The Yin and the Yang

by lilac haze

AU. Non-canon. Modern setting. ER Doctor Sakura Haruno. Subjectively speaking, Minato Namikaze is bad at his mystery job. Age gap less than five years. MinaSaku. In which two strangers learn to find balance not only within themselves but each other and all the struggles that come along the way give one major event that was lead up by thousands of tiny decisions and steps.

6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto

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A/N: Hello Reader,

Welcome back. This chapter is a little on the darker side - leaning into the angst. Some humor sprinkled in. Thanks for your support. Hope you like!

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Chapter 6

Words may be easy to say in a moment found to be receptive, but actions are harder to align.

Hindsight has more perspective. Wisdom comes with time.

Minato stared up at the stationary ceiling fan momentarily resting his eyes in a shift of focus, his fingers restlessly drumming against his navel.

Sumida. She reads Sumida. She can recite Sumida.

He had been so caught off guard that he did not have the chance to respond - to banter. The words of Takayuki Sumida, a renowned poet, were known to fewer and fewer minds; held in the corners of brains even less. The backlight of his phone illuminated his face even at the lowest setting. A thumb ceased its bottomless scroll, finding what a pair of cobalt eyes searched for.

"Take not lightly my spent breath, for it is not something I can gather and collect. If a lie finds its way to you, I pray for death. I'd gladly lose my life before I lose your respect," he read softly out loud to himself what he had been unable to say to her in a moment that was gone.

Minato turned off the phone.

Thoughts of you linger,

Moon's light dances on the wall,

Sleep evades my bed.

He sighed.

---

He breathed through his mouth. The orange, plastic contraption with little jigsaw teeth sank deeper into the lone pipe. He twisted as he continued to list things in his head that invoked pleasantness.

Pandas, ducklings, flowers, pink….

The last one was a mistake. He made a face, unable to stop himself from taking in the tangled mess that was at eye level. Pink. Or it had been before the sludge from the pipes coated it in gray. A lot of former pink but even some strands of blond. He gagged, covering his nose with his other arm. The scent of his deodorant wafting up occasionally was nowhere near strong enough to keep the putrid, rancid, stank from making his eyes water. As carefully as he could - all while still giving speed consideration - he moved the mass over to the plastic bag lying in wait dutifully with its mouth open wide. He slapped the hair and such into it, using the sides to scrape as much of it as he could before he went back in for another attempt. His nose crinkled behind the medical mask, which did not help in the slightest way.

With repetition, the process did not get easier he found, much to his dismay. It was on the third and final extraction that he heaved so violently that he thought it was it - he tasted vomit in the back of his throat - he had glanced over his shoulder and was more than relieved that the door had not changed in any way. She did not see the extreme moment of weakness. She would probably not look at him the same way again - the narrative he outlined in his head. He had his tools so it was imperative that he make the most use of them. It had been a while since he had worked with his hands - hand and a half as his body was quick to remind him. Sakura did not pose that convincing resistance as the water was starting to pool a little too long at the bottom, the drain failing to live up to its name and purpose. She had sighed begrudgingly and told him not to overdo it and busied herself with whatever she deemed worthy of her time.

With a gloved hand, Minato placed the tool into the bag and secured it with a loose knot. He ran the tap. The speckles of dark sludge washed away from the pebbled tile and the light grout. The blue latex glove helped guide the water to be its most efficient all without ever touching his toes. It was when there were no more remnants that he could see - because the smell was still very much engaged - that Minato turned off the sprout and half turned. He found the drain cover and the two screws he had left on the shower bench. He gathered them carefully before he squatted down. With precision, he lined the metal grate over the pipe. It was only when it was perfectly aligned that he moved the two small screws from his palm to the openings. He screwed them in. Minato pushed up to his feet, peeling the left glove off his hand and tossing it in the gap left by the handle of the plastic bag so that he did not have to undo the knot. He pushed aside the shower door and deposited the screwdriver in the red bag that was open on the bathroom vanity. He carried it with him in his ungloved hand and he moved out of the bathroom - turning the light off with his elbow.

The bedroom door was open which was helpful given he did not have a hand to spare. He nudged it closed the best he could, stepping into the hallway. He stopped and swallowed.

Damn.

He thought so eloquently at the image before him. Tight black yoga pants - a far cry from the loose clothes, practically swallowing her, that she usually wore - wrapped around a plump rear that was in the air in a demonstration of flexibility that should not have come as such a surprise. It was pointed right at him for appraisal. What else was he supposed to do? There were no lines leaving his far-from-clean thoughts to connect the dots to the picture; such thoughts, that if he remained in the company for much longer, it would be impossible to deny any allegations she may have.

A deep exhale of air had him doing the same albeit much, much quieter. He stared to add to the stoppage in full commitment to being a massive creep. The woman - the instructor - was saying something on the TV screen but Minato paid her no mind. He was not one to be distracted especially when he was without a mental list of tasks to occupy his mind; from de-clogging the drains, fixing the door, greasing the tracks to the sliding door, and whatever else he had been tinkering with before she started her yoga session. At least he thought it was yoga.

Suddenly a lot more made sense as to why Rihito was so committed to his three-days-a-week class schedule.

All that bullshit about it being good for his balance and back.

There was movement, the rest of her straightened - spine stacked. Elbows bent to allow for her palms to touch. Milky skin - without a flaw - contained in a pink and maroon strappy sports bra (the only proof he had seen to date that she owned one - not that he watched her do her laundry with that in mind or anything) that crisscrossed in the back. The ends of silky, pink tresses brushed the bottom of the fabric. His gaze traveled upward to her neck until it landed on the peak of the high ponytail. Pink. The best shade of pink. The prettiest shade there was, the pink of her cheeks and lips were a close second and third. Her arms fell to her side. She rolled her shoulders - the movement drew in his eye once more to that part of her. Toned and radiant and usually hidden away under layers of clothing, a real shame.

"You done?"

He blinked owlishly. Once. Twice. And a third time. He raised his eyes to a pair of jade irises that carried expectation for a response to her inquiry. Her nose was crinkled with disgust. He felt his stomach drop. Surely it was a non-filtered reaction to catching him ogling her in her own home - with his mouth open no less. His jaw was unhinged which was new to his attention so he had no way of safely determining how long that had been the case. A half-baked apology balanced precariously at the tip of his tongue. He opened and closed his mouth - not unlike a simple-minded fish - searching for something that even hinted at mercy in those too-open eyes of hers. Only they were not looking directly at him as he had been. He followed her line of sight to the bag in his hand - the one of plastic.

Oh…right, that.

Relief surged through him. He cleared his throat. "Yes," he said, the lameness was not missed by him. "Um," the weight reminded him he could not reach for the cigarette that was not even there. All alone. "I'll use the drain clearer tonight since the shower will be out of commission for twelve hours," he said just to fill the silence with something other than the sounds of their breathing and their blinks.

"Twelve hours?" She asked with a raised brow, her arms crossing over her chest. She was facing him now. He did not allow his eyes to dip lower than her chin. It was a bigger test of will than he was expecting. "Seems extreme."

"It's heavy duty," he answered, inwardly cringing at himself. "There's a lot of build-up."

You have no idea just how much.

Sheepishness bled into her demeanor. "I usually call a guy when it gets bad," she chuckled nervously, perhaps out of concern over being judged. "It grosses me out too much to even try."

Me too.

He thought back to the jumble of hair and other not-so-pleasant things on the other end of the drain snake. It was one way to get the circulation of blood flow to level back off toward equilibrium. That pink, he thought of that pink and not the pink-pink right in front of him.

"And blood and guts don't?" He teased with an edge that he hoped came across as playful.

"Not at all," she grinned, seemingly none-the-wiser. She lowered onto the floor and began to roll somewhere between the pink and purple yoga mat. Her side was visible to him this time in a new set of visuals to torment him with.

God, I'm gross. Sorry Mom, Aunt Yoshi.

The two women who raised him would most certainly be disgusted - appalled - with the thoughts rolling around in his head. Particularly the ones about him being jealous of her pink and maroon bra. It was doing a job that he would readily do himself - it was not like he was actively busy or anything.

"Thank you for taking care of it and everything else. The lock on the door to the clinic isn't all crickety anymore." Her voice pulled him out of his stupor. The elastic ends sounded when they stuck together. The rolled-up mat stood tall next to the end table. So was she. Still smiling, he noted because he was being strong and decent by treating her as he would a floating head.

A really cute - super attractive - floating head.

"No problem," he said with a level of nonchalance that even Shika would be impressed with - if he could be bothered to care enough to evoke anything other than general disdain for existence.

"Are you really going to send that off with Sasori?" Her voice had moved as she spoke, growing closer before it was far once more. She was in the kitchen and the TV was off.

"It has my DNA," a complication he need not elaborate further on. "He'll be up in ten minutes," he observed the black door of the refrigerator opening. Again her bottom stuck out at a perfect vantage for him to appreciate the shape - because there was only so much a man could do in these circumstances. And like a fool who did not see the trap that the bait was attached to, he did. He proceeded.

"Hm," she answered with her go-to noncommittal response. She closed the door with a swing of her hips, the muscles of her abdomen clenching. A gesture he would go as far as to say was intentional - because there were times he was under the impression that she could read his mind when her sharp gaze was focused on him intently enough - but then there was the reality of both her hands being full. A tall glass container filled with green liquid in one and a plastic cup with a straw through it. It was also filled with the same green liquid.

