March

part 1

She's warm, safe, almost as if in a cocoon. Her body's relaxed, there's no rushing need to get up. Nor does she feel like rolling on her back to stare at the ceiling and hope it isn't 2am. No, she's comfortable, more comfortable than she's been in a very long time. Instead of attempting to even open her eyes, she wraps a leg around her warm body pillow to get back into deep slumber.

Gentle pressure is applied to her shoulders and neck, almost in the place she always has a kink. She moves just a bit, hoping to put the pressure right there.

The spot gets a firm kneed. She lets out a sound of appreciation.

Her pillow firms up just around her thigh.

She blinks into consciousness and then jolts awake with awareness. She's wrapped around Madara, with no space between them. His hand pauses on her shoulders.

She unwraps her arms and legs trying not to brush but she does. Her face heats up even more, and she ignores the feeling and tingles in her lower abdomen. She'd moaned and in response… She'd aroused him. Her mind can't decide on horror or embarrassment. At least they are both fully clothed.

She finds courage to push herself up against the carpet, retract from the chest she'd drooled on and meet the black-eyed gaze.

He's propped his cheek on one hand, his other has slid down her arm at her movement. His fingers loose.

Now that the flush of alcohol has left him, he looks pale. The bags under his eyes are more pronounced as if he hasn't slept and his eyes are rimmed red. His hair is limp and a mess from sleep. Just exactly how much had they had? A count forms in her head, at least three shots, two beers, then they'd opened the wine… scratch that they'd finished it and he'd gone back for the tequila. And she'd then forced them to drink glass after glass of water. At least that is why she doesn't have a headache.

"Sakura," Madara's deep gravelly voice brings her back to the real problem. He's not removed his hand from her arm. The warmth of the spot makes it apparent her house is cold.

He opens his mouth, then shuts it. He ends up not saying anything.

She's at a loss for words as well.

She'd enjoyed the company far too much. They'd laid on the floor, nibbling on gram crackers with a box between them talking and she'd been the one to fall asleep first. The couch she'd made for him to sleep on still has a comforter as he'd refused her guest room. The pillow, well she'd stolen the pillow when they were talking.

Her arms tire of her weight and she carefully lowers herself back down onto the pillow she'd claimed. He retracts his hand and the remaining warmth with it.

Part of her wants to look away, the awkwardness is almost unbearable.

He moves next, sitting up more and moving his hand that he'd been propped on. He winces as he tries to flex it. He massages his wrist and fingers. "Well thank goodness, I think I might have lost my arm if you slept longer," he laughs, which sounds thin and stretched.

She laughs just as forced.

She comes to the realization that there is no recovery from this. The only thing she can hope for is that there is enough tequila left in the kitchen to drown the memory out of moaning and – she cuts the thought off. She needs to start drinking now.

"Well," he says, cracking his neck, "my turn."

She blinks. "What?"

He rotates, perpendicular to her before laying back down, head landing gently on her stomach. The physical touch makes her abdomen tingle.

She tries to sit up, but his head begins sliding down towards her crotch and she immediately stops half up.

He turns his head, just slightly to look at her in between the boobs to meet her wide-eyed gaze. "I get two hours, it's only fair," he tells her, turns his head back to the ceiling and then closes his eyes.

The absurdity and stress force a laugh, until it becomes a natural one from the bottom of her belly.

His eyes snap open and he glares at her. "Timer doesn't start until the pillow stops moving."

Her confidence returns and she does sit up fully, letting him fall in her lap for all she cares.

His glare intensifies. "Really? A boney leg is all I get." And it causes her to laugh again, her thigh is not boney.

His facade breaks and his lips quirk into a tease. He leaves her lap then and gets off the floor.

His bones crack as he stretches to touch his toes. He groans, "I need to learn I'm an old man. I can't sleep on things like floors anymore." He collapses onto the couch.

"I offered you my guest bed." She remembers his flat refusal.

He looks down at her and gives her a teasing smile. "Ah, but then I wouldn't have had your company."

She feels heat on the tips of her ears at just exactly what company had entailed, her using him as a body pillow. But the small glow from last night is back, just a bit. She leans towards him. "Well, then maybe the old man shouldn't complain."

He tilts his head back and chuckles almost silently.

