Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.
Day Three
The day begins at four in the morning when Sarada crawls back into his bed and wraps her arms loosely around Kaito.
Sasuke only brushes the hair that's stuck to her skin, biting his lip at the wet cheeks he feels before closing his eyes once more.
He's completely exhausted and it's only in his dreams that he can see Sakura.
(He dreams of whispered love and quiet affection, of green eyes and peace and calm and—Sakura.)
The day fully begins at eight in the morning when Sasuke is attempting to make some sort of breakfast, his hair disheveled, the gray button-up shirt Sakura got for him on his birthday askew on his frame, his eyes dull with grief.
Sarada is still sleeping and not once did she accidentally crush little Kaito in her sleep so Sasuke lets her rest, knowing she would need it because—because they were going to go out today.
The baby-book Sakura had gotten told him that babies needed to be in direct contact with sunlight—not that he hadn't already known—and so he decided that today would be a perfect day to leave the house and go into the garden.
Kaito would become acquainted with their surroundings and Sarada would be able to play with him without seeing the pitying looks and without hearing the sincere apologies that people would naturally say once seeing them.
But, as he heard the doorbell ring, his plans came crashing down.
Moving sluggishly, not bothering to run a hand through his hair to calm the crazy locks, nor the shirt that's hanging loose at odd openings, he made his way towards the front door.
He pretended that seeing Sakura's face, smiling and happy, in the photos stuck to the wall, didn't ache so much he couldn't breathe.
He pretended his hand didn't stutter—didn't even shake or twitch—once, twice, three times, before opening the door.
Haruno Kizashi stood at the door, his eyes dull and broken, his normally jubilant smile washed away with his grief.
"Hello." Sasuke meant to say it with strength but what comes out is a pained whisper.
His in-law's eyes grow duller and Sasuke can see his own pain reflected in those green eyes.
"I came to check on the kid." Kizashi's voice is rough and chafing and Sasuke can so clearly see the agony in the older man's frame.
"Aa. He and Sarada are sleeping." Sasuke replies with a gruff edge.
Sasuke pretends he doesn't see the tears in Kizashi's eyes as his father-in-law finds out he's sired a grandson.
They walk to the kitchen, Kizashi sitting down on the couch, his eyes taking in Sakura's lab coat on the chair, how his daughter's smiling face is reflected in the pictures up on the wall.
"Would you like some?" Sasuke offers the charred mess that is the fish and rice. Sakura, while not amazing when younger, had gradually been able to cook quite a decent meal and it had been too long since Sasuke had even attempted at anything other than takeout or just tomatoes.
Kizashi wrinkles his nose and Sasuke bites his lip in sad amusement, remembering little Kaito's same movement just last night.
"You're pathetic at cooking, boy." Kizashi rises from the couch—green, like Sakura's eyes—and shoves him over, picking up a couple of eggs, sugar and milk. "Now shut up and pay attention. I'll show you how."
Sasuke turns on his sharingan.
Hinata tightens her grip on her spoon as she lifts the porridge to her mouth.
Her son has already left for Ichiraku and she knows Himawari is probably sparring with her team already. An unconscious smile pulls at her lips as she thinks of her daughter's hopeful, happy face and how her son worried about Sarada and how she was going to take the death of her mother.
"Hey Hinata-chan." Her husband's voice calls from the kitchen and Hinata bites back angry tears. "Is there any porridge left for me?"
Naruto's voice is thick and unused, something Hinata knows is because of the tears he'd sobbed out at Sakura's death. His eyes are bloodshot, the clear blue she has loved for so long, a dull gray in the morning light. His movements are sluggish as he drags a colored bowl out of the cupboards, his muscles flexing in the tight gray shirt he's got on.
"Naruto." Hinata curses herself for this, but, but she remembers those words, so loving, like a gentle kiss, at Sakura's funeral and she has to know. "Do you still love her?"
Naruto freezes in the kitchen, his eyes widening.
"What?" He whispers, slowly turning to face her.
Hinata's eyes are surprisingly blank and she squashes the wobble of her lower lip as she takes in his surprised expression.
"Do you still love Uchiha Sakura."
The following silence is answer enough and Hinata gets up quickly, leaving the steaming bowl of porridge on the table, not bothering to look back to see Naruto's eyes swelling with tears or how he crashed his face into his hands, shoulders shaking.
She only bit her lip and left outside to go see Hanabi.
It was time to re-think some things.
Ino knows that she should be taking this badly.
