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Chapter Text

Synergy

Act I:  Petals Adrift

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“How old are you?”

”Eighteen.”

A lone dark eye stares at her in disinterest but Sakura gets the sense that the Copy-Nin is the farthest thing from disinterested. “What’s your name?” muffles past the mask that covers his face. She barely registers the words.

“Haruno Sak—” crap, no. No, idiot! “—o.”

“Haruno Sako,” the silver-haired man repeats, voice hollow and disbelieving.

“Seiko,” Sakura amends, offering a nervous smile. “Sorry, you’re pretty intimidating, Captain Hatake.”

In the half-second that follows Sakura holds her breath, alarmed at how the Copy-Nin manages to exude both crippling judgement and aloof nonchalance. Then his single visible eye closes in what she can only presume is a smile as he answers with a cheerful “Good!” before moving on down the line to the next hopeful recruit.

Sakura does not exhale in relief until he is many heads down.

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( I.1 — A study in firsts )

The Land of Fire is an expanse of dense forests and sprawling valleys. It is said that within each citizen an internal fire roars through their veins. People from Fire Country are passionate and temperamental and strong.

Heat simmers along her shoulder as a blade breaks skin. She grits her teeth, dismissing the pain.

Haruno Sakura is from the Land of Fire; her blood burns and roils with determination. She is from the Land of Fire and she is aflame.

“Quicker, Seiko!” her captain barks from the side-lines, earning a scowl from the young woman engaged in a spar. Even through the mask covering half his face, the order is sharp and unrelenting. There are rumors about why he wears a mask, ranging from a birth deformity to buck teeth. Sakura thinks he does it partly to psyche out his enemies and mostly for the allure. 

Green eyes narrow as she watches her opponent step forward. His sandaled foot slides in an arc and she knows his attack before he even executes it. She ducks his predictable swing and, in the split second of his vulnerability, jabs her fist into his gut, sending him skidding a few meters away. A trail of dust rises in his wake and she grins, straightening her stance. 

When she is certain her comrade will not challenge her again, she arches a brow at their silver-haired mentor. “Quick enough, Captain Hatake?” 

The man chuckles, the sound muffled by his mask. “Aa, good work.”

She beams at his praise before walking to her subdued friend and offering a hand. He glares at it as if it will bite and Sakura scoffs. “Spar’s over, Kiba. You can relax.”

Kiba’s glare remains even after he takes her hand and allows her to pull him up. “It was a lucky shot,” he grumbles.

Around them, other spars are in session. The clang of metal on metal fills the valley.

Their camp—composed of a series of single tents and a large fire pit—is flanked with sloping hills. A larger hut for council meetings is set up near the center of the operations, the Uchiha fan on the entrance. 

They are the 47th Division of genin—shinobi-in-training—and the legendary Hatake Kakashi is their jounin commander. She has heard stories, they all have, of the great Copy-Nin’s unmatched record of kills and victories. He is the only non-Uchiha to ever climb the ranks in the regime and secure the title of Captain. She has also heard stories of his rampant laziness. It is difficult to think of the silver-haired man as both, but after nearly two months under his supervision, Sakura has come to see the marriage between his lores.

Despite his reputation (or perhaps because of it) Hatake Kakashi has proven to be a merciless teacher, his drills and tests so baffling and inhumane, Sakura has wondered if all the blood-shedding hasn’t altered his mind to some degree. The past 7 weeks under his tutelage have been fierce and unrelenting—specifically designed to weed out the weak.

There were many times that Sakura had to struggle to keep her place; but every challenge she faced was overcome and she has managed to survive despite everyone’s assumptions. A large part of her dedication lies in her cause, but she would be doing a disservice to the young man who has helped keep her going—

“Eat dirt, jackass!”

—the blond and charismatic loudmouth: Uzumaki Naruto.

Sakura smiles seeing his victory, unable to help herself. The boy’s joy is contagious, and his spirit unbreakable. “Good job, Naruto!” she yells over the din, and he blinks, swivels, and waves with too much enthusiasm.

“Thanks, Seiko! So you made Kiba eat his words, huh?”

At her side, the brunet frowns. “It was a lucky shot!” he says at the same time she answers, “You know it!”

Kiba looks at her then, cracking his knuckles. “You wanna go again, pretty boy?”

Pretty boy. It is not the first time she is called as such and Sakura’s brow furrows at the taunt. She is shorter than most, with a slender, lithe frame that is deceivingly strong. As a young woman she wears muscle differently and opts for looser clothing to compensate. Her chest is bound, but she can do nothing about her slim waist and wide hips. She is aware that her face is cherubic in nature, and of course her choppy pastel pink hair does nothing for her ruggedness. All she can do is maintain she is a boy and hope no one ever finds out, for Tsunade’s sake. 

She lets the jeer slide, instead wiping some dirt from the bridge of her nose. “Tch, I think I’ve got time for another ass-whooping.”

Before they can begin a bell rings and all fighting ceases. Eyes jump to the captain and he sighs, peeling himself from the wooden pole he spent the day leaning against and stuffs the little orange book he often reads into his front pocket.

“Everyone, line up!” he orders in a tone that suggests he’d rather be doing absolutely anything else. “General’s coming.”

A murmur of awe spreads among the recruits. The general isn’t expected for another week—why is he arriving early? Sakura finds her spot between Naruto and a brunet who seems to challenge their captain in terms of laziness (Shikamaru, she recalls.) and can’t contain her curiosity. 

The Uchihas are renowned for their intellect and skill in battle, there is no amount of preamble that could deter the simmering excitement amidst the new warriors. Sakura fidgets, eyes darting to the hills for any sign of an approaching envoy.

What she sees is only one young man—no older than her, it seems—and a small accompaniment of two.

He rides in on a dark horse, so inconspicuous that she wonders if he is even who they are waiting for. He calls his horse to pause before the silver-haired commander and dismounts. The Uchiha fan emblazoned on his back is the only evidence of his identity.

When he speaks, his voice echoes down the line despite the low timber. “Captain Hatake,” he greets, eyeing the jounin with an imperious glance.

Kakashi nods, informal and even a bit bored. “General Uchiha. You’re early.”

The young man looks away, dark eyes scanning the row of faces he must not recognize. “So, you’ve prepared these men,” the general continues, ignoring his subordinate’s welcome. “I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it.”

A chuckle draws Sakura’s attention to a sleet-haired man who rode in with the general. Everything about him is pale: his hair, his skin, his eyes, and even his horse. He dismounts with ease, the motion as fluid as water running over smooth stone. “This bunch of girls is our platoon?” he scoffs, flashing rows of fanged teeth. “They look like shark food to me.”

The general doesn’t seem to hear him, or if he does, he doesn’t care. He marches down the line, and though he is not nearly as tall as the silver-haired captain, he wears his name and status as if he is ten feet tall: shoulders back, chin held high, with an expression that belies years of aristocracy. “I am Uchiha Sasuke. Son of Uchiha Fugaku—”

Whispers come to life among the men, like reeds rustling in a sudden breeze. Son of the infamous General Uchiha Fugaku! If they are accepted into his platoon, they could eventually become the head squadron of Konoha.

“—and I will be the leader of this platoon. My father expects the best. I expect the best, and I will not tolerate anything less.”

As he walks, Sakura allows her gaze to trace him from his sandals to his forehead protector; she notes loose trousers, an obi about his middle, and a loosely tucked shirt that resembles a kimono. Everything save the Uchiha crest is black. His chest is bare, and she wonders if it is from the heat or simply his own ego. What shinobi doesn’t wear mesh armor? The kind who boasts the Sharingan. With the doujutsu not many opponents are able to even get near enough to touch an Uchiha, their speed is nearly incomparable. Strapped to his back is an elegant katana and on his forehead, a hitai-ate with the Konoha insignia.

She has just enough time to think that he is beautiful—intricately carved marble—before he passes her.

“Which is why we will hold a tournament,” General Uchiha goes on. “At the end of three days you will battle, and those I deem worthy will join my platoon.”

Sakura tenses. 

“Oi, I thought as long as we did the old man’s training we’d just be in it!” Naruto yells at her side. She turns to him, eyes wide and demanding his silence, but he doesn’t seem to understand. In fact, he doesn’t even seem to realize she’s glaring at him. “What the hell is this tournament stuff for? Kakashi-taichou has already weeded us out!”

Sasuke is at the very end of the line of men and even from there Sakura can feel the intensity of his eyes as they zero in on the blond beside her. With measured steps, he approaches them. He is a few inches taller than Naruto, but his presence is commanding in a way that makes those before him feel very low. “State your name,” he demands, looking down along his nose at the blond.

Naruto chuckles. “Uzumaki Naruto!” he says with a salute that is evidently mocking.

“Uzumaki Naruto,” the general repeats, testing the name on his tongue. Sakura watches his lips form the syllables, as if he is chewing taffy. “Kakashi chose the best of the group,” Sasuke explains. “I choose the best of the best.”

“What, you don’t trust the old man’s word?” Then he looks over at the suddenly contrite Copy-Nin, waving. “Hey! Kaka-taichou! Did you hear this guy? He’s saying you’re shit at—”

Sasuke steps so near that their noses almost touch. When he speaks, his voice is a dangerous growl in his throat. “You will hold your tongue or I will cut it out and put it in your hands myself.”

Sakura watches the exchange, already half certain they will be saying goodbye to the boisterous blond.

And then Naruto glowers—glowers—at their general.

The following events are so ridiculous that Sakura is still unsure exactly what happened. One moment the pair are staring daggers at each other, and the next their mouths are touching. Almost as if one or the other stumbled forward. As quickly as it happens, they spring apart, all gesticulating fists and exaggerated fury. She steps away from the raucous, bumping Shikamaru at her other side (“Hey, Seiko, watch it.”) and silence falls over the camp.

Naruto is gagging.

Sasuke promptly spits and demands a water bottle from the nearest shinobi and washes off his lips.

Silence.

“The hell did you kiss me for, bastard? Is that part of your training?!” Naruto roars, shaking a fist at their general.

And the great and composed Uchiha Sasuke, newly appointed general, shakes a fist right back. “Are you insane? I didn’t kiss you!”

At Naruto’s other side, Sakura can see Kiba trembling as he holds back his laughter. He meets her eyes and smirks, miming a shove with his hand. She can’t help the grin herself and bites her fist, turning away from the mess. 

Shikamaru blinks at the display. “This is our leader? Mendokusei.” After a moment, he raises his hand. “Excuse me, Uchiha-sama.” The title catches Sasuke’s attention and he scowls at the blond once more before turning his attention to the brunet with a top knot. Shikamaru sighs. “After this tournament, are we going to the front lines?”

“No. After I deem you worthy of my time I will train you myself.”

More training?

“For now, continue your sparring sessions. I will speak with the captain regarding your…” he glances at the blond with disgust, “...suitability.” He turns and stalks away as if he has a cloak trailing behind him. Sakura can’t help but think it is a cloak of dust. “Dismissed.”

She relaxes after he and the silver-haired jounin disappear into the main tent for debriefing, and then promptly shoves her blond comrade. “Are you an idiot, you don’t talk like that to our general! He’ll kick you off, then what’ll I do?”

Naruto just rolls his eyes, catching his hands behind his head. “Tch, I could take that guy. He thinks he’s so great.”

Sakura shakes her head, pinching the bridge of her nose. Idiot.

“You have your list?” 

Kakashi procures a scroll from his flak jacket and slides it across the table. 

Sasuke takes it, scanning the contents. A beat. Two. Then, “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he grits out, glaring at the names. “Uzumaki Naruto? Is this a joke?”

To his credit, the silver-haired captain doesn’t so much as flinch. He sits in his chair, nonchalant as ever, his visible eye crinkling in amusement. “I understand he can be a handful—”

“A handful? ”

“—but he’s got unbeatable...what’s the word...spirit.”

“I don’t give a shit about his spirit,” Sasuke snaps, setting the scroll down with more force than necessary. “I care about his ability to follow and execute orders.”

“Maybe ‘spirit’ isn’t the right word,” Hatake muses, tapping his chin.

“He’s off the list,” the general says with no room for argument.

Kakashi quirks a brow. “You haven’t even seen him spar.”

“He’s. Off. The. List.”

Suigetsu wheezes in his chair. “That kid. That kid is hilarious. I’d pay to have him in your platoon.”

Sasuke fixes him with a threatening glare. 

“Aw, lighten up would ya? Even if he’s oozing with spirit—” lavender eyes slide to the Copy-Nin before settling back onto the Uchiha “—you could challenge them all yourself and then make your decisions like that. Gives you an excuse to kick his ass, while you’re at it.”

“Would make them respect you,” the Uchiha’s jounin escort adds. He is sitting in a chair beside Kakashi, knees braced on the edge of the table so his seat is balanced on its two back legs. A senbon is perched leisurely between his lips, bouncing as he talks. “Couldn’t hurt.”

Sasuke doesn’t respond, letting the matter rest for the time being as he continues down the list. “There’s not many people on here,” he says at last.

Kakashi shrugs. “And yet you want to take one off.”

The Uchiha scoffs. “We’ll see how they do.”

Moments later find Sasuke wandering the training grounds studying the recruits. None are particularly impressive and he sweeps by countless spars, pausing briefly to commit to memory every issue he has with their skill sets. A part of him is frustrated with Kakashi for allowing so many unimpressive genin to remain in the training thus far, but he supposes it was the best Konoha could produce. With an impending war against Sound, they really can’t be as discerning as he wants.

A particular battle catches his attention and he watches a smaller shinobi with pink hair (Absurd, he thinks.) facing off against someone twice his size and manages to hold his own. His opponent is strong but the shorter boy is calculating in his counters.

“What’s his name?” Sasuke asks, eyes trained on the pastel-haired genin.

“Haruno Seiko,” Kakashi answers.

Sasuke isn’t sure what it is about that one. Haruno isn’t a surname he recognizes, and it isn’t as though the boy displays any particular talents, but Uchiha Sasuke finds it difficult to tear his eyes from him. 

As he watches from a distance, he realizes what it is:

It’s the way Haruno moves.

His steps are sure, practiced, and graceful. Certainly not something gleaned from the Copy-Nin who is efficient and perfunctory in his movement. The pink-haired recruit exhibits a litheness that speaks volumes of a different kind of training...but what?

“What do you know about him?”

“His village was destroyed by Sound. Orphaned in the attack, he’s been wandering Fire Country ever since. Wanted a chance to exact revenge,” Kakashi recites. “But you see it, too, don’t you?” he adds, lone eye fixed on the pastel genin. “His technique.”

“Technique?” Sasuke repeats, glancing at his second-in-command.

Kakashi nods, tilting his head as if in wonder. “Mm. There’s no way he picked up those kinds of moves on his own.”

“Hn.” Sasuke decides to keep a special eye on Haruno Seiko.

If he is impressed by her spar, she can’t say. Sakura wipes the blood from her lip on the back of her hand and flashes the general a slanted smile. His expression remains stoic before he moves to the next battle. Her grin falters, settling into a frown. She catches Kakashi’s eye and his closes in silent approbation. Distantly, she is aware of her opponent calling for her help to get up, but she is much too tired to properly hear it.

The bell rings, signaling a shift in partners, and Sakura shakes off her limbs, bouncing on her toes to prepare for the next fight. 

When she finally turns in for the night, her muscles are crying for rest. Her body screams in protest with every bone weary step she takes and when she finally reaches her bed roll she all but collapses.

Sakura sports a series of cuts and bruises on her skin and she hisses as she turns her body to lie on her uninjured side. She fought a total of six spars that day for the illustrious general to not even pay attention to her. The thought makes her scoff and she scowls into her pillow. Why did she even exert so much effort, expend nearly every ounce of her chakra, that day? To impress Uchiha Sasuke, with his pretentious walk and his autocratic stare?

It’s for Tsunade-sama, she reminds herself, curled fingers relaxing at the thought of her blonde mentor. Everything I’m doing—it’s for her. And if Sakura doesn’t get into the regime, they will be that much more behind helping the woman who took her under her wing all those years ago.

Sakura allows her eyes to close.

Just hold on a little longer, Shishou.

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Chapter Text

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( I.2 — Grace of mind and body )

“Again!” 

The sun beats down, but Uchiha Sasuke’s commands beat down harder.

Sakura can feel both the heat from the summer and his disapproval blaze across her skin, etching into the muscle and sinking into her bones. As a unit, everyone goes through the same drills of an unfamiliar kata—it is nothing like Captain Hatake has taught them, it is harder. Each movement requires an amount of precision, discipline, and speed that is far beyond what a mere genin should be capable of. 

Sweat drips off the tip of her nose and as green eyes track it’s descent, everything clicks. “He’s setting us up for failure,” she grunts as the Uchiha calls out the next form. Sakura takes care to make sure the arc she swings her arm in is wide enough, and the crouch is deep enough, balanced perfectly on the ball of her back foot, front leg ram-rod straight. “He doesn’t expect any of us to make it through this.”

To her right, Naruto chuckles, blue eyes flashing. “We’ll show him, eh Seiko? It’ll take more than a couple of poses to do us in.”

Sakura grins. Damn right.

“Seven!”

She pushes onto her back leg, sweeping the front foot up to her knee so that she is standing stock-still on one foot. She hates that she wobbles.

“Eight!”

Mercifully, her lifted leg stretches behind her finding the ground, front foot finally coming down from its tip-toe position.

“Nine!”

She takes a step back, arms sweeping in a hard box motion to protect her center.

“Ten!”

Sakura pivots to her left, her whole body turning to the side.

“Eleven!”

Another left pivot, completing a half turn, front foot planted in the ground.

“Again!”

Green eyes close as Sakura shakes off her weariness and assumes the starting position.

“Do you have a death wish? You’re dropping your guard,” he declares, eyes flickering down to where his hand is poised to embed a kunai into her middle.

Sakura scowls, internalizing her obscene thoughts. He’s a better fighter than her, but should that be a surprise considering his status? The young woman fumes, hand tightening around his captured wrist before she lets go and steps back. “You won’t be able to do that again,” she warns instead, dipping into a defensive stance.

Dark eyes remain stoic as he assesses her.

It has been three days since Uchiha Sasuke galloped into their camp and kicked up dust and insults. It has been three days of sparring and training and drill after drill and now, on the fourth day, he has finally decided to spar his men. 

He has had the advantage of watching each genin closely, noting strengths and weaknesses, and exploits them in their spars. He claims the point is to alert the new shinobi to their own short-comings and to find ways to improve, but Sakura thinks it’s just so he can kick all their asses and continue preening.

He attacks first—he always does—but Sakura has been watching his spars, too. 

What she has learned is this:

Uchiha Sasuke does not favor one side over the other, but he does have a tendency to reach for his katana with his right hand first, likely because the way the weapon is strapped is angled for better reach with his right. Both his hands are adept in offensive and defensive moves, but it appears as though his left leg is often used to push away. Is it stronger? Perhaps he has an injury in his right? And not once has he activated his Sharingan.

Despite all this, he appears to have no weaknesses, and that fact alone is maddening.

Sakura anticipates his move and catches his left wrist. Rather than pivoting to evade, she pushes down, knowing he will swing his left fist next. Her leg comes up, foot bracing into the crook of his free elbow and without wasting another moment her free leg lifts, stepping down onto the back of his head as if she is climbing a set of stairs. She pushes off into the air, shoving down with all her might. Ideally, he would faceplant—he doesn’t, of course he doesn’t—but she finds an immense amount of satisfaction in seeing him stumble. 

Thus far, no one has seen Uchiha Sasuke with so much as a hair out of place, and there he is with a misstep.

He spins around to find her, but she is against the sun and he squints. Sakura hurls her shuriken, scowling when it’s clear that despite the blinding sun he can see the projectiles. He avoids them with ease just as she comes back down, skidding a short distance away from him. 

“Fancy footwork won’t save you,” he taunts.

“Sure beats stumbling,” she lobs right back.

The scowl that settles across his features is quiet but raging and Sakura can’t help the smirk that stretches her lips.

He flickers from view and she instantly scans the area, poised to move in any direction. The minute rumble beneath her feet is her only warning and she jumps back as his arm breaks through the earth, his pale hand grazing the sole of her sandal.

Sakura has seen that technique before (Courtesy of a loudmouth blond demanding to fight the silver-haired jounin and only ending up neck deep in the ground.) and that is the only reason she escapes it. When he stands before her, she huffs. “I thought we weren’t using chakra for these spars.”

The Uchiha, unperturbed, inclines his head as if to feel the sun on his face. “Did I say that?”

“Yes!” Sakura growls. “You did!”

“I don’t think so. You assumed that because my earlier spars didn’t utilize chakra it was a standard for all other fights,” Sasuke answers coolly. “You should be proud. I’ve bothered with you.”

And he disappears once again.

Sakura doesn’t have time to react to his words, deciding to focus on the battle, and quickly forms a substitution. She meets his onslaught without hesitation, form poof-ing into a sand bag. 

The Uchiha stands in the center, senses sharp, dark eyes jumping in all directions. Two breaths pass in stagnant tension.

“Tch, I think he ran away!”

Sasuke’s eyes land on his sleet-haired compatriot standing amidst the crowd of on-lookers. “Stay out of it, Suigetsu.”

His subordinate shrugs, stepping forward. “Can you blame him? You just told him all your jutsu are fair game. Sent him running with his tail between his legs.” Fanged teeth widen into an amused grin. “I told you this lot was nothing more than shark bait,” Suigetsu continues. 

The Uchiha is still on alert, even as Suigetsu casually approaches from behind.

“Can we call this off now? Fight someone new, it’s getting late and we’re all starving.”

Sasuke’s hand curls around his kunai. “Shut up, Suigetsu.”

“Hey! Sasuke! What am I, chopped liver?”

And then the Uchiha’s eyes widen as two fingers prod the back of his head. He frowns, glancing over his shoulder at his sleet-haired lackey. “The fuck are you doing?”

Suigetsu grins, looking absolutely lethal. 

“Geez, is this fight still going?”

All eyes shift to the sleet-haired shinobi exiting a nearby tent, scratching the back of his head. 

One second. Two.

Then everyone looks back at the Suigetsu who is standing near Sasuke. Except now it’s a pink-haired genin, two fingers aimed at the general.

Sakura smiles as if she has a mouthful of fangs: “Bang.”

“That was so bad-ass, Seiko!” Naruto enthuses from her side. 

They are gathered around the campfire after a long day of training, all beat up and taking turns with the available medics. 

Sakura has contemplated offering her services, but that involves explaining where she learned and she is reluctant to reveal much about her identity. If word spreads that she studied under The Tsunade-hime, then there is no telling what they could find out about her. As it is, women are not allowed on the front lines of combat—an archaic law, but a law nonetheless.

So she sits on the log used as a bench, eating her rice. 

Naruto’s compliment brings a crooked grin to her swollen lip. “He still punched me in the face,” she mutters.

“Only because he was mad that you got him,” the blond retorts between mouthfuls. “That was a cheap shot. He wasn’t even happy about it, he was so hard on me after that.”

She winces at the memory of Naruto’s spar—it was hands down the most brutal of them all, leaving both opponents mangled messes by the end. It had lasted nearly an entire hour and both boys ended up on the ground. That isn’t to say it was entirely equal—Uchiha Sasuke undoubtedly out-paced and out-matched the blond in every respect, but Naruto just refused to stay down. His stamina is remarkable, and his desperation keeps him up and moving. If anything, he wore down the Uchiha with nothing more than his grit.

Sakura grins into her bowl. 

Uzumaki Naruto is something special and she is no longer the only one who notices.

“Haruno.”

She glances up, meeting dark eyes across the fire. For a moment she thinks she sees flames in his gaze, but then it’s gone.

“You haven't gone to the medics.”

“I don’t need to,” she quips.

“It’s an order.” He doesn’t elaborate, just walks away, and she rolls her eyes at his manner before excusing herself and heading to one of the medic huts. There are two in the entire encampment, and only two available medics who until that evening have had a pretty light work-load. When Sakura enters, she is greeted by an evidently fatigued blonde who smiles at her arrival. 

“Seiko! I’ve never seen you in here.”

Sakura huffs an amused breath but takes a seat on the cot. “I was ordered to come.”

The medic laughs, brushing her long blonde ponytail from her shoulder. “That Sasuke sure didn’t go easy on you guys, did he?”

Sakura’s expression is carefully neutral when she asks “So familiar, Ino. Is there something Shikamaru should know?”

Ino immediately blushes and punches Sakura’s shoulder. “Shh! You said you wouldn’t say anything!” she hisses, large blue eyes darting to the tent flap.

Sakura giggles and then, catching herself, coughs into her hand.

But of course Ino does not miss this. “Your laugh is...cute, Seiko,” she observes as she reaches for Sakura’s arm and begins cleaning off dirt.

The pastel-haired genin visibly pouts. “Ino, that’s the last thing I need the other guys to hear.”

Ino laughs. If there is anyone in this camp that Sakura can reveal her secret to, it is the blonde medic. She is nice enough, with an endearing sort of charm that makes men fall prey to her wiles. Sakura would be envious save for the fact that Ino very obviously only has eyes for one Nara Shikamaru (which is beyond anyone’s understanding because Shikamaru could possibly be the only young man who is not interested). 

“You’re lucky, seems like Sasuke didn’t do as much damage to you.”

“I ended it before he could,” Sakura quips.

Ino’s hand stills. “You ended it?”

Green eyes glint.

A squeal leaves the medic’s lips. “You have to tell me how it went!”

So Sakura does.

Uchiha Sasuke is never caught off-guard. So how is it possible for a mere genin to surprise him? He glares at Haruno across the way (sitting there after seeing a medic, without a care in the fucking world) willing the answers from his slight form. Maybe the Sharingan can just take them by force from behind Haruno’s stupid smirking mouth? 

The pink-haired shinobi was able to mimic his subordinate to such a degree that Sasuke didn’t detect a difference. Kakashi dismissed it as the Uchiha being so focused on his spar, but that wasn’t it. Sasuke knows Suigetsu’s chakra, and Haruno managed to...imitate it? 

Pretend so successfully that no one noticed?

Haruno glances up then, wide green eyes meeting his stare across the fire once again and then scowls, returning his attention to his blond idiot comrade. 

Sasuke turns away. What is it about that guy, anyways? 

He clearly has other training, but it is nothing Sasuke—in his years of battles and moving with his father’s men—has ever encountered. Haruno moves as if the steps are memorized and perfected. Haruno moves—

Like a dancer.

Sasuke’s dark gaze flickers back to the pastel genin.

A dancer warrior? Is there such a thing?

“If you keep glaring like that your other men might get jealous.”

The general settles his brooding gaze onto the silver-haired jounin who claims the seat beside him. “It’s like he’s dancing,” Sasuke remarks as if they had been carrying on a conversation the whole time.

Kakashi doesn’t miss a beat. “Mm. Like he’s done all these steps before and knows precisely what to do next. It’s not just in spars,” the captain adds. “Did you see the way he picked up your kata? I’ve rarely seen the boy so much as stumble.”

“And it’s in the way he walks,” Sasuke begins, recalling the genin’s effortless gait before tensing and dismissing his observation.

But the captain chuckles. “Is your interest in Seiko solely for the purposes of your platoon?”

Sasuke levels him with a glare that burns with the rage of Fire Country itself. “You will do well to remember your place, Captain Hatake,” he bites out before stalking to his quarters for the night. 

Of course, he doesn’t sleep right away. The Uchiha glares holes into the ceiling of his tent before closing his eyes and vowing to get to the bottom of just who Haruno Seiko is.

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Chapter Text

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( I.3 — Don’t look back )

As promised, the end of the week signals the start of their tournament. The genin draw numbers and from there battle it out with each victor moving to the next round. 

Sakura’s first fight is against a young man twice her size with fiery red hair and a mouth to match. He slings insults like kunai, but Sakura is a controlled blaze, unleashing her rage in bursts of speed and precise attacks. She makes quick work of Jinbei, and awaits her next opponent.

She fights a total of five spars before she finally meets with someone who truly proves a challenge—Shikamaru. They are both strategists, but there is no denying that the brunet is far more practiced in tactics.

Chakra is allowed in these battles—no doubt Uchiha Sasuke wants to see the extent of their skills. Sakura does not hail from a clan, and what she has learned from Tsunade must be kept secret, so she gets by with her unparalleled chakra control and nothing else. But such a skill does nothing when your opponent has captured you with his shadow.

Sakura tenses, feeling her muscles act of their own accord.

Shikamaru studies her expression, the fire in her eyes, the anger, and decides he does not want to deal with her ire: “I quit.”

Sakura wins by default but it does not feel like a victory at all. She resolves to train with Shikamaru more often.

When she finally loses, it is to the genius genin—Hyuuga Neji. Similar to the Uchiha, the Hyuuga have a doujutsu that gives them an upperhand in battle. Unlike the Uchiha, they are reserved, icy in their demeanor both in battle and out. Sakura has not gotten close to Neji, and though she manages to last at least 10 minutes, there is no hope for her when he has blocked her chakra.

She falls to her knees and he doesn’t even have the audacity to appear tired. 

Naruto comes running up to help her, swearing up and down that he will take down the Hyuuga-bastard. When Sakura chuckles her ribs ache and she winces. Her arm is slung over the blond’s neck as he walks her to a nearby stump for medical treatment. 

It is not Ino who helps her, but the red-haired Karin. Between the duo, most genin prefer Ino and her charm. That isn’t to say Karin is not a good medic, but it isn’t exactly her area—she’s a tracker first and a healer last. And she only seems to have contempt for everyone (that is until Uchiha Sasuke arrived). Her overt display of affection towards him sets everyone—even the Uchiha—at ill-ease.

Which is why it comes as a surprise that the dark-haired object of Karin’s affections approaches them.

Sakura senses his presence before she notices the shadow that blocks the sun. She looks up, peering through the strands of pink hair that have fallen from her top knot, and scowls. “General Uchiha.” His face is cast in shadow, but still she can see his dark eyes focused entirely on her. There is intent in them, and Sakura wills herself not to look away or else cede her pride. Nevermind that he is her superior. 

When he speaks, his voice is cool, detached, holding no bite. And not even directed at her at all. His gaze flits to the medic who is practically swooning on his arm. “Make sure you take a look at Haruno’s side. He took a hit in his third battle that should have made him bleed out.”

“I’m fine,” Sakura cuts in at the same time that Karin exclaims “Anything for you, Sasuke!” 

The Uchiha’s attention, however, jumps to the genin. “I don’t need men who are too proud to admit their injuries,” the general snaps.

Sakura fumes as he stalks away and very reluctantly unties her obi, choosing to lift the hem of her short, sleeveless nagajuban rather than opening it to reveal her bound chest. A mesh undershirt sits against pale skin and she lifts that as well, revealing the injury at her side.

Karin begins cleaning the blood away with less-than-gentle hands. “Hm...seems like the wound is already closing.”

Sakura’s eyes instinctively jump to the retreating Uchiha, glad that he is too far to have heard the medic’s declaration. “Well of course, Karin,” she says off-handedly. “It wasn’t that deep a gash to begin with.”

Unsurprisingly, Naruto ends up in the final round against the Hyuuga. The outcome should, by all rights, be glaringly obvious, but Sakura knows the blond and so when she is asked to join a betting pool, she puts her money on Naruto.

They are in their second day of tournaments and those who have lost enjoy a reprieve in the intense training. By then, the sun sets beyond the western hills, casting the two opponents in dramatic shadow.  Sakura stands with the circle of her comrades, eyes glued to the duo. Naruto, as always, fills the air with promises. Neji, by contrast, is stone.

She can’t help the gasp that escapes her when Naruto’s many replications are taken out, one by one, with the Hyuuga’s jabs, leaving only one staggering blond. His eye is swollen, his lip is busted, and his trademark jacket is shrugged off at his feet, practically in tatters. 

“I’m telling you, this fight is pointless. I come from the Hyuuga clan—with my eyes, there is nothing you can do to surprise me.”

Naruto just scoffs, wiping the bridge of his nose with his thumb. “You talk like you piss gold and bleed silver. But I know for a fact your blood is as red as mine.” Blue eyes narrow on the cut just below the Hyuuga’s left eye. Then he charges.

Subtle is not a word that Sakura would ever use to describe her blond compatriot. He yells as he attacks, as if by doing so he charges up his own power, and maybe he does, because he always manages to scrounge up newfound vigor in his assaults even if he should be lying in a heap on the ground. He expends so much chakra, Sakura wonders at the seemingly endless supply. Where does he get it from? 

“Watch out, Naruto!” she can’t help but yell when she sees the ghost of a smirk tilt up Neji’s mouth. She knows that smirk. It is the same one he gave her before he successfully got her in position to block her chakra points.

The blond notices just in time and evades, feinting left and moving right. He gathers what chakra he has left into a final shadow clone jutsu and proceeds to run in circles around the Hyuuga. Dust kicks up, esconscing them both in a thick cloud.

A series of thuds emerges and when the dust clears, Neji has dispensed all of the clones save for one. “I told you, this is useless, just yield already!” he demands.

But Naruto only smirks. “Come here and end it, then.”

Neji sprints, intent on ending the spar. His hand comes forward with perhaps too much force as it smacks into Naruto’s chest (Sakura’s scream leaves her before she can help it (“Naruto!”) and the blond is thrown back, tumbling across the make-shift arena. A self-satisfied look tugs at the Hyuuga’s lips, and then freezes when Naruto disappears in a puff of smoke. The earth rumbles, a hand clasps Neji’s ankle, and in the next instant the Hyuuga is buried neck deep in the ground.

Naruto is beside him on all fours, body trembling with exertion. He manages a smirk before tipping to the side, unconscious.

Their spar is declared a draw.

Sasuke

Be sure your men are ready for battle in a month’s time. I expect nothing less from my son.

— Major General Fugaku

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Dark eyes scan the missive, short and to the point. The only inkling that Fugaku is his father is the fact that he mentions it, beside that there is no warmth, no familiarity, no words of wisdom nor assurance. But this doesn’t surprise Sasuke, it is what he has grown accustomed to. Life in his father’s shadow has granted him little affection. Countless tutors and mentors filled his childhood, teaching him everything from the history of strategy to archery. He saw little of his father after the age of five, after Sasuke finally mastered his clan’s katon jutsu.

He notices a second scroll on the hawk’s leg and unties it, gesturing the bird to find rest on a perch outside before disappearing into his tent. It is from his brother.

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Little brother 

Or should I say General Uchiha? Can’t believe Little Sasuke has his own platoon. Her three Uchiha men leading the forces of Konoha—mother would be proud.

I am eager to see what you make of them. Train them well but don’t turn them into machines. The best leader has the respect of his men, not their fear.

See you soon,
Itachi

He spends more time on the list than he ought to—the genin he should include are obvious, though he is loath to admit that Uzumaki Naruto has earned a spot. Sasuke taps the pen against his desk, free hand cradling his chin as he stares at the names (written alphabetically because Sasuke needs order) —

Aburame Shino
Akimichi Chouji
Boku Nato
Haruno Seiko   Haruno Haruno Seiko Haruno Seiko
Hyuuga Neji
Inuzuka Kiba
Ito Daichi
Kato Fumihiro
Nakamura
Nara Shikamaru
Ogawa Kenzou
Rock Lee
Saito Mitsue
Tanaka Sora
Watanabe Yo
Uzumaki Naruto Uzumaki Naruto

His indecision is clear as day. There is something about those two that gets under his skin. The list is not extensive, but with Genma, Suigetsu, Kakashi, and himself, they are a total of 20 men in the platoon which is more than enough. Especially if they are all exceptional shinobi. Which they are—Or they will be, Sasuke thinks. 

There are a couple of others he can trade out to replace Haruno and Uzumaki, but he knows that the loudmouth’s stamina is remarkable and could be an asset. His placement on the list doesn’t escape Sasuke’s amusement either: dead-last, indeed. But a good ace up his sleeve. Should he and his men be on the brink of loss, it will be Uzumaki’s boundless determination that will claw them back to the top. That is not something a general can easily dismiss.

Haruno on the other hand…

Haruno held his own in his spars, but he lacks any noticeable jutsu at his disposal. He’s not particularly strong (like Chouji) nor is he particularly fast (like Lee), and his intelligence is just shy of Shikamaru. And yet...there is something about him. The fact that Uchiha Sasuke still can’t pin down just what that is drives him mad.

Sasuke’s pen is poised to scratch out the name once again when a sudden spike of chakra catches his attention.

In a blink he is out of his tent and stalks to the source of the chakra pulse. Without bothering to ask for permission, he enters the genin tent and is greeted with an expanse of tanned skin and an admittedly girlish scream that is immediately followed by a ‘Get the hell out!’ Sasuke takes a step backwards shutting the tent flap and staring at the cloth trying to make sense of what just happened.

Then Haruno’s glare appears from within. He has parted the flap. “Have you ever heard of knocking?” 

Sasuke manages to scowl. “It’s my camp, I can enter any tent whenever I want,” he answers with all the airs of a high-born.

Haruno’s eyes flash and an arm escapes from within the tent to prod the Uchiha in the chest. Repeatedly. With an admittedly strong finger. “Listen here Uchiha-sama,” he seethes, imbibing alacrity in the title. “We are men to be under your leadership, not objects for you to do with whatever you wish—” but his tirade ends the moment cool, pale fingers grasp his wrist. Haruno blinks.

“There was a pulse of chakra from your tent,” the Uchiha growls, hand tightening. “What were you doing.” Somewhere in there is a question, but Haruno only blinks again, shifting so as to retract his arm to no avail: Sasuke’s grip is iron.

“I…”

Dark eyes narrow. He ignores the moonlight in startled green eyes, ignores the flush in Haruno’s cheeks, ignores the needling memory of tanned skin and a slender silhouette.

“I was trying to heal myself,” comes out as a jumble of words.

“Heal yourself,” Sasuke repeats slowly, gaze lowering to the genin’s bandaged side. “Didn’t Karin treat that the other day?” Of course she did. He had told her to.

“Not this,” Haruno begins, dropping his gaze. “My ribs.”

His ribs. Unbidden, Sasuke recalls the genin seated on his bedroll facing away from the entrance, a shirt spread apart, lying behind him. He recalls the tan back, the bandage wrapped tightly about his middle and about his chest—

“Why didn’t Karin treat them?”

Haruno scoffs. “She didn't realize they were cracked. I didn’t either, until just now. I didn’t want to disturb anyone and—”

“Since when can you heal?” 

“I’ve always been able to do minor healing,” the genin confesses after a moment, as if unsure if he wants to reveal this skill. Sasuke doesn’t understand why he’s kept it a secret, but he doesn’t pry. Instead, he tucks that bit of information with the other puzzle pieces he’s discovered of Haruno Seiko. “I’ve been watching Ino, figured I’d give it a try.”

“You could have killed yourself,” Sasuke deadpans.

To his surprise, Haruno grins and Sasuke’s mind screams that it is not in any way shape or form endearing. “Why did you come out here?” Haruno asks.

The general tenses. “I thought someone might be attacking.”

“Well, it’s good to know our illustrious general is worried about his men. Can I...can you let go, now?”

The Uchiha drops Haruno’s hand before he even finishes his query.

The insufferable genin massages his wrist (Sasuke can see a mark left there, he hadn’t realized he held on that roughly). “Good night?” 

Sasuke resists the inexplicable urge to touch his subordinate. “Have Ino look at your ribs tomorrow,” he orders before returning to his own quarters. It’s a moment before he hears the tent flap fall and only then does he allow his stiff shoulders to relax.

Haruno Seiko is a dancer warrior.

Haruno Seiko can heal.

And as he finally surrenders to sleep, he is unable to stop one final observation from crossing his mind: Haruno Seiko has a nice back.

Sakura stares up at the cloth ceiling of her tent. 

She closes her eyes, deciding to let Ino heal her ribs in the morning.

Slowly, she breathes. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Five prints burn into the skin of her wrist and her heart beats a military tattoo in her chest.

Too soon, the sun lights up the fabric walls and she scowls at the intrusion. If she slept, it was only for a couple of hours as the interaction with her general left her tense. She was careless, she realizes, and flexes her hand into a fist at her side for her mistake. It was too close of a call for her, and in that exchange she wondered if she had let down her mentor.

She scowls, tossing an arm over her eyes to block out the sun.

She thinks of Tsunade, sick and desperately needing an antidote—

Sakura has to infiltrate Sound, She has to gain access to the poison used against her Shishou, and Konoha’s army is her best bet to achieve such a goal. She stands no chance in penetrating Sound walls without the shinobi at her back. 

“Seiko! Are you awake? Sasuke sent me to heal you!”

The pastel-haired fighter growls. That bastard sent Ino to her? Did he not trust her? Sakura sits up, glaring at the tent flap where she can see the medic’s silhouette. “Aa, I’m up,” she grumbles.

“Are you decent?” Ino chimes. Is that teasing in her tone?

Sakura lets out an irritated sigh. “Just come in!”

The blonde does so, offering an apologetic smile. “Sasuke told me I should make sure you were ready for company,” she says dismissively. 

Sakura can just imagine the amused look the Uchiha must have worn when he told Ino as much. Is that his chakra she can detect not too far off? “Tell Sasuke that I appreciate his concern,” Sakura says too loudly, smirking when she hears footsteps stomp away.

Ino laughs. “I’m not sure I have to tell him. Now let me check those ribs.” But before Ino can inspect her, Sakura’s hand catches her arm. Blue eyes meet green. “Is something wrong, Seiko?”

There’s no way around it. “Ino, I…”

Understanding skirts across the blonde’s face. “Seiko, I know.”

Wait. What?

“You know?” Sakura parrots.

Ino’s grin, rather than teasing or charming, is soft. “I am one, you know. Of course I noticed.”

“But...how?”

“Well your walk, for one,” the medic scoffs. “You think any boy could walk the way you do? You're lucky you’ve got no curves to boast of, or else you’d have been found out like that.” She snaps to punctuate her point and Sakura just stares dumbly at the medic who had known for months that Haruno Seiko is not, in fact, a boy.

“You haven’t told anyone?” Sakura presses instead, eyes wary.

Ino shrugs, the long strands of her blond hair slipping from her shoulder. “It’s really not my business. Besides, I wanted to get into combat myself and was delegated to nothing but a medic. Did you know they don’t even have combat-medics? I hear in Sand that women are part of the shinobi forces. Combat! Can you believe it?”

Sakura smiles.

“If your name is called, step forward.”

Bright-eyed recruits are lined up, sweat already accumulating on their brows. Whether it is from their morning training or their nerves remains to be seen, in Haruno Sakura’s case, it is easily the latter. She is well aware of General Uchiha’s disdain for her (as poorly placed as it might be). Tsunade’s future hangs in the balance of the young man’s (just a boy, really, he can’t be older than seventeen) decision and it’s all Sakura can do but vomit at the mere thought of failure.

Her gaze is glued to the silver-haired captain. A scroll is in his hands and he reads names off the list in an insultingly disinterested tone. Sakura would be annoyed if she isn’t so accustomed to him—the wrinkle where his fingers dig into the paper betrays his tension. She knows he is just as nervous as they are. He is, afterall, reading the names of the men he will be entrusting his life to.

“Haruno Seiko—”

Her muscles seize and she takes a tentative inhale. Kakashi has gone far past her name but her world freezes in that brief moment of accomplishment. She misses the rest of the names, her own echoing in her mind. 

Haruno Seiko. 

Uchiha Sasuke’s voice brings her back: “If your name has been called, you are officially accepted into the 47th Division of Chuunin under my watch. If your name has not been called—you are dismissed. Return home.” 

Ecstasy races through her body so acutely that she barely registers when her blond loud-mouth friend barrels into her with a hug. Ino joins her, squealing in victory. But Sakura only meets the general’s gaze and offers a smile. Even though he doesn’t return it, there is a softness in his eyes that she recognizes distantly as congratulations.

“You heard the general!” Kakashi barks. “If you didn’t make the cut, pack your bags! Everyone else, gather round. We’ve got a tight schedule to follow.” He pauses and adds in a more congratulatory tone: “And hitai-ate to disperse.”

The tight schedule consists of continued training—a fact that elicits a chorus of groans from the newly promoted chuunin. Even so, Sakura can’t wipe the grin from her lips as she nods along with the rest of her comrades.

Green eyes settle on each and every one of them before landing on her silver-haired captain.

In one month’s time, they will be deployed to the front lines to rendezvous with the main forces and move against Sound.

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Chapter Text

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( I.4 — All things unsaid )

They move out of the barracks as soon as the following morning, leaving the valley and heading towards one of the multiple Uchiha Bases. They are scattered in a perimeter around Konoha, each one serving a specific purpose. 

There is a listlessness amidst the new chuunin that crackles in the air. Spirits are high even as they trudge through the forest. Sasuke should be pleased, but his dark eyes study his squadron as he takes up the rear.

At his side, Suigetsu leans over. “Is it just me or does Haruno have a nice—” 

He is silenced with a withering glare. Somehow the fanged shinobi has caught on to Sasuke’s inexplicable curiosity surrounding the pastel-haired chuunin, much to the latter’s chagrin. 

Suigetsu laughs as if he is enjoying a private joke. “Geez, lighten up. I was just kidding,” he snickers before leaving the Uchiha to his thoughts.

In hindsight, Sasuke would have preferred to have his friend’s commentary (unwelcome as it might be) as a distraction, because now that it has been brought to his attention, dark eyes seem to constantly be pulled to the pastel-haired top knot walking beside a boisterous blond. His gaze drops imperceptibly, noting the way Haruno’s obi is secured about his middle—flashes of a slender waist and flaring hips come to mind, enhanced by moonlit shadows, and Sasuke’s hands tighten on the reins, obliterating the memory.

He has never been enticed by attractive people, it’s simply not something he pays attention to. Objectively speaking, he is well aware of what makes someone attractive. He knows Karin and Ino are both regarded as beautiful, and that is not just because they are the only women in camp. He is also aware that some find Genma attractive—the cut of his jaw and his aloof charm never fail to leave ladies as giggling puddles. 

So why can’t Sasuke seem to shake his interest in the rose-haired shinobi?

It’s not that Haruno Seiko is particularly handsome. Sasuke frowns, considering the man’s features: expressive green eyes, a delicate nose, a face that suggests an innocence, and a mouth that completely dismantles that. Haruno Seiko is not particularly handsome. So what the hell is it?

Pink hair catches the light and Sasuke’s frown deepens. Perhaps it’s Haruno’s sheer novelty—

“So you have noticed?”

Sasuke looks askance at his subordinate before shoving Suigetsu from his horse.

Uchiha Training Base 4 is smaller than their previous training ground but boasts a small lake with a dock that would likely not withstand the next breeze. The area is flanked between Konoha forest and a sharp, angled mountain-side. Along the shore (if it can be called that) stilts are secured in the ground, hoisting canvas walls for a make-shift bathing area (not many utilize it save for the medics and Sakura—most of the men just go for a swim—and even then Sakura goes at odd hours).

They arrive in the evening after two days of marching (with no breaks). 

Sasuke, in a hard voice, announces that training begins the next morning.

If Sakura thought their routine under Captain Hatake was hard, then training under Uchiha Sasuke is hell. They are up just after dawn, practicing the kata he has drilled into them when he first rode into their previous encampment. They run through the sequence 20 times before proceeding to stretch beneath the heat of the rising sun. Following the stretches are a series of moves: first defensive, then offensive, performed on General Uchiha’s count. These forms are practiced relentlessly for hours before they are put into pairs. They run through the series of moves—one side practicing defensive and the other using offense. Again, these are to the Uchiha’s command.

When he is satisfied, he lets them break for lunch. Only a half hour.

After lunch is rotating spars on their own, reacting to each other with the moves they have been taught. They switch partners after every half hour until everyone has sparred with each other. The general goes around correcting forms, nudging elbows, adjusting stances, and critiquing speed and angle. In truth, he is training them well, creating muscle memory.

“Out there in the heat of battle you won’t have time to think about what to do,” he explains on the fifth day as he maneuvers through his men. “Your body needs to know what to do, how to react on its own, maybe before your brain even realizes what’s going on—” as he passes her by, he springs an attack.

Sakura anticipates this (he often surprises them with an assault here and there to keep them on their toes) and effectively blocks. She catches his fist in her hand, leaving him open to her counter. Dark eyes drill into her smug gaze and he pulls out of her grip, turning away without so much as acknowledging a job well done. 

“Your muscles need to act and it is this muscle memory that can be the line between life and death.” He pauses, glancing over his shoulder and somehow Sakura knows he means to meet her eyes. She peers past her opponent at him, and he nods. “Good block, Haruno,” he concedes.

She flushes and Naruto punches her in the gut.

“Seiko! I—you were supposed to block! I’m sorry are you okay?!”

Sakura coughs through the pain, arm held over her middle, and ignores the hint of a smirk she catches on the general’s face as he walks away. “I’m alright, Naruto. I just—I got distracted.”

“You? Distracted?” the blond exclaims in disbelief. “Never thought I’d see the day!”

Training lasts until sunset wherein they have a break to mend their injuries and stretch out sore muscles before dinner. 

And still after dinner they train their aim—“If you can hit your targets in the dark, they’ll be a breeze in the day.”—until they hit all ten of each of their targets consecutively, dead on. For some, this takes minutes. For others, it lasts hours. They work in pairs, one partner tossing the targets into the air, and like all other tasks, their partners rotate nightly.

On the morning of the eighth day, Uchiha Sasuke declares a reprieve.

Everyone cheers.

Sakura is in a good mood as she eats her breakfast. Ino chats idly beside her, lamenting the lack of a more nutritious alternative. She listens, enjoying the female company and thinks that Tsunade would not have liked Ino in the least—she talks far too much about nothing important. But Sakura doesn’t mind.

“Come on, you have to think someone here is cute,” Ino wheedles, leaning closer.

Feathery pink brows shoot up on a slightly wide forehead. “Ino,” she hisses, moving so near their noses almost touch. “Quiet, someone might hear.”

“Someone might hear what.”

Both heads turn to see Sasuke peering at them as if they have the audacity to breathe his air. Sakura grins, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I—uh—”

Then Ino blurts: “I like you!” 

Both dark and green eyes shoot to the blonde who proceeds to giggle, twirling a golden lock around her finger. Sakura knows Ino thinks General Uchiha is handsome, but she also knows that Ino’s heart belongs to a specific lazy shinobi. 

Even so, Ino blushes like a pro. “Seiko promised not to tell anyone as I shouldn’t cause drama with Karin, but I feel like I needed to let you know.”

Sasuke’s gaze jumps from one to the other, and he frowns. “Intracamp relations are...frowned upon,” he answers in a tone that can only be described as detached. However, the slight reddening in his cheeks before he turns on his heel and stalks away betrays his embarrassment 

Ino looks at her friend and bursts into a series of giggles. “Wow, Sasuke is adorable when he blushes,” she whispers.

Sakura scoffs, but doesn’t disagree.

The start of the second week of training, Sasuke decides to change their routine. The morning consists of speed, strength, and stamina drills. Hours and hours of practice. 

He partakes with them this time, relishing the feeling of his chakra rising to his command. It has been awhile since he’s been in the midst of a battle and he doesn’t want to get slow. They all shoot arrows and race them to the target. Sasuke can easily tell apart the unenthusiastic ones from the more determined. Uzumaki has broken three bows already with how excitedly he draws them back. Nara, on the other hand, is racing such a slow arcing arrow that he could stroll to his target and beat it.

“Now,” he calls, demanding everyone’s attention. “Find a partner. Your partner will shoot their arrow, and you must beat it to the target. One-hundred shots.”

“What if we don’t?” someone pipes up.

Sasuke glares. “You will or you won’t eat.”

He waits as they partner up, amused in the way many hesitate, some wondering who would be their best shot at doing the least work, others wondering who might challenge them best. It is no surprise to him that Uzumaki and Inuzuka wind up partners first—that duo loves to butt heads.

Haruno ends up shooting arrows for Nara. 

He stops to watch their interaction: easy, casual. He has seen them play shogi on more than one occasion, often spending days on one match. To his knowledge, Haruno has never won, but the fact that he always accepts a challenge against Nara (and their matches last so long) is telling on it’s own.

“He’s a natural at archery,” Kakashi notes as Haruno’s arrow flies straight and true, hitting the bulls-eye.

Sasuke grins. “He’s making Nara finally work.”

“It’s curious that his aim is phenomenal in this and yet in the evenings…”

Sasuke’s grin falters and he glances at his second-in-command. “He’s not the worst of the lot,” he says, as if that is a good defense.

“No, certainly not the worst, but it may be indicative of a hole in whatever training he has had before.” The Copy-Nin shrugs, hands in his pockets. “Makes you wonder.”

Enough about Haruno Seiko makes Sasuke wonder, but he doesn’t reveal this. Instead, he frowns. “I don’t care what training he’s had before,” the Uchiha lies. “I care about his training and improvement now.”

“Of course, General,” Kakashi agrees, though something in the way his eye crinkles in a smile puts Sasuke on edge. What is with his subordinates acting as if there is something he is just not understanding?!

Before he can say something to that effect, his hand reaches out to snatch an arrow coming towards him. Sharingan eyes look for the source of the rogue shot and land on a sheepish blond (goddamn Uzumaki) who is waving.

“My bad, General Uchiha sir!” 

The way he says sir is so exaggerated that it sounds less like a term of respect and more like an insult. Sasuke snaps the arrow in two.

In the afternoon, Sasuke declares that they will tag team against him.

“Find a partner—someone different from this morning. You and your partner will attempt to take these,” he holds up two tiny silver bells, “from me.”

“Piece of cake!” the obnoxious blond yells, hands clasped behind his head. He’s grinning as if he knows all the answers to the future, or as if he knows nothing at all that might bring down his mood. “Seiko and I’ll snatch those bells from you in no time, just like we did against Kaka-taichou!”

Haruno has the decency to slap a hand to his forehead at his partner’s brazen attitude.

Sasuke simply ties the bells to his obi. With a tilt of his head, he meets Naruto’s eyes. “Are you offering to go first?”

“Er—I don’t think he—”

“Yeah!” the blond crows over his partner’s stutter.

Haruno visibly wilts as the crowd parts to allow them space for their spar.

For absolutely no reason Sasuke can think of, he slips the sleeves of his juban off his shoulders, allowing the shirt to hang down. He blinks his Sharingan into existence and quirks a brow at his subordinates’ questioning looks.

“Did I forget to mention I’d be using the Sharingan?” Sasuke asks.

It is Haruno that scoffs, taking a defensive stance beside his partner. “Tch, you think Captain Hatake didn’t use his against us?”

Behind them, he sees the silver-haired man’s two-finger salute.

Sasuke smirks—“Good.”—and disappears.

The duo are back to back, eyes alert. Haruno senses him first—“Naruto, 3 o’clock!”—and they jump out of the way of an explosive tag attached to a kunai that strikes the ground where they stood. Sasuke's intention is to separate them, and he draws his katana, isolating the pink-haired nuisance first.

Haruno is remarkably familiar with his moveset, and Sasuke should be pleased but he is just frustrated. They trade blows—how does this boy block with a kunai? —before springing apart. A line of blood mars Haruno’s forearm and the Uchiha scowls. “Where are your guards?” he scolds.

“Where’s your attention?” Naruto mocks, coming down from above as if from nowhere.

But with his Sharingan, he easily attacks the clone. By the time the smoke clears, Haruno is gone and Sasuke faces down a charging blond. One becomes five and all clones move in unison as they attack. Sasuke moves with practiced ease, tugging the wire from his wrist guards and wrangling all five Narutos so they make a nice pile before slicing his blade across all their necks in one go.

“Oi, you could have beheaded me!” the blond yells from behind him, hurling an over-large shuriken at the general.

Sasuke leans to the side to avoid it, not even bothering to turn around. “Tch, I knew none of those were you, dead-last.” And then, because he is anxious as to Haruno’s absence, turns around and adds: “This is a partner drill. It seems you’ve lost your—”

“Don’t count on it, bastard,” Naruto taunts.

Chakra spikes and Sasuke has just enough time to look straight ahead before a sandaled foot meets his jaw and sends him flying. Apparently Haruno was the large shuriken—how had he not felt that chakra when it flew past?—and came spinning back through the air. The power behind his kick is so much that Sasuke is sent flying right into Naruto’s waiting fists.

Like hell—the Uchiha leans backwards, pressing a single palm on the hastily approaching ground and pushing off, flipping over the eager blond and skidding a good distance away. The two work better together than he anticipates, and he isn’t sure if he is pleased or bothered. 

He should be glad that his men understand each other so thoroughly, such seamless teamwork is essential, but Sasuke is only irked. And his jaw is pulsing. Haruno’s kick was far stronger than the young man’s slender limbs appear to be capable of. 

Neither chuunin waits for Sasuke to regain his bearings, charging the moment his feet touch the ground. They are fast and Sasuke is pleased with the improvement, but he is faster. With the Sharingan he can see their moves and his speed surpases both of theirs combined. In the end, the duo are heaving, hands on knees, glaring at their general.

Sasuke levels them with a look of sheer expectation. Well, his lifted brow seems to say. He relishes in the rage that comes to life in wide green eyes.

It’s Naruto who reacts, however—Sasuke sees the jutsu before he even completes the hand signs and tenses in anticipation of a clone of annoying blond idiots.

Rather than a row of Narutos however, before him stands a harem of bare and blushing Karins. The Uchiha blanches and takes a step backwards but immediately gathers himself. “The hell is this?” he growls. “What the fuck is the purpose of such a jutsu?” In a swift motion, he slices through each simpering iteration of the red-haired medic, the act alarmingly cold. “You waste your time learning useless techniques like that in my platoon?”

But Naruto just chuckles, scratching the back of his head. “I wouldn’t say it’s useless.”

Something collides with his back, strong enough to send him sprawling onto his stomach—he knows without having to look over his shoulder that it is Haruno’s thighs of steel that pin his arms at his sides. His cheek is smashed into the dirt and the sharp edge of a kunai dominates his periphery as it presses into his throat.

His captor leans forward; pink invades his vision. “Got you, Uchiha-sama.”

(Something in Sasuke’s gut twinges at the sound.)

Naruto practically prances towards him and makes a show of plucking the bells.

Haruno stands then, spinning the kunai on his finger as the general picks himself up.

“Only a dead-last would come up with something so stupid,” Sasuke growls, dusting himself off.

“You’re just mad it worked,” the smallest chuunin (seriously, the littlest of the platoon—How the hell is he so strong?) says with a knowing smile. 

Sasuke sheathes his katana, glaring at his subordinate. “It won’t work again.”

Haruno just winks. “Maybe, but in a battle it only needs to work once.”

He isn’t sure what he hates more: the way the pink-haired chuunin’s expression makes his stomach twist or the fact that Haruno is right. The Uchiha scowls either way, opting to ignore both. “Next!” he calls instead, demanding another duo to team up against him.

When Sakura dreams, it is often about a childhood she barely remembers, harsh instruction from a challenging teacher, or fantasies about cute boys she’s encountered in her time traveling. Mostly, it's the last (she is eighteen after all and misses the intimacy, the relief—“Old enough to die, old enough for everything else” a slightly inebriated medic slurs at her apprentice). 

So it shouldn’t come as a surprise that in the privacy of her tent, she pretends the feel of her bed roll on her chest is a warm and calloused hand, and his breath—low and raw—whispers against her ear, about instinct and muscle memory.  

Sakura thinks of his proximity, the way his skin brushes against hers when they train, the way he seems to stand especially near to her as he adjusts her arm, the way his leg slips between hers to push her feet into a wider stance, the way his hands grab her hips to square them and she swear his touches linger though she never bothers to mention it. No, these secrets she keeps to herself to dwell upon at night.

She allows herself to fantasize because that is all she will ever have.

It is not the first night Sakura has dreamt of Uchiha Sasuke, and it will certainly not be the last. What is a first however is how her usual dream where Uchiha enters her tent, discovers her identity and pins her down, ends up with the entire tent erupting in flames—

Suddenly everything is on fire and and Sasuke is gone and all that’s left is a tiny version of herself:

“Please, please take me with you!”

Tsunade studies the girl who isn’t much older than six years, shrewd hazel eyes assessing. 

Sakura wipes the tears from her face as she tugs on the blonde’s haori. “Please, Tsunade-hime! I’ll learn fast! I’ll-I’ll serve you to the best of my ability! I won’t let you down! I—“ A hand atop her head silences her and watery green eyes pry open to see the blurry visage of the legendary Sannin. 

Tsunade crouches down, face as serious as ever. “Sakura. Your job here is very important. This village is still recuperating—I need you to stay here and help them pick up the pieces.”

Sakura is young but she isn’t dumb. She recognizes a denial when it’s presented and her lower lip trembles.

“I fully expect you to practice all the skills Shizune and I have taught you. When we return in a year, you’d better blow us away with your improvements.”

Return?

Sakura blinks owlishly at the renowned medic. “You’re...you’re coming back?”

Tsunade straightens and levels her with a look. “Yes. I can’t leave behind my future apprentice, assuming of course that you’ll be ready by then.”

When she smiles, it is so large that her bleary eyes shut. “I will be! I’ll be ready!”

.

Sakura’s eyes flutter open and she is surprised to feel wetness on her pillow. She sniffs, lifting her head, and realizes she is crying. It has been weeks since she’s dreamt of her mentor and she hastily wipes at her face, brushing the tears away. 

Each day that passes weighs heavy on her shoulders and she mentally logs the time that has passed since she left the bed-ridden medic promising to return with an antidote. All three women were aware that it would take time to properly join the Konoha Army and infiltrate Sound, but with no other support, they had no choice. 

Sakura sits up, taking deep steadying breaths. Her heart hammers in her chest and she places a hand across it, willing it to calm down. There is nothing much she can do at the moment—in less than a month their envoy will move to rendezvous with the main force and from that point they will act against Sound. 

Until then, Sakura can only work on her skills—get better, grind, improve. 

So she extricates herself from her bedroll and sloppily ties her hair atop her head. This early in the morning—even before the sun breaches the horizon—she forgoes her protective mesh, deciding to rebind her chest, and hastily knots her obi over a loosely worn juban. She slides her feet into her sandals and exits her tent, making her way to the clearing where they practice their forms. She breathes in and even in the thick of summer the air is cool.

With the first exhale, her body falls into the familiar kata. It comes second nature to her now, and she times her breaths with each motion. There is a stillness in the dawn that calms her and she smiles without realizing it, greeting the sun that breaches the tree line with perfected movements. She goes through the kata five times before she is alerted to an audience—a pair of intense dark eyes. Immediately she stops, hands falling to her sides. 

“You were doing well,” the Uchiha notes. 

She doesn’t say ‘thank you,’ doesn’t think to say ‘thank you’ because his compliment doesn’t feel like a compliment at all. Instead, Sakura offers a mere forward dip of her head. “I couldn’t sleep,” she says though he never asked. 

Sasuke doesn’t respond but she hears his footsteps. She glances up to see him standing beside her, giving her an expectant look that is somehow reprimanding even without words. She grins and, after they both take on the kata form she left off from, proceeds through the entire set eight more times.

By the end, a sheen of sweat coats them and they sit, watching the sun blaze and light the surrounding slopes aflame.

“You couldn’t sleep,” she hazards a guess, eyes on the eastern mountain. She can’t look at him, not when she recalls a fantasy wherein he tears her bindings apart with his teeth, grazing her skin, while her hands tangle into his dark hair—Stop it, Sakura.

Sasuke doesn’t respond, simply soaking up the heat of the morning. 

“Sasuke—“

He looks at her and her words die on her tongue. The fury in his eyes is so potent, Sakura tenses, all fantasies chased away.

When he speaks, his tone is hard as steel and sharp as his blade. “I am your general. Don’t presume to refer to me so casually.”

Sakura blinks at his shift in demeanor and scowls. “You know, if you want your men to be willing to die for you, you might reconsider treating them so poorly,” she retorts, settling her frown on the sunrise. Leave it to the Uchiha to ruin an otherwise productive morning.

He is silent and she wishes he would just leave already, but he speaks again and the bite in his tone is surprisingly subdued: “Sometimes I worry I won’t do my name justice.” A quiet confession delivered so softly that the breeze could have carried it away.

Slowly, Sakura turns back to him, mouth slightly ajar at his revelation. He spoke so quietly that she wonders if he said anything at all. But she knows he did, there is a pinkness that colors the tips of his ears. She grins, and for once it isn’t mocking or sarcastic. “You’ll make an excellent general. Any platoon would be lucky to serve you,” she affirms.

He isn’t looking at her and she is able to study the structural magnificence that is his profile. He really is carved marble, kissed by the sun. The edge of his lips quirks up, not a smile, but something that could be peace. His brow is unbothered by stress. His jaw is relaxed. For a moment, Sakura is lost in the planes and angles of is his face—

“Of course I will, but that doesn’t mean I won’t worry. Uchihas perform best under pressure,” Sasuke snaps, matter-of-fact.

