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You weave your way through the throngs of people milling about. The dry humdrum of the mess hall is a fitting backdrop to your training. Dull, uninspired—today is your first day in the astronaut programme, and you’ve learned nothing that you’d like to take with you when you’re out there. Perhaps the afternoon’s training will have better offerings, but you have never been an optimistic man.
One of your more boisterous colleagues waves at you from a table in the centre of the mess hall, where a group of astronaut trainees have already gathered. Ignoring the invitation, you push further into the crowd, carefully angling your tray away from heedless passers-by.
An empty table off to the periphery suits you best. You sit and begin your meal. The food is bland, but you can hardly ask for more from a place like this. You dig into your meal with more force than necessary, the timbre of your thoughts like storm clouds over the skyline of your mind.
But your cogitation is short-lived. A woman eases into the seat across from you. Your lips curl into a sneer, ready to dismiss her and reclaim your solitude. But there is something about her that gives you pause. She doesn’t look like she belongs here. Pale hair frames a delicate face: pert nose, full lips, green eyes. You’re willing to bet she’s the most colour this place has seen in years.
She’s lovely. You turn away.
"Hey, I hope you don’t mind," she says. "There aren’t many seats left."
The way that she looks at you tells you otherwise, but you aren’t inclined to argue. “Whatever.”
She isn’t deterred by your indifference. Her gaze darts across your standard issue uniform. “You’re one of the new trainees, aren’t you?” She extends a hand. Her wrist is delicate, her fingers long. “My name’s Sakura. I’m one of the physicists on the team.”
You nod. Despite yourself, you take her hand in yours. You tell yourself you do not notice the softness of her skin, giving only a sharp shake before pulling back. “Sasuke.”
"You’re not much of a talker, are you, Sasuke?"
"I don’t do small talk."
She smiles, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “That’s a flimsy excuse.”
"For?"
"If you’re a boring person, just say so. The first stage to recovery is accept—"
You scowl. “I’m not a boring person.”
"No?" she dares, leaning forward. "So tell me. How’s your day been going?"
You don’t understand why it is you rise to the challenge. But you tell her. You tell her that the morning’s lectures have been filled with nothing but theory. It feels distinctly like you’re back in university again, mired in the sort of abstractions that would make you a math major. This is hardly what you want to be doing. Which is: simulating weightlessness, simulating launch, all in all, taking action. You will not be solving for curvatures when you’re adrift in the vastness of nothing, of everything. The morning has been, thus far, a waste of your time.
She laughs.
You are unable to resist a frown in response to her apparent mockery. “Did I say something funny?”
"No," she says. "No, not at all, it’s just— You’re so—" Sakura raises her hands in a vague gesture. You narrow your eyes; she only laughs harder. "Restless," she says, once her mirth has passed. "You’re so restless. Or earnest."
You cross your arms over your chest. “I value my time.”
"So you do," she says, taking a bite of her lunch. After a moment, she says, "You know, I actually wrote the ‘waste of time’ theory part of the programme’s curriculum."
"Don’t pull my leg."
"I’m not pulling your leg!"
"Did you expect an apology? I’ll have to disappoint you."
Sakura scoffs. “Hardly,” she says. “That said, you’re wrong.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Enlighten me.”
"Theory is valuable," she says. "There’s so much we don’t know. When you’re up there, when you have to make tough calls or quick decisions, you want to make the best choices you can, right? So we want you to understand as much as possible, to be as informed as possible. It’s not all daredevil feats in the space shuttle."
"Hm."
She grins. “Speechless, are we?”
"Hardly."
"Will you at least," she demurs, "concede the point?"
You offer her a smirk.
"Maybe."
.
.
.
Lunch with Sakura becomes commonplace. You always sit alone, and she always finds you. You don’t mind it. Her conversation is not unpleasant. Her little jabs furrow their way under your skin. You find yourself reflecting on particular comments of hers even days after she said them. It is enjoyable, you decide, to have found someone with whom you are intellectually matched. You are entertained even by her little stories, rife with the commentary and elegant turns of phrase you have come to expect of her.
She explains to you, one afternoon, that she had once dreamt of being a doctor. (You can see it. She seems like the type of person who would be in a white coat. The type of person to whom you would go for your ills.) She’d been premed, a physics major. The intro astronomy class was meant to be nothing more than an elective to fill, an easy A. Instead, it had revolutionised her life.
