The wind chills her as they walk, pace hurried, straight for his office. With the cooling of her bones comes the clearing of her mind, the realisation of what she's done—who's taste lingers. She dares a glance to her left, catches a glimpse of his stoic features, regrets it for the stutter of her heart. Did they really? Though the memory of his lips appears seared into her skin, their interaction now feels hardly real—how could it be when she's still herself after? When nothing tangible's changed and her wishing for it seems equally present? In the wake of its intensity, she's left horribly unsettled—idles still on whatever he'd been about to tell her. Sure, she's no stranger to confusion, but still knows with certainty she cherished every thrilling second of it—how could she not after feeling all she has, all this desire, bursting from the inside of her, from places she thought long withered and dulled.
So what ended them? Stopped them in their tracks before the inevitable could come to fruition? She swallows, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, dares another glance. His council member walks to the left of him, throws her scrutinising looks without hesitation. She can't blame him; she'd be impertinent, too, had she had to deal with a fleeing leader. Gaara's made no effort to explain, and she strongly doubts he ever will—not to his council. No, the tension is palpable, and she wonders what the man might think of their little escapade, hopes he wasn't around to witness their more heated moments.
"We'll be fine from here, Sajo," Gaara says, arriving at the Kazekage tower, "you're allowed to wait outside."
The man frowns, takes another step closer. "Lord Kazekage, with all due respect, I-"
Gaara raises a hand. "Uchiha Sasuke does not come unannounced, I've fully prepared for his arrival." Sajo looks as if he's about to protest when Gaara speaks again: "I'll keep you posted, for now, remain on stand-by."
The council member tersely nods, bows, allows his eyes to stray in Sakura's direction as he rights himself. She tenses beneath his gaze, straightens her back, refuses to appear like less than the professional she's supposed to be. It's convincing enough, to her at least, imbues her with what little confidence she can manage—she'll need it moving forward, envious of Gaara's ability to strip himself of ambivalence.
"Come," he says to her, waiting as he holds the door, features frustratingly impassive. Like her, he's probably sobered up during their walk, forced to contemplate whatever they initiated—whatever they'll be moving forward. She starts into a walk, carries herself with all the grace she can manage. His eyes follow her as she does, see all she lets slip without intention; the tension in her shoulders, the wringing of her hands. She knows it's weak, to be anything but perfectly poised—like him—but how could she? Somewhere in this building is the man she thought she loved, insisted, even though now she doubts she knew what love was. She doesn't know how to feel yet, what to think of his presence—fear wasn't on her list of possibilities, yet somehow it sweeps down her limbs, has her clenching her teeth. Somewhere in this building awaits her future, a final decision she knows has to be made.
They're silent as they walk, passing through empty hallways, the sound of their feet the only sign of life. She keeps her hands folded in front of her, resists the urge to cross her arms, doesn't want him to notice her uncertainty. She's tensed, stiff, muscles tight, lips pressed together to keep from speaking. There's so much she wishes to say, questions she wants to ask. She's about to see Sasuke for the first time in months, and she feels she needs Gaara's voice now more than ever—needs to hear she means something to him, at least. But he's silent, shadows cast across shuttered eyes, revealing none of the life she's gotten so used to. For all the good he's brought, there too is an ugliness, festering, doubt whispering in her ear. It's the part of her that feels inadequate—annoying—and it is deafening in their shared silence.
They reach his office, door closed in a small act of mercy. She sucks in a breath, steels herself for whatever pain may come; there's no question there will be. She dares a final glance at Gaara, catches his eye as he studies her.
"You don't have to be present if you don't want to."
An out. And she's tempted to reach for it both hands, accept this chance of running away in blissful ignorance—but she can't. Not after she initiated their kiss; the least she owes Gaara is to face up to her feelings. "I want to," she says, the following silence charged by her resolve. She won't be a coward, not like him; not like Sasuke.
