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silentvoicescryingout · 2 years ago

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natsukashii

For Meghzy, by silentvoicescryingout

Natsukashii (懐かしい) -(Adj.) of some small thing that brings you suddenly, joyously back to fond memories, not with a wistful longing for what’s past, but with an appreciation of the good times

A thick layer of dust coats every surface in the room. Slivers of light slip between boarded-up windows, a scent like woodsmoke, ash and dry dirt in the air. A dated, foggy bulb fizzle-buzzes to life with the flip of an old switch.

“Wow,” Mitsuki murmurs. “This place really has remained untouched.”

Glancing to his right he sees Sarada push her white, dramatically-brimmed hat back from her forehead. It rests between her shoulder blades, held at her neck by a thin red chord. Their former teammate had laughed for hours after seeing that subtle alteration.

“Aa,” Sarada replies, her dark eyes flitting around the room. “I suppose it would.”

She glides further into the space, the hem of her robe causing dust to billow gently as it sweeps just above the ground. Everything, from the way her inky-black hair smoothly frames her face to the pristine white of her robes and hat, drips poise and honor.

Long, slender fingers reach out, tap lightly against the wooden desk. Dust clings to the tips of the digits as she draws her hand away, and her eyes flit about the room all over again.

“Beneath the dust and debris,” Mitsuki begins, voice soft as he watches his teammate turned leader circle around the desk, “this place looks like it was well-made, and well-used.”

“Papa says the Uchiha ran the Konoha police department basically since the founding,” she whispers. Her chin tips down as she glances over dingy, yellowed papers and metal encased pens. “This office would have been used by the first clan head to serve during those times. And the last was… my grandfather.”

Her shoulders lift and fall with a deep sigh, and silence reigns. Not even ambient sounds break through, none that one would expect to hear in a place so old, with so many ghosts.

The deafening lack of noise is broken when Mitsuki takes a few steps forward, placing himself close enough to brush his hand over Sarada’s back.

“It is a privilege to be allowed to work in this space,” he says. His fingers splay between the blades of her shoulders, applying gentle pressure. “I swear to honor both the village and the Uchiha’s legacy with my service.”

“Don’t get all ‘honorable shinobi’ on me,” she grunts in reply, her voice a little too hoarse to go unnoticed. Mitsuki simply takes a step back, granting her the space he knows she needs. “Let’s just get all this cleaned out before we die from inhaling all this dust. Kami, why did I not leave my robes behind…”

Mitsuki indulges in a small smile when his companion begins to bark orders, directing him to grab hold of the cleaning supplies they had brought and begin sweeping away decades worth of dust and dirt.

He tries not to focus on the sound of her quickened breaths, the delicate clearing of her throat as she finds items to pick up and discard or adjust. And he does not note that cleaning out an office is not a fitting use of time for the Hokage of the Leaf. For he knows that it is not simply clearing out an old room, but a great act of care being bestowed on not only him, but the memory of a clan that was gone before either of them came into existence, but whose blood and legacy were steeped into the very soil their entire lives were built upon.

The two of them work in a companionable silence, slipping past and around each other easily, with a practiced synchronicity honed by years of fighting and training side by side. Every now and then one or the other glances up to see a pair of eyes lingering, and they share a small smile before moving on with whatever they were doing.

Before long, the light in the room begins to dim with the setting of the sun. Most surfaces are clear of dust, relatively clean save for a few stubborn stains on pieces of furniture that will likely need to be replaced anyway. Sarada’s robe has been discarded over a chair pushed against one of the walls, her hat balanced at the corner of the now glossy if not antique-looking desk.

“Much better,” she announces, planting her hands on her hips. With a harsh puff of breath, she blows a wayward lock of silky black hair away from her face. “A lot of the furniture is salvageable, if not a bit dated. I’ll leave the decision to you whether to keep any of it or choose to use your still untouched budget for any upgrades.”

“I said before the budget is unnecessary,” he replies, walking to stand in front of the desk as she slumps down into the old, leather seat. “It’s also rather extravagant considering the police force has gone through a series of upgrades quite recently. I fear I might be accused of receiving favorable treatment.”

Sarada rolls her eyes, scoffing charmingly, “Of course you received favorable treatment. No one else is putting Orochimaru’s kid at the head of any Konoha institution except me.”

“Thank you,” he says simply, curving his mouth in a smile.

She rolls her eyes again, more violently this time.

“Use the budget or I’ll just add it as a bonus to your salary,” she says sternly. Mitsuki nods, still smiling, and she scoffs again. “Now, we should probably clear out any of the belongings left by…this office’s former occupant.”

A beat passes as her gaze falls to the surface of the large desk in front of her. Her irises shine with a faraway look, her features remaining carefully smooth. Mitsuki sees the slight tremble of her fingers, though. He catches the deep inhale she sucks through her nose and how her shoulders sag as the breath is released.

At this moment, she favors her father even more than usual. Stoic, regal and perfectly in control of their emotions, at least to those who do not have the privilege of knowing them. Uchiha Sasuke had much the same reaction when Mitsuki approached him to ask for his blessing to make use of what used to be his father’s office.

The older man who had inspired equal amounts of awe and intimidation from Mitsuki in his youth had seemed close to wavering, his aging eye taking on the same half-absent look as his daughter’s did now. Anyone else might have missed the brief (perhaps merely a couple of seconds) of hesitation. Mitsuki had not. For he had spent years in close contact with a girl turned woman who is just like him.

“The desk should be a good place to start,” he says gently. Because commenting on the history and turmoil hanging between the words unsaid would not reach her, nor would it really bring any comfort. Uchiha Sarada was a woman of action. Only she could decide when she was ready to loose the feelings she surely held captive between her ribs and behind tightly clenched teeth.

Dark eyes flit toward his before she nods, full mouth flattening for half a second before she bobs her head again with a quiet, but forceful grunt of determination.

“Come here and help me pull it all out,” she demands. Mitsuki’s lips twitch at the tone of her voice. Boruto had called her bossy many times over the years for it.

He, personally, finds that he rather likes her authoritativeness. He always had. To him, it signaled strength and someone he could put his trust in, perhaps even before he truly understood what that was.

“Coming, Hokage-sama,” he drawls. Sarada jabs him lightly in his side with her elbow when he is close enough, to which he responds with a quiet laugh. A light flush dashes over her cheeks and his chest warms, just a bit.

“Right then,” she breathes. A slow exhale, a deep intake of air again. Then her graceful, lethal hands come up to grasp at the slightly rusted knob of one of the desk’s drawers, pausing for a breath of a moment before she begins to slowly pull it open.

