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.

11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: I do no own Naruto

Chapter 11

She rocked back to sit on her heels. The once-white towel had gone a rusty red having been used to smear marinara sauce around on her kitchen floors. She brought the back of her hand to swipe at her cheeks, her sticky palm orange, and her same-hued fingers curled toward it. Her treacherous eyes kept crying and like a leaky faucet, there was nothing within her capabilities to do to stop it. She did not even know where the shutoff valve was to stop the seemingly endless supply of emotion. Torment.

Alone, safe from pain,

Laughter once bright, left silence—

Lonely, deeper sting

Sakura sniffled loudly without concern of being overheard. Her nose was red and her scleras were pink and gradually darkened by the minute. She exhaled shakily, eyeing the bits of ground beef sitting on top of the smeared sauce. She clambered onto her feet, gripping the sides of the counter to stabilize her legs. Pin and needles pricked at her. She could not feel her feet. She held on with a white knuckle grip until she could. Sakura pulled out her phone from her dress pocket, tossing it on the very counter that had been her support. She gave it one hard look before she reached down to the cabinet under the sink—her red and green eyes level with the lip of the sink. Her hand groped blindly for a wooden hilt. She pulled without care or forethought. Cleaning supplies at various levels of empty clattered and fell forward at being disturbed so unceremoniously and violently as she dragged the metal head along the flimsy cabinet floor. Screeching. Sakura straightened. The head of the hammer rested in her palm.

Without a second thought, she brought it over her head before swinging it straight down, free of any hesitation. Bang. The screen cracked. She hit it again. Bang. The body bent. Bang. Another strike, another strangled scream she would not let past her clenched teeth that were bared. She struck the hammer to her phone until it was nothing but garbage—a total waste. Bangbang. Again and again. Until there was nothing left. Her fingers grazed the once cold hammerhead made warm by her violence—abandoning now that too as it has served one purpose. She moved away from the counter, stepping over the discarded towel and the far-from-clean floors.

She snagged the flowers—still in their vase—from the dining table and held them to her, moving to her room. The orange prints on the counter and the pulls of the cupboards, the new fractures in the countertop tile were all unnoticed in their insignificance to her. She flipped the light switch. Artificial light filled the room. With a growl, she tore open the curtains that he had no doubt closed as a parting controlling move. Because she refused to see him as anything but what he was: manipulative. He was her captor. She let him be.

Sakura tugged at the door. It opened only to stop after an inch of slide. She bit back a scream. A wounded, pulsating cry deep inside her throat. Sakura bent down—still holding the vase, water spilling onto her toes through her tights—and removed the wooden block he had wedged in the door. She tossed it aside. The carpet muffled its clatter. The door slid open. She grabbed a fist full of the flowers by the stems and threw them over the railing of her balcony and onto the asphalt of the parking lot. She turned over the vase, shaking what was left. The flowers rained down slowly. The water beat them to the ground first. She set the vase on the railing of the balcony and turned—not remembering if she locked the door after pulling it back to the latch. She stomped into the bathroom, her dress was already over her shoulders. She was indifferent to where it fell. She washed her hands before addressing her face. Sakura scrubbed vigorously. Until her skin was as red as her nose and eyes. She rubbed off a layer of skin as she dried. Bright red like she had been roasting in the direct summer sun for hours. Wet, pink strands clung to her forehead and cheeks. She turned off the tap. It took two tries as in the first attempt, she did not move the handle far enough. She did not make the same mistake twice.

Sakura went to her closet. She pulled the first garment she could find from the hanger. A turtleneck knit dress. She shoved herself inside. She left her tights on despite the dress going to her ankles and the dampness of the lycra at the tops and bottoms of her feet. Sakura rummaged, bent over, for her next goal. She found the carefully folded-up duffel bag in the corner. She pulled it toward her with her foot. She shook it back into a semi-open state. She moved to her dresser. She grabbed fistfuls of clothes indiscriminately—uncaringly—to shove into the duffle bag. When the bag was bloated with her balled-up clothing, she faced her door, avoiding the left side of the bed. She swiped her computer from her nightstand on the right on her way out of the room.

She slipped into her boots without bothering to zip up the back, grabbed her keys from the decorative bowl, and closed the door with a sharp inhale of cold breath, leaving her problems and the consequences contained in the walls of her apartment, unaware that she had yet to stop shaking.

xXx

Sasori's brown eyes darted from the road to the rearview mirror before he glanced back at the asphalt lined with yellow dashes only to find nothing had changed in front of him. The same could be said for the inside of the car. His hand clenched against the leather-wrapped steering wheel.

"Look man," he tried again to start again knowing full well it was a dead-end. "I didn't know she was listening," he tried to explain with what he knew of his own actions leading up to Minato's arrival, his departure, Minato's phone call, and finally the two of them being in the car driving down the asphalt road.

Turn around: Minato had not said anything more to him than those two words spoken into the phone in a curt tone, verbally at least. The cold fury in his eyes—eyes he kept pointedly away—and the tight set of his jaw spoke volumes all without a single passage of sound. He was furious. But also calm. It was contained. There was no threat of it spilling over in his voice or influencing the rise of his hand. He was grounded in his anger. Sitting with it. Surrounded by it so that only he suffered the full brunt of it. Everyone else—Sasori—just had to deal with the edges: the silence—the ramifications.

Minato did not say something—anything—because there was nothing more that words could say than the situation did not. But that did not stop Sasori from filling it so he could pretend that the silence was not boxing him in, ready to crush him. A solid pressure on his chest that would not go away.

"Are you hurt?" He inquired, glancing at the rearview mirror. No one was behind them. No one was in front of them. "She's got good aim. Dead center. Probably left a bruise," he murmured to fill the silence left behind by his question. Ignored. Disregarded. "You could have changed your clothes at least. You smell like a dumpster," Sasori complained half-heartedly; the redhead's voice had climbed to a grumble. It was such a waste of perfectly good lasagna. From his peripherals, he saw the sauce on his navy suit, and light blue shirt, sauce that was permeating the cabin of the car so strongly due to the heat from both the vents and Minato's skin. The garlic was pungent. Sasori cracked a window, rolling it down as he drove. Even in the lack of light barely impacted by the row of dimly glowing lights, every detail seemed to be visible. And yet, they denied the obvious. The bridge up ahead was empty. The moon was nowhere to be found.

"Home?" he asked with more confidence that at least this Minato would answer. He was forced to.

"No," the blond said in a soft voice that barely rose over the cold rush of air.

Sasori suppressed audible frustration. He made a sharp U-turn when a turn-out lane became available, cutting three lanes at once. Tires screeched. Minato continued to stare out the window, avoiding the close-up of his own reflection.

---

Her skin was tight. She did not moisturize after mauling her face. The cold air slapping against her tender skin served as a painful reminder with each and every repetition. She held the key between her thumb and index finger. It was out and ready to be inserted into the black metal lock of the black security door—lined up perfectly. The porch light was off. The night was still. The neighborhood glittered softly from the glow of warm yellow light from the street lamps that denoted every third house.

It was a mistake. A glaring one. She should have texted her mother before destroying her phone. She did not think it through clearly. Her decisions—her mistakes—were now impacting others. Her mother. Maintaining a routine was crucial for Mebuki to maintain her health. Sakura was being selfish, she realized as she stood on the porch with the key in hand. The thought of getting back in her car which was parked out front in the street and driving back to Tani crossed her mind. Or she could try to get a hotel and come back in the morning like a sane person. These were the thoughts in her head. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Logistics.

Things she should have thought of before she made an hour's drive in nearly two. She had taken the wrong exit—a whole thirty miles after the one she was supposed to take—in her absentmindedness. She was even more scatterbrained now.

Getting behind the wheel of a car isn't a good idea.

But she looked over her shoulder all the same. She had some emergency blankets in her car from the last time she, Ino, and Karin went on a multi day and night hike—when Karin's off-again on-again long-distance boyfriend Kankuro, called it quits yet again for the hundredth and one time, only to beg for her to take him back when they finally had reception again three days later—she could make do for one night in the car.

I can move a couple of streets in so none of Mom's neighbors see.

With a soft sigh of resignation that she would not find a better alternative, Sakura turned on her heel slowly. She had just taken all but three small steps (dragging her feet quite literally)—still well within the confines of the porch—when light pooled at her feet. She slumped her shoulders, feeling what remained of her energy seep out of her.

I'm sorry Mom.

She turned around yet again when there was no change, her eyes finding her mother's. The woman was in her robe and house slippers. But the frown she wore was the most familiar thing. Sakura's night was about to get even longer. Mebuki's arms were crossed and her guardian Cheddar was at her feet, chattering angrily at being woken at this hour and that too not to be fed. Mebuki said nothing as the security door swung open for Sakura to catch, which she did. The pinkette dipped her head stepping through it. Mebuki was already walking past the lit living room to the small entryway to the dining room table that eventually led to the kitchen. It smelled warm, clean, and familiar. It brought her some semblance of comfort. Curling up with a throw draped on the couch sounded like the best thing in the world right now. If only it were an option. Sakura closed and locked both doors wordlessly before kicking off her boots, only to arrange them neatly on the shoe mat by the door, and carry herself and the black duffle bag on her shoulder toward where her mother had disappeared.

A cup of tea was already waiting for her in her favorite pink mug with a cat paw print on the side. Sakura pulled the oak chair from the table—not letting it scrape against the slate gray tile of the kitchen—and sat down. She wrapped her hand made cold by her indecision around the warm mug.

"How did you know I was outside?" Sakura asked into her tea. She could make out the small yellow cat that was hidden under the yellowish tint left by the not-fully steeped green tea. Catico—because she was a calico cat—was completely submerged.

"Mothers just know these things, Sakura," Mebuki answered with a sigh. She leaned back against the counter. She was rubbing the center of her chest with the heel of her palm as if trying to soothe down heartburn with sheer tenacity and wishful thinking. "You'll understand when you're a mother."

Of course.

A comment she had heard countless times before brought a new wave of stinging tears to her eyes. It cut deeper than it had before, deeper beyond the slight prick intended to annoy her into silent compliance. Sakura pulled her mug until it rested under her chin. Maybe the steam would evaporate her tears before they could grow heavy enough to fall.

"Bug?" Her mother's voice called out, concerned.

"M-mom," she stumbled on the word. She closed her eyes. She could not face her shame. She pressed her temple against the softness being offered to her. Mebuki's arm wrapped around her head, her palm pressed flat on her forehead. Sakura was vaguely aware the tea was being worked free from her hands. She used those hands to cling to her mother. Mebuki's fingers were in her hair, rubbing soothing circles. "C-can I stay?" Sakura buried her face into Mebuki's chest. The question came out muffled but it did not hide her pitifulness, her timidness.

"Bug," Mebuki said the term of endearment fondly. "Of course. This is your home."

Sakura pressed into her tighter, trying to squeeze out her sins—to purge herself of them.

xXx

He lifted his head up at the knock on the ajar door. He saw the familiar face of Jiraiya standing there, his fist still against the frame. His dark eyes scanned the modest room with a twin bed, a small nightstand that also double-dutied as a desk and a lamp. The was a lone window, frosted and just big enough to allow some air circulation if desired. The overhead small white ceiling fan also aided with that in the hotter months.

"You sure you're going to be okay with the bedding?" Jiraiya gestured to the sparse plaid blanket. "Everything else smells like a nursing home. It's been a while since this room was used." He leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his long white kimono-style gray pajama set.

Minato lifted a disbelieving brow, curling his fingers gently around the object in his palm—a tool for distraction from the dulled slightly, aching pang from where the dense lasagna that might as well have been a baseball hit him.

"You haven't been put in the dog house by Senju Sage?"

Jiraiya scoffed gruffly, taking offense. "Oh, I have earned my fair share of visits to the guest bedroom. I might make her mad enough to kill me at times, but even she doesn't want to deal with me bellyaching about my back all day. I haven't slept down here since before your first growth spurt." Or since he stopped fighting his wife's adamant and correct diagnoses of sleep apnea but Minato did not need to know all the gory details.

"Simpler times," Minato's lip pulled up at the taste of nostalgia.

"In some ways," he scratched at his jaw—he felt the rough stubble that would need to be addressed in the morning—his dark eyes migrating to Minato's hand for a moment before flickering back up to his face. "You haven't stopped finding trouble though. So much for becoming wiser with age."

"It was always Shika who was in trouble. Shika and Rihito. Uncle's always been easier on me so I just took—take— the blame," he shook his head freeing himself of the past. He gripped the edge of the frame with his free hand. This mistake was his though. Completely. "Thanks for letting me crash. Thank Senju Sage too."

"Don't let her hear you call her that," Jiraiya's face was without mirth. "Are you sure she doesn't need to see you?" His expression contained his ample skepticism in a manner that just his tone could not.

"Barely feel it," he pressed his palm to where there most definitely was a bruise. It may even have been second-degree. The ink and faint light hid a lot. "The ice helped." The swelling was not as bad even if the tenderness persisted.

"We don't have to talk about it now," the very tall man rubbed the back of his neck. The skin under his eyes was dropping heavily with more than just age.

"I would much rather we don't talk about it at all," Minato sighed through his nose, running a hand through his hair. "It's late."

"I know," Jiraiya rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue, nearly splitting it in two on the dryness of his tone. "I was asleep for three hours before you showed up here wearing someone's dinner with Puppet Boy in tow. I don't need the details, I just need to know if there's going to be more excitement like last time."

"Fair enough," he uttered with resignation, his shoulders hunched over slightly. "This mess I made myself. I'll clean it up myself."

She'll cool down. She'll be rational. She'll think it through. She'll come around.

The words, the sentiments, repeated in his head like a chant. "The blanket is fine," Minato raised his eyes to the man studying him intently from the otherside of the room. "I run hot."

"Mustn't be all that bad if you still have terrible jokes."

"My sense of humor hasn't left me yet," he quipped, colorlessly.

Jiraiya scoffed and opened his mouth like he was about to say something that only he found to be clever but he must have thought better of it at the last moment because Jiraiya was closing his mouth and backing away.

"Night," his voice came through the gaps of the now-closed door.

"Night," Minato said back, returning the shared sentiment. There was nothing good about this night. He set the small paper crane on the base of the table lamp. Purple and perfect. He sighed, expelling all the air from his lungs at once, tapping the base. The darkness surrounded him but his eyes remained fixed on the spot where he had lowered the origami crane.

---

She heard the sniffling before she fully stepped into the living room from the dining room. Her blonde brow furrowed. Mebuki picked up her movements. The TV was on. A clump of pink hair was visible against the armrest of the couch. Sakura was babbling incoherently, stopping just long enough to blow her nose—loudly. Mebuki set the tray she was holding down on the coffee table.

"You're crying," the words came out more crass than she had intended. The hand that brushed her daughter's hair from her forehead was soft though—where it mattered.

"H-h-how," Sakura wailed, not bothering to sit up. She yanked a couple of tissues that were nestled against her stomach and brought them to her puffy eyes, dabbing them. Distraught.

