Forget Me Not
By Danyu
If he could say all the things he could never say, if he could do all the things he could never do, if he could let go of pride and vanity and power, he would. If he could just go back…
If he could, he would tell this girl how much he regretted walking away, that he was sorry for his indifferent silence, his cold shoulder. He would tell the girl with the warm heart and steely determination how proud of her he really was.
If he could, he would tell this boy beside him again and again how sorry he was, he would take back all the pain, all the hurt, all the angry words and violence. If he could, he would tell him of all his longings, his hopes, all the pain and sadness of the past. He would tell him what he truly meant, that he was friend, brother, lover, anything and everything in his world. He would tell him how much he treasured each friendly touch and each sunny smile.
If he could, he would say how sick he was of being the avenger, the last remaining member of his clan. If he could, he would make clear how vengeance was a cold bedmate, and how much he longed for their warmth to return into his life.
But these things, he could not say, for he lay prostrate across the ground, unmoving, unseeing.
xx
If he could say all the things he could never say, if he could do all the things he could never do, if he could let go of pride and fear, he would. If he could change things…
If he could, he would tell this boy how sorry he was, how much he meant to him, as friend, brother, lover, how incomplete he felt without him there, how empty he felt in the aftermath of their last battle. If he could, he would tell him how he treasured each sly smirk and off-hand comment, each hesitant glance and awkward talk. If he could, he would tell him his confusion and his hurt, and his utter understanding the moment he realized when he had become everything.
If he could, he would tell this girl again and again that he was sorry, that he was not strong enough, not careful enough, and not powerful enough to keep his promise. He would say he was sorry for being so foolish, that he was sorry for foolish dreams and hopes, and he was finally ready to let them go. He would tell her that even in his failures, the one thing that had not waned was his love for her, and that was something that would not die.
If he could, he would say how sick he was of hiding, of being an outsider. If he could, he would make clear how regret was a cold bedmate, and how much he longing for the sense of belonging they gave him.
But these things, he could not say, as he cradled the limp form of this boy in his arms, his vision obscured by tears, and he told this girl again and again how sorry he was, even as he slashed his kunai across his throat, and fell across the body of the dark-haired boy.
xx
All these things, they did not say, but still she heard them.
All these things, she could bring herself to say, as she buried their hitai-ate under their favorite tree where they once trained as an unbroken team.
Because she could, she sat the memorial site, and she told these boys everything she had wanted to say before. How they were her inspiration, her hope, her comfort and her pain. How she loved them both, and could never consider choosing between them now because they were like two halves of a whole; if one was absent, she felt the emptiness left him even at the side of the other. She told them how loneliness was a cold bedmate, and she longed to be sheltered by their strength once more, and with them both gone, she had never felt so numb or empty.
It would be ten years before she finally married and started a family. Her husband was a man who had always given the three things she needed most from those two: strength, understanding, and love. It came as no surprise to him, nor brought any protest, when their firstborn children, twin sons, bore the names of her fallen comrades. He offers no protest, for the children born to them later down the line, proud sons and pretty daughters, are named for his dead teammates as well.
Spring comes to the shinobi village, and as the sakura blooms and fills the air with the sweet fragrance, she leads her boys by the hands to visit the memorial stone. Soft faced boys with wispy dark hair, green eyes, and identical features stare in wonder at their names etched into the smooth stone, and she smiles as she hugs them close, telling them the story of the two men who forever changed her life. It takes effort to hold back the tears, but she is shinobi, and she is strong. She does not falter in her storytelling.
For if there was nothing else she could give them, she could still give them this: that they would never be forgotten.