"I don't understand why he couldn't just wait up here," she said with a frown.

It's because I can only tolerate him in doses right now. And I certainly can't tolerate him commenting on how bendy you are.

Because knowing Sasori, he would. He most certainly would. And while the logical part of Minato knew - he had eyes for crying out loud - that Sakura was a beautiful, accomplished, woman who no doubt had no shortage of men clamoring for her attention and time, he would rather not have to witness it for himself.

"I made us smoothies," she explained in a misinterpretation of the reason behind his silence. "Put it in a portable cup for the drive." She smiled sweetly at him, moving to the table to set both down. She was at the cabinet, pushed up to her toes to reach for a glass.

So that was what she used the blender for.

He had heard the sound - the lights had flickered every time she pressed the button to pulse the blade - from the bathroom. "Thank you," the words left him automatically. "So yoga?" He began conversationally - the start of his fact-finding mission.

Is this new? Or….

"Hm," she nodded her head, ponytail bobbing up and down. The hairs that rested against her skin were curled and slightly darkened with sweat that had dried from the rest of the surface. The fact only seemed to heighten - deepen - the lotion or perfume she used. The kitchen smelled like her - of vanilla and amber wood. Sweet and earthy. Warm. "It's low impact. Helps with stress. Can be done anywhere. Sometimes even on nights when I can't sleep. Figured it was as good a time as any to try to get back into a routine."

"Routines are good," he removed his voice from the guilt - for too many reasons to dig into presently - churning in his gut.

You have no shortage of reasons to stress either.

He lowered the tools at the foot of the end table. By the time he had set the plastic bag on the floor near the trash and pulled off the last glove to stuff into the bag that was now sealed more tightly, she had filled her glass. He washed his hands and joined her on the table. There was something in her glittering green eyes that was fairly novel. She was holding her glass in her hand, elbow resting on the table smirking in some type of way, maybe even a little sadistically but that would just be the PTSD talking. She had not taken a drink yet judging from the clean rims of the glass.

Show no weakness.

If it was going to go through him, he would much rather not have it happen while he was driving. Pushing thoughts away from how he spent his last tens of minutes as he was more than a little queasy already, Minato licked his bottom lip and reached for the cup. His lips wrapped around the straw. She watched the green liquid move up the see-through column. The taste filled his mouth, coating his tongue.

"It's good," he managed to keep the surprise from his voice.

"It's mostly apple juice," she laughed, eyes holding mischievous that he finally placed. "I tasted it before I offered this time," she shared information that would have been helpful prior - saving him the trouble of steeling his resolve, sighing in satisfaction after doing the same - taking a little taste.

Sadistic indeed.

"Maybe call him up after I finish my shower?" Sakura asked him with her head tilted to the side. "Why tempt him, right?" Her eyes darted to the right - to the door that locked from inside the kitchen

He nodded his head, not having to think twice. Maybe she was not as trusting as she came across. He pulled out his phone to alert Hora that the wait had gone up by twenty minutes.

"You're not one of those crazies that do CrossFit are you? Or worse…run half-marathons on holidays?" She asked with ample judgment not even a second after he had hit "send."

Minato smirked, eyeing her over the top of the straw. "What gives you that impression?" He quirked a blond brow with the question, taking more delight than he should in the way her cheeks flushed, betraying the nature of her thoughts.

Like a book. Tease of a cover. Easy to read.

Sakura pressed her lips together, clicking her tongue behind the sealed vault they came to be much too late. "Drink your smoothie," she scowled, jaw relaxing enough to work words out, in not-so-quite admittance of defeat.

Progress.

His expression softened into a grin right before he did just that - not registering the message that lit up his phone without a chime or vibration.

Aye, aye, Captain.

The sarcasm dripped to the point that it coated his phone again not to his notice because the only thing capturing his attention for more than a few fleeting seconds at a time were her green, green eyes. Sasori had to wait well over an hour as they spoke slowly and sipped their drinks even slower still.

Tentative words shared,

Roots reaching beneath the soil,

Slow growth, hearts align.

xXx

Every time he raised his left arm over his head - which given the task was admittedly more than his yoga-pant-wearing doctor would be happy with - he felt the tug of his stitches. Sharp, stabbing pains that gave way to heart-stopping thoughts that he tore them open. His yoga-pant-wearing doctor would definitely not be happy with that - not that he was still thinking about it. On top of it all, he had to keep the pain off his face - his eyes - every time Mebuki came into the hallway. She was a micromanager to the level he had not had the misfortune of meeting in nearly two decades in the Akatsuki. Shikaku could learn a thing or two from her that very well could propel the Nara to the undisputed first spot in the syndicate and that was a horrifying realization. The two could never cross paths for the sake of harmony. He pressed the white button, grimacing as an ear-splitting screech screamed three times. His whole brain rattled in his skull.

I regret not picking up earplugs.

"That's the last of them, Ms. Haruno," he distributed his weight over his feet equally. He stretched his neck from side to side feeling the kink that was adamant to form after days of complaint he did not heed. "All the smoke detectors have their batteries replaced. No more late-night wake-up calls."

Mebuki eyed him up and down and frowned with unabashed disapproval. "Your shoulder is still bothering you."

Nothing gets past you, Ms. Haruno.

She was eagle-eyed and it was fitting because Minato was trying not to squirm like an enticing worm waiting to be picked apart in the too-warm hallway. He was close to the furnace vents. Mother and daughter seemed to share a preference for scalding ambient air temperature. All the movement and stretching worked up his sweat glands.

"I heal slowly," he said with a disarming smile - the one that Mebuki was impervious to but he was consistent.

"My daughter didn't set you straight?" Mebuki narrowed her eyes at the thought that crossed her mind. "She's not the one who did this to you, is she?"

He did not even want to begin to think about what she was implying. He tugged the suddenly too-high neckline of his sand-colored pullover. "No, Ms. Haruno. I zigged when I should have zagged on the court. Not as young as I used to be," he turned his shoulder in a very not recommended action to prove to her that he was what he was clearly not: fine. Between this morning and now, he was at his limit. "Ms. Haruno, you mentioned needing tools?" He asked to draw her attention back to the reason why he was here at all - allegedly.

"Are you a bum?" She asked him out of the blue, seemingly.

"I'm sorry?" He asked, on the cusp of bewildered.

"You came when I asked. The very next day. People with jobs can't just drive down an hour on a whim and spend an hour changing batteries," she said in a tone that was accusatory and confrontational.

I also replaced two whole smoke detectors after two trips to the store.

He thought in his head defensively, not a huge fan of her minimizing his efforts. Not that he was keeping score or anything. "Thursdays happen to be my days off."

"You were here on a Friday last week," her tone was dripping with suspicion that determined the set of her features. "Where did you meet my daughter again?"

"I work a 9/80 schedule. I get every other Friday off," he answered without missing a beat. "And at Naruto's, the coffee shop near where Sakura and I work." The one run by his mentor, who was a defect from the Senju Clan faction of the Akatsuki, opened years after he ran off with their princess - the only granddaughter. "So the tools?" Minato nudged the red bag at his feet.

"Guest sink," Mebuki stopped short of throwing up her hands. "The damn thing is leaking, sending the water bill up astronomically. I got a letter in the mail. It was addressed to Sakura but it was from the city so I opened it," she turned around to look at him, brows flat with impatience. "Are you coming or what?"

"Yes," he bent down to close the bag. He secured it in his grip before following after her.

"She keeps saying she'll just enroll in paperless statements but I tell her that's a scam. She'll just blindly send money every month and never check. I live here. I need to know what goes on. So to humor me, she does both." Mebuki pulled a door open to reveal a small half-bath. It was tidy. The vanity was press-wood. The mirror was round and both were painted white. The porcelain sink was glittering; it was so clean. "She probably would have just paid a guy to take a look around here, and not question the invoice he gave her. That girl is a sucker," Mebuki tutted. She refocused her ire on him once more. The translucent blond hairs on his arms stood on end. Minato braced himself mentally for what was to come out of her mouth. "Don't tell me that you don't have any friends."

Not many. Maybe not even one - it feels like that sometimes.

"I do. The ones I play basketball with once a week," he said instead because honesty was not always the foot to lead with, in his experience.

"So what's wrong with you?" Mebuki asked him point blank, abandoning all facade of tact. "A man like you, one with a job, no kids, a full head of hair, height, good temperament, and genes should have been married by now. At least once!"

He feigned reflection and introspection when in reality the only thing he was trying to determine was whether it was permissible to laugh, or if he should feel some semblance of offense. A distinction without difference. Silence granted quite a bit of room for interpretation. Room to react and reframe the parameters of the discussion.

Things aren't always simple. Black and white.

"I've had more than my fair share of bad luck when it comes to relationships, Ms. Haruno," he coated the oversimplification with sincerity while his gaze was locked with hers.

Breath of one small lie,

Spinning a web endless tales—

Truth lost in construct.

Mebuki's face pinched together in what he assumed was the calibration of her bullshit meter. Green eyes did not betray any modicum of positive emotion as they bore into him, searching for what he kept guarded away from the world. Hidden under layers of a composed demeanor.

"Carry salt," she said without color with her arms crossed over her chest. "Do you like udon?" Her stare transitioned to expectant.

"I like udon."

