A/N: There is some overlap in this chapter with the previous, as it's my attempt to explain certain details more from Sasuke's side of things. I hope the flow of events in this chapter is not too confusing (it goes back and forth a bit). I'll still be editing this in the coming days.
Thank you greatly for all your reviews! I'd probably take even longer to update if people didn't motivate me to continue...
Rating: M
CHAPTER III
Feather-light touches dance along his chest and abdomen, twirling and tracing invisible shapes on his skin. The playful movement of each touch sends an obvious intention, only accentuated by the strands of long hair that fall over the woman's shoulder as she leans in to press a kiss on a spot just above his navel.
Sighing, Sasuke remains unmoving, on his back with his shoulders and head leaning against the headboard. In his head, he could see green eyes staring up at him. There was something about the way she looked at him the day before. It was a distant expression, so cold and unlike her. It didn't hold maliciousness or anger, not even sadness or fear. It simply was. Empty and meaningless, unreadable, yet it was its lack of meaning that made it significant and had taken him aback.
You're breaking her.
A low giggle rumbles out from the female atop of him. So unlike her. It's enough to stir him from his reverie.
"Sasuke," she purrs while pressing her nude form to him. "Shall we go for another round?"
It's a question, but her smirk, combined with her hand sensually travelling lower is better confirmation for her intentions.
His eyes darken a fraction when she nibbles down on his collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. As if he were hers. She's not quite so lofty, however, to believe that he is hers and hers alone. Their arrangement is casual, one of convenience. She thinks his power and position lends her the possibility of future gain, while he accepts the open invitation to her bed in order to fill an incredible hunger. She's not the only one he uses in an effort to fill it.
In the end, he grants her no favors nor does she satiate his hunger.
When the tip of her middle finger meets the sheet that covers his pelvis, he hastily snatches her wrist and shoves it aside, suddenly disturbed by her caresses. He can't even remember what he initially saw in her that he considered attractive. She had long, dark hair. Like his mother. Dark eyes too. Maybe it was because her appearance was so similar to how a proper Uchiha ought to look. There certainly were never any Uchiha's with abnormal hair colours.
Pouting at his refusal, the female's bottom lip juts out and she pushes up on her forearms, letting her bare chest drag against his as she tilts her head up, far too close to his own. The contact creates a scathing, unpleasant sensation on his skin and he immediately shifts to leave. To get away from her shameless advances.
"Stay," her palm lands dead centre on his chest as she implores him not to leave.
She definitely did not behave like any Uchiha's he knew.
Lips curling up, she tries her luck and leans in, attempting to land a kiss on his lips. Scowling, he turns to avoid any onslaught of unwanted attention and abruptly pushes her aside so that he can get up and leave.
Disappointed but unperturbed by his cold attitude, the dark haired woman flops back to her pillow and eyes him while he dresses. "I wonder who it is you reserve your kisses for, hm?"
Never one for engaging in petty conversations, he ignores her.
"Is it for that prisoner in the tower? It is a girl, right?"
He cast a blank glance at her, but unhampered by her line of questioning, he continues to collect the last of his clothing.
The woman smirks, thinking herself clever, "I heard it was a female. Is she pretty?" Rumors of the person locked away in the tower occasionally surfaced, though they existed more as urban legend than facts. Civilians rarely understood the matters shinobi attended to. They simply went about their daily lives, not realizing the sacrifices and trials all shinobi are eventually forced to face but quickly casting blame on them when anything goes wrong.
She pauses when she catches him scanning the room for something and nonchalantly points out, "Ah, the scroll you had with you is over here." She nods to the bedside table next to her and reaches for it to hold it up for him. In turn, he promptly reaches for it without a word of gratitude.
"It's always the same with men like you, isn't it," she purrs. As his fingers curl around the end of the scroll, she clings to it tightly so that he cannot withdrawal as quickly as he wants, "wanting something you can't have." Someone is what she meant. She was perceptive for a civilian.
Impatient and wanting to leave, he simply glares while she bats her eyes and licks her lips seductively, though she doesn't really think she can change his mind and get him to stay. Instead, she hints to future encounters.
