golden dust
Author's Note: This was written before the last few Akatsuki fillers. But whatever - canon or not, I still ship these two. With that said, enjoy! :D
Love.
Sometimes it rings clear and true, like the chime of wedding bells on a quiet Sunday afternoon. Sometimes it's passionate, a rush, like being swept away by the wind, floating for a moment before crashing back down. Sometimes it's subtle, like the landing of a leaf on an undisturbed pond.
Other times, it tinkles like golden dust:
Like laughter-filled air and warmth behind your back when you sleep; like blinking stars and a grassy field and steep hills; like a cup of coffee to wake up to (or sometimes, if you're lucky, him to wake up to); like takeouts when the both of you are too lazy to fix dinner; like humid nights in cheap motels.
Love, it tinkles like golden dust.
Konan watched Nagato stumble out of bed.
She would offer him assistance, but she knew his pride would reject it. So she stayed silent and flipped over to her side to watch the way his muscles worked – the sinews in his shoulders straining to push himself up and his legs quivering and shaking and how she wished he would just let her do something.
But he didn't ask, and she didn't offer, because they both knew how this was supposed to play out every morning. And sometimes, sticking to the script was wiser than spontaneity.
Nagato watched Konan too, though mostly through Pein's eyes.
Yahiko's eyes, actually.
His Rinnegan could see through a lot of things – like, how much chakra Konan had left, all her vitals, how quickly her blood flowed, the pattern of the clouds and how to weave the electrons so rain would befall the Earth.
His Rinnegan could see through a lot of things, but they have never succeeded in reading between the lines.
His Rinnegan could see through most of everything, except Konan's heart.
Neither of them knew exactly why the other chose to stay.
Konan had always thought it was a childhood thing for Nagato – a mere habit. She was familiar; she was unchanging. Besides, she had taken time to memorize every bit of him – she knew what he needed and how to provide for him. Therefore, he kept her around, out of convenience for himself.
Nagato had always thought it was Yahiko. He may have been quiet and timid, but he wasn't blind. He saw the way Yahiko would look at Konan after training, when the sparse rays of the evening sun would hit Konan and light her up (and consequently, Yahiko's world) and the dense smell of sweat would still hang heavily in the air and the breeze rumpling through their hair and clothes would be a welcomed visitor.
He never actually saw Konan reciprocating those gazes, but he had always assumed there was something going on between them. So he kept his distance out of respect, for Yahiko was like a brother and she was his- sister? Best friend? (Possibly, maybe, crush) One of his closest someone?
That was why, after Yahiko's death, Nagato decided to keep his body. For Konan's sake. So every day, in bed, she would wake up to his face and every night, she would close her eyes to strands of orange splayed vividly against the white of the pillow.
And yet, here they were: pink against white every night and soft, fuzzy blue, like a worn-out Christmas sweater, against white every dawn.
Neither of them knew exactly why the other chose to stay, but whatever the reason was, it was okay. As long as they had their nights and dawns, they could bear with misdirected love and being a form of habit.
"Thank you," Konan said as Pein handed her a steaming cup of coffee – 2 sugar cubes, a teaspoon of cream.
She rolled her eyes at his reaction when he first found out how she drank her coffee. Yes, she liked sweet coffee, sue her. But really, the fact that, of all the things they have been through, her preference for sweetness was the one thing that caused him to arch an eyebrow was just funny.
Pein lingered in the doorway, his presence a comfortable assurance for Konan.
"Is it a mission?" she asked after putting her now-empty cup down.
"No."
He walked over to Konan then – her delicately small figure still huddled under the blanket. She was not much of a morning person, though it was evident that Nagato did not share the same sleeping traits as she did.
With every step he took, she hid herself deeper and deeper into the safety of the covers. There was something about his stare, an intensity that was not there before that unnerved her.
Pein arrived by the foot of the bed. He continued looking at Konan.
Then, in a swift movement, he was on top of her, his right hand pinning down both her wrists above her head. There was no malice in his gaze – he would never do anything to harm her – and so there was no fear in hers.
The silence stretched out for quite a moment. Nothing happened. They just kept staring into each others' eyes, as if looking for an answer to a question they couldn't even form.
Finally, he kissed her.
Just like that.
And she accepted, docile, but not responding.
He pulled back, slowly, his hand still restraining her.
"What's wrong?"
She shook her head.
"Then why-"
"He's not you, Nagato."
His eyes widened, and the purple in his sockets expanded, and he was so close she could feel the tips of his hair brushing against her forehead and temple, the blow of air as he exhaled, the rough texture of his cloak against her skin.
Sometimes, for things one cannot see through, the other simply needs to push one in the right direction.
That night, as they lied in bed, backs turned against each other, for what was possibly the first time, tension weighed down upon them.
Konan had known what she wanted all this time. She had a very clear idea, in her mind, of who she wanted to kiss and who she wanted to love and it was very clearly not Yahiko. But she would give him space, for him to process his own thoughts and feelings (even though she knew, she already knew, how he felt towards her – towards everything) and come into terms with everything by himself because that is the only way this would work.
Nagato was not stupid, and he reconciled his inner conflict soon enough.
Dawn, the next day, her eyelids opened drowsily not to orange hair, or a steaming cup of coffee, but to pink.
"Morning," he said.
"Morning," she replied, tenderly.
And he kissed her – a weakened hand crawling up the spaces between them to cup her cheek, two chapped lips on her own, sandpaper dryness greeting her mouth.
And it was everything she had been waiting for.
Golden dust was when the sun readies itself for another day and Konan stirred in her sleep, in Nagato's arms, and his hold around her grew tighter, because he did not want her accidentally worming herself out of his grip and, in case the squirming meant she was having a bad dream, he wanted to comfort her.
He was adept at speaking. He could express through speech, no problem. But those were always proclamations of peace and declarations of war. Things like this, like comfort and pillow-talk, like Konan and his favorite shade of blue so close to him he could breathe the color in, they needed time.
Konan was patient. Konan would give him time.
Golden dust was when they trained and Yahiko would glance at Konan and the angled sunlight would cast a shadow over her features and fuck, if she wasn't the most beautiful woman in the world.
But Konan would never notice, because she was too busy with her papers and maybe also with keeping track of Nagato in the corner of her eye. Nagato would never notice Konan noticing him, because he was constantly judging and weighing Yahiko's gaze – admiring the fierceness he saw.
Golden dust was like going on missions as a pair, knowing which jutsus would complement each other's fighting styles because they had been together for that long, and understanding, immediately, when to step back, to attack, to fight back-to-back.
Golden dust was like kissing, gently then passionately then gently again.
Love, it tinkles like golden dust.