"Sakura," Mebuki leaned forward, not remembering when she sat on the coffee table. "Bug, what happened?" To her surprise, Sakura pointed behind her. Mebuki's concern grew to confusion as she looked over her shoulder—a commercial. There was a dog with sad eyes behind a chain link fence, tethered to a stake in the ground. A thick metal chain connected him to it. It was shivering in the rain. The whole thing was rather pitiful. The sad piano music did not help matters for the positive. She turned back to her daughter, perturbed. "What?"

"The p-p-poor b-ba-babies!" Sakura sobbed out the stammered words, covering her face with her hands. Devastated.

Mebuki rolled her eyes upward. She counted to three very slowly. It did not help at all. "I brought you a sandwich. Don't make a mess," she bit out with sternness, rising to her feet. "And take a shower."

Sakura shook her head—face still hidden—in misery. Mebuki threw up her hands and stocked out of the room, grumbling choice words, her once raised hopes crash landed into the ground headfirst.

---

He could feel his dark almond-shaped, curious eyes focused intently on him, not in a stare-down but more in interest, like he was trying to identify him. Not all that different from the way a new but vaguely familiar specimen was studied. He snapped his fingers. His quick-to-color cheeks turned pink with excitement.

"I know who you are!" The teenager exclaimed with a big inhale of air. "You're the two-twenties guy," he nodded his head. "Yeah! The big tipper!" His finger was pointed in Minato's direction. He could see it from his peripheral vision. "What were you doing in that dump all the way out in Tani for?"

Isn't that the million ryo question.

"Hey, Kid," Jiraiya glowered at the brunette, "what did we talk about huh? Did I just waste thirty minutes of my dwindling life blowing hot air in your ears?" He demanded to know from across the table. His hand was on his bent knee, while the other held a blue bowl of rice with white Sakura flowers. "Don't mind him, Minato. He's still being house-broken," he explained without ever taking his eyes off the teenager left in their charge. There was an ease of repetition there in the exchange.

"Nawaki," Tsunade tapped the brunette on the back of the head twice in reprimand before he could give Jiraiya a piece of his mind if only to prove that there was in fact something between the very ears Jiraiya brought into question. "Behave," she whispered and it was not without menace because the boy clamped his mouth shut.

Sorry Kid, didn't mean to get you in trouble. Just not in the conversing mood.

Minato feigned to be unaware of the look that passed between the only two other adults at the dinner table. Minato picked up his chopsticks for the first time that night and grabbed a piece of chicken katsu from the oval, white plate in the center. He brought it to his mouth and chewed, again not oblivious to the way their shoulders relaxed a margin. The air was less invasive even if the silence was only disrupted by the clicking of wood to ceramic and the occasional sound of slurping or chewing—the majority of which were attributed to Jiraiya himself.

Minato continued to chew despite it—everything—tasting like nothing. It was the least he could do.

---

Her side was beginning to hurt from all the pressure put on her hip. Sakura wiggled against the cushions but comfort continued to elude her. With a sigh, she sat up. Her hair was a mess—a bird's nest that rested on the top of her head. Her pink, plush robe—with a hood that had a unicorn horn—was wrapped around her tight. She held the expanded hood with a careful hand. With the other, Sakura grabbed the blue hot water bottle and her pillow and threw them to the other side of the couch before her head found its place on the pillow once more. Lazily, she held the hot water bottle—Mebuki was far too paranoid to trust herself with a heatpad much less a heated blanket—over her abdomen. The painkillers only took the edge off her cramps slightly.

"Congratulations on not being pregnant!" Her body seemed to shower her with unwanted gifts of bloat, fatigue, acne, tender breasts, joint pain, and a whole cornucopia of unpleasant emotions brought on by her hormones—well in part. Crying her eyes out at the damn animal abuse commercial she had seen half a million times over the years should have been a warning she heeded with more seriousness than she had. Her left hip was now the one her body was applying pressure on. Sakura tilted her head down into the front of her hoodie—she was wearing her robe backward—she opened her mouth and let her tongue dart past her lips. The pink snake latched onto a couple of pieces of cold, salty popcorn. It brought them back successfully into the dark cave of her mouth. She frowned as she watched the couple deliberate yet again, trying to find reasons not to buy the first house they saw and were clearly so in love with.

"You can change the paint colors!" Sakura groaned in frustration, throwing up a hand, as she repeated exactly what their realtor—and probably former friend now after this experience—kept reminding them with a smile that was becoming exceedingly even more fake than the show she was on, with each cheerful reminder.

"Idiots," Sakura concluded with a huff. She lowered her eyes at the soft meow. Cheddar flicked his long tail. The naked nub danced. Sakura frowned at him. "What do you want?" She asked, irately. The tabby licked his lips while maintaining eye contact. "You can't have popcorn, Cheddar. It's got salt and you could choke on a partially cooked kernel. And it will get stuck in your teeth. Teeth that I am in no mood to brush and lose half the skin on my arm in the process. No, thank you very much." She lapped up more popcorn with her tongue. He opened his mouth and meowed again. "That won't work. I'm not a sucker…."

Yes. Yes, I am.

Sakura tore her eyes away from the expectant amber gaze of the cat and returned it back to the screen. "Oh my God," she rolled her eyes. "Do you two even like each other?" She asked the couple incredulously. "Just let the woman have her crafting nook, Greg! She's already agreed to let your mother have the master with the ensuite. Take the win!" She implored the stranger, emphatically.

Mebuki stood in the opening that connected the living and dining rooms with a severe frown on her face.

"Unbelievable," Sakura tutted at the TV, raising her head just enough to take a sip of the can of room-temperature beer. She let out a satisfied sound. Ice-cold was not her friend right now. She nestled it next to her navel as she was far too lazy to extend her arm to the coffee table.

Mebuki's green eyes landed on the gray tabby at her feet. "When is it going back?" His amber eyes seemed to ask her. Mebuki kissed her teeth, spinning around until she was facing the opposite direction. Cheddar was in front of her, his tail nearly vertical on his way to lead Mebuki to his snack cabinet.

One problem at a time.

---

The train passing by on the overhead bridge he was parted under, rattled the body of his vehicle. It was felt in his teeth. Minato tucked the strands of sunshine-yellow hair into the black skull cap. His fingerless gloves were navy and well-worn; the yarn was peeling back, they moved up to pull the silver zipper's teeth closed. He stepped out of his car. Covering his head with the navy hood. The hoodie was baggy. Two sizes too big. He shoved his hands into the stomach pocket to keep his fingers from tracing the hole. Jiraiya's old gardening clothes that had been shoved into a plastic trash bag in the corner of an old rickety shed that would surely give him tetanus if he gave it half a chance.

I need to check my vaccination records.

His shoes were scuffed. They too were well worn. His old weight-lifting shoes that he never got around to tossing out. They always sat in the back of the trust of his car in a nondescript bag just in case he forgot a pair of shoes. He never did. But they suited his purpose just fine now. It was dark. There was a slight drizzle, which facilitated the rising of odors that had seeped into the asphalt and concrete enough that they wafted up his turning-pink nose. The sleepless nights that darkened the sensitive skin under his eyes attested to a different set of facts. It was all a matter of perspective. He could hear again. The train was long gone. He walked under the bridge. The yellow sign of the liquor store was flashing—strobing almost—so he kept his head down to avoid transforming his hunger headache into a migraine. Minato sniffed, pulling back the thin run until he felt it in the back of his throat. The wind was doing a number on his lips. But he was going for the frost-bitten look, for it too could be mistaken for something adjacent to what he was perpetuating.

He walked along the perimeter of the chain link fence that protected nothing but an empty lot. A flier slapped against the telephone pole in defeat. Its journey of freedom came to an unceremonious end. He kept moving. His head bowed. His left leg dragged slightly behind his right. He sniffled and sniffled. He cleared his throat loudly. He waited at the edge of the street. Behind the liquor store was an alley and like all allies there was an overflowing blue dumpster with both trash and graffiti tags. His shoulders were hunched forward. He was minimizing himself. A contradiction. Because he was also ensuring he was noticed. That was the reason why he stood under the flicking headlight. A halo around his navy, fleece ensemble. His baggy pants hung at his hips with a faded belt. He had borrowed one of the Professor's. Was it still borrowing if he did not ask?

I'll put it and everything else back.

It was close enough. He was looking but he was not. His eyes were low but he saw the exchange. Two men huddled together trying so hard to seem natural and having a reason for being there. Naturally, it only made them stand out more. If the police cared for such matters, they would have long been arrested. But it was in the heart of their territory. Even the safest places on earth had borders with trouble. This was Yuma's blight.

Be patient.

He remained rooted with his toes almost curling over the curb. He could not move a step forward—not even a nose—because that would be an oversight that he could not afford; an aggression. So he remained still long after the customer had purchased what he sought and left nothing but the procure behind. He blinked slowly to keep the man in his sights.

It's not him.

The face across the street who shoved some bills of ryo in his pocket was not the one he was searching obsessively for. It was so close that at a glance and at a distance it could be mistaken. But that was true for any clansmen. One face bled into the next.

I know you clocked me.

The man pretended to not notice him but a few more tense moments of neither moving had him quickly exhausting his patience. He stiffened in a weighed battle against some internal demons. Demons he lost too because he quickly glanced both ways before he ended up in the quiet street. Cars lined up and parked on either side. His black hair—darker than night—pressed flat against his face and neck by his own skullcap. A black wool neck gaiter failed to completely hide his wind-whipped lips.

"You just going to stand there?" He asked with clear agitation at being the one who had to come to the customer. "You deaf, dumb, blind, or stupid?" The pointed question was punctuated with a hacking and spit splattering on the asphalt. He shoves his hands into his pockets.

Two of those are the same.

Minato never let his cobalt eyes rise past the man's nose. "I-Is," Minato stammered with a voice without strength. Meek and just begging to not be taken as a threat. "I need—"

"What do you think you need?" The man asked, his face impassive but there was a harshness in his eyes. "Huh?"

Minato's tongue came out to moisten his lips. "Where's Limu?" He scratched his scalp before giving his cheek the same treatment. Red marred his pink skin. Everything was threatening to go numb.

The man's guard seemed to rise at the question—at the mention of the street name that Domeki parted with after a steep bargain.

"A y-y-year a-a-a-go, I h-h-h-hurt my leg," Minato grabbed at the appendage that was jutting out awkwardly. Lame. "I could have been somebody!" He declared with adamance in one moment that took nearly everything out of him.

The Uchiha held up his hand. "I don't need the whole sob story." His visage was without sympathy.

"L-Limu," he said the name his clients knew him as with desperation. Limu what seaweed—nori—was commonly known as all the way out in Water. The Uchiha probably told himself he was being very clever when he picked the name, assuming it was not thrust upon him.

"You don't know?" He asked, his bottom jaw sticking out past his top. His features were not as symmetrical or sharp as the main house. He was a nobody which explained why he was outside in near freezing weather well past two in the morning.

Minato shook his head mindlessly. As dense as a bowling ball.

"There was a vacancy," the Uchiha rubbed his pink nose. The sign flashed. They could hear it buzzing. "It got filled. The free market." He waved his hand back and forth with layers of forced nonchalance. He was mighty proud of himself.

Minato's right foot stepped back. He shook his head just short of trapping it between his fingers. Murmuring to himself. "I need…I-I-I n-need—"

"Stop blabbering!" The man hissed, shoving Minato against the chained linked fence behind him. It rattled loudly. Shaking. A forearm across his chest held him in place. Menacing in its placement. The stuttering and stumbling man eyed him with wide eyes that contained something masquerading as fear. His mouth was held open agape. The Uchiha crossed the invisible line. "You'll attract attention man!" The Uchiha spat. Some of it landed on Minato's cheek. The blond cowered, he brought his hands to cover his face. He made himself as small as he could. The man kissed his teeth, sucking back a breath at the pitifulness. He took a step back and shoved his hands in his pockets. "What do you need?" He asked with more control.

"L-Limu," Minato worked out through trembling lips. He avoided eye contact at all costs. He could see the gun at his waistband. The safety was more likely than not off.

"Limu's gone," the one who took over his street corner said. "Anything else I can do for you?" He eyed him up and down. "You're a mess."

"I-I," Minato shook like a leaf. "I need…I got hurt," he pierced together his words. "Freak a-ac-accident. I need—"

"You need a fix," the Uchiha ran his thumb along the edge of his jaw, scratching, cutting him off with total disregard. "Powder, pills, or vein. Pick your poison." Minato hesitated. The Uchiha's dark eyes darted behind him. "Look man," he sighed. "I have customers lining up. Take it or leave it."

It was true. They were waiting by the liquor store. They were not stepping inside. That was how Minato knew he was speaking the truth. They were drawing attention. More eyes meant more opportunities to be recognized.

I need to make this quick.

There was no more extracting information. Minato's priorities shifted. "Pills," he said, reaching into his pocket. His hand stopped just before he pulled out the ryo to complete the transaction. "Where's Limu?" He asked, desperate and unable to completely let go. He had to try one more time.

The Uchiha rolled his eyes. He ground the smoldering cigarette on the ground with the heel of his boot. "Gone." A smirk stretched across his lips. "Did he top you off?" He asked in a cruel voice. He dangled a small plastic bag. Three blue pills inside. "You want them or not?"

Minato nodded his head. He slipped him two tens and a five. It was a wrinkly mess. He held the baggie with both hands like it was his salvation and not what they really were: an overpriced disappointment.

The Uchiha's lip curled in disgust. "Get out of here," he barked.

Minato had already turned around. He kept his head down and his eyes low as he dragged his left leg behind him. His posture straightened. His leg magically found function again when he was under the bridge. Out of sight. Minato opened the car door. His hands curled around the wheel. He could see his breath even inside.

Masanori was not at his corner at the edge of Uchiha territory. He honestly did not know what to expect. The odds of Masanori slinging pills, powder, and liquid on a random street corner after he failed to kill the Yellow Flash were next to zero. But he did not expect dead end after dead end.

Even if had found Masanori tonight as long as he had been planted in Uchiha soil, Minato could not touch a hair on his head. If he was anything like his replacement was, it would not take much to get him to cross over to neutral ground. And if he did, when he did, Minato would be waiting to capitalize. It was more than a thought. It was more than bravado. It had to be. Because Masanori was still out there which meant she was not truly safe. Konoha was big. Over ten million people lived in Konoha. Yuma housed close to three million alone. He needed to make it smaller. Much smaller.

Then, maybe then, Minato could sleep.

The door opened. The key turned. The car turned on. The headlights did not. He drove along the edge of Uchiha land. The lights flicked to life once he had left it behind him. Another fruitless path.

xXx

Bone wrapped by soft flesh rapt against the door even softer. Green eyes blinked open. There was just darkness around. Disoriented, a head of dark blonde hair pushed up from its gray pillow. A hand darted out to the bedside table feeling, without seeing, for the lamp. Warm fingers found cold metal. They tapped twice. It was still dark. She tapped again. An expulsion of annoyance—a huff—was picked up by her right ear, not too far from where her head had been.

"Mom," her daughter's voice called out both from too far away and much too close.

"Sakura?" Mebuki asked despite only one person in the world who addressed her in such a manner. "Why is it so dark? Did the power go out?" Mebuki tried to remember in which direction Sakura's voice had come from. Her head tilted like a satellite.