"Good, get to work and by the time you're done, lunch will be ready. What was Sakura's excuse this time to stiff you with the groceries?" Mebuki's reflection did not soften the judgment in her mirrored eyes even minutely.

"She's helping out with a new initiative at the hospital for-"

"Forget I asked. There's always something with that girl. Who can bother keeping up?" Mibuki flicked her wrist dismissively, not even waiting to hear the excuse he had rehearsed so he would get it just right. Sakura did not need to remind him. He knew exactly what he was getting himself into this time around.

With a sigh, Minato set the bag on the sink, opening it before he crouched to get a better angle on the supposed leak that was driving up the water bill. The vanity was narrow, he would have the lie back at an angle - something his yoga-pant-wearing doctor would definitely not be happy about, that much he knew.

xXx

The tower of blocks clattered across the table. "This is bullshit," Sasori threw the Jenga piece in his hand for the sake of thoroughness. His previous agitation of being left in the car - "like a damn dog", Sasori's words not hers - left him with a shorter fuse than usual. Minato's frosty reception did not help matters in the slightest. The change in him was sudden, the moment Sasori had entered the room, the lightness left Minato and it was replaced by something much heavier. Disapproval was the closest she could come to placing it.

I wonder if being annoyed is preferable to being bored.

Sakura clicked her tongue as she watched Sasori clear the table of the remaining blocks with a sweep of his gangly, boneless arms. They fell onto the soft carpet. "Mature," she quipped, resting her face against her curled hand - unamused. Her elbow was propped on the coffee table while she sat on the rug, leaning into it.

"I thought so." Sasori yawned loudly. He slumped back against the couch. "You got any booze?" A finger twisted near the crown of his head. Crimson danced against the digit.

"I do," she glanced at the clock not-so-subtly. "But you're not getting it from me."

"Stingy," he said without much emotion, lips barely committing to any movement. "You didn't even prescribe the good stuff for the Lieutenant. The man only got shot, you know." He paused to press his lips together. "Heartless," he murmured in a volume loud enough for her to hear.

"Yes, I know. I was there," she rolled her eyes, playing with a block - tapping it against the table while her mind wandered. "Painkillers of that class are regulated. I can't just go around handing them out like candy. And sometimes they do more harm than good."

Especially for certain groups.

"Namikaze isn't the type to get addicted. He would have been fine. You effectively took away the best part of getting shot at," Sasori droned with his eyes closed. He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing softly.

She did not ask him if he would like water as she had the previous three times he had done the same. "Speaking from experience?" The curiosity was not filtered from her voice. The block stopped producing noise.

"What do you think?" He blinked slowly at her. Without warning he lifted his gray shirt. A dark scar, against pale skin, at his side caught her attention before the dark line of tattoos began.

"It grazed you. A couple of years ago?" She asked him with a frown, speaking to the laceration.

Whoever did your stitches deserves to have their license taken away.

The scar was atrocious. She furrowed her brow.

They used staples! Judging from the still stark coloring, it doesn't look like he followed good after-care instructions.

"Eh about two and a half," he wiggled his fingers, releasing the cloth from his grasp. The scar was hidden away once more. "Was conducting a weapon handling class for the recruits. Called one up to help with a demonstration. It ended up becoming a case study in what not to do. The usual doc was out for the day but thankfully Mutt knew how to pick a lock. The only time he's ever proven to be useful. It was his fault though. What kind of dumbass doesn't know the difference between a loaded gun and an empty one when handing it to an amateur?"

Her face lost color. She drowned him out for a moment. "Oh my god."

He did it himself. He stapled himself shut.

"He had nothing to do with it," Sasori stuck his pinky in his ear and shook roughly, leaving her to wonder just what was between his ears. "The cadet washed out. Joined the money side. His brain is better suited behind a desk. By far. Best weeks of my life."

Sasori unsupervised in a medical clinic is akin to a child in a candy shop. Not good.

She fought every urge to glance at the door in her kitchen. She did not want to plant an idea in his head. Not even a little bit. "Is that how it started?" She asked him with a forced casualness.

"The details are boring and tedious," he dismissed with a shrug what had to be a harrowing ordeal. Traumatic none-the-less. "I'm used to it. No big deal."

I disagree. I'm sorry that happened to you, Sasori.

He tapped his fingers to his forehead repeatedly.

"Where do you get your nails done?" Sakura could not help but admire the purple tips. They were shaped and maintained beautifully. Not a single chip could be found on either hand. "It's gel right?"

He smirked, without tilting his chin down so she could see. "Yeah. A clan joint. They are unmatched when it comes to customer service. Say the word and I'll take you so they can take care of you."

As in take care of…or take care of?

"I'm good, thank you," she said a little too quickly. His dry chuckle said as much without the use of words.

"Live a little, Doc," he smacked the back of the sofa as if it were a drum. He kept a rhythm. "They do clay baths, facials, seaweed wraps, full body steams, messages of all kinds. Your imagination is the limit. If you do go, ask for Jun. I thought I was high, he was that good. If only I could take his fingers and put them on a puppet arm, then I could get a deep tissue massage whenever I wanted. On whim really." He laid his index finger across his upper lip as if deep in thought at the prospect of doing just that. His black jogger pants made a sound every time he moved.

"Thanks for the tip," she grabbed the cardboard box that the game came in. Seeing how the chances of them playing another game were at an all-time low, she began to pick up the wooden blocks. They were not fun to step on. She ignored his eyes; even as her skin pricked.

"Doc," he drawled out, dragging out her misery. "You have nice skin."

She blinked at the unexpected compliment. And that too from someone between six and seven years her junior. "Thank you, Sa-"

"It would look amazing wrapped around my puppet's head. You'd be young forever," he snapped his teeth at her, "think about it."

What a creep. And you expected anything different from him?

She repressed a shudder as it would only encourage him. "As tempting as that offer is," she resumed picking up blocks as if a madman in her home had not just asked her to consider peeling her face. "I'll pass."

"You're no fun." All signs of life beyond the bare minimum left his face. His jaw was slack and his eyes glossy. "At least you're not wearing a garbage bag made out of fleece. An eyesore," he gestured to her sage sweater and black lounge pants.

God, Minato. When are you getting back?

She reached into her back pocket and checked her phone, putting it away with a sigh when the home screen reflected no change in state.

Guess you and Mom and BFFs now.

"So booze?" He asked the ceiling, his fingers were steepled together. Each one was wearing a chunky silver ring. Each ring was unique, unlike the nature of their owner's questions.

Minato!

She nearly slammed her forehead against the table in frustration.

xXx

What the hell was that?

He swallowed back a hiss at the sharp pain in his shoulder. He played off the shake of his hand by poking at the mound of white cream topped with a bright red cherry in a clear crystal bowl with a metal spoon. He waited, willing himself to be hyper-aware of that particular part of himself. He waited for any more surges of pain, sudden dampness, or general hints that he should excuse himself from the room and inspect more closely as to just what that was. But the pain dulled just as quickly as it came and there was nothing. Absolutely nothing and that had him accepting his fate with defeat.

When Mebuki had offered him salad after their meal he had been slightly confused as to the order in it being served but he had chalked it up to Mebuki being Mebuki, now as he held the so-called salad in his hand, he realized just how ignorant and foolish he had been. He brought the filled spoon to his nose. He sniffed. All he got was the artificial sweetness from the canned pineapple. At least he thought it was pineapple.

Why does fruit need more sugar?

Ambrosia salad. He did not get it. At all. He moved some of the salad around so it appeared that he had eaten it. He had tried to lure Cheddar into clearing the bowel while Mebuki was still in the kitchen - the woman had insisted they eat in the living room in front of the TV as it was time for her evening show - but Cheddar wanted no part of interacting with the concoction. At all. Minato smiled automatically when the blonde-haired woman clad in a white wool knee-length dress sat down on the seat next to him. She crossed her legs at the knee. Her tights were hot-pink and opaque.

"You must be serious about my daughter," Mebuki claimed as she fiddled with the remote, squinting at the numbers despite the fact her reading glasses were hanging from a chain around her neck. "The fact you're here again. I fully expect you to ask for blessings." She sighed in satisfaction when she found the channel she was seeking. "Have you seen this show? A vapid couple that should probably be divorced goes looking for their next house to buy."

It's probably all staged for views.

"No," he shook his head. "No, I haven't seen the show," he clarified at the absolutely livid glint in Mebuki's eye. "And yes, I am serious about Sakura."

And for the blessings…it's early.

Way too soon to be thinking about that even if Mebuki never failed to bring it up somehow - every time there was a diamond commercial on the TV (which seemed to be every third one - something very telling about the target demographics), her less than passive comments, they were watching a show where women were shopping for their dream wedding dresses. It was blatant and in his face. And not even a couple of hours removed from her interrogation trying to get to the bottom of why he was single - or what was wrong with him as she had so bluntly put it.

"Good," Mebuki accepted, gruffly. She chewed on her salad. "Everyone leaves Sakura. Everyone," she let out a long sigh like she had been holding that onto her chest for a while now. "Except me," she shook her head. "Only for her to leave me here with the damn cat."

