AN: So this is either a Modern AU or a Non-Massacre AU (choose one). Anyway, Sasuhina Month Day 2–Tomatoes and Cinnamon Buns
“So um… Please
accept my gift, Sasuke-kun,” some pink-haired fangirl blurted, holding out a
beautiful navy blue box wrapped with a bright pink ribbon. It was lunchtime,
and they were standing at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the roof while
everyone else ate in their classrooms.
the Uchiha grunted, reluctantly accepting the gift and tucking it under his
fangirl’s face turned bright pink at his words. “I-I hope you enjoy the
chocolates. I worked really hard—”
turned and left for his classroom before the girl could finish her sentence.
Every Valentine’s Day, Sasuke was
swamped with chocolates and candies and other handmade gifts. Lots of boys would
have given anything to be in his place, but Sasuke woud have given anything to not
have to deal with this. He didn’t know or care about the girls who made them
for him. He didn’t even like sweets.
At first, he would reject the
presents, or throw them in the trash. But then his mother discovered what he
was doing and scolded him yet again about manners and treating girls nicely.
And so, rather than suffer through another lecture, he accepted and brought
home every Valentine. At least he didn’t have to eat them. Itachi’s and
Shisui’s sweet tooth took care of that.
Thankfully, the school day ended
quickly. Sasuke was standing outside, getting ready to lug home his trash bag
filled with boxes of gifts, candy, and chocolate when he heard a soft voice
say, “W-Wait Uchiha-san.” He looked up to see Hinata Hyuga nervously standing
in front of him, a light blue box in her hands.
“What?” Sasuke asked with dread. His
trash bag was full enough as it was. He was going to look like a midget Santa
Claus who’d been forced to make deliveries on foot because his reindeer had run
To his horror, Hinata blushed and
held out a box. “Ha-Happy Valentine’s Day Sasuke-san.”
“Thanks.” He didn’t bother hiding the
disappointment from his voice. Hinata wasn’t a fangirl, so he’d hoped that
maybe she wouldn’t give him anything. He supposed that she was too polite not
to give everyone, including him, obligatory chocolate.
As he took the box, he noticed that
it wasn’t a gift box, but rather a bento box. Curious, he opened the clasp. His
eyes widened with surprise when he saw the round tomatoes slices, diced
cucumber and little cherry tomatoes lying on pure white rice.
“I kn-know you don’t like chocolate,”
Hinata stammered, still blushing. “So…So I hope you’ll like these instead.” She
ran off before Sasuke could say anything.
Confused and strangely pleased, he
closed the bento box. Then, rather than toss it into the trash bag with the
other valentines, he tucked it into his backpack. Maybe this Valentine’s Day
wasn’t that bad after all.
“Here’s your chocolate, Hinata-san,”
Naruto said, plopping a small plastic baggie filled with store bought chocolates
onto her desk and giving her one of her blinding grins. “Thanks again for your
Valentine gift. I never thought instant ramen and chocolate would be so great
“Y-You-You’re welcome,” Hinata
managed to stutter. Her face felt like it was on fire and her heart was going a
million miles an hour. Naruto’s attention was too much for her.
happened to walk by and Naruto immediately turned to loudly and
enthusiastically present his White Day’s gift to her: red spider lilies and a
pink box of chocolates. Of course, Sakura began yelling at Naruto for giving
her flowers associated with death. The whole scene ended with Sakura punching
Naruto in the face for letting slip that he’d picked them up from a grave site.
She left in an indignant huff.
Hinata let out a small sigh and
carefully placed the chocolates that Naruto had given her into her bag. She’d
cherish them, regardless of the amount of thought (or lack of thought) he put
Unlike say Ino, who’d been besieged
with flowers and chocolates all day, Hinata’s White Day had been relatively
quiet. She’d received some cookies shaped like dog biscuits from Kiba, candy
from Shino, and a few other gifts from male classmates who’d wanted to
reciprocate. And to be honest, she preferred it this way. The last thing she
wanted was to bring home her weight in chocolate. Especially since three
year-old Hanabi already had the nasty habit of devouring any sweets within
reach and then getting sick from all the sugar.