There was a quiet sound. A chuckle maybe. Her daughter's voice was light when she spoke. It sounded a little off. "Your sleep mask, Mom. You still have it on."

Mebuki's hand—lined with wrinkles and thinning skin—darted out to her face. "Oh," she said with traces of embarrassment when she felt the smoothness of silk instead of the textures of her skin. Mebuki pushed up the floral-print mask of various shades of pink to her forehead. She blinked. It was still dark but she could make out the outline of her daughter standing there in the doorway holding it as if for support with one foot over the other, wearing one of Sakuto's old shirts. Mebuki tapped the lamp just once this time. Dim light was enough to illuminate her features for the backlit Sakura—the hallway light was on at the lowest setting—to read. "What is it?" She asked because Sakura would never get out with it otherwise and Mebuki rather needed her sleep. She did not nap sporadically during the day like her cat and daughter.

"Can I," Sakura swallowed her pride. Her eyes were avoidant and her tapping fingers on the frame were nervous. "Can I sleep here tonight?"

Mebuki furrowed her brow, her lips automatically pulled into a frown. Sakura had her night guard in, that was why her voice sounded different. Mebuki was under the impression that Sakura had stopped doing that—grinding her teeth out of stress as she had back when they were homeless, then undergrad, med school, and through her residency. Sakura had told her as much. She was speaking with a slight lisp. The realization flooded her mind with memories of a much younger Sakura asking for the same—usually with a bunny stuffie in her hand that was dragging against the carpet and looking so pitiful. That past she did not outgrow it seemed. The clock on the nightstand read eleven minutes past three.

"You've been having nightmares," Mebuki stated without warmth—the cold utterance of fact.

Sakura sighed, her shoulders slumped all the while she continued to avoid her gaze. She played with the loose, thick braid. "It's not that…I've just gotten used to…." She clamped down on her lips, hard. "I couldn't sleep," she corrected the course of her statement with an oversimplification. She was restless and that too profoundly so.

Mebuki pressed her own lips together until it hurt. A lie punctuating—completing—a sentiment. Sakura had been almost too open with her—too candid—which was something the woman was not used to. For twenty-seven years the woman shared a bed with her husband. Longer than her son had lived. Sometimes she had to share it not just with him but with a child on nights there were loud thunderstorms or persistent dreams. It was always too small. The largest standard-size bed they made. Her husband was not a fan of futon mattresses. To go from being constantly poked, hugged, grabbed, and touched while she slept for almost three decades to just herself all those nights her husband worked late and did not get home until the next day was an adjustment. A hard one. A sleepless one. It was short-lived. Sakura found her way back to help her through it. Without even realizing it, Mebuki was sure. Mebuki shook her head out of habit.

"Sorry for waking you." Sakura's voice was defeated. She peeled one foot off the other. She was slow to turn. Her shoulders were so small. Inward. Minimized. She was trying so hard to not take up space.

Mebuki lifted the blanket on the other side. The shuffle had Sakura pausing. Green met green for a wordless exchange. The hallway light turned off. Only one source of illumination was left. The bed dipped. Mebuki smoothed out the blanket with a deft hand. Cheddar yowled in annoyance. Mebuki tapped the table lamp two times. It turned off. She settled on her back with her fingers laced together over her chest. She stared at the ceiling. It did not take long for Sakura's head to find her shoulder or for her to sling her arm across Mebuki's torso. Her shallow, even breathing followed not even moments later. Mebuki blinked slowly.

Sakura had gotten used to sleeping warm, it seemed, and that only brought about heartburn for the older Haruno woman to spend the rest of the morning hours trying to ease away, unfruitfully.

---

He grunted in exertion, exhaling as he went down. Inhaling as he came up. Sweat pooled from his brow splintering to drip off the tip of his nose or tail down paths down his neck. His arms glistened with perspiration. The ink was shiny like he had a coating of slick oil. The three toad sages on his back: Gamahiro (teal and on the right with his two tanto blades strapped to his back), Gamabunta (brown with a striking dark blue haori, in the middle with his pipe perched at the corner of his mouth lit and smoking sitting in a crouch) and Gamaken (magenta with black face markings and with his round shield strapped to his back and his sasumata standing tall and ready) moved up and down as he did complete and started yet another push-up.

His shoulder throbbed, his chest ached sore, and his arms were shaky but he pressed through. He had lost a lot of strength breaking his routine those consecutive weeks. It had been a deliberate choice when he had asked Haku to design the sages not in battle—as they were often depicted in fiction—nor at rest in mediation but somewhere in the middle. The tattoos on his back, the steady, imposing forces—with a fully bloomed Sakura tree whose branches extended over his shoulder blades and the trunk down the length of his side—were ready. They were prepared for a resolution. Equally for battle and for peace. That was his goal. And he believed Haku delivered. Long before Sakura breathed her admiration to only solidify and validate his choice and all the headache of logistics and design. The sages were just that, each and every one of them was a sage first and a warrior as a last resort. Peace before conflict. Calm before anger. The pen before the sword. Their philosophy—the lesson they were trying to teach in this passed-down allegory—was one that resonated with him for most of his life save that dark year—his first year without Shika.

He exhaled sharply, holding himself up. His teeth were clenched and his arm shook in protest before he even put all his weight on it so he could curl his left arm behind his back. Minato waited. He tested the arrangement before he lowered, deliberately until he was at ninety degrees. His lungs were free of air. He breathed in and slowly released the breath as he came back up. He started to count.

One. Two. Three….

---

Mebuki shamelessly did a double-take. Her threaded needle was pinched between her thumb and index finger as she peered over her reading glasses from her perch by the arm of the sofa.

"You're actually up," the thought in her head that she did not mean to share out loud came tumbling out of her mouth.

Sakura rolled her eyes. "You saw me get up, Mom," she ran her fingers through her hair—her washed and brushed hair, Mebuki noticed.

"I thought you went to nap in your room," Mebuki murmured in disbelief. She set aside the hem of the pants she was taking in after securing the needle. "You look presentable." She eyed her daughter from head to toe in her clean hair, long red coat, and dark tights. "Are you going to work?" She asked excitedly.

"Work?" Sakura looked at her confused. "I would have told you—" A knock interrupted her. Sakura's face brightened. She moved to open the door. From her vantage, Mebuki could see nothing other than the partially closed door over Sakura's back.

"Hello." She heard the bright voice of her daughter.

"Hello," a voice returned the greeting. Male. But higher, perhaps younger. Mebuki felt her stomach drop in disappointment she would never acknowledge. It was not Minato. "Sakura Haruno?" He asked, to further eliminate all doubt and hope that Mebuki had managed to muster on such short notice.

"That's me," Sakura laughed. Pleasant and completely fake.

"Great, can you sign here please?"

"Absolutely."

Mebuki watched with an elongated neck as Sakura leaned forward slightly to presumably sign the thing he wanted her to.

"You're all set. Have a good day."

"Thanks. You too!" Sakura sang right before the first door was closed—the security door—soon followed by the second. "Finally," Sakura exclaimed, tearing at the packaging with her teeth.

"What is it?" Mebuki's curiosity won out over her need to tell her daughter to act a little bit less like a heathen. Or a sloth depending on the scenario.

"My new phone," Sakura showed her the white rectangular device.

"What happened to your other new one?" Mebuki asked with a frown that only grew deeper when she watched her daughter shrug out of her coat to reveal not a dress or respectable clothing but a long t-shirt of an old band and what she thought were tights were actually leggings.

"I broke it with a hammer," her daughter answered without blinking.

"What?" Mebuki asked, alarmed, blinking over her reading glasses. She was not entirely sure that she heard right.

"The one before that was broken by a controlling jerk," Sakura smiled. "Do we have vodka?" She regarded the phone in her hand. "This thing is going to take ages to boot and set up. Oh! My computer." She sprinted from the room, leaving her mother to stare at the cat completely bewildered.

---

He put his phone face down the moment he stepped into the vicinity of the wooden bench he was sitting at in an open field park thirty minutes outside of the city. Minato pushed up to his feet and met him halfway, leaving his disposable coffee cup next to his book.

"How is she?" That was usually how the status reports started. Mianto crossed his arms over his black turtleneck-clad chest. His blue eyes were hidden away by the dark lens of his sunglasses.

"Fine," Sasori tried to reach the itch inside of his ear with his pinky. He pulled the bottom of the brown beanie to cover the tops of them. "At her mom's. Hasn't left the house since she left her place. Nephew's watching her now. All is quiet on the homefront." Sasori snapped his fingers before bringing his palm to cover the side of his fist. "Where do you need me?"

"Relieve Nara, go back to the house. Keep an eye on her," Minato spoke clearly and with dismissal.

Sasori furrowed his brow. "Bro, we all saw the news. They have their plea deals. They're doing time. That means the start of the next phase. I can help. I can hand—"

"You can help by keeping her safe," Minato cut him off without ever raising his voice.

"Nephew can watch her. He's perfectly capable," realization hit him in the head. "You don't trust me," he stated with impassiveness.

"Hora," Minato pinched the inner corners of his eyes. "I trust you," he said levelly.

"To babysit!" Sasori snapped. "Anyone can do that. Level zero, green-nosed little brothers can do that. You—"

"You will stay where I tell you," Minato navy eyes were without mercy. It was not up for discussion.

Sasori relaxed his balled hands. He blinked slowly. "Understood, Lieutenant." He gave a very sarcastic salute before turning on his heel. He pulled off his hat when he rounded the bend. The trees and dense shrub cover obscured him from view. The sun hitting his hair made it seem like it was on fire. He picked up his pace. His car was amongst the line along the curb. Sasori nearly tore off a hole in his patched bomber jacket, reaching for his phone. The bars were more than enough finally. He sniffed- rubbing his nose—before clicking his last call.

"Hey," he barked into the mic. "It's me." He slammed the car door closed, the sound of his voice swallowed by the cabin.

---

All that moved in response to the feet on the other side of the door were his cobalt eyes. As far left as they could possibly go. He lounged—somewhere between lying down and sitting—on the cot. The back of his palm—fingers loosely curled toward the ceiling—pressed against his yellow hair and forehead. A leg of the same arm stretched out in front of him. The other was pushed up at the knee. A book rested against that raised knee. Open and for the moment ignored.

"I didn't think I would find you here," Tsunade opened with traces of something heavier than conversational on her person.

"I've been keeping busy," he smiled, that smile of his that was more habit than emotion. It changed nothing about him.

I have nothing to show for it.

"You hardly sit still." She pressed her fist against her hip, cocking it. "How's your shoulder?"

Minato lowered his hand from his forehead and patted the ice pack held in place by a lazy bandage job. "It's nothing."

"You need to keep up with your approved exercises," Tsunade clicked her tongue. She waltzed into the room without an invitation and a conflicting thought. She sat on the edge of the cot, placing a black bag—her travel medical kit—against his leg. "All those damp push-ups will give you nothing."

"Except abs," he added his two ryo with a flash of a grin. "And maybe my sanity," he amended for propriety.

Tsunade's amber eyes hardened. She snapped open the top of the bag with enough force to cause the cot to groan. She began to push things around roughly. Her face was constructed out of anger. A level of anger that would impact her voice.

"You're not as young as you once were despite what the mirror might tell you," she scolded, not without the bitterness of her poorly concealed jealousy of said fact. He hardly looked a day over twenty-seven at a glance. Especially when he did not smile. "You need to keep that in mind before you push so far that I have to amputate your arm."

Minato made a face, closing the book but keeping his place with his thumb. "Do you just think of these scenarios in your downtime or…?"

"We all need hobbies," she retorted with traces of a smirk. Her maroon-colored fingers prodded his shoulder. "Move with me." He complied. Tsunade checked his range of motion. "What's she like?"

"You'd like her."

"Which is saying something because I don't like anyone," Tsunade shared what they both knew to be more or less true without color. "Any pain?" She asked him.

Minato shook his head. "There's barely even a scar."

"I noticed," Tsunade leaned back. The cot whined again. "Minato," she said his name with graveness in her voice. "There's still time to think this through. You don't have to do this."

"There's nothing left to think about," he answered firmly but not so much that it was rude.

And I do. I have to.

"Are you prepared?" She posed her question lightly despite its implications and potential being anything but. "That if you do this for her, that she may never look at you the way you want her to?"

Of their volition, his lashes closed over his eyes with one smooth motion. Heavy and absolute. Tsunade's words were not mere hyperbole or bleak for the sake of shock value. They were the words of someone who endured them, who lived them.

"I am."

Because he just wanted her to be happy and safe so that maybe one day she could smile openly again like she used to, whatever that may look like—whatever it may cost. A solid hand patting him on his shoulder lurched him out of these thoughts that he had no recollection of succumbing to.

"Takayuki Sumida?" Tsunade read from the title of the pale orange book with yellowed pages. "My gramps used to read that crap."

"It's acquired taste," he held the poems of love and hope closer to his person.

"That's one way of putting it," her voice was rough—abrasive—her eyes soft and hand warm. She squeezed his shoulder. "You know where to find me if you need to talk."

"Thank you, Senju Sage."

Tsunade rolled her eyes. "The Professor, Senju Sage, Flash," her lip curled in disgust. "It's like a terrible rag-tag D-list hero comic. Something the old bastard would write. Thank God he came to his senses and opened the coffee shop." She got up from the cot. She closed the bag she had not pulled a single tool or instrument out of. "He's making udon for dinner. Specifically for you not that he would ever admit it so you better not skip out again unless you want to have to answer to me," she threatened without batting an eye. Completely cold-blooded.

"I won't," he promised. He had no meetings or calls to make tonight. He nodded his head and held the position of the dip long after her heels had clicked away. Senju Sage was no stranger to heartbreak. She had more than enough for three people. She was resilient. She was strong. She was tenacious.

He reached for the purple crane. He turned it in his hands carefully before letting it rest in the center of his palm. His eyes stared past it.

She'd like you, Senju Sage. Sakura would like you too.

---

"Did you get laid off?" Mebuki opened strong but Sakura hardly reacted. The anchor on the news spoke in a low murmur over the sound of the fireplace cackling. "Fired?"

"No," Sakura answered, unbothered as she blew on her tea.

"Did you quit? Did the hospital mandate that you take time off again? Did something happen at work, Sakura?" Mebuki followed up with quiet desperation to make sense of how or why—if not both—her daughter who worked herself onto the other side of the medical clipboard not too long ago could be the same person who was practically fused at the hip to her sofa. It was starting to sag. She would have to replace the cushions if this kept up for much longer.

"No." The pinkette yawned. It was about time for her three-in-the-afternoon nap. She had another usually around seven, right before dinner.

"Did you win the lottery?"

"Geez, Mom," Sakura stretched out as far as she could, sighing in contentment when her ankles popped. "Just taking a sabbatical."

"What about Sakuto's clinic?" Mebuki pressed forward. She was at a loss. Both her children were born go-getters. She never had to be a helicopter parent before. They had woken themselves up for school and even on occasion waking her and Kizashi.

"I haven't really been taking walk-ins." She conveniently let off the fact that she was also not taking appointments either.

