Mitten(s)
(suggested by Iforgotit)
The shriek of bus wheels grinding.
Something like a hissing sigh slipped past her lips. Tugging at the scarf wound around her throat, she pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose and turned her attention back to the road ahead. The bus ground to a halt and everyone lurched forward a little. She clenched her fingers around the pole and she could feel the coldness of the metal even through the soft cashmere. With a hiss of its own, the bus doors swung shut and the vehicle rumbled forward again. The air smelled damp and sickly. It took too long for her to realize that the smell was coming from her.
"Excuse me, Miss. Do you know what time it is?" an old man asked in front of her. Lifting her head, she regarded his hunched form bent over a cane, one feeble hand gripping onto a pole. The veins twisted up the back of his gnarled hand and the soft tufts of barely-there white on the top of his head made her chest tighten uncomfortably. She tugged the edge of her sleeve up to reveal her shining watch face. Silver hands ticked slowly around the round disk.
"7:47," she responded. Bowing his shining head, he said a soft "thank you". She turned away and then paused before glancing back again. Eyes darted to the faint trembling of his hands. The bus hit a bump and his brittle frame jolted. Gnawing on her lower lip, she redirected her gaze to the others on the bus. She skimmed over the aged faces sinking softly into their wrinkled folds. Staring down at her leg, she let out a long breath and then stood. Sensations sharp and angry lanced up through her right leg that she stubbornly ignored. She gestured to the vacated seat with a forced smile. The tightness in her calf screamed at her to stop.
"Thank you, Miss," the old man sighed as he sunk into the spot. The noise of his contented exhalation was oddly soothing. Even with her right leg filling with a sharp pain like a million needles and her hands aching against the chill, she stared straight ahead, determined not to let the discomfort show. Her patience was stretched thin but it lasted for the two next stops until the bus lurched to a halt in front of a large white building. Stepping onto the curb, she tugged her collar up again and then swept her gaze around. No one met her stare.
Craning her neck, she checked the street sign. This was the right corner. This was where she needed to be. It was the place in front of the little corner bakery that always sent out warm waves of cinnamon and sweet glaze as the door opened and closed. The little bell attached to the glass whispered. And because there was nowhere else to look, she watched the figure stepping out of the small shop.
"Do you need help?" he asked.
Pushing her curling hair out of her eyes, she glanced up at him through a thick fan of uncolored eyelashes- so light pink that they were almost white. Clumping spider webs to shield her eyes from the gray sun.
Thin wrists with the subtle jut of bones under the flesh. The tangled network of blue running under the surface ran up until the fur-trimmed sleeve of his jacket sheltered them again. A bright red scarf stood against the white and black canvas of him.
"I'm waiting for someone," she uttered when their gazes locked. His expression almost seemed bored as he looked her over. Then, his mouth curling down into a slight frown, he dipped his head in what almost looked like a bow- maybe a nod. Her lips parted as she began to say something further.
A hand on her shoulder jolted her. Spindly fingers stained on the tips with dark ink like blood. Swallowing hard, she twisted her head to meet the tired smile.
"I'm sorry," her boyfriend said. There was no point in saying "it's okay" because he wouldn't hear her anyway.
"Time got away from me," he explained. The bitter words "like always" burned on the tip of her tongue. She washed them down with another hard gulp to twist a smile onto her lips.
"Let's go. And thank you," she said as she looked again at the other man. Though he didn't reply, his eyes followed her as she took the offered arm and started off down the sidewalk. She laid her soft mitten against the wrinkled brown of his sleeve. Her boyfriend's strides were too long. They made her feet hurt as she struggled to keep up. But his eyes were always looking straight ahead and he never seemed to be getting anywhere fast enough.
"How've you been?" she inquired once they paused at a red light. But she could feel his feet itching to scuff across the crumbling asphalt.
"Working," he assured her. Lips twisting into a pout, she casted a sidelong glance at the side of his unshaven face.