He steps a bit closer as she reaches in to grasp at a stack of yellowed paper, waiting in silence for her to pull it gradually from the confines of the compartment.

This task does not physically require two people, he knows. He is also cognizant of the fact that the task in this place, for this person–his person–requires a delicate balance of support where his presence is required, but his words are not. So he stands quiet, still, as close as he can without exactly touching, and allows Sarada to hold in her hands the belongings of her lost kin for the very first time.

“Letters,” she whispers. “These are letters. Should probably set them aside in case there’s information that needs to be filed away or preserved.”

When she passes the papers to him with a just-barely trembling hand, he accepts them quietly, stretching his arm to deposit them safely across the room. His free hand coincidentally smooths against the small of her back, fingertips barely brushing over the fabric of her blouse for a second.

By the time she reaches back in, Mitsuki has cut the brief contact, remaining at a close, but careful distance. Her hand remerges with another stack of papers, some folded, others much smaller than standard sheets. A surprisingly pristine folder is among the rest.

Something flutters to the ground as it is passed to him and they both look down to peer at it.

“Oh my,” he mumbles. “That looks like…”

An impressively clear photograph lay face-up on the ground, reflecting a glossy sheen in the yellow light from a thin plastic covering. Staring up at them is a pair of young boys, one who looks to be between the ages of ten and twelve, the other seeming no older than five or six. Both boys have dark hair, dark eyes and pale faces. Their delicate, almost aristocratic features are immediately recognizable, especially that of the younger.

He looks like a masculine version of Sarada as a young girl.

“Papa…,” her voice was quiet, the word riding on the heavy current of a tremulous breath. Sarada slowly lowered to her haunches, reaching out to pluck the photograph up carefully. “And this must be Itachi-ojisan.”

She pulls herself to standing again, peering down at the photo with wide, shining eyes. Mitsuki’s gaze traces the lines of her face, the soft furrow of her brows, the slight downturn of her lips. Her lashes flutter and begin to clump as they gather some of the telltale moisture brimming at the rims of her eyes.

“I have never seen my dad so young,” she says thickly. His heart does a peculiar flip in his chest and he finds himself taking a step closer, so close that the back of her knuckles brush against his chest. “The only photo I’ve ever seen of him when he was a kid was the one with the original Team 7.”

“This confirms where you got your looks from,” Mitsuki says softly. The chuckle he gets in response wavers a bit, but he decides it is better than nothing. “You looked exactly like him at that age.”

“Mama would hate hearing that,” Sarada replies. Her eyes are still fixed on the photograph, a wry smile shaping her lips. “She is convinced that I have her eye shape and mouth. Papa always agrees, but I think they’re both just in denial.”

Mitsuki hums quietly in gentle amusement. Sarada’s free hand slips forward, grasps lightly at the edge of his wide sleeve. He continues to peer down at the photo in her hand, and neither of them acknowledge the movement.

When multiple long minutes have passed and Sarada’s face has mostly relaxed in a wistful sort of smile, he murmurs, “Shall we keep looking?”

If he were anyone else, if she were, too, he’d ask–should we stop?

She nods, gives him a heavy sort of look and turns back to rifle through the drawer of histories. More papers emerge, scraps of metal, sharp tools and old fountain pens. Some of the documents hold ink so faded it would take an expert to glean their contents. Much of the paperwork logs events of petty crime, the rare investigation brief.

More photographs emerge, as well–if only a few. One depicts a young woman with waist-length, pitch-black hair. She is wearing a jounin uniform, posture slumped as her face spreads in a wide grin. Sarada’s breath catches when she takes in the image, and her lips tremble when she flips it over to read the single word etched in an elegant scrawl: Mikoto.

If Sasuke as a child was a mirror image to his daughter as a child, this woman is nearly an adult Sarada’s doppelganger. From their deep eyes to their soft mouth, fine jawline and small, sharp nose, they hold a near-startling resemblance.

Next is a photo of a young man with what seems to be a permanent scowl on his face. A pair of thin arms are wrapped across his chest, the face of the other person out-of-frame, but the dark locks brushing over the lighter brown of his hair and the intimate way the feminine hands grasp at him cue Mitsuki into who exactly is in the photo.

By the time the first drawer is empty, Mitsuki is feeling rather raw himself. Because of his knowledge that most of the people centered in this small collection of photographs left the world not long after they were taken, as well as his sensitivity to Sarada’s own mental and emotional turmoil. Even as she fights it before his eyes, he sees it in the slight reddening of her eyes and the tip of her nose. He hears it in her shallow breaths, in the sound of shifting fabric as she fidgets and shuffles her feet.

“It’s getting dark,” she says, her voice near-hoarse and quiet as a spring wind. “There are piles of papers waiting to be signed on my desk. I think you can manage the rest of the organization, right?”

“Right,” he replies. He watches as she backs away slowly from the desk, curling her fingers away from the aged wood.

Her gaze dips to the small pile of photos.

“Make sure to save any documents relating to actual investigations or closed cases. These will need to be processed into the village’s archives. Intra-department correspondences can probably be discarded, but I leave it to your discretion.”

“Okay,” he says in agreement, before offering her a slight bow. Usually she would wave the gesture away, possibly even blush. This time she gazes foggily toward the door, as if part of her has already escaped through it.

“And please make sure to put aside any, uh, personal items,” she swallows thickly again, eyelids sliding shut for a moment and shielding her iris. He wonders if they were crimson for that hidden moment when they reopen, deepest gray. “Bring things like…that to my parents’ house when you’re finished with everything. Please.”

As soon as she is done speaking, she snatches up her robe and hat, disappearing from the partially transformed office in a flutter of leaves and gust of wind. She leaves behind the scent of green tea and ink, and a lighter, sweeter fragrance that he has come to associate with simply her over the years. He imagines all of it, her essence left behind, is marred by a bitter tang, residua of bittersweet reckonings and a memory that never was.

For a few long moments, he battles with himself. The urge to follow in her suit, to abandon this honorable labor to provide comfort in the space where Uchiha Sarada feels and is most powerful is an intense one. To offer his shoulder to grasp on, his chest to lean into would be easy, fulfilling even. Yet he knows that woman better than he sometimes knows himself (it took so very long for him to recognize a “self” as his, anyway); she does not flourish under watchful eyes or coddling. Her strength is found in solitude where she can battle her demons without respite or distraction.

Mitsuki had not made a habit of acting the savior to his betters in the past, and he does not begin now. Instead, he reaches for the loose and faulty knob of the second desk drawer and pulls it open to reveal more history, more secret memories.

