x.x.x.x
Title: Years, Months, Days, Hours, Minutes, Seconds, and Milliseconds
Prompt: Love you. Goodbye (Rinne Matsuri Edition)
Note: The vast majority of days 1-6 were angsty as hell and so I bring day seven sprinkled in wholesomeness as repentance. lol ahhh wholesome sasusaku is lit, and five year old Sarada is even more lit.
He hasn't seen her in years—he's lost track of the months, track of the days, track of the hours, track of the minutes, track of the seconds, track of the milliseconds.
Yet, here he is deep within their bedroom as she sleeps and their child locked within a room just doors down the hallway. It's the time for joy, love, mutual support—family, and he is not able to stand beside them with his mission so important. Had the snow not fell from the ground in it's large puffs of white, and the villages he moved within not displayed their colors showcasing the holiday he's sure he would have missed the many he already has.
The wood flooring doesn't dare to make a noise as he seeks to linger by her bedside. Those soft pale rose-colored stands seek to swim across the bed. Her hair has grown longer than when he had left her side—he's curious if she intends to let it grow out while he stays locked forever away. Shifting within her sleep she's so unaware that he lingers beside her desiring to reach out and touch her, hold her, whisper to her within the night.
Fingers dare to move forward and it's another shift and her rolling upon her side as her own seek out what was meant to be his place upon the bed. They search and the seek never finding him—he's sure they've sought him out throughout the many years, months, days, hours, seconds, and milliseconds he's been away. Time was a constant and while he went through the dimensions, and sought out the signs that someone would come to harm the peace they had fought for beside—and against—one another.
Knuckles are cautious as they move the strands that dare to slide against her cheek. He's forgotten the feel of them within his fingers and he's forgotten how they curl towards the ends. He's forgotten how soft they felt within his roughened finger tips, and he's forgotten how they slide so easily upon skin. Pushing her away had been his only choice—pushing their daughter away had been his only choice.
He would protect them far from home, and he would make sure his daughter he dares not to gaze upon would grow up within peace. This woman who had given him such a child had fought for so long, and so hard to get some semblance of peace—he would make sure they were both granted such things. He knows that as her fingers curl within his unused pillow that she truly just longed for him, but that is not what he can give her right now—one day though deep within the years, months, days, hours, minutes, seconds, and milliseconds he would be able to grant her that.
That vanilla scent of hers fills his nose as he dares to approach closure brushing his fingers within those strands so pale, and so rose-colored. There's that even breath from her that coaxes him closer. He needs to not allow her to swallow him in or he'll never be able to leave her bed side again. Wind dares to bring the snow within the room. He's kept it open for his leave—he told himself he was to look upon her and leave immediately. The holiday did not bring him reprieve from his mission. In the end, he knows he'll reach the end—deep within some year, month, day, hour, second and millisecond.
A hum, and a deep inhale fills her lungs as she stays locked within her dreams. It makes the smallest of smirks play upon the corners of his lips, and then grow deeper at the small shake that comes across her shoulders at the cold air he's brought with him. Roughened tips are adventurous—they dare to brush down her cheek, across that cold exposed shoulder, down the peaking arm, and upon the comforter meant to keep her warm with the cool that lingers outside. Slowly, and even more gently he pulls it higher upon her.
He knows he cannot bask within the year, month, day, hour, minute, second, and millisecond just yet. He should have done as he had planned and left her side as fast as he had come. She's always coaxing, and always nurturing. She's always bewitching, and she's always silently calling. That growing smirk has become glowing. She made it okay to glow within the night, and throughout the day—it's not here, and it's not in the now, but he'll come upon that moment eventually.
Tucking her deeper within that comforter is all the more he'll allow himself to do. He knows that should he do more he will not leave—he'll stay and he'll regret not keeping them safe. They depend on him silently, reassuringly, and willingly. He cannot let those be in vain.
This momentary weakness is comforting—it's helped with his longing. He cannot help but feel himself stronger than when he had entered. The snow that continues to dare land upon this wooden floor with it's breeze so cold, and so chilled is but another calling for him to return to his mission. He knows it will be hard this second time—he had thought leaving his wife the first time would be the hardest—it's proven him wrong—oh, so, so, wrong.
Lips part and he's moving towards the door—the moon that highlights the puffs of white seeks to illuminate him as he stands ready to leap. He cannot stop himself from turning to let his obsidian run upon her one last time—
I love you—
—goodbye.
