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.

10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto

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A/N: Hi! Welcome back. Got another longer one hear for you. There's a lot going on in this one. New characters. New interactions. New backdrops. Lots to take it!

Thank you for your support!

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Chapter 10

"It's not a big deal," she insisted with a little delusion and more than a fair share of stubbornness. "Just go out there," she encouraged herself in the mirror, psyching herself up to the levels needed to overcome such an obstacle. "It's your home. Just go outside, and say good morning. Ask how he slept on the couch. Ouch!" She pressed the pad of her index finger to the pricking pain from the spot where she had just tweezed a pink hair in the no-trespassing zone between her brows that she was adamant to have two of. Distinctly. She waited for a bead of blood, with dread only to release her breath, to bubble up. The redness would go down on its own. Her hastiness did not have lasting ramifications of the visual variety at least.

"Just be normal. Don't be weird." Her breath coated and made the glass opaque. Her mouth was wide open. She guided the metal tweezers to another hair that she deemed was no longer welcome. "Good morning," she tried out with a sunny voice, holding still long enough to rip the follicle by the root; gaining supposedly six weeks of peaceful ceasefire. "Too high." She inhaled. "Good morning," she tried again in a lower register. It was too low. She sounded like a life-long chain smoker and that was no better than sounding like an excitable twelve-year-old. She slapped the tweezers against the counter. "It's just a good morning, Haruno. Try not to sound psychotic." Or pathetic. Needy. The list was long but her patience was short. She frowned at her reflection. She pinched both cheeks, only releasing them when the milky skin was agitated crimson. She adjusted her hair. Tossing it all over to one side. "Too much," she shook her head to encourage equilibrium—the natural state of things.

With a tug, the red cap was separated from the yellow chapstick. She twisted the bottom to encourage more to the surface. She dabbed her lips. Vertically to give each of the creases attention that they deserved but were rarely given. Sakura stepped back. She regarded herself with critical eyes. Her light purple tank top was mostly wrinkle-free. Her white shorts were short. Really short. But not as desperate as her failed outfit had been last night. She batted her eyelashes, which had a coat of clear mascara. Just enough to lengthen and make them appear fuller without being outright noticeable. Just enough to have his gaze linger and tease his mind about just what was different about her. So he would look again and again trying to figure it out: the art of subtlety.

"Good morning," she raised a hand for a short wave. Her shoulders slumped. "Why am I so bad at this?" She bemoaned, glaring at herself in accusation. "This is your fault." With one last adjustment of her hair, she walked out of the bathroom with her shoulders rolled back and her head held high. She would fake it. That was the plan. She could not hear him walking about. She would make him breakfast. That would surely win her points. She would hit him fast and hard with her charm when his belly was full.

I can be irresistible when I want to be.

And she really wanted to be.

"Yeah," she nodded her head. Her hand was around her doorknob, warming it with her skin. "Yeah," she whispered before she opened it, stepping into the hall. It did not take long for her to learn all there was to learn. The silence was not because he was asleep. She ran a frustrated hand through her hair, sighing deeply. The words she practiced shriveled up and died on her tongue.

Pathetic.

Something purple caught her eye. She turned her head, reaching for the note on her door. She pushed her lips to the side.

I'm out. There's breakfast on the table. Hora is outside. I'll be back by dinner.

She exhaled; long, deep, and loud. "Just what is your problem?" She asked, crumpling the note in her fist. Turning back around and retracing most of her steps—coiling her hair in a bun that was secured in place with a tie that left behind an imprint over her wrist—to change into something that would give her more comfort. Warmth.

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He smoothed a hand over his shiny-with-product white hair slicked back against his scalp. His thin lips were in a stern line. His small but thick ears listened to the quick words being unloaded on him by a tall blonde woman, made even taller still by her shoes, in a maroon-colored skirt suit. She held a sizable stack of manilla folders to her chest.

"Mr. Mashimoto is expecting you in ten minutes. He wanted to discuss the Nagoya case. The mayor will run some ideas by you about the roadblocks for the new street parking initiative. That is at one thirty," the woman's agile tongue did not miss a single syllable or stumble once as she continued to give the man a rundown of his agenda. "You have a suit fitting before then. During lunch. Should I order from Sage again, Mr. Sugawara?"

The man nodded his head. "Schedule the meeting with the mayor for the Gold Course. It's been ages since I've seen the greens."

"It's late notice, sir," the woman balked, retaining just a fraction of her color.

"He'll get over it," he smirked. A hand with gold rings on each finger grasped the handle of a tall mahogany door. He pulled it open. His shiny, glossy shoes came to an abrupt squeaking halt. His yellow eyes widened at a broad-shouldered silhouette standing in front of his wood-paneled windows. He closed the door rapidly. His assistant just managed to stop herself from colliding with his back.

"Mr. Sugawara?" She asked him, curious. She pushed her tortoise-shell glasses up her nose, shuffling the paperwork—cases—in her arms.

"Clear my hour," Shinji said gruffly without looking back, eyes narrowed and frame tense. He adjusted his striped purple tie around his neck.

"You have a meeting in seven minutes!" The woman reminded him with a shrill rise of her voice.

"I said clear it!" Shinji snapped at her, sparing her a heated glare over his shoulder, unaccepting of perceived insubordination.

"O-of course, sir," she bowed deeply twice. She walked hastily away to comply with his order before the level of his anger rose and he became even more volatile. She would think of something to tell Mr. Mashimoto. He was more reasonable than the D.A.—it was all relative.

When the clicking of her heels was nothing more than a lingering echo and the hallway to his office was empty—he had glanced over his shoulder to check no less than three times—Shinji grabbed the door handle and pulled it open. A small part of him—small enough to pretend it did not exist at all—held out hope that what he had seen was either a trick of the light, a result of too much stress and caffeine and too little sleep, or some combination thereof. He did not let the rigid line of his brown suit alter in any way when the image before him was more or less the same.

"You have some nerve coming into the District Attorney's office," he barked out harshly, clippingly. The catch in his voice masqueraded as roughness, a fortunate outcome. "Did anyone see you?"

The blonde man turned around, slowly. Partially. He looked over his shoulder; the face coming into view for the first time. Partially. He was distorted by shadows. A blue iris surrounded by white trailed down to the top of the desk.

"Coffee?" He asked profoundly unbothered. At home even. Fully.

Shinji scoffed; an offended expelling of air through his nose all at once. "What do you want, Namikaze?" He demanded the answer, rooted in place just in front of his door, projecting the control he did not have of the situation with his voice—an overcompensation.

"It's oddly comforting to see that your manners haven't improved, D.A. Sugawara." Minato placed his hand in his pocket. Leisurely he turned his head—as if it were an afterthought—back to the paneled windows. The populace moving about below were almost small enough to be ants. Faceless. Nameless. So easy to fall into the trap of thinking them inconsequential. Each one a life; each one a complete world.

"You haven't changed either," Shinji noted dryly, biting back the passive-aggressive comment about old habits dying hard, just like he chose to ignore the fact that the one breaking into his office had the audacity to lecture him on manners. "New suit?" The D.A. with his name etched into a plaque on the door eyed the dark navy number. It was a modern fit. Not as tight as some of the younger fitness enthusiast members of the Clan wore. But not as much excessive fabric of the classic fit that the older, established figureheads donned. The Yellow Flash's preferred style was right between the two extremes.

"Pulled it back into the rotation," Minato said with a curl of his lip in a ghost of a smile that could not quite be carried into his voice.

The man with slicked-back white hair yanked his arm up. The sleeve of his coat and shirt pulled back to reveal a gold-faced watch. "As great as this catchup has been, can we speed it along?" He demanded impatiently, just one step removed from tapping his foot. That was a line that could not justifiably be crossed just yet. "On whose behalf did he send you today?"

"What's the rush, D.A. Sugawara? You just cleared your hour."

Shinji bit down on his tongue, hard. The blond man's arrogance wafted off of him like a cologne. It assaulted his senses. It bastardized the sanctity of his private chambers. "I am asking one more time," Shinji's yellow eyes locked with the gold nameplate that was polished so thoroughly it practically glittered on the desk. His desk. His office. His domain. "What do you want, Namikaze? And do me the common courtesy—the decency—of speaking to my face."

What do you know of decency, D.A. Sugawara?

"Hm," the soft sound left the man instead of the internal thought in the form of a pointed question—an escalation. Minato was slow to turn around completely. His eyes were flat. And his expression was impassive. It could be anything. "Have you given any thought to your plea deal?"

The district attorney furrowed his black eyebrows until they connected. "I haven't made my recommendations." He left the implication that he had other cases. A mountain of them to sift through. "It will be lenient. The defendant's lack of public criminal activity will be taken into account. No reported injuries. It will be on par with plea deals in the past. Your boss will find no points of contention with it."

"Haruto Nara," Minato said his name with a sternness that had the hair on the back of his neck standing. Shinji remained silent. Minato was not done speaking or observing. An interruption was not permissible. "Will receive a better deal."

"Define better," his curiosity had the best of him at that moment. He knew it the moment the first word had left his mouth.

"He walks," Minato stated with the casualness of declaring the weather while standing outside to experience such weather.

Shinji balked. His argument started in a sputter. "That's impossible," he vehemently denied. "This is a high-profile case. He walked into the police station with the gun whose ballistics match the casings found at the scene and the holes left in the cameras!" He raised his voice in disgruntled indignation. "He confessed!" His words, speech, and demeanor implored the blond lieutenant to see reason. There was only so much realistically he could do here.

"D.A. Sugawara, I appreciate the challenges ahead of you and your circumstances," Minato's voice glided over the unsteady silence smoothly, leaving Shinji to doubt the genuineness of his words. Minato was a smart man but he was not an attorney. He could not understand just the gargantuan lift what he was saying so easily would require. And even with all that effort, it might just not be possible. "But there is no other way."

"Why would he care about this resource?" Shinji called him out on his bluff. It had to be a bluff. "The process is patented. It works. The terms have never been negotiated before." It was foolproof. And neither he nor the man in front of him were fools, far from.

"That," Minato rubbed his chin with a reproachful gaze directed at the desk and the untouched coffee cup. "Is not for you to worry about," he surmised in a distant voice—far-off.

"What you are asking me to do is career suicide. I get to decide what is for me to worry about. Me and only me," Shinjji took two steps forward. His fist clenched at his side. The rings along his fingers dug in enough to leave angry, red impressions.

"Remind me, D.A. Sugawara, is it not an election year?" Minato asked, blinking slowly in an act that was not blatant enough to take open offense at the condescension. It was clinical the way Namikaze got under his skin.

"Are you threatening me?" He narrowed his yellow eyes to slits, he hissed the question. Spit flying and teeth bared. A vibration had him momentarily pausing—his mind estranged from the anger that churned in him—he regarded the blond on his phone, staring at the screen for but a second because not even a moment later, Minato slid it across Shinji's desk. The white-haired man stopped it from falling off the edge out of pure reflex. He held it at arm's reach and squinted his eyes in an action to gather focus. Clarity.

"What is this?" The district attorney asked, voice shaky in a dead giveaway that he knew exactly what it was. His eyes went wide. He swiped to the right. More faces filled the frame. He quickly moved forward with an increasingly shakier hand. Next. Next. Next. Nextnext. The pictures kept coming. The faces changed. The clothes changed. The positions changed. But one face—the singular common thread—did not. He grabbed the back of an overstuffed leather chair. His knees were nearly too weak to support him. He held the phone in a tight grip. His death sentence and sustenance all in one.

"That's for you to keep," Minato stated through barely moving lips. In fact, he had barely moved at all. "I would keep it safe if I were you," he offered helpful advice without cost—something out of character for him and especially for his line of work. "I'm sure your wife and the general public would be very interested in learning who you choose to deliberate with in your private chambers," his cobalt grazed the office, lip curled with disgust. Open disgust. "You should have taken the time to corroborate the status of some of your clients." All on the taxpayer's dime too.

Honest people's hard earnings.

Shinji brought a hand to his chest. His breath was erratic. "H-How?" He asked, doubled over and his sweat dripping onto his dark green carpet—what was not absorbed by the taut leather grain.

"We don't have time to get into that, D.A. Sugawara," Minato said dismissively with zero regard or remorse; in complete and utter apathy. "You know everything you need to know. But I still don't."

"What do you want?" Shinji asked with a grunt, eyes squeezed tight from the spinning brought upon by his world imploding on himself. The pictures on the phone—the shameful pictures—would bring about his doom—everything he built would come tumbling down leaving him with nothing to hold but the dust of what once was. Ruin. He would be ruined.

"Has the Uchiha Clan given you their patsies?" Minato asked coolly.

"I have their names. All three of them. They are to turn themselves in, in two days' time," he worked out through his heavy breathing, taking at least three times as long to speak the words. "I think I'm having a heart attack," he wheezed, coughing into his hand. Each breath went in with a whistle.

"Wouldn't that be convenient," Minato muttered darkly just before he shoved the man into the chair, unceremoniously and roughly. Oh so roughly.

Shinji looked up at him with blown pupils and a wide mouth. He dug his nails into the leather of the armrest. His head was attached to the headrest—fixed in place by his terror.

"Loosen your tie," Minato instructed, calmly.

"W-what?" Shinji asked him, mouth dry and brain working much too slow to have any hopes of making sense of anything.

"Get a hold of yourself," Minato's smooth voice slapped him across the face. He was right there—eye level. And how cold those eyes were. Frigid. "And listen to me."

He nodded his head; the action was mindless. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down. His shaking, sweaty hand went to undo the knot around his neck. He inhaled a greedy breath. Audibly.

"You will wait until the Uchihas have accepted their deal and are locked up before you drop the charges for Haruto Nara. You will not let this blow back up on the Nara Clan, on Shikaku, or me. Do I make myself clear?" Minato asked, but a nose-width away, with his hands shoved into the pockets of his pants. "D.A. Sugawara?" He asked when the beat of silence was no longer a reasonable duration.

"Yes," the D.A. breathed, with each rapid blink, Minato blurred and sharpened. Sweat migrated down his brow to his balance precariously on his chin until another bead made the same migration only to displace its predecessor. "I'll take care of it. I'll say that—"

"I don't need the details," Minato cut him off, leaning back to stand at his full height. His hand went to the cigarette tucked behind his ear.

"I have a lighter," the man began to fumble against his pockets. Slapping his hand to his chest and upper thighs.

"I don't need anything else from you," Minato halted the man's movements with one utterance. "I'll delete the copies I have once the deal is complete."

The D.A. nodded his head. "And…?" He let the rest of his question linger as the air between them.

"There's nothing more to discuss," Minato's words were as good as a notarized document. The D.A. would win another re-election. His wife would be none the wiser and everything would be just as it was. The D.A. was safe and in the clear until the next time Minato needed something. He sincerely hoped there would not be a next time—that there would be no more Haruto Nara's in his future.

Yesterday's shadows,

Sins etched unchanged remains—

Tomorrow's light streams.

