Rating for this has increased to M - for mature and dark topics.
March
part 5 - The Call
She can already tell by the way he's leading up to calling that it's not an emergency. She bites her lip.
'Sakura'.
One more Sakura, and one Ugly and then in two minutes he'd call her.
"Everything ok?" Kakashi asks.
Sakura blinks. "Ah, yeah. I'm about to get a call, so I'll be stepping out for a bit. This might be a while." Hours, if she's right about why Sai would choose to contact her. She takes her purse and walks to the front of the building. Just enough that the neon sign gives light and the big band music can be heard just a tiny bit.
Sakura.
She prepares herself, filling her lungs with air and slowly letting it back out. She rolls her shoulders, and paces as she waits. She could call, stop the text messages in their place. But she needs the extra time to gather her thoughts, prepare for the endeavor.
Ugly.
She closes her eyes and counts.
Like expected the phone rings. With dread she answers it.
"Hag," Sai greets.
"Sai," Sakura bites out. The pet name always got a rise out of her, she hates it. She doesn't follow up with any redundant or useless questions like how are you, are you ok, what's going on. Those weren't questions you asked Sai.
"Sakura, I –" his voice hangs on the line and for a moment she thinks they've lost connection. "Sakura, I need you."
The dread pools in her gut. She opens her mouth, she's not quite sure how to respond.
"My art sucks."
She lets out a sigh. Of course, Sai didn't 'need' her - Sakura the human being. No, the dip in his voice and desperation is for only one thing, art. He wants Sakura the muse. He wants to steal every sap of emotion and ink it onto some brick building with trailing ivy or industrial gray cement. To hell with the tree that gives the sap.
"Sai, you don't need me."
"I do," he pleads, "Sakura, I do need you."
The words are sweet poison. They sound so beautiful, but she knows exactly what's behind them.
The sound of music becomes louder, and she glances at the door to see Madara step out. He motions to the cigarette box he has in his hands. He keeps his distance, walking further down the building, almost in complete darkness except for the passing car headlights, and he leans against the bricks and lights his smoke.
"Sakura, are you still there? Please, I desperately need you."
Well, the tribulation began now. "No, you don't," she doesn't say it with the bitterness and anger she feels, but like a mother kindly scolding a child.
"My art has become shit, complete and utter shit. These last few years, I've done nothing good. I can't even function; I burned half of my piece today. Dumas is furious," Sai barely takes a break, he gushes out his pain, describing a commission request that he doesn't have the skill to do as each attempt has become more disastrous than the next. "It's a new building." That always made it worse for Sai. No history. No character. No emotion.
"I need you," he repeats. "How about you come to Paris for a week. I'll pay for it all. The flights. You can stay in the manor. There's more bedrooms than people, but you can crash in my room. You'd love the gardens here."
She lets out a harsh laugh. "No, I'm not going." Not because of her job, not because of her schedule, no this is for her. She knows exactly what he really wants from her.
"Sakura, it would be great. Just you and me, like old times."
Old times is exactly what she doesn't want to be a part of. "No, I'm not going."
She can hear his intake in breath, not anger, just frustration. "There is breakfast served every morning with fruit and -"
"No." This would have worked on the young Sakura, the Sakura Sai had dated years and years ago. Sai still hasn't learned that she's outgrown being talked into things.
"The bread is delicious, freshly baked every morning. The butter is churned with salt and truffle."
"No."
"You're in the heart of the city within a fifteen minute car ride. You'll want to stay more than a week. A month; at least a year."
That was the thing with Sai. He could find the words, but he didn't mean them the way a normal person would. It took her a long time to learn that. "No."
"My room is the best in the house. The mattress is made of goose feathers. Satin sheets, the shade of green you love."
"Oh and where would you sleep?"
"My studio, I've a bunk there as well. But I suspect I won't sleep much with your visit."
"Really? Going to lock yourself in there and I won't see you?" She questions. They are getting to the heart of the matter.
"Of course you'd see me. You know how I am. We'd have some fun."
Fun. She almost scoffs.
"No commitment with your short visit, just a bit of enjoyment," he follows up.
That she does snort at. The enjoyable part for her had always been the relationship, the time spent together, knowing someone was there and present in it. Sex with Sai hadn't been that enjoyable, Kabuto had been a lot more 'fun' in terms of romance. But Sai had been a rebound after Kabuto's cheating and she'd been willing to tolerate less 'fun' for real commitment. Goodness had she been naive.