Ino knows she should be screaming and crying and sobbing her pain out.
But, instead of the soul-crushing pain that she would normally be feeling, all she has is numbness.
She knows Sai is worried. He flits around her like a scared kitty, constantly asking her if she needs anything, if she wants anything and normally, she would scream at him to let her be—but now, as she sits, her hair loose and disheveled, and he lifts a trembling hand to cup her cheek in order to get her mouth to open and feed her, all she can do is be still.
A tear trails down her cheek.
Sai's mouth goes white, his eyes becoming so worried they nearly take on the root-like quality she'd first associated with him.
"Ino-chan, please, eat."
She shakes her head and looks away.
Sai fights the urge to smash the bowl of cereal against the wall and scream.
Sarada wakes with baby Kaito on her chest.
Her little brother's nose is cold in the crook of her neck and she shifts him, so that he's not shivering. Getting up slowly, she makes sure to wrap him up in the little blanket her mother had knitted for him in the first term of her pregnancy.
("Sarada-chan, can you get me some more wool?" her mother called from the kitchen, a frown crinkling her forehead. "They've got a sale near Ino-pig's shop, I think," Sarada groaned. "He's probably not even gonna like it, Mama. He's a baby!" Her father sent her a stern look before taking a sip of his coffee. "Do as your mother says, Sarada.")
Blinking away the tears, she coos at his crinkled face. Kaito is still sleeping so she cradles him gently in her arms, not bothering to tug anything other than the dirty, crinkled sweatpants she's slept with and the loose t-shirt that Boruto gave her once after practice.
"Come on, Kaito-chan." She whispered to her sleeping brother, "Let's go get some breakfast, yeah?"
Sarada puts on a brave smile and hopes for the best today.
She pretends her mouth doesn't wobble even a little as she descends the stairs of the house.
Sasuke is sweating when Kizashi finally finishes the final touches of the enormous breakfast he's made. The elder man had taken off his jacket, tied up the loose strands of his hair into a short, spiky ponytail and basically sat Sasuke down in the corner, forcing him to watch.
It reminded him a little of Sakura's neurotic nesting at the end of her pregnancy with Kaito and he does his best not to burst into tears at the thought.
He's never cried in front of anyone but Sakura and he won't be starting today.
"So there, boy." Kizashi grunts, wiping away some sweat at his temple, "That's how you make a real breakfast."
Sasuke can only nod as he takes in the stacked pancakes, cut fruit, multiple jams, whipped cream and other pile of small pancakes. It's a very Iwagakure breakfast and it reminds him of the fact that Sakura's family was not one originally from Konoha, her great grandparents having moved from Kumo to Iwa and then to Konoha in rapid succession until the birth of her father.
Still, he does not fault Kizashi for wanting some type of familiar comfort during times of grief.
"Take out the juice and coffee too. I know Sakura-chan—"Kizashi falters and Sasuke looks away as the elder man coughs to cover it up. "I know Sakura-chan liked to keep lots of drinks in the house. Always of thinking of others. That was my little girl."
The stairs creak and Sasuke pulls away from the fridge, running a hand through his disheveled hair as Sarada rounds the corner, baby Kaito in her arms.
"Hey Papa—oh, Jiji!" Sarada's eyes light up when they realize who's in the kitchen and Sasuke lets his gaze soften as Sarada's wobbly smile resurfaces for the first time in three days.
Kizashi turns around and jerks to a stop when he notices the bundle in Sarada's arms.
"Is that—"Kizashi's nostrils flare and gleaming tears comes to pallid green eyes, "Is that the little runt?"
Sarada smiles and goes closer, gently shifting Kaito so his grandfather can see him a little better. The baby whined, gurgling something in his sleep and tried to get back to the warmth of his sister.
"Yeah Jiji. This is baby Kaito. Three days old."
Kizashi's mouth wobbled. "He's perfect."
"Aa." Sasuke says taking in the way Kizashi needed a moment to compose himself. He made his way over to take his son from his daughter, bouncing him up and down as those gray eyes began to slide open.
He pretended he didn't see Sarada's worried expression or how she stiffened as he took the baby out of her arms.
As Kaito began to fuss, he frowned. "Sarada can you get the milk—"
"I'll do it." Kizashi offered, wiping his eyes.
"It's in the fridge, jiji." Sarada tells him, a small happy smile on her face.
Haruno Kizashi has lived with grief a lot of his life, contrary to popular belief.