"Don't stand too close to the mayor's backswing. Give him my regards," Minato's parting words left his tongue. Shinji watched the blond Nara's retreating back all the way to the door, silently with wide-wide eyes behind his thick glasses that slid down the sweaty ridge of his nose.

xXx

The temperature difference between outside and inside was not as extreme as the typical standard. The air was cold—chilled—as the bright lights shone overhead. The medley of aromas was almost overwhelming to his nose just as the vibrancy of colors was to his eyes. He did not even know where to begin looking. So he ignored it for the most part. His thumb in his pocket rubbed against the small sphere with two rounded points; the Maneki Neko on the end of a singular key. The repetitive motion grounded him. It offset some of the unease he did not fully acknowledge the extent of.

It's in your head…mostly.

The man behind the counter in a dark blue apron recognized him immediately from the way the polite, professional smile melted off his face at collision, only for a split second. He was very good at his job and in turn, at maintaining his public-facing persona.

The masks we all collect and wear.

The dirty blond's lips pulled into an easy smile and he went back to conversing with a customer. A middle-aged woman with orange hair. She was asking questions about the arrangement in front of her and he was dutifully answering them. They were both just out of earshot. Minato meandered closer to the counter. Head turned slowly as he surveyed the room.

Must be a slow day.

The thought crossed his mind as if it were news to him. It was nearly closing time. He had made it in before the clock struck the hour but his reception had yet to be seen. He waited without making it obvious that he was waiting. He should not have bothered. The woman in her obliviousness hardly noticed him when she left the shop a good twenty-three minutes and forty-one seconds later—he was counting without the aid of a clock.

"What are you doing here?" Inoichi lifted the latch of the divider and stepped out from behind the counter. He began the process of removing his apron from around his neck.

"I'm getting that a lot today," Minato noted dryly at the lack of enthusiastic greetings, he would take a "hi" at this point. "I'm beginning to think I'm the problem."

Inoichi snorted in a clear lack of amusement. He folded the navy canvas and placed it on the wooden countertop behind him, all without breaking eye contact once. "What do you want, Minato?" His tone made it clear he would not ask again.

"What everyone else wants," he gestured around him as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He was immersed in context. "Flowers," he eliminated all potential for doubt with the explicit utterance.

"I sincerely doubt that very—"

The chime of the door had them both pausing, Inoichi's words cut off by the ringing that was usually a welcomed event. Inoichi stiffened and for a second, Minato saw a flash of fear on his face. Unbridled and honest. Genuine.

"Daddy!" A distantly familiar voice filled Minato's perked ears. "What's this I'm hearing about you getting up on a ladder…what are you doing here?" It was instant and drastic the way her entire demeanor changed when she placed him standing there in front of her dad. She had her arms crossed over her chest and a scowl on her face.

"You look like your father when you do that," Minato smiled at her, disarming and airy. "Hey, Ino," his eyes warmed to a soft cobalt hue.

Inoichi's face went red instantly but it was his daughter that beat him to it. "Don't you 'hey Ino' me," the woman pointed an accusatory finger at him—so close that it could break the barrier of air that separated them. "Are you stalking me?" She asked him outright, ignoring her father's disgruntled cry for explanation and that too quickly given his franticness. Minato felt two pairs of identical eyes glaring at him with heat. It was a marvel he did not burst into flames and Inoichi's heart did not give out. "If you're here to confess whatever connection or feelings you think you have with or for me, stuff it. I'm not interested in you."

"Good to know," he turned his attention back to Inoichi, expression blank. "So the flowers?"

"How do you know my daughter?" Inoichi narrowed his eyes and dropped his voice, standing tall in his protectiveness.

Besides the obvious you mean?

"Excuse me?" Ino asked Minato, bristling, as if her father was not even there. "Flowers? You're here to buy flowers?" She spat, figuratively, even in anger she was in control of such things.

"You do sell them here right?" Minato's impassive voice aired the question, even going as far as to let his eyes wander to the clock on the wall. It was over thirty minutes past closing.

At this rate, I'm going to hit traffic.

He would be late for dinner and that was hardly the foot he wanted to lead with.

"You rejected my best friend who is a doctor, who is beautiful, who is kind, who is funny, who is generous, who is perfect. Perfect, I tell you!" She was livid in her anger—indignation—but her words were crystal clear. Maybe it was just something about Konoha's women. "And you have the audacity—the audacity— to walk into my shop to buy flowers for some substandard, mouth-breathing, dollar-store bimbo?" Ino jabbed him in the chest with her finger—pushed over the invisible line by the momentum of her strung-together insult. "Just what the hell is wrong with you?!"

Minato took exactly one step back. "I'm just going to go down the street to Noya's Floral." He held up his hands in a sign of surrender before peeling his loafers off the clean, white, and gray-speckled, tilted floors.

"You do that," Ino jeered at him while shaking her head. Her long platinum blonde hair moved akin to a cackled whip. Angry. Agitated. Annoyed. "Crappy, cheap flowers for your crappy, cheap tastes. How fitting."

Nice try, Ino. You over-sold it.

With his back to her, she did not see the smirk on his face. "I agree with you, you know," he threw over his shoulder, casually. The backward letters affixed to the glass of the window became the focus of his gaze. "And that's why I came here. Sakura deserves the best. But if the best won't cooperate, she'll just have to make do with Noya's. It's the thought that counts, right?"

The air was sucked out of the room by the father and daughter pair. Their collective gasp was astounding. "Sakura?!" They said at the same time—in stereo.

The acoustics in this place are great. It would make for a good intimate concert venue.

"Oh my God," Ino breathed from right next to him. She had moved quickly, leaving her father to blink in confusion in the direction of the spot she vacated—not trusting his eyes on how there were two of his daughter all of a sudden. Minato furrowed his brow at the manicured hand squeezing his forearm, wrinkling his suit. "You have to let me make her a bouquet. You have to tell me everything!" She was unaware of herself, that was clear to Minato. "Everything," she let out a high-pitched squeal.

Goddamn, Ino, not right in the ear.

Minato pressed said ear against his shoulder, wincing. "There's nothing to tell—," he countered her excitement with his lack of, "—anyone other than Sakura."

Ino, let go of his arm like her palm had been burned. "Minato," she narrowed her eyes at him. "You better not hurt her any more than you already have."

"Ino," her father called out—he too was much closer than he had been—with a warning; trying to wedge himself between the two to squarely sweep Ino behind him.

Minato's brows were raised; eyes on the woman. "Any more than I have?" He asked for clarification. His composure did not betray the effect of Ino's statement that was meant to cut. He knew her intentions.

"Don't play dumb," she kissed her teeth in anger. She was giving him more credit than he deserved. "Just know that whatever pain you cause her, I'll return it three, no, tenfold," she vowed with conviction rooted in every hair follicle on her head. She smiled, eyes instantly brightening with light. The dark storm clouds passed to reveal clear blue skies. "Lillies. Sakura loves lilies and snapdragons. She's so basic it's a little sad. Do you have any requests?" Her eyes gleamed with excitement; her voice bright and happy. Bubbly.

"Roses," he said without thinking about it or the rapid transformation that he had just witnessed. It would only lead to chaos trying to make sense of it. "Pink. And freesias."

Ino blinked, visibly caught off guard. "A little heavy-handed there don't you think?" She recovered mostly, but the frown on her pink lips spoke to something more behind her flippant question.

Not at all. A little late if anything.

Sakura was flighty. Especially when it came to this. He knew that. He had no claims to her. He had no right to her. No more than any other person—a stranger—in the world. But that was the beauty of it. He had not made himself clear. He had not been candid with her. She was unattached. There was still a chance. So it meant it was much too soon to give up especially when he had not even begun.

Nothing is lost and everything is to be gained.

Pink roses for promise. A promise that—to him—this was more than just comfort. That this was more than temporary. A promise for today and tomorrow and all the tomorrows thereafter. A promise that he was not running from this—would not run away from this; a promise he would not leave her as long as his breath did not leave him.

Walls of conviction,

Foundation built true, steady,

Forever with you.

Freesias for trust. Trust that she could put in him to do right by her. Each and every time. Trust that he would give himself completely and utterly to her. Trust that he would do as he said and deliver what he promised. Trust that her life was just as important if not more to him than his own was. Trust that he would work hard to be the man she deserved. And even if he fell well short, trust that he would keep striving for that pinnacle. Trust that each and every day he would get a little better and a little closer.

"It's better to be direct," Minato smiled warmly, playing up his obliviousness to Inoichi's severe frown and judgemental gaze. "Not leave things up to interpretation."

"Ironic," she said with an eye roll but the scowl was all but gone. "Unless you're going to back all you're saying with these flowers with actual words?" She cocked a perfectly arched brow."You know before another ten months pass?" Minato chuckled at the not-so-subtle dig, ignoring Inoichi's glower that had grown even more severe in the passage of both time and information. "Sakura can be a real slow learner with her stubbornness. She usually needs things to be repeated more than once for them to really stick." There was a story there, Minato surmised without much time spent in digging. Perhaps one of Ino's persistence in pursuing a friendship with the reserved and keeping-to-herself Haruno. After Tenten, Sakura never mentioned a friend again until Ino. The others—Lee, Amaya, Karin, Kurenai, Asuma—all came after Ino.

"I'll keep that in mind," he promised with a slight dip of his head. "Thanks, Ino."

"You're paying full price for the flowers. And extra. It's not every day someone gets an Ino Yamanaka exclusive. I'm putting them in a vase. Sakura would just stick them in a plastic justice container because she, unlike you, doesn't have taste." The woman threw her hair over her shoulder and began to walk toward the back of the store. "Oh and Daddy, I hired a guy to put up the holiday lights. He'll be here in ten minutes. I don't want to hear it." She did not bother to pause as she shared the news of yet another stranger's arrival—expected in contrast; her heels clicking all the way until she ducked behind the brown curtain.

Inoichi unclenched his locked-in-place jaw. "How good are you with your hands?"

Minato kept his mouth shut for what so clearly felt like a trick question. Why Inoichi asked him such a question and with so much charge became clear a moment later when the man had gruffly told him to follow him—Minato wondered if he should have been a little more discriminate than just blindly obeying (as if an alternative ever presented itself even remotely as an option)—to the back of the shop, up the stairs that led to what he learned was the attic and kicked a green plastic storage bin to him, revealing inside a jumbled mess.

Why does this feel like a metaphor?

"What am I looking at?" Minato asked at a complete loss for how to proceed. The Yamanaka were living up to their street reputation of playing convoluted mind games just for the hell of it.

"Holiday lights," Inoichi answered tersely, his unhappiness palpable in the rigid set of his shoulders. "You have less than ten minutes before the paid-by-the-hour guy, Ino no doubt overpaid for, gets here. You better start untangling."

"So," Minato brought a hand to the back of his head. The tubed lighting that was just slightly above their heads—they had to duck anytime they got too close—was making the room feel sweltering like a sauna. Or maybe that was all Inoichi. "Is this part of the standard purchasing process?"

Or is this the family add-on?

"Were you always this mouthy?" Inoichi asked him with his arms crossed over his chest and his back against the wooden railing that kept him from falling to the ground floor. "I don't remember you being this mouthy."

"I was six when you last saw me," he looked around, pulling a stool with his foot toward him. He undid the two buttons on his jacket before settling down on the seat and gathering the mass of green braided wire. Minato began to try to make heads and tails of it. In the back of his mind, a clock ticked down the seconds.

"I remember," Inoichi sighed deeply, it sounded almost wounded. "It was your parents' funeral." His voice was distant as the memory haunted him. Minato had been unresponsive—despondent. "Right before Shikaku took you."

Took me in, Shikaku and Yoshino took me in.

The omission of critical information was deliberate—a necessity—to curb the weight of a guilty conscience; if the man was capable of feeling anything anymore for Minato's departed family. The younger blond did not corroborate with anything beyond his silence. He had forgotten the voices, and sometimes even the faces of his parents but he remembered everything about that day and all days that followed their loss. Right down to the white chrysanthemum and peonies that filled the house. The mourning editions of his mother's favorite flowers. He pulled a knot, lengthening the line of wire at his feet. He had less concern for the delicate appearing lights in favor of speed.

Clans look after their own.

"Look, Minato, you were a kid then. You were young. What happened to you is not your fault. This life, this path it's not what your parents wanted for you. It's not what your mother, God rest her soul, wanted for you. Your old man and I were just a pair of idiots attached at the hip when we met Shikaku. We were too young to know any better. Even he was too young to understand his world. When your parents died, when Mayumi and Naoto died," he lowered his head. The words were so heavy. Draining. "Ino was a toddler. She was two going on three." She was young enough to not remember anything. She retained no memories of that stage of her life—of who was in her life. "My life was a mess—financially. The economy was in recession because of the war." No one was buying flowers unless they were for funerals. The family shop—the original one—had been in danger of defaulting. "I wasn't thinking clearly. I was still in mourning. Yumi was my favorite cousin. She was like the sister I never had. Naoto was my best friend. I introduced them. I gave her away at their wedding. It was the happiest—second happiest—day of their lives. She couldn't keep her smile contained."

Chains of shared burden,

Blood hums through similar veins—

Blood sinks down heavy.

Minato kept pulling away at the knots in the wire, straightening more and more; unraveling the mass methodically as Inoichi dug himself a deeper grave. Minato did not offer him a shovel but he also did not stop him. It was the precedent after all.

"And then Shikaku took you. Instantly. He was still not completely embedded. I told myself you would be fine. Shikaku knew of Naoto's wishes for you—the kind of life your parents built for you. Shika was your best friend. You would not be entirely alone. I didn't think that Shikagorou would stoop so low and send someone to target his own grandson."

The string that caused it all to unravel.

"Allegedly," Minato said with more harshness than he intended, his hands clenching the ball of wire and lights so tightly that the plastic groaned. Built up over time: the resentment, the what-if scenarios; just how differently his life could have been. Maybe he could have had a chance.

I could have met her almost a decade sooner.

"Minato," Inoichi was frowning. He moved closer, pulling a stool to sit across from Minato. Eye-to-eye. "You can't be that naive. Not now. Your parents' car was tampered with. That's what led them to crash. The investigators were suspicious from the beginning—that's why you never saw the life insurance money—the car engulfed in flames instantly. On impact. They never stood a chance to get out of there."

Minato's eyelids pressed together behind a golden curtain. He could picture it. He could picture their family car with two blurry faces. A woman with platinum blonde hair and a man with dirty-blond shaggy hair in a car. The black car was surrounded by angry red, yellow, and orange flames. Two pairs of eyes open; baby-blue and navy staring at him. Licks of fire danced over the glassy surfaces.

"There's no proof," Minato cleared his throat roughly, in a silent warning for all other facets of his body to fall in line—predominantly his eyes. They were not to water—they were not to show weakness. He unraveled the knot with intent focus. Hunched over and the dull ache in his shoulder reminded him to hold onto caution, lest it too become like what plagued him still. The wound had not healed properly. And maybe it never would.

