Imagine a spring with a boy and girl.
Imagine them in a garden, where the flowers are just beginning to bud up through the still-slushy ground. There are little spokes of green poking through, a sharp crisp green that makes the edges of her smile turn up higher as she regards them with tender eyes and nurturer hands. He stands behind her, watches her stooped over, her knees muddied but her not caring, the poise of a mother who has been forever. The way her hands hover in the mist is almost ethereal, how she brushes each quivering leaf, how the green seems to speak to her in voices he cannot hear. He wishes he weren't deaf to the music.
Imagine a summer with a boy and girl.
Imagine them under a tree, in a great field of wheat, where the wind blows just so, flatters the hair that scatters about her pale face. She looks to the boy shyly, turns quickly away when he catches her milk gaze and hopelessly twiddles her thumbs, as if that will make the pitter-patter mouse beating of her heart slow. He watches her with the sharp eyes of ten falcons compressed into one boy, the wisdom of a thousand wise men condensed into the mind of a cynic too young.
Everything she does is imperfect, but the way she does it is flawless. He's always hated crying, because crying is only for cowards, sissies, ninnies, what-have-yous, all the things a man should stand against—but somehow he knows that if she cried, it'd be perfect—almost beautiful. That's just the way she is, and he cannot change it.
Imagine a fall with a boy and girl.
Imagine they are in a grove of maple trees and the path is long and winding, broad and set with cobble stone. Down flutter the leaves like colored tissue paper—only they are not artificial, or crafted by faulty human hand, but by the nimble fingers of Mother Nature who weaves divinely, her creations. They look to each other, and they are slightly older now (you can tell by how his eyes have grown harder and hers softer), but she is still beautiful and he is still a cynic, more so than ever. The leaves fly like fluting cardinals past, blur the world in a sweeping roll of felt; red, and scarlet, and deeper red, deeper scarlet, and one leaf on the tree is green. He stares hard at it, but it will not wilt beneath his gaze.
Imagine a winter with a boy and girl.
Imagine them in a courtyard, and the cement is all grey with the cold and hardness of brisk steps and angry mutterings. His eyes are snapping now, like flint dragonflies, and hers are soft and warm, still. Her eyes are full of sorrow, though, all liquid and gauze; while his eyes are filled with nothing but hollow scorn, all cracking marble and frost. She forgives and he forgets. The snow falls lightly to the ground, like a scattering of cotton all over. He watches the snowflakes cushion themselves on her lashes, and when she blinks, the light catching on the ballerina's ice is blinding, so he looks the other way. She waits for him to understand.
Her life is but a dead cause…
Just a little Hyuuga drabblish thing.Because I love the Hyuugas dearly.