YuugaoRin ficlet
I finally got some inspiration to write the first of one of those cracky pairings! :O So now I'm feeling pretty accomplished. Very accomplished! I actually wrote something! Now I just need to work on the Sound-fics for fanfic100. And being the crazy person I am, picked up InoSaku for 1sentence. Hey, it's only sentences.
Anyway.
No title. G rating, nothing really offensive. Almost more of a Yuugao-centric genfic/platonic YuugaoRin, though if I write more and continue it it will probably develop into romance. Overuse of the word 'other', angst, possibly-OOC-Yuugao but I have no clue about how she acts since we've barely even seen any of her.
Warning; un-beta'ed story ahead.
Uzuki Yuugao wanders slowly through the town of Konohagakure, her blue sandals padding softly against the cobblestone streets. It is a sunny day, and birds sing sweetly overhead, but their sound falls on deaf ears. Her dark hair lies tangled on her shoulders; the last time she brushed it was for the funeral, the Hokage’s funeral-no, Hayate’s funeral.
Her back feels oddly strange and light without the familiar weight of the ANBU sword strapped to it. Does she really wear it that often? Did she really spend so much time with them? Precious time that no matter which way she looks at it, could have been spent with Hayate?
Her cheeks are dry as she brushes aside the curtain to the tea shop and walks inside, almost feeling like she is not in control of her body. She has already cried all her tears away.
* * *
“Yuugao-san! I haven’t seen you in forever! How are you? What would you like? Today we have-” Keoko stops abruptly at the look on the older woman’s face and falls silent, rubbing her hands on her starched white apron embarassedly. “Sorry, sorry…” Her bobbed hair bounces as she backs away from Yuugao’s table. Yuugao doesn’t even look up, staring into the wood grain of the table.
“If there’s anything you’d like, just let me know,” Keoko says softly, then scurries off to the kitchen.
Yuugao’s eyes follow her almost blankly, then drop back to the surface of the table.
* * *
A form rustles as it shifts into view in front of the dark-haired woman, and a steaming dark cup of tea is set down in front of her on the table.
“You looked like you needed some. It’s on me.”
The voice is low, feminine, quiet, laced with an undertone of loss. Yuugao’s eyes travel from the cup to the hand that placed it in front of her, all the way up to the face of a woman who has sat down in the chair across from her.
She is older than Yuugao, taller, with soft brown hair that falls to her shoulders, framing her face, which is round and careworn. There is no hint that she would be a shinobi, no Konoha hitai-ate. She wears the clothes of a simple civilian. A streak of purple paint crosses each of her cheeks, but Yuugao is immediately drawn to her eyes. Chocolate brown, they hold Yuugao’s gaze and transfix her, thoughtful and knowing, and deep down inside them is the same hidden pain that the dark-haired woman bears.
* * *
“Drink,” she says, sipping from her own cup, and Yuugao wraps her hands around the ceramic gently, the heat radiating through to her palms. Her face is reflected in the dark liquid of the tea, lost and blank, and she raises it to her lips and takes a gulp. It is hot but not scalding, sweet but not cloying, a slightly bitter green tea, just what she likes.
“This is good,” she says aloud, more to herself than the woman sitting across from her.
“Isn’t it?” the other asks, glancing down into her own cup. “It’s my favourite. Their best. Do you come here often?”
“I used to,” she says, and the words feel empty in her mouth. “I haven’t been here for a long time, though.”
“Mm.” The other woman nods and sips her tea again.
“Why are you talking to me?” Yuugao asks suddenly, looking up. “What made you come over and sit down, and buy me tea? You don’t even know me.”
She regards Yuugao strangely, tilting her head to one side. When she finally speaks, what comes out is “What is your name?”
“…Yuugao. Uzuki Yuugao,” she says, and even her name feels meaningless on her tongue.
The brown-haired woman nods, and scoots her chair in closer to the table, its wooden legs grating on the floor. “Do you know why I came over here?”
Yuugao shakes her head.
“You have that look in your eyes, and I recognize it.” Her eyes are soft and knowing as they meet Yuugao’s own. “It’s the look of someone who has lost a friend. A lover. Someone dear to them.”
Yuugao is finally jolted into emotion for the first time this afternoon, and she suddenly feels awake. “How can you tell? How do you know?”
“Because the exact same thing happened to me,” the other says. There is sadness in her voice, but no self-pity, nothing that says ‘feel sorry for me’, just quiet understanding and sincerity.
Yuugao stares at her, lips barely parted, and for once since Hayate’s death, feels like she could have a reason to be alive again.
“Thank you,” she whispers, voice rough, and lays her hand gently on the other’s, slender fingers lightly resting on the brown-haired woman’s wrist, and they sit there in silence, sipping their tea.