"When does that mean anything with the Clans? With Akatsuki?" Inoichi whispered after glancing over his shoulder toward the stairs, eyes shifty and his hand coming to scratch at the scraggly hairs on his chin. "Shikagorou was ruthless. I knew that from the first time I met him even as a kid. He would do anything to secure his son's post."

"Even kill his only grandchild?" Minato's eyes blazed with the cold intensity of a raging ocean. Choppy and unforgiving. "How does that secure the line?"

"You're not thinking clearly," Inoichi shook his head in frustration. "Shikamaru was even more lax and lazy than Shikaku. He showed even less promise—prospect. When his time would have come, the likelihood of a coup within the Clan was high. Shikagorou cut his losses. He figured Shikaku would remarry and have another child or two. And maybe one that was better suited to stand at the mantle. You know I'm not wrong."

Maybe Inoichi had a point. There was a reason why Minato was still sitting here and it had nothing to do with the flowers being cut, prepared, and arranged for Sakura. Maybe.

"Are you armed?" The man asked, waiting with bated breath for the answer.

Minato shook his head, barely but the answer resonated.

"Minato," Inoichi said his name with urgency; his tone dangerously close to pleading. "I couldn't take you in, I couldn't protect you. I failed you, son. I failed my friend and my sister. And for that, I will hold regret in my heart for the rest of my days. But Minato, I am begging you. Stay away from my daughter. Ino is my everything. I don't want her getting rolled up in this. Please," Inoichi was holding his folded hand in front of him. The fear in his eyes was absolute. He was nothing more than a father trying to protect his daughter.

A good father. So how could Minato fault him?

Minato swallowed thickly. The lump in this throat made it painful. "I was just here for the flowers, Uncle," he addressed the man in that manner for the first time in nearly three decades. Inoichi's face became ashen. A ghost of a shadow's past. "I have no intentions of telling Ino anything." Or Sakura, because that would be one and the same.

Ino was too young to remember but not Minato—not completely. He was just old enough to never forget losing more than one home and that too in a short time. He was ripped from his whole world—the one his parents built together out of their commitment and love for each other. A bright, beautiful future reduced to nothing. Just like that. He no longer had a place anywhere.

All pictures of Mayumi Yamanaka turned Namikaze, Naoto Namikaze, and Minato Namikaze were removed from his uncle's home. His life. He knew it to be true. Inoichi had packed them up into a box and had them delivered by carrier to Shikaku's residence with a letter expressing he did not wish to see Minato again—a demand that he forget Ino who was nothing more than a faint memory. A wish played back when he was old enough to not let it completely destroy him. And for nearly twenty years, Minato honored it to the best of his abilities.

Two sets becomes four,

Fate's callous hands bestow chaos—

Paths shift, lives entwined.

"You could have gotten flowers anywhere, Minato," Inoichi pointed out what they both knew to be true, forlorn. His eyes were red although dry. He had no tears to give the man just as he had nothing to give the boy. All the same, Inoichi's throat was tickled with the melancholy of two faces that haunted him.

True. I suppose I was feeling sentimental.

Something about making peace with the past in order to move forward. Fully. Letting go did not come naturally to Minato. It was not a strength.

"Leave Sakura out of it, Minato," Inoichi had more control back in his voice—authority—he worked to extend it over the situation. "She is a good kid."

Too good for me.

"She has enough hardship and tragedy in her life."

She doesn't need to sink down with me.

Minato heard the words on the underside of Inoichi's utterances. Perhaps he understood the unspoken better than the spoken, they were after all what Inoichi truly wanted to say but it was his fondness for the child he had been—the parts of Minato that reminded Inoichi of Mayumi: gentle and soft-hearted—that held his sharp tongue back from hurling cut words that would become shards of glass in Minato's ears.

"If you care about her, Minato, walk away from her," Inoichi exhaled, the lines of his face more pronounced. It was in her best interest. "Bad things happen when you're around Akatsuki," he whispered the label like the curse it was. A cancer. "Stay away from my Ino. Stay away from Sakura."

As if it were that easy. And for Inoichi it was. Washing his hands of something was what he excelled at. Minato rose to his feet. "The shop is nice," he cleared his throat of any hesitation—weakness. "I'm sure Mom would be so happy that the house she and Dad worked so hard for and loved so much helped pay for it." He pressed his lips together to stop himself from carrying on about how shop number two's success ushered in locations number three and four within just five years. His words were measured twice and cut once to be heard. "Take care of it and yourself, Uncle. Tell Cousin Ino I'm waiting by the register." Minato did not look back.

Maybe you can finally think straight now, Uncle.

Minato did not hold his breath as his loafers slapped against the uncured wooden stairs taking him further and further away from the jumbled mess he left behind.

xXx

He saw the boy jumping down the stairs. Feet together, knees bent, and fully concentrated right before he hopped down. One at a time. A hand around each over-the-ear headphone to keep them in place. He was on the concrete landing when he stopped abruptly with a start.

Minato held up his hand. "Hey, Hiro." The boy's gaze stopped at his chin. His blond hair was more than long enough for him to recognize enough. "It's Minato. Sakura's friend," his voice and words helped carry the rest of the way to complete the partial picture to a whole one.

"I remember," Hiro muttered into the ground, covering a thin crack with the sole of his red canvas shoes with the white plastic toe vamp. "Hello," he added just as shyly as the rest of his sentence. His hands disappeared into the opening of his yellow hoodie pocket at his stomach. Hidden—tucked away from the world like Minato should be.

Being out in the open, breathing the same air she did—seeing the same things she did—complicated matters. But maybe that was fine. Maybe that was for the best. What good did watching from afar and waiting do for either of them? If Sasuke wanted her, she was here. And if Sasuke wanted him, well, he was here too.

"Did you eat dinner?" Minato asked, realizing the boy had not left yet and that spoke to something Hiro could not quite put into words.

"Mom sent over mac and cheese with cut-up hotdogs and peas. My favorite," the boy explained.

"Sounds delicious." From the corner of his eye, he caught movement. A door opening and just as quickly a dismissal of a potential threat.

"The cauliflower was gross but Sakura said I only had to eat a little because Sakura said sometimes second chances can be good." Hiro blinked twice for each syllable he produced.

"Second chances can be good," Minato repeated, allowing the words to sink into his skin so that it may settle somewhere a little more permanent.

"Hiro! What's taking you so long…oh," a woman with short brown hair seemed to forget all thought when her eyes landed on his. His face. The arrangement in his arm and back to his face. "Oh," she said with a gasp, eyes twinkling with a recognition that should not be there. "Hiro!" She scurried from the door to come to the foot of the stairs, in her haste not picking up on the fact that she was still in her house slippers. Pink. The same ones Sakura had. "Get down here!" She said through a forced smile, waving the boy to hurry it along.

The boy tilted his head to the side, his hazel-colored eyes curious.

"Hello," Amaya giggled, discreetly adjusting her hair before turning her attention to her long cardigan to do the same. "I'm Amaya. Sakura's neighbor," she giggled again. Nervous. "And friend," she added quickly. "And friend," Amaya repeated for the second time in as many seconds.

"Nice to meet you," Minato's polite smile accompanied his sentiment. "I'm—"

"Minato," she pointed to his face. "Sorry," she lowered her finger with her other hand, eyes wide in surprise at herself for cutting him off in her overeagerness. "You're Minato."

"She told you?" Minato asked with a frown. He did not know what he was more surprised about, the fact that Amaya knew about him at all or that Sakura gave out his name like that.

"Of course!" Amaya tutted, "oh," she gushed, her hazel eyes no longer on his face. "The flowers are beautiful. Sakura loves pink and red. And green!" She gestured to the bouquet. "The touches of yellow are really nice. It helps balance it all out, all the red…and the pink. And green." She smiled, fingers interlaced together. Clenching.

Hiro moved down one step with a hop. He paused. The contents of his backpack clicked and clacked together when he landed on solid ground, one step lower.

"Oh!" Amaya smacked her forehead. "Okay, so Sakura told me she met someone and that she…," her eyes darted over to her son before coming back to Minato's face. "Made a new friend," a knowing look was directed at him, all that was missing was a wink and the whole thing would have been firmly over the top. Hiro may be a kid but he was far from an idiot.

"I just don't want you to think she lied to you when you ask her about it later…if! I'm just clearing my statement. It's kind of a big deal but don't tell her that. We've been waiting a long time for Sakura to meet someone nice. Not that there's anything wrong with her! She's great. She's amazing. But you know that," she laughed with panic in her eyes. "You seem nice," she looped back around. "You brought her flowers," she gushed with an excess of exuberance. "So pretty." She balked, backtracking. "The flowers! The flowers!" She stammered. "Almost as pretty as Sakura!" She laughed again, nervous and loud.

"Mom."

Her son's monotone utterance seemed to break her out of whatever loop she had been stuck in. A manual hard reset of sorts. She raised her head from Hiro's face to Minato's. "Nice to meet you. Goodbye." She turned on her heel to walk just as quickly back into her home as she had to come out of it.

"Bye, Sakura's-friend-Minato." The little boy gave a little wave before following his mom's lead with much more measuredness.

"Bye, Hiro."

Minato shook his head to clear it of the last five or so minutes. His head was swimming with enough of his own troubles to be troubled by anything else. He moved up the stairs. The vase in his hand grew heavier and heavier, to the point the intrusive thought that he might drop it crossed his mind; followed rather quickly with if that would even be all that bad. Before he could dwell on the thought, his fist was rapting gently against the weathered white paint of her door. It opened without him having to knock twice.

Bright green eyes stared up at him timidly. "Hi," she said, voice containing warmth.

"Hi," he said back.

She smiled and that had him almost fumbling the vase on account of his hands turning slick with clamminess. A strike to the center—slightly to the left—of his chest he had not anticipated.

xXx

"I can't believe you got my flowers," she beamed at him as she set them down on the dining table. Glass on marble. "Sit, sit," she ushered him into the chair, not giving him much choice. Between her and the plates set at the table, it would be rude to walk away now.

"What's all this?" He asked as his hand moved in a practiced motion of undoing his suit jacket's buttons. He sat down. He could smell the aromas in the kitchen. It was decidedly more spice diverse than what Hiro described and he had come to expect.

"Dinner," Sakura grinned at him with pride. "And before you get worried or reach for the anti-acid pills or milk, Hiro helped. He made sure I didn't overseason. I promise. He hid the salt and forgot to share where it was before leaving so if there's not enough of it, we're going to have to ask Ms. Honda for some," she blabbered because he failed to realize before right now, that he was the first adult she talked to all day. And that too only the second person overall face-to-face.

"Sakura, you didn't have to go through all this trouble." He had caught the pots and pans in the sink and on the stove. There were at least five of them between the two places. And while he could not see what was right in front of him due to the dome covers she had over his and her plates. Covers she must have ordered recently because he did not remember seeing them when the cabinets were reorganized last week.

"You didn't have to get me flowers," she undid the tie of her apron. The one with the sunflower on it. "Thank you. They're so pretty." She turned off the dials of the stove. She moved to sit down across from him.

He waited until she settled. "I'm glad you like them," his smile was soft.

"I do," she breathed, touching the delicate petals of a rose. "They go so well together. Wow."

"Do you know what they symbolize?"

"Hm?" She blinked in surprise, broken from her stupor of pure admiration. "The flowers?" She shook her head, rubbing her arm. "No. I just ignore Ino when she drones on this kind of stuff. It's not really my thing."

His heart sank at her admission. The flowers were supposed to be the second form of confirmation. Corroboration of his words. Without them…. Ino's words which now sounded like a warning rang in his head, ominous.

"Actually," Sakura slipped out of her chair, coming back fully into view. "Mind waiting just a minute?" She smiled sweetly. She held up her index finger. "Just one minute."

Like I could say no to you.

For the most part, when she was not adamant about throwing herself in harm's way.

"Sure," he nodded his head and returned her smile. Polite. He watched her leave; disappointment rising in him. The seconds passed like minutes as he waited. He may or may not have gazed bitterly at the arrangement that really was beautiful but ultimately failed to live up to its true purpose.

Her footsteps reached his ears. He looked over his shoulder, a hand on the back of his chair. He inhaled suddenly, too far gone to tell himself it was not that noticeable. She smiled—shy—tucking hair behind her ear and training her eyes to the linoleum floors.

"You changed," he noted lamely in response to the sky-blue dress she was wearing. Flowy and at the knee. Tied at the nape of her neck. Flattering. And completely unsuited for the winter. Not that it mattered. Because if she told him then and there that it was spring, he would believe her. Blindly.

Small studs caught the light and his eye. "You look nice," he shared his watered-down sentiment.

"So do you," she stood perpendicular to his place setting. "You're wearing your suits again. Must be a good thing, right? Your shoulder is not bothering you all that much," She mused in a voice light with air and free of prospect. "I hung the ones that were on the back of the couch this morning in the closet, in case you're wondering where your bags are."

He was not. This morning felt like it was days ago and that too not in a bad way. He was just not bogged down by the conversations—confrontations—of the spent hours.

"I had some time and willing help, so I thought I would try my hand at dinner. It's nothing fancy. At least food-wise. I thought I would make up for it with the ambiance. That didn't go exactly to plan either. I couldn't find candles that weren't the kind that go on cakes. Not that I even own candle holders. But it's just as well, they would've detracted from the flowers," she continued to overshare. He did not mind. He could listen to her talk about nothing for hours. She lowered something on the table. It was a box. Dark green with hand-painted gold lines as a trim.

"What's this?" He asked slowly, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Open it," came her soft reply.

With fluid movements that hid his trepidation, Minato gathered the box and pulled the lid up. "Cufflinks?"

"Hm. I saw them the other day when I was out with Ino and they reminded me of your eyes, especially when you're really thinking or talking about something that you care about," she held her bottom lip—smeared with light pink lipstick—between her canine teeth. "Like Shika," her words were a whisper. "I hope you don't mind."

He could not form a coherent thought, much less a sound in response to her question. He was thoughtless. Motionless. A loss for it all. He could only blink mutely when her small hands came into the picture.

"May I?" She asked, her lips barely moved. Her pink lashes fluttered lazily, her gaze on the sapphire pools.

"You may," he managed, which was a more difficult feat than it should have been; maybe it had something to do with the fact that he was staring at her—taking full advantage of her preoccupation.

She removed one of the cufflinks from the backing. With the same sureness, she inspected his stitches every morning, and again every night, she inserted the square into his sleeve. He did not even have the presence of mind to help her when she did the same thing for his other one.

This suit jacket isn't the right cut for them.

The fabric of the jacket was bunched, awkwardly. "They suit you," she said matter-of-factly, gently trying to tug the sleeve of his crisp white shirt back into place, past his navy jacket sleeve. She patted the back of his hand in surrender before she pulled back the cover that hid his plate to reveal grilled salmon, mashed potatoes, roasted green beans, and a small dressed salad of mixed greens. It smelled and looked amazing. He licked his lips, words escaping him still.

