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365daysofsasuhina · 4 years

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[ 365 Days of SasuHina || Day Three Hundred Forty-Two: Taking Chances ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata ] [ SasuHina, gun ] [ Verse: Of Monsters and Men ] [ AO3 Link ]

She was never really the type to take chances, but then, well...Uchiha Sasuke came into her life, and nothing has been the same.

Hinata had been trying all her life to just be a normal girl. She went to school, never skipped, got good grades. Maybe not enough to be top of the class, but close. Bookish, introverted, and shy, she coasted through most of her educational years alone. Her grades did well, but...her social life, not so much. It wasn’t until college where she really began to branch out a bit. She met a few other girls her age taking what was meant to be her core classes that they were taking as electives: those relating to horticulture. Sakura took it slightly as a vanity project, given her name. And Ino’s family owned a flower shop in her hometown. The former wanted to become a doctor, and the latter wanted to study cosmetology. While Hinata didn’t consider either of them close friends...they were the closest she’d gotten to the notion in quite some time.

The changes college brought about meant changes in her, too. Ever so slightly, she felt herself growing bolder. She’d skip study hours to go with them to movies. Listen in to gossip as the pair would mull over boys in their classes or spotted on campus. None of it was really her typical style, but...she told herself she liked it. Told herself it was normal to befriend people her age, especially girls, and actually do things besides study and lurk online.

And then life had to go and make her wish she’d never stepped outside her comfort zone.

It was stupid. She knew it was stupid. But she also told herself it wasn’t that big of a deal. The odds of something going wrong were surely not that high. Her university city is big, sure...but the crime rate isn’t too high. Surely a quick jaunt on her own wasn’t going to land her in any trouble, right?

...wrong.

Walking quickly and eyes flickering, she’d found herself suddenly grabbed by an arm and dragged into an alleyway. Heartbeats soared with panic, mind screaming, “I told you so!” as a man leered down at her, gripping her neck and pinning her up against the building behind her.

But it wasn’t just any man. This man wasn’t human...he just looked the part, sans the bright red eyes and sharp teeth in his grin.

Hinata knew what he was. She’d seen beings like him since she was small. A talent - or in her mind, a curse - she’d had for as long as she could remember...one her father had insisted she stamp out, ignore, somehow cure herself of.

But for all her playing ignorant, for all her pretending not to see...Hinata could never fully escape her sight.

And even then...it wouldn’t have saved her.

No...her saving grace came in the form of another man. Another vampire. This one wielding a gun and demanding the attacker let her go. Claimed to be an Enforcer...whatever that meant.

The word had stiffened her assailant, bolting only to be struck down. Hinata was alive...and in shock. Though, admittedly, not as much as a typical human would be.

The officer attempted to drug her, to help her forget...but there would be no forgetting. She’d been privy for their world long before then.

The world of monsters...of Nightwalkers.

Awakening something long buried within herself, she’d managed to break free with what felt like a kind of...magic.

And then she fled.

She had fully expected that to be the last incident. No more taking chances - she’d just...hole herself up in her dorm when not in classes, and get through the rest of her schooling without anything else going wrong.

But Ino and Sakura were relentless, and a few weeks later insisted she join them for another movie. No matter her insistence otherwise, they wouldn’t let up...and finally she caved. The movie itself was fine, the gaggle of them heading back to the station to take the train back across the city. But little Hinata, short of stature in the crowds, was lost and left behind.

And that’s when he found her again.

Part of her had panicked, wondering if he was here to arrest her, or try to take her away. But all he’d offered was a ride back, given she’d missed her train.

Wary...she’d agreed, part of her admittedly curious about him, and his world. He’d introduced himself as Uchiha Sasuke: a vampire, and a kind of officer tasked with protecting their world from detection.

He also told her she wasn’t human. Not...completely. Hinata, as it turned out, was an odd in-between. The term varied by culture, but in Japan they were often called mikos...or in less friendly terms, witches.

It had been...only partially shocking. Hinata had always known she was different, but wasn’t aware of how rare, or that she wasn’t just crazy, but...simply something different than anyone else she’d ever known.

To her detriment, however...the rather handsome vampire was spotted taking her home, spurring rumors and begetting interrogations from her friends. Barely holding them off with his tale of being a cop (which...was true, just not the way they thought), she’d found herself at a crossroads. No longer could she keep trying to be blind to the other world, but...doing so would make existing in the human half difficult.

Sasuke kept contacting her. Kept trying to learn more about her. About her lineage. The pair grew closer. She even dared to call him a friend. And that friendship was tested when Sasuke found himself wounded nearby her campus, stopping in and asking for her help...only to end up drinking her proffered blood to help overcome the silver-inflicted injury.

...but that’s when the trouble truly started.

There was something...else between them now. The act had felt...strangely intimate. Hinata wasn’t sure what to call it. But it wasn’t long after that she found herself dragged into a political disaster.

Sasuke’s boss - the leader of his coven, and one of the most powerful Nightwalkers in the world, Uchiha Madara - had finally taken interest in Sasuke’s little project of studying witches. He had her kidnapped, dragged to one of his many hideaways...and wanted to study her for himself.

