project: Fifty Days
disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.
dedication: This is for all of you. I love each and every one of you.
chapter: 22/5o
summary: "In fifty days, Uchiha Sasuke will be executed." For fifty days, she will visit him. For fifty days, he will fall steadily in love.
notes1:
I'm back, I promise~
Thank you so much to all of you. Seriously, you need to know that I haven't given up on this; while I'm a complete and utter bitch when it comes to updating, I still love Fifty Days with all my heart, and so I am going to finish it—but thank you very, very much for sticking with me, despite the fact that my updates are very sporadic. I promise that I'm going to work on it—I'm finally getting my Naruto-writing mojo back, and, let me say, updates for this and Tag, and a new couple of Hinata-centric fics—including GaaHina, SasuHina and SasuHinaIta—are on the way.
Also, just FYI—I'm not keeping up with the Naruto manga.
I will catch up!
So, enjoy~
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In the end, they found Kakashi.
He was slumped beneath a tree, head dipped forwards—there was a long, jagged gash across his chest, deep and unforgiving; his clothes were soaked with blood and his skin was pale, but there was the slightest of smiles plastered across his face, beneath his mask. It was Sakura who found him, and she flew towards him, a strangled cry escaping her lips. At first, she couldn't bring herself to touch him, her hand inching out slowly to touch his skin—and then she jerked away, as if burnt, hand moving to her mouth, smothering that second cry before it could leave her lips.
She staggered backwards, cheeks wet, transfixed by the sight in front of her; part of her had always known that they would die in battle—all four of them, she had thought, Sasuke included—but seeing Kakashi in front of her, sitting in a pool of his own blood, pinned to the bark of the tree behind him by one of his own kunai…
It was awful.
She was so transfixed by the scene in front of her, that she barely heard Naruto land beside her in a crouch; he straightened, eyes fixed on her, and asked her what was wrong—but it was as though she were hearing him from miles and miles away. It was as though she wasn't hearing him at all. Standing utterly still, she didn't reply; and it was only then that Naruto's face turned deathly pale, and he turned, gazing in the direction she was staring. He didn't move—didn't speak—didn't even flinch. He just stood where he was, hands fisted by his side, eyes dead; and when Sakura looked at him, she saw rage and sorrow and such hurt.
It was only then that she ran to Kakashi.
He felt so cold, so frail, so small—and she wrapped her arms around his body, rocked against him, cried for all she was worth; her cheeks were stained with tears, and she let out a guttural, animal cry, before sobbing against his hair, pressing his head against her chest. She sobbed, wrecked and wailing, and for a moment, she wondered how everything could have gone so wrong—she thought of how they'd been, Team 7, when they were so much younger. She thought of the photo that had never left her bedside table; of her, surrounded by her boys—by Naruto, Kakashi, Sasuke—and she thought of how everything had been so much simpler back then, at the beginning.
Or perhaps it hadn't.
Perhaps, back then, she had simply ignored all the complications.
That was more likely.
For a few moments, Sakura felt as though her heart had shattered.
It was too much to deal with—first Sasuke, and now this? She'd always known, of course—she'd always worried and fretted, and her nightmares had always been vivid and crimson; when she closed her eyes, these were the images that flickered in her mind, bright and vivid, but not real. Not then. When she'd dreamt back then of Naruto's broken, battered body, or of Sasuke crimson and bloody, or of Kakashi… like this, it had been just that. It had been a dream.
No, it had been a nightmare.
But now, in front of her…
This was real.
It wasn't fair.
It wasn't.
She didn't realise she was repeating the words over and over again, like a mantra, until Naruto appeared by her side, seemingly out of nowhere, resting a hand upon her shoulder. His voice was gentle and strangely calm—it sounded quiet, soft, relaxed, but if she'd been in her right mind, she'd have noticed the strangled note to each word, as if he were choking on each and every word. Sakura didn't notice, though, because her cheeks were tear-stained and her eyes were screwed shut, and she couldn't think properly; her hands were balled into fists, clutching desperately at the front of Kakashi's flak jacket, and she couldn't bring herself to look at Naruto.