She moved to reclaim her seat. "So pretty," she gushed at what surely had to be the flowers at the level of appreciation in her voice. He could not be sure, the arrangement blocked his view of her. "Let's eat!" She said with excitement.

Minato touched his hand to the present. His throat tightened with something he was not used to. It was not unpleasant. Just foreign. The tightness did not even let him work out a word to say just how delicious everything was.

"So the new season is out for our show, I was thinking we could binge-watch it tonight or save half of it for tomorrow because…," her voice pattered on. Like drops of rain hitting metal shingles. The warmth from the distinct sources: the furnace, the kitchen, the food, and her, eased away all the weight of burden. Minato relaxed fully—clearing his mind of anything not related to the now—listening on with a dopey smile on his face, uncaring just how much of a dork he must have seemed to anyone else.

Perfection.

---

He was engrossed in what he was watching, the fact that he did not notice her walk through the bedroom door and into what had to be the world's shortest hallway that led to the living room said it all. He was completely teleported away. Having his headphones in helped, she supposed.

So much for being vigilant. This will not do, Minato Namikaze. It's time you learned an important lesson.

A sly smile stretched on her lips. She folded her hands behind her back—restraining them from doing something stupid like wrapping them around his neck or catching on something and alerting him to her presence—she pushed up onto her toes and moved as quietly as she could. Her teeth held down her bottom lip and her snickers all at once. She crouched down the closer she got. Her shoulders were shaking slightly by the time she made it to duck behind the accent chair. The very one he was sitting on.

With a slow inhale, Sakura expanded her lungs. She shot to her feet. "Minato!" She called out his name loudly. Right behind his ear.

He jumped. He jumped up from his seat and quickly closed the laptop. Even before looking around. She had rounded over to his right just as he was pulling out his headphones.

"Sakura," he said her name with the clear impact of his adrenaline surging through him. Like he had just come up for air after a deep ocean dive.

"Did I…," she was unable to continue on account of a laugh that erupted from her throat. She pointed at his red face. "Did I just catch you watching porn?" She grabbed her stomach at the aghast, deer-in-head-lights look that stared back at her. Devoid of all thought. It was just getting better and better. "Oh my god!" A giggle that transformed into a snort that she was too giddy for any chance at embarrassment. "I did! I totally did. I knew that was why you downloaded the VPN!" Her accusation was without heat or credibility but that did not stop her from being greatly amused. Her hands clapped together in glee in satisfaction of a mystery solved.

You're so red. It's adorable.

"It's," he shook his head. Excessively in adamant—vehement—denial. "It's not porn," he denied, not all that convincingly despite his intentions and efforts.

"Right," she rolled her eyes, dabbing at the edges to collect the tears. Her face was pink with remnants of her delight. Now she was just smug. "Must not have gotten to the good part yet," she tilted her head towards the room. "Maybe the timing worked out. The shower is all yours," she chirped with her hands behind her back and innocence coating her words. She took much too much pleasure than she would have at watching him duck his head and slink toward the bedroom, like a dog with his tail between his legs.

She tapped her foot, glancing over her shoulder with what she believed to be nonchalance—she missed the mark but there were no witnesses to attest to the fact. She waited for the sound of the water to register before she grabbed her computer and sank into a cushion—absorbing his trapped heat—her legs crossed under her. The remains of the smile slipped off her face at the video that was paused on the screen. It more or less confirmed what was quickly becoming her new biggest fear. Her stomach flipped and not in a good way.

How to communicate more effectively and productively in a relationship. How to get your partner to hear what you actually are saying and not what they think you are saying.

A lecture by Dr. Atsuko Kanda, a PhD in relationship psychology.

This coupled with the flowers loaded with meaning—meaning she knew all too painfully in theory at the very least—had her thinking it would have been a hundred times better to just have caught him watching porn.

Shit.

---

She moved her finger in zigzags over the tiny red holes where the sutures had been. She inspected each one closely. She tilted her head, her nose brushed against his collarbone.

"Sakura," he said with beginnings of impatience—the vast expanse of his patience being crossed and left behind.

"It's the tattoos," she hushed him with a hand on his other shoulder to steady herself. "They're making it that much harder," she explained the reason for the delay.

Minato nearly groaned at her poor choice of words. He kept his hands to himself, and his head draped against the back of the couch but even then she was all he could smell and feel.

"Maybe we should take this downstairs," he offered weakly and without hope as she seemed rather comfortable. His resolve and composure were being tested. The cold clinical setting would help. He believed.

"I'm almost there," she murmured softly, shifting her weight in pursuit of a better angle. Allegedly. That was what he assumed based on context clues.

He cursed himself for agreeing to her offer to just take care of it here. She had cited saving her the trouble of having to disinfect and clean the clinic. It had made sense when she suggested it. But that was back before she was in his lap with her plaid dress bunched up at her hips and her long, creamy legs out for full view. Look but do not touch. Do not look too much because…. This was far from a clinical environment. Her soft thighs were just right there on either side of his narrow hips, waiting for his fingers to dig into the supple and plentiful flesh. It was the dead of winter. If he thought her shorts that kept getting shorter were bad before…he realized now that some length was better than none at all.

Not suitable in the slightest.

"Sakura," he let out a huff.

"If you cooperate this will go so much smoother," she reprimanded him with her words while her fingers caressed his skin. The woman was nothing but contradictions. She moved yet again, settling herself on his thigh, bracketing it with both her legs.

She's doing this on purpose.

"Tell me about your back piece."

He blinked in surprise, raising his head to look at her but she was the picture of professional—in her gaze and hands at least—the rest of her pressed up against him was more suspect.

"It was my first. I really didn't know what to expect," he could only attach words of honesty to the memory. He heard stories sure but it was far from a cohesive picture. He knew he needed the clan crest—his brand—and that too had to be on his front. So he focused on what he could control, choose, the blank canvas of his back. A clean slate to be filled.

"How long did it take?"

His hand went around her waist instinctively when she leaned too far back, almost losing her balance. His fingertips could feel her warmth through her thin shirt. The only barrier between his hand and her skin.

Is this why you have the thermostat to seventy-five? So you can torment me with the least amount of clothes possible.

He posed and answered his own query.

She thanked him for his consideration with a warm breath. "How long?" She asked again. The side of her face practically pressed up against his bicep as she inspected the site.

"Seventy hours. Roughly." He breathed through his mouth. It was not helping. Not even remotely. He could taste vanilla in the back of his throat.

"Wow," she stared at him stunned. Blinking and blinking as she gawked unabashedly, forgetting, momentarily, the very thing that brought them so close. Physically. "So for basically six days' worth of time you just sat there with the feeling of being stabbed over and over by a tiny, high-speed needle that sounds like a swarm of bees?"

It was relaxing, the sound of the machine.

He chuckled despite the intention behind her words and what they implied. She thought he was a headcase. Maybe she was not too far off. Between their schedules, it was well over two and a half months between start and completion. "The outlining took the longest. The artist—Haku—is a perfectionist. They had to make sure everything was perfect. They are the best for a reason." The best for fine line work and color—only one of which had been Minato's requirements. Haku talked him into getting color after showing him the two renditions with and without.

"Haku?" She frowned at why the name was so familiar. Green eyes rolled up to the ceiling, narrowing in concentration to bridge the gap between the name and the placement. "Oh, Ino showed me some of their designs back when she was trying to convince me to get my first tattoo with her!" Of the time Sakura had held Ino's hand while the blonde-haired woman got a narrow and thin—a purple bush clover blossom, the flower associated with her clan—but a very detailed flower along the outer edge of her arm. Ino had screamed like no other, almost throwing up when the needle first came into contact with her skin. The reaction was extreme for a woman whose ears were without space for another piercing. Haku had been great. Very patient and encouraging, and doing frequent check-ins. They never made it seem like their appointment slot went over by more than fifty-three minutes. "I didn't know they were affiliated with Akatsuki."

"They aren't," Minato's hand trailed up the curve of her spine slowly, of its own volition. He was still but a man despite the iron he steeled himself within. "I asked them to do it for me—I put out my proposal for the design. They agreed."

"The Clan let you?" Sakura asked, every bit as surprised as she was intrigued.

"It's my body that was going to be marked. They can mandate that—along with what I can't get—but they couldn't force me to use their artist. It just had to get done. Discreetly. And it did," he sighed, palm flat against her back.

"Did it hurt?" She asked a little self-consciously. "Haku numbed you?"

"No," he lowered his voice in direct proportion to the distance closing. "There was no need to. I even fell asleep more than once. It was a little uncomfortable in only some places." Index and middle fingers moved from the base of her neck down her spine, denoting the spots he remembered were the most painful with a couple of gentle taps. "Especially when it was being filled in."

"You must really have a high tolerance," she sighed, looking none-to-happy about the fact. Just because he did not register pain, it did not mean that he was not hurt. "Have you ever gotten a brain scan?" She asked with an innocence that he learned to not trust. It was her greatest weapon in disarming a friend or foe.

"Have you heard of the sage toads?" He deflected with practiced poise.

"From that folk legend right? Mount Mybookie?" She blinked, her jade-colored eyes becoming lighter with curiosity.

"Mount Myōboku," he smiled softly at the slightly confused look on her face. It was made even more adorable by her pout and slight flush of her embarrassment. He smoothed down the lines on her forehead with the pad of his thumb. They gave way under his attention. Melting. "My dad was really into that kind of stuff. Instead of nursery stories, I grew up hearing about the sage toads that saved the world. I have the whole collection of books back in my quarters. Gamabunta, Gamahiro, and Gamaken, the warriors of Mount Myōboku. They were my favorite."

"Naturally," she rolled her eyes in a playful manner. Leaning even closer still. The movement was gradual over the course of the conversation. A pull of magnetism that neither of them could resist for too long even if they wanted to. "And the Sakura tree?"

"It matched the color scheme," he grinned easily, eyes crinkling with mirth. He could not take credit for that particular piece. "Haku took some artistic license with my poorly described vision."

"They did a great job," she said with open admiration. "And that's coming from someone who's indifferent to tattoos." She made a face full of self-directed judgment. "Okay, tattoos aren't my thing. Usually," she finished with a sigh.

"Usually?" He pried gently, fingers tapping against the curve of her arched spine.

"They," she moved her eyes and hands down his arms, green irises sweeping his chest. Her pink lip was being agitated by her white teeth, hesitation and worry palpable. "They're just Minato," she huffed, unsatisfied with her lackluster explanation—unable to put it into words of her own or borrowed.

It warmed his heart nonetheless. "So I don't need to look into getting them removed?"

She froze on top of him; hand twitching against his pectoral—her palm had covered the Nara Clan symbol in a coincidence that felt more like a premonition. "What?" She asked dumbfounded—mouth agape. Breath frozen in place in her lungs.

"I'm going to get out, Sakura," he said softly like it was a secret, as it was. One of his many.

"What?" She repeated, head shaking. She laughed, a little unstable in more ways than one. "Minato, if you're saying that to get in my pants, you don't need to. I've been coming onto you pretty strong—"

"Sakura," he said her name firmly with his hands on her hips, expression stern. He would not be moved by her attempt at deflection. A defense he knew to see through. "I want to get out," his gaze bore into hers. "I will get out. I'm done."

Done. He spoke—carried himself—with finality. It was written in stone. His stony visage still somehow retained the warmth of heat. His eyes locked on her. Her and only her. The same intensity. The same something that was different about him that she could not quite place. It was always in the room, always just there when he was. Sometimes tucked under layers of smiles, jokes, and playfulness. The way he looked at her…no one looked at her like that before. Not even him.

The hush-hush of change,

Light smiles fade, shadows deepen—

Hearts forge heavy.

"Minato," she whispered his name, not without fear. "Will they even let you?" She whispered her trepidation in a simple question that she believed to not have a simple answer. Her hands moved to rest on his shoulders. Soft. Warm. Secure.

"They will," he countered her timidness with his conviction. "They will." He searched her face. Mapping the curve of her cheek with his eyes, for the time being, suspended in limbo of her potential reaction. "What are you thinking?" He asked, voice soft and eyes dark.

"I think," she lowered her gaze before turning her head away entirely. Hope was held by the delicate silk of a spider's web. A gale of wind—one misunderstanding—was enough to sever it forever, leaving them without any means of establishing what was lost.

"You don't have to say anything now," he cursed his impatience and the pressure it brought. "It's a lot. I didn't even plan on telling you until it was a done deal but—"

"Why did you tell me?" She asked into the open air everywhere he did not occupy space.

He stared at her, taken aback by the question. "Because I have feelings for you, Sakura," he pushed the words through his rapidly constricting throat. Just open enough for him to breathe but even that was painful. He hissed in surprise. The burn of alcohol filled his nose.

"Did that hurt?" She asked him apologetically, eyes low on her hands that worked diligently to clean the incision wounds.

"It stings," he admitted.

"I'm sorry," she apologized before she reached down to press a ghost of a kiss to his cheek. By the time his lashes fluttered closed, she had pulled away. "Did that make it better?"

"Yeah," he lied.

"Good," she patted his already dry shoulder before climbing out of his lap, taking her warmth back and away along with her. "You're all better now." She moved to gather the dish containing his sutures and the other various things she had used.

"I'll make popcorn."

She hummed in thanks as he walked past her to the kitchen, shoulders tense and teeth pressed against each other in a bite that his father would strongly disapprove of.

Endless cycles spin,

Dreams flicker in the silence—

Whispers, "Try again".

---

She held the brown grocery bag to her hip, lifting up a leg to be a makeshift table to keep it from slipping to the floor and crushing her eggs in the process. Sakura let out a soft sound. "I should have gotten my keys out first," she chided herself as she fumbled around for them in her black purse. She should have splurged for the organizer insert too.

Hinges groaned and complained to her right. She was already donning a smile long before she even looked up. The black letters of 2D grew smaller and smaller.

"Sakura, dear?" The gentle, warm, and comforting voice of her elderly neighbor filled her ears. "Need some help?"

"Yes, please," she chuckled sheepishly. "My keys, Ms. Honda," she held out her arm that her bag was slung over.

The woman shuffled over after closing her own door. She lowered her glasses from the top of her head to the tips of her nose. The chain with pearls that they were attached to swung back and forth.

"Let's see here," she breathed out audibly. Wisps of silver gray here curled close to her head. Ms. Honda slept in soft rollers. "They make the zippers on these things so small," she reached for the gold zipper with arthritic hands.

"I'm so sorry for the trouble," Sakura sighed apologetically.

"Nonsense, dear. Neighbors have to look out for one another you know," she pulled the zipper back. She moved her hands searching for the lanyard. "Ah," she exclaimed in triumph, she moved her wrist back and forth. The keys chimed.

