project: Fifty Days
disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.
dedication: To my reviewers who keep on coming back~
chapter: 23/5o
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 ran into GCSEs, guys, and it really hurt—I think I've failed the majority of my exams, but ho-hum, I'm pretty much finished now, so fingers crossed I'll be able to write more. Anyway, I'm taking a few liberties with Kakashi's death and funeral here, so bare with me slightly.
Here's an update, late as usual—I mean, honestly, why break tradition?
I love you all.
Also, I am chilling in Portugal right now, and am currently midway through chapters 24 and 25, so hopefully those'll come out a bit quicker!
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Konoha was mourning.
The entire village was quiet, silent—the air was thick, heavy; there was very little breeze and the streets were empty, barren. A girl sat in the dirt at the edge of the road, dressed in black, head bowed, painting little pictures in the mud with her fingers; she looked up when Hinata passed, met her gaze—and Hinata smiled, lips tight, expression forced, and waved a hand slowly, at which the girl simply pursed her lips and returned to drawing in the dust and dirt. She let her hand fall to her side again, awkward and uncomfortable; as she walked along, she smoothed the creases out of her black kimono, fiddling idly with a bit of stitching—it was something she hadn't worn in many long months, and it felt odd, unfamiliar, on her.
She clasped her hands in front of her, glancing up at the sky—it was bright, a clear, even blue, unmarred by any clouds.
It was beautiful.
And, yet, it was awful, too.
She let out a soft sigh, turning on her heels, and made her way back down the street; she hadn't really planned on going out at all, that day, but it had felt stifling at her home—when she had walked into the kitchen, Neji had been at the table, head pressed into his hands, still and unmoving. She'd placed her hand gently on his back, unsure of what to say, and he hadn't reacted at all—but she'd seen his hands, and his knuckles had been bruised, cracked and broken. He'd let her clean them quickly, briskly, patting them dry and then wrapping them in bandages, but he hadn't said a word; he'd just looked at her, over her head, and, when she was finished, she hadn't been sure of what to do next.
In the end, she had left—and, when she'd looked back over her shoulder, his hands had been trembling.
No, she couldn't go back—she didn't have the right words to say, and what could she even do—but she didn't exactly know what she could do now, so she turned and began to walk again, passing the girl in the dirt once more. She glanced across at her, tilted her head, and then crossed to sit next to her, looping her hands on her knees and gazing at the house across the street; an old man peered back at her, lips tugging once into a small smile, before moving away from the window.
"Hey," Hinata said softly, voice barely a whisper.
The girl glanced up at her, briefly, and then continued drawing in the dirt.
"Hello."
"My name's Hinata," she murmured, picking a twig up off the ground—she twirled it between her fingers absently, and then drew a line in the dust, ran her fingers across it, smudged the line away, and then redrew it.
The little girl didn't reply—just made a soft, non-committal humming noise in the back of her throat—and instead took Hinata's twig off her; she snapped it, and then held the two halves out. One was shorter, jagged and long, and the other was longer, but she'd rounded the end off so that it was flatter; it created a wider line than the other stick, and she demonstrated, drawing two lines—one thin and one fat—across the dirt. "There," she said, softly, a small amount of pride in her voice, "I made it better. You were doing it wrong."
"Oh," Hinata said, "Thank you, then."
For a few seconds, there was silence.
Hinata traced a rose in the dust.
Absently, she thought it looked a lot like the roses she'd seen growing at the Uchiha compound—and then she exhaled softly, and blew it away.
The little girl looked at her, her expression blank, but it was almost as though she'd seen something else, because she turned away, returned to drawing in the dust. She said, in a voice so soft that Hinata almost didn't hear her, "You shouldn't be sad."
She raised her eyebrows, smiled slightly. "I'm not sad."
"You are," the girl said, shrugged, "Even when you're smiling—my Ma says that some people can look like they're happy, even when they're feeling really bad inside. She also said I have to be really quiet when I'm outside, because everyone's going to be smiling today, even when they don't want to, and she said that it's because a shinobi died—a really good one. She said he was really strong and everyone liked him, even though she said he was always reading really naughty books, when he shouldn't be." She paused, studied Hinata briefly, and then said, "Did you know him?"
"I, ah—not very w—well."
"But you're still sad, though?"
"I suppose I am," Hinata nodded.
"Very?"
