A/N: This is probably my third big edit. I won't alter this any more because I can't pick up other discrepancies. I attempted to alter the descriptions so they carried more weight and I took out many empty words.
Hm, Writing without a real motive. This must be the outcome of it.
For him, although he does not wish to leave his protective gear, he is almost spirited about the change in routine. He decides to sport the casual clan attire of midnight colors and collars so high that it passes his smirking lips. The little one, never too close or too far, favors simplicity. Today is a bit different for her too, and neither fond nor repulsed by the change sees it fitting to wear her only white summer dress; the ends of its' soft cascade meets right at her knees. It whips about, flapping, curling; following the cool breath of the wind.
She beings to run, totally ignoring the warning he gave as she previously, stubbornly, held still; and is now passing the thick greying trees. He follows with light quick steps, a habit sewn into him since birth, as his hair falls frantically behind him. He even appears to be amused. Anticipating the next move is one of his best assets.
An ooph! Can be heard, followed by an "I fell."
He notes that too, the struggle that went on between her and gravity. This fight had an obvious winner as she never gives much effort when it comes to physics. That wasn't always the case, however. Once she tried to defy the laws of nature, gambling that it was very possible to float on a current, but before she could make much progress she'd be interrupted by a great pair; Both fumbling and tripping atop of each other, with throats a bit dry, and dark black strands tacky against their deathly white, freshly bruised skin. Afterwards, never mentioning the case to the other, or to any bystanders who have witnessed the event.
He puts this behind him, like many of his important things all small and complex. Things like historical monuments of first contact and the inevitable new gestures, all learned to avoid future miscommunication; Things like forgiving comfort, found when two sharp knees are pressed into the cold hardened floor, when shoulder blades are cradled within a warm beating tempo.
He puts it all into dark caverns and instead keeps fans too large for civilians; particularly the type who sway their much smaller fans, elaborately embellished, in the summer heat. They type who are sticky in their crevices, right below the belly button, aroused by thickening necks and developing calves. They are the ones who feel great unhappiness towards the festivals red candy, which stains the all too willing pink pouty lips and tongues into a bright flavorful red. For one small bundle of joy this is true; she can't help but totter nearby those attractive stands, and then, teasingly, take him away and even further away because by now she already had her fill.
She's on the ground, and her hair is tangled with spores. They must have drifted from the fields, where it is full of them. He stands there, a good length away, arms crossed.
Humorously he tries a, "I can see that you have tripped, and fallen onto your face" line.
It's not good, he notes. He may as well have said nothing and knows future attempts are more futile than not, but he still says, to no one in particular, "I'll work on that," and with a lofty grin, looks down.
She does not struggle as her chin presses into the dirt and her arms lie out in front of her, hiding the profile of her eyes. She doesn't make an attempt to tell him this, but he hears it anyway.
Muddled by grass and dirt, she whines, "You don't sound worried."
Oh yes, this must be another way for saying "Izuna always sounds worried."
So he frowns and says, "Oh? You still have your limbs intact, or, do you want me to check?"
She shakes her round face left, right, and tells him,"Izuna."
With a hand on his hip, and his other at his temple, he states simply "I'm not my brother." He takes another look at her pink face, her slow blinking eyes, and mutters behind the gaps of his fingers, "He won't be taking you today, I'm doing it."
Her rear goes up and her knees straighten out, finally upright. A nod, and her soft sweaty palms grip onto the tree whose stiff roots once caught her foot, and she lifts her leg above and around to get away from it. To progress deeper to their goal she will do this for every tree, every hill. In due time the scenery of hilly roots and tangled vines begin to flatten out. With each step deeper down the road short grasses transcend into tall ones, and flowers peak out showing great stalks of green and fan like leaves.
Unlike Madara she can't see above the green fans. They reach his chest and their tips bend making a roof above her maroon head. He can't see her clearly, only a flick of skin and white, then more grass. But, some moments here and there, he can feel her scurry across like a brown rabbit; he imagines reaching into the greenery, stopping her from running like a net.
Swinging his katana with quiet accuracy, creating a clearing for better progress, he hears an odd noise. It sounds like her but he isn't entirely sure, so he stills, and observes his work. It looks like a terrible haircut, one clean sweep and the rest all nature.
"Mmm-m-m!"
"Eh?" and he squints, focusing his eyes. Her arms are stiff at her side. Her hands in a fist.
A mechanical reply, almost like a chant yet louder after every word, she says "Water- water- wate" She looks slightly irritated and is rocking her shoulders, forcefully, forward and back. Is she exaggerating her need?
Heh. Such a…
He sighs; eyes closed, and he asks her, "What happened to your canteen?"
"Izuna."
"Yes. Izuna. What about him?"
A grin. "Izunas' water!"
He can picture Izuna giving her the dark blue canteen in the middle of their weekly walk to the field. Somehow he always had time to take her there, even in the middle of war.
Hmph.
So she never developed the habit, huh.
"Listen, Yuri. I'm not Izuna. You understand, don't you?"
She responds with a clear nod and, with lips pursed, she says "Mm!"
"Somehow I am not convinced."
He reaches into his pack, searching as she rocks her small body back and forth, swaying her dress.
Finally, behold!
There is Izunas' water; Sweet, sweet water, trickling down. He took the liberty.
Certainly his little brother can go with a different method for fetching water today; like his hands, or a bowl made out of leaves. He'll be fine, Uchiha pride and word guarantees it.
Madara laughs and she raises an eyebrow as the canteen dangled from her lips, as if she were suckling.
They are going to be one the best, so he needs to learn what it's like to be without a nice, shiny, canteen.