"Thank you," Sakura's voice was bright. She moved back from the door to give Ms. Honda more room to operate. "Please come inside. I'll make some hot chocolate." It was downright nippy still despite the passing of another new year more than a couple of months ago.

"I shouldn't," Ms. Honda seemed as rooted in her convictions about as still as flowing water was.

"I insist," Sakura gave her the last small push needed with wiggling brows.

"Twist my arm," the woman threw up her hands with a shared chuckle and followed Sakura into the small home. She removed her shoes from the rack just as Sakura had peeled off her sandals. "It smells nice in here."

"I picked up some candles the other day," Sakura explained on her way to the small kitchen. "They are supposed to be relaxing."

"That's good," Ms. Honda mused, moving at a noticeably slower pace. "Your hair has gotten very long dear."

"It grows really fast," Sakura hummed in agreement. Her hand migrated to the black band that sat at the nape of her neck. "I'm thinking of cutting it. It's going to be unbearable in the summer."

"Just around the corner," the woman tutted. "You're always so busy in the summer."

"Kids are out of school. People are going outside," Sakura left it at that. Ms. Honda was smart enough to fill in the gaps.

The woman sat in the dining table chair as Sakura moved to put her groceries in the pantry and fridge. "Time goes by the blinks."

Sakura chuckled. "The older I get the more wise you become, Ms. Honda." She turned around with a plate full of cookies. "A snack before the coco." She set it on the table.

"Oh dear, Sakura," Ms. Honda eyed the plate with hunger. "You are going to get me in trouble."

"I won't tell if you don't," Sakura promised solemnly. The wink just ruined the illusion of proper conduct.

"Mr. Honda is not as understanding as that Minato of yours," the woman teased, pointing a cookie at the pinkette with a knowing expression. "He's such a nice boy," she hummed with approval, her voice containing her fondness.

"Minato?" Sakura furrowed her brow as she racked her brain to only come up short. "When did you meet—" she turned her head at the clattering of something. "Ms. Honda!" She called out, raising her eyes from the fallen plate. Shattered.

"Oh dear," Ms. Honda held her face in her hands. "I'm so sorry, Sakura. I made a mess."

"It's okay," Sakura assured her with an outstretched arm. "Are you alright?" She asked worriedly as her eyes moved to triage any visible injuries. So far she just found embarrassment. "It was an accident, it's okay. The most important thing is no one was hurt," she continued to placate and appease. "I'll get this cleaned up and have a new plate of cookies out for us." She crouched down to begin cleaning.

"Oh, Sakura dear. You really are so sweet," Ms. Honda's voice called out from above.

"It's nothing—"

"And naive. So naive."

Sakura furrowed her brow, her hands stopped moving to pick up shards of sea-blue porcelain. Ms. Honda's voice was from behind her. Her eyes widened and filled with shock. The collected pieces fell to the floor. Sakura's hands went to her neck. She could not breathe.

"So trusting," Ms. Honda taunted, squeezing the life out of her in a grip that should have been beyond her. "So stupid."

Sakura's eyes snapped open. She blinked in the darkness; her person covered in sweat. Her heart was beating so rapidly that she could hear it loudly in her ears. Thump. Thump. Thump. She registered the arm coiled around her waist. She inhaled slowly, counting the seconds. Her heartbeat settled. She raised her eyes. His head was tilted slightly down. His breathing was slow. She fought the temptation to touch his soft hair because if she gave in, she would disturb the peaceful picture.

Her chest was heavy with crushing pressure. A weight she had been carrying since learning of Haruto Nara. A weight that had been steadily increasing. A weight that made it hard to breathe. A weight she wanted to shed. Without a witness. Without judgment. Without being left alone to her own self-destructive devices.

She nestled closer to the warmth, to the sturdy arms, to the slow breathing, to the soft crown of shaggy, sunshine-yellow hair. "Minato?" She whispered, barely. Her warm breath tickled his pores. "Are you sleeping?" She asked, with slightly slurred words due to her donned nightguard, again for confirmation of what was right in front of her and her interpretations of it. "I have something I want to say to you."

I have a lot of somethings. Too many somethings.

She blinked slowly, waiting for something to change all the while knowing that if it was his state, she would lose her nerve—that she may never find again.

I don't know how to say it the way other people do. I do not know how to be open like others. I only know what I feel for you, I have never felt for another. That is all I know. I hope you can recognize what I cannot say.

"Fragile heart whispers,

Feelings bloom beyond my words—

See me. Hear unspoke," she recited Sumida from the works held together in the well-worn orange spine of Minato's father's book. "I have feelings for you too," she admitted to his sleeping form which she could not to his conscious counterpart. Her voice was hoarse from sleep and her terror. "I'm just scared. And I don't know what I'm doing. Please be patient with me." She moved closer and breathed him in. "Please," she murmured softly, eyelids falling heavily as she drifted back to sleep, missing the slow smile that stretched across his lips.

---

"Well?" She stared at him expectantly, face very close to his as he chewed. Personal space was but a notion that she did not prescribe to. "I'm on pins and needles here!" She showed him her goosebumps—shoving an arm under his nose. Her legs were folded under her, her arm across the back of the couch cushion. She was holding a cardboard container in her other hand with her chopsticks held against the edge with her thumb.

"Even cold," he spoke only after chewing completely. "The noodles have good chew and body. The sauce is well-balanced. The meat is cooked per—"

"Minato," she huffed, "stop stalling, already. Please," she whined. "Admit it, you know you want to," her voice lilted with temptation. Sultry.

"Tani has better food than Yuma," Minato admitted begrudgingly.

"Thank you!" She cheered—rejoicing—throwing an arm up in pure validation. Fist held tight in victory. "Welcome to the dark side," she grinned from ear to ear, shameless. "Was that so hard?" She mocked because she was not a gracious winner by any means.

"I feel dirty," he made a face that was close enough to a pout. Minato reached out and swiped at the corner of her mouth with his thumb, sucking the sauce from the appendage.

"Gross," she wrinkled her nose, drawing even more attention to the reddening of her cheeks.

"Agree to disagree," he sighed deeply, flattening his bangs to his forehead. He really needed that haircut. Yesterday. "Anything else to make me question the cornerstones of my belief?"

"You're annoying when you're cheeky," she pinched his cheek for emphasis. "But also cute."

"I'm not cute," he protested, huffily.

She laughed poking his side with zero regard for consequence. "Oh my God. You are," she found the sensitive spot at his navel, earning herself a grunt of disgruntlement. "You so are."

"Sakura," he warned.

"Absolutely, downright, adorable. Like pudgy baby arms and legs adorable," she piled on with abandon, teetering closer and closer to the heat of the fire she was disrespecting. "Big head, big-eyed rottie puppies adorable. Baby monkeys in dia-pers!" She let out a breathy giggle. "M-Minato!" She glared at him with indignation at the fingers teasing her side. "Stop!" She laughed, doubling over. He had moved her food to the table because he was thoughtful even when he was being annoying. "S-stop," she commanded without authority, breathlessly. "T-t-tic—," she dissolved into a fit of giggles.

"Take it back, Sakura," he grinned down at her, fingers working for evil. "Take it back," he taunted.

She was a wriggling mess of loud panting breaths. "M-Minato," she panted out his name in a shattered breath. "P-please," she begged. She would throw up if he kept up his ruthless onslaught. Or pee her pants. She did just down a whole glass of iced tea. It was a ways away, the need to relieve herself, but she was not above weaponizing it to her benefit—her freedom.

"Take it back," he carried on, indifferent to the tears collecting in the corners of her eyes. She had to learn.

"Ok-ay," she inhaled shakily, tears rolling down her cheeks. "Okay," she breathed loudly, with her arms wrapped around her torso. Protectively.

Minato sat back on his heels. He waited with his arms still bent menacingly. Her chest heaved up and down. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair fanned around her. Her head rested against the curved arm of the couch.

"Well?" He prompted with expectation etched onto his visage.

One of Sakura's arms darted out. She grabbed him by the middle of his shirt, dragging him down for a searing kiss. A kiss that had him closing his eyes and forgetting everything but the shape of her mouth at that moment. A mouth that she was licking the corner of, right before she reclaimed her station, biting down on his lip to gain entry with force that she would have been given happily if she had asked nicely. But he was in no position to complain, not when she was sucking on his tongue so eagerly.

"That—" she panted breathlessly with her lips still against his; his head spinning, "—is how you clean a mouth." Her thumb wiped away the excess saliva from the very thing in question as she said the words.

He laughed, shaking his head. She chased after his lips. Her eyes were heavy and dark. Determined. "Bedroom?" He asked, voice husky.

"The fact that you even asked," she scowled. With an exasperated eye roll, Sakura pushed him back until he was sitting upright. Minato got the hint. He stood, pulling her to him by the wrist attached to the hand that never broke contact from his chest. She wrapped her legs around his torso so he could transport them both because walking seemed like way too much work—an unnecessary expenditure of energy. "I have my work cut out for me," she breathed into the shell of his ear, twisting a hand in his hair. She flattened herself against his hard planes. She was not concerned about leaving room for air.

"Then you better get to it, teacher," he bit her ear, working his way down from there to nip her neck, pressing his canine against her fluttering pulse.

"Not out in the open," she warned him sharply, pulling back just enough to convey her seriousness with her stem eyes.

"Afraid your boyfriend will find out?" He asked roughly, his hands squeezing her butt, hard enough to bruise.

She glared at him. "Seriously?" She scoffed in disbelief. "You're bringing him into this?"

Again?

"Now?" her departed tone spoke that she believed him to be a fool—an idiot.

"Do you see me laughing?" He returned, barely blinking, expression blank but his stormy eyes betraying his inclination.

"I," her cheeks were red with her indignation at the open challenge. Her lip curled upwards revealing a snarl. She could not believe he could think such a thing much less ask her as close to point-blank as she would get from him. These were his terms and conditions necessary in the pursuit of consent.

"I may have put the dress on because of him," her hands went to pull at her hair trying to straighten out the knots because her thoughts were a mess. "But," she breathed through her nose, avoiding just about everything up until now. Now was not good enough. "He's not the one I was thinking about when I bought it or while I wore it," she raised her eyes to his without wavering.

Steady.

"Who did you think about when you bought it, Sakura? Who did you think about while you wore it?" He asked, his voice low and textured with grit and gravel.

"I saw you first," she admitted everything that needed such with a shudder, her face and neck bright red with blush. It was spreading to the visible part of her decollete with the aid of the top three undone buttons. His intensity—or expectation—did not wane one bit. All that was communicated by the unsaid was unsatisfactory in the realm of his domain; the domain that enthralled her so that she was completely unaware when she was ensnared.

Captive.

Cobalt. His eyes were the first things she saw of his. Then she saw the rest of him. Every bit as beautiful as his eyes.

Without care, gaze met—

Lost track breath, time, and account,

Led by hand to ruin.

"You're going to make me spell it out for you?" She asked him, face hot enough to melt her skin from her like dripping wax. Navy irises seemed committed to reducing her to an entity so small that she could be captured in the individual curves of his blue-pigmented furrows. So that she would forever be a part of him. Not a terrible fate if someone ever asked and she felt generous enough to share.

"Yes," he said without blinking—without a sense of shame.

"I take it back," she grumbled, glaring at him without heat because he took all of hers and replaced it with his. There was no means of control for her. "You really aren't cute, M-I-N-A-T-O," she spelled out explicitly in a tone that was decidedly playing up the obnoxiousness. Because that was exactly what he was being. He started it.

Minato reached a hand back, wrapping it around one of her ankles to break the link at his waist—so quickly that she did not even have time to think—all so he could drop her on the bed unceremoniously. Sakura made a sound of surprise just as the second bounce of the mattress was not as violent as the first. She shoved her hair from her face with a sweep of her arm, revealing eyes the color of emeralds in their lividness, with a snarl.

"Hey! You listen here—," the rest of her sentiment died in her throat. She gulped at the way he was looking at her, already having shed his shirt—her eyes were drawn to the shimmering koi against the ocean of intricately drawn black. His intent was clear, daring her to stop him—to oppose the will he wanted to enforce. His eyes were so dark she could not differentiate between navy and obsidian. A thrill went down her spine to curl her toes.

Games played, rules unsaid,

Your depths pull me deeper still,

Dare do I not, you.

"Thank you for noticing," he said right before climbing on top of her agonizingly slow—each ripple of muscle not missed by her sharp eye—tearing at the rest of the buttons that kept her shirt dress closed. The plastic and red and black flannel groaned with strain just as bothered by plight as the body they wrapped.

It was a good thing that the garlic noodles tasted even better cold because right now, Minato was really, really hot.

xXx

"I don't want to see anyone else," she said, breaking the silence left behind by their departed pants—breaths caught and controlled—not pausing from tracing the lines and patterns on his chest. Her head rested against his shoulder. Skin warming skin.

"Good," Minato addressed candidly. "I don't want to see anyone else either," he did not hesitate to follow her sentiment with his own. Shared and bound. His hand playing with her hair. He felt her smile pull across her cheek. With a slight movement of her head—never lifting or breaking away—she left a kiss on his sternum.

"Good," she said, her foot moving up the bone of his shin. "Give me another one."

He closed his eyes. Head cradled by the palm of his hand. The pillows were scattered on the floors. Forgotten and unconcerned with.

"Knew not of warmth past,

Enraptured by forgery—

Awake, I now see," he shared, lashing pulling apart to reveal dark eyes cast with the shadow of the room's dark.

"Hm," Sakura parted her lips with a soft click. "That was a good one." She nestled deeper, sighing in contentment. "Does Sasori know?" She raked her fingers.

"He does," he inhaled deeply—slowly. "Him and Shika's cousin—Rihito. The Professor and his wife. They're the only ones."

"And me," she reminded.

"And you." He smiled.

"I'm glad I know."

"I'm glad you know too." His hand migrated to her hip. "Another?" He asked after some moments offered away to the soft silence.

"Another," she answered lazily, stifling a yawn.

Minato's lips moved. Sakura's ears listened. Time stood still.

---

"Do you have to?" She asked him, making herself as hard to leave as she possibly could, staring up at him with big green eyes; hiding her growing unease behind the playful register of her voice.

When did I become so clingy?

Overnight seemingly. Her eyes fluttered closed when his warm lips pressed against the center of her forehead. She hummed in contentment, wrapping her hands around his forearms.

"I really," he pressed another kiss, "need to go."

She groaned, opening her eyes and pouting at him. "I'm going to be so bored," she whined shamelessly now.

"I'll be back, Sakura," he placated her. "Before you know it."

"But I miss you already," she hooked a finger into the inside of his coat jacket pocket. She rotated on her hips, twisted slightly from side to side. The face of misery she wore was very convincing.

"Really?" He asked with a smile he could not contain, not that he cared to.

"Really," she nodded her head earnestly. "So much," she added with a layer of pitifulness.