"No."
Sai doesn't take the hint, and switches techniques. He describes the architecture of old town in Paris and a cafe Sakura would love. But Sakura becomes distracted from the movement to her left to even focus on the words.
Madara has finished smoking and saddles up beside her. His head tilts slightly, his face inching closer.
"So what do you think, Sakura? You can be here next week, I'll set up the flight and everything." Sai takes her silence as compliance. Her name brings her back to the present.
"No," she quickly reiterates, putting a hand on Madara's shoulder to push him away so she can focus. The last thing she needs is for Sai to get the wrong idea.
"May I?" Madara asks, but he doesn't wait for affirmation. He takes the phone from her.
"Hey, listen." Madara speaks into the receptor, "A no pretty much means no. Doesn't get much clearer. Doesn't sound like she's changing her mind, so you're probably just wasting your breath. Her food will also be ready soon, so-" Madara's stops talking. He's been cut off.
Madara lets out a laugh, "I think you've the wrong impression-"
She knows how Sai gets when he's trying to make a point, willing to speak over anyone. She extends her hand to get her phone back.
Madara's smile drops and brows furl. He takes a step back and his spare hand gently pats her hand down. "I'm sorry, I'm going to need you to repeat that. Not sure I caught it the first time around."
Madara's eyes widen in disbelief, looking like saucers. He laughs, not his normal laughter or chuckle, but it's higher pitched as if to alleviate tension at whatever is being said. "Really how much will you pay me?"
With horror she realizes exactly what Sai has said on the phone. Sakura doesn't hesitate, her mind screams and she snatches the phone and ends the call.
Madara gives her a pained smile, "Your friend has a very strange comedy act. Paying someone to watch them have sex is quite the way to make an impression. I'm going to remember that conversation for… the rest of my life." He gives another tension relieving laugh.
If Sakura had been thinking clearly, she'd have just laughed it off like him. She'd have played it as if she'd not experienced the shit show of a comedy act upon her person by having to get tested for STDs. But instead, her experience flashes in her mind and she snaps at his amusement that feels at her expense, "Sai doesn't fucking joke, not about that."
The humor fades from his face and she realizes her mistakes. One, Madara hadn't a clue who he'd been speaking to. But now he knew the name and the relation she'd had with Sai in the past. Two, with that information, she'd just incriminated herself.
Her phone buzzes. A text. 'Sakura.' In desperation, she holds down the button, turning her phone off. But she's grateful, it's a good way to change the conversation.
But Madara beats her to speaking, "Has he paid someone to have sex with you before?"
A normal person laughs it off, back tracks, follows up with some awkward joke. But instead all she can remember is the dull throbbing pain between her legs, the worst pain in her chest as she'd watched the exchange of money. 'A willing participant', her ass. 'Other couples do it all the time', her ass. 'Let's just try it once with another person; it spices up a relationship.'
No.
She can't laugh it off or even crack a smile. The feeling of being covered in some unseen dirt. The hurt of betrayal. There's no backtracking, she can't even form the words of a lie. The only joke is the one on her. All she really wants to do is vomit.
She goes on autopilot.
She leaves him there, at a run.
She snatches the keys out of her purse, is in her car, out of the city and on the freeway going somewhere she doesn't know and she doesn't even remember how. As she drives she doesn't even consider how long or where to, just needing the speed so she doesn't focus on the conversation that has taken place. It isn't until much later that she pulls into a parking space at the edge of a strip mall she's never been to.
What has she done?
"Fuck," she swears, over and over, slamming her steering wheel with her palms as she increases in volume until her voice is sore from a scream.
If Madara needed a loaded gun against her, he now has it.
She's out and in the night air, vomiting in the bushes. The spicy margarita burning her sore throat on the way out. She eventually straightens, hands gripping her hips. One step at a time. She'd get through this, just like everything else.
Sakura takes in her surroundings. Nothing recognizable.
She spits the horrid taste in her mouth out. She goes back to her car, and sits, watching the cars fly by on the freeway. She's got to get home. But there is no way in hell she's turning back on her phone, not tonight.
