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moonsheenTitle: Green Tea
Author: Moonsheen
Fandom: Naruto
Type: mild het
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Hyuga Hiashi, Hinata, and Neji are not mine. I'm just borrowing them for my own nefarious purposes. Sorry 'bout that.
Summary: Hinata and her father have a word.
His daughter kneels across from him, her eyes downcast and the tilt of her head polite and respectful.
She says lowly, "Good evening, Father." and he answers with a nod and her name, which is all the acknowledgment she needs to look up, but her eyes do the typical dart around the room before she lets out her breath, and that’s when it occurs, that somehow years had slipped past his sight. It unnerves him.
His daughter has grown and, legs folded beneath her, her eyes are far more level than they ever used to be. She is a small flimsy looking woman, grown from a small flimsy looking girl and, as he expected, she hasn’t taken after him at all. The shape of her face is her mother, the color of her hair, the cast of her skin. Not like her sister at all, who’s his in looks and mind and a sense of duty, and who’s still not yet grown. Only this woman’s eyes are his, and even so she betrays that in her manner: dark with visible discomfort but not fear and at least, he supposes, she’s learned something. He watches her pour him tea, and she offers it with a hand steady out of reflex more than any sort of grace that he tried to teach her.
"Hm." He nods to her again, and that is his gratitude. His daughter sits back and they drink together, in a fine proper silence while she waits for him to speak again. He enjoys it a moment, and then he makes it easy for her: "Why have you come?"
His daughter knows not to waste his time with silly pleasantries when she has clearly come for business. She has always been compliant, has never searched for conflict. She is woefully agreeable. It’s a pity.
"Three weeks ago," she says. "Father sent me notice."
And he is not surprised. He’s almost impressed she came in person, though, it clearly costs her some nerves, as she smoothes out the wrinkles of her kimono. Even her voice has changed; it has not gone much deeper-- she is no son and that is a pity in of itself—but she keeps it from trailing to the intelligible mumble she once so favored, and in that now he cannot fault her.
"I am aware." His tone is dry, but neutral enough she manages not to shy away from it. "Have you come with an answer?"
His daughter sips her tea for confidence, and the hands clasped around the polished surface of the cup are not tiny anymore. She nods. "…I have."
"You have taken into consideration what you have been told."
"Yes, father."
"You have taken into consideration what this means to the clan."
And his daughter pauses. "…Yes, father," she says again, finally. "I will not be a weakness." Her voice is soft, and earnest, and more a little girl than he remembers, and it makes him tired.
"Be grateful then, that you are given this choice. It’s more than you have earned," he says sternly, because she is his child, and he is an honest man, and far more could have been asked from her. Demanded from her. "Who, then?"
His daughter is obedient. He asks and she smiles and tells him.
Two drops of tea fall from his cup, in perfect succession, soaking into the cloth by his knee. He sees it. He doesn’t speak. It doesn’t register.
He sets the drink down. His daughter brings her hand to her lips politely--it seems a strange gesture.
"Is he worthy of our name, Father?" she asks, and he realizes, slowly, that in all the years that he has watched this child, he has never heard her laugh so clearly.
"This is not amusing," he informs her, and find it is hard to be firm when his breath has stopped. "This is not a joke."
Her shoulders stop shaking. "I know." She drops her hand, sets her cup down, and her face is solemn again. "I know," she says again. "Father, I understand--"
"Do you." He says, it’s already on his mind, the possibilities of what she has suggested. He can see it, and so help him it almost seems like she’s just sweetly suggested a coup. "Do you really understand." He doubts it. He doubts her—it is habit, after so long. His daughter is of an unfortunate temperament. His daughter has always been a strange girl, beyond his knowledge, beyond his help, and she has grown into a very strange woman as well. "Do you really know what that would mean?"
"I do." There are birds embroidered onto sleeves of her kimono, her eyes fix on them. Her voice is soft and fast, as though she’ll never have the chance to say it again. "I do know what I’m saying. But, Father, you only specified that I choose, and that he be someone who deserves our name. Does he, Father?"
It isn’t even a question. "Yes," he says and inhales. "He does."
"May I marry him, Father?"
He wonders for a moment who this woman is to ask that.
She meets his eyes.
"Yes," he says and sighs. "You may."
Then and only then does his daughter stop wringing her hands and remembers to bow. Her face is naked with emotion, and this, this is familiar, a poor quality she has inherited from neither of her parents. She is a wreck of an heir, he has thought so for years.
"Take your leave," he orders, before she makes more of a mess out of all of the tradition she has just stumbled over. His daughter has the presence of mind to take it as a gift and obey. Flushed and having done her part, the woman stands with her small hands lost in her sleeves, and does as she is told. He watches her go, through the shoji. She breaks into a brisk step in the hall, and nearly runs into a servant in passing.
"Foolish thing," he mutters once she is well out of sight. This must be what inevitably feels like, he thinks as he slumps back. It’s too sudden, really. He feels the years on him now. They’re heavy and they ache. They ache and he can’t bring himself to resent it.
The tea in the cups in front of him cools fast, but of that he takes no notice. Hiashi rests his head in his hands, and feels the change already in the air.
Author: Moonsheen
Fandom: Naruto
Type: mild het
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Hyuga Hiashi, Hinata, and Neji are not mine. I'm just borrowing them for my own nefarious purposes. Sorry 'bout that.
Summary: Hinata and her father have a word.
His daughter kneels across from him, her eyes downcast and the tilt of her head polite and respectful.
