I do not own Naruto.

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No one knew.

No one knew of those nights, nights when he layed against the other's legs, and listened to his stories.

He told of a family, where the father was cold, and the mother was warm, where the youngest strived for reconition, but never recieved it, while the eldest tried to stay away from reconition, and always got it.

Mostly he spoke of the warm mother, and only then warmth ever crept into his voice, crept as if on little cat feet, as though her warmth was making its way through the invisible cracks in his shell.

And so the listener listened to that cold, slightly warmed, voice speak of that dysfuntional family. He listened, and slowly fell for the warm mother, a woman he had only heard about, a taken woman.

The teller knew this, and yet still continued his tales in the still night. His crimson eyes unblinking, his face never changing, nothing out of place, speaking of a woman he too loved.

The listener once asked what happened to the warm mother. At this the teller had stiffened, stiffened for just a single second, and then continued on speaking, as if he had never been interrupted.

No one knew that the listener with azure eyes and sun-kissed hair loved a woman he had only heard of. No one knew the teller with crimson eyes and hair of night loved a warm mother he couldn't love, couldn't have.

No one knew of those nights, when one listened to find out what happened to her, no one knew when one told to remember her.

No one knew.

No one.