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PART I

When she charges forwards with the might of a goddess and slams her fury into his poor excuse of a body, Sasori doesn't realise he's holding his breath and simply chokes.

Sasori growls immediately upon the brutal impact. She's too close for comfort—too close and too overwhelming like no one else is, and her touch feels awfully wrong to him—Sasori isn't especially fond of it, or entertains it ; yet, it's right somehow, like it's supposed to be nowhere but there ( according to some absurd theories of fate that only exists in fairy tales that he always finds ridiculous at best ) ; Sasori winces at that particular realisation once reality punches senses into him and he reels back—falls back, attempting pathetically to keep a safe distance from her destructive chakra outburst and fails ; she follows suit and closes in on him—doing her job and finishing what she's started, what he's started—Sasori almost wishes she didn't.

It dreads him and he dreads it all the more ; Sasori despises it.

He's prone to notice she smells metallically of blood provided the intimate proximity between them—his and her blood altogether that fuses into one ungodly stench, and Chiyo's too from their previous battle, and ashes, and death—more and mostly of death when she is but an inch apart from him now, and it's entertaining to see she's reeking of death like Death itself has come knocking on his door, Sasori remarks—that's probably one of the reasons why he has grown so accustomed to her presence after all, ( or it's the possibility of the odds that he has just taken up a nasty habit of incomprehensible masochism and Sasori would rather assume the former anyway ). The rest of the reasons are—he knows as much as Sakura knows, and there are a lot to be accounted for given the chance should he make it through this, Sasori muses ; but for now, suicidal tendencies are creeping onto his broken spine like chains and clutches and he can't help the wretched grin that goes beyond self-destructiveness twisting his lips into deformation, like moths to flames, he's loving every seconds of this, though Sasori—as a notorious S-ranked criminal of the Akatsuki and a Suna missing-nin—is fully and pointedly and painfully aware of how it's wrong to be like this, but when he thinks of it all and pieces everything together, that said everything, in fact, is a fucking disaster more or less: from the beginning of their twisted relationship to the end of their sick attraction that leads to.. now ; this very moment of unforgiving memory that burns itself into his mentality with or without his consent—Sakura's fist tears through his core.

Sasori gags a bit. He looks at her for the first time and the perplexity of his stare betrays his pretence of detachment, he grunts from the back of his throat and he grasps her wrist, he doesn't move but she plunges it further into the last of his flesh as if to prevent the risk of unexpected outcomes, Sasori should have anticipated her course of action and he should have understood it and he shouldn't have felt pain like he does at present—But he did, and he certainly does physically and mentally. And it isn't exactly a pleasant sensation to get used to either, if he were to be honest—he is never great at enduring physical affliction ever since he was a pitiful genin-orphan nonetheless. Sasori recoils and marvels at how naturally he's acting human again when all he has done is to shred the last shed of his humanity away for the record ( and for his selfish purpose ), but that surprise doesn't last for more than another second when he jerks his wrist and drives one of his puppet's swords into her beating, human heart. She has always had a bleeding heart—Sakura stifles visibly under his chakra strings—it would be a shame to crush it into a pulp of nothingness at one jerk of his hand. Sasori waits. He doesn't say anything and neither does she—He doesn't know what to say under this sort of circumstances and he assumes she doesn't either, but he watches her still, watches her on ; curious, inquisitive, dying to fathom a part of her as her neck slowly bends, and she, at last, looks at him.

Her look though—it isn't something Sasori can discern logically. Nor can he comprehend the complexity of layers of emotions swirling underneath those shivering, bone-shatteringly fierce emeralds of her eyes. He is taken aback when she smiles at him, out of anything—possibly anything—literally anything she could have thrown at him instead, in regards of their condition as it's either you or me. Sasori won't lie, he'd be much more grateful and at ease if she has done those or straight out kills him like she was told, but she didn't, and that's a fact that unnerves him terribly and baffles him like nothing has before.

He doesn't understand.

Sakura's smile persists and Sasori grimaces as if it's plaguing him like toxins and drugs until her limbs give into the rapid spreading of sheer pain and poisons inside her veins and she goes limp. He catches her—she catches him, and he collapses too, kneeling on the scraped metals and splintered woods of the consequence of their fight and letting it sink into his dead muscles as much as it wants, Sasori is too dead to care, he focuses on Sakura, trying to sustain her chakra but there is none left to do it, he stirs, she shivers, and there's something unidentifiable that grips his core tight when he can barely hear her breath.

He holds her where he is and he holds her like he's holding for dear life, his chin touches the slouched angle of her shoulder and he smothers himself with newfound pain and suffering. She holds onto him desperately in return, her uneven sequence of respiration becomes faint sobbing and her blood and tears are painting his neck a glaring red, but Sasori savours in it—It's the least he can do for the both of them. Sasori muffles a murmur and the amber hues within his eyes dim when Sakura's have lost their light, he yanks the sword out of her and she retrieves her fist from him, blood spatters over them like a masterpiece and they are matching, perfect the way they are and the way they would be forevermore now. She leans into him, tender like a lover and it would have been romantic and he would have indulged it had it not been for the blood and the sweats she was bathing in and the toxins he was breathing in, she exhales into the base of his ear, and Sasori jolts, her voice that haunts him for the rest of his diminishing lifetime never sounds so agonising before, "If only."

If only, she says, and he watches as her pulse ceases eternally.

If only, she says, and he cries for as long as his ruptured body allows him.

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