It was then Sasuke showed his true colors at last. Nearly going feral with anger, he’d been stopped only by his brother in an attempt to attack the Japanese vampiric Senator of the Nightwalker Senate. Madara, explaining more of their history, also put the pieces together and declared that Sasuke had fallen quite deeply in love with the little witch, if his reaction to her being stolen away told them anything.

...Hinata wasn’t sure what to think.

But that wasn’t all Madara wanted. Backing her into a corner, he forced (under a guise of choice) Hinata to agree to work for him: to ally her budding powers to him and his own. She was given a week to think it over, during which she consulted Sasuke...but there wasn’t much to discuss.

To refuse was to be killed.

...she’s taken a few days to - rather than mull the ‘offer’ over - simply...come to terms with it. Part of her still isn’t sure about...well, anything. But though meeting Sasuke has led to this entire chain of events...she can’t bring herself to regret it. Any of it.

She knew that, eventually, there’d be no more running. Either she’d accept her oddity, or she’d succumb to it. And if nothing else...well, at least she’s finally made a true friend. Conquered her fear. And become a person she never really thought she could be.

“...ready?”

Staring up at the doors before them, Hinata turns to Sasuke. As he’s been since Madara’s revelation, he holds a carefully blank expression. She has yet to address the accusation of his being in love with her. Partly because there’s just...too much else to think about. But mostly because she really isn’t sure how she feels, given the chaos that has ensued since learning the truth. There’s been no time to sit and think about it. Consider their history, their bond, their experiences...and the feelings they all bring.

But at the very least...she knows he’s the most genuine friend she has. No one else has ever cared about her like he does...even if the birth of their bond was an odd one.

So, with a small glance to his hand, she gently reaches and takes it. Unlike all of those silly vampire stories, it isn’t cold or hard...but warm. Calloused. Maybe just a little sweaty.

It feels so...human. Even if she knows he isn’t.

But mostly it feels...familiar. Comforting. Reassuring.

It makes her feel that she can do this...so long as she doesn’t have to do it alone.

A hint of a smile curls her lips before looking up to his face. “...yeah. I think I am. Are you…?”

“...if you can do this, so can I.”

That earns a brief laugh. “And here I was t-thinking the exact opposite.”

“Some people tell me that what I do makes me brave, but...in a lot of ways, it’s what those like me have always done. But you...you’re being far braver than I’ve ever been, Hinata. You’re taking one hell of a chance with this. For someone like you to do what you’re doing...that takes far more guts. I hope you realize that.”

Her smile just softens. “...I guess so. It just feels like...w-what I’m supposed to do. And...thank you for being with me.”

“I can’t abandon you now - you wouldn’t be in this mess if not for me.”

“...no, I wouldn’t be.” Slowly, her expression warms. “...but I think...I-I think that, as much as it’s cost...it’s been worth it...ne?” Her grip on his hand tightens.

Something flashes through his eyes for the briefest of moments. “...if you say so, then...guess it’s true.”

“...come on. Let’s...get this over with.”

.oOo.

(This is a sequel to days 35, 44, 52, 80, 82, 105, 115, 133, 159, 162, 188, 193, 289, 298, 307, 310, and 317!) I am...so behind OTL And this is really late. Like...almost 20 days late. I'm just so stinkin' burnt out and busy and blegh. So lemme just apologize for like the fiftieth time about how badly this is crumbling here toward the end. Life is just really making it difficult these last few weeks. I'm sorry. BUT, either way, I'll finish! Just...very late, ahaha~ Anyway, on to the story. A bit more of the Nightwalkers crossover. Sort of a recap kinda thing given just how LONG this one's gone on, and partly as a refresher for myself. I LOVE this accidental mini series, and have every intention of making it into a proper fic down the road, and even have the ending plotted, which is exciting! So I don't want to go TOO much further with it during the challenge. But this prompt just...insisted on being in this verse, lol I'd...say more but I'm very tired. It's 3am and I'm a doof for being so late, but...guh. Writing is a real struggle nowadays, so hopefully y'all don't mind being patient with me ;w; Either way, that's all for now...thanks for reading!

#sasuhina #uchiha sasuke #hyūga hinata #gun //#of monsters and men [ au ]#365daysofsasuhina

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ivyveil · 5 years

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Feeling Spirited

the one where it's a throwback to when Harry and Y/N were just friends and Y/N's drink helps her forget

A/N: A Continuation of LITP (masterlist here) TW: alcohol

The sky was dark. Had been for weeks now, the clouds clustering together to formulate something thicker than the water making up their essence. A fog was settling, clouding up your thoughts or ability to rationalize any of your actions. Acting with blind impulsiveness didn’t align with the rest of your usual characteristics; even your wildest nights generally took prior planning, but bottles had been a source of solace against the bitterness of confusion, the anxiety of life.

It hadn’t been an issue, not really, because you knew how to handle yourself when drunk, and knew the reaches of your limitations with alcohol. But trouble started brewing when your 5:30 pm started when everyone else began their 9:30 am. And when you thought you were only going for one more drink, but ended up with four glasses in your sink.

