The Nearest Star

By: WhisperedSilvers

Prompt: "Part of me still believes you'll come back."

Summary: The quest for strength comes from the spirit or in this case, the soul.

X

nebula

Sakura is hospitalized for malnutrition and severe dehydration. From the moment she passes in a dead faint in the Hokage's Tower, Ino is already yelling out instructions for Shikamaru to alert the hospital and it's Kakashi that uses shunshin to the main floor of the ER. Tsunade is there, waiting for her apprentice, her staff running around in the lobby and she barks out orders to the other medics on the floor.

"She's going to be fine, you brat," Tsunade snaps at Naruto for the nth time and wheels her into another room.

Minato can only hover over her like a one-winged bird and watches the chaos unfold around him like a deck of cards.

Tsunade puts her in a private room, one close to her office and away from incompetent medical staff. There's a nervous tick at the corner of her eyelid as she looks over her medical chart. Part of her routine – for any standard and proficient medical ninja – is a full physical examination following the fainting or in this case, exhaustion.

There are holes in her medical report, flaws that she can't see but can assume based on the scars that her apprentice couldn't heal.

Tsunade grits her teeth; the whip marks she discovers on her student's back are permanent.

The Senju can infer that Sakura used her Yin-Seal to heal nearly all of the damage. She wants to emphasize the word nearly because the scars on her back had healed before her chakra could reach there and that tells her something.

It tells her torture, trauma, and chakra suppression.

Her student would've been able to heal those marks on her back without even blinking, but the fact that she hasn't done so, tells her that foul play was involved and that is unacceptable.

She checks her IV one more time before sighing in weariness, she leaves the room and closes the door with a quiet hush.

In the realms of consciousness, Sakura breathes fire into her blood and air into her lungs. She sits and melts in the darkness of peace, drifting until a flicker of candlelight washes over her in two sharp sparks.

Forest-green meets ocean-blue.

"Is this part of the island?" Sakura finds herself asking aloud as she blinks at the scene in front of her. She's somewhere in her subconscious again, but it's different from the beach.

It's sunset here, where the blush of the sky meets the sapphires of the ocean. It's almost nostalgic in feeling, the gold of the sun dips halfway in between the horizon and the teal of the gentle waves reflects off her skin.

She stands on a house – or is it a hut? – that floats about a mile off the coast of the island.

Sakura looks down, instead of the white sundress – a dress that she's grown to irrationally love despite that one time – there are pajamas. It's very thin in texture, a pale blue camisole and a pair of dark blue sleeping shorts.

Cotton, by the fibers, her fingers grab at the waistband and she spins around.

She doesn't see Minato, but she can feel him.

It doesn't bother her anymore, the fact that he's there, that she can feel him—his mere presence. It used to bother her, but she's given up fighting the inevitable. That mission – she feels the pit of her throat dry in anxiousness – fisting her hands, she presses the blunt edges of her nails into her palm, the pain centering her and steadying her.

Sakura inhales sharply.

That mission has done something to her – she hasn't processed it yet, that will happen when she's brought back to reality – something that she cannot define and it brings out something cold and unstable from the depths of her soul.

She rubs her arms – a nervous habit – from her shoulders down to her elbows and analyzes her surroundings.

The house is built like a hut. It stands on stilts, the poles are buried deep in the ocean floor. She thinks it reminds her briefly of the houses she saw in Whirlpool, from that botched mission. Ruins they are, but she has to believe that at one point, the village used to be quite beautiful.

It's made from oak and bamboo, open windows and powder blue, white cotton, and gold silk. Lanterns washing over in candlelight and marble; it's a cross between a traditional compound home and those mansions in Waterfall.

It practically spells out Minato's aesthetic.

That's when Sakura sees him.

When she passes the living area, there is a small square of space – a path – that leads to another room.

Minato lays on the bed in the room next to what looks like a bath – the tub is bigger than her closet and that's just wonderful – his head is buried in the pillows and she swallows.

He is also very shirtless. His muscles are carved with the precision of a finely sharpened kunai, he is the epitome of a shinobi, down to his narrow hips and a pair of low strung gray shinobi pants that is the only thing that clothes his lower body. As much as it's distracting—she shakes her head not wanting to follow down that line of thought.

Sakura licks her lips and hesitates, briefly, for a moment. She needs to psych herself up, figure out a way to greet him without being too familiar—which really is a moot thought at this point.

She walks over to him, quietly. Her footsteps are light as she approaches the bed, still, she pauses, raising an arm out above his head, she threads her fingers in his hair and gives it a gentle tug; his eyes snap open.

Then, Sakura is airborne, for a brief moment, the air leaves her lungs in a quiet gasp, hands grasping the curves of her waist – bruising and aching – her head falls onto the pillow with a huff and she's pressed flush against the bed.

There is a tremor in her hands that she ignores.

