Summary: Tobirama says fuck it to the next chapter and Sakura calls him a crab.

Chapter 3: There is Collaboration

He was lounging on his bed, able to make out the blurred outline of furniture in his room from the faint glow of light and the dark adaptations of his eyes. The morning has not yet arrived, but the sky didn't carry the same pitch dark as true evening did. His body was being uncharacteristically indecisive about this day and his intentions.

This is a planned free day for him. Sakura is meeting with a friend who is viewing venues for her upcoming wedding and then she will make an appearance at a bridal shower before they plan to meet up for dinner and movie (him being timed to show up for a coordinated rescue). To him, this is the first true day off he has had in nearly three weeks. He cannot tell if he wants to run, read, or continue to lay in bed.

Indecisiveness aside, idleness is not his way, and his legs are itching with morning energy. Without preamble, he breezes through his routine. Deciding on a simple protein bar he makes for the exit, bidding farewell to Sakura as she languidly starts her own day, making coffee like a starved zombie. Slowly, with groans, and dead eyes.

Her attempt at 'good morning' coming out 'ooo-moor-ing.' The beep-beep of the machines programing tempts him to wait for a cup of his own, but the promised thrill of the run puts a pep in his step (plus, caffeine and a run can equal disaster for his sensitive stomach).

His physique is strong, and he can run fast, faster than most, so that's what he does.

He starts with a stretch and paced run. Making it around the island's continuous boardwalk twice before he feels sufficiently warmed up. Then it is an all out sprint, like an engine opening it's throttle he is zooming past intermittent pedestrians without recognition, weaving in and out congestive pinch points with practiced ease.

He runs nearly every day, but there is a difference between the treadmill at the gym and hitting pavement at the earths waking hour. The taste of the chilled air, the sting in his eyes, smell of the grass covered in dew, and the gradual rays warming his skin. The variables, the environment, the adaptations. The journey being as freeing as the accomplishment of the destination.

He makes it around nearly two more times before he pitters out, his chest heaving and his mouth filling with foamy spittle (his least favorite part of the running, the weird salivation). He half limps, half walks as his cooldown, waiting for his heart rate to lower in a more controlled descent than if he stopped outright. When he has finally equalized that his walk isn't a faulty stutter, he finds his way to the least populated section of beach on route back to the hotel.

Riding the high after his run he sits in the sand watches the ocean. Dawn came and went during his run, but the sun was still low on the horizon, casting a glinting yellow road, cutting the middle of the big expansive blue ocean. Like a mocking proverbial path to some picturesque pure land of his dreams, completely inaccessible and hopelessly out of reach.

The sound of the waves, the breeze, and shine on the water; all a keen reminder of just a week ago. In truth, he considered last week to be his first day off (even if he was stuck on a boat for the evening), this was just his first day alone in nearly three weeks and his first day without Sakura in two weeks.

It is nice to be alone. His mental strength depends on isolation, where he finds the time to replenish without external influences coloring his thoughts. It also allows him to reboot to default settings, erasing the taint gathered during the forced inclusive time.

But last week was really something. It was fun and replenishing and exactly the kind of day where you can experience the moment while in the moment. Different from his usual approach of sitting on the edge, absorbing and analyzing the happenings, engaging like a student being called on by the teacher.

Days like that ocean swim come more and more infrequently the older and more responsibility he gets. Two weeks on this island and stress and work and familial responsibilities, and he has one morning run and a half day swim to show for it on the 'Elysium Sand Fields,' the island made for perfect retreats.

It's self-deprecating, and pathetic, to doubt his path and choices as if he isn't his own master. Regardless, he feels shame for consenting to his time to be so overwhelmed. Primarily, with clan affairs. Working a clan job, attending clan events, booking months of back-to-back attendance to social affairs until he has to wait twenty-something days before he has a handful of hours on his own. Following the rules of the clan, defined by those arrogant and ignorant to the community's needs.

He is letting his life slip away, one unimportant event at a time. Tallying partials and incompletes hoping to equal a whole of something of his own.

Endorphins without interference make him sentimental. That is why he tends to run in a gym or on a treadmill, after he is done he goes about his day. Here, his day is whatever he does. And right now, he is bringing forth his scarce melancholic side by calling on the memories of the things that made him, make him, happiest.

And though he feels this pathway of thinking is gushy and emotional and weak, whose resolve will disappear as quickly as a runner's chemical high, perhaps he should take this time to re-prioritize. His discontent isn't a rebellious moment, it's a mounting pressure on his chest. Building and building until it's harder to breathe.