"Why?" Her hand, which was petting Cheddar's back, stopped movement. The cat's tail flicked angrily, slapping her on the wrist in a not-so-gentle demand that she pick up where she left off.

"Because I made a mistake, Mom," Sakura covered her mouth with the crook of her arm. The hand under her pillow caused it to shift. Sakura adjusted on the couch so she was pressed even more into the soft cushions.

"Is it over, Sakura?" Mebuki asked with her stomach in a knot.

"It's over," her daughter's answer came without emotion. It was insensitive to the burning left behind in her mother's belly. "I gave him an out and he took it."

"Why would you do that?" Mebuki found herself asking as she grasped for context so that her mind would not have to resort to weaving it together.

"Because I'm me. And because he's him, he didn't even fight for it."

For us. For himself. He didn't even try to defend himself or explain. I waited.

"What does that mean, Sakura?" Mebuki pressed. She stubbornly held the window that Sakura propped open.

"Do we have chocolate?" Sakura asked mostly rhetorically. Her fingers were busy working out a knot from her hair.

"No," Mebuki lied, daring not to think about the emergency stash that she kept in the back of a cupboard lest Sakura sniff out the truth. "Why don't you go to the store? I have a couple more things I need."

Sakura pulled out her phone with a sigh. "Do you know off the top of your head? I can put them in my cart."

Mebuki bit back a sigh of her own at her daughter's expectant green eyes. "You like talking to people. You need to talk to people," Mebuk stopped herself well short of asking her daughter "What the hell is wrong with you?" Because that surely would not be productive.

"Eh, just not feeling it today. And I've earned enough points for free delivery. So why not, right?" Sakura scratched her cheek, clearing some neon orange dust from the chips she had inhaled off her skin unintentionally.

Mebuki could list at least three but it seemed like a dead end. "Go for a walk. Go outside. Go see the sun."

"Outside is cold. It's overcast," Sakura nuzzled her face into the pillow and even went as far as rubbing her legs together. "Inside is cozy."

And I don't want to put on pants or a bra.

"What mistake did you make, Sakura?" Mebuki's patience and along with it her plan were nowhere to be found. "What did you mean that a controlling man destroyed your phone?"

Sakura flopped on her back. Her thumbnail was in between her teeth. "Should we get ice cream too?" She asked without looking up from her phone. "Dumb question. Yes. Ice cream. Always ice cream. Do you want mint chocolate chip as usual or are you feeling something different? There's a new peanut butter and chocolate swirl that seems interesting." Sakura made a sound of indecision. She would need to get whipped cream, sprinkles, and chocolate sauce too because tragically there was none at the house. "We'll get both. No such thing as too much ice cream. No way," she frowned. "Are they seriously out of...oh, never mind found it. The Cookies 'n Cream is among their popular flavors. Che, almost gave myself a heart attack." She tapped happily on her phone to presumably add the flavor to her cart. Mebuki wondered if the cart ever ran out of room the way Sakura was tapping away. "They have vodka that tastes like candy canes!" She exclaimed with glittering eyes. "Yes. Yes. Yes!"

"When are you going back to work, Sakura?" Mebuki held onto her anger by a thread. A thin, fragile thread.

"Not sure yet," Sakura shrugged dismissively. "Do you want the chocolate-covered almonds? Milk or dark?" She scrolled aimlessly, pausing every now and then.

"Sakura, you need to work," she said through clenched teeth.

"I have savings." Along with the emergency fund which was still holding up. "And the hospital said I could take up to six months off without having to file additional paperwork or lose our health insurance. So we're fine." Her eyes moved from side to side as she contemplated it. "We'll get both milk and dark. Oh," her voice went high. "They have yogurt-covered pretzels. Strawberry. Yes!" She cheered.

"Sakura, you need a purpose," Mebuki continued to fight tooth and nail for the conversation—the answers she was so desperate for.

"Maybe later," Sakura lowered her phone. She wiggled her fingers toward the cat. "Pspspspsp."

Cheddar hissed at her, hair rising on end.

"Tough crowd." Sakura rolled over onto her side, facing the couch. "Wake me up in thirty minutes, Mom."

"What's in thirty minutes, Sakura?" Mebuki asked for the sake of it.

"I'll order the groceries," she answered, yawning loudly. "Should give you time to think about what else you need."

Mebuki needed Sakura to go back home so that things could go back to normal. But she could not voice that any more than she could kick Sakura out or extract information from her. Mebuki sighed long-suffering. Cheddar tried to console her with a soft meow before he began to groom himself—something her daughter had not done in two days because she was counting. Oh, Mebuki was counting alright.

---

Time came to a complete standstill where he stood with his head bowed, his arms behind his back, and his feet shoulder's width apart. He wore his black suit with a black cashmere turtleneck. The naked branches of the Japanese Maple hung low near the dark windows. The bark was much lighter than the dark wooden accents in the interior. His ear—the one holding up the cigarette—perked at the sound of the chair moving—the body sitting up on the throne adjusted.

"So you finally decided to show me your face." The voice dragged out each syllable as he enunciated clearly. It was in his nature. He hated repeating himself. So he spoke slowly once. Only once.

I'm not preoccupied anymore.

He waited the appropriate amount of time—respectable—to ensure he was not cutting the boss off mid-thought. Shikaku was not a stranger to lengthy monologues—sharing his inward musings when it struck him the right time. It was his way of preparing the vessel, he called it.

"I wanted to have an answer for you as to what went wrong." It was the truth but like everything else, nothing was moving according to plan. Minato supposed it was fitting.

"So you have brought an answer to me?" Shikaku dragged a hand through his wiry goatee speckled with the more than occasional gray hair. Reproachfulness held in his dark eyes. The scars on his face made him appear that much closer to the post he held. Menacing. Cruel. Ruthless. Dangerous. All things Minato did not find him to be to his core. Only when provoked. The large tattoo on Shikau's back was fitting. He was a bear.

"No," he raised his head to meet Shikaku in the eye—an act that could be interpreted as aggression by the uninformed. It was a transgression but he held a belief that Shikaku would read him—read what was in his heart and thus his true intentions—just as he had been doing for nearly thirty years. "Not yet," he promised. He would learn and he would share. All in due time.

Grant me more time.

Time he could no longer spend elsewhere, delaying perhaps the inevitable. And that was why he could not harbor a grudge against Sasori. Not only was he incapable of such a thing but Sasori's mistake was not his, it was Minato's. He waited too long to tell her the truth after not waiting long enough to engage with her at all. Minato had yet to learn timing.

"Your mistake cost me over half a million ryo. And that's just the business expenses for the month." There was zero familiarity—give—in the way Shikaku regarded him. With one statement he made it clear there were no other relations other than one of the boss and his subordinate—a subordinate who was not making money but bleeding it.

Minato, without ever turning his head away from the figurehead, glanced at the bookkeeper. "Mr. Nara, could you kindly remind me of my net? Just how many ryo do I come out in the clear for this month?" He asked without blinking, eyes very much locked in straight ahead. "Has to be in the hundreds of thousands, no?"

Akina Nara, the Clan bookkeeper, inhaled sharply. His mouth hung open and his thick round glasses almost slid off his nose as they too were shocked at what they witnessed.

Hear me. See me. Understand me.

Shikaku's eyes narrowed into slits. Akina gaped in his direction as if not sure if he was supposed to honor the request by the First Lieutenant. His head moved from the faces which were frozen in a standoff. Each understood the other's plight it seemed. Shikaku had an image to maintain, he could not be soft on Minato. Minato's blunder was grave. It put the Clan at risk. It put the whole hierarchy at risk. The one so many had bled and lost their lives to maintain. He had to say what he did. He had to bring the loss of monetary funds to the forefront and that forced Minato to bring up his contributions. He was an asset. And he was not the type to let someone else point it out, not when the situation was still so charged. He accepted his faults and shortcomings on his own, so it was only right he did the same for his accolades. He did not need the Clan's validation. He only needed Shikaku's.

Please. I don't want to leave things with your disappointment in me too.

"Bring me an answer," Shikaku said at last. He leaned back into his wooden chair. The gold cufflinks glistened against his white shirt that reached past his black pinstripe suit.

Thank you, Uncle.

Minato bowed low and long at the hip with his fist against his heart. Time started up again when he was on the other side of the mahogany double doors.

xXx

The usually polished bamboo floors had a thin layer of dust preventing the overhead canned lights from reflecting their glow off of it. The air was stale. He had noticed that the moment he left the greenspace that surrounded his small adobe. It carried over the traditional style of the rest complex. Wooden walls, shoji doors, a genkan, a small but functioning kitchen with a hot plate. Air, light, wooden, and surrounded by green. The koi pond with the small waterfall was not far. He could hear the water splashing through the open windows—the first order of business after he had removed his shoes. It was clean. It was sterile.

Minato's eyes wandered around the enclosure when he slept. A futon mattress pushed up toward the far left corner, right in front of his wooden floor-to-ceiling wardrobes. They stretched from the window to the corner. They were girthy to accommodate all this clothing. A square pillow where his head rested sat idle. The blankets—green, sage—were folded and placed on the end of the mattress right where he had left it. His no-show socks glided against the floor, dusting it with each step. Polished prints against a layer of fine powder.

His desk was bare. Some photos were pinned to the corkboard on the wall above it. He traced the edges of the one his eye came back to. A head of yellow hair grinning with an arm slung around two different heads—they could pass as brothers at first glance. Shika was on his right and a younger Rihito was on his left. It was from New Year's. The papers were stacked neatly, held down by a weight on the rich wooden top. The pens were all accounted for inside the wooden holder. A small desk lamp. He turned around, sparing the garden a glance. An empty bird feeder hung from the titles that extended beyond the side of the structure. The birds must have stopped holding out hope for sustenance from it. Countless hours were lost staring out this window: thinking, observing, ruminating, planning, recharging.

A round area rug that he nudged away with his covered toes. He slowly lowered down to his knees. With his fingers, he felt the edges of the floorboard. He found the place where his nails latched, digging underneath the groves he pulled up. He sat back on his heels, the small stretch of bamboo flooring was set onto its brethren. He sighed, just sitting for a moment. Still. Unmoving. In that still, unmoving moment, his brain rested. There were no ripples. There was no thought. There was no change. There was only the moment.

A sigh, quiet and low was all that was needed to disrupt the tranquility. He reached forward, an arm disappeared into the crevice while a palm kept his balance. The plastic bag crinkled, he ignored the other objects he had moved from their spots of rest. The bag made even more noise as it was pulled out of the ground. The seals opened. He held a velvet box—a faded maroon—in his hands. The open—now empty—bag was put wayside by the uprooted floor. His lungs filled with air. He opened the lid. The box was lined with navy almost passing as black. In the center, his eyes were drawn to two shiny, glittering silver rings—an engagement crowned with a solitaire sapphire and a wedding with diamonds—in the box. The same rings that decorated his mother's fingers in what photos he had left to keep the fuzzing faces from his memories from completely unsharpening out of focus.

Mom.

A band, loose, rattled on the other side of the attached lid. Their hands were never far in life so it seemed fighting that their rings continued to maintain the set precedent.

Dad.

His lips pulled into a small smile—the right side higher than the left. He cleared his throat. "There's someone I want to tell you about," he said in a voice only meant for his ears to hear. Because volume was not a set prerequisite for where his parents were, they would hear. He knew they were listening, waiting for him to share.

So he did.

xXx

He adjusted the sizable duffle on his shoulder. His fingers were being pinched to the point they lost all color by the metal hangers of the garment bags slung over his back. The Maneki Neko

cat—who he had named so creatively 'Horseshoe' the only other object synonymous with luck he thought of at the time—chimed in his pocket. The key returned from where he had procured it. Minato tested the twist lock on the shoji door. It was more out of habit than anything. His things would be untouched and his dwelling undisturbed in the compound. He paused on the welcome mat to slip into his loafers.

"Mina!" A voice said with plenty of excitement to the point of being pushed to breathlessness. "It is you!"

It was automatic the way his mouth donned a smile as he straightened. His blue eyes came to confirm what his ears already knew. "Reina," his eyes crinkled. Her dark eyes filled with delight as they darted to the ground. Color flooded her pale cheeks. "How are you?" He asked with genuine curiosity. It had been a while.

"Me?" She gawked at him, too dumbfounded to remember her earlier shyness. "How are you?! Are you alright? You scared us half to death!" She admonished him with her hands on her hips. "You just disappeared on us! We had to rely on less than reliable second-hand accounts!" She continued to berate him for all that he put them through. Her black hair swayed in accordance with the stern shaking of her head.

"I'm sorry."

"We were just worried, that's all," she mumbled. The anger melted off of her immediately. "I went a little overboard." The bag held between her hands—the bottom of which rested against her knees—crinkled seemingly in a reminder. "This is for you!" She held out toward him from the bottom step of his engawa.

"For me?" He asked with a furrowed brow, moving down the three steps. His feet were now in the gravel. "You shouldn't have."

"It's nothing!" Reina insisted, face still flushed. "I didn't have any notice! It's just a little something I could scrounge together at the last minute."

Minato peered into the bag—holding it with one hand. "You made miso soup base last minute?"

"Well no," she puffed out her cheeks, blowing her long bangs from her forehead.

"You have a lecture as long as your arm waiting for you back at home," he offered her the bag back along with his words of caution to rethink it one more time.

"Worth it," Reina said with a shake of her head. "It will fix you right up." Her eyes lowered again. "Not that you look like you need it."

"Thank you, Reina. Tell your mother that for me."

"I will," she nodded her head, distractedly. Her hands were clasped behind her back. "She'll probably tell me to tell you not to be a stranger."

His lips quirked upward. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Don't worry about a thing, Mina. I'll take care of it," she said with so much certainty that it spilled into her eyes. There was a fire in them. "Everything."

He furrowed his brow and frowned, not liking the way that sounded. Ominous. She laughed at the increase in his seriousness. She waved it off with lazy wrist flicks.

"The winter festival," she explained, tone teasing.

Right, that.

Remembrance hit him as swiftly as a sucker punch to the back of the head. He did not have a hand free so he could not pat the back of his head in a sheepish gesture that he did not quite outgrow.

"You forgot," Reina stated with a flat brow and expression that scolded. "It's fine. You just focus on getting back to one hundred percent back then. And picking out a new kimono. No repeats, the aunties will never let you hear the end of it." She eyed him from top to bottom. "Stick to winters: blues, grays, black, maroon, dark greens—you get the idea."

"Thanks, Reina," his eyes crinkled. "Sorry to leave you with all the work."

She snorted, trying to turn a pebble into dust with her heel for lack of anything better to do. "The blame rests solely on Uncle's shoulders. He's the one who roped us into it every year."

