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'Or So They Say' - Sasuke [Naruto]
~
Sasuke. ‘Or So They Say.’
-
Her hands are always warm. It’s one of the first things he notices about her, and he finds a sort of comfort in that warmth, accepting her touch without protest but only rarely reaching for it or requesting it.
His hands are always cold. They always have been--he can remember his mother remarking on this, cupping them in her own and rubbing them gently, breathing on them; but though they were warm so long as they remained in her grasp, as soon as she released them, they soon lost whatever heat they’d gained.
[“It’s a wonder they haven’t fallen off by now. Go ahead and take your time in the bath tonight, Sasuke.” In contrast, Itachi’s hands had never seemed particularly warm or cold, just smooth and dry and a little calloused; his father’s were the same way.]
It’s never bothered him, he’d never really paid it any thought until now, when he finds himself forced to offer her his hand so frequently, due to her condition. Now, though, he wonders if it bothers her, if it’s uncomfortable or unpleasant, and that possibility troubles him more than he ever would have expected.
He doesn’t say anything, but even so she must have sensed his uncertainty, perhaps noticing the slight, shuddering hesitance every time he extends his hand to steady her, though her own grip never halts or wavers.
“Cold hands, warm heart,” she says one day with her soft little smile, the one that makes the skin at the corners of her eyes crinkle. His brow contracts in consternation at those words, a considering frown. (Hadn’t his mother said the same thing? He can’t remember really, which sickens him, because even though it’s only an inconsequential fact buried more than fifteen years in the past, to him, those almost-lost minor details are somehow always the most precious.)
[“I’ll have to keep you in mittens year ‘round.” That exchange he does remember, and the gently teasing laugh that went along with it. Almost subconsciously, he wonders if perhaps that’s why he’d taken such a liking to wearing arm guards later on.]
“Emotions affect circulation, so it means your feelings are very strong and that you really care a lot…o-or so they say,” she continues after a moment. She hasn’t let go of his hand, even though she’s safely down the steps by now. “…Also…in extreme weather, your blood goes to the places you need in order to survive...a-and the heart is one thing it’s careful to protect.”
[“They say blood is thicker than water. And it is...but not by much.” Maybe it’s true, but what does that matter when that questionable density wasn’t enough to prevent more than one sort of betrayal, or to protect not his literal, but his metaphysical heart? What does it matter when he is the only one who still carries that somehow-perhaps-too-thin blood?]
(…But he isn’t, he reminds himself, looking at the waxing-full-figure of his wife walking beside him. Not anymore. And never again, he swears to himself.)
He doesn’t reply, his expression still drawn-in and pensive; but he doesn’t pull his hand away from hers either, not until they’ve reached the bench in the middle of the garden and she’s safely seated on it.
“Your hands are always warm,” he says, more statement than question, though there’s a subtle hint of inquisitiveness about it. He looks at her sideways through half-lidded eyes that ask, and what do ‘they’ say about that?
And here, she does pause. “...Warm hands, cold heart,” she replies, looking down at fingers twiddling in what’s left of her largely-eclipsed lap. “There’s no explanation for that one, really...it's just the opposite of the other saying.”
“But it’s wrong.” They’re both a little startled by the words. He doesn’t normally say such things, doesn’t care what anyone else says, especially about trivial things like this, but this time is somehow different; another inconsequential fact or minor detail that he can’t merely allow to slip through his too-cold grasp. And after his slight surprise fades, she finds that he’s not the least bit embarrassed or regretful of those words and everything they said without saying. And for once, even that isn’t enough.
“It’s wrong about you,” he clarifies after a moment, looking no more self-conscious or sorry for his words than before, which is not at all.
His gaze on her is steady, but hers is turned downward once more, watching as she folds and unfolds her hands, and twists and untwists her fingers, turning the plain silver band on her fourth finger round and round.
She doesn’t look up.
“Is it really,” she says quietly, and the uncharacteristically closed expression her face adds a sometimes I wonder.
[“Cold hands, warm heart.” For the first time, he believes it; and (not nearly for the first time) he wishes it wasn’t true.]
When he, unthinkingly, takes her hand to help her back up the stairs into the house half an hour later, he feels as if the heat of her hand almost burns him.
But he feels it; this time, his grip is steady. And he doesn’t let go.
--
[A/N: Must give credit where credit is (sort of) due; the bit about blood being thicker than water was heavily influenced by my favourite lines from The Far Sweet Thing by Libba Bray. The original quote is, “Blood is thicker than water. That’s what they say. But in truth, most things are.”
...This piece is a lot more... Artsy? Emotional? Vague, certainly, than my usual writing, but I've been reading some interesting things lately, and what I read tends to affect how I write. Reading this over, it makes sense to me...does it to you, the reader?
Also...the "her" in this...technically can be prettymuch any girl you want--I never actually named her on purpose--though I did have one in mind.And likely not the one you'd first think~ |D
Sasuke. ‘Or So They Say.’