Until he cannot run for lack of breath.

And once he stops running, he can be caught by all the things chasing him, the things he left behind, ignored for his future self to address as a future problem.

Maybe he should just stop.

He could take more time off on this trip, he doesn't need to work his normal hour load. Why should he, when he has nine other months to make up for it. The work doesn't disappear, it never will as he is a dutiful son.

He needs balance, more control over his time, over his life.

If not now, when?

If only his bodies opiates would act in analgesic manner, rather than a depressive one. Then he wouldn't be sitting in the sand with an entirely negative outlook on his life. Thinking that he is behind the glass, viewing the interaction of others, pressing his hand to the barrier in a mockery of reaching out and waiting for connection.

Side boarding the chemically induced ramble and overly metaphoric language for now. The event from two nights ago was on the forefront of his mind too. Their squabble that was so few words and even fewer in lingering consequences. Her unusually strong emotional reaction, the tears and guilt, all forgotten as well. He knew there was something more to her demonstration, but that's not what his focus is on. No, instead it is towards the complete trust she had in him and the overall caring nature of Sakura that has him ruminating.

That, and that they fell back into perfect tranquility without raised voices or lingering anger or morose atmosphere.

Yesterday afternoon he bent his head down, neck curved and bowing out of his promise, again. And he noticed only after she apologized for accidentally being the cause. Where she immediately showed her respect for him. And where he then told her it was alright and not to mention it again, because he knows she is short, and he never should have gotten so upset about it in the first place.

She gave him a responding smile that was peculiarly moving.

And afterwards, the little sly half smiles of that familiar comfort, where the issue was put to bed for them both so soundly and perfectly and easily.

Then the book. The ludicrous book about love and connections and marriage that he was four chapters in with more and more positive comments on his relationship with Sakura and their compatibility. Each point proving that they may be as different as a piano to a drum, but they are polyphonic and make beautiful harmony when it comes to what matters.

Had he been a fool to ignore the romantic possibility of Sakura, fixation on the platonic because it was easiest?

She is a vision, good company, and is like-minded. Why hadn't he been moved to pursue her? Was she too much a friend to see as anything else? Was the spark of attraction nonexistent?

Or was their lack of romantic connection based on the lack of commitment on his end? Another waylaid item to his given priorities?

The ambient noise changed, sending a shock from his ears direct to his thoughtful brain. The waves crashing harder, louder, angrier. The sounds pulling him from his considerations as easily as if they were redesigned in the last several minutes specifically for him to remember that he just declared he wanted to live in the now, with freedom, and not the past.

He takes only a moment before he is out in the water, figuratively fighting to take more of his time back by literally battling the waves, his effects left in a forgotten bundle on the sand. He swims and dives as last week, thankful that he is alone in the water as lining of his trucks was missing in his running shorts.

The lull between waves is nonexistent adding an element of difficulty. But he has no one to race, so he doesn't have a destination or target. No goal. It made this less fun, but the peace is still there in him, smaller but potent. He tries at swimming his fastest against his own internal records, but found without competition, he didn't feel the drive.

It's colder this early, and diving is lacking the interest last week carried. Largely due to the fact that the ocean floor was a clean and boring silty sand bottom without rocks or seascapes or creatures. There are no coves or protective plants for the small critters, no shadows for fish to hide, just open sand bottoms with the occasional kelp pod. The most visually appealing aspect of the water is towards the great ocean depths and seeing the color merge into a blackness, the pitch so absorbent the very light of his soul is dimming, forcing him to see the perspective of how little he matters in the yawing void.

Still, under he is carried by the soft current while above he fights the hard waves, so he spends the more time diving, personal crisis notwithstanding.

Time ticks by and the ocean transitions again. Being under doesn't allow the same protection, so he goes deeper to avoid the force of the crashing waves. And he stays down as much as he can. He can see the minimal plant life swaying at the bottom, more heavily than normal. When he breaches for air, he feels the crashing and thrashing and knows that that the wind is growing. It's a challenge and his legs were tired before he started the swim, but his legs would never fail. His arms though, they would fail him. His lungs too.

Before he finds himself in real trouble with the ocean, he logically cuts his swim short, even if he doesn't want to leave. With wind and water speaking so clearly, any fool can see the storm coming.

