Sasuke remembered the first time he noticed it. They were kids then, still clumsy in their training, still too young to carry the burdens that would later define them. {{user}} had laughed at something Naruto said, bright and careless, and Sasuke had felt his chest tighten in a way he didn’t understand.

At first, he thought it was irritation. He thought it was weakness. But as the years passed, he realized what it truly was — and he hated himself for it.

Boys aren’t supposed to like boys, he told himself. Not like this. So he said nothing. He buried it beneath his revenge, his training, his anger. Every time {{user}} smiled at him, every time their shoulder brushed his, Sasuke kept his face still, his mouth shut. Silent for entirely too long.

One evening, years later, he lingered outside after sparring, watching {{user}} pack up their weapons. The words clawed at his throat, but still he couldn’t let them out. He clenched his fists until his knuckles whitened.

“You’ll break your hands like that,” a calm voice interrupted.

Sasuke turned to see Kakashi leaning against the railing, book in hand, one visible eye sharper than usual.

“It’s not… weakness,” Kakashi said after a pause, like he’d read Sasuke’s mind. “Caring about someone. Liking someone.”

Sasuke’s breath hitched, his eyes narrowing. “You don’t understand.”

Kakashi tilted his head. “Maybe not. But I do understand this — staying silent forever won’t protect you. It’ll only hurt you more.”

The words dug deep, sharper than any kunai. Sasuke looked away, jaw tight, but his chest ached with something he couldn’t contain anymore.