Cheddar meowed in lazy offense. Suddenly the salad did not seem so bad. He shoveled some in his mouth before Mebuki could ask him another loaded question that he was well out of his depth to answer.

xXx

Each step up the stairs was growing more heavy than the previous. The salad was a boulder in his stomach. His shoulder ached. The air was not cold enough to numb it any more than his jacket was warm enough to soothe it. He paused in the middle of the steps to catch his breath. He found himself thankful for perhaps the first time that his best friend was not here to see him. He would never let it go. Especially after all the crap he had given him over the years for taking up smoking so young and so frequently. The lazy-ass with a big brain would not run out of ways to bring it up, probably when he was least expecting it too.

The keys - hers - and dog tags jingled in his hands in encouragement to keep moving. He was out in the open after all. The sun had set. The street lamp on the sidewalk had gone out. The fluorescent tubing needed to be replaced. But he knew the city had better things - higher priorities - than fixing a light in a small neighborhood in Tani, where the average first responder response time was over an hour and that was if they showed up at all. So he understood the need for her clinic. But he was also realistic. There was only so much one person could do before burnout set in. And judging by how her days bled into her nights only to become day again, it was not far. Yet, as he dragged his feet to the last step, he realized he did not have a leg to stand on. Not really.

At least she's not in Koke or Rutsu.

The only two neighborhoods that were worse than Tani and coincidently further south and east toward the borders. Konoha - the city center - operated as if they were not even incorporated areas. Tani was safe in comparison. Maybe it was the commute or the lack of reliability in the trains from those stations. Or maybe Tani was the nexus between valuing her safety and saving money.

Five hundred ryo a month. That's the difference between the best area of Tani and the worst area in Mori. Just five hundred ryo.

Because the security aspect of her home and clinic was very much a factor. She had substances and goods that were in high demand on the black market. Part of him was surprised that she had not been robbed, by a low-level dealer or wannabe, at weapon-point. Before he could delve too far down the prospect of humanity redeeming itself, he thought back to her neighbor. Ms. Honda. She had checked in on her. She left little notes on her door. Maybe there was something more to it after all. Maybe Sakura was not as vulnerable as he believed. But the whole thing still made him nervous. Not that he could ever voice it even if he wanted to.

She loves it.

When he interacted with Hiro - the boy she had treated at her clinic - her eyes lit up in a way he had only seen in pictures. Pictures that seemed to end somewhere around the time she started high school. Only for a couple of sporadic ones to crop up here and there on the pages of the red-leather-bound picture book. And then it jumped right into what had to be undergrad then med-school. Usually of just Sakura and her friends or with Mebuki. Never any more of Sakuto. None of Mebuki's mechanic husband.

He moved through the keys until he found the one that was the simplest among the ones in the ring. He had just positioned it to slide in the lock when the slit changed orientation. His eyes raised just in time to find hers when the door opened.

"Welcome back," she smiled at him softly with relief hidden away in her features.

He smiled. The tiredness seemed to leave him then and there, all at once and without warning. He crossed the threshold still wearing that very smile.

Door creaks open wide,

Familiar scents embrace me-

Day's weight melts away.

xXx

She was hovering. Lingering after asking about his time spent at her mother's. She had listened. She had reacted. She had laughed, she had been embarrassed, she was not fully there. She was as distracted as she was close. But still too far removed from just saying what was weighing on her mind. She was trying to be subtle about it. The first time she had used the excuse of bringing him some green tea, to warm him up from the inside out. "It's light!" She had insisted when he tried to decline by stating he was full. The salad was not allowing him to breathe. The second time she had brought him a plateful of cookies to have with the tea. Again, she watched - unmoving - until he finally gave in and offered to split half with her. She accepted with disproportionate relief. The third time it was to take the empty tea cup away. The fourth was to tuck a blanket around him. Each time he thought she was that much closer to working up her nerve to say something only for her to lose it at the last minute. Now, she was standing there with one slippered foot over the other and her hands tucked away into her too-long sleeves. He imagined that she was twiddling her fingers.

"Sakura," he was staring right at her the whole time. But saying her name while doing it eliminated all doubts that he had failed to notice the progression of the antics. "What is it?"

"Are you comfortable?" She asked in a voice an octave - maybe even two - higher than her usual. "Should I get you the heat pad? Your shoulder must be so sore. Or some painkillers?" She moved to presumably get the heat pad and maybe snag some painkillers on her way back to him.

"I'm fine," he spoke with patience, halting her restless movements. "What's wrong?" Because why else would she be acting this way? So antsy and timid.

"Nothing," she denied, quickly.

Minato swallowed a sigh. "Thoughts race like wind," he pictured the words that had been on his screen in the air, reading them from nothing there. "Chaos blooms in silence deep, peace is a distant dream."

"What?" She asked him, lines marring her forehead.

Minato blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice. Sakura's confusion did not recede. Nothing clicked in the deep silence.

She mustn't have read that one.

"Sakura," he cleared his throat. He could feel the tips of his ears gather heat. "It might feel better to put it out there - talk it out."

"You're not all talked out after spending five hours with my mom?" She asked in light jest.

"Two and a quarter. Two hours were spent on travel. And forty-five minutes at the stores. I'm not talked out or listened out. I'm fine," he said with inviting softness. Like a well-worn couch level of comfort.

She tucked her hair behind her ears. She moved to sit next to him, knees turned in his direction with her palms curled around them. "I don't know if something is wrong per se. I'm probably just being way too paranoid and overly cautious. It's probably nothing. But the timing of it is suspect. And I don't want to not say something and have it turn out to be something because that would be irresponsible and reckless, not to mention it could be dangerous. And the last thing I want is for someone I know to get hurt or make your life harder than it already is and…," she bit down on her lip in a manual stop, looking to him for aid - to save her from the onslaught of words she pushed out and the ones still waiting for their turn.

"It's okay," he reached out and squeezed her hand. "More information is better than no information. Being overly cautious is better than the alternative."

She seemed to relax at that. "Okay," she breathed. "Okay," she nodded her head. She reached behind her with the not the hand he did not acknowledge to himself that he was still holding. She held her phone to him. It required work to not jump to the wrong conclusion. "While you were driving back, I got phone calls from a number I don't recognize. Three of them, one right after the other. And they left a voicemail after the third call."

He let go of her hand, trading it for her phone. He could see the notifications that aligned with her story.

It's not a number I recognize.

Not even Hora had the number to the burner. No one else did. So the odds were slim that it was for him. He kept his phone on at all hours as it were - he did not get to clock off. There was no reason for someone to know her number other than the ones she told herself.

The possibility of it being wiretapped is effectively zero.

The burner was clean - new.

"It's probably just a telemarketer or a spam call," she sounded like she was convincing herself more than him. "I didn't know if it would be stupid to do a reverse number lookup on the phone or my computer. I figured I would wait for you before doing anything?" Her voice raised at the end of the word in question. She was searching his face for indication, no doubt that she did the right thing.

"That's good," he lowered his eyes back to the glowing screen. "If you listen to the voicemail, it won't give away your location or open us up to being tracked. Did they text you or email you anything? Maybe with a link?" He let out a breath when she shook her head.

"No texts, no emails. I didn't click anything," she pointed to the phone. "That's exactly how it was."

"Okay," he clicked the voicemail icon. "It's a Konoha area code before the new one was introduced." It was out of necessity. Konoha's borders had increased and they needed more numbers to accommodate the need. "So it's likely not spam." The spam bots had the new code. "You should listen to the voicemail." He held the phone for her. She made no move to reach for it back. He measured the words. "Would you like me to be here when you listen to it?"

She lowered her eyes to somewhere in her lap. Her fingers tightened around her kneecaps. Probably born out of frustration in herself for feeling the way she did. For the hesitancy. "Please," she murmured just loud enough to be intelligible even if he had to strain his ears.

"I'm right here," he coaxed, gentle and reassuring.

With a nod, she took the phone. Her torso moved up and then down to accommodate a deep inhale and exhale. She glanced at him to gauge his readiness perhaps. He nodded wordlessly. She tapped the speakerphone icon first before pressing the play button on the burner phone held between them.

There was a second of silence. Maybe two. The small blue circle moved further to the right on the progress bar.

"Sakura," a deep baritone voice called out. Minato was studying her face already so he saw the color drain from it as if all the blood had been let out from her body. "This is your-"

It happened so fast. She clicked the pause button followed by the speakerphone icon, all before rising to her feet. She left the room with hasty steps. The door slammed shut. The lock was engaged next. Then there was nothing. Just silence.

He blinked at the closed door, waiting. Seconds built up to minutes which were collected in groups of tens. She emerged from the room twenty-seven minutes later. He straightened his spine at the sight of her. Her face was blank. Her eyes were clear. The cushions sank as she sat next to him. She turned on the TV. She leaned back in the cushions, surfing the channels as she played with the blue drawstrings of her hoodie. Nothing held her attention and yet, she had all of his.

The part of his brain that was working told him to correct the orientation of his head because while she was silent, she was volatile. He could sense that from her. He turned to face the TV. He watched the channels flicker quickly enough to give him motion sickness. The build up in the drains would have to wait. She was not coming back out. He was not going to be granted access. Not tonight.

This is your…who what?

---

Her hand was shaking as she brought her phone to her ear. She listened to the line trill. Back and forth she walked in a straight line in her room. Door locked. Jaw clenched. Anger slipped through the barriers she had put up. Twelve hours. She received the voicemail twelve hours ago and that was not enough - nowhere near enough - to curb her anger any, waiting ten times as long might not make a difference. Her pace was impacted when a voice answered the phone.