He lethargically makes his way out of the surf, the clinging droplets making his body that much colder as it rapidly dries from the growing breeze. Bumps bloom over his arms and back at the speedy vaporization of salty water, pulling his heat away and making him wistfully realize he has no towel or other protections.

The cold is numbing and after a moment of acclimation, he finds that this was nice, regardless of ill preparation. Cold never bothered him the same as others. He could do this more and not regret any of the consequences.

But if he does take time off work, he would want Sakura to join. If not for the safety, then for the challenge and company. Together they could visit the smaller islands that are normally ignored. They could rent surfing gear, scuba gear too. Maybe do some pier fishing and ocean fishing as well.

He picks up his phone from the pile and coordinates his work app to submit a notice for time off to his father, shifting his days off to accommodate his weekend wedding attendance as hours worked. Monday and Tuesdays should be a good start, then he could add more days depending on Sakura's schedule and what it is they decide to do as a team and what he would rather do alone.

He even submits for time off next week to account for the missed days off, giving him the whole week off to lounge. Three weeks working without time to himself is unreasonable. He would never allow his own employees to work such a schedule, why is he holding himself to other standards?

It's a strange, completely foreign feeling for him to have time off for the sake of time off. But somehow, it feels good. Feels… liberating. It also frees up his mind to think about other, less gloomy things. Like, he has one measly snack to rely on for sustenance after burning 2000 calories. How long does he need to wait for his stomach to self cannibalize? Testing is required, but first hand experiences wouldn't provide valuable data.

Sandy, hungry, a little pink from the raising sun's kiss, he enters the hotel room with the single minded purpose of engorging himself, only to nearly topple head over heels on Sakura. He only just catches her stunned form before she crumples to join the property he just carelessly dropped.

There is a pause of absorbance, that moment for the mind to catch up with the quick and unexpected changing circumstances.

Then, she gives him the most offended, incredulous look she can muster as a walking, talking fairy.

"What are you, man of steel?" It's awkward with is hold, but she is able to rotate her forearm over the grip on her bicep and palm the front of her face, soothing her nose. He couldn't even tell where she collided with him, but he wondered if he would have a little button shaped bruise somewhere soon based on her rosy reaction.

"Not quite."

"Man of copper then? Tin?" She pokes his chest at each element, finding only the skin shifting minimally, sliding less than a fingers distance over the unyielding muscle. Her expression changing from the shock to more investigative, more curious inquiry at his torso. Then, suddenly she returns her hand to her face like a shield, comforting her nose again.

"And your nose, clearly the softest metal."

"Har har. My cartilage is no match for your bumpy hard carapace, Mr. Crabby Pants."

"Sharks would disagree."

"Well, my face doesn't."

He gauges her stability then slowly lowers his hands from her arms, keeping them at the ready in case she hasn't found her equilibrium. She makes a minimal sidestep that looks like a teeter, and he is ready to catch her again.

"How are you so hard?" He feels her palm doing a cupping probe, feeling for weak spots. "Were you flexing when you ran into me?"

"You ran into me. And no, you ran into my sternum."

"My poor nose. You better take responsibility for it since you ran into me."

"I didn't and I will."

"If you will than it means you acknowledge wrongdoing."

"Incorrect and irrelevant."

"You brute. Beating up poor innocent girls." She shows the seriousness of her statement by lightly swooning into his arms, dramatically massaging her nose as if it was broken and misaligned.

And as fun as it is to listen to her pout at him, looking more closely at her face… it did seem rather pink.

"Are you alright?" He took her hand away from her face and saw it was, indeed, very flushed. He may have wanted to turn her face up to him for viewing access, but thought better of it in case he somehow hurt her neck as well.

Instead, he gently stepped forward and directed her back out of the vestibule and into the open space. And she graciously allowed him to lead her back towards the main area to sit in the dining area, with only the most minor whining.

She kept her face suspiciously low and hidden, and if her hair was down, it would obscure the rising redness. Unfortunately, it's up and he can clearly see her face was getting worse. What was localized to her nose and cheeks is now invading all of her face (and even a bit of her ears and neck). How hard did he run into her?

They don't have any ice packs, but there is a frozen bag of vegetables he pulls out of the ice chest and wraps in a towel for her. She accepts, but doesn't seem to be relieving the pain anywhere but on her end of her nose. He takes the bag and lifts her face to press it more evenly around. Gently compressing one spot to the next, hoping to stop the redness and swelling.

Reasonably they are equally at fault, but he can't help feeling it is he who has done wrong. "Sorry," is all he can manage while scrutinizing her skin.