The gentle tendrils of sun-soaked hair brushed the edges of her cheekbones, starlight-colored orbs latch onto forest-green and her mouth parts open in surprise. Minato blinks once, then twice, she can physically see the flecks of cobalt in his eyes sharpen in recognition before he exhales and drops down onto her body in defeat.

He stays there, sinking into her, relishing in the sound of her beating heart, the warmth of her, the satin of her skin and the way her hips seem to cushion his waist effortlessly.

Sakura feels the hard planes of his chest squish her breasts, half of his abdomen lines the curve of her hip up to the sweet indent in her waist and it's possessive in the way he engulfs her person. She's not uncomfortable, that's the issue, she should be in discomfort, in an awkward position, but all she feels is a sense of relief, but still, she asks, "Minato?"

It takes him a moment.

A moment for him to roll off of her, to the right, his hair brushing the pillows like spilled sunlight and he looks at her with burning aqua-colored stones. His hand reaches upwards, cups her cheek and he brings his forehead to her shoulder. He exhales roughly, "I couldn't find you."

"What—" Sakura takes a moment to digest that, comprehend that statement, and formulate a reply. She leans into his palm, "What do you mean?"

The sunset, blood orange, marigolds, and blush, blend into her hair like fire, like an aura, one that swallows her in an ethereal radiance. Minato can only stare at her mesmerized, only for a few seconds, however, until she calls for him again and he blinks rapidly, "When you passed out. It was like that when they knocked you unconscious," he swallows tightly and repeats, "I couldn't find you."

"Probably a lag," she answers absently and his fingers fall from her cheek to rest against her elbow, "There are different levels to the mind. The subconscious is just one layer," then she tilts more on her side, "The mind is a strange thing, isn't it?"

A ghost of a smile appears on Minato's face before it disappears again and his voice is quiet as he brings his hand underneath his chin. Blue eyes lazily look at her, "That wasn't nice."

"I'm not nice,"

"And you're a liar too," he taps her nose with a forefinger.

Sakura glares at him but doesn't say anything otherwise.

"This is a different part of my safe space," he explains and brings his knees to brush hers, "We're still out by the water, just off the coast."

"I noticed," Sakura comments lightly, "Do you come here often?"

"Only when the world gets too much or when I'm in distress," he narrows his eyes at that, the blues of irises sharpening into chips of ice and he frowns, "You burned yourself out."

"I didn't have a choice," she doesn't like what he's insinuating.

Minato bites the inside of his cheek and she can see the hollow of the self-inflicted wound, just above the right side of his jaw, and he bites out, "I know."

"Don't get snippy with me," Sakura's snaps back, emerald orbs burn like two firesticks, and rolls over to lay on her back. She doesn't want to think about it, she wants to forget about it and she had been doing so well, but then—

—her throat is thick with unspoken emotion and she fights to hold back the crack in her voice, "I did what I had to do."

It doesn't work, her voice quivers on the last word, her mouth wrapping around it like broken china and it shakes something inside him.

Minato pulls her to him almost violently, she hides in the crook of his neck, straws of gold tickle the side of her cheek and the thin material of her tank top is the only barrier that puts a stop to the skin to skin contact. It's almost suffocating, his presence, even when he presses her flat against his chest, his arm tightening around the edges of hips and a palm slides up to tangle into her hair.

"I know," his voice is gentle, but his hands are greedy, selfish in the way he presses her to him.

Sakura has no need to suffocate, she's been drowning in him for a long time.

"That doesn't mean I have to like it," Minato announces suddenly, quietly, she can almost feel the specks of chakra erupt from the back of his voice, even when he pulls her back – gently because she's been through enough – just so his mouth can over hers and his hair can brush the sides of her cheeks, "Doesn't mean I should sit back and do nothing."

"What can you do?" she doesn't mean to sound so biting, but this is hardly his fault, this was her's. She should've been more careful and less disillusioned—

"—don't," Minato hisses this time – almost as if he knows what she's thinking – lips a mere whisper against the corner of her mouth and there is a flash of déjà vu. Then, his fingers dig into her scalp, and her back arches at the sharp sting. Chest against chest, heartbeats against heartbeats, he warns her, "Don't. Don't think you can pretend to be strong in front of me. Never in front of me."

The thing is: two souls one body.

How do you hide from someone who knows your soul inside and out?

Minato knows this.

And she knows him.

"I have to try," Sakura whispers against him, she doesn't dare move closer, just brushed her fingers against the bare expanse of his chest and she can feel her nipples tighten in response to the rake of fire he sets down her spine, "I have to try."

"No, you don't," Minato doesn't argue with her. He puts a stop to it, stern in his demand, in his desperation, and his lips, a ghost against the crease of her lips, "Never in front of me."

Sakura almost breaks right there.

Almost.

She's holding on by a mere thread, the weight of his fingers a reminder of the pressure and it's the blue of his eyes that holds her. It's overwhelming, a crashing wave against the swell in her throat and the tremors in her shoulders. His thumb swipes underneath her jawline, he tilts her head and drops his other hand to press against the bare skin of her lower back.