The drinks in the morning were simply to calm your nerves, settle the anxiety bubbling in your lungs. And the one at lunch was to offset the chance you would freak out in the middle of your presentation, and the second was because the restaurant offered you a free one.

Was only polite to accept.

It had spiraled into drinks at sporadic times throughout the day, never so many as to make you stumble while walking back to your desk, but certainly enough to only need one or two more when you went home, to slip over the edge. Even looking at a bottle seemed to get your mind in a safe place.

Nestled between the space of your wall and the bedroom bookcase, was a plastic bottle of Smirnoff, half-empty and pitifully groaning as it was tugged out. The books watched silently, probably feeling much superior because they were considered a more refined pastime.

The vodka didn’t seem to give a fuck.

You winced considerably when it popped out of its hiding spot, the familiar panic gripping your bones that you were a teenager again. Hiding alcohol from parents, keeping it in safe spots so any stranger’s eyes would only spot a pristine home, a girl who respected cleanliness and experienced minimal, if any, breakdowns.

The truth was always nestled somewhere deeper, whether it was beneath clothing in drawers, behind bookshelves, in the back of your bathroom cabinet, or underneath your bed. The truth usually tasted like shit, too.

That you were in your 20s and continuing the practice of secret drinking, of playing pretend to appease some authority that wouldn’t give a damn, now that your license said you were of age - it both amused and disgusted you. A restricted sense of adulthood, surely, a lack of freedom to openly be the drunken mess you felt inside. Perhaps it was acceptable to turn a blind eye to it in adolescence, but when you had become a regular at the liquor store, it felt more like a ruse.

Suppose it replaced your blood, you wondered, holding your arm up to the lamplight and inspecting the hint of veins against your skin. Suppose it congealed in the veins, a substrate for your demons to thrive on. Perhaps it could be better than the life of intangible anxiety that crept against each wall, became every shadow, lurked in everyone’s unsuspecting glance.

The nerves were rattling in your teeth, you could feel the invisible bugs of anxiety nipping at your chest and legs. If this was what it took to become calm, maybe it wasn’t so bad. Only a few drinks, more people probably did it than they would confess to.

“It was another shit work day,” you divulged to your cactus, padding back from the bedroom, to the living room, only to shlump against the couch. The cactus only watched, perhaps having come to the conclusion its advice would never be properly considered and it was only a waste of breath. Or photosynthesis. You weren’t sure on the particulars of horticultural language.

“I can’t scratch off how fuckin’ lonely everything feels,” you continued, mindlessly itching at your legs, not needing to be prompted by anything in particular.

Your apartment felt hollow, exasperated by the emptiness in both mind and soul. Curling up on the couch with some bottle had become a ritual, of sorts, yet you weren’t sure what good could come of it.

A shrine of glass and plastic bottles decorated the spaces above the kitchen cabinets, around the corner from where you were presently cuddled. Each one tallied a few night’s of shame, but cumulatively you supposed it was a nice Pinterest trick. Show the nonexistent guests how bougie you were, buying cheap whiskey and vodka. Make them think you had parties all the time, when they were only parties of one.

Your glass was ready, waiting patiently on the table, as you filled it to the brim with the nasty clear liquid.

“I think you’re my true love,” you cocked your head at the glass, taking it in for all its perks and limitations. Regardless, it was still there with you. All that mattered, to an extent.

You couldn’t really stand the shit, had to stick your tongue out like a fucking cat after each shot to bear the taste down your throat. But drinking wasn’t particularly for enjoyment, not these days. It was like a medicine to keep yourself calm; it felt like your whole life revolved around it, because to an extent, it did. But your sanity was on the brink of collapsing, and you were determined to do whatever you could to keep yourself calm.

It was at that moment, with your eyes squished shut and your tongue smacking against the roof of your mouth to distract from the sensation, that your phone buzzed. It was also on the table, next to the stack of marbled coasters and the multitude of TV remotes (why did services give you three remotes for one machine, you still didn’t understand).

I’ve missed you. Wanna come out tonight? x.

Harry and his mates, the group you loved and hated equally, would gather for beers at the Ale Tavern each Thursday evening, a letting-off-steam of sorts before the glorious Friday blessed their workload. Harry had met them through various means, photoshoots, interviews, or just networking events, and had hodge-podged the group together so you two would have a social setting to hang out when he was in town.

Which was, you reminded yourself, mostly because your friends list was lacking at the moment. Most of them, dear to your heart, had received promotions or were traveling around the world for the majority of their work, while you waited at home for nothing to happen. And for nothing to happen again. And maybe once more, for the heck of it.

Some of the group’s members, the ones teetering on the outskirts like leeches, looking for a better opportunity, often treated you like you were off, a bit. A screw loose in the mind, an instability in your essence.

When words came out of your mouth, their eyes would instinctively widen, as if your breath was mixed with unregulated insanity and electric nonsense, so you’d typically keep to yourself. Was the only way to survive the brutal bar nights, with small talk and curious glances at your best friend, who would spend the whole night dodging questions and smiling for photos.

Harry found your silence weird, every time, since you were often the life of the party within his other social groups. You felt his other pals were more genuine, allowing you to exist unapologetically. Plus, small talk was practically banned at those hang-outs, which was another reason you felt you got along well with them.

