Chapter Text
1
One of the janitors finds the two jounin, slumped slavering and babbling in their own waste, their eyes glazed as they genuflected before the crippled Uchiha. Tsunade passes the edict that any form of genjutsu performed on the Uchiha is punishable under pain of death, if one should be so fortunate, and orders Ibiki to do the interrogation himself.
1
Sasuke’s return is a bitter medicine, the essence of the resolution distilled into a tonic for the sick to choke down while everyone else receives a murky, diluted draught, its impact felt only in the sharp aftertaste. Her parents no longer ask with the puzzled tone of an exasperated adult, “Why do you still want to chase after him? Didn’t he betray you?” After all, there is no more chasing that they can see.
In the time between then and now, she has come to better understand the fragility of emotions and the words people give to them. There was a delicate art to it all, the absence of Naruto and Sasuke in her life for those few years, the ruthless lessons Tsunade taught, and the undulating pride and depression of knowing when she could save a life, when she could not, and with each successive day, when she could have.
Sometimes she wants her parents to ask again, so she can respond with the sort of honesty she can only say to her parents, “Because he will always be my teammate, because Naruto would risk everything to save him, because I want things to be like they used to.” Sometimes she thinks it’s a want born out of immaturity, because status quo is the same as stagnancy and frankly, Sakura wants none of that.
The best course of healing, she knows, does not always mean restoring what used to be.
2
They shove him in front of the elders, their stink that of the old and dying, and they pass their sentence with refined sarcasm and malice dripping from their lips: “For saving the village from oblivion and the traitor Orochimaru, for his services in aiding Konoha in this war, we, the ruling Elders of Konoha, do hereby reinstate the former traitor Uchiha Sasuke as sole survivor of the Uchiha clan, stripped of all claims and rights to Uchiha landholdings, stripped of his status and abilities as a S-class ninja, stripped of his freedom as an ordinary civilian, and with the graces of Godaime, placed in the charge of Uzumaki Naruto.”
It hits him when Naruto has a hand on one shoulder and Sakura on the other as they escort him out: for him, there truly will be a tomorrow.
He begins to fear.
3
She’s late to leave the hospital for Sasuke’s first checkup, but when she spots Neji exiting from Rock Lee’s room, she has to stop.
“Neji!”
“Sakura, it’s good to see you.” Neji dips his head incrementally. “All is well?”
“Everything is good, actually.” She smiles. “Lee’s comfortable? I visited him this morning, and his recuperation skills are just incredible. He regaled me with his plans on how to help train Sasuke, and well, you know—” She pauses, looking away before she can stop herself. “It’s the intent that matters.”
Neji nods perfunctorily, a characteristic she’s become used since he served as their third man. “Lee always has the best intentions. We stand with him on this.”
Something about his tone, maybe the solidity and firmness of it, the absolute confidence hearkening back to Naruto’s unwavering faith—and she wavers. “I…I don’t think I’ve really thanked you.” She bows formally with a bend at the waist, her hair falling in her face. She still remembers the taste of tears and venomous hate thickening her throat, the way others pushed her away as they mobbed Sasuke’s body, cursing and spitting. “You—you spoke up for Sasuke when no one else would.” I saw him, Neji had said, his voice strong despite his pained grimace and hobbled gait. I saw him kill Orochimaru, I saw him kill an Akatsuki. My eyes do not lie.
Neji places a hand on her shoulder, urging her to rise like a lord recognizing an equal. “Everyone deserves to live.”
“Those who lived, for them living wasn’t enough.”
Neji’s brows draw into a frown. “No, they wanted more, they wanted blood and vengeance. I hold no love for him, but-- well, we all have our reasons.”
In Sakura’s eyes, Neji and Sasuke were similar creatures bearing the burdens of their bloodlines; Neji, while troubled enough on his own, had the fortune of avoiding Orochimaru. Perhaps that is another, more honest reason for Neji’s defense of Sasuke, one he will never say.
“Whatever they are, thank you.” She has learned to read his face, not by the way of his blank white eyes, but by the minute twitches of muscle on his face marking his tension. “It must be nice to have your old team back. We’ve borrowed you for long enough.”
“I would say the same to you, but I don’t lie.”
Tsunade’s brand of cynicism roils in her veins: everyone lies.