She gets up, leaning back over to grab the pillow. To her own shame, one of her joints pops at her reach. As she attempts to stretch her back there is a noise of a creak. Nothing near as loud as his but still he hears it and laughs louder.

"See we are both old people."

She's tempted to refute him, but her back really doesn't want to straighten all the way without pain. She can't be this old, surely it hasn't been that long since she'd slept on a floor.

He raises a brow at her posture, and she throws the pillow on the middle seat of the couch, almost hitting him but not quite, before sitting down on the other end, so that the pillow separates them. She is going to need a moment. She leans on her elbows.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Not as young as you thought you were, huh?" he continues to tease her.

She turns her head and glowers at him. He's almost twice her age, she can't be this old. She's in better shape than this.

"Spin, I'll rub your back." He motions for her to turn with a hand.

"No," she says, "I got this." She lets her head drop between her knees. Her back pops this time, in a painful way, and when she comes back up it really doesn't feel any better. No, now her neck is also a problem. Her own hand raises to rub but a pillow is shoved into her lap, the cushion dips and hands press upon her shoulders.

"Honestly, you've no idea how to be old. You don't decline a free massage." Madara continues his taunts. His fingers find the area of soreness with ease.

It feels good. To be honest, she can't remember the last time she'd even had a massage, years and years ago, as treatment for a car accident when she'd been in high school.

She feels his breath on her hair, and then he speaks again. "Just don't moan."

Her whole body stiffens, the tension bringing pain. How can he even bring it up! They'd made a silent agreement, all the avoidance and awkwardness and he just brought it back to – and then he finds her kink.

She bites on her tongue and makes a garbled noise instead.

He releases his grip. "I lied, feel free to just moan, that was a hideous noise. Like a broken, gaspy dog toy."

She turns her head, to say what she isn't even sure, but her neck protests the movement. A jolt of pain forces her head back in-between her hands.

He laughs and starts rubbing again.

For revenge she does moan, a little bit more deeply than she had any right to do, her hidden face burning at the action.

But he doesn't verbally respond in jest like she expects, instead he applies more force, and the moan becomes even deeper and more real, but at that point she doesn't care. At the back of her mind, she knows she'll care later, but what he's doing feels amazing.

He works the kink out and then moves to her neck, hands under her hair and against the bare sensitive skin, fingers adept at removing the knots and pain. Her skin warms under his touch. Her pulse quickens just a bit as his fingers graze her collar bone.

His hands trail up her throat, to her jaw following it to her ears. With less pressure, he rubs the joint there before moving back to her neck. And then his thumb and forefingers rest just a bit under her shirt as he comes to a stop.

After a pause he removes his hands. "Better?" he asks.

She straightens up, back bumping slight into his side, and she scoots a bit to give them space. She gently moves her neck and body. They don't protest. "Much, thank you." She turns to him, raises her hands, and wiggles her fingers. "Want me to do you?"

He gives a chuckle. "Oh no, I'm not that old thanks for the offer though."

Her attempt at a swat is thwarted as he shifts further down the couch.

"I am, however, old enough to take a nap. Whatever sleep I got on the floor didn't count." He stretches. "I might actually take you up on that guest room offer."

Her eyes go to the pillow in her lap. She pats it loudly to get his attention.

"Just this once," she warns him but her face heats. She's been in flirt territory, and this is an escalation, a very stupid one, and she knows it. But half of her doesn't want whatever this is to end. "I can't have people claiming I don't play fair. You'll ruin my good name."

For a hair's breadth, she thinks it will end, and she'll be laughed at like a fool. He really ought to sleep on a real bed. Her fingers clench at the pillow.

"Well, if it's just this once." He takes her up on the offer. He picks up the pillow, she releases her grip.

He makes a show of fluffing and adjusting it to his pleasure before propping on her thigh. It can't be comfortable; he has to curl his feet to fit.

Just as he begins to close his eyes, she picks up the television controller and warns him, "You get exactly two hours."

He smirks, turning his head towards the television but keeping his eyes shut. "And laughing resets the timer. Better be careful of what sitcom you choose Sakura."

She snorts down at him but quickly covers her laugh.

She ends up watching a drama crime show, its thirty-minutes in when his breaths even out and her attention on the show stops. She leans over and watches him sleep for a few minutes. Sleep doesn't make him look younger. Without an expression, his face screams exhaustion.

