Moments
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Ahh, I read this really awesome fic earlier today, The Eyes I Thought Were You, by Sintari over at Project Greenlight (she writes on FFN, too), and my inner Neji just went ballistic and demanded I write Hyuugacest. So um, this is the result of that.
Hyuugacest isn't really my main thing, and I don't write it often, but I don't think this came out terribly. Of course, to each their own.
As always, comments and criticisms are appreciated.
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She lies quietly, peacefully, covers half fallen off, face turned slightly to the side. The pale silk shirt she wears to bed is rumpled and in disarray, lifted up in places so he can see hints of pale skin, the faintest curve of flesh. Even in the dark of night, with only the starlight echoing past the parted curtains of her window, her skin glows pale, as pale as her eyes, as pale as his.
He makes no sound as he finds his way closer to her side, stopping only when his thighs brush the edge of her bed, the soft cloth of the sheets whispering against the harsh fabric of his pants. She doesn't stir, makes no indication she senses him at all, and he frowns, the trained shinobi in him angry at her lack of connection to her surroundings. Any well-trained ninja would jump awake should he come this close to them, asleep or not.
But despite her best efforts and his, she will never be the well-trained shinobi he is, and he finds, as he watches her breathe in and out, her mouth parted slightly, a lock of hair stuck to the side of her lips, that he doesn't care anymore. He reaches forward and lightly brushes the hair away, off her cheek, and knows he will never care that she won't ever be the shinobi their family wants her to be.
His fingers linger on the cool skin of her cheek and her eyes squeeze tight that much, her face turning so he can no longer see her other eye, buried against the pillow as it is. But he doesn't remove his hand, defiant to the last, and she doesn't wake up.
He releases a breath he wasn't aware of was holding.
His fingers brush along her cheek and into the soft strands of her hair spread out on the pillow. Dark, black like the sky outside, and still short. He kneels, wanting to be closer to her, and his knee catches the sheets, pulling them slightly as he moves.
Her breathing never changes.
The hair beneath his fingers is soft and slightly damp—she must have bathed before bed. He quickly shifts his train of thought, not allowing himself to follow through despite his own personal protests that he keep going. Nothing good comes from thoughts like those. Nothing good comes from late night, secret visits either, he tells himself.
Nothing good comes from them, but he knows he won't stop them, either.
She sighs quietly, tongue darting out to lick her lips as she rolls over so he can see her once-buried eye, and he quickly pulls his hand away lest the pressure alert her to his presence. By the way she settles back into the pillow, the smallest hint of a smile on her face, he knows he's still safe.
And then he finds himself looking at his hand and frowning, bending the fingers slowly into a fist, clenching and unclenching. When did he become such a coward, he wonders. If she woke to find him by her bed, all he had to do was look at her with his usual expression, tell her he was doing a routine check of the household. She would nod and accept his answer, accept it as she accepted everything else about him when he couldn't accept her for who she was.
A disgusted sound wells in the back of his throat but he forces it back, forces himself to stand, the covers still pinned by his legs moving with him, bunching up around the small girl sleeping peacefully in her large bed. Her eyes squeeze tight again and the small smile she had fades away, replaced by something he could almost call a grimace. The thought that he could give her that expression makes him jump away in disgust, images of years ago welling in his mind, a vision of her broken and bleeding and him wanting, needing, craving her death, all but willing to give it to her himself.
She murmurs in her sleep, lips moving, words he can never hear echoing in her head as she rolls back onto her side, grabbing the covers and pulling them up under her chin like a child cold and alone.
And that's really what she is, because she's never been allowed to be anything else, and she doesn't think she can be.
And he's moving again, closer to her, arms reaching out and touching her. And her skin is soft beneath his fingertips, soft and pale and giving, just like her. And her eyes start to open, but he puts his palm over them, soothing sounds he never knew he could make lulling her back to sleep.
When he feels her relax, feels her breath even out against his wrist, he pulls his hands away only to realize he's shaking, and he clutches his hands to his chest, eyes wide in surprise. He can't remember the last time he was surprised, can't imagine that she, of all people, could make him feel such a foreign emotion.
But she makes you feel emotions whether you want to or not, he reminds himself silently, lowering his hands and looking at her one last time. She looks peaceful, calm, completely different than the frightened girl caught up in the struggles of a family that has never believed in her.
Someone he had never believed in until just a while ago, when he realized that strength was more than the number of jutsus you knew or the power of your Byakugan.
And with a final look, he leans down, the skin of her forehead cool against his warm lips, and he whispers to her goodnight, don't worry, because he's ready to do the job he was given, and he will protect her now and always.
Hyuuga Neji closes the door silently behind him, the same as how he entered, and nothing but the warmth against her forehead is left to be testament to his presence.