A/N - Repost: Forgot to write disclaimer and mention a warning for this drabble - A bit of angst, and runny sentence structure. (Very irresponsible... And delayed)Gah! Almost two hundred hits and no reviews... :sniff: People, please tell me whether I'm doing something wrong or right! Reviews mean the world to me whether it's praise or criticism... So... Just hit the little button at the bottom of the screen and leave a comment or two. I'll love you for it!
Disclaimer - I don't own Naruto... The responsibilty would kill me.
Seasons
Fuyu - Winter
For the first time in years, it has snowed. It covers Konohagure in a muffling, chilled blanket of pure white quiet and drives everyone indoors before their heaters to escape the searching, biting wind as the steel-coloured clouds deliver another dusting of powder-like ice.
Grey eyes meet the grey sky, a lone figure in a black coat bearing the crest of the red and white fan, on his way home from another mission. He's tired and a minor ankle injury causes a slight limp, but it's the first time he's seen snow in Konoha and he stops to admire its muted beauty, the gentle grace of the path traced by a swirl of frozen rain.
He closes his eyes briefly, letting it settle in his raven hair, feeling the cold caress of the snowflakes brushing past his cheek - sidesteps as a badly packed lump of snow whizzes past his head, scattering slush in every direction. Ah, and who else would be responsible for the launch of such a terrible missile other than his infinitely infuriating blond team mate?
A childish giggle and the thrower steps into view, a vulpine grin in a garish blue parker and orange mittens, but he can barely complete his gloat before a clod of snow hits him in the mouth.
Of course, this official declaration of war simply cannot be surrendered to.
In the middle of the freezing street, fatigue forgotten, flurries and fistfuls of white lies - insults and name calling are hurled blindly, mercilessly, as the wind tears at the black coat and blue parker, throwing their cries against the unforgiving world around them and rubbing their noses a numb red.
A window slides open and an angry fist curses them to hell, the noisy disrespectful youth of these days. Under the fresh onslaught, the two adversaries unite out of desperation to execute their ultimate defence: Retreat.
Bolting, escaping, flying, laughing all the while, because it's hilarious and they don't know why. A gale in their ears, they strain to keep up with one another, exhausted bodies pleading for rest, breath clawing their throats raw, but they continue as if on wings, leaving reality behind, weighted on the dismal ground.
The dark-haired boy wants to scream in ecstasy. His ankle burns, throbs, stabs with excruciating pain and to him, it feels like bliss.
They will never stop.
But they do, finally, gasping for air, dizzy and drunk, aching, weak, and miserable with joy, they collapse like fallen birds in the snow, sprawled, bleeding and broken.
One is a hawk, the other a raven.
The raven beats his wings, not up and down, but side to side. The hawk sits up and he is a boy again, azure eyes confused as he questions his friend's odd motions.
It's a snow angel, dobe.
Snow angels? The blond head cocks thoughtfully at this strange concept of heavenly beings whose wings are too cold and heavy to grant them flight. It's tragic and beautiful and he can't bring himself to make one, because the blond-haired boy does not want to be responsible for something so sad.
The dark-haired boy doesn't understand this. He tries to listen to his friend's round about explanation, but in the end, it makes no sense and he's just more annoyed and confused.
So they sit there, exhaling smoky plumes of warmth and clumsily dissecting their private thoughts.
They boy with the eyes of stone wants to become the snow. To be pure and simple: Untainted; to melt and disappear without pain and fall as tears of regret shed by the sky after watching an unhappy world for so long.
He wants to forget.
But he can't. His soul is barren, his mind is frozen, his heart is broken and he's pretty sure his ankle is too.
Furious, he heaves himself to his feet, prepared to abandon his blond companion without so much as a glance in his direction as he begins his tortured limp home.
And like the ink from a brush, the blond boy trails behind his rival and brother, prepared to lend support, even though he knows the dark-haired boy would rather crawl back in agony than request assistance.
It's enough to make the blue eyes want to weep. He admires the other boy from a distance, so cold and alone, perfect yet damaged, silent as a snowflake seeking a place to rest.
Pale, powerful and pretty: the Uchiha Ice Prince, they call him.
But to a certain blond, he's just pathetic. Tragic and beautiful - a fallen snow angel.