A/N:
Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.
Neji has beautiful hands, Tenten decides, as she gently cradles his right hand in both of her own. Though his hands are larger than hers, they are rather slim, with long pale fingers. Tenten reveres them as a masterpiece.
His hands are rough, but warm, and have a comforting weight to them. They are like anchors, one for her and one for Lee, keeping them both safe and close to him. She hopes she dies still tethered to him, though she knows when she dies, he will have already passed. His final stand will be for her. Shaking her head, she slowly turns his hand to view his palm.
The natural lines of his palm have been completely overwritten by all of his scars. Tenten thinks it is fitting; his scars are a testament to the life he has fought to make for himself against the one that had been predetermined for him at birth. In his scars she sees his story, their story, of hard work and perseverance, of friendship and camaraderie, of snapping bones and mending ties, of finally finding freedom.
She traces his long fingers and knows she is one of the few who have had the privilege to experience their tender, loving touch. Most only know of the pain they inflict, their ugly cruelty. Most do not appreciate them as the wondrous, precise weapons they are, carefully chiseled from years of training. She lightly presses the pads of her fingers against his, feeling his pulse thrum steadily, a complement to her body's fiery beat.
As she examines his hands, she marvels at his paleness. Though he trains for hours under the sun, his skin is still much lighter than hers. But when his hands are dirtied, the paleness of his skin against the crimson of blood and the dark mud of the battlefield are such a striking contrast, sometimes Tenten can't look away. But as shinobi, their hands are rarely clean. Even after the dirt of a long battle has been scrubbed away, the phantom warmth of their enemy's blood lingers on their skin. Their hands might look clean, but they never feel clean.
She holds his hand a while longer, curled in a chair by his bed, listening to the sounds of the hospital. She stays until the light of the setting sun creeps up from the foot of his bed and makes its way across his sleeping form. She places his hand atop his chest, careful to not wake him, and goes to shut the curtains.
She shrugs on her vest and places her hand on his again for a moment; the slow rise and fall of his chest calms her like the soothing lull of ocean waves. Someday, she believes, they both will find themselves in the midst of a reckoning, having to face the ugly truths of the shinobi world, and she wonders if his hands will haunt him. She wonders if it will be their beauty, in spite of all the horrors they have performed, that will repulse him. Will he prefer to have mangled hands to represent the cruelty they have dolled?
But then she shakes her head, almost laughing at herself. Neji probably does not think of his hands as very beautiful. He regards his hands simply as tools that are meant to serve their village, meant to serve her.
Only she sees the beauty in their purpose.
A/N: Thank you for reading and please review!
~M.I.