A/N: This is… a tad weird. The words in parentheses "( )" and written in Italics are what Inner Sakura thinks- and says aloud. Hope it isn't too confusing. Other words in Italics are just used as emphasis.

Disclaimer: 'Naruto' (etc) belongs to Masashi Kishimoto and its other respected owners. It does not in anyway belong to be.

Title: Final Symphony

Rating: R

Pairing: SakuraxSasuke

Summary: The illness has finally consumed her. Sequel to 'Killing Records'

She had him.

(You've been had Inner Sakura laughed at him, his wide eyes, his last trashing movements, just the shock in his demeanor)

She loved him so much. Cared for him, could not detest him, wanted him, obsessed over him, for so long. That this moment seemed untrue, surreal, another dream.

And it could have been, but it wasn't.

Graciously, carefully (One did not want to awaken the beast's ferocity in the beginning, only the beginning) gentle she would be with him. Treat him as such, and gain anything in return. Reaction was all she wanted. His focus was all she wanted. His acknowledgment was all she wanted.

She bent over to kiss him softly on the forehead. A look of disgust and irritable shock painted plainly on his pretty features. For who would have thought this of her? Who would have expected such action from her? (You, Inner Sakura scolded playfully, you should have been watching, knowing with your spiteful eyes) Her hands fluttered, over, across his lean form, her brain digesting the simple pleasure she was getting just from this (how he squirms). He was lovely, lovely at any time, and any where. And here (Especially the inner voice is murmuring) is such a wonderful place. She had not been expecting him back, and he had not expected her to yet be waiting. This had been unexpected.

They had reached a mutual point. A dead spot. A blind spot. She cared not for the name, but only for him. And she had reacted first, the first to make the move. And just that changed everything. (beautiful)

So it turned out, it was he who had ended up, drugged and helpless. Not expecting, not expecting (oh, you should have). She had greeted him, a familiar smile (a different smile) on her face as she offered to make tea. Her motive in the start seemingly genuine and he had not broken his bond with her (he knew that, knew it) so he so to speak trusted her (as I trusted you) and she had been so happy. So excited at his small acceptance, his curt nod, and she had made the tea as efficiently as she could. Trying to make it perfect, trying to balance out the bad and the good, the drug or tea either could be both, of could not be. She was just so happy.

And he drank it the same way, left hand to the side of the ceramic cup (black, glinting blue under the soft light of the lantern she had lit, like his silky hair), the right cupping under it. And the sigh, the smile (not smile) he had on his face, features sharper.

She drank no tea.

He seemed not to care.

The first ten minutes, a hand touching her hair curiously. His eyes, she loved them, loved the flashes, the reflection of herself in them as she was the one this time to (coyly) smirk at him. He seemed taken aback, his hand retreated as he realized, became aware at last of her illness.

(My beautiful Sasuke-kun. Sasuke… Sasuke-kun. Inner Sakura had said sultry-like, as if just by saying his name, she could taste him) And Sakura had moved, her white kimono making the only sound in the still shadowed room, wrapping her arms around him, around his neck, pressing him to her. And his movements slow and almost sluggish as the drug took effect. She fell forward, him beneath her, a tangle of the black yukata he wore. The sword he had brought on the other side of the low set table (a polished sheen on it acting like a mirror, like his eyes).

And he started to breathe hard beneath her, ragged gasps, (You're surprised, my darling, aren't you? Inner Sakura whispered, a hazy desire glazing her words), her hand trailed over his chest, across his cheek. Fingers carefully trailing across the sharp edges, the other hand testing out the feel of his hip, as she lazily (as if) wrapped her legs- braced her thighs up against the sides of his own. (I've waited forever) her lips close to his, the curve of her body molding against his as she became more comfortable in the half embrace she had created and he turned more docile against her the drug settling in his body.

