Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto.

Rubato Sonata

.:.

.:.

Sonata No. 3, Op. 82: II.
Adagio con molto rubato

.:.

.:.

Sonata No. 14 in C-sharp minor
. Op. 27 No. 2—

-

She's six, maybe seven.

No...

It's her birthday. She is officially seven.

She is sitting in the chair in the corner, her chair, and her hands are plugging her ears. She is screaming to herself, to everyone in that house, with everyone in that house. She forces her eyes shut and her tears continue to meld with her yells.

Her knees tuck in with her body and her head is burying deep into her shell—away from them.

(away from reality.)

Emerald eyes blink open when she feels something patting her head. She sees her father standing in front of her and he has a large red mark on his cheek. The only thing she can see, other than his face, is her mother's left shoe, and it's walking out the door.

She flinches when the door slams.

"Don't worry." Her father assures her, and she can see how much he is trying to smile, but he can't—he just lost his lover. So he gives her a hug, to comfort her, to comfort himself.

(how do you survive, papa,)

And because he was her father, because she never remembered him ever being wrong, she tried so, so, so hard to believe him.

(when you've lost the one you love?)

.

-&-

.

She's concerned when she sees this boy. He's crying...well, maybe. It looks like he is crying at least. His head is tilted down and he is holding himself and shaking. She presses on by walking up to him.

"What's wrong?" She asks.

He barely looks up at her and when he does, he snorts and hisses and cries and yells. "Go..." he hiccups, he sniffles, and he averts his eyes once again. "...away."

(don't worry little boy,)

She pats his deep black hair because that's what her father does to her when she's hurt.

She is unsure of what to do, because he hasn't calmed down, and now he's trying to get away. So she sits next to him. She sits there and he is still trying to hold himself together, so she puts an arm around him. She hugs him. That's all. She can feel him tense and stiffen and shy away from her actions. But, she holds him in her arms.

Just like her mother once did with her.

(the world is vicious to us all.)

He finally cries and he leans into her shoulder. "My parents... My parents are dead." And it was then and there, that this stranger lets her into his heart, his seven-year-old, frail and breaking heart.

She smiles and he gets angry. "Why are you smiling, you freak?!"

"Because mine are too." She says in reply. And it's not a lie, nor is it a truth either. It would take forever for this boy to quite understand what she was saying.

And forever at that moment, seemed too far away.

.:.

.:.

Sonata No. 15
. Op. 28—

-

She is ten, maybe sixteen. That's not too big of a gap, is it?

She—(regretfully)—remembers her father now. It's no longer a large red mark of rushing blood that is on his cheek, it's bright red lipstick and it's smeared.

She only watches as the woman, that woman she has never seen before in her life—along with the many other women that come over now—presses herself against her father.

She hates herself so much, because she doesn't want to hate him.

She doesn't want to hate him, for wanting love.

(but is this really love now, or is it just sex?)

She blinks back tears and walks into her room. Locking the door behind her, she stares at the full-length mirror and frowns. Sometimes, she wryly admits to wishing she had gotten her looks from her mother.

.

-&-

.

"You're a model now..." He says, an atypical shocked tone has filtered into the typical un-amused one.

She looks away and forces a half-smile. "It's nothing." She murmurs and pats his head. "Don't worry, I just need the money."

He lightly smacks her hand away and eyes her carefully. "It's everything."

(we are different,)

"I need a life...away from my life." Is all she says, and her hands envelope his frame. She hugs him, and holds him, and wishes that her life was with him.

He stiffens still. Even after all of the years of knowing him, and receiving her pats and hugs, he still shies away from her touches. "Forget it." He says monotonously.

(different, but nonetheless the same.)

"I need to." She agrees. "But, I won't... Do you want to come over?" She asks, and inside that voice was her hidden tone—she was begging him to join her. To save her from her house life and from herself and her father and the world.

"My brother is coming today." He lies. He doesn't actually even know the next time he is going to see his brother.

But, he lies because he is scared of what might happen if he actually did go with her.

.:.

.:.

Sonata No. 16 in G major
. Op. 31 No. 1—

-

She is seventeen.

Seventeen and lost.

When was the last time she saw her father smile?