"Very," she said, softly, and drew a line in the dirt.
She stayed like that, then, for a while—just drawing, stick tracing little patterns through the dirt; a swirl here, a line there, what looked like a face in the midst of all the tiny pebbles. Beside her, the little girl stayed for only a while—and then she was called by her mother, and so she stood up and ran away, little feet leaving footprints in the dirt, trekking mud through her swirls and patterns, ruining them. Hinata gazed at it for a while longer, and then she heaved a sigh, stood up—she needed to speak to Naruto.
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He wasn't at his home when she tried to find him, and he wasn't at Sakura's, either—Ino opened the door, eyes red and smudged, cheeks still stained with tears, and smiled a wobbly smile; and then Hinata thought that maybe she didn't deserve to find Naruto, not right now. Maybe she didn't deserve to be with him—maybe he would only want Sakura; but he wasn't there, not with Sakura, not when she peered past Ino and into the dimly lit house; there was only Sakura curled up on her sofa, arms wrapped around her legs, looking absolutely furious—at herself, at Kakashi, at everyone. Apparently, he hadn't even been to visit her. As a result, she bid Ino farewell and offered her condolences—and while they felt flimsy and uncertain at best, she saw Sakura raise her head and offer a tight, sharp nod in response, accepting them.
She tried the training grounds, then, wondering if maybe he was attempting to punch and kick and sweat away all the sadness, the awful feelings—that emptiness that she was sure Naruto felt—but, when she appeared in the clearing, he wasn't there. It was weird, though, stood in the training grounds how small it all felt—tiny and trapping, like the trees were closing in on her, and then she had to run—as fast as she could.
After that, for a while, Hinata was stumped.
Then she began to walk.
At first, it was aimless walking—she was still trying to figure out exactly where her feet were taking her—but then she began to remember, saw in her mind a hill of green and white, and then she knew exactly where she was going. She didn't speed up, though; she still wasn't exactly sure what she'd say—what she even could say—to Naruto, and so she walked steadily in the direction of the Nara residence, fingers tapping a nervous drumbeat on her shoulders as she walked with her arms crossed. It was strange how cold, how unfriendly, Konoha felt that morning, the frozen sun casting long, jagged shadows across the ground—there was no breeze, she knew that, but she imagined there was a wind, ghosts of memories and whispers of a shinobi passing through the empty streets. She passed only Sai as she walked, and they were barely acquaintances—she couldn't remember the last time they'd spoken—but he paused opposite her, and she saw that he wasn't smiling; strange, but the lack of his signature fake smile, lips pulled taut, made her feel oddly empty.
He was carrying a bundle of scrolls beneath his arm, pinned to his side.
She tipped her head in a nod and said, "You're going to see Sakura."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes," he replied, easily, and his voice sounded brittle, uncertain, as he continued, "I read in a book that people need their companions—their friends—in these times."
"They d—do," Hinata murmured, softly, and smiled slightly.
Still, Sai looked troubled. "I wasn't sure she would need me."
"She needs her team—now more than e—ever."
"But I—"
"You're n—not Sasuke."
His face became closed then, and Hinata marvelled at just how expressive he could be for someone who didn't particularly understand emotions.
"No, I am not."
"And that's okay," she said, and began to walk again, passing him, "Because it's n—not Sasuke she needs right now."
For a while, she didn't think he would move—didn't think he would visit Sakura after all—and then she heard the soft pat-pat of his footsteps through the dirt, and when she turned and looked over her shoulder, he was walking again, scrolls clutched against his chest. It was almost as if he sensed her gaze, because he lifted his hand in a slight wave—a lazy wave, she thought, reminiscent of Shikamaru; and she chuckled at that, if only slightly, amused at the little things Sai had picked up by talking with them—and then she turned and continued walking. After that, the smile slipped from her face as she thought of the enormity of what she was about to do; she wasn't even sure if Naruto would even slightly want to talk to anyone right now, especially if he hadn't been to see Sakura. She passed Shikamaru's house and saw him sat at the front of his house, fingers steepled together to create a triangle, eyes closed—and he cracked open an eye as she passed, ducked his head in a nod towards the general direction of the dandelion hill she'd visited with Naruto before, and she offered him a tight, sharp smile in return.
She began to speed up, then, worried that he'd leave before she got there—or that he'd sense her presence, know she was coming, cut and run before she could speak to them; and hey, she might not even speak to him. He might just want company, she thought, might just want someone to sit with so that, for once, he wouldn't feel so alone—because Kakashi had always been there for him; had stopped him from feeling so alone back when they were children; had supported and cared for him, and now…
Now he was gone.
Her throat felt tight.
She hesitated for a moment at the foot of the hill.
For a few seconds, she was overcome by an overwhelming fear.
Then, slowly, she began to walk up the hill.
It was a steady trek—she definitely didn't remember the slope being this steep or the hill seeming this large, but it was as though every step she took simply furthered the distance between her and Naruto—and oh, wasn't that just as it always was? There had been no breeze down in Konoha, none at all, but here she could hear the dandelions whispering together, as if plotting against her—and then she was reminded of the ghosts of memories, and she hesitated again, briefly, unsure of whether she was doing the right thing. She needn't have, though, because suddenly she was at the top of the hill and suddenly Naruto was in front of her, and then it wouldn't matter—she had to speak now, before it was too late.
He was sat with his legs sticking out in front of him, leaning back on the palms of his hands, arms pushed back behind him—his head was tilted back, blonde hair ruffled in the slight breeze, and, when she stood over him, he cracked an eye open.
His lips tugged into a small smile, but he didn't say anything.
Instead, he pressed a finger against his lips and then patted the grass beside him.
Hinata hovered, again, if only for a few moments, and then she sat, crossing her legs beneath her, by his side. He shifted next to her until their shoulders were touching, but, other than that, he didn't move at all—just shut his eyes again and stayed silent. This was what he needed, she knew, and, yet, she couldn't stop herself from thinking that maybe she should say something; offer her condolences or tell him it would all be okay. He cut her off before she could, though, saying ever so softly, "Just—can we just do this for a little while? Please, Hinata?"
When she looked at him, he was still smiling, but his eyes were sad.
She thought of the little girl from earlier:
My Ma says that some people can look like they're happy, even when they're feeling really bad inside.
Slowly, she offered him a tentative smile in return and nodded.
He actually looked relieved at that, lifting a hand to his head and running his fingers through his hair—she shifted into a more comfortable position, bunching her skirt around her, feeling the dandelions prick at her legs. They both sat there, then, silent as the breeze began to pick up—and this time, when the dandelions took flight it seemed mournful, sorrowful, and, yet, when she looked across, glancing at Naruto from beneath her eyelashes, she saw that he was smiling slightly.
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Sai hesitated at Sakura's door, uncertain—out of the rest of the team, Sakura had been most willing to accept him, but only after he'd finally allowed himself to accept them; but despite that, none of them had ever truly accepted him. He'd seen, even when they thought he hadn't, when they looked past him, when they saw the ghost of what once was—of who should have been there—upon his face. It wasn't something that bothered him, not completely, but it made him feel uneasy and filled him with this strange urge to just—try. When they looked at him like that—lost, like they were searching for someone else in his features—it made him want to try and be someone else. And now, stood at Sakura's door, he was painfully aware of the fact that he wasn't that someone else, the person they wanted him to be.
Absently, he thought of Hyuuga Hinata's words:
It's n—not Sasuke she needs right now.
A part of him hoped that was true, but if it wasn't the Uchiha she wanted, then he was certain it would be Naruto.
He stepped backwards, bunched his scrolls beneath his arm, and turned to leave.
Behind him, the door swung open and Yamanaka Ino drawled, "Did you want to come inside or were you just going to lurk?"
He froze, turning slowly, and quickly plastered a smile across his face.
"I—"
"Right—you were just lurking," Ino replied, and then stepped aside, drawing the door open a little wider. "Well, tough luck; I was just getting ready to head home, and Sakura definitely could use the company right now—your company, in fact. Get your pretty self inside, pronto."
He didn't bother protesting, then, side-stepping quickly past Ino and stepping into Sakura's hallway; Ino rolled her eyes again, slipping her shoes on and switching places with him, standing on the doorstep. He lingered awkwardly next to the door, unsure of what to say, and Ino stared back at him—it was weird, but her eyes were searching, and he wondered if she too was seeing Sasuke on his face, on his lips, in his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, to say anything—to ask about Sakura, how she was doing—but he hesitated, right at the last second, and a troubled expression passed fleetingly across his face, before settling back into his previous false smile.
She frowned at that, said, "Don't do that."
