No one else will travel through the shadow with me,
only you, ever-living, ever-sun, ever-moon.
"Room four is free" says the innkeeper to the young woman, a little bit to quickly, not quite meeting the eyes of the foreigners. He can smell and see the blood in their rigid stances. Soldiers, no doubt, from the front. Konoha, which is oh so very far away.
Behind the young female ninja, her partner, a man with one eye levels him with intent. He looks exhausted, but there is kindness, the keeper thinks, in his eyes. One of his hands linger on the shoulder of his partner for a second as she steps closer to the desk to sign the guestbook.
"Do you have running water?" rasps the girl, coughing a bit. The heat from which they escaped from is unbearable. Sweat travels from her hair, a crown of pink. The sweat curls in her cheek, making it look like the woman is crying. She has dust on her nose, something they should all smile about, were it not for the sadness in her eyes.
"It will work for five minutes so you'll have to be quick."
Needless to say; water supplies have been cut off. The conduits were blown to bit three weeks ago. The girl nods, knows. Such is the nature of war.
She looks back at her companion and begins to head towards the stairs. The man with one eye thanks him, then follows the girl.
What awaits them, is a laughably casual room, with one huge tatami mat just under the small, etched window. A philodendron in the corner. Ancient yellow curtains smelling like smoke and walls looking rice-paper thin. The woman sighs. The man checks the entrances and the small drawer across the plant. But he, too, appreciates the normalcy, finds comfort in this banally conventional interior. The girl can see that the way his hands cease to run into his hair.
"Shower. Now." the girl says, and tosses herself gently into the back of the man, who hums in agreement.
They strip with methodical acumen, logical willingness, not yet in the bathroom, but between the tatami and the plant. Holding and treating their bodies as instruments seem to come naturally to these two. The man with snow-soft hair has a long scar running down his face and his belly, old wounds, familiar stretches. Yet as he peels his boots and gloves off, the skin under his left eye - the one halved by a scar - jumps. There are new wounds, and it would appear that they are a bit too fresh to ignore. His stubble is a week old.
Next to her, facing him, the girl with the flower-petal locks seems exhausted beyond the day. She is younger, still, a woman of war. This is obvious, the way she is examining her hands - hands that lack softness - as she uncoils her tunic. The belt and the bindings around the curve of her breasts, the arc of her hips follow the dress onto the grime, the dust of the wooden floor. It does not matter, not really: all of her clothing seems to be bloodied, a sign that she has been on the front half a day ago.
An eternity ago.
Finally, the bathroom. It feels crowded with the two of them standing in it, all revealed and tired and shameless in their nakedness. Then the woman of war lets the man with the strange eyes lean on her shoulders as he helps himself into the tub. He winces and she does not blush at the contact. They do look at each other with a certain soft wistfulness though, a light entrancement as she follows him; eager for cleansing.
Steam rises. Hot water starts running, running, running in big, fat, warm droplets and they do not speak as it trickles down, tickling their bodies. Dirt and blood and maybe some guilt and worry, too, leave their clockwork muscles, all knotted from the fight. There is an inaudible sigh, a nonverbal, mutual ecstasy of relief in their shared spaces. Purity is luxury in their trade.
No, not words, but a single bar of soap is all that travels back and fro; all they want and need to share now. She might have been pickier when younger and he might have made a remark or two by now, but this summer evening is austere, the war is in their marrows now, heavy and sharp. The woman wonders whether they should sleep with windows open tonight. The man wonders whether they will be able to sleep at all. Battles, after all, write their curses onto the skin of their dreams and it is no easy task to erase or smooth them. There is no peace in war. These moments thus become powerful.
Small blessings, such as these: a hot shower, a roof above their head, something to sleep on.
Blessings, like him bowing his head, hand curled in a tent above his eyes, so she can soap his hair, washing the thick-wire curls with routine and care. She massages the foam into his scalp and temple, careful not to get any in his eyes. Her fingers are full of ridges, holy hands, full of scars. Holy things are, after all, hard things.
After washing off the froth, another blessing, him holding her as she scrubs the soles of her feet, intent of bidding goodbye to the tiniest of scrubs. Until nothing remains but the zigzag way her body tanned weeks ago. There is a click, signalling there is not much time left.
The woman straightens up, puts her other hand onto the man's shoulder. Steam rises still, and in the fog, the two figure embrace each other, as if wanting to wash each other's back, but really, it is a mutual exhale of grace. Time does not stop. War does not stop. They are alive and the water stops. And they do not let go of each other.
Only when they start shivering - the water drops are now ice on their bodies - do they lift their heads up. The man's arms are longer, so he is the one clasping the towel while she steps out and helps him again, and now, now there is more in the way she fastens her hand, more than relief in the way he relies on her help, because the pain is here again, although water made him forget.
She makes him sit on the brink of the tube, and drapes the towel from his hands to his head and starts to ruffle it until it resembles a nest. They both reward it with a small smile. A familiarity. He helps her drying her back, making great circles, carving a mishmash symbol onto her spine. It makes the young woman tilt her head, chuckle.
There is some water leaking from the tap as they head back to the bed. The sun is setting and there is a strange mixture of scents in the room already, something like ozone and that heavy earthly odor they both miss dearly. The man does not bother with dressing again. After stuffing their uniforms back into his bag, he stretches on the mattress and closes his eyes.
"I am opening the windows" says the girl softly, putting on a fresh tunic, all white, immaculate. Her companion lulls. The sun is setting, although there are clouds in the horizon, shielding the orb, shadowing its presence.
Drawing the curtains, Sakura is calm now, knowing the light won't disturb them in their sleep. Her limbs feel eternal-heavy, but when Kakashi draws her closer with one extended arm, relief comes easy, her head is clearer.
"We got lucky" he mumbles.
"I didn't heal you."
"Later, Sakura" he says, and still, forces to open his eyes to see her face, before sleep weighs him down. Such is the nature of love. "Let's sleep now."
She smiles and caresses his elbow, heavy lidded with fatigue.
"See you."
They close their eyes, buried in the embrace, hopeful the nightmares won't come to hunt and knowing that even if they do, the other will be there to anchor the fright.
Kakashi starts to snore, light and content. Sakura adjusts the cover on their bodies.
There is a rumble. The sky opens up. Rain pours down.
Serenity awaits them both.