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There was wind today—a breeze she would say—that operated upon the village that lay entombed in shadow, save him. Outside Leaf it stood, without an anchor, flanked by old trees that had seen more than every eye, that had seen blood, heard every cry. Behind his head, light broke up, like a rope snapped up into two long stumps, sun radiant. He stood in the garden; and her Naruto, by his side, a smile brighter than sun upon his lips.
"You shouldn't go off on your own like that," he said. "What would they say?"
Sasuke plucked a flower from the grassy ground, a purple one, lifted it almost even with his head, and smelt the perfume it gave off that was a little sweet, a little syrupy. That was how it smelt when she had smelt it—at least. Perhaps things smelt different to him, looked different, felt different. They were different, she thought.
"What would they say?" he asked, his visage accumulating little emotion to alter the state of his countenance, which remained placid, un-affected, like the beauty Kami had gifted him.
"You know what I mean," Naruto said, almost sounding insistent.
"What do you mean?" he asked, and she felt that his voice had not changed in the slightest, empty, smooth, cool.
"Sasuke—" Naruto stopped, said no more, though he wanted to. Through his house's revealing crevices, she could almost see words dangling like boyhood smiles from his lips; but, like smiles, they slipped away all the same.
She did not understand. He left to—where? It was strange: he was strange. When would she understand his heart? Whose company he sought in another place, hidden from every eye? Another woman's? She nearly let slip a laugh—no, he was not like that. How silly!
By his table she sat, looking to him, feeling the wind, watching his face. Enduring his distant nature was not easy, for in her flesh, within, she craved his company. The pleasures he offered, she adored it. The thrums that came rippling from betwixt her dimply thighs, she cherished it. The ache that evolved in his absence, she relished it. By night, she was flesh, only flesh, all flesh—not eyes, nor heart, never spirit.
She did not love him, no—she wanted his flesh. It was strange, yet only natural, for that was all he had to give; and she took from him what she could—only fair. In moments during which lust ruled all aspects, within and without, she liked being free, free as dust that hung crystal-like in his house's lights.
"Why haven't you talked to the councilmen?" he asked; hidden between his words, a colder trace. "I didn't stay here for no reason, did I?"
"I promised you! Why don't you trust me?" Naruto said, with a voice that was less jovial than his usual one.
"I don't trust myself. How can I trust you?" he said, and his words sounded truer than Naruto's.
Naruto, simultaneously shocked and amused, laughed; and his eyes, under sun's tender care, were blue—bluest blue—eyes that were all love; and in their love, their blues, hers was lost in hues; she found it impossible to keep looking, so she looked away, hearing Naruto's laughter ringing in the air like bell-charms, soft and continual.
Moments escaped alongside shadows on walls, and he came inside, with Naruto in his wake—all smiles. Out of habit, he took his place by the table, positioning himself exactly as before. Naruto sat opposite him, his blue losing its sparkle against his house's sombre hue.
Tea released steam into the air that was calmer inside in strings. He did not look at her, busying himself with his tea, un-smiling. Naruto asked her of her days, and she told him that she was fine—living. At this, he laughed till the vowels went rolling across the walls. Unsure, she only smiled . . .
When sky was intoxicated by dusk's tricks, Naruto went away; and she was left to look upon him, silence existing as easily as dreams between them. Hours went by, and he sat quietly, back pressed to the wall. She told him that she wanted to go to the shop she loved, buy a gift for her sister; he did not stop her, told her that she was free to do as she pleased.
Not delighted by his careless demeanour, she left his house, his village, his silence. Outside, sounds of merrymaking bore down upon air, loading it with voices. She bought a little ornamental pin for Hanabi, one of gold. People stood pressed about her, but she kept her eyes on the pin and light that shone in circular shapes on its design.
The prospect of returning home made her gloomy, yet the thought that he may grant her pleasure made her joyous: he gave her silence by day, rapturous fun by night. Yes, she would take from him what she could; so, upon returning to the house, after leaving behind the joys and colours Leaf offered on streets, she noticed that he was still sitting where she had left him.
She asked of him if he was hungry: he told her that he was not. She had eaten ramen, a spicy one, at the ramen shop; in her mouth, its taste still lingered, sweet and tangy upon her tongue. She felt guilty for not having bought one for him, too, though his quietness was enough to tell her that he might not have accepted her gift.
Hesitant, she went to the onsen, washed herself clean; hesitant, she asked of him to come to bed with her. At this, he raised his eyes, and she saw a gleam go across his blacks in quickness. He did not agree with her: he did not reject her. After a moment's silence, he rose and took her to bed. For months after the Great War, he had been locked up in here, forced to bear his burden—and her. She could tell that he was . . . bored.
It was the same, but, after a night's separation from his flesh, she felt him more intensely inside. His strokes were not gentle, but harsh; but her groove was so used to the shape of his organ that it accepted him readily. When it ended, it ended beautifully for her; she could not say how he felt after their union . . .
She slept, and just like that, she awoke. Sitting up, she closed up her kimono, smoothed it out, watched whilst he sat in the doorframe, with that billowing grey round him. A storm was brewing about in the sky, and in quick hushes the winds descended.
She went to him, bolder than before, and asked of him as to what was on his mind? He craned his neck round, looked up, blacks deeper than before. She could tell that he did not like her question. Timidly, she apologised; and he looked away into the near distance, the night.
Slowly, she sank down, but he stood up and went to his room to write letters again . . .
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