFrostyIceCubexXx.)

Something before you read, though: this is another one of my experiments. I've been experimenting a lot lately, become rather fascinated by Surrealism, so this story is going to be very, very, very strange. And I mean that. Very strange, and very confusing.

THERE WILL ALSO BE YAOI.

Please review. I need your feedback to stay alive. Have fun!

Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto. This story is inspired by Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray and the movie Traffic; as well as, to a lesser extent, William Golding's Lord of the Flies. Rated M for yaoi and drug use.

Laudanum

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Dear, beauteous Death! Jewel of the just

Shining nowhere, but in the dark.

(Henry Vaughn: They Are All Gone Into the World of Light)

0-0-0

It is early. The dawn just breaks over the horizon. I don't know – I cannot say what sort of day it will be. Not yet. It is too early but it is too late.

I'm coming over now. Wait for me.

It is Tokyo and it is late, the city reels. The rain is heavy and it reaches far. There are lights and they drip – red, green, amber – into puddles with the water, pool and ripple with the city illusion, distort with the world. There is neon and there is night, cabs pulling up and girls pulling out, the inside of their mouths red as they laugh, cigarettes hanging from their fingertips. Music and it is loud; foreign; splintering. Lights smudge on street corners. The pulse of the city in the changing traffic lights, red, yellow, green.

It is a different realm. A slice of a dizzy, dreamlike, delirious otherworld, wild and terrifying, spinning with the blackness of the stars.

It is Tokyo. World of opposites. Rich and poor, light and dark, life and death.

It is where our story begins.

It is Friday night. The night of forgetfulness. Tokyo sins tonight, wipes the slate clean again tomorrow in the day. It is alright. Sin is beautiful in the night-time, as beautiful and distinct as pearl. Sin is real. Sin is alive.

And He is late.

He's missed the bus, he needs to get home. The rain is heavy and he's half-wet from running through it, his blonde hair plastered to his face. Around him, Tokyo dreams on. The midnight girls crowd, heels splashing, giggle and run fingers up his chest. Does he want to stay and enjoy himself? Does he want to have some fun tonight? He pushes them away.

What is his name? No matter. He doesn't care. He wouldn't want you to know.

There is a subway station not far away. He can catch a train. He debates it, knows he has no loose change. His bus ticket won't get him far. He doesn't have much in the bank either; he's a student and he's on scholarship; he's saving for a car. Dratted car. The irony doesn't help. But he needs to get home, Tokyo gets crazy at night. He knows that better than anyone.

He tries the subway station. At least to get out of the rain. It's nearing midnight and the station is dark, echoes with shadow and flickering lights.

He needs cash. He heads for an ATM.

I don't want to visit you. No, I don't. I don't care. But as I walk the corridors I feel them closing on me, I feel the air constricting. I can't think and I don't know if that's a good thing. Maybe.

You're in there. Waiting for me.

Don't look at me like that. I hate it when you look at me like that. Behind my eyes you are staring at me.

I have no choice. The door is open.

I'm coming over now. Wait for me.

The lights are broken and the moths are blind. He is wet and dripping a Hansel and Gretel trail on the cement. The ATM is not from his bank. Damn them. He fumbles for his card, his fingers are cold and they move slowly.

He doesn't see the boy there. Sitting in the shadows to the side of the machine, watching him with coal-fire eyes. Perhaps his age. Perhaps more. Black hoodie over his black hair, long legs stretching out into the dark, a glowing ember between his fingers. The ember travels up to his lips. He blows out a lungful of smoke.

The card's come out and it goes into the slot of the machine. There. Now, the wait for the pin numbers. But the screen doesn't light up. It stays dark.

"It's broken."

He's wet from the rain but he turns. He has blue eyes. They catch the light.

"What did you say?"

"The machine's broken."

The boy with black hair has even blacker eyes. They don't catch the light, they consume it. He raises the ember again, the cigarette smoke fans out from his lips. He doesn't smile.

"I've already put my card in."

"You won't be getting it back."

"What do you mean, I won't – "

"The machine's broken," a repeat. A flash of black, black eyes. "The card won't come out again."

"You were sitting here all this time? Why didn't you tell me before I put it in?"