Instead, she let out a pained cry.
"This wasn't supposed to happen—none of this was. It's all—it's wrong. We weren't supposed to go this wrong. How did we—how did we go this wrong?"
"I know, Sakura."
"He's dead!"
"I know."
"This isn't fair."
"I know—I know," Naruto murmured, and then he moved forwards. He was swift, almost sweeping her into his arms; but all of a sudden, Kakashi was gone, and they were stood a distance away, Naruto's arms wrapped around her. For a brief moment, she closed her eyes—she could almost pretend she hadn't seen what she'd seen, that she hadn't seen the truth, but almost as soon as she did, she felt her heart grow cold.
He'd been so still.
It was all so final.
She let out a muffled sob, as she remembered the way he used to smile, his single, visible eye crinkling, mirth obvious in his gaze—and that was when she began to cry again. She felt pathetic and small again, just as she had done time and time again, as she'd watched Sasuke and Naruto walk further and further away from her; just as she had felt when she'd seen their backs grow smaller and smaller, unable to do anything but watch. She felt helpless again. It was something she hadn't felt in such a long time, and all of a sudden, she couldn't control her tears. She simply sobbed and sobbed, arms limp and useless by her side—that didn't matter, though, because Naruto was doing all the moving for her, holding her still and upright, running his hands across her hair and soothing her. He was trying to console her as best he could and she suddenly felt a wave of gratitude, her lips quirking into the smallest of smiles, spoilt only by her tear-stained cheeks and the pain in her eyes.
Eventually, Sakura managed to regain control of her crying, her breathing slowing, her tears eventually stopping.
After that, they simply stood there.
Together.
And, for a brief second, that was enough.
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"You shouldn't be up," Hinata murmured, frowning slightly as she watched Neji dress—he'd managed to successfully pull on his trousers, refusing her help, but he was struggling with his traditional Hyuuga robes, wincing as he attempted to pull the material up and over his head. As he did so, she caught sight of his chest, marred with scars, the bandages wrapped around his stomach spotted red with blood. "Shizune says you're n—not ready."
"She's wrong."
"I don't think s—she is," she replied, and her expression softened somewhat. "You have to be careful, Neji—you'll pull your stitches otherwise."
He glanced at her then, almost dismissingly, before renewing his struggles. Hinata had been more than aware of the fact that her cousin was feeling pent-up and useless where he was; Tenten had been by to see her more than once, her expression worried and concerned, and Lee had already had to force Neji back into bed—something Neji was still angry about. He'd already attempted to get up, late one night, obviously hoping to sneak away while there was no one to kick up a fuss about it all—but Lee had been there, sat like a soldier by his bedside, and it had taken very little effort to push Neji back down onto the bed. Tenten, upon hearing about the entire thing, had snapped irritably at Neji, jabbing her finger at his chest, before disappearing without saying another word.
Now, though, it was Hinata's turn.
"Please, j—just stay here—only for another day, I promise," she tried, biting her lip.
"Have they found him, yet?"
Hinata fell silent, then.
She knew exactly who Neji was talking about—he didn't even have to look up at her. Instead, he was bent forwards, long hair hiding his face as he fiddled with the hem of his trousers; he'd given up on the shirt, if only for a second, but his entire posture was rigid and alert. Her silence was obviously the answer he'd been waiting for—if anything, it said more than enough. Hinata had no news; while she knew Sakura and Naruto had gone out searching for their former sensei, taking Sai with them, she had no idea as to whether or not they'd found him.
Her gaze fell to the floor.
"I—"
"I see," Neji replied, almost curtly, and then went back to dressing himself.
This time, he managed to lift his arms up above his head, shirt tugged up and over his arms, but he couldn't quite muffle his little yelp of pain. It looked almost as if he'd pulled the stitches on his stomach, and Hinata was up on her feet before Neji could say anything. With gentle hands and quick fingers, she pulled his white robes down over his head, smoothing out the creases—then she fastened the rest of his robes around his waist, tying the black apron so that it hung neatly over his legs. He stayed absolutely still as she did so, rigid and tense, and she tried to ignore the fact that he was obviously masking his pain.
