Tenure, a Naruto fanfic
26-33 minutes

Time flows differently in each cell. No one completely controls it, nor could they, yet papers on top of papers have filled what used to be thin, cheap cardboard binders, now cracked at the seams caused by the acute pressure from within their aged walls. One may question their contents, undoubtedly, coming from former inmates, yet no figure with inkling of authority to their given name had their statement included, the most initial of suggestions to supplement authenticity to an outlandish study. Their reasoning quite sound, as the risks may far outweigh the reap, for the time being at least; what might one even do with such knowledge at hand and no technology to control it, no ample mind to deter the decay it may face and no means of hiding it from the prying gaze of unprepared swarms, each curiosity a plausible hospice unannounced.

Some may raise a counterpoint to the governments use of the cells, rehabilitation through isolation and asceticism being the primary means of prisons in the first place: the appointed sentence could end up being served too briefly, but they know not the depths of the rayless trench its base parts each hold within, or outside of for that matter, for one is yet to ascertain anything about them, beyond the most basic of outcomes. How might one come across a structure so bland in appearance and man-made in merciless intent, yet so foreign in its meticulous workings; primal simplicity or alien elegance in disguise.

Others have taken the opposite stance, such being the sentence may be overly gruesome, inhumane. How could the guard lead another person, an equal to himself in most simple of anthro-camaraderie instincts, through those iron gates, careful not to step over the straight etched-in line in the cold cement floor, himself shuddering at the thought of encroaching into the room, lest he anger whichever detestation of god placed its anathema the earth in the first place. Praying never put the, for the past three decades solitary, guard at complete ease. His god seemed way too mundane, too naïve in its idealism in comparison to whichever horror lay unabashed, somewhere beyond the edge of mind, toying with the fabric of time much like a cat with a piece of yarn in its paw. Deceptive it be: those claws are there to kill.

The reports are vague in their scientific detail, but thought-by-thought journals in some cases, of prisoners serving their time in the institution. Some more-digestible quotes are served to the public, placed in study books, all but a few too large of a bite for anyone reading. Some similarities weave through the majority of them, and those are taken as fact. As there are no windows in the cells, the circadian rhythm is the only measurement of time passed, a sleep-cycle as the scribes have dubbed them.

There are those sentenced to years in prison, for disturbing crimes, yet welcome the guard with nothing but confusion written over their faces as he unlocks their gate for the first time since the sentencing. However, others are not so lucky, as a man required to spend a mere weeks in the cell comes out a mumbling lump of flesh, unmoving and unyielding to any word of attention, incoherent sounds coming from their lips; their hair long and faces gaunt, wide eyes staring at no point in space, only time written on their skin The guard is the first human they see, same age as the day he led them through the gates, looking not a day older. Such is the reality of the prison and the cells it holds within, its mere existence the most potent deterrent to crime in the entire region. To put it lightly, there are odds one simply does not take.

Deidara is led by the firm, yet almost gentle grip of the aged guard through the narrow corridor. The ceiling is deceptively high above his head, but the creeping darkness seeping upwards to him, gliding up the staircase railings is much more griping. He dares angle his head to the right, and the mist greets him eagerly, its intensity dizzying. He grips the pen in his hand, the solitary item he was allowed and had chosen to bring with him. He hoped there would be enough ink to last his entire stay. He notices the sound of the suit given to him is rustling as he walks, hushing the walls into silence. As they pass each door, there is a note on every one of them:" NO. - DATE OF ADMISSION- DATE OF RELEASE -". yet, he notes with a shiver, he hears no noise bouncing from the walls apart from his own dragging footsteps and the clanking timbre of the guard's keys. Each door is identical to the previous, only the notes contents varying. They pass so many of them, they have started to blend into patterns and shapes in front of his eyes, the numbers losing any meaning they had. They become harder to read and Deidara notes, unaware, it is because the light is becoming weaker.

The pattern breaks as he stares at a door with no note. The guard stops in front of him, briefly letting go of his arm to grab something from his back pocket. It is a white piece of adhesive paper.

He fumbles around his pockets some more, before sighing, "Can I borrow your pen, kid?", extending his free hand towards him, who obliges lethargically. Only after he lets go of the pen does he realize the strength of the grip he had on it, his knuckles white for long seconds as the blood pools back into his fingers.