A companionable silence follows her admissions. And then:
"And how about you, Sasuke?" Sakura says. "Why’d you decide to become an astronaut?"
You shrug, picking up your tray. She doesn’t call after you, but you feel the weight of her gaze on your back as you go.
.
.
.
"You’re not looking at this the right way."
Sakura takes the worksheet from you, flipping it over to the blank side. “Let’s forget the theory for now, OK?” she continues. “You’re a numbers man, so we’ll look at this as empirically as possible.”
Your lack of understanding agitates you, and it shows in the set of your jaw, the restless tapping of your feet. She offers you a small smile as she hands you the pencil.
"Can you write down the equation for gravitational force?"
You do as she instructs. You write in abbreviations the mass of the earth, the gravitational constant, the distance between object and earth, squared.
"That’s good," she says. "Tell me about the limit with respect to distance."
"As distance approaches?"
"Infinity."
You roll your eyes. “Sakura, this is elementary.”
"Humour me."
You wouldn’t normally. You don’t have the patience for this, don’t see how going back to an equation taught in high school classrooms will help you better understand gravity for a professional training programme. Is there something you’re missing? Something that children over the world have understood that you have not? You doubt it. But it’s Sakura’s gentle voice urging you forward, her nimble fingers on the edge of the paper. Her nails are painted red today, and you wonder if that means anything. You frown.
"Gravitational force approaches zero as distance approaches infinity," you say.
"Asymptotically."
You nod. “Correct.”
"So in layman’s terms…?"
"Gravity approaches zero the farther you go from the Earth," you say, "but it will never become zero.”
She clasps her hands together. You aren’t quite where she wants you to be in your cognition, not yet. “So?” she insists.
You take a moment to imagine it: an object hurtling far from the Earth, undeterred. You think about being young and playing at archery. The way the string felt when you drew it taut, when you loosed the arrow toward the target. You think about your brother’s smile, how his wrist looked like, the skin bruised and pale where the IV drop pierced into it.
You say, “There is always gravity.”
Sakura smiles. “You see,” she says, “weightlessness doesn’t mean space has zero-gravity. Zero-gravity is impossible.”
"Then why don’t satellites fall?"
"It’s actually the opposite. Satellites are constantly falling."
"And yet they stay in space."
"It’s centripetal force." She takes the pencil from you, fingers brushing the back of your hand. She draws a circle and, inside it, draws countries. She draws the Earth. She draws a smaller square next to her Earth. A satellite. "See, a satellite is actually moving so fast that it could float off like this." She draws an arrow: the square shooting off, away from the Earth, into the infinite magnitude of space, the finite whiteness of the blank page. "But…" She draws a line connecting the square to the Earth.
You realise. “Gravity pulls it back.”
"Exactly. So it doesn’t go away, despite its high velocity. It stays in orbit."
"It can’t leave because it’s constantly falling," you conclude.
She says, “There is always gravity.”
.
.
.
She’s put more effort into her appearance today. It’s the small things. Her lipstick is a shade darker, and her hair curls toward the slope of her neck with a loving softness that speaks of a long morning in front of her bathroom mirror. Your fingers twitch.
"So," she begins, a faint tremor in her voice. Uncertainty? Unlike her. "I need a plus one for a holiday party."
That explains it. You roll your shoulders back, debating whether or not you’re willing to subject yourself to a few hours of superficial niceties. Or to a few hours of Sakura swathed in a dress. Your imagination is quick to provide you all sorts of images. You shake your head as the embarrassing beginnings of warmth rush to your ears. “Who’s hosting?”
"My friend, Ino. Normally, I wouldn’t be worrying about this, but she said it was either I brought a date or I consider myself uninvited." She rolls her eyes, a small grin on her face. "She’s always trying to get me back in the game, you know?"
"Maybe because you can’t get back in on your own."
She reaches over the table to punch your shoulder. “Lies and slander!”
"Tch." You catch her fist, letting your thumb dally over her knuckles. "You don’t sound terribly excited."
"I am!" Sakura says. "It’s going to be fun. Ino’s parties always are."
"Hm," you say. "In that case, I—"
"I was thinking of asking Neji," Sakura says in a rush.
You nearly spew your drink. “Hyuuga?”
