February

part 2

Madara's on her porch, two grocery bags in hand. He leans against her arm rail with no common sense to wear a jacket in this weather. Her porchlight illuminates the snow falling outside. She shivers just looking at him, his bare arms exposed by his black, fitted t-shirt. He looks ill, bags more pronounced under his eyes and he then makes eye contact as if he knows she's there.

He raises the bags. "May I come in, Sakura?"

He knows she's there.

She has half a mind to walk right back up the stairs and ignore the madness. But the other half… The gall of this man makes her itch for a fight. It fills her with energy she hasn't had in weeks. She swings open the door but blocks the way. He's not getting in her house.

"What can I do for you, Madara?" She leans against the doorframe, crossing her arms.

"I am here with a peace offering." He extends the groceries out to her again as if they would somehow appease her.

It's eight o'clock at night. Does he think she'll whip out knives and a frying pan, make some food and forget about being used as a tool for petty revenge. Her fury bubbles. She's not forgotten. At this point she's barely angry at the fact he'd turned Mikoto against her. No, she's furious she'd given a damn about him and Mui in the first place. A damn about what Mikoto thought of her. She's had a month to brew on it. "I've already eaten dinner, but thanks for the offer."

Groceries are not enough. They're just a reminder that she'd let him in before thinking he needed refuge. They are not going to work again.

She goes to close the door when he pulls a bottle out of the bag.

Tequila. Gold Label.

The fury pops from disbelief. It's not just a normal sized bottle. The bottle of tequila is giant, one you'd have if you were serving a small party for twenty-five people at least. A snort escapes her lips and he gives a half grin. The bottle goes back in, and he pulls out a different bottle, this one wine.

Oh dear.

The wine goes back into the bag, and then he pulls out beer, cheap beer. The same beer they'd sipped together at the lake house. Naruto's favorite.

"So many options," she comments. What exactly is this? Her gaze lands on the remaining bag. Just how many varieties of alcohol did he buy? Did he expect this to work?

He then raises the other bag in his hand. "I also brought dessert, I figured you'd already had dinner by now."

If anyone were to ask, it would have been the dessert that did it.

She extends her hands, and he offers the dessert bag to her. She peeks in. Marshmallows and graham crackers rest at the top. She hasn't had smores since her last high school bonfire where she burned every paper she'd ever written ready to start anew at college.

She glances up at Madara, his half grin still in place as he watches her.

He shakes the bag of booze still in his hands, the glasses rattle.

It's an apology of sorts. Sakura sighs, giving in. Free booze and dessert and then she'd kick him out. He did owe her, and this seemed like a small payment towards the hell he'd put her through.

He'd been guilty enough to have told her the truth. Very few people tended to own up to their mistakes.

Sakura brings the bag inside with her, flicking the lights on, leaving the door open for him to follow her in. She heads for the kitchen to prepare the supplies.

He follows, shutting the door. "Looks like you've acquired some new hardware."

She hears the second deadbolt slide in place, but she doesn't reply to his unspoken inquiry. What she does in her own house isn't his business.

"Why all this and more importantly, why now?" she asks when they enter the kitchen. She wants another apology, a verbal one, and answers, it's been weeks. There'd been no hide nor hair of him. Now he wants to disturb her Friday night. Why the change in heart? She puts the bag on the counter before turning around, half tempted to kick him out and keep the goods.

"To be honest, it will sound like an excuse. But Mui and I were both going to come and apologize together in person. Then life got busy for both of us, and I finally realized how much time had passed and it was close to a now or never moment. I rang up Mui and she agreed that we'll just have to give apologies separately; I'm also to get your number or Mui will call your work as she'll be too busy for the foreseeable future to come back here."

He then motions to the bag in her hand. "So, this is a formal apology, the first of many for pulling you into my family drama and for getting you uninvited, along with myself, to Mikoto's fancy, musical dinner party."

"I'm fairly certain Sasuke got me uninvited," she chuckles darkly, "You can't take the blame for everything you know."

Madara winces at that. "No, I definitely got you uninvited."

Her humor drops. "What did you say to her?" Had he told another lie?

"I told her the whole truth. It just so happened, she was unaware I'd continued to come see you and was quite upset at—"

"At me not following her orders." Sakura summarizes as she turns back around to hide her glare. Of course, Mikoto would be upset about that. She'd been angry at Sakura remaining friends with Sasuke too. But what did the woman expect? That Sakura wouldn't help someone who looked on the edge of suicide, Madara; that Sakura would turn her back on a long-time friend, Sasuke. It is such an unrealistic expectation that it makes the woman look like a control freak. In some sense, Sakura understands, Mikoto's just trying to protect her family. But it's ridiculous none-the-less.

