And then there is no more war, no more death, no more horror, and Sakura is left to rest among the others; not for long, though, not long enough for her to pick herself up again, not long enough to put herself back together correctly, like she used to belong. It's a pity, because she'll stay like this until the end of her days - after all, there is not enough time in the whole world for her to catch up with herself, but she does not allow herself to regret; not anymore.
Konoha is brought back to life, rebuild, reanimated. Sakura looks at the destruction everywhere around her and she knows - there are cracks that can't be fixed no matter how you try, things that are forever lost and will never return. I want to help, mother, she whispers to her parents' grave, but I can't. No matter what I do, I won't bring back the dead. And as for the living - for the living, she can not do much either: Sakura heals the body, not the soul.
Everything feels wrong. Now you can live, they're told, and Sakura wonders - how? It seems she is the only one having this much trouble, which makes it all feel even worse: for everyone else, life slowly gets back to normal, to the way it used to be. Not for Sakura; it is quite obvious that she is still far from normal, far too different and detached both from herself and the others. Even so, her former classmates - now friends - are kind to her, and sometimes she even feels as if they understand; at the end of the day, they all are scarred by the war, they've all lost in one way or another. They invite her to places, smothering her with sincere compassion and warm gestures. It's a treatment she doesn't deserve: still, she tries her best to be grateful, even though she has to admit that it is not working very well. Their company feels like a chore, a lovable and a familiar one, perhaps, but a chore nevertheless. Sakura can't help but wonder - when will they finally see that she is nothing but a ghost, out of place and not belonging, that all their efforts are ultimately pointless? When will they finally give up? It doesn't seem like it's going to happen anytime soon, which leaves her feeling strangely aching and conflicted. Rock Lee smiles at her with the patience of a saint, his head bowing slightly, almost as if in prayer; Kiba makes her pet his dogs, claiming that it's the best medicine of them all, the playfulness of his statement not failing to amuse her. Naruto holds her hand, sometimes, and that does make her feel less alone, but then he's the Hokage and with Hinata too - and the place Sakura has in his life begins to shrink both in size and importance.
There are children following her, boys and girls, eyes full of hope and determination. We heard about your power, they tell her, please tutor us, Sakura-sensei. They're eager to devote their lives to their beloved village. It's a noble cause - the one that makes her feel terrified; their words are of those who were not raised by people, but by war. When she feels their gaze on her back, she almost shivers under the weight of their expectations. Their admiration is covering her body like yet another layer of skin.
This is what you used to want, Sakura thinks, staring at her reflection in the mirror, the fame, the gratitude, the recognition. It was foolish of her. She knows she can't have this responsibility. She pleads to Tsunade (you are a much better teacher, I am not ready, please help me), who sends Sakura off, looking very pleased.
"They didn't ask for me," she says, "they need you: it's an honor you can't refuse. Your reputation is now independent of mine. I am very proud of you, Sakura - and you should definitely be too."
But Sakura is not. She is not proud or glad or anything else: lately, she has been nothing but tired.
Yet when she finally arrives home, she can't fall asleep. She sits at the edge of her bed, restless, and thinks about nothing. Child soldiers, her reflection whispers softly. You could teach them to heal, not to kill. She stares at the mirror, admiring the shadow that her body has become; then she lies down, eyes wide open, and waits for the morning.
Before the war, Sakura used to wonder who will Ino settle down with when she's older. She had no doubts that she'll want a family: the Yamanaka clan needs an heir - it relies on Ino, who doesn't mind the responsibility. Sakura struggled to think of a boy who deserved her feelings: she never believed her infuriation with Sasuke, because Ino does not fall in love like that, in a way so easy and shallow. Perhaps Shikamaru, she remembers thinking as she saw the two of them bickering like small kids, Ino's hand on Shikamaru's wrist, twinkling eyes and curled lips. She remembers thinking about how grown up they looked, after Asuma has died - not in the body, but in the soul, hardened by pain and sadness, yet still warm and tender and sincere. Shikamaru was never handsome, not in the way Ino or Sasuke is, but he has a rugged charm to him, a kind of silent beauty, a tired look that speaks of a patient mind, the one that only comes with adulthood. No matter what Ino pretended to be, she was always good at seeing people through. Shikamaru has a lot of strengths and if there is a person who can appreciate them, it definitely would be her.
One day Sakura is proven wrong once again, however. She's crossing a busy street, not even realizing that it's the one Ino lives in, and when she notices the familiar platinum blonde shade, it's only natural she looks: it is nothing more than a quick shinobi reflex born from coincidence. That's when she sees them standing in the Yamanaka shop - once Ino's father's, now hers alone (her mother is never around anymore, what happened to her, Sakura doesn't know) - her, Ino, tall and thin like a flower in bloom. She's leaning in, eyes closed, eyelids fluttering, and there's - there's Chouji too, Chouji, who is holding her waist the way Ino is meant to be held; like a precious, perfect treasure. Sakura orders herself to look away, but she can't, even if she already know what exactly is happening before her eyes, even if she knows that her heart is about to break.