Gaara nods, reaches for the door, grips the knob with a grace she herself couldn't have managed in a similar position. And then, it opens. It's a strange thing, how the heart can be torn apart by conflict, ripped into tiny slices until they're small enough to pass through the cracks. It's what has her holding herself, as if to keep it all together, keep safe the pieces she's sure to lose at the sight of him. How many times she's imagined this scenario, their reunion, the way his eyes might brighten with the sight of her. Yet there's none of that. No, his eyes do not find hers with traces of old fondness—nothing of the sort—instead, they shoot to her company, seize up the redhead who follows her in. As if it's him he's longed to see, in a way, if only to parade his obvious disdain.
"You arrived fast," Gaara notes, impassive enough to have it neither be an accustation, nor a question.
Sakura turns to watching him instead, finding security in his lack of dismissal. It's the warmth of him that has her almost forget the cold, seeping beneath her skin, imprinting like the grate of stone.
"Hn," Sasuke hums.
There's a pale gleam highlighting her silhouette, revealing to all the night the ghosts of shame rolling down her cheeks; her failure to be enough.
"I take it that means you were near?"
She's back again, and it's almost assuring in its familiarity; the hardness in her bones left by a roadside bench.
"Yes."
Though it wasn't the worst he caused her—not by far—it was her first taste of abandonment, and her last of innocence. For how could she cling to her ideals in the flicker of sharpened steel, the ear-splitting crackle of a thousand birds. Death, though in itself impartial, called her name on Sasuke's lips.
"I've arranged for you a place to stay for as long as you choose. As part of your mission here, you'll be joining border patrols to investigate a string of interconnected cases over the past months."
She watches Gaara move past him, circling his desk, made to seem so small by the looming Uchiha. She finally allows her eyes to find his again, gritting her teeth so as to keep her features impassive—but it's a challenge when an eye the colour of a night-sky stares her down.
He raises his chin. "And she?" he asks without directly addressing her. "Has she been given any missions?" There's a frown on his lips, his visible eye flicking down her body. "Aside from fooling around."
She's thankful for the distance between them, thankful he can't hear the dropping of her heart despite her attempts of holding it. He's right, isn't he? She is being rather selfish, thinking she can waste another village's time, leeching off their hospitality. The least she could do is make herself useful.
"Sakura is my personal guest, and as such she owes the village no servitude so long as she doesn't wish it."
"Hn," Sasuke grunts, an iciness in his gaze. "Personal, is it?"
"Yes."
There's a shift in Sasuke's demeanour, a passing of thought in his gaze before it sharpens. "I'm glad you've finally managed some friendships, seems you're rather busy, being Kazekage." He tips his head, flicks his single eye to her. "It's easy to see why Sakura might seem a safe option, being all the way from Konoha."
There's a narrowing of Gaara's gaze. "That makes two of us, does it not?"
The tension is palpable, and it's becoming increasingly harder to breathe beneath the weight of their presence. She finds herself drawing back, hoping to find a wall for support, anything to keep from toppling. Though not much has been said, somehow Sasuke's knows—even after all these months—how to get under her skin with expert precision.
"Personal matters aside, I take it you must be tired. I'll have you escorted to your hotel, if you're ready. I'm sure you and Sakura might like to catch up in the morning." Despite Sasuke's veiled attempt at unnerving Gaara, there isn't a trace of discomfort in his demeanour, features kept perfectly neutral, voice unwavering in its authority.
Sasuke doesn't reply, single eye trained on the Kazekage with an intensity she wouldn't be able to bear herself. He turns, then, surprising her with his sudden shift of focus, directing his full attention to her. "Indeed," he says, stepping towards her, his towering presence dwarfing her in comparison. "It's been too long." He lifts a long arm, drapes it across her shoulders, pulls her against him, steals the breath from her lungs. She's pressed to his chest, awkwardly keeps her arms wrapped around herself, feels the stiffness that is his body—doesn't feel welcomed despite his friendly gesture. She's but the whisper of moonlight, and if she didn't know any better she'd think she'd pass right through him. She swallows, feels frozen in place, and time crawls by painfully slow. Until he releases her, the familiar scent of cinders lingering in his stead. Her gaze finds Gaara's, and though he watches her, there's not a trace of emotion to be found. Looking away, her eyes hesitate before meeting Sasuke's, taking in the familiarity of his angular features, the perfect shape of him. He's as handsome as he's always been, as captivating as she's thought him since childhood. There's a ruggedness to his appearance that suits him, a freedom she's sure he's found outside of Konoha, away from her.