"Makes me think that next time, I should put up more resistance," her tone is light and playful; completely the opposite of what he wants to hear. This woman was definitely the farthest thing from what he wanted. Already he can feel the hunger within him wanting to consume. Wanting to be satiated. Wanting to be filled with something; he just didn't know with what.
Quickly, he departs, never one to stick around long after sex.
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In those brief moments where his body is completely satisfied and mind blank of all except the hum of pleasure washing over him, he finds himself at peace and without burdens. He didn't have to think about the demands of others or keeping a seemingly endless stream of grievances at bay in order to maintain an orderly, peaceful society. Nor did he have to think about what was right and what was wrong. It was simply a pleasant quiet.
The feeling never lasted long, however. Years of persistent schooling drilled into him the compulsion to mask any hint of weakness, physical or otherwise, which is why he never allowed himself to remain in such a relaxed state for long. He focuses on the headboard, willing his heart rate to slow, for the blood in his veins to circulate properly, and laboured breathing to settle.
The delicate touch of Sakura's soft fingers brushing over his collarbone snaps his breathing back to its usual, steady pace. It was gentle, non-threatening and entirely unexpected. So far out of the norm for the routine they'd created between themselves, that he can't help but watch her carefully, suspicious behind the motives of her actions.
She eyes him with equal, detached curiosity. At that spot over his collarbone.
His analytical mind races to unwrap the questions hiding in her sea-foam green eyes. Exactly the type of bright eye colour absent in Uchiha women.
It's when his memory touches on something, so insignificant, that happened days prior that he realizes what's captured her attention. It was such a Sakura-thing to pick up on; something no one else would ever notice or pay any real attention to.
With a swell of hubris he bites out a derisive, "Jealous."
Her hand quickly withdraws, as if it were his skin that bit and not his words. Still, there's something in her eyes that tells him her thoughts are lingering on it, though he cannot tell exactly what it is. The fact he can't read her is an annoyance in and of itself.
With more severity than necessary, he finds himself snapping out, "Don't think I reserve myself for you."
The last thing he needed was for her to think she actually meant something to him.
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Days came and went with little interruption to his routine. Sakura still resisted, he still exercised control over her. Hokage duties beckoned his attentions, the clans bickered, and peace remained. Everything continued undisturbed.
"Sasuke, I need to talk with you."
The raven-haired male didn't even look up from the scroll in his hands to see what the female wanted. He'd already moved on from her, with women who asked less questions and hid their ambitions better.
"It's important," she leans forward on his desk, the V cut of her shirt a little too low.
Still, he deliberately did not acknowledge her, hoping she'd get the hint and depart without further ado. He didn't have any qualms with putting someone in their place, though it was preferable and required less effort to simply pretend they didn't exist. Words were always a bigger burden for him than actions.
He takes out a pen to jot notes down in the corner of the piece of parchment in his hands. There were still certain matters with the larger clans that required his attention and diplomacy. Not to mention trade negotiations to ensure equality between coastal regions and places further inland. The hokage's duties were endless.
"Please," the tone of her voice is desperate, and for the briefest of moments he sees a flash of pink but cast it aside as abruptly as it entered his mind.
Sharply, he sets the pen down and at last sends a look of impatience at the woman who's nothing more than an unwelcome intrusion. "Look," he begins, prepared to send her on her way only to be interrupted unexpectedly.
"I'm pregnant."
The blunt statement catches him off guard, though his carefully concealed expression betrays little sense of anything. Good for you, he almost wants to scoff out before waving her off dismissively. Was she here to ask him for more favours, thinking he'd take pity on her for her condition? It doesn't even occur to him that it could possibly be his until she asserts a quick "It's yours."
An elegant brow arches over one of his eyes, as if completely mishearing those two words.
"It's yours," she confirms again, with even greater conviction than before.
"How do you know?" He's skeptical of her sincerity. "It's been weeks and," his voice lowers, "You said you had protection."