He pressed his thumb to her chin, gently tilting it back. She pushed up to her toes. Eyes closed and mouth parted in anticipation. His lips found hers. She melted against him. Arms around his neck. His around her waist. They rocked slightly.

Drawers were being pulled roughly in the kitchen. Slammed with force. Sakura peeled open an eye. Minato bit back a groan. "What are you looking for Sasori?" She asked him around Minato's arm. Her face rested against his bicep. Maybe she could expedite the process and the aggressive, nerve-grating background music would stop. One could hope.

"An ice cream scoop," Sasori murmured, continuing on his quest. "To scoop out my eyes so I don't have to see this. One of you will have to fill my ears with embalming fluid. You have some of that downstairs right, Doc?" He looked up at her red face.

When will you learn, Sakura, to leave crazy well enough alone?

"Sakura's not an undertaker, Hora," Minato answered for her, sparing Sakura from having to grace the statement with a comment because Sasori was nothing if not persistent.

"Well if the two of you keep that up, she might have to be. Unless I kill you both and make puppets out of your carcasses," Sasori drawled in a monotone as he waved the scoop back and forth lazily. "I liked you better when you were just eye-screwing each other."

"Hora," Minato narrowed his eyes in a clear warning that he was rapidly approaching the line. His usual philosophy of ignoring it until it went away did not have a place here.

"Oh my God," Sakura hid her burning face in Minato's chest, mortified.

"Ignore him, Sakura. Don't listen to what he says," he advised with a practiced ease. In acceptance of such proven and tested advice, they ignored the redhead man's disingenuous murmur of "sorry."

"What's his deal with puppets?" Sakura's question came out muffled against the layers of silk, needing a distraction. Maybe then her ears would forget how to burn.

"Not so loud," Minato said in a hushed voice. His hands moved up and down her back. "You'll lose two hours of your life and all you'll be left with is being creeped out."

"Maybe I should let Ino meet him," Sakura peered up at him. "It's a cry for help."

"It is if you think Ino is the answer," he grinned which quickly turned into a hiss. He brought a hand to his throbbing side.

"That's my best friend you're defaming."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Sakura," he brushed the hair from her face. "You look beautiful."

"Do I?" She batted her eyelashes. She pranced on her toes, drawing attention to her legs clad in sheer black tights under her red off-the-shoulder, wool dress—thanks to whom, the thermostat read a sane sixty-eight degrees.

"So beautiful," he bent down to kiss her just as she rose up.

"Yep, I'm definitely killing you both," Sasori twirled the pocket knife in his hand. "Whose first?" He held it open in his palm, moving it between the two of them in a deranged, silent game of eeny meeny miny moe.

"Who told you to come up?" Minato asked him with irritation, the rosy, flowery cloud of haze being diluted with his mere presence.

"You did," he countered with slow blinks and zero emotion. "Twenty minutes ago. But you're still here. Because of all this," Sasori's lips curled in disgust as he gestured in their direction with both hands like he was using his fingers to whisk something. "Happened and is still happening."

"Smartass," Minato muttered under his breath.

"He has a point," Sakura laughed, peeling herself off of him. Her asking if he was sure she could not just go with him had led them here. She squeezed his cheeks. "Hurry back."

"I will," he promised with his curled fist over his heart.

"The lieutenant it is then," Sasori took one step forward like a poorly coordinated zombie toward the pair, knife held in a limp grip.

Sakura grabbed Minato by the arm before he could walk over and smack Sasori upside the head—even if it was well-earned. The sooner Minato left to do whatever it was he needed to do, the sooner he would be back. She pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, keeping his attention strictly on her. She never did learn to share being the youngest. "I'll be waiting," she told him with eyes solely focused on him. The world melted away. "We're making brownies tonight."

"And watching the sixth movie." He remembered. "I'll be fast," he promised, holding her to him. "I can't wait."

"Me either," She sighed in contentment, with a smile on her face. "But for you, I'll try."

Face dons days-long mask,

Unbidden joy drapes my lips—

Me, the last to know.

xXx

Sakura eyed her filtered likeness through the front-facing camera lens. Her legs folded underneath her and her back rested against her headboard. The canned lights were on as were the table lamps. She closed the camera app—not before adjusting the neckline of her red dress—to open the phone. She tapped the last call, mindful to keep the angle the same one she had tested prior. The line trilled in her ears, coming out of her white cordless headphones.

"Ino," she smiled wide and bright. "Oh wow," she breathed in appreciation, taking in all there was to take in. The purple strapless jumpsuit highlighted the plentiful curves. Her platinum hair was slicked back in her signature high ponytail. Not a hair was out of place. "You look hot."

Baby-blue eyes rolled to the ceiling, a scoff was her response. "Tell me something I don't know." The phone was set presumably on a counter. Ino picked a purple brush and resumed applying blush on her cheeks. "I'm going out with Karin," she supplied, distractedly. "You sure I can't convince you to come with us?"

Sakura shook her head. "No, I have plans already," she tried—and failed—to keep the giddiness from her voice.

"You having plans?" Ino cocked a brow, going even as far as lowering her makeup brush. Her jaw hung open, stunned.

"Come off it, Pig," Sakura tsked without emotion. "I know you arranged those flowers." Her eyes softened. "Thank you. They're beautiful," she watched Ino widen her eyes to swipe even layers of mascara. "Did," she began in a small shy voice, her cheeks slowly heating to match her dress. "Did he say anything about me?"

"No," Ino said. "Why would you come up?"

Honestly.

Sakura should have known it would not be that easy. Not with Ino. Especially not with something like this. "Forget I said anything," Sakura pushed her lips to the side, sighing loudly.

"Did something happen, Forehead?" Ino asked, voice almost gentle. Patient. Her full attention was on the small pinkette on her screen.

"Yeah," Sakura's smile widened. "Something pretty great. My face hurts."

"That's disgusting," Ino scrunched her nose. "You sound so happy about it too, didn't expect that from you."

"Not from that!" Sakura was quick to correct with exasperation. "From smiling, Pig! Get your head out of the gutter!"

Ino laughed unapologetically. "So, where did he take you?"

"I," Sakura mulled it over quickly in her head just how frank to be. "Nowhere. I made dinner for him."

"Now, I know you're bullshitting me," Ino's beautiful features were marred by a scowl. "Have you learned nothing?"

"I'm serious!" Sakura insisted to no one's real benefit. Ino was already fully committed to judging her choices and presuming the worst about Minato. Comments on just how easy Sakura was were being held back, the pinkette knew Ino well enough for that. "He's not dead if you're wondering," she attempted to distract with humor.

"Oh good," Ino hooked large silver hoops through her ear. "My outfit is much too expensive to help you move a body. But I guess Karin and Hikari would be there. I excel at delegating."

"You're terrible," Sakura shook her head. Karin's silence would be expensive to buy. It would not be worth it. "Your smokey eye is perfect." There was more than a trace of jealousy in her tone.

"It only took me three tries. I had way too much caffeine today," Ino sighed, it had been a long day even if it only totaled half a shift. "I'm happy for you, Forehead." She meant it. The warmth that budded in Sakura's chest was a testament to that fact. "I can't remember the last time you were this obnoxious," she added with fondness.

"Thanks, me too. I really like him." Sakura biting down on her lip did not impede her smile in the slightest. "Like, really, really like him."

"Sakura," Ino was frowning, momentarily pausing from adorning what was plenty enticing enough. "Babe, try not to get too excited, okay? It's still early. You're in the learning phase," Ino reminded her with careful tact—almost clinical in its delivery. "Eyes wide open," she advised with equal parts tenderness and overbearing.

She means well.

Sakura had to tell herself. To her, it was just flowers after ten months of nothing. To Ino it was not enough because she did not know enough. Ino was only trying to look out for her. As she always did. "Did you threaten him with bodily harm?" Sakura asked, knowing full well the answer.

"Just who do you think you're talking to?" The blonde filled in her brows with a smug smirk on her face that was telling. "We had a nice heart-to-heart. A seeing eye-to-eye kind of thing. We set some expectations. All very civil."

"I know exactly who I'm talking to," Sakura stated in a deadpan. "Don't make me ask again nicely, Babe." Sakura was not capable of such a thing.

"Florist-client privilege binds me, Forehead," Ino uttered ridiculousness with grave conviction. "My hands are tied."

"Not a thing," Sakura went straight to the dismissal of such convoluted notions. "It's not like you're his doctor." Her face lost color at the two fragments of thought crossing. "Oh my God, you're not his doctor are you?" She asked in a small voice, stomach twisting with dread as more and more scenarios—probabilities—-unfurled in her head. Rapidly.

"You need to take a chill pill. Say the word and I'll prescribe you some Prozac," Ino offered earnestly. She turned in the mirror, critical of all her angles. "Not everything is a long elaborate scam."

Maybe, but it still feels a little too good to be true.

Sakura just stopped in time from pinching herself. Ino would tease her incessantly and the woman really did not need more ammunition. This was much too indirect for Ino. There was no way Ino and Minato knew each other from before. She was just being paranoid.

"So he was just there when you arrived?"

"He was. He and my dad were talking. Dad was being unfriendly. He was probably just coddling his bruised ego from the reality check Mom gave him that he's not remotely close to young anymore. You should have seen his face when he realized we knew each other and he wonders why I never bring anyone around," Ino huffed out.

"You'd have to not get bored for someone to stick around," Sakura pointed out in what Ino found not to be too helpful if her glare was anything to go off of. "You'll be warm enough?"

"Yes, Granny," Ino rolled her eyes. "I have my coat. The venue is inside. Although it seems to have an industrial basement vibe. I'll also bring my leather moto jacket. I'll be fine."

That doesn't sound warm at all.

"Call or text me when you get into the car and when you get to the venue. When you leave too," Sakura instructed with the ease of repetitive practice. "Don't be on the phone while you're waiting alone. It reduces your situational awareness," she spoke like the hypocrite that she was. And in her heart, she knew Ino would not listen to half the things she said. But maybe the half she did retain would be the half that ended up keeping her safe.

"Yes, yes," Ino nodded her head, so placating that it was patronizing. "Enough about me, you're wearing makeup and in a dress," she noted dryly. "What are you doing tonight?"

"We're watching Harry Potter after we make dessert," she twirled a pink lock of hair around her index finger.

"Is that a euphemism? Please tell me it's a euphemism because, Forehead, that sounds boring as hell. Practically geriatric."

"I'm looking forward to it, I'll have you know," Sakura stood behind her words with an obnoxious tone.

Don't yuck my yum, Pig.

"Well, it sounds like you found the perfect counterpart. He is as much of a ghost as you online," Ino let out a sigh, she was much closer. She had picked up the phone. A gray opaque film covered the screen. The video feed was paused. "It's Karin. I need to take her call. I ignored her last five." Ino was back in full view, the phone on the counter.

Sakura whistled, eyebrows shooting up to her hairline. "Five?" She did not know whether to be concerned or impressed. Concerned probably.

Ino shook her head. "I'm definitely going to be a little bit tipsy before the car picks me up. There's no way I'm getting through tonight sober. Who the hell thinks watching people writhing in paint on a blank canvas sheet is an idea of a good time?"

You're the one who said yes.

"You're being a supportive friend," Sakura reminded her not unkindly. "Have fun. Tell me how it goes."

Or don't, that works too.

"You too," Ino blew her a kiss a second before the call disconnected, leaving Sakura's smiling reflection against a black screen.

xXx

"The set has been delivered," the voice in his ear said in a monotone.

Always with the melodrama.

Minato pinched the bridge of his nose. The concerted effort to keep his patience contained to just his physical person pinched his features together. He waited. The call was a courtesy.

"One piece in particular is different. Be sure to give it additional notice."

He's not there.

Minato blinked. His rigid posture did not change in the slightest. Hooded cobalt eyes scanned the street on the other side of the chain link fence. His folded elbow rested on the center console. The car smelled faintly of coffee. The stained rings around the circumference of the cup holders were the likely culprits.

"Understood," Minato's smooth, detached voice filled the cold cabin of the car. The line went dead. A white-knuckle grip on the burner phone had the metal straining—leaving impressions on his angry, red palm. Narrowed cobalt eyes saw past the mulling, blurry faces of the populace. Indiscriminately.

The news would be public soon. There was a potential that Sakura would stumble across it before he arrived back at the apartment. He tapped the screen. The clock spoke that he was out of time. They were creatures of habit. It was like clockwork. Reliable. The Professor had told Minato himself. Even if he waited just another minute, the narrow window of opportunity would be securely closed.

Shit.

It would have to wait—calling her would have to wait and this was too big to put in a text. He sent out a silent prayer that she stayed away from the news before he gathered himself, mind, body, and soul in preparation for what was to come. With a soft sigh, he rolled his shoulders, pushing open the car door. His loafers came into contact with the slightly damp asphalt. The dirt on the windshield had been made more noticeable with the quick smatter of rain that dried quicker than it had wet the ground. The car door slammed. The cat keyring in his pocket jostled by the residual vibrations. Minato raised his shoulders, preventing the wind from slapping against the vulnerable skin around his nape.

"Your phone?" He asked the man who had emerged from the black SVU reversed parked into the spot, who was now standing to his right.

"Off," Rihito gathered his hair into a ponytail. "I left my personal at home like you asked."

Good. No distractions.

Minato nodded his head. The motion was curt but it conveyed his approval. "Remember what I said."

At all times.

"Keep quiet and look pretty," Rihito grinned at the sigh that left Minato. "I added the last part."

Now is not the time to get cheeky with me, Nara.

"Don't smile. Don't talk. Don't look at anyone."

But see everything. Hear everything. Remember everything.

Rihito rolled his eyes. "I just told you that I remembered." He held up his hands at the glare he earned. "You made me take out my nose ring. I like my nose ring. That's why I wear it."

You'll thank me later.

Minato blinked slowly with his jaw set in a tense line that bled into his shoulders and back.

"Starting now," the Nara resigned, dryly. He zipped up and locked his mouth, throwing away the key. His expression dissolved into impassiveness. Even the light behind his eyes was not as prominent.

Minato's hands only pulled out of the safety of his pockets to grasp around the cold, rough handle of a metal door. He pulled, both of them slipping inside just in time for the second door to buzz open. The telltale sounds and aroma—smoke—filled his nose. He expanded his chest to full capacity, pulling as much of it in as he could. It left him with a borrowed calm—a sense of control when he very much had so little.

He ignored the exclaims of desperation around him. The bright lights and colors both overhead and eye level did not capture his attention. Nor did the flashing that was accompanied by pinging sounds. The early model slot machines were not why he had come all this way.

The carpet was a rich maroon. They followed the stripe of blue that was right in the middle of it. A path that was laid out. Burly men in slate gray suits and black v-neck t-shirts with their hands clasped in front of them eyed him top to bottom. Minato did not budge. Rihito was half a step behind him. The man on the right was bald. His head was shiny—reflecting the canned lights like little stars on his scalp. He jerked his thumb to the right to a sign.

