You watch her from between the branches, annoyed at the pointed leaves brushing against your bare back. She walks dangerously close to you, so close that you can hear her inconsistent breath. Her face is a mask of calm, but you know better, because you know her best. She is doing it again. Searching for something that she has already forgotten, chasing herself in her own thoughts.
You really wish that she would walk faster, away from your place of hiding. After all, you are topless at the moment, and no one should see an Uchiha topless. You have your pride, and no matter how delirious she might seem, you cannot lose your pride. You are masochistic, running around like the most arrogant, privileged bastard. You are not. You are not even close.
You realize she won't be leaving soon. She has stood still under the soft moonlight far too long, right in front of your hiding place. Closing her eyes, she inhales the sweet night air, and when she exhales, you inhale her alcohol-tainted breath. You wonder whom she has been drinking with, but that has no meaning now, for you are sharing her air, her space, and that makes you uneasily comfortable.
You desperately want to run away, risk the noise you may create, despite the fact that you are skilled in the field of stealth. You have no reason to be ashamed; you were merely training when she wandered here. You have no reason to worry about her, to watch over her. She will not notice you, will not see you, will not speak to you. She is in her own world, away from you. You are only a spectator to her dazzling light show, separated by the fourth wall.
You know she will pay you no attention, for her spotlight is only for one, not two. You crawl away like the inferior that you are to her. You cannot save her; she will not save you. Run, run away, because you are shadows, and she is moonlight.
She is dicing onions. In your kitchen. In front of you. You have never seen anything more beautiful. She gnaws anxiously on her bottom lip to resist the sting of the onion's poisons. However, when she sniffles a few times, you realize she is not so strong. Her eyebrows furrow as she becomes frustrated by the defiance of the onion aroma.
She brings the heel of her hand to her eyes, finally wiping away the tears that have been pooling there for the last five minutes. You watch her, unmoving, expressionless as her barriers fall. You are proud of yourself, like a child, for not succumbing to the instinct to take the knife and cut the onion for her. Your only alibi is that you do not know how to cook; you are utterly incompetent at it.
She begins to shake, and her hand becomes unsteady. The onions have become all but a mush, but she plows on relentlessly, trying to destroy every piece. She cannot see with all that salt water in her eyes. You realize she is not crying because of the onion's aroma anymore. You do not know for what she is crying. You try to be blind for once, but you cannot help but notice that your dinner is becoming a mush of liquid.
She does not know you anymore. She does not notice you standing right there. She cannot see, does not want to see. She brings the knife down with a trembling hand, looking away from her target. Blood seeps slowly from her finger that has been caught in the route of the knife. Slowly, gradually, it permeates through the channels of pure liquid in the mush, swimming around, tainting.
She watches the crimson substance with calculating eyes, hands unmoving. You cannot stand it anymore. You do not want to be ignored anymore. You want her to see you, to see herself. Slowly, gradually, you take her injured finger from the cutting board and cross all of her boundaries. You place her finger very gently between your lips, wincing inwardly at the taste of pure onions.
She still does not look at you. She drops the knife and tears down her own boundaries, crying as if tomorrow is not another day. You look away, her finger still inside your mouth. The metallic taste of blood stains your mouth, but you do not mind. For once, you are healing her, not destroying, and you never knew it could feel so good.
She is your best friend, but you are not her's. You stand on the sidelines like an oblivious audience, while she falls into her own darkness. You part your lips, release her hand, and let her arm fall ungracefully to her side. She turns to you, and maybe, just once, sees your eyes.
She searches your flat face, and smiles so very softly that you are not sure if it is real or not. She strokes your face with her uninjured hand, as if you are merely a stone statue available for touch. Slowly, gradually, she brings her hand to your shoulder, smiles, and walks to the stove. You do not move; she is making you dinner, after all, and you have no right to interrupt. You are the stinging onions, and she is but that soft, fleeting smile.
You realize that summer nights are your favorite. That stifling breeze that brings no refreshment, that sticky humidity that fills the air, that bubble of heat that travels so slowly. You never want summer nights to end. You never want the cold to come, but the warmth does not belong to you.
You look at her, sitting beside you on this infamous wooden bench. You have not spoken to her yet, and she enjoys the silence, so you do not speak. You have never wanted to speak or needed to speak for her, because she can always see through your silence. Ten years ago, you would have never fathomed that she was not the one for you, that you two were not the perfect two. You are universes apart, linked by the thinnest, most fragile chain of debris. You are opposites, repelling each other.
You realize that she is simply too good for you, twenty miles above you. She turns ever so slightly, tapping her finger rhythmically against the soft, deteriorating wood. You are mesmerized, caught in her trap.
You do not think; you are irrational. You turn her face with your hand. You do not think. You clench your calloused fingers around her porcelain skin. You do not think. You look into her emerald eyes, seeing the fear and questions. You do not think. You pull her towards you, violently almost, until she is only inches from you. You do not think. Eyes unfaltering, you capture her lips in a feverish contact.
