Sakura wasn't half bad in a fight, after all.
Well, a fight wasn't really the best way to describe what it was she was doing at present. A spar was little more than target practice, though she supposed a moving target that was also trying to land strikes at her could be categorized differently. She squinted in the afternoon sun that dappled soft shadows across Madara's features through the leaves overhead, letting instinct take over.
She wasn't quick by any means. With chakra control so precise, it seemed the blonde mentor she remembered in vague bits was focused solely on honing that skill. It at first seemed safer to stay put, to goad her opponent into closing the distance between them, until she remembered the ease at which he'd called forth that fire-style jutsu the night before. He was likely well-versed in ranged combat, and she was hardly aware of the scowl on her face while she thought.
At the very least, her mind was quick where her body was not. That counted for something.
He had pulled a shuriken from the bag tied around his waist, his movement so fast it barely registered in her brain. She dodged its lightning-quick trajectory just a beat too slowly, leaving a cut on the side of her eyebrow that quickly closed over. He'd rushed her just after throwing it, though, and that made her replace that scowl with a grin of sorts. If he closed the distance himself, that was only playing right into her strengths.
He was upon her now, swiping from the waist up in a fluid arc with a kunai. She'd pivoted with a graceful twirl, her hair—already brushing her shoulders, a full inch longer than it'd been last night—flashing pink in her peripheral. Grasping his neck through his thick swath of hair, she made to produce her own knife and poise it at the base of his spinal column to signal her victory.
From the porch of her little hut, an excited gasp rang out just as Okojo stood in anticipation.
But his elder brother was flexible, it seemed. He kicked back one of his legs, twisting at the waist to send a kick with surprising force aimed directly at Sakura's head. To defend herself she let go of his neck, holding up her forearm and sending a burst of chakra along the outside edge to absorb the shock, protecting the bone beneath.
"Your reflexes are sharp." For it being a compliment, Madara had spat it out like he was annoyed. Perhaps that was why he'd been fine with her attitude the night before: he'd seen himself in it. When he leapt back out of her immediate range he called, "And you're much stronger than you look. I wonder if your power comes from that glare you keep giving me."
She cursed inwardly, having given away what she assumed was her single trump card. He would surely keep his distance now, and had likely already surmised her lack of speed. Frustrated, she charged; instead of leaping away from her again, he ran right at her, maybe wanting to test the limits of her strength or see if he could withstand one of her punches.
Worried she would knock his head clean off his shoulders, she toned back the force of chakra in her fists.
They met in a clash of limbs and steel. She was glad she kept the long-sleeved shirt and pants she'd arrived in, their material simply made for the momentum of combat, it seemed. Not only was Madara fast, he was sturdy, too. Even toned down, her strength was enough to split logs without the need for an axe, but he did little more than wobble once or twice at each of her blows, his recoveries instant as he launched his own retaliatory assault.
The more she fought, the more curious she became about her own fighting style. She relied less on going for crushing blows to the head and heart, instinctively jabbing the tips of her four fingers towards body parts a bit less vital, as if she were attempting to cripple, not kill.
"You've had the privilege," he said among blows, sounding only slightly winded, "of training with a master."
"Oh?" It was enough to pique her interest, but she was careful not to let her guard down as their spar became more of a dance. Just when she had him on the defensive, he would sweep out one of his mighty legs and regain the offensive. "You're not so bad yourself."
He smirked at that in a way that was almost mischievous, and she was so taken aback at how handsome he was that she'd foolishly given him the upper hand. He capitalized on her distraction—even though her only giveaway, she knew, had been the slight widening of her eyes, damn was he sharp—risking the toss of a shuriken to confuse her further as he took her wrist in his hand and twisted it behind her back. Her healing aura made it so the pain came only in small bursts, but even so, having a limb bent unnaturally wasn't a pleasant sensation by any means.
She could snap her arm and break free of his hold. It was child's play at this point to set broken bones, and it would return victory to her favor. But she worried over the boy watching them and, hoping to spare him as much brutality as she could, conceded.
"All right, all right," she said with a huff. "You got me."
He cocked a brow at her, and she had the feeling he didn't quite believe her. "As you say."
It'd made her feel self-conscious as he let her go and she gave her shoulder a testing roll. She pursed her lips at him even though he hadn't said anything to offend her. "It's just—been a while since I've done any real fighting. I'm rusty, y'know?"
That suspicious brow stayed raised. "Indeed. You mentioned that this morning, but you were doing rather well for someone of your...unique circumstance."
She might've assumed he meant her being a woman, but the glance to her stomach that he tried to hide spoke to his real meaning. He'd been hesitant when, at just after sunrise—and after she explained that she'd like them to stay for her to monitor the boy's condition for at least another day or two—she had asked him to duel her, but was otherwise up to the challenge. He'd had nothing to offer but a quiet contemplation when she confided that she was out of practice, but not to go too easy on her.
"Thanks."
"You heal as you go," he remarked casually. "That's quite the feat during combat, and a terrifying prospect for anyone who goes up against you with any sincerity. And that's not even taking into account that mark on your forehead..."
Her eyes went wide as she regarded him seriously, eager for any shred of light that could be cast on her missing memories. "You know of it?"
"It's a yin seal, is it not?" When she nodded, he continued, "It is the pride of the Uzumaki clan, and even among them it is a rarity. Your hair is...close to the proper shade, but you lack any of the other distinguishing features of their blood. It's puzzling, to be honest."
She had stopped listening the moment he said Uzumaki. A red, never-ending spiral formed in her mind's eye, burning a metaphorical hole through her brain. Her lips parted subconsciously, and an emotion so powerful overwhelmed her to the point of dropping her to her knees.
A flash of orange and blue and blonde, an unrelenting smile and a heap of promises made with sincerity. She could feel her arms snaking around his middle, her fingertips red, raw, and freezing. The next she blinked he was pinned to the ground, bleeding horribly and weakened, but even then he was not afraid. His presence was a comfort regardless of the circumstance, and it was as the images faded but the feeling lingered that she felt tears fall down her face in a rush.
