Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.
Status: Incomplete
A/N: THIS IS THE EDITED VERSION
Sakura made her way out the hospital smiling grimly at the shinobi who passed by her. Some ANBU cadets bowed their heads in mourning and a couple of others followed her with their eyes, loss shining in their faces.
Right now—
Right now she couldn't deal with their pity. Her throat was still raw from her wound and the tears, the sobs having ripped through some of the stitches Tsunade had put in, but her mentor had said nothing as she stiffly sutured her torn skin back together again. Her fingers had been soft against her throat, and even though Sakura knew there wasn't even an inkling of ulterior motive behind her actions, her shoulders were still tense, her eyes still riveted on her face, hands ready to pounce.
Sakura had jolted out of her stupor when one of them made her way towards her, face shadowed by bereavement, hands clenched at their sides. "Sorry about your loss." They told her quietly, and Sakura could only give them sad eyes and a twisted smile.
("Don't worry taichou," he beamed at her, eyes sparkling. "We'll be done in no time and I'll be a real operative soon!")
She bowed her head instead. "It was too soon."
They—he—made a move to put his hand on her shoulder, but she'd already walked passed him, head held high, eyes burning. He let her pass through, and she felt his eyes burn into her back, knowing that when she needed them, to grieve, to let go, they'd come if she called.
A lingering through whispered in her mind, I wonder if he was friends with Kaizo. She pushed it away almost as quickly as it came.
The sun was low and heavy in the sky, burning against her tender skin. It had only been a couple of hours since she'd arrived in Konoha but it felt like a small eternity in the lifeless hospital, surrounded by beeping monitors and the slow, steady dripping of the IVs.
She walked slowly, carefully, not daring to jolt her injuries. Sakura danced her fingers across her ribs, checking again, and again, and again if she was good and whole and safe. That there was no pulsing, throbbing infection ready to kill. She had faith in Tsunade, but even she knew of lingering sicknesses that slowly drove shinobi to the grave.
And she had promised—sworn—that she would make it back, that she'd be intact.
Sakura stifled a grunt of frustration as the gauze began to itch; she'd shifted too much, and now it felt awkward and bulky against her skin, like an extra layer of fat that she wasn't used to. There had been a time once, long ago, when she'd have been able to pinch the skin between her fingers and pull, healthy flush pinkening at the pressure. Now, she had no skin to pull, no fat to pinch, only papery skin and thin bones.
(That was one of the rules—no fat. No fat, no fat, no fat, no fat. You are lean, small, underdeveloped. You will be our ace in the hole. They won't see you coming.
She'd laughed then, at the stupid pun.
She wasn't laughing now.)
When she pulled the thick, heavy gauze off her face, a civilian gasped. She suppressed a sigh that sounded a little too much like a sob, and instead tucking her trembling fingers into her pockets and slouched down, hoping that if she hid her face into her collar far enough, no one would be able to see the mess she'd become. Her throat itched, and her skin was so tender against the scratching fabric of her shirt that she felt actual tears burn in her eyes.
(She supposed she looked monstrous with the illusion of a severed neck, the parted, scarred skin that ran all the way down to the corner of her mouth, twisting her face—disfigurement, disfigurement, they whispered in her mind.
That's all she was now, a blemish on perfect skin, a smudged ring of black on a perfect record.)
Ryu. She though bitterly, biting down on her tongue. Oh Ryu, what will you think of me? Will I be your monster? Will you think of me and see my scars, burning through everything you thought as good?
Sakura felt off kilter, surrounded by curious prying eyes, the dismay bubbling under her skin, like a roiling, thunderous burn that wanted to push and tear out of her. They were staring, staring, staring and all she wanted was to leave. She wanted to hide, she ached to run all the way back to her home in the tiny cottage, to run to—
The world was spinning around her and her heart beat fast in her chest, her breath coming in short pants—
"Sakura." Someone brought her from her thoughts with a firm, gentle voice.
Familiar brown eyes. Concerned brown eyes, watching, careful. A part of her yearned to tear them out so they'd just stop—
"Shika-chan." She smiled a little at the ponytail that stuck up this way and that. Her skin pulled, the scar contorting her face. She wondered if she looked more monstrous then—smiling, eyes dead, scars wracking her skin.
(Just how many would she have to get before they realized she was going insane?)
"How have you been?" She said, voice light and fluttering, like they taught her. Hide, hide, hide.