She doesn't reply and by the gods, the more he gently angles her face, the redder she becomes. The soft pink hue taking on a mauvish tone and settling on a ruddy scarlet. He turns away and grabs another bag of veggies, then fetches another clean towel from the linen area. When he returns, he catches her quickly turning away, refusing eye contact and being as shifty as a wary caged animal. He places the second bag on her face, using both hands to cool the inflammation as fast as possible. His concern at maximum before necessity rolls it over to executive decision time (aka, going to the hospital).

Did his chest somehow slap her silly? Were the endorphins making him numb to the force of the impact? Would he topple over once he was over the shock?

How utterly absurd… Although.

He has 50% more body weight, perhaps he is being inconsiderate to the limitations of her physique?

No, no. The combined speed may be enough to overcome the whiplash threshold, but Sakura's fit. Above average too, her musculature wouldn't be overcome by this. Plus, the speed was likely not at maximum since he had just entered and didn't have time to gain velocity. Maybe she fell earlier? Or is sick?

"Hold these, I'll grab some ibuprofen from the medi-kit." He had a bag of food pressed to each cheek, which he gently releases for her to take.

She uses both hands to grab his forearms, holding him and the cooled bags in place. "It's fine."

"Your face looks terrible, the faster we treat it, the better."

"First off, rude. And…" she migrates her hands from his forearms, dancing over the ridges before she settles her hands over his, which she uses to squish her face harder, creating chubby squirrely cheeks. Her lips are puckered funny, so her next part is garbled into an odd accent, but clear enough for him to understand. "You're wearing tiny pants."

The same pause of absorbance that happened on collusion, happens again. Ah, he is wearing his running shorts and only his running shorts.

When he responds, he may sound incredulous to those listening. But his manly pride does get to swell a little. He takes good care of his body. Targeting muscles and cardio and total body exercises are routine, not to mention diet. It's part of his day to day, but progress is hard work and it is uplifting to get acknowledgement. Especially when it's from pretty girls bashfully telling him he has a nice body, inadvertently or not. "Sakura. There is no way you are blushing this badly at my running briefs. I was in swim shorts just last week and you've seen me shirtless plenty of times."

"Tobi…" He may or may not have a small smirk fighting to escape but he definitely does wiggle her face a little in mockery, he so infrequently gets to see her embarrassment, and chubby cheeky Sakura is an entertainment. She seems to accept the wiggle, and even partakes in making it more comical for his pleasure. The vertical split of her lips squished more tightly into a puckered wrinkly kiss assisted in the finish. "The swim trunks… are designed to be…considerate. Your little itty bitty running pants are… enlightening. Definitely defining…"

She hasn't met his eye the entire encounter and he briefly looks down to see… And he leans a bit back to accentuate his pelvic region (which he notices she notices) and…well... Yes, his Water Dragon was indeed on display, via silhouette, but definitely notable. Worse, detailed noticeable. Outright outlined and ridged. He wastes no time in dropping one of the frozen bags and using the towel for his modesty while reversing his previous stance to unaccentuate the pelvic region.

Damn. That's embarrassing. He opens his mouth for a retort. Internally, he is thanking the stars that she didn't use 'little itty bitty' to describe his penis, it was a cold swim and a colder walk back after all.

"…"

Nothing comes out. What is he supposed to say about that. To that? If it were his older brother, he could respond in anger. If it were his younger brothers, he would instruct them on how to be more polite to circumvent such scenarios. But this is Sakura. What is he supposed to say? Is sorry sufficient?

Should he be apologizing? Should she? Does he feel violated?

He gives up trying to speak and makes a strategically quick retreat back to his room, then tactically reevaluates and returns to the shared bathroom, he is dirty after all. There is no way in the any of the six paths would he put clean clothes on over sandy, gritty skin.

He can see her putting away the frozen food in his peripheral. He wasn't giving Sakura the silent treatment per se, but he would need some time to be ready to talk. He hasn't concluded what is best for this situation. And he, at least, needs more clothes to do so. And to do that, he needed a shower.

Avoiding her is not the goal, but he cleans himself with methodical care and eventually he hears the door to their room shut.

When he leaves the bathroom, he is ravenous and recentered (assisted by the fact that he will have time as a buffer). It's not that big of a deal that she saw so much of him, he knows his running shorts are little, they all are, chafing is a common problem. And his shirt being off is benign to him, he is physically fit and appropriately dressed for the occasion. Sans what just occurred, and… the run home after his morning run plus swim. By the gods, how many people did he pass by on the way in?

