"Polyhymnia…sketched in the air an image of a soundless voice, speaking with hands and moving eyes in a graphic picture of silence full of meaning."
-Nonnus, Dionysiaca, ll.5.88
It was too late to change much of her chances of getting honors on her degree, but Sakura pushed herself harder starting from day one of the semester. She had completed her minor requirements, which meant she didn't have to see Tsunade's raised eyebrows at another sloppy lab report. But she still had one last contemporary art history course for the major, which was stupid, because Sakura's specialty was in Edo-period art and she'd never need to look at another ultra-modern piece ever again. Kakashi wasn't very sympathetic.
They were sitting in her room, side by side on the bed, dangerously so, Sakura highlighting on her tablet and Sasori carving something spiked over a trashcan to catch the shavings. She didn't object when he reached for her, wordless and insistent, but it took the curl of two slick fingers inside her to realize his hand was bleeding, sliced open on his carving or his knife, but he hadn't noticed yet. His anger was frosty when she made him stop and bandage himself up.
The essays were becoming more frequent, and Sakura was relieved not for the first time that she hadn't decided to do a senior thesis. It was an arduous and continuous process—a new essay every week. But Sakura was hesitant to pull open her phone, scroll through contacts unmessaged since the obligatory happy new year texts, crack open a bottle of wine, and let inspiration flow with drunken company.
Sasori's quick breathing was turning into delicious gasps as Sakura kissed down his chest, over the scar he hadn't told her about, licking a strip down the only soft part of his stomach and navel. She tugged on his underwear and bit his hipbone meaningfully, and he moaned as he pulled her hair hard enough to hurt. "No," he said, voice breathless anyway, and she stopped as he tugged her hair again, up. Sakura looked at him then, and while his cheeks were flushed, the glare on his face said enough. Sasori didn't need to repeat what he'd said last year, but the words drifted from her memory anyway: "I can't see your face like that."
Sometimes she'd get a text from Hinata, and Sakura would respond cheerfully, but there was an undercurrent to their conversation, something that they both knew wasn't being said. Ino wasn't in any of her classes, but that wasn't a surprise. The life-drawing class had been the only course in common all four years. She barely saw her on campus, and tried to rationalize that Ino's senior portfolio review and showing was coming up, but Sakura knew better. What had happened? What had gone wrong?
Sasori was supposed to be heading to work soon, but he'd only grinned as he tossed her on her back and settled between her thighs, thumbs pressing into her hips as he brought his mouth down. Despite his devil-may-care smile, he hurried her along to completion, bringing her to the edge faster than Sakura thought maybe was good for her body, and he was already sitting up and putting on his shoes when she stopped shaking. With his hand on the doorframe, Sasori turned and looked at her, running the tip of his tongue over his smirking lips, but then he was gone, because Sasori hated being late for anything.
Sakura didn't need to answer her own question. She knew what had happened, and while she wasn't sure if something had gone wrong, it didn't matter.
"You're immortal, Sakura."
She was still alone.
"Come out with us. It'll be good for you." Itachi had shown up uninvited, as was his way, and Sasori couldn't be bothered to get annoyed. It was fortunate Deidara wasn't home—but maybe that was why Itachi was here. He always had an uncanny sense for people's actions and schedules. Nothing ever seemed to take him by surprise.
"Good for me?" Sasori repeated with an unamused scoff. He applied another layer of polish to his pointer nail, slow and precise. His couch was especially comfortable today, and the spring chill blowing through the window that wouldn't quite close reminded him just how comfortable it was.
"Yes."
Sasori moved onto his middle fingernail, but spared a moment to toss a glare over his shoulder. Itachi hadn't sat down. "Get to the point."
"You've been threatening to bestow your presence on us for weeks now, but you've made yourself scarce, as well as making excuses." The rest of the sentence was unspoken: And we all know why.
Sasori didn't feel like playing around. He shook out his hand before lining up the brush to his ring fingernail. "Please go on, Itachi. I said get to the point, and I meant it."
"Don't be a dick." Itachi's voice was mild, as if he were commenting on the broken window and that it warranted a call to the landlord. "Find inspiration at the bottom of a glass for a change of pace."
