Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto
Cendré
Written in December, 2008.
Hinata reads the label and smiles timidly and looks at the ground, fingers turning white against the edges of the packaging. Mumbles her thanks against the collar of her jacket. The flower shop is warmer than the air outside, and she'd like to stay longer, but it isn't allowed. Mingling. What Ino has given her is a present; she has no idea who it is intended for. Hanabi is too young for tea, and her father knows nothing of beauty. Only of ceremony. She is desperately trying to remember -
She apologizes, and attempts a bow, and leaves. Shivering into the outside air, the bag safely covered and wrapped in plastic, just in case. The hail underneath her feet reminds her dully of the snapping of bones. Of the pallor of flesh, and lacerations too deep to heal. She imagines she is lost in a world with nothing but snow; snow and ice and loneliness. And this comforts her, because as long as she is alone there is no clan, no expectations she couldn't hope to reach. No ikebana or cold, grey eyes.
Hinata winds the scarf closer around her neck, adjusts her gloves.
When she arrives at the mansion her face is flushed with cold and for one sickening, fearful moment she thinks the entrance has locked. [It's her hand, unable to grasp with mittens, and] when the doors finally open her fingers refuse to bend, her wrist is sore, and she feels tired, so tired. Even with slippers, the sound echoes. From the edges of her vision she sees a small, insignificant blur of colour. Wonders if it is her father, or -
x
Later, the Family has retired to bed, and she is aware that she has not smiled in a long, long time. None of them have. And on accident she brushes against the gift, laying next to her shuriken and notes at the far corner of the room. Her things are kept separate, not to be tainted by the Branch members. No matter that she trains with Neji, or her school as a genin was public, or the smell of flowers is still faint on her skin, she is still the heir, the unworthy. Hinata holds the plastic in her hands. Reaches inside, the pads of her fingers calloused and rough.
From the kitchen, she can see snow falling.
The kettle slowly heats. Time has stopped for this one moment; the dim, evening light from overhead is constant, unwavering. She watches for patterns in the steam, and presses her fingers into knots, and closes her eyes. Picturing someone far, far away. He is invincible, and it is enough to make her want to laugh. The inner strength she has taken from him is enough for now, but there will be a time when she…
The water is hot, and she washes her cup with it, warms it. The blossoms from her gift are small, delicate, and a deep pink. When Hinata tips the kettle she holds her breath - almost afraid of something going wrong - and despite her worries the flower unfolds as if it were spring, [as if it were alive.] And, she remembers.
Her birthday.