"Don't do what," he asked, absently.
"That," she said, and gestured towards his expression, "Don't show us a glimpse of who you actually are—and then just close yourself off."
He blinked slowly.
Then, gradually, he let the false smile bleed off his face.
Afterwards, he felt oddly… naked.
Ino beamed at that, reaching up and patting his cheek. "There—much prettier."
"I can't say the same for you," he replied, with a slight shrug—and the smile that tugged at his lips felt better then, like it actually fit his face.
It was an odd feeling, he decided, but one that he could get used to.
Opposite him, Ino's smile looked a little more forced. Then, with a shrug of her shoulders, she turned on her feet and began to walk away, called over her shoulder, "You'd better look after her, Sai—or else I will break your pretty face, understood?"
For some reason, he didn't exactly think she was lying.
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"I just can't really believe he's gone."
It was the first thing Naruto had said in what felt like hours.
Hinata didn't really hear him at first—she'd been thinking of other things; of Sasuke; of Neji and her family; of how she'd feel if it were Kiba or Shino she were mourning; of what she'd say to Kurenai—what could she even say—and of Naruto and how he must be feeling. When she finally realised he'd spoken, in a soft distracted voice, her eyes widened and she blinked at it, unsure of how to answer. He'd tucked his feet beneath him, legs crossed, and he was still gazing up at the sky, but there was a blankness to his eyes, as if he weren't really there sat next to her—as if he were far, far away—and his hands were pressed by his sides, palms flat on the grass, fingers splayed.
Uncertain, unsure, she wound her fingers between his.
In the end, she didn't say anything at all.
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Sai hovered awkwardly at the kitchen door, eyes on Sakura; she seemed much smaller, huddled at the kitchen table, arms folded in front of her, gazing glassily at the wall—his scrolls felt heavy in his hands, useless and pointless. He found it uncomfortable how different she suddenly seemed, nothing like the strong kunoichi he'd fight alongside; she'd always seemed so big then, when they were fighting together, vibrant and brilliant. If he were to paint her then, he'd have painted her in bold, brash colours against a blurred background, because, when she fought, her face would light up and that would be all he'd see—her colours, bright and brilliant.
Now, he thought, if he were to paint her, he'd paint her in blues.
There would be a ghostly hue across her face—he'd paint her in sorrow and moonlight.
He cleared his throat as he stepped fully into the room, and her head swung to face him, but he was pretty sure she wasn't seeing him, not properly; but, for once, he was also sure she wasn't seeing Sasuke, either. He didn't think she was seeing anyone at all—nothing but memories. He crossed into the room fully and sat down in front of her; her gaze followed his movements, even as he spread his scrolls across the table, but she still didn't say anything, didn't comment. Instead, she just watched.
There were five scrolls in total, hand-painted and intricate, and he'd spent the last night, all morning, finishing them. Three of them were landscapes; the first a long, swooping landscape of Konoha at night, dimly-lit, almost mysterious in the moonlight; on the second, he'd painted the forest as he remembered it, when they'd passed through it and spent the night beneath the stars; and, on the third, he'd painted a single stone grave in the snow, the Konoha emblem scratched onto the surface. On the fourth scroll, there was a painting of Kakashi as Sai had seen him—worn, but strong; tired, but yet so awake, with an amused glint in his eye, a tilt to his lips. He'd very nearly decided not to bring the fifth—because the fifth was an old painting, one of his—and then he'd decided she could have it; it was the only scroll he didn't unravel.
He watched as she traced her fingertips across the first three paintings, gazing at them.
Her touch was feather-soft, he saw.
Then, on the fourth scroll, she began to cry.
He didn't notice at first—was too busy watching the path of her fingertips—but then he saw the first splash of tears hit the painting, just below Kakashi's visible eye, and he tore his stare away. He looked at her, then—took in the furious glint to her eyes, her trembling hands, her wet cheeks—and wondered if he'd done something wrong; quickly, he began to gather the scrolls back up, said, "I apologise—"
"No," she said, and her voice was soft.
Her hand was soft, but firm at his wrist.
"I like them."
"Right," Sai said, quietly, and let go of the scrolls.
She didn't let go of his wrist, though—her grip just got tighter and tighter.
He thought maybe he should say something—Sakura did, after all, have incredible strength—but then she let out a wretched sob.
His eyes widened and he gazed at her, uncertain still.