When she was finished, he nodded his thanks.
"Tenten won't be h—happy, you know," Hinata said, crossing her arms over her chest. "You're still in pain, Neji. You can't—you shouldn't be doing this."
Neji didn't reply.
"There's n—no need to push yourself."
"I know."
"Promise me you won't, okay?"
Neji nodded, brow furrowed slightly, his lips a thin, narrow line. It was obvious that he was displeased with the entire situation—he hadn't really been expecting Hinata to be there when he woke up, although she was certain he'd had an inkling of that fact. It had been pretty customary for him to wake up with someone by his side, whether it was Hinata or Tenten or Lee—that didn't matter. It was the same for Kiba, really, although more often than not it was Hana by his side when he woke up.
Hinata didn't move as Neji walked to the door, footsteps brisk and fast; she didn't move an inch, not even as he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. Instead, she stayed where she was, clutching her hands in front of her, frowning ever so slightly, her lips drawn into a troubled line; there was a lot she always wanted to say to her cousin, but she'd never been able to find all the right words—and she was quite certain she never would find them.
She thought he understood, though.
That was enough for now.
"I won't push myself," Neji said, finally. "I promise, Hinata."
He sounded almost resigned.
"Okay," she replied, and the ghost of a smile passed over her lips. "Tenten and Lee w—wouldn't let you, anyway."
"That much is true," Neji said; she could practically hear the small smile in his words, in his voice, and then, with that said, he left, disappearing out of the door silently and quickly, his movements as fluid as water. She stayed where she was stood for a moment, listening until she couldn't hear his footsteps—and then, when she could no longer hear him, she waited until she couldn't feel him, either. She waited until the feel of his chakra, electric but still not as strong as it had once been, was gone completely.
Then she sank into her seat.
She felt exhausted.
The past few days had been challenging, she thought, but not only for her—absently, her thoughts turned to Naruto, to Sakura, and then her expression became one of sorrow. She put her head in her hands, breathing slowly, in through her nose and out through her mouth, for a few seconds; then she pulled herself to her feet, stretching slightly as she did so. She figured she'd probably head to the market—she could sort something nice out for dinner, as a sort of 'welcome home' for Neji, and then head off and see Sasuke. It seemed like a relatively good plan, and so she crossed the room, heading out the door and bumping straight into Shikamaru, who had been in the process of walking into the room.
She let out a startled squeak.
He rubbed his head, looking ever so slightly annoyed.
"S—Shikamaru! I, uh—if you were looking for Neji, he's g—gone," Hinata said hurriedly, shifting around him so that she was stood in the corridor—that way, if she needed to, she could make her escape relatively smoothly. "You just missed him."
"Really?"
"S—sorry."
"How troublesome," Shikamaru sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Do you know where I could find him, then? As annoying as it may be, this is relatively important."
"I, ah—he promised me he wouldn't p—push himself, but he's probably gone to the training grounds," Hinata replied, before shrugging her shoulders slightly, almost as if to ask what she could do. "I'm sorry you missed him. If y—you'd been here a little earlier, you would have caught him for sure."
"Shizune said he would still be here."
"He's still supposed to be here."
"That makes sense."
There was an awkward pause then.
With nothing left to say to Shikamaru, Hinata ducked her head, starting to back away—he caught hold of her arm and held her there, frowning. She paused, unsure of what it was Shikamaru wanted—and then he looked at her, looked straight into her eyes, capturing her gaze; and then they stood like that, opposite each other, completely still. After a while, Shikamaru let go, before sighing, shoving his hands into his pockets and heading off down the corridor, shoulders slumped and his head ducked.
Hinata waited a moment before following.
She hurried to catch up with him, surprised at how someone who seemed so slow could suddenly go so quickly, and when they were finally walking together, side by side, she asked, "What d—did you want Neji for?"
