Don't own Naruto.

Don't own "Dreaming With A Broken Heart" by John Mayer.

He shot up into a sitting position. He felt a sudden urge for a shower, feeling the sweat everywhere. He angrily threw off his tank top and buried his face in his hands. He promised not to sulk anymore, that it wouldn't do anything to change the problem. But it was nights like these that threw aside that standard and allowed him to feel this way. Then the thought; no, the fact, that tomorrowed he'd wake up, comb his hair to perfection, and burst out the door, riddled with energy and fake smiles, would come into play.

He pushed his face further into his hands. Was this bad for his health? To go on like this? He wished some kind of organ failure would just take him away now, even though he didn't truly and utterly want so. He had tried convinced himself over and over that this was just part of life as a teenager. You win girls, you lose girls. He hadn't won any girls yet, but he hoped someday that he would. Soon he'd forget about her, and these damn cold sweats at three in the morning would Just. Go. Away.

When you're dreaming with a broken heart
The waking up is the hardest part

Maybe he just needed some water to calm himself down again. Maybe watch some TV downstairs, not like he had anyone else in the apartment to worry about. He kicked back the comforter and slipped into his blue slippers. He stood up and instantly fell to the ground on all fours. He shook in fear with the shock of falling so hard, his breath hitched in his throat. He finally pushed himself back up after what felt like an eternity. Was she truly doing this to him? She was just a girl. Just a damn girl.

You roll out of bed and down on your knees
and for a moment you can hardly breathe

He trudged over to where the bathroom door was and he froze. Something was open. A window? A door? He smelled a scent that made him want to cry tears or joy and vomit in disgust all at once.

He smelled strawberries and sakura petals.

He whipped around, only to find he had left the balcony doors open. Yet, he'd bet his life right now he just saw a flash of pink. He reached out to the doorway, wondering just what he was reaching for. She didn't live anywhere near here. There he stood, a bandaged hand just reaching out for air. Damn fool, he muttered.

Wondering was she really here?
Is she standing in my room?

He turned around and turned the knob. A few seconds ticked by and he whipped his head around one more time. A breeze whistled by, and nothing more.

No, she's not
'Cause she's gone, gone, gone, gone, gone

This is bullshit, he grumbled, and walked into the bathroom, not bother to close the door behind him. He splashed some cold water onto his face, slurping in some droplets. He patted his face dry and gazed into the medicine cabinet mirror. His cheer had been long gone, no matter the amount of 'youthfulness' he showed outside. Hell, he hadn't even told Gai-sensei yet. He gave a glance over his shoulder through the mirror, and saw a mix of pink and black. He sharply took in a breath and lifted up the toilet seat, letting the remnants of his dinner see the light again.

When you're dreaming with a broken heart
The giving up is the hardest part

After he stopped trembling he pushed down on the lever and closed the lid. He flopped back onto his bed, the events of last week playing oh-so clearly in his mind. He felt like he was being brainwashed, having to watch this over and over again.

Having to be in that park again. It was late, he knew it was. But the air was just so clean and fresh. And when he saw her on the stone bench, shoulders shaking with sobs, he'd have to whip his head back and forth again, finding that rose and plucking it from the earth, and quickly ripping off all the thorns. Then he'd take a few steps foward, the rose tucked safely into his forehead protector behind his back. A few more steps where, for the second time, he'd have to freeze to see one of his many rivals emerge from the darkness. Once again he'd have to slip silently into a nearby brush and watch the events unfold. The events that would lead to all the sickness, tears, and anger.

Again. Like a messed up piece of film.

He would sit by her on the bench, not even facing her. The anger swelled up again, and she just cried harder. He got a pained look on his face and placed a slow arm around her. She ceased her sobs and gave him a long hard look.

A branch was sticking him in the side painfully, but the sight before him simply knocked the wind out of him.

He didn't know how long he watched them kiss, but soon he couldn't take it. He would his super-speed to race home, lock every possible opening to the house, and rip his heart out from his chest and flush it down the toilet. Again.

The movie would always end the same, in sobs. Which is what he also did, he sobbed too.

She takes you in with her crying eyes
Then all at once you have to say goodbye
Wondering could you stay my love?
Will you wake up by my side?

Then he would spread his arms and legs out as far as he can, just to resassure himself she isn't there beside him. But as always, there was a twinge of hope he'd feel some life beside him.

The only thing he ever got was a stray racoon he accidently let in when he left a window open. It wasn't exactly what he had planned. But it got him to stop crying long enough to give a shrill scream and have the three old ladies sharing a condo nearby to come over.

They brought brownies too. But they left, just like her.

No, she can't
'Cause she's gone, gone, gone, gone, gone.

He rolled over and leaned over the edge of his bed, the plops of falling tears hitting the hard wood. He pulled out a book of love poems and set it before him on the bed. He opened up to where he had bent the corner and gazed at the contents.

A flattened rose and a picture. Of her. He had burned every other picture he had of her, except this one. He couldn't bring himself to lower the match, even in his fury.

He picked up the rose. Spots of dull forest green were speckled along the stem, in contrast to the bright green. He reached over to his nightstand and opened the bottom drawer. He pulled out a box of magic markers and uncapped the green one. He gently ran the tip over the spots, quickly renewing its look.

But in his grasp, he only held the corpse of a once beautiful flower, now pettited with make up.

Do I have to fall asleep with roses in my hand?

He inspected the petals, daintily dabbing them with red and pink. He knew all too well any use of major force would crush the petals, and he didn't know what he would do if they should break.

Do I have to fall asleep with roses in my hand?

He didn't even notice he had been crying until the wetspots developing on his thighs became large, and started to dip to his thigh, bringing him back to reality. The reality? I'm holding a fucking dead rose covered in magic marker. It was the only conclusion he could draw.

Do I have to fall asleep with roses in my hand?

His gaze shifted back to the picture and what he saw nearly made his vision go red with rage.

He had been caught in the picture. He could see his face in the upper right corner, slightly blurred. He dove to the phone on his nightstand and nearly seperated the phone from the cord as he picked it up.

Do I have to fall asleep with roses in my, roses in my hands?
Would you get them if I did?

He quickly dialed the home number, knowing he lived alone. The Rookie 9 had all exchanged numbers after he returned from the Sound, as a bond. The buzzes seemed to go on for an hour, with each ring he became more angry.

"Uchia," he snarled.

"What?" a cold, irritated voice answered.

But he couldn't answer. His voice that felt like it was about to burst had shriveled up, nudging his heart.

No, you won't
'Cause you're gone, gone, gone, gone, gone

"Treat her right," he grumbled, and slammed down the phone, not bothering to wait for a response. He closed the book gently on the rose and slid it under his bed. He stared at his ceiling under sleep took over him once more.

When you're dreaming with a broken heart
The waking up is the hardest part