Inspiration

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Naoe had been dreaming of late.

He knew, consciously, that he dreamt every night, that dreams were just brain activity that happened during sleep. He seldom remembered his nighttime subconscious ramblings, though, and so when he did awaken after a dream to recall what had occured, it felt rare, even auspicious. He gave the dream more credence than it probably deserved. It was one of the few ways in which Naoe was superstitious, but he had "proof" to back him up, just like anyone inclined to allow dreams to affect them.

---

When he was thirteen, he had a curious dream during which he went to the library. It had been fairly boring, actually. He entered the stacks, and noticing that a biography of the second Hokage had fallen to the ground, picked it up and replaced it where it belonged. After that he ran into another genin, a girl who never failed to strike up conversation and had a strange habit of flicking her hair at least twelve times per minute in his presence.

The next day he'd been sent to the library by his sensei to return a long overdue book. He was ready to leave when he remembered the dream- he'd forgotten about it until the sensory details, the scent of paper and oppressive silence, jogged his memory. He'd shoved his hands into his pockets and ambled down the aisles... only to find a book on the ground. A biography, of the second Hokage. His gasp of surprise had earned him a stern look from the matronly librarian, after which he abashedly reshelved the title.

He made haste to escape the library, but was waylaid by the girl he'd dreamed of, who flicked her hair and flirted. Truly alarmed now, Naoe had mumbled a handful of excuses and bolted.

---

That was only the most exaggerated example. There had been several less acute instances of deja-vu over the years, other dreams that proved either prophetic or coincidental depending on Naoe's mood. They happened randomly, with months or even years between instances. He came to regard the peculiarity as an little more than an anomaly, something to keep track of but not invest any real investigative effort into. It felt good to have a little mystery in his life that didn't correspond to other human beings, and he was certain that learning more of dreams would simply have dispelled the romantic notions like a novice's genjutsu.

Over the course of the past two weeks, he had three dreams that he remembered, and each of them was a memory, relatively intact but distorted and fantastic in the way that all dreams could be. Three in two weeks was nearly a record for him, and the sudden surge re-ignited the curiosity he had once felt, caused him to think more about him than he otherwise would have.

The first had all but transported him back to his days as a genin, a member of Team 3 with Kakuya-kun and Orime-hime. They had just finished a test, an exercise involving stealth and secrecy that their sensei had prepared. At Naoe's insistence, the three of them had a private debriefing session, discussing the aspects of the test that had gone well or lacked. His friends had indulged him for a while, and then Naoe had noticed something curious.

While he rambled, Kakuya had taken hold of Orime's hand, laced his fingers with her. His voice had trailed off abruptly for just an instant as the ramifications swam into focus for him. He'd suddenly understood why, for so long, Kakuya had treated him as a rival. He suddenly understood why, so often, the two of them trained in private. He didn't grasp all the details, no, but it was a defining realization for him.

Afterward, he'd spoken of it to the Hyuuga. Kakuya admitted to the relationship, but assured Naoe that it wouldn't interfere with their upcoming training for the Chuunin exams. Naoe had been ready to say that he was happy for the two of them, but Kakuya's assurance gave him pause. Instead he merely nodded and thanked his friend for his honesty. Upon reflection, he couln't help but wonder how early he had been different from others. Kakuya had informed him of something ostensibly important only as it pertained to their lives as shinobi. It hadn't even occured to him that Naoe would be glad for him, willing to put anything before their training.

---

The second depicted events just after the Chuunin exams. Naoe had been disconsolate, a mess. He'd avoided going out at any cost, instead lying in his bedroom and attempting to exorcise his demons with pen and ink. The poetry, which he still had in a notebook somewhere, had been amateurish and angsty. He actually re-read it after the dream, and could at least be proud of the progress his craft had made.

He received a visitor three days in, and that visit was what he dreamed of. He'd been alone at home when a knock had sounded at the door. Summoning the will to rise and answer it had taken long minutes, but the rapping had repeated several times, increasing each in urgency and force.

His mouth fell open when the door revealed Ikinen Jiao, the elder brother of the boy he had nearly mortally wounded just three days before. He knew the chuunin only by appearance and reputation as a competent shinobi. He asked to come in, and Naoe had dully nodded, trudging to the kitchen to prepare tea. Even despondent, it was as if his body was wired for politeness, taking each step an action of its own accord. Really, it was just something to do in the awkward silence.

Jiao informed him that his younger brother was recovering well. He asked if Naoe planned to visit him. Naoe watched the flames beneath the tea kettle.

Sighing, Jiao had stood. Naoe presumed it was to leave, but then he felt a hand on his shoulder, turning him bodily around. His muscles had immediately tensed for defensive action, but the chuunin wasn't attacking him. He was forcing Naoe to look at him, and the intensity of those eyes had burned itself indelibly into the young shinobi's memory. In sharp words, Jiao explained to Naoe that what had happened was only his fault in the least relevant aspects. His brother had been prepared for the risks he'd taken. Shinobi always had to be prepared for the possibility of death or injury.

Naoe had felt again the way that Jiao's fingers had dug painfully into his shoulders. The kettle whistled, sibilantly at first and then keening. The sound broke the spell that had fallen over both young men. Jiao recomposed, retracted, sighed. He told Naoe that there was only one person remaining who needed to forgive him: himself. With that, he left Naoe to his tea kettle and picking up the pieces.

