The shadows of the branches sway in the chill.
He doesn't know what to look for, but he does know he'll understand it when he sees it. There's always this trivial little difference between her and her surroundings.
Leafs lay littered at his feet, some painted with random splashes of an undefined copper color. The sky above him his dark.
Apollo chased Daphne. He simply searches, in the hopes to find.
The mangroves are thick and seemed to strangle one another, moving upwards in a curling motion just like the smoke rising from his cigarette does.
He inhales as quietly as the wind whistles, and observes.
She is hurt, and hiding, has crawled away from it all just like an animal. He only hopes that all the spilled red-hued bronze stroking across the foliage isn't hers.
His nose catches a whiff of something familiar, and he finds himself turning. His movements are languid, but even the nicotine can't keep the corner of his mouth from quivering.
Those long fingernails she has are like the thick thorns of thistle plants, but in reality – the exact thing she loves to deform – she is softer than whatever flower he could ever pluck for her.
As he spreads his arms to catch, the bark around her waist retreats, revealing to him battered white flesh, and as the weeping willow dissolves into nothingness, she falls against him in a mess of unkempt curls, darker than the shade's cover.
There's always that small hint only he gets, one that only his senses seem to pick up.
She bedecks his chest with her being a little longer, and then tilts her chin, eyes hooded and the red invisible underneath thick lashes.
After discarding the cigarette (he needs it to calm himself, but being close to her calms him more than smoking a whole carton) he picks her up and ducks his head to kiss.
Her taste is just as subtle as the barely noticeable trail of flowery scent she always seems to leave behind.
You know, maybe I should write something other than Naruto for once.
Nah.