It is not till after dark, when Yuugao has left and is walking home, that she realizes she did not even learn the woman’s name.
----
...I need a YuugaoRin icon. D:
Anyway.
No title. G rating, nothing really offensive. Almost more of a Yuugao-centric genfic/platonic YuugaoRin, though if I write more and continue it it will probably develop into romance. Overuse of the word 'other', angst, possibly-OOC-Yuugao but I have no clue about how she acts since we've barely even seen any of her.
Warning; un-beta'ed story ahead.
Uzuki Yuugao wanders slowly through the town of Konohagakure, her blue sandals padding softly against the cobblestone streets. It is a sunny day, and birds sing sweetly overhead, but their sound falls on deaf ears. Her dark hair lies tangled on her shoulders; the last time she brushed it was for the funeral, the Hokage’s funeral-no, Hayate’s funeral.
Her back feels oddly strange and light without the familiar weight of the ANBU sword strapped to it. Does she really wear it that often? Did she really spend so much time with them? Precious time that no matter which way she looks at it, could have been spent with Hayate?
Her cheeks are dry as she brushes aside the curtain to the tea shop and walks inside, almost feeling like she is not in control of her body. She has already cried all her tears away.
* * *
“Yuugao-san! I haven’t seen you in forever! How are you? What would you like? Today we have-” Keoko stops abruptly at the look on the older woman’s face and falls silent, rubbing her hands on her starched white apron embarassedly. “Sorry, sorry…” Her bobbed hair bounces as she backs away from Yuugao’s table. Yuugao doesn’t even look up, staring into the wood grain of the table.
“If there’s anything you’d like, just let me know,” Keoko says softly, then scurries off to the kitchen.
Yuugao’s eyes follow her almost blankly, then drop back to the surface of the table.
* * *
A form rustles as it shifts into view in front of the dark-haired woman, and a steaming dark cup of tea is set down in front of her on the table.
“You looked like you needed some. It’s on me.”
The voice is low, feminine, quiet, laced with an undertone of loss. Yuugao’s eyes travel from the cup to the hand that placed it in front of her, all the way up to the face of a woman who has sat down in the chair across from her.
She is older than Yuugao, taller, with soft brown hair that falls to her shoulders, framing her face, which is round and careworn. There is no hint that she would be a shinobi, no Konoha hitai-ate. She wears the clothes of a simple civilian. A streak of purple paint crosses each of her cheeks, but Yuugao is immediately drawn to her eyes. Chocolate brown, they hold Yuugao’s gaze and transfix her, thoughtful and knowing, and deep down inside them is the same hidden pain that the dark-haired woman bears.
* * *
“Drink,” she says, sipping from her own cup, and Yuugao wraps her hands around the ceramic gently, the heat radiating through to her palms. Her face is reflected in the dark liquid of the tea, lost and blank, and she raises it to her lips and takes a gulp. It is hot but not scalding, sweet but not cloying, a slightly bitter green tea, just what she likes.
“This is good,” she says aloud, more to herself than the woman sitting across from her.
“Isn’t it?” the other asks, glancing down into her own cup. “It’s my favourite. Their best. Do you come here often?”
“I used to,” she says, and the words feel empty in her mouth. “I haven’t been here for a long time, though.”
“Mm.” The other woman nods and sips her tea again.
“Why are you talking to me?” Yuugao asks suddenly, looking up. “What made you come over and sit down, and buy me tea? You don’t even know me.”
She regards Yuugao strangely, tilting her head to one side. When she finally speaks, what comes out is “What is your name?”
“…Yuugao. Uzuki Yuugao,” she says, and even her name feels meaningless on her tongue.
The brown-haired woman nods, and scoots her chair in closer to the table, its wooden legs grating on the floor. “Do you know why I came over here?”
Yuugao shakes her head.
“You have that look in your eyes, and I recognize it.” Her eyes are soft and knowing as they meet Yuugao’s own. “It’s the look of someone who has lost a friend. A lover. Someone dear to them.”
Yuugao is finally jolted into emotion for the first time this afternoon, and she suddenly feels awake. “How can you tell? How do you know?”
“Because the exact same thing happened to me,” the other says. There is sadness in her voice, but no self-pity, nothing that says ‘feel sorry for me’, just quiet understanding and sincerity.
Yuugao stares at her, lips barely parted, and for once since Hayate’s death, feels like she could have a reason to be alive again.
“Thank you,” she whispers, voice rough, and lays her hand gently on the other’s, slender fingers lightly resting on the brown-haired woman’s wrist, and they sit there in silence, sipping their tea.
It is not till after dark, when Yuugao has left and is walking home, that she realizes she did not even learn the woman’s name.
----
...I need a YuugaoRin icon. D: