In the days before his forehead was marked, Neji was a quiet, happy child.
He liked going for runs with his father and feeling proud of himself for keeping up. (Hizashi would shorten his strides and pretend to be winded.)
He complained about his hair, though he secretly enjoyed it when his father would brush his out with him at night. (One hundred strokes, Neji, or you might go bald like Hikaru-sama.)
He worked hard at his stances, chubby jowls tensing with effort as he struggled to hold them better, longer, than the other children.
And, if shadows ate away at the edges of he and his father's world, he tried not to worry. After all, the Hyuuga are a clan of the sun. As long he listened to his father and opened the curtains each morning, everything will be fine.
Four words pour cement over his feet and turn the air in his lungs into acid:
"The dead are rising."
There is a collective stillness as ghosts of the past waft through the camp, visible only to grief-filled eyes. Hinata, after a few minutes of silent struggle, begins to flutter to his side. This startles him into action. He pretends not to see her as he walks in the opposite direction and ducks into the nearest unoccupied tent.
Inside, he studies a rent in the waterproof canvas. Sunlight worms its way through the small tear — he reaches out to catch the beam as if he is three years-old again and sat on his father's lap. It slips through his fingers before spilling to the floor.
Focusing on taking even breaths, Neji realises he doesn't know how he would react on seeing his father. The realisation, oddly, calms him.
He is okay with this uncertainty.
(Hizashi would be proud.)
Notes: I'm currently looking for a beta for this and other works. Please contact me if you're interested!