"It's classified," Shikamaru said, shrugging a shoulder. "And troublesome. You're still visiting Uchiha Sasuke."
It wasn't a question.
It was a statement.
"Y—yes."
"Huh. Has he given us anything yet?"
"W—what?"
"Information, data, details," Shikamaru waved a hand. "There's no way the Hokage's letting you visit Sasuke for nothing in return—as nice as she may be, the Elders wouldn't have allowed it. Has he given you anything yet?"
"No."
"Makes sense."
"How?"
"You didn't seem like that kind of person."
Hinata paused, then, slowing down to a halt—Shikamaru walked another few steps, before sighing, pivoting on his heel to face her. It felt almost like a stand-off, then, with the two of them stood a distance away from each other, opposite one another, silent. Hinata was still trying her hardest to figure Shikamaru out; he seemed like an easy enough guy to understand, sure, but he was brilliant at hiding the truth—and as he stretched, rubbing the back of his neck as he yawned, the truth was there, in his eyes.
Hinata saw it this time.
"You think I'm d—doing the right thing."
"It's troublesome, but yeah; I guess so," Shikamaru said, before shrugging again. "This time, at least."
"Good."
"It's going to hurt, though—when it all comes out. It'll hurt Naruto and Sakura."
"I k—know."
"Are you ready for that?"
"I g—guess so."
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When Neji arrived at the training grounds, he hadn't particularly expected to see Tenten already there, arms crossed over her chest, scowling at him as he stepped onto the scene; sure, he'd been ready to see Lee, because Lee was pretty much always there—and, sure enough, his friend was stood next to Tenten, a comical expression of exaggerated disappointment plastered over his face. His hands were on his hips, but he was stood with one leg pushed forwards slightly in front of the other, as if he were ready to move at any moment. He'd probably stop Neji if he tried to exert himself and, frankly, Neji wasn't about to battle with his teammates over this one.
He held his hands up in surrender.
"Relax. I'm not going to do anything idiotic."
"You're here, aren't you?" Tenten snapped, and, as quickly as that, it was as if her resolve simply dissolved—she wiped her hand across her forehead, sweaty and sticky. She'd probably already been training with Lee for some time, and had heard him coming—he hadn't been particularly stealthy about it, after all, and his side was beginning to sting again. "Why are you here, anyway? You shouldn't be moving about."
"I felt useless."
"You're not needed—not right now."
"Shinobi are always needed," Neji replied, frowning. "You know that."
"But you're not."
Neji couldn't help but feel as though this argument was simply going to spin around and around in circles, so he sighed, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. Tenten had her arms crossed in front of her chest again, looking furious, and Lee simply looked lost—then, slowly, he took a few steps forwards, coming to stand next to Neji. There was this brief moment of understanding, and then Lee sat down, crossing his legs and placing his hands on his knees. "Come, friends," he said, then, voice cheerful and painfully loud as he beckoned towards the two of them. "Let us sit."
There was a pause.
Then, finally, Tenten rolled her eyes, grumbling beneath her breath as she made her way over; she kneeled next to Lee, glowering up at Neji, still looking utterly furious. He decided that maybe he'd have been better heading home, first. He could have asked Hanabi how things had been without him, or something—anything was better than this.
He must have looked as though he was about to sprint away, because all of a sudden Lee hooked a hand around his leg, jerking him none-too-gently to the ground. He fell haphazardly, all sprawling limbs, a jumbled mess—pretty much unlike his usual poised self—and was pretty lucky that Lee seemed to catch hold of him, his palm pressed flat on Neji's chest as he twisted the other so that he landed on his back.
Neji stared up at the sky.
For a moment, all he could see was blue—peaceful, plain blue—marred only by a few clouds and the occasional bird.
Then his teammates leaned into his line of sight.
Tenten quirked an eyebrow, and said, "That was graceful."
"Are you sure you're alright?" Lee added. "You, uh—you aren't usually that clumsy."