Sakura begins pulling some of the ingredients out and placing them on the black marble counter to focus on something besides Mikoto. The graham crackers and marshmallows on the counter make her mouth salivate. This is the opposite of healthy, but the man had also picked up expensive dark chocolate for smores. She looks between the marshmallows and chocolate. She could overindulge just for one night.

"Yes, something like that," Madara agrees.

Sakura turns back around.

Madara is inspecting his free hand, thumb rubbing across his ring finger. He looks up then to meet her gaze. He extends his right hand with the bag.

Sakura realizes she's blocking the entryway and she scoots to the side.

He fills the space and begins to pull out the bottles from his bag.

Sakura turns her attention back to her own bag, sorting the ingredients as she continues to pull several more items out. Everything looks great but… She turns around, "What are jalapenos for? Are you planning on some spicy margaritas?"

He takes both limes and tequila from the booze bag. "No, nobody likes spicy drinks. You slice it thin and put it in between the chocolate and marshmallow."

Sakura lets out a laugh, thinking he's joking, unknotting the bag of peppers. "Well, if I needed proof you were a psycho, this would be it. Nobody modifies a smore, they are perfect the way they are."

"I promise you; they are much better with jalapenos."

She raises a brow, "I think they'd be better in a margarita."

"I think you're a madwoman," Madara says, taking the bag from her and putting it with the marshmallows, scooting them all the way down the counter and as far away from the tequila as possible.

As she chuckles, Sakura continues to pull out the contents of the bag including more expensive chocolate bars of varying varieties. At the bottom of the bag is not something she expects. She pulls out a blank cover for a dvd and raises an eyebrow at Madara. Is he expecting they'd be happy enjoying a movie night? What kind of movie would he think to bring? She can't imagine anything being remotely appropriate or fitting for everything that had come to pass between them.

"Proof that I'm not a monster or a psycho," his teasing grin transforming into a smile, "It's a gift from Mui to me. It's her performance on Broadway. We are still on good terms. And I think, after you see it. You'll understand."

"Understand what?"

"That she belongs on that stage, not in this suburb in the middle of nowhere."

"We are not in the middle of nowhere." This was a nice suburb on the outskirts of a nice city.

"Watch it, you'll see."

She pops the cover open, curiosity peaked, inside is a disk covered with black sharpie with the words scrawled across and covered in hearts: 'You were right, I should have auditioned sooner. With all my love, Mui.'

She glances up at Madara, his smile softer as he gazes at the dvd.

He looks back at her and the smile shortens back to teasing. "So, what would you like to start with first? Drinks, dessert, movie?"

She scans the counter. What did she want? She lets her hands touch the tequila bottle and she tugs at the knitted bag of limes. She calls his tease. "Spicy margaritas."

He scoffs but when she goes to get the cutting board, he takes it from her and steals a knife from her block. "My treat tonight, you're not going to lift a finger."

Except she does end up lifting a finger. Her freezer's ice is frozen over into a block so they both end up taking turns chipping at it with a pick seeing who's stronger, Sakura wins by grabbing a hammer from her garage. The chunks of ice pretty much destroy the weak blender instead of the other way around and they are left with not a slurpy, but chunky and half blended texture.

In the end, they let the mixture melt in the sink and do shots instead. They settle for several to start the night. Licking salt from their own wrists, not each other's, draining a shot-glass and biting on a lime. Sakura prides herself on her resistance to shuddering, while Madara violently almost knocks the glass on the counter off with his thick hair flinging about. He must go again to prove something to her, but he shakes just like before and nothing is proved. An all for nothing follows, and they take the last shot with the cheap beer as a chaser.

"To hell with Mikoto's party," he clinks her glass, cheeks rosy, and begins to chug the beer.

Sakura follows suit, not chugging as that would make her sick, but she notes how upset he seems to be at not going. She didn't pay much attention to Sasuke's relatives at past soirees, but she remembers in high school Madara had ended up being the last male dancing at five am. He and his then second wife, had ended the night with a tango that Ino had sighed over for weeks. Mikoto's retaliation against him appears to have landed a blow. He enjoyed himself at such celebrations.

When they've finished their chasers and the bottles are on the counter, she's compelled to ask, "So do you miss the music, the dancing, or the food?" Or the company? She wonders if maybe he regrets not having Mui with him.