"Hello?" Mebuki asked.

"Mom," her teeth just stopped short of gnashing together. Sakura released a breath for no less than three seconds. It made no difference. "Yesterday your ex-husband called. He left a message," she ran an agitated hand through her hair, pulling at the strands hard enough that the threat shook the roots. She held them in place on top of her head and off her neck where they had sat like a noose.

"Sakura," her mother sighed in resignation. There was a long pause or at least Sakura thought it was. She waited until her patience gave way.

"Any idea how he got my number, Mom?" She accused without directness.

Please tell me it wasn't you. Please tell me you didn't do this. Even if it's a lie.

"I gave it to him," she said. Because Mebuki was not one to tell Sakura what she wanted to hear.

"Mom!" She groaned in frustrated betrayal. She did not know what was worse: Mebuki giving him her number or being so unbothered in admitting to it.

How could you?

She asked in her head because she could never bring herself to ask out loud, setting herself up for even more disappointment wrapped in heartbreak.

"Do not take that tone with me, Sakura. He is your father!" Mebuki snapped harshly. So harsh that if Sakura was any less angry, she would have flinched.

"He stopped being that a long time ago," Sakura failed to hold her tongue but she was not sorry. No, she only had the bandwidth for anger. Right now, all she saw was a wall of red. Rage. "You shouldn't have given him my number, Mom. You shouldn't have told him what you did."

You shouldn't have done this to me.

"Sakura," Mebuki sighed yet again but this time, her tone had more than a subtle hint of impatience. "Why aren't you at work?" How quickly the tonal shift switched to demanding, that too was familiar but not in any way that brought comfort - not even remotely.

"I called in sick," she lied without remorse.

"Are you alright?" Concern, concern bled into Mebuki's voice but Sakura was not moved or softened.

"No," Sakura shook her head, knowing full well Mebuki could not register the action. Just like how Mebuki could not observe how Sakura was continuing to pace. But she could hear the slight breathlessness of the word. Her daughter was so angry that she was shaking. Nothing was stable. "I'm not, Mom."

I'm not okay.

"Well, you don't sound congested. So it can't be the flu. Just rest up. Only God knows how ragged you've been running yourself with new whatever it is. You make it impossible not to worry about you, Sakura. Did Minato-"

"Mom," she cut her off, not taking stock of how quick Mebuki was to move the conversation to anyone but her - her frustrated daughter. "Why did you tell him? Why did you tell him anything at all?"

…When I asked you not to. When I asked you not to tell him anything about me. How could you tell him?

"Whether or not you want it to be true, he is your father. It's not like you would have told him yourself." Her mother reprimanded her through the phone, all those miles away. "Your father has the right to know."

No.

"He has no rights. He gave up his rights. But you keep trying to hand them back to him." She shook her head in dumbfounded disbelief. Her grip around her phone tightened. Her fingers were so sweaty that she had to readjust the placement.

"Did you call him back?" Mebuki asked in a measured voice. One without hope. A learned tone that was reinforced through predictable, repetitive behavior. Consistent.

"I blocked his number." She lowered herself to the foot of her bed. The shaking in her shoulders had moved to her knees. She did not trust their integrity anymore.

He threw us away! Like we were nothing.

"Sakura," her mother said with exasperation. "Why are you being so stubborn?"

Why can't you see?

She closed her eyes over the hot tears she refused to shed. She had cried enough over the man in her childhood. She refused to give him anymore. Just like how she had nothing to say to him, she had nothing to give him. She was done. She was left completely hollow.

Why can't you accept that?

"M-mom," her voice broke, she covered her mouth to hold back a shudder but it was too late. She breathed heavily.

"Sakura, he was my husband for almost thirty years," Mebuki reminded her with a scolding that lacked any trace of gentleness. "You can't tell me not to talk to him."

I never asked you to.

She had no right to ask her mother to. Her mother was an adult. It was her life. And Sakura respected that. She respected her decision even if she did not agree with it.

"Mom, I know," her voice was more in her control now. "All I ask is that you don't talk about me." That was it. That was her only line.

Am I being too unreasonable?

"Everyone has moved on. You need to move on too. You can't keep hanging onto all this anger. You need to let go. You're killing yourself."

"I'm fine," a growl of frustration at her mother's inability to see her side, ripped through Sakura's raw throat. "I've been fine. I don't need his money. I don't need his resources. I don't need his concern. I don't need his time of day. I don't need his advice. I didn't need it then. I don't need it now. Tell him to stop calling. Tell him to stop wasting his time. It's valuable. Tell him-"

"Stop yelling at me," Mebuki snapped at her - voice struck Sakura like an open-faced slap.

Sakura blinked. She had not realized that her volume was rising. She breathed. "I'm sorry, Mom." She lowered her head. The guilt on the back of her neck made it daunting to keep it upright. "I'm sorry," she repeated in a hoarse whisper. "I'm sorry I yelled," she apologized yet again, with twisted anguish. "I love you, M-."

She heard a little chime. She swallowed thickly at the lump in her throat. She peeled her phone from her ear. Her home screen greeted her. Blank. She stared at it until it went dark. Her own reflection judged her. She leaned forward until she was no longer sitting. She pulled herself mostly upright. She tapped the phone against her palm. Over and over, to the point that the cumulative pain almost registered. Her bottom lip was between her teeth. Her pink slippers dragged against her carpeted floors. Her eyes darted to the closed curtains. Air, she needed air. Sakura tugged on her black zip-up hoodie that had been flung carelessly across the wicker lid of her laundry hamper. She regarded her shorts. They were on the casual side, they were strictly indoor clothes, and it was supposedly cold outside but she figured her anger would keep her warm. Who was she trying to impress anyway? She raked a hand through her hair, mussing the strands.

"A walk," she said to herself. "A walk will help." The air in her room was stale. It was suffocating. "Maybe even a run."

I'll keep going until I throw up.

Because something had to give. She had to make space somehow, someway before she exploded. There was zero duality in her steps as she made her way to the door. She turned the knob and stepped into the very short hallway. He looked up from the small table in the kitchen. He was on her computer, pretending really hard to not appear so guilty.

He heard the whole damn thing. It's fine. He and Mom can chat about it next week. They can talk about how horrible I am. Their own little support group.

"I'm going on a walk," she announced, voice strong. She would not suffer fools and that included herself and her self-destructive tendencies. "I won't be long."

That had him on his feet. "Sakura." He was frowning at her - not happy at all.

Join the club, Blondie.

She spared him no further consideration as she half-turned with the intention of crossing the living room to the shoe rack by the door. She would have to go without socks today. She had not thought that detail through and there was no way in hell that she was turning around now. He might use the additional time to try to talk some sense into her and she would not have that.

"Sakura," he was in front of her now, blocking the door from her line of sight with his broad, broad shoulders and tall frame.

Out of my way!

"Move," she warned him as tactfully as she could. For all she cared if some Uchiha was lurking in a bush to take her out, he would be doing her a favor.

"I need you to talk to me," he held up his hands, yet another barrier for her to overcome.

Need…need…need!

She snapped. "Everyone and their damn needs!" She shouted at him, lashing out so that maybe someone would hurt like she hurt. "Everyone! You! My mom! My f-father!" Her pupils were dilated, consuming practically the entirety of her iris. "What about my needs? Huh?" She asked incredulously, staring him down with defiance that would not be appeased or placated so easily. "What about my needs?" She repeated with aggression. "Huh?!"

Why does no one care about them? About me?

"What do you need, Sakura?" He countered her trembling anger - the one that made the ground she was standing on quake - with steadfast calm. Unyielding. Unfazed by it and that just pissed her off even more. "What do you need?"

To get the hell away!

"Air."

"Okay." Slowly his hands started to close the distance without her permission but even as she saw them coming, she did nothing to discourage their arrival. She felt them settle on her shoulders. "Breath with me."

With you?! Who the hell do you think you are?

She slapped a hand away. "You don't understand." She could not breathe. That was the problem. She needed to be outside in air that was not mostly carbon dioxide from their expended breaths and exhales of the furnace that should have been deep cleaned five years ago. She needed something other than leftover air. Air that he should not even be breathing. She needed fresh, uncorrupted-by-bullshit air.

I need out!

As badly as a happy, beloved, lap dog did when the front door was left open. It was primal. It was instinctual. It was all she craved. It was all she could think about. Out. She wanted out.

"Help me understand," he held her face between his palms. "Help me understand."

She gulped, loudly, shamelessly. She even forgot that her lips were supposed to hold closed together. His earnestness cut away some of the smoke; the smoke of the fire that burned inside of her. The fire that ate away at her every time she got angry. The more she fueled it, the more of herself she lost. She inhaled deeply to ready herself to scream. At him until her lungs gave out - abandoning her too.

"I'm right here," he comforted, his thumbs gliding across her cheekbones slowly, dragging out the torment, not giving her anger any special attention. He disrespected it so thoroughly that it was mind-boggling.

Touch starved. She was so damn touch-starved that it was pitiful how easy it was for her to crumble. She gazed into an expanse of blue. She need not picture the ocean. He was encompassing.

"T-the," she licked her lips, unsatisfied with the weakness breaking up her voice but unable to do anything about it. She was in freefall. Just when would she slap on the surface flat on her back? Gasping and sputtering for breath? This ocean of fire she was drowning in.

Help.