-
Her hands are always warm. It’s one of the first things he notices about her, and he finds a sort of comfort in that warmth, accepting her touch without protest but only rarely reaching for it or requesting it.
His hands are always cold. They always have been--he can remember his mother remarking on this, cupping them in her own and rubbing them gently, breathing on them; but though they were warm so long as they remained in her grasp, as soon as she released them, they soon lost whatever heat they’d gained.
[“It’s a wonder they haven’t fallen off by now. Go ahead and take your time in the bath tonight, Sasuke.” In contrast, Itachi’s hands had never seemed particularly warm or cold, just smooth and dry and a little calloused; his father’s were the same way.]
It’s never bothered him, he’d never really paid it any thought until now, when he finds himself forced to offer her his hand so frequently, due to her condition. Now, though, he wonders if it bothers her, if it’s uncomfortable or unpleasant, and that possibility troubles him more than he ever would have expected.
He doesn’t say anything, but even so she must have sensed his uncertainty, perhaps noticing the slight, shuddering hesitance every time he extends his hand to steady her, though her own grip never halts or wavers.
“Cold hands, warm heart,” she says one day with her soft little smile, the one that makes the skin at the corners of her eyes crinkle. His brow contracts in consternation at those words, a considering frown. (Hadn’t his mother said the same thing? He can’t remember really, which sickens him, because even though it’s only an inconsequential fact buried more than fifteen years in the past, to him, those almost-lost minor details are somehow always the most precious.)
[“I’ll have to keep you in mittens year ‘round.” That exchange he does remember, and the gently teasing laugh that went along with it. Almost subconsciously, he wonders if perhaps that’s why he’d taken such a liking to wearing arm guards later on.]
“Emotions affect circulation, so it means your feelings are very strong and that you really care a lot…o-or so they say,” she continues after a moment. She hasn’t let go of his hand, even though she’s safely down the steps by now. “…Also…in extreme weather, your blood goes to the places you need in order to survive...a-and the heart is one thing it’s careful to protect.”
[“They say blood is thicker than water. And it is...but not by much.” Maybe it’s true, but what does that matter when that questionable density wasn’t enough to prevent more than one sort of betrayal, or to protect not his literal, but his metaphysical heart? What does it matter when he is the only one who still carries that somehow-perhaps-too-thin blood?]
(…But he isn’t, he reminds himself, looking at the waxing-full-figure of his wife walking beside him. Not anymore. And never again, he swears to himself.)
He doesn’t reply, his expression still drawn-in and pensive; but he doesn’t pull his hand away from hers either, not until they’ve reached the bench in the middle of the garden and she’s safely seated on it.
“Your hands are always warm,” he says, more statement than question, though there’s a subtle hint of inquisitiveness about it. He looks at her sideways through half-lidded eyes that ask, and what do ‘they’ say about that?
And here, she does pause. “...Warm hands, cold heart,” she replies, looking down at fingers twiddling in what’s left of her largely-eclipsed lap. “There’s no explanation for that one, really...it's just the opposite of the other saying.”
“But it’s wrong.” They’re both a little startled by the words. He doesn’t normally say such things, doesn’t care what anyone else says, especially about trivial things like this, but this time is somehow different; another inconsequential fact or minor detail that he can’t merely allow to slip through his too-cold grasp. And after his slight surprise fades, she finds that he’s not the least bit embarrassed or regretful of those words and everything they said without saying. And for once, even that isn’t enough.
“It’s wrong about you,” he clarifies after a moment, looking no more self-conscious or sorry for his words than before, which is not at all.
His gaze on her is steady, but hers is turned downward once more, watching as she folds and unfolds her hands, and twists and untwists her fingers, turning the plain silver band on her fourth finger round and round.
She doesn’t look up.
“Is it really,” she says quietly, and the uncharacteristically closed expression her face adds a sometimes I wonder.
[“Cold hands, warm heart.” For the first time, he believes it; and (not nearly for the first time) he wishes it wasn’t true.]
When he, unthinkingly, takes her hand to help her back up the stairs into the house half an hour later, he feels as if the heat of her hand almost burns him.
But he feels it; this time, his grip is steady. And he doesn’t let go.
--
[A/N: Must give credit where credit is (sort of) due; the bit about blood being thicker than water was heavily influenced by my favourite lines from The Far Sweet Thing by Libba Bray. The original quote is, “Blood is thicker than water. That’s what they say. But in truth, most things are.”
...This piece is a lot more... Artsy? Emotional? Vague, certainly, than my usual writing, but I've been reading some interesting things lately, and what I read tends to affect how I write. Reading this over, it makes sense to me...does it to you, the reader?
Also...the "her" in this...technically can be prettymuch any girl you want--I never actually named her on purpose--though I did have one in mind.