Naruto and Sasuke are arguing again when she arrives at their apartment, their voices echoing out onto the streets below. She knocks three solid times before she grabs the knob and turns, the satisfying crunch of metal whimpering in deference. Her control is getting better; only the lock and handle components were damaged.
“Guys!” she yells. Naruto kills his epithet mid-syllable as both he and Sasuke turn to her direction.
“You're disrupting the neighbors,” she reprimands, walking into the apartment.
“Sorry Sakura,” Naruto mutters sheepishly. “Mr. Stick-up-the-ass here was being his usual jerkoff self.”
“Your voice grates,” Sasuke sneers. “Shut up.”
Sakura rolls her eyes. “Sasuke, just…drop it for now?” She walks up to him slowly, making sure he can hear her as she extends her hand out. “As you recall, Tsunade sent me to check up on you…” Sasuke flinches away from her touch. A twitch, an involuntary reaction really, but it cuts deeper than any of his caustic words.
“I just need to check the seals,” she tries.
“The fact that I haven’t killed that idiot yet should say they’re working.”
“You couldn’t if you tried,” Naruto taunts, “you don’t have the—” She glares at him; he stares guiltily at the floor and shuffles to the other side of the room.
“Sasuke, it’s just my job. Just ignore Naruto.” She reaches out again, and still he pulls away, deflecting her touch. A turn of her wrist around his arm and she has to exert chakra to lock his arms down, grabbing his chin with a free hand.
Back in the post-battle frenzy, she had been too busy praying he would live to pay attention to his face, so when she studies it now, she notes how he’s grown: the space between his eyes are slightly widened by the bridge of his nose, his jaw lengthened and lean, his cheeks less rounded, and the beginnings of crows-feet under his eyes, a remnant of excessive Sharingan use.
“Admiring your handiwork?” The accusation shatters the silence.
He is all venom and loathing, but the hurt in his voice rings like a clarion call. She doesn’t want to feel guilt, even as it crawls out of her gut and up her spine; she did what she thought was right. His eyes for his life, a fair trade to save him.
But you decided for him, right?
Yes, I did, and I would do it again.
Her hand is squeezing before she realizes it, the subtle crack of fracturing bone not registering until Naruto’s voice bursts out in a sharp peal: “Sakura!”
She realizes that Sasuke has made no noise; only his nostrils flare in a shallow intake of breath, his head raised in a gesture of defiance and indifference. Fighting the instinct to jerk her hand away, she calms herself with slow, even breaths and corrects the hairline fracture she caused.
“Don’t,” he says, his voice distant and commanding. “Don’t ever do that again. Please.”
She almost doesn’t hear the word “please,” stricken by the hissing undercurrent of restrained anxiety in his voice.
“I promise,” she whispers. It hurts, it hurts so fucking much to want to hold him, cradle him in her arms and say it’s really okay, because she knows that she means every word she says. “I promise I won’t.”
She wonders how Naruto does this, how he bears with this everyday, the infuriating and crippling distance stacked on top of years of separation.
5
News of the Akatsuki’s defeat came quickly, but the real details come along by the gossip of couriers when they bring Konoha’s carefully encrypted request: the sounds of the wind are slowed by fluttering leaves; a fire does not welcome water, yet the sand’s thirst is strong.
The people of Suna forget neither Orochimaru’s transgression, nor the near fatal encounter with the Akatsuki, a bleeding wound stemmed only by the arrival of the Leaf ninjas. Gaara assembles a platoon to aid Konoha, and with Tsunade’s cooperation constructs a covert cell to root out the Oto spies. He raises an eyebrow when Tsunade reveals her source; she smiles wryly and asks, “You don’t trust his information?”
Temari answers for him. “Madam Hokage, you know firsthand how treacherous Orochimaru was. Uchiha Sasuke was his protégé, not some mere spy. This war could greatly strain your village, and by asking our aid, ours as well. Potential Oto spies could be a problem, but Kiri’s attack is more immediate.”
“My concern for my village is greater than my hatred for Orochimaru, if that is what you’re implying.” Tsunade’s lips thin, pressing into a hard line. “I wouldn’t waste the sacrifices made to keep the village standing. You think I wouldn’t use whatever means I had to ensure I got the truth out of him?”
