It's a cold, dreary day in December when Sakura decides to give herself a vacation.
She stays in a quaint little countryside town, a three-day jouney from home. This place was normal enough, she supposes—normal meaning the complete absence of anything shinobi-related—to keep her mind off Konoha for a while. It feels good, relaxing, to escape from the cacophony of the village and breathe some fresh air.
On the fourth night of her holiday, Sakura takes a walk. She has long forgone her skintight kunoichi apparel for impractical civillian clothes: fluffy red earmuffs, a warm white trenchcoat and her favorite black leather boots (she tried leaving them behind, really—but her feet just felt so naked). She blends in with the crowd easily, if not for her quiet footsteps born from years of practice, as well as her rather unique pink hair.
The locals once told her the coffee here was good, and so she finds herself walking on an unfamiliar road, looking for a certain Matsumoto cafe, looking both very lost and confused (she never had a good sense of direction)—and that is exactly what an old lady tells her.
"You young people nowadays think you can be so independent, but it's not as if you know everything."
She doesn't know what to say to that, so she stays silent.
"You must be a tourist," she says, pointing a cane at her. It's not a question.
Sakura has to fight the urge the grab the cane out of her old wrinkly hand. She nods.
"Well, where do you want to go?"
...
She is there in less that a minute. As it turns out the cafe was just on the other side of the street, but there were many people blocking the entrance.
The establishment is small and homely, with soft jazz tunes playing from a cassette in the background, and worn but obviously comfortable sofas all around. It smells heavenly, delicious. The pastries and drinks look so appetizing, and quickly she orders a latte and a simple bagel.
She promptly finds a comfortable couch to sit in, and a magazine to leaf through.
Sakura knows she will enjoy this place.
It's a cold dreary day in December when he decides to relax and drink a cup of coffee.
It is cold, after all, and his hands are as blue as the head he is currently lugging around by the hair.
So he walks, dragging his feet on the snow-covered ground, and wondering whether he should just use a katon to melt the snow and make his life easier. He debates on this for a while, wandering aimlessly, searching for any source of life in this place (in the middle of nowhere).
When he arrives at his decision a mere fifteen seconds later, he lifts his head and realizes he shouldn't have even thought about it. Somehow his feet had already brought him right in the middle of another civilian town, one of those scattered sparsely along this area, and he finds people staring at him (and the head) quite incredulously—and quickly forces himself to stop observing and start doing.
What to do, what to do?
How had he lowered his guard so easily in the first place?
He morphs into a harmless little villager in the blink of an eye, with nondescript bowl-cut black hair and dull black eyes, and the head into a convenient scroll. Then efficiently he turns on his demon-red sharingan and forces them to look.
And they are caught.
"Forget," he says, with a deep, hypnotic voice, willing them to erase him from their memories.
And they do.
And so everything goes back to normal. It is a normal Sunday afternoon again, with parents and children chasing each other down the street, hawkers selling their wares down the street. They don't even know there is an s-class missing nin standing just beside them. Just another face in the crowd, another person in a sea of strangers.
It's a cold, dreary day in December when he decides to relax and drink a cup of coffee.
Another day in the life.
When he walks into the café, she puts down her magazine and looks. She wouldn't have spared a glance if he weren't so intimidating.
Despite this stranger's humble appearance, he carries with him a sort of quiet confidence, bordering arrogant, an aura that says I'm-here-for-a-reason-and-I'll-get-it-done-quick—but they were just in a coffee shop. What the hell?
She hears his voice when he orders (as her seat is very close to the cashier), and it is… unusual, for the lack of a better word. It is as deep and as sure as a man's, but the way he spoke was as graceful as a woman's. She could not hear a trace of any particular accent, but it sounded like a medley of them.
It could be a shinobi, her mind says. From his "professional" aura down to his voice, he certainly seems like one. A shinobi under a henge. Check it out.
She sends a brief flare of chakra to verify it, to estimate his chakra stores.
…nowhere near shinobi-levels.
Damn. She was overanalyzing this.
He receives his hot, steaming mug soon enough, and it suddenly makes her realize that her latte was getting cold, and that she wasn't even halfway through.