Just for a moment, she rests her forehead against the steering wheel. Part of her wants to cry, have her shoulders shake. But tears for this were used up years ago. Instead she just feels like vomiting again. With a sigh, she pulls out and carefully reads the signs. Well, she went the opposite direction of home, that's grand. She heads back towards the city, her gaze falling to the clock. So much for a work night, it's already 11pm and she isn't going to make it home for at least another hour and a half.
She takes a deep breath, turns up the radio, and focuses on the hosts chatting about the news until she shuts it off. Instead her mind runs round and round about what she is going to say to talk herself out of this.
When she gets to her driveway, the desire to turn around and go right back to the shopping mall is high. Not because it's dark, for she had remembered to keep the porchlight on this morning. No, because Madara's car is in her driveway. He is leaning on her porch railing with a cigarette on his lips and smoke pooling from his mouth.
She's going to have to deal with this. Tonight. She's not sure how to convince Madara of anything, let alone to keep his mouth shut - the guy's a talker, a gossip repeater as proven by the broadway show they'd watched together. Nothing there had been life altering though, just who pissed off who and stupid things like that. This wasn't a stupid thing.
She gets the courage to pull in, park, and get out. Her planned speech fails her though. Her plan b, a joking laugh, that would make everything easier to play off never comes.
He finally looks at her, wets his fingers and taps out his cigarette on them. The sizzle loud and clear in the crisp morning air. He places it beside at least seven butts resting next to his elbow. He's been here awhile.
He motions to his feet at a white and red thank you bag full of styrofoam containers of food. "Foods, cold."
No, no she can't do this. Her courage wanes and she wants to flee back to her car. "Look its late-"
"It's almost one am, I'd say it's early." He's been waiting here for hours, with his food because there's definitely more than one serving container in the bag.
"Yeah," she agrees, "It's early." She needs to send him away. But at the same time, she needs to know if he told anyone and get him to comply by never speaking of this again. Ever. "Do you want to come in for some coffee and err - food?" She's not sure she can eat.
"That sounds good."
She nods, and opens the door.
While she puts on the coffee, he warms up the food in the microwave. They work in silence until they are sitting. She, staring at the french fries and burger, her stomach rolling, and he, his gaze lingers on her, his food untouched.
She feels the need to clear the air. One had to start somewhere. She'd planned it all in her head, to start at the beginning and go to the end. A few sentences. Instead, there's just silence. She makes the mistake of raising her gaze, to meet the dark eyes staring over her through the steam of coffee.
Madara sighs and sets down the cup. He gives a shrug, "So did you get fucked for some money or is Sai some sort of a pimp?"
The hair on the back of her neck raises at the accusation. She drops her gaze, wanting to vanish into the bar top. "Sai isn't a pimp. And at the time I hadn't known about the money," blurts out. "If I'd known, I'd have never gone through with it."
She doesn't dare look at him or raise her gaze to his. Her fingers begin ripping at the paper napkin in her hand. She starts somewhere in the middle of the story. "He needed a breakthrough in his art. He'd always used…" she hesitates to even say what. Sex isn't the right term to use with Sai, but that had been a thing. Sex. Paint. Sex. Paint. Early in the relationship, nothing had seemed odd about it; just eccentric.
"Voyeurism," what he'd sold as voyeurism to a naive Sakura, "was just a way to get that breakthrough." Other couples did it, couldn't they? He'd found someone willing to be with them for a night, see if they enjoyed a threesome. Not that it had ever gotten to that. "If I'd known I wouldn't have. He wanted to try something new, and found a 'willing participant.' It was supposed to, you know, rekindle the relationship. It was my mistake, not asking enough questions." She'd agreed to please him. Had he told her everything, she probably still would have agreed. "I was very naive back then." Not anymore.
She moves her stare to the plate, she can almost feel the vomit come up her throat as she looks at the french fries. She's never spoken to anyone but Tsunade about this. She'd yelled at Sai after, when the horror of the evening had worn off and he'd come out of his 'buzzed art state' three days later. But talking. Talking is far worse. Her throat feels like swelling.
She's done storytelling, one more word of it will bring up what's left in her stomach. "Please don't tell anyone about this."
There were a lot of things that would have made it easier to swallow. If it had been good sex. If Sai hadn't dictated the positions to which both Sakura and the gentleman struggled to obtain. And if Sai had allowed her some fill or climax instead of letting the man go with payment once he'd emptied himself inside of a condom, inside of her.
