There are people with hearts made of something greater than gold

People who can find beauty in everything

People who can mute the rest of the world

People who can see pain and erase it in an instant

People like you

It was difficult, being thrown into your great whirlpool of knowledge without any idea what was going on or how to get back out. I struggled even from the first lesson; my parents had never thought the prevalence of trade important enough, and I was never taught. You, however, could roll figures off your tongue for anything- rice, wine, silk, fruit, gold. Yet it wasn't long until I realised you weren't passionate about anything. Trade simply didn't interest you, nor did politics or history or physics. Not even alchemy, our parents' greatest love could evoke any curiosity. You did everything with practised halfheartedness.

Except when it came to me. It struck me as odd as soon as I realised, but honestly, I couldn't complain. You went the distance to make me comfortable, and whether that was because you were being made to or that you actually wanted to, I didn't know. But it helped, all the words and games and comfort. And while your family could hardly get a word out of me, I trusted you wholly.

Even though we were far from alike, there was a sort of mutual understanding between us. You would trade me answers to maths questions in return for the pastries and sweetmeats I wheedled from the cooks at your behest.

One day, I was too lazy to fulfil my part of the exchange, so you left me to my inept silence in class. When I complained later, over a game of chess, you stretched out lazily, a satisfied smirk on your face, "Well, that's not my fault now, is it, dobe?"

Dead last. True, perhaps, but last of two and hardly worth a boast. I scowled, "Teme."

You laughed and prompted a pawn forward within striking distance of my rook. I took the bait, and you nudged another piece into place, "Check, dobe."

From then on, the rally of insults ignited. Back and forth, me to you, the same words rebounding off unmoved faces. Neither of us minded the names much; it was a familiarity, waking up each morning to the exclamations of distaste.

To me, it was as familiar as the nightmares. Masked men and flames and the tailed monsters that I was so scared of as a child returned each night to wake me cold and wet with perspiration. Sometimes, I would find the courage within me to fall back asleep, but most nights, I stayed up until sunrise to avoid the dreams.

One night, I awoke to twisted sheets and the sound of scratching. My fear-addled mind created my monsters in the hallway, and I was almost too afraid to stand, but I did, and found light blazing from beneath your door.

The ancient wood croaked in dismay as it was pushed away. I found you sat cross legged on your bed, quill in hand. What I had thought to be the work of my tormented beasts was actually the rasp of quill on parchment; probably important, considering the time. Your face was deadpan as you focused on your task and the thought struck me again. You seemed as dispassionate, immovable and dreamless as usual.

"What do you care about?"

You looked at me as if I had asked you why pigs don't fly, "What?"

"You don't seem to enjoy anything much. Most people have passions, and goals, but you... it doesn't seem like you do."

You were silent a moment, considering my words then, "Life," you said, "I'm interested in life."

I was about to cut in, tell you that was a stupid answer, everyone was interested in life, otherwise we'd all be dead long ago, but then you continued.

"Don't you think it's weird? Beautiful, even? Life? How if even the smallest thing goes wrong, it all collapses? If your cells grow too fast, you get tumours, too slow and your body ceases to operate. And two organs smaller than your fist keep the whole system working. The heart, and the brain. What's more beautiful than the human body is bees. They shouldn't even be flying, and yet they do it anyway. Without them, the whole world would wither away. And when they detach their stingers, it kills them. It's almost like they know."

I thought about that for a moment. I had always considered bees to be a pain, useful for nothing other than driving you to a slow insanity with their incessant buzzing.

"And you? What do you care about?"

"People, I guess."

You nodded slowly, and all at once, my words seemed more profound. And then you looked at the battered fox hanging from my fingers, acted as if you hadn't noticed it until then, "Why are you here, dobe? It wasn't just to ask me that.

"Nightmare," I muttered, embarrassed. I was one-and-ten, too old to toss and turn in bed, and yet so violently affected by the flames that feasted off my sleepless nights.

You looked at me kindly, and yet I was more afraid. Would you judge me? Would you consider the new-forged friendship a waste? A shudder of apprehension ran through me.

But presently, you smiled and patted the bed beside you, "Come here, scaredy cat. You can sleep in my room. I'll make sure no monsters come for you.

"But-"

"It's fine. One of the handmaids will move your bed on the morrow. For now, rest. I am an Uchiha, and we will do anything for the ones we love."