Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto. (c) Kishimoto
She let her slim, pale fingers come down. She lowered them slowly, allowing them to linger and hover above the keys, squeezing her eyes shut and counting down until impact. It really was an
impact. She still felt the explosion every time she touched the creamy white keys. They reminded her of her cousin's eyes. Not hers. Hers were too lavender.
But today, the reason behind the slowness was not generated by anticipation. As her fingertips arced downward, millimeters from grazing the keys, she hoped for a spark of inspiration.
For a "fortnight," as her old-fashioned father would say, no spark, no explosion, no impact. None. 14 days, and no impact. It was beginning to really worry her. There was only one other thing she had left, but she avoided that at all costs. Blond hair and blue eyes and whisker marks and orange and black - they were too easy. Hinata liked a challenge. But mostly, she was afraid that it would be way way way way way too cheesy.
But 14 days! She missed the fire, the drive. She missed impact.
14, she mused idly. 14. 14...
The numbers rose to her mind. 12 years of bright sunshiny-ness on his part to hide the pain, and 12 years of quiet blushing on her part in a terrible attempt to hide what she thought of him. Then, right away, after THAT incident, he turned and left. One more year. He had promised them all. 3 years, he had told them. 3 years and I'll be back.
Her lavender eyes shot open and her fingers, so close to touching the keys and a chance at that spark, changed course and lashed out and wrapped themselves around a pen. They were 15 now, he'd be back after one more year. She wrote until the pen was out of ink, then grabbed another. Finally, her fingers returned to the keys.
Still nothing.
She sighed. 15. 15 years, and now 15 days without inspiration.
When she started playing the notes, though, it launched her, and her fingers couldn't keep up with her thoughts. She rose on a wave of happiness and finally she started pouring out, and it wasn't an impact, but it was flowing. She vowed to herself right there that she would grow, and when he came back, she would have more than just her growth to show him. She could show him - not tell him - but show him. She could show him what she thought.
After 14 days, she stopped avoiding the last thing she hadn't composed a piece about, and it opened before her eyes...
An old, withered man stood before a simple stone, stroking the smooth marble with withered fingers. They weren't like her slim pale fingers, he smiled as he thought. In the other arm he gently bounced his granddaughter, with pale, cerulean blue-tinted eyes. Nuzzling his wrinkled, whiskered face into her navy blue hair, he whispered, "3 years and 14 days...that's how long she waited. Then add the 13 years before that..."
No tears shone in his blue eyes. A familiar melody surfaced in his mind, and he hummed the lullaby to the little girl. He remembered how pink her face was when she first played it for him, the day after he came back.
He raised his eyes to look at the moon and grinned a still-boyish grin at the tiny sliver of cream white. The marble was the same color, he mused idly. It reminded him of her cousin's eyes. Not hers. Hers were too lavender.
Another oneshot. I've thought about doing chapter stories, but I'm not gonna lie. They are somewhat intimidating...I've been working on one, but I'm not sure that I like how it's coming out.
But what do you think about this one?
Review please!