"Did I miss anything?" she asked this time. Expression unchanging, he shook his head.
"I don't think so," he replied. She half-regretted glancing away from him as she muttered "Of course."
And they walked away from each other in silence after that, eyes faintly drifting back to catch one last glimpse of the other's back. A sudden gust of wind blew a speck of dust into her eye. She squeezed it shut to rub out the pain.
Her eyelashes moved.
The next time they met, her long hair, twisted into a messy braid down her back, was soaking wet. The bright red and white carnations woven in with the strands glistened as droplets of water scattered off the petals. Pink hair almost glowing almost gold in the sunlight, she skidded to a halt just before she collided with the high stone wall. Cheeks tinted bright red and wide eyes blazing, she took a moment to catch her breath as she stared at him. He, who had spent the better part of the afternoon sprawled over the wall and basking lazily at the sun, looked right back at her without speaking.
"Hey!" a voice called. For an instant, they stared at each other.
"Where'd you go?"
He held out his hand to her. Without thinking, she laced her fingers with his and he pulled her up.
They ran.
The heat from his palm warmed hers even through the cotton gloves she wore. With the sidewalk flying away underneath their feet, they made it a few blocks before he pulled them around the corner, out of sight of their pursuers.
"What're we running from anyway?" he whispered but she held up her finger, pressing it to his lips. Drawing in a deep breath, she slowly peeked past the wall. Only when the alley proved clear did she exhale again. Their eyes met and she let out a long sigh.
"My responsibilities," she finally explained as she began tugging the flowers out of her hair.
"Why?" he queried. His eyes followed the drooping petals spilling from between the plaits of her braid.
"I think I might get sick if I stay in that place for too long."
There was a pause. Then he shrugged.
"Oh," was his response.
They crouched in the alley looking around for a while before they spoke again.
"I'm Sakura, by the way," she added.
"I'm Itachi."
She followed him, wandering through the crooked streets where old fire escapes and laundry lines stretched across the sky, making strange shadows across the pavement. And like an alley cat, he easily hopped up onto low walls and leapt over boxes left out on the curb. The fragrance of sun-warmed garbage and garlic from Chinese food restaurants permeated the air. Wrinkling her nose against the peculiar stench, she watched him lithely hop from place to place.
"Where are we going?" she thought to inquire. But he shrugged.
"Anywhere," he told her.
They meandered through the city together, her eyes wide with wonder. She followed his movements with the untainted innocence of a child. Sometimes her gaze wandered to the strange scar running down his forearm the same way his eyes flitted curiously to her white gloves. He noticed the queer expression that crossed her face when the weight fell too hard on her right leg. In fact, there was a slight limp to her gait. But he didn't say anything.
"Are you hungry?" he asked after a while. Not waiting for her answer, he began to lead them out of the complex maze of back allies they had been wandering. They emerged on a busy street lined with bustling restaurants and a varied scattering of stores. She sucked in a deep breath, eyes widening at all the chaos before her.
"What're you in the mood for?" he asked while taking her hand. She stared at their joined fingers and then up at his serious expression.
"Anything," she responded. The passing clouds finally drifted past and light spilled out from the sky. Closing her eyes against the sudden brightness, she laughed.
That was a blink too.
And then suddenly, the sunlight was gone. Sucking in a panicked gulp of air, her eyes flew open. She frantically searched the emptiness. Everything was such a cold shade of white that it burned her corneas. Fingers clenching and unclenching, she searched desperately for the warm hand guiding hers. But all she could find was the brittle lump of her boyfriend who slept huddled under the covers beside her. The touch of his arm against hers was air.
"Help me," she whimpered. The stench of oil paints clogged the air, jamming itself into her mouth, curling up into her throat until there was no room to breathe at all. She prayed for the colors that had been torn so cruelly from her.
She closed her eyes.
Sucking in a deep breath, she opened her eyes again to a hazy shade of brown. It took a second for things to come into focus but then she recognized the lazy blur of a ceiling fan spinning. She heard the tinkle of ice in a glass cup. Somehow, she had never seen this ceiling before but it didn't feel all that alien to her. She slowly pulled herself into a sitting position.