Their kiss lasts only for a moment, childlike in its innocence; in a second they're apart again, and then they're smiling, so happy and sincere it makes Sakura's blood run cold. The way they look - the way they move - like they're afraid to startle one another, their gestures slow and careful, honest - the way Ino runs her long fingers through Chouji's spiky hair afterward, familiar and loving. It's all too much for Sakura, so she turns away and keeps going, and as her steps keep getting faster and faster, she allows herself to catch her breath.
She thinks about Naruto's wide grin; the way Sasuke's eyes softened when he smiled. She thinks about them, her boys, her team, broken and shattered, never properly together, always divided and alone. Sakura looks at her hands, once small and delicate - now rough and ugly, stained with blood that will not wash out. She feels sick. Those fingers held flowers, a voice says, the ones Ino gave you. Your hands used to hold hers.
That was at least a lifetime ago.
Chouji and Ino are close, but no one knows - or so it seems. Sakura says nothing, of course. Their love is gentle and warm, mature in their silent tenderness; it is easy not to notice a relationship blooming so softly, but Sakura sees every single little thing: the looks, the brushing fingers, the hushed voices not devoid of friendly teasing; cheeks flushed, whispering, smiles that are not meant to be seen. Sakura keeps looking, watching with a strange kind of desperation and hope. She doesn't understand what she feels at the sight of them: there's a strange tightness nestled in her chest, but it's not exactly jealousy or anger, not like anything Sakura has ever felt before. She catches a glimpse of Ino's team sitting under a tree once, resting, Shikamaru and Chouji sleeping, Ino the only one awake. She is lifting her sharp chin, looking at the sky, fingers brushing against the ground; she looks soft and beautiful, almost otherworldly. Then Ino looks at Chouji, then at the sky again, then at the grass she's touching; she leans in and presses a quick kiss on Chouji's nose. It's a gesture so tender and simple it almost breaks Sakura's heart once again: she turns her face, swallows down the tears she hasn't cried in years and tries not to think about how she - how she wants-
It's a dangerous thought she doesn't want to pay attention to, so she keeps herself as distracted as possible. She focuses and trains more and she gets even better at everything she does, eventually. When she sees a flick of the familiar platinum strands shining on the Konoha streets, her traitor of a heart still flutters, but she keeps it all under control. You're stronger now, both you and your heart, her reflection murmurs as she stares in the mirror, raises her kunai and cuts her hair as short as she possibly can. She tries not to think about how Ino keeps hers long, all gorgeous and shining in the sun. Sometimes she puts flowers into her hair too, and it looks heartbreakingly beautiful, even sad, for there's no vanity in her actions: Ino is still mourning her father.
For a long time, nothing really changes. Everyone keeps moving on from the bad times; Tenten opens a weapon shop; Sai's expressions don't feel fake anymore; Ino grows and blooms and lives, and Sakura keeps watching, feeling her insides rot at the sight. Ino is happy - even content, in a calm, balanced way Sakura would never think possible, and to Sakura, it's a view so strange she can't help but look.
Sakura is in control, but she does manage to slip up once. You always thought of yourself as of a flower, her reflection whispers as she ties her headband swiftly, but it turns out that it is Ino who is one. Sakura gets angry and sad at the cruel remark. She doesn't really remember how, but she breaks the mirror; when she comes back to her senses, she can't help but feel terribly sorry. As she looks at the shards, hundreds of Sakuras stare back, knuckles wet with blood, and suddenly she doesn't know which is the real one.
It takes her an hour to clean up the whole mess.
A small, almost non-existent part of Sakura thinks of revenge, but it's an idle thought, no malice, no rage, no real intention or cause; she is too tired for that kind of thing, way too old. She doesn't want to hurt Ino anyways, why would I, Sakura says to her empty apartment, slightly remorseful that she has no mirror to talk to. Sakura almost doesn't notice when Sasuke comes back from his travels, not until he shows up at her door and proposes to her, eyes dark and blank. (She should probably be surprised, but she is not, somehow.) Sakura doesn't give him an answer until she goes to a store and gets a new mirror and places it where her old one used to stand. He doesn't love me, she tells her reflection, yet here he is. She thinks and thinks and thinks - until she makes a decision, finally: a resigned one. Sakura feels vaguely disappointed both with him and herself, but she doesn't really mind the feeling: she has had it worse.