With your Ale Tavern group, though, Harry had the tendency to nudge you gently, when you were in the corner of the booth stirring a Long Island, and ask you what was wrong. Which would, in turn, increase your unwillingness to be engage with more people -- because why were you well-known for being strange, why couldn’t you simply be a dilution of yourself and pass as OK?

Another buzz, another text.

You poured another shot.

I’m proud of you btw, you’re doing really well. x. :)

Another buzz, another text.

You winced before knocking the shot back, your tongue shooting out on instinct after.

Speaking of, should I come over? If you don’t want to be around drinks…

Giggling to yourself at the unfortunate timing, you swayed a bit on your couch and repositioned your legs to tuck under your ass. One of the green blankets draped over the couch fell to the floor during your transition, and your eyes trained on that spot, waiting to see if it returned.

It didn’t. Gravity was a fucker, only headed one way.

Harry was sweet to care, truly, but if he saw you in this state you knew how it would go. The disappointment would swell in his eyes, he would gently try to pry the bottle out of your hands. Thinking about the situation, even as a possibility, made your fingers curl against the plastic a bit more stubbornly.

“It’s too late, I’m nothin to be proud of,” you informed your phone, frowning as you attempted to scroll up further in your texts with him. There was nothing, though, but it didn’t register until it buzzed once more, and your scrolling resulted in a new text appearing.

I’m just gonna come over. Is that okay? xx.

“Okie dokie,” you mumbled, poking each letter with your index finger until the message was spelled. You sent it.

The cactus groaned in the back, whispering to the lamp, “He is going to be so fucking pissed when he sees her like this.”

Harry was the one who consistently found you passed out at the bar a few streets away from your home. The bartender had found your phone the first time, when Harry was calling (and the ringtone was an obnoxious version of What Makes You Beautiful that you had stumbled upon once, not an important detail but once that made him blush at the time) and had informed Harry that his friend would probably need help leaving, given your state. His number became a regular one to call.

So Harry would help you home, rub over your face gently with a washcloth in a hearty attempt to get off your makeup, and hold your hair back when you came to and felt the drinks for a second time.

Quiet pity and a particular sort of confused hurt would reflect in his eyes, when you had the guts and stability to look at them. He was usually under the impression you were staying home, getting over a cold, busy with work, etc. - and that was why you weren’t able to make it to some mutual friend’s birthday party. After all, that was what you had told him, anyway.

Neither you nor Harry spoke about those nights, when it was the morning after, or even any night after.

You had sent him a text, weeks ago, after guilt had rusted away the stubbornness in your bones. You informed him you were going to try and stay sober for a bit, not liking the way it had made you feel. He was happy about it, it seemed, because the worry was absent from his smile the next time you ran into each other. His hug was a bit tighter, but then again, that was just Harry being Harry.

Your soberness lasted four days. Then you were back, standing in front of the cabinet, with that pathetic acceptance you loathed about yourself. How one aspect of your soul could so resiliently rule the rest, made no sense. You didn’t know how to fight it, though, and so the glasses and bottles came out once more.

You gave your cactus the most awful side-eye you could muster, before extending yourself fully out on the couch. Your fingertips felt like they were touching clouds, clouds intermingled with the deep current of black waters, which meant you had drunk a bit more than you had meant to. An accident, surely, but it didn’t stop you from rolling over on your side (and almost off the couch), huffing at the bottle.

It glugged like a drunk whale trying to drown, pouring out another shot.

Someone was stroking your hair. It felt nice, the rhythm of their fingertips against the curls, stopping at the edges of your forehead, before moving back and gently starting again. The motion was kept on one spot of your head, as well, which was a personal favorite of yours. The movement throughout the whole head was just craziness. Everything had a greater chance of messing up when it came to full-head-hair-strokes. And only one person had heard that drunken rant before (except for your cactus, but that usually kept to itself about your rants. As most cacti do.)

“Yeh up?” someone mumbled, throat thick. They sounded half-asleep, and their fingers slowed as they waited for an answer.

Your head was still smashed against a wave of Smirnoff, too blurred to put two and two together and recognize the need for a response. Anyway, you didn’t appreciate the fingers stopping, so you grunted softly to signal that.

They didn’t continue, this person seemed really fucking set on getting you speaking. Your mouth felt glued, in a thicker, denser sense of the word. Your tongue felt perfectly content resting against the back of your teeth, your lips staying shut.

It was when you became steadily more aware of your surroundings, how it wasn’t a pillow under your head but denim, smooshed against your cheek. How your head was sloped up from the rest of your body, how a blanket was tucked around your person and even your toes were covered by the tassles on the end. You were on someone’s lap, surely, and in the depths of your mind you wondered, with a slight giggle, how scandalous a drunken night alone, in the comforts of your home, could get?

“Who’s asking?” you managed to croak, your fingers reaching outwards from the confines of the cozy blanket, seeking the bottle you knew would’ve been hidden at this point. The question was pointless, you knew him by his cologne. Hell, you knew him from how he stroked your hair, for Christ’s sake.