She saw him eye her for a moment. (And didn't she hate that word, eye?). Saw him watching how her fingers trembled on her ANBU mask, slung onto her belt, how her chin was drowning in the collar of her jonin vest, her hair pulled in a messy ponytail, muddy strands stuck to her neck, flirting with the zig-zagging scar that ran across it.
Sakura hadn't realized she was holding her katana until his eyes flickered down to her whitened knuckles.
Oh. She thought. Maybe I shouldn't have kept it out.
"I've been good." He said, watching (always watching) how her frame relaxed and she slid the katana back into the sheath that ran across her back. He slouched, hands in his pockets, drawing himself nearer. "Planning the next chunnin exams."
He said it so languidly that she had to wonder if the brief flicker of worry that had run through his eyes had been real at all.
She hummed softly, and remembered that she was home now. She was home and she was safe, she was home and she was safe and there wasn't any reason to keep her guard up. She felt her shoulders slump.
She was so tired.
"That's good," she grinned a little, adding a flash of a dimple. Cheeky girl. Show them you're not broken. "That's wonderful. Seeing much of Temari-chan these days?"
He flushed, looking away.
A smirk pulled at her lips, a real one this time, because Shika could never hide anything from her, not since they'd been in the academy.
"Why, I hope you're using protection." This time, her voice was sly and brittle, hollow and something that Shikamaru wisely didn't comment on.
Instead, he sighed, as if put on. He loved her, she knew, and he found her smart too which was why he dragged her out, winding her down from kills and adrenaline highs. He worries you know, Ino had told her once when she was back from another A-rank mission. Her eyes had been so blue then. We all do.
"Troublesome woman," he grumbled and she laughed, a little too loud, a little too brittle, but it was a laugh and she saw Shikamaru's lips quirk.
Smart boy, a part of her drawled.
Shut up, shut up, shut up. She thought furiously, hands biting into the meat of her palm.
She locked that part of her up, made it slither back into the foundations of the cracks, and bolted the door shut. Still, it haunted her, ominous silence ringing in her head. I'm still here, that part of her sang. I'll always be here.
At her silence, Shikamaru dragged himself closer, looking all the more bereaved.
He's worried. So worried.
She wanted to tell him she was fine, but the words wouldn't come. They felt too bitter on her tongue, a lie that not even she could push through.
"Come on," he said gruffly. "Let's get you home."
They made their way to the edge of the shinobi district slowly, her feet dragging, her throat itching, fingers twitching in her pockets. They talked about who was out on missions, Kiba, Choji, Hinata. They come back tonight. Shikamaru told her that her plants were growing well, that her neighbor was taking care of them properly this time, and that Gaara had sent her another letter, he's worried too, ever since you went to Suna, he badgers Temari into asking about you. He said nothing about little Ryu and for that, Sakura was glad, because she was sure that if someone brought up his name before she was ready, she'd do something she couldn't take back.
Her ribs were still fragile, and sometimes he hung back, eyes roving over her frame, hands lingering out of his pockets to catch her, just in case. He even, grudgingly of course, offered to help her walk, but she'd waved him off with a troubled smile.
"If I can't even walk home, what good am I as a shinobi?" She had chuckled bitterly. She'd nearly raised an eyebrow at the worry that gleamed in calf-brown eyes.
"Sakura, I don't think you've got to worry about that." He muttered under his breath.
She'd snickered then, a little bitter, a little happier, and he'd rolled his eyes.
Not quite fast enough to hide the relief in them, though.
"How's ANBU these days?" He asked as they turned down her street. He slouched as he walked, matching her own stance and Sakura wondered if he was mirroring her on purpose, trying to re-establish their rapport.
It was a quiet evening, she noticed, and Sakura was glad that it seemed like it was going to rain soon. The heat of the summer was starting to wash away with rolling clouds and crackling thunderstorms that edged at the confines of the clear-blue sky. She knew Ryu would want to play in his yellow rain boots and red overcoat and she couldn't wait—he was always so adorable.
Sakura didn't answer for a while, preferring to watch as the sun trickled behind the Kage Mountain, enshrouding the village with hazy darkness, the honey-yellow electric lights flickering on with a dull hum, filling the streets with a homely silence.
"It's…alright." She answered slowly. "Lost my teammate."
He faltered for a moment in his step, alarm in his eyes and then hesitated as he asked, "It wasn't…?"
The truth was, Kiba was the one who kept her sane, who kept her whole and intact. They all knew it, they all witnessed it, and they all made sure that he came back alive and unscathed to quell her mental state.