The first thing he sees is the delicate links of a long, thin chain. At the end, a broken clasp–what would bring the two ends together. Hooking his fingers under the slightly tangled coils, he drags it out slowly from it’s spot, picking it out until it swings from his hand, anchored at its nexus by a large, blood-red gem, bracketed by two koi fish fashioned out of slightly tarnished metal.

Even the feeble overhead lights make the stone glitter and shine when Mitsuki swipes at the dust veiling its face with his thumb. His eyes trace over the fragile-looking chain, the heavy but comely gemstone fit snugly between the highly intricate koi bordering it.

A necklace, perfect in length and weight save for the broken fastening in need of repair. He supposes this was one of those things found here Sarada would wish that he presents to her parents.

. . . . . ╰──╮╭──╯ . . . . .

The sun burns hot, beaming down on his face. His eyes tingle, sensitive and aching. The sting of sweat dripping from his temples as well as the too-bright light causes him to squint and yet even his discomfort cannot quite break through the fog of his thoughts.

In his blood-stained, bruised hands is a heavy, dark-green vest. Fashioned with multiple pockets, sturdy shoulder pads and the large, red, swirling design of the Uzumaki clan’s insignia, it feels both extravagant and plain in his grasp. Years of training, weeks of exertion and days of reaching deep into his very core for strength and determination had led to this very moment, this very thing.

It borders on anticlimactic. He supposes he could describe it as surreal.

Uchiha Fugaku, second son to the Uchiha Clan. Jounin of Konohagakure.

“Fugaku-san,” a voice calls from behind him.

His head rises and he turns to meet a mirthful gaze. Deep black eyes ringed with equally dark, sweeping lashes flit over his form.

“You look a bit rough, comrade,” Mikoto drawls, loping in his direction and leaving behind her chatterbox friend with the flaming hair.

“Hn,” he mutters, mentally berating himself for even acknowledging her call. He steels himself for her teasing, as he knows she could never resist. “I suppose I should offer my congratulations, Mikoto-san.”

Her jounin vest is held haphazardly in one of her hands, dangerously close to grazing the ground as it swings at her side.

“That nin nearly got you in the last round,” she continues as if he had not said a word. She is close enough for him to make out just how thick and long her lashes truly are.

“And yet here I stand,” he says dryly. He holds his vest higher, biting down the twinge of irritation and forcing his expression to remain neutral. “Only one of us is walking away with a vest. Or…walking away at all.”

“Hm,” she hums. Her inky brows arch and he rolls his eyes before pivoting and beginning to walk in the direction of their clan’s compound. She keeps pace beside him.

“Good thing your opponent wasn’t me, ne?”

Fugaku’s jaw clenches. “That wouldn’t have been a problem.”

“Still full of it, I see,” his uninvited companion sighs. He glances down at her from the corner of his eye, studying the long, glossy strands of her hair, the splattering of dried blood on her cheek.

“Still a nuisance, I see,” he mutters, eventually. Too much time has passed after her words for it to be an effective rebuttal, but he chooses to not acknowledge his distraction.

“How clever!” she coos. “Too bad your fighting style is not as refined as your wit.”

“Bold of you to say,” he grinds out, “when you have never had the privilege of engaging me in a spar. Ah, and with two failed missions under your belt.”

“Kushina and her big mouth,” she grumbles. “The missions were only technically failed, and that was because I took out a few extras in addition to our assigned targets. Perhaps I damaged a greater-council member’s property, but it was a success in the end.”

He snorts in response, deigning to not respond. Quickening his pace and lengthening his stride, he toils to reach the compound faster, to wipe away the layer of blood and grime from his skin and change into clean clothes.

Then he would present his certificate to his father. And then lay it before his elder brother's grave alongside incense and an offering. A thanks for his support while he was in this world, and now that he resides beyond.

“You think you would smile, even a little, on such a monumental occasion,” Mikoto’s voice breaks through the haze of his thoughts. A glance to his side finds her keeping pace with him, still, slanted eyes staring at his face.

Something in her gaze always made him uncomfortable. Perhaps it was the pure depth of her eyes, so dark they rivaled the sky during a lunar eclipse; it could have been the knowing in her look, intuition that seemed to peel back one’s layers and reveal the secrets lying beneath.

“What are you talking about?” Fugaku chooses to ask in response, unable to think of any true retort. Even after he breaks her gaze to focus on the path ahead, he feels her stare on his face.

“You never show any emotion,” she states. “I could almost bet you were born with a scowl. That’s terrible for your facial muscles, you know. You’ll age like a prune.”

“Why do you care?” he questions, injecting as much disinterest into his tone as humanly possible.

“Care is a strong word,” she says, before sighing quite dramatically. “I just think you should be a bit more cheerful, is all. You’ve upheld the legacy of the clan–of your household. You must be proud at least.”

“I am as proud as any shinobi of the Leaf would be,” he replies. “Taking pride in serving one’s village is a given.”

“Well,” she sing-songs. “Personally I’m proud that I was able to best some of the most ferocious shinobi that have ever competed in the exam. I’m proud that I proved to be one of the strongest among my peers.”

Fugaku fully understands where her self-assurance comes from. Uchiha Mikoto is one of the strongest of their generation. With a full mastery of their bloodline limit, a tenacious drive and ruthless comportment, she is a force to be reckoned with.

Her easy-going manner when off-duty was dichotomous enough to give lesser men whiplash.

“You seem proud to be a braggart, as well,” he drawls. A sharp jab to his side has him shooting a glare at the young woman. The left side of his waist smarts, adding to the rest of his aches and bruises.

“Confidence goes a long way, Fugaku-san,” Mikoto’s voice sounds like a grin. “Maybe if you had a little bit more of it, your fireball jutsu would have been less…humble.”

Fugaku bristles despite himself.

“I have mastered that jutsu as well as anyone from our clan,” he says stiffly. “Better than most, actually.”

“Not better than me,” her breath brushes against the side of his neck, voice a whisper startlingly close to his ear. She has taken a few steps on her tiptoes to draw so close.

They arrive at the entrance of their compound before he can gather his frazzled thoughts. Mikoto pulls away to stand at a normal distance again, a small but telling grin on her face.

Crossing into the compound brings a heaviness to his step, a weight materializing on his shoulders. It has been this way since his brother’s death–since his fate was changed before his eyes, his predetermined future re-written.

A war that had given him a name other than “second son” had also taken from him his closest friend and hero. Since that day, the responsibility of an heir, all of its privileges and duties fell to him.

Mikoto’s words serve to remind him that he should be the best of not only his shinobi class, but of the village as a whole. Strong enough to carry the weight of his clan, their history and the legacy his brother left behind.