Then, as best he could with his hand still pinned in her grasp, he moved around the table so that he was stood next to her; he placed his free hand on her back, pulling her gently to her feet, and then pulled her into a hug. It was awkward—he'd never really, properly hugged anyone before and, while that would have seemed like an odd thing to anyone else, it was something Sai had accepted. Hugs—and physical contact like that—had never seemed important, back then, but he'd read about them in his books, and, well, he was certain hugs weren't supposed to be this wet. They were supposed to comfort people, he knew that much—but maybe he was doing it wrong. He shifted slightly, aware of the fact that Sakura was still gripping his wrist like it was a lifeline, and then, as he did so, her face met his chest and she just began to bawl. It was awkward and strange—and his hand pretty much flew off her back like he'd been shocked, and he peered down at her, wondering if there was something he was supposed to say.
"No—don't speak," she said, voice snotty and sniffy and crying, "Not right now. Please."
He felt a little bit startled, but he nodded nonetheless.
Gingerly, he let his hand fall back onto her back.
They stayed like that, then, for a while, with Sai stiff-backed and rigid against her; and then, eventually, he relaxed, his hand tracing soothing circles across her back—she was softer than he'd thought she'd be, softer than she appeared in his drawings; there was a certain strength to her, though, despite her curves, like he was holding something very strong and very breakable all at once, and that confused him. She confused him, he realised, absently—and then she pushed very gently at his chest, which was apparently still strong enough to send him staggering a few steps backwards, and eyed him with a teary smile, said, "You're better at hugging than I thought you'd be, y'know."
It was a start at a conversation, he knew that, something to distract her from her real feelings.
He was her distraction, he realised, and fixed his features into his signature smile.
And then his expression softened into something genuine, when he realised he didn't mind that fact at all.
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"You're good at this, Hinata," Naruto said, after a while, with a stretch.
He didn't look happier, but he seemed almost lighter, she thought.
She tried for a smile, and it came out tentative and tired, as she asked, "What do you m—mean?"
"At," Naruto began, and then paused, tipping his head as he thought, "At knowing when people need you—and then knowing what people need, and helping them, and standing steady and strong when they're falling. It's like, I think I'm falling right now—and if you weren't here, I don't know what I'd have done; probably something reckless and stupid, I guess, if you asked anyone else, but it would have felt like I was at least doing something. But when you're here, I don't want to—I think I'm still falling, but it's like you're there to keep me steady, or to fall with me, or to—I don't know. I guess, you might not be the strongest kunoichi I know, but you're the strongest friend I have."
She looked at Naruto, then, and saw that he wasn't looking at her—that his eyes were tipped to the sky as he spoke.
His face looked almost peaceful, just a ghost of sorrow in his eyes.
If he was falling, she thought he must be a falling star.
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If anyone were to ask Hinata if she thought Sasuke were a star, she would tell them yes; she would say he was a shooting star—brilliant, flaming crimson staining the night sky, burning everything and everyone in his path, white-hot and oh so beautiful—burning anger and vengeance across the sky. In certain moments, she was sure she could see the flames in his eyes—swore that his gaze scorched her, terrible and yet wonderful all at once—but now was not one of those moments at all. He wasn't looking at her, now; his gaze was fixed on the wall just over her shoulder, vague and absent, as if he were elsewhere, thinking of other things; and there were tight lines at the edges of his mouth, shadows beneath his eyes. His skin seemed paler, she thought, and she wondered if he'd slept last night.
If someone were to ask Hinata if she thought Sasuke were a star now, she would still say yes.
Now, he looked as though he'd burnt out—a fallen star, she thought.
A hollow rock—a shell of what he once was.
She wondered if he was thinking about everything he'd done, everything he'd lost, and she wondered if he still thought it was worth it; she doubted it, though, judging from the expression on his face. Her skin was itching—she wanted nothing more than to close the distance between them, to lace her fingers with his just as she had done with Naruto, to be there for him—but she was pretty sure the ANBU would have something to say about that, considering how she'd already overstepped her boundaries yesterday. As a result, she stayed where she was, hands clasped in her lap, knees together, desperately thinking of something—of anything—to say and not knowing quite how.
In the end, Sasuke looked at her.
He didn't say anything—nothing at all—just looked at her.
His look chilled her—it was as though he was empty inside.
