title: Almost Wistful, Very Clinically
characters: Sakura Haruno, Sasuke Uchiha
disclaimer: I do not own any copyrighted material.
dedication: to normal sleep schedules. Please get back in my life.
genre: romance/angst
summary: Falling in love was never in the plan; luckily, they each understand.
A-Side Tracks: I was just about to fall [back] asleep (at 5:15 in the morning when Sasuke's first line popped into my head. Nearly screamed at the ceiling, buuuut… didn't want to wake people up. So here you go. I tried some strange omniscient thing, so I apologize if it's nonsensical, but there you go.
The gate is behind the hospital. It is two blocks of a pale limestone, closely bookending the cobblestone wall. She imagines that the two columns used to be obelisks fashioned by classic architects, jealous of the real classic architects and too jealous to make anything that would outlast their intentions.
A strategically placed bush shields him and her from view as he leans against the gate and she perches between wall stones. He knows these walls - had spent hours here as his mother pulled shifts and father international trips for business - and had known he would grow here since he was a child. Second sons and all that - not so in-the-past as some might think. He supposes he's lucky he never wanted his brother's draw in the first place.
"I'm not going to fall in love here," he tells her. He has too many plans, you know, with no room for love and she is a blip. Without a doubt, he is enchanted by the curve of her shoulder, tempted by the smooth indent of her waist, dazzled by the green wit of her eyes, but he does not love her. After all, she had only intruded on his life plan three years before. A very nice blip, though, he thinks almost wistfully, very clinically.
He tastes like smoke and friction, she thinks, with his lips a hairbreadth away. She calls Ino about him at night - the growling croon of his voice mid-thrust, the way he settles on his 's's and rolls his tongue across his upper teeth in thought, the twitch of his bicep when she curls her arm through his. Her best friends tease her, but she says he's only a fling, that he understands this. He is a busy bee and she suspects there is no love in a hive when everything is all about sustaining and building at any cost. There is simply no time. He is her evidence.
To him, she tastes like cinders. He thinks it's about time the clock struck midnight before he falls into a twisted fairytale. If he packs up his bags soon enough, he can escape before the prince picks up the crystal slipper. If he let her go in time, if he fills out his dance card, if he bows out…
Her legs neatly fall between his, rainbow-dotted scrubs over the plain blue. She can only see the line of his necklace, not the dangling fan that situates itself over his heart. "Growing the flames of passion," she laughed once as she dragged her sweaty naked body against his.
"Hatred and love," he corrected her.
Chin resting directly south of his clavicle and finger pinning the bauble to his heartbeat, she said, "Same difference, right?"
This is not his plan, he thinks, has never been his plan. "I'm not planning on falling in love here," he says slowly.
Still, she says nothing. What is there to say, she wonders. More likely, what did he want her to say? Did he expect tears, declarations of love? She didn't even know if he wanted them or was looking for an excuse to stay.
Far be it her job to keep him here, she decides. They are doctors-in-training, not children. Perhaps they are the last obstacles standing between life and death, but their job is to know when to drop the scalpel and the gloves. Her heart seizes for a moment, but it doesn't shudder through her lips. It is all too flammable and she can see his expectation in his eyes for something - a meltdown, perhaps. She can admit to the acute pain, like a toothache going straight to the jaw, but she's always been the sort to yank things out by the root. It isn't like she hadn't known where things were going.
He stares at the space between her eyes. Head tilted slightly to the side, her bangs fall forward even as she keeps brushing them back. She is an unblinking blip, too much understanding in her eyes, and he hates her for it. She opens her mouth in a pause. She hesitates, leans forward. Their mouths brush as she figures out what to say. Her eyes remind him of that game show wheel, turning and clicking as they draw closer to some truth.
They breathe each other until his ride pulls up.
Watching him pile his things in the trunk, she knows he's not the revelatory type. "Thank you," she says as he closes the passenger door, hoping he knows what she means.
The last she sees of him are fingerprints pressed against the window.
B-Side Tracks: And there you have it. I know, I tried this weird kinda omniscient thing. Thoughts?