A/N: Just something I wrote while brainstorming for my other fics.

Standard Disclaimers Apply

Does It Help?

Sakura sat on a small, dusty armchair. It might have been dark red once upon a time, but now it was a more indiscriminate brown color. The velvet felt nice under her fingertips, but a spring kept poking her side whenever she leaned to the right. She picked up her cup of coffee and sipped the strong blend absently. People talked in low tones around her, sitting in similar chairs and drinking similar beverages from similar cups.

She tucked a lock of pink hair behind her ear and settled further into the seat. Instead of her usual red dress and black shorts, she wore loose black pants along with a long-sleeved black v-neck sweater and a pair of old flip-flops she found under her bed. A dark red beanie smashed her hair onto her skull and caused the strands to lie limply on the back of her neck.

She didn't know why Tsunade sent her here for training.

Memorizing scrolls and scrolls of information, no problem. Practicing for hours upon hours to fine-tune her chakra control, she could do that. Handle injured and bleeding animals and people—okay, so she had a little problem with that at first, but she adapted quickly and now she could perform the bloodiest surgery in the middle of a rice field if it was needed of her.

What she didn't understand was why she was sitting here, in the dark, listening to a bunch of wannabe poets angst on the tiny stage in front of her.

"There's more to being a doctor than healing physical wounds…you'll find that patients will tell you things you don't necessarily want to hear. How they got hurt and how they deal with it is important, Sakura."

Tsunade's words echoed through the pink-haired kunoichi's mind as she looked around the small coffee shop. It was hidden behind the Ichiraku stand. Sakura would never in a million years known it was there if not for her sensei's insistence that she go.

As a ninja, she knew the pain of killing and fighting, injuring and being injured. As a medic, she knew there were several ways to deal with pain, both physical and mental. Psychological training is a strict requirement to graduate the Ninja Academy and become a genin. Every year, the 'active' shinobi were forced to undergo both a psychological evaluation and attend a seminar.

The seminars are always held at different times, in different villages, and always with a different group of ninjas attending. Masks were worn and identities kept fiercely secret. It would be counterproductive to recognize and watch fellow comrades learn about the fragility of their own minds. Most of the sessions are cleansing and helpful, but every now and then a ninja will break down. To have another comrade, another teammate, another friend, witness something like that and know your identity is the ultimate embarrassment.

But the release of tension through poetry is a practice Sakura never subscribed to. Writing your feelings down in a journal was one thing—it was narrative, spontaneous, and something you could look back on and read and remember exactly what you felt when you wrote it. A poem—to Sakura's way of thinking—was too calculated, too thought out, too full of certain rules that must be followed, too full of metaphor and double meanings, to truly be an expression of an emotion "in the moment."

Even in the worst days of her long over Sasuke worship, the kunoichi refrained from writing odes to her "Beloved's Onyx Gaze" or haikus about "The Winter My Spring of Love Will Melt."

She felt a snicker rise up as she recalled the two poems one of Sasuke's other fangirls wrote and recited to the Uchiha one day while Naruto and Kakashi almost died of laughter behind him. Sakura wanted to laugh too at the time, but she was too busy making sure her best friend and sensei's airways stayed open to do so.

No, Sakura sighed as she looked again at the small stage set up with a microphone and black stool. Poetry's not for me.

But Tsunade firmly believed in supporting any way a patient dealt with his or her trauma—as long as it didn't involve further harming the patient's body.

The kunoichi sat up as a tall man made his way to the stage and leaned against stool rather than sit on it. Like her, he was dressed all in black. Baggy black cargo pants hung low on his hips and a ratty, black vest covered his chest. He didn't wear a shirt underneath it, so the muscles on his arms and a bit of his washboard abdomen were visible under the yellow spotlight. Sakura wanted to drool at the sight, but took another sip of her coffee instead.

A black "cabbie" cap sat on his head, hiding the color of his hair. A black mask covered his nose and mouth, but when he looked up into the audience, Sakura knew at once who the man was.

"This isn't even a poem, but a song. The lyrics just wrote themselves," the man said into the microphone. Her suspicion was confirmed at the sound of his voice. Granted, she rarely heard the level of seriousness he was currently using, but she knew him well enough to recognize his voice.

"It's better if I sing it. Don't worry," the man paused and Sakura instinctively knew a smirk was on his lips. "My voice isn't that bad." People stopped talking and everyone waited for his next words.

Take away the sensation inside
Bitter sweet migraine in my head
It's like a throbbing tooth ache of the mind
I can't take this feeling anymore

Drain the pressure from the swelling,
This sensation's overwhelming,
Give me a long kiss goodnight
And everything will be alright
Tell me that I won't feel a thing
So give me Novacaine

Out of body and out of mind
Kiss the demons out of my dreams
I get the funny feeling, that's alright
Jimmy says it's better than here,
I'll tell you what

Drain the pressure from the swelling,
This sensation's overwhelming,
Give me a long kiss goodnight
And everything will be alright
Tell me that I won't feel a thing,
So give me Novacaine

I'll love again/Oh, Novacaine

Sakura tensed as she heard his sad words echo through the speakers. She hadn't known. The pain and earnest sound of his voice brought tears to her eyes as she imagined the suffering he went through to produce such lyrics. Her heart bled for her friend. Thoughts of the years they knew each other without her really knowing him sped through her brain.

