A/N: You ever wonder what'd it be like if all of Sakura's potential was canonically realised?
You
Your fears eventually come true; I wear your body as you fall into short, fitful rests.
You're so exhausted, running on fumes and fright all the time. Your mind does its best to recover, while mine remains conscious and static. I can't sleep. This sometimes means that I am in control of your body, regardless of whether I want to or not.
(I'm sorry. Your body needs to rest, too. I stunt its process with my presence. I apologise.)
When I'm in control, I venture downstairs to the kitchen where I eat for you. You can't keep your food down, so I must do it for you. The food is bland because I can hardly taste the flavours, but I still eat so that your body can continue functioning.
Sometimes, this is how your father finds me. As I sit at the kitchen table with some kind of food in front of me ̶ (cereal, most of the time, because you're too small to cook effectively) ̶ and stare ahead with a certain sense of surrealism in the middle of the night. (It's a mundane act; eating. I don't know if I'll ever get used to it.)
"Sakuran," your father greets from the archway. (Sakuran, they call me. It means, 'derangement.' Your mother suggested it. Isn't she thoughtful?) He seems to hesitate for a moment before walking forward and taking a seat across from me. Our eyes meet and I am greeted with confliction, guilt, pity, worry and much more. "I would've cooked something for you if you had asked."
I stare down at the soggy cereal before me. "I didn't want to bother you," I answer, and it's true enough. I don't like to talk to anyone. It's unnerving to talk and have someone respond.
Your father shifts, discomforted and uncertain. Then he sighs and runs a hand through his slicked-back hair. (Rose pink. Your hair from your father. Mint green. Your eyes from your mother.) He knows the true meaning behind my words and so we fall into a tremulous silence as I eat for you. He's not one for comforting and I'm not one for being comforted.
Twenty minutes of silence, save for the light clinking of a spoon against a ceramic bowl. Twenty minutes, only because I look at the clock on the wall and realise that time has passed. Time is a peculiar concept for me. I can't feel the passage of time, so I always feel as though I'm stuck in one place. Trapped.
(You and me, Sakura. Alone, not alone. Trapped. All we can do is try.)
"Will you show me how to meditate?" I murmur in question, looking up from the empty bowl to a fraught father that wants to help but doesn't know how to. His eyes widen with some surprise before it melts away into a grim sort of gratefulness. He nods.
(But you're not trying.)
. . .
. . .
You're not getting better, and the times in which I inhabit your body are becoming longer. It's becoming difficult to remember certain things because there are gaps in your memories; blank spaces that are supposed to be filled. This is a horrifying revelation, as it means that I'm active in your body even when you're supposed to be awake and aware.
"Why a-are you doing this to me?" you whisper into the mirror, crumpled on the floor and looking so small and broken. Your eyes shine with tears shed and unshed. "Why is… Why is this h-happening to me? I just… I… I just want to be normal."
(I know. I'm sorry. I don't want this, either.)
You sob; it's a cracked, pitiful sound. You cry; your shoulders shake violently and tears and snot are leaking everywhere. It's not particularly attractive, but it doesn't matter. You're allowed to just cry without caring about how it looks aesthetically.
(I want to cry, too. I want to scream and shriek and hit something.
I don't. I can't.)
"I'm sorry. I want you to be happy, too." I wipe away your tears and your snot. There, in the mirror, I see a mistake. An accident. (Don't worry. It's not you.) "I'm sorry, Sakura."
In your body, I stand. It's time to endure the vehement glares from your mother ̶ (or the suffocating silence of one being ignored because they're unworthy of being acknowledged, but those times are rare) ̶ and the grim expressions of your father as he teaches me how to condition your body properly. Since you can't do it in your current mental state, I try for you.
(I'm trying. I'm trying. It's not enough. I know that.)
. . .
. . .
Sometimes, late in the night after I've eaten for you, I leave your house to go sit upon a hill that overlooks a large portion of Konohagakure. The hill is fairly isolated, located closer to the Uchiha Compound where most people seldom venture. Your father showed it to me for when I needed a place to think.
It's marginally pleasant to walk outside when the nights are cooler than the days. Unlike you, I don't like the heat; I can't see the appeal. Maybe that's because it's cold where I am. (It's not cold. It's not anything. Just an ever-present emptiness that eats at our soul.)
When I make it to the top of the hill, there's an uncommon but not unfamiliar sight of a certain boy sitting close to where I usually do. Decked out in ANBU gear but his mask absent, dark eyes of jade-black slide over from the view of the village to me. (They're similar, but not the same. One is softer; warmer. The other is not.)
For a few moments, we simply stare at one another in silence. Assessing each other; processing the fact that neither is unfamiliar with the appearance of the other. (You've heard from the rumour mill that he's close to being promoted to an ANBU captain soon. It means nothing to you, but I remember.) He eventually nods and I nod in return.
"You are often here," he observes once I take a seat not too far from his left. It's the first time I hear his voice. (Soft. Vaguely masculine but not yet solidified. Gentle.)
I turn my attention to the scenery before replying, "It's nice to get away from everything for a little while, sometimes. Isn't it?"
I often wonder what he's trying to get away from, but I don't voice the question out loud. There's no need to ask such an intrusive question when he's yet to ask me the same. Truthfully, I'm not sure how I would even be able to answer such a question.
(I'm running but I'm not moving. Static. It's suffocating, so sometimes the wind gives me the illusion that I'm free.)
The Uchiha heir hums in quiet acknowledgement before he lets the silence sit between us. For a little while, I'm able to think of nothing.
Then, "Haruno-san."
Your skin begins to tingle, goosebumps travelling throughout your body at the name. (It's not my name. Don't call me that. I don't have a name.) An almost violent shiver wracks your body. (In discomfort. In self-loathing. Nothing is mine.)
"No."
"I apologise," Uchiha murmurs. I can't see his expression, my gaze fixed on the grass, but he shifts in my peripheral. "I did not mean to upset you."
Forcing out a sigh, I feel your body relax. "Sakuran," I say, still neglecting to turn and meet his gaze. "If you need something to call me; call me that." But it's not my name. It's little more than a pseudonym.
A moment of silence. "Sakuran-san, then," he eventually replies. "Call me Itachi."
That's when I turn to finally look at him. His face is tilted towards me, but he's looking up at the sky ̶ (at the moon; you always wonder if anything is on there) ̶ with the same neutral expression as before. Albeit, somewhat calmer. Somewhat peaceful. (But not entirely. Never. Not for him. Not for me.)
"Itachi-san, then," I echo. I don't question why.
(I don't want to know.)
You
A/N: Reviews are love. Reviews are life. It's never ogre. Thank you for reading.