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Dance the dance of ghoulish glee (please won’t you set me free)

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The snowdrop dangles from his hands, bloodied and the tang of iron viscera covers his body.

Sensei is where he always is, eyes trained at a smutty book— or at least, it seems he is. His gaze is trained on the memorial stone- and isn’t that ironic?

The name of long dead fool lays on a piece of marble and Kakashi will always be too late, far too late to save those in the here and now. His eyes are looking too far away to ever notice those who are here.

His grip on the flower tightens, crushing the stem and he steels himself, sharingan flashing in anger and barely restrained pain.

“Kakashi, did you ever stop to think that a boy was long dead could never love you back?”

And isn’t that just a wonderful way to start this?

Kakashi turns slowly, the book nowhere to be seen and eyes him, half closed and tilted.


Sasuke smiles, a bitter and vicious crook of his lips. “I said— did you ever stop to think that a boy who has been dead for longer than we’ve been alive can never love you back.”

He can see the vibration in the left hand pinky of his teacher. He can see the pain his words are causing and the rage that is building.


He tosses the blood stained flower at him, watches him catch it out of sheer reflex and eye the pink strands of hair that accompany it.

“Did you know she tore her chest open, to stop them?” He begins, causally and quietly— like they’re discussing the weather and not a girl who mutilated herself, desperate to stop the inexorable crawl of love. The blood is starting to dry on his fingers— and it itches. “She told me it hurt and she couldn’t get the last one out, couldn’t stop loving you for how sweet the pain was.”

There’s something like heartbreak on his teacher’s face but he doesn’t care.

“Did you ever stop to think Sensei, that maybe we could’ve loved you too?”

The flowers in Sasuke’s throat wave and dance in some gruesome pas de deux. He wonders, idly as he coughs, whether he cares enough to love anyone anymore.

The cherry blossoms in his hands, wilted and blood stained, tell a thousand words to the contrary.