It was a living room. She was on a worn sofa with a jacket balled up in the corner that had served as a pillow. The television was on- its volume turned down so only a vague hum of voices was audible. She tilted her head to look at the magazines scattered on the coffee table. She heard the loud suction of a refrigerator door opening. Turning her head toward the noise, she saw that there was a kitchen to the right of the living room. The only thing separating them was a half-wall covered with photographs.
"What time is it?" she asked. She surprised herself. She wasn't afraid. It was the man from before with his half-hooded eyes and the jagged mark down his right arm. She wanted to touch that mark, for some reason- the stretch of the shiny, healed skin creaking across the jagged ridge in his flesh. Pulling a bottle of beer out of the fridge, he shut the door and then turned to look at her.
"Almost 2. You slept through the end of the movie," he told her with a half-smile. Her eyes followed his hands as they popped the top off the beer. He tilted his head back as he took a swig.
"In the morning?" she asked. He nodded slowly.
"I'd better get back," she said.
He was shirtless, she noticed, as he took another sip. Following his scar, she watched him set the bottle down on the counter. There was a faint line of white running down his breastbone. It almost looked like a hidden seam, that if she pushed the right keys or said the right words, doors would slide open to reveal the gleaming white of his bones against the pulsating crimson of his lungs. Exhaling, she blinked. When she saw again, he was holding up his right hand.
"What happened here?" he inquired. It took a second to process that he was referring to her gloves. Mouth curling into a flat smile, she placed her left palm on her right forearm.
"You first," she countered.
They smiled uncomfortably at each other and listened to the lid shut on that particular set of questions.
"I'll walk you home." Dumping the rest of his beer out in the sink, he disappeared through a door.
She blinked.
"Hey. We got anything to eat?"
She was staring at the broad lines of her boyfriend's shoulders through his ratty, paint-stained t-shirt. He stood in front of the gleaming silver refrigerator. His shadow crept across the floor, barely touching the edge of the mattress. Long hair, uncombed and black fell across his back.
"There's some eggs," she groaned while rolling onto her back. The apartment reeked of cigarettes. The ashtray on the nightstand overflowed with a crusty mountain of burnt offerings. He always left the air conditioner on too high. Goosebumps rose across her chest and shoulders. Yanking the blue sheets up to her chin, she curled her hands into fists.
"You want anything?" he offered her. Eyes squeezing shut, she imagined his fingers dripping with paint, the colors mixing into scrambled eggs. Bacon dyed acid-green, coffee dark purple. Cigarette ash sprinkled on top of her toast with melting butter.
"No."
She parted her lips in a soundless scream.
Her eyes opened again.
The rotating fan blades and the high-pitched ring of a cell phone greeted her. The scar with its dark pink splash appeared in front of her. It hovered there so she studied the point of his elbow. There was the trail of his veins again, so vibrant blue that it was like there was no skin at all. She reached up to grasp his forearm with both her hands. His face appeared over his arm, mouth softly curving into a lazy smile. Reaching with his other hand, he grasped the cell phone on the arm of the sofa.
"Hold on," he said to her.
Eyes wide with wonder, she watched his long fingers slide across the glowing screen before he raised the phone to his ear.
"Yeah?"
As he spoke, he sunk down beside her. The murmur of his voice faded into the background. She pressed her forearm against his- just to see her whole skin against the reddened gouge of his scar. It was nearly the size of her palm, sharp and demanding her attention. His eyes fell on her, curiosity clear in his expression. When she wordlessly pointed at it, he only responded by pointing at her gloved hands.
Blinked.
"Hey, let me paint you again," the boyfriend said. He was lying on his back on the floor. Pulling her left sock on, she laughed.
"What? No way!" she giggled. Pressing his palm to her thigh, he pulled himself up. The back of his sweater rode up to flash the curve of his hip bone. One hand wiped across his face, catching against the rough stubble above his lip.
