Title: Cycles
Prompt: #2, Kiss
For: Monthly Contest (February)
A/N: Odd sort of story for this prompt...This story is AU.
Summary: They live in cycles, in patterns that weave themselves across the tapestry of their lives.
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He doesn't kiss her. Something in her, akin to disappointment and rejection, shatters at this. An overflowing basin, something churns and trips and destroys itself as she just stares at him.
She has felt this before, felt it with a thousand tears that have trekked across her face. Somehow, she knows this, just as she knows the feeling that rises in her, and mutely she follows him down the road.
"We'll stay in the next village," he tells her, his voice low as he calmly walks on. He doesn't turn back, never has. He only faces forward.
Does that make her his 'past'? He rarely looks at her these days. Sometimes she wonders if there's something wrong with her, he avoids her so.
"Hurry up."
Her feet start to run after him.
(It's ok, she thinks, I'm used to this.)
-x-
In her dreams, there are sounds and feelings, nothing concrete. Nothing ever is, especially with him. Only with him.
They dance, a slow waltz. The world is made of pastels, soft and blurry. The background mixes together after a while until all she can see is him.
He can't see her, his water-colour princess. His eyes linger on her for a moment, a heartbeat, a heartbreak. Then he slides over her, to something in the distance, and she melts in his arms.
Now he twirls her, pulling her close. They stand, cheek to cheek, his skin cold to the touch. It's softer and harsher than she imagined (remembered). Then he dips her, his bangs brushing her forehead. It's a butterfly's touch and she can make out the blood in the depths of his eyes.
They are so close and so far, his nose bumping the edge of hers. His lips hover over hers, temptingly, and she closes the chasm.
Then she falls, no nearer than she was before.
Here she smiles bitterly. Even fantasy mirrors reality.
-x-
"We will stay in that inn tonight," he tells her. She follows his lead, hesitantly reaching out to grasp his hand as the blue fades to black above her. There are no lights out, not sounds, and she could almost believe that there's no one else.
Only, he's here. She can barely make out his figure, keeping up with him due to habit. When she tries to grab his hand, his fingers slip out of hers like ice.
"Don't touch me," he tells her tersely, a remainder, a warning.
Maybe she is the only one alive, chasing after a ghost.
-x-
When they walk on the road, they are merely going in the same direction. Not side by side, never (ever, ever, only, once that was true) together. He walks on one side, she on the other, two strangers chancing across one another.
She tries to close this gap a little, side-stepping slowly as they cross hills and dales. He is the only one who knows where they are going.
He is the only one who knows who they are.
Eventually, she manages to reach his side, their hands brushing, and she shivers. It's cold to the touch.
-x-
It's a simple arrangement and she shouldn't be disappointed by it. He is the leader and she is the disposable--what? What exactly is she to him? Not a friend, not now at least, and certainly not a lover. If anything, she is a follower, a tag-along, someone who he just bears with. Maybe she's his helper, there to do the chores he despises.
She just doesn't know anymore, they've been at this for so long. Time is a number, is a word, is the sands in an hourglass slipping away. Her age is long forgotten, her name scarcely there.
(Sakura, Sakura, he used to call her that, but--what happened, Sasuke-kun, what?)
-x-
Something is changing, something in him. It's barely noticeable, brittle and easy to break, but it is happening all the same.
(And when it shatters (too soon, she tried too soon), she goes with it).
Something is happening to her as well. There is a crack in her heart, and this isn't the first (nor last) break that she's felt, just like this ache she feels is a familiar, a long lost friend. Wounds heal, but scars remain.
The thorn in her slowly fades away and if she tries hard enough, she can remember without closing her eyes.
Ah, there is a sense of clarity as she sighs, this is it.
They live in cycles, in patterns that weave themselves across the tapestry of their lives. This cycle, she realizes, is coming to a close.
The next one is just beginning.
(Sakura, hurry up. Sakura,--I'm coming, Sasuke-kun, I'm coming.)
-x-
There was a time, she remembers, when he used to hold her hand and talk. They would sit in libraries and trains, her eyes trained on his face. He would have his eyes closed, his voice low and slow. Sometimes he would squeeze her hands gently as they sat there and she would know, that it was her turn to talk. Her turn to regal him with tales and bring him out of his misery.
She must have done something wrong to have lost that paradise. Now she can barely remember her past, glimpses of it coming to her in dreams that she can't understand.
She tries to bring it back again, one day, her fingers slipping into his. Her shoulder bumps against his back as she leans against him. For a moment, she feels his hands tighten, his posture relax, and a weary sigh escape his lips.
Then the hiss of steel and light pink flakes falling is she can sense. Her hair was kissed by the sword and that, she thinks, is as close as she will ever get.
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