Of course I don't own Naruto. You don't even have to ask.
Fireside
The tiresome day had been both long and weary. It was with grateful, heartfelt relief that the genin, Naruto and Sakura allowed their exhausted bodies to collapse around the cheery campfire in the cool evening shade. They had been paired together for an unruly, and very unfair wilderness training exercise. And had spent all day constantly fending off "enemy nin" in the form of Sasuke and Kakashi. But now everything in the woody night was calm and quiet. They could rest until the morning sun raised her bright, early head, and they had no choice at all but to endure another grueling day.
As the rose-haired girl moved to add another dry, brown log to the merry, crackling fire, Naruto became aware for the very first time since that blissful morning when Kakashi had named their groups, that he was alone with the pinkette of his dreams. He watched her movements from across the dancing flames. The wavering heat made her shining eyes dance too, or so it appeared to the star-crossed blond.
She spoke suddenly of their yet-to-be-made plans for the next morning; how they might hope to catch the brooding Uchiha off-guard, and whether it were possible to catch their lazy teacher so. The Kyuubi container nodded silently to all she said, but his distracted heart and mind were drifting in greener pastures.
At last she shook her pale locks. "You're not listening to me, Naruto," she said with an annoyed lilt to her voice. "If we don't do something different, we're going to get creamed tomorrow. And I don't know about you, but I have enough bruises from today." Her eyes glinted and her gaze glowered down on him.
He answered her with a few nervous, sheepish chuckles.
"What's wrong with you?" she quietly mumbled. He still heard the unintended question, though he didn't dare to breath his real heart's answer.
A tense silence descended between them. In that uncomfortable quiet, he watched her longingly.
Her shockingly bright, emerald eyes glistened in the wispy smoke that rose in pale, ashy tendrils between them. He could see her soft, graceful, rose-coloured hair twist around her smooth features in the faintly whispered breeze.
Now if only he could find his traitorous voice. "Sakura-chan" he whispered hoarsely. There was a long, painful, unbearable, drawn-out, exaggerated, lonely, aching, slow moment that she looked at him, and then like a thunderbolt it struck him that this moment might have been meaningful were it not for the atrocious flowery language.
He jumped to his feet. This was not to be stood for! Something had to be done! Something would be done. In that moment Naruto swore, in the name of all things decent, to kill all but the occasional adjective wherever he should find them. And so he became known as The Editor, striking terror into the hearts of rough drafts everywhere.
–Spesa ^ ^
" God only exhibits his thunder and lightening at intervals, and so they always command attention. These are God's adjectives. You thunder and lightning too much; the reader ceases to get under the bed, by and by." -Mark Twain.