The one that got away||Sasusaku

The one that got away

One-shot. Alternate ending. Sasusaku. Angst.

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The air feels cooler than it used to be the last time he was here. Sasuke doesn't know if it's from the unexpected morning drizzle or the deficiency of a certain warmth he has always sought here, but every time he stands here, it's colder than the last time.

The Hokage faces are in sight from here, five rock carvings standing old but sturdy, and proud, whether looking out for Konoha or looking down on it, he isn't sure. The way he came, Sasuke observed how things have shifted around the village, as if he's never been here at all. Lanes that rounded to a corner towards the training grounds now run straight into the market, and the number of houses has grown since the last time. He remembers well, but recognizing he finds tough.

It's difficult to recognize him now as well—his clothes are lamentably tattered, the soiled brown shawl hanging down his shoulders is unevenly edged, and there's a hole or two in his ages old ninja sandals. Dark circles crown his eyes, and the dirt etched on his now stubbled face makes him seem more like a vagrant thug than the lone survivor of the once exalted Uchiha clan. He has lost muscles, and his skin sticks to his cheekbones. At least, no one will pay heed to him; it'll be trouble if someone did. Sasuke isn't even sure how and why he's still alive. He should have died by now—either killed by the ninjas in search of him or taken his own life. He wonders why his blood-stained hands are abstained of his own blood, why he isn't crushed to death by the weight of his own sins. His throat tightens at the thought as he surveys the place he's standing in.

Countless similar stones surround him, names more honored than his engraved on each, yet the one he's standing before is the one he couldn't touch until now. Funny how a warrior who thirsted for his brother's blood for years and killed hundreds of innocent people has nightmares because of a mere piece of rock. The memory is fresh enough to wound him even after five years.

He can still feel the ghost of her body heat on his hands, the slickness of her blood glazing his fingers and running down his palm, and the feeling leaves his blood cold, his forehead doused with sweat. As he opens his mouth for a word to come out, he finds his mind running blank. It has always been this way—he knows what he has to say, but he can't, for there's no meaning to those words if they come from him. It is weird that he remembers every detail about her as if it was his to begin with, her emerald eyes, her cherry-blossom hair and her birthday.

It's today—her birthday.

He just has to say two words—not really difficult to pronounce either—but his throat ran dry the moment he separated his lips. As if he has been hit in the gut, he feels breathless, but he's trying. Like the need to get those seconds of sleep before finally waking up, he is clinging to his desperation to overcome his physical and emotional inability for fulfilling his need to say these two words he has been trying to say for five years. Why? He doesn't know, but if he doesn't say it, he'll feel worse than last year and return to that deep pit of darkness he has been living in, with another guilt adding weight upon his shoulders. He opens his mouth again, and it's those simple two words, but damn it!—he can't speak.

How can he wish her a happy birthday when it's not adding to her life, and it's not happy either? It was him who took her life back at the bridge. He remembers Kakashi's terror-struck face as her corpse landed in his arms, and Naruto's breakdown, followed by his transformation. So much has changed since then, but one thing is still the same—he is still a murderer. Right now, he's slowly killing himself, killing her birthday with his presence and killing the last trace of his humanity. Sasuke isn't even sure if he's still human after all he has done. With a shake of his head, he focuses on wishing her—just once and he won't trouble her again; just to get this weight off his chest.