He can't afford to show too much strength. Even nightmares are nothing compared to the cold light of morning, and the eyes of the villagers, colder still. Not hurting—merely watching with a kind of terror mixed with hatred that seems to gather in his gut like a belly full of worms. He tries to shrug it off, but what if they are right? He pushes it away, but the thought remains, uneasy. These people can order him killed, if they are afraid enough. Even the Hokage can be over-ruled, if enough of the village bands together. The nail that sticks up gets hammered down, so he doesn't ever dare be too strong. Even so, he can never be so weak as to look defenseless. Things that are defenseless get crushed. His teammates, his peers, look down on him. They scorn the foolish boy, not knowing his reasons. Not knowing how fast he heals, so they never know how badly he was really hurt. Not knowing the hatred he wakes up to every morning. Not noticing how the smile is just a little bit too bright, just a little too often. Not noticing the strain behind the merry mask.