She is backed up in a corner, her cheek stained with a red smear. It's not her mother that did this and it's not a random woman that has done this, it was her father. He is hovering over her and, oh, how she wishes she was six feet tall.

He wants more money, more women, more everything.

(he wants his old life back)

And she's crying and lost and lonely and despairing, because she can't give that back to him.

She takes another blow, another, another, another, another, and another. He makes sure though that he doesn't hurt her face too much; he needs to make sure the bruising will swell down before her next photo shoot.

When she's fallen and drowning in her tears on the ground, he stares at her for a moment. And within that short moment does she see her father's eyes. She almost smiles, because in that short second she saw her old father's eyes.

And that's all she needs to have hope.

.

-&-

.

It had taken about an hour of complete silence from him to finally talk. "My brother went to jail." He tells her over a cup of coffee.

Her lips form into a frown and she blinks disdainfully. "Oh..." She breathes, not exactly knowing what else to say.

More silence follows until he breaks it once again. "Why are you wearing so much make-up these days?" he asks. He doesn't really care, but he might as well make small talk since he called her at two in the morning to come have coffee with him.

(dear kid, keep believing,)

Her breath hitches and she looks worried. He must have seen her hesitance because now he examining her more carefully. "I want to look prettier." She lies.

"You looked fine before." He shrugs before taking another sip of his black coffee.

She nods. "Fine wasn't the word I was aiming for." She then gives a bitter laugh and begins to twirl a strand of her pink hair that had fallen in front of her face.

"Hn." He grunts, and he doesn't believe her. She can tell.

She laughs, strains herself to reach over the table, and pats him on the head. "Just forget it." She tells him, and her voice is more demanding than ever.

So, now he is suspicious, but he does forget. It's not his problem.

"Do...you want to come over?" He asks. She could tell how he forced those words out of his mouth, he is so unsure about her answer and his question.

(keep believing, because i'm still here.)

She smiles. "You aren't alone."

They stand up, and once they leave that small diner, she hugs him. "You never were alone..." She whispers into his broad chest.

They leave to go to his empty, empty house and fill it with passion and desire, and most of all, need.

.:.

.:.

Sonata No. 17 in D minor
. Op. 31 No. 2—

-

She's eighteen and still confused.

Her bags are packed in her room, and her father in leaning against the doorway, wanting her to stay. He offers her money, to quit bringing women home, anything for her to stay.

She smiles at him and walks up to him. She pats his head, she gives him a hug, and then kisses his cheek. Her red lipstick slightly smudging, leaving a red tint on his cheek.
And this wasn't from her resenting mother, it wasn't from those promiscuous women, it wasn't from her raging father, it was from a forgiving daughter.

"I'm not angry at you, nor do I resent you. I am mad at myself, papa." She tells him, looking at the bags behind her. "I never grew up enough, to help you deal with everything."

He looks down, ashamed at himself.

"I couldn't help you deal with mama's departure, nor could I give you the love you desired. I could only be there to take the blows."

He opens his mouth and wants to reply, but what could he say?

"I don't blame you..." She mutters and she leaves.

She leaves the bags. She doesn't want them. She leaves her papa. She doesn't want anymore hurt. She leaves her world. She needs a new one.

She says goodbye.

.

-&-

.

Her hands are on her hips, and her face isn't covered with makeup, and she is standing in front of his door, tapping her foot.

"Sasuke..." She says when he opens the door.

(we're finally broken and torn and destroyed)

He looks at her, at her empty hands and her broad smile and her makeup-less face, and is confused. "Sakura?" He asks, wondering what she could possibly need at ten at night.

He waits for an answer.

"...you aren't alone." She whispers and she invites herself in. She pats his head and giggles. She then reaches her hands around his torso and she hugs him tightly.

(because it was always more than a want and a desire and a need.)

"Because...I—I really do..." She pauses and shifts and hugs him tighter, because this was something she's wanted to say forever and ever ago. This is something she is new to, something she's never experienced. This is more than the life she has never had. This was... This was the final piece, the finale, to her sonata, her (their) song. This was life, this was real, this was everything— "...love you." —and more.

And she is crying, and she is wanting, and she is desiring, and she is needing.

So she kisses him.

(but we've finally found love.)

And she is finally happy.

.:.

.:.

A/N: I dunno.

EWHH its Kenna