For a moment, she thinks, he's going to kiss her.

Sakura's lips trembles at the thought.

Minato presses his thumb under the curve of her lower lip, ghosting over the sensitive tissue, fingers curling against the back of her waist, she doesn't wait—she presses herself into the curve of his neck and inhales shakily.

He pauses for a brief moment but then pulls her against him. She can feel something like a feather against the crown of her head, but when he tugs on her hair again, she melts into him and he anchors her when she sinks onto him.

"I have you," Minato's voice is rough, fingers sliding over bare skin, dipping around her hips and scraping blunt fingernails at the back of her neck, "Anything you need. Anything you want. I'm here."

"I know," Sakura's voice is muffled in the corner of his neck, the thud of his pulse against the bridge of her nose is so real that it borders on insanity, and she buries her fingers into the bare of his back.

He arches into her hands before pressing the curve of her cheek underneath his jawline.

"Always."

When Sakura closes her eyes and opens them back up; she's in the hospital. Minato lays next to her, head buried in the crook of her neck, arm over her upper ribs, legs tangled between each other and she knows, deep down in the bones that hold up the body, that something—everything, has changed.

—

"I hear what you're saying Sakura," Tsunade's face is pinched, amber eyes kind, but there is a certain firmness that laces her tone, "But why didn't you heal yourself when—"

"—it's the poison," Sakura interrupts her before—she doesn't know why, actually. She clears her throat and twists deeper into the pillows. She doesn't bother sitting up, her back is aching and her head is fuzzy from the morphine.

The dynamic is odd, a tiny bit humorous, but there are no words to define the context of the situation without seeing the full picture.

Minato hasn't left her side of the bed, his fingers trace the bumps down her spine, ankles tangled with each other, the back of her head resting in the gap underneath his chin and the front of his throat, while Tsunade looks at her unsuspectingly with a frown marring her face.

She wonders if Minato has a mischievous streak.

"The water poison mission that the Mizu—Mei-sama," she swallows, blinking quickly at the suddenness of well, everything – the blonde tugs the edges of her hair in acknowledgment, it's a quiet comfort – and inhales sharply, "Mei-sama requested that I find a cure for the poison which happened to fall underneath the category of a chakra eater."

Tsunade's eyes sharpen, "Continue,"

"I listed the symptoms of the poison in a previous scroll," Sakura thinks back and goes on. Her mentor knows this, but she wants to hear it from her student's mouth, "But the poison, essentially, was to break down the chakra system, slowly. A painful and slow process that will end up crippling the body until it results in one that resembles a civilian's form, maybe even lesser. After I created the cure and disinfected the water supply, I was ambushed."

"The Mizuchi?" Tsunade remembers the name and nods curtly at that, "How did you confirm?"

"Minato," Sakura answers immediately and then winces, "He saw…everything."

Minato pulls her hair back until it falls at her back and presses his forehead into the crook of her neck; slowly inhaling and exhaling.

The Fifth grimaces.

"They managed to nick me," Sakura scowls at herself and tries to ignore the Fourth's quiet hiss of disapproval, "A small cut, no bigger than a fingernail and it nearly toppled my system. My oversaturation technique kicked in. I managed to become immune after five days or so, but I kept falling in and out of consciousness, then I used my Yin seal, that's how I was able to escape."

"Your wounds healed normally before you could pull chakra to speed up the regeneration process," Tsunade concludes with sharp amber orbs a half-smile twitches its way onto her mouth, it's part proud and part furious.

"Yes,"

Minato startles and murmurs into her hair, Immune?

My body can now recognize that poison and fight back at it, Sakura explains and shivers when she feels the outline of his lips against the back of her hospital gown, My antibodies are constantly oversaturated with chakra, so even if a chakra eater enters my body, it will take a while before it can even reach my antibodies and by the time that happens, my body will have built up a tolerance to that poison. Thus starts the foundation of my immunity.

Your chakra control isn't in the late ninety percentile, Minato exclaims with incredulity, It's in the one-hundredth percentile.

I don't think that's possible, she points out.

And this is? Minato waves a hand in front of Tsunade and quirks a brow in defiance.

You've made your point, she almost rolls her eyes but settles for curling her fingers in her sheets.

"I wanted to talk to you before Kakashi gets in here," Tsunade shakes her head at the thought of her successor and asks, "How are you processing all of this?"

"I'm not," Sakura replies honestly and then smiles dryly, "I'm still waiting to have a mental breakdown."

"The mind and body may be the same in theory, but two planes cannot exist without giving and taking," Tsunade repeats Daichi's paradigm with understanding, she tilts her head back and glances at her clipboard, "The Elders are going to want you to have a psych evaluation to see if you gave away any country secrets; standard procedure for all captured shinobi. But with that brat inside you, I can't take any chances. I'm going to try and push it."