“Fugaku,” a deep voice thunders, jerking his attention outward as he looks in the direction of the call.

His father stands a couple yards away, posture perfectly straight and features as severe as always. White streaks backward from his temples, contrasting starkly against his dark hair and brows. Age shows in the areas around his eyes and mouth, yet he looks as strong and as deadly as any ninja in their prime. Dangerous, powerful.

“Father,” Fugaku responds, bowing slightly as he approaches.

“Mikoto,” his father says blandly, his gray-ringed eyes glancing over his son’s shoulder briefly.

“Uchiha-sama,” she responds politely. She sounds far more reserved than she had mere moments before.

“You passed the exams,” his father states, looking at the vest he cradles in his hands before piercing him with his heavy stare.

“Aa,” he nods, clearing his throat before affirming, “I did.”

“Good.”

A knot ties itself in his gut as he watches his father stride away.

He blinks his tired eyes, spinning in the opposite direction of the main house, taking steps toward the edges of the compound. He thinks that he would far prefer the quiet and solitude of the gardens over the rice paper walls and sliding doors of the place he called home. So he stalks briskly away from the path that would bring him to his residence, firming his jaw against the sour sensations in his stomach and the rush of his pulse thumping in his ears.

It is not until he has broken away from the residential areas and the promenade housing kiosks and shops that he realizes that he is still not alone.

“Your father is a severe man,” Mikoto says softly when his steps pause and he turns his head to see her meandering beside him. “Quite intimidating. I suppose he should be, as the head of our clan and all.”

“Why are you still here?” he snarls, his voice harsher than he really intends. It must be exhaustion finally catching up to him. From training so hard for the exam, from giving his all in the matches and utilizing all of his accumulated knowledge to excel in the theoretical portions.

His mind and body have been stretched to the limit for days, weeks, years and he is simply tired.

And all he said was ‘good’.

“I live here, too,” Mikoto’s voice pulls him back to the present. He is left wondering exactly when he became so prone to wandering thoughts and letting his guard down in the presence of another. “These grounds are as much my home as they are yours. Or will you simply order me to leave the premises, Uchiha-sama.”

“That’s my father’s job,” he bites. His feet begin moving forward once more.

“Mhm,” she hums, voice light. “And he is very good at it. I’m sure you will be, too.”

“But not better than Mikoto-san would be, I’m sure,” he mutters. A joke it surely is, but her words of confidence lessen the pressure in his chest by a little.

“Of course not,” she exhales heavily, as if exasperated. “We have gone over this, Fugaku-kun. You’re just lucky I am not one to covet positions of power.”

“Fugaku-kun?” he asks, just barely curbing the shock that seeks to leak through his tone.

“I figure we’re friends now,” she says. Her shoulders shrug and he is momentarily distracted by the glossy sheen of her hair as it shifts around her arms.

“Friends?” he questions quietly. She looks up at him and smiles.

“Well, we are taking a walk together,” she muses. Her eyes move away from his to survey their surroundings. Artfully placed plants and bamboo fountains border the space. At its center is a large, pristine koi pond housing numerous, multicolored fish. “We’re engaging in comfortable conversation.”

Fugaku scoffs, “You’ve been basically insulting me. And following me around. I did not invite you.”

“Aa, but you also have not sent me away,” when her face turns toward him again, she bats her long lashes and his heart seems to momentarily lodge itself in his throat.

He swallows it down heavily and spits out, “Perhaps I should.”

“You won’t,” she replies. Her steps slow and she gazes into his eyes steadily.

He says nothing and looks away. They continue to walk, side-by-side.

A silence settles over them, underscored with the quiet bubbling sounds of moving water, the occasional splash as koi peek their heads over the surface of their pond. A warm breeze shakes the leaves of small trees and long-stemmed flowers sway gently. The temptation to engage his dojutsu, to capture the most minute and subtle movements and shift of his surroundings, for once not out of a need to mark danger, takes him as it often does when he is alone. His eyes had consumed so much death and terror; sometimes they yearned for beautiful things, too.

“Your father’s response to your accomplishment left much to be desired,” a soft voice filtered to his ears on the current of the wind.

“That is simply the man he is,” he replies, voice equally as soft. Distantly, he realizes he has now passed the same short tree twice, that he has to adjust his steps to avoid the same stone a second time.

“You have accomplished something that many of our peers and forefathers could not,” she says, and her voice is so earnest that it draws his gaze away from the puckering mouths of hungry koi to her dark, glittering eyes.

“Aa,” he breathes. Her features furrow, a small wrinkle taking residence between her brows.

“Your brother would be proud,” she says. And her face that had become slightly troubled seems to melt into pleasantness once more, her lips curving in a smile. “He would be so happy for you, today.”

“Aa,” Fugaku whispers, again. And despite himself, despite his father’s aloofness and the ache that settles in his throat and his chest–

He believes what she says.

. . . . . ╰──╮╭──╯ . . . . .

Sasuke smiles when he hears two feminine voices laughing from somewhere near the front door to his and his wife’s home. The sound of a long sigh and the wet smack of lips against a cheek filter to his ears, along with a half-hearted protest and more sweet giggles. He sets the last dish on the table, straightening in time to see a tall, slender figure step through the doorway, swathed in pristine white robes and a wide-brimmed head-piece.

“Sarada,” he murmurs, allowing his mouth to shape in another gentle smile.

“Papa,” she replies, pausing to shrug off her robes and deposit it, along with her hat, haphazardly in her usual seat. “Tadaima.”

Sakura sighs, bending to pick up the items and arrange them neatly on the coat-rack off to the side of the room as his daughter sweeps forward to clasp his shoulders in a warm hug. A pinkish splotch on her cheek in the shape of her mother’s lips draws his attention and he chuckles, swiping it away with his thumb before looping his arm around her back.

“You would think the Hokage would have learned to hang up her coat by now,” Sakura muses, throwing him an eye roll from over their child’s shoulder.

He simply casts a look her way before leaning down to rest his cheek at the crown of his daughter’s head.

“Okaeri,” he says.

“Did you cook tonight?” Sarada asks, pulling away from their embrace.

“Aa,” he nods. Her mouth widens with a grin for a moment before it fades.

“Mitsuki might join us,” she informs, glancing between Sakura and him. “I hope that’s alright.”

“He’s always welcome,” Sakura says, voice sweet. She moves to stand behind their daughter, reaching up to stroke her fingers through her dark, thick hair.

