DISCLAIMER: I DON'T OWN IT.
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All is quiet in the walls of this place and your hands are resting on your knees, elbows hanging over your legs, head dropped low.
It's dark and cool.
Sakura has a bright smile.
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You sit up straight, rub your face with your hands, stand up and make your way to your room.
In all of the quiet and eerie calm of the Uchiha residence, she sleeps on- her hair still warm and moist from the shower she had taken earlier. Her shampoo fills your nostrils and you hover over her, just breathing for a while.
She shifts underneath you, rolls onto her back.
You are face to face with her. You plant a gentle kiss on her lips.
She just sighs.
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When the sun rises you are on the porch watching it, eyes dark in the golden light. Her healing touch has kept your vision sharp, and you appreciate each leaf illuminated in the dawn.
She is just waking up. You hear her quiet murmur ("Sasuke-kun? Sasuke, where are you?") and reply with silence.
You're still finding the right words to say.
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During the day, she is the one who touches. Little fleeting points of contact on your hand, your back, your shoulders...
You ignore these gestures outwardly, content to remain comfortably cold and silent.
Your skin is warm where she touches you though, and you feel the constant stiffness of your neck loosening when she slides behind you to rub away your worries.
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With surprising gentleness you lower her onto the bed and she immediately rolls over onto her side.
You kiss her temple and in her sleep she mumbles something about you and onigri. You allow yourself a small smile and find your eyes locked on her face.
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One day, you come home and she's not in the house. A note on the table says she's moved back home and you're welcome to follow.
You throw a tantrum, pack up, and move in with her.
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A week later, you level the whole of the Uchiha land. She will help you rebuild. She promised.
Her hands are perfect for that. She heals. She splits open and sews up, moves with grace and alacrity through the sticky darkness that grows in the corners of your mind.
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Your third night together as husband and wife you wake up in her arms, your face wet.
She was crying too.
You were silent, still not having found the right words to say.
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She's willingly submissive, you find, but you like it better when she isn't.
You like it how her eyes light up with something resembling rage, but softer. A frustration- a self-disgust that's easy to place because you've felt it yourself.
You move in an awkward way to get closer to her, thinking about maybe touching her, letting her know that you can see she's upset but before you can she's pinned you to the wall and your shirt is gone.
She doesn't kiss you.
She forcefully grabs the front of your pants and unbuttons them. Her shirt is gone, but her bra remains. Her face is twisted into a snarl and she slaps you when you try to touch her.
You should be filled with indignant anger, but all you feel is a distant hum of disapproval amid clashing feelings of confusion and worry.
She suddenly yanks away, wraps her arms around herself and heaves out a heavy sob.
You move to stand behind her, as unwise as it seems.
"I- I made tea."
Your words stand midair, awkward and oddly sad. This wasn't what you had meant to say.
She says nothing.
The moment stretches.
Suddenly, the right thing to say leaks into your head but you can't bring yourself to put it into words.
You haven't said it yet and these words intimidate you more than you care to think.
She breathes heavily.
You want to ask her what's wrong.
Instead you choke on your own breath, retreat to the kitchen. Come back to find the room empty.
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You wander upstairs and realize the shower is running.
Steam drifts out from the bathroom.
You open the door. She is crying.
You're in with her in an instant, your hands running down her sides. She shivers despite herself and hunches forward.
"The mission-", she sobs. "The mission, I - I didn't want to, I didn't but they said they needed-"
She had fucked someone. Probably killed that same someone. In all likelihood, she had been coerced into it.
You gently negotiate her against the tiled wall and slide passionlessly into her.
She knows better than to think that you can't understand her. You just have no better way of expressing yourself.
She sighs softly at the sensation, her breath catches and you kiss her neck, moving the two of you to climax.
She falls asleep in your arms. You turn off the shower, place her in bed.
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She'd always been talkative but things have changed. She's as silent as you are. Not much remains to be said.
She holds you into the night, you hold her into the morning, comfortable with your routine.
It's no surprise that she's pregnant within the first year of your marriage. The curve of her stomach is the joy in your heart.
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Her eyes are dead now, but they soften when, in a rare instance of fondness, you allow her to awaken with your presence next to her.
The words are unspoken. Or so you feel they should stay... but you think of your parents and think that maybe this whole facade is a bit old. Afterall, who remains to remind you that you shouldn't feel anything? Who is left to glare disapprovingly when you smile? When you frown?
Hadn't you always wanted to depart from this meaningless tradition of expressionless faces anyway?
Your father never said it to your mother, your mother never said it to you.
With difficulty you summon your voice and manage out a low "I love you."
She twists in your arms, shocked.
You feel out of place, embarrassed.
"I have always loved you," she replies, her eyes so deep and green that you-
-that you really cant think anymore because she's placed your hand on her stomach and is moving it upward...
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You decide sleeping next to her until late in the morning isn't so bad after all.
It's the first of a series of decisions that has you finding the right words to say more and more often.