The Eternal Soundtrack
Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto. That copyright belongs to Masashi Kishimoto.
"Say" belongs to The Send, from their album Cosmos.
Track 6: Say
/Tell me you'll wait outside while the sky is pouring grey
Tell me you need to relieve yourself of me as well
Help me to feel unashamed as I hang you up to dry
Try to believe that I need some time not someone else/
When the village was at his back and the dark forest stretched before him, welcoming him to the void, relief flowed through his being like the wind through the trees.
And it had nothing to do with the new journey he was embarking on, nor the impending power, so close now, he could almost feel it rushing through his veins (though he continued to ignore the torturous throb in his left shoulder, stabbing in cadence with his excited pulse).
It was the silence.
The calming nothingness that pervaded his senses, scarcely underlain with the whispering of a breeze, offered such tranquility as he had not known in years. Here he could think upon such vile things as vengeance and not feel guilt for it when he heard the bright laughter of a (brother) friend or the ardent promises of…her. Here he could ignore the implications of what he had done and the abhorrence of what he would do. Here their voices could not reach (they could never lower themselves to such a place; silent as the grave does not befit ones so alive as they).
But the newly etched memory of desperate pleas and reckless (though heartfelt, he knew) promises echoed in that silence. So tempting… (Just go back. Tell the Sound nins you forgot something. Don't just leave her on a bench. She could get sick, or worse, attacked. Naruto will be pissed. Kakashi will be disappointed. …Sakura will forgive you.)
/Right now I can't control me
I don't want to be the one that's holding
But fine if you would wait this out
Say to me you'll wait there forever
And never leave our love behind
Say, oh say you'll wait there, you'll be there
'Cause someday love I'll make you mine
Someday make you mine/
Happiness lay sleeping just behind his back (a dorky nightcap on his tousled head, with a wide, drooling mouth--oblivious; that mask still in place, scarred eye revealed, but closed--ever still; tears streaming down her cheeks, a cold bench a poor substitute for soft sheets--devastated).
But pain and misery and loneliness lay back there too, beneath undisturbed earth and overgrown weeds, lost in the rot of deceased flesh and long-dried blood. They lay there, still screaming in the agony of betrayal; still restlessly wandering their streets, flowing lacerations leaving never-fading scars upon the walls and floors. And their screams sound like…silence. For the dead have no voice. And while holding nothing but ghosts as companion, he could be ever vengeful, ever hateful. Their mute screams, so loud to his ears, offered him the quietude his dark path required.
When boisterous laughs and soft requests and deep directions began replacing his screaming silence, his focus slipped. How could he plot revenge upon his brother when his new brother was acting so ludicrous, forcing him to better, stronger ends, replacing the hate with happiness? How could he seek out a way to kill for the dead, when his sensei taught him to fight for the living? How could he fill his life with nothing but ink-black hatred, when she was offering her heart with such little concern for how he might break it?
But now… Now he could hate. Now he could plot murder. Now he could destroy the world, if need be. In the silence, he was no longer their Sasuke. In the silence, he was brother's shadow (trailing after, always chasing, ever emulating that which it follows).
In the silence, there were no promises. Hearts ceased beating and breath stilled.
("Or, if you can't stay, take me with you!")
She could never be with him. Not here.
/Tell me you'll be alright if I put you on a shelf
Tell me that you need to wait for me, not someone else/
He could scarcely recall a time when soft, warm flesh would accidentally brush against his own, instead of harsh, cold scales.
There was a vague curiosity in the farthest reaches of his mind that wondered if it was still so soft--her skin. Was it scarred from battle, or flawless as it had been the day (night) he left (her on a bench, leaves floating through the sky)?
But she was so strong now. He had seen it in her eyes. And with that indomitable fervour to prove herself, he had no doubt that she had gotten into a good number of scrapes (but nothing she can't heal). Scars to tattoo her flesh--gentle tendrils and harsh gashes--no doubt speckled her skin with their palette of light and dark tones. And without a doubt, they were beautiful. Permanent kisses from death's passing; caresses from life's lover.
A nearly uncontrollable urge to see these scars for himself, not just in hypothetical creations of the mind, was almost as strong as the desire for her voice. Just one word. A whisper. A hum. Anything would do.
How many years had it been since that night? Three? Four? Perhaps it was upwards of five? He couldn't remember, in all honesty. Time was nonexistent in his silence. Nothing flowed as it should when living underwater in a desert of sound. Even the echoes lay in eternal rest here. He could not even hear her voice in his thoughts; only the slither of scales against stone and cringe-inducing cackles from a hissing mouth.