"I'm fine," Neji said, and attempted to sit up; it was a little more painful than he'd expected, and he couldn't help but wince as he felt the stretch in his chest. He pressed a hand against his stomach, thinking of his bandages beneath the Hyuuga robes; and then he forced his expression to clear, aware of the concerned expressions his teammates were shooting him. "You should go back to training. Pretend I'm not here."
"Oh no," Lee shook his head. "We were about to take a break anyway."
"Yeah," Tenten agreed, frowning.
"It's not a problem."
Neji resisted the urge to roll his eyes—instead, he smiled almost reluctantly, before sighing, placing his palms flat on the grass behind him and leaning backwards slightly, gazing up at the sky. Absently, he thought of the last couple of weeks—of the way things had all changed when it had been announced that they'd caught Uchiha Sasuke—of Kakashi and the Akatsuki and how things had only gotten worse then. He glanced to the left at Lee, who was mimicking his movements, peering up at the sky, and then he looked at Tenten; she met his gaze steadily, the concern still obvious in her eyes, but said nothing. He thought back further, then—to the Chunin exams, and then to before that; to when they'd first met each other, so much younger, so naive, sat opposite each other and dreaming of a future to come.
His smile was a little sad, then.
It was strange how much things had changed.
How much they changed.
But, sat next to his teammates and watching as the clouds shifted across the sky, he supposed that was okay.
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Once Hinata had gathered the groceries from the market, and dropped them back off at home, she made her way over to the prison to visit Sasuke. She'd paused at the gate to talk briefly to Ibiki—it was nothing major; he'd just wanted to ask her a little about how she was doing, and about Neji, and about Kakashi—and then she'd headed on her way. Now, though, she was stood in front of Sasuke, hands clasped in front of her, gazing at him; his eyes were closed and his face seemed almost peaceful, his brow furrowed only slightly. She'd caught him while he was sleeping, and his face had been so content—she hadn't wanted to disturb him, and so she stood where she was, entranced and silent.
It was nice like that.
She took the opportunity to study him—to study his features; the slope from the bridge of his nose down to the peak—the way his lips pouted slightly as he slept. She watched as his eyelids flickered, eyelashes dusting the tips of his cheeks, gentle and elegant. She would never tell him, but she thought he was utterly beautiful—beautiful in a way that Neji, her cousin, wasn't, and beautiful in a way that Naruto could never be—but he was beautiful in a sad, broken way, like a glass doll lying shattered upon the floor.
When he slept, though, he was whole.
He was beautiful.
Hinata settled into her chair, tucking her legs beneath her, crossing them so that she was perched on the chair as if she were a little girl again—when her father wasn't around, and she was in her room on her own, she used to cross her legs and sit up on the chair, despite the fact that she knew it was impolite. It was comfortable, though, and she liked reading like that; it helped her lose herself in the words. Then, when she was settled comfortably in her chair, she slipped her hand into her kunai pouch—it had been emptied since the weapons weren't necessary, and even if she had been armed, she would have been required to leave them with Ibiki at the entrance.
Instead of a kunai, she pulled out a tiny, pocket-sized book.
She'd found it a long time ago in her father's study—it had been hidden away on one of the higher shelves, out of reach and gathering dust, and the only reason she'd found it all was because she'd been stood on the chair, searching for some papers her father had asked for. She'd found the papers, but as she'd picked them up, she'd caught sight of the curious little thing; it fit neatly into her palm when she picked it up, and she'd paused where she stood, blowing dust away from the cover.
It was delicate and fragile, and there was no title—just black, leather binding—and when Hinata opened it, each page had been filled with tiny, cursive writing; much like Neji's, she'd thought at the time, and, looking at it now, the similarities were obvious. It was all in the handwriting, really—the slanted, sloped writing, with the neat little 'o's and the long, curling 'y's, and it was only recently that she'd realised the writing belonged to Hyuuga Hizashi. It was a journal of sorts—she didn't know what years of his life it documented, but there were pages and pages about Neji, the pride of his father obvious in the writing.