Employees Only.

"Can't you read, Pretty Boys?" He sneered, hand reaching for his holster that was hidden away in the loose suit jacket when the two remained stationary.

Cobalt eyes rolled over to his face lazily, flickering away in clear dismissal; the man bolstered at the lack of respect. Before he could move forward into Minato's space, his counterpart brought two fingers to his ear; brown brow furrowed and frowning, his other hand held out over the bald man's chest—halting him dead in his tracks.

"Yes, boss," he murmured before he lowered his arm. He dipped his head, and both his hands returned to being clasped in front of him. "Please come in, Mr. Namikaze." He reached for the doorknob. It turned. His silver watch—a counterfeit—-glittered. The door parted from its frame.

Minato's hand slipped into his pocket. He pulled out his phone, handing it to the guard on the left. Rihito did the same, mimicking his movements. His shadow. The man dipped his head in a quiet gesture. The blond did not bother to register the expression the other muscle wore. He walked through the entry. The back wall was covered in screens. Nearly every inch of the casino was being recorded in black and white; a silent picture of illegal activity.

The large round oak table, lined with green velvet, playing cards, stacks of ryo, expensive (real) watches and jewelry, white powder, and square glasses with various colored liquid was filled with bodies. The old faces turned to regard him. Only thirteen pairs of eyes in that room mattered. The other twenty-five eyeballs around the side walls were as negligible as flies—until they were not.

"It is quite the surprise that you still remember these roads," a voice eaten away by cigars addressed him—the head of the table. His gray hair was slicked back. A thick gold chain around his neck, clearly visible over his white turtleneck.

"It's been a while," Minato admitted, bowing his head for no less than five seconds. "But I haven't forgotten."

The man let out a rough scoff; clearing the phlegm from his throat and swallowing it back. His eyes briefly flickered to Rihito before returning to bore into Minato's head.

"Have you come for the game? He asked indifferently. He was right on time after all.

Senju.

"Yes." Minato rolled up the sleeves of his white collared silk dress shirt to the crooks of his elbows. He pulled a chair with him as he walked, holding it to him at his hip, not letting the metal legs clatter and creak against the tilted ground.

"You're missing something," the Senju jeered, grinning to reveal no less than three solid gold teeth in perfect view. "Maybe you should quit before you lose the shirt off your back too."

Minato's jacket—the supposedly missing argument—was in the car. He did not bring a spare one—like he had with his shirt. He did not want to return back to Sakura's smelling like the inside of a casino. It would raise an opportunity for questions he would rather not get into. Not to mention she did not seem as receptive to the smell as he was. There was no nostalgia associated with it in her case.

"We thought you dead," a voice called out with neutrality. He would not have been affected either way. The representative from the Agawa Family—much too small to be considered a clan with only a hundred known names—was the one to make the comment.

"He's not that easy to get rid of, not unlike the common roach," a gruff voice spoke on his behalf; aged and not nearly as boisterous as it once had been in his prime. His cataract-impaired eyes were hidden away by dark round sunglasses.

Aburame.

"You're everywhere lately and yet nowhere," the voice to his right rasped, exhaling smoke. He coughed into his fist before taking another long drag, his creased-filled mouth set itself in a deeply annoyed frown. "Sugawara almost pissed himself in my office. Incoherent son of a bitch," he grumbled darkly, raking a hand over his ashen face.

Sarutobi.

There was some laughter at the D.A.'s expense—some more hearty and boisterous than others.

"Does Shikaku need to keep a tracker in your collar? You're far out of the boundary of the invisible fence."A threat uttered casually by the eldest living member of the once-royal line of the Yamada Clan. Ancient. He was probably pushing a hundred and three if the rumors were to be believed. "You even brought his late wife's nephew."

Fly on the wall. You're here to be a fly on the wall.

Minato did not look back to see if Rihito reacted. So far he had followed instructions to the T—when he was not actively trying to be a little shit. Minato had no reason to believe Rihito would not continue to do so.

"What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?"

"Looks like he's all bark and no bite."

"What bark?"

"What about you boy? Can you speak?" The insult was hurled in the direction of the silent Nara. The seconds ticked loudly.

"It's true what they say, a neutered dog is not even a bitch."

A round of laughter, jeers, and claps. The old heads of the Akatsuki. Relics of time long past. Kings of nothing but still proud. How they would remain until their respective last days.

Hyuuga. Akimichi. Fuma. Hoki. Inuzuka. Kurama. Shimura.

Minato mentally listed the rest of the present as his eyes wandered the table, languidly. It was only right. They were studying him—sizing him up. He was forty years junior at least to the next closest in age. Time was moving much too slowly.

Minato continued to not engage. They may be talking about him but they were not talking to him. It was a simple baiting tactic. Simple but effective. Hot-headed, young men fell prey to it often enough that the wheel did not need to be reinvented. An impromptu hazing ceremony was required each and every time because he did not go to war with anyone else at the table. He had not earned their respect by trading bullets. That was what made him different—that besides the obvious.

"Enough," Hyuuga spoke, his upper lip curled with his utter disdain for the nature of exchange. "I do not intend to spend what is left of my time on this earth chatting like a bunch of housewives with you lot. Either deal him in or deal with him!"

Please.

Minato kept his support strictly internal. The more emotion he showed the longer this would go on. He may not be actively making money but that did not mean he could burn hours with these retired men.

"Don't get your panties in a bunch, Harionago, we're just having our fun."

The Hyuuga let out a puff of air, offended at the not-quite-flattering comparison to the old folk legend of the terrifying Barbed Woman. He was quick to close his mouth and narrow his pearl-colored eyes, jaw set in seething anger.

"What's the call?" Sarutobi pulled nearly everyone's attention with his pointed question. "The minimum is a honey bun. You got that on you, Yellow Flash?" The tone was incredulous. A different head even went as far as looking around for a bag of a hundred thousand ryo that was just not there.

Yuki.

There was clamoring and murmur, even some chortles. The Senju head had not moved or spoken. He was regarding Minato with beady, shiny dark eyes.

"I did not come with money," Minato said, much too nonchalantly especially considering he was the only one with not at least one bodyguard—backup—armed to the teeth and more than a little trigger-happy. They were completely unarmed in fact. Unlike the other men at the table, he was holding up his seat instead of it holding him. "A favor owed," he laid bare his offered substitution for the monitory buy-in amount.

A silence surrounded—enveloped—the round table. Faces went slack and even the smoke of the cigars that were held between ring-adorned fingers seemed to become scarce. No one moved. Not even Minato. He kept his gaze fixed on the only face that mattered.

It's next to worthless once I lose my standing.

On the off-chance, he lost. But they did not need to know that. Just like they did not need to know that he had learned to gamble—during his life revaluation phase—from the Legendary Sucker herself. Them not calling his bluff was an integral part of the plan. His risky-no-good-would-earn-him-an-earful-from-both-Jiraiya-and-Tsunade plan. But they were not here to lecture him so he pushed it from his mind. For now.

Show no weakness.

Thin lips pulled together. Bloodless. Minato's poker face did not betray the bead of sweat that was working its way down his spine. A gamble before even the game began. The severity of the man's face lessened. He threw his head back and laughed. It sounded like breathless gasps for air. He clapped his hands twice when he settled back down. Shoulders dipped. Other nervous laughter joined him, blanketing it completely.

"I like you, boy," he grinned, taking a long drag of his cigar. "I've always liked you." He blew out a ring of gray smoke. "Sit, sit," he gestured with his hand.

Minato lowered the chair next to the judge. The Sarutobi sighed. With a grumble and choice words under his breath, he shimmed his chair causing a chain reaction. Three more men slid over. Minato rested his forearms at the edge of the table, hands folded and eyes sharp.

"What do you want?" The Senju gestured behind Minato.

The blond from the corner of his eye registered a round black tray. A woman in a black kimono and fishnets stood ready behind him to serve.

"Sake," and information but one came before the other. Minato's eyes landed back on the table's head. He waited for a beat, only to relax marginally when the gray head of hair nodded curtly.

"Smoke?" Sarutobi asked, passing along an uncut cigar with a hand covered in liver spots.

"No thank you," Minato declined politely. He did not have to worry about Rihito. The man had taken a place against the wall with his hands clasped and dark eyes sharp with alertness.

You wanted to learn. So learn.

"Don't light up that cheap shit behind your ear in here. Cancer will not get to me before retirement does," Sarutobi wheezed, coughing into his fist in unfortunate timing.

They'll need a competent replacement before they let you.

Minato said nothing as he watched himself being dealt into the game, officially.

xXx

She moved two fingers on her trackpad, eyes glazed over as she scrolled mindlessly. There were only so many puppy and cat videos she could handle before her short attention span took over. She reached lazily for her phone. She checked her messages. She sighed through her nose at no new texts from Minato. It did not really come as a surprise. All his texts to her were always very dry as they served one purpose and one purpose alone and that was to be informative.

She knew that. So why she checked her phone every five seconds was beyond her. Maybe she liked to torture herself. In a strange way, it took her to the beginning—to the day at the subway. She had been anxious for him to text her back then too. But now the stakes were higher. Every time he left the house, he had multiple targets on his back and they all originated from the same place: the Uchiha. Sasuke and his clan. Sasuke, the man who also did not call, text, or try to contact her in any way. She wondered if it was out of pride or if he was giving her space to think about it. It did not matter as she was not going to call him to ask. She did not need to—or cared to—know.

Some things are better left alone.

Her phone buzzed. Her lips pulled into a smile only for it to fall when she saw who the notification was from—or rather, who the notification was not from.

She must have made it to the basement warehouse thing.

It sounded like the start of a terrible slasher film but no one asked for Sakura's opinion so she kept it to herself. She opened the messenger app, tapping Ino's name.

Forehead! Have you seen this?!

The URL was the Konoha Leaf, their most reputable newspaper. She clicked on the link. Her eyes quickly read the headline.

The Remaining Suspects of the Subway Shooting Revealed. Three For Three: Uchiha.

Sakura sat upright, back rigid. Her heart was beating in her chest painfully as she scrolled through the blocks of text, impatient for what she was searching for. Her heart nearly stopped at the first two faces with blue backgrounds.

Not them.

She scrolled further. Her heart sank. The third and last photo was also not him. It was not the man she remembered. She rose from her bed. She wondered if Sasori was done making his call. She wanted to ask him if he knew any of the faces. Surely he had to know more than her. She pressed her ear against the door. Nothing. Not a sound. Sakura opened it a sliver. Just before she could poke her head out, she registered his voice.

"Yeah man, everyone's seen it. I don't know what to tell you. It's all shit. None of those Uchiha did it."

She could see his leg bobbing up and down—the one thrown over the armrest of her accent chair.

"Nothing, I'm watching his girl again," Sasori sighed long sufferingly.

Sakura got into a crouch, making herself smaller so she would be harder to see if he bothered to look over the back of the chair. She listened. How could she not? He was talking about her.

Sasori snorted at something the person—a man—on the other end of the phone said. "Nah, they're no longer making eyes anymore. I mean they are. They aren't just making eyes anymore. Took nearly a year. But hey, it's happening."

Her cheeks reddened to have her business aired like that—to some perfect stranger.

"Yeah, she's okay, crazy though, and not the hot kind," Sasori paused, presumably to either listen or think. "Even with the unique cotton candy hair and doll eyes, she's not worth half mil."

Half mil? What does he mean by half mil…half a million?

"He bribed him. The Nara to take his place," Sasori went quiet for a beat. Maybe two. Coincidentally, Sakura's had picked up. "I gave him the money myself from his stash at the compound." There was a lull—a pause before Sasori let out a rough snort. "Where do you think he's right now? Off to buy someone else off." He answered his own question without hardly a pause.

Minato? Minato…bribed Haruto Nara. Personally?

Her heart sank. He had told her it was how clans operated. He had told her and she neglected to read between the lines. He never did answer her question directly when she asked him how he operated. She did not want to believe it.

It was him?

"He has a name for the Uchiha. A pig gave it to him. A while back. Some low-level thug, not worth the cost of putting his name to ink. Masa…masa-something…hold on, I had a system," he pinched the bridge of his nose. Sasori snapped his fingers, slapping his knee. "Seaweed..nori! Masanori, yeah that's that bitch's name," Sasori snapped his fingers once more but this time, he sat up, causing Sakura to almost jump—she narrowly avoided hitting the top of her head on the door knob.

What? Minato said it was the head's nephew. Right in the beginning. But…a pig? A cop told Minato? What cop?

Her head started to spin. Did Minato lie to her? Why?

"Nah it's fine," Sasori glanced over the top of the chair. "She's sleeping or some shit. She just lazes around all day. I messed up, I should have gone to med school," he let out a breathy cackle.

Pink brows furrowed. She held her breath. It was not for long. Sasori's dry-to-the-bone voice filled the room and then some, like falling grains of sand.

"Lieu's contact within the clan was pissed. I would chop off my right pinky to be in the room when he got chewed out. He's probably in hot water with his daddy." Sasori laughed, cruel and raspy. "They all look the same. It's impossible to tell them apart, at least Uchiha—Shisui— is fun. He can pull a flock. But even that's on hold while this is being sorted." He blew a raspberry while playing with the hair at the crown of his head. The silver rings shone.

Shisui…why is that name familiar?

She racked her brain trying to place everything on top of each other in the correct order. It was too much information, or rather, the information brought too many emotions that made it hard to think straight.

Minato has a contact…in the Uchiha Clan? Shisui…Shisui…where have I heard that name before? Shisui. Shisui! Sasuke's annoying cousin! The one he said I would get along with because we're both friendly. Who is he talking about when he said 'daddy'? Literal father or clan-head father? Or both?

"This whole bloody thing wouldn't have happened if he wasn't in Tani," Sasori luffed his hair with a careless hand. "Why else was he here? To see her," Sasori snorted with palpable irritation.

Me? He wanted to see me? But how did he know I was here? Where I live.

Dread—the same one she had woken with moved through her.

"He had this whole thing laid out; an eighteen-month plan or some shit. Meticulous down to the very last detail of how he would do it. Only to fumble it ten months in. Approached her too quickly. But I guess it worked out for him. He got what he wanted. He's always had a thing for being told what to do—"

Sakura closed the door softly. She had heard enough. There was nothing else she could retain. She pulled her knees to her chest, head spinning so much she nearly threw up her breakfast. Her ears rang with the question Sasori had once asked her—the very question that kept coming back to the forefront of her mind. Over and over and over again. Verbatim.

Ever wonder, Doc, why he never approached you first? In all these months.

She had an answer. He was not a pawn. And maybe, nor was he a white knight.

xXx

Addicts always lie.

She wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. She really wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. She was desperate to give him the benefit of the doubt. Sasori could be lying. He was not the most stable of individuals. That was true but that did not stop her from asking the same question over and over again.

Why?

