A/N: This chapter is sponsored by the bitter tears of traumatised children.

I

"That's it," Kizashi says, his voice carefully neutral as I wait outside, between the front door and the open window beside it. "We have all we need."

Mebuki shifts, her body gently thudding against a wall or a counter. She takes a deep, sniffling inhale. "I loved you," she whispers, almost inaudible for me to hear. "Maybe… I still do. I don't understand why things turned out the way they did, Kizashi… Where did we go wrong?"

(Is that rhetorical? Or is it genuine? How can she not see where things went wrong?)

"We married young," Kizashi replies, so still and stoic. "Maybe that was our first mistake. We rushed into creating a family because of my occupation and, as a result, we weren't prepared to be parents. Our child deserves better from us."

A sharp exhale escapes Mebuki as she sobs, "She's gone, Kizashi…! Our baby is gone and I… I don't know if I can ever forgive ̶ "

"Don't finish that," he interrupts, firm but not sharp. Just tired. The fabric of his clothes rustle as he begins to move towards the entrance. "Whoever you're thinking about probably doesn't want your forgiveness. Whether it's you, me or our child. So, it'd be probably best if you stop thinking like that."

"Kizashi ̶ "

"I'll see you, Mebuki." Then he closes the door behind him and doesn't look back.

The sound of your mother's muffled sobs echo within your ears.

(You can't hear her. You can't hear anything.)

. . .

. . .

Sasuke squeezes your hand to the point that it should hurt ̶ (the warmth scares me more) ̶ as he physically refrains himself from snarling at the whispering villagers that they're passing by. He fails at some points, such as when someone is too close for his comfort.

He reminds me of a wounded dog that'll bite anyone who's a threat. (You remind me of a dead one who gave up on trying to live through another day.)

"How far is it?" he asks with a near hiss, his shoulder brushing up against yours and making it somewhat awkward to walk properly. "I'm going to punch someone in the face if we don't get there soon. Hasn't anyone told them that it's rude to stare and whisper like a bunch of dicks?" He makes a point of raising his voice at the end.

Several people in my peripheral flinch. Some hastily look away, embarrassed. Others sneer, probably with distaste for the Uchiha's ̶ ("I swear to god, Sakuran, if they call me 'The Last Uchiha' within earshot one more fucking time, I will backhand someone!") ̶ uncouth manner of speech.

I don't manage to catch any other reactions as I make a turn down an empty alleyway and quietly reply, "We're nearly there. One of the conditions for letting Kizashi have custody over you was making sure that we lived near the Hokage's office." It also just so happens to be close to the hospital, too, so the pair of us don't have to travel far for our future evaluations on our sketchy mental health.

"Obviously," Sasuke mutters with a bitter click of his tongue. "It's surprising that they let me go with anyone at all, let alone an independent genjutsu specialist. Scheming dipshits." He spits to the side as if the very thought of scheming old people brings forth a repugnant taste in his mouth.

In the time that we've gotten to know each other ̶ (three months, two weeks, four days; I still can't feel time move) ̶ I've come to the realisation that your object of fascination has an unusually foul mouth for a main branch member of the Uchiha clan. (Does it still count if he's the only one left? Does Itachi count if he's a traitor who killed them all?) In class, he hardly spoke at all, preferring to scowl in silence and spend as little time with his peers as possible. Of course, it wasn't unheard of for him to occasionally spit out something acerbic, but it was uncommon.

(You thought of him as mysterious and cool and confident; someone whom you wanted to be. But now you're not here to be anyone. Not even yourself. Whoever that was.)

As of late, though, he seems to talk and hiss at everything with dramatic visual flair. ("Do you think I want to deal with awkward silences because we're both too dead inside to talk? No. No, I don't. So, I have to sacrifice some of my remaining sanity to make sure I don't have to deal with it.") It's… odd, but it might be a coping mechanism and I've unwittingly gotten used to his eccentricity.

(Sometimes, he makes me smile. Sometimes, he makes me happy. And I hate myself a little more every time.)

"Kizashi won't be home for a few weeks," I tell him as we enter the apartment building and head for the stairs. His grasp tightens when your hand nearly detangles from his. (How long will he keep doing that? It doesn't seem healthy.) "But I still have a training schedule that I have to follow."

(I just want to sit in a corner and die, Sakura. I just want to be whole. But you didn't let us be and I hate ̶ )

Readjusting the strap of his bag, Sasuke responds with, "Right, cool. I'm joining even if that wasn't an awkwardly cryptic invitation of some sort. I'd like to see how long it takes before I collapse in exhaustion and proceed to hate myself more than I already do. Which is a lot, just so you know."