Sakura’s brows rise at his sudden attitude and she fights the smile that threatens her lips. 

Unlike all the other times, his arrogance feels forced. So the chuunin nods in agreement, returning her attention to the sun (the skies are bleeding from pink to orange to brilliant blue) and closes her eyes to feel its heat.

“Aa, understood General Uchiha.”

Sasuke scoffs at her cheek and storms (Stomps, Sakura corrects, amused by his huffy manner.) away.

She smiles into the sun. 

.

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Chapter Text

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( I.5 — Upon closed eyes )

Only when the moon hangs at its pinnacle does Sasuke allow himself to dwell on what transpired that morning. He stares at the canvas ceiling of his tent, unable to dismiss thoughts of iridescent green and pastel pink effused in golds. He isn’t sure what prompted him to join Haruno, he could have just as easily told the boy to return to his quarters and come back when training began and yet—

“Anyone can learn a new skill and practice when they are told. But a great warrior takes his improvement into his own hands.”

—something akin to affection tightened his chest at the sight of one of his men proving his older brother’s words true. 

Sasuke can explain away reasons for admiring Haruno’s dedication, he can cast aside runaway thoughts that pester him, flick them away like gnats, is accustomed to such dismissals of trivial things.

But in the darkness of his tent where not even pale silvery moonlight can reach the lies he crafts, Sasuke is unable to escape what he knows is the poignant truth: he is intrigued by Haruno. He...does he like Haruno? The notion is laughable. Sasuke has never held any sort of interest in another person like that. Admiration and respect, certainly (and mostly ire) but genuine affection beyond familial bonds? He glares at the canvas above him as if it is withholding answers. Is it affection at all? It feels more like...like...

hate?

There is nothing to like about Haruno. Likewise, there is nothing to dislike. 

Sasuke has personally chosen each and every person for his squad so there is no reason he should be feeling any sort of favoritism. So why do his eyes automatically find Haruno when they set up for spars? Why does Sasuke seek out the fire that burns green like Konoha trees in summer?

For these questions, there are no answers. Perhaps therein is the reason: Uchiha Sasuke is a genius, and when faced with an enigma, what else can a genius do but obsess?

To borrow a phrase from Nara: it is all very troublesome.

He resolves to keep all his men at a professional distance—he is General Uchiha (not Sasuke, and especially not said in a too-familiar cadence that makes his stomach drop at the sound) and wonders why he needs to reiterate this to himself every night. 

Sasuke sighs, forces his eyes to close and his thoughts to quiet. 

The next morning he is there—of course he’s there, and it should not be a surprise to Sasuke since he felt Haruno’s chakra. The signature washes over his senses like a familiar sigh and it rouses him from his bedroll. He knows before he even gets there that Haruno is going through the kata. This time, Sasuke joins him without preamble and he ignores the slight quirk of amusement on the chuunin’s face, instead closing his eyes to focus on the way the cool air gives rise to the heat from the sun. 

“I didn’t realize Seiko needed extra attention,” Kakashi drawls on the fourth consecutive morning that the Uchiha greets the dawn with the pink-haired chuunin. The Copy-Nin is peering at him, unreadable as always—except there is something in his tone that has Sasuke on guard.

The Uchiha frowns, settling down to have breakfast. “He doesn’t,” he answers, trying and failing to ignore the silver-haired jounin’s pointed stare. “Whatever it is you want to say, just say it,” Sasuke snaps, restless.

But Kakashi just shrugs. “Hm? Nothing for me to say, General,” he says, but the way his mask moves betrays the grin beneath it.

Sasuke isn’t sure why but it bothers him. “You know I’m always up at the crack of dawn to train. You instilled that in me.” 

Frustratingly, the jounin just hums in affirmation. 

“And Haruno has started getting up early to train.”

Kakashi nods.

“It’s not like we plan—“ he notices the amusement in the captain’s visible eye and Sasuke glowers, turning away with a sharp tch. He owes no explanations, dammit. There isn’t even anything to explain!

“Hey losers,” Suigetsu greets as he takes a seat on Sasuke’s other side. “Sasuke, looking as ticked off as always. What’s it this time?”

The Copy-Nin leans over, holding up his little orange book as if to hide behind it. “The General is sensitive about his private training with Seiko—“

Sasuke slams his breakfast down and snatches the book from the captain’s hand, resisting the urge to beat his second-in-command over the head with it. “Will you shut up?” he grinds out instead.

Kakashi only chuckles, forearms lifted in lazy surrender. 

“Private training,” Suigetsu repeats, earning a withering glare from Sasuke. The fanged shinobi follows after Kakashi, hands in mock surrender. “Hey, far be it for me to pass judgement. If anything, I’m impressed—Seiko hasn’t responded to any of my invitations for private training.”

Sakura has just finished chasing arrows when she sees Suigetsu march by. She is about to wave in greeting—he has become something of a fixture in her days, with his easy charm—but the moment he notices her, he spins on his heel and stalks off in the opposite direction.

She blinks at his strange behavior but ultimately dismisses it. 

Dislodging the arrow from the bulls-eye, she focuses on the green-clad Lee (boisterous in his encouragement) and races back to her partner, convincing herself that how Suigetsu earned the evident bruise that darkened his eye is none of her business.

At lunch, she is further surprised to find Kakashi sulking and Sasuke eating alone, a bright orange book tucked into his obi. When the Uchiha glances up and accidentally meets her stare, she begins to smile, but he just returns his attention to his meal and she tells herself it doesn’t sting.

He has avoided her that day. There is no denying it. 

Perhaps she has taken his attention for granted—has he deemed her ready to be left alone? Has he moved on to another chuunin to focus on? Sakura tries not to dwell on it (nor why it nags at her) and instead resolves to change her training to the late evenings. He can have his sunrise kata—she has mastered those forms. (He can keep the way the first rays of sunshine warm his face and kiss the angles and planes as if in reverence to the son of Fire.)

Which is why when the next morning comes, she remains in her tent, staring at the canvas flap. A small part of her is waiting for the general to storm in and demand she do the kata with him. He doesn’t, of course, and why should he? She has to battle the urge to join him—she can sense his chakra humming lazily and can’t help wondering if he’s perturbed by her absence. She closes her eyes, deciding it doesn’t matter what he thinks, that she doesn’t care how he feels (and pushes thoughts of a sheen of sweat causing the folds of his shirt to cling to hard muscle).

The sun lightens the walls of her tent and she huffs, brushing back loose strands of hair that fall across her forehead. Only when she is certain most other shinobi are up and ready for the day does she exit her tent. The first thing she sees when she does is her blond friend. 

“Seiko! I was just about to check on you,” he greets. “It’s not like you to be up so late, are you feeling okay?”

Sakura smiles. “Aa, I’m fine, my body just needed the rest. I’ve been getting up before sunrise for almost a week now.”

As she finishes her sentence, Sasuke walks past with Suigetsu. The latter glances at her, offering his trademark fanged smile and a curiously salacious wink. The former picks up his pace in obvious irritation.

Her aim leaves much to be desired. Sakura is not so prideful that she denies this. She trains at night, focusing on her weaknesses rather than reveling in what little privacy she could steal with the general in the early hours of the day. This is more productive. 

She rigs a contraption to launch the bean bags into the air with the tug of a wire and Sakura hurls her weapons at the moving targets. Six rise into the night and she manages to catch four of them against a backdrop of tree trunks. She knicks one, and the last lands with a soft thud on the ground. 

Sakura groans, stomping to retrieve the bean bags. She has been at it for hours and still she struggles. Theoretically, she understands the arc they must travel in, she can track the trajectory of anything, her mind is not slow with the calculation. It’s her reaction that needs work. She sees them fly—knows when they will since it is literally in her hands—and she anticipates their rise and fall. It’s easy when she does it on her own, but she can’t know when someone else will throw them, the force they use behind the toss, the angle.

Training on her own leaves her stagnant and she throws the beanbag down at her feet in frustration.

“You rely too much on your eyes.”

She doesn’t glance up at him as she resets the contraption to launch the targets. His signature sizzles with power—of course she knows he has been watching. Inwardly, she has wondered if he would ever make himself known. Seems she can’t escape Uchiha Sasuke.

“What?” she huffs, deciding she can’t take the silence that hangs between them. It is different under the cover of night. In face of the sun, they are at peace, but under the light of the moon a different energy crackles between them and Sakura can’t fathom why it is different at all. When she does look over at him, she is struck dumb by the paleness of him, the shadows that try to obscure him but fail because Uchiha Sasuke wears shadows like a cloak and rivals the moon with his presence.

It is not the first time she thinks he is a vision but it is the first time she is annoyed by it.

“Your eyes,” he repeats in a voice softer than she is used to. He moves towards her, his steps slow, measured. “Remember what I said before? About your body?”

Her body?

Sakura stands still as he nears, brows drawn together trying to bring the memory to the forefront of her mind but finds it is impossible because his dark eyes are focused on her face and her mind comes to a grinding halt. 

“Muscle memory,” Sasuke supplies. “Instinct. Remember?” He wears a smirk, lethal as his katana, and Sakura is freed from his spell. 

She blinks, scowls despite her suddenly hammering heart. “Of course I remember.”

“So you realize what you’re doing wrong?” the Uchiha continues, hand lifting to remove his hitai-ate.

Sakura eyes him, unsure what to say, and he scoffs, the gentle shake of his head the last thing she sees before he flash-steps behind her, his headband hanging in front of her face. She stiffens when his breath creeps down her neck.

“You rely too much on your sight, you need to train your other senses,” he explains as he ties the forehead protector over her eyes. And then, because he is Uchiha Sasuke, he flicks her forehead. “And you should always wear your hitai-ate when training, I’m sure I’ve said that a thousand times.”

She snorts. A thousand and one.

Everything is dark but she can feel the heat from him, feel his chakra thrum around her. She is acutely aware of his fingertips when he grasps her upper arms and slowly, steadily, turns her around.

Sakura moves, finding it invariably difficult to breathe.

“Haruno.” Has his voice always been so deep? So low? The tremor of which is much too distracting. “Defensive—one.”

She springs to action, already knowing what he intends and her body reacts to the command—it’s ingrained in her now after hours and hours of training. Her right foot slides back, arms swift as they come to protect her middle. Her right forearm meets his left attack.

“Two.”

Her left arm swings outward, guiding his next attack away from her core.

“Three.”

Sakura pivots on her back leg, front foot sliding across the ground, right arm swinging down to catch the fist she knows is poised to punch her gut. There is some amount of force behind his attack and she feels the sting in her palm and scowls.

“Four.”

She can hear the grin in his voice as he leads her through the move-set, gaining speed with each form. Sakura does her best to maintain his pace—trying to steady her breath, her racing heart—so as to keep track of his position. She knows these forms, knows them like the back of her hand, but with increased speed she loses his exact location in space and she misses the last punch.

A sting burns across her cheek when his knuckles land.

Sasuke ignores her hiss of pain and barks: “Again.”

They repeat it.

They repeat it until she can match his speed. 

They repeat it again and again until she catches his wrist, exasperated—“I’ve got this, I need to learn aim!”

He snatches his arm away from her and snaps his fingers. “Where did the sound come from?” Another snap and her head turns on instinct. “You’re looking the wrong direction,” the general declares, snapping again. “Don’t be fooled by the echo. Listen.”

Sakura resists the urge to rebuke him—he is her general. So she swallows her pride and listens—there!

The first snap isn’t a snap at all, it’s the scrape of calloused skin on skin, it’s the shift of fabric that betrays the arm that does the action. The echo bounces to the other side but Sakura knows it comes from his left hand.

He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t need to, she knows she’s right.

“Everything makes a sound,” Sasuke instructs. He is near and she clenches her fists at her sides to keep from reaching out to him. “Clothes, shoes, bean bags, kunai.” As he lists these things, he walks around her, emphasizing the different sounds each object makes. “And of course voices,” the Uchiha finishes, the words grazing the shell of her ear. She fights back a wince. “That’s what you need to concentrate on when your sight fails you.” 

Sakura nods her understanding.

“Now, let’s try this again—One.”

They move across the training ground once more, this time with alarming speed. She manages to keep up better than before and grins as they finish their third run-through. If he’s pleased with her progress, he doesn’t say so.

“Ready to try the bean bags?”

Sakura’s grin widens.

He positions her so she is facing the tree line and stands a bit off, tossing the targets in his hand. Up, down. Up, down. She listens, gets accustomed to the sounds of the thud, thud, thud of his catch. She cracks her knuckles—

Sasuke hurls the first bean bag, the whistle of it cutting into the air, alerting her. Sakura instinctively withdraws a kunai and releases it. A satisfying clunk of her weapon burying into a tree reaches her ears—she knows from the sound that it pinned the bean bag against the trunk. There is no time for her to revel in the triumph because the Uchiha has already tossed the next one, faster this time, but she’s ready. In the end, she knows she has gotten at least eight of ten, which is better than she has done before.

Her breath leaves her in shaky bliss as Sasuke tells her that she did, in fact, get all ten.

Suddenly her vision returns and she blinks at the young man that is standing before her, near—too near. His arms are above her shoulders as he works the hitai-ate knot loose behind her head. When he pulls away, the forehead protector’s fabric trails over her shoulders. She is a statue under his scrutiny, the high from her accomplishment leaving her numb and strangely wanting. If there is pride in his eyes, she catches only the hint of it, the ghost of a smile dancing across his mouth. 

Up close, under the silvery moon, Sakura can’t escape the irrefutable perfection that comprises Uchiha Sasuke’s face. His hair, so black it shines blue, is darker even than the night sky. Her gaze follows the angles there, bared for her inspection—the aquiline nose, the bow of his lip, the cut of his jaw. How can someone be so exquisite—?

And his hand as it brushes through the locks that have escaped her top knot, trails fire against her temple. He pushes the strands back, looking at her as if

as if—

She looks down just as he starts to lean forward and clears her throat, breaking whatever spell has befallen the clearing. “Thank you, General,” Sakura begins. “I...that was…”

But of course he straightens, steps back, the headband in his hand gripped so tightly his knuckles turn white. “I can’t let any of my men fall behind,” he declares, as if the entire session was a necessity, a burden, annoying. He doesn’t bother waiting for her to speak again, turning away sharply. “That’s enough for tonight. Go to bed, Haruno.”

She goes to bed.

But she does not go to sleep.

Neither does Uchiha Sasuke.

He stares up at the canvas of his tent.

What the hell was I thinking?

It is a mantra that plays over and over in his mind, first curious then angry then disgusted then then

then he thinks of Haruno’s slightly parted mouth, the way his lower lip is just slightly rounder than the top, the way his nose wrinkles when he is aggravated in missing a step, the way he’d huff in exertion in an attempt to keep up the pace. 

Sasuke thinks of how pink hair becomes lavender under the moonlight, the way golden skin under the sun compares to muted silver. He thinks of the way green eyes blinked in surprise and something else when Haruno’s vision was returned, the way those very eyes traced every facet of Sasuke’s face as if committing it to memory. (And why did that excite the Uchiha in a way only the anticipation of battle ever could?)

He recalls the spattering of freckles like constellations across a sharp clavicle. He recalls the scent of sage and lavender and sweat filling his senses from their proximity.

He closes his eyes and feels a heat coil in his belly and hateshateshates that he can’t seem to control whatever fascination he has with the pink-haired chuunin. Hates that he is tempted to relieve his own frustrations in the secrecy of his tent. His attraction is evident despite the fact that it makes no sense and he tenses as his erection presses into the fabric of his pants, fingers curled into fists at his sides. 

Sasuke does not entertain flights of fancy, does not typically partake in carnal pleasures—not that he hasn’t considered it before. He is very much male and very much aware that sloping curves are enticing. The fact is, he is always able to resist. Women are the last thing on his mind and he is rather excellent at setting aside what his very male anatomy might desire.

But he cannot, could not, foresee that the person who makes his blood rush and boil, ignoring his iron grip, would not be a woman at all.

It is a new development and he doesn’t know what to make of it.

Over the next few days, Sasuke decides to perform an experiment. 

He stands too close to Genma as they discuss strategy. 

He stares at Kakashi’s bare back as he meditates in the sun.

He blindfolds a very reluctant Neji and they go through the kata.

“Is it just me, or is Sasuke acting a little…”

Sakura blinks, glances at her blond friend and sees him staring with consternation at their general who is brushing back sleet-colored strands of Suigetsu’s hair. (And Suigetsu is staring at him as if he has just grown a second head, smacking his hand away with an almost scandalized “The hell are you doing?”) The Uchiha scowls, shakes his head, every bit the picture of frustration, and then turns as if he can sense her stare. She looks away at once but she does not miss the rage in his eyes.

“Mm, seems the same to me,” she rebutts with practiced nonchalance. But of course she knows that Uchiha Sasuke has been acting very strange since that one moonlit night and everything that did and did not transpire.

He realizes it’s not men. It’s Haruno. 

Whatever it is about that boy in particular stirs something in him. Sasuke has spent too much time pondering over the possibility that he likes both men and women and has decided he does not—whatever his preferences, it seems to just be Haruno. Sure, he can entertain musings of sexual nature regarding some women, but when he thinks of the same regarding men he finds no inspiration.

Except for Haruno.

Why the fuck.

The idea of a man’s body, slick with sweat doesn’t entice him—on the contrary. But… 

What is it about Haruno fucking Seiko? The eyes? The...attitude? What?

Sasuke glares at the object of his fascination (obsession), not daring to go near lest Haruno sense his presence.

It has been almost two weeks since he and Haruno last trained at the break of dawn so Sasuke is surprised to see him there, ensaffroned in the morning glow. He is even more surprised to see that Haruno is not going through the kata he taught, but a new move-set. One that involves graceful arcs of the body, languid stretches, the transitions from one form to the next effortless and—

Those are not fighting forms.

Dark eyes assess, always analyzing the things that give him trouble, things that his mind cannot comprehend. Haruno Seiko is dancing, or as close to dancing as a kata can be. Sasuke isn’t sure why he comes to this conclusion, but the longer he watches, the more concrete his theory becomes. Haruno is dancing, greeting the sun, with every lean of that lithe frame, every crane and dip of that neck, every carefully raised and lowered curve of arms that are nowhere near prepared for battle. This kata is a dance, and even against the backdrop of the rising sun, it steals his attention.

He isn’t sure what prompts him (frustration, impatience, or something else entirely that he is not ready to face or admit), but he gives in to the impulse and grabs a shuriken, throwing it with lightning speed.

Even from his distance, he can see green eyes open—alert. Haruno smoothly glides into a low crouch (fancy footwork won’t save you) and blocks the shuriken with a kunai he pulls from nowhere. The sound echoes through the training ground, and iridescent green peeks through loose pink locks and Haruno smirks. “About time.”

Those taunting words are all the welcome Sasuke requires and he charges forward and he hateshateshates the serene expression on Haruno’s face, the way green eyes flash with certainty. How can he be so sure so prepared when Sasuke is an inferno on the inside? It annoys him, pisses him the fuck off because what the hell is Haruno playing at? It’s as if he knows. As if he is fully aware of the kinds of thoughts plaguing Sasuke’s mind and Sasuke cannot (will not, refuses to relent, obstinate as ever) give him an inch because Haruno (fucking Haruno with those deceivingly trusting eyes and slanted grin and lips that are always dry and chapped—and why is he so goddamned dehydrated?) will run miles. 

Is this some kind of game the chuunin is playing? 

Haruno meets every single one of his advances with sweeping limbs and breathy counters and this infuriates the Uchiha even more because why isn’t Haruno attacking back dammit? It’s all block block block evade evade evade and it’s 

fucking.

annoying.

He finally tackles the chuunin, pinning him to the ground, and leans so close their noses almost touch. If Haruno is shocked, it is not in his eyes, the usually expressive green uncharacteristically subdued, distracted even.

“You’re retreating!” Sasuke snarls in accusation.

And Haruno, with mind-numbing control, reaches out a hand to push dark forelocks from Sasuke’s face, tucks his hand behind Sasuke’s head, leans up, and

kisses him.

.

.

Chapter Text

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.

( I.6 — Screaming in silence )

“I should resign. Right? I should resign. Absolutely.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”

“No, you’re right. It was worse, it was a thousand times worse.”

.

(‘Hard’ is the first word that comes to mind. ‘Hard’ then ‘wet.’ His skin is covered in sweat, his breathing is harsh, and the muscles around his mouth are set, tense, as if holding back a retort, a reprimand, or a tongue that might want to trace the curve of her lips.

After an impossibly long moment—wherein she imagines days have passed in a single second—Sakura regains her mental faculties and drops her head back on the ground. When she licks her lips after pulling away, the taste of salt and sweat and something smoky lingers.

It is still early enough that no one should be up, and Sakura holds her breath, afraid that if she should do so much as inhale he will snap out of his momentary shock and proceed to rip her a new one.

But he doesn’t. He exhales, it washes over her lips, her chin, fans down her neck. He exhales, eyes hardening, then he extricates himself from her and leaves.)

.

“I’m going to resign.”

A heavy sigh. “You’re tracking blood on the ground.”

Sakura abruptly stops her pacing and levels a glare at the blonde medic she deigns to call a friend. Ino sits by the cot, one leg neatly folded over the other, elbow pressing into her thigh. She has been sitting in the same position through the entirety of Sakura’s tirade, chin resting in her palm. 

“Sorry,” the chuunin mutters, returning to the cot where she is supposed to be sitting so Ino can treat her injuries.

“You’re thinking about this too much,” the blonde says conversationally as she snatches her friend’s leg to assess the cut at her thigh. “You said it yourself: he was about to kiss you the other night, right? So this is you just saying yes sasuke yes.”

At this, Sakura blushes scarlet. “Not so loud, Ino,” she grumbles, relaxing in the blonde’s hold. Antiseptic cleans away the blood and dirt and a tsk leaves full lips. Sakura automatically compares the shape of Ino’s mouth to Sasuke’s and only winces when she feels a pinch on her thigh.

“Hello? Earth to Seiko?”

Sakura blinks, frowning at Ino’s knowing grin.

“Were you just day-dreaming about him?”

“No,” the chuunin insists. “And I never said he was about to kiss me,” she adds as an afterthought. “I said it seemed like he was.”

“Well I’ve never seen Uchiha Sasuke so much as smile at anyone, let alone seem like he’s about to kiss someone,” Ino teases.

Sakura sulks. “It’s not too late for me to resign,” she repeats mulishly, earning a reprimanding pinch from her so-called healer. “I can’t face him, Ino,” the chuunin laments. “I—I—”

“Yamanaka.”

Both gazes jump to the entrance where Uchiha Sasuke cuts a remarkable silhouette. “Sasuke,” Ino greets too sweetly.

“Is Haruno—” he pauses as if unsure what to say, “—healed?”

“Yes, absolutely,” the blonde chirps, flashing her patient a wide smile. “What a trooper, too,” and she leans forward to plant a kiss on Sakura’s cheek. “All yours, Sasuke!” Ino isn’t sure which set of eyes is more stunned—verdant or coal—and she finds unmitigated glee in both their expressions. Without prompting, she takes the chuunin’s elbow and helps her stand, ushering her to the exit while peeking out to call another shinobi in: “Next!”

Sakura stumbles quite unceremoniously out into the world to face all of her misdeeds. 

“You wanted to see me, General?” she asks, pointedly looking at the sky. Oh, look, that cloud is so—

Whatever she thinks of the cloud is cut short as an iron grip catches her arm. 

Sasuke pulls her away from the medic hut, past the fire pit, and into the trees. Their walk (if it could be called that with Sasuke all but dragging her through the dirt) is punctuated with varying trills on Sakura’s part (“Ah, are we doing more training?”, “Should we get the others?”, “Is this about the beanbags I lost the other night?”).  

Once they are a good distance from the base, he lets her go as if he can’t stand to touch her any longer. 

They are beneath a canopy of leaves, secluded, so far away from people who might witness a murder should there be one happening soon that Sakura fidgets under his stare. “Look, I—”

“Intracamp relations are frowned upon.”

Sakura blinks, scratching the back of her head. “Er, yeah I got carried away. I’m sorry, I understand completely and it certainly won’t happen again.”

“How long have you and Yamanaka been intimate?”

What?

“What?” she nearly chokes on the word.

“You and Ino,” Sasuke reiterates, impatient.

“We’re not—she and I—we’re just friends,” Sakura falters, stumbles, and finishes gracelessly.

Sasuke’s jaw clenches, she can tell with the way his sternocleidomastoid (and damn if she hasn’t idolized the musculature of his neck, his shoulders, many times before) tightens against his throat. There is a tense moment where Sakura isn’t sure if he wants to set her on fire or shove a crackling chidori through her chest. 

He does neither of those things, instead opting to grab her shoulders and kiss her.

Or tries to. 

But Sakura is so wound up and her instinct is to block (he’s trained her well, he should be proud) and so she pivots left, arm poised to redirect one of his arms away from her shoulder. 

Alarm filters across his face before his expression becomes a mask of neutrality and Sakura wonders if he feels slighted. Before he can react (Sakura refuses to give him an inch, a moment, to think and withdraw and reflect and come to terms with the fact that he should by all rights be so furious at her he kicks her out of his squad), she catches his forearm.

“I thought intracamp relations were frowned upon,” she says quietly, into the breeze that rustles through the leaves.

Sasuke scoffs—amused?—and regards her with eyes that make her forget all of her training (and what kind of shinobi is she to begin with if all it takes to undo her is a telling look from eternally dark eyes?).

“Look, I don’t know what came over me,” she begins, but the general just scoffs again, taking a step back, arms folding across a broad chest. The manner in which he regards her is aristocratic, perfunctory. She refuses to wilt beneath his glare.

“What is it about you?” he growls at last. 

It sounds rhetorical but he is staring at her so expectantly she wonders if she should answer. 

He doesn’t give her a chance though, choosing to circle her. A panther eyeing his prey. “You’re not exceptional in any way—” Sasuke ignores her indignant Hey! “—and neither your taijutsu nor your ninjutsu compare to some of your other teammates’. I have not seen any of your medical jutsu to bother counting that as a skill you possess.” 

He finally stops in front of her, peering down imperiously. 

“So what the fuck is it about you?”

And Sakura rouses. “You can’t deny that I hold my own—just because I’m not exceptional in any one area doesn’t mean I’m unexceptional,” she defends. Again, her finger is prodding into his chest. His stupid, hard, distracting chest. “You chose me to join your platoon because you know that. I’m well-rounded, I’m strategic, I’m a quick-study, and I work hard. Whatever issue you have with me is your own problem. If you’d rather put me elsewhere, under another command, then fine, but quit acting as if I haven’t earned my place here!”

If he is a panther then she is a tiger and she seethes at the implication that she does not deserve to be where she is, among the chuunin ranks. 

Ink black eyes are vast and poignant as they drill into her furious face, mouth parting to speak, to growl, to roar—

“General Uchiha!”

They glare at the intrusion just as Genma bursts into their private little clearing. If he senses the tension, he ignores it, instead holding out a scroll tied with a red ribbon.

“Letter—from your father.”

His father’s platoon is on the border between Fire and Fang—they are not supposed to even begin to move out for another week and even then the trek would take another week at best. As his eyes scan the missive, his fingers press firmly into the edges of the scroll, brow creasing at the brevity, at the urgency:

Reinforcements. 38  N, 117  W.

Just east of the Sound border.

It fills him with dread; acid drips into his stomach slowly burning through all his confidence. It’s too soon, he wants to write back, wants to shout up at the sky, but he knows even as he thinks it that it is a bold-faced lie. His men are ready, have been ready for days. Certainly, he’d like to dedicate more time for stamina training, brute strength training, strategy, but they have worked hard and he has been relentless in his efforts.

He leads the way back to camp, leaving behind everything he wants to say because suddenly nothing else matters except his family and he was too blind and stupid to see that everything he feels towards Haruno (good, bad, and everything in between) is just a distraction from what is most important. 

So he walks, picks up the pace, runs from what he still can’t admit and refuses to acknowledge the fact that it’s because he won’t face it (he is not running away, Uchiha Sasuke does not run away). Instead, he moves forward. 

When he reaches the base, his second-in-command has already gathered his men. 

All eyes are on him and Sasuke, for the first time, is able to ignore the heat of a pair of green ones scorching into his back.

“Pack up, we move out in half an hour.”

Indeed they are mobile in the following half hour. 

The urgency of the hawk that brought the missive lingers over the squadron. 

Sasuke sits rigidly on his dark horse, equally dark eyes trained on the horizon. Their pace is fast, he knows, faster than he has pushed his men thus far but his father’s message hangs around his neck like a noose, tightening and threatening and it is all the Uchiha can do but go move faster dammit my father needs help. That fact alone settles something ugly deep within him—fear, uncertainty. Things that Uchiha Sasuke has not felt in a long, long time. 

Things Uchiha Sasuke has sworn he would never feel again.

.

(Tiny hands—hands that are pale and trembling and too small to be covered in blood—grab the hem of his mother’s kimono, fingers squelching through the crimson soaked fabric. Strong arms, armored and so black there is no sign of blood on them though Sasuke knows they are drenched in it, draw around his middle and pull him back. A hand guides his head into a reassuring chest.

“Don’t look, little brother,” the deep voice rumbles. “Don’t look.”

And Sasuke, six and wavering and teetering and victim to the reality of war that dismantles what he understands of home and happiness and peace and honor, screams into Itachi’s flak jacket. 

“Who did this?” his father’s voice growls.

Sasuke hears his uncle answer: “The Elders say it was Sound.”

And then he breaks away from his brother’s protective hold and sprints to the river as fast as his legs can take him. He can’t breathe, can’t look at her face that is unresponsive and covered in blood, can’t look at the horrified expression she has left behind. He washes his hands in the water, heaves and vomits, then continues to wash—

He scrubs at his arms—

“Sasuke!”

—scrubs them raw—

“Sasuke!”

He can’t cantcantcant get the image of her face out of his mind and only when strong hands grab him again, pulling him back from the shore, does he speak. “Let go, nii-san!”

“Sasuke.”

It is his father, his father is embracing him and Sasuke, who cannot recall a time his father has given so much affection, stills.

“We cannot run away from what scares us. We can only move forward. Make it right. We’ll make this right.”

And Sasuke curls up in his father’s lap and cries.)

.

“Do you think it’s serious?” Suigetsu muses at his side.

Uchiha Sasuke does not reply, only stares ahead.

Forwards, always move forwards.

“Aa,” he answers at last.

“They’re ready,” the sleet-haired man declares. 

Sasuke knows deep in his bones that his men are ready and he nods, urging his horse faster. His troop automatically takes to the treetops, their chakra spikes all around, following their leader, and something akin to pride flutters in his chest in the realization that these shinobi are under his command, that they are here to follow his order, to support him. They are here as enforcers for his will, here to guard and protect and they trust him—implicitly, as he trusts them—with their lives. They are not Uchiha, but from their tenacity, their focus, their skills, they are as good as.

I’m coming, ‘tou-san. Nii-san.

Three days. They make it to their destination in three days.

If Uchiha Sasuke was a superstitious man, he might have taken into account the fact that a tree to his right had cracked upon him passing it. He might think his horse spooking for no reason as they breached the Konoha borders is ominous. Perhaps he would even lend credence to the strap of his pack tearing, dispersing the contents of his bag across the forest floor, is a sign that something is wrong.

But Uchiha Sasuke is not superstitious, so all of these things he duly ignores.

What he cannot ignore is the plume of black smoke hovering where his father’s platoon should be. Dread lances through him, chases the fire in his veins with crackling lightning and he urges his horse into its fastest gallop. The air tastes acrid; he smells iron. Before he even reaches the summit that overlooks the valley his father should be stationed in, he knows, just like he knew that his mother was dead (murdered in cold fucking blood for her six-year-old son to find), that something is wrong. 

He is the first to reach the peak and then he freezes. The inhale is stuck in his throat, lungs begging for air that is too thick for him to properly breathe. The world screeches to a halt in wake of the horror he finds at the summit:

Both squadrons

massacred.

Kakashi moves first, guiding his horse down to the valley, and Sasuke pulls from his nightmare, grateful for his second-in-command. He follows the head of silver hair, jaw so clenched he is surprised his teeth are not ground to dust. His hands on the reigns threaten to burn through the material, semi-circles of blood appear in his palm as his nails forcefully press into skin. 

The tents are burned, the bodies—two full platoons of roughly thirty men each—mangled, bloodied, some even mutilated beyond recognition. All with the same expression of fear in their eyes. The ground is scorched black, and Sasuke isn’t sure if some bodies have already burned to ash. Is this dust and smoke in the air or his brethren?

He dismounts his ride on the outskirts of the camp and walks through the eerily silent barrack. Dark eyes are trained on the central tent, the Uchiha fan barely visible through the blood and soot on the flap. He makes his way to it, enters without hesitation, and stares at the hunched over figure of his father, a kunai embedded in the back of his neck. 

Sasuke turns, exits, and throws up.

Sakura has seen burned villages (her own was subjugated to such a fate many years ago), but she has not seen anything like this.

This is...this is killing for the sake of killing. Killing for enjoyment. There is no message here, no purpose. Nothing is raided. No letter, no demand, no call to threats. There is only blood and fire and too many faces in the midst of silent screams. Sakura wants to divulge the contents of her stomach at the sight, the smell of this, but she is hardened against death and bodies beyond recognition. What kind of student under legendary healer Tsunade-hime would she be if she could not withstand the stench of death, no matter the form? 

Green eyes take in the scene. As much as her heart twists, she assesses. A medic without a good head is useless, afterall.

Haruno Sakura is not an Uchiha, she has not known her comrades in arms for very long (many of them have trained together since childhood, all hoping to one day join the ranks of the shinobi forces), has never met the Uchiha, so she is the most detached. The others are beside themselves with grief, with horror, so besieged with the tragedy that they miss important facts. 

But Haruno Sakura is astute and in the carnage before her, this is what she sees:

Men without their armor.

Men with wide eyes—not in fear, but shock.

Men in the midst of meals, some half-dressed as if returning from a shower, or a spar.

And, in the split second that Sasuke rushes out of the Uchiha tent, she sees Major General Fugaku, unprepared for a battle, with a literal knife in his back.

She doesn’t voice any of this however, instead catching her general as he exits, holding him around the middle from behind as he leans away and empties the contents of his stomach. Sasuke is shaking in her grasp and she tightens her arms about him, following him down as he falls to his knees. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t even acknowledge her presence. Sakura is afraid to let go, afraid he might spiral out of control—she has seen the swirling fury behind dark eyes, and she is afraid it will consume him, unleash his rage unto the world. Her forehead presses into his back, absorbing the tremors he isn’t even aware his body undergoes.

“Sasuke,” she says quietly. 

He ignores it, fingers digging into the blood-splattered, ash-covered dirt.

“Sasuke.”

And then he leans back on his knees, into her embrace.

They stay like that for a moment, but to Sakura it feels like an eternity. She has no words, she can’t say (won’t say) that it is okay because it is not okay not even close to okay and she refuses to insult him with meaningless regurgitated platitudes. So she offers her heat, her assurance, something tangible that can tether him to reality.

Finally, when he shifts out of her reach and stands, she scrambles to her feet, studying the rigidity of his shoulders. He does not turn to look at her before walking away from the inescapable reality of his father’s corpse in the tent behind him, but soft words float on the breeze that flutters burnt, blood-splattered Uchiha flags: “Thank you, Seiko.”

A moment passes before Sakura realizes why she startles at the sentiment—never before has Uchiha Sasuke used her first name.

.

.

Chapter Text

.

.

( I.7 — Heartbeat dissonance )

They are camped out in the forests of Fire Country.

“It was Sound.”

“We don’t know that for sure.”

“Who else could have done this?”

“Konoha has many enemies.”

“The Sound border is right there!”

Sasuke is silent during the exchange, staring at the fire.

The jounin debate while his men sleep—or should be sleeping, but he knows they are all staring up at their canvas tents, listening. Somehow the thought is both comforting and aggravating. He wants to tell them all it is none of their businesses, but that is wrong because it is their business—it is a war they are called into. But it is his family. Uchiha Sasuke knows that he needs to separate his emotions from such facets of war but...but—

(“If you’re here to give your apologies, you can keep them. It’s not as if this is your fault.”

Haruno stills.

Sasuke knows it’s Haruno approaching—if not for the muted chakra, then the footfalls. It’s remarkable how accustomed he has become to his men. Sasuke knows their laughs, the tightness in their eyes, their walks. He knows what they prefer to eat, knows when they wake up, knows the extent of the chakra they are able to exert. He knows all of this about each one of his men and he knows Haruno will spout some hopeful nonsense.

Naruto had gone off about justice.

Suigetsu declared that he would slice off each and every Sound shinobi head he encountered.

And Haruno? What does Haruno have to say?

The chuunin scoffs, but it lacks derision. “I hope you know that it isn’t your fault, either.”

Sasuke stares at his father’s hitai-ate, tied on the hilt of his father’s sword. He stares at his cousin’s hitai-ate—Uchiha Shisui. He stares at his brother’s—

“And you know we’re...we’re all here to do what it takes to—”

“Whatever it takes?” Sasuke challenges then, glare shifting to the pink-haired shinobi standing a ways off. In that moment, Sasuke hates him, hates him with his entire being. It’s misplaced, he knows, but he’s angry and he just...he can’t just shut that off. He’s angry and he’s going to let that rage rise up and swallow him whole.

Haruno does not flinch. “Whatever it takes.”)

—it is impossible.

“If not Sound, then who?” Sasuke growls, fist tightening on his knee.

Kakashi’s visible eye lands on the Uchiha—perhaps the last Uchiha shinobi, and that thought allows something ugly and fierce to fester in Sasuke’s chest, in his heart. There is something heavy in the Copy-Nin’s stare and suddenly Sasuke feels as though he is a genin once again, under Captain Hatake’s tutelage. “Face the facts, Sasuke,” he says, not unkindly, but direct. “It doesn’t fit Sound’s M.O.”

“So what, then?” the Uchiha snarls. “Did my clansmen drop dead of their own accord?” His voice cuts through the small clearing.

Kakashi sighs, and for the first time Sasuke wonders just how old the Copy-Nin actually is. “I have my suspicions, but nothing concrete.”

“Who,” Sasuke insists. When his second-in-command doesn’t answer, he pushes. “It’s an order, Hatake. Tell me who.”

“I don’t know,” the silver-haired jounin intones.

And that is the first time that Uchiha Sasuke does not believe him.

The 45th and 46th Divisions are decimated. The culprit is unknown, Sound is suspected. We await your word.

— Major General Uchiha Sasuke

.

The scroll is tied with a red ribbon and sent with the fastest hawk.

Law dictates that Sasuke act on orders from the Hokage, from the Elders. But the moment the hawk takes flight, he commands his men to move out.

He will not waste another second.

Luckily for him, he doesn’t have to wait.

Sound comes to them.

Their numbers are great and they clash on Sound territory.

Sasuke’s eyes bleed Sharingan red as he unleashes all of his fury on the shinobi who are no match for him. He wets his blade with their blood, paints a masterpiece, each stroke guided by rampant anger. He is an inferno, he can feel the rage surge through his veins, and he demands blood—demands lives—wants to see fear in wide eyes and to tear silent screams from horrified mouths. He wants to cover the ground with their blood and bodies and he wants to killkillkill because maybe if he offers enough souls, he can make a trade and get back his family.

Haruno Sakura is ready, she knows in the marrow of her bones that she is strong, that she can withstand the shinobi who underestimate her. She has thus far hidden her true talents and showcases them for the sake of the Uchiha, for the general she has lost to his own madness. She splits earth and explodes bones, she sheathes her fists with chakra sharper than blades and coats herself in the blood of her enemies hoping she can atone for her lies, hoping she can bring her lost general back from the precipice where she cannot follow—

She is a sight, weaving in and out of battle. It is here that she excels, flexing her skills as a combat-medic. Untouchable.

Around her, she can feel the chakras of her teammates—they are all crying out in pain, with slashing knives and fangs and anything else they can use to draw out the lives of their enemies, hoping trying desperate to share their commander’s agony.

They would do anything for their general, they are blindingly loyal to him, to Konoha—

But then she recalls discerning hazel eyes and hesitates.

The Sound enemy she throttles flies backwards, neck broken on impact, and she blinks, remembering why she is there in the first place and it is not for a hurt young man with impossibly dark hair and even darker eyes and hypnotizing bone structure and a broken heart.

So Haruno Sakura turns and flees deeper into Sound territory.

She needs an antidote.

She pretends she does not feel a pair of furious red eyes on her back.

Uchiha Sasuke does not run away.

He runs towards.

His body moves of its own accord the moment he sees Haruno freeze. The chuunin has exhibited monstrous strength—he had been hiding that skill, but Sasuke is not that surprised. He always knew there was something about Haruno Seiko.

Sasuke withdraws his crackling arm from deep within a Sound nin’s chest and, when he sees Haruno run, he gives chase.

“Haruno!”

But the pink-haired chuunin does not stop.

“Haruno!” Lightning chirps, a manifestation of his rage. “Come back and fight, you coward!”

He is so focused on the runaway (so focused and furious and betrayed and disgusted) that Sasuke barely escapes the attack of a giant fucking snake. A snarl leaves him as he evades the bite, fangs burrowing into the ground beneath him. He skids away from the enemy, tomoe spinning in his eyes as he regards the new opponent. A man stands on the snake’s head, a pale man with long dark hair—“Orochimaru.”

“Uchiha,” the Snake Sannin practically hisses. “So you have come to me at last. I was expecting greater forces, I must say—this is a pleasant surprise.”

Sasuke charges his katana with lightning, not bothering to waste time on pleasantries.

In the back of his mind he knows Haruno is long gone, but his fight is here, with the man responsible for the Uchiha platoon slaughters—his mother’s too, he suspects, and so he charges into battle, chakra so powerful it burns his fingers.

Sakura knows where the Sound base is, if Shizune’s intel is accurate, and she surmises that all of the shinobi guarding it are likely engaged in battle—she had seen Orochimaru, afterall. Her stomach lurches at the thought of leaving Sasuke to fend for himself, but Uchiha Sasuke is strong, and angry, and has the rest of the 47th Division at his disposal. They will fight with him.

Haruno Sakura’s job was never to help him.

She runs through the compound, heart thrumming in her chest as she punches through walls in her impatience—

“What have we here?”

Sakura flexes her fist, green eyes narrowing as the dust from the rubble clears.

A man stands before her, grinning as though only mildly inconvenienced. His glasses flash as he pushes them up the bridge of his nose.

“I wasn’t expecting anyone to come knocking. Are there more? Certainly the esteemed Major General would not send a solitary pathetic shinobi to infiltrate this base.”

If there is anything that Sasuke taught her, it is not to waste time talking.

She attacks first.

The man—Medic, she realizes after he utilizes a chakra scalpel—is fast, alarmingly fast, and is well acquainted with all the major vessels in her body. His movements are efficient and lethal. Sakura guides him through the room, maneuvering their position so that she is near the assortment of vials along the back wall. He is distracted with their battle, his exposition:

His name is Kabuto. He is the Right-Hand to Orochimaru. He is a combat medic-nin. And he will not lose.

She scoffs, redirecting his latest attack with a simple jab of her arm and she easily slides her foot along the ground, invading his space. With her free palm, shoves him square in the chest, expelling chakra through her hand. But Kabuto is fast and spits into her eyes before he is sent flying.

Sakura hisses at the sting, moving back warily. Something is mixed with his saliva, something that threatens to eat at her eyes.

She hears Kabuto pick himself up and she calms her breathing—Do not lose control. He walks, each step measured, careful. Sakura can do this, she can do this. Chakra works on clearing the liquid from her eyes, but for now her vision is useless. She listens.

The shift of his fabric, the loose rocks that betray where he pushed off from the ground, the breath he expels just before he launches an attack forward. She side-steps his onslaught, fingers finding purchase in his shirt and tosses him up into the ceiling before going through the signs for a substitution. When he comes back down, he shoves his chakra-sharpened hands through a log.

Sakura hears the drip drip drip of something—pipes—somewhere behind the wall of vials. She hears his curse, hears him go so still she is almost considering that he has dropped dead. But of course she knows better.

“You’re destroying my lab, Orochimaru-sama won’t be happy about that. We need this room to prepare his future vessels.”

Sakura focuses on his voice, the way it echoes off medical equipment. She recalls seeing a large metal door on the left wall, a cage on the right. She breathes.

“In this state of disrepair, this place is not worthy of housing the youngest Uchiha General.”

Closer. Just a little closer.

“It’s a shame. You can come out from behind the shelves, now. I see you.”

Sakura opens her eyes, ignoring the strain—her vision is blurry but she sees him facing the wall of vials and with a forceful kick she launches the opened cage towards him. He jumps, avoiding the trap, but Sakura is ready at the ceiling and aims a punch into his gut, sending him into the metal containment. She closes the door, bends the key with her enhanced strength.

His startled eyes jump back to the pair of sandals peeking from beneath the unit of shelves.

Sakura walks over to them, slips her feet back into her shoes. “You rely on your eyes too much,” she says as she pockets some choice vials—one of each kind just to be safe.

“Those won’t save Uchiha Sasuke. What Orochimaru-sama has planned for him cannot be cured by a simple antidote.”

Haruno Sakura is fire and her eyes burn when she shoves a fist through the wall, breaking the pipes, and leaves as water fills the room.

Only when she is out of the base does she pause to pull out a scroll to keep the precious vials safe, tuck the scroll into a tube, and zip it into her weapons holster—

Soon, Shishou.

She is fire and she leaves destruction in her wake as she launches across Sound, racing back to the battle, back to her platoon, back to her general. She isn’t sure what she’ll see when she returns—a battlefield, a scattering of bodies, the ground so drenched in blood it glows red under the brilliant sun.

She expects her comrades in arms tired from fighting, she expects them to ask where the hell she’s been, expects Naruto to tell her she missed all the fun, expects Sasuke to declare her a traitor, to strip her of her title. She expects his ire, his rage, his hate.

What she sees is this:

Her friends embroiled in their own battles, the Copy-Nin engaged in a furious war with the giant snake, and no sign of Sasuke at all.

Without thinking—it doesn’t involve any spare thought—she uses her chakra to find him, she knows it, knows the signature, and she follows.

She can feel his chakra pulse-pulse-pulsing weakly and she trails it to find four shinobi running away. She can detect Genma and Suigetsu, as well, and is thankful that Sasuke has people he can depend on to remain with him when she could not, cannot, because she has pledged her loyalty to someone else already.

Sakura catches up to them at the top of a mountain. A river rushes down but its deafening roar does not compare to the screams of war. She arrives in time to pummel one into the ground, her fist cracking skull. It appears there is only one left. The two jounin smirk at her arrival (“Oi, Haruno, welcome to the party!”) and they focus on the last remaining shinobi. The man guards the container that she knows houses Sasuke—it is covered in seals, but muted yells come from within. He is okay. He is alive. And he is pissed the fuck off.

Suigetsu and Genma engage the last opponent and Sakura makes her way to the container, wondering if she can simply punch Sasuke free (she can’t, she tries). She draws chakra to her hands, using any and all techniques at her disposal but to no avail and she calls his name in a voice so raw that the screams inside quiet down.

“Haruno?”

He sounds so—

An explosion sends them into the river and it is all Sakura can do to grasp onto the container. She uses her chakra to hold on to it, both arms wrapped tightly around the vessel. But the river is merciless and they quickly flow downstream, away from the fight. The current is strong and Sakura is battered against rocks, refuses to let go, and struggles to remain above water. Belatedly, she worries that Sasuke is drowning inside, but she can hear him swearing up a storm. She hears the crackling of his chidori. Feels the heat of his katon.

(Somewhere in the distance she can hear a chorus of cheers, curses screamed into the air in jubilation.)

Then he bursts out and she is so startled she gasps. The blast from his escape sends her back, away, too far, and he disappears beneath the surface of the water.

Sakura races along the river bank, trying to keep pace but the river is fast and she’s lost sight of him and she hears before she sees the roar of a waterfall up ahead. She leaps to a tree that leans over the cliff, chakra at her feet keep her secure and, sensing the flickering pulse of his chakra, hurls her shinobi wire into the rapids, and hopes against all odds that she catches—

There!

And she yanks.

Uchiha Sasuke is drawn from the edge of the river, gasping for air, the ninja wires caught loosely around his torso, and he’s looking at her like he’s never seen her before and a smile spreads across her face in relief and she doesn’t even care that he’s still pissed off because he’s okay and he’s glaring at her and all is as it should be and—

Crack!

She sees the widening of his eyes as she falls, and he falls, and they collide (his arms instinctively wrap around her but she has no room in her screaming thoughts to delve into it further). She lets her chakra pulse, thrum, esconsce them both as they hurtle down down down and into the base of the waterfall. His fingers burn, sear, into her back and the last thing she sees is black bleed into spinning red.

Consciousness comes to him in waves: first the trickling river drums against the darkness of his mind, then the sensation of biting cold, and then finally air—

He sits up, lungs screaming and Sasuke coughs, expelling water. He doubles over, heaving onto the moist grass, hands pale and wrinkled. Questions bombard (where am i what happened where is orochimaru am i dead) and he lifts his head, eyes falling on Haruno’s slumped form.

Everything settles back into place and he remembers.

Sasuke remembers a squadron of Sound shinobi apprehending him, he remembers Haruno (You fucking asshole, you traitor you you—) running away. He remembers overlapping shouts and obscenities and his name yelled over and over in various voices and intonations and he remembers Haruno’s strangled cry (and when did he come back, why did he come back?). He remembers finally bursting through his confinement and water forcing itself into his lungs. He remembers round green eyes, startled and then gone. He remembers the cut of wires against his skin even through his clothes it was so sharp, and watery green eyes overflowing with relief and affection and—

He remembers falling.

The sound of the waterfall can still be heard and he glances upstream—they have floated far from it.

And then he stands, rushing to the unmoving chuunin, turning him over and...and—

And everything makes perfect fucking sense.

Ink black eyes take in the slightly darker petal-pink hair sticking to curved cheeks; a mouth, pale and slightly parted; and the juban missing its obi, slipped off slender shoulders and hanging apart; and even through the mesh armor Sasuke can tell (it’s so obvious how has it escaped him for so long?) that bindings flatten gentle curves.

The realization does not stop there, his gaze travels down her (because there is no denying now that Haruno is a woman) middle and he clenches his teeth at the dip of her waist and the swell of her hips.

In loose clothing she did well to hide it, but she is drenched and the fabric clings to every curve of her body and Sasuke can’t breathe.

Can’t think.

Can’t move.

Haruno stirs.

.

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Chapter Text

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( I.8 — A life for a life )

A flutter of pink lashes messily tangled at the corners open to reveal first unfocused then acutely focused green eyes. Her gaze zeroes in on him almost immediately and Sasuke is inordinately pleased by the automatic smile that spreads across pale lips. She leans up, perhaps to hug him, or assess the damage, or something, but the cold hits her bare midriff and she sees. She sees why he is glaring at her and she curls in on herself as if to hide.

But it’s too late isn’t it? Secret’s out.

When he speaks his voice is cold. “Who are you.”

The change is instant. Her smile slips, she peers at him and for a moment Sasuke thinks she will lie through her teeth again.

“Sakura. Haruno Sakura.”

He wants to laugh at the name, is furious with himself for not having guessed it and entertains the idea that it is fake because really? Her name is fucking Sakura? As if Haruno isn’t obvious enough?

“A bit on the nose, isn’t it?” he sneers, unable to control the bubble of bitterness that swells in his chest

Pretty lips frown, but she holds her tongue.

“So what’s your goal,” Sasuke demands, because Haruno Sakura might be a woman but she is still a chuunin under his command and he wants answers—she hides skeletons in closets like shuriken on hand.

She worries her lip and it takes every ounce of restraint to keep his gaze trained on her eyes. “I needed to infiltrate Sound to save someone precious to me. I needed to go to the base—I needed an antidote.” She studies the ground, the hollowness in her voice infuriating.

Why won’t she look at him?

Sasuke scowls and, before he can stop himself, reaches out to grab her chin so that she will be forced to face the magnitude of his fury, of her betrayal. Does she even feel bad about it? “Is he worth losing your life?”

There is no fear in her rebellious green stare, only wry amusement. “Clearly. And not that it’s any of your business, but she is my mentor.”

When the edge of her lips tilt up in a grin, he is angry that he notices it at all. He ignores the fact that he is relieved that the person she is risking her life, her reputation, to save is a woman. (Not that it means anything at all and why is he so curious anyways?)

A cool hand wraps around his wrist and only then does he realize he is still holding her chin. Ignoring the sensation, he moves her head first left, then right, assessing her face for injury. It is not a utilitarian touch, nothing about it suggests a perfunctory study—he is far too close, so close that his exhale is cool against her skin, so close that with every rise and fall of her chest his hand shifts.

“Sasuke” leaves her lips and neither are aware what it means. Is it a question? A statement? Does she want him to stop? Does she want him to move closer still?

His gaze jumps first to her mouth then to her eyes and there he is trapped. They are as green as always, but there are flecks of blue, hints of a darker shade just around blown irises, and he knows he can easily fall into their depths—

There is no telling who moves first but his mouth is slanted over hers, his hands entangling in the hair at the base of her neck and she tugs the hem of his shirt to pull him closer, rising onto her knees to meet his assault. And they engage in a different kind of spar but a spar all the same because that is what they know, that is what has been building between them in those moments when it is just Uchiha, Haruno, and the rising sun and quiet moon.

Her hands slip beneath the gap of his juban, sliding past the fabric as if she belongs there, and wrap around his waist, fingers digging into the hard muscle before drawing flames up his back and Sasuke growls at the sensation of her rough fingertips on his cool skin.

His hands tug her hair free from its topknot and a noise of frustration escapes her but she tilts her head back all the same. He has just enough time to see the fire behind her half-lidded stare (and damn if he doesn’t—hasn’t always—adored that impertinence) before his lips land on the junction between her neck and shoulder. Somewhere on the edges of his mind he succumbs to the fact that he has always been drawn to Haruno—Seiko or Sakura, it doesn’t matter. He has a type and it is pink hair and green eyes and a huge fucking pain in the ass.

The sound that escapes her—a ragged breath, a hiss of encouragement—undoes him and his arms wrap fully about her middle to pull her to him so they are flush and he revels in the way her body, curves and all, fits against his frame. She straddles him and he knows (because there is absolutely no way she doesn’t feel him) she is fully aware of just what he wants, what he’s wanted, as she grinds against him.

Her hands are in his hair, scraping down his scalp and he shudders at the sensation, his mouth moving along her collarbone, cheek shoving away the sleeve of her already parted shirt. She shrugs it off her shoulders when she realizes, doing the same for him—he wastes no time in removing the mesh armor from her body and he admires the heated look in her eyes as he greedily takes in the sight of her.

Suddenly everything is sharp—he can count the lashes lining her eyes, the freckles across her shoulders, the imprint of hardened nipples fighting against bindings, and then he catches the fascination in her gaze as she stares back. Her hand comes up, leaving feather light touches across his brow and he sees it in the reflection of her eyes: his Sharingan.

Something animal wakes within him, something that he has kept locked up in a cage for weeks and as she shifts against him with that look in her eyes, he loses it—

He does not think anymore.

How can he, when she is fire in his hands and the heat she brings pools in his gut, sears through his veins—

She calls to it with every flutter of her fingertips, with every massage of her tongue, with every grinding motion of her hips against his—

A snarl leaves him, unbidden, and she swallows it as if she has been waiting for it all this time. Maybe she has?

He lunges forward, pinning her beneath him and his mind doesn’t even process the fact that they are part of a platoon that is likely searching for them, that there might be enemy shinobi nearby, or anything at all because his hands explore up her frame, fingers fluttering across a bound breast first tentatively then more firmly as she arches into his touch. The groan that leaves him comes wholly from his throat at her response; strong thighs wrap firmly around his waist.

She pulls his hair—hard—and he growls but relents, tipping his head back to grant her access to his throat and she attacks with surprising fervor, muttering obscenities against his skin that pool heat to his arousal. It’s all he can do but press against her so fully he flattens her along the grass. Even through the fabric of their pants he can feel her heat, and he wonders if the dampness is from the river, her excitement, or both. Either way she writhes against him, nails dragging down his back as a breathy ‘Sasuke’ spills from her lips.

This is chaos, this is unlike any battle he has ever fought. He is not in control, can’t be in control—she deconstructs everything that makes Uchiha Sasuke who he is and he gladly comes apart at the seams for her and he doesn’t even have the mental faculties to begin considering the ramifications of that and right now he has absolutely no desire to. All he desires is—

She moans his name again and fuck if he’s ever heard a sound so tantalizing.

And her hand finds the length of him, traces his hardness over his own attire and he hisses something unintelligible because her hand is so warm and fuck if he hasn’t wanted this for so long and fuck fuck fu—

They separate only for air, only when their lungs are both bursting for it, but when they resurface from their feral needs, their momentary lapses in judgement shatter.

Everything returns in a waterfall of clarity and all they can do is stare. Hands all over the other, chests heaving, mouths swollen and red and desperate. He is above her, balanced on one arm, and her hand flirts with the band of his pants and that is the extent of their madness.

Unwavering green meets thunderous black and it takes one, two, three exchanges of breath before he sits back on his ankles and she rises from the grass.

Silence as everything shifts, settles, back into the reality they both know.

Then, “Why did you do it.” Questions are statements because Uchihas are accustomed to being answered to (and he’d like to set aside what has just transpired because it was borne out of weakness and Uchiha Sasuke may be a lot of things but weak is not one of them).

“I couldn’t let them take you, Sasuke,” she begins and he squashes the way the sound of his name on her tongue makes his chest constrict (and his arousal twitch) because that is not what matters right now, not ever, anymore.

“No I mean this—why did you,” he scowls because he falters as he gestures lamely at her frame. His mind is still foggy, still wavering between reality and how much he’d like to cut her free from her bindings. “Why did you bother with the deceit?”

Haruno scoffs and he marvels at the fact that this woman is the very same Haruno who has constantly invaded his thoughts, the very same Haruno who was moments ago telling him yes yes yes in touch alone. The very same Haruno whose hand was becoming acquainted with his cock with unabashed confidence. Sasuke sees it in the furrow of her brow, the flash of antipathy in her eyes, the way she tilts her head in impatience—it all screams Haruno. And Sasuke wonders if she had been putting on an act at all.

“Would I have been allowed to even train with the men if anyone had known I’m a woman?” she challenges.

Sasuke doesn’t know what to say—can’t say anything—because she’s right. Women aren’t allowed to join in combat, aren’t allowed on the battlefield at all. But he is still angry with her even though he understands—

He’s still furious because all this time he’s been wrestling with whatever it was about this very person that demanded his scrutiny and she has thus far succeeded in deceiving him and he feels so fucking

betrayed

and stupid so fucking stupid and he thinks that is the source of his anger his own fucking blindness.

“No. Women can’t hold their own against men,” Sasuke growls with his pent-up derision.

Haruno—he can't bring himself to refer to her by her name, can’t forgive her, won’t, because she has always been a weakness for him and he refuses to allow her to be that anymore—picks herself up, moves away on tremulous legs.

(Sasuke hates that his first instinct is to steady her.)

Her whole body flushes pink and the Uchiha knows it is not from embarrassment because the ferocity in her eyes is too potent. She is pink all over because of their frenzy, her blood rushes to the surface just as his rushes to—

She doesn’t give a damn about her state of undress, doesn’t care an ounce that she stands there in just bindings and pants that are soaked and hug toned legs, water trailing down her skin, following the lines of taut muscle—

“That is bullshit and you know it!” she exclaims, every bit the fighter he knows. “My being in your squad is proof that women can—”

Sasuke stands, the motion fluid, easy as is his manner, and fixes her with an unyielding glare. “You are a fluke,” he interjects. “An exception not the rule.”

“A fluke,” she echoes with a huff of disbelief. Disappointment?

Sasuke tells himself he doesn’t care.

“So what, are you going to let me remain in your platoon?”

It is the same question that has been bouncing around in his head ever since they sprung apart. He knows he can’t. The laws are not his to change and he says as much.

She goes off on a tirade—of course she does, it’s so Haruno—and he finds no opening to interrupt, finds it difficult to stop her train of insults and blame and even when he does speak she blows right over him, pacing.

“Haruno,” he tries. “Haruno.”

She is red faced in her rage, righteous and radiant and so fucking resplendent he almost wants to just let her continue. Almost.

“Sakura.”

At that she stops, turning to him.

“You’ll be killed” is all he manages to say.

And she understands, of course she does, she may not be as smart as Nara but she is smart and her face crumbles at the truth. If this gets back to the other generals, to the Elders, to the hokage, she will be tried and killed for treason.

“You can—”

“I can’t,” he rasps and he isn’t sure if the disappointment he feels is in himself or in her or in something else entirely.

“I can sense them! They’re here!”

The duo freeze and so much passes between them even though nothing really passes at all. Sakura moves to grab her juban, but Sasuke shrugs out of his, hands it to her.

“Sasuke—”

“Yours is all torn,” he says by way of explanation. He isn’t looking at her, can’t, because all of a sudden this is too real and too awkward because she was just—and he was just—and—and shit he needs to get rid of his very obvious erection fuck—

“Thank you,” Sakura answers, taking his shirt and slipping her arms through the too-large sleeves. It is a markedly different look than her sleeveless juban had been. His sleeves reach her forearms, drowning her in dark fabric. As she turns to find her obi and secure it around her middle, he ignores the Uchiha fan emblazoned across her shoulder blades.

He is doing such a good job of pointedly ignoring her (he fills his thoughts with images of Karin squawking at Suigetsu, with Naruto talking with his mouth full of ramen, with the questionable stains that mar Genma’s sleeping roll, with anything at all besides heated green eyes and pert nipples) that he stiffens when pink invades his vision and he glances over at her, perhaps colder than he intends to but just because she’s a woman doesn’t mean she’s any different than the Haruno he knows and she just rolls her eyes at his behavior.

Her hands are on him and he exhales a deep, soul-relieving breath. She finds the cuts that her wire left on his skin (and that her nails scratched into his back) and he is about to tell her he’s fine when her palms glow green.

“You were watching Ino, huh,” he deadpans.

To his surprise, she blinks, meets his eyes, and grins. He is so taken aback by the expression, by Haruno’s expression on a woman’s (and really it’s the same fucking person he’s being an idiot) face that he almost misses her words: “I believe I also said I knew minor healing.”

It’s frightening, he thinks, how easy it is to just be around her. It has always been alarmingly easy, second nature, like breathing, to be around Haruno. What made it so difficult was his own confusion, his own reluctance, his own distrust. But now, with her secret out in the open, he can’t help but think that he has always known that he should be near her, that she should be near him—he added her to his platoon’s roster, afterall.

“Oi! Sasuke! Seiko!”

Her hands drop from his middle and he tells himself he doesn’t miss the warmth of her palm.

They both turn to greet the blond blur that barrels through the trees towards them. He skips right past Sasuke and immediately takes Haruno into his arms, swinging her around.

Sakura laughs. “I’m fine, Naruto, put me down!”

“Eh, why are you wearing Sasuke’s shirt?”

Awkward pause.

Naruto gasps, jumps back. “No way! No way! ”

“It’s not what you think,” Sakura begins, but by then their comrades appear and suddenly it is too crowded, too open, too public.

The blond turns to the Copy-Nin. “Ha! Kaka-taichou, you owe me 100 ryo!”

Kakashi chuckles. “I think something else is going on here, Naruto.”

“Eh? Seiko is wearing the bastard’s shirt. I mean, what else could be—”

“Seiko, hmm?” the Copy-Nin levels Sakura with a knowing look.

Sasuke could set fire to the trees with the look he shoots the captain. “You knew all along?”

Kakashi at least has the decency to appear bashful, scratching the back of his head. “Ah, I had my suspicions.”

“Suspicions?” Naruto repeats, voice as jarring as usual. “We all knew!”

Sasuke flinches.

“You and Seiko are together!”

A hand slaps a forehead and Sasuke’s gaze jumps to the source: the blonde medic, her palm on her face. “They’re not together, you idiot!” she exclaims.

“Ino, it’s okay,” Sakura intervenes. And then, fixing her gaze on no one in particular, reveals: “I—I’m a woman.”

Silence.

Birds spooked from trees.

Someone munching on chips.

“Wait, what,” Naruto asks.

Sakura sighs, brushing her locks from her face. “My name is Haruno Sakura. I...I’ve been posing as a guy so I could join the Konoha shinobi division.”

