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Description
Part I: The City

The city lights are bright and they sing along with the engine. The seat beside me is cold and empty and the bottle is full. I could rock myself to sleep to the sound of that engine… if I were one too cry. I could drown myself in the arms of a bitter substance, if I were one too care. When Ino told me there’s a rift between us and it’s growing – big enough to swallow her and her alone -- I understand because I think I’d already fallen in and just didn’t know the difference.

The lights are dimming and I know it’s a waste of time, a bother, to drive out here -- to the end of the world, and look for something because despite all of my apathy, I’m still human and male. I’m looking, just for a bit, for the flash of those eyes, clumped in liner and shadow. They don’t have to be perfect just there.

They begin on the corners in the orange lamplight and the darker streets, away from the allies and shadows. My car rolls by without stalling the pace and the woman smiles through her cherry red and waves but I can’t wave back. There will always be someone for her and I roll on.

The dim streets are all the same, with the same dry cherry red lips and women, and more than twice I start to believe I’ve gone in a circle instead of straight. That endless street on the edge of the world winds away and away. If there was an end I wouldn’t have noticed, there’s always a corner and always a body or two standing, smoking, waving.

I’m not picky, not really, but someone to share a night with is something I’d rather not leave to chance. Sometimes its the smile or the lack of one, the eyes, the age, the height, and by the time I should have turned around I had been far to careful.

The street wound around and in the newly dawning light I didn’t see the change. The car in front of me was slowing and the music from the clubs was becoming one rock stead beat. A drunk couple stumbled along the sidewalk, and there was midnight laughter in the air and voices were carrying, the bottle calling, the humming engine –

-- And a tap on the window from the pretty face.

Stalled in traffic and there is a pretty faced boy tapping on my window. You don’t generally roll down your windows for strangers; past the vinyl pants and black skin clinging shirt there isn’t much to be known. His face, his eyes are dark and blank and I can’t help but feeling a bit of recognition spring up in the back of my mind.

“What is it?”

“You going anywhere tonight? I need a ride -- I’ll pay.”

“I don’t like guys.”

“You like cash?” His countenance hasn’t changed and he holds the bills under my nose. Atleast I can’t smell anything on them.

I’m not a fucking chauffer. I push papers, I wear a tie, and I do it all with the less dignity than the kid -- he can’t be more than eighteen -- with his ass suck in vinyl. I frown and sigh. It’s a pattern really: stare, ponder, frown, sigh, and cave. I’m beginning to know myself to well.

He moves into the seat next to me, placing the wad of bills on the dashboard and his hands at the side of his seat. The cars start again and I don’t have the will to find a painted face anymore. The streets are getting brighter and bigger and the world’s being born again in neon and plastic.

“What’s your name?” I haven’t looked at him well but I need something to label the dark, lithe thing I picked up. When I glance I can tell he avoids it and I can’t help but think his sales pitch would suffer if he can’t meet eyes.

“I know who you are.” That’s never a good sign.

“Really?”

The traffic’s slowed again and I can afford to look at him – fully this time, the streetlight’s illuminating his silhouette. He’s staring at me through the sides of his eyes and in the pale orange light, I can see the pigment of his skin and it isn’t painted like the others. High cheekbones, perfectly spaced eyes, thin nose, androgynous lips. I know I should know him – I would remember someone like him.

“Nara Shikamaru.”

“It’s rather rude not to introduce yourself.” I don’t skip a beat. I can’t. “After all, I did let you in.”

And then he seals it with a smirk. It’s not the kind that covers his face but it could have; it’s a twitch at the side of his lip and a little crack in his composure. I don’t notice the car ahead of me move, because I suddenly know and, yet, the questions are birthed like springtime rabbits.

I drive forward at the sound of the horn behind me and he’s turned away. The lights are flashing past us like a trans-dimensional warp, I can’t think of a place to go, so following the car in front of us is the best I can do. It really isn’t like me; it really shouldn’t be him.

“Uchiha Sasuke.” His face doesn’t change but he isn’t looking anywhere but the passengers side window. I don’t know if he knows I can see his refection. Probably.

My knowledge of his past isn’t limited. Uchiha Sasuke was famous and infamous throughout the years I spent sleeping away my classes. Ino loved him when we were young. Loved him to the point of an obsession, like all the other girls. He was perfect, with the kind of beauty found only in a select few, athletic, and driven by the tragedy of his oh so melancholy past. He was a tragic person painted into a romantic character on the basis of his face. He knew it. I could have cared less. And everybody was the fool.

But I’m here, in a beaten Volkswagen, with the valedictorian prom king and his suggestive clothing. His eyes are painted and flash against the streetlight. They give his death mask just a beacon of life.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“I never thought I’d come back to this town,” he says and his eyes are half lidded, half hidden. A half-truth.

“Yeah, last time I heard” (Ino mentioned it many a time) “you were going to Harvard. Something about a career in justice…”

“Plans fail, people fail.” I see him swallow once. “What about you? You were always so fucking smart, why aren’t you working for the CIA or something.”

“Waste of time.”

“So you pick up hookers?”

“So you sell yourself?” The traffic was clearing up and the city was brighter and industrial. Neon signs were monochromatic and the music was gone. “Where to, Uchiha?”

“Just pull over.”

The edge of my tire bumps the curb awkwardly and he reaches over, pulls the door handle, and forces it open with a creak, muttering a hollow; “Thanks for the ride.”

I watch him retreat but only for a moment -- too long might mean I actually care. I exhale and pull the car off of the side and back into the busy city street life. The neon signs are still glowing and the engine still hums. My eyes catch the dark silhouette of a frail figure in right mirror before the rain comes and obscures the image.

