Chapter Text
The sun had only just crested the tiled rooftops of Konoha when Team 7 was summoned to the village’s eastern training ground. Morning clung to the trees in a soft veil of mist, and the light had not yet burned away the last traces of dew that clung to the grass. Boruto Uzumaki arrived first—early, despite telling himself he wouldn’t be. His sandals stirred the fine dust near the wooden post where he stopped, leaning against it with an energy he didn't feel. The forehead protector tied across his brow sat with perfect symmetry, but his fingers rose to adjust it for the fifth time. The gesture had become almost compulsive. The cloth felt heavy—not in weight, but in meaning. All night, his thoughts had chased themselves in circles: the ghost of Himawari’s bright-eyed hug still lingered in his chest, his mother’s quiet gaze still felt like it was seeing through him, and Shikadai’s offhanded smirk still echoed in his head. That smirk always meant something deeper than words—an unspoken truth Boruto hadn’t quite unpacked yet.
He wasn’t nervous, not exactly. But something was shifting inside him. He could feel it. A restless uncertainty about how he was supposed to carry himself now, about how others might see him. Not just as a genin, but as that genin— the Hokage’s son .
Sarada Uchiha was the next to arrive, her footfalls light and deliberate. She moved with the natural precision of someone who’d long been taught to hold composure like a sword, to sharpen it into a shield. She offered Boruto a curt nod, the sort that acknowledged presence without inviting conversation, and positioned herself a few feet away. Her arms folded across her chest, back straight. Unlike Boruto, her forehead protector wasn’t visible. If he had to guess, it was tucked away—hidden like a part of herself she hadn’t decided to share yet. Maybe she didn’t want the symbol it carried. Or maybe she wasn’t ready to wear it openly. Either way, he didn’t ask. The silence between them was familiar, like a well-worn trail they knew not to stray from.
Mitsuki came last, though it was hard to say whether he was truly late. He drifted into the clearing with the quiet grace of something not entirely tethered to the earth, his footsteps barely stirring the leaves. His expression was as unreadable as ever—a faint, curious smile playing on his lips, eyes pale and calm as moonlight. When he looked at Boruto and Sarada, it wasn’t with expectation or recognition. It was more like he was piecing together something invisible, a puzzle only he could see the full picture of. Despite himself, Boruto felt the hair on his neck rise.
For several long moments, the three of them stood in silence, breathing in the forest’s cool hush. It wasn’t awkward—at least not in the traditional sense. It was expectant . They weren’t just classmates anymore. They were shinobi. A team.
The stillness broke only when Konohamaru arrived. His approach was unceremonious: no dramatic entrance, no rousing speech. Just the steady crunch of boots on compacted dirt and the familiar rustle of his scarf fluttering in the breeze. He came to a stop a few paces away, hands buried deep in his pockets, eyes shaded by the tilt of his brow. Yet there was no confusion in his gaze—only clarity and quiet authority.
“So,” he said simply, his voice carrying without needing to rise, “this is Team 7.”
He moved toward a large flat stone and perched atop it with casual ease, as if he had stood in this exact position dozens of times before. He looked at each of them in turn, pausing just long enough for the weight of his attention to settle.
“I’m not going to waste your time with introductions,” he said. “I know your names. I know where you come from. I know who raised you. But what I want to know now is who you are—what drives you, what you’re after. That’s what matters now.”
He turned first to Sarada. His voice softened. “What do you want out of this?”
Sarada didn’t miss a beat. Her voice was clear, measured, resolute. “To become Hokage.”
“A classic goal,” he said. “But not a simple one. That path will test every part of you. Believe me, I know.”
Next, his gaze shifted to Mitsuki.
“And you?”
Mitsuki’s head tilted slightly, his expression unchanging. “I want to see where this path takes me.”
There was something in the way he said it—soft, enigmatic—that gave the words weight beyond their simplicity. Konohamaru studied him a moment longer, lips twitching into a faint, knowing smile.
“Cryptic,” he muttered. “Alright.”
Then his attention turned to Boruto. He felt his breath hitch slightly. The question hung in the air like a blade. The answer had been in his chest for as long as he could remember, but saying it— really saying it—felt like peeling back a layer he wasn’t sure he wanted anyone to see.
“…To be more than just the Hokage’s son,” he said finally. The words came out quieter than he intended.
There was a beat of silence, and then Konohamaru nodded once.
“Fair enough.”
Boruto straightened a bit, eager to change the subject. “So are we doing a test or something? Bell-snatching? Survival exercise?”
Konohamaru quirked an eyebrow. “You already passed the real test. That forehead protector on your head? That’s proof. You’re genin now. That means we start at the bottom—just like everyone else.”
He pulled a scroll from his pouch and handed it to Sarada, who unfurled it with a furrowed brow. “…Herb collection?” she said.
