Rule
A shinobi should never show their tears.
This is shinobi rule number 25, and for Neji, the most important one of them all. Of course he knows them all by heart, every single one, just like any good ninja should. But he especially favored number 25.
Once when he was nine he broke his leg while sparring. Accidents happened. The other child he had been sparring had broken out into hysterical tears at the sight of bleach white bone protruding from his flesh, dark blood gliding down the pale skin of his leg, pooling under his foot, in between his toes, into his sandal, children shrieking and fainting at the sight of him, the teacher gone, looking for a medic, general chaos. Neji hadn't made a single sound the entire time. He had been too busy biting his hand. When the medic came ten minutes later, after putting a tourniquet on his leg, she'd had to sew five stitches into his hand. He'd bitten that hard. But he hadn't cried. And that was what counted.
When he was eleven and on his first C class mission he had somehow become separated from his Team. It had all been a blur. An ambush. Smoke bombs. Death screams. What mattered was that he had no allies in sight, was young and inexperienced, and was surrounded on all sides by enemies. Luckily, since it was just a C mission, after all, they were only samurais, petty crooks that robbed travelers. But there were a lot of them. And he had never killed before.
He'd activated his Byakugan immediately of course, flying into the appropriate stance, ready to fight for his life. He may love his father, but he wasn't ready to see him yet.
They'd charged at him simultaneously, weapons raised and battle cries loud even though that for all intents and purposes he was just a boy. Six grown men versus an eleven year old boy, and he'd even tricked them into thinking he was blind on top of that, and yet they still attacked. These people had no honor. They were bottom feeders that needed to be dealt with.
He'd easily dodged a spear headed for his shoulder, weaving his way around two katanas, a club, a broadsword, and a mace, and he struck. Fast as a viper his hand shot forth and what the men could see all he did was lightly tap their allies neck. But he froze with a dumbfounded look on his face. His mouth opened and closed for a moment, reminding Neji of a fish on land. The man's face first went very pale and then tinged blue. He fell onto his knees. His allies gaped at the man. Neji watched on, transfixed, Byakugan activated, allowing him to see the man's heart beat furiously, his lungs strive for air, the blood flowing to his head slowly taper off. He saw it all.
The man fell face first onto the ground with a thump. The men looked at him. And they ran.
As he heard his Jounin-sensei's and teammates cries for him in the distance he blinked rapidly. Why did his eyes sting? He touched his face. It was dry. Good.
With that he turned away from the dead man, the man he'd killed, his first one, and he walked towards his team's worried cries. He opted not to mention the dead man in his report.
He would not cry even if he sustained serious injury. He would not cry even if he killed his first man. He could not. Because he had cried at his father's funeral. And his father had been an honorable man, a man worthy of respect, Branch Member or no. How dare Neji compare his father's death to that of a broken bone? How dare Neji belittle his grief for such a wonderful man by crying over some dead stranger? If his father deserved his tears, then no one else did. Not him, not some dead rogue samurai, not anyone.
Neji loved his father.
He wouldn't cry at the injustice of the treatment the Main Branch dished out to him and his fellow Branch Members. He wouldn't cry over hazy dreams of his father, bleeding, dying, a sword buried up to its hilt in his gut, face pale and bloodless, his last gasp the only sound in the world. He would not cry over nightmares. He wouldn't. He couldn't.
A shinobi should never show their tears.
He had not shed tears for years. And he could feel it. Like a dam with no outlets, the tears had built up for years now, an unimaginable force, an unimaginable amount, hidden behind his dam, his mask, his restraint. And he could feel it cracking. Spider webs of cracks were growing along his dam, the concrete crumbling, the mask slipping. If that dam were to fall it would all come out at once. That could not happen. It could not. He'd rather lose his eyes than let that happen. He would literally gouge them out before he allowed them to cry.
He had to do whatever he could for now to hold them back for as long as possible. Maybe if he was lucky he would die before he slipped, maybe he would be killed by a stray kunai, an enemy shinobi, before the dam could crack and the wave could come. And if abandoning all other emotions to hold back the crushing depression, the longing, the missing, the mourning, the loneliness, was what needed to be done… well. He was okay with not smiling anymore. There was nothing to smile about anymore anyway. No more laughter. No more contentment. That was okay. He hadn't needed any of that.
His father had been a man worthy of respect. Neji had cried at his funeral. He couldn't afford to cry over anything else. That would belittle his grief, his death, his loneliness. He would grieve and he would mourn but he would do it privately, respectfully, behind a mask so no one could see and try to help him. He didn't need help. He didn't want help. He wanted this pain. It was the only thing he had left of his father. If it were to disappear what would he have left? A seal. A crushing lack of freedom.
The rule might just be an excuse. He might know it, too. But it was as much part of his mask as anything else, and he wouldn't leave it for anything. Because a shinobi should not show their tears.