It was true, the Nara Clan had four major festivals hosted on their acres and acres of city land where they pulled out all the stops, and no expense was spared. The fall festival, marking the start of the deer breeding season, the winter festival which runs for the last week of the calendar year and the first week of the next, the start of spring, and Obon—three days in mid-August. The winter festival was by far the largest undertaking. Work was all but ceased in those days as the alcohol ran freely and the food piled high on plates. Civilians were more than a little curious and in the past—before increased security—it was not uncommon for them to wander onto the grounds thinking it was a city-sponsored event just given the sheer size of it and the number of vendor stalls. The golden era as he remembered it back when both Yoshino and Shika were still alive. The winter festival was the closest thing to magic he had ever experienced. It had snowed once before. A year after his parent's death. Shikaku had taken a long look—watching him watch the snow—and said it was their way of telling him they would always look out for him. He had balled his eyes out. They ate food off of sticks. He later won a fish as a prize for one of the stall games. To date, it was his favorite winter festival.

"It's only because you do such a good job," Minato pointed out the fact.

Reina's cheeks flushed. She quickly looked away, caught staring when he was inside his head. "You make it sound like you don't do anything!" She said with roughness. "Unlike some people," she added with ample annoyance. "They're all your connections. The vendor gave us amazing rates. I don't know how you do it."

He chuckled. "You should give them more slack—some people, that is. Including unreliable second-hand sources."

She feigned considering it, signing in resignation. "Fine. But only because you're the one who asked," she smiled shyly—tentatively—finding backing in his relaxed stance. "Are you back-back?" Her dark eyes were sharp and fully fixated on every detail.

"No," he did not lie to her. He felt something falter in him as the dropping of her shoulders. The light seemed to be taken out of her eyes.

"Is Uncle being stubborn?" She demanded, recovering quickly. "Just say the word. I'll throw the book at him. Which I can do now because I'm a lawyer, you see. "

"You pass the exam?" He asked, his voice filling with pride. His eyes gained new perspective as they flittered over her face. "You passed the exam!"

"I passed!" She exclaimed in excitement. "I'm starting up at city hall—" Reina's face fell at Minato's eyes settling on something behind her. She huffed a second before an arm pulled her roughly, heavy. "Rihito," she whined, "what is wrong with you?"

He flashed her a smile, his nose ring crinkling. "Hello to you too, baby sister." He mussed her hair, pushing her headband almost down to the back of her skull.

"Hey!" She batted his hand away blindly, her bangs covering her eyes. "Quit it!"

"Talking Minato's ear off again?" Rihito asked her, smile teasing and eyes mischievous in a way that only siblings managed to pull off. A look that claimed to know all her secrets. She pulled her headband from the back of her scalp—it was hanging on by sheer stubbornness. "The man got shot, 'Ina, have some mercy on his soul will you?"

"Rihito!" She shoved him away from her, mortified. She finished straightening her hair with agitated tugs. "We were having a conversation! Right, Mina?" She looked to the blond for support. "Tell him!" She added with incredulity at his silence.

"I'm not getting between this," he said with a sigh, leaning back against the railing.

Reina scoffed, offended. "I'm taking my soup back then!" She moved to snatch the bag from his limp grip. Minato did not pose resistance. "I'm not a kid anymore," she stomped her foot—a habit that undermined her statement, Rihito brought it out of her—"I'm twenty-seven, I will have you know!" She tossed her hair over her shoulder. Her face was red and her dark eyes set straight on Minato.

"Practically a hag," Rihito instigated even more with his antagonization. "Aged out of all the good marriage prospects. Your requested dowry will make us go bankrupt. I'm stuck forever with you," he murmured solemnly, shaking his head forlorn.

"Why you," Reina's rage crested but just as quickly, her face completely relaxed out of deeply set enraged lines, she grinned and that had her brother narrowing his eyes. "I just remembered there was something I needed to take care of." She turned to Minato, she tilted her head to the side. "Don't be a stranger you hear, alright?"

"I won't," he smiled back earnestly. "Thanks for the thought and congratulations."

"Thanks. If you ever find yourself in trouble, call me! Even without the license, I'm more useful than some people," she sang, glaring at her brother before she stalked off—holding the bag to her chest in a vice grip.

"She's going to do something demonic," Rihito rubbed the back of his neck. "I just know it."

"You earned it," Minato moved the garment bags from hand to hand, flexing his fingers. The pins and needles numbing. He winched at the memory of the last thing Reina did to get back at him. Rihito was leaving magenta glitter dust everywhere— Reina put it in all his products (skincare, detergent, shampoo, conditioner, shaving cream, Minato still had no idea how she managed that), and Rihito being the penny pincher he was, utilized them all until they were gone, just like his sister accounted for.

"It's not natural for adult siblings to be living together," Rihito griped. His dark eyes moved up and down. "Since you're not dead I assume Uncle didn't kill you? Did you all hug and make up?"

"Not yet," Minato said with a wry smile adorned on his lips. "There's still time." He provided no further clarification as to which question he answered.

Rihito scoffed, shaking his head. "You didn't tell him. Having second thoughts or just hedging your bets?"

"Neither," Minato answered calmly. "I'm just trying not to get too ahead of myself," he added at the disbelief Rihito directed at him.

"Right," Rihito kissed his teeth. "Reina's knitting you a sweater for your birthday. It's horrible and lumpy and looks like a dead animal carcass, she's working really hard on it. She might even go cross-eyed staying up so late to get it done in time. You better not break her heart too bad, Bro. Otherwise, I'm going to have to kick your ass," he threatened with a nonchalance that was on par with Shika—his mother's sister's son. "With all due respect, Lieutenant."

Minato chuckled. "I'll keep that in mind." He lifted his right foot then the other. "I need something."

"You only talk to me when you need something," Rihito sighed, long-suffering. He grumbled something suspiciously close to "troublesome" under his breath. The nostalgia hit Minato square in the chest, a wave of sadness overcame him next. "Tell me." He walked close and spoke low. They both ignored the dipping of heads, a sign of respect.

---

"When did these post-meal walks start?" Minato made conversation. He watched his breath out in front of him. It was cold by the time he walked through it again.

"When I turned fifty," Jiraiya grumbled as he patted a large hand to his slightly extended belly. It was hard at work digesting another hand-prepared meal. "You'll see. It's not too off for you."

"Only if I'm lucky." Or unlucky depending on how things turned out. What he longed for could ultimately turn out to be his punishment. The clouds covered anything that could be remotely interesting up in the sky. His hands were being warmed against his thighs in his pockets.

"Hard to believe it's been twenty-eight years," Jiraiya shook his head. "I still get PTSD dreams of the life."

Their boots crunched in the wet gravel underfoot. "How do you deal with it?" He found himself asking even if he was only half listening.

"I roll over and see the hag there or hear her snore, that reminds me we got out. We made it," the taller man sighed. His white hair flowed in the cold, nippy air. He rubbed his hands together, thinking how his wife had been right. He should have listened and worn gloves. They will be unbearably stiff tomorrow. "You'll get there. It's been done before. Just stay the course."

Steady and unwavering.

He was trying but the course was testing him in more ways than he had been prepared for. When it was just a thought and a prospect it was so simple. Even when he had spent months thinking of all the various scenarios and hardships he might encounter, it was all theoretical. Practice and reality were entirely different beasts.

In plans tightly wound,

Pulled threads of fate unravel—

Chaos sings its swan song.

"You went to Shikaku," Jiraiya's deep baritone rumbled in the air, shaking up just about anything in range—what was left behind.

"Sitting idle was no longer an option." Minato sighed heavily, trying to displace it from his body and set it into the air to unburden himself.

The weight of Jiraiya's gaze became more pronounced in the quiet moments of rumination. "It was strange, out of character to see you so passive, even with you being clipped."

He saw a moth fluttering at the top of the street lamp, drawn to the yellow light, struggling against the cold and the inevitable. "I got comfortable with the picture," Minato closed his eyes. Even as he spoke, he could picture it. He could feel the warmth. He could hear her laugh. The memories were fresh, sharp, and crisp. They tormented him in a completely different clarity than their predecessors. "We were in our own little bubble. I really liked that bubble. And I wanted to stay in it as long as possible." Because a part of him knew that once they ventured into reality—the real world—their warm little bubble would not last very long. Because in the back of his mind, he knew, he knew in the marrow of his bones, that maybe once there was no reason for her to keep him around—once she was safe once more—she would not want to. And that fear of that potential reality is what kept him—held him—back. Fear. He let fear be debilitating. He had been petrified in it. And it left him with nothing: no heartbeat, no hope, no her. Just nothing.

Solitude.

Jiraiya sighed deeply and slowly, the surprise of Minato's candor was tucked away under the shag of his white bangs. "It's understandable, Kid," he clapped Minato on the shoulder, indiscriminately. "No one can blame you for needing comfort and companionship. Sages know you deserve it." No one but Minato could blame him and Jiraiya knew that Minato did. He reached a hand into the inner pockets of his maroon haori. There was a flash of silver and the twisting of a cap that took longer than it should have given the cold and the numbed state of his fingers. Jiraiya took a long swing, using the back of his hand to catch the excess before it dripped off his chin. He held out the flask. Minato regarded it for a moment before taking it to mimic the gesture. The alcohol burned his throat but he contained the discomfort completely internally.

In shadows I sought,

Acceptance like a soft breeze,

You hold my heart's key.

Through valleys of doubt,

A soul calls through the still night,

Home found in your light.

With every heartbeat,

Whispers weave our destinies—

Love's embrace at last.

All he had were words and sentiments that he identified and even then they were not his own. They belonged to someone else. They were not his. Nothing was his. All he wanted was to be someone's—to be something to someone. Someone with soft pink hair and sparkling green eyes.

But life was not about getting what you wanted. Not always.

---

Sakura nuzzled her face into the pillow made of silky, soft fur. Cheddar was flat on his back higher than high chasing after rats in the clouds, his front paws made biscuits, and his normally amber eyes were nearly black from the dilation ratio.

"Found your weakness," Sakura cooed in a high-pitched baby voice. She traced a delicate finger pad along the contours of his face. "You're so pretty," she grinned triumphantly at getting the cat to be so calm around her. And in her mind, it absolutely counted. She gamed the system. She earned this cuddle. "When you're not trying to grate my skin, you monster," she whispered, placing a soft kiss on the top of his head. He blinked slowly. "You're an awful judge of character," she could not help but add with more than a little hint of bruised ego. "That's the last time I rely on you for the screening process. I should have gotten Mom a dog."

Sakura's head was propped up by her curled fist. She turned to watch the judge show that was on. The case playing right now was about a landlord keeping a security deposit and he was being sued. Her stomach twisted.

I probably have ants and roaches now.

She really should have finished cleaning up.

My poor plants. Death awaits me.

Sakura ran her fingers through the soft gray with random sporadic tufts of white fur on Cheddar's belly as she read the closed captions as the landlord justified why he kept the deposit.

Man, I really lucked out with Mr. Teuchi. He's a sweetheart.

The man had not raised rent on her once in all the years she had been there. It was the same for all his tenants. Her building had very little turnover.

"Sakura," Mebuki was standing in front of the TV with a hand on her hip.

"Yeah?" Green eyes trekked up to Mebuki's face. She did not look happy. Sakura racked her brain trying to remember what she could have done this time. She had made sure there were no hair clumps or toothpaste globs in the sink. She had picked up her socks and clothes from the floor. She washed the dishes she used.

I've been good!

Mebuki shook something violently. Cheddar stiffened under her. "What is that?" Sakura asked, gesturing to the small gray duffle bag-looking thing. She noticed the black mesh parts.

Shit.

She put two and two together. Cheddar's tail was twitching. "That's today?" Sakura whined. She had made the appointment over a month ago—a lifetime ago. Sakura hissed in pain. "Hey!" She tried to grab the cat that scurried away. His high had left him quickly at the shake of the carrier. Sakura looked at her mother pitifully, holding her slashed hand. Mebuki's face held no pity.

"Make sure you get an ultrasound of his stomach and lungs. I don't like how he's breathing," Mebuki sighed warily. "I hope it's not lung cancer," she put forth into the universe with ample worry.

"You saw him Killer B out of here just now, didn't you?" Sakura asked her mother in a dry tone that was accompanied by a well-timed eye roll. "His lungs are fine. I'm a doctor, remember?" She sat up, dusting the fur from her clothes in a futile exercise.

"You're not a vet," Mebuki shot back defensively. "Now go get him before you're late. I want the new vet to like him."

It's not the vet or the cat I'm worried about.

With a sigh, Sakura fully rose to her feet. "Here Cheddar-Cheddar," she called out to him in a baby voice. Nonthreatening. "Here kitty-kitty," she walked closer to the ground.

"He's smarter than that," Mebuki huffed, offended. "You need to use treats to lure him inside the carrier."

And she wonders why he's breathing funny.

Sakura slung the carrier across her body, leaving both hands free. She tied her hair up in a high ponytail. Mebuki watched her daughter leave the room. Her screams and Cheddar's yowls could be heard from three houses down. It was a toss-up that was more feral.

xXx

"You're amazing," Sakura said with wide eyes and an even wider mouth. "How do you do that?" She gestured with her bandage-covered hands as the brown-haired vet examined Cheddar while he just sat there, taking it. In quiet acceptance of his fate. He looked absolutely miserable but he always kind of looked like that any time he was not actively eating.

Dr. Inuzuka laughed. She shook her head in amusement. She lifted up the scruff of Cheddar's neck. It came up like a rug. There was so much of it. "It's what his mom would do if he was being bad. It doesn't hurt them and it gets them to cooperate. Talking in a high-pitched voice helps too."

Sakura scratched at her cheek. The cut underneath the bandage stung. "He must not like the sound of my voice."

Cheddar let out a pitiful meow.

"See," Sakura joked.

Hana chuckled good-naturedly. "His lungs are fine, but we'll do the ultrasound just to be thorough," she lowered the stethoscope around her neck. "He seems to be in good health. He could afford to lose a couple of pounds. He carries it well but he would be happier for it," she made a face. "Eventually."

"Can you please add bloodwork? My mom needs to see the numbers. She's obsessive," Sakura rubbed her elbow. "Cheddar is her baby."

"Sure," Hana made some notes on the clipboard. Cheddar wore the look of shellshock. "He has a tooth that we'll keep an eye on. We might have to remove it in a year or two. Just letting you know in case he stops eating suddenly or has trouble eating."

Sakura nodded her head. She noted the comment in the notepad app on her phone. "I kind of gave him catnip," Sakura added sheepishly, suddenly remembering. "He was pretty stoned before we got here."

"I noticed," Hana wrote more notes in the file. "We'll save the bloodwork for next time. We can still do a stool sample."

Sakura looked at Cheddar apologetically. "We better."

The cat stared at her with big eyes and meowed softly, betrayed.

xXx

Minato approached the black car reverse parked under the large redwood tree. It was the spot among a couple of cars toward the edge of the lot. It had sight lines to the front door. He tapped on the driver-side window. It rolled down halfway.

"Any luck?" The man with dark wavy hair that grazed his chin and equally dark eyes behind his aviator sunglasses asked.

Minato shook his head at the question. "He's not here." He really thought he would be, that he would come to his sister if he was in trouble.

"And they just told you that?" Rihito asked with an eye roll. The thin silver ring on his left nostril crinkled as he scrunched his nose at the chill that was coming inside the car. He gestured to the passenger seat with his head. Minato shook his once.

"Hana was the one to tell me. She wouldn't lie to me," he stated, very matter-of-fact.

