She always knew that her first born was different (he's not even crying, the nurse had said).

He was silent, stoic, born an adult. His eyes were dark and endless like hers. Like her. But they were different, dimensions and hearts apart (and further and further he drifted…).

She was married to a man she didn't love, not truly, and she had never felt otherwise. He was stern and unforgiving and she was laughter and sunshine. She had been. It was not what she had wanted, but she was used to this. Not getting what she wanted. She was pushed toward a future that was made for her. Decided for her (it is what is best for you). And she despaired in silent and unseen tears in the dead night, where she lay unmoving in their bed.

But then she found him. Created him. And she loved him as only a mother could.

And she had tried to shield him from the dangers of adulthood, tried to hold on to young innocence, but she should have known better, she should have known that his destiny was made before he had come, alive but silent from her womb (not even crying…).

He was awake and alert when he was cradled in her arms for the first time. And she had sensed that he would be different, this beautiful child lying wide-eyed and studying her face in the morning hours of life.

She had sensed it, but too caught up in the happiness of his birth, pushed it away, deliberately. She did not want to dwell on the future. The future that would pass by without her say in the matter. She wanted this moment to last (but she knew it wouldn't).

He had learned so quickly, so eagerly. She had blinked, watching him toddle toward her for the first time on unsteady legs, then seconds (but really years) later shyly extend a fistful of bright colors to her, then more seconds (and more years) later ask her a question that panged her heart.

(why are your eyes sad when you smile?)

And it had consumed her, this ecstasy of simple yet profound love that poured from her being, and she tried to make all of it fit into him. To make him realize how much he truly meant to her, how much he would always mean to her.

And they were happy (and she effectively hid away the pain) and she wondered how she could have thought of him that way, this adult child of hers, (who did not cry) how she thought that he would be different and leave her too soon.

And then she thought how she could have doubted that.

And then her other child came.

And he was loud and lively, brightly beaming, childishly alive and naive.

So different from her first. And she loved this one as much him, but she still reassured him (or herself?), her first, that her love for him would never change, that he would always be in her heart. And he had nodded, grim, shoving his hands into his pockets, and turned away.

He was older when he developed a close bond with his elder brother (although after considerable, yet subtle, jealousy) but they too were distant, him always somewhere else, the other holding onto broken promises of tomorrow with hope.

And life had gone on, but…

He was always mature, the boy who sometimes smiled, (but without true feeling) who sometimes laughed (but quietly) and then left her, in her small world of comfort and padded lies, alone. He was holding her hand, a somber look on his face, then closing the door behind him an instant later, climbing up those stairs that lead him (further and further) away from arms that embraced him and lips that kissed him and whispered to him. The stairs that his father pushed him up (higher and higher) winded under and around his achievements.

A prodigy.

Brilliant.

Genius.

But just a boy. Always a boy to her, always vulnerable somewhere deep within him, always a stern mask over his features, always… (without tears)

And later, he was always gone. Training, practicing, honing, and she cried once more, bitter tears, for the boy with dark hair and dark eyes (red eyes) so like her own, with a dark wall erected in between them.

And she wondered how he couldn't have been different.

He grew more distant, more engrossed in the world of adulthood, too early, too early, and she wished for those days where he could look up and smile (because it came easier to him then than now).

And she wondered if she could have held him back, stalled for time, held onto his hand before he left to shut the door.

And she wondered that again as he stood over her, in the black of night, his red eyes mirrored in her dark ones, the heavy, lifeless weight of his father draped over her legs.

She struggled to let words escape her throat, but they caught and slid back down behind her tongue (and even if she did say something, she didn't know what she would tell him).

He studied her, and she was reminded of the first time she had locked gazes with an infant boy, cradled in her arms. He was different now, grown-up, and she desperately wished she could tell him, that she had been proud, that there was no substance behind his actions now, that she loved him…loves him…

And she smiled, faintly, mouth still opening and closing wordlessly-

But he speaks first, the low voice cutting through the still night air.

"Gomen…okaa-san."

And it was black, like the midnight of his eyes and her own.

(but there it was, the faintest trace of a tear…)

I wanted to write a Naruto fic for a while, and this is my first one, so please go easy on me! I experimented with a new style this time, be sure to tell me if it worked. Arigato for reading!