Unlike the previous night, Madara seemed frozen. Rather it was his brother who sprung into action, rushing to Sakura's side and fumbling in his pockets for a handkerchief. He extended his arm to her, too timid to wipe her tears himself, but it took her a long moment to register what was being offered. His face was serious, his fringe messy atop his severe eyes—so similar to Madara's that the family resemblance was almost uncanny.
"Oh," she breathed, forcing a smile as she took the offering. When she'd dried her face, she folded it neatly and gave it back to him. "Thank you. I'll clean this for you today, unless you want to come with me to the river?"
He smiled, looking up at his brother and forming hand seals—but no, that wasn't right. As Sakura got to her feet, she realized that though his mouth was moving, he was not saying a thing; he was signing his words instead. Madara, once the younger one had finished, had not missed her study.
"He doesn't speak," he explained softly, ruffling the boy's hair affectionately. "He says he'll come. He's eager to repay your kindness." Here, Okojo tugged at the leg of Madara's loose pants, prompting the latter to sigh with a roll of his eyes. "And...I apologize for whatever it was I said that upset you."
"It's all right," she assured the both of them. "I'm not—well, I don't really know what came over me."
The way Madara was looking at her stirred something inside her. It was not so much that he was sizing her up, or that he disbelieved her. She was certain that he suspected her of something, but wasn't sure what—which was fitting, because even she didn't know where she would even start. He opened his mouth to speak, but his brother beat him to it, signing excitedly.
"He wants to know if his condition is well enough for the two of us to spar next."
He looked to her meaningfully, deferring to her in a way that made her feel not just needed, but wanted, too. She smiled, but it was a little bit sad; she hadn't yet told them her suspicion that Okojo was not only sick, but diseased.
"You need to take breaks," she instructed, not without sympathy. She felt more at ease than ever when giving medical advice, the area clearly one of expertise. "And if you feel any pain in your chest, stop." This she said more to Madara than anything, but she knew the nature of young boys. Likely, Okojo just wanted to be as strong as his elder brothers, especially given they were two of only three surviving siblings.
The boy nodded his head, taking off down the mossy clearing to take a defensive stance a fair distance from his brother. But before the elder could turn to move, Sakura caught his arm. He stopped, glancing back at her with that tired curiosity in his features as he gazed down at her.
"His sickness..." she tried, unsure how to phrase it. "It's likely not something that can be fully cured." When he didn't respond right away, she dropped her hand. "Do you understand?"
"I do." Not a hint of what he might be feeling could be heard in his voice.
"I'm sorry," she said, her brows pinching together as she looked up at him. "I know your family hasn't had it easy. While you two train, I'm going to put together a poultice of sorts that will relieve any flare-ups, for after you go back home. I'll write down the recipe for you, yeah?"
He waited for another moment, watching her. "Yeah. It is appreciated, my lady."
Pointedly she ignored the timbre in his voice and the heat rising in her cheeks to be addressed so respectfully. When he turned to square off with the boy, she set off for an area of the woods that grew the plants best suited for the concoction in mind. She took in the air as she liked to do, admiring the greenery that would soon give way to autumn. The temperature grew warmer as the sun reached its zenith; in response she pushed up her sleeves past her elbows, but there was little she could do about sweating elsewhere. The heat offered no relief, either, for her sore breasts, but she had been sure to wrap them as securely as she dared before her early-morning spar.
Over the months as the woods shifted, she tried to keep careful track of which plants' range had grown further, or cloistered in closer to her hut. Every month her slugs had gone further and further out before shining that great light and—well, she didn't quite know what they were doing. Releasing chakra? Spores? Some sort of other, mythical energy? It was also possible they were disappearing, summoned, perhaps. Maybe they were even imploding, although she had a keen awareness of where each one had reached the end of her journey, knew that they still lived and breathed and existed. Their presence was palpable, permeating the atmosphere whenever she wandered into the deep woods. Certain trees, flowers, and ponds almost seemed to hum with the force of them, connecting her to nature in a way that sometimes made her feel afraid.
The circle, too, of where she had the sense that she was forbidden to cross, had expanded.
She tested the limits with trepidation at first, tracking her path and always concentrating—with the rapid changes to the forest, it was sometimes difficult to get her bearings. Though whenever she felt a pang of anxiety that she was lost, she followed the pull of her slugs—the slugs, she corrected—and let the otherworldly thrum between them guide her back to familiarity.
With enough reagents to make a sizable batch of medication, she made her way back home.
The boys were resting beneath the shade of a tree, Okojo playfully dropping green leaves onto Madara's face as he lie there looking skyward. He merely closed his eyes and crinkled his nose in mild annoyance when the leaves landed on them, content to let his brother play.
When the boy noticed her, he lit up and tugged on Madara's hand, who sat up begrudgingly.
"She's back," he said, "so your break is over. Horse stance. Now."
Sakura sat on the small porch of her home, crushing her foraged plants carefully into paste, minding her chakra flow to infuse it with her healing powers to enhance its potency. Out on the small clearing among the forest floor, the boys went back and forth between sparring and Madara giving stoic instruction, attempting to improve on his form. They took plenty of breaks, Okojo approaching Sakura when she would beckon him to place her filament-stained fingers on his forehead and chest to monitor his condition.
It was late in the afternoon when she finished a small batch of the poultice, that should last about a month if applied sparingly during that time. She stood and stretched, the boys long since returned from hunting small game for the evening meal. Madara had skinned the animals himself, not even bothering to try to teach his brother, who had been very pointedly avoiding looking in that direction all the while. He had a gentle heart, not one made for violence, and so instead had spent the last hour learning all about various plants from Sakura.