"Fine," she says. "Let's marry." She tries not to notice the way Sasuke's face stays emotionless at her answer, the careful nothingness in his features still and lifeless. He looks terrible, almost not alive; if Sakura was to be honest with herself, she'd admit that she almost didn't recognize him when she saw him standing on her porch. My husband, a man of many quiet deaths. She's seen him die countless times - the last time, actually, happened not so long ago: to be exact, it was when Naruto stopped by to congratulate on their marriage. He slapped Sasuke on his shoulder (the left one), pecked Sakura on the cheek, and passed them invites to his and Hinata's wedding ceremony. He didn't linger around - Hokage duties, you know? - and that probably would be okay if it wasn't the first time Naruto faced Sasuke since the latter has returned to the village. This way it's everything but fine, so much that Sakura considers lashing out at both of them - but then she catches Sasuke's gaze, blank as always, and the feeling goes away. She understands him all too well these days, yet she offers him no sympathy. We deserve this, she thinks. Yes, we both do.
Naruto's ceremony is nice: happiness looks gorgeous on Hinata, and her dress is absolutely stunning. There are rumors of her pregnancy, but the newlyweds neither confirm or deny them, smiling mysteriously when asked. Sakura and Sasuke leave the party early, unnoticed, and they walk home in absolute silence, watched over by the clear night sky. Unlike their teammate, they don't celebrate their union at all. They're together and they sleep in the same bed, but they're strangers: neither one touches the other for months. They spend their wedding night away from home, both working late.
They live in silence, but not an empty one. Truth be told, there's still a lot of feelings between them, but they're all dead and buried; Sakura lets them rest.
All would be well, but one day she makes yet another decision. She waits for Sasuke to get home, and when he does, he gives her an odd look; Sakura pretends not to notice, so he heads straight to bed. She follows him, and when they're both in their bedroom, she grabs him by his shoulder and forces him to sit. His eyes widen in shock as she dresses down right before his eyes, movements swift like those of a soldier; there go the boots, then the shirt, belt and her pants, the underwear. When she's naked, she lifts her gaze and stares right back at Sasuke, unmoving, shivering slightly in the cold darkness of the room. She stands tall, as straight as humanly possible.
"Sakura," Sasuke says flatly, "what are you doing?"
"You always said you wanted an heir," she answers calmly. She watches Sasuke pale so quickly she almost worries he'll faint: he's still weak from his travel, from all the worry, from despair. She should be gentler with him, really - she hasn't seen him show this amount of emotion in years, after all - but she can't bring herself to, somehow. The soft moonlight suits his features, makes him seem younger and less sad; it brings back memories Sakura does not want to acknowledge. She stiffens, uncomfortable with her strange thoughts, and hardens her gaze.
"Not like this," he says, and Sakura hears, not with you. Understandable, but not sufficient. She braces herself and takes a step forward. Her body is a battlefield, full of scars, skin torn and imperfect, but she wears it with something almost akin to a pride. As she watches Sasuke turn his face away, she wonders if he can see the awful beauty of her old wounds, healed but always present, never truly gone. He lowers his head, hiding his eyes - and in the shadow of his long messy hair, he almost looks like his brother, the one he always strived to kill. She doesn't remember his name, but she doesn't really need to; he is long dead now, after all, murdered before the war.
Sakura grows impatient with the silence.
"You asked me to marry you," she reminds him, "so you must have known it will come to this eventually." He lifts his gaze at her at that, finally, his look strange, but not uncomfortable.
"I don't want you," he says, voice surprisingly soft and quiet, "and you don't want me." He's correct and that is not hard to admit. She sits next to him, finally, hands in her lap.
"This will be the same thing our marriage was, a formality," she replies. He shakes his head slowly, disagreeing.
"Let's sleep," he says and pulls a blanket over her legs. It's a warm gesture, somehow brotherly, but Sakura doesn't give into the tenderness of the moment; for some reason, it irritates her instead, a feeling sharp and sudden. It's so quick and ugly she almost gasps - her hand reaches out with admirable speed, acting entirely on impulse, grabbing his wrist and stopping him halfway through the movement.
Silence.
"Sasuke," she says, his name coming out way colder than intended. Sasuke freezes, obviously aware of the of the tension in her voice; she doesn't even notice how, but suddenly they're both on their feet, staring each other down with extreme caution. She expects the sudden shift in the atmosphere to startle her, but she feels vaguely amused instead; what a lovely couple we are, she thinks, laughing inside, ready to murder each other as soon as we have a single conversation.
"Look at us, Sasuke," she says sternly. "Look at what we are. I was fine with this for a long time, really, because it's the best both of us can do - but even I know we can't stay like this forever." She shifts her weight from foot to foot, the stance threatening. Her naked skin feels so hot it almost burns. "We can at least try to make this work. So please, cooperate."