(The moon is new tonight, perfect is it not? For a time like this? For us?) He gives her look that suggests he thinks her mad, but she could careless, the hardness of his body pressed tightly against the soft of hers; if enough to drive the beast when it wakes into frenzy. And for a time she is glad for the long lasting effects of the drug. For she wished to take her time touching him, cherishing him, taking him- he is hers, will be hers. The time is now that she will make sure of it.

She feels as if she has been reborn.

A slight tilt, and his lips are amazingly soft for a boy's; but Sasuke has always been like that. Different like that, making him better than anyone else. Making Sasuke Sasuke. She maneuvers herself so now both hands are holding his head, left titling the chin allowing her tongue to have easier access to a mouth she forces her way into, right buried in that silky soft hair she had managed to only touch so like the glimpses of a setting sun in the rain.

And he is not willing. Will never be willing, but she does not care (always cared) could not care for he is beautiful and feels warm under her fingers for once- this also unexpected (You're not cold) and he cannot move. Cannot be released, as trapped as she, so the beast awakens and is hungry, waiting to devour the un-granted blessing that she has been praying for forever it is all too much, she is crying, and she is laughing. Both splattering against the dark of the crisp material of the yukata, a fold being pulled across a white shoulder; exposing a collarbone and plot. Fingers flex and she feels the beast move, and she feels like the cat, the snake. Something disgusting but admired, and briefly she wonders if Orochimaru felt this way as well. When he had Sasuke-kun, (tranquil you are not, lovely avenger hushed like a passing wind over grass) locked and kept all for himself (I was so jealous the voice comes out sweet and longing, seeming to carve characters into river stone). Soon her mouth is on his neck, sucking on his racing pulse her hands continuously moving with a rhythm she knew he would deny.

She is delighted. Delighted. Delighted- that this boy, the heir of the Uchihas that who is the last (but not the last), will, can (will not, can not) be hers (at last at last). And she can finally hear it now the symphony playing a backwards tune since there is a war. And music can only be played a certain way as such, as such at a time. It- he, he sounds divine and she trembles from the simplicity of just the small breathy noises, the gasps and moans that are made as if in denial (but they are his, his, his) and she knows he is revolted, revolted with-about-because of her small soft hand stroking his length, his cock, trying (desperately) to drain out what little existent (non-existent) sexual desire he has.

She must know that he has it, that it is real. The thought is driving her mad, his smell is driving her mad. Sweeter than strawberries and musky like old wind and dried flowers; she would paint pictures with it if she could. Pictures of him lying on the ground, on pillows that were not for sitting and sipping for tea at such as these, proper proper bedroom pillows, that were white and full of goose feathers as custom would have; not gold embroidery of bellflowers and purple silk. Something simple. (But) Yes but, she chews her bottom lip, (They match the contours of his body, its shape, its elegance and she realizes how the colour purple suits him well even if he likes red) her hands still both on his cock, loving the hardness in her hands, her body enjoying the shifty rough jerks of his narrow hips (for they bump against her own and she is so wet…), and mostly the shape of his mouth when he moans out to her- a brief exaltation to the unwanted pleasure. Her lips are curved up in a smile, the smirk dismissed and she wonders if all the red paint on her lips is gone; but she cannot concentrate on that at the moment.

"I wanted…" and the words are feeble as she says them and she forgets why she is talking, (why?) For the sweat on his body is glistening under the simple lantern's flame. (Glazed she chuckles. Inner her chuckles) And the other fold is pushed (forced) down and her mouth is once again hungrily sucking, licking, biting at the smooth dampening flesh before her- till eventual she reaches his lips again and it's like a breath of fresh air, cool drink, drug to the addiction, but she is not sated. And soon, soon, soon-

-She feels something rising wanting to break away and she feels panic for; could it be that the cage, the trapping contraption- the claws they are breaking her? But it is not that, so she never ceases and does not pause, and soon he is showing the telltale signs of climax (she raises but a hand to touch the muscles of his stomach, and moves her head only to lick the sweat there) and she is calm. Calm for the pause, the pause of her hands moving to the folds of her kimono, parting the bottom layers to finally expose herself, spread, share the disease that has been eating away at her since forever.