Gaara considers his words carefully. “I hear that Naruto has been put on sick leave, and his new charge is Uchiha.” There is no practical reason for this assignment, unless there is an ulterior motive.
“Yes, as decided by the Council.”
“Why?” Gaara remembers little of Sasuke before the betrayal, only the knowledge that he was a viciously talented and arrogant boy who put his faith in Naruto, but the only important thing afterwards was that he somehow became Naruto’s reason for existence. Gaara knows how that feels.
“When a person like Uchiha Sasuke obtains his desires, he has no reason to keep living. He couldn’t have cared less about the village.” Tsunade’s eyes harden; she likes this no more than he does. “What good is the threat of death then? You have to make him value something again to make him fear the loss. It took a while, but Ibiki—you remember him, don’t you—he found something.”
The sand in his gourd rattles in his disapproval as her words sink in. “You are preying on Naruto’s kindness to trap Uchiha. You are deceiving Naruto as well.” The air in the room turns dry and thin, the moisture sucked out of it.
“Kindness.” Temari snorts, affronted by the thought. “Since when has a Council’s vengeance ever needed to be kind?”
“As for the official story,” Shizune informs them, “Uchiha Sasuke saved the village and provided the information to redeem himself. This is his reward. The gossip should be spreading this, but even couriers might have selective hearing.”
In any other light, it is a very neat and efficient method, but with Naruto, it is a petty and dangerous retaliation. “It is dangerous to use Naruto like this. His control over the kyuubi is ruled by his emotions. If he—”
He stops when Tsunade casts a silencing shield on the four of them; there’s no one else in the room, but there are guards outside.
“Naruto is no longer a host for the kyuubi. Sasuke is. The Uchiha chakra appears to negate the kyuubi’s power, and his eyes are sealed.”
Pain, he remembers, fear, sorrow, loss, emptiness, foreign and intimately familiar all the same. The experience of losing Shukaku is still sharp and crystalline, constant reminders everywhere in his life. Most clear is the pain of losing control, losing it completely as he could no longer distinguish between the mind that was his, and the consciousness that was draining out of him. It had felt like he was being flayed alive, the sand that had been his shield scouring his flesh as both he and Shukaku screamed, scrabbling frantically at the last dregs of consciousness.
Sometimes he still forgets that he can no longer tap on its chakra; sometimes he still forgets that he can afford the luxury of sleep.
Temari covers up his stunned silence with a low whistle. “There is a heavy price to pay for that, madam.”
Tsunade’s honesty is raw in her voice when she replies, “I know. And I would have paid any price.” Just like you did, she does not say.
Gaara wonders how it has changed Naruto. Most likely very little; next time they meet, it will probably be the same Naruto gushing about being Hokage someday.
“You understand we will have to present this to our elders, Kankuro at the very least.”
“No further than that.”
“Of course.”
He and Naruto are the same, still the same.
“If Naruto trusts Sasuke,” Gaara decides, “then I will trust him. Let’s finish this, Tsunade.”
8
Two months, three weeks, and four days (85 days and 13 hours, year four of Godaime’s office, Shikamaru files this away for later reports) into the campaign, combing through putrid swamps and tangled forests for the scattered Kiri cells, Asuma suggests a break.
The endless ashen fields are a constant dullness wearing on them all, like the rust creeping on Tenten’s weapons and the slick sucking mud whose stench Ino can’t wash out of her fishnets. The lack of finality and conclusion frustrates Shikamaru; examining the pattern of the attacks and the location of the cells, he can almost grasp the finishing moving, but like an elusive God-hand, it remains just out of reach.
The ANBU Neji calls Yamato blinks his empty eyes and nods. “We will reach a coastal village in two hours.”
True to his words, in two hours’ time comes a breeze carrying the brackish tang of the sea.
The limit for public memorials is three years, derived from ancient rites of mourning. They are ninjas after all; if there were no limit on the years, they would be too busy mourning to carry out their duties. Every day of the year, someone remembers some loss. Today is no exception.
In the village, they split apart to avoid attention. Shikamaru follows Asuma to a little bar, the gutted walls of the ground floor exposing varnished wooden tables chipped with age and the low benches of the coast. The proprietor is a leathery old woman, her accent harsh with sibilants and ugly retroflexes of the class a step above farmers. The only things she can offer are cloudy homebrew and skinny whores, the latter of which Asuma declines before Shikamaru can roll his eyes, the former for which he pays an inordinate sum.
