He limps home and she meets him at the door, with the bandages spilling from her arms like bundles of lost love letters. She says nothing as the blood drips steadily from his body to pool at their feet, a cove of silent regrets. Usually, he walks straight past her into the house, never saying a word; but tonight he is too tired to resist, and she leads him gently into the kitchen, blood trailing along the floor. If she still dreamt romantically, the red might have been rose petals, and the moon one large candle that never burnt out.
She sits him on the kitchen floor and begins to tend to his wounds. He says nothing, closing his eyes as he leans against the wall. A soft hum fills her breath as she wraps the bandages around his arms and legs and stomach, sealing away those wounds. He opens his eyes at the warm sound, and for a moment she meets his gaze. But in the next moment he looks away to the cold wooden floors, and she is back to wrapping those love letters, round and round his torn and bleeding skin.
She understands what he means when he does that. She doesn't like it, but she lives with it. He needs her to care, so she does.
"Hush, baby, don't you cry," she sings softly. "Hush angel, high and dry. Tomorrow we'll fly, so baby, don't you cry." The song flutes up and down in her gentle-husky cadences, low and high. She sings the words like she believes in them. He listens like they were meant for him. He savors her light touch; these are the rare instances that he allows himself this privilege. Her fingers, soft and sure, heal him.
She asks no questions, because she knows he doesn't have the answers. Instead, she treasures these quiet moments. In the daylight no one sees these things. She can barely see them herself when he ghosts quietly past her in the halls, not even disturbing the air between them. She can barely see them when he looks through her, because the blankness is so overwhelming. She can barely see them when she cries, blurred suffocation, into her lonely bed behind closed doors; but she can remember them now.
So while she can, she sings, and he listens to her tender voice, wishing he could hum along.
She is finished too soon, and she leaves to put away the love letters to be lost for another night. He sits with his back against the wall, cold, and the moonlight springs bright through the window, like new pennies. She returns to sit beside him, sliding her back against the wall. Not too close, not too far. Just to let him know she's there.
The moonlight slowly flickers; the brightness dimming, the dreams hazing over. But she's still there. She's fallen asleep, and her steady breaths beside his ear are reassuring. She reminds him of life, fickle but beautiful.
Hesitantly, his eyes flicker to her face, faintly glowing in the softened moonlight. His eyes trace the curve of her cheek and the cushion of her lips, slightly parted. And before he can stop himself, he reaches out to touch her.
Her cool skin on his palm, and the sudden peace that floods through at this contact. This is all he needs, just this moment, and the rest can be hell.
He carries her to bed, cradled in his arms like a fragile china doll. He's broken her enough, already. He tucks the blankets up to her chin, letting his fingers linger a little longer, his knuckles brushing her cheek. In and out, she breathes; he knows the sun will rise tomorrow and the mask set firmly in place. He won't be able to look her in the eye tomorrow morning, but now—
Now she is his, and he doesn't need to be afraid.
-
She awakes with the gray morning light resting on the walls, like quivering moths. Sasuke, she thinks, suddenly. Padding silently to the door, she travels down the hall. The red drops are still here and there, now deep brown, a testament to her imagined rose petals.
She stops at his door, something jerking abruptly inside her ribcage. A drop of red at her toes. She stoops over and touches it, all dried and withered. Then she stands and softly slides open the door.
She smiles faintly when she finds him curled up on the floor, a blanket tangled around his legs. He is so used to sleeping on the ground—or, for that matter, not sleeping at all—that he can't bring himself to sleep in the comfort of a bed. Is that why he can't bring himself to sleep beside her?
She watches him as he shifts restlessly in the pallid light, fevered with sick dreams and memories. Slowly, she shuffles closer to his sweating frame. He is still so handsome, even in his emptiness and this vapid gray light. Her hand reaches out to touch his face, the heat of his brow, but stops just a millimeter before. The whisper does not escape her lips, but remains trapped in her throat.
His eyes flicker open, filmed and slightly glazed. He stares at her, uncomprehending, and she stares back, slightly breathless. He's even more beautiful when he looks her in the eye. The sweat sticks the hair to his forehead and then his eyes flutter shut again, the long dark lashes fanning his cheeks.
A lump bobs up her throat. Something about seeing him like this makes her want to cry, and she very nearly does. But she holds it in, just to preserve the moment. She kneels beside him, and he twists and turns, writhing on the floor like a child. And this time she finds the courage to truly touch him.
All at once, his writhing stops; and he lies there, tense and breathing heavily, her hand on his forehead.
She starts to sing: "Hush baby, don't you cry."
Her voice punctuates the air and his breathing grows softer, his body relaxing. He squirms closer, and she strokes his dark hair.
"Hush angel, high and dry."
He reaches out and grabs her arm, and for a moment she is startled, and her singing chokes a little. She looks to his tightly closed eyes and furrowed brow, the sweat on his body. She sees the pain beneath, starting to bleed through.
And then she closes her eyes and sings more steadily, crooning. "Tomorrow we'll fly, so baby, don't you cry."
wish I could come back.