Notes: for Rachel, because there's no one else I would ever write Naruto for.
He doesn't look like a person who will change the world.
He doesn't look like a person who even could, but she thinks he will probably come very close to it. She thinks he can probably do anything once he puts his mind to it.
She takes that back. She already knows he can. She's worked with him; trusts him; believes in him.
He thinks in logical implications, alphanumeric values, and spatial sensitivity—maps the monochrome world in fluxes of linear algebra; charts it with careful, precise elegance. He abstracts empirical access to arithmetic and patterns, transverses the indefinite space between strategy and reality, and vectors all the shadows he can for tomorrow's sake. She watches him, works with him, and watches him again as time goes by and things change again and again.
Now, he is older and he dreams like March, with all the feelings of early spring too: quiet, slow, and careful, but still discreetly, admittedly, anticipating.
And they are in spring too, almost; and it is just about the season anyway, so she speaks to him in the language of flowers: bluebells, daffodils, fringed orchids, pink roses, morning glories.
All the brightest picks in the lot.
Half of it is lost in translation. The other half is accompanied by dumb, comfortable, friendly banter and lofty defenses like you should be more appreciative, you know, not everyone gets ikebana that well-made that easily.
The corners of his mouth itch up, and he brings the freshly-cut and neatly arranged flowers back to his household where they light up the room until they wilt.
Neither of them are changing the world right now (and maybe won't for a very long while but)—the world is changing, and fast.
The world is changing, sweeping fast and rough in black, and she tries something different this time. She probably should have done this long ago.
She crafts origami flowers that bloom in flimsy paper petals and have limp, twisted stems. They glisten with confessions wet with ink. She sets the bouquet on top of water thick with salt and watches them wilt, lose shape, and sink to the very bottom. She watches the brushwork bleed black and disappear.
Sasuke—
She dedicates these flowers to the boy she really wanted to love but can't and won't.
And: now.
And now, even while they stand on the brink of war, she still walks with confidence dressed in the deepest shade of purple. And everything else is still so bold and yet so deliberately (perfectly, carefully) put together too—the supple coat of mascara brushed black, the sleek gloss of her pin-straight hair, the pixie-dust sparkle glancing off her eyes, the determined slope of her mouth when she talks, and the careful, precise elegance in the subtlety of her flower arrangements.
She always arranges flowers like she loves it. She says things out loud like she means it; fights it out like she believes in it. Like a flower constantly in full bloom, or some trite simile like that.
She looks like someone who will change the world. He thinks she probably can.
He glances at the ikebana she'd arranged for him just earlier ("don't you dare die") and changes his mind.
She probably will.