She likes to drink, she decides after her third glass. It makes everything glow with a warm light, makes the shadows recede, makes her forget. She isn't an angry drunk, nor is she a happy drunk; she's a blank drunk, lost, the kind who sits in the bar and who look so pathetic that the barman doesn't have the heart to tell them to go home because it's obvious they have none. Sometimes, when she's really drunk, she traces the scars that he left, and the places where the scars are only visible under the skin. But mostly, she just tips her head back and tries to forget.
She can't explain it when she gets the call from her mother, and probably she never will be able to. It is a thrill of excitement, of sadness shot with exultation, because revenge has finally exacted itself. He was shot in an alley on his way home from a bar. As she is torn in two, she hears herself laughing. It all seems too good to be true, to nightmarish to be anything but.
Tonight, she has been drinking.
She is alone, and she is drinking straight from the bottle, wandering around in a robe with all of the windows open, letting in the frozen air. She is singing—she's not sure what tune it is—and dancing slightly as she walks without purpose around her apartment. Her long blond hair is hanging down her back, free and silver in the moonlight that flows in. Finally, she collapses, asleep, which is how Sakura finds her when she comes the next morning. After cleaning her up and putting her in bed, she closes all of the windows and puts things back, making the apartment neat until Ino emerges, groaning, to swallow some more tonic. They don't talk about it—neither particularly wants to. There is no need; they already know what they will say.
So instead they collapse on the couch with magazines and talk about everything and anything. Sakura talks about her upcoming mission—a small thing, just a retrieval, she's leaving tomorrow—and Ino talks about her last one, which she just got back from. They discuss the war, they discuss lovers, they carefully walk around the subject that looms above their heads, playing careful games so as to make sure none of the pieces disturb it. However, on knocks against it, without warning, harsh, cold.
"When are you getting back?"
"The eighteenth."
And time freezes. She watches as Sakura's eyes go dead behind the magazine, and feels her own heart stop beating. And then, everything resumes, albeit a bit more careful, a bit more delicate.
"Or maybe the nineteenth, I'm not sure. I only got the briefing this morning, and they didn't specify the date."
Afternoon sun is filtering in when Sakura gets up, saying that she has to go pack.
"I'm leaving early tomorrow, but I'll see you afterwards."
They hug, holding each other tightly, never wanting to let go, before breaking it, Ino watching as Sakura walks down the escape flight and into the busy streets, pulling up her hood to keep the wind out. She aches inside as she goes and lies back down on the couch, picking up the magazine Sakura was reading and flipping through it, before getting up and going to the fridge to pull out a bottle of Grey Goose and opening it.
Tonight, she hates to drink.
But she will anyway.