Somehow, no one is quite as alarmed as Sasuke would hope. “You can’t tell me you all knew,” he remarks, frustrated with the lack of reaction.

“I don’t think it’s a case of having known,” Shikamaru pipes up. “It’s more a case of: no one cares.”

No one cares?

Suigetsu’s laugh draws their attention and he steps forward, hands clasped behind his head. “Guy, girl, Haruno’s a looker either way,” he declares with a wink directed at the young woman. “If anything, we’re impressed. We’ve got a kunoichi in our midst, and she’s got fists that can make mountains and crack bone—did you guys see her earlier?”

“A strong shinobi is a strong shinobi,” Neji adds, quirking a brow Sakura’s way.

(Sasuke does not appreciate the way pale eyes rake her form.)

“Yosh! Seiko-san is skilled in the shinobi arts! Seiko—ah, sorry, Sakura-san—you have greatly improved your speed in our training!”

(She’s been training privately with Lee?)

Suigetsu saunters over and rests an elbow on her shoulder, unperturbed by the revelation. “Hope you don’t expect us to take it easy in our spars against you,” he teases.

“I could still take you with both hands tied behind my back,” Sakura retorts as if there is an inside joke that Sasuke does not understand.

Suigetsu matches her grin. “As I’ve said before, I’d like to see what else you can do with your hands tied behind your back.”

(Sasuke’s eye twitches at his subordinate’s blatant flirtation—was Suigetsu like that with her the entire time?)

“So…” Naruto begins, peering at her. “Sakura-chan, huh?” And then he laughs. “I can’t wait to fight you! You’ve been holding out on us, I saw you split the ground!”

“I think that’ll be a bit difficult, Naruto,” Kakashi cuts in. “Right, General Uchiha?”

Sasuke stands, his entire torso bare for his men to see, the bruises and cuts that mar his skin doing nothing to hide the redness creeping across it (anger rage or something else, he refuses to waste time acknowledging it). Dark eyes find green and he can see an array of emotions skitter across her face and is amazed at what an open fucking book she is.

“Haruno Sakura has committed treason and by Konoha Law the price is—”

(“No!” the obnoxious blond growls fiercely, stepping forward, “You can’t be serious!”)

“—death.”

Sakura doesn’t waver, doesn’t shift her gaze away from his. She knows what she faces, knows what she’s risked, and it is all Sasuke can do but hope it was worth it. She lifts her chin in defiance, unafraid, every bit the fighter he knows and has become so accustomed to just the thought of her empty place in his platoon makes him ache (hasn’t he lost enough people—?).

“What about Orochimaru?” he asks suddenly, eyes snapping to his second-in-command.

Kakashi’s lone eye hardens. “He retreated after Konoha reinforcements arrived.”

“Sasuke,” the young woman gasps, suddenly contrite, worried (and he steels himself against the concern that dares to rise in him at that look in her eyes), “when I went to his base I ran into a medic. Kabuto. He mentioned Orochimaru wants to—”

“I don’t listen to the words of traitors,” he rebukes, suddenly tired of her presence, of the fact that he has to face her and turn her away or worse, end her life.

She meets his stare head-on (he’s always liked that about her, has always known that she doesn’t back down) but doesn’t deny her betrayal. He wants her to hurt, wants her to know just how deeply she cut him (while still maintaining that what she does has no effect on him at all never has never will).

“I should kill you where you stand. I should leave you here for dead with no honor to your name.”

(“Sasuke-bastard you wouldn’t fucking dare!”)

“But you saved my life.” Briefly, he wonders what would have happened if she hadn’t caught him when she did, if she hadn’t used her chakra as a shield to protect them as they fell. “You will travel with us, and the first town we find will be where we leave you.”

There is so much venom in his voice that no one dares to speak out against him.

She blinks once, twice, then a few more times in quick succession, but she does not protest, does not cry.

He walks past her, putting her behind him, inwardly frustrated that she doesn’t shed a single tear for their separation. But it doesn’t matter now—in his eyes Haruno Seiko never existed, and Haruno Sakura?

A liar, a traitor, a distraction he cannot afford.

“Let’s go.”

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Chapter Text

Synergy

ACT II: Improper Goodbyes

—

“Seiko—sorry! Sakura-chan,” Naruto corrects, offering her his brimming smile that chases away the clouds from the sky. “I’m sure the bastard won’t actually leave you behind.”

Sakura tries to return the gesture but her lips strain and though her blond friend can be obtuse, he knows her and sees the fragility. She knows he wants to say something else and is infinitely grateful that he refrains. “It’s more than I deserve. It’s law, Naruto.”

“Law shmaw,” the chuunin exclaims with a flippant hand wave. “Once I’m Hokage, I’ll change it!”

She chuckles in spite of herself, shakes her head. “Well I doubt you’ll become Hokage within the next few hours so…”

“No, we’re not leaving you behind. You’re part of our platoon. You’re our family.”

Sakura knows Uzumaki Naruto is an orphan, has been one all his life, and she knows what family means to him and so she appreciates his words. But her eyes water because Uzumaki Naruto does not know what family means to her.

He blanches at her reaction. “Sakura-chan! It’s okay! Don’t cry!”

When he hangs his arm about her, she wonders when the feeling of his weight and warmth and breezy attitude became so familiar, she wonders when it became as comforting as the idea of home.

.

.

( II.1 — What the walls see )

The Land of Fire boasts territory that spans hundreds of kilometers in every direction, the Village Hidden in the Leaves serves as a home to strong and renowned shinobi clans. The Uchiha is among the infamous families and within each member burns the fury of Fire Country itself. In some of their eyes spin the strength and ability of their ancestors and only those with notable shinobi abilities are able to access it.

Uchiha Sasuke is from the Land of Fire; his blood seethes and crackles with unchecked rage. He is from the Land of Fire and in his eyes is an inferno.

Lush forest gives way to rocky mountains and the contrast between the borders mimics the softness of petal-pink hair against a bold Uchiha emblem. 

His men are exhausted from their race through Fire Country, and after the battles…

Uchiha Sasuke is pissed off but he will not urge his men faster when they are unable. He has already asked so much of them, and they performed exceedingly well. He wants to be proud, to admire how far they’ve come and how much they’ve improved, but dark eyes watch as an orange-clad arm comes up to drape around Haruno’s (Sakura’s) shoulders and any feeling of admiration or awe he had for his men disappears.

Sasuke scowls at her from atop his horse. He has gotten a new shirt to wear and though Haruno could have grabbed one of her own, she simply...continued wearing the one he offered earlier (and he is not sure if this pleases or bothers him and that fact alone is maddening).

In petrifyingly slow motion Sakura leans into Naruto, rests her head against his blond temple, and Naruto ruffles her hair. The affection is obvious, the interaction so second-nature and easy he wonders how the idiot can just be okay with Haruno having lied this entire time. But of course that dead-last is okay—he’s exactly the type to be unfailingly forgiving.

Sasuke’s hand tightens into a fist and he directs his gaze elsewhere.

Usually, he can’t express enough how integral it is to keep quiet, the Uzumaki loudmouth often babbles about something or other. But now…? Uzumaki hasn’t said two words to him since they left the river side.

Traitor, his mind whispers. 

Everyone’s a fucking traitor.

(Sasuke ignores the insolent voice in his head that insists it’s not the same.

It is the fucking same, okay? 

And no he’s not overreacting.)

“It makes sense,” Kakashi drawls to his right. (Sasuke hates how goddamn observant his second-in-command is.) “If she’s really a medic, that explains her technique.”

After the revelation, Sakura was bombarded with questions and she answered them, to everyone’s belief, honestly (“I’m a medic,” “My village was destroyed by Sound,” “I’ve been training under my teacher since I was seven”).

But Sasuke has studied and analyzed (obsessed over) Haruno for so long, he can tell the young woman’s tics. He knows she speaks truths but there is restraint in her smiles, a hardness around her eyes—

She’s still lying. Withholding. And it frustrates him. 

“Last I recall, medics don’t dance,” the Uchiha sneers, refusing to glance at the older jounin.

Kakashi shifts, perhaps in a shrug, Sasuke really can’t care less and can’t the man just leave him alone to sulk? “Defensive,” the Copy-Nin corrects, as if that should clear everything up.

Defensive. Evasive. (“You’re retreating!”)

And Sasuke understands. But it doesn’t matter if he understands, does it? It doesn’t matter because the fact is she lied and he can’t trust her, not a single word from her mouth—he can’t trust her or his reactions to her. She is dangerous, from the way her lips on his makes him want to acquaint himself with the rest of her body, the way her touch on his skin calls the fire through his veins as if at her beck and call, the way her voice muttering his name in staccato desire sets something within him aflame—

“Sakura-chan!”

Sasuke has no time to reflect on what else he cannot trust and why because as much as he discounts his feelings whatever they may be, he cannot deny the fact that his heart stops dead when he sees an arrow pierce her shoulder and she collapses in Naruto’s arms. He cannot process anything in that moment because all Sasuke can see is

red.

Blood is everywhere.

“Sasuke!”

It soaks through his fingers, drips into the grooves of his palms. 

“Sasuke, please!”

Beneath his fingertips, he can feel the reverberations of bones groaning—

“Stop!”

—and snapping.

“Sasuke-kun!”

Arms anchor him, arms he has felt around his torso before. The heartbeat thrumming into his back is just as familiar, but most noticeable is the press of her forehead between his shoulder blades. He knows this sensation, knows the gentle puffs of air that rush through chapped lips, knows the sound of her voice, knows her warmth 

(it’s a different kind of heat from the blood drip

drip

dripping down his arms).

Just like before, he falls to his knees and she follows the movement, not letting go. 

“Sasuke,” she whispers, and he blinks the redness from his eyes but try as he might, he cannot blink away the redredred that stains the world. “It’s okay.”

He wants to tear from her grasp and yell that it is not okay and those bastards tried to kill her just like bastards killed his mother, his father and brother his fucking family and doesn’t she understand that he can’t lose her too (nevermind that he is going to abandon her somewhere, that’s different because at least that way he’ll know she’s alive and safe even if it’s not with him). He can’t lose anyone under his command, his protection—his squad is his responsibility. He’d be horrified losing any of them, he insists. 

But he just stays in the circle of her arms, head tipped forward as he returns to himself.

When he does, he remembers.

He remembers the feral growl that escapes him as his eyes scan their surroundings (How did no one realize they were being watched, followed?) and he remembers dismounting his horse and taking to the tree-tops himself, Sharingan making quick work of finding the perpetrators (a group of mercenaries hired to take him down). He remembers using his wires and tangling the enemies together, dragging them down to the earth. He remembers the clang of weapons, the sound of a skirmish. He remembers the feel of blood splattering across his cheek. And he remembers laughing laughing as he forgoes his katana and uses his hands to mangle and break and tear and—

How can she hold him like this when she saw what he had done?

“Idiot, why aren’t you wearing your protective mesh?” he scolds, glancing over his shoulder at her, voice sharper than his blade and colder than steel. She levels him with a look because doesn’t he recall just what happened to her mesh? He averts his eyes, changes the subject with a muttered, “Are you okay?”

He feels her nod her affirmative against his back and he fights the urge to lean into her. Carefully, he unwraps her arms from his middle and turns, allowing himself a moment to assess her state. 

Of course she smiles through her obvious discomfort. “I’m fine.”

“Liar,” he snaps before dipping down to pick her up. She isn’t as light as she seems, and he knows it is the muscle that weaves through her body—she is small but strong. He is careful of her injured shoulder—someone has removed the arrow—it is still bleeding, and he can see the tell-tale dark lines that signify poison. Without preamble, he deposits her on his horse and situates himself behind her so that she is perched between his legs. “We need to get her to a village and take care of her injury,” Sasuke announces to no one in particular.

“Some of the others scouted ahead—there’s one just north of us,” Kakashi informs.

Sasuke doesn’t bother with words. Words fail him. Words from chapped lips lie. Instead, he allows his gaze to linger on a parted mouth, barely breathing. Uchiha Sasuke does not have the words to express his worry, does not have the capacity to even understand it himself, but there is no hiding the flurry of something in his eyes, in the nearly imperceptible set of his jaw, in the white-knuckled grip of his hands on the reins, nor in the soft arc of his arms as they hold her against his chest.

Uchiha Sasuke does not have words, is not good with words, but it doesn’t matter because his heart beats a military tattoo against his ribcage and he knows what that means.

Cool arms and warm breath and the smell of pine and smoke and something else that’s almost citrusy—these are the things that Haruno Sakura is aware of. She does not notice the wound bleeding at her shoulder, does not notice her whispered name falling from full lips that make a home in the pink locks at her temple.

“I’ll be fine,” she mutters to some distant question that has finally just pieced itself together in her mind. Briefly, she wonders how delayed her reaction is and that train of thought is disrupted when she hears a ‘tch’ filter through her hair and settle into the caves of her ear. Sakura sighs (pleasant, content, warm), nestling into the crook of surprisingly gentle arms, sinking into an over-large shirt that both does and does not belong to her.

Sakura imagines she hears a fragmented word before she allows sleep to take her:

“Annoying.”

Awareness glimmers in the periphery of her mind, as noticeable and fleeting as fireflies, and Sakura stirs. 

First she detects the scent of antiseptic, then the dull whoosh of a ceiling fan. Stiff fabric covering her comes next, but her eyes do not open yet. 

If they did open, they would not notice the head of dark hair sitting at her bedside accompanied by a slumbering blond head sitting on the floor and leaning against the cot because her eyes would be much too blurry to recognize any of those things. If she opened her eyes, she would not notice another blonde blur at her other side, head tucked into folded arms on the edge of the bed.

Haruno Sakura is not conscious yet, not all the way, so the walls keep their secrets about what transpires:

She is brought into the room, cradled in strong arms that are far gentler than seemingly possible. The young man (boy, really, though his face suggests he is touched by the horrors of the world) walks in, flanked by two blondes—one male and one female, and a redhead. 

The raven-head deposits the sleeping girl onto the mattress, hovering a moment, head bowed forward as if admiring her, as if praying over her form. 

It is the blonde that snaps to her senses first—“Naruto, get two basins, one filled with water. Karin, prepare her for the procedure. Sasuke,” here she pauses, meeting the dark-haired man’s hard gaze, “stay out of the way.”

If he is insulted, the walls cannot tell. He remains by a corner of the room, appearing stoic but the walls can feel the thump-thump-thump of his heart through his leaning back, can feel the layer of sweat that mats his shirt to his frame. Naruto joins him but is unable to stand still, always at the blonde woman’s side when she needs something, anything at all.

The entire process is laborious, the blonde medic—Ino—uses water to trap the poison she manages to extract from the wound. 

It is a torturous ordeal, the redhead—Karin—tracks the movement of the poison through the bloodstream, and Ino hovers over skin and draws the toxins out with her chakra and the unconscious young woman screams.

Sasuke wants to tell them to stop, the sound tears something through him, but the red-haired woman just fixes him with an agonized glare. “At least we know she’s still alive, just stay out of it!” Everyone is surprised at her outburst, but she just refocuses her attention to the task at hand. It is just as torturous, she thinks, to see the man you love fall apart for another woman.

Eventually, it comes to an end.

The rose-haired woman—Sakura—is sleeping soundly, Ino and Karin are exhausted, and Naruto goes over to hug them both. 

Sasuke remains where he is. 

The wall thinks it is doing a good job of keeping the dark haired man on his feet.

Sasuke has sent his squad to intercept the Konoha reinforcements with the order to return home and that he would follow soon. Kakashi’s single visible eye stares blankly at him and the Uchiha resists the urge to shift under his penetrating gaze. “What?” Sasuke finally snaps.

The silver-haired captain just shrugs. “So Haruno Seiko…”

Dark eyes look away. “Never existed.”

Since he is avoiding the captain’s stare, he misses Kakashi’s amusement. “Understood. I’ll tell them you are grieving in the arms of a woman—”

“Wait, what—?”

But Kakashi transports away.

He should be more annoyed, but Sasuke simply does not have the emotional capacity to feel anything besides exhausted. So he stalks back into the inn and takes a seat in an empty chair by the bed.

He has sent Naruto off, much to the blond’s chagrin (“I’m her best friend, I want to make sure she’s okay—!”) as well as Karin. Ino has promised to remain with Sakura until she wakes, and though Sasuke can (should) leave now, he finds he does not have the strength (he can’t go back to Konoha and face the civilian Uchiha, can’t go back and tell them their husbands and fathers and sons are all dead).

Everything hits him at once and usually stiff shoulders give beneath the weight of the position he is in. 

Ino notices, of course she notices, her eyes take in everything (the gossip that she is). “It’s okay to be upset and tired and distant. You can’t always be General Uchiha,” she chides as she takes the cloth sitting across her patient’s forehead and rings it out into a nearby bowl. “So what if you don’t want to deal with your platoon yet? The support squadrons? So what if you don’t want to go home just yet? It’s perfectly normal.”

She is so direct that he blinks, resting his elbows on his thighs, hands steepled before a pensive mouth. “Don’t overstep,” he warns, “You have no idea what I’m going through.”

The blonde just snorts, replacing a newly cool towel onto Sakura’s head. “I understand that you’re stubborn and proud.”

He levels her with a look.

“Am I wrong?”

Sasuke fixes his gaze onto the woman on the bed. He doesn’t mean to, but he thinks of his family: his mother, his father, his brother, and for some reason unbeknownst to him, he thinks of his lazy second-in-command and the sleet-haired shinobi always at his side, his senbon chewing guard, and the blond loudmouth that challenges him at every turn; he thinks of his entire platoon. And he thinks of Sakura. Of her arms clasped around him after he saw his father’s body. How those same arms encircled him when he lost himself entirely. 

A tiny part of him recognizes that he should feel appreciation for the people in his life but all he can feel is rage. Uchiha Sasuke is from Fire Country and his clan is known for their impassioned dispositions, so it should not surprise anyone that rage surges through him, crackling and dangerous—a storm trapped in a bottle and threatening at any moment to explode. 

“She spoke about you quite a bit,” Ino offers long after the candle in the room has nearly burned through its wax.

Sasuke tenses. “I knew there was something about her, and I was right,” he dismisses outright.

But Ino levels him with a look that is surprisingly astute. “It’s not as if your tunnel vision ended after you figured out her secret, Sasuke.” 

(Inwardly, he cringes because he knows his behavior in front of his men was not at all subdued—anyone with eyes could see the extent of his concern.)

“It’s fine, you know, to care about her. A lot of us did. Do.”

Sasuke’s mouth twitches as he fights back the words that want to come tumbling out. He fails: “Were you two ever intimate.”

A beat.

His eyes seek hers and she blinks at him.

And she laughs.

And laughs.

The Uchiha scowls and crosses his arms, waiting her out.

Minutes pass.

She’s still laughing!

“It’s not that funny,” Sasuke asserts at last.

The blonde just wheezes, wiping a tear from her eye. “Aren’t you the one who kissed her?”

For a moment he freezes. Did she see them by the river? He wasn’t that preoccupied on people finding them, engrossed with exploring every inch of—

“Back at camp? Training? Sunrise? Ring any bells?” she continues in his terse silence.

At the base? Oh. That? He scowls even harder, redirects his eyes to the far wall. “She kissed me,” he grumbles.

Ino is overcome with laughter again, tipping out of her chair. 

He is not sure what prompts him to ask (especially after his last question had devolved the medic into such a crippling fit of laughter that she ended up on the floor, tears in her eyes, gasping for breath; perhaps it’s the impending uncertainty that drives him to it, the silence uncomfortable and thick) but he does anyway, for clarification: 

“So,” Sasuke opens in a manner that suggests whatever follows is absolutely crucial. “You don’t like me?” 

Ino stares, processing his statement. “Of course I do,” she answers, bemused. “You’re my general. And my friend when you’re not being an uppity jerk.”

It is a testament to his desire for an answer that he waves aside her insult. Instead, his brows wrinkle in consideration. “No I mean—” 

(And in this moment Ino can’t help but think he looks every bit the seventeen-year-old male that he is and less like the commander of a fearsome shinobi squad.) 

“—actually like me.”

Ino blinks.

Sasuke just stares right back. 

Excruciatingly slowly, realization dawns in the medic’s eyes. 

And she fucking laughs again.

”No!” she gasps out between fits, “I mean, not like that. That was just a cover up.” An insidious smirk takes over her face when her giggles finally subside. “Why, do you want me to?”

Sasuke glowers, resolving that now is as good a time as ever to take his leave (he can’t run away, he has to go back, has to face reality and leave behind a warm body to go deliver news about the dead).

Ino insists that she has to use the restroom just as he makes a move to stand and he rolls his eyes and plants himself back in the chair. 

The ensuing solitude is both welcome and terrifying because now he has nothing (no one) to distract him from the state of the pink-haired woman asleep on the bed. She is paler than he has seen her, freckles stark across her shoulders, the bridge of her nose. At least now her breathing is even and her face is relaxed. 

She is a far cry from the audacious shinobi he knows she is, all ferocity in her expression smoothed away and Sasuke doesn’t mean to but he studies the architectural spectacle that is her face. A delicate nose and a sharp chin and cheeks that are round and usually filled with color. Her brows and lashes feathery and pink and her lips—

He recalls kissing them. The shape ingrained in his memory, the bow of her upper lip and the fullness of the lower. A breath passes them and he inhales, taking her in. 

Sasuke isn’t sure why he does it, but suddenly he leans forward, elbows braced on the bed. He hates her, he thinks, hates the way the bridge of her nose dips, hates the way her lashes flutter across the tops of her cheeks, hates the dark freckle he can see just below a corner of her mouth. 

He imagines her opening her eyes, hopes that she does so he can see that particular green one more time, but of course she doesn’t. So he lowers his head, the tip of his nose trailing down hers, dark hair curtaining over her face.

A part of him can’t help but wonder what would have happened if he never found out her secret, if she could simply be Haruno Seiko and in his platoon. Or if she was just a woman he met in the village. Or a billion other possible scenarios. But what ifs are dangerous and he knows this, so Sasuke just allows himself a selfish gesture:

He kisses her; a soft ‘Thank you, Sakura’ dances across parted lips.

Sasuke leaves his shirt with her, pretends it’s not a big deal, but Ino knows, just as Kakashi and Suigetsu and Genma know—it is a big fucking deal. He insists, in face of their mildly startled reactions, that the shirt is torn, beyond use, that is all. 

It is not about him wanting her to have something (anything) to remember him by.

Even as he asserts this in his mind (repeats it like a mantra, a prayer, a curse) her hitai-ate feels unbelievably, tauntingly heavy in his backpack.

.

.

Chapter Text

.

.

( II.2 — Things fall apart )

Sasuke is restless, fury swirls inside him even as he rides his horse amidst his squadron, marching back into Konoha to fanfare and applause. Uchiha Sasuke does not hear the praise over the roar of the flames in his ears. Passing through the Konoha Gates without his father, his brother, and her feels less like a home-coming and more like a punishment. 

A glance around his men tells him that everyone else feels the same. It is wrong, ill-deserved. 

It is a hollow victory, if their battle against Sound can be called as such at all. 

After depositing the Traitor in a village near the border, Squad 47 rendezvous with Konoha reinforcements, unaffiliated with the Uchiha Division. They bow deeply to Sasuke, apologies on their tongues for the passing of his brother and father. They pledge themselves to Sasuke, to help fill out the Uchiha forces until more young men can be trained and fill out the platoons. 

It is Kakashi that speaks on his behalf, a second-in-command that truly understands his commander’s mind, his actions, his feelings.

Uchiha Sasuke could not ask for a better number two because Hatake Kakashi receives the newcomers with a bowed head and assuring words. And Uchiha Sasuke only wants to stab his kunai through all their throats for daring to utter such useless hollow words.

(His fucking family was massacred and they think a simple bow and their condolences will make him feel better? At least be fucking honest.)

Even as he sits atop his mare, he can’t help but feel that there is a weight absent before him—the limp body of a poisoned young woman whose breath warmed his neck and whose hair smelled like fresh water and sage, a woman who was targeted simply because the Uchiha fan was on her back and the bounty hunters mistook her for him.

“Major General Uchiha Sasuke.”

The title does not belong to him, should not be his, the wrong name is attached—

“We commend you in your triumph over Sound.” A deep bow.

Get it fucking over with.

“The Hokage has planned a banquet in honor of your bravery, and the bravery of the Uchiha Divisions.”

Applause follows but Sasuke only hears his own internal screams.

(Fire is everywhere, the heat threatens to blister her skin. Screaming, so much screaming, the air so thick her own scream gets caught in her throat and she coughs, falling to her hands and knees. The wood beneath her burns, the walls, everything is red and orange and angry and crackling—

A broken window, slashes against a tiny palm from the glass, tiny feet running through the field and she stumbles in the mud, slipping into a small puddle.

She lies there, in the cool field, staring up at the blurry sky and she knows without having to look—she can’t look, can’t move, can barely breathe—that her parents are dead.)

.

Sakura stirs, breaths coming harshly past pursed lips. Memories echo and expand and swallow her whole.

.

(Blood, mouths open in silent screams.

A plume of dark smoke; Uchiha flags in tatters.

Eyes wide and filled with horror; some gouged out with kunai, some still hanging from their sockets as if plucked by a child who suddenly decided they didn’t want their new toy.

Unarmed men, mangled beyond recognition, missing limbs or else rearranged.)

.

The recovering young woman hisses, tenses, her body jerks as if trying to escape the covers. Ino hurriedly places a cool towel onto her forehead—Sakura burns.

.

(“Uchiha. So you have come to me at last. I was expecting greater forces, I must say—this is a pleasant surprise.”)

.

(A bloodied kunai behind the Major General’s neck. 

Unprepared shinobi slaughtered.)

.

When she resurfaces, she narrowly misses ramming her head into the blonde that hovers above her. 

Color returns to spring, first slowly then all at once, and Ino blinks, hands quickly finding Sakura’s shoulders to keep her still. But Sakura’s eyes are wild, panicked, and the blonde feels dread settle in her stomach.

“Where’s Sasuke?” the rosehead implores. “Is he here?” Before Ino can answer, Sakura throws the covers from her body, swiveling to place her feet on the floor. “I think...I think I know what happened to the Uchiha squads! It wasn’t Sound, couldn’t be Sound. They didn’t know Uchiha Fugaku was dead. Sound didn’t know about the massacre—“

Ino stands so fast her chair legs scrape. “Whoa, okay. Calm down, Sakura.”

“It wasn’t Sound, Ino, you have to tell him! It was someone else, someone who was close to them, I think. Maybe, probably, one of their men—“ she stands and immediately stumbles, but Ino is quick to catch her. “—Ino, we have to tell Sasuke—“

“Sakura,” the blonde commands, setting her patient back down on the bed, “Sasuke left. He had to go back with his platoon.”

Something ugly cuts through her but she ignores it. “We can send a hawk!” Sakura exclaims, frantic in her attempts to escape her friend’s hold. “He needs to be warned! What if whoever did it comes after him? After Konoha? Sasuke needs to—”

Slender arms slip around her and she is drawn into the blonde’s chest. “There aren’t any courier hawks in this village, Sakura. It’s civilian. But I’ll tell him, okay?” Ino consoles. “When I return to Konoha that’s the first thing I’ll tell him.”

Only after Sakura appears to calm does she realize the ugly sensation that pierced her before—

Uchiha Sasuke left. He left. 

(And she is angry with herself that it hurts at all because didn’t she know he would? Didn’t he say he would? He spared her life, isn’t that enough? 

Why isn’t it enough?)

“So,” Ino disrupts her thoughts, prodding her friend in her uninjured shoulder. “You’re a medic.”

Sakura’s brows gather together. She knows what her friend is doing—distracting a hysterical patient. “Yes,” she answers slowly, the end of the word inflecting up.

“No I mean, you’re a medic.”

Sakura waits for her to elaborate and Ino huffs.

“You’ve got real training—and no, nope. Enough lies. I can tell a true medic from those of us trained by field healers.”

“What do you mean?” the pink-haired chuunin tries instead.

“Sakura, I didn’t have the skill to save you from that poison.”

“So, Karin—?”

The blonde snorts. “Please, Karin can barely make a proper splint. It was you. Your body was isolating the poison on its own. In the time it took you to get here, it should have spread much further. Sakura...it was—it was a really close call and,

(something in the young woman’s voice alerts Sakura that Ino is dangerously close to crying, but composes herself)

“considering the insertion point,” Ino gestures to her friend’s shoulder, “it should have reached your heart already. But your chakra just...fought it. On its own. I’ve never seen anything like it.” 

Sakura tenses, wondering if she should reveal her secret. She likes Ino, she trusts Ino, but does she trust her that much? She looks away. “I’m sorry I can’t say who I’ve trained under but yes. I’m a...a combat-medic.”

Ino just nods, smiling. “Good, so I don’t have to feel so guilty leaving you here. By the way,” the blonde adds with a cheshire smile, “Sasuke was beside himself with grief.”

Sakura snorts, pleased in spite of herself. “He was not.”

“Oh, he was. And he left you that,” the blonde declares, pointing at a scrap of fabric on the nightstand.

“A...rag?”

“His juban,” Ino corrects.

Sakura smashes down the flicker of something that dares come to life in her chest. “His torn up shirt.”

“Are you an idiot? It’s got the Uchiha sigil.” 

The pink-haired woman maintains that it’s nothing, that she has no idea why Ino is practically squealing at the gesture, even though a part of her knows that having a clan’s symbol absolutely does mean something. Does it matter? He’s long gone and she’s unlikely to see him again. It could just be a parting gift. Or he simply decided he didn’t need it—it was ripped, afterall. 

Remnants of something that once held meaning. 

“Ino...where’s my hitai-ate?” Change the subject, deflect, deflectdeflectdeflect.

“Hm? Oh, I’m not sure. Must have left it behind,” the blonde muses, “it’s not like you need it anymore—“ and she gasps, hand over her mouth. “Oh. I’m sorry, Sakura, I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Huh?” Sakura comes back from her thoughts with a smile that both young women know doesn’t reach her eyes. “Oh, it’s fine I just...well I wanted you to have it,” she says. “To keep it for me, to remember me by.” 

It doesn’t take long for the gravity of the situation to hit them both and when it does it is as if all the warmth has been sucked from the room. They exchange looks laden with hesitation, regret, and in the midst of an embrace, Sakura realizes that Ino—flippant, charming, gossipy Ino—is the sister she never had. When she says as much,

Ino cries.

There are banners and lanterns hanging from every establishment, flags with the Konoha symbol on each pole. Excitement is in the air, suffocating, and Sasuke finds it near impossible to breathe. He shifts on his feet as he stands before all of Konoha. Kakashi, Suigetsu, and Genma flank him, the rest of Squad 47 lined up behind them for the denizens to see and admire. No, not the rest of Squad 47, they are one man down and Sasuke does not miss the gap between Uzumaki and Lee where Haruno always stood. 

Instantly, he is angry—his men are openly defying him and now it seems he is an unreliable leader, losing someone under his command. 

(What do they know about loss? What do they know about betrayal? Dead-last who gives smiles and trust in overabundance? Lee who finds the light in everything his bushy-browed eyes look upon? What the fuck do they know about the real world—?)

“Major General Uchiha Sasuke.”

The voice, old and revered, brings him back from the brink of rage and the young man blinks. The Elders and the Godaime are looking at him expectantly and it is a beat later that he realizes they want him to step forward. 

So he does.

The applause is almost loud enough to drown out the roar of the fire in his ears.

She runs as fast as her feet can take her, but despite her medic position in Squad 47 Ino has not trained day after day with the shinobi—she is not nearly as fast as they are and her chakra reserves are frustratingly low. Even so she races through Fire Country, everything Sakura told her burning in her mind.

(“It wasn’t Sound—couldn’t be Sound.”)

Ino’s lungs beg for air, muscles screaming for a reprieve, but cobalt eyes remain fixated on the distance. 

(“Sound didn’t know about the massacre.”)

The banquet is outdoors, in the plaza beneath Hokage Tower.

Sasuke sits with his platoon at a long table at the front, the Elders and Hokage sit upon a dais. Somewhere, a group is playing music, everywhere people are happily chatting and eating and enjoying themselves. (The civilian Uchiha table is somber and Sasuke hates that they are in attendance at all, they should not be subjected to this, should not have to sit through a banquet when they have received word that the other Uchiha shinobi are not coming home.)

He has barely taken a bite of his food, barely taken a drink of his sake. How can these people eat? How can they celebrate in wake of the slaughter of the platoons? Do they even understand what it means?

Their table is solemn.

This is wrong.

It’s all so wrong.

A growl escapes her as she pushes herself faster, farther, resolving to train more because really this is pathetic she can be better, women can be better.

(“Whoever did it, I think it was an Uchiha, and I think he’s still out there,” Sakura declares.)

“Should we go?” Suigetsu pipes up from across the table.

Dark eyes snap to find pale golden ones and Sasuke has never felt more grateful for his friend. He stands, eyes lowering to the piles of food before them, barely touched. “Aa,” he says quietly, though he’s certain his entire squad hears.

“Wait,” Uzumaki cuts in as everyone rises from their seats. Attention on him, the blond grabs one of the bottles of sake. “To the Uchiha,” he declares, pouring some out onto the ground.

The general nods, downs his cup of sake and sets it on the table.

Echoes of cups being firmly set on the table follow and he knows this rag-tag group of shinobi are behind him, there for him, and something warm curls in his stomach at the realization.

Maybe (maybemaybemaybe) he could get through this.

Screams erupt and he swivels to see civilians pointing at the dais.

Dark eyes jump to the main table—

The Konoha Gates are within sight and Ino expects to see the sentinels in their towers keeping watch but all she sees are bodies slumped over, blood trailing down the walls.

No.

Nonononono—

—and the Hokage doubles over, a sword protruding from his middle, the hilt grasped by a man, a phantom.

The Elders have scattered backwards, stumbling over their chairs to escape.

The Uchiha moves without thought, sprinting to the Godaime (Shimura Danzou who oversaw the growth of the Uchiha, Danzou who has been present every step of the way of Sasuke’s progress, Danzou who recommended Sasuke be given his own squad), eyes blinking Sharingan red. The murderer (Ghost, he thinks.) transports away but not before Sasuke reaches him and with a sudden pulse of pressure, the trio disappear from the pavilion.

“Sasuke!” comes from Ino who barrels into the banquet, stumbling on her final steps as her chakra peters out. Genma steadies her and she grabs his arms. “It wasn’t Sound,” she gasps, “Sound wasn’t behind the massacre! It was someone else, probably a comrade—”

“As I suspected,” Kakashi asserts, lifting his hitai-ate, “it was an Uchiha.”

Genma’s senbon falls from his lips.

Sasuke materializes in an all-too familiar place but rushes to the Hokage who is on his knees, blood flowing from the gash in his stomach—he is old and drunk and in no state to fight. He appears stricken, face contorted in the midst of something indescribably horrific. “Hokage-sama,” the Uchiha grunts, hands at the old man’s arms, “Hokage-sama.”

A quick scan of the vicinity (he ignores the flags with the Uchiha emblem, the hollow sound of wind across empty streets, grateful so fucking grateful that all the civilian Uchiha are at the banquet) alerts him to the culprit balanced atop a lamp post, a blade slick with blood in his grasp. Even from his distance Sasuke can see the pair of eyes that stare him down. He knows those eyes, he knows them and it’s not because the doujutsu is his clan’s.

Before he can stop himself, the title hisses past clenched teeth—“Nii-san.”

“No.”

Sasuke glares, face morphing to reflect the ugliness inside, the horror, the fury. “The hell do you mean ‘no’?” he roars, unsheathing his katana. “I know it’s you, Itachi! Why the fuck—“

Itachi flickers down from the pole, landing gracefully behind the bleeding Hokage. “I am Itachi,” he confirms, “but I am not your brother.” And before Sasuke can react, his brother’s blade slices across the village leader’s neck.

The spurt of blood comes out as an arc, a waterfall of deep crimson, and stains the front of Sasuke’s shirt. The old man gurgles and chokes and somewhere in the back of his mind Sasuke can only think of blood-soaked ground and the smell of ash.

“It was you,” he whispers, eyes widening at the revelation. “It was you?”

A slanted grin pulls up the edge of Itachi’s mouth. “Aa.”

The Hokage’s body crumples to the ground with a ‘thud’ that is both soft and jarringly loud.

Sasuke’s world tilts. Everything he has ever believed and known and looked up to is ripped from under him. Miraculously, he’s standing, but inside his mind reels. In his shock, the Sharingan bleeds into onyx.

It was Itachi.

His big brother stands, indolent yet expectant.

The blood spilt, the fires scorching—

Sasuke’s entire body is frozen in place as the unbelievable truth settles itself into his very core and his bones feel like lead.

the knife in the back of his father’s neck—

Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows his brother moves around the fallen Godaime, the slow measured steps echo along the empty street.

was all Itachi.

And

he

snaps.

He blocks his brother’s attack, the clang of steel vibrates through the night air. Sasuke shoves him away with all his might, every sad bitter ounce of strength he has pours from his bones, from his muscles, from his very blood as he chases after the phantom that looks just like his brother but can’t be (can’tcan’tcan’t) because Itachi would never—

(Itachi, who taught him to throw his very first shuriken.

Itachi, who taught him the forms of his father’s kata.

Itachi, who picked him up by the ankle to bring him inside when he’d refuse to stop training and go to bed.)

Itachi moves away with ease, shifting so as to release his other arm from behind his red-swirled cloak. Nothing in his face tells Sasuke he regrets anything he’s done, nothing in those black and red eyes holds remorse or sadness or anything besides cold, killing intent. And when the older Uchiha speeds forwards, Sasuke knows without a doubt that he means to run him through.

But Sasuke is not that little boy anymore, he’s not the little brother that Itachi could beat with an arm behind his back and Sharingan-less eyes. Sasuke has grown and improved and trained endlessly—mostly with Itachi—so he recognizes his brother’s move before Itachi can even execute it. The younger Uchiha deflects, catching his brother’s wrist and, with a blade charged with chidori, aims for a shoulder.

Itachi dips down, leg coming up so the flat of his foot knocks the sword away—it barely knicks his shoulder but leaves a burn against his skin, sears a hole through the cloak. The twist forces Sasuke to let him go and as Itachi completes his arc and comes back up, he fits an elbow against his little brother’s cheek.

Sasuke stumbles at the impact but recovers quickly, looping his arm through the crook of Itachi’s elbow and hauls him over his head. Just before he lets his arm slip away from his brother’s, they are practically nose-to-nose and Sasuke’s eyes widen at what stares back.

Itachi’s eyes are different.

And in that exchange of breaths, in that millisecond that he is in his brother’s proximity, Sasuke knows that he has no chance in hell of taking him down. He knows the shape of those tomoe, what it means.

.

(“Your Sharingan,” a ten-year-old Sasuke observes, “it’s different from mine.”

They sit on the dock of Uchiha Base 4, overlooking the lake that glistens at the foot of the cliff. Kakashi doesn’t look away from the setting sun as he answers: “It’s the Mangekyou.”

Sasuke has heard of it, of course he has, but only the fact that it is forbidden. “How did…” he begins, but knows the captain’s reluctance to talk about his bloody history so he trails off.

“My teammate,” the Copy-Nin answers, lone eye trained on the horizon, “wanted me to have it. It was his dying wish and...it’s triggered by the death of the most precious person to you…” and then Kakashi shrugs, sets his gaze on his pupil. “But you don’t have to worry about it. I’m sure you’re aware it’s forbidden.”

“Tch. Of course,” the boy scoffs, looking away.)

.

It is a miracle that he is still standing and Sasuke immediately pulses with lightning. His only hope is using everything in his arsenal; the Mangekyou is a dangerous tool in the hands of Hatake Kakashi, a non-Uchiha. He can’t even fathom its power under the command of an Uchiha, and a prodigy at that. His hand on the hilt of his sword is so tight, he wonders if it will snap and Sasuke, for all his years of looking up to his brother, doesn’t know how to feel right now.

How could he?

How could he?

How could he?

“Why did you kill ‘tou-san?” he croaks, feeling his eyes blur. “Why?” Sasuke charges, the embodiment of lightning itself, and he can feel the power crackle through his body, blood rushing through his veins, pulsing and with each pounding step that brings him closer to his last standing family screams why why whywhywhywhywhy—

The sound that tears from his throat is not his own, can’t be his, because it’s so tortured and desperate and Sasuke doesn’t recognize it at all, but the shouts come to a halt when Itachi cleanly dodges each and every assault and grasps his little brother’s throat.

“Wh-y?” comes out broken.

Itachi lifts him, nonplussed by the electricity that flows into his arm. The light from the chidori reflects in his Mangekyou, and Sasuke knows he’s lost when the tomoe spin.

Truth be told, he lost the moment Itachi arrived.

Chapter Text

.

.

( II.3 — Worlds collide )

(A roar of flames singes his hair and Sasuke rolls to the ground.

“You’re relying on your eyes too much,” Itachi states, waiting for his brother to stand up. 

Sasuke glares.

“Give me that look all you want but it won’t improve your reflexes.”

“You try dodging a wall of fire ,” the nine-year-old Uchiha grouses, but Itachi just laughs.

“You have no concept of war,” the older brother declares as he approaches. Before Sasuke can evade, he prods the boy’s forehead. “Perhaps it should remain that way.”)

.

Everything is black.

Or red.

Sasuke tenses and finds his arms stuck and legs bound. He is strapped to a beam, arms extended, legs together, and he is alone. He knows what it is though he’s never been in one before—Kakashi has explained it once, when Sasuke had asked just what he did to their enemy when the man was trapped in the Copy-Nin’s stare. The man subjected to it came out ready to die, begging for death.

Sasuke’s breath comes in sharp intakes and he tries to control it but he is well aware of the horrors to come.

From the shadows, Itachi emerges. He belongs in that world, Sasuke thinks, swathed in darkness and blood and with eyes sharp as blades.

“Why?” Sasuke isn’t sure what exactly he’s asking.

Why did he kill their squadrons?

Why did he kill the hokage?

Why is he attacking his own brother?

“Dammit Itachi, why?!”

Itachi’s chuckle is dark and oozes something that Sasuke refuses to recognize. “Foolish little brother,” the man (it’s not Itachi, it can’t be, that’s not the Itachi that he knows) declares in a voice that crescendos in the smoky crimson nightmare, “You have no concept of war.”

“War? Killing your own teammates isn’t war! Your own father!”

“You have no concept of war,” Itachi repeats, and suddenly there are six of him, gathered around Sasuke’s form. “No concept of the world.”

The younger Uchiha scoffs. “Perhaps it should remain that way,” he responds.

And to his disgust, his brother smiles. “You are not nine anymore, Sasuke.” Excruciatingly slowly, he unsheathes his sword (all six versions of him) and slides it through Sasuke’s middle.

.

(“Too slow!” Itachi barks, hand jutting forward and shoving his younger brother backwards.

Sasuke—eight years old and eager to practice his shinobi training—flies back, hits a tree, crumples. Then he stands because he is not a weakling and he will get that annoying silver bell tied at his brother’s hip.) 

.

He shuts his eyes and hates that every sound is visceral, every sensation heightened.

Pain is something Uchiha Sasuke can take; he is not weak, he does not succumb easily, but the feel of the blades slicing through his skin, his muscle, hearing the squelch of his own blood, has him almost grit his teeth to powder. 

He will not scream he will not scream 

he will not scream!

.

(The skies are blue and the trees are green and the flames that roar to life across the Uchiha lake are so hot he feels sweat form on his forehead. His father sets a hand on his shoulder—it took a week (longer than Itachi needed) for Sasuke to master their clan’s katon jutsu.

Sasuke is five and so proud of himself but he wishes that Itachi was there to witness his milestone.

Lonely applause calls his attention to the doorway into the house where Itachi is standing. “Careful, otouto-san. You’ll light the house on fire.”

Sasuke’s face splits into a giant smile.)

.

“In this world time is meaningless. Reality does not exist. The only thing that matters is my will,” Itachi intones.

Sasuke opens his eyes and there is only one iteration of his brother and no swords buried to the hilt in his torso. But the pain is still there, phantom agony that leaves him sweating and breathless and he curls his hands into fists. “What’s the point of all this?” he demands, as imperious as ever.

Itachi stares at him, unwavering as he answers: “What is the point of anything?”

More versions of his brother flicker into existence. 

In that realm, there are hundreds of Itachis and a spattering of Sasukes and he hates seeing the look of sheer terror on his own face. The only worse expression is the one of detachment in Itachi’s as he raises his sword again.

.

(Thunk. 

Thunk.

Thunk.

Sasuke is four and sits on the deck, watching his nii-san train in the backyard. The shuriken fly from his fingers with such speed that little dark eyes can’t even hope to track them. The only evidence of Itachi having moved at all is the three shuriken buried deep into the three targets, and Sasuke briefly wonders if they had been there all along and his older brother is playing a trick on him.

But Itachi just glances over and grins and Sasuke knows it is not a trick, it is just his big brother being amazing . 

He cheers. Then, “Will you teach me?” 

Itachi wanders over, crouches down, and pokes his forehead. “Next time.”)

.

The agony rips through him and he tenses, feeling his blood gush from every wound, feeling the blade slide through tendons, pierce organs—

“What, you’re not proud of your older brother hitting every target this time?”

—and Sasuke screams.

Then he is on his knees and Ino is at his side, assessing him for injuries. 

Someone grasps his shoulders (dimly he thinks the hands are wrong, fingers too long, palm too small, too soft and without callouses) and he knows in the back of his mind that she is there (Ino, he knows Ino’s grip, her healing), bright blue eyes studying him. But all he sees is red and black and blood and he is trembling in her too-gentle hold. He sees her mouth moving, recognizes the name on her lips as his but he can’t move, can’t think, can’t do anything but relive the nightmare—

She protects him from an errant flame.

“Sasuke, you have to get up! Can you move? Your legs seem okay—”

But he is not there. Barely breathing, frozen in terror.

“Sakura won’t forgive me if I let you sit here and die so get off your ass and move!” she demands.

Something in the back of his mind flutters at the name—

“This is not how it ends, Sasuke! This can’t be it! Your family is depending on you!”

His family.

His family.

He rouses from the crippling fear, recognizes the pretty face crumpled in worry and stands. “Ino—” before he can say anything at all he curls an arm around her and pushes them away from the after-effects of Kakashi’s chidori as it ripples through the cobblestone path, just missing Itachi. 

The blonde’s scream is muffled by the static chirping.

“Round up the civilians,” he orders, “get them as far away from here as you can.” He knows she is about to protest, recognizes the impertinence in her face, the tension in her jaw when she opens her mouth, and cuts her off. “Yamanaka. That’s an order.”

Ino looks at him, eyes discerning, and then she nods and leaves his side.

There is something surreal about seeing his brother fight his second-in-command. Two men in his life that guided him, taught him, shaped him into the man he had become. It tears him apart but he knows he has to stand with Kakashi—there is no doubt in his mind about it. And so he diverts his brother’s attack with a wall of fire, protecting the Copy-Nin.

Itachi’s features are alight in orange before the flames are dispersed.

The battle that ensues demolishes a sizable portion of the Uchiha District, his squad are there with him, his chosen family. They lay waste to the streets, fire encircles the area, many of his men are injured, bodies littered on the ground, and Sasuke refuses to let the thought filter through his head (but it does because how can he not compare this image to that of the Uchiha platoons’ massacre?) and charges at his brother.

A blond sprints alongside him, red chakra emanating from his form, and together they exchange blows with the impossibly strong Uchiha. But Sasuke is tired, so fucking exhausted, and he can feel the last dredges of his chakra sputter as the chidori disappears and Itachi manages to catch a knee to his temple and flies to the side, skidding on the ground, head smashing into the cobbelstone path.

“Sasuke!” Naruto roars, jumping at the oldest Uchiha, face absolutely feral.

But Itachi turns in time to catch him around the throat.

And Sasuke knows what is happening, what is going to happen, sees the color drain from the blond’s face, sees the look of absolute horror overtake his features and he digs his fingers into the ground.

One step.

Two.

Five.

And he’s running.

And his blade cuts clean through Itachi’s back.

Naruto falls from his grip, crumples to the floor, stricken from the Tsukuyomi.

Itachi looks down at the blade protruding from his middle, stiff, alarmed, and his hands move to the wound as if to staunch the blood flow, but it seeps through his fingers. He falls to his knees, staring at the blade coated in his blood and Sasuke withdraws it in a single, harsh, unforgiving motion. 

His foot meets the back of his brother’s head and he shoves him down.

Itachi folds.

Sasuke knows he can deliver the final blow—a kunai to the back of the neck, just like his father—but…

but…

Instead, he shoves the body so he can see his brother’s face, careful not to meet his eyes. Itachi is pale, the blood quickly leaving him, and staring at the sky at the spattering of stars that wheels overhead. He looks...at peace, and it is unnerving. 

“Nii-san,” Sasuke croaks as he crouches at the man’s side (and he hates that his voice sounds so broken still, after all that has transpired).

Itachi’s gaze flickers to his brother, his last remaining family and slowly, so slowly that Sasuke knows it is not a trick, not an attack, not a last ditch effort, he lifts his arm and pokes the center of Sasuke’s forehead.

In that instant, Uchiha Sasuke is shown a series of memories, clips of conversations and suddenly

suddenly

he understands.

He gasps, finds his brother’s face, the eyes that glowed red are now black and he sees his brother, sees the weary lines beneath his eyes, sees the pained look of acceptance. “Everyone?” he whispers in disbelief, catching Itachi’s wrist. “Why?”

Itachi smiles. It is soft and reminiscent of gentle approval. “Everyone,” he answers. “It’s unforgivable but…” he tenses, voice weak, pathetic, a shadow of the brother that Sasuke knows, admires. “I had to do it. And you...you had to do this—“

And of course Sasuke knows, completely understands his brother’s insane hope—that his sins would be atoned for in his death, in his murder—and he shakes his head. “No, that’s fucking stupid,” he growls, grasping at Itachi’s hand. “You idiot, you’re supposed to be a fucking genius, a prodigy. Why did you...why did…”

“It’s okay,” Itachi assures him, fingers curling around his little brother’s palm. “It’s okay now.”

“Itachi—?

“Itachi, please!

“Nii-san!”

Eventually things quiet down and Sasuke sits on the ground in a pool of his brother’s blood. Chakra depleted, head swimming—in agony and confusion and fury and exhaustion.

Healers arrive on scene to tend to his squadron.

Sasuke stares at nothing, sits still even as others around him stir.

He remains silent even as the Elders arrive, determine the Hokage murdered, demand the whereabouts of the man responsible.

He does not say a damn thing even as people ask him where Itachi is.

Sasuke only blinks at them, expression blank.

People are shouting, accusations are hurled and Sasuke just continues to sit on the blood-stained earth as the Elders announce him an accomplice to the Hokage’s assassination. 

He is declared a traitor.

He does not even get to see the civilians of his clan, does not get to tell them himself that their father and sons and brothers and husbands are dead. He does not get to tell Kyouta that his older brother’s eyes were gouged, does not get to tell Akiko that her husband’s arms were ripped from its sockets—

Their dark eyes are disbelieving and sad and accusatory as he is walked, still bloodied and beaten from the battle, to the high-security prison.

Shinobi in white masks—Anbu, he thinks, and he recognizes each and every porcelain face that he meets, his own spiral ink marring his arm—escort him (practically drag him).

He goes willingly, still silent, still blank.

Even as the bars are locked before him, long after the final footsteps have died away, he knows that he has done the right thing.

Helping Itachi escape. 

The next morning a trial is held to determine his fate.

He is not awake for it, having passed out from sheer chakra depletion. He misses the impassioned speech from his platoon that he would never betray his village, his brothers in arms, not even for his own blood.

He misses the Elders bringing to light the fact that Itachi’s body is conveniently missing and nowhere to be found and how Sasuke was the only one aware and awake and refused to answer.

It does not take long for it to be decided: execution.

Sakura can’t shake the feeling that something is terribly, terribly wrong.

The chair she sits in snaps a leg and she tumbles over.

The threshold over her door cracks.

A bird flies into her window, breaking its wing against the glass (she finds it later, heals it).

Haruno Sakura is superstitious and so the day following Ino’s departure she packs her belongings, checks the vials, stuffs the torn Uchiha shirt into her pack, and leaves the inn, leaves the remote civilian village. Sasuke never told her she had to remain there, after all.

She charges through Konoha forest. She’s better, much better, chakra replenished, and so she races through Fire Country, back to where she left her mentor in Wind.

It feels good to be on the move, and she tries to fill her thoughts with seeing Tsunade, doesn’t let them linger on the friends she’s made. Tells herself she doesn’t wonder about whether or not Naruto has actually eaten Ichiraku every night as he said he would when back in Konoha, doesn’t wonder if Ino has told Shikamaru she fancies him. She doesn’t think about the Copy-Nin and his penchant for his perverted little novels, she doesn’t miss Kiba’s pranks, Suigetsu’s harmless flirting, or Lee’s ever-present encouragement in every little thing even whoever is quickest to set up their tent. 

Most of all she doesn’t think about eyes that burn like fire with the Sharingan, or dark hair that falls over sharp angles, or the planes of a strong chest and the way he lights her aflame from within, the way each finger leaves burning prints across her body, the way just the sound of his voice—

Sakura misses a branch and free-falls.

She reaches out, catches herself (of course she does) and hugs her arms about the trunk of the tree, forehead resting against the bark.

She refuses to cry, it’s pointless. Her mission is and always has been to retrieve the antidote for the Slug Sannin. She was foolish to allow herself to feel a part of the family that is Division 47. They were a means to an end, that is all.

(So why does her heart constrict at the thought of a loudmouth blond and a dark-haired general and the Copy-Nin’s single condescending eye and a blonde medic’s cheshire grin?)

“Get a hold of yourself,” she demands, peeling away from the tree. “Tsunade-sama needs you.”

Who knows how long she has left?

But just as Sakura is about to push off back into the canopy she feels it, as fleeting as smoke but she feels it.

His chakra. 

And there is a body in the brush with that faint pulse, undetectable if she wasn’t so attuned to it. It flickers, threatening to go out, and she flash-steps. 

What she finds is a man face down in the dirt. Dark hair. Shinobi attire—

Sakura turns him over, his name on her tongue—

and freezes. 

She knows those features: the aquiline nose, the cut of the jaw (perhaps a bit sharper but still familiar, too familiar), the height of those cheekbones (but they are hollow, gaunt), the set of the brow (imperious even when unconscious). Everything is so familiar but wrong.

The hair is longer, there are scars she doesn’t recognize but even so there’s no denying who he is, the resemblance is so uncanny it lances through her chest.

A part of her wants to finish the job—he’s half-dead as it is, his breath barely slipping past bleeding lips. She knows what he’s done, knows because who else could have killed his entire shinobi division? Knows because he’s the only one left. Knows because Major General Fugaku was killed by a kunai to the back of the neck and who would he allow that close to him without so much as a hesitation? Who else but his own son?

And wouldn’t it be fitting, she thinks, that this man (Itachi, she knows, because Sasuke has mentioned his family and the fact that she knows hurts even more because didn’t she say she’d like to meet his older brother someday?) meets his end in a similar manner? 

What he did to his own family. 

What he’s done to Sasuke.

It courses through her: hate. 

Sakura moves on instinct, he is the enemy, she should be ready to spill his blood for the sake of his brethren, the sake of his literal brother, and she knows this like she knows the steps of Sasuke’s kata, like she knows the major arteries and blood vessels that can incapacitate or kill, she knowsknowsknows and her blade is at his throat. So why can’t she do it?

It is Sasuke’s chakra that she feels; there are chakra burns on Itachi’s shoulders.

What if it wasn’t him? What if Sasuke saved him?

But who else could it be that slaughtered the Uchiha divisions?

What if Itachi escaped? What if he tried to save Sasuke? Whatifwhatifwhatif—

Her vision blurs and that is the only indication that she is crying. A choked sob escapes her and she withdraws her hand. Sakura doesn’t know his story, doesn’t know anything, and she wishes she could ask. 

Whose blood is that, Itachi? Whose blood stains your blade? Should you be saved or killed?

It is on a whim—a fragile shard of what she feels she owes her Uchiha general—that she decides to belay the urge to end the man before her. So she picks him up, hauling him across her back, and continues to the border of Wind. 

She will learn the truth and then she will act.

Warm eyes greet her even before Sakura appears on the hilltop.

Shizune knows her signature, knows the hum of it, and she scrambles outside of the little house in the valley, arms open wide for the young girl (woman now, she corrects) who sprints through the short distance between them. Sakura carefully deposits the body on her back onto the grass and launches straight into the woman she considers her aunt.

And she cries

and cries

and cries.

.

.

Chapter Text

.

.

( II.4 — Following spring )

July 26th

—

“You did well, Sakura,” Shizune praises as she studies the vials.

Sakura pores over a spattering of textbooks, all open to various pages regarding poisons and sicknesses and blood. “I grabbed everything I could see,” she says.

Shizune smiles. “I think you grabbed exactly what we need.”

A week passes with Sakura and Shizune monitoring not one but two patients. 

Shizune has asked who the man is, but Sakura is unsure how to respond and always evades. So Shizune refers to him as Sakura’s boyfriend, much to the pink-haired medic’s irritation.

There is no denying that Sakura is happy to be reunited with her mentors, but there is a fragility in her smiles that is a new development. Shizune knows it can’t be easy to carry on as if Sakura has not left behind an entire family—her time with Platoon 47 was short-lived, but they endeared themselves to her in a permanent and transformative way. 

For the most part, Sakura is able to temper her sadness, but Shizune has known her for majority of her life and dark eyes take note of the tightness in her grip when she heals her own wounds, the way her eyes glimmer with unshed tears whenever she trains, but the most noticeable change in behavior by far is the fact that Haruno Sakura wakes up every morning to perform a kata at dawn. (Sakura had to be pried from her bed by force if anyone wanted her up by 9am let alone dawn.)

Shizune does not recognize the kata and surmises it must be from her shinobi squad. A part of her wants to pry, wants to know, wants to ask, but Sakura is—uncharacteristically—quite private about her experience. It is a far cry from the young girl alone in her burned down village who wore her heart on her sleeve.

Sakura has secrets, things she holds delicately within herself and Shizune knows better than to shove her hands into Sakura’s ribs and pull out a heart of glass. 

So the dark haired young woman just offers polite smiles when Sakura blinks back from her reveries.

July 28th

—

“Tsunade’s vitals—”

“Taken,” Sakura’s voice calls from the kitchen where she creates a paste from gathered herbs. She walks to the back room to see Shizune in the middle of changing Itachi’s bandages. 

The brunette grins. “Oh! I’m sorry, Sakura, I know what this must look like—”

Sakura rolls her eyes and hip-checks her friend to the side. “Oh shut up, Shizune,” she scoffs as she settles in to spread the paste onto the open wound (Sakura knows the culpable blade—recognizes the skin scorched by lightning, there is no denying the injury was inflicted by Sasuke. So why didn’t he finish the job?).

At least there is some of that old bite in the pastel-haired medic’s tone that Shizune can recognize from the Sakura she knows.

July 29th

—

Viridian eyes study the ceiling, tracing imaginary constellations through the shadows. As every night since arriving, sleep hangs overhead like a grey sky without rain; she can feel its gentle mist but the downpour never comes. 

Ten days have come and gone and she misses her friends like a phantom limb. It hurts, the ache deep and untouchable and something she is not ready to divulge.

Sakura is aware of the paper-thin barrier that exists between her and Shizune and she appreciates the brunette’s tact. She knows it can’t last forever, eventually the dark haired woman will come barging through, but Sakura is not ready. She’s not ready to confess that she found a second family in Squad 47. 

How can you tell the woman who found you, saved you, took you in, that you miss your new family?

You can’t.

July 30th

—

On the eleventh day Itachi stirs and Sakura’s whole body tenses. She peers over her shoulder at him—he has not moved an inch from the bed, his body in the exact same position as she left it. 

Green eyes narrow before she leaves the room.

.

.

.

“Sakura?”

“Hmm?” Sakura hums from her seat on the couch in the living room, a text open in her lap.

“Is there a reason your boyfriend’s wrists are tied to the bed posts?”

Tsunade’s vitals are stable and normal and the color has returned to the unconscious blonde so Sakura is in a good mood and dares to wink. “You mean you can’t guess?”

Shizune chokes on her tea.

July 31st

—

The next night, after Sakura has checked on her teacher one last time and has finished replacing the bandages on the Uchiha lying in the cot, she stretches until a satisfying ‘pop’ relieves the pressure in her shoulders before heading towards the door to turn in. 

But a voice stops her—“Why?”

Sakura swivels so fast she almost falls over.

Itachi’s eyes blink once, twice, then flutter as if unsure of exactly how eyes are meant to work. He’s looking at her, inquisitive and lost and she stands impossibly still under his gaze. 

“Am I dead?” 

His voice is so weak, so sad, that she can’t help but feel a wave of (completely confusing, misplaced, why is she even feeling anything other than anger) sympathy. “No,” she answers, just as quietly.

But he doesn’t hear; he’s fallen asleep, and Sakura, against her better judgement, finally allows her eyes to study his face. She can concede that the resemblance to her general is uncanny but now, as color returns to him, with her thoughts mostly clear of panic and guilt, she can see that Itachi is very different from his little brother. The planes of his face are more severe, his chin more rugged, his cheek-bones more pronounced. It is not unattractive, but it is also not Sasuke. Itachi is carved from delicate glass, exquisite with sharp edges that twist and turn and seem to give more depth to his countenance. Sasuke is cut from marble, hard planes with matte softness—

“Sakura?”

“Hm?”

Shizune peers into the room, glancing between the medic and her evidently unconscious patient. “Were you...talking to…?”

Sakura blinks. “He came-to. Briefly.”

“Right.”

Shizune turns away but not before Sakura notices the amused smile that tugs on her mentor’s lips.

“He did,” she insists, if a bit petulant, following the dark-haired woman into the kitchen. “Shizune, I have to tell you…”

This is what the older woman has been waiting for. Rather than pressing Sakura, she has given the pink-haired medic time and space to resolve to come to Shizune on her own, and so the poisons expert hums from the kitchen table, reigning in her relief and excitement that Sakura (her headstrong, resolute Sakura) is finally coming home.

Shizune keeps it light: “Your boyfriend woke up?”

Sakura blanches, “He’s not my—“ and pinches the bridge of her nose. A wavering exhale through her nostrils precedes news that Shizune is not expecting. “Look, he’s Uchiha Itachi,” 

(Shizune promptly spits her tea back out into her cup)

“and I suspect he massacred his platoon, and his father’s platoon...and possibly killed his brother? I mean, I have no idea—”

Shizune, tea dripping down her chin: “He what?”

“I suspect!” Sakura repeats, voice going up an octave. “I’m not sure, and I can’t just...I can’t just…”

Shizune takes a deep, steadying breath, sets her cup down. “You need to know for sure,” she concludes.

Sakura nods. “If he is innocent, Sasuke would never forgive me if I killed his brother.”

The paper-thin something that hangs between them gets heavier and Shizune worries her lip with the news. This is not at all what she anticipated—she is not trained for this. The apprentice Tsunade sent out has come back with a Konoha criminal.

Right, okay. Keep it light. Don’t over-react. “So, is this Sasuke your boyfriend?”

August 1st

—

When Itachi finally fully wakes, it is twelve days later to a kunai aimed at his throat and his hands bound to the bed frame. 

First he sees the blade, then he sees the hand attached to it, then the arm, then the disarmingly delicate looking young woman glaring at him. His thoughts are all over the place and in that moment he wonders if his vocal chords even work.

Mercifully, she speaks first. “I could kill you.” 

Something in her green eyes tells him she means it, but Itachi can’t bring himself to care. He parts his lips and sees her gaze flit from his eyes to his mouth. “I should be dead.”

“You're a traitor to Konoha,” she growls (and he thinks how unfitting it is, to hear such hatred from such a pretty face), “You betrayed your village, your family, Sasuke—” the name slips past her mouth before she can stop it and at once she wishes she had kept it locked behind clenched teeth.

Something hardens in his eyes at the mention of his brother.

Sakura tenses, unsure of how to interpret Itachi’s reaction. Did he…? Is Sasuke…? The thought is enough to undo her and her gaze darkens as she presses her free hand into the mattress; a tiger flexing her claws. “Did you kill him, too,” is delivered as a threat, a warning, rather than a question.

Itachi assesses her, perplexed at how the embodiment of spring can achieve such a glacial tone. “No,” the Uchiha exhales, “he should have killed me.”

“But he didn’t,” Sakura hedges.

“No.”

“Why not.” 

