It was against his nature to seek consistency, and it wasn't in him to build something to last. She, on the other hand, reveled in routine and danced within discipline (so long as she was in charge, that is). It was this contrast that was the center of the major flaw in their "relationship" (she'd used the word, not him).
Well... besides him trying to kill her best friend... and her succeeding in returning the favor.
But beyond that, it was almost normal, sometimes. When it wasn't, though; when he came in through the window of her tiny, twelfth-story apartment at three twenty-six AM with a bleeding chest and a stupid grin, or when she found unfired clay sculptures of weird pseudo-animals in her cupboards, or when he drove his motorcycle to the hospital and was waiting there outside when she left to take her somewhere she'd never even consider going (the last time it was the dump - he was looking for "found objects" to "inspire his art"); she had to wonder why she put up with him when he wasn't Sasuke.
For Sasuke and his inconsistent, lukewarm attention she would have done it. For Sasuke she'd taken worse (far worse than the stares and whispers and gossip) and taken it with a smile. But then, that was the reason, wasn't it?
Because he wasn't Sasuke.
He wasn't Sasuke every time he brought her flowers, insisting they were the perfect form of art because they didn't last. He wasn't Sasuke every time he watched her with eyes darkened with the drive of conquest. He wasn't Sasuke every time he grinned at her - with three mouths. He wasn't Sasuke every time he asked her, "What do you think about that, hn?" and he sure as hell wasn't Sasuke with long blonde hair and blue eyes.
...Come to think of it, he wasn't Sasuke at all.
It had been entirely on accident the first time, and the second a coincidence. The third time it had been to return her gloves, the fourth to collect his. By the fifth his excuses were wearing thin, and by the seventh he no longer bothered.
Around the twelfth time they lost track.
She was a mob doctor, she told him with a firm scowl, she knew how to take care of herself.
He laughed. He was the mob. It was from guys like him there would be trouble, and did she really think she could take him on?
He was on the floor in less than three counts.
Long pink hair fell in the sunlight and green eyes ran like the clear sea; gravity was lost to him, and it was her soft sighs and caress that tethered him to Earth.
They fight sometimes, it's true - he's restless, she's snappy.
There is a point where words stop having meaning, and she's simply glaring, and he's scowling like the dangerous man he is. She's wondering if she's gone too far (remember what he really is, your deranged psychopath), if this time he'll just end her and toss her body aside, wondering why he'd never thought of it before (she's sure he has)... But she can't back down, ever, not once. It would be the true end of everything. He'd never respect her if she gave in just like that; if she feared him even for an instant (even if that's what he said he wanted).
He lunges, and she rolls, finding the balance within her feet even before he's on his hands and knees. He just grins, and jumps at her again.
They dance until someone tires; they on the floor or against the wall (gravity's gone, never existed). They never speak during these moments; it'd defeat the purpose. It's these reminders that keep her door open and his heart steady.
She chose him, he'd remind himself, she chose him. Not anyone else. She'd never strayed, he knew, using his training without a hint of remorse to snoop when it looked like things were getting serious.
Serious about him.
The blue-skinned freak had laughed; "She killed your partner. Talk about Stockholm's..."
The white-haired freak had cursed; "That bitch is just using you to get to the rest of us, you fucking idiot."
The masked freak had squealed; "Sempai's in loooooove?"
The red-eyed freak simply watched.
He was used to blood. There was constantly blood in his clothes, on his possessions, in his home, in his bathtub, on his hands, under his fingernails. He was continually drenched in the scent of copper and it sometimes felt that he'd never rid himself of the scent.
Never hers.
His hands shook, his eyes narrowed, his mouths bared teeth shut tightly as he growled lowly.
He stood and felt his body stretch; muscles pulled taut under his skin like the bowstring about to loose an arrow.
She was his. He would have her back, or tomorrow there would be nothing left of anyplace under heaven. Then he would find his way there, and make sure there was nothing left anywhere.