---

The final dream was the most recent. It's end had woken Naoe hours before dawn, with a single tear brimming on the surface of each of his hazel eyes.

Being in that house again. It was small, but what might have been a bad thing to most had suited Naoe. The coziness. How quickly he and Isao (well, mostly Isao) had been able to make it their own. In the dream he was just returning from the small dessert village's market. Isao had prepared a list for him, items to be retrieved to make a house into a home. The distinction was lost on Naoe, but it seemed important to his friend. Their budget for the mission was minimal, but for weeks they'd eaten only rice and drank only water to set aside enough to upgrade their little hide-out.

In his bag he had a few framed pictures, some candles that smelled faintly of cinnamon and cardamon, and some paint and brushes. Isao was hunched on the ground when he entered, spreading newspaper on the floor of the living room/dining room/kitchen to keep any errantly falling paint from staining it. The walls were a flat, lifeless white.

Naoe could not help, in the dream, but smile at the sight of him. Isao, whose eyes were always bright, whose lips always smiled. He was slight, almost delicate really, with long chestnut-colored hair. Usually it flowed freely, but he had put it up in a pony tail that day to avoid getting paint in it.

"Did you get everything?" Finished with his preparations, Isao had risen and stretched, padding over to inspect the bags. Naoe had nodded, as in awe of Isao as ever.

He took charge when the project began in earnest. Isao was a creature of ideas, not implementation. It was what Naoe enjoyed most about him, one of the reasons they were so compatible as... friends. That was all they had ever managed to be, after all, even if the potential had always been just around one corner or another.

He divided the room into sections and assigned Isao to paint the trim while he coated the walls themselves. Thanks to his planning, by the time he finished one section, Isao was usually ready to begin with it. They worked in determined silence, wholly focused, until it was time to break for lunch. Naoe had scheduled them half of an hour to eat and drink.

When he turned to inform Isao it was break-time, the other boy attacked. His paintbrush swiped out, dragging over Naoe's nose and leaving the tip of it the same light-rose color that was drying on the walls. Naoe's shock dissipated quickly, and he trapped Isao's wrists. The two of them laughed as they scuffled and finally exhausted themselves enough to finally collapse, entwined and breathing hard. It was from Isao that Naoe had learned the offensive value of tickling, after Isao had tried and failed.

"You should put one of your poems on the wall before we finish," Isao had said after a thoughtful sip of his drink.

Naoe had stared blankly. "You mean write one on the wall?" His skepticism, however slight, had invaded his tone.

Isao nodded. "Yes. Then we can paint over it."

Naoe was still unconvinced. "Why put it there only to paint over it? Then nobody will see it. That makes no sense, Isao-kun."

Like always, Isao had laughed, light and melodic. It wasn't at Naoe's expense, never, but because he was genuinely amused.

"Things do not always have to make sense, Naoe. Usually they don't. It would be for us. We would know it was there." He'd risen, and circled his arms around Naoe's neck, leaning his chin on his shoulder. "Just once, Naoe, do something that doesn't make sense. It will be good for you."

---

Naoe had written a poem just for the occasion. This place will ever/ a home be. If we know no/ other, we are blessed. Isao had watched the entire process, smiling, and pressed a tiny, chaste kiss on Naoe's cheek that made it seem as if it had caught fire.

Together, they finished painting the room. It took two extra coats to make it so the poem couldn't be seen, but Naoe had said nothing about the waste which further enhanced the nonsensical nature of the enterprise.

He'd awoken from the dream feeling ike his cheek had caught fire. Isao's words echoed in his mind: Just once, Naoe, do something that doesn't make sense. It will be good for you.

Three dreams. It meant something. He'd rolled out of bed after his processing and pulled open the desk drawer containing his old note-books. It took only ten minutes to track down the ones he was looking for, and another half hour to transcribe them onto artful parchement paper, the characters large enough to be read from a moderate distance.

He dressed quickly, ink still drying on his hands and staining his clothes. Excitement had nested in his chest, exerting a keen, innervating pressure all throughout his body. After packing his supplies in his bag, he set out.

---

A shadow flitted through Konahagakure that morning, while the blackness of night was still entrenched. Citizens awoke and went about their daily business only to find that something mysterious had happened while they all slept. Over the doors of several shops and important buildings, someone had posted poetry, simple but thoughtful, both in character and design. The vandal had been consciencious enough to have the poem on paper rather than the actual building, making removal easy.

Green-grocer, life-blood:/ the land and people are one/ and whole by your deed graced the facade of a market stalll.

A book is a gift,/ a word is a blessing,/ an idea grows was posted above the entrance to the library.

Burning sweet and wet,/ the sake pools in my gut,/ warming me gently was spotted hanging from the roof of the Konoholic.

All told there were a dozen poems. Some villagers went on a scavenger hunt, trying to find others after witnessing a few. Some shop-keeps took them down, and others let them remain until the elements took them away.

Later that day, Naoe heard two old women discussing the strange prank.

"It just makes no sense at all," one of them said, shaking her head.

Naoe had to hurry away before mixed tears formed and spilled down his cheeks, amazed at the lack of difference between laughing and crying.