Sasuke revels in the warm feeling that pools in his chest as he takes in the sight of his two most precious people. The top of Sakura’s head reaches only a few inches above her own child’s chin, her pale pink locks (slowly being interwoven with strands of silver as the years pass by) an intense, but beautiful contrast to Sarada’s inky black hair.

His daughter looks both just the same as the tiny infant he once cradled in his one hand, and so different in her maturity. He sees his own mother in the color of her eyes, the shade and texture of her hair. Even her voice is reminiscent of the one that his memories have barely managed to cling to, a smooth alto that can be soothing and gentle or hard and sharp like stone.

It causes a bittersweet pang in his center that he has come to cherish. To be able to see the growth of his and his beloved’s creation, and remnants of his lost loved ones all at once.

The sound of the front door opening and shutting brings him back to the present, where his wife and daughter have settled into their seats and make quiet conversation. He slides into his own just as a tall, lean form appears in the doorway to the dining area.

“I let myself in,” Mitsuki announces. Sarada sighs heavily with a shake of her head while his wife visibly bites back a laugh. “I do hope that’s not a problem.”

“You’ve done so for nearly a decade now, Mitsuki,” Sasuke says dryly. He gestures to an open seat with a flick of his fingers. “If it were ever a problem, there’s no use in harping on it now.”

“You are always welcome to let yourself in, Mitsuki-kun,” Sakura amends. She smiles the smile that can light up an entire room, and chase the darkness away from even the most ruined of hearts. “You’re too special to us to worry over such a thing.”

“Thank you, Sakura-san,” Mitsuki chirps as he lowers himself into his spot. His golden eyes immediately latch onto Sarada. “The office has been cleared and rearranged. I’ve brought with me all the…personal effects.”

A look passes between them that Sasuke finds familiar. He glances toward his wife, who meets his gaze with a particular glint in her eye before directing her attention back to the pair of former teammates and current…something.

“Good,” Sarada nods, clearing her throat delicately. She glances down for a split second before pinning Mitsuki with her gaze once more. “Let’s talk about all that after we’ve eaten.”

Sasuke glances toward Sakura again who arches her brow subtly.

“Let’s eat, then,” she says cheerfully. She pushes her palms together, painted fingernails catching the light with a glossy sheen. “Itadakimasu!”

The rest of the table echoes her words. Sasuke doles out a serving first to Sarada, then to his wife before passing some to Mitsuki. His daughter digs in enthusiastically, shoveling food into her mouth at a breakneck pace while somehow managing to keep her movements graceful.

He is forced to bite back a chuckle as he notes that Mitsuki stares at Sarada eating for a solid minute before directing his attention to his own food. A small, nearly inaudible snort breaks free when the young man manages to mirror the exact order to which Sarada consumed the different food items on her plate.

“Sasuke-san,” Mitsuki says after they eat in a comfortable silence for a little while. “I would like to offer my thanks again to you for allowing me to use your father’s old office.”

His chopsticks pause briefly before he resumes the process of scooping up a portion of rice and meat.

“You’ve already thanked me,” he responds before taking his bite. After he chews and swallows he adds, “And really, you didn’t need my permission.”

“It wasn’t really your permission I wanted,” the younger man smiles, the expression somewhere in the realm between genuine and Sai-like in his younger, post-ROOT years. “It was your blessing.

Sasuke nods, resisting the urge to emphasize the fact that his permission nor blessing were required for Mitsuki to occupy that space. He recognizes the respect wrapped up in the request and is appropriately moved by it.

“You had my blessing when you first asked,” he states. Leveling his gaze at Mitsuki’s, he offers a shallow dip of his chin. “You still have it now. I wish you luck in your new position.”

“You’ll do a wonderful job, Mitsuki. My Sarada made the perfect choice, appointing you,” Sakura says. She reaches out to pat the back of the boy’s hand, which he responds to with a slightly startled glance. “The two of you have always made a great pair.”

Mitsuki smiles and murmurs his thanks while Sasuke barely holds back an eye roll. His wife is kind, beautiful, intelligent– subtle, she is not.

Sarada updates them on the goings on in the Hokage tower, some of it relating to village politics and a good portion involving gossip that her mother is absolutely riveted by. Mitsuki interjects now and then, but seems content to simply gaze at Sasuke’s daughter with an intensity that borders on unusual. Were it not for the faint, but unmistakable lovesick look on his face, he might have been concerned or ruffled.

He empathizes with the poor man’s plight–even after years of marriage, with stretches of heart-wrenching distance in between, Sasuke also finds himself caught in a daze when he watches Sakura simply…exist. Time had brought with it a softness that he was still getting used to. Peace–true peace, and not the fragile mirage of it– reigned fully for the first time in his living memory. His daughter had become the second woman to sit as the Hokage to the Leaf, and the first ever Uchiha at that. Rather than spending his days seeking out trouble and dispelling threats, he spends them taking care of the house he and his wife lived in.

Each morning, he rises after the sun sits fully in the sky. He kisses Sakura on her cheeks until she stirs awake, brews her coffee and his tea. He tends to his garden of tomatoes and other produce, does chores while his wife goes to review proceedings at the hospital or visits one of her clinics. He makes her dinners, gives her flowers, takes her on long walks around a body of water. And he watches her, when she joins him in the garden on the weekends, when she curls up against his side and plays long, mind-numbing episodes of her favorite shinobi dramas on the television that he has still not managed to learn how to operate.

It takes a conscious effort to pull his attention away from her now, to take in the visage of the young man who gazes at his child with stars in his eyes. He recognizes the feeling of staring at someone who has seen you at your worst and your best, and managed to stand at your side through every second.

“Papa,” Sarada’s voice is quiet, but it breaks through his musings with ease. He figures it is a father’s sensitivity to the tone of her voice, the hesitation he can almost taste from even that single word.

“Yes,” he responds, turning his head in her direction so he may study her face. Sakura shifts at her end of the table, instinctively leaning in toward her daughter. He figures her instincts must be even more finely tuned to her troubles than his.

“While Mitsuki and I were beginning to clean out the office,” she says, voice level save for the barest tightness that most probably would not even notice, “we came across some of what must have been Ojiisan’s personal items. I saw some of them, but had to leave before the room had been completely sorted out. I’m sure Mitsuki came across more. I asked him to set them aside and bring them to you.”

“Aa,” he says, nodding. Her words inspire a tug in his chest, but the years had tamed those reactions, too. “Thank you both, for that. I’ll be happy to take them.”

Sarada nods vigorously. She hesitates for a moment before rising from her seat and circling around the table to stand by Mitsuki. He reaches into the lapel of his shirt and brings forth a pristine white envelope.