He's one of your anchors. Ino had told her. You're precariously low on them, so he's the one we try to keep somewhat safer than the others, for you.
"No. Kiba's not in ANBU this month, Shika. 'Sides, you know he's on a mission with Hina-chan and Choji-kun." She said quickly, reassuring him. She watched his chest drop in relief and wondered if she could ever be as free with her movements. "And I'm glad…I wouldn't have wanted him to be there—not for this one."
Shikamaru's eyes hardened and the chunnin scowled. "They still have you on those missions?"
Even though his voice was light and curious, Sakura knew better. His eyes were shadowed and cutting, anger thinning his lips, hands tightening at his sides. They'd talked about it once, and only once, when she'd turned fourteen and they'd thrown her a welcome home party. Why? It'd been a vague question, but she'd known, instantly, what he was talking about. Daycare costs money, Shika, She'd said and that had been that.
He hadn't asked again, and even though she knew he disapproved, he also knew that there was no way in hell that she was accepting charity. She loved him though, because he'd gone to extreme lengths to make sure she knew that he saw her no differently.
"Once you join—"
"You never really leave, yeah. Yeah I know." Shikamaru sighed, running a hand through inky locks. "Still…it sucks."
She choked on a bitter laugh. "Ah. Yeah. That it does."
Sakura saw his face soften, just the slightest amount, and he raised his arms, tugging her into a loose hug. He made sure to do it slowly, so she could see his every movement. He was warm and solid, something that Sakura was infinitely grateful for in the darkening night and cooling sky. He smelt of smoke and wood, a little trickle of summer breeze stuck on his vest, and her cheek rested on his chest. She was still too small to lift her chin over his shoulder, and he settled his chin on the crown of her head, his hands splaying across her back protectively.
They both pretended like she hadn't hesitated before wrapping her arms around him.
She breathed him in, and thought of home. Of the people who built her back up carefully, softly, gently. Of how they loved her ferociously, of how they never ever let her down. If he noticed that his vest was a little damper than usual when she pulled away, he didn't say anything.
"Thank you, Shika." She whispered softly, wiping away the wet on her cheeks.
His hand drifted towards her shoulder, "The least I can do, Sakura. I know Ino doesn't—can't—take those missions." We're here for you, always, always, always. You are not alone, not ever. Is what he didn't voice.
She watched the frustration rise in his face, eyes darkening in anger and she poked his (still rounded) cheek to grab his attention. Her eyes were fierce, mouth slanted in a scowl.
"You should be glad." Sakura said brazenly, boldly. "Ino's strong, Shika, but she's not that strong. And you should be happy that she doesn't have to be."
"I know." He whispered back, eyes still searching her face, lingering over the twisting scars. "I am. I swear I am."
There was a flickering moment, there in the quiet darkness, the light of the street lamps layering her face in honey light, that made her eyes shine and hair spark a pretty magenta, and even with all her scars and sharpened angles of her face, she was a vision of loveliness.
It was then that Shikamaru realized why she was so good at those missions. She was naturally charming; she oozed innocence, even with the scars and the little ridge that sat between her brows.
("She enchants, bewitches," one ANBU operative had said once on a smoke break. It was cold, and their breath billowed in little white clouds around them. His foot had fallen asleep in his shoe and he desperately wished for the heat of a warm bowl of soup. "It's her eyes, really. Doe-eyed innocence, that girl. She could charm a rock to follow her around." Then he'd leered and Shikamaru had pretended like his knuckles weren't bruised the next morning.)
She was ridiculously pretty. Not Ino pretty with porcelain skin and pretty blue eyes, and not Hinata pretty either with perfect, unblemished skin and beautiful, silky hair; not even Tenten pretty with the large brown eyes and wide, inviting smile.
Sakura was pretty in a way that pulled you in; striking features that hooked you by the navel and made you want to trace every curve, dip and lush arch. Her eyes were large, long-lashed and her lips full and puckered. Her forehead was still a little high, but her face was heart-shaped, high cheekbones sculpted almost cuttingly, jaw just a little rounded.
There was a dash of freckles that dusted over her nose.
("Haruno's striking. She makes you look at her just a little longer, to capture just what exactly is captivating about her. It's why she's so good at those missions, if you catch my drift.")
Every time he saw her, Shikamaru couldn't help but wish she hadn't been quite so pretty, quite so…enchanting.