More demands and Itachi wonders if it is a trait she has picked up from his dear brother or if she’s always been so tenacious. Rather than answer, he closes his eyes and sighs in a world-weary way that makes Sakura—for a moment—feel sorry for him. “I...told him the truth.”

“The truth,” Sakura deadpans. “That you massacred your own platoon? Killed your father with your own hand?”

Silence.

“You don’t even try to deny it?”

Nothing.

Quietly, perhaps desperately, “Why?”

Dark eyes settle on her face. “You should just kill me.”

“I just healed you!” Sakura chides, affronted.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

She huffs, a muttered ‘Just as stubborn’ leaving pursed lips.

Itachi tries to control his amusement (this is hardly the time for levity), but his mouth quirks all the same. “As stubborn as Sasuke?”

A bevy of emotions blooms across tan skin and green eyes.

“You know my little brother,” he surmises.

“Everyone knows of the Uchihas,” Sakura says dismissively, comporting herself in a manner befitting a trained kunoichi.

“You don’t know ‘the Uchihas.’ You know Sasuke.” There is an implication in his words. This woman is acquainted with Sasuke’s manner, knows he is hard-headed. What else does she know?

Sakura fights the blush that threatens to warm her cheeks but of course Itachi sees it. He sees it and he wonders just who this woman is who bothered to save his life only to threaten it. Whose teeth are bared at the mere thought of his younger brother, who was ready to slit his throat if he had a hand in Sasuke’s death.

“Sakura, are you talking to your unconscious boyfriend again because I have to say, it’s a bit—” (Sakura could kill Shizune as she walks through the door and notices the very conscious man on the bed.) “—oh.”

“Oh,” the younger medic parrots.

“Sakura, huh?” Itachi muses, 

(and she startles at the sound of his voice around the syllables of her name and she can’t help but remember the way Sasuke said it, hoarse and raspy and loaded with something that neither of them knew what to do with and she purses her lips because she will not cry)  

then, “A bit on the nose, isn’t it?”

Sakura frowns and grumbles ‘Just as fucking annoying’ as she leaves.

August 6th

—

Green eyes are sharp, astute, and he knows she trusts him as far as she can throw him (Itachi, of course, has no concept of exactly how far Sakura can throw anything) so he decides to be good, polite, in the hopes that she will lower her hackles. She has no reason to trust him, and until he is ready to divulge the truth of what happened, she will not budge.

(And Itachi is not ready, it is a dark fucked up tragic situation and perhaps he wants to dwell a little bit longer in this world painted in pinks and golds and greens where he wakes to birdsong and peace before returning to the world he’s meant to be in: red and black and horrified screams.)

So Itachi watches.

He watches Sakura tie her choppy hair up into a messy knot and blow the front strands out of her face when they come loose.

He watches her practice her sunrise forms from his window over and over and over, for hours (he knows that kata, knows it like his own name, like the feel of blood squeezing through his fingers).

He watches her tend to the hole in his stomach with adept hands—hands that are both delicate and firm, palms slightly wide and fingers slender.

He watches her bring him breakfast—toast, tea, and maybe some fruit.

And one day, he watches her look at him distantly, as if lost in thought, something akin to affection in her eyes. He wonders if she is seeing someone else on the bed, someone else in his place. He wonders if his semblance to his family hurts her more than she lets on.

“Sakura-san?” he prompts.

She blinks and the affection is gone. “Sorry, I—I should go.”

He does not see her for three days.

August 9th

—

When she does return, he notes discoloration beneath dull eyes, the paleness of usually flushed cheeks. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Sakura gives him such a haughty look he can’t help but think of his little brother. “For your information, my mentor had...she…” for a moment Itachi expects her to fall apart, but she refrains. “Well, it was a bit touch and go these past few days and I had to monitor her around the clock.”

He hums.

She studies him then, as if deciphering an ancient language. “You missed me.”

Itachi shrugs. “Shizune-san is pleasant company.”

At this, Sakura scoffs. Not that she believes Shizune is unpleasant, but Sakura has it on good authority that he did not so much as speak more than two words to the dark haired medic. Sakura rolls her eyes. “Right.”

“Sakura.” 

The lack of an honorific stills her movements.

She’s not looking at him. She can never truly look at him, the one time she did, she lost herself and he didn’t see her for three days. Even now, her eyes are trained on the gash at his middle, hands glowing green, ready to inspect her work. He knows he’s all healed, and he knows that she must be aware. So why does she keep returning?

“Look at me.”

One breath. Two.

It is in slow motion that she turns her head. Her eyes draw up his torso, up his neck, find his chin, his mouth, his nose, then his eyes and that is where they lose precious time because Sakura is struck dumb by his eyes. 

(The same shade, she thinks. They’re the same fucking shade.)

And Itachi? He sees only pain in hers. This woman, whoever she is, knows his little brother. Cares for him. Hurts for him.

“Why didn’t you let me die,” he breathes, unable to look away from the magnificent heartbreak reflected in her stare. It feels so vulnerable, so private, and as he beholds it a part of him wonders if he deserves such blatant honesty from anyone let alone her. 

Sakura for all her deflection and contrived excuses is trapped in his gaze, lost in the depths of something so cruelly familiar that she just can’t lie, can’t even fathom saying anything besides the truth guarded only with chapped lips and a weakening constitution: “I can’t be the person who takes away Sasuke’s only family.”

And Itachi decides that this woman—with her hanami hair and seafoam eyes and bleeding heart on her sleeve—deserves to know the truth.

So he closes his eyes, releases her from their hold, and whispers. “I will tell you.”

.

.

.

Half an hour is not a long time. Not really.

In half an hour Sakura can make a simple meal.

In half an hour she can sharpen about a third of her weapons.

In half an hour she is still wide awake in her cot, unable to quiet her mind enough to even entertain the idea of rest.

But the half hour where Itachi divulges his tale seems to last much longer, the seconds stretching as ice fills her veins, slows her heart rate, her whole body, freezes her from the inside because everything is so fucked up—

(“Do you think the universe punishes us for the things we do?” echoes in her head.)

Half an hour is all it takes for Haruno Sakura to understand.

August 11th

—

The air shifts like a door on a hinge after Itachi reveals his truths. Where he would always regard the pink-haired medic with wary respect, he now matches her quip for quip and Sakura is unsure if she is bemused or annoyed in his manner. There is certainly no question of where Sasuke had gotten his snide remarks (granted, Itachi delivers them with more of a poignant stare than burning glare).

When she finally resolves to free his hands, he massages his wrists, flexing his fingers. He feels her gaze like a blade upon his skin and glances her way. She is staring at his arm. 

“It’s a tattoo,” he says.

“I know that.” 

“Apologies, you just seem intrigued by it.” His tone is somehow both teasing and condescending at the same time.

Sakura snorts, crosses her arms. “I just...I’ve seen it before and was trying to figure out where.”

Itachi has his guesses but keeps them to himself. Instead, he shrugs. “It’s a spiral. Spirals are everywhere. It’s in the ramen you brought,” he says, dipping his chin to the bowl she offers. “Maybe I just really like the design?” 

He sounds so nonchalant that she almost thinks he’s being sincere. Almost. It’s the lofty quirk of his brow that gives him away and Sakura practically drops the meal into his unprepared lap—he catches it with little effort and the accompanying laugh is low, restrained, but still evidently amused.

Sakura rolls her eyes.

August 19th

—

A month after Sakura has returned, the Slug Sannin rouses to full consciousness.

Shizune’s exclamation (“Tsunade-sama!”) followed quickly by the crashing of pottery calls Sakura from the front of the modest house and she scrambles into the room (stepping over the tray and shattered ceramic bowl Shizune has dropped at the entryway) to witness the dark haired woman at Tsunade’s side.

Hazel eyes flit to the door at her arrival and for a long moment, Sakura cannot move. There, on the bed looking still far too pale and far too gaunt but awake and alive and giving Sakura a look reminiscent of expectation is—

“Well don’t just stand there, brat, come greet your teacher,” Tsunade barks.

Sakura’s vision blurs and she laughs. “Sorry, Shishou.”

Even after narrowly avoiding certain death, the blonde is a force to be reckoned with and as Sakura takes a seat on the opposite side of Shizune she can’t help but feel, for the first time since leaving Squad 47, that she is home.

August 22nd

—

“Uchiha.”

Itachi blinks. “Lady Tsunade.”

Three days later and the Sannin is up and about despite the protests of both her apprentices. But Tsunade is not a master in her art for nothing and she despises being helpless, waited on, and she pushes past them and heads towards the kitchen to make her own damned cup of tea (and so what if she fully intends to grab a bottle of sake, she nearly died!) but her trek pauses when she sees the man sitting at the kitchen table.

Hazel eyes dart to her pink-haired apprentice. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Well—”

Tsunade glances back at the Uchiha who is having miso soup as if he always has miso soup, has been having miso soup, in that very chair every day of his life. There is no accusation in her tone when she asks, “Lost your squad?”

Silence.

Tsunade Senju is many things: granddaughter of the first hokage, master medic, a Sannin, an alcoholic, and even a gambler.

What she is not is patient.

Her fist slams on the table, spilling the soup.

Itachi sighs, setting down his spoon. “The Godaime is dead.” Implication settles in the structure of both the Uchiha and the little house that, until then, has been a sanctuary from shinobi politics.

The blonde studies the man before her, eyes as shrewd as ever, and she scoffs, meandering to the cabinets, “Mm, he was an idiot.”

“Shishou!”

“Well he was!” Tsunade asserts, not turning from her task. She rummages through the shelves before grunting and opening another cabinet, not bothering to shut the first. “Don't you wonder why I haven’t been back to Konoha after the Fourth passed? Danzou has always been selfish and power-hungry. I take it you killed him, then? If your absence from the village is any indication—ah ha!” and she procures a bottle of alcohol. 

Itachi can’t hide his curious amusement. “You don’t seem bothered.”

A shrug, carefree as she snags two cups and sits at the table. “Like I said, he was an asshole. He had it coming. Here,” she declares, pouring some sake and pushing it towards the Uchiha, “now tell me everything.”

Surprisingly, he does.

August 30th

—

If anyone had told Sakura prior to leaving her mentor’s side that she would return and spend her nights around the kitchen table with not only her mentors but also Uchiha Itachi playing poker she would have delivered a solid punch to the messenger’s face because that is just absolutely beyond ridiculous. 

“I raise you 20 ryo,” Tsunade declares.

Itachi is unreadable as ever and Sakura and Shizune glance between the duo, both having opted out of that round. “I see your 20 ryo and raise you 40.”

“I raise you 100!”

Aghast, in perfect harmony: “Shishou!” and “Tsunade-sama!”

Knock, knock.

All four shinobi trade wary glances.

There is a chakra signature at the front step and it takes a moment for Sakura to recognize the visitor. She gasps, palms flattening on the table in shock, before springing to her feet to answer it. The remaining trio lean to see who it is just as Sakura throws open the door.

“Pakkun!” she breathes in disbelief, immediately crouching to welcome the ninken.

“Huh. You look different,” he observes, blinking indolent eyes at her. Pakkun approaches, sniffing, and gives her knee a lick. “Nice to see you again,” a pause, then, “Sakura.”

She smiles, but it falters. “What are you doing here? Is Kakashi alright?”

He shakes his head, the motion following along his body to his little tail. “Kakashi’s fine. But he wanted me to deliver this scroll to you—“ and he places his front paws on her knees so she can take the missive tucked into his collar.

Sakura carefully extracts the message, unrolling the scroll:

Konoha has fallen. Sasuke is dead. 

.

.

Chapter Text

.

.

( II.5 — Coming to terms )

July 19th

—

What becomes of a prince with no family? An heir when what he rules has been reduced to dust? 

The Uchiha clan is revered in Konoha (Was, Sasuke thinks as he sits in the dark) and his father was the head. What happens to a body when the head is chopped off? 

It dies.

Everything he has learned, everything he has held dear, dared to believe in, has been so assiduously ripped from his hands. His future has been robbed, taken apart by vultures, leaving only an unrecognizable carcass behind and from those rotting bones Sasuke has to gather the pieces that he can salvage or else completely lose himself to the grief.

.

“I can’t—” Sasuke gasps, cowering over his brother’s form, doing his best to apply pressure to the wound. “Itachi—” the broken name falls from equally broken lips as he watches his brother, the only immediate family he has left, quietly slip through his fingers.

Blood is warm and that is just laughably ironic, Sasuke thinks. Warmth is comfort and home and solace, but when there is blood, so much blood that it stains the earth, paints the world in unrelenting hopelessness, where is the peace?

He is on a battlefield with his comrades incapacitated and his brother bleeding out and he is shaking.

Why? Why does there always have to be so much blood? Why does there always have to be so much death? 

(“Do you think the universe will punish us for the things we do?” said softy, distantly, and he thinks of green eyes and a blue lake and the fleeting simplicity of that moment.)

Sasuke shakes his head. Perhaps, he thinks. But not if Sasuke can help it. 

He grabs his brother and with what little chakra he has left, transports away.

He isn’t sure where he has left his brother, somewhere far enough hopefully. The chakra Sasuke offered leaves burn marks on Itachi’s shoulders but that should be the older Uchiha’s last concern. All Sasuke can do is hope that someone finds him and helps him.

“Keep moving forward, right?” he whispers, stepping away from his brother’s form. “We’ll make this right. And if I can’t, I know you can.”

And he flickers back to Konoha.

.

Sasuke does not have answers, has no guidance, and his existence in the prison can only be described as a wash of shadows and nightmares. He sits on the floor of his cell, still drenched in Uchiha blood, staring at nothing.

(“Oi! Bastard! I’m talking to you!”)

His father. Dead. Deaddeaddead and the betrayal—

(“Dammit, Sasuke, snap out of it!”)

His brother, possibly bleeding out.

(“We’re gonna get you outta there, okay? Do you hear me?”)

Despite his catatonic state, rage has been building with him, reinforcing the pillars that were washed away with blood and lightning. Uchiha Sasuke is from the Land of Fire and from the ashen remains of his family he will restore their legacy with his life.

“This is such bullshit you don’t deserve to be in there! We’re not gonna let them execute—!”

“What do you know about what I deserve?” Sasuke lashes out, fixing steel eyes on the blond whose hands grasp the bars of his cell like a life-line. 

Naruto stills, blue eyes ablaze even in the dark. “Don’t be an idiot!” he growls, canines bared. “I know you’re not a fucking traitor! I know you’d never betray Konoha—!”

Betray Konoha?

The inferno surges him forward and his hand finds his subordinate's throat, arm fitting neatly between the gaps in the bars. “What the fuck do you know?” Sasuke snarls. “You don’t know me! You don’t know my fucking family and you sure as shit don’t know Konoha!”

“Sasuke,” a lazy drawl alerts him to the silver-haired jounin leaning against the threshold, arms and legs crossed in an utter show of nonchalance. (But Sasuke knows Kakashi and no amount of indolence can fool him—the man is a coiled spring.)

His fingers loosen and he withdraws his hand, shifting his glare to his second-in-command. “You guys shouldn’t be here,” he says.

If Naruto is perturbed by the attack, he does not show it, only punching a metal bar in response. The reverberations fill the dingy air. “Like hell we’re gonna let them do this to you, bastard!”

“And why the hell not?” Sasuke jeers, chin tilting towards the chuunin. 

“Because!” Naruto exclaims, “You’re innocent! You didn’t—”

But the absolute look of hatred on Sasuke’s face silences the blond’s objection. “I did.”

“The hell are you talking about, bastard—?”

A tense silence, then admittance: “I let Itachi go.”

Kakashi untangles his limbs and walks deeper into the room, settling a hand on Naruto’s trembling shoulder. “He’s telling the truth,” the Copy-Nin declares quietly, lone eye studying his general. “There’s nothing we can do. He commited blatant treason.”

“You—“

Sasuke turns away because he cannot bear to see the utter devastation on his subordinate’s face. Naruto has always been an optimistic presence in the platoon, as annoying as he is, his disposition raises morale. To see such a joyful face crumble, to see the hurt, the disbelief, it breaks what little dignity Sasuke has left.

(Scaredy-cat.)

He closes his eyes, unmoving as Naruto unleashes an effectively heart-wrenching diatribe that has him fisting his hands at his sides. Uzumaki is not the sharpest kunai in the weapons pouch, but in that moment it is as if every word he uses, every insult he wields, is especially formed to cut Uchiha Sasuke to ribbons. 

And long after Kakashi has forcibly removed the blond from the room, long after their footsteps have faded and Sasuke has once more acquainted himself with hopeless darkness and leering shadows does the Uchiha whisper, “I’m sorry.”

The words hang lazily in the air, seeking ears to fall upon but finding only emptiness, so they glimmer in momentary existence before disappearing into the heavy silence. 

Sasuke isn’t sure to whom he’s apologizing, or what he’s apologizing for. With an execution imminent, he thinks he’s possibly apologizing for everything to everyone.

He thinks of his mother, of her gentle hands and sharp reprimands. He thinks of his father whose stoic nature was impenetrable, whose approval, though hard-earned, was everything. He thinks of his brother who unfailingly supported him as he trained. And then he thinks of Captain Hatake who took him under his wing as if he was his own son; he thinks of Suigetsu who stuck by his side despite having no ties to Konoha at all; he thinks of his squad, all unflinchingly loyal to him and to his cause, eager to serve and make him proud. 

Uchiha Sasuke has gone from having two families, to nothing at all.

No, that isn’t entirely true—he still has the monsters that prowl the darkness of his mind.

July 20th

—

He hears the footsteps before the door to his cell opens. A shadow stands at the threshold and pauses as if surprised to find the Uchiha still there. Sasuke lifts his head at the intruder, expression carefully blank. Though a porcelain mask stares back, he knows who it is. 

The Anbu moves forward, gesturing for Sasuke to approach the bars. He does so, offering his wrists; quick hands slap chakra-blocking cuffs on him before unlocking the cell.

The iron creaks and groans and briefly Sasuke wonders if he could have broken out of the prison but as quickly as the notion present itself, guilt chases it away. He could have fought for his freedom, but the fact that he has remained, that he is silent, is a testament to what he feels he deserves.

“So,” a familiar voice quips, “what’s your plan.”

Sasuke keeps his dark eyes trained ahead, moving down the corridor, the Anbu trailing behind. “You’re breaking protocol,” he answers.

“Still insufferable as ever.”

His lips twitch at the tone, but he does not reply.

Together, they walk out into the daylight—the sun has barely crested the eastern hills and the sky is muted. 

At least Sasuke will get to behold the sunrise one more time, and maybe, just maybe, it will be breathtaking enough to distract him from the blade that he knows will behead him. If he focuses enough on the colors bursting across skies maybe he can even imagine a slender silhouette going through a graceful kata.

There is an audience. Of course there is. 

And in that moment Sasuke hates this village, these Elders, the dead hokage (cold and lifeless is the best look for that bastard, he thinks).

The Anbu walks him up to the platform, puts a hand on his shoulder to make him kneel. In front of him is a log with a groove; dried blood stains the wood. 

The Elders stand before him, eyes accusing, disgusted, and fearful as they regard the Uchiha they suspect knows their fucked up secrets (and he wonders if there’s even proof, if he can find it, but what use is that when his destiny ends right then, right there?). Sasuke glares back with such ferocity that the chakra repressing cuffs crackle with electricity. The hand at his shoulder gives him a squeeze he interprets as an apology.

Dark eyes glance back at the dog mask and immediately soften.

Silver hair peeks out from behind it, catching the first glow of sun. He hopes that his second-in-command doesn’t have anything stupid planned, some last-ditch effort to save him (and, he thinks, Naruto had better not go off on some tangent about justice and trust and camraderie). The captain’s grip lingers over-long, when he finally removes his gloved hand Sasuke can’t help the chill that replaces it.

Kakashi takes his place among the rest of the Anbu guards and Sasuke settles his gaze on the horizon.

Everything falls away in wake of the skies bleeding pink and orange.

In his final seconds, rather than vengeance and hatred and fire and death, he thinks of happy moments—those are the memories he wants to take with him to the grave and perhaps (perhapsperhapsperhaps) those are the things that will welcome him into the after-life. His mother’s onigiri and his father’s gentle approval and his brother’s good-natured challenges and and—

(The executioner unsheathes his axe, the metal sings.)

—and he thinks of Kakashi’s chronic tardiness and Suigetsu’s incessant jeers and Genma’s attempts in getting him laid—

(It slices through air)

—and he thinks of Shikamaru’s laziness and Naruto’s loud disrespect and and—

(a sharp whistling.)

—pink hair that turns lavender under the moon and iridescent green eyes and a soft exhale of his name on annoyingly chapped lips—

Naruto’s strangled yell (and: Nii-san, I hope you bring them to justice) then then

nothing.

.

.

.

Then excruciating pain.

Fire sears through his veins—but not fire that he knows. It is not the Fire Country burn that surges through him, it is knives carving their own paths inside his body. Every synapse explodes, every nerve crackles and turns to ash. 

Nothing exists but white-hot, merciless agony.

July 26th

—

The first breath hurts; it is shards of glass cutting down his pharynx and his throat feels raw.

The second breath is not much better but it is one that opens dark eyes.

The third breath erupts as a scream.

All of these breaths happen in an instant and the Uchiha gasps to fill his lungs as if he has been submerged for hours. Nothing comes to him, not when his body needs oxygen, not when his blood demands it, and Sasuke sits up on the cot as an electric shock sizzles through his limbs. His muscles tense, his skin is taut, he’s—

is he dead?

Coal eyes assess:

The room is familiar—the Konoha hospital? He is naked, rumpled sheets have fallen to his waist. Wires are attached to him, the steady beep of a monitor the only audience to his awakening. 

His heart thrums against his ribcage as he studies his trembling hands. Those same hands reach for the back of his neck. Beneath the strands of dark hair, he can feel a scar. His fingers curve around to his throat, passing over the crook of his neck—

sharp pain fuck so much painpainpain he can’t breathe can’t think can’t

—then blackness.

July 28th

—

The second time he wakes it is less dramatic. 

And someone is there.

“Sasuke-sama, how do you feel?”

Inhale. Exhale. 

The Uchiha sits up slowly, regards his visitor. “Who are you.”

A flash of glasses, a knowing smile. “My name is Yakushi Kabuto.”

According to Kabuto (and why does that name sound so familiar?) Sasuke had indeed been practically beheaded when Sound mounted their attack on Konoha. It was a shinobi massacre if the medic is to be believed. 

“So Konoha…”

Kabuto’s smile is fractured glass, sharp and dangerous when he answers, “Has fallen.”

“How am I alive?”

“You have Orochimaru-sama to thank for that.”

Gunmetal eyes narrow at the name, at the implication. “I didn’t ask him to save me,” Sasuke growls, but the medic just shrugs.

“Orochimaru-sama doesn’t do things for other people’s sake,” he says dismissively. “Don’t look so glum, Sasuke! He has given you his power,” and Kabuto inclines his head, gaze landing on an intricate cursed mark on the Uchiha's neck.

Sasuke’s hand automatically flies to the junction that burned white-hot pain the first time he awoke. He can feel a raised pattern against his skin, a trio of teardrops. His brows crease at the sensation—“Why.”

Kabuto grins, pushes his frames up the bridge of his nose. “He needs a new vessel, you see.”

“Give me one reason I shouldn’t just kill myself,” Sasuke demands.

But a tsk from the hall draws his attention. Dark eyes jump to the door and a pale face leers. 

“Don’t be so ungrateful, Sasuke,” comes out as a hiss. Orochimaru glides into the room and suddenly the air is cold and rotten. “You would remain loyal to the village who turns their blade against you? Against your family?”

Itachi’s shared memories flash behind hardened eyes:

(“I heard you and I are being considered to succeed the Yondaime.”

Fugaku doesn’t look up from the papers at his desk, frowning at the map adorned with countless pins. “Mm.”

“As a clan head, I imagine your conflict of interest would—“

“My interests lie with what is best for Konoha.”

“You mean what is best for the Uchiha.”

A shrug, “The Uchiha are loyal to Konoha, Danzou. Are you?”

.

.

“The new Godaime should have been Fugaku.”

“Danzou colluded with the Elders for the title!”

“He has united the Elders against the Uchiha, they seek to suppress us, they fear our strength.”

“Danzou agreed to relocate our district to the outskirts of the village, away from the center—“

“We are not criminals to be monitored!”

“It is an outrage!”)

.

“I am not loyal to anyone” is so convincing even Sasuke almost believes it.

Orochimaru just chuckles. “No, you are loyal to me. It is my power that resides in that mark, my power that saved your life. And in return, you will one day save my life.”

“And if I refuse?”

The Snake Sannin smirks.

Sasuke does not see him do anything, but the pain that bursts from his neck incapacitates.

.

.

.

Sasuke learns that he was out for a week.

A week where Sound has officially taken over Konoha. 

Dark eyes take in the quiet streets, the blood and viscera that tell the story of a relentless battle. 

Kabuto said it was a shinobi massacre. No platoons, no Elders. Only the civilians who submit themselves in fear remain.

He does not know how he feels.

.

(“Mikoto!” 

Broken, strangled, desperate. Tears fall and disappear into the blood that halos around a beautiful, pale face. 

.

.

“Hokage-sama, you requested me?”

A long look injected with shallow sympathy. “It was Sound, General Fugaku.”

“How can you be certain?”

“The Snake Sannin sought your youngest son, to steal and train and prepare. A future vessel.”

“Why was Mikoto the only one—“ 

The creak of a chair, the gentle exhale from a pipe. “Isn’t it obvious? She was protecting little Sasuke.”

“None of the sentinels mentioned seeing Orochimaru,” Fugaku relays, voice disarmingly calm.

“You think anyone else could have done this? Who else has the motive and the means?” pipes up an old woman who has served as an Elder well past her usefulness.

Fugaku stares at the council, at the Godaime. 

They are lying through their teeth, he knows this. 

His hands curl into fists at his side. “Aa. You’re right,” he concedes, though his frown tells a different story. 

.

.

Severity deepens his voice, distrust sharpens his mind, spite speaks: “We will move against Konoha. We will rule it as is our birthright. Fire runs through our veins, in our eyes.”)

.

Upon waking, Sasuke plans various methods of escape—be it physically from the village or…

Any means necessary.

But he is being watched and he does not so much as sneeze without Orochimaru knowing.

Sasuke has resolved the only way out is to fight, so he trains. He is allowed to do so, encouraged even, the stronger the vessel the better, Orochimaru insists. So he rises with the sun and performs his kata, practices with his blade, spars with Sound shinobi. 

Following his death (and the thought unsettles him, as if he is an abomination, undeserving, cursed) he is so weak it’s pitiful and he hates himself all the more. What kind of existence is this? To survive imminent death but be a fraction of the person you once were, and at the mercy of another? It is not an existence. It is a penance, and maybe this is the universe’s punishment for him after all?

August 4th

—

Another week passes before Orochimaru begins teaching him to control his seal, to utilize its power.

It is uncomfortable and foreign in his blood, but Sasuke cannot deny that the rush of power is invigorating. 

He trains even harder.

The Sannin is pleased with his attitude and Sasuke is given more freedom in the village. It helps that his cursed mark strengthens his skills enough to threaten anyone who might challenge him. 

So Sasuke explores. Remnants of the home he once knew are nothing more than rubble, but curiously enough Sound has left the Uchiha district untouched (the civilians are just as afraid of him as they are of Sound and Sasuke thinks the blatant terror in their faces twists the kunai his heart) and he wonders if his father had already made a deal with Orochimaru, or if it was done to placate Sasuke.

.

(“We will form an alliance with Sound—together we will take down Konoha, make it ours.”

“Orochimaru is not one to share power,” Itachi intones. “Nor do something without his own benefit.”

Fugaku glances at his son. “He seeks one thing in return.”

“What?”

It is Fugaku’s second-in-command who says, “A vessel.”

Itachi scowls, familiar with the Snake Sannin’s penchant for inhabiting bodies. “A vessel,” he repeats, skeptical.

To his horror, his father replies with neither an ounce of feeling nor hesitation: “Sasuke.”)

.

Neither notion soothes his boiling rage so he demolishes the Uchiha training grounds in a magnificent show of repressed fury. His flames burn hotter, his lightning more ferocious and when darkness creeps and crawls in haunting designs across alabaster skin, fueling his anger, his chakra, he swathes himself in anguish with the intent to destroy destroy destroy.

By the end he is on all fours, heaving, coughing blood on the ground and Uchiha Sasuke hates everything—Orochimaru, his father, Konoha—but most of all he hates himself.

He hates himself and everything he stands for: the Uchiha betrayal, Konoha’s fall, the Sannin’s successor.

He hates every cursed breath that passes his lips, hates the power that he never asked for, and hates that he is grateful (so fucking grateful) that he’s alive at all.

.

.

.

Sasuke lies on his back in the middle of the destroyed training arena staring at the expanse of stars. There’s a billion, he thinks, and no one would bat an eye if one winked out of existence. 

He raises a hand, studies his palm; it glows beneath the moonlight.

Carefully, he takes a kunai and cuts a line down the center and watches as a streak of blood stains his skin.

What is the point.

What’s the fucking point?

He closes his eyes, lowers his arms to his sides.

Dimly, he recalls that it is late summer and that his birthday has passed.

September 15th

—

It is purely by chance that Sasuke overhears a clipped conversation:

“There is word of rebel activity—”

“Shh, not so loud!”

And suddenly he understands his purpose, why he is alive, why he was spared, and why he is where he is. The universe is not punishing him, it is giving him a means of atonement. 

The strands of fate loom before him, the tangles unfurling to reveal the other end of the string and for the first time since his return to life, he feels his deepest wants and aspirations creak to life with the approaching eventuality: he is not alive for the purpose of serving Orochimaru, he is alive to help take the Sannin down, he is alive to fight for Konoha, to restore the honor of his clan (and maybe just maybe there is another lingering reason that hides within the marrow of his bones that he is not yet ready to acknowledge).

.

.

.

The Uchiha district has been mostly untouched and is where Sasuke spends most of his time. Usually, he is training relentlessly, and most other shinobi stay out of the area for that reason alone. 

Which is why Sasuke is able to find a scroll in the courier building, summon a messenger hawk (nondescript and common, but with sharp eyes) and send it out.

If the hawk does not find its recipient, it will return with the missive and Sasuke will know.

But if it returns without the message… 

He does not allow himself to get his hopes up too high as he watches the bird disappear into the skies.

September 17th

—

A single disbelieving eye stares at the characters. He knows those deliberate strokes, knows the aristocratic hand that drew them. He knows the hawk too, he realizes—dark feathers interspersed with orange. An Uchiha courier hawk.

It’s not possible. It’s not possible.

But one glance at the message says otherwise:

Hawks eye their prey.

—Taka

.

Taka.

Taka.

There is no doubt, Kakashi thinks as he crumples the message in his palm. Sasuke is alive.

.

.

Chapter Text

.

.

( II.6 — Catching up )

August 30th

—

Konoha has fallen. Sasuke is dead. 

Come meet old friends where truth blooms. 

.

No.

No.

No.

“It should be me,” Itachi rumbles from behind her, “it should have been me. That idiot.”

Sakura’s fingers dig into the edges of the short message. “Shut up,” she hisses, arms shaking.

“What?” his deep voice pitches higher in surprise.

“Shut up,” the pink-haired medic repeats, glancing over her shoulder at the painful reminder of the general who—the general who—“He betrayed his village to save you,” she declares (accuses, blames). “He risked everything for you. You were his last standing family. Don’t you dare insult him by wishing you were dead.”

Silence follows her low growl and as she glares at Itachi, she hates (hateahateshates) that his countenance blurs because that can only mean one thing and why does she have to cry and whywhywhy does it hurt and why—

(“There are no happy endings for shinobi.”)

She presses the heel of her hand against first one eye, then the other. “We’ll do right by him,” Sakura resolves, crushing the letter in her palm. “We’ll take Konoha back, and we’ll make sure it’s run properly. We’ll bring honor back to your clan, for his sake.”

No one argues.

.

“We need to go to them,” Sakura determines, staring at the short message spread out on the table. All four are bent over, staring at the scrap of a scroll as if it will transform into something of more use. 

Of course, the youngest medic is fully aware of the meeting place.

(Truth blooms; *Seiko becomes Sakura. Ha ha, Hatake.)

“We can leave by morning,” Itachi affirms.

Shizune blanches, “It’s too soon! We’ll need a week at best—” 

“A week?” Tsunade interjects, looking askance at her assistant. “Why on earth would you need a week to prepare?”

“Tsunade-sama, you’re in no condition to travel,” the brunette declares with a concerned frown.

“Aa,” the Sannin agrees, “that’s why I’ll be staying here.”

Green eyes jump to the blonde. “Shishou, we’re not leaving you.” They just got her back, she can’t be serious. How can Sakura be expected to say goodbye so soon after reuniting with her mentor?

Tsunade fixes both her apprentices with a long look. “I understand your concerns, but I’m better now. And I’ve got my yin seal. I’ll be fine.”

“I can stay with you,” Shizune begins.

“Goddammit, I’m not some feeble old hag.” There is something in her face, something guarded in her gaze that prompts Sakura to scrutinize her expression. Tsunade is steadfast, the definition of immovable stone and yet… 

Sakura knows that look, the hardness around her eyes. 

The brunette appears as though she wants to protest, but thinks better of it. “You’re still recovering, Tsunade-sama. What if—”

“Shizune. I’ll be okay. They need you. Konoha needs you.”

“Shishou…”

Hazel eyes fixate on her youngest apprentice. “I entrusted you with my life, Sakura,” she says in earnest, rare affection coloring her tone. “Now, I entrust you with the future of Konoha. Are you going to let me down?”

It’s too soon, Sakura thinks, too soon to let her go again, too soon to say goodbye. She wants to tell Tsunade that she needs her, she wants to tell her that she doesn’t think she’s strong enough right now anymore to do this on her own—she needs help, she’s in way over her head, she can’t—she can’t—

“Sakura,” Tsunade barks in that familiar tone that both cares and commands. 

A watery smile and a whispered, “I won’t let you down” soften the Sannin’s expression.

Even so, there is no denying the strain behind her hazel stare; Tsunade is keeping something from them.

Sakura ponders this in the evening as she packs her belongings. The gentle expression—the glassy eyes, the slightly sake-induced pinkness of her mentor’s cheeks—though genuine, gives her pause. 

When she brings it up to Shizune in the quiet light of dawn, the latter just sighs and takes Sakura into a hug.

“Tsunade-sama wants us to be strong,” the brunette whispers, “and she’s trying to be strong, too.”

Sakura wants to say that’s not it but holds her tongue.

For as long as Sakura has been with the duo, Shizune has been assistant to the Slug Sannin far longer. This must be unbelievably difficult for her, and privately, Sakura wonders how Tsunade has convinced the brunette to leave. 

So instead of insisting that their beloved Tsunade-hime is hiding something, Sakura nods. “Aa, of course.”

September 1st

—

A warm breeze filters through petal strands as she races through the trees, heart thrumming a beat so loud and insistent Sakura is only half-convinced her companions cannot hear it. She tries to steady her breath and finds her lungs wanting, the air refuses to settle deeply into her chest. Butterflies have taken residence within her; she vibrates in anticipation from the impending reunion, every nerve in her body rousing in a riot against the injustice of it all:

Konoha’s destruction.

Uchiha Sasuke’s demise.

Sakura does not allow herself to linger on the thought of him (she cannot or else she will lose what little temerity she has managed to salvage from her broken soul). As it stands, just the fleeting memory of his mouth on hers, the taste of him (and this she recalls with maddening clarity: pine and smoke and salt), is enough to stutter the chakra she pushes to her feet and she skids off a branch, disappearing into the leaves.

Before Shizune can even yell the first syllable of her name, she calls back a cheerful “I’m fine!” and remains just below the canopy to hide the burning redness in her cheeks.

If Shizune finds her slip odd, she does not comment, but Sakura knows the brunette recognizes that something is wrong. Even Itachi can detect the undercurrent of ire behind her jaded mood. Sakura huffs, shaking off the tremors like raindrops.

She will not mourn until she is with her squad.

It takes a day and a half to return to the river side. The roar of the waterfall replaces the roar in her ears as she stares at the small clearing at a patch of matted grass.

“Is this it?” Shizune breaks the silence, but the pink-haired medic is far away. “Sakura?”

She doesn’t respond, only moves towards the bank and crouches down. Fingers, tentative and trembling, touch the discarded mesh—

(“Fuck, Sasuke—”)

—and immediately draw away as memories she has tried to set aside surface once more. She recalls carding her hands through his hair and peppering heated phrases along his neck, his jaw, his skin. 

Sakura leaves the mesh where it is and stands. “Aa, we’re here,” she whispers.

“Do you feel it?” Itachi chimes, and green eyes find him before flitting away. She cannot look at him, not here, not when he looks so much like—

Sakura forms the hand signs and exhales: “Kai.”

Nothing appears to change at first, but she can sense it, and the grin that cracks her lips is genuine as her eyes settle on the silver-haired jounin reclining on a nearby boulder. 

A two-finger salute is his only indication that he is aware of her presence, face hidden behind an all-too familiar orange book. Before she can take a step towards him, he peers over the pages. “You’re late.”

Sakura scoffs. “I’m sorry, your message didn’t exactly mention a date.”

The Copy-Nin tucks his book away and stands, cracking his knuckles. 

Her laughter subsides; she knows that look, knows that stance. “Kakashi…?”

His exhale is so loud she can hear it even through his mask. “Sakura,” the jounin barks in a tone he brandishes when he means to be taken seriously, “you’re late.” His eye bores into her frame, meaningfully, as if she is missing something that should be quite obvious—

And Sakura blinks. A gentle, understanding smile. “Sorry,” she murmurs, “got lost on the road of life.”

With that phrase, the jounin flickers from view and reappears directly before her. She tilts her head back to meet his stare and then suddenly his arms hook around her, his flak jacket muffling her surprised laughter. She returns the embrace, tucking her face into his chest because she is not ready to let go just yet, she wants to, for a moment, just be a genin again, go back to the start when things were so much simpler.

“Good to see you,” he greets as he pulls away.

Sakura hates that she’s crying but can’t seem to stop. “I missed you,” she admits, gathering herself.

The Copy-Nin doesn’t parrot her sentiment, the fact that he embraced her is telling on its own. Taking a step back, his gaze flits to her entourage. “Yo.”

“Captain Hatake,” Shizune greets with a bow. “You’re looking well.”

Kakashi snorts. “Don’t let Genma hear you say that.”

And Shizune blushes.

Sakura does not have time to analyze this development however, as Kakashi directs his gaze to the Uchiha. She sees the storm fill his lone eye, can practically hear the crackling of a chidori. “He’s with us,” she says hastily, “he—he saved Itachi.” She can’t say his name, it gets stuck in her throat, but everyone knows who she means.

Kakashi remains still as a statue but inclines his head in the shallowest nod known to mankind. “Fine,” he relents, with surprisingly little objection. “Hyuuga!”

From seemingly nowhere, Neji emerges, as moody and brooding as ever. “Kakashi-taichou.”

Itachi tenses, then relaxes, inclining his head in acceptance.

“Please block Uchiha Itachi’s chakra network—”

“But—!” Sakura barely starts her protest before Itachi submits.

“It’s fine, I understand.”

Neji walks (saunters, Sakura thinks, with the easy way he carries himself) to the Uchiha, pale eyes flickering briefly to her in greeting (and she does not miss the smirk that twitches the edge of his lips) before activating his Byakugan. 

A few choice hits and Itachi is on his knees. Shizune steps forward to help him up but he dismisses her hand with a curt albeit polite, “I’m fine.” When he’s on his feet again, all eyes turn to the Copy-Nin.

Kakashi nods—“Alright, let’s go.”

.

The trek through the forest is uneventful, and with every lightning step they travel the roar of the falls grows louder. Kakashi trails at the front with Neji bringing up the rear.

“So how did Pakkun find me, anyways?” Sakura wonders as she keeps pace with her former captain.

“Your hitai-ate.”

An amused smile. “You kept it? I knew you were nothing but a big softie—”

“Sasuke,” Kakashi interrupts, putting her teasing to a grinding halt. He takes a moment, a deep breath before he continues: “Sasuke kept it.”

She decides not to muse over-long on the implication of that. He likely did it because it’s a waste of a perfectly good forehead protector. He’d need it right? To give another shinobi. Yeah.

Even as she reaffirms this in her head, she knows it’s a lie.

They follow the silver-haired jounin along the river until they reach the base of the falls. 

A small cave resides behind it and they disappear into the mountain, the damp environment lending reprieve from the harsh late summer heat. Sakura reaches her hands out to touch the walls—it is not a large cave, the five of them barely fit. Someone stands directly behind her and she tenses at the hands that catch her elbows as they accidentally dig into a toned middle.

“Sakura.” Clipped and reprimanding (and if it was anyone else, amused).

She flushes in the dark, “Sorry, Neji.”

Kakashi mutters a Kai and the cave wall extends deeper into the mountain-side. They follow the narrow path in a single-file and she wonders at the feel of fingertips pressing lightly into her lower back. She knows who is behind her but is unsure what to make of his touch—it is fleeting enough to be accidental or polite, but she knows the Hyuuga and he does not do anything by accident (nor does he bother with respect save for his superiors).

The tunnel opens into a large base and Sakura has just enough time to marvel at the expanse of it before the wind is promptly knocked out of her—

“Sakura-chan!”

—and she is tackled to the ground.

.

Their arrival is not a surprise (Pakkun reported as much after delivering Kakashi’s message) and Sakura finds herself swarmed by familiar faces she didn’t think she’d ever see again. It is all rather emotional but she keeps her unease at bay (her watery eyes upon reuniting with her captain were embarrassing enough).

“Well what’s all the fuss about—” a familiar voice cuts through the din (Sakura knows who it is without even turning around) “—Haruno ? Back so soon!”

A smile is on her mouth as she glances behind to greet the sleet-haired shinobi. He is grinning in that easy way he always does and Sakura matches his expression, hands resting on her hips. “I promised to beat you to a pulp with both hands tied behind my back, didn’t I?”

Suigetsu chuckles, elbowing the brunet at his side. “Hear that, Genma? She wants to get all tied up for me. Jealous?”

But Genma just shrugs, hands in pockets. “Only if she gets to tie you up, too,” he quips.

Sakura blinks, eyes darting from one face to the other. Did they—were they—?

A good-natured laugh draws her back from rampant thoughts and Suigetsu hangs an arm about her shoulders. “I see that brain of yours buzzing, Haruno. Curious? I have it on good authority that there is definitely room for one more, especially if it’s you.”

Her face flushes as pink as her hair.

“Oi!” Naruto exclaims, swatting the fanged man away, “Don’t treat Sakura-chan like another of your buddies!”

As if rehearsed, Genma sidles up to her other side, mouth parted with what can only be an innuendo on the tip of his tongue when he freezes.

Let it be known that Shiranui Genma has only ever dropped his senbon three times in his entire life:

The first was when he returned home from a month-long mission to find Shizune in his room, wearing nothing but her hitai-ate and a smirk.

The second was when he found out an Uchiha was behind the Uchiha massacre.

The third is right then, as his warm eyes befall the stunning young woman who walked out of Konoha with his heart approximately ten years ago.

“Shizune,” accompanies the falling needle.

She smiles and it is softer than Sakura has ever seen. “Still dropping that senbon, I see.”

Genma’s inhale is wavering, disbelief writ across his features. In three large steps he’s covered the distance between them, gathers the woman in his arms, and kisses her so thoroughly so completely so helplessly that everyone’s eyes find something else (anything else) to look at. His hands move from her waist up to her face and there he cups her cheeks in gentle hands as if drinking water from his palms. He kisses her like she is his salvation and Sakura turns her head into Suigetsu’s arm, unable to stop the pang of jealousy that lances through her gut.

“You’re not missing out, sweets,” Suigetsu mutters, tipping his head down to bump her temple with his chin, “between Shiranui and I, I’m the better kisser.”

Kakashi clearing his throat (“If you’re quite done…”) saves her from any kind of response. But Genma just lifts a single finger in the air as he finishes greeting Tsunade’s assistant. When he finally pulls away, Sakura can’t hide her amusement in seeing Shizune so thoroughly undone. The brunette is flushed, lips swollen, eyes far-away and the very picture of dazed.

“It’s good to see you,” Genma murmurs, hands resting around her hips. “And I am not done—”

“So,” Kakashi drawls, lone eye focused on the pink-haired medic, “you studied under Tsunade.”

(Naruto, in sheer disbelief: “What! You studied under The Tsunade?!”

Lee, boisterous and somehow glittering in his approbation, exclaims, “I am not at all surprised that Sakura-san studied under a Sannin! Her skills and progress have been enlightening!”

From Neji: an even more obvious smirk tilting a corner of his lips, assessing her in a way that makes her flush all over again.

Ino, indignant: “You’re Tsunade-hime’s apprentice and you never told me? What other secrets are you keeping in that giant forehead of yours?!”)

Sakura just nods, the motion sharp and perhaps a bit cheeky, green eyes amused as she meets her captain's stare, “Aa.”

.

Hours pass first in exchanging updates and then in nostalgia.

Sakura is surprised to learn that despite everyone witnessing Uchiha Sasuke’s (here, she promptly scratches the thought from her mind with furious abandon, unwilling to even think it let alone allow it to linger and paint images she never ever wants to see) situation, they (and ‘they’ is heavily implied by others to be the Copy-Nin), refused to accept it as truth and held out hope that the general would somehow escape and find them (“Gods know that Sasuke has gotten himself out of worse cases!” cracks Suigetsu, though his words lack the usual energy).

After a month of waiting and fruitless searching, Hatake Kakashi finally sent her a message bearing what he believes is the truth: Uchiha Sasuke is dead. Probably died that fateful day. There is no mistaking the image of the giant blade slicing his—

Sakura sits quietly amidst her comrades as they watch the flames dance.

She takes a long pull from the beer, now warm in her palm, and can’t help but hate that they don’t even have anything of his to burn in memoriam (and no, she will not relinquish the memento he left for her).

“To Sasuke,” comes Naruto’s gravelly voice.

Her eyes glance to him and he pours a portion of his drink onto the ground.

Everyone follows suit. 

The alcohol tastes like ash on her tongue.

September 13th

—

Pale eyes glare at his fist as it comes away from the cave wall, bloodied. He punches the rock so strongly that it sends him flying back and Sakura doesn’t stifle her laughter as she helps him up.

Sakura has been teaching Neji how to coat his hand with chakra to empower his strikes—or, has been trying to. Despite being a genius, the Hyuuga is not picking up on it as quickly as she had. They’ve been working on this particular skill for the better part of two weeks.

“Shall I kiss it better for you?” she teases.

Neji is as affronted as he is able to look when he states “That doesn’t really work.”

Sakura just shrugs. “Some swear by it.” Then, because she is Sakura and she is charming, she presses a kiss to his scraped knuckles. 

The look the Hyuuga gives her is enough to twist her stomach and she suddenly feels as though she has made a grave mistake. This is not Naruto or Suigetsu or even Genma she is teasing, it is Hyuuga Neji. 

He studies her for a moment, before surprising her: “Alright, next time I help you up, I owe you a kiss.”

A pause then, “Sure, Hyuuga, alright,” and she laughs.

September 16th

—

It is remarkable, Sakura thinks, how easily she can slip into routine. Though her time with squad 47 was short, they had suffered together, gone through intense training together, and reinserting herself into life with them was like stepping into a comfortable, worn-in shoe. It was familiar and welcome—even Shizune who Sakura knew deeply missed the Lady Sannin was prone to gentle smiles (though the pastel-haired medic figured Genma was a large part of Shizune’s contentment).

The group is not particularly large, consisting of the shinobi that managed to escape Konoha in the surprise attack against Sound. Unfortunately, the civilians remained behind, it was an unspoken rule not to bring it up. They did not abandon their village, they retreated in hopes of taking it back. Even as the notion is asserted over and over, she can see in troubled eyes, in stiff shoulders, in tense muscles, that everyone is afraid there might not even be a Konoha to take back at all.

“Again!” the Copy-Nin’s order echoes off the walls.

Despite being situated deep within a mountain side, there is sufficient light coming in from overhead where a lattice of vines and branches and trees block the view of the people within, but do allow slices of sunshine through. The walls of the cavern—Sakura is unsure what else to call this bowl of limestone and stalagmite—are slick with moisture and ivy. A spattering of tents are assembled, much in the way their training camp had been set up, with larger tents for medic purposes and meeting grounds.

Sounds reverberate easily off cavern walls, but the roar of the falls drowns it out.

It is an ideal location for a base, especially coupled with layers of strong genjutsu.

There is even an expanse of earth that remains open for training, which is precisely where Sakura stands, sinking into the moves of a familiar kata.

“One!” Kakashi’s voice calls out the forms and as a unit, everyone moves.

Sakura muses on the fact that the transitions are much easier now, more fluid, and can’t help but wonder if it is because of her preferred attire (trading in her usual shinobi top and pants for her zippered sleeveless shirt, shorts, and medic apron) or if it is simply because she has improved that much. 

As she punches out the last few moves in quick succession, she settles on the idea that perhaps it’s a little bit of both.

“Sakura-chan, your control is amazing!” Naruto enthuses at her side.

She glances over, preening under his cobalt praise. “I haven’t been lazing around while I was away from you guys, you know,” she teases, reaching up to tighten the top knot on her head. 

“Still! Maybe there’s something about shorts instead of these pants,” the blond hums, tugging at his much more restrictive trousers. “Maybe I’ll—”

What he is considering, Sakura does not hear as Shizune comes bursting out of a tent (Genma’s, to be exact), with a little slug in her hand. “Sakura!”

“Katsuyu-sama!” the rosehead gushes, instantly leaving the training ground to take a seat with the brunette.

Over the past week, she and Shizune have kept contact with the Sannin through the slug summon. At first, the missives were simply to let her apprentices know that she is fine, but Sakura and Shizune have filled her in about the resistance, who they’ve found, their plans—most recently regarding their upcoming scouting mission on Konoha’s northern perimeter in an attempt to assess the state of the village.

In turn, Tsunade has relayed that she is much better and will be setting off to recruit reinforcements much to her two apprentices’ chagrin. The subject is dropped when the blonde makes it very clear that this is something she must do alone.

Now, Tsunade’s messages are usually curt, but the one Katsuyu has brought for them is much longer:

A scouting mission? What do you hope to find exactly? It might be unwise to do so—too large a group and Sound nin are bound to notice, too small and you risk capture. If Sound has taken Konoha as you say, what is the point of this?

It is unlike Lady Tsunade to question their decisions, though she has raised valid points and Sakura hastily pens a response:

Don’t worry shishou! It will be a small team of 3, just simple recon.

As they bid farewell to the little summon and Shizune heads off to train a reluctant Karin, Sakura notices Shikamaru step out of the medic tent, followed by a somewhat flustered blonde. Shikamaru, without his usual indolent air, turns on his heel and walks away. There is nothing particularly out of place with those series of events, if not for the fact that Ino distractedly cracks her knuckles (“If you keep doing that your fingers will start becoming crooked!” Ino chastises, swatting Sakura’s hand).

Cerulean eyes flitter left then right before finding her friend’s knowing stare. Automatically, the blonde scowls. “Stop looking at me like that.”

Sakura only grins. “Okay, when’d it happen?”

“When did what happen?” the young woman evades. 

Off-handedly: “Alright, I’ll just ask Shikamaru—”

A panicked, “Shh!” is quickly followed by a resigned, “Walk with me and I’ll tell you.”

Sakura follows her friend out of the base, past the waterfall and into the outskirts of the genjutsu perimeter. Ino has been tasked with collecting necessary plants for various medicines and the pink-haired chuunin scoffs.“You just want me to help you do your errands.”

“And you just want to want to hear my juicy details,” Ino lobs back, idly tugging a root from the earth. Azure eyes sparkle as Sakura crouches down to help.

Nara Shikamaru is practical, the definition of pragmatic. He wastes little energy, putting effort only when necessary. Suffice it to say that Sakura is shocked to learn that it was he who initiated whatever amorphous relation is between him and the blonde healer.

“It wasn’t planned or anything,” Ino reveals, “we managed to find each other—all of us. When Sound attacked, no one was prepared. We...Konoha’s forces were outnumbered and surprised and...well, eventually Kakashi-taichou told us to retreat. You can imagine how many of us didn’t want to,” she scoffs, and Sakura knows she means the blond loudmouth, “but we fell back to Uchiha Base 4. We arrived at different times, some on the first day, others days later, always frantic and desperate. Kakashi didn’t arrive until the sixth day, he didn’t say what took him, but we all think he was trying to wait for Sasuke...

“I was doing my best to heal everyone and...and I just went right into medic mode, you know? I had to. I was doing really well keeping it together and then he—he comes stumbling in with Kakashi.

“God, he was a mess, bleeding all over I couldn’t even tell who it was at first. I thought he had died,” and Ino’s voice wavers. Sakura’s hand finds hers, gives it a squeeze, and the blonde sniffs. “I did the best I could and checked on him everyday and three days later as I was about to leave his side, he—he grabs my hand.

“He shouldn’t have even had the strength, now that I look back on it, I don’t think he did. But he tugged me back and when I turned there he was, sitting up, looking at me like he was angry or something—and the nerve, you know? How dare you give me that look, as if I’ve been nothing but a burden—”

“Ino,” Sakura grins, raising her brows.

Ino flushes, “Right, sorry. Anyways. Well, he pulled me closer and then he kissed me. And that’s it. And...well, we haven’t exactly talked about it or anything, but we don’t really need to, you know? I think we were both just scared. Scared that maybe he won’t wake up or I won’t or...”

She trails off, but Sakura knows exactly what Ino means.

Dread seeps into her bones, claiming her limbs, threatening to crush them to dust in wake of her anguish but Sakura just smiles. “I’m happy for you,” and she means it.

But Ino, astute as always, just hugs her before they return to their task at hand. 

It does not take long for them to finish collecting what they need and head back into the compound. By then, they have picked up their usual banter, talking about lighter things that do not make Sakura’s chest harden and constrict, threatening to implode on itself.

“So, tell me about Neji.”

Sakura, properly taken aback, actually stumbles: “Neji?”

An inelegant snort: “Oh please! I’m not blind, forehead,” (and Sakura scoffs at the nickname, wondering just when Ino has decided to bestow it upon her), “you could cut the tension between you guys with a kunai.”

“Neji and I have barely spoken!”

Ino’s knowing smirk accompanies a most salacious tone. “Oh it’s like that.”

“Yes,” Sakura begins waving a distracted hand as she wipes the dirt from her apron, then, as the insinuation makes itself known, she blanches in horror. “I mean—no! Ino! There’s nothing to tell!”

Shrewd blue eyes scrutinize but Sakura meets her stare with indomitable honesty.

With a disbelieving sigh, Ino relents. “Really? He’s always,” here she gestures as if capturing a word that escapes her with deft fingers, “smoldering at you.”

“He is not,” Sakura sniffs. “Smoldering is just his default setting. He smolders at everything—look, right now he’s smoldering at Naruto.”

Ino follows Sakura’s gaze and sure enough she spies the Hyuuga in the middle of a spar. “He is really quite good at smoldering, isn’t he?”

They take a moment to appreciate Neji.

Then his pale eyes lock onto sakura and there’s that tiny smirk again before he resettles his gaze on Naruto.

Ino is grinning at her.

Sakura rolls her eyes, stalking towards the medic hut: “Shut up immediately.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“It’s not like that.”

Ino hums.

A sigh, resigned, weary: “It’s too…” Weird? Soon? Wrong?

Blue eyes soften in understanding. “I forget that you just got the news,” Ino admits. “we all...we all saw…not that a month does much for the…” she shakes her head. “Tch, forehead what’d you grab this for? It’s just a weed. I wouldn’t have asked you to help if I knew you were so incompetent.”

Sakura scoffs but says nothing. Then, “So have you and Shikamaru had sex yet?”

Ino promptly trips.

September 18th

—

Sleep evades her, has evaded her for many weeks now and Sakura figures that is simply how she will spend the rest of her days—in this listless existence in the dead of night wherein her body begs for rest and her mind refuses. Certainly, she gets a few hours, but mostly she finds herself staring at her closed eyelids and counting her breaths. 

Her first night in the base was spent sitting in a tree half-way up to the mouth of the canyon. 

Through breaks in the canopy, she can see stars and sometimes if she stares long enough she imagines dark eyes are staring back. She sees him in everything—the jagged lines of the cliff-face, the velvet expanse of the evening sky. It hurts, she thinks, and what has she done to deserve this? But isn’t that such a selfish thought? As if she is the only one tortured by his death.

Misery loves company, and her company happens to be in the form of a sleet-haired young man. He spots her on that large branch on the first night and has joined her every night since. Though he’s often grinning and chatting in the day, up on that branch they sit in silence. There are no words, aren’t enough words, to lighten the gravity of the truth, to lessen the hurt. 

They always sit in the companionable silence, until Suigetsu decides to break their timid tradition:

“He found me,” he says, leaning back along the trunk, hands pillowed behind his head as he stares up at the blinking stars, “spared me. and I’ve been waiting, biding my time to exact my revenge on my group y’know?”

It is no secret that Hozuki Suigetsu is not of the Leaf. Like Naruto, like her, he is without family and found himself, from a young age, involved with questionable people. Shisui’s squad was tasked with taking down the Mist Swordsmen and Sasuke, after facing off against the fanged shinobi, demanded him to surrender. Even then Sasuke was reluctant to spill useless blood. Suigetsu did so, his sense of self-preservation stronger than his loyalty to Mist. He told himself he would avenge them.

“You never did,” Sakura notes.

Suigetsu takes a long pull from his drink. “Nah. ‘Cause I eventually realized something I think I always knew, and maybe Sasuke knew, too.”

Sakura watches him, sits up straddling the branch.

A slanted grin, as charming as always but without humor. “He’s my brother.”

Can your heart break for someone else? Sakura ponders this as she scoots closer to the young man who lost his family twice (thrice?) over, taking the bottle from his grasp. The drink is warm and brings little satisfaction but she needs it, needs to steel herself for the truth she feels she owes this young man who has laid down his soul to her. It’s the least she can do.

So she licks her lips, eyes the bottle in her hand. Quietly, hesitantly, she begins: “I might have…I think I—”

And Suigetsu finishes: “Might have? With how much you two would glare at each other? Please.”

“He was the one doing all the glaring,” Sakura mutters. “It doesn’t matter now anyways, does it?”

“Of course it matters,” he replies with surprising gentleness. “Happy moments, right?”

And she glances at him, surprised. 

Suigetsu flashes a most conspiratorial smirk: “You guys weren’t very inconspicuous.”

Sakura, affronted: “We weren’t hiding anything!”

Her companion just shrugs and mutters, “Liar.”

“You’re just jealous he spent so much time with me,” she sniffs.

“Maybe a little,” he concedes with a teasing grin. “Have you seen you?”

He’s close. Really close. So close that she can feel his exhale on her shoulder, so close she can see the stars brighten plum-colored eyes.  

Sakura knows he was joking, but there’s something in his tone, something in his gaze, that she is unsure what to do with. And she thinks, judging by the soft furrow in his brow, he isn’t quite sure what to do with it either. Sakura flushes, looks away and tries to diffuse the delicate bomb inadvertently placed between them. “Tch so shallow—“

But he reaches a hand to touch her cheek, thumb catching a tear she didn’t realize was falling. “Better shallow,” he mutters, “than drowning.”

And Sakura understands. Shallow waters are safe; it’s easier that way, isn’t it? To just float on the surface and not let anyone or anything fill you so completely, consume you so wholly, that without it you are doomed? Is it better to breath acrid air than not breathe at all? 

The pressure surrounds them, the night suddenly dense and stifling, a culmination of weeks of silent torture. It is a pressure that has been building, she thinks, from the moment Suigetsu propositioned her upon her arrival, from the moment she read the news in Kakashi’s scrawl, from the moment she awoke to find Uchiha Sasuke lifted from her life as if he had never been a part of it at all. Except for his shirt.

Sakura has been treading water for weeks on end and she is so tired, so exhausted, her lungs begging for reprieve. Maybe it’s time to just allow herself to drown? She leans closer—

Suigetsu dips his head to stop her, forehead to forehead. When he speaks, his voice is nothing more than a rasp, as if he is forcing the words past reluctant lips. “Better not,” he says in that light tone of his, though his eyes speak volumes of things unsaid, untouched, things he won’t allow himself to tarnish, “or someone might get ticked off.”

She forces a laugh and is somewhat surprised when it actually sounds amused. “Who, Neji?”

The fanged shinobi scoffs, straightening away. “Hardly. But I wouldn’t put it past Sasuke,” (the name falls so blithely from his mouth that Sakura’s heart tightens, thumps, hardens and balloons all at once at the sound), “to come back and haunt me for the rest of my life.” 

Sakura can’t help the smile—genuine albeit fractured—that stretches her lips. Suigetsu is a good friend, a truly good friend, who understands fully the pain of losing the Uchiha and she appreciates him—

“Sakura?” he whispers.

“Mm?” she responds just as quietly.

“You’re hogging the beer.”

Present 

—

“I’m fine.”

“You’re an idiot is what you are.”

Itachi fixes her with a scowl befitting monsters from the depths of hell but Sakura is from the Land of Fire and she relishes in the blaze. She stares right back, fiery green eyes unafraid—she’s faced worse demons, she thinks—until the Uchiha relents with a puff of air. Somehow, he makes even that childish act feel aristocratic. He lies back on the cot, mouth in a tight line. The way his eyes refuse to look at her lets her know he is thinking a series of obscenities, cursing her to Konoha and back.

She simply helps him recline with a none-too-gentle hand against his chest (and she doesn’t bother hiding her satisfied grin at his startled ‘oof’). “Relax, Itachi. Have I not taken great care of you?”

The sweetness in her tone does nothing to soften his glare.

Sakura wastes no time in parting his shirt, hissing at the wound that should have been healing well. While she was able to keep a watchful eye on him back in the cottage in Wind, there has been much to do at the hide-out, keeping her from tending to him as often as she used to.

“You haven’t been keeping this clean,” she accuses.

“I have—ow.”

“If you had been, that wouldn’t have hurt,” the medic declares drily. “But how are you,” she adds with more affection, “really?”

Dark eyes remain fixated on the canvas ceiling of his tent. For it is his tent, locked in confinement until they figure out just what to do with him. Not that he can blame them, afterall they saw first-hand that he slaughtered the Godaime and despite his brother’s and Sakura’s belief in him, there is simply no proof to corroborate his story. Really, it is what he would have done in Hatake’s place, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t annoying.

His days pass in a blur of canvas and white Anbu masks (and he has to withhold snide remarks in seeing those faces—as if he doesn’t know who they are!) with the occasional check-in from Tsunade’s ladies or some other medic. He finds that he looks forward to Sakura’s visits; usually she is kind. Usually. But right then she is very much annoyed with him and he can feel her irritation with every probing finger.

“I’m fine,” he grunts.

“I’ll be leaving for a mission in a bit, so either I do this now or Karin comes to help you.”

Itachi grumbles, “Soreness at the site, some swelling.”

“Was that so hard?” Sakura chides, satisfied. 

The Uchiha continues to scowl at the ceiling.

“Kakashi says we have a spy in Sound,” she whispers knowing full-well that is not information he should be privy to.

Itachi closes his eyes as her chakra, cool and steady, searches his abdomen for infection.

“This informant, Taka,” she goes on, (and Itachi is grateful his eyes are shut or else she might notice the flicker of recognition he is certain would have danced across them), “will search the records to find something, anything, that can clear your name. Soon as they do, they’ll send it over and you’ll be able to leave this stupid tent.”

“Does,” he licks his lips, “the Copy-Nin know who this Taka is?”

Sakura shakes her head, withdrawing her hands and busies herself with wrapping up his middle. “No, I don’t believe so,” she answers. 

As she finishes up, Itachi reaches out to capture her wrist. “Do you?”

“Do I…?”

“Know?”

Sakura frowns. “No,” she says slowly, then with suspicion, “do you?”

Before he can answer, someone interrupts. “Sakura. Are you ready?”

She turns to the captain: “Aa.”

Kakashi holds the flap open for her, lone dark eye caught in Itachi’s gaze. 

Only when Sakura exits does Itachi break the stark silence. “You know,” he ventures, accuses.

Kakashi waits a half-breath (and Itachi knows what this means, can read the Copy-Nin’s manner like a map of Fire) before dropping the tent flap, leaving the Uchiha to his canvas walls.

Every exhale warms his face, breath caught behind his porcelain mask. Usually it does not bother him but something stirs in his chest, something that threatens to leap from his rib-cage and unleash unbound energy unto the world to devour and maim and seek revenge. His heart thumps against his ribs and he calls back the fire that surges through his veins—he is a man built from focus and restraint and he will not allow anxiety to dictate his actions. 