Sakura moves away from her own seat, coming to kneel behind Sasuke. Her hands snake over his biceps, fingers squeezing gently as her chin comes to rest on his shoulder. Sarada’s friend passes the envelope to her, and she approaches slowly, carefully kneeling at his side and extending it to him with open palms.

His heart thuds in his chest as he accepts the parcel, but he makes sure to send his daughter a small smile and meaningful glance. She blinks quickly but graces him with a tiny smile of her own. It’s a tremulous thing, one that makes the backs of his eye burn and the spaces between his ribs ache. That expression reminds him of the longest night of his life, years in the past, when those wide, deep eyes had been flooded with tears and more emotions than he could name. It was that night when he felt anything but pride watching his child’s irises bleed to red.

Whatever was in this packet seemed to remind Sarada of that night, too. It is all Sasuke can do to remain strong in the face of it, for her.

He does not need to ask Sakura to offer a helping hand, her hand reaching down to hold the envelope steady in front of him as he opens the seam and flips over the tab. Reaching inside, his fingers encounter a thin stack of paper, the surfaces of which seemed smooth, almost slick, while dry.

As his hand emerges, the first thing he sees is a glimpse of his mother’s face. His breath catches in his throat, and he hears both his daughter and wife take in a deep, shaky breath. He adjusts his hold to reveal the entire image, running his eye over it again and again. The telltale tingling and newfound intensity of the black-and-white photo signify his dojutsu coming to life.

“She is so beautiful,” Sakura breathes, the hand still holding him squeezing gently. “Sarada looks just like her.”

“Aa,” he rasps. Using his thumb he slowly, gently slides the photo aside, setting it down carefully on his knee.

The next image causes a lump to lodge itself in his throat. It shows an Itachi that his memories had begun failing to conjure up, one who was not so deathly pale, and not at all blood-soaked. And beside him, his own face absent of any signifiers of age, or pain or ill-fate. He is rocked with an intense wave of emotion, his single eye sliding shut as flashes of a time long past filter through his thoughts in what should have been hours, in only a handful of seconds.

“Oh, Sasuke-kun,” Sakura whispers. Her hand begins to stroke up and down his arm, her cheek pressing deeply against the side of his neck. He tilts his head to touch his cheek to her temple, briefly, before straightening and looking into the crimson eyes of his (not so) little girl.

“You know who they are,” he says in a low voice.

“Yeah,” she croaks. Her throat bobs in a swallow and Mitsuki’s hand rises to her shoulder for a second, before falling back to his side nearly immediately after. “Obaasan, Itachi-ojisan.”

“It makes me glad that you’re able to see photos of them, Sarada,” he murmurs. He releases his grip on the photos long enough to stroke his finger over her reddened cheek. “They would have loved you dearly.”

She takes a shuddering breath but still manages to give him a heartwarming smile. It could practically be his mother’s face, but it is Sakura entirely in that smile.

“I noticed you take your looks from your mother, Sasuke-san. Your brother as well,” Mitsuki comments. Sasuke glances up but the younger man’s golden eyes are pinned on Sarada, tracing over her slightly trembling shoulders. “You seem to have taken some of your personna from your father.”

When Sasuke sets the photo of him and his brother aside, he is confronted by his father’s stoic face. Although younger than he was when he perished, his features are nearly as severe as Sasuke gleaned from his sparse and blood-filtered memories. He sees very little of himself or his child in the man’s image. But the carriage that practically bleeds from the page, the quiet, almost cold air is more familiar than he would honestly like to admit.

That coldness he remembers, the distance from his second son and seemingly constant disappointment stands at odds with the material presented before him. Sasuke stares down at the photos, as well as a clumsy drawing of a dinosaur captioned under his own name and small, mundane notes etched into yellowed paper. And he struggles to contend these tiny glimpses into the life of a man who existed first as an unreachable figure of authority and since as a memory with the father he thought he knew.

“I never knew he kept photos of us in his office,” he admits quietly. “And…I never thought to ask for any of his belongings.”

“Who knows if they would have given them to you, anyway,” Sarada says tightly. “Maybe it’s better that we were able to find them this way.”

Sakura shifts her position, discarding the envelope to the ground so she is able to place a hand on both Sasuke and Sarada at the same time. His chest tightens and grows warm at the reminder that she has always been and will always be their rock, the person who keeps the three of them secure and whole.

“Aa, maybe it is better,” he acquiesces softly. For a moment he watches the intricate patterns in her iris swirl before they settle into place, and Sarada leans into the stroke of her mothers hand over her hair. “Mitsuki. Thank you.”

“There is something else,” the young man replies, reaching carefully into his wide sleeve. “I came across it after Sarada left. I purchased a box to hold it since it did not have one.”

He is passed a thin, rectangular box that feels velvety to the touch. He uses his thumb to lift its opening and freezes at what is revealed.

In a bed of off-white silk is nestled a necklace. One that he is very familiar with, having seen it mostly every single day during his childhood. A handsome, glossy ruby shines in the overhead light, with such luster that he suspects his daughter’s paramour had it polished before bringing it here.

He hears both Sarada and his wife gasp as he carefully plucks the thin chain and pulls the piece out of its case.

“This was my mother’s,” he whispers. The tip of his thumb sweeps gently over the delicate chain, traces the shape of koi fish crafted from steel. “She wore it every day. I always assumed it was a courting gift from my father.”

“It’s lovely,” Sakura murmurs wistfully. “A beautiful lover’s gift.”

“The chain was broken when I discovered it,” Mitsuki informs. To his credit, he does not waver when his voice draws the attention of one and a half pairs of sharingan eyes. “I took the liberty of having a new clasp fitted and the links repaired, so it could be worn. Or displayed in its fullest capacity.”

“Mitsuki,” Sarada says shakily. Her scarlett eyes seem to glow brighter for a moment, iridescent through a sheen of moisture. “Thank you so much.”

The young man’s usually rather placid expression softens, his lids lowering over yellow eyes and his mouth curls into perhaps the most genuine smile Sasuke has ever seen. He simply lowers his head, offering no other words in response to the gratitude.

Sasuke looks back down to the necklace, running his fingers lightly over the detailed koi bordering the stone once more. He thinks of how this piece of jewelry was worn by his mother, a piece of her that he had not seen in years and had never expected to see again. It is something she obviously cherished, held literally close to her heart at all times. A gift from his father who, for all his flaws and his inadequacies, must have loved deeply and dearly enough to give it to her.

