Eight

Reinvention in the Roaring Discord

And finally, finally, she turned and met her father's wide eyes.

She committed his fresh face to memory and noted all his little changes, like the small scars that criss-crossed just above his right eyebrow and the one or two weary lines at the corner of his eyes. His forehead was creased and his beady black eyes shone under the warm yellow lights—

He was so much older now, but... but she never noticed how young he was. Is.

He was seventeen when he had you.

He was twenty-four when he left you.

Kisame took a small step forward and on instinct, Sakura took a measured step back, the heel of her sandals bumping against the bookcase and her hand flexing over the kunai pouch on her thigh. He froze, brows pulling together as he started to speak, but at the last second he thought better of it, shut his mouth, and swallowed.

Another trail of silence wound them by.

She felt his gaze burn into her, lingering on her claw marks, her face tattoo, the bandages wrapped securely around her left arm so that only skin could be seen. She remembered always craning her neck up to see him and raising her arms so that he'd swing her around and drop her on his shoulders; she'd felt like she was so on top of her small world, just her and her father and the rain.

It had been a long time since then.

She didn't have to look up to him anymore.

A new resolve built up from the pit of her stomach, cold and bitter and furious that flooded her veins and left her angry.

She'd been safe in the Akatsuki, hadn't she? It wouldn't have mattered that what they were doing and it wouldn't have mattered if they were all criminals. If she stayed she wouldn't have met Kiba or Akamaru or Shino or Kurenai or Tenzo or Kotetsu or Kankuro or Naruto—she wouldn't have grown to care for them, she wouldn't have grown to love them. If she stayed, she wouldn't have ruined Pack's lives because she was a foreign kid who knew just too damn much. If she stayed, she could've been stronger here and not have to remember how Bee-sama and Motoi-san took her under their wings and told her to run before the Raikage could catch her. If she stayed, she wouldn't have spent sleepless nights watching Kankuro build her a new arm because he wanted to, not because he had to.

If she stayed, everything wouldn't have hurt so much, and she wouldn't be standing in this room wishing she was anywhere but here.

"Pup," he tried again. She shook her head, green eyes piercing.

"Don't," she said, forcing the shakiness out of her breath and holding her ground. "Don't call me that anymore."

How can you still call me that after everything?

Kisame's brow scrunched up, pained for a split second before a humorless smile tugged at his lips as he glanced to the side. "Yeah, you're not a little kid anymore, huh?" He was quick to turn back to her, though, like she'd disappear if he spent too much time looking away. "You've... You've grown."

"... Yeah."

And it was back to silence.

Sakura stared out the window and at the rain tapping against the glass. So many things were building up in her throat, threatening to burst at the seams, but she didn't know why she couldn't say any of them. Why couldn't she? They were there and she wanted to scream, demand all the answers to all her questions and all she was doing was standing there like a damn idiot trying not to cry.

The clock that constantly ran at the back of her head—a clock that manifested itself in that Coliseum counting seconds between food, quotas, dead bodies, sky cycles—chimed faintly, and that selfish part of her couldn't have asked for a better excuse.