The flute is a secret he has never shared with anyone. The skill comes from his mother, an excellent player, who instructed him in the art while still very young. His father had not thought much of it, but his brother had enjoyed hearing him play, and for him that was reason enough. Now he only played it occasionally, whenever the mood was on him, and once more he could reconstruct his only dream with the ancient melodies of Uchiha.
He chose the stream near the school to play by today, having sat here many times before and enjoyed the lull of water and sun. Class has long been over, so he is safely alone. The tune he chooses was composed by a lord of his clan whose wife died young. It is an autumn song, rich and melancholic, and it is one of his favorites.
So lost is he in the images of falling leaves and shadowed rooms that he fails to notice the brightly colored presence that has placed itself before him. Only after he has reached the denouement, heart heavy at a loss that feels too similar, does he see her.
She is smiling, as she always does, as if it were impossible not to. The sun has caught a few tresses of her hair, and it is to these that he first directs his attention. Long hair is a weakness of his, whether in boy or girl, and he cannot help but admire the fineness of hers.
She startles him out of his reveries by unfurling it, a long golden curtain that goes down her back. Kneeling, she takes his free hand and places it upon her head. It's as soft as his expectations.
" I don't mind growing it if you like it." She smiles somewhat ruefully, as he suddenly realizes the hassle that must ensue when it has reached that length.
He becomes flustered. What should he say? That he's sorry? That he didn't mean to do this to her? That all he wanted was to run his hands through his brother's hair? That he doesn't really like anything anymore? He begins to babble.
She hushes him by placing a finger to his lips." I did this because I wanted to, and because I like you. You don't have to be sorry."
It's not enough. His face must say as much, because she places herself upon his lap, carefully lays the flute along his side, and encircles him with her arms. There is a lovely heat about her that he finds delicious, and she must notice, for she gives him a small kiss on the forehead, hands riding up his shirt.
He gives a little moan, body aching as she plays with the swiftly hardening nipples, presses heated lips across a delicate neck, and begins whispering to him.
"I do all the things I do because you're my only person. My favorite person."
Her kiss sears him, devours him, brands him in a way he will never erase. Their afternoon passes slowly; through the sunlight hours, she reddens his body with her marks and tongue, and throughout the night, makes him come in the most adorable way possible, his face burning and his mouth panting for the touch of another's lips. She gives him all her love, so that it will be enough for both of them.