"That's not a good idea," Sakura replies after a moment and then rubs the side of her face – the same exact spot where scar-throat clocked her, "They can claim favoritism, which would cause even more friction with the council."

Tsunade, however, anticipated her argument, "That may be true, but if proven that you are emotionally unable to deal with an evaluation, they will claim that as sufficient knowledge—nothing says everything than trauma."

"Do you think I'm emotionally unstable?" she asks suddenly, flickering her eyes over to her mentor and the intensity of her jade orbs startles the Fifth.

Tsunade has seen quite a ray of emotions in her apprentice, mostly on her growth factors and the maturing of that massive brain of hers, but she's never seen her student quite so somber before. Something had changed her on this mission – Tsunade scowls inwardly – she gave up her Kageship too early it seems.

She's only being given certain information and that leaves more questions than answers.

As the medical expert, Tsunade had been the one to analyze Sakura's rendezvous scroll – after it had gone through the Hokage and backchannels – she had the labs create the antidotes, mass-produce the vials and sent them out as courier mission to Wave.

That's it.

Tsunade knows the poison, it's compositions, the symptoms—all that Sakura had written on the scroll, but she doesn't know the parameters of this mission and what could be the possible fallout from this assignment, however.

She also hadn't expected her student to disappear for a week without any type of communication.

Kakashi had marked this mission as an S-rank, classified it as ANBU diplomatic assignment, and sent her on her merry little way.

But because of the ANBU clearance, there is no retrieval mission and if she does not come back, there is no recovery or extraction mission on the books; she's marked as KIA.

"Emotionally, you're fine," Tsunade finally answers, "You were lucky that you were able to slip and slip out of consciousness. You escaped the brunt of it, but that doesn't dismiss the fact that you were lucid during some of their...torture techniques," the Fifth doesn't mince words, not even for her student, but she holds her hand all the same, "It's not the same as mind-break techniques, for that I am grateful. But mentally? Unstable, you are. Not because that brat is inside you, but because you haven't processed the emotions that you keep locked have you."

Sakura looks at her startled.

Tsunade smiles at her knowingly, "You don't think I know? You're my apprentice, girl. I wouldn't have taken you in if I didn't see some of me in you. Don't lock it up too much, or you're going to end up drinking away your problems."

Don't end up like me.

That is what Tsunade wants to say, but she doesn't; the look in her eyes is enough.

"Moreover, you can't hide away forever. There will always be a new problem, a new enemy, another war—peace cannot exist for long. Not in this world we live in."

Minato winces at the reminder.

"Even though we've redone the entire ANBU curriculum and put in strict requirements for who can apply and what not - so we don't end up with emotionally and mentally repressive idiots like our Hokage - unfortunately," Tsunade rolls her eyes, "We still need to be able to make sure that our nin don't break. We've had enough casualties from this last war."

"Sounds very untraditional," Sakura comments lightly and Minato's fingers trail up the back of her neck.

"Leave the politics with the Elders, Sakura," The Fifth tells her with an unamused huff, "My point is: if you want to fall apart, fall apart. Your friends and teammates will put you back together," then she eyes her strangely, "Even if you don't want them to."

Sakura does not, consciously, use her mental block again.

—

Sakura is released from the hospital later that day. She doesn't visit Kakashi even though she should, she doesn't look for Naruto even though she wants to and she doesn't drop in by Ino to catch up on the latest gossip. She goes straight to her apartment. If the traces of chakra in her apartment are anything to go by – genin-level chakra trails near her kitchen and living room – she assumes Kakashi sent a few academy students to restock her supplies and groceries; she would have to thank him later.

Sakura tosses her bag on the couch and walks into her bedroom.

She stares at her empty bed, her blankets are packed at the foot of the bed, the sounds of the clock ticking is the only sound that echoes throughout the silence of her room. She unties her headband, glances at the silver of her country and drops it on her nightstand. Unlacing her boots – because she couldn't be bothered to yank them off at the front door – she shoves them in the corner near her desk and walks to the bathroom.

Sakura braces her hands on the sink and looks at herself in the mirror.

Minato is behind her, watching her, always.

He leans against her wall, arms tucked underneath his chest and his outfit changes into the one resembling his—their safe place.

Gray shinobi pants and shirtless.

She swallows thickly and looks over at her bath; that's what she needs, she thinks mechanically.

She turns on the knob, filling the tub with water, water hot enough to perhaps, remove the outer layer of her skin. She drops a cup of sea salt, a quarter cup of lavender oil, and her soap bar into the water. Essential oils are good for the brain, as well as the skin, it's a proven theory. She gives the bathwater a stir and forces her shoulders to loosen up a bit.

Sakura doesn't look at him when she takes off her top, removes the ripped off pieces of her pants and the standard underwear.

She doesn't turn her head to look at him when she lifts one leg over and submerges in the water, not even when the pins and needles send shivers up her legs, bleeding into her spine. Not even when she lowers herself into the tub and hisses out when the hot water hits the tender scars of her back.