"It's a month along, and," she crosses her arms while launching into her defense, "I did have protection but... I don't know, I guess it didn't work. It's not always one-hundred percent. But, it's definitely yours. It's an Uchiha."
He's still not fully convinced by the time he starts standing, collecting a few scrolls in his hands as he readies his escape from the current reality this woman was shoving onto him.
"What should I do?" She asks, trying to catch him before he makes it to the door.
It was an unfair question. How should he know? It was too sudden. Much had changed since the time he once professed his ambition of restoring the Uchiha clan. He wasn't the same person anymore, his goals and responsibilities had changed. Nothing was even remotely similar.
At the door he waivers, not bothering to look back at her or the foetus growing in her womb. For the first time, in a long while, he doesn't know what the proper reaction ought to be. In his indecision, he breathes out a low and honest, "I don't know." He needed time to think. Somewhere far from here.
He buries himself in work and doesn't return to Konoha for a week.
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'You wouldn't have a child with someone you hate...'
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"Sasuke, we need to decide what to do... It's coming up to two months now."
That unpleasant, hot acrimonious feeling starts coursing through his veins like liquid fire. He doesn't like the way she uses the word 'we'. As if there were a 'we' to even speak of. Not with this woman. Not ever. He doesn't have the patience to have this conversation right now, and a great part of him simply wishes that if he ignored her, the problem would simply go away on its own.
"If you want it," she brings a hand to her belly, which is still flat. "I'll need your help. Financially, and with raising it." She's curt and to the point, businesslike, though he notices she's done little to cover the swell of her breasts.
The dark haired female purses her lips, and puts a hand on her hip, clearly intent on staying until things are settled. She'd been harassing him for weeks, always with the same questions.
"I can't do it on my own." Firmly, she adds, "I won't do it on my own."
He rubs the bridge of his nose, trying to keep his frustration at bay. The problem wasn't fading. Instead it promised to throw his orderly, rigid lifestyle into complete chaos. Still, he takes slow, deep breaths in an effort to smother the simmering embers in his gut.
'You must care for her.'
Sakura's words ring inside his head, instantly causing his fists to clench into tight balls. His nails dig into his palms and skin prickles with an anxiousness that's impossible to suppress.
What did Sakura know anyway, he chastised. Given the slimmest of opportunities, she'd always use it to spout make-belief nonsense about the importance of bonds. You don't need to care for someone to have a child with them. Yet, he couldn't shake the words. It'd been weeks since she said them and still they drifted through his consciousness like an unpleasant fly buzzing in an empty room.
Eying the woman before him, he can confidently assert that he definitely did not care for her. Did he even know her last name? He'd have to check the visitor's log on his way out to be sure.
Tight-lipped and arms crossed over her chest, she calmly informs him, "If you don't want it; I'll take care of it."
The statement incites him to respond at last. He stands abruptly behind his desk, with his hands pressed flat against the smooth, wooden surface. "You mean abort it?" He spits out, as if insulted by the mere suggestion.
"I'm just saying," she backtracks, "It's an option. Neither of us really seem suited to be..." Rather than finish, she casts him a knowing glance. "I know that you're a busy man."
'Nothing is going to change because of this.'
Everything would change.
Underneath the insult, he sees an escape and his mind is already dissecting her crude solution to his problem. Did he really want to bring a child into this world? One that came from a cursed bloodline and would be born to a father who couldn't love, and a mother who was only ever in it for materialistic gain? There was nothing right about it.
'I don't care about you.'
The solution remains at the forefront of his thoughts. But, was it really the right thing? Ending a life before it even had the chance to begin...
"I don't care," he clips out, restraint evident in his tone and tense posture. He still didn't know.
"You mean... " Heavy silence blankets the room, as she waits for him to state his decision aloud.
"I don't care!" At last he snaps, slamming his hands against the desk and causing the woman standing before him to flinch.
This woman didn't know the first thing about raising the child of a shinobi. She was just some civilian. What did she know of having blood on her hands, or the feel of bones breaking under her punches, lungs collapsing, organs bursting, skin tearing and limbs being severed from bodies. Cries of agony and pleas of men begging to be put out of their misery.
