Disclaimer: Whatever, I don't need to own Naruto to write fanfiction.
Penname: LiveLoveLaugh
FanFiction Story: Sleeping Princes
Summary: They called her a slut, a whore. Sweetheart. Even lucky. Life goes on, as one by one she passed every man in her life. She had a chance to sleep with every one of them, too. But…who said anything about sex? (Sakura-factor) One-shots
Author's Note: I came across one of my old school binders when I was cleaning up my room, and like all late spring-cleaners, we tend to run through the memories a bit more. I was studying my poetry and I ran through the lines of Millay, and since I loved her work very much, I thought I could give her a story. And by hours of reminiscing through that one I liked the most: 'What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why?' I knew what I wanted to write. Uh, you have to read a bit into this one. Please have a good read!
Prologue: Sleeping Princes
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply;
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands a lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone;
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.
-Edna St. Vincent Millay
Her dull emerald eyes stared at the beautifully written calligraphy of an old dusty leather book, she scanned the cream colored fine papers of her past mother's old inspirations. She stood over the silver-black marble stand at which she fingered the craved imbedded writing of her name, the hero's grave for her mother amongst the under heroes. She watched silently as her dour silent father, a retired shinobi, had resided faraway with a black umbrella, closer to the drier spots underneath the tree branches while the grayish-blue clouds had hovered closely over the valley. Soft showers of cold rain had sprinkled on top of her body, watering the muddy grass against the grave pavement and whether it were her tears or the rain was blotting her eyes, she did not know.
The young woman couldn't remember how frail and cold her entire body was. How her body had clung to the thin black fabric of her funeral clothes, how her dripping tresses had dipped down to the green blue pasture, how the time had passed by that she had forgotten about the numbness of her feet that pierced into the soft ground and the slow pain of her neck as she pressed her high forehead against the cold plate of the tombstone.
She just couldn't.
And in moment, in that strong intense moment after the long denial, she burst into true bitter tears and let out an unfeminine crack of a voice crossed with a sob where she slapped her chilled trembling hand over her squealing mouth, her face contorted into screaming and shrieks, her eyes were shaking to the sight of the grave, she cried and wept and she threw her arms over the coffin covered with white flowers and wilting blossoms, next to the grave stone written up full of nameless names and of historical faces where silver wisps had looked upon her with grieving faces, that they too had witnessed this scene. She screamed, her body fidgeted, her front was pushed against the hard wood of the long coffin and she screamed her mother's name, and she wished for more than just this, she wished to see that familiar face again that would never be homely to her again. The pink hair had spade against the dark polished wood and her willowy arms had wrapped over the casket, wailing and mourning for the loss she'll soon forget.
The poetry book had lain on the wet grass, forgotten too, and the memories had still buried itself in her head.
The poor maiden had screamed for long hours, her voice was hoarse and dry, but her voice had carried villagers out of their homes in a wake to look up into the cloudy rainy late afternoon and they felt the tears of heaven on their face. They had almost forgotten, too, of lost and their loved ones clung to their clothing, wanting them back into the house where the warmth would surround them and they again forget and they thought of happier things, but still until dawn the woman embracing the coffin over the dead body had sobbed louder and their dreams that night were filled with that screams of that one name.
And unknowing to her, many people in a quiet audience had stood behind the roseate-haired young woman. Every one of them was all dressed in black robes over matching slacks, with black sandals. They watched her body, scolding her inwardly, and they too wished they could have done that when they lost their loved ones. They smelled, even when they didn't sniff, of the wet air of the forest and dirt, and the scents within them had occupied their minds.
They didn't stop her from being so foolish, so reckless, so unbelievable stupid.
