Wow. It's been years (not an exaggeration) since I've been active on this site. I can't explain it, but after spending so much time reading the work of others, I was randomly inspired to get back into the game. I hope you like what I've returned with.
This story is mildly inspired by Jack White's song 'Love Interrupted,' but its influence will not come until slightly later.
Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto nor anything it encompasses.
It was evening when she saw him.
The morning brought the smell of a world washed away by yesterday's rain and the birds shook the remnants of the past with a fluff of their silken feathers. Droplets fell from tree leaves as if the beings themselves shivered from the sun's reluctant rising. White mist clung to the pale glow on the horizon, and Sakura brushed her hair while watching the world stir.
Tracing her fingertips along the ground to catch the grass's dew, she rubbed her eyes with the wet earth and contemplated the day's callings. Today was the day to settle. Today was the day to find her own place.
The sun watched her stow away her travel supplies for what she hoped to be the last time. Shards of grass clung to her smooth ankles and she refrained from batting them away just to relish in the simplicity. The normalcy. The kunoichi couldn't remember the last time she had felt so utterly human.
A quick wash in a nearby river and fresh change of clothes only helped to lighten the mood. The air was sweet, the sunshine gentle, and the earth seemed to hum along to the songs she mused in her mind. The clink of her kunai belt against her hipbone was the only thing to remove her head from the clouds.
It seemed a rare occurrence these days that missions brought her anything but headaches. She'd enjoy the spare moments with just herself and the sun and the leaves and the crisp morning air. She'd forgotten, if just for a moment, that her sense of security was nothing more than a symptom. A detail, unnecessary, that had more to do with her surroundings than with her mindset. The bitter truth grounded her like an anchor, and absently she tucked her shoulder-length hair behind the shell of her ear, pondering the morning rituals of other, more energetic peoples.
Since the end of the war three years previous, the fire and spirit that Sakura once held for missions seemed to have vacated her body along the route to victory. Where there was once a thrill and passion to serve her country now lay a barren plain of dark memories, all ready for harvest at the flick of the wrist. Occasionally she would relish in her own somber habits, biting into the sour fruit of her many years labor. The war was never really "won." Not when so many were lost in the forests and the tunnels and the fires. Sakura thought of Neji, his kind white eyes roaming appreciatively over the taijutsu poses in which he tutored her, the silken nature of his unbound hair when she'd find him sprawled, flat-backed on the wooden floor of his home during a session of his rather eccentric meditation. She recalled his gentle laugh, which he often hid. His fondness for the time just before sunrise when wetness still filled the air before settling on the ground. The warmth beyond his strength, the honesty within his testaments, the honor of his love.
Others trailed the Hyuuga. Chouji, always an underdog of sorts. Kiba, who protected Akamaru to the bitter end and took an axe to the back just so his companion wouldn't have to suffer in that way; so the young man himself would never have to know a day without his best friend by his side. TenTen, although she'd died in a different way, left to wither with both legs disabled and a heart that could never fully heal from the loss of her white-eyed companion. Shikamaru had eloped long ago to Suna to raise a little girl that Temari left in her wake, her paternal heritage still unknown and unbreached. Ino, alone. Hinata, still so quiet and fret with nerves. The rest of Rookie Nine that remained pedaled along as well as they could, baring the bitterness of the days and the winds of slow, struggling change. Life in Konoha never grew back as sweet as she'd remembered before being destroyed by the war. And so she pushed on, not because her will propelled her but because what other choice would she have? Die, and leave Naruto with another wasted life to haunt his remaining days? She couldn't. For him, she proceeded with every meager second that ticked by. Naruto alone lent her the power to crawl on, and she would not - could not undermine that privilege.
And so it was that such valiance to live on was rewarded by her most cherished teacher, Kakashi-sensei, who'd tagged on a three-week "investigation period" to a B-rank mission already overdramatized by the weight of its ranking. A need for a vacation was evident. Upon her return Sakura swore she would find a way to thank the mysterious old man.
The mission: to gather information on a travelling faction of unmarked shinobi withholding some sort of contraband ripped from its roots in Iwagakure. Supposedly an elderly decrepit woman resided in some small town along the border of Fire and Rock, the grandson of whom may or may not be the suspected leader of the thieving band in question. While normally Konoha would hardly bat an eye at the word of trouble stirring in Iwa, their new Tsuchikage, Kurotsuchi, still struggled to maintain the reigns on her people and military and practically begged Konoha for assistance. The grudge between Suna and Iwa still ran too deep for Gaara's shinobi to be of much help, and so Kakashi seized the opportunity for what it was.