With the same stickiness coating his hands, she decided and subsequently declared that they should go to the stream for a bath. She disappeared into the house, grabbing one of her ruddy kimono and the traveling bag the boys had shown up with. Madara glanced up, studying her over the fire pit he'd made and through his long, unruly fringe. He glanced back down at his own hands, splattered with blood and gore.
Well, she hadn't seen any carnivores in all her months here. "Come on," she called, gesturing for him to follow. "We can eat when we get back. We can do some laundry, too."
He stood, trying not to wipe the grime on his pants and dirty them any further. The three of them made their way together through the woods, Okojo running ahead to explore but careful to stay within the adults' line of sight. He was disciplined, indeed.
"He's sweet," she said quietly.
Madara watched him for some time. With every step he took beside her, his hair caught in the mild midsummer breeze, the heavy scent of woodsmoke caught in the strands. The high collar of his robes obscured just his mouth, but what she saw of his expression as a whole looked severe.
"Our father doesn't necessarily allow for things like playtime." He sounded almost wistful. "I haven't seen any of my brothers so carefree in a long time."
She frowned, not bothering to hide her distaste. "But he's still just a boy."
He gave her a look she could not name. "You speak your mind proudly. Are you sure you're not a...?" But he hesitated, aware that just saying the name Uzumaki had set her off just this morning. He recovered smoothly enough, saying, "Apologies. It's horribly rude to ask after someone's clan in these times."
"It's all right." She stepped carefully over a root, the wide stream finally coming into view through the trees. "I come from no clan of importance. I'm not even sure..."
She bit the inside of her cheek, uncertain how much to divulge. But he had trusted her with a myriad of information in their short time together; it would be poor manners not to reciprocate, she figured.
There was also the fact that he'd seen a slug come out of her womb and into the world.
"I'm not sure my family even was a clan," she finished.
"Not a clan?" His surprise was evident. "Someone of your skill..." He trailed off, thinking. "That's quite uncommon."
She hummed, at a loss on how to respond to that. And besides, Okojo was already stripping off his clothes, a heedlessness only afforded to the youthful, and wading into the waters. He wasn't so short for his age, but at its deepest point the stream would likely reach up to his ribs. The grin on his face was wide, and she could feel as Madara's tension eased.
"Oi!" he called suddenly, making Sakura jump in surprise. "Don't forget to wash your handkerchief! And don't run off!"
The boy's only response was to stick out his tongue, darting across the rocks.
"He is just a boy," Madara agreed, his volume markedly lowered. "But even a recluse like you isn't ignorant to reality, are you, my lady? It's better he learn to defend himself."
"But even that's not a guarantee," she said, forgetting for a moment that two of their brothers had already died. She winced at her own slip up, hoping she did not offend him. "I'm sorry. I only mean—violence necessitates violence. I often wonder where the cycle ends."
He was watching her with that intense gaze, searching her face—for what, she did not know. She was acutely aware of that striking feeling connecting them in some strange way, and judging by the way his lips were parted and how his pupils were slightly dilated, his thoughts were likely pleasant ones. A need washed over her, to reach out and touch him, to take his face in her hands.
She blinked hard, turning her head away to break the lingering contact.
It was not only her who'd sensed it. He cleared his voice, quickly moving to stalk towards his brother. "I will keep him downstream. Do what you need; you won't be disturbed. And...we'll meet you back at your hut."
There wasn't even time for her to say Okay before he was unfastening the frogs and sashes that held his robes in place. She turned to the west before her blush could be noticed, pulling off her shirt and unbinding the cloth strips around her chest, the relief of it instant and calming. Her bath was largely uneventful, save for some of Okojo's delighted shrieks that sounded closer to him in danger for her liking, and after she dressed in the old, rustic robe she bent down to wash the sweat and mud from her discarded shirt and pants.
She was back home and preparing a larger portion of rice than she was used to by the time they'd finished up and appeared through the trees. The spare clothes they'd brought were simple in design but of high quality, the threads sparkling where they caught in the firelight. Madara's robe in particular was far more dignified than the traveling clothes he'd arrived in, and she was sure that, as he divvied up the cooked meat into three bowls atop the steaming rice, he'd caught her staring more than once. He had not bothered to cross his kimono completely at the front, exposing a strip of his muscled chest and abdomen before disappearing where the sash was looped around him tightly.
Once, she swore the saw the hint of a grin threatening to crack across his face when she'd been caught.
Okojo, his condition still mid-flare up despite Sakura's efforts, was so tired from the long day that he would pause between bites of his dinner to rub at his eyes. When he signed to his brother that he was finished, she offered him her room.
"Absolutely not," Madara interjected. "We are guests in your home, and uninvited ones at that."
"So are all who come to my door," she said with a light shrug. "Besides—if I cared to preserve my usual bedtime routine, I wouldn't have forced you to stick around. I don't mind."
"You—"
"Plus, my futon is way softer."
It'd been enough to marginally re-excite the boy through his exhaustion, who looked to his brother with a pleading purse of his lips and wide, saucer-like eyes. With a sigh and a small twitch of his eyebrow, Madara admitted defeat. "I don't appreciate you turning him against me, you know."
She showed the younger brother to her room, even though it was only a few steps at most and separated by a thick cloth pinned and hanging from the rafters. He set out the futon all on his own, his tongue poking out as he reached up on his tiptoes for the blanket stored on the high shelf opposite from the cot. As he got settled, she let him be, Madara speaking in soft tones to him as she set out the bed in the main room, attempting to make it presentable and cozy.
Just as she got to her knees to lay back on the hardwood, the older man all but teleported before her for how quickly he moved, a half-scowl on his face. She'd flinched, pursing her lips as she stared up at him.
"Were you serious about him turning against you?" she guessed, tilting her head to the side.
He actually scoffed at that. "Hardly," he said, motioning with two fingers for her to rise. When she did, he took her shoulders in his hands—gods were his hands big—and moved her towards the straw-stuffed cot. "Never heard of a joke before?"