He doesn't answer immediately, he snatches her hand instead and twirls her away. He then pulls her close against him on her kitchen floor until she can smell smoke and citrus. His other hand rests on her shoulder blade, and he moves her with skill across the kitchen floor and spins her again before pulling her back in. "Dancing," he says not in a whisper, but his hot breath touches her ear.

He sends her away letting her go at the end with flourish and control. "Hona and I danced competitively for years. Middle school into our adult lives. Won a few." His smile doesn't make it to his eyes and eventually his lips fall to a line.

Hona, his first wife. Sakura doesn't remember her at all from childhood. "What was she like? Sasuke's never mentioned her."

"Sasuke was in elementary school when she died. I suspect he doesn't remember her. She didn't really interact with him or Itachi much."

"Ah," She'd known about Hona's death, he'd mentioned his first wife had passed in one of the first therapy sessions when going over past relationships. The focus had been on Mui and him though. The relationship that had happened over twenty-years ago hadn't seemed relevant compared to the affair Mui had alluded to having earlier in the same conversation. The topic had been short lived. It wasn't like Sakura could ask Sasuke to divulge any information with the whole patient's confidentiality at the time. She regrets not asking now. "I'm sorry for your loss."

He takes another beer, uncaps, and takes a drink before answering. He gives a nod in her direction. "Thank you." But he doesn't elaborate on Hona, instead he changes the conversation, "Did you enjoy the soirees? What do you miss?"

Sakura lets the topic of Hona drop. "Loved them, especially when I was younger. It was like a royal ball to me back then. I think though, as an adult, hmm… The music is what I miss the most. I love watching musicians make magic."

He opens a beer for her and slides it to her. "There are a couple bars in the city that do live music, do you go to any?"

Bar, music? It's not that she's not aware of them, she is. But a female sitting alone at the bar is asking for a date. A date she doesn't want to have. Which means a rejection she doesn't want to give. It's the same reason she doesn't go to comedy clubs. That and it requires effort. She's done with effort after being so tired. "No, I've not really been to any."

"Casio's on fifth is my favorite, on Wednesdays there is a swing band that plays. You should come with me sometime. The food is just ok," he leans in, "but don't tell Casio that."

Sakura smiles, "You're a regular?"

"Yes, and Mikoto finds her dinner musicians through Casio. So, the quality is high except on Sunday nights when he opens the mic. I do not recommend going then if you like music, you'll hate your ears by the end."

She laughs, "Is it that bad?"

"It's tone-deaf karaoke for the most part. A few diamonds in the rough that Casio will have come back."

The next beer is finished over a story about a past Sunday at Casio's that included a bachelorette party so drunk, they stole the mic for the entire night.

After that they end up on the couch watching the taped Broadway show.

Sakura observes him as he watches the television. He can't take his eyes off the screen, off Mui, when she appears on set. Age lines disappear from the corner of his eyes, and there is something akin to wonder in his gaze when she speaks. As much as he'd made it sound like the entire therapy sessions had been a fabrication, not everything had been a lie.

There is no doubt. Madara loves Mui, the adoration still there and all consuming.

Had that been why Mikoto had tried therapy? Why had Madara and Mui not treated it seriously?

The woman is brilliant on stage. Her voice and expression carry the dry words of script to life. Even Sakura finds herself leaning towards the television, to have been in the audience would have been captivating. Sakura is sold on the persona the woman wields, much like she'd been sold on the woman who'd been having an affair.

Sakura isn't sure the stage is the only place Mui belongs though, she obviously goes to some sort of home - be it an apartment, condo, or hotel. Why hadn't Madara moved with her? Why hadn't they tried for distance first? Many actors lived in long-distance relationships with semi-success, surely they could have tried.

When Mui's character dies on set, no longer to return, Madara's gaze falls to Sakura and he begins commentary over the rest of the performance which is mediocre. He fills her ears with gossip about the other actors playing roles Mui had relayed to him on the phone until Sakura ends up laughing through the rest of the tragedy.

They return to the kitchen to open the wine, and he ends up walking around the first floor of her house, looking closely at the art thumbing his chin.

He motions to the two paintings in the foyer, "It's very themed, your place is more like a gallery than a home. You don't have any real pictures."

She lets out a bit of a pained laugh. Her photos are all upstairs in her bedroom and spare bedroom turned library, not that she says such, the man's a snoop and she's not sure about letting him upstairs. "In some sense it is a gallery. All the work is by Sai Shimura."

