He felt nauseous. In his mind, his stomach swung around and around in irregular circles. His head pounded, complete with a rapid beat against his right temple. He had tried several different positions for sleep, but none relieved the worsening cramp in his lower back. This was the second month, coming into the third. For the past month he had been sick nearly every day. None of the pills had helped and he wouldn't give him anything stronger. For the past month he had felt like a hobby. His "condition"-he now hated the word and loathed all who used it-made him an interesting spectacle to behold. He felt his stomach squeeze, almost didn't make it to the bucket. Not that much came out. No, most of lunch had been lost two hours before. When he was done with that activity, Sasuke pulled himself more into a sitting position so as to better view the window in front of him.
From his spot on the bed, he could see the entrance of the hotel, who came and went. Before his nausea, he had been counting the number of different people who entered the hotel. He couldn't remember the exact number, but he felt as though it had been in the high 30s. He gently rubbed his now not-so-flat lower stomach, where he could now see and feel a small "bump". Here, the skin felt tight and itched. Kabuto had told him what to expect. Fatigue, nausea, constipation, frequent urination, mood-swings, head-aches, swollenness of the ankles and wrists, etc
He also found himself to be more forgetful. Where he put his shoes and things, though Kabuto said that it was all hormones. He had to take medicine every day, various different pills and serums for not only his increasingly horrible symptoms, but also for its health as well.
He swung his legs over the bed, got up and stretched. For a second his light-headiness returned, but only for a second. Now that he was up, he realized once again that there was nothing to be done but pace or examine himself in the mirror above the dresser. His hand drifted back to the "bump"; he went to the mirror. There he saw himself as he had always been, but now, he thought, paler, maybe a little thin if the looseness of his collar was any indication. Yet his paints were beginning to tighten around his middle. When he turned, however, he could clearly see the "bump", small as it was.
Did the reflection make him uncomfortable? No, not yet. But it wasn't obvious yet. But what about in a few months? He imagined himself with a large belly. He had tried for the past few weeks to make himself feel normal about the image; but it was not normal, it was not right. He was not a woman, should not be here thinking these thoughts and worrying about a baby swimming around in his belly. It was torture; he had been degraded to an experiment, a hobby by which Kabuto would amuse himself until he had found a more permanent interest. Then, in a couple of months when it was all over, what would happen? He felt himself fall back onto the edge of the bed. He didn't want to cry, not now, but
what was he going to do? He already couldn't do even the simplest of techniques. The baby's own chakra interfered with his own. The headaches, the cramping, the constant sickness kept him out of focus. And where could he go? Everywhere he was a wanted criminal. Any hospital
Kabuto was the only one who could keep him in safe health, who knew what to do. He was not a woman. The only way the baby was coming out was by C-section. He would be cut open, maybe even while still awake
He cupped his sore head in the palms of his hands and felt the hot tears course from his tired eyes. He felt himself tremble and shake, couldn't help but hate himself for being here. It was all his fault. All of this was because he was too stupid to leave when he had the chance. He hated himself for crying, for no leaving. Where did he have to go? Everyone hated him. He had no where to go, no one to go to. He flinched when he heard the door open and a happy whistle come forth from the outside world. Here entered Kabuto, wearing his cloak, carrying several bags. He kept whistling as he set the bags down on the dresser and brought out four paper take-out bowls. It smelled hot, like garlic and tomatoes. He felt his stomach growl.
"How are you feeling?"
"Fine. What's that?" he pointed to the bowl.
"It's a special soup for your stomach. It'll help you feel better. What's wrong now?" He took Sasuke's head in his cold, hard hands, examined his tear-stained face. "You've been crying again?"
"Leave me alone," he pulled himself away from his grip, didn't want to look at him, couldn't stand his touch.
"Your hormones are just a mess. It'll get better. Here," he handed him the bowl; they ate in silence.