A drop of nail polish spilled over to his cuticles, and Sasori grit his teeth. He reached for the tissue box on the coffee table. "She's my muse, Itachi. That's not how inspiration works."
"I know you haven't texted her tonight. You wouldn't be having this conversation with me if you weren't considering."
Sasori, whirling around brandishing a tissue, prepared to snap something scathing back. But Itachi was staring at him, and Sasori saw his own reflection in his glasses.
He looked like a madman. Tissue clenched in his fist, black polish dripping down one finger, wild glare branded into his features, lips curled back in a snarl.
He wasn't going to create anything tonight, and they both knew it. Sasori had been annoying the shit out of Itachi by swearing he'd try sculpting, throwing, sewing something on his own, then ignoring Itachi's questions about how it had gone the next day. This had been a night he'd planned for himself, to prove his friend wrong, and it was setting him on edge. Loathe as he was to admit it, this wasn't Itachi's fault.
It was hers. Hers and the way she moved, the part in her hair, the gasp in her lips, the art carved in the curves of her body. Sasori's phone felt heavy in his pocket, and the urge, the guilt, the craving roared to life.
"Come out with us," Itachi said again, seconds before Sasori nearly plunged his still-drying hand into his pocket. "Kisame's already there. So's Konan and Nagato."
"Fine," Sasori replied, trying to pretend there wasn't desperation in the quick response. Itachi pretended, too. He stood up and twisted the cap closed on the polish bottle. "Fine," he said again, checking his pockets for his wallet and keys.
"Leave your phone."
"That's risky," Sasori shot back.
"So's keeping it."
They stared each other down, Itachi's eyes boring into Sasori's, unmoved and unrelenting.
The phone landed on the couch, bouncing on the cushion with the force it had been thrown.
Sasori threw on his coat and stormed out the door, nails half-polished, coat unbuttoned, Itachi triumphant in that quiet way of his.
"Fine."
When Sasori didn't respond to her text right away, Sakura didn't think much of it. He used to take anywhere from a minute to an hour to respond, and it all depended on how engrossed in his art he was, or if he was working the cash register at the art supplies store.
When he didn't respond to her text in fifteen minutes, Sakura remembered that was how it used to be. These days, their text conversations were rapid-fire bouts of time and place. On the odd days he took longer to respond, he apologized. A quick apology, but it was so characteristic of him to feel that making her wait for anything was worth saying sorry. So she didn't think much of it.
When he didn't respond to her text in a half hour, Sakura thought about sending a second text before changing her mind. She didn't need to text him. He was allowed to have a life. His life seemed to revolve around art and her, sure, but it was healthy. Her own friends' happy new year texts slammed into her mind, unbidden, and her heart throbbed painfully. How many of them had she actually responded to?
When he didn't respond to her text in an hour, Sakura gave up on checking her phone. She was being stupid. It didn't mean he was ignoring her, or playing one of his rare jealousy games. She knew she'd done nothing wrong—and, she reminded herself, he hadn't, either. In fact, Sakura decided, sliding her desk chair back and zipping up her hoodie, she should take a leaf out of his book. Get some fresh spring air. Yes, it was nighttime. But the student union cafe was open at all hours.
By the time she was walking across the quad, Sakura had almost forgotten about Sasori's radio silence. Students were still out and about, lounging on the grass even though it was dark and not exactly warm, or moving in clumps full of chatter and laughter. Sakura made her solitary way to the student union, eyes on the stars and hands shoved in her fleece pockets.
She nearly had a heart attack when she saw the boy-shaped figure slumped over a book in a familiar corner of the cafe. Her feet carried her over to him before she even glanced at the spring special menu.
He looked up at her when she arrived. She hadn't exactly been quiet. "Sakura!" Naruto grinned at her, a red line on his freckled cheeks from where the book cover had pushed against them.
The bags under his eyes were smaller, less violet than she'd last seen them.
"Can I sit with you?" Her own mumble was so timid.
"Of course. You don't need friggin' permission." He gestured at a seat, not the chair across from him, but the chair next to him. She took it.
"You look better than when I last saw you," Sakura told him, and he laughed, that good old Naruto laugh that echoed throughout a room no matter its acoustics.