She nods, takes in the stilted smile spreading across his lips—lips she thinks strangers to her own—and manages to find her voice. "I look forward to hearing about your travels." There's no accusation in her tone, only the fragility of her resolve shows through its slight tremor, yet the words imply more than she dares say directly. "Goodnight, Sasuke-kun." She offers a polite bow, feels his eyes burning her skin, shivers running through her which, despite their likeness, resemble not in the slightest those brought about by the silent redhead—the contrast is stark enough to give her pause.
"Goodnight," he says, his baritone a rattle in her bones, weighing down her stare. Her eyes remain fixed on the ground, too afraid meeting his gaze might reveal her unease, the lull of alcohol still warming her veins, shaping her emotions—and she's certain, right now, too much of him might break her.
Sajo is asked to further escort Sasuke, and Sakura ignores the latter's confused look as they separate ways; the Kazekage and she headed elsewhere. She doesn't dare breach the subject, choosing instead to keep as close to Gaara as she can, allowing him to lead as they leave Sasuke behind. Between the two of them, she's more at ease with the redhead, despite their shaky friendship—if she can call it that anymore. Her relief, however, couldn't be more equivocal.
"I hope you're not angry with me," she manages, wrapping her arms around herself, feeling the nightly chill start to bite.
He glances her way, frowns, but reveals no other clue as to his current thoughts. "Of course not." His voice is even, and in the absence of it she's painfully aware how much she needs his tenderness right now.
"I'm really sorry if I overstepped—pushed too hard—you should know it was never my intention to-"
"Please don't apologise," he cuts her off, frown deepening, but doesn't make a move to elaborate.
The response leaves her unsatisfied, and she chews her lip, clenches her eyes shut to keep her tears from falling. "If you don't want me with you tonight, it's okay, I understand, and-" Her voice breaks, hands balled into fists, she feels loss already numbing her limbs.
"Sakura," he interrupts her, pausing his walk. "You didn't do anything wrong." There's a rustle of wind, and she finally manages the courage to meet his gaze. She's struck again by the paleness of his eyes, feels herself drown in those seafoam depths. "I shouldn't have..." he starts, hesitates, crosses his arms before looking away. "I shouldn't have been so careless; it was too great a risk and I apologise. You're still welcome to remain at my house, so long as you feel safe being there."
It's her turn to frown. "Of course I feel safe," she says, searches his features. "Why wouldn't I?"
He looks up, his once inviting gaze now bearing an air of forced detachment, chilling her. "I'm losing control," he admits, his voice painfully reminiscent of the Gaara she remembers, "which is why I won't be home tonight; because I don't want to kill you."
She's frozen to the spot, feels her breath cease, her pulse throbbing through her skull. What could he possibly mean? How could he even come to believe such a thing? Their kiss, for all her drunken judgement was worth, hadn't suggested anything malicious on his part—and though she has no previous experience to draw from, she's certain it'd been genuine... or so she wants to believe. Sure, it'd been ill-timed and reckless, but there was no denying the emotions involved, the eagerness with which they'd both responded—right? Could she have possibly been so twisted by experience to mistake aggression for attraction? Had her lessons in life been none of love, but of only derision?
"Let's move on," he then says, looking towards their destination, "I shouldn't keep you up any longer."
Though her feet move, her mind does not; stuck on repeat, replaying over and over how she might have misconstrued their interactions, his eager response. How far has she deluded herself into feeling—believing there has been a pull between them—when in fact it's been something much more sinister? Though he doesn't enter the building with her, she still heads for his room, needing at least some form of consistency. There it is she finally allows herself to feel, cheeks burning with the hot sting of tears. What a fool she is; thinking herself wanted, even needed. How utterly useless she finds herself once again, fooling around in a village she could never call home. As she undresses, she traces her fingers along her skin, watches it glow beneath the moon. If anything she's been reminded, revived in a sense, and she knows the stuttering embers within her long for nourishment. She steps out of her dress, leaves it crumpled, and without hesitation slips beneath the blankets, feeling their friction against her bared form, wishing instead it were him engulfing her, and prepares for a night without sleep.