She says lowly, "Good evening, Father." and he answers with a nod and her name, which is all the acknowledgment she needs to look up, but her eyes do the typical dart around the room before she lets out her breath, and that’s when it occurs, that somehow years had slipped past his sight. It unnerves him.
His daughter has grown and, legs folded beneath her, her eyes are far more level than they ever used to be. She is a small flimsy looking woman, grown from a small flimsy looking girl and, as he expected, she hasn’t taken after him at all. The shape of her face is her mother, the color of her hair, the cast of her skin. Not like her sister at all, who’s his in looks and mind and a sense of duty, and who’s still not yet grown. Only this woman’s eyes are his, and even so she betrays that in her manner: dark with visible discomfort but not fear and at least, he supposes, she’s learned something. He watches her pour him tea, and she offers it with a hand steady out of reflex more than any sort of grace that he tried to teach her.
"Hm." He nods to her again, and that is his gratitude. His daughter sits back and they drink together, in a fine proper silence while she waits for him to speak again. He enjoys it a moment, and then he makes it easy for her: "Why have you come?"
His daughter knows not to waste his time with silly pleasantries when she has clearly come for business. She has always been compliant, has never searched for conflict. She is woefully agreeable. It’s a pity.
"Three weeks ago," she says. "Father sent me notice."
And he is not surprised. He’s almost impressed she came in person, though, it clearly costs her some nerves, as she smoothes out the wrinkles of her kimono. Even her voice has changed; it has not gone much deeper-- she is no son and that is a pity in of itself—but she keeps it from trailing to the intelligible mumble she once so favored, and in that now he cannot fault her.
"I am aware." His tone is dry, but neutral enough she manages not to shy away from it. "Have you come with an answer?"
His daughter sips her tea for confidence, and the hands clasped around the polished surface of the cup are not tiny anymore. She nods. "…I have."
"You have taken into consideration what you have been told."
"Yes, father."
"You have taken into consideration what this means to the clan."
And his daughter pauses. "…Yes, father," she says again, finally. "I will not be a weakness." Her voice is soft, and earnest, and more a little girl than he remembers, and it makes him tired.
"Be grateful then, that you are given this choice. It’s more than you have earned," he says sternly, because she is his child, and he is an honest man, and far more could have been asked from her. Demanded from her. "Who, then?"
His daughter is obedient. He asks and she smiles and tells him.
Two drops of tea fall from his cup, in perfect succession, soaking into the cloth by his knee. He sees it. He doesn’t speak. It doesn’t register.
He sets the drink down. His daughter brings her hand to her lips politely--it seems a strange gesture.
"Is he worthy of our name, Father?" she asks, and he realizes, slowly, that in all the years that he has watched this child, he has never heard her laugh so clearly.
"This is not amusing," he informs her, and find it is hard to be firm when his breath has stopped. "This is not a joke."
Her shoulders stop shaking. "I know." She drops her hand, sets her cup down, and her face is solemn again. "I know," she says again. "Father, I understand--"
"Do you." He says, it’s already on his mind, the possibilities of what she has suggested. He can see it, and so help him it almost seems like she’s just sweetly suggested a coup. "Do you really understand." He doubts it. He doubts her—it is habit, after so long. His daughter is of an unfortunate temperament. His daughter has always been a strange girl, beyond his knowledge, beyond his help, and she has grown into a very strange woman as well. "Do you really know what that would mean?"
"I do." There are birds embroidered onto sleeves of her kimono, her eyes fix on them. Her voice is soft and fast, as though she’ll never have the chance to say it again. "I do know what I’m saying. But, Father, you only specified that I choose, and that he be someone who deserves our name. Does he, Father?"
It isn’t even a question. "Yes," he says and inhales. "He does."
"May I marry him, Father?"
He wonders for a moment who this woman is to ask that.
She meets his eyes.
"Yes," he says and sighs. "You may."
Then and only then does his daughter stop wringing her hands and remembers to bow. Her face is naked with emotion, and this, this is familiar, a poor quality she has inherited from neither of her parents. She is a wreck of an heir, he has thought so for years.
"Take your leave," he orders, before she makes more of a mess out of all of the tradition she has just stumbled over. His daughter has the presence of mind to take it as a gift and obey. Flushed and having done her part, the woman stands with her small hands lost in her sleeves, and does as she is told. He watches her go, through the shoji. She breaks into a brisk step in the hall, and nearly runs into a servant in passing.
"Foolish thing," he mutters once she is well out of sight. This must be what inevitably feels like, he thinks as he slumps back. It’s too sudden, really. He feels the years on him now. They’re heavy and they ache. They ache and he can’t bring himself to resent it.
The tea in the cups in front of him cools fast, but of that he takes no notice. Hiashi rests his head in his hands, and feels the change already in the air.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2003-12-28 08:22 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2003-12-28 08:39 am (UTC)Beautiful piece -- I love the character you put into Hiashi, so much more complete than we see in Naruto itself, though it follows what we're given /of/ him. I like that a lot. And Hinata, poor sweet thing -- not many people can write her as she is without turning her into this wretched ball of gigglesighhide that seems so often to be the norm. Wonderful work, and a very nice ending. ^_^
(no subject)
Date: 2003-12-30 12:15 am (UTC)btw, do you mind if I friend you?
(no subject)
Date: 2003-12-30 01:10 am (UTC)AaronSirk
Date: 2004-01-04 08:18 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-01-15 02:50 am (UTC)~Rel