She could never ask but he offered it all the same. Right there in front of her. An offer that was simply too tempting to resist any longer. She closed her eyes and gave in. She was not brave enough to look him in the eye while she did it.

"The person on the voicemail was my father," her voice was scratchy. She brought a hand to her throat - fingers curling around it. Tight. Enough pressure to create evidence of the presence of her fingertips.

"Come here," he said softly when the weight of her words became too much. A hand slipped from her face down to the inside of her wrist - coaxing it away before it could become a vice. He led her toward the accent chair. She sat down, realizing just how wobbly her knees were. Unsteady. Unreliable. Unacceptable.

She watched him leave - but not before he gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze of promise of reunion - following the back of his head as he opened a cabinet. The tap turned on. She cleared her throat. She did not know what he communicated to those fingers by his touch, they were no longer in cooperation as they remained relaxed and not curled and clenched as the rest of her.

"I keep the vodka in the fridge." She pulled her knees to her chest, hugging them because she missed having something she could hold onto.

"Maybe later."

She pressed her forehead down on her kneecaps, hiding the disappointment on her face.

"Sakura."

She lifted her head at the sound of her name - in no real hurry. She reached for the glass he held out. It was only when her fingers had securely wrapped around it did he retract his hand. He came to sit on the seat closest to her. She drank slowly. One sip. Then another. Then another. Her movements were more controlled than her sporadic thoughts. She was tired.

Exhausted.

Sakura sighed. She blanched the glass on one of her kneecaps. Her ear was pressed against the back of the chair. She was turned toward him but she could not face him. "My parents married young. They were each other's first love. Their families didn't approve. It only pushed them further into each other. They got pregnant with my brother when they were just nineteen. Barely out of being kids themselves. They were scared. They had no support from either side. They eloped. They struggled. My mom dropped out of college and my dad took a job as an apprentice to a mechanic. The man took pity on their situation. He even rented out a spare room to them on the cheap. Uncle Sakumo."

They named Sakuto after him, after Uncle Sakumo.

She blinked slowly, focusing on the base of her marble table lamp. She had not said that name out loud in years. Decades even. "My brother didn't have much growing up. He went to public school. He didn't have a lot of presents under the tree at Christmas or lavish birthday parties. He couldn't even have friends over like the other kids. But Mom said he never complained or commented. He was always really thankful. Sakuto was really perceptive. He probably knew that our family was not like the others in the neighborhood we were in. They lived in Yuma at the time."

Yuma was one of the more desirable areas in Konoha. It had the most expensive real estate in the market today. The financial district was in Yuma, along with all the high-end brands. The tailoress he got his suits from - Konan of Konan - had her shop in Yuma.

"I was born thirteen years after my brother. My parents had more money and more stability then. They also had more experience. My childhood was different. I had things. I did not want for things. I spoiled and doted on. A brat. I was a huge brat who cried to get my way. And I did. I always got my way." Sakura rubbed at her dry blood-shot eyes, agitating them further with the salt from the clamminess of her fingers.

"They had moved into an apartment before I was born. Sakuto had his own room for the first time. We lived in a house ever since I could remember. Not in Yuma. But close enough. It was small but cozy. Warm. My father bought Uncle Sakumo's shop from him. Uncle Sakumo's wife had just passed away," she made a sympathetic sound with her lips. Sakumo had committed suicide in his grief not too long after. Only for his son Kakashi - around the same age as her brother, a couple of years younger - to find his body.

Selling his shop was a sign of his depression - his desperation.

A sign she was much too young to know to look for and her parents - Sakumo's and Riya's Hatake's closest friends - had missed. Kakashi had been shipped off to live with a distant relative. He came back to Konoha when he turned seventeen. He joined the military under the same company that Sakuto was, they had their basic training together. They were even teammates on a few missions together.

"The shop was doing well. My father's business was growing and so were his connections," she sniffled away the tickle in her nose and throat. "We were happy. My parents were in love. I had my brother. There was so much love in our home. Things were good. Things were really, really good."

Until it all fell apart.

"Sakuto joined the military when he was eighteen, after graduating high school. I think he knew deep down that even with the shop doing well, my parents couldn't afford to send him to the prestigious private universities and no self-respecting med school would consider a public university student even with top grades. Plus he didn't want to leave the country just to go to medical school. He also didn't want our family to take up loans. He was thinking about me. I begged him not to go too far." She clicked her tongue. "He was always looking out for me."

She was too far in the past to register the way he shuffled in his seat as if preparing himself for the drop that he knew was coming; looking for something to tether himself to. His fingers curled around the curve of the armrest, grip tight.

"The military sent him to medical school here in Konoha after he completed a year of basic training out of town. It was nice. He was busy but I saw him nearly every day while he was here. Ever since I was six-seven years old, I wanted to be a doctor like my big brother." She paused with a smile on her face. A smile that would not last. "He was deployed in Uzushio. It was supposed to be safe. It was supposed to be demilitarized. He was there as part of a humanitarian outreach program as Uzushio is the sister city of Konoha. He died overseas. In the fall. I was thirteen."

"I'm sorry," he spoke for the first time. The volume was low, the sentiment was solemn. His stomach was in a knot. And his face, his face so emphatic.

He was the glue that held us together. He was the sun we revolved around.

"It tore my whole world apart. My father grew distant. We were all grieving. He was just doing it in the opposite direction of me and Mom. I was young so I didn't realize what was happening. I missed how he was picking fights over the food being not quite right or at Mom accidentally washing a red sock with his whites. She couldn't do anything right suddenly. Before Sakumo died, he had never so much as addressed her as anything other than 'honey', 'dear', or 'my beloved' - forget raising his voice to her. He was always so jovial. He would crack a smile or joke. He would diffuse the situation. So it was jarring to hear him yell for the first time. At her. At the woman he loved - he called her his heart. It was all he did. It was how he talked to her. The harder she tried to appease him, the more he yelled. The louder he became. It became a habit. It became normal. It was scary to come home from school for even me. It was so much worse for Mom. Mom was in a constant state of fear of what would set him off. I ceased to exist anymore for him. He wouldn't even look at me - right through me, he looked right through me - when I tried to interact with him. It was demoralizing. It made no sense. I went from being his princess to being invisible. I became invisible," she repeated with a hoarse whisper. The pain was still very much raw.

"Everything, all of it stopped bothering me. But that changed too. Eventually, the fighting stopped. Dad stopped coming home after weeks of working late. Sakuto's funeral cost a lot of money, that was his most often-used excuse. It got Mom to stop asking questions immediately. He stopped picking up our calls. One day he was just gone, out of our lives. The house was quiet again during the day. Mom cried at night when she thought I was asleep. We shared a bed. I was terrified she would leave me too. She never made a sound but the bed would tremble because she was shaking from keeping it all in. He served Mom with divorce papers through an attorney."

He left us. Just like that.

Her throat was starting to close up. She drank water to force the issue a little bit longer. She sighed, unable to stop now that she had started. She needed to unload completely otherwise she would implode.

"At Sakuto's second death anniversary, we learned from a relative of his, who was at the small service, that he had remarried and that he already had another kid. A newborn son. With a woman that his family approved of. An arranged setup or something. She had two young daughters from her previous marriage. She came from money. More money than my grandparents did anyway."

"You're Kizashi Haruno's daughter," he said with clear surprise in his voice that bled into his features. It was directed at himself for not making the connection. Sure his hair from the ads and the billboards was faded but it was not all that hard to see that it was still in the pink family. His wife had dark hair and dark eyes. The so-called self-made, family-first man had his family - two girls and a boy all with dark hair and dark eyes - plastered all over Yuma and even a handful all the way down in Tani and beyond. There was a billboard not even a block from Konoha Medical. There was no way she did not see them leering down at her with their same fake smiles.

She nodded her head, utterly defeated. "His business really took off after he married her."

He reinvented himself after the death of his son. Rebranded who Kizashi Haruno is.

It was an understatement. Her father now owned five dealerships in Konoha, along with more than half a dozen repair shops. Just last week, he was cutting a ribbon for the new parking structure he built for the Konoha Mall that had gotten a major facelift. Kizashi Haruno was everywhere.

"The terms of the divorce were not fair at all. Mom trusted him - blinded by her love and devotion for him - and he took advantage of her. Everything was in his name - all the assets. The house, the cars, the credit cards, the bank accounts. Everything. He had lawyers. Mom didn't. She signed away her claim without knowing. He left Mom with nothing but a broken heart and no marketable skills," anger was back in her tone, pulled from her bones. Raw. The pain was raw, a wound that would never heal. It would just get easier to pretend it was not there, eating away at her each and every day. Betrayal of the worst kind. That was what Kizashi Haruno gave them as a parting gift and sentiment.

"We had to live in women's shelters while she struggled to get us back on our feet. But even those we couldn't find peace in. Our stuff kept getting stolen. Our shoes. Our shoes got stolen while we slept. And that was after it took us seven business days to find placement there. Because apparently, it didn't matter if you were homeless outside of work hours. It could wait. The city had ten billion ryu in surplus last year. But homelessness had risen for the seventh consecutive year. Children. The elderly. Veterans. Make it make sense," she looked to him. "Make it make sense."

He shook his head, the words not finding him any more successfully than he found them. Lost. her statement left him feeling lost. Sakura sighed, she ran a hand under her nose. It was slightly red. It matched the rest of her face.

