He dreams of her for the first time in a long time.
The sun peaks through the canopy of leaves above them, and she is sitting in a ray of light. Her skin glows warmly. Her hair is cropped at her chin and blows in the breeze. Her hands are busy weaving a chain of flowers. Everything feels softer around her, and he feels lighter than he has in years just by looking at her.
Clear jade eyes snap up to focus on him.
Judging by the baby fat around her face, she must be around twelve. He hasn't thought of the girl in a long time, not since he's seen the woman she has become (—the one he hardly knows, the one whose throat he can still feel in his grasp—), but he realizes with a start that he's missed her.
His heart lurches unexpectedly at the way her eyes shine with that familiar adoration. It's just as nostalgic as the subtle curve of her lips, a smile that has always belonged to him (—before she gave it to Naruto, before he left it all behind—).
He hasn't seen that gaze or that smile in a long time.
She beckons to him. His feet plod steadily in the grass, but every step forward makes him want to take two steps back. But that sort of cowardice disgusts him, so he shakes off the feeling the best he can. When he reaches her, he drops down on his knees.
She looks up at him as he towers over her. Unlike her, he is still his sixteen year old self (—not the boy she loves, not the boy who could have loved her—). She stands up, dusting herself off with a free hand. In her other hand, she holds her wreath. She meets his eyes before dropping the garland on his head, trying to hold back her mirth but failing. He glares at her (—but a bit halfheartedly, because really, when was the last time he'd seen her so happy?—), and she has the decency to try to appease him. She smooths her small hands over his cheeks, and looks the tiniest bit sorry.
He drops his glare because her caress feels like a mother's touch, and his chest aches.
A hand reaches up to grab one of hers. He considers gripping it until he can feel her bones creak under his fingers, because she frustrates him. He may be able to read her like an open book, but he can hardly make sense of her. But before he can make his decision, she tugs their joined hands closer to her, and places his hand on her chest. He feels the even rhythm of her heart, beating in time with his.
"This belongs to you," she says in a voice that belongs to someone four years her senior.
The world around them has darkened, and only the patch of land where she stands is illuminated. Harsh shadows are cast over her face, and her skin glows a sickly blue, washing out her natural coloring. He looks down to ascertain the light source, and is surprised to find the hand over—through—her chest is encased in his Chidori. Her blood runs warm over his palm and down his wrist, soaking the sleeve of his shirt. He looks up to her face, and sees that she has aged to sixteen now, and instead of adoration, her eyes shimmer with betrayal.
His crown of flowers falls to the ground, brittle and broken.
When he wakes, it is to a white, tiled ceiling. He is only awake for a few moments, though, since the anesthesia hasn't quite worn off. In the end, he doesn't remember his dream beyond a feeling of inexplicable emptiness in his heart.