A shrug. "I wanted to watch."

The blue eyes fall, too early for anger. "Shit," muttered softly. "Shit. My card's gone and I don't have any money to get home with. Shit."

The other boy says nothing. He's interested but only because he's always interested, and anyway that cigarette isn't as innocent as it looks. He raises it again. His eyes don't waver. It is too dark to tell whether he is pretty or not.

"Where do you live?"

"None of your business."

"I can drive you home."

"Who the fuck are you, anyway?"

"My name is Sasuke." The cigarette's spent and he grinds it into the cement without looking. The ember sizzles against the water. "Yours?"

A flicker of the blue. A hesitation. A lie. "Minato."

"Where do you live?"

"I don't want a ride from you. I don't even know who the fuck you are."

"I told you my name." He thinks it's enough. To him, names are easy. He's had many. "And you're wet. I'd let you have some of my money, but I don't have any on me. It's in my car."

It is a nightmare. The blue eyes close, and the rain drips from the golden hair. "Dammit. I can't get home."

"I can drive you."

"I'm not stupid enough to get into some random's car," spoken viciously, he's annoyed now and he shows it. "For all I know, you probably set this up. Fuck you."

The other boy stands. He manages it silently, and his figure is graceful. Out of the shadows, and he is pretty, in a fragile, lonely sort of way. His eyes smoulder. He's taller, too, by about half a head. He is dry. He has been sitting by the machine all night and he did not touch the rain.

"You're right, I did set this up. But I wasn't expecting you."

"You're a fucking bastard, and now I can't get home."

The black eyes travel to the school uniform. "You're a student?"

"No shit."

A smirk forms beneath the dark eyes and the boy named Sasuke changes, morphs under the light. A touch of cruelty tints his gaze now.

The other notices. He turns away. "Fuck you. I'm leaving."

"It's still raining."

An incredulous stare. "How would you know?"

"Do you want to bet on it?"

"What's the point? I don't have any money. And you just said you didn't either."

"I lied."

He knows how to tweak things, draw others to him. The blue eyes meet black ones. Interested now. Outside the rain is roaring heavy on the streets, streaking against the windowpanes of houses and office blocks.

"What did you say?"

"I have money on me." Another smirk.

"How much?"

"Enough."

Inside the pocket there is a black wallet. He pulls it out, flicks through it. There are hundred-dollar bills in there. American. And a small pouch of white powder.

The blue eyes are sharp, they notice. Widen. He takes a step back, knows he shouldn't get involved. But then the hundred-dollar bills can get him home. Hell, they can get him a car. Half a house, maybe, for a week. He looks up and the black eyes are beautiful. Shining. Cruel.

"You do drugs," voice soft, unsure.

"You want some?"

The reply is instant. "No."

"That's what they all say the first time round." He knows. He smiles. "I can change that. Easily."

"I don't want your drugs, you freak. Just lend me some money so I can get home."

"If you say so." The long fingers comb out five banknotes.

The white smothers. Light falling in bright diamonds from the latticed window, falling across your still white face. You have a tan but the light bleaches you. Out of the shadows, and you are pretty, in a quick, sharpish sort of way. The girl looks at me.

She hates me. I can see it in her eyes. I turn away.

"I loved him," she says.

I say nothing.

You say nothing.

I'm coming over now. Wait for me.

It's five hundred dollars. Enough to buy out half a train. The boy with the blue eyes stares, he knows this is more money than he's ever handled in his life. He's not stupid. He has a scholarship. Money doesn't ever come free.

"I don't need that much."

"I have more, if you want."

"Don't you have any yen? I don't want American money. You can't buy a train ticket with that."

"I only have American on me. I have yen in the car."

He won't fall for it again. "You're a fuckwit and a bad liar."

"That's the truth," said with a stare. The dim light yawns in the twin black orbs. Too much gravity to let the light exist. Shadows survive better. "Or I could just drive you home. Wherever you live."

"I'm not telling you where."

"Then I can't help you unless you come to my car. Or you can try and bribe the ticket booth."