Sakura hands clench the rims of the tub, she forces herself lower and lower, until her chin brushes the surface of the water. The bathwater is murky, swirling with salt and scented soap. She sinks lower and lower, brings her knees to rest underneath her chin, the fractures of her memories are beginning to stitch themselves back together, like film.

Sakura knows she has to go through them, the film, stitch each memory back, look at it dead in the eye, accept it and file it away to never be touched, because that's how healing works. She's terrified, horrified that she has to live through this again, she doesn't want to go through this again.

She inhales wetly and presses her hands to her eyes in prayer.

One memory is interwoven with the other and then the sounds start to filter in. It starts like a whisper, a mere brush against her ear, before it rises in volume, ghosting down the corner of her jaw and she braces herself unconsciously. She doesn't know what she's bracing herself for.

Sakura can, not, hear her own screams, even when the phantom traces of hands trace of her jaw, rough and when she sees scar-throat clocks her it sends her teeth rattling. It's the cold from the brick wall, the frigid stone rubbing her back, pulling strands of her hair like a knife, the metal manacles around her wrists – she sees the bruises there, they have not faded – and the cuffs around her feet.

It's the nausea, when it curls into her when they grab the whip, it's the sweet relief of falling unconscious so she can't see it happening, it's waking up and the fear, the horror of not knowing what they had done to her.

She can't choose which is possibly better: ignorance or bliss.

The two shouldn't be compared but – scar-throat brings a fist to her face and she feels the crack of bone – the suffocation is something she doesn't want to remember. It's the rough of his fingers, when they start at the knee, sliding up her thigh, just barely brushing the hard cord of tendon at the junction—

("—do you want to play leaf-bitch?" he laughs and laughs, the bare of his throat and those fingers—)

—Sakura does not realize she is sobbing until she feels Minato's hands smoothening over her shoulders and tangling into her hair.

Minato's hands are warm – how are they warm now? or is she imagining it? – she doesn't know, but they are heavy and close over the expanse of her bare collarbone. It forces her to breathe, to smell the lavender of the water, his thumb curling underneath her jaw, his face buries itself into the junction of her throat and jawbone.

Reality, pinpricks through the haze of her own mind. Slowly, in fine points and gentle slashes.

The quiet sounds of water dripping from the spout across her tub ripples across the soapy surface and the sounds of her own hitched breathing are the only sounds that fill the room. She shakes in her bath, the hot water numbs her skin and stings the scars that are nothing but a reminder of her stupidity, her recklessness, her carelessness—her inability to foresee the possibilities and the fact, that maybe—

"—Sakura," Minato's voice is hard, anchoring her emotions that seem to topple over like an overflowing dam, his mouth moves against her throat, when he lifts his head, his nose traces the line of her neck and over the edge of her ear.

Sakura swallows thickly and tries to focus on the sound of his voice, ground herself in reality, and keep her feet there. His hand slides across her collar bone and reaches around her shoulder in a tight arm-hold, he pulls her back until her back is flat against the tub and the tops of her shoulder hits his clavicle.

It's an awkward position, the curve of her bath keeps some space in between them – she thinks he's kneeling on the hard tiles behind her – his arm is strong, it holds her and forces her to focus on water in front of her.

"—I'm here," he finishes into her ear, the warmth of him seeps into her bones and settles.

She inhales shakily and drops her hands from the tub; the flop uselessly, the contrast in temperatures burn, but it's okay.

Minato has her; it's okay.

It's okay; a fresh sob breaks out of the space in her throat and vocal cords. It's quieter but no less painful.

Sakura feels it this time; the press of his lips against her cheekbone.

Placating her.

Minato's lips linger there, his thumb searches for her pulse, he counts each beat against her ceratoid artery, and his hair brushes over her cheek. Feathery and soft, like petals of a daffodil and he holds her there.

Another brush of lips, at the corner of her eye – she wonders if he can taste the salt of her tears – and then at her temple.

His thumb curls around her cheek like a hook, pressing in the hollow under her upper jaw before sliding back to her jaw, cupping the fine bone and dipping his thumb behind her ear.

Another pressure point that loosens her shoulders, but spikes her heartbeat in anticipation.

"Look at me," he breathes into her ear, but she doesn't move—doesn't think she can move with him anchoring her to reality like this.

Her voice is raspy, dry at the edges but they answered nonetheless, "I'm always looking at you."

Minato presses his lips behind her ear.

Sakura inhales sharply, her fingers falling lax against her thighs as he centers her.

It's okay.

—

Minato feels like his heart shattered when the sounds of Sakura's sobs reach his ears.

At first, there is a moment of shock when Sakura begins to strip off her clothes, but the feeling is wiped from his mind completely when he sees the scars, the whip marks, the crisscross of knitted flesh on her back, marring her like some sort of trophy—a war-trophy.

