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Author's Note: Well, it's been a minute. But I have a laptop again, and hope for more regular posting. Please enjoy.
Midnight, in C Minor
Chapter Eight: Redamancy
(n.) the act of loving the one who loves you; a love returned in full
"I'm… I'm sorry… for what they said." She fidgets with the sleeve of her kimono, glancing back over the garden's bridge at the ongoing Hyuuga banquet, the lights behind the shoji doors oddly comforting even in their starkness.
She supposes home will always be comforting to some degree, even when it shouldn't be – even when her blood has been washed from the stones of the practice courtyard, even when her mother's garden has been overturned, even when her father's room has already been given to dust.
Beside her, Sasuke watches her quietly.
"The elders," she continues, "ever since father's death they've been…" She loses the words, or perhaps never had them. She huffs in mild frustration, eyes leaving the softly lit halls and flicking over the pond beneath the bridge where they stood.
He chuckles then, and it draws her attention. "I've suffered worse than their words, Hinata."
"But still – "
"It is of no matter,"
She is silent then, and somehow that is worse, though he doesn't know why.
They stand staring at the pond for many moments, and in the flash of moonlight along the water he thinks he sees her worrying her lip, but he cannot be sure, and he will not look at her (some hurts he will never admit to).
"You're wrong," she says finally, softly, her throat tightening as she looks to her hands. "It does matter. It matters because I mean to marry you, and I'll not have them speak of my husband in such a way."
Sasuke is reminded of the day she had first pressed her lips to his, a daring sort of hesitance pushing her to stand on her toes, her hands framing his cheeks (too tightly if he remembers correctly) and the quick, wet pressure of her mouth against his, not long enough to intrigue, but enough to startle – and the way she didn't take her eyes from his when she dropped back down, her hands still uncomfortably squeezing his cheeks and he had laughed – laughed – and she had flinched back, mortified, regretful, until he bundled her in his arms and kissed her properly.
She is much more forward than she thinks sometimes, and it's this quiet boldness with her affections that endears her to him far more than any overt touch or daring confession.
He looks down at her finally, though she isn't looking at him, and then he winds his fingers through hers and tugs gently, pulling her into him until she stumbles against his chest, her face braced to his shoulder. He keeps his one good hand in hers, moves his lips to the crown of her head. "Silly girl," be breathes against her hair.
She shifts against him, her free hand rising to brace along his chest, fingers curling into the material of his montsuki. He looks down and has to stifle a laugh at her pout. She's so serious about it though, and he doesn't mean to mock her, so he presses his lips back to her hair and sighs against her, his hand tightening over hers.
"I thank you anyway," he offers, pausing a moment, and then smiling into her hair as he adds, "my wife."
She doesn't answer, only burrows deeper into his chest.
His wife, his wife, his wife.
He catches their reflection in the water. Moonlight has never done her justice.