Disclaimer: Nope.
A/N: This was sort of rushed, I just wanted to type something really quick to celebrate the rekindling of my love for writing (and Naruto) and SWEET SAINT JOSEPHINE IT'S 1:11. …I need to be getting to bed now, dur. I've tried out a different style and…yeah, that's all.
Leave one – any kind of feedback is great! I love hearing from you guys about your reactions, so PLEASE do! It's the best gift you can give to any writer. (smiles)
Made of Paper
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"Sakura. Sakura. Sakura-chan."
He calls and, as usual, when she answers he feels that rush of excitement threading through his singing veins.
"…yeah, Naruto?"
Oh, how she's grown. She isn't a little girl now, she takes care of herself. Whether it's landing a vicious punch to a man's face or cooking a batch of mean home-made ramen or bleeding all over and healing the wounded or reading bedtime stories to the kids at the hospital or even retreating into a protective façade whenever she is hurting inside.
But he knew, he knew. He may still act like the goofball from six years ago but he had gained a sensitivity to the people he cared for. He knew that shield was nothing more than an eggshell, and he could see the pain through the cracks. Nothing more than a glass house.
"…are you…alright?"
He looks at her back nowadays, at the form of her shoulder blades shaping her red shirt. He sees her sinewy arms, and her shadow-gloved fists propped on one hip in a confident manner. Her lean, powerful legs sheathed in shadow.
"Yes." It comes out tight. Bitten and chewed and spitted out like a bad aftertaste.
Right now, she has the back of her neck to the moon and her arms around her bare legs. She is contorted into a position of self-preservation; her eyes, the most expressive part of her, is smothered into her arms.
Let me see your face.
She is stronger, yes. Fiercer, no doubt. An intensely willful woman when one crosses her, as he witnessed once.
But no matter how much a person changes, no matter how great the transformation and self-realization may be, the composition stays the same.
And she, she who was made of paper, is still made of paper.
"Sakura-chan, look at me." He says it gently, persuasively, warily. His eyes, a compelling and vivid blue, beam into whatever they touch. They touch her now, for he was afraid of what the physical action would lead to.
But she doesn't respond, and he despairs.
"Sakura-chan, look at me." Firmer, louder. Still his eyes touch her cradled form.
If she is torn, he would tear as well. How could he tape back the pieces?
"Sakura." No beating around the bush now, no more shit. He is serious, determined, and wants an answer now.
She sniffs.
He freezes at the sound, his blood chills and turns into sand, stopping all functions and he can't think anymore because shit she is crying. Sakura, Sakura, Sakura the Independent Woman, Sakura the Sun, Sakura the Take-No-Prisoners.
Her ball-shaped form shakes like a leaf – but only for a second and if he had closed his eyes he would have surely missed it.
He knows she is gritting her teeth, digging her naked nails into her skin, biting her lip until it bleeds and she can't feel so she could damn it stop crying.
She sniffs again, this time it lasts a little longer. She's at her limit, she's going to rip apart.
"Naruto…"
He flinched, couldn't help it. Conflicting emotions battled in his mind and heart, and a hundred voices yelling at the same time, one screaming to comfort her, the other screaming to pat her back, the other screaming to hug her, kiss her, something, anything – but God, he can't think and his hands fall limply to his sides as if they were cut from the shoulders.
"He…he died…" she says, her voice as soft as a feather but as crushing as a rock. "What do I do? I…" she tries to continue, and the shudders come back.
"I couldn't save him."
Against her iron will, a tiny sob escaped from her throat and that was the end of his insecurity.
"I'm a medic. I'm supposed to save people. So tell me…tell me…tell me…why couldn't I save him?"
And the barriers break down – he rushes to her side now, enveloping her trembling figure into his firm arms, his warm chest, his drawn face, smothers her in physical affection because he was never the suave guy, never Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome who knew just what to say. Because showing his love was all he could ever do.
He feels how cold her arms have become and covers them with his own. He sees how her bloodless her lips are and kisses them back to life. He notes how her pink strands cling to her face with her wet tears; he moves her hair away and brushes the sad drops, erasing their existence and turning back time.
"I love you," his arms say as he gives her his warmth.
"I love you," his lips say as he restores her life.
"I love you," his fingers say as he offers her his touch.
She hasn't moved yet; hasn't made another sound. But her body begins to slacken and relax, her cries reduce to soft sighs, her arms loosen from their constricting hold. And slowly, slowly, she leans into him.
"I love you."
He brings her closer to him and circles his arms around her; his heart lights up as she accepts, and lays her head onto his chest.
"I love you."
He gently rocks her, the rhythmic beating of his heart serving as her consoling lullaby.
"I love you."
He fell so fast he didn't feel the crash.
A/N: I know some people will be wondering if the person who Sakura couldn't save was anyone important – the answer is no, it's no one special. I'm placing more emphasis on the interaction and moment itself.
As always, thanks for reading!