She recalls the first time she met him. She'd been five years old, just shy of six.
It was a warm spring day. The forest floor had been wet with yesterday's rainfall, the smell of rich earth heady in her nostrils, and the taste of petrichor thick in the air, clinging to her throat.
She recalls this day, not because of him, not entirely, but because it was the last day she'd worn her hair long. She'd taken a sharp kunai and cut clean through the bright golden locks, watched as they fell gracefully into her bathroom sink like shards of sunlight.
It was the last day she'd let anyone gain an advantage on her in a fight because of something as silly as hair.
Once it had been her pride, her vanity, as it is for all women and girls. It was a peculiar shade of blonde, more lively and precious than most. Long and curly, it grew quickly and endlessly. It hadn't mattered that it was more unruly than all the other girls or that the kids picked at her about how wild and untamed and different it was.
(Different like the dark shade of her skin and the marks on her face and her striking, almost foreign features).
Though the thought of rough fingers yanking at her scalp, dragging her down into the mud, twisting her about like a ragdoll, had made her want to claw her hair out with her bare hands.
He had come to her rescue, like a thief in the night. Far more talented than some playground bullies, far more talented than her. His strikes were as quick and sudden as lightning, and just as lethal in her young mind. The boys had scattered into the forest, properly bruised and humiliated at being bested by a boy half their age. He'd stood tall and proud as they ran, his shadow stretching ten feet tall in the afternoon sun, even if he was four-foot one. A little smirk had graced his lips before his eyes landed on her, brimming with concern.
He'd reached out to her long before she'd ever reached out to him.
When he'd been young and sweet, brave and naive, emulating the supposed heroism of his eldest brother.
He reached out to her, hand ready to comfort the roughed up little girl. The pitiful sight she must have made. Clothing torn and stretched from being pulled, hair tangled and knotted, scrapes on her elbows and knees and whiskered cheeks, streaks of salty tears leaving trails of clear skin on her dirty face. But none could compare to the wounds that'd been inflicted on her mind, her soul, breaking her spirit just a little bit more, chipping away at her confidence and pride. Because words, she had learned, were powerful things, especially to a child, and no fist could compare to the lethal blows a single word could wreak. Demon, they had called her. It's what everyone called her, in hushed voices and harsh whispers.
(and she was so different, looked so different from everyone else, how could she not be a demon?)
The boy reached out to her, ready to comfort. She smacked his hand away with renewed strength, eyes glistening with fresh tears, the angry kind (the embarrassed and confused kind), as she glared at him. Mustering up all the hate and rage in her little heart until it pooled through, bright in her eyes like a fanned flame. Not for him, not really, but for the situation. For being so helpless, for needing someone to save her instead of saving herself, for not being strong enough to save herself. He flinched, all the same, looking hurt and uncertain (unbeknownst to her back then, he was alone and isolated too. An Uchiha, with those devil red eyes and supposed manipulative nature. No one really wanted them around either.) back when he wore his feelings on his sleeve, back when he could afford to.
Upon seeing his hurt, she'd bit the inside of her cheek, hating herself just a little bit more. Because even when someone was trying to help her she lashed out. Maybe everyone was right about her, maybe she didn't deserve kindness.
She'd ducked her head, ashamed. The Old Man would be so disappointed if he knew she'd been mean to someone who helped her.
"I didn't ask for your help, dattebayo!" she'd choked out over sobs, and then promptly ran away, sprain ankle and all.
.
.
Sasuke doesn't see the little girl again.
Next spring, a blonde boy with a choppy haircut and a goofy grin enrolls in the Academy, and he duly notes the boy has peculiar whisker-like birthmarks on his sun-kissed cheeks (and that his face is a little too angelic, lips a bit too full, lashes a tad too long for a boy. And he's short, almost as short as that Hyuga girl.).
He shrugs it off with careless oblivion, even if the encounter in the forest still stings. It was bad enough that the villagers, teachers, and even some classmates were wary of him, but he'd thought that if...that maybe if he showed he was kind that maybe…
It doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is his big brother Itachi, and catching up with him, so they can train together. So father can finally take him seriously, see that he's just as good as his brother, that he could and would make the Uchiha clan proud. Even if he was the youngest, the spare, the second son, the little brother, Itachi's little brother (always in the shadow and never in his own light).
He knew he could do it. Through hard work and perseverance. Already it was starting to work. His father had been disappointed at first when Sasuke barely managed to perform their family acclaimed fire technique. After all, Itachi had mastered it on his first try. But Sasuke had been relentless in his training, practicing even in his free time, until the sun sank below the horizon and night became day again in short bursts of fire that sprouted from his (burned) mouth.
His mother teased him every time he dragged himself home before placing ointments on his tiny little lips singed with first degree burns. But his triumph was worth the embarrassment, his efforts rewarded with his father's acknowledgment.