(The first time…after, she'd looked ragged. Her lips were chapped, eyes wild, and she was trying to focus on what Ino was saying, but she kept spacing out. She muttered things under her breath, watched the booths around them, her fingers tapping against the wooden table. He watched her eyes harden at the way a man leaned into a grimacing woman. She stood then, interrupting Ino's chatter, and wore a sly smile, a dimple flashing in her cheek. Her hips swayed almost captivatingly, and she looked different then—inviting, catlike in her curiosity—a little spark of lust filling her eyes as she circled her prey. He remembered the way she'd towered over the man, kunai at his neck, and spat in face.
"Disgraceful," She'd hissed. He whined, blood dripping from his nose. "You should be ashamed of yourself."
Ino hadn't been able to move a muscle.
They'd still been thirteen.)
He didn't say anything though, because he spied the door of her little cottage home behind her. Instead of letting the damn that built behind his tongue loose, he smiled at her, just a little tightly.
If he did it quick enough, she wouldn't notice.
"Sleep tight, Sakura." He told her softly. Treat her with care, Ino had said once, eyes impossibly sad. Please treat her with care. She's not as strong as you all like to think. "Choji's invited you for barbeque tomorrow and his mother said that even if he's delayed, we can all still come over."
"I'll bring Ryu!" She called, eyes crinkling.
Real smile. He noticed. That's a real one, I'm sure of it.
Sakura watched him wave bye, and she let the smile fall a little. Happiness hummed through her veins, filling her with gentle warmth that made her very seams glow with joy. He slunk back into the night like a lazy cat, her eyes never leaving him.
"Maa," She muttered as he turned the corner. "You all worry far too much."
Sakura shook her head, turning back towards the scraped red door with the heavy black knocker. She bent down, knees cracking, to edge the keys from underneath a brick laying at the foot of her door. She frowned a little when she spotted the note from Toya-san, in swift, scribbled ink.
Sorry for leaving early, Sakura-chan, my nephew fell grievously ill. I only left when I heard you returned safely, my child. I hope that you are well. I will see you soon, to fatten you up.
("Remember—no fat.")
Gripping the key in her hand, she sighed, knowing that Toya was mostly reliable and it must have been a real emergency for her to have abandoned little Ryu like that. Straightening, she cracked her knuckles, nervous butterflies—a little like nausea, a little like fear—making her swallow hard.
Before she opened the door, she formed a couple of seals, layering genjutsu over her neck and face. There was a part of her, a rational part of her, that told her she was doing it so that she wouldn't scare little Ryu. He'd never seen any of her other scars, not even when he'd begged her, eyes pleading. She'd stoutly refused, every single time. She didn't want him to see the track of regrowth, the pink of new flesh, the white of her thick, curling scars.
The most he'd ever seen was when she lounged in her pajamas, and her legs were shown off, and even then, she'd layered illusion over illusion so he wouldn't see the full extent.
If he were to see…well.
She sported one thick, gruesome scar that traveled from the back of her knee to the curve of her butt, and then thin, slicing ones that wrapped around her ankles, ten silvery lines as coarse as they were slim. She had thick, deep gashes on her knees, a lifetime of being bound, kunai stabbed into her thighs, and then one patch of burnt skin that had been from the time with the acid—
She gripped her keys.
You don't want him to see because you're scared, the other voice purred inside her mind. You're scared he won't recognize you anymore—not between the scars and insanity—
She ignored it and this time, let the genjutsu settle over her skin, a miasma of deception clogging her pores.
The only one who she let see everything, had been Kiba. And that had been after months and months and months of pestering until she finally couldn't take it anymore and stripped down to her underwear, parading around the apartment until he'd had his full. He'd cried into her hair, and held her for an hour after, refusing to let go.
("I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"Tears soaked the hair at her nape. She let him draw her closer, saying nothing. "I'll be here. I'm here. I'm—here—now.")
Kiba, Sakura winced, would definitely not like her new ones.
Sakura edged the key into the old lock, jimmying a little, before it opened with a grunt.
There was a scamper of footsteps, a skid of movement, and then she heard little pattering footfalls, hastening towards the door. He appeared in the hallways, green eyes shining bright, smile widening on his cherubic face. His little tuft of black curls fell around his ears haphazardly, and they only mussed more when he threw himself at her.
"Nee-chan!" He shouted, arms gripping her sides. "Nee-chan you're home! You're home…finally!"
Sakura's laugh sounded more like a sob than anything else as she dropped to her knees and dragged her little brother closer. She was vaguely aware of the door shutting behind her as she slowly began to acclimatize with the world she'd long since put out of her mind.