It was a habit of hers to arrive early. The consultation with the elderly woman was scheduled for noon tomorrow and only now had day broken on the morning prior. Natural beauty taunted her from every direction, the world but a compass singing gentle songs from every letter upon its face. A waterfall flung mist above the canopies somewhere upriver, clouding out the eyes of birds and men and leaving them faceless in the undergrowth. Farther north, the grasses and waters gave out to the rocky terrain of Earth Country, and the east and west provided a horizon of verdurous foliage. Sakura wondered the condition of the villages that lay in these respective directions: of Grasses, Waterfalls, and Stones. She wondered at their structures and their economies and their peoples. She remarked, half-heartedly, if their villages held a single woman, just like her, surviving through the encouragements of others but still dying, slowly and surely, from the rampant disappointment concealed within themselves.
At 23, she could be doing more. Should be doing more. The hospital kept her for long periods of time without apology. Constantly the single monument stole away the time she'd intended to spend on other talents. Sakura had hoped to amount to some of the achievements adopted by her fallen brethren; she'd planned to do the things that Strong Sakura, Post-War Sakura was supposed to accomplish. Surpass Tokubetsu Jounin status and join ANBU, guide Naruto into dreams of Hokage, make Tsunade proud, shrink the degree of debt the hospital owed and the mortality rate both simultaneously and exponentially. Fall in love. Father children to a man that didn't haunt the fragile structure of her childhood. Visit Dad more, before he got sick, but ultimately still don't visit enough once the beans were spilled. Not be late to the funeral. Act surprised when her mother grew too weak to go on and then practiced old fire jutsus with carelessness, landing her in her own grave. Remark on the normalcy of life as a village hero, tailed eternally by the village idiot. The kunoichi failed at all of these self-assigned tasks to some varying degrees, but she recognized that regardless of their individual severities, the outcome remained the same: she was not the Sakura that was meant to be.
Dissatisfaction was second nature to her now. In the morning she ate her egg whites with a grimace, took her evening jogs with the beginning of a bad mood stirring in her abdomen. Hinata had taught her the word for this - Altschmerz. The same insecurities and problems and flaws that gnawed at her even in her genin days, following her into adulthood and knotting the muscles she spent years trying to detangle. The dainty-voiced Hyuuga had whispered to her the diagnosis while the two friends sipped habitually on cups of steaming oolong. Her petal pink hair had drooped in response to the explanation, as if the fibers of her body had tried so long to resist blowing their cover. And with a single word the strength gave out, the will to pretend that victory had no consequences. That broken hearts would mend in time if she just waited a little longer, a little longer. That late at night when she turned her back on progression and stared into the overcasting midnight, remembering when the grass she walked upon stained her ankles red, pretending she didn't think about a dark-eyed young man, alone, stalking through the wilderness. That all of it, the culmination of all the things that future was supposed to be but wasn't, didn't hurt her more every day.
The final clasp of her pack echoed off the bark of a nearby tree. The weight of her belongings along the muscles of her back felt comforting. She pondered a more nomadic life as she picked her way back into the wispy forest that clung to the riverside, deciding that it wouldn't hurt to spend the daytime washing her clothes with too much care and relishing in a pleasant brand of loneliness.
Maybe she didn't deserve this vacation. But even if she hadn't yet earned it, as the water slithered along rocks and jumped to splash against her bare calves, she realized how much she needed this.
It was evening when he saw her.
The day was uncrowded. He'd stuck to some traditional training, chopped down a dead tree or two a few yards behind the buildings of his small apartment complex, tidied some hedges on the south entrance and then strolled lazily into downtown, barely five miles east, favoring the dark silt that crumbled into a haphazard, narrow road over the blushing sunset. For the sake of something to do, he whispered his grocery list to himself over and over, until it was engrained - although it never really changed from visit to visit.
Tomatoes, rice, tuna, nori, dashi, fish paste.
Tomatoes, rice, tuna, nori, dashi, fish paste.
He grunted as he approached the edge of the marketplace, lights gradually flickering to life to wade off the oncoming night. The sandals somehow seemed more constricting on his feet when he remembered that he'd need more than his normal supply on this particular afternoon.
Flour, eggs, sugar, cream, berries.
Retrieving the items remained easy enough. Store owners recognized and respected Sasuke's preference for silent exchanges, polite nods, terse greetings. A loyal customer is a loyal customer, and they were willing to treat him the right way if it meant consistent patronage. Fewer women gawked at him than before, when he was younger and his face told less stories. Dark hair fell flatter and longer against the slopes of his angular face, eyes filled with ink but more open, in a way. After so many years of hiding, the possibility of being discovered seemed slim. It occurred to him that search parties on his behalf probably ceased long ago. Every part of the young shinobi's being felt so withered from such tireless escape, always moving at neck-break speed to avoid capture.