You do not think.
You are not thinking.
You try not to think.
You do not want to think.
You do not think.
You hold her perfect face between your imperfect hands, desperately holding onto something that was never there. You dominate; you press; you shine in her light. And she lets you. She reciprocates your passion, fighting against you, falling into your rhythm. Once again, you are sharing her air, and it is stunning. Dazzling.
You suddenly remember who you are, who she is, and you pull away. Suddenly. For a fraction of a second, you see her in all her splendor: lips parted slightly, eyelids closed over peaceful eyes. You do not want to release this part of time; you want it to stand still endlessly.
You watch carefully as she opens her eyes, searching you carefully. She sighs a depressed sigh and puts a hand on the side of your neck. You lean into her touch subconsciously, basking in the splendid warmth of her hand against your cold skin. Her eyes tell you to forget, to please forget, that second of ecstasy, to forget that single glow of euphoria.
You hate her suddenly. You do not want to forget. You want to remember until the end of endlessly, but she will not let you. She does not want that second to exist. Without your resistance, she erases it from your memory, letting her hand slip to your shoulder. She stands up quickly and walks away.
You sit; you contemplate; you regret. You have crossed boundaries never meant to be crossed, and you finally realize that you belong in the cold, and you do not deserve the warmth of her.
She breathes hard, kunai in hand. You look into her eyes, suppressing the urge to use your sharingan. You do not want to use something as offensive and violent as that against her innocence. Instead, you slowly draw another weapon from your pouch, predicting her next move.
She disappears in an instant, too fast for you to register. Or perhaps you do not want to register it. You do not want to see her fail, yet you do not want to fail yourself. You stand up a little straighter, using your natural senses to detect her agile movements. There is no sound, no feeling, no smell, only silence and stillness, but you can feel her everywhere. You wait for the most opportune moment, when she is not suspecting, and launch yourself at her in an instant.
She widens her eyes when she sees you, brandishing a knife, in front of her in midair. She does not register her proximity to you and has no time to stop herself. She is stunned, amazed by you. You have always been a mystery to her, although she can see right through you. You do not have time to react as she comes rushing towards you at full speed.
She reaches out blindly, trying to brace her fall. Her small hand, fingers splayed, comes in contact with your broad, muscled chest. Suspended over the ground for a millisecond, perhaps longer, you become acutely aware that she is touching you. Without reason, you pull her in with your dominant arm, knife in hand, and wrap your inactive one around her slender waist.
She is not heavy, but you cannot support two people's weight in midair. You feel yourself falling, descending, but it does not matter because she is safe in your arms. You look down at her figure, so fragile and petite. Inevitably, your back hits the soft grass floor hard, and you wince ever so slightly.
She looks up at you, penetrating your dark, cold eyes. Her hair, her beautiful cotton candy hair, has been flung and tossed, but she is still beautiful beyond description. You cannot help but think about how she would react if you were to kiss her again at this moment. You are thinking. You will not do that again.
She smiles at you, resting her chin on your chest. You feel a slight pressure against your arms as she tries to raise herself from intimate contact with you, but you hold on to her tighter. You do not want to let go, because you are thinking right now.
She seems relieved and rests her cheek on your chest instead, and in moments she is asleep. You are sharing her space, trespassing into her perfect spotlight. You do not care. You close your eyes, not thinking anymore, drifting into a world of dreams. This moment has made your life complete, but you cannot help but think that it is just a chapter in her's.
You watch her kiss the man she loves most, but you are watching from the end of the aisle. You cannot imagine yourself as that man, but you dearly wish that you were him. From such a distance, you can still see her smile radiantly into his lips, never wanting the moment to end. You envy her.
You watch her flaunt around with her man, laughing carelessly with friends that have been there longer than you. You are hopeless in the social department, for you prefer silence. She sees you, alone at a table for ten. She excuses herself with grace from her circle and approaches you. She does not say anything.
You wish, for once, that she would say something. Anything, because tonight is too hard to bear. You stand up, wordlessly, and lead her out onto a dark balcony, the one place that reflects you. You communicate to her with silence.
You do not move. She does not move.
You do not speak. She does not speak.
You hold her face in both hands once more, because you know this is the perfect moment. She is married today, but marriage is simply a joining of two in love. You are not in love with her. You are in something beyond love and trust and the surrealism created by humans. You are in so deep that marriage is a petty thing, for she only loves that man. Between you two, the feeling is mutual and understood, and for once you feel complete. She smiles at you, because she knows too. She is married today, but she is still your's.
You tip her chin up delicately, and brush your lips to her's. You wonder what love is, because you know that this is not. You know that you were not meant for her, and she was not meant for you, but you two are a pair beyond the comprehension of humankind. You never want anyone else to understand.
You do not think.
You do not want to think.
You take her with you, and she lets you, for you are her true black tuxedo prince, and she is your white dress princess.
Notes: It's supposed to be confusing. Review!