Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.

Day Six

The sixth day is when Sasuke finds the sake.

Kizashi had taken little Kaito and Sarada out for a stroll, strapping the little baby to his chest, keeping the warm, yellow-knit blanket over his pink head and tucking it right under his toes. As his daughter had bounded down the street to find some dango, the older man had told him, a stern yet sad, gleam to his eyes that he was to sit down and take a nap—"It's no good if you burn yourself out so soon, Sasuke. Kaito and Sarada need you."

Sasuke had nodded, barely resisting the urge to keep Kaito to himself, and got out Sakura's favorite blanket and sat on the couch.

(The couch that was the color of her eyes.)

He stares at the ceiling for five minutes.

(The couch is the color of her eyes. The color of her—eyes—color—green—flashing in the hospital lights, her mouth gasping, eyes blank—"Save our baby, Sasuke-kun,"—"Save our child.")

He sits up.

There is a weight on his chest, pushing down the breath in his lungs and chipping away at the stoic mask, his eyes burning. He can't breathe properly—something, her, he thinks, her, he knows—is preventing him from taking deep breaths. His fingers tremble. He can't feel his legs.

Somehow, Sasuke finds himself walking over to the cabinet.

It was a nice cabinet. Sakura had bought it the week they'd moved in to their new house—("I think it's pretty, Sasuke-kun." She'd smiled beautifully in the morning light, "I really like the wood.")—and she'd shined and greased it every other month, religiously. The man who had sold it to them had told them it was an antique, an original piece said to come from the original Senju mokouton users.

Sakura had put the liquor in that cabinet.

(She giggled, pressing sloppy fingers to her red, red, red mouth. Bright eyes gleamed in the low light. "Shh! Sa-chan's sleeping—an', well, I needed a little bit of a drink." Her smile was wide, blinding and he felt the familiar sense of calm and serenity slip over him like an old glove. "Sakura, you should stop drinking." She pouted. "Aw, Sasu-chan, you never let me have any fun!")

He grasps the first bottle—sake, he thinks, ironic, he remembers Sakura's love of it—and opens it.

Sasuke has never really gotten drunk before.

Not even on those nights when the thoughts and dreams and nightmares got too much that he'd sit, for hours, staring up at the ceiling, his eyes lining with fury and rage and tears as his mouth trembled, waiting for the anxious wrath to lessen the grip on his lungs.

It smells bitter as he lifts the bottle to his lips.

The sake touches his tongue.

They find him on the sofa, his back straight, eyes staring intently at the door.

"Sasuke, did you rest?"

His son-in-law doesn't answer him. Kizashi frowns as the boy just continues staring at the wooden door behind him, his fists clenching and unclenching.

"Papa?" Sarada calls out, her voice catching a little. His eldest grandchild is still a little wary from yesterday—the image of Sasuke's rage, stark eyes and wide, furious mouth is still engrained in their minds—and Kizashi snaps to attention when his son-in-law grunts.

"Move."

Kizashi's frown deepens and he glances over to Sarada who's gone incredibly pale, her mouth trembling, fingers digging into her palms.

"He smells of sake, Jiji." Sarada's voice is small, pitiful even, in the dull light of the afternoon but it's enough for Kizashi to stop dead in his tracks. "Jiji—I've—I've never—"

"Sarada-chan, why don't you take your little brother and head over to see Boruto? I believe I saw him at Ichiraku." Kizashi not-so-subtly orders.

Sarada hesitates for a second but then sees her father's glazed eyes and how he watches the door with intensity and knows—it's better for her to sit this one out.

Kizashi waits until Sarada's slim figure flits out of view before he approaches his son-in-law.

"Son," He starts but his voice catches in his throat at Sasuke's question.

"Sak'ra should be home soon." His son-in-law slurs, nodding his head quickly, hand gripping the side of the green couch, "She's—she's on meh-dih-ic duty. Medic Duty. Duty Medic."

Kizashi swallows down the burning in his eyes and sits next to the man who's heart belongs to the woman in the ground and steels himself.

"Sasuke, Sakura isn't coming home."

