Konoha sunshine glares onto the world below. There's a cloud right next to the sun that looks like a ninken. Not a spectacular replica or anything painting worthy, but he can see it and that's all that matters. A rabbit on a carriage appears in his peripheral, but the winds snatch it away as he reclines in the grass.
Shikamaru sighs as he watches the clouds roll by. The young shinobi has spent the better part of his morning lying on his back, staring up at the sky. He happens to be a person who knows how to appreciate a day off, just relaxing and enjoying the clouds.
Who could turn them down?
Shikamaru loves clouds. The sky has so many facets of beauty, but he finds the simplicity of a cloud to be the most impressive of all. Slightly jealous that they live about their days so carefree, he directs his attention to the sky and drowns himself in tailless fish, shuriken, and cauliflower heads – all awkwardly formed by white plumes in the troposphere.
His rapture from the sky monopolizes his perception of time, and night falls. When the sun begins its routine descent, it paints the atmosphere in its own shades. The orb spans brilliant reds and golds across the sky. Everything is warm hues of yellow and orange dancing across the world. The clouds imbibe the colors, turning them into saccharine pastels and accentuating the honey glimmer of the waning sunlight.
As the sun drops farther down and the moon takes its place, stars flicker in the night sky and breed an ornamental show of constellations.
Cricket songs echo in the field, following orders from fireflies as they glide through the air and conduct the nightly opus. The stillness of the night magnifies each sound. For this, Shikamaru is grateful; any shift, any anomaly, any change can be detected. He thanks Konoha in the quiet of his mind.
Even after sunset, the clouds remain. They transform into clotted ribbons and puffed lace, wrapping the moon in their pillowed arms. They're only thing Shikamaru can keep his eyes on; wind mellifluously hisses in his ear, beckoning him inside with chilly tendrils wrapped around his legs, yet he's entranced by the sky. Quickly, the garlands swell and darken to slate gray, covering the sky in an unanticipated curtain.
At times, he forgets himself in the face of clouds. The amorphous manifestations of suspended water absorb almost every thought right out of his head and leave him helpless to their hypnosis. It is in this ritual he finds solace; no blood kissed lips, no charred skin or empty ocher eyes, no slicked back hair the color of a sharpened blade laughing fuchsia eyes disassembled body parts—
Shikamaru sees none of this, for the clouds grant him reprieve.
Beyond the gilded ritual of sunset, rainfall makes its appearance. It starts slowly, sparse drips occasionally tapping his shoulder or his nose. The wind is light and the air is fresh, a true Konoha shower. He reminisces, the texture of crisp shoji doors and worn shogi pieces beneath his fingers. Nothing but thin moonlight and blithely challenging eyes gaze upon him, the heady scent of cigarette smoke hazing his senses. He looks up, eyes like death staring back at him why why why no please no Asuma please—
The memory collapses, heavy drops pelting his eyes and chest. Rainwater strokes his body in undulant waves, incomplete and speckled by its very existence.
He cries whilst it rains. He cries and lets the rain cleanse him. People think rain is dreary and gloomy but without the rain, would the flowers bloom? Wouldn't the soil crack from starvation? Rain gives life to the earth and acts as a harbinger of growth. As such, so are clouds.
Lilac fractals crack across the sky, their steely backdrop turning tempestuous. Clouds eddy in unison with applause from thunder vibrating in the distance. In the face of unkind winds, clouds spray sheets of water upon him, eventually emptying themselves and inundating the earth with the pungent scent of petrichor in the aftermath. The clouds remain, drifting along aimlessly and overlooking the world with drowsy satisfaction.
Shikamaru feels a bitter smile curl his lips.
They follow the breeze, wherever it takes them, living about their days with only the task of capitulating to the winds when they beckon. Shikamaru desires such a life. He imagines that he's floating up there with them, unchained to this material realm without a care in the world or a single responsibility looming over his head.
Shikamaru, the moth, is always drawn to the incandescent light of the clouds. Whenever he has the time—and sometimes when he doesn't—he uses it to peer up at them. It puts him at ease like nothing else could. To be completely content. To be a cloud. That is his wish.
Happiness for Shikamaru comes so infrequently now, he had once given up on it. His days were a melancholy blur of dull grey. He had grown ill with his circumstances, repeating the days like an unbroken cycle as he thought of his weakness and incompetence. If he'd been a little quicker, a little stronger, a little more… Just. More.
He could've made a difference, he could've helped, saved Asuma instead of just sitting back to watch him die, just biding his time to find and kill the monster who did this to him, kill, kill, killkillkill he who cannot die, slice his body into pieces, bury him in the ground, Shikamaru could've done so much—
More.
Even so, clouds give him a clear mind and a dash of happiness, which is more than he could ever ask for.