A Human Touch

The cell was dark and cold, and it stunk of rotting meat and his own sweat. Three days. Four days. His blood encased his solitude on the walls; five red strokes now recorded the time since they had last opened his door. His finger ached from biting it. Three trays of half-eaten food lay near the doorway—food he'd tried and failed to eat. They slid it under and didn't come to pick it up. He'd given up any attempt at keeping the place sanitary, and curled up on his bench to avoid any liquid on the floor he'd rather not touch.

He liked to ignore the icy feeling in his chest; something cold and hard caught in his usually fiery innards. These long spells of sanity were fraught with loneliness, but the fear that teased his brain kept him curled up in his raggedy sheets instead of near the small window in his door.

His dreams involved experiments, blood dripping into his mind, screams of his victims. They muffled him and tied him down and he screamed through the bit. A small boy with dull eyes placed a hand over his forehead. A woman bleed her life into his hands; he felt the familiar red poison enter his mind. He tore her apart; the boy watched him, disapproving and silent. Juugo woke up dripping with sweat.

He smelled but he was used to it. He was hungry but he was used to it. The one time that his brain shut down he curled up underneath his wooden plank bed and watched the room spin and pulse. Desire overcame him, and he bit himself, tearing at his flesh in an attempt to calm the red that had overcome his body. He fell asleep. Green eyes bid him to remember something with a painful smile. When he woke up he was bleeding more than before.

He wanted Orochimaru, but more and more he wanted Kimimaro. He wanted the boy who would hold his hand and make the others step forward from their cowering positions against the wall. When Kimimaro was there, people didn't run away. One time a boy had looked him in the eyes, curiosity beaming behind the usual fear. Juugo had stretched his hand out to him, but he had fled.

He wanted Kimimaro because Kimimaro wasn't going to disappear because of him. When Kimimaro spit blood Juugo watched with confusion. That blood hadn't been his fault. He hadn't been the one destroying Kimimaro's insides. What did people die from if they didn't die from Juugo's rage? Was Juugo going to die from Juugo's rage? He examined his torn arms and shivered despite the stuffy air.

He wanted to touch Kimimaro's face in a way that wasn't violent. He wanted to feel what somebody's face felt like whole and complete. Six days, he thought. He dipped his finger into one of his self-inflicted wounds and made another mark.

When footsteps would sound outside his isolated door he would stir, a small part of his consciousness waking up and listening for a human voice. Juugo wasn't sure if he was human like everybody else. Sometimes, he felt like an animal. Sometimes, the rip of flesh and the exhilaration of the chase overpowered any human softness or closeness that might have lurked inside of him. But he didn't want to be an animal—he wanted to be a human, like everybody else.

"Alright," he rasped on day seven. He had wanted to hear his own voice, even though he had no idea what was actually alright. "Alright." He stared at the floor for two hours, drifting in-between bloody dreams. He was lonely and he was scared. He stared for two more hours and his eyes hurt because sometimes he forgot to blink. The stench was nauseating. Juugo began to breathe out of his mouth. When food came, he ate it, slowly and with relish. This activity cured his unbearable boredom for about an hour.

Day eight. There was sound outside his door, loud clanking and banging. Juugo uncurled himself from his fetal position, long, broken fingernails digging into his torn rags. Opening—opening—and with a disgruntled squeak it stopped as the outside chain grew taunt. He was afraid to look.

"Juugo," Kimimaro's voice lit up the desolate cell. Juugo jerked his head towards the sound, releasing a soft sob of relief. Green eyes watched him, seemingly impassive.

The prisoner stumbled towards the semi-open doorway, swallowing nervously. "Kimimaro?" For some reason he was glad it wasn't Orochimaru. His instincts detected trickery behind that eerie smile. There was no trickery in Kimimaro's passive lips, no vileness to detect in his voice. All that was there was a sort of fondness that Juugo didn't understand. He wasn't sure if he felt like a pet or a friend, because he wasn't sure what either of those jobs entailed.

"They are going to experiment on you tomorrow." Kimimaro watched Juugo's fingers twitch against the cold metal. "I wanted you to know." Juugo wondered why.

"Are they…going to try to get it out?" He looked into the other boy's eyes, blinking more often than usual. He wanted a connection. He wanted that thing that everybody else seemed to have that he didn't. He wanted a piece of what Kimimaro felt for Orochimaru, just a piece. He wanted a sliver of the feeling that showed in Kimimaro's voice, a tiny bit of his companion's unwavering loyalty. He wanted somebody to feel something for Juugo, because Juugo didn't feel anything good for himself.

"They are going to make you stronger." Kimimaro's lips frowned, and Juugo wasn't sure whether Kimimaro was pleased or displeased, or at what.

"Oh." Juugo stared at the ground, the burst of euphoria he had felt at Kimimaro's appearance exploded into black, and red. "They are going to give more power to the monster." He shuddered. How much less human was he going to become? The thought sent his heart pounding in his chest.

Kimimaro didn't say anything. There was a brief silence, and Juugo clung to the fake togetherness that was theirs in this brief moment. This brief moment of human companionship.

"Can I touch you?" he whispered finally, holding a hesitant hand out towards Kimimaro's face. Tomorrow he might come out more of a monster than before.

The other boy blinked and shrugged. With shaking fingers he brushed against a perfect pale cheek. The skin was warm, soft. It wasn't rigid, cold, dead, or squirming. He was touching somebody else who was alive, and they weren't crying out, or turning away. Reluctantly he released his touch, and as his hand fell to his side, he noticed with a wince that he had smeared the other boy's face with red.

"Everything that I touch I taint with blood."

"I was drenched in it already." Kimimaro smiled, but the smile was far away. "I'll be here for you tomorrow."

Juugo clung onto that smile anyway.