Close against the wall, he has her trapped. Their breathing is quiet (though hers a little louder, a little faster, shaky race-car driving). She looks up into his eyes, a small flicker of fear in between shades of candid green. He leans in closer and she stops herself from flinching, though her body tenses.
She can't look away, not when it comes to this.
-
The first time she met him, it was love entwined with hate. She was struck by his beauty as much as she was by his cold indifference; the way he breathed a ghost's breath, not quite real. It fascinated her, how he separated himself from all the things she clung to: hope (deceptive euphemisms), ghosts, her own failure, love, his name. His voice had been hypnotic, like haunted bells she'd heard ringing from a burning church several years ago. And like the dying communion wine, looking into his eyes made her lose herself all over again.
-
He asks her a question she can barely hear. He gives her two options she cannot bear. He offers her the choice to rip her soul apart or slowly starve it.
-
The first time she fought him, she couldn't breathe out of fear. It wasn't a fight, really; he hadn't said a thing and the battle was lost. He didn't have to look at her fully and she was his. And when he knocked her out, like she'd already anticipated, the black was beautiful and strangely warm, and she felt she could be free this way, just maybe.
And she'd fainted into his arms, like a bride into a groom's, like it was meant to be.
-
His touch against her skin, barely there. A ghost of dreams. She shivers but is drawn towards it, like shadows to the moon. She wants more of it, more (the craving is vivid like peach skins dipped in black paint); but she isn't supposed to feel this way. The wry smile cracks on her lips like a walnut and she remembers what she is here for, and why loving him is a lost cause.
-
The first time she watched him kill, she'd expected to feel disgust. That was always what she felt when she looked upon death and its sickly green hues. But when she saw the kunai gripped in his hand, and his movements streaming marble-smooth, there was a different sensation. Awe. It was fascinating, the way he made killing into an art, until she could almost believe it was something beautiful.
She had gotten blood all over herself from his neat slices, little squirts in her eyes and on her cheeks arcing through far blue. It was sticky and uncomfortable, but watching his dance was mesmerizing and in it, she could forget the red drying on her skin and marking her as his.
He'd stood there after the killing was done, with his arm held out towards her and the knife point slick with red, shining, like the needle of a compass. She'd sat crumpled on the floor, numb, feeling lost in her legs but not in her heart. Their eyes met, somehow; hers, glassy and shocked, his, deep and red (but was that surrender she saw in the echo of black?).
He hadn't offered an apology, but then again, she never asked for one.
-
She wonders what these feelings are supposed to mean, and why they clash so loudly with her memories of what love is supposed to be. No, not romantic notions, not lonely walks home when he should have been with her—no. Not dates with her hair pulled up at the nape of her slender neck and cherry lipstick gloss, or fluttering kisses—no. She knows there's much more to love than that, now.
Looking into his eyes, she's learned that love is a torturous path. She can't tell where it will lead, or if she's taken the right step. She doesn't know if the next one will send her tumbling, as she shuffles along the edge of this crumbling cliff, with her back against nothing and her fingertips clawing orange sky. But love is the force that compels, drives against all common sense and every other value she's ever learned from that cursed book of shinobi rules. Against any promises she's ever written in the ink of her tears, sliding down her cheeks to stain the floor.
He's unwritten her, with his looks and his allure, perhaps unintentional. Erased.
She can't remember who she's supposed to love anymore.
-
The first time she took his hand, it was a choice. She could have refused, should have—
But she didn't.
She might have turned on him and fled amidst the fighting and the chaos; she might even have escaped, but something inside of her trembled when he looked upon her, with eyes as calm as the surface of a lake. (something lurking in the depths—)
She didn't need his warm hand holding hers, or that feeling of unshakable security, sincerity, belonging…
She didn't, but she chose it.
And somehow, she couldn't bring herself to regret it.
-
"It's a choice you must make," he whispers, and the dreadful words are beautiful when coming from his lips. She shivers, but can't look away from his face, so close to hers; she could kiss it if she wanted to.
(she wants to!)
Her wrists are held above her head, his hand encircled gently around them, her back against the wall. Bodies too close, not close enough.
She can't answer.
She curses herself, silently. The choice should be easy. She shouldn't have to contemplate, not when the right thing is burning in her head, iron-hot and glowing.
She shouldn't, but she does.
His look cools the iron smoldering in her head and she finds herself wondering if it was ever the right choice at all. All these ideals she's held onto, unfulfilled and desperate. Year after year after year after year, and his back always turned—
Was it ever worth it?
His heady warmth and his quiet eyes draw her in. She feels herself falling, despite herself.
"Your past or your future," he says, softly; and strangely, she cannot detect any deceit in the voice. She thinks she maybe hears a small hue of emotion in the quietness. But most likely it is wishful thinking, because he could never care.
Her past, crippled by the indifference of the boy she loved. She's nearly forgotten all the beautiful moments because of him, because of this.
Her future. She blinks and takes this man in, his pale skin and dark eyes and the way his hair frames his face. She tries to find something in all of it, tries to paint a picture of happiness in the folds of his eyes.
There's a magnitude in his gaze that's different from all the looks he's given her before. She could almost believe that there is more than a question in there. There is something she needs to find, amidst all the sharpness and cold and dying best friends.
But he doesn't let her search long enough. He slowly withdraws, taking back his hand and concealing it beneath the curtain of cloak. He turns and begins to walk away.
A part of her is shocked at how strongly she feels the loss, his absence, even so momentary. There's nothing holding her back anymore, but she feels oddly empty without his presence so close. Something missing, something that he has.
And she thinks to herself, she can't bear the sight of him walking away…
"Wait—" she hears herself, croaking. He stops. She can't let him go, not another piece.
Her heart is pounding so loudly she can barely distinguish the voices of her past clamoring in her ears. She can't hear Naruto's brash cries, or Kakashi's stupid advice, or her own foolish premonitions, or even Sasuke—
"Don't…don't leave," she whispers, bitterly.
Her heart jumping violently, it could almost burst through the seams of her body. Please turn around, please…
"Don't…" and the pleading in her voice sounds so familiar. She's said it so many times before, but the chord has never struck this true.
Slowly, he turns to face her. He takes a step towards her and her heart nearly explodes, her head throbbing and everything turning upside down. (Konoha. Somewhere, the sun is setting, casting shadows on a forgotten home.)
She closes her eyes, and when she opens them again, she is looking into red and a smile buried deep.
And for once, she's not saying goodbye to a turned back, a closed heart.
For once, she knows where this path leads, and she isn't afraid to take it.
I found the file from a while back, and decided to finish it. :) itasaku is so hard to write now, haha...