A/N: My first tragedy ever. I like happy endings....oh well. Lol
"Sakura." His voice is crisp and clear and deep, the way it always is in any situation.
The response is the echoes of silence from her unmoving lips and the wind in the trees and scuffle of an unknown animal across the broken leaves. But he continues to wait for sound to break the silence.
It never comes.
She is just making him wait, like he made her wait for so many years, like he did for that eternity of years. That's what he thinks.
Obsidian eyes stare into the endless abyss of emerald that is her eyes, and he searches for that spark, that certain depth and glow that was Sakura. And he searches for that warm and aching gaze that never fails to pass through her eyes upon sight of him.
There is none.
She is just giving him that cold and empty stare, the one he gave her when she tossed a sparkling smile in his direction, the one that he gave her that put a jolt in her chest and sting in her throat. That's what he thinks.
Pale fingers dance across the unstrained contours of her face, along the graceful swoop of her nose, and pause, harsh and suddenly, on the soft pillow of her lips. And he waits for them to move, waits for soft words or bell-like laughter to spill from them.
Nothing comes.
She is just refusing to talk to him, giving him the cold shoulder like he gave her, refusing her the words of friendship and acknowledgment of love, the small words that could have created the greatest of happiness. That's what he thinks.
He pulls his fingers away and they are red, staining his impurity with her innocence, staining his immorality with her integrity. And he waits for her own hands to lift and wipe the blood from his, to heal the wounds his sins have created.
They do not.
She is just giving him grief, as he once gave her, as he once piled onto her delicate little shoulders until the weight of it all made her collapse and struggle to climb back up. That's what he thinks.
The wind picks up and tosses the vibrant strands of pink hair to the side, scattering thin strips of color into her face and giving some contrast to the ghastly paleness of it. And he waits for her chest to heave, as if the wind itself would once again give her breath.
It does not.
She is just giving him false hopes, hopes he once gave her, hopes that only applied further damage to the battered and broken light that was her soul. That's what he thinks.
The jet black strands of his hair fall into his face as he bows his head and refuses to look upon her tattered and blood spattered clothes any longer. They too blow with the wind, like small symbols of capitulation. He puts a fist to his chest and waits, waits for everything to make itself right.
It won't.
She is just making his heart hurt, making it pound to the vicious rhythm that also tore a painful breath from her body, making it crumble the way hers did. That's what he thinks.
Wide eyes, like coal, look up from the form of his fallen comrade, love, friend, and sweep the expanse of the battleground, burn furious, desolate, agonized holes into each of the dead bodies of the enemy nin. They are not bleeding, breathing, living. Look what they have done to his Sakura. The darkness of the surrounding forest closes in over his head, deep, deep, deep. The trees cage him in, shielding the stars, the light, condemning him. And he waits for Sakura to smile and bring back the light.
It remains dark.
She is making him see the darkness she saw, the blindness that made her fear and stumble and fall, the darkness that slowly infected her heart and made her cry, hurt, sink. That's what he thinks.
Shaking hands drift to her small wrists, and a thumb presses deep in it, searching and pleading for even the slightest vibration of a pulse. And he waits, waits for that single sign of life to appear.
It remains hidden.
She is just refusing him, refusing him like he refused her, refusing to give him the happiness that brought a deep ache to her bones as well as his. That's what he thinks.
So he reaches up to her chest, for the once warm heart that beat beneath it, and he feels nothing. The desolate and heavy silence crashes down on his head, and he suddenly finds it hard to breath. His hand is replaced with his ear, pressed intimately against the breast of the fallen kunoichi, searching and pleading and hurting, and he waits. Waits, waits, waits.
He will wait forever.
He knew Sakura Haruno would never be his, just as she thought Sasuke Uchiha would never be hers.
And she was wrong.
A/N: Well, that was depressing, but I actually kind of like it. I was bored and had the urge to write something, and this was the result of my word vomit. Haha. This is what happens when you wait too long. Tsk tsk Sasuke.