Disclaimer: Naruto belongs to Masashi Kishimoto-sama and a bunch of other people whose names I don't really care to know. Definitely not mine. ...Oh, and that's Lee and Sakura down there.
(Constructive) criticism very much appreciated. Please. I need tips. This is the first fanfic I've written in roughly three years.
word count: 430 words, "end" included (otherwise, 429 words)
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The Art of Holding Hands
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The first time she held his hand, he was so surprised that he almost pulled back.
It was late afternoon then, with the sun fading into a soft gray light and the cold wind blowing through the blades of grass in the training field. He worked hard, as always, wanting to get into the shape he had been in before that fight, determined to recover as well and as quickly as he could. But somehow, the haze of kicks and punches failed to mask that sense of foreboding, that feeling that something was terribly wrong.
He tried to fight it as hard as he could—despair was something he never let himself fall prey to—but, sometimes…
It was then that he felt a warm hand wrapping gently around his own, and he looked up into a pair of kind, steady eyes.
There was a split second before he realized whose eyes they were, and his own eyes widened in shock.
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The next time they held hands, it was he who initiated, and it wasn't so much a hold as a grab.
Their B-ranked mission had gone smoothly enough; they didn't encounter any resistance on the way to Wave country, as was predicted. If they were to be attacked, the mission plan said, it would happen on the way back.
The enemy nin did not disappoint.
The first three were quickly disposed of; lower-level ninja with quick reflexes and not much else. The fourth and fifth followed suit shortly after. It was the last ninja who had the tricks.
He had barely jumped back from the fifth fallen body when he heard the explosion somewhere ahead of him, where she had been fighting. Without thinking, he braced himself and reached out, trying to grab onto any part of her body that he knew had been blown toward him.
He managed to grab her hand.
She smiled her thanks and held on.
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The third time their hands joined, neither knew who made the first move, and neither really cared.
They were just walking side by side, their pace matched, the atmosphere amiable like it had been in their shared training a short while ago. The path was very familiar to him—it was the trail that led to her home. His smile was content, as was his heart.
They were halfway through their walk when he realized that his hand was holding on to something warm, and had been for some time. He didn't need to look down to know what he knew.
His peaceful smile widened. They walked on.
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-end-