"A joke?" She gave him her best mock glare. "Everything you've said to me since you got here has been monotonous."
"Regardless," he said, making no attempt to deny her lighthearted accusation, "I refuse to let you sleep on the floor while my brother takes your bed. On the cot. Now."
"You can spare me your big brother act, thank you very much. I'll sleep where I please."
Once again, she hadn't meant it to come out so crassly. She just furrowed her brows at her own tone, but he didn't seem bothered in the least as he stooped to sit where she was about to lie down to sleep.
"You said it yourself: you're a guest in my home. As a good host and the woman of the woods, it's my duty to ensure you're as comfortable as—"
"We must leave tomorrow," he said, watching her with one arm propped on his raised knee. "I can survive sleeping on the floor for one more night. I insist."
It was like a bolt of ice had pierced her at the thought of him leaving. She tried to fight the sudden urge to square her shoulders, as if her body was taking a defensive stance against the information. When her right hand closed into a fist, it did not escape his notice—quickly she released it, flexing her fingers wider than necessary to help shake the rapid tension mounting within.
"Mm," she hummed, and even then her voice cracked. She swallowed, forcing calm through her chakra pathways and trying to assess why such a thing would upset her to this extent. With her arms wrapped around her upper body, she lowered herself onto the cot. "I've only made enough medicine to last about a month."
He was stretching then, his elbow giving an audible pop as he laced his fingers together in a series of satisfying-sounding cracks. She could see the full expanse of his chest at that angle, and then he laid himself down, facing away from her towards the opposite wall. "Note the reagents, and I will be sure our family physicians make enough to last a lifetime."
"Right."
It was less that she laid down and more that she fell over onto the futon, her hands still hugging her biceps. She didn't even bother closing her eyes, her mind so alive with thought that she was sure she could hear the buzzing of it outside of her skull. Staring straight ahead, she racked her brain for answers.
He was not the first person to bring a child to her doorstep. They were not the only ones she'd asked to stay, either, not the first time she'd wanted to monitor an injury or a disease before she felt comfortable discharging a patient. Laughter, though uncommon in her home, was not a rarity by any means, her ability to lift the spirits of soldiers and children alike honed as if she'd spent years perfecting her bedside manner.
That was just it, though, she thought. Bedside manners she was good at, but it was exactly that: a performance. With Madara, she hadn't once felt the need to censor herself or put on her best, smiling face for him. Well, she supposed that bearing witness to what he had last night had torn down any walls of professionalism between them. It was almost as if he was a friend, rather than the courier of a young patient in need of her services, and she fought desperately against the preemptive pang of isolation creeping through her the more she imagined them anywhere but here.
Those samurai stayed with her for two entire weeks, and she hadn't felt much of anything then beyond a budding camaraderie, like she could fight alongside them with ease. The loneliness she'd felt when they finally left to return to the warfront once more paled to the mere idea of Madara leaving. Nothing should be so different about him from any other attractive man she'd healed, but even now, lying on her spare cot and staring through the dark at that mass of hair, she felt drawn to him as if pulled by an invisible thread. His breathing was slow, deep, and steady; she wished she could focus on it, time her own breaths to it and lull herself to sleep by it, but her mind was too turbulent.
An hour passed, and her mood had begun to spiral. After the second hour, she finally realized that she was squeezing her arms tight enough that she was numb from her elbows down through her fingers. Her chest and stomach were twisting themselves into knots, her healing aura doing nothing to quell it. It was becoming unbearable, to lie there in the all-encompassing silence of her main room and let her thoughts run rampant.
She sat up, kicking as quietly as she could off of the cot and tiptoeing down onto the warm, soft grass. Already she felt the ache in her heart ease, and she took in a deep breath of the night air to let it calm her further. She slid her hands into the sleeve of the opposite arm as she wandered the small clearing outside the hut. The ashes of the burnt-out fire—one that he'd summoned from his very lungs—had long since stopped smoldering.
In brief bursts she thought of what it was like to clash with him that morning. The sturdiness of his body, the careful, analyzing darting of his eyes taking in even the most minuscule of her muscle twitches, ready to strike back or defend. And though he had nowhere near her capacity for chakra-enhanced strength, his natural capabilities were plenty strong enough. She could imagine perfectly the sculpt of his arms beneath his robe, the muscles beneath his broad shoulders down his tapered back as his form gave way to his toned waist and his hips and—
She blinked harshly, trying to banish the thoughts, especially as she was beginning to realize that these fantasies had made the soreness swell in her breasts. Frustrated in a way she couldn't understand, she set off for the stream. At this time of night its warmth was usually long gone, and the chill of the water sounded like it could fix her. When she reached it, she took a moment to admire the scenery in a way she hadn't had the time earlier. She stretched out her arm, trailing her fingers along the wide trunk of a colossal tree, her eyes following its ancient lines down to the gnarled roots digging into the ground, some of them even cropping up through the trickling water, between the rocks.
Something tugged at her heart, and she shut her eyes.
"Can't sleep?"
She didn't jump at his approach, the connection between them undeniable when she otherwise might've flinched in surprise. Instead of turning to look at him, she tipped back her head to rest it on the tree, gazing up at the thumbnail-shaped moon in the sky that peeked through the leaves of the vast forest that lie beyond the water.
"No," she answered. As he came to a stop beside her, she fought a chill. But the night was warm, and that didn't make any sense. "I guess you couldn't, either."
He gave a little hum in the affirmative, following her gaze upwards. "I perhaps wasn't trying very hard, admittedly. I find myself plagued with worry when my family is too restless to sleep, and I suppose it's the case here, too."
She did look at him then, unable to resist the pull. "You're a diligent son."
They stood there watching each other for some time, cricket song and the water the only thing passing between them. He looked tired, but she had come to the understanding that it was just the way his eyes were set, the lines cutting parallel to his nose on either side less from age and more from the stress, she figured, from his day-to-day.