It makes Sasuke think of his own love, and his own short-comings. The years spent in pain, in darkness, time wasted while he attempted to reign in his feelings and wrangle his emotions for the sake of power. He wonders, then, if the man who was so hard on his son, was equally hard on himself. If a husband who could love his wife enough to give her a beautiful piece of jewelry that held no utility except to be pleasing to the eye could so easily sacrifice a life with her for the sake of his clan.

“Grandfather must have loved her a lot,” Sarada says quietly. Sasuke looks up to see her smiling as she studies the necklace in his hand.

Sakura hums in agreement, leaning in to take a closer look. Her verdant eyes hold the gloss of barely contained tears and Sasuke’s heart flutters. He shifts over, letting her lean into his side. He brings the necklace closer to her, meets her gaze and urges her to take it with a nod. A shudder works through her form as it slides into her palm and she reaches out with careful fingers to touch it hesitantly. Reverent, as she is with all the things and people she cares for.

“My father was a hard man, and he had many flaws,” Sasuke murmurs. He stretches his hand out, to touch his wife rather than the jewel. “But I could never begrudge him for how he loved his wife.”

The gemstone nestled in the center of the necklace matches perfectly with the ring Sasuke had created for his wife many years ago. A stitch of mirth snakes through his being when he notes that Uchiha men seem to favor gems that mimic the color of their clan’s bloodline limit.

He remembers the urge he had back then–to find some way to make the bond between him and his wife material, a physical thing that could be touched and seen when neither of them were in close enough proximity. And, perhaps, it had been to assuage his jealous feelings as well. But presenting Sakura with her ring on that starry night in the middle of an unknown place, her green eyes glittering up at him with warmth and affection easily became one of his favorite memories.

Sasuke wonders if his father had felt the same way when he gave this necklace to the woman who would become his wife. He wonders, if time had not turned as it had, and if he and his father were able to engage in more conversations, if he might have done it sooner.

“Sakura,” he breathes. She drags her gaze away from the jewelry to meet his. He smiles, swipes his thumb at the wetness just under her eye. “I’d like you to put it on.”

“Sasuke-kun,” she gasps. “I couldn’t.” Her hair falls in front of her eyes slightly as she shakes her head. His fingers curl around a pale lock of hair, pushing it back behind the shell of a softly speckled ear.

He holds her stare. “Please.”

She pulls her lip between her teeth, “It should go to Sarada.”

“And it will,” he says. He glances at his daughter and smiles. “Someday. And it will pass to her daughter, too, if she so chooses. For now, it is yours.”

Sakura hesitates for another moment before carefully undoing the clasp on the necklace and bringing it to her neck. Sasuke gathers her soft hair in his hand, lifting it out of the way so she can fasten the chain.

He adjusts its positioning about her neck, until the deep red charm is centered perfectly between her collarbones, just above her sternum.

“Beautiful, Mama,” Sarada sighs and his wife smiles widely, eyes shining.

Sasuke feels a new lightness take up residence in his being. The final unloading of a weight that he has carried for so long, it hardly felt like a burden. It is as if in this act, passing on this trinket that was once his mother’s to his own wife, creating a new family heirloom that could be transferred through future generations, he finally sits fully in his promise to remake his clan and honor their legacy.

They have a legacy again. Because of his wife. Because of their child.

His eye wanders away from his precious little family to study the guest who lingers just on the outside of this intimate moment. If the emotions of it all have an affect on him, it is difficult to see beneath his calm expression and relaxed posture. And yet his gaze seems to burn from within, fixed on the necklace hanging now from Sakura’s neck.

Sasuke watches as those cat-like eyes flick away from the jewelry Sakura wears to Sarada’s direction, tracing her features and stopping at her neck. His gaze lingers, and grows warm, wistful.

Sasuke huffs quietly to himself, and smiles.

. . . . . ╰──╮╭──╯ . . . . .

Fugaku walks with his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his training pants. The fingers of his right hand fiddle with the long, slim box hidden beside it, nerves scratching at his very bones.

Mikoto studies him with narrowed eyes, a small twitch of her berry-stained lips giving away the smile she is trying to hold back.

“Shifty today, are we?” she teases. “Failed mission?”

He snorts through his nose, perhaps more aggressively than intended. “Obviously not.”

“Oh, obviously not,” she drawls. “Because you are simply perfect in every way.”

And, although he knows he is anything but, he simply responds, deadpan–

“Yes.”

When Mikoto’s head tips back in a warm, belly-deep laugh, Fugaku fights his own smile and revels in the oozing, honey-like sensation that pools in his chest. The warm light from the last rays of the sun disappearing over the horizon brings out the bare flush to her cheeks. It glints off the sheen of her hair and casts about her a glow that he can only describe as otherworldly. Angelic, perhaps.

“You’re learning,” she coos. And he rolls his eyes, quickening his step just a bit as they wander mindlessly in circles around the same koi pond they always find themselves at.

“Your big-headedness must have rubbed off on me,” he states, focusing his gaze on the gently rippling water. He catches sight of the pair of red and black koi that circle around each other, slightly separate from the rest of the shoal.

The pair seems to be inseparable, always chasing after each other's tail fins. Fugaku hopes it is an omen, or some manner of sign.

“Good,” Mikoto chirps. “If only my skill and prowess could, too.”

Fugaku growls in only half-feigned irritation, “Mikoto-chan.”

She bounds ahead of him, spinning to pace backwards and shrugs.

“You have not bested me yet,” she states, tilting her head in a way that makes his heart skip a beat in his chest.

“I won our last spar,” he reminds her, lengthening his stride to move close enough to her that each of his steps forward forces her to take one of equal measure back. “The one before that, too.”

Her dark eyes seem to absorb all the fading light around them as they dip toward his chin.

“...I let you win those,” she mumbles. His mouth curves upward slightly.

“Sure.”

“Your fireball still isn’t bigger than mine,” she challenges, her voice firmer now. She meets his stare and stops her steps.

He pauses only when her forehead is mere centimeters away from his nose. The scent of lilies fills his nose, something like iron and smoke underneath. It is pleasant, comforting.

“You think so?” he murmurs.

“Shall we test it and find out?” she whispers. Her breath brushes warmly over his chin.

His fingers grip tighter around the parcel hidden away in his pocket. Anticipation and trepidation grip at him in a heady mixture that nearly draws him into a daze. Or perhaps it is simply the proximity, Mikoto’s breath mingling with his, her scent.

In the next second she is dashing away, jogging through the more compacted sections of the gardens. Fugaku blinks in shock before trailing after her at a slightly slower pace.

Long, dark hair floats behind her as she dashes around trees and vaults over stubby shrubs. She does not stop until she reaches a small dock at the edge of a lake far on the outskirts of their compound.

