The End: A Tale of Two Parts

Part 2

It started out small; nods turned into faint hellos and brief smiles sent from opposite ends of halls. It didn't take long for him to start seeing the cracks. See the façade for the trap she had laid to keep those with prying eyes away. The truth of the matter being she was far from okay. He noted the stiff frame. Always ready to run. Hooded eyes flickered with the knowledge that something was still to come; a final shoe to be dropped. She kept at an unrelenting pace, forbidding herself to stop. All the signs of a person about to be burned by the torment of their own design pointed at her. Not pointed; screamed. Screamed with a desperate demand to be seen. Yet, no one heard. No one but him looked long enough to see the chinks that shuddered and clinked with every step as she unraveled within the confines of her own head. Like today, with the way she stood before him with smiles of reflected glass and barbed eyes. She spoke of those that would direct his attention from her: told him news of Naruto and his training and of Ino and her progress. He'd reply with a smirk; a dry comment or two about the troubles of fools left to work. She laughed, eyes tightening like a noose wanting to hang herself with. He found himself reaching for her face; callused thumbs swept across delicate skin because her laughter sounded disconcertingly like crying.

Under his hand, she froze.

Under her stare, he melts, speaks the only words he can find to tell her how he felt.

"Stop. Please."

And so she did.

It started off small, like the fading in of gentle music. He'd wait for her on the sidewalk at night when she finished her shift. Sometimes, he'd even find her waiting for him. It was a waltz, each tentative step being a new way to move forward. She showed him the merit of not wasting his own time, gotten him to apply himself beyond the minimal requirement. He forced upon her the value of taking breaks. He taught her how to play Shoji. She taught him what it felt like to lose. The first time it happened he looked at her with such bewilderment she broke out in a smile so beguiling he could do nothing but stare. That night was the first night she laughed. Laughed like she meant it, like there wasn't some unforeseen force ready to drown her at any minute. It was the first time he thought of her as beautiful. And so the music continued to play.

Season's changed and small things grew. Sakura became stronger, developed a power that could heal those as easily as could be shattered. Shikamaru took over the Chunin exams. Watched his teammates and friends be promoted with silent joy. Saw fences mended as rivals banished past grudges held on solely from pride. Together, they became the shoulders the other leaned on to keep moving forward. Shikamaru no longer went to the hospital when injured on missions, instead, he'd go to her. As he would reveal his fears, she'd listen, gently fitting back the pieces until he again felt whole. He became the harbor she'd run to when she was at risk of drawing in her own mind. For every mistake she made, for every life she lost on a table he would be there to remind her of all the ones she had successfully helped survive. Together, Sakura became more like herself again. Shikamaru grew into something new.

As winter came and the snow fell with the subtle grace of unspoken things, Shikamaru pulled together enough courage to offer up his hand. Sakura didn't even pause as she accepted it. Cold fingers wrapped firmly around his, siphoning the warmth willingly given. She radiated with the hew of winters glow, so soft and gentle and entirely her. He wondered at all the unspoken words falling before him.

Wanting.

Not yet willing.

When Naruto came back, he brought with him the weight of a left behind promise. A change. With clenched fists, skin pulled tight, Shikamaru walked home; wondered at the foolishness of lost time. When he saw her though, standing, Shoji board under one arm with the other up high, waving, he let out a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. When she reached out her hand, offering a smile like that of rushing water after months stranded in desert planes, he took it. Caught in her light, he saw the color of stillness that settled between them, the knowledge that they wouldn't step back; that theirs was a dance only in its first half of the beginning. No longer unwilling, Shikamaru vowed to stop holding back.

When Sakura returned from the land of hidden sand, covered in scars, uniform torn, it took everything in Shikamaru's power to remain impassive as stone. He listened to her tale, kept his hands at his side as his eyes counted every mark not yet fully healed. With heaving sobs, she told him of the puppet master, the poison and of Chiyo.

Chiyo.

Dead.

Sacrificed so that Sakura could live.

Sakura.

With heavy steps, Shikamaru paced his room with those words spinning around in his head. Not again. Not again would he allow such a possibility to become a threat. It took him weeks. Nearly two months to get his clan to agree. But no sooner had they given him their blessing did he grab her hand. Startled eyes captured in the swirling gravity of his unblinking stance, she followed without a word. He led her through his land, to a building accessible only to leaders of the Nara Clan; and now her. Amongst the scrolls and the books, Sakura gasped. With trembling fingers, she brushed along the titles of tombs she would have sold her soul for the chance to obtain.

Anthology of poisons

Creation Rebirth

Heart trapped in her throat she turned. When she had first met him, she was reminded of the color of the wind. He had the look of a shifter to be left to his shadows. Never one to be rattled, he had a way in finding the calm despite the storms. Now, as the tendrils of dust drifted around his head she saw something new. Soft eyes stared back seeking out the calm within the havoc as everything inside her threated to crack.

Always soft.

Always kind.

Stepping forward, eyes like a jungle, Shikamaru held his breath as Sakura laced her fingers through his hair. Entangled in her vines he surrendered.

It started with a kiss, with the touch of soft lips as they basked in the other. A color of bliss rooted with a twist that could be found in her every smile. Or in the lightness in his heart as they spend hours together; planning a future he couldn't wait to share. It evolved with time as they learned the steps of this new dance they eagerly shared. It didn't matter how much they stumbled. They took each fumble with the grace of those just trying to do better. Become something better. When Shikamaru was with Sakura he always felt something better. Like with the sound of her laughter, the crisp tinkle of her voice that with a feathered subtlety swept away every anxiety, every fear he could have. He knew he could never fear anything so long as she was near. So, he would clasp her hand, where the color of endless possibilities leaked between them like sand.

It was not colorless, not like the days of the past feel to you now; and its perfection did not stem from some idealistic personification of purity, but in the work, they both duly kept to so to preserve its integrity. When the war came, when lines were drawn and sides were to be chosen, Shikamaru held no fear. He was strong. But she was stronger. Together, with each of their teams now whole, with the arrival of a lost comrade now found, he knew there was no force alive that could take them down. Not now. So when the battled raged and the war calls were cried Shikamaru didn't even hesitate to move forward. Neither did she.

They fought

Blood spilled and lives were lost.

Not once though, did he think about her.

She was strong.

She was so strong.

She was…

Once the battle had been considered won, Shikamaru looked around. Amongst the sea of pain, he searched for the hint of spring he so desperately craved. When he saw her laying on the ground, however, her body half buried beneath a partially collapsed wall, he saw the color of terror as it ripped his breath from his lungs and turned his veins cold. It took root, transmuted into the space between each step as he pushed himself forward. Became the prier he begged God to listen to. By the time he reached her, it was the pallor of her skin, the stillness of things that should have been there but weren't. When Shikamaru reached to grasp her hand, it was the color of his knuckles pressed tight like the knot twisting in his throat. As there was no response, however, it became the color of his scream, unwilling to let go.