She didn't know when her sobbing father had leaned against the rough bark of a lone tree, seeking for comfort, the kind of comfort no one but his wife could have given him. Her tall blond companion adorned in traditional red and white garb, stood staring at her frozen body as she kneeled achingly over the tombstone, looking at her with sad blue eyes. Her best friend stared mournfully at her, her platinum hair was wet and stuck to her pale face. The now retired Fifth had held herself with the new Hokage and Yamanaka in her black robes that slim her never aging youthful body, as all eyes were on her motherless apprentice. Her old teacher, with his reckless body slumped in depression when he remembered the many funerals that passed by in his lifeless yet meaningful years.
He whispered the name of his best friend, his female companion, his teacher, his father's name…more than anything in the life, he whispered the names of his three most prized students, even when he taught many other teams after they had broke apart, and he looked after the female, but his ears had heard a crumple of grass far from behind him.
He glanced with his exotic eye at a surprising crowd of men who walked up to him in traditional funeral robes. Naruto stared stunned at them too, as they bowed their heads forward in respect to him. Kakashi could see their eyes had trailed over the young woman who clasped against the tombstone, yelling out her fallen mother's name. It was a long while when her father had walked away sobbing on his sleeve. It was a long while since Kakashi had seen the faceless ghouls of men who stood behind him, he glanced at him with the same kind of stare they gave back to him.
The water dripped persistently over the strands of his silver-gray hair. His visible eye was hollow and black. Since he was older, more experienced, he nodded in respect. He had almost forgotten about these men. The legendary men who loved her, who cared for her, who were all so much more closer to the pink-haired woman than other man would ever be.
How long was it? Oh, yes, for many years, Sakura had seen these men, one by one, by two, three at a time. And yet, even when she loved more than one man, because her love was like that, she was able to love them all equally and none of them, surprisingly enough, had ever went on a jealous envious rampage but they begged for the wishes of the beautiful maiden to be granted, because she meant so much to them. Even when she held another man in her comforting arms, they were never angry at her.
Kakashi watched as each man began to reminisce about the wailing lost ghost of a woman in front of them, whether this were the woman they fell in love with or was it all a illusion. They had on solemn solid faces, their faces casting down when they only looked at the ground but was still able to look at the weeping woman.
The old man saw in their faces, in their eyes, in their desire, their greed, their lust to want her, to need her, to take her, to do all sorts of things with her, and yet they couldn't have her, no matter how many times they dreamt in their dreams. Kakashi watched as each of them came to a half-conclusion as they stared enviously at each other, contemplating who could have her, and who couldn't.
Who could have her? Who could not?
He shook his head inwardly. This wasn't some sick love-triangle.
Well, maybe.
Only one man could have Sakura, and the others would be pushed aside.
It always worked that way. And he knew these men were good men, and even through greed, they wanted to be gentlemen and they sacrifice their inner demons, repress their sorrow even when she went to the man she truly did love. And they live a life with another woman they didn't love as truly as Sakura, but they were content with that. But sometimes, it didn't work that way. The jealousy burned deep within them, his lips thinned from behind his soaked face mask. Watching them, as they stood still when the girl they loved was suffering her own inner demons.
When Sakura screamed and cried to her bitter heart's content, none of her friends, her teachers, the other people had stopped her when she fisted the handfuls of the white funeral flowers that crumbled in her hands when her cheek was pushed against the cold hard wood, she yelled for her mother, hidden in that casket like it was a game they played in their childhood. She wanted her mother to stop kidding around, and actually come out. She wanted everyone to throw on confetti and colorful hats, blowing excitedly on whistles and clashing gongs to step out, the rain goes away, her mother appears, and everybody would just all say it was a joke that her mother wasn't gone, that she stood right there. Right there, with a huge smile of hers and she would say she was kidding, and it would make Sakura look like a fool and she would come across the sounds of a sob and laugh, and she scold herself for being so foolish in front of everyone else.
She bit her lip, trembling intensely against the coffin when she had ceased her helpless wails, begging for that tiny ray of hope to come true. Yes, make her a fool who fell for a late April's Fool. Yes, make her blush profusely when the entire village laughed with her in this splendid joke. Please, make her believe this was not happening and when her mother dusts off her deathbed clothes when she stepped out of the false coffin, that she would lead her into the house and make her favorite dinner. Her father would go about reading the newspaper, smoking his pipe, and crack some harmless jokes that make everyone laugh with him, not because it's funny but because of his terrible deliveries.