It was the improbable sense in your gut that hoped it was someone like Chris Evans who had you cuddled up against them. Maybe he was in the midst of robbing your home (Marvel might’ve gone through budget cuts, it happened to the best) before stumbling across your sleeping body. Maybe he found your Chinese takeout, too, because you were awful at remembering to eat leftovers. Although it would be disturbing on most levels of sanity, you could find the loveliness in the situation.

If it were Chris Evans, that is.

“Harry. ‘Ve got long hair, ‘m yeh best friend. Yeh told me I could come ove’’,” Harry teased quietly. It was sort of unsettling, how humor was in the words but his actual voice was void of emotion. He was worried.

You were quiet, unsure if this was a situation in which Harry would take over the conversation if you stayed silent long enough. There weren’t many words you had to say, anyway, your present situation must have been clear enough when he walked in. Plus, his knee was nice to rest your head against. Speaking would just lead to eventual motion, which was already turning your stomach at the thought.

The two of you listened to the distant hum of your freezer kicking into place from the kitchen, the soft rattling of ice cubes tumbling into the tray you had set out. Harry seemed content on waiting for a response, of any type, or maybe to see if you fell asleep. It was entirely possible this entire conversation had happened earlier since Harry’s arrival, and you had passed out again.

If you were to move your head, you felt, something really unfortunate would happen. Like vomiting. Or the world ending. Or having to look Harry in the eyes.

His fingers stopped fully, just resting against your cheek. They were embers, most definitely, and you wondered if you could start a trend for Harry Styles Cheek Burns. Probably wouldn’t catch on. Bit of a health hazard, perhaps. It was difficult to know for sure, because once a thought formulated in your mind it seemed to expand outwards into the galaxy, becoming so diffused in the stars you weren’t able to piece it back together again.

“What’s been goin’ on, Y/N?”

His eyes were on the back of your neck, trailing up to your cheek. It wasn’t unsettling, how you could feel his gaze with your mind – or, at least, it didn’t feel so, at that moment, with him. It was just natural, how you understood him.

He sounded tired. He sounded like he had been working on asking, for a while, and the slight strangled noise that twisted the softness of his voice signaled that you had really fucked up. This wasn’t a joke, anymore, it wasn’t for shits and giggles like it was when you would out-drink his Irish friends at the bar.

All Harry wanted was an answer, a few words so he could just know what to do. Alcohol was an issue with a few other friends, ranging from binge drinkers to alcoholics, and Harry was comfortable enough spending nights dry with them. Essentially, he was comfortable because they told him where their boundaries were, and he could navigate those easily.

Yours, on the other hand, were completely blank. How it felt, to watch you slip out of your daily self, into some shell that no one else seemed to notice, it drove him crazy. How was he supposed to ask why his best friend was leaving, how he could stop it?

There was no way Harry could order you to quit drinking. To be honest, he didn’t know if it was just alcohol, and some subconscious level of his mind was on alert for that phone-call. Another one, with you shlumped in some dim-lit bar with seedy men clinging on the walls with tongues snaking out, sniffing the vulnerability in the air. Or an even worse phone call.

Shudders erupted from the base of his neck, down to his spine. He didn’t even want to think about it.

He didn’t know how to save someone who didn’t want to be saved. Someone who wouldn’t even open up to him about it. He wasn’t sure how to respond with you not talking to him about it. You two were best friends, he told you things his own mother didn’t know about. What could be so bad, you couldn’t tell him?

Entering your home to find you, initially unresponsive, on the couch with a hand dangled against the carpet, a bottle clutched in your fingertips, was nothing short of terrifying. His heart had plummeted through his stomach, his chest felt tight and he wondered, with the worst case scenario always coming first, if you were alive.

“Fuck, fuck, shit, fuck. C’mon Y/N...this isn’t funny, c’mon wake the fuck up - oh my god, c’mon don’t leave me here, wake up.”

Helplessness could only sharpen its hold on his throat with time, his voice growing steadily higher-pitched, when he didn’t know what had happened. After gently (and then roughly) shaking your shoulders, and finding that you weren’t unconscious but simply napping (“I thought yeh were dead, Jesus Y/N, don’t do that again”) and he had chuckled a bit when your eyebrows came together, not quite stirring enough to register his panic, and you had dipped again in the haze of dreams.

The smile on his face seemed maddening, the swelling tears in his vision seeming more appropriate for the situation, but he supposed it was simply a reaction to overwhelming ‘what the fuck’ feelings. This wasn’t one of your stupid jokes, the type where he would laugh without realizing because you had laughed at yourself, which just triggered him to laugh more and – no, this was something beyond the scope of seriousness that he knew how to deal with.

You were fine. You were fine. You were okay. It was just a little too much to drink, the coldness of your hands was just normal. You were fine.

He had lowered himself onto the couch, moving your head to rest on his lap, so his fingertips could feel your pulse as he stroked your hair with the other. Authorities weren’t needed, he had felt, you were just napping. (He had still texted his family doctor, though, just to make sure.)

“Just had a drink o’ two,” you whispered, staring at the wall.

He hummed, his fingers resuming the strokes against your cheek. Harry could tell it calmed you down, how your breath evened out and your eyebrows relaxed. Even as you were coming out of the safe space of intoxicated padding, even when the glimmer of soberness clung to your eyes, he needed to feel you physically there.

