Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto.

I used to look at them and feel proud. They were my brothers - the closest thing I had, at any rate - and their accomplishments gave me that same warm, happy glow Jiraiya-sensei used to talk about. I loved them even more with every passing day, even every hour. They were stronger, stronger, stronger every minute, better than ever and always mine.

I look at them now and all I feel is shame.

We used to be so incredible. Yahiko, loud and cheery and bursting with life and righteous indignation. Quieter Nagato, still brave and bold in his own way, wanting nothing more than to protect his family - us. As for me, I used to dream, fantasizing about the future. I dreamed of a world in which power went to the strong, went to the ones who would use it to lead and save and love. Not this world. Never this world.

I remember the night Yahiko died. He and Nagato argued, as always, over some petty thing. Yahiko argued, really - Nagato just defended. I trailed behind them, naive as ever and folding birds in my head. Their fight quickly came to blows, but I never guessed - never suspected that this night was any different from any other. I just giggled, thinking this one of their silly antics.

When I realized they were serious, of course I tried to intervene. My paper could barely fit between them, they were grappling so close. They didn't bother to use chakra or jutsu. Nagato didn't bring out his Rinnegan, and Yahiko's weapons stayed safely stowed. This was a no-holds-barred wrestling match, just grabbing hands and kicking feet. I would have thought they were playing, were it not for the looks on their faces.

They had a certain look about them when they played. Nagato, quiet as ever, always looked soft and malleable, always drifting and flowing and dripping around Yahiko. As for him, Yahiko always talked - egging Nagato on, teasing and ribbing and poking and prodding and circling, always. But now they were deadly serious, twin soldiers at war, silent except for the occasional huffs of breath and weary pants. My cries for them to stop had no effect.

That was quite possibly the worst day of my life. It wasn't cold or raining, as it often is in stories - just a warm evening in August, on a dirt path out of the way, and my brothers were killing each other.

Nagato's hands somehow found their way around Yahiko's neck and squeezed. I launched myself at them, tears rushing fast and furious, shouting for them to stop, please just stop. And then a sickening crack. And then silence. And stillness. Yahiko's body falling oh-so-slowly, hitting the ground with a dull thump. My sobs stilled for once, eyes wide and fingers shaking. Nagato's head bowed, dark hair in an oily spill obstructing his eyes. And then talking.

I'd never heard Nagato say so much. It wasn't anything really, just stream of consciousness babble as we both stared at the body. And suddenly his hand grabbed mine, and he looked at me and spoke two words. Don't go. How could I say no to that?

So I stayed with Nagato, but we were never the same. He became obsessed with his - his chakra dolls, I liked to call them, because what had been living, breathing, real people once were now only puppets. I retreated into myself, never got too close for fear of being betrayed again. That's what Yahiko's death was; a betrayal, because he promised we'd be together always, just the three of us, and he lied. We aren't. You could say that we are, I suppose; I'm still here, if only because I have nowhere else to go, and Yahiko's body is here, and Nagato's... shell.

That's all he is now. He used to hold a childlike wonder in the world, but now he looks upon it in disgust and manipulates it from the shadows, a puppeteer too afraid to show his face.

I look at them now and all I feel is shame.