(TBC)

Description
Part I: The City

The city lights are bright and they sing along with the engine. The seat beside me is cold and empty and the bottle is full. I could rock myself to sleep to the sound of that engine… if I were one too cry. I could drown myself in the arms of a bitter substance, if I were one too care. When Ino told me there’s a rift between us and it’s growing – big enough to swallow her and her alone -- I understand because I think I’d already fallen in and just didn’t know the difference.

The lights are dimming and I know it’s a waste of time, a bother, to drive out here -- to the end of the world, and look for something because despite all of my apathy, I’m still human and male. I’m looking, just for a bit, for the flash of those eyes, clumped in liner and shadow. They don’t have to be perfect just there.

They begin on the corners in the orange lamplight and the darker streets, away from the allies and shadows. My car rolls by without stalling the pace and the woman smiles through her cherry red and waves but I can’t wave back. There will always be someone for her and I roll on.

The dim streets are all the same, with the same dry cherry red lips and women, and more than twice I start to believe I’ve gone in a circle instead of straight. That endless street on the edge of the world winds away and away. If there was an end I wouldn’t have noticed, there’s always a corner and always a body or two standing, smoking, waving.

I’m not picky, not really, but someone to share a night with is something I’d rather not leave to chance. Sometimes its the smile or the lack of one, the eyes, the age, the height, and by the time I should have turned around I had been far to careful.

The street wound around and in the newly dawning light I didn’t see the change. The car in front of me was slowing and the music from the clubs was becoming one rock stead beat. A drunk couple stumbled along the sidewalk, and there was midnight laughter in the air and voices were carrying, the bottle calling, the humming engine –

-- And a tap on the window from the pretty face.

Stalled in traffic and there is a pretty faced boy tapping on my window. You don’t generally roll down your windows for strangers; past the vinyl pants and black skin clinging shirt there isn’t much to be known. His face, his eyes are dark and blank and I can’t help but feeling a bit of recognition spring up in the back of my mind.

“What is it?”

“You going anywhere tonight? I need a ride -- I’ll pay.”

“I don’t like guys.”

“You like cash?” His countenance hasn’t changed and he holds the bills under my nose. Atleast I can’t smell anything on them.

I’m not a fucking chauffer. I push papers, I wear a tie, and I do it all with the less dignity than the kid -- he can’t be more than eighteen -- with his ass suck in vinyl. I frown and sigh. It’s a pattern really: stare, ponder, frown, sigh, and cave. I’m beginning to know myself to well.

He moves into the seat next to me, placing the wad of bills on the dashboard and his hands at the side of his seat. The cars start again and I don’t have the will to find a painted face anymore. The streets are getting brighter and bigger and the world’s being born again in neon and plastic.

“What’s your name?” I haven’t looked at him well but I need something to label the dark, lithe thing I picked up. When I glance I can tell he avoids it and I can’t help but think his sales pitch would suffer if he can’t meet eyes.

“I know who you are.” That’s never a good sign.

“Really?”

The traffic’s slowed again and I can afford to look at him – fully this time, the streetlight’s illuminating his silhouette. He’s staring at me through the sides of his eyes and in the pale orange light, I can see the pigment of his skin and it isn’t painted like the others. High cheekbones, perfectly spaced eyes, thin nose, androgynous lips. I know I should know him – I would remember someone like him.

“Nara Shikamaru.”

“It’s rather rude not to introduce yourself.” I don’t skip a beat. I can’t. “After all, I did let you in.”

And then he seals it with a smirk. It’s not the kind that covers his face but it could have; it’s a twitch at the side of his lip and a little crack in his composure. I don’t notice the car ahead of me move, because I suddenly know and, yet, the questions are birthed like springtime rabbits.

I drive forward at the sound of the horn behind me and he’s turned away. The lights are flashing past us like a trans-dimensional warp, I can’t think of a place to go, so following the car in front of us is the best I can do. It really isn’t like me; it really shouldn’t be him.

“Uchiha Sasuke.” His face doesn’t change but he isn’t looking anywhere but the passengers side window. I don’t know if he knows I can see his refection. Probably.

My knowledge of his past isn’t limited. Uchiha Sasuke was famous and infamous throughout the years I spent sleeping away my classes. Ino loved him when we were young. Loved him to the point of an obsession, like all the other girls. He was perfect, with the kind of beauty found only in a select few, athletic, and driven by the tragedy of his oh so melancholy past. He was a tragic person painted into a romantic character on the basis of his face. He knew it. I could have cared less. And everybody was the fool.

But I’m here, in a beaten Volkswagen, with the valedictorian prom king and his suggestive clothing. His eyes are painted and flash against the streetlight. They give his death mask just a beacon of life.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“I never thought I’d come back to this town,” he says and his eyes are half lidded, half hidden. A half-truth.

“Yeah, last time I heard” (Ino mentioned it many a time) “you were going to Harvard. Something about a career in justice…”

“Plans fail, people fail.” I see him swallow once. “What about you? You were always so fucking smart, why aren’t you working for the CIA or something.”

“Waste of time.”

“So you pick up hookers?”

“So you sell yourself?” The traffic was clearing up and the city was brighter and industrial. Neon signs were monochromatic and the music was gone. “Where to, Uchiha?”

“Just pull over.”

The edge of my tire bumps the curb awkwardly and he reaches over, pulls the door handle, and forces it open with a creak, muttering a hollow; “Thanks for the ride.”

I watch him retreat but only for a moment -- too long might mean I actually care. I exhale and pull the car off of the side and back into the busy city street life. The neon signs are still glowing and the engine still hums. My eyes catch the dark silhouette of a frail figure in right mirror before the rain comes and obscures the image.

(TBC)