Dark eyes peer through slanted holes, gloved hands flexing and unflexing at his sides, Kakashi’s coordinates repeating over and over in his mind: 20 N, 120 W.

He remains stock still, hidden in the trees.

“Wait.”

Sakura pauses on her branch, turning to their silver-haired captain. 

“I have to tell you our mission objective.”

“Recon,” the medic supplies, a frown tugging her features.

It is the Hyuuga who crosses his arms, declares “I thought it might be something more serious.” At Sakura’s questioning glance, he shrugs. “Kakashi-taichou could just have his ninken do covert recon.”

“So…” the medic mulls, “what is our mission?” 

Kakashi’s single visible eye hardens. “We’re meeting Taka.” 

His three-man Sound squad sent to secure the Konoha perimeter will not return to their designated meeting place for another half hour; plenty of time. Despite this, Sasuke can’t seem to calm himself. He has not seen anyone from his platoon in months and it is taking all of his will power to not simply defect. Kakashi certainly offered it, and Sasuke suspects (knows, because the Copy-Nin is no idiot and anyone in Anbu would realize his true identity) that Kakashi knows who he is. But didn’t everyone watch him die? Do they doubt? It’s easier to stay dead, he thinks, than to deal with the repercussions of everyone who watched him die a traitor to his village. 

There are more important matters at hand.

Besides, it is highly unlikely the Snake Sannin will just let his prized vessel run away.

No, Sasuke affirms for the umpteenth time, his place is in Konoha for now. It is not time to enact his counter, it is not time to attack.

“They have files that should clear Itachi’s name,” Kakashi reveals.

“What? I thought Taka was going to just send the documents. How do you even know we can trust this person?

“Sensitive material like that can’t just be sent via hawk.”

“This could be a trap,” Neji adds.

But the silver-haired jounin just meets their accusing glares. “It’s not.”

“But—“

He turns away and Sakura shares a wary glance with the Hyuuga as their captain declares with unwavering certainty: “We can trust them.”

Sasuke exhales, long and slow and steady, in a vain attempt to calm his nerves.

He does not notice the chakra, and he is grateful for that—if he noticed, then his...team might notice—so he is surprised when Kakashi drops down from the trees directly into the clearing. Sasuke flash-steps to meet him, resisting the urge to greet him like comrades, like his second-in-command.

There is no reading the Copy-Nin’s visible eye, no reading his stance. There is an air of cool detachment just bordering on suspicion. 

Sasuke is about to step forward when the arrival of two more people halts his movement. He expects Genma and Suigetsu, of course, but is not surprised to see Neji instead. The sight of petal-pink hair and unyielding green eyes, however, stops him dead in his tracks. The Uchiha does not anticipate (cannot foresee, cannot expect because how is it that the world always throws her directly into his path?) facing her that day, or ever again. 

And suddenly the mask is more suffocating than ever.

.

.

Chapter Text

.

.

( II.7 — Flower and Hawk )

He blinks.

Can’t breathe.

(Why the fuck did he bring her? Why is she even with them again? The hell is he playing at? Doesn’t Kakashi know? He must know.) 

“You have the files?” Kakashi breaks the silence, shatters the tension.

Sasuke shakes himself free from the cold that grips him (resolutely avoids looking into narrowed green eyes that have the power to stun and consume and spit fire) and withdraws a storage scroll from his holster, tosses it to the silver-haired jounin who catches it easily and stuffs it into his pack.

“Thank you.”

He wants to speak, wants to say something anything to the man who is like a father to him, to the subordinate who has followed him loyally, to the medic who has given him unconditional understanding and support and something else he still isn’t ready to admit to himself yet but knows exists, is a fact, something not easily set aside anymore, not when just the sight of those wide green eyes steals his breath. (She’s dressed as a woman, he can’t help but note, dark pants and juban traded in for a sleeveless zip up top, distracting shorts, and a medic’s apron and the expanse of her skin constricts his chest, threatens to crumble his fortitude.

Suddenly he can’t recall why leaving with them is such a bad idea.

Suddenly he is reanalyzing his whole plan.

Maybe he can—)

He draws his blade just as his Sound squad bursts from the trees. Why are they here so early?!

No, not just his teammates. A whole platoon of Sound Nin.

It is Neji’s deep voice that shouts “Ambush!”

If he had his Sharingan activated, he might have seen the explosive chakra decimate the trees around them, he might have been able to count every leaf that falls from the branches at the impact. He might have noticed the reverberating pulse that mimics sound waves as they incapacitate his old subordinates.

But of course he does not have his doujutsu engaged because that would be a dead give-away as to his identity, so he is unable to warn them or prepare himself against the thrum of chakra that attacks their eardrums, the sound that cuts through air like kunai. 

Behind his mask, he swivels to glare at the numbers that arrive: there are fifteen. Fifteen! Why are they here?

Fuck fuckfuckfuck—

Kakashi’s team falls back at once but Sound is on their heels and Sasuke refuses to let them be caught. He pushes faster, throwing weak attacks, easily evaded assaults. He watches as Hyuuga engages six (and damn if Sasuke isn’t proud!); he watches as Kakashi faces off against five. And he sees Sakura; there are four on her tail and like hell he will let them catch her. She spins around and plants her fist into the earth and the ground ripples beneath her knuckles as if it is fabric. Sasuke leaps up in time to avoid a blow, jaw unhinging at the display of sheer power. 

But Sound is not easily maimed and the shinobi are quick to trail after her. She might be fast (faster than he ever recognized, faster, perhaps, than he’d care to admit because he feels like an absolute idiot for not realizing her skills before) but she cannot outrun the speed of sound and he watches as she braces herself for the impact of an unseen force that knocks her back.

He recognizes that attack, has seen it in action—though outwardly she might seem unscathed, he knows it significantly restricts her chakra flow.

A relieved breath escapes him when her form poofs into a log.

Sasuke comes to a stop in the crater she made, the five remaining Sound shinobi flanking him.

Where is she—wait, five nin—?

“Wha—shit!”

He jerks around to see one of the Sound men hold their own comrade hostage. And Sasuke knows. 

“Don’t move or your friend dies.” Suddenly it’s Sakura standing with her blade pressed threateningly against the shinobi’s throat.

Sasuke watches, amazed that she has managed to trick them all with her flawless henge. How the hell does she do that?  

One of his teammates chuckles. “You think we care? Kill ‘im. His fault for getting caught.”

He sees Sakura tense, sees the rage filter through verdant eyes. “Tch, you would abandon your comrade?” she seethes, “You really are worse than scum.”

Sunlight on steel and an arc of blood prelude the body being hurled towards them and she’s gone.

She leads them up a mountain side and unleashes her fists of fury. Loose rocks tumble down in her wake.

He dodges uprooted trees (she plucks trees from the ground like fucking daisies) and it is on the plateau where he finally confronts her, katana drawn. 

Her eyes are furious as she regards him, chest heaving with the effort from her run. He engages her first and there is something that flashes across her face before she twists out of his line of fire, gracefully redirecting his blade with precision. Her steps dance around him, cunning, efficient. 

Sasuke knows this plateau, knows there is a cave just beneath, and if she cracks the ground, they can trap Sound.

When he lunges, she parries, sweeping low then wide, matching each move in a feat of evasion that even he cannot surpass. His sword nearly grazes tan skin and he picks up the speed.

Their dance consists of forceful breaths and the clang of metal; the beat matches his heart, matches the count of a kata he has barked out on numerous training sessions. Thump-thump-clang-clang-thump-clang—can she hear it, too?

He pushes her faster.

Faster still.

He can sense the signatures of the remaining three Sound nin approaching and he growls with the effort of keeping Sakura at bay and in the mark, but she edges him out to the precipice. A sliver of the mountain juts over the edge, and she pushes him onto the out-cropping.

His back-up arrives and Sakura eyes them, green eyes glinting.

She cracks a knuckle, gives that slanted grin of hers that is burned in his memory, before launching her fist into the dirt. 

The earth rumbles and groans and cracks spider-web across the plateau.

Sasuke only has time to see her self-satisfied smirk before dust rises and everything beneath their feet falls away. She has dislodged the protruding bluff but doomed herself in the process.

Two large steps propel him forwards and he catches her about her middle.

Their screams are drowned out by the landslide 

and then there is only darkness.

Darkness is, Sasuke thinks with resentment, the only constant in his life.

“We can’t just leave her!” Neji snarls, disengaging his Byakugan.

“She’s with Taka, she’ll be fine,” the Copy-Nin declares.

They race east, as was always the plan should they be compromised. 

Neji’s eyes narrow. “You always said those who leave their teammates are scum,” he says, studying his captain’s visible eye. “How is this not leaving Sakura behind?”

Kakashi doesn’t look at him, doesn’t dare because of all the chuunin of Squad 47, Neji is the most astute, the closest to jounin-level, and he can see through bullshit. “I trust Taka—” The branch beneath his foot explodes into splinters and the silver-haired jounin pushes up to hang upside down on a limb above him.

“How can you trust someone you don’t even know?” the Hyuuga growls, standing over his captain.

And then pale eyes widen.

“You know him. You know who it is.”

A sigh seeps past the mask. “I suspect.”

“Like hell you suspect,” Neji pushes. “You know.”

Silence.

Then, because Neji is a goddamn genius, he figures it out: “Is it…?”

Kakashi nods. “Aa.”

In the span of a single moment, a series of commands bombards her. They echo and overlap, relentless waves that drag her deeper; an undertow, strong and unyielding as it tugs her into darkness, into coldness. The pressure is nauseating and if she was conscious she knows she would heave the contents of her stomach. Distantly, she wonders if she is alive, or even having these thoughts for herself or if it is just her subconscious giving her images of something anything that might tether her to the shores of reality—

(“Shit, no. No,” “Come on, stay awake come on, “You can do this, stay with me Sakura,” “Sakura!”)

—but she is not strong enough. The pull of the ocean is stronger and it invades every part of her, filling her from the inside, cooling the fire that runs through her veins.

Green eyes flutter and catch snap-shots of a porcelain mask, then dark eyes and dark hair and full lips that she knows form the syllables of her name.

Then the tide brings her back out into unconsciousness.

They loop in a wide perimeter, camping in a pre-designated location in hopes that Sakura will follow through with their evasive maneuver. She knows Kakashi’s plans better than anyone save Nara—

“If she was captured—”

“He would help her escape.”

Neji scowls, crosses his arms. “Why the hell did you bring her if you knew he’s...and she’s—and he’d—”

“You’re the one who requested her to accompany us,” the Copy-Nin points out with mild amusement, “Hmm, and why did you request her as the third member, anyway?”

And that is the moment Hyuuga Neji decides that his revered captain, Copy-Nin Hatake Kakashi, first and only non-Uchiha to hold the title of Captain in an Uchiha division, is kind of an asshole.

Uchiha Sasuke is accustomed to war and the many aspects of it. He has seen dead bodies by the dozen, seen more surfaces coated in blood than free of it. He has lost comrades and taken lives, he’s even obtained a number of his own life-threatening injuries.

But nothing prepared him for the all-encompassing fear that overwhelms him at the sight of blood-soaked petal tresses. They should be pink, he thinks, like spring. But they are stained in crimson so dark it is as if someone has upturned a pot of ink on the crown of her head. 

The makeshift torch he crafted casts shadows along the cave walls but his eyes are glued to the unconscious young woman lying in his lap. Gingerly, with more finesse than even he realizes he is capable of, he sifts through her forelocks, brushing away the debris and dried blood to locate the wound. 

A hiss is pulled from between pursed lips and he wishes he had trained more under Ino and Karin rather than waving off medical instruction.

Digging through one of his pouches, he withdraws a canteen and a roll of bandages.

Sensations come in fleeting increments:

The hold of a trembling arm.

Incoherent obscenities growled into her hair.

Fingertips on her temple.

And her name said in desperate reverence. A plea, a malediction, whispered over and over until the voice (hurt, desperate, hysterical) recedes into darkness.

(“We can trust them.”)

Trust. 

Sakura inwardly scoffs, eyes pressing together at the sentiment. 

Silently, she tries to assess her body and to her sheer horror finds that she cannot. She tries again—nothing. Panic grips her and jade eyes widen to take in her surroundings. 

The area is dark, the only source of light a flickering torch in a gloved hand. The orange glow falls across sandaled feet. Her gaze traces up the length of the figure donned in white armor and a porcelain mask. Dimly, she thinks it is glaring at her, but the eye holes are a black abyss and there is no way to tell the expression underneath. It takes her a moment to recognize the animal staring back: a hawk.

He—she presumes, if his frame is indicative of anything, it is that this Taka is obviously a man—stares at her as if he is as surprised as she is to find each other. But that can’t be right, he had tackled her as they fell. Or had he held her? Saved her? 

Sakura’s head swims in the effort to determine just what his motive was, is.

The fire dances and her weary gaze finds the ink staining his pale arm.

.

(Green eyes take in a spiral on his arm, stark against the alabaster skin and Sakura resists the urge to trace it with her fingertips. He senses her stare, of course he does, and glances from behind his infuriating book.

“Can I help you, Sakura?” He sounds amused, and perhaps a little confused.

Sakura inclines her head as if by doing so she can make out just what the symbol means. “I’ve seen that before,” she says, tipping her chin up to gesture towards his arm.

Kakashi’s eye follows her gaze and a soft ‘ah’ escapes his mask. “You’ve seen it before,” he repeats, weighing her words. By that alone Sakura knows there is significance behind the ink. “On Sasuke, I’m assuming?”

“Sasuke?” Now that she thinks about it, she supposes she does recall ink drawn on his arm, but she was often much too distracted with other things to really take notice of it (like the smooth planes of his chest and the way his uneven smirk catches the dying light of the sun, and the way his dark hair falls over darker eyes that speak volumes of things neither of them could have but evidently wanted)—“No, Itachi, actually,” she adds, pulling away from her rampant thoughts.

If Kakashi notices the blush staining her cheeks, he doesn’t mention it. “Itachi,” he mutters slowly. “Right.”

And then he goes back to his book.

“Well what is it?” Sakura huffs.

“It is a mark of Anbu.”

She has heard of Anbu only through hushed whispers, whether of reverence or fear depended on the gossip. Anbu is for the elite; the secret sect in Konoha that specializes in assassinations.

“So, Itachi and Sasuke…”

He nods. “Anbu.”

Silence.

“Do you want to be part of it?”

Sakura eyes him dubiously. “Me? I’m not anywhere skilled enough—”

“That’s for your superior to decide,” he interjects. 

In that simple phrase, she feels something swell in her chest and she smiles. “I’m honored,” she begins, “but it doesn’t feel right.”

“Good because I can’t tattoo for shit.”)

.

So Taka is Anbu. 

Is that why Kakashi trusts him?

Briefly, she wonders if it is Sasuke but then demolishes the thought. Why torture herself when Sound will do it for her? Instead, she gathers her wits about her as best as she can.

When he moves, she is on her feet at once despite the nausea. 

“Don’t come any closer.” 

It is a warning that drips easily as blood from her split lip.

He wants to speak but holds his tongue—she clearly does not know who he is but she is cagey and despite what he suspects is a concussion, she may still put it together and come to the conclusion he would rather not have her arrive at. He is not ready.

Besides, she kept her identity from him for weeks.

So he steps carefully towards her with the intention of checking her head.

But she is Haruno Sakura and she is from the Land of Fire and if he had any doubt about it before it is all laid to rest when she manages to trap his leg with her own and slams her forehead into his temple. 

“I said don’t touch me,” rips from her mouth and Sasuke takes a step back to regain his bearings. 

Even chakra depleted, the blow hurts, but should he be surprised? He's always known she is stubborn. He bites back the curse that he wants to sling and instead slowly, purposefully brings his hand up to his temple. Sakura frowns at him, lifting her hand to her own wound to find it bandaged; her frown deepens, carving into tan, blood-splattered skin. 

Her gaze is so piercing that he remembers he is not Sasuke, just a nameless face, one she does not know is friend or foe.

“I don’t want your help,” Sakura growls, taking a step back into the wall.

Damn if he hasn’t missed that impertinent tone. It takes every ounce of control he has not to say her name, not to speak, to bait her or praise her or kiss her into oblivion. She cannot know—for all he’s aware, the world presumes him dead, and it’s easier that way. He can work from the shadows, hide behind anonymity to help the rebellion. 

A snarl is on the tip of his tongue but he catches it, instead promptly sitting down on the ground and gestures his arms as if to say Fine, you do it then.

Sakura blinks, studying his posture—even from where he sits cross-legged at her feet he can hear her mind whirring. 

The moment stretches into socially awkward territory and he huffs, resting his chin in an impatient hand until finally (finally god, she hasn’t changed not one bit still just as much as a pain in the ass as she has always been), she sits.

He watches and tries (and really, he should be granted a reward for his efforts) to keep from laughing at her pitiful winces and attempts at unwrapping and cleaning an injury she can’t even see. Without her chakra there is only so much poking and prodding she can do before she makes it worse and he knows that she is well aware of this, if the way she finally huffs and straightens her shoulders is any indication. The look she shoots his way is so imperious that he is both irritated and impressed in equal measure.

With a roll of those crackling eyes, she relents. “Fine. Help,” is ground out like an acquiescence rather than a favor.

Sasuke snorts behind his mask and, with exaggerated motions and maddening slowness so as not to startle her, moves closer. He can’t help the smirk that stretches his mouth at her glare.

“Will you stop that,” the medic growls at his antics.

He lifts his hands in mock surrender and somehow knows she can read his trenchant look even through the mask because she just crosses her arms over her chest and levels him with a poignant stare that reminds him remarkably of his brother.

“I don’t trust you, but my captain does. And I’m rather short on options right now so rather than prolonging this hell would you get over here and patch me up?”

An amused huff accompanies his approach as he settles on his knees before her and hands her the torch. 

She takes it silently, lips drawn into an edge sharper than his blade. He knows that expression, her reluctant resignation, the way she succumbs and holds onto the remnants of her pride. 

Damn if he hasn’t missed her—the thought crosses his mind as freely as his own name and he refuses to linger on that fact and reaches forward (he pretends it does not hurt when she flinches). Gloved fingers continue to unwrap the blood-soaked bandage from about her head (and he ignores her incendiary comments about how a genin could wrap a bandage better, honestly didn’t he learn any first aid?). 

“It needs stitches,” she says. 

Before he can ask her how she can possibly know that, she continues: 

“I just know, alright?”

Sasuke is well aware of course, the amount it’s bleeding is a dead give-away, but hoped she would come-to with enough chakra to heal it herself. As it stands, she did rouse sooner than he expected, but at the rate of blood loss, there is no denying the urgency of stitching it up. He exhales, the sound rough against his mask, and cracks a knuckle as he sets the used bandages aside.

She’s eyeing him then, as if he is the most burdensome individual in the goddamned world. “Well?” she prompts, impatient and perhaps a bit embarrassed in needing his help at all.

The Uchiha empties the contents of his first aid holster: a packet of needles, some spool of thread, gauze, the end of his roll of bandages, and a lighter.

The look Sakura gives him would be comical under any other circumstances as she exclaims “That’s it? How much of this bandage did you use on me?” She proceeds to snatch the bloodied fabric, tutting at his improper usage. Then, as if his pride hasn’t taken enough of a hit: “I’m supposed to trust you to sew stitches?”

Sasuke manages to look affronted but the mask rather inhibits the effect. 

She rolls her eyes and a part of him is so relieved that she at least has her attitude; she is still Haruno Sakura, insufferable and annoying, and a pain in his ass. 

“Don’t Anbu have better training than that?” she goes on, grumbling mostly to herself as she takes the canteen, dips forward, and pours water over her head. “There’s nothing for it, you’ll have to do your best.” Zero confidence.

Sasuke eyes the roll of bandages just as Sakura straightens up. 

She confirms his thoughts—“That’s not enough. We’ll need to cut something else up to wrap around, at least you have squares of gauze”—and hands him her holster before continuing to rinse out the caked blood and dirt from her gash.

The Uchiha preoccupies himself with locating her roll of bandages only to find none. Instead, he pulls out a very familiar torn up juban. He doesn’t need to turn it over to know what is plastered on the other side. 

He stills at the sight of it, all thought leaving him so suddenly that he wonders if it is not a genjutsu of some kind. 

Dark eyes blink, slowly at first, purposefully, followed by a series of disbelieving flutters. His mouth is dry, throat parched, and he licks his lips absently as his mind attempts to wrap itself around the very obvious glaring fact that Haruno Sakura not only kept his token but has it on her person. Does she carry it around all the time? Did she simply forget it was in her pouch? What does it mean?

A part of him scoffs at his own idiocy—You know what it means, you moron!—but he is not ready, not even close to ready, to analyze the facets of their...their what?

Relationship?

That’s laughable.

“I…”

His gaze jumps to the young woman who is staring at the shirt just as intensely. He tries to read her expression but finds her face curiously (infuriatingly) blank. 

“...we’ll need to cut that up and use it as a bandage.”

Neither move.

“I know it’s not ideal, but it’s cleaner than my freshly used bandages and it’s better than not having anything at all especially since we’ll have gauze to keep the stitches covered,” (she’s babbling, Sasuke notes with mild amusement) “and it’s better to have something to cover it to keep the stitches in tact and,” (can she hear his heartbeat racing in his chest?) “and—”

Sasuke leans forward, pressing the cool porcelain forehead of his mask against her much warmer one and revels in the way green eyes widen, the way air slips past her always chapped lips at the sudden proximity. Can she see his dark eyes through the holes? Can she recognize them? Can she read the words he cannot say but fills his gaze with unspoken sentiments (It’s okay. I’ve got you. I won’t let  anything happen to you.)? Then she closes her eyes and exhales. 

With a modicum of professionalism, he sets to the task at hand. 

Sakura is a model patient, sitting stock-still as he fumbles with the needle. Her breathing is steady, hand holding the torch aloft to give him proper light. (In a fascinated corner of his mind he notes that even under the rinsed away sweat, blood, and dust, he can detect the hint of sage.) Sasuke dips the needle in the fire, watching steel turn red-hot before removing it from the flames and prodding the thread through the eye. Beneath his probing fingers, Sakura waits and he scowls at the cut that dares to disrupt her head of petal locks. 

He makes quick work of it and the medic withholds any discomfort she might feel. With every poke and tug Sasuke bites his cheek—he knows she is strong enough to resist wincing in pain, but he is also fully aware that it hurts and he hates (hates hates hates) being the cause of it. When he's finally done, he snips the thread and the pink-haired woman releases a breath he wasn’t aware she had been holding.

Sasuke inspects his work.

Or tries to, if not for wide green eyes glancing up at him.

He freezes under her stare, eyes half-lidded and glassy, golden under the light of the fire. Her fingertips burn against his gloved wrist (when did her hand come up to grasp him?) as she whispers a sincere and far-away “Thank you.” Before he can respond, Sakura exhales once more and flashes him a grateful smile that catches him so off-guard he ends up gaping behind his mask. “That wasn’t terrible,” she concedes, reaching for the Uchiha shirt and, with only a flicker of pause, takes a kunai to it. “Will you hand me that gauze?”

.

.

.

Time moves differently in a cave, Sasuke surmises.

It crawls, taunting in its passing, with every second a million awkward things remain unsaid, and even more awkward moments occur. Sasuke is unsure how to interact with the young woman who left such a mark in his life that he can’t even look at a damned sunrise without thinking of her. 

And she? Well. She’s just a treat.

“This probably goes without saying but you have checked if there’s an exit, right?”

Sasuke’s ire is palpable.

“Yeah, okay, just thought I’d ask.”

A huff.

“How exactly do you plan on escaping?”

He looks at her for a long moment. That is something he has considered himself. While she was unconscious, he attempted to chidori his way out but to no avail. With her awake? Well, he’s not keen on letting her in on his identity. So he mimes a sharp jab and then an explosion with his hands.

Sakura snorts. “It’ll take a bit for me to regenerate chakra to do that.”

.

.

.

Tentative fingers trace the ink swirl on his arm and he stiffens at her touch.

“Anbu,” Sakura intones.

If she were anyone else he’d swat her hand away, but she is Sakura with hanami hair and iridescent eyes and a slanted grin and he can’t push her away even if he wants to (and, he realizes as he sits there and allows her prodding, he doesn’t want to and what the actual fuck is wrong with him) so he settles for hunching his shoulders in a way that means displeasure.

She grins. “I almost became Anbu.”

At that, he snorts.

“What? Don’t think I’m good enough?”

He crosses his arms over his chest.

“I’ll have you know that my superior presented it to me.”

The scoff that leaves him is so loud, so derisive, that even Sasuke is alarmed at the sound.

Sakura just scrunches her brow in a way that is about as intimidating as a bunny. “Tch, as if you’d know better than Hatake Kakashi.” 

He looks at her, perplexed, but she misconstrues it as awe and sniffs, brushing choppy locks from her shoulder: 

“Yes, the Copy-Nin.”

Sasuke rolls his eyes and unceremoniously shoves her.

She surprises them both by laughing.

.

.

.

“You know me, don’t you?” Sakura pries. “You said my name. You said it like,” it was the air you needed to breathe, like it was the first drink of water after a long journey through the desert, “we’re friends.”

A scoff.

“Comrades?”

The silence should be unsettling, but for some reason Sakura is unbothered by it.

“Tch, with your attitude you’re probably some sort of superior.” She does not miss the minute hesitation of his hand as he reorganizes his holster. “Or thinks he should be.”

Minutes pass in welcome quiet.

Then, “Do I know you?”

He rests his chin in his hand, eyeing her with that intolerable stare.

“I feel like I do,” Sakura says quietly, so quietly she is unsure if he heard. 

Slowly, he nods.

Sakura smiles—“Good, because this might be awkward otherwise.”—and promptly tips over right into his lap as sleep overtakes her.

Sasuke has half a mind to move her.

Really, he should.

He should not revel in the warmth she gives or glean any sort of contentment from the weight of her head against his thigh. 

He shouldn’t feel inexplicably pleased at the puffs of air that seep through the woven pattern of his pants.

He should really, really move her.

He doesn’t.

What he does do against every bit of common sense he has, is reach out to tuck her hair away from her face. Her eyes flutter at the motion, and she catches his hand, looking up at him in a way that makes him decidedly uncomfortable. She laces her fingers through his as if testing out an unspoken theory, methodical and curious in her assessment of their hands. Sasuke is too bemused, too stunned, to do anything but sit there and watch her. And then that viridian gaze is on him, piercing and suspicious and perhaps something else that makes him even more uncomfortable and really she shouldn’t be going around looking at guys like that, least of all strangers in a cave!

Maybe he’s reading too much into this. She’s delirious. She’s half-conscious. She’s lost blood.

(So what if her cheeks are flushed, her irises blown, and her lips—chapped as ever—are parted. What does it matter that she watches him with attention so acute he can feel her gaze burning into his gloved knuckles, because that is where her eyes are drawn: his hand. She studies it as if she knows it, as if it hypnotizes her, as if she wants him to do something else with it—)

He clears his throat, withdraws his hand and ignores the soft snort of amusement from her lips as she turns into his thigh and proceeds to snuggle into him.

She is so naive, really, what kind of shinobi is she? So blatantly trusting! It’s a wonder that she’s survived—

Her warm breath blooms across his skin and he closes his eyes, completely losing his train of thought.

This, Sasuke thinks, is the universe’s cruelest punishment.

.

.

.

The next time she rouses, he is in the middle of sharpening his blades. 

Perhaps it is the sound of stone against steel that wakes her, or the battering ram that is his heart against his chest.

Or the half-hard arousal that twitches against his pants.

Sasuke pointedly ignores it all and focuses on his task.

Sakura, however, muses about his story:

“So when Sound attacked...were you captured and pledged your loyalty to Orochimaru?”

“Does Orochimaru have your dearest person in his clutches so you’re staying nearby to hopefully bust them out one day?”

“Is Orochimaru your father?”

That one manages to startle him into nicking his finger, much to the pink-haired medic’s amusement. Sasuke might have been annoyed if the sound of her laughter didn’t fill him with the kind of warmth he missed.

.

.

.

The final time she wakes she is resting on the ground. A quick glance reveals where her pillow has gone: he’s asleep, curled on his side, back to her. The torchlight flickers across his form and she watches the shadows paint cursory images on white armor. 

Sakura stares, blinking to clear her vision. It has been a strange turn of events, winding up caved in with Taka, and though her shinobi senses tell her to be on her guard, there is something inexplicably comforting about his silent presence. She has spent the entirety of their time considering this, dissecting everything she has learned about him and trying to put a face to the mask.

And she knows she is reaching, knows it is impossible because he is dead and it can’t be healthy for her to hold out hope that maybe just maybe Kakashi, maybe everyone, was wrong in what they witnessed. Maybe just maybe he somehow managed to

to what?

Survive a beheading?

Sakura would laugh if it was even remotely funny. Instead, she stares. 

She has to know. She needs to know otherwise the uncertainty swirling within her, roiling and writhing and gaining momentum, will escape and overcome and consume and devour what little is left of her sanity.

So she inches over, leans over his sleeping form. 

His shoulders rise and fall in a steady rhythm.

Sakura reaches a hand, hooks a finger under the bottom edge of the porcelain mask and lifts and takes note of a sharp jaw, full lips—

and her stomach flips as she is rolled over and pinned to the ground, a set of eyes hidden behind white glare at her, accusing.

The rage in his stare comes off him in waves and Sakura’s stuttering gasp is the only sound that rises between them. Only after a moment does she notice the haggard breathing behind his mask. 

Curious, she thinks, that he heaves as if he has lost a spar (or his control, or his sanity) and it is all she can do but feel her heart rate speed to match his, because she can hear it, she thinks, the thump-thump-thump of a heart battering against ribs. Whether it is hers or his hardly matters because the sound crescendos, a prelude to something bigger that she doesn’t have the capacity to fathom because

because

even under the dim torchlight she knows those eyes, knows the precise hue of charcoal, has lost herself to their depths before, a million times over—

and then he leans away from her, sitting back on his heels. 

As she sits up, the familiarity of the pose, the motions, hits her and she has to know.

This time when she catches the edge of his mask, she pauses, stares into this eyes, the abyss where she has lost many breaths and seconds and perhaps half of her soul. 

He closes them—acceptance, relenting—and she inhales, heart racing, as she begins to lift the mask, the deep groaning of her bones coming to life at the possibility, at the reality she is about to face, rumbles and—

wait.

That is not her bones that are rumbling.

It’s the mountain.

Taka’s hand shoots out and he draws her to him in a manner that would normally irritate her because she is perfectly capable of taking care of herself thank-you-very-much, except there is such an air of desperation in it that she can’t bring herself about to be mad. He snags the torch as it falls from its perch between boulders and races out of the small cave through a narrow passage.

“Wait, what if we’re going deeper into the mountain?” she exclaims, eyes darting around. Tentatively, she flexes her hand, feeling the leather of her gloves accommodate the motion.

Her silent guard just keeps going and it is then that she notices the markings on the wall, carvings—he has explored this path before, likely while she was out.

A violent rumble sends them into the wall and a hiss comes from behind the mask as his arms circle her waist as if on instinct.

The entire passage is caving in.

There’s no time.

Sakura takes his hand—“Do you trust me?”—and doesn’t bother waiting for his response before charging, full speed, chakra infused, straight into the far wall.

.

.

Chapter Text

.

.

( II.8 — Leaves fall down )

She’s crazy.

She’s crazy.

That is all Sasuke can think as she shackles her hand on his wrist like a goddamned manacle and proceeds to run full-speed at a stone wall.

Sasuke can’t help but take a deep breath as they hit it

(Her chakra control really is magnificent and how has he not taken note of it earlier back when days were simple and long and involved training and dinners around fires?)

and burst straight through the side of the mountain.

He has no time to regain his bearings as they smash through layers of rock, the force enough to maim. Miraculously (or maybe not, maybe she’s just that good, and again Sasuke is struck by just how strong this pink-haired, fiery-eyed, fury-fisted chuunin is) her chakra shield cushions the blow so that all he feels is slight pressure where the stone should have broken bones. 

They are airborne for just a moment before her chakra sputters out.

One second. Two.

And then they are falling amidst a shower of boulders.

She lets him go, kicks off a nearby rock and disappears from view.

Sasuke pushes chakra to his feet and braces himself against a jagged stone, flipping forward and riding down the cliff-side on the treacherous avalanche. When he finds her again, she is laughing.

She’s lost it, Sasuke thinks one last time as he hurries to out-pace her.

They sprint, race gravity, dodge boulders, and she is laughing.

She is certifiably crazy.

But for the first time in a long time Sasuke feels absolutely, irrefutably, blissfully 

invincible.

They wind up in a clearing, lying on the grass and gasping for air, the ghosts of their laughter lingering in the trees.

In that instant, Sasuke closes his eyes and suddenly they are eighteen and it is late summer and for now they can just be.

(“...we need to take the happiness when it’s presented to us.”)

With his eyes closed and the sun overhead, Sasuke basks in the present, the dredges of his laughter—low and deep and genuine—dancing across his lips.

Then she ruins it:

“You didn't plan that ambush.” 

Dark eyes open. They are back to being shinobi in the middle of a war. 

“You didn’t. It wouldn’t make sense,” she continues, staring at the passing clouds. “So it must have been someone else…”

He lets her speak her thoughts, silently wondering himself—who tipped Orochimaru off? Is his secret jeopardized? Unlikely, if Orochimaru knew about him, he would face Sasuke directly—the Sannin is not coy with his intentions. No, he’s not compromised, if anything the resistance is. 

“You could come with me,” Sakura whispers. “You should,” she amends. “If someone is spying on you, if someone knows you’re helping us, it’s not safe there for you.” 

He wants to go with her, wants to reunite with his squad, wants to be amongst his family rather than in the den of snakes but he is integral to the resistance, his position too critical, too advantageous, to risk. Relenting would be selfish and he can’t be, not in this. 

So he sighs, stands, and knows that she realizes it is rejection.

“Why not? Come fight with us, you don’t need to risk your life there,” she continues, argues, because that is her way.

Sasuke watches as she rises from the grass, comes to life beneath the dappled sunshine. He watches her eyes burn brighter than stars, watches her cheeks fill with color in her righteous tirade, watches her approach with every word punctuated by a step that brings her so close that she has to tilt her head back to stare at him. And he watches in deliciously slow motion as she realizes their proximity, realizes that she has begun prodding his chest and that he has caught her hand. He watches her tense, then relax.

She does not pull away. 

He can’t go with her to the rebellion base, he knows he can’t be selfish enough for that.

But there are other ways to be selfish.

In a single motion, his free hand comes up and settles firmly over her eyes and he drops her wrist to lift his mask.

She meets him, eager to catch his lips and not caring an ounce that he keeps her blinded, and haven’t they always been in tune in that regard? 

He tastes her with unrepressed hunger, hand settling at the nape of her neck. Her body melts into his frame even as her lips, her tongue, battle him for dominance.

And isn’t that just so Sakura, to continue to spar even when their weapons are laid down? 

Her teeth graze his bottom lip and he growls, stepping into her until her back meets resistance against a tree and even then he presses on, unable to stop, unable to help himself because damn him if every nerve in his body doesn’t sing for her touch, doesn’t ignite with every graze of her fingers, doesn’t demand moremoremore amidst her chorus of moans.

His mouth leaves hers to favor the column of her throat; she tilts her head to the side to give him access, pulling him nearer, nails dragging down the nape of his neck and over his shoulders and then she braces her hands on him, wraps a single leg around his waist. His hand clasps beneath her thigh to hoist her up

and fuckfuckfuck she grinds into him, arching off the tree, fingers drawing fire against his skin.

Sasuke’s hand slides closer to her core.

With a feral growl he ceases his exploration of her neck (ignores the hiss of disapproval from the young woman whose face is as flushed as her hair) bites the tip of his glove and yanks it off, quickly replacing his bare hand on her thigh and she gasps at the sensation but he claims, he captures the sound (it is his his his, she is hishishis) with his lips.

His fingers massage into her skin, flutter at the edge of her shorts and the wanton moan she makes, the movement that sets her hips against his drives him mad—but really, when has he ever been fully sane around Haruno Sakura?

She pulls his hair and he snarls against her kiss, against her tongue that teases his and he feels rather than sees the haughty grin that dances across swollen lips.

Sasuke’s fingers pass the edge of her shorts and she tenses in shock, in excitement, in need, and fuck the skin of her inner thigh is so soft and the dampness against the fabric there makes his arousal twitch and she eagerly grinds against him, tightening her legs.

This is madness, chaos incarnate, this unspoken torment that exists between them and Sasuke is too far gone to care an ounce—

How can he when she makes that sound when his fingers graze the apex of her thighs, when she writhes against his exploratory hand, her underwear so damp the fabric clings to the shape of her and he groans as he presses a digit against her and fuckfuckfuck this is crazy she’s crazy and she’s fire igniting every last brain cell—

“Sasuke—”

And then he freezes. 

And she freezes.

Ice cold water douses the conflagration.

It’s too real, Sasuke thinks, too certain—if she knows who he is, if she admits it, if he allows it, then what they have right then is too real and what are they even doing playing with such fire when there is so much at stake with the future of Konoha? He needs to focus on his purpose, his mission, his goal and Sakura (resplendent and fiery and earth-shattering Sakura) is too distracting, too much leverage against him. He’s lost so much already, he can’t (can’tcan’tcan’t) afford to have more to lose.

A moment wherein only their heated breaths fill the clearing comes to pass and Sasuke allows himself to study the young woman in his grasp, whose thighs are iron about his waist, who submits herself to be blinded—even momentarily—by him. Does she know? Or is she that trusting? She must know, he thinks, but is grateful that she does not shatter their haven; it is a reprieve from reality, a welcome one, but nothing more, it can’t be more.

He uses his Sharingan to memorize the look of her half parted lips, her disheveled hair, the way she clings to him. His arm is wrapped around her leg, fingers splayed against her heat and it takes more strength than he thought himself capable of to leave the warmth she promises.

With alarming grace and very little embarrassment, they disentangle. To her credit, Sakura does not try to escape the palm covering her eyes even as she folds down her medic apron, even as she sets her feet back on the ground. When his mask is firmly in place, he removes his hand.

Green eyes are confused, apologetic, but mostly they are understanding.

“I—” she trails off and for once Sasuke wishes she would finish her thought, but she doesn’t, just looks away.

He wants her to admit that she misses him, wants her to say that she can’t continue with Taka because someone else’s name is stamped across her heart (or at least her arousal), but she just tucks a lock of pink behind her ear.

“Thank you.”

Neither of them are sure what she is thanking him for. 

“Maybe,” she says quietly as he takes his first step away, pauses as she licks her lips, “maybe at the end of all this…”

It hangs between them: possibility.

Sasuke nods.

The smile she gives him is beatific enough to crack his facade, his tenuous resolve, but he transports away before it can.

Sakura returns to the base to a flurry of relieved faces and a surprising embrace from neither her golden haired best friends but from the stoic Hyuuga Neji.

“You’re alright,” he asserts.

She blinks owlishly at his display of affection. “Yeah, I’m fine, Neji. Thanks,” she says dumbly, ignoring the kissy-faces Ino shoots her from over his shoulder.

She’s lost her mind.

That’s the only explanation.

She’s gone crazy.

“That’s really hot, Sakura.”

“It’s not, it’s madness. It was completely out of the blue,” (even as she says this she knows it isn’t true, latent sexual tension came into existence when she first touched down in the clearing to meet him) “and just, so...so irresponsible.”

“That’s part of the appeal, forehead,” Ino insists. Sakura gives her a quelling look that only further widens the blonde’s cheshire smile. “I mean you’ve got this bad mystery boy who’s going undercover with the enemy. He saves your life, helps stitch you up, lets you sleep in his lap—”

Sakura groans, dropping her head into her folded arms.

His kiss was so familiar; his scent: pine and smoke and salt—maybe that’s just typical of shinobi in general? Sakura may have been with a handful of young men but they were all civilians. Maybe every shinobi knows how to kiss? Knows how to stoke the flames in her core, drawing it out, fanning it into an all-consuming desire—

“Sakura?”

She blinks, lifts her head in time to see the glint in Ino’s eye.

“You were thinking about him again, weren’t you?”

(Of course she was and of course Sakura knows, deep in the marrow of her bones, who it is, the only person it could be, but that is a truth she is definitely not ready to face.)

“Poor Neji.”

Sakura hurls a roll of bandages at Ino’s head.

“ ‘There was an ambush, five Sound nin were on my trail (including Taka). I was hit with a jutsu that did something to my chakra pathways in a similar manner of narrowing the diameter of a pipe—my chakra became more difficult to call and generate. Taka engaged me in melee. His Sound back-up arrived and I punched off the cliff face they were standing on. Taka tackled me and we fell into a cave beneath the plateau.’

“ ‘He stitched my head wound. There was an earthquake and, with my chakra replenished, I punched through the mountain and we escaped.’

“ ‘We raced the avalanche down to Konoha forest. He left.’ ”

Sakura blinks at her captain as he finishes reading her report.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?” the Copy-Nin intones, eye fixed on her (too carefully) blank face.

But the medic just blinks again, voice suspiciously neutral. “Everything of significance is mentioned.”

“It took some time for your chakra to replenish. You’re telling me you and Taka didn’t talk?”

“He didn’t talk at all,” she mutters with a frown, as if just realizing it. “But Taka wasn’t responsible for the ambush, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“And you know this from a game of charades…?”

“I just know. He helped me. Why would he bother? He could have let me die and been free of blame.”

Kakashi eyes her shrewdly, attempting to see through her intricately constructed ambivalence, before deciding that she definitely does not know Taka’s true identity or else she would be confronting him about it. So he leans back in his chair, rolling up her scroll and tucking it with the handful of other mission reports. “There’s one more thing,” he says as Sakura turns to leave the tent. “Don’t mention Taka to Tsunade.”

“But—”

“If she is ever compromised,” the captain continues, “it’s best that she has no knowledge of our informer.”

Sakura frowns. “But she can know of our movements?”

He shrugs. “Just anything that will help her rendezvous with us when the time comes. No specifics.”

She stands there for a moment, staring in a way that makes him want to fidget in his seat (he doesn’t of course, but damn those green eyes are unnervingly perceptive). Then, she opens her mouth and says the words he has been praying to whatever god would listen she would not say:

“You know, don’t you? Who it is?”

The Copy-Nin’s reaction betrays nothing as he counters, “Do you?” (he briefly contemplates finding a new diety, one who might be a little more sympathetic in the future.)

Sakura’s eyes narrow in a way that he recognizes as her being on the brink of solving a puzzle. “I...have my suspicions.”

“As do I.”

“Bullshit,” she accuses, “you know.”

Kakashi, backed into a corner and unwilling to face her ire: “Neji’s a nice guy right?”

It works because Sakura gapes, all suspicion replaced with confusion. “What.”

“Uh, handsome and smart,” the captain goes on, ticking off the characteristics on his fingers, “skilled.”

Sakura stares.

Kakashi stares back.

“Yes, he is,” the medic responds, absolutely dumbfounded.

And the Copy-Nin offers his eye-crinkling smile. “Just checking to see if you knew!” Then, with the young woman properly nonplussed, he waves her off. “Dismissed.”

The latest missive from her teacher is worryingly scattered. Normally, the blonde is concise with her messages, but even her handwriting appears rushed. Sakura scowls at the scroll, nipping at her lip as she reads and rereads the words:

I’m in Tea—looking for an old friend who may help our cause. No success but there’s nothing for it. We’re running out of time if we plan to launch our attack so soon. How is it that you know they have spread their forces to send ambassadors to other hidden villages? Where is this intel coming from? It would be best to strike when they are lowest in number and preferably before the ambassadors convince kages to treaty with them. Do you know when the ambassadors will be dispatched? 

.

Shishou

We are planning to attack in three nights. 

.

After sending off the little summon, Shizune leans a cheek into her palm, the picture of nonchalance. “So,” the brunette opens, free hand idly following a knot in the wooden table, “you must be happy that your boyfriend’s name is cleared.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” leaves Sakura’s mouth, clipped and automatic. It has been awhile since the poisons expert has reverted to that particular teasing joke, and so green eyes study Shizune’s practiced composure. She is up to something, of that Sakura is absolutely certain. “But yes, of course I’m happy Itachi’s finally welcome.”

Shizune’s dark eyes glint. “You know, while you were gone he refused treatment from anyone else.”

Sakura rolls her eyes. “You mean he refused to be seen by Karin because you and Ino were away on a mission.”

The brunette simply shrugs.

Viridian eyes narrow. “What’s your agenda?” she demands, scrutinizing her mentor.

The older woman just grins, tilting her chair onto its hind legs in a manner that she must have picked up from Genma. “Is it a crime to think you and Itachi would make a lovely pair?”

Sakura scoffs. “Well if we’re sharing opinions then I think you and Genma would make a lovely trio with Suigetsu.”

Shizune’s chair tips over.

Three days pass in relentless training and strategic planning.

Kakashi, Shikamaru, and Neji pore over maps of Fire Country, debating the best courses of action. They spend hours splitting their forces into appropriate envoys, deciding the routes each sect will take to best surprise Sound. 

They are so absorbed in their work, in fact, that Sakura forces her way into the tent to make them eat (“Your brains won’t be any help if your bodies shut down,” she snaps at their protests. Neji is the only one who quietly thanks her, fingers brushing hers as she hands him his bowl of rice).

Itachi, it turns out, is a much kinder general than his younger brother ever was—where Sasuke was brutal and demanding, Itachi is encouraging and earnest. He takes the time to work with each individual, utilizing a myriad of inventive drills to improve an array of skills. There is no denying that Sasuke took inspiration from his brother’s training, two of his practices she recognizes at once:

Blindfolds, and the bell test.

By the end of the second day, there is an all-out melee to retrieve the dangling silver bells. Everyone against Itachi.

To say it is utter madness would be an understatement. Itachi is strong and, though Sakura was not there, it is not the first time most of her comrades have gone against the older Uchiha. By the end of it, Naruto grins as he jingles the prize, sitting on the Uchiha’s back, while his compatriots cheer. Itachi is a mess but he nods his approval at their teamwork and grit.

Privately, Sakura thinks Itachi wished it upon himself for those men to beat him to a pulp. She tells him as much when she heals him immediately after, but he just looks at her with dark eyes that are far-away and content.

“I have hurt them. They would never fully rely on me with that anger simmering underneath. Besides,” he adds with a cheeky grin, “you haven’t been paying attention to me lately.”

Sakura snorts, prods his shoulder. “All this because you missed me,” she alleges.

And the duo share a secret smile at the memory of when she first said those words.

So much has changed since then.

“Sound has dispatched a number of its nin to negotiate with other hidden villages on Orochimaru’s behalf. This is the time where their defenses are at the lowest. Our plan of attack consists of four factions:

“First wave—Itachi, Sakura, Naruto, Kiba. You will arrive crashing into Konoha, fists flying. We want chaos, we want confusion.

“Second wave—Me, Neji, Suigetsu, Shizune. We will follow after the main force, any back-up or scouts who are called back to Konoha, we will engage and decimate.

“Subterfuge—Shikamaru, Ino, Shino. You will stay hidden, infiltrate Konoha, locate Orochimaru, and if you can, take him out. If you can’t, then hold him.

“And finally, the main force—led by Genma—will follow closely after the first wave. All who have not been called, you will follow him.”

Green eyes are set up ahead as they breach the Konoha perimeter. They move quickly and silently through the familiar trees, the air crackling with tension. She can feel the chakra of her squadron, dispersed equally to attach the main gates with the most efficiency.

(“Sakura, you’ll take the western wall. Kiba, the east. Naruto and I will attack head on.”)

It is a good plan, the whole strategy is brilliant if executed well. By the number of hidden villages alone, there will be a significant decrease in Sound nin to protect their stolen territory. That coupled with the fact that it is highly unlikely ambassadors were sent without protection?

Anticipation thrums through her veins as she launches off a branch.

She can see Konoha’s wall and a dangerous smile slants her lips.

Her knuckles crack.

This will be a magnificent annihilation.

She is a pink blur as she smashes through the Konoha wall, rubble flies, dust fills the air, and where she expects to hear screams of shock, she hears only the consecutive attacks from her teammates in their respective positions. Sakura whips around, scanning the immediate area—it is empty. The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

Something is wrong.

“Move forward, our objective remains the same,” Itachi’s voice crackles in her ear and she presses the com device, grunting back an affirmative as she follows orders. 

And as promised, they lay waste to the streets.

The deeper they push into the village the more Sakura knows something is very, very wrong.

She is not the only one.

“Kakashi! Belay the squads. Something’s not right here—”

“It’s a set up!” Naruto’s exclamation draws their attention and Sakura’s eye scan their immediate vicinity. Sure enough, enemy shinobi appear in astonishing numbers, surrounding them. “Shit! ”

That is the last thing Sakura hears before a high-pitched ringing blasts her back, the pulse of chakra resonating in her head—the pressure is incapacitating and renders her absolutely disoriented. Distantly, she feels her back hit the ground, her body flips once, twice, before she skids into the side of a cement wall. Everything spins, she feels as though something heavy is pressing against her temples with the goal of squishing her head like a grape and she groans at the sensation as she tries to sit up, only to double over and heave the contents of her stomach. 

A hand at her shoulder prompts her to open her eyes—Genma is speaking, she sees it, tracks his words, but all she hears is a distinct ringing in her ears. He frowns, catches her cheek, and mutters something into his ear piece before leading his forces into the fray.

When she tries to concentrate chakra to her hands, she finds herself grasping at nothing; focus evades her. Sakura tries to stand but immediately stumbles, the ground beneath her feet seem to shift, the world tilts on its axis and the young woman can’t figure out which way is up. 

Then Shizune is there, concern on her face, hands at Sakura’s ears and there is chakra, merciful, cool, soothing chakra, and Sakura closes her eyes as the pressure is relieved and sound returns to the world first in muted garbles then all at once in explosions. 

“—happened to you guys?”

“What?” Sakura says, startled at her gravelly voice.

“What happened?” Shizune repeats, dark eyes scanning the younger medic.

“I...it was an ambush. There was no one,” the pink-haired woman explains, “and then suddenly we were surrounded. There’s so many of them, Shizune,” Sakura continues, grabbing her mentor’s arm, “it’s as if they were expecting us.”

There are only two possibilities:

They have been betrayed by one of their own.

Or they have been betrayed by Taka.

Neither notion is particularly easy to swallow.

“All forces to the battle field!” Kakashi's voice crackles through their com units, “Subterfuge, remain on task! Everyone else, we need back-up—fuck—!”

It is beautiful.

War.

Colors fill the air: blues and greens in fluttering chakra, deep red ribbons find purchase in the breeze before painting the ground in strokes of death and sacrifice, there are blurs that dash forward and meet and rise into the air and and

the crackling of lightning and swirl of water, the heat of flames and the earth rising and falling apart, swallowing bodies whole.

Blades sing in quick harmony and catch the sunlight.

It is magnificent, Orochimaru thinks as he watches from the Hokage Tower, and such a clash would not have come to fruition had it not been for his handy little spy.

They may be outnumbered, but Sound is out-matched.

Sakura sprints forward—“Naruto, duck!”—and vaults over her blond friend who is otherwise engaged with a trio of opponents, fist cracking a fourth’s skull before her feet touch down. She pivots as an arm grasps around her shoulders, leg lifting over her head and meeting its target. The arm about her falls slack and she flips away from the enemy, smashing her fist into the earth.

The ground rumbles, groans, ripples away from her, and countless clones poof into nonexistence.

“Well, well, well.”

She knows that voice. 

“We meet again.”

Sakura turns, tugging her gloves more securely over her hands. “Kabuto.”

He flashes a misleadingly jovial smile. “Last I recall, you were a boy,” he hums idly, pushing up his frames.

Sakura flashes a dangerous smile. “Last I recall you were headed for a watery grave.”

Kabuto darts towards her and she slips to the side as he his hand launches forward, chakra scalpel sizzling at his fingers. She ducks below his arm, aiming to jab his shoulder, but he’s quick and braces a foot against her thigh to push off and disengage. “You’re quicker than I remember,” he admits, “but no matter. I’ll end this fast.”

She doesn’t need to look around to know she is surrounded. “What’s the matter, don’t think you can take me on your own?” the young woman taunts.

“Oh, believe me, ours is a fight I am extremely curious about—but if I have nin at my disposal, why not use them?”

They descend on her as one and Sakura dances through the storm of kunai and swords, maneuvering with practiced grace, but there are simply too many and she takes a knee to the back of the head, an elbow to the gut, a heel to her spine and she rolls away from the barrage. She forms a substitution and lets the enemies flock to her—when she poofs into a log, she comes from above and they are quick to attack her falling form. Again, she poofs away. She does this three more times in quick succession, green eyes alert for an opening.

She throws a kunai; it is deflected and she lands before the group who simply toss a shuriken her way and await her next appearance. But she is not a substitute and when they turn she grins, tugs on the shinobi wire attached to the kunai handle and the Sound nin are dragged together, tangled in the chakra-enforced cord.

A chorus of obscenities rise before the group is swallowed by the earth and Sakura releases the wire.

And then something heavy and unrelenting shoves into the square of her spine, sending her to the ground. In the same instant, her arms are tucked behind her and quickly shackled. Sakura struggles against the weight on her back, but the knee only shoves down harder. Chin braced on the dirt, she glares up at the approaching medic. Kabuto saunters over, gait languid and mocking. Her eyes narrow as he crouches to her level; she can see her reflection in his glasses, and, just above her head, a white hawk mask.

The weight on her back lifts and she jostles free, but Kabuto just ‘tsks’ at her effort. “Those are chakra-blocking cuffs,” he says, catching her chin in his hand. “The only way you’ll get free is if I wish it.”

His grip tightens, tightens, tightens until her jaw threatens to crack—

A sandaled foot finds Kabuto’s cheek and the medic goes sprawling. Her savior wastes no time in following the medic, fists pumping out a series of attacks that keep the bespectacled nin in the air and Sakura watches him spin, leg coming out to land a heel square on Kabuto’s middle, sending the medic pummeling down to the ground.

In the dust that rises, a white mask emerges, rushing to her side and he crouches down to inspect her shackles.

“Are you—” she begins, but he isn’t paying attention, instead hurriedly fits keys into the slot to release her wrists. When he rises, she grabs his arm and the hawk mask stares at her and she knows, she knows the attack he just executed, knows the way he moves, she knows and maybe she’s known forever but was unwilling to admit it on the slim chance she was wrong but she is Haruno Sakura and she is a fucking genius and so without hesitation, her free hand tips his mask up. There is no time to register the shock on his strikingly beautiful face—

Sakura leans forward, mouth finding his lips as if that is precisely where she belongs, and he immediately catches her about the waist, pulling her fully into him. The kiss is fleeting and desperate and overwhelming and then they spring apart.

She scowls. “You shackled me, you ass.”

When he smirks her heart swells and cracks and melts.

“It was the only way I could get close to Kabuto without suspicion,” he answers.

“I could have taken him.”

An all-too familiar tch escapes him and, in true Uchiha fashion, he deflects. “Are you here to save Konoha or argue with me?”

Sakura grins. “Both.”

Together they weave through the battlefield, and a symphony of disbelieving General Uchiha! and Sasuke?! accompanies the orchestra of clanging metal. Because they are in the middle of a war, no one lingers on the fact that Uchiha Sasuke is alive but his presence lights a fire under his troops and they take up arms with renewed vigor. The tides of war rise in their favor, their assaults pushing Sound back, waves along a quickly diminishing shore—

Then just as suddenly, more arrive.

More.

How is that possible?

Genma’s voice comes to life in her ear: “How the fuck are there so many? Where are they coming from?!”

“There’s no way we can take them—we have to fall back,” Kakashi announces.

From Shino, a curt grunt: “Our exit is blocked! We have to engage!” 

“Subterfuge unit! Retreat! Do you copy?”

Shikamaru, breathless: “We’re surrounded—we’re—fuck—there’s too many!”

“They—are they dead? They’re not going down—ahh!”

That’s Ino’s voice. 

That’s Ino’s voice!

Sakura stops in her run, feet skidding on the dirt and, without sparing a thought, darts back deeper into Konoha against the shouts, the screams, that demand she get her ass back to her unit what the hell does she think she’s doing?!

But the young woman will not leave her friends behind, she will not leave them to suffer when she can still fight, so she coats herself in chakra that buzzes, chakra that sizzles—

She presses a hand to her ear piece: “What’s your location? Ino? Ino!”

“F-Forehead? Twenty meters east of Hokage Tower—shit—”

That’s all she needs to hear, she tunes out anything else that comes through her com device, focusing instead on the horde of Sound nin who attack her with glassy eyes and blank expressions. They are not particularly skilled, but as a group they are formidable. She decks out punches and kicks like a melee tornado, mowing down any and all who dare get in her way. Just behind her she detects three chakra signatures that spike in her wake and she is grateful (so fucking grateful) for her friends who do not leave anyone behind.

She catches sight of Shino who does his best to keep the army occupied, then Shikamaru, crouched on the ground, his arm hangs limp at his side, blood covers his entire torso. Her hands glow green as she approaches him, ignoring the immediate danger because she knows Naruto, Sasuke, and Kakashi are hot on her heels—and she’s right. Like an inferno they spread into the area, meeting the encroaching enemy blockade head-on in a show of impressive power.

“Nevermind me,” Shikamaru grunts, catching her hand, “Ino.”

Sakura follows his gaze to a young woman collapsed on the ground and her feet immediately take her to the blonde. “Ino? Ino!”

A weak smile, half-lidded eyes. “Forehead, you look like crap.”

“Me? Have you seen yourself?” Sakura whispers, the light from her healing chakra casting the blonde’s features in green. 

Ino coughs and blood spills from her pouting lips. “Probably still better than you,” she manages to grunt.

A simple scan tells Sakura all she needs to know: it doesn’t look good. Internal bleeding, chakra network completely blocked, lung pierced, entire right arm crushed. “Tch,” she sniffs, tugging her friend closer and enveloping her in all the healing chakra Sakura can muster, “whatever you say, pig.”

“It’s okay, Sakura,” Ino’s voice is resigned, distant, “it’s o-kay—”

“It’s not okay, don’t you fucking say that,” the pink-haired medic hisses, doubling her efforts.

But Ino just sighs, closes her eyes.

Sakura can detect her signature stutter dangerously low.

(“Ino don’t you dare give up!

“You can’t leave me like this, pig—

“Ino, just hold on, please!”)

Heat wraps around her, a tangible fury that singes her skin and Sakura has half a mind to be afraid of the monster that Sasuke has become in his efforts to protect—darkness swathes him in elegant swirling designs and he oozes power. When he unleashes himself, he takes down battalions at a time, manic in his violence. 

Naruto emanates a dangerous red chakra that bubbles and simmers; he is feral. 

Kakashi summons lightning itself, a thousand chirping birds accompanying his every slash.

Together they lay waste to Sound.

And Sakura? Sakura holds onto her dear friend, working as fast as she is able to fix everything that is failing in the blonde’s body.

It is a game of tag—once Sakura heals a portion of Ino’s problems, a new one arises. She expels chakra in her efforts to keep up and tears soak the blonde’s front as Sakura leans over her friend.

Ino is growing paler and paler, and Sakura begs, pleads, for her to hold on because she can do this fuck she’s been trained for this! Except she has already used too much chakra, she’s been fighting for so long, her reserves are nearly empty and there is no way she can hold out as long as Ino needs her—

“First rule of being a medic.”

Sakura’s head snaps up at the sharp voice. “Tsunade-sama!”

The Sannin stares down at her through narrowed hazel eyes. “You shouldn’t be so low on chakra—what use are you that way?” she rebukes as she takes a firm grasp on her pupil’s shoulders. Without another word, Tsunade transfers a portion of her chakra into the pink-haired medic. “You have to go, Orochimaru is utilizing dead bodies—they won’t stay down, there’s no beating this kind of army.”

“But—”

Tsunade dips down to stare directly into Sakura’s wide green eyes. There is regret in her stare, apologies, and pride. “Orochimaru knew you were coming,” she says quickly, sternly, fingers digging into the pastel-haired woman’s skin, “and it was because of me—the antidote to his poison had a toxin that…” she frowns, eyes fluttering at the memory, “had the capacity to control me to an extent. Must have been Kabuto's handiwork, brilliant really, the only antidote to save you also puts you at their mercy. The messages we sent back and forth—some of them I can’t recall writing, or reading.”

“You knew,” Sakura hedged, “you knew from the start that something strange was going on, didn't you?”

“I suspected something,” Tsunade admits, grip relaxing, “and I didn’t want to put you, or anyone, at risk.”

Something deflates in the pink-haired medic. “Shishou…” 

But Tsunade is as unyielding as ever, amber eyes harden as she stands. “This is my fault,” she declares, scanning the vicinity, “your plan was fool-proof but...Orochimaru knew about it because of me. This is my mess, and I will take care of it—”

“Tsunade-sama—”

“Sakura,” she barks, voice steeled against argument, “Go. They used me to get to you all. I’m the liability. I can’t give you Konoha but I can give you this right now: time. Time to escape, to recuperate. You can do this. You’re my apprentice, after all.”

Time.

Sakura shakes, she trembles at the notion of abandoning her mentor to face all of Sound, but Shikamaru and Kakashi are at her side and they urge her to her feet. The captain takes Ino into his arms, and suddenly Sasuke flickers before her, the intricate black design that slithered across his skin receding. 

“We have to go,” he says plainly, meaningfully, hands catching her face. His thumbs brush across her cheeks; she doesn’t even realize she is crying. “Okay?”

An exhale, then, “Okay.” 

She looks towards the Sannin, feels the chakra that is not hers settle into her muscles, and the back of her mentor’s haori flutters in the breeze. 

Hazel eyes glance over a rigid shoulder and wink at her (“Go make me proud.”) before Tsunade diverts all attention onto herself.

Sakura falls back, every fibre of her being screaming against leaving her teacher behind (again, they’re leaving her again and Sakura wonders how many times she’ll have to do that, she doesn’t think she has the strength anymore), but if Sakura is roaring fire then Tsunade is a monsoon. The earth rises at her command, with a simple flick of manicured fingers she sends an entire unit into the crumbling Hokage Mountain. 

Green eyes stay glued on the familiar haori until dust obscures her vision and then she turns away—

“We have to keep moving forward,” Sasuke insists.

—and follows her teammates away from the wreckage.

“We have to go back for her!

“I didn’t know she was there!

“How could you leave her?!

“She needs our help!”

A broken cry echoes off the cavern walls and Shizune falls apart at the seams, her tremors so violent that Genma keeps her arms locked at her sides, his hold unrelenting and his eyes deeply, soul-shatteringly, apologetic.

The sounds of her sobs strike Sakura to her core and she bows her head, unable to suppress the river of tears that runs down her face.

And then Shizune breaks free of Genma’s hold and embraces her pink-haired pupil; they sink into the earth and unravel together, tangled twine, frayed and lost and useless.

Despite the muttered assurances between them that Tsunade-sama is strong, she’ll survive and she’ll meet them and it’ll be alright, they know deep in their bones that Tsunade stayed behind to fight tooth and nail and the last of her abilities to hold Sound off to let them escape, medic rules be damned.

They wait two weeks.

Two weeks for Tsunade to show up.

Kakashi sends his ninken to survey the expanse of Fire Country for any sign of the Sannin.

There is nothing.

“We can’t stay here,” the Copy-Nin says one evening around the fire. “We’ve...we’ve waited as long as I dare, and we’ve received word from an ally. Everyone’s recuperating well and Sound knows we’re out here. They’re becoming more intensive in their search for us. They’re bound to stumble on this hide-out sooner or later.”

Sakura doesn’t touch her food, everything tastes like dirt. 

In that moment she hates him, hates the silver-haired jounin who has walked on eggshells around her for two weeks, hates the man who has lied to her—to everyone—

(The Lost Uchiha stands beside her, grinning at the Copy-Nin.

“Good to see you, Sasuke,” Kakashi greets, hands in pockets as if the general has been away on vacation.

Sakura steps forward, fuming at her captain. “You suspected this whole time and you didn’t say anything?”

Sasuke leans forward, practically resting his chin on her shoulder. She hears the smirk in his voice when he quips: “Annoying, isn’t it?”)

—about their general’s life, hates the man who has had to make impossibly difficult calls, hates the man who has guided her and the resistance to the best of his ability, most of all she hates that she knows he makes sense, knows his plan is the most logical, knows that they have waited around long enough but Sakura is a mess and all she can do is nod numbly at the flames.