His heart hadn’t stopped feeling tight.

“Wanna tell me why?”

“I don’t know.”

The words left you in short gasps, as your fingers curled against the denim of his jeans. Your eyes stayed open, glazed over slightly, somewhat with tears and somewhat with that emptiness that had been ripping you apart lately. How was something so non-existent so prevalent in your existence? And why was it that all you had nowadays, was a bunch of ‘how’s and not much else?

Harry nodded slowly, sniffling quietly. Maybe you didn’t know the words, you couldn’t explain what you were feeling. Maybe he was beginning to understand that he couldn’t understand. That the spaces of your world were compressing in so many angles, it was dizzying the amount, the walls were closing and you were the only one in the room. He couldn’t enter it, he couldn’t pull you out.

“Do yeh need to throw up?”

The familiarity in the question, it pulled from his lips without hesitation or urgency. He was used to this, you realized, guilt flooding your senses and kicking some of the haze away. Harry’s nights with you were, nowadays, commonly associated with toilets and toothbrushes, with him gently prying a bottle out of your hand and listening to your rambles that mainly consisted of the various alcohol brands you could think of.

You nodded, knowing the nausea hadn’t gripped your eyes shut yet, but it would soon.

“’Kay,” he sighed, raising his arms so you could scoot out, “let’s go on, then.”

Once more, it felt too much like a routine. Like a horror movie where you were lost as to how you got here - in a schedule that felt both so normal and incredibly wrong.

He shouldn’t have to do this, he shouldn’t have to be here.

It was all you could think of, a looped tape in your mind, with his broad hands carefully holding onto your hips to help you maintain your balance. (You had started refusing to be carried to the bathroom, after Harry hadn’t made it in time. Wasn’t one of your better nights, that was for sure.)

Harry had even gotten in the loose habit of braiding your hair as you were bent over the toilet, your legs immediately going around and him sitting close behind. It was reminiscent of those massage trains girls used to do at sleepovers, but more ‘adult’ and trashy.

“C’mon, feel like that one was the last?...No, ‘kay, that’s fine, yeh just gotta get it all out, hm?” Once your hair was plaited, his hands would softly rub against your back until you nodded, signaling it was over for the night. He would normally be quiet for it all, having spent the night clubbing with you and attempting to switch out your drinks with waters, but this time was different.

“I want yeh to do what makes yeh happiest.”

You had rested your cheek against the cool lid, not feeling the next wave of nausea. It seemed like you were in the clear, your head’s pounding had substantially lessened, but you didn’t move. Harry had more to say.

“And this, this isn’t it. You’re the best friend I could ask for, Y/N...I can’t watch yeh like this, anymore.”

You sniffled, nodding bleakly and with a shaky hand, you wiped underneath your eyes, reaching up blindly to pull at a few tissues to mop up the mess on your face. Harry’s hands drew to a still, before gently resting on your shoulder.

“Let’s go to bed, yeah? Talk ‘bout it in the mornin...yeh can call off work, and we can figure it out,” he promised. Harry made a mental note to email his therapist for some recommendations for alcohol abuse therapists, just for resource options.

When you had the courage to look behind you, the voice in your mind faintly recognizing you hadn’t looked at him directly that night, the first thing that caught your attention was the tear streaks down his reddened cheeks. His eyes seemed bigger than normal, looking at you cautiously.

Harry gave you an attempt at a smile, the wells only overspilling with the action. He gave a little shrug with his shoulders, as if saying ‘what can be done about it?’ before patting your shoulder twice.

Hastily wiping at his cheeks, Harry slowly rose to his feet, sniffling, all while you were still curled against the toilet. You watched him silently, the disgust that typically followed your night’s routine finally catching up and settling in your bones. If you could crawl out of your skin, you would’ve, no second thought.

Harry held out a hand for you to hold onto, carefully helping you up, waiting as you wearily brushed your teeth and gargled some Listerine, and led you over to your bedroom. No words were exchanged between either of you, but as the covers were pulled back, you pulled your arm out from Harry’s light grip, staring at him.

“You shouldn’t have to do this,” you shook your head, “I’m sorry I’m like this. You shouldn’t have to do this.”

Harry had moved over, settling in on his side of the bed, pushing one of the pillows over to your side (he only liked having one, for some reason). When you spoke though, he immediately started shaking his head.

“Stop it, won’t hear it. I’m here ‘cause I wanna be...if I didn’t wanna be, I wouldn’t. I care about yeh, want you safe.” It was clipped, not unkind, but to the point.

You didn’t respond, letting the night cover over the conversation like a drape, a thick blanket taking over your eyelids. Nestling under the covers, feeling the warmth of another human being to your left...hearing the rustling of the covers as Harry got comfortable beneath them…

You felt the cover lift from your body as Harry moved underneath it, his arm securing around your waist and pulling you comfortably closer to his chest. His head tucked against your shoulder, his lips pressed familiarly against your back. You smelled like alcohol, as if it stained your pores, but he didn’t mind too much. Just liked knowing where you were, that you were safe.

“Harry?”