Regardless of blood vessel constriction giving him less of a reputation downstairs, he has nothing to be ashamed of and he doesn't mind her knowing him so familiarly. He might of even teased her about her reaction, her practically being an ogling closet pervert.

(He remembers once catching her drooling over two macho men getting into it. He assumed at the time she was into watching fights as his vantage point made it seem like they were aggressively hugging, a common technique for leverage at throwing your opponent down. Until he walked up to her and realized that the gentlemen were certainly being aggressive, but not at all fighting and not limiting themselves to hugging. He politely pulled the lingering wallflower leach away while she turned beet red and stuttered something about the pretty faces and the way their sleeves were rolled up over their forearms, with the veins and muscles and hands or something. She was being nonsensical.)

But he is mortified that he tried taking care of her and was truly concerned for her. He practically behaved like a mother hen. And he sat her down to LITERALLY be eye level with his crotch. His little exhibition the more illuminating by alignment. AND he thrusted at her… Oh shit, he caught her checking out his bum too.

A full show for the junior member of the debauched club.

Reliving it makes him feel surprisingly warm. (But even with the mortification, his ego is still boosted with all her maidenly blushing.) And at least he knows she isn't mad, she made him breakfast (or is this brunch?) before leaving. He walks to it with intention and about-faces nearly as fast.

Just in case she returns sooner than expected, he changes into lounging clothes before eating. Towels in common area seem risky right now.

It's good, he eats everything without preamble and then grabs more. Then naps, just a small one under the window where the sun warms his skin. Then he wakes up and eats again. And finally, he gets comfortable with a snack and the book he was reading only when bored and an additional book for pleasure.

He speed reads the easy book, wanting it out of the way first. Plus, Sakura is a principle resident of his mind at the moment, so may as well do his assessment now. The essence of chapter three of "Signs a Healthy Relationship is Ready for the Marriage Carriage," proposes to measure the compatibility when working jointly, in an intellectual and reciprocal endeavor.

Collaboration in positive and meaningful goals.

For each chapter he had decided to analyze the compatibility between Sakura and himself, this would be the fourth question he has answered. But the questions are becoming more complex to answer. Trust and mutual respect are things you have with friends and family too. But collaboration, on the level being specified? Nearly impossible to conclude anything but 'no.' He spent a third of his life sleeping, and a nearly half of it working. That gave him one sixth remaining of his days hours to spend with other people and build a home life.

Combining that with Sakura and her own path, her own goals separate from his, the overlap was nonexistent in everything except these wedding events. Besides the wedding events they had texting, the occasional dinner, and time they carved out for each other when a concert or book reading happened to come up that they both wanted to see. This was it. This was the time they had together.

Calculating that to time spent, in his entire year with so many wedding events planned in concord, less than one tenth of an entire year is spent with Sakura. And less than one hundredth time spent is casual.

They worked in the same city, had a day shift, lived on the same side of town, but that was the end of the likeness of their day to day. They didn't frequent the same stores, parks, bars, or gyms. Their friend groups touched at the seams, but their inner circle was distinct and separate. Their families were aware of the other, but it stopped there. Neither the Haruno's nor Senju's had any interest in additional connections.

And their collaboration here was good, great even. But it didn't result in anything meaningful between the two of them. Having a friend (or pretend girlfriend) at these things made things more fun, she the cool drink of water to his dry swallowing a pill. But again, it didn't make a home or build towards that long term happiness. It was as shallow as shallow could be.

In fact, he could argue that their teamwork resulted in fewer opportunities, for both parties. The logistics on meeting someone out of upper secondary school or college is complicated, but he is given a leg up from others by attending so many functions with a near endless supply of similar classed and polished available women.

He makes the choice to eliminate chances of meeting other women. And she chooses to avoid the chances of meeting other men. Collaboration ranked here would summarize as negative, not positive.

Conversely. If he was ranking based on total impact, then he would have to do so by quantifiable means. Not what could have happened, but what did happen. Not on the number of women he didn't meet, but on the amount of enjoyment. And technically speculating, this all started because he met a woman at one of these events, it just didn't pan out as others expected.

This was giving him a headache.

Fuck it. They collaborate and that's good enough for him for to move onto his next book. What is he really quantifying anyways, the question was 'did they collaborate,' the details worked up as noise in consideration to his objectives.