The room smells of sweat and arousal and vaguely of the traditional incense used at funerals and her paused is prolonged and she wonders why. Only to dismiss it seconds before she realizes it is fitting (not the only thing that is fitting); he is inside her and it only takes a few clenches of her inner walls till she can feel his dreaded spent desire filling her to a near brim (and she thinks of tea cups, and sake cups, and goblets), his favourite colour now staining some crinkles in the silk white kimono she wore an indecent reminder for years to come. But she is not a girl to mind stains.

The drug is wearing off now, she can tell (a clenched hand, fisting the fabric of her sleeve). And she is nearly regretful it could not last longer, but this- this is what she did expect. Yet she did not expect what came next, did not expect the drug to not be functional as quickly as it was. So soon she feels his slim hands (like white birds) around her slender neck and for once a part of her feels sheepish, but not embarrassed.

"Sakura,"

He says her name softly, like a sigh. Like butterfly wings skimming over flower petals, her shock is un-recognizable to the bees and she feels privileged for the soft touches, the threading fingers through her hair and caress at her face and ears. (Whatever is this for?) The beast is quieting stroked to sleep and drunk on warmth similar to a dying sun.

Pleased as she was, the feeling does not last long as he gives her a look similar to all the other ones before and at once she feels insignificant. But that too is dismissed (a pause of movement in her hair, his eyes closing shut; the long lashes notable- and she misses the smoking mirrors) and she feels almost like giggling.

She feels too much she decides, and the grip on her hair tightens (a warning, a sign- painted not in fresh ink but old blood) painful enough to make a small whimper escape her lips. It is then that he reopens his eyes and she sees the red bleeding into his eyes, the sharingan forming and becoming her infinity the roles are reversed and now he is the snake and she the prey. For his eyes are most hypnotizing, circle of circles, a deepening red that has depths that reach beyond the farthest shore of eternity. So she shivers and finds that the lantern has gone out, the incense smell lingering in fake wisps of smoke.

(Love me) her eyes beg.

She wishes to say aloud and does not know if she has.

(Please) Her hands clutch at his shoulders, skin touching skin and she feels him soften within her.

(Acknowledge me) the words are lost in the final verse.

The beast is having bad dreams (good dreams) and she feels like she is drowning, choking, for he is pushing her off of him, taking from her himself and she wants to cry and say the frivolous things over and over and over (like that that time) and over and she misses the time he said 'Thank you,' now she would give anything to hear those blessed (cursed) words once again. Tears are leaking out of the corners of her eyes and she feels shamed to know he will see them. His hands are gentle with her, treating her like she was paper and she hates herself now, loves him still- for she has made him like this. Even, even if it is wholly what she hoped for- she knows it is not right. Not of him. He is a violent being (made of rage and sorrow of loneliness), a creature poised of grace and strength that is his greatest gift, his blood, and his hate.

Yet, yet…

…she sees it, feels it- the small second he is not an avenger, not a shinobi, not an Uchiha- Just. Not. Sasuke. And she would tear every single strand of her strawberry pastel pink hair out to take back that moment. A shudder runs through her body and she understands him less and more then; she would give anything to be this less weak- less human. But that is also a frivolous thing and she puts it aside to enjoy the hovering body over her (lovely hair, over grown bangs that brush against her face and forehead and she thinks that she may like to give it a small trim to make it more neat), seeming to wrap around her with a quite calm rage that she had come accustomed to at their reunion.

The final verse is concluding now and the hushed applause has yet to come. (He is on her, pressed against her, breath in her ear and the sensation I more than anything. And she is sore and needy, and she gasps for breath and thinks of goldfish at festivals). The tendrils of dying smoke (a whisper that is coming, reaching the unseen shore at last, her prediction false. A lie.) vanishing against the dark ceiling, his entire being- and his hands turn sharp and she is relieved. And he talks and his voice is the hidden ending, a flutter of wings against the shoji screen; it washes over her. (The End)

She closes her eyes and waits for death.