Disclaimer: Masashi Kishimoto and others own the characters represented in this story. I am only writing this for fun, not for profit, and own none of them.

Candles and lamps twinkled merrily as snow lightly dusted the streets and the tops of people's heads. It was half an hour to midnight, and the majority of the people had gone inside to eat, drink, and be merry with their family and close friends, for it was Christmas Eve, and people were drunk with happiness. There were only a few stragglers outside, and most of them were bustling home with their arms filled with presents.

Among those still in the streets was a small boy, his blond locks nearly hidden by the dirt and grime that had accumulated on his head, and his clothes nothing but mere rags that clung onto his thin, frail body. In his hands, he held a small bundle of sticks, and if anyone had bothered to glance harder in his direction, they would have seen that it was a bundle of matches.

The boy was an orphan, and because the orphanage that he had lived in had because too full, they kicked him out in the hopes that the holiday cheer would be infectious enough for someone to take him in. Unfortunately, none of the holiday cheer had reached deep into the hearts of anyone that the boy had met, and he was forced to beg (however reluctant he was to do so) from people who only turned their heads away from him and sniffed their noses in disdain.

'Who is this rude little boy,' they though to themselves, 'that could be so shameful as to beg from us when we have nothing to spare him?'

Eventually, someone had taken pity on the poor boy, and as an early Christmas present, had given him a handful of matches that, according to the man that had given the matches, would light if struck onto any hard surface. The matches were the only things that the boy received that night, and he hung onto them as if they were his lifeline.

As the clock ticked closer to midnight, the people on the street had slowly filtered themselves into their own homes, and the small boy was the only one left, his bare feet turning blue as he plodded along, staring at the endless rows of houses, each house with its own special light that glowed faintly out onto the sidewalks, each light enticing the boy with so many promises of warmth, of love, and of so much hope that they boy couldn't bear it, and turned his eager and bright eyes to look into the nearest window, reaching up on his toes to see into the window.

But the window had become clouded over because of the cold, and all the boy could see was the ever-faint light and vague shadows, as if it were a shadow puppet show and he an observer with bad eyesight.

The boy turned away, disappointed, until he remembered about the bundles of matches that were still in his hand, digging into his numbed skin. With newfound joy, he fumbled to grab a match with two fingers, and struck it against the bricks that lined the window of the house.

Immediately, the air next to him filled with warmth, and the fogged up windows watered down and cleared to show two little children playing on a luxurious rug by a bright fireplace that crinkled and winked at the children as if it were alive. The children looked to be no older than 5, and they were playing with dolls, their faces bright from both the fire from the fireplace and from the delight they took in playing with their toys. Next to the children was a giant pine tree that decorated with shiny baubles, strings of popcorn, and on top of the tree, a gold star that twinkled brilliantly. A man, who looked no older than 20, watched the children with an ever-present smile on his face, although when the children looked in his direction, he tried to conceal his smile with a scowl. The blond boy outside looked at the scene before him wishfully, before the match reached its end and burned out.

The boy looked at the blackened nub regretfully, before looking at the bundle of matches, hesitant to use up his only Christmas gift. But when he thought of the joy that he saw in the children's faces, and how warm he felt when he lit the match, both inside and out, and how his fingers felt oh-so-deliciously warm, his hand automatically went to the matches and without a second thought, his other hand quickly latched onto two of his precious matches and struck each on onto the bricks again, this time a bit quicker and rushed.

The fog that had crept back to its original place on the window dissipated again, but instead of the two children playing near the fireplace, there was something entirely different. Rows upon rows of children were seated on benches. The benches were lavished with silken cloth, and upon the tablecloths were dozens upon dozens of plates, steaming from being freshly made and one look would have left even a prince's mouth salivating.

The boy looked at the food longingly, before something, or rather, someone, caught his eye. A little boy who looked about 7 sat near the end of the table, his pitch-black hair meticulously clean and combed back, and his clothes looked as though wrinkles could never settle upon them. But while his face had on a small smile, his eyes held no light, and his shoulders drooped slightly. The blond boy at the window stared intently at him, but before he could figure out why the young boy was so familiar, the matches were blown out by a small puff of wind, and the fog curled around the window once more.

The blond boy, not caring whether or not he used up his matches and determined to figure out who the boy was, took three of his matches out now, striking it on the bricks once more and put the matches near the window again. The images in the window changed; this time, the same brunet that had been in the image through the window was in it, only there was a blond in the picture as well. They looked as if they had been mock-wrestling, and although they both looked disheveled and worn-out, the blond seemed to have won, for he was prancing around the room in glee, while the raven-haired boy just looked at him apathetically, and his mouth moved, as if he was saying something. The blond boy who was dancing around the room immediately crossed his arms and stuck his tongue out.

When the blond boy staring at the window saw that face, it clicked. He was the blond boy on the other side of the window. The other boy was Sasuke, or more affectionately known by him as 'the little loser', and had been his best friend, until he had died in an unfortunate accident in which he had been trampled upon by a horse carriage while he had gone to fetch a ball from the street.

And finally, the three matches were near the end, and the little blond boy panicked. He needed this image, and even if it was a false memory, this was about one of his most precious people, and he struggled to grab the matches from his hand, determined to keep the flame burning and the vision in the window of the two boys alive, and more importantly, of Sasuke.

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The next day, people looked curiously at the dead young boy who lay near the window of a house, with his fingers tightly wrapped around burnt stubs, unrecognizable blond hair, rags barely covering his body, and his body half-covered in snow. Some people who claimed that they were near the boy before he died said that he had been lighting matches one by one, 'probably to light himself to death'.

But if anyone looked closer at the boy's face, they would have seen a small smile that graced his face. The smile of a child who had received the greatest Christmas gift of all.

A/N: Whoo, done with my Christmas drabble. Remember, reviews are appreciated and they warm the cockles of my heart. =]