The man pauses, fingers resting on the side of the raw canvas of the largest work in her house. It's a black, white and red gouache painting of a city skyline from the perspective of a bridge. The red bridge is vibrant, but it dulls in comparison to the city rising out of the morning mist.

Sai had done the piece for a class, swearing off all medium but ink a semester later. He'd attempted to throw all his other work away, "they weren't art", but she'd saved them from the dumpster. The only real art, according to his standards, was the one of the barn that hung in her living room. The only one she'd ever had framed.

The man walks to the other painting in the room that had almost the same color scheme as the bridge. A shrine, in the dead of winter.
"A friend of some sort or do you feel a deep connection to," the man motions to the piece, "architecture? Although each of these has a different mood, I feel it, really, I do."

He continues his ramble at her lack of reply. "This one, is angry."

"Furious," Sakura corrects him. "I was furious because Sai forgot to arrange a hotel for us to stay at. Instead, we went up and walked in this shrine because that was the plan, and it was only after the four-hour hike to the top, after a 20-hour flight with layovers, that I finally came to the realization we didn't have a place to sleep that night or for the rest of the trip. And that was why it was so cost effective. It was dark and we slept in the car on the side of the road, and he stayed up and," she motions to the painting, "made the first sketch. We stayed in that car for the rest of the trip. When we returned it was the first thing he painted."

"So, he's your ex?"

"He's one of my ex's, yes." She hadn't dated many men, but she'd dated others. He wasn't the one and only.

"But guaranteed the rest don't get so much wall space," he motions. "So, he is 'the ex', in every sense of the word."

That thought chills her. Sai doesn't define her. She rests her hands on her hips. "I'm sure if the others painted, I'd probably have theirs." Not that she really had dated anyone after Sai, but she's made her decision. She is happy with her life and her choice; the relationship opened her eyes to the truth of things.

"Where is he now if you don't mind me asking? Like is he an official artist, or was this a hobby? It seems good. It looks official." He tries to correct it at the end.

"He's become a bit famous in the art world. He's in Paris, he stays in the manor of his lead patron." Not that Sai could function without someone else managing things like shelter for him, so consumed with his art. The man would probably live on the streets if he ever found himself in disfavor. Not that Sai cared about such things.

She then motions with her wine glass towards the kitchen. "Let's try those smores, I'm tempted to steal a bite of the chocolate for my wine too."

His gaze goes between her and the painting. He opens his mouth but she cuts him off before he can begin.

"You promised me dessert," she reminds him, "and that I wouldn't need to lift a finger."

He gives a smile, and he raises his glass. "I did indeed." He finishes the rest of his wine. "To the kitchen."

Madara ushers her to the bar. He refills her wine glass first and then pours himself another before starting.

She ends up lifting her finger to point at the cabinet containing foil and to warn him off putting any jalapenos on hers. "I'll take it the correct way, thanks."

"You'll regret it."

As he leans over the stovetop attempting to figure out how to turn on the connected oven, she cracks the chocolate and steals a piece.

He turns at the noise, and she shoves the piece in her mouth as fast as possible.

"Sakura," he admonishes, and in several quick movements snatches the red wrapped chocolate out of reach of the bar top where she sat. "It's for the smores."

She motions at the assembled tray of two open faced smores, but her mouth is too full to speak. When she bites, the chocolate cracks in her mouth, causing his 'stern' glare to deepen.

"People are allowed to have seconds. You should be ashamed." He wags a finger at her. "Shame."

As it melts into a sweet, wonderful velvet she swallows just enough so she can speak. She covers her mouth. "I regret nothing."

He laughs, but he takes the chocolate with him as he returns to the stove.

She sips at the wine, it's an excellent pairing to the dark chocolate. "You know, I can help with the oven."

He doesn't turn around and waves her off. "I got this."

And then she hears it, a loud crack. She watches from behind as his hand slowly goes towards his mouth.

She's off the barstool and in the kitchen. "Hypocrisy is an unbecoming quality in any man."

He covers his mouth. "I've no idea what you are talking about." His words are muddled as his mouth is stuffed full.

She reaches through his blocking arm, brushing his skin in the process, claiming the prize of chocolate.

Her eyes widened at the state of the bar. "I took a small bite. You literally ate half of what remained."

He coughs, tries to clear his throat and mouth. Hand still covers his mouth. "It broke wrong, and you made me rush."

She raises her brows in disbelief, he still sounds stuffed.