"Is there anyone you haven't charmed? Or blackmailed?" Rihito asked in a deadpan.

"It's not like that," Minato said with a sigh. His hand went to the cigarette behind his ear. He moved it between his fingers. "Shika and Hana dated for a bit. He liked her drive and intelligence."

She was the only one who wasn't a Nara that could come close to beating him at Shogi…even if she cheated every now and then.

As if he did not have a hand in helping catch his best friend off guard with underhanded tactics. Hana distracting Shika with a kiss—a first for both of them—while Minato moved the pieces was one such instance. Poor Shika had been so discombobulated he did not remember until over an hour later that his board was all wrong but by then he had already lost the bet and paid for not only his and Hana's meal but Minato's too.

"Let me guess, it became troublesome after the rose-tinted glasses came off," Rihito said with a knowing look.

Minato nodded his head, content to let the younger man buy that narrative that was pushed by none other than Shika himself. Minato knew better. It was getting too serious and he did not want to hold her back. She wanted to go to veterinary school in Hachi which was a seven-hour flight away. Shikamaru's heart broke that day Hana got on that plane.

"Hana's always liked me." And that remained true when he took her little brother in. Her little brother, who was picking fights left and right with anyone in their clan, including their mother. Hana was genuinely scared that Tsume would kill Kiba to set an example, just like she had done to her partner and the father of her two children when Kiba was just six months old—all because the man dared to question her publicly in a clan meeting. Hana had talked Tsume down into just disowning Kiba and kicking him out of the clan at sixteen. She had just finished veterinary school and was planning on coming back home. It was when she begged Minato to take him in, she learned that Shika was dead. Minato believed the devastation she had on her face at the news was genuine. She still loved Shika too. To this day even.

"I was just leaving when I saw Sakura's car pull in. What are you doing here?" Minato asked Shikmaru's favorite cousin.

"Hora asked me to fill in at the last minute. He said something came up," Rihito pressed his lips together in displeasure.

"What?" Minato's eyes narrowed marginally—barely discernible.

"Hora's been shifty, Bro," Rihito looked conflicted to be sharing this. "He's late. He's making excuses. He's on the phone a lot more. He's cagey."

Minato closed his eyes. "Do you think he's using again?" He asked in a level voice, awaiting the answer with his breath held.

"No," Rihito was quick to shake his head. "I'm not saying all that."

"What are you saying?" Minato asked him pointedly. His cobalt eyes bore into Rihito's dark irises.

"I'm," Rihito seemed to falter in his confidence. "I'm saying he's being weird. And something isn't sitting right with me."

"He's always been weird," Minato tucked the cigarette behind his ear. "If he asks you to switch again, you let me know." He turned around, his gaze was at the door. "How is she?"

"Good, I think," Rihito said with a shrug. "I never met her. This is the first time I've seen her out of the house. She had cuts and bandages on her face and hands. I assume that's not concerning."

Cheddar.

"No," Minato tugged at his blond hair. "Don't tell Hora you saw me or that we talked."

"With pleasure," Rihito nodded his head curtly. "What are you going to do?"

"Nothing." For now. And maybe ever as long as Sakura's coverage did not lapse.

"Hora's probably already told you but we can't do daily car sweeps. She parks in the garage so it should be fine," Rihito peered over the dark lens of his gold-trim glasses.

"It's fine," Minato's light tone did not speak to the levels of his paranoias the same way his instructions did. He never turned on a car without checking it first.

"Don't look now, Bro," Rihito moved his seat back, becoming harder to spot.

Minato, with his arms over the roof of the car, turned his head toward the blue door of the clinic. He saw it open. Pink filled his sight. Her hair was in a high ponytail. Her green eyes were vibrant. There was a bandage that did not match her skin across her cheek on the left side. He could make more of them on the backs of her hands. He imagined there were even more under the soft layer of her light green sweater. Her pants were white and her ankle boots were brown. His heart sped up involuntarily at the first flash of pink. Seeing her in the flesh was a painfully efficient reminder that his memories could never do her justice. They could not compete with the real thing. The real her.

She was smiling, saying something into the carrier she held in her hands. She stopped walking. She must have sensed his eyes because he found himself locked in her emerald gaze hot and scalding without warning. It felt like an eternity but it was really an instance. Her chin jutted out in defiance. With strides longer than he assumed she was capable of; she closed the distance. Much too fast for him to really drink her in.

His arms fell at his side. If he outstretched them and she did the same, they would be touching, the thought settled in his mind.

Hi. How are you?

"Stay the hell away from me and my mom," she ground out in anger—in fury. Her eyes were narrowed slits. "Both of you," her eyes darted to Rihito—just as angry, just as livid. Collateral damage in her ongoing conflict with the blond. "All of you," she spat. She turned her heel and her feet carried her away. She shushed the meowing cat loudly, calling him a traitor not as quiet as she probably thought she was.

"Boss," Rihito's voice at low volume drew his attention. The Nara gazed at him apologetically. Minato stepped back and to the right, allowing Rihito more room to operate. The black SUV hummed to life, following the red car out of the parking lot.

Minato lost track of time—of just how long he stood there in that spot waiting for the impossible: for her to come back.

Even if it's just to yell.

---

The wind changed direction, sending a sheet of rain to land directly on the back of his neck and over his shoulders. It was frigid. Cold. A shock to his senses but his mind stubbornly remained elsewhere. The droplets plinked off the tin roof that was making its discomfort known. Unresponsive eyes read the name on the marker to the right of the center of the small rock garden. It never changed but that did not stop his eyes from tracing the etched-in letters over and over again.

Ghosts of memories,

Echo where shadows linger—

One-sided exchanges.

Minato watched it burn off more and more of the white column. A small stream of smoke—darker than his breath before him—was held between his stationary fingers.

It's been a while.

That too could be chalked up to his choices and the consequences that came from therein. With the hand that was holding the burning cigarette between his index and middle fingers, the outside of Minato's thumb smoothed down a blond brow, wearily.

I'm a little lost.

Tsunade would scold him for trying to catch a cold and make things harder for him and that was after Jiraiya gave him an earful for smelling like an ashtray. The smell of smoke was a trigger for an addict like his wife. Despite her absence from the card tables, gambling very much had a hold over her still. All these decades later and having crawled out from underneath her debt. Vices. The hold—the power—they held was terrifying to him. The thought of losing control, losing who he was—there was no worse fate. He supposed that was a lie too. Because he knew of a worse fate, he lived a worse fate. Having loved ones die, having them leave him behind. That was much crueler. Or maybe it was one and the same. There was no control of it either time.

Figured that maybe coming back to someplace familiar would help.

The cigarette burned down to its yellow butt. Minato tossed it on the damp concrete, grounding it with his heel for good measure. His hand was already moving to the box with a rose on the front. He pulled out another. His fingers moved through motions he never thought he would be familiar with. How young Minato would turn his nose up at what had become of him.

He got to judge. Because he does not know what's in store for him. Young Minato still clung to his dreams. He chased after them and that too at full speed. Ignorance was like a superpower or a drug. Ignorance had the ability to make anyone fearless.

It's not really working. I've never been the smart one between the two of us.

He inhaled deeply just as the two tips met: flame and cigarette. The smoke caressed his face with the tenderness that promised stability. Reliable. The way the tension seemed to ease from his frame and he poisoned his lungs all the while his lips stayed free of the corruption of its taste. He watched the rain; the sky gray, and the puddles expanding. The water on the back of his neck became so heavy his chin tilted toward his sternum.

"What would you do, Shika?" He asked the remnants of the smoke trail, a poor stand-in for his best friend, giving himself a break from the name on the marker.

Shikamaru Nara

---

"Did he have to look so good?" Sakura asked in a huff, still as worked up as the moment she had seen him more than twenty-four hours ago. "Is it too much to ask that he has a bad hair day or a pimple or something?" She hugged her pillow to her chest. His face had less fat than she remembered. It was sharper and more defined. He filled out his suit nicely. Really nicely. "What is wrong with you? He's stalking you and you're hung up on his face?"

And the rest of him. God damn.

What was perhaps the worst of all, he was completely unbothered. Unaffected by what had transpired. He was fine. He was great. He was…Minato. Impassive. Unreliable. Unshakable. Unmoveable. Infuriating. The whole thing was completely frustrating, not to mention humiliating.

"I should have followed through. I should have called the police. No Uchihas live out here. Now he knows that I'm a pushover. A liar." Sakura played with a hair just mindfully enough not to pull it by the root. Having bald spots would help no one—least of all her. "What do you think?" She asked the cat splayed out on the top of the sheet. He was just out of reach, taunting her with what she could not have. Cheddar paused, grooming himself to stare at her, blinking slowly. Condescending."Yeah," Sakura mumbled in complete agreement, lowering her chin against the plum pillow. "I'm pathetic."

Cheddar stretched out his body. His long tail tapped against her knee, curling against her shin. She played with the drawstrings of her orange hoodie. She blew a raspberry.

"Maybe I should dye my hair. Go blonde?"

Bangs. I should get bangs. They looked cute…when I was five. My face hasn't changed that drastically. I mean stuff is more or less in the same place…I could pull it off.

Distractions. She needed them. As many as she could get her hands on. Having a high-maintenance haircut certainly would provide that.

"A bob!" She double-fisted her hair, moving them until they were just below her ears. "I could make it work." Green met with amber. "What say you?" She asked in her best impersonation of Hagrid.

Her door opened with a bang—hitting the wall hard enough to leave a hole. Cheddar shot straight up and came straight down, scampering away between a very irate Mebuki's legs. Screaming the whole way to let his state be known to the household.

"What the heck, Mom?" Sakura asked louder than she should have, with an arm held out to the side—hair still in one hand. "Are you sabotaging things for Cheddar and me on purpose?" Her tone was suspicious and her eyes narrowed. "Mom?" She asked with hesitation at Mebuki's lack of engagement beyond the glaring.

"I have been patient with you, Sakura," Mebuki's arms were crossed over her burgundy shawl. "I have been understanding. I have been supportive. I have been everything I can possibly be but enough is enough. I am putting my foot down," she declared with authority.

What does that even mean?

Sakura bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling or doing something equally stupid, like reminding her mother she was not a teenager. She stared up at her mother with her hands folded over her lap—the picture of demure. Completely disingenuous.

Mebuki did not believe her for one second. "If you don't tell me what is going on with you, I will call Minato."

You wouldn't.

The color drained from Sakura's face.

She would. She totally would.

"Well?" Mebuki asked impatiently with her phone in her hand in a very bonafide threat.

Sakura got up to her feet shakily. She walked towards Mebuki but did not stop. Her mother turned around with a frown.

"Sakura?" She asked loudly.

"I'm getting booze!" Sakura shouted back.

Mebuki did not know what to feel. So instead, she followed after her daughter but not before turning off the light in her room and closing the door softly.

xXx

She giggled, nibbling on a drumstick. Her fingers were damp with grease and her lips coated with salt. "This is fun. Why don't we drink together more often?" She asked a little breathlessly with shiny, glazed-over eyes and pink-pink cheeks.

"Put your feet on the floor. You were not raised in a barn," Mebuki scolded Sakura. "And fix your sweater. It's falling off your shoulders."

Sakura pouted as she pulled the white cable knit sweater to cover her shoulders. She had spilled vodka on her hoodie so she had to change—because Mebuki would not stop commenting how Sakura smelled like a distillery. "That's why," the pinkette murmured to herself. Drinking made Mebuki more Mebuki-like in every facet.

"So Minato is Akatsuki?" Mebuki gaped at her like a fish, eyes unfocused.

Sakura winced. She second and third-guessed her decision to be too open with her mother. "Yeah. I found out and I broke up with him and came here," she smiled tightly hoping her mother would remain too preoccupied with the shock to find the holes in her watered-down version. Sakura refilled her glass. Poor Catico was swimming in vodka.

"I'm not drunk enough for this," Mebuki held out her mug. Sakura refilled it carefully. "It's a shame," Mebuki clicked her tongue. "I liked him for you."

"Mom?" Sakura gaped, nearly coating her sleeve in alcohol—again. She pulled her legs back up on the couch and leaned toward her mother. "He's a literal criminal. Is the bar really that low?"

Do you really not think I can do better?

"He's flawed," Mebuki tutted, flicking Sakura's nose. "But who isn't? Not everyone has a fair chance, Sakura. He's a good man. You can't fake that kind of stuff. You know that." She glared at her daughter who snorted so loudly that Cheddar was awoken rudely from his nap. "You didn't give him an out, Sakura. You drove him out."

Sakura made a show of closing her jaw. "Wow." She chewed aggressively on the chicken she tore from the bone. "I don't even know what to say to that," she said with her mouth full. Her head moved back and forth the entirety of the time. She sniffled. "These are spicy."

"It's just black pepper, Sakura," Mebuki rolled her eyes at her daughter's poor excuse for a de-escalation or maybe it was more fair to call it a redirect.

Sakura set the bones down on the paper towel-lined plate along with the rest, adding to the pile. She dabbed her lips with a napkin before wiping her hands.

"I did the right thing," her words were colored with adamance for seeing things how they were. Her mother was clouded by her fondness for who she thought he was.

Good riddance.

"By throwing food at him?" Mebuki's flat brow was not impressed in the slightest. "I taught you better than that!"

"I was angry!" Sakura let out a groan, sensing a pending conversation on both wasting food and her inability to control her outbursts. "I just found out he had been lying! About everything!" Sakura felt two feet tall under the weight and scrutiny of her mother's less-than-empathetic gaze. "He was just standing there. What was I supposed to do?" She added meekly in full realization that it did not paint her in any better light.

He just stands there…even in the beginning.

"Sakura," Mebuki closed her eyes and pressed a sigh. "It's not about being right or wrong." There were hints of patience in her stance that was beginning to soften ever so slightly.

Then what is it about?

"Being happy," Mebuki read the question across Sakura's face. "Are you happy?" She asked.

"Yes," Sakura countered, blinking back stubbornly with next to zero shame about lying to her mother's face.

I'm ecstatic, can't you tell?

Mebuki rolled her eyes. "Well, clearly you're not ready to talk about this like an adult so maybe I should be treating you like a child then. Is that what you want, Sakura? Hm?"

"We've," Sakura itched the side of her neck. Her skin felt like it was crawling. It was so hot all of a sudden. "We've never talked like this before."

Mebuki clicked her tongue. "I suppose there is a bit of a learning curve isn't there?" She gazed over the edge of her mug at the spot over Sakura's shoulder. "It's not like I could talk to my mother about Kizashi." Mebuki's voice was as distant as the memories she was chasing.

Can we not go there, please? I'm extremely uncomfortable enough as is.

"Sakura," her mother called her attention with a tentative utterance of her name. Searching. "You can't look me in the eye and tell me you're not scared about going home."

I did not run away. I just needed to get away….

A distinction without a difference that she was clinging to so desperately. She was not a coward. Not in this. Sakura turned her head. Her jaw was set in defiance. Her silence and lack of engagement only egged her mother on more.

"You weren't fair to him. You didn't hear him out!" Mebuki rubbed her temples, sighing deeply. Sakura did not invest too much time trying to determine if it was the vodka's doing or hers.