After defeating Itachi, all he thought he really needed was some time to think. Some time to himself. He was lonesome by nature - they knew this, all of the Leaf shinobi that hunted him for assorted reasons. Sasuke just wanted a little break, a little rest, a little complacency after murdering his own flesh and blood. But his behavior had been ruthless and misleading, he knew this now. Hindsight is always 20/20, and Sasuke spends as little time as he can manage from dwindling on thoughts of the past. It aged him, he knew, and the weariness that brushed the skin around his eyes was more telling now. He couldn't risk settling, couldn't risk in actually relishing in the thought of true freedom.
Nine months ago when he wondered for the first time since he'd first left Konoha if they had finally given up on bringing him home, he broke down in the kitchen, a sliced lemon in his hand. He cried for hours out of some mixture of relief and sorrow and anguish and pure, unadulterated joy. The townspeople looked through his eyes when he spoke, focused on other things and musings; young women smiled politely in his direction if they caught his eye upon them in the street but never anything more. Children continued to play and kick and laugh and scream even as the dark shadow of his silhouette glided by on the street. Sasuke had never felt so relieved to be no one.
Gathering the last of his new perishables, the amiable young man turned heel and paced calmly back the way he came.
And then, she was there.
Just across the market place against the backdrop of the hazy sun, which lingered so delicately along the brim of a sunhat she currently toyed with, scrunching her nose at the price tag and pressing the rough material between her slim fingers. Her hair brushed her nape under the conquest of a gentle wind and he could feel the winding of his Sharingan as he soaked in the splash of freckles on the bridge of her nose, the violet diamond hovering at the apex of her forehead, the gait with which she swayed against the horizon. And in that moment in which he stilled, in which he observed her just feet from his own more matured body, he knew she would see him. Her observation had always been keen and now he just waited, seconds turning into millennia until his whole world was captured between a set of strawberry-blonde eyelashes, drowning him in the only shade of green he could never truly forget and yet hardly remembered.
Sasuke doesn't say a word and neither does she. How could they? How could either of them do anything but stand interlocked in a situation so improbable, so completely impossible that for the first time in his life Sasuke considered slapping himself out of what could only most certainly be a dream? His character still remained cold and calculating at the core, but the years of loneliness, of travelling and running and hiding sat heavy atop his shoulders and at the sight of Sakura, of real, tangible Sakura, they leapt towards her familiarity. The air stilled in his lungs. She, too, simply watched, her arms frozen above her head as her fingers locked gently on the lithe fabric of the sunhat, neither party aware of the indifference with which the townspeople carried on around them.
Slowly she breaks eye contact, returning her attention to the elderly man stooped in front of her with eyes brimming with a fragile sheen of hope. The kunoichi smiles as if to reassure and her eyes crinkle in what he knows is politeness but what others would label as sincere joy, then gingerly returns the hat into the vendor's open palms. Maybe out of nerves or habit, she shuffles her sturdy nails through the bulk of her bangs, correcting them, and sidesteps the vendor before shifting her gaze to Sasuke once more.
To flee and never look back, to speak, to attack, to wait. The options pool into bottom of his throat and he wishes he could swallow without the fear of implying his nervousness. He hopes desperately that his face remains studious and distant under the attention of her eyes that are so alive of color and emotions that he forgot how to recognize years and years ago. And he still can't move. And he still can't speak. And he while he is mostly stunned he also feels the beginnings of fear pooling in the center of his stomach, afraid that the years of isolation and self-reconstruction he'd fought for over and over were inevitably destroyed by what appeared as a complete, asinine accident.
A wind chime sings in the breeze and the two shinobi continue to stare, their gazes occasionally flickering with the impeding body of a passerby. Sasuke hears the chatter of local merchants and the shrill laughter of children and the lazy guitar of a young woman sitting streetside, blue smoke curling from her mouth. He muses for a moment that he may have never been so aware of his surroundings in his entire life, and the potential threat to this lifestyle to which he has become so acclimated has all of the hairs on his arms standing and every muscle in his body on edge. He could pounce. He could kill her where she stands in the street with the kunai he always keeps strapped in the band of his pants. The possibilities raced, jutsus at his fingertips and illusions burning at the back of his eyes. Just a single movement from the kunoichi and he would leap, he would do attack to save himself.
Sakura glances away for just a moment at the shout of some group of males jesting over a round of sake, or perhaps at the repeated jostling of the wind chimes in the window of a storefront. Her gaze steadies there, to the left of Sasuke's tensing form, only for a handful of moments before she turns back to stare at him: fearlessly, wholeheartedly, purposefully.
And then, just as his calves tense up to pounce and the muscles in his forearms tense to grab the pale skin of her throat, Sakura turns and walks away.
Well, that's it. I know I change tenses and it isn't perfect and blah blah blah but it mostly just feels good to be back.
Please review and let me know if this story is something you would like to see continued! I appreciate the love and support more than you will ever know.