The knot at the center of his throat bobbed, and that was the only warning she received before he sidestepped to stand before her, slamming both of his hands into the tree above her. Looming over her like this he seemed double his size, his hair blocking out the treetops and leaving only the silver sliver of the moon peeking overhead.
She swallowed hard, her lips parting as something she registered only faintly as arousal gave a wild pulse through her. There was something almost intimidating about his stature, but even as her heartbeat thudded louder and louder in her ears she was completely incapable of breaking their intense staredown.
"Who are you?" he murmured, tilting his head only slightly to study her further. She did not miss that his gaze flickered down to her lips, lingering there for a beat too long.
"I'm just—" Her pulse rabbited, beating so hard against her chest she was sure he could hear it. She could feel the long, warm breaths from his nose across her cheekbone. "Just a medicine woman."
He brought a hand to her face, his fingers curled so that his short nails barely grazed along the corner of her mouth, his thumb brushing the tip of her nose. Her breaths came labored now, the contact electrifying her all the way through her toes. Against the fabric of her fastened peasant's kimono, her nipples hardened and ached.
"Don't lie to me," he breathed, his hand snaking along her jawline, his thick, calloused fingers threading through her ever-growing hair at the nape of her neck.
She was shivering slightly, goosebumps breaking out along her spine and the front of her arms. "I'm not anyone," she said, her whisper so quiet against the bubbling stream that she might have imagined her own voice. The reality of her circumstance crushed down upon her in a way she had scarcely felt since her first few days here, alone and afraid. She hadn't spoken a word of it to a soul, had barely even faced it herself. "Who I am, how I got here, where I came from." She swallowed; he was still staring at her, still caressing her face in a way that made the space between her legs come alive. "I don't remember."
"Come away with me." Was there a hint of urgency in his tone? "My father will welcome you as my brother's physician. You will be compensated, fed, clothed—not in a shack, and not by your lonesome. And I"—his breath caught, only just so, barely perceptible—"will do what's in my power to find the answers you seek."
Her heart could not take much more. Plenty of her patients had offered to whisk her away to someplace better-suited for her, but his was easily the most convincing. His nature—quiet, observant, kind—entranced her in a way she'd never thought possible.
So gently she could've dreamt it, he murmured, "I know you feel this nexus between us; the force of it."
She did, more than anything in recent memory. But there was one problem.
Prying her trembling hands from where they were all but glued to the trunk of the tree, she lifted her arms and wrapped them around his shoulders, his hair impossibly thick and soft. He did not shy from her touch, merely furrowed his brows just a bit more, the crease between them deepening in what seemed like genuine concern.
"I am bound," she whispered, her forehead touching his and the intimacy after months and months of physical isolation making her world spin, "to these woods."
It happened, then, in a flurry of action. The hand in her hair balled, taking a fistful of pink locks and giving them the lightest of tugs to tilt her mouth to his. Their lips met in scorching heat, Sakura's entire body responding as if lit aflame. He dropped his hand to her waist, pushing his strong frame against her, pinning her to the tree.
His free hand found its way to her chest, slipping between the crossed folds of her robe to paw almost experimentally at her breast. Her anatomy, puckered and still sore from her too-recent mythical pregnancy, reacted like lightning; she arched her back into his touch, needing more of him in a way she couldn't comprehend. The warmth of his palm kneading at her made her moan against his mouth, and when her milk began to bead and leak in small drops, he still was not deterred.
She was driven by instinct entirely, her lips parting to draw her tongue along his mouth and pulling him closer by the neck. He was pinching at her now, tugging and twisting her bud between his thumb and forefinger. When he caught her tongue between his teeth to press his to hers, her knees went weak. His breath tasted like a campfire's woodsmoke, and somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind she could see herself sitting by one night after night, golds and rusts and sunshine yellows dancing off nameless faces, her heart full and home.
Abruptly he removed his exploring hand, dropping them both to the curve of her rear. He hoisted her up with ease, smaller in his arms than she thought possible as she opened her legs to wrap them around his waist. Pulling his tongue from her mouth he planted a kiss instead on her chin, on the small of her jaw, down her neck. She held fast to his hair, glancing down in time to see him grab the collar of her robe between his bared teeth, exposing her breast to the cool night air, hypersensitive to the liquid trailing a line down the underside as she took in a sight most curious:
Her milk was glowing the same pale, sparkling green as her healing flow—the same as her slugs.
The look in his hooded gaze as he stared down at her anatomy was intoxicating, but nothing could have prepared her for the the way his tongue fell from his parted lips. He pressed the flat of it to her leaking milk, slowly lifting his gaze to look her in the eye as he dragged it along the curve of her breast, her ethereal essence pooling on his tongue until he reached the apex. Without meaning to, her own eyes rolled back as she shut them, the eroticism too much to process as he closed his mouth over her sensitive nipple and sucked.
With a gasp she bucked her hips against his chest, her sex convulsing at his ministrations. She could feel as his tongue gave intermittent flicks to the hardened bud, careful to keep his teeth from scraping her uncomfortably. He tilted his head, sucking at her with fervor as he brought a hand to grope at the other, her essence dribbling between his fingers. When he swallowed audibly, she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from whimpering in the intense and sudden wave of arousal that followed.
He drank from her greedily, his hand pushing and pulling at the other all the while. It both amplified and relieve the ache in her, to finally feed—to sustain life—as they were meant to, rather than dealing with them as they leaked during her day-to-day, the swelling gradually lessening.
She was only vaguely aware that the stream beside them seemed to be flowing faster.
Still supporting her weight, he took a few steps back, careful even with his attentions focused elsewhere not to trip over the ancient roots underfoot. He turned and bent to one knee, releasing her breast to lay her onto the grassy forest floor. Once more he brought his hand to her face, his thumb brushing across her cheek, looking into her eyes. He was braced atop her on his opposite forearm, her legs open to him on either side of his hips.