"Come on." He pulled her in for a kiss and her fingers curled tightly into the bottom of his shirt, as if to tether him there to that place forever. When he nuzzled his cheek against her throat, the scratchiness almost hurt her. It was just enough pain for her to like it.
There. She blinked again.
"What do you do for a living anyway?" she asked as she fanned herself furiously with some junk mail left on the kitchen table.
"I used to do what I liked. Now I give kids piano lessons," he admitted. With his back pressed against the front door, he watched her cross one leg over the other. One sandal dangled off her foot. The other lay abandoned on the checkered linoleum. From outside, a car honked loudly, the blare ringing through the intersection. Pursing her lips, she tilted her head to look at him.
"What you liked?" she repeated. But he gave her that smile again, the fragile one that had broken and was taped back together until it was just recognizable. That expression always pierced her straight between the ribs. But it was a good kind of hurt. Her eyes were drawn to his scar again. He always looked cold for some reason. His t-shirts hung loosely on him, like someone had grabbed him and pulled him like a piece of taffy. But he ran his graceful fingers through his hair and then everything was okay again.
"Yeah. I was too good. People didn't like it."
Can't you see her blinking?
"Hey, isn't this apartment nice?" she inquired, poking him in the thigh with her toes. With a whispering groan, her boyfriend lifted his head from the soft cradle between her breasts. Sleep-mussed hair falling into his eyes, he yawned at her.
"It better be. We sunk all our savings into this place," he murmured. Lowering his head again, he pressed a kiss between her collar bones. They listened to the hum of the city outside the windows. She let out a contented sigh, stretching her arms over her head.
"Do you like it here? I like it here," she suddenly queried. Mouth stretching in another yawn, he nodded sluggishly.
"Do you think we're soul mates?"
This time, he raised himself on his elbows to stare at her. The glow of the streetlight outside the window bathed them in orange. Half his face was masked in darkness but the other half revealed a pondering expression. The prickly shadow of his eyelashes fanned across the top of his cheek as he peered up at her.
"I think we are." He said it so easily.
"Me too."
He kissed her and they lay tangled in each other's arms until the hot summer sun blazing through the blinds coaxed them awake.
Are you waking up?
"You know, you should seriously consider investing in an air conditioner. Or real food," she commented as she stood at the fridge. Fanning herself with one hand, she struggled to gather up her hair away from the back of her sticky neck. He dropped his glass in the sink and stood behind her to stare at the bottles of beer and the one jar of strawberry jelly sitting inside. Pressing his chin to her shoulder, he shrugged.
"We could order take-out," he offered.
"We could," she agreed.
But then they shut the door and sprawled out on the floor of living room passing a single warm beer between them. The apartment was filled with bitter smell of cigarettes but she didn't mind because she never saw him light one up in front of her.
Can you hear me?
"Hi! I'm home!" was the way she always announced herself when she got home. The windows were opened, as usual. It was starting to get warmer now and she could practically taste summer in the air. Dumping her purse on the sofa, she poked her head into the bedroom where she found her boyfriend sprawled the wrong way across the bed. With charcoal staining his hands, his head was tucked under his right arm. At her footsteps, his left hand rose in lazy greeting.
"How was work?" he asked in a voice muffled by the mattress. Careful not to disturb him too much, she sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the thick sketchbook sitting next to him. She stared at the thick lines etched into the paper. There were eyes, disjointed smiles, like body parts floating in jars. Here and there she saw pieces of people, various poses and figures frozen in the middle of the day. The gentle curve of someone's neck filled up one of the pages by itself.
"These are really good," she commented as she continued to flip through.
"You know, I think you should get back into this stuff," she declared after a bit. He turned his head to look at her, brown eyes staring over the curve of his arm.
"…Maybe you're right."
Blinking again.