I accused him of many things.

Things she did not even know if she believed or not because the longer she thought about it—ruminating—the more insane it became. Could they really have orchestrated a shootout so perfectly just for the off chance that she—the biggest wildcard out there—would go down the steps and not only find him but help him? Was she really that delusional? Or did she think herself that amazing that someone would go to such lengths for her? Was her ego really that massive? Was her sense of self-importance that inflated where she entertained this for anything more than it was: an intrusive thought?

I didn't treat him like a human being.

Either time of the last two that she saw him. And that was perhaps her biggest regret. Sakura's lips pulled into a pout and her shoulders slumped.

"Figures you would take his side."

"There are no sides, Sakura," her mother held onto her patience by a hair. Once Sakura mentally got past feeling sorry for herself, she would see. Mebuki believed that to be true.

"He lied to me," she grumbled half-heartedly. Her bruised ego spoke for her.

"So?" Mebuki asked, tone flippant and her green eyes without softness.

So? So? So?!

"So?" Sakura repeated, lost in complete dumbfoundedness.

"You lied to me, Sakura. And you'd probably do it again and again and again before I die. Does that mean I love you less?" Mebuki asked her pointedly in a no-nonsense tone that clipped.

Geez Mom, way to bring down the mood with the big 'd-word'...wait? What did she say?

"No," Sakura's ears burned. "Love? Who said anything," she shook her head, thoughts muddled and tongue thick with clumsiness. She grabbed the bottle. It was more than half-empty. "Damn, we really like peppermint." They drank like fish. She let the clear glass bottle with red accents go. The clock on the oven said it had been more than two hours since they started drinking and talking. Her green eyes narrowed on her mother's face. "Mom, you're drunk," she said with seriousness—tone stern with authority.

Time for you to go night-night.

"I am not," Mebuki batted away the hand that was reaching for her cup. Sakura cradled it to her chest with hurt feelings. "Sakura Haruno you may be thirty-one and a doctor but you are not too old for me to ground."

Are you out of your mind?

"Mom!"

"Hush," Mebuki held out her hand, stopping Sakura's uncoordinated attempts to snatch the mug. She knocked it back, baring her teeth. "He was good for you. He was good to you. And you pushed him away." The allegation hung heavily in the air, coating their lungs with each and every breath.

Why does any of this come as a surprise to you?

"You never even saw us together," Sakura countered with the stubbornness of a donkey—an ass because the longer this went on, the more she felt like one. Together, Minato and she were never even together, not in any sense that mattered.

"I didn't need to," Mebuki matched her tone and wore a scowl of her own. "Your influence was on the other! The glow, the color, the light, the love."

Oh my God, who even are you right now?

Mebuki extended out her arm as if straining for something just out of reach. She sighed. "He lit up when he talked about you or when I did. He soaked up every story, listened so intently, and asked questions."

He was pretending. He was a really good pretender. Or he was just gathering more information to use to manipulate the situation…what I felt for him. Me.

Weight of denial,

Lighter load than heavy truths—

Cling to dark, spurn light.

"I told him about Sakuto," she moved a dangling strand of hair from her face to behind her ear absentmindedly. She watched Catico swim. "I talked to him about Sakuto. Told him stories I haven't thought about in so long," she pulled her knees closer to her chest, making herself smaller still. It took her years to tell Ino anything—anything at all. It had been a gradual build with Ino. Slow and steady. Sustainable. "I don't know why I did that," Sakura cleared her throat to no avail. The scratchiness in the back of it was persistent.

It just felt like he understood.

Without her having to explain everything—or even anything. He knew the pain of a loss of that nature—of that relationship. He just understood.

He didn't even need to say anything.

"I threw food at him," she clamped down on her bottom lip just in time before her voice caught. Over and over. Every night in her nightmares. She threw food at him. Repeating it in an endless loop. Her personal hell of her own making. Every time, she had to take in his slack face while he just stood there in the wake of her blatant disrespect for him as a man, as a person.

So hurt. He looked so hurt. So…so vulnerable.

So human. If he was even half the things that she was trying to make him out to be…she would not have done that out of credible fear of retaliation. Actions had consequences. Steep ones.

"Sakura, you were hurt. You're still learning these things. This new side of yourself," the voice of her mother consoled.

Pink lashes squeezed closed. The drop escaped all the same. The curtain fell much too slowly. A rough but warm hand caught it, lifting it away from marring her cheek even further.

"Bug," Mebuki sighed, slow and deep, intentional. The breath fanning Sakura's face carried hints of burn. "I am your mother. I know these things," Mebuki eyed her daughter sadly. She traced the side of Sakura's face with a tender hand. The gesture would have meant so much more had Mebuki not been slightly slurring her words. "Just like I know you're lying to me even now."

Sakura tucked her bottom lip between her teeth, daring not to even contain a thought in her head because Mebuki would extract it. "It's complicated," she said in a broken voice. "It doesn't matter. It's over." It was over before it could begin. Before they ever stood a chance and she had nothing to show for it—nothing that persisted beyond this intangible loss. How could you show the lack of something? Nothing. She had nothing.

Hopes wilt in shadows,

Poisonous lies poured in roots—

Love's seed stays dormant.

"Just because it ended doesn't mean it didn't matter," Mebuki covered Sakura's hand on her knee with her own. She squeezed. "Just because it ended doesn't mean it failed. Just because it broke, it doesn't mean it can't be fixed. One day. Believe it, Bug. Hold onto it."

So I can be just like you? Always waiting?

Tears rained down Sakura's cheeks. A sudden and unexpected onslaught. "Dad left you, Mom. Dad left me." She breathed loud and wet. "He's not coming back." Shards of tragedy like glass in her throat made everything all the more difficult.

Gifts returned to void

ring and name cast aside—

Yet you kept my heart.

"You gave him everything," there was no other way to describe it. "You gave up everything for him." Her hopes and her dreams. Mebuki gave up herself for Kizashi; to support him.

He gave up on us.

"He's happy without us."

He can thrive without us.

"I know Sakura," her mother said with more composure than Sakura thought possible. She did not deny it. She did not wilt. She sat in the truth with poise.

"If…if you know, then why do you forgive him?" Sakura asked with a trembling lip that danced to her melancholy.

How can you forgive him? How?

"Because I am so grateful to him," Mebuki held her face even tighter; voice and eyes clear. "I never would have gotten to meet Sakuto if it was not for him." And before Sakura's face could drop and the light could leave her eyes like it always did, Mebuki kissed her wet cheeks; one after the other. Worn away hands held on tight. "And I wouldn't have you, Lovebug, the two true loves of my life."

"Mom?" Sakura unsuccessfully choked back a sob; eyes searching and searching and searching. The picture did not change. The conviction did not waver.

"Just because it ended the wait it did—we went through what we did—does not change how good he was. He was a good father to Sakuto and to you. He was my husband. He was your father." Mebuki blinked back tears of her own, the salt only adding more to combat in the form of irritation. "I don't regret that decision. Not one bit. Maybe one day, you won't either." How she hoped that for her daughter. Almost more than anything.

"I-I-I," she stumbled. She was unable to catch her fall. Sinking deeper and deeper into the depths. Mebuki held onto her in an undeniable reminder that she was there.

I'm not as strong as you, Mom. I don't think I can forgive him.

"Nothing is forever, Sakura." Her mother paused either to let the sentiment sink in or to compose herself. "And that's okay."

How? How can it be?

"Lean on me, Sakura," Mebuki breathed shakily, willing her voice to not catch—to not waver. "I know I leaned on you too hard, too much for much too long, and there's nothing I can do about it because it already happened. But Sakura, lean on me. I can handle it." She squeezed Sakura's face. "I promise you, I can handle it," she whispered clear as a bell; resonating with the vulnerability inside of her.

Sakura's face hardened right before the words came bursting out of her. She could not stop herself. The vodka that tasted like candy canes and the greasy chicken had softened her. She was weak to the comfort Mebuki offered. So small. So vulnerable. So tired.

"I made a mistake, Mom," she sobbed into Mebuki's shoulder. Her mother held her close, keeping her up. "I'm such an idiot."

"You're not, Sakura," Mebuki tutted, patting her on the back. "You're my daughter. You're strong. You're going to be fine."

Sakura shook her head. She opened her mouth to argue but the words that came tumbling out had a different agenda. One that was unbeknownst to even her. And thus she began to tell her mother everything. Everything. Everything was strung together with threads of different thicknesses and strength—made weak by the breaking of her voice and the shattered pants of her heavy breaths.

Everything.

Because no one protected her better than her mother did. Not then and not now. Mebuki listened without interruption, holding her daughter to her. Her eyes filled with fear that Sakura could not see from her vantage, held close to her heart. It was when she had tucked Sakura with two blankets on the couch that Mebuki walked into the kitchen. Not a single light was on in the home. She pulled her phone from her pocket and hit the second to last number she had called—more than several days ago. The line trilled and was picked up on the third ring. He never let it get past the second usually.

"Hello?" His voice was heavy with sleep which explained the delay. "Ms. Haruno?" He cleared his throat. She could hear rustling in the background. Soft. "Is everything okay?" He was more awake now. Alert.

Mebuki exhaled a long breath. "I need you to be honest with me. No formalities. No bullshit. No stories. No lies."

"Okay," he said after seconds of silence.

"Is my daughter safe?" Mebuki asked him with her heart in her throat and hand pressed to her navel. Her stomach was sinking still as she waited, suspended in the terror of ambiguity. "Is Sakura safe?"

"Yes," he answered without hesitation.

"I have to protect her. I need to protect her." What kind of mother was she that her daughter went through all of this alone—with a perfect stranger—than coming to her? Just how badly had she failed her only living, breathing child? "Can you help me protect her?" Mebuki begged, blinking back the tears cultivated from her own failures. "Can you help me keep my baby safe?"

"Yes."

"Can you guarantee to keep my Sakura safe, no matter what? No matter what." Mebuki pressed her hand to her shaking mouth just in time before a whimper could leave her. "Minato," she swallowed air loudly. "Can you promise me that?"

"On my life, Ms. Haruno, I promise you that Sakura will be safe," his voice was like steel. Strong and unyielding. It brought her comfort. His calm did.

She pressed her hand back to her stomach. She survived one child dying. She could not do it again. It would have been better to never have met them if she was fated to bury them.

"She's staying with me." Mebuki wiped her tears and cleared her throat. Her voice was a hoarse whisper.

There was a pregnant pause. "I know."

The blonde-haired woman closed her eyes. Everything—her instincts—were screaming at her. Betraying her. Just like betrayed her daughter who was struggling just to stay afloat. But what else could she do? It was her other instinct, the first thought that popped into her head when Sakura told her the truth. Minato. She needed to talk to Minato. And that was much before Sakura had said with grave seriousness that if Mebuki even thought about telling Kizashi, she would never forgive her.

"Mom," Sakura's face had come together in great pain from the burden of having to deliver heavy, dense words. "I love you," she had said, voice catching and lip trembling. "You're the only one who's been there for me since the beginning, through everything. But if you tell Kizashi, If you tell Dad anything, I will never get over it. I'll never trust you again."

It had taken everything out of Sakura to bring herself to say out loud to her. The tears that had sprung from both of their eyes were uncountable. She could not go to Kizashi. What good would that do? What good would his money do? What good would his distance do? What good would his weakness do? No, Kizashi—her ex-husband—was never an option. Not a viable one in crisis anyway. Sakura did not have to make it clear—explicit. Mebuki knew that deep in her bones. Sakura's and Kizashi's paths had deviated long ago and there was no prospect of them crossing again, much less converging. Mebuki realized that now. Sakura was a daughter without a father in this world. Mebuki had to learn to accept that; it was her burden to carry not Sakura's.

"She told me," Mebuki did not know if what she was doing was right or wrong but she did know this, their chances were better with Minato than they were without. "She doesn't know I'm calling you. She got a new phone. She's worked up. She's confused. She's," Mebuki bit her tongue much too late. "She's struggling Minato," Mebuki breathed the condemnation of herself. The damage was done.

"Ms. Haruno," she heard another pause. Maybe he muted himself to sigh because when he spoke again, there was defeat in his voice. Traces of it. "I think we should both go to bed."

"Okay," she leaned back against the wall. "Okay," she repeated with her head tilted up to the ceiling.

"It's going to be okay, Ms. Haruno."

"Okay." Oh, how she wanted to believe him. She clung to the conviction she held in her. Just like the conviction that had once said she wanted Kizashi Haruno to be the father of her children. She was right to pick him. Her children were great. They were strong. She would not want them any other way other than maybe a little less broken.

"I'll reach out with any updates. Good night."

She nodded her head. She lowered the phone from her ear. Her heart was still shaking from what she had learned about her own daughter going through. She sank to the floor slowly. Her forehead pressed against her knees. She cried silently. Cheddar kept her feet warm.

---

He pulled the lever at the side of the seat. It lurched forward first but his persistent pressure had it falling backward. At once. He closed his eyes behind his dark glasses and lay completely still. Like a corpse. His chest barely rose or fell.

"I can see you."

He could hear the eye roll in her voice. Sasori peeled open one lid. He had yet to turn his head. He only saw the wheel in front of him.

"I'm not leaving."

With a long-suffering sigh, Sasori pulled the lever in the other way causing both the seat and him to come to an upright position. He turned his head in slow motion. His eyes did not quite come up to meet hers.

"Doc," he gave her a two-finger salute. His nails were a dark purple.

"Open the window," Sakura's muffled voice called out from the otherside of the glass divider. She tapped it to further expedite the request.

"How do I know you won't go psycho on me?" Sasori asked her dryly, shamelessly peering over his glasses at the foil-covered plate in her hands. He smelled it before he saw it. "You have a history."

"I'm not here to throw it at you," Sakura simply stated without shame or embarrassment at the what-should-have-been-ridiculous-sounding assurance. "It's not poisoned," she said with a deadpan expression at his raised red brow. "You have two seconds before I leave." She sniffled her red nose. It was cold. "And take the dessert with me." She sweetened the offer via a threat.

Sasori lifted his eyes from the plate to her face. He unrolled the window slowly with the turns of the crank. The plate transferred into his hands. It was warm.

"Uh, thanks," Sasori blinked down at it. It felt heavy, not unlike the weight of owing someone.

"Don't mention it," Sakura said dismissively. "If you get cold, I can bring blankets. And if you're bored, my mom has some magazines," Sakura stared at him expectantly.

"I don't even know what that is," Sasori peeled the foil from the plate. The aroma hit his nose. His mouth nearly watered on the spot. "Did your mom make this?" He asked in disbelief. It looked nearly good enough to be on the cover of a magazine he claimed not to know the existence of.

"She did," Sakura's lips pulled into the smallest of smiles for a second. "Don't forget to stretch. Leave the covered plate on the porch swing. The neighborhood had a lot of stray cats and my mom's cat is perfectly content without any siblings. And here," she held out a metal canister. "It's hot apple cider. Non-alcoholic."

"So pointless then," he took it all the same and let it settle on the passenger seat.

"Well," Sakura wrapped her arms around her. "Stay warm." She took a step back.

"You're not going to ask me?" Sasori asked with a furrowed brow.

