"Only dead fish swim with the stream." – Malcolm Muggeridge
ring around the (rose)y.
i.
It starts off with a bang.
There are extravagant decorations strewn all over the huge rooftop patio, filled to the brim with networking socialites, starlets, politicians. Music winds through the air off in the distance, a classical melody he can vaguely remember blending with the murmur of the crowds. There are people everywhere: here for the Italian booze, the swag gifts, the notoriety of holding the flourished invitation. Sasuke was never good at remembering every single well-wisher, schmoozing like their lives depended on it and using every fake emotion they could muster. No, he was never very good at that at all. These people all fade into the same nondescript face, the same glamorous names; they are blurry in his memory, except that they shine with an unrivaled, dazzling presence only found here. Here, in the center of the elite— where everybody knows you, where your scandals and secrets are just an (expensive) game.
Sasuke holds his flute of champagne with a steady hand and feels his parents' eyes drilling into him, senses their apprehension and their slick, well practiced charm. He grips his beautiful heiress' hand a little tighter as she retells their story for the hundredth time, flashing her five carat ring to the gushing onlookers. She smiles a bright, snow white grin and is playing the role of bride-to-be flawlessly.
The price of fame, Sasuke thinks, as he feels her sea-foam green nails dig into his palm. Her fingers constrict ever so slightly around his, the diamonds scraping against the pad of his finger. He can feel her fear lingering subtly in the air; can see the wild look just behind her jade irises.
He isn't blind, but that doesn't matter. What does is that everyone else is.
(Pretends to be.)
Sasuke turns his head away and looks to the city sky.
ii.
Mr. Haruno holds his daughter's arm tightly as they make their way to the altar.
Sakura looks radiant as she takes petite, graceful steps in her ivory gown. Her princess dress rustles along the stone aisle, lavishly embellished with Swarovski crystals and miniscule pearls that required hundreds upon hundreds of hours to make. It leaves her thin shoulders bare, displaying an elegant neckline, and emphasizes just how fiercely she keeps her head held high.
He can't see her face behind her veil, but Sasuke would bet anything that those eyes were filled with sorrow.
They say short, concise verses for their vows that are crammed with hints of a romance that doesn't exist. The guests are enamored with them, with the lie that their mothers have created for them. These bystanders know this game all too well, but they too pick up their roles with grace and precision that reminds Sasuke it takes a city for their charade to begin.
"For the greater good," Mikoto had said to him. "Nobody wants to see a sad arrangement." Her eyes dipped as she spoke softly to her youngest son, their black depths unfathomable. She made no effort to hide her pain now that Sasuke was grown, now that she had a household of men too busy for their lady.
"I was only sixteen when I married him," she says. "I was just a child. You are just a child."
Sasuke realizes how truly naïve he is, to have missed this. It pierces his heart—he thinks, I'm so sorry, Mom. I'm sorry.
He exhales.
I'm not ready for this.
But they're both Uchihas.
Sasuke keeps a stony silence even his father would be proud of.
Mikoto never looks up.
"You may kiss the bride," the priest announces with a grand, booming voice. It resonates throughout the ancient church and he knows that the guests are politely centered at the edge of the pews. He gently lifts her lace veil and places it behind her head. It brings her green eyes into focus— there's a slight pang in his chest when he recognizes the mirrored look he has seen too many times before: not in green, but in a certain dark, inky ebony.
He presses a chaste kiss to her pastel-painted lips, and the crowd begins to clap.
At eighteen years old, Sasuke has never hated his (her) father more.
pocketful of posey.
iii.
Sasuke takes a quiet backseat by the DJ while the Haruno patriarch spins his daughter round and round the dance floor.
He watches how Sakura's concentration breaks occasionally: how she looks behind her father's age-lined face and glances at the man in the Armani suit with the stunning blue gaze. When their eyes connect, the guest twists his mouth into a wry smile and pushes his way back into the masses; her view snaps back to where it rightfully should be. She continues to twirl skillfully on the Venetian marble in three inch heels, never missing a beat.