"In one of the worst ones, we were nearly eaten alive by bedbugs. And I was being bullied by some older girls for my hair and forehead - I have his forehead," she paused to commentate with increased venom.

I hate my forehead. If it weren't for Sakuto and Mom I would hate my hair too.

Because it was pink like her father's, it was in the same family. But Sakuto's hair was pink and her mother had given her hair so much love and attention when she was a child that Sakura could do nothing but love it too. All those hours where Mebuki brushed it and sang to her. Those tender thoughts mother and daughter shared during their moments; innocent dreams shared through the high-pitched voice of a child for a supportive ear to encourage. How could Sakura hate her hair when her hair was the reason for it?

"They used to pull on my hair so much - all the time - egging themselves on, convinced it was a bad wig. At the shelter and school." Her hand migrated to the back of her head, her eyes staring off so far into the distance that she had circled back to the past. "Mom just ended up cutting it short so that they wouldn't have anything to grab onto." She had tried her hardest not to cry - because her mother was doing enough of it for the both of them. It barely grazed her chin by the time Mebuki was done. She had no choice, there was no reprieve for the bullying and she never learned to stand up for herself out of fear. Fear of what would happen if she retaliated. Sakura's pink security blanket…gone just like that.

It would have killed him. If Sakuto saw us back then. God, I hope he didn't see us.

"Unbeknownst to anyone, my brother had taken out a life insurance policy for himself before he enlisted. And he had been saving what he could. He left it all to me," she swiped at her cheeks roughly. "But there was a caveat. I only got access to it when I turned seventeen and the money was contingent that I use it either for school or towards a business venture. So we had a lawyer tell us we have six figures sitting in a trust somewhere while we slept on lumpy, dirty mattresses on the floor where the roaches scattering across the floor were so loud it was impossible to sleep."

He did not move. He did not speak. He could only listen. Held in place by the bleakness of it all. It was overwhelming.

"Eventually we turned it around. Mom got a job. I worked part-time under the table at the same place Mom did. During the night shift where there were fewer eyes and I could still go to school. We eventually ended up with a car. I researched assisted housing using the library computers at school during breaks and lunch. I filled out the paperwork for Mom to sign and we found placement quickly thankfully, here in Tani." She rubbed her forehead, her elbow rested on the armrest of her chair. "A couple streets down actually," she answered the silent question on his face.

"You went to med school."

"I did," she smiled without humor. "Konoha University."

The best of the best in Fire and all of the continent really.

"How did you manage that?" He asked. "When you went to public school?" And if it was in Tani it was considerably worse than the one Sakuto went to in Yuma.

She smirked. "By having a senior project that ended up in the news. I made a prototype for a DIY insulin tester. It only cost about twenty ryo to build and the results were eighty-two percent accurate. The daily strips came out to be around twenty-fifths of a ryo."

"That's…," he stared at her, completely flabbergasted, too stunned to finish his thought. Her nonchalance was far from warranted. "You must have had the School of Engineering tripping over its own feet to get you too."

"Oh," she laughed. Dry and stale. Maybe even a little rueful. "I did. I double-majored in biomedical engineering and biology. They made a spot for me, the same with the School of Science. Full ride and then some."

"Wow," he breathed in marvel. She was smart-smart.

"I went back for medical school. I had grants and scholarships. My brother's money remained untouched. Mom and I didn't need it. Between her job, assisted housing, and my meager residency pay, we managed." She tapped her fingers on the armrest.

"The clinic?" He asked her.

Sakuto's clinic.

"The clinic," she confirmed with a soft smile. Some warmth returned to her features, pushing out the heat. "He wanted to help people. That's all he wanted to do. And he is. His clinic is. I want to add a pantry to it as well. One day. Eventually. Nutrition and health are so interconnected it's hard to have one without the other." She lowered her eyes almost shyly. "Why are you looking at me like that? Do I have something on my face?" She agitated her skin with her sleeve. Minato shook his head. His eyes never left hers. Her stomach was burning but it was different from the fire from before. It was a warm heat. Almost pleasant.

"You're amazing, you know that right?" He asked her openly with eyes filled with admiration. "To go from nothing to this."

"I'm nothing special," she looked away, tucking her hair behind her ear.

"You are," he found her hand in mid-air, he held it in his own. "You are," he repeated with the same conviction - staring her down right to her core.

She smiled timidly. "Apartment and city life was getting hard for Mom - all the stairs, the gray everything, no green, the Goddamn billboards, bench, TV, and radio ads - and with me being gone all the time with work, I decided it would be best for her to move where there was more space a couple of years back. Izumi has that. She's happier - relatively speaking. Fewer panic attacks - less of his face everywhere. She still worries that the neighbors are spying on her from time to time but it's nowhere as bad as it used to be."

It made sense to him now why Mebuki was the way she was. They had been homeless for a time. She had been a woman who lost her son, home, and husband all close together. She was grieving. Her world had crumbled. But she had a daughter to look after - a teenage daughter to keep safe in a very unsafe world. She had to be hypervigilant. She had to be paranoid. She had no one looking out for her. Mebuki had no one to protect her. She was in survival mode constantly for years. Day in and day out. It was ingrained in her. It would take time for her to train it out. PTSD was a hell of a thing.

She keeps saying she'll just enroll in paperless statements but I tell her that's a scam. I live here.

It clicked then for him. Sakura bought Mebuki her house. The one she lived in and the one he had visited. She was the one who gave her mother stability back - a roof over her head that she could not be kicked out of. He did not feel worthy to be in her presence.

Sakura, you're something else entirely.

He never would have guessed such narrow shoulders could bear the weight of so much, for so long and so well.

"She gets lonely. She just wants someone around to talk to, to have listen to her," Sakura's eyes held guilt. "Cheddar was a Godsend really. But sometimes she just wants to see a kind, human face. Thank you for humoring her." She offered him a small smile.

"You don't have to thank me, Sakura." Especially not for something so small and insignificant.

She squeezed his hand before interlacing their fingers, surprising him for a moment before he schooled his features. It was not often someone caught him unaware.

"I want to." She sighed deeply, expelling all of the air in her lungs completely before she breathed in again. "How did we end up here?" She laughed tiredly, setting the empty glass on the end table under the light of the lamp. "With me spilling my guts to you? My whole life story." She seemed to remember the answer as soon as the words left her mouth. She considered their connected hands and how they were both sitting toward the edge of their respective seats. Feet pointed at the other.

"Are you alright?" He asked. He was the first to break the tense silence. The one that was building and building into something formidable and ominous.

"The reason he called," she furrowed her brow, her voice was distant; like she was speaking of someone she did not know very well. She drew circles on the back of his hand with her finger, as far it could reach. "Was because my mom called him, to tell him that she thinks I'm getting serious with someone." She felt his hand clench against hers. She let him go.

"Sakura," Minato breathed her name. "I'm so-"

"And that man called me for the first time in over seventeen years," she scoffed, not hearing his attempted apology, refusing to accept his self-imposed guilt. "Calling himself my father, and asking that I call him back with details on you. Name, age, address, occupation, date of birth, place of birth, all so he can do a background check to make sure that you're not after the supposedly sizable inheritance that he's leaving me." She laughed. It sounded so hollow. So pained. "He didn't outright say that of course."

She pulled her phone from her side, it was tucked against the armrest. She held up her finger to ask for silence - unnecessary as he was unable to find his voice. He could not fathom how someone could just walk away from that little girl smiling in her bumble bee costume. It did not make any sense to him how a father - a man who called himself that - could leave his daughter - his child - willingly. Sakura pressed two buttons in succession. She clicked the side of her phone, raising the volume until it could not go any higher.

"Sakura, this is your father," the deep voice from yesterday filled the room. Minato's teeth pressed together. "Your mother told me you're seeing someone. She said it is getting serious. Now you know your mother, so I want to hear it from you. Call me. I want to know about his man. I want to make sure he is right for you. I want to make sure he has the right intentions. Did you tell him that you're my daughter? Call me."

She lowered the phone to where she had procured it. "This is worse than when he tried to bribe me with a car for my college graduation gift. It even had an obnoxious red bow on it. He thought that if he blindsided me and gave it to me in public I would have no choice but to accept it. He thought wrong." Her arms were crossed over her chest. She kissed her teeth, hissing. "The only time he wants to play daddy is when it suits him." A scoff of disgust left very little to the interpretation of how she felt. "He thinks he has any right to have an opinion, much less a say?"

He didn't even ask you how you were doing. He didn't even pretend to care.

She rocked out of the seat, propelled by her anger and encouraged by his silence. "To appease his own guilt he reached out to Mom a few years back, after my face was on the news. People in his circles probably asked about it. Haruno isn't a big last name. It doesn't belong to a clan. It probably embarrassed him." She was smiling ruefully, relishing in the surprise that must have hit her father in the face when he was drinking his morning coffee and the sound of her voice filled his living room - or maybe family room if she was feeling particularly vindictive with her thoughts.

"He started calling her once a year if that. A couple of minutes. Throws money her way every now and then. Probably in case he wants to run for office in the future. He probably wants to make sure Mom doesn't sling dirt on his good God-fearing name. He tried the same with me. I'm less receptive. We're his dirty little secret you see." She laughed, shaking her head, finding humor in it all somehow. She was almost amused by his antics - the facade she saw through. "That's how cynical I am. That's how cynical I had to become to survive," she murmured more to herself than anything, forgetting that he was even there because she was unloading not to provide him with anything but just to unburden herself. She was making room so that she could take on more and handle more. He might as well have been a decorative pillow - the difference would have been minute: yellow, silent, and stationary.