Words felt different in the complete dark, more confessional. It was safer, to say these sorts of things. As if they could be more easily written off, than it spoken during the day. Your mind was shutting down for the night, you could see the swirling storms of dreams out against the grey horizon. But you just needed to say...

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. For not leaving me.”

“’Course. ’M forever yours,” he mumbled, holding you tighter.

“Goodnight, Haz.”

“Night, love.”

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A/N: Check the masterlist of LITP here, and let me know your thoughts if you would like!

#harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #archive of our own #mine #one direction fanfic #one direction fanfiction #one direction fic #harry styles fluff #harry styles drabble #harry styles blurb #harry styles fic

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365daysofsasuhina · 5 years

Text

[ 365 Days of SasuHina || Day One Hundred Fifty-Nine: Gratitude ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata ] [ SasuHina ] [ Verse: Of Monsters and Men ] [ AO3 Link ]

“You know...I never really did thank you for saving me.”

Glancing up, Sasuke gives Hinata a quick once-over. “...didn’t you?”

“I don’t think so…”

“You sort of ended up saving me. I think we’re even, aren’t we?”

“Well, that’s not - I mean more like -” Hinata gives a small, huffing breath. “...I don’t mean in the sense of debt. I mean more like...showing my...appreciation?”

A dark brow perks. “...okay…?”

“It just feels like I should.”

“You don’t have to.”

“But I want to!”

“Well, I’m not about to stop you.”

Her cheeks puff. “...well…”

“Well what?”

“Do you...have any ideas?”

“...ideas of what you should...do?”

“Yeah! I don’t know what vampires like, or...do. Or...w-whatever.”

That earns a short snort of amusement. “You know, we’re not so different from humans. We just...live longer. Have better senses. It’s not like we’re aliens, Hyūga.”

“When are you ever going to start calling me Hinata? You told me to call you Sasuke.”

“And you still insist on suffixes.”

“Because it’s polite!”

“So is using the family name.”

“But you don’t use suffixes…”

“...we’re getting off-topic, Hyūga.”

Another pout.

Snorting again - softer this time - Sasuke leans back to think. They’re currently sitting in a cafe that’s open late given it’s a Saturday - it’s the only reason he can be here. Dark eyes flicker over their surroundings as he mulls it over. It’s pretty crowded, which is good - less chance to be overheard among all the other chitchat. Something to repay him, huh…?

He’d still insist she doesn’t need to, but that’s not her point, is it? She wants to. Which means she’s not going to drop it until he gives her an answer. He could just throw out something random to get her off his back, but...he doesn’t feel like doing that.

“...what are things you like?”

“Tomatoes.”

The quick, blunt answer makes her blink in surprise. “...uh -?”

“They’re my favorite vegetable. Fruit. Whatever.”

After a pause, Hinata bursts into giggles.

“...what?”

“Nothing, I just...w-wasn’t expecting that.” She wipes at her eyes. “Tomatoes...okay. Anything else?”

“...I play guitar.”

“You do?”

“Mhm. Could get me some new picks.”

A brow perks. “...okay.”

...that wasn’t a winner, was it?

“I dunno, Hyūga. I’m not good at this sort of thing. You know how hard it is to ask for new gifts when you’ve had like a hundred birthdays? You start to run out of ideas after all while.”

Laughing softly, Hinata nods. “I guess that’s a good point...I’ll think of something for you. How about that? Trust me enough?”

“...I think so.”

“...and I thought you said you were seventy?”

He deadpans. “...I was exaggerating. Y’know, a joke?”

She pouts at him.

“...I will be seventy in July.”

That gets her to perk up. “Oh…?”

Sasuke can practically hear the gears turning. Amused, he gives a grin. “Mhm.”

An awkward silence as she waits for a date...and seems to debate just asking.

“...twenty-third.”

“Oh! O-okay.”

“And no, you don’t have to get me something then, too. I don’t need gifts. If anything I’m tired of gifts.”

“Well that’s no fun…”

“Neither is going through the same song and dance seventy times. Trust me Hyūga, I’ll live without a birthday present. If anything, it makes more sense for me to give you something. Since you’re still a kid.”

That ruffles her feathers. “I am not!”

“You are to me.”

“You -! But -!”

He actually gives a small burst of laughter. “Kidding, Hyūga. Kidding. Seriously though, you’d enjoy it more than I would. And so would I.”

She goes a bit demurely quiet.

“...anyway, don’t sweat it, okay? I know you’re grateful. And so am I. I really don’t think we need to get all mushy about it, when we’ve both already paid our debts. And hopefully...there won’t be any need to tick off another tally, all right?”

Hinata doesn’t answer, so...he assumes she’s still determined.

Humans can be such stubborn little things...and she’s among the worst of the few he’s had the chance to meet.

She’s also the only one he’s ever known who also discovered his specie.

It’s still a little...odd. And yet in some ways, it feels completely normal.

A short while later they head back out. “Want an escort home?”

“Do I have any choice?” she asks. “You told me not to go anywhere alone, remember?”

“Still polite to ask. Give the illusion you’ve got any say, right?”

Thankfully he has a coven car, so it doesn’t take them long at all. Pulling right up to the dorm, Sasuke even walks her to the entrance, hood drawn and shades over his eyes.