She'd never shown him.
She still didn't know why.
There was more to the journal than that, of course; her uncle had been a passionate, heartfelt man in the way only a Hyuuga could be—in his words. He'd probably rarely spoken so plainly to her father and, when he had, there would have undoubtedly been severe consequences; instead, he'd written all his different thoughts and feelings about the branch clan and the main family, and, well—he was right.
About all of it.
Hinata had often thought that if only she showed her father his journal, then surely he would see that Hizashi had been right too.
And, as often as she thought that, she quickly remembered just where she'd found the journal. It had been in her father's study—there was no way that he didn't know about it. In fact, she was willing to bet that he did know about it, but had simply tucked it away where he wouldn't have to think about it—she wondered if he'd ever even realised that the book was missing. She highly doubted it; she'd never seen him searching for the thing, or asking whether he'd misplaced it, and she'd never told him that she'd taken it.
One day, when the time was right, she would show Hanabi.
Until then, she felt more than satisfied flicking quickly through the pages; she'd read the entire thing more times than she could remember, and she had her favourite little chunks and sections. It felt private reading it, and, yet, she thought that maybe her uncle wouldn't have minded it; and she smiled slightly, fondly, as she flicked through to a section near the middle. She'd been relatively young in it, and so had Neji—the pair of them had clutched at their fathers' robes, gazing at one another, and Hizashi had said she'd looked so startled and scared—and so much like her mother. Hinata had paused at that, the first time she'd read it, and as she'd continued reading, tears had welled up in her eyes.
She'd not known her mother very well—that was because she'd been constantly falling in and out of sickness, deathly pale, with heavy, hooded eyes and a sad smile. Her complexion had been sallow and sickly; she'd barely been a memory of the beautiful woman she once was—the woman everyone said Hinata looked like. Hinata could remember lying on the white bed one day, tracing patterns across the palm of her mother's pale, frail hand, before being escorted away by her father—Hiashi had said her mother needed to sleep. He'd often said that. She'd started getting better, and Hiashi had smiled often then—he'd sometimes even laugh—and then she fell pregnant with Hanabi, and—
And she died during birth.
Many things had broken her father's heart.
That was one of them.
Still, reading the passage in which Hizashi so fondly recalled memories of her mother—of her mother as she once had been, energetic and youthful and smiling and laughing, instead of the bedridden woman she became—had brought a tear to Hinata's eye.
Now, it only made her smile.
She read the section once, quickly, briefly; she knew it so well that she was able to sculpt the words with her lips as she read, her smile widening as she did so. She read on a little further after that—it was about Neji and a bird he'd found in the garden, lying curled in a rose bush with its wings folded over its chest, cold and fragile. It had been dead, but Neji had understood; he'd been so young, but he'd asked his father to help build a tiny little grave for the creature, and they'd buried it beneath the stars, sombre and unsmiling. Her eyes flickered quickly over the words, and then she leaned back, closing her eyes for a moment.
When she looked up again, Sasuke was awake.
She let out a little startled squeak of surprise, hands fumbling on the pages of her book, shutting it awkwardly—hurriedly, she put it on the table, pushing it so that it was out of sight. Then, frowning slightly, she peered at Sasuke. "How long have you been awake for?"
"Long enough."
"You s—should have said something!"
"You looked like you were enjoying yourself," Sasuke replied, tilting his head—his gaze flickered back across to the book, briefly, as he asked, "What are you reading?"
"It's n—nothing."
"Is it yours?"
"What?"
"The book—it looks like a journal or diary," he said, smirking slightly as he did so. "Is it yours?"
"I, ah—no… No, it isn't," Hinata said, smiling sheepishly—she rubbed the back of her neck as she did so, unconsciously mirroring the gesture she often associated with Naruto, before linking her hands together and placing them on her lap. "It was my uncle's—I found it in my f—father's study, and, I don't know… I just kept it, I suppose. I didn't really know him very well; my f—father never really speaks of him, except to say that he was once a great man, but—but this makes me feel like I knew him."