“Okay.”

The funeral is somber. They set up a boulder in the waterfall cavern and carve the Sannin’s name into the stone. The loss of the legendary medic, the legendary slug sage, settles heavily on the remaining shinobi—it was her sacrifice that allowed them to escape, that prolonged the existence of the rebellion.

Sakura cannot remember everything that is said, nor what she has said, all she can recall is the dull buzz in her ears, the curious numbness in her body, the sting in her eyes and the tightness of her skin where tears have already dried on her cheeks. 

Hours after everyone else has gone to bed to prepare for their morning departure, she remains at the memorial, staring absently at the name.

“We’ll make this right,” a familiar voice says, an echo of words she unflinchingly delivered a lifetime ago. “We’ll do whatever it takes.”

She only nods.

Sasuke approaches, tentative, and stops at her side. A beat passes, then his arm lifts, hooks around her neck, and he pulls her to him. She collapses into his chest as if she was always meant to be there. His free hand clenches at his side as he stares at the headstone. 

A wavering inhale passes through chapped lips and then he buries his head into her hair, against her temple. 

“No happy endings right, Sasuke?” Sakura mutters into his chest.

.

(“Do you think the universe punishes us for the things we do?”

Sasuke glances at Haruno before resettling his gaze on the lake. They sit on the docks of Uchiha Base 4, waiting for the rest of the men to finish their lunches. “What are you talking about,” he rumbles, eyeing the mountainside that juts up into the sky.

“We kill people,” the chuunin says, drawing up a knee to rest his chin upon, free leg swinging idly over the edge, “do you think we’ll ever be punished for it?”

“Tch. It’s our job, does it matter?”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“It’s in the nature of what we are, isn’t it? There are no happy endings for shinobi.” Sasuke pretends not to notice the watery gleam in green eyes. “So,” the Uchiha adds, unsure why he even bothers, “we need to take the happiness when it’s presented to us.”

His subordinate blinks, turns to him, but Sasuke’s gaze is set over the lake. From his periphery, he traces the chuunin’s smile.

Haruno follows his gaze across the lake. “I see. Happy moments, then.”)

.

His fingers curl into her shoulder, arm secured around her neck. “Only happy moments,” he agrees.

Sakura cannot say how long they stand there, but eventually it becomes so dark that she can barely see the features of his face when they pull away. She cannot see his face but she can feel it, feel his breath fan across her forehead, feel the tip of his nose trail down the bridge of hers, she can feel his hands catch her jaw and she closes her eyes when his mouth finds first one eyelid then the other and just like that she secures her arms around his neck and pulls him down to her mouth.

This kiss is unlike any other they have shared—their previous interactions were always intense and explosive and insistent, but this kiss…

Sakura sighs into it, surrendering her soul to the man she has thought long dead. She tilts her head to accommodate his probing tongue, accepts him into her mouth and tastes him, slowly, leisurely, and his fingers leave her face, trail purposefully down her shoulders, down her sides, memorizing her curves.

She presses into him, encouraging, hands carding through his dark locks, pulling him down, wanting more, wanting to acquaint herself with every facet of his mouth as she devours him.

And the groan that rumbles in the back of his throat tells her he is just as eager; it is the only sound that warns her he has teleported them both to his tent.

Even as they regain their bearings they take their time.

He kisses the tears that trail down her face, kisses the bridge of her nose, kisses the constellation of freckles across her clavicle. He kisses her temple, drags his mouth over her hair across her skin as if by doing so he can absolve her of her remorse and her sins and her guilt. And she? She melts into his embrace like wax to his flame, molding against him as her arms crawl up his sides, behind his neck where she pauses and feels puckered skin—

“A scar?” she murmurs around his lips, “I didn’t feel this before…”

His mouth barely leaves hers to mutter “Gloves” and Sakura hums her understanding before her fingers disappear into his hair.

It is with leisure that he undresses her and she him, peeling away each article of clothing with care and then she is stepping out of her shorts, out of her underwear, and finally—finally—they pause, catch their breaths, and study each other. They are not shy, they have bared their most vulnerable sides to each other already, after all.

Sakura only smiles gently as the Sharingan glows in the shadows; he wants to remember her forever and that thrills her. His hands, warm and strong and steady, settle on her hips and he brings her down to lie on his bedroll with him.

The moment is unhurried, luxurious, their mouths get to know one another, their hands explore the endless expanse of skin and muscle, breathy sighs fill the canvas walls.

And then Sakura closes her eyes, leans her head back as a skilled hand palms one breast and a very skilled mouth claims the other. His leg is tossed carelessly over hers as he pays careful attention to her chest and she whispers his name into his dark hair, drags fire down his bare back. Sasuke grins against her skin, tongue toying with a pert nipple, before moving down her torso, kissing every scar, mouth exploring every inch of her, worshipping every dip and swell until he situates himself between her thighs and without preamble he spreads her and—gaze trained on her face, boring into her half-lidded eyes—flattens his tongue against her core.

She jerks in surprise, in pleasure, and he smirks against her folds, a single arm keeping her body steady, free hand tracing lazy circles along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, eventually making its way to her bundle of sensitive nerves.

He wants to give her everything, do everything for this young woman who has lost her family, this woman who has given him more than he ever thought a single person could offer. He tastes her, explores her with his tongue and she responds to every probe, coming so completely undone that Sasuke thinks he could die right then and there without regrets. But he is not finished yet, and when he fits two digits inside her (slowly stretches her, feels her wetness coat his fingers) he quickly moves forward to capture the resulting moan, swallowing his name on her lips. 

Uchiha Sasuke has always lived for his father, for his brother, for his family’s legacy but that night he lives to give Haruno Sakura a reprieve from the sorrow he knows she feels because he understands better than most what it is like to feel so broken and she is the last person who deserves to wallow in that devastation. 

“Sasuke—” her gasps are heated, growing more panicked as he works her and he can feel her muscles tighten around him. Her legs buck but he braces her with his knee, leaning up on his free arm to watch her unravel. Every move of his hands has her falling apart and he admires the way her mouth forms his name, the way she tilts her head back in ecstasy, the way she thrusts her hips against his fingers.

His own arousal twitches against him, between them, but that is the least of his concern.

Sakura writhes at his touch, grasps the blankets, loses herself, and he is enraptured at the way her eyes flutter and close, the way her lips pull back, the way her face scrunches and twists—

“Come for me Sakura,” he rasps, orders, against her ear.

—and then finally those delectable lips of hers part into an alluring oh as she clamps around him and loses herself entirely.

It is his name that she utters in the throes of absolute passion and he revels in it, in her, pumping once, twice, her juices dripping between his knuckles as she rides down from her high. When those green eyes open he is watching her intently and she exhales, the motion moves her breasts in a way that Sasuke can’t seem to tear his gaze from and then she grins and the look stirs his erection. He withdraws his hand, fully intending to lie down beside her, (to hold her, to kiss her, to give her the comfort he knows she must need) but she catches his wrist, brings it to her mouth and cleans off his fingers and fuck what is she doing to him?

“Don’t tell me you’re done,” she whispers and her voice is hoarse and so laden with promise that the Uchiha can’t suppress the shiver that overwhelms him as she pushes him down beside her, her hand firm on his chest as she  rolls over to straddle him.

Sharingan eyes watch as she peppers open-mouthed kisses down his front, breasts pressed firmly into his skin and he groans, the sound rasping past his throat, escaping his restraint. He buries his hands into her pink locks, squeezing perhaps a bit too hard when her tongue flicks out to taste him and Sasuke hisses into the night as she takes him into her hand, guides him to her mouth, and slowly (torturously and decadently slowly) her lips wrap about his tip, her tongue presses against him, and then she devours him, takes him inch by inch until he hits the back of her throat—colors explode behind his eyes—and she drags him out again, her stare never wavering from his.

He thinks she giggles, but the sound is muffled by his own grunt as he thrusts past her kiss-swollen lips, and she picks up her pace, hungry for him, starved, and he enjoys the feel of her, the way her tongue swirls around him, and fuck what is she doing with her hands and her mouth and the goddamn tempo she has set takes him to the precipice, to the zenith, he can barely contain himself, she moans while she has all of him and the vibrations in her throat send a jolt up his spine and a staggered ‘Sakura’ leaves him but he is completely unaware because her hands are cradling his sacs and her fingers tease his base and fuckfuckfuck—

“Sakura—” he grunts out once more, on the verge but she stops.

And he is gasping and glaring at the appropriately smug look on her face.

“Yes?” she asks, completely innocent.

Sasuke growls as he sits up, pulls her to him, crashes their mouths together and gathers her into his lap and somehow, despite being quite preoccupied with wandering hands and desperate mouths—it is a frenzy, hurried and intense as he finds her entrance and she rises then falls and sheathes him to the hilt. And knowing it’s Haruno that is taking all of him into her body, sliding against him with frantic need, drives him absolutely mad because fuck she is tight and warm and wet and squeezes him and he wonders if he hasn’t died after all and this is actually heaven.

He bites into her shoulder to suppress the way he wants to shout her name. She does not bite anything and instead repeats fuckfuckfuckfuck into his ear and that, Sasuke thinks, is the sexiest thing he’s ever heard.

She moves against him, in his lap, so forcefully that he eventually lies back again, allowing her to ride him the way she desires and Sasuke realizes the true genius of his doujutsu—nothing will ever beat the image of a naked Sakura bouncing on his cock, head tilted back, completely falling apart because of the way he is hitting her spot just right and his hip bone is grinding deliciously against her clit and her hands grip his shoulders as her pace begins to slow and he knows she has found her release so he grabs her hips, pounds up against her and coerces a strangled gasp from that pretty pink mouth—

Her nails dig into his skin, her head dips down, rests against his shoulder as her voice pitches higher in obscene staccato praise. 

Her walls tighten around him and it is her name that he groans into the night as he falls over the edge. And she rocks, once, twice, a sigh of sheer pleasure slipping past her lips as he empties himself fully and then she flashes that slanted grin that (in his blissful stupor he allows himself to admit) he fucking adores.

Sasuke’s hand rises from the curve of her ass to the dip of her waist and he tugs her over, pulling her against him. He feels his seed drip, feels her own wetness drag across his skin, but he doesn’t care, can’t care, not when she is curled into his side fluttering absent kisses against his neck. He presses his mouth against her temple and allows the scent of salt and sage soothe him.

He does not release his Sharingan even long after she has fallen asleep—he commits to memory the shape of her face as it rests against him, the way petal-pink strands are matted to her forehead with sweat, the way it splays across his arm, he traces and retraces the curve of her nose, the freckles across it, the exact breadth and shape of her lips, the way her lashes tangle at the corners, the way her cheek smooshes against his chest, and the way she whispers his name in her sleep. 

These are the things he will keep forever because as far as he’s concerned they are not things he can have right now. This was for her, he tells himself. It was for her happiness—but that is not something he can claim just yet, not when it is his family’s fault that all of this has happened at all. He presses a kiss against her forehead and marvels at the way she instinctively burrows into his chest and wonders just what he’s done in his life to deserve this particular moment.

The next morning, no one comments on the fact that she leaves his tent to finish packing up her belongings.

As they prepare to leave the secret cavern, Sakura comes to stand beside the Copy-Nin who, blessedly, does not mention that he can detect a certain general’s scent all over her.

“Where are we heading now?” she asks, voice low, distant, eyes decidedly not looking back at Tsunade’s memorial.

Kakashi squints through the canopy up into the sky and answers: “Suna.”

.

.

Chapter Text

Synergy

ACT III: Anyway the Wind Blows

—

“Sakura.”

An automatic smile blooms across her face as she turns to greet him, the memory of their night together still fresh in her mind. When she sees the dark look on his face, her expression falters. “Sasuke,” she says, green eyes taking in the tightness of his jaw, the rigidity in his shoulders.

His face betrays none of the tension when he says, “What we did, it was a mistake.”

A mistake.

“A moment of weakness. A comfort.  Something that we both knew couldn’t amount to anything more.”

A mistake.

“I’m still your general. Platoon 47 aside, I am your superior and we’re in the middle of a war.”

A mistake.

“And nothing can happen.”

Sakura’s smile is automatic—“Weakness,” she repeats, “yeah.”—but her eyes glisten for the wrong reasons. “Well, thank you for comforting me the best way you knew how, Uchiha-sama.”

A beat, his lips part, but someone calls him and he closes his mouth, turns and walks away.

“No happy endings,” she whispers, the words lost to the wind.

She has no way of knowing that Sasuke heard.

.

.

( III.1 — Rearrange the pieces )

Fire Country boasts endless greenery, its citizens blaze with unrestrained energy.

By contrast, the Land of Wind is an expanse of golden dunes and cracked earth. Beneath the sun, it scorches, enduring the heat. The people of Wind Country are resilient and adaptive. It is their tenacity that gives them power, their ability to rise up in the face of insurmountable odds. 

Fire requires oxygen to rise and so Wind offers its ally everything it needs:

“Again!”

Suna is nestled in a crater, surrounded by a stretch of desert. 

“You’re leaving yourself open!”

It could not be more different than Konoha forests.

“Honestly you call yourselves shinobi?”

One of the more glaring differences being that in Suna, women are welcomed, trained, and accepted as kunoichi.

“Run it again!” 

Sakura winces at the command, wiping the sweat from her forehead as she resumes her starting position. They have been at it for hours and her limbs are trembling for a break. Most of her peers have discarded their layers, wearing only shinobi shorts to seek reprieve from the unforgiving heat. Even she has discarded her zipped top, opting to train in her shorts and bindings. For people with fire in their veins, they really cannot withstand the unrelenting sun.

Temari regards them with a sweeping gaze as they move through the kata. The forms are quick and light, demanding a level of precision and balance that Fire, with its dominating presence, lacks. 

Sweat drips off the tip of her nose and before it wets the earth beneath her feet, she has fluidly gone through three forms.

Suigetsu has fainted in the heat.

.

(The Uchiha general’s return from the dead strikes his men as some divine sign that Konoha is slated to win their war. His arrival, revelation, brings with it a sudden spur in morale.

“S-Sasuke?” the sleet-haired man gapes at his general. His expression has lost its usual liveliness, lavender eyes round, mouth slack in awe—it would be cute, Sakura thinks, if he wasn’t holding a massive sword in the air, coated in blood and fueled with fury.

The Uchiha—cool as ever—just nods at his compatriot. “You’ve been working on that new skill.”

Suigetsu brightens like the sun burning through fog. “Tch, I told you I’d have it by the end of summer.” And just like that the duo move as one, mechanical in the ease with which they work together, and Sakura grins as she side-steps an enemy nin and promptly breaks their knees).

.

Naruto is in a heap on the ground.

.

(“Is that—bastard?!” Naruto hollers from across the expanse of cracked rubble.

Sasuke scoffs. “Watch your left, dead-last!”

The blond narrowly avoids an assault, spinning on his right and dipping low to aim a foot up into the Sound nin’s jaw. “Yep, definitely Uchiha-sama,” he snickers. “Seems to me like you’re the last one to join the party this time, Sasuke-bastard!”

Sakura swears she sees the twitch of a smile on the general’s lips but he immediately turns away to engage another shinobi.)

.

Sasuke (she tries not to allow her eyes to travel his direction, really, she does, but underneath the sun he glows, and the expanse of his back is just—) pumps out a series of punches—perfectly—earning a nod of approval from Temari.

Sakura scowls, looks away.

“Alright, take a break. You guys are pathetic. We have a lot of work to do.”

She immediately crumples, lying back on the ground, and shuts her eyes.

They have been in Suna for the better part of a month and the training has only intensified. The village has become a haven for those loyal to Konoha and under the Kazekage’s protection, they have thus far been able to raise their numbers, strengthen their forces. 

“Haruno-san?”

A green eye pries open to see a shadowed face leaning over her. Sakura’s mouth spreads into a smile and she sits up to properly greet her new friend. “I’ve told you,” she says as she takes the water the young woman holds out, “just ‘Sakura’ is fine.”

Soft eyes widen, fair cheeks redden. If Sakura is the incarnation of spring, then this young woman is the embodiment of the moon with her moon-pale features and sloping curves.

“It’s fine, Hinata,” Sakura assures, “thank you for this.” And she upends the bottle, greedily sating her thirst. 

“You did well,” Hinata compliments, prompting a scoff from the pink-haired medic.

“You did well,” she returns. 

And it’s true. Hinata performed the kata beautifully (and fully dressed!) her aristocratic upbringing helping with the graceful movements. Despite only arriving a week prior with a handful of Hyuuga at her disposal (much to Neji’s surprise and relief), Hinata has taken to Suna like a bird to the skies. 

Sakura grins, leans closer and adds: “Naruto was very impressed.”

Predictably, the Hyuuga’s face flushes a pretty pink. “I’m certain that’s not true,” she begins, but Sakura waves a hand.

“You’re too good for him, Hinata.”

At the shock on the Hyuuga’s face, Sakura laughs.

“Sakura.”

Both turn to see (a distractingly shirtless) Sasuke staring at the medic. Sakura tilts her head, squinting against the sun. “Sasuke,” she greets not unkindly but with significantly less cheer.

“I need to talk to you.”

As Hinata excuses herself, she suppresses a scoff but does not make a move to stand. “So talk,” Sakura suggests as she tips her head back to drink more water. But he snags the bottle from her grasp, demanding her attention. She scowls up at him, “What the hell do you—”

Sasuke’s eyes narrow—“Now.”—before he turns on his heel and stalks away.

With an exaggerated sigh that she knows he hears, she snatches her top from the ground, picks herself up, and follows. 

Weeks have gone by.

A month.

And in that month so much has happened—

“Sakura, do you have a moment?” a deep voice calls.

—yet nothing has happened.

Alright, nothing has happened that Sasuke particularly likes (not that he is aware nor willing to admit just what exactly he wants to happen).

It has been practically a month since he and Sakura—since they—

And she hasn’t...what? Come to him for another round? Declared her undying love?

Sasuke spins around, dark eyes falling on the man who has claimed Sakura’s attention, who seems to always insert himself into her life lately, into her path in an aggravating manner—seriously doesn’t he have anything better to do?

She offers a slanted smile (she’s always giving away those smiles of hers, as if she has an endless supply—what does she even have to smile about anyways?) and a polite “Er, sorry, Neji. Perhaps later? After dinner?”

“We’re training,” Sasuke interjects, surprised at his own reaction. Green eyes find him, startled since they had not made plans to train (and he does not miss the way pale eyes flicker over Sakura’s frame before settling on the back of her head, redness tingeing the Hyuuga’s cheeks). Sasuke crosses his arms. “Your reflexes could use some improvement,” he says staunchly, then, because Neji’s presence bothers him, adds “And you could improve the radius of your Byakugan. Maybe Hanabi can help.”

Neji quirks a brow, hand curling into a fist at his side at the slight against his skills. But the Hyuuga is respectful of authority and nods nonetheless. “Of course, General Uchiha.” A shallow bow, quick, then those impossibly pale eyes lock onto the pink-haired medic and a smirk tugs up the edge of his lips (and she blushes, what the actual fuck, Sakura) “Maybe you’ll accompany me for dinner then, before training?”

She grins. “Sure, of course.”

One last glance back at the general and Neji (finally) leaves them be.

When Sakura turns back to him, she frowns. “What?”

Sasuke schools his expression into one of absolute indifference—“What's the point of a shirt if you’re not going to wear it?”—and leads them away from the pavilion.

(He gets some satisfaction at the sound of her zipping up her top.)

He isn’t really sure where they are heading, strolling the streets of Suna. It is not particularly busy in this area of the village, with most shinobi working on various skill-sets in the training grounds. All he can think of is the way that Hyuuga’s mouth tipped up and how Sakura agreed to go on a date with him (dinner is basically a date, isn’t it?) when she’s supposed to—

what?

Love him?

Fuck what’s wrong with him?

“Sasuke,” she cuts into his thoughts and he hates the way she says his name, spits it out like dirty water, “what did you want to talk about?”

He’s being ridiculous.

“If this is about me pummeling Suigetsu the other day, he had it coming!”

Must be the heat.

“It’s not about that,” Sasuke snaps, then blinks. “He told me his black eye was from falling on his face,” he mutters then, realizing that his subordinate is a dirty liar.

Sakura just shrugs. “It was.”

Silence.

“Sakura, I,” what? He what? He wasn’t usually this pathetic! “You’ve been training the medics well.”

“Oh.”

Oh?

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

In unison: “Look,” and “Sasuke—”

Then, “Go ahead.”

Silence.

He is saved from the unbearable awkwardness by Genma who approaches with his arm lazily slung about Shizune’s shoulders.

“Sakura, I’ve been looking for you,” the brunette says, stepping out of her boyfriend’s hold, much to Genma’s dismay. “Do you have enough energy to help train the medics? Ino is wiped out from Temari’s drills.”

Sakura is Sakura and cannot say no so she smiles, beatific as always, waves a cursory hand in farewell, and follows the poisons expert to the medic ward.

Sasuke does not even realize he watches her walk away until Genma chuckles.

“Wow, kid, you’ve got it bad.”

The Uchiha glares.

The kazekage—Gaara, Sakura thinks to herself, still a bit unaccustomed to referring to the redhead so familiarly—has been kind enough to offer a storehouse in which to train the medics. The ward is not overly large, fitting 20 shinobi comfortably, it is one of the few facilities in Suna that has fans on the ceilings, the gentle ‘whir’ of the blades drowned out by her sharp instructions and the spattering of groans from the trainees.

Sakura stands at the front of the room, green eyes roving from one table to the next before pausing on the sight of long blonde hair draped over the end of a table—

(She is a haze of golds and reds and it is all Sakura can do but think it looks so wrong because Ino is vibrant blues and purples and pale gold. She is a bright star in the velvet expanse of night, a flower that blooms in the twilight and why they fuck is there so much

r

e

d

“Sakura!”

The young woman shakes free from her daze, quickly snapping into medic-mode. Ino is placed on a cot and though Sakura had been working on treating her even while on the run, she only just managed to keep the blonde holding on by a thread.

Shizune barks orders at anyone who can take a command and Sakura, already so acquainted with Ino’s frame, probes through her muscles, follows her bloodstream and mends ruptured vessels and clears blockages.

“I’ve got you, Ino. I owe you from before, okay? Like hell I’m going through life indebted to you, pig.”

Tsunade’s chakra hums under her command and Sakura can’t help but think how amazing her mentor must be to transfer so much chakra, and not only that, strong efficient chakra—it is as if it knows what to do, and Sakura simply guides it.

“Please, you can’t do this to me Ino. You’ll make it, please, stay strong, I’ve got you.”

The pink-haired woman moves from Ino’s chest to her stomach, to her arm and after hours and hours she can feel the unconscious woman’s heartbeat strengthen, ripple, and what little chakra Sakura has sputters out and she collapses—)

—“They are doing well.”

She blinks (the puppet on the table is not real, not Ino, she reminds herself) and glances to her left to see the kazekage himself admiring her students at work. Sakura can’t help but think the man would be much more approachable if he bothered to wear any mask besides indifference; he is pale and cherubic, but there is deadliness in his eyes. Love is stamped on his forehead and she has not been brave enough (or stupid enough) to inquire about it, and no one has told her—privately, she quite likes it. 

“We wouldn’t be making such improvements if it wasn’t for your generosity,” Sakura says. Then, with a thoughtful frown, adds, “You and Kankurou.”

At the mention of his brother, Gaara’s lip quirks. It is slight but shrewd eyes notice. “He has been very accommodating indeed,” the kazekage agrees, “you have been invaluable in his poisons research.”

Sakura flushes. “Shizune has been much more helpful in that regard,” she deflects.

“I meant you, your team, as a whole,” Gaara clarifies, though not without a hint of amusement. “Not you personally.”

The pastel-haired medic proceeds to turn completely red. “Right, of course.”

And then he smiles. Gaara smiles. (And Sakura wonders if that is going to be the most shocking thing she will see in her entire life.) “You always have an ally in Suna.”

Her face relaxes as she dips into an informal bow. “Konoha appreciates—”

“Konoha and Suna have been allies for many years,” the redhead cuts in, waving off her response. “Now I mean you personally.”

The smile she returns rivals the sun.

It has been a long time since he has thought of the pink-haired chuunin as Haruno Seiko, and in truth, Naruto has become accustomed to thinking of her as Sakura, it’s easy to remember after all, with her flowery hair and sunny disposition. To him, she is the same person as she’s always been: fierce and funny and caring.

But it seems not everyone has transitioned similarly.

Cobalt eyes glance from his bowl of ramen briefly, but what he sees makes him stop and turn back:

Hyuuga stick-up-his-ass-don’t-fight-your-destiny Neji extends his hand to Sakura.

Now, if they had been sparring and she was knocked down, this would not be so startling, but Sakura is sitting on a bench in animated conversation with medics-in-training when the Hyuuga approaches, hands in pockets and oozing the kind of cool Naruto knows he will likely never possess (but who needs that anyways when you’re charismatic and endearing?).

And Sakura, well, she blinks once, twice, then offers that pretty smile of hers.

It is dark but even from where he is seated he can see the flush that colors her cheeks as she takes his waiting palm.

What’s more, Hyuuga don’t-get-in-my-way Neji doesn’t let her hand go as he escorts her who knows where to do who knows what.

Now that’s curious.

“Oi, are Sakura-chan and Neji going out?”

Kiba snorts into his bowl, slurping up the remaining noodles with a rude smack of his lips. “Just because he was holding her hand?”

“Not just that, but they’ve been spending a lot of time together, haven’t they?”

Shikamaru sighs at his other side, head tipping back to eye the passing clouds that wink stars out of existence. “Sakura spends a lot of time with everyone.”

From Lee, in defeat: “Neji-san has made his interest in Sakura-san very clear!” A sniff, then, “He is a worthy opponent, I fear that maybe Sakura-san is falling for his charm.”

Kiba chortles as he drinks the leftover soup, a garbled “Like eyebrows had a chance in hell” echoing from behind the ceramic dish.

“I think they’re going out, but why would they bother keeping it a secret at all?” the blond grumbles.

“Because of people like you who won’t keep his nose out of other people’s business—”

Crack.

All eyes jump to their dark haired general who sits just across the table. His head is bowed, hand clenching a pair of chopsticks snapped in half—

(“Y’know, I think that Kankurou guy might like her too, actually,” Naruto muses around his next mouthful of noodles.)

—and without a word, Sasuke rises, takes his dish, and stalks off.

The blond frowns, “Tch. What’s wrong with him?”

Shikamaru is the only one who bothers to answer: “Mendokusei.”

“Spill!”

“There’s nothing to spill,” Sakura quips, busying herself with sorting through medical equipment.

It is late, most of their compatriots have turned in for the night but the medics are getting things ready for the following morning.

Rather, Sakura prepares.

Ino badgers her dear friend about the juicy details from earlier that evening. Crystalline eyes are intent on Sakura as Ino yanks the med-pack from her friend’s hand. “Oh please! He made a big show of asking for your company in front of everyone. That is not something Hyuuga Neji does,” she declares.

Sakura rolls her eyes, trying to stop the blush from creeping into her face. Judging by Ino’s smirk, she fails. “He...he just wanted to get food, okay? No big deal,” she grumbles, snatching the med-kit back.

“Holding your hand? Hyuuga Neji does not hold hands. Something’s going on.”

“It’s nothing.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not lying.”

(She is lying.)

Ino’s penetrating eyes narrow, burning a hole into Sakura’s back as the pink-haired medic flits about the hut, preparing the items they will need for their medic training sessions the next morning.

“Sakura,” she says.

And the young woman sighs. 

“I know you might still be hung up on...our general. But Neji’s a good guy. There’s nothing wrong with having fun, it might even help.”

“Fun. Like you and Shikamaru were doing?” she snarks back, immediately wishing she had kept the words locked behind clenched teeth. But the damage is done and when she spins around to apologize, she sees a delicate frown on the blonde’s face.

Ino is not one to wear her disappointment for all to see, so it is particularly startling to witness her pain. “We did have fun,” she says, tossing her long hair over her shoulder, “and then he decided he has more fun with—”

“You know who’s been smoldering at you?” Sakura interrupts with a grin.

Ino blinks, rolls her eyes. “If you say Suigetsu I swear I will smack you.”

“What! What’s wrong with him?”

The blonde opens her mouth only to close it again.

Sakura’s grin widens. 

Despite the shift in the world order, Itachi finds comfort in the fact that some things will never change.

His little brother stomps about the room, having one of his tantrums. It was admittedly rather cute when he was four, exhausting albeit amusing when he was eight, but now? 

A sigh escapes the older Uchiha’s lips as he lazily moves a shogi piece.

.

(“You’re alive.” 

Itachi can’t quite reconcile this beast of a shinobi with his little brother—this man has dark flames dancing across porcelain skin, his eyes are harder, the softness, the youthfulness, is gone. Sasuke is velvet over broken glass and Itachi stares in desperation to see something he can recognize.  He finds it in the set of his brother’s shoulders, in the grip on his katana, and in the flash of bewilderment in Sharingan eyes. 

“Aa. Thanks to a talented friend of yours.”

An errant attack disrupts Sasuke’s next words.

They do not have a proper reunion until they return to the waterfall base.

After making sure all his men are accounted for, after the initial flurry of disbelief and celebrations in the general alive and well, the brothers find themselves seated on the mercifully damp earth. Sasuke leans back against a log, Itachi against a boulder, and they cheers their bottles of beer.

The sound vibrates through the clearing.

“Who was it?” Sasuke asks after taking his first sip.

Itachi quirks a brow. “That healed me?” (Sasuke rolls his eyes, and that, Itachi thinks, is his classic little brother.) “You mean you can’t guess?”

Sasuke frowns. He doesn’t know anyone who is skilled enough to heal—his expression morphs into one of absolute awe. “No.”

His brother chuckles, though the sound is soft, subdued. “Yes. She’s...something.”

Sasuke opens his mouth but movement from a tent steals his attention and, as if against his own wishes, his gaze jumps to the head of pink slumped in Naruto’s arms.

The blond takes one step, two, before sensing his general’s stare. Blue meets black and Naruto flashes that toothy grin of his. “She’s alright, teme,” he says, voice uncharacteristically quiet. “Just chakra exhaustion. She’s one hell of a medic, though.”

Sasuke nods and his blond subordinate walks away. When he turns back to his brother, Itachi is studying him with his usual poignant look and the younger brother scowls, suddenly feeling quite on display. “What is it?” he snaps, irritated for no reason that he is willing to admit.

Itachi just grins—“Nothing.”—and takes a pull of his drink. “So tell me, what exactly happened after you did something as mind-numbingly irrational as teleporting me away?”)

.

“They’re seeing each other? What does that even mean! And in secret?! How long has this been even going on?” Sasuke paces the length of the floor, carding frustrated hands through his hair. “And what the fuck—Hyuuga?”

He’s overreacting.

“You’re overreacting.”

Sasuke shoots his brother a withering glare. “Two of my subordinates are—“

“Did Sakura tell you this?“

“No—”

“Did you see anything that makes you think anything is happening?” Kakashi pipes in from across the table, eye fixed on the shogi board.

“No—”

Itachi swears smoke comes from his little brother’s ears and hides his grin against a fist. “It is unlike a general to react without strategy when he lacks proper intel.”

The younger Uchiha scowls at the two jounin before storming out of the room.

Kakashi snorts behind his mask. “You’re pushing him, that’s not within the terms of the bet.”

Itachi just shrugs, leans back in his chair. “Have you met Sasuke? You can’t push him to do anything he doesn’t want to,” he moves a piece with lazy conviction. “And that’s game.”

He is in a mood.

Sakura notices the force behind his punches, the sharpness in his kicks, as they move through the Sand kata.

He is focused, pushing through the forms as if she is not even there. His speed is too fast for her to keep up and she stumbles as she tries to keep pace.

The look he gives her burns even under the moonlight. “Maybe you should spend more time training and less time going on dates,” he growls.

Sakura scowls, straightens up. “Maybe you should spend more time actually training me if I’m so pathetic, General Uchiha.”

They run through the kata fourteen more times.

When she finally turns in for the night (she hasn’t kept up with Sasuke yet, but she is getting faster, she can feel it) three things occur in quick succession that has Haruno Sakura staring breathlessly at the ceiling of her room.

First, Hyuuga Neji kissed her.

Second, Uchiha Sasuke punched Neji.

Third, Haruno Sakura punched Sasuke.

.

.

Chapter Text

.

.

( III.2 — Up the ante )

First, Hyuuga Neji kissed her.

Second, Uchiha Sasuke punched Neji.

Third, Haruno Sakura punched Sasuke.

.

.

Hours after the confusing series of events, she plays the incident over and over in her mind:

Sakura falls on the last form, mentally cursing the mistake (and on the final move!), and hating that she knows the Uchiha is giving her a look that condescends and berates. She doesn’t even meet his gaze, frustration mingling with the sweat on her skin.

“Go to bed,” he orders. “You need rest. You’ve got a lot of work to do tomorrow.”

Green eyes roll as she braces her hand on the ground and Sasuke turns on his heel, ready to stalk away—

“You alright?”

—when a voice stops him.

“I’m fine,” Sakura says, taking the hand Neji offers. “What are you doing up?”

He tugs her onto her feet with ease, not sparing a glance at his general. “Patrol,” he answers. 

And then there is that glint in his eye that tells her exactly what is going to happen, the conversation nothing more than a faint memory of days spent in a waterfall cavern and endless training—

(“Alright, next time I help you up, I owe you a kiss.”)

—Sakura swears it is in slow motion when he dips his head to her. She admires the contrast between him and the dark-haired Uchiha. Their eyes, for one. Neji’s gaze is an abyss of smoke, translucent enough to fall in, and she sucks in a breath when his mouth meets hers and she just has enough time to think that his lips are cool and firm before he’s sent flying to the side, Uchiha Sasuke’s arm still stretched from the assault.

Fiery eyes replace glacial ones and Sakura does not think, she only reacts.

Her knuckles land on the angled plane of Sasuke’s cheek and he skids backwards.

Sakura’s gaze jumps back and forth between the shinobi who glare daggers at the other.

No one speaks and Sakura, rather than dealing with either of them, storms away.

What the hell happened—?

Knock, knock.

She closes her eyes.

“I know you’re awake,” a muffled voice says, “your chakra is spiking.”

With a huff, the young woman stalks to the door and cracks it open. “You told me to get rest,” she quips, “and now you’re interrupting it?”

He levels her with a look. “You and I both know you weren’t getting any rest.”

“I’m not apologizing for hitting you.”

Sasuke frowns. “That’s not why I’m here.”

“Then what do you want?”

“You know intracamp—”

“Is that really what this is about?”

He studies her then, appraising and thoughtful. “Is that something I’ll have to just... see now?”

Sakura quirks a brow, folding her arms across her chest, perplexed. “What?”

There is something unpleasant in the Uchiha’s face, nose scrunching up in distaste as he clarifies, “You and Hyuuga.”

Brusquely: “There is no me and Hyuuga.”

From Sasuke: a pointed look that silently asks if she thinks he is an idiot.

“Okay, he's been very...attentive,” Sakura relents, cheeks flushing at the topic at hand. Green eyes fall to her feet, she fidgets.

But Sasuke’s eyes only narrow in distrust. “You’re dating him.”

Her gaze jumps right back to meet his, indignant. “We went out once. Tonight.”

“He kissed you.” Accusation and something else lace his words and he hardens his mouth into a line to keep from letting anything else slip.

“That was from—back in the waterfall base we—” what is she even doing explaining herself? Uchiha Sasuke is owed no explanation! “You’re the one who said nothing could happen between us,” she points out, dropping her stare to the floor.

Sasuke sighs and had Sakura been looking at him she would have seen the weariness in his eyes, but she isn’t, so she only hears the steel in his voice—“I don’t like him.”

Sakura, in sheer disbelief: “You told Kakashi he's jounin material.”

“That doesn’t mean I like him as a person,” the general mutters, and suddenly they are both eighteen and life is simpler than war and politics and treason. “And that’s not information you should really be privy to—”

“Sasuke, you said—”

“I know what I said,” the Uchiha cuts in, voice so sharp Sakura glances up at his face. His expression is all harsh lines, but his eyes are deep and loaded with something barely restrained. “I don’t like this.”

“So what’re you going to do about it?” the medic whispers; a challenge, an offer and acquiescence all rolled into one.

But Sasuke only stares back, mouth tense as he considers her words. There is an instance where Sakura thinks he might actually do something, where she thinks he will toss his own hesitation to the winds and step into her room, but then he exhales and the sound is defeated, long-suffering, and she knows his anwer.

The medic nods her understanding, steps backwards into her room and whispers “Goodnight General Uchiha,” before shutting the door.

Call it a tribute to the fallen Sannin, but poker nights have garnered popularity in Suna; every end of the week a small group of shinobi engage in the game, betting rations (or for some, questionable services). It is a night for relaxing after intense training, a night to unwind and luxuriate in the time they have left—the fact that it could be their final moments remains unsaid but is heavily understood.

It is such a staple that eventually antes are constantly upped. In the previous weeks the wins and losses have been as follows:

Ino lost a hand to Suigetsu and is now his personal medic (though Sakura wonders if there is something else going on there).

Sasuke lost a hand to Itachi and has to do 50 pushups whenever Itachi sneezes.

And Kakashi? Kakashi lost a hand to Sakura and the young medic was blessed with a peek at his mask-less face (which left her blushing red and the youngest Uchiha glowering the rest of the evening and pulling out of any and all future games as they are childish and a waste of time and shouldn’t they all be training?)

This particular night’s party consists of Shizune, Sakura, and Itachi (who are always at the table and ready to take everyone for everything they’ve got), along with Suigetsu, Genma, Ino, Naruto (the worst player), Shikamaru (the most boring player), and Sasuke (after adamantly denying ever saying he would never play again).

The final pot comes down to Genma and Shizune.

Four bottles of sake have been consumed, which is not significant considering the number of the group, but most of the last bottle was solely shared between the duo who are staring daggers at each other across the pot. To everyone’s surprise, Shizune is actually quite good at gambling despite her mentor’s poor luck, and she shoves the remnants of her chips to the center of the table, flashing her dear significant other a slanted smile.

“I’m all in, Shiranui.”

He chuckles, peering down at his cards before setting them face-down. His head tilts, eyes appraising the young woman before him in a manner that makes Sakura’s spine tingle. “Let’s up this ante one more time—”

“You’ve got nothing left,” the brunette medic scoffs. gesturing to his empty goods.

Genma smirks. “Okay, if I win this hand then you marry me.”

A collective gasp.

Shizune, absolutely nonplussed: “And if you lose?”

Naruto, practically half climbing onto the table: “Make him shave his head!”

Sakura, perhaps a bit drunker than she thinks she is: “Make him streak!”

Ino and Suigetsu, then Sasuke and Itachi in surprising unison: “Hell yes!” and “No!”

Genma tips his chair back onto its hind legs. “If I lose, I’ll do that thing you like—”

They’re drunk, they’re reckless, and a part of Shizune wants to berate him for this unconventional proposal and the rather private matters he is insinuating. But he looks so handsome, eyes half-lidded in drunken stupor, the lazy angle of the senbon perched between smirking lips betrays the absolute ease in his manner, his hair is artfully disheveled in a way only Genma seems to manage, and when have they ever been ones for conventionality anyways?

So Shizune huffs, leans over the table to pluck the needle from his mouth, and tucks it between her teeth in a feral smile. “You’re on.”

With a devilish smirk, Genma lays down his cards: “Royal flush.”

Shizune doesn’t even glance at his hand, just sets her own down in defeat. Her eyes are dancing when she answers: “You got me.”

Game night comes to a screeching halt when Genma lays his new fiancee on the table to celebrate their engagement.

With nothing else to do and not quite up to retiring to bed, Sakura decides to train Temari’s kata. 

The forms are challenging, demanding more from not only her own stability but her reach, her flexibility, her grace. As a shinobi, she is well-versed in her body’s capabilities, but the Sand kata tests not only her temerity but the fluidity of her move-set.

Tsunade’s kata is like gliding across fragile ice.

Sasuke’s kata is maneuvering across magma.

Temari’s kata? Temari’s kata is both, but atop a blistering mountain peak.

She bends back, single hand catching against the ground, and breathes, in then out, before kicking her feet up into the air to hold a pose—one beat, two—then she allows her feet to go over her head. She stretches her legs too far and has to push off with her palm to stand, but it is wrong—

“Your sight is throwing off your balance.”

Sakura knows that voice, knows the tenor, the cadence, as well her own name and she takes a deep breath as she continues her forms, ignoring him.

Footsteps, then his signature pulses in a lazy and decadent hum, an announcement, a warning, sizzling in anticipation.

She does not stop him when his arms stretch over her shoulders, holding a long piece of cloth. It is not his hitai-ate, that has long been lost, but she stills all the same at the sight of it. He stands behind her, silence pressing into her, an unspoken question. She could say no, she could deny him, but Sakura just takes a steady breath, allowing her arms to drop to her sides. Sasuke takes it as acquiescence and ties the fabric over her eyes, knotting it behind her head.

His fingertips brush through her hair with the movement, careful and precise. Sakura feels the warmth from his words seep into the caves of her ear: “You can do these forms, you’re overthinking them. When you try to spot where you should land, you overreach.”

There is something present in his tone, something that used to be nothing more than apprehension but now is bolder, its roots burrowed deep into the marrows of her bone.

“These forms aren’t like the Uchiha kata, each movement keeps you closer to your base. To brace against unrelenting wind.”

Goosebumps rise along her arms but she remains still—so still because she is afraid if she so much as breathes wrong she will scare him off, he has not directly spoken to her in days and like hell she will ever admit that she craves his attention—as his hands grasp her shoulders and turn her around.

Just like all those nights ago, a lifetime ago, when she was still Haruno Seiko and he was her general and things were simpler.

“One,” he whispers, voice sharp against the quiet of the night. Sakura can detect a hint of sake on his breath, a slight rasp in his tone.

Her muscles move, the first forward step, and she feels his resistance against her form, forearms to fist, to thigh.

“Two.”

When they move it is as one. 

She listens to his commands, focusing on the sensation of her limbs in space, concentrating on her center, on his scent—always the same, pine and smoke and salt and how is that even possible there are not any trees—and the huffs of air that escape him when he meets one of her stronger strikes. 

Even as her fist hits his palm she feels as if their parts mold together.

In the face of an inferno they are melting glass.

They move through the kata eleven more times, the pace picking up after every completion. By the last, their movements are swift and impeccable and Sakura can feel the sheen of sweat on his skin mingle with hers and then his breath fans across her lips—it takes all her will-power not to press him to her, not to wrap her arms around where she knows his neck is and crush his mouth to hers. 

It is a testament to her control that she only licks her lips (and she wonders, hopes, he watches with myopic clarity) and whispers: “Are we done?”

Sasuke tugs the blindfold from her and she blinks at the sudden invasion of muted light. “No,” he answers quietly, the fabric held loosely in his fist. 

Then, without warning, he strikes.

Sakura slides a foot back, arm rising to meet his attack. Jade eyes jump to the abyss of his gaze and, without wasting another moment, she lifts her leg to kick. He ducks beneath her sweep and the dance begins—

It is fast-paced, unscripted, but with every prompt, the other responds in kind. Their strikes narrowly miss or else are halted by the ideal counter, and each advance melts fluidly into the next. The display of not only athleticism but understanding is enough to convince Sakura he has used his Sharingan for this spar, but his eyes are black as ebony. He can read her without it, she realizes, and, as she evades another advance, twirling out of his reach, she can read him.

What does that say about them?

Sakura does not linger over-long on this thought, simply losing herself to their spar. They rise and meet, eb and flow, to a rhythm only they are aware of—it matches the thump-thump-thump of her heart, matches the sharp inhalations and steady exhales, until finally she has him on the ground, splayed on his back and glaring up at her.

A part of her thinks he allowed himself to be caught, but there is no hiding the surprise in his face.

His eyes take in the sandaled foot pressed firmly against his chest, trail up the length of her calf, her thigh, and then finally find her face. “I’m sorry.”

Sakura blinks. “You’re sorry,” she echoes.

Sasuke frowns, pensive. “I’ve been…”

“An ass?” the young woman supplies.

The Uchiha scowls but doesn’t deny it. “I just...you make me…”

“Crazy?”

“Crazy,” he affirms.

Sakura smiles (and finally, finally, it is exactly as Sasuke remembers). “I get it,” she says, allowing herself to outline the contours of his face. (And she really and truly does, he thinks.) “And, I know I never said it when we found you again but…I’m glad you’re okay.”

Before she can remove her foot, he grabs it and tugs, sending her onto her ass on the ground. Her leg rests across his torso, the other folded beneath her. They both know she could have caught herself.

Instead, her eyes lift to the moon as she grumbles, “Bastard.”

Sasuke, to her pleasant surprise, laughs.

In the next week a handful of events have transpired.

First, a celebratory dinner wherein everyone congratulates Shizune and Genma on their engagement.

Then, some trainees catch a certain blonde and a certain fanged shinobi in a compromising situation in the med-ward.

And lastly, Sakura has gently let the Hyuuga know that she is not interested.

Sasuke has only heard the most recent rumor through the grapevine—not that he was eavesdropping, of course, but some people were just speaking rather loudly about it. The conversation went like this:

“Did you hear!”

(Of course at this point Uchiha Sasuke is decidedly not interested.)

“Neji finally asked Sakura to be his girlfriend!”

(Okay, now that has Uchiha Sasuke’s attention.)

“No!”

“Yes!”

“What did she say!”

(Dammit, what did she say?)

A pause, then, “She turned him down!”

“No!”

(Yes!)

“Yes! Something about now not being a good time, how she appreciates him as a friend and how wonderful he’s been—“

(Wonderful? Tch.)

“—but it’s just not a good time to be involved with anyone and if she were to be involved with someone she already has a person in mind.”

“Oh, intrigue. I wonder who!”

A conspiratorial whisper: “Kankurou, maybe?”

(What.)

“Have you seen the way he looks at her? Or talks about her?”

“He is always so helpful around the medic ward too!”

(Kankurou? What the fuck?)

“Oh! Uchiha-sama!”

Sasuke blinks at the pair of doe eyes that settle on him.

“This is the ladies’ onsen.”

He blinks again, lifts his gaze to exactly where the young women are headed, and clenches his teeth because yes, it is the women’s onsen. Sasuke clears his throat, frowns. “Right, I was wondering if you could check to see if...Temari is in there.”

“Temari,” one of the girls repeats.

He scowls harder. “Yes.”

“Temari is holding her usual session in the training grounds.”

Sasuke blinks one more time—“Right.”—and leaves before they can bring up the fact that he should know this, doesn’t he over-see that training daily and wasn’t that where he was headed before he got side-tracked anyways?

Needless to say, Suigetsu notices his general’s tardiness and proceeds to pester him about it the rest of the day. It doesn’t take long for him and Ino to put things together (Honestly, between them their gossiping skills have grown tenfold!) much to Sasuke’s chagrin.

“So you’re standing there, telling me that you don’t care an ounce about Sakura’s love-life?”

“Yes,” he grouses, pausing in his stride to fix his fanged subordinate with a glare, “I—” That is precisely when Sasuke decides that the universe hates him because in that moment Sakura walks by with a smile and a wave and his words die on his tongue.

Suigetsu’s laugh brings him back to the frustrating conversation; the sleet-haired shinobi is doubled over in his glee. “Man I wish I had a stake in this bet, I’d win by a landslide.”

“...Bet?”

Plum eyes widen at the error.

Sakura scowls at the group that arrives at her med-ward.

“What happened to you guys?” 

They all sport various bumps on their heads and appropriate looks of contrition.

A deep voice answers: “Well are you going to tell her, or am I?”

Green eyes peer around her friends to find Uchiha Sasuke glowering at the lot. His arms are crossed over his chest as he fixes his gaze at the head medic. 

“Did you do this?” Sakura drawls.

Sasuke scoffs. “Did you know about the bet they had going on? About you?”

She blinks.

Turns out ever since Sakura rejoined the resistance there has been a bit of a betting pool taking place about who she might end up.

Kakashi and Genma placed their money on Neji.

Itachi, who joined only after realizing his brother is alive, put his money on Sasuke. (And there is an on-going debate about the merits of this considering had everyone known Sasuke was alive they would clearly put their money on him! And the fact that this is debated at all is insulting!)

Tsunade and Shizune had bet on Itachi. (This has the younger Uchiha guffawing in a way that Sakura has committed to memory for future use if she ever needs something to lift her spirits.)

And Ino and Suigetsu both figured she would end up alone forever simply because she loved Sasuke too much. (Sakura cannot suppress the rage she feels towards these two so-called friends and thinks that life was much easier when they were not associating.)

None of their injuries are treated.

“There is word of unrest at the Sand borders.”

All eyes are trained on the kazekage who sits at the head of the table, hands steepled before him in thought. His cerulean stare is set on the map of the countries, marked where various skirmishes have taken place over the course of the last month. 

“My shinobi have captured the perpetrators and are keeping them in custody until we can determine their allegiance,” Gaara continues, voice low and tense. Something in his expression suggests he hates such politics, but like the denizens of Sand he does not crumble. “There is word they are being sent by a demon.”

“A demon,” the Copy-Nin echoes from his seat.

“Aa,” the redhead affirms. “A demon who buries enemies with a snap of its fingers.”

The entire table shifts in disbelief. 

“What would you have us do?” Sasuke is the one to breach the heavy silence.

Gaara fixes marine eyes on the Uchiha general, appraising. “Nothing. I can’t send you to do a Suna mission.”

“But your shinobi,” Sakura cuts in, brows knit in concern, “they fill the cots in the hospital, even in my medic ward.”

The kazekage’s mouth hardens into a line; over the past few days his nin have been sent back bleeding and half torn apart. It seems that whoever is raising hell at the borders is not doing so for any other purpose than to get Sand’s attention. “I will dispatch Suna Anbu to scout it out—”

A throat clearing draws their attention to his brother. “Gaara, our Anbu are otherwise...occupied.”

The redhead frowns then blinks and the emotions are so apparent on his face that Sakura can’t seem to look away: confusion, realization, regret. “Of course,” he relents quietly, gaze dropping to the map spread out on the table. 

He had forgotten he sent his Anbu to visit each hidden village to assess the Snake Sannin’s forces and allies. Thus far only one team has returned, and not with good news, and certainly in no condition to be sent out again—

“I can do it.”

All eyes snap to Sakura who traces the Sand border with her gaze. 

“I can scout it out,” she explains, “My chakra control is such that I can completely disappear, and I’ve been training with Karin. I’ll be able to sense them, get numbers, locations, without getting too close—”

“No, absolutely not,” the dark haired general retorts.

Sakura glances at him, surprised at the order. “I wasn’t asking your permission, Sasuke,” she replies, chin tilting in defiance. Then, settling her eyes back to the kazekage, continues, “I can do this. Let me do something to repay you for your hospitality.”

“You’re not going alone,” Kankurou determines.

Gaara intercedes, already knowing where the young man is headed: “You can’t accompany her, you’re too well-known here.”

The puppet master is poised to argue, “But—”

“Neji,” Sakura pipes up. She looks over at the Hyuuga whose brow quirks at her consideration. “He would be ideal. His Byakugan would keep us safe. That is, if he’d be willing.”

The Hyuuga regards her with steely eyes and the moment stretches thin before he finally nods once, the edge of his mouth tugging up. His voice is smooth and low and perhaps a bit bemused as he answers: “It’d be my pleasure.”

Only Sakura notices the tic in Sasuke’s eye when Neji accepts.

The cell door opens with a slow and threatening creak. Footsteps, measured and purposeful, echo off the damp walls. It is a nice reprieve from the blistering desert, she thinks. Somewhere in the crevices of her mind she recalls learning that Suna was built on an oasis...

A man crouches before her, face painted, hood drawn over his head. She knows him but she has lost too much blood, her memories are hazy. When his hand reaches out to grab her chin, her muscles act of their own accord, swatting him away. There is restraint in his actions, tension in his movements as he rests his hands on his hips.

“Look, I…” he pauses, grasping for words, “...I believe you. But you have to understand how it looks on our end,” (When he sighs, she can feel it reach her own tired bones.) “our forces arrive on scene to see your lot just butchering unsuspecting shinobi—”

“Sound shinobi—”

He levels her with a look, shoulders dropping at her snarl. “We couldn’t verify their allegiance.”

“I’m telling you: they were loyal to Sound. They were experiments—”

The young man lifts a hand, rakes it through cropped locks. “Again, none of this is verifiable,” he mutters, mostly to himself. 

She studies him, the way he deflates as if he has had this specific argument many times over—but she has only ever met him once before. He debates with others, the desperation in his tone suggests it must be authority breathing down his neck.

“What is your business in Sand?” he tries then, studying her bruised and swollen face. It may be a trick of the light, but she thinks he flinches at the sight of what he knows his own men have done in their interrogations.

“To protect it, you asshole—if you guys would just listen—”

But he only groans, takes a seat on the ground and regards her, arms resting on his knees. “Let’s start with something simpler. What’s your name?”

The young woman scowls, rolls her eyes to the ceiling. Her guest remains silent, waiting for her response.

It takes a moment; she studies him first, eyes discerning. When she finally answers, her voice is sharp, as lethal as the knives she wields: “Tenten.”

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Chapter Text

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( III.3 —  Safe and sound )

For someone who has supposedly let the Hyuuga down easy, she sure jumped at the opportunity to go on a mission with him. (What’s great about the Byakugan anyways? The Sharingan is even better, it—) Sasuke is annoyed. But he has no right to be.

“You seem upset.”

“I’m not upset,” he grouses, fiddling with a rock and frowning at its rough exterior.

“Distracted, then,” Itachi amends, lifting a brow in challenge as his younger brother discards the little stone in favor of another. Sasuke just grumbles an intelligible response that sounds suspiciously like ‘Not fucking distracted either.’ Itachi bites back a chuckle, pressing his lips together in amusement.

The root of his brother’s obvious disdain is plain as day—Haruno Sakura has just departed on her mission with the Hyuuga earlier that morning and the youngest Uchiha general is vexed.

With a carefully indifferent sigh, Itachi asserts: “You know, she would have let me die if she didn’t care about you so much.”

Sasuke glances at his brother, hand poised to skip another rock. “She doesn’t care about me,” he says despite Itachi not mentioning anyone by name, “she’s just loyal to her home.”

The older Uchiha scoffs in a manner that makes Sasuke’s ears burn. “Right. Her home. That's why she let the man who killed your hokage live.” Itachi tosses and catches a pebble before winding his arm to hurl it across the flat expanse of sand.

They stand amidst the dunes, skipping stones across the surface. An out-of-commission watchtower serves as their target and Itachi’s rock scrapes one of the pillars holding it up.

“I believe I’ve heard that she has politely declined the Hyuuga’s advances. Give me one good reason nothing can happen with you,” the older brother presses.

Sasuke hesitates before throwing his stone and watches it skip in one long arc, then in many smaller ones until the tell-tale ‘plunk’ as it hits the wooden pole cracks through the air: “Intracamp relations are frowned upon.” The words are automatic, lacking any conviction.

Itachi hums, idly fingering another rock. “I’m sorry,” he begins sagely, occupying himself with running deft fingers over the pebble’s surface, “I was under the impression that you kicked her out of your platoon?”

“...Shut up.”

Itachi laughs and throws the stone.

They watch it skip once, twice, but on the third arc a bird swoops down and swallows it.

Sasuke grins. “Three, two.”

“You don’t really think we’re up against a demon, do you?”

Neji scoffs. “No, probably just some spoiled brat with a power complex.” A pause, then, “Not unlike our general.”

At that Sakura gapes, nudging him with her shoulder. “Hyuuga Neji, did you just disrespect your superior?”

.

(He is rather striking, she thinks, as she watches him approach. Under the glow of the setting sun, awash in pinks and golds, there is no denying that Hyuuga Neji is handsome, especially not when the soft hues of the sky are reflected in translucent eyes. And especially not when his mouth tilts into a haughty smirk—it’s sharper, she realizes, than Sasuke’s—the edge so fine that Sakura wonders if he sharpens it as dutifully as his weapons.

His hands are in his pockets, the picture of nonchalance. “Sakura.”

An exhale leaves her as she stands to greet him, hands locked behind her back. 

The memory of his kiss, as fleeting as it was, still tingles across her lips—it was too quick to really assess, especially in wake of her more furious encounters with Sasuke. But it wasn’t unpleasant and she has a feeling that if given the proper opportunity, Hyuuga Neji would show that he is a genius in more than just shinobi arts. 

But…

The medic rolls onto the balls of her feet before rocking back onto her heels and just as she opens her mouth to speak, he cuts in:

“Ah, rejection.”

Sakura blinks, startled. 

“You always do that,” Neji says by way of explanation, “Shift your weight when you have news you’re not quite sure how to deliver.”

Should she be flattered that he knows her mannerisms?

Then he sighs, head tilting to the side. “Let’s hope Uchiha can pull his head out of his ass and realize what’s waiting for him, then.”

Sakura falters, smiles, and has never appreciated the Hyuuga more. “Did you just insult your general?”)

.

“I have the decency to do so behind his back,” Neji quips, “unlike some people.” Pale eyes flit to her before settling on the horizon. 

Sakura snorts. “Last I recall he kicked me out of Division 47.”

“You’ll always be part of our platoon,” the Hyuuga answers without missing a beat.

And Sakura decides that now she has never appreciated Neji more.

Kankurou bursts into the office in such a flurry the stacks of papers on the kazekage’s desk threaten to tip over. He slams his hands down, demanding his brother’s attention. “It’s Sound,” he announces.

Gaara studies his sibling, cerulean gaze narrowed in both confusion and concern. The puppet master’s chest heaves, breaths leaving him in staggered pants. “What’s Sound?” the redhead prompts, setting aside the scroll he had previously been scanning.

The brunet scowls, leaning forward. “The skirmishes on the border,” he begins, “Sound experimented on people and these experiments have recently awakened or been released or—or—”

“Why has there been no evidence of such experiments? No bodies?”

Kankurou’s shoulders droop, but the certainty on his face remains. “Apparently some demon arrives to bury them all. Crushes them into the earth.”

“That’s strangely convenient,” the kazekage muses. “Did our...person of interest tell you this?”

“Yes, she claims to be from Konoha.”

.

(“Why did you leave your village?” Kankurou inquires. 

Tenten stares, gaze tracing his face for signs of distrust—to her surprise, she finds none. She takes the canteen he offered earlier only after he has taken a drink from it himself. That he may be immune to specific poisons crosses her mind, but he has visited her for three days and has been nothing but civil. 

And she is really, really fucking thirsty. 

“Girls can’t become shinobi in Konoha,” is her simple reply as she greedily drinks the water.

“So you left your village because...you wanted to become a kunoichi?” 

Tenten pauses, drawing the back of her hand against wet lips. “I didn’t abandon them, if that’s what you’re implying,” she says drily, surprisingly alert eyes set on the puppet master. “I had permission from the hokage to train with the Nomad nin.”

Kankurou blinks. “Nomad nin,” he repeats, the word sounding familiar on his tongue.

“Mm,” the brunette confirms, “an all-kunoichi wandering group.”

“So, rounin?” he hedges, trying to put an ideology to her squad.

Tenten is thoughtful when she replies, “Not rounin, per se. We travel the lands and borders all together and keep peace but are still loyal to our homes. We all come from a handful of hidden villages, so don’t you go saying Konoha made a militarized move against anyone. It’s easier to keep things quiet, we do our job and do it well. For years it’s gone on this way, no feathers ruffled.”

The Sand nin gapes, wrapping his mind around the fact that one: there was a merry-band of female shinobi just cleaning up messes, and two: they had authority from various kage? Are there any Suna kunoichi in their ranks—?

As if reading his mind, she adds, “Women are allowed to become combat nin here.”

Kankurou grins. Of course. “So you guys have been moving along our border because…?”

Tenten sighs, handing him his emptied canteen. “Like I said, Oto has been abandoned but lately there’s been activity around the base, so we checked it out. It’s like someone opened Pandora’s Box. It’s...it’s terrifying, the monsters he’s turned those people into. I think hidden villages are hesitant to act against it because of Orochimaru’s current...occupation of Konoha.”

There is no doubt in his mind that this young woman is loyal to her village. If the Leaf hitai-ate proudly adorned around her neck doesn’t make that clear, then the hardening of her eyes and softening of her voice as she mentions Konoha’s state are evidence enough.)

.

Gaara leans back in his seat, regards his brother through cool, discerning eyes.

Between the Sand siblings, Gaara is the most powerful and feared; Temari is the best in terms of diffusing, negotiating, delegating; and Kankurou? He can read people. His puppeteering skills transcend lifeless entities, extending to the population as a whole—he is charismatic and approachable and those facts alone lend him an easy charm. He can dissect a person’s motives and intentions with only 5 minutes in conversation. 

So when Gaara challenges “And you believe her?” the answer Kankurou gives is all the affirmation the redhead needs to start strategizing.

“I do.”

Blood.

There’s always so much fucking blood.

Sakura should be desensitized to it by now, she knows, but the stench of rotting flesh still curdles something in her stomach. Neji is at her side, hand on her shoulder, a tether, a pillar, and she exhales, steels her nerves. She was taught to be better than this, to be stronger than this—

But she has seen enough slaughters in her lifetime, she thinks. Is it really necessary to bear witness to another?

The village is laid to waste before the duo, and what’s more, it is civilian. Perhaps that is why this is even more unbearable than she expects. These people were defenseless, caught in the middle of what? A war?

“Do you sense anyone?” Neji’s cool voice brings her back.

Sakura extends her chakra forward in as wide a perimeter as she is able, brows furrowing in concentration. There is a trail, obviously, leaving the scene—it would be simple enough to follow it but considering the state of the little civilian village (Barely even a village, she thinks) they may be entering something they are not equipped for. Their objection is not to engage, afterall. 

And then she feels it: a rabid abnormal chakra, so strong that it completely overshadows anything else in its vicinity. It is suffocating, thick and roiling with such rage that Sakura withdraws her chakra, tensing at the sensation. She resists the urge to shake off her limbs, as if remnants of that chakra still cling to her.

“You felt it.”

Sakura meets a hard pearlescent gaze. “I did. It’s...not your average chakra.”

“And you say I’m cryptic,” the Hyuuga quips, activating his Byakugan to survey the area.

“It’s different, Neji,” she whispers, taking a step away from the massacre. “Uncontrolled and angry.”

“We should go back—”

A scream, desperate and savage, rises from the nearby valley and the shinobi exchange wary glances. 

Neji scowls, the expression practiced steel. “Sound nin are approaching—fast. There’s no avoiding detection now.”

“How many?”

“Ten.”

“What do you mean by ‘experiments’?” Sasuke demands, playing audience to the kazekage.

“Exactly that,” the redhead murmurs, “that Orochimaru has been playing around with genetics and creating…enhanced shinobi.”

“So why isn’t there any evidence of these enhanced shinobi?” the general growls.

Gaara does not miss a beat. “Apparently some demon buries their corpses to keep anyone—Sound or otherwise—from studying them further.”

“Why now?” the Copy-Nin drawls.

The eldest Uchiha adds: “How is it that they have woken and are terrorizing the borders?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, though if it is true that the Lady Sannin was able to be controlled to some degree via an antidote, then it must be easier to control their...experiments,” Gaara answers with a sigh that speaks volumes of the pressures on his too-young shoulders. “As to why,” he continues, glancing at the silver-haired jounin, “perhaps it is a not-so-subtle reminder of his power. Perhaps he is looking to...show the other hidden villages what he is capable of.” A pause, then, “Since he did not send Ambassadors to the other villages, then this may be his way of convincing kage and daimyou that he would be...an advantageous ally.”

Or a terrifying enemy.

Sasuke regards the kazekage, for the first time just realizing that the redhead can’t be much older than him. Seventeen—Eighteen—is too young to lead a hidden village. “So Haruno and Hyuuga…” he begins.

Marine eyes darken. “Their orders were only to scout, not engage,” Gaara emphasizes but noting the tension that simmers amidst the trio, can’t help but ask, “What’s wrong?”

Sasuke’s hand fists at his side. “With our luck they’re most definitely in the middle of a battle right now.” Without a word of dismissal he disappears in a soft puff of smoke. 

The three-man team is sprinting through Wind Country seconds later.

“We could have recruited more people,” Kakashi declares.

But there is only a roaring in Sasuke’s ears. He did not see the Sand nin who returned from exploring the borders, but he heard about them:

Limbs shredded or falling off.

Half-dead.

And they were a squad of four.

He is an idiot. Why did he allow Sakura to go—? She wasn’t asking permission, his mind sneers and Sasuke obliterates the thought. Now is not the time to linger on her goddamn attitude.