The sharingan starts swirling angrily in his right eye, threatening to reveal its vicious power.
What did she know of the screams of loved ones haunting her dreams every night or the glassy film that clouds the eyes of dead ones. Dead ones he was responsible for draining the life out of.
She'd never understand, but he could show her...
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The pink hairs on the back of her neck stand on edge, fingers clenching and unclenching in her lap as she resist shooting a spiteful glare at the door. She could feel his attention on her, thick and heavy. Burning her with an intensity that only he could ever manage. She was furious. At him for having fooled her, mocking her with versions of the old Sasuke. She was even angrier with herself for foolishly reverting back to the pathetic version of herself that believed he could be saved. In the first hours that he had left her that night, she couldn't help tracing her lips with her finger, re-playing the feel of his mouth on hers. Slowly, her trance faded, replacing with a sense of shame, then disgust, and finally intense fury.
'Sasuke-kun!'
She hates, hates, hates that she called him that. Bile rises to the back of her throat, searing her esophagus on its way up. After all this time, she didn't think she would be fooled so easily. More importantly, she thought she had extinguished the belief that some small part of the old Sasuke remained buried deep inside that cold, dark heart of his.
'Don't think you're something special to me.'
How could she? He made it abundantly clear on numerous occasions that he thought nothing of her. Indeed, it seems he goes out of his way to rub it in her face, taunt her with his lack of caring, and yet, when he kissed her... Her eyes clench shut in retaliation to the memory. All she wants is to forget.
Instead, she feels his long fingers curling around her shoulder in a firm, insistent hold that digs into the fabric of her yukata. The very same fingers he had stained with blood when he came to her that night. What was it that he had done? More importantly, who's blood had it been? It chilled her to the bone when she learned he'd lost the baby. Could the blood have been... No. She didn't allow herself to dwell on the possibility of that. It was too dark. Too monstrous to even rationalize. Instead, she asked herself vague questions and came no closer to answers.
His sleeve brushes against her cheek and body sways next to hers as he leans down slightly, far too close for comfort.
What, she wants to glower out at him, and back it up with a harsh remark about how she didn't want his attention, especially not his hands. In lieu of that, she tries to shrug and discreetly slip out from under his grasp.
It doesn't work. If anything, his grasp tightens and the intensity of his eyes on hers magnifies, as if he's purposefully trying to burn holes into her. It makes her palms grow sweaty and chest constrict. She always hated the feeling of him studying her. It makes her anxious, self-conscious; like he's peeling back all the layers of her skin, dissecting her, and laying her insides bare before casting her aside with a callous disregard for the torment it causes her.
In her lap, her fingers twitch with the compulsion to swat his hand off her shoulder. It didn't belong there.
"Here."
His hand leaves her abruptly but his presence remains near as he discards something warm in her lap, atop her small hands.
Dumbly, Sakura stares down at the bundle of fabric for several seconds, not quite knowing why it's there or what it is. Hesitantly, she inspects it more closely, lifting her right hand to delicately brush her fingers over the soft material. It's another yukata, the cotton material slightly thicker than the one she currently wears. The creamy off-white colour is offset with thin vertical stripes of light pink, the same shade as her hair. Strewn about are finely embroidered sakura petals of varying shades of red, pink and faint yellow.
It was pretty. Too pretty.
"What's it for?" She asks stiffly, eyebrows furrowing as she tries to calculate the meaning behind the gesture. It was always something with Sasuke, and it had nothing to do with concern or kindness.
"What do you think." The snide reply comes out cold and short.
"What's wrong with the one I have?"
"It's filthy."
It's true. The navy blue one he'd given her months ago now had stains littered all over it with small rips and tears, loose threads and the edges of the sleeves darkened permanently with a thin layer of dirt, blood, sweat and who knew what else. In spite of all this, she still has misgivings trading it in for something so delicate in appearance.