Then the next day, she would bashfully step out of the house and be greeted with the rest of the village, and she would laugh along more ever. And she would meet the Rokudaime for an early lunch at his favorite dig-in Ichiraku, where the ramen chef would remind her of that fool's play, and she would blush embarrassingly and whisper to her best friend about that and ask when everyone would stop this ridiculous gossip. Naruto would only chuckle, then the two teammates would dig into their ramen but she would always end up paying the expensive tab and she would bonk him on the head for being an idiot, and he would comeback with the same ridicule calling her an idiot for falling for such a stupid prank. And she would flush, and she would laugh while she picked him up off the ground where they would go to the Yamanaka flower shop, not to buy flowers but to admire them and to listen the babbles of Ino's when she talked about how people knew about this harmless joke they had inflicted on Sakura. And she would laugh, her cheeks hot from embarrassment and she would go back to her parent's house, where she would see her parents alive and well, grateful for all the things she had now.
Yes, make that come true.
Please, make that come true.
Sakura knew she would die if that didn't come true.
Please…
Please…
…please…even for a second…
The pink-haired young woman clutched the coffin with all her might, almost breaking through the hard wood, the flowers falling around the ground when she messed up the decorations. Make that happen for her. She wanted more than anything in the world, just right now, where she would bury her face into her mother's residing bed and she whispered the lines of the poem she had always loved, but never knew it was about, like magical enchantments over and over again, wanting to feel that sparkle off a magical wand she seen with fairy godmothers off of bed time stories…the kind of stories her mother told…
Please make it come true…
Please…
Please—no…
No.
No, she mustn't lie to herself, not now anyways.
She picked up her drenched body from the casket like a grotesque , weeping and hiccupping, and regretting. She could almost, just almost, feel the warmth of her mother's body escalate towards her own permeable soul, grown rigged from behind the bars of her tight ribs. She could feel her mother's face, with that undying smile on her face, and she looked up with caring eyes at her only child and loved her now, and from above, for growing up into a young strong and beautiful woman, the kind of daughter she had always wanted.
Sakura forced herself to slump down on her knees, her long black skirt was dirtied by the wet muddy ground. The dark colors had crushed against the dull turquoise, whether she felt herself crying or not, all the tears washed away with the rain. It was cold, bitter, and just so wonderful. Like a cool blanket, or the light breeze of autumn, she loved the rain when it plundered its pistol bullets of frozen water on her pale skin. She gripped the grass, raking dirt to underneath her nails and she pushed her forehead against the coffin.
Loving the rain, loving her mother, loving the lines of the poem she now understood but could not when she was a child, loving how much the lines of poetry had made her realize her life, loving how it made her come to an understanding to how her life was, loving the fact she had loved other people, loving that people loved her back, and loving the men she somehow could not choose through the many lists and varieties, how great they were, how she could have had any one of them.
It all just didn't matter anymore.
The moment she had stopped screaming to an abrupt stop, coughing hoarsely against the casket, the audience watched her recline and fought with herself. They knew she was a strong and smart girl, but so stupid and weak in so many other ways.
She smiled to herself, remembering them. The sweet memories.
She passed by the group of black umbrellas, the rain pouring off them like fountains into the grass and they watched quietly and knew even though she were still that smiling girl who stood behind a crowd of fair more superior figures, she would always single them out with her strength and her beauty. They were stunned to see such a living being capable in making a group of men fall for her so effortlessly, even when she didn't want them to fall in love but was pleased with a smile gracing her lips. They lived their lives, watching her from behind objects, from behind other smaller people, with their affectionate eyes they begged for her one touch.
That small group of men soon realized that how lucky she was, when they got to sleep with her.
She realized that too when she woke up in the morning with every one of them.
But…who said anything about sex?
To Be Continued