She forces herself in the water with the intention of scrubbing away her skin – what she remembers, what he can't seem to forget – the anger in him is like a living, breathing thing and it nearly blurs his vision for the briefest moment.

But it's not about him, it's about Sakura.

Minato breathes in slowly; the phantom touches she remembers, the hands on her skin are like brushes of ice on his.

When she starts to shake, Minato knows he has to do something.

Minato walks towards her, rests part of his weight on the smooth skin of her clavicle, forcing her to breathe, it loosens her muscles in her back and pulls her close to him. He ignored the bathwater soaking his pants – even though it's not really soaking his pants – and presses her deeper into his chest.

Her head hits right underneath his chin, fingers brushing any visible part of her skin, trying to anchor her to the reality that's in front of her. Fingers dip into the hollows of her neck, her throat, her collarbone, pressing on the pressure points in her face, her head, and stroking her pulse point.

Minato tries to get all of those sections down, easing the strain of her stress, of the weight of her burdens, it's like fighting a losing battle, but he has to try. He has to.

He brushes his lips on her cheek, the crease of her eye and her temple. It's comforting, soothing her as she drinks in his small touches of affection – he can tell that she's been starved of any form of physical affection for years and it's almost mortifying for her to even come to terms with that herself – but Sakura doesn't need to explain herself for him.

Because he understands—he understands for better than anyone ever could.

Sakura is too strong to ask for affection, intimacy, soft things—things that make her human because she's been ridiculed for it, scorned for it and it's so dehumanizing, at least to him, to deny anyone, of those things.

Minato has never been one for physical contact, especially with people he isn't close to because that takes years to establish, but seeing Sakura in pain and suffering, brought to the brinks of insanity and agony, broke something inside him.

It's nearly impossible to stop himself from touching her, to prove that she's here, alive and well. There is desperation in that too, the need to be close to her, to be wanted and accepted. Human things, but they border on irrational.

Minato thinks he's gained a certain amount of irrationality from her because she sets his blood on fire and twists and turns him in ways no one ever could.

If he's clingy or anxious or even frantic, he can't stop it, because he needs and needs and needs the same way the body needs air, to know that Sakura is okay and that she is fine, because he can never, never unsee or unhear those screams.

When Sakura relaxes against his collarbone, Minato sighs into her ear and listens to the sound of the water drip from the faucet. It's quiet then, the faint smell of lavender and salt eases her muscles, his fingers trailing over her skin, and his other tangles into her hair.

—

Things get better.

Slowly.

Walking happens in steps, not strides.

Sakura's nightmares lessen – she wonders if it's because Minato pulls her awake when she starts to trash or it's because he's there to hold her through the worst of it – the worst is when sleep paralysis happens and she can't fucking breathe.

She doesn't leave her apartment, not for a week. She doesn't see Kakashi, she doesn't call Ino and she doesn't go to Tsunade for her post-week checkup. She stays in her apartment, eats her way through numerous boxes of takeout, and watches films for a good ten hours of the day. It's unproductive, it's a waste of her time, but she needs to do this.

Minato is there with her, making sure she drinks enough water, rests her head on his lap and watch the films together.

"She's going to die," Sakura points out bluntly and munches on her popcorn.

"I think that much is obvious," Minato chuckles and tugs at a pink lock, "Who goes into a dark room without a weapon?"

"Idiots, that's who," she snorts and grabs her bottle of water, "Also, no one can outrun a demon in heels."

"Have you tried?"

"Find me a demon and then we can talk," Sakura almost laughs when he gives her a look, "And no, Naruto's collection of plushies don't count."

"I don't think the biju would take kindly to being called plushies," Minato rolls ocean eyes and presses his ring and thumb finger into her scalp.

"But aren't they?"

"Plushies?" he inquires with disbelief.

"They're furry, cute, and fluffy. They just had a bad upbringing and a lot of chakra," Sakura scoff and sits up, "If you minus the entire destructive, drunk-on-power, and the fact that were used to wage war aspect of it, they're pretty much an entire stuffed animal."

In between the silliness and doing mundane tasks, Sakura slowly winds herself down. The energy, the anxiety smoothens out – she's a healer through and through and she knows her habits better than anyone – and her nightmares become less frequent. He thinks it's quite novel, that she manages to work with her fears, instead of hiding behind them, attempting to forget them – like how he wants to – she faces them head-first.

He rubs his face in incredulity, he's torn between laughing and gaping at her audacity, but the smile that twitches on her lips is wonderful.

It's a nice contrast from the first few days post-wave.

Because it started like this:

"Trauma can only be dealt with if you face it head-on," Sakura tells him one night, somewhere between witching hour during a new moon, "When you're ready of course, but I've never had much patience with waiting for progress."

Minato tries to argue with the healing process – it's a moot point at this stage, there's no point in arguing with the world's best medical shinobi – and interjects, "A week isn't—"

"—I can't waste time, Minato," Sakura cuts him off before he can start ranting about timing and space, "The poison is solved, but Mei-sama is dead. It's always about the fallout, you know this."