Why would he lie? Especially when he had no reason to. He thought she was unaware of his private conversation. The added degrees of separation were intentional. Sakura had zero desire to be on the receiving end of crude—distasteful—jokes and jeers now that Sasori knew things were different between her and Minato. The development was obvious. They had not tried to hide it—hardly at all.

He picked up flowers at Yamanaka's Flower Shop…the one in Yuma.

A coincidence? Intentional? Just an innocent byproduct of Ino wearing her easily identifiable name switched across her white coat breast pocket when they grabbed coffee every morning all those days that added up to fill the majority of the months on a calendar?

She did not have an answer to the why and maybe that was an answer in and of itself. Maybe that was enough.

For not all is known,

More unaware than aware—

Lost in perspectives.

She was moving in circles. Round and round. Mentally. She was getting nowhere fast. Her nerves were fraying. Her fingers clenched tightly around the warm yarn of her dress. She focused on what she heard. It was all she had.

Namikaze never misses unintentionally.

Daddy.

Minato has a contact in the Uchiha Clan.

Minato bribed Haruto Nara.

Minato is out half a million ryo.

Daddy.

What if Minato was not the only one who was an experiment marksman? Was it really a stretch to assume that the Uchiha had people who could handle guns as well as Minato? It was hubris was it not, to assume that Minato was the only one who could not hit a target as well as they could hit it?

Because if you ever find yourself 1-v-1 with Minato Namikaze and you're the one with the gun, you're toast.

Sure Sasori had said the statement with his whole chest but what about 3-v-1? Would Minato still realistically come out on top then?

Without help?

Minato was hit in the shoulder—not lethal by any means if treated promptly enough. He had supposedly taken down two offenders with his bare hands and that too while shot…potentially. She did not know if it was before, during, or even after he was shot. His hand was swollen. Even if his pain tolerance was high….There were three names—three faces—officially tied to the crime.

He knew where I lived. He knew. He was in Tani to see me. He knew I would be there. What if he…what if he did all this…?

Daddy… what if, what if, Minato's contact in the clan was Sasuke?

What if the two of them were working together? To what end, she did not know. What either hoped to gain from the other….

Is he loyal?

To the clan that took him in when no one else did? To his Uncle? To the memory of Shika? To money? To this life? To…her?

Was she crazy to expect loyalty? Who even was she to him? Just number seven on the list?

In shadows, whispers reign,

Promises like thin glass—

Trust shattered.

A smile cloaked in deceit,

The warmth of a hand that betrayed;

My wounded heart learned too late.

Truth blooms in silence,

Each scar a lesson etched deep,

Guard your heart's flame.

Still. Quiet. The swarm of thoughts was not even a faint buzz.

She sat on the edge of her bed with not a hair misplaced. She was filled with a great calm. It was all coming together. She was seeing everything clearly now for the first time in a better part of three weeks. She stared out of her balcony window. She saw her first sunset in more than three weeks. Just how much power had she given this man? This stranger? Over her life. Over her mind. And over her body.

Her past. Her present. She was even thinking of a future. With him. With this man. With a man who could have orchestrated this all. A man who could be making her out to be what she thought she was not. A fool. She was a damn fool.

Too much. She had given him too much. Her brother would be horrified. Sakura eyed the duffle bag at the foot of the bed. Next to her on the mattress were large gray garment bags. Six of them. She was probably sitting next to thirty thousand ryo worth of suits. Easily. At least. She blinked as the light in the room reduced more and more. Little by little.

Talk to him.

Ino's words—forceful (nagging) advice—called out clearly like a bell in her head. It rang repeatedly.

It was too bright and polluted in Tani to see the stars. She would have to rely on her imagination—her memory. They were there. Up there. They were always up there. Just like her brother was. Only she could not lift her head to look for him. Her shame—her humiliation—was too pronounced for her to hold up her head. Not anymore.

Here I lay bare and broken,

My trust woven with careful, delicate threads—

Burned to ash by the humiliation that set me to flame.

"Doc?" There was a knock at the door. Tentative. Hollow. Unsure. Everything she had not come to associate with him. Perhaps that too was a glaring oversight. What did she know after all? "You good?"

"Fine," she said in a clear voice, not looking away from the glass. She barely blinked. Her hands stayed folded on her lap. Her phone buzzed. She raised it to her eyes without turning her head.

Be there in ten minutes.

Okay. 3

She wrote back. She tossed the phone on the bed, not caring it landed on his side. Sakura got onto her feet. She tore the case from the pillow. She shoved it into the first zipper she could find in the duffle bag. So clear that everything was a lie. The shroud of deceit was pulled from her eyes. She could finally see once more. Sakura walked to the door, ignoring Sasori's perplexion tossed in her direction. She pulled out the glass container from the freezer indiscriminately, removing the navy rubber lid. She moved the first of the last portioned lasagna pieces with her fingers to throw on a plate. She pressed a button on the microwave. She listened to it cackle, watching it closely for the sauce to bubble on the surface—splattering on the sides of the box.

Eyes wide open.

xXx

Minato knew something was off the moment Sasori ducked past the front door—at Sakura's insistence. The man's face was blank but there was something in his brown eyes that contained enough of a warning. Tread carefully. Sakura had barely even spared Minato a glance. A far cry from her sendoff. Neither of their smiles were anywhere to be found; long gone.

Talk to me, Sakura.

Because in addition to not looking at him, she was not speaking to him. The silence was stifling, disorienting and panic inducing. His bare feet did not touch any stable surface. He could not get traction—find a way in or out. It was almost as if he were drowning on dry land.

"Everything okay, Sakura?" He asked her again in an attempt to open up the floodgates she was so clearly holding back. His fork sat next to the lasagna that was nuked to oblivion. It was as hard as a puck. There were black burnt bits where the sauce stuck to the plate. It would be a nightmare to clean. It was a good thing his shoulder was more or less back to full strength. "Is your mom okay?" He asked with concern, not keeping his frown off his face—open and hoping to inspire the same.

"She's fine," curt words uttered in a flat tone gave the impression it was a chore to speak with him. He tried not to read too much into it.

What's wrong then?

"That's good," he watched the way her fork scraped the air over her lasagna. She had not taken a bite. Her eyes were glazed over and distant. Cold. Something clicked. A major event that they had not had the chance to discuss. "Is it about the news—"

"Minato," she cut him off in a matter-of-fact tone. He closed his mouth and focused on his already perked ears. "I want to ask you something."

"Okay," he sat up straighter, gaze darting from the water cup on the table to her face. The thought of parching his dry, dry, throat was fleeting even if the need was growing more pressing. "Anything," he encouraged, even eagerly.

"Why did the shootout happen?"

She snatched the air right out of his lungs with her query.

"I don't know," he could only answer with lameness and uncertainty.

"It's been nearly a month," she pointed out what he already knew. He could not read her face; downturned despite her voice being strong and clear.

"I don't have an answer for you." Or anyone else that was wondering the same thing. The list was long. Masanori Uchiha was not among the three men. The Uchiha Clan was protecting him. Fugaku was protecting him. Either because Masanori had something of value or Deidara had outdated information.

I don't know which it is.

"That's okay," she shrugged, tone shifting close to conversational but his gut reacted strongly—more strongly—than any point prior. "Maybe you'll have an answer for my next question."

He felt his palms grow sweaty. It was a good thing he was sitting down because all precursors to a dizzy spell were knocking on the door; the door he was stubbornly ignoring.

"Did you know where I lived before I brought you here?" She was finally looking at him and it had him wishing she was not. Because her gaze was crucifying.

"Sakura," he inhaled slowly. "I—"

"What were you doing in Tani, Minato?" She snapped like a rubber band pulled past its breaking point. The point of no return.

"Sakura," his stomach sank. She knew. It was painfully evident. He switched to damage control—to salvage what he could and prevent further incineration. "I can explain—"

"Explain," she repeated with a cruel laugh, cutting him down at the tongue before he could even start. "Explain?" She was gripping her fork like it was the hilt of a knife, in a white knuckle grip. "Explain how you stalked me. Explain how you manipulated me. Explain how you isolated me from my job. Explain how you lied to me. Explain how you manufactured the perfect circumstances so I would see you in a positive light. Explain how you forced the situation to humanize you. Explain what, Minato?" She slammed her palms on the table, shaking it completely. A violent tremor. "What can you explain?!" She all but shouted.

"Sakura," he said her name gently, placatingly. "We just need to take a minute and clear our heads—"

"We?" She spat at him, hissing. Her voice and features were feral. "Our?!" She shook her head. "There is no we. There is no our. I don't even know you." It was the truth—or some partial version of it—but it carved him nonetheless. Breathless. The realization left him breathless. "I packed your things. I want you out." She was on her feet. Her arms crossed over her chest. Closed.

"Sakura," he repeated like a broken record, clinging desperately to the fleeting notion that something could be salvaged from this; something that he could hold onto. Like a mindless mantra, all he had was her name. His knees were too weak to support him to do anything other than just stand there. Rooted in place, ensnared in her hostility.

"Did you or did you not," she held up her hand in a gesture that carried the silent sentiment of 'enough.' He was not doing enough. Not nearly enough. "Did you or did you not pay personally for Haruto Nara to be your fall guy?"

He could only blink when confronted with the truth. He was amassing weight right on his chest—like a bullet piercing him, center mass. Her aim was accurate and without mercy.

"Do you," her voice came close to breaking, it caught but she moved past the stumble. Steely. "Or do you not have an inside connection to the Uchiha Clan?"

I need more time. Give me more time.

His Adam's apple bobbed as a result of a painful swallow.

"Did you or did you learn the name of the Uchiha I shot through a cop?" She asked with the belief that this time would be different—that her query would not be met with silence. "Did you or did you not lie to me about his identity?" She asked, calmly. Detached. Collected. In control.

"Yes," he answered with all that was left—the truth. "Please, Sakura," he pleaded for his sake and her own. Rash. She could not afford to be rash, as he could not afford to be half-honest. "Just give me a chance—"

"No." No more chances. No more words. No more anything. "You have five minutes to get your things," she shook her head. Her eyes were so cold. She was done. With him. Maybe even completely—for good—if he allowed himself to register what he was seeing in full.

"Sak—"

"Stop! Just stop." Her nostrils flared in testament to patience that was no more. The thoughts in her head were singular. He knew that somehow all without being able to read them. "I wish I never met you."

You don't mean that. She doesn't mean that.

His eyes closed heavily, immediately once his brain made sense of what his ears heard. He was not quick to open them back up. Her anger—her disgusted visage—was burned in every memory cell of his mind. A clear enough picture. She hated his guts. She hated him.

Right now. For now.

A small sliver of hope—the very thing he needed to be able to pick up the pieces of himself that had fallen to the ground to move on to the next day. A new day that would hopefully be better than the now. Temporary. Not forever.

Love's opposite is not hate. Love's opposite is indifference.

He told himself with lasting reminders that the eight crescent moons were carved into his palms by his blunt nails. It was okay if she hated him. They could still come back from that.

It's okay.

"Now!" She screamed—guttural and raw—when he did not move.

"Okay," he held up his hands, blinking his eyes open. Any louder and Ms. Honda would be knocking on her door, demanding an audience with the tenant of apartment 2C or Sakura would follow through on her threat which could very well be fatal for her. "Okay," he stood up slowly, his arms still bent and raised on either side of his head. "Sakura," he implored her to reconsider; for one moment. Just one.

Please listen.

She glared at his collarbone. Her curled top lip was trembling. The vulnerability that she kept hidden away flashed across her jade-colored eyes for a second. Just long enough for him to register, recognize, and regret. In a moment of weakness, she spoke to him.

"Was any of it real?" She asked him, devastated. "Were you ever completely honest with me?" She paused to gather up what was left of her dignity. She would not allow herself to cry in front of him. Not when he was on the other side of the line—out looking in. The honesty to the fragile state of mind—the once open channel of communication closed—was replaced by a mask of stone; without a single impervious crack. She did not wait for him to respond. She took his knee-jerk reaction to clamp up as condemning hesitation. Maybe in a twisted way, she should have been flattered that someone would do something so elaborate for her. It was ridiculous. It was so far-fetched that she did not even know where to begin. So she started to laugh, her head thrown back and her fingers stretched to the limit at her side.

"Or was it all just you handling me?" She accused into the ceiling without regard or concern for anything beyond her indignation. She always did go for the jugular when fighting. She scorched the earth uncaring for the extent of the burn scars she left in the wake of her destruction.

"No," he shook his head, excessive and lost. "I never handled you. I wasn't just telling you what you wanted to hear," he grasped at the words that would undo it all—the misunderstandings. But he kept coming up far too short. They did not reach her. She had already fortified herself against him; against his influence. But like a madman, he tried. Desperate. It was all slipping through his fingers. "I would never knowingly or willingly put you in harm's way."

You know that Sakura. You know me.

Despite what she had said. She knew him. She just needed to realize that. "Sakura," he frowned with ample concern, finding the ability to speak once again. Temporary and perhaps too late.

"Trauma bonding over our dead brothers should have been enough, right?" She asked, her voice cruel and with zero hope for empathy. She incarcerated hope to finite ash, scattering it in the torrid winds of her blazing storm.

"Of course, it was real, Sakura," he stopped himself from taking a step forward, finally answering the question she had already settled on an answer to. Sticky blood moved down his hand. "All of it."

I wanted to be honest. I will be honest. From here on out. Just—

"Shut up!" She grabbed her plate and flung it at him. He saw it happening. Slowly. It hit him in the chest, squarely and painfully, before the porcelain hit the ground and shattered. "I never want to see you again. If I do—if I see Sasori, or a cousin, or anyone near me or my mom I will call the police. Just get out. Get out." She pointed to her room. Rigid with finality. "Leave," she commanded with authority pulled from the depths of her person.

"Okay," he utilized his fleeing voice to confirm he heard the terms. He turned on his heel slowly. The lasagna seeped into his clothing and dripped off of him. He was spreading the mess with every step he took toward her bedroom. He could see all his things lined up for him. He grabbed his phone from his pocket. He dialed the last number he had called. "Turn around." He did not wait for any confirmation before he hung up. He walked to the balcony. He tugged closed the curtains after checking the lock on the sliding door. Minato gathered his things and walked out of the bedroom. He stepped into his loafers that were by the rack. She had not looked at him once much less called out. She was not going to stop him.

Mind made, no notice

The distance vast, no accord,

When did we break far?

He was left to wonder—alone. Minato closed the door softly behind him, not even allowing it to click. He waited until his phone vibrated in his pocket to signify Sasori was here. He frowned. She never put her chain on. Minato stepped away from her threshold—from her home. He pressed his eyes closed. He could just make out her muffled sobs. She had not moved from her spot in the kitchen.

The wind moved through the silk of his suit jacket and pale blue shirt. Slapping it against him. He made his way down the stairs. The cold numbed his face so that it matched his heart.

---

A/N: So this is probably my favorite chapter so far. Got to see Minato's working side. Please let me know what you think! Thank you.