Sasuke knows that she was born to be a wife.
His wife.
When their sentimental song ends, a quieter one takes its place. Sakura's father gives her a final, tight smile and hands her off to him. Their practice pays off— her hands clasp around his neck while his loosely rest on her hips. They sway quietly, and Sasuke forces his lips to turn up very slightly.
He is all about illusions.
He whispers, "The man?"
She swallows.
"Nothing you need to worry about. Not anymore."
They end their dance in silence.
iv.
"A son," their parents say.
He nods and shuts the car door.
v.
They make it back from the sea.
The waves seemed to mock him, the way they embodied freedom and emotion; how it could display everything that he so precariously had to repress. Their honeymoon was quiet for two socialites. Just a large, faux-rustic beach cabin under a star studded, country sky.
It was the exact opposite of their new home.
Their penthouse is sleek. It's modern, with lofty monochrome furniture and wood flooring flowing like silk. It boasts the newest appliances and resources; it will be perfect for the guests they will have to entertain, to accommodate their heir apparent. It has the airy office Sasuke will need when he takes over the family firm, its shelves stacked with textbooks and client lists organized neatly in one hidden state-of-the-art safe. Mrs. Haruno ensures Sakura a kitchen to die for. She also gives her something better— a personal cook. A small, precise woman who only speaks when spoken to, a trait that somehow disturbs Sakura (it makes her want to fire her).The gifts are always large; they are always flashy, and they make Sakura feel a little bit like she's drowning.
Sakura tries to take everything in as she wanders the apartment, her eyes memorizing new lines and sloping over the planes of a prison. An expensive, blue-blood prison. She can't help but feel a sting of anger, of resentment towards the life forced upon her. She never wanted to be a trophy wife, an uneducated socialite. What Sakura wanted was a firm grip on the business world and a towering company behind her name. A reputation as a fierce, if bold woman. But this society would never allow that freedom for her gender. No, she is viewed as far too demure for that type of public image. So instead of Sakura, CEO, she is Sakura, the wife. Wife of the heir and successor of the Uchiha Law Firm.
Something in the back of her mind tells her that she should be grateful, because this is close enough. She can see the working world, she can feel the urgency and the prestige of the commercial empire her husband will soon own. This is more than many of the girls her age will ever get to see.
(But no matter how much she wishes and tries to change, Sakura is not the average girl.)
Her fingers dig into her palms out of bad habit, and she sighs.
Sasuke is still sound asleep, worn— she knows that she should be at his side. But she felt her stomach churning, noticed it burning and felt the nausea creeping up to her mouth. Her steps pad quietly (always, always softly) to the bathroom, and she stays as silent as she can while she clutches her stomach with one hand and grips the toilet bowl with the other. She vomits the remainder of her filet mignon into the toilet and lets herself slide back onto the stone floor. It scares the girl, because that's exactly what she is: just a girl. She's only seventeen, playing this suffocating game of house in a skyline penthouse with a boy who is no more a man than she is a woman.
Sakura knows better to think this was food poisoning or any normal illness. She pulls herself up using the ledge of the bathtub, listening out the opened door for any sign of movement.
He has not woken. If he did, he made no indication.
Sakura rubs her tummy and does nothing to try to stop the sinking feeling deep in her heart.
ashes, ashes.
vi.
The air is split with a scream.
Sasuke bolts upright from his dream to see a sobbing, irrational Sakura looking at the blood covering her thighs. There is a huge, scarlet patch underneath her, seeping through the sheets, and it takes all of Sasuke's control not to panic. He moves closer to her and wraps his arms around her shoulders, places his hands around her lithe frame and holds her tight. He can feel her tears dripping down his bare chest and the way her face contorts with grief, her body wracking with sobs.
"The baby—" Sakura starts, trying to choke out the words.