The man doesn't even twitch. His back is still straight. The only sign of his affected state is the flush to his throat and the tips of his ears. The hand on the couch grips far too-tight—his knuckles are turning white.

"Di' some'ne take her?" His son-in-law's eyebrows draw together like dark, furious thunderstorms and Kizashi curses the gods for alcohol and all its grievances. "Sak'ra's strong. Won't go. She's with me—"

Sasuke pats his heart with his hand, mismatching eyes catching his, his expression solemn.

"—She's with me." He nods his head, patting his heart again. "Sak'ra won't leave me."

Kizashi has to struggle to get words around the lump in his throat because saying these words are going to remind him of the fact that his daughter, his little girl, baby princess, is in the ground, eyes blank and mouth slack.

It will remind him that the ground is eating her alive—except it's not because Sakura—his baby—is dead.

Dead, dead, dead.

And suddenly, Kizashi understands why Sasuke grabbed the sake from the cupboard, why his son-in-law's eyes are glazed and broken, his hands clutching the only green that comes close to his daughter's eyes.

"She's dead, son." Kizashi watches as Sasuke's eyes crease, his mouth curling into a frown. "She's—"

"No. Nah. Nope." Sasuke shakes his head. His son-in-law's pats his chest again. "She won't leave me. Sak'ra won't go."

Kizashi bites his lip to stop the agonized tears from falling. His breath is choppy—his hands trembling—his little baby is in the ground and her husband is falling apart—

Oh, Sakura-chan, my beautiful daughter—what have you done? What did you sacrifice?

"Sasuke. Sakura died." Kizashi curses himself for saying what comes next but he cannot let this go any longer. Sasuke's children need him, Kizashi can't do this all on his own—can't watch little Sarada-chan's eyes, so similar to his daughter's, grow dull with grief, can't watch baby Kaito grow up without the knowledge of what a mother's hugkisslove feels like.

"She died on December 28th, one hundred and thirty-one years after the founding, after—"He watches Sasuke's eyes clear up, his skin turn paler, mouth twitch, and continues, "Kaito's birth. She died at four-thirty one in the afternoon. It was a sunny day. You had to—"

"No—"Sasuke's voice falters. "No. No. No. No, no, no, no."

"Your wife is dead, boy."

Something in Sasuke's expression breaks and suddenly, suddenly, there are tears that are streaming down his cheeks, a sob stuck in his chest, his shoulders heaving and his breath is breaking his words and they come out muffled, warped—

"Sakura—No—I—Dead—"Sasuke lets out a low growl, pointing to the door, "No! She's—coming—home—She's coming home!"

Kizashi's eyes are watering. He shakes his head gently.

"No, son, she's not."

"I don't understand. I don't understand." Sasuke whispers to himself and raised his hand to his heart again. His fingers press into the dark training shirt, indenting the fabric, as if to touch his heart with his own hands.

His son-in-law slumps on the sofa.

"She always comes home." Sasuke mutters, a tear running down his cheek. "She'll be—she'll be home soon. Can't make her worry—Sak'ra worries—she worries 'bout me. I know she does. I tell her not to—but she's got that sweet—sweet—smile and pretty eyes that tell me she's gonna do it anyways."

His eyes are wild and Kizashi has to look away when he slams his fingers to the back of his neck.

Day six is the day Sarada finally caves and runs, eyes smarting, her baby brother in her arms, straight to the seventh's house.

The door swings open and she can sense Naruto's surprise as he takes in her heaving form and the little boy in her arms.

"Sarada-chan, what's—"

"Papa's drinking." She heaved out. "You have to—you have to come help."

Naruto's eyes go very, very wide and his mouth hangs open just a little. Sarada can still see the grief in his face, how his fingers are trembling on the doorframe, how his cheeks and eyes are a little bit more sunken than usual.

"I'll be there." He tells her quietly.

Sarada leaves, hoping she's done the right thing.

When she gets home and spies her father—the father that smells of sake and bad memories—on the couch, clutching a photo of her mother in his hands, his thumb brushing over her face, she knows she's done what was necessary.

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