"That's good, 'cause you look like hell!" he declared, the laugh still in the edges of his voice. Before Sakura had time to rub her face as if to scrub the hell off it, he was talking again. "Haven't seen you since last semester. I'm doing a lot better."
There was that guilt again. It made speaking difficult. "Are you gonna—graduate on time?"
Naruto smiled, a slow, shy, pleased thing. "C's get degrees," he said, and the guilt twisted even more in her chest. Then he sighed. "I mean, yeah, it's probably my Cs that are saving me. But I'm not giving up. I can't. I got Hinata, and Lee, and—and you, and everyone supporting me. There's no way I can just—give up when I got so many people ready to help."
"You do have me," Sakura said, surprised by the fierceness in her voice. Naruto blinked, surprised as well.
"I mean, yeah—"
"No, I mean it, Naruto. I've been kinda absent. And I know it's like, super meaningless when someone tells you 'I'm here if you need to talk.' So seriously, I'm gonna talk to you." Sakura hadn't cried lately. She was relieved that she managed to swallow these tears. "Tell me what I can do. Or tell me stuff and I'll listen. Or I'll tell you stuff, I don't care. Just, yeah. You're my friend."
Was she making any sense? Naruto's brows were furrowed as he listened, but they wiped off his face when she was done. No creases remained.
"All right," he said. Sakura blinked. That was Naruto, all right. "You're my friend, too. And I've been trying to get better about telling my friends stuff, like how I'm feeling and shit."
Hinata's work, no doubt. Sakura smiled, hoping it wasn't as shaky as it felt. But it seemed to encourage him.
"It really sucked when Sasuke dropped out last year."
"It did," she agreed, and for once, admitting it didn't hurt.
"I know you and him had this weird thing going on and whatever, so sorry to bring him up," Naruto remembered. "But he was, he is my best friend."
"It's fine. I know."
"We were gonna graduate together, like almost right after each other," Naruto said, uncharacteristically softly. "Uchiha and Uzumaki."
"You guys were gonna be the dream team. Fighting crime." Sakura's smile faded, but Naruto nodded enthusiastically, slamming his hand on the table hard enough to make his open book's pages tremble.
"You better believe it! But Sakura," he said, leaning back in his chair with a huff, "it's still gonna happen. I know it. I believe it."
Sakura folded her hands in her lap, unsure of what else to say. He noticed, shaking his head at her.
"Okay, so I totally didn't last semester. But I do now. I had all of break to think about it. And when I got my crappy grades, it only made it clearer."
"Did you see him over break?" Sakura asked without thinking better of it, but Naruto shook his head again.
"No. But that doesn't matter. I still knew. Because I had people believing in me even when I was totally a mess. And I can't just give up and not graduate while I have people believing in me—I have to show Sasuke that he can do anything with support. Which he has. He has so many people on his side. And I know," he said hastily when her eyes widened, misunderstanding the expression, "I know that means you, too, Sakura. I know you just want him to succeed even if he can be an asshole. Even if he is an asshole, I mean."
"Yeah."
"So yeah," Naruto said, exhaling on a whistle. He turned to her, and now his blue eyes were shining, looking at her with that kind of intensity he only reserved for the extra-large ramen bowls at the truck, searching for the best pieces to pick out first. "I gotta prove that it's never too late to come back to the surface when you've hit rock bottom. You gotta trust people to help you float."
Sakura nodded along with every word he said, bobbing her head like a lunatic with each syllable. But she couldn't stop. "I've been a shitty friend," she blurted out. Hell. She was making this about her. But the words were said.
"So's Sasuke. So have I."
Sakura bit her tongue on the other stupid apologies and insistences that threatened to bubble up. She settled for nodding again. The passion in Naruto's eyes softened.
"Do you need a hug?"
Another nod.
Naruto needed no other encouragement. He pulled her against him, chair screeching against the linoleum, and his hug was so tight and full of understanding that it took all of Sakura's strength not to let him squeeze any tears out of her.
It had been far too long since Sasori had been drunk. He'd forgotten the pleasing openness of his mind, the fun in slapping Kisame on the back hard enough to make him choke on his vodka, the ease with which he laughed with his mouth wide open and head thrown back.
