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Title: Twenty-four Hours
Prompt: Heartbreak Hotel
Note: I spent the whole damn day trying to figure out how I was gonna Christmas this up. . . I came up with legit nothing. If you haven't noticed yet I'm trying really hard to keep my stuff within the canon timeline (trying, my dudes) and avoiding AU this month. I'm still counting this one as part of my participation of 31 Days of SasuSaku Christmas fightme. Sakura would of been the easy choice this prompt, imo. So I went with Sasuke instead.

Major Team Kakashi from Accounting feels, my dudes.
Yes,it'sfuckingangstydon'tlookatmelikethat.

Words ring loud, and his feet shift faltering just a step—it's only been twenty-four hours.

It's only been twenty-four hours since he cast aside the feelings of his teammate—no, he severed that bond. It's only been twenty-four hours since he struck down his best friend—no, he's severed that bond too.

She was no longer his teammate, and he was no longer his best friend.
He had severed those bonds the moment he set the team photo down. He had severed those bonds the minute he had set her on the bench. He had severed those bonds the second he had left his best friend unconscious.

It's been twenty-four hours, and he's traveling to the Sound. It's been twenty-four hours, and he's following a new set of folks. It's been twenty-four hours, and his heart hurts.

There's a hope, and there's a prayer that the further his legs go the less he'll hesitate. There's a wish, and there's a devotion that the falter in his step will cease to exist. There's an aspiration, and there's an intercession that the increase in distance will lessen the regret. There's an expectation, and there's a supplication that this distance will make him forget—he needs to forget her, and he needs to forget him.

The snickers, and those snide words these new set of folks speak only make his heart tweak. Every mention of the home he had cast aside only seeks to make him quake in comprehension there's no turning back, there's no going back, and there's not coming back. This sets new rules, this sets no boundaries, and this sets the path he's chosen to take.

Regret still lingers—he needs to understand that this is the end.
I. . .love you with all of my heart!

Steps still hesitate—he needs to realize that this is the end.
Do you no longer consider me as your friend?

He's been a foolish boy—he was a boy who dared to dream of a future with comrades drunken in the assurance of peace. He dared to dream of a future colored in pale rose, and bright blonde. He dared to reach out for a future that would let him hold her hand, and let him shake his hand. He dared to consider a world with them. His future was not where his dream was meant to be. It was in the past where it would always be.

She would be in the past, and so would he.
They'd be in a past so different from his dream.

Eight thousand seven hundred and thirty-six hours had passed.
He's older, and he's grown colder—he doesn't need them.

He doesn't need her love, and he doesn't need his friendship. He doesn't need her hand in his, and he doesn't need him shaking his hand in his.

There's no more need for hopes, and prayers. There's no more need for wishes, and devotions. There's no more need for aspiration, and intercession. There's no more need for expectations, and supplications.

Regret still lingers—he needs to understand that this is the end.
She loved him with all of her heart.

Steps still hesitate—he needs to realize that this is the end.
He still considers him a friend.

Those snickers, and those snide words from these folk only make him colder. Every mention of the home he had cast aside only seeks to make him build more walls around his heart. There's no turning back, and there's no coming back from where he's gone—he's never going back. Those rules were set and they've become old. These rules have set permanent boundaries, and these rules are what he's chosen to follow.

It's been eight thousand seven hundred and thirty-six hours, and he's residing within the Sound. It's been eight thousand seven hundred and thirty-six hours, and he's still among those he had followed. It's been eight thousand seven hundred and thirty-six hours, and his heart still hurts.

She was no longer his teammate, and he was no longer his best friend.
He can remember how he tipped the team photo over so he wouldn't have to see their faces. He can remember how he set her on that bench, and held her hand. He can remember how he had left his best friend unconscious, and dared to stare down at him.

It's only been eight thousand seven hundred and thirty-six hours since he cast aside the feelings of his teammate—no, he severed that bond. It's only been eight thousand seven hundred and thirty-six hours since he struck down his best friend—no, he's severed that bond too.

