Disclaimer: Naruto and its characters all belong to Masashi Kishimoto.
edit 2/22/2013: This story was uploaded once before under my old pen-name "EnglishGuppy." Since then, I've both changed my pen-name and edited this story so I decided to re-upload it. Sorry for any confusion!
Taste
When they kissed, she often tasted the coppery tang of blood in his mouth. He hoped she wouldn't notice; in the beginning, he really thought she didn't.
But it became too obvious, too soon.
In the unsuspecting dead of the night, he would slide carefully out of bed and pad softly over to the bathroom, in fear of waking her. There, behind the safety of a bolted door, he'd cough and cough, violently, loud enough to rouse her from her sleep. She would hear the thick blood swishing in his lungs, hear the water run as he washed his blood-splattered hands. She would pretend to sleep when she heard the bathroom door unlock.
During the day, it was the same. He would force down the onslaught whenever he was with her, stifling it with his sleeves and his determination, until his forehead was damp, his chest heaving. He swore to himself that she didn't have to know, not yet.
But how could she not have known, she half-heartedly scolded him later. How could he ever try to fool her?
But with all her training in medical school, she was never able to figure out what was wrong. Under usual circumstances, her medical director never would have let one of her doctors treat someone so close, so personal to them. But for her, and only for her, she relented.
More often than not, she wished Tsunade hadn't. She wish she hadn't so she could not ever have made the biggest, the most costly mistake of her career and her life.
She remembered when they first met in college.
He was the brilliant older brother of her crush and best friend. She was in medical school.
He had originally intended to study philosophy, but was made to change his mind; his father wanted to leave the family business to him. He was the ideal leader: confident, observant, resourceful. His father was intensely proud of him; Sasuke desperately looked up to him.
And now, she had realized, Sasuke had realized, the business would fall into his unwelcoming hands.
They were both intelligent, passionate, kind; they were never too busy for each other. When Sakura had finally graduated, Itachi offered for her to move into his apartment. She gladly accepted. They lived together for one year.
If either had the ability to see into the future, they would have foreseen that in that same year, he would die. But, while bright, neither would have known it at the time, neither would have predicted it.
Since then, another year has passed.
Seven years they had known each other; he had promised her seventy more. ("Itachi, you liar.")
She never intended to date again, but her friends pressured her to move on. ("Sakura, you can't keep treating yourself like a widow.")
It was Sasuke who approached her first.
He found her at the bar, where she had a few too many drinks and was a little more than intoxicated. ("I hate seeing you in black.")
He kissed her; she didn't push him away.
She could not hate him, could not reject him; Sasuke loved his brother as much as she. Itachi had been someone strong enough for both of them to lean on. Without him, searching for support, they both collapsed onto each other, desperately clinging on.
Touch
She never realized how large the apartment was. And how empty.
But when she was alone, she felt him.
Sometimes, he would be next to her, sliding into his side of the bed, right by the window. He used to look quietly out that window when the pain in his chest prevented him from sleeping. She would often look over his broad shoulders as she wondered what he thought about.
Other times, she felt a familiar tingle down her spine as she dressed for work. She remembered how he used to run his hands up and down, down and up her back as he kissed her before they both left for the day.
She missed his hugs, his kisses, all those times they made love to each other. Most of all, she missed the accidental touches throughout the day that let her know he was there: a bump on the shoulder as they cleaned the dishes together, a graze of the knee as they watched t.v. on the couch, a warm chest pressed up against her back as they slept.
She would sit in the kitchen, frozen, unable to do anything but remember.
Some nights, when she missed him too much to fall asleep, she touched herself in bed. She willed her hands to remember how he touched her. She'd brush a finger softly across her lips, place a firm palm against her stomach. She closed her eyes to imagine his long hair spreading over his shoulders, grazing hers.
She stopped when she realized it only made her feel lonelier than before. Instead, she would roll over onto his side of the bed and look out the window.
She always tried to avoid touching Sasuke's hair when they kissed.
The first time her hands brushed the soft ends of his hair, so similar to his, she lost herself. Sasuke could do nothing but hold onto her as she cried.
Smell
They told her to throw his things away when he died. ("It's not healthy to cling to the dead.")
She kept his clothes, his books.
She slept on his pillow.
She drank from his cup.
She memorized all his favorite poems. ("...when we two parted in silence and tears...")
She wore his favorite shirt around the house so his aroma would encompass her.
She never used her perfume, even though it was his favorite one, in fear that its sugary, floral scent would overpower what was left of his.
She would bathe herself in his musk if she could, just so she could cling onto him for a little longer.
One night, as she lay wide awake in bed, she realized why his smell was sometimes so repulsively familiar: mixed with his was the smell of the hospital. It was so sterile, so numb.
She thought he must have brought it home from his many trips to the hospital. Never did it occur to her that she could have carried the smell home herself.
She laid in bed and breathed in deeply from his pillow.
The smell reminded her of his sickness, his death.
She got up from bed that moment, at two thirty-two in the morning, and cleaned and cleaned and cleaned until the smell of death was gone. Then, she went into their closet, buried her face into one his shirts she so often wore and cried and cried and cried.
She was drowning in tears, memories, and antiseptic.
See
They thought her grief had blinded her.
She often wished it had.
But she could see the looks of contempt. ("How can she just move on to another guy? His brother nonetheless.")
She could see the cautious stare of those who did not know how to approach the subject. ("I'm terribly sorry for your loss, Haruno-san.")
Perhaps worst of all, she could see the pity. She hated pity: it only served to claw another hole in what was left of her heart.
But she was such a pitiful creature.
Her clearest memory of his was when he was in the hospital.
It had hurt her so much to see a man who was once so strong, once her support, need tubes to help him breathe, a nurse to help him eat.
She had felt so helpless, unable to diagnose his disease and unable to treat him.
The last nine days of his life consisted of blood samples, hourly injections, and tears.
She cried, his family cried, his closest friends cried. The one with the long blonde hair looked at her through tear-reddened eyes as he left Itachi's room. ("He really loved you, ya know?")
And yet, despite his impending death, he never cried.
The only thing he requested was that his bed be moved closer to the window and for her to visit him everyday, if only for a little while. The latter was unnecessary; she would sit by him for hours until Tsunade pulled her back into her work.
When he died, she was clawing at his chest, screaming, crying, ("Poor thing," and "Is that how a doctor should behave?") until they pried her off of him and helped her to her office.
His funeral was attended only by those close to him, as befitting of a private man, his father had said while he watched them lower his eldest son, his pride, into the ground.
Hear
She visited his grave often.
After she read to him one of his favorite poems, she would tell him about her day. She spoke to him as if he wasn't six feet in the ground and they were still together in their cozy apartment, lying comfortably on the the couch after a long day.
When she was no longer able to picture his face clearly (she hated herself for this; it was so similar to Sasuke's) and she could not bear to look at their old photographs, she could still remember his voice. In his unmistakable low register, she remembered how he would mumble her name as he kissed her, would ask her what she'd like to eat for dinner, would apologize for his coming home late. She realized how she hated thinking of him in past tense and how it made her chest constrict.
She also realized, that unlike Sasuke, he had never been afraid, never been embarrassed to tell her he loved her.
When she was at his grave, she heard him clearest.
He would speak gently into her ear, say to her all the things he would always tell her when he was still alive. ("How was your day, Sakura?" "You are the most foolish girl I know, Sakura." "I love you, Sakura.")
She knew, if he could, he would tell her to move on. ("Don't hang on to old bones, Sakura." "It wasn't your fault, Sakura.")
When she visited his grave, she walked away a little freer.
Thanks for reading!
xx