Morning washes over her with painful clarity, and for the first time since Naruto's wedding, the thought of Gaara scares her. Sober but tired, the misguided longing she'd felt has been replaced by fear. Not of him harming her, no, most of all she fears the shame of rejection. With the light of day cleansing the room of its secrecy, she feels almost perverse in its silence—her not belonging here has never been so clearly felt. She washes up, dresses, cleans her skin and covers it up, shields away the tremor of its wishes. Whatever she thought she'd wanted, it's clear she's been clinging to something never meant to be hers. No, there's a life already planned out for her, a future she's long since promised herself. Today, if anything, at least that much will be proven, and she's almost grateful to Naruto for his well-timed intervention—before she could have lost more of herself in the illusion of change.
It doesn't surprise her to find Gaara absent from the breakfast-table, nor does she start at Sasuke's appearance at their door. She takes note of the inquiring looks the sand-siblings throw her way, but doesn't indulge them. Her mask is well-tailored in its familiarity, and its deceit suits her like an old friend. She thanks Temari as she passes, hands her the dress she borrowed, then steps outside without looking back, joining the tall figure of Sasuke. Though she feels Temari's gaze prickle her skin, she pretends not to notice, instead turning to offer her old teammate a smile. Probably sensing Sakura's distant demeanour, Temari wishes them well, closing the door with a hesitant click. The early morning offers her its pleasant cool, the sun still busy shedding off the remains of night.
"Gaara told me I'd find you here," Sasuke starts, pushing his hands into his pockets, shoulders sloped, his entire posture a picture of calm. "I thought it best we talked before I'm off on patrol."
She nods, at least grateful not to be forced to wait.
He glances to the side, takes a moment before speaking again, appears to mull over something. "Have you eaten?"
"No," she says, surprised by the steadiness of her own voice.
He grunts, meets her gaze, reminds her he's nearly a stranger; onyx eyes nothing like those she's allowed herself to get used to. "I passed a place on the way here. Come."
It's not a question, and why should it be? She'd never refuse the offer, somehow her obedience is self-evident, and his assumption of it shouldn't irk her—in the past, sometime before his note, she'd have rejoiced at the words. He starts to walk, and she's quick to follow, falling into step beside him. His legs are longer than hers, his pace bordering on impatient. They remain silent for a while, passing through the streets together, earning several curious looks. She thinks this is how it should be; to be out with him, planning something as mundane as breakfast. She tries to find that flicker of pride she'd always felt at being seen with Sasuke, the excited swell of her heart at the novelty of his companionship, but comes up empty handed, unable to channel the excitement associated with him—she blames her nerves, writes it off as being overwhelmed after so long.
"It's nice of the Kazekage to invite you into his home," Sasuke says, and though the words are friendly, his tone carries an air of annoyance.
She rubs her arm, allows her eyes to stray, tries to subdue the stutter of her pulse. "Yes—he's been very gracious."
"Hn." She feels him study her before saying: "I didn't know you enjoyed his company."
She feels the pendant around her neck, twists it between her fingers. "We've been getting to know each other."
"Yet he upset you."
She freezes, thinks he means their kiss, then realises he must mean her coming here, and wonders what Naruto told him. "No, it was petty, really—I wasn't myself."
Another grunt. "And are you more yourself now?" There's a mocking edge to his voice.
"I don't know." She might have been, had he not always been away, and the realisation of it spreads a heat through her blood.
"I'm glad he's been so accommodating—" somehow she doubts it, "—he seems to have taken quite a liking to you."
She remains silent, fights against the scowl threatening on her brow.
"Then again, you've always been unable to resist a lost cause to keep busy."