They meet up two kilometers southeast of the village, where the soil turns to sand and the grass crops up shorter and stringier with every step. Shikamaru complains about how difficult sand is to truly clean out of his sandals, but it’s not a mission-vital detail, so everyone ignores him and walks further out onto the beach. Chouji lingers half a step behind, as if in sympathy, or perhaps he too is wary of Lee’s shouting distance.
They watch in silence as Asuma pours out libation onto the sand, drawing the character for “fire.” He adds a line over the top, extinguished.
“My old man—when I was young, he talked about Orochimaru a lot. Then he slowly stopped. But I bet he didn’t think about him any less.” Asuma empties the bottle, running his fingers over the still-wet rim. His eyes are relaxed, following the invisible horizon separating the steel-grey sea from the sky. “I think he always blamed himself, but now that he’s got his star pupil joining him, I bet he’ll feel vindicated.”
“The student kills the master,” Gai notes with an uncharacteristic gravity. “And here the cycle ends.”
Sometimes, it’s hard to remember that Asuma and Gai grew up in a generation when the Sannin were revered heroes of legend. Shikamaru wonders if it’s sort of like how he sees Sasuke now, a cross between betrayal and resignation—but Sasuke didn’t rise high enough to fall that hard. He just never hit the ground.
“You guys,” Asuma starts, turning to them, “have seen your example. It doesn’t take bad intentions for you to start sliding down the wrong path. Orochimaru was never evil, and Sasuke was never bad. People get lost. Sometimes we find them first.” Shikamaru doesn't need to wonder what happens when they don't.
The next few nights, they search up and down the coastlines, searching for blind-spots and traces of human establishment, an unusually broken branch here, a stray and faded chakra signature there, buried in the weedy grass. At night, while they brush off the crusted sand-salt on their clothes and utilities, Asuma tells them stories: of the pale-pink sky at dusk seen from the heart of the palace; of the sea of lights that was the capital at night; of the towering lanky not-men serving in royal guards, their wiry corded arms extending past their knees; of the rolling green expanses of the Grass country burned brown and soaked sanguine; and of the fabled Thunder Valley of Lightning country where one had to close his eyes lest he be blinded by the constant lightning, navigating by the living heartbeat of the pulsing thunder.
On the eve of the fourth day, Chouji shakes him awake as the clouds crowd over the moon. Without firelight, there are only the muted shades of grey and bottomless blacks by which to place his lumbering mass. Two taps on his shoulder: there are intruders. He snaps to awareness, listening for the sounds of the elder jounin trio in the distance. Five, no, seven approaching from six, using the cover of the sand. In the darkness, the activated Byakugan is but a faint glow, but he knows it might as well be the sweeping beams of a searchlight.
By the time the quick-moving clouds pass, the battle is already over.
He surveys the scene as Ino hauls Chouji out from under a crushed boulder. They’re deep into hostile territory; a second wave is imminent and they must anticipate it.
A hoarse whisper breaks his focus. “P-please, help me.” A blood-smeared Kiri headband shines beacon-bright under the moonlight, still attached to what remains of a broken body under the rubble. Young-sounding, perhaps their age, and nakedly afraid with every labored breath. Shikamaru doesn’t bother looking closer at the enemy’s face nor the unnatural bend of crushed and broken limbs; he sweeps his gaze to meet Ino’s eyes and she nods, already on the move. Shikamaru listens for the final exhale as Ino lays the Kiri ninja to rest, until nothing lingers but the lapping water.
Shikamaru knows he is a coward and has no illusions about where his talents lie. His team knows it well, and together they will share this burden. Sometimes he daydreams of a fairytale end to this war that doesn’t result in mangled bodies and unnamed corpses, a tale that Asuma can tell to his next genin team; at nightfall, he wakes to the same reality as always.
Godaime’s words echo against advance of the second wave: We are soldiers and servants, civilians and siblings, our hearts forever true to the spirit of this village. We are family, shared in our purpose and resilience. Even in the darkest of times, the will of the fire will illuminate our path. We are ninja, we will endure.