Drain the pressure from the swelling,
This sensation's overwhelming
Give me a long kiss goodnight
And everything will be alright
Tell me Jimmy I won't feel a thing,
So give me Novacaine

The man stepped off of the stage with applause trailing after him. He didn't go here to gain their respect or applause. He came here because he had to.

He needed to.

He went to his customary corner and sat down on the small couch. The waiting staff knew him well and his favorite brand of tea was already there for him to enjoy. Tired, sad eyes traveled over the interior of the coffee shop and blinked when his sharp eyes recognized several faces in the gloom. Most wore different clothing to disguise themselves, but certain clues marked who they were, what they were.

Shinobi no Konoha.

Ninjas of the Village Hidden in the Leaves.

Warriors and killers for those who could pay the prices set by their Hokage.

No one acknowledged each other. Neither by words nor actions did they betray what they knew and what they were doing here. Indeed, they all sat away from each other, trapped in their own thoughts. He was sure that they didn't even know that the others were there.

That was the nature of places like these. Even more than the jounin lounge in the Hokage's building or the bar that rested above the dango restaurant, this was a place for shinobi to unwind and let go. The other two venues were for groups. They existed to increase and strengthen the bond they all shared.

This darkened shop hidden behind the ramen stand existed to increase and strengthen their sanity.

"A shinobi must not show emotion. Not tears, nor anger, nor regret. Not joy, nor happiness, nor affection. A shinobi's heart must be as hard as granite and as fathomless as the sea."

Whoever wrote that ridiculous edict was no ninja.

It was when a shinobi had no heart that he crossed the line between warrior and cold-blooded killer. It was the heart that made a ninja human.

It was his heart that made him human.

The warmth of a body next to him startled him out of his thoughts. He looked over at his sudden companion and grinned behind his mask. Clear green eyes smiled sadly at him as a coffee cup was raised to soft, pink lips. The woman folded her legs beneath her and sat on her heels.

"You're breaking the rules," he admonished, laughter in his voice. He picked up his tea and carefully drank through his mask.

"Sorry," she said, no sincerity in her tone, but gentle nonetheless. "Which rule am I breaking again?"

"What are you doing here Sakura?" he asked.

Sakura didn't answer, but placed her cup on the table in front of them. She pushed the cap off of his head and ran her hand through the messy blonde hair. He stilled as her fingers trailed down his face and took his mask with him, revealing tanned cheeks with three distinct whisker marks on each side. His blue eyes widened when she leaned over and placed a soft kiss on his lips.

"What are you doing here Sakura?" he asked again when she sat back.

Sakura looked at the stage again and wondered who would come up next. Who would sit on that lonely stool and whisper what they felt in their hearts? After the performance from the man sitting, silent, next to her, she didn't mind so much listening to the 'angst.'

"Tsunade told me about this place," she said. She left off the usual suffix for her sensei. Something about this place made her want to leave the hierarchy behind and just talk about the people she knew with someone who knew her—the real her. "She handed me a list and told me I had to learn more about the different ways shinobi relieve themselves of tension."

"So you came to the only coffee shop with a poetry corner in the village?" he asked, drinking his tea again.

Sakura looked over at him and sighed. "I didn't want to," she admitted. "I always thought poetry was stupid."

They were silent as another person took the stage. Unfortunately, this man wasn't as talented as the blonde sitting next to Sakura. He was more of a boy really, caught up in the torment and confusion of his teen years. Sakura laid her head on her companion's shoulder and refused to look up when he stiffened.

"Does it help?" she asked. "Does it help you when you come here, Naruto?" Naruto relaxed and placed his arm around the kunoichi's shoulders. He leaned his head against hers and smelled the fragrance she wore. She smelled of apples and coffee.

"Yes," he answered. "It helps."

They lapsed into a comfortable silence as more people went on stage and presented their work. Sometimes it was light and fun, but most of the time, it was dark—full of sadness and pain. The couple recognized a few friends and both of their hearts went out to the hurting shinobi.

Neither one suggested joining them, though.

Sakura turned her head and ran her lips up Naruto's neck to his ear. A soft growl came from his throat when her white teeth nipped at the fleshy lobe.

"Poetry is just number two on the list Tsunade gave me," she said.

"What was number one?" Naruto asked, rubbing his hand on her thigh.

The pink-haired kunoichi whispered into the blonde's ear. No one noticed when Naruto stood up and dragged her out of the room.

Everyone noticed when Sakura and Naruto didn't leave her apartment for the next three days.