She lets her attention drift back to the television, a new crime show with different characters. She focuses on the storyline, not daring to think of last night, this morning, her current actions. Her fingers tremble. What the hell is she doing? No, she forces her mind back to the television. It's the plumber who'd done it, she guesses. Just how is he going to get caught?

But then the shows over, and she's left with her thoughts as commercial after commercial plays. Her gaze returns to the man. Cautiously she raises a hand. Even though it's freezing, her armpits sweat. Sai hated to be touched, especially to be woken by it. He'd prefer her to stomp like "the elephant she was" than to have her tap his shoulder. He woke up at the lightest touch, even a brush of wind seemed to stir him. He'd never once slept in the same room as her let alone shared a bed.

Already she's been more intimate with Madara, sleeping curled together all night, than she'd ever been with a man she'd dated for years, had sex with, been willing to start a life with on several occasions… Most would scoff at her, not even considering it a kind of intimacy, but it required vulnerability. That was intimacy at its core. A vulnerability Sai couldn't provide, probably never would. Someone had robbed him of it in his childhood.

She rests a hand on Madara's head, barely putting any pressure at all. He doesn't stir. She lets her hand stroke through his hair, careful of the morning made knots so as not to tug his scalp. His hair is much longer than hers, combing it every day must be brutal.

As two hours pass, she becomes a bit more daring. Just a fraction. She massages his head with just a bit of pressure to see if he will stir, but he doesn't move. She rubs the tips of his ears, traces his jaw to his neck, feels his pulse beneath her two fingers. A solid thrum pounds out like a drum. But he's out cold.

Her hand drifts over his shirt to rest on his chest, laying it down flat. Up and down, his breath constant. Thump, thump, his pulse just barely distinguishable underneath the thin t-shirt. She's awake, can't blame sleep. She's sober, can't blame the alcohol like she was for last night's flirting they'd done.

She closes her eyes, really feels his warmth and life. She counts each breath he takes. What the hell is she doing? Acting like this, doing this. This is very dangerous ground. She feels like a thief, taking what isn't hers to have.

She'd promised herself against this. She made her choice, years ago. But just for a moment, as he breathes in, she imagines all the 'could have been', 'should have been', 'wants' of a much younger Sakura. Not really Madara, not really Sai. No one from her past, or someone in the future. Just a house not so quiet, muted noise in the background, maybe laughter of young voices, warmth of another human, and strange peace. Like the world had a rightness to it. And then he exhales, she opens her eyes and is reminded of the stark reality; her gaze falling to the ink'd barn hanging on the wall.

The laughter is just a tv commercial. Humans are incredibly complicated and tarnished, and the memories of the lows overcome all the highs.

She did make the right choice all those years ago. Her fingers curl, but he doesn't stir. It may feel good now, but all things come to an end. No doubt she'd agonize over last night and this morning for some time to come. Her gaze drifts back to Madara, hair a mess.

She flattens her hand back against his chest, backs up to his throat and jaw. She re-strokes the bone with her thumb. His undisturbed state fills her with strange guilt.

She appeases her guilt with the fact he'd been doing much the same to her when she'd awoken. It was only fair after all. She's aware Madara's thoughts and actions had more to do with boredom and no way along the same lines as hers, as teasing and flirting as he'd been; his devotion belongs to Mui. Last night, his love had been apparent when he'd watched the show. She, on the other hand, is using him as a convenient warm body for a fantasy that's long since rotted. Any warm body would do really, and it's a cruelty to remove one's humanity and objectify.

But if it's one thing she knows is allowing the fantasy to have a real human or person, it just leaves an aching emptiness in its wake. She won't allow that. This though, this is safe.

Her fingers find his pulse at his throat again, and she closes her eyes counting it, barely listening to the tv in the background that's back on the show. She allows herself to feel flesh at her fingers, hear soft breaths, smell citrus. She doesn't try to think of anything, no imaginings, or fantasies; just soak in the senses. She'll allow herself this, without any condemnation afterward.

At three and a half hours, she must pee. She takes care not to jostle him. He does shift, grabbing the pillow more, but she escapes to the bathroom. She busies by cleaning up the house as quietly as she can, leaving anything that might make too much noise like the foil they'd used for smores. As she cleans, she eats a banana with some peanut butter. It doesn't feel like it, but it's three in the afternoon already.

