Cat: I like having Naruto back as my fandom. It feels good. I have a lot of catching up to do in the series, but I'll get through it somehow.
We see, we feel
Believe just like you
We're laughing and crying
Wanna live here, just like you
- Forgotten Children, Tokio Hotel
Naruto's eyes are like small children. They flit across the ground and sky and skim the water's edge. In them lies a fierce curiosity, and they are trying to grasp the world and everything contained within, trying so hard just to make their way. They bounce and gleam and shine in light, and Naruto shields them from the sun. They absorb the moon, a spectacle, a remarkable thing, and glimmer on, a glint of something hopeful lying deep beneath their surface.
Hinata's hands are like small children, and she can tell and so can the others. Fumbling and flailing, searching; they know their destination but also know no way to go. The fingers wrap around each other and move in nervous patterns, a reaction from the soul that is unbeknownst to her but noted by everybody else. Her words are like children too, very shy, sometimes subtle; she never wishes for the greedy things but wishes to be heard.
Kiba's actions are like small children. These actions are uncontained, his movements flowing aside his inhibitions, and at times he feels invincible, as though the world may have very well stopped the moment he arrived and has been struggling to match his pace through the years. Akamaru is a child, and he cradles him appropriately; Akamaru, the child, and Kiba his protector, and their movements are like children's and their movements are the wild.
Sasuke's feet are like small children, and they sweep him over the land without thought nor effort, no pause, no hesitation; just the land and his feet and the breeze against his face. His feet fall against the earth in timed patterns, a rhythm of the ground sounding in each turn. The movements are precise, sharp as his tongue -- a child's tongue, a crude thing. He spares no remorse for those who have fallen at his words, staggered at his comments, and clung to his sentences like fragments of holy things.
Their minds are like children, and their hearts are like children; hearts of irrational and rational thoughts that change like a summer breeze, and like a summer breeze they sweep away the little things that are caught in the current and are never seen again. The little things are precious shards, making up a larger, more prominent jewel, and the jewel is the world -- and the jewel is a child.