"You would think," he spoke, then, and his voice sounded carefully casual, as if they were just discussing the weather, "That, for a shinobi who has already lost everything, I would be used to this."
He didn't say what.
Her voice caught in her throat, and whatever words she'd had to say faded into nothing.
Instead, she simply looked back at him—no challenge in her eyes, simply acceptance.
She didn't know how long she sat there in silence, how long they simply gazed at each other, but it felt like hours—no, it felt like much more than that, and, yet, she couldn't bring herself to look away. The silence stretched on and on, and neither of them made any move to break it; it wasn't quite uncomfortable, either. It was sad, she decided, the heavy sort of silence that often came hand in hand with sorrow—and then finally his lips quirked into a weary, tired smile, much like the ones Naruto had worn earlier that day, and he closed his eyes, said, "You're a funny sort of person, Hinata."
"I think you're the s—second person to have said that today," she replied, softly.
"Then it must be true," he said, with a chuckle, but there was no real amusement in his laughter.
She didn't reply—let the silence stretch on again.
Finally, he cracked an eye open, peered at her.
Then, quietly, he said, "You're good at this, aren't you?"
"I've been told," she replied, and let herself smile at that, ever so slightly.
"By Naruto, probably," he murmured, and shrugged a shoulder when Hinata looked surprised at his guess. "He has a way of saying the truth as he sees it."
"Yes, I s—suppose he does," Hinata said, softly, and then, "He's alright."
"That's a lie," Sasuke replied, instantly—his voice was closed, tight, and she knew she had to tread carefully then.
"I'm sorry; it w—wasn't a very good one," she admitted. "They're both c—coping."
He seemed to consider that.
Then, wearily, he said, "I'm glad."
Hinata waited carefully for a moment, before asking, "Are you coping?"
She watched then as a kaleidoscope of emotion flickered across Sasuke's face, each expression brief and fleeting; scorn, followed quickly by a moment of brief sadness, and then exhaustion, weariness—and then an expression that made her heart ache, something she couldn't quite name; he looked so torn that it made her feel numb, made her feel tired and much older than she actually was; and then, finally, he just closed himself off from her. His face became that mask again—the mask it had been right back at the very beginning, before they knew each other—and his eyes returned to that spot just above her shoulder, just behind her, on the wall. She waited, if only for a few moments, before standing, brushing her lap off and heading towards the door—he probably wanted to be alone. She was probably just bothering him—and, yet, she lingered at the doorway, hesitating for a moment.
When her hand closed around the door handle, he said, "Wait."
She turned, looked at him for a long moment—and while his expression was still closed and tight, his eyes were heartbreakingly sad, pleading with her, begging.
To leave now would be cruel, she realised, and made her way over to the door separating her from Sasuke; behind her, she felt, rather than heard or saw, the ANBU move to stand directly behind her, close enough that she was certain she'd be able to hear their breathing. She stayed where she was for a moment, and then they both moved back to their previous positions, certain she wasn't a threat. The door was locked, as she'd known it would be, and so she gathered her chakra in her fingertips, slicing through the lock completely; it wasn't the strongest of locks, sure, but she was pretty sure that was because there wasn't much of a chance of Sasuke breaking free of his bonds anyway. She pushed open the door, stepped inside the room, and then crossed over to Sasuke immediately; she didn't let herself touch him, not this time, just stood in front of him and then said, with a small smile, "I'll just sit here, okay?"
And that was what she meant to do, just as she'd done with Naruto—she meant to sit in front of him, offering her support silently as she'd done before.
And yet—
And yet—
She closed the distance between them quickly, easily, and then her hand was at the back of his head, and she was standing on her tip-toes, bringing him as close to her as she possibly could considering his restraints—she could feel his chin resting gently atop her head, and this wasn't what she meant to do, but they just—they fit together, and she knew this helped him. She knew it helped him, because it helped her—and that lump that had been in her throat since way before talking to Naruto, since she'd sat and drawn in the dirt with that little girl, disappeared completely, and she felt him relax against her.
She pulled herself backwards only slightly, enough so that she could see his eyes, see his expression. In those moments, she saw that he was a shooting star again—and his eyes burned as he looked back at her. She saw that he was a shooting star, burning his fiery path across the sky, and, as she pressed her head against his chest and closed her eyes, she wondered if he was dragging her along with him.
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notes2: Hinata is sort of accepting her feelings—but guys don't get too comfortable okay? ;D