GENRE COLLECTION
Chapter 1: Sillage (Drama/Tragedy) – May 2015, Word Count: 1097
Chapter 2: Operative Ghost (Adventure/Crime, aka Spyfic) – May 2017, WC: 2255
Each chapter will have links back to the previous one (not plot-wise, as they'll probably be in different universes—more like subtle background similarities.) Easter eggs!
Sillage (n.) the scent that lingers in air, the trail left in water, the impression made in space after something or someone has been and gone; the trace of someone's perfume
The villagers, mere specks against the ochre cobblestone, rush around each other busily, heading for undoubtedly important places to meet undoubtedly important people.
A hundred feet above Konoha, Tenten crosses her legs and wonders if the villagers realize the extent of their resemblance to ants. Given that actual ants have a clear sense of purpose, though, she may need to find another metaphor.
Her body remembers her fear of heights—her knuckles are white, fingers clutching tightly to the ledge to reign herself in from the danger of her newfound impulsiveness—even when her mind is an absence.
Tenten supposes that, no matter what, a part of her will always be scared, to the very end. She reaches again for her flask but freezes.
There are footsteps.
It's him.
The feeling is bone-deep, irrefutable, and just as overwhelming as it had been all those years ago. She recognizes his presence immediately, knows without even turning her head, that it is him.
"Speak of the devil," she murmurs, eyes fluttering closed. He smells like she remembers, crisp detergent and pine.
He approaches, and the paradoxical odors battle for dominance, closer.
She still doesn't meet his gaze.
The silence persists, and she is reminded of a very, very long time ago, back when her days had been filled with green spandex and targets and training for something, for some vague notion of strength. Protection? The greater good? She can no longer recall.
As a child, she chased after it, the goal so elusive it was understood by next to no one, channeled all her youth into blindly running full-speed down the path so many others had ventured through before. With age, her pace slowed to a steady jog. Then speedwalking. Then strolling.
Now, she sits, legs dangling in the sky, removed from the race to passively observe from without, and finally lets herself wonder if it has all been for nothing.
"You're back," she says eventually, her toneless voice jarring the mellifluous silence. It is an obvious statement, given her company for the last half hour.
Her teammate nods—she imagines—as he tends to do when she makes unnecessary comments. "How," he ventures cautiously, "have you been?"
At this, Tenten whips around and lets out a bark of laughter. The sound is ugly and cracked and bursts like a firecracker in the misty air. "I'm not dead, how are you?"
He studies her, his nacreous gaze piercing. "I see you haven't changed."
Maybe it's the fact that his hair, still longer than hers, is dramatically billowing around hands placed on his hips, or the fact that, of course, he would choose this moment to return, but suddenly the situation becomes, inexplicably, hilarious. "That makes one of us," she manages through spouts of uncontrollable giggles, the kind that bubble to the surface, soft and wheezing and interminable.
It annoys him, Tenten can see, but he is no longer in any place to make demands of her, so she continues.
"Why didn't you say yes?"
Tenten takes her time unscrewing the cap from her silver flask. "It wouldn't have mattered," she tries to answer offhandedly, taking a swig and the easy way out.
He scoffs, probably at the obvious fallacy, but does not press further. "Are you drunk?" He asks, noting her slowed speech and eyeing the flask with no small amount of disdain.
"So what if I am?" Neji has always hated intoxicated fools, and now she is one.
His response is to sit down next to her and hold his hand out for the flask.
She holds it away from him at arm's-length to ask the question that has consumed her ever since his departure. "And why did you do it?" It's a different subject entirely, but he must know what she means—what else could she be talking about?
He sighs. "Would you rather I had let her die?"
For a moment—one terrible moment—Tenten is almost positive the answer is yes. But, to her relief, she realizes that she is unable to say for sure. Uncertainty is good; she can't win, but she also can't lose. Between being selfish and heartless, she can say that she is neither. Or that she is a little bit of both.
She shrugs and gives a non-answer. "You gave her no opportunity to fend for herself."
Neji regards her with something akin to disappointment—although, in her eyes, almost every expression has begun to resemble that—and she looks away.
He takes this opportunity to snatch the flask from her slackened fingers, and she watches, expressionless, as he takes a cautious sip. "This is…" He starts, and it is one of the only times Tenten has ever seen genuine confusion etched in those aristocratic features.
"Water," she finishes for him. "Works just as well."
The sun is setting.
She finds herself once again in his arms, leaning into the warmth of his solid chest like old times, as he rubs soothing circles around her left shoulder.
"It's been hell," she voices suddenly, jerkily, "not seeing your stupid face." She can feel the telltale stinging at the corners of her eyes but tries her best to reign in the waterworks; Tenten has never been able to handle tears, not even her own.
And then: "Did you love me?" Apparently this has been plaguing her—apparently, because the question had not once occurred in her many conscious thoughts about Neji—as once the question is out of her system, she feels a sort of release. The reason behind this is beyond her, considering how she already knows the answer.
The circles cease. She begins to detach herself from her former teammate but stops when she feels him nod against her back.
Not enough, she thinks to herself. She clings to him anyway.
Just like old times.
Tenten jolts awake with a gasp and springs to her feet, eyes wild and blood pumping. She is alone, and three feet away from the spot where she fell asleep.
His scent, the scent that takes her back to immaculately pressed laundry, formal dinners, and the blankets of fresh dew coating the training ground at five in the morning, lingers in the air or her mind or both, and Tenten feels a slow ache spread across her chest.
Minutes later, there is no one on the ledge.