"What was he like?"
"He was a g—great man."
"Oh?"
"He… he understood," Hinata explained, then, frowning down at her hands as she attempted to think of the right words; she felt the overwhelming need to explain herself to Sasuke, to get him to understand that yes, her uncle had been a great man. She didn't know why—she just felt that he had to know. "He understood that we n—need to stand together, and he always knew; he knew from the very beginning. He wanted to be out and away from oppression; he wanted to be free to control his o—own life and his own destiny, but, in the end, he knew. He understood. He was—he w—would have been the best uncle I could have hoped for."
Sasuke gazed at her then, for a long, steady moment.
She felt silent.
It was weird, the way he looked at her—gaze searching, eyes focused, simply looking—as if he could see inside her. Hinata thought that even without his Sharingan, Sasuke's eyes would have been bewitching, mesmerising; even without his bloodline limit, they saw more than they ever should—than any eyes ever could.
He saw people.
He truly saw them.
He saw them as they were and as they could be, and he stayed silent through it all, simply looking.
Then, finally, he spoke:
"I understand."
.
.
"You—you do?"
Sasuke quirked an eyebrow, gazing at Hinata; she didn't speak as though she were asking a question, but her tone was just as enquiring as it was relieved. He didn't offer her any spoken response, though; instead, he simply jerked his head in a nod, before peering at the little book on the table. Upon waking up, it had been one of the first things he'd noticed; he'd watched as Hinata had read, obviously content, and that had made him feel ever so slightly more relaxed—and he'd thought that she'd looked beautiful.
Peaceful and oh so beautiful.
"You do," she repeated, nodding slowly.
"I do," he agreed, and his lips tugged into a slight smirk.
She looked as if she were going to say it again—she opened her mouth, sculpting the words—but then she cut herself off, blushing furiously and suddenly looking very sheepish. He tilted his head again, and his smirk turned into a fully-fledged grin; all of a sudden, there was something immensely satisfying about being the cause of that blush.
She couldn't meet his eye, but she was smiling nonetheless.
"I was reading about my mother."
"Hn?"
"She, ah—she died when I was younger," Hinata said.
Sasuke didn't tell her he was sorry—he'd grown fed up with hearing everyone else say that they were sorry, whenever they'd found out about what happened to his parents, and so he didn't feel the need to say it to her. Still, he ducked his head, acknowledging her loss; that was more than enough, he felt, and her expression was grateful as she mirrored his movement.
"I barely remember her. It doesn't really hurt, not anymore—not as it should h—have," she continued, before frowning, looking troubled. "I probably s—sound so insensitive, considering… considering everything that has happened to you, but—but she was my mother, and I always felt that I should have known her. And, well—my uncle writes about her a lot. He writes about my father, too, and about when they were younger; it's interesting."
Her expression softened then.
"It's sad."
"How so?"
"It's just—the way Hizashi talks about it all… They never even knew."
He snorted, then.
If there was anything Sasuke understood, it was that.
There was silence.
Then, he spoke—
"Every memorabilia, every memory, every bit of them burned in the fires that destroyed my home; there was very little left of it—of my parents and my clan, and my childhood. I was reclusive and angry at everything, and then, when we were sorted into our different teams, one afternoon Kakashi appeared at my window; he didn't knock or anything, and just let himself in, and then he told me he was fed up of all the moping, and he said he had something to show me. I didn't agree to go with him to begin with, but then he said that if I didn't go, I'd be spending more time than I'd have liked with Naruto, so I reluctantly agreed.
He took me to this room in the Hokage's building, filled entirely with shelves—and, on those shelves, were stacks upon stacks of scrolls.
He showed me three.
They were—each was written in my father's handwriting, and they were from many, many years ago, documenting a B-ranked mission he'd been on, back when he was a Chunin; he'd been advanced for his age, and he'd taken a team of able shinobi with him—my mother included—in retrieving a stolen scroll. He was injured during the mission and unable to command the rest of his squad, but my mother took over; and, according to Kakashi, that was when they fell in love. He said he'd heard all the kunoichi gossiping about it, but it was unlikely—my father would never have mixed a relationship with his work. That's why my mother never made ANBU, despite the fact that she could have—she gave it all up for him.