Was it possible for a man to be so gorgeous? She followed his lead, touching his face and doing her best to memorize every detail. He leaned into her touch and she, emboldened by this reaction, gripped his collar in her other hand to push it from his shoulders. His chest, illuminated only slightly by the chakra-glow staining her own, was somehow more perfect than it'd been in her imagination, sculpted and scarred by a lifetime of battle. The more she explored his body with her splayed hands, going as slow as she could to preserve the feeling in her mind, he began to give low, pleasured hums, that crease between his brows appearing again.
She would swear the water was rushing now.
She'd been so distracted by all of these new sensations that she hardly noticed how wet she'd become between her legs, coating even her inner thighs and glowing like moonlight. Lowering himself to kiss her once more, he brought a hand between their bodies and parted his kimono below his sash. His length was impossibly hard when he laid it upon her folds as if in offering, hot as if he'd pressed a log fresh from the fire upon her instead. She ground against it, her hips moving on their own, her body completely rapt in search of pleasure.
There was a pause in the dance of their lips, and it was somehow beyond mere instinct that she understood he was seeking her permission. She tilted her head, slipping her tongue into the shallow flat of his ear—he shivered, his anatomy pulsing once, hard—and told him,
I want you.
But somehow it seemed more a reverberation from her psyche to his, than spoken word.
He joined them together then; she moaned, the sensation overpowering in every regard. Sheathed inside her to the hilt, he buried his head in the crook of her neck and breathed in deeply as his thrusts began, slowly at first. Inside as far as he could go, and pulling out nearly completely, over and over. She was mesmerized by the way he stretched her and stunned, somehow, by his gentleness.
When his rhythm steadied, she found herself moving her hips to meet his. She eased into their coupling, the act becoming as natural to her as healing. He would pull his head back to kiss her, her hands wandering all along his ribs and his spine and his shoulders, hooking her elbows beneath the pits and trying to pull him even closer to her; closer inside of her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, the altered angle allowing him even deeper access.
It was equal parts pain and pleasure within her, the mercy and the curse so distinctly separate but mixing in a way that fueled her lust-clouded mind. She wanted more of him than she knew how to convey.
When he gasped briefly for air, her hands found their way to his face, pushing the fringe from his brow and holding him like a treasure. He cracked open an eye, his expression much like she imagined her own: his brows furrowed, his lips parted. Almost as if in pain for how good it felt.
Somewhere in the furthest reaches of her mind, his voice was like an echo.
You touch me, came his murmur, like you've already loved and lost me.
It could not be denied, and she didn't even try. It defied logic. It defied explanation. But the same could be said of the past year of her life, too, and right now she wasn't exactly itching for answers.
All she could conjure in response was, Then don't lose me again.
That eye—so dark, observant, severe—began to glow, a subtle pinpoint of red lining the iris like a forest fire, spinning outward like a pinwheel and casting her in its unnatural radiance. She shivered deeply, knowing without knowing its familiarity to her, a token of fierce protection or an omen of assured destruction.
The next of his thoughts felt far more private; less like speech and more like fleeting scrutiny. With his pinwheel eye locked to hers, he seemed to answer,
I refuse, my lady.
His intensity grew, his weight braced on one arm while the other hooked securely around her waist as if in reclamation, his hands squeezing her here and there and everywhere, fistfuls of her kimono wrinkling in his strong grip. They did not again kiss, not yet, the force of their passion mounting in tandem with the pleasure between them. She stared up at him and into those ember-burning eyes, watching as he branded the sight of her into his mind. She stared at him until she simply couldn't; one of her legs fell from its hold around his middle, her heel digging into cold, wet earth, pushing her mound into his stomach.
There was a rushing sound in her ears, a chill creeping in through her robes that was overruled just as quickly by the burning heat of their bodies.
Close, she thought, and in response he pressed his forehead against hers. Even now, she could see the hazy starburst from the light of his gaze through her eyelids.
Beautiful—and mine, was all he could think.
That was all it took. There beneath him she broke in a sweat bordering on feverish, a euphoria so profound radiating from the sensitive bud of pleasure between her legs, amplified by his length held tightly within her. Both on fire and shrouded in ice, all at once feeling too much and not enough at all, her lungs light but her throat seized.
She was coming, coming, coming around him, throbbing in her release in a way that made his breath hitch. The light from him vanished. She could feel his jaw fall open, somewhere against her shoulder as his pace grew more erratic, unpredictable. A great tremor shook him, coursing through her like it was her own. A moan tore from him, low and strained and filled with his need that she could feel rumbling in her throat like she was breathing him in, drinking him down, fusing the core of him to hers.
His essence spilled into her, each burst in time with the beat of his heart. Her eyes fluttered open as the force of her climax finally faltered, and she peppered kisses along his sweating jaw. Her hair felt heavy, like she'd just pulled her head from the river to wash it. Lifting himself from her, he looked down at her and blinked. Before either of them could scarcely catch their breath, Sakura's face was submerged in cold water.
Madara reacted in an instant, pulling her by the waist on which his hand had been lingering. With a gasp she landed roughly against his chest, his sex sliding out from hers—and oh did she already ache at the loss of him—as the loud splashes of the sudden movement were almost deafening now that their trance-like ritual was complete. Awareness crept back into her where her orgasm was slipping into nothingness. The realization that her hair was not only indeed wet, but it now shot half a meter longer down her spine; that her peasant's kimono was soaked all the way along her back, too. She blinked once, hard.
They sat in what was, just before he'd met her here, the grassy banks of a stream barely deep enough to envelop a child up to the waist. But now the moss had been flooded as if a typhoon had rolled through, the quiet banks now the shallows of a wide river. It would have taken a colossal storm to bring enough rain for the small stream to overflow and grow so far beyond its original size. Trees, even the tallest of them, stood steadfast as their trunks withstood the force of the water. In time, the grass and soil cementing their roots into the ground would erode away. She wondered what would happen then.