It's a flutter of sunlight, and a flutter of pale rose-colored lashes. It's the press of her head deeper within the pillows, and the voice so small that dares to break within the morning. The dip of the bed comes and there's a smile glowing upon her features. This small little child is sliding underneath the covers. Fingers small and delicate—childlike in all of their wonder—brush against her arm and it's the crack of a viridian that lets the strands of obsidian flood her vision. She's excited but she's stubborn this small child of hers—she's absolutely her father there is no doubt within her mind.
Fingers shift across the pillow—her ring upon her finger feels cold this morning—wrapping this child up.
"Mama." she's letting out that familiar adorable whine.
"Yes, Sarada?" she responds with sleep laced within her voice
She's shifting around, and there's the smallest pout across that bottom lip she, so, dares to puff out. This child learned far to quickly. She was smart, she was talented, and she knew how to get her way. Pale rose-colored brows lift within a hum as heavy lids continue their sleep ridden flutter. She doesn't know where the years, months, days, hours, minutes, seconds, and milliseconds have gone.
Those times feel so short—and yet so painfully long.
"Wake up!" she's resorted to poking upon her arm.
"Ah, Mama's up—mama's up." she's chanting in between a yawn finally sliding the blanket from her form to sit up upon the bed.
It's a tickle fight, and the begs to stop with tears falling in laughter before she's scooping her within her arms. She's mastered being a mother, and she's mastered the shift of her hip that holds her child as they dare to gaze upon the half fogged window. It's white no matter where her viridian look, and that look of wonder upon those obsidian hiding behind glasses that make her heart skip a beat.
Her child loves Rinne Matsuri—she's oh, so, so, glad. Fingers pressing against the glass make her smile far to wide, "Ah, Sarada. Let's go unwrap all the gifts you've received this year, ne?"
That's all it takes to make her remove her gaze from the winter that rained upon the village. It's the only thing she needs to make her take them down the hall, and down the stairs. The packages wrapped in golds, silvers, and reds are what make her daughter wiggle within her grasp, "Patience, Sarada—Patience!"
She's not truly scolding, and her daughter knows it far to well as she's set upon the wooden floor. There's the gross of her arms as she's standing before the stack, and it only takes one word to make her pick which one she'll take first, "Ah, Papa's gift to you is the gold with red."
Fingers tiny, and small need no other comment to make her grab a hold of the named package. She's none to gentle in dropping upon her bottom to open it, but then there is a hesitance to her before she turns to cast those obsidian upon viridian.
"What's wrong, Sarada?" she's kneeling ready to stretch her fingers out to run within that obsidian hair.
"You're not wearing Papa's necklace." she's pouting as she's scowling—that is just another one of those looks she's gotten from her father.
The giggles that spill from her come, and it's all she needs to go and retrieve it. It's a look upon the mirror as she's making her way down the hall that makes her stop.
It's simple—but it's the first gift he gave her during Rinne Matsuri after they had become husband, and wife those years, months, days, hours, minutes, seconds, and milliseconds back. There's a tenderness that comes within seeing it sitting around her neck—it's deep rich red, and bright white fan pendant a symbol of family.
She's stepping softly before choosing to sit behind this daughter who had been so patient. Obsidian look to see if she's grabbed what she's demanded. Fingers dance within her obsidian giving her the silent command to open her gift. She's ripping and she's tearing within the colorful paper and she's letting her excitement show.
It's their favorite time of year—and one day he'll be here celebrating it with them. Fingers pull the chain of silver out from the box completely silent as they gaze upon it's pendant. There's the biggest of smiles upon her face. In the end the gift she would pick out from him would be the one this daughter seemed to adore upon her own neck.
The waiting for her to become five had been so short—and yet so painfully long. She had waited it out till she thought it was the best time. Those fingers had loved to play with her own as an infant, and now at the age of five her daughter would be able to have her own.
"Wasn't Papa kind this year?" she's whispering as she grasps the chain of silver.
"Mama." she's quick with the whip of her head obsidian gazing so large and so wide—she's absolutely awestruck, "Can I wear it? Please?"
"Absolutely." she's humming out assisting with the clasp.
He hasn't seen their daughter in years—he's lost the months, track of the days, track of the hours, track of the minutes, track of the seconds, track of the milliseconds.
He does this—and yet she understands. She's willing to wait silently, reassuringly, and willingly. She'll raise this child the best she can with a smile upon her face. In the end, she knows he'll reach the end of his mission—deeper within the years, months, days, hours, seconds and milliseconds to come.
I love you, Sasuke-kun—
—goodbye, for now.
"Let's open Uncle Naruto's next, ne?"