A month had been all it took to rob her of the warmth she felt now, layering her skin, filling her up like a hot drink on a cold day, heating her very soul.
(She wasn't in that crate anymore—she wasn't a witness to the atrocity that had befallen her teammate.)
She breathed in the smell of his lemon shampoo, the faint hint of sweat and the warmth of his skin, concentrating, concentrating.
Her anchors were all here:
Ryu—her little brother. Three and a half, with a gap in the middle of his milk teeth and sparkling green eyes. He liked the soap operas on TV and the slapstick humor shows. A little mischievous, a little reckless; he'd gotten in trouble with the grocery store last month for borrowing, Nee-chan, I swear I was gonna give the tomatoes back! And kicking one of his schoolyard bullies in the shin.
Her little, rugged home in the outer ward of the civilian district—the smell of jasmine and pressed laundry met her nose and she felt tears burn her eyes. Her mother loved to leave rosemary bunches in closets (to ward the moths away, Sacchan) when she was alive and Sakura had kept up the habit with jasmine instead. If she lifted her eyes from Ryu-chan's curls, she'd see that the walls were worn in and the paint a little cracked, and once, when she'd been fifteen, she'd let Ryu draw all over the corridor. The scribbled bunnies and lopsided cacti were still there in all their smudged crayola glory.
Her hands—they weren't gripping kunai or branches or loose dirt or her katana. They were free; trembling and shaking, but still free. They were the hands full of callouses and scars, the hands that Ryu loved to trace with baby-soft milky skin and wondrous green eyes. (Will I have hands like you one day, Nee-chan?). They were the hands that loved—healed—instead of killed.
And when Sakura felt she could breathe a little deeper, she smiled into her brother's hair, swallowed down the tears and whispered that she was home now, that he didn't have to worry. He squeezed her tighter, and she felt the front of her jacket begin to dampen.
She was home—a little chapped and jagged around the edges, but home. Home and still sane of mind—of heart.
"Have you been good for Ms. Toya-san?" She asked quietly, drawing back on her haunches. Ryu-chan beamed at her, hands still clutched around her shoulders and she felt a little more than broken as she stared into his luminous green eyes and blinding smile.
"Up! Nee-chan! Up!" He tugged at her jacket. "Please?"
She smiled again, impossibly soft and picked him up gently, settling him on her hip. She ignored the jarring from her injury, and kept him close as he wrapped his arms around her neck and pressed his face against her throat. She closed her eyes, keeping him closer, to remind her that she was her, that she was safe, that he was safe.
Ryu nuzzled her hair, and pressed feathery kisses to her cheeks, a bright smile framing the innocent green eyes that followed her every movement as if she were his entire world.
"Yeah! She even gave me ch—chocolate?" Sakura nodded and he ploughed through his stutter. "Chocolate cake as a good boy gift! She said there's some more in the fridge for later. For you, Nee-chan!"
Sakura chuckled and let herself into the small, cozy kitchen that sported several, battered, wooden chairs and a heavy mahogany table. It was a place where Sakura spent most of her youth. She remembered her Mother's strong hands—from toiling in the fields—and her Father's crinkling newspaper, the words lighting up in the pale sunlight streaming into their quiet home.
"Did Kiba come over before he left?" Sakura asked, setting her little brother down on the wooden counter, smiling a little as his chubby hands roved over the age-old grooves.
Ryu shook his head and continued to watch her as she moved around the kitchen. It was an old dance; she hung the katana on the hook over the door, untied her hair, letting it flow to the small of her back, and yawned, shaking herself out.
Remember, remember, remember, she willed herself. This is your home. This is your home. Nothing will hurt you here.
"Another mission, before?" She prompted, blinking once, twice, before shaking her head a little. She needed to get out of her funk before little Ryu-chan noticed anything. Her brother sighed before stretching his hands over his head in a display of childish frustration, pouting.
Home. Home. Home. She repeated. This is home.
"No, Nee-chan. Kiba-nii said he had clan duties." Ryu scowled as Sakura threw her head back and laughed.
She was just grateful it sounded less bitter than before.
"Oh Ryu-chan. Kiba can't always come over to play, you know." She tilted her head, pausing in the middle of stretching to grab the salt, watching his rosy mouth pucker further into a frown.
"I know, Nee-chan. I'm not a baby." Ryu pouted, crossing his tiny arms over his small chest.