He wasn't drunk-drunk. Just tipsy. Sober enough to notice that Itachi was wasted. No one had been counting his drinks, because it was Itachi and Itachi could be trusted, and the bartender had been clearing glasses with lightning speed. He'd played with his lighter until the bartender threatened to toss him out and was now barely holding onto his barstool, chatting with Nagato about some incomprehensible nightmare he'd had. Nagato looked amused—at least, Sasori thought he was amused; the piercings practically covered his face—but Konan was whispering to Kisame in concerned undertones. Kisame shrugged.
"Guess it's on me," Sasori mumbled. Well, he meant to mumble.
"Yeah, kid. You came in with him," Kisame agreed, a sharp smirk cut into his face. "You get him home."
"Don't call me kid." But the warning came out petulant. Kidlike.
"Sasori, I really think you should get him home," Konan said, sober as a rock. Or something. "Are you good to drive?"
"We walked here," Sasori answered her, forgetting to mention he did not, in fact, own a car. "Itachi came to, uh, my place, I think. We walked here." Was he repeating himself? He couldn't tell. Where was Itachi, anyway? He wasn't on the barstool where he was five minutes ago. Nagato sipped something colorful alone on the end of the bar. Sasori spun around on his stool—mistake—in the middle of whatever Konan was saying.
"Sasori—"
"I gotta find Itachi," he said to no one in particular, lurching off the chair and trying to pretend he wasn't painfully dizzy. As if Itachi had heard him, the door to the bar opened just a crack, and Itachi's face poked through.
"Sasori, there are you. Let's peace out."
If it weren't for the "peace out," Itachi looked and sounded sober. Sasori stared. Itachi grinned, huge and drunk.
"Yeah, I was looking for you. Are you good to walk?"
"No." Itachi's grin only grew, if possible. "Sasuke's gonna drive us home."
"Again?" Sasori groaned, following Itachi out.
"Yeah, you have a good night, too, kid," Kisame called, but Itachi had held the door for too short a time, and it hit Sasori's head, keeping him from sniping something back. Damn it. Score one for Kisame.
The black sedan was already in the parking lot. Sasuke honked, and Sasori flinched. Sasuke honked again.
"That was fast," Sasori noted, wondering if he should keep Itachi steady.
"I called a few minutes ago. I think."
"My phone!" Sasori's hands clapped to his ass like he was worried it would fall off, heart jumping in his chest. Metal clump of keys in one pocket. Firm square—no, that was his wallet. "Itachi, I left my phone in the bar!"
"No, you didn't—" As if on cue, Itachi tripped, and Sasori caught him on reflex. He winced—Itachi had nearly bashed his head on the car door. The cloudy image of his phone on the couch surfaced. The driver's window buzzed down.
"Get in. I didn't know we were taking two idiots home." Sasuke's glare was wholly unsympathetic to his brother's dilemma. Itachi coughed and tried to adjust his glasses, succeeding only in smudging them.
"Reverse shotgun," Itachi said, fumbling for the door handle. He pulled it open with too much force, and Sasori tottered out of the way. Without further ado, he'd hopped into the back seat and sprawled out on it.
"Move."
"No."
Sasori was about to shove, but Sasuke blared his horn again. Sasori plugged his ears, one finger missing the ear entirely, and glared the entire stomp to the passenger seat.
Sasuke was driving almost before Sasori had closed the door, much less buckled his seatbelt. "D'you need my address?" Sasori asked. Sasuke didn't say anything, but he did roll his eyes. Did that mean he had a good memory? Did that mean he'd make Sasori walk home from Itachi's? Or wherever Sasuke lived? Did that mean he'd kill him as soon as Itachi was home safe? Sasori didn't particularly care and slumped into the seat. Okay, maybe he was a little drunker than he thought.
"I gotta smoke," Itachi announced from the back, fumbling in his coat.
"No you fucking don't," Sasuke snapped. "And if you vomit in my car, I'm making you clean it."
Itachi held up two meek, empty hands.
"Nice car for a dropout," Sasori said, closing his eyes.