It's not funny. Neither of them laugh. The main light in the station stutters like a bad dream and goes out with a whine. The rain is too heavy. It has brought down power lines. Perhaps it will storm soon, bring lightning and thunder. There is no-one else in the station, the only echoes now are of the steady fall of water on cement. The drip of rain from clothes.

"I'll walk home," spoken in defiance.

A snort of amusement. They both recognise the bluff. "Good luck with that, then."

"You're a fuckhead."

"And you're broke."

"I'm not broke! I have money! I just need to get my bankcard out of this A-fucking-TM, and then I can get home!"

The boy with black eyes reaches into his pocket again. This time he pulls out another cigarette. It's hand-rolled, neat. "Like I said, good luck. I need a smoke."

He's suspicious. "What's that?"

The black eyes cast up briefly before ducking down again. Locating a lighter. "Cigarette. Obviously."

"It that pot?"

"Could be."

"Holy shit, I need to get out of here."

But he doesn't move, something has hooked him. This boy with the opaque black eyes has a dangerous sort of allure. The lighter chinks and the flame darts up. Raised to the tip of the joint. A brief flare and then an ember again, and the lighter vanishes into a pocket. All fluid, easy, an action of the subconscious.

"Go ahead," spoken around the other end of the cigarette. "If you want to walk in the rain and catch pneumonia, I won't stop you."

"You're a jerk."

"Insulting me is not going to help your situation."

"I know that. But it makes me feel better."

There is a pause. It is tense, dry despite the rain. The boy named Sasuke doesn't seem to mind, his cigarette occupies him and the smoke is thick.

"I've never smoked before," offered finally by the other. "Is it... good?"

The black eyes are bemused. He's seen this coming. No stranger to corruption. "Of course." He removes the ember from between his lips, offers it. "Want a drag?"

"No. No. I don't."

"Whatever." The cigarette returns to his mouth. "You're missing out."

"Was that cocaine in your wallet?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"I don't." A little too defensively.

"Yeah, it was. I'm not giving you a hit of that. That stuff doesn't come cheap."

He wants to leave now but he doesn't, for some reason he can't. "I never asked, dickhead."

"You were going to," with a confidence that's eerie. "So, you going to stand here all night? If you're going to go, go. I'm waiting for someone."

It jolts him. Reminds him where he is. He looks down at his watch but it's stopped, the rain has frozen it. "Shit. What time is it?"

"Twelve-thirty."

It's too late, and it's too early. He swears, swipes the water from his eyes. He's wasting time. He turns to leave and the station is dark, silent, still. He can smell the smoke in the air, rolling thick and heavy like velvet. Maybe in the time passed the rain outside has stopped. Everything is hazy, indistinct. Perhaps he is dreaming.

"The offer still stands, you know."

He doesn't turn. Feigns ignorance. "What offer?"

The black eyes enter his vision again and suddenly he's being kissed. Soft lips force his own to open and he tastes smoke, it's strong, he chokes. But he doesn't pull away. The smoke seizes up his chest. The world reels.

Tokyo is conjuring her most beautiful nightmare tonight.

The boy named Sasuke pulls away. He's smirking, he flicks the ash from his cigarette at the floor.

"I can drive you home," whispered easily. "If you tell me where you live."

He has never smoked before. But the smoke is beautiful. He can feel it lingering still in his lungs. When he breathes out it breathes with him.

The blue eyes close for a moment. When they open again, they are hazed. The rain doesn't matter any more.

Those black eyes are pretty. Very, very pretty.

He smiles. Soft. The smoke numbs him. "Okay."

They have emptied your pockets and the contents are sitting on the bench. A stick of gum, a wallet, a ballpoint pen. A bus ticket. Two cigarettes. Hand-rolled. Neat.

She is blaming me. She says no more but her blame is there. I feel the weight of it on my shoulders.

"I'm sorry," I say.

It means nothing. She knows it.

Your still white face is silent.

I'm coming over now. Wait for me.

The rain hits hard but no-one cares. The ember darts between them now, they share it. The car is black and so are the windows. They carve through the rain, and the water sizzles on the tyres, throws up light – red, blue, streetlamp amber – into the air. The smoke is rich. They're on their second cigarette. The glovebox is full of cash.