The light. He took the light from your eyes.

It was not Sakuto's death. It was not merely Sakuto's death that happened once. It was everything that followed, the breaking of a happy home. The loss of love that could never be filled with anything else. A gaping hole in the center of her chest.

Why did you leave me?

Empty hands, a fading light—

Love lost in despair.

"Mom's forgiving. Mom's understanding. Mom gets by on crumbs. Mom still loves him. Mom made and makes excuses for him. Mom says it was the grief. Mom blames herself for not being enough for him during…Mom…I'm not like Mom," she exhaled. The breath was cut with her fury. "He doesn't get a pass. He doesn't get anything from me! He doesn't have a single right to anything." She shook with the force of a tornado. Building, gathering, and funneling her anger.

"Sakura," he called out her name in a test - a gauge of her temperature.

She turned to face him. Arms over her chest. A coffee table between them. Her chin tilted toward her sternum.

"I was six when my parents died," he shared without preface, giving zero option of acclimation and the results were stark. A shock to her system. She blinked, momentarily forgetting her anger - shedding it like a wet winter coat.

"I'm really sorry to hear that," she said with sympathy, her expression softening.

"I was taken in by my best friend's father. Our fathers were childhood friends, just like him and me." He leaned forward on his forearms which rested on his thighs. A hand was wrapped around his wrist. An old wound that he was picking at methodically. "I was six when the Clan took me in."

My fate was sealed long before.

His long departed words came back to her at that moment. Her eyes flooded with emotion anew. Her anger subsided just long enough for her to feel her heart clench. "I'm so sorry."

"Me too," he smiled without warmth - a shell of what the gesture could contain. "My memory of my mother has all but faded. And the ones I have of my father, I'm not sure how much is real and how much is what my uncle told me being written over what was. My mom was gentle. Patient. Always laughing. And my dad? My dad was kind. Really kind. Other than that? It's a blur. A big blur. I don't remember what they sound like anymore. My mom's laugh is just silent. My dad's voice sounds like nothing."

A sympathetic sound left her. "Sound is the first thing to go. Memories are most closely associated with smell. Do you still have some of your parents' things still?" She asked even if she knew in her heart of hearts it was a losing battle. Time eroded all.

"In storage," he shook his head. "Their clothes lost their scent a long time ago."

I'm so sorry.

"I'm telling you this because," his hand fisted around his loose dark green jacket. "I know what it's like to lose a father. I know how lonely it is to go through life without that guidance - without that hand on your head." To go through life without that feeling, he knew what it was like. He knew what it felt like to never feel safe. That void could not be filled with anything else. The lack of security - stability - was too great an obstacle for a child to overcome without some form of lasting mark.

The lines and curves of her face pinched together. She placed a palm on the table, she leaned forward. They were closer to eye level now. "My father isn't dead," she spat, hissing out the words that were meant to cause recoil. "I only wish he was," she added, not caring how it made her sound. "At least that way, I would still be holding on to him with love instead of spite." Her lip curled into a cruel snarl, corroborating that her words were wholeheartedly sincere. She hated him. For what he did and for the damage he continued to cause.

"It's not the same," Minato concluded calmly, even going as far as agreeing. "But does it mean it hurts any less? Or make the loss any smaller?" His words like a bell resounded off the walls of the small space, the vibrations moving along her spine up to her ears for the second time.

She faltered just as the tears pricked in the back of her eyes. "Damn it," she pushed out in a breath. She lowered her head. The first tear pelted the table. By the fifth, her arm was starting to shake. "I hate him," she shook her head, feeling hands around her shoulders once more. "I'm angry," she breathed, hot and volatile.

"It's okay to be angry." He pressed her to his chest, gathering her into his lap; the table - what had been her support - pushed aside as nothing more than a nuisance.

"I'm hurt," she said through a sob, bunching her fingers in his pullover indiscriminately, inhaling through her open mouth.

"It's okay to be hurt."

"He left us." Her tears soaked the first few layers of cotton. She heaved for a breath, begging for just one clean, clear, deep breath. "He left me."

"I'm sorry." His hand moved up and down her spine, an arm around her shoulders that held her tightly. It was a good thing too because her bones had liquified. She leaned in heavily.

"He left her alone. He left me. He abandoned me."

Everyone leaves Sakura.

He hugged her closer.

"He threw us away like we were nothing to him," her voice grew small before it cracked. "Then…then he had a replacement baby! For Sa-Sa-Sa," she wailed loudly with no sense of self-awareness, lost in the strain of not being able to say her brother's name.

He closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose, gripping his composure. "I'm sorry, Sakura."

He left us…all of us. I'm so alone.

She had to deal with everything alone in some variety of it. Mostly alone, completely alone, partially alone. Always alone. That was the commonality that tied it together.

"I'm here."

She tilted her head up. Her green eyes shone under her pink lashes made dark and heavy by her tears. She stared at him with more than a trace of desperation. "You're here?" She asked softly, closer to a pant than actual words. Unsure.

"I'm here," he assured her, placating her, applying pressure to her cheek as he swept up the tears to drive the point home. He was real. He was here. He was really here.

"You won't leave?" She asked in the same manner, tangling her fingers into his top even more. Her knees pressed against his ribs.

"I won't leave."

"Okay," she sniffled, bringing a hand to the back of his neck. Her fingers playing with the soft hair. Shaggy. She twisted, gripping the sunshine-yellow strands. He tracked down the remainder of her tears on her cheeks with the pad of his thumb. Brushing them away with tenderness. Gentle.

"I'm right here, Sakura." He whispered, his breath fanning her face. Right there. He was right there. She could feel his heartbeat under her palm. Steady and calm.

Warm.

"Okay." She lowered her eyelids. Her lashes fluttered lazily. She tilted her head, barely moving at all. Their noses brushed, sending a jolt down his spine - a distraction for a split second but that was all it took. She kissed him. Sealing her mouth against his. Eyes closed and breath hot. Mouth sloppy. Tongue swiping to ask for further entry. Lips filled with salt.

An access that was not granted.

His eyes remained open. He did not blink. He did not move. Not even when she pulled away. Embarrassed. She fumbled to free his shirt; the fabric wrinkled in the pattern created by her weakness. She used her arms to create separation. But he did not budge. He held her to him. Breathing in the scent of her sweet shampoo. Deeply. Vanilla. Warm.

"Sakura," he said her name gently, just able to hold himself back from licking his lips, to catch the remnants of her warmth with his tongue.

"You don't have to say anything," she cleared her throat, refusing to look in his direction even if she ceased to fight his embrace. His message was received loud and clear. She laughed. It was a little unhinged. "I just lost my mind for a bit. All that teasing."

"Sakura," he began without really knowing where he would end up. The pressure was great. The potential for devastation was not lost on him.

"It's fine," she shook her head, pressing her teeth down on her lips. She sniffed. "You only regret the things you do right?"

If only.

Her statement was naive but now was not the time nor the place. Not when he could feel - he could hear - her walls rise up higher and higher around her. He held her chin. She flinched. Her eyes were still avoiding him and he did care for it. He tilted her head back. Just enough. He met her all the way with a featherlight kiss. Lashes pressed up together in a blond fringe. She reacted once over her shock. Timid. Unsure. Reserved. Her lips moved against his, never deepening the kiss. Always following his lead. That way, she did not run the risk of assuming. He pulled back but a fraction. Their noses maintained touch.

"I've wanted to do that for a while," he admitted with an uneven smile that was entirely too endearing.

"Could have fooled me," she dispelled a puff of air. Annoyed that they were using their mouths for this: more talking.

"Are you alright?" He asked with discernible concern.

"No," she shook her head, eyes swimming with too much for anything to be discernible.

"Sakura," he grazed his knuckles against the underside of her jaw. Slowly. Glacial. "I don't want to take advantage of you."

She laughed, surprising even herself with the way it sounded. "Minato, that's sweet but you're misreading the situation."

Badly. I'm the one taking advantage of you.

He was not deterred by the attempt to get him off-kilter. "Pause," he said every bit as much to himself as he said to her. "And breathe the air," he exhaled his breath for her to breathe in. "Moments slow like falling leaves." A hand smoothed out the furrow of her brow. "Wisdom blooms in calm."

Sakura's breath was on his face. Hot and exasperated. "Use your words, Minato. Don't count on Sumida to bail you out when shooting me down," she said with the dryness of her unacceptance. "Don't ruin another thing for me."

It's the least you can do, Blondie.

"Sakura, I don't want you to regret this," he said with enough clarity for both of them. Maybe. Because he was murky on her last offhand comment - too indirect and open-ended to what she could be referring to. But he would not miss the forest for the trees. Not now. "I don't want either of us to regret this."

She exhaled slowly, her eyes cloudy and red. "Act to suffer once, do not to suffer twice," she countered. "For even nothing is not without risk," she spoke her challenge with a low breath. Lashes fluttering like the wings of a moth.

"Regret is the established price of the enlightenment from a fleeting kiss," Minato completed with a murmur, pressing his lips against hers, eyes blinking closed as he swallowed her breathless, needy sigh.

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A/N: Please review! Thank you.