Lost? Could he really be so cruel as to misrepresent both Gaara and she so painfully, or is he only trying to evoke some sort of reaction? She clenches her teeth, forces out a breath, reminds herself she's talking to the man she loves. "Yes, that's right." And hates herself for it.
This appears to please him, his step a little lighter, his head a little higher. In the back of her mind there's a voice again, screaming its disagreements, scolding her for her complacency. She ignores it, drowns it out with thoughts only of her companion; their childhood together, and it's almost enough to evoke a flicker of feeling. They find a little cafe, and join the villagers enjoying their breakfast, their unfamiliar presence drawing plenty of attention—or perhaps it's just Sasuke. A waiter takes their orders, their time waiting spent in uncomfortable silence. Sasuke appears deep in thought, gaze faraway as he watches people pass by their window, onyx eye glazed over. It allows for Sakura to study him more, the day of light revealing someone older than she remembers, the first lines of age marring his sun-kissed skin. It becomes him; his features sharper, more elegant, sanded into perfect proportions by time itself. There's a calculated precision in the handsome shapes of his face, an unfeeling beauty. He's perfect—which doesn't excite her like it used to.
His attention returns once their food arrives, his eye sharp as it inspects her, leaving an itch in its place. Though self-conscious, she brings herself to take a bite, trying not to let her discomfort show.
"You've matured," he notes, and she's uncertain whether it's a compliment or not, but thanks him nonetheless. Following her example, he joins her in eating, relieving some of the awkwardness. She wonders what he wants from her, why Naruto's calling was needed for him to return—why her wishing it wasn't enough. When he speaks again, he doesn't hesitate to come to the point: "I think it's time I start a family." I, she notes, not we. "You know, more than anyone, how important family is to me." Reviving the clan, yes, family, perhaps not so much. His hand reaches for hers, covers it with long fingers, dwarfs it in comparison. "I know we haven't seen much of each other, and I understand if me proposing might be too sudden." She's unable to swallow, the throb of her pulse painfully violent, closing up her throat. "Perhaps dinner, tonight, might be a good place to start." It's an offer; a proper date, a true relationship. No more charades, pretending to love the ghost of a man—his hand is warm atop hers, his skin rough with callouses—he's here. But will he stay?
She nods, averts her gaze, takes in the sight of their joined limbs, and can't help but feel overshadowed. "I'd like that," she says, burying whatever objections her inner voice thinks of shouting next.
He releases her, apparently pleased with his results, immediately dropping all unnecessary effort. "I'm glad Naruto informed me of your being here," he goes on, his voice a disingenuous sound, "it hasn't been easy for me, returning to Konoha." She chews up his words, digests their meaning, sees them for the vapid excuses they are and doesn't respond, instead waits for him to continue. "He told me you'd been distressed." There's a pause, and her eyes flick up to meet his; thoughts walled off by pits of black. "It made me realise I should have been there to protect you."
Protect her... from who if not himself? Could it be he thinks her too weak to handle life without him? After all, she can't think of any other reason for her distress than him. She wants to tell him she doesn't need protecting, to remind him of just how strong she's gotten—but she's brought to question her own capabilities by the tremble of her hands, the dry scratch of her throat. She can't even speak her mind, let alone stand up for herself. "Did he mention anything else?" she asks instead, bringing her drink to her lips, finding comfort behind its cover.
Sasuke leans back, observes her again. "He thought you were dating Gaara." He tips his head, narrows his eye. "Are you?"
She freezes, and it seems he mistakes her pallor for disgust, rather than surprise. "No."
There's the hint of a smirk on his lips. "That's what I thought." The assumption irks her, annoyance bubbling beneath her skin. "Though I'll admit last night had me questioning myself. After all, you've always looked best in a dress. It'd be hard for anyone not to notice." This time she flushes, feels herself shrink beneath his constant stare. "But then I remembered the Kazekage isn't just anyone, is he?" He leans forward, rests his chin in his hand. "In fact, I don't think he's much more than a tool, even now, and I doubt he's capable of such feelings." Her palms are cold and clammy, her cheeks hot with anger. "Do you know how he got that scar?"
"Do you?" she snaps.