A sly, foxlike smile slipped onto her face and she stopped preparing the food she was going to cook.
"No, not Ryu-chan." She whispered theatrically.
He nodded, eyes fierce.
"Ryu-chan is a fierce, brave, loyal shinobi! Isn't that right?" She giggled softly, a smile stretching her lips further as she saw him beam up at her.
"Of course, nee-chan—ah! No!" Ryu shrieked, face screwing up in happy terror as Sakura danced her fingers across his sides, laughing crazed giggles.
"Sakura-nee!" he whined when she moved away, arms reaching out to grab her. He crawled over the counter and twisted himself over her shoulders, latching his arms around her neck, little pudgy legs locking at her waist. "That's no fair!"
"Shinobi aren't fair, Ryu-chan," Sakura smiled fondly, checking the rice cooker Toya had given her last Christmas. It was an old one—a little rusty, a little bumpy—but it worked just fine and cooked rather quickly, always a bonus after a long mission.
It looked like it hadn't been used in a while, and Sakura was glad that Toya hadn't put it another portion of rice—the last time, the stupid thing had gone off too late once she came home and they'd had overcooked rice for dinner. Ryu had not been a happy camper and that particular tantrum would be remembered for all eternity.
She could feel his chubby-cheeked pout against the base of her neck, his soft babyskin sliding against hers. His grubby little hands grabbed at the base of her rose locks and pulled lightly, playing with the long, silky strands.
"Sakura-nee's hair is the prettiest." He yawned against her skin, and she could imagine his innocent eyes crinkling in exhaustion, his brow furrowing as his pout deepened.
He waited for me, Sakura thought. He was worried I wouldn't come home.
The first time she'd ever set eyes on her baby brother, he'd been a wriggling, pink mess of newborn limbs and half-hearted screams. She hadn't been half as impressed—he looked rather like a potato with his smudged features and newly formed face—but when he looked at her with blotchy gray-blue eyes, his cries stuttering on his lips, she'd felt love creep up into her heart, warming her chest.
It was a fierce love—devoted and adoring, unable to be contested. Nothing came before Ryu, not now, not ever.
It was moments like these—when he whispered his affections and compliments and hugged her tighter than normal around the waist, her shirt still wet with tears—that she felt that fierce, everlasting devotion well up in her all over again.
"Thank you, Ryu-chan." She said quietly, even though it pained her.
(It had been her hair—her beautiful, prized, locks—that had landed her in that ANBU division. That and her baby face and her bottle-green eyes, the size of saucers in her pretty face.)
Stirring the curry, and occasionally checking in on the rice, she hummed appreciatively as Ryu mumbled and moaned about his day. She learned that he had made her a new drawing in art today, and that Toya had already put it up on the fridge—of our family, nee-chan; Kiba, you and me!—for her to see.
She listened to his tiny voice, comforting and melodic and let herself breathe. Her shoulders loosened, the strain behind her eyes washed away, the feeling of the pounding headache beginning to thrum at her temples dissolving at the sound of little Ryu-chan's soft, whining voice.
"Sakura-nee?"
"Hm?" she mumbled, checking the rice again and noticing that it was nearly done. She'd have to take it out soon—the damned thing never quite got it right in the last minutes.
"Sakura-nee." Ryu repeated, more firmly.
Immediately, Sakura began to worry.
It was a given that when children weren't happy or carefree, she began to look for what was wrong. Ryu was a normally happy child. He was well-behaved and empathetic, and he ate all his vegetables—even his sticky foods, the ones he hated so much—if he was talking to her in such a serious, cautious tone, something must have gone wrong.
The tension that had bled away returned with a numbing vengeance. Her hackles rose, and she thought of all the things that could have gone wrong during the months that she was away—someone could have picked on him, Toya might have not fed him or hit him or hurt him—god help the old woman if she dared lay a hand on Ryu because she would need spiritual intervention if that were the case.
So Sakura calmed, steeling herself for the very worst. "Yes baby—is everything alright?"
She kept her voice steady and thrumming, like the way her ANBU superiors did when the rookies began to freak out. The trick was well-used, and had served her well with Kiba as her partner. He was violent and tended to be rash and impulsive—something that even the six-month ANBU training courses hadn't managed to beat out of him, much to the displeasure of Boar-taichou.
Ryu hesitated, and for a split second, Sakura contemplated (quite calmly, she assured herself) all the ways she could murder the person who hurt her little brother. She was skilled, enormously so, and there was little she couldn't access with her level of security clearance.
