Chapter Text
13
Iruka has become accustomed to Naruto’s unplanned drop-ins: a flicker of orange at the back of the genin classroom; a crouched figure on the balcony railing, peering through the sliding doors; and ever familiar, slurping noisily next to him in the warmth of the ramen shop, soaking in the rising steam of pork bone broth against the backdrop of rain pitter-pattering against the awning.
“You only ask for ramen during the really awkward conversations,” Iruka starts as Naruto’s bowl is mostly depleted. They’re alone save for the proprietor Teuchi, who busies himself with the stovetop pots. “So what is it this time?”
Naruto sets his chopsticks down, a sure sign of serious conversation, and then props up his chin on his knuckles. He won’t look at Iruka, not yet. “We got into a fight.” By “we,” he meant Sasuke and him, of course. “I’m not sure what to do now.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m really lucky to have so many people around me.” Naruto furrows his brows and contorts his face, trying to put into words some particularly difficult concept. “And they’re all important to me, you know? My team is important, Sakura and Sasuke; Kakashi is still important and I’ll never forget him; Tsunade, Jiraiya-- and you’re important too! I don’t want to lose any of you, and I’ll do whatever it takes to get you back. And they would all do the same for me, hell you’ve done the same for me.”
Iruka smiles softly. “You endear yourself to everyone around you, Naruto. That’s your special trait.”
“But what if-- what if there is one person more important than the rest? Can I be someone’s most important person?” Naruto turns to face him, and his eyes mean something else entirely.
“Of course, why would you not?”
“What if, I were that someone’s only important person?”
Ah. That is a different matter that everyone saw coming except Naruto. “Sasuke, you mean?”
Naruto flushes and hunches his shoulders. “Is it that obvious?”
“Those of us who know you, we’ve all made our own assumptions,” Iruka admits. “You spent a great deal of time and energy chasing after him, and it doesn’t come as a surprise if this is Sasuke’s method of reciprocation. He has few others to devote his attention, with most of them dead.” Iruka leans back, recalling the days of yonder, when Naruto was but a boy seeking Sakura's attention, and Sasuke was a sullen child-wonder with once-in-a-generation talent and an unhealthy fixation on his older brother. The memory sours his mouth. He washes it away with a mouthful of tea, refocusing to the conversation at hand. "What's important is communication, whatever form it comes in, and to understand what he’s thinking."
"You mean talk to him?” Naruto snorts, incredulous. “Believe me, I’ve tried, but he fights me tooth and nail every time. He’s so damned angry all the time, and he won’t even explain why!” Naruto balls up his fists on his knees, white-knuckled in frustration. "Today, he finally told me, he 'had something to lose.' I know he's lonely, I was too. I want to help him! I don’t want him to be alone, that part’s never changed. I just...I just don't know what to do now. I never thought it would turn out like this.”
“This” is a loaded term. It can mean a variety of things, stretching as far back as when Sasuke first left the village, spanning the years of silence and intrigue, and culminating in the terms of his return, the scars from its fanfare still fresh on the populace’s psyche. Sasuke is not blameless; Sasuke was emotionally cognisant to the concept of burning bridges, and simply didn’t give a damn--until now, it seemed.
It finally dawns on Iruka what Tsunade’s gambit was: Sasuke was and still is dangerous regardless of Tsunade’s seals, and giving him something to focus on was a risk, hedged by Naruto as his crucible.
Iruka purses his lips, and sighs. “When I found out about Godaime’s plan for you and Sasuke, I pleaded my case to her about why the whole arrangement was a bad idea. But you’re an adult now, Naruto, and she made him your responsibility, so she’s betting you’ll figure it out.” He still can’t detach his sense of unease from the notion of Uchiha Sasuke but---he has faith in Naruto and his earnest, unwavering conviction, and he’ll take the same bet as Godaime. Iruka continues, “You know your own heart and head best. It's up to you to decide what changes, if anything. Just remember to keep your happiness in mind, okay?”
Naruto mulls over his ramen bowl, brows furrowed and quiet for a stretch, leaving Iruka to make eye contact with the shop proprietor. Iruka settles the bill in silence, a long practiced habit by now.
“Old man Jiraiya always told me there were things to look for in a woman, but I never really paid attention,” Naruto finally confesses. With a vague creeping sensation he’ll later identify as horror, Iruka can hear the gears grinding away in Naruto’s head, rationalizing the whole concept. “I guess Sasuke does fit the bill. Aside from being an emotionally constipated shitbag, he’s a good sparring partner, doesn’t nag that often, won’t spend all my money, and he’s easy on the eyes.” And then, as an afterthought: “He does have a good body too.”
Iruka resists the urge to palm his face. He's never going to have enough hard liquor around for this part of the conversation. “I don’t think that what Jiraiya intended, Naruto.”
