Hastily-written snatches of a story, jotted down intermittently on my phone during quiet moments over the course of the past few months. Ultimately, however, I got tired of seeing these snippets every time I opened the notes app, and given that none of them seemed to be going in any real direction to begin with, posting seemed like the next best course of action. Feel free to interpret as you see fit — I highly doubt I will continue this in any capacity.
Inspired largely by that strange heavy-hearted feeling one gets after watching a Studio Ghibli film, and the unforgiving bitterness my heart will always hold for all the unspeakable things that happen to my babies in canon.
11052017: Edited to fix formatting errors I hadn't noticed before. (You know, four months after first posting this.) Whoops.
30012017 | 11052017 | 706 | drabble | canon-divergent
—
hypothétique
By Tabine
(Tenten, Neji, and ten assorted thoughts on what-ifs and could-have-beens.)
(un)
It is raining the day they first meet, the downpour a steady drip-drop staccato against the roof of the Academy, the larger paned-glass windows of the classrooms.
Their distaste for one another is mutual and immediate: she finds him arrogant and condescending; he thinks her too loud and boisterous, undeserving of his attention.
But a grudging respect, a half-acknowledged sort of admiration, begins to grow between them all the same — and alongside it, the smallest, most fragile seed of something more.
(deux)
When he wakes up in the hospital after the failed retrieval mission, her scowling face is the first thing he sees.
"I can't believe you almost died." Her eyes are red and puffy, and her cheeks stained with the dried tracks of tears.
He thinks she is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. "But I didn't."
Balling her hands into fists, she settles them on her hips with a huff of exasperation. "I would never forgive you if you did, you know."
"Then I'll make sure not to die."
His reply is curt and matter-of-fact, and seems to take her aback; she gapes at him for a few moments, before thinking to respond in kind. "You'd better."
(trois)
They are fourteen and standing on the precipice of change when she kisses him for the first time.
"What was that for?" he asks as she pulls away, pale cheeks tinged with pink.
She thinks she's never seen him look more adorable (not that she'll ever tell him, of course), and with a shrug tells him simply, "I thought it was about time."
(quatre)
"I realize I've never properly thanked you," he begins suddenly.
From the corner of her eye, she glances at him curiously. "What do you mean?"
His words are as soft and measured as always, though his voice carries a depth of emotion she's never heard from him before. "You are always watching my blind spot, even when there is no need for you to do so." He clears his throat, looks away from her. "Thank you."
She grins, decides she likes him like this, before turning her attention back to the broadsword and whetstone in her hands. "Don't mention it."
(cinq)
When they are seventeen, he walks her back home after a mission, where he kisses her against the wall when she invites him inside for a late-night cup of tea.
He does not leave until morning (nor is it the last time he will choose to spend the night).
(six)
It is the little moments, where they sit side-by-side, and there is no need for words as the world continues to spin, that they come to appreciate the most.
(sept)
When she first learns what has happened, it is as if time screeches to a halt, and her blood runs ice-cold in her veins.
(She does not cry.)
It is not until much later, when the moon is returned to normal and the dream-world makes way for hard, cruel reality, that she sees his body. They tell her the injury was grievous, his condition critical, and she nods in acknowledgement, dimly aware of things left unsaid.
Her eyes burn hot, yet the tears do not fall, despite the aching splinters of her shattered heart.
(huit)
Somehow, he survives.
(neuf)
In the end, there is no zealous declaration of ardor, no promises of forever: only the pair of them, in a sterile hospital room, where the air is sharp with the scent of antiseptic, and all laid bare between them, the way it has been for years.
He looks at her, presses his lips together into a firm and bloodless line. "I love you."
Barely deigning him with a second glance, she shrugs, tries desperately to hide the smile that tugs at the corners of her mouth. She does not doubt that he sees it anyway. "I know."
(Then again, perhaps it is just as well — that had always been their way.)
(dix)
They marry on a quiet summer evening. It is a small, private affair, in the presence of only a precious few family and friends — but it is enough, for them, and they are content.
When all is said and done, and they've retreated to the privacy of their bedchamber, he draws her against him, presses his lips to her scarred and calloused palms. "I've waited a long time for this," he tells her quietly, taking her hand and placing it on his chest, where his heart beats steadily (for her) beneath the knots of whorled and fibrous scars.
She laughs, and rests her forehead against his shoulder. "I know," she murmurs with a smile. "So have I."