Perfect
It wasn't that she'd imagined herself having a perfect life. It wasn't that she expected to have a perfect life. Not without Sasuke, at least, and she knew, in the beginning, that he'd never be hers.
Even when he fell at her doorstep the night he returned, asking her to take him in, she didn't see things as being wholly and truly perfect. Even after she'd healed him and he'd confessed how much he'd missed Konoha, she couldn't call things perfect.
The first time that they kissed, she got a taste of belonging. She'd always wanted so badly to be with him, and for once, she was closer in his heart than Naruto. She had beaten down his defenses and the wall he'd built around himself. She felt a lot of pride that day. Pride and happiness.
…But still, after he'd proposed a few months afterwards, she couldn't help but notice how foreign the ring looked on her finger. She couldn't help but feel that it would slip right off because she didn't deserve to have it. It had seemed so temporary then; fragile, for being gold.
Now that her fairytales have come alive two years later, the ring looks stranger than ever. She's waiting for herself to wake up from the dream—they have a son, a pet dog, a tidy house—before it turns into a nightmare.
(And then…then, it really does.)
The world is silent as the enemy shinobi attacks, and all the while that he is in the air, she worries about who he will strike. Her skirt is already smeared with blood, and Sasuke has a kunai in one hand, his other hand resting on top of his son's head.
Kazuo. The boy's hair is shiny and black and matted down with sweat. When his body drops backwards onto the ground, a silver kunai plunging through his chest, Sakura gasps as Sasuke screams.
By the time Sasuke's killed the shinobi, Kazuo is dead and the family dog is patting his stomach with a heavy golden paw, probably wondering, Sasuke thinks, why he isn't moving.
He collapses next to his son, and, into the deep ruff of fur that covers the dog's neck, he allows himself to cry. Above him, the sky is opening up and drops of rain are beginning to fall; a few feet away, Sakura watches and stuffs her fist into her mouth, biting down until a mixture of blood and tears coats her knuckles.
When a gust of cold air passes through, a cloud of loose dirt rolls over the creamy surface of their son's colorless, young face. His cheeks had never looked so pale.
The wind-rattled trees shed their color, and a single green leaf blows onto Kazuo's forehead. It's a fitting way to die, Sakura thinks, but it isn't perfect.
She rubs the spot where her heart should be and wonders why it feels empty.
Fin.