He is supposed to be a world-weary sage who has lived past a thousand disillusionments, but sometimes, when the sake has sufficiently numbed his senses and the dirty neon lights of some bar begin resembling a mid-morning sun, he dreams.
There is a rustle of leaves. A discarded kunai. He is panting with her after a sparring session. He's collapsed on a bed of grass, and her head is resting on his chest. In this dream, there are no ghosts haunting the corners of their eyes. There is only the sky, its blue hands stretching to forever.
In here, they are not the Legendary Sannin whose shoulders bear the weight of a village. No, in here, he is only Jiraiya, and she is only Tsunade. And together, they are insignificant specks in the grand scheme of things.
They chatter on about little things: a restaurant they'd spotted, scraps of gossip on Sarutobi-sensei, a new jutsu… then at some point, he pauses and glances down at her. It has been a decade, but his memory of Tsunade is vivid— her blonde hair is tied to a high ponytail, tresses framing her face. She is not clad in bloodstained plate armor; instead, she wears her trademark white top and red shorts. Because in this dream, there are no wounds to hide— no corpses, no ashes. Her eyes are so wide and unguarded, almost hopeful. Jiraiya's heart flutters with a forgotten giddiness, and he looks back up at the sky.
"I think I'm in love with you," he murmurs.
She doesn't reply immediately, and for a moment, he is afraid, but she breathes out with an old playfulness, "I know, you dummy."
She reaches up to stroke his face. Callused skin against callused skin. Then she pulls him down for a kiss.
That is when it all blurs.
He closes his eyes and tries to sink into her, but there is nothing. He cannot define the feel of her mouth, and she tastes like a botched amalgamation of the other women he's had. Jiraiya pulls away in surprise, opening his eyes again. And there stands the Tsunade he has come to know: a vague haze of light, smudges of memories and fantasies. Sharp edges and tough skin that are too far for him to reach. The sun to his Icarus.
He blinks a few more times.
Her blinding light turns to pink and blue flashes, the soft breezes to giggling whores. There is blood on their hands again. Jiraiya wipes the sweat on his neck, sighing heavily, and remembers:
They are shinobi, children of war, and happiness was never meant for people like them, least of all Tsunade with her rotten luck or Jiraiya with his stubborn kindness.
With resignation, he raises his finger and gestures for a woman, in another futile attempt to forget. But even in another's arms, his throat remains walled with the bitter taste of sake. Parched with an old man's longings.
A/N: I have this up on AO3 as well. The title is taken from Sappho's Fragment 134.