A strange shock settled over her. Shifting her gaze to Madara, she only found him staring out in wonder and perhaps a bit of fear, no trace of that otherworldly glow in his eyes. Idly she pulled the collar of her robe back over her breasts, rising warily to her feet in the river as she gathered her mass of hair in her hands to wring it as dry as she could. It was as long as his now.
He seemed, finally, to come to his senses, standing and resituating his own robe, only marked by the water from the knee down. She saw, just as the fabric covered it when he tied his belt, the fading green glow of her staining his softened member and the thick hairs around it. But whatever had linked them moments ago had vanished, his thoughts silent and closed off from her now as he looked at her with those tired eyes. She swallowed, and as they walked slowly back to her hut, she understood that she almost afraid of what they'd just done, of what they'd felt.
When she woke the next morning, it was to the sound of Madara gathering his things. She sat up from the cot, wiping the stray drool from her face—and trying to examine it subtly, equal parts relieved and confused to find it not glowing like chakra.
"I didn't mean to wake you," he said, knelt formally in the corner as he folded his brother's spare clothes.
She wiped the sleep from her eyes, cleared it from her throat. Even through the lifting cloud of drowsiness she couldn't shake the feeling that he'd been close to leaving without even saying goodbye. It sent a pinprick pinch through her heart, one she tried to ignore—dramatics would do her no favors. She pouted as she tried to stand, her hair snagging on her elbow.
"Damn this," she murmured, shoving off the blanket to stomp across the room where her knives were stored.
He watched her curiously, though perhaps with affection, too, as she took that pink mane over her shoulder to shear it at the nape of her neck. But then his hand was on her wrist to stop her, the other expertly prying the kunai from her palm so suddenly that she'd startled a bit.
"Let me."
She froze, then lifted her chin in slight indignance. And, maybe, tried to stop the blush from crawling to her face at how handsome he was. It was with great effort that she pushed the previous night's events from the forefront of her mind. "I'm perfectly capable of—"
"I want to," he said flatly, motioning with one finger for her to spin and face the door. Her best of glares, she knew, could get grown men older than him to shut up, but it wasn't working, not now. She did as she was told, and as he brushed through her locks with the fingers of his free hand he called for his brother, who poked his head through the charms and prayer strips. "Fold and pack the rest of these clothes. You did a poor job of it last night."
Sakura pursed her lips, doing her best to ignore the warm brush of his fingers against her neck. Somewhere closer to the floorboards, he tied off the ends of her hair into a knot. "Don't be mean."
"I am not mean," he said pointedly. As Okojo passed them to finish packing—his tongue poking out all the while—she felt the cold steel of the knife's edge at her neck instead. Madara must have been gauging the angle of the cut, for the way he pulled back from her. "I am merely providing constructive criticism. Which is more than I'd have to offer if you'd simply chopped your hair off in a fit of frustration."
She wanted to bicker with him, but she could hear a smile in his tone as he held the bottom of her gathered hair taut in his fist. She could feel, as strands were sliced by the edge of the blade, the ease in her scalp and spine, free of the weight. "I've been chopping my hair off every few days for the last thirteen months, thank you."
The boy gave a sort of surprised sound, and Sakura could see from the corner of her eye where he was signing to his elder brother, who translated with a small laugh through his nostrils. "He wants to know if you're serious. Yes, brother, she is. Don't you see the difference from yesterday?" Another pause, and then a more hearty laugh from Madara. "He thought perhaps women's hair is simply like that; he does not know many. It took all my life to grow my hair this long, after all."
He'd finished with the cut, and held out his arm to her side. In his hand was the swath of her bright hair, knotted firmly at the bottom and shining like silk in the dappled morning light. She took it, musing briefly over what she could do with it. Both of the futons were stuffed with equal parts dried grass and her hair, and she'd begun to weave her cuttings into the protective charms hanging over the door. More of those couldn't hurt, she figured.
"Growing hair by means of chakra assistance"—which is what she figured was happening to her, just without any direct input—"requires some precise control, but it's not a jounin-level technique by any means." The boys looked confused by the terminology, but she was undeterred. "If you want long hair sooner than your big brother, I'd be happy to teach you."
"It's a nice thought," said Madara as he stood, "and a generous offer, but we need to make for home."
But a sullenness had come over the younger boy, shaken off in an instant as he puffed up his chest and furrowed his brows. He hadn't even needed to sign, his feelings plain on his face.
"Father will be furious." Madara was collecting their bag and slinging it over his shoulder, not one to waste any time. "If not devastated. Even a youngest son has expectations. And that's not even mentioning the imposition on our host, who has been gracious enough, wouldn't you agree?"
"You must know by now," she interjected before either could say more, "that I'd be happy to oblige."
"You are not helping."
Maybe it was a horribly selfish thing, to so readily agree to a request that hadn't even yet been formally made. Selfish to keep the boy here as if he were collateral, a guarantee that this would not be the last time she saw the Uchiha clan heir. Selfish to want him here to ease her loneliness, to encourage his gentle heart, to keep him away from the war that brought so many broken bodies to her door. Selfish to want to give a boy who looked so familiar to her, who was so beloved by his kin, a chance at childhood, to live like a child should. She shivered where she sat, swallowing down her feelings as she stood. Her shorn hair was still clutched in her fist.
They had been conversing purely through those swirling hand gestures, so much more elegant than the hand signs needed to conjure jutsu. Madara's seemed restrained, as if trying to keep his temper from seeping into the motions. She slipped quietly out into the clearing, their exchange clearly meant to be private, and let the rising sun wash over her, warming her face. The breeze caught lightly in her freshly-cut hair, the most even it'd been since even before she'd arrived in these woods. She shut her eyes to breathe it in, and she swore all of the rocks and the grass and the dew and the insects stopped to breathe with her in tandem.