"Holy shit – you have a bank in here – "

He's driving but he leans across to kiss him, and the blue eyes close in welcome. The taste is smoke again. They pull apart and black eyes turn back to the road. One hand on the wheel, another on the other's thigh, and he parts his lips for the proffered cigarette. A lungful of smoke and then gone again.

"My parents – would kill me if they knew."

"Don't tell them, then."

"They'll find out anyway when I get home stinking of pot."

"Then don't go home."

For some reason that seems like a good idea. He takes the ember and leads it to his mouth, drags the poison into him. It comes so easily. He has never done it before but it's almost second nature. Perhaps original sin never left him.

"I don't have anywhere else to go."

A derisive toss of the black head. "That's easily fixed," and then a cut of the wheel. The world veers wildly. And then they are in a side street.

"Where – "

"My house. My brother's out tonight. We can crash there as long as we like."

He looks out from under his blonde hair at the window, they are dodging shadows in the street. The rain hisses. They run a red light but it doesn't matter.

"What about your parents? Aren't they home?"

"I don't have any." The second cigarette's gone but there's a third in the glovebox. And a fourth. And a fifth. "Disowned me. I think."

Flick goes the lighter and the ember is back. "You think?"

"Maybe they died. I don't remember at the moment. Close the glovebox, I have needles in there."

He complies. "This stuff is good," and another drag of the cigarette.

"Best in the neighbourhood. I was waiting for more but then you tried the ATM."

The streetlamps cast coffee-stain rings of light. The road seems burnished. He watches the copper fall (shifting patches) on dark eyes. It is smoke and it is laudanum. There is the burnt scent of neon in the air.

"Who do you get this from?"

"Friend." And that is all. It is a secret. "You can take a few joints home if you want. Plenty more where that came from."

The glovebox opens again and two cigarettes disappear. A kiss to seal the contract. And then the car swerves right, they are in another neighbourhood. The blue eyes close and the hand on his thigh slides inward. Brushes the front of his belt. He doesn't notice.

"How much further is your house?"

The black eyes aren't on the road. They don't need to be. "Nearly there." And then a swipe of the wheel, they pull up by the curb.

He opens his eyes. Startled. The smoke curls. "You stopped."

"Hn."

And then another kiss, a hand reaches for the belt again. They are warm and the ember is hot. Their mouths don't part. Not even for the rain. When the belt is undone it slides away, under the seats. The boy with black hair leans forward and their bodies are together in the shadows, and close, still warm. The kiss is long. They need it. A car rushes past in the rain.

His clothes are still wet, they cling to him. They kiss again. Their eyes don't see each other, the smoke lets them dream. They see what they want to see. They are strangers but it is Friday night.

"I don't know you," a whisper from behind blonde hair.

The black eyes do not fade. They are constant as the night. The school tie comes off, the buttons undo. And then soft lips again, moving down, a kiss against the stomach, an answer.

"I don't care." It is a truth. It slithers with the smoke. "I don't fucking care."

She has green eyes and they sting me. I lean against the white wall, cross my arms and stare.

"Do his parents know?" I ask finally.

She laughs at that. Bitter. "He doesn't have any parents. They died when he was born."

I stare at her. I don't understand. The bright light is cold against the waves of her pink hair.

"Did he tell you he had parents?"

"Yes," I say.

She laughs again. She is crying. "What did he tell you his name was?"

"Minato," I say.

She turns away. I hear her harsh sobs. Her shoulders rise and fall.

The air is heavy. I look away.

I'm coming over now. Wait for me.

They reach the house and the shirt is off already, the black hoodie is gone, the jeans are unzipped. The car is wet with the rain and they fall out of it, together. They kiss against the side of the car. Their hips move and they are in the middle of the street and they don't care, they don't care, they don't. The rain hides them. They are getting wet. But Tokyo is not watching.

The smoke has made him bold. His blue eyes dare. If they had sex now, then, there on the street in the rain, he would not mind. He cannot remember who he is. He cannot remember who he's with. A stumble and he's being pulled to the house, and the copper is bright and hazy against the pavement, and the world is spinning again. The sky is blue.

Then green. Then red.