The guard scribbles down something quickly, comparing the information to another piece of paper he pulled out of his dress shirt, 'NO. 8003056 DATE OF ADMISSION: 28.07.2021. DATE OF RELASE: 28.08.2021.'. Deidara notes the handwriting matches the others he had seen so far. The guard unlocks the heavy iron door and pushes it open for him to enter. He makes no move to rush him, and as he looks eyes with the guard he is met with nothing but an undetectable tightness in his brow. He fidgets with his keys at his belt, giving away his dwindling composure and Deidara takes his cue. He takes one slow step into the bland, unremarkable cell. The heavy iron door creaks behind him and nothing is to be heard: as if the guard had just vanished into thin air. He tries pushing it open, sure of the fact he did not even hear it lock, but it does not budge. The time begins now.

Deidara takes note of his surroundings and is not impressed, nor repulsed. The cell seems to be moderately wide, just enough for him to lay down in full height, and its length is at least twice that. On his right is a floor mat with a blanket and pillow folded over. The fabric looks like something one could find at a county fair and he already feels the itchiness on his skin he will have to live with the moment he lays in it. In front of him is a solitary toilet bowl, simply attached to the wall, the flushing lever on the side of the bowl itself. Maybe it's due to the lack of the water tank they had to place it there.

More than anything he is abashed at the sight in the far-left wall, of the two pipes coming down from the ceiling and into the ground bellow again. Both of them fork into curved pipes, turned upwards to stare at his face. He peeks into one and it is filled with dry food he recognizes: a mixture of nuts, seeds, oats and dried fruits. The other, instead of an opening, holds a faucet which, he finds out, when pressed releases bland, metal-tasting water; it could be distilled, he notes. Deidara grabs a handful of food and more immediately trickles into the very top of the pipe, he hears.

Separating the room in two sides is a thin strip of dim light in the middle, casting a warm twilight glow that barely reaches the corners of the room. To the left would be the pipes and toilet bowl, and to his right his bed. He stands in the middle, his own body unwilling to accept being part this space.

"Can anyone hear me!?", he shouts, in the middle of the cell, but the sound bounces off the cramped walls and viciously attacks his eardrums. "Why the hell is that even a rule", he mumbles disgruntledly as his head hits the cheap, thin pillow.

The lights are bright and the silence deafening. He knows he cannot lose track of time and he grabs the pen in his pocket. Deidara looks up at it like a beacon, a memento of the real world outside the thirsty walls, his voice quiet, " I know I shouldn't waste the ink, but what do I even do with you then... ". He ponders sleeping the time away, but the disorientation it may bring is unnerving. As he debates, his eyelids inch closed.

"Is there someone there?", a quiet whisper timbres next to his ear and he jumps out of his skin.

"Who is that?!", Deidara yells, leaping out of the bed and frantically looking around the tiny cell, "Who are you?! Where- where are you... ?", he ends confused, the pen a mighty weapon in his clenched hand, but with no one there to fight him.

"The hole in the wall, here", the voice answers, still a whisper, "Hello? I never meant to startle you, I'm so sorry", it ends even more quietly. Deidara stares at the very poorly lit wall, right next to his bed, and he finally sees it: a four by four-inch hole, right around his knee-level. He is not surprised he missed it when he first saw the room.

"Who are you?",

"Did they- didn't they tell you the rules? You aren't supposed to, you know...", the voice responds, now more loudly than before.

"So that's what they meant", Deidara notes. Obviously, sharing information and personal details with others could prove fatal to some, especially when it is unknown when each person will be released back into the world in comparison to the other inmates. Relaying a message to your loved ones may be tempting, but is ill advised. This is why there is only one rule which must be obeyed and the prisoners will be punished in most merciless of ways if caught: tell no one your personal information. Even their numbers are given at random, instead of ordinally, in order to disable anyone having a guess at how much time before, or after them, their neighbor came in. If a prisoner breaks the only rule, they are extracted from their current cell and taken to a random, new one. The gamble is way too much for many to handle.

"Got it. I didn't hear anything since I came here a few hours ago; are you new here too?", he talks into the hole, hands on his knees, bending forward. No amount of squinting seems to help him peek into the other cell.

"Yes, I'm new", the quiet voice replies, "I came here yesterday".

"Ah, well", he takes a seat on the floor, next to the hole, "you didn't miss much. Today was just as boring as yesterday was.", he adds after a pause, "Is there another hole in your cell?",

"Hm, no", a pause and some rustling, " Only this one".

"Interesting", he notes to himself. "Alright, then, it seems we only have each-other to talk to".

"I guess so", comes the disembodied voice, now a lot clearer, as the person on the other side probably mimics Deidara's own position, back against the wall, or at least that is how he imagines it.