The thought leaves as quickly as it comes when she sees him walking in her direction.
She tries to look away but she can't, as much as she wanted to. She was on paid leave, for heaven's sake, to enjoy herself and have some rest and relaxation—and not to ogle some civilian buying coffee.
…
…
…
He gestures to the empty seat right in front of her and asks if he can take it, using that same unusual voice from before.
She can't stop herself from nodding.
This isn't gonna get any better, is it?
Of all the people in the world, he doesn't expect to see her there.
Sugar, spice and everything nice wrapped up in a thick red sweater, together with cotton-candy pink hair and lime-green eyes.
So this is the infamous Haruno Sakura, he thinks to himself as he settles in the plush one-seater. Apprentice of Tsunade-hime. Naruto's teammate. Sasuke's teammate.
This girl had Konoha written all over her. She looked so innocent it was almost laughable, but the suspicious glint in her eyes told him otherwise.
He offers an uneasy smile, though from the slight twitch in his muscles, he could easily discern that it looked anything but. Instead he raises his hands up in the air like a caught criminal (belatedly, the irony amuses him), and speaks, "I assure you, miss, I mean you no harm."
"Oh, did I make you uncomfortable, sir? I'm really sorry."
He deliberately takes a slow sip from his mug, chuckling inwardly at the guilty expression on her face. "It's quite alright."
"I swear, I didn't mean to. It's just that I'm not quite used to this place yet. And you seem kind of… different, that's all."
"So I've been told."
Depends on what you mean by "different".
To be honest, he does know that he shouldn't have approached her. It was completely unnecessary and could possibly end up being not in his favor, but he had been feeling quite lonely for some time now, because joining an organization composed of slightly-psychotic, special-in-a-very-unique-way, and emotionally-repressed men (and woman) was slowly, carefully, draining away the last dredges of his social life—and so a talkative, friendly girl was a refreshing change.
He was drawn to her like a magnet.
"A question, if I may?"
"Of course."
"What are you doing here all alone? I'm sure a pretty girl like you would rather have some company."
She answers quickly, without missing a beat. "Well, you're here now, aren't you? You're good company."
At this, she blushes a full, deep red, like a tomato, and has to pull away from his gaze just to compose herself.
They continue talking.
He doesn't exactly know where he is going with this conversation, with all these not-so-subtle hints of flirting, double entendres and hidden meanings. What was supposed to be time for getting to know her turned into "getting to know" him, as he divulged false information about himself, such as his birthplace to his job, and certain truths, like his favorite book and type of scarf.
He doesn't exactly know what's going on with him, either. Through some unfathomable method, he is able to calmly hold intelligent conversation with a beautiful woman while hiding a rotting head underneath his cloak. His voice is straight, level, calm. His posture betrays nothing. His demeanor is anything but suspicious.
He doesn't understand how he does it.
Any lesser man would be fidgeting by now, but he isn't just any man, he figures. That must be the reason.
"You were saying?" he asks, fingering the scroll in the cloak with his left hand.
"Why's nine afraid of seven?"
"...why?"
"Because seven eight nine!"
His face grows blank. "...okay."
Soon enough it is time for him to leave, as his work didn't leave him much free time. It would be best now, he surmises, to give the head back to the contractor (before the smell became too rancid to handle) so he could receive the payment, and head on to his next assignment.
Not even this good of a distraction could keep him away from his duties.
"You're leaving? So soon?"
"I'm afraid so. It's an important matter."
"I haven't even introduced myself to you yet," she says, a smile growing on her face, "—my manners. I'm Haruno Sakura." She extends him a slim hand, waiting for him to take it.
I know that. And I think it's about time I introduce myself to you, too.
He guides just the slightest bit of chakra, dark and powerful, into his palm as he shakes her hand, "It's been a pleasure meeting you, Sakura," his voice lowers to a whisper, "My name is Uchiha Itachi."
He leaves the store, his steps steady and sure, while she is left gaping like a fish brought out of water.
The only reminder of his presence is his still-untouched cappuccino.
Really, she sighed, she should've known.
happy valentine's day!