They'd both drank too much, Madara much more than she. When she finishes in the kitchen, she makes sure to set out aspirin and water.

She suspects she could slip back into the hole without waking Madara, but she opts to return to the floor with a blanket. She doesn't turn the television back on and reads a book on child psychology she'd been meaning to get to, her phone completely dead and charging in the next room cutting her off from doing anything counterproductive like surfing the web.

Her control slips just a bit though, she shouldn't have chosen the floor. She rests her arm on the couch and she fingers his hair as she reads.

It's six o'clock when he does stir. He doesn't jolt awake, but he frantically pats his pant pockets for a smoke.

He's not even noticed her and the tip of the hair she has claim on. His desperation in patting increases as he moves to sit. She gives a gentle tug, drawing his wide-eyed attention.

She releases his hair to point at the coffee table, not putting down her book. "You set them there last night."

He gives a blink, looks at her hand which now rests on the couch cushion close to where his head had been, and then his gaze searches her face.

She feels herself start to warm under the scrutiny, it feels as if he knows what has transpired.

And then he is up, grabbing the cigarettes and lighter from the table. Madara jams them into his pants pockets. He pauses as he inspects the water and aspirin. He turns. "You're an angel." He downs the pill, drinks half the glass, then he's out the front door.

She lets her hand drop, and she almost facepalms. What's wrong with her? Petting him like a cat; tugging his hair like a schoolboy would a crush. She made her decision; this would just be leading him on. She moves the hand under the blanket, gripping it tightly to her. She looks down at the page, the words merge in her head, and she finds herself rereading the same paragraph five times with nothing having stuck.

He comes back in, which surprises Sakura somewhat. She scrambles, throwing her arm back out into the spot as if she always sat like this before he enters the room. She thought he'd gone, it's incredibly late on Saturday, surely, he's better places to be.

Madara doesn't even hesitate when he enters the room, he crashes on the floor beside her, his side touching hers. He ropes a hand on the couch cushion pinning her arm somewhat in the movement as he loops around her shoulders, the contact startling. He cocks his head at her. "Did I get my two hours?"

She can't help but laugh, a bit in relief. "You got your two hours." He'd gotten more than that.

"Is that your statement for the record, Madam?" His lips form a thin line, his voice mimicking the police investigator on the show she'd had on prior to him sleeping.

"Yes, Mr. Officer," she retorts, gaze returning to her book but she's not really reading the words.

She feels the weight on her side increase, and she turns to stare directly into his eyes, he's leaning in, breath tickling her ear. Her heart thrums.

"Positive?" He questions, his lips popping the p, causing her gaze to fall to them.

She's about to start treading water once more, her self-control slipping, heart rate spiking. Her mind searches for something safe, and lands on food. "Are you hungry, do you want something to eat?"

His gaze lingers, but he pulls his head away giving more space. "I would love some, thank you."

"Breakfast for dinner, or dinner for dinner?" She questions.

His gaze flicks to the clock on her wall until it goes back to her, except he doesn't meet her eyes, his gaze lowers at her mouth. "Either sounds good." He doesn't move though.

She can't either, hand still trapped under his arm, the weight at her side like an anchor. His breath a gentle brush against her ear. Her lips tingle, almost as if there is pressure upon them, but he's still not moved. She reaches to touch her lips, however her arm is still trapped and nudges him for release instead.

"Ah," his gaze breaks, he removes his arm, and gets up. He leans slightly over, extending his hand. "Well at least let me assist you cook."

Cooking dinner with him is much like cooking breakfast. He's been here enough that he knows where things are and moves almost like on autopilot around her kitchen. He sautés onions as she prepares cauliflower rice.

Topics of conversation bounce from politics to people with ease. It's almost a breath of fresh air from the tension she knew needed to stop. Almost, because even though they'd made breakfast many times before and never even bumped; it's like Madara has lost all coordination upon waking. A tap here and there on the shoulder as he reaches for something over her head. At first they are like small accidents. But then a press against her hip as he pulls open the drawer to rummage for a spoon and when she turns to fetch eggs from the refrigerator she's practically in his arms.

"How about you sit at the bar while I finish up," she doesn't state it as a question, he should go sit before she burns herself on the stove with whatever he is playing at.

