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All credit belongs to Masashi Kishimoto. Credit for this written piece belongs to yours truly.
Cloudless
: Sincerely. Yvette
001: Liar
偽者
There was a spot right atop of the hill behind the Hokage Monument; it was his favorite spot to lay in—suitable to compete against the rooftop beside his bedroom. When did he go there? Well, it was often on those summer nights when the air was humid, the skies were clear, and the cicadas took the spotlight rather than crickets. This was a favorite of his for a plentiful set of reasons.
For one, he liked how close the skies looked atop of this towering mountain. It seemed as though he could reach out—just as he would as a child—and for once feel the cotton illusion of a shapeless cloud. The grass was neat and green, accompanied by a few wildflowers and hardly any trace of trees. If anything, there was nothing more but a few saplings. The land was spacious and isolated—just like he preferred. There were no distractions; hardly a single voice other than the faint murmurs from the villagers below.
No one ever dared to try and find him. No one ever knew where to try and find him.
Except for Ino, of course. Ino, Choji, and Asuma ( who watched directly from the Heavens' above his very reach ) were the only members of humanity who knew of this escape. Except for his father, perhaps. After all, Shikaku was that very man who he took after in his family.
During these nights, he would sneak off during the very midst of midnight. He was a wanderer when it came to be the very beginning of a new day. With a window big enough for his lean body to slither past, onto the rigid rooftop where his cat would nest upon, either he could easily choose to accompany Mochi on the oblique material, or he could drag himself along the nearly desolated paths of Konohagakure.
A cigarette or two always burned away, both during his mindless journeys—and back. It soothed his thoughts as many plowed past every step. Sometimes he recited the moves of a recent game of shogi, or he would reminisce on his future vision of life.
A regular woman—pretty no more than she is ugly; two children – first a girl, then a boy; retirement after she is married, and he is a successful shinobi. Life as it comes after will be nothing more than endless rounds of shogi and go. Death will arrive at old age, before my wife.
Yes, this was life. With a blow of mainstream smoke, he would close his eyes and smirk at the skies while his arm supported his head, and a leg crossed over an elevated knee.
Under these very hours, the world around him was lit by nothing more other than the clarity of the moon. The mountains rose so high, that the streetlights illuminated only what was around them. This proved worthy of his interests, because the stars shone brighter this way.
In broad daylight, there would be clouds. Under a shawl of the galaxy lay the stars with their moon.
Summer was his favorite season.
Sometimes she would find him during these times. The faint glow of the very end of his cigarette guided her beside him, and she would simply sit with her knees pulled into her chest. His eyes would remain closed, and his cigarette would lay limp between the fingers of his hand, which dangled from its wrist while on his knee.
"Shikamaru, are you awake?"
"No."
"Liar."
And in that very hand, his cigarette would rise to his lips—eyes still closed—and he would take a drag, enhancing the glow for a second before it returned to the normal, dull color.
偽者