“I mean,” Naruto tries again, “I guess I don’t dislike the idea.” Confidence lights up his eyes, as if he had crossed some mental demarcation separating friendship from something more and found it appealing.
“That’s a start,” Iruka manages with a straight face. “Just-- be careful, okay?”
"With Sasuke?" Naruto chuckles. "He's a blunt force kind of guy. So is Sakura, I guess I'm just that lucky."
21
The first anniversary of Kakashi’s death, quick on the heels of Konoha-Kiri War, is merged with the memorial held for all those who died in the past year. Team Seven meets at dawn, the lingering mist a blurry veil washing out their somber colors; Team Seven meets at dawn, because there is no safer time for Sasuke to be seen there.
Death is not a foreign concept for the ninjas of Konoha; nothing reminds you of your mortality like knowing your peers have died. Yet, it seems so foreign a sensation; the knowledge of knowing he had died rather than seeing him die is a fine line as wide as the oceans, and the inexplicable sorrow just as deep.
They go one by one: Sakura bears flowers and a stack of paper money, her chin on her chest; Naruto comes second, setting down the picture frame before his tears streak the glass; Sasuke is last, his face stoic as Sakura and Naruto guide his hand over Kakashi’s name, the cold stone a sharp relief against their touch.
“It doesn’t get any easier,” Sasuke answers their melancholic silence, his voice the hollow billows on a dead sea. Then they remember Itachi died this day as well; this will be most he tells of his story. “The grief doesn’t become any less. It is not the weight of sorrow that changes; it is you who changes, accustomed to bearing it.”
It is not a healthy act, sunk deep in the bowels of empty dolor; watching Sasuke walk away in the fading mist clarifies how he came to be.
34
Rock Lee stands under Sakura’s balcony, flexing his oratory muscles well into the night with spring-songs of youth and poems of adulation, reciting in his robust stentorian voice odes to fair-haired beauties. It is the most proper thing to do, after all, and surely Sakura accords great value to his honesty.
Over the hours, her neighbors pelt him with various non-lethal objects, and he endures it so that the flow of his speech would be uninterrupted. Unwavering, unflinching, absolutely devoted—this is the way of a true warrior. His mentor Gai had told him so, and he will follow this.
“…to you fair lady, true to your name with the splendor of the cherry blossoms in full bloom, Sakura! My love for you is deep and crushing like the sea!”
The lights in her apartment go out, and the balcony door slides. There is a brief period of silence in which Rock Lee ponders the meaning of this behavior, and then Sakura leaps down from her balcony, her hair aflutter pink and lustrous under the moonlight.
“Lee.” Her radiant smile incites warmth from his chest, her tone sweet and frank; this is what Gai always told him to defend. “You’re bothering my neighbors and my parents.”
“Oh Sakura, please allow me to make amends with the elder Haruno, I had no intention of disturbing their evening rest—”
“Lee,” she says again, hooking her arm through his. Her eyes are clear and bright, green like a summer leaf held up against the midday sun. “Just—just come up, okay? Stay the night, you can apologize to my parents tomorrow.”
Truly, Rock Lee of the Leaf has never been happier than to cross over the threshold of her home.
55
Sakura catches Naruto at the wet market, a stopover on his way back from the training grounds. Good timing, she thinks.
At the end of the street, where the stalls are least populated, Sakura pulls Naruto aside, shushing him with an index finger on the lips before she asks firmly, “Are you and Sasuke in a relationship? Like Lee and I.”
“Wait, what?” he replies at first. And then, demandingly: “What do you mean relationship? You and Lee are an item? How come I don’t know?”
“Naruto,” she warns.
Naruto looks everywhere except for her face, finally settling for picking at the fresh bandages around his knuckles. “I dunno…I guess.” He laces his fingers behind his head, trying and failing to look casual. “How do you decide it’s a relationship? It’s not like you wake up one day and suddenly it’s, ‘Oh look, we slept together, and we’re now in a relationship!’ I mean, having sex doesn’t count. Right?”
“You slept with Sasuke?” she asks, somewhere between disbelief and relief.
“Yes?” he squeaks.
It is she who looks away, studying the whitewashed walls and dirt ground, finding the corners where the two join together as if they had never been two separate entities, and yet completely differentiated in their nature. “Is he happy?” she finally asks.
“Man, how the hell am I supposed to know,” Naruto grumbles, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “How do you define happy for a guy like Sasuke? I don’t know-- I can’t claim to know-- I just know he’s Sasuke. As much as he was back then, I guess.”
Somewhere in Naruto’s halting words and awkward pauses, it becomes clear to her. Blissfully unaware of his crushing honesty—this is Naruto’s defining characteristic. She chews her lip and tells him. “I’m glad. You’re better for him than I am.”