He has gone through the tragedy of lost parents at a young age—an ambush at the beginning of the third shinobi war—he has lost two siblings in the Iwa riots at age five and just six months ago, at the beginning of his little princess Sakura's pregnancy, he had lost his wife, Mebuki of fifty-three years.
So when he heard the news on that fateful day in the hospital, his son-in-law staggering out of the birthing room, his eyes flickering with the sharingan, his heart finally shattered in his chest.
There was a saying in Iwa, one his parents had often repeated to him when he asked about his dead siblings, and they would tell him: "Kizashi, having a child is like having your heart walking around outside of your body. Once you lose it, you cannot ever truly recover."
It had taken him three days to pull himself together enough to visit his princess's house. As he made his way there, his eyes dull and broken, his mouth trembling in the cool winter, he had ignored the many pitying glances the villagers had given him.
He knew he should have expected the wave of grief and swallow that had enveloped the town at the loss of Sakura Uchiha, the Sannin that helped stopped the tide of the war, the little civilian girl that managed to rise from the ashes of mediocracy and climb to heights unseen by thousands. Of course he should have expected it—his little princess had been well-loved—but as he walked around, he couldn't help but push away from everyone. While they had lost a grandiose shinobi, an amazing woman, a dedicated healer, he had lost his daughter.
As he had stood at the threshold of his darling daughter's house, his hands trembling in his pockets, he had wondered if he could have ever forgiven the gods for taking such a brilliant light out of the world.
But as he stands in her kitchen, his son-in-law carefully holding his newest grandchild, Sarada hovering over his shoulder as Kizashi went to get the frozen milk Sakura had pumped months earlier, he couldn't help but be thankful that even if his brilliant, beautiful, intelligent, amazing daughter had left the world, at least she had left them with a son.
"Jiji do you need any help?" His oldest grandchild called from the kitchen, not moving her gray-black eyes from the fussy bundle in Sasuke's arms.
"No, Sarada-chan. Everything is alright." He smiled through the dull ache in his chest and the slow, descent of madness in his skull.
Haruno Kizashi had lost many things in his life.
He had lost his home three times, had lost his parents in another political war, he had lost his wife to an illness not even his legendary daughter could cure and he had lost said daughter in the oldest and most dangerous practice women participated in: childbirth.
But, as he handed over the milk to Sasuke, seeing the quiet gratefulness in his blank eyes, he knew he had to pick himself back up once more and take care of his family. Sasuke had been alone far too many times in his youth and he didn't want the younger man to have to go through the loss of his wife and the mother of his children alone.
As he took in the picture of his family, broken by loss and grief—Sarada's nervous hovering, Kaito's fussing and fluctuating moods, the gleam in Sasuke's eyes that spoke of unimaginable, excruciating pain—he knew that he would have to be their backbone.
It was a quiet rest of the day.
They had eaten breakfast, Sarada trying and failing to inject some cheer in the air and eventually giving up. Kizashi had helped him clean up the room and then had told him in quiet, gruff words that he would be moving in.
Sasuke didn't even have the strength to object, let alone agree and so he had just nodded his head, his heart aching so badly he wanted to throw up.
The older man had left not soon after and Sasuke had moved the stuff out of the guestroom, nearly collapsing into a heap when he'd seen one of Sakura's half-finished lists.
Get Sarada new shuriken
Pacifier for the baby—Sarada's old one is too gross
Carrots?
Gifts for—
The writing had finished there, trailing off into a scribbled mess and he questioned what might have made her stop. He had stared at her words, so mundane, so ordinary, for hours.
Not even when Sarada called him did he have the energy to move. He could only trace his wife's half-finished words with trembling fingers, a dull, ever-present ache in his chest as he tried to keep the raging sobs and angry tears down.
He knew, sooner or later, that he would have to face his grief.
But, as he looked upon his children in the dying light of the day; Sarada pointing out the leaves and plants in the ground to a curious Kaito, despite the fact that Sasuke knew from Sakura that babies couldn't even see really well until at least five or six weeks later, he knew he would have to wait.
"Sarada, it's getting cold." His voice cracked.
Sarada looked away from the crisp leaves of fall and nodded aimlessly at him, her eyes glossed over with tears as she coaxed the fussy Kaito into sleep. "Hush now, baby. We're going to go back inside and get you some warm milk, aren't we now?"
Sasuke drifted back into the kitchen, his daughter's comforting words droning on in his ears until they became background music.