"So I was thinking…" he drifted off and she found her eyes drawn to him. Legs swinging back and forth, she was seated on the kitchen counter. Though her hands were busy peeling a sweet orange, what she really craved in this heat was some ice cream. Or maybe a nice smoothie.
"Can I paint you?"
Head tilting to one side, she considered this. He sat on the arm of the sofa, back hunched and fingers twisted together. There was a sort of mad gleam in his eyes as he watched her. Something brilliantly sharp and alien glimmered there. She pretended to be really thinking about this. But that was a lie.
She had said yes from the first time she had taken his hand.
"…Only if you promise to buy an air conditioner. I hate sweating."
This can't be a mistake. She's smiling.
It was all very sudden.
Being twisted back and forth between these times. The balmy blaze of the summer and the soft warmth of spring. She was standing in a place where there was everything and nothing. The memories twisted together in a chaotic web, twisting and breaking until it was hard to really remember what started where.
"Are you happy now?" she heard her boyfriend ask.
Turning around, she saw the two of them standing side by side. Her boyfriend with his paint-flecked shirts and the jeans with the hole in the knee she hated so much. There were weary lines on his face, lines that she didn't really remember. Or maybe she had been the one to put them there.
And next to him was the other one, eyes glittering with fresh ideas and his smiles easy. The fragile lines of his arms and face made her chest ache whenever she saw him. But there was something untouchable about him, the way that he looked ready to fly off into the sky at the slightest breeze. And he was watching her now with those dark eyes so intense that it was almost intimidating to meet his gaze.
"You never did tell me what was up with these," he said, raising his hands in front of him. She stared down at herself, at the fingers encased in the soft cotton gloves. Because part of her knew exactly what she would find underneath that gentle layer. But the other part of her refused to know. It was a word on the tip of the tongue- the knowledge there but gone all at once.
"Do I have to look?" she asked both of them or neither of them. Her boyfriend gave her a wan smile.
"No. You need to wake up," her boyfriend responded.
She stared at them both now.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. Because as she watched, they were taking steps toward each other, hands extending for a firm shake. But their palms touched and flesh melted into flesh- the past blurring into what was now. She watched the delicate boy's face change, watched his delicate spider's limbs thicken. There were the things she had stolen from him, taken his beautiful smile and his childish dreams and kept them locked away in her heart so he couldn't have them anymore. And the worst part of it was that his clear gaze remained the same.
Itachi smiled at her.
"It's time to wake up, Sakura. I can see you blinking."
"Tragic, really. A freak accident."
"She reacted badly to anesthesia. She was asleep for a month."
"It's a shame. So young."
The nurses whispered behind their clipboards like that would make their voices silent. That didn't matter really. Sakura sat propped up in her bed, her vacant stare aimed out the window.
It had been two days since she had woken. The doctor called it a miracle, saying that he was on the verge of declaring her officially brain dead. Who was really the brain dead one then?
She had been hit by a drunk driver. The moron had smashed his truck straight into her. At least he had gotten what he deserved, guts spilled along the street, garnished with scraps of metal from the barrier he had destroyed. The broken leg set with pins and the nine stitches up her side didn't bother her so much though. It was her hands bound in thick bandages. The nurses jokingly called them her mittens but that only made it worse.
"We managed to save all of your fingers. There will be some scarring and you'll need physical therapy."
Under the harsh fluorescent lights, she stared out the window until the image of the barren trees outside was seared firmly into her brain. It took another day for her door to open without a falsely cheerful nurse bursting in to chatter needlessly.
"They had to rebuild my breastbone and two of my ribs. Lost a solid chunk of my arm too," Itachi told her as he sat down on the plastic chair next to her bed. She couldn't look at him.
The last words she had said to him were unbearably cruel: "I feel like I'm going insane. I can't breathe with you around."
He lifted his hand to brush his bangs out of his eyes. A flash of pink. Eyebrows knitting together, she finally turned to look at him. With shaking hands, she carefully grasped his arm, slowly rotating the appendage until she could see the jagged marking stretched along the pale flesh. The puckered, tight skin.