“What?” Naruto jerks up suddenly, staring straight at her. Dagger-like honesty gleams in his eyes. “What the hell—Sakura, just because—god, this sounds so stupid coming from me, but just because I had sex with him doesn’t mean…Sakura, you still love him! You’ve loved him ever since we were sitting in the same classroom! He respects you, which is more than what I get.” He sighs. “I’m not—if Fuzzy—Lee, I mean, if you think you’ll be happiest with him, then it’s okay. You know what you’re doing, I don’t.”
Sakura shakes her head softly. “Oh Naruto. I would’ve tried to make Sasuke happy. That’s where I would’ve gone wrong.”
89
“I brought flowers,” Ino greets when Sasuke answers the door.
“You know he’s not home.” She can never figure out how Sasuke manages to sound affronted and stoic at the same time.
“Indeed!” She pushes her way in, one hand cradling potted white chrysanthemums. “Ever since Naruto complained about how your personality seemed to kill any plants in a meter-radius around you, I figured I ought to check up, you know? Especially since he’ll be gone for another two weeks.”
The main room seems pristine and untouched, far more organized than when Naruto is around, and yet everything is exactly where she remembers them. The shogi set Shikamaru had brought over is still on the coffee table, dustless pieces frozen mid-game; Sakura’s scrolls are stacked in careful pyramids, the wooden handles glossy with fresh oil. The laughter of children filters in with the sunlight from the perpetually open window.
Strangely, it doesn’t look lived in at all.
“Sasuke,” she says, “do you know what time it is?”
“Twenty past two,” he responds after a pause, calculating. A non sequitur: “They’re annoying.”
The windowsill is a good place, very bright and very white, solid straight lines against the curve of the chair. She places the chrysanthemums there and steps back to admire the eye-bleaching whiteness of it all, not at all dissimilar to Sasuke’s skin under Morino’s hands, reddening strips against pale, wet skin. His broken bones had not matched the Spartan composition of the room, until she healed them straight and the skin smooth again in the anguished silence of his shallow breaths.
“Are you done?”
“Just appreciating the view.” She hastily corrects her mistake. “I mean, it’s nothing special. You’re not missing out or anything, just little snot-nosed brats pushing each other into the dirt.”
Sasuke follows her voice over to the window, listening attentively. “Don’t bother lying.”
“Oh come on, Sasuke, give a girl a little room here. Is it so bad for me to be nice to you?”
“I’d rather you didn’t.” He steps around her, keeping a careful distance. “You know why.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she can spot the tell-tale shadow of Sasuke’s ANBU guard. She falters, and settles for a sigh. “I’m completely professional, and you should be, too.”
“That is why you don’t trust me, and I don’t trust you.”
She leans against the windowsill, peering down at the kids below. It’s been a dry summer and little yellow puffs stir up behind their steps. She wonders when she’ll have to guide a genin team someday; her days at the academy are so distant in the past.
“I used to worship you. I really did.” She turns her face to the sky. “Obviously, the part where you betrayed us put a damper on that. But I wasn’t there because I wanted to see you like that—it was a job, and I was one of the few remaining with the medical training and the clearance. The explicit instruction was to keep you alive. I didn’t have to make sure you could use your hands again, but while I can’t forgive betrayal, I’m not that cruel.” She laughs. “You know what’s funny? Watching Naruto and Sakura, they can’t even hide the way they feel about you…it almost makes me want to believe.”
“Don’t bother.”
“Hn.” She studies his face; it is still perfectly composed, a look of perpetual disdain to match his venomous tongue, the same face he wore that Morino left untouched. “If it makes you feel better, Morino was very impressed by your capacity. The records are confidential, only top-level ANBU and the Hokage can see them. And you, if you could, but that’s a given. No one else will know.”
“Better for you than me.”
She blinks; coming from Sasuke, that is a very thoughtful reply. He has no reason to be concerned about her welfare, although he wouldn’t be ashamed of himself either, unless… “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”
Sasuke snorts. “How much more personal can you get than interrogation?”
“You know,” she cocks her head to one side, eyeing the tell-tale tick of his neck muscle, “the question you broke on.”
He clenches his jaw, showing teeth as the entire column of his neck contracts the same way it had under the naked bulb of the interrogation room. The memories jar her: a minute jerk of his strapped down hands splintering the chair; the fresh tray of instruments emptying its contents in a clatter on naked concrete; Morino all but shouting for her to get out of the room; her wordless obedience when she thought that was the day she would die to torment and hate made flesh, the man who had killed two jounin by doing nothing but living.
It’s different this time, she reasons, and continues. “I won’t tell anyone. It’s just personal curiosity.”
It’s still eerie how entrancing he seems, framed against the windowsill and bathed in sunlight, so many shadows to highlight the panes of his face. Watching him deflate is like watching a flower bloom, slow and indistinguishable for most, painful in its clarity for someone who has long mastered the patience of studying lines and balance. His spine softens a smidgen, the curve of his shoulders touching the window glass, and his exhale is virtually silent. In another time, no one would believe what she saw because they will say, this man can be no demon.
