Sometimes he'll wake up in the middle of the night and remember. Sitting by the big window where he thinks he sees them best, his memory will run unbidden over their faces.

Her burning eyes, a curtain of black filled with the softest of sighs. Her warm, still hands that always found time to grasp his, before he pulled away.

His strong arms that rarely lifted him up, but when they did, it was high enough to see the stars of his mothers smile.

The most painful lasted the longest. His own form of masochism maybe. His lips pressed gently to his childish nose in the fitful throes of a nightmare. The embrace that chased away the remnants of fear. The opaque eyes he could never see himself in.

It was these nights he would find Naruto and wake him to spar. It was these nights he often left with bloodied hands and the scent of musk under his skin.