Innumerable thanks to those of you who reviewed, favorited, and followed. I hope you enjoy this newest installment.
When she gets home she does what is quickly becoming a routine. She kicks off her shoes, methodically straightens her apartment, and, after half an hour of silence, begins to talk to herself. Not to herself, not exactly, but to an imaginary Itachi; listing every one of her frustrations, rehashing every argument they should have had, but never did. At some point her cleaning takes her into the bathroom, and she stops in front of the mirror. The tears start a few minutes into looking at her reflection.
"We sometimes weep in front of mirrors not to inflame self-pity, but because we want to feel witnessed in our despair."*
She'd read it once before, in a thin book of poetry about heartbreak and depression. She'd passively enjoyed it at the time, but now it crosses her mind daily.
It makes her feel slightly justified. She is not the first person to do this, perhaps some part of what she feels is normal. After a few minutes of crying – the tears turn to sobs and she doubles over against the counter – the crying is swept away by the familiar wave of exhaustion.
She shrugs off her clothes and lets them stay on her floor. She'll pick them up tomorrow, when she goes through the same routine.
She feels hollowed out, after tonight. And cold. A chill sets into her fingers and feet, two sweaters and some heavy socks aren't quite enough to smother it. She clutches a mug of tea and curls into herself on the couch. She doesn't check the time, but it's probably nearing one in the morning. She has to be up in six hours, but she's not concerned. The past few weeks she's been sustaining herself on protein bars, coffee, and cold denial. She knows it shows, but she can't quite bring herself to care. She's halfway though her cup of tea when a familiar knock sounds, and she's already opening her door – running on muscle memory – before she realizes why it's so familiar.
It takes all of fifteen seconds for her to find her voice, but just before she can force out a strangled 'what are you doing here?' he speaks.
"I want to talk," he says, almost frantically.
"Now," it's half statement half dumbfounded question.
"Please," he begs, "please."
"Ok," leaves her mouth before she can stop it, "ok."
She moves aside, back against the door as she closes it gently, eyes never leaving him as he makes his way into the small space. Her apartment isn't big, but it feels even smaller with him here. His very presence makes the room feel cramped, weighs down on her and makes her heart constrict. It's so painfully familiar. Five weeks ago he was standing in their kitchen making tea, sitting on their couch with a scroll, taking up half of their dresser with his gear.
He looks uncomfortable. There's an edge to his expression, tension around his eyes and mouth.
"What?" She asks. She doesn't trust herself to say anything else.
He opens his mouth and closes it quickly, and before he can say whatever it is he came to say, she finds herself hit by a sudden burst of anger. He wants to talk now, of all fucking times. It takes a god damn miscarriage and a broken engagement for him to want to have a conversation. And he's still hesitating.
"If you want to talk, actually talk. Otherwise you need to go."
The coldness in her voice surprises her just as much as him, but it seems the push he needs.
"I don't want this. I want to be with you," the tension leaves him immediately, and, like a dam breaking, he forges ahead, looking her dead in the eye.
"I love you. I want to be with you. I will do anything to make that possible," he reaches her in a few quick strides, taking her hands in his, privately noting how cold she is, "what can I do?"
She doesn't answer, just looks at him, almost unseeing, confused and overjoyed and still angry.
"Please, Sakura," he asks, voice straining. She pulls her hands away and moves past him to sit on the couch. He catches her arm lightly in his, turning her to face him. "If you don't want this, I swear, I will leave now. If you want me to go, if you never want to see me again, I promise you I will, but if you want this at all, please let me try to fix it."
"Of course, I do," She says softly. She sits down, and they find themselves locked in another pressing silence. She worries if she starts speaking now she'll start screaming. Or crying. He worries if he says more he'll ruin any possible progress he's made.
Finally, finally, she trusts herself enough to broach the first, glaring point.
"Your family will never allow us to be together if they find out about- about my health issues. And say what you want, but they won't be moved on that," she tries to force as much finality into her voice as she can, it's too much to let herself hope.
"That doesn't matter," he begins.
There's something about Uchiha men that leads them to say exactly the wrong thing when they're trying desperately to do otherwise.
"Yes, it does," she forces out, heart leaping into her throat and blocking her lungs. "It matters to me. I will not take your family away from you."
"You would not be taking my family from me, Sakura. If there is a rift, it will be of their making."
She offers no response besides a sharp inhale.
"If," he continues, cautious and gentle, "they should attempt to interfere, Sasuke will make an excellent heir."
She feels the breath nearly get knocked out of her. It's far more generous an offer than she could ever have expected, and she's not ignorant of what it would truly cost him to follow through on that. More than she could ever knowingly ask of him.
"I can't ask you to do that," she says softly.
"You don't need to ask me," he answers firmly.
"Itachi- " she starts, exasperated. She doesn't want false hope where there can be none. "It wouldn't just be the clan."