("Sasuke-kun", He heard her whisper, her breath fluttering at his ear, "Do you think the stars are the souls of the dead?" He'd stopped, his heart skipping a beat as he took in her wide, curious eyes and the curiosity that shone behind them. She looked so beautiful in the dying light of the day, when the sun would play out its last color show for the earth. "I don't know, Sakura. Maybe." He told her, pressing a quick kiss to her cold nose. She smiled. "I think so.")
His knees nearly buckled with the memory.
"Papa?" Sarada's voice was frantic and Sasuke realized that he had grasped the hallway walls as if they were his lifeline, his chest rising and falling with alarming rapidity. "Papa are you alright?"
"Yes." He grunted out, trying to keep his trembling under control. He was a strong man. He had gone through grief before. He would help his children first and foremost, always.
"Papa, I think…" his daughter shifted once, twice behind him and Sasuke bit his tongue.
"I think you should go lie down. Maybe your blood sugar is low or something. Mama always—"
"Of course." He cut her off, already moving towards his room, not wanting to turn and have his daughter see the quiet tears that had slipped down his face. Not wanting to hear any more about Sakura. "Call your grandfather to come over."
"Yes Papa."
I'm sorry, Sarada. I'm sorry I'm not strong enough to walk without your mother. But give me time, is what he wanted to shout, to scream, to yell, I will get there. Give me time.
Sarada worried late into the night.
Kaito was asleep, content, sprawled out next to her father in the master bedroom. He had been relatively fuss-free today but Sarada knew that it was only because she had used one of her mother's shirts, one that still smelled like her—a combination of warmth and lilac and sunshine—to wrap him up. He had nuzzled into the shirt, his tears and cries abating as soft, slow puffs of air through his rosebud lips.
She had called her grandfather to come over and he had come not soon after. He had been slightly out of breath and Sarada knew that he had come running, not taking any chances despite the fact that Sarada had assured him that everything was alright.
He was sleeping in the guestroom, keeping the baby monitor on just in case.
Still, Sarada couldn't sleep.
Her chest buzzed with anxiety and worry and pain and grief. She didn't want to wake her father up, not wanting to bother the only rest he seemed to have gotten in the first couple of days.
She knew her father was hurting. She could tell from the way he attempted to smile for her, but his lips were stuck in some plastic expression, his eyes dead and dull.
If there was one thing that Sarada knew about her parents it was that they had loved each other so completely it often overwhelmed her to try and figure it out. Even as a little girl, when her father hadn't been there until she turned twelve, her mother had continued to love him with a passion that most wives didn't even have for present husbands.
She didn't know how her father, the quiet, calm man she had come to know, was going to take the loss of the only woman who ever seemed to calm him down.
She had seen the loss in his eyes, that day in the hospital. She had seen the stumble in his feet, the way his hands trembled and his eyes blanked, deadened in the aftermath of his wife's death. It was the first and last time since then that she had seen the immeasurable, excruciating agony in her father's face.
The clock ticked on the wall and again, Sarada checked her phone to see if Boruto had answered her messages.
She had called him in a fit of tears and rage and anger—at herself, her mother for dying, at his father for confessing his love to her dead mother—and he hadn't called back.
Sarada wanted—needed—him to answer her.
Boruto had always been her anchor in difficult times. He had gotten her through the absence of her father, through the times when her mother succumbed to illness, not ever leaving her alone, always picking her up with a smile, a stupid joke.
"Come on, idiot." She whispered quietly into the stillness of the living room, "Answer me."
A knock came from the front door and she groaned.
People had been leaving baskets full of food and gifts that belied their grief.
As she yanked the door open, harsh words already at her lips, she stuttered.
"Y-You…"
He flashed her an uneasy smile. "Hey."
Blue eyes searched her dark ones and Sarada's lip trembled. "You didn't answer my calls, idiot."
Boruto ran a hand through windswept hair and smiled shakily. His blue eyes—so blue, she thought again—shone in the light of the moon. The harsh winds made her shiver and Boruto frowned.
"Let's get you into the house."
Sarada nodded dully, the grief that had been momentarily swept away at the face of her oldest and bestest friend returning like an iron curtain, slamming down on her shoulders.
"Oh, honey." Boruto's eyes creased with tears—of course the idiot would cry for her—"Come on. I'm going to take care of you now."
Sarada, who would have normally kicked him in the shins, only opened the door wider and let him draw her close, burying her cold nose into his neck.
They fell asleep on the couch, Boruto's arms around her, Sarada sobbing into his shirt.
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