There'd been no silver lining to the night. There could have been, had she not sat with the sheet wrapped around her too shocked to move after watching the exchange of cash. She moved in the morning, dawn coming in behind the white blinds, getting off her knees, scrubbing her body until it was raw with as hot as the shower would go in their cheap apartment. Her mind had been still trying to comprehend it. It had finally opened her eyes to exactly what she'd been to him. A tool.
"I won't." He says. "I won't say a word."
She glances up.
He looks pale and sickened. His lips and nose rest against his knuckles.
Of course, Sai would proposition Madara. He'd been trying to get Sakura to fly to Paris for art. Sai needed a muse, and the 'voyerism' had worked for him. And he couldn't seem to grasp why it hadn't for her. Well if the problem had been because of a stranger, Sai's solution had been right before him. It had been stupid of her to think he wouldn't take the advantage given.
She wants to let loose a bitter laugh. Well, this at least ruined the shitshow Madara and she'd been having. Regardless of how fun it seemed, it was for the best it ended. But she'd never wanted for someone else to know. It horrifies her. She wants to cover even the slim line of skin showing on her neck from her modest blouse.
"I don't understand something though." Madara shifts and drops his hand."How does he still have your number?"
She's not quite sure what to tell him. "Sai is -" she's not sure how to even explain Sai. "He's a very broken individual. He didn't do it intentionally to hurt me, he honestly -" she motions with her hands for something, "he's in his own world."
And even now, she could still follow Sai's logic. She was on a date, had someone new? That was fine. Would said new person allow a fly on the wall. Sure, stranger and sex worker off the table, he got that, but if she were doing the guy anyway. Another set of eyes and willingness to pay for the experience should be fine, right?
And that is why Sai still had her number. She's the only other person in the world who understood him; all of his family, dead. She didn't really want to. But she understood him in a way he probably would never even understand himself because he couldn't even understand how different he was.
"So just because he didn't mean anything by it, that makes it ok in your books? You're ok with him calling you up, basically hurting you again?"
She stiffens, becoming aware of the judgmental stare Madara is leveling her with.
"I think you'll understand if you see-" she motions him to get up with her. She tosses the shreds of napkin to the side of the plate, and they walk to the living room. To the ink work Sai had done so long ago after the incident. The barn, the broken fence. Her.
"Is this what he made right after –" Madara's voice hangs.
"No," Sakura corrects, "That piece sold for seventy-five thousand." She never got a chance to see it. She never wants to.
Madara coughs, "What?"
She'd been Sai's greatest muse. And he'd known the words to say, to get her back. 'I need you.' If only they hadn't been followed by the raw truth. 'My art has been shit.'
"This," she points, "this is the only thing that consumes Sai. Art. Everything he does, everything he will ever be and ever could be, because it's the only thing he wants," she motions to the scene. "Art. Do you understand?"
Madara finally snaps his mouth shut. Eyes narrowing to a glare as he looks at her. "No, I'm afraid I don't understand how paying to get your girlfriend off even remotely counts as -"
She scoffs at his naivety, "Oh, I didn't get off. And that's the thing, it wasn't about the sex."
This dumbfounds him, his eyebrows rising into his hairline. It takes him a moment, but he does gather his thoughts. "Who pays a fucking gigalo to not get off?"
"It was about art. Once the guy was done Sai paid him and he left. And Sai went to work on his project." Had locked the door to his studio for three days. "When he came out of his studio he was very surprised to find all of my things packed."
"When he came out?"
She ignores the question. His gaze is already leveling her, and she doesn't need any more condemnation for what happened. She'd judged herself enough as it stood. To be honest, its stupid for her to even say more to him; to have even trusted him at all with the knowledge; but she'd wanted him to know, she wouldn't have been willing – not if she'd known. Maybe that really didn't matter to anyone else, but it mattered to her. It mattered to everything that had cracked inside of her after, and the pieces she'd glued back together with Tsunade's mentoring. Who'd ever heard of a therapist needing therapy? She'd been a step away from giving up her training and occupation.
She instead looks up at the painting, which is supposed to symbolize her. She sees it too, the truth of the hollowed building with busted windows and peeling paint. Her very essence of that moment captured forever in ink when she'd left that apartment. His last gift, titled Sakura. And that is also why she never wants to see the one he started painting that night.