Would time have passed at a consistent pace for Deidara if he were solitary, nothing to distract from his punishment. Would it have been easier then, to keep his mind clear and focused, or is the distraction welcome. She very well could be a figment of his own imagination, but she is welcome to exist, even if in his own head. Have days gone by? Weeks, maybe? How many times has he slept, and yet how many times have they seemingly stayed awake the entire night, talking through the tiny space in-between their two sentences.

"What did you bring with you", Deidara asks one of those first long nights, "which item did you choose from the guard?", and is met with a candid laughter. Rustling overtakes it and a piece of paper is pushed through the tiny hole, right next to him. He meets her laughter with his own, "A piece of blank paper? Why on earth?".

She mirthfully replies, "I thought that maybe if it's blank I could read anything off of it; just imagine it in my head first".

He holds the pen inches away from the sheet. The thought that moved his body before his mind could got a soak in cold water, Deidara now only registering his impulse of showing her something, anything of himself. He wanted to give her the only thing he could with a pen and tiny piece of paper: the smallest of scribbles; a word; a name. More than anything, he wanted to be seen by her. Yet, he holds back, sardonically huffing at his own thoughts. Neither of them know when they will be out, or, more importantly, when. Does the risk of never meeting her outweigh the risk of never being able to? He folds the paper neatly, and slides it back to her.

"Well, I have a pen, so let me know if you ever need it. In fact-", he gets it out of his pocket and grunts as he twists his hand at an angle, as to not have to move from his back-to-the-wall position. He places the pen into the opening, not having to balance it, as the walls are already so thick. Another reminder of the deceptive nearness between the two of them.

Thoughts coated in a plaque of dread plague Deidara as their days go by in never-ending streams of words which drape around him and parade his eyes a place far from the cell walls.

"Do you think you could fit your hand through here?", Deidara asks her, not many sleeps after he placed the pen between them. It is late already, his broken circadian rhythm tells him as his eyelids are fighting to stay open. Every now and then his body glides to the side and he must focus on keeping it upright. He is starting to ask stupid questions, he thinks to himself.

"I've never tried, really. If it gets stuck I think no one could help me pull it back out", she ends with a laugh. Deidara smirks as he imagines the two of them trapped in eternity, trying to oil up her stuck hand with peanuts from his bird-feeder/'human food' dispenser. He could not move far from the thought of her hand in his.

Maybe, he admits to himself, he would stall for just a moment, memorizing the way her hand felt in his: how it looked under the dim lights, how their fingers laced together. Maybe, he might just recognize that exact same hand in the bus one day, holding the railing right next to him. Maybe it would be the hand of the cashier handing him groceries on his way from work, or the one that waves in gratitude at him, as he stops his car to let her cross the street. It could be the hand that opens the door before he does, waiting for him at home. One that leaves ghostly traces over his skin, as he takes his coat off. Perhaps it will linger over his lips; over his stubbled cheek, before disappearing into his hair. Maybe it will-

"Did you fall asleep?", the gentle timbre inquires, and his eyes flutter open. He really did, and now he is turning sour at the thought that dream floating away. A giggle resonates somewhere in-between his ears, but he is too far into dreamland to fully note it down. "Your hair is so soft!", it quips, "How do you even style it in here?". Deidara jumps back, staring at her hand. It lingers for a moment in the air.

"Wait!" he touches it before she retracts it completely, "It's okay". She almost flinches at the contact, but makes no move to go back. They spend the night holding hands, beds already right next to their shared wall for a long time before tonight.

Yugao wakes up from a nightmare. The food in their containers ran out, not unlike the sand from an hourglass. The water dried up and the lights had dimmed to the faintest of lulls. A rhythmic thumping of footsteps stopped at her door. She did not even have a chance to say goodbye, before being taken away. Bittersweet it was, the thought of release, she now deemed a different sort of punishment, mixed with a taste of angst and dread that left her mouth dry. Is her time almost up? How long has it been? She had only come to realize she might be happier staying in her cell until her end, as long as he was with her. A panic pools in the pit of her stomach as bile threatens to fill her throat. She throws herself at the toilet bowl, letting nothing but the acid escape her. Her arms shake as she stares at the gleaming metal beneath her, her distorted face mocking her despair. A beat. It is worth.

She rushes towards the bed and lifts the thin mat. The small piece of paper if still there, wrinkled, but unblemished. She had thought so many times of writing her name on it, for him to read. Never had she dared. Who would take the burden of the punishment is the only thought that held her back, nipping at the back of her mind, like an incessant parasite. It is her breaking the rules, so if hey find the paper... she should bear the brunt. But, at least, no matter when or if they ever meet, he would know her.