It would not be clean or neat and she knew just the places where she could strike to bleed out the most, the ways the flesh on their bones wouldn't take away any life force when cut in the manner she chose—
"We talked about—about gee-nee-oh-loh-gee in school today." Her little dragon whispered into her neck.
She both relaxed and stiffened.
"Genealogy? The study of family ancestries and histories?" She questioned, slowly, cautiously.
Ryu nodded against her, chin hooking on her shoulder.
Sakura hadn't ever quite…addressed their parents before. It hadn't been something she wished to relive. They were immortalized in her mind—tall and beautiful and kind and oh-so-loving—and the memories she had with them were some she did not wish to tarnish. Ryu had been too young to remember them—only three weeks old—and there were no other relatives to remind of their mother and father's lives.
She had worried about it before. Whether or not Ryu would be upset at her for keeping all she knew about them to herself. Whether he found her guilty for their deaths. Why they had died.
She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.
Sakura had tried, so hard, to have a male presence in Ryu's life. She'd been counting (funnily enough) on Naruto and Kakashi but—after Sasuke left, so had they—and she'd only had Ryu, and Ryu only had her. It had been when he was two months old that she realized that she was going to go steadily insane—and broke if she didn't do something.
So she'd enlisted her fellow operative—his name had been Soyu or Sai or something of the sort—to babysit once in a while and thankfully, he agreed.
She hadn't been as close back then to the Konoha Eleven and she and Ino were still not on speaking terms.
It had been fine, of course, until she'd discovered just how weird Sai was. More than once, Sakura had come home to find Sai just…watching her baby brother, taking notes, mirroring expressions of emotion on his face.
She had asked him about it once, hands curling into her palms, and he'd looked at her strangely for a minute, before poofing away on the spot. She hadn't really seen Sai since, and to be frank, at thirteen and utterly lost, that had been the straw that broke the camel's back.
But, that was a different story.
"Sakura-nee, the curry needs to be stirred." Ryu reminded her urgently, as the pan simmered dangerously high.
"Oh! Yes. Yes, thank you sweetie." She started, immediately stirring the wooden spoon in the thick, gooey sauce and spiced meats. The smell of good food and warm rice filled the air and Sakura felt herself calm.
She was an assassin—an older sister—for Sage's sake. There was little that she couldn't compartmentalize and take apart later.
"So, genealogy?" Sakura hummed, "What did you learn, darling?"
"I learnt that Miya-chan has three older brothers. They're ninja too! And Raido-kun has a baby sister with pretty eyes—but you've got prettier eyes than her nee-chan—and the teacher also has an older sister! I told him that she wasn't as cool as you and he laughed—meanie." Ryu said, carding chubby fingers through her lanky hair.
She had to take a shower—the sponge bath the nurses had given her wasn't enough to clean away the grimy residue of the base, and there was nothing that she hated more than to let Ryu touch the disgusting part of her life.
"Honey, not the hair." Sakura chided him gently. Ryu whined a little, but let the strands go, and nuzzled his face further into the back of her neck.
"But…I only had Sakura-nee…" Ryu's voice was muffled, but even then Sakura could hear the chord of loss echoing in his words. Her heart dropped to the soles of her feet. "Why don't we have an Okaa-chan…or an Otou-chan? Is it…is it something we did—"
"No!" the shout burst from her lips before she could temper her tone, and Ryu recoiled, if only a little. "No, baby, no. This…it's…"
She sighed, and checked the curry and the rice that simmered away in the cooker. The little green light had finally sparked, and she took out the plug, and opened the top to let it air.
The meat is going to be tender enough to slide right off the bones, she thought absently, her brow furrowing deeper.
Ryu had wrapped his legs even closer around her, and his arms squeezed her shoulders even tighter. His little face was once again buried deep into the crook of her neck, and he had wrapped his fingers around the strands of her long hair.
Carefully, she maneuvered little Ryu so that he was sitting down on his high chair, hands and feet in proper position. His eyes were downcast, and his lip trembled as he clutched the edge of his seat.
Her heart broke to see him like this, but Sakura knew that this day would one day come.
Taking a seat in the rickety chair next to him, she reached for his face, and tilted his chin so his eyes could reach hers. His hands immediately searched her out, and she made an oomph when he launched himself at her.
He let out a sniffle. "Did they not love us, Sakura-nee?"
"No." she said softly. "No, baby. They loved us very, very, very much."