Deftly, her index finger traces over one of the embroidered petals. Some loose strands stray from her messy bun and frame her face. She's aware Sasuke's eyes are still watching her, observing her every movement, waiting for her to fail whatever kind of test this is.
"What happened to..." she begins slowly, shifting her head so she can eye him with suspicion, "the old prison garb?" The plain, ugly gray ones that blended in with the walls and hid all traces of her femininity. She preferred that outfit much more.
"What does it matter," his irritation is growing.
"I don't think it'd be right for me to wear something the other prisoners don't." In a swift motion, she pushes the folded yukata further down her lap in clear disapproval and rejection of the offering. She would've let it fall to the floor had his hand not snapped out and fingers wrapped around her wrist to prevent her from completing the motion. The action brings him further into her personal space, with his dark hair grazing against her forehead and long steady breaths brushing over her skin.
"There are no other prisoners here."
She frowns, "It'll just get dirty."
"Then it'll get dirty," he clips out, unmoved by her complaints.
"A darker colour would—"
"Then next time I'll get black," he seethes, pushing the yukata to her chest before turning on his heels heading for the exit. He slams the door shut with such a reverberating force that she instinctively flinches at the loud sound.
Black; the colour of mourning. Yes, she thinks, she would like that much better than this pretty little thing that innocent young girls would wear. What was he thinking.
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He returned hours later to make sure she'd changed. His timing was off however, and she was in the midst of a change of heart, deciding, after all, that she'd stick with the dirty old navy one instead of the new, dainty and pretty one. It made her look too clean, and features far too soft.
"What are you doing?" He asks, brow raised, as she stands with her back facing him, obi untied, folds hanging open and hands reaching for the old yukata still lying on the bed.
"Changing back." The reply is short and unexpected. She doesn't even bother to glance over her shoulder at him, but still she pulls the yukata shut.
"Why?"
"It's not for me." She's referring to the style. Specifically the colours and spring-time theme.
Sasuke thinks it's exactly her type. All the civilians in Konoha were preparing for the Summer festival, and the shops were full of lavish kimonos. He only noticed the pink and off-white yukata because it was in a dingy little shop window that he'd passed, while trying to avoid the crowds of people through back alleys. It wasn't as though he'd gone looking for it; the circumstances merely aligned as had so much else in their lives.
"Leave it," he's behind her swiftly, his fingers wrapping around her wrist the moment she has the discarded yukata in her finger tips.
Being near her intoxicates him, clouding his rational thought and intensifying his sense of touch. There's nothing he misses in her responses; the way her back stiffens when his torso brushes against it, the sharp intake of air followed by quick, shallow breathing. Even the subtle flinch, and minute tilt of her head to escape the feel of his hot breath fanning across her cheek. All of these small movements are unmistakable, and it's apparent to himself that the less she wants his attention, the more he wants to force it upon her.
In his hand, he feels her fingers twitch, still bent on clinging to that old yukata. Meanwhile, his other hand comes up to rest briefly on her shoulder before slipping the fabric down so that he can rest his lips dangerously close to her skin. Her shoulders tense and face grimaces as he mutters against her, "It suits you."
There's no room for argument. He won't let her return to the old navy outfit she so eagerly wants to cling to.
Out of the corner of her eyes, she sees him watching –always watching– as he presses his lips to her shoulder. His onyx eyes blank and as unreadable as ever, but she can tell he's daring her to oppose him. Laying a trap, like a trail of breadcrumbs to the ever-vigilant but unsuspecting prey.
She knew this yukata would be trouble.
It's when his hand leaves her wrist, sliding up her arm to wrap around her stomach and trap her like a caged animal in his arms, that she starts to struggle.
"I don't like it," she drops the yukata and grips his forearm with both her hands, trying with all her strength to yank it off her.
"Doesn't matter."
"I hate it!" She cringes as his teeth slide against her skin, and his hands continue their assault uninhibited by her resistance.
"You'll learn to like it," he mumbles into the crook of her neck, only half-paying attention to what she's saying. His mind is already on other matters.