"Why?" he asks, voice flat. "Fine, let's say I agree with you. We'll have a child. But what then, Sakura?" He pauses for a few seconds, gives her a blank look, and then turns to the door, clearly intending to leave. "In this family, their life would be nothing but suffering. It would only make everything even worse. Our lives are ruined, but that doesn't mean we have to ruin others', too."
She feels herself flush at his words. They sting because they're true. He's right. He's right, but she doesn't want to admit that, not now, not when she already got so far, not when she got through this humiliation. She offered herself to him, and he's declining. She won't let him treat her like that. She will not be degraded. That's why gets angry instead, hands balling into fists, nails cutting into her palm. She bares her teeth at his turned back and prepares to hurt him as bad as she possibly can.
"Naruto is gone," she spits out mercilessly. Just like she expected, Sasuke freezes on the spot instantly. "Gone. But you can't just admit that, right? Too much of a coward, aren't you. This is our life now, even if it's not to your liking. It's not to my liking either, in case you haven't noticed, but unlike you, I am willing to change. Maybe it's time for you to accept the way things are because it's already taking you too damn long. We're adults now, Sasuke, and we have responsibility. Whether you like it or not, we must take it."
He is not moving.
That's it. Suddenly Sakura feels nothing, nothing but pure hate towards the man in front of her; a feeling so dark and intense she lets out a silent growl. She feels cruel and full of rage, her body trembling, bitter words building up in the back of her throat. Damn this. Damn everything, damn me, damn you. I hate you so much, Uchiha Sasuke, so damn much.
I want to make you pay. "Naruto is with Hinata, not with you," she screams, her voice ringing in the silence of the night, "and there is not a single thing you can do about it!"
The whole world stills - but then the window curtains flutter gently, touched by the soft night breeze. That's when Sasuke hits her. Except he doesn't: she catches his fist purely by reflex, her movement sharp and quick. Their hands collide, and the feeling of each other's skin returns them to their senses; both halt their motion, bodies tense and shaking. They stare at each other, breathing fast and uneven; the heat of the moment is gone - as is the anger too, and Sakura is suddenly very aware of how cold she is, how hollow and tight her insides feel. I need it to stop. She doesn't want to fight anymore; she wants to hide somewhere she won't be found, somewhere dark and calm, a place where she will be safe and normal and alone; somewhere without Sasuke, or Ino, or Naruto, or the things they make her feel. She almost doesn't notice that her husband's irises are blood red, his eyes open wide and unblinking: when she finally does, she muffles a small sob and lets his hand go.
She steps back and puts her arms over her bare chest, fingers digging into her skin. Her cheeks are wet with tears, but she doesn't wipe them away - not until Sasuke turns away once again, goes out the front door, and leaves into the dark.
Needless to say, nothing changes. Sasuke is back home the next night: neither of them mentions anything about the previous one, both pretending to forget. Sakura begins to avoid not only Ino but Hinata too; the sight of her smile hurts just as much as Ino's does, even though it's for all the different reasons. Sakura works even harder, and as time passes by, she begins considering leading a team of her own, as per Tsunade's persistent advice - there are three children she sees a lot of potential in, two girls and a boy, all of them bright and tender and sincere, all the qualities Sakura secretly pines after. She is still hesitant, but less than before; it would scare her, probably, considering that she's always been a careful person in general, but it's so hard for her to care lately, as if everything that happened during that night wiped her heart clean and empty.
It's March, and then her birthday. She almost forgets, but much to her surprise, Sasuke doesn't. She probably would be flattered if she didn't doubt he remembered on his own. (Ino told him, I guess. Or could it be Sai?) To celebrate, Sasuke takes her out to a dinner with friends - which is nice, she supposes, but also strange in a way she finds hard to understand. As they're walking down the street on their way to a restaurant, Sakura firmly grips the bouquet he gave her as a birthday gift; she tries her best not to think about where the flowers came from or where he bought them, but it's a wasted effort - she fails almost immediately. She's completely given up trying by the time she begins wondering whether Ino is going to be waiting at the restaurant or not; lost in thought, she lifts her arm and picks a petal out of a red rose. Loves me, she thinks, slightly lightheaded and dizzy, loves me not. When she's done with the rose, she moves on to another flower, then another, and another.
As they get closer to their destination, Sasuke grabs her hand, the one she has been picking the petals with. She turns her head, slightly startled; that's when she notices her reflection in a nearby display case, watching Sakura with a stern stare, arms folded on her chest.
Dissapointing, a voice says. Sick in the head.
"Yes, I know," Sakura answers with a quiet laugh, "I know, I really do." The reflection shakes her head, obviously frustrated, and disappears out of Sakura's view. Sakura ignores Sasuke's concerned look and clenches the nearly-destroyed bouquet close to her heart; as she closes her eyes, she can hear the village whispering, its gaze glued to the trail of colorful petals tracing her path.