The approval makes him feel warm inside, and all is right in his little world. Even if Itachi is slowly drifting away from it, and father and Itachi are drifting away from each other, and his mother's fine dark hair is beginning to gray from all the stress of being stuck in the middle of their quarrel.
All is right in his little world. Until it simply isn't.
He'd thought that his world had revolved around catching up with Itachi, besting Itachi, and now Itachi is all he has. Too stupid and naive and foolish to not see everything else that was important and precious until it was gone. No longer will he feel his mother's warm hands tending to his scraps and burns, no longer will he see pride shine in his father's eyes. Or be set upon by dotting uncles, aunts, and cousins, pinching his cheeks and ruffling his hair.
That Man is all he thinks about. In every waking moment, in every horrid restless night, dreams shrouded in betrayal and blood (so much blood. He smells it even in his dreams, and doesn't think he'll ever be rid of the putrid smell of blood and cooling corpses.) and Itachi, standing in darkness yet larger than life, untouchable and lethal. A deadly creature. Blood red eyes peering into his soul from the shadows, encroaching upon his already scarred and battered mind by pulling him into an endless night of terror. Over and over and over again. Death would have been kinder.
Suddenly the teachers are more kind, condolences stirring on the tongue, the classmates transfixed upon his person (and he finally has a light of his own, with the world in his shadow but at what cost? What's the point of being the best when there is nothing to compete with?), the villagers shooting him pitiful gazes (most of them anyway. There are still those who are wary. Waiting for him to crack and go on a murderous rampage like That Man. Madness seems to run strong in the Uchiha family.) and it's enough to make him shut the world out.
It's hard to do that, however, when there's a blonde idiot always in his peripheral. Whenever he's in a daze, stewing in his darkest thoughts, you can count on the idiot to barge his way in, disrupting those thoughts. It irks Sasuke to no end.
How can someone be that distracting? Not even his vapid fangirls can chip at his cold exterior, but whenever that blonde idiot is involved his resolve crumbles and the ice melts away until there is nothing but fire. Angry words spat in the heat of the moment and bruised fist landing on a sun-kissed jaw during classroom spars. The idiot never stays down though. Only smiles through bloodied teeth and proclaims for all to hear, that "You just got lucky, dattebayo!" and "One of these days I'm going to kick your ass!" (much to Iruka-sensei's mortification) and the idiot's personal favorite "Stop calling me a loser! One day I'm gonna become Hokage and then you'll have to acknowledge me!".
That one really gets under his skin. Because he used to be the same way. Chasing after acknowledgment and approval. Back when he was the foolish little brother. He hates it, hates remembering the endless nights of practicing his clan's Jutsu, approval lighting his father's eyes, a ghost of a smile on his lips, thinking things were going to be different.
He-he hates Naruto.
That fool. Sasuke isn't blind. He sees the way the teachers look at the blonde boy with thinly veiled disgust and hatred, sees the way other students shy away from him, sees the way civilian parents scoff and sneer at the boy whenever he makes his way to the academy. And yet the idiot takes it all in stride, rolls with it how he rolls with the blows Sasuke lands on him without mercy.
Smiling, laughing, playing stupid pranks. Everyone hates you, he wants to say. What reason do you have to laugh, to smile, to play around?
Sasuke doesn't admit it, not until much later in his life when he is wiser and older, but he was jealous. Happiness isn't something he's felt in a while, smiles are rare, and they're usually the devious haughty kind and not the warm bright ones that Naruto gives freely.
Despite everything, Naruto is happy (it makes Sasuke want to be happy). The poor, lonely orphan boy who everyone hates is happy and kind, even to those who aren't kind to him (especially Iruka who used to be right in league with the rest of his colleagues until somehow Naruto wore him down.) and it's just-
It's enough to make Sasuke want to punch a wall. He does, several times (wishing desperately that it was the idiot's face instead), and knows the idiot is rubbing off on him because he definitely feels it the next day and curses himself for his rashness.
What's even more infuriating is that Sasuke knows that most of the time it's an act. That sometimes the insults cut too deep, no matter how hard Naruto smiles. Sasuke knows pain, knows it well, and knows how to spot it in others. Knows how to spot sadness and loneliness, and yes, anger too, brief little flashes of it that make the blonde's eyes grow cold (not hot, like Sasuke's) with righteous indignation. As fleeting and brisk as the wind.
The thing that sets them apart, however, is that the idiot still reaches out when Sasuke has become well accustomed to pushing away, even before the Massacre.
The foolish little boy still wants acceptance from the very people who despise his existence. What self-respecting person would do that? Clearly, the other boy has no respect for himself, so Sasuke doesn't respect him either. He doesn't.