"I won't!" She wants to fling the offending outfit across the room. Rip it to shreds. Burn it. Anything! She just wants to destroy it. She hates pretty things. She hates that it's clean and delicate. Such a reminder of spring. She hates that she once would've picked it out for herself. Everything about it she despises.
He decides to show her how much he likes it by taking her, with her back against the wall and legs loosely wrapped around his waist. It's hard and fast; there are no kisses on the mouth or gentle touches this time. Instead, he goes out of his way to show how little he cares for her, and how cold a man he's become.
She returns his gift with scratches down his arms, neck and face.
There's no calls for her missing Sasuke-kun this time either.
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Blood.
He was feeding her blood, Sakura surmised, staring down at the bowl of red clam miso soup. It wasn't the first time either. Since he came to her that night, she's been starting to see blood everywhere. It plagued her dreams, haunted her to think he'd bathed her in the blood of another and she, in her foolishness, had accepted it and allowed it to seep in through her skin like a toxin seeking to taint the last of whatever innocence she may have.
Green eyes wince shut as she brings the chopsticks to her lips to take in a mouthful of clam. The initial bite doesn't start off bad. It's the moment an image flashes in her mind of his hands blotted with blood that a metallic taste floods her tastebuds and she has to force down the salty mixture without chewing to stop herself from spitting it out. Knowing he won't be satisfied with her taking a single bite, she goes through the motion again and tries to shake out the disturbing image of Sasuke feeding her the blood of his latest victim. If it had been. She didn't know for sure.
To distract herself while eating, she eyes the swirls in the wooden tabletop, then the rumpled bed sheets on the other side of the room. The wall and floor do even less to divert her attention. The taste and scent of blood still overwhelms her, dropping food to her stomach like a rock and leaving it to sit there. When, at last, her sights set on his open toed sandals, she can no longer choke down the contents of her dinner.
If Sasuke notices her difficulty, he doesn't acknowledge it. Instead, he stands silently with his arms crossed and attention set at a point on the wall.
She wonders if he ever has nightmares of all the blood on his hands. Probably not. Nightmares were for those with a conscience.
Pushing away the tray with her half-eaten bowl of red clam –blood – soup, she stands, signalling his cue to depart. He's slow to react, however, taking several seconds before turning to her, and when he does, the motion is mechanical and his obsidian eyes are void of anything. It's unnerving, sending chills down her spine. He had looked at her that night too.
Wanting to send him on his way, she gives a faint nod to the tray to affirm that she is done and his presence no long needed. She then gazes impatiently at the very same spot on the wall he'd been focusing on mere seconds earlier. At her sides, her fingers fidget with the fabric of her yukata.
Slowly, he walks to the table, the gentle pat of his shoes barely audible. When reaching for the tray, he hesitates upon noticing the bowl half-full, but for whatever reason he decides not to mention it and instead takes the tray and prepares to depart without a word spoken.
It's when he's an arm's reach from the door, with his back facing her and her thoughts still incessantly lingering on his bloody hands, that she realizes they'd been staring at the exact same spot on the wall where she'd first spotted him that night with murder in his eyes.
"Wait," she blurts out mistakenly, eyes still trained on the wall. She didn't mean to speak, her voice simply came out against her will, because she didn't really want to know what had bothered him then but she needed to. It bothered her that he had come to her, filled her mind with questions and hundreds of 'what ifs'. There was no way she could move past it or settle the unease she felt without asking.
What if he killed someone?
What if the blood came from someone she knew?
Still, the timing had been suspicious. The responses even more so. He dragged her into something that she didn't want to be a part of. While she knew absolutely nothing about it, she felt the lingering sense of... Something. Guilt? Responsibility? Neither seemed to fit precisely.
What if he had done something, truly terrible and despicable... Had she given into a monster that evening?
"That night," she begins slowly. He doesn't have to ask to know exactly which night she's referring to; there had only ever been one night.
"You had blood on your hands."
He continues to stare blankly at the door in front of him, waiting for her ask the question he already knew was on the tip of her tongue.