He shushes her and grips her tighter.
"I know," he whispers.
He imagines his reputation slipping like sand through his fingers. He thinks, the world is expecting our heir, I need that heir— their one task, and they've failed it.
The room is filling with shadows as he feels his stiff eyes water.
we all fall down.
vii.
Their son would've been born in March, when the city was slick with rain and the air was just beginning to warm. The water made everything sparkle when the sun rose, the lights glinting off their apartment windows and making this hell look beautiful.
It's one of the few things, the little things, that Sasuke admits he loves to see.
He's fascinated by how the rain leaves the sky an ominous, swirling indigo; lighting weaves lines through the city and he can't help but stare.
Sakura wants to go back to the ocean for a little while, far away from the gossip and how it hurts to look at the empty nursery waiting to be used. Away from his parents' angry voicemails left unreturned on his BlackBerry, from the apartment that imprisons his wife.
He leaves the office early and puts a note on his secretary's desk.
viii.
The waves lap over his skin, navy blue in the sky's light. He sees Sakura's limbs parting through the ocean water out of the corner of his eye. Her arms are flying in and out, making unexpectedly strong strokes that keep her head to head with him as they push themselves to get out to the sandbar. He kicks his legs harder and he presses ahead, his breaststroke pulling him onto the flat bottom before her.
He stands with his hands on his waist and catches his breath. Sakura mirrors his stance when she glides into the small area and sets her feet on the bank.
"Good race," he huffs.
Sakura slowly smiles. Looking anywhere but him—irises flickering— her eyes settle on the horizon.
Sasuke realizes that it looks like it's an inferno burning.
(I hold with those who favor fire.)
ix.
In the country, she can see the stars.
Sasuke has the panoramic ocean view and the long walks with the tide tickling their ankles. They let their feet take them for miles, breathing in the silence and the sounds of the wind rustling through the tall green grasses. The beach is nothing but pure sand— no broken shells, no dead fish, no plastic bottles. It's as pristine as money can buy, and it helps her turn her thoughts crystal-clear, letting her focus on things she never would have before. The biggest is that Sasuke will sometimes lace his hand with hers when they track against the soft white coast. It's not too forced anymore, like it was back when they were engaged. Somehow Sakura feels like it's been a lifetime since those days when her new diamond sparkled so brightly, even though the cabin calendar reads that it's only July. Sakura thinks simple thoughts, like how it's breathtakingly beautiful here or the way Sasuke seems so content. His hand is warm and comforting against hers, tentatively asking for her compassion; she loves the way this place makes them so happy.
It's been a month since she's seen city grey. Sakura thinks that this is what it's like to be free.
x.
He doesn't love her.
He's eighteen and wants to see the world— to witness thousands of different sunsets rocking on the ocean horizon, snowy mountain peaks towering past the sky and ancient deserts clouding the air. It's his childhood dream.
But Sasuke is pretty down to earth.
He's chained to the firm, to his family, to responsibility, and it is a vicious circle that he fears they will never escape.
xi.
The cabin is dark.
The moonlight shines through the window, its pale rays leaving patterns imprinted on the deeply grained floors. Sasuke's face is masked by the shadows, but the light is enough to see his outline, his face, his hands. Sasuke bites her neck, her rosen hair tangled in his grasp; Sakura's fingers trail up and down his muscular back.
The cool metal of his wedding band sweeps across the back of her neck.
She shivers.
xii.
Sasuke finds Sakura sitting in the living room, blankly staring at her hands. She hears his footsteps— they are quiet, like hers, a mark of aristocracy— and turns around to look at him, twisting her frame around towards the back of the couch. Her face is flush with excitement, her eyes are bright. He notes that they are jade green like the ocean when it storms, like the reeds deeply rooted in crystal white sand. This place is a new beginning.
(The city, he thinks cautiously, will be the death of us.)
She hands him a small piece of plastic wordlessly, carnation pink lips twisting upwards.
