Hinata's never kissed anyone before and Hanabi doesn't bother to hold her hand. It is clumsy and with too much teeth and Hinata feels her face flush. Hanabi is the younger one and she is flat and thin, with a pale face and high cheekbones. She smells of wood and pine, of salt and child. It's the smell of her childhood, of the days in the trees and the games on the fields. Of the days when day ended at sunset and where it began in bed holding her sister's hand.
And she remembers Kiba's words, the look on his face, that night at the hideout. With all the corpses and all the death, and how he stared at nothing and said that now, now they had all crossed the last bridge. And had burned it afterwards.
Hinata recalls the damp weather and the mud, and the boy's head which she'd cut off.
Hanabi's never killed anyone and Hinata's never been kissed, and it's fair, she thinks, that they give this to each other.
But she only whishes so intently, that she'd been kissed before, and that no death would've made her reek and that Hanabi would only smell like now.
"Teach me," Hanabi breaths, pressing herself close, "teach me how to kill." Children ask for stupid things.
"I'll kiss you if that's what you want;" Hanabi pushes, forcing her demands."I'll kiss you."
And children want stupid things.
Hinata licks her lips, thinking of pine and trees, "Okay," and offering mud and blood.
Okay, because Hinata is a child too.
And if she closes her eyes she can pretend Hanabi is no one. And if she grabs her sister's hands and press them to her heart, she can pretend they both smell of child and wood.