Class eventually finished and
Iruka-sensei dismissed them. As Hinata gathered her things and put on her
jacket, Sasuke approached her. “Ah, hello Uchiha-san,” she said. He was
probably here to give her a White Day gift. He always gave one to every girl in
class after all.
“Hyuga,” he said, placing her light
blue bento box onto her desk.
“Oh, um, thank you for returning it,”
she said, baffled as to why he waited so long to give it back. Valentine’s Day
had been a month ago and she’d assumed that he was going to keep it forever.
She lifted it up, and noticed that it seemed heavier than an empty bento box
should be. Puzzled, she opened it and gazed with shock at the large, glazed cinnamon
“I, uh, thought you’d like this more
than chocolate,” Sasuke muttered, the tips of his ears turning a light pink. He
refused to look Hinata in the eye.
Hinata could only stare at him,
astonished that Sasuke Uchiha, the boy famous for giving every girl the exact
same gift, had given her a cinnamon roll. Then she realized how rude she was
being. “Th-Thank y-you,” she said, bowing so clumsily that she almost lost her
grip on the bento box.
“…You’re welcome,” Sasuke said.
The two of them stood there awkwardly,
neither of them knowing what to say. Finally they bid each other goodbye and
went their separate paths home. Hinata clutched the bento box to her chest,
careful not to let the contents inside move around too much. There was a
lightness in her step, and she couldn’t stop smiling for some reason. The
plastic bag filled with chocolates that Naruto had given her sat in her
A/N: This is my entry for the SPN Celebration Challenge by @thing-you-do-with-that-thing. I got the number SFW09. Hope y’all enjoy!! Feedback is always appreciated!
“Dean, where are you taking me?” you sighed as you sagged further into the front seat of the impala, the leather sticking to your bare skin. It was warm outside, a hot summer evening, making your body sticky with sweat. The windows were rolled down and caused a light breeze to wash over your skin, making goose bumps appear even though the temperature outside was high.
“It’s a surprise,” Dean smirked as he grabbed your hand, intertwining your fingers. You rolled your eyes, looking outside curiously. You noticed you had never been too this part of town before, not recognizing the asphalted roads lined by high trees.
“Surprise me then,” you smiled while squeezing his hand and leaning closer to him, snuggling against his side.
Evienne was one of the most elegant people I knew. She was an artist and a friend of my mother’s. Her hair was long and thick, and she’d hold it up in a painted barrette or a perfectly careless braid. She barely wore makeup, but was always dressed simply and beautifully. She spoke in a French accent that I found exotic. I used to wish that when I grew up I would be beautiful and graceful like Evienne.
She and my mother became friends when I was about twelve. She used to come over to cook with us and drink wine and tell stories. Sometimes she’d bring her boyfriend along, and I was always shy around him because he was so handsome.
Evienne would always pay special attention to me. She’d let me help her cook things, and she liked to teach me how to make little flowers out of cherry tomatoes or carrot peelings, or how to swirl sauce onto the plate with a spoon. Sometimes we’d make whole baked apples, one of my favorites, and she’d show me how to peel them with stripes or spirals so that they looked nice coming out of the oven.
“We will make it fancy, juuuust a little bit,” she would always say, working the paring knife over the surface of an apple. “Just to make it beautiful.” My mother always oohed and ahhed when we served our creations.
Nights when we had dinner with Evienne were alway lovely and warm. Sometimes she would come to our house, and sometimes we would visit her beautiful apartment just down the street. The conversation was engaging, and even though I was the only child I always felt included. Evienne would listen to my stories and laugh. She snuck me my first taste of wine. When I turned fourteen, she gave me a necklace that she’d made herself in her studio. It was beautiful.