"He’s your colleague, isn’t he?" Sakura looks down at her lap, her heavy lashes fluttering down to the apples of her cheeks. You are only momentarily distracted. "I know he’s out of my league, but—"
”Out of your league?” you sputter, incredulous, and you are, despite yourself, defying all the table manners your mother sought to ingrain in you from the day you could hold your own utensils. “His simulation scores were abysmal.”
"Were they?" She frowns. "As I recall, his scores were impressive, at least two standard deviations above the mean."
"I did better."
Her frown deepens. “You’re the highest-scoring trainee in the programme,” she says, dry. “I’m well aware, Sasuke.”
"Then how could fucking Hyuuga be out of your league?"
She crosses her arms over her chest defensively. “For one, he’s gorgeous as sin—”
You’ve had enough. “Sakura.”
"Sasuke." Sakura sets her arms on the table and leans forward. Her face hovers dangerously near yours. "What in god’s name is wrong with you?"
You clear your throat. “Have I… misunderstood?”
There is no way you could have, you think. You remember the way her eyes have danced over to you all these months, twinkling with an interest you’ve seen too many times to mistake for anything else.
She sighs. “I’m sorry?”
"This!" A few heads turn at your raised voice, and you grit your teeth. You wave your hand over the table and continue in more measured tones, "Have I misunderstood this?”
You watch as her cheeks redden, her hands fluttering like nervous doves. “I… I didn’t think that— You— For me, I—”
"I do."
"Oh."
You wait for her to continue. When she doesn’t, you say, “Well?”
She licks her lips. After a moment, they curl into a decidedly feline smile. “Well, Sasuke,” she says, her voice pitched low, pitched confident, “what are you doing on Saturday night?”
.
.
.
When you tell her, there isn’t any fanfare. You say it over lunch, as though commenting on the weather, or the colour of her shirt.
"My brother wanted to be an astronaut."
She smiles, twirling her fork in her fingers. “What did he do instead?”
You think of the rumpled sheets, the thin curtains of that sterile room. The too-thin bones. The long shadow of your father at the foot of the bed. Your mother’s tears, silent and heartrending. “It’s not that he did something else.”
The fork stills. “Did he…”
"Leukemia," you say. "He was seventeen."
She reaches for you. You pull back. “Sasuke, I’m—”
"It’s fine." You can’t bear to watch the pity illustrate itself on her features. You think about getting up and walking away. Always the easier recourse. You don’t owe this woman anything. But you are rooted to your seat, and not for the life of you could you explain why. "We always knew it was coming," you say. "And that was a while ago. It’s fine."
"It’s brave of you. To do what you’re doing, I mean."
You close your eyes. You still remember those summer nights with painful clarity. The grass prickled your skin as the two of you lay down on the front lawn, charting the stars until the sun rose. “Not brave,” you say, finally. “I wanted it, too.”
Sakura shakes your head. “I believe you’re brave, Sasuke. And I admire it about you. You’re going to make an amazing astronaut.”
This time, you let her hold your hand underneath the table. You marvel at the way she fits in the spaces between your fingers. You hope that she has faith enough for the both of you.
.
.
.
You’re out of breath, a hand flashing out to support your weight against her door frame. She looks at you with her incredulity written plainly across her face. A fluffy robe around her shoulders, she hadn’t exactly expected your arrival. You hadn’t bothered to give forewarning.
"You look a mess, Sasuke. Did you run all the way here?"
"I had to tell you."
"Tell me what?"
"I’ve been chosen to pilot the first leg of the mission."
She grins, so wide and bright you aren’t sure whether it hurts you or heals you. Her arms come around your waist, her forehead finding rest in the crook of your neck. “I– Wow, congratulations! That’s fantastic!”
You hold her carefully. “Thank you.”
"The launch is next week, isn’t it?"
"Yes," you say. The excitement creeps into your voice despite your purpose for coming here. "The shuttle will be out three years initially, with room to explore longer…"
Her grip tightens. “That’s great, Sasuke.”
Silence carries in the wake of her words, and you let it. You savour the feel of her in your arms, the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. She smells of apples, and her tiny exhalations feel like promises writ on your skin. You remember the way she looked at Ino’s party, her dress flirting with her figure like a lover. You wanted her so badly then; you want her so badly now, in her fluffy robe, her nightshirt, her sleep-mussed hair. Your hands are trembling with it.