"Why did they leave?"
There was a lump in her throat as she tried to speak, hoping that her voice wasn't as hoarse as it sounded to her. Ryu needed her to be strong. She couldn't allow herself to panic or to scream—he would break in the face of her insanity.
And Ryu would not be allowed to break.
"Okaa-chan was so happy to meet you, Ryuiji-chan. She sang to her stomach, and called you her little sunflower—you always moved when she sat in the long, heated sun. It drove her a little crazy." Sakura laughed a little, memories tasting bittersweet on her tongue.
As she looked at her otouto's inquisitive green eyes, his chubby cheeks, and soft, downy black hair, she hoped she had done her mother proud.
There was so much she wanted to tell them about him. That he combed his hair the wrong way at first, because he wanted to figure it out himself instead of her telling him. That he hated orange juice, but loved lychees. That he wrinkled his nose at bullies and never pulled his punches when the mean boys at the end of the street made fun of him only having a shinobi older sister.
That she loved Ryu, and there wouldn't ever be a time where it waned.
"And Otou-chan?" Ryu asked eagerly, eyes shining bright. His fingers clutched her shirt tighter. "What was Otou-chan like?"
"He was grumpy." Sakura confessed with a laugh. "Especially in the mornings. He worked as a carpenter, and he made the little crib that's in the cellar—the one with all the wooden carvings of the dragons. Ojii-chan helped too, before he passed away."
"…Really?"
He looked so eager for knowledge that Sakura was suddenly struck with the sensation that had prevailed with her throughout his babyhood. He would never know their parents like Sakura did. He would never know them as anything more than ideas, fictions that pranced in his mind like ill-described illusions.
(And it was the same for—NarutoSasukeKakashi—how much did they guess? How much did they agonize? Sakura had some inkling, now.)
"They told me after I graduated from the academy. Kaa-chan was overjoyed. They'd tried for kids, after and before me, but she…she nearly always lost them." Tears came to her eyes and she batted them away before Ryu could see.
She remembered those happy months vividly.
How joyous her mother had looked when they had told her she would be getting a new little brother or sister. How her father slaved away, back bent over his working table, hands tracing away at the bendable wood, muttering to himself about the necessary carvings. They both flipped through baby pamphlets even though they'd been through it all before when Sakura had been born.
She remembered herself, barely twelve, singing to her little brother, rubbing her mother's bulging belly in the low light of the afternoon sun. She remembered the names they had picked out. The flower names (to match little Sakura-chan) for the girls and the solid, brusque names for boys.
"And they loved us?" Ryu whispered, settling better into her lap, letting his face rest buried in her chest.
"Yes, Ryu-chan. They loved us very, very much." Sakura reassured, ignoring the pain in her chest and the tears burning behind her closed eyelids.
"What did they like?" He asked quietly.
"Okaa-chan loved flowers. All kinds of flowers. But especially the lilies and the sunflowers that came out during the hot summers in our garden. She liked the color blue and she never raised her voice. Her name was Asami and she was the daughter of a farmer from the land of rice. She always missed her home, though. And she never forgot to sing the lullaby—you know the special one—to me." Sakura threaded her fingers with soft black curls and lifted him so he could better hear her heartbeat.
"Otou-chan liked winters. He liked the heavy rains and the floods that the village sometimes suffers through. His name was Gorou, and he was a grumpy old grouch. But a lovable one. He loved snow most of all. One of my oldest memories is rolling in the snow with him and seeing his bright smile as we threw snowballs at each other. He liked that we could drink hot chocolate and tell scary stories near the fire and cuddle for warmth."
Ryu sniffled quietly, and Sakura said nothing as he buried his face into her chest and clutched at her tighter. His little sobs wracked his body, and Sakura carded a hand through his hair and held him closer.
"Hush, Ryu." She said softly. "Hush, my little boy."
"I—I miss them, nee-chan." Anguished green eyes met with her own. "I miss my mama. My papa."
"I know, sweetheart." Sakura murmured, settling her chin on his head. "I know."
He breathed softly, and she could feel the breath puff against her neck. She began to hum, quietly at first, and then with gaining crescendo as she rocked him back and forth. It was an older song, a melody she'd picked from her mother's music sheets, dusty and decaying in the basement.
His fingers curled, digging into her sides deeply, but she did not utter a word.
She sang until he fell asleep, breathing softly, the trails of his tears having dried from his cheeks.
This is the edited version of the chapter! I hope you enjoy it :)