Yugao grips the paper as she takes the pen from the hole and, in the neatest handwriting she has ever attempted, she blemishes her name onto the sheet, delicately, lest it disappear into thin air, just like she herself might in any moment now.

She stares at her name as the ink dries. Words have woven their ties together, yet the ones in her hand may forever separate them, or, bring them together once again. She takes a deep breath and gently folds the paper over, slipping it all the way through the hole, along with his pen. For a brief moment she thought of keeping it for herself; a reminder of a man she could never write to, one she might never even meet, but she decided against it. It was his, after all, and maybe it was the idea he did not give it to her; he is sleeping right now, lightly snoring as he does. With a small smile, and not a second thought, she was content with giving herself to him, instead.

The iron door creaks loudly, disturbing her from her sleep. With a bolt she sits upright in bed, the pit in her stomach disgustingly heavy, yet, when she looks at the door, no one is there.

"Give me a fucking minute! Will you!?", his voice booms through the wall. She pushes her face right against it.

"What's happening? Where are they taking you?!", she trembles in a loud panic, looking through the hole frantically, the sentence rising up to a shrill, but she cannot see anything except for his shadowed figure, as the dim light is forever behind him.

"Listen to me", he demands, not completely masking anxiety from his own voice, "Give me your hand". Yugao obliges immediately, tears already dripping down her cheeks in rivulets She tries hard to quell the sound trying to escape her throat and the tightest part of her chest, only so she could memorize each word rolling off his lips right now, during their parting. Her hand shakes as he places a gentle kiss above her white knuckles, lingering for a moment too brief to either of their liking.

She is unsure if there is more he wishes to say, but the guard interrupts her thoughts, her brains attempt to find a, any, solution to her life taken away, right at her fingertips.

The door slowly creaks, before slamming heavily, the lock the final nail in the coffin. The sound fills both their cells and she weeps.

If Yugao were to be honest, she is not truly aware of how much time passed after he was taken. She does not remember much of it, either. A lot of it she spent asleep, and even being awake became identical to her dreams of the exact same room she is in. She would sit next to their shared space in the wall at first; talk to him as if he could hear her.

She would give him enough time to retort, and would diligently laugh each time he did. After some time, he became quieter, dull in his responses. It must have been her; he must have been angry she got him punished with her selfish need to exist more for him. He became very silent after she had that thought, and she never heard him talk again.

"Miss Yugao, please wake up. Miss Yugao?", shaken awake by this person, his voice maybe familiar once long ago, she is unable to make herself care. "Miss, you have served your sentence", it informs her, and her eyes open to the sight of another person and, behind them, an open door. Her conscious self seeps back into the empty hole her loneliness drilled in her forebrain. She is hefted up on her feet, and all but dragged down the narrow, vaguely familiar corridor, as her eyes adjust to the lights beaming down on her, from the incredibly high ceiling.

It was difficult to adjust to the time that actually passed during her stay in the drab prison cell. It certainly did feel like half an eternity, albeit was a mere six months. She could not go back to her previous teaching job just yet, although she was sure they would still have her, as the readjustment period was taking a toll on her, still. She simply could not stop seeing him everywhere. A certain brightness would tickle her ear in a crowded bus, full of people, and she would frantically search for him, but no face is yet to match that voice. She would cross the street and observe the men watching her from behind their windshields, searching their eyes for the admiration he would have for her. For a long while, she had spent as much time around other people, hoping to run into him by chance, but none of it came to fruition. She had surrounded herself with silence, as the sound of other voices interfered with the memory of his.

Yugao is standing in one of the new bookstores she had started visiting not long before today. No title seems to be speaking to her directly, and she lets her eyes roam the many titles, as the dull murmur of the other shoppers tones down into a buzz. "... not fragile, but delicate. your grip...", the words so loud in her head, perfectly distinct from the crowd, before quieting into nothingness again. Panickily, she roams the crowd, bumping into shoulders of various heights, before the voice speaks again:"... tightly inside my chest, instead of my heart you may reside...". It is coming from the storefront.

A young man stands behind the counter, back turned to her, as she walks up, his face lit up by the streetlights.

"Excuse me, sir?", but before he even turns, the small speaker next to her booms:" ... and leave a gaping hole, through which I may confide...". It is him. It has got to be.

"Sir! Who is this person?!", she nearly yells out startling the aloof man. She points at the speaker.

"Oh, that's just an audiobook",

"I'm asking you who's reading it",

"Hell if I know, miss", the man replies nonchalantly, "Give me a moment". He searches for something on his screen. Yugao is glued to the bookstore floor, afraid to make a the tiniest flutter, lest its butterfly wings deter her from finally, finally, finding him. And the man replies.