“D-rank mission,” Konohamaru confirmed. “South ridge. One kilometer out. The area’s covered in chakra-sensitive insects. They protect the plants. If you move too fast, they’ll sting. If your chakra flares, they’ll attack. You’ll need discipline, awareness, and teamwork.”
Boruto groaned audibly. “You’re joking. Bugs?”
Konohamaru gave him a level look. “You’re not saving the world yet. You learn to walk before you run. Or you trip and fall alone.”
—
The southern forest pulsed with life. Sunlight filtered down through dense branches, turning the underbrush into a lattice of shadows and golden light. Every step was a risk—dry twigs snapped too easily, and the air shimmered with the wings of watchful insects.
Sarada crouched low near a bush blooming with violet thistles, her hands steady as she clipped the stalks and slipped them into her pouch. Every move was deliberate, practiced—like she was performing a kata no one else could see. Mitsuki moved like a whisper among the trees, his feet not so much stepping as gliding, fingers trailing over bark and moss as he gently harvested a cluster of fungus from a shaded root.
Boruto, meanwhile, was swatting at his arms. Welts dotted his skin like battle scars. “This sucks ,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “We should be doing something that matters .”
Sarada didn’t even glance his way. “You think herb collection is beneath you?”
Boruto scowled. “That’s not what I said.”
“You didn’t have to,” she replied, voice cool but not unkind. “Everyone wants to do more. But we haven’t earned more yet.”
Boruto’s mouth opened to retort, but Mitsuki crouched nearby, pointing to a dense cluster of leaves buzzing with insect motion. “These insects are drawn to chakra intensity,” he murmured, his tone oddly reverent. “The plants emit a subtle chakra field. That’s why the bugs protect them. It’s symbiotic.”
Boruto gave him a sidelong glance. “Why do you talk like a science textbook?”
Mitsuki’s smile was enigmatic. “I learn quickly.”
Sarada paused in her task, curiosity tugging at her composure. “So… where are you from?”
Mitsuki tilted his head. “Does it matter?”
“We’re a team,” she said with a shrug. “It might.”
There was a long pause before Mitsuki answered, voice calm. “I wasn’t born. I was made.”
Boruto blinked. “Made? Like… in a lab?” He recoiled slightly. “That’s kind of creepy.”
Sarada’s lips pressed into a tight line, but she didn’t speak. The silence felt fragile—like something delicate had been revealed and none of them quite knew how to hold it.
Mitsuki, unfazed, gave a strange little grin. “You are really dumb.”
Boruto stared at him, caught between offense and confusion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Mitsuki’s grin widened, just a little, like the punchline of a joke only he understood. “It means that my name is Mitsuki Hozuki. It rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it? My parents are really nice people.”
Boruto gave Mitsuki a flat stare, one brow twitching upward. “You suck at jokes.”
Sarada didn’t respond, but there was something unreadable flickering in her eyes as she turned away and resumed her work. Whatever curiosity she’d felt about Mitsuki had been quickly replaced by annoyance. That idiot. And I thought he could give me information about dad. How stupid of me.
They worked in near silence after that, each lost in their own thoughts. Sarada continued clipping herbs with the quiet determination of someone with something to prove—though whether it was to herself or someone else was hard to say. Mitsuki moved with his eerie grace, unbothered by insects, his pale hands deft as they brushed dirt away from a fragile root system. Boruto took longer. He crushed a few plants by mistake, tripped over a root, got stung again—twice—and swore under his breath more times than he could count. Still, he didn’t quit. He didn’t storm off or call it dumb again. He stayed, working, even if every second grated on him.
When their pouches were finally full and the sun was beginning its slow descent toward the treetops, they regrouped beneath the broad trunk of an oak near the ridge’s edge. The air was thick with the smell of sap, leaves, and sweat. Sarada adjusted the strap of her herb pouch with a satisfied grunt. Mitsuki looked like he had barely broken a sweat. Boruto’s arms were a map of welts and smears of dirt.
And maybe that was its own kind of victory.
—
That night, Boruto crept through the front door of his house like a thief, shoulders hunched, sandals in his hand to avoid even the softest creak of wood beneath his feet. The warmth of the house hit him immediately, smelling faintly of grilled fish, cooked rice, and lemon-scented cleaning oil. From the kitchen, he could hear the unmistakable clink of dishes being put away and the bright sound of Himawari’s laughter.
“Boruto Uzumaki!” his mother’s voice rang out, sweet and deceptively gentle.
He froze mid-step, caught in the act.
Himawari popped into view a second later, bouncing on the balls of her feet with a huge grin. “Why didn’t you tell us you had a mission? We could’ve baked a cake or something to celebrate!”
Hinata followed behind, arms folded loosely across her chest, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips that made it impossible to tell if she was amused or preparing to scold. “You’re grounded from keeping things like this a secret from now on,” she said, mock-stern.