Positive. His mind is reeling.
Sasuke takes her hand and pulls her to standing level; he kisses her fiercely and can feel the smile against her lips. He feels the world righting itself again, no more upside down, inside out: they are back on track and he thinks that this isn't the end after all.
xiii.
The waves are languid around her body, gently rolling against her swelling stomach. She lay loose and relaxed, her torso supported by her elbows, rubbing against the grit of the wet sand.
"Everything okay?"
Sasuke's voice cuts through the sound of the mellow ocean waves, solemn but warm.
Her eyes flicker to the dusky, navy horizon.
"Yes," Sakura says firmly, a hand settling against her abdomen. "I've never been better."
xiv.
"For her safety, Mr. Uchiha, you and your wife should return as soon as possible."
Sasuke grips his BlackBerry. His stomach rumbles with the inevitability of the city— he remembers its blinding lights and the polished shine of the metropolitan skyline, the suffocation of a gilded cage that he has always called home.
"Of course, Doctor—" he murmurs quietly.
His wife's still body breathes peacefully, her eyebrows slanted inwards. He doesn't touch her, clenching a fist instead.
"Of course."
Konoha isn't like the land of waves and silence.
That?
That's what Sasuke wishes he could forget.
xv.
When she shouts, it's rough and unevenly painful.
It reminds him.
It reminds him, and that is what makes it wrenchingly difficult to hear.
He stands by her bedside, summoning his long-practiced nonchalance from years of soirees and art gallery displays. You'd be wrong to judge him indifferent, this time. Old habits (old facades) are just terribly hard to break.
The nurses urge with expertise calm: "push!" and "deep breaths" and "we're going to count to ten".
"I'm here," Sasuke says quietly, her hand weak and pale against his. He feels her pulse struggle to signal its life, and he clutches her palm with as much strength as he dares.
She faintly, but surely, squeezes back.
xvi.
A wail pierces the room.
Peering at the red, uncleaned newborn, the nurse proclaims a gender.
A boy.
xvii.
Frantic voices.
Her heart rate's not normal; we have to stabilize it; call more nurses, we need more help!—
…blank line. A long, straight, narrow blank line. As jarring as his little boy, crying mercilessly in the intern's arms.
redux: ashes, ashes…
xviii.
Lightning hurtles through the purple-stained sky.
His young nanny carefully rocks the Uchiha infant asleep, her sleek blonde hair swinging along with her movements. The baby's eyes swiftly fall shut, oblivious, and he sleeps. He escapes away to places Sasuke no longer can access, no matter how hard he tries. The doctors have failed with their prescriptions; the color spectrum of pills do little to lure him away from his glassy, empty apartment.
The girl— how can he even call her that, when she seems to be about his age? — never makes eye contact. They maintain their silence, the rumbling of thunder chattering.
He wonders where he's seen her before, with those heather-soft blues. He questions what social misstep she had stupidly taken to be here now as a lowly, disgraced maid. Whatever it was, Sasuke bets if he had been the one to commit it, he wouldn't have heard a whisper of reprimand.
Whatever it was, she's braver than he'll ever be— she's as brave as his green-eyed ghost. The girl echoes Sakura in an unnerving way, and he wishes he could comprehend the dizzying mess that Sakura left behind.
Sasuke knows exactly how far he has to step to disgrace the Uchiha. But his little son gurgles behind him, snuggled against the maid's shoulder, and Sasuke slowly, willingly, remembers.
…we all fall down.
xiv.
He's chained to the firm, to his (broken) family, to responsibility, and it is a vicious circle that he— they— will never escape.
AN: I've been working on this for almost two years; this fic is kind of my baby. A little bit of writers block, time mismanagement, and a lot of struggle finding a beta caused that- regardless, I'm pretty happy with how it turned out. I never did find a "real" beta. Reviews and critique are much appreciated.
Special thanks to Ali.