"Well, it doesn't really say much about the voice guy",

"What-what can I do then? How do I find-",

"Oh! The book promotion's goin' on in the bookstore a few blocks away. Maybe you can ask them there, huh?", the man grins and pulls out a copy of the book, "Here, you can even get it signed. $14.99".

With her heart in her throat, she trudges down the sidewalk, as quickly as she is able to without running. The echo of her heels clacking the rhythm to her unordered thoughts. She approaches the bookstore and yes, there is a book signing going on. She cannot quite make out the author from the crowd gathered around him, as they are sitting down. She enters, hugging the book to her chest, as a shield that might save her the despair of another disillusion.

The line has formed for the signing portion of the event, as she must have missed most of the event. If she could have been there to hear them speak, nothing but one word, she would have known, but alas. She takes her spot, and notices she is one of the very few people at the back of the row.

With each person leaving, she is a single step closer, but the clamor is too much for her to discern if it really is his voice or not. Maybe they're a woman? Another step. Another. Maybe not? She tries to look through the crowd, but catches nothing but brief glimpses at the author.

"What if I don't want to be disappointed? What if I just... can't?", she hugs the book tightly. What is it even called? She looks down at the plain, simple cover, dyed in pastels and covered in the tiniest of wild flowers. The title reads:" Imagine for yourself".

"What should I even say to him?". The line seems to have moved so quickly on its own, with her distracted. There is but one between her and the Author and she finds her body hugging into itself, trying to hide behind them. The panic has set in long before, the angst grabbing at her clothes, at her limbs, her hair, playing with the space between her ears, making it impossible to focus on words outside of the hole in her own head and stomachless pit. This person is moving. Is she next? Yes, and as she stands in front of this man, and opens her book for him to sign, as their fingers almost touch, she wishes she were certain, but she is not. Not before he speaks to her.

"To whom may I dedicate this to?", the tired Author kindly asks, opening the second blank page after the hard cover. Could she be sure? The familiar timbre she had tried so hard to cherish may have been misshaped by her own memories.

"Yugao".

His hand, the hand holding a pen she may recognize, but the lights are too bright and the crowd so loud, stops where it had begun, as he looks up at her.

"Yugao it is. Thank you for coming tonight; I really appreciate it".

"The pleasure is mine. Thank you for the wonderful book, Deidara". The words escape her without having to think. Like a forgotten, long unpracticed skill that still faintly lives within her. The Author is looking at her, most likely confused by the intensity her presence is emanating right now.

"Miss, we have to keep the line going, it's almost closing time", a tap on her shoulder breaks the moment that made a heartbeat last an eternity.

"Yes, I'm so sorry", she speaks quietly, as she rounds towards the door, feeling a loss she cannot place. Her hand touches the cold metal and she knows that, if she leaves now, maybe they will never meet. If this was not it, then... she was handed everything her heart desired on a silver platter at the lowest point of her life; she had had it, but she did not deserve it enough to keep. If it were him, he did not show it. He did not want anything to do with her and she has punished him enough because of her own selfish desire.

"You have to pull the door, actually", the voice breaths behind her, just close enough to outshine all of the rest, as his hand lay almost atop hers on the heavy metal handle. She turns to look at him and sees it: the unruly, deceptively soft hair adorning his face; the quip at the end of his sentence; can almost feel the callouses of his hand.

"I didn't know you were a writer".

"I wrote this one six months ago", came a quieter reply this time, "That's when I got out".

"I knew if I just waited, then maybe one day soon, maybe I could tell you", his hand warm as it ghosts atop her skin," my name is Deidara and would you like to have coffee together, sometime, Yugao?", hand now wrapping around hers in a way far too familiar, " .

"I would love to".

"Well, then", he exhaled, a smirk plastered on his amiable face, as a hand snaked around her waist, pulling her backwards into him.

"Excuse me?",

"Oh, you were in the way of the door", he added cheekily, holding it open for her. "I'll pick my stuff up in the morning!", Deidara yelled to the remaining bookstore employee, stepping out himself right after Yugao. She did not pull her hand away from his.

Time flows differently for each person. No one completely controls it, nor could they, but whom one spends it with makes all the difference.

Author's note
Thank you for reading my first actual oneshot :) I hope you liked it.

I love writing about how characters are molded by their actions and interactions with others. I also love this fandom and it's actually the only one I have been part of, honestly, so I've decided to rework some of my writing projects and give back to the community in my own way xd I love quirky, unique, positive pairings.

Much love to all of you and thank you for reading

Lots of stories are coming up, and a serious project as well, so stay tuned!