He bares his teeth at his own logic being used against him, he tries a more aggressive standpoint – she seems to see reason when he pushes right back – and offers, "Take a week off. Don't burn yourself out," Minato's fingers grasp her chin, securely, and pulls her until his directly in her face. He presses with clenched teeth and narrows storm orbs, "If you ever put me through something like that again—"

"—you'll what?" Sakura hisses, this time she pushes closer and dares him, "What are you going to do, Minato? This is my body, my mind, my—"

Minato's nose brushes the edge of her ear, hand on the back of her neck and he snarls, "I don't want to see someone I've come to care about treat their life so recklessly, Sakura."

"Isn't that too bad?" Sakura laughs, sharp and unforgiving. The crook of her smile is cold and it settles into his blood like a million tiny explosions; he wondered if human combustion is if, at all, possible, "Do you really think that I could—"

He tackles her back onto the bed and the world disappears—Sakura can't keep a straight face for too long.

But the thing is, Minato can't tell if she was telling the truth, not even then.

—

"Tell me," Sakura asks him one night, she wears her chest bindings and a pair of sleeping shorts. She faces her closet, baring her back, and asks, "How bad does it look?"

Minato presses his lips together, eyes tracing each scar with just a glance, the anger in him that burns red-hot, simmers behind bones, closeted between control and desperation. He struggles, "Do you want me to lie or do you want me to tell you the truth?"

She licks her lips and says, "Both."

"No, it's not bad," he traces each scar with a fingertip, pressing flat against the flesh when the wound widens to the width of his pinky, "You're kind of badass."

A laugh, shocked and incredulous escapes her lips and her body shakes with the force of it. Sakura huffs, "I don't think I've heard you swear before."

Minato presses his lips to the beginning of her whip mark and breathes there. Feather-light and gentle like the wind itself, "I try not to make it a habit; it's unbecoming of a Hokage."

"Clearly, you haven't spent a lot of time with Tsunade-shishou,"

He shrugs – she feels it – wounds an arm around her waist and tugs her until her back is flat against his chest, "I made my own rules."

Sakura snorts, "I can tell."

"Remember," Minato murmurs into her ear, his next words are a conviction. A belief that cannot be denied or refused. They fill her with something she hasn't felt in a long time: hope. There's a crack inside her that mends with the first wash of sunlight, delicate, but resilient. He declares, "You are Haruno Sakura and you save yourself."

She smiles into the crook of her arm because he's not wrong, but still, sometimes it's hard to hear those words, especially from someone like Minato and he feels that. His lips curve upwards into the back of her neck and her fists tighten in the sheets.

"You saved yourself when no one else would," Minato continues, his fingers brushing the rows of her ribs – he remembers the sickening crack of bone and inhales deeply – and smooths a hand down her back.

"You're with me," she tries to counter back, but her thoughts stutter when he strokes the skin of her hip, "You're always with me."

"I can't do anything," Minato admits bitterly, "If anything, I'm more of your fanboy watching from the sidelines."

That earns him a full body laugh; Sakura throws her head back and snickers.

He's pleased, she can tell from the way his smugness tickles the back of her eyelids.

"A fanboy," she giggles at the idea of him wearing an I-heart-Sakura headband and waving a banner around behind a desk, "That's interesting."

Minato sees the picture and laughs despite himself, "I don't think I would have a banner, maybe a flag."

"And wave it around?"

"That and give out free hanami dango," he banters with a half-grin, "They match your aesthetic."

"Such dedication,"

"I do my best,"

Sakura grins into her pillow and his hand travels to the center of her spine.

His hand is heavy on her skin, he feels so much more solid, as the days go by and Sakura has to wonder if she's imagining the entire thing—his thumb presses into a dimple of her lower back and she arches her chest outwards on instinct.

"Minato," Sakura breathes and her back curves against his torso, "Careful."

"It still hurts?" there's an apology wrapped up in those words.

She doesn't answer.

When it's Monday and she receives her box of pretty sushi from Mimi's courier, that's when Sakura decides she's fed up with the walls of her home. She's had enough time to rest, recuperate, and reflect; the alliteration is for alliteration's sake, though, she's not too sure what the correct conduct is.

"Do you ever take a break?" Minato asks as she practically inhales a riceball and a cup of jasmine tea.

"Tuesdays," Sakura points out and picks up a rolled omelet, "I never do anything on Tuesdays; the world could burn down, but I'm not leaving my bed."

"Only Tuesdays?" he inquires with a raised brow, "What's so special about Tuesdays?"

She pauses mid-bite in her pickled radish and she blinks a few times, "You know, I don't really remember."

The look on Minato's face is so strange that it almost makes her want to laugh, he tilts his blonde head and wrinkles his nose, "But only Tuesdays?"

Sakura narrows her brows in a challenge, "Did you ever take a break when you were Hokage?"

He rolls sapphire orbs, "I see your point."