“Future clan heads first,” she says with an exaggerated bow as he draws close.

He shoots her a look that he hopes fully imparts his annoyance. She simply laughs, gesturing for him to position himself at the edge of the dock.

For a moment, he feels bitterness grip at him–his plans to present the item he holds firmly even now had not involved one of her little competitions. Yet the shining of her eyes, the mischievous tilt of her smile as she watches expectantly washes those feelings away like a leaf in the wind. He realizes that even these silly, mundane activities are more than fulfilling when she is around.

So, he steels himself, drawing on his chakra with focus and intense concentration. He squeezes his eyes shut as he allows the heat to boil up from his stomach, to seep inward from his fingers and limbs. As it coalesces in his lungs, he pushes further, until the burn is nearly unbearable, the flavor of smoke coating the roof of his mouth and tongue.

When the burn becomes so intense he teeters at the threshold of pain, he allows his jaw to fall open and lets loose possibly the largest fireball he has ever created in his life. Its circumference spans over half of the lake’s surface, lighting up their darkening areas and washing his body with a wave of heat that causes sweat to prickle on his face and a tingle at his brow.

The water bubbles and steam billows when he spits out the last dredge of flame, a cough seizing him that shakes his bones.

“Impressive, Fugaku-kun,” Mikokto says from behind him, her hand stroking gently over his back.

Her tone is sincere as is the look in her eyes when he blinks his own clear enough to see them.

“My turn,” she grins, patting his back. She trots to the edge of the dock, glancing over her shoulder briefly to check that he’s watching.

He is. With his sharingan engaged and every iota of his attention focused on her.

Her fingers fly through the hand-signs fast enough to shock him before her head tips back slightly, her mouth falling open while a stream of flame so fierce that it blows the hair away from both their faces spills forth.

The grass at the edges of the bank shrivels and dries under the heat as a fireball larger than Fugaku has ever seen completely encompasses the span of the lake. The surface of the water roils, nearby trees and shrubbery sway in the wind created by the bursting steam.

The display is wild and magnificent, awe-inspiring. Frightening. Riveting.

She is all of those things, and more.

“Told you,” she cries, dashing over to stand in front of him.

Her lips are singed, slightly raw as are the edges of her mouth. The skin of her cheeks is flushed a deep red, the fine hairs at her temples plastered to her face with moisture. Yet her face is lit up in a bright smile, eyes wide and glittering.

“What do you say, Uchiha-sama?” she plants her hands on her hips, staring at him with her teasing expression.

“I say that you’re better than me in many ways,” he responds in a quiet voice. She laughs gleefully, combing hair back from her face.

“Finally, you admit it.”

He steps closer, so close that her smile wavers and her eyes widen a bit more.

“I say that you’re not better than me at fire jutsu, though,” he continues, tilting his head so he can hold her gaze.

Her inky brow arches, “Did we not just prove that I’m better at it?”

“I say,” he whispers, pulling his right hand out of his pocket and bringing it and the item it holds up between them, “that I do not want to compete with you anymore. I’d much rather simply stand by your side.”

“Fugaku…” she breathes. Her fingers curl around the box, her other hand moving to slowly lift the top.

Nestled in a bed of red velvet is the gift he has made for her, toiled over with his own hands, melded and molded by his own flame. Two koi fish made of shinobi’s steel circling around a ruby pool, dangling from a long chain.

“My favorite kunai,” Fugaku explains as the item is revealed and she elicits a sharp gasp. “And my expert, masterful use of fire jutsu.”

He smiles at his own humor, but Mikoto simply gazes at him in shock.

“The ruby is the only thing not created with my own hands. I had help shaping it.”

She stares until he begins to wonder if she is breathing, and if he has made a terrible, humiliating mistake.

“What do you say?” he asks quietly.

“Fugaku-kun,” she breathes, dark eyes glittering, warm with the reflection of the moon that had finally risen to its place in the sky. “I… you’re right, I suppose. My flames could never create something like this.”

Then her face breaks into the widest smile he has seen from her yet. And he finds that this, too, she is better at than him.

. . . . . ╰──╮╭──╯ . . . . .

The Hokage’s residence is larger than it was during the Seventh’s time. The house is sprawling, a single level building formed in a traditional fashion. The designs had come from old blueprints of what used to be the Main House of the Uchiha compound, he was told. It was a gift, and perhaps even an apology from Sarada’s predecessor to herself.

“The sky is so clear, tonight,” Sarada murmurs, her head tipped back as she gazes at the heavy sprinkling of stars. “It’s nice to be able to see it for once.”

“Are you glad now that I tricked you into leaving your office?” Mitsuki asks, raising his brows as she shifts her eyes to look at him.

“As glad as you’ll be tomorrow when I leave the stack of paperwork you’ve encouraged me to neglect on your desk in the morning,” she replies, blinking at him with a doe-eyed expression.

He chuckles and she grins before directing her attention to the sky above once again.

Their steps slow to practically a crawl as they draw close to the dark, rippling water of the koi pond that was built at the center of the property. Bubbling sounds filter softly to his ears, and every now and then silvery, colorful koi pass under beams of moonlight, exposing themselves before disappearing into the inky black shadows of the pool.

“I want to thank you again,” Sarada breaks the silence with a quiet voice. His attention is drawn to her as acutely as if she were shouting. “For what you did for my family. For me.”

“It was nothing,” he replies.

“It was more than nothing,” she insists. And when her fingers slide against his palm, his own respond immediately, wrapping around hers firmly. Feeling as if that is their rightful place. “Using that space, sorting my grandfather's belongings…repairing that necklace. It meant something, everything to me.”

“Anything,” he whispers.

“What?”

Using his grip on her fingers, he tugs them to a stop, shifting around until they are face-to-face. Her long lashes flutter when he steps forward, trapping their joined hands between both of their rising and falling chests.

“Anything for you, Sarada,” he states. “I would do absolutely anything for you.”

His other hand rises slowly, fingers stroking lightly over the high point of her cheek before tracing a path down the side of her neck. He brushes at the center of her upper chest, uncovered in the absence of her robes, with his thumb for a moment and imagines himself one day placing that necklace that had changed their worlds exactly there.

Mitsuki pulls his fingers away, letting his hand fall back toward his side until it is caught mid-air by Sarada’s. She interlaces their fingers, drawing both pairs under her chin and leaning until her forehead rests against his.

“I believe that,” she breathes. “And I love you for it.”

His responding confession is drowned out by their mingling breaths, snaking its way between the minute spaces between their joining lips.

I love you, too.

୨⎯ End ⎯୧

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