“Blue.” The abrupt and pained answer startles her enough to almost miss the brush of his fingers against the powder-white edge of the largest chrysanthemum. “The blue of his eyes, that’s the last thing I saw.”
It is cruel to be leashed with a punishment like this.
Before she leaves, she reminds him, “The reason Naruto’s plants are dying is because he doesn’t remember to draw the shades. You should remember for him.”
144
He stumbles out of bed and fumbles his way over to the bathroom, groping over ceramic tiles for frigid bathtub faucets. A twist, a turn, and the awkward acoustics transform the gush of water against ceramic into the churning of a waterfall. The water is nowhere near warm; he strips and plunges in, welcoming the biting cold because it is not tainted by his brother’s touch.
He doesn’t forget how to breathe. He waits as his lungs burn, reveling in the light-headed sensation of it all. Of course it’s easier, he concludes, when no one is shoving his head underwater, easier still when no one is gripping him by his temples, and easiest when Naruto is not trying to break his legs so he couldn’t run away.
Blue is the color when spiking shards of light die out, unable to pierce further into the water; black are the bottomless depths that will never know the warmth of the sun. Neither he will ever see again, the latter because he has turned his back to it, the former because he still remembers it.
Naruto.
His disconnect vanishes— he wants to choke, panicked and pulled down by the miserable mess of the years, hating everything and regretting nothing. His palms find purchase against the slick rim of the tub and he raises his head, refusing to gasp for air until he realizes his only companion is the running water.
Naruto has not awakened yet.
He shuts off the water, the last drops echoing blip blip , and then silence and the dull pain in his shoulder. He remembers— the Heaven’s seal was gone when he had woken up, leaving nothing but smooth skin and Sakura’s apology —and for a split second, it burns in his rage. He grabs his arms, nails digging into his flesh as his body contracts into an immovable mass, because he can’t, he can’t let it consume him this time, he is not the one who needs its costly strength.
What would you say now, brother?
He slowly uncurls and feels for that unmarred stretch of skin Orochimaru had always laid claim to. The memory is not one he wants to relive, and yet it doesn’t seem right, it doesn’t seem right at all to be untainted.
Naruto wakes when he turns and finds a startling lack of Sasuke beside him, momentarily terrified that Sasuke left again. It takes him a few minutes to figure out something’s wrong, and then a lot of cursing when he trips over his clothes in the dark before he slowly fine-tunes his night-vision.
There’s some kind of noise coming from the bathroom, if only he could see—goddamn, of course Sasuke doesn’t need to turn on the lights, but he does. He flips on the light switch, prepared for but never accustomed to the sudden flood of harsh yellow light.
When his eyes adjust, he sees Sasuke with arms folded awkwardly behind his head, skin scrubbed pink and raw in iron-tinged water, and the jagged broken head of a toothbrush lying on the counter.
“ Sasuke ,” he tests warningly— what kind of stupid shit is this —covering the distance in one frantic stride.
He grabs Sasuke’s hand, takes a hook to the jaw, and yanks Sasuke out of the tub, wrestling with him on the cold and wet floor tiles in a mess of slick limbs and little space. Sasuke shatters the toilet bowl with Naruto’s head and pins him down, twisting his arm and jamming a knee in his back.
“Goddamnit Sasuke, what the fuck are you doing?” Naruto demands when Sasuke stops trying to shove his face into the floor.
The pressure intensifies, for a moment Sasuke is completely serious about snapping his spine; his chakra instinctively surges out, a burning tidal wave coursing through his body. It hits him when Sasuke releases him just how cold Sasuke is.
Something clatters on the ground, weak and dull in the tiny room. The broken half of the toothbrush handle, its serrated edge slick with blood.
“Don’t you dare hold back against me,” Sasuke spits out, somewhere between wounded and indignant. “You’re better than that, and they need to know it, too.”
“God, Sasuke, you—” Naruto clenches his teeth, and then sighs because Sasuke won’t say it or hear it, because Sasuke is right. He tries again, a few decibels lower. “What were you doing, Sasuke?”
Sasuke bows his head, hiding his face in the shadows. Sasuke’s always been a quick learner. Against the background hum of bathroom light, Sasuke’s voice is a low rumble. “…the taste of bitterness.”
“What?” He furrows his brow in suspicion. He slowly becomes aware of the porcelain-speckled mess that he’s going to have to grovel in front of the landlady to get fixed, Sasuke’s unabashed nudity, and the dull ache in his head.
Sasuke purses his lips before twisting his torso, one hand drawing aside the curtain of black hair. On his neck, still swollen and bloody, lies the crudely carved imprint of a tomoe.