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I made a vow out to the dark
Please let her live just one more day
'Cause she is so much more than all her scars
There is a moment of stillness, a rare pause in the violence and the fighting. Greedily, they grab onto it and refuse to let go, teeth sunk into the flesh of this instant in time, this peace well-fought for. This strange stopping of the clock in the middle of the day, sun high in the sky; strange mostly because, if asked, they'd have thought this sort of pause would only come in the darkest hour of night or the earliest ray of sunlight. Something romantic like dusk or dawn, a moment deserving of the poetry of nature. Shows what they knew of war, before this all started.
No, this is not a romantic time, a moment of stillness when they most need it, as if a reward given for their continued fighting, their relentless drive. It comes right after noon, the sun at its zenith, harsh and almost white in its blinding light, right after noon when he should be meeting with the council, under the harsh white light of the sun when she should be in the medic tents triaging who deserves to be healed and who isn't worth the effort.
This, they should be doing. But for a brief instant, the beating heart of war quiets, the screams echo and end instead of coming directly from the mouth of the dying. For a brief moment, the world stills, and they're greedy, the both of them.
(they're not, gods they've never been greedy a single day in their life, they've sacrificed everything they have and everything they are for a country that despises their continued existence, their perpetual demand for it to be better, they've never known greed because they were never given the opportunity to fully realise how little they've been allowed to live, how small they've been made to feel, to be)
(they've never been greedy a fucking day in their life, but even if they had been—)
From opposite ends of the camp, they've been staring at each other, since the moment the sounds of fighting stopped. Shikamaru is supposed to turn around, enter the tent, plan the next assault for the third time this week alone, deciding which of his friends he'll send to their death today. Sakura is supposed to round her own tent to the large tarp draped in-between Fire trees where a dozen injured will be brought very soon, so she can decide which of her friends she'll let die today.
But.
But there is a moment of stillness, a rare pause in the violence and the fighting.
Without exchanging a single word, they disappear in a whirlwind of leaves.
(they're not greedy, neither assholes nor morons, so they only shunshin to the edge of the forest; where the cover of shadows will give them the illusion of peace, where Shikamaru might even catch a glimpse of his clan's deer for the first time in weeks)
Silently, they sit on one of the larger branches of an ash tree, far from the ground, where the leaves and the other trees will hide them easily enough.
Like a string cut, a bell rung, the tension leaves their bodies in a snap. They slouch, her against the trunk, him against the offshoot of another branch. They're facing each other, one knee up or one leg crossed, hands on the bark or the leaves, eyes never leaving the other's face.
“And what you hear is not silence, it's just the trees waiting to hear what next you'll hum.” Her words are quiet, almost inaudible between the birds and the wind in the leaves. His breath catches in his lungs. He listens.
“And what you see is not the dark, it’s just the gods upturning inkpots because they know what you'll become.” He doesn't recognise the poem; he's never been much into poetry. But he knows she grabbed a single book out of the ruins of her flat, the first thing she could see. It's been keeping her company ever since, as she read and re-read it every single evening, around the fire or in the shared tents where they all rotate to guard their only surviving medic. He hasn't read the book, but she's been quoting pieces of it to him when they've found some time together, and even when they haven't. Sometimes he finds strips of paper in the pockets of his flack jacket, on the folded blanket he uses as a pillow. He cherishes them, these pieces of the last piece of her home. He knows what they cost, what they're worth now.
“And to those gods I will speak bluntly, we've an accord. If you ever touch or harm him, please rest assured that you might not fear a man, but to a woman by the end you'll kneel and plead.”
He swallows, incapable of blinking when faced with everything this woman is, everything she means to him.
He answers the only way he knows how: half-truth and bitter honesty, the knowledge of knowing too much, the burden of age that aged too fast, his wisdom and years heavy on shoulders so young, so dumb.
“Love, run. Love, run, for all the things we wished we’d done. Run until your lungs are numb.”
She crying, soft and quiet, hot tears on the grime of her face, still leaning against the tree holding them both up. Her eyes are the same colour as the leaves around them, pierced by the rays of the afternoon sky. He sees their years, their weariness, their memories, all written on the streaks left behind on her dirty cheeks.
“I think I've been missing you for a long time,” she sobs, gasping on air and empty, broken promises made by the broken, empty boys of her childhood.
On his knees, he reaches for her, crawling on the branch with chakra helping him stick to it. His hand wraps around hers for a second before she brings it to her blackened, wet cheek. His hand looks huge next to her face, his tanned skin contrasting with her paleness, the darkness under her eyes.
He can't believe they're here. He can't believe these weeks of war and fighting, of sticking to each other's side, of deciding against everything and everyone that they were going to make a choice for themselves, just for once.
He whispers, “Sakura...” and she swallows, hard.
“Yes,” she croaks. “Yes, always.”
It's his turn to choke on tears, incapable of looking away. “I love you. I love you, I love you.”
“I love you,” she's saying over him, with him, voices mingling grime and tears together.
He falls more than he leans into her open arms, legs on either side of him, and she embraces him completely.
He can't believe this.
He can hear her heart, beating. Her lips against his temple, her fingers running through his dirty hair.
As usual, she hears him when he's not speaking a single word. “It's worth it. We're worth it, we deserve it. It's worth fighting for this, Shikamaru.” She puts some space between them, just enough that she can look him in the eyes. “I want to be with you. We deserve this, you and I.”
Gods, they do. So much. How could he ever doubt that?
“I love you,” he breathes against her neck. “I love you, I lov—”
The ground shakes so hard it dislodges them from the tree and they fall to the ground. Reflexes faster than the speed of sound help them react and they've twisted in the air before their brain even catches up with gravity. They fall stable on their feet, the wave of residual heat from the explosion almost knocking them backward.
The moment of stillness is gone, the pause in the violence is broken. But there is steel in their spine now, a glint in their eye. She'd call it spite, but that's because she's Haruno-fucking-Sakura. When he was thirteen, he learned the value of raw emotions; it's alright, he thinks, looking at her. He can call it hope for them both, until she can believe it too.
Run from all you know that’s coming
Run to show that love’s worth running to