Boruto groaned. “It was just a dumb herb run. With bugs. So many bugs.”
“But it was your first mission,” Himawari said, undeterred. “That’s important!”
“Not really.”
Hinata exchanged a glance with her daughter, then walked over and placed a gentle hand on Boruto’s head. She held it there for a moment, brushing a bit of dirt from his hair before speaking, her voice low.
“Important doesn’t always mean exciting,” she said. “Sometimes, it just means beginning .”
Boruto opened his mouth, but nothing came out right away. The words got tangled somewhere behind his tongue. He looked at her—really looked—and for the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t just seeing his mother. He was seeing someone who had once stood in her own team, done her own missions, started from the same place. A shinobi. Not just someone who cooked, cleaned, or hugged him when he was bruised.
“…Yeah,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess it kind of was.”
“Then go wash up,” Hinata said with a teasing lilt. “You smell like a dog...and I was on a team with a dog, so I know what I'm talking about.”
That earned a snort from Himawari, and Boruto rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward despite himself. He trudged toward the bathroom, dragging his bag along the wooden floor.
—
They all sat down to eat together, and the familiar rhythm of home settled around him. The fish was seared perfectly, the rice soft and warm, and the miso soup was full of radish slices that floated like little clouds. Boruto didn’t say much—his mind was still halfway in the forest—but he didn’t need to talk. Himawari chattered enough for both of them, telling stories about her day at the academy and about a drawing she made of their family. Hinata listened, always half-focused on Boruto, giving him that look only mothers knew how to give—the one that said I know you’re holding something back, and that’s okay. I’ll wait.
As dinner ended and the dishes were cleared away, the front door opened with a soft creak.
Boruto turned his head just as Naruto stepped inside, tugging off his Hokage cloak and draping it neatly over one arm. His eyes were tired, the way they always were lately, with lines etched deeper around the corners from too many long days and sleepless nights. And yet, the moment he saw his son, he smiled.
“You’re home,” Naruto said, voice quiet, a hint of something softer threading through it.
Boruto nodded. “Yeah.”
Naruto’s gaze drifted to the scroll sitting on the table—the mission report, neatly rolled and sealed.
“How was the mission?”
Boruto shrugged. “Fine.”
“Konohamaru said you didn’t complain too much,” Naruto added, watching him carefully.
Boruto blinked. “Wait… he said that? Really?”
Naruto smiled faintly. “Said you were trying. That you showed effort. That means more than you think.”
Boruto looked down, scratching his elbow. “It wasn’t anything big…”
There was a pause, then Naruto moved forward, rubbing the back of his neck—a motion Boruto recognized immediately. It was the same gesture he made when he wasn’t sure how to phrase something gently.
“You know,” Naruto said, “my first mission was tracking a runaway cat.”
Boruto gave him a disbelieving look. “No way. That’s worse than bugs.”
Naruto chuckled. “And I still managed to screw it up.”
Boruto snorted, but there was no humor behind it. He leaned back against the edge of the table, arms crossed, gaze fixed on a knot in the wood grain. “You really messed up a lot of things.”
Naruto tilted his head slightly, the smile fading. “Yeah. I did.”
Silence stretched between them—not awkward, not quite. It felt like something deeper, something raw and taut that neither wanted to touch but both knew was there. The distance between them wasn’t physical—it never had been. Naruto could be in the same room and still feel like a ghost.
Boruto shifted on his feet. His arms still itched. His muscles ached. He’d done something small today. But for the first time in a long while, it didn’t feel meaningless. “I'm going to bed.”
Naruto nodded toward the stairs. “Go on. You’ve earned some rest.”
Boruto hesitated. Then glanced up at his father.
“…Night, Dad.”
Naruto gave a small nod, voice barely above a whisper. “Goodnight, Boruto.”
Boruto climbed into bed without turning on the light. The room was dim, the soft blue of the village’s night lamps filtering in through the window, casting shadows on the walls where old posters and scrolls hung half-curled. He lay on his side, staring at the ceiling, arms still itching from bug bites, muscles sore in places he hadn’t even known could ache. The herb pouch sat empty on his desk, and his forehead protector rested beside it—silent, gleaming slightly in the dark. I wanted to say more.
Across the house, Naruto sat in his home office. The lights were low, the paperwork untouched for once. His Hokage cloak hung over the back of the chair, folded neatly, forgotten. The room smelled faintly of ink, old scrolls, and the faint floral scent Hinata always used to clean the window ledge. Naruto leaned back in his chair, arms crossed loosely, eyes on the ceiling rather than the papers stacked in front of him. I wanted to say more.
The house was quiet now, thick with the calm that settled in only when everyone was safely home.
And if both went to bed, thinking of a thousand things they wanted to say to each other, it was really an everyday thing.