She shakes her head and takes another bite of riceball.

After a moment, Minato says hastily, "Just promise me, that you'll take it easy. You took on a lot of responsibility even before the mission—for a long time. Then you had this mission," he spits the word out, "And you're about to dive back into your duties."

"Minato," Sakura rolls the word off her tongue like wine, it's tinged with slight exasperation and enough to heat to send a jolt of electricity up his spine, "As the world's best medical ninja," he smirks at that, "An advisor to the Kage, Leaf ambassador and now," she points to her ANBU tattoo on her shoulder, "ANBU officiate, I don't have time to take it easy."

He can see the pieces of her self-worth stitch back together in front of his very eyes and it's a beautiful thing, but she'll fight him every step of the way and that's fine. He'll match it with each blow he can muster and dodge each word with the precision of a finely sharpened kunai.

Minato stands up, walks towards her, grabs her chin, and tilts it upwards. Blue eyes are storms, "It wasn't a request, Sakura."

Sakura licks her lips unconsciously – Minato's gaze drops to her lips and she sees it – her lungs are on fire because she refuses to even breathe—

"—kay," her voice is wobbly and his fingers squeeze the bones there.

—

Minato's outfit changes again. He opts out of his Hokage robes for his ANBU uniform – sans his white military-grade vest – for a deeper cobalt turtleneck. His headband pushes his hair back to the sides of his face.

Sakura gives a once-over, she puts a hand on her waist after locks up her apartment and cocks a brow, "You know, I'm not sure if I like the headband."

"This is your mind," Minato retorts with a chuckle

"Are you sure about that?" she gives him a half-smirk and shoves her hands in her pants.

He's not.

Minato curls his tongue against the inner corner of his cheek and walks next to her. She doesn't wear her usual nin outfit, she opts for similar black shinobi pants, a high-neck kimono top with sleeves—hiding her scars from the rest of the world and her boots.

She loves those boots of hers it seems, he thinks with amusement.

Sakura doesn't know why he does it, but he can't seem to keep his hands off of her – she's not going to complain because she likes the constant reminder of his presence – his fingers tangle with hers and they walk to the Hokage Tower in a comfortable silence.

She has quite a bit of time to evaluate their relationship from the past week.

Tsunade was right about one thing; she can't hide anything from him anymore.

Moreover, Sakura doesn't want to.

She raps her hand on the door, twice. Minato's fingers squeeze hers in a show of silent strength, inhaling deeply, she twists the knob and opens the door.

"Kakashi-sensei," Sakura greets him with an almost smile and shuts the door close.

"Sakura-chan," Kakashi's eyebrows raise, he wants to stand up, but he forces himself to remain still, "I thought I told you to take a month off."

She almost groans, "I got bored."

Minato's snicker tickles her left ear.

"You went on a mission, solved an international health concern, created an antidote for a poison, got kidnapped by a terrorist group, had them torture you for shits and giggles for seven days before breaking free and traveling back to Konoha by yourself; now you're telling me after a week of rest, you're bored?" Kakashi demands with disbelief and blatant exasperation.

Well, when Kakashi puts it that way, Sakura grimaces, it does sound bad.

Glad we're on the same page, Minato snorts.

She almost rolls her eyes, "Okay, but sensei, I'm fine, so we can just get back to—"

"—Sakura-chan!" Naruto runs towards her – she sees scar-throat, hands in her face, fingers up her thighs, touching the chord of her pelvis, her broken ribcage, the fire of the whip – she slams her fist into his stomach, her hand moves to the back of his neck, a knee digging into his lower back and she crushes—

Sakura, Sakura, Minato doesn't panic because he grabs her around the waist – it looks like an unknown force pulls her back – her back is pressed into his chest and his arm is tight around her hips, Sakura look at me, Sakura look at me.

Minato grabs her by the cheeks and pulls her in his face—her pupils nearly swallow the green of her irises, but his mouth is against her ear and he exhales into the depression there.

"—you shouldn't have rushed at her Naruto!"

It's Shikamaru, she thinks faintly.

That's it, Minato feels the pain of the memories slam into her like torrents and he grits his teeth – because he wants to skin those monsters alive – but Sakura is his first priority, Come back to me. Come back to me, you're almost there. That's it.

"—do you think you're any better, bastard? This is all your fault! If you had done your fucking job—"

That's it, Minato's mouth moves from her ear to brush her cheek, her fingers twitch as his lips brush over the fine bone there and over her left eyelid, Stay with me, okay?

"Okay," Sakura doesn't realize she's spoken aloud.

She blinks back to reality and presses herself closer to Minato – who tightens his arms around her – and repeats with a certain amount of acceptance, "Okay."

Maybe she's not okay.

note: everytime I get to the bottom of these chapters, I can't seem to remember what I'm supposed to say.

note2: I know you all hate Sasuke (I mean I do to) but you're going to end up liking him, lol.

note3: please drop a review on your way out.