Sakura shook her head. "No more." She left it at that because she really had nothing more to say. Not to Minato. Not to Sasori on the matter.

"Then why do this?" Sasori gestured to the plate he still held between his hands. "Why go through all this trouble for someone who said things you shouldn't have heard?" His eyes remained on the food.

It's not your fault that you're out here any more than it's mine.

"You're human," Sakura said with a shrug. Dismissive. She sighed. It was a trek back to her house. "Goodnight."

"Doc?" He called out before she had fully turned around, Sakura looked over her shoulder. "I need to pee."

She rolled her eyes. "You're on your own. And stop using Mr. Yoshida's azaleas. They're award-winning and they're also how he copes with his wife talking to everyone but him."

"This place is the pits. Everyone is so damn noisy," he complained to unsympathetic ears.

Sakura smiled. "Welcome to the suburbs." She did not look back once as she rounded the hood of the car to cross the street.

Sasori sighed, he unrolled the small package she had handed him along with the plate—the utensils. He stabbed the fluffy potatoes. There was steam coming off of them. "Shit," he breathed deeply. "That's good." He stuffed his fork quickly and shoved it in his mouth even faster. He watched her make her way back home. She had stopped to talk to some man who was putting out his garbage bins. Sasori narrowed his eyes at her clearly artificial laugh. The middle-aged man looked beside himself. A woman with her brown hair swinging back and forth like a pendulum out of her black hat waved at them as she ran by, all smiles. He nearly shivered.

How anyone could leave the life, the excitement for this place was beyond him. "The Lieutenant is short a few marbles," he sucked the marrow from the slow-cooked ribs. "God damn," he licked the sauce from his fingers—unaffected by the smatterings of those that already embedded themselves into the fibers of the floor. The black security door closed. He turned his full attention to the feast that he had yet to devour. The slice of chocolate cake was urging him to hurry the hell up.

---

Sakura inhaled deeply and clapped her hands together. "It smells so good," she gushed. "It's been ages since I had your homemade udon." Sakura held out her arms to help her mother move the first of the bowls to the table. "An udon facial," Sakura squealed in delight at the steam coating her face. She set the tray on the coffee table. She moved a green cushion so it was ready for Mebuki who was carefully lowering her tray just as Sakura had. "Your knees will be okay?" Sakura asked, concerned at the hiss of breath that left her mother. "We can eat at the table."

"It's fine, Bug," Mebuki waved her hand dismissively; settling into the cross-legged position with some adjustment. "It's been so long since we've eaten like this." The TV murmured in the background.

"Hm," Sakura held Cheddar back from climbing up on the table. The smell of beef had the cat wake from his nap and he was motivated to wreak havoc. "You have no idea, Mom. Your udon has ruined all others for me. Yuma is scamming people blind." She poked the soft-boiled egg and watched it mix in with the miso broth. Her mouth was watering as she eyed the steam trying to work out if the first bite was worth burning her tongue for and subsequently not being able to taste all subsequent bites or if she should do the responsible and sane thing of waiting a couple more tens of seconds.

"What about the ramen stand you're always going on about? The one your landlord owns," Mebuki pointed out with pressed-together lips. Even in all her sternness, her eyes betrayed her. They were filled with pride.

"Mr. Teuchi!" Sakura's eyes lit up for a combination of reasons. The broth filled her spoon. "We have to go the next time you're in Tani. He's booked months out but he always has room for his tenants," she smiled fondly before blowing the steam. "And as good as his ramen is, it's not the same. Sometimes a girl just wants a thick noodle, you know?" Sakura laughed at her own comment, not phased in the slightest that her mother did not share her humor. She slurped. "So good, Mom!" She gushed. "Better than I remember, even. I might just have to go on a short run to make room for seconds and thirds!" She joked, holding her hair back from her lips as she drank another spoonful.

"Right, his restaurant is in Tani," Mebuki shook her head. "I don't know Sakura. The city is…," her green eyes lowered out of disappointment she felt in herself.

"It's okay, Mom." Sakura reached over to squeeze her hand with a kind smile. "No rush. Ichiraku's isn't going anywhere. His daughter Ayame is going to take up the mantle. She's learning all the tricks and family secrets." Sakura sighed, the air seeming to be sucked right out of her when her own voice filled her ears. The pinkette took her lip between her teeth just short of gnawing on it. "Maybe…we can talk about him again?" Jade-colored eyes rose with hesitation, unsure what awaited her. "Maybe I can talk about him with you?"

Without it tearing either of us apart. Maybe?

So that maybe one day the pain would not split them in half just like the loss of him had done the same to their lives. Before Sakuto and after Sakuto.

"Sakura," Mebuki felt her eyes fill with tears, involuntarily. She did not need any additional context as to who Sakura was talking about. She just knew in her heart. "Bug, we—," Mebuki's brow furrowed. "Sakura?"

Sakura, the woman in question, was staring at the TV as if she had seen a ghost. Mebuki was quick to follow her gaze. The lines around her mouth loosened and all but disappeared as her jaw lowered.

"C-charges dropped?" Mebuki found her voice. She shook Sakura by the arm. "What do they mean charges dropped?" Her voice was panicked. "Sakura!"

The pinkette blinked while her mother shook her almost violently. She put her hand over Mebuki's, the effect was immediate. Mebuki stared at her, scared. Sakura cleared her throat.

"It's okay, Mom," Sakura spoke with conviction that she faked. "It's okay. It just means it's over."

"How?" Mebuki asked, unconceived that it was that easy.

Sakura watched as an earlier recording of a swarm of reporters clamored and shoved their mics under the dark umbrella held over D.A. Sugawara's white head. Not a hair was out of place as his bodyguards pushed a way through the barricade of bodies to the car that waited at the end of the stairs. Her eyes landed on the bold headline.

All Charges Dropped With Prejudice.

"It means that the case against Haruto Nara can't be charged again." It meant an innocent man would not lose years of his life away from his wife and son. It meant that Minato kept his word. For what it was worth.

She's not worth half a mil.

Sasori's flippant and careless statement rang in her ears. Was that the cost of this? To release him. Her stomach twisted into a knot. Painful.

"Sakura?" Mebuki's voice was small and meek. "Bug?"

Sakura plastered a smile on her face. "This is a good thing, Mom," she smiled brightly. She brought her spoon to her bowl and drank. It barely made its way down her throat before it demanded to come back up.

Tasteless.

xXx

"When did you turn into such a pyromaniac?" Jiraiya asked his stroll companion, with his hands folded behind his back. He walked with a slight hunch.

"It's Tani," Minato said with an air of neutrality—of truth. "Those who are outraged right now will forget what they were so worked up about in less than a week. The politicians and police even sooner."

"Speaking of the police," Jiraiya did not let Minato's pointed words settle until they became pressure against his chest. "You're not worried that she will reach out to Uchiha."

It was not a question but Minato nodded his head regardless. "She won't." He believed that. Her threat had been empty, hot air. She was angry. She needed to feel in control of the situation so she said what she did that gave her that. Even if it was a lie. And he maintained the illusion.

Jiraiya shook his head. It seemed that Minato was perfectly content to ruminate on his thoughts. "How much longer are you staying? Should I put you to work? You have some marketable skills don't you?"

Minato let out a chuckle. "Am I starting to stink?" He asked with a playful raised brow.

"It has been more than three days," Jiraiya clapped him on the back.

Soon. Hopefully soon.

He did not voice the words lest he jinx himself. There was too much at stake.

---

She waved at the two women who were walking up the street, bundled up in layers with only their wind-bitten faces showing. The swing moved backward slightly, creaking and groaning as she rocked. The sounds of a small motorboat churning in her lap.

"Sakura?" Emi Ito, a woman with salt and pepper hair and gorgeous blue-gray eyes, was the first of the pair to recover. She pushed up her lime-green knit hat with her matching mittens. "Sakura!" She smiled brightly. She began to move faster toward the wrap-around porch. Aya Suzuki was right behind her with slightly more measured steps. Her mustard-colored puffy jacket sounded with each movement. "It is you!" Emi said, pushing the hair from around her mouth. "When did you get here?"

"Not too long ago." Sakura smiled at the two older women. She continued to move slowly in the porch swing. Her ankles were crossed together. The point of her brown boots balanced on the wooden panels of the ground. Her fingers continued to tend to the drowsy tabby in her lap.

"How is your mother doing?" Aya adjusted her fogged-up glasses. "We haven't been able to crack that nut. She's got a tough shell, that one," the woman said with a shake of her head. "But don't worry we're not giving up."

"Not in our vocabulary," Emi rested an arm over the white banister. "You look good, Sakura. The city center is treating you well."

"It is," she nodded her head in polite agreement. "It's nice to see things haven't changed much around here."

"Oh, that's where you could not be more wrong, honey." Aya and Emi shared a knowing look before they laughed. "We have to invite you over for lunch and catch up. We're just dying to know what you've been up to. I'll make mimosas with the good champagne!"

"Yes," Emi gushed, eagerly jumping in. "Any new friends we should be knowing about?"

Sakura laughed. "I'm really not all that social," she tried to keep the awkwardness from her voice. Cheddar tucked his legs under him. He yawned. He was a disgruntled loaf. All the yapping was not pleasurable to his sensitive ears.

"You're going to make us work for it, aren't you?" Aya asked with a grin, her eyes sparkled with excitement.

I'm beginning to see why Mom wasn't so enthusiastic about these walks.

As if the Universe took pity on her at that moment because she was so clearly outclassed and outmatched, the metal door swung open and revealed the nonplussed face of one Mebuki Haruno covered in a tweed jacket that grazed her calves and a red scarf wrapped around her neck exactly three times.

"Mebuki!" Emi grinned from ear to ear. "Hi, how are you?" She asked in a high-pitched voice.

Why is she talking like that…all of a sudden?

"Fine," the woman said, barely sparing them a second glance. She frowned at the pinkette sitting on the porch swing. "Sakura, come inside before you catch a cold. Your hair isn't completely dry and you're not bundled up," Mebuki scolded her as if there was not a gawking audience watching with keen interest.

"Right," Sakura gathered Cheddar into her arms, cradling him to her chest. His tail flicked. He stared down the two strange women with yellow eyes. His hair was standing on end. "Sorry, Ms. Ito, Ms. Suzuki," she dipped her head, smiling sheepishly. "It was nice to see you."

The real you.

"Oh, Sakura," Emi held out her arms as if she was trying to snatch Sakura right out of the air. "When are you free sweetie? I'll make a whole spread."

Just coincidentally before my whole business is spread out in the open to the neighborhood, right?

Sakura could feel her mother's heated gaze that was not-so-subtly holding her disapproval. "I wish I could, Ms. Ito," she said with remorse as she patted Cheddar's backside, trying to get the cat to chill out before he started hissing spit and she caught an errant claw in trying to preserve the peace. "I'm going back to Tani tomorrow. I have work."

"Oh," Aya and Emi exclaimed in disappointment at once. Their breaths collided into a slightly bigger cloud.

"Maybe next time," Sakura softened the sting of rejection with a small smile. "Goodbye." She walked around her mother to the door, holding it open. "Mom?" She called over her shoulder to the rooted woman. Mebuki walked behind her. The doors closed. The locks clicked.

"Sakura?"

"Hm?"

"You're going back to work?" Mebuki asked with dread bleeding into her voice. It held but she could feel her legs begin to shake.

"I am. I called Shizune a couple of days ago. She got me back on the schedule. I was planning on telling you over dinner tonight," Sakura reached out to smooth away the lines on her mother's forehead. She kissed Mebuki's cheek. "Take Cheddar. I'm making us dinner as a thank you for putting up with me."

I know that I haven't been easy.

Before Mebuki could get a word in edgewise, the fat cat was being handed to her. She watched the retreating back of her daughter. Her throat nearly closed in on itself.

xXx

Jiraiya stopped mid-word—mid-tirade where he was berating Nawaki for leaving his empty plate at the table—at Minato standing up abruptly with his phone in his hand, to utter one name in question: Shikaku?

Minato shook his head once. His back was in a rigid line of tension. He was walking with purposeful strides to put as much distance between himself and the remaining three occupants in the dining room. Jiraiya and Tsuande exchanged a long glance. Heavy.

Minato pulled open the shoji door, closing it behind him. He breathed in a cold breath as his bare feet stepped onto the cold engawa. "Ms. Haruno, is everything okay?" He waited with bated breath.

"Minato." Mebuki's voice was shaky, pants really. He reached out for the treated wooden beam for support without any regard for potential splinters. He waited. Mebuki sounded so scared.

"Minato, Sakura's going back to work, to Tani."

He closed his eyes. The sounds of the pound—the koi slept at the bottom of the heated waters—had him feeling like he was drowning.

"I couldn't talk her out of it," Mebuki let out a sob. "I pushed her so hard to go back."

"You didn't know," he reminded her gently. "It's not your fault."

"She's already packed," Mebuki exhaled shakily. "Yuma is where they are right?"

"Yes," he did not have it in him to lie to her. He did not have it in him to think of elaborate lies that she could cling to as the truth to appease her restlessness so that she could sleep. A lie that they both told themselves. Neither one of them would sleep tonight. Just the first of many.

"What are we going to do?" Mebuki whispered.

"She'll be safe," he said with all the calm he could pull from his bones. It had been stored there for decades. "Nothing will happen. She'll be around people. It will keep her safe."

There was a pause. It was so quiet and prolonged that he actually pulled his phone from his ear to see if the call had been silently dropped or if Mebuki hung up—fed up with his empty words.

"She was around people then too at the subway," she pointed out hollowly.

"Ms. Haruno," he pressed his forehead against his curled fist. He breathed slowly. "I promise you, she will be safe."

You have to trust me.

"I can't go to Tani. I can't go to Yuma," Mebuki was crying now, in earnest. He could hear it. "I can't…."

The billboards. The faces. The eyes. The reporters. The attention. The crowds. The traffic. The pollution. The car alarms. The break-ins. The news. The crime. It was all too much for her. She could not deal with it. She could not handle it.

The shame in her voice formed a lump in his throat. "It will be okay."

Mebuki sniffled. He heard water. And Mebuki gulping. "Okay." She sounded better even if it was marginally, he focused on the positive.

"Ms. Haruno try to—"

"Mom?"

Minato's teeth pressed together at the faint voice that pricked his strained ears.

"Who are you talking to?" Sakura asked Mebuki on the other end of the line.

"No one, Sakura," Mebuki lied, quickly and unconvincingly. "No, I'm not interested in lowering my electric bill with solar," she said breathlessly into the phone. "Please don't call again. Thank you," she whispered quickly.

The call ended before he could tell her futilely to not worry. He sighed. His hand curled around his phone. He would not be taking his own advice. He did not give himself a second to decompress. He scrolled through his contacts. He tapped the number he was searching for. He put the phone to his ear.

"It's Nara's Namikaze," he waited for recognition to fill the ancient voice on the other end of the line. "I need that owed favor expedited," he said tightly. His hand shoved into his pocket. He regarded the new moon. Big and bright.

New moon in the sky,

Whispers of dreams yet to bloom—

Hope dances below.

---

Please review. Thank you!