Please understand.
"You are enough."
That's nearly enough to send her over the edge. If it was any other time she would tear up, throw herself on him, bask in the glory of the praise. It is, at it's core, all she has ever wanted to hear.
And it does no good now.
"I know you want children. Please, Itachi, I won't take that from you," I won't rob you of a future.
"You are enough," He repeats.
He can see in her eyes that she doesn't quite believe him, and he curses himself for not saying so sooner. She is more than enough, more than he possibly could deserve, more compassionate, resilient, exquisite than he can ever describe. He should never have left her in doubt of that.
"I should have told you sooner," he finishes weakly.
The doubt is overtaken by anger, suddenly.
"Yeah," she says bitterly, "sooner."
Sooner, sooner, sooner, echoes in her mind. Would sooner really change anything?
She pushes off the couch and makes her way to the kitchen, pouring a glass of water. She needs to do something.
"Could you really be okay with never having children?" She asks bluntly, trying to keep the hope, and the fear, from her voice.
"Yes," he answers after a pause, "If it is a choice between children and you, healthy and whole, you are who I chose."
One more pretty declaration made too late. She actually snorts. Then starts laughing. Then starts crying.
"You know what the fucking joke of this is, Itachi? It took a miscarriage for you to get the fuck past this emotional repression," she doesn't want to scream at him, really she doesn't. She doesn't want everything good and precious and pure about them to be corrupted by an instant of fleeting rage. Once she starts, however, she can't quite stop. She trips over the arguments she's rehearsed in the mirror.
"We lost a baby and we didn't talk to each other," she continues. The word, the tenderness of it, pierces her like a hot poker, stoking the growing anger.
"What the fuck will it take for you to talk to me in a year? In five? We might not live that long. I have stuck with it because I love you, I've gotten good at guessing what you're thinking, but I cannot guess on this. And I cannot spend my life being mad at you for not answering questions I can't even bring myself to ask you!" Manic laughter and sobs punctuate her speech, and she shoves off the hand that extends to her. She paces from her couch to her kitchen and back, a familiar pattern she usually makes when she's anxious. What he sees in her face when she turns to face him again is shocking and painful.
She looks more hurt than he's ever seen her. He remembers on mission, one truly terrible mission, that ended with him cradling her against his chest as blood spilled out from a wound at her shoulder. Her breathing had quickened drastically, her movements had slowed, and her face had contorted into an expression of anguish. It was the first time he'd ever seen her look truly afraid, he had promised himself it would be the last if he could help it.
But here she is standing before him, a bit too thin, a bit too tired, but overall healthy, looking more frightened and devastated than he has ever seen her. And it's his fault.
Why do you want to be a shinobi? His perplexed sensei had asked, the first day he'd arrived at the academy, barely six years old.
To protect people, had been his reply.
How spectacularly he has failed.
He stands only to fall on his knees before her, arms wrapping around her hips and forehead against her knees, head down in shame. He doesn't cry, hasn't been able to cry since he was a child, but he shakes violently.
"I'm so sorry," he chokes. She's quite for a good several minutes, breathing sharply through her nose, while her fingers slowly tangle in his hair. She slides down to the floor and forces him to meet her eyes. She's still crying.
He looks smaller, somehow. Itachi is not a tall man, but he has a way of carrying himself that makes him seem, if not large, at least magnanimous.
Six years of knowing him, of being intimately wrapped around his life, and she's never seen him looking so helpless. She's never seen him in this kind of pain. Despite how angry she still is she takes his face between her hands and, after a moment of searching, presses her forehead against his, squeezing her eyes shut and willing herself to be able to do anything, anything, to take away this hurt they're both feeling.
She's relived. In a few days she'll be ashamed of the feeling, but for now she's just crushingly relived that she isn't the only one in pain.
Eventually they find themselves wrapped around each other on the floor, leaning against the couch. She sits between his legs, twisted to press her head against his chest, arms around his waist while he strokes her hair and back. The anger has evaporated – for now – and they allow themselves, however briefly, to just draw comfort from each other. Again, as they always seem to, they find themselves scared to speak, this time, though, Itachi is the one to make the push.
"I'm ready to talk," he says softly. She believes him.
* Bluets, Maggie Nelson
OH BOY, OH GOSH. This was a hard one to write, but it definitely felt the most pressing.
I can only imagine, growing up in the world they did, that healthy emoting and communication are not the foundations for a lot of their relationships. While I've never experienced a miscarriage, I have experienced the insecurity and fear that comes with a lack of openness, the rest is purely limited to empathy. I've tried to be delicate with the subject, but my understanding only goes so far. If there is anything glaringly wrong, anything you feel was not handled with care, please, please, tell me.
Reviews are (now and forever) highly appreciated, and a huge thank you to 'Fanofthisfiction' for your faithful feedback.