"I've heard stories." He averts his gaze, returns his attention to the streets. "I just thought you should know: he's incapable of loving another." His eye snaps back to hers, piercing her with its intensity. "Including you." In that moment she believes him; believes herself foolish for ever thinking otherwise. She's reminded of their kiss, its abrupt end and Gaara's confession. The memory of carved skin throbs upon her fingertips; etched strokes of crimson as if written in blood. Love, to her, seems incongruous with murder, yet that's what he was afraid he'd do; kill her. "Don't take it personally," Sasuke continues, "you can't help his nature." You can't help anyone, can you?
She swallows, nods, doesn't move to finish her meal. She's nauseous, feels a painful pang in her gut. All this time, she's been nothing but a burden. How could anyone want to keep her around? Even so, Sasuke, for all his own shortcomings, shows her more grace than she deserves.
"I'll need to head out soon. How about I tell you about my travels at dinner? I'll pick you up at six."
She manages a smile, thinks him sharing his experiences a nice gesture, and—for the first time in a long time—feels like she's welcomed into his life. "I'll be ready," she promises, watches him call for the waiter with fresh eyes, and finds herself hoping she isn't wrong in thinking they might be genuinely happy together.
Who is she? The questions seems so simple, mundane, almost. What person in their twenties wouldn't be able to answer it? Yet an answer, even now, alludes her. She doesn't know, and doubts she ever has. Without Sasuke, could she ever be anyone at all? She doesn't want to think about it, doesn't want to dwell on these shortcomings—but what she wants even less is to be reminded of who she almost became. So she doesn't return to Gaara's home, avoids all interaction with his siblings. Instead she does what she knows best, what has always helped her forget herself. The streets are coming alive, children running along the sand, adults watching on with mirth. Families are everywhere, and she promises herself she'll be one of them soon. She'll finally be someone then; a parent, a mother. She'll have exactly what she's always wanted, and, if Sasuke's serious about his offer, with the person she's always wanted. Though there's none of the giddy excitement she expected to feel, she's sure it'll be there soon enough; how could she not be happy?
When she enters Suna hospital, the familiar scent welcomes her home; this is where she belongs. The nurses recognise her straight away, attend her with the respect deserving of her status. It's the kind of affirmation she needs, and they don't hesitate to make use of her willingness to work, assuring her there's plenty to be done. She can tell her presence is greatly appreciated, her vast knowledge a valuable contribution. While attending the injured, she's finally able to clear her mind, forgetting all of her worries. She works herself to exhaustion, declines all offers of taking a break; she'll rest when the day ends and there's no one awake to need her. It's easy to get along with her fellow nurses, their passion evident in their tireless efforts. Before the end of the day, she's gotten well-acquainted with several of them, nearly forgetting how far from home she actually is. They laugh in between patients, and even find time to tease each other. They talk about everything; their academy life, their reasons for becoming a medic, their dreams for the future. It leaves Sakura in much better spirits, and she almost forgets her nerves for the coming evening—almost, because much too soon she reaches the end of her shift, and she knows she'll have to face reality again.
The sun hangs low when she exits the hospital, the afternoon heat already coming to a cool. She knows she'll have to stop by Gaara's house, eager to wash off a day's worth of work, but dreads coming face to face with the redhead—assuming he's home. She assures herself he won't be, aware of his reputation as a workaholic. Still, his siblings will likely be there to greet her, and she's unsure what to say if they ask where she's going. It's not that she owes them anything, so the truth shouldn't be a problem. Yet there's a nagging sense of guilt, twisting at her insides. She thinks of Temari and her infectious laughter, Kankuro and his unique humour, and can't help but feel like she doesn't deserve their hospitality. She's not a part of their family, and she figures, after tonight, she should arrange for another place to stay—or better yet, head back to Konoha where she belongs. After all, there's nothing here for her, and she thinks she'd do both Gaara and she a favour by leaving; if he's unstable because of her, she'd hate to prolong his torment.
Yes, after tonight, she returns home. She takes a breath, reaches the front door, and prepares herself to face whatever awaits.