She glances back at Madara. His confusion is falling away into judgemental anger, not that she expects any different. He doesn't see it. Doesn't see her in the painting. She should be grateful. He opens his mouth, but she can't let him say what she knows is probably right at his lips. He's no right to judge her, for any of it.
"When it comes to art, Sai would do absolutely anything. He loves it more than his own life." More than he'd ever loved her. She'd just been a brush to use, a thing to muse over. Even her hurt was beautiful to him.
Madara's expression changes; the darkness in his eyes fades. He reaches out a hand to her face, she pulls back but his thumb touches her cheek and swipes. She feels the smear of water. She blinks rapidly and jolts back, she can't believe she's cried. No, not about this. She was done crying a long time ago. She goes to wipe at her eyes but then he's there pulling her into a hug.
Her back stiffens at the embrace and she doesn't move to return it. Her face against his chest, she can smell the smoke clinging to him.
"I can't tell if you're crying because you're still hurting or if you still love him."
She pulls away from his grip. "Neither. I'm ok." She tries to smile at him, to reassure him, but he even looks more sickened. "I've been ok for a long time." And in this matter she is. Truly. "I'm sure what I've said makes it sound worse than it was. I agreed to what I thought would be a threesome that ended in some weird shit." She laughs, it feels like glass in her throat and she cuts it off half bark. She's not at that point yet. Maybe one day. But not today. "I was young, naive."
The room falls into silence, his expression hasn't changed. It feels like two hands against her throat starting to squeeze.
"I'm sorry, I get it, that you don't understand." Tsunade hadn't, not quite. But that was it wasn't it? Sometimes to really understand you had to live it and be there. Through all the thoughts, aches, and moments in-between. Really, it would be strange if he understood. She's crazy for wanting that of anyone.
"It's a bizarre story." Well, now she's just rambling. She lets her words drop away, suffering the silence not willing to speak more about it. Because it's hard to put it lightly.
"Why the barn?" he finally asks, "Out of all of them, you brought me to this one. I figured you'd take me to that oil painting of the bridge. It's much bigger."
She bites her lip, not sure she really wants to discuss much more of this. "Well, this is me. At least how Sai saw me last."
"You're not a fucking broken down barn."
She blinks in surprise and then for real laughs. "I'm sorry, I should have clarified. I know that. But back then… that was me. I built myself back up, piece by piece. The barn doesn't exist anymore." She glances at the painting, her back straightening, her fist tightening. She turns back to Madara. "And I won't let it become a reality again. It was the past, it won't be my future." It may not be her future, but it defines it. It reminds her exactly what she has at stake.
She should be grateful for Sai's call. Grateful he'd interrupted her evening. Grateful Madara had taken the phone. As much as she hated it to end there was a reason it should. She has too much to lose. Especially in doing something so stupid like making the same mistake again. She can't love someone, especially someone who loves something else. Whatever yearning she has, it will go away. It always does. Mind over matter.
"I've been done crying over this for years. Honest. I save my tears for other people now." A partial white-lie, but she has to save face somewhere. She cried for herself, but no, not about this. At least not till today.
He doesn't look like he believes her. Evidence isn't really in her favor.
He stares up at the painting, it lingers far too long now that she's told him what it symbolizes. And then his gaze falls to her. His eyes are dark, lips tilting into a stern frown. "Do you like being abused?"
Her hairs stand on end; bile comes up her throat. "Wh-"
He turns his back to painting to fully face her. He takes a step forward. "You let him call you whenever he pleases. Doesn't matter how many times you say no, you still let him talk. You forgive too fucking easily. Hell, you really do. Even with me. You must be some sort of mascosist."
She wants to slap him, strike him right across his face and follow it up with a punch to his gut before throwing him right out her door and down the steps. She gets in his face instead, her voice dropping low. "You've five seconds to get your ass out of my house."
"See, there's the anger you need to have towards this piece of shit." His thumb pointing to the painting.
"Five."
He raises up his hands in surrender.
"Four."
"Done, I am out." He backs out of her living room to the foyer and she follows him to the entrance.
She watches him leave, watches him slam the door, watches as he descends her steps and then he is out of view of her front window. Only then does her knees give away and she barely catches herself on the wall. Her fingers can barely grip the corner.
What has she done?
He knows. He knows far too much because she couldn't keep her fucking mouth shut. And he is angry. A vicious and vengeful fucking person knows enough to ruin her and he is angry.