As I grew, things changed. On a few of our dinner nights I started picking up on something. I’d see a dark expression flicker on Evienne’s face when she looked at her boyfriend, or I’d notice that they’d arrive late and he’d stay off to the side, not laughing the way I was used to. Still, Evienne would make things with me. In fact, her little carvings were getting more and more elaborate, and they were always gorgeous. She really was a talented artist.
One night I heard Evienne and her boyfriend fighting outside in the driveway, and hearing her soft, kind voice raised in anger shook me so deeply I barely spoke for the rest of the evening. She tried to cheer me up by carving me an apple. She covered the whole thing in a pretty kind of filigree. I watched how deft she was with the little knife, building up a small heap of scraps as she went. “To make it beautiful,” she told me, the way she used to, but I could see in her eyes that she was upset. My smile when she gave it to me was forced.
It was very unsettling for me, at that age, to see such a change in someone I admired. I turned the apple over and over in my hands, examining the complexity of Evienne’s design. Usually she’d put something in the middle, like a heart or a bird, but this pattern swirled crazily across the surface with no beginning or end. I could almost feel it pulling on me, like a current. Looking at it made me feel so strange that after she went home, I threw it in the garbage.
The next week, when Evienne came over, her boyfriend was not with her. She still had wine with my mother, and she still helped us make dinner, but she looked wilted, bent. I noticed how her cheekbones seemed to poke out a little bit more. She did not carve anything for me. “I was not enough for him, not enough” I heard her whisper when I stepped out of the room. My mother’s hand was on her shoulder. When she went home, I thought I saw moisture in her eyes.
We didn’t see her for a few weeks after that night, but one afternoon, my mother told me that we were going to Evienne’s apartment. “She’s been very sick,” she said, “so we’re going to bring her something to eat to help her feel better.” I was carrying a loaf of bread wrapped in foil; my mother was carrying a glass dish of lasagna. I was walking ahead of her and so I reached Evienne’s door first. I’d been worried about her and I was eager to see her. I wanted to help her so that everything could go back to normal. When I knocked there was no answer, but the door gave way slightly, and I pushed my way inside. Evienne’s kitchen was dark.
There was a terrible smell. It was thick and sweet, rotten, dead. “Hello?” I called. In the next room I heard a shuffling sound. I shouldn’t have, but I took a step in. “Evienne? It’s Katy.” On the table I noticed apples, each covered in intricate carvings, sagging and tilting as they rotted. Looking at the designs made me feel ill. As my eyes adjusted I realized that the patterns had been gouged into the wood of the tabletop, too, and into the wallpaper. They were everywhere. They didn’t begin or end, they just went writhing across every surface.
Looking at them, I felt a sort of vertigo. As if they were moving around me. With a sort of fascinated horror, I ran my fingertips across some of the wall carvings. They were deep. How long had it taken her to do this?
I heard a rasping intake of breath and realized Evienne was right next to me, in the doorway of the kitchen. My heart dropped into my stomach. Even in the dim light I could tell that she looked worse than ever. She looked frail, her face seemed to have sunk inward and she was white as a sheet. Her long hair was disheveled and dirty and her dark dress clung damply to her body. She carried that terrible smell with her, like rotting fruit and old meat. She took a step towards me and I backed away.
She made a small noise like she was trying to speak, and as she did she stumbled a little bit, and threw out her hand to brace herself on the wall. Her sleeve fell away just enough that I could see the beginning of the patterns, on the back of her hand and her wrist, winding around and around down her arm. They were bleeding sluggishly, gouged deep just like the walls. I screamed for my mother.
I heard her arrive when the glass dish went crashing to the ground. She’d let light into the kitchen. I could see that the whole of Evienne’s dress was soaked with drying blood. I could see the patterns beginning to poke out of the collar and climb toward her face. I could see the rivulets of blood that had run down her legs to pool and clot at the top of her shoes. She was crying in a dry, lurching way. “I had to” she told me.
There was a pile of scraps. There were flies. She wasn’t enough for him, the way she had been.