"Did you... Murder someone?" The word comes out thick, almost foreign to her verbal repertoire. It's something she knows exist in the world but is outside of her understanding. She can't take a life. He was evidence of that.
Anxiously, she waits for an answer, hypersensitive to signs or subtle movements from him that might hint at an answer. He gives away nothing, and as the uncomfortable silence stretches for several seconds, she knows she must be more specific in order to get a reply, even if the truth is more terrifying than she's ready for.
As she steadies her heart, she swallows to force down any reservations. She needs to settle the unease in her heart. It eats at her, infects her dreams and preys on the edges of her waking mind. For some reason, she feels she's at the centre of something she doesn't understand or yet see. Perhaps, it was merely her own arrogance playing tricks on her, making her consider herself more important than she really is.
"Did you kill her?" That unnamed woman she knows nothing about, but is the only person she knows is in Sasuke's orbit. It's the only thing she can think of that makes the remotest of sense, though little about this man made any sense at all.
"No." His reply is swift and flat, nothing in his posture betrays a sense of unease.
Temporarily, she feels relief, letting out a shaky breath and allowing her shoulders to relax. It's inexplicable, but she feels the weight and responsibility for whatever harm he might have caused someone on that peculiar night.
Although she receives the answer she wants, it's only the first part of her query. The tension in her chest swells once more as she prepares to ask her next, and final question.
"Did you..." her voice drops an octave, as though what she's about to ask is forbidden, something so outrageous and unspeakable that to utter the words would threaten to blow her over. She has to ask, however. It's the only way she can put her mind at ease, and let her body know that there's no reason for the lingering feeling.
"Did you kill the baby?"
The silence between them stretches once more, attacking her nerves and ability to breathe properly. The seeds of self-doubt begin to emerge as soon as the question is asked, and she thinks herself foolish for even contemplating it. He was cold and vicious, but there were limits to his depravity.
A hushed "Yes," echoes off the walls and in every corridor of her mind. She thinks she misunderstood him, or that she'd forgotten the meaning of the word 'yes'.
Her shock quickly morphs to panic, as the confession shatters her composure, fracturing her thoughts into a thousand pieces and bombarding her with disjointed realizations for what it all meant. The emotions that enter her system come in a torrent of unpleasant bodily responses; the first, and least of which is her inability to breathe.
"What," she chokes, desperately wanting to disbelieve what she's just heard, but he says nothing to quell her turmoil. He doesn't even turn around to look at her.
"Why would you do that," voice low and cracking, she's increasingly distraught. To end the life of something so innocent, before it even had a chance at life... The tears well up in her wide eyes, body starts shaking and stomach churns with undigested food. His hands had been on her that night. On her with stained blood and she'd given in. What kind of person was she?!
She gags, not even caring about the pathetic sight she must make for, because all she can think of is why he would take the life of his own flesh.
"It was..." Dizziness hits her in a wave, and the floor disappears beneath her as she collapses to the ground.
For some reason, she knows her next words to be true, "It was because of me."
She doesn't know how or why, all she knows is that every fibre of her being believes it has to be her fault. It was irrational, complete nonsense, yet it's the only clear thought she can hold onto to. The floor is a blur, littered by her cascading tears, as she lays broken on her hands and knees with her shoulders wracking uncontrollably. She was falling to pieces, and he wouldn't even look at her!
"I said something, didn't I...?" Even with her thoughts in disorder, she searches for whatever she must've said that had set him off. It always came back to her. The things she said, the things she didn't. No matter what course she took, the result always ended the same.
"What did I do... It was me, wasn't it," she tries to stand, tries to get up so that she can grab him and force him to answer her. She has to know where she went wrong. It was because she said he had to care!?
Why wouldn't he just look her!
"It's my fault that you..." Why else would he have come to her that night. It's because he had wanted to kill her but instead he did much worse.
Anguish cripples her, and she gives up trying to reach him. Instead, she cries disconsolate on the floor for what feels like eternity. Her speech gives way to incoherent ramblings, then strangled gasps and eventually quiet sobs.