Your lips twitch involuntarily until it becomes a small smile that I can't wipe away fast enough.

(Three months, two weeks and four days without you.)

. . .

. . .

I watch as Sasuke survey the three bedroom doors before he casually opens the one leading to mine ̶ (it should be yours; ours) ̶ and walks straight in. Following him, I come to the quick realisation that he's quite aware of the fact that this is my room as he places his bag on my bed and begins to nonchalantly unpack.

"Sasuke," I mutter, already half-resigned because arguing takes too much energy. (Being alive takes too much energy. Breathing is automatic and yet it still feels like a chore.)

"Sakuran," he mutters back, albeit more drawled out and vaguely petulant.

Looking over my shoulder, the door to Sasuke's room greets me. The door to Kizashi's room is further down the hall. "You should go unpack in your room," I try, turning my attention back to my new housemate. Roommate?

As he easily finds an empty drawer ̶ (I don't have a lot of clothes; yours are back with your mother) ̶ he begins to fill it with his clothes. Lots of blue shirts with obnoxiously high collars. Lots of black pants and compression bandages. "This is my room, weirdly bare as it is," retorts Sasuke, who seems to be actively avoiding my gaze. "We're going to share, didn't you know?"

"Sasuke…" This isn't healthy. (When has it ever been?) He shouldn't get attached to me. (I don't want to be here.)

A harsh exhale escapes the boy ̶ (broken, jagged Sasuke whose edges dig into me) ̶ before he quietly reveals, "I'd only ever go to sleep in the hospital when you were there with me." I don't respond. He continues to fill the drawer with his belongings. For a while ̶ (maybe; I don't know) ̶ the rustle of fabric is the only sound to be heard. Eventually, he breaks the silence with a soft murmur of, "I know it's the same with you."

(It's an accusation. It's a plea and Itachi asked ̶ )

I sigh in defeat and Sasuke grins to himself in triumph, his movements no longer rigid with tension.

. . .

. . .

It turns out that he's better than I am at cooking, mostly because he cares more about taste than I do. (I don't eat for pleasure. I'm still trying to get your body out of its state of malnutrition.) So, he takes the lead over preparations for dinner.

"Hospital food was straight fucking trash," Sasuke complains as he works on the tamagoyaki ̶ (we had to go out and buy the specific pan for it, alongside a suspicious amount of tomatoes and other groceries and it was almost nice to see him positively animated in public) ̶ with a notably practised ease. I wonder if he learned because he wanted to or because he had to. "I know you don't give a shit about your tastebuds, but I have standards, alright? I need salt and seasoning and probably a reason to live. Do you think revenge is a good one?"

Shaping the onigiri, I think of Itachi and his sorrowed existence. Itachi and his request to look after his beloved little brother. "What level of revenge?" I absently question.

(I miss him. I miss you. Both you're both gone and I don't know if either of you will ever come back. If either of you can.)

Sasuke hums in contemplation. "Maybe a good punch to the dick," he muses, his tight grip on the handle of the pan belying his casual tone. "And/or a mind rape of epic proportions and a possibly futile demand for him to explain why he decided to be all like, 'sorry, bro, I had to test my strength by literally murdering everyone in our clan except you because reasons, you get?' before peacing out like an asshole. Which is, by the way, fucking off. I mean, Itachi was ̶ " He cuts himself off, most likely because his tone almost becomes fond. He tries again, "He was always a weirdo with his obsessive overprotectiveness, but he'd never…" A frustrated sigh leaves him and he evidently gives up. "You know what? I'm going to focus on the food or we're going to be eating my angry tears for dinner. Do you want my angry tears, Sakuran?"

"No," I breathe out, mildly amused despite myself. (You're not here and I don't deserve to be happy, so the guilt rots within your flesh.) "Maybe another time."

. . .

. . .

When the food is set on the table only meant for three, Sasuke cries at the sight and we end up eating his grief tears for dinner.

It's the first time I'm able to taste anything and I wonder if it's because I'm already familiar with the flavour.

I

A/N: Regarding a reviewer's question about Sakuran's gender (thank you for the support); I personally see Sakuran as female (some third person 'she/her' slips might pop up on occasion) but I think it'd work if anyone wanted to consider her male or even non-binary. Especially since she has an androgynous appearance and doesn't really care about what pronouns people use for her.

Reviews are love. Reviews are life. It's never ogre. Thank you for reading.