“There was no time,” Sasuke growls, racing across the sand dunes.

Behind him, his brother and the Copy-Nin follow, exchanging only a grim glance before setting their sights ahead. There is no denying the chakra that sizzles in the desert heat. It is dangerous, strong, and vengeful. 

“If it is Sound,” the youngest Uchiha declares, “then it’s me he’s after.”

.

(“It was Tsunade?”

“So it seems.”

He stares at his Second, brows furrowing at the news. Sasuke had returned to his platoon under the impression that he would be required to defend his innocence, to prove that he was not the rat who led them to a trap in Konoha, but it seems the traitor is already known. 

“Don’t look so glum,” Kakashi intones (and if Sasuke didn’t know better he’d think the Copy-Nin was grinning under his mask), “You were our first suspect.”

The Uchiha snorts, rolls his eyes. “Shut up, Hatake.”

There is something so familiar in that moment and both men tense at the realization. They are in the waterfall base, in the meeting tent (the Uchiha emblazoned on the front constricts Sasuke’s chest in a way he can just barely suppress), sitting about a table as if conducting their usual training protocol reviews. The only things missing are Genma and Suigetsu—both currently resting on bed rolls as the medics treat their wounds.

“How?” Sasuke inquires, eyes trained on the wood-grain surface. 

The silver-haired jounin sighs, arms crossed over his chest. “Tsunade was poisoned by one of Kabuto’s toxins,” he opens, “the antidote of which was safely tucked in Orochimaru’s lair.”

The general nods sharply—he knows as much, it was what brought Haruno Sakura to his division, after all.

“Turns out the antidote had a nearly undetectable chakra. This chakra’s purpose is to target the brain’s posterior cortex,” (at Sasuke’s dubious expression, Kakashi shrugs), “according to Sakura. Anyways, that’s where nonconscious processing happens. It’s like a sleeper agent seal, but better.”

Kabuto and Orochimaru made that?

Sasuke grimaces, brows furrowing further. All that from an antidote…

What about his cursed mark?

“But it wasn’t undetectable as Tsunade seemed to realize something was wrong almost immediately. She just didn’t know what.”

“She couldn’t fight it?” the Uchiha asks, hopeful despite knowing the answer.

The Copy-nin arches a brow. “You don’t think she tried?” he counters.

Of course she tried.

“That mark,” Kakashi opens, reading his thoughts so expertly that Sasuke blinks in surprise, “might have a similar effect. It’s definitely crossed my mind.”

“What do you suggest I do?” the Uchiha asks.

“I can try to seal it myself,” his second-in-command suggests, “but I can’t promise it will work. And it won’t be pleasant.”

Sasuke does not even think to hesitate: “Do it.”)

.

His mark pulses then, so painfully, so sharply, that he is grateful he is ahead of his compatriots; they miss the wince that crosses his features. 

Sasuke grits his teeth.

It has not bothered him since he first received it, has not caused pain since Orochimaru taught him to use it, has not so much as breached his control after Kakashi sealed it.

And yet.

And yet...

the night he spent with Sakura—days after the Copy-Nin sealed his mark, the night of the Lady Sannin’s funeral—while he held the sleeping and spent young woman in his arms, while he studied the curve of her face and the hue of her hair and the strange ever-present scent of sage that she exudes, his cursed mark burned.

He did not sleep that evening, worrying instead about what it meant. 

It is unfair, he thinks, that the little solace he managed to find following the slaughter of his people, the downfall of his home, and even his momentary death, was also the reason that he—that his entire division—could fail.

Haruno Sakura is a weakness, a vulnerability, and if Orochimaru exploits that—

Can Orochimaru see what Sasuke sees? Can he read through his intended vessel’s thoughts like characters on a scroll? An archive of the Uchiha’s memories?

The risk is too great, the cost too...important. Living under the Snake Sannin’s eye was easy enough when Sasuke had nothing left to lose. But now? 

By the next morning his decision was made. 

She is a threat, a weakness, a liability.

Uchiha Sasuke would rather burn in hell than let Orochimaru know that he would do anything to keep her—the last shred of hope he has in the world—safe.

Kakashi had no idea what he had been expecting when they finally catch up with the pink-haired anomaly and the Hyuuga genius, but it certainly isn’t them working with Sound nin to suppress what can only be described as a mountain of a man whose arms have been replaced with boulders and whose voice has the capability of utterly paralyzing on impact.

This man-creature- experiment screams monster and it is all the Copy-Nin can do but dodge and evade cracking earth and sound waves so strong they can burst eardrums and shatter bone.

It is alarming, he thinks, to witness Sound and Leaf nin working together—but there they are, doing exactly that.

Sakura hurls a kunai—Kakashi can see the chakra-enforced shinobi wire attached to the handle—at a Sound nin and he catches it, before hurling it swiftly to his right and on it goes like some sick round of ‘hot potato’ until each person has a kunai in hand and, with a sharp yank, tether the creature to the earth.

Uchiha Itachi catches its eye and everyone knows the creature is caught in his tsukuyomi.

Then, without warning, the Sound nin attack them.

Kakashi leaps back, the clang of metal alerting him to Sasuke brandishing his katana. The air sizzles with electricity, the ground rumbles in the wake of fierce punches, and the distinct squelch of a heart bursting tells him his comrades are doing fine.

“How did you know?” the Hyuuga asks when all is done, bent at the waist, hands braced on his knees. His tone suggests he is insulted that back up was sent at all, but Kakashi knows better. 

The Copy-Nin slants his hitai-ate, feeling the strain on his eye. “We got intel that it was Sound experiments causing all these problems,” he intones.

“But we weren’t supposed to engage,” Sakura rebutts, wiping blood from her cheek and only succeeding in smearing it.

“It’s not a slight against your skills that spurred us to follow,” he explains, “we merely got information that the mission that should have been scouting was much more dangerous than initially thought.”

Sakura sniffs. “We could have handled it.”

“Someone wasn’t willing to take that risk,” the captain reveals.

Automatically, green eyes flit to the youngest Uchiha who is helping his brother restrain the experiment with special seals.

“So—” whatever Sakura is about to say is disrupted by earth rumbling.

Everyone tenses. “Earthquake?” Neji murmurs.

Sasuke shakes his head, activating his doujutsu. “No, it’s isolated,” he declares, eyes jumping around to locate the source. The ground opens beneath the contained experiment—

And Sakura feels it, knows it, and swivels around to see the arrival of the demon that buries bodies in the earth. 

Her eyes water at the familiar blonde, mouth falling agape in sheer disbelief—“Shishou?”

Tsunade smirks, and, with a snap of her fingers, the experiment they worked so hard to restrain vanishes in the ground. “Tch,” she scoffs, “you could look happier to see me, brat.”

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Chapter Text

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( III.4 — Underneath the underneath )

“Tch, you could look happier to see me, brat.”

.

She is steel—immoveable, impenetrable, a force to be reckoned with. Her reputation spreads across not only Fire Country but all the lands. She is a princess, a goddess, she moves the earth with her pinky, she saves souls from the brink of certain death.

And now she can add facing an entire hidden village on her own and living to tell the tale.

She barely finishes her greeting when the pink-haired chuunin has closed the distance between them, arms (so skinny, the brat has lost weight) secure around her shoulders and Tsunade is unable to hide the tremor that threatens to buckle her knees under the weight of her student, her daughter.

Garbled words accompany the damp sleeve of her haori—“You’re here, you’re alive.”—breathless and shaking and it is all Tsunade can do but dip her head down, temple resting atop her pupil’s crown. 

“I’m here,” the Sannin whispers in kind, returning the young woman’s embrace.

All is silent save for Sakura’s subdued crying until finally, she pulls away. A deft hand smudges at her face, glistening under the Wind Country sun. “How?”

Tsunade grins, inclines her head to the side. “An old friend finally returned my call,” she answers, hazel eyes flitting over her shoulder.

It is the Copy-Nin who greets him first: “Jiraiya.” 

(Tsunade snorts; Hatake has not changed at all, she thinks.) 

“Yo,” the old lech responds, approaching the group. “Tsuna, you didn’t tell me you ran with such a crowd,” he mutters, arms crossing over his chest.

The blonde rests her hands on the swell of her hips. “I don’t,” she snarks right back. “This one is my student…though,” her gaze jumps to the older Uchiha and a feral smile settles on her face, “this one owes me money.”

Itachi blanches and Sakura is unable to contain her amused exhale. “Shishou!” she reprimands, much to Tsunade’s surprise, “You and I both know he won that last hand!”

Their journey back to Suna is relatively quiet but their arrival at the gates is replete with fanfare. Tsunade is surprised to say the least—so many are in open support of Konoha and pride settles warmly in her chest at the sheer numbers on their side. 

Sakura glances her way, green eyes shining as if to say See? I told you I wouldn’t let you down.

Tsunade is not given much time to ponder this however, as a force prompts her to take a step backwards. Of course she knows who it is, she knows even before those familiar arms wrap around her, and Tsunade can only return the gesture in kind, as frantic and desperate as it is.

“It’s fine,” the blonde insists, “I’m alright.”

Shizune cannot be consoled, however. “How could you allow us to leave you behind?”

Tsunade can hear the words left unsaid: How could you leave me alone?

Her arms tighten about her assistant’s frame. 

An apology, a question of forgiveness, and a silent hope for understanding.

Shizune, well-versed in the Sannin’s manner, only snorts before straightening away. “Oh no, you’re not getting off that easily,” she exclaims. “You owe us an explanation!”

Sakura is quick to chime in—“You have to tell us what happened!”

Tsunade just sighs but there is a smile in her eyes as she mutters with no amount of hostility, “Ungrateful brats, the both of you.”

She ends up recounting the tale to the entirety of the resistance:

“I held them off as long as I could. And when I couldn’t, I used my yin seal—”

At her side, Shizune grips her arm. The brunette knows how dire the circumstances must have been for Tsunade to use her seal.

“In the very end, this guy makes this big showy entrance,” the Saanin continues, glancing at Jiraiya. “Late to the party but...without him I’d be…”

A pause as she smiles at her friend, her old teammate, and his mouth quirks into a grin. Pink stains his cheeks, from the heat of the desert or the cups of rice wine he’s downed, Tsunade isn’t sure, but the expression in his eyes is soft when he says: “...luckily for you, you don’t have to worry about finishing that sentence, eh? I came, didn’t I?”

“Aa,” she answers quietly. “Finally. I’ve been tracking him for the better part of two months!” the blonde declares, accusing despite the gentleness on her face. “If you had shown up when I asked you to, we might’ve—”

“We both know you tapping into your seal helped cure you,” the Toad Sage cuts in, giving her a substantial look.

Tsunade reads what remains unsaid from his expression alone: You might still be under Orochimaru’s manipulation, otherwise.

“Is that true?” Sakura pipes up and hazel eyes find the young med situated between a sleet-haired young man and a kid Tsunade has learned is named Naruto. Sakura looks comfortable, as if she belongs there. Just behind her sits the younger Uchiha whose dark eyes are trained on the back of Sakura’s head, whether he realizes it or not.

The Slug Sannin nods, gaze trailing down to the sake in her hands. “I tapped into my seal because I expended all the chakra I was able, including what was used in the antidote. I’m only alive because I had what I’ve stored to refill my reserves.”

It was brilliant, she hated to admit—the only freedom was death. But that was always Orochimaru’s way, wasn’t it? Offering options that aren’t really options to begin with, using people (“Shinobi are tools of the village,” he had said when they were but children.) and then disposing of them when they have done their purpose.

“Why didn’t you come find us sooner?” Shizune inquires—and Tsunade has not failed to notice the rather chummy way the senbon-chewing brunet’s arm is slung about her shoulders.

With a sigh, the blonde shrugs, leaning back to recline on a single arm. She twirls the sake cup in her free hand, watching the liquid contents follow the movement. “I wanted to be sure,” she answers at last. 

“To Tsunade-hime,” Sakura’s voice rises from the small crowd. (Tsunade looks up to meet brilliant green; her apprentice holds her cup aloft, a slanted grin pulling at her mouth.) “We wouldn’t have made it out if not for her.”

A chorus of ‘To Tsunade-hime’ fills the night and the legendary healer is unable to keep the smile from splitting her face as she raises her own sake in acknowledgement.

Sakura leads the shinobi in downing their respective cups.

Tsunade smirks, “I’ve taught you well, huh?” 

Training continues the following day. Everything is business as usual except this time the medic-ward is supervised by Tsunade.

The trainees might fear her but their resolve is unbreakable and after hours of commands and corrections, she dismisses them with a sharp nod of her head. They are weak, she finds herself unable to help from comparing to her own apprentices. Shizune and Sakura are resilient and work through the tears, the sweat, the blood—these new medics are made of softer stuff, but she will make them stronger yet.

She exits the ward, stretches her back—it has been ages since she has had to oversee a session like that, and blinks at the exchange between a certain dark-haired Uchiha and her spring-kissed student.

Hazel eyes study the interaction:

“Sakura.”

The young woman pauses in her stride, glances up from the scroll in her hands. To any onlooker, the pastel-haired medic simply comes to a stop, but to Tsunade she might as well have walked into a wall with the sudden tension in her body. Nevertheless, a smile is on the young woman’s face as she nods her head. “Sasuke?” 

There is something in her tone, something refrained, and Tsunade cannot decide whether it is resentment or admiration.

The general’s face is both hardened and blank, carefully smoothed stone. Tsunade does not know him well enough to decipher his tics. He stares at the young woman for a moment, and Sakura—patient and kind Sakura—simply waits.

After too-long, he replies: “Itachi told me that we should have a game night.”

What?

But Sakura just laughs and the sound softens something in the Uchiha’s jaw. She shakes her head, all the tension leaving her shoulders, and nods. “I’ll spread the word,” she answers, her voice lilting before she nods and continues on her way.

Dark eyes watch her leave.

Curious.

It isn’t until that evening when she is at a table with a handful of familiar faces and even more new ones that she realizes the root of the previous awkward exchange: the two idiots like each other. At least, if the fact that they sit apart only to grow closer and closer with every bump of the knees, and brush of shoulders is any indication (and it is an almost insultingly obvious indication—hasn’t Tsunade taught Sakura better than to be so transparent?).

Tsunade glares at Itachi who sits before her, a reprisal of their last poker game together. His face is unreadable as ever, and the blonde scoffs, shoving her pathetic pile of chips towards the middle (ignoring the animated protests of her two apprentices).

“I’m looking forward to finally settling this score, Uchiha,” she announces, as she lays down her hand.

Itachi doesn’t so much as lift a single brow. He studies her, she can feel those dark eyes rove the knit of her brow, the slant of her lips, and he sighs, folding his cards. “I’m out.”

(From Naruto, disbelief: “What! There’s no way! Tsuande-baa-chan’s been losing all night!”

The Slug Sage shakes a fist at the blond. “Oi watch your tone, brat! I won fair and square!”

Her two apprentices share an uncertain glance before peering over at Itachi.

Itachi, nonchalant as ever, quirks a brow.)

The entire table falls over as Tsunade takes the pot. “And that’s how it’s done!” she exclaims brightly (and perhaps a bit drunkenly).

“Oh, oh~ Baa-chan!” Naruto yells (Really, can’t he just shush for even a moment?), “He lost to you! He’s gotta do whatever you say!”

Of course Tsunade has not forgotten this little upped ante, apparently it has become a staple in their poker games, and who is she to ruin the fun? With saccharine sweetness, she steeples her hands together, pretending to ponder just what she can ask of the older Uchiha.

Finally, she arches a brow. “Ask Sakura out.”

The table holds their breath.

“Sakura and I…” Itachi pauses, glancing at the medic in question.

She appears just as flabbergasted as he is (which really just makes this all that much sweeter). “We’re not—it’s not—”

Sasuke is the one who interjects, somewhat scathingly: “You would force your apprentice to date someone she’s not interested in?” 

Tsunade tilts her head, regards the young man who strives to appear stoic (though she has trailed his gaze all evening, has read every twitch of his fingers, every downturn of his mouth—the sake has relaxed his tightly controlled mannerisms and she can see every single thought that runs behind dark eyes—and she has to keep from laughing out loud).

“Hmm? I saw their chemistry myself when she healed him,” she muses. “And I had heard she’s interested in an Uchiha...I presumed it was Itachi.” Then, with practiced innocence, “Is it not?”

“Hell if I know,” the youngest general says waspishly before standing from the table.

After everyone disperses, she finally laughs.

“That wasn’t very nice, Tsunade-sama,” Shizune reprimands.

Tsunade scoffs. “He’s hopeless. They’re both hopeless. Trading glances all night like love-struck pre-teens. Someone ought to light a fire under them.”

A pause, then: “You took part in the bet, didn’t you!”

The next morning finds him in the audience of the kazekage. Sasuke sits at the table, fingers locked before him and hiding his frown from infuriatingly observant hazel eyes. (Why the hell does Tsunade keep staring at him? As if waiting for him to slip up?)

“My Anbu have returned,” Gaara reveals, seafoam eyes scanning the room. 

“Intel?” Tsunade prompts, expression suggesting she is not accustomed to being kept waiting.

The kazekage looks at her, assesses—everyone has heard of the Legendary Tsunade—and nods her way. “It seems Orochimaru has sent his shinobi to the various kage and daimyo to invite them to a summit he will be holding in Konoha.”

“A summit,” Kakashi repeats, visible eye narrowing at the prospect. “Could it be a trap?”

“Harming any other leader of a hidden village will start an all-out war,” Itachi rebuts at his side, glancing at the silver-haired jounin. “Then again, it may leave all the other villages susceptible to being taken over.”

“Orochimaru doesn’t have the numbers he needs to face off against all the other villages,” Jiraiya counters.

Sasuke mulls over the possibilities. What would Orochimaru do?

“Did your Anbu determine whether these other kage and daimyo are seriously considering an alliance with Orochimaru?” Tsunade voices, gaze set on the redhead.

Gaara meets her stare unwaveringly. “It was unclear,” he answers, mouth pressed into a straight line.

“Orochimaru’s forces aren’t strong enough,” Sasuke determines, “he’s got numbers but the truly skilled shinobi were limited when I was there. And there’s no telling how many Tsunade took out,” (his eyes briefly flicker to the blonde Sannin). “He won’t risk angering the other villages.” 

Sakura picks up where he leaves off without hesitation: “Taking out the leaders would only be a declaration of outright war. So this is truly for the purpose of forging an alliance. He needs back-up,” she surmises, catching his eyes across the way (and he has to suppress the urge to grin at her similar train of thought).

“There will be high security,” Jiraiya mutters.

The Copy-Nin shifts in his seat. “But as Sasuke said, he’s only got numbers—” 

“And possibly some overpowered experiments,” Tenten cuts in.

“High security and possibly some experiments,” the Toad Sage concedes, flashing the brunette a salacious grin. “Not that you and your band of ladies can’t handle them, of course,” he adds with a wink that earns a groan from the entire room. 

Tsunade’s hand reaches for the back of his head and she shoves his face into the table. “Jiraiya is right,” she says without preamble, (paying no mind at all to the white-haired pervert currently muttering garbled phrases into the varnished wood), “we can handle the experiments and besides, I have it on good authority that I buried the majority of them. Our main concern is whatever he is working on currently.”

All heads turn to the Uchiha who spent time in the Snake Sannin’s lair.

Sasuke blinks. “Last I was aware, I was the most recent,” his face scrunches in discomfort, “experiment.”

“The mark,” Kakashi elaborates, tilting his head towards his general, “is Orochimaru’s handiwork. I’ve done my best to seal it but…”

“All hake a nook added.”

Tsunade releases her hold on the head of white hair and Jiraiya straightens up, glaring at his so-called comrade before clearing his throat to repeat what he said:

“I’ll take a look at it.”

“So that just leaves us with a plan to infiltrate,” the kazekage hums from the head of the table. “This Peace Summit is said to take place in a month’s time. We know Orochimaru will be prepared for shinobi infiltration—in fact, I highly doubt he will allow many foreign shinobi in with their invited delegates to begin with.”

“So we send whoever can mask their chakra to lead the infiltration,” Tenten opens, but the Hyuuga silences her—

“That particular skill is not one that is rampant among us, and even then it might not be enough.” Pale eyes meet her glare, sharp and perhaps a little bit derisive.

“Well you’re not exactly suggesting any brilliant ideas,” she shoots right back.

Neji tenses and Sasuke subdues the desire to laugh. “Masking chakra can be used by some,” the Uchiha says instead, “but we’ll need a plan to go undercover without using chakra.”

Cerulean eyes widen in realization. “Kage and daimyo were invited,” Gaara says, as if he has not already said this, “but my Anbu told me that one—the Land of Rivers—will not be sending their daimyo but the daimyo’s daughter in hopes of...a more permanent alliance with Orochimaru in exchange for the safety of his people.”

“So we take over her envoy,” Kakashi finishes.

“We send a group to infiltrate from the shadows, and send a group directly through the front gates,” Itachi declares. 

“And then,” Sasuke finalizes, “once our men are in position, we send in our offense.”

Deliberations last well past lunch and involve much yelling and slamming fists onto the table.

(“Why not assign women to Decoy to be the ladies-in-waiting?” Tenten snarls.

“Name one woman who is that excellent at hiding her chakra,” the Hyuuga quips, dutifully ignoring Sakura’s blatant gape.

The weapons master leans over the table, hands braced on the surface. “Is that a challenge, pretty boy?”)

In the end, they decide on three factions:

Decoy that ambushes the caravan and takes the place of the daimyo’s daughter, her ladies-in-waiting, and her expected shinobi guard.

The Distraction Offense with combat medics that acts the moment all the resistance groups are in place.

And lastly, Subterfuge that will stealthily plant themselves in the Uchiha district.

(“I should be with the Decoys,” Sasuke demands.

Kakashi gives his general a poignant stare. “And who will lead the way into the Uchiha district?”

“Itachi,” he answers with ease.

But his older brother shakes his head. “These men are yours, Sasuke. Their general should lead them. Besides, if the Uchiha clan are aware of my role in...the massacre...they might be less inclined to help.”

Sasuke scowls, crosses his arms.

“Would you feel better if we pulled Sakura from Distraction Offense and put her with you?” Suigetsu can’t help but taunt, earning a hard glare from his general.

“Say what you want but I’m not switching you out from Decoy,” Sasuke snarks right back, ignoring his subordinate’s dig. The redness in Sasuke’s cheeks is from fury and he will die with that declaration on his tongue.

It is Sakura who clears her throat to presumably change the subject, though she resolves to punch the smug smile from her sleet-haired friend’s face later. “Don’t worry Suigetsu, you’ll make a lovely woman.”

“Sakura should be in Decoy,” Kakashi cuts in before they veer wildly off track.

“No,” Sasuke snaps, then realizing how that might sound, adds, “you already have Shizune. We need combat medics.”

Another argument starts anew.)

Everyone leaves the room with their tempers barely in check, stomachs rumbling, and a table practically in splinters.

“Sakura.”

She pauses, rice halfway to her mouth, and peers over her bowl to see the Copy-Nin. The medic swallows her food, setting her bowl in her lap. “Kakashi,” she greets, angling her head back to properly eye him.

“I need you in the decoy group with me,” he says without preamble.

Sakura’s brows knit in confusion. “You just don’t want to have to dress up as a woman,” she scoffs after a moment, a grin slanting her lips.

Despite his mask, she can tell he is glowering when he retorts, “I’m a professional, that hardly bothers me—unlike it bothers Hyuuga,” he mutters as an aside before clearing his throat to continue, “fact is, your chakra control is unmatched and—”

“I can’t parade as the daimyo’s daughter,” she interjects, “Kabuto knows precisely what I look like. If he’s alive, I have no doubts that—”

“I wasn’t going to ask you to be her,” Kakashi declares, silencing her counterpoint. “I want you to be one of her ladies-in-waiting.” 

“And who will be the daimyo’s daughter?”

“The daimyo’s daughter,” he says simply. “Ino will use her mind-body jutsu when the time comes. And before that, well, we’ll knock her out.”

“That could be an act of war against River Country,” Sakura notes.

But the Copy-Nin just waves it off. “Even entertaining Orochimaru after he took over Konoha is an act of war against Fire Country.”

Sakura sighs. “Why not Tenten? Or Hinata? Or—”

“Your chakra control is impeccable,” he cuts in. “Believe me, we would choose other women if we could but...I need to lead this faction and truth be told, this is Anbu-level. The others just aren’t there. We’re only including Yamanaka because of her jutsu.”

“Who will be the shinobi guard, then?” she wheedles.

“Genma,” he says with some amount of chagrin. “He’s...less noticeable, so they say. I can mask my chakra much better and my... appearance is too recognizable.”

Sakura stares at him, attempting to dismantle his logic, see the thought process that has led him to this conclusion. Prior to her, Suigetsu and Shizune were supposed to accompany the decoy group. Why the change?

“Suigetsu can’t pretend to be a lady,” the Copy-Nin snorts, “and Shizune...has requested to remain by Tsunade’s side.”

A pause, then a cheshire smile. “If I accept does it mean I’m officially Anbu?”

The next morning, Sakura wakes to find out Naruto has left with Jiraiya for private training—what that might mean is beyond her. She blinks at the news, a frown settling over her features.

Suigetsu (sporting a black eye) slings an arm about her shoulders, guiding her towards the grounds where Temari leads her sessions. “Don’t look so glum!” he implores, flashing her that toothy grin that never fails to make her smile, “Jiraiya literally dragged him from his room before sun-up to head out. He didn’t say goodbye to anyone!”

Sakura does feel better at that and tells him so.

“He’ll be back before you know it,” the sleet-haired shinobi declares. “Besides, don’t tell me you weren’t itching for some peace from his obnoxious yelling.”

A laugh escapes her before she can help it and she steps out of his reach, shaking her head. “Now that is a bet you would win,” she teases with a wink.

Suigetsu groans. “You’re never going to let your friends live that down are you?”

“Nope!” she chirps, falling into her first form.

Her so-called friends will forever draw her ire for daring to partake in a bet in regards to her love life.

In the midst of war there is little reprieve, and in the endless weeks of drills and impending battle, the atmosphere begins to stagnate in despair. Everyone is exhausted, everyone is nervous. 

When Shizune and Genma announce that their wedding will take place in three days’ time, Sakura thinks they must be crazy, but the shift in morale is immediate. Shizune is glowing in sheer happiness, Genma grinning like the love-struck fool he’s always been for her, and excitement buzzes despite the fate they all face at the end of the week.

A wedding, a celebration of hope for the future, a celebration of love, is precisely what they all need.

Naruto arrives just in time for the wedding shower the night prior.

Sakura can see the difference in him though he was only away for the better part of a month.

He holds himself taller, the baby fat has been chiseled away on whatever diet he subsided on, and there is calmness in his chakra as it hums. Sakura smiles when he barrels into her and she is glad that he has not all changed.

“It’s good to see you, Naruto,” she laughs when he releases her.

Cobalt eyes shine back and he gives her that wide toothy smile she associates with him and only him. “I’m sorry I didn’t say bye!” he acknowledges, “Pervy-sage—”

(“Don’t call me that, you brat!”)

“—literally took me from the bed.”

“Suigetsu told me,” she assures him, hooking her arm through his. “Now come on, we’re just starting the bonfire!”

Rather than having a bachelor and bachelorette evening, the duo decide to celebrate together with their closest friends. It is a night of reminiscing and honoring both Genma and Shizune and in the midst of sharing various tales Sakura is doubled over in laughter, tears in her eyes.

Suigetsu has just finished telling the story of the one time Genma was washed overboard in a storm with nothing but a barrel to hold on to. It was post a skirmish and his chakra was depleted, and by the time the others managed to get to him, it appeared that he had given up in being rescued and was drunk out of his mind from a flask he always carries on his person. “You’re lucky we bothered to go get you! He said to leave him alone,” the sleet-haired man concludes, “we were ruining his buzz!”

Genma chuckles, tilts his head to nudge Shizune who is vibrating with laughter. “I’m lucky alright,” he mutters into the edge of her jaw.

The brunette turns to meet his wandering lips and Sakura can’t help but smile.

“Oi! Save that for your bedroom!” Naruto exclaims.

“Or what?” 

“Or I’ll make you!”

“Are you challenging me?” Genma playfully declares, peeling himself away from his bride-to-be to face the newly returned blond.

Naruto only laughs. “Damn right, old man. I’m itching to show off what I’ve learned!”

And that is how the spars begin.

Shizune only shakes her head, emphatic, but the giant grin on her face betrays her amusement. 

Naruto pulls out some impressive moves and Genma yields, though he claims it is to sit beside Shizune and heckle whoever else dares to spar. When the blond has no other takers, Sakura rises, dropping her bottle into Sasuke’s lap with a teasing warning—“Don’t finish it.”

The dark swirl on her arm is stark against her skin, the fire alighting her in shades of gold.

Sasuke blinks as she makes her way to face off against her friend, this time unable to keep the smile from tugging at his lips at her brazenness. 

(Though he is loath to admit that he misses her proximity, her sudden absence as jarring and unwelcome as biting wind.)

“She’s quick,” Itachi observes. “When did she become a jounin?”

“I suspect she’s been jounin-level all along.” A smirk tugs Sasuke’s lips, hazy and distant and far less cunning than an Uchiha ought to display, but it is so genuine that Itachi can only feel warmth bloom in his chest at the sight of it. When was the last time he saw his little brother so openly happy?

“And she’s Anbu now,” Itachi adds, gaze carefully trained on his sibling. “She’s very skilled.”

Sasuke nods. “Aa,” he agrees, the syllable tumbling from his mouth so easily that even he seems surprised. The younger Uchiha blinks, lifting a brow at his brother. “You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed before,” he states, previously stuporous eyes suddenly alert, suspicious.

Itachi shrugs, tugging the bottle of rice wine from his brother’s grip. “Certainly not,” he concurs, “but sometimes you watch her as if you’re figuring it out for the first time.”

Red tinges the tips of Sasuke’s ears and he scoffs, though the sound lacks any true derision. “Tch, I was her general,” he remarks as if that explains everything. Of course I know her skills, he seems to say. 

Itachi does not fail to notice the fact that his brother, for the first time, concedes that she is no longer under his command. “So that utterly struck-dumb look on your face pertains only to your realization that she is attractive?”

At that, his little brother chokes.

“Do you disagree?”

“I—that’s—” (Has Itachi ever seen his brother splutter so indignantly?) 

“Then again I find it highly unbelievable that her allure has gone unnoticed by my genius little brother,” Itachi goes on, ignoring Sasuke’s hastily reddening face. “In face of everything given I can only conclude that you like this woman.”

Sasuke stares at him for a breath—two, five—a minute. 

“You know, mother would have loved her,” Itachi proceeds in the absence of riposte.

“She’s not an Uchiha.”

“Mother never cared about that.”

“But father—”

“Would be impressed she made Anbu,” he answers plainly, swallowing the desire to mention that Fugaku’s opinion hardly matters now. He regards his sibling then, pensive as he quietly suggests: “You should ask her why she saved me.”

Sasuke is quick to dismiss it. “She’s loyal to her village—”

“Ask her,” Itachi repeats.

Once more, his little brother falls silent, turns back to the fire. With a quick hand, Sasuke snatches back the bottle Sakura left with him, bringing it to his lips. Itachi knows he has given up the topic at hand, but he can see the gears turning and that is enough. What Itachi doesn’t expect is Sasuke to bluntly change the subject: 

“I’m okay with it, you know.”

Itachi quirks a brow.

“You two,” he elaborates, giving Itachi a knowing look.

The older Uchiha actually appears startled, then understanding dawns. “That’s a terrible segue—”

But Sasuke only sighs, nudging his brother with his elbow. “Now who’s making that dumb face,” he taunts. 

Itachi stares a moment longer before shaking his head, bemused. A retort sits at the tip of his tongue but a giant drop of water lands on his cheek. 

The duo look up at the same time and see the sky part. Just like that the wedding shower takes on a literal meaning.

“Rain in late summer? And in the desert? This screams bad omen,” Naruto mutters as he gathers his belongings and helps properly put out the fire.

“Who told you that?” Sakura chides, stomping out the embers. “Weather patterns don’t determine the fate of our lives, Naruto, besides—don’t you love the rain? The drum against the earth? It’s cleansing, soothing,” she says with a grin, plucking her bottle from Sasuke’s hand.

.

(“Late summer rain storms are bad omens,” Fugaku mutters from beneath the awning of their deck. 

A laugh filters through the onslaught, Mikoto’s beaming face catches the flash of lightning. “Rain is cleansing,” she calls over the storm.

Sasuke, four and tucked in his father’s arms, watches with wide eyes as his mother—with her angled face and delicate nose and long dark hair, approaches them on the deck, kimono drenched and clinging to her frame in a way that makes his father’s heart quicken.

“It can’t be all fire all the time,” she insists, breathless and flushed, “rain gives us tempo, rain gives us life.” 

And she grabs Fugaku’s arm to drag him out.

Uchiha Sasuke is four years old when he learns that as indomitable as his father is in the face of others, he is putty in Mikoto’s hands.

As his mother takes him from Fugaku’s hold and spins with him beneath the thunderous sky, Sasuke tips his head back and laughs.)

.

He isn’t sure if it’s the way the rain has plastered her hair to her face, or the sake that makes his mind foggy, or the post-spar glow that has brought a flush to her cheeks, but he knows he is grinning like a fool and he can’t bring himself about to care an ounce.

“Soothing,” Sasuke agrees though no one has asked, “like a rhythmic tempo.”

Sakura blinks at the sentiment, then smiles. “Aa,” she hums, “a heartbeat.”

She hasn’t asked him to walk her, and he hasn’t said that he will, but somehow Sasuke finds himself accompanying her as she returns to her room. They meander in companionable silence, it’s a first, he thinks—silence. Sakura often fills it with observations or stories about her day or her latest hurdles and break-throughs, but now she simply walks at his side.

As they approach her door he finally—on one of the very rare occasions that Sakura can recall—speaks first.

“Why did you do it?” 

Sakura peers at him, drenched and pale and unbelievably handsome. “Should I know what you’re referring to?”

She hears the scowl on his face (and keeps her lips from twitching into a pleased smile at the fact) when he answers with a curt: “Itachi.”

At that she stills for a moment, gathering her thoughts before continuing down the hall to her room. “As a medic I can’t let anyone die.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Just because you don’t like my answer doesn’t mean it’s bullshit,” Sakura counters, swallowing her amusement. He is so easy to rile up, it’s no wonder Kakashi does it so much. “That’s always been your problem, hasn’t it? Something doesn’t sit right with you and you just cast it off as if—”

And suddenly he’s standing before her, staring down the line of his aristocratic nose. (His domineering presence must be a clan attribute, she thinks. The Uchiha and Hyuuga do it so well.) “Even if you hadn’t known he killed the hokage before helping him—after you found out, you didn’t even try. You...you stayed with him.”

“He stayed with me,” she clarifies, “probably out of some sense of loyalty or something.” Even as she says it she knows it isn’t true. He stayed with her because...because...well they were in this together weren’t they? Whether it was about Konoha or Sasuke or something else didn’t matter. 

In truth, Sakura had never spared much thought on the fact that even after Itachi was better he remained with them. Perhaps she would ask him about it, but even if she had known she didn’t feel as though she owed Sasuke any answers.

(He keeps his own secrets, afterall. And if not secrets, then thoughts withheld even in light of Sakura’s cards splayed before him. Either way, it’s hardly fair and she is tired—so fucking tired—of being the one to submit, to chase, to hope.)

“And why didn’t you kill him? After finding out?” 

There is something in his voice that reaches her and her heart thrums; she drops her eyes. “Because he didn’t deserve it.” At his silence (it stretches, careens them into a reality where they are not friends, not teammates, not anything at all with how painfully uncomfortable it is right now in that moment), she glances up, noting the frown on his face. “What answer do you want to hear, Sasuke?”

Dark eyes pierce her, regard her like a well-worn book; he sees her, all of her, just with that probing gaze and Sakura cannot look away—how do you cover up the pages when someone has committed them to memory?

“The truth,” he says at last, quietly. He inches nearer and despite her brain demanding her to move away, she doesn’t. She can’t. Onyx eyes pin her where she stands. “I know that’s difficult for you to give, but it’s what I want. And if you won’t give it willingly, I’ll take it.”

Sakura scoffs, but the sound wavers. “Last time I told you the truth, you couldn’t handle it.”

Sasuke dips his head down, forelocks brushing her the apples of her cheeks. “Try me again.”

The air leaves her lungs.

“Haruno Seiko was never a coward. Is Haruno Sakura?”

“I—”

“Haruno-san!”

They split apart just before the arrival of a Suna nin. Sakura turns to the end of the hall where the intruder pauses. She recognizes him as one of the medics she has been training. “Yes, Eito-san?”

His expression is pinched as he says, “We need your help in the med-ward.”

She nods. “I’ll be right there.”

(“What we did, it was a mistake.”)

As she walks away, Sasuke hears her quiet reply:

“I’m not the coward here.”

The wedding takes place at sunset the next day.

Jiraiya oversees it.

It is a simple affair; they stand on a Suna rooftop, the expanse of desert painted in pinks and golds. 

Shizune is dressed in a simple white yukata (she insists it is much too hot for a more formal furisode despite Tsunade’s protests), hair piled intricately atop her head and adorned in white flowers. She is brimming with joy as she faces her betrothed. And Genma is as handsome as ever in his navy hakama, for once without the bandana about his forehead, senbon missing from its usual perch between his lips. His hair is effortlessly disheveled as always.

Tsunade and Kakashi act as parental figures.

Sakura stands to the side, by the blonde Sannin. 

Sasuke stands by Kakashi.

Up on the eaves of the tallest building, it is intimate.

The crowd is small for this occasion, consisting only of Suigetsu, Ino, and Karin (who all stand rather close, arms intimately linked and Sakura makes a note of asking just when that happened, but all she can do is smile), and Itachi.

Before Jiraiya is a low stool, upon it a stack of three sake cups.

When Shizune and Genma take three sips each from the top (“Heaven,” Jiraiya says.), the middle (“Earth.”), and the bottom (“Mankind.”), Sakura is unable to keep her eyes from flitting across to the silent Uchiha.

He is already looking at her and does not stiffen under her meeting his gaze, does not glance away.

Sakura smiles, it is as soft as the warm breeze that flutters her hair, as soft as the sips Tsunade and Kakashi take from the same cups, as soft as the sniffle from Shizune as Jiraiya pronounces them man and wife.

And slowly, so slowly she wonders if someone has cast a genjutsu, Sasuke smiles back; it rivals the sun.

The plaza is decorated with string lanterns.

Music is provided by skilled civilians.

There is food, there are drinks, but most importantly there are people dancing, enjoying life, finding happiness in the moments that they have right now because tomorrow is never promised.

Sakura winds up in Genma’s hold after he and his wife finish their first dance. For as long as she has known the man, from her time as Seiko and ever since, he has always been a carefree sort, tilted smiles easily given. But Sakura has never seen him so incandescently happy.

As if reading her thoughts, he leans his head forward to mutter, “You could be happy, too.”

Sakura grins, shakes her head. “I am happy.”

“Happier, then,” he amends with that cheeky smirk, leading her across the floor in long strides. “It’s all we want for you, you know. The people that love you,” Genma adds as if she doesn’t know who he’s talking about. “We just want you to be as happy as you can be.”

“I know that,” she answers with a quizzical brow, “but what makes you all think I’m not happy?”

“I’ve heard you’re the self-sacrificing sort—always content to put others first.”

“I’m a medic,” Sakura deadpans.

Genma chuckles, “You take care of others. Let others take care of you for a change.”

A tap at his shoulder and Sakura follows the hand, traces the sharp angular face to meet a pair of soft dark eyes.

“May I cut in?” Itachi requests.

Genma relinquishes her hand (before proceeding to demand a dance from a horrified-looking Sasuke who unfortunately happens to be passing by).

Sakura smiles as the older Uchiha steps in.

(Distantly, she hears Genma allow Sasuke to lead if he wants but he has to acquiesce because there has to be some sort of rule that when a bride or groom asks for a dance from a guest they must be obliged.)

“You seem happy,” Itachi steals her attention.

A gentle exhale leaves her. “What is it with everyone being concerned for my happiness?” she grumbles goodnaturedly. “Of course I’m happy, Shizune has gotten married and...and my mentors are back with me. Everyone’s together.”

(The song ends, moving seamlessly into the next—in her periphery, she hears Sasuke declare the dance over and storm away from a hysterically laughing Genma.)

Itachi leans forward. “I’m not asking if you're happy for your family,” (and Sakura does not miss the fact that he recognizes Shizune as her family), “but are you happy?”

“I haven’t been this happy in a long time,” she answers evasively.

“...but?” her partner prompts with that insufferably astute grin.

Sakura rolls her eyes. “But,” she concedes albeit reluctantly, “we’re in the middle of a war and I don’t think I can be happy until it’s over…”

“And if you don’t make it?”

She avoids his gaze.

“I’ve never known you to be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“Or dishonest,” he adds blithely. She fixes him with such a withering glare that he can’t help the chuckle that escapes him, “In our field, happy endings aren’t guaranteed.”

Sakura blinks. 

“Only the happiness we choose to take.”

“Happy moments,” she whispers.

“Happy moments,” he nods, prods her forehead, “so indulge,” and with unsurprising skill, twirls her out of his arms and straight into a slightly surprised Sasuke who was distracted by some inane conversation with his second-in-command.

Kakashi offers his eye-crinkling smile when Sasuke scowls at him, then moves to stand by Itachi. “Nicely done,” he murmurs.

Itachi shrugs. “We’ve always been a pretty good team,” he declares.

The Copy-Nin tilts his head. “Aa,” he whispers, the sound meaningful and laden with things unsaid. 

Itachi, with an emphatic roll of his eyes, takes Kakashi’s hand. “If you wanted to dance, you should have just asked.”

Kakashi snorts behind his mask. “A shinobi should look underneath the underneath.”

“Oh believe me, I’ve looked,” the Uchiha quips. 

The silver-haired jounin tenses, a blush threatening to peek over the edge of his mask and Itachi does what Uchiha do best: he smirks. 

It would be rude to refuse a dance.

He guides her with ease, just as his mother taught him when he was barely five years old, just as his brother reinforced one day because Sasuke was growing older and all Uchiha men should know how to lead a woman across a dance floor.

It would be rude to refuse and that is why he allows her to settle in the circle of his arms.

(It is not because the slightly startled widening of her eyes makes something in his stomach clench, it is not because her hands settle in position. It’s certainly not because he wants to dance. He does not dance.)

Even though he does not dance, he finds that she is a much more pleasant partner than Genma (he knows that is not saying much, but he suspects that she is likely a more pleasant partner than anyone).

Sakura is light on her feet (Didn’t he think she was a dancer-warrior once upon a time?) and sensitive to his every move, whether it is a shift of his hand in hers or against her back to coerce her into a turn, a spin, a change of direction. He doesn’t mean to, but he can see the reflection of his contentedness in her eyes. And something else.

Resolve?

A deep breath, then: “I saved Itachi because I knew that…” 

(She’s stunning, he allows himself to think. The lanterns cast her in a warm glow, her hair is swept up, tendrils artfully grace the length of her neck, frame her face. There are flowers in her hair.)

“...I knew that if I didn’t, that if I let him die, you would never forgive me.”

Sasuke stops so suddenly that she accidentally steps on his foot, but he doesn’t so much as cringe. 

(And Sakura tenses because he is looking at her in a way that makes her want to melt, he’s always had that effect on her hasn’t he? She has always been wax to his flame, hasn’t she?)

“Sasuke?”

He is staring as if he has never quite seen her before. “You saved Itachi because of me?” he rasps in awed cynicism.

Sakura’s brows furrow at the apprehension in his tone, at the surprise writ across his bewildered face. “Yes,” she admits quietly.

“Why?”

She scowls now, because why is he pressing this issue, why does it matter isn’t he happy she healed his brother? “Because I care about you, moron,” Sakura quips, properly embarrassed.

But Sasuke is not perturbed, only catches her face in his hands. “Why would you care how I felt about you?” he goads. He wants to hear it from her pretty mouth, wants to hear the words he knows she must feel, wants confirmation and the memory to keep forever even if there is not much he can do about it for now, because underneath the hanging lanterns and in the wake of ceremony, in the respite they have found on the eve of a battle, he wants to know for certain that what he feels is returned.

(“Haruno Seiko was never a coward? Is Haruno Sakura?”)

When she licks her lips, he trails the movement. 

Sharingan eyes watch, memorize, as she tells him that she loves him.

Before she even finishes the last syllable he claims her mouth, swallows her words.

He ignores the ensuing gasps, someone’s celebratory crow of Finally!, the gentle cheers. 

All he knows is Sakura whose arms curl about his shoulders, whose fingers disappear into his hair. The way her lips move against him, the way she scrapes against his scalp, rises onto her toes to better reach him.

It is heaven, it is salvation, it is

euphoria

and Sasuke realizes that if he dies right then and there he would have no regrets—

A strangled noise rips from his lips as unbelievable searing pain explodes at the crook of his neck and suddenly all the gentle warmth she provides is chased away by sizzling, poisonous rage. 

Sasuke’s face contorts in agony, black flames crawl across his skin. Dimly, he thinks he can hear her voice, frenzied and distraught (“Sasuke? Sasuke-kun!”), feel her hands on his face, but all he sees is hellfire, all he knows is torment, then

then

as always, darkness.

.

.

Chapter Text

.

.

( III.5 — Happy moments )

All he knows is burning, all he knows is fire—black flames that singe and devour and scorch, leaving irreversible scars on his soul. 

Somehow his lungs both burst and fill simultaneously; when he breathes knives slit down his pharynx.

The blood that pumps through his veins seek an exit and fuck it feels as though they cut straight through his muscles, his bones, his skin, ignites and swallows him whole.

But none of these things can distract him from what he sees in his periphery:

a pale face and dark hair and dark eyes and 

blood. 

There is laughter and a lingering sound that taunts and jeers and beckons and Sasuke opens what used to be his mouth and lets out a blood-curdling scream. He is surrounded by darkness yet he is fully aware of exactly where he is, he has been trapped there before, afterall. His mind.

(Beneath his fingers he crunches bone, between his knuckles he can feel something thick drip drip dripdripdrip—

and there is another scream that isn’t his, a scream that lances through the shriveled remnants of himself locked behind a snake-fang cage begging for him to stop and when he laughs he swears it is Orochimaru’s laugh that slips past his lips.

“Sasuke, stop!” 

He knows that voice, her voice, it is distant and frenetic and he tries to call her name but no sound escapes him.)

The phantom squeeze of a hand in his prompts him to squeeze right back, but his fingers wrap around nothing but air.

(“Sasuke, please!” she screams again and he wishes he could respond, wishes he could reclaim control over his body but he is useless in his mental cage.)

and he growls, snarls, grabs his prison and rattles it—he doesn’t need to witness what is happening to know that he has fallen to the cursed seal’s power, that it has overcome and overwhelmed and he needs to get the fuck out of that prison and stop it, stop himself—

“You’re mine, Sasuke-kun,” a disembodied voice hisses. “I told you you belong to me, no matter how fast or how far you run,” it continues, “you will always belong to me—”

(“Sasuke-kun!”

Sakura SakuraSakura Sakura—)

“—what the fuck is this? It can’t be—!”

Sasuke does not get a chance to see what Orochimaru is referring to, all he sees is an angry, bubbling red wall of rage rise and strangle and suffocate the manifestation of himself in his own mind and can’t help but think it must be the gates of hell when he hears

“Oi, Sasuke-bastard might have a stick up his ass but he’s no puppet!”

“Is he…?” she can’t even finish the question, her voice breaks. Her hands glow, hovering over a fallen Naruto’s chest where his skin is in tatters from a lightning burn she is much too-familiar with healing. Luckily the chidori did not pierce all the way through, but the damage is still grave.

“He’s...alright,” Kakashi whispers, removing his hand from the Uchiha’s wrist, “just knocked out.”

They have managed to contain the battle to Suna’s training grounds, but the damage is remarkable: they stand in a crater, huddled around the unconscious general. No one had seen anything like it before, the dissociation in his face as he coursed with power, as his chakra shifted and grew and changed, laying waste to his friends, to the village, his skin covered in the black flames. 

It was not Sasuke whose hand she held regardless of his free one clasped about her neck. That man stared at her without a hint of recognition, without a hint of restraint. His eyes—swirling Sharingan red—were filled with animosity, hate, intent.

She doesn’t think she will ever forget staring down crackling lightning. 

Sakura knows that if Naruto had not interfered, Sasuke would have—

She looks away from his slumped form, focusing instead on the blond who was nearly just as unrecognizable. Furious boiling chakra shifted Naruto’s appearance as he broke Sasuke’s arm to release her from the Uchiha’s grip. It all happened in the span of seconds but the moment is carved into her soul forever.

When she closes her eyes, she can see Naruto’s furious face as he saves her from the crackling blow. There is no denying that his features morphed in the moment—feral, angry, as if he transformed—

“Sakura-chan…?”

She gasps, tears blur her vision as she watches familiar blue eyes crack open. And he grins in that dopey way he always does. “You’re okay!” the medic can’t help but exclaim, leaning over to embrace him as best she can.

He groans, but chuckles. (The sound is so weak she thinks her heart breaks.) “Tch, ‘course I’m alright. I wouldn’t lose to that bastard.”

Sakura smiles, swats his arm. “You know ‘that bastard’ is still your general, right?” she says gently.

Naruto snorts, “Doesn’t mean he’s not a bastard,” he mutters, relaxing on the ground. He closes his eyes, that boyish smile still on his lips and Sakura can’t help but wonder at his resilience, how he can stay so carefree when there is a gash in his middle, put there by his friend, his own leader.

“The mark isn’t receding,” she hears Ino mumble and her gaze flickers to the fallen Uchiha.

“It’s like his own consciousness is…overpowered…” Jiraiya intones, expression grave.

Sasuke’s face, so neutral he may as well be asleep, is unresponsive to all pokes and prods. A sick feeling fills her stomach at the sight. “You’re saying the cursed seal’s power has completely taken over?” she rasps.

“Perhaps,” Kakashi answers. 

“So our only option to stop him is to…?” Shikamaru prompts, brave enough to say what everyone else is afraid to.

The silver-haired jounin dips his head down. “Kill him.”

A chorus of “No!” and “You can’t!” fills the air but it is Ino’s voice that cuts through all protests:

“What if there was a way to see?” she inquires, usually bright cerulean eyes darker than Sakura has ever seen. “What if we could see inside his head? What if...what if we could help him?”

“Ino, you can’t be serious—” Shikamaru begins but she silences him with a vicious glare.

“And what’s it to you?” the blonde retorts, stalking past him.

His hand snaps out to grab her wrist. “I still care about you,” he declares, pained. “You could be lost to the cursed seal, too.” 

(It is the first time Sakura has ever seen the unflappable genius express anything besides apathy.)

Ino’s voice is soft when she peers at him over her shoulder. “I know the risks, Nara,” she answers and the way his eyes widen suggest those words have significance between them. He lets her go, reluctantly, and she sweeps to the Uchiha’s side. “Remember that my clan’s jutsu,” she opens, meeting Kakashi’s visible eye, “allows me to enter his mind.”

“Yamanaka?” Itachi mutters in recognition.

She flashes him a grin, flips her long hair. “Yamanaka,” she affirms.

“This is markedly different from simply taking over someone’s body,” Kakashi says. “There’s no telling what you’ll encounter.”

The blonde medic just huffs. “Do we have any other options?”

“Ino—” Sakura’s voice cracks.

Ino’s resolved face softens. “I have to try. He’s my general but more importantly, he’s my friend. And you—oh don’t give me that face—you love him,” she chastises, “It would kill me to know that I didn’t even try.”

“But if I lose you—”

“Forehead,” Ino reprimands, “have more faith in me, huh? Like hell I’m losing that bet.”

Ino doesn’t know what she expects to find in her general’s mind, but it certainly isn’t eerie emptiness and ominous smoke. It is dark and suffocating despite the vast space. 

When she walks, her footsteps echo as if she is walking in a damp cave. 

“What do we have here?”

She tenses—she has heard that voice only once before—and turns. “Orochimaru.”

What she can only surmise is the manifestation of the seal’s chakra is restrained with chains that glow red and she knows at once that it is Naruto’s doing—or whatever resides within Naruto. A flash of a demonic fox crosses her mind and she scowls.

“Come to try and free Sasuke-kun, hmm? Before I escape this prison?” his voice hisses, lips sliding into a wide smirk. “He’s over there. But you’ll need my help.”

Ino’s scowl deepens. “I don’t need anything from you,” she declares, turning away.

“This kyuubi’s chakra is not meant to hold me forever,” the phantom Sannin leers, “you’d better hurry.”

Ino runs.

She isn’t sure where she runs, just away, because even though she is aware that the man in shackles is not really Orochimaru, the threat he holds over her head is very real—

There!

A cage comes into view and she dashes forward. The man inside is hunched over, dark head bowed. At her footsteps he flinches and suddenly she is pinned to her spot under vicious dark eyes.

“Sasuke…?” she whispers, unsure if this is the man she is supposed to free or simply another incarnation of the seal.

Recognition flits across his face then, a familiar frown tugging at his features. “Yamanaka?”

A relieved breath leaves her and she darts towards him, hands grasping the fang-like bars of his prison. “I’m here to get you out,” she explains, gaze studying his cell. “Is there a lock? A key? How do I do this?”

“How are you even here?” Sasuke asks numbly. “Have I gone crazy? I’ve gone crazy.”

“You haven’t gone crazy,” Ino snaps, then, “Well...not this version of you.”

“What…” he swallows, “what did I do?”

She stares at him for a long moment, debating whether or not she should explain, then decides against it. “Later,” Ino says instead, “we’ll tell you later. First order of business is getting you out of there.” Her fingers fumble at the lock hanging by his feet.

“No key,” he declares.

“Then how the hell am I supposed to—?”

“I don’t know.”

Ino looks up at his words, at the desperation in his tone, so unlike the Uchiha general she knows him to be. He looks as if he has given up already, and she frowns, reaching through his bars to slap him. “Well don’t just fucking sit there and wallow! I didn’t come in here to listen to you surrender,” she rebukes. “My general wouldn’t just sit there and mope! Everyone’s waiting for you to come-to. Don’t you want to come back to them? To your brother? To Sakura?”

Sakura.

“Well they’re all waiting with bated breath for me to get you out alright? You can’t regain control of...the seal...until you’re conscious!”

Sakura.

“Are you even listening?”

“Sakura.”

Ino tips her head back in frustration. “Yes, Sakura, she’s waiting for you.”

Sasuke gives her a blissfully familiar imperious look. “No, I think she’s the key.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s the reason the cursed seal could escape my control—she—” here, he looks away, every bit the young adult Ino knows he truly is underneath all of his careful Uchiha breeding and lofty titles, “—I mean, my feelings for her rendered me susceptible.”

“If you’re blaming this whole thing on loving Sakura then I swear I’m going to ring your—”

Sasuke huffs, irate. “I’m saying she’s the key.”

“Great, let me just go bring her in here,” Ino deadpans.

“Yamanaka, no, just—the cursed seal suppressed all my memories. Just let them out.”

“Your memories…?”

“Didn’t you think it’s a bit blank in here?”

“I just thought you were filled with hot air,” Ino jokes. At the Uchiha’s glower she rolls her eyes, “Sheesh I was kidding. You can relax. Okay. Free your memories. Got it.”

…

“How…?”

It is not often that Ino witnesses her captain truly and utterly lost. With a firm nod, she turns away and decides she never wants to see him look like that again.

It does not take long for her to find the place—in fact, Ino can hardly claim that she sought it at all. It found her. It summoned her, beckoned with whispers designed to slice and echoing sentiments forged to maim.

Nightmare is the first thing that comes to mind but what she faces are not nightmares.

Nightmares are things that plague whilst asleep. Ino is definitely not asleep. She sees it displayed before, a grotesque menagerie of her deepest and darkest fears and doubts—each figurine fragile and beautiful yet frightening all the same. If she moves, the room shifts and the glass figures clink together in a cacophony of her doubts and self-loathing, threatening to come crashing down.

Would the glass cut her skin?

Would her insecurities draw blood?

The key to Sasuke’s cell is inside. She can see it clutched in the glass-blown hands of a young version of herself.

A step to the side and the chandelier sways.

Watch your step, it seems to say, don’t want to ruin everything like you always do. Inadequate. Frail. All of your imperfections crashing down and incapacitating you. Not good enough, never good enough—the little Yamanaka, the first girl in an endless line of male children—

Ino blinks and silence descends upon her, both a reprieve from the mockery and an unwelcome reminder that she is as she has been for so, so long: alone. She does not waste time deciding which is worse.

“Come on, Yamanaka,” she tells herself, “you’re better than this.”

Little Ino, striking in blown glass, mouths the words.

“What the—”

Again, her figurine mini-me mimics her, though no sound comes out. 

Ino immediately stops speaking. Instead, she studies. 

Short hair, a bow. She can’t be older than five years old. In her small hands is a rusted key, clutched to her stomach. If glass could tremble, Ino knows that her glass version would be doing so. As it is, Little Ino stands perfectly still, beautiful in her despair.

Ino moves forward and something comes crashing down. As it shatters, a voice she recognizes reprimands her. Nobody wanted you.

It’s her voice. Young and filled with self-loathing. The familiarity makes her take a half-step away from the broken glass.

Nobody loves you.

Ino knows none of it is real, she knows that she can withstand the barrage of hatred and despair. She knows she is stronger. But the Ino that knows all this is older, grown. 

Ino looks down at her hands, her small hands, and glances up at the figurine of herself—it is staring at her with glassy eyes and in her reflection Ino can see she is once again five years old.

She does what any five-year-old would: she cries.

The chandelier falls.

The first thing Ino notices are large green eyes, watery and furious. 

Then a punch on her shoulder. 

Ino winces, pouting at her friend. “Sakura, I’ll bruise.”

She lies on a cot in a tent, a light flickering overhead. There is a commotion going on just outside the canvas walls but Ino does not strain her ears to make out what is going on. Instead, she directs her attention to the puffy-eyed medic at her bedside.

Sakura takes her into a fierce embrace. “Terrified me. Could have lost you,” she mutters into long blonde hair.

Ino rests her cheek against her friend’s temple. “So we’re even then.”

She knows Sakura—and everyone—is dying to know what exactly happened in the unconscious Uchiha’s mind, but there is a tightness behind the blonde’s eyes that keeps Sakura from prying.

Yamanaka Ino faced all of her fears and short-comings. Though she was strong enough to come out triumphant, she did not walk away unscathed. 

Perhaps one day she will be strong enough to share it all with the people she loves, but for now she is exhausted .

Shikamaru enters just as she says this and he grins. “Yamanaka? Too tired to talk? Are we sure that isn’t Uchiha’s mind in there?”

Blue eyes flash. “Care to test that theory?”

The smile she gives is all teeth and there must be something threatening in it because Shikamaru’s brows shoot up. “Uh, no.”

Verdant eyes jump back and forth between Ino and Shikamaru, but Sakura is a good friend so she stands from her seat and turns to the guest. “I’m assuming you were sent to come get me?” 

Nara inclines his head. “Astute as always. Tsunade wants you.”

Sakura nods and takes her leave.

Shikamaru does not. 

A soft frown crumples Ino’s face. “What?”

He looks at her in a way that makes her chest tighten. She hates when he looks at her like that—like he can see past all of her carefully constructed walls. How does he do that? 

“Don’t—” she begins, and she hates the way her voice cracks. “Don’t— ” she tries again, but her vision blurs. Dammit.

Shikamaru does not say a word, he’s never been the type to offer comforting sentiments. What he does is this:

He closes the space between them, takes her into a hug.

“Nara—”

“You are a strong, amazing shinobi,” he mutters against her temple. “You are loved and admired and wanted.”

“Shikamaru—” she protests, but his hold on her tightens.

“I know you, brat.”

Ino quiets because he does. He knows her better than anyone else. And though they have come together and split apart, there is always a part of her that will belong to him and vice versa.

She had been inexplicably drawn to Nara Shikamaru from the beginning; a part of her wanted him in her life, but until that moment Ino had no idea in what capacity. Now, in the confines of the tent, after confronting her nightmares and insecurities, Ino knows without a doubt in her mind that she was right all along.

Nara Shikamaru belongs in her life—

“Thank you,” she whispers.

—as a brother.

When he rouses, it is in a dark room all alone, and for a moment he thinks he is still trapped in his mind. But the whir of a ceiling fan and the smell of antiseptic set him at ease. 

The memories of what happened are fuzzy and he frowns, sifting through his thoughts to try and recall how he wound up in his bed. 

The wedding.

Dancing.

Flowers in pastel-pink hair and lashes tangled in the corners and a pair of seemingly permanently chapped lips and

I love you.

Sasuke sits up at the recollection, the image sharp in his mind, memorized with the Sharingan. Sakura had finally cemented the words they had been dancing around, words that filtered through his own mind more than the young Uchiha would ever admit.

But what happened after? It is a blur of black and red and…

and

“You’re awake.”

His eyes jump to the doorway. Had he really been so lost in his thoughts he didn’t feel his second-in-command’s presence? Sasuke frowns as Kakashi approaches, tossing the sheets off his form. “What happened—is Ino—?”

If Kakashi is surprised to hear Sasuke refer to the blonde so casually, he does not show it. The Copy-Nin settles a hand on Sasuke’s shoulder to keep him from getting off the cot. “Sit,” Kakashi commands. Sasuke does. With a sigh, Kakashi fits his hands into his pockets, eyeing the young man (Too young, he thinks, to be dealing with all of the shit that has been handed to him. Shit with his family, Sound, the destruction of everything he has ever known.) “Yamanaka is fine and Jiraiya sealed your mark,” he begins, regarding his general through a single indolent eye, “much better than I did—”

“He should have fucking sealed it before he took off with Naruto,” Sasuke snarls, hands fisting the sheets at his sides. He is braced to stand, feet firmly planted on the floor, but he simply remains seated on the edge of the bed.

“He thought my work would hold up,” the silver-haired jounin admits, “no one could have foreseen you undergoing such a...uh...vulnerable moment.”

Sasuke glares.

“My seal operates under your awareness of the mark, some amount of your chakra is subverted from your pathways to reinforce the seal. The moment you...break that focus, the seal is rendered useless.”

“What kind of seal is that! That if something catches me off-guard it—”

“I don’t mean that you’re startled and then suddenly at the cursed mark’s mercy,” Kakashi interjects. “I mean...you willingly, completely, opened yourself to something. Or, in this case, someone.”

His accepting Sakura’s love, allowing himself to finally recognize whatever was between them, essentially giving all of himself to the young woman had been his own undoing. Tch, Sasuke should have known Haruno Sakura would be the death of him.

“If I’m being honest,” the Copy-Nin goes on, inclining his head, “I never thought I’d see the day you could swallow your own pride and do something like that. I’m actually rather proud of you—”

The amusement in Kakashi’s tone is evident and Sasuke rolls his eyes, grabs his pillow, and chucks it at the silver-haired jounin’s face. “Shut up, Hatake.”

In wake of the dramatic end to the wedding party, everyone has taken to their training tenfold. Each faction goes over the specifics of their movements with their assigned leaders.

Sakura busies herself with helping prep for their mission. Usually this would include running over strategy and drills. Usually.

“No, don’t put so much weight on your heel,” she corrects, pushing up onto releve on a single leg. “You’ll be walking on the balls of your feet.”

Before her, Kakashi and Neji stare; Sakura is grinning much too widely for their liking. When Neji points this out, her smile immediately drops. Instead, the medic blinks—unassuming and expectant: “Well?”

The two men exchange wary glances. 

Sakura arches a brow.

Something that sounds remarkably like a heavy sigh slips through Kakashi’s mask and he straightens his posture (and Sakura can’t help but think how much taller he looks when he’s not slouching) and walks—floats, really—a few meters forward. 

She and Neji share surprised looks and the Copy-Nin shrugs. “I’m a man of many talents; a great teacher doesn’t hurt, either.”

Sakura fights against a grin as she turns her attention to the Hyuuga. “Your turn.”

Neji’s ire is palpable but he does not say a word as he moves. His stance is rigid, expression too tight to be convincing. He is a Hyuuga and he takes on new challenges with infuriating ease, but there is a stiffness to his stride that betrays his discomfort. 

“That was terrible.”

All eyes jump to the newest comer.

“Excuse me? ” Neji snaps.

“That was terrible,” Tenten repeats, approaching the trio. “You look so intense. Too focused. It’s not natural.”

