Theme: 24:00 [Writer's Choice
Title: The Dreamscape
Fandom: Naruto
Character/Pairing: Haruno Sakura x Uzumaki Naruto
Category: Romantic
Rating: PG
Warnings: Some angst, mention of blood.
Disclaimer: Naruto and all things related belong to Kishimoto. Not me.
Summary: In the thin border between reality and dreams, on the night when they need it the most, they can meet.
I. Rasengan
A breath of life, exchanged for a wind of death)
That night, he thinks about her.
The moon is high ("Twelve thirty", Jiraiya comments usefully), unfriendly, reminding him of a primal fear (almost like that of a child confronting a weapon, or perhaps a hunted animal escaping the hounds) that bounds around inside him nervously. He can almost see his chakra drained from his rapidly weakening body, traveling towards hands made slick with blood and perspiration. Wounds, gaping open like greedy mouths, drying into a stiff purple before his very eyes, eyes made red from the sweat that slides into them with every abrupt movement.
Tonight it is the 'good exhaustion', as the Toad Hermit calls it, because although the skin of his palms is flaking off, his body beginning to shudder from the chills associated to low chakra levels, the Red Chakra is fast asleep.
He can see, as if in a mirror, the ragged boy in the broken headband as he kneels, breathless, to press his raw hands together in an attempt to dispel some of the painful spasms his debilitating, unnatural wounds inflict. His hair is wilder, his eyes dim. Even this body, this prison of flesh can tire, and the limit is nearing.
In a gesture of stoicism and stupidity he rises, rubbing his hands together (sometimes the burn of friction distracts him from the pain). He thinks of green eyes and soft hands he'd be afraid to touch with his bloodied, eroded ones, of petal pink hair washed silver in the uncaring moonlight. He can see the things he associates with her (red cloth, flowers, a night in a forest where death crouches around the next corner, another one besides a fire, tealeaves and hopes cupped in her hands), and try as it might the frigid winds cannot blow them away.
He tips his head upward, and for a moment believes he hears her.
The hitai-ate's cloth gives in and tears off, plaque hitting the ground with a dry thump.
II. Mystic Palm
(the healing hand has curled into a fist)
That night, she called to him
The skies of Konoha are thickly veiled, the clouds so solid they bring her a memory of bandages wrapped tight, and yet unable to contain the rivers of blood. If she could reach out and touch, would their most, cushioned feel be that much different (even her questions begin to grow confident).
The gashes are growing numb with each blow, a response to the repeated abuse she is putting her arms through. The cold is pushing her towards despair, as is the distance between the nearest burst of chakra, her muscles pulsing more distractingly with each passing minute, as she contemplates the possibility of Tsunade having put the name of "endurance test" on what was truly a reminder of her limits.
She is equally afraid and disappointed at the full extent of her capacity. The amount of chakra her body can store feels insignificant as the nth blow depletes it all over again. The skin is black and blue, torn, oddly punctured, small bits of dead skin falling off like blackened leaves with every collision against the rock.
It stands unsaid that she could have left hours ago, leaving the bloodied stone door as proof of her dedication: her body is not keeping up with her will.
As she withdraws dented knuckles, pride and a necessity to remain conscious warning her not to attempt to heal, a mess of bruises, grime and sweat, she can see him. She can see him, defiant little face reflected on a blade that towered over their heads. She can feel it, a faith that could solidify before his heart to deflect a kunai, a sword, a word with a sharp edge that was sent sailing through the air before it could be thought better of. She straightens her back, regaining lost balance before the rock is assailed, ailing body and incandescent will agreeing for once.
His name escapes her lips, a war cry, a prayer, she isn't sure.
Shards of stone catch on the hitai-ate, lengthening the tears until it is pulled apart.
III. Poison Extraction
(There is a toxin in their souls, and it hurts a little less on nights like these)
There are vast expanses of earth between them. Letters are time-consuming and beyond the budget. Messenger birds are targets of war. They cannot sense each other, not their mind or their chakra.
But they are under the same sky. And for a moment the can stretch across the miles of the dreamscape they share, and their hands touch.