He reaches for it; she puts it behind her back. "Oh no, you've proven you don't share."

"That's not very nice." He steps forward.

She backs into the cabinet. "Eating all of it wasn't very nice."

His free hand rests beside her head, his other hand drops after another throat clear. "The chocolate bar was obviously broken from the start."

"Your lips are covered in chocolate!" she accuses. It's disgusting, yes, but the sight makes her laugh out loud.

He backs away and re-covers his mouth to laugh. "I know it looks damning, but it wasn't me. Your evidence won't hold in the court of law. Hearsay."

She laughs harder and puts the chocolate on the counter. She places her hand on the middle of his chest and pushes him back. And then she motions to the paper towels nearby. She turns her attention to the stove, turning on the broiler in her oven for the smores.

When she turns back around his face is cleaned, but he's drinking from a wine glass. A glass that had been on the bar counter. "Oh wow, this is really good with the wine."

"Thief!"

He blinks, and then tilts his head back and laughs. "I really didn't mean that one." He sidles up to the stove, propping a hip up against it, extends her wine glass to her and grabs his.

"You know what they say about people who steal other peoples drinks, right?" she asks.

"Oh no, what?"

"That they've had too much already."

"Nonsense, I say, just means they need more." He doesn't sip his wine, he swallows it. "They are obviously very thirsty."

A ding sounds from the stove."Broiler is ready," she motions to the oven.

He shoos her away, puts the food in and pours himself the rest of the bottle; not much really.

"You should probably drink some water." She should probably drink some too.

He sticks his maroon-colored tongue at her. "Stop trying to distract me, these will burn." He checks the oven and then begins frantically looking for oven mitts.

Sakura snags them from the right drawer and pulls the tray out of the oven. The smores are barely brown.

"They could go a bit longer."

"No, nobody likes burnt food; that right there is perfect."

"You've got to get it at least a bit toasted."

Before she can put them back in, graham crackers are shoved on top. "Done."

She sets the tray on the stove top and he sets down two plates, grabs one for himself and picks up the pepper s'more without any hesitation or regards to the fact it just came out of a hot oven and bites in.

The cracker crumbles onto the plate, but it seems less hot than she expects as he takes one more bite. He closes his eyes as he chews before looking at her. "The jalapeno is perfect."

"Here, try." Madara offers her, his. He holds out the smore with one hand and plate with the other to catch the drips, because it is dripping. They need forks, not to be eating it with their hands.

At her hesitation, he teases her, "Oh, are you going to be weird about eating after me. Are you one of those people?" He begins to rotate the smore.

She grabs his wrist though and takes a bite off the corner of the smore, making sure to take out some of his bite marks as well.

She mostly uses her teeth, this is such a mess, and she grazes his thumb in the process. She pretty much knows before the bites even finished; she's going to catch hell.

"You almost bit my thumb off. You're like a piranha."

Her mouth is too full to respond. The heat on the tongue from the pepper is a pleasant sensation, not to mention the tingle in her gut of sharing a bite. She probably won't ever go back to eating smores the old fashion way. Not that she lets him get the last word in. When her mouth is clear enough to speak.

"I was hungry; I still haven't gotten to try mine."

He puts the smore down and motions to the plate. "Well, was it any good? Am I a psycho?"

The idea doesn't really form fully in her head before she answers. "I didn't get any jalapeno," she lies.

He raises both brows. "You walloped a fourth of the smore," he leans in, "and you didn't get one bite of jalapeno?"

The giggle is out of her mouth before she can stop it.

He laughs, then finishes his wine. "Alright, I'll play nice just once. We'll share." He chomps off two thirds of what remains and gives the rest to her, and then starts making seconds.

While those are in the oven, he tries to get her to take shots with him, returning to the tequila. The negotiation doesn't go well, the smores burn, and the process starts again. She relents to one more shot, just one, if he drinks two glasses of water in exchange.

The third batch burns too, more than the second.

Too tired to try again, they end up with the raw ingredients with a pitcher of water and two glasses back in her living room. They sprawl on the floor so they can spread the goods between them. The night ends and morning begins as they chat about almost anything, random ideas to stories of youth till the pitcher is empty, the bag of graham crackers too, and the sugar rush Sakura has dies off into sleep.

Madara picks up the living room, drops off the supplies in the kitchen, and flicks off the lights. When he returns, he looks between the couch and the floor. He chooses the floor. He returns to the spot only a few inches from the other sleeping body.

He watches her breathe until he falls asleep.