Full Title: The Heaviness of End in Making
Pairing: Tenten/Neji
Words: 1231
Summary: It's ever so easy to see the things that are not there, so she calls it the end in making, because that's what love really is.
Author's Notes: Born out of stress. And because I can. Read and rejoice. Maybe not all is so dark in the wake of mankind.
..°°..
How long, how long have you been asleep, dear?
I will search for answers that are lost
I can't change the way you feel at all
I can't wait, wait for you forever
My millionth dream gets sucked into your eyes
You think that I have been okay - I'm not fine.
- Charlotte Martin; "Talk to Strangers"
The Heaviness of End in Making
..°°..
1. It has been seven hours and fifteen days since she said yes.
"Tomorrow. Again."
She has fallen in love with him in a second. A small smile, a dancing butterfly left of him as a symbol of their freedom and sky so perpetually blue high above them that she thinks if she looks up – she will turn blind. Instead she keeps her eyes on steady and glued to his and on the little quirk of his mouth.
And falls in love.
..°°..
2. Fifteen days for the birth of it.
It was dark. Dark, dark, dark – the night so gloomy, the sky this time so heavy with clouds she can almost feel them like stones on the tips of her fingers, and trees with their frightening arms looming in the corners of her brown eyes. The morning is so very far, far, far away and a little death, solemn and bleak, is a little breath short on her lips.
Only three more weapons in her possession; the number so small that the nerves in her fingers are nervously twitching and turning and twisting in hurt, mixing the loss of concentration with the damaging growth of danger and her heartbeat is rapidly increasing in it's rhythm like a raging river just waiting to overflow.
She knows deep down in her blood that this could very well be the end, as the start of fatigue slams into her head with a resonating bang. A sound of a throat fighting for air. A catching gasp of someone dying, birds flying off into the sky and a first drop of water on her hot forehead.
It's just a blink of an eye, but downwards, down – down – downward she went, falling in paleness of her skin and caving in, losing her grip, swirling in the luring mass of blackness threatening to overcome her vision.
Two strong hands and a deliberate shove at the ground; her legs wobbling on spot, her muscles in a spasm and then – dirt in her eyes, and bitter taste of grass in her mouth. With lingering weakness in her bones she ups herself on one arm, raises her head high and high to see him there – tall, strong, steady and unwavering like a stone – and protecting. His voice drifts to her in waves, as a resonance of bells chiming in the distance and she imagines it's just a lullaby.
"You will not die here."
A heavy sense of loss settles in her stomach, and it takes away all of her remaining strength not to run or hide - bushes, just there behind her, and heave, heave, heave - and rid herself of the acid burning her throat, tongue and her nostrils, to empty the emptiness of her insides and tear herself apart even more.
He is tall and strong and filling her in and out and she can't help but grow even more in love with him.
..°°..
3. Seven hours for it to break and end.
The gripping sensation of trying and losing settles on her back as she packs her bag and with shaking hands evens out the bed sheets of her hospital bed, as if she's trying to even out the bags under her eyes and the screaming hole just under her ribcage. In her head there are images of the past – hot and burning in her brain, shimmering just beneath the surface, so close, so private it makes her sick and dizzy.
She didn't die – just like he promised – she's here, safe, sound and alive. No, not quite. Crashed and burned and run over by the heaviness of it all. His eyes are on her, silent and ever here, ever present and awake. Such level of protectiveness should make her feel safe, but they send cold shivers down her spine that resemble icy fingers bathed in empty colors like his eyes, and the growing scar itches on her skin in a memory of mundane tries.
"Will you?" He drawls out in a slow voice that sounds a bit tired, but actually is distant and void of any emotion, so much that she can see him spring open and be filled with hollowness, and crazy as that sounds. Still, in ever lustful feelings of her lonely nights, wishes and dreams stumble and fall over each other in her soul and in her imaginary world she spreads her arms and grips and pulls and decides.
"Yes."
The deed is done, the promise is made – tasting broken on her rose buds, smelling rotten in her nose and leaving sweet traces of remorse on her lips. What is done is done is done, and she is a woman of her word.
The sound of hospital and new beginnings rings dust-fully in her ears, the stench of lost opportunities lies darkly in her steps and the heavy weight of a heart in love leaves hidden within her bag. The knowing sense, the dawning comprehension of it all burns against her teeth, and dances upon her tongue, playing on and on, mocking her in a silky tune of the end in making. Some may call it work in progress, but she calls it the end in making, because that's exactly what it is – just something being done, carried out until it is dragged right to the finish line and abruptly cut off there.
It's ever so easy to see the things that are not there, and thus she never questions herself where did the start disappear off to.
..°°..
4. Seven hours. Fifteen days. It might as well be an eternity.
When the priest says his final words, she turns to Neji in a crashing understanding and gifts him with her translucent tears of hope (and regret, but both of them pretend it is not there), tears that soak and bathe her face in guilt; in a past which is now merely a past but then again – has just become her future and taking her hand he takes her unholy heart that is so full of him and his blackness and neglect in a game of play pretend.
Instead of setting him free like she promised him to do – like she promised herself – she only lets herself be trapped, she unfolds to deliver herself into his arms and his world. Not all might look that bad, she dares think, just before the imaginary click of the doors sounds out in the gaping void too narrow between the bars to escape from a prison she will later in years call the fated work of love.