Twisted

Lanterns

Sarada's eyes trailed along the cobble as they made their way back through the busy streets. They were heading towards a particularly crowded area, and as they entered the mass, Boruto's rough hand tightened around hers.

She suddenly wondered why his hands were rough and callused. He was a prince. He didn't have to do any sort of manual labor. Perhaps there was some sort of secret hobby she hadn't found out about. One that he wanted to keep hidden.

The library had been a good distraction, but now she was back to staring at the blacks of Boruto's boots, her head swimming with the surrounding small talk. It only made her unbearably conscious of the regrets she'd be leaving herself with tonight.

There were times she felt confident in her knowledge of Boruto, much more so than her own parents and even Tsunade. But little things like this came along and made her realize that her knowledge of him was just as puny as her experience with the real world. Being with him was like reading a new and very exciting novel, an endless mystery just waiting to be solved, but she had barely gotten past the first three chapters and was rushing to skim to the end before it could be snatched out of her weak and powerless hands.

Thoughts of how she could keep him ran through her mind; shooting a glare at whoever came to separate them, asking him to run away with her. She knew it was foolish, and yet she still imagined it anyway. Perhaps a side effect of his stupidly blue eyes that instilled her with hopes and dreams that would only be shattered with the setting of the sun.

In their standstill, waiting in some sort of line, she gently leaned against his arm, wrapping her fingers just a smidge tighter around his hand. It was yet another unintelligent act on her part, for if someone recognized him, she'd only get him in trouble. And to further it's idiocy, simply leaning on him did very little to ease the aching of her heart. But very little was better than nothing.

Besides, all he had to do to stop her was take a step forward. She'd remain in place as their bodies separated once more, following him through the excited mumblings of strangers who didn't know she existed and would never see her again.

But instead of pushing her away, Boruto gently squeezed her hand. He could've very easily kissed the fabric her hood, but instead, he bent forward specifically to touch his lips to her skin.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I promise, the place we're going after this won't have any spectators."

Sarada's heart trembled, An unwanted tightness crept up her throat for what felt like the hundredth time that day, along with warmth that flushed her down to her bare toes. Why did he know exactly what to say, exactly how to comfort her when all she'd done was wordlessly lean on him? Perhaps she didn't know Boruto well, but Boruto knew nearly everything there was to know about her.

He noticed the smallest of things within the first few minutes of their meeting; her inherent life as a prisoner of her tower, the way she refused to meet his eyes, her thirst for knowledge, all down to waiting patiently for her every single time she paused to observe something that was so painfully commonplace she wanted to smack herself.

Sarada longed to be tucked into his arms to free herself from loneliness. To be safe from the threats of the world. But she knew she couldn't have any more of him than she was already clinging to. So she wrapped herself tighter around his arm instead.

When they finally made it to the counter, Boruto took two white square fabric-like objects and another item that she couldn't quite see, thanked the woman with a voice much deeper than his own, and led her away.

They weaved through crowds, walking along until the sun cast a deep orange glow behind the silhouette of the castle. The surrounding chatter faded into the chirping of crickets and frogs, the soft earth like a cushion to her aching feet.