"Did you have a dream? I had one," Sakura softy said. He froze, fingers still twisted into his hair. She kept her eyes fixed on the puckered skin still tender and vulnerable. Pressing her forearm against his to compare, she marveled at the flowing network of tangled blue pulsating under the paper-thin surface. Their arms trembled but she didn't know if he was the one shaking or if it was her.
"Hey…do you…do you think we're soul mates?" she choked out in a whisper.
His left hand pressed to the back of her head, nudging it forward until their foreheads were touching. The bittersweet smell of rubbing alcohol, the smell of dying and death clung to both of them. Tears welled up in her eyes until she couldn't see him. Just a watery world without clear colors, where black and white and blue bled together into nothing.
"I think we are," uttered Itachi.
Sobbing like a child, she pressed her free hand to the raised scar running down his beautiful chest until she was sure that there were no more tears left inside either of them.
Two weeks later, they released her from the hospital. Her right leg was still wobbly at best but the brace that they had fitted around her knee made things easier. Itachi had been checked out days ago.
But that was alright. She had been the one to shield him. That was the way things were meant to be anyway.
They had sold the car a long time ago and she didn't feel like shelling out $30 just to get home. So she got on the bus- papery green hospital gown underneath her thick black coat. Feet were jammed into boots that didn't fit quite as well with her swollen feet. The cold plastic seat hurt, and not in a really good way either. The nauseating sway of the bus as it jerked to a halt and rounded corners was enough to make her head spin. She let out a deep sigh to calm herself.
"Excuse me, Miss. Do you know what time it is?"
"7:47," she told the old man without looking at him.
This time, when she got off the bus, Itachi waved at her from the inside the little corner bakery that always sent out warm waves of cinnamon and sweet glaze as the door opened and closed. The little bell attached to the glass whispered. As her feet hit the pavement, he stepped outside, holding out a still-steaming cinnamon bun to her. The sticky glaze glistened.
"I'm sorry. They were out of those scones you like," her boyfriend said. There was no point in saying "it's okay" because she didn't mind anyway. Her stare drifted to the dried paint specked across his palms.
"I wanted to paint you something before you got home. Time got away from me," he explained. The fond words "like always" bounced off the tip of her tongue. For an instant he looked unhappy but then she softened her comment with a smile. The lines in his forehead smoothed out again.
"Let's go. And thank you," she said. Though he didn't reply, his eyes followed her as she took his offered arm and started off down the sidewalk. She laid her soft mitten against the wrinkled brown of his sleeve. Her boyfriend's strides were too long. They made her feet hurt as she struggled to keep up. But his eyes were always looking straight ahead and he never seemed to be getting anywhere fast enough.
"Itachi," Sakura called. His gaze darted to her, jolting and panicked for an instant.
"Slow down," she urged as she pointed to her right leg with the cinnamon bun. Guilt puckered his brow. Looking around, he seemed to be trying to figure something out before he finally crouched down on the sidewalk in front of her. His fingers wiggled out behind him in a familiar gesture. Seated on his back, she let him carry her home. The warmth of his hands on her bare legs felt nice.
"How've you been?" she inquired once they paused at a red light. But she could feel his feet itching to scuff across the crumbling asphalt. When he glanced back at her, she held the cinnamon bun up to his lips for him to take a bite.
"Lonely," he assured her. Lips twisting into a pout, she casted a sidelong glance at the side of his unshaven face while he chewed.
"Did I miss anything?" she asked this time before taking a bite of the bun herself. Expression thoughtful, he shook his head.
"I don't think so," he replied. She watched his expression as she teased, "Of course."
And he walked along with her in silence after that. On a strange whim, Sakura felt her eyes faintly drifting back to catch one last glimpse of the bakery on that corner. A sudden gust of wind blew a speck of dust into her eye. She squeezed it shut to rub out the pain but she was certain she had seen someone waving at her- with those tiny, fragile wrists and his almost-whole smile.