"Nice whiskey cologne for a future has-been," Sasuke replied casually. Sasori's half-slit eyes shot open. "Saw your ugly suit in the paper. Bet Itachi took that photo."
"Be nice," his brother insisted behind them. They both ignored him. Rage rumbled quietly in Sasori's stomach, ready to be fueled by more alcohol. Shame there wasn't more in the car. Sasuke could've used some—or the bottle smashed over his head, broken glass slicing his face open.
"Yeah, it was a bad suit," Sasori drawled as smoothly as his slur would let him. "Your ex-girlfriend thought so, too. Ripped it off with her nails." He tried not to look at Sasuke, he really did, but it was worth showing off his obvious glee to see the poorly-veiled disgust on Sasuke's face.
"She wasn't my girlfriend," Sasuke bit out.
She's not mine, either, Sasori's mind helpfully supplied, but he managed to keep his mouth shut somehow, keep the age-old declaration quiet. Sasuke took the silence as an excuse to keep rambling.
"But I don't talk about that because I have class. And because I respect her privacy. And I respect her, even if she's with a burnt-out drunk who's not good enough for her. She's made mistakes before, and I know that better than anyone, but hopefully she'll come to her senses and find someone who's not either of us and live happily fucking ever after in peace. Are you going to shut up and let me drive, or are you going to make me drop you on the curb like trash?"
Sasori could feel Itachi staring at him, but when he glanced in the rearview mirror, Itachi was the very image of contented drunken sleep. How did drunk people manage to conk out so damn fast?
"You're the one who won't shut up," Sasori pointed out. "You don't need to prove anything to me."
Because Sasori already knew he was pathetic. No amount of proving could change that. And maybe if Sasori were someone else, he'd be amused by Sasuke's insistence on having "class" and "respect" when he'd never made Sakura come without help, never seen both her hands clutched in her own hair while she struggled to keep her moans and cries quiet, never seen all ten fingers covering her eyes and mouth so that he had to stop and pry them away because he needed to see her face, never felt her all her nails rake stinging lines into his back while he pressed her against the wall and felt her tighten around him like Heaven's judgment—
"It's not about me anymore," Sasuke said simply, staring at the road ahead. "I hope she shatters you."
The hum of the engine punctuated his sentence as he turned up a vaguely familiar road. Sasori didn't know whether to laugh or say something else, to test this asshole's threat.
"Itachi, we're here. You can take your fuck of a friend with you."
Itachi mumbled something sort of resembling a "thank you" or possibly an admonishment, but Sasori slammed the door closed faster than he thought he could get out. Itachi's door clicked, and he pushed himself out, surprisingly steady on his feet. Sasuke sped away before the door had closed. Again.
"Your brother's such a weak dipshit," Sasori spat. Itachi blinked at him and began rifling in his pockets for his keys.
"So're you. Over the same girl, too. Come on in," he said before Sasori could explode. "You don't seem good to walk home."
"You weren't that drunk," Sasori accused him, following Itachi onto the porch. Itachi clicked the keys into the lock with enough dexterity to confirm Sasori's suspicions.
"Drunk enough to think that talk could've been good for you both," Itachi disagreed. "I have a spare toothbrush. You can take the couch."
"My phone," Sasori remembered as the door swung shut behind them, and Itachi looked ready to kill him. "It's still at home."
"I'm not letting you get mugged. Also, I'm setting the alarm, so if you try to leave, it's gonna give you the worst headache of your life." The keypad beeped approvingly. "You can live without your phone for one night."
Sasori fumed and spun on Itachi, but the memory of the last time he'd glared into Itachi's glasses stopped him mid-strike. Itachi's hand was raised to block his drunken swing anyway, and he'd settled into a familiar fighting stance. Krav maga. Sasori raised his hands in supplication.
"I'm sorry." When Itachi didn't look appeased, he repeated it. "I'm sorry, okay? Thanks for letting me crash." Itachi relaxed, cautious in his movements.
"Any time."
"I love you, man."
"Sleep it off, Sasori."
In the neighborhood over, Sasori's phone lay cold and silent on the couch, screen dark and unresponsive. It had only buzzed once.