It was the deep sound of Madara's voice that cut through her strange concentration.
"A month," he was saying, and she glanced over her shoulder through the beads and paper tassels in time to see Okojo scowling, his signing becoming aggressive as his mouth formed silent syllables.
"Two months, and that's only if she agrees," Madara said, his patience thin. After another beat of silence he snapped—though not necessarily in unkindness—"Now is not the time to be coy! Just tell me plainly!"
A tense silence, followed by his approaching footsteps. The boy's, smaller and so much lighter, followed, peeking through the door as Madara stepped down to approach Sakura. He did not look nearly as annoyed as she'd expected. If she didn't know any better, she might even say he seemed dumbfounded.
"I can't believe I'm even asking," he started, shooting a brief glare back to his brother, "but given your...proclivity for the woods, and my youngest's insistence to learn medical ninjutsu, despite our father's wishes against it..." He bristled, his shoulders squaring like he was uncomfortable, his eyes trying not to roll in a sarcastic display of his distaste to make himself so openly humbled. Then, slowly, he bent at the waist, the inky black mass of his hair spilling over his left shoulder—and so long that it touched the ground. "I would be honored for you to take him on as your apprentice. In exchange for your expertise, there is little he can offer: writing, cleaning, and the language of hand signs passed down by Uchiha for generations."
She watched him bowing there for a while longer, taking in how much gravity the request held for this man so duty-bound to his clan, to his father. Then, with as much gentleness as she could manage in her budding happiness, she pulled a few strands from her cut hair, leaving the bulk of it on the ground. She took his hand in hers, relishing the small way he turned his head to watch her, and looped it around his wrist as many times as the length allowed, tying it into itself. Then she reached out and placed the tips of her fingers gingerly to his chin, lifting. He stood tall again, glancing away for only a second before, it seemed, needing to remind himself to look her in the eye. With his face cupped in her hands, he was both weak and strong all at once.
"Of course I accept," she said. "He'll learn all I know. And I'll protect him with my life."
Was he blushing as she held him there on the forest floor? She certainly felt the twitch of a smile he wouldn't let loose in its entirety. He closed his eyes, tilting his head to give a long, shallow kiss to the palm of her hand, that crease between his brows deepening before he tore himself away. It took one look to beckon his brother from the hut, who crashed into him in a mighty hug.
Madara ran his hand through the other's hair. "Don't give your mentor a hard time. Mind your manners. Work tirelessly." He gave the boy's shoulders an affectionate shove to separate them and looked to Sakura, addressing her now. "I will tell my father he is staying for extended treatment of the lungs. If...certain circumstances permit, I'll return for him within the year. My presence is often required at the battlefront."
An understanding passed between them, darting through them like a bolt of lightning. He was doing this as much for his own sake as he was for Okojo's or hers. This way, the boy would need not die uselessly on a field far from home, for a cause he cared—and surely knew—nothing about. With his safety all but guaranteed, it was one less thing for the clan heir to worry about, the weight of the world already heavy on his back.
"Be well," he said, his expression never faltering, that stoicism surely a crutch. "I will give Father and Izuna all your love." And then he turned, as if he'd merely been passing through in the wrong direction, and started walking.
Sakura watched him for some time, rooted to the earth in a way she could not comprehend. Each of his footfalls, no matter how small his figure shrank through the trees, drummed deep inside of her ears. Every blade of grass that swayed and parted for him she could feel as if he were brushing his fingers across her calves, and every stretch of moss crushed underfoot sent a stinging twinge through her veins. He was out of sight now, but she could hear his breath on the breeze like a sweet sigh. A spot on the top of her head tingled pleasantly as she was struck with the image of him trailing his knuckles admiringly along the wildflowers bursting from the wild brush.
The wind was tearing through her just-cut hair, her feet pounding against the ground before she'd even realized she was running. She knew exactly where to go, the thrum of the trees and the grass and even the clouds spiriting her to him. Her heart pounded its frenzy against the cage of her ribs as she leapt over roots and rocks, pushing past the thickening trees. The stream—no, the river, now—twisted close, the landscape utterly transformed by its wide expanse, and that was when she saw him.
He stood on the other side already, the hems of his traveling pants dry; he must have bounded across it. She came to a stop on the newly-formed shoreline, hardly out of breath but finding her chest heaving as if she'd been sprinting all morning. There was no way she could let him leave yet, no way she could let him get far enough that she could not follow, without telling him one thing. He hadn't asked, of course, and even though she'd already given him plenty she hadn't given to anyone else, this one, somehow, felt the most intimate.
She sucked in the sweet midsummer air and shouted,"Oi!"
Madara had already halted, and from the way he turned she knew he'd felt her rapid approach. He watched her from across the rushing water.
"Sakura!" she called, standing straight as bamboo with wide eyes. He raised a brow, his expression not betraying anything else. "My name," she explained. "Haruno Sakura!"
All was still, even the flowing water seeming to calm as he looked on, his eyes holding hers with the same tenderness she'd had minutes ago, her hands on his face. Around his wrist, her braided hair caught in the light. The flood of memories made only the night before was upon her now the longer she looked, images of him looming over her and suckling at her ethereal breast and losing himself inside of her all waging a sensual assault across her mind and her soul. The sound of his voice in her head, knowing his thoughts as they came and went, their psyches connected in ways unintelligible.
Then, he smiled.
It was a sight to behold. Small, still, but perhaps even shy, but heartbreakingly gorgeous. She took in the glint of the sun on the few teeth that showed, the laugh lines on his cheeks and a dimple near the side of his nose. The way his eyes seemed to be more alive than ever, the skin around them crinkling slightly. His fringe fell here or there, framing his face in a perfect asymmetry. She pressed it all to her memory, refusing to ever forget no matter what other strange world she might find herself in.
Too soon, he had turned and walked on.