/Right now I can't control me
I don't want to be the one that's holding
But fine if you would wait this out
Say to me you'll wait there forever
And never leave our love behind
Say, oh say you'll wait there, you'll be there
'Cause someday love I'll make you mine
Someday make you mine/
Those promises… He would love to hear them again. Earnest and honest--purely her. He would like to hear that again.
But did they still hold true? Was there acceptance to be found in an abandoned girl, her heart so trampled by his quickly fleeing steps?
It hurt him to hope for it. But so did accepting its loss. There was just something within him that refused to kill that unspoken and ignored (maybealmostkindof) dream.
Silent voices berated him for his arrogance; his selfishness. To suppose, even for a moment, that she should wait; that she was waiting. Was there no end to his self-centred sense of entitlement? Had he not taken enough? He had already stolen her confidence in him, their team, and herself; robbed them all of a complete team--a family; took friendship back--spat on it; took her offering of everything she had to give and handed it right back to her in a sharp rap to the back of the skull. He did this, not remembering (or perhaps he didn't know; mother wasn't around long enough to tell him such things) that a heart never sits properly in place after it has been removed and given to another. Giving it back only cuts it up, as the reluctant owner tries to force it back into a spot no longer shaped for their own heart, but for another's--the person's whom their rejected heart was intended for.
(So careless… So cold… So like him…)
He had no right.
But he hoped nonetheless; quietly and calmly, as always. He would never let on to his internal longings. That was dangerous behaviour for a heartless avenger, after all.
But he did hope.
/Tell me you'll wait outside
Tell me you'll wait outside/
Her face held tears and the same distressed look it had when he left her on a bench those seven years ago. Limpid eyes closed, yet clearly troubled. Tears trickling out in placid rivers, tracing her cheekbones as they flowed into her hair. A fist clenched desperately with nothing in hand but the emptiness he gave her.
But the stone bench was replaced with muddied earth, a blanket of blood giving the illusion of wine-coloured sheets rumpled by a lovers tryst, rather than disturbed earth heaved by the pressure of a hate-filled battle.
Such a beautiful sight. And if he forced his eyes to train only on her, leaving the reddened earth for his less-focused peripheral to view, he could almost believe she was sleeping. In a bed he laid her down in. Just resting for a while. Soon she would open her eyes, cast about in sleepy confusion for a moment, and then smile that smile at him, green eyes bright and saying all the things her mouth wasn't fast enough to get out.
She would speak to him again. Say his name. Laugh. Repeat her promises over and over again.
And this time--this time--he would say thank you without knocking her out. He would thank her to her face.
/Right now I can't control me
I don't want to be the one that's holding
But fine if you would wait this out
Say to me you'll wait there forever
And never leave our love behind
Say, oh say you'll wait there, you'll be there
'Cause someday love I'll make you mine/
But the wet caress of escaped life at his feet dashed that fantasy.
She was gone just as surely as her blood slowly flowed downhill, in a much similar manner as her tears slid down her skin.
It was twisted and not at all right, but he couldn't help but feel some measure of contentment. Because those tears and saddened eyes spoke volumes to him.
She had waited, just as he had secretly hoped she would. It hadn't worked out the way he had wanted. She was supposed to wait at home. In his mind, he could still see her on that bench. He had sealed that visage away in a dim corner of his mind, a part of him envisioning her still there in that same spot, waiting for him to come back and say yes to her promises. He could never admit it, but that was how he pictured it; in an almost childlike fantasy, that was how he saw it.
But she pursued him. Gave chase and called him back. Begged and threatened, cried and cursed. All the same, she was waiting. The kind of waiting a heart does when it misses a beat at the touch of a lover's hand: It pauses and then speeds up, moving faster in an ardent quest.
Her faithful waiting had earned her wish, though she would never know it now, lying there on blood-softened earth.
So this time, as he watched another tear slide past her lashes, he would not deny her request. And instead of laying her down and walking away, he would pick her up and carry her with him, a whisper of gratitude on his damp lips.
/Someday love I'll make you mine
Someday love I'll make you mine
Someday love I'll make you mine
Someday make you mine/
End of Track 6
Guttersnipe's Word: When I thought of songs for Sasuke and Sakura, this was pretty much the first one I thought of. It's just perfectly them. Sweet but sad. This turned out a little darker than first intended (which makes it contrast with the sound of the song terribly, but oh well). I suppose it's almost impossible for me to give these two a happy ending, unless it's in a crack! fic. But one does get the sense that they are a tragedy in the making. I suppose that's why I tend to kill one of them off, but so far only Sakura. I'll kill Sasuke eventually too, though. I believe in equality for the sexes! Please give Mr. Clicky a visit and review!