He'd always had a love-hate relationship with winter. Like clockwork, he would bundle up in all of his clothes and stalk out into the snow, each frosty window he passed tightening the knot in his stomach. At least he no longer stopped to peer hopelessly into the homes, taunted by warm, delicious smells and joyful laughter.

It took about three painful years of longing before the truth sucker-punched him in the face: happiness and celebrations were for people who loved and were loved. For people that weren't him.

Sure, he could laugh it off when the old man came passing by around the start of spring, apologetic and wrinkles stretching to accommodate a sheepish grin. He could act pleased as a pickle at the inevitable ramen and the little trinkets the matrons, eventually, took from him.

But in the end, no matter how much of an idiot they lauded him to be, even he could learn a lesson. While the rest of the orphans gathered around the chimney and feasted on a once-a-year special, he would sneak out, him presence unwanted… unnoticed. And like every year, the darkness and cold would embrace him, matching his insides.

The first year, he sat in the snow and made a snowman to keep him company, pretending that somebody cared. He had given it his scarf and given it a shy smile to match his own.

Nobody had comforted him when he woke the next morning to find it gone, melted by the sunshine. Nobody had cared when he curled into himself, sobbing and declaring the sun to be the worst thing in the world. He'd cried and reached out, but in the end, nobody came.

So every year, he'd wait restlessly for winter to come again. Tired of the sun, of smiling and laughing, and pretending nothing was wrong. He'd wait, patiently, until the snow coated the earth and everything became black and white again.

And then he would wander the streets, taking pleasure in the fact that nobody could glare at him, nobody could ignore him… because nobody was there anyways.

The dark would tempt him, calling to him. He would walk and walk, wanting to disappear and fade away into the shadows. He wanted to be the nothing that everybody treated him to be, to feel nothing, to see nothing. Every winter, he'd take another step towards the distance, wondering what there was left for him in this village.

And every winter, he would stop, irrational fear holding him rooted to the snow. And he'd tell himself, teary-eyed and shivering, "Maybe next year it'll be better?"

…

He's still waiting for the 'better' year, but he's not sure he'll find it before the darkness completely consumes him. And to be honest, Naruto's not sure he cares anymore.