Disclaimers: I do not own the trademarked characters.
Dedications: Rhea, for talking with me and dealing with my emotion-choked-ness and in general being a class A HBIC; Paige, for talking with me about all of the things; Caitlin for being my inspiration and soul-sister of sorts.
A-Side Tracks: Strangely inspired by the fact I could never convince myself to unpack my clothes my last semester of college.
Itachi has always considered himself a rather spartan man, only ever collecting and thus packing what he needs. There are no flimsy wall decorations, no posters of the periodic table, no plaque for his National Merit Scholarship prior to college - in fact, his J.D. is tucked into the official casing and placed into his bookcase just as if it were something to read, not something he'd accomplished. He merely has his books, the bookcase, his clothes, a rug for the entrance, and his toiletries.
They had decided to collectively buy cookware and silverware and dishware and the other knick-knacks required in a kitchen as well as a television set. Sakura insists that he puts all of their magazine and newspaper subscriptions in his name.
Sakura, on the other hand, only has the Suitcase.
The mere continued existence of the Suitcase rankles.
Itachi hates the Suitcase as he peers at it over the top of The Economist at its blackness. It is as impersonal as they come, really; it's easy to lose on an airport carousel, easy to mistake for someone else's, easy to get mistaken for a shadow in a dark cargo hold. For someone as personable as Sakura, the Suitcase makes no sense on many grounds. Sakura has a personality like a bell - she rings, she resonates, she reverberates with a life that is almost beautifully catastrophic like Nero's anachronistic fiddle tune easing its way through the Great Fire of Rome.
At the moment she curls against his side, head tucked into his elbow. Itachi can see how her feet hang over the edge of the bed and, even though he cannot see them, he knows her shoes - a pair of slip-on running shoes, not slippers - are right there.
He doesn't understand much more than he had the first time he'd taken a look around their - no, his home - and realized that it didn't look any different than it had before - except for the Suitcase.
Honestly, he doesn't wonder why the Suitcase sits right by the fire escape, but he does calculate and analyze.
Why she owns the Suitcase.
Why all of her things are in the Suitcase and why all of her things remain in the Suitcase despite five months passing since they moved in together. Additionally, why she only owns enough to fit inside the Suitcase - he has watched her in the comatose middle of night judge its contents from every angle, new purchases by her side, and figure out what she would throw away to make room for it.
That was the end of his musing, for the most part, because it struck more than a nerve but a heart string.
Itachi sighs and places the soliciting postcard where he'd left off reading before setting the magazine on the bedside table. He switches off the lamp. In the dark, he can hear Sakura's soft breathing, feel it against his bicep. He cannot help but face her. She shifts in the dark until her legs are entangled with his. He instinctively pulls away for a short second, but her pomegranate conditioner reminds him of the short opportunity, seduces him into curling his arm around her and resting his chin against the crown of her head.
After all, he has to enjoy what he can. He cannot fit in the Suitcase.
B-Side Tracks: First thing I've written in a while. Yay for returning to writing! I always underestimate how breathtaking it is.