Words ring loud, and his feet shift faltering just a step—it's only been eight thousand seven hundred and thirty-six hours.

He's done this over and over. He's looked at the moon and thought of her.
He's kept going, and going. He's looked towards the sun, and thought of him.

He's walked with strength in his stride, and he's walked with frustration, and what he dares to call ambition. He's walked down the lonely street—he's walked down this road with a broken heart tapped back together. It's never crowded, and it's never filled with pale rose, and bright blonde.

She was meant to be in the past, and so was he.
They'd were meant to be in a past so different from his dream.

Seventeen thousand four hundred and seventy-two hours had passed.

He's walking down that lonely street. He's walking down this road with a heart held together by concrete. It's crowded, and it's filled with pale rose—there's no bright blonde beside her.

She's yet to catch him. He's caught her.

Words ring loud, and his feet shift faltering just a step—it's only been seventeen thousand four hundred and seventy-two.

I. . .love you with all of my heart!
Regret still lingers—he just has let this end.

There's no stopping the follow of his obsidian eyes. She's older, and she's grown warmer. She's smiling, and that makes his heart quiver. She's still her, and he's no longer him. She had told him she would be lonely, and he feels bitter because she's not. She's still glowing, and she's still got that bounce to her step. She's still kindhearted, and she's not covered in tears.

It's bittersweet, and it's painful—he's selfish and he knows it.

He wants to watch, and he wants to linger. He wants to reach out, and he wants to holler. He wants to hold her hand in his, and he wants to consider a world with her. His hearts sinking, and he's desperate to swallow all that he feels down. There's no stopping the way his heart quakes, and there's not stopping the shift of his foot back.

She's flooding him with all the things he sought to sever—and it would only be worse if his best friend dared to stand beside her.

He's been a foolish boy—he was a boy who dared to dream of a future without comrades drunken in the assurance of peace. He dared to dream of a future no longer colored in pale rose, and bright blonde. He dared to reach out for a future that would not let him hold her hand, and not let him shake his hand. He dared to consider a world without them. His future was not where his dream was meant to be. It was in the past where it would always be.

They were in the past.
He had put them there.

There's a thunder of his heartbeat, and there's the force he has to exert to turn away from her down this road from him. They're far from home—far from her home. They're distances away from where he had left, and where he could never return. Yet here she is—right here she is.

Would she hold his hand? Would she ask for him to come home?

He dares to decorate his face in frustration. He dares to decorate his face in harm. He dares to scrunch his nose, and bare his teeth as they grind. He dares to long for home—and he dares to long for her. He's desperate to runaway before he surrenders.

It's back deep within the lair—deep within the Sound, deep within the halls, and deep within the doors. He's curling upon his bed and he's desperate to make that vivid night end. There's a hope and there's a prayer that if he falls asleep she won't be there. There's a wish, and a devotion that question if she still loves him. There's an aspiration, and an intercession that she still does. There's an expectation, and supplications that she'll wait for him—

—yet he's never going back, he's never coming back.

His impatience is growing, and growing, and his frustration is showing, and showing.
He's done this over, and over. He's looking at the moon and longed for her.

He considers himself lucky—it would have been worse to see them both.
He would have been flooded by both of them—and it doesn't seem to lessen the hurt.
She was still his—what had she truly been to him?

It's been seventeen thousand four hundred and ninety-six hours, and he's dared to dream of her. It's been seventeen thousand four hundred and ninety-six hours, and he's shaking after catching just a glimpse of her. It's been seventeen thousand four hundred and ninety-six hours, and his heart still hurts because he's longing for her.

She was still his—she had been more than a teammate.
It doesn't lessen the heartbreak.

Words echo loud, and his breath shudders—it's only been seventeen thousand four hundred and ninety-six hours.
—and he's stuck thinking of her.

Here he stands—it's been twenty-four hours since he caught sight of her.
He know this has ended—but he can't break away.
He wants to surrender.

It's bittersweet, and it's selfish—he knows it.