“Sunglasses at night?”

His lips quirk. “Gotta be covert, Hyūga.”

“Uh huh.” Smiling, she waves before heading in.

Well...one less thing to worry about for tonight.

Getting back into his vehicle, Sasuke lingers for a little while longer...just to be sure. In truth, he can’t know if Madara’s gone so far as to get someone into the dormitory. Getting a keycard would be all too easy...so he waits to see if anyone reemerges.

After ten minutes of stillness, he takes his leave.

The rest of the night is spent on patrol. There’s one small incident of a werewolf being spotted by a human. A few smooth lines and a little chemical coaxing later, they’re sure it was just one of those strange people who dress up in animal costumes having a laugh.

After that, he’s allowed to head home to his apartment. It’s nothing fancy. Spacious and completely free, as Madara happens to own the entire building...and in a sense, almost everyone in it.

Flopping atop his bed as the sun rises, Sasuke stares at his ceiling, feeling wide awake. Sleep’s been harder and harder to come by nowadays. Too much to think about. And it’s not like vampires need sleep nearly as often as humans do...it just feels normal to. And what else is there to do during the daylight hours?

Next thing he knows, he’s jerking awake as his phone gives a little jingle. It’s...dark again already? How out was he…?

Sitting up and rubbing at his face with a yawn, he opens his phone and digs into his messages.

Huh...seems Hinata’s got something for him already. That was fast. She wants to just come over, but...he doesn’t want her anywhere near this building unless she has to be. It’s just...not safe.

Besides, he should just meet her at her dorm. He takes his advice seriously: he doesn’t want her alone during the night. Telling her as much via text, he drives over and parks before making his way to the door.

She’s already there, waiting. “Hey!”

“Hey.”

“Want to come in?”

A blink. He hasn’t...been in here yet. Just out front. Or...around the back, when he’d been wounded. “...sure.”

She’s on the third floor, and Hinata opts for the stairs, which he appreciates. “I’ve got a single, so...we won’t have any company.”

He just nods.

Once they’re in and she shuts the door, he glances around. It’s...rather plain. Not that he expected much. She’s got a pretty motivational poster on one wall, a plant in her window, and her scheme is clearly white and purple. It’s all so inherently her, none of it catches him by surprise.

“Okay...close your eyes.”

Sasuke just blinks owlishly.

“...please?”

“...all right.” Doing as asked, he sighs lightly, hearing her rummage around for something. After a minute of bustle, she tells him to look.

There’s two things. One is a box - some kind of...plant grower...thing?

The other...is a tomato plant.

He stares.

Nibbling her lip, she asks, “...do you like it?”

“...never had a plant before.”

“Oh! Well...apparently it can be a little hard to grow one inside, but uh…” She gestures to the box. “This should help! And I put a sticky note with an advice blog on it inside. They had some good tips! I dunno, I just thought…” Hinata shrugs. “...you’d like something to...do. With something you enjoy! I don’t know if you’ll actually get any tomatoes to grow, but...you can try?”

Looking to her as she explains, Sasuke then looks to his gifts. “...no one’s ever given me a whole plant before. Itachi’ll get me random fruits, but...this is a first.”

“Well...I’m studying horticulture, so...I thought it appropriate!” She gives a little smile. “So now you’ve got something to...remember me by!”

That earns a soft snort. “Like I could forget you…”

“Well...s-still.” Her cheeks go a light shade of pink.

“...thanks. I’ll set it up when I get home.”

Her grin only grows.

She helps him carry them down to his car. “If it ever starts to look a little...sad, let me know! I can come take a look.”

Sasuke hesitates. He’d really rather she not come to his apartment… “Yeah, sure.”

He’ll just have to do this on his own. Without any screw ups.

“Anyway, um…” She seems to hesitate. “...have fun?”

He snorts. “I’ll try. I’ll send you a pic when it’s done.”

“Okay!”

“But for now, get back in and sleep.”

“Okay, okay...goodnight, Sasuke-san.”

“Night, Hyūga.”

It’s a short ride home, managing to carry both gifts up just fine on his own. The planter gizmo takes a little work, but...he gets it going. After watering as recommended, he snaps a picture as promised, sending it to her phone.

He better not get a reply until morning, or she’s getting scolded.

Looking it over, Sasuke allows a hint of a smile. Well...there’s worse ways to show gratitude. At least now there’s something else living in this rather...empty space.

...maybe he’ll give her something in return.

But that’s something to consider another night.

.oOo.

*insert vampires drinking ketchup rather than blood joke here* x3 This is kinda random, buuut I took a bit of a writing break today after my major ship week burnout, lol - so this is...later than it should have been. -I got lost playing Sims, okay, shush.- Hinata's love of plants and Sasuke's love of tomatoes come together to make the perfect gift: a tomato plant! Apparently they're kinda hard to grow indoors (not that that's news to me - I can't grow ANYTHING. That's my brother's skill, not mine lol), so Sasuke's got his work cut out for him. We'll see how he does! But for now, I need to sleep, lol - thanks for reading!

#sasuhina #uchiha sasuke #hyūga hinata #of monsters and men [ au ]#365daysofsasuhina

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