He gives her an innocent smile followed by a devilish wink, "I've no idea what you're talking about. I can do the eggs." He doesn't ask either; he sweeps the carton from her grasp and takes over her stove.

She gives a shake of her head, goes to prepare basil to top the cauliflower fried rice and then he's there again at her side, looking into a cabinet that holds tubaware that he doesn't need, his pant leg brushing her own just enough that she knows he's there.

"It's burning."

He runs back to the stove, takes them off heat. They aren't burning; in fact, everything looks just about right. He turns around two seconds later and almost her pins against the counter. One hand is overhead on the cabinet above her, and a few inches between their bodies.

For a moment, in the silence of the kitchen, she thinks he will kiss her. Her heart thrums against her bones. But then instead she gets a soft poke on the forehead, like he's a much older Itachi. "Thank you, really, for letting me crash here last night."

Her pounding heart now aches.

"I am truly sorry for involving you in my family's madness and all that I've done that's hurt you."

The solemn apology feels like a hefty weight on her shoulders.

His lips quirk then, "I'm also sorry for disrupting your Friday night; I'm sure you had something exciting planned."

"Nonsense, I think it's the first time I've slept for eight hours in months, so it's not that big of a deal," she stops speaking, as his teasing smile is now gone and she can see his concern.

She lies easily, "I've just been busy with work."

"Sakura," he starts.

"Madara," she raises her brows at him, gives him a pat on the shoulder. "I'm good." Not really, but she really doesn't need him or his business looking in on her. No doubt if she caught them at it, she'd just become more paranoid. She's getting better. That's what matters.

He gives a huffing sigh as if knowing she's lying. "Well, if you need another good night's rest. You're always welcome to call me."

She tilts her head, and gives a smile, "Too bad, I don't think I have your number." No way would she ever look through her works records for them. She's not that kind of person.

"Something to be rectified." He pulls his cell out of his pocket, and powers it up. "I also need your number to give to Mui."

"My phone is –" probably charged by now, but now she is regretting bringing up the phone at all. She lets the words hang. "Look, it's a bit too much trouble. Mui doesn't need to apologize, you're both forgiven, there is no need for anything more."

"Nonsense, I do all the hard work and you're letting her off easy. Here," He hands her his phone, it's a text thread between him and Mui. This isn't contact info she's filling in. The screen is ready for another line of text to be filled in – 'Sakura's number:' the cursor blinking after the colon. Only the last two sent messages can be seen. 'Good luck at the show' from him, and 'Thanks, luv' from her.

As tempting as it would be to look through, she quickly types in her number, doesn't hit send, and hands it back to him. "Really, it's not necessary."

He hits the send button and slides his phone back into his pocket, not fiddling with it or pulling her contact information out. She hates how mixed her feelings are by the action. But she focuses on him. "I mean it. Let's eat."

Dinner itself is uneventful, the mood light and tension gone. There is an ease to conversation that Sakura hadn't noticed was missing. And then, he's going. Dusk settling over the neighborhood. Well almost, turns out his car door is frozen and covered with a good three inches. She helps him brush off the dust and crack off the ice. In return he helps clean off her car as well. And then he really is gone, carefully backing out of her white driveway, over the new pile made by the plow and onto the black asphalt. She's going to have to re-shovel her driveway in the morning.

Many tv shows later, not to mention a few margaritas on the rocks, and then night is fully upon her. Her phone is clear of all notifications after the twelfth time she checked; that way instead of having to type in her password she can see if she has a message just from the power screen. She ends up tossing the phone into the armchair just so she'll stop checking it. Later, still with no messages, she closes the house down, locking every door and checking thrice. The bottom story lights are off and she makes her way up. She pauses on the last stair, but she doesn't turn around.

"What the hell are you thinking?" she asks the wall. She runs a hand back through her hair and lets out a sigh. She flicks off the hallway lights, the small night light illuminating the way to her bedroom. She plugs her phone to charge in the bathroom and gets changed. She lands face up on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

Eventually she puts her cold feet and body under the covers, enjoying the soft padding of a tempur-pedic mattress for her back compared to the hard floor. She lays awake, and her eyes scan the ceiling for the familiar blemishes. And then eventually she closes her eyes, raises her fingers to her throat and finds her pulse. No matter how deeply she breathes through, she doesn't smell citrus.

She counts the throb, sleep comes, and for the first time in what feels like a long time, it brings peace.