“I don’t understand how anyone could think women are comfortable walking in heels,” Neji declares, arms crossed over his chest.

At her side, Kakashi clears his throat.

“Women and Captain Hatake,” Neji amends with a baleful glare at his superior.

“Are you admitting that women do something better than you?” Tenten goads.

Normally, Sakura minds her own business (unlike a handful of friends), but the Hyuuga has been provoking the weapon’s master endlessly and Sakura can’t help but listen to the scenario unfold.

“Women are better at plenty of things,” he admits. “Flower arranging, shopping, gossip—”

Needless to say, Tenten has to be escorted away so the three can continue going over their strategy.

“Alright, what is it with you and Tenten?”

After hours of training (Sakura insists they were training, Neji claims she was simply finding new ways to humiliate him, wasn’t blatant rejection enough?) the duo sit on a log to eat lunch. 

Kakashi has long since left to attend to the other factions.

“I’ve got nothing against Tenten,” he evades, accepting the sandwich Sakura offers.

“You and I both know you’re not that sexist,” Sakura scoffs. “I think you like her but you’re afraid to admit it. Why? It’s not...it’s not because of…?” she trails off, but Neji is a genius and he knows what she means. 

Translucent eyes narrow. “Don’t talk to me about being afraid, Sakura.”

“I’m not afraid— ”

“Then why haven’t you seen him?”

Sakura scowls but says nothing.

“Scaredy-cat,” the Hyuuga chides.

She smacks the sandwich from his grasp. But he is Neji and his reflexes are sublime so he catches it before it hits the dirt, smirking. 

Sakura huffs, stands, and stomps away.

He knows it’s her before the door even opens and he sits up in the bed, eyes trained at the threshold. She has waited two days before coming to see him and in that time he has wondered if she has changed her mind. 

One glance at her face allays all of his doubts—

She is so stunning, how could he have ever resisted her before?

(“Do you think the universe punishes us for the things we do?”)

She stands there, tentative, unsure, but Sasuke is certain enough for the both of them.

(“We need to take the happiness when it’s presented to us.”)

“I love you,” he says, unprompted, simply, as if he has said those very words in that order to her many times before.

Sakura tenses and there is a brief moment where he thinks he may have made a mistake, but then she closes the distance between them and greets him with a kiss and Sasuke knows the only mistake he ever made was to push her away.

This, he can’t help but think, is his happiest moment.

.

.

Chapter Text

.

.

( III.6 — The universe exacts )

The eve of battle approaches much in the manner of a storm. 

From a distance the lightning crackles across the sky, thunder booms: harbingers of something both terrible and inevitable. It is a hurricane fast approaching, but at least they had time to prepare.

With Sasuke’s waking, morale lifts. The return of the cursed mark punctuated the fact that though Genma and Shizune’s wedding was a nice reprieve, they are still in the middle of a war.

The event was a taste of normalcy. A taste of what they could all return to. 

And Uchiha Sasuke?

Uchiha Sasuke is more than just the general, more than just the very symbol of rising above the odds—he represents rebirth. A second chance. He materializes like a phoenix from the flames, and he will wield those very flames of resurrection as armor and lead Konoha to victory.

He scoffs when Sakura tells him this is the story whispered amongst the troops.

“Oh, let them believe,” she teases from the doorway.

His grip tightens on a half-sharpened kunai. Sasuke stands by the window, weapons neatly sorted on the nearby table. “I’m no hero,” he mutters, returning his attention to his task at hand.

He hears Sakura snort and the gentle creak of wood. “No one’s saying you are,” she relents. “And no one expects you to be. But you are a leader.”

Sasuke rolls his eyes, biting back his response. I’m not ready, wasn’t ready. I was forced into this role too soon—

“Tch. Don’t give me that face.” 

Footsteps, then slender hands mold against his shoulders and slide down his arms, erasing the tension in his muscles. It’s remarkable that she can manipulate his body so easily, without a second thought. Remarkable and terrifying. 

But what better words could describe the phenomenon that is Haruno Sakura?

Instead, he lowers his hands, stares out the window. “How could you have possibly seen my expression?” he asks, side-stepping the topic at hand.

Sakura presses into his back, hand reaching past to prod a finger into the window pane. “Glass,” she says slowly, “has reflections. Aren’t you supposed to be some kind of genius?”

Sasuke glares.

She laughs, turns him around to face her. “No one’s calling you a hero,” the medic repeats, hands first setting aside the blade and sharpening stone before catching his jaw. “No one here expects you to perform a miracle. Everyone believes in Konoha. Everyone believes in you, in the fact that you refuse to surrender.” 

Pink invades his vision as she coaxes his head forward and down until their foreheads touch. He takes the moment to memorize the color of her eyes in the evening light, the very specific shades of green and gold and the ring of maybe-blue in her irises. 

When she speaks again her breath ghosts over half-parted lips. “Don’t you see?” she whispers, “You are our hope.”

Sasuke shoots her an appraising look. “Is that all?”

Sakura cants her head to the side and studies his face as if reacquainting herself with a beloved, old book she has thumbed through countless times. The fantastic familiarity in her eyes makes his heart quicken.

To distract himself (because the look she’s giving him makes something twist in his gut, makes his blood simmer in the delicious way, makes him want to pin her against the window and—) he takes stock of her features:

The shape of her brows, the faintly pink lashes, the freckles dotting the bridge of her nose, the edge of her jaw, the slant of her mouth as she grins. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be some kind of genius?”

(—Nevermind, he decides. She’s too goddamn annoying.) 

He rolls his eyes but there is no hiding the amused quirk of his lips as he mutters, “Shut up, Sakura.”

He held a kunai before he held chopsticks.

He learned his family’s katon at four.

He unlocked the Sharingan at seven.

Uchiha Itachi is no stranger to his family’s legacy—to bloodshed and war and the purpose for his doujutsu. How many battles has he fought? How many lives has he taken?

And yet there is something notably different about this upcoming battle. He is a man hardened by experience and the cruel reality of the nature of not only his career but his name. Uchiha. They are the flame that lights Fire Country ablaze, they keep it warm, they keep it safe. 

So why does he feel like he cannot breathe?

Perhaps it is the fact that it is not just a fight for the Uchiha troops, perhaps it is because the very future of not only Konoha but the shinobi world as he knows it is on the line. For a man so acquainted with the color and viscosity of blood, the thought of tomorrow makes his chest seize—

“Haven’t seen you look so pained since you were half-dead.”

Troubled eyes jump up from the crackling fire.

Sakura offers him a bowl of noodles and sits at his side. “Eat.”

“Is that an order from my medic or a request from a worried friend?” he drawls, accepting the food regardless. 

Sakura, with a wry tilt of her head and a sickly sweet smile: “Whichever will get you to eat.”

Dark eyes blink, take in the firelight that halos her hair. 

Haruno Sakura is an anomaly. This is something he has learned and come to accept in the quiet solitude of his bed whilst recovering. She has grown on him, sprouting in soil drenched in blood and blooming in the harshest of conditions, beautiful as ever. She is petal-soft with razor edges, and, he can’t help but think, more than well-suited to take the Uchiha name. 

Judging by the way another pair of dark eyes are trained on her from across the fire, Itachi suspects he is not the only one who has ruminated on this truth.

“Why did you stay?”

Itachi blinks, looks away from his brother to regard the medic once more. She is swirling her noodles around in the broth in an admittedly sad attempt at nonchalance. “Why did I stay?” he repeats, quirking a brow.

Then she glances at him and he imagines Uchiha fire in her eyes.

“With me and Shizune. After you healed, you stayed with us.”

“My squad was murdered by my hand. I killed the hokage. Where do you suggest I should have gone?”

She purses her lips. “So it was the only thing that made sense.”

Uchiha Itachi is accustomed to reticence, can deconstruct the compromised layers of a brick wall with nothing more than a calculated look. Seeing through Sakura’s defenses is as simple as peering through glass. “It was like home,” he adds quietly. At her questioning glance, he elaborates. “Being there with you three, in that house far away—it felt like home. Not my home growing up, but how I imagine a home should be. I...I liked it.”

He is not looking at her anymore, redirects his gaze to his noodles.

A warm hand settles on his wrist and he turns back to his companion.

Her smile is genuine, in the light her eyes flare golden. “You always have a place with us. Fatal injury not required.”

Itachi mirrors her expression. “And you always have a place with us.”

.

.

“You could lose yourself to it completely.”

“Hm,” the general grunts, savoring the warmth from his soup, and very nearly chokes on his food when he overhears his brother’s words.

She always has a place with them. What did he mean? The squad? The army? Konoha? The Uchiha, his mind supplies. Sasuke would be lying if he insists that he has not thought about it at length: the Uchiha crest emblazoned across her back—

“—using it would put everyone at risk.”

Sasuke looks over at his captain who is watching him with a single scrutinizing eye. The Uchiha scowls. “What?”

“The cursed seal,” Kakashi elaborates, “using it would put everyone at risk.”

Despite the low volume of his words, Sasuke detects the amusement in them. “I’m aware,” is his dry reply.

“Just making sure,” the silver-haired nin hums.

Sasuke suspects that Kakashi is definitely not ‘just making sure,’ but he has no idea where the man was going with that topic and to be quite honest Sasuke is rather distracted by Itachi and Sakura’s interaction across the way.

He thinks how seamlessly she would have integrated (did integrate because she was among the ranks as one of his shinobi, she fits into his life, the Uchiha way, as if she belongs there—has belonged there—all along) herself into his family. 

He watches her excuse herself. Sasuke rises.

Itachi’s comment (“Following her to bed?”) would have made Sasuke blush a week ago, but the younger Uchiha does not miss a beat when he answers: 

“Aa.”

Itachi and Kakashi share a knowing look across the fire as the youngest Uchiha general takes his leave.

“When Sasuke first rode into camp and met his squad, a comment like that would have had him glowering and threatening us,” Kakashi says.

Itachi grins, shakes his head. “He has come a long way,” he replies, the master of diffidence. 

The Copy-Nin knows Itachi, and so he waits patiently as the latter gathers his thoughts on what has been occupying his mind.

“My father offered you the role of general.”

That is not what Kakashi expects. He studies Itachi with a lone, dark eye, inclining his head. “He did.”

“Why didn’t you accept?”

Silence grows and stretches beyond the concept of time. It carries the burden of responsibilities and inflates, a silence that, despite the concept of it, manages to scream every expectation that weighs on tired shinobi shoulders and weakening constitutions.

Uchiha Itachi is acquainted with silence, but Hatake Kakashi’s silence he knows most of all. In the behemoth of sins between them, he finds his answer.

“Thank you for keeping your promise,” Itachi murmurs, eyes fixed on the flames. “You’ve...you’ve done well. Consider yourself released from its confines.”

Vaguely, he is aware of Kakashi moving to settle into the seat Sakura vacated. 

(“Congratulations on your promotion.”

The Uchiha smirks and Kakashi averts his gaze, focusing instead on the glittering lake before them. The view pales in comparison but that is not something the Copy-Nin will allow himself to dwell upon.

“I learned from the best,” the newly appointed general replies. Ever self-assured.

Kakashi grins behind his mask. “I can only hope your brother will be as good a student as you were.”

“Sasuke is…”

“Already much more stubborn than you ever were.”

“He lost his mother—”

“So did you.”

Without even looking at him, Kakashi knows that Itachi is frowning. It is evident in the sudden stillness he projects, the submission of his chakra. And then: “I need to ask something of you.”

‘Anything,’ Kakashi wants to say, but that would be improper. “You know I can’t make any promises,” he says instead.

“I need you to watch over Sasuke.”

The silver-haired jounin does not know what to say.

“Promise me,” Itachi goes on, “that you will keep him safe.”

“After he is trained and ready for promotion he will eventually move on to lead his own platoon—”

“Kakashi-taichou.” His voice is a rasp, wrought with weakness that does not suit him.

“I’ll stay with him,” the Copy-Nin answers.

Itachi is visibly relieved. “Thank you.”)

“Wasn’t a difficult promise to keep,” Kakashi answers.

Itachi grins to dispel whatever is coming to life here before the flames. It cannot grow, cannot exist. “Next time I’ll ask something more dire to test your loyalty to the Uchiha.”

“My loyalty does not lie with the Uchiha.” The words are past Kakashi’s mask before he can second guess them. They have been a long time coming, the captain thinks, and with the impending war, the risks at hand—

Itachi turns to look at him (Itachi can see the fire in the Copy-Nin’s single visible eye and wonders if perhaps Kakashi isn’t part Uchiha after all). His throat is dry as Konoha training grounds when he rasps, “Where does it lie then?”

It happens in the blink of an eye, but Uchiha Itachi is blessed with a doujutsu that lets him track Kakashi’s movement as if in slow motion. This is what Itachi sees:

Hatake Kakashi, infamous Copy-Nin, first and only non-Uchiha to hold a superior rank among the Uchiha forces, tucks a finger into his mask, tugs down the dark fabric to reveal the surprisingly soft curve of his nose, scruff that highlights the edge of a strong jaw, a thin scar at the corner of a half-parted mouth 

and that is all Itachi observes because suddenly (Or not that suddenly because he is Uchiha Itachi and he watches Kakashi move in agonizingly slow motion; he can stop it. There are a million different paths he can take. But, Itachi realizes as he allows Kakashi’s mark to find its target, he does not want to deflect.) the newly revealed lips are on his and then he cannot see anything at all because his eyes slip shut and all he feels is everything that remains unsaid between them, the obvious answer to his earlier question.

His hands tangle into silver hair (coarse, dry, catching on calloused hands with ease) and teeth break the skin of his lip (full and chapped and bearing a scar down the corner that Itachi has fantasized tracing with his tongue) and he tugs. “Where does it lie, Hatake?”

Kakashi rasps against Itachi’s half-parted mouth: “I thought you looked underneath the underneath.”

Hatake Kakashi must be part Uchiha somewhere down the line, Itachi decides. There is no other possible explanation for how he wholly burns Itachi up from the inside, fills his veins with an electrified fire that simmers just beneath his skin. Hatake Kakashi lights him aflame and Itachi allows the blaze, the crackling lightning, to swallow him whole.

He walks with her.

This is not new anymore, and that fact still startles her.

She peeks over at him, marvels at the cut of his profile against the backdrop of night sky. It will never cease to amaze her just how beautiful Uchiha Sasuke is. Does he even realize? Does he have any concept of how his countenance renders people speechless?

“Sakura.”

Don’t even get her started on his voice. The medic pauses at her room, tilts her head in query. A small smile tugs at her lips: he is not looking at her. Dark eyes are focused instead on the wood-grain of her door. “Sasuke-kun?” she prompts.

He turns to her then and she is utterly dumbfounded by what she sees in liquid coal eyes. “I…” Sasuke falters (it is a rare occurrence that Uchiha Sasuke falters, so Sakura tucks this memory in a special place in her mind for safe-keeping) and digs something from the weapons pouch strapped to his thigh. His gaze is trained on a spot by his feet “...here.”

Sakura works to keep her grin from widening, does not even spare a glance at what he holds out to her because there is something devastatingly adorable about a shy Sasuke that she cannot look away from. 

An impatient “Well?” stirs her from her admiration and Sakura blinks, shakes her head, finally peers at the object in his hand.

The fabric is charred, stained with dried blood, but there is no mistaking the glint of metal showcasing the emblem of the Leaf.

“My hitai-ate,” Sakura breathes, low and quiet and in awe because “You kept it?” 

Sasuke turns away, the tips of his ears reddening. “Tch. Kakashi did.”

She knows that he is lying (Kakashi has already outed him whether he meant to or not) but does not press the matter. She tentatively takes it, fastening it in her hair like a headband.

“How’s it look?”

Sasuke’s eyes soften. “Right.” (He cannot help but compare this vision to the Haruno he knew a lifetime ago, forehead protector worn where it belonged, hair tied back and away. He does not know which he prefers, does not think it matters because it’s clear as the sun in the sky that his preference is simply her.)

Sakura is hyper-aware of every strand of his dark hair, the rise and fall of his chest, the electrifying signature he emits.

“Is this the only reason you walked me to my room?”

Charcoal eyes take on a molten quality that strikes her to the core.

Without a word, Sasuke reaches for the handle and pushes the door ajar. Sakura holds her breath, his sudden proximity managing to freeze her more effectively than any jutsu ever could. 

He leans forward, the tip of his nose grazing loose strands of her hair as he whispers, “Thought you were supposed to be a genius?”

(Sasuke does not think he will ever become accustomed to the precise flush of tanned skin, the diameter of blown irises, the scent of her that engulfs him, betraying she is just as lost to their need as he is.) 

Sakura turns her head, mouth brushing his neck, the cut of his jaw. “Sasuke-kun,” leaves her in an exhale and he captures it, swallows it, breathes in her air, his name on her tongue.

(He manages to think that this is heaven before she tugs him by the hem of his juban.)

Her back hits the door but neither take notice. He is far too distracted by the way her hands disappear beneath the opening of his shirt, finding purchase on his shoulders. And she is too preoccupied by the way his lips wander from her mouth to the spot just below her ear he knows she loves.

Her head tilts back and she moans his name in that way he cannot resist. “Someone might see—“ she begins but the way she braces against his shoulders to wrap her legs around his waist is undeniable proof that she does not care.

”Let them,” he growls against freckled skin, relishing in the heat of her, the feel of her body flush against him.

She relents.

If anyone catches them—his pants tugged down to he knees, her shorts discarded at their feet as he fills her up, as she cries in pleasure, as he grunts her name when he finds his release, cracking the door in the process—neither are aware. They are completely, hopelessly lost in each other. Twin flames set to devour the world.

.

.

When Sasuke wakes he does so in Sakura’s bed, completely bare, arms and legs entangled. He rouses first—he usually does—and takes a private moment for himself even before her eyes flutter awake, before the first saffron rays breach the horizon.

In the quiet of the morning, Sasuke watches.

He watches the way strands of hanami hair dance away from gentle puffs of air. He watches the way her fingers curl and unfurl as if searching for something to grasp (he catches her hand, places soft kisses against her knuckles to soothe her). He watches the way her shoulders rise with every breath, the way her lips just barely part when she whispers (moans in wanton respite) his name.

Sasuke inhales their afterglow, basks in it, this safe haven they have made for themselves.

It hurts, he realizes. The prospect of never seeing her again. He has lost his family once, he doubts he could lose them again.

Because that is what she is even if she has not agreed to it, even if he has not asked. Haruno Sakura belongs to the Uchiha just as much as he belongs to her and perhaps there was a time where Sasuke would fight against that truth tooth and nail. 

But now?

“Sasuke-kun?” Her voice, soft and deliriously happy and maybe only half-lucid, is the first sound he hears and he knows that he wants to wake up to the sight of her, the smell of her, the sound of her, for the rest of his goddamn life however long that might be. “Is it time?”

He buries his head into the crook of her neck, disappears into spring. 

“Sasuke-kun?” 

He does not think he will ever get tired of hearing her call his name. 

“Is something wrong?”

“No,” the general answers, mumbles against her skin. Never, he thinks. Not when she is with him. He tightens his hold on her to emphasize this, tucks her against him. Protective and possessive all at once.

Sasuke closes his eyes, peppers lazy kisses at the nape of her neck, and surrounds himself with Sakura.

She threads her fingers through his hair, scrapes her nails along his scalp, down his neck, in the way that coerces a growl from otherwise preoccupied lips. “It’s time, isn’t it?” Sakura whispers. “Are you ready?”

Sasuke sighs, the sound escaping through every pore on his body, all fatigue and weariness. But he pulls away, catches verdant eyes that peer up at him.

“Are you?” he rebuts.

Her knuckles outline the curve of his cheek, the edge of his jaw, before settling over his heart. “Yes.”

Of course she is ready, she’s a rock, a refuge. She is strong and unafraid and perhaps a little bit insane (she is the woman who punched her way through a mountain without so much as a second thought) and she is everything an Uchiha matriarch should be.

Sasuke wants to tell her all of this, confess just how deeply he feels, how integrated her existence is, how her very being winds throughout his ribcage, holds his heart hostage, but he is not good with words.

So he dips down and kisses her and shows her with every movement of his lips because that is a language that they understood long before either of them even realized they knew how to speak it.

This isn’t goodbye.

The phrase repeats in his head, a mantra to keep him standing when all he wants to do is submit to the gravity bearing down on him.

This isn’t goodbye. It can’t be because that would be recognizing and accepting the fact that people will die. No, Sasuke reaffirms in his mind, this isn’t goodbye.

He nods at his men, mercurial gaze burning through the misty morning, certain in the promise of seeing all of their faces again.

“I have the utmost respect for each and every one of you,” he begins—

(“Hitting on us right in front of Sakura-chan! That’s messed up, teme!”)

—before immediately settling a glare onto the loudmouth blond who has risen in popularity among their allies. “I have the utmost respect for most of you,” Sasuke amends, ignoring the scattered chuckles from his audience, “and I count myself lucky to have been able to train, lead, and work with some of the strongest and bravest shinobi I have had the pleasure of knowing.”

(“Do go on!” quips a voice that is decidedly Suigetsu’s.)

Sasuke can’t find it in himself to be truly annoyed. Rather, it is bittersweet. “This fight isn’t just for the Uchiha, anymore. It is not just for Konoha. It is not even for Fire Country. This is for the shinobi world as we know it. This is to preserve our way of life. This is for our families, our loved ones, a future for—“ his voice cracks, the rawness of their situation tearing apart the usually steady timbre. “Someone once asked me if the universe punishes us for the things we do,” the general goes on. “I...have to believe it does because there is no way in hell that Orochimaru will get away with everything he has done.”

The wind whistles through the clearing, disturbs the sand, flutters hair.

Uchiha Sasuke is a force to admire, awe-inspiring in his demeanor, terrifying in his blood-lust. (Belatedly, Sakura realizes: He is a god of vengeance and war. He is a god and if left unchecked, he will burn the world to the ground.)

“Dismissed.”

They disperse into their assigned factions, reporting to their respective leaders. 

Sasuke exhales, low and steady. He does not move an inch, cannot move because he feels as though lead has replaced the blood in his body, cementing him to his spot. The severity of their situation sits heavy on his soul and he wonders if he is strong enough to face it without losing himself completely.

No, this can’t be goodbye. But then why does he already feel like a ghost?

“We’ll work on your speeches later.”

The general blinks from his quickly darkening thoughts, turns to find his brother. “What was wrong with my speech?” Sasuke scowls, pulling himself from the pit he has dug where his ancestors are restless in their deaths.

Itachi does not answer, only lifts a hand to prod his brother’s forehead. “Later,” he reiterates and Sasuke understands. 

This isn’t goodbye.

Before the older Uchiha can move away, Sasuke steps forward, embraces him. In the brief exchange he is not a general, they are not part of an army or in the middle of a war: they are simply family, they are—

(Itachi’s arms wrap around him, tighten. “I’m so proud of you, Sasuke.”

“Shut up,” the younger Uchiha grumbles in embarrassment.

Itachi chuckles because Sasuke might be a general but he is still Itachi’s petulant younger brother, always will be. After another moment, he pulls away. If the world is a little blurrier, then Itachi will blame it on his aging eyes and overused Sharingan.

“Thank you,” Sasuke whispers to the only immediate family he has left.)

—brothers.

“Do you think they’ll be ok?”

A beat, then: “We have to believe they will be.”

Decoy exacts their mission first:

They spot the caravan as it crosses the border between River and Fire.

It is not remarkable in any way. For all intents and purposes it appears to be nothing more than cargo being transported by a merchant. But their intel says that it is the carriage harboring the daimyo's daughter—River Country’s sad attempt in endearing themselves to Orochimaru.

The young woman is quite pretty, all soft civilian curves and satin hands unaccustomed to work. Her hair is spun gold, lightened by the sun. Her eyes are warm caramel. 

There is no denying she is a treasure to her people.

Genma’s low whistle draws Sakura’s attention:

“Where’ve they been hiding that one?”

Ino smacks him in the back of the head before Sakura can. “You’re married, you lech.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate beauty, Yamanaka,” the man grumbles, rubbing the sore spot.

“Children,” Kakashi cuts in, “let Shizune punish him later. We’ve got a job to do.”

(“Wait, there’s no need to get Shizune involved—I was joking—guys. Guys?”)

Pearlescent eyes scan the target: “Looks exactly as our intel called it. One shinobi guard, three ladies-in-waiting. And of course the daughter.”

“Alright, let’s move,” the captain orders.

Ambushing the caravan is disturbingly easy. So simple, in fact, that Genma eyes the so-called shinobi guard, trussed up and helpless, and plucks the hitai-ate from the captive’s forehead. “So, River Country is skimping out on their training, huh?”

Meanwhile Ino (in the midst of tying up the daimyo’s daughter who appears absolutely stricken), is laughing her ass off. “Damn, looking good, Hyuuga.”

“Not. A fucking. Word,” Neji grinds out.

Sakura smiles a cheshire smile as she secures a silk sash about her middle. “I didn’t say a thing.”

Neji is not amused. 

Genma’s arm slings around his shoulder. “If things don’t work out with you and Ten, then maybe—”

The Hyuuga doesn’t miss a beat as he glares into the older man’s soul. “I will stop your heart where you stand, Shiranui.”

A throat clearing draws everyone’s attention to a comically serious captain. Kakashi is dressed in a similar fashion as their Byakugan-wielder, silver hair tucked beneath a silk hood and flattened across his Sharingan eye. He is almost unrecognizable, except for his mask. 

He regards the company with a scrutinizing eye and all mirth leaves them, drawn from the air like a vacuum. 

Sakura holds her breath, awaiting his wise words, his orders, something—

“What, no one’s going to compliment me?”

Neji’s ‘I hate you all’ is drowned out by a round of laughter and inappropriate come-ons.

The subterfuge faction speeds to their destination:

Sasuke does not think about how the other sects are faring. He cannot. Everytime he does, his mind goes to the worst case scenarios and the mere thought of their failure careens him to a place he is loath to visit, a place that looms nearer with every lightning mile traveled that brings him closer to Konoha.

It is in the Leaf that he was born, died, and was reborn.

It is a bastardization of his home, infested and rotting. He is a bastardization of himself, he should not be living, should not breathe Konoha air, should not feel Konoha sun—

(“I didn’t know this existed!” Naruto marvels.

“The Uchiha probably felt the need for emergency evacuation,” Lee surmises, “after Danzou’s rise to power.”

It is Shikamaru who touches the stalagmites. “These have been here for much longer than Danzou’s reign,” he determines. “But why?”

“It’s a fucking tunnel you guys, we’ve been to much cooler places,” Suigetsu cuts in.

Karin surprises them by reciting the origin of the Uchiha legacy and the resulting distrust that manifested between the clan and the rest of the village. “It was for emergencies and clandestine meetings, but fear of the Uchiha existed long before Danzou.”

Silence, then:

“Do you know all of this because you were half in love with our illustrious general?” Suigetsu teases, earning a glare from the redhead.

“Remind me again why I put up with you.” 

The fanged shinobi sizes her up, steps into her personal space. “Gladly.”

“Please don’t,” Naruto whispers from Karin’s other side.)

—Sasuke’s heart hammers against his chest, threatening to force its way out of his body entirely.

The stench of death fills his senses. He’s going to be sick.

Too much has transpired in this village and the moment they cross into Konoha territory deep beneath the village itself, he knows. His body alights with the sensations of helplessness, self-doubt bombards him, hatred devours and for a brief, terrifying moment Sasuke thinks he is once again all alone in the forsaken village at the mercy of the man who ripped the world from beneath his feet.

A hand at his shoulder brings him back.

“Sasuke,” his sleet-haired subordinate says with that crooked grin of his, “is it alright if Karin and I hang back for a bit?” Suigetsu jokes, hooking an arm about her shoulders. “We’ll just be uh...what, maybe four minutes?”

(“Four minutes?” the tracker squawks.)

All of his fury focuses on Suigetsu and Sasuke snaps. “Why does everything have to be a joke to you? Can’t you take anything seriously? Don’t you care what happens to anyone other than yourself?”

Suigetsu takes it all in stride because he has been with Sasuke for many years—they practically grew up together, afterall. He is accustomed to the man’s foul moods and short temper, but most of all Suigetsu is familiar with the manner in which he protects himself.

It does not take a genius to see Uchiha Sasuke is terrified.

Suigetsu, despite his sunny demeanor, can be as cold and unforgiving as the tundra. He wields his sword assuredly, steadfast, and is no stranger to cutting enemies down. Which is why he does not hesitate to cut down his general:

“Fear can incapacitate. Make us panic,” he whispers. “With all due respect General Uchiha, take your head out of your ass. You’re not the only one with people to lose, you know.”

Sasuke notices the looks of his squad. 

Silence, then: “Right. I—“

“Oh don’t go all sappy on us,” Suigetsu dismisses. “You can grovel later. After we’ve taken back our home, deal?”

Our home.

Sasuke watches his subordinate, the significance of the statement not lost on him, and mirrors his grin. “Deal.”

“We’re really very sorry about this,” Sakura tells the daimyo’s daughter, “but you have to understand the very state of the world is at stake.”

Neji snorts in a most elegant manner. “If people like her father weren’t so pathetic then maybe Orochimaru wouldn’t have risen to such power so quickly,” he declares, ever abrasive in his opinions and delivery. 

It would sound more brutal if he is not dressed in a kimono, but as it stands, Hyuuga Neji looks unfairly decent in women’s wear. And the color quite contrasts with his eyes, a fact that the man finds about as interesting as chewed gum.

Ino does not hesitate to swat him (Sakura wonders just when she picked up this habit and vaguely recalls Karin pulling a similar move on Suigetsu on many occasions.) “Her father’s scared and is trying to protect his people—”

“Her father is a coward,” Neji snipes.

“Mayuri.”

All eyes jump to the young woman. 

“My name is Mayuri.”

Sakura grins. “Hi Mayuri. We promise not to hurt you. We just need an undetected way into Konoha.”

“Please,” the civilian whispers, lowering her eyes to her bound wrists, “please bring an end to Orochimaru.”

It is Kakashi’s deep voice that cuts through the tension: “Don’t worry. We will.”

“Coming up to the gates, look alive!” Genma’s voice breaches the canvas walls of the carriage.

Mayuri trembles.

Ino forms the hand signs for her shintenshin and grins. “Don’t worry, Mayuri. You won’t feel a thing.”

“They’ll be fine.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

Tsunade snorts, looking askance at the Uchiha. “You didn’t need to, brat. I can tell you’re worried.”

Itachi frowns.

“Poker champion,” the blonde adds waspishly, gesturing to herself. “Besides you and your brother have the exact same constipated expression when you’re worried.”

The offensive squad races to Konoha, traversing first through endless sand then gradual lush greenery. There is no question as to when they cross the border into Fire territory: the smell alone hits all at once, the very specific trees that line the perimeter of Konoha forest are suddenly everywhere.

“Subterfuge, what’s your status?” Itachi demands into his com device.

A crackle in his ear, then:

Subterfuge in position. Lying low in the Uchiha district.

Sasuke’s team made it.

Itachi takes in a shuddering breath as his nerves settle down. “Decoy?”

Decoy in position, comes another crackling voice. Kakashi’s. In the background Itachi could pick out a woman’s voice, one he does not recognize. Likely the Yamanaka girl in control of the daimyo’s daughter’s body. The small team dispatched from the offensive contingent should be securing Yamanaka’s body for safe-keeping any moment now.

“Wait for our signal,” the oldest Uchiha orders.

Tsunade lands on the same branch as he does—“Told you they’d be fine. Now, let’s take back our home.”—before pushing off and disappearing through the leaves.

The Land of Fire is an expanse of dense forests and sprawling valleys.

It is said that within each citizen an internal fire roars through their veins.

That may be true, but they are not the only ones who are passionate and temperamental and strong.

The entire resistance burns with unrelenting fury, flames that singe and devour and seek to turn all Orochimaru has built to ash.

The initial attack is glorious if Jiraiya is to be believed. He describes the artistry of it, his unit rushing the gates, an unstoppable tsunami that crashes along ancient shores, an amalgamation of colors and sounds disappearing immediately into the dust.

They are relentless in their assault, fearsome.

Sound starts off with the ground being torn from beneath them (by the goddess of life and the breaker of bones in all her magnificent glory), and the tumult of rebel nin do not cease their barrage, pushing the enemy deeper into the heart of Konoha.

That, Jiraiya documents, is where the real battle begins.

“Your father sends his daughter to consult with me?” the Snake Sannin hisses, eyeing the blonde with a critical scowl. “Does he not deem me worthy to meet with himself?”

Mayuri’s brows furrow prettily. “No, my lord! My father simply—he wishes to—“ she appears appropriately distraught, “—he hopes that you might...take a liking to me.”

Sakura watches as his brows rise.

Orochimaru catches her chin, turns her head to study her face. The way he is watching her makes something twist in Sakura’s gut. His eyes are too calculating, too suspicious. “What did you say your name was?” he drawls.

Mayuri blinks, shakes. “M-Mayuri.”

“I do not entertain liars.”

“My name is Mayuri,” she repeats, more forceful this time.

Orochimaru continues to stare into her eyes, however, and the smile that stretches his lips is absolutely predatory. “Is that so?” Without warning, he stabs her through the middle.

Sakura screams.

Blood gurgles from Mayuri’s pretty lips, large honeyed eyes fearful and desperate.

Orochimaru leans forward, whispers into her ear (“I believe we have met before. This time, I am not restrained. And I will kill you.”) before sliding his blade out of the daimyo’s daughter’s abdomen.

Safely tucked away in the Uchiha district, watched over by a nervous Karin, an unconscious Ino wakes. She sits up, gasps for breath and meets first relieved then worried bespectacled eyes. 

Ino’s face is pale as she alerts the Offense contingent: “He knows.”

The tower shakes.

Orochimaru has just enough time to look out the window before it is blown apart by nothing but a vicious wind. He is sent flying and in the confusion, her team gets the upper hand on his guard.

“Sakura! Go!”

She does not waste a second before darting forward to retrieve the bleeding Mayuri and leaping out the shattered wall.

The moment her feet touch down, she sprints.

At the gates she can see the clash of forces, dust and chakra ebb and flow, twist and wrap around and expand and she sucks in a breath because they made it they’re here thank god. 

Ino finds her first and they run to each other, the blonde catching her friend’s crumpling body. There is no denying the fear in wide green eyes. Seeing Orochimaru stab Mayuri—

“I’m fine, Forehead,” Ino soothes, cradling Sakura’s face. She is crying. “I’m fine. And Mayuri will be too.” As she says this, Uchiha civilians approach to gather the injured woman and bring her to safety.

Sakura just nods, takes steadying breaths. Her nerves are going haywire, her limbs tingle, and she isn’t sure if it is the fear or the adrenaline or something else entirely but she does not like it. 

She feels a pair of charcoal eyes burning a hole through her back and Sakura stands, turns, and meets his stare head-on.

Sasuke approaches, prods her forehead. “You need to wear your hitai-ate. How many times do I have to tell you?”

“A thousand and two,” Sakura answers, so quietly she is amazed he hears. Or perhaps he doesn’t—his tomoe spin to the surface—maybe he just reads her lips.

The Uchiha allows himself a private, selfish second to simply admire her in a kimono (there is a very real possibility that he will never see it again, so he takes her in).

In the distance, a battle rages.

“General?” Shikamaru intrudes.

Sasuke stifles a sigh and nods once, sharp, then: “It’s time.”

They attack in full force, showcasing the specialties that make up the rebellion: Leaf, Sand, and wanderers, coming together.

It is astonishing.

He is fury incarnate, fueled by rage.

With every slash of his blade, the metal rejoices in blood spilt on the sullied soil of his people. This is not enough, he thinks, as he coats the ground in enemy sorrow, it will never be enough.

No amount of bodies will bring back his family.

So he has to fight harder, stronger, to protect what little he has left—

“Behind you!” Suigetsu exclaims. Sasuke ducks without sparing a thought to the action as a massive sword swings.

Suigetsu whistles in appreciation at its size before deftly slipping his katana through the man’s neck.

—and the found family he has acquired.

She is spectacular.

There is no doubt about it.

Her movements are swift, graceful, purposeful, as she dances around her enemies, leaving a trail of red and shards of bone in her wake.

Sakura-chan is scary, Naruto can’t help but think as he watches her lay waste to an entire street, the ground rippling beneath their feet. He jumps at just the right moment for a wave of earth to send him high up into the air.

He already knows without having to even see her face, exactly what she is thinking.

Sakura hurls an opponent up to him and he grins, wolfish and feral, as he brings down his leg with all the force of his own strength coupled with acceleration.

.

.

Coming up against Kabuto is no mistake. In fact, Sakura would venture to say it is fate.

She is warmed up, ready, excited even. “Still alive, are you?”

The man chuckles, glasses flashing in the light. “Seems you’re not particularly good at finishing a job.”

Sakura cracks a knuckle. “Good thing I’ve been training.”

You are mine. My power runs through your veins. 

Sasuke ignores these haunting whispers and attacks the man who brought him back. He moves like lightning, threatening and sharp, his katana is but a blur of silver and red. His Sharingan bleeds to life as he tracks the Snake Sannin’s movements.

You belong to me, Sasuke-kun.

The Uchiha roars in agony as his cursed mark burns, spurred by the giver’s proximity. Orochimaru’s laughter coats him, drags him down into the darkness where he resided for weeks, months, wishing for it all to end.

You cannot surpass me, you cannot defeat me, I made you what you are.

But he does not wish for that anymore—

(This is not goodbye.)

—and the edge of his blade cuts pale skin.

Orochimaru hisses, a thin line of red marrs his cheek.

Memories of helpless devastation are replaced by the sound of laughter, teasing, the smell of lavender and sage, the taste of slightly over-cooked meat, warmth and dappled sunshine, and his family around a campfire.

Sasuke tenses, grip tightening on his weapon. 

“Bringing me back was your mistake,” he seethes. “You sentenced your own death.”

They meet as medics do: wary and distanced. With every push forward, the other pulls back. 

She hates to admit they are evenly matched because she knows she can beat him, but she also knows that such ego could be her own downfall. So she does not hesitate when she notices a sleet-haired compatriot appear on the scene waving around a gigantic new sword.

“Nice headband.”

Sakura returns his grin. “Nice sword.”

Suigetsu flashes her a fanged smile as he replies, “Just a little souvenir.”

He barely gets the last syllable out when Kabuto’s hand tears through Suigetsu’s middle. The Mist nin drops his sword and Kabuto withdraws his hand. “As I told Hiro many times, that ridiculous weapon is too cumbersome to be useful.”

“I-I only have one regret—“ Suigetsu gasps, clutching his torso, dripping to his knees, “—and that is not being the one to kill you.” Without warning, he disappears into a puddle and Kabuto has all but half a breath to prepare himself for Sakura’s chakra’s enhanced fist.

She shatters his skull.

“Why all this rage for the man who saved you?” 

Sasuke pounces, predatory, savage, unrelenting.

“Why are you not angry with the one who slaughtered your entire family without batting an eye?”

Sasuke ignores him. 

“What makes you think he wouldn’t do it again?”

The Uchiha charges his chidori through kusanagi, the crackling blue light painting him in merciless blues. 

“What if he comes after you?”

Sasuke glowers. “He saved me.”

“I saved you.”

“No, you made me a monster,” Sasuke roars, sprinting forwards.

Orochimaru’s expression peels back in disgust. “I gave you a second chance,” he growls before disappearing in a flurry of leaves.

Sasuke strikes straight through something.

And time stops.

(“You made yourself a monster,” Orochimaru hisses in glee.)

All Sasuke can see are Sharingan red fading to black and a face that quickly loses its color.

Itachi, blood coating his lips (it paints his chin in ribbons of red), manages to grin. The light from the chidori reflects in his eyes and Sasuke cannot even think because this can’t be real this can’t be real

thiscannotbereal—

Itachi’s name tears from Sasuke’s throat in raw desperation and the older man’s body buckles. Sasuke, katana still embedded in Itachi’s torso (And how many times does he have to do this? How many times will he be forced to feel the squelch of his brother’s blood, feel the warmth rapidly leave his body, watch the goddamn forgiveness in Itachi’s unfocused gaze?), crumbles too.

Itachi manages to prod Sasuke’s forehead—“I love you, little brother.”

“I-Itachi—?

(This isn’t goodbye.)

“Itachi, please—

(“Uchiha do not run away.”)

“ITACHI—!”

(“We move forward.”)

The cursed mark pulsates.

.

.

Chapter Text

.

.

( III.7 — Paradigm shift )

Sasuke falls.

His head splits, eyes shut; flames roar to life in his veins.

Distantly, he is aware of his cursed mark writhing, waiting to be unleashed, wanting to seek vengeance, and Sasuke knows he must not release it though right then and there he cannot for the life of him recall why it is not a good idea.

But something else resides within him now, something new and furious and powerful and magnificent. It surges through him, ocular pressure builds,

his eyes scorch.

When he opens them, the world is painted in a different sort of red, clearer, more overwhelming. Everything is razor-sharp (he can see each strand of hair, every pore; he can see the feathers in the birds flying over head, can count the ants clinging to the far tree), magnified and blinding in its brilliance and he knows (knows like the feel of blood beneath his nails, knows like the heat of a katon in his chest) that he has awakened the Mangekyou.

In face of this realization Uchiha Sasuke has only one objective: watch the world burn—

“OI! TEME!”

He knows that gravelly voice. 

“SNAP OUT OF IT!”

Though Naruto is not his blood, he is still his brother-in-arms.

Sasuke is battle-trained and does not (cannot afford to) get distracted by the blood (Itachi’s blood, there’s always so much fucking blood) coating his arms or Itachi’s limp body at his feet. 

His fiery gaze locks on Naruto and Sasuke stares, expectant and hardened (and desperate for familiarity, for a crutch, for a constant, for someone hopefullymaybepossibly stronger than he could be in face of agony because despite his stone facade, Uchiha Sasuke crumbles on the inside). 

“Don’t worry, Sasuke. We’ll get him—‘ttebayo!”

No.

A scream rips from a raw throat.

No.

Sandaled feet hit the earth; the ground cracks beneath each step.

No no nonono—

She dodges an oncoming attacker, sweeping her leg in a wide arc to dip beneath the enemy blade before straightening back up and lifting the sweeping foot, bringing her heel down mercilessly on the Sound nin’s neck. The resounding crack does not register on her ears as she pushes on.

By the time the body has hit the ground, she is already gone.

Sakura comes skidding to a halt, dust rising in her wake. “Itachi—“ she whispers, turning him onto his back. “You’re going to be okay, I-I’ve got you Itachi, do you hear me?”

Thirty seconds is not a long time. For most of her life, thirty seconds come and go without the young woman even registering that it has passed. The thirty seconds it takes to cross the battlefield to reach the fallen Uchiha feels no shorter than a thousand days of her worst nightmares.

Orochimaru is fearsome.

Orochimaru is merciless.

But most of all, Orochimaru loves to manipulate.

“You’ve got nothing left,” he hisses at his runaway vessel. “What are you fighting for now? A village that was so afraid of your family that they shut you away?”

Unfortunately for Orochimaru, Uchiha Sasuke is done being manipulated.

He does not listen to the whispered horrors echoing in his head. He shuts out the doubt, the rage, the fury, the heartbreak. His new Sharingan allows him to see past all the trickery, the hidden snakes meant to get under his skin, meant to stir the darkness in the crevices of his mind, dismisses them all with a new kind of fire that he calls to the existence:

This fire is the epitome of anger and its light casts monstrous shadows across the Uchiha heir’s face.

Kusanagi, dipped in lightning and coated in blood, sings as it cuts through air and everything and anything that has the misfortune of existing between Sasuke and his target.

“Your home is destroyed.”

“Shut up—“

“I saved your life—!”

“Shut up!”

No less than a thousand versions of Naruto surround the Sannin, all blond and loud and boisterous, rushing at once. Orochimaru does away with them easily, filling the air with smoke as the Naruto copies poof into nonexistence in droves.

Once the smoke clears, Orochimaru’s eyes widen as he stares down the Uchiha’s blade. 

Kusanagi slides through the Snake Sage’s parted mouth. Blood sprays.

The edge of Sasuke’s lips twitch in pleasure only to freeze as the Orochimaru before him vanishes—

Where did he go?

Where the fuck did he go?!

“FUCK!” tears from him and he is immediately on alert. Sasuke barely dodges a massive snake, leaps into the air and calls upon his new hell fire. 

Black flames crawl along serpent skin and it roars in pain. Its head zeroes in on the Uchiha and he strikes forward, fangs bared.

Sasuke braces himself to slice the creature in half when a blur of silver and green flashes in front of him.

“Kakashi—?”

“Sasuke—GO!” the jounin commands, deflecting the snake’s attack. “We’ve got this! Go after Orochimaru!”

The general blinks as Genma, Suigetsu, and Neji appear, surrounding the massive summon. 

“What are you waiting for?!” Genma shouts from his position. “GO, KID!”

“We’ve got this, Sasuke! Trust us!” Suigetsu assures.

It is Hyuuga who points him in a direction. With byakugan activated, iridescent eyes narrow: “Twenty degrees north of here. Hurry!”

Sasuke nods, overwhelmed with a bevy of emotions he cannot even begin to untangle. 

Before he can say anything to express or acknowledge their unabating support, Suigetsu quips: “I told you already! You can grovel after we take back our home!”

He locks eyes with his subordinate, his friend, the brother he gained many years ago. The sleet-haired man grins, salutes, and Sasuke nods—“Aa, of course.”—directing his gaze to the blond power house. “Let’s go, Naruto!”

The chuunin flares his chakra: “Right behind you, Uchiha-bastard, sir!”

Despite the state of his mind, the madness going on around him on the brink of swallowing him whole, Sasuke cannot stop the smirk from tugging up a corner of his mouth.

Green is everywhere.

It is in the leaves of the trees in the clearing, in the grass beneath her feet. It is in her eyes, fierce and determined. It coats her hands, effuses her in an unearthly glow.

“Saving your life once wasn’t enough, huh?”

Tears trail down her face, blurs her vision, and she shakes her head, calls more chakra to her fingers, threads it through muscle and tendon and bone.

“Dammit, Itachi—work with me here—“

She’s shaking, her palms singe from chakra burn but that is not important; it doesn’t matter because Itachi is still unresponsive. She is chasing each organ as it breaks down but his body is rapidly failing and she cannot catch up, dammit she’s losing him—

“Please! Pleasepleaseplease, Itachi—“

It’s no use. It’s no use—it’s no use—

“Don’t do this!”

Sakura cannot summon Katsyuyu, she is already busy aiding Tsunade. Without hesitation, she dips into the chakra she has been storing for years in the middle of her forehead—

A hand finds her shoulders. She startles out of focus, tips her head back to see a pair of honeyed eyes staring back. “You will unlock my technique,” Tsunade barks, transfering chakra into her pupil. “I’m getting too old to carry the mantle of Sannin, dammit.”

Sakura gasps as a surge of fresh chakra courses through her.

“Shishou—“

“Focus, Sakura.”

Acid eats through the sleeve of his juban, sears his skin. His flesh bubbles before settling into a thin scar on his forearm.

A chorus of concern rises from his men who happen to be nearby, staving off reinforcements.

“You have nobody left,” Orochimaru jeers, standing so close his nose almost touches Sasuke’s, “your family is gone—“

“You’re wrong,” Sasuke seethes, dislodging their locked blades and leaping back. “Blood is not the only family—“

Naruto’s rasengan narrowly misses the Snake Sannin’s head.

“DAMMIT!” the blond roars as he dissipates the jutsu, scrambling to his feet. 

This is no use. Orochimaru is too quick, too experienced. How do two shinobi fight a man who’s seen it all—?

“Hey teme, remember when Sakura-chan and I kicked your ass during that bell test?” 

Sasuke glares. The goddamn idiot. “That fucking harem jutsu won’t—“ 

“Not that!” the chuunin grouses.

Sasuke blinks and it takes a fraction of a second for him to know exactly what the unpredictable blond is thinking. The goddamn genius. He meets his subordinate’s eyes, nods once, sharp, and Naruto’s grin widens. 

Tsunade’s nails leave crescent marks on freckled shoulders, breaks through tanned skin.

Green that alights the vicinity fades until there is only a red so deep it is black blanketing the ground. It is as black as the flames of Amaterasu, black as a sky without a moon. 

How can someone build a tower on shifting sand?

A shuddering breath, an uncontained sob.

They cannot.

Sasuke will never admit it, but the number of shadow clones Uzumaki can produce borders on miraculous. There are hundreds of the blond, bounding towards the Sannin from every direction. Orochimaru disposes of them all easily enough, but that is not the point here.

What matters is that he does not notice the three clones that remain by Sasuke’s side, transforming into one massive shuriken.

“Is this all you’ve taught your squad, Sasuke?” Orochimaru taunts. “The same trick over and over?” (When he laughs, Sasuke’s skin crawls.) “Perhaps I should have set my sights on Itachi instead—?” The ground beneath his feet ripples, cutting him off. The Sannin jumps up to avoid the real Naruto, hidden underground and shooting up like a firework, ensconced in roiling red chakra. 

Orochimaru grabs his face, ignoring the way the bubbling energy singes his skin, spreads down his forearm. Naruto’s face, squashed in his hands, goes feral. The wind picks up, whirls around them, threatening and dangerous.

Naruto grabs at Orochimaru’s wrist, locks his legs around his neck. When he speaks, it is an inhuman growl: “NOW, SASUKE!”

Sasuke hurls the weapon.

It sails through the air with blinding speed, heading straight for Orochimaru’s neck—

—and arcs around its target.

(“YOU MISSED?!” Kiba’s voice roars through the tumult. “HOW COULD YOU MISS HE’S RIGHT THERE—?!”

“Guess again,” the general mutters so quietly there is no way Inuzuka hears, but the chuunin does because his senses are heightened and Sasuke manages to catch realization dawn across his face when the giant shuriken circles back and disappears, revealing three Naruto clones, two of which are furiously aiding the third in forming a ball of spinning chakra.)

Orochimaru tears Naruto off of him, sends the boy flying and tumbling across the earth. Eyes set on Sasuke, the Sannin lands neatly on the ground. “It is a shame your brother is not around to help you master those new eyes of yours—“

(“RASENGAN!”)

—A hand bursts through Orochimaru’s middle.

Narrow eyes widen in surprise. Orochimaru glances down at the fingers flexing, at the swirling pattern that rips his clothes to shreds. Two pairs of hands grab his arms, hold him still; he is anchored by three blond idiots. 

And Sasuke?

Sasuke smirks as he dashes forward, fast as the lightning crackling across kusanagi.

It all happens in the span of a single blink and this is what Orochimaru sees:

Red then blue then a blinding flash then, at last,

nothing.

.

.

.

Hatake Kakashi is more than familiar with a life of combat.

War played an integral role all his life, so bloodshed and death and terror are all things that the Copy-Nin knows. Every scar across his body is a story of his bravery or recklessness, of the fragility of peace. All of these things Kakashi has grown up with, they are old friends, constants.

Even his eye is a twisted shrine to the life that chose him and that he continues to choose every single day.

Hatake Kakashi is no stranger to scars, nor the horror of battle.

But the hardest burdens to bear are the scars that remain unseen.

Kakashi kneels beside the fallen Uchiha and cannot help but wonder just how many loved ones he will lose to war before the universe finally decides that he has suffered enough.

This is Uchiha Sasuke’s first war.

A part of him expects a sensation of awe to settle over his weary shoulders, the sun to break through the clouds and cast the village in an ethereal, tranquil sort of glow to signify the end of the battle, to emphasize their victory.

He expects relief or disbelief or something.

He expects his men to cheer, to celebrate, the people to shout and dance and sing.

He expects to kiss Sakura, to greet her with open arms, to swing her around and celebrate their triumph. He expects confetti and pats on the back. 

But as he finds her, the woman who has been his beacon, his salvation, his hope, he feels only dread.

Sakura leans over his brother’s body, sobs wracking her shoulders.

Sasuke cannot breathe.

She senses his presence and glances up; her face is red, eyes bloodshot. 

Apologies fall from perpetually chapped lips but he does not hear them. 

Sasuke just drops to his knees, removes her trembling hands from Itachi’s middle. He’s not looking at her, face fixated on his brother’s body. 

Sakura’s vision blurs; Sasuke is nothing more than an amorphous blob of paleness and darkness and red (so much red) and she adjusts her hand to lace their fingers. He squeezes hard, desperately 

(and she is reminded of all the times she has helped him through his most difficult moments and wonders if this is her purpose: a tether, a reminder, that though he feels lost, manic, alone, he isn’t—never is, can’t be alone—because she will always be there to hold his hand)

and she squeezes right back.

Sakura is not a fan of quiet; on the contrary, stillness often discomforts her.

And yet sitting beside the man she loves, hearing the way his brother’s death shatters him, breaks the dilapidated structure of the Uchiha legacy asunder,

she has never more desperately wished for silence.

The memorial stone bears new names.

Too many new names, the Major General thinks.

He squints through the bright sun, hates the way it glows hot in the sky overhead. It is wrong. They are mourning the loss of their loved ones and the sun just burns brighter than he has seen or felt in years.

A plethora of people are freshly buried beneath blood-soaked earth and the world simply goes on.

(Do you think the universe punishes us for the things we do?)

The funeral is short. There is not much to say after recognizing the bravery of the fallen. It is all so impersonal and he hates it.

They have taken back their home but they have lost what makes it home in the first place. Is it worth it?

Sakura sniffs at his side, turning her face into his shoulder.

They stand before the memorial stone, long after the other denizens have left. His men stay longer, but eventually they too take their leave.

It becomes just Uchiha and Haruno beneath the quiet moon and somehow that feels like home in its own way.

Sasuke stares at the characters that make up his brother’s name—

Sakura’s hand catches his and his fingers instinctively slot through hers. 

“Sasuke?” She lifts her head, presses her mouth into his shoulder and whispers, “Are you ready?”

He inhales, exhales, then lifts his head towards the skies. The warmth of the Konoha summer spreads across his skin, hot and familiar as Uchiha fire.

Sasuke is not ready, it seems he is never ready for whatever challenges life decides to throw at him—from leading his first ever platoon into war, from taking on the title his father left behind, from nearly killing his last kin to dying himself and being brought back, from being at Orochimaru’s mercy to escaping and falling in love, to losing his brother for real.

Not once was Uchiha Sasuke ever ready.

He releases a shuddering breath, tightens his grip on her hand, and opens his eyes. “Aa.”

.

.

four months post war

—

Konoha is rebuilt, with Tsunade leading the reconstruction. As the new Hokage, she has amended a slew of archaic laws, the first of which being the law barring women from joining the shinobi forces.

She assigns Tenten to head the training for all shinobi-hopefuls prior to sending them off as genin to the squadrons. 

The truth behind the Uchiha massacre is revealed to the public—the intended coup, the resentment. To mitigate further dissent, the idea of the Uchiha Faction is done away with entirely; instead the Konoha army is consolidated into three divisions led by Generals Hatake Kakashi, Hozuki Suigetsu, and Shiranui Genma, all overseen by Major General Uchiha.

With a medic as the Konoha leader, Tsunade establishes a shinobi medic division, placing her two apprentices in charge. No platoon, no three-man squad, will be without a proper medic-nin. Sakura and Shizune head this endeavor, with help from Ino and Karin.

All of these changes mark the end of an era.

(Always move forwards.)

Post-war trauma exists in timid smiles and sunken eyes. It makes a home in the hollow cavities loved ones left behind, echoes with every lonely creak of wood that reverberates through a too-empty house. But it is not alone. Peace keeps it company.

The River daimyo seeks reparations from Leaf for attacking his caravan and injuring his daughter, but it only takes delegate Nara Shikamaru to point out that by attempting to collude with Orochimaru, River Country betrayed its contract with Fire. (And Mayuri’s defense on Konoha’s behalf does not hurt.)

The pieces of shattered villages are picked up and welded together, an amalgamation of temerity and sorrow and an understanding that only through cooperation can they overcome any and all threats to their people.

How can Sakura think otherwise when she witnesses how villages have come forward to aid them?

She sees it in the relations cultivated between Konoha and Suna, sees it in the welcoming of stray shinobi-hopefuls into Konoha training. She can see it in the love that has bloomed in face of adversity.

(Karin sets a comforting hand on Ino’s shoulder when she loses a patient; Suigetsu brings his two healers their favorite tea; Ino’s touch lingers as she teaches Karin to properly mend bone.

Neji stays late to help Tenten train the newest shinobi students. 

Naruto shares his ramen with a blushing Hinata.

Shikamaru refuses his offered promotion to general and instead becomes an ambassador to Suna.)

“You’ve done well.”

Sakura blinks out of her thoughts, turning from the window. She smiles in greeting. “Shishou.”

Tsunade quirks a brow, meanders into the hospital office. 

“What are you doing here? You know we’ve got it under control,” the younger medic says, leaning back along the sill.

Tsunade just hums, sits in the visitor’s chair. She does not say a word, she doesn’t have to.

Sakura pushes off the window and takes her seat at the desk. “Is everything okay—?”

Thud. 

Pastel brows rise as the Sannin places a bottle of sake beside Sakura’s stack of folders. “Tsunade-sama, now is hardly the time to—“

Clack, clack.

Sakura sighs, shakes her head at the two cups her mentor procures. In silence, Tsunade pours first into one cup, then the other, sets down the carafe, and pushes a cup towards Sakura. A single, elegant brow quirks in expectation.

Sakura grins, takes her sake.

Kanpai is muttered in unison.

Tsunade regards her pupil, the moment stretching into infinity. “It’s time you stop calling me ‘shishou’.”

Sakura, otherwise accustomed to her mentor’s scrutiny, chokes. “What? Why? What have I done—?”

Tsunade scowls. “Did I say you’ve done anything wrong?” she scolds, ever abrasive. “It’s simply time.” She pours another for herself, swirls it. “Have you looked in the mirror lately?”

Sakura frowns. “No,” she begins, “I—”

The blonde tilts her head, lifts the hand holding her cup of sake to her forehead and prods her yin seal with her pointer finger. A smug smile stretches across red lips.

Green eyes widen in surprise and she rushes to the window to peer at her reflection.

There, in the middle of her forehead, is a deep purple diamond.

Tsunade comes up behind her, hands on her shoulders: “I am so proud of you, Sakura.”

.

.

six months post war

—

Heat simmers along a tanned and freckled shoulder; a gloved hand reaches up to flick pastel locks away. Her hair is longer now, split down the middle into two loose plaits—an homage to her mentor. Her haori, sleeveless and black, flaunts the Fire Country emblem.

“Quicker, Konohamaru!” Sakura barks.

They are at Uchiha Base 4. 

Now that the shinobi-medic division is up and running, she has left Ino and Karin in charge. With Shizune willing and able to oversee the hospital, Sakura decides to help train combat-medic chuunin in all three squads. She has spent a trying month with Genma’s division and has moved on to helping Kakashi’s.

Sakura flicks Konohamaru’s forehead and sends him flying. 

“No fair!” the chuunin exclaims, “You’re too fast!”

She grins. “Don’t feel bad. General Hatake trained me well. He’ll train you just as well.”

“You received training from one of the Sannin,” the boy grumbles.

Sakura’s grin turns wolfish. “Mhm,” she concedes, “and I’m her successor so you’re getting trained by a Sannin, too. Be grateful, brat.” 

Before Konohamaru can argue, Kakashi cuts in: “Thank Captain Haruno for indulging you and get back to your training.”

The brunet rolls his eyes but relents, offering a wooden ‘thanks, Sakura-taichou’ before returning to his assigned partner.

Sakura chuckles, joining the silver-haired general leaning against a post.

“You’re going easy on them,” she teases. “Have you gone soft, old man?”

Kakashi snorts behind his mask. “I’m exactly the same with them as I was with you,” he declares. “Perhaps you’ve just realized how gently I handled all of your fragile egos.”

“Speaking of gently handling things,” the pink-haired captain hums, too-perceptive eyes peering at the Copy-Nin, “what should I tell Iruka?”

...

“Come on. He sent you a package. I’m supposed to return and say nothing on your behalf?”

“Of course not. Tell him I appreciate it.”

“You appreciate it,” Sakura parrots.

“Yes.”

She stares, then: “Iruka’s a nice guy, right?”

Kakashi fidgets under her scrutiny before asking “Neji’s a nice guy right?” but the strain in his voice, the memory he references, says: It’s too soon.

Sakura sighs, deflating, but ultimately understands. 

The sound of hooves accompanies the clang of metal and their gazes jump to the camp perimeter.

An automatic smile blooms across Sakura’s face.

“Recruits, attention!” Kakashi calls, pushing off the pole. “Major General is coming!”

Sasuke arrives swathed in shadow, the Uchiha fan stark against his back. His steed, as black as Uchiha eyes and hair, named for the permanent flames he can conjure (“Easy, Ama.”) comes to a halt in the middle of the camp.

The chuunin scramble to line up.

“Major General Uchiha,” the Copy-Nin greets.

Sasuke frowns at the title. “General Hatake.” 

Something passes between them: appreciation, understanding, respect—things neither will ever recognize with words. 

Sakura, however, greets him with hands on hips. “You’re late.”

Sasuke shoots her an imperious look and dismounts. “I will not be chastised by a captain who doesn’t know how to properly wear her hitae-ate,” he declares, making a move to prod her forehead.

She swats his hand away. “I’ll wear it properly when I fight worthy opponents,” Sakura huffs, ignoring the string of protests from disgruntled chuunin.

“You just want to show off your yin seal,” Sasuke rebuts, at which the medic scoffs in denial, perhaps too loudly.

In truth, he likes the diamond, it suits her, gives him a point of focus besides her expressive eyes (where he has counted and recounted her lashes a thousand times over), her lips (always chapped but the shape of which he has memorized), and her other things that makes heat coil where it should absolutely not be coiling right now in the presence of a platoon—)

Kakashi clears his throat: “Alright, what’re you all staring at? Back to training. You still need to run through our kata forty more times.”

Sasuke and Sakura avert their eyes as the chuunin disband.

When next she looks at him, he tips his chin towards the lake.

Silently, they make their way to the precarious dock, sitting precisely where they have sat on many occasions, soaking up the sun after sunrise katas.

That feels like an entire lifetime ago.

“Sakura—“

Sakura traces his profile against the backdrop of sky and is amazed by the fact that she still marvels at the sight of him. Uchiha Sasuke is as breathtaking as the first day he rode into her camp—cut marble and charcoal eyes, 

There is a furrow to his brow, a quirk of his lip; he wants to ask her something. The medic gives him a moment to find the words, content to sit by the water.

“Sakura,” he tries again, sets his mercurial stare on her, (Sometimes Sakura thinks he uses genjutsu on her because she swears time stops whenever he looks at her.) takes a deep breath and: “will you be my second-in-command?”

She isn’t sure what she expects (honestly, there is too much to be done, the ramifications of war are too evident, ever-present everywhere she looks for her to consider something more concrete —nevermind what Ino insists he should do on the nights they spend gossipping), but it certainly isn’t that. 

Since the end of the battle, Sasuke has traveled from country to country, meeting with the hidden villages, the daimyo, reconciling misunderstandings and putting out proverbial fires across the nations. He is a man on a mission, a search—for peace and atonement and something else that Sakura is not privy to.

“You want me to come with you?” she clarifies, something inflating in her chest at the notion. She’ll be able to go with him to lands she’s never been, on his self-imposed journey.

Sasuke admires her, something unsaid in his eyes, something restrained. “Yes,” he answers. “I trust you. I—“

Sakura smiles, leans forward to peer up into his face. 

He knows her, can read her like a map of Fire, so he knows exactly what she wants him to do. Sasuke dips his head down to rest his forehead against hers.

“I would follow you to the ends of the earth, Uchiha Sasuke,” she whispers.

He exhales, the warmth of his breath ghosting across chapped lips. 

When he kisses her he does so as a man desperate for water, desperate for air, desperate for somethinganything integral for life because that is what she is to him: a necessity.

He would not be who he is, not be where he is, if it was not for a pink-haired, green-eyed, huge fucking pain in the ass and though the sting of his recent past still mars his soul, as long as he has her, and Konoha, and Kakashi, and his subordinates (his friends, he corrects)—

(“I thought intracamp relations were—“

“Shut up, Sakura.”)

—then he will always have a piece of home.

.

.

synergy: the cooperation of two or more organizations to produce a combined effect greater than the sum of their separate effects.

Chapter Text

eighteen months post war

—

He’s crazy, he thinks as he digs up his brother’s grave. It does not take him long to free it from the ground.

Sasuke stares at it.

(He’s crazy.)

A deep breath

(He’s fucking crazy.)

and he pops the coffin open.

It is empty.

.

.