By the time her tears dry up, and body succumbs to exhaustion, she's long forgotten that Sasuke was still in the room, rooted in place and back still facing her. It's only after her form stills and eyes drift shut that he kneels down beside her, pushing her damp bangs out of her pink, puffy eyes and depositing her on her bed.
He hovers over her shortly, just long enough to hear her murmur out a final, "I can't save anyone, Sasuke-kun."
Not even herself.
.
.
.
"I don't care!"
After he had snapped at the woman, he deliberated between shoving her out the door and showing her a world of agony to make her understand his indecision. Instead, she rushed out, saving him the trouble and allowing him to remain undecided. The calm returned to his state of mind soon after she left, letting him to throw himself into diplomatic matters and actual important things. Things he knew how to handle and predict the outcome of.
She returned, an three hours later, delirious and stumbling through the doors.
"Sasuke," she murmurs, eyes shut and hands clutching the door handle to keep herself upright.
Setting down his pen, he looks up at her from his desk, momentarily annoyed that she had the forthright to return so soon. His annoyance quickly evaporates, however. Her behaviour is uncharacteristic, actions even more so, and a single look told him she was unwell. There was sweat rolling down her forehead, dark circles around her eyes and she had an unhealthy, pallid look to her.
The sight makes his stomach drop. A partial realization quickly forming in his mind. She's not simply sick. It's more than that, and far too sudden.
"What have you done," he utters lowly, and is at her side quicker than she can blink. His fingers clutch her elbow and dark eyes bore into hers, demanding answers that he's not sure he actually wants. The growing nausea in his stomach makes it harder to stand straight.
"I did it," she leans into him for support, and whispers the words that make his mouth go dry, "I got rid of it."
His eyes widen, and stomach drops. Quickly, he reaches down to feel in between her legs, silently hoping to find nothing, but instead discovers her clothes damp and the repugnant coppery smell of something he's all too familiar with. When his hand withdraws, its sticky with her blood. He knows exactly what she's done and what he's lost.
It doesn't make sense though. There shouldn't be disappointment or remorse.
"What did you take?" His voice is detached, and void of emotion.
"I... I don't know what it was called," delirium continues to cloud her mind, the blood loss sending her dangerously close to unconsciousness.
"It wasn't working..." She mutters as he lifts her in his arms, her blood-soaked clothes staining his hands with that of his unborn child. "I took double what the lady said..."
His feet hit the ground loudly as he starts rushing to the hospital, never bothering to look down at the woman in his arms. His thoughts and awareness of the situation are clouded and muddled beneath shock, confusion, and something else that he's not felt in a long time.
"It was a boy, did I tell you?"
He doesn't want to hear this.
"He would've looked like you... I know it."
It shouldn't affect him. He hadn't really wanted a child. This solved his problem; it was good and gone now. No more reason to think about it.
"Ha," she laughs weakly, eyes closing, "Who was I kidding... We would've made lousy parents."
Why couldn't he stop thinking about it? About a future with a son, smiling up at him brightly as soon as he entered the home.
There was an emptiness in his chest, a feeling of loss. How could he feel loss over something when he hadn't really wanted it to begin with? Nothing made any sense. Most of all, why, when all he wanted to do was to numb and forget the ache in his chest, did his feet take him to Sakura?
.
.
.
A/N: I hope after revelations of the latest Naruto chapter(s) people reading aren't TOO disappointed by how different Sasuke's character now seems in this fic. I always believed that Naruto would 'save' Sasuke from 'darkness', but it's his potential for darkness that often gives me ideas for fics. Now that Sasuke will be a 'good guy' (in Naruto series), I'm sure my portrayals of him will seem terribly OOC. Just try to keep in mind that the way I portray his character is more a 'what if' (what if Naruto could not reach him?).
Also... Now that Naruto is (basically) over, so many of my future fic ideas will seem crazy AU! A bit sad about that... But I don't think I can write a lot of good fics with one-arm Sasuke (cry) or family life... I hope people will still read my stories even if they diverge greatly from the end of the Naruto storyline u_u Sorry, I'm panicking over it so much.