Memories
Sasuke stared at the photo in his hands. He turned it around in his hands.
Still just a photo.
Nothing special: him looking none-too-impressed, Sakura grinning idiotically, and Naruto looking constipated, with Kakashi lording it over them, as usual.
Besides, it's not like photos mattered. They were for old women to sigh over, and complain about how they had aged.
He shoved it into a draw, and tried to forget about it. But it teased the edges of his mind, picking and tugging at his memories, unravelling them all one-by-one. It pulled out memories of Sakura at five, crying because some people called her names. Not that he cared, she shouldn't be so weak. Naruto at seven: walking past him and smiling in an indescribable manner. Naruto when he first stood up in front of the class and declared his undying love for Sakura, and the way Sakura had belted him. Sakura being the first in the class to be able to transform, although he had been able to transform more times than her. Naruto's face when he had been tied to that stupid pole, and Sakura's look of absolute terror when she had been in the grip of Kakashi's genjutsu.
Why had he waited for her to wake up after she had fainted?
Why had he offered his food to Naruto when Kakashi had said not to?
Why did he care about them both so much?
What you couldn't see in the photo was that straight after it had been taken Sakura had grabbed both his and Naruto's hands (something she tended to do) and dragged them all out to dinner, to celebrate their 'first day as ninjas!'. He had gripped her hand far too tightly that night. It had been nice to feel someone else's touch, if only for a little while.
Memories are dangerous things, this Sasuke had learnt at a young age. They are painful, full of failure, hatred and death. But these memories…they had nothing to do with learning techniques or betrayal.
They were happy memories. Not triumphant at having done something, not inspiring, not especially important, but…happy. And his alone.
There was a spare frame, where a picture of him and his brother used to reside. It had long since been destroyed – he did not need to see false smiles.
But there were no false smiles in his happy memories. Scowls, stuck out tongues, snarls and rude gestures, but these just made the smiles all the more precious.
In the end, he dug through his draw and pulled the photo out. It would look good opposite his bed. It would be a reminder of how far he had come, perhaps. He would think of a good explanation later.
And there he placed his happy memory, and each night it twinkles across the room at him, and tugs away at his heart.