"You didn't lock the car," but he doesn't really give a damn. The front door unlocks and he's pulled inside.

The other boy is in the dark. The black eyes shine, they are steady and the look is full. The bedroom is upstairs but they both know that's too far to walk.

There's a couch. The lights are off. It's good enough.

When they kiss again the ember is not there, the cigarettes are gone. It doesn't stop them. There is a box under the couch and there's a needle inside, a vial. They pull it out and the blue eyes are wide, they are dazed, they are beautiful.

"Fuck," in disbelief. "You're crazy. If police came through your house you'd get sent to jail for sure."

"Maybe. That wouldn't stop me, though."

"I'm sure it wouldn't."

A kiss, it is almost violent. "Do you want a hit?"

"What is it?" Breathless. A sharp glance at the needle.

"Heroin."

He's slipping under the surface, the motion soothes him. His parents would kill him for sure. But they do not exist any more. They never did.

"Sure."

A laugh from the soft lips, the dark eyes flash in the light of the rain. "Knew you'd come around one day."

"That had better be a clean needle."

"And if it isn't?"

He's in too far to pull out now. He takes a deep breath and the memory of the smoke haunts him. "Fuck it. Hit me up."

"I'll do it upstairs."

But the couch is there. So close.

"Why not here?"

A trace of a finger along his shoulder. "In case my brother comes back early."

It is a reminder of conscience. The blue eyes flicker. He is nervous now and his laughter, when it comes, is shaky. But there is excitement as well, fascination. The needle symbolises everything he's never had. It's tremulous and it might mean something.

"Shit. I've never done this sort of thing before," an attempt to convince himself.

"There's a first time for everything."

They stand and the box moves with them. Water drips onto the cardboard.

The question conquers him. "When did you – you know. First start messing around with this stuff."

The curiosity is pure. A lamb to the slaughter.

"Eleven."

"Shit."

"Not really."

He doesn't understand the carelessness in the black eyes. "What do you mean?"

"My brother started me on it. I came home from school and he was hitting up on heroin with his girlfriend on the bathroom floor." A curl of the lip. He remembers. The thought of reversal amuses him. "It's not half as bad as everybody makes it out to be."

He doesn't question it. He doesn't need to.

Up inside the bedroom and they lock the door, share a glance. The rain doesn't reach this far and the windows are closed. It is quiet. The only sound is breathing. The box is between them.

"My parents are going to kill me," said again.

"Heh."

"Maybe I shouldn't."

"Maybe." But the black eyes say otherwise.

"What if I get hooked?"

A smile now, and then the pretty face with the sharp black eyes is close, and the fire of the kiss sinks deep into his belly. He leans forward into it and closes his eyes.

The boy named Sasuke pulls back. His lips are warm and the smirk is real. "You already are."

And then on the floor, and the school pants come off, and there is lightning outside. They cannot afford to think and the smoke makes it possible. They are messy but the bruises don't hurt. Not really. He looks up and black eyes look down, they are distant. A kiss doesn't bridge them but they try it anyway. And then kisses down a neck. Eyes wide. Lips parted, perhaps in surprise, perhaps something else.

Finally, the jeans. And then more kisses, and they burn, and the bruises form (a dream, a dream, a dream). The box behind them, they'll worry about it later. The heat is a cloud, a smoke. Lightning outside again. And then thunder, and he moves, and the blue eyes bend up to meet him, and with the entrance there is pain, pain, it stings and it shatters –

A kiss. And they are bridged. Together.

And the nightmare completes itself.

And suddenly he twists, it isn't what he wants. The pain in the blue eyes is real. It snaps. The smoke numbs but it doesn't numb enough. And he twists again, and the choked cry wrangles itself out, and for some reason there are tears. They snap with the current too.

The world ripples. The rain smothers, but it's outside, how does it reach them? No matter. It does.

They are afraid to move. It hurts too much. The box sits on the floor behind them.

A gasp. A need. "Hit me now. Give me the hit now. I want it now."

"What – now – ?"

"Yes – !"

There's no time to measure out the hit, but it doesn't matter. When the needle punctures he writhes. It's bad, the needle isn't going in straight. A kiss and he's forced to still. And then the shuddering wait.