"I won’t ask you to wait," you say.
A few long heartbeats pass without response from her. At length, she pulls away. Her eyes find yours. In the stillness of the night, her gaze is the silver of river water at dusk.
"I think you should come in," she whispers.
Outside, the moon is waning, and the stars are bright against the darkness of the night. Polaris, Cassiopeia, Sirius, and an infinitude of their brethren all call for you, beckoning you to peer out the window and into their light. But you don’t think of them at all. Because Sakura, Sakura is in your arms, and you don’t know how you could look at anything else when she shines the way she does under your fingers, all her galaxies and star systems coming undone when your lips touch hers.
She’s already shrugged off her robe, her fingers tugging insistently at the hem of your shirt. You oblige, shrugging out of the offending garment, hissing when your skin meets hers. She leaves no part of you unloved, hands marauding your chest even as her lips trace the line of your jaw. Your hand snakes into her hair, hold her steady for your kiss. Her lips open like a flower in bloom, and you drink like a man parched. Your other hand finds the silk of her thighs underneath her nightshirt, and further, where already she drips with the promise of what is to come. Your fingers press down; she whimpers.
You draw the nightgown over her head, her name leaving your lips as though in prayer. She swats your hands away when you reach for her breasts, focusing her attention on the buttons of your trousers, the waistband of your underwear. Cool air kisses your skin as she divests you of your clothes as easily as she has divested you of your barriers. Her hands soon find the length of you.
”Fuck!" you swear, gripping her hair as she falls to her knees. "Christ, Sakura, I can’t—"
"Shh." Her lips tease the base, her tongue making its merry way up to the tip. "Let me take care of you, Sasuke."
It’s nearly enough to make you come, but you hold on to what shreds of your sanity you have left. She begins. You let her draw you taut. Her eyes don’t leave yours, even as her ministrations leave you gasping, trembling, drowning. Until you can take no more. “That’s enough,” you rasp. “Sakura, please—”
She lets you go, rising to her feet. Her lips find the shell of your ear. “The bedroom’s this way.”
She sways away from you. You follow her with desperate steps, tumbling into her bed like your feet can no longer hold you. You bow your head to lick her breasts, to let your fingers seek the heart of her. You want to love her until you have carved her into your very being, until you can feel her warmth even in the coldness of space. You want to love her enough to take with you for however many years you will have nothing but the silence of infinity to sing you to sleep.
And so you do. She whispers I love you as you push inside her, her fingers etching star charts in the skin of your back. You love her, you do not say in return. You love her, and you do not want to lose her as you have lost your brother. You love her, and you do not want to leave her as you have been left.
You hold her legs higher, relishing how she shouts your name, her hips bucking restlessly against yours. She tightens around you, and you fall, you fall, a satellite bound in orbit to her planetary being. Legions of stars explode behind your eyes, a cataclysm of supernovas, until it is all you can do to whisper her name. Her fingers cradle your face. Her lips find yours.
You bring yourself down to the bed, shifting so that you lay alongside her. Your arms do not leave her waist. “I won’t ask you to wait,” you say again.
She nuzzles her cheek against your chest. “You don’t have to.”
"We’re talking years, Sakura."
"I know. So go as far as you need to. Go as fast as you need to."
She takes your hand and holds it over her heart. “This, right here,” she says, “is gravity.”
.
.
.
Sarada is only too eager to use her Christmas present. Sakura humours her, setting up the telescope on the attic, peering out of the largest window of their house. “You can see Mars tonight, Mama!” Sarada exclaims, drawing the star charts open on her lap.
Sakura runs a hand through Sarada’s hair. “Do you need help finding it?”
"It’s okay," Sarada says. "I can do it."
And she does, though it takes her the better part of an hour. Sakura is three inches from sleep when Sarada’s high-pitched squeal rouses her. “Look, there it is, Mama!” Her little girl grins, pulling Sakura to the eyepiece. “That’s where Papa is!”
"Mmhmm," Sakura agrees, looking into the telescope with all enthusiasm even though she sees Mars with greater resolution and clarity near daily at work. It’s Sasuke’s third mission on the shuttle, and her third mission back at the base. She misses him just as much as she did every day of the first. "That’s where your Papa is."