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Upon morning's coming, sky was splitting open and spilling its innards over the arc. He was quiet; she did not bring up that she had seen him vulnerable the night before. He was up before she—as always. Whilst this morning untangled reds and yellows, he toiled away in the garden, freeing up the stone-work between two lanterns, of which one was half-broken from rains, neglect, ill-use.
She sat up, sun in her eyes, and watched him lean against the shovel, balancing his body on it. Then he hunched over the broken stones, strewn about dense green, and looked at the hole he had created. Strange, she thought. He was obsessed with that spot, and she did not know why.
Casting off sleep, she rose to her feet, eyes on the yellows sluicing across the sky, like a burst gooey sunny-side-up egg. Wind whispered, whistling through the forest that was more drowsy than she. Hesitant, she made her way to him, feet cold from the dews that slid down towards the grassroots, sparkling little stars upon earth.
She watched him sit down by the spot, put something there that was held in his fist, and move the earth about till his secret was buried, like seeds. Breathing in deeply the wind of morning that was fragrant, he relaxed, closed his eyes, titled his head back as though he liked the air that drip-dripped with nature.
He was silent: she was silent. At last, as though he became aware of her presence by his side, he looked at her pinking foot and then at the face it was attached to, sunlight moving along his cheeks like slippery faeries. He did not concede as much as a facial movement, and, immediately, untangled his legs, stood up, and brushed himself down.
She wanted to ask him of the hole, but she knew that it would displease him: the little while she had known him, he did not enjoy anyone prying into his affairs. He told as much to Naruto of Sakura that his wife was quick with motion and emotion, that he enjoyed her trips to his doorstep no longer, that Naruto was to control her before his anger got the best of him.
Humiliated, Naruto had walked away hunched down from this house; she had not seen him since. He walked away from her, too, and went down the path he took every morning, without saying farewell. Yet, like a wife obedient, she waited in the house and cooked food and sat down by the low-table.
He returned when sky's vastness turned rich and blood-red sun drowned below the juncture of the night-inviting sky that began to convey its overbearing singularity at darkness. He ate in silence, and, when night appeared in percolating ink-droplets across the sky, she went to bed with him, lust singing in her body.
Arms still around her waist, he slid his hands down to her hips and pulled her in, fitting her tightly against him. She felt the pressure of the rising organ through his trousers; and, as always, he moved her undergarment aside, parted her mucus-coated thighs, slipped into her. Enamoured by the sight and feeling of him, her body was always quick to respond, releasing slime that slickened her channel to take him in.
It had been a few nights since they had done this nightly. She did not complain for this was the only time he allowed her to kiss him on his throat—his lips, to her dismay, were his domain. He kept on till she was fatigued beyond measure, her frame trembling from spilling her burdens many times over. Frantic, he released his fluids into her; and like many times before, he pulled away from her, his face relinquishing pleasure as quickly as it had come.
After the act, it never took long for him to fall fast asleep, though she was still in a state of waking, aching between her legs. His face was dropped to the other side, and she kept looking to the moon moving like loose cream down his nape, listening to the rain that came down hard as his passions. His beauty was stirring—the woman in her noticed . . . daily, nightly. Why did he not make good use of it? He was strange. Not able to resist him, she moved closer, thrust her face to his throat, rosied by the kisses she had rubbed into his skin, swept her nostrils across his sweat-starred pores: he smelt lovely, like the cloth whose threads had caught up rain, musk, gentler sun.
So engrossed in his sleep, he did not hear her, feel her, push her away. She laid her arm over the one he had draped carelessly over his waist, rested her head at his breast, her heart uttering the loudest chants in her frame, fighting against the noises that came at her from the outside world which was shimmering bright in rains. He would not like her being pressed close to him, needing, wanting, lusting. She did not care: how long did he plan on keeping up his cold demeanour?
His breaths, long and steady, came; his beats, slow and deep, rose; she listened. There was a quiet storm in him, a scent of rain and lightning entrapped by his frame, that slept fast. Many moments later, she looked up and it seemed to her that she had come to a mysterious red light: he was looking down at her, Sharingan alive and squirming in his eyes, his face going tense.
She asked him as to what was the matter; his mouth moved, formulated some strained words by way of an answer, which she could not hear above the storm. An emotion began to wreak havoc upon his body, setting his breast into motion under the shirt. Brimful with him a moment ago, she felt his scent leave her nostrils—bit by bit.
His limbs gave a jerk, and she fell back, startled. Now, his body was struck with nervous twitching, and he breathed so heavily that his breast was pumping up and down under his shirt, which was soaked through with visible sweat, which shivered down his skin in light-kissed droplets.
Moving away from her, he rested his back against the wall, shivering allover. His mouth made a movement as if he was about to speak out loud, yet he only managed to whisper, "Nii-San, don't!" each time he endeavoured to enunciate the words that came from the deep of his throat. She started towards him; but this time, his Sharingan spoke in his place, gave her a violent burst of its full beam that stopped her dead in her movements.
"Get away—don't come near me!" he growled, face hanging down to the high-collar of his sweat-soaked shirt, trembling.
Puzzled, she sat back down, watching his scenery-chewing body gripped by intermittent convulsions . . .
Another morning ascended: another night descended—a clash of hues. He was calm, forgetful of the distress he had experienced. She did not think he had a lucid mind last night. She wanted to ask him of his past, but what would she say to him? She knew nothing of him . . .
He ate in silence, did not look at her, left the house; but she chose to follow him this time. Her Byakugan was useful: it would see him without giving away her intent. He kept walking, going through Leaf's forest, northbound; and she kept following, going down the narrow streets, upon which morning danced. There was a shrine up there; old and dilapidated, it lay forgotten in ruins. (No one had come here in years . . . )
She stopped in her steps, looking far ahead of herself in that direction, eyes upon his chakra that spoke of the power in him. By her side, a peddler sold wares that dangled at his waist; she ignored him, moved through the press of people that had come out in droves today.
World grew in twisted set of lines before her, soaked in black and white, like his missives. By his feet, a stream went singing down the stone-stairs, slickened with algae. He stopped at a shadow that was thicker than the Buddha's statue and spoke of something she could not understand. Then he tore open a rift in the fabric, and before she could blink, he was gone . . .
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