Everything's always dark, now. Or at least it seems like it. He remembers times when everything was light, soft and enjoyable, colors blurred together between shadows. When he'd squint in the brightness and bounce toward those shadows, reveling in the darkness. Now he wishes he'd spent more time in the sun.
Because everything's dark now, except when it's light - and when the light and colors return, he wishes they didn't. Because the colors are all wrong, there's no happiness behind them, no joy or gentleness. All there is is harsh, sharp reality, overlaid with what's to come, and there's no room for what once was. Because if he thinks of the past when the light comes back, then the blood flying through the air will be from his body instead of his enemies'. The light of flying metal and the glow of chakra will fly too close to him, and everything might go dark for good.
It terrified him the last time that happened, when the darkness returned not from his vision being covered by cloth and metal but rather from eyes slipping shut as exhaustion took over. The dark was more overpowering than anything he'd felt since the first time he'd begun to see in the sharp, predicting way. He never wanted to experience that dark again.
So when he saw the light, even though it hurt, even though the things he saw when the light came were horrible, even though he could feel himself leeching the life from his best friend when it came - he always stared as intently as he could, saw as much as possible. Because if he missed even the tiniest thing, his best friend would be dead, and the dark would come for good.
He didn't pretend anymore that it was all for his friend that he saw all he could when the horrible light came. He was terrified of the dark and wanted to hold it off as long as possible.
But after every time, when the blood was on the ground and the others were picking up their weapons from where they'd fallen, when teammates were asking each other if they had any injuries, the dark wouldn't come right away. He'd turn toward something simple - a drift of snow, a flower, a cloud - and just look for a few moments. And he could relax, enjoy this little bit of the life from before. Pale fingers would come up and touch the skin around his eye, gentle, reassuring, like a pat on the back or a hug.
Sometimes he looked at the sun, straight into it, burning the light in until tears flowed, but he'd smile because it was sharp and painful from the outside, and he didn't need to steal his friend's life to see that. He'd remember the contests of who could stare at it longer. His pale hand would come up to shade their eyes, swipe over the scarred lid with fingers that shouldn't still be soft, and then bring the cool darkness back. And he'd rest in the dark until the next time he's needed to see the light.