But—but, back then, I sat and I read the three scrolls over and over and over again. They weren't particularly interesting—it hadn't been a fancy, exciting mission, but…"
He trailed off.
Hinata smiled.
"I understand."
It was weird, really, how two words could suddenly make everything feel so much better—Sasuke didn't really understand what he'd been trying to achieve by telling that story, but the moment Hinata had spoken, he'd suddenly felt as though he'd definitely achieved it. He very nearly smiled, suddenly relieved.
Hinata stayed for only a while longer.
Then, offering one final smile, she left.
.
.
It was as Hinata was walking back from the prison—as she passed Ibiki—that she realised something was wrong; she'd felt it, she thought, in the air, but it was only when she met his gaze that she truly realised. She smiled, lifting her hand in a wave, and his expression was grim, his returning nod stiff and tense; he was holding a scroll in his hand, clutching it so tightly that his knuckles had turned white, and Hinata slowed to a halt.
In that moment, she knew.
But Sasuke didn't.
"Kakashi is dead," Ibiki said, and Hinata didn't bat an eyelid—instead, she turned and sprinted back the way she had come, disappearing in a flash.
.
.
The door swung open, slamming against the door and hitting the wall forcefully; it was enough to startle one of the two ANBU guarding his cage and that, in turn, was enough to make Sasuke look up, startled. His expression quickly slipped into one of confusion though, as he found himself gazing at Hinata—but her face was pale, her features twisted with sorrow, and when she spoke, it sounded as if she were choking on her words. She still managed to look beautiful, though—heart-wrenchingly, heart-achingly beautiful—and he found himself immediately transfixed; there was this energy, now, fast and frantic and oh so sad; it was such a vivid, brilliant contrast to how she'd been earlier, relaxed and smiling as she clutched that little leather-bound book in her hands.
And now…
Now, she was different.
But still beautiful, his mind helpfully supplied, and he supposed that yes, she was still beautiful.
And then she spoke—
"Oh, Sasuke, I'm sorry—I'm so, so sorry. They—they found him."
He barely heard her after that.
He closed his eyes.
He could picture it in his head, bright and vivid, a violent, bloody picture; he could see Kakashi slumped against a tree, head tilted downwards, silver hair stained pink and red—and he could see the messy, cruel gash Samehada would have left, cutting through muscle and tendons and bone. He could see the broken, battered body in his mind, and it just didn't seem real. He tried to think of Naruto and Sakura, of how they must be feeling, and he suddenly felt a burning urge, a desire, to see his old teammates again; not to speak to them, but to simply see them. To look into Naruto's eyes and show him that they weren't alone—that he could still feel it, too. He could still feel the bond they'd had, the ties to their past lives, tearing apart, one by one, ripping away and baring their souls to the world.
And then he opened his eyes, and Hinata was in front of him.
No glass to separate them.
Nothing.
She was there.
She pressed her hand against his face, brushing his cheek softly, and murmuring words he couldn't quite hear; he thought her fingers were wet, but it could have just as easily been his cheeks, and he wondered, absently, if he was crying. He thought that maybe he was; and then he closed his eyes, screwing them up tightly, and bent his head—his head only just grazed the top of Hinata's head, his chin tickled by her hair, but she stood up on her tip-toes, her hand coming up to rest upon Sasuke's head. It was awkward and uncomfortable, but Sasuke barely noticed—all he felt was Hinata's hand, fingers running through his hair as she tried to soothe him, and this weird, empty sort of pain, like a black hole inside him, devouring everything it came in contact with.
Kakashi was dead.
"I'm sorry," Hinata whispered again.
Things weren't supposed to go like this, he thought, and suddenly felt very, very alone.
.
.
.
notes2:
Hope you liked it!