"It takes a moment," a breathless whisper, black eyes flickering. The empty needle goes back in the box. "Just a moment."

"I can't breathe," wildly.

"Stop twisting – "

"I can't breathe," again.

For some reason a laugh, and the pretty black eyes are cruel again. Breathlessly cruel. A kiss and it's fire. A touch and it's ice.

He is falling. The beautiful black eyes are watching him and he is falling. Perhaps he is dying. And the pain fades, and suddenly everything is just a glow, but still those black eyes are beautiful and still they are there. Echoing. Spinning. And perhaps it is sex and perhaps it isn't, he feels numb. Insulated. The lightning flashes up his limbs. His eyes flutter. Close. Warm, hot, and the boy with black hair is moving inside him and he cannot remember what his name is.

It doesn't matter. Tokyo understands.

"Can you – breathe now?" and it's a pant against his throat, soft mocking laughter.

He can't remember. "No," seems safe.

"What did – you say your – name was again?"

The thrusts are heavy, heavy as the rain. The glow holds.

"I don't remember," and it is slow, dreamy, drifting.

"Good. I don't – want to know – your name."

Genuinely curious. Again. "Why?"

The kiss is fierce. There is no answer. Only blindness, and sudden heat, and a thunder that rolls deep within. A long groan against the neck. And the pleasure is blunt, and sharp, and black, and white; it stings and it shatters again, and the smoke is with it, and the lightning. Blue and red and streetlamp amber.

And then it is finished. They are spent.

The rain drips. It has reached them somehow. The boy called Sasuke leans up and they kiss one last time.

And the blue eyes are pretty. Very, very pretty.

They close. Slow, because the smoke numbs him. And they do not open again.

Perhaps you wanted to forget. Perhaps you wanted to pretend. To dream. I cannot know, now. No-one will ever read you. You lie there, white, cold, and still, pure as the snow. The light bathes you.

You never told me your name.

I do not ask for it. I told you that I didn't want to know, because I need you to remain that way. Anonymous. If I do not know you I cannot feel guilt. I cannot feel pain. I can live with myself.

"How?" I ask her. But I already know.

"Do you even need to ask?" It is a cry from her soul. She covers her face. And then, quietly, "Heroin overdose."

Perhaps you were searching for something. Was that why you let me kiss you? Was that why you told me your parents would be angry? Because you wanted them to be angry, wherever they were, whoever they were; because you wanted something other than emptiness? Something other than death?

I go to you. Your eyes are closed. You have left me.

"Did you give it to him?"

I look at her. She is hopeful. She loves you and she wants to preserve your whiteness.

"Yes," I say. "I did."

"Did he... want it?"

I lie for you. I lie to protect your whiteness. I lie to keep you pure.

"No. He didn't."

She is grateful. She will never hate you, now. She will hate me instead. I turn away, open the door. I cannot bear to look any more at you. I need to leave.

She stands. "Wait."

I pause.

"His name was Naruto."

Naruto. The name brands itself into my mind.

She has taken away my ignorance. She has killed me.

But I have killed you.

I close the door behind me as I leave. Out through the windows and the sky is blue, as blue as your death-sealed eyes.

I do not know you. But that does not matter any more. This is where our story ends.

I have the needle in my pocket.

I'm coming over now.

Wait for me.

Owari.

A/N: Wow, that's probably one of the weirdest things I've ever written in my life. O.O It probably didn't make very much sense either, but I suppose one of the perks of surrealism is that you can hide behind it and say "Hey! It's surreal! It's not supposed to make sense!"

(I'm probably going to get attacked now by a whole bunch of people, screaming at me for killing off Naruto and putting Sasuke on the suicide conveyor... But it needed to happen, I swear! That was necessary for impact! :authoress whimpers and dodges tomatoes: )

Oh, and one last thing before I go: I'm not from Japan, and I don't do drugs of any kind. So if there are some details that don't match up, well, at least you'll know why...

Anyways, review! Review! Or else... :ominous music:

Sayonara! Until next time! Mwah! If you're a new reader, please take the time to check out Not Ever, on my Profile page!