The final section of the prologue is complete. Enjoy.
"Oyasumi nasai¹, Sasuke-kun."
He nodded in reply. "Dewa sonouchi ni.²"
Uchiha watched Haruno turn in balletic step, retreating from his front door and making her way, he supposed, home. Closing the door behind him, his nose was the first to take notice of the dust... or lack thereof? Things looked exactly the same as he had left them. Perhaps in even better condition than it had been.
He laid his shoes into a little cubicle in the corner carefully, still contemplating on whether he had forgotten his old address during his days of a criminal. The floors looked positively pristine. He wanted to reach out, touch it, and prove his assumption. The rugs were rich, as the furniture. He proved it by sitting onto a particuarly plush armchair, and felt the new cushions fit against his body. Uchiha knew he would have to admit it.
He was puzzled.
His house had never looked well; It was filled with beautiful furniture, but it was never lived in, simply organized. He never found the interest to use the residence. The kitchen, especially, was unused, and food hadn't been bought even while he still lived there. But as he stood and made his way to it, he opened the cabinets to see fresh produce filled to the brim. Deciding to leave the thought aside, the thought of soup seemed pleasant.
And he drowned his thoughts into chicken soup, entangling them with soba noodles. A photograph in his lap.
He remembered the day he had laid the frame face-down, when he had wanted to forget, to betray. The nauseous feeling, that damned nauseous feeling returned, engulfing his throat with such a horrible flavour, that the delicious soup was unable to mask it.
Deciding it an after-taste, he set the bowl aside and convinced himself that perhaps the soup had made him sick to the stomach. That was all. He had been careless and hadn't realized the ingredients were spoiled.
But... perhaps it wasn't the ingredients. Perhaps it had been his word.
It was a thought for another day. He hadn't slept carelessly for a while, and the thought of it brought him chills, as if just a night, a full night's sleep would let him forget his crimes, and perhaps even bring him back to a time in which his mother would wake him, and he would say his formal good mornings to his father. When that was all he needed to worry about.
Unlike Uchiha's residence, Uzumaki's residence was a whirlwind.
A make-shift mattress with bundled sheets atop in the corner of the room. Clothes separated in piles, clean was folded, soiled a mountain. And with this, Uzumaki rolled over onto another side, facing the wall in contempt. It was uncomfortable, knowing that Uchiha had returned. It caused his skin to crawl, but he wasn't sure in which way.
He scratched at his forearms idly, wondering that perhaps mites had dug into his flesh, or maybe he was unconsciously indulging on chemicals. He took a moment to examine the dark, violaceous knuckles, and pressed his mouth against a stinging bump. He used the excuse to drown out a particular, frustrated yell, and then shut his eyes.
"Mou oshimai da.³"
And he wondered whether Uchiha had liked what he and Sakura-chan had done to the place.
¹/ Goodnight.
²/ See you around.
³/ It's hopeless; I'm done for.